PK – A Life Overseas |

The Radical Spiritual Art of Staying Put

If any group of people has a long and convoluted history with evangelical church traditions, it’s missionary kids. Like pastor’s kids, the emotional baggage around church is piled higher than the lost luggage corner at the Johannesburg airport. We tend to camp out either around the “wounded/bitter/cynical” baggage claim belt, or the one labeled “guilt-ridden/never question anything/just be good.”

But then, of course, since we were missionary kids, we carry more cultural baggage as well. Because unlike our pastor’s kid peers, we were always hyper-aware of the cultural trappings of the “Industrial Church Complex” (as author Sarah Bessey calls it). The difference is while we were “outside” the church enough to criticize it; we weren’t “inside” enough to be a part of making any changes. And besides, the churches paid our bills. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

When people ask me to talk about my church tradition, I have a hard time answering. My “church-culture” story has its foundation in the Zulu church we attended in South Africa, but also has strong threads of the American evangelical Christian sub-culture that came through from my parents, other missionaries, and our trips back to the States.

I grew up going to a Zulu-speaking church where we were the only white people. I could understand most of the songs and smatterings of Zulu, but services were long, hot meetings that ran from morning to well past lunchtime. The world’s best singing and the world’s longest sermons. My friends would whisper translations of the sermon (or whatever they wanted) to me. We met in an old, dusty school building, and our Sunday School curriculum was flannel-graph from 19-something left behind by some other missionaries. My mother spent hours re-coloring Jesus so he wasn’t white. As I got older, I saw church as a place you went to serve not a place you went to ‘get fed.’

When I read things written by people a generation or two ahead of me about their evangelical upbringing, I can relate to so much of it. The time-capsule of life overseas means culture gets preserved. Through hand-me-downs from retiring missionary garage sales I absorbed a lot of pre-1970’s Christian culture. Missionary biographies, books about angelic kids who invite other children to Sunday school, and a handbook on being a good Christian woman (that involved diagrams on how to walk, appropriate hair-styles, and the contents of a good Christian girl’s purse). Our home-world was early 1980’s American Christian culture. Because, you know, that’s when my parents left the States, so that’s what was in our time-capsule. We sang choruses as a family from my parents’ grass-roots “getting back to Acts” church they left behind in Austin, Texas, along Dennis Jernigan, Amy Grant and Second Chapter of Acts (all on tape, of course).

Then every four years we’d go to the States and encounter the American Industrial Church Complex. Our furloughs home were like snapshots of the changes American church culture has gone through in the past two decades:

Fourth grade: Love it. Love it, love it. Anywhere where I can get animal crackers, walk into a brightly colored room smelling of whiteboard markers, earn badges for memorizing Bible verses, and be done in 45 minutes is my kind of church! Dad, why can’t we move to America and go to this church always?

Seventh grade: Hate it. Who invented middle-school Sunday School classes? Torture chambers. Oh, and all our supporting churches are having church splits over music now. What’s their problem–who cares if it’s hymns or a rock band, it’s all in English right? Can’t they all just sing along? And everybody is canning their old sanctuaries for convention centers in the name of seeker sensitivity.

Eleventh grade: Why are these churches building more and more buildings but only sending the youth group on short-term missions trips, and cutting funding for long-term missionaries? Why are there graphic designers employed by churches to make glossy bulletins that everyone just throws away? The high school group serves coffee and bagels, and they go to Florida for Spring break missions-trip-vacations. I call them all “cookie-cutter churches” this year. I enjoy making cutting critiques of it all with my siblings (while smiling and talking about God’s work in South Africa to everyone else, of course).

College: I’m in rural Indiana at a Christian college, and I stumble into an African-American church. Best of all possible worlds. It’s English, but they know how to sing, and they don’t have a massive building fund campaign. It’s long enough that I feel like I’ve “been churched”, but not so long that I’m fainting from hunger. My soul has room to breathe again. For the first time, I go to church not to serve, or because I have to, but because I want to.

When my husband and I move back to South Africa, we attend an English speaking church. All my friends have moved on from the Zulu church I grew up in—and besides, my husband knows less Zulu than I do. The people are very friendly. But the disjunction of going to an English church that caters to white, upper-class families when we’re working in an impoverished community just minutes away sometimes feels as painful as peeling off my skin with a cheese grater. I find myself getting more and more frustrated by so many of the ways we “do church” in western culture, but again I don’t feel like enough of an insider to voice what I think.

We hike El Caminio del Santiago in the north of Spain for a month on our way back to the States for my husband to start a two-year masters program. No church, no responsibility, no commitments, wandering in and out of Catholic mass in Spanish. I don’t even speak Spanish. But we memorize the Lord’s Prayer, and follow along with the Gospel readings in our Bibles. Spring-time in the Basque country. I could live like this.

Now we’re in small-town Texas, where there are 33 Baptist churches in a seven-mile radius, and we’re church hunting once more. And once again I’m asking myself, “Why do we do this?! We’re not missionaries. We don’t have to get these people to like us so they’ll send us money. Can we just opt-out for the next two years? I like Jesus, it’s just churches that drive me nuts.” (Yes, I know these thoughts are dysfunctional, but this is the way I think sometimes).

And then, my husband reminds me that we’re the church. As a TCK, I like wandering, I like putting myself on a pedestal and looking down my nose. I like opting-out. I like sarcasm. That’s easy. That’s my default.

In her chapter on church in her book Out of Sorts, Sarah Bessey says she came to realize that, “I didn’t need to pretend allegiance to everything, but I did need to be part of a community…I practiced the radical spiritual art of staying put.”

That’s what we’re focusing on right now. Community. Staying put. We haven’t been in here that long, and knowing we’re on our way out in a few years sometimes makes me question the effort of trying. Small-town Texas is probably the biggest cultural adjustment we’ve ever faced, and church in this context feels just plain crazy at times. I can’t pledge allegiance to the cowboy boots and the gospel of evangelical-political-power that’s preached on Sundays. But maybe I don’t have to. That’s some baggage I don’t need to carry.

But I do still need community. I need the body of Christ no matter how weird I think it is. So we’re attending a Sunday school class but skipping the country music worship service for an online Tim Keller sermon. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. That’s what we’re trying to figure out with church right now: how to give ourselves permission to sort through and let go some of the baggage (after all, we don’t need to pledge allegiance to everything) so that we can practice the radical spiritual art of staying put.

Stephanie Ebert is a TCK from South Africa and America. Married to a Minnesotan, she and her husband David have spent the past three years working in South Africa for the non-profit iThemba Projects. Right now they are experiencing the cultural shock of moving to a small Texas town for David to complete his masters degree. Steph continues to work for iThemba Projects online. She blogs about social justice, missions, race, and finding hope at bridginghope.wordpress.com

“I Can’t Trust Anyone” | Lies We Believe

The last two months we’ve been exploring the ideas in Timothy Sanford’s book “I Have to be Perfect” (and other Parsonage Heresies). I hope this series is as healing for you as it has been for me.

So far, we’ve given ourselves permission to say “and” in The Little Word That Frees Us. Then we began to exchange our “shoulds” for “coulds” in “I’m Not Supposed to Have Needs” | Lies We Believe. If you’re new to the conversation, you might want to go back and read those first two sections.

“I’m different”

Before we dive into this lie, I need to clarify something. Sanford, himself an MK, says this belief has nothing to do with the legitimate “differentness” of being an MK and having a blended-culture worldview. That’s the TCK part of being an MK, and is a different discussion.

Rather, the belief that “I’m different” comes from being treated differently. It comes from living under different expectations and being required to abide by different rules. Sanford says this is not imaginary: though church members try to deny it, they often do judge PKs and MKs differently. People apply standards to them that they don’t apply to “regular” people. Likewise, we ministers and missionaries often apply standards to ourselves that we wouldn’t think of applying to non-ministry people.

We need to pause here and acknowledge the truth inside the lie: adults and children in ministry contexts do have different experiences, and those experiences can be quite exotic. More travel, more exposure to other cultures, more opportunities to attend events and meet well-known Christian leaders.

Other times our experiences are darker. We (along with our children) see the underbelly of church and missionary culture. We know all about problem people and problem finances. We know who is “against us,” and at times we even know who is responsible for eliminating our positions and reducing our influence, all in the name of Christ. These are the secrets we must keep and the burdens we must bear — and that too, makes us feel different.

If we think we’re different, however, we may keep ourselves from pursuing deep relationships. We may push people away and close our hearts to them. We may become lonely and even depressed. Alternatively, we may slide from believing we’re “different” into believing we’re “better.” We may like our positions of influence and authority: they boost our ego and pad our sense of pride. Although it’s uncomfortable to admit sometimes, we are a tribe who likes to set ourselves not merely apart, but also above.

Neither of these reactions is right or healthy. We may lead very different-looking lives, but we bear the same image of God. We may shoulder different responsibilities, but we share the same human need for unconditional love and acceptance. I don’t believe God’s desire for those in ministry is any different than for anyone else. I believe He wants all of us to experience authentic, life-giving community. But if we believe we’re different, we may cut ourselves off from the fellowship we so desperately need. If we believe we’re different, we may deprive ourselves of the deep relationships our souls crave.

We need to delete the “missionaries are better” mindset from our vocabularies. We need to stop isolating and elevating people in ministry and start embracing each other as equals, no matter which labels we personally claim. We need to take responsibility for the pedestals we’ve placed certain people on – even if we placed ourselves on those pedestals.

We need to level our hierarchies. Missionaries sin, ministers sin, and our children sin — just the same as everyone else. We all need a Savior. Honesty, openness, and acceptance are for all members of the Body. They’re for the ones preaching from the pulpits, and for the ones sitting on the back row. They’re for the ones sending monthly newsletters across the ocean, and for the ones sending monthly checks in the mail. They’re for everyone.

“I can’t trust anyone”

“I can’t trust anyone” closely follows “I’m different.” Many of the same experiences that lead us to believe we’re different also lead us to believe we can’t trust anyone, and it can be hard to tease out the differences.

At first glance, “I can’t trust anyone” might not seem like a lie. If church people have let us down, if they’ve mercilessly judged our struggles, if they’ve betrayed our confidences and broadcast our private stories to the world, this statement might seem true. And we might have decided we’re better off on our own. We might have decided we don’t need anyone after all.

Truth be told, I had trouble writing this section. Unlike some of the other lies in this series, I don’t have significant personal experience with this one. I’ve certainly considered myself “different,” and at times “better,” but I haven’t personally struggled with trusting people. I’ve always had a small circle of people I could trust, and I have a feeling this is because I didn’t grow up in a ministry home.

My story is not everyone’s story, however, and I’ve spoken with enough pastor’s kids and pastor’s kids’ spouses to know this trust issue is a big deal. It plays out in loneliness, arrogance, and a lack of close relationships.

While I’ve generally had safe people in my life, I know this much is true: some people cannot be trusted. Some people are not safe. There is truth inside this lie. Sometimes unsafe people in the Church hurt us deeply. Sometimes religious people wound us so severely that it almost seems irreparable, and we decide never to trust church people again.

While it is most definitely true that some people can’t be trusted, it is also true that some people can be trusted. Trustworthy people may be hard to find, but they do exist. And without that elusive trust, we can’t have meaningful relationships. When we choose not to trust people, we cut ourselves off from the relationships that can buoy us in times of trouble. When we tuck our weaknesses away where no one can find them or use them against us, we may think we are safe, but in reality we are alone.

If there truly is “neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus,” then perhaps there should be no pastor or member either, no missionary or sender. Not that there aren’t differing roles and responsibilities in the Church – because there are — but that we are all one in Christ, and all equal in His Church. So let’s accept each other’s weaknesses and respect each other’s stories. Let’s push back against the prevailing church culture that ranks us over and under each other, and love each other as equals.

I’m not saying we can’t be friends with people who’ve had similar life experiences. Those people instinctively understand us, and they can be a refuge for us. What I am saying is that we can be friends with people outside our circles, too. Others in the body of Christ can love us well, too. There are people “outside the tribe” who can accept our entire story, with all its complications and paradoxes. And we can love them in all their glorious complexity, too. Reaching out to people who aren’t exactly like us is what the Church was designed for.

“I can ruin my parents’ ministry“

Of all the lies listed in the Parsonage Heresies book, this one strikes me as the most tragic. It tells children they make their parents credible – or not. It tells children they prove their parents’ worth – or not. It tells children their behavior makes an adult’s ministry successful — or destroys it.

This lie places the burden of an adult’s employment squarely on the shoulders of a child. This is unfair in any profession, and completely out of place among God’s people. Children — loved by God, sought by God, cared for by God — should never feel the pressure to ensure their parents’ wage-earning ability.

Although this statement upset me more than any other lie in this book, I don’t have actual experience with it — probably because I didn’t grow up in a ministry home. But I can imagine it doesn’t feel like a lie. I can imagine having social, emotional, or educational difficulties and being afraid to express them, because taking care of those issues might take my family off the field.

While I’ve never met any parents who held their children responsible for their ministry career, adult PKs and MKs probably have painful stories to back up this belief, and for those stories, I am truly sorry. Whether this pressure came from within your family or externally from church members, or some deadly combination of the two, I am so, so sorry. That’s a heavy burden to carry.

I’d also like to consider the corollary of “I can ruin my parents’ ministry”: “I can ruin my husband’s ministry.” I am much more familiar with this fear. I didn’t originally want to move overseas, but I thought if I refused to go, I’d ruin my husband’s missionary dreams. I am not the only wife who’s ever felt this. Kay Bruner writes in As Soon as I Fell, “All through our training, I had heard how important it was for the wife to ‘be involved in the project.’ People said that if the wife wasn’t involved in the project, the whole thing would go down in flames. I didn’t want to be the reason our project failed.”

That’s a lot of pressure, and I’ve spoken with other wives who feel the same way. We’re afraid we can ruin everything for our husbands. Sometimes that idea is even planted by well-meaning organizations and leaders. Sometimes it comes from inside us. And honestly, I don’t know what to do about this issue.

I don’t even think this pressure is relegated to children and spouses. I think as adults in missions, we fear that our own sin or poor choices might cause us to fail, so we silence our own struggles. Other times we have medical issues that need tending, and we’re faced with the choice to hide or deny them, or to seek help off the field if needed.

To be honest, I’m not sure how to separate the truth from the untruth in these beliefs. I’m not sure how we as the Body of Christ can deconstruct these harmful lies. I hope and pray this pressure to perform for the sake of your parents or spouse is becoming a relic of the past, but I have a feeling this is something we need to talk about more. I don’t have many answers here. I would love it if you shared your hard-won wisdom and experiences in the comments.

Have you ever felt different, alone, or unable to trust anyone?

Where have you found safe community? What does safe community look like for you?

What can we do to facilitate safer environments in the Church, and specifically for people in missions and ministry?

Have you ever felt you could destroy your parents’ or spouse’s or even your own ministry career? How can we address this pressure in a healthy, God-honoring way?

Part 1: The Little Word That Frees Us

Part 2: “I’m Not Supposed to Have Needs“

Part 4: “God is Disappointed With Me“

Part 5: A Conversation with Timothy Sanford

photo credit

“I’m Not Supposed to Have Needs” | Lies We Believe

Last month I began a series on life in ministry families and the thinking patterns we absorb along the way. As I mentioned then, this conversation is for everyone — whether you grew up as a Pastor’s Kid (PK) or Missionary Kid (MK), whether you entered ministry as an adult, or whether you love people who are.

This month we’ll continue by discussing three of the lies Timothy Sanford writes about in his book “I Have to be Perfect” (and other Parsonage Heresies). As we process these statements, keep in mind that everybody experiences life differently. You might react to some of these ideas and not to others, and that’s ok.

“I’m here for others” & “Other people’s needs are more important than my own”

Ouch. These two lies hit close to home for me. They’re so intertwined that they’re hard to separate, and I’ve believed them both as a ministry wife. I’ve assumed people can walk all over me. All over my time, and all over my feelings. I’ve allowed people to trash my home, believing I must silently endure it as service to Christ. I’ve bought into the lie that I exist only to serve others, and that I can’t have needs of my own. Furthermore, I thought if I didn’t let other people do those things to me — and even more specifically, if I weren’t joyful about it — then I wasn’t a good Christian or a good ministry wife.

I required these things of myself. Did God require them of me? Must I only ever serve others? Philippians 2:4 tells us to “look not only to our own interests, but also to the interests of others.” That’s an intriguing grammatical construction, the “not only, but also.” The Apostle Paul, arguably the greatest missionary of all time, seems to be assuming that we have needs of our own and simply encourages us to care for others in addition to ourselves.

Galatians 6:2 instructs us to “Bear one another’s burdens.” Other versions say to “share” or “carry” one another’s burdens. I have a hard time deciding which verb I like best, so let’s use all of them: we are to bear, share, and carry one another’s burdens. The words “one another” imply a reciprocal relationship: I help to carry your burdens, and you help to carry mine.

We’re accustomed to carrying other people through their difficult times. We’re not “supposed” to have troubles of our own. We’re not supposed to need someone to carry us; instead we need to keep carrying other people. But what about those times when we can no longer carry someone else? What about the times we can’t even carry ourselves? Can we let someone carry us for a change?

Being in ministry or missions doesn’t mean we’ll never need to be carried. It doesn’t mean we’ll never have needs. Sometimes we get comfortable stuffing our needs down and ignoring what our souls are saying to us. Sometimes we get accustomed to giving when we have nothing left to give. And sometimes we model those behaviors in our families.

Maybe we can start to acknowledge that we have needs of our own. Maybe we can allow others to pour into us for a time. Maybe we can give ourselves a little bit of the grace we offer so freely to others. (The flip side of this, of course, is that other people have to be willing to care for us, too.)

What does it take to create a community characterized by Galatians 6:2, a community of mutual burden-bearers who help each other through the troubles of life? It takes an acceptance, by all of us, that we don’t always have to be strong. It’s ok to be weak. It’s ok to depend on others, even if we’re in ministry — perhaps especially if we’re in ministry.

The idea that “other people’s needs are more important than my own” sounds very spiritual. It sounds very sacrificial and giving. But we are all of us humans, created and finite beings with limited resources. Our lives are powered by the Holy Spirit, true, but none of us can survive if we think we are only here for others, or if other’s needs are always more important than our own.

There’s a deeper, more insidious lie at work here, too. When we believe the lie that the only purpose of our life is to serve other people, we buy into the falsehood that we earn our worth. That our performance justifies our existence. That what we do, the service we yield for others, is what makes us valuable in both God’s eyes and other people’s eyes.

We need to remember the Truth. We need to know, in the core of our being, down in the cellar of our souls, that God’s love and approval do not depend on anything we do. The same God who made us from dust knows we are dust, and He redeemed us Himself. We are caught in His arms, caught in His gaze, and there is nothing left for us to prove. There is only God’s love, and the Cross has already proved it.

“I should already know”

This lie claims that I should already be farther along in my spiritual journey that I am right now. That whatever I know, I should know more. That wherever I am, I should be farther along. That whatever my faith is, it should be stronger. That however my relationship with God is faring, it should be better.

And of course my own personal favorite, oft-uttered in frustration: “Arg!! I should be a better person by now!!”

So.many.shoulds.

Saying and believing should entraps us. I should be nicer to that person. I should forgive those people. What happened back then shouldn’t still hurt. I shouldn’t be so angry at God. I should be less selfish and more generous. I should be more mature. I shouldn’t struggle with this sin anymore. I shouldn’t struggle with the “little” hardships in my life. I should be happier.

There’s nowhere to go but down to the depths of despair if I don’t do what I should do. If I’m not living life the way I should, then I’m a bad person. If I’m not as good as I should be, I’ve failed in my faith. If I’m not as dedicated as I should be, I’ve failed in my Bible study, failed in my prayer life, failed in my service to others.

Should looks to a past full of failures.

Should judges us as Insufficient! Inadequate! Unworthy!

Should. This one single word oppresses us.

What can we do about the crushing shoulds in our life?? Timothy Sanford suggests replacing them with coulds. Where should condemns, could gives hope. Where should breeds anxiety and fear, could sees opportunity for growth. Where should paralyzes, could expands. I could talk to God more. I could read His Word more. I could forgive that person. I could love that person more fully. A life of coulds is full of possibilities.

I want to give you permission to dump the shoulds in your life. I’d love to simply say the words and be confident that you’re no longer captive to your own shoulds. But I know better — I know it takes more than just saying the words. I’m going to say them anyway: You don’t need to do more or be better than you are right now. You are already Enough.

Wherever you are in your walk is acceptable for today. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Every day you’ll grow. Every day you’ll be farther along than you were the day before, even if you don’t feel the change. Every day you’ll receive another dose of Grace, the medicine settling deeper into your soul.

The beauty, the mystery of it all, is that Grace happens without any shoulds at all. So let us release ourselves from the tyranny of the shoulds. Let us release our pastors from the shoulds. Let us release our missionaries. And for goodness sake, let us release their children. As people loved by a holy God and saved by Grace alone, let us rid ourselves of these lies before they imprint themselves onto the DNA of our souls.

Have you ever felt your needs didn’t matter, or that you should already know or be a certain something?

In your life, do you think those beliefs came from within yourself, or externally from family culture or church culture, or some combination of the three?

Do you need to take some time to detox from these unspoken beliefs, to give yourself a time of solitude and silence in order to relinquish these pressures into the Father’s hands?

_____Part

Part 1: The Little Word That Frees Us

Part 3: “I Can’t Trust Anyone“

Part 4: “God is Disappointed With Me“

Part 5: A Conversation with Timothy Sanford

If you want to dig deeper into these issues, I suggest purchasing Timothy Sanford’s book.

photo credit

The Little Word That Frees Us

We talk a lot about Missionary Kids (MKs) being Third Culture Kids (TCKs), but we talk less often about another aspect of their lives, the Preacher’s Kid (PKs) aspect. These MKs of ours, these kids we love so fiercely, are both TCKs and PKs. They deal with both the cultural issues of TCKs and the potential religious baggage of PKs. It’s the religious baggage that I want to talk about today.

(A nifty little visual to illustrate the intersection of TCKs and PKs in the souls of our MKs.)

Timothy L. Sanford, an adult MK and licensed professional counselor, wrote about some of the ramifications of growing up in ministry and missionary families in his book “I Have to be Perfect” (And Other Parsonage Heresies). To give you a bit of context for this little-known book, Ruth Van Reken, co-author of the classic Third Culture Kids book, both endorsed it and helped to edit it.

I’m not a PK or an MK, and I can never presume to speak for them. This book was, however, surprisingly relatable for me, and at times rather painful. Perhaps it’s because I entered ministry at age 19 — not still a child, not quite a woman. Perhaps it’s because I spent a few formative years in a highly legalistic church where everyone seemed to be on display.

Whatever the reason, I found I was susceptible to the lies addressed in this book. If I, without growing up in a ministry home, resonate with these PK issues, then maybe other missionaries and church workers do, too. I also know that many MKs and PKs end up serving overseas, and I began wondering if the ideas presented in this book have broader applications for the body of Christ.

While acknowledging the very special and unique lives PKs and MKs have lived, I also want to recognize that adults in ministry roles can absorb false ideas about themselves, about God, and about His people. And we all need truth and grace extended to us.

So this blog series is for all people in ministry contexts. Whether you grew up as a PK or an MK, whether you are currently or were formerly in overseas missions or local church ministry, or whether you’re married to someone who is, this blog series is for you. It’s also for the Church at large. If you are someone who cares about the walking wounded among us, this blog series is for you, too.

I believe, along with William Paul Young, that “since most of our hurts come through relationships, so will our healing.” Sometimes the Church gets stuck in damaging behavior patterns, and we, as a collective people, perpetuate beliefs in the lives of ministry families that simply aren’t true. Lies seep into our souls, and as a community we need to acknowledge them, wrestle with them, and ultimately, reject them – for there is a religious culture at work here that needs destroying.

I love the Church, and I believe one of the glorious reasons God places us in a local Body is so that we can “love each other deeply, from the heart,” and by so doing, participate in the healing of each other’s hearts. That is what these posts are about. Sharing our stories, and finding healing and wholeness together.

It is not about blaming parents or making anyone feel guilty. Rather, it is about mobilizing the Church to dismantle some of our harmful systems. It is about calling on Christians to change the way we do life together. Ministers, missionaries, and their families are the most notable casualties here, but the Body as a whole suffers when any member suffers. I believe we can be part of the healing.

But we need to do something first: we need to give ourselves permission to be honest. Before moving on to the lies PKs tend to believe, Timothy Sanford gives us permission to say the little word “and.” Saying “and” enables us to tell the rest of our story; it enables us to tell all our story.

This is where he caught my attention — because I had not given myself permission to say “and.” I had only been saying “but.” “And” is not the same as “but.” “But” tries to nullify, where “and” respects and includes. “But” attempts to cancel out the bad in our lives by focusing on the good, or to cancel out the good in our lives by focusing on the bad. The problem is, this doesn’t work. The negatives don’t nullify the positives, in anyone’s life. And the positives don’t nullify the negatives. Ever.

For some reason this concept was even more freeing than the yays and yucks I learned about in mission training. The good doesn’t mean the bad didn’t happen, but neither does the bad mean the good didn’t happen. They both happened. The question is, can I hold them both together, at the same time?

For a long time, I couldn’t hold them both together. I had thought it was disloyal to admit that my parents’ choices could ever cause me pain. But as a TCK in a military family, there was pain associated with our various relocations. There was good, and there was bad in our life. Just as there is good, and there is bad, in everyone’s lives. I needed permission to say so. I needed permission to say, “I had an idyllic childhood, AND all the goodbyes and hellos were painful.”

And perhaps you do too. Perhaps you need to know it is equally valid to talk about the negatives as well as the positives. Perhaps you need permission to break the silence you’ve been holding. Perhaps you need permission to say,

“My parents were good people, AND they did some bad things, too.”

“Our church (or agency) leadership loved us, AND they made decisions that hurt us, too.”

“I had some really neat experiences because of my parents’ jobs, AND there were some pretty awful experiences, too.”

Sometimes we just need permission to say these things.

Furthermore, when I read this book, I realized that I must also give that permission to my kids. The life my kids live because of my choices, it’s not all bad. And it’s not all good. (But neither would their life be, had I not gone into ministry, or not chosen to live overseas.)

Oh how I want to see life in black and white, as purely good or purely bad. But life is never black and white. And I learned I can’t take offense at the various things my kids might say were good or bad. I need to let them hold their own “ands.”

“But” is insufficient. We need to say “and.” This little word opens up a whole new life for us. And. Just breathe. In, and out. And then, tell the rest of the story, the rest of your story. Tell all of it together. Tell the entire thing, the parts that make you feel broken, and the parts that make you feel whole. Tell your ands.

Wherever you are in the world, it is my prayer that you will find people who can handle all the ands of your life.

What are the “ands” of your life? Are you being honest about them with yourself and with others? Or is there something you need to say that you’re not saying?

Perhaps the situation is reversed, and you need to hear someone else’s “and.” Are you willing to listen, even if it brings you pain?

Are our communities safe enough to tell the whole story of our lives? Are our communities safe enough for the “and”? Are we brave enough to listen to each other’s “ands”?

Bit by bit over the next few months, we will be processing the lies PKs & MKs (& the rest of us) tend to believe about people in ministry. As we delve deeper into these issues, I hope you will return each month to tell your stories and share your hearts, broken and otherwise, in the comments.

Part 2: “I’m Not Supposed to Have Needs“

Part 3: “I Can’t Trust Anyone“

Part 4: “God is Disappointed With Me“

Part 5: A Conversation with Timothy Sanford

photo credit