I woke up thinking about you. There I was, at 4:41 a.m., sitting in my living room, wondering about you.

I heard the doctor gave you bad news. And I couldn’t help but imagine how afraid you must be.

Fear is a curse. A primal heirloom, passed down through our DNA. A gift from our ancestors. Fear kept our forebears alive.

Our ancestors HAD to be afraid to survive. If our ancestors hadn’t been frightened, they would have been alligator food. Human culture would have never advanced. We would all still be sitting on rocks, wearing loincloths, poking beehives with sticks.

Your body needs adrenaline to keep it from danger. Otherwise, you’d do stupid things such as stepping into traffic, walking out a ten-story window, or listening to pop country.

But now your internal alarm system has turned against itself. Now you’re swallowed by the very emotion that was supposed to defend you. And while I don’t know what you’re going through, I do know fear.

I’ve wrestled with fear my whole life.

As a

boy, I went through a lot of trauma. My childhood household featured abuse, gun violence, and suicide. My father held my family hostage one night, threatening to kill us. County deputies showed up with riot guns. Then my father took his own life.

So, my little body got stuck in Fear Mode. I was always afraid, without even KNOWING I was afraid. Sometimes my biology was afraid even when I thought I was fine.

I could be watching the ABC Sunday Night movie, for instance, and just as Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal were getting busy on the beach, for some reason I was anxious.

Little did I know that my glands were flooding my body with those addictive little warming squirts of adrenaline. I was hooked on the drug. I couldn’t kick the fear habit. Fear became my go-to emotion. Fear became both the…

It’s a mess, that’s what it is. When you land in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Third World International Airport, you’re walking into a battle zone.

It’s nonstop chaos. Airport professionals ride golf carts with loud beeps and flashing lights.

Hordes of business professionals below age 40 speed-walk past you, having loud conversations with their earbuds, dutifully working on their first nervous breakdowns.

Middle-aged Midwestern guys in New Balances, shoulder a tonnage of roller luggage, most of which—you can just tell—belongs to their wives.

Everyone is on their phones

I notice the elderly man across from me. He is wearing khakis and Merrells, the universal uniform of the Old Guy. He is breathing heavily. Hyperventilating, actually. His hands are trembling. He takes a sip of water and almost drops the bottle.

This man is having a diabetic episode or something, I’m thinking.

“Sir, are you okay?” I ask.

He looks at me. His eyes are rimmed pink. I can’t tell if he’s about to cry or not. “Have you ever flown before?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

He returns to his trembling.

“I’m eighty-two years old,” he says, “and I’ve never flown. I’ve

never been anywhere or done anything.”

This is a man old enough to be my father, but at this moment, he seems very childlike to me. Fear has a way of reducing one’s age.

There is a little girl sitting on his other side. She notices what’s going on. She joins our conversation. She is maybe 10.

The kid says, “What do you mean you’ve never been ANYWHERE or done ANYTHING,’ sir?”

He looks at her. Her hair is in pigtails. She could pass for the Coppertone Girl.

“I’ve only left my hometown twice,” he says. He’s getting more nervous with each word. “I’ve never done anything of note. I’ve never been anywhere.”

“Do you have a family?” the girl says.

He nods. “Four kids.”

“How old?”

“My oldest…

Q: Greetings. I just found your videoes online and I wanted to reach out. You realize that most of the music history you share on your videos is crap, right?

A: You realize you misspelled “videos,” right?

Q: My mom introduced me to your work… And I honestly do not understand the appeal of your writing… All you do is write on the same things and cover the same topics, day after day, but in different ways.

A: Not true, sir. I also draw the same pictures day after day.

Q: You evidently have a platform for being heard, but you refuse to use this platform to talk about [political topic deleted]... This nation NEEDS a voice to speak out and decry the evil that surrounds us, and your refusal to do so reveals an ultimate cowardice on your part…

A: I disagree. My ultimate cowardice is revealed in my fear of snakes.

Q: You are so misguided!!! Not everyone goes to heaven, Sean. Your theology needs a little work. God is not purely love and

grace, He is an exacting judge. Someday He will separate the wheat from the chaff… We are not ALL God’s children, as you say. Only those who believe and are saved are His children. I’m going to heaven, where are you going?

A: Wherever you aren’t.

Q: I don’t understand why someone walks the Camino de Santiago. …You say it’s to meet all the people, but can’t you meet people here in the US? Are you really doing all you can to be friends with people in your own country? I seriously do not understand why you must travel across the whole world to meet inspiring people, it seems like “Millennial escapism” to me.

A: I absolutely agree with you. You don’t understand.

Q: I take umbrage at the fact that you make so many jokes about Baptist churches.

A: Well don’t take it…

The question was simple. “Who is God?”

CHRIS (age 5): He’s a big, big thing, but you can’t see him. He has big hands and he can pick you up and carry you around. And he won’t drop you, not even if you try to jump. He can fly.

ANDREA (5): Nobody’s ever seen a picture, so we don’t know what color he is.

MITCH (7): A lot of people don’t believe in God, these people are called ATMs.

VERA (6, but two months shy of 7): You can do anything to God and basically he’ll still love you.

JOCELYN (4): Dogs and angels are God’s best friends.

LEE (7): God is everything all at once.

BRADLEY (7): You have to go to church and listen to a preacher tell you about him every week and then give him money so he’ll let you go.

CARREY (9): God likes to hear people sing. I don’t know why. Some people do not sing good.

TOMMY (10): God is invisible. If you ask him to show himself to you he

won’t. Trust me, I’ve tried.

ALAN (9): My dad says God puts people in the bad place starting with “H” if they don’t believe in him. But why would you work really hard making something and then throw it away?

KELLI (6): God makes all the babies and gives them to us. Every baby has something different that nobody else has.

SARAH (10): Anything you want to say, God will listen. You can talk whenever. He will listen. Doesn’t matter what you say. Even if you’re not in a good mood.

TYLER (8): He don’t like it when you judge other people. So don’t do it.

TRYNA (8): I used to have a friend who didn’t believe in God. And I was like, “Why? It don’t cost anything.”

ALISON (5): You have to be quiet in church because people are sleeping.

MATTHEW…

I was in a hotel with a few hundred Mennonites.

I walked into the hotel at noon. At first, I was confused inasmuch as the lobby was full of cape dresses, plain suits, and broad-brimmed hats. Some of the older men had beards, some were clean-shaven. The women wore head coverings.

I thought maybe I’d taken a wrong turn on the interstate.

I approached the hotel desk. “I feel a little underdressed,” I said.

“There is a Mennonite gathering in town,” the hotel clerk said. “This is probably my favorite time of year.”

“Really?” I asked. “Why?”

She smiled.

“You’ll see,” she said.

On my way up to my room, I rode in the elevator with four Mennonite teenagers. It was beautifully un-awkward. None of the young people had a hard time looking me in the eye. None of them had a difficult time making conversation.

“I’m Caleb,” said one boy, confidently.

I shook his hand. This set off a chain of handshakes and introductions among us all. I learned everyone’s name.

“We’re so excited to be here,” said Caleb. “We’ve never

actually stayed in a hotel before.”

“They have a free breakfast,” said one boy, using the same tone you’d use to say, “I just won the scratch-off.”

“They even have a swimming pool,” said one of the young women, covering her mouth as though she had just said something mildly risqué.

Then all her counterparts giggled.

We had a nice conversation, then I stepped off when the elevator arrived at my floor. One of the boys offered to help me with my bags.

I travel with five musical instruments, which can be a hassle. I declined his offer, but I was touched.

“Goodbye, Mister Dietrich,” they all said in unison as I wielded my banjos, guitars, and fiddles down the hallway.

The next morning, there must have been fifty or sixty Mennonite teenagers in the lobby, standing in…

Dearly Beloved,

Today is Yom HaShoah. The Jewish holy day for remembering the Holocaust. And I must admit, dear friends, standing before you all, here in this beautiful synagogue, wearing this tiny hat, I am feeling very out of place. And humbled.

I am not Jewish. I’m not even religious. Actually, I don’t know what I am. I am a seeker, I guess. A fellow human being. Someone with a heart, a liver, two eyes, and a soul. Just like you. I am proud to be here. Wearing this kippah on the crown of my head.

My rabbi friend tells me it is a custom to deliver a “hesped” or eulogy and address the departed. Instead of eulogizing, I am going to read the Holocaust victims’ words to you. I would ask you all to bow your heads as they speak through my feeble voice:

GERTA WEISSMAN KLEIN, a teenage prisoner from Sobibor Camp:

“[Sometimes, I remember] Ilse, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the camp

and carried it in her pocket all day to present to me that night on a leaf. Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry and you give it to your friend.”

JACK ADLER, former prisoner of Dachau:

“I was liberated on May 1, 1945, while on the death march out of Dachau… [I believe that] in order for humanity to survive we must allow ourselves to be guided by the Golden Rule. There are seven billion people on this planet earth, we all belong to one race, the human race. So treat others the way you would like to be treated.”

PREMYSL DOBIAS, former prisoner of Terezin labor camp:

“The hardest thing was not the hunger, though the hunger was constant. The hardest thing was to keep your mind from becoming a desert. We would try to remember the smell of a kitchen at home, or…