I received a surprise call a few weeks ago on a Monday afternoon from a friend. While I was in my office, I wasn't particularly busy as Mondays normally function as my only real day off. I try to let my mind rest, sort out what happened the previous week and prioritize for the upcoming week.

Pastoring means Saturday is a day of preparation and of course Sunday in the minds of many is the “only day preachers work anyway.” However, immediately after the normal pleasantries, came the question. Not just any question, but the one that sends up the pastoral antennae.

"Pastor, are you very busy?"

Asking that question to a pastor is like asking President Obama to produce his long form original birth certificate. That is, you would get the same response in about the same amount of time.

“No, why?”

Seriously, understand that when a minister who has any salt about him hears those five words, or variations of such; the house could be on fire, his wife could be in labor, and his favorite football team about to win the big game in overtime – all at the exact same time, but he is going to say, “No brother, why?” The words come out without any effort at all, as if conditioned. While his mind shifts into another gear and tries to summon heightened senses and supernatural powers of deduction, a good pastor starts praying for wisdom and understanding to handle what may come next and grace for whomever is on the other end of the phone.

All of this takes place before there is time for anything else to happen. The question. That same question has already been uttered millions of times in the past and is most likely being posed somewhere around the globe at this very moment. That simple question which could mean any number of things of varying degrees of importance is almost always followed by another question.

"May I come by and talk with you?"

Closing his Bible, logging off the computer, and alerting his wife or secretary of visitors, his reply gives assurance with one lone word, “Sure!” or “Absolutely!”

Such was the case when my friend phoned me. He arrived less than five minutes later with a friend of his that we'll call John. A 44 year-old-heroin addict, John slunk from the car, greeted my oldest daughter, commented on her Pocahontas getup, asked if he could smoke a cigarette, and began to tell me of his descent to the bottom of the well.

He unloaded it all. Rejection at the hand of his teenage son. Park benches. Sleepless nights spent strapped to the bed of a psychiatric hospital while being forced to defecate on himself. He shamefully shared it all and openly longed to be made free from such horrible situations as well as actions that caused them.

My friend and I passed the afternoon listening to John, comforting him, and being thankful that our lives weren't in similar straits. We left off the piety and judgment concentrating on what we could do to help. He has been hurt enough. When John left that day, he took with him a few groceries, a Bible, and an invitation to our services.

I went back to my office and waited for the next call.

"Pastor, are you real busy?"

Yours for Portugal,

Bro. Michael Andrzejewski

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