50 before 50 (or: Apparently God Doesn't Care About My Checklists)

When I turned 49, I made a list.

50 things to do before I turned 50.

It was ambitious. It was hopeful. It was color-coded. (Okay, maybe not color-coded, but it felt color-coded.) I imagined crossing things off one by one like some sort of spiritually enlightened productivity guru.

Then God looked at my list, smiled, and said, "That's adorable."

Because, as usual... Life got in the way.

Now, before you assume this is one of those blog posts where I dramatically announce I accomplished three things and spent the rest of the year binge-watching British baking shows (which, to be fair, wouldn't be the worst year ever), let me tell you what did happen.

I took not one, but several personal retreats. Apparently I needed them.

I wrote a letter to my younger self and another to the Laura who will turn 60 someday. (That one is staying between me, Future Laura, and God.)

I preached more boldly about grace because, honestly, our world desperately needed more grace and a whole lot less certainty.

I spent 49 days experimenting with 49 spiritual practices, only to discover that I'm still a Lectio Divina, art-around-a-Bible-verse, and knitting-as-prayer kind of pastor. Sometimes spiritual growth is discovering that the practices that have always grounded you still do.

I visited another faith community during my renewal leave and was reminded that we are part of something so much bigger than our own congregations. We have more in common than we sometimes realize.

I intended to read a theological book outside my comfort zone. Instead, I spent the year watching Christian nationalism make headlines and thought, "You know what? That's enough uncomfortable theology for one year."

I became more intentional about inviting people to our family table. Hospitality turns out to be less about perfect meals and more about making room for one more chair.

I took a trip with my two best friends to somewhere I'd never been before. I spent time by a river, because if you've known me for more than five minutes, you know moving water is one of the places where I hear God most clearly.

I did something that genuinely terrified me. (OK this wasn't on the list, but had to be added...) I bought a house. If you've ever signed approximately 8,472 mortgage documents, you know this counts as both an act of courage and an extreme sport.

I made a reverse bucket list. I hosted community meals. I marched in public demonstrations. I volunteered outside the walls of the church. I kept writing—about faith, justice, inclusion, and the strange, beautiful world we're trying to love into being.

I even fulfilled a childhood curiosity by substitute teaching throughout the Silver Falls School District. It turns out I enjoyed it. It also turns out I love being a pastor even more.

Along the way, I mentored a young adult, made public witness to the Gospel as I understand it, and tried—imperfectly, persistently—to follow Jesus in a world that often rewards something else entirely.

Looking back, I realize something.

I didn't complete my list.

But I lived my life.

The older I get, the less convinced I am that God is keeping score with checkboxes.

Scripture is surprisingly unconcerned with completed bucket lists. Instead, over and over, we encounter a God who interrupts plans, redirects journeys, and shows up in places no one expected.

Abraham didn't check "leave everything familiar" off a list.

Mary didn't schedule an angelic visit.

The disciples certainly didn't have "drop everything and follow Jesus" penciled into their planners.

The holy moments almost never happen because we've managed our time perfectly.

They happen because we're paying attention.

This past year brought transition, uncertainty, endings, beginnings, joy, grief, and a move I never saw coming. It brought new communities to love, old friends to treasure, and countless reminders that God's grace is far less interested in our productivity than our presence.

So yes, I turned 50 without finishing my 50 Before 50 list.

And honestly?

I'm okay with that.

Because maybe the point was never to finish.

Maybe the point was to become.

To become a little braver.

A little kinder.

A little more willing to speak the truth in love.

A little quicker to laugh at myself.

A little more convinced that grace really is enough.

The list isn't complete.

But neither am I.

Thanks be to God.

Because that means there is still room to grow, still adventures to take, still justice to pursue, still rivers to sit beside, still tables to gather around, still stories to write, and still a God who isn't finished with me yet.

Here's to 50.

And to whatever wonderfully unplanned thing comes next.