The names aren’t important. The story is.

It was Christmas Eve. Lydia was newly divorced. Her husband had decided he wanted a 20-something college student, bleached hair, size 2. Lydia was 43, mother of two, and she couldn’t compete.

Lydia was driving in a beat up Toyota, with her two kids in back. The car was loaded with baggage, aimed toward Wisconsin, where her people were from.

She was somewhere around Central Kansas when the blowout happened. It was awful. The loud popping noise. The loss of steering power. She muscled the vehicle to the snowy shoulder and wondered what in the H-E-Eleven she was going to do.

Her oldest, Eric, was entertaining his 5-year-old sister, Laney, in the backseat.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” he said.

The car came to a wobbling stop. Mom was already pressing her head against the steering wheel and weeping. The spare was beneath three metric tons of crap. And she had never changed a tire in her life.

The rural highway was empty. There were no cars passing them by. Christmas Eve

in the country is a quiet affair.

“We’re going to have to change the tire.” she said.

“Okay,” said Eric.

Eric. A former Boy Scout. Not only did Eric know how to change a tire. He knew how to give mouth-to-mouth. And he has also earned his wood-carving, carpentry, and survival badges. No big deal.

Eric was getting luggage out of the trunk when the truck came swerving. He never saw it. The lights of the Toyota were off. In hindsight, this was a big mistake on Lydia’s part. Turning her lights off on a rural highway.

They heard the screech of truck tires. The sound of a boy screaming. The impact. He was thrown a long way.

The driver of the truck hadn’t seen the car. And Eric had not seen the truck.

When the EMTs got to the boy, he was…

Dear God,

It's me again. Actually, I don’t know what you want me to call you. For all I know, you might prefer to be called something Hebrew, Latin, or maybe you don’t want to be called anything at all.

Anyway, one thing’s for sure: you’re older than the feeble human names we humans call you. That much I remember from Sunday school.

My mother called you, “The Lord.” My granny called you “Heavenly Father.” My uncle used to call you by your first, middle, and last name whenever he smashed his thumb with a hammer.

Either way, I was raised in a staunch church, and I remember hearing your name in the tiny chapels of my childhood. The preachers loved to talk about heaven, and how nearly impossible it was to get there. And about hell, and how easy it was to go there.

And our Sunday-school teachers, who made you sound like an old Communist dictator who was always sentencing people to everlasting damnation. After a while, I thought of you in much the same way

I thought about, for example, the Terminator.

But that’s not you. Not at all.

And even though I don’t know a lot about you, I know a little. Above all, I know what you aren’t. And I also know where I can find you.

I know that you’re the sun. You’re the starlight. You’re the pine trees. You’re the sky over Lake Martin. The smell of baked apples Mother used to cook. You are prettiness. You are the feeling of Christmas. The warmth of a family reunion.

You’re the look on a kid’s face when he or she catches a fish. The feeling a child gets when he or she has just been adopted.

You are every Andy Griffith Show episode ever made. You are Aunt Bee, Opie, Barney, Otis. You had absolutely nothing to do with Matlock.

You are guitar music…

Nurses. I’m grateful for nurses, foremostly. At some point in your life, no matter who you are, or how much money you make, you will have an intimate healthcare experience with a nurse.

A nurse might save your life. They might administer a barium enema. Either way, you will feel their warm hands on your body. And you will be grateful.

But the real question is why. Why do nurses do what they do? Every single day they do it. The pay isn’t THAT good. The schooling is brutal. The clinicals are medieval torture. But nurses choose to be nurses. And most can’t imagine themselves doing anything else.

And teachers. I am also thankful for teachers. College. High school. Grade school. Kindergarten. The pay is crap. But the hallways of heaven will be lined with educators.

Dogs. I’m thankful for dogs. Not just my dogs, but your dogs, too. At this stage of my life, dogs are my closest and most trusted allies. My closest friends have always had flea problems.

I am thankful for

my human friends, too. Close friends are rare. In fact, they are almost mythical. In your lifetime you have a better chance of finding Bigfoot than you do a best friend. If you have three or four REALLY good friends you are wealthy. If you have more than that you are delusional.

I am grateful for beer. I grew up fundamentalist. In my youth, being in possession of a six-pack was right up there with a conviction for distributing snuff films. But I love beer. Always will.

Also, cheese.

Kids. I am grateful for children. Whenever you start to think our world is going straight to hell, start paying attention to kids. Because they aren’t.

Black coffee, made by someone other than me.

Waffle House hashbrowns at two in the morning.

Ferns that hang on porches.

Books. Especially randomly found books, from obscure places like…

Mrs. Herrington’s, Mrs. Talon’s, and Mrs. Anderson’s third-grade classes sent me their Thanksgiving lists. They came via snail mail. Most were written in pencil. A few were in crayon.

BILLY (age 8)— I am thankful for God. Without him we wouldn’t have any football.

JOSH (9)—I’m thankful for Alabama because it is a wonderful place to live and Alabama is home to the only confirmed incident of a meteorite striking a human person, named Ann Hodges, in Oak Grove, 1954.

MARY (8)—I’m thankful that my mom lets me stay home from school when my grandparents are in town because I love them so much.

TORY (9)—I love my phone because I use it to read books and reading is a superpower.

CHRISTOPHER (8)—My dad is what I’m thankful for most. He almost died because of diabetes.

PERCY (9)—I am thankful for tacos at school.

LUANN (8)—I am thankful for my dogs and my horses and especially Rain who is my horse who I ride.

BJ (8)—I am thankful for my teacher because she gives me good grades.

LORA

(9)—I am thankful that my family is together again and my dad is living with us again.

BRIANA (9)—I hope my mom will come back home and stop doing drugs.

ANDREW (10)—I love my brother and I miss him a lot. He’s not with us anymore because he is with Jesus.

LILY (8)—I am thankful for the bike my dad bought me so I can blow off steam and quit making mom upset with me.

YVONNE (8)—I am grateful for all the things God has given to us all. The big stuff and the little stuff he gives us so far, is what I am thankful for most, you know. My favorite thing is my family because I love it when we’re all here for Thanksgiving and eating with each other and everyone is doing stuff. Yay!

TAYLOR (9)—my dads in jell…

There is a little girl in my house. She is 11. She is currently playing piano in my office. She is blind, so she plays by feel. She has no idea what she’s doing on the instrument. But she actually sounds pretty good.

I do not have kids. I’m not a smart man, but I am sharp enough to know I’d make a bad dad. So this is unique, having a kid in my house.

Today is a flawless November day. Leaves are falling. The air is dry. My windows are open. Thanksgiving is just around the corner. And it feels like it.

Becca has been staying at our house for a few lazy days this weekend. My wife and I are sort of like Becca’s crazy aunt and uncle. I don’t know how this happened.

I never thought I’d be the crazy uncle who perpetually smelled like Tiger Balm and was always telling children to pull his finger. But there you are.

In her time here this weekend, we’ve gone for lots of walks,

Becca and I. Becca usually holds my hand and does all the talking. Somehow, she knows that I have no idea what I’m doing with kids. She can sense that I am not paternal material. But she doesn’t hold this against me.

I was a bar musician whose youth lasted way too long. I grew up in dim lit rooms, filled with smoke, clinking glasses, and Willie Nelson ballads. I used to have a ponytail, for crying out loud.

But Becca doesn’t seem to care. She treats me like I’m a real adult. Which is her first mistake.

Consequently, Becca has done a lot of adultish talking since she’s been here. She has talked about everything from moon rocks to the Battle of Gettysburg. From the invasion of Pearl Harbor to Zacchaeus who—come to find out—was a wee little man and a wee little man…

I receive a lot of questions via email, messages, snail mail, and smoke signals. I do not always have the time to respond to these messages. But sometimes, I do.

Q: SEAN! Why do you criticize religion? It really shows where your heart is. Where do YOU stand with God, Sean? I worry about your soul, Sean, and I pray for you. We are all sinners… THIS MEANS YOU! YOU ARE A SINNER! Please get right with God! I REALLY don’t want to spend eternity without you!

A: It won’t be so bad. You’ll get used to it.

Q: Do you know the Lord? I don’t think you do. If you did, you would be using your platform to spread the gospel. Your thinly veiled messages of hope are sweet, but sweet people still go to hell. You must speak the Name. If you don’t you are a coward and a liar and the Holy Spirit is not in you.

A: You seem like someone I could be really friends with.

Q: Dear Sean,

I just wanted you to know that I have unsubscribed to your column because I was put off by how you described American tourists during your recent trip to Italy. I am American. I travel to Europe extensively. You pissed me off when you described Americans as rude, outspoken, and opinionated.

A: Thank God you’re not one of them.

Q: I am a pastor of a large church, and you recently made a joke in our newspaper, calling megachurches “Six Flags Over Jesus,” just because we have a T-Shirt shop and Starbucks in our lobby. I would like a retraction of this statement. Otherwise, I’ll be discouraging church members from reading more of your work. I don’t think it suits you to compare our church to a theme park.

A: How about a Carnival Cruise ship?

Q: My wife is the sweetest woman on the planet,…

I bought a jigsaw puzzle at the grocery store today. The box features an ornate cathedral with red roses and blossoming foliage. The cathedral is in Germany. The puzzle cost two bucks.

My mother and I used to do jigsaw puzzles. Big puzzles. We did them together. I was no good at jigsaws, but she was an expert.

Long ago, puzzles cost seventy-five cents, and provided hours of distraction. We needed distractions back then. We welcomed anything that took our minds off my father’s untimely death, and the gloom that came thereafter.

My mother looked for distractions that made us laugh, things that made us smile, games, puzzles, crafts, or road trips.

Once, she took us to Branson. She took me to see a Dolly Parton impersonator. The show was spectacular. After the performance, the woman in the blonde wig hugged me so tight she nearly suffocated me with her enormous attributes.

When my mother saw me locked with the buxom woman, she shrieked and started praying in tongues. She yanked me by my

earlobe and drug me away. And I have been a lifelong Dolly Parton fan ever since.

Anyway, my mother loved doing things with her hands. She made large quilts from old T-shirts, she gardened, she did puzzle books, anagrams, crosswords, cryptograms, she knitted, crocheted, and painted.

She played cards with me, sometimes checkers, and she was a Scrabble fanatic. But jigsaw puzzles. Those were our thing.

My mother started each puzzle by saying the same thing:

“We gotta find the corners first, that’s how you do it.”

The idea was that once you found the corners, the rest of the puzzle would come together. Thus, we would sift through twenty-five hundred pieces, looking for four corners. Once we found them, we’d dig for the edges.

We’d place pieces into piles, then link them together. Piece by piece. Section by section. Mama and I could spend a…

Nov. 26, 1863, (FREDERICKSBURG)—Dearest Brother, I suppose you are having a good time this Thanksgiving, eating plum pudding and chicken pie and cider. I hope you are, at any rate, for I want you to enjoy yourself.

I should like to be with you, and I know you would like to have me, but alas this war never seems to end.

Still, although I cannot be with you to enjoy your luxuries, and your company, I have many things to be thankful for.

I am thankful that my life has been spared to me, as many of my friends are dead. I am thankful that I still enjoy good health.

I am thus hopeful that the Union will be successful. I can hear the cannons now, down by the Rapidan River, sounding their reports. I fear we have a bloody day ahead of us. I am afraid.

I should like a few gallons of that cider you told me about in your last letter. I would like some of those pickled pig’s

feet, too, if you have time to send them.

Happy Thanksgiving. Love, your brother.

Nov. 28, 1918, (PARIS)—Dearest Wife, I miss you more than you will know on this Thanksgiving Day. But I have good news. Our corps commander received a telegram today. He told us we are coming home.

The war is over, I am scared to believe it. Our commander read that our division would proceed to the embarkation point and begin sail for America soon. I’m coming home, darling. I’m coming to see you and our little one and I shall never let you go.

Thank God for his mercy unto us. This is a happy Thanksgiving indeed.

Nov 23, 1944 (HOLLAND)—Dearest Darling, here it is Thanksgiving and we are not together. These damned holidays are the painfullest part of our separation. I am sad. But I hope we’ll be together next Thanksgiving.

Our men…

You can imagine my reaction when yesterday I discovered that Pamela Anderson had made me a pecan pie. Someone hand-delivered the pie and there was a sticky note attached. It read: “Love, Pamela Anderson.”

I started to get light headed.

Granted, it might not be the famous Pamela Anderson, since the pie came from Thomas County, Georgia. But—and follow me closely here—the famous Pamela Anderson has not publicly denied knowledge of this pie.

I cut a slice and buried it with enough Reddi-Wip to cover Mount Rushmore. It was so sugary it gave me heart palpitations.

“What’re you eating?” my wife asked.

“Oh nothing,” I said. “Just a gift from Pamela Anderson.”

“Who?”

“Don’t make me say it again, honey. Celebrities are very funny about their privacy.”

My wife inspected the note and laughed at me. “What are you, fourteen years old? It’s not the celebrity, it’s just some woman named Pamela Anderson.”

But she is just jealous. Wives get that way when former television stars bake things for you.

If Pam happens to be reading this, she

should know that pecan pie is my all-time favorite. That is, unless Anne Margaret bakes me a blueberry pie. Then my all-time favorite pie is blueberry.

Barbara Eden could make me liverwurst on a cracker.

Once, I had a job at an ice cream shop. I was recently married, taking a second job to pay the mortgage. The job paid minimum wage and it wasn’t a great gig. I was a glorified soda jerk, complete with a dorky uniform.

On my first day, the owner trained me to scoop ice cream, make malts, and say things like “Gee whiz, Beave’.” He was a grumpy man, elderly, and always in a funk.

The first order of business was to introduce me to the pie coolers. There were two. Each cooler was filled exclusively with cakes and pies. There were apple pies, strawberry, coconut…

DEAR SEAN:

I’m not sure what to do. My teenage son died in an accident three years ago… A few months ago one of his good friends started hanging out at our house...

We’ve become really close. He doesn’t have a very present mother. And I find myself wanting to love this boy in pretty much the same way we loved our son.

But every time I let myself feel love for this boy, I feel so guilty and stupid for feeling like that. He’s got a mother and family already. And he is not MY son, and he will never be MY son. I guess I just needed to vent. I don’t know.

My question to you is this: Should I invite him over for Thanksgiving this year? Or is that too much?

Thanks,
HOPELESS-IN-SAN-ANTONIO

DEAR SAN-ANTONIO:

I was five years old. Standing in my aunt’s bathroom. My aunt had one of those toilet-seat covers made of carpet. I wonder who decided those were a good invention.

My aunt’s bathroom was a nondescript, old-lady bathroom that smelled like bath powder. And

on the wall was a framed, embroidered piece of artwork that stands out in my memory.

My aunt had a lot of embroidery in the house.

Most of this embroidery was framed, featuring religious phrases such as, “The wages of sin is death.” And, “All liars shall have their part in the Lake of Fire.”

And the one in my uncle's room: “If you don’t love Jesus, and you don’t root for ‘Bama, you’ll Au-Burn.”

But the particular piece of embroidery I’m talking about said: “The meaning of life is found in friendship.”

And I’ve always loved this phrase.

I don’t know what it’s like to lose a child. But I know that after you lose someone, something inside your brain shifts. You’re not even remotely the person you were before the trauma.

Everything is different. Tastes…