Lenten Project: Seventh Fearless Friday (Good Friday)

One thing that missionary kids excell at is in reveling in their natural habitat. From swings to elaborate treehouses from which to launch on zip lines, we certainly created plenty of opportunities for thrills. 

Even when my family was on deputation, raising monetary support to go to Grenada, we had a nice wooden swing in the backyard of our house in Sharon, PA. There were some nice playgrounds in that area, too, and I have vague but fond memories of playing when I was a little girl. 

But it wasn't till we got to Grenada that our outdoor habitats got more awesome. At one house, an old plantation manor house with two and a half acres of land filled with tropical fruit trees, Dad built us girls a double decker treehouse.

This is one of the breathtaking views we had from that house.

We also had a little platform over some roots that was our hammock space. When Dad was putting up an even longer rope swing, he asked for a volunteer to test it with him. My sister Lizzy stepped forward, unafraid that Dad's knot tying might not hold. Sure enough, the rest of us girls had our doubts vindicated! On the backswing, the rope broke, and Dad and Lizzy fell to the ground, landing on some big above-ground roots. Dad landed on Lizzy, and Mom was certain he'd killed her or broken bones or caused internal bleeding. At first, Lizzy assured everybody she was fine, but when Mom continued to fuss and Dad kept acting so contrite, she began to ham it up, whimpering and letting her arms hang limply while she got carried with great fanfare into the house. She got to spend the rest of the day on a pile of cushions, eating the entire sent-from-America Tootsie Roll stash. With rewards like that, the rest of us girls felt sorry we hadn't volunteered after all!

At the next house we lived at in Grenada, we took it to the next level and had a four  storey treehouse, complete with super long rope swing. 

Come to think of it, we Schaefer girls haven't had much luck with rope swings, because Mary was swinging on this one once and ended up flipping over the nearby retaining wall to land on her back on some coconuts. Dad was so scared she'd broken her back that he drove the little red car down the hill to get her and drive her back up to the house so she wouldn't walk. But Mary was too good and honest to let our parents feed her all the American candy when she wasn't really injured.

Aside from rope swings and hammocks, the favourite contraption at MKs' houses was the zip line. A couple of our friends had great tree lines in their yards that were perfect for their zip line setups. We'd spend hours taking turns hurling our bodies from tops of makeshift ladders (slats nailed into coconut trees) while hanging on tightly to small metal pipes suspended from the zip line. Only be careful you don't slam into the tree into the other end!!

One missionary family lived right on the edge of the rainforest, so we'd go exploring and hiking whenever we visited them. There was a small quicksand pool that Darrell always told us we'd get sucked down into our deaths if we even stepped a toe in. Scared me spitless everytime he ominously warned us. If it was really that dangerous, I wonder at our parents for letting us go play around it! More likely he was just being his annoying self and teasing me (probably made all the sweeter for him since I swallowed it every single time!).

I grew up climbing mango trees and spending all day up there, reading. If I got hungry, I could always reach out a hand and pick a snack!

Growing up so close to nature is something I really appreciate about my childhood. While it's a miracle none of us ever got seriously injured, I wouldn't trade those experiences for anything.

Lenten Project: Day Thirty-five

We used to have lots of kids' clubs for spiritual instruction in Grenada.  Not only did our mom teach all the boys and girls, but we kids, especially me and my sister Mary, were teachers.  We'd walk through a village and invite all the kids we saw on the street playing cricket to come on out to our kids' club under the mango tree up the road every week. Dozens of kids would come regularly, and we eventually started having these in our church, or in the other IFB churches on the island.

We used Kings Kids curriculum in Grenada because it was cheaper than Awana, plus it was KJV-only (even though we weren't--yeah, I never quite understood it either).  We had flannel graph, of course, and lots of stories of missionaries or kids who almost died, but got miraculously saved at the last minute.

Because I had to be a teacher, I was supposed to always have all the spiritual answers. But I didn't.  I could lead the songs (Stop! And let me tell you... and My God is so Big and Who's the King of the Jungle?) with lots of enthusiasm. Tell the stories using all the voices so that the kids were hanging off the edges of their seats, anxious to hear what would happen next.  I could lead kids to the Lord using the Wordless Book faster than Dad could shimmy up a coconut tree.  But in my heart I had so many questions and doubts that I felt like nothing but a faker.

There was little room in our ministry for a daughter who wanted to ask tough questions or be free to reject what she didn't believe.  I knew better than to rock the boat too much, because when I did, the whole island erupted.  And my questions never did get answered. So I learned to just keep on teaching, keep on leading songs, keep on acting out missionary stories during storytelling, and turn off my brain.

In Singapore, I was a Sunday School teacher.  Just a teenager, teaching other kids.  Nowadays I get uncomfortable with the very idea of untrained Sunday School teachers, and I prefer that my kids' church class leaders all have background checks and lots of training.

Lenten Project: Day Thirty-one

Confession time: when I was 15, I had this amazing mix tape with country music on it.  I thought it was heavy metal because I'd been taught all music with a beat was "rock," and therefore evil, and the designation, "heavy metal" just meant really, really bad.  I'd never listened to any real heavy metal, so I honestly had no idea that calling country music (Shania Twain!) that was ludicrous.

I got this bad music mix tape from my best friend, who, when I begged him to make me a copy of his Lion King soundtrack (also banned in my house, due to the wicked African beat), went a step farther and mixed me a tape full of jamming tunes, the better to corrupt me. He also taught me how to lie with a straight face when my parents suspiciously asked what I was listening to on my walkman.  ("Patch the Pirate, of course!"  Only, you don't say, "of course," because then it's obvious you're lying.  Just look distracted, make brief but not sustained eye contact, and try not to appear guilty.)

Ahh, Michael taught me many things, but how to say I'm listening to Patch
when I'm really listening to Shania is probably my favourite.

One time, I was home alone with my youngest sister while everyone else went on the grocery shopping trip.  I'd gotten to stay home and take care of the baby, and I knew I had at least an hour and a half before they all got back.  So I started recording a duplicate of my precious bad music tape.  I'd already been caught with it more than once, and had managed to save it from destruction, but I knew next time I'd better have a backup copy so my life wouldn't be over if it got ritualistically unwound and burned before my eyes.

That's my walkman, but it really IS playing Patch the Pirate here.

I was playing the tape while it copied on the stereo, enjoying being able to listen to it through regular speakers out loud in the sunshine instead of through my crappy earphones in the middle of the night.  The sliding glass door was open, but the gate in front of it was closed and locked.  The front door was also locked.

I kept going outside to check the driveway and squint over the hill to see if the van was coming home, so I could rush back inside to turn off the music and hide my tapes.  I held the door open each time, since it could swing closed and automatically lock, but on the last time, it slipped out of my fingers and slammed shut.  I was locked outside!  The baby was trapped inside, alone, the evil rock music was blaring, and any moment my family would come home and I'd be so much in trouble!

I slid to the ground in front of the door, crying and begging God to help me.  I ran around the house, trying to figure out another way in.  There was none.  All the windows had bars on them, which even I, skinny as I was, could not squeeze through.  I swore to God that if He saved me, I'd give up my evil rock music lovin' ways.  Finally, on the porch, I stopped and peered in at the baby, happily gurgling at me.  She couldn't open the door, or even give me the keys.

The keys!  I remembered that we'd kept spare keys hanging on the end of the curtain rod over the sliding glass door.  If I could pull the curtains down, the rod would fall, and I could pull the keys out and let myself back in!

It worked.  I was saved, and just in time, too.  Shortly after I got up from kissing the baby, kissing the ground, kissing the keys, kissing the stop button on the stereo, and kissing the bad music tapes, the family van roared up the hill and into the driveway.  The Fam spilled out and conscripted me to help put groceries away, never suspecting my bad music tapes were safely tucked away in my hiding place.

This is the gate and the curtains that saved me,
and this is my bad music lovin' self.

I didn't make good on my vow to God until I'd listened to my tapes a few times more.  Then I put them in the burn bin out back.  I even ripped out their guts and tied knots in the tape so I wouldn't change my mind and go dig them back out again later.  I wish I'd kept them.

Do you have anything in you got rid of in your past, but wish you'd kept?

Lenten Project: Day Twenty-eight

I've mentioned that Fundamentalists have some strange views on music.  Reading through my diaries a few days ago reminded me of an incident at Bob Jones University my sophomore year.  I'd brought with me some music recorded and produced by Pensacola Christian College, in addition to a lovely recording of a Bible Conference at a Fundy church in Singapore (pastored by a BJU grad, it received many visits from the Joneses).

Well, one day, I was playing these CDs in my dorm room, when my room's spiritual leader turned to me suddenly and accused me of failing to get them checked.  I told her I'd gotten them checked the year before, and they'd been approved.  Not good enough, she said.  I needed to get them rechecked each semester, according to what the dorm sup had recently told her.  (I did find out later that she and my dorm sup this particular semester were actively seeking ways to reprimand me--I got that straight from from the dorm sup herself at the end of the year when she advised me that I'd have to be under spiritual counseling the next year.  She said they were trying to remove my stubborn will and "break my spirit" of pride.)

Since the deadline for getting music checked had passed, I was in trouble for "failing to follow instructions."  My perfectly acceptable CDs were confiscated and I was slapped with a penalty of 20 demerits.  The dorm sup said she was being merciful by not giving me 50.  I wished she'd stuff it with the mercifulness.  I never did get those CDs back.

My parents' rules about music were very similar (though they'd allowed the PCC music without question).  While home on a visit after I was married, my mom caught me listening to Phillips, Craig, and Dean worship music.  It's CCM, and she gave back my earbuds with a look of disgust on her face.  "How could that possibly glorify the Lord, Hannah?"  I'm still surprised she didn't fuss over me letting my youngest sister have a listen, and that shock is probably why I remember the incident so vividly.

To a person who has been weaned on Patch the Pirate and classical music, anything "other" is not only different, but evil.  Majesty Music, the production arm of Patch the Pirate's musical ministry, actually teaches that music has morals, and any music not in keeping with their standards is wicked and from satan.

For me, as a missionary kid, receiving that message was confusing up against my experiences.  In Grenada, we'd clap along to hymns, sometimes even getting really into it and keeping rhythm, which is bad, according to Frank Garlock of Majesty Music. In his view, that sort of thing is the reason for the high divorce rate among Christians, among other evils.  In Singapore, the music could be ethnic and beautiful, but we saw it as strange and odd and only allowed hymns accompanied by piano in our church.  Those churches that went wild with drums, Asian instruments, and songs in other languages--not in hymn format--were worldly. I don't think I would have survived India, with its gorgeous music--I'd have been too busy judging everything as sin, based on the principles I'd been taught.

It's a sad way to view the world, let me tell you.  The disdain and disgust at beauty isn't very Christian, I've come to realise, and I still struggle to be more accepting and appreciative of the things I never knew growing up.  Ironically, I don't much care for CCM anymore, preferring old hymns in my church worship and liturgy.  But that doesn't mean I think churches who use modern Christian music are damned by God just for worshiping with that style of music. Letting go of such tight control of "what is pleasing to The Lord" lets me appreciate and even admire a lot of beautiful music I used to think was satanic. And guess what? A lot of it IS glorifying to God, after all! Even Nirvana, in a strange way. It's true.

Lenten Project: Fifth Fearless Friday

The Schaefer family likes to travel and hike.  That's what we've done for years, together as a family, enjoying time together outdoors.

From the very beginning, in Grenada, we often went hiking together.  Grenada has some amazing mountains and trails, and even a few forts leftover from the colonial period.  We'd drive up to the old volcano-turned-crater-lake, Grand Etang, which the locals claimed was bottomless (it's only 20 feet deep).  If we were lucky, we'd see the remains of an animal sacrifice made by the Spiritual Baptists.  Some of our friends liked to tease us that a sea monster dwelled in the bottomless depths, but I never saw anything but fish, which we liked to catch in little nets we made.

Sometimes, Dad would organize country-wide church events, where all the other IFB churchgoers would be invited to go adventuring with us.  We went hiking up Mount Qua Qua and visited the Seven Sisters waterfalls, went mossy rock-hopping across rivers and streams (Mom always fell in), swung on the rope swing into the waterfall pools, ate off banana leaves, waved our arms to keep the monkeys from pulling our hair, and admired the beautiful, brightly coloured birds and flowers.

It was always so cold up the mountains--at least 70 degrees!
So we'd bundle up in sweatshirts every time.

Our love of hiking didn't end when we left the West Indies.  While on furlough in '98, we hiked all over the States' East coast, enjoying the Appalachians and Smokies.  We'd goof off and have fun together.  My sister Elizabeth liked to do "tour guide" voices and make things up as we trekked along, and she always had us in stitches, laughing as we hiked.

Hannah and Mary attempt to murder the tour guide

Singapore has a hill in the middle of it.  I say hill because, after Grenada's volcanic mountains, Singapore's little Bukit Timah is like a backyard stroll.  We still had fun hiking it, though.  We laughed at all the rules and restrictions--that's Singapore for you!

And even more recently, with so many of us girls grown and married, my parents would come back to the States every year and occasionally rent a cabin in the mountains of North Carolina or Georgia.  We'd go hiking in the Appalachians.  

Dad's antics have only gotten crazier over the years, and they've rubbed off on the rest of us. One time, in Grenada, Dad grabbed a snake from the bushes along the trail, and instead of slithering away in fright, like usual, the snake wrapped around his arm and wouldn't let go.  One of the church girls had to pry it off of his arm where it was constricting him.  That incident hasn't stopped him from snatching at snakes and critters on the trail, though.  He still does it!

Like that time he wore a dry cleaners bag as a poncho

Dad likes to be as embarrassing as possible when we pass other hikers on the trail, and it used to make us girls want to dive off a cliff.  Now we all join in and try to embarrass our spouses, or better yet, Mom.  Lizzy is still the master at "tour guide voice," though, and her husband is the perfect foil.  Since we grew up in Grenada before it was as heavily tourist-ised like it is now, we're used to trails with no signs and no rules.  Our only guidelines were: make it up as you go along, bring a compass so you don't get lost, and always respect the map reader in the group.  Also, stick close to the designated snack-carrier.

  

These more recent family get togethers provided time for catching up, family pictures, and relaxing.  We haven't been all together since a year or two before my divorce, though. Most of my family hasn't even met my husband, much less my stepson and new daughter. And now that my beloved sister Mary is moving to Togo with her family to serve on the mission field, a complete Schaefer family gathering will probably be put off till many years in the future.  Hopefully the next time we're all together won't be a funeral or something, but that's the reality we face, since our family is now scattered all over the world. Missionary problems!

   

 

My fanciful dream is that we can all forgive one another and leave behind past hurts in order to forge a new future of unconditional love and acceptance for those in our family, setting aside personal interpretations of the Bible and theological beliefs to really live out the Gospel to one another.  It would take a lot of humility, which is not a staple in Fundamentalism.  But someday, someday not too far away, I hope we can all go hiking together again, joking with one another again, listening to Lizzy's "tour guide voice" again. There is a whole generation of grandkids who haven't yet been embarrassed by their grandad on the trail, or heard their grandma freak out that they'd die if they climb that tall tree/eat that fruit/jump over that stream/touch that unidentified animal.  And before the chance is gone, I'd like my kids to experience that, along with their cousins they've never met.

Lenten Project: Day Twenty-five

It's a wonder more missionary kids don't leave their parents' faith.  As it is, the statistics are high.  When I look just at the Fundamental Baptist missionaries from our first country, Grenada, I see a lot of brokenness, beyond even the statistical odds for our State-side counterparts.  Broken marriages, abuse allegations, children who are now atheists or agnostics, and even those of us who have left Fundamentalism for a different "brand" of Christianity--it's all counter to what we were taught, what the plans for our lives were.

Of course, my parents, who are still together and still serving on the mission field, would say that those other missionaries who failed to attain or remain at the high Fundy standard of perfection were never truly Christians at all, or that they believed the lies of the Devil, or that those hurting people are "acting out" because they are bitter about something or other.

One missionary family fell apart, the parents splitting/deconverting, some of the kids going wild, and my parents said it was to be expected, because that was the worldly missionary family.  They weren't as spiritually minded as us.  But another missionary family imploded, and it was the family that was MORE holy and set apart than we were, and it mystified my parents.  I'm sure it makes no sense whatsoever that the "worldly missionary family" we knew in Singapore turned out to be a stable one, with kids who have stayed Christians. Ironically, their daughter, the one my mom warned was a corrupting influence has turned out to be much more conservative than I am.  Maybe Mom should have encouraged me to spend more time with her, not less.

We weren't allowed to pursue deeper friendships with these other Singaporean MKs,
because they were deemed  worldly by my parents.  They had VeggieTales parties,
which included evil rock music, so they were clearly not good Christians like us.
I still don't know why our parents let us go to this party.

Christian families are losing their kids from the faith all over, but I feel that MKs have it the worst, because we were so isolated.  There have been studies on why missionary kids in particular struggle so much with acclimating to the culture upon returning to their native land.  Many former MKs are speaking up, telling their stories. In today's digital age, everything is readily available in ways it was not years ago, so it sometimes feels like there is an information overload, that there are more kids leaving the faith now than there were before.  Maybe it's true, I dunno.

Kids who are raised in one culture, with parents from a different culture, grow up between two worlds, never fully being accepted into or accepting either culture.  When you throw in multiple cultures, it gets even more confusing.  I consider myself a West Indian.  And also a Singaporean.  And my passport says I'm American.  My family now lives in India.  But what am I, really?  None of those things, fully.  I'm a nothing.  An in betweener.  A Third Culture Kid.

Grenadian Hannah with her sisters

Because I had a childhood without roots (we only visited America four or five times in my whole childhood, and we all saw it as just another trip to a foreign country), I've spent much of my adult life learning to fit in, to hide the confusion and lack of connection.  My parents taught us that the culture in which we were growing up was godless and wicked, so we couldn't fully embrace it.  But then we saw the materialism and limited worldview of American culture, and knew we couldn't embrace that either.  It took "this world is not my home" to a whole new level.

Singaporean Hannah with her family

I remember when my mom first discovered the book on TCKs, she almost threw it at me, maybe hoping it would heal me, make it all better, make me NOT a TCK anymore, by her acknowledgement that I had a "problem."  I always just thought there was something wrong with me, with my family, with the other mks.  Maybe we weren't holy enough, or spiritual enough, or dedicated to God enough, and that's why we kept having issues.  And all of our problems relating to this were downplayed, never affirmed, our fears rarely comforted.

People sometimes laugh when I tell them I didn't know what the World Trade Center was on 9/11, but, honestly, at the time my only concern was that the world's airports had been closed, and I was worried I'd be trapped in the United States.  I was a freshman in college and that day, that week, that month, I felt totally alone in the world.

When people ask me where I'm from today, I still often reply, "Singapore," and many will ask, "Oh, missionary kid?" while nodding with a understanding look on their faces.  But how can they understand?  I don't even understand.  I still don't.  Maybe it's the spiritual trauma I experienced when I came to the States--I couldn't fit in even when I tried so hard.  But butting up against an abusive past, I knew I couldn't go back.  But how to go forward?  And to where?

So Where's Home? A Film About Third Culture Kid Identity from Adrian Bautista on Vimeo.