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 for 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 still I 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 my 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 markets 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 never 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 possessing 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 the pews on Sunday morning. 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 oflearning 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 doso, 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, 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 her 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.

Itineration is never a one-size-fits-all process. Some families prefer to travel together. Others prefer for one parent to

do the traveling while the other maintains a sense of normalcy at home (or at least as much normalcy as can

be expected when one parent is gone for the better part of a year).

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 into line as if I’d never left.

Life is not really like a board game, where the players can 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 that 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 again 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.