Sunday evenings had taken on an entirely new perspective with the addition of evening service and a trip to Dairy Queen. The calories I was consuming I rationalized were for a good cause. Since the pastor and his family would be leaving for missionary work in the very near future, I felt the added pounds were a small sacrifice in lieu of the good friendships and the co-worker I would be losing. My Only treated me on occasion; thus, these ninety-nine cent sojourns afforded many opportunities for good feelings, not the least of which were a little daughter learning to give. The pastor’s daughter, always the direct, no-nonsense type, informed us in her off-the-cuff manner that she’d rather live with My Only in the event that the need ever arose for an alternate guardian. Her Sunday school paperwork was filled with circles indicating her sincere gratitude for God’s gifts, i.e. sisters (she had none) and for brothers (she had two); the latter remained un-circled and was plainly missing any penciled marks or grateful afterthoughts.
Obviously, Sundays would never be the same without this pastor’s brood. Between rocket launches during hymns, one of the son’s signaling his pastor dad that he had only four minutes left to speak, the older sibling hitting his folks up for money…no, Sundays couldn’t possibly be that exciting without these three pastor brats… Or could they?