Running on Empty

She was tucked under the covers of her bed, reading her evening devotions. The strikingly confident woman who led worship this morning now looked a bit more vulnerable in her night-gown, her morning vibrancy mellowed down to a sleepy yet feminine lump wrapped in bedclothes. I liked her even more for that. Her pastor husband absolutely insisted that I traipsed up their tile stairs and visited with her before our noisy group departed. It was after 11 p.m.
Like two old girlfriends, our chap developed easily into sharing the struggles of being a pastor´s wife, a worship leader, a mother, a fixer-upper of the world´s broken toys, and assistant manager and janitoress of the home-front. Even the most enthusiastic of souls become weary under their many hats, and long for a greenhouse to retreat into.
It is my hope and pleasure to perhaps offer cool water to the weary. A veritable bowl of fresh fruit to the battle-worn and the touch of understanding that penetrates to the core can go a long way on this road we call ¨being in the ministry¨. Other Samaritans have met my needs over the years, and I remember their deeds fondly. Recieving a gift basket, a bouquet of fresh flowers, a thoughtful note, or just a phone call from a reassuring voice are all soul-fresheners along the dusty road.

We stopped at a service station in the mountains of Andalusia, and I flipped through my handy Spanish phrase book for the term, ¨fill 'er up.¨

¨Llene el depósito.¨

In any language, it can be a prayer we could make good use of.