On a warm June evening in 2012, Larry and I were treated to a fun-filled evening to celebrate our retirement. Children (and a few children at heart) splashed in RJ’s Spraypark, while the music of the Kroc Center Big Band serenaded those in attendance. While not quite the traditional Salvation Army send-off, it was perfect for us, as we greeted people from all walks of life, symbolic of our many years in ministry.
In the last year, we’ve experienced countless losses due to the COVID-19 pandemic. We’ve lost cherished people to the ravages of the virus, and to other causes as well. Some of us have lost our professions or had work hours curtailed, while others struggle to keep small businesses and homes. The losses are cumulative, and it’s difficult not to be overwhelmed by their presence in our lives.
Among these losses are the rituals that mark the passages of family, career, and time. How often do we read an obituary that either speaks of a private family service or a memorial service to be held in the future, when it can be done safely? Wedding planners wrestle with how to crunch a planned celebration for two hundred into a ten person limited gathering. We’re heading towards a graduation season when it still may not be safe to toss a thousand caps into the air together. Our rituals, as we’ve known them, have been stripped away.
There’s been the same loss of ritual as people of a certain age face the prospect of retirement. For some retirees, life changes dramatically, moving to warmer climates, greener pastures, or more expansive golf courses. Others rev up the motorhome and hit the road, ready to see the Grand Canyon in person before they’re too old to make the trip. Many other retirees settle close to children, or simply stay where they’ve lived for the last forty years, with plans to relax, complete the honey-do list for the week, and join up with the ROMEO’s – Retired Old Men Eating Out.
But the retirement recognition, the open house, or the gold watch presentation doesn’t happen like it used to. Our co-workers are here one day and gone the next, heading to Florida or Arizona without a proper farewell, or simply remaining home on Monday morning while co-workers head to the factory floor or the hardware store or stumble into their makeshift home office. There’s an empty chair at the lunchroom table or a vacant spot on the Hollywood Squares meet-up – oops, I mean the Zoom call.
As I read the January newsletter from the Mental Health and Recovery Board of Ashland County, I realized that one of Ashland’s long-time public servants has retired. I knew Steve Stone was finishing up his time of leadership; by now, he’s been living a life of leisure for a month. I may be “a day late and a dollar short,” as my dad used to say, but it’s never too late to extend thanks for the influence Steve has had upon the community. He’s been quite the encourager to so many people in Ashland County and throughout the state of Ohio – including me. His work on suicide awareness and prevention and a trauma-informed approach to mental health services has literally saved lives, and enriched the lives of many more. Thank you, Steve.
Transitions of any kind in the middle of a pandemic bring both challenges and opportunities, as we must let go of rituals we hold dear and discover new ways to mark the passages of life. For me, that often comes through words. So today, especially for Steve Stone but also for so many others experiencing the transition of retirement, know that your work and your presence has been received with much appreciation. These words of blessing from John O’Donohue, an Irish writer and mystic, are extended to you from a gracious community: “Have the courage for a new approach to time; Allow it to slow until you find freedom to draw alongside the mystery you hold and befriend your own beauty of soul . . . to awaken the depths beyond your work . . .” Grace and peace be yours in abundance.
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