My Home Abroad

Issue 02 | October 2025

Olivia Litts, Curator of Poetry

Photograph by Olivia Litts

I remember the crisp autumn air as we stepped outside, mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread and a faint trace of cigarette smoke. Five weeks had passed since my husband accepted a job in Western Germany. Though our excitement grew about our future, sorrow lingered behind it. The final weeks before leaving passed in a blur of goodbyes to friends and family, as we prepared to step into a future with no set return date. An ocean stretched between us and the ones we loved. We left behind a life we had built together, a life we cherished and admired. When our plane touched down, it felt as though we were being ushered forward into unknown days.

Those first days in Germany set the stage for the changes to come as we tried to reconcile excitement with homesickness. I tried to create a sense of normalcy, though it wasn’t easy without the familiar things that made our home feel like home. So I leaned into what I did have: comforting meals, hot tea, our favorite music, and fresh flowers from the market. Slowly, our new life began to shape in a cozy and different way. We traveled between settling in, buying baked goods and soft cheese in France and wandering through markets in Germany. But woven through even the loveliest days was a quiet thread of disconnection—an ache that surfaced in unfamiliar moments, when everything around me reminded me how far I was from where I felt known. I often experienced language barriers, was unable to connect with a kind stranger, or felt abrupt and impolite while ordering food because I couldn’t find the words. These small moments built up slowly, and my heart ached for home.

I missed long conversations face-to-face with family and the ease of sharing a language with strangers. I missed the people I loved and the quiet familiarity of my own culture. Some days, the weight of it all caught up to me. I remember one evening, overcome with impatience, standing in our kitchen and wishing I could go back to the life we knew. Everything felt heavy, as if I were trying to keep our home running while my heart lagged behind. I cried often, uncertain if I would ever truly feel at home. I began to idealize what we’d left behind, seeing the past through rose-colored glasses and forgetting its hardships. Discontentment crept in, even in the midst of all the beauty around me. I focused on what Germany couldn’t give me. And then winter came slowly, settling over everything.

In the quiet of winter and with more time to reflect, my perspective began to shift. My heavy heart began to still, and my dependence on the Creator deepened. I slowly began to grieve leaving home and to regret the moments I once had taken for granted. This season was one of gentle pruning, where I grew in love for what God had placed before me, allowing new growth to take root quietly beneath the surface.

Winter began to thaw, and spring made its magnificent arrival. I spent many mornings walking around a small pond near our home. Though its edge was fringed with overgrown weeds and decaying leaves, walking that path became a comforting routine. Sometimes I’d sit on a bench with a book, watching the sunlight filter through the trees, delighting in the quiet moments. I remember praying as I watched the ducks gently guiding their new ducklings across the water, finding these gentle moments the beginning of a new and appreciated life. The sun began to breathe life into the world around me, and as days passed my relationships deepened through shared moments and routines.

I began to feel less like a stranger and more like I belonged. Summer arrived quickly and with a gentle warmth. The heaviness of grief lifted, though not completely gone, and I found myself noticing again the beauty scattered in ordinary things: white linens hung to dry in the sun, the laughter of my neighbor as he returns home and greets his daughters, the smell of banana bread wafting through the house on a Sunday evening. The fog that had clouded my vision began to clear, and the reminder of Jesus’ steadfast love comforted me.

As if to echo that truth, outside my kitchen window stands a steady and strong tree. I have watched it stripped bare in the winter, sprout small green buds in spring, and blossom into beautiful fruit in summer. The pain of starting over doesn’t simply vanish, but brings with it a new season of life. In faith, we can embrace the unfamiliar, knowing that we are on a path to our true heavenly home.