Missionary Kid Part 1
By Sandi B.
I was born and raised a missionary kid (MK), but I never allowed myself to really think about it until last year (when I was 54 years old) — believe it or not. That’s because we were told from as early as I can remember that we must not do or say anything that would reflect negatively on Dad. I was not sure I could honestly look at my life without dishonoring my Dad or God…. When I let myself think, it was like a dam broke….
On October 6, 1953 a little baby girl was born to the Nelson family in Malaybalay, Bukidnon, Philippines. That was me. I was one of five children. As a baby I had bad colic and cried for the first three months — so I was often placed in another room at the other end of the house to cry by myself, or the house girls (maids) would put me on their backs while they skated our wooden floor with their feet on coconut shells, which gave the floor a beautiful shine and kept me quiet at the same time. Once the colic passed, I became a very outgoing, happy little girl.
I grew up in a simple, rural settling way out in the province — sort of like Little House on the Prairie gone native. My parents were a doctor and nurse medical team. We lived on a compound of missionaries who all worked at my Dad’s hospital or in the area doing other things. Of course, all my friends were the children of the other missionaries on the compound.