So I paged, not really sure where dad was (a safe guess was and still is; sipping coffee some where and chatting up a crowd :).
He immediately called:
"Oh hey dad, where are you?"
"Hi kid, I'm sitting in an elder's meeting. What's up?"
"Oh dad, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to bother you!"
"It's no big deal! Is everything ok?"
Me, a little more sheepishly, "Yeah, everything is fine... I'm.... just....hungry!"
"Oh ok, well I'm almost done with my meeting and I can swing by Taco Bell and grab you something. Does that sound ok?"
"Sounds perfect, thanks SO MUCH DAD!"
I'll never forget that day, because it solidified what my dad had communicated through many small and large decisions my whole life; I was more important than the church. I was important enough that my dad excused himself from an elder's meeting to answer the page from #5. It wasn't a 911 page, (that's the other code we used for emergencies) it wasn't a page from Val, it wasn't a page from a congregant, it was a page "from the least of these" :)
I cannot even begin to tell you how important this message was for my very young and impressionable heart. At the end of the day, my dad chose me.
We live at the bottom of a hill, and every afternoon if I step outside onto my almost finished front porch, I can hear three recognizable little voices that I cherish beyond words. I can always hear them before I see them, but as soon as my ears soften, my eyes can capture little glimpses of them sprinting towards me. Lucy, a little more like Phoebe Buffay, running through Central Park, than Florence Griffith-Joyner running the 100 meters.
One day, after a particularly rough morning, when everyone decided they would protest the hot, homemade breakfast I had prepared, in addition to the hot, homemade lunch I had prepared; (don't be impressed, the day before they ate stale toast and pizza bites..... I was functioning out of mom-guilt!) I went a little ballistic on them before they left for school, "I am so sorry, but this is not a short order kitchen where you get to complain to the manager about the condition of your food. This is a home, MY HOME, and I am your MOTHER not a full time cook and maid! Your unkind, complaining, voices discourage me and make me THIS (holding my finger just a quarter of an inch apart) motivated to get out of bed and do it all again tomorrow. Do you KNOW how many times I complained to your Grammy about the food she prepared on my behalf? Oh, I didn't! A WHOLE LOT OF ZERO-NESS (that's probably part lie, part drama...but really Val did NOT do complaining!) Lucy, under her breath, hoping I wouldn't hear, but desperately needing to correct my incompetent math-ness, "zero-ness is not a number!" I let her comment slide, in fear of losing complete control.
They stared at me, collected their back packs and silently prayed Grandy would pick them up early that morning. I kissed them as they left, because in my insane brain I feared an alien attack at the local elementary school, and I didn't want them remembering the final words their mother spoke over them being from a place of complete temper tantrum. "I love you deeply, but sometimes you drive me bananas! Let's try this again tomorrow with a different result, eh?" "Yes Ma'am!" they collectively said.
That afternoon, as I saw them sprinting for me, I wept. They were running home TO ME; a complete and utterly weak-vision of motherhood. Eight hours after losing it on them, they still were running towards me, not away from me. Oh my stars, the total deprivation that still lives and moves in me when it comes to motherhood (and all other "hoods") still plagues me. I'm eleven years in, and y'all each night I just beg God to cover the multitude of my sins with His love. Sometimes, I pray for slight amnesia to infect them. :)
My dad came to visit this past weekend. When I saw his red car pulling down that exact hill, I slipped my shoes on and ran to him as fast as I could.
My dad was incredibly intentional when it came to conveying a message to ALL who were watching; my family wins, my family wins, MY FAMILY WINS. My dad fought tooth and nail against having an affair with the church under the banner of "full time ministry." My dad's full time ministry was loving and serving my mom like crazy, and then loving and serving the snot out of us kids. I never felt like my dad was serving us left overs. I never felt like I had cheapened encounters with my dad because the church got to buffet him first. My dad chose us. My dad chose us. My dad chose us. The confidence, the peace, the pride that grew out from this understanding cannot be bought. In exchange for this firm foundation, it was easy and natural to let dad have the freedom and the grace he needed to shepherd God's people. Inconsistent schedules, late night hospital runs, heavy days with messy relationships, tight budgets, emotional moments of discouragement, and Sunday's not exactly oozing "restful", but ALWAYS deeply joyful.
Dear Pastors,
Don't buy the lie.
Don't cheapen your finest, most beautiful responsible in exchange for the alluring mistress.
She's not worth it.
Dear Congregations,
Don't promote and assist in the lie.
Protect your pastors and their families by always redirecting their eyes homeward.
You will only gain when your pastor pours his life out for his bride and family first.
Truth?
This is a message for all of us. Not just pastors. Not just men. ALL OF US! You want to change the world? Start in your home. Don't sacrifice the moments you'll never get back, in exchange for the less than. Be a home at the bottom of the hill that people sprint towards, even if it's a home that's far from perfect, far from Martha Stewart-esque, far from Southern Magazine ready, far from reaching the Jones' unrealistic standard; but it yours, ALL YOURS! Filled with perfectly-imperfect people, who choose one another above all else (even the church) everyday.
Dear Daughters, if you marry a pastor, make sure he is just like your Poppo!
~Mama
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