Missionary Kid Monday: Defining Me

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Welcome to the last installment of Missionary Kid Monday! I've so enjoyed sharing this part of me with all of you! (and thanks for reading along!)


I'll start this story with a flashback to sophomore year of high school. I had an English teacher at my boarding school who also grew up as an MK (Missionary Kid). One day, he told us:

Once an MK, always an MK.

And at the time I was all "YES! ROCK ON!" Because being a Missionary Kid is what defined me. More than anything else - if you asked me: "Who are you?" I would have said, "I'm Sarah, an MK". In a life of constant change, of flip flopping between countries/cultures/languages, in a constant struggle to belong, I had found safety and comfort in my MK-ness.

I clung to that identity even more fiercely when I went to college.

So fast forward to my sophomore year of college. I'm sitting in my dorm room with this guy that I really like and that I've been seriously dating for a few months (how serious? He had flown out to visit my family in Europe the summer before!). We were talking about a lot of things when all of a sudden, I said:

I could never marry someone who wasn't an MK.

This guy - who'd lived his whole life on a farm in Michigan - got really quiet. I didn't know it at the time, but that was a sign he was upset and angry. He didn't respond to the statement right then, but he did try to talk some sense into me later.

And I neeeeeded someone to talk some sense into me. Just because I was an MK didn't mean that I could only relate to and get along with other MKs. Somewhere along the line, I had missed that point. It cost me many college friendships.

And it almost cost me my husband! I ended up marrying that common-sense farm boy less than a year later:

It took me a few years - maybe about five or so - to loosen my grasp on my Missionary Kid identity. Slowly, other things became more defining: I'm a Christian; I'm a wife; I'm a special education teacher; I'm an introvert. I will still always be a Missionary Kid, but it's no longer at the top of the list.

What about you? Who are you?

Missionary Kid Monday: Freshman Regrets

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I'm embarrassed about my whole first semester of college. If I could go back in time, I'd give myself a good ol' fashioned kick in the pants.

Here's how my outward behavior can be summed up:

I ate.
I slept.
I studied.

Here's what my insides looked like:

I pouted.
I was homesick.
I thought I was better than everyone else.
I wanted acceptance from my American peers - even though I refused to extend them any.

I spent a lot of time on the phone and via e-mail with high school friends who were spread out across the country. I took a road trip to Taylor to visit some of them and wished I had gone to college there instead! In fact, I even ordered a transfer application once I got back.

Meanwhile, all the other freshmen in my dorm were forming friendships. They were establishing the normal clicks that develop during college. I would join in with a few activities here and there, but always as the outsider.

While I was busy pouting and wishing I was elsewhere, I was missing the boat on that crucial stage where new friendships are formed.

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And once that window of time closed, there was no real turning back. So I have a lot of regret about that first semester.

One noteworthy event that November:

My Taylor University transfer application came in the mail. I remember holding it, alone in my dorm room. Thinking: Do I follow my friends for a chance at a happier college career? Or do I stay put here - the only college where I can get my deaf ed degree?

And then that decisive moment of truth when I threw the application into the trash can. That was the moment when I chose to focus on my future instead of trying to relive the past. The moment that I did what I had to do instead of what I felt like doing. That was the moment when I became an adult!

What about you? When did you know you were officially an adult?

Missionary Kid Monday: College Bound

I knew exactly where I was going when I graduated from my boarding high school in Germany.

To Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Never mind that I had never set foot in Michigan before.

I hardly had a choice: I wanted to go to a Christian liberal arts college where I could get my deaf education degree in less than five years. The ONLY school in all of America that met those criteria was Calvin College!

And just because I had to go there didn't make it any less terrifying. Here were my fears:

1.) I knew no one in Michigan. No one from my graduating class was going to college in Michigan. I would be lonely forever.

2.) College wouldn't be as fun as high school was.

3.) I wouldn't be able to relate to anyone else.

4.) Somebody would ask me the dreaded question:

But I was driven and ambitious and I knew that I really wanted that deaf education degree. So I went!

My parents flew me out to drop me off. (I'm sure they were terrified in a completely different way!)

I remember thinking that the campus looked so BIG and AMERICAN. I remember feeling so incredibly homesick for Europe. I remember alternating between an internal hissy fit and dramatic weepiness.

But the worst part? My mom tried to console me with these words:

"Don't worry honey. Soon, this place is gonna feel like home."

At the time, this felt like a knife going straight through my heart. To me, feeling at home in Michigan meant betraying my very identity as a Missionary Kid. Never! These words made me angry.

But of course, like most wisdom my mom gives me, she was absolutely right. If you asked me where home was now, I would most likely say "Michigan" (unless you had like 10 minutes to hear the whole story!)

Back then, however, I was depressed. And, if I'm being honest, too arrogant to understand that many other college freshmen had some of the same fears I did.

Looking back, I wish I had given America and college more of a chance. Instead, I retreated into myself most of that first year. I think I missed out on a lot of friendships that way.

How was your first year of college? Tell me, I'd love to know!

Missionary Kid Monday: Deported

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If you caught the last post, you'll know that my senior year was pretty amazing! But like all good things, it had to come to an end.


And for us, the end of the road was Graduation.


Thing is, graduation felt more like deportation. Almost all of us were going back to the States or Canada for college... to several different schools in several different states. We would never all be together again!


Furthermore, most of us hadn't set foot in the States in YEARS! (I was an exception - and the unpleasant memories of my 11th grade year in California did nothing to make me look forward to college). 


So most of us felt bittersweet about graduation - and maybe that's generous. Maybe it was more bitter than sweet. 


My best friend Kara and I had been in the habit of going out for coffee every Wednesday before school. We were so sad to be ending that tradition:

Here's our last Wednesday coffee date.

We look awful. Like we were hungover from drinking our tears...

As far as I was concerned, graduation meant the end of everything good. I couldn't get past the thought that I was leaving the best years of my life behind me. That it was all downhill from here.

It was the wrong attitude to have, but I didn't realize that until YEARS later. You just couldn't convince my over-dramatic self that high school graduation was the end of the world.

My proud parents. And my dad 

was so excited to wear those glasses!

After the graduation ceremony, our class of 70+ was bussed across the border to Switzerland for a dinner cruise on the Rhine River. We signed yearbooks and tried to squeeze in the most fun possible on our last night together. 

After that, we all hung out by the bonfire back at one of the dorms. I have one picture from the bonfire and not a single person is smiling!! Once that was over, a bunch of students wandered around our little German town, talking and reminiscing with other graduates.

It was my first and only all-nighter.

And in the morning, I said good-bye to my best friend (she was heading to Texas and I was heading to Michigan). That day, I went into my room and just cried all day. My mom checked in on me at lunch and said I was lucky and blessed to have friends that I cared so much about leaving. It was a small consolation at the time, but now I realize she was absolutely right!

Stay tuned for next week - a missionary kid all on her own for college in a state she'd never been to!

Missionary Kid Monday: Coming Home

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When my junior year in California FINALLY ended, it was time to fly back to France. Only this time, my whole family was flying back to Germany instead. It was decided that my parents would work at the school - my dad teaching chemistry and my mom teaching part-time French.


We would live in town - walking distance from the school - and my younger sister and brother would start attending. Here's the walkway down into our town house:

To say I was excited about being back for my senior year is a huge understatement! I felt like I could hear angels singing the Hallelujah chorus as we rolled into town that summer!


I was a little bummed not to be surrounded by the girls in the dorm that year, but I knew that many of my friends would also be "home students" in town so there would still be lots of people to hang out with.


I was also nervous. During the year I was gone, around twenty new kids joined my class - taking it from 50ish to 70ish students. I wrote in my diary:

I know I am being selfish and childish, but I can't help it... I will resent all of these new-to-me people because they have created a new school that I am not used to.

But looking back on those diary entries, I know now what was really going on: I was feeling very possessive of my friends. I didn't want to share them with the new kids. One whole year of feeling so very alone will do that to you: I wanted to hoard them like the precious treasure they were. Greedily. The thought that my old friends had made new friends and had made fun new memories without me during our junior year was too tortuous a thought to entertain....


But the school year started and I adjusted. And it was definitely one of the best years of my life! Despite all of the drama, the boys, the unrequited love, the teenage angst, I was able to make some great memories:

Our Senior Class Trip to Rome (for a week!)

Doing makeup for our school play

Playing games with friends

Going to the Junior-Senior Banquet (no dancing allowed!)

These pictures are worth over 1000 words each, but I thought I'd spare you :)


Of course, all good things must eventually come to an end. In this case, graduation truly felt like a screeching, crashing halt. But more on that next time!


What was your favorite year of high school?

Missionary Kid Monday: Surviving America

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My eleventh grade year still holds the title for Most Awful Year Ever. It's not a very prestigious award; it mostly comes with a lot of tears.


You may remember that every four years, my family had to go back to the States for a year to check in with our churches and raise more support. We called this year "furlough". (I wanted to call it "My life, interrupted").


Our second furlough was during my eleventh grade year. Now for once, I was feeling just peachy about my current situation: I really loved my boarding high school in Germany. I didn't want to leave.


In fact, I remember throwing a bit of a teenage-tantrum when my parents informed me they would be pulling me out of school ONE WEEK EARLY so they could get cheaper airfare. My logical mind was all: 


"How is saving hundreds of dollars worth the social interaction I'll be missing out on?!"


It just didn't make sense! But sure enough, mom and dad showed up at my dorm at near the end of my 10th grade year. And as we were driving out of my little village, a stork showed up and flew right alongside my passenger window for well over a minute. I stared at it through my tear-filled blurry vision. It was my personal farewell.


And a little later, when our plane descended at LAX in California, I sang The Doxology in my head over and over to prevent myself from becoming hysterical.


Granted, I did not have the best attitude. BUT! In my defense....


1. I was going from a Christian high school with 250 students to a public high school with 2500 students!


2. I was leaving the only place I ever fit in.


3. I was going to have to share a room with my younger sister (14) and brother (12) for a whole year.


But I guess there was one good thing about that year:

I got my driver's license!

But mostly I remember sneaking off to hidden places so I could cry in peace.


I didn't really make any friends that year. I had the ILLUSION of friends, as you can see from this youth group birthday party where my sister and I are standing awkwardly to the side (on the right):

Besides finding hidden places to cry, the real thing I learned in eleventh grade was that I can survive anything for a year!

Missionary Kid Monday (on Wednesday!): Dorm Life

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As you may remember from last time, I packed up and went to a boarding school in Germany during my high school years. In ninth grade, I stayed with a lovely family. In tenth grade, I lived in a dorm.

Specifically this dorm:

None of the dorms were on campus - they were in the surrounding villages. My dorm was named "Storchenblick", which means "stork views". Can you tell why?

There was actually a little stork farm within walking distance, and the birds liked to make their nests in tall perches:

And in case you're curious, none of these storks ever delivered any babies to us.... the school's rules were MUCH too strict for that :)

There were between 20 and 30 girls from 7th to 12th grade living at "Stork". We had three RA's and a set of dorm parents to cook for us, help us with our laundry, be a listening ear, and generally keep us in line. There was a set routine/schedule and each of us girls had a weekly chore we were responsible for. But within those constraints there was actually quite a bit of freedom.

We watched chick flicks in the living room, chatted late into the night, got competitive with cards, had picnics in the backyard, and plotted the best prank to pull on the guys' dorm down the road.

(Literally) hanging out at the nearby field

Waiting for the school bus. (Why yes, I am wearing Birkenstocks with SOCKS!)

Getting "creeked" in the local horse trough on my birthday

I know there was some drama to go around. You can't live in a house full of girls without at least some cattiness and hurt feelings. But those aren't the memories that stand out. I look back on this year fondly. I formed some deep and long lasting friendships there, and I'm so thankful I was able to have that experience.

PS: The winner of the Snugly Duckling giveaway is Heather Vogler!
and the winner of the Fancy Designs giveaway is Shooting Stars Mag! Congrats!


PPS: I still have a few spots open for March sponsorship. Details here.

Missionary Kid Monday: A Whole New World

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And so it was that in September of 1996, I left my awful French middle school behind and started high school at Black Forest Academy. BFA is in the small town of Kandern, Germany:

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BFA had many dorms situated in the villages surrounding the school. But my ninth grade year, I was a "home student" since the dorms were full: I lived with a family in town whose children were also students at the school.


They were a Dutch family who spoke English flawlessly (although they did revert to Dutch when arguing, haha!) - they were very nice and took really good care of me. I had a roommate whom they were also housing; her name was Rachel and she was a year older than me. Here we are all dolled up for the Christmas banquet. 

(I'm the awkward one on the left...)

When I was in 8th grade, I thought BFA would be like a real American high school - And I was pretty sure that what I saw on Saved by the Bell was typical of American high schools everywhere. (Ahem.... pardon my ignorance!)

Although it was nothing like Bayside High school, BFA was (and still is!) a tight-knit little community. It was a small school back then - only 30 students in my freshman class (although by 12th grade, we had grown to 75!)

We had our own traditions: like "creeking" someone on their birthday by throwing them in the shallow creek. We had a Friday Night Activity planned for us every week - sometimes it was a school-wide scavenger hunt, or a movie in the auditorium, or a dorm vs. dorm competition of some kind.

When I look back at my diary that year, it was all about who was friends with who, who wasn't friends anymore, and who was crushing on who. In this respect I imagine my 9th grade experience was like many of my American peers (correct me if I'm wrong?!) However, there were no diary references to kissing, sex, drinking, or drugs, because we had VERY strict rules; even hand holding and dancing was forbidden!

And here's how it was different than American high schools:

- The teachers often ate dinner with us in the dorms.

- The students did chores to keep the school clean since we had no custodial staff.

- We had to figure out how to buy school supplies in town without knowing any German.

- Private conversations among friends would often be in other languages.

- All the girls borrowed each others' clothes.

- Senior Skip Day was planned and chaperoned by our teachers (boo!)

-We had Monday morning matins and Friday chapel every week.

- We went on field trips to see the Roman ruins, the WW1 trenches, and a WW2 concentration camp.

- We went on class trips to Dijon (France), to the beaches of Normandy, and we took a senior class trip to Rome for a week.

- We took dorm retreats to the Swiss Alps.

And as fun and cool as all of that stuff was, do you know what the BEST PART was about BFA? Being surrounded by hundreds of kids just like me, who knew what it felt like to be a Missionary Kid. It meant an instant connection and forged the way for long-lasting, deep friendships to happen overnight.

It was my paradise. 

What about you? Do you have fond memories of high school?

Missionary Kid Monday: The Promised Land

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In France, junior high lasts from 6th to 9th grade. Here I am in eighth grade (top left corner), absolutely miserable and knowing I had another whole year to go after this.

The plan for high school was to send me to an American boarding school in Germany to prepare me for college in the U.S. Now before you recoil in horror at the words "boarding school", you need to know a few things:

1. It was only a 5 hour drive from my parents' house.
2. EVERYONE there was a missionary kid, just like me.
3. The teachers were all missionaries too, and super nice (obviously not there for the money)
4. Some of my BFFs from English Camp were going too.
5. Anything was better than French schools.

Also, I was INCREDIBLY lonely and VERY independent -- my parents realized this and decided to send me one year early - in 9th grade instead of 10th.

They didn't know that I had been praying for that to happen... every single night of my eighth grade year. Downright pleading with God.

So when my mom broke the news to me (in a rather somber way -- it was obviously hard for her to think of "losing" me so soon), I muttered something and then went to the bathroom....

.... where I completely burst into tears.

Big, fat, happy tears of relief. 

And then I felt totally guilty for crying because I knew how hard this was gonna be on my parents!

Next week, more about this magical place:

What about you? Were you excited to go to high school? Or scared out of your mind? :)

Missionary Kid Monday: English Camp

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First off, let's just start by saying that Junior High was an awkward time for everyone. I haven't met anyone who has reported having a great time at that age. I don't care if you were the popular one, or the biggest nerd around (ahem... like me). Case in point:

And living in France made it no less awkward.

We had moved to a new region my seventh grade year. New teachers, new school, and just a whole different ball game. I found that everyone my age "grew up" while I was in California during the sixth grade. My classmates were cussing like sailors; they were obsessed with kissing (etc.); and most were smoking on a regular basis.

As an introverted Christian bookworm, I felt out of place on so many different levels! I was like a fish trying to live in a tree.

My saving grace was English Camp.

You know how fat kids go to Fat Camp? And nerdy kids go to Science Camp? Well missionary kids living in France went to English Camp.

Every summer, I spent two weeks up in the Alps brushing up on my spoken and written English. It was a way for our parents to ensure that we weren't losing our mother language. The one absolute rule at the camp was No French Allowed. (No Frenglish Either). We all tried really hard to respect that - but I would be lying if I said a French word didn't occasionally slip out...

In any case, I lived for English Camp. It was where I discovered that there were other misfit missionary kids just like me who also felt like fish living in trees. We formed fast and intense friendships; bonds that ran deep. We laughed; we cried. We felt happier than we had ever been. We BELONGED.

And we agonized when our two weeks came to an end. We exchanged snail mail addresses (man I feel old!) and promised to stay in touch. And we were pretty good about it!

What about you? Did you ever go to camp as a child?

Missionary Kid Monday: Moving

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After my traumatic sixth grade year in California was over, it was time to go back to France for another four year term.


We moved to a different region this time, to Grenoble. At first we stayed in a conference center in the Alps, owned by our missionary organization. It was about an hour away from the city, and the winding road ways were a NIGHTMARE for my motion sickness.

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We were only supposed to be there temporarily, but my parents were having an awful time finding a house to rent. They were looking for something big, in order to accommodate large groups of people (youth groups, Bible studies, etc.), but they also needed something very affordable.


They saw dozens of houses. Some of them they even liked but were outbid by someone who was willing and able to pay more rent. 


They prayed and prayed, but became very discouraged. My siblings and I started school, and still... no house.


Then one day, after about six weeks of dead ends, they came upon the perfect house. But the rent was way too high.


So my dad knocked on the door to talk to the tenants. He asked them to tell him every single thing that was wrong with the house (everything from the non-working fireplace to the minor inconveniences). Armed with that information - and much prayer - he was able to negotiate with the owners for a more reasonable rent. 


And that is how we came to live here:

It doesn't look like much on the outside, but there are four stories in there (plus the basement), several bedrooms, a spacious living room, and a great backyard with a cherry tree. I can still taste those cherries! Every summer we would get gobs and gobs of them!


Do you have a favorite childhood house?

Missionary Kid Monday: Making Nice

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As I mentioned previously, I was in the sixth grade when we came back to California for a year after having lived in France for four years.

Other than a traumatic year at school, I have two other memories that stand out: church and hamburgers.

One of the main reasons we needed to come back to the States every four years was to reconnect with our supporting friends and supporting churches, as well as to make new connections with other churches and individuals.

That means that we went to a different church Every. Single. Sunday. And I would have to listen to my dad preach/speak the same message Every. Single. Sunday. Fortunately, my dad's a pretty awesome speaker. Unfortunately, that didn't stop me from being bored out of my mind. After a few months I got to where I could mouth the next words of his message. There was a lot of doodling on the back of church programs.

In addition, many kind and generous folks would want to talk to us after church. They would usually look at us kids and note "how much you've grown!" And I would think "DUH", but I had the good sense not to say it out loud....

And then .... inevitably.... came the invitation to have lunch with them. A different family every Sunday would bring us back to their home for a meal.

Such generosity.

BUT. For some reason, everyone thought that we couldn't get hamburgers and hot dogs in France. (We could and did!). So what do you think we ate Every. Single. Sunday?????? You got it.

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And it was all I could do not to roll my pre-teen eyes and moan "Hamburgers AGAIN?!?!"

Missionary Kid Monday: Christmas in France

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When we were all still little kids, my parents decided we were going to do our own thing for Christmas and not celebrate the way the French do. Mainly, my family didn't like the idea of opening gifts on Christmas Eve.

Christmas was always a pretty exciting time. Some years, our grandparents flew out to see us! With suitcases full of goodies to spoil us!! Most years, our supporters back in the States were generous in sending us packages filled with random stuff we missed from America.... like Kool Aid, ranch dressing packets, peanut butter, and Oreos.

In later years there were fewer and fewer packages from the States. And that was okay - we always felt like we had enough presents. My parents support level can wane back and forth and I remember a few years in junior high when my mom fretted that there wasn't enough under the tree.

I think that was when we put an emphasis on making Christmas last for as long as possible. First we opened up our stockings, then we had a hot breakfast, then afterwards we opened the gifts under the tree... one at a time. Nobody started opening a gift until the previous person has finished and we had all oohed and aahed!

This tradition of making the merriment last as long as possible is still going strong in our family.

Do you have any special traditions on Christmas morning?

Missionary Kid Monday: You Know You're an MK When....

Because we are caught between our parents' home culture and the cultures of one (or more) other countries,  missionary kids have become their own culture. It's why some people refer to us as "Third Culture Kids".

This is a long list that's kinda famous. Some of it may even apply to you! Below, I've picked some of my favorites:

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You know you're an MK when:

1. Your family sends you peanut butter and Kool-Aid for Christmas.
2. You think VISA is a document stamped in your passport, and not a plastic card you carry in your wallet.
3. You go to a church you have never been in before and find your picture on their bulletin board.
4. Someone asks you where you most enjoy just hanging out and you immediately think of happy hours spent in international airports.
5. You don't know whether to write the date as month/day/year, day/month/year, or some variation thereof.
6. You know how to pack.
7. You can't get past "Oh, say can you see ..." in the national anthem, and you have to watch to see what hand to use.
8. You mess-up your idioms without even thinking about it.
9. You feel like you need to move after you've lived in the same place for a two months.
10. You meet another MK, and discover that you share the same best friend.

Missionary Kid Monday: Realizing the Awful Truth

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The way it worked is that for every four years on the mission field, my family had to go back to the States for one full year. (There were a few reasons for this but the main one is that my parents needed to reconnect with our sending churches and individuals who supported us financially.)

The only thing that mattered to me as we prepared for our year back in California was that I was going to be in sixth grade. AND! I was going back to the school I had attended for kindergarten and first grade. A lovely Christian school.

And I was going to see all of my friends!

In my innocent mind, we would all pick up where we left off.

But that didn't happen. In fact, my "friends" had all moved on to much more grown-up things. They didn't want to play on the playground or jump rope like I had been used to doing with my French friends. Nope. My friends... who were GIRLS... just wanted to play soccer and talk to boys.

They didn't care that I had been gone for four years. They called me "Frenchie". They didn't really want anything to do with me unless they wanted someone to tease.

I was ostracized. I was confused. I clearly didn't belong here anymore.

via

I couldn't understand why I did not fit in at home anymore.

And the more the year progressed, the more I began to understand that my life was changed forever and I would never be able to go back "home" again. Yes, I understand that sounds quite dramatic, but it was the truth. A hard truth to swallow.

I knew that when we went back to France after the California year was up, we'd be going to a different region. I'd go to a different school and have to make different friends. I wasn't going "home".

So there it was, my awful truth: California wasn't my home. France wasn't my home.

Where is my home?

It's a question that all missionary kids struggle with (and I can imagine military kids do too!). It's the question that has tortured me and defined me for more than a decade.

Having to even ask and deal with that question..... started as a shock, then turned into bitter acceptance, then turned into a matter of pride, and then (I'm sad to admit) even arrogance.

But that's a post for a different time. Today I just wanted to share with you my pivotal sixth grade year!

Missionary Kid Monday: French Church

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I was at the same time a missionary kid and a pastor's kid. Mom and dad were B-U-S-Y on Sundays. Not that they weren't working during the rest of the week, but it was a different type of work. My dad usually preached on Sundays (spending many hours during the week ensuring that both his French and the message were great). Mom sometimes played the piano, but most often took care of Sunday school for the kids.

The Strasbourg Cathedral

(When I talk about French church, I'm not referring to those BEAUTIFUL churches that France is famous for. No. Protestant French churches meet in regular old buildings, or a series of rooms on the ground floor of some office space, or even in people's homes.)

Sundays definitely changed for me in France. Suddenly, the whole family had to be at church at least one hour beforehand to set up, and we had to stay about an hour late after the service. I had to give the bise to a lot of old ladies who I would have much rather waved to. I learned to worship in another language.

We had church people over at our house throughout the week for various Bible studies. Once, our African Grey parrot (to whom my mother had taught to say both English and French words), shouted out "N'importe quoi" after an especially spirtual point my father had just made. Everybody laughed! You'll smile too when I tell you that "N'importe quoi" means "WHATEVER".

Here's the thing that still baffles me about French church, which is true to this day. Even though I speak it fluently, even though I can read and understand the Bible in French, even though I am a mature Christian...  a sermon preached in French is not as meaningful or impactful to me. It never has been, and this baffles me. I can read or hear the same spiritual words in French and English and it will only sink in when it's in English.

I have a theory that my heart doesn't speak French.

Even so, I am thankful that I had the opportunity for so many years to experience worship in a different culture, and to engage with Christians on the other side of the world!

Missionary Kid Monday: Lessons Learned

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I learned a lot of things from growing up in France, silly and serious things alike. Here's a list (not comprehensive and in no particular order):

• How to give "the bise" (kiss on either cheek as a greeting) to boys without feeling awkward.
• How to memorize.
• How to sit at the table for long periods of time during a meal.
• How to enjoy "Prince of Bel-Air" reruns when they were dubbed over in French (they really lost the whole "black" thing)
• How to wear the same outfit four different ways.
• How to talk quietly in public places.
• How to be patient with foreigners.
• How to write with a fountain pen.
• How to appreciate history.
• How to cuss like a sailor without realize I was doing so (oops).
• How to take English as a foreign language in 7th grade and not die of boredom while my classmates learned their colors.
• How to make my English teacher not feel bad about her accent.
• How to eat bread. (Keep it on the table so as not to insult your hosts' tablecloth. Use your bread to help sop up sauces and dressing. Tear bits off. No butter.)
• How to do Franc to Dollar conversions in my head.
• How to cheer at a soccer game.

The biggest and most impactful lesson of all didn't come until the sixth grade, when we were back in California for a year. But I'm still working up the nerve to write that post. Look for it in December!

Missionary Kid Monday: Spoiled

{For more on this series, click here}

A few of you (from the comments of my last post) asked to see what French cursive looks like. This is the best example I've found:

via

Do you see how many of the capitals are different? Do you notice how it's not at all slanted like its American counterpart? Just confusing enough to throw me for a loop when I got back to the States.

In any case, going to school wasn't the only thing I did in France. There were many vacations. And since Europe is a pretty small area and since my parents worked from home, they took us on a lot of road trips in the summer.

We explored lots of different regions of France, Spain, Portugal, Switzerland, England, and Germany. These trips would have been very expensive coming from California. But for us, it was just a day's drive, and we would often find other missionary families to stay with.

Somewhere in France - I'm on the far left!

I did not appreciate how special this was until I became an adult. I just remember whining in the back of the car ("Are we THERE yet??"). I sadly don't even remember most of these amazing trips.

I went to Barcelona when I was nine, and do you know what I remember from the entire week we were there? We found donuts. Donuts as we know them in America do not exist in Europe, so this discovery was a BIG DEAL. The culture? The sights? The architecture? It must not have made a big enough  impression because I will forever equate Barcelona with DONUTS.

When my parents moved to France, they had NO IDEA of the difficulties that were ahead. They also had NO IDEA of the blessings ahead either. Our lives were made richer because they obeyed God's calling. I clearly remember hearing my dad say on one such trip: "I can't believe I'm skiing in the Alps right now!!"

It's difficult to talk to people about this aspect of our missionary lives. I worry people will think it was just one big vacation over there. It wasn't. It was hard, discouraging work to bring the gospel to a nation of people who were convinced they didn't need it.

But the blessings...... oh, the blessings!

Missionary Kid Monday: French Elementary School

{For more on this series, click here}


Going to public school in France was much different than the private Christian school I had just come from in California.

Things I remember from elementary school:

• Getting a 90 minute lunch and helping with the cafeteria dishes
• Reciting poems in front of the class on Fridays
• Very little positive reinforcement but lots of threats of punishment
• Strict teachers
• Mastering Chinese Jump Rope at recess
• French cursive - yes it is actually different!
• Ending the school day between 4:30 and 5:00 PM
• Working in both ballpoint and fountain pens (pencils only for geometry)
• No spelling tests, but paragraph long dictations 
• My nickname: "L'Americaine"

This became the new normal for me. After a while I didn't realize how different it all was until we went back to the States for a year when I was in sixth grade.

I made lots of little friends as a child. My parents say that the connections they made with other parents on our play dates were instrumental in sharing the gospel over there. I had no idea.... I was just having a grand ol' time!

Missionary Kid Monday: The Hardest Thing

Without question, the hardest thing for me as a child when we were living in France came around on October 31st.

Because the French don't celebrate Halloween*.

I already had a few Halloweens in California under my belt so I knew EXACTLY what I was missing. (My mom dressed me up as Marilyn Monroe when I was five - complete with a blonde wig!) And my sweet tooth protested.

Sure, my mom had actually packed and brought our Halloween decorations (!!!) so the house felt festive. But..... the candy was missing.

And even if we could have gone trick-or-treating at the neighbors' houses, we would have gotten French candy.

There's nothing wrong with French candy.

But my grass-is-greener cravings started young: when I was in France, I CRAVED American candy that you couldn't get (at the time) in France. The good stuff like Reeses, Oreos, Butterfingers, Twizzlers, Laffy Taffy, Starbursts, and Hershey's. And when I was in America, I would crave French candy like Haribo, Carambar, and Kinder eggs.

Between the ages of 7 and 11, my dad kept a bowl of loose change by the door ("centimes" back when the French franc was the unit of currency). Us kids were allowed to help ourselves on the way out the door as we walked the quarter mile to school. And do you know what was on my path to school? A boulangerie (bakery). With bins of candy. And it only cost centimes to buy a small handful!

It's a miracle I'm not enormous!

All this to say that even with the availability of fine French bon-bons, I surely felt like I was indeed SUFFERING FOR THE LORD every October 31st.

The first time we flew back to California after living for four straight years in France, my family and I walked into a CVS. There, right in front of my face, was alllllllll that American candy I had been craving for so long. I may have even teared up between all of that jumping up and down!

So... is there any candy you're addicted to?

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*It's starting to catch on a tiny bit over there. But it's by and large an American tradition!