A Grief Observed: Sojourner in a Land that is Not Mine

My Abuelo and I in Cuba, 2013.

This past weekend, my husband and I visited the Dominican Republic for the first time. He was invited by his company to celebrate the achievements that he and his colleagues accomplished during the past year. As we enjoyed wonderful company, conversations, food, and breathtaking scenery, something deeper stirred within my soul—a sense of grief. This feeling wasn’t sadness, but something profound that I could not shake.

There was something so known to me in this island, a familiarity just like home—my home island of Cuba. The home island where my grandfather was laid to rest two weeks ago. My grandfather passed away on March 26, 2025, at 96 years old. The last time I saw him was in 2013—12 years ago—a lifetime. He never had the chance to meet my husband or my three children, and they never got to know their great-grandfather.

I love my grandfather. His passing, even after a full life surrounded by those who deeply loved him, has left me grieving in a way I have never experienced before. It feels different—this deep soul grief. Perhaps it’s because he was my last living grandparent, and for the first time, I feel the weight of the separation.

I grieve the family I did not get to know intimately. I grieve the deep disconnection from a place I know in my soul. I grieve the family with whom I share blood, but not memories with. I grieve visiting a brother's island while feeling that I cannot freely visit my own.

I feel like Abraham—a sojourner in a land that is not mine. I feel like Moses, growing up in a culture that is not his own while his people are in bondage. I feel deeply disconnected from any heritage. We felt this so truly, when my husband and I were recently asked what cultural traditions we follow. Such a simple question—yet not an easy answer.

Our families did not preserve cultural or religious traditions, and though my husband and I share a blend of ancestry, those ties feel distant and quiet. As believers who came to faith in our youth, we’ve long wrestled with feeling out of place in the mainstream culture—where the holidays are pleasant, but lack a true connection for us. Recently, we’ve taken a turn to honor the Sabbath and seeking to live out the rhythm of biblically rooted celebrations. We are not searching for culture—only for Jesus. Yet even in that longing, there is a quiet grief. A grief I cannot quite name.

Ya'll, the Lord is so good. He led me to this scripture that so poignantly describes the deep grief I am carrying:

2 Corinthians 5:1-2 (NKJV): "For we know that if our earthly house, this tent, is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this we groan, earnestly desiring to be clothed with our habitation which is from heaven."

As believers, while we are here—even if we find ourselves enjoying a land of milk and honey—there is a groan in our spirits. Even as we contemplate the breathtaking beauty of the ocean and all His creation, the groan persists. For all that is here, even with all its splendor, is mortal. We have the longing to be where we truly belong.

I find myself truly displaced in a cultural sense. Yet aren't we all believers, in an even more real sense, truly displaced? This is not our home. While we are here on this earth, in our earthly bodies, we are absent from the Lord, our true home.

I find so much peace in this.

We are all sojourners in a land that is not ours!

I am encouraged today that this grief I feel—for a true home, for deep connection and reconnection—is coming. A place where I pray I can hug and be with my loved ones who have left this earth. A place where we can find the true, everlasting joy, fullness, and peace that no matter what this world tries to give, will never succeed in providing.

Revelation 21:1-4 (NKJV): "Now I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away. Also there was no more sea. Then I, John, saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, 'Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and they shall be His people. God Himself will be with them and be their God. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.'"

Reflection Corner

• Where do I feel culturally or spiritually displaced? Are there parts of my identity or history that feel fragmented or unresolved?

• How have I tried to fill the ache for “home” in this life? Have I been seeking belonging in temporary places rather than in God's eternal promises?

• What does it mean to live as a sojourner? Am I holding tightly to the things of this world, or living with eternity in view?

• 
  

Practical Takeaways

• Lament is sacred. Give yourself space to grieve. Grief does not mean you lack faith—it means you have loved deeply.

• Honor your spiritual heritage. If your family traditions feel distant or lost, begin new rhythms rooted in Scripture. Celebrate the Sabbath. Mark the feasts. Let the Lord be your inheritance.

• Keep eternity in sight. Meditate on Revelation 21 this week. Let its promise renew your hope and anchor your soul in what is to come.

• Name your longing. Journal what you’re grieving—whether it’s a person, a place, or a piece of your story—and ask God to meet you there with His presence.

Even here, in the in-between, our God is near. Though we may feel like sojourners now, we are not without a homeland. Heaven is coming. Restoration is coming. And so is joy that no one can take away.

Shalom & Grace,

Lis