My final semester of college was filled with celebrations, heartfelt goodbyes, and reflection. During my last weeks at school, my fraternity held a candle-pass where seniors shared favorite memories and thanked the people who had shaped their experience. As my brothers went around the circle and reflected on our time together, I realized I had made an impact and built friendships that would last beyond college. Those final weeks gave me a chance to look back on everything that had led me to graduation. Although I felt deeply grateful, I have never been someone who loves endings. I was leaving behind close friends, the organizations I had poured myself into, and a daily life that had come to feel like home. I did not realize it at the time, but the transition would be more complicated than a clean break. I continued visiting my college friends and saw that life on campus went on without me. I was still connected to my people, but I was no longer part of their everyday rhythm. It was time to find a new home. I came to understand that I would have many homes throughout my life, and I felt grateful to have many meaningful places rather than just one.

Over four years, I had built a life at school and an identity I valued. I wondered what would happen when I no longer had the friends, responsibilities, and routines I was used to. In leaving, I gained a deeper appreciation for the community and culture that had shaped me.

During that season of reflection, I had to trust that I had made the right choices and created a college experience I would remember with gratitude rather than regret. I also had to trust my ability to move forward with grace, even when it was difficult. Listening to others share their own transitions reminded me that I was not alone in what I was feeling.

Neutral Zone

This is a period I am still in: a time of deciding who I am becoming and what matters most to me right now. Do I want to continue on the path I have been following, or grow into something more? I have always been driven by passion and people, and I care deeply about cultivating community. College strengthened that part of me, but it also revealed how it can sometimes hinder me; I often care too much. Even so, I hope this process of becoming never ends. I want to be someone committed to growth. Now that I am one year post-graduation, what has mattered most in this middle period is personal growth. In college, I was often focused on classes, organizations, and work, and my own development came second. Now that I have more time to focus on myself, I feel I better understand my identity, my place in the world, and the ways I want to contribute to a healthier community and culture.

Trusting time has been my greatest anchor in this middle period. Growth does not happen overnight, and change requires patience as much as effort. I remind myself that life can shift quickly, but it can also take time to see progress. Welcoming each day as a new opportunity helps me keep moving forward without rushing my own timeline.

New Beginnings

Although my next chapter is still unwritten, I am envisioning what I want for myself and the next period of my life. Overall, I want happiness, spontaneity, and community. Even if I do not yet know exactly what my future will look like, I am learning to welcome each day with openness and trust. There is comfort in knowing that my story is still being written, and that with each new day comes the possibility of unexpected growth, connection, and opportunity. Rather than fearing what I cannot yet see, I want to embrace the unknown with hope, believing that new beginnings do not always arrive all at once, but often reveal themselves in small moments, choices, and chances to move forward.

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It’s not the moment after the decision is made.
It’s not the clarity of arrival.

It’s the long, sacred, often uncomfortable space before.

The waiting.
The wondering.
The listening.

I’ve been living in that space.

The search and call process in the life of the church is, in many ways, one of the most vulnerable journeys a person can take. It is not just a job search. It is not simply a professional transition.

It is a discernment of call—of vocation—of where your life might meet the needs of the world in a meaningful way.

And when I say call, I don’t mean a job title or a single role.

Call is the ongoing invitation to live with purpose. It is the quiet (and sometimes not-so-quiet) pull toward what gives life—both to you and to others. It is where your gifts, your passions, your experiences, and the needs around you begin to intersect.

For some, that takes shape in ministry.
For others, it is lived out in caregiving, teaching, creating, organizing, advocating, or simply showing up with presence and compassion in everyday life.

Call is not something reserved for a few.

It is something that unfolds within all of us.

And that kind of transition asks something deeper of you.

It asks for trust.

The Weight of Anticipation

There is an anticipation that builds during a season like this.

Emails that could change everything.
Conversations that carry possibility.

Moments where your heart quietly whispers, “Could this be it?”

And yet, alongside that anticipation is a steady invitation to patience.

Not passive waiting—but active, intentional, grounded patience.

The kind that resists the urge to rush ahead.
The kind that holds excitement and uncertainty in the same breath.

Because the truth is, you can feel ready for what’s next…

…and still not be there yet.

That tension is not a failure.

It is part of the formation.

Listening for a Still-Speaking God

In the United Church of Christ, we often say, “God is still speaking.”

But in seasons of transition, that becomes more than a phrase.

It becomes a practice.

A discipline of paying attention.

Because when so much feels uncertain, the temptation is to grasp for control—to make something happen, to force clarity, to fill the silence with our own voice.

But discernment doesn’t work that way.

Instead, it asks us to slow down enough to listen.

To listen not only in prayer, but in conversation.
In the wisdom of others.
In the quiet nudges of the Spirit that don’t shout—but persist.

And perhaps most importantly, to listen within ourselves—

to that place where calling and truth meet.

There were moments in this journey when I had to ask not, “What do I want?”

but rather,

“Where is God at work—and how am I being invited into it?”

That question changes everything.

Call Is Not a Destination

One of the gifts of this season has been a deeper understanding of something we don’t always name clearly enough:

Call is not static.

It evolves.
It stretches.
It grows with us.

In the framework of Abundant Aging, we often talk about life not as a slow diminishing, but as a continued unfolding—a deepening into meaning, purpose, and connection at every stage of life.

Call works the same way.

What we are called to in one season may look very different in another.

A role may shift.
A path may change.

New opportunities—or even new limitations—may invite us into a different way of living out our purpose.

And yet, the call itself remains.

Not as a fixed destination…

but as a living relationship between who we are and how we are invited to love the world.

Trust as a Way of Living Abundantly

Trust, then, is not just something we rely on in moments of transition.

It is something that sustains abundant living across a lifetime.

Because to live abundantly is not to have everything figured out.

It is to remain open.

Open to growth.
Open to change.
Open to the ongoing invitations of God.

Trust is what allows us to say yes—

not just once,

but again and again as life shifts.

It gives us the courage to release what was,
to embrace what is,
and to step into what might be.

In this way, trust is not simply about getting through a transition.

It is about becoming the kind of person who can live fully within it.

Even Now—Another Threshold

And here is the truth I am holding now:

Even as I have reached the end of this particular search and call process…

Even as I have said yes to a new call…

I am not arriving at an endpoint.

I am standing at another beginning.

Because accepting a call is not the end of transition.

It is the doorway into a new one.

There will be new relationships to build.
New rhythms to learn.
New ways of listening, leading, and growing.

And so the practices that sustained me in the waiting—

patience, attentiveness, trust—

are not behind me.

They are what I will carry forward.

Because this is what a life of faith looks like:

Not a single call, clearly defined once and for all…

but a lifelong conversation between our lives and the voice of God.

A conversation that continues to unfold,

season after season.

A Few Questions to Carry With You

As you reflect on your own seasons of transition—and the ways your life continues to unfold—I invite you to sit with these questions.

Not to answer them quickly,

but to hold them gently:

• Where in your life are you being invited into something new, even now?
• How has your sense of purpose or calling changed over time?
• What practices help you listen for the voice of the Still-Speaking God?
• When have you experienced trust growing slowly, over time?
• What might it look like to embrace this season not as an ending, but as part of your ongoing becoming?

Transitions are rarely easy.

But they are often sacred.

And in the waiting,
in the listening,
in the courage to trust—

not just once, but throughout a lifetime—

we begin to discover something deeper.

That abundant living is not found in staying the same…

but in being willing to keep becoming.

The post At the Edge of the Call: Trusting God in the Waiting—and Beyond appeared first on United Church Homes.

My husband John and I had just landed at Hopkins airport in Cleveland from a 2 ½ week trip to Florida, and as we blearily got off the plane and stumbled toward baggage, John said, “You know, I feel a bit traumatized.”  I too felt “a bit traumatized.”  The previous 2 ½ weeks very clearly showed us that our bodies had aged, and we could no longer pretend we could do what we used to do. 

Our adventure started out with glamping in Everglades National Park with our daughter Lizzy. We were all very excited about it. Glamping is the idea that one could be living out in nature without all the work and discomfort of having to pitch a tent and sleep on the ground. Some glamping experiences have all the amenities of a resort. Needless to say, our glamping experience was not in the least resort-like. 

We checked in and went to our tent which was pitched over a floor. The whole setup reminded me of girl scout camp complete with the toilets and bath house about 2 football fields away. It was also cold. The lows were in the mid- forties which for south Florida is rare. The only provision given for the cold temperatures was an extra blanket. Therefore, my sleeping attire consisted of leggings, sweatpants, two long sleeved shirts, an REI compressible down jacket and a knit cap under 3 blankets. We were ecstatic when the lows climbed into the 50s.  

And then, of course, we had to walk about two football fields to the bathroom which during the day wasn’t so bad, but at night, it was rough. Getting up and walking 200 yards to relieve oneself at 2am… and 4am…and 6am in the freezing cold wasn’t an exciting adventure, it was just hard. 

After 3 nights of glamping, we moved to a resort on Key Largo which, we all decided was more our speed. The resort was lovely and we spent a lot of time by the pool as the temps had at last climbed into the 70s. And all was well until the snorkeling. Being a strong swimmer, I went into the snorkeling with an air of nonchalance as we were taken by boat to the coral reef, were given life jackets, snorkels and even a noodle, and then told to hop on in. So, into the ocean I went, and my nonchalance immediately disappeared as I worked to swim in 68-degree water to the coral reef a good 100 yards away.   

Huffing and puffing through my snorkel, I made it to the reef, saw a few beautiful fish in and around the reef as I became more exhausted. At this point, fear gripped me as I wondered if I had the strength to make it back to the boat, so I immediately forgot about the wondrous sea life, made a U-turn and started back. I was in the water for about 30 minutes with John not far behind me. Now, I am in terrible shape, but John is very fit, and he, too was exhausted by the experience. 

We went back to the resort and parked ourselves by the pool until it was time to drive back to Orlando to our son Tim’s home. We arrived at Tim’s house greeted by his lovely wife Yoly and our three gorgeous grandchildren ages 14 years, 11 years and 12 months. Many hugs and kisses later, we unpacked and prepared ourselves to babysit Josiah our just turned one-year-old grandson for the next few days while his parents went to work and his older sisters went to school. 

Now, 30 years ago, I cared for an infant and toddler all by myself while John was at work, and I don’t remember it being unmanageable. But now, caring for one infant at ages 65 and 70 took the both of us. I had forgotten how unrelenting caring for small children is.  It just never lets up. Of course, baby Josiah charmed us as he has during all our visits and we continued to fall madly in love with this smiling giggling joyful child, but it took everything we had to care for him. 

By the end of our trip, I was humbled and chagrinned as I admitted to myself that my body is no longer young and I no longer belonged in the “young” group. In nursing school, we learned about human growth and development, and believe it or not, the signs of aging start to become apparent in a person’s 30’s, and little by little, year after year, the heart becomes less efficient, bones become thinner, joints become less flexible, and muscle tissue becomes weaker. And on and on it goes with every part of your body showing the effects of aging without you even noticing until you go glamping and babysit your 12-month-old grandson. And then, you notice. 

It’s embarrassing to admit that I was surprised by this revelation. In my mind, I still considered myself “young” which is wonderful as long as I am clear that my heart, bones, joints, muscles, immune system etc.…are no longer young. My body has some miles on it, and it shows. So, what now? How do I live with my aging body that no longer belongs in the “young” category while still doing what brings me joy? 

I get inspired when I think of my late father-in-law Harlan who was a retired high school band and choral director. Music was his passion so post-retirement he directed church choirs and taught music appreciation courses at the local community college. But, when the effects of aging made walking even short distances difficult and threatened to sideline him from the activities that gave his life joy and meaning, he took action. He purchased an electric wheelchair and outfitted his van with a chair lift. This allowed him to continue directing choirs, teaching classes and quite simply, living life. 

As for me, I am still figuring out how to navigate my life as my body ages, so like Harlan, I can continue doing what I love. There is, however, one thing I know for sure. I’m definitely hanging up my snorkel and from now on seeing the wonders of the sea at an aquarium. 

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It was one of those hospital consultation rooms that feels more industrial than human—cold lighting, stiff chairs, and a table that looked as if it had hosted far too many difficult conversations. It was July of 2013, and around that table sat my grandmother, Helen, my grandfather, my mom, my aunt, and me. 

 But the truth is, the feeling of being alone had started long before we ever sat down in that room. 

For months we had been watching my grandmother experience moments that simply weren’t her—circumstances, behaviors, and confusing incidents that none of us could explain. We knew something was wrong, but we didn’t yet have words for it. We were worried, confused, and quietly carrying the weight of uncertainty. 

So when the doctor finally entered the consultation room that day, we were desperate for clarity. 

He did not sit long. He looked at my grandmother and said, almost matter-of-factly, “Helen, you have Lewy Body Dementia and Alzheimer’s.” 

And then he left. 

No explanation. No roadmap. No gentle unfolding of what would come next—just a diagnosis that seemed to echo in the quiet room after the door closed. 

Eventually we gathered our things and made our way to the car. The drive home was mostly silent. No one said much, but the silence said enough. Each of us was carrying something heavy. Though we didn’t say it out loud, I knew we all felt it. 

We felt alone. 

Because I loved my grandmother so deeply, I couldn’t simply sit with that feeling. That night, after we returned home, I opened my computer and began searching. What was Lewy Body Dementia? What was Alzheimer’s? What did this mean for her—for us? 

Hour after hour I read everything I could find. 

Somewhere in the middle of that long night, I came across the Alzheimer’s Association. 

What I discovered there changed everything. 

By the next afternoon, I had scheduled a meeting with a local Alzheimer’s Association representative. When we walked into that meeting, something shifted. For the first time since the diagnosis, we were met not just with information—but with understanding. 

Suddenly we realized we were not the only ones walking this road.

Over the next three years, now that we finally had a name for what was happening, we discovered something that became incredibly important to our family: belonging. Through the Alzheimer’s Association, we found connection. We found guidance. We found people who understood what it meant to love someone whose mind was changing. We found people who knew the exhaustion, the confusion, the grief, and even the unexpected moments of grace that come with caregiving. 

Most importantly, we discovered we were not alone. 

In the years since that diagnosis in 2013, I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into that community—what I often think of as a community of warriors standing together against the overwhelming fog of what many call “The Long Goodbye.” 

I immersed myself in that work. I became an advocate at the local, state, and national levels. I helped plan events and informational classes to help families navigate the difficult road of dementia and Alzheimer’s. I collected iPods for the Music & Memory program, helping bring familiar songs back into the lives of those whose memories were fading. 

And during my time as a chaplain intern, I was blessed with the opportunity to provide spiritual care to those living with Alzheimer’s and other dementias. I sat beside them in song, in prayer, and sometimes in art—discovering the many ways their minds could still be opened and their hearts touched. 

Perhaps the greatest lesson our family learned during those years came through caring for my grandmother herself. We discovered that the best way to help her experience belonging was simply to meet her wherever she was in that moment. If she believed we were in another decade, we didn’t correct her—we joined her there. If music brought her joy, we sang. If prayer brought peace, we prayed. If laughter appeared in the middle of confusion, we welcomed it. 

Belonging, we learned, is not about forcing someone back into our reality. Sometimes belonging is simply about loving someone enough to step into theirs. 

My grandmother died in 2016. Yet even today, the community we discovered during that difficult season continues to shape my life. 

In fact, as I write these words, I am returning home from representing the Open and Affirming Coalition of the United Church of Christ at the Alzheimer’s Association’s Community Leaders Summit. In 2024, the Coalition began a partnership with the Alzheimer’s Association to help ensure that members of the LGBTQ+ community—whether they are living with Alzheimer’s themselves or caring for someone who is—can find another level of belonging, support, and community. 

For me, this work feels deeply personal. Somehow three important parts of my life have come together in this moment: being a pastor, being a gay man, and being an advocate who once helped care for his grandmother through Alzheimer’s. 

What once felt like one of the loneliest seasons of my life has now become part of the way I help others find connection. 

And that, I believe, is the quiet miracle of belonging. 

Belonging is not only something we search for when life is easy. Often, belonging is something we discover when life becomes difficult—when the road grows uncertain and we realize we were never meant to walk it alone. 

Belonging is the hand that reaches across the table in a quiet hospital room. 

It is the voice that says, “We understand. We’ve been there too.” 

It is the community that gathers around us in our hardest seasons and gently reminds us that even in the fog, we are still seen, still known, and still loved. 

A Moment for Reflection 

As you reflect on your own life, you might consider: 

• When have you experienced a season that made you feel alone? 

• Who helped you realize you didn’t have to carry that season by yourself? 

• Where have you discovered unexpected belonging? 

• Is there someone in your life right now who might need help finding their own sense of community? 

• If you are feeling alone in this season of life, where might you begin seeking connection or support? 

• What might it look like to take one small step toward belonging—for yourself or for someone else? 

The Center for Abundant Aging exists to help people discover exactly this kind of connection—because none of us are meant to age in isolation. We age best when we age together. And when we help one another find belonging, we create the kind of community where all of us can truly age abundantly. 

And sometimes the most sacred work we can do in this life is simply to make sure no one has to walk through the fog alone. 

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