The hotel lobby. Early morning. The dining room is filled with people all eating complimentary breakfasts of plasticized food-like matter.

The demographic is mixed. Lots of middle-aged married couples. You can tell they’re married because they don’t speak except to mutter something random like, “Randy texted.” Then the couple will fall quiet again for another two, maybe three presidential administrations.

Also, there is a group of young professionals in the dining room. They are all dressed sharply. There are heavy cologne fumes emanating from their side of the room.

They are all on their devices, also not speaking. Thumbing away rapidly, like the fate of the Free World depends on whatever they’re doing.

But the real star of our dining room this morning is a young man. Late twenties. He is a big guy, with a bushy beard. He is wearing pajamas. And he has kids.

Two children, to be exact. One of them is a baby in a carrier. The other is a little boy, he is maybe 5.

Everyone in the dining room

is minorly ticked off at the young father. Namely, because his baby is holding a rubber-encased iPad, blasting loud music which features a female voice singing explicit lyrics about what exactly the wheels on a school bus do.

His other child is also holding a device, which is playing some sort of superhero video, at high volume, with lots of yelling, laser sounds, and various explosions.

Now and again, one of the older people looks bitterly at this young man, then clears their throats in such a way that you can almost feel the hate rays coming from their eyeballs.

But the young dad looks too tired to care. He simply eats his breakfast.

Soon, people in the dining room are all exchanging looks.

“This is ridiculous,” I overhear one woman say to her husband.

“How inconsiderate,” murmurs another.

You can practically see what the…

Today is All Saints Day. A holiday that was started during ancient Rome, when Christians were killed for sport.

“Hallows Eve,” was simply a prayer vigil traditionally held on the night before this holiday. A holiday intended for remembering martyrs.

So, I’d like to tell you about a few recent ones.

People like Qamar Zia, a Pakistani woman, born in 1929.

As a young woman, Qamar escaped an arranged marriage by running away. She worked in orphanages and mission hospitals. She lived with American Presbyterian missionaries, attended Bible school, then became a teacher.

She visited poor villages, traveling the countryside by bicycle, preaching love and acceptance.

Qamar broke longstanding Pakistani social norms by teaching women to read. She also worked alongside these women in the cotton fields.

In the end, Qamar pissed off the wrong people. Her death was sudden. In 1960, she was found brutally murdered in her bed.

Today, a statue of Qamar Zia stands over Westminster Abbey.

Then there’s Doctor José Gregorio. Born in 1864 in a small village in Venezuela. He

came from humble means. His mom cleaned houses.

He became a doctor, but never made any money. Namely, because he treated the impoverished for free. He bought everyone’s medicine out of his own pocket.

During the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, he treated hundreds, if not thousands. All for free. They called him the “Doctor of the Poor.”

Soon, villagers across the country were seeking him out. Nobody was turned away. He always began his treatment by praying for them. Oftentimes, miracles happened.

One day, while José was delivering medicine to an elderly woman, he was struck by a motorist. He is one of the first recognized saints of Venezuela.

Miguel Pro. In 1927, Mexico was a frightening place to live. Under the presidency of Plutarco Elías Calles, it was practically illegal to practice Christianity.

Churches were burned. Priests were imprisoned. Nuns were killed. This…

I sort of raised myself.

My dad died when I was a kid. He died by suicide, shortly after he’d been released from county lockup on bail. His death was dramatic. It made the papers. On his final night, he almost took my mother to the grave with him.

I was 11 years old. And at the time, I thought this was pretty old. I mean—hello?—I was practically 12. In some cultures, my cousin once told me, boys were starting families at 12.

But the older I grew, the more I realized what a baby 11 was. I was an infant.

As a result of losing my father young, I learned a lot about life. I learned lessons my peers, thankfully, didn’t need to learn.

Foremostly, I learned how to make crappy decisions. I made TONS of bad decisions. One right after the other. This goes with the territory. Boys without dads don’t have the luxury of someone making decisions for them.

One of my first idiotic decisions was to quit the baseball team. I

did this because I couldn’t face the guys anymore. They didn’t understand me. They’d quit calling, quit asking if I could come outside and play.

They sat on the opposite side of the lunchroom. Didn’t speak to me. Acted like I had plague. It wasn’t their fault. It’s just how kids are.

My second bad decision was to drop out of school. This happened in seventh grade. I declared to my mother that I would never go back. She was going through so much post-trauma of her own, she said, “Whatever.” And that was that.

Truancy officers came to our house sometimes, but eventually they quit showing up. And I kind of disappeared. My name fell into oblivion.

Everyone pretty much forgot about me. I became a nonentity. I worked crap jobs. I was cosmic debris. I was white trash. At least that’s how I…

It was a social experiment. Nothing more.

We were in an elevator. Me and Bill. Bill is an academic researcher, dealing in human behavior. Also rats. He knows a lot about rats. Whereas I am a redhead.

It was a large elevator. There were maybe 14 passengers. The supermarket downtown is swanky. The big elevator carries you from the parking garage to the main level.

“Pay attention,” said Bill, as we boarded the sardine can.

“What do you see?” he whispered into the redhead’s ear.

For starters, almost everyone in the elevator was young. And by “young” I mean the oldest among them was probably early 20s.

“That’s because this supermarket is located near the college,” said Bill.

The elevator stopped. More people got on. All young people. The lift stopped at another floor. Another young group shuffled aboard.

There might have been 20 of us now. Everyone was a baby compared to Bill and me, who are both old enough to remember when Lawrence Welk officially went off the air.

“Are you paying attention?” Bill asked.

I nodded.

Although, I wish I hadn’t been. Because I was immediately struck with an eerie feeling in this elevator. Namely, because everyone was staring at a device. And I mean everyone.

Nobody made eye contact. Nobody seemed to WANT to make eye contact. Nobody offered the quick, polite social smiles our mothers taught us to give others. Nobody acknowledged boarding elevator passengers with warm looks and brief nods.

Nobody seemed aware of anything. They just stood there. Numb. Head craned downward. Staring at the iridescent blue, opiate glow of their touchscreens.

The elevator doors opened. We were on the main level now. The elevator emptied.

“Follow and observe,” said Bill.

Together, we sort of followed the young people around the store. At at distance.

The kids were awkward. Their interactions were awkward. Sometimes it was downright cringy. Like the kids didn’t know…

KAILUA, Hawaii—It’s dark outside. It’s late. Or is it early? Hard to remember. Been a long day.

Here she comes. Jogging. People are cheering. They should be. She just finished swimming 2.4 miles, pedaling 112 miles, and running 26 miles.

With finish line in sight, she trips. She falls. The race should be over for her right here. But it’s not. She stands. She starts jogging toward the finish again. Unstoppable.

She crosses the tape.

Natalie Grabow, of Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, has just become the oldest woman to finish the Ironman World Championship Triathlon. Amazingly, Natalie only learned how to swim around age 60.

Today, Natalie is 80 years old.

“It’s never too late to take on a new challenge,” says Natalie.

LONDON—Here’s another challenge. Sixty-five-year-old Denise Bacon from East Sussex, England, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. She lost the ability to do her favorite things like play clarinet.

Until the other day.

She underwent a procedure called DBS—deep brain stimulation. If the procedure was successful, it would restore motor function. DBS is offering new hope to patients with Parkinson’s,

like Denise.

The doctor told Denise to bring her clarinet just in case. Mid-operation, the surgeon told the techs to fetch her clarinet.

And so it was, the surgical team stood behind a plastic sanitary guard as Denise lay on the table, still under local anesthesia, under powerful lights.

She held the clarinet to her lips. And played for the first time in years. And not only did she play, the operating room sounded like an Artie Shaw performance.

“I’m already experiencing improvements in my ability to walk,” says Denise. “And I’m keen to get back in the swimming pool, and on the dance floor.”

CAPE BRETON BEACH, Nova Scotia—Here’s another challenge worth mentioning. It occurred when three pilot whales were stranded on the beach.

Low tide was fast approaching. The three whales were stuck. They would die on the…