In all fairness, my country does it as well, we’ve perfected the British stereotypes to a fine art. When we lived in Spain, every Christmas we were gifted teacups with instructions to be used at 5pm precisely. Our friends and family in Spain endlessly asked my British husband where he left the hat and the umbrella. If they were confused by his outgoing character and his really “non-dry” sense of humour, they would reach the conclusion that he must have changed while living in Spain. “He’s one of us now”, looking at me with approval for somehow performing my husband’s metamorphosis into a Mediterranean version of himself.

How we choose to represent different cultures or groups of people matters. When we generalise or oversimplify, we are distorting reality. Whether is in the media, in the memes we share online or the innocent jokes in our conversations. I have just done it in the first two paragraphs: “all our friends”, “every school”, a bit of sense of humour… We are constantly creating images that society will then go and use and repeat and reinforce in order to understand, classify, simplify. Images that should help us understand the world better become stereotypes, caricatures that have little to do with real individuals. In a world where images have come to have more power than words, the damage runs deep. Bull fighting, flamenco and “tomatina” are all real in Spain; but neither of them represent me. Not because I’m the exception but because those images are.

Images are powerful and not necessarily a bad thing. A correct image of ourselves can help us remember who we are, restore our confidence when we feel knocked down or keep us humble when we think too much of ourselves. I’m incredibly grateful for the good friends in this country who have a clear image of who I really am. They have overcome their own cultural biases and somehow discovered the real me, wrapped in Spanishness and sometimes socially clumsy while navigating this foreign culture. Real friendship does that, like a mirror, it reminds us of who we are.

Genetics work well when it comes to images. Last week, I went to the city with my daughter and was stopped in a shop by a stranger. He wanted to tell me how similar my daughter and I are and how she undeniably “came from me”. I could have explained how different we were, in our temperaments and worldviews and our ideas of fun and good music. I could have said she’s a teenager and I’m a Karen (if you know, you know) He could hear that I still speak with a strong accent while she’s perfectly bilingual… But all he could see was that my daughter came from me. A beautiful genetic metaphor of how every human being carries God’s image. It doesn’t mean we are gods but from God. In all the different versions and shapes and cultures, we all ultimately portray our creator. And while not perfect, the image is certainly real.

At our family home, our favourite cultural misrepresentation was the story of someone who asked my husband if I had eaten my own placenta after giving birth to our daughter. Despite his initial shock, this person was firmly convinced that is what Spanish women did. So sure she was, she even taught her students at school about it! After reluctantly accepting my husband’s correction (this went on for a few days), she eventually admitted that maybe it wasn’t Spain but Mexico or possibly Brazil… The mere thought of eating the special dish after 35 hours of birth labour would have been enough to put this Spanish woman off motherhood all together!

What do you choose to see when approaching different cultures? The good, the exception, the exotic? Whether you believe in God or not, have you ever wondered what carrying his image could mean? What traces of your own culture could point to someone bigger, better than us? Maybe your hospitality, maybe how you care for your community, maybe your strong desire for justice… On the other hand, have you failed to represent others correctly? I know I have. And when I do, I distort God’s own image.

The Gospels are full of stories of Jesus encountering different people and restoring their image to themselves and to their communities, reminding them of their creator and pointing them back to him. He was the image of the invisible God. Whenever I wonder what on earth it means to carry God’s image, I realise Jesus is the clear portrait.

“No news is good news”, my dad used to sentence. The saying becomes painfully true when you live away from your birth country.

As anyone in the diaspora knows, there is a familiar ritual whenever your homeland appears in the headlines. Read what happened and read it again in your own national news (just to double check the facts), get the phone, call your family to check they are safe, inform the rest everyone is ok (or not).

Last Thursday I woke up to the news of the earthquake in Caracas. I immediately messaged my Venezuelan cousin in London to ask about the rest of the family. “Everyone is safe, but scared”, he said, his sadness clear for being so far from them.

For those unfamiliar with the history of Spanish migration, hundreds of thousands of Spanish citizens—including second- and third-generation descendants—have made their lives in Venezuela. In recent decades, many Venezuelans have made the journey in the opposite direction and now live in Spain. The connection is even stronger in the Canary Islands, where my extended family is. Almost half of the congregation in the church where I grew up in Tenerife is from Venezuela. Nearly eight million citizens from the Bolivarian nation have made their home around the world, making it one of the biggest diaspora movements in the planet. That means it’s very likely there will be at least one Venezuelan near you.

Trauma experienced in your country while you are abroad is a strange experience. You feel that guilty paradox of wanting to be there and at the same time realising what could have happened if you had been. Wanting to help and not knowing how. Millions of Venezuelans around the world are right now mobilizing aid to be sent to their country, perfect English speakers translating to the cameras and to the world the size of the disaster. But by the time the cameras will be gone, the magnitude of the tragedy will be just beginning to unfold. When the news moves on, the diaspora will remain. Their pain will remain. At that point, they may even be questioning themselves why they left their loved nation in the first place. There are scars and holes in the hearts that love two homes.

My personal faith can be of little comfort to those that have lost what is most precious to them in life. As a Christian, I have often found myself turning to God with more questions than answers in those situations. Why them? Why again? Where I can’t find answers, there is prayer. C.S. Lewis said: “I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God. It changes me.”

Not everyone would call themselves a person of faith. Yet interestingly most people have tried praying at least once in their lives. Whether out of desperation or the need to communicate with that invisible someone who may order the chaos in our beings, many of us feel the urge to cry for help.

In the church where I worship, we regularly pray together for the world. It’s our collective exercise of bringing the world to God. Together, we recognise we are helpless to many of the situations we pray for. Not a popular thing to admit for many people. When it’s my turn to lead the congregation in prayer, I often feel the weight of what we are asking. Peace, comfort, reconciliation… all these humanly impossible.

And yet… We pray for Iran and I see my brothers and friends from that country seating at the back of the church. We pray for Afghanistan and I think of my female friend who came to study and was never able to go back to Kabul, her little sister still under the Taliban regimen. We pray for the Ebola outbreak and I hear the children of the Congolese family playing outside. In our helplessness, God is already bringing some peace, some comfort, some reconciliation. Small foreshadows of what is to come.

“Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in love. Honour one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervour, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practise hospitality. Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn” (Romans 12:9-15)

When the diaspora prays for their broken countries, let us pray with them. Let us cry with them. Let us bring hope. If you are not the praying type, maybe you can ask them what else you can do for them. Remember this is now their home as well, try to walk with them. You won’t heal the wounds but at least they won’t be alone.

Yesterday, my elderly mum was at her small local church in Tenerife. With others, she was praying for her sister in Caracas while the congregation was collecting money to aid the country. Love and prayer in action around the world.

On Tuesdays, I put the language tutor hat on. My students want to learn Spanish: one of them has a house in Spain, another one wanted to meet new neighbours in the village, most of them just want to have fun and keep their brains active. I try to help them see language as a bridge, not a barrier. I add the cultural context so the language will be a lot richer. Sometimes, what comes out of our simple beginners’ lesson is a wonderful example of what I see as the common space. This week, I asked the students to write a recipe. It was supposed to be a simple exercise. One of the most advanced students, who often travels to South America, used the word “frijoles” in her work and so we started a conversation in the group about the meaning of it.

- “In Spain”, I explained, “we don’t say frijoles, we say “judías”.

- “What are judías?”, one of them asked.

- “Beans”.

- “But what kind of beans?”

It was one of those “it’s going to be a long answer” moment. A space where language is not enough and you need to slow down and explain culture. Because when you say beans in UK many people would picture them served on toast with tomato sauce, quickly and conveniently out of a tin. In Spain, most of us would see our “mamá” or “abuela” slowly cooking a “fabada asturiana” for the whole family. I’ve never been to Mexico but I understand they eat “frijoles” any time of the day, including breakfast. A full English breakfast also includes beans but it would be enough to make most Spanish people gag. Despise its Spanish name, I first tried chilli con carne in London, where it was served with beans. But Texans would argue if it should have beans or not. And whether you are English, Mexican, Texan or Spanish, beans will have different colours and bring different family and cultural memories to your mind. Did you ever think beans could be so divisive?

“Luckily, life is a lot more complicated than beans in a language lesson”, I laugh to myself while juggling jobs. On the days when I’m wearing one of my other hats, working with students from around the world, we often run an International bring and share food event. Always a very popular gathering, the chance to see food’s almost magic power of bringing people together. The idea is very simple: everyone cooks food from their country and shares it with others, while also trying dishes made by other students. The cuisine is always amazing, and everyone is happy (“barriguita llena, corazón alegre”, full belly happy heart).

Friday night brings the experiment home: it’s family film night. One of the joys of living with a multicultural family in an adoptive land is learning to find the thing that really matters in every discussion and to hold the rest lightly. On Friday nights, we could spend hours arguing what film to watch but we all agree we need to spend time together at least one night a week; family time is our non-negotiable. Choosing the movie would depend on whose turn it is to pick up one, our mood after a long week or, way too often, who gets to the remote control first. Sometimes it goes well, sometimes we get grumpy and protest that it’s not fair, sometimes we fall asleep in front of the tv. Togetherness is messy after all.

My favourite time at church on Sundays is communion. As an Anglican community in England, everything is done orderly and with a sense of reverence. The piano music plays gently while two stewards quietly invite us to join one of the two long queues leading to the table at the front of the church. We all patiently wait our turn, take the bread and wine and go back to our seats. Part of my worship is taking a moment to look up and observe the remaining standing queue: all generations, languages, races, some wearing traditional clothes from other countries. I imagine how the Lord’s supper is celebrated in their original cultures: maybe dancing, maybe the guitar and drums playing instead of a piano, maybe secretly in a home… All coming united under one Lord. A visual reminder of what we Christians believe the cross achieved: nothing less than a cosmic victory bringing creation together.

Last Tuesday, I didn’t argue with my Spanish students. They are a lovely bunch and they pay for private lessons so I keep the hour happy and fun. We finished our time together with the agreement of trying to find a good Spanish restaurant in Norfolk so they could have a go at ordering food. At the end of the day, we all love Spanish food; what could possibly go wrong?

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I feel the need to start this article with an apology. Yesterday I sat down to watch the final of Youth Speak, a speeches competition at my daughter’s secondary school in rural Norfolk. The cynical in me tried to lower the expectations. No, it wasn’t a bad parenting moment. It was just the weight of so many sports days, so many talents shows where every parent thinks their child has a successful performing career ahead, so many school competitions... Surely, it’s encouraging for the kids and it boots the parents’ pride. Everyone takes a certificate with their name and a signature on it. Everyone wins. I always clapped at everyone and cheered my daughter up. Meanwhile, a little nasty voice inside said that, in the big scale of things, nothing much would change after that. How wrong was I! Cynicism is wrong, probably always wrong.

No one is born a cynical. For me, five years studying Journalism and five more years working as a news writer did the job. A wonderful profession that sadly dug a deep hole in my trust. Until one day, while chatting and making jokes with my colleagues about the latest political corruption scandal or proxy war, a light shone: a bunch of disillusioned, disengaged, know-it-all twenty something years old… That’s what we were becoming. We were supposed to change the world but ended up only complaining about it. None of us were thirty yet. “Too young to be cynical”, a nicer voice murmured in my heart. So I opted out. I quitted the job and went travelling. “You are so brave”, one of my colleagues said, somehow his words growing a small shadow of fear that tried to slow my optimism down. What if it goes wrong? What if I don’t get a job? What if the experiment fails? Fear often feeds cynicism.

Never once I looked back. What came after my brave decision was an era of optimism, of dreams becoming true, of the most significant people coming into my life. Growing and learning, God was showing me the best version of my life so far. “The best is yet to come” were the words of the little notebook in my bag. Hope replaced cynicism. God was making everything new and he was allowing me to work alongside him. He was planting seeds and fruit was growing inside out.

Just to make it clear, I’m not talking about big salaries, good health or a free of trouble life. I’ve grown quite a lot of grey hair to prove the opposite. But that would be for another article.

I often wonder when fear began to awaken my cynicism again. Was it the politics? I certainly hold strong political opinions, and our times don’t fill me with hope for our immediate future. Was it my age? After all, hormones and middle life don’t mix well in a woman’s body and mind, maybe too old to hope. Was my hope in God weakened? No, my faith was anchored and solid on the hope for the future. At least on the long-term future, the kind of heavenly vision of it. It was on the now, the day-to-day existence, where fear was doing its work. “What if…?” I held my newborn baby, overwhelmed with joy and love, and the shadow came back: “what if I don’t know how to look after her?”. I started the new job with expectations and dreams: “what if it doesn’t turn out what I expect?”. “What if we can’t afford the mortgage, if my husband falls ill, if I forget my dreams, if I become cynical again?” The job was complete. The shadow became a storm; I believe the clinical word for it is catastrophizing. Cynicism was just my umbrella to protect me from the rain. Don’t get wet, don’t hope too much, keep the distance, don’t go outside, keep safe indoors.

Forward a few years and there I was. Worried that my daughter’s anti-hate speech may not be welcomed at the competition. After all, every parent of teenagers right now knows that manosphere is not only a fancy word in a BBC show. Cross-cultural families in many parts of the country today sigh, as their children hear unwelcomed jokes about foreign names and whisperings of “sink the boats” on a daily basis. “It looks like it may rain”, I said looking at the road as my daughter rehearsed her speech in the car. “Really?”, she answered surprised. We arrived at the hall and I sat down half way down the rows of school chairs, thinking she could win but not hoping too much. Just in case. I felt slightly nervous, breathing the smell of school talent show but with kids much taller than in primary. The topic had invited them to imagine the world in year 3026. Good luck to all. The event started. One by one, they went to the front and delivered their visions: a world of joy and kindness, with no hate or division, with respect for our planet and promoting human creativity, a world where people from all nations are welcomed. I noticed several of them said there wouldn’t be any flying cars. Some of them where hopeful, some angry, they all called the evils of our times by their names (several with surnames and political parties attached). And then I realised how wrong I had been. Cynicism is always wrong. The little nasty voice was muted. The young were brave enough to hope. I’m sure most of them are full of hope on themselves, I pray they will all discover that God’s plans for their future are very similar to their own dreams. That when the storms of life weaken their own confidence, they will embrace the eternal vision of a better world. Not in a talent show depending on our performance but in a world being transformed by the master plan of its creator, with us working alongside him.

My daughter was all smiles during the school drive this morning. She came to a joint second position in the competition, she got her certificate and some money. It was tipping it down with rain. We drove pass a group of girls in school uniform, they were running and laughing. Some tried to cover their heads under a shared coat, others gave up and just ran. “There are getting soaking wet”, I said. “But look at their faces, mum. There are having so much fun!”

“After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. And they cried out in a loud voice: ‘Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb… Never again will they hunger; never again will they thirst. The sun will not beat down on them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb at the centre of the throne will be their shepherd, he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

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