Some of you have noticed in real life (and here) that I’m a bit introspective these days. We’ve lived in Indiana for 40 years, coming here to start my professional career. We’ve lived in our current house for 29 years. I know when my hospital work is done (12/31/2025).

Because I have several other projects, I’m not done with working. I’m already scheduled to teach preaching and spiritual formation in March, and to represent Arbor Research at a conference, and to keep writing. But I’ll be leaving the place I’ve received a paycheck from for nearly a decade. That’s the longest place of employment I’ve had. And it will likely end my history of going to an office that’s not in our house.

When people say, “congratulations” after I tell them I’m retiring from the hospital, I’m not sure how to respond. When I’m talking with coworkers, I usually don’t have to say much. The people I interact with most understand the cost we share from COVID and crises and grief.

One of the items on my list for 2025 has been to restart this blog in January. I’m looking forward to more writing time and to having the opportunity to reflect in a different way about following Jesus one day at a time. What’s not clear in the meantime is how to write without being sentimental or repetitive.

“It’s not a sprint, it’s a marathon.”

That’s a phrase we often hear to help us think long-term. The people who have run a marathon understand the metaphor to mean, “You’ll be sick to your stomach, exhausted, unable to respond to simple questions and smelly.” That’s a little of how I feel these days. I’m not as reflective as I’d like to be. I’m increasingly interested in naps.

So, I’m officially saying that for the rest of the year, I’ll post here when I feel like it. And I’m not planning to go away.