I have an encouraging wife. She was made for Comfort. It was November of 2007, and the following month I was going to turn 58. As I was about to get into bed I looked into the mirror at my shirt-less physique, and consoled myself with the words, “Could be worse.” Sue quietly mumbled, “Not much . . . ” The way she said those words reminded me of the time I was running towards the back door of our house and hit my arm on the corner of a wall. I often do that sort of thing (if I pick up a hammer, Sue gets a band aide). As I lay on the ground and writhed in pain for a few minutes, I could hear my youngest son (then in his late teens) working in the garage. Just because hurting myself is an almost daily occurrence, it was no reason for him to take no notice, so I said, “Daniel. How come you didn’t come out to see if I was okay? For all you know I could have hit my head and gone insane.” He quietly mumbled, “How would we have known?