I saw a shooting star. A big one. I was exiting Walmart. Pushing my buggy. It was dusk. The sky was pink. I looked into a cloudless sky and there it was.

A long streak shot across the sky moving faster than a knife fight in a phone booth.

I stopped walking.

I closed my eyes.

I made a wish.

I cannot divulge what I wished, of course. Otherwise the wish will never come true.

What I WILL tell you is that the last time I saw a real shooting star, I was 15.

Fifteen was a bad year for me. Actually, they were all bad years. I had a tragic childhood, painted with abuse, violence, suicide, grief, codepenency, loneliness, and crappy Top 40 hits.

But when you’re a kid you don’t really know how bad things are if your situation is bad. Everything is normal to you. You don’t have any clue that you’re miserable. Life is just life.

So

anyway, I was a mess. I didn’t have friends because, well, it is not the nature of most children to befriend the pathetic. My father’s death left a stain on our lives. I quit going to school and became truant. And for many years I was unable to look people in the eye, I felt too far beneath them.

But on that night so long ago. That star.

The world suddenly seemed so mysterious. So big. So full of mysterious things. I closed my eyes. And I wished.

Looking back, I now realize that I was young enough to still believe in magic. I still had enough little kid inside me to be pure of heart except for the time I set fire to the living room rug.

At that age, I still believed in wishes. I still closed my eyes when blowing out candles on birthday…

I was late for a plane when I saw him. The freckled kid was in uniform. Operational camouflage combat fatigues. Reverse-flag patch on the right shoulder. High and tight haircut.

He was standing on the sidewalk outside the airport. His mother was beside him, straightening his collar. His little sister was there, too. So was his dad.

The young man was carrying a backpack the size of a Frigidare, the thing must have weighed a few metric tons. He was vaping from an e-cigarette nervously.

I could tell by everyone’s body language that this was farewell.

Mama stood three feet shorter than her boy. She stared upward into his young eyes and the expression on her face was mournful.

“You got everything, baby?” she said.

He might be on Uncle Sam’s payroll, but he’s still “baby.”

“I packed sandwiches in your bag,” said Mama. “It’s a long trip, be sure to eat, need to keep your energy up.”

“I’m good, Mom.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded solemnly, but offered nothing heartfelt in return.

Dad clapped his son on the shoulder. “You’re gonna do

great.”

“We’re so proud’a you,” said Mama.

“I love you,” said Little Sister.

Mama gave one final hug. Then he stooped to embrace Sister. The soldier then shook his father’s hand and the old man pulled him inward.They squeezed. They released. Little Sister blew her nose.

And the kid was gone.

The airport was pure chaos. Cable news was blaring. Businessmen in Guccis were towing roller luggage. Executives having loud conversations on phones as they walk.

Why is it that travelers in airports always act so important?

When I got to my gate I happened upon the young soldier again. He was sitting with his head in his hands.

The kid was wearing a face he had not worn earlier on the sidewalk. Outside, he had been stoic, stern, and a real hard butt.…

I am playing the fiddle near the swimming pool at my hotel in Dothan. I always play in the mornings. Routine. I’ve been on the road for 14 days, playing music and performing my one-man spasm in different states.

There are kids by the pool, playing on phones, texting each other although they’re two feet apart.

The hotel radio is playing “Beat It” (1983) by Michael Jackson. The song I am warming up on is “Blackberry Blossom” (1860).

My grandfather always said the beauty of the fiddle was that, no matter how many people were around you, whenever you started to play, magically, everyone nearby would suddenly leave the room.

But that’s not the case this morning. As I play, a young boy quits playing with his phone and wanders toward me. Without saying a word, he sits in a chair and listens. When I am finished, he applauds.

Finally, he speaks. “Is that hard?”

“Sort of.”

I hand him the fiddle. He tries to play. The music he makes sounds

horrible. Welcome to the club, I tell him.

So I give the boy a cursory lesson. I teach him to hold the bow, and how to play “Do Lord, Do Remember Me.” Not a hard tune to play. Impressively, within only minutes, the boy is playing better-ish.

The radio music overhead is now “Call Me,” by Blondie (1980). Which sounds like a dying animal caught in a Cuisinart.

Meantime, more children gather around us, watching the boy play. Amazingly, nobody is on their phones anymore, texting, scrolling, buying crypto currency, etc.

The boy stares at the fingerboard with laser focus, already playing better than the fiddle’s owner.

The music overhead is now “Step by Step” by New Kids on the Block, á la (1990). A song which features the same musical sensitivity as a dump truck driving through a nitroglycerin plant.

But the kids don’t hear the…

We arrive at the parade staging area. Parade floats are everywhere. Everyone is in costume. And although I haven’t had breakfast yet, somehow I’m holding a beer.

Today, I am Grand Marshal of the Dothan Mardi Gras parade. Truthfully, I don’t know what a grand marshal’s official duties entail, but apparently you are required to hold beer wherever you go.

Namely, because every time I set my beverage down to pose for a picture, someone walks up and says, “HEY! YOU NEED A BEER!” And before you know it, I’m holding a Mick Ultra, and multiple people have already pinched my butt for good luck.

Dothan is insane today. Westgate Park is full of high-school marching bands. Cheerleaders are practicing dance routines. The bagpipes and snares are warming up with “Scotland the Brave.”

An old man in fishnet leggings and a pink tutu leads us to our parade escort vehicle, a 1970 Cadillac El Dorado roughly the size of a Waffle House. The

man’s tutu does not provide adequate coverage.

The backseat of our convertible is loaded with bags of “throws.” These are items my wife and I will hurl at innocent parade goers while riding in the back of the Caddy. The throws consist of mostly beads, but also Moon Pies, candy, candybars, our own shoes, etc.

“This is Dothan’s biggest Mardi Gras parade to date,” says Harry Hall, one of the head organizers. “There are 43 floats total, nearly 50,000 in attendance. The whole city is shut down. This is basically Christmas morning for adults.”

The parade begins.

Behind our Caddy is the Slocomb High School band, the Redtops. They will be playing “Word Up!” originally recorded by American funk band Cameo (1986).

“Word Up!” was a pretty good song in 1986, and it’s still a good song. But this is apparently the only song the Redtops will be…

“I’m dying,” the older woman says.

Her name is Honey. She is in the meet-and-greet line after one of my shows. She holds one of my books. White hair. Tiny frame. Maybe five-foot.

The theater ushers move her to the head of the line because she is using her roller walker.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says through wheezing breaths.

“Your name is Honey?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Why do they call you that?”

She is too winded to answer my question. And she has a lot to get out, so she cuts right to the car chase. “Before I die I have always wanted to meet you. My son brought me here tonight.”

Her son stands by. He is crying, too. Honey’s son’s wife is also crying. People nearby are crying. So I follow suit. If you can’t beat them, join them.

I lower myself to Honey’s eye level. “You wanted to meet ME? Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?”

“I’m sure.”

“Don’t

you think it’s time to raise your standards?”

“No.”

Then we hug. Her body is so small and frail. During our embrace I can feel her ribs in my arms. I’m thinking I might break her if I squeeze too hard.

Then again, what good is a hug if the other party doesn’t squeeze? You have to squeeze during a proper hug otherwise people will mistake you for a communist who doesn’t love the Lord.

So I apply gentle—almost imperceptible pressure to our embrace. Neither of us let go for a little while. Two of us holding each other for a long time. Eyes closed.

Honey says into my ear, “I love you. I’ve never met you, but I love you.”

Still hugging.

“Love you, too,” I whisper. “What’s killing you?”

“Cancer.”

Before we got married, Jamie and I took a mandatory church marriage class.

The Baptist church would not marry anyone without this rigorous class because they ran the real risk that unschooled couples would engage in premarital relations, which is not only irresponsible and reckless, but could also lead to dancing.

So the idea was: After eight weeks of rigorous marriage training, couples would receive an official certificate, trimmed in gold, with their names on it. And this certificate would prove to the world, without a doubt, that couples were spiritually, and emotionally prepared to take the multiple choice exam in the back of the book.

Thus, my future-wife and I arrived at the fellowship hall each week to participate in courses to prepare us for cohabitation.

These courses featured many “fun” games which the workbook termed “marital building exercises.” Many of which were developed by actual professional marriage book authors, some of whom were still married.

One such exercise was the Egg Test.

In this game, the future-bride balances

an egg on a spoon clenched between her teeth. She wears a blindfold and walks across a room.

Then, future-husband stands on the opposite side of the room (over by the piano). He uses ONLY his words to guide his mate through an obstacle course made entirely of folding chairs which represent the confusing Maze of Life.

Tacked to the chairs are Post-It notes, labeled with various day-to-day marriage problems like: “car trouble,” “bills,” “career,” “children,” “the threat of nuclear war,” “sharing the covers,” etc.

The woman stumbles over chairs, spoon held in her mouth, and is thus forced to either trust her mate, or remove her blindfold and declare that her mate is a horse’s ass.

I realize that non-Baptists might think this game sounds ridiculous. But this exercise equips young couples with the wisdom needed for facing the increasingly common threat of folding chairs.

But I…

My first week owning a dumb phone has been, well, dumb. In fact, it’s been so uneventful, I’m not totally sure what to do with myself.

It’s been seven days since I exchanged my smartphone for a flip phone constructed with technology predating the Cold War. This is an attempt to curb my smartphone addiction.

The first thing you learn when quitting your phone is that it’s actually pretty easy to stop using your smartphone as long as you follow an important rule known as: Using Your Wife’s Smartphone.

The first few days without my iPhone were the toughest. I’d wander through rooms, iPhoneless, unsure of what I was supposed to be doing.

Also, your days feel longer. I keep looking at my watch and saying, “I can’t believe it’s so early.” In a way, it’s isolating, too. Sort of like being incarcerated, except you have your shoelaces.

It’s even weirder when you’re out in public. I went to get my haircut yesterday. Everyone in the waiting room was

thumbing away on screens. And there I was, just sitting.

There were no magazines. No pamphlets. Nothing. So I had nothing to look at. I just sort of gazed around the room, observing stuff. I didn’t realize how truly insane you appear to other people when you don’t have a phone to glare at.

A lady glanced up from her device and noticed me just looking around the room like Anthony Perkins, whereupon she grabbed the hand of her toddler and—this is true—moved to the other side of the room.

I’ve also noticed my urge to “look things up” is starting to disappear. I can’t explain this urge I have to constantly Google stupid things. I have it all the time.

I’ll be in a conversation and someone will casually mention something like, for example, Bruce Willis. Then, I will think to…

This story was sent to me. I’m not going to do it justice. But I’ll try. 

It happened in Washington, the Evergreen State. It was late. There was a woman about to kill herself. She was young. Standing on the ledge of an overpass. Holding a stuffed animal. Hair blowing in all directions. She was really going to do it.

Traffic whizzed beneath. Roaring engines. Red tail lights. Endless rivers of Detroit engineering. 

The weeping woman gazed at the long chain of speeding cars and said a simple prayer into the din of traffic.

“Jesus, I’m going to kill myself. If you’re real, you’ll stop me. I’m giving you five minutes to prove that you care about me.”

Meantime, across town, Officer Rob Kearney was involved in another call. He heard the radio call for the suicide attempt. He overheard one of the officers speaking over the airwaves, and there was a tone to the Officer’s voice that concerned Rob.

Something made Officer Rob leave his call and divert to assist. On his way to the scene, more calls

came in. 

The radio chatter was saying. “She’s on the railing! She’s gonna jump!”

Officer Rob flipped on his lightbar. He stamped on the gas. Hi-Lo sirens blaring. 

By the time he got there, there were other officers on the scene. What they all saw surprised them. A civilian man, a stranger, had wrapped his arms around the young woman. The civilian was bear-hugging her tightly to keep her safe.

She wanted to jump. She was trying to jump. But she couldn’t. The stranger had his arms around her. And he wasn't letting her go.

In only moments, officers were dragging the woman away from the railing. She was screaming and cussing. “Let me go you [deleted] mother [deleteds]!”

Later, while sitting in Officer Rob’s cruiser, when she had calmed down, she told Officer Rob about the prayer she’d made. About…

The following is a true story. It happened in rural Georgia. Last week. The names shall remain anonymous, to protect the guilty.

A little boy walked into the little church, unannounced. It was a weekday. A country church. Clapboards. Tin roof. The kind of church that—until a few years ago—only had window-unit A/C.

The boy greeted the church secretary. He asked if he could meet with the minister. When the young man entered the preacher’s office, the minister was at his desk.

The preacher is old. He’s been preaching since the Vietnam War was only a rumor. He has seen a lot of things in his day. Including the death of a spouse and a firstborn.

“What can I help you with, son?”

“I need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

“My dog, she just died.”

The old man looked at the boy. The child had clearly been crying. His eyes were pink and red.

“When did your dog die, son?”

“Last night. She was my best friend.”

The preacher didn’t know what to say.

“I got her from a shelter when I was a baby. She stuck with me when my dad walked out on my mom. I fed her from the table even though I wasn’t supposed to. That’s why she was so fat.”

The preacher smiled.

“Oh, it’s all my fault, Preacher.” The boy began to cry. “I left the back gate open. And she got out. She ran out into the road, and a car hit her. When my mom was coming home from work she found her body on the road.”

The preacher hugged the child.

“I want a funeral for her,” the boy said. “I want the best funeral ever. I want you to preach and sing and do all you normally do for everyone else.”

The boy reached into his little blue jeans and removed a wad…