Humor

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MY LIFE AS A PK
According to my parents, I was born at a very early age. And from the time I was born I was a PK, for those of you lucky enough not to know what that means let me get you up to speed. PK stands for Pastors Kid. Yep, that was my lot in life from conception on. Now some would argue that I was really a youth pastors kid those first few years so not entirely a PK from the start. Technically they would be correct but that does not change the fact that the morning after I was born I was in church and not much has changed since. Now obviously I cannot remember that first Sunday but from all accounts that is when my role as a PK really began. Sunday June 25th 1980 I went quickly from being Trinity Lynn Kay to the Pastors Baby, soon to be changed to the Pastors Kid. Even my own father went to calling me Kid. From the moment I passed through those glass doors from the outside world into the church I was never to be in the comforting arms of my new mom again, I was immediately everyone’s baby. Being passed from one grandma type person to the next. It is a wonder I ever learned to walk in that church as my feet were hardly allowed to touch the ground. I was every old person’s grandchild, my cheeks have been pinched more times than you could count, I am sure that is why God gave me chubby cheeks, otherwise bruises would have formed.
I had my first solid food at a church potluck, which explains why to this day I cannot stand Pumpkin Pie. Like every other time we entered the church doors my mom had passed me off to some church member as we entered the door. And soon after lost track of me all together. Soon I was sitting with some well-meaning grandma, after feeding me a whole slice of pumpkin pie she thought it best to check with my mom before giving me my second helping.
Food has a lot to do with life in a Pastor’s Family as I soon discovered. Of course there are the oh so popular church Potlucks, I really think that whoever came up with the concept of a potluck should be forced to eat at one for their entire life, or be shot, one or the other. Why is it that every church in America took this concept of a potluck and ran with it? You know why it is called a potluck? Because you are lucky if you pick the right pot and don’t end up spending the evening on the pot or hugging the pot. Really, I am not kidding, whoever thought that mixing whatever leftovers you have in your fridge with a can or two of cream of mushroom soup and throwing some croutons on it in a castrol dish and serving it to your closest friends was a good idea? Then there is the fun part of being a PK at a potluck, where everyone of those old ladies who think you are their grandchild want you to sample their latest mystery dish as they watch you. And let’s not forget the pumpkin pie.
Potlucks I’m sorry to say are not the end of the church eating traditions. In fact it was later in life when the slogan around our church became “If we’re meeting we’re eating” They said this like they were proud of it to me it was the warning label I always thought should be printed on the front doors of any church.
No Sunday morning in church is complete without the coffee and doughnuts. Sounds good right? Wrong! The coffee is not Starbucks people, it is coffee the way your grandpa made it, strong, and black and awful, but you better grab some if you plan to get that doughnut down, cause those doughnuts that look good on the outside are really weeks if not months old. Which is funny because every Sunday you can watch those sweet old ladies bring in fresh doughnuts but what you don’t see is that they go into the kitchen at the back of the church with the good doughnuts and place them in bags in the freezer. Then they grab out of the freezer a bag of month old frozen tasteless doughnuts and place those on the big silver serving platters to make them look tempting. Why I ask you? Why not just give out the fresh good doughnuts?
If you make it though Sunday morning you might just be lucky enough to be at church on the day of the all church BBQ. As a PK I was always this lucky. The all church BBQ is really just a potluck in disguise. Everyone still brings they’re mystery dish to share, oh joy! And on top of that there are burgers and hot dogs.
For some reason our church members always had it in their heads that my family would starve on those Sunday’s when there was no potluck or BBQ, so we would almost always be invited to join someone for lunch. If we were lucky that meant we got to go out to lunch, at a sit down restaurant. By this point in my life my sister Krista had been around for a few years. But for some reason God while granted me as the first born the ability to be sweet and kind to all the people at church or at least fake it well. When he made Krista he chose to let my parents hear the other side of things. Krista was not a bad child she just refused to accept her role as the “Perfect Pastor’s Child” a role that I had just accepted as a fact of life. When Krista was not happy you could tell, she had no problem expressing herself, it’s just that it did little to no good. But at least at the point we started eating out with church members I had Krista, we mastered the art of entertaining ourselves during the hours of lunch, we also mastered the art of sarcasm which I am sure we got from our father, but we fine tuned it around those tables.
Like I said those meals out were much better than those times we spent at church members homes. Than not only were you never sure what you would be served, remember these are the people who serve you can of mushroom soup with everything. You also never knew how long these meals might last. At least at restaurants they would eventually kick you out at closing. When you are at someone’s home, there is no closing time. And while Krista and I can entertain ourselves for hours at a table we have yet to find it possible to have the same experience sitting in a room filled with things children are not allowed to touch, in rooms that smell of old ladies perfume, must, and cats. Always the cats.

More to come later:)

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