Last weekend, I embarked on a culinary adventure with my two youngest kids: their inaugural voyage to an all-you-can-eat small plates sushi restaurant. To say they embraced the spirit of ‘try all the things’ would be an understatement.

Imagine the scene: a whirlwind of tiny, colorful dishes descending upon our table, each holding the promise of a new flavor. Some were devoured with gusto, becoming instant favorites [hello seaweed salad and edamame in the pod!]. Others, after a tentative nibble, were politely (or not-so-politely) relegated to the ‘learning experience’ pile, occasionally accompanied by a facial expression usually reserved for discovering a slug in your salad.

By the time the ‘I’m stuffed!’ declarations finally arrived, our table looked less like a fine dining experience and more like the aftermath of a particularly enthusiastic tapas battle – the carnage of ceramic and half-chewed remnants of rejected morsels was real.

As the dust (and rice) settled, I initiated clean-up protocol.

‘Alright team,’ I announced, ‘let’s scrape all the leftovers into this one bowl, stack the empties neatly here, and let’s use these napkins to wipe down our splatter zone.’ My youngest, ever the inquisitor, piped up, ‘But Chris, why do we have to help clean up? Isn’t that what the restaurant people do?’

‘Well,’ I explained, ‘you’re right, we don’t have to. But we should want to. These folks work incredibly hard, and the least we can do is finish our meal well by making their job of cleaning up our chaos a little bit easier.’

Bless their sticky faces, they probably still thought I was bonkers, but they did get everything neatly stacked and the table wiped before we piled back in my clown car and took the chaos home.

And isn’t that a lesson that extends far beyond the sticky confines of a sushi restaurant? This idea of finishing well, of leaving a space – whether it’s a dinner table or an almost- three-year chapter of your life – in a way that feels considerate and complete.

I find myself swimming (occasionally treading water, if I’m honest) in this very notion these days.

I’m in the final three weeks of my contract with the Unitarian Universalist congregation I’ve been privileged to serve for nearly three years. The ‘lasts’ are starting to pile up, stacking like those little sushi plates, each one carrying its own distinct flavor of emotion.

Last board meeting (and yes, a not-so-small, very irreverent part of me did whisper, ‘Thank Dog,’ a sentiment I suspect many who’ve navigated the beautiful complexities of congregational life, and its meetings, might understand).

Last worship scheduling session, trying to ensure the rhythm of community worship continues seamlessly.

I’m even now beginning to gather the threads for my last sermon, a task that feels both weighty and wonderfully poignant.

It’s a bittersweet inventory, this collection of lasts.

There’s a definite sense of an era drawing to a close, a turning of a significant page.

And with it comes a keen awareness, much like standing up from that sushi table with a slight food coma, of what I want to leave behind.

Because, let’s be honest, there are multiple ways to exit.

We can sprint for the door, leaving the professional equivalent of that carnage-strewn, sticky restaurant table for someone else to sort out, a monument to our hasty departure and their future scrubbing efforts.

Or, we can choose to finish well.

To wrap things up thoughtfully, to organize the odds and ends, to perhaps even leave a little note of welcome for the next occupant (maybe with a warning about the finicky office printer). We aim to hand over our responsibilities not as a burden, but as a gift, neatly packaged and perhaps even tied with a bow of good intentions.

Why bother?

This is a question that has been particularly resonant for me lately.

The finish line is not just in sight; I can practically taste the Gatorade and hear the distant cheers (or is that just tinnitus from the stress?).

And the urge to simply be done, to drop everything and run screaming towards the metaphorical sunset (or at least a very long nap), has been incredibly strong.

Just this past month, I found myself unexpectedly stretched far beyond capacity. What was supposed to be a part-time commitment of around 30 hours for the entire month ballooned into a 70+ hour marathon. My days were a whirlwind of sacred and secular obligations: a joyful wedding, the vibrant chaos of hosting a Pride Prom (balloons everywhere, but no craft herpes were spread in the building!), the emotionally fraught task of refereeing and officiating a family funeral that rivaled a Shakespearean tragedy, all while counseling several congregants navigating their own significant life upheavals and preaching, doing 15 child dedications on Easter Sunday, and getting ready for the new minister to arrive.

Frankly, I am fried.

More than fried.

I have been feeling like that piece of tempura that’s been left in the fryer way too long, sputtering and on the verge of disintegration, just wishing someone would remember to turn off the heat. My reserves are low, and the appeal of just… stopping… is immense. My mantra last month was sadly, ‘Is it over yet?’ usually mumbled into my third cup of coffee.

And then, the sushi restaurant happened.

As I watched my kids, and then guided them in tidying our little corner of chaos, it was like a gentle but firm tap on the shoulder from the universe – or perhaps just the sheer stickiness of the table jolting me back to my principles.

It was a reminder of a commitment I’ve always tried to honor: the importance of finishing well, even when – especially when – I’m tired, when I feel like I’ve given all I can, and when the easiest path would be to just walk away from the debris.

So, why bother?

For me, it’s about respect – respect for the work, respect for the community that cradled that work, and immense respect for the wonderful person who is stepping in next (may their coffee be strong and their meetings be short).

It’s also about integrity, about the quiet satisfaction of knowing I’ve seen something through with care, right to the very end.

How we conclude an endeavor often shapes our entire memory of it, and critically, it shapes the legacy we leave for others. It’s the aftertaste that lingers long after the meal is over.

So, I’ve established the why – that deep-seated desire to leave my metaphorical corner of the restaurant tidier than I found it, even when I’m exhausted and just want to bolt. But what does ‘finishing well’ actually look like in the doing, especially when I’m navigating the bittersweet terrain of ‘lasts’?

For me, it’s been a multi-faceted process.

The physical act of ‘clearing the table’ was one of the first steps.

The room I used as an office is already emptied, making space for its next occupant and their new beginnings. It’s a tangible signal, to myself as much as to others, that a shift is underway.

But beyond the literal decluttering, there’s the crucial work of ‘passing the spoon’ – or in this case, the chalice.

The incoming minister and I have fallen into a rhythm of nearly daily conversations.

I’ve started good-naturedly calling them my ‘dinner buddy,’ as our chats often unfold while I’m chopping vegetables or stirring a pot, a fittingly domestic backdrop for the nitty-gritty work of transition. We talk background, context, the ‘who’s who’ and the ‘what’s what,’ piecing together the institutional memory that’s so vital for a smooth handover. We’re planning out their first couple of weeks, ensuring they can hit the ground running…..or at least strolling confidently.

This sharing of knowledge isn’t about dictating how they should stir the pot, but more about pointing out where the good spices are kept and which burners run a little hot – or which circuit breaker blows if you run the microwave and the ancient space heater simultaneously. You know, the really critical stuff. It’s about making their entry as welcoming and informed as possible.

A particularly interesting layer in my own transition is that I’m not actually leaving this congregation.

My role is just shifting.

I’ll be moving ‘beyond the building,’ serving as our Community Minister, focusing on representing our UU faith in the wider community through support and activism.

This makes ‘finishing well’ in my current role even more critical. It means drawing clear lines around old responsibilities so I can fully embrace the new ones. It’s about consciously stepping back from one set of duties to create authentic space for the new minister to lead in their own way, ensuring the congregation feels a clear sense of who is holding which roles. It’s like meticulously cleaning one station in a shared kitchen before moving to your new assignment – essential for good workflow and preventing anyone from tripping over your old apron.

And, of course, there are the sort-of goodbyes, the expressions of gratitude, the conscious closing of specific chapters. For me, that will culminate in my final sermon June 8th, a chance to articulate some of what this journey has meant and to offer a challenge to embrace what’s to come. It’s about acknowledging the significance of the shared experience and ending not with a sudden silence, but with a thoughtful, resonant chord – hopefully one that doesn’t involve feedback from the microphone or an awkwardly timed alert from my service dog.

So, whether it’s the remnants of an overly ambitious sushi feast, the final weeks of a beloved job, or any other chapter drawing to a close, the invitation remains the same: can we finish well? Can we choose to tidy our messes, offer a word of thanks, and pass on the space, the project, the role, as a gift?

It’s not always the easiest path, especially when weariness has set in, or the next adventure eagerly beckons.

That urge to just drop the metaphorical (or literal) dirty dishes and run is profoundly human.

Sometimes it involves fantasies of witness protection programs, or at least changing your phone number and hoping no one remembers your Instagram handle. But there’s a quiet dignity, a deep sense of rightness, that comes from taking those few extra moments to stack the plates, wipe the crumbs, and offer a clear and thoughtful farewell.

In the end, finishing well isn’t just about what we leave for others; it’s about the integrity and peace we cultivate within ourselves. It’s about closing one door with grace so that the next one, whether it leads out of the building or simply to a new role within it, can open with genuine welcome and possibility. It’s the spiritual equivalent of leaving a good taste in everyone’s mouth – including your own. And hopefully, unlike some of that experimental sushi, it’s a taste everyone actually wants to experience again.