Still Here. Still Loving. Still His.
I’ve gone back and forth about whether to share this. I’m not one to put personal things out there lightly—especially when they carry weight. But I’ve learned that silence can sometimes leave people guessing, and that honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable, has a way of helping others feel less alone.
This isn’t easy for me to write. Not because I’m afraid, but because I’ve spent a lifetime trying not to be a burden to anyone. Still, I believe there’s value in being real, especially when love and grace are at the heart of it.
What follows isn’t a cry for help, or a dramatic announcement. It’s just a piece of truth from where I am in this season of life. If it helps someone else find peace, clarity, or understanding—then it’s worth sharing.
At the Easter Sunrise Service in 2024, I shared that I had just had a birthday and turned 75. There was applause, a few gasps, and more applause. I didn’t mention my age this past Easter—but I’m now 76, and a little over a year ago, I was diagnosed with Stage 4 kidney disease.
I don’t share this to invite pity, or even concern. I’m at peace with it. I’m not pursuing dialysis, and a transplant at my age isn’t realistic. The truth is, I don’t know how long I have—but then again, who really does?
What I do know is this: I carry love in my heart. A love that doesn’t need to be seen to be real. A love that still aches sometimes—not because it wants to go back, but because it was once deeply connected.
There are many people I’ve cared for deeply—one who shared many years of my life, and another I tried so hard to help and hold steady. I don’t name them here out of respect, but those stories are written in me. In all cases, I’ve had to learn that loving someone doesn’t always mean staying. Sometimes it means letting go, not because you don’t care—but because you do. Because you know you can’t fix what isn’t yours to fix. Because you don’t want to leave someone grieving again later when your time runs out.
So if you’ve ever wondered why I keep a little distance, this is why. Not to push anyone away—but to hold space with honesty. I will always be a friend. I will always care. But I’ve had to make peace with where the line is drawn.
To anyone walking with silent burdens or complicated love, I want you to know: you’re not alone. God sees. And sometimes, choosing not to burden others is one of the deepest forms of love there is.
Still here. Still loving. Still His.
In Jesus Christ.
—John