When I was in college, a youth minister from my
childhood church told me that God had told him that I was
going to be a minister’s wife and what an amazing privilege and
special call that would be. At that point in my life, I was pretty
sure I was going to be Mark’s wife, and minister did not seem
to be his calling. Though I could not give clear voice to the
idea at the time, an internal discomfort around the differing
male and female roles and privileges within this religious
tradition was budding. My evolving feminist sensibilities within
whispered that “wife of minister” may not always be such a
great gig.
During three and a half years of dating, Mark and I
talked of our expectations and vision of marriage and family.
We both hailed from fairly traditional and conservative homes,
and we envisioned that we would follow suit. He wanted to
pursue a career, and my wishes were, if possible, to stay home
and focus my energy on raising children. That had always been
my dream.
As a teen and young adult, I had an unusual habit
whenever I was in a department store. I enjoyed going to the
baby shoes section and internally oohing and ahhing over the
amazingly adorable mini sandals, moccasins, and tiny little
dress up shoes. I babysat some, but my favorite times were
when all the children were asleep, and I could just look at the
toys and baby stuff and dream of my own future children.
Sometimes, these imaginary children were adopted children.
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