February 2026 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

Living On The Edge

I have never been much of a thrill seeker, but I’ve been thinking it is about time I shook things up a bit.

I recently began teaching a spiritual formation course for a group of young adults. The participants are between the ages of 17 and 30. I am a 66-year-old woman who has never had children. Additionally, some of the participants are also students at a nearby college for students with learning differences. The wide range of ages, life experiences, backgrounds, learning styles, and personalities would be a challenge for anyone, but it is especially difficult for someone like me. I do so love a plan, preparation, and predictable processes.

I taught this same course to our parish at large last year. It is helpful to note that our “parish at large” consists of a plethora of senior citizens, many of whom have been churchgoers their whole lives. I knew going into my young adult class that the experience would be different. I was excited about it. I looked forward to learning from them and sharing with them. I looked forward to stretching my sensibilities.

The premise of the course is that adults, young and old, have plenty of ideas, life experiences, feelings, and assorted other mental material in their brains. There is no need for the instructor to “fill them up.” The role of the instructor is to help the participants look at the stuff that has been sitting in their brains for a long time and “stir it up,” to see if it is still within the “use by” date and if it can grow richer.

I could not have known what a blessing it would be for me. Plans, preparation, and predictable processes have absolutely no place in this adventure. In fact, the experience is wild, wooly, and completely unpredictable. I would say there is no process whatsoever, but that would not be strictly true. I believe there is a process, but it is not I who has designed it. It is the Holy Spirit. I often stop for a moment and think about what a marvel it is that I have been able to step back and let the Holy Spirit truly take the reins. It is good for me to get knocked off my perch.

We have just finished session five of a six-session program. So often, my carefully prepared lesson plan has gone completely by the wayside. This week, I do not think I even picked it up. The students are driving the bus. And that is a wonderful thing. Sometimes, the segues are non-existent and the gear shifting transitions threaten to destroy the transmission. Sometimes, I am not even sure what we are talking about. However, at least once in every session, someone says something so introspective and profound that it is clear Grace has entered the building. Additionally, the students’ kindness, sense of ownership, and accountability are inspiring.

Sometimes, there is a clash of world views, even from all of us in the arms of Jesus. Sometimes, it feels a little too intense for comfort. I’m talking about my world view as well as those of the different students. We haven’t quite figured out how to settle all that, but everyone is unfailingly kind. That, perhaps, is the best world view to have. Besides, don’t “they” always say there is no comfort in growth and no growth in comfort? These students are stirring me up AND filling me up!

A Little Slice Of Heaven In Orlando

Thoughts, feelings, and words can be slippery things. Sometimes, I have an experience that ignites an explosion within me. I want to blog about the internal inferno but I struggle to gather sufficient shrapnel to craft a coherent response. This is one of those times, so please grant me some grace.

I recently attended the annual convention of the Episcopal Diocese of Central Florida. Some of you know that I converted to the Episcopal Church in January of 2018 after spending my life as an observant Roman Catholic. My blog body of work probably clearly screams that I am a “churchy” kind of gal. My relationship with God is the most important thing in my life. One of my highest priorities in retirement has been to find out how I can grow closer to God and to serve Him.

The Episcopal community I found in 2016 seemed to speak to my soul. For the first year or two, I largely consumed. I allowed God to feed me. I did not engage much with the other church members because my mother was on her end-of-life journey. The only life I had then was walking beside her during her time in the shadowland between life and death. Gradually, I connected with the church community and became attached. I blossomed spiritually. I began shouldering more of the family responsibilities- getting involved in activities, tithing, serving. I feel nourished by my church. I enjoy the worship and the fellowship. I have nurturing relationships with people I now believe are my family, including my pastor and his actual family. I have been very active in ministry since at least 2019.

That is the pretty picture. It is a accurate, true picture. But it isn’t the whole picture. There have been times of brokenness and despair. Sometimes, loving means hurting. Jesus talked about the blessings that are intrinsic in the painful places in life. He, himself, gave us the greatest blessing- beyond anything any of us can conceive- in the most painful place imaginable when He gave himself over for crucifixion.

I am certainly not Jesus. I am certainly not even complaining because my pain seems insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I am certainly not oblivious to the blessings God provides me- in the good times AND the painful times.

Let’s just say, though, that I’ve had my share of hurt in the church because I loved and because I tried to answer my baptismal call. There have been times when people feared me. There have been times when people misunderstood me. There have been times when people attacked me. It is difficult for me to express the beauty and depth of the bond I share with most of the people in my church… which makes it all the more painful and jarring when something happens to show me that the same brush does not paint everyone.

Over the past couple of years, the crucible of congregational development sucked me into its flashpoint. This period of metamorphosis turned a blinding spotlight on some of the more uncomfortable facets of “being church.” I got scorched by the spotlight. It took me an unreasonably long time to work my way through that period.

As my congregation grew in numbers and vibrancy, I could see so much good happening. The opportunities for personal harm paled in comparison to what I could intuitively feel happening. Church attendance seemed to be increasing. New ministries commenced. The love seemed to be growing. I spoke to my pastor about the way events played out over the past couple of years. I came to the conclusion that I would not have changed a thing. I believe most of what I tumbled through was necessary for our church to achieve this new growth. Also, I achieved much growth. Despite the pain, anxiety, and drama- probably even BECAUSE of it.

As I observed all the positive movement in my congregation, it was easy for me to think it was all in my head or to attribute it to “just happening.” Up until the diocesan convention, everything I thought I observed was intuitive rather than cognitive. Still, my gut saw it as a win and all felt right in my world.

On the first day of the convention, a social scientist famous for analyzing the dechurchification of America, discussed depressing statistics about church attendance and Christian identification. The bishop addressed the delegation on the morning of the second day to present a more optimistic perspective. He relayed a conversation he had with the presiding bishop of the United States. Our diocese has the fourth highest average Sunday attendance in the entire nation. This is a positive sign, in and of itself. The presiding bishop went a step further. He explained that, if we look at that statistic by congregation, we have the highest average Sunday attendance in the nation- over 20% higher than the second diocese on the list. I could take it even a step further. My church has a congregation that is approximately 30% higher than the average for our diocese. The bishop went on to explain that high average Sunday attendance is attributable to three factors- excellent preaching, genuinely welcoming congregations, and vibrant ministries.

As the impact of his words traveled from my ears to my brain, I felt something akin to hope warm my whole body. I even started to cry quietly. What I heard was that what my instinct observed at my church is not all in my head. My intuition now had hard data to support its truth. What I also heard was that it wasn’t “just happening.” God is using His people to make it happen. And I get to be part of that. That thought was so transcendent, my body could not contain it. The tears overflowed my spirit.

What a perfect, exquisite glimpse of Heaven!

TinkerBell Trauma

My favorite fairy has been discon-tink-ued.

People who know me IRL understand that it is “all Tink all the time” in my world. From the time I was a baby, my parents called me TinkerBell. For years, I thought it was sweet and cute. As I got older and read the original play by J.M Barrie, I questioned that characterization. TinkerBell is not always a very nice fairy. Still- good, bad, and ugly- TinkerBell has always been my alter ego. I have endless pictures of myself with TinkerBell. I have a TinkerBell wardrobe that is the envy of four-year-old girls everywhere. Some of you may even recall that I visited the “Bippity Boppity Boutique for grown-ups” a few years back to get Tinkifying makeover. I have an adorable lime green car that I call the “Tinkmobile.”

I also have a lovely little Chase VISA card that earns Disney reward points that I save up each year to pay towards our annual passes. The uber-adorable thing about this credit card is that TinkerBell’s picture is on the front of it. Every time I pull out my credit card, I get a green glimpse of the perky pixie princess. It reminds me that there is a TinkerBell persona living inside of me. Surely, despite my frumpy elderly exterior, there is a feisty, flirty, flittery, fun fairy bursting to get out.

Tragedy struck. Somehow, my Tinker card got compromised and I started getting charged $25 per month for some weird horoscope type service. I contacted Chase to report a fraud and dispute the charges. They agreed to reverse the charges, freeze my account, and send me a new card with a new account number. When the new card arrived, it sported Cinderella’s castle and not TinkerBell. I called the bank, thinking it was an error. There are several designs a cardholder can choose for the card, so I figured the person issuing the new card just accepted the default instead of specifying my TinkerBell choice.

Sadly, this was not the case. The lady on the phone confidently said she could help me get a card with the correct design. As she scrolled the options, however, she realized that TinkerBell HAD BEEN DISCONTINUED! I cannot begin to express the dismay I felt. It was as if I had lost my identity.

Ever since that conversation, I have been trying to fill the TinkerBell-credit-card-sized hole in my heart. I have barely worn anything other than Tink-themed clothing. I managed to wear appropriate church apparel to the Sunday service. Before I returned to the church that evening to lead the young adult study group session, however, I changed into my custom-painted TinkerBell and Periwinkle (Tink’s fraternal twin, for those of you who are not up on your pixie lore) sweatshirt that boasts that “I am the third sister.”

It still isn’t working. I am feeling unmoored by this turn of events. The bank advised me to destroy the old card. I have not been able to bring myself to comply; I doubt I ever will. Grinding TinkerBell through the shredder is not on my bingo card.

I am in mourning. Max immediately started googling to find some sort of replacement product to ease my pain. The best he could find was a new floral TinkerBell spirit jersey. One could argue that while a Tink-design credit card and yet another article of pixie clothing are both nice but not exactly interchangeable. I don’t care. If my Tink credit card was my heroin, the new spirit jersey might at least function as my methadone.

We are going to Disney Springs today to buy the jersey- lest the delirium tremors begin!