A small bar. The Christmas decorations were already up. Thanksgiving wasn’t but a few days deceased, but the halls were officially decked.

I got a burger and a tall beer. The beer came in a mug the size of a flowerpot. The burger was more breadcrumbs than beef. An old food service trick.

He was sitting at the bar. Young. Cleancut. The full face of youth. His head was peering into his glass. As though glass were going to talk back. It didn’t. Glasses rarely do.

“Last night, I asked Erin to marry me,” he said to the bartender.

The bartender, a woman comfortably in her 60s, leaned on the bar. Back in the days when you could smoke in Alabama establishments, this woman would’ve most certainly been doing so. They knew each other, apparently.

“You finally asked?” the barkeep said. “Oh, baby. What’d she say?”

“Well, that’s the thing. What I was thinking? I should’ve never asked her. What right do I have? We’ve only been dating five months. Erin could find a guy WAY better than me. There’s

no doubt. I don’t mean that I’m a bad guy, but she’s way out of my league, we both know that.

“She’s beautiful, she’s sweet. Every place I take her, all the guys are usually pretending to be looking at something in her direction. She’s smart, she just told me she wants to go to school to be a nurse someday. Did you know that? She doesn’t have any money to do school because her mom and dad kicked her out when she was eighteen.”

I prepared to take a bite of my burger when I noticed something unusual. My burger had a hair in it.

“She has two kids now,” he said. “Same daddy. I have no business taking on kids. Do I?

“I’m almost thirty. And I can’t believe I’m even considering it. I have no idea what…

I recently saw a man in a gas station scream at a cashier. The cashier was a young girl. She made a mistake and overcharged him for gas. The man lost it. I watched the whole thing happen. He stormed out of the convenience store and sped away, leaving skid marks.

She was embarrassed.

“Oh, man,” she said. “I really screwed up.”

“No you didn’t,” said a nice man standing in line. “He did.”

Be nice. That’s what my mother always told me. And I never knew her to be wrong. This was her highest aspiration for my life. She wanted me to use a soft voice, good manners, and to treat people the way I’d treat Pope Francis.

Admittedly, I have failed her many times. There was the time I was watching the Iron Bowl at a tavern in Columbus, with friends. I was seventeen, but I managed to sneak into the joint.

There was a man at the bar in an Auburn T-shirt who kept shouting ugly things to my pals. When he tossed

a glass of beer into my friend Arnold’s face things went crazy.

Arnold weighed a buck five, soaking wet, and had a stutter, he could not seem to defend himself. It took three of us to pry the man loose.

The rowdy hit me beneath the jaw so hard I bit my own tongue and said a word that is not approved by the Southern Baptist Convention™.

In the heat of the moment, I sat on the man’s chest because I didn’t know what else to do. That wasn’t very nice. My other friends joined me. Three of us sat on him like we were waiting for the three o’clock bus. My mother would’ve disowned me.

The bartender, a graduate from the University of Auburn, splashed a glass of ice water in the man’s face and shouted “You schnoz-whistle! People like you give us…

The names aren’t important. The story is.

It was Christmas Eve. Lydia was newly divorced. Her husband had decided he wanted a 20-something college student, bleached hair, size 2. Lydia was 43, mother of two, and she couldn’t compete.

Lydia was driving in a beat up Toyota, with her two kids in back. The car was loaded with baggage, aimed toward Wisconsin, where her people were from.

She was somewhere around Central Kansas when the blowout happened. It was awful. The loud popping noise. The loss of steering power. She muscled the vehicle to the snowy shoulder and wondered what in the H-E-Eleven she was going to do.

Her oldest, Eric, was entertaining his 5-year-old sister, Laney, in the backseat.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” he said.

The car came to a wobbling stop. Mom was already pressing her head against the steering wheel and weeping. The spare was beneath three metric tons of crap. And she had never changed a tire in her life.

The rural highway was empty. There were no cars passing them by. Christmas Eve

in the country is a quiet affair.

“We’re going to have to change the tire.” she said.

“Okay,” said Eric.

Eric. A former Boy Scout. Not only did Eric know how to change a tire. He knew how to give mouth-to-mouth. And he has also earned his wood-carving, carpentry, and survival badges. No big deal.

Eric was getting luggage out of the trunk when the truck came swerving. He never saw it. The lights of the Toyota were off. In hindsight, this was a big mistake on Lydia’s part. Turning her lights off on a rural highway.

They heard the screech of truck tires. The sound of a boy screaming. The impact. He was thrown a long way.

The driver of the truck hadn’t seen the car. And Eric had not seen the truck.

When the EMTs got to the boy, he was…

Dear God,

It's me again. Actually, I don’t know what you want me to call you. For all I know, you might prefer to be called something Hebrew, Latin, or maybe you don’t want to be called anything at all.

Anyway, one thing’s for sure: you’re older than the feeble human names we humans call you. That much I remember from Sunday school.

My mother called you, “The Lord.” My granny called you “Heavenly Father.” My uncle used to call you by your first, middle, and last name whenever he smashed his thumb with a hammer.

Either way, I was raised in a staunch church, and I remember hearing your name in the tiny chapels of my childhood. The preachers loved to talk about heaven, and how nearly impossible it was to get there. And about hell, and how easy it was to go there.

And our Sunday-school teachers, who made you sound like an old Communist dictator who was always sentencing people to everlasting damnation. After a while, I thought of you in much the same way

I thought about, for example, the Terminator.

But that’s not you. Not at all.

And even though I don’t know a lot about you, I know a little. Above all, I know what you aren’t. And I also know where I can find you.

I know that you’re the sun. You’re the starlight. You’re the pine trees. You’re the sky over Lake Martin. The smell of baked apples Mother used to cook. You are prettiness. You are the feeling of Christmas. The warmth of a family reunion.

You’re the look on a kid’s face when he or she catches a fish. The feeling a child gets when he or she has just been adopted.

You are every Andy Griffith Show episode ever made. You are Aunt Bee, Opie, Barney, Otis. You had absolutely nothing to do with Matlock.

You are guitar music…

Nurses. I’m grateful for nurses, foremostly. At some point in your life, no matter who you are, or how much money you make, you will have an intimate healthcare experience with a nurse.

A nurse might save your life. They might administer a barium enema. Either way, you will feel their warm hands on your body. And you will be grateful.

But the real question is why. Why do nurses do what they do? Every single day they do it. The pay isn’t THAT good. The schooling is brutal. The clinicals are medieval torture. But nurses choose to be nurses. And most can’t imagine themselves doing anything else.

And teachers. I am also thankful for teachers. College. High school. Grade school. Kindergarten. The pay is crap. But the hallways of heaven will be lined with educators.

Dogs. I’m thankful for dogs. Not just my dogs, but your dogs, too. At this stage of my life, dogs are my closest and most trusted allies. My closest friends have always had flea problems.

I am thankful for

my human friends, too. Close friends are rare. In fact, they are almost mythical. In your lifetime you have a better chance of finding Bigfoot than you do a best friend. If you have three or four REALLY good friends you are wealthy. If you have more than that you are delusional.

I am grateful for beer. I grew up fundamentalist. In my youth, being in possession of a six-pack was right up there with a conviction for distributing snuff films. But I love beer. Always will.

Also, cheese.

Kids. I am grateful for children. Whenever you start to think our world is going straight to hell, start paying attention to kids. Because they aren’t.

Black coffee, made by someone other than me.

Waffle House hashbrowns at two in the morning.

Ferns that hang on porches.

Books. Especially randomly found books, from obscure places like…

Mrs. Herrington’s, Mrs. Talon’s, and Mrs. Anderson’s third-grade classes sent me their Thanksgiving lists. They came via snail mail. Most were written in pencil. A few were in crayon.

BILLY (age 8)— I am thankful for God. Without him we wouldn’t have any football.

JOSH (9)—I’m thankful for Alabama because it is a wonderful place to live and Alabama is home to the only confirmed incident of a meteorite striking a human person, named Ann Hodges, in Oak Grove, 1954.

MARY (8)—I’m thankful that my mom lets me stay home from school when my grandparents are in town because I love them so much.

TORY (9)—I love my phone because I use it to read books and reading is a superpower.

CHRISTOPHER (8)—My dad is what I’m thankful for most. He almost died because of diabetes.

PERCY (9)—I am thankful for tacos at school.

LUANN (8)—I am thankful for my dogs and my horses and especially Rain who is my horse who I ride.

BJ (8)—I am thankful for my teacher because she gives me good grades.

LORA

(9)—I am thankful that my family is together again and my dad is living with us again.

BRIANA (9)—I hope my mom will come back home and stop doing drugs.

ANDREW (10)—I love my brother and I miss him a lot. He’s not with us anymore because he is with Jesus.

LILY (8)—I am thankful for the bike my dad bought me so I can blow off steam and quit making mom upset with me.

YVONNE (8)—I am grateful for all the things God has given to us all. The big stuff and the little stuff he gives us so far, is what I am thankful for most, you know. My favorite thing is my family because I love it when we’re all here for Thanksgiving and eating with each other and everyone is doing stuff. Yay!

TAYLOR (9)—my dads in jell…

There is a little girl in my house. She is 11. She is currently playing piano in my office. She is blind, so she plays by feel. She has no idea what she’s doing on the instrument. But she actually sounds pretty good.

I do not have kids. I’m not a smart man, but I am sharp enough to know I’d make a bad dad. So this is unique, having a kid in my house.

Today is a flawless November day. Leaves are falling. The air is dry. My windows are open. Thanksgiving is just around the corner. And it feels like it.

Becca has been staying at our house for a few lazy days this weekend. My wife and I are sort of like Becca’s crazy aunt and uncle. I don’t know how this happened.

I never thought I’d be the crazy uncle who perpetually smelled like Tiger Balm and was always telling children to pull his finger. But there you are.

In her time here this weekend, we’ve gone for lots of walks,

Becca and I. Becca usually holds my hand and does all the talking. Somehow, she knows that I have no idea what I’m doing with kids. She can sense that I am not paternal material. But she doesn’t hold this against me.

I was a bar musician whose youth lasted way too long. I grew up in dim lit rooms, filled with smoke, clinking glasses, and Willie Nelson ballads. I used to have a ponytail, for crying out loud.

But Becca doesn’t seem to care. She treats me like I’m a real adult. Which is her first mistake.

Consequently, Becca has done a lot of adultish talking since she’s been here. She has talked about everything from moon rocks to the Battle of Gettysburg. From the invasion of Pearl Harbor to Zacchaeus who—come to find out—was a wee little man and a wee little man…

I receive a lot of questions via email, messages, snail mail, and smoke signals. I do not always have the time to respond to these messages. But sometimes, I do.

Q: SEAN! Why do you criticize religion? It really shows where your heart is. Where do YOU stand with God, Sean? I worry about your soul, Sean, and I pray for you. We are all sinners… THIS MEANS YOU! YOU ARE A SINNER! Please get right with God! I REALLY don’t want to spend eternity without you!

A: It won’t be so bad. You’ll get used to it.

Q: Do you know the Lord? I don’t think you do. If you did, you would be using your platform to spread the gospel. Your thinly veiled messages of hope are sweet, but sweet people still go to hell. You must speak the Name. If you don’t you are a coward and a liar and the Holy Spirit is not in you.

A: You seem like someone I could be really friends with.

Q: Dear Sean,

I just wanted you to know that I have unsubscribed to your column because I was put off by how you described American tourists during your recent trip to Italy. I am American. I travel to Europe extensively. You pissed me off when you described Americans as rude, outspoken, and opinionated.

A: Thank God you’re not one of them.

Q: I am a pastor of a large church, and you recently made a joke in our newspaper, calling megachurches “Six Flags Over Jesus,” just because we have a T-Shirt shop and Starbucks in our lobby. I would like a retraction of this statement. Otherwise, I’ll be discouraging church members from reading more of your work. I don’t think it suits you to compare our church to a theme park.

A: How about a Carnival Cruise ship?

Q: My wife is the sweetest woman on the planet,…

I bought a jigsaw puzzle at the grocery store today. The box features an ornate cathedral with red roses and blossoming foliage. The cathedral is in Germany. The puzzle cost two bucks.

My mother and I used to do jigsaw puzzles. Big puzzles. We did them together. I was no good at jigsaws, but she was an expert.

Long ago, puzzles cost seventy-five cents, and provided hours of distraction. We needed distractions back then. We welcomed anything that took our minds off my father’s untimely death, and the gloom that came thereafter.

My mother looked for distractions that made us laugh, things that made us smile, games, puzzles, crafts, or road trips.

Once, she took us to Branson. She took me to see a Dolly Parton impersonator. The show was spectacular. After the performance, the woman in the blonde wig hugged me so tight she nearly suffocated me with her enormous attributes.

When my mother saw me locked with the buxom woman, she shrieked and started praying in tongues. She yanked me by my

earlobe and drug me away. And I have been a lifelong Dolly Parton fan ever since.

Anyway, my mother loved doing things with her hands. She made large quilts from old T-shirts, she gardened, she did puzzle books, anagrams, crosswords, cryptograms, she knitted, crocheted, and painted.

She played cards with me, sometimes checkers, and she was a Scrabble fanatic. But jigsaw puzzles. Those were our thing.

My mother started each puzzle by saying the same thing:

“We gotta find the corners first, that’s how you do it.”

The idea was that once you found the corners, the rest of the puzzle would come together. Thus, we would sift through twenty-five hundred pieces, looking for four corners. Once we found them, we’d dig for the edges.

We’d place pieces into piles, then link them together. Piece by piece. Section by section. Mama and I could spend a…

Nov. 26, 1863, (FREDERICKSBURG)—Dearest Brother, I suppose you are having a good time this Thanksgiving, eating plum pudding and chicken pie and cider. I hope you are, at any rate, for I want you to enjoy yourself.

I should like to be with you, and I know you would like to have me, but alas this war never seems to end.

Still, although I cannot be with you to enjoy your luxuries, and your company, I have many things to be thankful for.

I am thankful that my life has been spared to me, as many of my friends are dead. I am thankful that I still enjoy good health.

I am thus hopeful that the Union will be successful. I can hear the cannons now, down by the Rapidan River, sounding their reports. I fear we have a bloody day ahead of us. I am afraid.

I should like a few gallons of that cider you told me about in your last letter. I would like some of those pickled pig’s

feet, too, if you have time to send them.

Happy Thanksgiving. Love, your brother.

Nov. 28, 1918, (PARIS)—Dearest Wife, I miss you more than you will know on this Thanksgiving Day. But I have good news. Our corps commander received a telegram today. He told us we are coming home.

The war is over, I am scared to believe it. Our commander read that our division would proceed to the embarkation point and begin sail for America soon. I’m coming home, darling. I’m coming to see you and our little one and I shall never let you go.

Thank God for his mercy unto us. This is a happy Thanksgiving indeed.

Nov 23, 1944 (HOLLAND)—Dearest Darling, here it is Thanksgiving and we are not together. These damned holidays are the painfullest part of our separation. I am sad. But I hope we’ll be together next Thanksgiving.

Our men…