When I was almost six, my parents took a video of their telling me that we were moving to France. Being the dumb little kid that I was, I didn't think much of it. Little girls in pink princess costumes don't really ever think much of anything. I never realized what this really meant for my family's future, for mine.
Ever since my mom was in college, she had dreamed of living in France. The first time she ventured across the pond, she instantly fell in love with the food, the culture, and the life of the country. It seemed like her future was laid out before her, and she was determined to make it come true.
She married my dad after she graduated from college, not telling him about her dream until after they tied the knot. He tried to hold it off as long as possible, but when they visited when I was at the age of two, he knew it was too late. He loved it too. He knew this was God's calling for them.
Soon, everything started to take shape. My brother, Will, was born. My dad paid off his student loans. My parents got the financial support they needed from a bunch of churches. They sold our house, making us need to live in a friend's basement for a few months. They knew this was what they were created to do, but they had no idea just how hard it would be.
We packed up everything that we could fit in a few carry-ons and some checked bags, including my dad's prized possession: his guitar. (He still has that thing, now 10 years later.) We had my birthday party at the local Chuck-E-Cheese as a final goodbye to my kindergarten, like my best friend, Olivia, who I ended up naming my American Girl Doll after. It was a hard parting. My parents had way too many friends at their current church of employment. Saying goodbye for what they thought was forever was one of the hardest things they had done. I could feel the way they were hurting, even as a little kid. I could see their fear, their anticipation, their undying faith in each other and God.
It wasn't my first time on an airplane, but the anticipation of seeing what I knew most kids could only dream of was keeping me excited. I was a rowdy little kid, always talking about princesses and fairies. My brother was quieter when he was younger, not as crazy as I was. Eventually, those roles would be reversed.
We landed in Paris, immediately exploring the city. We walked the Champs de Mars and it started raining. I remember vividly that, after my parents hid under a crowded awning, I ran out onto the hill nearby and started dancing in the rain in a pretty, little purple dress, knowing I would probably getting pneumonia but not caring one bit. I knew this was where we belonged, where we fit into life's grand puzzle
YOU ARE READING
Being A Missionary Kid
Não FicçãoI grew up being different, and I just wanted you all to see a little piece of myself that I don't talk about that often. So, this is a memoir about my 4 years growing up in France.
