Athens, Georgia—I’m at a dive restaurant. The food isn’t fancy, but the beer is cold. I am starving. I’ve been on the road for two days, bound for North Carolina, I am depleted.
This place is slammed. I head to the bar.
Last night, I stopped to speak to a room full of Baptists. They were a tough crowd. They didn’t laugh, and they wouldn’t even clap when I sang “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.”
After the show, I was feeling low. To tell stories to a dead audience is like being buried alive in cat-litter-flavored Jell-O.
After the show, a boy approached me. He handed me a note that was folded like a paper football. He darted away without saying a word. I shoved it into my pocket and forgot all about it.
So, I’m sitting at the bar, twenty-four hours later, and I discover the paper in my pocket.
The kid had a lot to say in his note.
I won’t read you his letter, but
I will tell you that the kid is eleven. His mother is a waitress, a house painter, she runs the sound equipment at church, and cleans the sanctuary. Times are hard.
But he wanted me to know that he enjoyed my show—even though nobody at the First Church of the Frozen Chosen even cracked a smile.
He closed his letter by saying:
“...You did really good tonight, Mister Sean. You are loved.”
I folded the note and choked back alligator tears. It’s not every day a stranger says they love you.
Anyway, my bartender is an older woman. She is rushing to keep up with her workload. The men at the bar are impatient.
“Another, beer, honey,” one man says.
“I need mayo on this burger,” says another.
“Silverware? I need silverware!”
“Sweetie, I ordered an Ultra, not…