From Where the Parson's Partner Sits ... or Hanging on by My Fingernails

By Bonnie L. Crank

From Where the Parson's Partner Sits . . . or Hanging on by my Fingernails

After centuries of church doctrine resulting in schism after schism, a rather stereotyped picture of Parson and Mrs. Parson has gradually emerged.

From Where the Parson's Partner Sits is a book that tends to dispel any such lofty ideas as to the reality of Perfect Parson and Perfect Mrs. Parson.

With tongue in cheek this is a behind-the-scenes, day-by-day life of Mrs. Parson, filled with humor, wit, stamina and just a bit of a jab at the equally stereotyped 'good church folk'. Who better to tell the story than a minister's wife?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 15, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469107448

Bonnie L. Crank

Bonnie Crank met "The Parson" on a blind date arranged by her roommate. The rest is history, as they say, and after more than forty-five years of marriage to the parson, she has found time to full-fill a dream . . . to write. A retired nurse and native of Louisville, Ky., she has written and published two inspirational historical romances. (Barbour & Co.) She has two grown children and two granddaughters.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

My nursing school roommate had been dating a seminary student. There was nothing odd about that since we attended a denominationally affiliated hospital school in a city where there just happened to be a seminary of the same denomination. Neither was it unusual for theological or Christian education students to make lots of hospital calls, via the nurses’ dorm.

A blind date with a preacher? I eyed her suspiciously. Surely you jest! I said, with a chuckle. To my chagrin, she was not . . . jesting that is.

One of my friends of long standing had been a minister’s daughter, and I had been invited to the parsonage on numerous occasions. Her mother had been my church schoolteacher and youth leader for years. While I am certain my friend loved her life, I was just as convinced that her kind of life would not be for me.

Well, roomy was relentless. She used every ploy in the book to entice me. You’ll have a good time, she said pleadingly, making every effort to sound convincing.

Oh sure I will; with a preacher? What would we do for entertainment, recite Bible verses? Did you ever bite down on aluminum foil? That is the on edge feeling I continued to experience when I thought of agreeing to this disaster waiting to happen.

He’s really a nice man. Please double date with us just this once and I won’t ask again, said my roommate imploringly for the umpteenth time.

Is that a promise? What does nice man mean? Of course he was a nice man. He was studying for the ministry for goodness sake. But I had a recurring nightmare of a ramrod straight, sober-faced adult male, immaculately dressed in a neatly pressed, spotless black suit who never perspired, never ate junk food, possessed impeccable manners, and scowled at me every time I laughed out loud or crossed my legs above the ankles. If I should happen to be one minute late for our date, I would find him standing at the bottom of the stairs, pocket watch in hand, rapidly tapping a polished wingback on the floor, Bible tucked securely under his arm. No wonder this guy relied on blind dates.

The only acceptable topics for discussion would be of an intellectual nature such as, The Life and Times of Flavius Josephus or the advantages of bird watching from a mountain peak. Perhaps a museum or poetry reading at the library would be enthusiastically recommended as ecstatically exciting or stimulating.

If I should forget myself, slumping a bit, a disapproving raised brow accompanied by his silent withering glare would reduce me to feeling like a low, crawling thing.

Is there any wonder why I refused to date a preacher? Every time my roommate put the question to me, I broke out with hives, just thinking about spending an evening with a proper perfectionist member of the clergy.

I held out for a month after which time I began to weaken. I vacillated between making the supreme sacrifice, consenting to only one date and saying to myself, Self, you do not have to do this you know.

Then I completely broke down. I found consolation in constantly reminding myself that it would not be so bad. Why was I so worried? I certainly was not the type a preacher would find interesting anyway. Oliver Cromwell once said, Paint me as I am, warts and all. If this guy saw me as I really was, I had no cause for concern. I would probably never hear from him again. (Fat chance)

The day of our date approached much more rapidly than I thought possible. We were to meet at the appointed time of seven-thirty in the reception hall of the nurses’ dorm. I was on duty in the hospital until seven o’clock that evening, so it was necessary for me to employ every shortcut I could devise to be ready in time. I managed to leave the hospital on time, (a minor miracle in itself) race to the dorm, shower, dress and . . . wait.

He was late! (I later learned from painful experience that tardiness was his bane.)

Surprise! The tardy preacher finally arrived, and he was as normal as the boy next door. Well, maybe a little more reserved, but normal nonetheless. And to my astonishment we went to a movie. No poetry reading for this kid.

So much for nightmares.

I suppose I have my dear roommate to thank for the merry-goround I was soon to board. Dare I dream of what my life might have been had I continued to resist my insistent, if not persistent, friend? (Sigh)

My kingdom for a day in the fast lane. I have a feeling it would have been much more restful, but I take comfort in an observation made many times by Solon B. Cousins, former Professor of Religion at the University of Richmond, Virginia, now deceased, who said, If there are reserved seats in heaven they belong to pastors’ wives.

CHAPTER 2

We were marching to seminary. Young, newly married, full of love, hope, and naïve as a three-month-old pup, we hitched our lives to a star, beginning an adventure that was surely an affront to good sense. We were on our own, having cut the last thread of umbilical cords that had fettered us to the protective custody of our families.

The parson had set a course that would jog his gray matter for a Th.M. degree while I strove to attain the coveted Ph.T. degree. (That stands for Put Hubby Through; not to be confused with anything remotely related to academia. It does, however, require the same determination and commitment.)

It mattered not that we had sixty dollars between us, and owed a car payment of seventy-five dollars in a few days. Did it matter that neither of us had secured a job on or off campus or that our entire household bounty consisted of a used bedroom suite, and a few odds and ends for the kitchen yet to be seen? Did the horizon hold a dim and dubious future for us? Nay, not for this pair determined to survive on love, faith, wit and wisdom. (The latter in short supply.)

The time was one o’clock in the morning. The weary parson carefully maneuvered our car and U-Haul trailer-in-tow into the dimly lit parking lot. His bloodshot eyes peered through the darkness, intent on safely parking the two vehicles, the one in tow determined to move stubbornly in the opposite direction of its intended destination. This accomplished, the eight-hundred-mile journey was brought to an end . . . or beginning, depending on how you care to view the events that followed.

We trudged through a dingy, darkened hall to our assigned first-floor, three-room apartment on campus. I would not have been surprised to find Count Dracula lurking near the stairs or certainly his faithful companion, Egor, poised, ready to swoop down on unsuspecting victims. (No one could accuse me of lacking imagination.)

Inside the apartment we were greeted with more dingy walls soaring to twelve-foot ceilings. The bare, low-wattage light bulb in a single-wall sconce fixture cast eerie shadows around the late-nineteenthcentury room. The three-story Victorian building was named Sunnyside. Were they kidding? Sunnyside of what, a wrecking crew? Paul’s catacombs in Rome had to have been more cheerful.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and released a shuddering sigh. I worked hard at convincing myself it would look much better in the light of day. Furniture and lamps would help. (What furniture and lamps?) Several old clichés raced through my mind, such as, It’s always darkest before the dawn, (no kidding) or Things are never as bad as they seem. (Yeah, right.) So much for old clichés.

Before we could sink into blissful oblivion of sleep, and enjoy its peace, our bed must be transported from the trailer to our new love nest. It was during this process of muffled grunts and Dear, if you could just hold up your end a little higher . . . that the still, September night was shattered by the screech of approaching fire sirens sending chills down my spine. Nonsense! There was nothing happening at Sunnyside remotely resembling fire. Of course, I could use some help with the mattress . . .

The apartment building was located in a heavily populated residential area that led me to quickly conclude the emergency must have been elsewhere, yet close by.

Mattress slides down two steps . . . up one . . . groan . . .

The shrill screaming of the sirens grew to an ear-splitting crescendo as a hook and ladder and two smaller vehicles careened into the small parking lot. Rubber-jacketed men began to swarm everywhere as lights flashed, and sirens decreased in volume to a slow whirr. The sound reminded me of an old phonograph machine running down. They wielded large, ghastly axes, shouted orders, unwound hoses, and for a few hectic moments, seemed unaware of our presence.

There we stood in total shock, halfway up a set of eight porch steps, supporting a mattress bent on returning to the ground. We were Southerners in Yankee territory and as such, perceived by many Northerners as just a bit weak north of the ears. I wondered if the Civil War had once again broken out, and we were the last to be told.

Where’s the fire? a prodigiously huge, burly fireman shouted.

I . . . er . . . that is, the parson stammered.

Who turned in the alarm? came another, somewhat exasperated ejaculation.

Apparently our lack of communication skills did not set well with the brave men of the local fire brigade. We received a few stony glares, (you know, the kind that could kill) as they surrounded the building, entering all doors, and proceeded to search for the phantom fire. Their harum-scarum movements were reminiscent of the rib-tickling scenes from the comic Keystone Cops films. (If you remember them, you are older than you think.)

Since there was nothing for us to do except to stay out of the way, we unobtrusively slid our mattress down the steps to a less conspicuous place. Actually I wanted to melt into the blacktop because of the accusing eyes I felt on me. Did they think we had turned in an alarm just to get our jollies, and then be dumb enough to