Dear St. Andrew's,

As I approached my fiftieth birthday, I found myself praying for an adventure, something that would help me discern God's direction for the next season of my life.

I thought I knew what that adventure might look like. I was planning a trip to Palestine and Israel, where I hoped to work, learn, and encounter God in new ways.

Instead, I got sick. My plans fell apart, and the adventure I'd imagined never happened.

I remember wondering what God was doing. I'd prayed for an adventure, and I was certainly having one, just not the kind I'd asked for!

While in hospital, I read Stages of a Man's Life, by Christian psychologist E. James Wilder. Wilder describes the stages of a man's life, from infancy and childhood through adulthood, fatherhood, and eventually elderhood. Each stage brings its own opportunities and challenges, along with important tasks of growth. When those tasks remain unfinished, their consequences often follow us into subsequent stages.

As I read, I began to recognize something about my own life.

I was approaching the transition from fatherhood into elderhood. Not simply growing older, but entering a stage where the focus increasingly shifts from building and nurturing one's own family toward investing in the generations that follow.

An elder, in this understanding, is someone who has accumulated experience and, hopefully, some wisdom, and who offers that wisdom for the benefit of others. Elders mentor, encourage, coach, and help others discover their gifts and find their way. Their concern extends beyond their immediate families to the flourishing of the wider community.

It's a beautiful calling, and one I find increasingly compelling.

But there's a catch. To become that kind of elder, we must also attend to the unfinished business of our own lives. Paul reminds Timothy that those entrusted with caring for God's people must first learn to care well for their own households (1 Timothy 3:4–5). There's wisdom in that principle extending beyond church leadership: we need to attend to the house of our own lives if we're to offer wisdom and care to others.

And that got me thinking about my actual house.

There were floors needing replacement, gardens needing attention, rooms to rearrange, and a seemingly endless list of chores. Some things I'd been meaning to get to for years.

But what about the house of my life?

Were there relationships needing attention? Habits that needed changing? Hurts that needed healing? How was I treating others? How was I allowing myself to be treated? Were there things I'd neglected or avoided, or simply learned to live with, even though they weren't life-giving?

As it turns out, repairing a floor can be considerably easier than attending to the messier parts of our inner lives!

Psalm 139 says: "Search me, O God, and know my heart ... and lead me in the way everlasting" (verses 23–24).

Perhaps that's where wisdom begins. Not in having everything figured out, but in the humility to invite God to show us what still needs attention.

Putting our house in order doesn't mean achieving a perfect life, resolving every difficulty, or finally becoming good enough for God. That's the work of grace, not a task we accomplish through our own efforts. It means becoming increasingly honest about ourselves, taking responsibility for what belongs to us, and allowing God's grace to continue its transforming work.

And we don't do this merely for ourselves.

Paul encouraged Timothy to entrust what he'd learned to others who could, in turn, teach still more people (2 Timothy 2:2). There's a beautiful picture of elderhood: wisdom received, cultivated, and generously passed along.

I don't imagine I'll ever finish putting my house in order. There will always be another room to tend, another lesson to learn, another opportunity to grow in grace.

But perhaps that's precisely the point. The wisdom we have to offer others isn't the wisdom of people who have arrived. It's the wisdom of people who have learned, sometimes through painful experience, what it means to keep walking faithfully with God.

I still hope to travel to Palestine and Israel one day. Yet I wonder whether the unexpected adventure I've been living has been preparing me for something every bit as important: a new season of serving others with greater wisdom, humility, and love.

Whatever season of life you find yourself in, perhaps there's an invitation here for all of us.

What might God be inviting you to tend, repair, nurture, or release?

And how might that work prepare you to become a greater blessing to others?

With you for Christ,

Pastor Jeremy