Monday has been my off day for years, ever since I started working in a church, with the long exception of having to be on-call at Sweet Holy Spirit for administrative matters. Back then, it wasn't strange to get a minutes long call from our accountant or from a co-worker that changed the direction of the week. Those Mondays are distant, though I hardly forget them.
Usually by Monday, since Sunday is traditionally a longer work day for pastors, I've lived through the equivalent of a work week with the compressed emotions of half a second one. There has been the previous week itself. It will bring with it conversations that stop me, meetings that unsettle me, group chats where someone is inevitably struggling with faith, offered counsel that helps or hurts people, conflicts left open for too long. There are projections about the future of the church, potential partnerships or courses of action. Quiet is seldom found without effort. There is the loneliness that feels like a heavy blanket in summer. There is the balancing of my own soul.
By Monday, my sleep has been disturbed for a few days in a row, dealing both with the expectation of Sunday and all that it brings and the throbbing exhaustion that comes afterward. Sleep will catch up to me by the next day usually, but when Monday comes, I'm somewhere in the middle of looking at the day for the deep breath it will bring and planning for the week, even though I'm trying not to plan. The busy tapping of my phone tells me that there is an email or a text. I check it, only to see if it's from someone whose text I actually read on Mondays, a tiny list of loved ones whose requests are of a slightly different order.
On Mondays I do much less. Sometimes I fall into the mode ...