We drove away from the church, just the two of us. Glancing at Lori, I could see her tears sheening her cheeks.
It had been a marvelous Sunday. We had all our children and grandchildren, my older brother and sister-in-law, and Lori’s sister and mother with us. Our church had a beautiful reception for us, and people from the community—plus some friends from my first pastorate 37 years ago and some local friends who had moved away—were there to congratulate me on my last Sunday before officially retiring from the pastoral ministry.
In those 37 years, I had moved from churches, starting in Kentucky when I was still in seminary, to Alabama, Oklahoma, Louisiana, and finally back to Kentucky, where I’ve stayed a little over 20 years.
For 18 of those years, Lori has been at my side, a vital part of my ministry: making pastoral visits with me to homes, hospitals, and shut-ins, writing encouraging notes to church members, praying faithfully daily, and smiling at me whenever I stepped into the pulpit. She was there. Whenever someone complimented me on a sermon, I often smiled and teased, “Lori wrote that one,” and I was not too far from the truth, for she would listen to almost every sermon before I delivered it on Sunday mornings.
As we approached the final Sunday, I noticed that Lori was already grieving the anticipated transition, although she looked forward to this next phase of life. “I’m going to miss my Bible Study group, hearing them pray and teach.” Or, “I don’t know what it will be like to sit by your side in a worship service. I’ll have to get you some coloring books and crayons,” she laughed.
This church was her only experience being a pastor’s wife. She had heard me reminisce of Livingston First Baptist in Livingston, Alabama being, as I described it, “the perfect first full-time, ‘live-on-the-field’ pastorate.” Lebanon Baptist couldn’t have been a better place for Lori to dive into the role of pastor’s wife. They had wrapped their arms around her when she—the educator taking on the role of pastor’s wife—arrived here. And they hugged her tight through the deaths of her dad, and then, Harrison, supporting her in good times and bad.
The sweet fellowship of Lebanon Baptist sustained her through it all, including the joy of seeing our brood fly away: the weddings, the grandchildren, job promotions, and baptisms. For 18 years, she absorbed the agonies and the joys that come with living life on life’s terms. Through it all, her friends at church never wavered, locking their arms around her side.
In my last sermon, I told about the young preacher who asked an older, wiser, retired preacher what it was like to pastor. The senior pastor reflected and spoke of three phases he had gone through as a minister. In the first phase, as a young hotshot preacher fresh out of seminary who thought more highly of himself than he should have, he saw himself standing on a dry shore while the congregation was out in the deep water, going down for the third time. He admonished them, telling them how they could get from where they were to where he was.
Then his concept changed. After a few years in the ministry, he came to a new understanding. The people were still in the water. And they were still in trouble. But now, he was at the edge of the water, with one foot on dry land and the other out in the water with his hand stretched out toward them to help them get from where they were to where he was.
After many years, in the twilight of his ministry, he finally came to a clear understanding. He was in the water with the people. They were holding him up. And underneath them all were the everlasting arms of God.
Looking in my rearview mirror as Lori and I drove away, blurry-eyed, I realized it was not I alone whom the Spirit of God was holding.
Reaching across the car’s front seat, I held the hand of the one uplifted by the Spirit with me as we stepped onto a new shore, into a fresh beginning.
Still together in ministry.