Tears, Spaghetti and Angels

By D. J. Bullock

From the valleys of Wales to the Savannah of East Africa, this is a unique and compelling story of transformation. A story of a girl who was born and raised in a pastor's home and then went on to become a pastor's wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781619276758

Book preview

continues

INTRODUCTION

Hi! Thanks for picking up or downloading (how the times have changed!) this book. This is my story so far. It isn't a miraculous story in the sense of, I haven't been to heaven or been rescued from drug abuse or prostitution, or survived a horrific accident etc… However, it is a miracle in the sense of, I have been a pastor's kid and a pastor's wife for a combined time of 44 years (at the time of writing) and, I am still standing. For those of you in pastoral ministry (and no other kind of ministry compares with it, in my opinion) only you know, that that is truly a miracle. I have, by no means, got all the answers but I have learned some things and seen a lot on my journey. I have never written a book before. This is a first for me and it is simply my story along with the lessons I have learned as I have lived my life that I trust will help you. My journey has taken me from Burton-on-Trent to Carlisle, Birmingham, Blackpool, Nantwich, Wales, Tanzania and back to Wales. It has been one of adventure, many tears and lots of laughter. My desire is that as you read, you will enjoy the laughs, sympathise with the tears and maybe learn some things on how to make the Christian life the best life possible.

So whether you're a mum, daughter, sister, aunty, cousin, niece, Nan or the male equivalent, I hope you will enjoy my story. It isn't a book primarily for the pastor's wives on the planet, but obviously, because I am one and, because of the negative vibes that can surround the life of a Pastor's wife, I wanted to write to give a positive slant. I realised that after almost 25 years of having this title - which doesn't define who I am, by the way, it is simply given to me because I'm married to a Pastor (a gorgeous one at that!) - I wanted to say that most of my life as a PW has been great. You will read about times that were not great at all but, on the whole, it has been.

I also realise though, that you could be going through a really dark time, pastor's wife or not, at the moment and the thoughts of ending it all could seriously have passed through your mind. Please read on, I wrote this because I don't believe, for one minute, that the dark times are meant to last for a life time. We will have storms, I have had loads, that are life, but the Christian life, lived properly, should mean that we can overcome whatever storms comes our way.

Why the title? Tears: because I have shed a few; Spaghetti: Africa will reveal that one; Angels: because I've known some, the heavenly and earthly kind….

PREFACE

It was pitch black and the middle of the night as I tried to escort John to our Land Rover. Our night guard had fallen asleep just to add to the drama: we needed him. I had spoken to a doctor friend of ours just minutes before asking him for advice because John had wandered into our bedroom, bleeding from his head and in a terrible state. I didn't know what to do so I rang Mark. He asked me, 'is he breathing?' and I remember being horrified at that question - this was serious. The place was Arusha, Tanzania. There were no ambulances and so I had to drive him through town to a clinic that was only open at that time of night because Bill Clinton was in town. At that precise moment, whatever the reason was that he was in town, I was personally grateful.

As I drove on the dreadful roads that were there then, I wondered what on earth was happening. We had just returned to Tanzania after a wonderful 3 month home leave in the UK. We felt ready to do another 3 year term but it was not to be. Nothing had prepared us for what was to follow this terrible night of 27th August, 2000.

CHAPTER ONE

GROWING UP

I was born in Burton-on-Trent, Derbyshire, UK, on the 13th January 1969. Deborah Jane Thompson. My dad was a Pastor, so, technically, I've been in the 'Manse' since before I was born! I have seen a lot in my 44 years, some things I wish I'd never seen but many things that have made my life the adventure it has been. And, actually, I wouldn't swap any of it because, if you approach things with a right attitude, everything, good or bad, can be a great teacher.

To quote Paul Scanlon, a Christian leader in the UK, 'Sometimes you win, sometimes you learn.'

Growing up in the manse, so to speak, is where I saw my parents go through some tough times. They shielded us from most of it as we were growing up for which I am grateful but, as we became adults, they couldn't shield us anymore and so, they either told us some of the stories of the things they experienced because they weren't hurtful anymore or, we went through it with them.

Abundant life wouldn't have been something that was taught in the Bible colleges of dad's day. And, although I know they had their nightmares, it would be wrong of me to paint a picture that is all doom and gloom. They did have some great times and I guess it's those times and their passion for God, that has kept them going right up to today - they are both in their 70's at the time of writing and are still pastoring a church! However, the early days were hard for them.

For example, at their first church, the leaders bought my dad a bike which was a kind act but then they docked it out of his wages! What he thought was a gift, he ended up paying for. At another church when I was around 6, the elders didn't think my dad needed as much wage because they were getting child benefit. They figured that because mum and dad were receiving the extra money, they wouldn't need as much salary! I was blissfully unaware of these happenings but, once I got older, I heard more. I thought about writing other stories but decided that it wouldn't serve any more purpose than the ones that I have mentioned. I think you get the point. It was a long time ago, they happened, they hurt, but it's in the past now.

The 'victims' in a lot of these events that happen to pastors are their kids. They see their parents hurt in some awful ways which doesn't help their own spirituality at all and, in some cases, this is a major factor in why they don't stay in church.

In my Opinion

I once read a statistic that said, '80% of the adult children of pastors sought professional help for depression!'¹ I'm convinced it shouldn't be this way and yes, we all have our choices to make and we can't blame other people forever but surely the church should be the greatest and best place for kids to grow up in and not the hardest. Something is wrong and it isn't God.

For some unknown reason, it seems to have been a given that people are able to treat the Pastor's family in a way that they would treat no-one else. I am sorry for the thousands of minister's families that are broken in one way or another and my heart's desire is to see them fixed and living amazing lives.

When I was two, we moved to Carlisle until I was six. I don't remember anything from our Carlisle days but from there, we went to Birmingham. These years I do remember and they were great years because my Nan and Granddad lived here along with all my aunties, uncles and cousins from my mum's side. There were some great family times and I recall with pleasure playing at my Nan's with all my cousins. We were 6 girls and Matt, my brother who was born just 22 months after me. It wasn't easy for him. We used to put tights on our head for long hair and socks down our t-shirts for boobs. The girls, not Matt, I hasten to add! We would play for hours: 'Charlie's Angels,' 'Wonder Woman,' 'The Bionic Man,' Our imaginations would run riot. It usually ended up with one of us crying, sulking or pouting but, all in all, they were good days ending in one kind of sleepover or another depending on which mum was feeling up to it.

In our younger days, Matt and I shared the usual sibling rivalry and, although when we were good, we played great together, there were also many times of arguing and fighting. It was usually 6 of one and half a dozen of the other! One memory that springs to mind is that I once threw his train set out of an upstairs window which doesn't sound too bad until you realise that it was brand new at the time and he hadn't even played with it! I think he has forgiven me and I'm pleased to say we are great friends today.

Vicki was