My wife and I are eating at a Chinese restaurant. We’ve been driving for hours through South Carolina. We pulled over to refuel and address pressing bladder issues.

And we found this place.

The waitress asked what we wanted. We ordered a seaweed salad. This particular salad was colored Disney-World green and tasted like eating bait.

My wife took a bite and said, “Remember when we first got married?”

“I do,” I said.

“Remember when we used to get takeout from that Chinese place over by the Kmart?”

“Yes.”

“Remember how we’d always get the seaweed salad?”

“I do.”

She took a bite. Green earthworms hung from the corners of her mouth. And I couldn’t help but remember those younger kids who used to eat Chinese food a lot.

Me with my long hair. Her with her bangs. We were poor. We had one window unit A/C in our apartment, which only worked on days of the week beginning with L. The world still had Kmarts back then.

The Chinese restaurant in our hometown was cheap. Duct tape on the

cushions. There weren’t many places to go for dates. So that’s where we went.

The food at the old Chinese restaurant was stellar. And food has always been so important to the woman I married. Some people eat to live. Jamie lives to eat.

I met Jamie after she graduated culinary school. She wore chef’s whites for a living. She bossed people around in a kitchen while stirring steel pots, angrily shouting French words, using strange phrases like, “This béarnaise has broken, dangit!”

To call her job a high-stress job would be like calling a Carnival cruise ship a “dinghy.”

Food service is one of the hardest jobs known to man. Being a female chef is even harder. You constantly have male staffers with “tiny spoon syndrome,” trying to prove how macho they are. Some guys don’t like having a…

South Carolina. The distant backroads. Deep forest. Lots of Spanish moss. I am stuck behind an asthmatic pickup.

The truck is a ‘78 Ford. F-100. Two-tone. Brown and vanilla. Five liter engine. Probably a three-speed manual. I know this because my old man drove the same truck.

The Ford travels 29 mph. The driver’s arm hangs out the window. And I’m transfixed by his license plate.

Namely, because the South Carolina license tag has the state motto imprinted on it. The motto is located at the top, in white text. Just beside the $640 registration sticker.

“While I breathe, I hope,” says the adage.

I’ve never known a more beautiful state motto. Especially when you consider some of the other state mottos.

Such as North Carolina’s motto: “Esse quam videri,” which means, literally, “To be, rather than to seem.” Um. What?

California’s motto is one word: “Eureka!” Idaho’s is, “Let it be perpetual.” Florida’s state motto is: “Ask about our grandkids.”

But I like the South Carolina slogan. Those words speak to me. Namely, because a few

years ago, the doctor thought I had cancer. I went through miniseries of misery, only to find out that I’m okay.

Still, those years of wondering were double, double toil and trouble. And all the cancer veterans I’ve talked to say the same thing: “It’s not cancer that kills you, it’s the worry that goes with it.”

Well, that was years ago. And what a difficult time that was for me. During that one year, I lost six friends to the C-word. And one to suicide. At times, I thought I was about to have a nervous breakdown.

But that bad experience is in my rear view mirror now. And in many ways, I’m not even the same guy I was. I eat healthier—mostly. I exercise more. And ever since walking through Spain, I pray all the time. I pray even when I’m…

The little boy was with his mom, sitting in a truckstop diner. The boy was bald, wearing a loose T-shirt. A large bandage showed from beneath his collar.

Before the boy sat a massive meal. Bacon. Eggs. Huge glass of chocolate milk. Stack of pancakes bigger than a midsize SUV.

“It feels so weird, my stitches itch,” the boy said.

“Eat your pancakes,” said Mom.

Mom looked tired. Her hair looked like she had slept on it. Her clothes, crumpled.

“How many days was I in the hospital?” the boy asked.

The mother sighed. “Twenty-six. Now eat your pancakes.”

Everyone in the little restaurant was staring at mother and son. Especially the trucker in the booth behind them, who couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

Mother and son ate in silence for a while. The boy was inhaling his food while Mom nursed a mug in both hands, staring wistfully out the window.

“Did they cut all the cancer out?” the boy asked.

Mother was crying now. “Eat your pancakes.”

She tried to hide her face but was unsuccessful. Sometimes there is nowhere to hide

one’s face.

The boy just watched his mother weep. “I’m worried about you, Mom.”

Mom laughed through snot and tears. “You’re worried about ME?”

He nodded.

Things went silent for a while.

That’s when something happened. The trucker from the nearby booth rose to his feet. He approached their table. He was every American truck driver you’ve ever seen. Powerfully built, slightly round in the middle, a ring of keys on his belt, and scuffed boots.

The man stood before their table, wearing a meek expression, hat in hand. The man said he couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. And, well, the man was wondering, would it be okay if he prayed for the boy, ma’am?

Truthfully, Mom was a little weirded out by this request. After all, people HAD been praying for the boy back home.…

My mother always told me to smile. Especially when I didn’t want to. She often told me to smile when I was sad, when trying on school clothes, or whenever I was forced to eat beef liver at gunpoint.

“Smile,” she’d say.

A mother knows how her child is feeling by looking at their face. Are you in pain? Upset? Angry because your Little League team lost opening game? Your mom knows. Because your face tells the story.

So smile.

Often, my mother would follow up this gentle command with: “You have a lot to be thankful for, young man.”

Turns out, you have 43 muscles in your face. Your face contains more muscles than any other body part. The only anatomical region coming close to having this many muscles is your back, which has 40 muscles, excluding your butt muscles which are the heaviest in the body.

(FACT: Two average adult buttcheeks, skin and muscle combined, weigh 33 pounds.)

Why is your face so muscled? Because. Your face was not just

made for photographs. Your face is a precise signaling system.

You can communicate entire paragraphs with only your face. It’s how you were designed. Don’t believe me? Try getting lost in a foreign country without cell service or a functioning GPS. By the end of the day your face will be tired.

As it happens, the default mode of your face, according to research, is smiling. Recent studies discovered that we are born smiling. Doctors used 3D ultrasound technology to find that developing babies smile in the womb.

Once born, babies continue to smile. Even when crying, they are flexing their smile muscles. And babies keep smiling throughout childhood. A child smiles, on average, 400 times per day. Whereas the average adult smiles less than 20.

Something else researchers discovered is that a smile is catching. It’s called the “yawn effect.” Just seeing someone else smile stimulates your…

A small town. The kind of beautiful American hamlet where all that’s missing is the Norman Rockwell signature. There was a party happening on Main Street. Lots of people.

I followed the sound of distant music and many voices and realized I was wearing pajamas.

I shuffled into town barefoot, with sleep crusted eyes. People were everywhere. I saw women positioning casseroles on card tables. Children playing tag. Old men in aprons were deep frying fish.

A band was playing music near the hardware store. People were dancing. And upon each front porch, attached to every home, were crowds of people, mingling, laughing, drinking lemonade and sugary tea.

Everyone was there. All my loved ones. All those who died. Friends whose lives ended young. Relatives, who were called away too early. They were all right here, holding paper plates, laughing with each other.

Also, I saw multitudes of unfamiliar children, dancing while the musicians played “Hokey Pokey.” I asked an old woman who all these children were. “Those are babies who died in

the womb,” the woman said.

We were interrupted when a large pack of dogs came running through the town, careening up Main Street, greeting people. Among them, I saw my own former dogs.

Lady, the cocker spaniel who died in my arms. Joe, who was killed in a hit and run. And Ellie Mae, the bloodhound who died in a cold, sterile veterinary office.

In a nearby backyard, I watched old friends play baseball. The pitcher was my cousin, Cosby. My friend Lynn was playing shortstop.

Then a familiar woman stepped up to the plate, holding a bat. She was a teenager, long and beautiful, with raven hair. She looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place this young woman.

And that’s when it hit me. It was my grandmother.

Later, I was hungry. So I waited in line at one of the food tables, holding a paper…

I love marshmallows. I love Basset hounds. I love the smell of fresh-cut grass. I love sunlight. And I love the way a baby feels in your arms, all squishy and warm.

I love old people. Love to hear them speak. Love to hear them laugh. Love to hear them tell stories of olden times.

I love old-school baseball. When pitchers still batted. And well-told jokes. The kind of jokes so good that, after their telling, bystanders are required to change their respective undergarments.

And really good chocolate. Not cheap dollar-store chocolate that tastes like chapstick. I’m talking about real chocolate, so rich, so dark, so intense, that it would be classified, legally speaking, as an act of negligence not to finish the entire chocolate bar.

I love the way children ask honest questions. “How do plants grow?” “Why can’t animals talk?” “Am I pretty?” And I love how quickly a child can let go of anything that makes them sad.

I love little storefronts, in little towns, with little bells on the

doors, and passionate shopowners behind the counters.

I love grits. I love oscillating fans. I love it when elderly women and young women hook arms as they walk down the street. I love watching dads and sons play catch.

I love going barefoot. I love music created by intelligence that is not artificial. I love good writing. I love journalism that isn’t clickbait. I love corn chips.

I love it whenever I see someone stoop to pick up a piece of litter on a sidewalk, especially if they don’t think anyone is watching.

I love the teenage girl who stopped her car yesterday, blocking traffic, hazards blinking, and exited her vehicle to move a turtle from the middle of a busy highway.

I love moms who still keep cookies in cookie jars. And dads who still know how to sharpen their own pocketknives. I love people who…

The school cafeteria. The boys were all sitting together, doing what teenage boys do. Horsing around, talking about girls, probably trying to make milk spew from each other’s nostrils.

That’s when Jimmy told the guys about his uncle. He said his uncle was a musician who sang on the radio.

This drew laughter from the boys.

“No, it’s true,” Jimmy insisted. He explained that Uncle Lonzo was part of a musical-comedy duo that traveled the country. Uncle Lonzo was even a regular on the Grand Ole Opry.

The boys laughed themselves all the way to their homeroom. They weren’t buying it.

But it WAS true. Uncle Lonzo was from Cherry Valley, Arkansas. He WAS on the radio. He performed all over the country. Moreover, Lonzo was coming to stay with Jimmy’s family that very week.

There was one among Jimmy’s friends, however, who believed him. He was a quiet boy, soft spoken. Extremely shy. This boy lived on the other side of town.

The poor boy’s clothes were secondhand, oversized, trimmed to fit him by his mom. Sometimes, the boy even

attended school without shoes.

So one afternoon, Jimmy invited all the guys to the house to meet Uncle Lonzo. To prove his case, once and for all.

That afternoon, the boys showed up on Jimmy’s front stoop, full of testosterone and sophomoric enthusiasm, waiting to get a glimpse of a real, genuine, in-the-flesh radio star and musician.

Jimmy’s mom welcomed them inside and fixed everyone something to drink. Well—almost everyone.

She stopped Jimmy’s poor friend at the door.

She gave the boy a weak smile. He was wearing ragged clothes, carrying a beat up guitar, slung over his shoulder, with a piece of string for a strap.

“You’ll have to wait outside,” she told him.

The boy looked disappointed, but he hid it well. He just stared at the ground. He yes-ma’amed her. He remained on the porch while…

There was once a raccoon named Benny. Benny was very nice, and very cute. Also, he did not smell like urine and feces the way other raccoons did.

Benny was polite. Everyone wanted to be Benny’s friend because of this. Plus, Benny didn’t have roundworms, rabies, or any other communicable diseases such as leptospirosis, bayliscaris, or salmonella, which makes friendship so difficult.

One day, Benny was wandering through the woods when he saw a patch of strawberries growing in the sunlight. Benny LOVED strawberries. And he almost never found any strawberries when digging for food in humans’ trash bins.

Benny ran toward the strawberries, but when he got there, he was not alone. There was another raccoon arriving at the same time.

It was Eleanor. Eleanor was a raccoon from the other side of the woods. Eleanor came from raccoons who lived near Mountain Brook, where humans ate very expensive organic food from Trader Joe’s. Whereas Benny lived in Irondale where everyone ate KFC.

Usually, Eleanor was a very nice raccoon. But today Eleanor did not look nice. When

she noticed Benny, she showed her teeth.

“Get away from my strawberries,” said Eleanor.

“YOUR strawberries?” said Benny.

“I was here first.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Was too.”

An argument ensued. Soon, their disagreement became quite heated. Benny was shouting. Eleanor was yelling and waving her hands around. It is a well-known fact that raccoons talk with their hands.

Eventually, Benny got so mad he threw a rock at Eleanor. It missed her, thankfully. For Benny hadn’t really meant to throw the rock in the first place. He was just supremely ticked off.

But Eleanor’s temper hit the red zone. She did not appreciate rocks being thrown at her. Especially not by pompous little raccoons from the other side of the forest who ate KFC.

So Eleanor threw a rock at Benny. The rock hit Benny in the shoulder.

“Hey!” shouted Benny.…

Have mercy. Have mercy on the children, God.

Ordinary American school kids. Good kids. Kids who were at a church worship service in Minnesota when a gunman broke in. Kids hit the floor as soon as the gunman started shooting through the windows.

It happened during Mass. Of all times, God. Amidst lit candles and liturgy. Amidst statuary and pews and hanging portraits of Jesus. It happened in plain view of the Crucifix. Before the sacramental bread and wine. Your children were killed, God.

They were babies. Ages 8 and 10. Their lives were ended during prayer.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

Have mercy on the 14 other children who were caught in the violence, as gunfire ripped through the chapel. On little Sophia, the schoolgirl who is in critical condition as I write this. And all her classmates, whose names I don’t know yet.

Have mercy on the three victims, who I am told are in their 80s, also shot, as they scrambled on hands and knees to protect themselves

and the children caught in the crossfire.

Have mercy on the school employees, the church staff, the entire preschool in the church’s basement area.

Have mercy on the celebrant who was presiding over mass when gunfire began. Have mercy on everyone at Annunciation Church.

Have mercy on the teachers who instinctively threw their own bodies atop the children, as blasts from a shotgun erupted, and a gunman sought to end their lives.

Have mercy on those nearby, who had no idea what was going on, and were too paralyzed to move.

Have mercy on all humans whose primitive instinct is to blame themselves, for whatever reason, even though none of this could possibly be their fault.

Have mercy on the lone police officer who charged into the sanctuary to rescue children. An officer who had no idea what he or she might find inside. Who may have believed…

I remember going to a ball game with my old man. I remember the smells. Stale beer, human sweat, and the odor of unnaturally pink hotdogs that turned your bowels into stone.

I remember before the game, things got very quiet. All 30-odd thousand people rose. The throngs of stadium chairs creaking sounded like the world was splitting.

Everyone’s dad put down his non-evangelical beverage, SLOWLY, careful not to spill. Thousands of American grandpas removed lit cigars and balanced them, with surgical-like care, onto armrests.

The anthem was played.

Back in those days, the anthem was handled differently than it is today. Back then, guest artists did not take the mound, wearing asymmetric haircuts and crotch-revealing trousers. Neither did singers demonstrate 10 minutes of vocal gymnastics until their anthem performance resembled a febrile seizure.

No. Back then the organ played. And everybody sang.

We used to be a nation of singers. Remember that? Singing was just normal for us. Our childhood classrooms had upright console pianos, and our teachers knew how to

play them. Mrs. Moore would bang out “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” before each class. Mrs. Smith played “This Land is Your Land” every Friday after the Pledge.

Well, that was a long time ago.

Recently, I attended a modern baseball game. It was a very different experience. My wife and I ordered $34 nachos from a kiosk, and the cashier asked whether I wanted to leave a 25-percent tip. Beers were $18 apiece.

During the game, a huge LED timer runs between pitches so TV producers can fit in more commercials on broadcasts. The bases are now bigger, the distance between bases is now shorter. They’re changing our game.

But none of that bothered me. Not really. A Major League park is what it is. Get over it. At a ball game, you get what you get, and you don’t pitch a fit.

What I was most…