I’ve always detested exercise. My sister loves to tell people that I threw up on my socks in the 8 th grade when forced to “run” a mile in P.E. class. By a genuine miracle of God, my metabolism keeps everything fairly trim. It has not ever been because of any physical effort on my part... I’m just being honest. Yet, for some reason, I’ve gotten up twice in the past month or so to go for a jog. I can’t call it a run, in good conscience. (It’s not that serious.) But I did that, and I’ve been swimming laps one or two days a week for… you know… a week or two. I realize this is all largely unimpressive, especially to people like my former XC-running roommate, but I call it progress! Yesterday morning was the occasion of my second jog. I was not a bucket of cheer when I woke up. I started out mad. I blasted worship music in my headphones and mulled over the litany of things I was upset about. (Tip: Those two activities don’t go together. It’s impossible to keep rehearsing your p