Bridgeway Christian Church

One of the things that I'm most proud of in my life is the fact that my parents were missionaries.
 
Shortly after my fifth birthday my parents took me and my older brother and sister to live in Papua New Guinea.  I know what you're probably thinking:  "Where's that?"  It's the big island right above Australia and right below the equator.  The Eastern half of the island is Papua New Guinea.  The western half is called Irian Jaya, and it's part of Indonesia.  When we lived in New Guinea there were an estimated 700 languages and dialects just on our half of the island, a country roughly the size of California.  That estimate is now up to 800.  New Guinea is very rugged and many villages are so remote that they're still being discovered.  A lot of them don't have the Bible in their own language and have never even heard of Jesus.
 
During our first term in New Guinea my mom and dad were house parents in a children's home on the mission base where we lived.  Children's homes were set up so that missionary kids (MK's) could stay on the mission base and go to school while their parents were out in the villages translating the Bible.  At times there were up to 11 children living in our house.  My parents were amazing the way they took care of all of us.  They treated every child like they were their own, but I never felt neglected or loved less because of it.  They somehow made time to do all the things that parents do for their kids, like teaching me how to ride my bike on the dirt road by our house, and singing me my special song at bed time.    
 
When I was ten years old we lived in a village right on the beach for about two months.  Our house was basically a roof that came close to the ground on two sides, and the other sides were open to the ocean breeze, with low wooden rails to keep the pigs out.  Well, the big pigs at least.  Sometimes I'd be sitting at my little home made desk trying to do my school work and I'd hear a noise behind me and turn around to see baby pigs in my house.  It's very hard to focus on times tables when there are baby pigs in your house.  

Living in the village was an awesome experience.  We lived without electricity or running water.  We had an out house a little ways off at the edge of a coconut grove and a wash house made of woven palm fronds behind our house.  Our floor was sand, and my mom would use a broom made of palm fronds to sweep it.  My dad worked with the village men to build a mud stove that my mom used to cook our meals.  (Have I mentioned yet how amazing my parents are?)  

The people in our little village were so generous.  They would bring us gifts of lobster and fish and green coconuts.  I remember one time seeing a very unhappy rooster hanging upside down from a neighbor's roof.  Later that night he was our dinner, although he was a very old rooster, and so tough he was almost impossible to eat.    
 
The hardest part about being an MK was coming back to what was supposed to be "home", and not having a clue how to be an American.   We came back to the States when I was 13, and anyone who's ever been 13 knows what a fun age that is already!  Add to that not knowing the first thing about how to dress, act, or even talk like an American teenager, and it was a pretty bad time for me. Missionary kids often have a hard time in life because they feel like they don't really belong anywhere.  That's something that I still feel sometimes, even after all these years.  

But in spite of that, I consider myself extremely blessed to have the childhood that I had.  Being a missionary kid gave me a deep love, respect and appreciation for other cultures, and for the incredible people who give their lives to translating God's word into other languages.  It's something that shaped me, and it will always be a part of who I am.