My Plot in Life: Bon Bon's and Baby Questions

So, I had a day the other day.  One of those days when, in the middle of it all, I wished I could have tapped my shoes and said, "There's no place like Hawaii, there's no place like Hawaii," and then I'd be beamed to the beach.  How great would that be - to be beamed to the beach?   Apple needs to get to work on that.  If they can make a watch talk to me about my day.... 

This particular day started with a run.  Not necessarily to be in the best shape, but to clear my mind for the following hour:  wake the kids and get out the door hour.  I can't speak on this particular time with too much detail, as it's much too traumatizing. 

The important fact is that all three kids made it into the car, mostly fed and generally in one piece.  The difficulty of this task can be understood in terms of priorities:  having clothes is a priority.  Wearing them backwards is a not a priority.

And we weren't singing "Merrily we go to school, go to school, go to school..." Oh, no. I spent the first five minutes trying to break up a fight between my two "youngers" over how babies come out of mom's tummies.  Each kid was passionate that they knew the answer, and at first it was hilarious.  My daughter was essentially arguing that God takes them out, and my son was countering with the fact that knives were involved.  It started becoming annoying when they began yelling their arguments, kicking each other's chairs, and throwing back packs.  For heaven's sake. 

Thankfully no one felt the need to ask the one mommy in the car if she had any answers to this quandary.  Thankfully, or this hour also would have been too traumatizing to retell. 

One thing and one thing alone broke up the argument:  My son realized he forgot his shoes.  For the love....

How does one forget ones shoes?  I seriously considered making him go to school in his socks, but alas, I turned around the car and we were then sufficiently late to each school drop off.  My younger two don't get upset about being late (unfortunately, they're kind of used to it when mom is involved), but my oldest is a different story.  She wants to get to school early enough to socialize before her first class.  So, my son's lack of shoes now eliminated social hour and devastated her up-until-that-day unblemished late record. 

She sat with her arms folded in the front seat, mad at her brother, who managed to forget shoes for the day, and mad at me for turning the car around.  I told her to imagine walking around in socks all day and then consider whether or not I should have gone back to the house.  She suggested she'd like it.  She actually probably would.  So, that didn't work. 

After dropping off late children and running errands (which included picking up "the way wrong deodorant," according to my son), I went over to my parent's old house to help with a few things in order to get it on the market as soon as possible.  While there, I had a lovely encounter with two mice. 

Most people would have left the rodents for the professionals...most smart people, that is.  Again, I will spare the details other than to say I left alive and the mice did not.  However, I did have a minor (that may be understating it, according to my husband) panic attack that night over mouse disease.  I have no idea if such a thing exists, but I was sure for about an hour that I had it. 

 After finishing up at mom's, I walked in the house to nap and eat Bon Bon's... 

...in my Hawaiian dreams.  Instead I decided to tackle the toilets and laundry and general clean up.  The clean up, just to highlight a few of the more exciting aspects of what I had to look forward to, included picking up an entire roll of toilet paper waded up in the corner of the bathroom - who, what, why?  I have no idea - and scrubbing down the carpet in the car after spilling my green smoothie the day before.  Yes, the day before.  It was gross. 

But none of it was done sufficiently because within a few minutes of walking in the door, I received a phone call from my oldest: 

"I forgot my iPad." 

"Well, at least it wasn't your shoes.  So, have a good day without your iPad." 

"But my teacher says I need my iPad!"  Shoot.  Apparently having her iPad is a priority.  Having a pencil these days, is not. 

My plan was to shower.  At some point in the day, I really was going to shower, but I realized on my way to a class at the seminary that I never actually accomplished this important task.  I literally considered whether putting on Chap stick under my arms could have the same affect as deodorant.  And I wasn't in the mood to learn anything. 

I went to pick up the kids from school, lavishing in my ten minutes of carpool time to work on the Bible study lesson that I am leading.  It's amazing what a mom's mind can (and can't) absorb in ten minutes.   I'm pretty sure I stared at the same page of the John Stott commentary for all ten minutes.  But, somehow I felt a little more accomplished.  And then I sat back, wishing I was in Hawaii.  And it was only 3:00. 

After chauffeuring kids who complained about late slips and the wrong deodorant, I headed out to teach piano lessons, only to be interrupted half way through by my parent's realtor asking if I knew anything about the dead mice in the basement. 

And again, I tapped my shoes together. 

I've recently had a number of different conversations with women about their "plot" in life.  Some work outside the home and some do not, but what's amazingly consistent is how discontent so many feel.

For those who work outside the home, there is a sense of guilt over not being with their kids enough or frustration in feeling "stuck" in their careers, lamenting that what they do is mundane and not really making a difference. 

It's not too different from those I've spoken with who stay at home.  Many of these women feel they are lacking something in their lives and that their work at home feels, at times, insignificant. 

I get it.  I was introduced recently as a "Pastor's wife and homemaker."  I seriously cringed.  I wanted to stand on top of a table and shatter every image of those around who were imagining me sitting on the couch in my Snuggie, sewing the kid's clothes, and eating Bon Bon's.

But there is a clear call for us as women and believer's in Christ when it comes to our "plot," whatever that may be:  "Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men [or women]." Colossians 3:23. 

What we're called to, whether it be folding laundry, cleaning up spills from messy toddlers, planning a presentation, or giving a lecture, we're called to do it heartily.  We can't (and shouldn't!) waste our time wishing that we had the life of someone else.  As soon as we neglect the place in life to which God has called us by being critical or discontent, we lose heart for our work. 

My husband reminded me recently that when God blesses us, he blesses us with more responsibility, not less.  What a brilliant reminder.  Our responsibilities are a blessing!  The fact that I have to chauffeur kid's around after school is a blessing...I have children who are healthy and thriving.  The fact that I have to clean up my parent's house is a blessing...I am capable and healthy (at least until the mouse disease hits).  And the fact that many of you are in the midst of presentations, meetings, and lectures...you have a job when so many others would give anything for employment. 

I pray for a spirit that is less critical and less longing for what I don't have and instead for an attitude willing to be thankful for this season of life right here and now - even in the midst of days I'd rather be in Hawaii. 

And one of the best ways to do this?  Be mindful of the good parts of the day - they're always there.  Sometimes we have to fight hard to think of them, but they're there.      

Even though I was regularly tapping my toes and wishing I could be beamed, there were some good parts to the day that I needed to identify: 

First, I watched one of my piano students get so excited to show me how well he learned his piece that he hardly sat down before playing.  And then he told me my lollypops were better than his moms. 

Second, the passage that the professor was giving a devotion on at the seminary class had implications for something I was deeply struggling during the last several days.  The Lord spoke to me that day through His Word, even in my smelly and unteachable state. 

And last, I laughed, instead of crying, when lily interrupted my own piano practice to ask me if I could tell her "just how babies become free from those bellies." 








 

On Being a "PK"

My dad kept a diary during his journey through cancer.  The diary was published the year he died, almost twelve years ago.  I read the book for the first time this week. 

It was certainly hard to relive the journey through the words on the pages, but it was also encouraging to be reminded of his bold and unwavering faith in Jesus.  The pages tell a story of a man who had fear, fought hard for life, and peacefully relented into the hands of Jesus when He called him home. 

In reading the diary, I was also reminded of how much he loved his job.  My dad loved being a pastor, he loved his congregation, and he loved worship. 

Because he was called to full-time ministry, I grew up as a pastor's kid, or "PK," and shared my dad with many different people.  Dad had a very public ministry as the senior pastor of a large PCA church, an author of a few books, and the host of a radio program.  "Open-line Friday" at the radio station was something he looked forward to each week; callers from the area would call in and ask him any spiritually related or Biblically related question they wanted to.  And he absolutely loved it.  And I will never understand that.  My mom couldn't even listen to the show.  She'd get nervous that he might not know what to say, or that he'd say too much.  I totally get it.  I get hives when I'm walking down the hallway at church and can't think on my toes of what to say to the person I run into.     

I was recently talking with a fellow pastor's wife who lamented the fact that many parent's who face the prospect of full-time ministry often hear the stories of pastor's kids who, for many different reasons, grow to resent the church and the ministry to which their father's were called. 

So, I'm certainly no "success story" when it comes to growing up as a "PK." (Incidentally, when I was called that in elementary school, a fellow student inquired about the label.  Another student spoke up and said, "It means she is a potential kid."  I had no idea at the time just how awesome that answer was.)  There was, of course, some tension throughout my childhood that was related to ministry, whether I recognized it at the time or not, and I was by no means an easy pastor's kid.

In fact, I was kicked out of Sunday school in the 5th grade for talking non stop with my neighbors.  The only thing I really remember about the incident was that I was upset with my friend who didn't get kicked out with me.  I told her later that if we were asked to leave together, then we could go play on the playground during Sunday school.

Another time I argued long with my parents about a not so appropriate dress I wanted to wear to church that when they made me put on an alternative outfit, I "somehow" managed to cut the bottom of my dress with scissors during Sunday school.  Somehow. 

Yep.  I was that kid.  And so when my son, J-Rod, came home last year with "speaks out of turn" on his report card....well....

And when my youngest,  Lily, left the house for back to school night in tears because I wouldn't let her wear the Burka that her dad brought back from the Middle East...well...I suppose I'm just glad she didn't come home with her shorts cut in half.  I suppose.

There were times, especially as a teen, when my parent's and I fought over whether or not I needed to attend a particular church activity, and I'm sure they struggled through parenting as ministry leaders, trying to feel out when to push and when to let me alone. 

As a pastor's wife, I know the tension.  I get the struggle.  When the kids were younger, for example, we could talk about anything going on in the church, and it didn't matter that the kids were around.  When they got a little older, we'd start spelling names and various other sentences.  This made for super long conversations and a confused husband, due to my very bad spelling. 

And now that the kids are older, every so often we catch ourselves talking too freely about church difficulties in front of the kids, and every so often I revert back to my spelling days.  And then my twelve- year old quickly reminds me...she can spell, as does my ten year old, and my six year old just says she will tell on us if we're talking mean about someone.  Parenting is truly humbling.   

But with all the struggle, I can say something very confidently:  By God's grace, I never resented the church or the ministry that my dad was called to.  My two sisters and I remain actively involved in our churches, and two of us even married pastor's.  Admittedly, we were all kind of excited for something different when my younger sister married a JAG, but alas, he became an elder and she is now the music director at their local church. 

With the many stories today that focus on what their pastor-parent did that pushed them away from the church, I want to share three specific ways that I believe my dad, through God's mercy, helped me not resent being a "PK." 

His role in the church never denied me access. 

"Back in the day" (I'm really not that old...at least not old enough to use that phrase), we didn't have I-phones.  I tried to explain to my kids the other day what a phone was that actually sat on a receiver, had a cord attached, and was plugged into the wall.  Oh my word, the questions they had just trying to picture what I was talking about were priceless.  Lily wanted to know if "that kind of phone could call aliens."

So, we didn't use phones with the frequency that we do today, but even so, as I got older I always knew it was possible to get a hold of my dad.  His day was consumed with meetings and teaching preparations, but he answered his phone for his girls whenever it was possible.  And if we stopped by the office on the way home, he'd slip out of a meeting, check into what we needed, and then go back to work.  His job at the church never meant we had to wait our turn to talk with him. 

And his availability didn't mean that he attended every sporting event that I played in, but his readiness to talk and be available gave confidence that I was a priority, even if he was not always physically present. 

And as a younger child, when I would hug him after a sermon, he always turned, looked me in the eye, and give me a hug back.  It didn't matter who he was greeting, he took the ten seconds to look at me and show me that he loved my presence as his kid. 

And when he was home, he was available for us.  He helped me with math homework until he didn't get it anymore (I've already reached my helpful limit in math with my fifth grader), and for the most part, he put his work day's frustrations and joys aside and was just, plain dad. 

His calling to the church was a joyful responsibility.

Being a pastor's wife, I now know that church is not always a joy.  What?  Gasp!  It's true.  There are days in ministry when I want to urge my husband to go ahead and look into that sportscaster career he had talked about when he was younger. 

Fortunately, that sentiment is not too frequent, but I do know how hard it can be to remain joyful in the midst of the calling if the perspective on why we do what we do is skewed, which is why I'm incredibly thankful for the example my dad set with his attitude toward ministry:  whether it was an event for the church, a Bible study he taught, or a sermon he was preparing, dad did his best to refer to his work with a sense of joy and excitement.  And although he was passionate about his ministry, I'm sure there were times he was tired of it all and had to conjure up the positive attitude, but when he was frustrated, he took the difficulties to the Lord and not to us. 

I don't ever remember him trudging out the door the evenings he would go out to lead evangelism teams, and I know he had to be tired.  He had three kids and worked hard.  I have three kids and work hard!  Maybe he had a magic potion. 

I'll never forget standing in the sanctuary with my dad and our worship director after a good Friday service.  With the sanctuary emptied, he pointed out the details of how the lighting aided to the service and how the words in the music tied together the themes woven in throughout the night.  The man was so excited, you couldn't help but smile along with him.  I remember looking at the music director and there was a large smile on his face as well.

No, there was no magic potion.  He loved his calling, even when the calling was tough; his excitement for Jesus and creativity in worship was contagious.

And even at a young age, I caught it. 

His ministry to the church often included his family. 

I went on hospital visits with my dad when I was in elementary school.  OK, so it wasn't an amusement park or an ice cream shop, but doing ministry with my dad was so important. 

When we went with him to visit folks who were ill, or when we dropped off a basket of goodies to a family in the church, doing it as a family reinforced to us that we were a part of his ministry.  Although lines between being a dad and being a pastor were present, there were times when those responsibilities overlapped and any possible resentment of his job versus my time with him was eased.  It didn't matter to me whether we were dropping the dog off at the vet, grabbing McDonald's, or visiting someone with cancer, just being with my dad was important.  And I believe he understood that. 

It meant something to be a part of what he was called to.  So, when we'd pray at dinner, he would include in his prayers the people in the church.  And then we too, even as children, were a part of  ministering to those particular people.  And as my younger sister developed in her musically abilities, he asked her to write music for the Christmas services at church with the hopes that her talents would be used to minister to the congregation.

I even remember driving around in the car after school, and dad would hand me pictures of all the new members asking me to quiz him on their names.  I was a part of that responsibility of his, and although I beat him nine times out of ten when it came to the names of folks, I would actually know who they were when I saw them at church the next Sunday, bringing me into an aspect of his ministry.  Incidentally, I never told the new folks about the flash cards, but how funny would that have been:  "You made it into the 'kept missing' pile.  We'll see how long it takes for you to move to the 'memorized pile.'" 

He wasn't perfect, but dad tried hard to prayerfully do what he could to keep us from resenting Christ's Bride, the church.  For the many potential full-time ministry folks (at least you're not  "potential kids;" it could be worse), be encouraged.  There are many stories like mine of "PK's" who grew to love the church as much as their parents did.

In his diary, my dad wrote these words: 

"I pray for my girls every day that God will protect them, give them a thirst for Him, a hunger for His Word, and a passion for worship.  I pray each day that God will provide them with godly husbands and that He will keep them from rebellion and temptation.  God has so faithfully answered my feeble prayers for my three precious girls.  They love the Lord and His church.  I am so proud of them.  I hope that the Lord grants me the grace to spend many more years with them on this earth.  They are so much fun to be around." 

Praise God for your prayers, dad. 

And now that we've produced three "PK's" that keep us constantly on our toes, I echo this prayer every single day:  Lord, keep them close. In spite of our failures, we feebly pray that they will always love you and love your church.  Amen.