John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
The sanctuary was still on Sunday, as it always is just before the first hymn, the familiar scent of polished wood and old hymnals hanging in the air. I wasn’t in my usual pew, the one where the stained-glass window casts amber and blue light. I was suffering from a pinched nerve and sat near the back, close to the exit, in case I needed to make a hasty retreat. The pastor stepped to the pulpit and I immediately knew something was off. His tone was different, strained, as though he carried a great weight he yearned to release. He was resigning, effective at the end of June, not to lead another church, but to step away from congregational leadership, trusting the Spirit to guide him into the unknown. The congregation stirred, whispers rippling through the pews, but his words landed like a stone in my chest. I knew that kind of courage, that willingness to unplug and start anew.
I’ve done it before.
A hard reset is no small thing. It’s not a pivot or a pause – like a new job or a new house – it’s pulling the plug, letting the screen go dark, and trusting you will be able to boot it back up again. I’ve felt that weight more than once. Years ago, my wife and I packed up our lives and moved to North Carolina, a leap of faith that traded the familiar flatlands of northwest Ohio for the rushing streams and steep ridges of the Piedmont. It was a reset that uprooted every aspect of our lives, from the friends we hung out with to the store where we bought our groceries. i don’t regret doing it for a minute, but in retrospect … it was a lot.
In 2004, I reset again, leaving the security of a prestigious consulting firm to strike out on my own. That choice, fraught with uncertainty, eventually led me to rural economic development – building resilient communities, fostering local startups and recruiting businesses to small towns.
Most recently, after two decades in economic development, I stepped away – retired, if you want to call it that – to pursue writing and the outdoors full-time. It was another hard reset, one that traded the steady hum of meetings and projects for the quieter rhythm of words and wilderness. Like my pastor, I felt a pull to let go of a role that defined me, to follow a deeper calling toward storytelling and the natural world that’s always been my truest home. Each reset has been a step into the unknown, a choice to trust that the Spirit, or if you prefer, instinct, that guides us, knows the way.
The pastor’s announcement was a mirror to those moments. He wasn’t fleeing failure or chasing a promotion; he was listening to a conviction that his time in the pulpit was done, that something else awaited. I’ve known that tug – when the life you’ve built starts to feel like a suit jacket you’ve outgrown. For me, it was leaving Ohio for Charlotte, quitting a stable job for uncertainty, and finally, stepping away from the life of an economic developer to write and wander. For him, it’s leaving the life of a congregational pastor for a path without a name.
Resets are never easy. When we moved to North Carolina, I lay awake some nights, wondering if the new mortgage – our house in the Charlotte suburbs cost more than twice the modest condo we left behind – would break us. In 2004, every unpaid invoice tested my nerve. This latest shift, leaving a career I’d built over decades, brought its own doubts – could I make a life of writing, of chasing the quiet call of the woods? But each time, the Spirit led me not just away from something, but toward something truer. The mountains gave me a home. Going out on my own gave me purpose. And now, this new chapter is already weaving stories and trails and garden abundance I couldn’t have imagined.
The church will carry on. A new pastor will step in, and the man who led us will walk into his own unknown, just as I did when I loaded a moving truck for North Carolina, signed the papers to leave my consulting job or turned in my last monthly economic development report. His courage reminds me that resets are always possible, no matter how settled life seems. I’m still settling into my latest one, pen in hand, boots on the trail, listening for what the Spirit might say next. The screen’s gone dark again, but I know by now: Something’s always waiting to spark.