The call finally came. The familiar name would no longer appear on the work schedule. The routine that had shaped life for so long—the midnight shifts, the long days, the rhythm of work and travel—was ending. The key was turned in. The mic was handed over. The train engine was climbed down from for the very last time. After seventeen years, a chapter quietly closed—but with a weight that words can hardly describe.
No more early mornings or late nights swallowed by fourteen-hour days. No more quick conversations with the same coworkers who had become part of life’s rhythm. Just silence. Space. And an unexpected emptiness.
At first, that emptiness was filled with sleep. After years of running hard, the body finally had permission to rest. The bed seemed to call more loudly than any alarm clock ever did. Sleep was a comfort, a reward, even a way to avoid the question lingering beneath the surface: What do I do with myself now?
And yet, with every distant train horn, every click-clack at a crossing, and the sight of his old engine sitting at a remote yard—freshly painted, polished, waiting for use—he recalls what has been lost. That engine, ready but idle, mirrors his own heart: he wants to be used, to serve, to contribute—but unlike the engine, no fresh coat of paint or reworking can be done on his own body. Limitations now remind him that he must find purpose differently than before. The rhythm he once knew—the hum of the engine, the weight of responsibility, the familiar faces at every stop—now echoes in memory, a melody of what was and a whisper of what still could be.
This is more than losing a job title. It’s losing identity, rhythm, and community. It’s saying goodbye not only to a career, but to the version of oneself that lived by schedules, deadlines, and responsibilities. The loss is real, and so is the grief.
But here’s the truth—sleep restores the body, but it cannot renew the soul. Purpose cannot be found under the covers of a bed, but in the calling God places before us. Scripture reminds us: “So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12, ESV). Every day matters, even if it no longer looks like what it used to.
For everything there is a season (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Work had its season. Now begins another. And while the shift feels jarring, it is not purposeless. God never retires His children from His calling. He simply redirects it.
Some have found that new direction in prayer, like Anna the prophetess who devoted her later years to worship (Luke 2:36–38). Others discover it in investing in family, mentoring the next generation, volunteering in the community, creating, or simply learning to enjoy life in slower rhythms.
As the spouse, I am feeling a mixture of awe, pride, and a quiet ache. I watch him step away from the routine that has defined him for seventeen years, and my heart swells with gratitude for his dedication—but also tugs with the awareness of what he’s losing. I feel the weight of the hours he will no longer spend on the train, the faces he will no longer see daily, the rhythm that shaped both our lives. And yet, I also feel hope. Hope that these empty hours can become spaces for rest, reflection, and rediscovery. I want to support him fully—without rushing, controlling, or judging the pace at which he moves forward. My prayer is to walk alongside him with patience, encouragement, and love, trusting God to guide each step in this new chapter.
So what do we do with the fourteen hours once consumed by work and travel?
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We rest—but we don’t stay asleep forever.
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We rediscover passions and gifts that work once pushed aside.
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We reconnect with God, with each other, and with community.
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We renew our spirits by seeing this season not as an ending, but as an invitation.
The key, the mic, the train engine—those belonged to one chapter. Now, God places new tools in hand: time, wisdom, faith, and love. The chapter of work has closed, but the story isn’t over. The next page is waiting to be written, guided not by timetables and alarms, but by the compass of God’s faithful hand.
And perhaps the most beautiful part of this transition is the reminder that, like the engine sitting idle in the yard—freshly painted and waiting—there is still life to be lived, purpose to be discovered, and love to give. Bruce, my love, you may not have a fresh coat of paint for your body, but your heart, your hands, your faith, and your love continue to shine brightly. Here’s to the new season, the next track, and all the ways God will still use you.
With love
always,
Christina
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