In the early years, I lived on Mauna Kea Mountain, on the Island of Hawaii, in a modest two-room sugarcane worker’s shack built on stilts. As a family of seven, space was tight, but I cherished the adventures of exploring the surroundings and discovering old bottles that my stepfather, Robert Kendrick, would sell to the local museum. Beneath our home was a chicken coop, where Uncle Harvey Hess and his boyfriend lived, even though the chickens preferred to roam freely around the area. Those days were filled with memories of simplicity and curiosity. 

​

In the sugarcane workers' shack, life was simple and raw. We relied on the rain for drinking water, collecting it in a wooden barrel, as was no running water available. Our bathroom was an outhouse, and without electricity, we embraced the natural world around us. Bathing meant taking refreshing dip in the stream just 100 feet from our home, connecting us to the land in a way that modern conveniences often overlook.

​

During my late teens, I embarked on a missionary apprenticeship in Uruapan, Mexico. While hiking in a remote area, I realized I was the first white person some locals had ever seen. They repeatedly referred to me as "fantasma," which the missionary later explained meant "ghost." This experience opened my eyes to the cultural differences and the profound impact of presence in unfamiliar places.