Just another sign that I'm getting all old and matronly

But I’m also curious as to whether this is a rural Midwestern phenomenon, or indicative of a wider cultural trend.

When we vicared out on the East Coast, yea those many years ago, my husband was Vicar Lastname, and I was Mrs. Lastname. At the time, this felt a little funny to me, because I felt very young, and also because I was still fairly new at being Mrs. Lastname. But it also felt appropriate, because I did some substitute teaching at the church’s school. 

Fast forward to my husband’s first Call. We arrived with a six-week-old, so the question of how our kid(s) would address people was initially moot, but I noticed that kids tended to Firstname adults, even those old enough to be their grandparents. My husband was Pastor Lastname, and I was Firstname. There weren’t zillions of “youth” running around, and I didn’t have much interaction with them, and I still felt young and quite inexperienced at pastoral wifery, so I didn’t think much of being Firstnamed. 

Then our kids started getting old enough to talk. (This took quite some time, as our firstborn was a conscientious speech dissenter for nearly three years, and it was nearly another two years after that before he’d condescend to speak to people in public.) We decided to establish a policy of using “titles of respect,” as the good ol’ grammar books call them. While there are a few people who so persistently Firstnamed themselves that we just let our kids Firstname them, our kids address most adults as Mr.-, Mrs.-, Pastor-, Dr.-, etc., -Lastname. 

Fast forward to my husband’s present call. There are lots of “youth” running around, and I have more interaction with them. My husband is still Pastor Lastname, and I am again Firstname, as are most other adults. Even in Little League, our kid was the only one to Coach Lastname his coach; the other kids called him by his first name. I dunno; this just isn’t how I was brought up (see how old and matronly I’m getting?!). I would never have dreamed of Firstnaming my Sunday School teachers, or even the “cool” youth director at the church we attended when I was in middle school. I still think of my high school friends’ parents as Mr. and Mrs. Lastname. 

I stand firmly by our decision to make our kids the “weird” ones who don’t Firstname everybody; and many people (older folks at church especially) seem to appreciate it.* It’s kind of funny when my third-grader Mrs. Lastnames someone in the same interaction that her preschooler Firstnames me. Generally speaking, I have enough things in life to fret about without being annoyed by a knee-high rugrat presuming upon the use of my first name, but there are times when I do feel that Firstnaming does convey, even facilitate, a certain lack of respect (see? Old and matronly again). 

For instance, a certain neighborhood waif often drifts over to play with our kids. It’s fairly apparent that the poor child has received little guidance from her parents in many regards, and I find myself in the unasked-for and frankly undesirable position of having to be quite firm with her regarding the rules while she is on our grounds and the times at which she must depart said grounds. In such a case, I do find it quite annoying to be Firstnamed by someone who has yet to attain a decade of life, and I wonder whether this reluctant job of mine might be easier, were we not assumed to be on a Firstname basis. (My husband corrects her when he hears her Firstname me, but how can you fight a town-wide trend? All the other kids Firstname me, and to insist otherwise, when people older and wiser are Firstnamed, would seem pretty snobbish.)

Anyway. Just wondering if this is a small-town phenomenon or if the whole dang culture of our country has gone this way. 

*I know some people who have their kids Miss/Miz Firstname people, which seems to me to have a charming Southern touch to it, and to be a mannerly alternative in some cases to Mrs. Lastnaming, as well as a good solution to the sometimes-sticky issue of How to Address High Schoolers and College Students.

Parish-famous

Little has made me feel more at home in this place we've landed than having crazy rumors about me get back to me. The first major one I remember was soon after the birth of Baby 5. Scouts were sent to discover if I was, in fact, pregnant again already. No, I explained calmly, I am merely fat. I just had a baby.

Later, word came in from the street that I was going to be making all the pies for our church's sausage supper. The sausage supper feeds over 1000 people and requires approximately 80 grillion pies. I was pleased that someone imagined I would be capable of this.

A few months ago I learned of a belief that the lady who sits with me in church was going to quit her job and become my full-time nanny. It's a great idea.

Last week I received congratulations from someone who had heard I was expecting again. I congratulated her on receiving the news before I did. She was apologetic. I assured her it was a mistake anyone could make.

I have also heard various reports as to the number of children my husband and I are purportedly aiming to have. Some say seven, some say eight. I think I have even heard ten floated. Imagine my surprise when this very evening someone disputed a number projected by a third party on the grounds that fruitfulness was the relevant non-numeric. Imagine also the color of my face while this discussion took place around me.

I am not kidding at all when I say I am, overall, deeply honored to have become part of the local rumor mill. I find it hilarious and flattering to be a Person of Interest. It makes me feel like I really belong here. I can't wait to hear what I'm up to next.

Super secrety secrets

There are three areas of the pastor's life which often occasion some level of confidence. The first is what he has going on with the circuit, region, district, and Synod, and all the people associated with those entities (circuit counselors, district presidents, various bureaucrats). The second is what he discusses with his pastor friends and colleagues, ie, the guys to whom he takes his troubles instead of all those clowns at Winkel who don't do things his way. The third is what is happening in the parish he serves. These areas overlap a lot, but they almost always start in the parish, which is where the pastor's wife goes to church every week, which is why things get complicated.

Some couples share pretty much everything (obviously anything heard in the confessional must be excluded from "pretty much everything"). There is an argument to be made for the safety of this approach. Things shared between husbands and wives are whatever is one step down from sacred. It can be done that way.

The danger of the "sharing pretty much everything" approach is that pastors necessarily get tangled up in some yucky things. It is often easier for the wife simply not to know about them, whether it involves a DP or a senior pastor or an elder or a choir director or any old parishioner. If the wife knows much about a personal conflict in which her husband is involved, she's probably either going to get mad and have trouble remaining civil to someone[s], or get scared or depressed and end up avoiding church. There is usually not a thing she can do to change the situation. Her involvement only ends up meaning sadness for her and no help to anyone else. So sometimes it is to the benefit of everyone for her not to know what's going on. Where then is nosiness? It is excluded. By what kind of law? Of tyranny? No, but by a law of common sense. That is something a pastor's wife should know and be OK with so that she does not make her husband's life any harder.

But no one likes the mushroom treatment except mushrooms, which wives aren't. One of my older wisers advised me that she and her husband resolved this struggle with the conclusion that anything that wasn't actually a Secret was something that he could and often should tell her simply as a social courtesy (especially true for the at-home wife with limited social inlets). That is something a  pastor husband should know and be OK with so that his wife does not feel disrespected and left out.

Mehr Licht!

The parish is always personal for the pastor's family, and often the greater ecclesia is too. Sometimes a wife needs to know everything, either because everyone else does or because it affects her personally. Sometimes it's more helpful to give her a general heads up about topics or people needing gentle handling. Sometimes it's best for her to know absolutely nothing other than not to bother waiting up for him tonight.

There are times when the pastor's wife is the last person to know something everyone else knows (whether in the parish or among pastor-family peers). There are times when she accidentally learns something she  wishes she hadn't (this also happened to me as a PK, so we need to help our kids through this question some too). Neither of those scenarios feels good, but it's only a big deal if the Frau Pastor makes it one. The pastor and his wife have to muddle through it with mutual trust, consideration, and respect. If I've learned anything, it's that being mad at anyone never pays off, and keeping my mouth shut when I'm mad always does.

Perspective and good humor go a long way, too. Once I was with a pastor-wife-friend when the husbands blundered into a super-secret conversation in our presence and had to hussle off to bewail the hour's catastrophe away from our virgin ears. My friend whispered politely as she wiped a pot dry, "They all think they're in the CIA, and they're just pastors." So they are, the dears. But they love their CIA, and there is nothing to be gained by begrudging them the joy it brings them. We would do well to remember that nothing makes a secret less intriguing than learning it how boring it actually is. I also know that when my husband walks through the room while a  friend and I are discussing a sister-in-law's sister-in-law's retained placenta, we put the conversation on hold. Isn't it nice of them to return the favor?

Please do not feel like you need to appreciate me

I've made some asides here before about how I don't get the whole clergy wife fetishism thing, but every once in a while it really hits home how much I don't get it. This parish owes me nothing. They called my husband, not me. I feel like I owe them for their willingness to call a married pastor. He is less available to them than a celibate pastor would be. They have also accepted the burden of providing a wage fair to a man with a family. They are the ones making the sacrifices. I cringe whenever one of these dear people apologizes to me for having called upon him in their need. That's why he's here.

Do not ever hesitate to call or to keep him as long as you need him. You gave me this great big house to keep me busy while he's gone. You are the ones who have given us this life which we love. You have adopted my children and me as friends and neighbors. Thank you. Thank you.

Mercy care of women for the non-deaconess, at-home deaconess, or deaconess who isn't too busy parsing

(It's OK, some of my best friends are deaconesses.)

At one of our stops in the seminary process, we had a baby. A lady from the church to which we had been cobbled at that time gave me a call when he was about a week old and asked if I were up for a visit. She came to the house, sat and talked to me for an hour, and left me with a plate of cookies and a cute burp cloth for the baby.

I haven't seen her since, and the baby peed on the plate of cookies while I gave him a bath on the counter (first boy--I had some things to learn). But that burpie I've still got, and it's one of my favorites. It was just a trifold cloth diaper onto which someone had sewn blue gingham edging. I always put it in my church bag because it looks distinctly unlike a grubby old kitchen towel I grabbed at the last minute, which is what the rest of my burpies look like.

All of which is a long way of saying that I thought it was really nice of that church to have done that for me (particularly since, as seminary hobos, we were just passing through). This relates to one of my troubles: a constant feeling that I'm not a very good church person because it's so hard for me to get out. No infirm or bereaved person wants a visit from a church lady who's dragging five kids with her. Add to that the fact that infirm and bereaved persons DO want visits from their pastor, and it's pretty rare for me to do much calling. The parental divisions and conquerings must be given over to Dad making calls.

But since Dad does get out to see them, it's easy for me to make deliveries. So here are a few little projects I've collected for the invisible at-home mom who wants to express some basic goodwill on behalf of the parish.

New baby. I write a note to the mom telling her congratulations and that she's in my prayers, and send along a cute burpie. There's really no wrong way to make one out of flannel or terry cloth, and the small cuts keep it economical. I keep hoping that the more of these I make the better chance I have of actually learning how to sew. It's nice having a stockpile of them for short-notice baby presents anyway.

New grandma. For the frequent- or primary-care grandma (a common creature in this workaday world), Pack-n-Play sheets are usually a good bet and take no more than a yard of fabric, a little bit of elastic, and not that much time to make from cottons, knits, or flannel (basic crib sheet strategy here). The only trick to this is that PnPs come in different sizes, but my genius friend Gauntlets shared with me a formula to make a sheet to fit any size sleeping baby receptacle:

Width of sheet = width of mattress + (3 x height of mattress) + 0.5

Length of sheet = length of mattress + (3 x height of mattress) + 0.5

Square (cut from corners) = height of mattress x 1.5

Sew your hems at 1/4" and your corners at 1/2"

Chemo patient. Commercial head wraps are pricey, but this here pattern is free, easy, and fast. You can get away with a little shorter piece of fabric if you divide the oblong piece into thirds and sew them together to make the complete long piece. You can also use the scrappies to make a matching fabric headband for the patient's sister, daughter, or friend (another idea stolen from commercial chemo head wraps).

For bereavement or other family emergencies, I send food if Dad and/or church ladies report to me that it's in order. Food is risky what with all the allergies and intolerances and diets and hangups, but I guess it's still the best bet for people with immediate trouble.

I'd be interested to hear about other simple, low cost projects along these lines. I can't knit or crochet, but better wives can so include those too. (I can keep up with this stuff fairly easily since Dad's parishes are smaller--at a larger church, a team of people would be in order.)

In praise of parsonages

A few weeks ago, a former pastor of our church who recently fell asleep in Jesus was interred here. The day before the service, his family arrived at the old stomping grounds. Broke into the old apartment . . . this is where we used to live . . . .

So we invited them in. This wasn't one of those courtesy open houses so everybody from church can see that you're not trashing the place and you pretty much figure no one's going to ask to go upstairs (NB: they might). These people grew up here. They were in no way forward or presumptuous, but even I can cipher serviceably enough to figure out that this was more their house than ours. We warned them that we live here and we have five kids, and then we opened every last door. It was nice. :) And how else would we ever have learned that there actually IS a laundry chute?

(An aside before I get all up in your grill. The previous lady of this house told me that to clean one ill-placed window, she would lay a plank from the balcony railing to the window sill, climb out on it over the stairs, and scrub suspended between heaven and earth. Let me tell you, neither that window nor its blinds--which I have given many a resigned thought--are getting cleaned as long as I'm this place's sorry excuse for the lady.)

On to your grill. In seminary there was a general impression that you didn't want a parsonage. It wasn't your house. Church people would expect to be able to come in all the time. They wouldn't take care of problems. They'd pick ugly paint. They wouldn't replace carpets. Oh, those awful church people, whoever they are! And equity, won't someone think of equity??

Here are the disclaimers: as I've confessed before, I'm not exactly an HGTV junkie. Decorative aesthetics are nowhere near the top of my domestic priority list. There are some things about this house that would probably make more attentive homemakers completely freak out, whereas I merely find them funny. There also isn't a white-glove committee from the Ladies Aid stopping in to inspect my mantles for proper dusting. If something needs to be fixed or we want to change something, not only is it not a big deal, but someone from church usually comes over to help. I'm not talking about the horror stories.

But outside of the horror stories, I've got to give the bad parsonage press a hearty MEH. There is no way our parish would be able to offer a salary that could have landed us in a house like this, which allows us to quarter a growing number of people more than comfortably. I have a hard time imagining many congregations of our beloved Synod (at least, not the kind that would call my beloved husband) putting us up so well from a paycheck. And I don't think I'm going too far out on a limb (or a plank 12 feet over my stairs) to suggest that getting out of debt profundis may be of greater relevance to most fresh-faced seminary graduates than more advanced financial achievements like equity.

As for the parsonage horror stories themselves: I recently heard another from someone. If this particular incident had happened to me, in this parsonage, with this congregation, it would not have bothered me in the least. Again, I would have found it funny. I don't know what the context was; I'm sure there was plenty of back story involved. I'm guessing it had a lot more to do with the parish than the parsonage proper. It's hard to imagine a messed up parish and a bad parsonage situation not being pretty tangled up in each other.

Since we've lived here, we've had rocks thrown at our bedroom window in the middle of the night (the phone wasn't working), dozens of centerpieces constructed in our dining room and stored in our living room several times, other large items stored in our garage to the exclusion of our car, use made of our dryer and clothesline, calls from the school requesting clean underoos in a kindergarten size, and various other zany events. Yesterday afternoon someone stopped by to see if we had a hair dryer they could use to defrost a church refrigerator. (Not only do I have a hair dryer, but I also almost never have time to use it, so no rush! Thanks for defrosting over there!) To us these aren't horror or even grumpy stories. They're funny stories about our church and its good and hardworking people, among whom we feel blessed to count ourselves. It wouldn't occur to me to call them grumpy stories if I hadn't heard similar tales classified as such by other pastors' wives.

So there's also some back story on the pro-parsonage side. There's some merit to our very house being owned by the people charged with our care, whose care in turn has been charged to the pastor who lives in it. In our case, it's like a good marriage, where both parties' default position is respect and care; where the conversation starts with "Not to be nosy, but can we help you with that busted screen?" and "Come on in, you're always welcome, and look out for the bowls on the floor because the little guys have been cooking" rather than "What makes you think you can just show up here?" and "Who owns this house anyway?"

And really, who does own this house? They do. It's just true. And who would own our house if we owned it? Well . . . still not us. And who always needs a lesson in humility? I do.

One other thing: although there are trustees here, the congregation's care of our house is not something that happens on some totally official, corporate level. Someone visits and notices the ants which we were perfectly willing to live with; she calls an exterminator. Someone else stops by with his tiller when he's making the rounds in the spring. Someone who does like HGTV can't sleep knowing that the paint in our kitchen is chipping and she repaints for us. Someone who knows one of our kids loves gardening buys a monster cantaloupe and puts it in that kid's squash plant as a joke. Etc.

There's more to be said about this, but as usual I've gone on way too long. I'm glad we're here, and I'm glad we're in a parsonage. I know it doesn't always work out this well.

Get you a pastor

OK, here's something I'm going to get full-on preachy about. Every human needs a pastor. Theology professors need pastors. Sextons need pastors. Pastors' kids need pastors. Pastors' in-laws need pastors. Pastors' widowed mothers need pastors. Pastors' maiden uncles need pastors. Pastors need pastors. Popes--they who believe, teach, and confess themselves to be the Vicars of Christ on earth by divine right!--need and have pastors. See where I'm going with this?

That's right, the pastor's wife needs a pastor. For all the boo-hooing spent on this pseudo-conundrum, I am mystified that the totally obvious provision our Lord normingly and our Confessions normedly make for it is endlessly overlooked. Which is to say, "And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven." What? No special asterisk here for that extra-special person, the pastor's wife? As usual, Bob Dylan said it best: "Everybody must get loosed*" (*or bound).

I have not set out to say here that the pastor's wife's husband cannot be her pastor. Most of the time it is he who brings her God's Word of Law and Gospel, baptizes her children, and feeds her from our Lord's Altar. That's fairly straightforward most of the time. The place the pastor/husband thing is most likely to get tricky is the confessional. After all, against whom does the pastor's wife sin most? Whose sins are the second closest to the pastor, and therefore the second easiest and hardest for the pastor to judge?

Even yet I will not say that her husband cannot be her Father Confessor, for the complications I have cited are merely practical. He can be. Sometimes he should be or has to be. Sometimes she asks him to be. But often, he doesn't have to be, and often, this benefits both man and wife. Furthermore, the pastor needs a pastor, and here's where things really start coming together: the pastor and his wife and their kids can have the same pastor. They can go to confession as a family. Although it is still private, it is a pilgrimage of discipline they can make together, a blessed humility they can share, a divine comfort in which they can be united. And when the pastor's family needs someone to meet them at the hospital, to pray for them in their distress, they know whom to call: their dear pastor. Not just the guy at the next closest church or Dad's buddy or the circuit counselor no one else in the family knows. They can call a man who is Father to all of them.

If this doesn't sound right; if a Father Confessor isn't what the pastor's wife is looking for, then she's not looking for a pastor. She's looking for a therapist or a friend or a cheerleader. Any of those may be something she needs, and she would do well to secure them. But she definitely needs an ear to swallow her sins up in death and a voice to breath forgiveness and life into her, whether or not she feels she needs it or is comfortable with it. She definitely needs to make confession and hear her sins absolved, whether or not she perceives that confession will help her with her perceived problems. For her true problem is always sin, and the true cure is always Holy Absolution.

So, pastors' wives, get a pastor. Make sure your kids have a pastor. Your husband also needs a pastor.

What the seminaries should actually tell candidate wives instead of all the overblown and unnecessary stuff they do tell them

If you hated it here and never got to know anyone and worked like crazy at a miserable job to keep your family solvent this whole time and are so glad these awful years are over, you can skip the next two paragraphs.

But if you liked it here, it may be important for you to hear that this place is fake. Here you have been surrounded by people who are like you. Your friends were your age. Their husbands did the same thing your husband does. You had kids the same age. You had comparable costs of living and means with which to support yourselves. You had similar educations, pieties, and convictions about Windex. You shared bunches of bananas and fears for husbands finishing papers and maternity clothes. You woke up to the same weather and the same clearance at Old Navy. You went to the finest churches and when you could get there, there was chapel every day.

This place was college with benefits. You, like your friends who work in law firms and beauty shops and schools, will now have live among people who are not like you, who are not your age, who are not interested in the things you are interested in, who think you're weird but are nice to you anyway, who think you're weird and aren't nice to you, who think your ideas about Windex are idiotic, who will be mad that you're on WIC, who will be mad that you won't go on WIC, whose piety is different than yours, whose kids watch TV, who think kids are gross, who haven't been to as much school as you, who have been to way more school than you, who have way more money than you, who have way less money than you. Your church might be bronzy or crabby or taciturn or clappy. The organist might tell your husband, "I can't play that" when he hands her a bulletin draft including "To Jordan Came Our Lord." The senior pastor will treat him like a vicar.

Some churches love their pastors and others don't. Some churches will leave you too much alone, others will find reasons to tramp through your kitchen every week. Some churches will care what you drive or eat, how you treat a cold or teach your kids, and others won't. Some churches will expect you to be at everything and others will get mad because you're trying to take over everything. Some churches will have friends for you and some won't.

We don't know what kind of place you're going. We don't know why they didn't have a pastor until they called your husband. All we can tell you is that you should have six chief parts in common with your new neighbors. That's it.

You should try to do the right thing. And thanks for the money.

UPDATE: And if your husband is one of the people we pocket vetoed or threw under the bus, we don't have to say we're sorry. We're the seminary.

Soon and very soon

Dad's first call was to a church in the suburbs. There was a parsonage, but the senior pastor had dibs. We ended up living 20ish minutes away. Dad also had business that took him farther and wider. In the suburbs, this is no big deal, unless you're a neurotic housewife. Every morning he went, and I knew there was no chance of seeing him (or probably anyone) until the evening. Leaving out for the moment the two babies, those long and lonely days felt very much like my own.

Now the church is across the street and the church office is in the backyard. The town is small and the people are close. Dad often stops by the house several times a day to pick up and drop off and look for a treat. And the last thing I want him to find when he walks through unannounced is me chowing down the bread of idleness, thickly spread with the peanut butter of self-excuse.

All of this also puts me in mind that Dad isn't the only one who could show up any time. I'd love to talk more, but I have wicks to trim.

Who you callin' idle?

Sprezzatura

I have a weird sense of humor. Sometimes I find it amusing to pretend that everything is OK and that I’m totally handling my life, as opposed to my life totally handling me. A neat by-product of this exercise in personal amusement is that a little charade every now again can actually make me feel surprisingly competent, maybe even temporarily sane (behold, the power of self-talk!).

I recently ran again across the term sprezzatura, which in its original sense (a la Castiglione) has fake-y connotations. But the definition suggested by the context had more to do with doing something difficult, doing it well, and making it look easy. Wiktionary calls sprezzatura “The art of doing a difficult task so gracefully, that it looks effortless.” You see where I’m going with this, don’t you? Unto each woman are her own difficulties, and each difficulty presents the opportunity to respond with grace or to, well, throw a tantrum.

I’ve been thinking about this lately as I muster the troops for church. The church behavior situation had reached a fairly manageable point. Then we moved. Then we had another baby. Since then, I’ve been referring to my church attendance as “worship wars,” “the Sunday circus,” etc. We’ve discussed this here before; you know how it is. As the action rages and ebbs, there are glimpses of victory, but the skirmishes continue.

So: I can stumble into the narthex looking as dragged-out and desperate as I sometimes feel by that early juncture of a Sunday morn, or I can smile and ask that first-time mom, with genuine interest, how her baby is doing. Likewise, I can allow my frustration during the service to be broadcast loud in exasperated posture, or I can arrange the children and strategize the in-church guidance to be as minimally distracting as possible under the circumstances. (I know; sometimes there are circumstances beyond our control. Recently, I hauled out a two-year-old who was repeating, none too quietly all the way down the center aisle, “Don’t ‘pank me! Don’t ‘pank me!”)

When you hear a flawless performance, you know that it was preceded by hours of practice and thousands of wrong notes. When you behold the work of a Renaissance master, you know that beneath the familiar masterpiece are the scratches of a dozen sketches. When you encounter an elegant argument or a worthy poem, you know that for every extant line, at least twice as many were discarded.

As it is in the other arts, so it is in the art of childrearing. For every manner that’s remembered at Grandma’s house, for every instance of good behavior in the grocery store, even for every time that they remember to put their clothes in the hamper—in short for every occasion on which they fail to act like the fallen little creatures that they are—there’s a backstory of blood, sweat, and tears.

Taking large quantities* of young children to church by oneself is difficult. Everyone already knows that. What everyone doesn’t already know is that there’s also deep joy (sometimes immediate, sometimes eventual, sometimes ultimate) in taking large quantities of children to church. And of having large quantities of children, in general. There’s a masterpiece in the works—a majesty well-concealed in these small unruly people, who are after all no mere mortals. Right now the melody is marred by many a wrong note, and the portrait is lost in the scribbles. But one day—oh, one Day!—the glory of this humble and humbling endeavor will be revealed. And it will be dazzling.

*I know, I know—with only four, I’m an amateur. But I keenly feel what we often say hereabouts in bemused bewilderment: “There are just so many of them…”

Friending

Much is made of the need for pastors' families not to "get too close" to members of their congregation. I wonder if it's too much in these Facebooky latter days. People are not idiots. They can tell if they're being thought of more as lab specimens or movie extras than human beings. Especially now that it's so common for people to keep their "real" friends online, I think, barring the messed-up-parish scenario, the pastor's wife is well advised to be at least as careful about keeping too great a distance between herself and her geographical/congregational neighbors as she is about getting too close.

It's true that I don't really have a close mom friend here where we live. But I do have friends. As it happens, the ladies who keep the same hours I do are mostly retired, since most women my age work. So when my friends see to it that I get out of the house, which they are very kind in doing, they've got a generation on me. But they're still my friends, and we know what's going on in each others' lives. We don't "not count" because we're of different ages and places in life. In fact, that distance can make it easier since we're not all judging each other about who's going to go home and use formula or Pampers or Baby Einstein or conventionally cultivated kumquats whatever else is maternal contraband this month. They're past the need to take my weird life personally.

As nice as you girls all are, there's not one of you who stops by for a chat when I'm out hanging laundry, or can run over to listen for the napper when Dad gets called away on dentist day.

Not all parishes can roll this way; some are just too screwed up. But in a parish that isn't too screwed up, it's ok to have friends. We don't have to be BFF, but it's also doesn't benefit anyone for pastors' wives to think or act like they're not really part of life where they live merely by virtue of their being pastors' wives. Once again, we're not as special or important as they love telling us at those drag-your-wife-along meetings at the seminary. Support local business, eat local food, and, as the situation allows and to whatever extent is prudent, have local friends. And don't get discouraged too quickly. It takes time.

Because we can't ever really be prepared for this sort of thing

I’ve been sorting through and tossing lots of stuff lately. Nesting, you ask? Well, I suppose I will start nesting in earnest over the next couple days, when we arrive at our new church and new home. At 35.5 weeks’ gestation (but who's counting). All part of the CSPP adventure, no? Hey, I’m looking forward to actually meeting the doctor who will deliver this baby next month. But more on that later. Probably much, much later.

In all this purging, in some long-forgotten archives, I came across the handbook from the “Prepared Childbirth” class we took some 6 years ago, whilst pregnant with our first. Of course, the irony of the class’s title is obvious to anyone who has actually given birth—but oh! We were all such earnest students! Carrying our pillows to each session, learning the proper massage and vocalization techniques, sticking our hands in icewater to simulate the pain of giving birth (?!?)…

Allowing my swollen self a break from the boxes, I thought it might be fun to at least flip through the thing before I pitched it, especially as another Blessed Event looms large on my personal horizon (ahem). So I kindly entertained my hardworking husband by reading him choice tidbits, such as “Forty-One Ways a Labor Partner Can Help,” from those terrifyingly giddy long-ago days.

I flipped to THE TAKE CHARGE ROUTINE (“Save this routine for any time during labor when the mother: hits an emotional low; is in despair, weeps, cries out; wants to give up or feels she can’t go on; is very tense and cannot relax”). This includes the admonishment: “DON’T GIVE UP ON HER – it is a difficult time for her, it won’t help if you decide she cannot handle it. Acknowledge that it is difficult but not impossible” At which point the ever-supportive father of my children oh-so-innocently inquired whether I was still talking about his role during labor or just during life in general.

Well, he has a point. In fact, for some time now I’ve had a half-baked post half-drafted on Hard vs. Hopeless (unrelated to L&D but with obvious parallels). And half-drafted it shall remain until later. Much, much later.

In the meantime, “ENCOURAGE HER WITH EVERY BREATH…YOU CAN TRULY EASE HER BURDEN BY HELPING HER WITH EVERY BREATH” isn’t such bad daily advice, after all—for CSPP husbands and Sisters alike, in the L&D room and out. Biblical, even.

A story

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I went to those pastor wife thingies, conferences or retreats or whatever they're called. I went to them at fancy conference centers in big important districts, and I went to them at churches and camps in a small backwards district. I went to the meetings at the pastor thingies that they held for wives in adjoining rooms. I went either because I wanted to be where my husband was, or because other people told me it was a good idea to spend time with other pastor wifes.

Putting aside the fact that the prevailing pieties at these things in any district were not varieties I could easily stomach, the events were unhelpful to me. Why? Because I don't mind being married to a pastor. While there are the occasional annoyances, and they occasionally become acute, it's just not difficult for me overall. As I've mentioned before, I actually like how it entangles our family in the life of the church. I don't need a retreat from pastoral wifery any more than I need a retreat from changing my socks.

So when the other wives start sharing their troubles, which is common and often becomes quite emotional, I can't relate. Then it's a short trip for my not relating to become despising them for their complaining and oversensitivity and selfishness and for crying out loud CRYING. (I should mention also that I've never borne the cross of being in a very messed up parish.) Why don't they just shut up and deal?

Easy for me to say. The things that torment them usually don't even bother me much. But it does me no good to hang around there, since it just tempts me to be impressed with myself for being such a great pastor's wife. Me, the strong! Me, the perspicacious! Me, the virtuous! Me, the wife all those poor slobs married to whiny crybaby basket cases wish they had! Too bad there's only one of glorious Me to go around. I also walk really well and can operate a mailbox!!

It's not exactly bearing their burdens for me to hold others' burdens illegitimate either because I don't find those burdens all that burdensome or because I bear my burdens differently. The last thing these sad people need is for me to hit them when they're already down with such helpful insights as, "What's your problem? That's how it goes so you might as well just handle it. Grow up and shut up."

The moral of the story: Hare Today, Goon Tomorrow. Wait, that's something else. The moral of the story is that I don't go to pastor wife thingies any more. The End.

Tall dude who lives in my house

Parish life is, for me, much easier with kids. I always have something to talk about. How well I remember sitting awkwardly in the pew or the narthex or Bible class while my husband was on official field worker business during seminary--the boring wife to whom no one knew what to say. The solitary thing that got easier when our first baby was born was dealing with the church social requirements of vicarage (not least because I sometimes had an excuse to get out of them). Now I have an ever-increasing number of conversation pieces and reasons for being late, leaving early, saying no, or not knowing what's going on.

There is another advantage, too--I don't have to figure out what to call that one guy any more. I call him Dad, both directly and referentially. I know no one else from church will appropriate this familiarity for personal use. I won't be suspected of affecting formality in these highly informal parts by calling him Pastor. Everyone knows what I mean and it keeps us all very human in a place where it's important to be very human. And I'm partial to the paternal nuance. ;)

My hobby

Being asked what my hobbies are is always unsettling--just more proof that I don't really exist. Things I do that other people might consider hobbies are what I consider necessary work for the operation of our house. We do not live from scratch to the extent that we do because I have too much time on my hands. Doing things on-site as I am able is a priority for our family, and the products are desirable for thrift and/or quality. Some of them I enjoy; others, not so much. This blog is my hobby, but there's no honor in that. :D

But there is one other thing I spend a lot of time doing: church stuff. Dad has me subcontracted for a women's Bible study, I'm involved in various modest musical endeavors, I'm inextricably entangled with the school, I'm elbow-deep in every project and event, I babysit to make it easier for other people to do church stuff, I put up signs around town, I have clean underpants on hand for when a kindergartener next door needs a pair (something that happens enough that it doesn't surprise me any more), not to mention that I'm the main supplier of children to the cradle roll. Many of these things cause our house to fall into greater chaos than usual, but it's cool. It's for church, and everyone in our family gets that. Church operations are a "hobby" for all of us.

This, I think, is what pastor's wives used to do. They weren't co-pastors. They did for their church families the kinds of things they did for their families at home. But since wives don't do what wives used to do any more, pastor's wives don't either. Instead of spending the week making pies for the auction (what am I, a scullery wench? and who makes pies any more?), they won't suffer anything beneath the dignity of leading exegesis sessions in the original languages or organizing spiritual retreats where everybody has to sing stupid songs and cry. They're just as busy and tired from working as everybody else, so they're not going to spend their spare moments doing grunt work at church any more than anyone else from church is. Furthermore, the few who are home and are called upon for such tasks are likely to feel taken for granted, since anyone else would be getting paid for their work, and it does intrude upon household operations.

Contemporary pastor's wife angst is cut from the same cloth as contemporary maternal angst. Maybe we don't all play the organ or teach Sunday School or do those things we all love pointing out that we don't do to prove that we're "not the typical pastor's wife," but sheesh, can we please put this boring whine away? I know it would make my husband's life a lot easier if I did play the organ, so that's nothing to be proud of. :P

But the argument I'm more interested in making is that the traditional pastor's wife, like the traditional mom, is primarily someone who is available. Someone who might be able to answer your question, or if she can't, can make sure it gets answered for you. Someone who has the keys and knows where things are. Someone who is there when there's cooking or cleaning or calling of plumbers to be done. Someone who is sensitive to and patient with a parish's quirks and needs. Someone who knows who needs help when, and who might be able to offer it. Someone who can quietly take care of the stuff that other people don't even realize needs to be done. Someone who considers her special gifts an offering to the church rather than something she has a right to pursue and showcase on her own terms for her own fulfillment. Someone whose work stretches the church budget rather than eating into it. Someone who doesn't growl about how she's not getting paid for this and if she were in some other church she'd have a desk and a paycheck (thank you, Commissioned Minister roster).

And all this disregards the fact that there's a rather huge Christian tradition out there that's been getting along just fine without clergy wives and their important, important "ministry" for centuries. Perspective, girls.

Anyway, that's my hobby. And I like it. I love church and I always have and I'm glad I can do things for church because I'm home. Thank you, God.

UPDATE: That should be "pastors' wives," not "pastor's wives" in the third paragraph. How embarrassing.

Choose Your Own Adventure: Buying a Pregnancy Test In a Small Town

You're probably pregnant! Even though you know the signs well, you want to buy a test. There's just something about that definitive line that makes it easier to say goodbye to cocktail hour with Dad. But you live in a really small town. Where are you going to get your test?

(To ride your bike immediately to the really tiny store in your town which may not even carry pregnancy tests and carries a high risk of running into someone from church and the certainty of running into someone who knows someone from church, read paragraph 1)

(To drive immediately to the somewhat larger store in the next little town over which is more likely to carry pregnancy tests and carries a considerable risk of running into someone from church or someone from the church across the field and the possibility of running into someone who knows both you and many of the aforementioned risky individuals, read paragraph 2)

(To wait until your next regularly scheduled shopping trip to the exurbs and a store which is certain to have pregnancy tests and carries a moderate risk of running into someone who knows you, read paragraph 3)

1. You get on your bike and ride four blocks. Your brakes don't work so you have to swerve onto the sidewalk to avoid being hit by the one car which happens to driving down your town's "busy" street right when you want to turn onto it. Ride two more blocks to the store. There are four cars parked out front, which is a lot. You lean your bike, which has no kickstand, against the big trash can outside the store. You walk to the short shelf of personal care items and see the pregnancy tests. They only have the off brand kind requiring inconvenient testing procedures. It costs $6.99. There are lots of people (like, six) leaning on the checkout counter and talking to the clerk. You don't know any of them, but between the cost and the crowd and the fact that the baby is still nursing enough that you don't know if you've really waited long enough to test yet, you go home without buying a test.

(To drive to the somewhat larger store in the next little town, read paragraph 2)

(To wait until your next regularly scheduled shopping trip to the exurbs, skip to paragraph 3)

2. You tell the kids and Dad you'll be back in a minute and drive to the next town over. The parking lot is almost completely full, which is unusual and figures. You look for cars you know, and although you don't see any from your church, you don't know what anyone in this town drives so you don't feel all that safe. When you go inside, there is enough of a line at the checkout counter that you're not keen on standing in it with that incriminating box in your hand. But you really want to know, so you find the personal care aisle and start looking. They don't appear to have any.

You look up and down the other aisles to make sure you're looking in the right place--nothing. You go back to the personal care aisle since it seems pretty impossible that a store wouldn't stock pregnancy tests. There they are! Way up on the top shelf. Good thing you're on the tall side. You consider writing a note to the store explaining that a lady who needs a pregnancy test doesn't want to ask for help getting it down. They have expensive EPTs and also the cheap kind--really cheap! Less than two dollars! Thank you, modern science. You grab the cheap one. Should you pick out something else to give the appearance of nonchalance, or is that too much like the guy who came through your line when you were a checker in high school and put a snow shovel and a box of Trojans on the counter?

Let's just get out of here. Head to the line, which is now way longer. As you walk toward it, the lady at the end is totally staring at you. She saw you take the test off the shelf and is studying you for maternal fitness. Sheesh. A guy gets in line behind you and starts unloading his stuff, but there's no way you're putting your test on the belt for all the world to judge. You watch the door nervously, but no one dangerous comes through. You put your box on the counter at the last minute, and the clerk embarrasses the heck out of the guy behind you by asking if your stuff is all together. You have to pay with a credit card because you didn't think you had enough cash at home--lesson learned.

(If your test is negative but all other signs point to yes, remember it was the cheap test and this happened last time too, what with the nursing baby messing things up. Wait a few days and go back to the beginning of the post.)

3. You wait for your weekend trip to Walmart. When you get there, you pick up all your other stuff first so you can hide the pregnancy test under it in your cart. You thank God again for your rock star husband who keeps the kids so you can go shopping alone--it's bad enough having to buy these things without dragging four other kids along to invite idiotic comments. You think about doing the test right here, but decide you've waited this long and can stand to drive home and avoid killing time in the rank Walmart bathroom while you wait for the lines.

(If your test is negative but you're still suspicious, go back to the intro and start over.)

When you test positive, this post ends. Congratulations!

(BTW, I have recently come into a better-equipped bike, so don't you worry bout that.)

Pastors can't be choosers

And neither can their wives. Wir sind Bettler.

A hazard of being a housewife is that you're concerned with household nutrition and read magazines underwritten by advertisers. After a few minutes with Martha Stewart Living or even Better Homes and Gardens, you're suddenly asking why Aldi doesn't carry Greek yogurt and blood oranges and edamame and spelt.

Then factor in The Leftovers. I'm not talking about yours. I'm talking about that stack of bleached refined flour pancakes that came over from the church breakfast or a post-potluck troughload of 100% prefab ingredient mostaccioli. Am I going to toss all that food in the trash because my family is too elite to eat it?

I'm concerned about health, but by golly, we have to live within our means. The occasional infusion of pancakus vulgaris isn't going to kill anyone, and a free meal is a big deal when you're feeding a lot of people. My grocery budget just can't rock out with a food snob or "health" snob shopping list. Once you're moving through six+ gallons of milk a week, you start thinking pretty hard about whether you're going to pay $14 or $30 for it. Maybe we're just lucky that we don't make up the difference in doctor's visits and prescriptions, or maybe somebody has a vested interest in convincing people that they need to pay $3.49/lb for peaches in the middle of peach season.

The good news is that being home allows you the time to negotiate an agreeable middle road. Our potatoes will never be from Urban Haute Foodery* or even Petite Bourgeois 'N Save, but they're not from a box either. Everybody loves to talk about the sacrifices the poor pastor's family makes. Well, amaranth is a privilege, not a right. Set your heart on things above, and your table with what you can afford, which probably won't be that hard on your heart anyway if you put some time into it.

*Don't sweat it. By not shopping at Whole Foods, you won't be bankrolling employee abortions covered by the company's health insurance provisions. Also, did you know that this bastion of enlightened liberalism won't allow its workers to unionize? :D

What the blogger owes her husband

One of our readers recently emailed to ask if we would include a post specific to the trials faced by pastors’ wives. While we are neither in the habit of taking requests nor experts of anything, this particular topic has been on my mind much of late and I was planning to hold forth on it anyway. I find myself in need of much discipline and many pep talks when pregnant. PS- This post is really, really long. So. You know.

Some ladies of my acquaintance have a game they love to play:

“My husband is such a baby when he’s sick. A little snuffle and he won’t lift a finger to help himself.”

“My husband broke his foot last week and insisted on trying to cook for himself. I said, ‘Oh sure, you think you can cook; but how will you carry the food to the table on those crutches?’ He got the picture after that!”

“After all these years, my husband can’t change the videos in the player and he can’t even figure out how to operate the remote!”

“I try and give my husband projects—‘cause he likes helping out, you know—but it takes him so long in the end I just as well do it myself. He can’t even load the dishwasher!”

And a good time is had by all. Please note the clever non sequitors, compliments of the only rule: each lady must make clear to the others that her husband is perhaps the laziest, meanest, most incompetent man ever hatched on God’s green earth. The game brings such joy to these good women I’m really hard pressed to criticize. On the contrary, I enjoy it, for it regularly reminds me just how sinister and bleak the heart of woman can be. Mea culpa. My heart is the most barren of all.

Watch out boy, she'll chew you up!

Behold, should I choose to play the game with those unsuspecting women I would win. Your husband can’t load the dishwasher? My husband is never home. In the unlikely event that he is home, he is reading a book. He doesn’t wash the dishes. He doesn’t bathe the children. He doesn’t hear the children killing each other in the next room. He doesn’t see that I’m tired, petty, and terrible at this motherhood thing. If he were to notice he would jump right up and save the entire bloody day.

In his Table of Duties, Luther kindly sums up the burden wives bear by culling from Scripture two simple verses: “Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord” Eph. 5:22, and “They were submissive to their own husbands, like Sarah, who obeyed Abraham and called him her master. You are her daughters if you do what is right and do not give way to fear” 1 Peter 3:5-6.

Of course I agree. Of course I know to submit, to do my work with joy, to speak peace in rainbow colored words all over my pristine house to my well-behaved children. But knowing isn’t half the battle once the kids start screaming and the inner dialogue starts in . . .

I didn’t intend to marry a pastor. I didn’t intend to marry, period. I certainly didn’t intend to spend my productive years producing babies. When I allow myself to think about all I did intend to do I get pretty angry. When I allow myself to remember that no one thinks all that much of what I am doing I get pretty sad. When I then look around and notice that my husband is an hour late for supper I get pretty crazy. The ingredients for a perfect Molotov cocktail—drink it down, sister; everyone’s doing it.

Let’s try this instead: God’s own child I gladly say it, “Self, shut up.”

Pastor’s wife, consider that the man God gave you is your husband but he is Christ’s slave. Do not, with cheap, repetitive rhetoric, distract him from his Master. The boiling pot of anger you so meticulously stir throughout your lonely day has very little to do with the real, flesh and blood man who bears the onslaught of your wrath. That inner dialogue that plagues you, that fills your brain pan with the sizzling fats of disappointment, revenge, and self pity, is born of lies. It is the serpent whispering, “Did God really say . . .” His whispers ape reality, but they do not reveal it. Close your ears and open your eyes of faith. You and your husband are both of you saints in the Kingdom of God, are both of you sinners carrying your crosses until the day of His coming. And your crosses are not entirely unequal:

You wash grime from the dimpled bodies of your children; your husband labors to scrub decades of poor catechesis from the minds of his people.

You endure the unending prattle of your little ones; he endures the unending prattle of his secretary, his catechism class, his shut ins.

You change the baby's diaper, maneuvering your swollen belly out of her leg's reach; he carefully labors to change the heterodox practices of his parish--the individual cups, etc.-- all the while maneuvering around the ego and pride of the people.

You kiss bruises and bandage scrapes; he holds the dying as they depart this earth and soothes the grief of those left behind. This and other tasks far beyond your calling and expertise he performs day after day, and he performs them alone. Who are you to snarl when he doesn’t help with the dishes? Though you may not always see it for the blinders, you and your husband wear the same yoke and plow the same field.

Be still. Stop being afraid and know that Christ is God. By His blood you have been made pure and holy, a worthy bride. Like Sarah before you, you have a master who worships Him. Like His mother before you, you are both humbled in childbirth and promised exultation in the time to come. And like Mary, quietly sitting at the feet of the Master of All, He gives you His good, restorative, eternal gifts out of unfettered love and concern for your well being. Do what is right and do not give way to fear. Rather, fix your eyes on Christ, the perfect Bridegroom, the author and perfecter of your faith, and recall with daily prayer and repentance that it was ultimately out of submission to Him, love and devotion to the One who gave His life for you, that you gave up your sovereignty, your body, and your heart. Your work will be shown for what it is, because the Day will bring it to light, and you will receive your reward.

Thus, when your Christ fearing husband fails, do not hold it against him. By the grace of God, he just as often succeeds. When you fail, do not hold it against him. God redeems your filthy rags and makes you a fruitful vine, a blessing in your husband’s house. The dishes may get done one day, the next day they may not. The dishes aren’t important. Do what is right: Bear one another’s burdens in love, for the Day is very near indeed.

That said, I have additional thoughts on those lovely inner dialogues that plague the lonely wife and mother. I’ll get out a post on the Burden of Sheer Crazy one of these days. I’m going to need another talk session before I get too much closer to the birth (DV) of another little person.

Recommended reading:

The Cost of Discipleship, by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

The Dark Night of the Soul, by St. John of the Cross

The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands, by Dr. Laura Schlessinger

Excuse me for being unsympathetic

Feed me...or else......


If you have neglected your ox--if you have not fed or watered your ox, if you in fact have not even made a minimal effort to educate yourself on the proper care and feeding of your ox, and have repeatedly refused others' offers of help--your ox will wander off through the fence you didn't bother to mend and fall into a deep, deep well. Why are you so surprised when this happens?

Inevitably, as has been previously noted on this blog, this "emergency" will occur on a Sunday afternoon.

Because he is a good shepherd, my husband will come to help you with your livestock issues. Because I'm trying to try to be a good shepherd's wife, I will do my best not to begrudge this preventable absence. But perhaps, once your ox is resuscitated, you will take a moment to consider why a wiser generation than ours was so insistent on the point that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Thunder thunder thunder thunder CATS!

My 4-yr-old is suffering from a terrible man cold so I'm sitting at home thinking how weird it is to hear the church bell ringing from out here. Sigh. (The little man is back to sleep for the moment--thank goodness. :( )

Anyway. When I got to college I was very disheartened by many of the specimens who were introduced to me as pre-sem. What a bunch of brain-damaged idiots, arrogant jerks, and womanizing creeps*. I assumed that the brain damaged idiots would flunk their way out (most did, in seminary if not before). The womanizing creep type has never had much interest in me personally and I hoped The System would weed them out for the greater good (no comment). But the arrogant jerks, what of them?

I developed a solution: the Thundercats Route to the Pastoral Office. I didn't watch much TV growing up, so the shows I managed to sneak stuck with me. One was an episode of Thundercats in which Lion-O wanted to be the leader of the Thundercats. In order to prove his worth, he had to beat every Thundercat at their greatest skill. So, for example, he had to outrun Cheetara. I can't remember all the other feats of strength. But, man, it was tense! Lion-O had to earn that spot! He had to be the best at everything!

So, cross-apply: anybody who wanted to be a pastor should have to do all the jobs at church. He should have to clean the floors after the spaghetti supper, work the nursery during VBS when every baby in the church was checked in since their mothers were all teaching, teach the kindergarten Sunday School class, balance the budget, organize the youth group mission gimmick including fundraising and preventing makeout sessions under the mosquito netting, etc. That would teach them!

Funny thing about all that. My husband has to do these things regularly. He cleans bathrooms, sets up chairs and tables, teaches little kids, teaches big kids, deals with the financial situation, makes coffee, and tomorrow he's providing child care for a women's Bible study I'm deputizing for a few weeks, which is what reminded me of all this. He's done humbler and less savory tasks also, which I won't get into (and those are only the ones I know about). And the meetings! The accursed meetings! Lion-O just wouldn't have it in him.

LCMS pastors: Thundercats to the max. Sweet!

Sure, I'll cut the Ladies' Aid Anniversary cake.

*obviously there were a few exceptions.