Yeah, I believe in angels. Oh, I haven’t always. And truthfully, I wish I didn’t believe in angels. It would be easier not to.

It all started in third grade. My teacher, Miss Williams, read to us from a book. It was a mass-market paperback. A book about angels.

She read stories about impossible rescues, and unlikely redemptions. Then, she told a story of her own.

She was a little girl. She fell through a second-story window. She was bruised and battered. The paramedics said she would die.

But a man came to her. A man who only she could see. He said she would be in the hospital for a while, but she would be all right, if she could just hold on. She eventually taught third grade.

Yes, she was as crazy as a sprayed roach. But I believed her. And I still do.

There is another guy I know. He talks about being in the hospital, after an accident. The doctors said he was going to die, too. He

was in his bed in a coma.

A nurse came into his room. She was a large woman with ebony skin and white scrubs. She leaned over his bed, held him tightly, and sang to him. She sang, “God is going to deliver you.”

When he woke up, nobody believed him. It was a hallucination, they said. He asked medical staffers who the woman was. They said no employees fit her description.

I know a guy from Alaska. He wrote to me and said that his son suffered brain stem damage after a hunting accident. The kid was going to die. No doubt about it.

When his son was unconscious, a strange woman found him and kissed his face and said he would not die, for he still had work to do on earth.

Today, that kid is 46 years old and he works as a volunteer with…

BIRMINGHAM—Samantha had a baby. He was eight pounds. Even.

The kid needed emergency open heart surgery. He had a critical congenital heart disease. Doctors rushed him into the OR. Surgery took an eternity. The kid survived.

Today, he’s a teenager. Yesterday, when he got home from basketball practice, he had an epiphany. He told his mom he wanted to go into pediatric medicine. He wants to be a surgeon maybe. Wants to be in cardiac medicine.

“Why, sweetie?” Mom asked.

He shrugged his bony shoulders. She can still see the ropy scar on his sternum, beneath his sweaty tank top.

“Just ‘cause,” he said.

Teenagers.

FORT WORTH—There was a guy who had a car accident. A log truck pulled in front of him on the interstate. No blinker. Bam. It was nasty.

The guy was lying in a vehicle that resembled a crumpled Weltmeister accordion. Logs everywhere.

The fire-medics cut him out of the car. Officials were shocked to find that there were only a few scratches on him. He was dazed, but otherwise fine.

When the highway patrolmen

asked him about it, the guy said there was a man in the vehicle beside him during the accident. The man just appeared. The stranger wore white clothes. He had white hair. White beard.

Mid-wreck, the stranger had cradled the man’s head, bear hugged his body, and said, “You’re going to survive this.”

Today, that guy is in his late 70s.

VIRGINIA BEACH—She was walking home from work. She worked in fast food. She was still wearing her uniform. A dog started following her.

It was a Lab mix of some kind, and it was dragging two back legs. Even from a distance, she could see the legs had been crushed. Completely mutilated. A lot of blood.

The vet said it was probably a hit and run. The dog’s ribs were fractured. His head was damaged. Both back legs had been…

I get a lot of questions via email. Without wasting any more space, I’ll get to work answering a few.

Q: I am 20, male, I live in Indiana… I don’t have any hair on my chest or any facial hair. I don’t know what to do, man.

A: Get on your knees and thank God. Because some of us have back hair.

Q: I am an aspiring writer, I write every morning in a journal, but I don’t know how to get started TRULY writing. Any suggestions?

A: First off. If you’re writing, you’re not aspiring. You ARE a writer. Call yourself one. The only way to write is to do it. Which you are. Keep going. Keep driving, the right exit will appear.

Q: I don’t know how to talk to my teenage son. His father just died, and we were divorced for nine years. I don’t know what to say to my son, he’s just shut down on me. He’s doing some things he didn’t used to do, not necessarily bad things, but he’s

been spending time with bad friends I don’t approve of, and I feel so lost. How do I reach him?

A: You’re not going to get through him with disapproval. I’m not saying you have to support his choices, but you don’t have to punish him, either. Grief looks different for everyone. And nobody tells you that grief feels like fear. Keep in mind, I am no expert. But I do know that unconditional love is never the wrong answer.

Q: Someone told me to read your work, and my first thought was, “He’s just some idiot on social media.” But now I know that you are a fake and a liar, and all liars shall have their part in the Lake of Fire. Except ye repent ye shall perish.

A: Thank ye for the letter. Methinks ye shall end up in the…

I’m making changes this year. Little changes. The big changes never last. It’s little ones that stick. So I’m going to start by making my bed every morning.

When I was a kid, my mother believed, firmly, that making the bed set the tone for each day. So each morning I let her make my bed.

But now that I’m older, I’ve decided to make our bed every morning. Namely, because my mother believed that a man who makes his bed won’t ever be too disappointed in himself inasmuch as he accomplished at least one task today.

I’m also vowing to practice moderation. It will be my policy to drink only one beer at a time.

Another change I’m making: I’m going to play with my phone less. Phones are time-suckers. So I’m not going to play on my phone. Instead, I’m going to spend quality time playing on my wife’s phone.

I’m going to eat more bacon. Life is too short to deprive oneself of bacon. A woman named Susannah Mushatt Jones of Brooklyn, New York, lived until

age 116. She ate a serving of bacon every day. But frankly, I don’t want to live to 116, so I will also eat queso dip to offset things.

I’m going to give to homeless people more often. Every time I drive past a homeless guy I think to myself, “He’s just looking for drugs.” But my conscience knows better. Addicts need lunch too.

I’m going to do more meaningful stuff this year. I don’t exactly know what that means, but I mean it.

I’m going to run some 5Ks or 10Ks, for good causes. I’m going to do this because I enjoy running, because I like meeting people, and above all, because there is usually free beer at the finish line.

I’m going to attend more baseball games. My old man died young, and a few nights before he died,…

The misperception about New Year’s is that it’s supposed to be a happy occasion. Sort of like Christmas. Or a birthday party.

But it’s not Christmas. New Year’s represents the end of something. And goodbyes are not joyous.

New Year’s is also a beginning. Beginnings are not entirely happy affairs, either. Beginnings are frightening. You have no idea what you’re in for. Could be good. Could be bad.

This year your wife could win the lottery. And when you get home, she might scream, “We won the lottery, honey! Pack your bags!”

“What?” you might reply. “Should I pack for the beach or the mountains?”

“I don’t care!” she might answer. “Just pack your bags and get out of my house!”

Sometimes the worst news you can get is good news.

In many ways, last year was a rough one. Six of my close friends died. I was a pallbearer twice. That wasn’t happy.

But last year was also a year I accumulated new friends.

It all started when I adopted a blind dog. Which I wrote about in this

column. Which led to me getting invited to schools for the blind.

I spoke at the Helen Keller Art Show. There, I met Henrietta, who has blindness due to a mitochondrial disease. She has practically grown up in hospitals. One of the happiest people I know. “I’m not fearless,” Henrietta said. “I’m brave. There’s a difference.”

I learned how to use a white cane in the hallways of the Callahan School for the Deaf and Blind. Whereupon a little blind girl traced my face with her little hands and sang “You Are So Beautiful.”

I visited Alabama Institute for the Blind and Deaf, where a little boy felt my face, and said, “Will you hug me so I know what you feel like?”

I met a cheerful 17-year-old girl named Morgan. We were at the Service Dogs Alabama training facility.

I saw them at the airport. The loading zone. The kid was standing there. Wearing his uniform.

OCP fatigues. Boots. Patrol cap. His backpack was about the size of a Buick. His face was youthful and round. His cheeks were rosy. He looked like Wally Cleaver.

Beside him was his mom, waiting by the idling car. An SUV. One of those small Japanese SUVs, about the size of a roller skate, only with less legroom.

At least I think it was his mom. The mom was probably in her fifties. Although it’s hard to tell when a mother has gray hair. Which she did.

Airports are sterile, ugly places. There is nothing romantic about goodbyes. Not in an airport, when you know TSA employees are about to touch you inappropriately without first buying you dinner.

The mom straightened the kid’s collar. She told him she loved him, then gave him a shoulder touch.

It was the classic motherly goodbye.

She told him to remember to call his daddy sometimes.

The kid was vaping. The air smelled like strawberry. “I will,” said the kid.

“Your dad worries about you.”

The kid mumbled something.

“And don’t forget to text me,” said Mom. “Just let me know how you’re doing. I know you can’t tell me everything, but, tell me what you can.”

“Okay.”

A long silence. The kid let go a cloud. Travelers came and went. Young passengers hauled expensive luggage inside. Uber drivers dropped people off and hustled for their tips.

The Mom smiled at her boy. It was the kind of smile only mothers can give. It’s an I’ve-known-you-since-you-were-in-diapers smile.

“You, alright?” Mom said.

“I’m good.”

Mom nodded.

“I know you’re going to do great,” she said.

More mumbling. The kid didn’t want his mom pep-talking him. He’s in the Army now.

“I better go,” he said.

“Yeah.”

The kid gave her a hug. The hug evidently meant more to…

There’s something about boys. When your old man dies young, it does something to your brain. It changes your perception of your mortality.

You don’t expect to live as long as he lived. It’s just something that happens to you. You can't explain it. Too hard to articulate. He died young. Why not you?

So this is a big day. It’s the biggest birthday of your life. It is the occasion that officially makes you the same age as he was when it all ended. That fateful age. When he departed.

That number. That year. It really means something to you. You don’t know why. But it does.

You expected to have died in a car crash by now. Or a bad fall. Or a freak accident. Or you expected to go like your uncle Eustis, a house painter who died in a climbing accident, although it was likely the falling that killed him.

You can remember how very old your dad seemed to you when you were a boy, just before his

end. In your childhood mind he was ancient.

He had a few traces of white in his red whiskers. His chest hair had patches of gray. He complained about his back a lot. He made noises when he bent over. Fishing was too much work.

You remember how he was your hero. How he could do anything. He knew everything. You remember how neighborhood dogs always followed him around. And how you wanted to be him. You wanted your shoulders to be as broad as his. And your jaw to be as square.

And as of today you’re his age. The same age he was when he passed. How is this possible?

You never thought this age would happen. Not to you. Because this is the age of dying. This is the age of expiration. This is the age when good men kick the oxygen habit. This…

DEAR SEAN:

I need your help. I am a bedwetter. I am 13 and I don’t know what do to or who to go to, or why I keep doing this. I hate myself, I wish I could change.

I wish I could talk to someone about this, but I’m scared. Like maybe talk to my dad, but I don’t even know my dad ‘cause he left us when I was little, and I think he hates me because whenever I call him he doesn’t want to talk to me. He never even remembers my birthday.

...I just wanted to tell someone who could help me, I’m so embarrassed. Please don’t use my name. What should I do? Please answer my email if you have some time.

Thank you,
SLEEPLESS-IN-NASHVILLE

DEAR NASHVILLE:

This isn’t my normal column topic, but your letter struck a nerve. But before I say anything else, listen to me:

Relax. Breathe, my friend. Eat something manufactured by Little Debbie. Draw a warm bath. Watch episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show.” Or at the very least, “Monk.”

Peeing

the bed is not a huge problem. Granted, I’m no doctor, and my advice isn’t worth much. It’s probably a good idea to get checked out, just to be safe.

Still, I believe you will get through this. I swear. And do you want to know why I believe this?

Because you’re talking to a former professional bedwetter.

That’s right. I used to wet the bed. You might think you’re unique, but you’re not the only one in the world with at golfball-sized bladder.

I peed the bed for years. It got to the point where my mother wouldn’t let me drink liquids past lunchtime. “But I’m thirsty, Mama,” I would whine.

To which Mama would reply, “Swallow your own spit, I do enough dirty laundry to cover the needs of Mainland China.”

Does any of this sound…

The Third Day of Christmas. My three French hens must have gotten lost in the mail. The weather was a stolid 34 degrees. The water in the dog bowls was stone. The sun was out.

Waffle House was warm and inviting. The parking lot was mostly empty except for a few muddy trucks. My wife and I had an 11-year-old with us. She is blind. This is her first time attending a Waffle House.

“Have a seat wherever,” said the server.

We found a table in the corner. A booth. Red vinyl. Faux wood table. Laminated menus. Napkin dispenser.

Going to Waffle House is one of my most cherished habits. I go a few times every week. Sometimes more often, if I’m on the road. I give the Waffle House corporation half my annual income. And I do it gladly.

But going to a Waffle House with a blind child is another matter entirely. The whole ordeal is different. For starters, the multisensory experience begins with the nose.

“That smell,” the child said, as we walked into the

door.

She used her white cane to trace the perimeter of the aisle, navigating between booth and bar and jukebox.

“What is that smell?” she said. Nose to the ceiling.

“It’s bacon,” said my wife.

When you walk into a Waffle House, it’s the smell that gets you first. The smell of cured pork and frying tuber vegetables. It hits you in the back of the throat. If you’re lucky, the scent works its way into the fibers of your clothes. And it stays with you all day.

The child was smiling. “This place smells delicious.”

“Welcome to Waffle House,” said the server.

We told the waitress it was the kid’s first time visiting.

The employees made a big deal about it. You would have thought Young Harry and Meghan Markle were entering the premises.

We sat. We talked. The waitress gave…

DEAR SEAN:

My 21-year-old daughter just married her 22-year-old sweetheart. What advice would you give them being so young and getting married? The naysayers claim they are too young for marriage.

Thanks,
INSTANT-MOTHER-IN-LAW

DEAR INSTANT MIL:

I turned 21 on my honeymoon. At the time, we were in Charleston, South Carolina. There are many taverns in Charleston.

On the evening of my birthday, my newlywed wife left me to my own devices so she could go birthday shopping. So there I was, age 21. Street legal. Wandering the streets of the Holy City alone. Looking for houses of worship.

I walked into a small joint downtown to buy my first legal glass of Ovaltine and pay my respects to federal law.

The saloon was sort of empty. Dim lights. Lots of sinners. The smell of antiques and tobacco. There was an old fashioned jukebox playing. It was perfect.

There was a man at the bar. He was old and bent. Heavy equipment logo on his hat. He was leaning over a longneck.

I told him I

was 21 tonight.

His eyes became bright. He told the bartender to bring me a tall glass of something cold—on him. The bartender, a gal comfortably in her 60s, checked my ID with a careful eye.

“What’s your address, sweetheart?” she asked, staring at my license.

“Sesame Street,” I said.

She smiled.

She put the glass before me. The old guy and I toasted to the American Minimum Legal Drinking Age. I told my new friends I had just gotten married.

I got about five or six handshakes and shoulder slaps. I went on to tell how everyone in my life said I was making a mistake. About how the preacher refused to marry us.

About the big stink my wedding created. About how people—even strangers at the tux-rental shop—tried to talk me out of it. Some of my own family even boycotted…