Recently, I’ve been reflecting a lot on endings—those that we see coming and those that catch us by surprise. Both have shown up side by side in my life over the past six months, each carrying its own blend of beauty and challenge. When something we know ends, and we don’t yet know what’s coming next, we’re left in a space of uncertainty. That uncertainty can easily turn into fear, anxiety, or even a flood of imaginative possibilities—some hopeful, some not.
What I’m learning—and what life is teaching me—is the importance of showing up as my best self in each moment, especially when I realize it might be a final moment. This week, I had a couple of those “last” moments: my final weekly reflection as pastor of St. James and my last Thursday sacred reading. Knowing these were my final opportunities in that role invited me to approach them with a certain kind of reverence and presence. They also stirred up emotion, reminding me of the importance of giving my best to whatever I’m called to in the moment.
Earlier this year, my father’s health took a sudden turn. For a time, it looked like he was dying, then it seemed like he was rebounding—only for him to pass unexpectedly. In that last month, knowing the possibility of his death gave me a chance to have conversations that might have otherwise gone unsaid. I took the time to talk about the things that mattered most. When he did pass, I had said what I needed to say. And while there was still grief and pain, there was also a sense of peace in knowing that I had been as present and open as I could be in those final conversations.
These experiences have taught me that everything on this side of eternity is finite. My time as pastor of St. James is finite. My time with my father was finite. Even this form in which I find myself will not last forever. So, I’m learning to take every opportunity to bring my best to each moment—not in the sense of perfection, but in the sense of showing up fully and wholeheartedly.
I know that “my best” can look different from one moment to the next. On some days, my best might be a deep, engaged conversation. On others, it might simply be withholding a harsh word or a frustrated sigh. Our best is never perfect; it’s just the best we can offer at that time, given our mood, our energy, and all the things that led us to that moment. The ancient Greek and Aramaic words for “perfect” in scripture aren’t about moral flawlessness—they’re about wholeness, maturity, and fullness. That’s what I’m trying to lean into.
So here’s the invitation: to treat every moment as sacred. To consider that it could be the last time we drive to work, the last time we speak to a loved one, the last time we offer a kind word to a stranger. When we remember the preciousness of these moments, we’re more likely to give them our full attention and care. We’re more likely to hold back the words that don’t need to be spoken and to offer the kindness that can ripple out beyond what we’ll ever see.
As I prepare to move into a new season of ministry and say goodbye to a community I’ve served for thirty-three years, I’m holding onto this truth: endings invite us to be fully present. They remind us that our time, our relationships, and our contributions are all finite, and that’s what makes them precious. My hope is that this reflection invites you to consider how you might live each moment with a similar sense of reverence and love, knowing that you are, and always will be, infinitely precious.
Infinitely Precious 