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I’ve been avoiding this episode for over five months now.

Every time I sat down to write it, I’d choke mentally and walk away from the computer, or I’d write about something else.

I suspect that I was subconsciously hoping to avoid reliving one of the most difficult seasons of my spiritual life.

Re-entry from Japan.

We had been warned by veteran missionaries that re-entry could be challenging – so much so that it would require a formal debriefing process that might involve professional counseling.

I’ll admit, I was dismissive of it. What could possibly be so hard about going back “home” after only two years abroad?

If I only knew.

Upon re-entry to California, I entered a constant state of fatigue and disorientation, which I had initially chalked up to jetlag, but the feelings didn’t go away, even after several months.

I felt drained all day, every day, even with a full-night’s sleep.

I was always on edge, irritable and easily frustrated.

I didn’t want to be around anyone, even though I wasn’t upset or angry.

What was wrong with me?

I could never pinpoint the problem, only adding to the frustration I was feeling, until about five months later, when I had lunch with a friend who happens to be a licensed therapist and asked me how I was doing after my time in Japan.

I mentioned that something felt off ever since I’d returned several months prior, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I described some of what I was experiencing. “Sounds like adjustment disorder,” this friend offered, going on to explain that any big life change can trigger it, like moving or starting a new job. I not only did both, I did so from overseas, compounding the problem.

As this friend went on to describe the symptoms, I checked them off on my mental bingo card and resolved to make an appointment with a therapist.

Here’s what I’ve processed so far:

1.     Your “short” time away is longer than you think

I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal to return to the place where I spent four decades of my life after only two years away.

Then I did the math. Two years is 730 days.

That’s 730 consecutive days of living life a certain way, every day, in a land where we had to adapt to a new culture and language. I shed old habits and formed new ones during that time.

When we first arrived in Japan, I had to relearn everything from pumping gas (try swiping a credit card and figuring out which buttons to push, in what order, when you cannot read the words on the machine) to disposing of trash. In Japan, we had seven different trash/recycle bins to contend with:

1. Burnable trash
2. Pura (recyclable plastic)
3. Metal
4. Paper (which had to have all tape and staples removed before bundling them up in neat stacks, using paper-based twine)
5. Batteries
6. Milk/juice cartons (which had to be washed, dried, cut, and unfolded flat)
7. Plastic bottles (which you had to first remove the plastic cap, cap ring, and label, which all go into the pura bin, before rinsing the bottles out and drying them before disposal)

Then, I came back to California and was confounded by the single recycle bin. You mean we can throw an entire plastic bottle in there – label, cap, and all – without washing and rinsing it out first, along with unwashed tuna cans, crumpled-up paper, and broken foam trays?

The thought was appalling.

Here, I had to relearn everything – again – from waste disposal to mailing letters, paying at restaurants (and calculating tips, which we didn’t have to do in Japan), driving So Cal roads (still horrifies me), and even interacting with people in public; for example, while pushing a shopping cart down a narrow supermarket aisle, I once pulled over and bowed slightly to let an oncoming shopper pass by first. He looked at me like I was nuts.

It might sound silly, but when you’re used to living life a certain way every day for 730 days in a row, you can’t just flip a switch and revert to what you used to know.

At least, I couldn’t.

2.     Life went on while you were away

Your friends made new friends, your neighborhood has changed, and culture has evolved just enough to be unfamiliar when you re-enter it. Coming back from Japan, I had no idea what this “Uber” thing was, but I kept hearing people talk about getting one.

I heard that re-entering the job market could be difficult, with time overseas distancing you from your networks and potentially appearing as gaps in your resume, so I was grateful to have been offered a position at the same church I had worked at before going to Japan.

I thought it’d be easy to go back.

Boy, was I wrong.

Most of the staff was new. The congregation had changed significantly as well, with many of the people we used to know having moved on to other churches. Even the location had changed, so I was in completely new territory both geographically and culturally.

I felt like a fish-out-of-water, even at the pond that spawned me.

It didn’t feel like I had come home at all.

But where is home, anyway?

3.     You realize that you don’t fit in anywhere anymore

I was born and raised in the good old USA to Dutch-speaking Chinese parents from Indonesia.

I never really fit in.

Anywhere.

Then, my Seoul-born wife and I took our family to Japan, where we did not speak the language or have any cultural ties to.

There was no mistaking that we were strangers there.

We were very aware of our gaijin-ness, although we did do our best to adapt and learn some of the language.

When we came back to Orange County, we fit in even less than we did before because we had adapted to Japan just enough to have been changed by our 730 consecutive days living there.

As I mentioned with the supermarket incident, I was getting confused on what was socially-acceptable behavior. Do I stop and yield to let other people go first, or does that tick off the people behind me for slowing everybody down?

When I started my new role at church, I wanted to offer a bit of relief to a volunteer who had gone above and beyond to serve during the interim period between my predecessor and me.

I wanted to give this volunteer a break so as not to burden him any further – in Japan, I always felt pressured to not be burdensome to anyone – but by repeatedly offering him a break, might he have seen it as me saying “we don’t need you anymore?”

Possibly, though that was certainly not my intent. (We talked it out later.)

What is socially acceptable and encouraged in one place could be misinterpreted in a different context.

The cultural norms I acquired just sort of blended into me and I had a hard time separating what is acceptable in Japan, Indonesia, or the USA.

This caused me to withdraw from people even further, making re-entry that much more challenging.

4.     You are not the same person you used to be

During missionary training and orientation, an instructor mentioned that one often-overlooked aspect of missions is the transformation of the missionary.

Yes and amen.

I don’t even know where to begin. Heck, that’s one of the reasons I started this blog – to give myself space to untangle all of my thoughts on this ransomed, redeemed, repurposed life.

In short, my experience overseas deepened my faith and trust in God and His word while causing me to question what it means to be God’s people on earth, i.e., the church.

A fellow missionary once commented that by living cross-culturally, by faith, we had the privilege of experiencing the truth of God’s word in a way that we might not have had the opportunity to do otherwise.

When you’re stripped of everything you’ve fallen back on and can’t help but depend on Him, every moment of every day, God is no longer an abstract concept from a book you memorize one passage at a time; God is a real, active presence in your day-to-day life, and His words aren’t just recited, but lived and lived by.

At the same time, I was confronted with situations that caused me to reassess theological positions I held.

I saw that there aren’t always easy answers; just more questions.

Yet, my trust in God holds firm.

It’s my trust in human leaders that has eroded.

5.     A part of you never came “home”

For one thing, you realize that you’ll never truly be home anywhere on earth. Which is a good thing, I guess.

When God called us to Ofunato, we had no idea what to expect, but we went and made it our home for two years.

The sights, the sounds, the flavors, the textures of Ofunato are all still vivid in my mind, but none linger at the forefront as much as the faces of the people whom God knit our hearts to.

Among them, the Apple Farmer.

The 85-year-old new believer.

The chain-smoking disciple.

The woman miraculously saved from the tsunami.

I remember them often and pray that God would continue His work in them. We might have physically left Ofunato, but the spiritual and emotional connection remains.

When we first returned from Japan, I was eager to share stories of what God is doing there, but I soon noticed that people’s eyes would glaze over and they’d begin to tune out whenever I started a sentence with, “When I was in Japan…” I stopped saying it, and eventually stopped talking about our time in Japan.

This is, perhaps, the most painful aspect of re-entry: the realization that no one, save for other missionaries, can relate to what you’re experiencing.

It can be a lonely place.

Can anyone relate?

(to be continued)