You are a soul, and souls can be all sorts of things. They can be thoughtful, hardworking, ambitious, easygoing, understanding, or Southern Baptist. Souls have the power to be kind, or to be hateful. 

DEAR SEAN:

I don’t like your writing because you are a dumbass.

Thanks,
I DON’T CARE IF YOU USE MY NAME

DEAR I’M-NOT-GONNA-USE-YOUR-NAME-COME-HELL-OR-HIGH-WATER:

Let’s go back in time.

Now, of course, I don't know your story, but let's be theoretical here. Pretend your mother and father just met. The circumstances which brought them together don’t matter. Your parents probably feel something for each other.

This feeling is something I want to talk about. A feeling that gets stronger with each heartbeat. A warm, happy, thick, dripping, hot feeling.

Scientists might call it “energy.” We common folk call it “love.”

Whatever you call it, it is an intelligent thing, programmed into the body. A force greater than even your parents.

So one day, inside the dark and hushed womb of your mother, a fertilized embryo floats the white-water rapids of her insides. That loveable little egg manages to attach itself to a uterine wall.

Then, the Little Egg That Could, starts producing NEW CELLS. Each cell the SAME SIZE as its original zygote. And this eventually becomes you.

I know. This is

almost too boring to stand.

So let’s use simple language here: one small act of love made YOUR cells appear out of NOWHERE.

In other-other words: you’re a miracle. And it was love-energy that made you.

You are a walking-talking collection of organs, a central nervous system, a conscience, and a receding hairline. Because of love.

You are a soul, and souls can be all sorts of things. They can be thoughtful, hardworking, ambitious, easygoing, understanding, or Southern Baptist. Souls have the power to be kind, or to be hateful.

But as we just discovered, hatefulness goes against your very anatomy. Every cell in your human corpus is made with love.

Every last drop of hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, calcium, phosphorus, and interstitial fluid. Love. Love. And more love. You sir, are a steaming pile of love.

The love…

Wood planks were sucked from the boardwalk. I saw a bass boat flying through the air. Lawrence’s face was pink with blood and dirt. My T-shirt had been blown clean off. The sand was slicing through my bare skin. 

DEAR SEAN:

I want to write a love letter to my girlfriend, but I’m not good with words, so excuse the typos, there are probably all kinds in this message!

My Tori walked right into my life after my wife left and she's helped raise my two sons and one daughter like they were her own. She became a mother right off, my lifesaver, and she has always been more than just a girl to me. She’s my angel, I want her to know how much I love her. Oh, and we’re getting married.

Thanks for helping me in advance!
JASON 

DEAR JASON AND TORI:

I have seen a hurricane up close.

I was younger, braver, and infinitely more stupid. My friend, Lawrence, and I parked at a beach. We walked toward the angry shore like a couple of young men with dangerously low IQ's. We watched white water churn in the Gulf.

The windblown sand stung my face and nearly ruined me eyes. I leaned headfirst into the wind and let the force lift my teenage body upward.

Like I said: stupid.

The gusts hoisted me an entire foot off the ground, throwing me backward.

I won’t lie, it felt exhilarating.

That day, the water screamed loud enough to cause deafness. It looked like the world was getting ripped apart.

My friend looked at me and shouted. He was only inches from me, but I couldn’t hear his voice. The roaring water made my eardrums throb.

The sand cut my friend’s cheeks and made blood streaks run across his face. The air became pure saltwater. And though we were standing close, we couldn’t see one another.

The pressure sucked air from my lungs.

Lawrence and I traded excitement for flat-out fear. We’d made a grave mistake. We'd been foolish enough to think we could survive a few minutes in Hell.

Only this was not simply Hell. This was…

I have no answers. And I don’t want any. Because people who are fortunate enough to know it all tend to act like it.

DEAR SEAN:

I’m not certain where you stand with Jesus Christ, and that concerns me. I read the things you write and I hear you say things about God, but then you say things about dying and coming back to earth as a squirrel? Uh, what?

That is paganism, sir, and mistaken beliefs like that tell me that we probably aren't going to spend eternity together. I know where I’m going, do you?

If you’ve got questions, I want you to know I have the answers that your heart is searching for.

I HOPE SEAN OF THE SOUTH REPENTS

DEAR I HOPE:

This comes as no surprise to me. I’ve always suspected I’d be going to hell.

The first time I realized this, I was working part-time in a Southern Baptist church—long ago.

I spent my days doing construction. On Sundays, I helped lead singing at church.

One Sunday, I brought three of my Mexican coworkers to service. Let’s call them Shadrach, Meshach, and Vincente Fernández.

The boys wore tattered jeans and paint-splattered T-shirts. They sat front row, watching me sing.

After service, the pastor asked

me not to let those boys sit up front again—he thought their appearance was disrupting.

I never sang in that church again.

I’ve got missionary friends, too. My missionary compadres spent three years on a Native American reservation. My friend was there to help a poverty-stricken, heathen tribe.

He was a seminary grad, with answers—all twenty-nine years of accumulated wisdom.

His first weeks, the elders of the tribe showered him and his wife with gifts.

The women brought hot breakfasts, homemade casseroles, fresh vegetables. They brought handmade jewelry, blankets, clothing.

My friend asked the elders why they were being so gracious.

The elders said, “Because we want you to know we love you, even though you tell us we are going to hell.”

I know a man named Jim. He’s almost eighty-three today. He’s…

And look at all these birds, perched on fence posts, flying in the air. I wish you were here with me. You might see these birds and think like I'm thinking

DEAR SEAN:

I'm pretty sure my mom is dying and we don’t know if she’s going to make it long. A doctor told us she will probably not and she wants us to start talking about funerals. I’m so afraid of life right now, please write something for me.

THIRTEEN AND I DON’T WANT TO LOSE MY MOM

DEAR THIRTEEN:

The sun is coming up over the green hills of Crenshaw County right now. Rutledge, Alabama, isn’t far away from me.

Have you ever been to Crenshaw County? It’s nothing but hayfields, chickenweed, and cattle.

This sun is spectacular. No. It’s breath-stealing. Especially with all this hay around.

There is something about the way hay smells in the morning. It makes me feel a pleasant, heavy feeling in my chest. It makes me feel—how do I put this—very, very small.

See, while I write this, I'm looking at seventeen trillion acres of hay bales. I’m on a two-lane highway, I have the windows rolled down.

If that doesn't make you feel small.

And look at all these birds, perched on fence posts, flying in the air. I wish you

were here with me. You might see these birds and think like I'm thinking.

Did you ever wonder how many meals a bird eats? Or: who feeds them? Or: how many meals YOU'VE eaten since you were born?

During my time on earth—and this is only a rough estimate—I’ve eaten fifty or sixty THOUSAND meals.

That’s not even counting boiled peanuts or ice cream.

You heard me right. No matter how sad things get, nor how bad life seems, I am like a bird who manages to find food. Somehow.

Anyway, the sun is getting higher now. It glows orange on the world.

I see a horse. She’s gray, and she's galloping with a colt who's keeping pace behind. You ought to see them, they're poetry.

I wonder where they’re going?…

I don't care how tall you are. And I don’t believe life is about math quizzes or homecoming contests. Good grades are nice, but they're just letters from the alphabet.

DEAR SEAN:

I’m a big freak. I’m taller than everyone my age... And no, I’m not very good at sports. I’m not even good at school, and I have to go to special tutoring because it takes me longer than my friends to actually get it. I'm basically a big loser.

Sometimes I wish I could ride shotgun with you and your dog in your truck and just be a cool person for a day.

NINTH GRADE SUCKS

DEAR NINTH GRADE:

It’s early morning. I am sitting in my truck. I woke up before the sunrise on accident—sometimes that happens when you get older.

About my truck: I promise you, it’s NOT a “cool” person’s truck. And its owner isn't "cool," either.

My vehicle is a hog pen. Ellie Mae, the coonhound, has ruined it. Think: ripped upholstery, slobber on windshield, coffee stains, rotten apple cores, fruit flies.

Right now, it’s still dark outdoors. My first routine pit-stop is a convenience store. The place is empty this early.

Justine, at the counter, knows me. She knows I’m here to buy coffee and a newspaper.

Some days, I

buy scratch-off tickets, too. Today is one such day. I buy two $10,000,000 Florida Cash scratch-offs. I whisper the Serenity Prayer, and scratch.

I lose.

Justine laughs. “My daddy ALWAYS said lottery tickets are a tax on stupid people.”

Justine talks too much.

I ask about her kid. Her teenage son lives in North Alabama with his father. She never sees him. The kid is a cracker-jack third-baseman. She misses her boy.

I’m driving again. The sun is behind the trees. The sky is orange and purple. I’m heading to a spot on the Choctawhatchee Bay that I don’t think anyone knows exists.

But I’m wrong. People must know about it. Because when I arrive, I see an abandoned plastic chair in my headlights. There are empty beer cans scattered in the sand.

I’ve seen her stand in a funeral line, shaking fifteen hundred hands. I’ve watched her work pitiful jobs, just to raise dimes for her children. I’ve heard her cry in the bathroom with the door shut.

DEAR SEAN:

I'm getting married on September 9th.

My old boyfriend of twenty years took his own life, I lost everything. I still have pain. But I really want to move forward with my new husband.

Can you give me some advice? I want to be the wife he deserves.

I understand if you don’t have time to answer,

HURTING BUT MOVING FORWARD

DEAR MOVING FORWARD:

I am in a hotel room. Hurricane Irma is swimming toward Florida and we are heading the opposite direction. I have waited until today—your wedding day—to answer your letter.

Listen, I don’t do advice, but I can tell you about someone I know.

She was like you. Young. Smart. Pretty. Her husband swallowed the barrel of his hunting rifle and left her entire world black and blue.

I won’t tell her story because you’ve lived it.

You already know what happened to her. She wasn't the same. She didn’t eat the same, sleep the same, think or talk the same—her posture even changed.

Once upon a time, she stood straight and confident. Afterward, she slumped.

Tragedy will do that to you.

But this

woman has stamina. She’s seven kinds of strong, by God, and sweet. She is made from one-hundred-percent heart-muscle, unsalted butter, and powdered sugar.

I’ve seen her stand in a funeral line, shaking fifteen hundred hands. I’ve watched her work pitiful jobs, just to raise dimes for her children. I’ve heard her cry in the bathroom with the door shut.

She met someone recently. A good someone.

They started doing fun things together. They walked the beach, they went to hear live music. They danced.

This woman hasn’t shaken her tail feathers since the Nixon administration.

Death has a way of making you quit dancing. It makes you hate good and bad things alike. It cheats you. It tries to step on your chest and take your breath. It makes you afraid…

...I got into the habit of visiting nursing homes for stories. I’ve visited multitudes of them. I’ve met some stone-tough people there. I remember one in particular. I’ll call him Tom.

DEAR SEAN:

I’m crying while writing this in my car. My doctor just told me I have a health issue that could kill me, he actually said those words. ...I have kids and a wife, and I'm scared as hell. Tell me a story, man, I need cheering up.

Thanks,
A WORRIED MAN

DEAR WORRIED:

When I finished school, I decided to try my hand at writing professionally. I got laughed out of a newsroom.

An editor told me to “Go find some kick-ass stories, then maybe we’ll talk.”

Of course, I'm not a “kick-ass” type of guy. My expertise is more in the half-assed arena.

Anyway, I got into the habit of visiting nursing homes for stories. I’ve visited multitudes of them. I’ve met some stone-tough people there.

I remember one in particular. I’ll call him Tom.

In his young days, he was a high-school coach in a one-horse town that had a water tower and a party line.

He'd never had a winning football team. In

fact, some seasons he had to shut down the football program—there weren’t enough players.

One summer, doctors diagnosed him with cancer. He got so depressed that he stayed indoors and gave up living. He resigned before school started.

One day, he laid in bed, feeling sorry for himself. He heard heavy footsteps on his porch. All day, the footsteps. One pair after another.

He kept his curtains drawn.

When the footsteps finally quit, he peeked through his window. There were so many bouquets and thank-you cards on his porch that people started leaving flowers on the sidewalk.

On the first day of school, a friend called to tell Tom that thirty-some boys signed up for the football team—more applicants…

I don’t do well with dares. In the fourth grade, I was double-dog dared to stand on a ladder and pee over the hood of my friend’s daddy’s Oldsmobile.

DEAR SEAN:

I just can’t read you anymore. At first you were cool, but now you’re a @!#$% dork. There have been tons of national events in the news... And you just ignore them… You're all busy writing about your stupid dog and @#$%.

Sometimes I just want to say, “Nobody cares about your dumb dog!”

I dare you to write me back,
AIN’T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR SEAN OF THE SOUTH

DEAR AIN’T NOBODY:

I don’t do well with dares. In the fourth grade, I was double-dog dared to stand on a ladder and pee over the hood of my friend’s daddy’s Oldsmobile.

I didn’t have enough back-pressure in my nine-year-old bladder to clear the hood. My friend’s daddy nearly had a heart attack.

My mama made me peel potatoes until I was thirty.

Anyway, I just read your letter aloud to Ellie Mae. I wish you could've seen her face. She’s crushed. She wears her feelings on her collar, you know.

Today, Ellie Mae woke earlier than normal.

Most often, she rises at the crack of noon. This morning, she woke at 5 A.M. because of a persistent ear infection.

I’ve taken her to the vet six times in the last five months. I took her yesterday.

You’ll be thrilled to know the vet says her ears are getting better. He also says that her problem is just part of having long, floppy, magnificent, voluptuous, comely, silken, ears.

Then, he rubbed her belly and said, “I think Ellie is one of my favorite patients.”

His favorite.

A remark like that deserves celebration. I took Ellie to Pet Smart as a reward. She sniffed a few employee hindparts, then made friends with a Corgie named Jim.

[READ MORE...]

I was at a gas station a few mornings ago, in Holt, Florida. The sun was shining. I sat on my tailgate, eating a honey bun. My father liked honey buns.

DEAR SEAN:

This morning, my sister and I made the decision to have our mama taken off of life support. It’s the hardest decision I've ever made. She’s my best friend and the most self-sacrificing mother. I only hope I can be half the mother she was.

I was wondering if you could write something about grieving?

Thanks so much,
GRIEVING FOR MAMA

DEAR GRIEVING:

I was at a gas station a few mornings ago, in Holt, Florida. The sun was shining. I sat on my tailgate, eating a honey bun.

My father liked honey buns. I never cared for them when he was alive. Everything changed when he died. I changed.

Two weeks after his death, I walked to the service station a few miles up the road. I was twelve. On the walk, I kicked dust. I hummed to myself. I felt guilty for not sitting in my bedroom and crying.

That’s grief. You feel guilty for doing things other than crying.

I had a pocketful of cash. I wanted to spend it and be happy. I wanted to

smile—even if only for a few seconds.

I bought Coke and salted peanuts. Something came over me when I saw the honey buns. I bought nearly every one in the display box —$.35 per bun.

I carried them all home and never ate a single bun. I couldn't bring myself to.

Until the other day, I hadn't tasted a honey bun in years. Usually, when I walk into a gas station, I’ll only glance at the mass-produced pastries, then walk on by.

But a few days ago, when I wandered into the mini-mart to use the little cowboy’s room, I saw them. A big cardboard case. $1.69 per bun.

Inflation has really done a number on honey buns.

I bought one.

It was impulsive. I haven't bought a honey bun since age twelve. I peeled the plastic. The…

“You’re gonna be okay,” my mother said. “One day, you’ll look back and feel silly about this.”

DEAR SEAN:

My first day of school is tomorrow. I'm at a new school and don't know people and I’m scared. Mom says don't be because everyone always likes me.

FIRST-GRADE ‘FRAIDY CAT

DEAR ‘FRAIDY CAT:

My first day of kindergarten scared me. I thought it would be an awful lot like going to kiddy prison.

Namely, because they had schedules for everything. Schedules for eating. Schedules for recess. Schedules for the commode.

I cried when my mother walked me to the door.

“Please don’t make me go,” said I.

“You’re gonna be fine,” she said. “And when you look back on this day, you’ll feel silly.”

She was right. I feel silly.

School was big fun. Our teacher played piano and sang. She read stories. She taught us to use the john on command. I made my first paper Valentine. I tasted my first swig of Elmer’s.

Try not to worry because you'll have a lot of scary firsts in life, just like me.

For example: many years later,

Mama drove me to my first date—sort of. I was twelve.

Her name was Anne. She had naturally curly hair, and I liked her more than hand-cut onion rings.

I rode in Mother’s car, nervous. I wore my Sunday best, and I’d used so much Alberto V05 I resembled a Cupie doll whose hair had been dipped in mayhaw jelly and lit on fire.

I was trembling when we arrived at Anne's birthday party.

“You’re gonna be okay,” my mother said. “One day, you’ll look back and feel silly about this.”

Mama.

Then, I hit adulthood. I lived on my own. My mother got sick. Very sick. Doctors gave her some bleak…