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| Bruce in Egypt at the possible burning bush of Moses. |
Retirement is something we often picture far down the road—a season of rest, travel, and freedom after decades of hard work. But what happens when it comes early… and not by choice?
That’s the road we’re now walking.
Bruce’s retirement came before we were ready. His disability and the need for a life-changing implant forced him to step away from work earlier than we planned. While I’m still working, he’s home navigating this new, slower-paced life—one that comes with both physical limits and emotional weight. It’s not just a shift in schedule; it’s a shift in identity, expectations, and dreams.
And we’ve learned—this isn’t going to be a smooth ride.
The world doesn't talk much about what happens when only one of you retires early. When one spouse is still carrying the demands of work, and the other is suddenly handed hours with no clear direction. We've found ourselves wading through a mixture of tension, confusion, and grace. Looking back, I can see we’ve been moving through several emotional and spiritual phases—what I now call the Vacation Phase, the Loss Phase, the Reinventing Phase, and the New Me.
At first, there was a strange kind of relief. No more early alarms for Bruce. No job stress. No juggling medical needs around a work schedule. We told ourselves we’d rest, breathe, and find a new rhythm.
But it didn’t take long for the imbalance to show. I was still clocking in and managing responsibilities, while Bruce was left with long, quiet hours that offered more questions than peace. Even when your body needs rest, your mind still searches for purpose.
“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28 (ESV)
Yes, Jesus offers rest—but the kind that goes far deeper than just empty hours. This phase reminded us that we need more than just time off. We need spiritual rest. Emotional healing. Purpose that comes from who we are in Christ, not what we do.
This is where it got heavy. The hardest part.
Bruce was used to being productive, needed, active. Now, with his implant and medical limitations, so much of that has changed. He has to be careful—he can’t do all the things he once loved. And while we’re grateful for the medical technology that helps him, it comes with restrictions that changed daily life in unexpected ways.
And so the losses came.
Not just a loss of income or job title—but a deeper loss of identity, of usefulness, of relationships once built in the workplace. For me, it meant shifting roles too. Trying to be supportive while still working full-time. Carrying the emotional weight of change on both our shoulders.
There were quiet days where Bruce felt aimless, and I felt helpless. Frustration bubbled to the surface more than once. Expectations clashed. It wasn’t anyone’s fault—we were just grieving different things, at the same time.
“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” — Psalm 73:26 (ESV)
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” — Jeremiah 29:11 (ESV)
Even in the middle of this grief, God kept whispering that this wasn’t the end of our story. That there was still purpose. Still beauty to be found. But first, we had to let go of what was, in order to begin seeing what could be.
After the grief of loss, you might expect clarity to come quickly. But we’ve learned that reinventing life after unexpected retirement—especially one driven by health needs—isn’t straightforward.
Bruce finds himself surrounded by open hours but unsure where to begin. Ideas that once felt exciting now seem unreachable. His limitations mean he must be cautious, and the unknown feels overwhelming. The fear of failure—or simply not knowing what’s possible—can feel paralyzing. Sleep, at times, becomes an escape from the hard questions: What now? What am I supposed to do with my life now?
And for me? I want to help. I want to suggest a plan, create a path, offer direction. But I’m learning that one of the hardest and holiest parts of love is stepping back—allowing someone you care for to wrestle, to discover, to listen for God’s voice on their own terms. This is no easy task for myself but necessary.
In our wrestling, I’m reminded of Moses—a man who had already lived a full life, spent 40 years in Pharaoh’s palace and another 40 in the wilderness tending sheep. It was at 80 years old that God met him at the burning bush and said: "I’m not finished with you. I have a mission for you."
“Come, I will send you to Pharaoh that you may bring my people, the children of Israel, out of Egypt.” — Exodus 3:10 (ESV)
Moses didn’t jump up with confidence. He hesitated. He argued. He felt unqualified and unsure. Sound familiar?
But God wasn’t looking for youthful strength—He was looking for a willing heart.
“But Moses said to God, ‘Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the children of Israel out of Egypt?’ He said, ‘But I will be with you…’” — Exodus 3:11–12a (ESV)
That’s the truth we cling to in this season. God is not done with Bruce. He’s not done with you. No matter your age, your energy level, your limitations—if your heart is open, He can still work through you.
This season hasn’t just reshaped Bruce. It’s reshaped me.
I’ve had to grow in trust—not just in God, but in the process of waiting. I’m learning how to love without over-managing, to sit in the ache of “not yet” while still holding on to hope for “what’s next.” Watching someone you love struggle to rediscover purpose is one of the deepest forms of heartbreak and growth.
But God is also teaching me something else: This story is still being written.
Just as Moses found his calling later in life—not because of his abilities, but because of his availability—we’re learning that usefulness in God’s kingdom is never about stage of life. It’s about surrender.
“So even to old age and gray hairs, O God, do not forsake me, until I proclaim your might to another generation…” — Psalm 71:18 (ESV)
I don’t know what Bruce’s new calling will look like yet. He may not either. But I do believe God is preparing him. And me. And all of us who are willing to say: “Here I am, Lord. Use me.”
That is the “new me.” A little wearier. A little more raw. But also, more deeply convinced that even now—especially now—God is not done.
