The Minister's Wife by Karen Stiller

Author:Karen Stiller [Stiller, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: RELIGION / Christian Living / Spiritual Growth, BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers
Published: 2020-05-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

1 CORINTHIANS 13:4

WE INVITED A COUPLE from one of our congregations to our house, and they had barely sat down when the husband looked around and said, “You have better stuff than we do.” His wife did not say anything, and it all felt awkward to me.

We did not have a lot of stuff, just starting out and all, but we did have good stuff. Most of it was cast-off furniture from Brent’s parents, such as an elegant little set of teak side tables from Indonesia you could stack together when you didn’t need them and cleverly pull apart when you did. We had a smooth black leather chair with tiny brass studs circling the back and seat that we placed under a heavy mirror with a gold-painted frame, which Brent’s parents had also given us.

Brent took a week to choose the correct wall and perfect height for hanging that mirror. Things were not hung higgledy-piggledy as in the house in which I grew up. Brent did not do slap and dash. This could drive a person crazy, especially my mother if she were visiting.

Still, he was usually right. Even the ugly wood paneling in our living room looked richer with the mirror hung just so and the black leather chair placed carefully under it and the side tables a finger-length away. The whole room sat up straight.

We also still had some wedding stuff—like the plates Brent’s mother had herded us down to the department store to select, even though the very last thing I wanted back then was to choose a china pattern. I picked out the least precious-looking dishes available. My rebellion was to use this china every single day, not just for special occasions. We would eat our Cheerios from the expensive soup bowls because we were only going to own one set of dishes. The plates were thick—more pottery than the delicate fuss your mom took down from the china cabinet on Sundays; but they still looked fancy. Nothing had really broken yet or been worn down back then. We ourselves were barely used.

As for the guest who said that clumsy thing, weeks later I confirmed—silently—that our stuff really was better than theirs after they invited us to their house. We drove over through the snow, and when we arrived I was in full observation mode, even though Brent had cautioned me about this very thing. Brent and I had a bit of a history by then with my occasional indiscretions during long visits with people you really do have to listen to and you should want to listen to, not changing the topic or saying “Yes, yes, I get it,” as you might occasionally say to someone who really loves you.

These official visitations could weigh me down. I was vulnerable to conversation fatigue, especially in small parlors while sitting on a floral couch. My eyes would glaze and my legs would twitch.

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