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…
This painting and poem popped up in my Facebook feed last week, and I cried when I read the poignant words. The poetry expresses how I quietly missed my mom and dad every day for the first four years at boarding school. As I read the poem, I mentally changed a few words to reflect a school day at Kent Academy (KA), but the author’s loneliness touched my emotions … and my tear ducts. Whom have you missed in the…
The warm tropical sun beat down on the tarmac of the playground outside the classroom window. I couldn’t seem to focus on my schoolwork. I wish I were outside playing in the sand under the shade of the big mango tree. December was the dry season in Nigeria. The voice of my first-grade teacher in our boarding school for missionaries’ children jolted me out of my daydream. “This is the month we celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus. Let’s…
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,…
“Christmas will be here soon,” my first-grade teacher said. “In a couple of weeks, you kids will fly back to your parents on their mission stations for the holidays. Today you’ll make a Christmas craft to take home.” Twenty happy faces beamed around the sunlit classroom at the boarding school for missionary children in Nigeria, and cheery voices called out. “Yay! It’s almost Christmas!” “Crafts are my favorite subject.” “I can’t wait ‘til we go home.” During the next half…
Jutting out from the green-painted walls, three shower heads loom dark and shadowy under the single lightbulb that lights the bathroom. I’m scared to take my first dormitory shower in this open room with a dozen other first-grade girls…. I’ve rewritten this story using the present tense, and I would value your honest feedback. Does this tense flow well and bring you more deeply into the story? Or does it sound awkward? What other thoughts do you have? Shower Troubles…
While I stood at the kitchen counter chopping veggies for a salad, I tapped the icons on my phone to call my mom. She and I often feel lonely at dusk, so I’ve started calling her around suppertime while I prepare dinner. Mom’s voice sounded weary. “Hi, Honey.” I was a little concerned but began with my usual question. “How are you doing today?” “Well, right now I’m feeling depressed. I don’t like that the radio station plays Christmas music…
The dorm Auntie kissed each of us four girls goodnight and turned out the light in my bedroom in the boarding school dorm in Nigeria. “Good night,” my roommate said, a little too loudly for the Auntie’s liking. “Good night. No more talking after your light is out. You’re the last room in the hall, and I don’t want to hear another peep from anyone.” The short, dark-haired lady’s voice was firm. Her skirt swished as she turned, and her…
While standing at my kitchen counter, I chopped lettuce for a salad for my husband and me. The late afternoon sun streamed brightly through the window, but my thoughts were gloomy. Why does Chris have to fly away again? This time he’ll be gone for two weeks. My eyes filled with tears as I reached for the green onion and started dicing it. Because he’s a pilot, life has been like this throughout our marriage. I brushed my cheek with…
The bright morning sun streamed through the classroom windows at the boarding school for missionaries’ children in central Nigeria. Twenty of us second-graders stared intently at the teacher while she explained the arithmetic problem on the blackboard. My tummy rumbled loudly. The stout, gray-haired woman turned, holding her piece of white chalk in midair. “Whose stomach was that?” The kids around me giggled and pointed my way. “Debbie, didn’t you eat your breakfast?” “Well, yes. But I didn’t eat much.”…