When people die, they are usually too tired, or too weak, to describe what it feels like. Then a month ago, I got a faint foretaste of what dying might feel like.
        But first, I need to provide a little background. Back in 1981, Ralph Milton had a dream – the two of us should start a publishing house. We called it Wood Lake Books, because from his deck he could see Wood Lake in the distance. Despite the grand name, we thought of it as a part-time hobby. Each of us might write a book, now and then. We would publish those books out of our basements, in the evenings...
        The project surprised us. It proved hugely successful. Within a year, both of us were working full-time at it. Before long, we had employees. Other authors sought us. Our first big success was a supplement to the United Church of Canada's hymnbook – the first printing ran 400,000 copies! Marilyn Perry arrived with a concept for a new, lectionary-based Sunday school program, which turned into The Whole People of God, which turned into today's Seasons of the Spirit.
        Meanwhile, our long-term staff took over from the Miltons and Taylors, and turned Wood Lake Books into a totally employee-owned firm. Ralph and I moved (by stages) into retirement, but we continued to have a seat on the Board of Directors.

Tough decisions
        This spring, 25 years later, Ralph and I both came to a realization – it was time to move on.
        I became aware that I would turn 70 later this year. I don't know how long I will live, let alone how long I will enjoy good health. But I know -- to use the language of finance and economics – that I've entered my final quarter. And I don't want to go into it dragging along a lot of baggage from the past.
        So we submitted our resignations.
        A month ago, we had our last Board meeting.
        It was much more emotional than I had expected. Always before, I have left more-or-less eagerly, to take up new careers, new opportunities, new challenges. This time, I had no sense of moving forward into anything. Just of moving on…
        In that sense, it was more like what I imagine death must be. The past is coming to an end; the future – if there is a future – remains unclear. Although it was my choice, I felt a great sense of loss.
        When our son was dying, he reminded us, “You're crying because you're losing one person. I'm losing everyone.”
        In that final Board meeting, we laughed, we debated issues, we told stories. And then it was time for us to leave…
        Time for handshakes and hugs…
        I found myself clinging to those people, those colleagues, those friends, as if I never wanted to let them go. Which was quite true – I didn't want to let them go. But it was time. For them, and for me.
        It was time to go.