The Preacher’s Kid

It was inevitable. I just had to wait. What day was this? Saturday? Yep, on Monday it would be all over except for the crying. And crying there would be. Monday would be my first day of high school and the dreaded words would either be whispered behind my back or if there were a particularly bold imp, right to my face. Preacher’s Kid.

Preacher’s Kid, or PK to those in the know. Most people are definitely not in the know. Were that so, my life might have been spared a bit of grief. PK was a bit less in your face.  

 It hadn’t always been that way. When I was getting ready to start the third grade, my mother married Hal, a Methodist minister. Hal was a happy, portly man that I took to right away. He moved myself, my brother, and my mom, to a sleepy little town in Iowa. It didn’t take long for me to realize that because my stepfather was a minister, I was treated a little different. Not by my classmates or friends. Just little things like being a candle lighter, being able to run about the church when no one was there, and helping to print the bulletin’s for the Sunday services. Life was good and I have a lot of fond memories. But, I guess all good things must come to an end. No, that’s a bit overly dramatic. But things did change.

When I was nine, my mother had a baby. He was a beautiful baby and I  adored him. A year later, when I was in the fourth grade, my mother changed. Life wasn’t about going to any of my school programs or my older brothers football games or a myriad of other things the other mother’s did. It all became about a group of people from church that, for the sake of propriety, I’ll call “holy rollers”. It wasn’t unusual for a minister’s wife to host groups at the parsonage, but these meetings were different. Very different.

Let me interject at this point that I’m not bashing people that hold certain religious beliefs. I’m just recounting my story.

The meetings were held in our basement that was basically a whole apartment with a kitchen, bathroom, my older brother’s bedroom and a living room with a fireplace. I loved playing down there and on very rare occasions, I was allowed to have a sleepover and it was a great place for a bunch of little girls to mess up. But when it was time for the prayer meetings, as they were called, I hated it.It was to be avoided at all costs.

The meetings usually started with small talk, then singing and reading from the Bible. That was cool with me. After all, that’s what we did in church. But then, I recall they started speaking in languages I had never heard before. What was a ten year old girl supposed to think? I can tell you. It scared the hell out of me. But, there were even scarier things to come. 

It’s funny, I can recall all kinds of good times with my brother’s and my friends. I remember it was my stepfather that attended my school events, got me two rabbits, my first nice bike, and even was the one to come pick me up from grade school when I got my period. I can remember so many things. I just have no memories of my mother, other than doling out the chores. And the prayer meetings.

When I was in the fifth grade, the prayer meetings changed. Now, on top of the speaking in tongues and visions, they became an opportunity to cast demons out of each other. So now, on top of everything else, I was told there were demons everywhere that caused disease, bad behavior, and that they could get into you at any given moment if you helped them in. I wasn’t allowed to watch The Wizard of Oz because, of course, there were witches in it. I was petrified and just kept all of my fears to myself. My stepfather didn’t take part in the meetings. I recall a lot of babysitters for my little brother, and my older brother being away from the house a lot. God, I was scared. 

But life just moved on.

Towards the end of the sixth grade, when all my friends and I were only talking about going into junior high, I was informed that we were moving. We were moving to a bigger town, and Hal would have a bigger church. I’m not positive, but I think my mother’s reputation had something to do with the move. I was heartbroken. I wouldn’t be going to junior high with my friends. I would be losing my friends. My brother elected to stay with a friends family to go to his senior year of school. I cried and cried when I found out. When we pulled away from my beloved town, my brother waving goodbye, my mother didn’t shed a tear. I truly think she didn’t care. Why should I think any different?

The town we moved to was much bigger. It even had a pool! Our new home was much larger, the church was huge, and I quickly became excited to begin this new adventure. We moved there in the early summer, so I met friends that went to my church. I also met my first boyfriend. More on that a little later. The summer went by quickly and it was time to start school. This was the beginning of the end. Full circle to the beginning of my story.

Being the new girl in town, I garnered quite the attention when school started. I was popular. I became a cheerleader, my boyfriend was on the basketball team, I started band playing the clarinet, and sang competitively. My first year of junior high flew by and I was looking forward to swimming and riding around town on bikes with my friends. I was also heavily involved with my youth group at church. I really enjoyed time with my youth group, especially since my boyfriend went to the same church. I remember my first little tentative, quick kiss on a hay rack ride. I was happy. But once again, things would change.

It was about the middle of the eighth grade that my mother started her prayer groups again. Word quickly spread, and the next thing I knew, I was no longer a popular girl with lots of friends. I was an outcast. Worst of all, my mother was being called a witch because of her exorcisms and all that that entailed. So, I became the witches daughter. 

Now, we all know how cruel kids of that age can be. I was persecuted, and it was relentless. I was called terrible names, especially, God forgive, if I had an acne breakout and was called the dreaded pizza face. As always, my mother was MIA, and even if I wanted to, I could never speak badly about all of the work she did for the church. Hell, she couldn’t even bother to teach me how to shave, or curl my hair. Nothing. To top things off, my mother and Hal started fighting. I know it was because of the inattentive attitude towards my little brother and I and her prayer meetings she held at our house. It was the beginning of the darkest time. 

Oddly enough, my boyfriend stayed at my side throughout the eighth grade and the following summer. We used to sneak into the church to spend time together. We would talk about God sometimes. He wasn’t a wildly popular kid, shy, with freckles and quite the unruly head of red hair. He was a good friend. For at least a while longer.

You know, when I was that age, I believed in God, and had sat through more sermons than a lot of people do in a lifetime. But I don’t remember asking for his help or anything. I had given up..Things seemed quite hopeless. So, I started to rebel. I met some girls that were considered bad and started sneaking out of the house and smoking cigarettes. I guess it was better than nothing for an ostracized Preacher’s Kid.

So, now we’re back to the beginning of this story. 

I made it through a torturous first quarter of high school, and came home one day and announced I was not going back to that school and that they couldn’t make me. So, my mother’s solution was to send me packing to go live with my uncle and his six kids in Missouri. Best thing that ever happened to me.

My uncle was a circuit court judge in the very big city we lived in, but outside of court he was kind and loving and did everything for his kids. I loved him because he treated me exactly as one of his own. No more, or no less loving. 

As it happened, he was a layman at our church and very involved with the youth group. He would take us to retreats some weekend’s and we would have a blast. I felt like I belonged. I felt loved and my cousin’s and I were fiercely protective of each other. My uncle had also instilled in me the importance of God in my life. Thank you Uncle Don.

I wish I could tell you that for the many years following that I was happy and that all of my dreams had come true. But I can’t. It was hard and tumultuous, and sometimes I was just loss. But I never forgot the lesson’s about love and kindness I was taught all those years ago. Did I still get mad at God for the bad hand I was dealt in my formative years? You bet! But, I always knew something deep in my heart.

The bottom line is, as many times as I’ve cried and prayed and thought I was forgotten and forsaken, I never was. 

Thank you God. Thanks an awful lot.