your pastor, dad
a card sent from church after i visited home from college
You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your dad was. - Irish proverb
They held a special service for the pastor's anniversary. There were videos, blue frosted cupcakes, testimonies of how he and his wife had impacted families, a feel of "this is your life." As the pastor went down the row of his young adult kids, hugging each one in turn, I slipped out of the room, sad and -if I'm honest - angry.
Although my pastor dad had been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer, his urgent surgery and subsequent hospital stay surprised us all. There were doctors coming in and out, half-empty cafeteria coffee cups, board members from the church stopping by, a feel of "this is your death."After my dad held the hands of my brother and I, telling us how much he loved us and to trust the Lord, I slipped out of the room, sad and - if I'm honest - angry.
My dad always pastored small churches. Pastoring was woven into our family life. Because my grandpa was a pastor too, I didn't think there was anything unusual about this. When I was young, I didn't mind. I thought getting two doll birthday cakes from older ladies in the church was magical. I thought my dad was the smartest person I'd ever met when I heard him talk about God. He seemed to know Him. It didn't seem weird when our dad attempted to teach us Greek as the family "devotionals." (It didn't last long.) From a young age, I'd play piano while dad led the music, which made me feel like I was on his team.
I wasn't innocuous to the "bad," I sensed when things weren't going well, and recall the hurt when my dad flew home halfway through our vacation to be with a family whose daughter was having surgery. They left the church two months later "because nobody cares about us in this church."
A few years after we were married, we moved to the city where dad was a pastor, so we started attending. It turns out, as an adult pastor's kid, I understood more of what was going on. Of course, the majority were amazing people who it was a blessing to know. But seen on an adult level, it was harder not to note the deeper pain in lives. People wielded God as a weapon. I saw that now.
As an adult pastor's kid, I tended to move into protection mode of my dad. It wasn't my job, but at the time, it felt natural. It's my dad. What did you expect me to do when a friend mentions the other guests at the party were gossiping in the hallway about how upset they were with dad.
Shortly before he died, there were people who left the church after making a huge commotion, including accusing of my husband and I joining forces with my dad to take over the church. This was laughable in its idiocy, but hurtful in its poison. About a month before he died, I was at his house when one of these people called to talk to him. When dad hung up, he said, "He called so he wouldn't have to feel guilty when the pastor died."
As an adult pastor's kid, I understood more of my dad as an individual. I was proud of him. I was encouraged by his dedication and discipline. I loved his note cards he carried with him, his love of a good bassline, his ability to take a deep subject and teach it. I loved when he'd ask me to play a song on the piano for him. He was one of my closest friends.
As an adult pastor's kid, I saw his humanity more clearly. His awareness of his shortcomings, his inability to always draw a firm boundary line with people, his frustrations. His questions. It didn't make him less of a person in my eyes, it did the opposite. I loved him even more because of his honesty about it. He was the same behind the pulpit as he was when he was at home. (Okay, maybe a bit funnier - with louder music. But, in essence, the same.)
As an adult pastor's kid, it took me a while to figure out how to balance loving my dad, supporting my pastor and my church, and yet having a strict boundary around the word "obligation" to others and misplaced expectations. I had to learn to separate God from dad.
As an adult pastor's kid, I was devastated when he died. I didn't understand why a good man would be taken, why he -of all the sinners here - would be punished. I was angry at people, still harbor sadness and take everything related to him much too seriously.
When he died we lost our pastor.
When he died, I lost my dad.
A few years after dad died, I ended up on staff at a church we started attending. I began working with the pastor who had been {deservedly} celebrated with cupcakes and videos.
"Hey," he asked me one day, "do you know Mr Smith? I've been getting to know him. We made the connection that your dad used to be his pastor. He said how great he was and how much he loved him."
Tears came to my eyes as I thanked him and - probably not overly clearly - tried to make the point of how much that meant to me as my dad's kid. Because wasn't that the crux of it all? The whole point of my dad and my friend being in ministry? My focus on earthly things had marred my view of the point. My grief was reminded that God's plan is bigger than the pain of loss.
As an adult used-to-be-a-pastor's kid, I watched the pastor hug his adult pastor's kids and felt anger. I wanted to be celebrating my dad.
As my dad's kid, it took time to understand that the celebration my dad is/was/will continue to experience was the one that mattered infinitely more.
It happened right after he left us.
___________________________________
Shares, likes, comments help me. Or help Buy Me a Book here
Reach out to me at kelwick@gmail.com or comment below.
Want to read more? Start here:
Comments