The Preacher's Kid

As a child, I sat with my mother and two brothers in the very last pew every Sunday. We were PKs, or preacher's kids, and church was not optional unless we were on our deathbeds. She did her best to keep us restrained throughout the service.

My father's watchful eye as a Lutheran pastor came from the pulpit. He couldn't see everything, but I was certain God would tell him what we were doing anyway. In my young mind, my father and God were inextricably intertwined. I remember watching him prepare Sunday mornings, starching his white collar, playing the harmonica to loosen up his voice, rubbing a tiny Kiwi polish tin to vigorously shine his black shoes. The last thing he did was hang a large silver cross around his neck. I thought that cross gave him special superpowers and I was afraid of him in that way.

Being a PK added another level of parental conflict and of pressure to conform. The same person who reprimanded me for an unmade bed was also my spiritual leader. Confusing his criticism with God's disapproval, I couldn't separate my father's and God's expectations.

In that sense, my faith was never my own and as I grew to adulthood, I followed a rebellious path, finding independence from my family and from God. When I came back to the church in my 30's, it took every effort I had to squelch the all-knowing voice of my father inside my head, running through the "approved" church checklist.

One Christmas, I visited my parents in the Midwest and shared my enthusiasm about my new church. I had joined the choir and made new friends. When I returned to D.C., my pastor spoke to me after the service, noting that he had received a letter from my father regarding my attendance. Exasperated, I blurted out, "That man drives me to drink!"

The long arm of my father had reached out over 1,000 miles to intrude on my faith, something I had worked hard to claim for myself. But he was happy that I had finally embraced something he had loved all of his life. And I understood that for him, my embrace of my faith was much more about my acceptance of my father than it was about his approval of me as his daughter.