I spent my childhood wiggling on the front pews of small country churches, the kind that pepper the hills and valleys of the Deep South.  The ones with steeples that stand proudly above the roofline and a sign by the road that boasts the church name and a quote a well-meaning member thought was appropriate for the times.  You know the ones, they have orange or red upholstery on the benches that itched when you sat on them too long; where the hymnals were placed in the rack on the pew in front of you and the bulletin spelled out the week ahead in the life of the saints.   Of course, if the church was really spirit filled the order of service, also typed neatly in the bulletin, was nothing more than a suggestion, you never knew when God might take over and the bulletin was no match for Him.

I can sing any number of hymns from memory and I don’t remember a time in my life when the church wasn’t a part of it.  To be honest, I had a love/hate relationship with her, you can imagine how it must’ve felt to be a ten year old sitting on an itchy pew with a handful of others on any Wednesday night for mid-week church.  You did mid-week church too, right?  I guess we didn’t get enough of God on Sunday morning and Sunday evening, we needed a mid-week reminder of our sins as well.  

At least that’s what my ten year old self thought.

My Daddy was a pastor my whole life.  Well, they tell me he wasn’t one when I was really little, but I don’t remember that part.  I only remember the pastoring days and we were the pastor’s family and, to my Momma especially, that meant something.  We were to live up to a standard that even the angels would find impossible, but Momma thought it was important so we spent our days trying.  What I never got to say to my Mom before she went to heaven was that I was no saint, but I have a feeling she already knew.

I never remember having a choice about going to church, I would hear other kids talk about trips to the park or sleepy Sunday mornings with pancakes for breakfast.  I couldn’t relate to those kids one bit, our Sunday mornings started early with three girls, a Momma and a Daddy having to share one bathroom.  Well, not always, but in some of the places we lived the housing wasn’t family friendly.  But, that was okay because we were doing God’s work and you don’t complain no matter the hand your dealt.  Back then, the church provided housing for the preacher and family, maybe because the pay wasn’t adequate to buy food and pay for housing, or maybe because it was just the way things had always been done, I don’t know. I just know we lived in a parsonage and none of my friends understood what that was.

We lived in several states and my parents worked hard in every single church they pastored. We girls, my sisters and I, went to every service and all the camp meetings and attended summer camp, if it was something to do with the church, you can pretty much bet we were in attendance.  When I tell you our lives revolved around the church, I am not exaggerating even a little.  I like to believe we did some good work and God was always honored, at least that was always our intention.  We made some quality friends along the way and, thanks to modern technology, we still keep in touch with a few of them.  It was a different day we grew up in, when your word mattered and most decent folks turned out for Sunday service.  I always thought I would marry somebody and do something different, outside the church but, as God would have it, I met someone and sailed headlong into a life I always thought I wanted to leave behind. 

His name was Jeff.

Jeff was born in the heartland, Minnesota to be exact.  Like me, he was raised in church by parents who believed in faith.  He was the youngest of three, five years younger than the closest sibling.  Some might call him an accident, but his Momma calls him a blessing.  Interestingly he started his elementary school years in the cold but moved to sunny Florida for several years including middle school.  Anyone who ever went to middle school will tell you those are the toughest years of all.  So much of our social development happens at that tender age.  His parents bought a motel near the beach and the family worked hard to make it a success.  Don’t get me wrong, there is no generational wealth or anything, just a family owned business that landed them near the water.   

I’m told by people who would know that he was as shy as a cat; he would walk most everywhere with his head down and preferred video games to conversation.   The one solace he found during this time of transition and change was his bike.  That boy loved to ride his bike.  He tells me he’d spend hours riding around town and come home at dark.  Of course that was back when you could stay out and not be afraid for your life.  One of his favorite places was, can you guess?  The airport.  He would ride out to the fence and watch the planes land and take off for hours.   He’d tell himself he was going to do that someday but, sadly, something deep down made him believe he never could.  I wonder why we listen to the negative voice more than the positive one in our head?  I do it too.   I think we all do.  

Another thing he loved was music.  He would listen to his Walkman, remember those?  He’d record cassette tape after cassette tape back before anyone even knew what Spotify or a playlist was.  We’re older than the internet remember.  After a few years in the fun and sun, they moved back to the icy cold of Minnesota, this was around the beginning of his high school years.  After graduation he headed to Bible College in Oskaloosa, IA, (a college that no longer exists) to start his education.  I always wondered what made him go to a Bible college in the middle of Iowa.  He was such a looker in my opinion and so smart and seemingly had the world before him, why Iowa? I don’t know if there is an answer for that except to say that God knew in a couple of years he’d find himself pulling into the parking lot of a country church where a young girl, freshly flunked out of her previous college, was contemplating whether or not to go back to school or call it quits for good. 

Jeff, because he didn’t see a way to fly planes and he had a BIG heart for God decided to pursue music and either teach in a school or work in the church.  He wasn’t sure which.  I still remember going to church that Sunday morning, it wasn’t far, just a walk across the yard since we lived in the parsonage.  I wore my flowered-y dress that was a bit loud and teased my hair as big as I could and sat as close to the front as possible.  Jeff was the tenor in a singing group the college sent out to recruit young people to attend the school.  I still don’t know why they came to our little country church because, Lord knows, there weren’t any college aged kids planning to move to Iowa in attendance. 

Including me. 

Until I laid eyes on him. 

And then I thought, “You know, I think I could learn to love Iowa.”

My Mom didn’t like him, but my Granny thought he was “pretty”.  (pronounced perd-y) He really was nice looking, and maybe had a bit of an attitude, but how many teenage boys do you know who don’t?  I didn’t really care, I just wanted to meet him so I told the Lord then and there, “I will go to the mission field of Iowa.”  A couple of months later, the spring semester of 1991, I packed all I could in a couple of suitcases and headed on one of the grandest adventures of my life, and it had nothing to do with school.