I stopped for another traffic light. Dear God, I don’t have time for this. It’s almost Christmas and I’m not ready. I’m so tired and my head hurts. Please, I need help.
A few minutes later, I rounded the corner and parked in the driveway near the back door of my parsonage. On the way through the kitchen, I grabbed a cup of day-old coffee, popped it in the microwave, then made a quick trip to the bathroom. Coffee out, coffee in. Thank God for coffee.
Mug in hand, I walked through the den, unlocked the door separating my home from the church building and let myself into the stairwell. Heading straight to the secretary’s office, I plopped into the chair in front of the IBM 386 desktop computer. Dear God, help me focus. I’ve got three bulletins to prepare before I can finish the sermons. The phone rang.
“What time are services on Christmas Eve?”
“The family service is at seven and includes the children’s pageant. The communion service is at eleven.”
After the caller hung up, I pulled out my bulletin notes. I had just finished typing the responsive prayer when the phone rang again.
“Are you having services on Christmas? My family is in town and my mother-in-law thinks we attend church, so we have to take her.”
“The family service is at seven. Communion is at…”
The caller hung up. I not-very-gently replaced the receiver and started typing again.
“Pastor Laura.”
I turned toward the voice.
“I’ve finished setting out the poinsettias, and put the large arrangement from yesterday’s funeral on the mantel under the cross. I heard the family liked the eulogy. Oh, can you tell the secretary to include a note in the bulletin about the unclaimed serving dishes from the luncheon?
“Okay, I’ll include it.”
“Where’s the secretary?”
“She quit last week. She’s eight months along and having some complications. Her doctor wants her to stay home.”
“Who’s filling in for her?”
“Me. Everyone else is busy. Christmas is two days away.”
The phone rang again. When I reached for the receiver, my parishioner waved, then headed for the door.
“What time are the Christmas services?” the caller asked.
“Seven and eleven.”
“Thanks.”
I took a sip of coffee. Ice cold, but caffeinated. My usual. I closed my eyes. Dear God, I’m running out of time. I’ve still got sermons to finish and all I feel is exhausted. When do I get to celebrate Christmas?
Over the whirring sound of the copy machine, I heard the doorbell. Moving to the window, I leaned in to see a man on the steps below. Not familiar. A bit scruffy. Probably wants food from the pantry. That pantry! People come at all hours for food. The last requester woke me up at 2 am because he needed coffee filters and a can of tuna. I don’t have time to babysit this new guy while he selects his groceries. I’ve got to get ready for everyone else’s Christmas celebration. The bell rang again. Swallowing the rest of my rant, I headed for the entryway. An older man stood outside, smiling.
I opened the door. A refreshing breeze filled the entryway.
“Are you the pastor? I need a place to stay.”
“Isn’t it a bit early to be asking for shelter? It’s only 4 o’clock.” I regretted my tone as soon as it left my mouth.
“I’m old. I retire early. And it’s cold. Can I stay here tonight?”
“Fine, but you’ll have to entertain yourself. I’ve got lots of work to do.”
“You look tired. I won’t be a bother. I just want to get warm.”
I escorted him to a small room behind the altar, then pulled bedding out of a cabinet.
He placed his small bag on the couch. “Thanks. I really appreciate this. Don’t worry. I won’t make a mess or cause a problem.”
“This converts to a bed. It’s pretty comfortable. I slept on it when the furnace in the parsonage broke last year. If you need the bathroom, it’s at the bottom of the stairs.”
“I saw a piano in the first room we passed. May I play it?”
“Do you know how?” My grumpy tone hadn’t disappeared.
“Yes. I know how to play.”
“Then go ahead. I really have to get back to work.”
We walked down the hall together. When I turned in at the office, he continued to the choir room.
My head hurt. One more bulletin to type, two to copy, and three to fold. I hit the record button on the answering machine and changed the outgoing message to include the times for the Christmas Eve services.
Suddenly, the room filled with music. Bach. Jesu Joy Of Man’s Desiring. I took a deep breath, then exhaled, smiling. I tiptoed down the hall and peered into the choir room. My visitor sat at the old upright, hands flowing over the keys, playing from memory.
“You play beautifully.”
He smiled. “Thank you. I rarely get to play in winter.”
“You play more in summer?”
“I play in the Catskills from May to September.”
“What do you do after that?”
“Wander. Visit. Go where I’m needed. I don’t like to be too settled.”
“Well, you can play as much as you’d like today. Your music is heavenly.”
I headed back to the office and got to work. For three blissful hours, I typed, copied, folded and wrote as Christmas carols, Gershwin, Beethoven, show tunes and hymns filled the air. Bulletins done, the Christmas Eve sermon almost finished, and the Sunday sermon outlined, I headed for the choir room. I leaned against the door jamb to listen to the last verse of “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
“I have leftovers from yesterday’s funeral in my fridge. Want to help me eat them?”
He grinned. “I’d be delighted.”
I invited him into the parsonage and together we raided the kitchen. For the first time in days, I felt my shoulders relax as we laughed and chatted our way through our impromptu feast. Then he headed back into the church building to get a good night’s sleep.
After he left, I settled into my recliner to finish the Christmas Eve sermon. Before putting pen to paper, I grabbed my Bible and reread Luke’s account of the birth of Jesus. According to the story, Joseph, with Mary, nine months pregnant, made a grueling 90-mile journey to Bethlehem by foot and donkey. An overworked innkeeper, deluged with travelers seeking shelter, saw their plight and made room for them in his barn. And weary shepherds, watching over their flocks 24/7, found their way to the manger to see the child about whom the angels sang. On that first Christmas, all of them were exhausted. Yet, despite their burdens, joy still found them. Just like on this day, through the music of the angel God sent to answer my weary prayers, joy found me.
In the morning, I headed into the church with fresh coffee for my guest, but he’d already gone. I wasn’t surprised. So close to Christmas, there were likely many more weary folks who needed him.
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