I went for a long walk. Not because of needing to cool off from an angry moment, or needing to get somewhere because the car broke.

I walked just to get a long walk. As I was getting near the end, I moved from the paved trail to cut across the campus. I realized that, apart from mowing, I haven’t walked on the grass for a long time.

I spend enough time being aware of individual differences to not want to argue that we should all go outside. I’m aware of mobility enough to not privilege long walks as the best way of connecting with God or of achieving health. And I prefer morning sunrises across Whitefish Bay to evening sunsets across the Purdue-Fort Wayne campus.

But I noticed something that I’ve missed. And noticing matters.

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And I’m also noticing that this friend’s dad died and that friend’s friend-in-law died (I’m not sure what to call the husband of a best friend). And the two couples from Sunday night music have died in the last couple months. I’m guessing that you are noticing those losses to those close to you, too. And the deaths in your own life.

The other day, a friend mentioned what her dad said, after a couple weeks in memory care. “I want to go home,” he is saying often. I realized that I had several stories that were appropriate. Not recipes, not rules. There aren’t recipes for some moments. And rules don’t fit individual experiences.

These moments and months and declines are hard. It’s hard to be reflective while you are in the middle of the struggle. And sometimes, hearing three stories can normalize the difficulty.

During the next couple months, I’ll be missing some mornings with you. I’ll be here every Sunday. But sometimes, I’ll be writing and thinking and praying other places.

Thanks for your gracious support and presence for me and for each other.