Learning To Live in the Meantime

And everything seemed to be pointing in the same direction. I was coming back from that Saturday morning fender bender!

At least, that's what I was beginning to believe.

But ror now, I simply want to write again.

Somewhere along the way in the past two years, I began to realize how much of my story was really about the people who had poured into my life, believed in me, challenged me, and partnered with me in those adventures.

Writing became a way of remembering them, thanking them, and perhaps passing along a little of the wisdom and experience of generations past.

And the surprising discovery?

My book, God Isn't Finished Yet! wasn't simply the title of a book. It was becoming the description of a journey I never expected to take.

One essay led to another. Eventually, a series of books began to emerge, each exploring a different season of my life. What started as a personal exercise in remembering gradually became an opportunity to reflect on what those experiences had taught me—and what they might still have to teach others.

Then came the book, Retirement.

At first, I thought this book of essays might be something of a culmination of my years in teaching, coaching, ministry, and community involvement. A chance to look back, celebrate, and perhaps offer a few observations about growing older.

But as the essays unfolded, I began to recognize that I wasn't simply writing about retirement.

I was writing about my own first ten years of retirement—what I had discovered, what I had questioned, what I had celebrated, and what I was still trying to understand.

And perhaps the biggest surprise was that, even after ten years, I was still discovering possibilities.

I thought I was writing about a season of life I had already lived. Instead, I was beginning to discover a season of life that was still unfolding.

And Then Came the Interruption

Now, five months after a head-on collision, followed by a stroke and brain surgery, I am beginning to see more clearly where these essays might be going.

Not because I have figured everything out. Quite the opposite.

I have discovered that recovering from an injury to the brain is unlike anything most experience.

A broken leg comes with some reasonable expectations. There are X-rays, treatment plans, rehabilitation exercises, and at least some predictions about how long recovery might take.

But my experience with the brain has been quite different.

Five months into this journey, I still find myself wondering what tomorrow might bring. Some days I feel like the person I was before the accident. Other days, the confusion, uncertainty, and unexpected limitations remind me that something has changed.

Rest, sleep, new routines, and a different pace of life have become part of my daily existence. And while I am learning to accept these changes, I can't pretend that I understand them all.

I often wish I could sit down with someone who has traveled this road before me. Someone who could tell me what the fifth month was like for them. What they discovered. What surprised them. What they worried about. And what they eventually learned to accept.

Not because their experience would necessarily predict mine, but because there is something reassuring about knowing that others have walked through uncertainty and found their way forward.

And perhaps that is one reason I want to write these essays.

Not to offer medical advice. Not to warn others about what might happen. And certainly not to suggest that I have discovered some secret to recovery.

I simply want to tell my story.

The ordinary days. The frustrating moments. The unexpected humor. The people who have helped me. The small victories that once would have gone unnoticed. And the questions that seem to accompany me through much of my waking day.

Three Threads of One Story

As I look back over my writing, I see three threads beginning to come together.

The first is remembering.

Two years ago, writing became a way to notice, remember, and appreciate the life I had lived. I wasn't setting out to become a professional author. I was discovering the value of recording my own journey and the people who helped shape it.

The second is possibilities.

God Isn't Finished Yet! led to Retirement, and both seemed to share an underlying question:

What if the most interesting part of growing older isn't what we've accomplished, but what might still be possible?

And the third is Interruptions.

Just as I was discovering those possibilities, the accident and stroke interrupted my journey.

Suddenly, my attention shifted from what I might accomplish in the years ahead to what I might be capable of doing tomorrow.

And now, even the simple act of sitting down at a computer and writing again has become part of the story.

Coming Back… But Coming Back to What?

Perhaps that is the question behind all of this.

Before the accident, coming back meant returning to teaching, speaking, writing, creating, and finding new ways to make a difference in the lives of others.

I had books to share, essays to write, people to reconnect with, and ideas that seemed to multiply faster than I could pursue them.

After the stroke, coming back has taken on a different meaning.

Some days it means remembering what I was working on yesterday. Other days it means accepting that my brain needs more rest than I would like to give it. Sometimes it means sitting at the computer, trying to put a few paragraphs together, wondering whether the words will make sense when I read them again tomorrow.

And sometimes it means laughing at myself because I have spent an hour trying to solve a computer problem that probably would have taken me five minutes six months ago.

But here I am. Writing again.

I don't know whether I am returning to the life I had before the accident or discovering something new that I haven't yet learned to recognize.

Maybe a little of both.

What I do know is that five months ago, my life took a turn I never expected. And the journey that followed has given me experiences, questions, relationships, and lessons that I am only beginning to understand.

There will be plenty of time to explore them in the essays ahead.

For now, I am simply grateful to be able to sit down, collect a few thoughts, and put them into words.

Maybe I am coming back.

I just wasn't sure yet what coming back would mean..

I’ve spent much of my life teaching, coaching, mentoring, and encouraging people to discover what they're capable of becoming. Now I am asking that question of myself, under circumstances you never chose.

The accident and stroke are the interruptions, but the larger story is still about life, relationships, humor, independence, accepting help, discovering possibilities, and learning to live in a season you never anticipated.

The recovery is the setting. My journey is the story.

Final thought? I am writing this from inside the story.