Possibilities

I am learning in retirement that it is okay to have different definitions for the same words.

Last year, while creating RETIREMENT, my most recent collection of essays, I realized that if I were going to write about this season of life, I needed a theme that reflected my own experiences and thinking.

Our world seems consumed with reaching senior citizens through advertisements and promotions for healthcare facilities, medical advice, and strategies for investing wisely in the future.

Although each has its merits and a role to play in our lives, I realized there was probably little need for one more product, solution, or opinion.

As I wrestled with the direction of my essays, something became increasingly clear.

For most of my life, my teaching and coaching have centered on two things: discovery and possibilities.

Why should retirement be any different?

But after five months of unexpected interruptions in my own life, I am beginning to wonder whether my understanding of possibilities has changed.

Before the accident, possibilities were often about what I might do next. Now, they seem to include discovering what is still possible when circumstances change.

And perhaps something more.

I believe five months can change more than our daily habits, rituals, or disciplines. They can also influence the way we view the world, as well as our place in it.

I have spent countless hours of recovery on our front porch swing. Our street is hardly a main thoroughfare through town, but it offers a wonderful spectator's vantage point for watching dog walkers, joggers, children in strollers, delivery trucks, and local utility companies providing services to our downtown residential community.

And, as usual, my introspective self keeps asking the same questions: Whether, how, or when will I return to being part of the life I once took for granted?

But something unexpected began happening during those hours on the swing.

My memories increasingly turned into celebrations.

Instead of regretting my new lifestyle, I found myself remembering not only the forty years we have spent in this home, but also a life filled with adventures and possibilities.

My questions about the future were often sidetracked by memories of the past. Rather than dwelling on activities I could no longer enjoy, I found myself appreciating the fulfillment those experiences had brought into my life.

Memories of jogging, training, and long bicycle rides continued to surface. But so did memories of walking Andrea and Adam in their strollers decades ago, small-town parades, holiday celebrations, and the countless routines and traditions that make up life as we know it.

And on those days of recovery when the hours sometimes seemed longer than the clock suggested, time on the porch swing became something special.

There were conversations, unexpected visits, and friends stopping by just to check on us—or perhaps simply to join us for a little walk down memory lane.

What began as hours of wondering when I might return to the life I remembered had gradually become hours of appreciating the life I had already lived.

And leading the way in this changing understanding of possibilities was something I had never anticipated.

It wasn't a book, a blog, or an audiobook. It was a friendship with Paul, a fraternity brother of more than fifty years.

Years ago, Paul had experienced a stroke of his own.

For the past several years, Sherri and I had made it a priority to set aside a day every three or four weeks to visit Paul. What began as an opportunity to spend time with an old friend had become a familiar and treasured part of our lives.

Our visits grew into something special over time.

Paul, sitting in his wheelchair with limited mobility in his arms and legs, would take his place at the kitchen counter. I would sit directly across from him, intentionally facing one another.

Our goal was simple: 60 to 90 minutes of conversation, with the focus on just talking.

Talking about anything and everything. Memories from back in the day, nature, friends, family, and whatever else came to mind. We kept our conversations fun, positive, and focused on the good things in life.

Meanwhile, Sherri and Darryl would use this time to go out to lunch, perhaps do a little shopping, and most importantly, provide Darryl with some time for herself. A break from the routines and responsibilities of caregiving, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

I can still remember the excitement on Paul's face during our first visit as I told him how amazed I was by his ability to communicate so clearly. His memory was unbelievable, and before long, our visits became highlights on my calendar.

I marveled at how we were never at a loss for words or stories. It was rare that fatigue slowed the pace of our conversations.

Part of our time together was simply a celebration. Not only of Paul's remarkable ability to communicate, but also of his attitude, his spirit, and his positive outlook on the life he was living each day.

We had no real agenda. No world problems to solve. No reason to impress anyone.

Just a level of friendship and genuine care that I had rarely experienced.

Our conversations on the drive home were almost always the same.

How does Paul stay so positive? Wouldn't it be wonderful if the world could be a little more like Paul?

Those conversations often consumed much of our drive home, touched our hearts, and reminded us of a blessing we had never anticipated.

And without either of us realizing it, Paul continued to teach and coach me.

To look for the good in people. To make the best of circumstances. And perhaps most importantly, to appreciate the endurance, patience, faith, and goodness that can be found in the lives of ordinary people.

Over time, I had often told Paul how much I wished I could be more like him—to see the world through Paul's eyes.

But it wasn't until I found myself spending hours on our porch swing, facing my own unexpected interruption, that I began to understand just how much those visits had influenced my thinking.

Paul had already been mentoring, coaching, and teaching me about possibilities. Through our friendship, he had helped me recognize that I had a choice in how I responded to my circumstances and how I might learn to accept an unknown future.

It is almost impossible to put into words Paul's influence on my journey of rehabilitation.

Our stories and circumstances have little in common, but from the earliest days and weeks, and now months, Paul has been part of my journey.

It is as though he etched something into my thinking in a way no one else ever has.

My life includes countless stories of people whose faith, challenges, and experiences have helped me understand the potential of God's presence in our lives and the importance of faith.

But none have come close to the experience of sitting face-to-face with Paul, witnessing faith in action.

Faith that became contagious.

Faith without a sermon or a Scripture lesson.

Instead, a living example of the possibilities that remain in our lives, even when circumstances change and the future is uncertain.

The possibilities that come when we choose to believe.