“But, Mom! I don’t want to go in. I won’t know anybody in that room!” Leaning against the wall just inside the massive wooden doors of the church foyer, I cross my arms in front of me. Pressing against my stomach, I try to corral the butterflies.

“Honey, you know that two of the girls are daughters of my best friends in high school,” Mom says. “They are fifth graders too and I’m sure they’ll be very nice.” Mom waits in the foyer with me, but I know she’s ready to send me up the staircase with the Sunday School superintendent and his chirpy assistant.

“Do you realize, Mother, that even though this is your home church, it’s not my church? My home is in Egbe!” I make one last plea to be excused from attending the unfamiliar Sunday morning class. But I don’t even know what I will do to occupy myself if she relents.

Life as an MK

For me, the most frightening aspect of being a missionary kid isn’t:

• adjusting to life in a foreign land
• inspecting my slippers every night for scorpions, or
• chewing unrecognizable jungle meat in the stew served by the village pastor.

What I dread most is the horror of stepping into a strange, new Sunday school classroom filled with kids my age, while we are on furlough.

I walk in late. The teacher interrupts the singing of “This Little Light of Mine,” to introduce me with wonder in her voice, “Ahhh! Here is the girl from Africa.” Fifteen pairs of eyes swivel and scrutinize me. No one scoots over to make room for me, so the teacher shuffles chairs around the table. Just inside the doorway, I stand alone, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, feeling like an unwanted moth trapped in a glass jar.

My life in Nigeria is home to me. The rural village of Egbe in Kwara State is where I live. Here in the U.S., everything seems foreign, even though my parents call it home. During furlough months, we rotate between three supporting churches every few Sundays, and I can’t seem to make friends. Mom and Dad have a lot of good friends, and they pick right up chatting where they left off at the last visit.

My Family on Furlough

They assume I’m doing the same thing. That the children of their peers automatically adore me and introduce me around the room to the other American girls. Mom can’t comprehend that Nadine’s and Martha’s daughters have such a close bond they have no room in their lives for another compulsory companion.

Mom and I brainstorm alternatives, but none seem to work:

• stay in the adult class with my parents (boring)
• have Grandma sit in class with me (awkward)
• arrange a play date the day before with a girl my age (complicated).

Besides that, Dad and Mom are busy every Sunday morning, connecting with supporters, presenting their slide show to small groups, and speaking in the worship service. We Jones kids instinctively know we are on display, and we understand why we must smile warmly at people who send us money every month, but whom we barely remember.

Yet, the worst moment of all? When Larry, Mark, Grant, Cindy, and I are called up to the stage to perform that most embarrassing act: Stand on the platform and sing a Yoruba hymn in front of the entire church … a cappella.

What I Know Now

Growing up as a child of missionaries was difficult at best. Being separated from my family for long periods during my formative years, boarding school abuses, and enduring a lack of compassion in many of the adults, led to many physical and psychological issues that still impact my life.

Looking back at that difficult time, I realize that I inadvertently acquired several practical skills, the foremost of which was the art of pasting on a porcelain smile to disguise extreme nervousness. I became adept at greeting people enthusiastically, chatting pleasantly, and answering insane questions gracefully. Even when I wished I were somewhere far away. Those social techniques come back as second nature when I walk into a roomful of people at a church gathering, a school classroom, or even a business meeting.

Entering a new setting doesn’t scare me like it used to. Over the years, I’ve learned that most people feel uncomfortable in an unfamiliar situation. Because I relate, I try to help others feel at ease. When the long-familiar butterflies begin their flutter-dance, I whisper to myself, I know how to do this. Then striding over to a new face, I offer a smile and handshake and dive into comfortable conversation with a complete stranger.

At least I don’t have to stand in front of this crowd and sing “Temi, Temi.”

My family and me (in green poncho) arriving in the U.S. from Nigeria for furlough, July 1969

Over the years, I’ve learned that most people feel uncomfortable in an unfamiliar situation. Share on X