Fast-forward 10 years later to May 29, 1991 – my high school graduation day. I was standing in a long line in what had become known as the “wailing wall,” with my classmates on either side of me. Friends, family, teachers and other students were hugging me, wishing me well and crying. As tears streamed down my face, I sobbed over and over, “I want to stay! I want to stay!”

Such is the emotional roller coaster of the MK life – constantly being confronted by new and scary experiences; always being forced to make new friends, while wondering how long they will be in your life; experiencing heartbreak as friends, who have become like family, come and go. It is a wonderful, exciting, challenging and bittersweet life. And I wouldn’t trade my experience on the mission field for anything.

I was eight-years-old when we set foot for the first time in Quito, Ecuador. At that age, I was old enough to be angry with my parents for tearing me away from my school, my friends and my beloved grandparents; old enough to understand how hard it is to make new friends; and old enough to make sure my parents knew just how angry I was at them. As someone once put it, missionaries are called to the mission field . . . but missionary kids are drafted.

While I’m not proud to say that I spent our first few years on the field ensuring that my parents “paid” for what they had done to me, I am pleased to say that I got through that rough patch and eventually came to the place where, 10 years later, I was literally begging to stay. I attribute that change in heart in part to the amazing teachers at the school my brothers and I attended. Missionaries themselves, their soul purpose on the mission field was to come alongside the MKs to educate, affirm and befriend us in the unique setting we found ourselves in. Today, more than 15 years later, I am still in contact with many of them and honoured to count them as trusted friends.

I also owe my change in heart to my grandparents and the many men, women and churches in North America that supported my parents both financially and through prayer. The prayers they said for me – especially in those first few years when I gave my parents a hard time – were crucial, as were their letters, care packages and extra attention when we returned on furlough. Nothing is more important to a missionary family than constant contact with “home!”

But most importantly, I must acknowledge the tremendous impact of my parents, who, though called to a demanding, full-time ministry as missionaries, never once made me feel like I was second fiddle. They did all they could to help me adjust to our new life, provided as normal a life as possible and made it very clear that our family came first – even if it meant leaving it all to return to North America. I’ve seen first-hand the devastation that can explode in a missionary family when the parents put too high a priority on the work they have been called to do, and not enough emphasis on the family God has blessed them with. I’m so grateful that my parents understood this delicate balance.

While I would not have been able to say this at eight years of age, at 34, I can confidently say that my experience as a missionary kid is the best thing that ever could have happened to me. I remember with fondness earthquakes and mudslides, climbing volcanoes, eating bugs, military coups and jungle adventures. I feel honoured to have been part of a close-knit missionary community, to have seen the hand of God move in miraculous ways and to have heard voices praising God in a variety of languages. I’m an MK, and I’m proud of it!



Shari and her husband live and love in British Columbia, where her husband serves as a pastor. She is currently the Manager of Correspondence at Focus on the Family Canada.