A reflection on retirement, what it means to work, and what will become of our work when we’re done.
Forty years with my hand to the plow.
Suddenly it’s over now.
Sometimes I don’t know how
I made it.
See, a part of me
will always be
in the soil
in which I toiled.
I buried me
so you could be
free—
to live and breathe
without constraint.
It’s not a complaint.
You are my joy,
my three boys,
but don’t forget—
let this sit:
your path was laid
a pleasant way
by countless days
of self-denying,
a silent striving
toward crucifying.
What I’ve planted deep
is yours to reap
and yours to keep.
Yet, let this be extracted:
love begs to be enacted.
What’s given isn’t subtracted.
A paradox protracted—
invest
in a coming harvest.
Hope in resurrection,
Work, an embodied reflection,
despite my imperfections,
of eternal perfections
still yet to come
when the sum
of all I’ve done
will be returned
to me unearned
by the Gracious One.
