A Graceful Goodbye

We were at a “going away” party given in our honor as we prepared to move cross-country where I had taken a new job. As the party wound down, a good friend stopped by on his way out and casually said, “My prayer for you is that you end well and start well.” I thanked him.

It was not until later, reflecting on the night’s activities, that I remembered Gary’s comment. The more I thought about it, the more it stirred me. What does it mean to end well?

I began to collect the lessons, suggestions, and wisdom others had learned from leaving. I offer a few that frequently emerged as wise and helpful.

Now thank we all

Perhaps the first lesson in ending well is to be generous in your praise, quick to offer a blessing, and thorough in your expressions of appreciation to those you leave behind.

One of the goals of any ending should be to identify those who have given to you, supported you, or partnered with you. In specific ways, remind and thank them for their gifts of service, kindness, and love. This is particularly true of the people at the margins of our lives who often get the least recognition. The janitor who kept the office clean, the waitress who faithfully attended to our needs, the mailman or others who provide faithful but under-recognized service. But it also includes the central characters in our lives-our close colleagues, neighbors, and friends.

When I finished my Ph.D., I wrote my high school English teacher a long thank-you note for the contribution he had made to my love of learning. He quickly wrote back, commenting how few of these notes he had received during his career, leaving him to wonder sometimes “if it was worth it.” “Your letter,” he wrote, “reenergized me and will keep me going for a long time.”

Appreciation and blessing are such a gift. Why do we sometimes give them out as if they were rare commodities?

What goes around

Relationships are an investment in eternity. We will be amazed and sometimes surprised at the way people will come back into our lives.

After moving back to Texas, I was driving down the interstate in way too big a hurry. Soon I saw the dreaded flashing lights in my rear view mirror. I was pulled over.

The state trooper got out of his car, taller than I, about 6′ 4″, with sunglasses hiding his eyes. The trooper asked for my license and proof of insurance. After a few moments of reviewing the documents he began to size me up.

“This your home address?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to appear calm.

“Been here long?”

“Just a few months, sir.”

“Ever lived in the Dallas-Ft. Worth area, Mr. Moore?”

“Yes sir, in Arlington,” I replied. Why the interrogation? I thought.

“Ever been a youth director?” He had me totally perplexed!

Then he grinned, and pulling off his sunglasses he said, “Don’t you recognize me, Steve? I’m Todd Jones (not his real name), and I was in your junior high youth group!”

Needless to say, he looked different. It was a great reminder that people come back into our lives in ways we would never expect.

John had been the associate pastor for seven years when a new senior pastor came in. The new pastor not only wanted to change the programs, he wanted to change the staff. Some people tried to get John to rally support and challenge the new leader. Instead, John decided to pursue another church opportunity and exit with grace.

A couple of years later, after that new pastor had moved on to fix another church, the leadership came to John asking if he would return as their senior pastor. “We remembered the integrity you showed in spite of the poor way you were treated,” they told John. “That’s the kind of person we need.”

Remember the enduring power of relationships.

Are you a giant?

One of the tough things about leaving well, particularly someplace we may have been a while, is wondering, “Will all I have worked for continue? Will my legacy be remembered?”

The Jewish poet and storyteller Noah ben Shea tells a parable that serves as a valuable reminder of the roles we play in life:

After dinner, the children turned to Jacob and asked if he would tell them a story. “A story about what?” asked Jacob.

“About a giant,” squealed the children.

Jacob smiled, leaned against the warm stones at the side of the fireplace, and his voice turned softly inward.

“Once there was a boy who asked his father to take him to see the great parade that passed through the village. The father, remembering the parade from when he was a boy, quickly agreed, and the next morning the boy and his father set out together.

“As they approached the parade route, people started to push in from all sides, and the crowd grew thick. When the people along the way became almost a wall; the father lifted his son and placed him on his shoulders.

“Soon the parade began and as it passed, the boy kept telling his father how wonderful it was and how spectacular were the colors and images. The boy, in fact, grew so prideful of what he saw that he mocked those who saw less saying, even to his father, ‘If only you could see what I see.'”

“But,” said Jacob staring straight in the faces of the children, “what the boy did not look at was why he could see. What the boy forgot was that once his father, too, could see.”

Then as if he had finished the story, Jacob stopped speaking.

“Is that it?” said a disappointed girl. “We thought you were going to tell us a story about a giant.”

“But I did,” said Jacob. “I told you a story about a boy who could have been a giant.”

“How?” squealed the children.

“A giant,” said Jacob, “is anyone who remembers we are all sitting on someone else’s shoulders.”

“And what does it make us if we don’t remember?” asked the boy.

“A burden,” answered Jacob.

Will our legacies be remembered? Will the investments we have made bear dividends? Much depends on how we move from our positions in order for new leadership to successfully be launched.

We are called to be giants, not burdens.

The next peak

A few years ago, a friend attended the dedication of a retirement home. It’s not an assignment for which one stands in line. But what he learned there was significant.

The ceremony included remarks from one of the new residents, Dr. Paul Brand, an outstanding medical doctors. Most of us know him through a bestselling book co-written with Phillip Yancey, Fearfully and Wonderfully Made. When it was Dr. Brand’s turn to speak, he said something like this:

I remember well when I was at my physical peak. I was 27 years old and had just finished medical school. A group of friends and I were mountain climbing and we could climb for hours. For some people, when they cross that peak, for them life is over.

I remember well my mental peak, too. I was 57 years of age and was performing groundbreaking hand surgery. All of my medical training was coming together in one place. For some people, when they cross this peak, for them life is over.

I’m now over 80 years of age. I recently realized I’m approaching another peak, my spiritual peak. All I have sought to become as a person has the opportunity to come together in wisdom, maturity, kindness, love, joy, and peace. And I realize when I cross that peak, for me, life will not be over, it will have just begun.”

Dr. Brand had truly taken the long view, key to both ending well and starting well.

Steve Moore is senior vice president of Asbury Theological Seminary, Wilmore, Kentucky.