“God comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others.” Those words of Scripture were of particular assurance for my wife and me as we made the long drive home from Indianapolis after having laid her brother to rest.

A much-loved feature of the home we rent is that it is nestled among trees of various kinds. The southern property line is bordered by aromatic pine woods whose limbs reach across the fence to commune with a robust magnolia and a towering pine.

Recently, I had a rich experience that was pure joy for me. I was invited to play in a band assembled for a one-time concert of soul music. The concert was part of a weekend event designed to raise funds for an inner-city ministry in New Orleans whose goal is to create a safe neighborhood where kids can ride their bikes safely.

“Go to the ant, thou sluggard, and consider her ways, and be wise,” says Proverbs 6:6. I was doing that very thing yesterday afternoon as I did yard work. My hedges desperately needed a haircut. It was my day off, so I spent the morning doing something that I love, playing my guitar. I got to the trimming around 2 p.m. I am a guitar player, not a sluggard.

Recently over lunch, some friends and I were discussing social media and how online interactions are akin to what went on in the barbaric games of the ancient Roman Coliseum. In my opinion, social media is a misnomer, it should be called unsocial media, or even anti-social media. I know that I have whined about this in the past, but social media interactions have not improved.

Growing up in Canada, my first taste of pineapple was from a can. Those perfectly sliced rings of gold, floating in juice, looked enticing, but they tasted a lot like the can. Pinning them to the side of a Sunday ham and immolating them in an oven did little to improve the taste.

“God showed up!” a colleague’s Facebook post announced regarding a particularly moving worship service at his church. “You’ve got that backward,” I remarked to myself, “it is you and your congregation who showed up.”

Over the past three decades, my library has become almost completely digital. When I admit this to colleagues, they wax fondly on the tactile experience of turning pages in a real book hoping, I guess, to spark in me something lost.

On a recent flight to Indiana, I was only half-listening to the safety orientation, that is until the flight attendant said a word that made me pay closer attention. The word itself was not provocative, it was her pronunciation that captured my attention. “To tigh-en your seatbelt belt,” she informed, “simply pull on the strap.” Tigh-en? What happened to the “T”?

I am writing this from my father-in-law’s living room in rural Indiana here to celebrate his 106th birthday. I marvel at the grace of God in granting him a long life. Our perspective on aging is a curious thing. As children, we proudly marked our years in fractions, proclaiming, “I’m 4 ½ years old!”