People often ask me about the 'cost' of ministry. As the daughter of not one but two vicars, I'm never sure what answer they expect. An 'Oh, it's no cost at all, I love it and wouldn't change anything' sort of answer? Or an 'I hate every minute, it's cost me my faith and my parents and my happiness' one?

There are days where both are true, you see. Days I've found myself sat on my kitchen floor, crying and raging. Days where I've heard myself say the words, 'If this is ministry then screw ministry! Let me go, I want out.'

Those are the low days. The days when ministry costs.

But then there are the days when it doesn't. Days when I can't help but rejoice in all that God has called my family into. Days when I've declared with utter conviction that 'this is the best and I wouldn't change it for the world'.

Those are the high days. The days when ministry feels like a gift.

There seems to be an assumption that growing up with your parents in ministry has to be either good or bad. Black or white.

But, like so much of life, like so much of faith, ministry is rarely black or white. It cannot be lumped into one box or another. It cannot be labelled either 'good' or 'bad', either 'costly' or 'a gift'. It's not that simple. Life is rarely that simple.

Maybe, 'What's the cost?' is the wrong question. Because 'cost' suggests negativity. It asks only for the things lost, not those gained. And I've never found myself up at night doing a cost-benefit analysis of my life.

Maybe the question is not 'What's the cost?' but instead, 'Would I do it again?' If I had the choice, would I go through a childhood of being a clergy kid, a lifetime of incarnational ministry, again?

That's the question I've wrestled with the most. That's the one that's kept me up at night.

I've wrestled with it as I've learnt what it feels like to develop a strange 'sibling rivalry' with my parents' congregation. I've wrestled with it as I've experienced the levels of spiritual abuse and deep damage the church can inflict on its own. I've wrestled with it as I've found myself on a church rota for the eighth week in a row, when I've watched other Christians mistreat, bully, and slander my parents and those I love. On those days, my answer is a resounding 'No'. No, I would not do it again.

But then there are the other days. The days I've seen people come to know Jesus because of the love, acceptance, and community offered to them by the church. The days I've witnessed grown men reduced to tears by the offer of Christmas lunch in a home, with a family. The stories upon stories upon stories I've heard of lives changed and wounds healed by the love of God enacted through simple acts of kindness and generosity by my family. Those are the days that my answer is a resounding 'Yes'. Yes, I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Would I do it again? The question plagues me. Round and round it goes, echoing in my head and battering at my heart. Would I do it again?

I found my answer on a spontaneous trip to the beach last August. You could tell it was spontaneous because I was wearing skinny jeans. I wanted to go paddling, but skinny jeans and paddling don't mix, for the simple reason that you can't roll up your trouser legs.

I went paddling anyway.

Within minutes, I had underestimated the size of an incoming wave and soaked the bottom of my jeans. With a two-hour car journey looming ahead of me, I was cross. I had wet trousers, no change of clothes, and only myself to blame.

But then, before I could spend too long dwelling on the frustration of my soggy jeans, my attention was drawn to just how much I was enjoying simply paddling in the ocean. The sand between my toes, the waves washing in and out over my feet. Memories of summer holidays, time with friends and laughter with loved ones.

Despite my wet jeans and the long car journey home, then, I was glad I had gone paddling. And so I realised: I would rather have wet trousers than to have not gone in the sea at all.

There was the answer to my question. The one I had wrestled with for so long. Would I do it again? Yes.

I found in my wet trousers a metaphor for ministry. If you had asked me the cost of paddling, I would tell you only of my wet trousers. But if you asked me whether I would do it again, I would not hesitate: yes. I would do it again.

It is the same with ministry.

Ministry is inconvenient, it is costly, and it is annoying. But such inconveniences will always be outweighed by the joy of simply being there, of paddling in the ocean, of partnering with God in something bigger than myself.

I would rather have the pain, the inconvenience, the difficulties, and the scars of growing up in ministry than to have not been there at all. The joys far outweigh the trials. The laughs exceed the tears. The pleasure is ever greater than the pain. The stories of redemption speak louder than the moments of despair.

It was never about cost, you see. It was always about whether I would choose to do it again. And, rest assured: I would rather have wet trousers than to have not gone in the sea at all.

Nell Goddard is a writer at the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity. Her first book, 'Musings of a Clergy Child: Growing into a faith of my own', published by BRF, is out now. She blogs at www.alianore.co.uk and tweets as @alianoree.