In the summer of 1976, my older brother, Larry, graduated from Hillcrest High School in Jos, Nigeria. Mom and Dad took a leave from their ministry and brought our family of seven back to California for a one-year furlough. The purpose was to help Larry get settled into his first year of college. It seemed like an ideal plan, because I was a senior in high school, and my parents could help me adapt to the American culture, choose a college, and prepare to launch on my own.

However, it was difficult to leave all my friends and move to a new city in a strange country on a different continent for my last year of high school. Some of my escapades during that year might be the topic of another blog post (or book).

My aunt Pat, along with her husband and children, kindly agreed for me to live with them while I started college. They lived in Reedley, a small town south of Fresno, in central California, which would be another big move and adjustment. Larry chose Biola University in Southern California so we would be separated, too.

A few days after my graduation, it came time for my parents to return to Nigeria. So a dozen friends from our supporting church drove with them to the San Francisco airport. Oblivious to the crowds, I let the tears stream down my face as I hugged my mom goodbye.

I was desperately lonely for my home in Nigeria, my parents, siblings, and friends. During the first month, I cried myself to sleep every night. I’ve lived away from my parents since I was in first grade. Why am I missing them now? To ease my loneliness, I took a full load of classes, found a part-time job, and worked at making new friends. I moved out of my aunt’s home and found a fun-loving group of girls from Sanger High School. They invited me to many weekend parties with their graduating class.

Moving Out and Moving On

I rebelled against my parents’ values and decided I would enjoy myself for the next decade. Maybe then I’d get back into religion and regular church attendance. For a few years, I enjoyed the partying lifestyle and was glad to be out from under their thumb and all the mission rules. 

During that first year, I refused to write to my parents. I couldn’t tell them about half the stuff I was doing, or they’d have a fit. And they didn’t know my new friends. So if I said, “I went out with Kim and Lynn Saturday night,” I’d have to give them a lot of backstory. I resented the fact that my mom and dad wanted me to tell them all about my life and do all that paperwork. But they didn’t care enough about me to know me in person.

Eventually, my mom wrote to my aunt to find out if I was okay. One morning, I got a phone call from the mission representative in California.

His voice boomed over the line. “Your parents asked me to call and find out how you are doing.”

Feeling duly chastised, I wrote Mom and Dad a brief note. Still, it was hard to communicate with them, and college life was so busy. But I had an ache in my heart because none of my childhood friends were nearby, and my parents and younger siblings were a continent away.

I didn’t know why I was so lonely. Ever since I turned six, I have lived in a dorm. Why do I feel like I need my parents now? But also, part of me didn’t want to talk to them. 

Surprisingly, I soon saw the futility in weekend partying. I experienced an incident with a boyfriend that caused me to rethink my lifestyle. One day, a classmate invited me to a Friday night Bible study. I thought, Oh, good. This group meets on Friday nights, so it’ll keep me away from the parties and out of the bars.

It met in a home with a family room filled with a pool table, a ping-pong table, overstuffed couches, and a fridge full of snacks. The warm and welcoming students were having fun, drinking sodas, and eating popcorn. After a few weeks, I decided this was the best balance in life. It wasn’t religion and strict rules. They were having good, clean fun–the idea of which I previously held in disdain. But it was finally comfortable for me.

I decided to move out of my apartment, even though I dearly loved my roommate. I needed to make a clean break from my past life. An older woman in our church, Bobbye, advertised that she was renting a room because her oldest daughter had moved out. Bobbye was a single mom with two more daughters at home, and we were a great fit.

There are several more chapters to this story, one of which I think I’ll post here next month. It’s called “Shoplifting, Getting Caught, and Finding My Way Home.”

What I Know Now

Through those years of living in a dry, parched desert, many people cared for me. Does that make up for the loss and feelings of grief surrounding the lack of my parents’ input and presence in my life? No, it does not.

However, looking back, I’m grateful for those two other “moms” who loved me throughout my tumultuous college years. There were others, too. A few of my college teachers and supervisors at work in the nursing home saw both my potential and my loneliness and reached out to me. I may not have felt it at the time. I might not have appreciated some of their efforts. But I recognize them now. And I now enjoy sweet friendships with Bobbye and Pat.

Eventually, I made some really close girlfriends, and we shared the ups and downs of college life. Today, I’m still in contact with a few of those special gals.

My brother Larry often reached out to chat or to offer his support. Sometimes I was ready to receive it, and sometimes I wasn’t. He’s started doing that again recently as we are aging, and it’s really sweet. One memory is that in 1979, when theft of gasoline from car tanks was an epidemic, Larry bought me a locking gas cap for my Mercury Bobcat. What a helpful big-brother thing to do!

Link it to Your Life

Are you sending a young adult to college this year? They might need you to check on them often. Or they might prefer that you wait until they contact you. Ask them, don’t guess. In what ways do they appreciate you showing your love and support? It can be difficult to know what they prefer.

What stories do you have to share about your college days? I’d love to hear them!