The minute I was born, I automatically became part of a small, close-knit group called PKs, which stood for “preacher's kid.”

It's fun to meet another PK because they immediately understand your childhood without ever having known you. Some have taken the PK lifestyle with a grain of salt and nothing out of the ordinary, while others go wild or rebel. It's not always easy, but the good prevails.

All PKs talk about the glass bubble, which means you’re constantly scrutinized by other people. Whether you know them or not, they know who you are. People quietly point you out, and silently critique how you’re dressed. They pay attention to your house and its furnishings, your car and toys, accessing whether the church is paying you too much or not.

As a child, I secretly wished my dad was an accountant or a plumber. Maybe it's because I’ve always been extra sensitive, or perhaps it was just my imagination, but I swear my friends' parents always put out a Bible on the coffee table before I came over.

I envisioned them watching how we acted during church and nudging their kids to behave like us PKs. (If only they knew that Mom always sat between my brother and I to avoid any possible disturbance.)

I heard kids tell each other to watch what they say when I was around. I wish they wouldn't have. I felt sheltered and naive. How else was I supposed to learn what every other teenager knew?

Church was our social life as well as our spiritual place. It was somewhere we were expected to go without question, but I didn't mind because it was where my friends were. Church was where our "family” was.

Christmastime brought perks. Large baskets of fruit were delivered as well as platters of fudge and cookies. No household I knew got more Christmas cards than we did (or as many dry fruitcakes).

To this day, when people discover that I’m a PK, they assume I’ve memorized the Bible word for word, and can provide insight on the meaning of any passage. Have a question about the Bible? Ask Melanie—she’ll know. (I find this hysterical. I assure them I have no magical Biblical knowledge from being a PK. We’re all on the same journey.)

Back in the day when pastors were the preachers, teachers, counselors, finance directors, staff and facility managers, conflict controllers and worship organizers, the hours Dad worked were unimaginable. Fridays and Sunday afternoons were his only time off, and they were often interrupted. I looked forward to Fridays after school when Dad would save errands for my brother and I to run with him. Sunday afternoons meant watching the Packers (Behave, Broncos fans; I grew up in Wisconsin) or playing sports together.

One PK I met recently told me that as a child he found out that the way people got to see his dad was to make an appointment. So he marched into the church to set one up. He just wanted time with his dad. Sadly, his dad wasn’t amused.

It was tough to share Dad with hundreds of other people. The phone rang so much during dinnertime over the years that when I was a teenager Mom finally took it off the hook when we sat down to eat. Did people forget my dad had a family he went home to just like they did? Selfishly, I wanted him to myself once he walked through the door. Dinner together was the most treasured part of each day.

It takes a special person to be a pastor, and especially in the ’60s, it took a special woman to be a pastor's wife. Mom was considered "part of the package" and assumed roles for free, like choir director. It didn't occur to me until adulthood that while I was craving Dad’s time and attention, I'm sure my mom was, too.

Dad did many things right when it came to his little PKs. Although I was always on guard that he would use us kids as sermon material, he never did. He never told us to stop riding our bikes to come see him at church, or to stop snatching candy off the church secretary's desk.

Money was always tight, but he and Mom set aside two weeks every summer at a cabin on a lake in northern Wisconsin. With great patience, he taught me to fish, and we swam and took walks in the woods. Those two weeks were the best, in part, because he was just my dad.

Thanks, Mom and Dad for raising four loving and faithful PKs!