A Feast for My Inner Child
China Trip Series #4
The best way to describe this trip for me personally is that it felt like a feast for my inner child. There were countless unexpected blessings, yet I also realize I was able to embrace them because of my intentional healing efforts. The past seven years in the U.S. have played a vital role in bringing me to this moment.
Homecoming
One of the most monumental visits was to the village where I was born, where I spent the first ten years of my life and where my parents and grandparents are buried.
Our first stop was at my uncle’s home. This uncle, my mother’s brother, is the only family member still living in the countryside. My husband Roger had visited this uncle ten years ago, and he still remembers the Fuji apple my uncle picked from the tree — he insists it’s the best apple he’s ever had. I was deeply touched that my uncle had invited my aunt (my mother’s sister), her husband, my cousin (my uncle’s son), as well as my cousin’s wife and their four-year-old daughter. My aunt and cousin’s family traveled three hours, while my sister and I traveled one and a half from the city. For the first time, I understood just how remote my birthplace is. Cities like Yantai (where my sister lives) and Weihai (where my aunt and cousin live) are coastal and thriving, but my hometown, more than an hour’s drive inland, is mountainous and less developed.
We parked one street away from my uncle’s house. On our way there, we met the first storyteller who nurtured my inner child. She was working in her field as we passed by and, seeing us as strangers, asked whom we were looking for. When we mentioned my uncle’s name, she immediately identified us as daughters of my mother, and retold the whole story of my parents’ passing. “Your mother was such a bright and hardworking woman. We were all deeply saddened by her sudden passing. And who could have thought that your father would take his own life? He didn’t have to. You two would have been so much better off if he had stayed.” In just a few sentences, she summed up the story I’ve told myself all these years, one I thought only I cared about. I was stunned to discover that someone from my mother’s village, who knew her from her youth, could recount my story so vividly. My inner child felt seen, heard, and acknowledged in a way I had longed for since the tragedy of losing my mother 30 years ago.
Before lunch, we visited my parents’ and grandparents’ graves, as well as the house where I was born and my father died. I felt a deep sense of belonging as I saw my grandparents’ new tombstone, erected this past April for the traditional Chinese day of ancestor memorials. Their names, birthdates, and death dates were engraved alongside the names of their four sons and eight grandchildren. Seeing my father’s name, and even my own, on the stone felt like a profound expression of familial belonging.
My parents’ grave is still unmarked, as children’s tombstones traditionally follow their parents’. Now that my grandparents’ tombstone is in place, we can begin preparing my parents’ tombstone with the goal of having it ready by next April.
As we searched for the gravesite, I glimpsed a tombstone gleaming in the sun, almost as if it were calling to me. I suggested moving in that direction, and it turned out to be my grandparents’ tombstone. Serendipity? Telepathy? The moment felt deeply connected.
Later, we visited my parents’ old house. A second storyteller appeared here — a middle-aged woman who approached and called me by name. I was tempted to ask, “Do I know you?” but instead greeted her warmly, respecting the reserved Chinese tradition. She introduced herself as the daughter-in-law of a friend of my grandmother, a woman I vaguely remembered. She knew my sister’s age and asked about her family, then insisted we take some freshly picked apples. Being called by name, as if I had never left, nourished my inner child even further.
With her help, we entered the house — a place I had been unable to enter on previous visits. Though the inside was in ruins, standing there felt like an electric current running through my body. Memories flooded back: my father’s gift of a dictionary with my name written on the cover, my mother bathing me and combing my hair, our family of four lying in bed watching TV. The house, though weathered, felt like an ancient treasure trove, with each memory preserved in its walls. I even brought back a piece of the curtain as a memento, and we decided to repair the roof to prevent further damage, allowing us to keep visiting and remembering.
After the visit, we had lunch at my uncle’s — a literal feast that included a home-raised chicken he slaughtered for the occasion. We ended the day celebrating my sister’s birthday, the first time she’s celebrated with family. Seeing her surrounded by love and joy was deeply fulfilling for me.
Acknowledgements
Sharing this homecoming story with my “Dalai Lama” aunt at the orphanage, she praised my biological family, saying we come from “good stock.” Her words soothed the shame I’d carried from growing up in the orphanage, where children typically come from families in extreme need. For reasons I don’t fully understand, despite family support, my sister and I were placed there. It felt reassuring to hear affirmations of our family’s legacy.
My aunt (my mother’s younger sister) also gave heartfelt acknowledgments, which resonated deeply with me:
• Acknowledgment of the Past: She admitted the family’s treatment of my father after my mother’s passing was unfair. Consumed with grief, they had blamed him. I always believed he internalized that blame, which ultimately led to his death. This overdue apology gave me peace for him.
• Acknowledgment of Silence: My aunt admitted that as adults, they hadn’t explained my mother’s death to me. The adult me understands the reluctance to tell an eight-year-old of such a loss, but the child in me still craved reassurance.
• Acknowledgment of My Pain: She told my sister that my suffering from loss of our parents was a lot deeper than my sister’s, which meant so much. This prompted a heartfelt conversation between my sister and me, drawing us closer.
Gratitude
I am surprised by how many people remember my parents and me. Their memories refreshed mine, allowing me to let go of many burdens I’d clung to, fearing they’d be forgotten. This trip brought unexpected healing, even to my grief over not having a child of my own, something I now realize was intertwined with the grief of losing my parents. The shame I’d carried for not continuing my parents’ lineage faded completely, replaced by a sense of excitement about all the relationships I will form with children in my life.
By the end of the trip, I felt a profound sense of relaxation, peace, and acceptance of what has been and what is to come. The ruins of my past no longer dominate my view; instead, I see a vibrant community growing beside them. My inner child is free to revisit either — the cherished memories from the past or the new life — and feast on whatever she chooses.
