Visitors often walk through this high prairie farmhouse and say they can feel her. They don’t know how. They don’t know why. But she’s here.

A teenage girl is in the farmhouse museum, taking the tour alongside me. She and her mom are in my tour group. The girl is looking at the old woman’s artifacts, nestled behind Plexiglass cases, taking lots of pictures with a phone.

“This is the clock SHE wrote about, Mom,” says the girl.

She.

Everyone here is on a first-name basis with “she.”

The girl says her grandmother is who first got her into the classic book series, back when she was little. The girl has been in love with “her” ever since. Her grandmother would read these books to her every night. And when her grandmother went on hospice care last year, the girl returned the favor.

The home is nothing fancy. It’s your typical Missouri farmhouse. Like something your grandparents grew up in. Musty smelling. Unlevel. Creaky. Two stories. Simple to a fault.

The home was built in

1894. She and her husband made a $100 down payment. There were two rooms. Her husband and a few local carpenters built the rest. Sometimes they paid workmen in bales of hay. Or with chickens.

I rest my own hand on the cracked and faded wood paneling. I feel like I’m in the household of an old friend. The teenage girl, however, is having an almost spiritual experience. She traveled here to Mansfield, all the way from Florida, to make this pilgrimage.

She is carrying one of “her” books in her arms. A paperback. Tattered and worn.

And I kind of understand what she’s feeling. When you fall in love with a writer, you never fall out of love.

I read the old woman’s books when I was a kid, too. I read eight of her books in one week. Then I read them again…

The little boy was already on this plane when we boarded. He has a backpack bigger than he is. And a stuffed animal. He is maybe seven years old.

We passengers can hear him talking to anyone within earshot. He is loud. He is chatty. He does not use an indoor voice.

The kid is nothing but friendly.

“Hi,” he says to the businessman across his aisle.

“Hello,” the man replies without looking away from his device.

The boy is smiling. “How are you?”

“Fine,” the guy says. Very annoyed. His tone is communicating that he doesn’t want to talk.

“I am good, too,” the boy says even though the man didn’t ask.

The boy digs into his pocket. “Would you like a Starburst?”

“No.” The man doesn’t even say thank you.

The boy is unfazed. He has a new package of Starburst and it’s too wonderful not to share. He tears it open with his teeth.

“Are you SURE?” the kid says. “I have tropical flavor.”

The man just ignores the kid.

“Which color do you want?” the kid asks.

The man acts like the kid is invisible.

So,

the boy asks a lady nearby whether she’d like a Starburst.

The woman is put off by the constant chatter.

“I wouldn’t care for any,” she says sharply. But at least she adds, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies sunnily.

He turns to the old man in a seat behind him. “Would you like any Starburst, sir?”

The man looks almost offended. He’s watching a movie on his phone. His privacy bubble has been violated. He irritatedly tells the kid to quiet down.

The boy looks hurt, but then a flight attendant saves the day.

“Do you have red ones?” the flight attendant asks

“Yes! I do!”

He gives the attendant more than one.

She thanks him, then engages him in conversation. Many of the passengers surrounding her seem aggravated…

There is a US law stipulating that whenever you’re having a good day a pharmaceutical commercial must appear.

It will be a frightening one, too. Sometimes the same startling commercial will be replayed three, four, maybe five times. That’s the law.

You will see this commercial so many times, you will be able to recite the list of fatal side effects by heart:

“Zombacore may cause drowsiness, upper respiratory infections, headache, fatigue, injection site reactions (redness, swelling, brain death), fungal skin infections, paralyzation, organ failure, and lightheadedness in men who are nursing or pregnant.”

These advertisements are seldom pleasant. They are intentionally disturbing sometimes. It is, however, the shingles vaccine ad that takes the cake.

You see big, nasty, red, goopy infected lesions of shingles. The fluid-blisters are shown up close, as though you are watching TLC and it’s Shingles Week.

The music for these commercials is even better. Pharmaceutical commercials often select a knock-off version of a 1970s top-40 hit that nobody ever liked in the first place.

Such as Ozempic’s theme song, which is

a ripoff of “Magic” by Pilot. Which goes: “Oh, oh, oh, Ozempic!” Also, there is the nonsensical song for Skyrizi which features existentially confusing lyrics which say: “Nothing is everything.”

I don’t want my dogs watching this.

These songs are usually paired with scenes of normal people, losing weight, wearing sleeveless tanks, barbecuing, smiling about it, or playing pickleball, which is America’s fastest-growing sport.

At least this is what everyone tells me about pickleball. We have pickleball courts near our house. People are always waiting in line to use occupied courts.

You can see them there, waiting, spinning their paddles, doing violent stretches, talking about pickleball. If you ever engage them in conversation, someone is bound to say, “Pickleball is the fastest-growing sport in America.”

I don’t know why they all say this verbatim. It is the mantra for pickleballers. Even when you do…

The 18-year-old young woman walked into the office. She was nervous. Her hands were trembling.

Which was really saying something, because this was a young woman accustomed to being onstage. She wanted to become a serious actress someday.

In fact, that’s why she was here. Her teacher, Mrs. Ship, said she had real talent. Said she’d never seen an actress with such stage presence. Said she had flawless timing. She recommended the young woman visit the drama department director, Madame Pauleen Sherwood Townsend.

Madame Townsend sat behind her desk, reading glasses low on her nose. The woman peered over her spectacles at the rail-thin girl entering her office.

“You’re late,” said the woman, checking her clock. “By two minutes.”

“I’m sorry,” said the girl.

“What’s your name?”

“Everyone calls me Ophie, ma’am.”

“Sit down, Ophie.”

The girl sat. She tried to steady her quivering hands, but couldn’t. So, she sat on them.

“Mrs. Ship tells me you want to be an actress.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What will you be reading for me?”

Young Ophie had prepared a reading. She’d memorized a selection from a classic work. She had rehearsed her piece so

many times she could recite it in her sleep. She cleared her throat and began.

The old woman listened with eyes closed. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The woman’s eyes snapped open. Her facial muscles tightened. An expression of concern lit her face.

Madame Townsend stopped the girl mid-sentence. Ophie was not even halfway through.

“What on earth happened to your voice?” said the woman.

“My voice?”

“Your voice is horrid. You’ve strained it. How on earth did you ruin your voice like this?”

The color went out of the girl’s face. “Strained it?”

“Think, child. What have you done to your voice to destroy it so?”

“Destroyed it?”

Tears swelled behind young Ophie’s eyes. “I don’t know. I was a cheerleader in high school?”

“A cheerleader? Oh,…

There is an ancient proverb that says, “The couple that does not record audiobooks together stays together.”

These are wise words. I know this now because recently, I wrote a book with my wife. This past weekend, Jamie and I recorded the audiobook version together, which was a lot of fun. And anyway, now I’m scheduled for dental surgery.

We got to the studio early. The engineers instructed us to wear “roomy clothes,” and not to eat anything that would cause “digestive noises” over the microphone.

It bears mentioning: My wife and I have never recorded an audiobook together. Frankly, I did not know you COULD record an audiobook with your wife and keep all your guy-parts intact.

The studio’s method of operation was simple. First, I would read my portion of the manuscript into the mic, then it would be Jamie’s turn. This required painstaking effort and a lot of concentration. Then, once we successfully nailed the reading of one section, after thousands of retakes, the audio engineer would happily pronounce that

“Your stomach was rumbling in that last take.” Then we’d start all over again.

I was given the role of “director of audiobook.” Which meant I had to give Jamie direction.

This role was given to me because I have been recording audiobooks for years now. Actually, in another lifetime, I used to record radio jingles and announcements.

These jingles were recorded in a basement studio, then shipped off to small mom-and-pop stations all over the nation. My voice advertised everything from home renovations to wholesale senior diapers.

The most difficult part of being a jingle singer was getting jingles out of your head after work. These were godawful ear-worms that bored themselves into your frontal lobe. Even after all these years, I still have millions of jingles stuck in my head.

Sometimes, for example, I will be stuck in traffic and I’ll start singing to myself:

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…