Only a few months ago, Morgan and I were hiking through the mountains together. It was a bright, clear day. We marched through the woods. Morgan, clutching the straps of her backpack. Me, wheezing.

I believe in prayer. I believe in miracles. Not only because I choose to, not only because I am simpleminded. I believe in these things because I’ve seen them.

I have seen, firsthand, what happens when groups of people decide to align their intentions and pray. Stuff happens. Real stuff.

I have seen children with pediatric cancer come back from the edge. I have seen grown men dying of kidney disease unexpectedly make a turn for the better. I have seen people come out of comas. I’ve watched doctors scratch their heads when a 10-year-old boy with brain cancer suddenly, one morning (snap!) had no tumor at all.

My friend Morgan Love needs prayer.

Morgan is a beautiful young woman who has spent more of this year in the hospital than out of it.

Morgan is a sophomore in college. Her hair is Scot red. Her accent sounds like Locust Fork, Alabama. Her eyes are bright.

She used to be so healthy. Her face,

full and animated. Her smile, vibrant. Her personality, cheerful and meek.

Loud people sometimes overlook Morgan because she’s so quiet, content to be outside of the stage lights. But most people find themselves drawn to her, they can’t explain why.

But after months of living on a feeding tube, after months of living in a mechanical hospital bed, her muscles have atrophied, her intestines have shut down, her body has become so frail she can’t walk. She spends ninety percent of her days sleeping.

What kills me is how fast it all happened.

Only a few months ago, Morgan and I were hiking through the mountains together. It was a bright, clear day. We marched through the woods. Morgan, clutching the straps of her backpack. Me, wheezing.

We stopped for a break so the middle-aged dork could catch his breath. We sat on a natural bench…

When I was a kid, our Christmases were so small you could have held them in the back of a van. It wasn’t that we were poor insomuch as my dad was a notorious cheapskate. Mama said if he ever died he would walk toward the light merely so he could turn it off.

This was because father’s family sprang from immigrants. These were financially cautious people who only got married for the rice. My father’s people were also German, so they were humor impaired.

I don’t mean to generalize, but as a culture, Germans do not grasp the subtle nature of humor. I was once hired to entertain for a German civic club banquet in Pittsburgh. I told my first joke and heard only the hum of the A/C. At which point a lady in the audience rose and whispered to her husband: “Ziss man gives me headache, Heinrich.”

I stood there, staring at 500 granite faces. Heinrich and I had 59 minutes left.

So anyway, our Christmases were handmade affairs. Because handmade stuff was cheaper. My mother refused to buy gifts when she could handmake them. Our wrapping paper was reused supermarket bags. Our decor came from the backyard. My mother sewed everything. My only non-handmade gift was manufactured by the Fruit of the Loom corporation.

I’ll never forget visiting a friend’s house one December day, and seeing the stark differences between our holidays.

My friend’s family had a tree so big it took four men to carry it. They needed an FAA license just to put the star on top. Most importantly, his tree WASN’T PLASTIC. There were mountains of gifts, wrapped in colorful paper, and none of their decorations were made of Elmer’s glue and popcorn.

Moreover, the house was littered with crystal bowls, all filled with glorious little yogurt-dipped pretzels. You could eat as many as you wanted and…

As we sang, I looked at an elderly man singing beside me. Possibly weeping. But still happy. Still joyful. Not because his life is perfect. But because love and friendship are the only ingredients required for joy. And Jerry still has both.

We arrive early at George S. Lindsey Theater in Florence, Alabama. My wife and I are driving a small van which used to belong to a plumber. A white work van, which looks like a Labcorp vehicle arriving at your place of work to gather stool samples.

Tonight, I am playing with Three On a String for our annual Christmas tour. We will perform four times throughout the state of Alabama, singing Christmas songs, telling stories, and presenting our show to admiring crowds of dozens. Next week is Albertville. The week after that is—I don’t remember.

But anyway, this band has been together since Richard Nixon was in office. The band was founded by Jerry Ryan and Bobby Horton who began by playing 14 songs at a bluegrass festival in 1971.

“We only knew seven songs,” said Jerry. “So we played them twice.”

Fast forward 54 years, Three On a String is a national treasure. Today, you will see white-haired men onstage who play music and tell jokes for a living. But long ago—you should’ve seen them—they were brown-haired men who played music and told jokes for a living.

I suppose what I’m getting at is: These men have not changed in over half a century. They started by playing dance halls, jukes, beer joints, and theaters all over this country. And that’s what they still do.

They still drive their old van full of instruments. They still swap driving shifts. They still pull off the highway every four-to-six miles…

Six years ago. The Waffle House was packed. There were customers everywhere. Shoulder to shoulder. Sardine-like. I don’t know how the waitress managed to find a place for us at the counter. We were crammed into the corner, with a front-row view of the chef de cuisine.

The cook loaded the grill with all manner of pork products. Everything was hissing. Pots bubbling. Slabs of meat sizzling. Waffle irons spewing.

It was Christmas night, and we didn’t know where else to go.

It was surprising to see so many people inside on Christmas night. They must have all been weary highway travelers just like us. On their way back from family gatherings which had drained them of their lifeforce, left them with saggy eyes, and little will to live.

Family holiday gatherings can be difficult. Namely, because everyone in your family is completely bat-excrement crazy except you.

A guy wandered into the Waffle House. He was wearing rags. Fingerless gloves. Watch cap. The staff apparently knew

him. They called him by nickname.

“Hi, King Charles!” the staff all said.

And the employees all bowed and curtsied.

The king smiled his tooth at them, but said nothing.

The waitress found a place for him at the bar, in a seat beside us. The king grinned at me. I grinned back. I do not believe he had bathed in three, maybe four presidential administrations.

And even though the place was overrun with customers, the waitress took His Majesty’s order before taking anyone else’s.

“Your Highness,” said the waitress. “What’ll it be?”

The old man had a hard time talking. His mouth was moving, but nothing came out.

“Same as usual?” said the waitress.

He nodded.

The knit cap came off to reveal a mass of greasy white hair. He looked at me again, just to make sure I…

The thing about Facebook is, they don’t tell you how long your sentence lasts. Or whether you’ll get the top bunk, or complimentary cigarettes to swap with other inmates for prison tender.

I am in Facebook Jail. I don’t actually know what Facebook Prison is, but I’m in it.

I feel a little like Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke,” stuck in his little cell, except I don’t look like Paul Newman. I look like the love child between Danny Partridge and Eleanor Roosevelt.

It’s hard being in jail. Namely, because I don’t truly know WHY I’m in Facebook’s correctional facility. Rehabilitation? Penalization?

It all started when I began receiving emails from people saying, “We can’t find you on Facebook anymore!” “Your posts are blocked!” “Are you dead, Sean?!”

So I had to ask my wife.

“Honey?” I said. “Am I dead?”

My wife touched my hand warmly. “Don’t be embarrassed, it happens to a lot of guys.”

So I’m in jail. I have pissed off the Facebook authorities for the last time.

I was put in Facebook Prison after writing openly about imposters on Facebook. These scammers claim to be me. The scammers have gone unmonitored for a long time and stolen money from innocent people.

The bot-imposters leave comments

on each of my posts. The titles of their accounts look official, such as, “Sean Dietrich Direct Chat Page,” or “Sean of the South Official Fan Page” or “Sean Dietrich Only with a Much Tighter Body Page.”

The impostors reach out to anyone who comments on Facebook posts. Some innocent users fall for the bait. Users think they’re talking to Authentic Me—except this new version of me lives in Nigeria and speaks broken English.

Still, these imposters are sneaky. They offer to sell tickets to my performances at the Grand Ole Opry, at an exorbitant fee. They offer unlimited backstage access, a free limousine ride, complimentary back rubs, etc. The imposters then take the victim’s money.

Oftentimes, bots will strike up online relationships with Facebook users. Last week, I was contacted by four victims who ALL HAD LONG TERM EMAIL RELATIONSHIPS…

I receive a lot of questions. They come in the form of emails, private messages, subpoenas, etc. I cannot answer them all, but I am able to answer a few.

Q: Sean, I am moderately offended. You mentioned the ongoing debate over saying “merry Christmas” and “happy holidays.” Saying “merry Christmas” can be offensive in the wrong context. We say “happy holidays” because we respect others. What if I’m someone who chooses not to celebrate Christmas? What if I’m someone who celebrates Kwanzaa, or Hanukkah, or Bodhi Day?

A: What if I’m someone who doesn’t celebrate happiness?

Q: I was a fan of your writing until you chose a side and advocated saying “merry Christmas” instead of “happy holidays.” Saying happy holidays is inclusive for all religions and lifestyles. Whereas Christmas was invented by dogma. I am an atheist, Sean, I don’t want a corporation forcing religious holidays on me. Don’t I deserve a holiday, too?

A: How about April 1st?

Q: I am 74 years old and have been in a three-month long

relationship with an impostor claiming to be Sean of the South. This man told me that his wife left him and that he wanted to have an intimate relationship with me.

We talked every day for many months. When he finally asked for money I realized I had been scammed and he was not Sean of the South. Now I’m so hurt because, even though I’ve been scammed, I feel like I’ve lost a friend. His writing was just like Sean’s, except he seemed to know how to say all the things a lady truly wants to hear, and how to make me feel like a woman.

A: My wife requests this man’s email address.

Q: Sean, your longform content is becoming outdated and boring. This isn’t 2011, buddy. Nobody wants written articles anymore. We want VIDEO! TikTok features video content that’s more snackable, instead of…