All I wanted was a newspaper.

It was a small town. Somewhere in the Southeast. Big shopping complex, off the interstate. Best Buy, Red Lobster, Ulta, Olive Garden, Outback Steakhouse, Target, and all other franchises that transform American towns into carbon copies, from Oil Slick to Shining Oil Slick. 

I walked into the gas station to buy coffee and a newspaper. But something was wrong.

“Sorry, sir,” said the kid, playing on a phone. “Ain’t got no newspapers here.”

“Do you know where I might find some?”

The kid looked up from his device and took a few moments to think about it. “Got some real estate magazines out there.” 

“I’m not looking for real estate.” 

Shrug. “Well, it's a really great place to live.” 
  
So I drove around. Maybe I could get one at the grocery store. I’m a big fan of physical newspapers. Even though they aren’t en vogue anymore, you can usually find one the supermarket.  

“Excuse me,” I asked the young man at the supermarket’s customer service desk. “Do you sell newspapers?”

The kid

was dressed like a surfer although it was 32 degrees Fahrenheit outside.

He looked at me with that “look.” You know the look. My grandfather might have said you gazed into this young man’s eyes and saw the back of his skull. But I’m choosing to call this look a “vacant stare.” 

“Brah,” the kid said. “I don’t think we sell newspapers.” 

“You don’t think?”

“Nope.” 

“Is there any way we could find someone who does think?”

He itched his hair, then sniffed his fingers. “Let me ask a manager.” 

The manager was a young woman. Very friendly. Very organized. She smiled and informed me:  

“We don’t sell newspapers. We have a free magazine rack by the entrance. It’s mostly just real estate magazines.” 

“I’m not looking to relocate here.”

“There are some very good articles…

You’re going through something right now. Something bad. Something truly, inexplicably, wholly, and everlastingly crappy. 

I don’t know what it is. But it’s ugly. And it’s getting the best of you.

Someone you love betrayed you. Someone you trusted let you down. Your body is sick. Maybe a loved one is dying. Maybe you got some bad news.  

It doesn’t matter what your experience. What matters is, I’m thinking about you. And as I am writing these feeble words, holding you in my heart, although I can’t see your face, I can imagine you. 

Somehow, I almost feel a teensy bit of what you’re feeling. The pain. The heavy load. The agony in your breast. 

Namely, because my own life has undergone episodes of grief. And whenever one endures grief—true grief—it rewires one’s brain. 

Suffering sort of initiates you into a secret club you never knew existed. A club of hurting people. And you start noticing things you never noticed before. 

You walk through Walmart and notice the bald woman with the oxygen canister. You recognize the single

dad, pushing his buggy quietly through the aisles, looking like he’s about to have a nervous breakdown. 

You see the weathered woman standing in the median, holding a cardboard sign reading: “Anything Helpz.” And you actually SEE her.

You might not have seen these people before. But now you do. You’re feeling what they feel. Because you are them. They are you. And this new togetherness you feel with strangers, this is not a bad thing.  

So, I have no advice. No wisdom. No clichéd unoriginal, motivational meme to get you through your hard time.

I’m not a smart guy. And even if I were , you can’t trust smart people. Even smart people can be about as clueless as a one-legged cat in a litterbox. 

Even so, I know one thing. And this is the only thing I know…

I’ve never seen London. I’ve never seen France. Consequently, I’ve never seen anyone’s underpants.

But in a few months my wife Jamie and I will fly into France—wearing underpants—to do something that is completely nuts because my wife is bat-excrement insane.

In a couple months, we will be deposited in a French airport with nothing but backpacks and walking shoes. We will traverse 500 miles on foot, hiking the breadth of Spain, from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela. These are places I’ve never heard of. Places I can’t even pronounce.

So I’ve been doing some light reading on what we’re about to embark upon.

This 500-mile route was established in the 9th century and is one of the oldest religious pilgrimages in history. In fact, the route is CALLED the “Pilgrimage,” or “El Camino,” or “Middle-Aged People Doing Something Stupid.”

But as I understand it, the Camino is basically just a really, REALLY long trail hiked by people who are trying to find something.

“A lot of are trying to find themselves,” says one expert I interviewed. “But after the first few days, most hikers are just trying to find clean toilets and decent insoles.”

Jamie and I have been training for the past several months. We have been going on walks wherein we hike a few miles, and each time we return we give each other looks of mock terror because we know we will be walking five times this distance every day for A MONTH AND A HALF.

This will be the biggest, most notable thing either of us has ever tackled with the exception of having a new septic tank installed. And I am sitting here thinking about the Camino this morning.

I am the same age my father was when he died. Which makes this a pivotal year for me. I never expected to live this long. Frankly,…

I was on the way to the shed. Walking through the yard. I saw something in the grass. It was fluttering in the weeds. I could see its wings. 

I squatted for a closer look. It was a bird. Lying on its back. The creature was kicking its legs. The mouth was open. A shrill squeal was coming out of its open beak. It looked scared. 

So I turned the bird onto its side. I thought maybe it was just stuck on its back. But the bird was still crying. You could tell something was wrong with its neck because the bird couldn’t seem to move its head. 

When I picked up the creature, I didn’t mean to but I started crying. Because I could see life draining out of its small body. I could hear its faint cries getting weaker.  

“Sssshhh,” I said, wiping my own tears. 

And I couldn’t think of anything to do but stroke its little breast and touch its tiny head. I realize I was probably terrifying the creature, but I’d like to think

it could sense the love I was feeling. 

“I’m sorry this happened,” I said, with streams rolling down my face. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.” 

The bird quit kicking its legs and its eyes were blinking progressively slower, with long pauses between each reopening. 

“It’s okay,” I said. “Just rest.” 

I saw one of my neighbors in their yard. 

“What are you doing?” they called out. 

“This bird is dying,” I said.  

My neighbor smiled and edged away from me as though I were Anthony Perkins. But I was too busy at the moment to care. I knelt in the grass and watched the bird’s life expire. 

“Ssshhh,” I said. 

The bird’s squealing finally ended. Its cries were silenced, its legs quit kicking, its black eyes closed. I used a spade to dig a small hole, and placed the…

I receive a lot of messages. I cannot answer all these questions, so I have compiled the most common ones to answer them here. 

Q: Do you even care about your own country? Are you even watching the news right now? Sweet stories about kids with cancer are heartwarming and get lots of likes and engagement and build your brand, but are you aware that you are losing your national and personal freedoms AS WE SPEAK? 

A: As we speak, 8 kids just died of cancer. 

Q: Why don’t you ever comment on our politicians? You have such a platform to spread truth, and yet I don’t know where you stand, and therefore I can’t figure out whether I’m supposed to like you or not. How can I figure it out if I don’t know which politicians you support? 

A: My opinion is that America has the best politicians money can buy.

Q: I paid $24 dollars for eggs at the grocery store yesterday, I am sick and tired of these prices!!!!!! When will we do something

about the expensive cost of living!!!!!

A: Tell me about it, I had to move into my friend’s bouncy castle. The rent is expensive, but it’s mostly inflation. 

Q: How can you just sit there and watch the country go to [deleted] I read your stuff and wonder what [deleted] planet were you born on?

A: Different one than yours. 

Q: Do you seriously believe in angels you [deleted] moron? I’ll bet you pee sitting down, too. 

A: Only when my angel is watching. 

Q: Do you know that this is the worst time in world history? We are standing on the precipice of the most nightmarish timeline of current events this globe has ever seen. These are the darkest times we have ever known.

A: Don’t feel bad, friend. I failed history, too. 

Q: My Jesus is the only way to heaven,…

The Helen Keller Art show is in full swing. The center is adorned in art. Tactile pieces. Colorful artwork. Sculptures.

The artists are mostly students from the Alabama Institute for the Deaf and Blind. One of the nation’s oldest institutions.

“THAT ONE’S MINE!” shouts a young, blind artist. She is excitedly tapping a painting. “IT’S A FLOWER!”

“That’s a beautiful piece,” I reply. “Why did you choose a flower?”

“Because God loves flowers.”

And I am starting to have flashbacks.

Namely, because a few years ago, I attended the Helen Keller show. Before the show I met a little girl in the art gallery. She was using a pink wheelchair. A seatbelt around her tiny waist. Her eyes did not look at me, they looked through me.

“Hi,” said the cheerful girl. “My name’s Henrietta, what’s yours?”

So I told her.

We shook hands. And we talked. Henrietta told me about her artwork. She told me about her mitochondrial disease. And her progressive blindness.

She said

she’d spent most of her life living in hospitals. Most of her birthdays. Most holidays. Her life had been lived out in hospitals.

“That’s why I’m going to start my own charity someday,” she said.

“What will your charity be about?” I said.

“I’m going to get toys donated from kids, and then I’m going to give all those toys to children trapped in hospitals, all over America. That way they have something to play with, and so they know someone cares about them. Because in a hospital, you sometimes feel like you’re all alone. But you’re not.”

After our brief conversation, I watched Henrietta wheel up to the stage to receive an award for her artwork.

When the ceremony was over, we were in the lobby, talking again. And I marveled at this child who had come so close…