Being a Wife and Mother is a Woman’s Highest Calling

what could possibly go wrong

Now let’s see. Where was I? Oh yes, we find Theresa, in her late teens, and her clown car is pulling into the hard-packed dirt parking lot of a church. Strange. This looked nothing like the Catholic churches I attended growing up. Instead, this one was a big metal pole barn.

I was searching for something. But what? I wasn’t sure. My quest for “something more” led me to explore different religious traditions. Catholicism didn’t cut it for me and to the disappointment of my mom, a devout Catholic, I left the church.

I dug into books on a variety of religions. It was sort of like spiritual shoe shopping… what provided a comfortable fit without sacrificing support.

The fall semester had me back in school and a friend had recommended this congregation to me. Maybe this is what I’m looking for, I pondered. So back to the parking lot moment.

A pole barn? Really? Here’s the Alice in Wonderland sense yet again. My bewilderment only increased as I walked in the door and found myself in saw dust and construction. Evidently, the building had been an auto repair garage and was undergoing renovation. Was there a white rabbit hopping about? A grinning Cheshire cat?

Nah, no cats. But there were a lot of smiley people. And oh yeah, those stay-at-home moms. I eagerly accepted the warm welcome and, in short order, I became part of the congregation. I was even invited to join the worship team with my guitar. The music was way more fun than the organ music I had associated with church.

And this is how I started on my path to becoming somewhat of a fundamentalist Christian. I say “somewhat” because my practical WTF tendencies kept guard rails on my spiritual path. Speaking of guards. I credit my mom with imparting my built in BS meter. She was a guard at a maximum-security prison and did not suffer fools gladly.

But not totally. In true ADHD fashion, I jumped in with both feet and eagerly embraced every sermon, every song, and oh suhweet baby Jesus, those potlucks. Yum.

Meanwhile, back at the College of Confusion, my undiagnosed ADHD, kept my wheels spinning in a sandpit of distractibility. I could not focus on any goals and was overwhelmed more often than not. Dreams were in the airy-fairy department and lacked any practical plan to achieve anything. And then there was the shit ton of unresolved trauma.

I brought my struggle to the pastor. What a novelty! I had never heard of talking to a pastor for counsel. But by this time, I was a passionate follower of Christ and at church anytime the doors were open. Perhaps God was directing me away from school?

Well, what a co-inky-dink! In talking with the pastor, I learned the private school that the church started needed a teacher’s aide. The position was volunteer, but I would receive a small stipend and housing with a single mom church member. I felt seen, validated, and honored.

I seized the opportunity, dropped out of school, again, and jumped in with both feet. I loved the work. And I felt loved and encouraged.

The principal of the school, a former green beret turned Jesus follower, Mike, became a father figure to me. I had been raised in an alcoholic home that was filled with a void where dad should have been. I imagined Mike to be the sober dad I had never known. (Many years down the road, our third child’s middle name was in honor of him.)

And even though I was out of school, I was a voracious reader and became an eager student of the Bible and books on Christian living. My views were shifting in many areas, but especially in the area of gender roles.

Men are the breadwinners. Women stay home and tend to the home. This was God’s order for the family. What’s not to love about that plan?

I had witnessed firsthand the load upon my mother as she struggled to provide for me and my six siblings. Cleary, “God’s way” was a better alternative.

In talking with my adopted dad/school principal, he encouraged me to pray for a husband. Clearly, my life’s desires were in alignment with the call to be a pastor’s wife. Not the pastor, mind you. Pastoring is men’s work. Women are helpers and fer-cryin-out-loud, that coffee will not make itself at the potlucks!

A pastor’s wife. I loved the idea. I could spend my life cocooned, encouraging people, baking cookies and helping run a church. Under my husband, that is.

Welcome to my life for the next several years. Church was the center of my life. My needs were few, and I scrapped along on a little money. I felt loved. And safe. Well, mostly.

As a rape victim at age 13, I had a lot of unresolved baggage buried underneath my sparkling spirituality. It was a secret I kept for years, so great was the shame and pain. (It wasn’t until I was in my 40s that I could even talk about it. This was after lots of therapy.)

No one knew that the reason I never dated wasn’t because I wanted to be “holy” and was saving myself for a “godly” relationship. The truth: I was terrified of men.

Even with that internal conflict, it was clear: being a wife and mom was God’s highest plan for me.

Fast forward five years. By now, most of my friends were now paired off. The cheese stands alone. Hi-ho, the derry-o!

One day, after anguished tears pleading for my steed-riding white knight to appear, I felt I heard God speak. Or was it my imagination? Whatever the source, the words were comforting to me. After all, I was approaching old maid territory at 23.

Don’t worry, he’s coming.

Wooooohooooo! He’s coming! My eyes were peeled, hair was floofed, and lipstick applied. I noted the transformation I had undergone: from au naturel Levi wearing hippy type to a proper, hair sprayed church lady.

I’m ready, Lord! And tah-dah! There he was.

No, seriously. He seemed to appear out of the ethers. I was smitten at first sight. He had blue eyes, red hair, and a gentle presence. He was no slouch in the smarts department either. But I figured that given his advanced age, also 23, he was either gay or a mama’s boy. My inner church lady quickly rebuked that thought.

Our first date was to the movies. Then we ended up at an all night an all-night diner for a gab fest. I was over the moon. I think he’s The One, I told my girlfriends.

We were married 11 months later. Our wedding ceremony included an admonition to “never forget God’s order for the family.” The subtext: I need to tone down my type A tendencies and he, a thoughtful introvert, would need to up his game in leadership.

Challenge accepted. I just need to change. And he just needs to change. We’re talking God’s order, right?

What could possibly go wrong?

The first crack in the marital foundation was set.

Questions? Wanna share your story? Drop me a comment. And if you found this helpful, please click the little hands at the lower left. You may do so up to 50 times. This metric helps me earn a little coffee money from Medium. And a bigger ask: please share with anyone you know who may find this helpful. And if you’d like to support my work, you can click here. Interested in working with me as a life coach or spiritual director? Let’s talk! And as always, thank you for reading and sharing.