Preacher's kid, part one

I've heard that some of you are wondering what all this bit about me being a preacher's kid is about.

I guess I'd better explain.

I was about a year old when my father, then an engineer, decided he was called to preach. My family moved from Virginia to Kentucky so he could go to seminary. Life after that was always in transition as Dad got recruited from church to church to church.

My transformation -- from kid to preacher's kid -- was too early on to remember. But, rest assured, it was mysterious. P.K.s (what we call ourselves) are the flesh and blood of men of God, after all. So somehow, to my observers, I became a saint.

Church folks assumed I had a photographic memory of each and every Bible verse (um, no). It was as if my brother J.D. and I had unknowingly been tapped by a magic wand that made us have no desire to sin (clearly, not he case). Each and every Sunday my halo was on display, and I sure as hell had to work hard to keep off the tarnish.

If angel wings have their benefits, they were these: Spending enough time on church grounds to conduct plenty of mischief in the graveyard out back. Special weekday permission to finger the keys on the big organ. Knowing during Communion that you'd get to drink whatever grape juice was left over. (Grape juice, you ask? Yep, teetotaling Southern Baptists seem to think Mr. Welch has been around since Biblical times.)

The thing about being a preacher's kid is that the expections to perform -- and perform well -- are mind-blowing. It's excellent training ground for a career in the music business, actually. I couldn't help but be tapped to get up to sing and play, especially on the Sundays other musicians couldn't be there. I developed a stage smile so angelic that St. Peter himself would have thought I did no wrong.

Life as a preacher's kid is like growing up in a zoo, or maybe a scenic wildlife preserve. You're always on display. Your whole life becomes a staged environment.

To be continued in Part 2.