The Downward Spiral

"Marry a Pastor" was never on my top ten list of things to do before I die. (Sorry, honey!). I come from a family that breeds pastors. My father contemplated the pulpit, but never attended seminary, and I don't foresee any one of my nearest relatives contemplating a life change into the ministry. As for the women in my family, many of them bear the title of pastor's wife. On the short list are my paternal grandmother, a great grandmother, a couple of great aunts, an aunt, and various cousins. Even my mother-in-law is married to a reverend. She is THE reason why I always tell people to call me by my first name. To call me "Mrs.," followed by my married name is HER TERRITORY. And those are some BIG piano playing, choir singing and choir directing shoes to fill. I am most certainly not worthy. Perhaps it was the familiarity, maybe it was perception clouding the reality, but I never planned on living in that kind of glass house.

The reason why I am making these observations is because of the following conversation I had with my father concerning my blog:

Dad: You put fart on your blog!

Me: Yeah? What's wrong with that? It's not a bad word.

Dad: Do you think your grandmother ever said fart? Do you think your mother-in-law
every said fart? I don't recall ever saying fart in front of my parents.

Me: You had to have said fart. (At this point I turn to the husband). Honey, did your
mom ever say fart?

Husband: No, not that I can recall. In fact, I am pretty sure she never said fart.

Me: Well someone has to start the downward spiral.


People, let me tell you a little secret, I am my own worst censor. This is only my fifth blog and I already could have said MUCH WORSE. Believe me. I am capable. My goal is not to shock, but to give you a peek into my life. I grew up thinking that pastor's and their families were the special minions of the Lord God Himself, and the more I got to know the families (especially the wives), I learned that for the most part, they were pretty normal, and even had some idiosyncrasies that impressed me, like smoking cigarettes and drinking bourbon.

Once, a woman asked, "I've always wondered, what do you call Pastor at home?" I replied, "The Reverend Sir. And I must kneel and kiss his ring before I can approach him directly. He has his own special throne at home, you know. They're standard issue for new seminary graduates." Thankfully, she knew I was joking, but I've had to respond to that question on more than one occasion. Yesterday the Rev. and I went to the grocery store. As we were wandering the aisles he asked, "Do you want some pirate's booty?" It turned out this grocery store sells a snack called pirate's booty. Think Cheetos, but all natural, and slightly more healthy for you than their flourescent orange cousins. I admit, my mind went elsewhere. Where was yours?

Welcome to my glass house, people. I'm pouring the bourbon and passing the pirate's booty.