Copyright Erin Bahbah 2025
If you had asked my 16-year or even 21-year old self if I would be willing to marry someone called to the ministry, you probably would have gotten a blank stare. Sure why not…I had no real grasp of what that would mean—the sacrifices, the pressures, the unique kind of strength it would require. But as it became a potential reality, I began to see how ministry life wasn’t exactly admired or desired by many of the Christians I knew.
Because I didn’t grow up in a Christian home, I did not have visions of what becoming a pastor’s wife would be like. I had no framework for how vocational ministry could affect (read: will effect) marriage and family.
As I look back over the years, I can confirm that the challenges are real and unique, but behind each of those challenges, there has been unexpected joy. I haven’t figured it all out, but as these challenges continue to surface, each one teaches me something deeper about grace, surrender, and the quiet strength God provides.
One of the quieter griefs in ministry life is the rhythm of moving. Each new church, each new town, requires letting go—even if it wasn’t yet a familiar place, the hope of settling, of having familiar streets and favorite coffee shops, and the hope of being deeply known. Starting over again and again stretches your heart in ways you can’t imagine. But over time, I’ve learned that God’s faithfulness does not just go ahead of us to prepare a place for us; He goes behind us as well, keeping us connected to people all over the country. However, the ache of transition never fully disappears.
Ministry doesn’t happen in regular office hours. My husband is often meeting with people before or after their work days, or sometimes hosting evening classes and weekend events. These can blur the lines between church life and home life. Finding the right balance to this schedule requires intentional boundaries and a whole lot of prayer.
Perhaps one of the more hidden challenges is the subtle ache of loneliness. Not from a lack of people, but from the complexity of roles and boundaries. I’ve had to learn where it’s safe to be fully myself, and to cherish the rare gift of true, unguarded friendship when and where they come.
An unexpected joy wraps the challenges altogether through quiet moments of transformation. God has knit our hearts together with people we would have never met had we not said yes to each and every church we have been a part of, the odd hours, the constant moves, and the loneliness. There is something sacred about seeing a soul begin to heal, to hope, to believe again. And those glimpses of God at work in others have stirred something deep in me: a quiet awe and a deep gratitude for the invitation to be near holy ground.
