Several years ago I had the honor of being asked to speak at the annual retreat for retired ministers and spouses. Part of what I shared were the familiar words of Robert Frost in his poem "The Death of the Hired Man."
Home is the place where when you go there they have to take you in.
That is if you're not living in a parsonage, or any number of homes that go with the job. Governors and presidents come to mind. I shared parts of the poem with this particular group because, for many of them, retirement is the first time they have a forever home.
Over the years I've considered upsizing, like when I married David, and downsizing like a couple of years ago when my health was poor and I considered the possibility of a lovely senior living facility (where 30 or 40 of my friends live.
But, no, I want this to be my forever home.
For the past 23 years I've enjoyed water aerobics, three times a week at our big beautiful pool. For most of the time I've led part of the routine. But no longer. That season is over for me. But I still love the group. And the person who's led most of the time this summer is excellent. Lots of fun but doesn't put up with a lot of excessive jibber jabber. Despite the fact that I can't hear, I love being with these folks who are laughing and having a good time in the pool.
Where were you on September 11, 2001? When the horrible news came to me, I was in the pool with friends - at my forever home.
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