Over the next few weeks, I wanna share excerpts from my book with you. And please note, all the material is copyrighted. May it be a blessing...
Introduction
This book is written from the viewpoint of a pastor’s wife. But please don’t let that scare you off. It has been in process for years, with the heart of every pastor’s wife at its core. But the more I thought and prayed and researched, the more the Lord revealed that the freedom these pages are intended to bring is for everyone. Anyone who feels lost: the stay-at-home mom who gave up a lucrative career to change poopie diapers. The executive who wonders what became of the woman who used to want kids, and now faces her autumn years without her own family. The prostitute who hears, every day, who she is to be and what she is to do, but knows deep down that life could be different. Maybe you just want to get to know your pastor’s wife a little better—get inside her heart and mind and see how you can help her. This book is for you. Yes, pastors’ wives are at its core, but the message herein can bring freedom to all who want it.
Disclaimer:
I am not callous to the fact that some pastors are women, but for the sake of simplicity I refer to pastors as men, acknowledging the fact that most clergy are indeed of the masculine gender.
You’ll also find a number of tongue-in-cheek comments, releasing some of my satirical tendencies. If you are the Redeemed of Christ, then there is no cause to be offended. Wise old King Solomon knew this. One of his proverbs says, “A man’s wisdom gives him patience; it is to his glory to overlook an offense” (Proverbs 19:11). Political correctness is evidence of a weak societal backbone, and I refuse to get sucked in. We are called to speak the truth, remembering that that truth needs to be, “Always full of grace, seasoned with salt” (Colossians 4:6a).
Chapter One
Introduction
This book is written from the viewpoint of a pastor’s wife. But please don’t let that scare you off. It has been in process for years, with the heart of every pastor’s wife at its core. But the more I thought and prayed and researched, the more the Lord revealed that the freedom these pages are intended to bring is for everyone. Anyone who feels lost: the stay-at-home mom who gave up a lucrative career to change poopie diapers. The executive who wonders what became of the woman who used to want kids, and now faces her autumn years without her own family. The prostitute who hears, every day, who she is to be and what she is to do, but knows deep down that life could be different. Maybe you just want to get to know your pastor’s wife a little better—get inside her heart and mind and see how you can help her. This book is for you. Yes, pastors’ wives are at its core, but the message herein can bring freedom to all who want it.
Disclaimer:
I am not callous to the fact that some pastors are women, but for the sake of simplicity I refer to pastors as men, acknowledging the fact that most clergy are indeed of the masculine gender.
You’ll also find a number of tongue-in-cheek comments, releasing some of my satirical tendencies. If you are the Redeemed of Christ, then there is no cause to be offended. Wise old King Solomon knew this. One of his proverbs says, “A man’s wisdom gives him patience; it is to his glory to overlook an offense” (Proverbs 19:11). Political correctness is evidence of a weak societal backbone, and I refuse to get sucked in. We are called to speak the truth, remembering that that truth needs to be, “Always full of grace, seasoned with salt” (Colossians 4:6a).
Chapter One
A PRECONCEIVED NOTION
I said I’d never marry a pastor or a farmer. I don’t have a clue where my ideas were formed. They just kind of...were. I know it was when I was a young teen for sure, if not earlier. My concepts of pastors and farmers weren’t based on any specific people, but the seed was there nonetheless.
I mean, come on, think about it. Farmers know how to work. Period. Their mouths have never uttered the words play, vacation, or fun. They certainly don’t know how to take a day off. And a sizeable nest egg? Right. Not likely. Same goes for pastors. Preaching, visiting sick people, having missionaries over for dinner. Boring. And their dress code? Pathetic. No self-respecting teenager, or kid of any age for that matter, would want to be seen walking with a man frumped into a really bad blue suit complete with starched white collar and a humungoe knotted tie. Oooew. And remember that nest egg? Nope, they don’t either. Kinda makes one wanna forgive their dress code. It’s not really their fault— they can’t afford cable or Starchoice. They can’t buy O magazine to see what next season’s fashion will be. And I don’t think they would even wander into a mall, what with all the ungodliness going on.
Now before you slam this book down, incensed at how unfeeling and stereotypical I am, please consider: this was my teenage-years thought process.
I said I’d never marry a pastor or a farmer. I don’t have a clue where my ideas were formed. They just kind of...were. I know it was when I was a young teen for sure, if not earlier. My concepts of pastors and farmers weren’t based on any specific people, but the seed was there nonetheless.
I mean, come on, think about it. Farmers know how to work. Period. Their mouths have never uttered the words play, vacation, or fun. They certainly don’t know how to take a day off. And a sizeable nest egg? Right. Not likely. Same goes for pastors. Preaching, visiting sick people, having missionaries over for dinner. Boring. And their dress code? Pathetic. No self-respecting teenager, or kid of any age for that matter, would want to be seen walking with a man frumped into a really bad blue suit complete with starched white collar and a humungoe knotted tie. Oooew. And remember that nest egg? Nope, they don’t either. Kinda makes one wanna forgive their dress code. It’s not really their fault— they can’t afford cable or Starchoice. They can’t buy O magazine to see what next season’s fashion will be. And I don’t think they would even wander into a mall, what with all the ungodliness going on.
Now before you slam this book down, incensed at how unfeeling and stereotypical I am, please consider: this was my teenage-years thought process.
Nope. Never gonna marry a pastor or a farmer.
Have you heard the adage, “Never say never?” It’s true. Believe me. Whenever I tell someone I’m married to a pastor, with a bit of farmer thrown in, I tell them, “It’s true: never say never!”
Have you heard the adage, “Never say never?” It’s true. Believe me. Whenever I tell someone I’m married to a pastor, with a bit of farmer thrown in, I tell them, “It’s true: never say never!”
I met Dan in grade twelve at Prairie High School. Our senior class
was divided into secret angel pairs. Dan was my secret angel. This anonymous person would give me encouragement notes, cookies, posters
and bookmarks. Before spring break he left a huge black forest cake at
the office. Being called down to the office during chemistry class was an
unexpected pleasure. Sorry, Mr. Unger. My classmates began drooling
as I hoisted the gooey monstrosity onto a desk, stunned at the benevolence of my stranger.
Two-and-a-half months after the gifts began, I found out who he was. The clue? He had something in common with the leader of the free world. He was, I finally guessed, our class president, Dan Carlaw. Soon after all was revealed, I started hanging around the guy. He was nice enough, and certainly knew how to spoil a girl. I wasn’t twitterpated or anything. He was just a nice guy. Even though I’d spent two years in the same hallways with him, I hadn’t noticed him before. Well, not really. I saw him once, giving a speech as to why I should vote for him for class president. I voted for the other guy. A couple months later my best friend Marlene pointed him out, our humble president hanging off the back of the campus garbage truck, a true servant indeed. And in the midst of all the angel stuff, he stopped me in the hallway and apologetically asked me how to spell a certain word for his chalkboard announcement. I’ve been spelling for him ever since.
I knew from the get-go that he was destined to be a pastor. His passion for pastoral ministry began at eight years old. That passion never wavered. And throughout our four-year courtship, I battled. I knew what being a pastor’s wife meant. I’d have to play the piano, teach Sunday school, and lead ladies’ Bible study. That definitely was not me! I’d had four Saturdays of organ lessons. To this day I can play five chords. And teaching? I do not like preparing ahead of time. Just ask Dan. He’d write a college paper over two or three weeks. I’d do mine the night before it was due. Without exception I could pull off ten or fifteen percent higher than he could. And then the Bible study. Well, since some unfortunate events in junior high school (that’s another book), women hadn’t exactly been my favorite gender. I figured they were too fake, too backstabbing, and too smiley. Give me a guys’ volleyball team any day. You’re probably beginning to understand why I didn’t think I’d make a good pastor’s wife. But then God started His thing.
Two-and-a-half months after the gifts began, I found out who he was. The clue? He had something in common with the leader of the free world. He was, I finally guessed, our class president, Dan Carlaw. Soon after all was revealed, I started hanging around the guy. He was nice enough, and certainly knew how to spoil a girl. I wasn’t twitterpated or anything. He was just a nice guy. Even though I’d spent two years in the same hallways with him, I hadn’t noticed him before. Well, not really. I saw him once, giving a speech as to why I should vote for him for class president. I voted for the other guy. A couple months later my best friend Marlene pointed him out, our humble president hanging off the back of the campus garbage truck, a true servant indeed. And in the midst of all the angel stuff, he stopped me in the hallway and apologetically asked me how to spell a certain word for his chalkboard announcement. I’ve been spelling for him ever since.
I knew from the get-go that he was destined to be a pastor. His passion for pastoral ministry began at eight years old. That passion never wavered. And throughout our four-year courtship, I battled. I knew what being a pastor’s wife meant. I’d have to play the piano, teach Sunday school, and lead ladies’ Bible study. That definitely was not me! I’d had four Saturdays of organ lessons. To this day I can play five chords. And teaching? I do not like preparing ahead of time. Just ask Dan. He’d write a college paper over two or three weeks. I’d do mine the night before it was due. Without exception I could pull off ten or fifteen percent higher than he could. And then the Bible study. Well, since some unfortunate events in junior high school (that’s another book), women hadn’t exactly been my favorite gender. I figured they were too fake, too backstabbing, and too smiley. Give me a guys’ volleyball team any day. You’re probably beginning to understand why I didn’t think I’d make a good pastor’s wife. But then God started His thing.
I wish I could remember who it was. Names and faces elude me, but
two or three high school and college professors gave me the encouragement that changed my destiny. I shared my misgivings (to put it mildly)
about being a pastor’s wife, and at separate times and in different places,
each one said exactly the same thing to me: “Just be yourself.” It was an
entirely new concept to me. A pastor’s wife who was actually authentic
about who she was? Was that allowed? Was it possible to destroy the
old PW mold and form my own? Would any God-fearing church hire a
man whose wife was, shockingly, “worldlyish?” I liked movies, and not
just Billy Graham ones. I liked music, and had even seen Madonna and
Michael Jackson videos! Gasp! Oh for shame you say. Yup, and I liked
to eat out and I was even looking forward to having sex on my wedding
night. Pastors’ wives couldn’t possibly like sex. That’s why their kids
turn out so rotten right? Mom was grumpy during conception. I just
didn’t fit the mold. “Just be yourself.”
Then it happened. Three-and-a-half years into our relationship, God spoke. Dan was doing his pastoral internship in Lashburn, Saskatchewan. His mentor was upstairs asleep, and I was sitting on the arm of the easy chair Dan was lounging in. In one instant, one God- moment, a physical rush of peace enveloped me. “It’s okay,” God spoke. My mind and my body heard, “It’s okay to marry this guy, pastoral future and all.”
Then it happened. Three-and-a-half years into our relationship, God spoke. Dan was doing his pastoral internship in Lashburn, Saskatchewan. His mentor was upstairs asleep, and I was sitting on the arm of the easy chair Dan was lounging in. In one instant, one God- moment, a physical rush of peace enveloped me. “It’s okay,” God spoke. My mind and my body heard, “It’s okay to marry this guy, pastoral future and all.”
And so I did.
Stay tuned for more from "Breaking the Mold"...
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