What It Really Feels Like to Come Home to America
He said it under his breath, but I still heard him. “I wish I could just take a year off from work and travel with my family. It must be nice.” How could I begin to explain that my family was not going on a vacation, that the upcoming year would entail the hardest kind of work and intense stress as we traveled not fun but for the funds to continue our mission? We were gearing up to leave the field for a year of itineration, and clearly my friend with the muffled comment wasn’t the only one to grossly misunderstand these next steps.
Even I didn’t know what to expect when I stepped off the plane and found myself “back home.” Sure, I knew that reverse culture shock was real. I had read all the books. But I still expected that I could somehow rise above it. I had already performed that song and dance overseas, learning as a toddler to walk and talk all over again in a land of uncertainties and impossibilities.
Despite my planning and best effort, reentry still came like a thief in the night. It started with my first trip to Walmart. I couldn’t wait to go in one store for everything I needed as opposed to three or four markers every other day as had been my custom for years. All I needed at the moment was a couple boxes of cereal, the type of food that was not always easy to find overseas, and certainly not at a reasonable price. When I turned the corner towards the cereal aisle, my heart nearly stopped.
Simultaneously I was absolutely thrilled that my children would soon be eating the staple of an American breakfast, completely affordable and readily available, yet I also felt visibly stricken with the reminder of the young mother who dug through my family’s trash for pieces of molded fruit to offer her own kids. I struggled to reconcile the pinball machine dinging in my head as I swung on the pendulum of constant lack and possession no choice to overindulgence and having every choice at my fingertips. I walked out of Walmart empty-handed that day, and it would be weeks before I figured out how to actually shop or live in America again.
The external things were easier to overcome. After a short amount of time, I was consistently driving on the proper side of the road again, playing the part of your typical American. I eventually persevered and managed to dress, shop, order food in restaurants, and gather with my brothers and sisters across pews on Sunday mornings. For a while, it seemed I had found my place. What was so much harder to overcome were the things no one else could see. I left America years prior as an American. Through the process of learning how to live and love and minister on the field, my entire life and family were reoriented. I had been reborn.
Within the thirty hour plane ride back home, something happened. I lost my well-adjusted self somewhere between my two vastly different homes. When I landed back in America, I knew the language perfectly, and yet I struggled to communicate—to truly understand and be understood.
But duty called, and my family and I were ready to respond. Filled with a fire for the people we serve and a gratitude for the people who enable us to do so, my family hit the road to share the victories and the challenges, the need and the remedy, with everyone who would listen.
Most supporting churches were emphatic about wanting our entire family to be present at each service where we shared about our life and work in Asia. So we happily complied. For six long and grueling months, we packed up our SUV and homeschooled across the states and in various hotels, unknowingly keeping our kids from their cousins, from the opportunity to play sports, and from the chance to put down roots at a local church that could simply love us through this huge transition.
After a time of prayer, though, we realized that this simply wasn’t us. We couldn’t keep our kids on the road any longer. We enrolled them in public school; we signed them up for gymnastics and sports. This was a hard decision, but no one else heard my daughter cry that she was over America or how deeply she missed her friends and life in Asia. No one else saw how anxious my son became with each new grown-up introduction or with the feeling that he was constantly on display.
After a few months of staying home so my kids could feel like kids again, I had an epiphany. I still wasn’t really at home. I was an American who was totally out of place in America. While I had found a new life overseas, friends and family were forced to move on ahead. Oh, they held space as best as they could, but three to four years is a long time. They fell into new traditions, new rhythms, new seasons—all without my family and me. It was naive to think I could simply fall back in line as if I’d never left.
Life is not really like a board game, where the players simply pause the game or sit out a few turns. I quickly learned that, in our absence, life continued. There were no pauses. It’s not that easy to sit down to a game that is already in full swing and try to ascertain where all the pieces are and where you might stand in relation to them. Even worse than trying to pick up where you left off is realizing you will never be able to. You’re meant to watch from the sidelines, fully aware that you missed that particular game. Around the time understanding begins to sink in, it’s time to pack up and begin the arduous process of saying the never-ending hellos and goodbyes inherently steeped in cross-cultural life and work.
Eventually the interest had to wear off; it was inevitable. After I initially gave the perfunctory update on the projects in Asia, on how good it feels to eat a bacon cheeseburger and once again drink a Dr. Pepper, I realized something. It seemed no one wanted to hear about the place I’ve chosen to spend my life. After five minutes, their eyes glaze over. I watch it happen in slow motion. Oh, I believe they want to relate. They try. They really do. But, there is a chasm.
With a nervous giggle I’m asked how I like being back home. I smile and acknowledge the joys of that reality. Inwardly, I inhale deeply and think that I am not home at all. My home now is inside a border town brothel, where I can sit on the Madam’s bed, drinking Sprite and praying for a new life for all those around me. My home is now with rescued little girls who are learning how to fly with broken wings. My home is now with the impoverished, who are more than a statistic or a theory. My home is now with those who still don’t know that our Father is preparing a place for them.
What does it really feel like for a global worker to come back home to America? It feels like joy and sadness, like grief and hope, like a challenge and an opportunity. It feels like a chance to reflect on the words of the One Who calls us all to a life of pilgrimage, reminding us that we are not Home yet.
This article was originally written after our very first itineration