Beth Barthelemy – A Life Overseas |

The Sacred Keeping of People We Will Leave

My husband, our friend Liz, and I recently began watching Ted Lasso’s newest season. In the first episode, Ted is faced with a decision to return to England after several years of resettling in the U.S. Torn between his life in the U.S. and his desire to be a part of building something meaningful in the UK, Ted refuses the job offer, stating that Kansas City is his home. His former boss, Rebecca, nods her head and graciously responds with, “Sometimes, home is just a state of mind.”

All three of us watching had relocated back to the U.S. within the last few years, from the same area in Africa. We have walked this road of repatriation — some of it apart, some together — and it’s been a deep gift to be near to each other again now.

That question of what is home or where is home has not ceased to feel complicated. I watch my daughters struggle with it when well-meaning people ask. My husband, an adult TCK, answers differently depending on the context of the conversation. For our family, so much of this past year has been about our physical settling — finding a house, furnishing the house, unpacking all the things, finding our new places to shop and swim and run. There was a good bit of processing for us around leaving a home we loved and learning to love a new place, of building home in a completely new part of the world.

For all we think about home as a physical place, however, there is the very real part of our lives done in proximity to other people. What does it mean to spend most of a decade learning to love people, to then just . . . leave?

I think back to the summer before we moved to South Africa. It was filled with travel, many tearful goodbyes, and a sending party. It was a painful kind of leaving, and yet, we knew we would see all of these people we loved again. On home assignments, we would make the circuit to each of our churches, visit our friends, and spend meaningful time with our families.

We sent regular newsletters and kept up communication with many as a part of partnership. Being a twenty-first century cross-cultural worker meant, even in those hard goodbyes, there was not the finality of generations past; there was potential for many on-going relationships, and visits were to be (comparatively) more frequent.

Leaving this time, however, felt strangely different. There was no plan to return within the next few years. We do not have a newsletter for all of those people we built life with for the last nine years. There was investment in friendship, in discipleship, in formation. We built community with our church, our homeschool group, our Bible school campus, and within our small town. By the time we actually left, our networks were vast and overlapping. Though we have kept up with some people, the majority we have not had contact with since we left over a year ago.

What is the significance of pouring our lives into others, just to leave? What does it mean to hold friendships dear, even if we cannot maintain them? Is our discipleship significant, even after we’re gone?

To be honest, our new life has required so much relational energy and pouring into new relationships that these questions are only now surfacing for me. We have all felt the loss of our closest friends, our dearest neighbors. Some days, the completeness of the relational starting over has been suffocating. Where are those lovely people who just knew me, with whom I had built so much relational capital and felt understood?

But these questions of purpose and meaning in the pouring in, and then the leaving, these remain, some days haunting over my shoulder as we pour out again in a new context. The faces of hundreds swim in my mind — and the completeness of leaving these dear people takes my breath away.

What must it have been like for Jesus, who poured His life into relationships, who truly poured Himself out completely for people? Did He, in His humanity, wrestle with questions of His investment in others? Did He wonder how His leaving would affect those He’d become close to? How did He embody his self-identified purpose that “the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45)?

Perhaps He, too, felt the futility at times. After all, His time physically with people was short too. In His presence, He offered compassion, friendship, healing, forgiveness, dignity, and love; and in His leaving, He sent His Spirit to remain in His absence. What have we left behind in our leaving?

By God’s grace, I can think back on dozens of good goodbyes before we left South Africa — tearful, poignant reflections on years of relationship with many dear people. And by God’s grace, we knew that we have eternity to share with many of these dear friends. But not all. Oh God, may your Spirit continue to be alive and active in our absence. And of course, He will.

He is the sacred keeper of people. And perhaps here is the goodness, the hope: in our absence, God is present. By necessity of circumstance, our tangible doing of life with these people has come to an end, and yes, it is painful. And yet, we entrust all of those we love and who loved us back into His care, into His hands. Our presence was only ever going to be fleeting, but His is eternal.

Read the companion piece from earlier this year, The Sacred Keeping of Places We Will Leave.

One Year In: What Has Helped Our Transition

As we have reflected on our past year of transition back to our passport country, a few particular graces stand out as hugely impactful. I use the word “graces” because often, when transitioning back from an overseas life, certain elements are out of our control. The following list is not comprehensive, and these are not ways in which we planned well or succeeded. These are simply elements that assisted in the smooth transition for our family, by God’s grace.

Some of us may have needed to leave in times of chaos or crisis, when it is exceedingly challenging to have any space or time to think with intentionality. There is so much grace for transitions like these. So take what is helpful here, and leave the rest.

Leaving well. We are grateful for resources written for returning cross-cultural workers. In one such resource, I was given basic principles that helped shape how our family could leave our field in a healthy way.

We prayerfully sought wisdom on how to fairly offer our household furnishings to those in our community. We made a family bucket list of some of the last places we wanted to see, or special places to revisit. We planned many dinners, coffee dates, playdates, and intentional times with friends, church family, and coworkers.

As others have written about before, we prayed through the RAFT concept, considering if there were any relationships to repair. When it came time to leave, though our whole family would have loved more time with many of these dear friends, we were relationally ready, and gratefully did not leave with any looming conflict hanging over our heads.

Having a job lined up. There were a couple of different seasons while we lived and worked overseas when we were tempted to transition back, but in the end, we did not feel God was releasing us. Looking back, we are so grateful we waited for His guidance and particular timing. In our transition, we had time for my husband to candidate for pastoral positions as God was leading and prayerfully walk through this process with others praying for us.

When it came time to physically leave our host country, we knew where we would eventually be moving and what job my husband would next be doing. This shaped so much of our transition and provided essential stability when so much of our lives seemed at sea.

Prioritizing a soft landing for our children. Some friends of ours who transitioned back to their home country a few years before us helped shape this priority for us. My husband, an adult TCK, knew firsthand the many challenges for TCKs transitioning back to passport countries, and had specific hopes for our children. We prayerfully considered what part of the country in which to land, how far from family, what size town, what kind of schooling, etc.

In the middle stage of candidating with churches, we brought our children (ranging from seven years to twelve years) into the conversation and asked them to pray for God’s direction for our family. When it came time to make the final decision, we sought their perspectives and waited until each child was onboard with leaving. God truly orchestrated a soft transition for our children, and we settled into a small church with a great youth pastor and youth group, in an area with abundant opportunities and natural beauty.

Stepping into a supportive church community. We have loved being a part of so many churches through our cross-cultural years of service and have been supported deeply by some of these churches. Stepping into pastoral ministry meant that we were stepping directly into a new church community, and one that has cared for us genuinely.

In the beginning months, they sought to meet many of our practical needs, helping to fix up the home we moved into and providing many basic household items. There have been a core group of people who have understood on some level what it is for our family to transition from a decade of living and working overseas, and have cared well for us through prayer and intentionally checking in. This church has shaped the majority of our new community in this early stage of transitioning, and has been a blessing.

Being willing to wait on God. Even with all of these listed graces, there have still been many moments of angst and wondering. While my husband jumped into a new, defined role at our church, I have struggled with the identity loss of cross-cultural worker and wondered what is next for me personally. We have considered all of the schooling options and struggled to find a community like the one we left. We have prayed constantly for friends for our children.

At one point, about eight months after we left South Africa, I was deeply anxious about some of these issues, and just felt my spirit couldn’t settle. After an interrupted night of sleep, I sat with my cup of coffee, journal and Bible, and cried out, what am I to do, Lord? Almost audibly, He said, “You wait for me. Have I not provided in the past?”

Hot tears ran down my face as I realized all of the many ways He had indeed provided and cared for us in all of the previous years, for the whole of my life. Be patient, and wait. None of these angsty issues needed to be answered right now; I needed to wait on Him, for His leading and provision.

This biblical principle of waiting has since shaped my perspective. When I look back on our time overseas, I am keenly aware of the painstaking years it took for a sense of rootedness in our cross-cultural context. God provided deep friendships and meaningful community, good work and productive ministry, but not all at once, and some of these took years to fall into place.

We know our transition journey is far from over; and yet, we are grateful at this stage, one year in, to be able to see the goodness of God and significant ways in which He aided our repatriation process. It is an incredible grace to think back on all that God has done in these past twelve months, not only for our family, but for those we left and those we’ve come to join.

If you are on the cusp of transition or thinking ahead to what God has next for you, my hope is that you are encouraged. God is with you, He is leading you, and He will provide for you.

Looking Back over the First Year of Re-entry

A year ago, we were in the throes of selling off many of our belongings, packing up the rest, and preparing for an international move. We left our field of nine years last June and have spent these past eleven months getting settled on a new continent, in a new ministry setting. One year ago, I was prayerfully reflecting that although I knew it would be hard, this transition could also be good. In a way, this is my story of how God has carried us on the journey we have been walking, a reflection on the graces and goodness He has shown to us.

Of course, every repatriating story is different, and the process is truly ongoing, years long even. One year in, this is our story, beginning from when our family arrived back in the US.

The first three months were pure chaos. Not every single moment was chaotic, but my overall headspace was functioning at a sprint speed, periodically halted by deep grief for all we had left. We were wrapping up our cross-cultural ministry decade by visiting our partners and presenting at our churches around the Midwest while actively shopping for a house online.

Garage sales were a tremendous enjoyment — because when you move intercontinentally and need nearly everything, it’s a very productive use of time and limited resources. It was at garage sales that we found not one, but two small roll-top desks for a couple of our daughters, and my husband and I spent one week mindlessly (blissfully) refinishing both as some small investment into our ambiguous future life. We did not know where exactly these desks (or our family) would land, but we trusted that God would provide a space for them (and us).

In that chaos stage of the transition bridge, God miraculously provided a home in a way that still humbles us and brings tears to my eyes. We were stepping into pastoral ministry and had a waiting church eager to help in many ways. We attended a family debrief a week before we closed on our new home and gratefully received tools and language for the long process of repatriating.

Renting a U-Haul for our garage-sale collected things and suitcases, we moved our family over to Minnesota. Our new home needed some updating, and dozens of people from our new church helped for a week straight. It was overwhelming, beautiful, and humbling. After a couple of weeks of work, during which my husband started his new job at our church, we moved into our new home in September and began unpacking our bags after three months.

The second three months were defined by relational overwhelm. Though our family was physically settled in a new home, we were brand new in every sphere of our lives. In a way that was both meaningful and draining, our family’s arrival into pastoral ministry meant that everyone knew who we were, but we knew very few people. On top of that, my children and I joined a large homeschool co-op in our area. Though I prayed extensively over this decision and felt God guided us to it, we struggled every single week to rally and go.

One Tuesday early in the fall, several of us were on the verge of tears on the way to co-op. After assessing the sheer number of new faces with which we would again be met, I rerouted our car to Ikea instead. The girls and I had a huddle in the parking lot, and I said, “Everything about our lives right now is new. We have met, and are meeting, so many new people. I just don’t think I can do it today. What about you? Should we just walk through Ikea instead?”

This was met with cheers. “We are all doing our best, and this is really hard. I just want you to know that what we’re doing — what you’re doing — is really hard, and it’s okay that it feels that way sometimes.” We had a truly fun and special morning meandering through the aisles, dreaming about how to make our new house into a home and appreciating each other more than we had in some time.

One of the personal gifts of this season were the visits we had by three families we have known and loved for many years and from both of our parents. We quickly figured out plenty of extra bed options and guest spaces for hosting. These times were an essential reminder to us that we were known beyond this last year; these were friends and family who have been with us through seasons of ministry and before. These visits were profoundly encouraging and life-giving.

As my husband settled into his new role at our church, I began to struggle with the loss of my own role as a cross-cultural worker and the ambiguity of my work now. What was I supposed to be doing? What is my role in our new life? These questions would linger — and still do.

Finally, after seven months, our small shipment of the rest of our belongings arrived in January. This stretch of three months was characterized by deeply settling.

I laid the rugs under our new furniture and finally hung our collection of art around the house. We hung our African baskets over the stairs and unpacked boxes of books on to waiting bookshelves. Eventually, this house began to feel like home. The girls took up ice hockey at our local park’s rink. I cross-country skied for the first time in a decade, elation whipping through my heart and hair. This feels so good, I thought.

We hosted family after family from church and small groups for Sunday lunches. My husband and I walked nearly every day, even in sub-zero temps, proving to ourselves that we could cope with Northern winters after a decade in the sunny Southern hemisphere.

Our church asked our family to be the featured cross-cultural workers for missions week. We regretted agreeing in the weeks leading up, as we poured over photos and videos and tried to articulate a decade of life and ministry in thirty minutes. Emotionally, this process left me raw, and I cried Sunday morning when a sweet woman asked how the preparations had gone.

In the end, though, we were grateful to have had the opportunity to share with our new community a deeper glimpse into our life before, into who we have loved, and what we have been involved with. A deeper sense of feeling known accompanied that painful sharing, and that was worth it.

This current season is marked by deeper belonging. Our family has jumped into the rec soccer season, and we are meeting more community members and neighbors with the warming spring weather. The girls run into church on Sunday morning ahead of me, greeting everyone, knowing nearly everyone (as pastors’ kids do). The are confidently asserting their personalities, volunteering in the tech booth and helping in nursery. They are loving their youth group and Sunday school classes. There is, in short, a sense of belonging that brings tears to my eyes.

Last weekend, our nature co-op had our end of year theater performances for three crazy days in a row. It has been a busy last month of rehearsals and extra hours spent, of figuring out costumes and props. We had our last day together earlier this week — a cast party, it was called. I chatted easily among the groups of other moms, and the girls ran around playing and exploring without abandon.

Just as I was packing up to head out, another mom grabbed my arm and we all jumped into a spontaneous dance party. The kids joined, and as I looked around, my heart swelled with gratitude. Later, in the car on the way home, the girls eagerly affirmed my vocalized reflection: “Well, it took the whole year at nature school, but it feels like we finally belong.”

They say it takes the average cross-cultural worker three to five years to truly, deeply assimilate back into a home culture. As I write this, I am aware that we are still on the early end of this long transition journey. There is more story still to tell. At this stage, we can affirm that God has been gracious and faithful, as He has promised. He has answered voiced prayers and the ones we did not know to pray. My husband and I often look at each other, with gratitude for how God led and orchestrated this transitional season. It has been hard, and it has been good.

Homesick for Holiday Traditions on the Field

I tuck the white tablecloth, still unfinished on the edges, up on the shelf in our new laundry room. There are eight years’ worth of Thanksgiving notes on that cloth, from dozens of friends hosted over as many years. It hasn’t been washed nearly as often as it should be, for fear any gratitudes might wash out.

A pang of sadness hits me when I realize this will be the first year in many that we don’t pull it out, as we will be traveling to family this Thanksgiving. For all those years that we felt the familiar grief of missing family, it now feels ironic to grieve the absence of one of our own traditions.

Why am I not more grateful for the gift of gathering with family this year? It is not lost on me the many, many times we mourned missing such gatherings during our near decade overseas. It’s just that, from that deep sense of loss and sorrow, many beautiful, life-sustaining traditions were born. These traditions rooted us in a foreign place; the holidays and holy days, hard as they may have been, were sacred and special to our family, for our own honoring of them.

These hard-won traditions bolstered our hospitality and oriented our sore hearts back to Christ. Yes, there was our annual Thanksgiving tradition to extend our tables as far as they would go, to welcome others from different backgrounds and places to share in the goodness of God over a feast together. Our family grew to love this day, scheming over whom we would invite, what we would serve (could we find a turkey this year?), and what flowers would be in bloom to grace the table (usually hydrangeas). And always the treat of pie for breakfast the next day. Oh yes, how different this day will look this year.

It’s another loss. The realization stings as viscerally as the tears. For any gain this side of our life overseas, there seems to be loss. We cannot escape it. I tuck a bag of thrifted Christmas décor away in our crawl space, to pull out in a few weeks when the snow flies.

Imagining Christmas in this new house brings some excitement — and also longing for home. Only that home is 9,000 miles away and now inhabited by some other family. I pull out my camera, looking for images of familiarity, of comfort, of home. Bright smiles on younger faces greet me, hot sunshine pouring through the photos, a video of our Christmas tree swaying in the breeze of our open window.

No December breezes this year, I think, with a prayer that this new home of ours will be snug in the coming freezing temps, sheltered amidst the winds of transition. The photos continue to intrigue me. There’s the familiar Jesse tree, sewn with felt when my babies were crawling and my days long. The simple, circular gold Advent wreath, adorning our table for as many years as we’ve had one, sitting atop the bright and bold shweshwe table runner. The tree (blowing in the wind) holding collected ornaments of accumulated years, each one holding a memory.

The collection of books on the shelf, featuring our annual Christmas read alouds and picture books, poetry and stories. The cookies and gingerbread houses, the friends gathered for carols, the Christmas crackers, the Twelfth Night party with the trees aflame. This wealth of tradition settles on me like a warm quilt. They are cozy, they are handmade, they are ours. These are the traditions that rooted us in all those years when we were far from home . . . as we were building a new home. Oh, how we are homesick for that home.

Not all is lost. These same traditions, nourishing our lonely and sad spirits for many holidays abroad, might just be the young roots our hearts need this year. Surely not all will translate well; some existed for that context, for the sole purpose of helping us to thrive in a distant and distinct place. We will miss and grieve those, I know. There always seems to be much to grieve when life is as transient as ours has been.

I stand up, looking out the window at a November unlike I’ve seen in many years. There’s a beauty in it, a beauty I have missed. It will all be well, the tiniest whisper stirs in my spirit. The grief and joy pour out all in the same breath. There is great joy in following where God leads — and great relief in knowing He is with us in all of the losses. This complicated intertwining of the expat life is not too much for him to bear; He knows all too well what it is to leave home for another foreign land.

Here, Father, take them, these traditions that served so well to root us to a place, to give us a sense of home and family. The littlest prayer is all my heart can offer today. These traditions we have come to love exist just for that purpose: rooting us in a place and time and pointing us back to Christ, to love, to grace. But Christ, we always have, even if our traditions must be lost in transition.

Maybe the tablecloth will resurface next year. Maybe I should try and wash it before then. Or maybe it won’t, and it will be a treasured remembrance of our family’s time in Southern Africa, when we built family away from family and fought for joy on some of the loneliest days.

For this year, my heart is sore in another way. Lonely in a stranger way. But just as God gave us a path forward in a new life nine years ago, He will again now in a new, foreign-to-us place. Traditions, mostly old and some new, will help us to grow roots again. Slowly, a house will begin to feel like home, and a life will grow in which we belong. All will be well.

We Are (Gratefully) Not Exempt

In the shadows of your wings I take refuge,
till the storms of destruction pass by.
Psalm 57:1

There exists a temptation for those of us working overseas, in various ministry or non-profit sectors. Perhaps you, like me, fall into holding a little too tightly (and falsely) to this line of thinking:

I should be exempt.

It’s not surprising, when we recognize that many of us have sacrificed quite a lot to do what we do, and have accordingly experienced unusual amounts of hardship and stress.

So when a routine test comes back labeled “abnormal,” and I am told to “slightly urgently” proceed to another doctor for follow-up tests, my reaction to God, rather ashamedly, was I should be exempt! Isn’t there some special protection given to those who have given so much already?

Apparently not. While my mind knows better and my theological training rebukes me, my heart resists yet another opportunity to lean fully into Jesus in trust. What is it that leads to this line of thinking? Here are some fallacies that I have been addressing in my own heart and mind:

Suffering is something I must avoid. While suffering is a result of the fall, in Christ we find our firm foundation in the sovereignty of God (see Job 1). While suffering may be excruciatingly uncomfortable and full of sorrow, it is not outside the goodness of God somehow, and he has every intention of using it for our good and his glory, if we choose to let him. This suffering, this particular hardship is another opportunity to lean deeply into trust and realign my heart with Christ’s faithfulness.

I have already given enough. Why do we even think this way? My life is not my own (see Jer. 10:23); since trusting Christ, I have turned my allegiance, having received his grace and given my life for his glory rather than my own. There is no maximum requirement of faithfulness, but rather the daily offering of my life back to Christ. Serving in ministry, in mission, in non-profit, or in any other field does not earn us special props, privileges, or exemptions. It is a joy and gift to be able to serve Christ in these specific ways, not a status gain.

I am stronger because of all of the stress and anxiety I have already experienced. This may be quite contrary to popular psychology, but in my experience as a child of God, suffering regularly reveals to me just how weak and feeble I truly am. Stress has a way of graciously reminding me how desperately in need of him I am. I can honestly affirm with Paul that God’s grace is sufficient for me, and that his strength is made perfect in my weaknesses. If my suffering reveals more of own weakness in order to promote God’s grace and strength, then by all means, may I be willing to receive what he has for me.

It has been a few months since those health struggles, and in the end, all was well. I have been tempted to look back at how I handled (or did not handle) that trial, and equally tempted to despair that I was not more filled with faith, and trust, and bravery.

But as I look at this list of lies that God has been graciously weeding out of my heart, I see that his hand has been in it all, the whole time. His grace enabled me to acknowledge my fears of more suffering, to admit my desperate dependency on him anew, and to walk forward in more compassion and honesty.

Gratefully, we are not exempt from any of his faithfulness and goodness in our lives.

O God, you have been the refuge of your people through many generations; be my refuge in every moment and every need that I face today. Be my guide through all uncertainty and darkness. Be my guard against all that threatens my spiritual well-being. Be my strength in times of testing. Cheer my heart with your peace; through Jesus Christ my Lord. Amen.
John Baille

When Our Children Feel Rootless

I looked intently in my daughter’s eyes. Her normal sparkle was clouded over with hurt. She had been caught in a three-way friend drama for years, often feeling left out and like she could not compete. After the most recent installment, she seemed resigned.

“I mean, maybe it’s better this way anyway. When we move back to the US, then they’ll have each other,” she casually commented.

My heart broke. Where did this come from? Yes, we have eventual plans to move back to our home country, but no current plans. It isn’t something we talk about much; at least, not with our children — only occasionally. But clearly it has hung in the back of my daughter’s mind.

Witnessing my daughter’s experience of rootlessness is perhaps more painful than my own experience of it. For those of us who have children, you have likely asked the same questions:

Is this fair to do to my children?

What is the price they will have to pay?

How much trauma can we all bear?

Will we know when we need to make a change?

My daughter’s own sense of rootlessness echoed my own persistent feelings.

Some of us are better disposed to live in the present, to set aside questions of the future and memories of the past. Others of us struggle to live in the moment, constantly aware of the shifting sand beneath our feet and the marching on of time.

Some of us love living overseas and have settled in deeply, hoping to pass many years of our lives on fresh soil. Others of us have worked hard to live well in difficult places and never quite felt like we could fully settle.

Compounded with a sense of rootlessness is that of loneliness – who else around me feels what I feel? Am I the only one? Local friends and partners will not relate in the same way, nor will friends and partners from our passport countries. It can be difficult to share honestly, and this often feels like a burden we must shoulder alone.

On some level, while the intensity of the rootless feeling fades, it never truly disappears; at least, it hasn’t for me, not after eight years. While there has been an increased sense of home and community in our international context, I still do not feel like I am rooted in the way I wish I could be.

And yet, we seek to walk in this season with as much gratitude as we can muster, seeing that it is just that: a season. We pray, with the psalmist, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). We hold fast to Christ as our true home and recognize that any sense of rootlessness is part of living in broken world.

So I can look my daughter in the eye, into those bright, beautiful eyes, and say, “I know, my girl. It’s on my heart all the time too. Part of it is that we are living in this broken world – we’ll be rootless until Jesus comes to make it all right again. Another part is that we are a kind of stranger here, and always will be. But it’s okay – Jesus is with us, he knows what it is to be a foreigner, and we can hold fast to him. Some day, our hearts will feel completely at home.”

And while this doesn’t fix our feelings, it helps know what to do with them. Below is a prayer I’ve written for my daughter who struggles with rootlessness. May it be a blessing to you and your children:

A Prayer for When I’m Feeling Rootless

My Father, my true home,

My heart is unsettled in this place;
I feel rootless, wandering, floating.

I long to feel as though I belong,
As though this is my forever home.
I long to fit in, to not be different
Than those around me.
I long to not wonder when we will move,
Or imagine what that will be like.

And yet, I know my rootlessness
Comes from living in a broken world.
You will someday make all things new,
And this world will be the home you meant for me.

My soul is made to long
For you, Christ.
My heart is truly at home
In you, Christ.
My rootless wandering finds rest
In you, Christ.
My life is built on the solid rock
Of you, Christ.

And yet, while I am here,
Let me love well, and serve well.
Let me live in this season
With faith and trust that you will
Care for me all of my days.

Amen.

(Prayer drawn from Psalm 90:12; Luke 6:48; Ephesians 3:17; Colossians 2:7)

A Police Story

I had an experience a few weeks ago, my police story, if you will. Among overseas workers, it’s one I could wear like a badge – because many of us have them, don’t we?

Without going into the specifics, I was stopped by a traffic officer, unfairly ticketed, and in the process, felt bullied and vulnerable. Very vulnerable.

After my husband and I climbed back into our car (with him now in the driver’s seat) and assuaged our children’s fears, tears started to roll down my cheeks. He quickly rerouted us from our way to church, correctly realizing that we were far too late anyway.

As my husband tried to comfort me, my mind raced. Why was I so upset? Was it the injustice of it all? Was it the bullying? The condescending way he spoke to me, or rather, to my husband about me? It’s okay, my husband said, this was a one in a thousand type situation, don’t worry about it. It won’t happen again!

It sure did not feel okay to me. It did not matter to me how unusual or rare this situation was, I just did not want to feel this way.

Are they going to arrest you? One of my children cried, in the car, as the officer beckoned me to step out and come over to him. No, I scoffed. At least, I don’t think so? I thought. What would I do here if he tried?

As the familiar scenes of our southern African town flashed by outside my window, I identified the root of what I was experiencing: vulnerability. This was not the vulnerability that I have practiced and prided myself on practicing: the honest sharing of my life and heart with those around me. It was not the vulnerability that meant willingness to show emotion or to allow weakness to be seen; I’m good with that kind of vulnerability.

This experience of vulnerability was the primary definition in all the major dictionaries: capable of being physically or emotionally wounded, exposed to the possibility being attacked or harmed. Ah yes, I most definitely felt exposed, keenly aware of the possibility of being harmed, either at that moment or a future moment when my husband may not be with me.

This was not the first moment I have ever felt this kind of vulnerability. Having lived in various countries other than my passport country for ten years, I am ever aware of the reality of being a foreigner, and a woman, in some difficult places. Of course, many of us have experienced the possibility of being attacked even in our home countries or have been in actuality.

But it was my freshest experience of this kind of vulnerability, and with my children as collateral in the car. For the next couple of days, I wrestled with feeling weak and defenseless, tears always close to the surface. I replayed the scenario, wondering how I should have been more assertive. I imagined future scenarios, making mental plans for the safety of my children and myself. But mostly, I shook my fist directly at the man who had threatened me and indirectly at God — until he spoke gently to my heart.

Maybe you have realized the obvious beauty in this story sooner than I had, but it finally hit me: this was the type of vulnerable that Jesus was. In his incarnation, in choosing to live and willingly suffer on earth, he subjected himself not only to the possibility of being harmed, but the actuality of it.

In my willingness to stay and live and work in a place where I am more prone to experiencing the potential of being wounded, I am identifying with Christ. He knows what it is to leave his home and to place himself in harm’s way – completely, fully. He experienced bullying and condescension, and the ultimate earthly wounding, death.

What was it that motivated him to such sacrifice? Love. The very love of Christ, which transcends height and depth and all earthly constraints, is what compelled him to offer himself so wholly, to subject himself to the ultimate worst of evil on this earth. So we, moved by the love of Christ, strengthened and carried by him, can offer our meager selves as we live and love in the places we find ourselves.

As tears streamed down my cheeks, I offered myself freshly to Christ, in this place he has brought us – my husband, myself, my children. Is it easy? No. Is it worthwhile, and good? Yes. Is he with us throughout it all? Always.

I hope I will not have another police story, but who knows? We still pray for safety and protection, and we seek to live wisely as strangers in this land. But we remember that Christ is our security. And we are grateful to walk in the footsteps of our Savior, through all the hills and valleys, knowing he has gone before us in perfect love.

On the Fringe

But once we have found the center of our life in our own heart and have accepted our aloneness, not as a fate but as a vocation, we are able to offer freedom to others. –Henri Nouwen

Cresting the hill overlooking the community where our campus sits, I hear the chatter of my daughters in the seats behind me. My mind, however, is miles (or kilometers, shall we say) away. I had just run into a few friends, whom we have known for many years now, and chatted briefly.

As I herded my children into my car, I reflected on the experience. Though it was good to run into them (was it, though?), it was also painful – a reminder, again, that we are the outsiders. These friends have a seemingly vibrant, interdependent community – one for which my husband and I have longed. For a wide array of reasons, we have succeeded in knowing a lot of people from a variety of communities, but we have not leaned in to just one. We’re “on the fringe,” we like to say, of a lot of communities.

There are definite perks to this; but tonight, I am just lonely.

This past summer, we had a three and a half-month home assignment in the U.S. It was hectic, as they are. And I was keenly aware that my daughters seemed to have more friends in the U.S., where we have not lived for almost eight years, than they do in our ministry area, where they have essentially grown up.

I pondered this for some time. Was it true? Would they/we have these friends if we lived in the U.S.? There was of course the reality that we visited many different states and churches, nearly all the people we know stateside. In the end, I wondered, is it that friendships feel easier in their “home” culture, even though they haven’t grown up in the U.S.? Do they sense that we are “on the fringe” here too?

I have a feeling that you can relate. As cross-cultural workers, we can work alongside people all day, we can attend a vibrant church or co-op, we can be part of groups and workplaces, and still feel unknown. We can spend countless hours pursuing others, opening the doors of our home, building relationships, and have maybe one or two that takes off and goes deep – but otherwise feel like outsiders the rest of the time.

Seven years into international ministry, I am no longer surprised by this reality. It used to be a sharp reminder of our otherness; these days, it is more of a dull ache, a sense of loneliness. God has been gracious in the midst of this struggle for belonging. These are a few truths God has used to comfort me:

The longing to belong is a good, God-given one. This desire to know and be known is part of our human, image-bearing experience. This longing reflects our spiritual, emotional, and mental capacities for relationship and meaning. Any feelings of being ‘unknown’ are part of our experience in this broken world; alternatively, the joy of feeling “known” reflects the already-but-not-yet of Christ’s kingdom coming.

I am known, deeply. The truth is that each one of us is deeply known by God himself, more deeply than we know ourselves. While this may sound trite at times, I have found profound comfort in embracing the reality that the God of the universe knows me, on every level, through and through, and cares deeply for me. Nothing in my life is hidden from him; he knows the best and worst of me and loves me still. What a joy!

He knows what it is to be “on the fringe.” Christ himself came from the Father, to an earth which was not his home, in order to minister and serve and give the ultimate sacrifice for others. Though his “otherness” was different than ours, he is familiar with the struggle to belong. In his life, I find a model of living “on the fringe” which gives me a path forward in my overseas life.

I think of Jesus’ words in Mark 10, where he shares a simple mission statement for his coming to earth: “For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (v. 45).

Jesus is our ultimate example of coming to a place, fully knowing he would not belong, and giving of himself anyway. When I put aside my own feelings of “otherness” and seek to offer my life for others, I am imitating Christ. When I accept the reality that I will not fit as I would ideally love to and continue to serve anyway, I am imaging Jesus.

So I continue to lean in and pursue others, but less for what they can mean to me, and more for how I can faithfully serve both them and Christ. I am working toward setting aside my own needs for belonging and living joyfully anyway. This is only possible because of the confidence we have in Christ. He knows me, he knows the ache, and he served in love still. Jesus, help me to do the same.

The Emotional Progression of a Home Assignment

The last four weeks leading up to our first home assignment were chaotic. It was our first return to our passport country after three years. Our to-do list was 38 items strong, some items as simple as “pick up extra cat food” and some as complex as “find a car.” By the time we had said all of the final goodbyes and boarded our first flight, the relief was palpable. We were finally on our way, and what was done was done. (And perhaps more importantly, what wasn’t done wasn’t.)

Our first day outside of our ministry location was blissful. I distinctly remember feeling as free as bird – and being slightly disturbed for feeling so very free. What exactly were those weights lifted that resulted in such a weightless feeling? At the end of our first week, I had identified three key cultural stress areas that had clearly been affecting me more than I realized, and the idea of entering back into those specific difficulties was more than I could bear. And so began the tumultuous emotional journey of our first home assignment.

Emotional resolution #1: I don’t think we can ever return.

Over the next couple of months, my husband and I talked extensively through these cultural stress areas. We also debriefed with our member care friend and with other close friends around us. Questions of calling began to arise. Were we serving overseas because we thought it was the most meaningful way we could serve God? Were we basically deceiving ourselves with a works-based mentality of earning favor with God? And, wow, if any of this was deeply true, should we even be doing this kind of work?

Emotional resolution #2: I don’t know if I want to be a mission worker anymore.

The ambiguity of our future increased because our return was uncertain for reasons outside of our control. And that caused us to question even more. Maybe we were not supposed to be living in that ministry area. Maybe we were not supposed to be involved in mission work anymore. We considered career changes, country changes, all of the changes. Maybe we should not be in ministry, maybe we are not qualified for ministry.

I began to tire of the traveling life of home assignment and of the lack of personal space for our family. I missed our friends and coworkers in our ministry area. All of the questioning and traveling and evaluating and discerning took a heavy emotional toll. And all of this transpired in the middle of seeking to honestly share about our life and work in our ministry area at churches, with partners and friends. The desire for my own bed and my own kitchen and my own routine was deep and strong.

My emotional resolution #3: I’m ready to go home…wherever that is.

We continued sorting through questions of calling. What did we even believe about God’s call on our lives? We talked more about God’s sovereignty and our own selfishness in making decisions and how God works in spite of all that. We talked through what we felt we were gifted at and what we liked to do. We sorted through the many needs that faced us and tried to discern where best to focus our time and energy. We began to feel renewed and rested, spiritually and emotionally, and refreshed in our roles as parents, as spouses, as mission workers. We began to regain the smallest sense of passion for the work we had been doing.

Emotional resolution #4: I think maybe God has called us to this ministry area.

Where God leads, he also provides sustaining grace. Had I not experienced so very much of God’s good grace over the last three years? Had he not sustained our family so well despite stresses and hardships? Our understanding of God’s calling matured, and our desire to serve him in ministry was refreshed, not from a place of owing God or working for him, but rather from a place of surrender of our lives, of committing to be part of the bigger kingdom work. All work is God’s work, and our role is to be faithful with the work he has given, where he has given it to us.

Emotional resolution #5: I am ready and willing, Father; use me as you see fit.

With some level of excitement, we anticipated our return, less than a month away now. The ambiguity of our return remained, but we felt confident God would bring us back to this work.

As God would have it, we received visas and the green light to go ahead back to our ministry area in March 2020. We arrived three days before our country shut its borders, with Covid enveloping the world.

Our family has just returned to our ministry area after our second home assignment. We have now lived and worked in South Africa for over seven years, and there’s a sense of rootedness that comes with time and investment. Even still, I am grateful to have realized that there will always be an emotional progression on a home assignment. We will always need to do deep emotional work while away from our overseas home.

And while this second home assignment did not look exactly the same as our first home assignment, the stages were remarkably similar and had a sense of familiarity about them. Oh, I’ve been here before, my heart could say. In hope, I could look forward to God bringing my heart back around to willing service and obedience. And with gratitude, I can say that he did.

Isn’t My Sacrifice Enough?

Some days, I wake up feeling very good about myself. My family and I have been serving overseas for seven years now, weathering our own personal share of storms and difficulties. We’re still living and working in a place to which we feel God has called us, even on the hard days. This is what faithfulness looks like, is it not?

I recently began to question my self-analysis as I reread Corrie ten Boom’s classic, The Hiding Place. In the book she chronicles the story of how her family’s downtown watchmaker’s shop and home became the main hub for underground activity in their city during the Nazi occupation of Holland. Corrie’s beautifully written story of pain, hardship, and ultimate love, is a treasure for the world — one of courageous and selfless sacrifice for others.

Page after page, tears stung my eyes. Corrie’s heartfelt account revealed a deep love for Jesus and others. What I did not expect to feel was conviction, particularly at how regularly and thoroughly she and her family put the well-being of others before their own.

Surely I am already a master at sacrifice. Look at my life! I have left everything – okay, most things – in order to live and work overseas. I have left family, most painfully, and I only get to see my loved ones every few years. We have chosen to live on a ministry salary, without the option to buy a home or get a promotion in our company/organization. Surely we know what sacrifice is all about!

Especially now, as we traverse the US on home assignment, it is clearer to me than ever all that we have given up for Jesus. What, Holy Spirit, are you trying to tell me?

And yet, as I’ve let my heart settle into the familiar current of conviction, I hear the gentle whisper: But there’s more. This is true, I must admit. We still live and function from abundance, even on a ministry salary. We still live in comfort, even in another country. And while neither comfort nor abundance are an evil by any means, have I become dependent upon them for my joy and contentment?

It can be easy to dismiss the amount of sacrifice and hospitality the ten Boom family demonstrated as necessary for wartime survival, due to extenuating circumstances. Surely if we were in a similar time, we too would keep soup simmering on the back burner and not turn away anyone in need. But, notably, this was the hum of their home long before the Nazis invaded Holland. Their mother kept the coffee warm and their father lent his open ear even in peacetime. Their sacrificial lifestyle during a worldwide crisis was an extension of their humble routine for decades before.

Or perhaps we can dismiss their sacrifices on the basis of a context differential. Living in Africa, the needs are endless, the asks are frequent, the need for wisdom on these matters constant. Surely there couldn’t have been as much need in Holland; surely my situation requires more nuance than the ten Boom family’s did. But truly? They continued to minister in their context and historical moment, knowing full well that imprisonment was a likely outcome and perhaps even death.

Let’s face it: we are often quick to dismiss our missionary predecessors for their ‘ministry to God above all else mindset,’ often at the expense of their families, children, and their own well-being. But perhaps our critical focus has dulled the voice of the Spirit in our lives; perhaps we have been caught up in our own cultural moment as well, where our own selves are at the center, where self-care is utmost, where comfort must be ensured for longevity.

I am not the one providing any answers here. I am only asking the questions, primarily of my own heart, and if you can resonate at all, of yours as well.

When I am facing a heart of fresh conviction, it is helpful to fix my eyes again on Jesus. Looking at him, I see the kind of ultimate love that motivated his selfless sacrifices all throughout his life, even to death. And so, gratefully, painfully, I can ask of the Spirit again, what would you have me do? And we trust, again, that he will give us the grace and strength we need to continue to live sacrificial lives, growing up into Christ more each day.

“And so, dear brothers and sisters, I plead with you to give your bodies to God because of all he has done for you. Let them be a living and holy sacrifice—the kind he will find acceptable. This is truly the way to worship him. Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.” (Romans 12:1-2)

How Liturgical Living is Helping Me Grow Roots in a Foreign Land

South African Plectranthus, or Spur flower

In the bleak midwinter…frosty wind made moan…the mellow tune rang out from our living room speaker. I sat on the couch, my feet up on the coffee table, the fan blasting high around the room. Outside my children were squealing in the sprinkler, the hot sun high overhead. I tried conjuring Christmas vibes in this week before Christmas in our Southern Hemisphere, African home. But try as I might, my heart felt lonely, and a little lost, and a little bleak, in spite of the bright summer and impending celebration of Christ’s birth.

What is it about the holidays that evokes such a strong sense of homesickness in us? I have spent many a Christmas now far from family, far from the Wisconsin snows of my childhood, and yet I still wrestle to embrace Christmas without the cultural and seasonal rhythms I have long associated with it. It absolutely does not help that the vast majority of resources are designed with a Northern Hemisphere audience in mind. Even in our efforts to adapt to a more culturally relevant celebration of holidays, there is the cultural stripping of ourselves.

In light of this, a few friends and I began a seasonal “Liturgical Living Club” this year, where we are seeking to be intentional about observing the liturgical year in a way that is consistent with our Southern African seasons. To say it has been lovely is an understatement.

In preparation for Lent this year, we looked at how autumn is approaching for us; the days are shortening, the weather cooling. There are no bunnies hopping around, no snow melting, no spring coming. Instead, our trees change color, and our spur flowers and Tibouchina bloom in shades of purple and pink. There’s a nip in the air as cooler nights descend upon us, and the air dries out after our long, rainy summer. My friend curated a playlist of songs relevant to our season and included some punchy African artists.

As Easter approached, we did some of the usual Easter things: decorating eggs, filling and hiding Easter baskets, and telling the story with our resurrection eggs. We also created a special Eastertide candle for the darkening evenings. We dried and strung a garland of orange slices, as citrus is now coming into season for us. We lit our first fire of the season and basked in the crackle and warmth and the beautiful truth that Christ has risen! He has defeated death and darkness and brought light and life into the world!

These meaningful, seasonal adjustments to our liturgical celebrations have rooted us further into home here, in our uncertain, overseas life. This kind of intentionality has deepened our sense of belonging and helped us to curate celebrations that make sense in our context, while still honoring those that have been lifelong.

Deeply grateful, I am finding this blending of our cultures, of our seasons, of our lives, to be enriching in the deepest sense. We are understanding new truths about Christ’s resurrection when we celebrate it during the onset of autumn. How there is no life without death first! How light is breaking into darkness!

And we are owning this eclectic life of ours, where we are here and there, on different continents and often seasonally confused. This life where we ask where is home? and where do we belong? Where we seek to remind ourselves of our someday home, and where we build the practices which will turn our eyes toward it again and again.

Living liturgically through the seasons has been an unexpected gift this year; a small adjustment in the vast pool of expat challenges, but one abounding in grace.

I Lost My Margin. Again.

I hung up the call. Dread hit me deep in the gut as I realized the level of commitment I had just made on another work project. A week later, I sat in a meeting and found my head nodding silently to a speaking engagement while my mind screamed, no! A week after that, the email came: “Would you offer two sessions for the upcoming conference?” Within a couple of weeks, my well-established level of margin had evaporated. And I was floundering . . . again.

In his book Margin: Restoring Emotional, Physical, Financial, and Time Reserves to Overloaded Lives, Richard Swenson writes: “Margin is the space between our load and our limits. It is the amount allowed beyond that which is needed. It is something held in reserve for contingencies or unanticipated situations. Margin is the gap between rest and exhaustion, the space between breathing freely and suffocating.”

When I read this several years ago, we were in a place of wearying overcommitment. We were verging on what Swenson aptly describes as suffocating. I had unexpectedly begun homeschooling, which was necessitating more time and energy than I had anticipated, and we had full-on become involved in a new church plant, in addition to our weekday ministry life.

Margin was exactly what we were craving, and what we needed for any sort of longevity in our life overseas. “Hurry,” Dallas Willard famously wrote, “is the great enemy of spiritual life in our day. You must ruthlessly eliminate hurry from your life.” (John Mark Comer wrote a needed book on this topic with this very quote as inspiration.) At that point in time, gratefully, God gave us the wisdom and discipline to reject hurry and to build in margin; shortly after, we also began a weekly Sabbath practice.

Building in margin was highly restorative. Some weeks, we felt we had extra capacity and could offer hospitality more freely. Other weeks, we scaled back on further commitments, holding space for that margin for the personal and familial challenges we were facing. We have, over the years, purposefully limited our children’s extracurriculars, our own social commitments, and our work and ministry projects, not because we would not enjoy it all or because the need has been filled, but because at what cost? The destruction of our peace? The unavailability to respond when a need arises, whether inside our home or beyond its walls? The deprivation of rest deep in our souls?

Recently, however, familiar doubts crept back into my heart and mind. Am I doing enough? Will this read impressively in my newsletter? Is our ministry fruitful enough? And from this lowly place of insecurity, doubt, and discouragement, I forfeited my margin.

Sure enough, within a week of all those commitments colliding, the strain hit me. My mind felt in a constant place of hurry; my responses to the ordinary demands of my children were short and tinged with resentment; my unanswered calls to family members were piling up; my spiritual life felt anemic. What had I gotten myself into, and how do I back out again?

Let me tell you: not easily. Our counselor wisely told us, “It is much easier to say no before a project starts than to pass it off in the middle.” So true, I thought. In the middle of my hurried, overcommitted stretch of a few months, I tried to formulate a plan to pass some projects off, but to no avail. I was stuck; I had to finish it out. I had made my bed, yes, and I was lying right in the middle of the enormity of it.

Once I realized the inescapabilty of my situation — and after wallowing in shame for several days — I began to ask God for glimpses of margin, for restorative moments in the middle of my overcommitted present. Graciously, he gave me the eyes to see them.

Margin was in the early predawn minutes when I climbed out of bed to sit silently, alone, until the creak of the children’s beds alerted me that precious little bodies were descending.

Margin was in the little moments of homeschooling, when I must put aside all other work commitments in order to give my undivided attention to these little budding minds and hearts under my wing.

Margin was in the early morning forest walks with a dear friend or in the afternoon campus walks with my husband when the children rollerbladed around us, interrupting every few minutes with their essential declarations (they are all essential, you know).

Margin was at the dinner table, when the cooking and tidying was mostly finished, and we could gather with thanks for provision and lively chatter about the day.

Margin was in those sleepless nights, those restless midnight hours when although I would rather my body sleep, He could grant my mind rest.

These small moments of margin were many; moments to pause, to acknowledge the beauty around me, the goodness and grace of God in the in-between places. There were as many moments in a day as I needed, if only I had the eyes to see and the heart to receive.

In other words, margin is where God sustained me.

The overcommitted season has mostly passed. A few more weeks, and my plate will be filled with the usual amount of commitments again, and I am eagerly awaiting. The pace of my hurried mind has gratefully slowed; my mental state is no longer a flashing billboard of work commitments at lightning speed. My capacity for the ordinary demands of life and my children has improved, my soul can more readily sense the presence of God, and I do not plan to forfeit my margin again anytime soon.

Although God can meet us there in that messy middle, I do not believe it is where he wants us to stay. Rather, we make a habit of building margin so that we are available to the purposes of God. Regarding rest, a foundational part of margin, Swenson writes that it “is a self-weakening unto God-strength. It is a self-emptying unto God-fullness. It is the rest of full surrender.”

What if we were to put aside our ill-conceived, worldly perspectives on success and productivity? What if we rejected the false narratives of self-importance and worth based on accomplishment? What if we, like Christ, “self-empty” ourselves unto God? “What if,” writes Swenson, “instead, we were to begin measuring our progress not by our wealth but by our virtue; not by our education but by our humility; and not by our power but by our meekness?”

This is the margin I am committed to building, for the sake of my soul, for the health of my family, for the glory of Christ.