The Stories that Define Us - Part 2: Jesus, Missionary Life & Chicken Feet
I didn’t know it at the time, but the years I spent as a missionary kid in Spain would shape the way I saw the world, faith, and even the meaning of sacrifice. Some lessons were learned through the quiet strength of my parents, others through unexpected adventures… and some through chicken feet.
A Different Kind of Normal
Life in America had its conveniences—grocery stores with neatly packaged food, running hot water, and air conditioning that actually worked. But when we moved to the Canary Islands in 1976, I quickly learned that convenience was relative.
Take grocery shopping, for example. My mom’s weekly trip to the market in Las Palmas wasn’t as simple as grabbing a cart and breezing through aisles. No, it meant taking a ticket, standing in a long, stuffy line (no AC, of course), and waiting next to folks who bathed once a week and wore the same outfit every single day. And the meat counter? That was an adventure all its own.
She quickly discovered that “ground beef” was a loose term—it wasn’t just from cows. It was a mystery blend of various animals (yes, horse included), mixed with bonus parts and a little food coloring for good measure. Safe to say, taco night took a hard pass on that one.
And then there was the chicken situation. When you bought a chicken, you got the whole thing—feet, beak, and all. They’d kindly chop off the head for you, but you still had to pay for it. I can still picture those whole chickens lined up in the meat market, feet sticking straight up like they were waving goodbye.
And that’s where my love for chicken feet began.
The Joys of Chicken Feet and My Singing Career
Every week, after our family grocery haul, my dad would drive home on our winding dirt-and-lava-ash road up the hillside, and I would be their personal radio. My No. 1 hit? A song titled “I’m Going Downtown,” which I sang every single time I got in the car, much to my family’s delight (or tolerance). The lyrics were simple and changed based on the day’s plans:
I’m going downtown to get some bananas.
I’m going downtown to go to church.
I’m going downtown to go to the market.
I’m going downtown to go to the beach.
I’m going downtown to get some chicken feet.
Once we got home, I patiently (while eating 3-4 bananas in a row) waited while my mom unloaded the groceries—no small task, considering she had to haul everything up a full flight of stairs. Then, she’d start the process of cutting up the whole chicken, removing all the extras—gizzards, liver, heart, and whatever else had been along for the ride. And then… drumroll, please… she’d cut off the feet.
And those chicken feet? They were mine.
Standing there, eyes wide with anticipation—sometimes dodging stray bits of greenish gizzard flying through the air—I was ready. I had officially graduated from my 3 year old naked tricycle days in Piqua, Ohio, to playing with severed chicken feet in Spain.
The moment my mom handed them over, Operation: Must-Paint-Chicken-Feet-Toenails was in full swing. I’d sprint to the living room, grab my pre-selected nail polish of the week, and get to work. Carefully painting each little claw, I’d then happily skip around the house, pulling the tendons inside the foot to make the claws open and close. Hours of free entertainment. Meanwhile, I was probably leaving a lovely trail of salmonella across every surface I touched.
Lessons in Hardship and Faith
It wasn’t just grocery shopping that was different—every part of life required adjustment. Our home didn’t have a water line connecting to the town, so we relied on two separate water deposits: one for watering plants and another, under our front patio, for everything else. Minor issue—it leaked. Many Sundays, we’d come home from what I called the potato church in downtown Las Palmas only to find our entire week’s water supply had drained into the street. When that happened, we borrowed water from neighbors, storing it in massive borrowed wine bottles wrapped in twine. My mom became a master of conservation—first, we bathed. Then, she’d use that same water to mop our marble floors, and finally, it got one last job—flushing the toilet.
Then there was the harder lesson—the one no one warned us about. In America, you drank tap water without thinking twice. Not here. We found out the hard way when my dad lost 20 pounds from dysentery in a month, and my mom lost 12. That’s when we learned to order bottled water from a small village store that made weekly deliveries.
Looking back now, I realize these experiences weren’t just funny stories—they were shaping me. Watching my parents navigate these hardships without complaint taught me more than words ever could. They never longed for an easier way or wished to return to America. They embraced the life God called them to, fully and completely. And through them, I learned one of the greatest truths of all—when God calls you, you do whatever it takes.
The Story That Defines Me
Was it difficult? Yes.
Was it more work than life in America, where running hot water was a given? Absolutely.
Was it worth the sacrifice? Without a doubt.
Living in a different culture as a missionary—or as a missionary kid—requires more than just being there. It means embracing the culture, not trying to bring America with you. It’s about learning how people live, understanding their history, their traditions, and why they do things the way they do.
Because only then can you truly accomplish the one thing you came for—Jesus.
And that’s the thing about the stories that define us. They aren’t just about the past; they shape our future. The lessons I learned in those years—about faith, resilience, sacrifice, and even humor—are lessons I carry with me today.
And as I look back, I realize… these stories were only the beginning.
Stay tuned for Part 3.
"So we keep on praying for you, asking our God to enable you to live a life worthy of His call. May He give you the power to accomplish all the good things your faith prompts you to do."
—1 Thessalonians 1:11