Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
“Dear Sean,” the notecard began. The handwriting was very neat. “My name is John. I’m 14 years old… And I know your really busy but my dad committed suicide like yours. Maybe you can tell me what to do or be my friend. Love, John.”
I am trying to understand this world. Within the last 5 years, there have been nearly 40 major shooting incidents at houses of worship. In the last five years, there have been 181 major shooting incidents in schools. And those are just the “major” ones.
This week the headlines were pretty dim. Fighting in Iran, surging oil prices, and just when you think current events couldn’t get any worse, it’s time for the Oscars.
As a kid, I remember going to the beach. I remember walking the shore, wearing my little swimsuit. I remember the glorious and inimitable joy of having sand in my crack. My biggest objective, of course, was finding seashells. All children care deeply about shells. This is the main reason you visit the beach as a kid. It’s about looking for shells.
Dogs know stuff. Yes, I know they’re just animals. I know their brains are only about the size of tangerines. But I’m telling you.
The Girl Scouts were setting up a folding table by the doors of the hardware store.
“Omigod,” I said to the cashier. “It’s March.”
The cashier looked at me flatly.
“Debit or credit?” she said.
“This is March,” I pointed out again. “Don’t you know what this means?“
A little girl. I see her in hotel lobby. She is maybe 10 years old. She has her luggage with her. Her gait is severely uneven and labored. She is having a difficult time traversing the lobby.
The Camino is out there. Still existing. On the other side of the world. I wake up each morning, stumble into my kitchen to make coffee, and I think about how right now, it’s still there.
God love him, the plumber did not look happy. Namely, because our house is 100 years old. Meaning, five generations of people have been bathing in this house. The drain pipes have been whisking away one century’s worth of funk water.
I was eleven. I was invited to try out for the Christmas community choir. A lady visited our church to conduct the auditions.
I had been practicing for three weeks, learning the lyrics to “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
What if I told you that you are enough? Moreover, what if you woke up this morning and, for the first time ever, you actually felt like enough. What if you loved yourself? And I mean really loved yourself. Do you love yourself? Let’s find out.
Don’t shoot the messenger. But in America, one third of children have never handwritten a letter. And it’s not just kids. Nearly 40 percent of adult Americans haven’t written a letter in the last five years
Dear Tara, I heard that your cancer has spread. They tell me you’ll need to undergo some invasive surgeries, not least of which is a mastectomy. They tell me you’re frightened.
I get a lot of letters from kids. Such as the letter that came yesterday, via snail mail. It was penned in a childish hand.
Once upon a time, there was a princess who lived in a great big old castle. She was very beautiful, with long, flowy hair, and her teeth were really nice, too. Nice and straight.
I’m backstage at the Grand Ole Opry, in my dressing room. Tuning my guitar. They tell me Dolly Parton used this dressing room once. What sacred visions this mirror must have seen. My cups runneth over.
It has been said, if you’re a bad person in this lifetime; if you treat your fellow man poorly; if you live by the code of violence; if you are cruel to elders and children and UPS men; when you die you will wake up in economy class, riding in the middle seat.
It is the Gatlin Brothers 70th anniversary concert, and every Nashville A-list celebrity you can think of is here. I am supposed to do a song with everyone at the end. Larry Gatlin told me to bring my banjo. But I’m experiencing a bad case of “tiny banjo syndrome” right now. I don’t belong here. I don’t know how to act around famous people.
I receive a lot of mail in the form of emails, letters, private messages, texts, Morse code, etc. It is impossible to answer all these messages, so I compiled some commonly asked questions
Years ago, I was sitting with my Methodist mother-in-law in the living room. We were replaying old memories like worn out records only weeks before she would pass. Hospice was already in the house.