In Appreciation: A Note to My Pastor

Today was a big day. 

Pastor Appreciation Day at church. 

Then the celebration of our church plant’s purchase of 20 acres, the first step toward constructing our new church home. 

The first Eucharist service on that property, receiving the Body and Blood in the midst of trees and vines and untouched forest.  

And the day my daughter woke up with a stomach bug. (But that’s another story.) 

It was a big day. 

Today at the property, I briefly glanced at the crowds awaiting both the Eucharist and the holy water with which they would bless the grounds. I noticed them there, warmed and awed by the sense of community among Ascension’s people. 

But mostly I just watched this man in amazement: 

I watched as he prepared the Table, watched him smiling as he worked. I watched him continue to do what he does so well - 

Lead the people toward the vision he's been given for Church of the Ascension. 

I watched my husband, my priest and pastor do the thing he’s dreamed of doing all the years we’ve been married. Honestly, I could’ve cried with joy for him.  

It's always kind of a funny thing to be a clergy wife during Pastor Appreciation Month. He's my husband and my pastor, and I’m totally biased toward him every day of the week. I'm also doubly submitted to him in both marriage and church. And if that idea makes you itch a little, I get it. You can commiserate with the Becki of 20 years ago who shared a similar feeling. 

But the truth for me is this: It’s a light burden to submit to someone who loves you sacrificially. It’s not easy, of course. It's not natural. (Ask my mom if it's natural for me to listen to anybody no matter how well they love me.) 

But when I think of those who labor to submit to domineering, intimidating, overpowering men, I recognize submission to this man is a simpler thing. It’s an honor to follow someone who leads you in the way that’s best for you, too. And Darryl does that as both a husband and as a priest. It's a joy for all of us to be led by someone who's not in it for himself. 

So happy Pastor Appreciation Day to my husband, pastor and priest. I’m always grateful to be your wife. And I’ve never been prouder of you than I was today. 

May you continue to be blessed by the fruitfulness of Ascension, Fr. Darryl. We’re for you, and we’re with you. 

Love, 

Becki 

On Being Alone (Together)

"Love, 

The Three Musketeers (NOT Four Musketeers!)"

Thirty years later, I still remember the end of the breakup note from my three sixth grade friends. I still feel the ache of rejection in my chest. The scalding tears, the self-recrimination, the shame and embarrassment. 

Thirty years later, part of me is still that 12-year-old girl sitting in the corner of her bedroom, back against the door, weeping over her first rejection letter. 

That’s the weird thing about rejection, isn't it? It lives hidden in our memories, quietly locked away in a dusty room. We don't think about it, don't even remember it's there. . . until suddenly we do remember. Triggered by pain, the door flies open like something out of a horror movie, and we find ourselves transported back in time.  

Last week my daughter shared heartbreak over being excluded by her classmates. Most of the kids in her class have been together since pre-K, and my adult brain knows it makes sense for them to be territorial. My adult brain knows they don’t mean anything by ignoring my daughter. My adult brain knows they’re just children themselves. 

But I feel my adolescent anger rise anyway, the voice from that room now railing - 

Who are they to treat you that way? 

Who do they think they are?! 

The adolescent in me shakes a fist at their arrogance, daydreams about marching into the classroom, ready for battle. 

And hearing that raving voice, it’s a struggle to comfort my child, to say instead,  

I’ve been there before. 

I’ve felt rejected, too. 

I know what it’s like not to be chosen, not to be invited, not to be one of the Three Musketeers. 

Let me tell you my story. 

But the mom in me, the adult, knows that’s what she needs to hear - and what I need to hear, too: 

That you’re blessed with other true friendships, 

that you’ll get through this more resilient than before, 

that maybe somehow, ultimately it’s for your good. 

In speaking those words, I feel the calm settle over the 12-year old inside me, too. 

And I remember that sometimes the thing that connects us most is how alone we’ve all felt before. Sometimes the most healing words to hear are also the most painful to share. 

And sometimes the only way to quiet the voice in that hidden room is to open the door, invite her out, and bring her stories to light.

 

Walking this road together, 

Becki