South Carolina. The distant backroads. Deep forest. Lots of Spanish moss. I am stuck behind an asthmatic pickup.

The truck is a ‘78 Ford. F-100. Two-tone. Brown and vanilla. Five liter engine. Probably a three-speed manual. I know this because my old man drove the same truck.

The Ford travels 29 mph. The driver’s arm hangs out the window. And I’m transfixed by his license plate.

Namely, because the South Carolina license tag has the state motto imprinted on it. The motto is located at the top, in white text. Just beside the $640 registration sticker.

“While I breathe, I hope,” says the adage.

I’ve never known a more beautiful state motto. Especially when you consider some of the other state mottos.

Such as North Carolina’s motto: “Esse quam videri,” which means, literally, “To be, rather than to seem.” Um. What?

California’s motto is one word: “Eureka!” Idaho’s is, “Let it be perpetual.” Florida’s state motto is: “Ask about our grandkids.”

But I like the South Carolina slogan. Those words speak to me. Namely, because a few years ago, the doctor thought I had cancer. I went through miniseries of misery, only to find out that I’m okay.

Still, those years of wondering were double, double toil and trouble. And all the cancer veterans I’ve talked to say the same thing: “It’s not cancer that kills you, it’s the worry that goes with it.”

Well, that was years ago. And what a difficult time that was for me. During that one year, I lost six friends to the C-word. And one to suicide. At times, I thought I was about to have a nervous breakdown.

But that bad experience is in my rear view mirror now. And in many ways, I’m not even the same guy I was. I eat healthier—mostly. I exercise more. And ever since walking through Spain, I pray all the time. I pray even when I’m doing other stuff. I’m praying now, in fact.

So anyway, I’ve always heard South Carolina is an arrestingly beautiful place. But until today, I’ve only visited touristy destinations. Augusta, Columbia, Greenville. Chuck Town. I’ve never taken the backroads.

It’s amazing. The chipped two-lane highways are narrow. The live oaks enclose the highway like a canopy.

Then, suddenly, the trees stop. And you’re in marshlands, driving through salt marshes and sabal palms. Shallow bridges carry you over acres of lime-green cordgrass. Mirrored waterways snake through golden tidal prairies.

Then more forest.

South Carolina has about 13 million acres of virginal forest. To give you an idea of how many. Maine, the most forested state in the nation, has 16 million acres.

My wife pulls over to get gas. I stand at the pump, looking at a painted sunset. The gas station serves barbecue inside.

I walk inside. The man behind the counter is about six-eleven. His forearms are the size of my thighs. And, heavens, he is cheerful.

“What you might not know,” he explains, “is that South Kay-lina invented American barbecue.”

He goes on to describe a bunch of contest barbecue concepts I don’t understand. Then he gives me a tiny sample of pork. I taste the pork and…

Eureka.

Soon, I’m back on the highway. I’m passing little hamlets with tiny town squares and brick-faced buildings.

American flags galore. Ford and Chevy trucks aplenty. The beauty of small-town America hits you like an explosion. Scene by scene. Mile by mile.

A local church sign reads: “God wants full custody, not just weekend visits.”

And I’m feeling more alive than I’ve felt in a long time. Once upon a time, I was in a doctor’s office listening to a man in white explain what cancer does to your stomach. Once upon a time, I was lying on the bathroom floor crying, stained with vomit, afraid I was going to die.

Today, by the mercy of God, there is nothing wrong with me. Don’t get me wrong. Life is not perfect. Life is not easy. Nobody ever said it would be.

But while I breathe, I hope.