I had a plan.
Retire.
Slow mornings.
Steam room.
Coffee with friends solving the world over scrambled eggs.
Write.
Make resources for younger teachers.
Supplement the pension.
Be useful without being tired.
It would have given me authorship again.
It would have returned control to me.
Others did not agree.
“You are still useful.”
And here I am.
Still in the classroom.
Still navigating politics.
Still filling out forms that do not change a single soul.
Still checking boxes that feel like sand in the gears.
In my better moments, I see what is happening.
Something real happens in that room.
The Spirit moves in it.
Around me.
In spite of me.
That is not nothing.
But in my flesh, I get tired.
When my eyes leave Christ and drift to the waves—
administration,
fatigue,
reputation,
being misunderstood—
I begin to sink.
And when I begin to sink,
I look around to see if I am being watched.
If I am not,
I reach for wine.
Or cheese and sausage.
Or a story where I am either the hero or the victim.
“Poor man.”
“You are amazing.”
Both are intoxicating.
Neither is obedience.
The next morning is heavier.
My thoughts dull.
My patience thinner.
I have been taking cold showers in the morning.
I do not enjoy them.
I complain loudly sometimes.
But I do them because I said I would.
When I step out,
Lindsey places her hand on my chest or my forehead and says,
“Pretty cold.”
A witness makes obedience easier.
But what happens when there is no human witness?
When it is just me,
and my appetite,
and my opinion of my circumstances?
I think about Peter.
“When you were young, you dressed yourself and went where you wanted.
When you are old, another will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.”
I wanted to go where I wanted to go.
Instead, I am being led.
Into more patience.
Into more surrender.
Into the slow loss of authorship.
My circumstances are not shaping me.
My response to being led is.
I do not rejoice in every chain.
I do not sing hymns every time I am tired.
Sometimes I complain.
Sometimes I numb.
Sometimes I hide behind humor.
But I am still here.
Still being led.
Still being formed.
I do not choose the road.
I choose whether I follow.
That is enough.
Tags: obedience, formation, surrender, teaching, John 21, spiritual formation, witness, following, Forming 2.0
Forming 2.0 
There’s something deeply human in the way you name the tension between the life you had imagined and the one you’re being led through now. That line – “It would have given me authorship again” – carries so much truth. I think many of us quietly hope for that return to control, especially after years of giving ourselves away in service.
And yet, what you write here doesn’t feel like resignation. It feels like awareness.
The distinction you make between circumstances shaping us and our response to being led doing the shaping stayed with me.
I also appreciate the candor about the small escapes the wine, the stories we tell ourselves when tired, the subtle pull toward either self-pity or self-importance. Naming those without dramatizing them takes real clarity. It makes the obedience you describe feel grounded rather than idealized.
The image of the cold shower and Lindsey’s simple witness was powerful too. It’s a quiet reminder that formation often happens in ordinary, repeatable acts and that being seen, even briefly, helps steady the will. But your question lingers: who are we when no one is watching? That’s where the deeper work seems to live.
What stays with me most is your closing posture: not choosing the road, but choosing whether to follow. There’s a humility and steadiness in that which feels lived, not written.
Thank you for continuing to share from inside the process rather than after it.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you for reading so closely, Ulrich.
That question about who we are when no one is watching is not an easy one.
If you are open to it, what has been shaping you lately?
LikeLiked by 2 people
Dean, thank you for asking. Your question gave me time to pause and reflect more honestly.
Lately, what has been shaping me most is learning to slow my inner reactions and sit with things a little longer before responding. I know that can sometimes frustrate people who expect quick answers, but I’m realizing that not every moment asks for speed.
Whether in conversations, work pressures, or within myself, I’ve been wired for years to fix, respond, carry, and explain. Now I’m learning that some moments don’t need action they need presence. There’s also some backstory in me that still needs resolving, and slowing down seems to bring that to the surface.
There has been a quieter work happening too around humility and surrender especially in areas where I once felt certain or in control. Life has a way of softening those edges. I’m learning to release the need to always be understood or to always “get it right,” and instead to remain faithful to what is in front of me.
Faith-wise, I keep returning to small disciplines: gratitude, restraint in speech, choosing to respond rather than react. Nothing dramatic just the slow, mostly unseen work of formation.
Some days I do this well. Other days I see how quickly I lean back into old habits. But even that awareness feels like grace at work.
Relationships are shaping me too teaching me how to love without managing outcomes and how to stay present without rushing toward resolution. That has stretched me in good ways.
Still very much in process.
But grateful for the shaping, even when it is slow.
LikeLiked by 1 person
My circumstances are not shaping me.
My response to being led is.
I’m sitting with these lines and asking myself what is my response.
LikeLiked by 1 person