When the Calendar Lies

by Pastor Jane Jebsen

Last Monday I looked at my calendar and thought, “Whoo-hoo! A week far less crazy than the two before it.” I pictured quiet office time, projects completed, and a to-do list finally shrinking.

Then on Tuesday afternoon my phone rang.

One of my staff had just learned that one of their children was in the hospital — on a respirator — after a drug overdose. Could I come stay with their other child while they rushed to the hospital?

My answer was immediate: “Of course.”

And just like that, the week changed.

The empty spaces on my calendar filled with hospital updates, long conversations, prayer, and walking alongside dear friends through fear and uncertainty. As our faith community became aware, the questions and well-meaning concern began flowing in. People wanted to help. They wanted information. They wanted reassurance. And they wanted to surround this family with love.

And they did.

But even as others stepped in — bringing meals, offering care, holding vigil — there are parts of this role that no one else can carry.

My heart has felt divided ever since that call. Divided between heartbreak for this young person and their family, and the steady, necessary work of making sure worship happened, the Lent service was prepared, staff were supported, and the hundred other things that quietly must get done.

This is the part of faith leadership few people see.

The tears shed in the car before walking into the office.
The sermon written late at night when the house is quiet.
The smile in the narthex while your heart is somewhere else entirely.
The steady presence offered to others while your own spirit feels frayed.

It is holy work.
And it is costly work.

We cannot give what we do not have.

So how do we remain faithful and healthy at the same time?

Sometimes it begins with honest questions:

• Can someone else do this — or do it with me?

• Does this need to happen right now, or is it simply the way we’ve always done it?

• What does my soul need at this moment?

Sometimes faithfulness means restructuring expectations.
Sometimes it means allowing others to carry what they are capable of carrying.
Sometimes it means admitting that we, too, are affected.

Today I am aware that I am grumpy. But beneath that grumpiness is grief. To pretend last week did not affect me would not be honesty. And it would not be faithfulness either.

Even Jesus said to his disciples, “Come away… and rest a while.”

After I finish the couple of things I have promised today, I will step away. I may go for a drive. I may fold laundry. I might read a book that has nothing to do with church. I might sit with friends and talk about something entirely ordinary.

In the moment, I will ask: “What does my soul need?”
And then, I will do that.

Because you are needed — yes.
You are wanted — yes.
But you are also human.

If you are carrying more than anyone sees, I hope you will make sure you are okay, too. 

No one else can tend your soul for you.

And tending your soul is not a betrayal of your calling.
It is part of it.