We want to prevent attrition in field workers and help people stay on the field longer. When mission leaders see a trend of increasing numbers of people leaving the field, we all want to address it. This instinct is good and understandable. It grows out of a desire to honor calling, care for people, and steward limited resources well.

Mission organizations often respond by providing additional resources and training for those currently on the field. We also do research to inform how we prepare new workers. We hope to enable those still serving to remain longer and prepare future workers to stay longer. The perception is that longer tenure on the field reflects greater effectiveness. Sometimes this is true. But sometimes the healthiest people are the ones who leave the field, because they are healthy enough to recognize when it is time go.

Many people leave the field for healthy—even noble—reasons, such as caring for aging parents or responding to children’s educational or health needs.

The tragedy is that they can feel sidelined or even like failures. No one intends to communicate this. Still, it can be an unintended consequence of our legitimate desire to keep people on the field longer.

I am not a statistician, and my observations are more anecdotal than formal research. However, because of my role, I have had the privilege of walking closely with many former field workers who have resigned from our organization and entered what we now call the Alumni Network. What I have observed has surprised me.

Among the alumni I interact with, the top reasons for returning from the field are issues related to children (education or health), caring for aging parents, and the workers’ own health. I fully expected team conflict to top the list. While team conflict was almost always present in conversations with alumni, it was rarely the primary reason they left the field or the organization.

I have also observed there is almost always a two-to three-year re-entry window after returning to the United States. This should not surprise us. Even moving within one’s own country often takes years to settle—new neighborhoods, new rhythms, new relationships. What is striking is how consistently this transition from overseas service back “home” touches deep questions of identity and calling. I cannot help but wonder whether the way we talk about attrition contributes to this experience.

When we speak about preventing attrition, our intention is usually to help people remain faithful to the calling that first led them to join our organizations. As a result, length of time on the field becomes a primary metric of success—for individuals and for organizations. This can be a good thing. It can encourage resilience, a ministry of presence, and a well-formed theology of suffering. But I also wonder whether this same metric unintentionally shapes behavior by discouraging honest conversations, delaying healthy returns, and increasing shame for those who do come back.

We absolutely need to continue working at reducing preventable attrition through careful screening, strong preparation, and meaningful care for those on the field. But we should also be able to say clearly—and demonstrate through our posture—that returning at the right time can be an expression of faithfulness, not failure.

This tension becomes especially apparent when we consider care versus engagement. Many returning workers genuinely need rest. Some return burned out, disoriented, or wounded by circumstances beyond their control. In those cases, space and care are essential. At the same time, others return healthy but unsettled—eager to contribute, longing for meaningful connection, and unsure where they fit. When our default posture toward all returning workers is “take a break,” we may unintentionally communicate they no longer have anything to offer.

Offering invitation without pressure is not easy, but it is necessary. Care and engagement are not mutually exclusive. In fact, for some alumni, meaningful engagement is itself a form of care.

I once experienced this in an unexpected way. During a follow-up call with a retired alumna in her late eighties, I asked her about when she first went overseas. She told me remarkable stories—about boarding a ship in New York Harbor and traveling for weeks to reach her place of service. When I asked if she would mind if I recorded her story, she paused and said something like, “I don’t know why anyone would want to hear my old story, but I suppose that would be okay.” I was genuinely shocked.

Later, I shared this idea casually at a breakfast I had organized for college students interested in missions. I assumed they would be most eager to hear about current opportunities in the Middle East. To my surprise, many of them were more interested in helping collect and preserve stories like hers. They were hungry for continuity, for witnesses who could help them locate themselves within a larger story of faithfulness.

That experience clarified something for me. Alumni are not merely people we care for when they return. They are carriers of wisdom, memory, and formation the next generation deeply needs.

It costs a great deal to send someone overseas, especially in the traditional way. Estimates vary, but it is not unreasonable to suggest that sending and sustaining a first-term worker costs on the order of $250,000 when training, housing, travel, and ongoing living expenses are considered. Over multiple terms, workers develop skills, insights, and perspectives that cannot be replicated through training alone.

In business, sunk costs are expenses already incurred that cannot be recovered regardless of future decisions. Too often, when former field workers return and leave our organizations, we implicitly treat the resources invested in them as sunk costs. But people are not sunk costs. What would change if we viewed those investments as assets to be stewarded rather than losses to be written off?

Another difficult reality organizations sometimes face is the blessing—and challenge—of long-term, capable leadership. Stability matters, and transitions are stressful. Yet sometimes people remain in roles because they can, not because they should. Seniority and longevity can unintentionally delay necessary transitions limiting the development of younger leaders. Ending one chapter well can itself be an act of faithfulness and a gift to the wider body.

 

 

     Handing off the baton

 

 

 

Of course, resources are limited. Most leaders would agree that caring for teams currently facing crisis on the field should be a priority. The question is not whether to care for those teams, but whether caring for them requires forgetting alumni. In my experience, it does not.

Practically speaking, agencies can begin investing in alumni in three areas: communication, posture, and systems.

Communication matters more than we often realize. Even small gestures—an email, a text, a birthday card—can reinforce a sense of connection. Do not expect immediate responses. The first years back are often overwhelming, and messages may go unanswered. Consistent, low-pressure communication builds trust over time.

Posture matters as well. Taking time in meetings to pray for former workers, or intentionally speaking of them with honor, communicates their service is remembered and valued. This posture also shapes the culture of current teams.

Finally, a few simple systems can make alumni care sustainable. Maintaining updated contact information, creating regular rhythms of prayer, or facilitating alumni connections can go a long way.

In the long run, investing in alumni makes sense strategically. But beyond strategy, it is simply the right thing to do. As Mark Twain once said, “Always do right. This will gratify some people and astonish the rest.”