The letter came from 13-year-old Daniel, of Chicago. Last year, Daniel’s mother took her own life.

Daniel’s therapist encouraged Daniel to make a list of things he’s thankful for. But Daniel has had a little trouble, so he wrote to me. Bless his heart.

“I can’t think of anything I’m thankful for,” writes Daniel, “because my life sucks.”

So I’m going to get the ball rolling.

Foremostly, I’m thankful for dogs. And for the little whimpers they make when they’re sleeping, and dreaming of squirrels. My dog is obsessed with squirrels.

I am also thankful for water. Ice-cold tap water, in the height of summer. Water, when you’re dehydrated, sweaty, and your clothes are soggy, and you have a swamp butt.

I’m thankful for hot showers. Soft towels. Summer rain storms that come out of nowhere. Dark chocolate. And music.

For tomatoes, hand-picked from someone’s backyard vine. For tomatoes sliced, placed between two pieces of white bread, slathered with Duke’s mayonnaise.

I am not grateful for grocery-store tomatoes. Supermarket tomatoes are of the Devil.

For red-white-and-blue popsicles. For Scrabble. Canada geese. Tall, gnarled trees that seem to tell a story just by being alive.

I am grateful for cancer treatments. There are approximately 500,000 childhood cancer survivors in the U.S. Our nation has the best pediatric cancer treatments in the world.

For Milo’s iced-tea. For air conditioning. For old men who take little boys fishing. Orange juice, hand squoze. Novels depicting the life and times of Frank and Joe Hardy. For the movie “Airplane!” But not for the movie “Airplane II: The Sequel.”

For cowboy hats. Sunsets over Lake Martin. Cold slices of smoked turkey. Waffle House. Rubber worms that actually catch fish. And swimming pools.

Feral cats who love you for no reason at all than because they want to.

And for the loveliness of women. My life has been made immensely better by the beautiful women in it. My wife. My mother. My sister. My aunts and cousins.

Women like the elderly college professor who told a tragic dropout that he might become a writer someday.

Women like my fourth-grade schoolteacher who heard someone on the playground call me “white trash.” She swept me into her bosom and spent the rest of the recess period reading “Charlotte’s Web” to me aloud.

I am grateful for “Charlotte’s Web.”

And I am also thankful for that little voice that talks to you from deep inside your belly. It is a voice that sounds like your own voice, but you know it’s not.

It can’t be your voice. Because this voice is smarter than you are. Wiser, somehow, than you will ever be.

My father died the same way your mother died, Daniel. And there were times when I felt I had nobody. But I always had that voice.

Every human being comes equipped with that voice. It’s a voice that keeps telling you, “I love you, Daniel.”

Where is this voice coming from? Who does it belong to?

It’s a voice that says, “No matter who breaks your heart in this life, no matter what kind of bad things you suffer, you’re going to make it.”

That voice.

I am not a smart man, Daniel, but I can tell you that this voice comes from another realm. From the same one who made dogs and tomatoes and popsicles and baby ducks and sea turtles and chocolate bars and Mars and Jupiter and Chilton County peaches. And little boys.

It’s a voice that says, although certain little boys might feel lost and alone, they have the entirety of God’s love surrounding them. Every moment. Of every day. Of every year. Of every decade. For all eternity.

I am one such little boy, Daniel.

And so, I believe, are you.