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.