Training Wheels

When I married my husband at the age of 33, I thought I understood what marrying a minister involved. I envisioned myself giving teas and luncheons for the ladies of the church and serving on the decorating committee. What I didn’t consider was 1) this was the twentieth century, and 2) my husband was not the pastor of a country church, but rather, the youth minister in a metropolitan area. My first inkling that I was unprepared for this mission came about two weeks after the honeymoon. My husband was not at home on a Friday evening and I took a call from a church member. She wanted a babysitter and wanted me to provide her a list of suitable teens. I explained that I really didn’t know any of the teenagers yet. “Well, then, can you sit for me, because I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend at the movies in thirty minutes?” Of course, I declined, and wasn’t I relieved when my husband later verified that babysitting was not one of his expectations of me. Lesson number one: everyone has their own idea of your responsibilities.

Not too long after that, I answered our front door to find a child from church standing there looking red faced and breathless. She explained that her dog had run away and her mother wasn’t at home and could I help her find it. We started out together, but after a few minutes I realized that the child was no longer helping me look for the dog, but instead, had stopped in a neighbor’s yard to play. Why was I out in the heat of summer “helping” this child? About the time I turned for home, a man stopped his car in the middle of the street and asked me if I was looking for a Dalmatian. After I confirmed that I was he proceeded to curse at me because the dog tried to bite him. Okay, lesson number two, dogs eventually come home by themselves.

Over the course of the next three years I would endure many youth trips on smelly church busses, nauseating amusement park rides, lodging in rustic cabins and dormitory rooms, and countless meals of pizza, however, the most humbling experience of all involved a ride in my husband’s truck. Teenagers love to eat, so most activities included food. One Saturday night we were planning a murder mystery party in the fellowship hall. I was making one of their favorites, taco salad. I had only one glitch, the fellowship hall and kitchen was being used on Saturday afternoon so I was going to make the taco meat at home. No problem, I thought. I made up the taco mixture in small batches and then transferred them to one big pot my husband used on the outside cooker for his Brunswick Stew and BBQ Sauce. The pot would easily fit in the bed of the truck and I could reheat it at the church.

Men love their trucks, don’t they? My husband is no exception and has had several different trucks during our marriage. This one was especially unique because it was a restored 1972 Chevrolet that had been his grandfather’s. Needless to say, I hated it. Unlike new vehicles, the steering wheel was where it was, you couldn’t adjust it. Being boldly beautiful, I didn’t really fit well in the driver’s seat, so I avoided driving it at all costs.

When it was time to start out for the church, I covered the big pot with aluminum foil because we didn’t have a lid for it and sat it in the back of the truck. Driving through the neighborhood was fine, but once we got out on the main highway, I noticed that the foil was flapping up from the pot. My husband pulled over to the side of the road. One of us was going to have to ride in the back of the truck and hold onto the pot to keep it covered. My husband wanted me to drive, but besides hating to drive that truck, I wasn’t wearing my contact lenses, so I climbed into the back of the truck. The drive from our house to the church was only about six miles, but we had to take not one but two of the major roads in our town, on Saturday afternoon on a payday weekend. People stared, waved, and some even honked as we made our way to the church. I had not ridden in the back of a pick up truck since I was a teenager, and let me tell you, it’s not as much fun as it used to be. My taco meat and I arrived unharmed and our youth event was a success. The whole incident was but a memory, or so I thought.

Every week during a designated point in the service, the children would be called down to the altar, my husband would give a five minute object lesson, and then he would escort them to another part of the building for their own “church” session. The next morning my husband started his message with this, “Raise your hand if you saw my wife riding in the back of my pick up yesterday.” Now, I sing in the choir so everyone can see me clearly as my face turns purple and at least one hundred people raise their hands! I don’t know how many of those people actually spotted me in the truck, but even after ten years, this is still a favorite story at our church. More than one husband has threatened his wife with “You’re riding home in the back of the truck if you don’t behave!” Lesson number three, my life is never boring.

And the main lesson is this, regardless of how many false expectations I had of church life, my job is to be a supportive and valuable helpmate to my husband, and to be prepared for whatever adventure arises.