Confessions of a PK
By Christi Watson
A few weeks ago, Diane Nix asked to republish my article entitled “Confessions of A PK.” The article ran in 2016. I was a different person then. We were all different people then. Between the publishing of the 2016 article and the time of this writing, the entire planet has plowed through a pandemic. Political turmoil gripped The United States. Racial tension soared. Violence rampaged through our schools. No one walks away from such times unscathed. I was a different person then. We were all different people then. I wasn’t sure the article held water. An encounter at a soccer game changed my mind.
One of my children plays soccer with a league hosted by a local church similar in size and creed to the ones I grew up in. I’m thankful for the soccer league, and I wanted to express gratitude to the staff. At least, that was my intention when I asked the lady who appeared to call the shots, “Are you on staff here?” “Yes,” she said and kindly told me her name. What I thought I was going to say next was some form of “Thank You, I really appreciate the opportunity you’ve given my kid to learn soccer skills for the second year in a row,” but the words that left my mouth were, “Wow. Good for you. My Dad used to be a pastor in a place like this.” “Oh, “she responded, “You were her,” she moved aside to reveal a preteen girl, her daughter.
Looking into the face of this spunky, thoughtful, beautiful bearer of God’s image, I had a bizarre and unsettling experience. Without warning, I began to tear up.
I mumbled something and exited stage left with the grace of a giraffe in pointe shoes. Unlocking the trunk of my car to procure my soccer Mom chairs allowed me to aggressively place this experience in an overstuffed mental file labeled “awkward things I’m going to forget I did.”
I promptly took my place on the field to soak in the sun and my son, both of which I had missed after an intense week of preparing to open the show I am directing.
For a few days, I was able to successfully compartmentalize this experience, but it would only stay put for a short time. Feelings are signposts. Feelings point to a truth that requires processing. The truth is that looking into the face of this PK was looking into a time machine mirror. I saw myself. I saw myself the year that being a PK stopped feeling safe, which also reminded me that the denomination I grew up in stopped feeling safe. I grieve that. I am no longer a part of that denomination, but there are many people still there, people like this Mom whose soccer program has blessed my child, people who love Jesus and, as a result, love people.
That article from 2016 was written by a different girl, and it doesn’t hold water. Instead, I pray it might serve as a waterproof raft and shark repellant for families treading the dangerous waters of church leadership. If you are willing to admit that there are sharks in the water, you are the leaders who need to stay. Don’t you dare tap out.
Confessions of a PK
Until I was a preteen, I ate up every part of being a pastor’s kid. In my eyes, my Dad knew everything about God, and everyone loved my Dad. Being a pastor’s kid allowed me to do things like lunch with my favorite singers. Doors were opened for me to do what I loved, SING!
Then there was the “J” incident. I will call him J to protect his identity. I was on the cusp of middle school when my Dad decided to take a very public stance from the pulpit against a store in our small Texas town that was actively promoting pornography. J’s father had strategically brought this business to our town. Day after day, this boy would mock me on the playground because of my Dad. I remember feeling ashamed and then increasingly angry. Backed by the full force of my 90-pound frame, two bony fists went flying at J. I remember a dear friend named Janell physically holding me back, but I did get in one perfect punch. J never told, and he never bothered me again, but a corner had been turned. Some people hated my Dad and weren’t afraid to take that out on me.
In the next several years, I would move to a bigger city. There, I faced a youth minister who called me a “nerd” in front of my new friends, who laughed with him because I liked hanging out at a local bookstore after school. When my friends weren’t around, he said, “Are you going to tell your Daddy on me?” and walked away.
The home was only sometimes a refuge, too. People tend to think pastors and their wives are perfect because they are in ministry. However, Mom and Dad readily admit that their marriage struggled when I was young. Arguments were dramatic, frequent, and not held in the privacy of their room.
Our home was not only threatened from the inside but from the outside also. When my Dad hired the first African American staff member at our Atlanta church, we learned that bigotry was alive and well in the South. Crazy racists came to our doorstep, yelling and banging on our door. Our family also received death threats.
When I hear of pastor’s kids harming themselves, I grieve. I get it. Being a pastor’s kid is no joke. I still struggle. People try and be your friend just so they can drop their opinions on you about what should happen within the church. People don’t try to be your friend because they have falsely assumed that you are some kind of android who doesn’t need friendship. People introduce me not as Christi but as “The Pastor’s Daughter.”
Regardless, I will tell you beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is one reason I continue to follow Christ. When I was 10 years old, my parents took me to the persecuted church. I spent a week living with missionaries in Belarus. The walls of communism had recently fallen, so persecution was still a very fresh memory for these people. I knew the Christ these brave people followed was REAL and worth following.
Then, in High School, my parents allowed me to live in Montreal for a Summer to help with a church. I didn’t even know how to do my laundry, and here I was, living in an apartment with people who spoke little English. Following Jesus was not fed to me as a country club or a political movement but as a marvelous adventure. In Montreal, I realized that being different doesn’t mean being dangerous. Being a follower of Christ does not mean keeping a pool noodle between me and “the world.” It means allowing the Lord to use the gifts He gave me to bring His love and excellence into every nook and cranny I can.
Most importantly, my parents were REAL followers of Jesus. They stumbled and failed, and sometimes they just sucked at being followers of Christ. But they always owned their mistakes, got back up, and fell right back in line with the vine. They were brave enough to let their kids see them do this.
If you are the parent of a ministry kid, here is what I encourage you to do.
First of all, when it is in your power, expose them to heroes of the faith and send them on faith adventures. Trust your kids to the Lord and let them go do that crazy thing you know God is in.
Second, communicate to them, even if they are teenagers, that no one has the right to ask them to not share information with you. Be clear with them that anyone who asks them not to share something with Mom or Dad, regardless of who that person may be, is, at the very least, an immature person and, at the very worst, a dangerous person.
Also, be sensitive to the fact that you signed up to be on public display. Your kids did not. When they struggle with it, grab them tight and let them know that you struggle with it sometimes, too.
Most importantly, when you fail, be quick to ask forgiveness. Take a deep breath. God’s grace is rich. He has already paid for every one of your mistakes. Get on your knees together as a family and declare that no weapon formed against you will prosper from inside or outside your home.
May God bind your hearts together on this journey of leadership.
Christi Watson is a theatre educator, director, actor, singer, and writer in Knoxville, TN. She has two sons and is married to an extraordinary man named Matt. In her “spare time,” Christi enjoys reading and drinking coffee.
@christi_watson_
