After leaving the mission field, a long-time supporter asked me the hardest question in the lobby of our sending church. He gave me a big hug and said, “Doesn’t it feel good to be back home?”

I felt the familiar pit in my stomach—the feeling that comes when I don’t know how to answer a question or when I know the other person won’t like my truthful answer.

My friend meant well, and the question was legitimate. Our sending church is located in my hometown. I was born here, attended elementary school less than five miles away, and I even attended university in this town. This church is where I met my wife. It was in this town that we had our children, bought our first house, and started a business. Given that history, it was reasonable to assume that this was where I would feel most at home.

Fifteen years earlier, we had moved away from this place, where I had deep roots, and now we were back. But was this still home?

Most people who have lived overseas, especially the kids who grew up on the mission field, have experienced some version of this dialogue. The question is mundane: “Where are you from?” My answer evolved over the years.

Just after we moved overseas, my answer was, “I’m from Texas.” From my perspective, I was simply answering a question, not making a statement. As a proud Texan, I couldn’t even see my own bias. Somewhere along the way, I noticed I rarely heard people say, “I’m from Vermont.” Wanting to be more sensitive and not appear arrogant, I adjusted my answer.

I began answering, “I’m from America.” Most people understood that I meant the part of America between Canada and Mexico. Then one day, a Canadian sister gently pointed out that when I said “America,” I was still operating from a narrow paradigm. So I began saying, “I’m from the United States.” It was still an effort to be sensitive, but I also noticed it brought clarity.

I began to realize something else as well. The question “Where are you from?” can also mean, “What place do you call home?” I don’t call Canada home, so saying “the United States” was more accurate. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but something inside me was shifting—gradually and almost imperceptibly—as our life overseas continued. The shift didn’t begin overseas. It had roots that went back years earlier, long before we ever boarded a plane.

We were settled in Texas when making the decision to move overseas. From the outside, it seemed radical. I had a promising career as a finance director. I also owned, with my brother, a retail business with multiple locations. We had young children. Then, seemingly suddenly, we sold our business and house, I resigned from my job, we moved into an apartment, approached our church, found an agency, and began preparing to move among unreached people groups.

However, to those who knew us well, it wasn’t sudden at all. This had been our “five-year plan” for more than a decade. We took Perspectives in the 1990s, where we first connected the dots that God desires people from every tribe, tongue, people, and nation to know him. His invitation to us was to participate in what he was already doing.

We were willing to go and thought we were ready. But the doors kept closing. At first, we were confused. By the early 2000s, however, my wife and I could see the wisdom and grace in those delays. We had growing up to do, work to do in our marriage, and much more.

The year 2004 marked a convergence. We completed required Bible classes, finished raising support, and bought plane tickets. The event took place on the stage of our church. Some with hands on our shoulders, others with hands outstretched, the pastors, elders, and members prayed—commissioning us to take the good news to people in a country where most had never met a follower of Jesus. I was 36 and unconcerned about leaving a career behind. I was finally doing what I had long hoped to do. We were leaving our home and going to make a new home in a new land.

After two years overseas, we became pregnant and returned to the United States for the birth of our third child. While “home,” we discovered we were no longer allowed to return to our country of service. We ended up in a second country where the language was similar. For the next 12 years, we worked hard at making that Central Asian country our home, even as we returned to the United States periodically. Our goal was to put down roots, and we did. That country became a place we called “home.” We were settled there.

In 2018, another convergence arrived. My parents were aging, and we needed to help one of our sons transition to college. We made the difficult decision to move back to the United States—after 14 years, two countries, three kids, multiple years of language study, medical evacuation, a life-threatening accident, terrorist attacks, revoked visas, and several different ministry roles.

Some parts of returning to the States were enjoyable—barbecue brisket, convenient shopping, and not wondering whether I fully understood a complicated bill in the mail.

Other parts were surprisingly difficult. Friends who once made time to meet with us during home assignments no longer seemed available. Within months, our financial support began to decline, even though we were still working for our mission agency. I was asked whether I planned to get a real job. While the financial stress was familiar, something deeper weighed on me. I felt unsettled and unseen.

Life “back home” was supposed to be easier than on the mission field, yet it often felt harder. Internally, we did not feel settled. This did not feel like home anymore, yet no one knew that. Externally, other people could not see the ways that our lives had changed and our hearts had been shaped by the experience overseas.

Overseas, I had felt useful as a church planter. Here, in one of the most reached communities in the world, I felt sidelined. In a highly mobilized community, lots of young people around us were excited about going to the nations. However, many of them did not know we had lived there for 14 years. We wondered whether our experience still mattered and whether we had anything to offer the church.

Eventually, my mission organization invited me to lead a developing initiative called the Alumni Network. The goal was simple: Reconnect with those workers who had returned to the United States or left the mission organization for various reasons.

As I listened to story after story, I heard inspiring accounts of faithfulness, perseverance, and fruit. That wasn’t surprising. What did surprise me was a recurring theme. Many felt exactly as I had felt—sidelined. Life “back home” was supposed to be easier, yet it often felt harder. Other people had also left careers to go overseas, only to return to the States and feel like the years overseas did not count when applying for new jobs.

Over time—often after two or three years—people adjust. For most workers, the overseas years become a scrapbook of good memories and stories occasionally shared. But I think there is more.

As our organization’s Alumni Network has grown, we have witnessed something beautiful unfold. Groups of former overseas workers are gathering—sometimes around a table, sometimes on Zoom—sharing stories and discovering, “I’m not the only one.” In many ways, that space with other former workers is where we feel the most at “home.” We reconnect with our calling to the nations, and we are inspired to live out that calling in new ways. We remember that we are not merely former workers. We are children of the King, and he is not finished with us yet. We still have much to offer. If you’d like help, I’d love to hear from you.