The Quiet After the Song

By Dr. Benjamin John

Four Wednesdays. Four stories. One thread running through it all: the slow, sacred work of remembering what matters.

This June, I sat down each week with Essentialism open in one hand and a memory in the other. I didn’t try to teach. I just tried to tell the truth—the kind that hums beneath the surface, the kind most folks don’t say out loud until they’re sitting on a porch or lying in a hospice bed.

We talked about the noise we carry. The things we say yes to because we’re scared of what “no” might mean. I confessed the weight of being needed, the quiet courage it took to miss a clinic shift for a piano recital, and the beauty of designing a life that fits your soul instead of your résumé.

And last week, we peeled back all the layers. Asked the hardest question of all: who am I, really, when I stop performing?

It’s not easy to answer. But I’m learning this—what’s essential isn’t always what’s loud. Sometimes it’s the voice that whispers when all the others fade. The one that says: You are still here. You are still worthy.

As we close out this month, I want to leave you with this image: a quiet porch, early morning mist, and a man sitting with his coffee, not planning the day, just being in it. That man is me, on the mornings I get it right. No chart to fill, no role to prove. Just presence. Just breath.

Now, we’re stepping into July—and we’re doing so with intention. This next month is not for productivity. It’s for rest. For sabbath. For resetting the rhythm before the music starts again.

You won’t see new posts from me in July, because I’ll be walking slower, sleeping longer, and maybe planting something new in the garden. You deserve the same, if you can manage it. This isn’t absence. It’s preparation. Because come August, we’ll be gathering again around a different book. Another set of questions. Another path to walk together.

But before we move on, let’s honor where we’ve been.

To those of you who read each week, who shared my words, who whispered your own stories back to me in emails or quiet nods—thank you. You’ve made this more than a reflection. You’ve made it communion.

Angela used to say, “You don’t have to light the whole sky, Ben. Just keep your porchlight on.” That’s what I’ve tried to do here.

So take July slow. Let the dust settle. Let the questions linger without rushing toward an answer.

The porchlight will still be on when you return.

Grace and peace,
—Dr. Benjamin John