Each day I'm growing. Externally, I'm 66. Internally, I'm still maturing, like an old apple tree: gnarly branches, but when pruned, produces fresh branches, more fruit, new growth.

The pruning does it, helps the growing sense. I'm being pruned regularly; that's it. That must be it. How? Mmm?

Several factors. Walking an hour regularly. Reading Scripture out loud for about as long. Absorbing the sweet singing of youth choirs. Hearing testimonies of people's transformative experiences. Exercising. Eating well. Daily writing. Daily working, accomplishing something that reflects my inner being, not just a paperwork chore. Reading books. Interacting with my wife, with my children, with leaders, with associates.

Numerous factors keep me young, like a pruning clipper.

One of the most electrical of things that prunes my branches is deep, connecting, spiritual talk: about my limitations, about my vices, about my long-suffering attachments, about my ancestors who saw and did things a certain way (a way I've seemed to also adapt as my own), talking my way out of them, shaking them off my branches like old autumn leaves that remain through the winter, pushing them away with new growth from the pruned areas.

An old tree doesn't die; it needs pruning. An old man dies early when the pruning shears sit rusty in the shed.

Cut old branches, old ways of living. One can go too crazy and cut off all the branches, yet, then new life produces even more fruit. I'm convinced this old man of 66 is going to see more fruit than ever blossom and grow in his coming years. Some great businessman didn't become great until after 70 or 80 years worth of birthdays.

Until my final day,  I want to be walking on my own, coherent in mind, jovial in spirit, ineffable in love.

​9:27 AM September 17, 2026, Thursday