I take vitamins. I have for years. Whether or not they’re helpful, I don’t know. I think they are. Either way, I take them because of habit, along with an unspoken hope to stave off decline. Hope and habit, I suppose, outweigh my skepticism.

Each morning, I rattle and shake the pills from my dispenser like dice in a gambler’s palm, casting my lot with D3, E, and others I hope will maintain my joints and back. There’s a strange comfort in the ritual—a brief moment every morning of feeling like I’ve done something to tip the scales in my favor. After all, I’m getting older, and nowadays, I’m less concerned about being what I once was as an athlete and more interested in picking up my grandson, Preston, when he reaches out to me.

Admittedly, I sometimes wonder if it’s all just a polite nod to the illusion of betterment. Maybe. But in a world that already feels incredibly out of balance, the smallest rituals can be the most stabilizing. And for me, that’s reason enough to continue.

A few weeks ago, Jennifer and I were remembering when we first met. After that brief conversation, I found myself drifting into earlier memories, years before Jennifer. Back then, I was a determined guy who didn’t like to lose. I’m still that way today, but nowhere near the level of my youth. Looking back at my late teens and early twenties, I see now that much of what I claimed to know was really just a thick confidence borrowed from youthfulness. Life seems to thin out over time—not just in muscle mass or bone density, but in what I actually know. There’s truth in the saying: the more you know, the more you realize just how much you don’t know. I was so sure about certain things that I ended up saying or doing things I probably wouldn’t say or do today. In truth, I didn’t fully understand the situation, but I acted anyway, believing I did.

Thankfully, most things worked out. God certainly used my youthful zeal for my betterment. That said, I lean less on determination these days and more on steadiness. Like my vitamin regimen, I’ve exchanged the need for proof with the simple desire to keep showing up every day.

Determination has given way to commitment.

You’d be surprised how much happier a person can be when he’s less interested in the next big accomplishment and more committed to the long game of where he is right now. When it comes to life in the Church—life as a pastor—that’s a better posture anyway. A pastor’s life isn’t defined by conquest beyond his congregation’s borders. Sometimes that’s necessary. But most of the time, it’s about continuity—holding to faithfulness and preserving a congregation’s Christian identity. Much of what we do is simply hanging in there and not giving up. It’s preaching and teaching today, trusting that it will take root and grow tomorrow.

At the heart of it, I suppose what I’m really thinking about and pointing toward this morning is faithfulness. Saint Paul wrote, “It is required of stewards that they be found faithful” (1 Corinthians 4:2). Paul already knows how a developed knowledge of God’s Word and sound doctrine is essential. But here, he implies that no small part of the task itself is faithful stewardship with what He’s given and where He’s situated you to use what He’s given.

No small part of the task is showing up.

Showing up has taught me some things. For one, I’ve learned that the truly sacred things in life are the ordinary, everyday things. I’ve also learned that when they’re gone, they’re missed more than any titles or trophies ever achieved along the way. The most meaningful moments in my life rarely arrive with fanfare. They come quietly—and they take many forms. The most recent was a child in our school who asked me a theological question that stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t thought about the topic that way before, and with the child’s help, I could see the world a little differently. Truthfully, the same thing happens more often than not in most casual conversations with young and old here at Our Savior. But the point is that such moments don’t happen through force—they happen through repetition, patience, and the long, slow process of showing up.

So yes, I show up to take my vitamins. But I also show up each week with an eNews message. I show up in the pulpit with a sermon. I show up prepared for Bible study or religion class. I show up when I’m called to someone’s hospital room at two o’clock in the morning. I show up when my children need me. (They’ll tell you I show up even when they don’t.) I show up for meetings. I show up to hear confessions that break my heart. I show up when a couple’s marriage is struggling. I show up to pray every morning for the congregation God has called me to serve.

I show up for myself, too. For one, writing is my thing. It’s therapeutic. But I also show up in other ways: taking a minute to stretch on the closet floor in the morning, gulping down a handful of vitamins, doing a few pullups or planks when I get a chance, walking on the treadmill—not because I’m chasing youth, but because I’m caring for what remains.

That’s what life looks like for me now. It’s certainly not complacency. But it is less about accomplishment and more about steadiness. And just so you know, I think there’s a quiet kind of victory in staying steady and persistent—to be available to hold Preston when he wants to be held, to be present for those quietly arriving moments.

After I’m gone, for whoever chooses to remember me, I don’t want the strength of my life measured by accomplishment. I want it measured by faithfulness. That’s the standard I’m aiming for—not brilliance, not acclaim, not even success as the world defines it. Just faithfulness to my Lord and to the people among whom He’s placed me. Day in and day out, it was just as habitual to do what needed to be done among them as it was to take my vitamins. It’s really as simple—and as profound—as that.