In the chapel at Titcombe College, a Scottish teacher, Mr. Ian Finlayson, directed the Nigerian student choir on the stage at the African mission station founded by Serving in Mission (SIM) in the 1950s. I loved the old hymns and they were singing one of my favorites, “There is Power in the Blood.” The first line always encouraged me. “Would you be free from the burden of sin?” I believed that Jesus’ death on the cross provided the cleansing blood, and I felt relieved of sin’s burden.

Soon all in the crowded chapel joined in and raised their voices in praise. The Nigerians gathered loved music and were incredibly talented. Approximately one hundred male students were dressed uniformly in white, short-sleeved, button-up shirts with navy trousers. The twenty female students looked sunshiny-bright in their yellow dresses with matching head scarves. Everyone sang lustily and excelled at all five parts of harmony. My parents sang out, too—Mom as a soprano and Dad as a tenor or baritone.

For fifteen years, my parents taught in southwestern Nigeria at Titcombe College (TC) which included four years of high school plus one year of college. It ran on the British school system, January through December. So, when I was home on vacation from boarding school, they were often still in session. There in the chapel, singing with the TC students, the words sounded a little strange to my ears. Even though we sang some of the songs in English, the accent of the Nigerians was a combination of British plus the dialect of pidgin English. The word “there” sounded like “deh,” and “power” sounded like “pow-ah.”

Singing in the Rain

But I realized my accent sounded strange to them. Since we were guests in their country, I listened well and soon came to love the rhythm of their voices in speaking and singing. We also sang many songs in Yoruba, and I felt privileged to learn hymns and choruses in the local language.

Often there were tropical thunderstorms. When that happened, rain pelted the corrugated tin roof and drowned out all voices. So, the preacher stopped his sermon, chose a hymn, and we sang until the downpour ended. “A Shelter in the Time of Storm” was often chosen. The words made me feel safe and secure in my hometown of Egbe, glad that I wasn’t at boarding school. 

During the weeks when TC closed for the Nigerian students’ vacation, we didn’t have services in the chapel. So, our family walked over to the hospital compound and joined in the services at the Nurse’s Training School. That stately, two-story building had rock walls and a beautiful arched entryway. A long flight of stairs in the center of the entryway led up to the second floor. It was almost as if we were climbing inside a wide tower.

On the second floor, the first door on the right opened into a spacious, bright classroom. Rows of folding chairs faced the front. All the staff and families from both the college and hospital compounds—about forty missionaries and Nigerians—would find a seat.

In that well-lit room, we often sang one of my favorite hymns titled “Heavenly Sunlight.” One of the verses repeated the biblical promise, “Jesus has said, ‘I’ll never forsake thee.’” I felt in my heart that Jesus was my friend, and I knew he’d be with me even when I had to go back to boarding school.

Preserved or Imprisoned?

However, sometimes sitting in that classroom, I was distracted for much of the hour. Lining the walls on either side were tall, wooden bookcases. On the shelves stood dozens of jars displaying science experiments. When I was around eight, my dad explained the jars were filled with formaldehyde and held all sorts of well-preserved dead things. I recall there were human organs and a fetus or two at varying developmental stages. After all, this was a teaching center and needed this important educational material.

But the dead things in the jars reminded me that my heart felt imprisoned, trapped, and lifeless while at boarding school, and the joy of home was short-lived. I always dreaded my last Sunday evening before we flew to boarding school. I was so broken that I had to go away for months at a time. Logically, I knew I couldn’t attend Titcombe College because it was for older kids and was on the British system. Our mission thought we needed to attend a school that used the American system so we could easily transition to college in the US. But I missed my parents terribly when I boarded at Kent Academy (KA), so I sang with a lump in my throat, willing myself not to blubber like a baby.

Every Sunday at KA, we followed the same schedule: Sunday school at 9:00 am, church service at 10:30, lunch in the dining room at noon, a two-hour siesta, a long hike through the surrounding countryside, dinner at 6:00 pm, Sunday evening service, and then bedtime.

For the evening church service, we had to clamber once again into our stiff, starched dresses. We marched in a line across the playground, past the dining room, and ended up at Kirk Chapel.

Singing at Boarding School

I was always sad that the weekend was over. On Saturdays, we had free time in the mornings and afternoons. Even though Sunday was busy, I enjoyed the relief of not having classes. From first through fourth grade, I struggled with schoolwork and felt like I failed at something every day. 

At KA, singing the hymns on Sunday evening was bittersweet. I usually enjoyed “Day by Day.” It sounded like God was so good when we sang, “his heart is kind beyond all measure.” Those words comforted me and for a moment I agreed, “I’ve no cause for worry or for fear.”

But the song was in a minor key and sung so slowly that it always had me blinking back tears. I reminisced about Sunday evenings at home. I pictured my younger brother and sister with my mom and dad singing along with the Nigerians at Titcombe College. Tears started, and I didn’t hear a word of the sermon.

Afterward, we raced to the dorms to get ready for bed—that is, we race-walked, because running was forbidden except in PE. After lights out, I refused to let my mind linger on the memories of home because I knew there would be no one to comfort me. I would end up with tears dripping into my ears, and there was no guarantee I’d get permission to walk to the bathroom for toilet paper to blow my nose. Eventually, I learned the trick of taking a few squares of TP to bed with me.

Sunday Evenings in California

When I came back to the US for college, I had an extremely difficult time adjusting to the new culture. I missed my parents terribly and needed their guidance through stressful study and work challenges. My parents were far away in Africa, and I didn’t know my relatives well, so the holidays were awkward. Occasionally I attended Sunday evening services but always felt lonely because everyone sat together with friends and family.

The hymns always made me cry for some reason. One evening for the closing hymn we sang, “I Must Tell Jesus.”

I must tell Jesus all of my trials;
I cannot bear these burdens alone;
In my distress He kindly will help me;
He ever loves and cares for His own.

Tears flooded my cheeks. I rushed to the bathroom and sobbed. As I mopped up my face at the sink, a sweet young woman entered and asked me what was wrong. I explained a little about my life in Nigeria.

“For ten years, I went to boarding school.” I sniffled. “Even now my parents are still ministering to others, leaving me to fend for myself.”

She hugged me. “I never thought about all the painful separations you’ve had to go through. I assumed all you missionary kids were just sweet little angels.” 

What I Know Now

I was shocked that she had such an idyllic image of me and my life in Nigeria, but I said nothing more to change her notions. Instead, I prayed that one day, I would have the strength to tell the truth of being a missionary’s child.

I wished I could have stayed at Egbe and home-schooled, perhaps doing our lessons at a desk in the back of the classroom at Titcombe College while my dad taught. But I realize that would have had its challenges. The missionary culture of the day was so focused on sacrificing worldly comforts to follow the Great Commission and save lost souls that they ignored the effects their sacrifice would have on the souls of their children. The hymns that brought me peace and joy also underscored loneliness and loss. I felt loved by God but forsaken by my parents.

All these years later, I’m processing the unresolved grief from the years of separation and abandonment. As I’m healing, I’ve greatly appreciated the support system with other MKs who went through what I did. We’re encouraging each other since we finally have time, wisdom, and resources to tackle processing this trauma.

Singing the hymns provided the only place to process a glimpse of comfort that sustained me while I grew up. The messages in the hymns laid the foundation for me that comfort can be felt in God’s Truth.

Link it to Your Life 

Do you enjoy the old hymns or do you prefer the new praise choruses? Think about one of your favorite songs and hum a few bars. What is it about the words or melodies that you most enjoy? What other memories or emotions come up for you?

For another short story on how singing permeated my life, read the blog post, “Singing on Sunday Morning,” here.