Dear Young Pastor’s Wife, I started out young, too. Twenty-three. I remember the cold winter day when our brand new congregation helped my husband unload our U-Haul and move all of our worldly possessions (we didn’t even own a couch) into the parsonage of our first church. I guess I was too silly to feel…
One of the things I love best about hearing tales of “the good old days” is the camaraderie between neighbors and the kinship that linked generations. Little girls learned how to be women simply by being with the women in their lives. Cooking, keeping house, taking care of babies — all the ins and outs of womanhood were learned as a matter of course, simply by one generation absorbing these things from previous ones.
“Do you have a hope chest yet, Kristy?”
“No, what’s a hope chest?”
“It’s a trunk full of things you collect to use some day when you get married,” MeMe explained.
My eyes must have sparkled… it sounded just like a treasure chest full of dreams! From that day on, I knew I was going to have a hope chest. But… what ever would I put in it?