Identity Crisis

A little over a week ago, a momentous event took place in my life. After five years in seminary and a grueling round of examinations, my husband was ordained.

Shock has worn off. Reality has set in. I am a pastor’s wife.

(Ok, assistant pastor’s wife, but that’s a technicality.)

In one respect, nothing changed. We didn’t have to pack our bags, didn’t have to sell our house, didn’t have to journey to a new city, didn’t have to worship in an unfamiliar place with an unfamiliar church family, didn’t have to say goodbye to family and friends, didn’t have to step out of our comfort zone.

In another respect, though, everything changed. And it took me completely by surprise. When my husband took his vows, he took on an enormous spiritual responsibility. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you that he felt out of his comfort zone after all. And I – well, I suddenly lost my grounding – who I am, what my role is.

You see, all through this journey in seminary, I have come to think of “our” ministry at CPC. But when Steven stood up and took those vows, I suddenly felt very separated from him. Think about it. Every other vow we’ve ever made, we’ve made together. We joined CPC as a couple; we made vows. We got married; we made vows. Had our babies baptized; we made vows. “Entered the ministry”; he made vows. I wasn’t prepared for how this would affect me.

My “identity crisis” was valid – the insecurity I felt (and still feel) was “real” and maybe even understandable.

But, I must confess, my identity crisis was also the culmination of a month-long, self-indulgent pity party. I wanted this ordination to be about “us.” When a friend baked Steven brownies during “his rough examination week,” I wanted to scream, “What about me!?” (Sorry, friend.) When everyone congratulated him after he passed his oral examination, I wanted to scream, “What about me!?” More times that I want to admit during the month leading up to his ordination, I wanted to scream, “What about me!?”

And then, to my great shame, Burt drew attention to me. He called me up in front of all these precious people who had come to witness my husband’s ordination, and he honored me. And I didn’t deserve it.

I’m not fit to be a “pastor’s wife.” I know I never will be. But by God’s glorious grace that is exactly the role in which he has seen fit to put me. It doesn’t look like I imagined it would. My heavenly Father has a lot to teach me. I was naïve to think that the journey would be over when “we” graduated from seminary. In fact, the journey has only just begun.

That smells ... heavenly?

So I was sitting on the sofa the other day, reading (actually, re-reading) this really great book called I Capture the Castle. Seventeen-year-old Cassandra (the novel’s penniless heroine) and her older (equally penniless) sister Rose have traveled from their dilapidated old castle in the English countryside to the bustling city of London. Their quest: to collect much-needed clothing inherited from their ancient, eclectic (and newly deceased) Great Aunt Millicent. Among the items, they learn, are four rather unusual furs (beaver, bear, sealskin, you get the idea) which they must collect from storage at a local furrier. Not having visited the city in more than three years, they find themselves mesmerized by the wonderful shop.

“We went in by way of the glove and stocking department, but there were things from other departments just dotted about; bottles of scent and a little glass tree with cherries on it and a piece of white branched coral on a sea-green chiffon scarf. Oh, it was an artful place – it must make people who have money want to spend it madly! The pale grey carpets were as springy as moss and the air was scented; it smelt a bit like bluebells but richer, deeper. 'What does it smell of exactly?' I [Cassandra] said. To which Rose replied: 'Heaven.'"

Now I’ve wondered a lot about heaven since I’ve been a Christian, but here’s one question I’ve never thought of: what exactly will heaven smell like? Will it have the homey scent of fresh-baked apple pie? The natural woodsy smell of pine? Freshness of a newborn babe? The intoxicating fragrance of my husband’s aftershave? Come to think of it, I just betcha heaven’s aroma will be all those delicious fragrances combined: it will smell homey, and natural, and fresh, and – oh, most definitely -- intoxicating.

To Tell the Truth

I have been hesitant to start a blog.

Truth is, I am afraid of writing. Someone who got paid big bucks to write ought to be able to write well. Who cares that a blog would expose my innermost thoughts and feelings; what really matters is that it might expose my total inability to express myself.

Truth is, I am afraid I may find it impossible to continue. The “blog-site” might begin to haunt me same as the unfinished ponchos I began to crochet last year, the unscrapbooked photos from twelve years’ past, the untended garden I planted in the Spring, and the incomplete Bible study (scratch that, studies) on my bedside table.

Truth is, I am afraid having a blog will increase my tendency toward self-focus, instead of Christ-focus. “I am like a frog which, no matter how high it leaps, always finishes up back in the mud. No matter how hard I try to escape from myself, I always come back to myself and my self-love.” (That’s from Eighteenth-century Italian priest, missionary and theologian Dominic Barberi -- see, only paragraphs into it, and I’m already guilty of plagiarism.)

Truth is, I am afraid of failure. I have begun to lose sight of who I am – a woman bathed by the blood of Jesus, a woman drenched in the overwhelming love of God.

And so I begin this blog. Knowing full well that in some way I will fail. Believing, at least for the moment, that by God’s grace it doesn’t really matter.

“Whom have I in heaven but Thee?
And besides Thee, I desire nothing on earth.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
But God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.
… the nearness of God is my good.”
Psalm 25-26, 28a

My prayer is that God will be honored in this blog, and that through it both I and those who read it will be moved into a deeper relationship with him.

O high and glorious God, light up [our] hearts.
St. Francis of Assisi, paraphrased by me