Pastors

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 ...

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