I have an image in my mind of the godly old lady I want to be someday: soft-spoken, kind to all, full of wisdom. Having logged half a century under God’s sanctifying sandpaper, I should be well on my way by now. And, taking stock, I can see that I don’t have to rein in my temper as much as I used to, and there’s precious little out there that tempts me to covet. What I am learning, however, is that as I age, I sin differently. Sin is still “crouching at the door.” It just comes in a different form.