Last time I returned from a respite was due to a devastating automobile collision, thankfully not my fault. It took six weeks to return to this workspace and three months before I returned to work. September 18, 2023 forever changed my life and the way I take it all in.

I return after six weeks of crickets chirping because I am blessed and privilege to retire from 38 years of active parish ministry, serving churches in the Finger Lakes region and the suburbs of Rochester, New York. My new office is the lap pool at the Jewish Community Center, where my muscles are stretched, the mind relaxes, focus returns. It is work, dreading the swim before, thankful and refreshed when completed, smiling and saying “Good morning” to most who I meet. Jewish folk music fills the environs and fills me with thanks for God’s great diversity and hand of providence.

June 16, 2024 was my last Sunday preaching. July 1st was the moment of crossover from reader, writer, preacher, pastor, one arm paper hanger; to the other side of life, my third trimester. I became just plain me. Shed like a molting creature, painful relationships are left behind, freeing me to focus on the people who I choose to keep in my life and an intentional effort to invest in these precious relationships.

Change is hard, I heard this morning. A friend’s death and resulting mourning, unchecked boxes, and inevitable regrets fogged the path forward. Lap counts. Strokes. Breaths. Keep breathing, less the tingling returns between the shoulder blades. My mind is on afterburners. I crack my head on the wall because my attention was ten thousand miles away.

In my experience, change is the delta between past, present, and future. As a classically trained mathematician, delta represents change: change in the area under the curve, ddx dy dx, calculus 101.

The delta between the past and present is fixed. I can’t go back. Time can’t be rolled back like a stained shag carpet. There are no do overs. My choices in the present are defined with prayer. Thank you God, for the opportunities afforded me, the amazing grace shown to me, the limitless love given to me. Praise be to God, who created all there is, all that was, and all that ever will become. I confess my faults to you, O Lord. I’ve made mistakes and I seek your forgiveness. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

My calculus for decision right here, right now is actualizing God’s gift. Seize the day! Time for a nap. Curl up with a good book. Return some emails. Taste and see the beauty of a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich served up by a waitress with a smile. Her name? Remember her name.

The delta between this actual occasion and the promise of the next one is not fixed. I have choices. With the exception of my eventual mortal death, the world is my oyster, God’s gift to me, free to explore and develop according to my interpretation of God’s will. Death is involuntary. Living is voluntary, defined by the God of my experience, the choices I make, the faith I explore, the values of my journey throughout life.

Choices matter. They carve out a canyon of a well lived life.

Experience matters. Who might be interested in my experience? I think to myself while mapping out choices about future revelations. Perhaps to those considering a call by God to serve as a pastor. Others may be interested to take a peek behind the curtains of a pastor’s life. It isn’t as it seems. Nope. You are not even close.

The practice of pastoral ministry is mind-blowing, way more diverse than I anticipated 43 years ago as I went off to seminary, packing a brand new Brother electric typewriter. Value doesn’t come from the height of the steeple, the breadth of the compensation package, or the academic quality of Biblical exegesis preparing for Sunday’s sermon.

Value, I have found, comes from the people. The good. The bad. The ugly. The Spirit of God weaves its way through the living and dying of people that intersect with life. How beautiful my life has been to have been surrounded by saints, martyrs, colleagues, and friends? How wonderous my life has been to have been show the abyss of evil and the depravity of sin? The Spirit’s hand of providence has been steadfast by my side, my strength when my own strength was exhausted, my rudder steering me through the hurricane of life. Words fail.

How diverse? you might ask. Strap in and hold on. I was taught the art of psychiatric assessment, which has served me well. Police chaplaincy. Been there, done that, drank the cold coffee after riding the night shift. Fire and EMS. Someone has to answer the call when a neighbor is in need. Mortality. I can write a book about funerals, families, and who put the the dys in dysfunction. Clergy. I helped make the sausage. I know where the bodies are buried. “And Are We Yet Alive” we sing each year in executive session. There’s a reason for that. Even the feet of a bishop stinks when shoes are removed.

Aging. Alzheimer’s disease. Disabilities, and the theology of disabilities. Addiction. Incarceration. Short term missionary experiences in Central America. Pilgrimages to the land of Jesus, Abraham, and Moses. Yes. I can write a book that brings meaning and adds value to life. Perhaps I will.

If, by God’s grace, I am so able, the sanctity of the confessional will be maintained, victims and perpetrators will be hidden behind masks as seen in Greek theatre, and context will be sufficiently obscure. No motives. No agenda. No regrets. Amends have been paid in full. Anonymity is a beautiful thing. Your secrets I will bear alone to my grave. The pathway to hell, the medieval mystic whispers, is paved with the skulls of priests.