I never planned to retire. Father Time, however, had other plans for me.

After carrying me forth to the overripe age of 65, he kindly deposited me on the threshold of retirement. But now that retirement is imminent, it no longer seems particularly dreadful. It feels, rather, like a birth.

Our initial birth was engineered by our parents. But we ourselves, at least to a certain extent, are responsible for the rebirth that is our retirement. Let me call our second parents “friendship” and “fortune.” They have been, in my case, rather benevolent parents. They have faithfully and fruitfully interacted with each other over a 65-year gestation period. I am more indebted to them than I can say. And I can't wait to begin sampling the harvest. What is past is prologue.

As a member of the teaching profession, to think of “retirement as a rebirth” is almost irresistible. Each spring, we hold commencement exercises for students who have completed their studies and are beginning a new chapter in their lives. Students graduate; teachers stick around. Yet the time eventually arrives for teachers to graduate and commence their own new chapters. But a lot more must go into teachers before they are ready to embark on their own new lives. It is not that they are worn out; it is that they are geared up. Or, at least, that's the way it should be.

Retirement is a rebirth and a commencement. But it is also an expansion of freedom. I do not feel old; I feel disencumbered. There is an exhilarating feeling to separating the gold from the dross. I look forward with youthful exuberance to time without the restriction of a schedule, to pensions without the requirement of a job, to activity without the annoyance of criticism, to discussions without the nuisance of exams, and to grandchildren without the burden of having to change diapers.

Retirement edges onto the future, though it is rich with sacred memories. But the good times augur more good things to come. The most interesting feature of “Grandma” Moses, who took up painting for the first time at 78, was that she had to reach that advanced age before she realized how young she was. Her gaily colored depictions of life that is eternally youthful hang in museums throughout the world. We must understand that life does not contract; it expands. Pre-retirement is a protracted period of positive preparation.

There are innumerable memories I cherish. Some are poignant, others slightly comical; but all are sacred. Escorting one of my former students down the aisle to give her away in holy matrimony shortly after her father had passed away. Visiting a student who lost his eyesight and discussing with him matters of ultimate significance. Being the sponsor for several students who, at different times, entered the Catholic Church. Being lavishly and lovingly introduced by former students while on the lecture circuit. Going to confession to former students who had become priests. Attending the weddings of former students and, in time, being introduced to their children —my spiritual grandchildren. Visiting students in hospitals. Playing the piano on request for an elderly student —a wife and mother —as she lay in bed in the next room, knowing that her days on this earth were numbered.

Yesterday I mailed a horde of thank-you letters to the many people who sent me their prayers and best personal wishes. It is appropriate, when a person passes away, to pray for the repose of his soul. But when he merely retires, it is most fitting to pray for his soul's activity.

A group of students purchased vouchers for me to use at a local bookstore. Their gift was both generous and propitious inasmuch as it indicates that I still have much to learn. Another group of students bought me a comfortable, high-backed chair. It will serve me well as I sit before my computer and continue to surf the 'Net and spin out articles. I am most thankful that these students did not get me a rocking chair. “Keep writing,” many have entreated. I will, and my new throne will function as ongoing encouragement.

Thirty-two years of teaching at St. Jerome's University in Waterloo, Ontario. Forty years of teaching altogether. Enough time to allow me to sit now with the children of some of my former students and read books with them.

Teaching is of the future. It is passing on something that has claim to enduring value. In teaching, one places himself in the stream of eternity. Compared to that, retirement age is merely the blink of an eye.

Retirement is the intersection of gratitude and hope. The former is for the past, the latter for the future. Gratitude is the memory of the heart; hope is the anticipation that the heart will have additional reasons for being grateful. It is easier to move confidently into the future when one can utilize the wings of gratitude and the courtesy of those two prolific and provident parents, friendship and fortune. Retirement is not a rendezvous with the grim reaper, but a chance to become a fruitful reaper.

Don DeMarco writes from Kitchener, Ontario