When Hurricane Helene hit Asheville, North Carolina it took almost 36 hours to hear from my sister and more than 48 hours to receive word on my parents. I don’t live in that part of the country, so there was nothing I could do other than wait and pray. Those long hours of unknowing grew steadily with low-grade anxiety.  Waiting, I tried to calm myself by speculating that I would have heard if they had been evacuated or rescued. They were probably just fine and were stuck in the house with no power, no cell service. I imagined that Dad wouldn’t want the ice cream to go to waste, so he was probably making milkshakes for neighbors before it all melted. This was, in fact, exactly what happened.

Weathering the storm wasn’t the hard part, it was learning to live through the slow disaster recovery after the storm. When they were finally able to venture outside the neighborhood the only way to purchase vital fuel, food, or services was with cash. Credit cards doubled as mud scrapers. Apple Wallet, Google Pay, Venmo, PayPal, Cash App were all useless because they needed electricity and an internet connection. Personal checks were about as helpful as promises you don’t intend to keep. In the immediate aftermath of disaster it was fundamentally cold, hard cash or nothing.

What is the equivalent of cash when it comes to ministry?  I’m not necessarily talking about stewardship, budgets or the financial side of ministry (though they might be your forte), but what are the fundamentals you know you can rely on?  When all other processes fail, what do you have that you know will always be accepted? Is it the relationships of trust you have built? Is it your listening ear honed by years of pastoral caregiving? Is it pouring a cup of cold water or extending table hospitality?

I write this before the November elections, so I don’t know if the country has fallen to pieces or not by the time you read this. I’m sure there are people in your community that feel like it has. Ministry is rife with crises. Sometimes they are small (think lightbulbs, toilets, and boilers), and sometimes they rise to the level of disasters. And sometimes we don’t know when the small ones are disasters-in-waiting.

Hospital visits (and CPE) taught me to be ready for anything when I reach for the hospital room doorknob. I’ve had a church member I expected to see on their deathbed cheerily inform me they being discharged home. Another I was told was just dehydrated, but I walked in just in time to hold their hand as they took their final breaths. As ministers we learn enter the space with a non-anxious presence. There is often nothing we can do to fix the situation, yet we serve as willing vessels for the presence of divine love.  We contain that love and dispense that love.

Your hand is on the doorknob today. You are ready for what you will find, because whatever is on the other side of that door, God isn’t anxious about it. If you’re not sure what to do next, fall back on the fundamentals of grace and love. You might just find yourself making ministry milkshakes before the ice cream all melts, sharing it with neighbors, and realizing the goal was never to keep the ice cream frozen.

What have I to dread,
what have I to fear,
leaning on the everlasting arms?
I have blessed peace
with my Lord so near,
leaning on the everlasting arms.
Leaning (on Jesus), leaning (on Jesus),
Safe and secure from all alarms;
Leaning (on Jesus), leaning (on Jesus),
Leaning on the everlasting arms.