A View from Inside the Family Steeple

My dad was the Pastor of First Christian Church in Madera, California, for 21 years. Madera is where I was born and raised. It’s a small town tucked into the center of California, with nothing to claim but a hot valley of immigrant field workers. Growing up as a pastor’s kid is difficult to describe. I always struggle with answering people’s questions of what it was like or whether or not I liked it. There’s no doubt that growing up a PK had it’s perks; sneaking into potlucks early to score the only non-burnt brownie on the dessert table, finding all the secret hiding places before a youth group game of hide and seek, and hiding in dad’s office when the chairman of the elders went looking for all the reckless kids who broke the communion display.


I tend to liken the role of pastor to that of a politician, a blasphemous comparison to most but the truest in nature to those who have experienced either role. Dad was important, influential and led a congregation that was more demanding than the American public. In a crisp suit and a smile on his face, he could shake hands with the best of them. He was a social chameleon; to the rich and proud he stood tall and respectful; to the poor and downcast he knelt down in compassion. He was truly all things to all people and they loved him for it. If a vote was ever in question, he would win it by a landslide.


As his wife, mom was always put together; hair neatly groomed, skirt and blouse perfectly pressed, always with stockings and scuff free shoes. She stands to the side and slightly behind her husband, smiling supportively while remaining submissively quiet. The children stand by in a perfect row of well behaved, neatly dressed and gleaming smiles; all glowing in the limelight of a great and wondrous family.


As kids, we all reacted differently to this façade. My sister, the oldest of us all, bought into the game with everything she had. As the first born female, she grew in perfect parallel to my mother; she was the perfect child, with perfect grades, who married her perfect high school sweetheart. She completed her degree at the Christian University our church supported and then bought a house and settled down in our home town where she had her first daughter.


Second in line is my oldest brother. He led a silent revolt against our family ideals, quietly aggravating my parent’s strong direction. He was the debater of the family; always questioning and arguing. He was also the comedian. He could debate any subject and argue until you were mad as hell, then he’d turn around and make you laugh. Most people developed a love hate relationship with him. He was a good kid who just didn’t follow suit very well. His strong will defied it.


My other brother is four years older than me and couldn’t be more different, from all of us really. He was one of the myriad of foster kids my parents took in over the years. They had him since his infancy and as soon he was put up for adoption they adopted him. His personality didn’t fit the family standard but it worked well for him in the grand scheme of things. He was a cute little kid with a personable persona; he didn’t know a stranger, sometimes to a fault. Everyone loved him and as difficult as he could be, he could do no wrong.


I’m the baby of the family. I’m also a bit schizophrenic. I spent a great deal of my childhood striving to follow my sister in my mom’s footsteps. After a time I realized that perfection wasn’t really my thing, so I went for the comedic smart ass role, like my oldest brother. It worked much better for him than for me but I tried it on for size anyway. I knew I could never get away with the happy go lucky mantra, so I just straddled between being perfect, funny and anything that would label me as me, something with even a hint of individuality.


It was a tough break though, because everything I did was seen as a result of me being a PK. If I did well, followed all the rules, excelled or achieved, it was all due the supposed advantage I had as a PK. If I rebelled, acted out or did anything wrong it, was made clear that I was simply acting out in response to the expectations placed on me as a PK. Nothing I did or didn’t do was in any way attributed to who I was as a person. My identity was my family, the pastor’s family; I was the pastor’s daughter.


I was the center of attention by default; popularity comes with the pastoral territory. Everyone knew who I was, even when I had no clue who they were. Not only did they know who I was, but they always seemed to know everything about me. I figured there was some underground newspaper detailing the ins and outs of the pastor’s family’s daily affairs. That’s probably a dramatic assumption but by the information everyone had on me, it doesn’t seem too far fetched. The church newsletter served more as the congregational tabloid and the prayer chain was just media hype in order to dig up more dirt for the tabloids. It was a fantastic system really.