Beloved:

I was a pastor’s wife for many years. Back then, there were certain expectations for pastor’s wives. Number one: you always stood by your man after church. Number two: you taught Sunday School. Number three: you sang in the choir, or, even better, played the piano and directed the choir. Number four: entertained people in your home. A lot. Number five: always looked put together. Number six: provided a free work force for your husband and the congregation. Number seven: keep the home fires burning, so your husband could concentrate on the important work of the church. There were some things that I managed to do fairly well in this role. However, for the most part, I don’t think I lived up to the congregations’ expectations for the most part.

Times have changed—for the most part. Most women work outside the home. And not all pastor’s wives are women. In seminary, when the schedule of life and church work all got to be a bit much, my women colleagues and I would commiserate that what we really needed was a pastor’s wife. Someone who could handle the worries of life while we could just concentrate on the needs of the congregation and the mission of the church.

I am thankful that pastor’s spouses are not expected to do and be all the things that were assumed “back in the day.” There was a lot of guilt, lack of privacy, overblown personal costs in that role. I can remember one day in particular: I had the car loaded and the kids buckled in ready to drive off on vacation, and the phone rang. Yeesh! To answer, or not to answer? I answered. It was a parishioner in crisis, needing my husband. Resentment welled up in my heart, as I selfishly prayed that it wouldn’t derail our trip. I quickly squashed such unworthy feelings, but still. Other times, I can recall getting phone calls from the funeral home wanting to talk to my husband, and if I didn’t know, I would get chewed out for not knowing. It could be a very strange life sometimes.

Memories and failures aside. Can I just say, that I think my husband, Michael, is so much better at being a pastor’s wife than I ever was?

Stick with me here. He isn’t the model of elegance or throw tea parties, he doesn’t play the piano, he doesn’t teach Sunday School, and he doesn’t do the meal planning. First, he is his own person. I tried to be, back then. And sometimes I managed it. Eventually, I created my own space, at the risk of a lot of pushback. But my husband, is his own person. I love that. What he does as my partner, as a part of the congregation, and an extension of whatever ministry happens here, is his own choice. He does not feel obligated to fulfill a certain role or societal expectation. Second, he is my rock. He holds me emotionally, and prayerfully in a way that makes it possible for me to keep going on those rocky days when the world seems to be spinning out of control. I can count on him. I trust him. And he knows when everything has just become too much. (And he likes my sermons…extra credit points) Third, he does indeed keep the home fires burning. Not the way I thought I had two back when I was a pastor’s wife. But I know I can count on clean underwear in the drawer and an emergency grocery run as needed. He has been known to have an uncanny knack for when I might need a glass of wine waiting by my chair when I get home after an exhausting day. AND, he prepares my coffee the night before, so when I get up before him, my coffee is only a button push away. Fourth, how many pastor’s wives will fill in for their spouses on a Sunday morning when they wake up with pneumonia? Just saying.

Marriage is hard. Ministry is hard. None of us is perfect. But today, as I awake to a new day, I just had to take a few minutes to celebrate this man to whom I am in partnership to say, that he is a much better pastor’s wife, er, husband, that I ever was. Thanks Michael!

Blessings!

Pastor Nancy

Beloved:

The “big” girl rode her bicycle in circles in the parking lot of their apartment building. Two “little” girls watching in admiration. The older girl was all of six, but earned the admiration of the littles by the simple mathematics of childhood– she was in school and could ride a bike without training wheels. On this particular afternoon, the big(ish) girl was testing her power. She would circle around to her admirers, who sat watching from the curb, testing their loyalty by soliciting votes. The girls on the curb were required to raise their hands (which all those who went to school knew was the best way to vote) when she called out a question: “Who likes…” There was only one way to earn her praise—by raising their hands at the correct moment.

Innocent enough when the questions were things like: “Who likes chocolate ice cream?” But after a couple of rounds, the questions got trickier. “Who likes me best?” Uh, okay…we do? And then, the show stopper, “Who hates Jenny?” Jenny was apparently out of the bicycle rider’s good books (I’ll call her Carol). Carol continued riding around in circles shouting out questions to her two acolytes. “Who hates Jenny?” she called again. The little girls looked confused. The questions had been easy and fun up until this moment. Do we raise our hands for this one? Jenny isn’t here, after all, and Carol is.

The above is a story from my early childhood. I remember sitting on the curb next to one of the other girls who lived in our apartment complex, watching the older girl ride her bicycle. I remember the game. And I remember the last question. I can’t remember whether we raised our hands or not. It is too painful to contemplate. But my guess is, that we did. I don’t know that either of us even knew the maligned Jenny, but I know we wanted the approval of Carol. We wanted to be noticed. We wanted to be included in her game. We couldn’t have been more than four years old. The memory haunts me.

Human beings want to belong. And belonging is a good and healthy thing. But, when belonging comes at the cost of declaring someone else to be the leper, the unclean, the unworthy, the outsider, the enemy—then it may be time to rethink our definition of belonging. In anxious times, human beings find it easier to circle the wagons, draw the boundary, set the rules for membership in ways that will keep us feeling safe. Then, when things go wrong, we can place the blame on those outside our own circle.

Today, people from all over our Methodist connection are gathering in St. Louis for the special called General Conference. Our representatives will look at the recommendations of the Commission on the Way Forward, and the Council of Bishops. In some ways, the voting (that will occur before everyone heads home next week), comes down to a single issue: How wide are we willing to draw the circle? Of course, it is more complicated than that. But, none of that really matters at this point. The lines have been drawn, as they have been drawn, and redrawn for millennia.

On that day, so many decades ago, I was as confused as any four year old could possibly be when I was asked to choose who would be loved and who would be hated. And though I could not possibly have named what I believed in that moment, something shifted in my little four-year-old self. I would never knowingly “raise my hand” to exclude anyone again.

I hope you will pray for the church this week. We will have the candles and kneeler ready in the sanctuary if you want to come in to light a candle and pray, or just pray wherever you happen to be. I will be around if you want to talk and process. It will be difficult to figure out how much of the action you want to follow online. It will be easy to get sucked in by the drama, the tension, the overflowing emotions. Take care of yourselves. And, on March the 3^rd, when everyone has returned home, and the dust has settled, we will worship together and receive communion around the table. Whatever the outcome. And then we will continue being the church that God continually calls us to grow into—to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and those in prison—and proclaim the love of God to a world in need of true belonging. And, beloved, we will be drawing the circle wide.

Blessings and peace, Pastor Nancy

O, Holy Night

The last of the Christmas Eve crowd headed down the front steps of the church. Snow was beginning to fall.  I hoped it would be the “decorative” kind—the kind that looks pretty, but that doesn’t get in the way of those who have to be out in it. A little cosmetic snow was always a pleasant addition to the Silent Night ambiance.

From the open doorway of the church, I could see the Christmas lights shining from across the street through the windows at the parsonage. My son Devin, who was home visiting, would be setting out snacks on the plates filled with treats and cookies we had prepared earlier. We would put on some soft music and pour a celebratory glass of wine as I started the great unwinding that comes when the last service is finished. Mike would be home from his services in an hour or so. His congregations were over the mountains, and I hoped the 60-plus mile drive over the pass didn’t give him any trouble. The snow was starting to look like it meant business.

The joys of being a two-pastor family! Living in a conference that is sparsely populated meant that for most of our married life thus far we had lived in separate towns. Mike’s two churches were only an hour or so away, but one of the primary forms of pastoral ministry requires physical presence. Mike had a little house in Superior, and I lived in the parsonage in Stevensville. We had originally planned to alternate days off in terms of who visited the other—but eventually it was Mike who did most of the driving. My congregation was a bit higher maintenance. It was during this season of our life together that I became a Christmas minimalist. There just never seemed to be enough time and energy to do the little extras that are such a delightful part of the holidays—baking, decorating, entertaining, attending parties. My mantra became: “All I want for Christmas is a clean house.” (Come to think of it, I still say that every year.)

Our lives were not totally devoid of tradition, however. The weeks before Christmas were so hectic, we would just put our heads down and go—and then suddenly, after the last Silent Night faded into the darkness, everything just stopped abruptly. All we wanted to do was come home to each other.  It might be 11:00 or 12:00 o’clock before we managed it, but that never mattered. Whoever arrived home first would put together plates of goodies. What kind of plates they were on, and how decoratively they were arranged was also dependent on which spouse made it to the kitchen first.  If any of our loved ones were home, they would join us as we decompressed, ate, had a celebratory glass of wine, and opened packages. This year, Devin was the only one home, Judy-dear had stayed in Missoula to attend her church’s service.

I was just re-checking the lights in the sanctuary, when Don, one of my helpers for the evening, came around the corner to tell me I had a phone call. Uh, oh. It was not looking good for getting into my comfy clothes and relaxing. As I walked toward my office, I was crossing fingers and toes that this would be a “little” emergency that wouldn’t require me to jump in my car and drive the 30 miles into one of the hospitals in Missoula.

I was surprised to recognize the voice of a former parishioner, named Dennis. He and his wife had moved a couple of years ago, and were now part of one of Mike’s congregations. It took a beat or two for my brain to catch up with my ears. Mike, my Mike, was in the Emergency Room at the small community hospital in Superior. During the service, Mike had begun acting strangely—repeating scriptures and carols he had already led. Eventually, one of the church folks, who was also an emergency responder, gently led him off the chancel area. The call ended as Dennis gave me the phone number of the emergency room.

After a quick phone call to the charge nurse, I finished locking up, and headed across the street to grab a coat and tell Devin what was going on. He volunteered to come with me. I don’t know what I would have done without him.

On a clear day, it took us about an hour to drive between my church and his church in Superior. Tonight, there was not much in the way of traffic, but the snow was now blowing toward the windshield like the Millennial Falcon wheezing into warp speed. I drove, because I needed to do something, to have some sense of control. Pastors see people in pretty scary circumstances, we therefore know more than is probably good for us. My mind raced through worst possible scenarios.  The nurse had tried to be reassuring on the phone, saying he was disoriented and confused. It didn’t appear to be a stroke, but they were going to run some tests.

We drove mostly in silence, the radio, turned down low, was tuned to Christmas music. By the time we drove through Missoula, the traffic lights had already flipped to flashing mode. The streets were eerily empty. The pass was icy and slow going. I slowed down only enough to keep from slipping on the curves.

When we got to the ER, Mike was sitting up in bed, surrounded by several of his flock. He grinned when he saw me, trying for what I can only think of as insouciance. (It didn’t work.) His parishioners told me the story from their perspective, and Mike couldn’t really remember any of it. As we waited for the doctor, those who had been at the service took turns coming in to check on him.

After what I am sure felt much longer than it actually was, the doctor came in to tell us that he was still not quite sure what had happened. The only way to absolutely rule out a stroke was to take an MRI. That would mean driving him to a larger hospital in Missoula.

This time, Devin took the wheel, and I sat in the back seat with Mike. As we turned onto the freeway, he asked:

“Where is my wallet?”

“I have it right here.”

“Okay.”

A moment later:

“Where is my truck? Do you have the keys?”

“We left it at the church, we will come back for it later.”

Silence.

“Have you seen my wallet? Do you know where my wallet is?”

“Yes, honey, I’ve got it right here.”

“Okay. Where are my truck keys?”

Like a record with an invisible scratch, we bounced back again and again to a loop of anxiety and uncertainty. My heart flattened in panic. I tried to reply to each query as if hearing it for the first time. What if the Michael I knew was not coming back?

Superior Community Hospital had called the ER in Missoula to expect us. It didn’t take them long to get him in a room and pop him in bed. And then we waited. It was, after all Christmas Eve—scratch that, “Christmas Day.” We were in for a long wait.

There aren’t very many people I would feel comfortable calling at 12:30 a.m. on Christmas morning, my dear friend Judy is one of them. She was 10 minutes away from the hospital—but I think she made it there is five. The four of us, Judy, Devin, Me, and a still-groggy Mike sat in semi-darkness and waited together. Devin and Judy returned to her place to put together some snacks and coffee—if we were to be up all night, we might as well be well-nourished.

At some point in those timeless hours, we became aware of the sound of weeping coming from the room next door.  Our pastor reflexes twitched on. Some family, one whose name and circumstances we would never know, had lost a loved one. There was no comfort we could give. We held each other’s hand and held them in prayer together. For that family, and how many others, would every future Christmas now be etched by excruciating loss.

When Judy and Devin returned we sipped our hot coffee and nibbled on snacks as we kept vigil together. Eventually, I talked them into going to Judy’s to try to grab at least a couple of hours of sleep. Daylight brought twanging muscles from trying to doze in the chair for me and a battery of tests for Mike. By mid-day, the doctors had ruled out stroke, Transient Ischemic Attack (TIA), and most of the terrifying potentialities that had been running as a continuous loop in my head. Mike’s symptoms gradually faded. The diagnosis, via process of elimination, was Transient Global Amnesia. It is a rather mysterious condition, no one is sure what causes it. But the hospitalist believed Mike would make a full recovery, and he would likely never be troubled by another episode.

When we left the hospital in the early afternoon, the snow had stopped, and the sun struck sparks of light in the fresh snow. We headed home and after tucking Mike into bed, I climbed in to join him. The dogs, wondering where we had been, but always ready for a nap, joined us.

I have absolutely no memory of the rest of that day. It wasn’t the Christmas we had prepared for, but then again, neither was that first one.

O holy night the stars are brightly shining

It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth

Long lay the world in sin and error pining

Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new glorious morn

Fall on your knees

O hear the angels’ voices

O night divine

O night when Christ was born

O night divine o night

O night divine

Blessings, Pastor Nancy