Ana McKinzie writing for the Team Arequipa newsletter is a full-circle moment of epic proportions. So special to think about. Years ago Katie and I came to Arequipa and spent significant time with the McKinzie family. We shared life with them and spent time with their kids. Now Ana has just come and spent several weeks with us in Arequipa, including significant time with our kids, and she brings this offering to you in the newsletter—her first!
Given everything else you could be doing right now, I’d like to make this time with you meaningful. I’d like to be raw with you. But first, let’s start with an introduction! To those of you who don’t know me: Hi, My name is Ana McKinzie. I’m a former missionary kid, a rising senior, and a girl in awe of how much God revealed to her through this trip. “This trip” was a three-week time span stretching from the end of June to mid July. To those who do know me, you already know that this was not my first time in Peru.
Let’s talk about a surrounding cloud of thought I’ve been contemplating. When I say I’m a “former missionary kid,” I’d like to be clear. The word “former” isn’t completely true, the word missionary is not a title subject to “foreign” places, and I am still a kid (even though I like to think otherwise).
I moved to Peru with my mom and dad when I was seventeen months old. We were there because my dad had a heart to share the kingdom with our Peruvian brothers and sisters, and because my mom had the courage and bravery to tell him they were going to do it together. While there were missionary reasons for us being there, I wasn’t too preoccupied with the specifics at my age. What I can tell you is that Peru was my home for six and a half years. My parents grew accustomed to it; it was never something I had to grow accustomed to. In my time there, we were the hosts, we were the tour guides, and we spoke the language. Peru wasn’t foreign to me. It was my home. Was my home. These three weeks, I was the visitor. Reconfiguring my view of the Peruvian world, a world I hadn’t dwelt in for many years, felt like emotional whiplash. It was a whirlwind of joy and sorrow. We’ll get into all of that soon. For now, I just need us to be on the same page: home is a hard and obscure word to me.
I’d love to share a song with you that my mom and I share a love for. It’s called “Painting Pictures of Egypt,” by Sara Groves. Throughout our journey together through my thoughts, I’d like to intertwine a few verses and choruses. It’ll be relevant . . . I promise.
Verse 1:
“I don’t want to leave here
I don’t want to stay
It feels like pinching to me either way
The places I long for the most
Are the places where I’ve been
They are calling after me like a long lost friend.”
A want to go back.
I was seven in December of 2014 when we moved back. I wasn’t happy about it. My parents tell me I stayed mad for almost a year. Our overseeing congregation, The Church of Christ at Cedar Lane, helped us make a return trip in 2016. It was strange for me, even then. In the year and a half we were in the US, I had not used my Spanish often. I remember being frustrated that I couldn’t speak as well as I did when we lived there. We got to see all of our Peruvian brothers and sisters, eat our favorite meals, see all of the sights, etc. But I wanted to go back to the States. I had disassociated myself from the Peruvian culture and lifestyle; it was the first taste of foreignness I had ever felt in Peru.
January of last year (2023), we had the Daggetts over while they were on furlough (we live in TN now). I remembered Katie and Jeremy, just not well. We knew them when we lived in Peru, and they housed us for a couple of nights when we visited. They told me that if I ever wanted to go back to Peru, they would be happy to house me. A trip to Peru by myself had never crossed my mind. I was a sophomore, and if I’m being honest, after they mentioned it, I wasn’t jumping with excitement at the invite. I was comfortable with how things were going in TN, I was occupied with trying to get a boy to like me, and I didn’t want to bother with thinking about the cost of it all. I’m sure I gave a polite response, and I moved on.
Verse 2:
“It’s not about losing faith
It’s not about trust
It’s all about comfortable
When you move so much
And the place I was wasn’t perfect
But I had found a way to live
And it wasn’t milk or honey
But, then, neither is this”
I didn’t actually start considering it until after sophomore year was over. One main reason was because of my Spanish class. I wasn’t fluent, but everything came easily to me. I was sick and tired of getting stuck on the fence between vocabulary and when to use certain phrases. Worksheets, planned conversations, and given responses were not working for me. It was easy, but I wasn’t learning. The Daggetts had mentioned me doing language school in Peru if I came, during their visit. Language school was something that piqued my interest.
The people we knew in Peru were people we knew. Of course I wanted to go back to see our Peruvian family, but it’s hard to hold a conversation when you quite literally can’t hold a conversation. My want to go was set. My dad helped me with logistics and fundraising.
A quick side note about fundraising: I hate asking for money from my parents. So, asking people outside of my family was a little hard. However, the support I got financially and emotionally was overwhelming. We raised more than I needed for my estimated budget, and I was so incredibly thankful and completely in awe of people willing to send me.
Chorus:
“I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt
Leaving out what it lacks
’Cause the future feels so hard
And I want to go back
But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I've learned
And those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned”
A bit of regret.
It’s really interesting. I remember Peru, but a lot of my memories are associated with photos that we have. It’s almost like I have created a memory castle in my mind, but I have pictures to go along with it. Of course, as a little kid, your mind perceives things differently. But all that I remember was good. I remember different shades of brick, I remember certain smells and tastes, I remember a lot. Even when we went back to visit, I was familiar with everything—it was just a new perception. I have never placed Peru and bad feelings in the same pot.
I had anticipated all of the excitement for months leading up to the trip. In my mind, everything would click again, I just didn’t have all the Spanish I used to.
When I landed in Lima, my stomach dropped. Trust me when I say there was excitement, it just seemed small next to the fear I had when I looked out the plane window. What was I doing here?
Realistically, I had an idea of what I would be doing. I would be attending language school, I would be in communion with the house church, I would help Paty out at the orphanage, and so on. I would be doing all of these wonderful things. But my mind was somewhere else. What am I doing here? I don’t belong here. I have had this yearning to go back, but what in the world will I be going back to?
I landed in Arequipa and saw the familiar volcanic silhouette on the skyline, but I was still anxious. Katie picked me up, and that helped calm my nerves. I was reminded that I wasn’t completely alone.
Verse 4:
“The past is so tangible
I know it by heart
Familiar things are never easy
To discard
And I was dying for some freedom
But now I hesitate to go
I am caught between the Promise
And the things I know”
My first couple of weeks gave me emotional motion sickness. I’ll share a few sharp turns and bumpy roads I experienced.
The first Peruvian meal I had was Lomo Saltado and a limonada. I don’t think you understand the comfort in eating a meal that I had considered pure bliss for so long. While I did order it in a restaurant, the flavors reminded me of Manuela in our kitchen, of visitors laughing at our table in Alto Selva Alegre. It was like tasting a piece of my childhood. We’re a water-with-lemon-at-a-restaurant family, even when we lived in Peru. However, I remember when people would go out with us, I knew there was a chance that one of my parents would order a pitcher of limonada, a pitcher filled with the best drink five-year-old Ana could ever ask for.
Seeing all of our people in Peru was something else. When I saw Pati, Etelvina and Areli, Alfredo and Judith, all people who stepped in as family when we were there—who are family—filled me with an emotion I can’t explain. They were older than I remembered them; they were shorter. But they were in front of me. The joy and ache within each reunion was not unfamiliar, it just had a sharper sting. My reunion with Manuela was one I will never forget. She was like a grandmother to us when we lived in Peru. No words could describe how much she means to me. No words could describe what I felt when I realized that she is a fragile human, too. She had more gray hairs, medical patches on her cheeks, and a few missing teeth. The tears in her eyes matched mine when we hugged. We just looked at each other for a while. Each hug, with each person, I cherished—and I long for now as I write this reflection.
Buildings, streets, and everything in between I somewhat recognized. Everything just seemed smaller. The little patio connected to the CUDA cafe we used to have wasn’t as big as I remembered it. Everything was within memory’s reach, but everything was oriented differently than I remember. It was bizarre.
I don’t have many memories on the combi, but I can remember taxi rides. Combi was my main transportation to get to the Plaza and language school. I grew accustomed to the combi with each ride I went on. Though it wasn’t the same window I remember looking out of, the things I saw through the window hadn’t changed. The same white stone, the same Peruvian advertisements, the same-looking stray dogs.
Chorus:
“I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt
And leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard
And I want to go back
But the places that used to fit me
Cannot hold the things I’ve learned
And those roads were closed off to me
Ohh, those roads were closed off to me
While my back was turned”
Before I left, my mom told me that this trip may transform me. Honestly, I don’t feel transformed. I feel somewhat burdened. This trip made me reflect. I got to share my faith with the church while I was there. That took some reflecting. Jeremy asked me to mention one or a few things I learned while I was in Peru. I could go on about how much Spanish I learned, or how I learned to use a combi. But, I learned a lot about myself that I didn’t think I needed to know.
This trip had me grappling in conversation with God. I learned that Peru was different than I remember it, but familiar enough to feel like I didn’t want to leave when the time came. I felt like a known stranger in Arequipa. I learned that I didn’t have an answer to the question: “Could you see yourself living there in the future?” I learned that I struggled with people saying “welcome home” upon my arrival. I learned that I have never dealt with the grief of moving so many times.
Grief is a word I thought I’d never associate with Peru.
The fact that we have lived longer in the States than in Peru makes me sad. The truth that each Peruvian we know is getting older scares me. The fact that I don’t know when I’ll return floods me with sorrow.
For so much of my life, my introduction has been: Hi, my name is Ana McKinzie, my parents are Greg and Megan, and I lived in Peru for six and a half years.
It’s been almost ten years since we’ve moved, and that’s still the first thing I tell people. What follows may be the fact that we lived in California, and that I live in Tennessee now; but anyone who knows me, knows I was a former missionary kid in Peru.
Outro:
“If it comes too quick
I may not appreciate it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?
And if it comes to quick
I may not recognize it
Is that the reason behind all this time and sand?”
So what?
“Painting pictures of Egypt” is a song that Sara Groves wrote from the perspective of an Isrealite after they fled Egypt. Their new way of life was not unbearable—God provided. Yet, they wanted to go back to a place God delivered them from. Keep in mind that God delivered them from torment under the Egyptians. They were slaves in Egypt.
“I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt, leaving out what it lacks. ’Cause the future feels so hard. And I want to go back.”
The Isrealites were not comprehending the possibility of all that the Lord had in store for them. They weren’t accepting all that God was promising them.
“And I was dying for some freedom. But now I hesitate to go. I am caught between the Promise. And the things I know”
I am not a persecuted Israelite, and I have never been a slave. I have no tormented past in Egypt, or ever had to trust that God would feed me the next day. But I do find myself caught between the promise and the things I know. I know that my grief won’t change for a while. I know that anger towards my parents and God still lingers from time to time. I know that home is nowhere set in stone. But even through that, the fact is, God is more mighty than any that will ever be. God’s promise is more impactful than any move I’ll ever endure . . . and I’ve endured a few.
So in response to Jeremy’s question: What did I learn? Here is this:
Through this trip I learned that although I was a former missionary kid in Peru, I am still invited to be a disciple and missionary wherever I am. God has placed me and my family through different houses, different cities, different states, and different countries, to participate in sharing the promise of the kingdom. My feelings are not irrelevant, the relationships I have made are special enough to miss, and my nomad background has equipped me to go wherever God wants me to go.
Here’s to the future, wherever I may be.
My time in Peru was wonderful. I will never express enough gratitude for the experience I had this summer.
In this next chapter of life, I will continue to carry the grief I feel, I will continue to wonder what it would have been like to stay in Peru, and I will continue to grapple with God. But in this next chapter of life, I have no fear that God will provide. College is a big, scary, and expensive word, but God’s promise is still mightier. My hope is that I will not find my identity in the places I’ve lived or could’ve lived longer in. My hope is that I will find my identity in seeking the kingdom in the places I will be—Peru or not.