Nosey gossiping church members were sucking out my passion for life leaving me an irritable shell of what I felt called to do on this earth. Surely that hadn’t been God’s will. The comfortable stuffy American church needed to wake up from their petty problems, and see what it was like for two minutes for Christians in the rest of the world.

Wasn’t I allowed at least one nervous breakdown a year? Maybe next year Jon and I could pencil it into our calendar. Maybe we could post it in the church bulletin. It would read “ATTENTION: Our Dear Pastor’s wife is scheduling her annual nervous breakdown, so if you could avoid calling, texting, emailing, or whining in her direction for the next week between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m., she would be most grateful.

What made you know so much about all of this?” She didn’t try to come across as angry, just curious. “It’s called American High School. Don’t worry; I’m a pastor’s wife. I speak Pretentious Caddy Women fluently.” She looked up at me questioningly. I knew she didn’t understand my humor but I thought I was hilarious.