The Runaway Pastor's Wife by Diane Moody, Hannah Schmitt Page B

know, I
know. I didn’t object when He answered Your call into the ministry. We both
accepted that call. We were so sure it was what You wanted us to do. To devote
our lives to serving You by leading a church family. Ministering to their
needs. Using our talents and gifts to care for Your people.
    “But I’m not so sure any more.
    “Maybe we were just young and idealistic. Maybe
we were caught up in the emotional whirlwind of it all and somehow
misunderstood what You wanted us to do. Maybe You only meant for us to be
active members of a church. Use those same gifts but not necessarily as pastor
and wife. I don’t know, but all I do know is for the last year or so
I’ve grown to hate it. I hate it.”
    Her words tumbled out in rapid succession to her
unseen Audience. “I hate it because everything that’s good and right about
church is constantly overshadowed by the negatives. For every sweet child or
dear widow who comes to give their heart to You, there are ten others who find
some kind of sick pleasure in tearing each other’s eyeball’s out. They’d rather
burn up the phone lines spreading all kinds of ridiculous lies about each
other. They call it ‘sharing prayer concerns.’ Oh God, how I’ve come to hate that stupid phrase. It’s nothing more than pure gossip and they all know it.
    “Of course, it’s basically open season on anyone
at all, but the target usually finds its way back to David in one way or
another. Why is that? Just because he’s the pastor? Because he’s kind and
considerate and approachable? Everybody loves David. So why do they pick
on him all the time?”
    The cabin grew quiet as the verbal outburst gave
way to pounding thoughts. It wouldn’t be so difficult to handle if they were
just open and honest with us. Tell us what they dislike or why they’re upset.
But why is it Christians seem to prefer the back door when it comes to
criticism? They call me under some false pretense to take a back-handed slap at
my husband. They pick on our kids unmercifully instead of coming directly to us
if they have a problem or complaint. I mean, who in their right mind would
harass an eight year old child just because they don’t like the color of carpet
his father approved for the new sanctuary? Or who would bother complaining to
the pastor’s teenage son just because they don’t like the turn of a phrase in
the Sunday sermon? Or just because they have some bone to pick with David, why
would someone accost me in the parking lot at the grocery store—
    Annie stopped, the memory burning in her mind.
Her chest heaved with the anger. She wiped her brow, surprised to find it damp
with perspiration.
    “Oh God, forgive me,” she whispered. “I sound
like such a whining child. Here I am, wailing and grumbling about each and
every little burr that has pricked me at one time or another. I’m no better
than any of them, am I? Oh God, how tired You must be of hearing me whine.”
    She took another lap, slowly passing the
fireplace, deciding to give the blaze another jab or two. The words continued
pouring out, like a dam unleashing its fury. “For so long I’ve
put on my little mask and marched off to church every time the doors opened.
Ever the happy little pastor’s wife. Always careful to hide behind a plastered
smile, even at times when my heart was breaking into a thousand tiny pieces.
When I was missing David so much I could hardly function. Playing the part,
going through the motions, and hating myself for the lie I was living. I
constructed this huge wall around myself to try and keep the hurt out. To
protect myself from the arrows aimed at my David and the kids and myself.
    “And I’m so tired of having to stay on constant
guard against potential friendships that might prove traitorous, when all I
wanted was someone to be my friend. I need a true friend. Is that so
much to ask? Yes, I know I have friends—people I have lunch with, go to Bible
study with. But sometimes I need someone to