This excerpt has made me want to read this book…now I just need the time to do it :-)
-jamie
HI. I’M ANNE, AND I WAS BORN IN A CHURCH
Even before my dad was a pastor, we pretty much spent every waking moment at church. My mom was in the choir, my dad taught various classes, and I hung out in the nursery with the other sippy cup-toting toddlers.
When I was five, my father took a pastoral position at a small church in Circle Back, Texas. It was his first full-time position out of seminary, and he got paid a stately $200 per week. My mother stayed at home and took care of my baby brother. On weekends, my dad and I would go fishing or rock hunting.
Everything seemed normal. We were a happy pastor’s family.
At least for a little while.
A few years later, we moved to a farming community in west Texas. Although my father’s paycheck was only slightly more, his time away from our family had exponentially increased. He’d come home later and later at night. He was tired. Although we’d still go fishing, our plans seemed to be interrupted more often than not.
Once a month, he’d have a deacons meeting. I began noticing that when he came home from these particular meetings, he’d be upset. He’d make sure my brother and I were in bed before he and my mom would have closed-door discussions.
Some might call it being nosy, but I like to call it “being curious.” Even after using the “glass to the wall” trick I had seen on television, I could never make out specific words of my parents’ conversations. But the tone was unmistakable.
Something was terribly wrong, and I needed to know what it was.
With my mom having begun to teach to supplement our income and my dad always being gone, I was responsible for taking care of my younger brother. I’d give him some Ninja Turtles to keep him occupied, and I’d begin to pore over my Nancy Drew books.
Why?
I had a mystery to solve. And I needed to learn how to spy.
I began setting up an infallible plan to listen in on the next deacons meeting.
DEACONS MEETING ESPIONAGE
The meetings always took place in the fellowship hall, and much to my benefit, there was a janitor’s closet adjacent to the room. I had another thing working for me. There was an exterior door that opened into the janitor’s closet.
Over the next week, I snuck into the church and began building a small fort of tables in the corner of the janitor’s closet. I angled the tables so that when I entered the closet through the exterior door, I’d be completely hidden.
The Sunday of the deacons meeting approached. During the morning service, I left the auditorium to use the bathroom, making another stop along the way. I put my spy kit—a Trapper Keeper folder with a photo of two kittens on it, my favorite four-colored pen, and a small tape recorder—underneath the tables. I also unlocked the exterior door, ensuring I’d be able to easily enter the room later that evening.
I could barely contain my excitement that day, anticipating my mission that night. I went home after the services and told my mom I was going to bed early. She eventually went outside to the utility room to do laundry.
That’s when I made my escape.
I swiftly traveled from our parsonage to the church next door and quietly entered through the exterior door to the janitor’s closet.
My plan was perfect.
The meeting had just started, and I could hear everyone’s voice clearly. I pressed the play+record combination on the tape recorder, just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.
One of the four deacons said an opening prayer. Another began the meeting by summarizing the previous month’s attendance and finances and giving updates on hospitalized members who had been visited.
Boring …
I began doodling on my paper until I heard my dad mention the word vacation.
“Well, the kids are heading back to school next month, and since my father’s cancer is spreading, I thought I’d take my yearly vacation in a few weeks to have the family visit my parents in Fort Worth.”
Sweet! I love staying with my grandparents! Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.
The room was unexpectedly quiet. I heard a metal folding chair squeak, and a deacon, who was also the music director, said in an angry, thick Texas accent, “Brother Ron, now, you know you already took your vacation back in May when you went to Russia. You can’t expect for us to be alright with you takin’ another one.”
My dad paused, then replied, “The trip to Russia? Brother Chuck, that was an association mission trip. You know that. My family didn’t go.”
Brother Chuck didn’t seem too impressed. He growled, “Still sounds like a vacation to me!”
One thing I’ve always loved about my dad is the deliberately slow and patient tone with which he speaks. Even in the most ridiculous situations, he manages to keep an almost frighteningly calm demeanor.
“If you consider visiting a Communist nation and being followed by the KGB as you try to discreetly hand out Bibles a vacation, I suppose you’re correct.”
Oh. So that’s where I get my spiritual gift of sarcasm.
I could hear the other deacons begin to grumble. The lead deacon who moderated the meeting interrupted the next livid remark Brother Chuck was beginning to make. “Chuck, you know very well it was a church-sponsored and approved mission trip. Brother Ron, I hope you and your family have a great time visiting your folks. Let’s move on.”
My fourth grade brain couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. I knew adults disagreed, but this was our music leader. I had never heard him speak so angrily, and I didn’t understand why only one of the deacons had defended my father. I thought these people were his friends!
I didn’t have much time to dwell on these thoughts before Chuck started talking again. This time, however, his words came from left field.
“You know, Brother Ron. You are a liar.”
EXCUSE ME? I almost flew out of the janitor’s closet and punched Chuck in his face. My heart began pounding, and I desperately wanted to defend my dad.
I took a deep breath and managed to stay put. A good spy never lets emotions get in the way of the mission.
My dad, seemingly unfazed by this remark, asked what would lead Chuck to make such a terrible accusation.
Chuck replied, “I saw you park your cars on the church parking lot instead of on your driveway this weekend. You’re trying to make it look like we’ve got more people here—and we can’t have a liar for a pastor. So I’m going to ask you to resign at the next business meeting.”
My dad reminded Chuck of the landscaping being done at the parsonage and that the cars had to be moved out of our driveway until it was taken care of. The church had approved the expense and the work a few months ago.
Chuck mumbled something about how he must have missed that meeting.
After dealing with a few other minor issues, the group began a time of prayer to close out the meeting. I closed up shop and left. Checking to make sure my mom was in my parents’ bedroom as I predicted her to be, I came through the side door and managed to get into my bedroom undetected.
A few minutes later, my dad came home, exhausted. I heard him ask if we were in bed as he closed the door to their room. Through the walls I could hear my mom cry as Dad shared the meeting’s “highlights.”
I didn’t sleep much that night. My heart was still racing, and my stomach felt a little sick from hearing people who were supposedly closest to my dad tear him apart and refuse to come to his defense. These were Christian men. I went to school with their children. We would eat at their homes, and they’d come over to ours.
A little bit of my world crashed in on me that night.
And I wish I would have known that this night was only the beginning.