My mother always told me to smile. Especially when I didn’t want to. She often told me to smile when I was sad, when trying on school clothes, or whenever I was forced to eat beef liver at gunpoint.

“Smile,” she’d say.

A mother knows how her child is feeling by looking at their face. Are you in pain? Upset? Angry because your Little League team lost opening game? Your mom knows. Because your face tells the story.

So smile.

Often, my mother would follow up this gentle command with: “You have a lot to be thankful for, young man.”

Turns out, you have 43 muscles in your face. Your face contains more muscles than any other body part. The only anatomical region coming close to having this many muscles is your back, which has 40 muscles, excluding your butt muscles which are the heaviest in the body.

(FACT: Two average adult buttcheeks, skin and muscle combined, weigh 33 pounds.)

Why is your face so muscled? Because. Your face was not just

made for photographs. Your face is a precise signaling system.

You can communicate entire paragraphs with only your face. It’s how you were designed. Don’t believe me? Try getting lost in a foreign country without cell service or a functioning GPS. By the end of the day your face will be tired.

As it happens, the default mode of your face, according to research, is smiling. Recent studies discovered that we are born smiling. Doctors used 3D ultrasound technology to find that developing babies smile in the womb.

Once born, babies continue to smile. Even when crying, they are flexing their smile muscles. And babies keep smiling throughout childhood. A child smiles, on average, 400 times per day. Whereas the average adult smiles less than 20.

Something else researchers discovered is that a smile is catching. It’s called the “yawn effect.” Just seeing someone else smile stimulates your…

A small town. The kind of beautiful American hamlet where all that’s missing is the Norman Rockwell signature. There was a party happening on Main Street. Lots of people.

I followed the sound of distant music and many voices and realized I was wearing pajamas.

I shuffled into town barefoot, with sleep crusted eyes. People were everywhere. I saw women positioning casseroles on card tables. Children playing tag. Old men in aprons were deep frying fish.

A band was playing music near the hardware store. People were dancing. And upon each front porch, attached to every home, were crowds of people, mingling, laughing, drinking lemonade and sugary tea.

Everyone was there. All my loved ones. All those who died. Friends whose lives ended young. Relatives, who were called away too early. They were all right here, holding paper plates, laughing with each other.

Also, I saw multitudes of unfamiliar children, dancing while the musicians played “Hokey Pokey.” I asked an old woman who all these children were. “Those are babies who died in

the womb,” the woman said.

We were interrupted when a large pack of dogs came running through the town, careening up Main Street, greeting people. Among them, I saw my own former dogs.

Lady, the cocker spaniel who died in my arms. Joe, who was killed in a hit and run. And Ellie Mae, the bloodhound who died in a cold, sterile veterinary office.

In a nearby backyard, I watched old friends play baseball. The pitcher was my cousin, Cosby. My friend Lynn was playing shortstop.

Then a familiar woman stepped up to the plate, holding a bat. She was a teenager, long and beautiful, with raven hair. She looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place this young woman.

And that’s when it hit me. It was my grandmother.

Later, I was hungry. So I waited in line at one of the food tables, holding a paper…

I love marshmallows. I love Basset hounds. I love the smell of fresh-cut grass. I love sunlight. And I love the way a baby feels in your arms, all squishy and warm.

I love old people. Love to hear them speak. Love to hear them laugh. Love to hear them tell stories of olden times.

I love old-school baseball. When pitchers still batted. And well-told jokes. The kind of jokes so good that, after their telling, bystanders are required to change their respective undergarments.

And really good chocolate. Not cheap dollar-store chocolate that tastes like chapstick. I’m talking about real chocolate, so rich, so dark, so intense, that it would be classified, legally speaking, as an act of negligence not to finish the entire chocolate bar.

I love the way children ask honest questions. “How do plants grow?” “Why can’t animals talk?” “Am I pretty?” And I love how quickly a child can let go of anything that makes them sad.

I love little storefronts, in little towns, with little bells on the

doors, and passionate shopowners behind the counters.

I love grits. I love oscillating fans. I love it when elderly women and young women hook arms as they walk down the street. I love watching dads and sons play catch.

I love going barefoot. I love music created by intelligence that is not artificial. I love good writing. I love journalism that isn’t clickbait. I love corn chips.

I love it whenever I see someone stoop to pick up a piece of litter on a sidewalk, especially if they don’t think anyone is watching.

I love the teenage girl who stopped her car yesterday, blocking traffic, hazards blinking, and exited her vehicle to move a turtle from the middle of a busy highway.

I love moms who still keep cookies in cookie jars. And dads who still know how to sharpen their own pocketknives. I love people who…

The school cafeteria. The boys were all sitting together, doing what teenage boys do. Horsing around, talking about girls, probably trying to make milk spew from each other’s nostrils.

That’s when Jimmy told the guys about his uncle. He said his uncle was a musician who sang on the radio.

This drew laughter from the boys.

“No, it’s true,” Jimmy insisted. He explained that Uncle Lonzo was part of a musical-comedy duo that traveled the country. Uncle Lonzo was even a regular on the Grand Ole Opry.

The boys laughed themselves all the way to their homeroom. They weren’t buying it.

But it WAS true. Uncle Lonzo was from Cherry Valley, Arkansas. He WAS on the radio. He performed all over the country. Moreover, Lonzo was coming to stay with Jimmy’s family that very week.

There was one among Jimmy’s friends, however, who believed him. He was a quiet boy, soft spoken. Extremely shy. This boy lived on the other side of town.

The poor boy’s clothes were secondhand, oversized, trimmed to fit him by his mom. Sometimes, the boy even

attended school without shoes.

So one afternoon, Jimmy invited all the guys to the house to meet Uncle Lonzo. To prove his case, once and for all.

That afternoon, the boys showed up on Jimmy’s front stoop, full of testosterone and sophomoric enthusiasm, waiting to get a glimpse of a real, genuine, in-the-flesh radio star and musician.

Jimmy’s mom welcomed them inside and fixed everyone something to drink. Well—almost everyone.

She stopped Jimmy’s poor friend at the door.

She gave the boy a weak smile. He was wearing ragged clothes, carrying a beat up guitar, slung over his shoulder, with a piece of string for a strap.

“You’ll have to wait outside,” she told him.

The boy looked disappointed, but he hid it well. He just stared at the ground. He yes-ma’amed her. He remained on the porch while…

There was once a raccoon named Benny. Benny was very nice, and very cute. Also, he did not smell like urine and feces the way other raccoons did.

Benny was polite. Everyone wanted to be Benny’s friend because of this. Plus, Benny didn’t have roundworms, rabies, or any other communicable diseases such as leptospirosis, bayliscaris, or salmonella, which makes friendship so difficult.

One day, Benny was wandering through the woods when he saw a patch of strawberries growing in the sunlight. Benny LOVED strawberries. And he almost never found any strawberries when digging for food in humans’ trash bins.

Benny ran toward the strawberries, but when he got there, he was not alone. There was another raccoon arriving at the same time.

It was Eleanor. Eleanor was a raccoon from the other side of the woods. Eleanor came from raccoons who lived near Mountain Brook, where humans ate very expensive organic food from Trader Joe’s. Whereas Benny lived in Irondale where everyone ate KFC.

Usually, Eleanor was a very nice raccoon. But today Eleanor did not look nice. When

she noticed Benny, she showed her teeth.

“Get away from my strawberries,” said Eleanor.

“YOUR strawberries?” said Benny.

“I was here first.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Was too.”

An argument ensued. Soon, their disagreement became quite heated. Benny was shouting. Eleanor was yelling and waving her hands around. It is a well-known fact that raccoons talk with their hands.

Eventually, Benny got so mad he threw a rock at Eleanor. It missed her, thankfully. For Benny hadn’t really meant to throw the rock in the first place. He was just supremely ticked off.

But Eleanor’s temper hit the red zone. She did not appreciate rocks being thrown at her. Especially not by pompous little raccoons from the other side of the forest who ate KFC.

So Eleanor threw a rock at Benny. The rock hit Benny in the shoulder.

“Hey!” shouted Benny.…

Have mercy. Have mercy on the children, God.

Ordinary American school kids. Good kids. Kids who were at a church worship service in Minnesota when a gunman broke in. Kids hit the floor as soon as the gunman started shooting through the windows.

It happened during Mass. Of all times, God. Amidst lit candles and liturgy. Amidst statuary and pews and hanging portraits of Jesus. It happened in plain view of the Crucifix. Before the sacramental bread and wine. Your children were killed, God.

They were babies. Ages 8 and 10. Their lives were ended during prayer.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

Have mercy on the 14 other children who were caught in the violence, as gunfire ripped through the chapel. On little Sophia, the schoolgirl who is in critical condition as I write this. And all her classmates, whose names I don’t know yet.

Have mercy on the three victims, who I am told are in their 80s, also shot, as they scrambled on hands and knees to protect themselves

and the children caught in the crossfire.

Have mercy on the school employees, the church staff, the entire preschool in the church’s basement area.

Have mercy on the celebrant who was presiding over mass when gunfire began. Have mercy on everyone at Annunciation Church.

Have mercy on the teachers who instinctively threw their own bodies atop the children, as blasts from a shotgun erupted, and a gunman sought to end their lives.

Have mercy on those nearby, who had no idea what was going on, and were too paralyzed to move.

Have mercy on all humans whose primitive instinct is to blame themselves, for whatever reason, even though none of this could possibly be their fault.

Have mercy on the lone police officer who charged into the sanctuary to rescue children. An officer who had no idea what he or she might find inside. Who may have believed…

I remember going to a ball game with my old man. I remember the smells. Stale beer, human sweat, and the odor of unnaturally pink hotdogs that turned your bowels into stone.

I remember before the game, things got very quiet. All 30-odd thousand people rose. The throngs of stadium chairs creaking sounded like the world was splitting.

Everyone’s dad put down his non-evangelical beverage, SLOWLY, careful not to spill. Thousands of American grandpas removed lit cigars and balanced them, with surgical-like care, onto armrests.

The anthem was played.

Back in those days, the anthem was handled differently than it is today. Back then, guest artists did not take the mound, wearing asymmetric haircuts and crotch-revealing trousers. Neither did singers demonstrate 10 minutes of vocal gymnastics until their anthem performance resembled a febrile seizure.

No. Back then the organ played. And everybody sang.

We used to be a nation of singers. Remember that? Singing was just normal for us. Our childhood classrooms had upright console pianos, and our teachers knew how to

play them. Mrs. Moore would bang out “My Country ‘Tis of Thee” before each class. Mrs. Smith played “This Land is Your Land” every Friday after the Pledge.

Well, that was a long time ago.

Recently, I attended a modern baseball game. It was a very different experience. My wife and I ordered $34 nachos from a kiosk, and the cashier asked whether I wanted to leave a 25-percent tip. Beers were $18 apiece.

During the game, a huge LED timer runs between pitches so TV producers can fit in more commercials on broadcasts. The bases are now bigger, the distance between bases is now shorter. They’re changing our game.

But none of that bothered me. Not really. A Major League park is what it is. Get over it. At a ball game, you get what you get, and you don’t pitch a fit.

What I was most…

A moth landed on me. It was a big moth—about the size of a baseball. It was purplish, with a beautiful set of wings, two bulbous eyes, and delicate antennae.

I was sort of mesmerized. Nothing beautiful has ever landed on me before, unless you count the way local pigeons have sometimes used me for target practice.

The moth would not fly away, so I presented my hand to the moth. It crawled onto my finger.

Then, it just looked at me.

I spent several minutes admiring the insect from all angles. I lifted it up to the light and inspected its thorax. I observed its dainty forewings and its magenta hindwings, my nose only centimeters from its body.

It just kept staring at me.

“You can fly away if you want,” I said, since all moths speak English.

Then, I gently flicked my wrist to help launch the moth into the air. But the moth did not let go. It just stayed perched on my finger. I flicked my finger a few more times, but

the moth was making it clear, it was not interested in flying away.

So I named him Mo. I went back inside with a moth attached to my finger.

I made supper, one-handed, with Mo firmly affixed to my left index finger. Mo was just hanging out as I made mac and cheese on the stove.

With my free hand, I texted Roxie. Roxie is an 11-year-old moth expert, and we are also cousins. She is deeply into moths. She raises them from baby larvae.

I took a picture of Mo and asked Rox what kind of moth he was. She said that Mo was a huckleberry sphinx moth, which is a variety of hawkmoth. They only live for a few weeks.

“You’re a huckleberry sphinx moth,” I informed Mo.

He didn’t seem impressed.

Mo and I ate supper together. I ate with my…

“DEAR SEAN,” the email began in all caps. “PLEASE COMMENT ON THE CRACKER BARREL LOGO CHANGE! THIS IS A BAD THING!”

As it happens, I have a story about bad things. The story is about an old man. He lived during in the Great Depression. He was a very poor farmer. His home was a ramshackle shotgun house. He drove a rusted truck that predated the Punic Wars.

His truck, you see, he needed very badly, because he was raising his teenage grandson, who lived with him. That truck was what carried them into town.

One day, his truck gave up the ghost. It was devastating. All the neighbors visited to see if they could fix it. But it was hopeless. The old truck was deader than disco. The neighbors offered their condolences.

“THIS IS SUCH A BAD THING THAT HAPPENED TO YOU!” said his neighbors.

Neighbors always spoke in all caps back then.

But the old man did not seem worried. In fact, he just shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, it’s not for me

to say whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.”

A few days later, several of the local farmers banded together and donated a vehicle to the old man. It was a Packard. Brand spanking new. It was a LOT nicer than his old truck. Leather seats. Chromework galore. White-walled tires. Hood ornament of a disproportionately gifted naked lady on the front.

All the neighbors stopped by to congratulate him on the new wheels. Once again, they spoke in all caps.

And, once again, the old man replied, “Oh, it’s not for me to say whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.”

How could the old man say this? IT WAS A NEW CAR FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! DIDN’T HE UNDERSTAND?! AND WHY WASN’T HE USING HIS CAPS LOCK KEY?!

But then, a few weeks later, that car broke down on…

I had a dream. I was walking on the beach with God. We were the only two on the shore. God was very tall.

The first thing that struck me was that God was nothing like I thought he’d be. He was different, somehow. Much more complex. Much vaster. He was not merely some bearded guy in a tunic.

He was here, but also over there. He was up, he was down, he was above, below, inside, and out. He was the fabric of the air itself. When he walked alongside me, space-time seemed to bend as we passed by, making allowance for him.

As we walked, the waves of the ocean were crashing against the shore. Scenes from my life were playing overhead. Just like the old poem my mother used to have imprinted on a magnet stuck to our refrigerator. The one about footprints in the sand.

The scenes overhead were snapshots of my life. When I lost my first tooth. When I bought my first car.

My wedding day. The time I got fired from my job. The times when my loved ones died. Each time my heart had been broken. Things like that.

I looked behind me and saw footprints in the sand. Two sets of footprints. One set belonged to the Great Artist. The other set belonged to me.

But I noticed something odd. During the low periods of my life, I saw more sets of footprints. First a few. Then dozens of them. The footprints were all walking alongside my own.

Soon, there were so many prints that they obscured mine. In some places, the sand looked like an entire football team had been performing drills on the shoreline. The throngs of prints carved deep trenches into the earth, filling with the water after each incoming tide.

The amount of footprints kept increasing as my life went on. During the most difficult periods of…