On Interstate 71, just outside Carrollton, Kentucky, stands a lone highway sign. It’s a small sign, DOT-green, no frills. Easy to miss.

But it’s there.

The sign reads, “SITE OF FATAL BUS CRASH—MAY 14, 1988.” That’s all.

Thousands of cars pass this sign on their way to work. Heading toward Cincinnati. Maybe tens of thousands. I wonder how many remember what happened here.

The Carrollton bus collision was one of the deadliest bus crashes in US history. The collision involved a church youth-group bus, and an ‘87 Toyota pickup.

The former school bus was filled with mostly teens. The Radcliff Assembly of God youth group had been returning from King’s Island amusement park. It had been a sunny day.

Just before midnight, a drunk driver’s pickup struck the front of the bus. The bus’s suspension broke, a detached leaf spring rammed into the bus gas tank. The front door was jammed shut. The fire started immediately.

Passengers started evacuating through the narrow emergency door, squeezing through the tiny opening.

But when you have 60-odd teenagers crammed into a 12-inch

aisle, all pressing towards the same miniature exit—the only available exit—you have disaster.

The crush of bodies was too much. The kids were gridlocked, unable to move. Within four minutes, the entire bus was on fire. Children were screaming. Metal was creaking. Smoke everywhere.

Twenty-seven died. Most victims were between ages 13 and 14. Their bodies were recovered facing the rear exit, trying to escape.

But that’s not the story here. The real story is what happened afterwards.

Thirty-six years later, the survivors of this crash are still out there. And they haven’t exactly been sitting on their hands.

I’ll tell you about a few.

There is Harold Dennis, who survived with severe burns, and intense facial scarring. He could’ve given up. He could’ve quit. But he went on to play football for the University of Kentucky. Today, he travels the…

The hotel lobby. Early morning. The dining room is filled with people all eating complimentary breakfasts of plasticized food-like matter.

The demographic is mixed. Lots of middle-aged married couples. You can tell they’re married because they don’t speak except to mutter something random like, “Randy texted.” Then the couple will fall quiet again for another two, maybe three presidential administrations.

Also, there is a group of young professionals in the dining room. They are all dressed sharply. There are heavy cologne fumes emanating from their side of the room.

They are all on their devices, also not speaking. Thumbing away rapidly, like the fate of the Free World depends on whatever they’re doing.

But the real star of our dining room this morning is a young man. Late twenties. He is a big guy, with a bushy beard. He is wearing pajamas. And he has kids.

Two children, to be exact. One of them is a baby in a carrier. The other is a little boy, he is maybe 5.

Everyone in the dining room

is minorly ticked off at the young father. Namely, because his baby is holding a rubber-encased iPad, blasting loud music which features a female voice singing explicit lyrics about what exactly the wheels on a school bus do.

His other child is also holding a device, which is playing some sort of superhero video, at high volume, with lots of yelling, laser sounds, and various explosions.

Now and again, one of the older people looks bitterly at this young man, then clears their throats in such a way that you can almost feel the hate rays coming from their eyeballs.

But the young dad looks too tired to care. He simply eats his breakfast.

Soon, people in the dining room are all exchanging looks.

“This is ridiculous,” I overhear one woman say to her husband.

“How inconsiderate,” murmurs another.

You can practically see what the…

Today is All Saints Day. A holiday that was started during ancient Rome, when Christians were killed for sport.

“Hallows Eve,” was simply a prayer vigil traditionally held on the night before this holiday. A holiday intended for remembering martyrs.

So, I’d like to tell you about a few recent ones.

People like Qamar Zia, a Pakistani woman, born in 1929.

As a young woman, Qamar escaped an arranged marriage by running away. She worked in orphanages and mission hospitals. She lived with American Presbyterian missionaries, attended Bible school, then became a teacher.

She visited poor villages, traveling the countryside by bicycle, preaching love and acceptance.

Qamar broke longstanding Pakistani social norms by teaching women to read. She also worked alongside these women in the cotton fields.

In the end, Qamar pissed off the wrong people. Her death was sudden. In 1960, she was found brutally murdered in her bed.

Today, a statue of Qamar Zia stands over Westminster Abbey.

Then there’s Doctor José Gregorio. Born in 1864 in a small village in Venezuela. He

came from humble means. His mom cleaned houses.

He became a doctor, but never made any money. Namely, because he treated the impoverished for free. He bought everyone’s medicine out of his own pocket.

During the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, he treated hundreds, if not thousands. All for free. They called him the “Doctor of the Poor.”

Soon, villagers across the country were seeking him out. Nobody was turned away. He always began his treatment by praying for them. Oftentimes, miracles happened.

One day, while José was delivering medicine to an elderly woman, he was struck by a motorist. He is one of the first recognized saints of Venezuela.

Miguel Pro. In 1927, Mexico was a frightening place to live. Under the presidency of Plutarco Elías Calles, it was practically illegal to practice Christianity.

Churches were burned. Priests were imprisoned. Nuns were killed. This…

I sort of raised myself.

My dad died when I was a kid. He died by suicide, shortly after he’d been released from county lockup on bail. His death was dramatic. It made the papers. On his final night, he almost took my mother to the grave with him.

I was 11 years old. And at the time, I thought this was pretty old. I mean—hello?—I was practically 12. In some cultures, my cousin once told me, boys were starting families at 12.

But the older I grew, the more I realized what a baby 11 was. I was an infant.

As a result of losing my father young, I learned a lot about life. I learned lessons my peers, thankfully, didn’t need to learn.

Foremostly, I learned how to make crappy decisions. I made TONS of bad decisions. One right after the other. This goes with the territory. Boys without dads don’t have the luxury of someone making decisions for them.

One of my first idiotic decisions was to quit the baseball team. I

did this because I couldn’t face the guys anymore. They didn’t understand me. They’d quit calling, quit asking if I could come outside and play.

They sat on the opposite side of the lunchroom. Didn’t speak to me. Acted like I had plague. It wasn’t their fault. It’s just how kids are.

My second bad decision was to drop out of school. This happened in seventh grade. I declared to my mother that I would never go back. She was going through so much post-trauma of her own, she said, “Whatever.” And that was that.

Truancy officers came to our house sometimes, but eventually they quit showing up. And I kind of disappeared. My name fell into oblivion.

Everyone pretty much forgot about me. I became a nonentity. I worked crap jobs. I was cosmic debris. I was white trash. At least that’s how I…

It was a social experiment. Nothing more.

We were in an elevator. Me and Bill. Bill is an academic researcher, dealing in human behavior. Also rats. He knows a lot about rats. Whereas I am a redhead.

It was a large elevator. There were maybe 14 passengers. The supermarket downtown is swanky. The big elevator carries you from the parking garage to the main level.

“Pay attention,” said Bill, as we boarded the sardine can.

“What do you see?” he whispered into the redhead’s ear.

For starters, almost everyone in the elevator was young. And by “young” I mean the oldest among them was probably early 20s.

“That’s because this supermarket is located near the college,” said Bill.

The elevator stopped. More people got on. All young people. The lift stopped at another floor. Another young group shuffled aboard.

There might have been 20 of us now. Everyone was a baby compared to Bill and me, who are both old enough to remember when Lawrence Welk officially went off the air.

“Are you paying attention?” Bill asked.

I nodded.

Although, I wish I hadn’t been. Because I was immediately struck with an eerie feeling in this elevator. Namely, because everyone was staring at a device. And I mean everyone.

Nobody made eye contact. Nobody seemed to WANT to make eye contact. Nobody offered the quick, polite social smiles our mothers taught us to give others. Nobody acknowledged boarding elevator passengers with warm looks and brief nods.

Nobody seemed aware of anything. They just stood there. Numb. Head craned downward. Staring at the iridescent blue, opiate glow of their touchscreens.

The elevator doors opened. We were on the main level now. The elevator emptied.

“Follow and observe,” said Bill.

Together, we sort of followed the young people around the store. At at distance.

The kids were awkward. Their interactions were awkward. Sometimes it was downright cringy. Like the kids didn’t know…

KAILUA, Hawaii—It’s dark outside. It’s late. Or is it early? Hard to remember. Been a long day.

Here she comes. Jogging. People are cheering. They should be. She just finished swimming 2.4 miles, pedaling 112 miles, and running 26 miles.

With finish line in sight, she trips. She falls. The race should be over for her right here. But it’s not. She stands. She starts jogging toward the finish again. Unstoppable.

She crosses the tape.

Natalie Grabow, of Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, has just become the oldest woman to finish the Ironman World Championship Triathlon. Amazingly, Natalie only learned how to swim around age 60.

Today, Natalie is 80 years old.

“It’s never too late to take on a new challenge,” says Natalie.

LONDON—Here’s another challenge. Sixty-five-year-old Denise Bacon from East Sussex, England, was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. She lost the ability to do her favorite things like play clarinet.

Until the other day.

She underwent a procedure called DBS—deep brain stimulation. If the procedure was successful, it would restore motor function. DBS is offering new hope to patients with Parkinson’s,

like Denise.

The doctor told Denise to bring her clarinet just in case. Mid-operation, the surgeon told the techs to fetch her clarinet.

And so it was, the surgical team stood behind a plastic sanitary guard as Denise lay on the table, still under local anesthesia, under powerful lights.

She held the clarinet to her lips. And played for the first time in years. And not only did she play, the operating room sounded like an Artie Shaw performance.

“I’m already experiencing improvements in my ability to walk,” says Denise. “And I’m keen to get back in the swimming pool, and on the dance floor.”

CAPE BRETON BEACH, Nova Scotia—Here’s another challenge worth mentioning. It occurred when three pilot whales were stranded on the beach.

Low tide was fast approaching. The three whales were stuck. They would die on the…

What if our souls were like butterflies? Yours and mine. Two butterflies. You and me. Soul mates.

And just like butterflies, we were a little bit different from each other? Each with different colors. Different symmetrically patterned wings. Uniquely shaped and sized.

What if our two individual spirits were no longer bound in caterpillar form? No more pain of metamorphosis. No more fighting impossible survival odds. No more struggling to transform from mere larvae into winged creatures.

No more crawling on our bellies, chewing tough, ridiculously high-fiber leaves, only to excrete frass from our backends.

No more hiding on the undersides of plants, helpless as slugs, which is a pretty crappy defense against predators.

No longer living incarcerated within this chrysalis we call “being human.”

What if our souls were up there? Flying. Way up in the sky. Soaring. Our wings, catching the first flickers of sunlight at daybreak. Effortlessly fluttering.

Two butterflies. Sailing high over the Great Wall of China. Winging through the rainforests of northwestern Brazil and Colombia. Whizzing along the Grand Canyon.

Together. You and me.

What if, as butterflies, the limits of physics no longer applied to us?

For one thing, gravity isn’t an issue anymore for butterflies. We leap off buildings and we’re fine. Even if we choose not to flap our wings, we still survive the fall. Because we can’t “fall” anymore. We’re not heavy enough.

Likewise, as butterflies we no longer have to search for food and water, eking out an existence. The world is now our buffet.

No more coarse green leaves for supper. No more muddy drinking water. We flit through the air, landing on beautiful flowers, sipping nectar as easily as wine comes in at the mouth, and love comes in at the eye.

Oh, it’s great being a butterfly. Indescribably great. In fact, there is no way to even communicate HOW GREAT all this butterflying is to our caterpillar…

Q: Why has your writing changed so much since you got back from walking the Camino? I miss the old Sean. You’ve become too deep for me.

A: I am not deep. But my wife says I am getting wide.

Q: I was disappointed to hear you criticize our nation’s youth as largely inactive. Not all teens are addicted to phones. My 16- and 17-year-old grandkids promised to power off their phones for two hours, and we spent the time mowing my lawn before they picked up their phones again. Their mom has never let them mow a lawn before, we had a lot of fun!

A: Two full hours. That’s quite an accomplishment.

Q: Our local newspaper said in a caption that your mother had passed away. What!? Is that true? I saw her babysitting your nieces yesterday!

A: This is why you never volunteer to babysit.

Q: The newspaper printed that your mother had passed away in one of your columns. But I think they made a mistake, they were talking about your late “mother-in-law,” right?

A:

My mother lives. Although after the newspaper’s misstatement, I’m the one you should be worried about.

Q: I read recently a post where you claimed the oldest known instrument was a flute discovered by archaeology was 40,000 years old. But you are wrong, sir. Biblically, the earth is only 6,000 years old. I didn’t come from a monkey.

A: My mistake.

Q: Your fascination with bodily functions is disgusting. Leave the little adolescent boy behind in your writings, please.

A: I know you are, but what am I?

Q: You stated once that we are all God’s children. That’s false. We are all God’s CREATION, but only those who HAVE BEEN SAVED are his children. How about you, Sean? Do you KNOW the one who sits in judgment over the nations?

A: I sure hope it ain’t you.

Q: Someone told…

There was once a young son of a farmer. His name was Willy.

Willy was a good kid. He always said please and yes ma’am. Made his bed every morning. He was even dutiful to remember to close the lid on the toilet after peeing.

But then, disaster struck.

Nobody could explain how it happened. But one day, Willy sort of lost his mind.

Namely, because Willy walked into the kitchen and declared that he was a chicken. Not a proverbial chicken, mind you. But literal poultry. The kind that go bawk-bawk, cock-a-doodle-doo, and all such manner of clucking.

Willy also announced that he would no longer go to school because—in case you haven’t noticed—chickens don’t do long division. Neither would he continue wearing clothes.

And so it was, Willy stripped, right there in the kitchen, until he was wearing nothing but his socks and the Joy of the Lord.

Willy’s mother had to be revived with cold water.

Then, he quit speaking, started making chicken noises, crawling around, and pecking the floor.

“Willy!” shouted his father. “Stop this madness!”

But it was

no use. Willy TRULY believed he was a chicken.

So Willy’s father called the doctor. Doc Brown said it was probably a problem with Willy’s glands. They chased Willy around the house, trying to forcefeed him medicine. But Willy escaped and perched atop the barn.

The next expert was a famous psychologist with a fancy German accent and an official-sounding last name. Doctor Von-Something-Or-Other.

The doc suggested Willy’s problem could be cured with a spanking, then sending Willy to bed without supper.

That didn’t work either. After the doctor tried to spank Willy, the physician left with a black eye. Also, his German accent had disappeared.

Willy’s parents consulted every expert in the state, but nobody could cure him.

Finally, on old woman in town offered to help, but Willy’s dad said not to bother. It was…

The year is 1941. The place is Auschwitz. His official name is Prisoner Number 16670. But his real name is Max.

Max isn’t old, but he looks ancient. Prison camp will do that to a man. He is here because he was caught sheltering 3,000 Polish refugees—half of whom were Jews.

At age 47, Max looks like he is in his eighties. The bruises on his face are fresh. But the smile has been there for years.

He’s always so cheerful. On the day he was captured, for example, while being herded into cattle cars, he told fellow prisoners, “Courage, brothers. Don’t you see, we’re going on a mission! And they’re paying our fare! What a bargain!”

Likewise, whenever Max is roughed up by angry guards, everyone in camp can hear Max shouting, “Please forgive this man, Lord, he doesn’t understand what he’s doing!”

Today, however, is a pivotal day for Max.

Last night, a prisoner was caught escaping. The fugitive was led into the camp at gunpoint. The guards sentenced him, along with 9 randomly selected men,

to the starvation bunker.

The starvation tank was a cruel game played on prisoners. They would toss 10 people into a cramped bunker, naked, then lock the doors. No food. No water. No nothing. For weeks.

The objective of the game was to cause the prisoners to go mad, to get aggressive, and… Well. It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that today one of the young men randomly selected for the starvation bunker is Franciszek Gajowniczek. Try saying that three times fast.

Franciszek is Polish. A family man. He starts pleading. “Please, not me!” he begs. “I have a wife and child!”

And that’s when Max steps forward.

“Take me instead,” Max says.

The guards laugh. “You?”

Max glances at Franciszek and gives smile. “Please, sir. I will go in his place.”

And so it is. The guards herd the men into…