Born to be Tame

I was literally born into the Methodist ministry. Perhaps under hypnosis I could recall subliminal impressions of Taylor Hall at the Iliff School of Theology in Denver, but my earliest conscious memories are of a newly installed gas stove at the parsonage in Erie, Colorado. Clearer still are the images of life in Platteville, the second of only three appointments Dad would serve (being appointed to a new parish every three years was—and still is—commonplace in the United Methodist church). Moving to Arvada in 1955, I had no way of knowing how extraordinary it would be to grow up there, attending R-1 schools from kindergarten to graduation. There were the three years at Nebraska Wesleyan and Mary’s first year of teaching in Broward County, Florida that temporarily absented me from my “hometown”, but Arvada was it until the move to Flagstaff, Arizona in 1984.

Preacher’s kids (pk’s) seem to fall into one of two categories. There are those who develop a deep disdain for anything and everything churchy, and they put as much distance between themselves and their family as they can as quickly as they can. Then there are those who apparently aren’t quite as bright as their counterparts and get caught in the trap of organized religion. I was one of the latter, although in my own defense I must explain that witnessing the devotion of my mother and others to my father made it seem only natural to want to follow in his footsteps. While some preachers fill the bill of the town bumpkin, my father was a powerful force to be reckoned with that was more than worthy of emulation. And so I’ve always identified with the prophet Jeremiah’s belief that he was called to the ministry from his mother’s womb, simply because it has been my experience that such is truly possible.