I’ve been putting off writing about this. So many questions. Why did they send us?  Why didn’t they know better? Should I simply focus on the positives – there were many – or also speak about the pain? 

As to as why I and the other missionary kids were sent away, I think it’s likely that it was simply “normal” and expected. AIM had originated in England. Many of the first missionaries had themselves been sent to boarding school in England as was normal among the upper class there.  Then there were health reasons, the boarding school was at high altitude, above the reach of malaria that had killed so many. Mom and Dad and the others had come to Kenya to serve their Lord Jesus and build the church. I think teaching at Scott Theological College seemed a higher calling for my mom. She could not easily have done that while teaching us at home. Mom had a degree in education and had taught fourth grade. She could have home schooled us. However, in those days, home school was not recognized and could not be accredited. So for many reasons, we were sent away. I’m sure having us gone did hurt dad and especially mom.

I remember being excited to go to boarding school. Kind of like going off to camp. The picture above is before I was sent the first time, confident and happy in my new uniform in front of our house. Mom had cut my hair very short so it would be easy to wash and brush. 

The reality of boarding school was a shock. I was without parents, sleeping in a bunk bed in one of the dorm’s cold cement rooms, with, I think, eight other little girls.  Many of us cried ourselves to sleep the first few nights. A young couple that was new to Kenya and had toddlers of their own was in charge. I’m pretty sure in retrospect that young couple was as lost as we were. There was no way they could keep track of everything, so there was considerable bullying and a distinct pecking order. Even now I feel a bit humiliated to say I was at the bottom of that pecking order. I didn’t cope well, and I didn’t keep myself or my clothes as neat as was required, constantly getting demerits and consequently missing reward parties, left alone in the cold room while others went. My social skills went completely out the window as well. The other kids picked up on that and didn’t think much of me. In that first dorm room, a crack in the floor divided the “good” kids from two of us losers.  I don’t even remember who the other was, but if we crossed the crack into “their” side, we got our toes stomped. The new uniform turned out not to be so great either. The white blouse got dirty quickly. When running or facing the Kijabe wind, the red ribbon “bow” would blow into one’s face. It got so some of us would suck on it for a kind of comfort if we weren’t paying attention. It was so embarrassing to be scolded for that.  Wearing a skirt wasn’t great for active kids. Climbing trees and playing on swings could be fraught with the danger of humiliation. The teasing chant “I see London, I see France, I see someone’s underpants,” would quickly cause a loss of joy and a self-conscious change of position.

I liked my second-grade teacher very much. Judy Cook, was a rounded, short, kind woman. Best of all, I was able to please her. I loved reading and could do the work easily. I remember walking behind her with the other kids singing “Six little ducks that I once knew”. Her “Wibble wobble to and fro” sashay was fun and convincing. She took the photo on the left to send home in one of the letters she had us write weekly. The other photo is my second-grade school photo. I wasn’t so confident in those photos. In fact, it would be a long time before I gained back the relaxed self-confidence evident in the picture taken before I left.

There was a huge compensation. The boarding school was set in native forest at 7000 feet altitude. We could see thousands of feet down the escarpment and across the Rift Valley. The view was awe inspiring and powerful. That and the wild pouring of wind down the hill gave a feeling of freedom, almost of flight. It was so tremendous that I felt sure God was there. I learned to see and seek God’s love in nature. The worship songs I was learning were part of that joy. My favorite was, “Be not dismayed what e’re betide, God will take care of you.” https://www.hymnal.net/en/hymn/h/694#1 I would walk alone and sing that with the wind in my hair looking over the valley. Another favorite song was, “What a friend we have in Jesus,” especially the verse that says, “Do your friends despise forsake you, is there trouble anywhere, you should never be discouraged. Take it to the Lord in prayer.”  Psalm 27 says, “Though my father and mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.” He truly did and does. Of course, mom and dad had no intention of forsaking me. I never doubted their love, but they were so far away.

We were fed three meals a day with an afternoon snack of a small white bread and jam sandwich, but we were always hungry. There was a big bell in a tree down by the dining hall that was rung at 5pm each day. At that point, we could grab another jam sandwich if there were any left in the snack box sent to each dorm.  Little girls sat like vultures around that tin box, and at the first ring, it was grab and run. They say hunger is the best spice. Dry white bread with jam became amazingly good. We ate in our meals in a noisy dining hall, and those first years, we sat at tables ten or so kids and an adult. They tried to teach manners. Each child had a napkin in a ring to take out and carefully put on our lap. Elbows on the table got our knuckles whacked with a metal soup ladle. That really hurt!  Milk was bought from local cows and there was often a bit of dirt in it. We soon learned not to quite finish a glass of milk. I remember an older missionary scolding us and saying, “That’s just dirt off the cow’s belly. Nothing to worry about!”  Some of the food was great. I loved the macaroni and cheese. The African cooks were kind men. Sometimes if we went to the back door of the kitchen, they’d give us fried crispy bacon rinds, or pineapple cores with some sweet fruit still on them. “Chow” food from home, was pure joy. Mom and Dad would send some at the beginning of term, and then again when they could. For me, chow was often mom’s oatmeal cookies with peanuts and raisons – so good! So full of love! We also discovered that the seeds of black wattle trees were quite edible. Sometimes we found sweet cape gooseberries that we called gobble gobbles.

Certain trees were my friends. Pepper Tree, in the playground, had an amazing rope swing. One climbed to a huge horizontal branch, caught the thick rope, and leapt, grabbing the knot with clenched knees. Terrifying and so fun!  Every now and then someone fell if they didn’t get a good grip. Then there would be a little parade of kids carrying the hurt one to the infirmary. Another favorite was Green Tree, a wild olive down near the rugby field that was an amazing climbing tree.

Once a week, we lined up back to front in a tight line to get a small allowance to spend the commissary store. I remember “pink sticks” of rock candy and “gobstopper” balls that changed color as one licked through the layers.  One could make them last a long time. Sometimes I bought a small tin of sweetened condensed milk.  I remember climbing into Green Tree, poking a tiny hole in the tin, and high up, alone in a kind of leafy nirvana, licking slowly at the thick sweet milk protein.

In third grade, we were in a different dorm with older dorm parents. They would invite us into their apartment to play with model trains or to color in coloring books. But the husband was strict!  A couple of times when we talked after lights out, he made the whole group stand in the dark holding heavy books on outstretched arms.  I would constantly chatter and question everything, so much so that he nicknamed me “Contrary One.” Once when I had failed, once again, to hang up my raincoat correctly on the port, he practically threw me down the three steps into the grass. I wasn’t hurt, just a bit scared. Mostly I was happy that it made the other kids sympathetic and friendly for an hour or so. He and his wife did care for us through and that showed through. In addition, he had grown up at Kijabe and had some almost magical skills. He knew the forest and its creatures. He would take us on afternoon hikes. If we begged. sometimes he would stand and call with deep whoops. The colobus monkeys in the forest would often answer and sometimes come closer in long leaps through the treetops, their black and white capes and tails flying. Such joy to see and hear them!

On the day that it was finally time to go home, I would often make quite a difficult climb high into a jacaranda tree. From that perch I could see far down the dirt road watching for our blue Volkswagen bug.  Such joy when it came into sight!  I think that’s given me a better idea of watching and waiting for the joy of Christ’s second coming!