The Journey Toward Wholeness (eBook)

As the spouse of a pastor, one of our realities is that my husband, Joe, has been in the pulpit of the congregation we serve on Sunday mornings, except for rare occasions when we had an opportunity to visit another church for worship. One Sunday, when the children were young, we decided to take one of those days during Black History Month to allow them to experience worship in a predominantly African American church. Saint Luke’s United Methodist Church here in Dallas is well known for hospitality, good music, and good preaching, so we decided to join their congregation for Sunday service.

The ushers at Saint Luke’s offered us the warmest of greetings, handed us bulletins, and escorted us down to the front row of the sanctuary, declaring that the pastor would be so happy to see Joe and meet the children. BJ, the youngest of our four, was just six years old and, at the time, adjusting to a medication that helped him with being quiet, following rules, and staying focused. We were given the option to medicate on the weekend or not, and we made the choice to medicate on school days only. We were well into the second hour of worship when I ran out of Tic Tacs, pieces of paper for drawing, and patience. BJ had the most wonderful time for the first hour, but then he reached his limit, and I lasted about twenty more minutes before I reached mine (with BJ, not worship). Joe was pastoring a congregation that had strong feelings about getting to Luby’s Cafeteria before the Baptists and, added to that, missing the kickoff for the Dallas Cowboys games was deemed unacceptable. So our children were accustomed to a one-hour worship service.

As it turns out, my usual options for managing my children are limited when an entire choir is watching and the preacher is either right in front of me, five feet to my right, or five feet to my left. I used up every stern, angry, “you’d better settle down right now or else” look in my repertoire. I was so stressed I could feel the heat in my cheeks and the tension in my neck and shoulders. Joe, who had very little experience worshiping from the pew while surrounded by our children, was no help. He was thoroughly engaged in every aspect of what he later referred to as “one of the best worship experiences he’d ever had.”

During the closing hymn I whispered to Joe, “I’m giving BJ his medicine as soon as we get to the car! I’m exhausted! We can skip the weekend next week!” As soon as we got to the car, I told my daughter Jenny to give BJ her water bottle, and I told BJ to lean up so he could take his medicine. The older children and Joe were going on and on about worship when I finally located the pill bottle in the bottom of my bag. Still flustered, I took out two tiny pills and without thinking, put them in my mouth instead of his and swallowed, something the other five family members found hilarious. I’m fairly certain that the dosage was so low that it had little, if any, physical effect for me. But recognizing my own lack of patience with BJ’s inability to be patient became a bridge that we crossed to meet one another for many years after that.