The PK's life

I'm a PK. That means Preacher's Kid. That's who I am. It's who my father was as well. And his father. I think it's why I had it a bit easier than other PK's. I didn't rebel when I reached my teens, because I didn't need to. I was a preacher's kid.

PK's have a reputation. It can be said much of it is deserved. It can also be said that DK's (deacon's kids) don't receive half the credit they should. It takes two, if you know what I mean. (Well, on second thought, it doesn't, but it does if you want your mischief to be organized and effective in any way, shape or form.)

So here's the thing. PK's have the reputation of being trouble, and in my case it was true. But in retrospect, I think this had less to do with trying to get into trouble (except in those organized, effective circumstances) and more to do with just feeling at home at church. While for some, the building holds an atmosphere of reverence, for me it was a great place for hide and seek or tag.

See, being a PK meant being at church on weekdays and Saturdays or hanging around after church. It also meant staying after and entertaining ourselves during "quick" or urgent counseling sessions. It was never something I hated. I enjoyed being there. It really was a home away from home.

Where trouble began was when that playfulness translated itself to the actual church service. This was something my friends didn't seem to understand. It just didn't sound as bad when they got in trouble in church. Once, when I was a little too involved in gabbing with a friend, I heard a voice from the pulpit say, "I know two girls who are going to be in big trouble if they don't settle down!" How ominous is that?

I used to sit behind a bald guy in church and pretend the light reflecting off of his head was the sun. We used to make faces at babies to get them to cry. Or hand them keys to play with. The poor parent didn't know what to do. If they took the keys away, they would cry, if they didn't, well, they were jingling keys in a quiet church.

Once, my friend brought a handful of poprocks in church with her. Her hand started sweating, the poprocks started popping, and we were reduced to a giggling mess.
Sometimes we would laugh so hard, the entire pew would shake. Then, of course, that made us laugh harder. And everything is funnier when you aren't allowed to laugh. Think of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry put a Tweetie Pez dispenser on Elaine's lap during a piano concert. It's like that.

It was usually after times like these that I was restricted to the front row, piano side, because my mom played the piano. She could semi keep and eye on me. Then there were the times when more serious punishment was needed. Some strategies were developed during those times. Like not talking on the way home from church. It reminded the parents that we were there.

I used to wear shorts under my dress so I could play tag after church with my friends. I wore those along with my red tennis shoes. Did mom really think I wouldn't run? I got a spanking once for playing hide and seek and hiding in the baptistry. It was a great hiding place. It took my parents a LONG time to find me. Of course, when I heard the tone of their voices, there was no way I was going to come out saying "Ollie, Ollie oxen freeee."

Yeah. PK's don't have it the easiest. But we have a good time. And we tend to see church a little bit differently than the average person. Overall, I'd say it's a good life.

*The Eclectic Life contest*