Diary of a Pastors Wife
An honest reflection of what couples in Ministry experience daily – the good, bad and the downright wacky. It demonstrates their undying love, commitment and sacrifice to the Ministry despite all odds.
Acquiescence
(the reluctant acceptance of something without protest)
It’s long been a favourite word of mine. I love it’s pomp and luxurious enunciation, the elegance with which it moves the mouth, and almost mimics the sign of the cross in it’s utterance. I have not much cared for it’s definition, except in it’s contradiction – like when the grim undead pirate Hector Barbossa says to the earnest (but really hard to take seriously) Elizabeth Swann, “I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request,” which is to say, uhhhh, no! (Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl).
I have always been strong willed; ‘pig headed’ the less discerning in my circles would deign to say, and seldom one to acquiesce. In fact, my husband regularly finds occasion to explode in a tone of choleric exasperation – “You always say no. Even before you’ve heard a matter through, your answer is no!” He isn’t far off the mark. I am not inclined to acceptance – every matter is subject to rigorous interrogation, careful consideration, and must prove robust, meticulous, and sensible before I accept it.
Yet when I received the now dime a dozen diagnosis of breast cancer on 6 August 2021, just 2 months and 10 days shy of my 50th birthday – I acquiesced. No devastated falling in a heap, no gut wrenching cry of “Why me?”, no tears of fear, no dread of being reaped from this life untimeously.
My friends and family revered my soundness of mind and spirit, strangers keeping me in their thoughts and prayers marvelled at my response to chemotherapy, my children were bolstered by my profound strength – all the while my husband eyed me with tender concerned suspicion, convinced I was in denial, hovering in my periphery, waiting to catch me when the reality blow was final dealt.
I am a private person – I now had to share this intimate information with friends, family, colleagues, strangers.
I hate to be touched, except by my husband – I submitted my body to be poked, prodded, examined and scanned, with a calm reticence I would never have believed possible.
I hate speaking about myself –I learned to focus on me and give a detailed account of what I was feeling and experiencing over the course of treatment.
I am intolerant – I learned to sit through the most misguided, misinformed conversations, and listen to advice offered by the sublime and the ridiculous, while calmly managing my face.
I control my space – I accepted it now being commandeered by loving sisters who didn’t do things my way. I hate a fuss – I accepted them waiting on me, telling me what to eat, when to eat, when to lie down, when I needed more fluids, “don’t lift that”, “don’t go there”, “don’t be hasty,” “don’t overdo it.”
There is a misconception that to accept, to submit, is to be defeated. That other word, submission, has long been viewed with bitter disdain, and often by women, who, it would seem, are the focus of it’s etymology.
Well-meaning supporters of my well being encouraged me to refuse the diagnosis; the religious recommended I rail against it; the fanatic commanded it to leave my body; the fearful instilled fear by telling me not to fear death; the sensational encouraged me to flaunt my womanhood, while I still had it, and expressed disappointment that I was not rather more dramatic in my reaction; the omniscient, who had absolutely no experience of this journey, said “You’ll be fine, many others have gone through it and survived, just remove those breasts and be done with it.” Have I found sincerity in this madness? I have. Did any of it meet my erstwhile rigorous interrogation, and produce sense and sensibility? Ha, what a lame joker you are to ask!
The noise was overwhelming, yet somehow, somewhere on this journey of acquiescence and submission, my usual biting intolerance had morphed into a kindly filter that sifted through the messy, misunderstood and macabre, and retained only the bits that spoke life.
I didn’t know it then, but I am evolving. I am discovering that I can learn and change, even now, even when to do so challenges my self-awareness, my own familiarity, my principal attributes. This acceptance is not defeat, it is illumination. It is an indication of the eternal, that it is alive and mercurial, with abundant opportunity to do better, be better, know better. I have acquiesced and submitted to the process that must follow, and I am strong, determined and pliable.
The journey continues – there are life altering decisions to take, further realities to face, and healing processes to submit to.
In Sun Tzu’s Art of War, he writes, “To see victory only when it is within the ken [knowledge] of the common herd is not the acme [pinnacle] of excellence… What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease. Hence his victories bring him neither reputation for wisdom nor credit for courage.”
The battle continues but mine is not to wage war; mine is to understand the purpose of the victory.
– Christina Govender
Christina is a literary enthusiast and reluctant writer, whose endless fascination with the ordinary and the ridiculous has finally compelled her to put pen to paper, and share the thoughts she often dares not speak aloud.
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Diary of a Pastors Wife 
An excellent piece of writing Christina. Many women going through this will find encouragement in your resolve. I pray to God for your complete healing. Do not be a reluctant writer for you are gifted.
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