True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 2

Normal is only a setting on the dishwasher. Still, every kid thinks her life embodies that word: normal is whatever surrounds oneself, day after day.

For this particular preacher's kid, the norm easily consisted of being at church eight times a week, usually sporting a polyester dress that came down to mid-knee and very possibly white vinyl strappie shoes (given my father's limited preacher's salary). This feat was admittedly made easier by the fact that our old light green parsonage, or our small strawberry patch, to be specific, butted up to the church's cement driveway. And our Christian school took over various portions of the church building Monday through Friday.

No one ever bothered to tell us that we virtually lived in the large brick church building, and for some reason, it never occurred to us. Here are just some of the activities we engaged in at church:

Probably up until age three or so you could find us in one of the nurseries, doing what every child did: sucking on plastic toys, running away from nursery workers, and falling asleep on the floor, graham crackers drooling out of our mouths.

There were a good deal of potlucks in the gym/multipurpose room, and it was there that we learned to appreciate fried chicken, the unidentified contents of fluffy jello whatchamacalit, and weak kool-aid. And it only took us a few years to discover the first rule of said smorgasboards: grab your dessert while you can, on your first pass through, or you might find yourself gazing longingly at leftover brownie crumbs.

AWANA, or the Wednesday night kids' program, had us running circles and relays in the gymnasium, reciting Scripture verses till we were blue in the face in the basement, and receiving coveted trophies with little people on them in the auditorium.

We listened to missionaries who came from places as far away as Japan and Australia and Africa, and thrilled to experience their slide shows, staring, fascinated at people who looked nothing like us or anyone we knew personally. They were colorful and full of adventure, and as far as I can remember, they all ended about the same: "The fields are white unto harvest, God is calling forth laborers, will you say: here am I, Lord? Send me?" All of this was perfectly biblical, of course, according to The Great Commission in Matthew 28 to go into all the world. (But we Baptists weren't quite so good at reaching out to those different from us in our own country. Apparently we hadn't yet found chapter and verse.)

Still, sometimes these "strange" people wandered into our lives through no fault of our own. One of them was a homeless fellow who must have come to the church building and elicited my father's compassion. I'm sure this was not an unusual occurrence, as people always need help and my father's heart was tender and generous. The spotty memories I have of this event are this: the man sat at our oval table, rough-and-tumble but trying to remember his manners, and eating cooked corn. I'm sure there was also meat on the table, but I can't picture it. I just seem to remember he was grateful and that observing his situation somehow made us more grateful for what we had.

And though I can't be sure this part is true, which means it could be just a dream, I recall sitting in the back of our brown Oldsmobile, with the man on one side, and me and my sister scooching as far as possible to the opposing side. I am not sure where he was headed or why we were transporting him.

Probably sometime after this event, I dressed as a hobo for halloween, which at the time seemed perfectly acceptable but makes me cringe now. Today I wonder if I didn't think that being a homeless wanderer was somewhat exotic and adventurous. At the very least, it was still foreign and mysterious to me.

And that is but a small part of the tale of my two childhood homes. The light green parsonage filled with frequent visitors, decadent June strawberries and mother's freshly baked bread, and warm memories. Parallel to the light brick church building, of course, with a smattering of stained glass, perpetual potlucks, and countless admonitions to go ye into all the world (King James Version, of course).

Nothing could seem more normal to a preacher's kid. Stranger yet, after years of my father receiving odd middle-of-the-night calls and the occasional charge to find a missing child or a herd of lost cattle, almost nothing would surprise me.

Stay tuned for part three...