The Fishbowl Wife by Isla Morley

Say "preacher's wife" and see if a picture doesn't come immediately to mind. If your mind is anything like my mind, the picture will be of a woman with big hair and eyelashes clotted with mascara and a smile that can win her a toothpaste commercial audition. A hand (nails long, lacquered) gestures upward, while on her lap rests a gently used Bible (full of highlighted passages that are already committed to memory) and at her feet a cluster of fresh-scrubbed children. The words "Minister's wife" conjure a completely different image: see the postmenopausal woman wearing sensible shoes and a beige outfit putting the finishing touches to the potluck in the fellowship hall?

I can guarantee, either way you say it, what is not going to come into your mind is: me. My hair doesn't tease well, for one thing, and I have the musical tendencies of a barnacle. I still have trouble memorizing Scripture, and I'm usually late for church. Despite all this, I am somewhat of a curiosity to the parishioners of the church where my husband is the minister.

It's the things that church members find worthy of discussing about me that I find interesting. What I wear is a perennial favorite (note to self: never wear bib overalls to a church function, no matter how casual). Also what I eat. One week the gossip centered around what had been on my plate at the Fourth of July church picnic. "She's not a real vegetarian if she's got a great big hamburger on her plate."  You try defending yourself with the words "soy patty."

When we lived in the parsonage right next to the church it was not uncommon to have someone stop by to see what I was doing, whether I was pruning the rosebushes the right way (and yes, there is a right way) or painting the living room house-of-ill-repute red. Sometimes, someone would stop by when I was doing nothing at all. One such visitor popped by for a "quick tour." I was glad I'd decided to get dressed that morning instead of sitting in my fuzzy blue dressing gown filling my notebook with doodles instead of review-worthy prose. She looked at everything – the rogue's gallery in the hallway ("Tee-hee, now I can say I saw Pastor in a diaper!"), the toilet, even our bedroom where I had to kick my husband's underwear under the bed.

As the spouse of a minister, I am also a sitting duck when it comes to Good Samaritanism. In some instances, I am the reluctant recipient, like the day Freda came by. Freda, in her nineties, led me to the trunk of her old Buick and popped the lid. The smell of mothballs stung my eyes. There were two bulging suitcases.  Freda unzipped one and out popped 1940. "I just know you are going to get a lot of use out of these," she said. She held up a polka-dot wrap dress with a big lacy collar. "And here's something that will be perfect for Sunday!"

But the truth of it is I am most often the recipient of undeserved love and generosity. Think of it as having a hundred grandmothers, and a dozen moms. When my husband was hospitalized, they prayed for us and cooked casseroles and kept a respectful distance. When my novel, Come Sunday, was published they all went out and bought a copy, then bought another one for a friend. When I hit a bump in my writing, I only have to mention it once and I will get half-a-dozen hugs and whispered words so encouraging I write them on post-its and tape them to my computer screen. Being a fishbowl wife isn't so bad after all. Hey, I'll wear that rayon jumpsuit with the shoulder pads any day if it comes with such unconditional love.

-- Isla Morley

Isla Morley grew up in South Africa during apartheid, the child of a British father and fourth-generation South African mother. During the country's State of Emergency, she graduated from Nelson Mandela Metropolitan University in Port Elizabeth with a degree in English Literature. By 1994 she was one of the youngest magazine editors in South Africa, but left career, country and kin when she married an American and moved to California. For more than a decade she pursued a career in non-profit work, focusing on the needs of women and children. Her debut novel, Come Sunday, was awarded the 2009 Kafka Prize for Fiction, and was a finalist for the Commonwealth Prize.

She has lived in some of the most culturally diverse places of the world, including Johannesburg, London and Honolulu. Now in the Los Angeles area, she shares a home with her husband, daughter, a cat, two dogs and three tortoises.