The days leading up to our church planting journey are a golden haze in my memory. As soon as we experienced the first missional pull six years ago, my husband and I consumed absurd quantities of Dr. Pepper and scrambled for every pertinent book, article, and podcast in Christendom. Despite the caffeine-induced fog, one sentiment jumped out from the masses of content and wrapped itself tightly around my heart. It hasn’t budged since. In a session on marriage and missions, the trainer asked a group of hopeful church planters, “Men, who’s your pastor?” He waited. Crickets. His answer knocked the wind out of me.