You Don’t Have to Live Like a Refugee

It's good to settle.

I’m not from Batavia or Cincinnati. I’m not even from Ohio. I grew up in a handful of states, but most of my life was in Indiana; that’s my people, my culture.

Emily, my wife, is pure Eastside Cincinnati. Catholic school, Skyline chili, cheering for every hometown team even if she couldn’t name the roster. This is her place. Her people. Her way of life. Sure, my small-town farm country upbringing and her city/suburban childhood have their differences, but it’s still the Midwest. Not worlds apart.

We spent five years in South Carolina, just outside Greenville. Met a lot of good folks. Learned some things God wanted us to learn. But we were never southerners. I like four real seasons and can’t stand long stretches of heat. I grew up surrounded by cornfields and cattle; down there was a lot of red clay and kudzu. A thousand small differences added up.

Cincinnati lives for pro sports; South Carolina lives for college ball. I admired the family focus... Sunday lunches, deep roots, love of local history. But too often family trumped church, and it wasn’t unusual to not see folks for months because of extended family gatherings and weekends at the beach. And then there was the “politeness to a fault”—a smile to your face, a grudge you’d only hear about later. That passive-aggressive niceness was real, especially among women, though not everyone fit the stereotype.

We never really plugged in. Never bought a house. The closest we came to adopting the culture was boiled peanuts and Duke’s mayonnaise. We were visitors. That became painfully clear when I floated the idea of staying long-term and Emily cried. Her severe allergy to fire ant bites didn’t help. Looking back, that season felt more like a short-term mission trip.

When it came time to move, we wanted a place we could root ourselves. Emily’s mom and our old friends were still on the east side, so we landed twenty minutes from where she grew up. We love it here. The people, the pace, the way of life... it all fits. We’re digging in. We’re not visitors anymore. We’re settlers. We plan to be here for generations, and we’re building that vision into our kids.

Over the years, I’ve watched a lot of folks bounce from place to place, living like visitors instead of settlers. Sometimes God makes you a sojourner for a season. But for most of us, to borrow from Tom Petty, “you don’t have to live like a refugee.” Refugees are just trying to survive, chasing temporary shelter. Settlers move somewhere on purpose, aiming to become part of something worthwhile.

Pick a place. Maybe it’s here. Maybe it’s the South. Maybe it’s somewhere you didn’t expect. But if you’ve tried for years to fit in and haven’t, maybe it’s time to go somewhere else. Just don’t waste your life chasing the perfect place—it doesn’t exist. There are only places where you fit. And the benefit of a good fit takes time.

Settle. Buy property. Join a local church. Show up for local festivals, ball games, town meetings. Make friends. Invite people over. Stay long enough for your kids to think of it as home.

Be a settler.