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…

Dear God, today was a tough one.

If you’re listening to this prayer, Lord, we could use a little help down here. Where do I even begin?

Hurricane Helene made landfall as a category 4, with 140 mph winds. And all hell broke loose. The storm has taken at least 40 lives, across four states. That number will grow by the time this prayer reaches you, God.

The damage is unspeakable. The aftermath is shocking. It’s hard to watch the news. The images are downright—well—biblical.

Rescuers across the southeast are still rushing to free those trapped by the storm. Heaven only knows who’s still out there, waiting to be rescued. People are fighting for their lives, God. We’re talking about women and children.

Tampa is battered. Some areas of Florida are only reachable by boat. Cedar Key is beat up, with “water as high as the rooftops.” Keaton Beach. Steinhatchee. The whole Big Bend. Perry will be picking up the pieces for years to come.

And the hits keep coming, God.

Over 4.6 million without power across the southeast. In South Carolina alone, over one million customers are without power. That’s more than 40 percent of homes and businesses in the state.

There were two South Carolina firefighters killed, struck by a falling tree. They were just trying to save people, God. They were rescuing innocent victims. They lost their lives while helping others.

At least 17 people have died in South Carolina from Helene. And the number keeps climbing.

In North Carolina, it’s just as bad. Four people are badly injured after a tornado touched down in the Rocky Mount area.

There have also been mudslides, along with rivers of torrential floodwaters, washing out the interstates at the North Carolina-Tennessee state line

The death toll in Georgia has risen to 15.

The Federal Emergency Management Agency has deployed more…

They stand behind caged doors. They look at you when you walk by. They howl like their lives depend on it. Because, you see, that’s just what they do.

Some have barked so hard they’ve lost their voices. The old dogs, however, don’t even bother barking anymore. They know what awaits them. One day a woman in scrubs and rubber gloves will lead them away, and they won’t come back.

“People just don’t want elderly dogs,” a staff worker tells me. “It breaks my heart.”

There are a lot of old dogs here. There is Ophelia. She’s a beagle, almost 11. There is ‘Bama, Pistol Pete, Chocolate, Bradley, and Miss Daisy. Jack, the Labrador. Abandoned, elderly dogs. This is their last stop on the bus ride of life.

Through the doors walks Jace. Jace is a 7-year-old boy with rosy face and blond hair. His parents are divorced. Jace gets lonely.

“My son needs a friend,” his mother explains.

Jace walks the corridor and looks for a pal. He sees Rip—a basset hound with so

many wrinkles he ought to win an award. His face is long, his ears touch the floor. Rip is nine.

Rip starts howling when he sees the visitor. Jace pokes his hand through the bars. Rip wanders to the door. He licks Jace’s hand.

In dog years, Rip is older than this boy. I can’t find a good sentence to convey the way an old dog looks at you. But it’s like they know something we don’t.

“Can I play with him?” says Jace.

“Don’t you want a younger dog?” his mom says.

“Please?”

The worker opens the cage, then leads them to a small place called the “interview room.” Jace is pure energy, but Rip is no spring chick. The old dog does his best to keep up. This is, after all, Rip’s big audition.

But Rip appears to…

“Who is your favorite author?” the TV host asked me on the air.

I just blinked.

“My favorite author?”

Radio silence.

Sometimes, as a writer you will find yourself as a guest on TV shows promoting stuff. You’ll be seated on a television set that is an exact duplication of a family room. Except, of course, this family room has nuclear studio lights that cause third-degree sunburns.

Beside you is a perky female morning host whose sole job is to promote books on the air. These hosts, amazingly, manage to promote hundreds of books just like yours without having ever read a single sentence in their lives.

They do this by asking questions which make it sound as though they’ve read your book. But you know better.

Namely, because when they shake your hand they say in a sincere voice, “Thanks for being our show, Randy,” even though your name is, technically, Sean.

A favorite question TV hosts often ask writers is: “Who’s your favorite author?”

Which is a solid TV question because, in most cases, your

answer will buy the host a full three minutes, which allows them time to think up more insightful and intelligent questions such as, “How old are you?”

Usually, I reply that my favorite author is Gary Larson because I am a perpetual 10-year-old boy, and I think Gary Larson is a genius.

My response often causes television personalities and English majors to furrow their brows, because most literary folks can’t quite place the name Gary Larson.

Gary Larson is the illustrator and creator of “The Far Side” comic strip, once syndicated in 1,900 newspapers in the U.S. He is not often paired with Steinbeck and Hemingway.

But the truth is, if I had to name my earliest literary hero, I would probably tell you Wilson Rawls. You might not know who that is. So I’ll explain:

I was in grade school when our…