When we first arrived in the Middle East, we were met with excitement and warmth. Teammates greeted us at the airport, and from the beginning, expectations were clear: our primary responsibility was language learning. We were encouraged to give ourselves fully to that work, trusting it would become the bridge to everything else.
We chose to live in a local neighborhood rather than an expatriate area, and that decision shaped our entire first term. Every grocery run, haircut, and casual interaction required patience and humility. No one around us spoke English, which was both difficult and rewarding. Over time, the language began to come. Slowly, imperfectly, but steadily.
More importantly, relationships began to form. Neighbors welcomed us into daily life. A local security guard watched over our family, showed genuine care for our children, and celebrated milestones with us. Without realizing it at first, we found ourselves becoming part of the neighborhood—not through programs or plans, but through presence.
Like many first-term workers, we quickly learned that cross-cultural ministry is far more complex than we expected. Team dynamics were challenging, roles were sometimes unclear, and long-term plans shifted without much communication. We were part of a transitional ministry working among refugees, but often without a clear sense of local direction or goals.
One of the most difficult adjustments was navigating “dual relationships.” In this context, the same person could be a supervisor, teammate, friend, and fellow church member all at once. Boundaries that feel natural in the U.S. often don’t exist overseas, and we weren’t fully prepared for that reality. Misunderstandings came easily, and clarity was sometimes hard to find.
Still, we showed up. We studied the language, opened our home, and remained present in the neighborhood. Even when progress felt slow or unseen, we trusted that faithfulness mattered.
Midway through our first term, everything changed. Our youngest child experienced a life-threatening medical emergency that required immediate care outside the country. Within days, our plans were completely upended. We found ourselves navigating hospitals, surgeries, and long nights of waiting far from home.
It was a season marked by fear, exhaustion, and deep spiritual weight. We prayed more honestly than ever before. There were moments when the uncertainty felt overwhelming. Yet even in that darkness, we saw God’s provision—through skilled doctors, unexpected support, and the resilience of a tiny child who endured more than anyone should.
After weeks away, we returned to the field grateful, shaken, and changed. Almost immediately, we stepped into difficult conversations about team expectations and participation. Coming on the heels of our family crisis, those conversations left us confused and searching. We sought counsel, prayed deeply, and wrestled with questions about calling, endurance, and obedience.
Ironically, it was during this heavy season that we began to see clear spiritual fruit.
Relationships that had been quietly forming now deepened. One local friend—a barber who had experienced trauma, rejection, and profound loss—began asking honest spiritual questions. Instead of rushing answers, we listened. We read Scripture together slowly, focusing not on arguments, but on the character of God and the person of Jesus.
What ultimately captured his heart was hope. He had never seen a faith that confronted suffering honestly while still offering redemption and resurrection. Over months of conversations and discipleship, he chose to follow Christ and was baptized.
Soon after, others from his relational network began asking questions and responding to the gospel. Some came quickly; others took time. All of it carried real risk. In this context, following Jesus can bring social, economic, and legal consequences. Obedience is costly, yet these new believers displayed remarkable courage and resolve.
What amazed us most was how the gospel multiplied through relationships we could never have engineered. Years of language learning and quiet presence created space for something only God could bring to life.
Looking back, our first term was anything but easy. There were misunderstandings, pain, fear, and moments when quitting felt like the reasonable choice. There were also moments of joy, laughter, and deep connection—stories that could only come from living closely with people over time.
One of the greatest lessons we learned is that fruit often grows underground long before it becomes visible. Faithfulness in obscurity, presence without recognition, and obedience amid confusion are rarely wasted. In fact, they are often the soil where lasting fruit grows.
Opposition and hardship were not signs of failure. They were reminders that something meaningful was happening. The cost was real—but so was the joy.
From the outside, cross-cultural ministry can look like a highlight reel. The reality is far more ordinary and far more demanding. It is a long obedience—marked by setbacks, surprises, and daily dependence on God.
We share our story not because we have it figured out, but because we believe faithfulness matters. Sending matters. Praying matters. Staying matters.
Whether you serve overseas or right where you are, our prayer is the same: that God would give us the grace to remain faithful—even when the road is hard.
— Warren Owen
[Images: https://www.imb.org/photos/]