When I was a kid, people retired at 65. Their companies walked them to the door, with some parting gift. And then, so the myth goes, they went golfing.

Except for my maternal grandfather, who kept working on the small farm where he’d lived after immigrating from Sweden when he was eleven. He kept working til he was 88. He died the year after that on the same day his wife died. At 89, both of them. She never retired, either.

My fraternal grandfather never retired, dying of stomach cancer when my dad was six. My grandmother retired at seventy-five, I think. She worked hard and graciously.

My dad kept working til he was 67, with permission from his organization. A few months later, he had a stroke, and then another. After a whole career of talking, he ended up doing more listening after that, which gave him a whole new season of helping. My mom kept working with kids for a while, and then shifted to them taking care of each other.

Seven years ago, some people started thinking that I had retired when I stopped working at the church. I didn’t. It was just time to stop working there. I have had a remarkable portfolio of work since then. Most of it I would do as a volunteer. But I’m not offering that. (And most of the writing I do is in that category, anyway.)

The other day, I listened to Jim Collins talking about Peter Drucker, who wrote three-quarters of his books after 65. As I turn 65 today, that sounds like a good plan. We’ll keep working, keep leaning on each other, keep trying to learn what living and loving God can look like.

Thanks for the encouragement. We’re grateful.

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