The Ten Commandments for Preachers' Kids

I recently had to give a humorous speech, so I decided to talk about The Ten Commandments for Preachers' Kids. I am sharing that speech with you, modified to work as a blog post. (The picture was taken while I was in college, so the worst was behind me by then.)

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Do you know what a PK is? It stands for "preacher's kid." I didn't know that until my first summer at church camp. My name was Kathryn Page, so when a counselor said, "I see you're a PK," I replied, "No, I'm a KP."

I wanted to be anything except a preacher's kid. It's hard enough trying to keep the ten commandments that God gave Moses. But the ten commandments for preachers' kids are even worse.

First Commandment. Thou shalt not be first in line at church dinners. In fact, my father interpreted it to mean that we had to be dead last (and I was dead of hunger by then).

When my son-in-law was ordained last summer, they actually asked Pete and his guests to go first at the meal after the service. When my husband mentioned that I always went last while growing up, the senior pastor's wife said, "She must have been a preacher's kid."

Second Commandment. Thou shalt not act up in school. The principal is a member of your church and will tell your parents.

Third Commandment. Thou shalt not receive Sunday School or Vacation Bible School awards for memorizing the most verses. Even though you earned it, it might look like favoritism.

Actually, it is a good idea to avoid the appearance of favoritism. PK Mary Todd remembers returning to a former church as an adult and speaking with a woman who used to be in Sunday School with her when they were children. And what did the woman remember? "You always got to be the Virgin Mary in the Christmas pageants."

So maybe this one isn't such a bad rule, after all.

Fourth Commandment. Thou shalt not solicit church members for fundraising activities. They may feel obligated to buy something because you are their minister's child.

My high school sold magazine subscriptions every year, and the students who sold the most got nice prizes, like new TVs. I got a pencil.

Fifth Commandment. Thou shalt not accept a pin for perfect Sunday School attendance. The church can find a better use for the nickle it would spend on the pin.

Sixth Commandment. Thou shalt not sin in public.

Tina Watkins remembers the time she was acting up in church and her mother had to take her out and spank her. On the way down the aisle, Tina grabbed a pew and yelled, "Help." Forty years later, she still hadn't lived it down.

So if you are a PK, you had better be sure to act like an angel in public. It reflects badly on your father if you show people you are normal.

Seventh Commandment. Thou shalt not say "no" when asked to do something for the church.

I had just been confirmed and was attending the first congregational meeting where I could vote. I was feeling grown-up and important until my father asked me to take the younger kids out and entertain them.

So much for the PK's right to vote.

Eighth Commandment. Thou shalt not go on youth outings if there isn't room for everyone.

I guess that's why I read better than I bowl.

Ninth Commandment. Thou shalt not act bored in church even if you are hearing the sermon for the second time that day.

Tenth Commandment. Thou shalt not complain about the parsonage. The church members might think you are ungrateful for the free house they provided as part of your father's salary.

This commandment comes with a number of related truths.

1. Given the choice between buying new banners for the sanctuary or replacing the leaky roof on the parsonage, the congregation will chose the banners every time;
2. If the parsonage is too small, it's always the minister's fault, because he's the one who had too many children; and
3. Cold rooms and broken kitchen appliances are God's way of testing you, so learn to live with them.

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Of course, it isn't all "thou shalt nots." There are also a few "thou shalts." The one I hated the most? Thou shalt move seven times while growing up.

So here's my advice to PKs. Since you can't change your lot, remember those stories and become a comic.

His Father's Son

Do you ever wonder how much of a role your example plays in molding your children's lives? In my household, the answer seems to be, "a big one."

My son, John, graduated from Navy boot camp on Friday. When he joined the Navy, he followed in his father's footsteps. And while their motivations and paths have not been identical, they do have a lot of parallels.

Roland and John are both intelligent men who started college right after high school but dropped out in the  middle. Roland tried to juggle college with a full-time job, and the job won. John simply wasn't motivated.

Then they both joined the Navy. Roland joined during the Vietnam War, trained as a hospital corpsman, and was assigned to a Marine base in South Carolina for the remainder of his enlistment. John left for a Navy base in South Carolina on Saturday, and he will spend a year or more there training to be an "electrical technician" (working with the nuclear power that runs the aircraft carriers and submarines) before being assigned to a ship.

I'm hoping that their aftermath is similar, as well. Roland eventually returned to school and earned not only his bachelor's degree but also a master's degree and what Indiana calls a "Plus 30" (30 hours beyond a master's degree). One of John's goals in joining the Navy is to earn additional college credits and make use of the G.I.Bill to get a bachelor's degree.

If you think I'm feeling left out, you can stop. My daughter, Caroline, is her mother's daughter. But this is John's time to shine, so we'll leave the mother/daughter discussion for another day.

John is his father's son, and I'm beaming with pride.

The Real Winner

In 1978, the Nazi Party decided to hold a march and rally in Skokie, Illinois, which had a large Jewish population. When the city refused to give the demonstrators a permit, they turned to the ACLU to represent them.

The ACLU had a dilemma. Although it despised the Nazi Party and everything it stood for, the ACLU was a fierce defender of free speech. So what was it to do? It accepted the case, and the courts allowed the rally to proceed.* It may seem like the Nazi Party won, but freedom of speech was the real winner.

This past Wednesday, the Supreme Court decided a case that reminds me of the Skokie case and creates the same dilemma.** You may know the facts, but if you don't, here is a summary.

The Westboro Baptist Church is one of the smallest but most prominent "churches" in America. It was founded by Fred Phelps, and its congregation is composed of members of his family. Westboro claims that God kills American soldiers as punishment for sin, and especially for this country's tolerance of homosexuality in the military. To spread its message, Westboro pickets funerals for soldiers killed in the line of duty.

After Marine Lance Corporal Matthew Snyder was killed in Iraq, Phelps and several of his relatives traveled to Maryland to picket the service. They notified the city of their intent and followed the relevant ordinances. The picket signs bore hateful messages, but the picketers did not attempt to keep anyone from attending the funeral or the burial, did not yell or use profanity, and did not engage in violence.

Corporal Snyder's father sued the picketers for intentional infliction of emotional distress, and a jury awarded Mr. Snyder over $10 million. Phelps and his relatives appealed, claiming that the jury award violated their First Amendment free speech rights.

Westboro's actions are the antithesis of Christianity, and its name is a taint on the many Baptist churches that follow Christ's command to love our enemies. Christ hated sin, but he loved people. All people. Westboro's statements and tactics show its hate for those same people.

Since I sympathize with the family and friends of the soldiers whose funerals Westboro targets, my heart wanted Westboro to lose.

But my mind said something else.

The First Amendment is designed to protect unpopular speech and ideas that aren't endorsed by the majority of Americans. If Westboro's members aren't allowed to express their ideas, what happens to my right to say something that isn't considered "politically correct"? As long as Westboro's members are allowed to proclaim their message, I'm allowed to proclaim mine. If their speech is suppressed, what will happen to the true Christian message if it becomes an outcast in this society?

I may seem like hate won, but freedom of speech was the real winner.

And I can live with that.
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* Collin v. Smith, 578 F.2d 1197 (7th Cir. 1978).

** Snyder v. Phelps, 562 U.S. __ (2011). The United States Supreme Court decided this case (No. 09-751) on March 2, 2011.

Murphy's Law is for Amateurs

Murphy's Law says, "Anything that can go wrong will go wrong." For speakers, this usually means the microphone will screech or the audio-visual equipment won't work or the airplane that is scheduled to arrive two hours before your talk will be delayed for three. For actors and actresses, it may be something as simple as a wig flying off in the middle of a scene.

Roland and I went to see a regional theater production of Annie on Saturday night. Professional actors played Miss Hannigan and Oliver Warbucks, but the rest of the cast were amateurs.

In one scene, Oliver Warbuck's secretary, Grace, has just brought Annie to the billionaire's mansion and introduced her to the servants. As they sing and dance "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here," one of the male servants picks Annie up and swings her around. On Saturday night her wig flew off, revealing blond hair hugging the girl's scalp. Not one of the dozen or so people on stage stepped out of position to retrieve the red hair that had come to rest in a conspicuous spot.

Annie hardly missed a beat as she continued singing and dancing. And that's just what she should have done. She wasn't in a good position to retrieve the wig, and the audience didn't expect that from a child, anyway. Annie acted like a professional.

But the others on stage acted like the amateurs they were. Grace probably could have retrieved the wig the most naturally, but almost any of the servants could have broken rank, danced over gracefully and picked up the wig, and waltzed over to return it to Annie. That person would have departed from his or her scripted role, but the interruption would have been shorter and more welcome than the prolonged period where Annie looked like a scalped Indian.

Then Oliver Warbucks came on stage, noticed the wig, and picked it up. He said, "I believe this belongs to you," placed it on Annie's head, and smoothed it down. Yes, it was a departure from the script, but it brought the biggest applause of the evening.

That's the difference between being an amateur and being a professional. Professionals experience Murphy's Law, too, but they don't let it paralyze them. The professional speaker learns how to project his or her voice without a microphone, designs a presentation that is enhanced by but does not rely on audio-visuals, and leaves earlier in anticipation of flight delays. The professional actor expects the unexpected and learns how to ad lib.

If one of the amateurs on stage had taken a risk and stepped out of the script for a moment, the audience would have applauded. Would the director have yelled at him or her for it? Maybe, but probably not.

Life is like that, too. Sometimes we have to step out of the script and take a risk to help others.

Even if we don't get any applause.

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The picture is from my high-school senior play. I am the old maid on the left. Although I don't remember anything going wrong, I was a true amateur at the time and would never have taken a risk if it had.

Blame Me

Borders announced last week that it had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy and is closing about one-third of its stores, including the one where my writers' critique group meets.

Not that finding a new location is a novel experience for us: we seem to move approximately once a year as conditions at our host location change. And no, we haven't put them all out of business.

More and more brick and mortar bookstores are closing their doors. Part of it is the economy, but part is a change in reading and purchasing habits. I don't mean that people are reading less, because that isn't my experience. But we are reading and purchasing reading materials in ways that make brick and mortar bookstores unnecessary as places to buy books.

And I'm one of the culprits.

If I'm at Borders for my writers' group, I'll spend money there. Otherwise, I do my shopping online where the selection is better and whatever I'm looking for is rarely out of stock. With the "look inside" feature, I can even read the back cover copy and look at the first chapter to get a feel for the writer's style.

I'm also one of the growing number of people who read e-books. I asked for and received a Kindle as a retirement present, and I love it. (Thank you, NFA gang.) Yes, I still read some paperbacks and hardcover books, but my bookshelves are already packed beyond their capacity. Besides, you can only take so many physical books on an airplane and still have room for toothpaste.

Although I'm sorry for the people who are losing their jobs, I don't mind not having brick and mortar stores as a place to buy books. I don't need them for that. But I am sad that there will be fewer places for readers and writers to congregate to talk about their passion for words. Words that inform. Words that create emotions. Words that, when strung together, tell a story. The passion won't lessen, but the opportunities for face-to-face discussion might.

And that would be a tragedy.

My Valentine

I've been married to the same guy for over 30 years. I know that's out of fashion these days, but I can't help it. He's just too romantic to give up.

Although I could cite plenty of recent instances (like the 30th anniversary party he planned without my knowledge), I'm going to reminisce about our early days, before we put on the wedding rings. I'm not sure these are in the right order, but here are some of the things Roland did to capture my heart.

A week of flowers. Roland sent me a single rose at work on Monday. Another flower on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. (By the third or fourth day I was expecting it.) A bouquet on Friday. I thought the flower-a-day idea was cool, and so did the people at work.

The want ads. Either The Chicago Sun Times or The Chicago Tribune had a special Valentine's Day section in the want ads for people to post Valentine messages. Roland called me and told me to look at them, and there it was. All these years later, I don't remember exactly what it said, but I think it was something like, "Kathryn Page, I love you. Be my Valentine. Roland." I didn't love him yet, so I wasn't sure how I felt about the ad.

A dozen roses, perfectly timed. Because of Roland's work schedule, we were going out every other week. On one of his work Saturdays, I was home wondering if I should break it off. While I enjoyed Roland's company, I still hadn't fallen in love with him, and that's what I was looking for. When the doorbell rang and a florist delivered a dozen roses, I decided to give the relationship a little longer to develop. So here's a note to you guys: flowers can make a difference.

More unexpected flowers. I was in law school at the time, and I went to Washington, D.C. (by myself) over Spring Break. When I arrived at my hotel, there were flowers in my room from--guess who?

A special airplane ride.  Roland had a private pilot's license, so he rented a plane but didn't tell me where we were going. I could see Lake Michigan below us, but it took a while before I realized we were headed for Holland, Michigan, to see my parents. They met us at the airport and took us to their house for dinner. Then Roland and I flew back. (Daddy took the picture while we were there. It suffered water damage in a flood 2 1/2 years ago, but you can still see the distinctly 1970s influence.)

Separate hotels. I planned a vacation to New Orleans with a friend, and we reserved a room with two double beds. When something came up and she couldn't go, Roland volunteered to step in. The hotel I had booked was filled up by then, so Roland stayed several blocks away. Some of my friends thought it strange that we went on vacation together and stayed in different hotels when there was an empty bed in my room, but I was glad Roland and I shared the same morals.

A traditional proposal. When Roland told me to dress up for our date, I guessed what was coming. He took me to dinner at an elegant continental restaurant high above Chicago's Magnificent Mile. The restaurant had strolling violinists, and Roland waited for them to come by our table. They never did, so he gave up and put the ring in my hand. I had fallen in love by then, so there was only one thing I could say.

That's the kind of guy I married.

And I guess I'll keep him.

Snow Art

As a full-time writer, I work at home. That meant I didn't have to go out in the Blizzard of 2011, but it also meant that I didn't get any days off work.

On the other hand, it did give me the flexibility to walk around the neighborhood and take pictures of nature's snow art before snow plows, snow blowers, and snow shovels spoiled it.

So enjoy these pictures.

Artist: the Blizzard of 2011.* Medium: snow.

* The artist graciously assigned me the copyright for these images.