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.
Fraud, Fake healing and the Manipulation of Congregants : THE FLIP SIDE
But what if I were to present to you with the flip side? Pastors in this same country, and around the globe, who daily sacrifice their time, finance, and resource. Pastors who make sure that all those within their area of influence are spiritually nourished, mentored and skilled to be successful men, women and children who go on to impact their families and communities.
Meet Pastor Mark. He is 63 years old and has been in ministry since 1988.
When he made the decision to leave his job and enter full time ministry he was a Group Manager at an international Company. His passion and love for ministry overtook his desire to succeed in the marketplace. After three years of full time Theological seminary, he took on the role of Pastoring a church. Although at the time the church could not provide him with a salary or any benefits, he chose to serve with passion and zeal. He had the full support of his wife who became the sole breadwinner in the home.
Together with their two young children they have spent their lives being of strength and support to their congregation. To this day, even in their 60’s, both Pastor Mark and his wife show no sign of abating. They wake up early every morning and spend their days counselling, praying for the sick, providing food for the poor and travelling to nations to share the gospel. I have seen them cut short many mission trips and holidays at their own expense when someone passes away at church or if there’s an emergency affecting one of their congregants.
If you ask them why they don’t set aside time to enjoy their retirement, they will tell you that they’re doing exactly what they enjoy – loving people.
Being in ministry is a calling. Like Pastor Mark, many Ministers have given up successful careers to fulfil this calling by serving God and their communities.
Whilst many have been quick to criticize, defame and belittle Pastors, I must admit that the vast majority of Pastors I have met are genuine and sincere in their calling.
I have witnessed first hand Pastors giving up their own personal resource to take care of their local congregations. From paying school fees, to caring for the sick, to taking care of funeral bills – these holy men and women of God passionately love and serve their churches. Much of a Pastor’s week involves teaching, nurturing and fostering the spiritual growth of his local church.
The majority of church leaders are spending late nights and early mornings putting together sound doctrine that ultimately elevates people out of their weaknesses and brings them into position of great strength.
Part of their teachings include ethics and morality, healthy lifestyles, prudent financial management, integrity in the workplace and respect for others. For true men and women of God, their jobs involve counselling, hospital, home and business visits, mentoring, teaching. They are also responsible for the stewardship of all ministry teams and resource within the church.
A pastor is on call 24/7. His time is never his. On several occasions my husband, who is a Pastor, leaves home late at night to attend to an emergency. This ranges from going to a drug den to search for a father who hasn’t returned home, or to be of support to a teenager who has attempted suicide.
Many are not from our church. In times of need, a Pastor is the one person on speed dial.
Not all churches are mega-churches and resources can sometimes be very limited for smaller households of faith.
It is especially in these smaller churches that Pastors ensure that the needs of the church are met, before their own.
This may entail paying the rent, utility bills, staff, transport and other ministry expenses.
Many times congregants also approach Pastors with their own needs. Some need groceries and money for transport. Others risk being kicked out of their homes for not paying their rent. In all these cases, they look to the Pastor for help. He has to try to rake in thousands of rands to ensure families are not put out on the street.
I can assure you that this is not an unusual occurrence. I have personally witnessed Pastors go to great debt on their credit cards to fulfill responsibilities such as these. Saying no is almost unheard of. Those within the ministry regularly sacrifice their resource for others.
One Pastor I know personally took on the responsibility to pay for a congregants medical bills with his credit card, because the person was not on medical aid and desperately needed help.
These are the genuine men and women of God that we don’t see flashing on social media, but get bundled with abusers of the faith. They are true shepherds who don’t labour for financial reward but for the well-being of their flock.
While the CRL Rights Commission, Religious leaders and the public push for irresponsible church leaders to be held to account for their actions, I’d like us to spare a thought for those Pastors who are genuinely and selflessly sacrificing their lives every single day for the betterment of others.
These are men and women who deserve our honour, respect and support.
By Melini Moses
Does this blog resonate with you? How has your local church and Pastor cared for you and enhanced your spiritual growth and development? Feel free to share your experiences in the comment section below!
The Journey: Part One: A Date with Destiny
I met a man who wears humility like perfume and godliness like a crown…
I was thirteen-years-old with a dream of becoming a journalist. He was four years my senior, a fiery teenage boy, with a desire to serve God. I met Ashley through my father, who had taken him under his wing as a spiritual son. Ashley often says he fell in love with my dad long before he could fall in love with me. He was not a part of our local assembly, but my father maintained a close relationship with him over the years, mentoring him and helping him to grow into his gifting.
I didn’t have romantic inclinations towards Ashley when we first met or the nine years that followed; although I do tease him about having a crush on me first…he used to call my phone under the pretext of wanting to speak to my father (he did have my dad’s number!). We formed a friendship over time and I admired his godliness and morality. Ashley grew up in a community plagued by drugs, promiscuity and crime. He didn’t have many luxuries and his parents worked hard to provide for the family. He did though, have mischievous tendencies and a propensity for practical jokes, but he kept himself out of the darker vices through a steadfast commitment to church, worship and studying the Bible. He often spent hours in his room alone, strumming his guitar, asking God to use him in the Kingdom.
There was no doubt that Ashley was destined for great things. I knew it the moment we met. He was multi-talented. He could play the piano, guitar and even the saxophone…and my goodness could he sing! There was honesty in his voice that drew people in. But it was his ability to preach that set him apart. He was passionate about the Bible, read it and every Gospel literature he could find endlessly…and when he opened his mouth…he transformed from youth to revivalist! Although he was a young man, he earned the respect of ministers in the community, the older folk and his peers. I suppose it was because he lived his message, he didn’t care for double-standards.
However, his dreams of studying fell by the wayside as the need to work and financially support his family after matric took centre stage. His first job…selling fruit on the roadside…thereafter he worked at a fresh produce supplier, packing oranges. He eventually got a job in a stationary company and progressed from stocking boxes to driver. During those years, Ashley even successfully applied to join the South African Police force, but the day he was supposed to leave for training, he felt the Lord leading him away. He obeyed…so back to delivering stationary he went, with dreams simmering in his soul. He never allowed his circumstances to snuff out his fire. Instead, he took a notepad, pen and a dictionary to every delivery, and while he waited in line at loading bays, he would pen his thoughts. He knew he would one day write a book.
We didn’t see each other often, although we’ve always been in the backdrop of each other’s lives. When I was eighteen-years-old, my father hosted a crusade in Cato Manor and invited him as the guest speaker. After the meeting he joined us in praying for an elderly woman at a nearby hospital. Being a gentleman, he insisted on giving me his arm as I negotiated the cobble-stone paving with chocolate brown six-inch stilettos. We spoke much that day…about our dreams to become writers, to serve God, to travel… What was particularly endearing was his humility. He wears humility like perfume. It is his essence. Where I am brash and hard…he dons his heart on his sleeve.
After that, it would take a few years before we would see each other again. I went on to take up an internship in Cape Town. A year later, I returned to Durban and was offered another internship at the SABC – my dream of becoming a radio reporter was finally on track. I had no desires of settling down, falling in love or getting married. However, God had other plans and our paths collided in 2008.
He called me late one evening while I was on training in Johannesburg. He urgently needed to speak to my father, this time there was no pretext. We exchanged pleasantries and I told him I was not home. I could tell he was upset, but didn’t think it was my place to ask why. I soon learned that he had been deeply hurt by circumstances at his church – so much so that he had no option but to leave. Given his relationship with my father, he naturally joined our church.
I was excited to have him around. We shared a passion for the written word and ministry. That year, we both joined Bible College and I could tell that our friendship was really beginning to bloom. But amid the casual banter I started noticing something that I had never really paid attention to before…he was charming! His mannerisms were suave with a subtle flirtatiousness. He wasn’t given to outlandish declarations or cheesy one-liners. His conversation was intellectual and provocative. He had a distinct class and spoke with unique, endearing expressions.
I had asked him to accompany me to a networking event one evening. It was an awards ceremony hosted at a game lodge outside of the City. It was supposed to be just another event, but I could not help but feel nervous. I tried to laugh it off, while ignoring the obvious effort I was putting into picking out the dress and high heels. He arrived on time, admittedly looking as nervous as I felt!
As we left the city lights behind, driving further into the misty midlands, the evening began to feel surreal. Not in the usual, first date sense. I wasn’t even sure if it was a date to begin with! However, it was clear that our relationship was about to change course. To be honest, I felt the overwhelming nearness of God. I could not wrap my mind around it, but my spirit understood the moment well. He dropped me off at the front door, gracefully touched his hand to my cheek and said, ‘As much as I would like to kiss you good night, I will not. Because if I do kiss you now, I’d want to know that I will be able to kiss you forever’.
Our relationship indeed took a different turn. My father had appointed Ashley as the operational head of the church. Together he and I would go out ministering to families, visiting the sick and praying for those in need. Ministry became our heartbeat. We would rush home after work, dress in our Sunday best and then spend the rest of the evening doing home visits. It was challenging for a young couple, but it also developed our character. The deeper we fell in love with each other, the deeper our passion for ministry grew. The more we looked to each other, the closer God held a mirror to our own characters. Ashley had a raging temper and I had a uncanny affinity to run. I hated feeling tied down, and God needed me to learn stability. Ashley was forced deal with memories and life experiences that made him angry. Together we were growing.
A few months after our first date, we were planning a wedding and within a year, we were Mr and Mrs.
Little did we know the battles that soon lay ahead…
A Divine Exchange
PCOS and Endometriosis. That’s the diagnosis doctors have given me. For years, PCOS meant an endless struggle with weight, a constant battle with hormones and more significantly Infertility. It’s been a tumultuous journey for my husband and I, marked with tear-stained pillows, lonely holidays and thousands of negative pregnancy tests. However, our journey took a significant turn when my husband started studying the scriptures regarding infertility. We then based every prayer and all our hopes on the fact that ‘all of God’s promises are yes, and in Christ, Amen’.
At church, during Passover, we used to encourage our congregation to write down their personal battles on a piece of paper. We would then give them a chance to nail their prayer requests onto a wooden cross on Good Friday. This was not a ritualistic or religious practice, the significance was more symbolic. When Jesus died on the cross, He took our burdens, our sins, our sicknesses… and in return, gave us peace, forgiveness and healing –it was Divine Exchange. So by nailing their requests to the cross, it was a symbolic point of contact for their faith.
Those services were special. I remember watching some leave burdens bigger than I could ever imagine there. Every year we would hear testimonies of how God met their needs. And every year, my husband and I would walk together, silently, in tears, and nail infertility to the cross.
In 2015, on Palm Sunday, my miracle baby girl was born.
On Good Friday, I wrote this poem…
Bleeding hearts scribbled on
paper,
Burdened ink, echoing our sacred prayer,
We stood – year after year – at the varnished cross….
Souls bare, words lost…
Many came, with tear stained cheeks,
carrying their hopes on pages that speak,
heavy hammers pounding the wood.
And year after year, we still
stood…
Hand in hand, silently we watched,
The young and the old reverently touch…
…that point of faith on
nail-chipped beams…
where trembling fingers surrendered their dreams.
Down to our knees, we left you at the foot,
Year after year, that’s where you stood,
A prayer, on paper, nailed to the Cross
Sealed with years of tears and loss
A Divine Exchange, we waited our turn…
Clinging to a promise, with souls that burned,
A begotten son, for a womb to bare,
A right to a covenant we believe we share…
Five years, the number of Grace
It took before victory we’d taste…
And now, here we stand…
The hammer in our hand…
Rejoicing hearts, bold on paper,
Thankful letters, screaming our sacred prayer
An empty tomb, for a cradle that rocks…
Who can deny the Power of the Cross
Coming Soon on A Diary of a Pastor’s Wife SA: Read my full testimony on my battle with PCOS, the road to our miracle and our current journey as we again battle the odds for baby two…
– Genevieve Lanka-Gann
When Life Throws You a Gigantic Curveball
My Journey with Hyperemesis Gravidarum
My doctor said he has been in practice for more than 35 years and this has been the worst case of Hyperemesis Gravidarum he has ever had to deal with. He said I was brave and he was proud of me. I cried. I really needed to hear that.
My husband and I have an amazing three year old son. With the demands of work and ministry, it was difficult to plan for another child but God was gracious to us and we were elated to find out we were pregnant in November 2018. The joy however, was short lived. Just a few days later I was rushed to hospital where I would spend most of the next two months.
“Oh, so, it’s basically a case of severe morning sickness.” That statement flowing out the mouths of friends and strangers made me cringe every time.
Hyperemesis Gravidarum or HG is nothing compared to morning sickness. Likening the two is like comparing a paper cut to a stab wound or a wave to a tsunami.
It’s hard to blame people for not understanding though. HG affects only 1-2 percent of pregnant women. Although many have been suffering for decades gone by, the condition was only thrust into the spotlight in recent years when Kate Middleton announced that she had battled through it. If not treated correctly it is potentially life threatening.
A woman suffering with HG can keep nothing in her system. Food and even water are luxuries we cannot enjoy. The bodies of HG sufferers literally reject food, and it feels like it also rejects the very existence of the mother. With this condition it is normal to throw up 16 to 18 times a day without a single ounce of food or drink in your body. The situation is highly traumatic to say the least.
Smells, no matter how subtle, are completely off putting. I haven’t been able to go anywhere near the stove since December 2018. In fact even looking at a picture of food, or glancing at my usually favourite food channels on TV makes me sick. I walk away when people talk about food in front of me.
Ironically food which is meant to sustain the baby and myself is the enemy.
My claustrophobia has also got worse. Hugging my dear husband and even my baby boy is a struggle for me. I am uncomfortable in my own clothes. The smell of fabric softener or perfume on clothing and bedding is unbearable. The worst part of HG is the constant horrid taste in your mouth. No matter what I’ve tried to do to get rid of it, nothing works. The medication simply alters it and makes it even worse. There is no escape. During my worst stages I was constantly physically weak and could be found sitting in bed at home or in hospital, curtains closed, praying and wondering when it all would end. During the few trips out of the house to the doctor or hospital my first priority was simple – I had to find out where the bathrooms were so I had easy access when I needed it.
HG removes all traces of humanness. The woman who would never walk out of the house without make-up and washing her hair to make sure the curls set, disappeared.
Nothing mattered anymore. I was sick, anxious, miserable, desperate for it all to go away. In my search for some reprieve I joined a group on Facebook where other women from around the world with HG shared their stories. At first it made me feel even more ill to read about their experiences. Later I clung to it in hope. This was especially when women would share that it was all over; they had made it through. They would post pictures of their beautiful babies to show the miracles that were waiting on the other side of the trauma. Other stories they shared were heart breaking.
Many women couldn’t handle it anymore and terminated their pregnancies. I cried when I read their posts. I understood how they felt.
I messaged those I could to urge them to hang on. It was tough.
Every one of those women was desperate. Every one of those women was strong. Every one of those women was deeply concerned about the well-being of the baby growing inside them. So was I. Yet we were helpless.
Many spoke of how they’d caught their partners texting other women and cheating on them while they endured HG. Many husbands fought with their wives for not being able to fulfil their spousal role, like making them lunch! I am so grateful for my husband, who despite taking great strain has supported me each step of the way.
My husband continued his Pastoral duties diligently throughout my illness and hospital stays. He never missed a church service.
Even for Saturday prayer at 7:30am when only a handful of people would attend, he would bathe, dress and feed our three-year old son before taking him along to the meeting. During the weekdays he also continued with growth groups, counselling sessions and Bible study. He always joked that when people thought about missing church they should ask WWJD – What would Justin do?
I felt bad that I wasn’t there to support him. I wished he would slow down a bit, but he has never been one to shy away from his responsibilities. While he carried our burden, he also carried the burdens of many others within our local church. He had broad shoulders.
We had an important function at our church one Sunday morning. It was the launch of our Vision for 2019, and it was hosted by my husband and myself. I had planned everything with a caterer who thankfully is also my friend – from my hospital bed. She also set up a little party table for my son as we had wanted to celebrate his birthday with our Church family. I was in hospital but managed to convince the kind doctor to give me a pass out for 3 hours. I took an Uber to Church and was so glad I was there to stand by my boy as he blew out the candles. It was also so good to see the families at church after my few weeks away.
Despite my illness, I still have to fulfil all the duties of a Pastors wife. We host Pastors at our home, strategically plan for church events and have to keep up with everything that is happening in the lives of our congregants, praying for them and supporting them.
I am grateful to those in church who constantly kept in touch with me and offered us their assistance during this trying time.
For our first child, we had a wonderful gynaecologist at Sunninghill hospital in Johannesburg. He was funny and light-hearted. We left smiling after every appointment, and so for this baby, despite our misgivings about the service at the hospital, we decided to stick with our gynae. I also suffered with HG for my first child. I was hospitalised twice, including on my birthday. However that experience pales in comparison to this time around. At my very first appointment I was admitted for HG and severe dehydration. It had been two days without anything staying in my system and I needed to be put on a drip. I was also put on Zofran, a drug generally used for treating or preventing nausea and vomiting caused by cancer treatments such as chemotherapy and radiation. The side effects were awful. I had that constant terrible taste in my mouth. I felt like a zombie and it had a serious effect on my appetite. I still could not eat anything.
The doctor kept me in hospital for 3 or 4 days at a time. I hated it. The Geranium ward at Sunninghill hospital was my worst nightmare. The nurses were slow and most appeared reluctant to do their jobs.
It was not uncommon for patients to wait more than an hour to be admitted, and up to four hours for a drip.
It didn’t help that my veins were difficult to find. I was constantly injected by lab assistants and various nurses until a vein could be found. Each tried up to three to four times. It was absolute torture and I shed many tears.
I also couldn’t bear to be away from my son who had just started school. Mum was not there to make his lunch or to wipe away his tears as he struggled to settle in. The one day I fetched him straight after hospital. He ran into my arms and burst into tears. It was heart breaking.
My husband had his hands full keeping the home running while I was ill. We had very little support as all our family is in Durban – 600 kilometers away. Our parents also work so couldn’t easily come to Jo’burg when we needed them.
The cycle continued and before long it was Christmas. My husband, a Pastor, was scheduled to preach at a church in Durban on Christmas day. It was also the only time of the year we got to spend with all our family in one city. The gynae who usually refused to give me any medication outside of hospital, decided to give me five Zofran pills to help me through the Christmas week. I was to take one a day and once they were over I needed to find a gynae in Durban who would admit me to hospital.
I guarded those five pills with my life. I even managed to hide and save one extra from hospital. This meant I would be home for 6 days. It would just include my son’s birthday.
He was so excited, he spoke about it for months and I couldn’t imagine not being there for this important day. I was in a predicament though. The tablet was only effective for around 6 hours. So, depending on the time I took it, I would be sick for the rest of the day or night. Effectively, I stayed in our parent’s home for all those days, except to go out for church on Christmas day and to my son’s 3rd birthday party for 3 hours one Thursday morning.
By New Year’s day I was a mess. I had not eaten for days and was weak and ill.
A local GP referred me to a gynae at Umhlanga hospital in Durban and I was admitted the same day. He was amazing. The doctor spent more than an hour chatting to me finding out my history. Clearly my mum’s pregnancy record didn’t help my situation. When she was pregnant with me in 1980, she also suffered with HG and spent 3 months in hospital. The doctor notified me that I had a cyst which was probably making the HG worse. I was shocked as it was the first time I’d heard of this, and I had done a scan with my gynae just the week before. He also couldn’t believe that my gynae had allowed me to take a flight to Durban within 3 months of pregnancy. He urged us to hire a car and drive back to Jo’burg for the safely of the baby. During my stay in hospital I went through different types of medication including Kytril which was taken intravenously and Maxalon. We then moved on to Stemetil – the strongest available drug.
Safety in pregnancy has not been tested, however doctors have to make a decision based on each situation.
The Stemetil was amazing. He gave me a bottle of pills and I had to take one before every meal. For a day and a half after I was discharged I felt almost normal. I ate a little and the food stayed down. That is, until we reached Johannesburg. I got sick the minute we arrived home.
It was back to hospital for me for the 5th time the very next morning. My gynae back in Johannesburg said he didn’t think it was important to mention the cyst as it would disappear in time anyway and he didn’t want to alarm me.
He explained that he was not in favour of Stemetil as he had seen it cause severe liver damage in one of his patients and he didn’t want to take the chance. I was back in hospital on the only medication he was prepared to give me – the dreaded Zofran. I was back to being a zombie.
You would think that all this time in hospital provided me with some much needed rest. However I assure you that there is no such thing for an HG sufferer.
When you are in zombie mode you cannot rest, you cannot think, you cannot write, you basically cannot function. You feel miserable around the clock. There is no relief. You sit, you stare, you cry, you try to pray, you merely exist.
When my gynae discharged me and jovially said he would see me back in hospital in two days, I got home and broke down. I couldn’t deal with it any longer. I could no longer handle the light-heartedness while I was feeling close to death. The nurses didn’t help either. Twice on that stay they had given me the wrong medication on my drip. Often the hand with the drip was badly swollen. The communal showers in the ward were ancient and needed pressure cleaning and I needed to psych myself up every time I needed to go to the toilet or shower.
By this time I had been poked for suitable veins more than 70 times by around 20 different nurses. I was at my wits end.
I decided to find another gynae and never to return to Sunninghill hospital again. My husband, also taking strain, understood and supported me.
Upon advice from a few friends I went to a new gynae at Sandton Medi-clinic. Fortunately he understood my predicament and empathised. He immediately had a plan of action. Renewed hope welled up inside me. At this point I was 11 weeks pregnant – hoping due to the severity it would be over by 12 weeks. The doctor wrote out a script for three items. I tried them, but sadly they failed and the nausea and vomiting continued. I was admitted to hospital twice for 10 days. This time the nurses were on call in minutes. They were astonishingly fast and before I knew it I was on a drip. After trying out more meds, he put me on Stemetil injections – one every six hours.
Time seemed to go by so quickly and it seemed the nurses enjoyed giving me those painful injections around the clock – basically four times a day. By day three I begged the doctor if I could rather take it in tablet form.
The side effects were also affecting me badly.
My speech was slurring and I was permanently drowsy (though unable to sleep) to a point where no one understood what I was saying. I stopped taking calls and tried my own form of sign language when people came to visit.
One night my husband asked the nurses to call the doctor to stop all medication immediately because I was so badly affected. The doctor agreed and changed tactic, although it took two full days for the medication to wear off and my speech to return.
He explained that his medicine artillery was now empty.
For my first child the HG wore off at 14 weeks. We now had to wait hoping history would repeat itself. Each day was an agonising wait. He sent me home with more medication – this time Nexium and Asic which I had to take three times a day. We had to wait and pray.
My mum, mum in law and any well-meaning person I came across suggested a host of things I should try. These ranged from crackers, ginger biscuits, ginger-ale, figs and china fruit to plain toast, avocado, white rice and pap.
The china fruit helped for two days. In fact I slept with one in my mouth for a night – much to my doctor’s dismay (he was afraid I would choke). One of my closest friends who is also pregnant suggested I eat consistently so as not to give the nausea a chance to set in. Eating even a single bite of a biscuit is so difficult for me. When my worried mums came over to stay for a few days I received a scolding several times and warned to eat for the good of both myself and the baby. They tried to force feed me – literally putting a spoon of food in my mouth.
All I could do was stare at them and the food blankly, wishing they knew how I felt. I didn’t want to disappoint them, yet I had no desire for anything.
Friends and colleagues sent messages asking how I was feeling. The answer was the same every single day – horrible, awful, sick. Some gave up asking. Others reassured me of their prayers and support. I asked them to pray harder.
My cousin’s word of consolation was that pregnancy only lasts 10 months. I haven’t spoken to her since. HG removes all traces of humour.
We had the most heart-warming experience soon after the start of school. The mums in my son’s class found out that I was in hospital. They arranged for my husband and son to have a whole week of meals.
Each cooked for a day from Monday to Friday and delivered the meals to school or to our home. These mums had never met us.
They simply have my number on watsapp. We instinctively felt like we were being a burden and my husband initially asked me to tell them that his mum had suddenly come over and cooked up a storm. However we finally resolved that we needed the help and we should accept their generous gesture. We will eternally be grateful to them and are determined to pay the kindness forward.
It was such a relief to get home on January 28th 2019 after more than 30 days in hospital over a period of two months.
Both my husband and child were over the moon. It felt amazing to shower without a drip stand. I washed my hair and put on make-up. For the first time in a long time I felt like a woman again. At 14 weeks pregnant there was some improvement and although I was not completely well, I was doing so much better. I went back to work this week, but unfortunately was sick again after three days. My son still asks me if I’m going back to the hospital and I have to constantly reassure him. I haven’t cooked in almost three months, and my husband is hoping I will get back to making his favourite curries soon. I’ve lost 10kgs and my hands still hurt from all the needles. However, I am slowly getting my strength back and am optimistic that soon I will be back in full action as the Pastor’s wife, Mum, News Editor and friend.
More than anything I thank God that our baby growing inside of me is healthy and well, and we pray for a safe delivery in July 2019.
The Cross and the Pastor’s Kid
I grew up in Ministry…literally. My earliest memories were created against the backdrop of church. As a young couple, my parents answered the call to serve while raising three little girls, and by the time I hit high school I was a fully-fledged PK, or Pastor’s Kid. We were a part of many churches over the years, before my parents founded their own work in Montclair, Durban.
My parents were passionate about God and gave themselves entirely to serving people. Yes, they had their own personal wars to fight, but when it came to God, there was no compromise. They would often leave home late at night when members of our congregation would call in distress and only return in the early hours of the morning with just enough time to get ready for work. We were accustomed to the midnight phone call from a frantic father or sobbing wife. Some days my mom and dad would grab a quick cup of tea and a sandwich before heading out to counsel with families in need. I remember their hushed talks in the morning about rescuing runaway children from drug-dens and calming violent domestic disputes. As children, we were never bitter about their time spent away from home, because we believed that they were on a heavenly mission.
We often heard people talk about our parents. Many were grateful for their help and praised their efforts in trying to restore their broken homes or broken marriages. However, as children, we were also acutely aware of the pew politics that simmered beneath the surface. There were those who complimented in public, but criticised in private spaces. Those clique-type Christians who talked in Christian clichés like, ‘Oh bless you sister, yes God is good’, but would also be heard saying, ‘did you see that dress, how can the pastor allow his wife to show her knees!’ This group seemed to believe they were infallible, while everybody else, particularly the pastor and his family, were deserving of their ceaseless judgement.
I know this only because, as children, we were ignored. So I would be standing within earshot of their fire and brimstone and they wouldn’t even notice me. When we were eventually old enough to be seen by the Pharisitical group, it was only to earn their disdain. ‘Her hair is too short! Her dress is too tight…Pastors’ children are the worse ones’, they would complain, sometimes to our face. It didn’t help that I had a unique built compared to the other girls in our community. I was skinny to the bone with a protruding behind. In those days, being generous around the rear wasn’t a compliment; it was an object of scorn. I was often teased, and irrespective of how I dressed, I was always picked on. It didn’t matter what I wore, if the outline of my southern regions were visible, I was given a talking to by the motherly sorts in our church. I seldom, if ever, spoke about those interactions. I did however internalise it until it made me self-conscious and unsure of my own body. Little changed when I became an adult and gained a few considerable kilos, but that’s a story for a different day!
Yes, it was difficult trying to keep up with the mountain of expectations laid at our feet as the Pastor’s children, and I understand why other PK’s stumbled along the journey. In reality many children of ministers turn away from church and even the faith because of the intense pressure they face. People are quick to dismiss their own children’s wilful disobedience and rebellion as growing pains, hormones or chalk it up to a teenage phase…but as PK’s you were expected to be robotic and perfect. It was considered diabolical if you had a difference of opinion and heaven forbid you had a meltdown! Pastors were and still are admonished and judged if their children ever make a mistake.
It was also a mammoth task making friends. Children in church don’t always want to hang around the Pastor’s kid, in case you tell on them. ‘Hey shush, pastor’s daughter is coming!’ they would stage-whisper when they see you coming.
Amid all this, what was most disheartening was watching how ministry at times hurt my parents. Don’t get me wrong, my parents were loved. They were the kind of people that others gravitated to. They were ethical, fair and selfless pastors. They were not insecure or abusive and they drew even the hardest hearts in with love and acceptance. But church and ministry is open to all kinds of people and we were taught that being in leadership meant having to also embrace those who seemed to take pleasure in constant complaining, judging and contention. I could never understand how my parents could easily forgive when their good intentions were taken out of context. I was often annoyed when after having given all that they possibly could, people still felt entitled to more. My parents never shared their burdens with us, but we knew. We could easily tell. And for a short time in my teenage years, I wondered if I ever wanted to be in ministry too.
The answer to my questions about ministry came when I was thrust into teaching Sunday school in Cato Manor. The sprawling community was riddled with drugs, alcoholism, domestic abuse and crime. My parents spent hours on end working with families there and the senior pastor asked me to take on Sunday school. I was hardly even fourteen years old, but I had a good grasp of biblical principles and was an avid Bible student, thanks to my dad. At that age I had already read the Holy Book cover to cover and was starting to study the gospels on my own.
I took on the call, and within the first three months saw the class grow from six to forty! This was largely due to the field evangelism my parents had undertaken. I started buying stationary and snacks and was even making my own charts. We were crammed into a small room and resources were few, but we soldiered on.
It was Palm Sunday and the children were excited about the palm leaves that decorated the building. I had passed around a packets of cheese favoured chips and as they were settling on the carpeted floor for story time. I animatedly told them about Jesus, the King of Kings, riding on a lowly colt into Jerusalem as the crowds sang hosanna and threw down their cloaks and palm leaves to pave His way into the Holy City. I also told them that a week later, many of those who cried hosanna would demand that Jesus be crucified. I explained how Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss and Peter denied the Lord three times. The children gasped in horror and indignation, ‘But how could they do that ma’am’ they innocently asked. They could not comprehend such treachery. ‘So what did Jesus do’, asked a little boy in the back of the class with his cheesy chip suspended in the air.
‘Jesus said, father forgive them for they know not what they do’
The words rung in my own head as I delved into the love of God. ‘Jesus loved them anyway…even when they didn’t love him back. That’s what makes the cross a special place in that God didn’t wait for us to be perfect, he took our imperfections on him so that we can be better…He knew he needed to be crucified so that everybody, even those who rejected him, would have a chance to believe and be saved’
Isn’t that the reality of the love of the God? That while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. In that class, along with the forty children, God taught me a lesson… Love them anyway. Sometimes serving in ministry means having to wash the feet of those who wilfully scorn you… It means having to love those who slander your name… It means reaching out to those who crucify your best intentions. We all have our crosses to bear, we all have shortcomings to battle…and we can all go to the cross where Christ has forgiven us…so we too should forgive.
– Genevieve Lanka-Gann
The Unexpected Call
He was a Radio presenter, and I delivered the news. It was the year 2000. We were both almost out of university, excited about the entering the big working world. I had studied Journalism and Psychology. He was completing his Law degree and would soon become an Advocate. Our time at Highway Radio in Durban was amazing. We loved the listeners, we got great experience and our friendship blossomed. Over time, I got a job at East Coast Radio, and six years later, in 2008 I moved to Johannesburg to work at the SABC. It was an exciting decade in my career. My job gave me the opportunity to travel abroad and I visited many countries covering big events there. From Somalia to New York – I was young, free and determined to excel in my journalism career. In Johannesburg I made new friends, settled in a church and boasted about how much time I had on my hands in this city compared to how hectic my schedule was in Durban. Justin and I stayed in touch but it was only in 2013 that our paths would once again cross.
Justin had been called upon to lead a church in Sunninghill, Johannesburg. The Pastor had fallen ill and relocated to Durban to recuperate. There were just six people who’d remained. They were determined to make sure the Church blossomed again. At this point Justin was Pastoring a church in Mount Moriah in Durban. He flew to Johannesburg every Saturday, stayed over and had a service on Sunday morning, then took the lunchtime flight back to Durban to preach at a service at Mount Moriah at 4pm. This continued for more than a year. It was during this process that we re-connected.
Fast forward a bit and as fate would have it we began dating. At first I couldn’t fathom dating one of my best friends. Little did I know that this would be the least of my concerns. He was a Pastor. A fully fledged Pastor. Justin, after his own battle with the Lord, had given up his role as an Advocate to go into full time ministry. He was still the friend I could chat to for hours on end. Only this time there was another dimension. And it scared the hell out of me.
When he mentioned marriage I cringed. I loved him, but I wasn’t sure exactly what marrying ‘Pastor’ Justin would mean. Since I was a child I was always involved in church – from Mothers’ Day speeches to teaching Sunday school and leading home cells. This was different. My impression from Pastors’ wives was that they were always busy visiting or praying for people, attending church services and planning outreach events. They were also always well dressed, often in suits or beautiful dresses with the perfect nails and hair to match. They sat in the front row with their husbands raising their hands and saying ‘Amen’ as he preached. I couldn’t imagine this for me.
Justin was gentle. He said I would simply need to be his wife, pray for him and support him. He didn’t place any demands on me although his teachings from the scriptures did begin to weigh in on me. Slowly life as I knew it began to change. No more ballroom dancing. No more crazy concerts. Anything that was not in line with the Word of God was not acceptable. He was subtle though. This was of course because he had his eye on the prize – he was still determined to get me to marry him!
On December 19th 2014 Justin and I got married. It was a beautiful wedding in Krugersdorp. Perhaps I should mention at this point that there were no less than fourteen Pastors present. The moment one Pastor prayed for the blessings of God to rain down on us, it literally began to pelt down! In December 2015 we had our first child.
Years later I still joke with my husband that I believe I walked into this marriage like a lamb to the slaughter. He didn’t tell me the real deal. I wished I had spent some time talking to other Pastor’s wives so I was prepared for what I was getting into. This was a baptism of fire. I thank God for all the women in ministry that I have met since I began this journey as they have given me so much encouragement and inspiration.
I maintain that anyone who chooses to become a Pastor is definitely cut from a different kind of cloth. I can’t imagine a human being putting themselves in the firing line every single day. It therefore must be a calling. Any and every problem lands at the Pastor’s feet. It doesn’t matter if he was asleep while it happened. It doesn’t matter if it’s big or small, or whether it can wait or not. It literally becomes his problem to solve. The phone rings constantly. Whatsapp messages roll in, emails appear in his inbox daily and this is apart from the active role he plays ministry – from Bible study classes to growth groups, from Saturday prayer and Sunday’s sermon to international ministry.
I used to think that Pastors only worked on a Sunday, but boy was I wrong! My husband is more out of our home than he is in it. He is always out counselling people, encouraging them and helping to resolve their problems – be it social, physical, emotional or financial. A large portion of those he helps are not from our local church. They go to bigger churches where they have no relationship with the Preacher and they call upon Pastors like Justin when they are in need of help. Like most Pastors I know, he is an all or nothing kind of person. He is passionate about Christ and the ministry and he will go above and beyond the call of duty to help anyone.
I have a full time job as a provincial Radio News Assignment Editor at the South African Broadcasting Corporation. Together with my small team of Reporters we are responsible for covering the news across Gauteng, with the exception of Pretoria which has its own team of journalists. It is a 24/7 job. As a News Editor I constantly have to be on top of things to make sure we have the region covered in the hourly news bulletins which go out on 19 radio stations across South Africa. Any slip ups and I have to answer for it in our national diary meeting the next morning.
I also have to be a wife and a mother to our 3-year old son. My husband carries a lot on his shoulders. Our church is based on the model of family, so we have a personal relationship with each and every person who attends our church. This also means we consider them as part of our family, and we carry the same burdens they do. So it is not uncommon in our house to discuss how to resolve problems, how to help those who are in difficulty and when we ourselves have a discouraging day, to uplift each other. Trust me, there are a lot of problems to deal with. It places physical and emotional strain on us both. We have many sleepless nights. Sometimes the phone rings late at night or in the early hours of the morning and he has to be of help or comfort to someone in need. It’s not easy to have your husband leave you and your son alone at home in the middle of the night and drive on the crime ridden streets of Johannesburg.
In between we still have to love our son. He has just started school and has so much to say. He knows now that daddy has a ‘meeting’ on most evenings. His dad tries to spend as much time with him as he can when it’s possible. Some nights are dedicated to teaching the Word of God to our church at Bible study, growth groups or in one-on-one meetings. It’s a sacrifice of precious family time and it’s discouraging when people don’t attend or show any appreciation for God’s holy Word.
They say being a Pastor’s wife is also a calling. Well this was a call I never expected! Journalism for me has always been my first love – sharing amazing real life stories with the world. I still battle to fit into the mould of a regular Pastor’s wife. I’m not sure if I need to, but I do know there are expectations from some church-goers that I may never fulfil. In the meantime I continue to support my husband, pray for our church, love God’s people and plan events. And while I may not get the hair right, I try to make sure my nails at least are somewhat beautiful!
-Melini Moses
The Journey Begins
Thanks for joining me!
Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton
Diary of a Pastors Wife 
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