The punch didn't knock me out, but the sun, moon, and stars all came out at once.
After I had gathered all my chickens back, I was trying through the mental haze and unexpected shock to discover the source of the blow _ while bracing myself for another onslaught. As my vision cleared, I looked to my right and locked sight on a rather short and thoroughly drunk older woman with bony fists clenched.
Through gritted teeth and gravelly, slurred speech, she said, "Don't you ever touch that boy again!"
Allow me to set the scene.
My wife and I had recently been appointed to our first pastorate in Tumwater. Our little family had been in a whirl of activity after our move, getting settled with two young children, making plans, and hoping to serve the needs of this new church family.
Truth was, we were only half-baked and really had no idea what we were doing _ beyond leaning hard on God to help us. Barely in our mid-20s, we wanted to show maturity we didn't have yet, making a good impression on the church and the community.
Our family had been standing in line at a restaurant, waiting for a table with a group of church folks. It was after a Sunday evening worship gathering, where I had no doubt talked along the lines of loving God, loving neighbors and being salt and light to the community.
Adjacent to our queue was the entrance to a cocktail lounge, which seemed to have a strong attraction for our young son Ryan. He kept darting from us and running into the dark, cavernous doorway, where smoky jukebox music carried Don Williams' hit song, "Lord, I Hope This Day is Good."
After two verbal warnings, Ryan escaped yet again. As I retrieved him and walked back to the line of our new church friends, I gave him a quick swat on the rear. (Really, it was only a swat.)
That was the moment when my world suddenly exploded.
WHAM!
My little boy's sneaky, inebriated protector had slipped out of the lounge while my attention was on my son and almost decked me with a haymaker. Realizing who had hit me, I quickly moved from a defensive karate position back to something more pastoral.
Mike Tyson had it right when he said, "Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth."
I've never been hit like that again.
No short, elderly, drunk woman has ever again sent me into a semi-conscious state. But I have been hit. Many, many times.
As a pastor, the punches _ in all shapes and sizes _ never really stop.
In my opinion, pastors and other church leaders are called by the Great Shepherd, Jesus, and he never once promised that working in wolf territory would be easy. It wasn't when he warned us about wolves in John 10, and, indeed, it isn't easy for pastors today.
In subsequent years, I've wondered if any of those church folks saw that gal step out of the dark and take a swing at me. If they did, couldn't they have yelled, "Pastor _ duck!"
What about your pastor? Are there opportunities where you can pray and protect your pastor and his family from being thumped by a surprise attack?
I hope your pastor never takes a real punch as I did, but believe me, right now your pastor is fighting some kind of battle, dodging spiritual blows or perhaps being set up to take a hit.
They are called to "watch over your soul" (Hebrews 13:17), and a haymaker of any kind is an unneeded distraction from good food and fellowship.
