Comment by Jinny Henson: The pork chop
Posted: 2/12/06
COMMENT:
The pork chop
By Jinny Henson
Scientists recently discovered falling in love produces the equivalent of an amphetamine-induced high. I realize after 12 years of marriage that no human would voluntarily make this commitment unless they were smoking crack. Which leads me to this conclusion: God is pretty smart.
I’d done them; the blind dates. You go to be polite and have as much in common with the guy as the UnaBomber. My parents met on a blind date, and who was I to tempt fate should history repeat itself? I’m no obsessive-compulsive, but when you’re a girl dealing with something as serious as love here, you have to touch every light switch twice and avoid the cracks in the ground or you might just miss “the one.”
Jinny Henson |
There was the relationship with the English major who insisted that we double date with other English majors. They would form the conversational Trinity discussing Thoreau and why he went into the woods. I, the intellectual Pee Wee Herman, was conversely pondering questions like, “In Dr. Seuss’ One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, why was the fish red? What made that fish so blue?”
I was convinced my junior year in college that God would either give me Steve or Mike for a husband, and I didn’t really care either way. I was being thoroughly generous in allowing God to give the final answer as to with whom I would grow old and wrinkly. Strangely enough, summer approached, and they both graduated from college having forgotten to fall madly in love with me. Since I had not even so much as gone out with either of them, I have no idea why this surprised me.
So, maybe not so lucky at love. But as I graduated from Baylor University and entered seminary, I sensed I was on the right track. My mother accused me of being too picky. I just didn’t want someone with incorrect grammar raising my children. Or someone who held his fork the wrong way. Or expected me in all of my Southern glory to actually PAY for my dinner. I knew Mom feared that my ship would never come in, but I had a fat beach umbrella and a cold Diet Coke, hunkered down in zestful expectation
Call it anticipation. Just the thought that Mr. Right could be standing behind me in the Cinnabon line thrilled me to no end. I was on the cusp and more ready for love than an Adkins dieter at an all-you-can-eat omelet bar.
The anticipation ebbed and flowed as my brain was being pumped full of theology at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. Not such a hot crowd there. The field was rife with full-grown men in flood pants and tote bags. I was never going to marry a preacher, so I certainly wasn’t concerned.
My intentions were to get my master’s degree and head off to Atlanta and work for the Olympics. My friend Cindy Greeno at CNN and I already hatched a plan.
Besides, I was the bungee-jumping type. No holiness bun for this girl. I knew I was a pork chop with no desire to be squeezed into a Jell-O mold. Even if you blended the thing up and mixed it with Knox Gelatin, it still wouldn’t make.
I was never prim and proper and certainly didn’t reign in any of that “personality,” at seminary. My theology professor, Calvin Miller, began his brilliant discourse: “Jeremiah …”
“Was a bullfrog? “ I interjected. Oh, I was so proud of myself.
I looked normal enough on the outside, but my innards were blazing with wild dreams that no life as a preacher’s wife could hope to accommodate. I was quirky, too, giving no thought to stapling a hem in a pair of pants, spray-painting shoes a new color or trimming my own hair at midnight. My parents raised me to believe that anything was possible, whether it be do-it-yourself dentistry or painting the house. Life was one grand experiment to me, and the vanilla Minister’s Wife Petri Dish was one I could pass on.
A shoe then changed my life forever. I glanced down in Sunday school (what a messed up name for a place where adults go) and saw a good-looking shoe. My dad was men’s clothing manager for Neiman-Marcus and then Saks, so I knew a nice shoe when I saw one.
“Oh, I love your shoes!” I gushed in my filter-less way.
“Thank you,” he politely added with a furrowed brow.
“They remind me of my dad.” I emoted, head cocked respectfully with a pout as I thought of my sweet daddy.
He now looked at me as though I were nursing an octopus and politely nodded.
Shoe boy had a name: John. No tote bag either. I noticed as I flitted from class to class. He noticed my raucous laughter across campus. “There goes that crazy blonde,” he would tell his friends. No second thoughts, because I was never going to ever be a preacher’s wife.
OK, Watch this; this is funny. Tell God what you don’t want in life and see where it gets you.
It just so happened that John was going to be a pastor. As I would see him studying in the library or hear him ask for prayer for his mom who had cancer, I began having troubling thoughts. His dark hair, his discreet humor, the fire in his belly. This was one awesome guy that made Steve and Mike look like Napoleon Dynamite.
I was bitter in the realization that the best bakery in town just opened on a street I had forbidden myself to walk down. Darn that carrot cake. Just what was God up to? He asked me out—and paid. He was funny, irreverent, holy, smart and going to be a pastor? I didn’t know they came in this flavor.
Suddenly, I had visions of being the subject of prayer-request hour. “The preacher’s wife, well, we have learned that she has the demon of spontaneity and adventure. Let’s pray for her.”
I’d heard about girls at Wheaton College in Illinois who had “Passion and Purity” prayer times. Based on Elizabeth Elliot’s book, they would gather and pray for the pastor husbands they had not even met. I truly thought this was some wacky joke at first. Now, here I was entertaining the weensiest possibility that I would be in that sorority. Was I losing it or what?
Since Jesus had done a pretty great job with my life so far, I knew I had to pray about this—and quickly. Could this be my life? Could I really live in a parsonage and have 17 children named things like Zechariah and Shikinah? But this man is so incredible. I could tell he accepted me even in my most random of moments and even seemed smitten by my spunk. I couldn’t help but think that he liked me now, but what about when I teach the children to rap at Vacation Bible School and they garnish his wages?
My father in his infinite Bill Richardson wisdom had a solution to my quandary: “Reel him into the boat, Jinny, and if you don’t like him, you can always throw him back.” That innocent statement turned a corner in my mind, and I knew from that day on I would have to learn to deal with being a preacher’s wife.
I got Shang-Hied. Pure and simple. The old switch-a-roo. John asked me to marry him on top of Mount Mitchell while he was the camp pastor at Ridgecrest Camp for Boys just four months after our Feb. 13 date. We were married a year after that. We finished seminary together and in 12 years have had two kids, two parents’ funerals, started two churches and owned four houses.
The dreams I’d so fiercely treasured, convinced that no pastor’s-wife-life would allow have all come true. He is immensely proud of his wife, the stand-up comedian.
Only in God’s economy can what we fear the most become the treasure we would never choose to live without.
Jinny Henson is an author and stand-up comic who performs for churches and comedy clubs nationwide. When not unleashing her wacky sense of humor, this Baylor University graduate is a preacher's wife, nutty blonde and soccer mom. You can find out more about her at www.jinnyhenson.com