MK Stories That Didn’t Make the Cut — MARCH 2026

Happy March, y’all!
I hope your month is going as well as my 6-year-old’s March Madness bracket!

📌 In This Edition…

Writing Update: Real talk!
MK Stories That Didn’t Make the Cut: In case you’ve ever wondered what it’d be like to be a missionary kid…
A-Frame Update: Not much left to go!

⌨ Writing Update

Y’all. I turn my manuscript in on TUESDAY, 3/31. It’s 11:00pm. I’m waiting for Izzie’s final feed to finish. We’ve been hosting my family in Kentucky on and off for a few weeks, and we’re about to start our first family gathering in over two years this coming week. My siblings and their kids are all here now. I’ve been deep in manuscript edits for the last two months. I don’t quite have it in me to write something fresh tonight—but I didn’t want to disappear on you either.

⛪ MK Stories That Didn’t Make the Cut

Early on, I sent out a poll, asking my people what they’d want to see in a book from me. I was surprised by how many of you mentioned wanting to read more about what it was like growing up as a missionary kid. I ended up cutting this stuff from Chapter 1 because it didn’t quite serve the direction the book needed to go. But I wanted to share it with you anyway! I have learned that writing a blog is very different from writing a book. That’s honestly been one of the hardest parts of this process—learning what to keep, and what to let go of. Writing with restraint is extremely challenging! Here are a few paragraphs about MK life. Enjoy!

I mean, being in the sixth grade is usually hard enough as it is. But doing sixth grade as a third-culture kid in Madison County, Kentucky, is about as painful as it gets. Although I was technically “from” this country—my name and picture were right there in that little blue U.S. passport—I had absolutely no shared experiences with any of my peers. Half the time, I was convinced that I—in fact—didn’t even speak English! I did not yet have an ear for that Appalachian country twang.

Kentucky folk have a way of either doubling syllables to stretch out a word or dropping them altogether so that tired becomes tard. A “two by four” at Lowes would come out like a “tuba fur.” Not to mention all the slang. Yonder, o’er to, used’ta could, right smart, tuckered, fit to be tied. You get the idea. Cracker Barrel was like culture shock inside of culture shock. I might hear something like, “Well, fire and spit and land sakes alive! These some gosh dern granny-slappin’ biscuits! I be put out if’n you be piddly with that there yon gravy!” and think, I guess they really don’t like the biscuits…

Most of my classmates had no real reason to ever leave the county—and why would they? We had a Walmart and a Taco Bell! Tacos. Now there’s a cultural misconception I didn’t even attempt to untangle. “Ey, since yur from Spay-yun (adding a syllable), do you like Mezkin (dropping a syllable) food?” “Ey, say sum’n ‘n Spay-nish!” Not only could I barely communicate with sixth graders from Kentucky, but I also had zero common ground with any of them, either—or with any of their parents, for that matter!

I couldn’t talk about football, only fútbol. Or I might attempt a conversation like, “Hey, one time I climbed a spiral staircase in a 12th-century medieval castle that was the inspiration for Hogwarts—not that I know anything about Hogwarts cause I’m not allowed to read Harry Potter. Anways, the Alcázar in Segovia has, like, 150 stairs up its central tower…”— “Well shoooot, an’ I’ll be! Hain’t you all high cotton ‘n such for some-un that hain’t but knee-high to a grasshopper! T’ain’t never seen no cas’les, but once I seent a hound dog ketch a toad frog!”

And then we would just blink at each other in silence until the bell rang.

People must have assumed that I lived under a stupid rock my whole life. I couldn’t name a single musician (unless you count the likes of Bach and Beethoven). I didn’t know who the Fonz was. In fact, I hadn’t seen any relevant movies or TV shows since Gilligan’s Island (though we watched the heck out of our VHS of Toy Story 2). I didn’t know who won the Super Bowl. I didn’t know what someone meant when they asked me to hand them a Sharpie—I just stared in fear and panic at the craft supplies bin. I probably came across like some kind of indigenous tribal freak because of my reaction to seeing cheese squirted out of a can for the first time (a culinary mystery that still baffles me to this day…). A group in class might be talking like, “Hey, did you watch the Cowboys last night?” and I would be thinking, the only cowboy I know of is the Lone Ranger…please, God, I hope they don’t ask me about the Lone Ranger…

I was different, and kids are ruthless when it comes to different. I was bullied and afraid most days early on that year on home assignment. In hindsight, I’ll admit it probably didn’t help that I wore the same hand-me-down, oversized B.U.M. Equipment hoodie every single day. Eventually, I was mercifully ignored. I learned to keep my head down and draw as little attention to myself as possible.

I will spare you the soppy details, but public school in Kentucky was a hard and confusing time. I was so confused about who I was that when end-of-year state testing rolled around, I legitimately bubbled myself in as Hispanic!

That was all the weekday struggle. Weekends were their own burden.

Quite a few Sundays each month, we visited supporting churches in and around the state. Suddenly, we were thrust back into American church culture—a world of carpeted sanctuaries, ushers with clip-on ties, and potluck casseroles served in musty church-basement Fellowship Halls. Some churches even had their own basketball courts, which was exceptionally impressive considering my church in Spain didn’t even have central heating…

Everywhere we went, people acted like they knew us. We were paraded in front of congregations from South Carolina to Tennessee—“These are our missionaries!” And because my parents were extra, we always sang a song or two in Spanish, which was always a real crowd-pleaser. And of course, every stop required The Presentation—pretty cutting edge for the time—a carousel slide projector with an accompanying CD voiceover. After which, my parents would deliver a skit about preaching through an interpreter, which always brought the house down.

At some point, we’d be split into our age brackets for Children’s Church. If we were lucky or particularly good at Sword Drills (the holy art of flipping to a Bible passage faster than anyone else), some churches even had leftover VBS snacks from 1987 we could munch on.

Here’s one memorable moment I can’t not mention that took place at a small rural Tennessee country church where my little sister Em and I sat in Sunday School, being openly gawked at like a pair of curious circus persons. At one point, the boy across from us began grinning with what can only be described as predatory delight while slowly unbuttoning his shirt. He did not break eye contact. He just kept unbuttoning—kept smiling. As the tension of the moment grew to an unbearable crescendo, which had us on the verge of yelling for help—like a majestic Superman, imaginary cape billowing—he flung open his shirt to reveal…a chainmail hauberk he had personally crafted out of paper clips. That image has been permanently branded into my mind and has since become tragically synonymous with the word homeschooler.

After Sunday School, we would stand captive at our missionary “exhibit,” smiling through greeting lines and engaging in small talk with 100-year-olds. Once every. single. person. had left the building, then we would pack up and leave.

Sometimes it felt like our family was essentially the entertainment—a kind of spiritual traveling circus troupe that had come to town. And I don’t just mean that metaphorically. One family we knew on the field literally leaned into that energy—riding unicycles and juggling around the sanctuary as part of their presentation. It sounds ridiculous, but it worked. Because home assignment wasn’t just about updates, it was inspiration—it was persuasion. We had to demonstrate just how effectively we were serving “the lost” in Spain… because we needed people to like us… and keep giving us their financial support.

Week after week, the vibe was always the same: “Look at these missionaries! All haggard and worn, driving a beat-up clunker minivan, coming in straight off the front lines of spiritual warfare! Praise God for Vic’try!” Honestly, you wanted your van to rattle and sputter its way into the church parking lot—most times, a “special offering” was almost a guarantee if you could get a little smoke to puff up from under the hood.

Occasionally, someone from the church would take pity on us and graciously take us all out for lunch. “We wanted to take you to our favorite Mexican restaurant!” they’d say. “We figured some Spanish cookin’ would make y’all nostalgic for Spain!” Come on, people! Has no one ever heard of a Mediterranean Diet?! We don’t eat TACOS in SPAIN!

We bounced between Days Inn motels and guest rooms, logging countless miles between stops. Thankfully, we had one Game Boy to share. Which meant my older brother got to play it while we all watched. The only games I remember having were a classic vintage World Cup soccer game, one called Paper Boy (where you rode a bike and delivered newspapers while dodging obstacles), and one called Exodus.

I looked it up, and it was real. Exodus: Journey To The Promised Land. Here’s the actual word-for-word back-cover description: Help Moses solve the puzzle with 100 fascinating levels featuring mazes and other obstacles to faith. With your staff and the spoken word of God, you will defend against enemies including magicians, taskmasters, Pharaoh’s soldiers, weaknesses of man, hardened hearts, and other devices that challenged the character of God. Along the way, Moses can gather Holy oil, the armor of God, greater faith, and much more. A Great Bible Study Tool! Are you ready to defend the faith? That—or Adventures in Odyssey—kept us going mile after mile.

Home assignment taught me two things very quickly: 1) I did not belong anywhere, and 2) Americans put shredded cheese on everything.