Mike recently left the following comment in response to my post, You May Feel Alone, but You’re Not. Given that he asks such an EXCELLENT question (and a question which is so rarely asked—do I hear an “Amen!” PW’s?), I thought his comment deserved a place of higher honor (i.e. a post all to itself as opposed to a comment which runs the risk of getting lost in the bowels of this wacky site).

So PW’s, speak up! Before you lies a golden opportunity to share your thoughts, comments and ideas about this crazy world of pastor’s wifedom.

Here’s Mike’s comment:

So, I found your site today while looking for some perspective on being a pw. I have a calling on my life to pastor and really want to make it easier for my wife. My question is; what could your husbands do to help? I’m thinking of some simple things like always referring to [my wife] by name rather than ‘my lovely wife.’ But what else?

Let ‘er rip, ladies.

What a tragedy of astronomical proportions. I’ve wrestled with the news all week and I’ve tried to wrap my brain around it—I just don’t think that’s possible. As I struggle to make sense of it, one phrase keeps crossing my mind: But by the grace of God go I.

In other words, as horrible and impossible as murdering my husband seems, my biggest and most dangerous mistake would be to believe I am not capable of doing it myself. Pride comes before the fall, Scripture says, and it’s so easy to sit back, watch the news and assure myself that I am so far beyond that, so above it, so glad I never have to worry about living in such an unspeakably horrible nightmare. I would NEVER do that. Hmmm. I bet Peter never would have believed he’d deny knowing Christ. I bet David never would have thought he’d have an adulterous affair. And I bet he never would have thought he’d also be guilty of murder.

Mary Winkler didn’t wake up the other day thinking, “You know, today I’m going to kill my husband.” We look at the final act of murder and think, “How can it be?” when in reality, pulling the trigger was only the last step of many that led her to that point. It’s not my job to judge or assume nor is it my intention to answer all the hows and whys of the situation. What she did was horribly wrong. There is no justification. But thank God he offers redemption to her…just like He does to me.

One of the best things I can do is let it be an opportunity to examine my own life and ask some hard questions:

1. Are there any seeds of thought that, if allowed to grow and mature, would lead to acts of grievous sin? What are those seeds and where might they lead?
2. Is there at least one person in my life who loves me enough to address the matters of my heart and to point out those things that need changing? Someone who holds me accountable and does not let me get away with even the most seemingly insignificant act of sin?
3. Am I willing and open to change and to be changed? Do I take the necessary steps to do so?

The fact is, I am not immune from the very situation Mary Winkler finds herself in today. The question is, what am I doing to avoid it?

It happens to me about this time in every pregnancy. It’s the deeply profound realization that I’m going to give birth to this child whether I like it or not. (I don’t like it.) I’m excited to meet our new addition (he really needs a name), but I’m not particularly excited about going through what I have to go through to get him here. I try to convince myself that it won’t be that bad. But I’m just lying to myself.

Some say I should just have the epidural. I’ve thought about it, but I’m way too pessimistic. Somehow I’ve convinced myself that sure as shootin’, I’ll be the one in 4.2 gazillion that ends up paralyzed from the procedure. I told you I have issues.

And how can it be that as soon as they put that new little munchkin on your belly, you realize you’d do it all over again. Gladly.

As you can tell by my infrequent and inconsistent posting, I run out of things to write about. This is funny since I never seem to run out of things to say.

Anyway, to mix things up a bit, I thought I’d see if I can’t get all of you to do a little blogging for me. Besides, it’d be nice to make this more of a two-way relationship.

So, from time to time, I’m going to throw out a Random Question. I’m hoping you will be so inclined to answer. You can do so by simply leaving a comment. I suspect we all might be enlightened by what others have to say.

(If you’re new to commenting, there is no need to fear. Simply click on “comments” at the end of this post and you’ll be taken to the page where you can leave your own comment—and read everyone else’s too. Just scroll down to the “Leave a Comment” box. If you want to remain anonymous, you don’t even have to leave your name, email or website…just your comment. What could be easier.)

I feel compelled to lay down a few ground rules. First, please be civil. This is not the place to rip on someone, post your spam, gossip, practice vulgarity or be a pain in the booty just for the sake of being a pain in the booty. Second, I reserve the right to delete any comments…just because I can. Third, for all you perfectionists out there (and any pastors’ wives who think they need to keep up some sort of image) please note there are no right or wrong answers. Just be real.

OK. Here’s the first Random Question:

“The most courageous act I ever witnessed was ________.”

I immediately thought of an experience I had in Jerusalem when I lived in Israel during college. The streets downtown weren’t exactly spacious, nor were the drivers particularly sane. Not only was there a lot of street traffic, but there was quite a bit of pedestrian traffic as well. If you were a pedestrian, Rule #1 was to be sure you were not in the street at a crosswalk when the light was about to turn green and the cars were about to go. If you were, vehicles would hit you. End of story.

Well, one day I was approaching a busy intersection on foot. The light turned red and people ran to make it across the street before the light turned green (which always seemed to happen very quickly). I was stuck in a crowd of people and had to wait til the next go-round.

Well, as I stood waiting, I noticed a blind woman with a walker start across the street much too late into the light. There simply was no way she was going to make it across in time. Sure enough, she only got out about 10 feet when the light changed. I have NO IDEA what the drivers were thinking but like I said, a green light means go…even if you are about to kill someone apparently.

Those of us standing on the corner were stunned—at least I was. I had no idea what to do and felt totally paralyzed as I watched the elderly woman stand frozen between lanes 1 & 2 as cars, trucks and buses raced by, literally within inches of her. (And when I say “raced” I mean “traveling at very high rates of speed indeed.”)

I thought I was going to throw up.

Then, as about 2 dozen of us stood there like idiots, one brave woman stepped directly in front of oncoming traffic with her arm outstretched as if to say “I don’t care if you are a monstrous automobile with the ability to flatten me in an instant, STOP!” She walked up to the blind woman, whispered something in her ear and then gently led her back to the curb.

It was absolutely one of the most courageous things I ever witnessed firsthand. I only wish I had the guts decency to do the same.

…this is what I see.

Just thought I’d share.

[Update: When my husband saw this picture, he said it looks like a close-up of Mars. I guess he should know...didn't someone once say men are from there? In any case, yes, I guess feeling as though you're about to give birth to a planet is a fair way of describing it.]

Well guess what. Guess who’s pregnant. My dermatologist. That’s right, I’m sittin’ there in that very posh, highly-decorated office with framed fashion magazines all over the walls (because after all, this is the office of the dermatologist who is very important and world-renowned) and I’m waiting for the slicer and dicer of my epidermis. And in she walks with her gloriously round belly. Now isn’t that nothing short of hilarious…given me and my issues of course.

Thus ensues a barrage of various and sundry thoughts which race through my head. Here they are (in random order):

1. She definitely looks pregnant. But should I say something? What if she’s not pregnant. What if she’s got an enormous growth on her belly button instead. Boy would I feel dumb.
2. God must be feeling particularly gracious towards me today. I receive it.
3. Why is there this weird thing with doctors—like it’s not cool to ask them personal questions. Never mind the fact that they ask you whatever they please, not to mention seeing you in really stiff, ugly, unbecoming paper gowns. Hey. I’m paying her. That should be worth something.
4. Do I REALLY want to ask her about her pregnancy? What if this is, like, her 15th child and she’s “What to Expect” textbook material? Or worse, what if she’s due the same time I am…even though she’s about half my size…and even though her hips appear to be nonexistent.

Well, I conclude I CANNOT NOT SAY SOMETHING. So we start commiserating.

It’s her first pregnancy. And I was so relieved to know (despite all my previous preconceived notions) that she is actually quite NORMAL. If you’ve been pregnant the first time, you know how it is…the overwhelming fear that there’s about 2.4 million things that need to come together at just the right time, and in just the right place during the course of those nine long months and when you really start to think about it in the middle of the night, you convince yourself there is no possible way all 2.4 million things will ever come together properly and you are sure to give birth to a three-headed monster and you begin to ask yourself questions like, “Should I really eat this grape popsicle because the chemicals in the dye which makes the thing purple will probably be just the chemicals which will mess the entire process right up.”

Well, I must admit, it was an enjoyable conversation and call me crazy, but I think we might have even bonded. In fact, she was even asking for my thoughts at one point. That’s right, my advice was sought by a doctor. And boy did I feel important.

Then she sliced and diced me. It was fine. I found it very cool to see small parts of my body floating in tiny liquid-filled canisters, ready to be sent off to the pathologist.

I do have one gripe though. My moles were on my arm and lower back. My warts were on my hands. In other words, all areas in question were easily accessible by simply lifting my (oversized men’s red) sweater two inches in any given direction. In other, other words, no paper gown was needed this time around. So much for all that shaving and moisturizing.

It’s mole removal day for me. And I guess we’ll take a shot at the warts too. So, if all goes according to plan, she’ll take a hunk outta me (actually 2 hunks) and then freeze the living daylights out of my 2 warts.

(Warts are particularly disgusting in my opinion and yet I must admit, I have a certain level of admiration for their tenacity. I have tried every possible method of getting rid of them but those suckers WILL. NOT. DIE. Amazing.)

I can handle the removal of flesh and things. That doesn’t bother me. What really gives me hives is to think of going back to the place that was so successful in making me feel like the biggest loser on the planet. (OK, slight exaggeration.) I’m not looking forward to seeing my dermatologist again either, who I’m sure is significantly more petite than the first time I saw her…especially since I’ve done nothing but increase in size since that fateful day about 6 weeks ago.

Unfortunately I’ve gotta wear the same oversized, men’s red sweater that I wore last time, but I happened to find some drawstring pants in my closet so I’m no longer limited to my not-washed-for-three-weeks jeans. Besides, my belly and those jeans are just not the best combination at this point.

I have a small problem in that my drawstring pants are capris which is not the greatest thing since it is winter here and there is still snow on the ground. But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do. If I was a normal human being, I’d buy some maternity clothes, but I’m trying to hold out. Buying maternity clothes really cuts into my Great Debt Payoff effort. As my father always says, life is all about tradeoffs. How true is that.

But there is some good news here. This time I remembered to shave my legs and my underarms. And I slapped a little lotion on too. Hey, good for me.

Our church has an ever-increasing population of young, single adults and the topic of dating and marriage seems to be a popular one. Here’s an excellent article written by Elisabeth Elliot (married three times, widowed twice—once due to murder) and I found myself “amen-ing” all the way through. Her experience and timeless advice is just as relevant today as it was back when she wrote it.

Her suggestions aren’t exactly what you’d read in the pages of Cosmopolitan (or Cosmopornitan as my husband calls it). No, they’re more what you’d read in the pages of, well, the Bible—stuffy as it sounds. Call me crazy, but I tend to think the Creator of the Universe has a bit more knowledge on the subject than the current “Sex & Relationship Guru” who themselves are often divorced and devastated in love.

And if you don’t want to read the article, here’s the bottom line: exercise a little wisdom and restraint now and reap amazing fulfillment and relational wholeness for a lifetime. Now there’s a concept.