I had been trying to make it to this minister’s wives group for the past five months. Schedule did not permit and the hour and a half ride to get there almost didn’t permit either. I don’t regret pressing through the snarled rush hour traffic now.
I am a wife, a pastor’s wife at that. I work full time, I am involved in professional organizations. Work follows me home sometimes. I am active in my community. I am making room to grow our family of two to three. I am a daughter to a cancer patient. The eldest of her two, the only girl, the one with the broad shoulders to bear this oftentimes unbearable weight.
I would have walked barefoot through the Saharan desert to make this group; to sit among women just like me. Women who wear multiple hats and dress for multiple roles. I love my friends dearly but sometimes being among strangers who have one commonality allows freedom to share certain things.
I have been careful not to drag my friends into my cluttered mind as it relates to being a pastor’s wife. It keeps the drama down and the friendships pure. My friendships aren’t based on church gossip and lore. So trekking down south to a two hour meeting every few weeks will allow me the space and time to breathe fresh air.
My husband, who believes I’m Superwoman, thinks I can do one of these groups on the north end. I believe so too. But I’m more interested now in being fed rather than being the one to feed.
I meet ladies who don’t look like me or may not even think like me. Our one thread of faith and a sometimes lonely role binds us if for but a moment in time. My turn to lay on the proverbial couch and let someone else take the lead.