The daughter of a pastor, Kay met Rick when she was 17 years old and a home-ec major. She married him quickly based on nothing but a powerful attraction and a sense, she says, that God was going to take him places. The first two years of their marriage were disastrous; both say they realized almost immediately they had nothing in common. “I always say, ‘Before marriage, opposites attract. After marriage, opposites attack’,” says Rick with a laugh as he stops into the interview to say hello. Kay wanted the kids to do their homework and get to bed on time. Rick would come home from a long trip, wake the kids up at 10 p.m. and take them out for ice cream. Even now, when Kay tells this story, she can barely smile.
Over the years, according to “Dangerous Surrender,” Kay had bouts of depression triggered by her resentment at being relegated to the background role that she had chosen. Until the epiphany: a solitary afternoon with a magazine article on AIDS in Africa, a vision of millions of homeless and parentless children, a sense that this problem was her destiny. God, she says, spoke to her and told her it was so. “Yeah, I know that sounds like ooey-gooey Casper the Friendly Ghost type stuff,” says Kay, but for a person who has lived as a Christian her whole life, talking to God is just something you do. “It is similar to being in a good marriage,” she says. “You can sort of know what your spouse is thinking or going to say.” Nine months after Kay’s epiphany, Rick had his own. Now the two of them are the generals of a not-uncontroversial army of mostly white, Christian lay missionaries who fervently believe that their good will can change the world.
“Dangerous Surrender” is not going to be Kay’s “Purpose Driven Life.” It is written at too much of a remove—even the Oprah-esque personal revelations (early child abuse, a teenage fascination with pornography and sex)—aren’t passionately drawn enough to show the real Kay. Much more interesting is the story behind the story: how the daughter of a pastor, who grew up believing that pastors’ wives shouldn’t ever talk about their problems, became the wife of a superpastor—and how that wife and mother struggled to find contentment. On a sunny day in Orange County the week before her debut, Kay Warren is drinking Starbucks, chatting with her publicist, fielding calls from Hillary Clinton’s office and dandling her third grandchild. Blinking into a camera lens, she looks like a happy woman.
