In Between Churches

I'm convinced that there isn't a good way to transition from job to job as a pastor.

I'll admit, my dad was a rarity. He was in the same call for almost 30 years. I never had to move as a pastor's kid.

That's simply not the reality for most people. I mean, most people don't stay in any job that long, pastor or not.

My husband just had his last day at his current call. We'll be moving to our new home in a week. I cannot express the stress he has had on his young shoulders. Of course, he bottles it all up because he is conditioned to care for others rather than be cared for, but I can see it. And that really means something is wrong.

From the start, this call wasn't my ideal. It was an excellent church fit for my husband, but a poor fit for me, and I knew that from the start. As hard as I tried to adapt and "make the most of it", I admit that I have struggled these past few years.

Hence the blogging.

I struggled to find my place in our community and in our church. I struggled to find friends. I struggled to feel like I was included, even after several years of honest attempts. I've struggled to enjoy our geographical location. I've spent these years feeling extremely isolated, bitter, and resentful. I sat at home with a newborn who rarely slept, refused to eat well, and just wanted her daddy from the minute she exited the womb (like, what's that about? How rude.).

On the other hand, my husband flourished. He found his stride quickly, dove into his duties, and quickly developed a circle of acquaintances. He went in early and stayed late for months, clearly hyped about this new role while I recovered from a traumatic birth alone. Every Sunday, I was force-fed an avalanche of praise for my husband from congregants who forgot (or never learned) my name. My husband loved the piles of snow that I so detested and relished the small town vibes that I so dearly wanted to escape. He slept through our newborn's nightly cries while I sat awake, pumping at 3am because our daughter couldn't latch, and crying out to God from the depths of my soul for a change, whether in this call or in my attitude.

I hate to admit it, but my attitude didn't change. It cycled, but it didn't really change.

Dear reader, the guilt ate me alive.

At first, I ignored it. I invested all my energy in our little newborn, and I figured that once I was out of the postpartum trenches, I would see our call in a new light.

After a few months, I raged at my husband. I screamed about my isolation, my soul-deep loneliness, the anger I felt receiving compliments every Sunday about him while I went ignored and unnamed. Or worse, while I received criticisms about my daughter crying and fussing during the sermon. I cried out to him to get the church nursery and children's ministry up and running again. I yelled at him for wondering why I wasn't attending his Bible study after services with a young baby when no nursery was offered, and why didn't he know that Bible study was during our daughter's nap time? I screamed at him about all the surface issues while another issue entirely was taking hold of me and creating a place for resentment to grow.

After a year, I accepted my lot in life. I had made a singular, very deep friend whose husband worked at the church (what do they call that experience-trauma bonding?), and I accepted that was all I was cut out for. We organized weekly playdates. I stopped reaching out to other people I met because I couldn't handle any more rejection or ghosting.

I searched for reasons within myself that I was failing as a "good pastor's wife." I stopped asking questions about the church or the LCMS in general because those questions always turned into fights. I was tired of fighting about the church. I created a rule with my husband that I would not complain about the church to him. We compromised that I would attend worship, and I would go home. Maybe when our daughter was older I would attend Bible study. End of story.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Maybe I shouldn't have married him. Or I should have made an ultimatum that he switch majors.

Wait, no, you can't think that. That's terrible.

Either way, we're married, and he's a pastor. What now?

After 3 years, something inside me broke. I distinctly remember sitting outside on a record-heat day, sweating through all my clothes, and breaking down to my husband.

"Either something changes, or you find another job," I told him through a haze of hot tears.

I'd hit my breaking point. I was exhausted: mentally, physically, and spiritually. I hadn't prayed in months, not really. I hadn't cracked open a Bible in close to a year, even with years of therapy under my belt. On that day, I know he saw it. He knew I was serious.

Two months later, a church reached out to us. And it sounded promising.

A few months after that, we finally got to go visit and do a final interview in person.

Two months after that, we were issued a call.

Two weeks after that (the mandatory deliberation time in our church body), we announced the decision to move.

Two weeks after that, my husband would be done working there.

A week and some change after that, we would pack up and leave.

For months, we knew about this call coming down the line. We had already visited and basically accepted the call before even announcing to our current call that this was a possibility. We had a house under contract before we announced that we were leaving.

So, so much guilt.

My husband struggled daily in the office. How much should he plan ahead? Could he say anything yet to his coworkers? Should he? Coworkers sat down with him to plan Lent services and Easter, and he sat in, half-*butt*ing it, knowing he wouldn't be part of those services.

We told our very closest friends and sat on our hands, not knowing if we should sign the girls up for another session of gymnastics or start packing. For 6 months, we knew about the upcoming move, but we couldn't act. Nothing was certain. While unlikely, something could go awry.

Once it was announced, congregants came out of the woodwork to catch me after services and express their deep sadness that my husband was leaving. How sad they would be to not see the girls grow up. Mind you, these were people who had never spoken to me before.

I'm sorry, but that doesn't read as very genuine.

While strangers expressed sadness to me, my husband experienced nearly the opposite. Tensions in the office had sharpened, and his coworkers basically moved on, avoiding him for the most part. Perhaps they felt betrayal? But he had done his part to the letter. He had tried to honor them and their feelings while also doing what was best for our family.

A new call process started to replace him while he was still in the office.

He had to remind our senior pastor to include his leave date in the Sunday announcements several times.

He handwrote letters to each church staff member while they barely met his eyes during his last two weeks.

He heard stories about how this had happened with the previous pastor in his position, too, that the guy had blindsided the church staff with his decision to leave. It was clear that past hurts hadn't healed, and my husband was deepening the wound.

These young pastors, they were the problem.

But why did it have to be so personal?

I was open with the people who approached me. At least open-ish. As a pastor's wife, you develop an uncanny ability to disclose information that sounds deep and vulnerable while holding your cards very close to your chest. I told them that we were going to a church with a more robust children's ministry, and we valued that for our two young girls. We had started this ministry with no kids and now had two. It was an easy out. We weren't leaving to escape; we were leaving to grow. Not every church is the right fit for everyone in every stage of life.

My husband tried to use the same approach, but it was clear that the two weeks between the announcement that a call had been extended to him and his decision seemed too short.

And don't even get me started on the people who had missed a week of church or didn't see the near-dozen social media announcements. Clearly, it was my husband's fault that they had no idea he was leaving.

UGH. I digress.

And I get it. In the days of paper documents, there would have been more actual deliberation going on during those two weeks. In my dad's day, he would literally receive call documents in the mail with no context from churches he had never heard of. They were making him a job offer sight-unseen. He truly needed 2-4 weeks to find the church on an atlas, make phone calls to inquire about the congregation, and learn about the area.

However, in the modern era, most churches have adopted a more secular approach, contacting potential pastors and interviewing them before issuing a formal call. They're blending the modern hiring process with the call process. (Hallelujah!) By the time our new church issued us a formal call, we knew all about the place and had already made our decision. We even had a neighborhood picked out for house hunting. It wasn't practical to draw out the "deliberation" period beyond the mandated two weeks. At a certain point, we had to move on, too. We had to end the 6 months of one foot in, one foot out ministry.

Why is it that pastors aren't seen as workers? Why can't they move on or retire without a burden of guilt on their shoulders? Why can't they make decisions for themselves and their family without it reflecting on the congregation? My husband spent hours worrying about what the church would think and how best to help them adjust, while I begged him to spend a fraction of that time considering our needs as a family.

If you've got a pastor leaving, I'm begging you not to guilt-trip them. That's the heaviest experience for the men who work in this field. It will fall hard on their home lives. These men who have dedicated themselves to preaching, teaching, counseling, carrying secrets and confessions while maintaining a calm demeanor don't need your guilt.

My husband walked out of his last Sunday deflated.

I walked out of it angry. I wanted to slap everyone and remind them how wonderful my husband had been to them, at times to my own detriment.

But I also just wanted to leave.

There was no good way to handle the process. There was no way that my husband or I could have done this the "right" way.

I just hope that when we get to our new call, the joy on the congregant's faces outweighs the farewell we experienced here.

I hope it's worth the way my husband sat alone in his office for weeks, not actually working because he couldn't plan anything, but also not able to be home.

We've fought for the past few months nonstop (or at least it feels like it).

I'm so relieved to be moving on. Maybe I'll get back into my faith walk. Maybe I'll have a community.

My husband, while also excited, is grieving. He has a community here. He had fulfillment. He had a routine and outlets to pour his efforts into. He had members he was counseling that I had no idea about, and that to this day, he can't share with me.

I go on and on about how excited I am for the move.

He goes on and on about how much he'll miss.

He goes out almost every day to enjoy a coffee, lunch, or a drink with someone who wants to say goodbye and reminisce.

I cover that time at home with our kids, bitter that no one has contacted me outside of Sunday morning post-service chats. I pack alone, bitter that he's out during the time we had agreed would be our focused packing time.

I'm already mentally checked out.

He's got one foot here and one foot there.

I wish I could say I was handling this experience with more grace.

There's a spot at the camp my husband and I met at where the woods sharply transition from straight, tall pines and little undergrowth to lush, leafy green trees with an undergrowth so thick you can't tell what's tree and what's bush.

Many people we've worked with loved that spot. They loved seeing the harsh contrast, the beauty of both sides visible from one spot. Many people have gotten engaged or started dating at this spot, a spot representing change and new beginnings.

I never did like it much, honestly.

I didn't get it. I'd rather be on one side or the other to enjoy it fully. To me, looking at both types of forest at the same time diminished the beauty of both sides. I preferred the lush side infinitely more anyway. Even more, I'd rather sit by the lake, where the wind chases away the mosquitoes. I've never been much of a fan of the transition, in the woods or in life.

I'll leave it there and let you draw your own metaphors.

Love,

The Pastor's Wife