Your pastor's wife doesn't hate you. She's overwhelmed.

I dread the end of the worship service.

As soon as it ends, I just want to pack up the granola bar crumbs and board books from my pew, stuff them into the unorganized depths of my diaper bag, and sprint out with my overtired kids.

But as soon as the last note of the closing song sounds, the pastor's wife post-service routine begins. Even before I stand up from packing up the diaper bag, someone comes by and comments on how well or poorly my girls behaved during service. After getting this report card, I'm jostled from person to person exclaiming that my girls are adorable and trying desperately to touch my baby's head, even kiss her, and give my toddler high fives (in response to which she clings tightly to my leg and glares...and I don't stop her). One or two people will undoubtedly ask when the next baby is coming, and I laugh this off as if I'm not embarrassed by the deeply personal inquiry.

I keep a fake smile plastered on my face and barely get time to process anything these strangers are saying. It happens so fast and all my energy is on my girls and keeping them as comfortable as possible as we make our way out. I probably should know all these people's names, but none come to mind and it's too far into our call here to ask anymore.

By the time I reach the exit, I've probably had 15-20 half-conversations with strangers while getting zero time with my husband and wrangling my overtired toddler and baby. Strangers have touched all three of us, I've been critiqued on my parenting 4 times, and we interacted with my husband for roughly 3 seconds. This is all after wrangling two spunky girls into dresses with matching bows, sneaking into church 3 minutes late (the shame!), and surviving (and yes, I do mean surviving, because no one with this age of children actually hears the worship service) church.

I've been told I have a resting b*tch face. Yes, I said that.

I'm overwhelmed. I'm tired from toddler/baby sleep deprivation. I'm sweaty and exhausted from getting my kids to behave during service, or haul them out of it. It breaks my heart to sit in the pew while my husband works up front and know we'll never sit together. And those snide remarks on my solo parenting while my Dad-obsessed toddler tries to duck under the rail at communion? Not helpful.

I don't hate you.

I need to be seen for who I am, not who I'm married to.

I need to be normal.

How would you approach a young mom who isn't the pastor's wife? Would you ignore her? Give a friendly smile and start a conversation if she smiles back? I bet you'd give her much less attention than you give the pastor's wife. And why? I can't get you into heaven. I can't even make you friends with the pastor. And no, I don’t remember your name.

I was once told that being a pastor’s wife is like being a bartender. There’s only one of you, and about a hundred customers. They all know your name, but you don’t know any of theirs. They tell you their life story every week, while you try to remember if her name is Debbie or Denise.

Before assuming your pastor's wife hates you, or has a b*tch face or whatever, pause for a moment. Look at the whirlwind spiraling around her. Try to see her. Maybe there's a reason she looks like she's in a war zone. Maybe there's a reason others look this way, too.

Be the church. Support the weary parents, because they made it to church when it's so much easier to stay home. Laugh with the children as they run together, because Jesus calls the little ones to Himself. Give one another the benefit of the doubt when they say something you disagree with in Bible study. Seek peace and unity rather than dissent and division. Once we see each other as people that Christ loves and died for again, that's when we'll see real change in our midst.

I don't hate you. I'm overwhelmed. I need help, just like you do at times. Remember I'm human, too.

Joy in Jesus,

The Pastor's Wife