Sometimes . . . .

 . . . I have two Nutrageouses after lunch.

 . . . I wonder if anyone will show up for church on Sunday.

 . . . I wish I could still have Frosted Mini-Wheats for breakfast.

 . . . when I’m driving alone and I see yet another of those ubiquitous church window decals, I exhale just a little bit of profanity.

 . . . I give people fist bumps instead of hugs if they happen to wear a cologne or perfume to which I know I am allergic.

. . . I miss the simplicity of a small country church.

. . .  I wonder what it’s like to be 90.  My dad lived to be 95 and my mom still plays tennis at 97, so it looks like I may indeed find out.

. . . I get curious about why Methodists tolerate so much diversity when it comes to how we understand human sexuality, the authority of Scripture, and the nature of the resurrection, but tolerate no diversity in our thoughts about infant baptism.

. . . I finish mowing my lawn and am grateful that I can do at least that one thing when it comes to working with my hands.

. . . I ask myself what kind of ministry work I should do after I turn 55.