“Dear Sean… This is not a criticism,” the email began, “just a simple question…

“Are you a member of a Bible-believing church community…? Do you tithe…? Do you worship with other believers and hold yourself accountable…? I’ve been a pastor for 28 years, I have helped many… And I’m here if you want to talk. There is only one way to heaven, friend.”

Dear Friend,

Once, there were two men. They were very different guys. They looked different. Had dissimilar backgrounds. They even smelled different.

The first guy was nice. Raised right. Gave money to his church. Read his Bible all the way through every year—always the correct translation. He volunteered to clean the church toilets.

He was a small business owner. No tattoos. Drove an American made car. Never cussed in public.

The second guy was a tomato picker on a commercial farm. He was sweaty and stinky from work. His coworkers were mostly Mexicans and South Americans who all worked for cash under the table.

This was the only job he could find due to

his prison record. Nobody wanted to hire a guy who had been busted for drugs. Twice.

Still, he’d been sober for the last four years. Sobriety had been a tough road. His body still suffered the aftereffects of hardcore methamphetamine usage. He had jerky movements. Sometimes it was hard to sleep.

To keep his mind occupied, so he wouldn’t focus on his physical afflictions, sometimes he smoked too many cigarettes. Sometimes he smoked a little weed to ease the tremors.

One Sunday, these two men went to church.

At closing prayer, everyone bowed their heads. If you could have heard the prayers going through people’s minds you would have heard very different sorts of talk.

The first man’s prayer was simple:

“God, I thank you for all you’ve given me, and you have given me SO MUCH to be grateful for. I am…

“God help us,” the old man in the nursing home muttered.

He was watching TV, sitting in his big, comfy, pleather chair. A plate of untouched food sat on his hospital tray. The carrots were cold. The turkey had gone to be with Jesus hours ago.

The TV was showing footage of the latest mass shooting.

This shooting happened in a Michigan church. Of all places. An LDS church. Four dead. Eight injured.

“Why’re they happening in churches?” the old man pleaded with the TV.

The victims were in a sacred space. They were worshipping. Fellowshipping. Their kids were safe in the nursery. People were singing. Praying. People died wearing their Sunday best.

“God help us all.”

I had come to this nursing home to visit a friend’s father today. But as it happened, the mood had fallen due to the current headlines.

“We feel the news in here,” said a nurse. “When tragedy happens in the outside world, our residents feel it deeply because we stay connected to the media in here.”

Three elderly women were sitting in the lobby,

watching television. The women reminded me that the shooting in Grand Blanc, Michigan, was not the only mass shooting that occurred yesterday.

There were actually three.

A shooting in Eagle Pass, Texas—two killed, six injured, inside a casino. Another shooting in New Orleans—one killed, three injured, while walking on Bourbon Street.

And the day before yesterday? Three more mass shootings. In Southport, North Carolina, at a bar—three dead, eight injured. Raleigh—four wounded. Alexandria, Louisiana—four wounded.

I ask what the women think about all this.

“Things like this didn’t happen when we were kids,” said the spokeswoman. “I think it’s because we saw each other face-to-face more often. There were no computer screens to hide behind. But today we have devices, and we can totally block out people altogether. We forget how to treat them.”

Another woman had another perspective.

Washington, North Carolina. She was small. White hair. A slow, shuffling gait. She wore Velcro shoes.

She was 94. She came through the meet-and-greet line after my one-man shipwreck. She waited her turn patiently, while I ran my mouth, signed books, and kissed babies.

When it was her turn, we embraced. She spoke in a quiet tone. I leaned inward, straining to hear her whispery voice over the murmuring crowd that mingled in the lobby.

The message was short. But important. A message she had waited 94 years to learn. Of course, at the time I had no idea she was delivering a message at all. At first, I just thought I was meeting a sweet, beautiful 94-year-old woman.

“Tell the people,” she said in a whisper.

I smiled. “Ma’am?”

“Tell them,” she said.

She was weak on her feet, holding my belt with both hands for support. But smiling at me.

I returned fire with my most polite smile. I leaned in even closer.

“Tell them?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What should I tell them? And who am I supposed to tell?”

She pulled me closer. “Tell your

loved ones how much you love them.”

There were tears in her little eyes.

“And don’t just tell them,” she added. “Show them. Show them how much you love them.”

“Show them?”

“Don’t ever miss a moment to show them love. Give all your love away. Until you’re empty. This is the only reason we are here. And we’re not here nearly long enough.”

Her words were brief, but something in the delivery touched me. She was still clasping my belt for balance.

“Do you understand?” she said.

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I think I do.”

“Tell them.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I dabbed an eye. “I will.”

“Show them.”

I blew my nose loudly. “I will, ma’am. I will try.”

“Good,” she gave a broad smile. “Now, have a great rest of your…

Day two of our Great American road trip.

Our little white van rolls into the Walmart Supercenter in Raleigh, North Carolina. My wife and I step out and stretch our muscles in the parking lot.

“Sandwiches?” my wife says.

“Yep,” I reply.

My wife has been driving the last shift. She uses this opportunity to do yoga stretches while simultaneously catching up on missed texts. She does this, skillfully, by placing her phone on the pavement beneath her while performing a uniquely unflattering squatting pose, a position which I call “Bear in the Woods.”

Then she scrolls on her phone while random onlookers watch her, squatting and concentrating on the pavement. You can see looks on people’s faces. Bystanders are seriously wondering to themselves whether any public sanitation laws are being violated.

My wife and I have been road warriors for the last decade. We have traversed almost the entire US in our tiny Ford Transit, taking my one-man train wreck to various theaters, civic centers, campus auditoriums, and used car dealership grand

openings.

I doubt whether my wife envisioned marrying a man whose livelihood was showbusiness, but there you are.

We are a showbiz team. George and Gracie. Fred and Ethel. Mork and Mindy. She works behind the scenes, sending emails, fielding phone calls, and just generally making our whole lives possible. I am simply eye candy.

My wife, for example, drives the bus. She prefers to drive. I know this because whenever I get behind the wheel she grips the chicken handle with both hands and recites the Lord’s Prayer.

Mostly, we putter along the United States in our own mental zones, without conversing. She drives; I am the passenger-seat princess.

Often, I practice material for upcoming shows. I am usually playing a fiddle with mute affixed to the bridge; or a banjo with a sock stuffed inside. Likewise, my wife will be listening to an audiobook, ‘90s…

There is a double yellow line running down the middle of State Street, in Bristol. The line separates Tennessee from Virginia.

Passersby stand with one foot in each state and get their pictures made. People who do this look comical and downright ridiculous.

We pulled over so I could do this.

Namely, because this is Bristol. And American music still lives in Bristol.

The rest of the world has gone techno. Even country music has succumbed to the wiles of the “scrolling generation.” But in Bristol, it’s still the 1920s.

I have been playing music since I was 9 years old. And I owe a lot to Bristol.

In 1998, US Congress stopped shooting spitwads at each other long enough to officially declare Bristol the birthplace of country music. And yet, many Americans still don’t realize this is where it all began.

“A lot of people in this country don’t even know Bristol is related to country music,” says one local waitress, warming up my coffee. “But this is where the big bang happened.”

Today, most people travel to Nashville to pay homage to country music, only to find themselves caught in 24-hour gridlock traffic, non-stop outlet malls, and eternal bachelorette parties clad in white cowboy boots, custom T-shirts, operating giant pedal-buses down Lower Broadway.

But I choose Bristol.

It all began in the summer of 1927. Coolidge was president. Babe Ruth was a household name. Lindbergh was making headlines. Silent movies were no longer silent.

Ralph Peer, a freelance producer for the Victor Talking Machine Company in Camden, New Jersey, visited Bristol. He set up a temporary studio in Christian-Taylor Hat Company warehouse on State Street, beside the train station and the hotel.

The newspaper ran a story saying Ralph would record almost anyone who walked through the doors.

They came from all over Appalachia, all seeking their 15 minutes. They drove raggedy Model A’s along the jagged spines…

It was only an experiment. I wanted to see if I could change America in only one day by being the nicest person on earth for 24 hours.

I’m not talking normal-nice. I’m talking OBSCENELY nice. I’m talking do-you-need-a-kidney nice.

It should be noted, I’m not nice in real life. I’m just a regular person. Sure, I’d like to consider myself friendly—kind of. And, certainly, if a motorist on the highway has a flat tire I always pray for them as I speed by.

“But what if I acted differently today?” I thought to myself. I wondered, would niceness actually change this country?

“Being nice can change the world,” I’ve often heard it said.

So I conducted research.

And so it was, I started my day by forcing myself to smile. Not just sometimes, mind you. But ALL the time. For the entire day. When I showered, I smiled. When I drank coffee: smiled.

Because niceness starts with oneself, I’ve been told. Which is why when I combed my hair, I repeatedly told my reflection how handsome he

was.

Next, I took my dog for a walk and I smiled whenever I passed other dog-walkers who were solemnly on their potty-walks before sunrise, caffeine deprived and dismal, with right hands snugly covered by Little Blue Baggies of Death. I hope you never learn about Little Blue Baggie of Death.

I smiled bigly. I made eye contact. I’d like to think my smiling made these people feel good because many of them picked up their pace. In fact, some of them started walking so fast they were practically sprinting away from me.

The next thing I did to change America was offer to help people in public, even if they didn’t need it.

There was, for example, the old man at the store who couldn’t get his buggy unstuck from a mess of shopping carts. So I helped him.

When I…

We did not choose Otis. We let our oldest dog, Thelma Lou, pick him out. She was just a puppy. We felt strongly that Thelma deserved to choose her own brother since, after all, she would be the one stuck sniffing his butt for the next 12 years.

And so it was, one summer afternoon we took Thelma to the adoption fair at the local dog rescue.

Everyone had turned out. Families galore. Parents in work uniforms, holding the hands of excited kids. Lots of glee.

We walked inside. The first thing that hit me was that powerful bouquet of puppy breath, disinfectant, and urine. The dogs were barking so loud you couldn’t think.

We had a lot of dogs to meet. Jamie and I split up to cover more ground.

Of course, I fell in love with all the sick dogs. Jamie found me holding a little dog named Amber in my arms. Amber was about the size of a Beanie Baby, underweight.

My wife told me to put her down. She reminded me this

was not my decision. This was Thelma Lou’s choice.

“But,” I pointed out, “just LOOK at her.”

My wife removed the animal from my arms.

So, with Thelma on a leash, dragging me through the labyrinth of kennels, we interviewed all dogs. Thelma inspected each cage carefully. Rears were sniffed. But the multitude of butts had been found wanting.

At some point we passed Jamie, she was cradling a little white dog who was missing an ear. She was holding the puppy like a newborn, declaring her love to the animal.

“No,” I reminded her.

“But,” Jamie offered, “just LOOK at her.”

Thelma dragged me to the ends of the earth. But she found no suitors. Each puppy we encountered was either too yappy, too little, too weakly, too chill, too alpha, too excitable, or too whatever.

That’s when I noticed a pen in…

Dan Lovette became an usher at the Baptist church on Easter Sunday, March 26th, 1961. He stood at the door shaking hands, passing out bulletins. Nobody knew Dan.

Weeks earlier, Pastor Lovette had introduced Dan as his older brother.

Dan was a tall man with a soft voice and rough skin. He wore a brown suit that was too small. He hardly spoke. He sat on the front row during sermons. After service, he smoked cigarettes behind the church. People asked the pastor questions about Dan, but he was quiet when it came to his older brother.

Over the years, folks saw a lot of Dan Lovette. He could be seen pushing a mower, changing the church sign, painting clapboards, passing out bulletins on Sundays, or cleaning the sanctuary on Mondays.

Dan lived in a back room of the church. His earthly belongings were: a cot, one hot plate, a coffee pot, a transistor radio, shaving kit, and one brown suit.

Nobody can forget the Sunday that the pastor announced he would

be baptizing Dan after service. This surprised people. Most thought it was strange that the pastor’s own brother had never been baptized. But no explanation was given.

So, a few dozen church members stood near the creek, watching the tall quiet man wade into shallow water behind his younger brother.

It was a simple ordeal. Down Dan went. Up he came. Applause. Bring on the banana pudding.

But life was not all pudding and baptisms. Thirteen years later, tragedy hit the church. The pastor was in a car accident on his way home from Montgomery, doctors thought he’d had a stroke while driving. Dan sat beside his brother’s hospital bed without sleep or food. He lived beside his brother’s bed, taking care of his brother’s every need.

The next Sunday, Dan took the pulpit with tired eyes. It was a hushed room. It was the first time any…

Dear Self.

Pay attention to the little stuff today.

Things you usually overlook.

The seemingly insignificant.

Notice these things.

Things like short sentences. Or typoz. Smiles from strangers. The shape of an arbitrary cloud. The cardinal in your backyard birdbath that reminds you of a loved one. The scattered thought you’re having now about black licorice. Where’d that come from?

The red fox that sprinted across your neighborhood sidewalk this morning. The butterfly that randomly landed on you, for no reason at all. The song that played overhead in the supermarket at just the right time, which was your mom’s favorite tune.

Notice. Notice. Notice.

When you drink your coffee this morning, DRINK your coffee. Pay attention to EVERY SIP. Really taste it. The Norman Rockwell book that’s been on your coffee table since the Punic Wars so that it’s almost invisible to you. LOOK at it.

The near miss you had in traffic at the stoplight last night. The way the deer on the shoulder of Highway 9 peacefully looked at you when he saw your vehicle speed

by.

The random text you received from a person you were randomly thinking about during the exact moment you were thinking of them.

Pay attention, Self. Don't let these things slip by unnoticed.

Notice all little stuff that occurs. Not just some of it. Every tiny, perceivably meaningless thing that is going on in your life.

Because nothing is meaningless, of course. It all has meaning. Even the random semicolon that you use for no conceivable reason at all; it has meaning.

So say it aloud to yourself. “See the little stuff.” Say it when you’re driving. “See the little stuff.” Say it in the shower as you scrub your armpits. Say this a thousand times if you must, otherwise you’ll forget.

Don’t just look at the little things. Watch them happen. Honor them. Experience them. Hold a little bit of…

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away—actually, it wasn’t even a galaxy yet. This was a place before outer space. Before space-time. Before the universe.

Everything was formless and void. Pure nothingness. Emptiness. Absolutely blank, dark matter. Sort of like the inside of a celebrity’s head.

Then. It happened.

There was, suddenly, the beginning of all things. It started with light. And the light was good. And the stars and the planets and the galaxies and the solar systems fell into place and started spinning. And they were good, too.

Then God got to thinking about how He could make His wonderful creation a little better. He thought to Himself, “I know what I’ll do. I’ll make people.”

So that’s when He got to the drawing board. He started thinking about all the people He was going to make throughout the history of the world. Throughout the 300,000 years of humankind’s complicated existence. All 117 billion humans who have ever lived since the dawn of Homo

sapiens.

He drew up plans for all the kings and queens and peasants and saints and artists and composers and architects and mathematicians and scientists and music makers and inventors and painters and thinkers and revolutionaries and teachers.

He designed each one. Inside and out. He chose their hair color. Their shoe size. He selected their parents. Their circumstances. What kind of cars they would drive someday. What their health insurance co-pays would be.

He designed their childhoods. The street where they lived. The bike they would ride. And all their little friends. He chose their wardrobes. Their personalities.

He decided when, exactly, they would lose their first baby tooth. And when, precisely, they would need that emergency appendectomy. He planned it all.

And when all the preliminary plans for creation were almost finished, God sat back and looked at his drawings. He already had made…