For the month of March, each day I am writing and posting a slice of my life, hosted by Two Writing Teachers.
Slice of Life #22: Day 29/31:
Rambling Autobiography of a Pastor's Kid (PK)
As a child of a United Methodist minister, I was a PK - that is, a pastor’s kid. I grew up in parsonages. This meant that we lived in a house owned by the church my dad served. Most of the homes were nice and well-maintained, but we had to go through a church committee to make changes (for even simple things like painting walls). For this reason, I couldn't tack Bop posters of stars like Kirk Cameron on my walls like all of my friends did. Mom and Dad were insistent that we took care of the parsonage as best as we could and to leave it nicer for the next pastor and their family who lived there. We moved about every five years, and I forever felt like the new kid.
In church, we usually had to sit towards the front of the sanctuary. As a kindergartner and well through third grade, I was often told to sit like a lady and to stop my incessant chatter. I was scolded not to turn around and look at others during service. As Dad delivered the weekly sermon, my mom kept me occupied by handing me a church bulletin and a pencil. She would select a letter. Next I circled as many of said letter that I could find. Later she taught me the Dots game. When I got to be around fifth grade I was able to help out in the church nursery during the church service, which I gladly accepted.
Our family sometimes had church members over for dinner. It was not unusual for my parents to host a church meeting in our living room. On those occasions, my siblings and I were required to be on our best behavior and made polite conversation with folks decades older than we were. Sometimes I was asked to play the piano or flute for guests.
I was raised on huge potluck dinners and ice cream socials following service in the church basement. At least once a month we stood in a long line that snaked all the way back to Sunday School rooms. We began nearly every potluck dinner with the Johnny Appleseed Grace. I particularly enjoyed all of the marshmallow jello salads, homemade breads, and tater tot casseroles.
My dad was rarely home on weeknights since it seemed like he always had meetings at church. By the time I was school age, if my mom had something going on, I was sent to church with my dad. This meant that I got to play hide and seek or race with my siblings or friends in the sanctuary, trying not to get scolded by the elders. When I was asked to hang out in my dad's office, I loved looking at the collection of Bibles, crosses, meaningful gifts and handwritten notes from parishioners. An assortment of stoles were always hanging in the corner of his office. I liked to feel the heavy fabric against my skin.
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This was a cross that hung in my dad's office, a cross his mother gave him soon after he was ordained.
It now hangs in my house. |
From about second grade through eleventh grade, I went to church camp for at least one week every summer. By far, it was my favorite week of the year. I loved camp fires, swimming in the lake, singing songs, and taking hikes. Each year I returned home with tons of mosquito bites, sunburn, and religiously themed crafts. From the summer after my senior year of high school to the senior year before college, I worked at the same church camp as a summer staff member. I still have the best memories of spending my summers on staff.
There were definitely times that I didn't appreciate being a PK. I didn't love that most people made unfair assumptions of who I was. I was often held to a higher standard than many other kids who went to the same church. I didn't love that nearly everything was influenced by the church schedule. However, both of my parents were (and still are) loving and generous people. I was surrounded by kind families and easily saw what being a part of a community meant.
