Seventy-Two Years
You died by suicide 30 years ago. You hated yourself. You hated this life. You hated where the world was heading. So you left. You’d probably hate it even more today. For one thing, they sell water in bottles now.
Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
You died by suicide 30 years ago. You hated yourself. You hated this life. You hated where the world was heading. So you left. You’d probably hate it even more today. For one thing, they sell water in bottles now.
She was a cleaning woman. Two kids. One cat. She was going under, fast. She could not afford this month’s rent. The landlord was already preparing to kick her out. She was working from can to can’t…
Therapy Road was 2 hours and 30 minutes. This haul is all day averaging 5 times every two months which equals 30 days a year or one month a year on the road. That’s a lot of time.
Seated beside me was an elderly pilgrim who seemingly had energy to converse. His beard was white. His skin was shoe leather. His odor was ripe. He looked like a cross between Moses and a Hobbit.
Charlotte is a student at West Virginia University. The 19-year-old emailed me asking for relationship advice concerning her ex-boyfriend, John, who once hurt her very badly. Tragically, I don’t give advice. But I can tell you a story, Charlotte.
While the trees are letting go of their leaves, maybe there are things that we need to let go of, too.
Before the boy sat a massive meal. Bacon. Eggs. Huge glass of chocolate milk. Stack of pancakes bigger than a midsize SUV.
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.
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 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.
Life’s burst-pipe moments may feel overwhelming, but God promises His steady presence and restoration through them.
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.
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.
Nothing beautiful has ever landed on me before, unless you count the way local pigeons have sometimes used me for target practice.
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.
Two railway track maintainers stood at a distance watching her. Their neon vests, reflecting in the early morning light. Their hard hats pushed upward on their heads. They weren’t sure what to do with the bird.
A journey through Alaska’s rivers, glaciers, and skies is a living reminder that the God who shaped such majesty also cares deeply for us.
The little dog beside me is curled into a ball, huddled against me. We are smooshed as closely as we can be without being one person.
We were sitting on a plane. Awaiting takeoff. I am convinced that if you live wrongly, if you treat your fellow man poorly, if you are selfish, if you are not a good person, you will die and wake up in Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.
“Dear Sean, your column yesterday about embracing my inner child and childhood was inaccurate. I’m 67 with more life experience than you… And my childhood wasn’t idyllic like yours obviously was…