When I was a kid, church ladies ran the whole world. Elderly women were always telling me what to do, randomly appearing from the shadows and trying to feed me.

Our little microcosmic community was operated by elderly women in beehive hairdos. They drove Lincolns, Mercury Grand Marquis, or Ford F-100 pickups with gun racks.

Church ladies carried the keys to our universe. Not metaphorically, but worse. Allegorically. The keys to the school, the library, the church building, they were all on huge keychains which these ladies carried in their prodigious church-lady purses, which were bags about the size of Waffle Houses.

You could find anything you needed in those purses. Professional-grade first-aid kits, cosmetic supplies, a change of underpants, spare tires, etc. And if you were hungry, you could find a three-course meal in such a purse, although the food was likely to taste like Rolaids and purse dirt.

So, these were the women who raised me. They were always present in my life. They taught every class, directed

every pageant, prepared every fellowship-hall supper, played piano for every Fifth Sunday sing, visited every hospital, and babysat you when your mom worked doubles.

And when you lost a loved one, it was these church ladies who organized the committee that overloaded your front porch with casseroles.

Which is exactly what happened when my father died. My father died by his own hand when I was 11. And the very next morning, I heard voices on our porch before sunrise. Ladies’ voices.

There were elderly women, leaving casserole pans, glass cookware, covered in foil, and Corningware dishes, nestled in gingham dishrags.

And it was also one such church lady who took pity on me in the weeks after my father died. After my father’s end, I lost weight because I could not eat. I slept all the time.

I’ll never forget the morning when an elderly woman named Miss Ruth…

I receive a lot of remarks in the form of emails, private messages, obscene hand gestures, etc. There’s no way I could answer all comments individually. So occasionally, I compile commonly asked questions and answer them in this column.

Q: SHAME ON YOU! YOU USED THE WORD “GODAWFUL” IN YOUR LAST COLUMN. I WAS OFFENDED BY THIS LANGUAGE, MY HUSBAND AND I HAVE QUIT READING YOU. WE ARE BOTH YOUTH MINISTERS AND WE ARE PUT OFF BY WORDS LIKE “GODAWFUL.”

A: Brace yourself, madam. Because you’re going to hear a lot worse than that in youth group.

Q: My son reads your column in our paper three times every week. He is 12 years old and he dressed up as Sean of the South this Halloween. People kept asking whether he was Chuck Norris.

A: Half that candy is mine.

Q: Why won’t you discuss politics, Sean? You remain silent, but you have a platform where you could share truth.

A: If you were to inject

truth into politics, you’d have no politics. Will Rogers.

Q: A lot of your humor involves toilet humor. I find this unnecessary and upsetting. Your recent article about a gas leak in Calhoun, Georgia, you used gross and unnecessary potty humor. My grandchildren were reading your column in our newspaper! I immediately knew something was wrong when I heard them laughing as they read. Take your humor out of the toilet, Sean!

A: Trust me on this. A good fiber supplement will change your life.

Q: I am writing this because sometimes you explore your faith in your writings, and while it is good to grapple with matters of faith, it’s better to do this with the guidance of a spirit-filled pastor… You’re leading people astray with your lies and misconceptions about God… Hell is real, Sean. I KNOW where I’m going, do you know where you’re…

It’s hard to believe it’s our friendiversary again. Hard to believe we’ve known each other so long. You were 10 when we met. You’re 12 now. That’s practically old enough to be in a retirement home.

I remember when we met, like it was yesterday. It was an overcast, autumn afternoon. I was three pant-sizes smaller than I am now.

I arrived at a restaurant named Bama Bucks in the hamlet of Boaz, Alabama (pop.10,369). Bama Bucks, a wild-game restaurant with a commercial deer farm across the street. All the deer in cages were staring at me.

I asked a fellow customer what was with all the deer. The customer replied, “You ever been to a seafood restaurant with a lobster tank?”

So we were definitely not in Birmingham anymore.

It was your laugh I noticed first. Outside the restaurant, you were sitting in a chair, waiting for me, rocking back and forth, clutching a white cane. Hair in a ponytail.

You were saying:

“Is that him? Is that his voice I hear?” And then you just laughed.

The first thing we did was hug. And I like that. I like that we didn’t even know each other before we hugged. We just jumped right in.

You fit in the crook of my arms just right. You were so fragile. So tiny.

I knew a little about your story, of course. After all, you had written me a letter about losing your vision. Your teacher sent it to me.

Your biological mother was a drug abuser. You were one of those infants in the NICU with neonatal abstinence syndrome, in withdrawals the moment you left the womb. You were a foster kid, bouncing through The System like a veritable ping-pong ball, before two incredible parents adopted you.

Then, you lost your vision. Then you went through a really hard time.…