By Xiao Xu
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I’ve never experienced a sudden life disruption caused by war, disaster, or loss of a visa. Such things can shatter a graduate student’s academic dreams and bring extreme pressure and deep trauma. Nor have I experienced a dramatic relocation such as Abraham, who was called by God to leave his native land, his people, and his father’s household, and go to the land God would show him (Genesis 12:1).
In contrast, my own migration story has been driven by more common factors, setting off or returning home mostly as a result of the natural seasons of life. My journey has been a response to God’s guidance through circumstances. He guided my thoughts, and my choices, opening a way for me among many possibilities. My task, at every turn, has been to discern His will.
At 18, I left my hometown for university in the provincial capital, where I met God amidst an existential crisis. At 23, I crossed the ocean to Chicago for graduate studies. There, I completed my degree, interned, and then entered seminary, and served in a local church. This year, at 30, driven by a desire to spend more time with my aging parents and to share the gospel with them, I returned home. After a six-month rest and time with family, I moved to Shanghai for work. I signed a lease for an apartment in what was for me a completely new city, officially “entering society” as a workplace rookie.
Yet, even when chosen willingly, migration still reshapes one’s life. Each move signifies a necessary readjustment of relationships, habits, and of one’s identity. At the same time, every stage of migration and adaptation also serves as a testament to God’s faithful presence and His sufficient grace.
Finding belonging in the gap
A few years ago, after returning to the U.S. from my first seminary winter break, I woke up in my dorm room with jet lag. Gazing at the faint blue morning light and the distant skyscrapers, I felt a moment of disorientation, missing my parents who were ten thousand miles away. In that instant, there was a sense of loneliness—a feeling of being in-between two worlds, in a gap. Both this place and the far-away place felt like home, yet I also felt like a stranger in both.
The summer before the pandemic, on my last night in China, I chatted with a friend in Chicago on WeChat. She said, “So tomorrow begins your long journey home.”
That very day, I had watched the animated movie,The Lion King, with my parents. My mother, who had long hoped I would quit seminary or would have return immediately after graduation, jokingly called me “Simba.” When Simba’s childhood friend, Nala, found the adult Simba in the jungle, she told him, “We need you to come home.” My mother deeply resonated with the plea, hoping I, too, would realize, “It’s time to go home.”
“Home,” in Chinese is jia (家). The same word, used in different directions and contexts, created within me a subtle tension. Both my hometown and Chicago could be called home, yet sometimes one felt more deeply like home than the other. My sense of belonging comes with a gap—I belong in part to every place I have lived in for a long time, yet I don’t fully belong to any single one. Thus, moving from one “home” to another is always a complicated experience.
Sojourning, Anchored to my Heavenly Home
I deeply appreciate a line from Su Shi‘s poem, Ding Feng Bo: A Gift Poem for Yu Niang. The Song Dynasty female singer, Yu Niang, who traveled south and north with her exiled master, Su Shi, was asked by the poet, “Do you find the place south of the mountains unpleasant?” She replied, “Where my heart finds peace, that is my home.” I admire Yu Niang’s open-mindedness; her perspective turned her circumstances around.
As Christians, the peace our hearts find is not based on our ability to adjust our mindset, but on an objective promise. Hebrews 11:13-16 reminds us that while we live on earth, we are ” foreigners and strangers”. Our true home is in heaven, and this earthly life is a journey toward that “better country.”
“All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them” (Hebrews 11:13-16).
When I adopt this sojourner’s perspective, when I acknowledge my heavenly home is my anchor point, I am better able to accept the feeling of being in transition on earth, and this brings me hope and comfort.
In the book of 1st Peter, the apostle calls believers, “foreigners and exiles”. Peter’s audience was primarily Christians in Asia Minor (now Turkey), many of whom were living in their native regions, yet were still called “exiles.”
While in seminary, I traveled back and forth between the U.S. and China for holidays. This always required a few days of adjustment on either end. Returning home, facing the lack of spiritual companions, the clash of values, and the difficulty of expressing my true self, I felt uneasy—a sense of being “in my hometown yet lacking belonging”—even though I was surrounded by my family.
From these verses in 1 Peter, I gained a new perspective to understand this discomfort. Our status as “exiles” is not solely determined by our geographical location. Our spiritual identity can make us strangers in our own land, creating a “holy distance” from our original culture because of our faith.
This passage also provides us with a crucial reminder: Peter is not advising believers to detach themselves from the world or to build a wall between themselves and non-believers. Peter urges believers not to assimilate to the world’s values, but at the same time, to witness to the reality of God’s Kingdom through their godly conduct among those who hold different beliefs.
“Dear friends, I urge you, as foreigners and exiles, to abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul. Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us” (1 Peter 2:11-12).
It is always easier to stay within the Christian “comfort zone” of the church. It is challenging to build relationships with family, friends, and colleagues—who have varied personalities and attitudes toward faith—and to always be prepared to share the reason for the hope we have, with gentleness and respect (1 Peter 3:15). This tests the quality of my character. Conflict and challenges push me to come before God more often, seeking His mercy and help.
Rooted and Committed in the Flow
I have been living and working in Shanghai for nearly two years now. The initial discomfort and loneliness have gradually faded, replaced by a slow-growing sense of belonging—familiar streets and scenery, cafes and restaurants, a committed small group and ministry in the church, and daily life as a family with my husband, who also returned from overseas. This city is gradually becoming what I call, “home.”
Belonging doesn’t distill out of thin air; it quietly grows through deliberate action and genuine relationship.
For example, I explore the streets and alleys on foot or on bicycle to enhance my sensory connection with the city. I build genuine connections with brothers and sisters in my church small group, sharing meals and life together. I become good friends with my colleagues, sharing work pressures and worries, and exchanging perspectives on life and experience.
Occasionally I travel for business or pleasure to Hangzhou, Qingdao, Guangzhou, etc. On these visits, I find myself subconsciously comparing these places with Shanghai. Is the climate pleasant? Are housing prices reasonable? Are there good churches and job opportunities? Is transportation to my parents’ city convenient? What are the educational opportunities here if we have children in the future? But I quickly realize that I’m mistakenly trying to find the perfect city on earth. Such a city does not exist and Shanghai is already an excellent place for my family.
This also leads me to ponder: What constitutes a healthy relationship between a person and a city?
My answer, for now, is this: To be seriously invested in life where God has placed me. To deepen my commitment to the city and the church within it, and live a life that is a blessing to those around me. At the same time, I seek to maintain an “exile’s sobriety”—so that when God calls me to make a change, I can still examine it with an open mind and respond with faith, moving forward; knowing deeply that though we wander on the earth, we are already permanently settled within the faithful narrative of God’s Kingdom.