As of today, after 55 years of ministry, my dad is “officially” retired. These past few months have been an emotional roller coaster for him and those who know him best, and I’m sure that upcoming days and months will be the same.
As much as choosing to retire is a blessing, it is also a great unknown that greets those in the helping professions with the challenge of learning to take care of themselves and their families first and foremost. It is a sudden void that that challenges persons who have built their lives upon helping others truly to know and believe that who they are is not the work that they do but the being that the Creator created them to be. It is joy mixed with sorrow. It is celebration mixed with grief. It is letting go and holding on. It is two steps forward and one step back until a new cadence settles in.
After a week of cleaning out my dad’s office—of figuring out what to take and what to leave—of throwing away and packing up—of laughing and crying—my dad, mom, and I spent the evening eating, laughing, and playing cards with our boys. Having just moved themselves, the boys, too, were tired, so it was nice to sit around the dining room table and be a family together—to take a break from packing and unpacking and trying to adjust to a new life and space and to just exist in that space. Being with those boys—the oldest of whom is turning 14 tomorrow—was exactly what my dad needed on this official retirement day. It was exactly what we all needed, truth be told.
In the Book of Common Prayer, there is a prayer entitled “For those we Love.” For my dad whom I love and will continue to love on his roller coaster of retirement. And my mom who patiently walks with him. For my boys and girl who have my heart. For the rest of my family, far and near. For friends and coworkers, for church members and colleagues. For those whom I love but who no longer love me back. I pray this prayer tonight:
Almighty God, I entrust all who are dear to me to your never-failing care and love, for this life and the life to come, knowing that You are doing for them better things that I can desire or pray for; through Jesus Christ my Lord. Amen.
And amen.
Showing posts with label retirement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label retirement. Show all posts
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Monday, March 21, 2016
I Believe In You, Dad
Tonight was my dad’s last annual meeting as Director of Missions of the Little River Baptist Association. I was nervous for my dad all day.
For those of you who don’t know my dad, you need to know that he can be a funny man. He’s one of those people who can hear a joke or story, remember it, and then sense when it is appropriate to share it. He is a wonderful speaker. He doesn’t write sermon manuscripts. He reads, studies, prays, jots notes on scratch pads or the back of junk mail, discerns where the Spirit is leading him, and then speaks. He connects with his audience. He makes people laugh. He makes people cry. And he’s very natural in his speaking…
Unless he’s nervous.
When he’s nervous, or when he feels like he needs to give an “official” speech, my dad sometimes tries to be too formal. He practices his words or writes out full paragraphs and tries to stay on topic and therefore changes his speech pattern. He tries to sound important. He’s more serious than he usually is. And he forgets to cry.
My dad is a crier. There are many mornings when I find him in tears at the breakfast table because he is deeply moved by his morning devotion. God’s presence is just so real in my dad’s life that it comes out of his eyes. So for my dad to speak without crying is just not normal.
As I was leaving for work this morning, I told my dad that I’d be thinking about him today and encouraged him not to think too much about what he was going to say tonight. I challenged him to be himself, to speak from his heart, and not try to sound too fancy, and I reminded him that it wasn’t going to be the last time he ever spoke to a church in the association. He mumbled something in his morning grogginess, I patted him on the back, we said our daily “I love you’s,” and then I said, “I believe in you, Dad,” and went to my car.
In typical Deanna-morning-fashion, I quickly realized that I’d left my breakfast in the microwave and promptly returned to the house to get it. Before leaving again, I heard Dad say, through tears in his eyes, “Well, Dee. I believe in you, too.”
I’m pretty sure that my dad didn’t know what to say when I told him that I believed in him.
But I do.
And tonight as he spoke to the association as Director of Missions for the last time—thankfully fully himself: tangents, tears and all—I kept right on believing on him.
And I will keep believing in him tomorrow and the next day and the next and the next.
And I think maybe I should tell him more often.
In fact, I think maybe we should tell everyone more often: “I believe in you.”
Because God believes in us.
And God desires to be so present in our lives that God’s love flows out of our hearts and our eyes.
Like my dad,
Who “loves baby Jesus,” and
In whom I believe.
For those of you who don’t know my dad, you need to know that he can be a funny man. He’s one of those people who can hear a joke or story, remember it, and then sense when it is appropriate to share it. He is a wonderful speaker. He doesn’t write sermon manuscripts. He reads, studies, prays, jots notes on scratch pads or the back of junk mail, discerns where the Spirit is leading him, and then speaks. He connects with his audience. He makes people laugh. He makes people cry. And he’s very natural in his speaking…
Unless he’s nervous.
When he’s nervous, or when he feels like he needs to give an “official” speech, my dad sometimes tries to be too formal. He practices his words or writes out full paragraphs and tries to stay on topic and therefore changes his speech pattern. He tries to sound important. He’s more serious than he usually is. And he forgets to cry.
My dad is a crier. There are many mornings when I find him in tears at the breakfast table because he is deeply moved by his morning devotion. God’s presence is just so real in my dad’s life that it comes out of his eyes. So for my dad to speak without crying is just not normal.
As I was leaving for work this morning, I told my dad that I’d be thinking about him today and encouraged him not to think too much about what he was going to say tonight. I challenged him to be himself, to speak from his heart, and not try to sound too fancy, and I reminded him that it wasn’t going to be the last time he ever spoke to a church in the association. He mumbled something in his morning grogginess, I patted him on the back, we said our daily “I love you’s,” and then I said, “I believe in you, Dad,” and went to my car.
In typical Deanna-morning-fashion, I quickly realized that I’d left my breakfast in the microwave and promptly returned to the house to get it. Before leaving again, I heard Dad say, through tears in his eyes, “Well, Dee. I believe in you, too.”
I’m pretty sure that my dad didn’t know what to say when I told him that I believed in him.
But I do.
And tonight as he spoke to the association as Director of Missions for the last time—thankfully fully himself: tangents, tears and all—I kept right on believing on him.
And I will keep believing in him tomorrow and the next day and the next and the next.
And I think maybe I should tell him more often.
In fact, I think maybe we should tell everyone more often: “I believe in you.”
Because God believes in us.
And God desires to be so present in our lives that God’s love flows out of our hearts and our eyes.
Like my dad,
Who “loves baby Jesus,” and
In whom I believe.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Retirement: A Labor Day's Reflection
I told my parents yesterday that I wished I could retire. They looked at me and laughed.
I’ve made the statement many times before—the one about wanting to retire. I said it when I was teaching. I said it when working on church staff. I said it when I was in divinity school. I say it now.
Yet I know it’s not what I really wish.
The idea of retirement is nice because it comes with endless possibilities in my mind. It comes with funding and benefits that would free me to go and do many different things—almost all of which include an element of serving and giving back to both this world and the God who created it. It comes with ability to create my own volunteer schedule and to have my own dress code. It comes with the opportunity to rest. And I so longingly desire to rest.
But when it comes down to it, I’m thankful for the ability to work. I’m thankful for the structure and schedule—for opportunities to look beyond the comfort of self and focus on the needs around me. I’m thankful for community and opportunities to make applesauce for or deliver coffee to my coworkers. I’m thankful for diversity and the way gifts and talents work. I’m thankful for routines and planning and the sense of accomplishment that comes when marking things off of the list. I’m thankful for vision and purpose and for all of the tools that I need to complete my work. I’m thankful for a desk and a computer and an office with a window and bookshelves. And I’m thankful for a paycheck that I earn that allows me to live within my means and still have some to give back. I’m thankful for the dignity and worth that comes through holding a job and keeping it. And I’m thankful that God has called me to play a tune outside myself.
As I write this post, I’m getting ready to load my car and head back to South Carolina. I’ve been in North Carolina for the weekend—spending time with friends and family members—and I have been content to be surrounded by joy and love. In times like these, driving back to SC for work is hard. Thoughts of being retired seem so much nicer than thoughts of going into the office tomorrow. Yet…I know that my office is where I am called, so I will drive back with a sense of purpose…albeit it clouded with sadness tonight.
I suppose this is how life is. A mixture of wish and reality; of longing and acceptance; of joy and sorrow; and everything in between. I’m coming to accept this reality and learn to live with and through it…even when my parents laugh at me because my distant wishing is a bit silly.
I’ve made the statement many times before—the one about wanting to retire. I said it when I was teaching. I said it when working on church staff. I said it when I was in divinity school. I say it now.
Yet I know it’s not what I really wish.
The idea of retirement is nice because it comes with endless possibilities in my mind. It comes with funding and benefits that would free me to go and do many different things—almost all of which include an element of serving and giving back to both this world and the God who created it. It comes with ability to create my own volunteer schedule and to have my own dress code. It comes with the opportunity to rest. And I so longingly desire to rest.
But when it comes down to it, I’m thankful for the ability to work. I’m thankful for the structure and schedule—for opportunities to look beyond the comfort of self and focus on the needs around me. I’m thankful for community and opportunities to make applesauce for or deliver coffee to my coworkers. I’m thankful for diversity and the way gifts and talents work. I’m thankful for routines and planning and the sense of accomplishment that comes when marking things off of the list. I’m thankful for vision and purpose and for all of the tools that I need to complete my work. I’m thankful for a desk and a computer and an office with a window and bookshelves. And I’m thankful for a paycheck that I earn that allows me to live within my means and still have some to give back. I’m thankful for the dignity and worth that comes through holding a job and keeping it. And I’m thankful that God has called me to play a tune outside myself.
As I write this post, I’m getting ready to load my car and head back to South Carolina. I’ve been in North Carolina for the weekend—spending time with friends and family members—and I have been content to be surrounded by joy and love. In times like these, driving back to SC for work is hard. Thoughts of being retired seem so much nicer than thoughts of going into the office tomorrow. Yet…I know that my office is where I am called, so I will drive back with a sense of purpose…albeit it clouded with sadness tonight.
I suppose this is how life is. A mixture of wish and reality; of longing and acceptance; of joy and sorrow; and everything in between. I’m coming to accept this reality and learn to live with and through it…even when my parents laugh at me because my distant wishing is a bit silly.
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