As I’m writing this, my family and I are seven weeks into a nine-week furlough in the US For the last eight years, our family has returned “home” to the US every other summer from our other “home” in North Africa.

It’s a gift to be able to return as often as we do—I think of how hard it must have been for my husband’s grandparents, who left the US to serve in South America in 1954 and didn’t return for seven years. How much would have changed while they were away! Modern travel makes it possible for us to maintain relationships and connections in a way that was unimaginable for previous generations.

Furlough1 is a critical time of connecting with our family, friends, and support network. It gives our kids a sense of connection and belonging in their passport country. And ideally, it gives the five of us a chance to reconnect with each other, to rest and recharge, and to make memories.

But also... it’s really hard.

I think most people reading this understand furlough isn’t just a long, all-expenses-paid vacation missionaries take every few years—far from it! That’s why our sending organization calls it “home ministry assignment”—they understand there’s a lot of work to be done when field workers return to their passport countries—organizing meetings, speaking in churches, and raising support, all while trying to create space for rest and reflection.

Many field workers must stay at least somewhat engaged in their tentmaking roles while they’re on furlough as well. My husband and I have participated in several regional prayer and planning calls over Zoom, and we try to stay connected to our teammates, who are currently spread across eight time zones.

The lack of normal rhythm and routine, frequently moving from place to place, and trying to cram in as many meetings, family vacations, and deep conversations as possible, can be emotionally and physically exhausting.

And then there’s the grief.

As we spend time with our friends and listen to them talk about the opportunities their kids have—school sports, summer camps, youth retreats—we grieve for the things our kids have missed out on.

We are tickled to see that our nieces and nephews have grown to tower over us—but we’re sad for the inches we didn’t get to see.

We celebrate family birthdays and give thanks for the opportunity to be together, but we also mourn for all the special moments we’ve missed.

Grief was especially real on this visit. A few weeks ago, my grandmother passed away after several years of struggle with various ailments, including dementia. I was so grateful for the chance to visit her, to hold her hand and kiss her cheek, to see the joy of recognition in her eyes. I was so thankful her passing happened to coincide with several family members’ already-planned visits, so we could all be together to celebrate her life.

But it broke my heart to hear my grandfather say, “She loved you so much. We just wished you lived closer.”

I’m so thankful for the stories of Jesus, who was acquainted with all types of sorrow and grief but is uniquely positioned to empathize with those of us who have left home, family, and friends for the sake of the kingdom. What a friend we have in him.

In addition to processing our own grief, we’ve tried to be a safe place for others to share their grief. A lot of life happens while we are away, and as we meet with supporters, we’ve been very intentional to communicate that this is a two-way relationship. We want to know what’s happening in their lives because we care about them and want to lift them up in prayer.

Our friends had a lot of sorrow to share with us this summer. One friend is in the latter stages of a very painful form of cancer. Another friend recently discovered her toddler has a rare genetic mutation and will most likely need her parents' care for her entire life. Another friend lost a daughter while she was on vacation. And still others—really, everyone—are wading through the everyday sorts of grief that come with being human: fractured relationships, missed opportunities, life turning out differently than they hoped or expected.

It’s a privilege to be able to bear these burdens with our community even as they hold out their hands to take on the weight of our grief. It’s a beautiful example of what Paul describes in 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” We pour out on each other what we receive from the Father.

Even though HMA is full of challenges, of days and weeks where gratitude and grief are twisted tightly together in my gut, it is invaluable to our continued thriving on the field. On the days when life on the field is especially hard, I think of the conversations I’ve had with our friends, family, and supporters, of their words of encouragement and commitments to pray for us, and it helps me keep going.

A week ago, we had a conversation with my husband’s great aunt and uncle. They came prepared with a long list of questions—follow-ups to things she’d read in our newsletters or conversations we’d had on our last visit. They told us they pray for us every morning, and how lately they’d been praying for our visa situation—which has become increasingly challenging for field workers in our region. What a joy it was to share that their prayers had been answered as our most recent visa renewal attempt had not only been approved but had gone much more smoothly than expected!

When things get hard, I will remember their faces, their belief in us, and faith in the One who sent us, and give thanks that the Lord has invited us into this incredible journey.