I arrived at the UAB dorms to pick up 19-year-old Morgan for our day together. It was noon when I came cruising into the parking area, driving a 24-year-old truck that looks like a repurposed septic tank on wheels.

My truck is not a thing of beauty—in the traditional sense. There is rust on the fenders. The tires are bald. The paint job, which was at one time burgundy, is now the color of an infected blood blister.

I had spent an hour cleaning the old Ford’s interior prior to my arrival. Namely, because you cannot expect a dignified young lady to ride in a truck with canine nose-slobber marks on the windows, crumpled Frito bags on the floorboards, and scattered petrified Corn Nuts which predate the Bush Administration.

I know my truck must have made an impression on Morgan because when she stepped inside she said, “Wow.”

This is the normal reaction to my truck.

We sped through Birmingham’s gridwork of busy streets while Morgan held the safety handle tightly. Admittedly, I am

not the greatest driver. I learned to drive when I was 14 in my uncle’s ‘77 Chevette. My uncle was a famous cigar smoker who would say things like, “Don’t slow down, this is just a crosswalk!”

So as we careened through Birmingham, Morgan offered many helpful driving tips:

“Um, I don’t think you can turn left on a red light.”

“...Actually, I think this was supposed to be a one-way street.”

“Uh, did you run over a pedestrian? Never mind, you just grazed her. She’s getting up.”

For our day together, we went for a walk in the woods at Red Mountain Park. It was perfect weather. There were people hiking, riding bikes, and having picnics. Morgan, who just underwent abdominal surgery a week ago, kept a spritely pace on the trail. I was struggling to keep up.

Last week, her doctors could not believe…

Dogs know stuff. Yes, I know they’re just animals. I know their brains are only about the size of tangerines. But I’m telling you.

Take my dog Otis Campbell. I don’t often write about him, but I should. Because he’s our main dog. Our other dogs are his supporting actors.

Otis is the alpha of our family pack, ranking just below my wife. I am ranked somewhere near the rear of the pack. I eat supper last.

I wish you could see Otis right now. He is half awake, half asleep, sort of standing watch over me. That’s what he does whenever I write. He watches me, without moving.

And I’ve always wondered how dogs can remain deathly still, watching you, without falling asleep.

It reminds me of a guy my father once knew. The man could sit on the front porch without moving a muscle for days. The only way you knew he was alive was by his cigarette—it moved occasionally.

Rumor was, the man had been told by doctors to drink spirits to steady his nerves. It

worked. Sometimes he got so steady he couldn’t move.

That’s who Otis reminds me of. So that’s who we named him after.

Otis is a good dog. He has witnessed every random emotional event we’ve ever undergone in this household. He has been present for our entire lives.

It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly six years since Otis came to us from an adoption center. We found him when a local pet shelter had a meet-and-greet.

The place was a circus. You couldn’t hear what any of the volunteers were saying because of the collective noise. Each kennel had a fanciful poster with the dogs’ name emblazoned in theatrical letters. Some of the puppies were dressed in little costumes to look like lion tamers and tiny Little Bo-Peeps. The volunteers referred to these costumes as “curb appeal.”

My wife and…

It’s early. Still dark. No sane person should be up right now, and yet here I am. I am in the parking lot of the Hoover Met sports and fitness complex, which is currently filling up with cars.

Runners are outside their vehicles making wardrobe preparations for the big race. Pinning numbers to shirts. Doing aggressive calisthenics. A sound system is blasting “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”

There must be a dress code inasmuch as many runners are wearing knee socks. Both men and women alike. I don’t know how schoolgirl-style knee socks became part of running, but apparently they are an integral part of the sport because I am the only one not wearing any.

There are impossibly fit bodies strutting around at the start line. People who, you can just tell, have never once in their lives said the words, “We’d like an order of queso, please.”

These are impressive specimens who are not Marines but civilians with bulging muscles, sleeve tattoos, and

Lululemon activewear. Sort of like Soccer Mom Goes Terminator.

And then you have guys like me. I am not exactly the image of athleticism. I am more of an IPA guy. I am the kind of guy who, when forced to choose between white or wheat, chooses extra ranch.

But never mind, because the thing I love about races is that they are all-inclusive.

You can attend any 5K or 10K and see people from all walks. Insurance salesmen, elementary school teachers, octogenarians, 12-year-olds, persons using wheelchairs.

I am not, however, doing the 5K, I am doing the marathon. The BHM 26.2.

This is not my first marathon, but it is certainly my oldest. I am somewhat long in the tooth compared to my co-runners, who are largely from the TikTok generation. But we all share something in common.

We’re insane.

I started running when I…

This church is 115 years old. It’s small. Impossibly small, only able to fit 25 people—30 people if they are scrawny. The church is nestled in Appalachia, and looks like a postcard.

The first thing you notice about the building is that it’s all wood. Spruce. Oak. Walnut. Which is unique in the modern world. We don’t use much wood anymore. Contractors would not use purely wood to build, for example, a Ruby Tuesday. They’d use aluminum and cement siding.

You also notice that this place is not a modern non-denom church whose name is a verb. This is not a Six Flags Over Jesus church with a hair band, strobe lights, and a Cinnabon in the lobby.

This place is earthen. Stone. Wood. Plaster. The acoustics are startlingly great. You can whisper in the back and someone at the pump organ can hear you. You would not want to have lower gastrointestinal distress during an altar call here.

The floorboards creak. The room smells

like your grandmother’s basement. The pews are worn smoothe from a lifetime of abuse from evangelical butts. Through six-paned windows you can see the Great Smoky Mountains in all their autumnal glory.

I sit in a front pew and play “Amazing Grace” on my fiddle. I play it the way I remember hearing it fiddled as a child, played by old men. Slow. Droning, like bagpipes, only sadder.

I sing all the verses. Just like I did at my own father’s funeral. I remember being a kid, looking at all those mourners, and wondering “What if I screw up?”

There are six verses to “Amazing Grace.” But most people just sing three. The seventh verse, “When we’ve been there 10,000 years…” is an add-on from a later author. Not an original. But I think the fifth verse is my favorite.

“Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
…

The Smoky Mountains are big and blue in the distance. The sun is rising in Townsend, Tennessee. And a barefoot man with a prodigiously frightening overbite is playing banjo in my motel. This man may or may not be me.

You can look at this banjo guy and you just know he isn’t exactly the brightest bulb in life’s marquee. The kind of guy who has struggled to find out who he is. The kind of guy who, when he first discovered that his toaster wasn’t waterproof, was completely shocked.

People are out for their morning exercise routines, power walking through the motel parking lot, looking at the barefoot banjoist with scowls, sitting on his balcony.

“My, oh my,” you can tell they are thinking. “What big feet he has.”

The better to squash spiders with, my dear.

“And what large buck teeth he has.”

The better to eat collards with, my precious.

“And what a big banjo he has.”

The better to file for unemployment with, my dear.

The power walkers are staring at me in much the same way you’d look at someone who emits lower gastrointestinal smells on an airplane.

“You really should keep that music down, pal,” one woman says with a sour attitude, as she and her husband stride past my motel room.

Pal.

“I feel like I’m in ‘Deliverance,’” the husband scoffs.

To be fair, they have a point. Playing banjo in the Tennessee mountains is a cinematic experience, although he’s a far cry from Burt Reynolds. But it’s 10:30 in the morning, and I’m playing quietly. I’m within my legal rights. Sort of.

“It’s just inconsiderate,” the guy says. “Knock it off.” Then he called me a bad name which is synonymous with an appendage of the body.

Then they crawled into a car with Connecticut plates and peeled rubber.

This is not my story. But it was told to me by an old man who lived it.

The year is 1987. Rural Alabama. Our main character is a young kid. He’s at a remote gas station. He tries to start his car, but it’s a no go. The car is deader than disco.

So he’s sitting on the hood of his ‘73 Piece Of Junkola when an old guy at the next pump notices there’s something odd about this kid.

Namely, the kid is wearing a tux.

The old guy is wearing a cowboy hat. There is a horse trailer attached to his Ford. There are horses in the trailer, on their way to a rodeo.

The old guy is in a hurry. He has to be in Missouri by tomorrow, or else they’ll dock his pay. He knows he should leave the gas station now, without asking questions. Because questions lead to “things,” and the old man doesn’t have time for extra “things.”

But, as I say, the kid is in a tux.

So the old guy asks a question.

“Car trouble?”

The

kid tells him yes, and he says he knows it’s the alternator. He had planned on getting it fixed, but he didn’t have the money. So he has been driving his Crap Mobile around town. But tonight was, evidently, the night the car went to be with Jesus.

“Why are you in a tux?” the old guy asks.

“Because I’m the best man.”

“Best at what?”

“It's a wedding. My brother’s getting married.”

The kid looks like he is about to cry.

The sun is setting. The Alabama countryside never looked so green. In the air, the smell of horse turds.

“Where’s the church?” the man asks.

“Mobile.”

“MOBILE?!” The man laughs.

The kid buries his face in his hands.

“Do you have anyone you can call? Anyone who will give you a ride that…

“It’s all gone.” That’s what the lady on the news said.

She was an older woman, being interviewed by a reporter. Giant news camera shoved in her face.

The lady sounded like she was in a uniquely frantic state, poised somewhere between panic and absolute exhaustion. It is a frame of mind where you experience millions of emotions at once, and yet feel none of them.

I know this because that’s how she described it.

“It’s all gone. All of it.”

This was followed by images on my screen that were apocalyptic. One of America’s most historical storms. Hurricane Helene. Destruction from Florida to Virginia.

And here I am, sitting in my comfortable living room, watching the tube, thinking about how scary all this is.

These people’s lives are ruined. These people have nothing left. These are Americans. These are my brothers and sisters.

Whole towns are gone. Highways have been upended. Floodwaters rage. Mudslides. Missing persons. Missing pets. People going hungry. People trapped. People injured.

All I can

think about are the emails and texts going back and forth between those who experienced the nightmare.

“We still haven’t heard from my mom…”

“My son hasn’t called yet…”

“It’s been days and I don’t know where my husband is…”

As I write this, the death toll tops 120. And I just read somewhere that 600 are still missing. And that’s just the ones we know about.

And as I’m watching this unfold on the television, I’m about to cry. I’m about to give up, deep inside. For there is little hope left in this world, I’m thinking.

But then I see something.

On the television, I see a kid picking up debris. He’s slight and small, maybe 6 years old. Blond hair. And he’s out there helping. Busting his tail.

I see food trucks galore,…

Ring, ring.

I answered the phone. “Hello?” I said, disguising my voice.

“Is this Sean Dietrich?” said the little girl on the phone. So grown-up sounding. She gets a little bigger every day.

“This is his assistant,” I replied in said fake voice. “Who am I speaking with, please?”

Suppressed little-girl laughter. “Sean doesn’t HAVE an assistant.”

“He does now.”

More snickering. “Are you SURE this isn’t Sean Dietrich? Because this sounds, literally, just like him.”

“I am invariably sure, ma’am. How may I direct your call, Miss…? I never caught your name.”

“My name? Yes. Please tell Mister Dietrich that this is a little girl whose name STARTS WITH THE LETTER B. She is looking to speak directly with him.”

I rifled some papers for effect.

“Hmmm,” I said. “I don’t see here that Mister Dietrich knows any little girls whose names begin with the second letter of the Latin alphabet. Are you sure you have the right number?”

“Quite.”

I rifled more papers. “I’m sorry, Miss B.

Mister Dietrich is currently in a meeting, they are discussing very important matters.”

“What kind of important matters?”

“Mister Dietrich is purchasing a shipment of personalized, monogrammed toilet paper.”

“That is quite repulsive.”

“Thank you. Anything else I may help you with?”

“Yes. You there is. You can tell Mister Dietrich this little girl is also his goddaughter. That ought to help his memory.”

“A goddaughter?” I replied. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember hearing about Mister Dietrich having any goddaughters. Are you certain he has one?”

“Oh yes. I am certain. He DOES have one. And she is very amazing.”

“And you say her name starts with a B?”

“That is correct.” More suppressed kid laughs.

“Hold please.”

Silence.

“Are you still there?” I said.

“I am.”

“Mister Dietrich wants to…

The emails came after I wrote a 500-word prayer for Hurricane Helene victims. I had no idea my words would invite so many different opinions on God. I received emails from exotic places all over the world including Illinois.

“Sean, you’re an IDIOT!” writes one emailer. “How can you believe that your prayer will help anything? God is a fake!”

“Your God is a tyrant,” said another.

“How do you reconcile the Christian faith with all the terribleness in the world? A pastor friend tells me that, ‘you just have faith.’ I say BS.”

“A prayer?” one person wrote. “Seriously? Didn’t YOUR sociopathic God send Hurricane Helene? …I agree with the previous commenter—you’re an idiot.”

But I’m not offended. Namely because these people can’t hurt me; I grew up with Rapture Anxiety.

I was raised by staunch evangelicals who did not believe in buying life insurance because it was considered gambling. In fact, the God these emailers are referring to is the American Evangelical God.

It took me years to

figure out that my screwed-up idea of God came from American evangelicals

And Americans are colonists. We descended from colony-building ancestors. We’re always building stuff. It’s who we are. Americans are the only people in the world who can look at a virginal Appalachian valley and say to ourselves, “What a great spot for Pigeon Forge!”

We’re like ants. We colonize, then we boss other ants around. That’s how it works. And that’s sort of how we see God.

Always building colonies. Always growing. Like a small business.

But never mind. Colonialism also means we MUST have rules. That’s how manmade stuff works—to “rule” things you need “rules.” No rules equals chaos. Thus, American towns have laws. American neighborhoods have HOAs. Schools have dress codes. Interstates have highway patrolmen. Our government has the IRS. And we associate God with a bunch of…