There were several years of my life when I daydreamed about being evacuated.
Those first few years in Tanzania, a lot of the time, I wasn’t content. Everything felt different and strange and hard. Driving was terrifying. I had to re-learn how to cook, how to shop, how to speak. We went through several years of electricity rationing. I dreadfully missed the people I loved. I enviously watched friends’ pictures on Facebook of crisp autumns and pumpkin patches and chilly Christmases. I followed birthday pictures of my nieces and nephews, watching them grow up without me there. I acutely felt the ache of what I had left behind, especially since I often felt incompetent or out of place or like a failure.
Yet I knew I was supposed to be in Tanzania. Our ministry was a perfect fit and we were filling a need, and it was incredibly fulfilling. I didn’t have a good reason to leave. Throwing in the towel would have made me feel like a quitter, even more of a failure than I already was. So I daydreamed about being evacuated. It would be perfect: Some sort of civil unrest or world emergency (not a personal emergency, of course, that wouldn’t be good) would force us to leave against our will. It sounded like a rather noble and heroic way to get to go home.
Yes, I realize how stupid and selfish that sounds. And ironic, of course, since in the end, a mandated evacuation was how we left Tanzania. It felt shameful, not at all noble or heroic. But that’s also because around year six or seven, Tanzania became home. It became a place I never wanted to leave. Tanzania was where I was comfortable and known and where I belonged; America was not.
But obviously, the concept of home remained complicated for me. I spent my first few years in Tanzania longing for home, and the last few years dreading when I would have to return home. So leaving early was traumatic, not a relief.
In June, I laughed in bitter irony when the door slammed shut for us buying a house. I had lived a nomadic life for so long, living in a place that was not my own. Foreigners can’t buy property in Tanzania, so that had never been an option for us. I wanted to put down roots, to belong somewhere. So a year ago, when we knew we would be leaving Tanzania, buying a house was my new daydream. Finally, we would have a place to call home. That restlessness that had been a part of most of my life would be put to rest. Buying a house meant more to me than just a nice place to live; it represented stability and permanence and a place to call Home.
As soon as we knew it wasn’t going to happen this year, I immediately understood the lesson God had for me in the rejection. I knew exactly what he wanted me to learn; I just didn’t want to learn it. After all, he had been teaching it to me over the course of my entire life of living as a foreigner. I am not supposed to feel at home here, on this earth, in any country. That longing for home that I’ve never been able to shake is because I was not meant for this world.
And though we are still hoping to buy a house in the next year or so, I’m really thankful that God gave me this reminder (again!). Owning a house will be nice, and financially wise, but may I be sure to never attach my heart to it as Home.
During the past several months, as I debated whether to continue blogging in this new season of my life, I realized that this outworking of “Home” while living in the country of my birth was something that I needed to continue to write about. The lessons I learned overseas as a foreign missionary can and should be applied to my life in America. And perhaps, there are others who can benefit from my wrestling.
So I hope you will join me. I plan to continue to write about missions, adoption, and memories from Tanzania, but most importantly, how the first half of my life as a foreigner is now influencing the second half of my life as an American.
The best way to follow along is to either sign up to receive posts by email, or to use Feedly or another type of content organizer. I love followers on social media, but it’s not always a consistent way to see what I’ve written.
You always have permission to share links to my posts, so don’t feel like you need to ask. And I welcome your thoughts, either by email or comments. Thank you so much to those of you who faithfully followed Everyone Needs a Little Grace in Their Lives. Welcome to Part 2!