I have a name. And I don’t know yours.

Hi. My name is Emily. If you’re reading this, you’re one of the few who knows my name.

At church and in my community in general, my name is “Pastor’s Wife” or (my favorite, just to give an extra degree of separation between myself and the speaker) “The Pastor’s Wife”. And it’s not a, “oh, you’re Pastor’s wife, aren’t you? I knew you looked familiar. I’m Debbie. Remind me your name?” No, no. It’s a "hello" from a distance and then the explanation to their children, “that’s the pastor’s wife!”

Maybe some would be honored. Maybe some in my position love being known via their husband.

Dear reader, if there’s one thing you should know about me before proceeding, it’s that I loathe it. I detest being merely a handy accessory to my holy husband.

Don’t get me wrong, my husband and I had many conversations before deciding to get engaged about his job and what that would entail, and what my life would be like by association. I’m also a pastor’s child, so I’m uniquely situated to understand the plight of this role. I agreed with my now-husband that this is a role that I would accept because I saw how passionately he was driven to be a pastor, and I wanted to support him in that endeavor. However, I made it very plain that I would not be adhering to the normal Pastor‘s wife Credo. I would not be volunteering for VBS, I would not be overstretching myself while having young children at home, I would not be laying down to the criticisms of congregants who have no insight into my life or personality, and I would not merely be known as The Pastor’s Wife.

Fast forward many years, and it’s a title that I’m having trouble shaking off. I tell people over and over again what my name is and what my daughters' names are, but we continue to merely be the pastor's wife and the pastor's daughters. I try setting up play dates, but people are afraid to get together with my husband and me because they’re afraid to say the wrong thing or-gasp-say a swear word in our presence. Do pastors eat pizza? Do pastors’ wives accept a glass of wine? Do they do anything besides read the Bible? (The answer is yes, by the way.) My husband‘s role as Pastor has inadvertently thrown me into a role that I never asked for or even wanted. Instead of being known as a stay-at-home mom or a former teacher or-even better-just as myself, I’m known by association. And when you’re known by association, you’re really only known by stereotype.

Like I said, I grew up in a pastor’s household in a rural town. Now that I’ve been away from that church for a few decades, I realize that it was the stuff of legend that seminary professors tell their students to avoid at all costs. The elders of our church had keys to our house and would walk in unannounced when they saw my car in the drive, wondering why I wasn’t at school. We had to get permission before replacing a broken laundry machine with our own money. My home and the church were separated only by a driveway, and the church owned our house and decided what we could and could not do with it, right down to the color of paint on my bedroom walls and whether I could have a small pet. There were no boundaries, especially boundaries that I needed as a young girl.

I seriously considered breaking up with my now-husband over the fact that he wanted to become a pastor. I understand why Catholic priests don’t marry. I think in a lot of ways it would be easier, simpler, if those in high positions of the church, like ministers, did not marry. It’s a time-consuming job, many stigmas come along with it, and it’s kind of like being a politician, where there’s a very public spotlight shining on your life at all times, but without the large politician's paycheck.

It astounds me that in 2025, pastors' wives often still do not have names. You don’t call your doctor’s husband "the doctor's husband". You might give that information as a sideline detail, but then you’ll call him David. You don’t say "Oh, there goes the veterinarian's daughter" when you see her at a park. No, there’s a sense of ownership that comes with the title "the pastor‘s wife". Ownership by the church. An expectation that people can comment on how I look or how I dress in unpleasant ways. An expectation that random strangers are allowed to squish my children's cheeks and demand a high five or touch their heads as newborns. Things that you would never dream of doing to a stranger’s child! And worse yet, people get deeply offended if I ask them not to do these things. How dare she? Doesn’t she realize she’s the pastor’s wife?

Dear reader, I am not your property. My husband has chosen to pursue a profession as a religious leader. Love him, support him, treat him with respect and dignity. Praise his efforts. I’ll do the same.

I, however, am merely another congregation member like you, hoping to get through this service, wrangle my screaming children, and have a doughnut when it’s all over. Take a moment before approaching me to remember my name, and to think about whether the interaction you’re about to have with me is one that you would have with any other person sitting in the pews. If it is, come say hello. I won’t be mad if you need me to remind you what my name is because I’ll probably also need to know yours. And if it’s not, walk away. I’m not offended by your lack of conversation. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a little bit busy with my girls anyway. One’s probably trying to run to Dad and the other one’s probably halfway to the exit, about to push the button and open the doors. Give me a helping hand and send me on my way. I promise I won’t be offended, and if you give me a name, I’ll be forever grateful.

Love,

The Pastor’s Wife