Last week, the 197th session of the New York Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church was held at Hofstra University in Long Island, New York. Around two thousand participants—pastors and lay representatives from approximately five hundred churches across eight districts in New York and Connecticut—gathered to finalize the annual budget, elect new officers for each department, and celebrate ordination and retirement services for clergy. It was a season of thanksgiving, worship, and joy for a year of ministry and mission.

During the conference, there was also a luncheon and fellowship program for pastors’ wives, which I attended. As in previous years, we welcomed new members, remembered those who had passed away, and honored the spouses retiring this year. Out of about 800 members, nine had gone to be with the Lord, and twelve were retiring.

Whenever I see the faces of retiring pastor’s wives, I am deeply moved—with reverence and affection for the long journeys they have walked. Some among them seemed far too young for retirement. Yet, retirement for a pastor’s wife is not determined by age; when her husband retires from ministry, her unpaid position and pastoral title naturally come to an end as well.

Among the retirees this year was Mrs. Matthew, the bishop’s wife, who had moved twenty-seven times, following her husband’s ministry around the world. Many others had experienced over ten moves, adapting to countless changes in environment, yet blooming like a thousand-mile fragrance of faith wherever they went. In their humble smiles and clear eyes, I saw no regret, only gratitude and serenity. Their lives—ripened by prayer and the Word—were like mature grain, admired by younger pastors’ wives who still run breathlessly in the race of ministry.

During the luncheon, one senior pastor’s wife shared a poem titled “For the Shining Moments of Life.” It was so beautiful that I copied it down to share with you:

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For the Shining Moments of Life
Train your thoughts in freedom and patience.
Smile often—don’t miss the precious moments.
Live within God’s Word, and make new friends.
Find something new among the things you’ve lost.
Tell those you love that you love them.
Think deeply, but forget your troubles.
Forgive your enemies; grasp hope for the future as if it were madness.
Count your blessings, seek your miracles.
Create change, and cast away your worries.
Give and receive freely, and believe you have enough.
Share beauty as flowers do, and keep your promises.
Look at the rainbow, gaze at the stars, and delight in the beauty around you.
Work diligently, live wisely.
Try to understand others, spend time with people, and also make time for yourself.
When you laugh, laugh from the heart; when you have joy, share it fully.
Sometimes start something new; at times, live gently and softly.
Watch the sunrise in the east, listen to the sound of the rain.
When you need to cry, cry deeply.
Trust life, keep your faith, and enjoy wonder.
Comfort a friend, hold good thoughts.
Admit mistakes and learn from them.
And live within the great festival of life.
— Jan Michelsen

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Hearing this poem, I found myself counting the years remaining until my own retirement. Honestly, I had never seriously imagined that day, but realizing that less than twenty years remain surprised me. Yet even that number is uncertain—God could call me home before any ceremony of farewell.

So I ask myself: what is the right attitude toward the years ahead? Perhaps it is to live with an open heart and a love for life’s simplest days—to cherish the ordinary moments as the truest preparation for the day of rest.

Under the growing warmth of June’s sun and the gentle touch of summer rain, I think of the tender, radiant beauty of the pastor’s wives now stepping into a new chapter. Like the scent of roses filling the air, may their lives continue to exude the fragrance of holiness.

With those thoughts, and a quiet smile, I returned to the parsonage—reminded that perhaps it is time for me, too, to grow a little wiser.

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They did not preach from pulpits, but their hands held the weight of prayer. Behind each sermon, a quiet breath, a folded blanket, a meal prepared in love.

They walked beside the calling— not ahead, not behind— but in the shadow of grace, where tears were wiped before they were seen.

Now, in this gentle hour, we gather not to say farewell, but to bless the years that bloomed in silence.

O souls that leapt like deer— you taught us how to wait, how to endure, how to sing with no stage.

Let the oil of honor anoint your brow. Let the light of morning stretch across the lake as you rise, not to depart, but to rest.