Today is a big deal.

If you don’t read any further, just keep repeating the above sentence in a loud, clear voice until it sinks in and your spouse begins to wonder whether you’re clinically insane.

Because you’d be insane NOT to realize what a big deal today is.

Today is a massive deal. A huge deal. A ginormous deal. A colossally, titanic, herculean, humongous, astronomical deal. With cherries on top. This is the most important day of your life.

Before you quit reading, you should know that you’re not reading some clichéd motivational speech from your high-school counselor whose wardrobe consisted of corduroy jackets and Just For Men hair color.

This day, you see, contains Right Now. Which is this exact moment. This micromoment of nowness. The little space,lying directly between what just happened and what’s about to happen. These current nanoseconds of nowness are flying by at breakneck speed, and you’re missing them by reading a crappy article.

Even so, I’m grateful you’re reading. Because I am here

to remind you that “Right Now” matters. Right Now is not trivial.

“Now.” What a word.

What is Now? Hell if I know. I’m not smart enough to define Now. Maybe Now is a physical moment. Maybe it’s a single breath. Or perhaps Right Now is a little patch of real estate in our metaphysical universe. A tiny portion of geographical space and time which allows you to be Here.

Either way, definitions don’t matter. What matters is that Right Now is all you have. Now is all anyone has ever had, but we were too distracted to notice.

You know why we were probably distracted? We were likely too busy thinking about Later. Or worse: Before.

But Later isn’t real. And Before doesn’t exist anymore. Right Now, DOES exist. And we can work with Right Now.

Namely, because…

Five years ago I was in Huntsville when the world shut down. Five years. Almost to the day. I’ll never forget it.

I remember what life was like at the time. I had spent the previous year working on a book. A memoir about my dad’s suicide. I put a lot of myself into that manuscript.

At the time, my wife and I were living in a junky fifth wheel trailer with two dogs roughly the size of NFL running backs. Our mobile-home toilet did not work; whenever anyone used the restroom our dwelling became uninhabitable.

Which is why my wife and I—this is true—started performing our morning necessaries outside on our rural property. There were posthole diggers in our outdoor bathroom area. Also, a stack of little neon-orange flags for marking landmines.

So anyway, when my book was published my publisher sent me on a multi-city book tour. After several cities, we landed in Huntsville, at Randolph School.

There, I performed my show. Played some

music. Told funny stories. It was a gracious audience, some audience members even stayed awake.

After the performance, I was in the lobby, hugging people, signing books, kissing babies. I was meeting other suicide survivors like myself. It was a meaningful night. Perhaps one of the most meaningful of my life.

That night, I remember a random older lady came through the line. I had never met her before. She hugged me and said ominous words I’ll never forget:

“Don’t waste today, sweetheart. It’s all you have.”

That night, in our hotel, I couldn’t quit thinking about her words. I felt as though her message was a mystery. I’d spent the last four hours hugging so many people that my skin chafed, why had the lady chosen to tell me this? Of all things.

Then I turned on the TV.

The newsperson said,…

I remember my first cellphone. I felt like one bad hombre.

I was in my mid-20s. The cellphone retail salesperson outfitted me with a state-of-the-age phone about the size of a residential General Electric refrigerator.

And, boom, just like that, I was Billy the Buttkicker. Whenever I wanted, I could whip that sucker out and call—I don’t know—time and temperature.

MODERN CHILD: What’s time and temperature, grandpa?

GRANDPA: The original Siri.

You had to call time and temp back then because, of course, there was nobody available to call since only a few of your friends even HAD cellphones. And all your friends were away from landlines, engaging in various activities such as, gainful employment.

Over the years, phones kept getting more advanced. Each day: a higher-tech phone. It seemed like you were always buying a new phone.

Eventually, phone retailers switched to the current sales system still used today, offering complimentary wastebaskets after sales transactions because, after you pay, your phone is obsolete.

Over the years, phones became able to do more. First came text messaging. Then your phone could receive emails. Then phone cameras. Apps. Mobile internet. Phone GPS. Video. Social media. Voice assistant. Paying with your phone. Fingerprint recognition. Face ID. AI.

Pretty soon, my phone was capable of doing everything except scrubbing my backside in the shower. Although, that never kept me from taking my phone INTO THE SHOWER where I could conveniently browse Amazon, watch YouTube, and most importantly, drop and break my phone.

But that’s okay. I just went to the phone store and upgraded to the most current device.

PHONE SALESPERSON: Our latest model of phone has a built-in bikini trimmer.

I was INSANELY addicted to my phone. I could not leave home without it. I could not use the bathroom without scrolling, sometimes for long periods, sitting on the toilet until…

The young woman sits in my truck passenger seat. She is 19. Her hair is red. Scottish red. Luminously red. People always comment on her hair first. 

Today she attended a presentation I gave at the library. Everyone at the library asked about her. They noticed her red hair and assumed we were related since my hair is also red. 

At first, I explained that we weren’t related. Then I’d tell the story of how we met, when I first wrote about her, some years ago. But after a while we got tired of explaining ourselves and we started calling her my niece. 

The young woman attended my presentation because she is very supportive of me. Although heaven knows why. We come from different generations. She’s a college kid in a sorority. Whereas, yesterday a salesperson enrolled me in AARP to save 15 percent.   

Currently, as we drive through Birmingham traffic, my “niece” is using her GPS to navigate aloud for me. She is better at using phones than I am.

She is

tranquil and collected, delivering important driving instructions as I wage battle with the homicidal motorists of Jefferson County. 

“Turn here,” the girl says calmly, using the same tone a driver’s ed instructor might employ. “Go past this light.” “Use your right blinker.” “The lady in the left lane is flipping you off.” “I believe she is using both fingers.”  

The child is well-mannered. Smart. Polite. Talented. Thoughtful. And I don’t think I’ve met anyone with more genuine optimism. 

It’s her optimism I marvel at the most. 

She lived in the hospital for nearly 230 days last year. For nearly a decade, she has struggled with an itemized list of medical issues that would make most grown men crumble. 

Paralyzation. Vision impairment. Diabetes. Relearning to walk. Twice. She lives on a feeding tube. She hasn’t eaten solid food since June. And yet she smiles. 

Our young heroine…

She shall remain anonymous.

Her classroom was out of control. Had been for a while. The kids in her “at-risk” fourth-grade class were about as organized as a prison riot.

That’s what we call them in today’s world. “At-risk youth.” Once upon a time, in a less modern era, we might’ve called them “troubled youth.” But such words are unsavory in today’s modern and unbiased age.

Either way, the kids never listened. They did not pay attention. They seemed to always have their hands where little hands should not be. Their indoor voices were loud enough to change the migratory patterns of most varieties of waterfowl.

The endless behavioral issues were upsetting the young teacher’s life. She was trying so hard to reach them, but she left class each day feeling like a Stretch Armstrong doll on Christmas morning.

Then.

The teacher had this idea. The next morning, instead of their regular lesson plan, she paired the kids off. Everyone got a partner.

The kids

were required to find a private spot in the room and talk to one another. Their assignment was to write biographies on their partners. They were to do research.

Most of the kids groaned and protested. But in the end, they did it. They all got together and started talking about their lives. Really talking.

“It was the most engaged I’d ever seen them…”

Over the span of two days, kids were connecting with each other. They were empathizing. They were exercising compassion. There were no behavioral issues in class.

“You could see everyone’s moods shift,” she said. “It was incredible.”

This went on for a week. Until one morning, when the teacher was running late for class.

There had been a wreck on the interstate, so a substitute watched over the classroom until the teacher arrived.

When the young teacher walked…