by Julie Rosenau
Julie is the fourth generation of her family to serve with BMM, starting with her great-grandparents, Ferd and Ina Rosenau, who were in BMM’s original party of missionaries to the Central African Republic (CAR) in 1920. Julie also grew up in CAR and today works as a freelance writer, serving part-time with BMM’s Church Relations Department.
My MK experiences are so tightly woven into the fabric of my person I can’t imagine who I would be otherwise, and I am grateful for every thread. My life wasn’t different to me—it was just my life. But in contrast to the lives of my American peers, it was very different. The MK life presents a particular set of struggles and a privileged set of joys. For a vast majority of us, being an MK means …
… always being new, never quite fitting in, and rarely staying long enough to form attachments. When attachments are formed, you live with the knowledge that a painful goodbye looms ahead. One furlough, in 5th grade, I made friends with a girl down the street. We spent nearly every day together. She taught me how to use American slang. I taught her how to say, “You’re a crazy idiot,” in Sango. At the end of that year, we stood at the airport gate, facing each other. “Why aren’t you crying?” she sobbed. I desperately wanted to, because I knew it would make her feel better, but since the day I met her I had been preparing myself for this very moment, and I couldn’t squeeze out one single tear.
… feeling you don’t have permission to be human. I distinctly remember having one of the worst fights I ever had with my brother (only natural after spending weeks in the car with him), then pulling up to a church and having to walk in and smile as though I were happy to be there. I never felt so hypocritical in my whole life. Knowing that your actions reflect not only on your parents, but on your parents’ ministry, is an unwelcome burden at times.
… having difficulty defining the word “home.” American kids had a sense of belonging and of home that I did not. The question I dreaded most was, “Where are you from?” because frankly I didn’t know a good answer. In the end I would be summed up as “that kid from Africa.” I was so much more than that, but it is a hard thing for people to get past.
But MK life is also receiving a gift in life experiences, the wealth of which far surpasses the cost of any sacrifices.
I learned that, whatever normal is, it is different from place to place. There are many ways to live and be, and no one way is right. I learned what is really important in life, how silly superficial things are but how easily they can take over our lives.
My family ties are stronger than most. I remember being bemused upon finding most of my American friends didn’t eat dinner with their families; they hardly spent more than an hour together in a day. Even if sometimes forced, I’m glad for all the time I spent with my family.
I grew up watching real people, with all the faults and shortcomings of any other human, give their lives to a higher calling with willing sacrifice that made them heroes and giants in my eyes. I am happy to say my heroes are real people, and that they really are heroes.
I learned that serving God is in the details of every day, not just Sunday. I learned that the only lasting investment you can make is in people, because we all last forever, somewhere; and the question of “where?” is why my parents are missionaries, why I am an MK, and why I wouldn’t have it any other way.