My life was disrupted when my dad received “the call.” I was separated from my family to navigate a new culture on my own.
The call
“The call “ to go and preach the good news to the whole world came to my dad, and not me. I was in the prime of my teens, discovering love, life, friendship, and much more. Like every other girl in Bangalore in the heart of South India, I loved the place, the college, the city, and my circle of friends. I am a single child born in a Tamil family; in other words, I was the light of their lives.
My mom was a homemaker. My dad worked in a factory, earning enough to fill our stomachs and our hearts. Their days revolved around me. My joys, my happiness, my smile, my comfort was enough to keep them happy. My mother was a force of nature. She brought me up to be strong and independent. “Mummy’s always there, so don’t you dare be afraid,” she would say. I was not sent to my cousin’s house, friend’s birthday party, tours, or even to school on Saturday, because she decided five days of school work was more than enough. My dad was my pillar of strength and my friend, although one would find he obeyed me more than I did him.
My dad was my pillar of strength and my friend, although one would find he obeyed me more than I did him.
I had every bit of the foreseeable future planned, and the first step of it was to join St. Josephs along with my friends. I already was guaranteed seats since I was a great favorite of a sister there. Yep, I was all set to reinvent myself in pre-university.
The confusion
All that was set was about to be flung out the window, three months before my exams, when my dad talked about his “Call.” He said that he was moving to Mahabalipuram, a coastal town in the south-eastern Indian state of Tamil Nadu, some 12 hours away on an overnight train. My mom and I were to follow him there after my exams. Since there weren’t any good universities around Mahabalipuram, known for its ancient temples carved out of large, monolithic rocks, I would have to move to Chennai, an hour away from where my parents were.
I nestled into my uncle’s house. I had my own bed, own shelf, own room, and I had me all to myself, all alone. Never once had I slept alone until that night. I was with all my seven cousins, a grandmother, four aunts and uncles; it was a huge crowd with loads of fun, joy, and talking. Still, loneliness and confusion followed me.
Loads of fun, joy, and talking, but still loneliness and confusion followed me.
I was lost. I did not read Tamil because I grew up in Bangalore, and although I grew up speaking the language, I did not speak Tamil like them. I was confused by the culture both at home and in university. I struggled to find my place. Where in the world were these overprotective parents of mine? I was deserted in an ocean of confusion with no skills to swim. I was in the process of slowly discovering myself and who I was. I was exploring relationships, struggling with cross-cultural issues, trying to understand new thought processes, and finding my own sense of independence.
I was lost. I did not read Tamil because I grew up in Bangalore, and although I grew up speaking the language, I did not speak Tamil like them.
Then, in the early 2000s, I attended a Pan India Missionary Kid (MK) camp; there were children of missionaries from all over the country. During an activity to identify our home on the map, I was amused to find that the place I hated the most was my grandmother’s house where I was living at the time, although in my mind it was also home. Maybe because it was a stable location and, even today, when I think about that house, it is home.
The clarity
Clarity emerged with my own calling. During my Discipleship Training School (DTS) with Youth With A Mission (YWAM), I received a distinct calling to be a missionary wife. Having observed many missionary families through my parents’ work, I noted the unhappiness often experienced by their children. Soon after, an opportunity arose for me to teach at a mission school for underprivileged local children in Kedgaon, a town in North India. I felt a strong connection to the children there, and this experience solidified my desire to be involved in missionary work.
My parents’ work facilitated medical assistance for missionaries from various mission organizations. This brought numerous missionaries and their families to our home. There was also a facility for missionaries from North India to spend their summer holidays, often accompanied by their children who attended boarding schools. I met many children of missionaries like myself. Many of them did not appreciate their parents being missionaries.
We became friends, and he confided in me, “I will take up any job, but I will never be a missionary.” He expressed his resentment at not being with his parents.
I recall one teenager who stayed at the rest house for two months. We became friends, and he confided in me, “I will take up any job, but I will never be a missionary.” He expressed his resentment at not being with his parents. Another boy, in sixth class, had a violent outburst when it was time for him to return to school. He desperately pleaded with his mother to let him stay in the mission field with them; his rage and vehement crying were painful to witness. Their experiences deeply resonated with me, and I often prayed for them. Later, at university, I met many children of pastors and missionaries. None of them wanted to readily identify as “pastor’s kid (PK)” or “missionary kid” (MK). They would jokingly say that now was the time to enjoy life, and later they could use their experiences as dramatic testimonies of how God had changed their lives.
Another boy, in sixth class, had a violent outburst when it was time for him to return to school. He desperately pleaded with his mother to let him stay in the mission field with them.
It was during a moment of surrendering my life to Jesus and praying for “my call” that God reminded me of all these children. I felt a calling to nurture the children of missionaries, to help and cater to their needs by navigating the balance between their parents’ calling and their own potential confusion.
I am now married to a Bible translator, and we are raising two MKs of our own. I homeschool them and am partially involved in mission work, striving to find the right balance to the best of my understanding. Whether or not there is confusion in my own children’s lives is a question only they can answer in time. My belief is that they will discover their own clarity and pursue their individual calls from God. My dad’s “Call,” my own “Confusion,” and the subsequent “Clarity” have all led to my personal “call,” and it remains an ongoing journey.