True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 4

The good book says you will reap what you sow. Perhaps that explains why so many who crossed our path gave generously to us, without expecting anything in return. I can't count the number of times an unexpected check appeared in the mailbox, a Christmas fruitcake appeared on the doorstep, or a half of a cow made its way to our chest freezer. We were far from rich, but I never remember going without.

One of my first memories of this generosity materialized each Christmas on the porch of our light green parsonage. Throughout the year, Mr. Loomis, a faithful man from our church, delivered our Borden milk in a tin box on said porch. (Yes, I am that old.) He delivered our dairy each week like clockwork, which was equally true around the holidays. Except that the Christmas season brought the gift of eggnog and perhaps sour cream, maybe even some buttermilk and ice cream? Dad taught us to appreciate the fine taste of the eggnog at a young age, always with nutmeg gently sprinkled on top.  

Later, at our country church, a new seasonal gift emerged: the local funeral parlor delivered a box of pickles each Christmas, including several strange varieties. We always opened the box with our eyes wide, wondering at the kind of person who would send so many unusual pickles. Truly, that was one of the gifts that kept on giving. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the canned jars were yet unopened when the next Christmas suddenly arrived--and a new batch of pickled cucumbers appeared on our doorstep. I give the funeral director high marks for memorability.

Along the way, as we three girls grew up, we saw doctors and dentists who sometimes charged us a reduced fee, and on occasion, no fee at all. The dairy farmer from the country church filled our freezer with beef, including steaks, on a regular basis. And I remember most of us soundly rejecting the liver that was waiting in the freezer. In fact, I only remember eating liver once--I didn't understand why we had to eat it at the time, but I realize now it may  have been all we had at the time. No matter how little we had, we never went hungry.

In addition to all the gifts of food, my parents received money each Christmas from dear friends and from an offering collected by church members. It allowed us to receive presents and enjoy special meals and traditions we might have gone without otherwise. 

With all the generosity coming our way, I remember my parents being equally generous. We frequently had people over for dinner, mom baked cinnamon rolls and bread that were distributed around the neighborhood, and my parents regularly gave their tithe to the church and to other people or projects, no matter how little they had to begin with. 

We learned that not only does God love a cheerful giver--but that said giving brings joy back to the giver a hundredfold. It really is better to give than receive. Although receiving has its place, and allows both the giver and recipient to benefit. 

Fast forward to my freshmen year in college, when I was desperately in need of a winter coat, but didn't have extra cash to buy one. An anonymous card with money in it found its way to my dorm room, and I swallowed my pride and thanked God for this provision. I'm not sure how someone knew I needed that coat--maybe they didn't. It doesn't really matter--what mattered is that God provided the clothing I needed when I needed it.

Pickles and ice cream, steaks and fruitcake, cash and the absence of a doctor bill. Proof positive that God was watching out for us. Somehow the needs we had were often met just in time. "That was a close call," we could say. But that's not how we rolled. I remember bowing our heads around the dinner table and saying "Thank you, Lord. Thank you for meeting all of our needs, just like you promised."

It's a true gift to be forced to depend on God for basic needs and provisions. This preacher's kid wouldn't trade that opportunity for the world. 

True stories from the preacher's daughter, part 3

Imagination. Make-believe. Adventure.

I don't know about the rest of you, but this preacher's kid had plenty of each. My two sisters and I played school, house and church, of course. But what really stretched our make-believe muscles was our association with the senior pastor's three boys. 

We three sisters inhabited the light green parsonage on one side of the brick church building; the three brothers inhabited the yellow parsonage on the flip side. Thankfully, there was a playground in between, a perfect place for brewing up imaginary adventures. And to tell the truth, I think our make-believe had roots in the only TV show all six of us were allowed to watch consistently: Little House on the Prairie. Oddly enough, our imaginings also involved kings, queens, princes and princesses, which were no doubt contrived from the well-loved Chronicles of Narnia book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. (And to think I never realized these coincidences until I started writing this post!)

Anyway, the strange saga we kept returning to was something called The Prairie Family--we lived on the wild frontier, but we played the part of royalty, and somehow this made perfect sense to us. As I was the oldest girl, I was accorded the honor of being "Queen Elizabeth," a name we no doubt nabbed from British royalty. Andy, the oldest, was "King Edward"--the others were princes and princesses. 

Every episode involved a battle, a chase, and a bit of arguing over who got to do what and to save whom. We dodged arrows, hid from warriors, ate imaginary picnics and very possibly slayed the enemy each and every time. All I truly remember for certain is that we were always victorious. There was magic in our make-believe, making us feel as though we were saving the day and conquering the world each time we played. The forces of good and evil were alive and well and good always triumphed in the end.

The story we played out time and again was really a shadow of the truer story we each held in our hearts. In real life, we preachers' kids came to understand that there is light, represented by God, and dark, represented by the devil. That is, there is always a battle going on around us and in us, but if we know God through His Son, we know the final battle will be won. Hands down. Good will save the day. And evil will get what is coming to him. 

We couldn't have verbalized this to you as we slashed and dashed our way through the latest episode of The Prairie family. But our hearts embraced this story. And that is what made our make-believe so thrilling and enchanting.

Three boys, three girls. Inevitably, because each of us were so close in age, there were jokes about all of us marrying one day, which only further advanced our fantasy world. We dreamed of kings and queens marrying, princes and princesses setting up house together while ruling over the world in their spare time.  At very tender ages, we laughed and imagined and wondered at what it meant to be a grownup.

As is wont to happen with a preacher's family, the senior pastor and his wife, known as Pastor Bill and Aunt Gloria to us, felt called to a new church in West Virginia of all places. Being in Michigan, it sounded like it was on the other side of the world to us. And so The Prairie Family disbanded, with fond memories still intact.

I remember our dear friends leaving because my dad arrived at the door of our light green parsonage, and for the first time I can remember, he had tears in his eyes. As the senior pastor moved his family and ministry on, dad felt as though he was losing his best friend. In truth, I think we all cried at least a little.  In those precious years, our families spent countless moments together--I witnessed the death of their dog as we were walking it downtown, we awoke one night to their knock on the door for a medical emergency, and it was Aunt Gloria who prepared me to be a flower girl at a wedding while my mom birthed my youngest sister in the hospital. We shared food and fun, laughter and make-believe.

And, honestly, it was a great comfort to feel normal in the presence of other preachers' kids. All of us have grown up, moved on, and for the most part, lost touch. But it was Pastor Bill who delivered my dad's eulogy at his memorial service two years ago, reflecting on the good times they spent together. And it was Pastor Bill and Aunt Gloria who showed up at my wedding last year, after dad was gone, reminding me of the rich heritage he and mom have given us.

And as for our memories of The Prairie family, we are all older and wiser now, but in my heart the premise holds true. Our stories are not finished--but good will, hands down, overcome evil in the end. And that is the truest story I know. 

Come back for part four...