Stories I Never Got to Tell
Okay, okay. I know some people want to know, “What’s it like living abroad?”
Well, I’ll tell you.
It was so awesome, we talked with the locals and prayed over everyone we met and…
No.
That’s what people expect when you say, “I was a missionary.” That is not what being a missionary is.
Sure, we talked with “the locals,” but we started with friendship. We started by getting to know people—relating to people.
I was overseas (we’ll call the country Oakenshire for privacy) from when I was one year old until the summer after I turned six. And yes, I know it sounds like, “You didn’t have any meaningful memories.”
Wrong.
Every time I smell something, taste something, or hear something, my brain starts firing to compare it to a memory. I don’t smoke, but every time I smell a cigarette, I’m transported to the streets of Oakenshire. Or when I taste a familiar herb in something, I’m immediately back in the kitchen while Aurora (she helped my mom with housework) prepared food.
When I was three years old, I could translate. My parents didn’t know this until a man was helping my dad fix something in the kitchen and my mom and I were in the next room. The man was talking, and I told my mom exactly what he was saying. Yes, I went to language classes with my parents, but they didn’t know I was actually paying attention.
Being the little white kid, I was adored by everyone who saw me. People would pinch my cheeks, tell me what a beautiful child I was, and hand me a piece of candy. When my mom and I went to the market, a fruit vendor always made sure to give me a piece of fruit.
Yes, there were good memories. Unfortunately, there were also not‑so‑good ones.
When I was two years old, I have this memory of my mom sitting at a desk with her head in her hands, crying. I don’t remember how she said it or what words she used, but somehow I understood that my new baby sister wasn’t going to make it. My mom had a miscarriage.
There are also bad memories I have no memory of. I know what you’re thinking: “Rae, how can you have a memory if you don’t remember it.”
Have you ever been told a story so often—and so vividly—that your imagination eventually picks it up and files it under “memory”? No? Just me? Cool.
I’ve been told this story so many times: when I was three, our apartment burned down. We lived above a store, and there was some sort of electrical fire in the refrigeration unit. The only reason we got out in time was because a hole in the floor let smoke into our apartment and alerted my parents. We got out of there right quick.
We lived with friends for a month before getting our own place again.
Have you ever wanted to see an ROUS?
What’s that? Well, I suppose if you haven’t had the pleasure of being enlightened by Cary Elwes, Robin Wright, Wallace Shawn, Mandy Patinkin, and André the Giant all in the same movie… The Princess Bride coined the abbreviation and its definition: Rodents of Unusual Size. More commonly known as giant rats.
I don’t remember it, but apparently at some point I was found petting one. Don’t worry—it was dead. There were no casualties (except the rat).
At some point, I can interview a few people to get more detailed stories of actual missions work, but for now, all I have are my lived experiences.
That’s all for now.
Talk soon,
Rae
