You're probably WAY too old to believe in magical things like Santa, Easter Bunnies, Saint Francis, or Nick Saban. But this is serious. I’ve seen angels with my eyes.

DEAR SEAN:

There's a murderer on the run in Baldwin County and that's where I live. And he’s killed three people... My mom is at work and I'm home with the flu. My aunt and I are locked in the bedroom watching TV and the weather’s getting really bad, too.

...I’m actually scared so much my stomach is truly, literally hurting. My aunt told me I should write you to take my mind off it...

SCARED IN BALDWIN COUNTY

DEAR SCARED:

I'm glad you wrote me. I have a feeling that as soon as I write back, authorities will have caught this joker and none of the following will apply.

Even so, here's what you should know:

There’s no way in hell the peace officers in lower Alabama are going to let anything happen to you. Because they have guns.

And I know men from Baldwin, Escambia, and Santa Rosa County. These boys have been shooting dove, deer, duck, and wild turkey since they were old enough to say, “Look, Mommy, I make poopy.”

This dude's in trouble.

But never mind. You asked for help getting your mind off this topic. So I'll tell you what my mama told me when I was terrified.

There are angels around you.

Big ones. I know. You're probably WAY too old to believe in magical things like Santa, Easter Bunnies, Saint Francis, or Nick Saban. But this is serious. I’ve seen angels with my eyes.

Once, we wrecked in North Carolina. Mama hit a deer. It was late at night on a very dark, empty road. A stranger from nowhere helped us. He even knew my name.

Then he disappeared.

Another story: I know a woman who went swimming in the river with her friend. They got swept into the current. They nearly died. A man swam to them and pulled them ashore. Then he vanished.

You want more? Fine.

Listen, one day your world won't be this dark, darling. It might happen when a worthy person comes along. It will be someone smart enough to look in your eyes and see more than your eyes.

She wrote a letter to me.

She started by saying, "I know you're probably too busy to answer..."

Then, she explained that her parents are getting divorced, that her father's been cheating. Before he walked out, he got mad.

He called her and her mother "a couple'a fat pigs."

She closed her note, saying:

"You wrote once about losing your confidence, and I think I'm losing mine, too... I'm sixteen, and I really do feel fat and ugly. And I just needed to tell somebody...

"...And you actually seemed cool. I feel like I can trust you. If you share this, please keep my identity secret."

Well.

Firstly, I am NOT cool. Case and point: I once tried to eat so much peanut butter that my wife had to get paramedics involved.

Secondly, I might not know you, but I knew someone like you. He looked like you, talked like you. It was hard for him to feel cocky after his father's funeral.

His confidence dried up. He felt like the ugliest, most intellectually challenged dunce God ever had the misfortune of

creating.

But this isn't about him.

Okay. So your father—let's call things what they are—is a lost soul. I'm sorry, but you asked for my ten-cent opinion.

You, darling, are nothing like the world's lost princes and princesses—who have bucketfuls of self-assurance.

People like you and I are bullfrogs.

Try to stay with me.

I believe this big fairytale is full of people who consider themselves royalty. They've got royal confidence, too. Plenty of it.

We're not like them. We have gangly legs and big eyes. We don't think much of ourselves, we walk with bad posture. Big deal.

So you're feeling bad. Don't fight it. Look in the mirror and let those feelings happen. Cry. Cuss. Feel lousy. Let it wash over you.

And once you're finished, don't ever do it again.

Because there's too much living…

I know you're confused about the current state of our world. I am, too. There is a lot of uneasiness right now. Try not to worry about it. Mankind has been fussing like this since the dawn of Duke's Mayonnaise.

DEAR MISTER SEAN:

I'm having doubtful thoughts with everything going on. I'm confused and disappointed. I want to ask you a question. Is God real?

Sincerely, REGULAR TEENAGE GIRL

DEAR REGULAR GIRL:

My God, darling. Why couldn't you have asked me about my favorite brand of mayonnaise instead? I'm an expert in the field of egg-based dressings.

I am not, however, the fella to ask about God. I have few answers on such high-minded matters. I can't even figure out which eleven herbs and spices go into KFC's Original Recipe.

And believe me, I've tried.

Yeah, I know you're confused about the current state of our world. I am, too. There is a lot of uneasiness right now. Try not to worry about it. Mankind has been fussing like this since the dawn of Duke's Mayonnaise.

Once, I saw a fight break out in a Pelham, Alabama, beer-joint. The subject of tension: God.

A loud-talking man claimed that God was nothing but barnyard fertilizer. It offended my friend, whose mother sang in the church choir. Thus, he challenged this man—who was six-times his

size—to a fistfight.

Before we knew it, my buddy went down under the power.

On the ride home, we four teenagers discussed mysteries of the eternal, using our serious voices.

Finally, someone asked, "You think God's real?"

I answered without thinking. And in a sentence, nine-hundred-year's worth of Bible-Belt heritage came out.

I said, "You damn right he's real."

And I sounded like a boy who needed help spelling his name.

The fact is, when some folks talk about God, they're not talking about God at all. They're speaking about miracles, greasy televangelists, faith healers, or a celestial Santa Claus with a white beard. I may be uneducated, but those aren't God.

Nevertheless, you asked me a straight question, so here's my answer: Cassidy.

She's my answer.

Cassidy was nineteen. Beautiful. Her parents died. Her grandmother raised…

I appreciate your honesty. Allow me to return the favor.

DEAR SEAN: A friend of mine introduced me to your writing. I've only read a little, but as a retired copy editor, and author of two books, I think you could use some work.

You write about life. Well, I was married twenty-four years... My husband had an affair with a much younger woman. I know a little about the pain of life.

I've never lived on my own before, I'm in my late-fifties, I've raised two kids, and I'm all alone this year.

Your brand of goody-goody writing represents what's wrong with this country. I'm sorry to be so blunt, your intentions are probably pure, but you're still too ostensibly young to know how hard life is, honey. People don't need more lovey-dovey ignorance crap. Sometimes it's healthy to embrace anger.

Sincerely, JUST BEING REAL

DEAR REAL: I've always wanted to do the Dear Abby thing, so thanks for signing your letter that way. Also: I won't lie, I had to look up "ostensibly" in the dictionary.

I appreciate your honesty. Allow

me to return the favor.

You're right about me. I don't know how hard life is. My father shot himself with a rifle the day he got out of jail. My mother locked herself in her room and cried for years. My family eroded. I was twelve.

I don't want to talk much about it. It's ostensibly difficult.

I hope I used that word right.

What I can tell you is that we lived on a farm. The day Daddy passed, adult-chores fell to adolescent-me. So did the laundry. I was angry. Not just with my father, but with my peers, for having easy lives.

Eventually, we lost the farm. We lost lots of things—that's what happens to poor folks.

Mama cleaned condos, I swung hammers. We delivered newspapers, laid sod, painted houses. We got good at hocking things. Once, I even took a job digging a…