A fictional account based on 20 years of actual ministry experience.
Monday:
Thank you, Father, for Sabbath day. I sure needed it after yesterday. Why is it that Sunday takes more out of me than any other day?
Thank you for that nap today. It still didn’t feel like enough sleep. I know Monday is supposed to be my day to leave the church in your hands and enjoy your presence. It’s so hard to stop feeling responsible. And Mondays can be lonely—everyone else is at work. Help me to love your presence more than Facebook and Netflix.
Thank you for that moment, as I watched dust motes in the sunlight. In my flash of guilt for being unproductive, I sensed you say, “Yes, and I delight in your existence, even when you’re accomplishing nothing.” Help me believe that was from you.
Wednesday:
I know I must have prayed yesterday. Trying not to feel bad for not taking the time to write here, though. By the end of the day, there was plenty to say but no words. Today I’m able to think more clearly. (Thank-you, Lord, for sleep.)
Thank you for my staff. Tuesday’s meetings were a good reminder of how many wonderful people you have provided for the work here. I’m not sure I spoke well to Eric, though. He’s so gifted but gets easily overwhelmed. I want to help him grow, but when is it time to protect others from his emotional wake? I took most of the day on Tuesday mopping up the messes he’d made, all the time aware of my own work that wasn’t getting done and resenting how much work I have to do after the mess because Eric doesn’t do the hard work beforehand. In addition to the emails I had to carefully word both to him and to those who had been hurt by him and the extra meetings I’ll have to squeeze into my week to smooth things over, there’s the emotional energy drain of it all.
I feel like a cartoon character who swallows a bomb and all you see of it is a little smoke escaping from his ears. The anxiety and the drama have to stop with me. I’d love to take it out on someone, but that just does more damage, so instead, too much of my prayer time is spent figuring out where to forgive, where to challenge, and where I need to say, “No more.” Help me know how to speak truth in love.
I didn’t sleep well Tuesday night since Eric was still on my mind so Wednesday morning I let myself sleep a little longer. I tried not to stress about it even though Wednesday is sermon-writing time. As I lay in bed, I flipped to this week’s Bible passage and had my usual guilt: “Is it okay to let my personal Bible reading for today also be the reading I do for Sunday’s sermon? Is it okay if I’m learning about how to live this passage alongside my congregation?”
Before opening up my sermon notes, I quickly checked email. I wish I hadn’t. There was another email from Rachel with the subject: “More drama – please pray.” Father, you know we had such high hopes when we sent Rachel and Rick out to plant the new church. We felt you moving; where did you go? We’ve been praying for team relationships to be mended so your work in the neighborhood can grow. Did we send them out too soon? Did we mishear you? If your work depends on broken humans, how can your work ever happen? When is it time to say that we tried everything? It feels like we have.
Why do we think that healthy relationships are the default and that unhealthy relationships are the anomaly? I seem to spend so much energy keeping peace so that we can reflect the unity of the church. It’s like house maintenance—no one says, “Wow, your roof isn’t leaking and there’s no trash piling up.” We only notice things when they’re not done. But it takes so much energy doing them.
Father, help me get this sermon done. I know that it always comes together somehow, even if I’m still shaking when I stand to preach. But every week I feel the question hovering over me: “Will this be the week when I have nothing to say?” After responding to Rachel and writing to the elders about her concerns, I tried to get back to sermon writing. This week’s passage from Psalm 34 begins with “I will always thank the Lord; I will never stop praising him.” Father, you know that I feel that way sometimes but today was not one of those days. I’m not feeling thankful that after calling us to plant this church, you seem to have left us out on a limb.
Father, please heal little Emma. I’m sorry that I got so angry that the call came from her school right when I was trying to get back to the sermon. What kind of parent am I? My first thought wasn’t “I hope she’s okay!” but “I don’t have time for this!” Thank you for the sweet moments, tucking her into bed. I sensed you saying, “The way you feel for her is only a tiny glimpse of my love for you.” Let it be true.
Thursday:
Thank you for a new day, for a good night’s sleep, that Emma is feeling better.
Please heal Arthur. It was so hard to see him in the hospital today. I don’t know where his physical health issues end and his mental health issues begin. I don’t know how to pray for him. Is it ridiculous to ask for healing? Or are you daring me to ask you?
Help me get this sermon done. Give me time tomorrow to catch up on my emails.
Friday:
It’s on my desk every Friday, turned face down so no one else can see the report of this week’s giving. I try not to get anxious at the sight of it but it’s harder than usual at the moment since giving has been down. When is it time to say something to the congregation and when it is time to just trust God to provide? Father, this is your church. If you want us here, provide what we need to do your work. Help us to be good stewards of what you have provided.
It felt like a poor use of my time but I’m so glad now that I put down the report and went for that walk. I felt so helpless—I don’t know how to respond to the financial issues, how to have hope about the church plant, how to know if it’s okay for Christians to fire people, how to write this sermon, how to hope for Arthur, how to be a good parent. The word “helpless” was all I could hear. Thank you, Father for reminding me of this line from Psalm 34: “The helpless call to him, and he answers.”
Forgive me for praying about my sermon from the perspective of my performance. Father, you know the heart of each person who will be there on Sunday. Let Psalm 34 restore and encourage them, as it has me. In every way that they feel helpless, as I have this week, may they know they can call to you.
Saturday:
Thank you for time to spend with my family today, even if we were running between soccer and gymnastics. Please forgive me for the way I handled Rob when he called in the middle of dinner. I’m not good at establishing healthy boundaries and it makes it even harder when people aren’t good at respecting them. Help me to be kind when he threatens to leave the church. Help me not to think about his leaving from the perspective of how it will affect our budget.
Sunday:
Thank you for a wonderful day. Thank you for the prayers of faithful people. Thank you for the doxology and for tears in the eyes of old ladies and for small children who hand me drawings from Sunday school. May it all come together to reveal your presence, both to us and to the world around us.
Help me remember the names of that new couple.
And help me not to remember his comment: “What’s it like to only work Sundays?”
