At a spot where the creek and the road nearly kissed, we turned left onto the long, straight drive to the ranch house. I loved visiting where Grandma’s dinners threatened to break the table with abundant food and Grandpa’s handling of his cattle herd made him appear to possess mystical powers.

For a kid in elementary school, it seemed idyllic, a place of endless discovery.

The ranch was where I had my first kill.

My wife, who can be bluntly optimistic, reminds me that my surgery and six weeks of recovery will soon seem like a “blip in time.”

She’s right.

Still, I frequently sigh.

I carry my wife.

I carry my doubts.

The heaviest weight is the recent death of my dog.

How’d the apple pie she made taste? It was perfect!

Did you have a good time on the date? Everything went perfectly!

Did you like that new restaurant? What a perfect place!

I am officially old and falling apart. I can no longer, even in the dusty attic of my mind, where self-delusions refuse to leave, claim to be late middle-aged or pre-elderly.

For years—no, decades—I have used Minister and Writer for the profession category when submitting my annual state and federal taxes.

For decades I have declared losses. Back in the day, before the internet became as common as a cold, every manuscript I submitted to a literary agent required trips to Kinko* for copying and hefty postage fees for mailing. Today or yesteryear, there are lots of expenses for ministry and writing . . .

I only have vague ideas about how the social media platforms work. Which leads to this question: How can something be posted in one second, and then—mere seconds later—angry emojis or thumbs-up support or belittling (and randomly profane) responses swarm beneath my original meme?

Naturalist John Muir wrote, “Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul alike.”

A quarter of a century has passed.

The memories I carry from that terrible morning include steering my car to the side of the road and calling my wife. She answered.

Early in my career as a minister, I’d heard and learned about “organ recitals.” This phrase doesn’t have anything to do with outdated church music, or attendance in a concert hall, or the beginnings of a riff on the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.

In the United States, one-half (0.5%) to one-percent (1.0%) of the population over thirteen-years-old identifies as transgender*.

 Which amounts to 2.3 million people, or about the population of Houston, Texas.

The best man strode toward me after the wedding service. Pale, skinny, and so young, he wore a rented tuxedo that made him look like an extra in a slasher film that ended badly at a prom. He stopped in front of me.

The fifty-something patient arrived right after me. He used a cane and wore an elaborate neck brace. With what appeared a practiced effort, he settled on the chair to my left. We were in the radiology waiting room of my orthopedist’s office, a space with a dozen identical seats in rows. Patients came and went, a kind of musical chairs for the walking wounded.