I woke up thinking about you. There I was, at 4:41 a.m., sitting in my living room, wondering about you.

I heard the doctor gave you bad news. And I couldn’t help but imagine how afraid you must be.

Fear is a curse. A primal heirloom, passed down through our DNA. A gift from our ancestors. Fear kept our forebears alive.

Our ancestors HAD to be afraid to survive. If our ancestors hadn’t been frightened, they would have been alligator food. Human culture would have never advanced. We would all still be sitting on rocks, wearing loincloths, poking beehives with sticks.

Your body needs adrenaline to keep it from danger. Otherwise, you’d do stupid things such as stepping into traffic, walking out a ten-story window, or listening to pop country.

But now your internal alarm system has turned against itself. Now you’re swallowed by the very emotion that was supposed to defend you. And while I don’t know what you’re going through, I do know fear.

I’ve wrestled with fear my whole life.

As a

boy, I went through a lot of trauma. My childhood household featured abuse, gun violence, and suicide. My father held my family hostage one night, threatening to kill us. County deputies showed up with riot guns. Then my father took his own life.

So, my little body got stuck in Fear Mode. I was always afraid, without even KNOWING I was afraid. Sometimes my biology was afraid even when I thought I was fine.

I could be watching the ABC Sunday Night movie, for instance, and just as Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal were getting busy on the beach, for some reason I was anxious.

Little did I know that my glands were flooding my body with those addictive little warming squirts of adrenaline. I was hooked on the drug. I couldn’t kick the fear habit. Fear became my go-to emotion. Fear became both the…

It’s a mess, that’s what it is. When you land in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta Third World International Airport, you’re walking into a battle zone.

It’s nonstop chaos. Airport professionals ride golf carts with loud beeps and flashing lights.

Hordes of business professionals below age 40 speed-walk past you, having loud conversations with their earbuds, dutifully working on their first nervous breakdowns.

Middle-aged Midwestern guys in New Balances, shoulder a tonnage of roller luggage, most of which—you can just tell—belongs to their wives.

Everyone is on their phones

I notice the elderly man across from me. He is wearing khakis and Merrells, the universal uniform of the Old Guy. He is breathing heavily. Hyperventilating, actually. His hands are trembling. He takes a sip of water and almost drops the bottle.

This man is having a diabetic episode or something, I’m thinking.

“Sir, are you okay?” I ask.

He looks at me. His eyes are rimmed pink. I can’t tell if he’s about to cry or not. “Have you ever flown before?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

He returns to his trembling.

“I’m eighty-two years old,” he says, “and I’ve never flown. I’ve

never been anywhere or done anything.”

This is a man old enough to be my father, but at this moment, he seems very childlike to me. Fear has a way of reducing one’s age.

There is a little girl sitting on his other side. She notices what’s going on. She joins our conversation. She is maybe 10.

The kid says, “What do you mean you’ve never been ANYWHERE or done ANYTHING,’ sir?”

He looks at her. Her hair is in pigtails. She could pass for the Coppertone Girl.

“I’ve only left my hometown twice,” he says. He’s getting more nervous with each word. “I’ve never done anything of note. I’ve never been anywhere.”

“Do you have a family?” the girl says.

He nods. “Four kids.”

“How old?”

“My oldest…

Q: Greetings. I just found your videoes online and I wanted to reach out. You realize that most of the music history you share on your videos is crap, right?

A: You realize you misspelled “videos,” right?

Q: My mom introduced me to your work… And I honestly do not understand the appeal of your writing… All you do is write on the same things and cover the same topics, day after day, but in different ways.

A: Not true, sir. I also draw the same pictures day after day.

Q: You evidently have a platform for being heard, but you refuse to use this platform to talk about [political topic deleted]... This nation NEEDS a voice to speak out and decry the evil that surrounds us, and your refusal to do so reveals an ultimate cowardice on your part…

A: I disagree. My ultimate cowardice is revealed in my fear of snakes.

Q: You are so misguided!!! Not everyone goes to heaven, Sean. Your theology needs a little work. God is not purely love and

grace, He is an exacting judge. Someday He will separate the wheat from the chaff… We are not ALL God’s children, as you say. Only those who believe and are saved are His children. I’m going to heaven, where are you going?

A: Wherever you aren’t.

Q: I don’t understand why someone walks the Camino de Santiago. …You say it’s to meet all the people, but can’t you meet people here in the US? Are you really doing all you can to be friends with people in your own country? I seriously do not understand why you must travel across the whole world to meet inspiring people, it seems like “Millennial escapism” to me.

A: I absolutely agree with you. You don’t understand.

Q: I take umbrage at the fact that you make so many jokes about Baptist churches.

A: Well don’t take it…

The question was simple. “Who is God?”

CHRIS (age 5): He’s a big, big thing, but you can’t see him. He has big hands and he can pick you up and carry you around. And he won’t drop you, not even if you try to jump. He can fly.

ANDREA (5): Nobody’s ever seen a picture, so we don’t know what color he is.

MITCH (7): A lot of people don’t believe in God, these people are called ATMs.

VERA (6, but two months shy of 7): You can do anything to God and basically he’ll still love you.

JOCELYN (4): Dogs and angels are God’s best friends.

LEE (7): God is everything all at once.

BRADLEY (7): You have to go to church and listen to a preacher tell you about him every week and then give him money so he’ll let you go.

CARREY (9): God likes to hear people sing. I don’t know why. Some people do not sing good.

TOMMY (10): God is invisible. If you ask him to show himself to you he

won’t. Trust me, I’ve tried.

ALAN (9): My dad says God puts people in the bad place starting with “H” if they don’t believe in him. But why would you work really hard making something and then throw it away?

KELLI (6): God makes all the babies and gives them to us. Every baby has something different that nobody else has.

SARAH (10): Anything you want to say, God will listen. You can talk whenever. He will listen. Doesn’t matter what you say. Even if you’re not in a good mood.

TYLER (8): He don’t like it when you judge other people. So don’t do it.

TRYNA (8): I used to have a friend who didn’t believe in God. And I was like, “Why? It don’t cost anything.”

ALISON (5): You have to be quiet in church because people are sleeping.

MATTHEW…

I was in a hotel with a few hundred Mennonites.

I walked into the hotel at noon. At first, I was confused inasmuch as the lobby was full of cape dresses, plain suits, and broad-brimmed hats. Some of the older men had beards, some were clean-shaven. The women wore head coverings.

I thought maybe I’d taken a wrong turn on the interstate.

I approached the hotel desk. “I feel a little underdressed,” I said.

“There is a Mennonite gathering in town,” the hotel clerk said. “This is probably my favorite time of year.”

“Really?” I asked. “Why?”

She smiled.

“You’ll see,” she said.

On my way up to my room, I rode in the elevator with four Mennonite teenagers. It was beautifully un-awkward. None of the young people had a hard time looking me in the eye. None of them had a difficult time making conversation.

“I’m Caleb,” said one boy, confidently.

I shook his hand. This set off a chain of handshakes and introductions among us all. I learned everyone’s name.

“We’re so excited to be here,” said Caleb. “We’ve never

actually stayed in a hotel before.”

“They have a free breakfast,” said one boy, using the same tone you’d use to say, “I just won the scratch-off.”

“They even have a swimming pool,” said one of the young women, covering her mouth as though she had just said something mildly risqué.

Then all her counterparts giggled.

We had a nice conversation, then I stepped off when the elevator arrived at my floor. One of the boys offered to help me with my bags.

I travel with five musical instruments, which can be a hassle. I declined his offer, but I was touched.

“Goodbye, Mister Dietrich,” they all said in unison as I wielded my banjos, guitars, and fiddles down the hallway.

The next morning, there must have been fifty or sixty Mennonite teenagers in the lobby, standing in…

Dearly Beloved,

Today is Yom HaShoah. The Jewish holy day for remembering the Holocaust. And I must admit, dear friends, standing before you all, here in this beautiful synagogue, wearing this tiny hat, I am feeling very out of place. And humbled.

I am not Jewish. I’m not even religious. Actually, I don’t know what I am. I am a seeker, I guess. A fellow human being. Someone with a heart, a liver, two eyes, and a soul. Just like you. I am proud to be here. Wearing this kippah on the crown of my head.

My rabbi friend tells me it is a custom to deliver a “hesped” or eulogy and address the departed. Instead of eulogizing, I am going to read the Holocaust victims’ words to you. I would ask you all to bow your heads as they speak through my feeble voice:

GERTA WEISSMAN KLEIN, a teenage prisoner from Sobibor Camp:

“[Sometimes, I remember] Ilse, a childhood friend of mine, once found a raspberry in the camp

and carried it in her pocket all day to present to me that night on a leaf. Imagine a world in which your entire possession is one raspberry and you give it to your friend.”

JACK ADLER, former prisoner of Dachau:

“I was liberated on May 1, 1945, while on the death march out of Dachau… [I believe that] in order for humanity to survive we must allow ourselves to be guided by the Golden Rule. There are seven billion people on this planet earth, we all belong to one race, the human race. So treat others the way you would like to be treated.”

PREMYSL DOBIAS, former prisoner of Terezin labor camp:

“The hardest thing was not the hunger, though the hunger was constant. The hardest thing was to keep your mind from becoming a desert. We would try to remember the smell of a kitchen at home, or…

She helped people die. Or maybe you’d say she helped them transition to the other side—whatever that means. She’s not a big believer in “the other side.”

Either way, she’s been helping people pass away for a long time. She has seen more death than most.

She’s a veteran nurse. She’s been in the business of end-of-life care for over 30 years. As a result, almost nothing startles her anymore. And if she’s being honest, she admits that she’s a little jaded, too. Maybe even cynical about the business sometimes. Bureaucrats.

But what she saw last Tuesday did affect her. In fact, she says it sort of changed her.

As she administered meds to the old man, making idle small talk, something occurred.

The old man was near the end when he saw someone in the room.

There is nothing unusual about this. It happens all the time. Dying people see deceased loved ones in empty rooms. They’ll have elaborate conversations with a great-grandma. Or they’ll see a miscarried baby, all grown up, sitting in the corner, smiling. Whether these are hallucinations or not,

she has learned to just go with it. It’s part of the job.

The brain does strange things when it’s in the process of dying.

“I see a woman,” the old man said.

“Is that right?” she said, still checking his oximeter.

“Yes, it’s a woman. She is standing behind you.”

The nurse glanced behind her and saw nobody.

“Really?” she said absently, going about her work, making notes on her iPad.

“She looks a little like you,” he said.

“Okay,” said the nurse vacantly, checking his pulse again. “What a hottie she must be.”

The old man muttered. “She has brown hair. She says her name is Carol.”

The nurse stopped. She stared at him.

The old man said, “Carol is talking to me. She’s saying something now.”

The nurse was all ears. “What’s…

Tonight, 6 million Americans will be watching the historic event on television. The Orion spacecraft, named Integrity, is estimated to return to Earth at 8:07 P.M. The little boy who lives inside me can hardly contain himself.

The crew of NASA’s Artemis II has traveled farther into deep space than any human beings before them. They are heroes. Each one of them. Christina Koch, Victor Glover, Reid Wiseman, and Jeremy Hansen.

Before splashdown, the crew has a lot to do just to survive. The little boy inside me would like to tell you about it:

Last night, while you were winding down for bed, the crew ignited thrusters for a total of 15 seconds to guide Integrity to the correct Earth-trajectory course.

Whereupon they finished a few odd jobs, worked on a few calculations, then made calls to loved ones. Then, each crewperson took turns using Integrity’s $30-million “hygiene bay.”

Unlike the old Apollo days, when astronauts used adhesive hygiene bags, Integrity came equipped with a state-of-the-art john. The craft features a vacuum

hose, with funnel attachments designed to fit—ahem—the anatomical plumbing apparatus of each gender.

Also, Integrity has an actual toilet with an actual lid, which the male coworkers keep forgetting to close. This latrine canister is really just a giant vacuum. Using the toilet is a full-contact sport. In the words of one male astronaut, “Ride ’em cowboy.”

The reason I’m telling you about the bathrooms is not because I am a little boy. But because the spacecraft’s toilet broke during flight. This was a huge complication that threatened the mission.

The venting pipe outside the ship froze solid. For days on end, the crew succumbed to using what amounted to fancy Ziploc bags until they could fix the problem.

But anyway, that’s just one of the problems NASA astronauts had to contend with. Today, their efforts will be focused on re-entry. Re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere is no…

I like ducks. I watch the same two mallards visit this area of Lake Martin. Almost every morning.

I don’t know if they’re married. Ducks are seasonally monogamous. So this could just be a one-season stand.

Still, they are my friends. I guess they’re here to find food. Sort of like going to Piggly Wiggly with your spouse, minus the buggy, and the rolling of your spouse’s eyes whenever one of you places six jars of something you don’t need into the basket because it’s BOGO.

One of the ducks is male, with an iridescent green head and a yellow bill. The female is brown, with a black bill.

I call them Lucy and Desi. I don’t know why. It was either that or George and Gracie. But he isn’t a George. Sometimes you can just tell.

Each morning, I sit on the dock with coffee in hand, legs dangling off the edge, and I talk to them as they paddle by.

I ask what they’ve been up to. I ask what’s going on in their lives. How’s the family?

How do you like this weather? Do y’all have any summer plans?

They’re unafraid of me, even though I am a big scary human, located only a few feet from them. They come near me sometimes. Not too close, mind you. But close enough that I can see Lucy’s pretty eyes and Desi’s amazing emerald hood.

Desi is definitely the friendlier of the two. I get the feeling that Desi is the kind of duck you’d want to party with. Whereas Lucy is more driven, and highly focused on making sure everything is just so. Sometimes I wonder whether she’s holding Desi back.

For a long time, they showed up. And for a long time, I’d sit there, watching them undergo the seasonal changes of life.

I watched Desi lose his green plumage during molting season, and turn brown. I…

My first concept of robots came from watching The Jetsons before school in my underpants. My boyhood morning routine consisted of sitting on the sofa in my tighty-whities, eating Cap’n Crunch, watching television, and listening to my mother say, “Get those underpants off my couch, Mister!”

Rosie the robot was the Jetsons’ fun housemaid who skated from room to room, wearing an apron, completing important daily tasks such as vacuuming, cooking, and using her mechanical claws to forcibly administer baths to Elroy, whose father she called “Mister J.”

I liked Rosie. In fact, I think Rosie was one of my favorite cartoon characters with the exceptions of Yogi Bear and Farrah Fawcett.

Back in those days robots were a far-off idea. They were sci-fi. This was pre-internet. Pre-cellular phone. The only computers anyone ever heard of were the size of an average Chuck E. Cheese.

Robots weren’t real back then. They were imaginary concepts. Like the Tooth Fairy, or the Department of Agriculture.

Which is why, yesterday, I was stunned to have an

actual conversation with a robot.

This all started when my brother-in-law first downloaded an AI app onto my phone a few years ago.

Now, I had heard of this app before. I had even used this program when doing research for a piece I wrote on AI. During my research, I remember asking the app to produce a well-written 500-word column, and to do it in the style of the writer “Sean Dietrich.”

In seconds—this is an astonishing display of intelligence—the app replied: “I thought you wanted something well-written.”

I remember the first vocal conversation I had with AI. When you first set up the app, you must select a voice. They offer a male voice, female voice, and a voice that sounds like a real teenager except they are only partially repulsed by you.

I chose the female voice. Then I asked the voice if she…