Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
They cut down the old oak tree today. It was an enormous tree. One of the biggest I’ve ever seen. I was on my walking route when I heard the chainsaws running. I stood by the curb and watched the young worker crawl up the trunk and take it down from top to bottom.
It was a big park. A big city. The man was sitting on the sidewalk. Directly on the ground. And he was barefoot.
The angels all got together. The chairman angel banged his gavel on the bench. The community center gymnasium was noisy with angel voices. There must have been billions of them.
There were two men who went fishing. The first man was old. He moved a little slower on account of his arthritis, his bad hip, and his recent hurt knee. The second man wasn’t even really a “man” at all, technically. He was a boy. The young man was brimming with energy, skipping ahead, swinging his tackle box.
I arrive at the Opry House a few minutes before rehearsal. My guitar and fiddle cases trip the metal detector, so the security guard makes me open them.
I don’t know if they have radios in heaven. But I hope they do. I hope the angels find one tomorrow night (Saturday). I hope they tune this radio to 650 AM WSM, Nashville. I hope you listen to the Grand Ole Opry. Start to finish.
Ring, ring.
I answered the phone. “Hello?” I said, disguising my voice.
“Is this Sean Dietrich?” said the little girl’s on the phone. So grown-up sounding. She gets a little bigger every day.
When Joe turned 18, he was going to join the military like his dad, the officer, wanted. But there is a well known saying in the military, “You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken excrement.” We are who we are.
Dear Sean, I’m useless. It seems like the world just doesn’t want me here anymore. What happens if I give up and send myself same-day shipping to God? Would it truly be a loss?
There’s no more fight in me.
When I was just a kid—maybe 10 or 12—I met a man who would leave a quiet but lasting impression on my life: Eugene Lofton. To me, at that young age, he wasn’t just another face on the firing line; he was something extraordinary
A tomato is a magical thing. A love story in nutritional form. A tomato connects you with real life in a way nothing else can.
The letter was short. “Dear Sean, do you believe prayer works? I don’t. Please pray I survive my surgery today.” Signed, Anonymous.
Oh, to view a sunrise. To see that huge ball of brilliant orange light, peeking above the trees, reflecting on the mirrored lake. The orchestra of colors in the sky, as the morning sun lights the clouds from beneath, transforming them into the pink and gold frosting on the Birthday Cake of Life.
The boy didn’t have a lot going for him. At least, that’s what his parents thought. His parents were concerned. The other children would not stop laughing at their son. The other kids had turned him into a joke.
You don’t know me, but I’ve been watching you since you were a baby. I’ve been here beside you. You could call me your guardian angel, I guess. But we don’t really call ourselves anything.
From July 4 to July 6, 2025, President Donald Trump exemplified the art of blending leadership with leisure, celebrating America’s Independence Day with significant policy achievements and relaxing golf outings.
They stand behind caged doors. They look at you when you walk by. They howl like their lives depend on it. Because, you see, that’s just what they do.
Who do I think I am? My life begins at age 11. That’s when my father took his own life. He killed himself probably because he was going to prison.
This past weekend marked the beginning of the countdown for America’s semi-quincentennial that will be celebrated across the United States on July 4, 2026.
As I write this, 51 have been killed in the Texas floods, at least, and 15 are kids. The total of missing people isn’t even clear yet. So be with them, God. Be there in silent ways nobody would ever expect.