It's Sunday, about three in the afternoon. The whole house sleeps, but my the week was some kind of crazy. My husband, a preacher, burnt the midnight oil, and the candle at both ends, as they say. The price of writing a sermon is unbelievable. We feel the weight of it in every unwashed dish that accumulates and every evening walk that's just me and the girls. The light is on in his office before and after work, books piled high, French Press on empty, for days on end. Then there's that pensive look, the half-hearted smile, pleading "is it done yet?" Not yet Sweetheart.
He doesn't preach often; we dread it when he does. It always goes exactly the same way. He preaches his sermon, first in Ukrainian, then in English. He explains the text and why it matters. He presents the gospel clearly. Then we go home, say a few "I'm sorries", and sleep, simple as that. And life is normal again for a couple months.
Why do I share this snapshot of our lives? Only because it's just that. I don't have any profound lessons learned or advice to any ministry families. We don't even have a long list of people coming to faith. That's what life in Christ is yeah? Just do what we're called to do, that's it. Insert dramatic shrug, and pass the batton.
