He is a grandfather, and as such, he wishes to introduce his granddaughters to the simple pleasures of life. Like riding to the dump in the truck. “We’re going where?” the girls asked, with an overabundance of sophistication. “To do what?” they wanted to know, with some impatience. “Hop in,” he said with authority. The truck has no air conditioning so the girls were told, “Roll down those windows so we’ll catch a breeze.” He nearly slammed on brakes when the girls then said, “Do what? How do you roll down a window?”

“Come to church with me,” my 91-year-old aunt always encourages when I’m visiting for the weekend. Oftentimes, our travel schedule prevents my attendance but this past weekend, I told her on Friday, “Yes,” and there wasn’t an event of national or international prominence which could have allowed me to change my mind. “I’ll pick you up,” she said, because her church is undergoing a $1 million renovation/remodeling project and parking is limited. I no longer argue. I just say, “Yes ma’am.” She changed those directions on Sunday, an hour before pick-up. “You come pick me up,” she said, having charted out this morning as if it was a corporate take-over. “That way,” she said, “you can drop me off after church, and I can prepare lunch while you finish packing up your house. Your husband will be here by then, and we’ll all have lunch at my house.” “No, no, let’s not do that this time,” I argued, already having a mental picture of the day in my head.

There are a number of subjects that I wrestle with, and that is after three-score-and-ten years of examples, moral lessons and biblical passages regarding capital punishment. In most modern examples, I am against it. I feel more comfortable with that position, so leaning towards life-in-prison sentences fits my opinion. But there are unsettling cases where death seems appropriate due to the crime and premeditation.

Since today’s elementary students marvel that their teachers “are from the 1900s,” I was profoundly affected when, just days ago, I flipped my calendar to September and was reminded of my own grandmother’s birth….in 1896. Yes, I knew (and loved) someone from the 1800s…someone who arrived in this world only 120 years after the birth of this nation. Last week, that math stopped me in my tracks. America is 250 years old. My grandmother would have been 130. And I’m…well…I’m not 130, or 250.