The Pastor's Wife

One of functions as a ministerial couple is to get out among our people as often as possible and be a part of their lives during the week. We have often gone into the park in the evening and sat with them while BabyMan talks sports or armchair politics with the guys, and I’ll talk to the women. Many are homeless, jobless, in and out of jail, into prostitution, and most are challenged with an addiction of one kind or another. But they’re a lovable bunch of people, loud and colorful, Protective, compassionate and quite generous with us and each other. BabyMan is affectionately known as “Rev”, and I am usually referred to as “Ms. Rev.”

Often I will go alone in the afternoon. There may be eight or ten men and women sitting around enjoying the afternoon sun in the park, and they will make a place for me on the bench and offer me a beer and a toke of the joint they’re passing. And as tempted as I may be, no, I don’t take either one. But I take comfort in the fact that they feel they can offer it to me without fear of judgment, or repercussions. They know that we are not there to shame them into being who we want them to be, we are there to offer the gospel.

Our people live and move among the people of the neighborhood, living in doorways, congregating an bus stop benches, panhandling on the corners, taking odd jobs at local businesses. We’ll find them washing widows, sweeping storefronts, hanging out in front of the liquor store, picking through the garbage in the alleys, and pooling their money to buy fast food and cigarettes.

Now, being the Pastor’s wife affords me little to no privacy in my neighborhood. No matter what I’m seen doing, there’s a huge chance that it’s going to get back to my husband. If I even take one toke of the weed they offer me in the park, BabyMan will know about it within a day.  They may love me, but they'll sell me out to their pastor in a heart beat.  Ergo,  I've always managed to behave myself where they’re concerned.

A few days ago, I was walking down the main boulevard in the neighborhood and was, at the time, having one of my overwhelming nicotine fits. Happily they have been coming few and far between these days, but when they do, they consume me to the point where I really have to carefully consider whether or not I want to take the belt whipping that is promised me if I smoke. Sometimes it’s no contest. NO! Absolutely not. I’m not getting my rump roasted over a few moments of filling my lungs with tar, and taxing my heart with nicotine. I won’t do it!

And then there are times when my chest is so tight, and my head is aching for it. It’s a combination of my hormonal imbalance, my physical addiction , and an emotional dependency that is leading me to believe that maybe… just maybe…

I noticed a young man standing in the doorway of an apartment building smoking a cigarette, and before I realized it the words had flown out of my mouth. “Do you suppose I could buy one of those from you?”

I must have looked pretty desperate and pathetic, because the guy gave it to me no charge. . Cigarettes cost almost 10 dollars a pack these days, and the only reason he would give one away like that was if he recognized me as the pastor’s wife. I didn’t recognize him, I didn’t think he was from our church, but I couldn’t be sure. We get so many new faces every week and our regulars are always bringing in people they met during the week.

I took the cigarette, thanked him, and shamefully scurried away with it clutched in my fist as though it were priceless. I still had time to think about this. Weigh my options, list the pros and cons, analyze the consequences and consider the most important factor of all.  There are a lot of things I'd be willing to endure for a drag of a cigarette.  Blood letting, Chinese water torture, being gutted, the iron maiden. But the Belt? Hmmm... something to chew on.

So a couple days later BabyMan and I were in bed chatting away before he has to go to work. Out of the blue he asked me, “So, how are you doing with the smoking thing?”

“What do you mean?” I snapped defensively.

He lifted up on his elbow and glared at me. “You know what I mean. Have the cravings been out of control?”

I can feel myself nervously biting my lip. “It gets a little intense sometimes. But I can control it.”

I can't look at him. He knows something’s up. Why is he asking about this now? He hasn’t mentioned it in weeks. Why now? Does he know something? Did one of our people rat on me?

“You have something to tell me?”

“No, of course not!”  Honest. I promised I’d be honest. “Ok… ok… ok maybe…”

“Tell me.”

“I… I bought a cigarette from some guy off the street.”

“You what?”

“Actually I offered to pay for it and he gave it to me.”

“Did you smoke it?”

“No! I swear I didn’t! It was a Camel! I couldn’t smoke it. They hurt my lungs too much.” I was almost panicky. I’m not getting spanked for something I didn’t do.

“Where is the cigarette now?”

“I through it in the toilet.”

His eyes narrowed incredulously. “Are you telling me you had a nicotine fit, got a free cigarette, and threw it away because it wasn’t your brand?”

Frankly the way he said it, I wouldn’t have believed me if I were him. But it was the truth! “Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying! I’m not lying!” Dammit, not only was my butt on the line, but so was my credibility, and this wasn't sounding so good.  “Listen, If I’m going to get the belt for smoking, I sure as hell ain’t gonna smoke a cigarette I can’t enjoy.”

He stared at me for a long time, and I stared right back at him with all the conviction of a woman with perfect integrity. "I believe you,” he finally said.

I let out a sigh of relief and felt my heart begin to calm it’s beat.

“You came awfully close to making a big mistake, Baby. But let me be clear. The last time you needed a spanking, I was a little confused and I wasn't sure what to do.  If I find out you’ve had a cigarette, I… WILL…NOT…BE…CONFUSED. Do you understand?”

I think I swallowed hard. “Uh huh,” I mumbled. He kissed me, rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.

My head collapsed on the pillow. Belt averted… for now. I wonder what the chances are that someone on the street will give me a Virginia Slim Menthol Light?

Ah, the pressures of being the pastor's wife.