In the late 1960s my Real Husband and I lived in a nifty house in a nifty suburb. He was on the executive track with a big company. We had 2 preschoolers. I was writing and taking classes at the university.
Then, after a series of decisions that I won't go into because you'll think we were insane, we went to Emory University where my Real Husband entered the seminary.
While we were there we spent our entire savings so when he graduated, 3 years later, we started life over again, from scratch.
But for the first 2 years we supported ourselves by "serving a charge." While ministers in our denomination are highly educated, trained and psychoanalyzed, student pastors can be green as grass.
So one week we were in our big home and 3 weeks later we were in the Georgia country side "serving" a charge of 3 country churches. When somebody said "Hey Preacher," my Real Husband had no idea to whom they were speaking.
We were (and I always will be) urban type people. We coped. They coped.
We lived in a pretty little brick parsonage. The church people had built it themselves. There were no other homes in sight. All of our parishioners were relatively poor farmers. Most of them were related.
They were good people but we had precious little in common. We were aliens in a foreign land.
I quickly learned the joys of parsonage living. One late chilly afternoon I was in my bed with the children reading to them. All at once a man in overalls appeared in the bedroom. He just began discussing his business with me as if coming into my house and into my bedroom was perfectly normal.
By the way, this bed was covered with a lovely hand made quilt. When we turned it down under our chins at night there were, beautifully stitched, the words "Property of Bold Spring Charge."
Then, after a series of decisions that I won't go into because you'll think we were insane, we went to Emory University where my Real Husband entered the seminary.
While we were there we spent our entire savings so when he graduated, 3 years later, we started life over again, from scratch.
But for the first 2 years we supported ourselves by "serving a charge." While ministers in our denomination are highly educated, trained and psychoanalyzed, student pastors can be green as grass.
So one week we were in our big home and 3 weeks later we were in the Georgia country side "serving" a charge of 3 country churches. When somebody said "Hey Preacher," my Real Husband had no idea to whom they were speaking.
We were (and I always will be) urban type people. We coped. They coped.
We lived in a pretty little brick parsonage. The church people had built it themselves. There were no other homes in sight. All of our parishioners were relatively poor farmers. Most of them were related.
They were good people but we had precious little in common. We were aliens in a foreign land.
I quickly learned the joys of parsonage living. One late chilly afternoon I was in my bed with the children reading to them. All at once a man in overalls appeared in the bedroom. He just began discussing his business with me as if coming into my house and into my bedroom was perfectly normal.
By the way, this bed was covered with a lovely hand made quilt. When we turned it down under our chins at night there were, beautifully stitched, the words "Property of Bold Spring Charge."
