In Pursuit of Meaningful Memories During Home Assignment

As our family prepares to “cross the pond” for our next Home Ministry Assignment (HMA), we are experiencing all the familiar stress of transition: packing the house, packing the bags, saying goodbyes here, anticipating hellos there, and managing all the expectations on both sides of the world.

It’s a lot for a heart to hold, and a lot for the brain to process!

Amidst the necessary components of every HMA (such as speaking engagements, fundraising, attending meetings, etc.), we are also committed to prioritizing the pursuit of what is fun and memorable as a family, especially things that will help our children enjoy their passport culture as well as acclimate to a home country that is still somewhat foreign to them.

Our goal is to create meaningful memories during HMA: memories that are meaningful because they carry moments we treasure and/or because they help us navigate life in our passport culture.

During past HMAs, when our kids were younger, we pursued this goal in a variety of ways and discovered some amazing resources along the way which we plan to take advantage of again. This time around, as our kids are getting older, we’re also considering other priorities in addition to the familiar opportunities we’ve enjoyed in the past.

Here are five types of memory-making activities we’ll be pursuing—perhaps they’ll be helpful to you also as you plan your next home assignment.

1. Museums and Zoos

In the past we’ve made an effort to visit museums—art museums, science museums, natural history museums—for the sake of enjoying ourselves and learning at places we have little access to in our country of service. We learned that some museums are free while others have free days here and there, which requires some scheduling on our part but which makes it easier on the pocketbook for taking advantage of such offers.

During past HMAs we’ve also discovered that many museums and zoos are part of consortiums that offer free entrance or discounts at other institutions if you have a membership at one. It’s always worth asking what they offer. One year we bought a membership at a local children’s museum and discovered we had free access to several other institutions across the country because of it, which made for extra fun as we took advantage of the free access while traveling in between visits to churches and supporters. We fully intend to see what options are available to us this time around, too.

2. Public Libraries

Another vital resource has been the public library. Not only do we make regular visits to the library for the masses of free books at our disposal, but we also take note of what else they make available. Most libraries organize and offer free events on location, but they also occasionally partner with other institutions to offer even more. For example, we have sometimes gotten free tickets to museums (not only on the aforementioned free days) because the library loaned tickets to local museums, similar to checking out a book. Every location will have different offerings, but it’s good to ask what’s available!

3. Nature Centers and National Parks

Nature centers are another perennial favorite for our family. As we are home basing in a different location for this HMA, we are prioritizing the exploration of new nature centers and reserves that can provide the outdoor escape we all need.

Perhaps my favorite discovery which has created impressionable family memories when we’re in America is the National Park System’s 4th grader pass. Every Kid Outdoors offers families with a 4th grader (or homeschool equivalent) free access to national parks. As the National Park Service website says, “Every Kid Outdoors allows U.S. fourth graders and family members free access to over 2,000 federal lands and waters so you can discover our wildlife, resources, and history.” It’s so simple. Our family has already taken advantage of this opportunity twice during previous HMAs and has saved money while enjoying national parks as we traveled in between ministry responsibilities.

4. Sports Games and Concerts

This HMA we plan to take our kids to a football game—an American football game, not soccer, which is the sport they know and understand best growing up in Africa. As Americans, however, we come from a culture that highly values football and we feel like our kids would not only enjoy but also benefit from knowing more about the sport. At the very least we want them to understand the basics of the game and be able to participate in watching football with family and friends in a meaningful way. And so, in addition to gathering around the television to watch some games during NFL season, this HMA we’ll take them to a football game or two.

We’re also planning to take our kids to their first concert, which will not only be a fun experience for them but will also foster an ability for them to connect with peers about such things. Our kids have phased out of the children’s museum stage of life and are fully into a season of sports, music, and movies. We’re aiming to create experiences that will help them track with peers in our passport culture so that, someday, they’ll be better equipped to live and socialize in our passport culture if God leads them there.

Some of these examples are specific to our American context, but I recommend researching what resources are available to you in whatever your passport country is.

5. Establishing Regular Rhythms

It’s worth considering what’s worth investing in for the sake of taking care of your children (and yourselves) during a home assignment. Regular rhythms are of equal, if not greater, importance to establishing lasting memories. Things as simple as taking my son out for hot chocolate at a favorite coffee shop can go a long way in deepening our family ties in the midst of everything else demanding our time and attention. Investing time in catching up on particular movies and music will allow all of us to have socially intelligent conversations with people on that side of the world.

We will face the expectations and responsibilities of HMA no matter what, but we can choose how to spend our time in between ministry engagements and hopefully create meaningful memories along the way.

Instead of viewing it as a project—because maintaining a foothold in our passport country admittedly requires some work—we are focusing on the fun that awaits and the increased family time during a season when our kids have fewer friends on this side of the world.

There is time to walk around a nature center. There is space to visit an art museum. There is room to watch a football game and experience the hype of being in a cheering crowd.

There are meaningful memories within grasp. Our priority is to seize them.

Photo by Jessica Rockowitz on Unsplash

Embracing New Chapters, Trusting the Same Author

Hidden under a canopy of outstretched branches, I pause for a moment to take in the view before me. Layers of green intermingle as they nestle the banks of a gurgling creek. The rhythm is steady and reassuring as the cool water rushes over smooth stones on its way downstream. This is the first moment I have felt a sense of calm flood my thoughts and body in a while.

This week, my husband is the missions speaker at a summer camp he attended as a child and worked at as a teenager. He’s taken us for a walk to see the wooden bridge he helped his grandfather build when he was a boy and has shared many memories of his time growing up here. Our own boys are attending as junior high campers, and it’s been a stark reminder that a lot has changed in our lives.

It’s been over five years since I’ve been able to travel back to Pennsylvania and the first time our family has traveled back together. Spending the majority of the past decade ministering in Northern Uganda and journeying through a lengthy adoption process is where most of our story has been lived. And now that we are back “home” on our first furlough, embracing this space of unsettledness has been very overwhelming at times.

I have known the Lord and experienced His faithfulness in the wilderness of waiting, but in this season of transition I’m learning to trust Him in new ways. So, while enjoying an unexpected moment of quiet, a quote by Aljean Anthony dances around my mind as the water ripples along its merry way: “He’s carried you this far, hasn’t He? Don’t you think He could carry you even further? Trust in Him.”

It’s as if it has been bookmarked in my thoughts, a reminder for moments when I feel the unsteadiness of this land in between. I wasn’t expecting such a chaotic re-entry after spending so many challenging years abroad. My bucket list did not include three unexpected trips to the emergency room or a mad search for medication to treat a tropical parasite that’s not available in the USA. Then there were two weeks of sickness that hit our whole family, travel plans derailed, and the celebration of homecoming delayed.

After all I’ve experienced living a life overseas, I should be more accustomed to life not going according to my plan, but here I am again, wondering why.

I can list every time the Lord faithfully provided and carried us in our waiting season just as the Lord provided for the Israelites in theirs. He led them through the wilderness with manna, quail, sandals that didn’t wear out, water spilling from rocks, a pillar of fire, and the covering of a cloud. Yet, the story of the Israelites crossing the Jordan River in Joshua 3:15-17 offers encouragement to me right now.

The crossing of the Jordan River represented the transition from wilderness into the Promised Land. I’ve watched the Lord dry up the rising floodwaters in our life and allow us to walk through to the other side. But that doesn’t mean the next season will be perfect to make up for the former one.

For the Israelites there would be more battles to overcome, with plenty of challenges awaiting and numerous adjustments made for a new lifestyle — for their dependence on the Lord still needed to deepen. Yet even though the manna stopped falling as the Israelites entered a new land, the Lord’s presence, guidance, comfort, provision, and love never did. It just looked different.

The Lord promises to continue the journey with us, just as He declared to the Israelites in Isaiah 43:2, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze” (ESV).

Maybe you are walking through your own Jordan River or standing at the edge of your “Promised Land” — whether it’s preparing move to a new country, transitioning back “home,” experiencing a big life change, celebrating ministry goals met, overcoming obstacles, or straddling a new wilderness of uncertainty. God’s presence is steadfast even when we waver in the challenges that come our way.

On the fourth morning of summer camp, we awake to a thick layer of smoke hiding everything, the blue skies overcome with heavy haze from fires burning elsewhere. It’s another reminder that while we may not know what’s coming or can’t see through the unknown, the Lord remains the unchanged, and the story He is writing is a good one. I can have peace as I enter this new chapter because I know the author.

Recently, I’ve been leafing through the stack of journals I’ve lugged back across the ocean. These journals hold the struggle, the worries, the laments, the prayers, the joys, and the praises over the past number of years. But mostly they declare the Lord’s faithfulness in my life. They serve as a reminder of how the Lord has provided in seasons of hardship and struggle.

How He restores what has been lost.

How He revives what is hopeless.

How He redeems what is broken.

How He rewrites our pain into His promise of an abundant life.

God’s glory is in the gold lettering of our story, chapter by chapter. And oh, how He has written and woven such a testimony of His goodness and grace into our lives. His purpose was penned long before I was born, and when I don’t understand or when all seems lost, still I believe that the Author of Life is at work redeeming my story and yours.

In each and every delay.

In each and every disappointment.

In each and every heartache.

The battle may be great, but God is far greater. All these years of wild words planted, hopes deferred, dreams surrendered, and in the promises restored, the Lord is faithful. I’m slowly beginning to make peace with the understanding that I may not feel as rooted during the next few months as I had hoped.

But in acknowledging that, I know that I am rooting deeper in the One who steadies my heart when everything seems unsteady. I am tethered to an anchor far more secure than any house, or person, or thing that brings comfort. He has indeed carried me this far, and He will surely carry me further.

Your Labor Is Not in Vain

Your labor is not in vain
Though the ground underneath you is cursed and stained
Your planting and reaping are never the same
Your labor is not in vain

There is a story in our family about my dad. He and my mom were on a home leave, having just finished their second four-year term in Pakistan. They were at a Christian retreat center where my dad studied during the day, taking required linguistic and Bible courses, and my mom took care of five children aged one to eleven. It was a lot.

My dad was tired and deeply discouraged. He and my mom had been living in Pakistan for ten years. They had come with one child and now had five. The toll of life in a remote area of a Muslim-majority country had caught up with him. The heat in the summer, living in what was at the time the hottest recorded area in South Asia; the absence of family and an English-speaking church to be a part of; the sense that no matter how hard you tried, you would never truly belong. There were team conflicts and cultural misunderstandings, dysentery, and children with broken bones.

But more than all this were the overriding questions in his mind: Does this matter? Are we here for nothing? What is the point of all this? Of missionary service? Of leaving all that is familiar? At heart, perhaps, he was asking, “Do I matter?”

My dad was ever the optimist. He was a stick-to-it, big-hearted, generous man. But his optimism had failed him. It was dead, somewhat like the desert ground where we lived in the Sindh region of Pakistan, brown and barren where nothing could grow. His heart felt the same.

It was during a morning study time while deep into examining the book of Acts that he experienced a breakthrough in his heart, soul, and mind. As he was reading about those missionary journeys so long ago, the ones that ended in shipwreck, hunger, and letters to tell about it, he suddenly saw himself as part of a bigger story, a story that began thousands of years before and would end in something so impossibly wonderful that no human could begin to describe it.

Yes, he was small. Yes, from the world’s perspective he was woefully insignificant. But his labor was not in vain. More than that, small as his work might be on the world stage, he knew without a doubt that he was beloved by a God who knew him.

Your labor is not unknown
Though the rocks they cry out and the sea it may groan
The place of your toil may not seem like a home
But your labor is not unknown

It’s this that comes to mind as I think of all of you. Sure, there are a few of you who might claim the word “influencer,” but overall, you are laboring without a lot of recognition. You may feel recognized at the occasional church while on home leave. For a brief hour you might feel famous even — your picture on the bulletin board with your kids looking halfway decent. Maybe you occasionally speak during the service when a pastor magnanimously gives up his spot, talking about the work, calling to mind God’s faithfulness even as you doubt all that you once knew.

Your work in Kuala Lumpur, Bangalore, Chittagong, Karachi, Bangkok, Shanghai, Jakarta, or a thousand other places may be filled with small, irritating difficulties or with major challenges. Divisions in your team, open hostility in your workplace, and insurmountable cultural differences may have you defeated. You may, like my dad, be thinking, “Why does any of this matter?”

Wherever you are, you are a small part of a massive universe.

Yet this is truth: you are a small part infinitely loved by God, and your labor is not in vain. Maybe your work is in Bible translation, and for weeks you’ve been stuck on three sentences as you translate from English to Greek to Brahui. Maybe you are a mom raising five kids, your hard-earned master’s degree languishing on a shelf while you pour yourself out trying to keep bugs out of the flour, humidity out of the house, and kids out of the hospital. Maybe you are a nurse working in the developing world wondering how on earth you can continue to function with so few resources. Whatever your situation, know this: your work matters, you matter. Your labor is not in vain.

The houses you labored to build
Will finally with laughter and joy be filled
The serpent that hurts and destroys will be killed
And all that is broken be healed

I write this piece from a place of transition — one of the many I have had through the years. My work in the Middle East ended abruptly with little warning, leaving me with dead dreams and deep grief. Since that time, amidst family crises and a global pandemic, I have slowly built a new career and a new place. All of that is now changing with budget cuts and family needs.

But whether in my passport country or overseas, throughout my life, there are times when I, like my dad, wonder if any of these matter. When doubt over the goodness and presence of God overwhelms me, threatening to control all I do and think. Yet, repeatedly, I have seen His goodness, His mercy, His grace in unexpected ways. In the dark, I have come to know it as God’s quiet whisper reminding me that nothing is wasted, that what I do, and more importantly who I am, matters.

So, as we wait for all to be made right, for our broken world to be restored, Christ at its center and evil defeated, may we know that the God who called us by name is with us, that our labor is not in vain.

For I have called you, called you by name
Your labor is not in vain

   

All lyrics © The Porter’s Gate “Your Labor Is Not in Vain.” Based on 1 Corinthians 15:38.

Humility Is Not a Doormat

“Apology not accepted.” 

It was the dumbest, most unreasonable email I’ve ever sent. It was 2010, and I hardly remember what happened, but I know I was fuming. The National French Exam hadn’t mailed my tests on time, and my students were at risk of losing something they’d worked so hard to achieve. Every year, they’d placed in the top ten regionally, and twice nationally, for French. Hence my venomous three-word email to whichever customer service representative had been assigned to Anna Danforth that day. 

There is no way forward with “apology not accepted” people. Conflict resolution becomes a dead end, and hope for forward movement dims. That day, I was the problem.

That email is a window into the beast that comes alive in us when we feel cornered. It’s when that fearful question creeps in, “What happens to me if this doesn’t go my way?” Maybe you’re not fuming at a customer rep—maybe it’s your teammate who took credit for your work, your organization that increased your fundraising needs (again), or your director’s endless conflict avoidance. 

The instruction to “live charitably” is a truth God knew that we needed spelled out. Whether in three-word emails, cold shoulders, or unexplained relational disruptions, He knew the arrogance we’d battle in our hearts. He knew the way we would destroy each other when the things we hold dear are threatened. 

Why is it so hard to live charitably when the direction of your program is on the line? To live in unity when your teammate is causing friction? To assign best motive to the person who pulled from your donor team? To let love cover a multitude of sins—not abuse, but annoyance—when that person interrupts you in every single meeting? Humility goes hand in hand with unity (Ephesians 4:1-7), but how do we get there in a broken world, in a broken church?

I was confronted with the why last week as I prepared for a Bible study on Philippians 2. Words I’d memorized in high school suddenly became distasteful. Have one mind? Count others more significant than yourself? Paul’s call to humility and unity grated on me, and for good reason.

What if the person demanding my humility is the one abusing power? 

I have my own scars from misuse of power by several in positions of authority in the church or Christian organizations. I know the feeling of being told not to “gossip” about leadership when addressing concerns and of cowering at the thought of losing someone’s support for speaking up when people in their care were being wronged. Before I knew how to be “innocent as doves and wise as serpents,” I worked hard to maintain humility, peace, and harmony at high costs—staying long past the point of harm to myself and others.

What, biblically, am I called to do in these situations? I had to know the answer. If you’re bracing yourself because you’ve been told that your resistance is a spiritual problem, here is what I learned.  

  • Humility does not call me to ignore evil (Ephesians 5:11, Isaiah 1:17).
  • Humility does not call me to be a doormat (Matthew 23, John 7:1-10, Luke 4:30, Acts 9:23-25).
  • Humility does not call me to trust without discernment (Proverbs 26:24-25, Proverbs 25:19).
  • Humility does not call me to preserve false peace (Galatians 2:11-14).
  • Humility does not call me to stay in abusive relationships (John 10:39, 2 Timothy 3:1-5). Dear missionary, this applies even if you’ll lose your entire ministry or half your support. 
  • Humility does not call me to enable manipulation (John 2:23-25, Titus 3:10-11).
  • Humility does not call me to accept spiritual coercion (Matthew 23:4, 1 Peter 5:1-3, Galatians 2:4-5).

Wrestling with what humility is not became a crucial step to understanding what humility is.

Humility is reasonable. Paul goes on to say, “Let your reasonableness be known to everyone” (Philippians 4:5). It’s the mark of someone rooted—someone who trusts in their core that God will supply all our needs (Philippians 4:9). 

Reasonable people aren’t easily threatened. They still face threats and loss, but differently. Their peace is staked on something bigger than a customer service rep’s reply or the appeasement of a self-preserving leader. 

Humility is caring. The patient unity we’re called to creates space for growth, for grace, and for mirroring our Father to each other. Caring people are patient with mistakes. They understand life is full of the curveballs—the twists and turns that shake us but also grow us.

Humility is confident. It’s remaining firm on core truths and holding things in tension. Confident people don’t need center stage. Their worth isn’t set in specific outcomes but in being grounded in truth while considering new angles and being curious about different approaches. 

Humility is discerning. That’s something I lacked both in my email and in every fight for false peace. The customer service rep who missed a deadline isn’t the same thing as your leader silencing your concerns. You may be fuming at both. But one deserves grace. The other deserves directness. 

That’s the humility I’m after—not a doormat, but a balance of grace and truth in the sticky situations of our lives.

The Power of Art Processing for TCKs

by Megan C. Norton-Newbanks

I grew up attending international schools: one in South Africa, one in South Korea, two in Germany, one in Japan, and one in Israel. As a U.S. Foreign Service family, we moved to another country every two to three years, and one school elective I always looked forward to was art class. 

Art classes were a safe space for me, and I loved learning about all the techniques and textures I could discover with different mediums. In my final year of high school, I took AP Art, and my capstone theme was “the journey we take.” I explored this theme through the lens of growing up as a Third Culture Kid. I crafted molds of shoes from clay and self-portraits from torn magazine tones. I used recycled materials to showcase movement and change. Most of these creations remain in my parents’ house and remind me of how I’ve continued to create in different ways.

What I have found in working with TCKs across the world is that we gravitate to art to articulate our stories. Various art forms, from visual renderings to photography to poetry, often capture our stories in ways that essays or books cannot fully capture because we are more focused on the process rather than the outcome. Through drawing, painting, and other forms of making, internal experiences become visible and tangible, offering a way to process change and better understand one’s story.

Some of my favorite processing with TCKs is done through inquiry-based art. Instead of asking them to verbalize or write out the cultural influences that have shaped their identity, I provide a blank piece of paper or other art medium where they can express their “many selves.” It can be helpful to provide simple prompts such as, “What might belonging look like as a place?” or “How does home feel?”

In my own experience, engaging with art has provided a way to revisit moments of transition and identity that I did not fully understand at the time. There were feelings I could not name as a child, such as grief over leaving, confusion about belonging, and the tension of holding multiple cultural worlds, and yet when I began to create, those experiences found expression. Understanding often came through the process, not before it. It became less about creating something to show and more about creating in order to discover. 

Sometimes there can be resistance to engaging with art processing. I often hear, “I can’t even draw a stick figure” or “I’m not an artist.” But art expression and processing is more about curiosity than skill. There is no need to share or explain the outcome unless you want to. At the same time, sometimes it can be helpful to reflect afterward with a few gentle questions such as: What stands out to me? What surprised me? What might this be saying about my experience?

There is something universal about art that transcends culture while still honoring individual expression. Jemina Watstein, an art educator, explains in The Belonging Project podcast episode, “How Creative Kids Navigate Life Between Cultures,” that children across the world move through similar stages of artistic development, yet their environments shape how they create and what they express. For globally mobile individuals, this often results in a rich blend of influences that reflect their unique journeys. Activities like blending patterns, symbols, or artistic styles from different cultures can help make this diversity visible.

Within families, art processing can encourage meaningful connection. Simple creative practices, such as collaboratively creating a shared artwork that reflects each person’s experience, can help children process transitions, build emotional awareness, and maintain a sense of belonging even in the midst of change. In these spaces, art becomes more than expression. It becomes a bridge between stories, identities, and relationships.

When I met the very talented artist Simona Wiig, a fellow TCK, we connected over our creative practices. She has done research and held art exhibitions on the interrelationships between belonging, identity, and a multicultural upbringing. Together, we have offered workshops to TCKs to express their stories through various art mediums. We love hearing about how multimedia art inspires TCKs to share their feelings of home and belonging.

Last year, Simona and I released the book A Work of Heart, a collection of over seventy artistic expressions from Third Culture Kids, Cross Cultural Kids, and global nomads. Each piece is paired with personal reflection, forming a powerful mosaic of identities and memories. 

Several families report using this book as a debriefing tool with TCKs and family members by inviting thoughtful reflection in considering questions like:

  • Which art piece resonates with my own story?
  • What memories or personal experiences do these art pieces bring to mind?
  • In what ways might this content be inviting me to view my story differently?

The book ultimately serves as an invitation to think about your story differently: through art. You do not need to be an artist to begin. A simple sketchbook, a favorite pen, or a small creative practice can become a steady companion wherever you are in the world. In the act of making, you find space to process, to connect, and to belong.

Simona and I are already seeking contributions to Volume 2. Please consider submitting your piece here.

~~~~~~~

Megan C. Norton-Newbanks, MA, MS, is an author, CCK/TCK consultant, intercultural trainer, podcaster, and writer. Megan grew up in six countries and has since lived in four more as an ATCK, in addition to six U.S. states. Her book, Belonging Beyond Borders: How Adult Third Culture Kids Can Cultivate a Sense of Belonging, equips and empowers readers to recognize their cultural competencies and apply them in various contexts. Megan also spearheaded the books Letters Now Sent: A Collection of Letters from the Globally Mobile and A Work of Heart: A Collection of Artwork from Multicultural Individuals. In 2022, she launched Beyond Borders Publishing, a platform committed to amplifying cross-cultural voices and stories.

Is This the End? (When the Mission Becomes Dangerous)

Written by an anonymous worker

“The rebels burned a plane.”

I looked up at my husband, a sense of dread growing in my chest. “Who was it?”

Over the next few hours, we learned the devastating details. American pilot Nick Gosselin had been ambushed by rebels shortly after landing on a village airstrip. He was executed, and his plane set on fire. My Instagram feed filled with images of the burned aircraft and blurred photographs of his body.

“That could have been you,” I whispered to my husband.

This is not the first time a civilian aircraft piloted by an expatriate has been targeted by rebels here in Papua. In 2023, New Zealander Philip Mehrtens was kidnapped and held captive by a rebel faction for nineteen months before being released through lengthy negotiations involving Indonesia, local leaders, and the New Zealand government.

Then, in 2024, New Zealand helicopter pilot Glen Conning was shot and killed shortly after landing. Following Conning’s death, the Associated Press reported, “No one has claimed responsibility for that attack, and the rebels and Indonesian authorities have blamed each other.”

Still, Nick’s death feels different.

As a pilot for the Catholic aviation mission AMA, Nick flew humanitarian flights to isolated communities. Rebels have attempted to justify the attack by accusing mission aircraft of supporting military and police operations — an accusation that is categorically false. Rebel spokesman Sebby Sambom later released a video calling for the murder of all foreign civilian pilots, the burning of their aircraft, and the murder and expulsion of missionaries from Papua, dismissing them as “useless.”

Pilots are not the primary targets either. In recent years, schools have been burned, teachers killed, medical personnel murdered, and construction workers attacked. But none of this is really new, is it?

Around the world, missionaries and humanitarian workers knowingly place themselves in harm’s way to serve others. While there is no comprehensive annual count of missionaries killed worldwide, the Aid Worker Security Database recorded a staggering 383 humanitarian worker deaths in global hotspots during 2024 — the highest number on record. Most of those killed were local aid workers.

Before leaving for the field, we understood that serving in Papua would involve risk. As a missionary pilot, my husband would fly through some of the world’s most challenging mountain terrain, navigating rapidly changing weather and difficult landing spots. We would face diseases like tuberculosis, HIV, dengue fever, malaria, and typhoid. We knew robbery or assault was possible. We came to Papua knowing that choosing to serve here meant walking hand in hand with heartache.

Over the years, we’ve had our share of challenges. The flying environment has given us a few scares. Our family has battled serious illnesses. We’ve lived through riots, evacuations, and tribal conflict. And yet, despite it all, we would say our lives have been made immeasurably richer because of this place. Papua has become home. Our children — from our teenager down to our toddler — love life here.

Now, it all feels like borrowed time. I find myself praying, Lord, what are You doing? Is this the end?

I carry a tremendous sadness — not only for our own family and the life we’ve built in these mountains, but especially for the people living in isolated villages who depend on mission aviation.

What will the mother suffering complications in childbirth do when reaching the nearest medical facility is several days of hiking away? Who will respond when a village is devastated by a landslide? What happens to communities cut off by mountains and jungle when no aircraft are willing or able to come? And if we are forced to leave, how will our family grieve losing our home?

I don’t know what comes next. Can we stay? Must we go? Nick’s death has forced us to revisit questions every missionary must ask themselves. What risks are ours to accept? Which are not? And what abilities do we have to wisely mitigate the dangers where we can?

I think of the apostle Paul. When the Jews in Damascus plotted to kill him, fellow believers lowered him through an opening in the city wall under the cover of darkness so he could escape (Acts 9). Later, on his journey to Jerusalem, the prophet Agabus warned Paul that he would be captured and handed over to the Gentiles. His friends pleaded with him not to go, yet Paul remained convinced that obedience required him to continue (Acts 21).

At first glance, those two stories seem to point in opposite directions. In one, Paul escapes because God provides a way out. In the other, he walks knowingly toward suffering because he is convinced that obedience requires it. Yet neither story is ultimately about avoiding or embracing danger. Both are stories of faithful discernment.

That is where we find ourselves today. We are praying. We are listening. We are engaging with community. We are weighing our responsibility to our family, the people we serve, and the calling God has entrusted to us. We are grateful to serve with an organization that views security planning and thoughtful risk management not as a lack of faith but as faithful stewardship.

I don’t know whether we will remain in Papua or whether this chapter of our lives is drawing to a close. I don’t know whether the risks will increase or diminish in the days ahead. But I do know this: God holds tomorrow, and we can trust Him.

So we pray — for Nick Gosselin’s family as they grieve, for the people of Papua who continue to bear the greatest burden of this conflict, and for the missionaries, pilots, teachers, healthcare workers, and local believers who continue serving in places of extraordinary need. We also pray for the wisdom to surrender our plans continually to God, holding neither our comfort nor our calling more tightly than our obedience to Christ.

* * *

Editor’s Note: If you are in currently in a season of risk, danger, or fear, here are some additional resources for discernment and support on our site. ~Elizabeth Trotter

Risk and the Cross-cultural Worker (an interview with Anna Hampton about her first book, Facing Danger)

Can Faith and Fear Exist at the Same Time? (an interview with Anna Hampton about her second book, Facing Fear)

Confronting Risk and Managing Fear in the Uncertainty of War (resources from Anna Hampton)

Beggar to Beggar: Finding Food and Walking Alongside . . . More Slowly

“Writers,” said David Brooks in a recent interview, “are beggars who tell other beggars where they found bread.” Brooks, a best-selling author, American political pundit, and staff writer for The Atlantic, called this his “favorite saying about writers.”

But wait up. I’ve heard a version of that phrase before, and I don’t remember it being about writers. Isn’t it about preachers, or missionaries, or just gospel-sharers in general? A quick internet search led me to the original:

Evangelism . . . is one beggar telling another beggar where to get food.

I was glad to find the actual quotation but was even more glad to find out its source. It wasn’t Elizabeth Elliot or Billy Graham or some other Christian from my American neighborhood. Instead, it was an evangelist and theologian from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), D. T. Niles. Here is what Niles wrote in 1951 in That They May Have Life:

Evangelism is witness. It is one beggar telling another beggar where to get food. The Christian does not offer out of his bounty. He has no bounty. He is simply guest at his Master’s table and, as evangelist, he calls others too. The evangelistic relation is to be “alongside of” not “over-against.” The Christian stands alongside the non-Christian and points to the Gospel, the holy action of God. It is not his knowledge of God that he shares, it is to God Himself that he points.

It’s a great reminder to me that Christian wisdom doesn’t always flow from the West to the rest of the world—though it is so easy for me to get locked into a bubble of influence made up of people like me, where we are the givers of wisdom, and they are the receivers.

No, we are all beggars. We cross-cultural workers are beggars when we first arrive in a new country and have to ask where we can find chocolate chips or Jello (or good substitutes) or the best place to buy tea. We are beggars who need to be able to receive encouragement and motivation from our brothers and sisters around the globe. We are beggars who need to learn from others how better to come “alongside” them, to see the world through their eyes, to speak their language, to slow down and walk with them side by side.

In another book, The Preacher’s Calling to Be Servant (1959), Niles writes about how our habits of hurry have caused us to lose “the art of charity.” This is unlike Jesus, who, he says, though his ministry lasted only three years, always had time for the people around him. Niles shares a lesson from a missionary friend:

The Rev. Middleton Weaver, said to me, “When I first came to Ceylon, we travelled in bullock carts, now we travel in motor-cars, and the substitution of the one for the other has even ruined our evangelistic work. Now I rush down to a meeting and then get back home; when I used to travel in a bullock cart I really met people.” Yes, hurry means that we gather impressions but have no experiences, that we collect acquaintances but make no friends, that we attend meetings but experience no encounter. We must recover eternity if we are to find time, and eternity is what Jesus came to restore. For without it, there can be no charity.

The transition from bullock carts to motor-cars seems rather quaint to us today, but what more-modern inventions have given us the ability to hurry even more? Fast food? Microwaves and Instapots? High-speed trains? Immediate answers from High-speed internet? Immediate creativity from AI?

How can we not rush to take advantage of all these things?

Japanese-born theologian and missiologist Kosuke Koyama picks up this theme of slowing down to better serve those around us in Three Mile an Hour God (1980). The title is based on man’s average walking speed. It is the speed of the Israelites, he writes, who for forty years walked in the desert, learning that “man does not live by bread alone, but that man lives by everything that proceeds out of the mouth of the Lord.” And it is the speed of Jesus, traveling between Galilee and Jerusalem, bringing the “bread of life.” Koyama says,

Jesus Christ came. He walked towards the ‘full stop’. He lost his mobility. He was nailed down! He is not even at three miles an hour as we walk. He is not moving. ‘Full stop’! What can be slower than ‘full stop’—’nailed down’? At this point of ‘full stop’, the apostolic church proclaims that the love of God to man is ultimately and fully revealed. God walks ‘slowly’ because he is love. If he is not love he would have gone much faster. Love has its speed. It is an inner speed. It is a spiritual speed. It is a different kind of speed from the technological speed to which we are accustomed. . . . It is the speed we walk and therefore it is the speed the love of God walks.

British New Testament scholar and author N. T. Wright refers to this idea from Koyama in the short documentary Godspeed: The Pace of Being Known (2017). Wright says if we slow down, “we might actually be able, paradoxically and finally, to catch God up.” (We in the States would phrase it “to catch up to God.”)

Godspeed follows Matt Canlis, an American-born Anglican seminary student, on his quest to become a pastor whose vocation is patterned after the life of Jesus. While at Regent University, Canlis studied under Eugene Peterson, of The Message fame, who told him that he may need to leave America to learn how to minister like Jesus. Canlis and his wife later continued their studies at St. Andrews University in Scotland, where Wright teaches. While there, he also learned outside the classroom, serving the residents of Pitlochry Parish. 

Canlis had some pretty impressive teachers in Peterson and Wright. And we can add to that company Alan Torrance. In this case, I’m not referring to Alan Torrance, professor at St. Andrews, though Canlis may well have learned from him. Instead, I’m talking about Alan Torrance, bushy-red-haired, kilt-wearing resident of Pitlochry. Canlis helped Torrance overcome his skepticism about Jesus, while Torrance helped Canlis understand how to “walk” more like Jesus in the community.

Torrance opens the video describing Canlis when he first arrived. “He meant well,” he says with a grin, “but he didn’t know quite what he was doing. . . . I think we helped.”

Callis responds, “I think they did help. I’d been running for most of my life, running through life to get somewhere else. But the thing about running is that you miss things, many things. And if I kept running, I was going to miss everything.”

You can watch Godspeed here. If you can take the time—it’s around 30 minutes long—please do.

[photo: “Bread,” by St. Blaize, used under a Creative Commons license]

Plant Your Trees

by Mary Silkwood

Another box packed, suitcases piled to the side of the hallway anticipating their next trip. Totes placed carefully into storage, joining the efforts of their counterparts in another corner of the world and holding life on pause until we return.

As sojourners in a missionary lifestyle, it can often be difficult to put down roots, at least deep ones. Roots that give assurance that when you meet friends for coffee and a bit of conversation, you don’t have to wonder when your next meeting will be. The kind of assurance that you’ll see your parents at church in the same pew as always next week, because those things never change. They are part of a revolving door in the beauty of the mundane.

I often find myself living life on the edge of my seat, anticipating what direction I will go next. Where will I hang my stockings next Christmas? What kitchen will I bake my child’s next birthday cake in? At times I even wonder what bed I will sleep in tonight. I know that in an instant it can and will change, just as it has countless times before.

What seemed to be the new is now old, and you are starting all over again. At moments you question its worth. To truly settle in yet again, but at what cost? To begin making room for more roots to grow, knowing another transplant looms in the future, all the while wondering what distinguishes us in this season of time?

When you do choose to plant your trees, to give the next chapter your heart, and a chance to put down roots, you soon realize there is a particular value in it all. It will be painful to pack up and leave again, but it’s not worthless. In fact, there is a unique element that this lifestyle produces. The ache of going is worth the wide breadth of friendships, rich memories, and profound reality you gain through the process.

Our roots don’t have the chance to go as deep in one spot as for others. But there are pieces of them spread around the globe. Being transplanted into new places doesn’t permit the same depth as for others, but it certainly allows them to grow wide, wider that I ever could have imagined. And in some mysterious way that may provide a strength and resiliency that a missionary life needs.

In this lifestyle I have had to learn balance. I cannot allow myself to become so comfortable that I forget that I have a revolving door that will always force change. I can’t be in a place where I refuse to be anywhere else, because as a servant of Christ, I must be willing to go anywhere at any time.

Yet at the same time, I can’t be so quick on my feet that I don’t settle down, make a life for my family, and take the time to plant my trees. Trees take time to plant and even longer to grow. Many times I have found myself mistakenly neglecting the things that take longer in life because maybe I won’t have time to see the fruit.

Over the years, I have learned the value in planting my trees — wherever the Lord leads us. I could write a book with all the stories about the Lord’s faithfulness. This story is just one of them, of our special little mango tree.

//

One Sunday afternoon within the first year that we moved to Thailand, we were watching a family movie. Suddenly our cat crept quickly to the door, and we noticed a poisonous snake slithering into a small bamboo grove in the front yard. (It is good to have a cat in Southeast Asia.) When the snake decided to make the bamboo its home, my husband had to remove the grove for the safety of our young kids and pets.

Now we had a great bare spot with nothing there, and our home was a spectacle with people being able to see right in. It may not seem like a big deal to some, but as a missionary in an Asian country you feel the constant eyes of the local people watching you. That bamboo grove had provided the little bit of privacy we needed at home. We knew we needed to get a new tree to fill the bare space. A trip to the plant market was exciting. We decided to get a mango tree so that we could enjoy the fruit in the seasons to come.

I became nervous and a bit sad thinking of buying a tree. I thought, what if we leave? We will no longer have our tree! That is our tree that we would have planted, and planting it felt like an investment that I didn’t want to lose. My husband, growing up as a missionary kid, knew the importance of making a home no matter how long you plan to stay.  “And besides,” he said, “it’s just a tree, have some fun!”

When we planted our little mango tree, not only did it grow, but our hearts began to change and grow. We became rooted again in the places right around us. It was just a few months later that we unexpectedly had to leave Thailand. We suddenly needed to move back to the States for health care for one of our kids. I began to realize how important it was that we planted that tree.

It was fun and exciting to go pick out and plant the tree as a family. To water it and begin to watch it grow. Our little mango tree was ours. It represented our family and our journey to that place at that time. It was more than just a tree to us. It showed how God had brought us there and reminded us of our adventures, both the fun and the difficult. And just like our tree, we were growing and maturing through it all. I decided then that in some way I would continue to “plant trees” each place the Lord would lead us to.

Before leaving Thailand, my husband moved our little tree to his parents’ house on the other side of the city. For a few years my father-in-law would send us pictures of it and tell about its growth. One Christmas, my son bought Grandpa a little airplane ornament, so Grandpa hung it on the tree we planted and took a picture of him and Grandma with it. That was the last email I received from my father-in-law before his passing a few months later.

Two years after we lost him, the Lord led our family back to Thailand and to the home where my in-laws had lived with our little mango tree. Staying in that home was supposed to be temporary, but with now two children with medical needs and COVID restrictions, we stayed there much longer.

We enjoyed many mango seasons eating the fruit that came from our tree. A tree that at one time we thought we might never see again, let alone taste the fruit from season after season. We watched our little tree grow right along with our children. I homeschooled under it while feeding babies. My kids climbed up in it and imagined for hours on end. They put blankets and teapots under it and invited friends to come in. Their stuffies were often found hanging in it, and yes, a few snakes tried to make their home there as well.

It was a refuge in a rainy season storm and a shady place when the hot season baked the earth. Each evening I would watch my children play around and climb up in it as I prepared dinner. For four years we lived there, and in some ways I forgot about the feelings I had before I planted the tree. My revolving door, for a moment, had given way to the beauty of the mundane.

The day came when the Lord had new plans for our family, and the chapter in that place was coming to a close. We called that place home longer than any other place we have ever lived.

A few years have now passed since we moved to Eastern Thailand. On a recent trip back to the north my husband went to our old house and discovered that the new owners had our tree removed. Our home is different, and not ours anymore, and our tree no longer there. The tree we planted is still a reminder of our journey — the journey that brought us there and led us away. Most important, however, is the time we spent planting our trees. And tree or no tree, a large part of our family’s roots can still be found there.

When we planted our lovely little mango tree, we did not just plant it to cover the home, but our hearts as well. It represents a place where growth began to take place in our lives. Now our little mango tree holds even more meaning; it’s not just a tree but a story.

It’s a story of a journey our family took to the other side of the world. It is a story of our adventures, our growth, our struggles, and our faith. It is a story of love and loss. It is a story of relationships we made and relationships we lost. That little tree holds a lot of memories, love, and life. Most importantly, it’s a story of God’s faithfulness ever present in our lives.

I hope my kids look back one day and see a life that was rooted. That their roots run deep, connecting them to people, places, and memories everywhere. That their home was a place of rest and security no matter where it was. That they have learned to plant their trees in each place, no matter how brief or long it may have been. And that they can see God’s glory and goodness in everything.

How about you? How has your family taken the time to plant your trees? It does not have to be an actual tree. It can be a variety of things that give us roots. Over the years, we have planted sunflowers, painted pictures to hang up on temporary housing walls, and raised chickens.

The year we moved to Eastern Thailand, we also went on home assignment. In that year alone we stayed in over fifty different places. Even during this time my son kept a small plant he potted in the window of our van as we traveled all around America. My children faithfully watered it each day.

Over the years our family has had over fifteen major moves. Many times there have been multiple moves within a year. Each place has provided opportunities to learn and grow, and wherever we go we take time to plant our trees.

~~~~~~~

Mary spent her childhood in the Midwest. After meeting her MK husband at a missions conference, her life was never the same. Together they have had a life of adventure following the Lord to many places and ministries around the world. Most days you will find her in a small village in Eastern Thailand surrounded by rice paddies with a coffee in hand, homeschooling her six children. There is something always baking in her oven and a yard full of critters and kids running around. She takes delight in studying God’s word and sharing its truth with others.

What My Cross-cultural Marriage Taught Me About Christianity

by Rachel Espazien

This month I’m celebrating six years of marriage to my Haitian husband. When people ask me about cross-cultural marriage, they expect stories of language differences, cultural conflict, or family traditions. Of course those have been part of our story, but the main lesson that comes to mind as I contemplate how my cross-cultural marriage has changed me over the course of the past six years is something different. 

My husband didn’t introduce me to Haitian culture. I was already living in Haiti and learning the language before we got together. However, ask any cross-cultural couple, and they will tell you. The depth of your cultural immersion while living abroad, compared to doing life 24/7 with your foreign spouse, are two completely different experiences! 

Through our marriage, God showed me that much of what I considered “Christianity” was actually American culture.

Growing up in America, I never realized how difficult it can be to separate my faith from culture. The two were so intertwined that I genuinely thought they were the same thing. Certain ways of speaking, dressing, worshiping, doing ministry, raising children, being productive, giving, and even managing time felt not only normal but morally correct.

Then I married someone who loved Jesus as I did but approached many of those things differently. When these differences would arise, I instinctively viewed them through the lens of right and wrong.

“Why would he, as a Christian, do things that way?” “Why can’t he see that ‘this’ is the right way?” “Surely my approach is more biblical.” But over time, God began exposing the truth to me that many of the things I was defending were not biblical principles at all. They were cultural preferences.

I discovered that serving God can look different from person to person and culture to culture. This doesn’t mean that one is more right than the other. The more I learned about Haiti and the more I experienced life through my husband’s perspective, the more I realized that Christianity is far bigger than any one culture.

Jesus did not come to make Haitians into Americans. He did not come to make Americans into Haitians. He came to redeem people from every tribe, tongue, and nation.

Throughout church history, Christians have, at times, confused the gospel with culture. Beginning in the New Testament, Jewish believers sometimes struggled to understand that Gentiles did not need to become culturally Jewish in order to follow Christ. We see these same beliefs affecting cross-cultural work and marriages today. 

The gospel was not tied to a single culture then, and it is not tied to one now. That realization transformed not only my marriage but also my ministry.

Because of our work in Haiti, I regularly interact with people whose daily lives look very different from my own. Years ago, I unconsciously measured their practices against American standards. I assumed that what felt normal to me was somehow more godly.

Today, I try to ask a different question in my marriage. Instead of asking, “Why doesn’t he do things the way I do?” I ask, “Is this actually unbiblical, or is it simply different?” And “What would be the most loving thing? To adapt? Or to call him out on this?”

That question has saved me from many unnecessary judgments. It has also helped me appreciate the beauty of God’s global church. Around the world, believers worship differently, communicate differently, and live differently. Yet they serve the same Savior and are filled with the same Spirit.

My marriage has given me a front-row seat to that reality. Living with someone from another culture has forced me to examine assumptions I didn’t even know I had. It has challenged my pride, stretched my understanding, and reminded me that my culture is not the standard by which all others should be measured.

Most importantly, it has deepened my understanding of the kingdom of God. The kingdom is not American. The kingdom is not Haitian. The kingdom is God’s, and it is beautifully diverse.

One day believers from every nation will stand together before the throne of Christ. Our cultural differences will not disappear, but they will all find their proper place under the lordship of Jesus. Just as diversity makes our worship beautiful, diversity makes marriage beautiful too. 

In a small way, cross-cultural marriage offers a glimpse of that future reality. It is two people from different backgrounds learning to build unity without demanding uniformity. For that lesson, I am deeply grateful.

What began as marriage between an American woman and a Haitian man became one of God’s tools for teaching me a larger truth: Following Christ does not require making others look like me. It requires helping people look more like Him. 

Cross-cultural marriage is refining, it’s stretching, and it’s so, so beautiful. How blessed I am to be living this life between two cultures and raising a daughter who is the best of both of our cultures. I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

~~~~~~~

Rachel Espazien is a missionary, blogger, and the founder of Espwa Demen Mission. Married to her Haitian husband, she writes from firsthand experience about the joys and challenges of intercultural marriage, cross-cultural ministry, and everyday life. Rachel is passionate about encouraging missionaries to learn their target language, embrace cultural differences with grace, and faithfully follow Christ wherever He leads. When she is not serving in Haiti, you will find her at home in Missouri raising her two-year-old daughter, selling at her antique booth, and language tutoring. She enjoys coffee, cooking, and fitness. You can follow her blog at espwademen.com/blog.

Practical Soul Care for the Busy Christian

Not so long ago, I unintentionally exalted ministry, obedience, and motherhood above soul care. I held it together on the outside but was bone-weary on the inside.

I don’t think I’m the only Christian who tends toward pouring out more than filling up. We, as Jesus-loving kingdom workers, desperately need to take the idea of soul care to heart. In fact, let’s do more than that — let’s take it to action with practices that help us slow down, internalize His word, reflect deeply and prayerfully, and implement new habits.

That all sounds grand, but actually getting there is a stretch for most of us. So, in response to my own need for soul care and my desire to help others along the way, I’ve created My Undivided Life: A Soul Care Journal.

This twelve-week guided journal offers original content, inspiring scripture, prayer prompts, creative space, and reflection questions to both usher you into deep places with the Lord and inspire you to live outwardly in love. It’s an invitation to live an undivided life — a life that truly loves Jesus with all of your heart, soul, mind, and strength. Bonus material includes a weekly habit tracker, additional soul care ideas, and book recommendations to further your spiritual growth.

But what is soul care? Is it simply a spiritualized form of self-care?

It does share similarities with self care: both aim toward personal health and wellness. But the center—the soul, if you will—of that wellness is vastly different. Self-care’s impetus is, simply, the self; soul care’s impetus is 100% Jesus.

When we acknowledge that we are created beings, breathing because God first breathed life into us, moving because in Him we live and move and have our being, and loving only because He first loved us, then we realize that the only care for our souls is deep connection to our Creator.

The idea of soul has many delineations, and yours may vary from mine, but here is my working definition: The soul is the deepest, truest part of you that encompasses and integrates the whole of your person. It includes your spirit that communes with God, your heart or emotions, your mind, and your body through which all the above are expressed.

I’d like to suggest that an activity (any activity!) can be soul care if:

  • It connects you with the source of life — God.
  • It integrates your body, mind, and heart.
  • It encourages open-handed trust and a release of what you’re not meant to carry.
  • It allows you to savor beauty and the Giver of all good things.

As Dallas Willard writes in Renovation of the Heart, “Our soul is like an inner stream of water, which gives strength, direction, and harmony to every other element of our life. When that stream is as it should be, we are constantly refreshed and exuberant in all we do, because our soul itself is then profusely rooted in the vastness of God and his kingdom, including nature; and all else within us is enlivened and directed by that stream.”

Your soul is invaluable.

Pause to consider Matthew 16:24-26:

Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it. What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul?”

Remember, soul care is much more than self-care. The aim is not to “save your life,” rather it is for your life to be swallowed up in Life Himself. In a way, it could be summed up in the idea of abiding in Christ. It’s one part position—you are in Christ—and one part intention—you keep yourself in Christ.

The following are some questions and prompts from My Undivided Life journal that you may want to sit with. See what they stir in you, and let the Savior of your soul guide you into ever-deeper places of abiding in Him.

  • What are you already doing that can qualify as soul care? Are there certain activities you want to invest more time in this week?
  • What’s one soul-draining task you can eliminate today?
  • What needs to change for you to intentionally partner with God in caring for your soul?
  • Sit quietly with the Lord. Ask Him to give you a picture of the state of your soul. Describe your soul as He sees it, and ask Him to shelter and care for it.
  • Rest today in the goodness of God. Inhale and exhale slowly as you breathe this prayer, and carry it with you throughout the day.

This post has been adapted from the first week of My Undivided Life: A Soul Care Journal created by author, teacher, and missionary Corella Roberts. To order a copy, click here.

From Fluent to Clueless in One Simple Plane Trip

by Patricia Paulichen

You really don’t realize how much of life you take for granted until you move overseas. You wake up on the other side of the planet, and suddenly nothing makes sense. Your brain has turned into mush, and you function and sound like a two-year-old.

And yet most people back home — who sent you there as a seemingly capable adult — have no idea of your sudden, invisible regression back to infancy.

The Toddler Phase: Relearning the Basics

So, you think you know how things work? Psych! Think again.

Previously effortless things like grocery shopping now demand Columbo-style detective work. Baking soda? Only in pharmacies, of course. Molasses? Available in greenhouses as fertilizer, obviously. (Both true stories.) Even seemingly simple things can go hilariously wrong. Imagine rushing in to use the loo only to realize (too late) that washrooms here double as election voting booths. Who knew?

Each day presents an escape room-style puzzle that you feel (and are) unequipped to solve. Learning how to complete even basic tasks feels like a full-time job, and the exhaustion of the constant decoding exhausts you; you wonder if competence will ever return.

The Language Barrier: When Your Brain Betrays You

Whether you acknowledge it or not, communication equals independence, and in the early days, you have neither.

Remember a time when you were articulate? Now you’re living in your very own episode of The Twilight Zone where you can only grunt like a caveman. Conversations become heavily gestured, frequently awkward, and often regrettable. You know what you want to say, but the words won’t come to your mouth. You want to yell, “But I have a college degree!” — anything to prove you’re even remotely intelligent. But fear of embarrassment keeps you smiling and silently nodding along, praying you can get through the conversation without losing it.

The mistakes pile up quickly. I know of one missionary who confidently asked a Sunday school child to “spit on” him instead of “forgive” him. The kid wisely refused. Another turned down help refining his sermon, only to open his Sunday morning message by declaring his “backside” had two halves instead of his past. The congregation dissolved in unstoppable laughter, and he had to leave the pulpit abruptly. (Though I’m sure he never made that mistake again!)

While it doesn’t take forever (even though it often feels like it), slowly but surely your brain and mouth catch up to your surroundings. Like a Biblical miracle, your tongue is eventually loosed and the words begin to flow.

The Cultural Differences: Rules Lurking Under the Surface

Every culture has unspoken rules, and the sooner you learn them, the fewer awkward situations you’ll find yourself in.

Greeting customs? Good luck guessing whether to shake hands, bow, kiss a cheek (or two), or awkwardly hover. And why does a latecomer to church have to greet absolutely everyone when they enter, even if it’s in the middle of a service? Public transport? Do you flag it down or just stand there awkwardly and trust that it stops? Is it even alright for “rich” foreigners to use it? (Learned that lesson the hard way.)

Beyond the daily logistics, cultural norms shape deeper aspects of life. Humour doesn’t always translate, and what’s polite in one place might be offensive in another. Hand gestures you’re used to using at home might put you in a more-than-awkward situation in your host country.

What’s considered a casual request in your circles might come across as demanding or demeaning in another. Even time itself can be twisted to the extent that appointments are suggestions (especially for the doctors you’re waiting to see), and events “starting at 6 p.m.” includes the time to get ready. (Who knew arrival times could be so fluid?)

The most frustrating part? No one tells you these things outright. Each day you learn from your mistakes, albeit sometimes rather painfully.

The Bureaucracy Maze: When Systems Feel Designed to Drive You Mad

Back home, things were predictable. Need to renew your driver’s license? You know exactly where to go and how long it will take. Need to pay a bill? Log into online banking, do a quick transfer, and it’s done, easy peasy. But when you move overseas, every system operates by a set of disconnected, unwritten, often baffling rules.

Each day feels like stumbling through a dimly-lit labyrinth full of bad LED lights and endless red tape where, after hours of standing in an unmoving lineup, a disinterested clerk tells you you’re missing one vital document that same person failed to mention to you when you were there yesterday, before waving you off to wait in line at another indifferent office, only for them to hand you a contradictory new mountain of paperwork and tell you to start over, leaving you wondering if anyone in this soul-crushing machine actually knows the rules or if it’s designed to wear you down until you question your own sanity.

Official tasks feel like being on a reality-TV show of trial and error, where every attempt uncovers a fresh complication that determines your survival (at worst) and makes you want to scream (at best).

As one missionary friend wisely shared, “If I can get one thing done per day, I’m doing really well. Anything more than that is unrealistic.” In this hamster wheel-type life, each stamp or signature is celebrated as a victory, proof you made it through some sort of bureaucracy without completely losing your mind.

The Hidden Cost: When Adventure Becomes Exhaustion

Reality check: It’s not all an adventure. This is simply how you live, day in and day out. The constant small frictions and low-grade disorientation are exhausting and take a real toll.

You miss the simplicity of home in ways you never anticipated: the ease of shopping and ready-made food, the predictability of schedules, and the comfort of blending in. Relationships are hard, and making genuine friends as an adult demands real effort.

No matter how long you stay or how well you adapt, you’ll always carry at least a subtle difference to the nationals. As my immigrant father-in-law said, “Once you move away from your birth country, no matter where you live, you will never fully fit in again.” Welcome to Third Culture Life, where belonging is layered with complexity and forever a little bittersweet.

The Redemption: Why We Stay (and How We Grow)

In the beginning, every day feels like a losing battle. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, you start to change. One day, you realize your brain no longer feels fried by 2 p.m. (Score!) Survival mode gives way to flow. Life starts to feel easier. You can finally exhale a little. You’re adjusting.

Living overseas in a new language and culture strips you down to nothing and rebuilds you with a new personality and a new way of thinking. In the grinding process, you cultivate real grit, adaptability, and the capacity to laugh at yourself. Over time, you come to love the new person you’ve become and to appreciate the challenges God used to get you there.

And somewhere in the journey, the foreign place that once overwhelmed you becomes home. You emerge from the cocoon of uncertainty as the beautiful, bicultural butterfly you have been called to be: more humble, more reliant on His grace, and forever transformed.

~~~~~~~

Patricia Paulichen is a Bible-centred life coach who is passionate about helping women in ministry and missions rediscover clarity, peace, and joy in Christ amid the demands of cross-cultural life. With years of overseas ministry and her own family’s neurodiversity journey, she brings practical wisdom and deep compassion to every conversation. Patricia and her husband currently serve in Uruguay, South America. They are parents to two homeschooled adult TCKs and two TCK kids-in-law, all living in Europe. When she’s not ministering or coaching, you’ll likely find her with a good book and a cup of tea, delving into languages, geeking out over neuroscience and faith, wandering in nature, or happily lost in a K-drama. You can connect with Patricia at patriciamyralee.com.

You Had to Be There (But You Weren’t)

by Jessica Albers

I never come home from Africa alone. I come home carrying stories. Not just stories. Histories. Experiences. Faces. There is a burden of responsibility, a weight of which I am acutely aware, that doesn’t translate neatly into conversation. It’s a quiet, but persistent disconnect. 

People cannot fully understand what they have not experienced. The rational part of me accepts that. It’s not a failure of empathy; it’s a limitation of being human. We can do our best to overlap our experiences in an effort to find commonalities, something similar to anchor our emotional responses to, but even then, we will never quite find a perfect point of “getting it.”  

There is another part of me — less tidy, more honest, that doesn’t settle so easily. The part of me still holding what I saw, and heard, and felt, and feel. My spirit is restless, carrying this tension between the two sides of this experience gap. Why aren’t you asking better questions? Why aren’t you pressing in just a little more? Why does this feel so surface-level when it is anything but surface-level to me? What do I do with all of this? 

I’ve been here before. When my sister had cancer, people showed up with kindness. They understood cancer as a concept. Cancer is serious. Cancer is hard. Cancer is bad. But they did not understand what it felt like to live inside of it. The constant recalibration of life around uncertainty. The exhaustion of carrying that reality while everything around you continues as though nothing has changed. Every moment. Every day. For years.

As a child, I knew the experience gap. They just didn’t get it. How could they? And yet, when they didn’t respond to my frantic attempts to survive my reality with patience or understanding, anger bubbled to the surface. Why didn’t they try to understand?

You learn very quickly how to sanitize your story. You package it into easy-to-digest pieces. When a question is asked, and your lived experience wells up inside of your throat, screaming to be let out, but instead you swallow it back down. You hold it there. You pause for a moment to let your body reset as you smile and share that neat, clean, palatable message packaged appropriately for general audience consumption. Packaged for people who will never get it. 

That internal tension. Knowing that full understanding wasn’t possible, yet still wishing, sometimes desperately, that someone, anyone, would try to get closer. That someone would step into the heaviness with me and try to understand. That they would ask different questions. That I wouldn’t feel so alone in something that so many people were aware of, but so few truly grasped. 

I find myself holding these two truths at once. The gap is real. And the weight of carrying something that does not easily translate is real, too. 

This is part of the human experience. People walk through grief, trauma, illness, moments that reshape them in permanent ways, and then they attempt to articulate those experiences to others who simply do not have the same reference points. We want to be seen. We need to feel understood; known by someone. It isn’t a lack of care that creates the disconnect. More often, it is the absence of shared experience. Without that, there is only so far understanding can go. 

I’ve started to call this the experience gap — the space between what someone has lived and what someone else can meaningfully understand. And I am coming to terms with the fact that this gap cannot be fully closed. No matter how carefully we choose our words, no matter how many details we masterfully weave into the narratives of our experiences, there will always be some distance.

Before every trip to Africa, I ask God to open my heart and mind to what He needs me to learn. My job bridges a chasm of understanding. Here and there. There and here. This space where I am standing is isolating. On one side, I am listening to and carrying stories that are not mine. I am acutely aware of the fact that I am the one who is disconnected by my own lack of experience.

Because of that I am constantly wrestling, seeking, and searching. Am I asking the right questions? Do they see that I am trying to understand? Can they feel how much I care? How do I transfer these sacred stories, stories that aren’t mine, to an audience even further removed from those experiences. 

This realization has been both clarifying, and at times, deeply unsettling. I’ve wanted to believe that if I could just find the right language, the right storytelling model, if I could just do my job better — understanding would follow. That expectation places a burden on storytelling that it was never meant to carry.  

So I am reframing the goal. Perhaps it is not full understanding that we are after, but movement. 

Not: Now you get it. 

But: Now you are closer than you were before. 

This shift changes how I think about telling stories, about communicating experiences that others have not lived. It asks less of the listener, but it also asks something different of the storyteller. Not to transfer the experience, that is not possible, but to build a bridge for connection. One that is honest. Specific. Grounded in real moments. One that allows someone to step toward the experience, even if they cannot fully step into it. 

I wish that I could say that this new approach has settled my spirit — that I feel better, content, at peace. I don’t. A part of me resists this whole idea. I wish people could see what I have seen and heard as clearly as I do, feel it as deeply, and carry it with the same weight. That part has not gone away. I’m not sure it ever will, and I am honestly not sure that I want to be totally relieved of this discomfort. I want these things to change me. 

There’s also something deeper at work in all of this. In Romans, we’re told that suffering produces perseverance, and perseverance, character, and character . . . hope. We’re also reminded that God comforts us in our troubles so that we can comfort others with the same comfort we’ve received.

That doesn’t make the experience easier, and it doesn’t resolve the tension of carrying things others don’t understand. But it does give it purpose. The very things that feel isolating are often the same places God uses to draw people closer to one another — and to Him — through presence, through empathy, through a willingness to step toward someone else’s reality. 

We need to keep sharing our stories. Not because they will ever produce complete understanding — they won’t. We need to keep sharing because they make movement possible. A shared step toward one another, toward connection, away from islands of isolation. A narrowing of the distance, even if it’s small. That movement matters more than we often realize. It can shift people out of indifference and into empathy, out of distance and into presence. 

Full understanding may never happen. But connection still can. And sometimes, that is what matters most.

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Jessica Albers is a writer, communications strategist, and ministry leader with more than fifteen years of experience. She specializes in helping organizations and individuals communicate with authenticity and bridge the experience gap. Her writing explores faith, leadership, and the human experiences that shape us, with a particular interest in the places where personal stories reveal God’s presence and invite deeper connection with others. She lives in Texas with her husband and two children.