Our van crossed into Virginia. The sun was setting. The greenery of the Old Dominion State passed our windows at 55 mph as we hunted for an acceptable place to pee.

We pulled over at an old gas station. It was in the middle of the sticks. With old guys sitting out front. The kind of old men who wear seed caps and suspenders.

I ran inside, moving stiff-legged, the unmistakable gait of a man with a compromised urinary system.

The bathroom was “clean-ish.” Not acceptable. But okay. There was no toilet paper. There were cobwebs everywhere, containing spiders who had evidently died of old age.

When I emerged from the privy, my hands were dripping wet from washing them. I informed the cashier there were no paper towels in the bathroom.

“I believe you’re out of towels,” I said.

She just blinked.

“Just wipe’em on your pants,” she said.

So there it was.

The cashier was busy watching television to pay attention to me. The glowing plasma screen held her focus.

I leaned in for a better look,

wiping my hands on my trousers. On the screen was the image of a dog. Happy. Open-mouthed smile. Tongue out.

“You heard about this dog?” said the cashier vacantly.

“No,” I said.

She turned up the volume. “This dog is famous.”

The news reporter said the dog was from Rustburg, Virginia. The dog is named Sweet Sienna. She has become a celebrity in this state. It all happened a few days ago in Campbell County.

There was a pet adoption event. Pets were wandering around, greeting people, licking hands, sniffing things, peeing on stuff, etc.

Sienna broke away from the crowd of animals and shelter employees and sat before a man in the distance. She wouldn’t leave him alone. She looked him in the eyes and kept putting her paws on his legs.

Sienna’s shelter, named the Friends of Campbell County…

Seldovia, Alaska, sits somewhere near the top of the world. It’s a nanoscopic village on the North Pacific. Population 225. Tons of fishing boats. A lot of cold, icy, Kachemak Bay water.

A few days ago, a local spotted something huge stranded on the beach. It was a minke whale. About the same length as a mid-size Toyota.

The whale was struggling. Thrashing around and panting. The whale was fighting to breathe.

The passerby ran for help.

When a live whale finds itself stuck on a beach, you don’t have a lot of time. Maybe 20 minutes, tops.

Dehydration is often what kills the whale. Or the whale might drown because its airway faces the tide. Often, it’s suffocation that kills a stranded whale.

Remember when you were a kid, and you swam in the pool all day? Remember how when you got out of the pool, your whole body felt heavy? That’s because for hours water supported your body weight while all your friends played Marco Polo, thereby traumatizing some

unfortunate child so that this child would be receiving therapy for the next, say, 30 or 40 years of his or her respective adulthood. Not that I would know anything about this.

So anyway, after being buoyant all day, your little-kid muscles weren’t used to supporting your weight. Once you got out of the pool, your body felt heavy.

Likewise, whales spend a lifetime in the water. Their bodies are not built to handle their own weight. When a whale lies on the beach, gravity crushes its huge frame, making it almost impossible to breathe.

The whale in Seldovia was gasping, with roughly three tons sitting on its lungs. It was dehydrating in the sun. It wouldn’t be long before the whale would just give up and die.

Each year, about 2,000 whales strand themselves on beaches and die. That number is rising. Nobody really knows why. Even fewer…

I want to tell you a story. In February of 1979, a 7-year-old named Chris Grecius, of Scottsdale, Arizona, found out he had leukemia.

It was the end of the world. No, it was worse than that. It felt like the end of a family. Chris’s mother was devastated.

In the late 1970s, there weren’t many kids coming back from the L-word. Chris was informed that he was dying. It was a living nightmare.

One fateful day, Chris casually remarked to his mother that he wished he could have grown up to become a policeman. For a parent, the news was a knife to the gut.

Chris’s wish was common knowledge, of course. Anyone who knew little Chris, knew that he liked to dress up as a cop and run around the backyard, chasing bad guys, occasionally shouting, “FREEZE!” to neighborhood dogs and various woodland creatures.

But something about this was different. Chris was making an official request.

News of Chris’s interest in the police department spread. In those days, Scottsdale was, essentially, a

big small town, so word got around pretty quickly.

When Chris was hospitalized, a family friend spoke with Arizona Department of Public Safety Officer Ron Cox, and the department launched a plan to make Chris’s wish come true.

Lt. Col. Dick Schaefer of the DPS got involved. He gave Chris a campaign hat, like state troopers wear. He polished one of his old badges and pinned it to Chris’s chest. Then, he officially swore Chris in as Arizona's first and only honorary 7-year-old peace officer.

The police department didn’t stop there. Someone gave Chris a helicopter tour of Phoenix. Chris got to drive a police car. The officers let him talk on the radio.

But the icing on the proverbial cake was when the officers commissioned an official police uniform for Chris. They delivered this uniform to Chris at the hospital that spring, and they made…

“I’m sorry,” the airline employee said with a polite smile. “Your flight is delayed.”

It was the third time my flight had been delayed on the same day. I was alone. I had been trapped inside the Fayetteville airport since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution. My clothes were wrinkled. My stomach was growling. I had already lost 14 pounds.

I had tried renting a car and driving home, but all rental cars were sold. I had tried to schedule another flight with a different airline, but other airlines had no flights to Birmingham. I now had Stockholm syndrome, I just wanted to please my captors.

“Please let me go home,” I said to the attendant.

“We’re working hard to resolve the issue, sir,” she said, passing the emery board over her nails again.

Finally, after several more hours, it was time to board our plane. It was late. The stars were out. Customers awoke from their sleeping positions on the floor. Several airline passengers had already stripped down to loincloths and were

cooking over campfires in Concourse A.

We found our seats in the small plane. And, in strict adherence to FAA regulations, there were at least three screaming babies onboard, one flu victim, and the guy next to me had a case of thermonuclear b.o.

But it was not to be. Before the preflight monologue, we learned that our plane had a serious malfunction. The captain said we needed a repairman. But, as it turned out, all aviation mechanics in the state of Arkansas had recently been executed.

Everybody off the plane.

We would likely spend the night in the airport, foraging for food in trash bins, fashioning makeshift pillows out of our own shoes. I called dibs on the last patch of bare linoleum.

That was when I met Tracy. She was the passenger across the aisle from me. Amazingly, she recognized me.

“Are you Sean?” she…

My plane hovered over Fayetteville, Arkansas, preparing for landing. The elderly lady in the seat next to me was gripping the armrest. She had been using aggressive armrest etiquette throughout our flight.

Whenever our plane hit patches of turbulence, she would say sharply, “Son of a…!” And hog the armrest.

“Sorry,” she apologized, in a pronounced Arkansas accent. “I don’t cuss in real life, honey.”

“Isn’t this real life?” I asked.

“No, sugar. This is hell.”

Our plane touched down. It was one of those rough touchdowns when passengers almost applauded. Not necessarily because our plane landed safely, but because none of us passengers underwent a severe gastrointestinal event.

“What brings you to Arkansas?” the woman asked.

“I’m making a speech in Rogers,” I said.

“Well, are you going to visit our Walmart while you’re there?”

She said this in much the same tone you might have asked someone if they were going to visit the Vatican City.

I hadn’t planned on visiting Walmart. But she informed me that this was a mistake. You could not come to Rogers,

she explained, without visiting Walmart.

On July 2, 1962, the first Walmart opened in Rogers. Sam Walton, a 44-year-old opened this store with two goals in mind: Selling American-made products, and offering customer satisfaction.

“No matter what you think of Walmart,” she said, “Sam Walton was a good man. I should know. My husband used to work for him.”

The lady went on to tell a story.

Her husband was a young father, and cashier at a local Walmart. One day, Sam Walton was expected to visit the Walmart. At the time, Walton was the richest person in the United States.

The day was an anxious one for the Walmart’s young staff. Her husband was on the sales floor that day, along with a gaggle of nervous employees, mostly young, who were all trying to make the store look perfect.

The…

At 10 o’clock a.m. on Sunday, I am going to be praying. You will find me on my knees. Praying for them.

Ten o’clock. Because of 10 victims. Ten precious souls. Ten battered children, and probably more.

You might have already heard about it. It happened in the county next to mine. In Bibb County, Alabama. A few days ago, seven adults were arrested for operating a child-sex ring. I am weeping as I write this.

It was an underground bunker. A filthy basement. A bare mattress. At least 10 child victims were tied down, repeatedly abused, and kept imprisoned. And in our state’s own backyard. There are probably more victims.

These are babies. Children between ages 3 and 15 were raped. For roughly $200 per appointment. The kids were drugged. Punished with canine shock collars. They were harmed beyond comprehension. I can’t breathe.

I can’t get them off my mind. Those children of God. Those innocent souls. Those parents. Those shattered families.

I am one man, God. But I’m setting aside Sunday in prayer. I’ve never prayed

for an entire day before. I've never really done anything of note. Heck, I can’t even consistently empty the dishwasher.

But I’m going to pray for those families. And I’m not going to stop after 10 a.m., either. I will pray all day. All week. Always. I don’t know the children’s names, God. But You do. You know them all.

Namely, because You formed them in the womb. You engineered their personalities. You gave them gifts and talents and quirks. And You’re with them now.

But if I’m being honest right now, I don’t understand You, God.

How could You could let this happen? Sometimes, I can’t figure You out. And if I’m being doubly honest, it is hard for me to believe in Your goodness today.

Where is this sacred mercy everyone so often talks about? Where was that mercy when…

She was a youngish mother. Her son was maybe 10. They had the whole playground to themselves. She wheeled his chair along the rubbery mat, and they were playing make-believe.

The woman couldn’t have been more than midthirties. She was dressed in some kind of service uniform. Like she worked at a big-box store of some kind.

She made explosion sounds with her mouth. Good ones, too. Speaking as a former little boy, you learn to appreciate good mouth-explosion sounds.

Their game was fun. The little boy was all in. He was smiling, letting out peals of glee, contributing constant ideas to the imaginary game.

“And here comes the star cruiser!” the boy shouts.

And Mom falls right into her role. Apparently Mom is playing the villian. She lifts him out of his chair, and he says a playful, “Nooooo!”

They are both laughing. Her arms are struggling beneath the weight of his little body. She’s a small woman. Built like a bird. But here she is, hoisting his heavy body to and fro.

She

muscles him up the ladder to the slide.

The playtalk never stops, even though Mom is out of breath. She is still very much playing the role of Darth Vader, or a Klingon, or whatever other space malefactor is en vogue this day in age.

Meantime, the boy is definitely playing the role of the hero of this scenario, I can tell by the timbre of his voice. Like Dudley Do-Right, with a little bit of Mighty Mouse.

They arrive at the top of the platform, and Mom is out of breath. She’s been exerting a lot of energy. But she never misses a beat. She places him between her legs and, soon, they plunge down the slide together. The boy is squealing.

“Can we do that again?” the boy asks.

Mom is shot. I can see her energy reserves waning.

“Heck yes!” she replies.

They cut down the old oak tree today. It was an enormous tree. One of the biggest I’ve ever seen.

I was on my walking route when I heard the chainsaws running. I stood by the curb and watched the young worker crawl up the trunk and take it down from top to bottom.

They scaled it like trapeze artists, swinging from limbs with chainsaws strapped over their shoulders.

There was an old man by the street, with his dog on a leash. He was watching. He was stock still.

“That tree’s been here a long time,” he said. “It was here since my parents were babies.”

“You know this tree?”

He nodded. “My mother grew up beneath that tree. She rocked me to sleep underneath that tree when I was born. We used to live in this house. A long, long time ago.”

“Really?”

Another nod. “Used to sit underneath that tree with my grandparents. They used to visit us all the time. My granddaddy showed me how to polish my own shoes under that tree. Do

kids still polish their shoes?”

“No, sir. I don’t think they do.”

He smiles mournfully. “Well, we used to. My granddaddy was a World-War-I guy, kept his shoes polished to a mirror finish. He’s dead now.”

The old man sighed.

“Granddaddy only came to one of my baseball games in his whole life, because he grew up in Walker County. He was from the country. He grew up hard, he didn’t even know how baseball was played.”

The top of the tree fell. The green wood cracked loudly. And I could not help but feel like the world was losing something important.

The young treemen were attacking the fallen logs with chainsaws as though the logs had insulted their mother.

“A rope swing used to hang on that tree,” said the old man. My mom used to swing on it. My last…

It was a big park. A big city. The man was sitting on the sidewalk. Directly on the ground. And he was barefoot.

His feet were scraped and bloody. He was picking at the sole of his foot. Maybe he was trying to remove a splinter? A shard of glass? His foot was bleeding on the pavement.

He was unshaven. His hair was bleached from sun exposure. His weathered skin bore a rich tan, like someone who has lived outside for the last few presidential administrations.

He was using a tool to pick the offensive object from his sole. A pocketknife maybe. Or a nail file. Perhaps tweezers. I was too far away to see.

The park was crowded with young people. Kids playing volleyball. Soccer. Having picnics. Doing yoga. Jogging in wolfpacks.

Nobody even looked at the man. The students passed him by in hurried steps. They seemed almost afraid of him. And, hey, I get it. College kids. First time living away from home. Here they are, in a public

place, with dad’s credit card in their wallet, while visions of Chipotle danced in their heads.

The last thing these students needed was to get caught up with a panhandler who might ask them for crack money. So they avoided eye contact. To them, the man was furniture. It’s the safe thing to do.

But then I saw a young guy break from the herd of students.

The kid was tall and skinny. He wore a T-shirt with the name of a band on it. A band I don’t recognize because I quit listening to radio somewhere around the time they quit playing Conway Twitty.

The kid sat next to the man on the sidewalk. I couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but I could read the body language. Soon, the kid was inspecting the man’s foot. The kid leaned in to get a better look, his nose…

The angels all got together. The chairman angel banged his gavel on the bench. The community center gymnasium was noisy with angel voices. There must have been billions of them.

“The meeting will come to order!” the chairman shouted. It took a few times to get the angels’ attention. Angels are very social.

Soon, the mass of angels all found their seats. Most had been busy hanging out at the refreshment table, sipping punch and eating angel food cake.

The auditorium fell quiet, save for the slight brushings of wings. Meeting had begun.

The first angel, Ethel, took the stage and gave her presentation. Her presentation wasn’t pretty. It was about how things were going down on earth.

Earth’s outlook was bleak. Ethel had a Powerpoint presentation to prove it. The images on the projection screen showed horrifying things. The angels all winced.

The images showed war, natural disasters, worldwide technological slavery, global drug addiction, and graphic acts of politics.

“It’s not looking good down there, guys,” said Ethel. “Humankind has gotten itself into

a big mess.”

This caused a stir among the angels. For it is a well-known fact that angels are big fans of humans. In fact, many of the saints in attendance at this meeting used to BE humans. Guys like Moses, Peter, and Fred Rogers.

“What are we gonna do?” exclaimed one of the angels. “Earth is such a mess, is there any hope?”

This remark caused another commotion. The angels started murmuring among themselves. Things got pretty loud.

“Order!” cried the chairman, banging his gavel. “I said order!”

One angel stood up. He was sitting a few angels away from Michael Landon. “We need supernatural intervention, and we need it now!”

The angels all shouted in agreement. “Hear,…