A WEEK IN THE LIFE: WEDNESDAY

Author’s note: I’ve wanted to do this for some time now, to tell the story of a life in the week of a pastor. I’m not doing so to toot my own horn or to say, “Gee, look at how hard I work.” I’m doing this because a lot of you probably don’t know what a pastor’s life is like, and who knows? Maybe you’re even interested.

(Submitted for today’s BELTWAY TRAFFIC JAM.)

Wednesday began at 7:42 Tuesday night, less than 10 minutes after my wife and I got home from a quick trip to Iowa for my grandmother’s 80th birthday. My church-council president called then, letting me know that one of our council members had experienced some complications during heart surgery.

Normally you’d hear those fragments–”church person, heart surgery”–and picture some crusty old elder whose prospects for survival were pretty dicey anyway. But in this case, it’s a woman only a couple years older than me (I’m in my early thirties) with a husband and a fifth-grader at home. Unexpected complications, to say the least. So I quickly made plans to rearrange my schedule so I could get down to the hospital to see her this morning.

My wife is up and out the door by 6:30 most mornings, so we usually don’t even see each other. This morning was no exception; I woke up at 7:20 to find myself in the house, alone. I drank my four-cup pot of coffee while I was reading blogs and newspapers, then got dressed and left the house about 5 after 9.

Normally on Wednesday I don’t leave the house until 10 or so–I always have church activities on Wednesday night, so I know I’ll be there until 7 or 8. But I had an inkling going in that this was not going to be an ordinary Wednesday.

My suspicions were confirmed when I got to the office. I had a message from our church insurance agent wanting to reschedule a meeting, and a message from the local funeral home asking if I would do a service for a woman who used to be a member of my church. I returned both calls, speaking to a machine in both cases.

After I hammered out some administrative details with my secretary, I was off to Milwaukee. The trip down was uneventful–no traffic, only moderately interesting talk radio, cold coffee, etc., etc. I had never been to this particular hospital before. It’s a small, specialized place set in the center of a grim-looking industrial area on the north side of town. The staff was helpful, directing me to my parishioner and her husband.

All of this was obviously taking its toll on him. He looked like a guy who needed a week of sleep. We talked for a little bit, and he told me that her heart just didn’t start functioning properly afterr the surgery. They were going to wean her off the heart-lung machine slowly throughout the day, but there were no guarantees about what would happen when they did. We walked into her room and I could not believe it–somebody who had been vibrant and alive on Sunday, now looking as though she was barely ahnging on. (Out of respect for her privacy I’ll leave it at that–you don’t need to know the details.) I prayed silently, exhorting God that he couldn’t just leave her like this. I went back to the waiting room where her husband was, we talked a few more minutes, and then I had to be on my way.

No, I wasn’t being callous, nor was I trying to excuse myself from a difficult situation–I had another hospital call to make, in a town 70 miles away. I also needed to stop by home to do a little paperwork. I looked at the clock when I got in the car and saw that it was already pushing 1 pm–and I had confirmation class at 5. That’s when my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Hello, drive-thru.

After a momentary pit stop at home, where I had to mess around with Paint Shop Pro to get a graphic right for a mailing we’re sending out this week, it was off to the hospital to visit a parishioner who fell Sunday afternoon and broke her hip. Amazingly, she was in good spirits and sitting upright when I got there. She’s due to be released tomorrow; she and her husband will be in assisted-living for a few weeks while she recuperates fully–and I have no doubts she will recuperate fully. I’ve come to learn that attitude is 90% of rehabilitating from a serious injury.

I got back to the office about 3:45, just in time to get ready for class and the worship service that follows. Of course, when I got there, the two people I tried to call this morning had called back.

At ten to five, the son of the woman whose funeral I’m doing called to see if all the arrangements had been handled and if there was anything else I needed. I appreciated the contact; he knew I didn’t know his mother at all. It’s a little weird doing funerals for people you’ve never met, but I’ve gotten used to it. (It’s amazing what you can adapt to when you have no choice.)

Tonight I let a magnetic field teach class for me. There’s no way I could have given a coherent lesson with all that had happened to me today. Besides, I had to get the mailing copied off, because there was a rumor of a possibility that the people who had agreed to stuff the envelopes might actually be showing up tonight.

I had a rare privilege–five minutes in between confirmation class and the start of worship. Usually I don’t get any time between the two. I wandered down to the church kitchen to get a glass of water. A parishioner asked me if I’d heard anything about our council member. I mentioned what I knew–that things were not great but she was showing some signs of improvement. The parishioner told me she’d just spoken to somebody who’d spoken to the council member’s husband at 4:30 and things still weren’t going exactly as planned.

I felt trapped. I can’t believe how often people think I can be in four or five different places at once, doing nine or ten different things. I couldn’t be leading confirmation, working in the office, and at the hospital all at once. But it happens all the time–people seem to think that I somehow know things nobody could have possibly told me. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, however–worship was starting.

I preached a pretty good sermon about God’s grace and how it’s shown in the calling of Isaiah, Paul, and the first disciples. Our Wednesday night crowd loves Biblical theology, and I seldom disappoint them. After service, another parishioner tells me about a couple health crises in his family. I make a note to call him when things settle down, if they ever do.

On the way home I stopped to get some groceries. I was zombie-like in the store, having to look at things three and four times to make sure they were what I needed. I couldn’t make up my mind if I needed condensed or evaporated milk, so I just got both. (Yes, I usually take a list. Today was unusual in a lot of ways, I guess.)

And now I’m here, knowing that I’m going back to Milwaukee first thing in the morning. There are weeks I can control the flow of events, and there are weeks when I’m just surfing in a hurricane.

This is looking like it’ll be one of the latter.