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.
