Such was my reaction fifteen years ago when my husband, Luke,
told me he felt God was leading him into the gospel ministry. Even
though I supported him wholeheartedly, I naively believed this calling
was somehow just his gig. My job was simply to accompany him
while he did his "thing."
Reality didn't hit until a wellmeaning gentleman enlightened
me on the expectations of a minister's wife. He said, "The best thing
you can do for Luke is learn how to play the piano. He'll have a
much easier time being called as a pastor of a church. Congregations
love it when the pastor's wife can contribute. It's like they are getting
two for one!" If I knew then what I know now, I would have had a
serious fight with the flesh to keep from sharing my thoughts on the
buy-one-get-one-free concept.
The restraint of the Holy Spirit is a beautiful thing.
Before that moment, it truly had not entered my mind that anyone
would expect anything of me, or that my lack of musical talent
could affect my husband's ((success" in ministry. I thought of my
childhood pastor's wife, a grim-faced woman whose hair was piled
high in a bun. Polyester skirts and sensible shoes were her standard
uniform. And, yes, she played the piano. Was this the person I must
become in order for God to use our family in ministry?
Talk about an Extreme Makeover!
We moved to Kentucky so Luke could attend Bible college. The
first thing I did was to begin comparing myself to every woman on
campus who no doubt was doing the exact same thing. The question
we were all asking ourselves? ((What in the world does a preacher's
wife do?" Our husbands were getting an education on how to become
ministers while we were left to wonder how we figured into the equation.
I found my answer in an overzealous, pharisaic overhaul of the
externals. I began wearing clothes I wouldn't have been caught dead
in before mostly suited for three times my twenty-two years of age.
I tamed my '80s hair. I calmed my type A personality by yielding
in conversation and becoming more reserved. I baked casseroles for
every surgery and every baby born. The word that guided my reinvention
was Martha. Not the Martha of Scripture, mind you, but
Martha Stewart. (Now that I think of it, there isn't much difference,
is there?)
It also did not help that the books I read about being a ministry
wife only reinforced my insecurities. The advice ranged from how to
brew a perfect cup of tea for a ladies' luncheon to how to organize a
large staff when hosting a dinner party. According to these books, I
was to be gracious at all times, keep a spotless home, and have welldressed,
obedient children. I'm certainly not criticizing these noble
aspirations, but even before children I was completely overwhelmed
at this picture of perfection. I don't agree with the busyness of our
culture, yet there is no use in denying I often fall prey to its trappings.
The truth is, I am a wife and mother deep in the trenches. The
only tea I brew is Lipton. And staff? Are you kidding me? If I ever
have a workforce at my disposal, they will be too busy doing laundry
to prepare a dinner for the deacons. And where do I begin with the
kids? Someone please tell me what to do with a child who sneaks his
Halloween costume under his clothes, strips off in the bathroom,
and shakes hands as Spiderman during the greeting song when he is
supposed to be in children's church. Susanna Wesley would definitely
not approve.
