Dear Shepherdess: Marye Trim's article reminds me of the many houses we have lived in. First a third-floor apartment, next the dean's apartment in a boys' dormitory where we had so little privacy, and then a parsonage attached to the church by the pastor's study. The church school was also connected to the church. I remember clearly how the children would cup their hands around their eyes as they peered into our breakfastroom window, hoping the pastor would come out to the playground and play ball before the first bell sounded.

These are happy memories for us. I am sure you also have similar memories of the places you have lived.

Let us thank God for the homes we have had and ask Him to fill the ones we now have with peace and happiness. With love, Kay.

Some lines in my hymnbook I have sometimes found difficult to sing with sincerity. One example is: "A tent or a cottage, O why should I care?" The trouble is that I have cared. After nearly thirty years as a minister's wife I still tend to be sensitive about where and how I live.

My first awareness of ministers' homes and their families came when, at the age of 8, I accompanied my mother to the Methodist parsonage to help prepare for an incoming family. At that time the local congregation provided and furnished the parsonage, and my mother, as a member of the Ladies' Guild, was going to help redecorate the house.

As we approached the back door, I saw an old sofa with dismally sagging upholstery being pushed outside. A roll of threadbare carpeting followed in a wake of dust, pursued by several cartons containing a conglomeration of faded curtains and cushion covers, shelf linings, church papers, and general junk.

When the dust settled, we entered the kitchen. There my mother was quickly commissioned by Mrs. Sergeant, the Guild president, to sort through kitchen cupboards. I grew tired of watching her count odd spoons and knives, and the array of unmatched, cracked dishes. I squeezed my way past a sideboard that had been shoved into the passage, and went exploring.

Mrs. Sergeant stood at the sittingroom windows with a measuring tape in her hands. Mrs. Russell, the Guild secretary, patched some tile work about the fireplace, while another Ladies' Guild member wielded a broom.

"You'd have thought they would have looked after things a bit better!" a woman's voice exclaimed from the bathroom.

"Just look at this paintwork," chimed in another. "Let me see, didn't we fix it new for the Reverend Scriven's family?"

"Yes, we did," I heard my mother reply in an arresting tone. "But he was the minister before the last one. Now, wasn't that about eleven years ago?"

"Well, I guess it was, seeing you mention it. But just look at . . ."

I escaped from the bustle and barrage and found my way to the outbuildings. The cardboard cartons full of discards were now stowed in the outside laundry where the washing tubs tipped precariously on a cracked concrete floor. After hunting through the cartons for hidden treasures, I investigated the out side toilet. It was a dark, dingy place, so I kept the door slightly open. But the chain worked—with a roar.

Later, after the Ladies' Guild and the men church trustees had labored long with brush, needle, and tongue, the house was ready for the new minister and his family. One Saturday morning my mother sent me around to greet them with a jar of gooseberry jam and fresh rolls.

That was when I met Jessie, three years older than I, bright-eyed and energetic, with two long, fair braids that bobbed when she ran or climbed trees. After the jam and rolls had been graciously received by Jessie's mother, we wandered through the house. I observed the crisp new curtains in the sitting room, the carpet (donated by Mrs. Sergeant), the new hall runner, and freshly varnished woodwork. I delighted in Jessie's little attic room and helped her unpack some toys and books. Then we raced outside to climb the tall oak tree at the side gate. That first meeting was the beginning of the first real friendship I had known. And so it was that I became well acquainted with her home and what it meant to be a minister's daughter.

Three years later Jessie and her family moved away. I was heartbroken. Now it was time again for the Ladies' Guild to move in.

I saw the sitting-room curtains change to bedroom furnishings at the ardent hand of a Guild member. I saw new dishes stacked in the kitchen cupboards and the familiar old ones discarded for missions. And soon a new family came to the parsonage, whom I met with jam and rolls.

Two years later the procedure was repeated. I felt sorry for the new family. How could this house ever be home? I saw it as patchwork a bit of this and a bit of that. The violets in the garden box were the artistic expression of one minister's wife; the wallpaper-lined sewing nook, that of another; the tree house, now disintegrating, was Jessie's mark; the unmatched maroon drapes were Mrs. Russell's certain signature; and the brown paisley design of the hall runner (determinedly chosen by a trustee's wife) was a mosaic of countless foot prints and memories.

Time passed. I grew up, married a minister, and became, myself, the woman of the parsonage. Fifteen houses or so wiser, I now pause in contemplation. Our denomination does not provide furnished houses in those places where it does offer housing, so at least I have furnishings of my own choice. But the carpet that was chosen for a room with bay windows and cream woodwork will certainly not suit the next, with its square shape and darkly varnished wood, nor the next one, with dark-green walls. We have lived in three places that flooded and others where cockroaches competed with us for occupancy. In the mission field we expected such disadvantages; in the homeland they seem incongruous. My sister-in-law, also a minister's wife, calls herself "an apostle to dirty houses." Well, I know all about that, too! And about the fear of being moved—again—before we've completely unpacked or hung the drapes. And well do I know that buying new linoleum or carpet is simply begging a move!

To balance the record, I should state that we have lived in two nearly new houses that had some positive aspects. On the other hand, we have also lived in second-rate houses in areas where the Lord clearly had a ministry for me among my neighbors. We also sojourned in a split-level home that featured an upper level where I could creep away to write in the early-morning hours. But the owner demanded his house back, unexpectedly, after about six months. So we packed and were on our way again, to someone else's house.

That is what worries me most, I think—this inability to call a place my own and the right to really make it mine. Oh, yes, I plant petunias and borders of alyssum, cultivate house plants and keep a pet animal, as I know that these things and other simple devices help me to have a feeling of stability and belonging. "People with a dog or Persian cat are not transients who just get up and go," I remind myself. "They are settled members of the community." But then some diligent church member chooses that hymn with the Words "A tent or a cottage, O why should I care?" And I know that, deep down, I do tend to care, especially when I observe, and perhaps momentarily covet, the serene comfort and settled state of the people we serve.

Here are some points gleaned from my experience that may help to ease the transiency of being a minister's wife.

Houses that are provided by the church are preferable to those leased from the public. It may be psychological, but such houses do engender a settled feeling. At least there is never the threat of being thrown out!

When you move from a church-owned home, make every effort to leave the house and yard in the condition in which you would want to find it.

Church-owned homes should, ideally, be equipped with carpet, refrigerator, stove, and washing machine to save the needless ownership and removal of these items.

Decide that while one serves the Lord, He is the landlord. Trust Him to make provision, to give one patience and the ability to laugh when conditions are difficult.

As you and your husband grow older, invest in land in a setting you love, and plan to retire there eventually, if it is the Lord's will. That will be the temporary home of one's dreams until Jesus comes to take His servants to a better home, where "they shall not build, and another inhabit; they shall not plant, and another eat" (Isa. 65:22).

Finally, I suggest that when you sing, "A tent or a cottage," be sure to notice the following words: "They're building a palace for me over there! . . . 'All glory to God, I'm a child of the King.'"

Prayers from the Parsonage

by Cherry B. Habenicht

Thank You, Lord, for endings. "Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof," observed Solomon (Eccl. 7:8). Though I usually wish I had more time, I am glad for stopping points.

The end of a day. Lisa and Hans, freshly bathed and in clean pajamas, climb into my lap for worship. I love holding them close and feeling them relax. Once they are asleep, I move through the quiet house, savoring my privacy.

The end of a week. How good it is to forget unfinished work and welcome the Sabbath! Strains from Dick's guitar call us to the living room, where we sing favorite choruses and read from Your Word. Tensions disappear in the rest You provide.

The end of a month. It pleases me to flip another page on the calendar and to think about the changes a new month will bring. I consider what I must accomplish, set new goals, and pray that I'll enjoy each month's special features.

The end of a season. "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven" (chap. 3:1). It is as satisfying to put away heavy coats and fleece-lined boots at winter's end as it is to dig them out again when cold winds blow. I am as happy harvesting squash and potatoes in the fall as I am picking new lettuce and radishes in the spring. When summer is over, I'm grateful for time indoors, even as I can't wait to get outside when bright days return.

The end of a year. I understand Your leading better now from another year's perspective. Some of the things I'd hoped to do are still only phrases on paper, but those small plans seem unimportant now. You have guided me in new directions and opened areas I had not envisioned. Thank You for each task You've given, each person You've let touch my life, each prayer You've answered.

Tomorrow will be a new day in the first year of a new decade. It's exciting to ponder the possibilities. But as I write a final entry in my journal, I praise You for seeing me through to the end of 1979.