Rain, Wildflowers, Conversation and Crickets
Cherishing my vocation as a pastor's wife and finding quiet moments in the summertime rush
Hello, dear readers. It’s been a much busier June than I anticipated in mid-May, when I looked with fervent anticipation at the first week of post-school life. Aside from some gardening and long-overdue housecleaning projects, I hoped—rather naively, I see now—for a breath of time before the beginning of our summer season. Then that week filled up with appointments and lessons and dinners, practices and last-minute rendezvous. A fine mix of business and social life, to be sure, but not quite the easy, laid-back time I’d envisioned.
Then our home filled with beloved guests for the first annual Christian Culture Conference hosted by Luther Classical College, a wonderful time of hearing thoughtful, engaging speakers, reconnecting with old friends, and meeting new acquaintances from around the country. As my pastor husband and I have learned, any time a conference or something like it gathers Lutherans from multiple corners, the midnight oil burns bright, sleep comes in short supply, and we come away with priceless memories, even as we need some recovery. We didn’t get much, though, because the annual Pastors’ Wives Retreat for the Wyoming District of the LCMS began just a day after the LCC conference. But this PW wasn’t about to miss that yearly reunion and getaway, so I bunked with a great friend and had yet another delightful time hearing from a lovely speaker (hi, Rosie!) and swapping stories with women whose wisdom and experience always brings me encouragement and gratitude.
It’s no secret that being a pastor’s wife can be difficult. To deny the role’s challenges would be foolish and detrimental to my Christian faith. I’ve learned, over time and with the insights of others, that there’s an art to the spiritual discipline of when and how to share burdens. I’m reminded of the time I took our eldest to a kind of mom-and-tot gathering. He got to play with other kids in a supervised environment, and we moms got to visit. I was shocked to discover, though, that a critical mass of the experienced moms took the majority of the visiting time to criticize their husbands and complain about their lives. I wasn’t surprised that other moms held frustrations and grievances. I was surprised that they were sharing them in such a forum, with at least a few complete strangers, and in such a way, with biting sarcasm and evident bitterness. It made me sad that these women carried so much aggravation that they thought it fitting to spill their guts. I wondered that they were so lacking in conscientiousness as they criticized their marriages to some of us who were so newly to wedded life. Did they want us to hate our husbands too? I realized that some of them, unfortunately, probably did. When some of us younger women tried to speak positively about ways our husbands were serving us and our children, albeit imperfectly, some of the older women would actually scoff. I learned fast that this was par for the course for such gatherings, and I didn’t return after a few visits.
Thankfully, my PW retreat experiences have been largely void of such animosity. I’ve been PW retreats in Nebraska and South Dakota, and now here in Wyoming, and they’ve all been edifying. Yes, we ladies shed tears over our experiences or those of our sister kin. And yes, we also express frustrations sometimes, and yes, sometimes those frustrations involve our husbands. I’m sure we have sinned in our sharing sometimes. I also know there has been a healthy measure of Christian charity and self-awareness, and straight-up repentance, that was lacking those mom-and-tot times. We PWs know our husbands are sinners, and we are too, for sure and for certain, and Christ died for sinners.
Anne Shirley had it wrong about pastors’ wives, when she spoke glowingly about Mrs. Allan, the Rev. Allan’s wife. Anne believed that “one would have to be naturally good [to be a pastor’s wife] and I’ll never be good, so I suppose there’s no good in thinking about it.” All good PWs I know would laugh at Anne’s mistaken understanding and instantly categorize themselves in the Mrs. Lynde PW rejection camp, the ones who are “full of original sin.” Even Mrs. Allan would, since she told Anne that “she was a dreadful mischief when she was a girl and was always getting into scrapes.” Thank God in Christ that our Lord has mercy on all of us sinners. And He also works wonders, sometimes powerful and hilarious ones, in women who are mightily imperfect, and many of whom never wanted to marry a pastor or never saw the possibility coming. “Never say never,” I heard more than one PW say this last week, as she ruefully remembered times in her life when she confidently asserted that she’d never do this, or never submit to that, or never go through a particular trial again. Humble pie can be hard to choke down, no less for PWs than for anyone else.
But pastors’ wives do need to talk to each other, and condole, in the old use of the term, in trying times of bearing crosses. And free and clear conversation, without any specific purpose or goal, can be a healing balm, the way rains can wash away dusty surfaces. The rain in this late Wyoming spring has been positively Midwestern, as the daily storms have brought back my childhood memories of praying for sunshine or even mere clouds during summer days. Rain makes possible front porch rocking, though, and thoughtful times. I enjoyed that at the PW retreat, and in small moments with one or two children at a time this past week as we took short walks or bike rides between softball games and basketball camps and eye doctor appointments and organ rehearsing and the daily bustle of life. Rain brings an abundance of wildflowers and the bright singing of crickets. Sure, it also brings muddy shoes and dampened spirits. But who would be short-sighted enough to ditch rain? God showers goodness on us, even as we muck about and complain all too often. The rain, and the wildflowers, and the good conversations, and the lively crickets bring us beauty and life.
Our youngest daughter loves picking flowers, and since the beautiful annuals and perennials in cultured beds and porch pots are off-limits, we’ve taken to picking wildflowers that grow along a nearby walking trail. It takes only a few minutes, and her delight is great when we bring home small bunches to refill vases. When we look at the flowers, and bend to pick them, we are regaled with the song of the crickets, which we can only hear when we’re moving slowly and relatively quietly. That moment of listening is a gift, too.
I’m learning to appreciate rain that can cancel things, or change plans, because other beauties emerge in its fresh wake. It’s a snapshot of life. As one PW tearfully said at the retreat about our hard and wonderful vocation, “We get to love people.” She was deeply thankful, and she was right. To borrow from Robert Louis Stevenson, rain may keep raining and others go roam, but I can be happy and thankful at home, with small blessings. They are there for us all, if we look for them.