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In the summer of ’81, when I was 12, we moved from a small rural town of about 800 people to a suburb of Chicago. It amazed my mom that as we were driving into the suburbs, we still had 40 miles before we would reach our suburb.

Life was going to be very different.

Many people who live within the Chicago city limits are very irritated when people like me say I’m from Chicago. But when I rode my bike a few blocks east, I was in the city of Chicago. If I walked a few blocks south, I was in the city of Chicago. Technically, we lived in the suburbs. But it seemed very much like the city to me.

We lived on a main artery into the city, so I wasn’t allowed to cross the street on my own. The freedom of riding my bike all over town was gone. The parsonage in my old town had been built right before we moved there; it had central air, a dishwasher, and four bedrooms. The parsonage we moved into had only three bedrooms, so we had to convert the office into a bedroom for my brother. No air conditioning, no dishwasher, and faded pink paint on the wall of the bedroom my sister and I were to share. Not only was there noise from the busy street to get used to, but we lived very close to O’Hare. Jets took off and landed right over our heads. And the commuter train was just across the way. Lights were everywhere; it was never completely dark at night.

Life was going to be very different.

On the positive side, we were excited that we could walk to the public library. Our little town didn’t have a library. We lived at the edge of a large park, and at the other side was a playground and pool. We couldn’t swim very well, but we used the pool when we could.

Then school started. I made friends with some members of my class, but being the pastor’s kid in seventh grade was very difficult. Since I attended the parochial school that our church ran, many of the kids in my class had been together since pre-Kindergarten. I was definitely the newcomer; the outsider.

I resented this move, but some very good things happened because we were in this place. It would take me years to discover the reasons God called my father to serve at this church in the suburbs.

Janna of Mommy’s Piggy Tales began a project to share our youth with our children. Every Thursday, I will tell a story about my childhood as if I were telling it to my children. At the end of this project, I’ll have a collection of stories about my childhood for my children to keep, and hopefully treasure.

In fifth and sixth grades, I discovered that I was really good at something no one else in my family was good at doing. My sister, 13 months younger, was always keeping up with me. She learned to read when I did, she learned how to ride her bicycle at the same time, and she was starting to master piano playing a lot faster than I was. (Unlike myself, she enjoyed practicing.) I didn’t mind have a sister that excelled in those things; having a sister that was almost the same age as me was so much fun.

Even though my sister and I played together all the time, I enjoyed being outside more than she did. In winter, I was always begging her to put on her snowsuit and come outside to build snow forts with me. In the summer, I went out on my own and rode my banana-seat Schwinn around town. I knew every alley, every small street. I rode the circular road around the water tower and playground, and up and down the hill on the outskirts of town. I rode just for the love of pedaling my bike, and I loved feeling the breeze in my face and hair.

At school, I joined the track and field team. I was definitely not a sprinter. Sprinting required light, quick feet. As I ran the 50 yard dash, my coach yelled “You look like you’re pulling a barn behind you!” I wasn’t fast, but I had a different talent. I had endurance. My coach decided to have me run the mile. Four times around the track. I developed a rhythm when running. I liked the sensation of my feet hitting the track. I liked setting my pace. I liked being able to think about things while I ran.

My parents used the track team to teach me responsibility. It must have been the beginning of track season, and I was supposed to attend a meeting in my sixth grade classroom. I had decided that instead of going to the meeting, I was going home to watch an after-school special…Treasure Island. I loved the book and now I wanted to watch the TV show. In 1980, we didn’t have a way to record it. I walked home from school, and my parents asked me what I was doing. I was supposed to be at the track meeting! They made me turn around and head right back to school. I sneaked into the meeting, late and embarrassed. But I had learned my lesson.

At the end of sixth grade, my father received a Divine Call. A church in the Chicago suburbs wanted Dad to become their pastor. After he turned down the Call once, the church called him again. After much prayer and consideration, Dad felt like God was truly calling him to be a minister to this church.

I was devastated. At 12 years old, I knew my niche in life and I couldn’t imagine moving. Even though I knew the announcement was coming, I started to cry when Dad told our congregation that he had accepted the Call. After the service, I ran to my Sunday School room. My Sunday School teacher just hugged me while I sobbed.

What would happen to this small town girl transplanted to the big city?

Janna of Mommy’s Piggy Tales began a project to share our youth with our children. Every Thursday, I will tell a story about my childhood as if I were telling it to my children. At the end of this project, I’ll have a collection of stories about my childhood for my children to keep, and hopefully treasure.