If God allows me to keep on living, in just a couple of years, I will hit a pretty cool tipping point; I will have been a pastor longer than I was not a pastor. I became a pastor at 27 years of age. And for all of those first 27 years, I saw Sundays pretty much like everyone else sees them, I suppose. I got to church a minute or two before Sunday School and saw the pastor on the platform when I walked in, dressed to the nines and looking as cool as the other side of the pillow. He was back that night, still smiling, leading the worship and pleasantly bidding everyone goodnight when the service was done.
Honestly, it all looked pretty easy.
And then I became a pastor myself.
I have it good; let me state that right up front. The people in my church love the Lord and love me and love my family and love each other. It is a pleasant atmosphere, one that I look forward to each week. They are the sweetest people on Earth, and anyone would be lucky to pastor them.
But as for Sundays themselves, most people have no clue what that day can be like for a pastor. I know I certainly didn’t. Mind you, I am assuming that I am pretty normal as far as pastors go. If I am somehow an oddity, then so be it.