Berkley Center

At the age of 24, after growing up in a Southern Baptist church and attending Catholic school for 11 years, I said my marriage vows in a Lutheran (Missouri Synod) ceremony by uttering “submit.” The word followed my rebellious spirit around like an indictment of all of the things I wasn’t. I now have a full enough understanding of that particular irksome scripture that I can wholeheartedly say that my husband and I biblically submit to each other—neither of us more or less so. Yes, he cooks, cleans the gross stuff, and takes our almost one-year-old daughter to work with him on Mondays. And I do the laundry, clean the easy stuff, and work from home on Wednesdays and Fridays to be with her. But beyond this broken world’s twisted definition of submission (that is, who does the housework and childrearing)—we submit to each other’s dreams and goals, hurts and offenses, false hopes and failures. 

The expectations game at play in a Christian marriage, particularly in more traditional circles, can be tricky. Some distort scripture, like the Genesis account of the creation story, to suggest that by creating Eve from Adam’s rib, God ordained a certain hierarchy—legitimized by further misinterpreted Pauline scriptures placing descriptive rather than prescriptive, restrictions upon women speaking and leading. The formula hopes to equate to the ever-elusive “Proverbs 31 woman”—an amazing character of the Bible whose leadership qualities are often overlooked for everything she can “do” and “be.” It’s like taking Mother Teresa and distilling her down to a Pinterest meme who obviously bakes her own bread. But while this mystical Old Testament heroine is the touted ideal for many a women’s Bible study, it’s all but assumed that every woman married to a pastor by default embodies her.

Both in seminary and in the few churches my husband has served in, I’ve received admonitions for my occasional absences and borne the brunt of comparisons to previous pastors’ wives. To be clear, I adore each one of the people who said these things—these are very often the same people who generously slather me in love. People in these communities have taken us in as family, which means a lot when the call typically means serving far away from our own flesh and blood.  The criticism and the grace I’ve received from the Christian community has taught me a great deal about myself, my marriage, and the God we serve. 

1. My husband’s calling is not my own. 
When my husband was initially going through the call process at our current church, a member stood and pointed out that committee kept using the plural—that the church was calling “them.” She clarified that I was not being called; my husband was being called. At the time, I wasn’t sure of her intention. Now, I am grateful for her protectiveness. She knew that this was my husband’s calling and that I had my own. My husband is a servant of Christ and therefore Christ’s church—a “called and ordained servant of the Word,” if you will. I am a servant of Christ and therefore Christ’s church—and also an un-ordained mother with a full-time job.

2. I am the only human being responsible for my spiritual health.
You would think that marriage to a pastor would ensure that I was on the right track, Jesus-wise. But whether in his role as my husband or as the guy who hands me communion on Sundays, he is no more the arbiter of my relationship with Christ than he is of my outfit choices. While the shared headship of our family means we’re both responsible for guiding the spiritual understanding of our child(ren?), it’s up to me to explore my own. When Sunday mornings often feel more like running a marathon than finding a resting place, it’s essential for me to make time for prayer, to digest the Word, to rest in Christ—even if that means skipping the occasional church service. 

3. Everything I have lost, gained, and experienced is a result of God’s grace.
As a woman, a mom, a wife, and a member of my church, I don’t live up to expectations—least of all the ones I put on myself—and it’s okay. I am beloved. 

In the past seven years of marriage, I’ve changed; my husband has changed. We’ve changed in how we view the world and how we affiliate politically and in our long-range goals and where we land on Myers Briggs and on and on. But we’ve supported each other’s evolutions prayerfully and with gentle guiding. 

My daughter has dozens of “grandparents”… and aunts and uncles and babysitters and friends…thanks to our community of believers. 

I am forgiven for the things I said in exhaustion. 

Because grace.