For the Joy: 21 Missionary Mother Stories of Real Life & Faith

Fear, Faith, & Figuring It Out
Every child is different, but mothers are very much the same around the world—the same worries and fears, guilt, and joys. Dive in to For the Joy and laugh and cry with 21 Australian missionary mothers as they share stories of raising kids in both remote far-flung places and some of the most populated cities in the world. These inspiring stories will resonate in the heart of the reader as fear, faith, and figuring it out come together in page-turning reality.
Stories include:
• home-schooling while living in a bus
• navigating the toddler years as a “third culture mum”
• raising a child with special needs
• recovering from anxiety on the field
• giving birth in a foreign hospital
• the grief of losing your family to persecution ... and more!
Honestly written, raw in emotion, sad and joyful in equal measure, this collection of stories offers insight into the complexities of parenting children while serving God no matter where you call home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Carey Publishing
• Release date: Aug 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645082231

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

I (Miriam) sat at my computer desk in our tenth floor apartment block, the dull roar of busy traffic on our main street drowned out by the murmur of chattering children in our apartment playground.

My husband and I were still coming to terms with the psychologist’s advice that we needed to leave this bustling Asian city and return back to Sydney, Australia, for my preschool son to receive early intervention therapies. Noticing that a missionary friend was online, I felt the urge to connect with her, and informed her we’d been told to leave the field and go home. Her reaction shocked me. I’m so jealous. If only someone in my family had a terminal illness … at least then we would have a valid reason to leave this place, she confided. I was completely taken aback at the depth of her despair, stunned that she felt so trapped as a missionary mother that she would rather give up her family’s health than stay in her location. I had thought I was the only one.

Since that day in September 2014, I have heard the stories of hundreds of missionary women. This group of women carry many burdens they have not often felt able to share. We have needed to be brave and strong to support our husbands; to educate our children; to continue connections with friends back at home; to show our supporters that we are worth investing in; to convince our parents not to worry about us and to be involved in the national church—for this is why we came. These are some of the factors that explain why missionary mothers are reportedly the least likely to thrive on the field, and why their emotional needs are high on the list of reasons for missionary attrition.

We Australians are known for being carefree, down-to-earth, egalitarian and having a good sense of humour. What happens when Australian mothers leave their easy-going home culture and enter vastly different cultures to serve as missionaries? How do they learn to parent as ‘third culture mums’, in a way that is neither Australian nor culturally similar to mothers in their host countries? How do they live with loneliness and isolation? How do they deal with expectations from everyone and themselves? Are they valued for who they are, or for what they do and how well they speak their host language?

This book sets out to explore some of these issues through the lens of 21 Australian missionary mothers telling their own stories. These writers show us how parenting on the mission field involves a great level of intensity—physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. In light of this intensity, greater intentionality is needed to care for their children, their spouses and themselves. The challenge to do this well is made all the more challenging because missionary mums are personally stretched beyond measure. There’s little energy left to care well for family members experiencing culture stress in their own ways.

Author Stephen Hoke views a missionary’s ministry context as a crucible, surrounded by high heat and great danger. When missionary mothers bring their children into the crucible with them, the risk increases of someone getting burnt, and often the mum is the one who shoulders the bulk of responsibility when things go wrong. In this process however, she is not alone. Each of these missionary mums speak of their faith as they face adversity, and experience God ministering to them in their time of need. Whether it be saying goodbye through tears as she drops off children at the boarding school gates, or not understanding medical procedures given in a foreign language as she screams in labour pains, or hearing the news that her husband and sons have been killed, these missionary mums have remained faithful as Christians for the joy set before them. They have looked at Jesus who for the joy set before him, endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God (Hebrews 12:2). For a while, they have given up blue skies, backyard barbecues, family celebrations and the many joys of life in Australia, looking ahead to the joy of future glory.

A missionary mum doesn’t need our accolades or admiration nor our sympathy. She’d like to know she’s not forgotten, that you’re standing with her, asking God to enable her to keep serving her family and her King in a challenging environment. Her daily needs are the same as ours: to keep following our God who’s been through it all and to keep persevering with running the race to the finish line—for the joy that is set before us.

—Miriam Chan

My (Sophia) involvement with this book began a year ago, when my friend, Miriam, asked me to read some stories written by mothers living in various mission fields around the world. God’s timing was ideal. I was between writing jobs, finally enjoying a full night’s sleep granted by two growing children, and looking for a new project to delve into. Miriam also used the right lure: as a perpetually nosy journalist, I can’t resist the opportunity to peer into other people’s lives. I responded to Miriam’s request with a two-word email, I’m in, and she promptly sent me seven documents, each one a story written by a mother on the mission field. That night, like the privileged recipient of a collection of personal letters, I devoured the lot over two cups of tea. There was Mai, a young woman whose anxiety brought her to her knees in the rice fields of Vietnam. Sally, who juggles Legos and sippy cups with a colourful assortment of Chilean neighbours. Red, who forgoes inner-city playgroups for hunting crabs in mangroves with Australian Indigenous mums. And Julie—her memories of identifying her baby’s body, still wrapped in his favourite Winnie the Pooh blanket, shattered my heart.

In many ways, this book is full of unusual stories. The mothers who have opened their hearts are in cross-cultural situations far removed from my own experience. Even though I’ve long supported many missionaries, it’s hard to fully comprehend what it’s like raising children in a different culture without the safety net of family and friends—especially if that culture comes with poverty, civil war, inadequate health services or embedded racism. This book isn’t intended to be a guide on how to raise kids on the mission field (although some may glean wisdom from its pages), but it will open your eyes to untold stories; I have no doubt about that.

But this book is also utterly relatable. Each story has a glorious ‘ordinariness’ that we connect to, whether it’s that familiar mix of exhaustion and exhilaration that comes with nurturing a newborn; the tension of balancing work and family life; the struggle to fit into a new community; the temptation to find your identity in what you do, not who you are. As a Christian, the connection is even stronger. For, if being a woman helps me relate in some small measure to these women’s stories, how much more common ground does Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, offer? What could be a better example of Christian unity than two women living on different sides of the world, in vastly different cultural contexts, serving the same God through adversity and joy?

This isn’t to deny the unique sacrifice these missionaries are making by leaving their comfort zones. It would be glib to suggest there isn’t something exceptionally demanding about Linda’s efforts to raise a family in war-torn South Sudan, or Dorcas’ despair upon discovering her son has been caught up in a terror attack in Pakistan. It is to say, though, that no matter where we live, as Christians, we do everything with the strength of the same Lord who works powerfully in us. We each trust in Him and thank Him for our daily bread. We are called to pray for each other, despite our surface differences. In fact our mission is the same: to honour God with our lives, proclaim the gospel and show Christ’s love to those living in whatever mission field He has placed us in.

When I first read these stories over those cups of tea, the common faith of these women, despite the vastly different struggles they faced, encouraged me in my own walk with God. They reminded me to fix my eyes on Jesus and like Him, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, live this life for the one to come: through hardship, through pain, through sleepless nights and endless laundry and messy houses and all the complexities life can bring. My prayer is that these stories do the same for you.

—Sophia Russell

I’m not an adventurous person. I’m an Aussie girl who has never lived overseas. My small life will never change the world—in fact, most days I don’t even manage to change the things about myself that irritate me. My bedroom is always messy and I procrastinate when I should exercise. I live a fairly ordinary life, except I have red hair (which explains my name) and I live on Milingimbi Island in the Arnhem Land of the Northern Territory, Australia, for Jesus.

I was born in 1974 and lived my first 36 years of life in suburban Sydney. I love crowds, shopping, Thai food and going to the hairdressers. Cut to 2011 and I’m about to fly out to a tiny community of 900 Australian Aboriginal people on a remote island called Milingimbi, which is part of the Crocodile Islands. This place has only one shop, one plane and a plethora of sandflies, and it is about to become home for my husband, our three kids and me. I’m bustling around the tarmac, checking bags and going through invisible lists in my head. A few families have gathered to wave us off. They stand here at the airport in place of absent extended family. The women watch me with a compassionate eagerness to see if I’m coping. I plaster a smile on my face and try my hardest to fake coping. In the short term, this surprisingly helps.

To say I’m feeling nervous is an understatement. My nerves are firstly for my kids. This isn’t exactly the safe and easy childhood I’d planned for them. Our children are growing up so differently to the way my husband and I did, as bustling Sydney seems a long way from Milingimbi Island. It is a long way from here: over 4,000 kilometres away. I don’t think I’m a ‘wrap them up in cotton wool’ type of mum, but I’ve never made a daring move in my whole life. I’m not sure what life will be like for them. For any of us.

My nerves are secondly for myself. Have I got what it takes? Will I get depressed and lonely? Get eaten by crocodiles? Wreck my kids’ education? (When I discovered I would need to homeschool our three kids, I cried.) When I found out we were moving to Milingimbi, I threw myself into reading books of amazing women who thrived living in the outback. That was demoralising as I’m clearly nothing like those chicks. I’d be lying if I said I’m well suited to this environment and ministry; this simply isn’t true. But I know from reading the scriptures that God’s plans are always unfathomable and hilarious. It’s His pattern to send ill equipped, weak people way out of their depth so He can bless them and use them to bless others. Then the glory goes to Him. I presume I’m in good company as fishermen, prostitutes and tax collectors all come to mind.

Nerves for my husband? He’ll be fine. My only fear is whether he’ll actually choose to land the plane each night if he looks down at the runway and sees his wild, red-haired wife—nuts from the humidity and being with the children 24/7—with her fists in the air. If I’m brutally honest, my nerves are also concerning God. Will He really sustain us? Is He really faithful? Is God out of His mind, sending me on an adventure like this? In that very moment, boarding the plane, I have no special verse of scripture, no word from God or peace in my heart. What I do have is a knot in my stomach. I have no idea what to say to the kids. Before this particular day, I had moments of confidence and faith. Somehow, these moments vapourise as I climb aboard and take my seat.

I have a love/hate relationship with flying in small planes. On take-off, after a quick, solemn prayer, I love it. Today, I’m relieved as the roar of the single engine means I no longer have to think of the right thing to say to the kids; they can’t hear me anyway. All faces are glued to the windows. The beauty up here is breathtaking. Red ochre dirt and bush stretch as far as the eye can see, much of it untouched. Rivers wind purposefully through bush scrub like serpents slithering out into aqua seas. In this place, sometimes the ocean is so still the clouds’ reflection is as perfect and undisturbed as the clouds themselves. On those days, the only moving water is the buckets of sweat running down your back and every other part of your body. It might sound like a cliché, but seeing things from above broadens your horizons: a higher view, bigger picture and all that.

I feel a bump from the turbulence outside and my thoughts change. Now I hate flying. The angle of the trees gives me all the windsock information I need. I hate turbulence. I hate the feeling of being blown like a feather around the sky, like we are plummeting towards the ground on every bump. The pilot, of course, has no such fear of wind and flies happily along. The MAF (Mission Aviation Fellowship) plane, owned by the organisation that sent us to Milingimbi, is our family’s only transport on and off the island; love it or hate it, it’s something we have to get used to. MAF serves in remote areas where aircraft are needed to get in and out, either to cut down the journey time or to provide transport where roads are non-existent. Strangely, after a while, I feel more secure in this single engine plane than I do in a boat. I’m not fond of the crocodiles in the water and anything smaller than a ferry on these waters is too small for me. We land safely (thank you, God), stand up and disembark.

On the island the Indigenous kids, beautiful with messy hair, cheeky grins and runny noses, are not shy. They come in droves as we move into our new home: a large, sprawling house on stilts. The kids are fast, can climb anything, excel at back flips on any terrain and are brazenly opportunistic. They pinch our pale skin and try to rub the freckles off our noses and arms. At one point, a small boy comes to our back door and very softly asks about our trampoline, okay to play? It was almost a whisper. Sure, I reply. He spins around, cups his hands around his mouth and screams, okay to play! Fifty half-naked kids rush out of the bush and onto our trampoline. So much for my cautious rule of one at a time.

Our life settles into a slow routine that includes homeschooling, scratching our sandfly bites, sitting on the beach but not swimming due to the crocs that regularly peruse the banks, daily browsing our one shop, getting to know the locals and flying around the massive expanse of sky. Church up here usually happens under a tree at whatever time people get there. Like everything else in Milingimbi, the service is beautiful: simple, slow and teetering on the edge of extinction. The dry season is perfect, the wet is spectacular and the build-up is unbearable, no matter how you look at it. It’s during this time of the year when we all go loopy. It’s awful not being able to cool off. I remember the palpable frustration of dry storms with lots of thunder circling our little island, but no rain. We would sit on the stairs, begging for rain, and then the storm clouds would roll away and rain on the mainland. Having said that, we do have air conditioning. We spare a thought for previous generations who really just had to sweat it out.

The people group of north-east Arnhem Land are known as Yolngu. History between balanda (white Australians) and Indigenous people in Australia has been appalling on many levels and even now, the Yolngu people are irreversibly caught between two clashing cultures. There is still an expectation on Aboriginal people in Australia to assimilate to the dominant ‘white’ culture in order to survive. It doesn’t work. The government gives financial handouts, perpetuating dependency. Poor general health means that life expectancy in the Northern Territory for Indigenous men is currently 61 years—14 years lower than white males in the Northern Territory. For women, it’s 69 years—12 years lower than white females. Many people here are spiralling down in a generational cycle of poverty. Local gambling groups ensure that money in the hand doesn’t actually lead to food on the table. Many times I shake my head in disbelief. Classifications on the map are the only evidence that I am still in the Australia I have always called home.

As we slowly make relationships, we discover that almost all families here have been touched by alcohol addiction, petrol sniffing and suicide. I have witnessed a constant stream of tragic funerals: small coffins, parents burying more than one child, 45 thought of as ‘old age’. Our new neighbours are hesitant to trust us, wondering how long we will stay but openly appreciative of MAF supporting their community. These ‘in your face’ issues are not easy to witness over your back fence and come to terms with. However, I don’t want our kids to be protected, naive and oblivious to these sad complexities. I hope what they witness here will enable them to be more compassionate, more Christ-like and more involved in making a better Australia in the future.

It can be difficult to understand the struggle for the Yolngu to live according to white man’s ways, but you should see me as I’m hurtled into their environment. I am deaf, blind and dumb in things my Yolngu friends think of as elementary. Going hunting with the women, walking into the mangroves with an axe and shovel, is both fascinating and terrifying. Had my survival relied on my being able to find and kill a mud crab or eat mangrove worms, I would have surely died. But my adopted yapa (‘sister’) knows the call of the bird that says the tide is coming back in … and with it, the crocodiles. She knows to rub mud on herself to protect against sandflies. She knows how to climb over the twisted roots in a skirt; how to balance on one branch while leaning backwards to hack the claws off a crab hiding under another branch. And she knows they taste best if you cook them right away over the fire on the beach.

In this setting, I know nothing. This hunting experience was a tremendous basis for understanding my new neighbours. Living as part of the balanda minority on the island is also an eye opening experience for our kids. It’s great for our children to understand that a gesture which shows respect and politeness in one culture can be the height of rudeness in another culture. For example, making eye contact and asking ‘get to know you’ questions are our way of showing interest and respect. To Yolngu, these things are very rude and respect is shown by lowering your eyes and quietness. I think our kids are less likely to get offended by other cultures and give people some grace when they relate cross-culturally, knowing that it takes extra patience and love to understand and appreciate each other. I know that being among the minority has increased their awareness of what being different or left out feels like. They are more