Life in the fishbowl

Photo: iStock

BESIDES giving birth to a son, I don’t have anything in common with the Virgin Mary. At least that’s what I thought, but I was wrong.

It turns out that in 1519 when Martin Luther nailed his protests about Catholicism to that church door in Germany, his actions affected my fate too. He challenged the notion of celibacy, arranged for priests in his movement to wed, and he himself married a nun he had known for only one week. But his followers then experienced a gap in their communion with the saints. The status of Mary, the heavenly mother, was demoted, and according to tradition, what accompanied that demotion was an increasing interest in the minister’s wife and their family. As an ancient rhyme says: “Mary and Martha, combined in one life, makes for the perfect minister’s wife.”

I was unaware of this perspective when I wed my Church of Scotland minister in 1969. I was thrilled to move into the manse and not really aware that some members, perhaps, wondered if I would be able to fulfil my new role as a worthy and dutiful Christian wife. My American accent, thigh-high boots and leather mini-skirts probably added to their concern.

Our first Christmas together, we decided to enhance the children’s address in the morning service with a little drama. The children came up and sat at the foot of the decorated, 25-foot tree, and then on cue I crawled out from underneath the tree. I was dressed in a tight black cat-suit, with a furry head and pointy ears and a long, plush tail. Stroking my whiskers, I told the story of the nativity from the point of view of the stable cat. No one said anything unkind that day, but I soon learned that there were whispers that perhaps my outfit was “unseemly” for a minister’s wife.

And the drama continued. My husband and I often appeared in skits at church socials and after one of these, an older member said to me: “I always tell people, that’s one thing about our minister and his wife. They dinna mind makin fools of theirselves.”

After we had three children the members had more to observe. When our three-yearold came into church for the first time and, seeing his father in ministerial attire, loudly exclaimed, “Mummy! Why is Daddy wearing his dressing gown in church?” people were amused.

I though was less amused when I realised that committees could make the choices about colours and other decisions about the manse, or could interrupt mealtimes with phone calls or appearances at the front door. You remind yourself that their involvement in the church is voluntary and their desire for your time is well meant. You try not to judge them and you hope that this attitude works both ways.

So, when our four-year-old broke the collarbone of a boy in the church while wrestling, or our eight-year-old ‘smoked’ very real-looking candy cigarettes, blowing smoke out of the manse window, you hoped they would understand. Once I smelled something odd during a church service and looked over to see our twelveyear-old painting her fingernails. One of our children was suspended from school for swearing, another was caught trying to smuggle a bottle of booze onto a school bus and yet another was in trouble for sneaking out of school. Yet no matter what mischief they got up to, no one ever looked at me pitifully or grabbed my arm after a church service to tell me they were concerned and praying for me and our wayward kids. For this I am grateful.

We lived in this fishbowl for nearly 50 years and with all the ups and downs of church life and the expectations of the highly religious, we survived, and sometimes thrived. Many former parishioners are friends to this day, and I have rarely regretted the day I traded my hippie life to support the work of the Church of Scotland.