Author: ba

What’s life like as a missionary kid? It’s hard. It’s painful. And for many, it’s a blessing that can’t be beat.
by Sophia Lee December 10, 2016
The MK privilege

Most missionaries can remember a moment when they questioned the sacrifices of their calling. For Grant Funk, it was the day he found his oldest daughter Sarah sprawled on the snow, a splash of blond hair and bright parka in the middle of a classic Alaskan blizzard—a storm so heavy that the 15-year-old had to slide out the back window of the house to go feed her dog sled team. That was when her back suddenly tweaked.

Sarah was born with hemihyperplasia, a rare congenital condition that made her entire left side abnormally bigger than her right, causing multiple orthopedic and nerve problems. That day when her back gave out, every nerve in her body flared, and the girl collapsed as though paralyzed.

Funk rushed to his daughter, but touching her only made the pain worse. As Sarah inched her way back to the house on her elbows, her helpless father also dropped to his belly and crawled beside her. Father and daughter writhed their way through the deep snow, leaving a trail of tears—hers from physical pain, his from a parent’s ripping heart. At that moment, Funk couldn’t help thinking, “If I wasn’t a missionary, Sarah wouldn’t be in this situation right now.”

MISSIONARIES EXPECT BIG SACRIFICES: They sacrificed career ambitions, security, and stability when they heeded God’s call to “Go.” They left the warmth and familiarity of family, friends, culture, and home. Out in the field, they daily sacrifice comfort, time, and safety to obey God’s call to “Stay.”

Many missionaries tell me the toughest sacrifice to make is their family. The same hardy missionary who charges through Burmese jungles carrying a 35-pound sack of medical supplies said his greatest “faith-stretching” moment was when each of his three kids fell deathly sick from tropical diseases. One missionary in South Africa told me self-doubt struck him when he heard his usually composed wife weeping uncontrollably in the bathroom. Another missionary in inland Alaska said her children are “the chink in the armor that Satan often uses to attack us, because that’s where we’re weakest.”

Today, he still groans when he recalls what his children endured as missionary kids (MKs). But he says those long, hard years brought the greatest blessings to his family: “My kids came out scarred, and they will be scarred for life, but they came out with a passion for Christ that is so deep, you can’t get that way without the scar tissues.”

Other missionaries agree: One missionary in Bangkok—an MK from Zimbabwe who married an MK from Korea—said blessings flow when parents invite the whole family to God’s calling. She always tells her three MKs: “It’s not just mine. God put you here, so at this time, it’s also your mission field.”

That’s why the Funks call their kids “KMs”: Kid Missionaries. “If your kids are MKs, you’re working to protect them from all the MK pains and scars,” Funk said. “But if your kids are KMs, you are taking them to the front lines with you and showing them how to fight the battle. It’s a radical approach to ministry.”

I TOO WAS AN MK/KM. My parents dedicated their lives to discipling the Chinese peoples—with significant sacrifices. When my father quit his professor job at a university in South Korea to teach the Bible in Southeast Asia, my grandfather cut us off. The day we flew to Singapore with two suitcases, only our church family came to send us off at the airport.

In a foreign country of unfamiliar languages, food, and climate, my young mother almost single-handedly raised my younger brother and me, while my father jetted around Southeast Asia for three-quarters of the year. When he came back, he could never give us enough hugs and kisses, or buy us enough Chicken McNuggets. Our parents always told us that instead of losing Abba, we were “sending him” to save souls. “You are our biggest mission bridge,” they said, and it happened organically: Whenever my brother and I played in the streets, yelling in a jumble of Korean and Mandarin, strangers patted our heads and asked where we were from. Evangelism and Bible studies opened up simply because we tumbled with other kids at the playground.

However, I wasn’t always so noble-hearted: Whenever my father traveled overseas, I awoke with tear-swollen eyes from nightmares in which religious extremists hacked my father to death. I also resented “those Chinese people” for stealing my father’s time, love, and energy. By age 10 I refused to speak Mandarin and became a loud and proud Korean—until our biennial trips to South Korea clarified that I didn’t belong there, either.

When people ask me where I’m from, I always hesitate: Do they mean my ethnicity? Citizenship? Hometown? Current address? My own parents don’t understand why I so struggle to define my identity. It especially bothers them that I didn’t grow up knowing our extended family. We missed New Year’s gatherings, our grandparents’ 70th birthdays (a significant celebration in Korea) and their funerals, and our cousins’ weddings. It bugs my parents that I don’t share their memories and affection for our mother country, that I don’t cheer for South Korea in the World Cup or desire a Korean husband.

In my parents’ eyes, I’m denying an integral part of myself. In my heart, I feel like a restless nomad who can settle everywhere without belonging anywhere—and to me, that’s a wonderful asset: As one 15-year-old MK in Burma described, not having an earthly home makes me look forward to the heavenly home to which I’ll belong fully and forever.

MANY FELLOW MKS I’ve met feel the same way. At an international school in Bangkok, I sat with a group of teenage MKs and asked, “So, where are you from?” Everyone hesitated, then laughed. One MK said, “I have no idea where I’m from.” We nodded knowingly.

Person has lived in a bamboo hut in a tribal mountain village, attended a school reserved for the royal Thai family, and was the only Christian in class for most of his life. But the prospect of attending an American college made him nervous. During a campus tour at Baylor University, he remembers sitting in awkward silence while other students bopped along to pop music on the radio. While his peers rocked designer jeans, he wore bargains from Goodwill. When they geeked out over the latest Hunger Games movie, he pretended to be interested.

Despite his apprehension, Person said being an MK is a blessing: “I want to embrace what I’ve been shown my entire life.”

WHILE SARAH FUNK was dating Luke Stewart, a lanky Californian, they got into a heated debate. After telling Luke about her difficult childhood, Sarah said she still wanted to raise her kids as MKs. He was flabbergasted: “That’s cruel! How can you want your kids to grow up like that?” Sarah was indignant: “But I want my kids to feel uncomfortable! It’s the best life, the best way to see the world!”

Stewart must have lost that argument, because he and Sarah are now married, with five MKs of their own. Stewart pastors a Baptist church in Kobuk, a tiny Inuit village located 40 miles above the Arctic Circle. Using the Stewart children as an excuse, village kids visit their house regularly to talk to Sarah Stewart about the violence, abuse, and fears that torment them. Like her parents, Stewart doesn’t worry much about her family’s meager finances, even when the only food left in the fridge is ketchup and mayonnaise—she’s experienced too much of God’s faithful providence as an MK to fret over tomorrow’s bread. But she cannot shake off one worry: “What I hate now as a parent is seeing and knowing what’s coming for my kids.”

It’s already happening: The Kobuk queen bee has decided to pick on Stewart’s oldest daughter Dessie, a dreamy, horse-crazy 8-year-old. When Stewart sees the neighborhood kids goading her daughter with sticks, she seethes and grieves and fears there’s more to come. What’s going to happen when Dessie is a teenager, attracting gazes from boys and stirring more resentment among the other girls? When her thoughts travel in that direction, Stewart panics: “Oh no! I don’t want that for my kids.” But then she remembers how God is already blessing and using her kids, and concludes, “I want my kids to feel that it’s a privilege to be an MK.”

One Sunday in Kobuk, I found Dessie crouching silently by the stoop of the church while the other kids laughed and played outside. “What’s wrong?” I asked, squatting next to her. Trying not to cry, Dessie raised her golden-blond head and pointed to a gregarious girl in pink: “That’s her.” Oh. Her bully. Apparently, the queen bee had deployed her sting again.

Seeing Dessie sad made my blood boil, so I half-jokingly said, “Want me to go kick her butt?” I had expected Dessie to laugh, but instead she immediately shook her head: “No, I gotta be nice and love her. She needs to know Jesus.” I bit back a smile: Ah, another Kid Missionary.

Isabel- I had such a good time in Ukraine with everyone! I loved doing the quest room, going to Russian church with the whole team, having an EPIC Easter egg hunt in the freezing cold, attending the Kiev ballet and colouring cool pages with Cassie, Jay and Kai. Even though my ranch dressing turned out be a bit defective, I think the paska was a hit! Would love to visit again sometime.

Simon- I had a great time with you guys. Thank you so much for allowing us to visit and opening up the boat and your home to us. I had lots of fun at the base and hope you guys continue to help people out.

Maddy- Recently my family and me took a trip to the YWAM Kiev base to see my uncle Ben, Auntie Ang and cousins Cassie, Jay and Kai. We had such an amazing time! Some of my favourite activities were the ballet (so beautiful), the quest room and touring around with Auntie Ang. We made so many amazing memories, from a European feast in the stuffy cabin of an overnight train to walking in the snow with our toes freezing off to go see the Iron Mama. The food was great and the people were wonderful. We had a fantastic time. Thank you guys! P.S. To Auntie Ang: BOOM. DONE.

Maria (and Ike) We knew we were in for a very special visit when we were shown our rooms in the boat and there were welcome baskets for each of us; coffee, snacks, water, candies, oranges, books to read, small gifts and fresh roses! How absolutely kind! Spending time with you guys was just precious; food and fellowship around your big kitchen table, seeing the sights of Kiev, learning the metro, trying our four Russian words at Puzata Hata and Ketusha, riding the midnight train to Zaporizhia, meeting your friends, getting our nails done together and sitting around talking. Those memories will be cherished. Thank you for being the best hosts; we were spoiled by your hospitality, delicious food and cozy home. I find myself talking Russian to myself these days as I set out the supper spread – “Da. Smetana pjalsta. Spasiba!”. I’ve got a long way to go…
Much love forever.