You really need to exercise, Richard. You're getting flabby, and your face is puffy. If you want to keep eating like a farmer rather than a pastor, you'd better start getting more physical activity."
My wife, Candy, was preaching the same sermon she had preached a hundred times before, just because I had outgrown another pair of pants.
"I don't exercise," I argued.
"Then quit eating."
"I like to eat. Besides, I might hurt someone's feelings if I don't eat what they offer."
There was some truth in what I said. The favorite activity of Philadelphia Baptist Church, here in the southern Ozarks, was consuming enormous potluck dinners. My, how those ladies could cook! As pastor, naturally I was obligated to sample every dish. I had to admit it was beginning to show—just a little.
"You could start jogging," my wife said. "You can run down the dirt road alongside the church."
Under protest, I donned some old tennis shoes to take my first steps toward a new life of health and fitness.
"Take the dog with ...1
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