“Micheal Elliott,” I say into my cell phone as I sit in front of the computer lost in thought.
“Well darling when you go into hiding you REALLY go into hiding,” said the maple syrup southern drawl of Trish DuPriest. “So I want to know where in the hell are you? What are you doing? And who are you with?”
A broad smile spread upon my face. Trish and I go way back. She works in Congressman Jack Kingston’s office taking care of constituents at the local level. Before that she did the same thing for Congressman Lindsay Thomas. One is a Republican and the other a Democrat. Elected officials come and go but the people who really get things done remain the same.
For years Trish would call me needing something for someone she was trying to help or I would call her for the same thing. We developed a good friendship going this. The last time that I talked to her was in May when she’d called wanting something for someone.
“Oh,” she continued, “and Merry Christmas!”
I busted out laughing. Typical Trish!
I’d called her needing something. She told me that it was impossible to accomplish and then told me how to do it. There is always a way. We both share that as a guiding philosophy of helping people.
“Not so fast,” she commanded, “answer my questions first.
So I did. We talked a long time about Union Mission and about the future. At the end I was ordered to come and see her when I return home in a few weeks.
“Yes mam,” I replied and returned my attention to my computer.
The phone rang again. It was Skutch. Skutch is a reporter for the newspaper and has covered me for years. Actually he looks like an actor in a “B” moive playing a reporter. A month or so ago we had lunch together with our friend Shirley at the Breakfast Club.
“Mike,” he said in his Baltimore mumbling now laced with southern words, “when are you going to call me and let me do a story on what you’re doing.”
“When it’s a story,” I laughed back.
“Well son, I’m the reporter so let me decide that.”
I busted out laughing again.
“Soon Skutch soon,” I replied.
“Alright,” he mumbled, “Merry Christmas then.”
Then I was off to town for a lunch meeting at Johnny Harris’ an old Savannah tradition. Rebekah, Jodi and Peter and I were there thinking through an idea. I hadn’t seen Peter in a while though for years we were wed at the hip as we created respite care, the J. C. Lewis Health Center, defined economic arguments for taking health care to where people are rather than the other way around. We bear hugged one another and then the conversation began.
Peter and I are like two knights fighting for a Queen when we talk. We violently throw words at one another and use any means possible to make our points. When one of us pauses or concedes, the other one smiles. “Gotcha!”
At the end of the conversation Peter said, “Well you know everyone is just waiting to see what you’re going to do next. We all talk it about it.”
Immediately I thought of my dear friend Mary Ann Beil. She’d told me the same thing a couple of months ago as I hobbled out of a hospital with a heavily wrapped leg.
It finally hit me that there is a sense of expectation about what I do next. I have a tendency to think about the task at hand, how others are doing, and maybe get around to me at some point. That is why this Sabbatical has been so helpful. To quote Dar Williams, “but oh how I loved everyone else, when I got to talk so much about myself.”
So last night in a quiet house, midnight had passed and the full moon competed with the Christmas tree lights, I sat and thought; about the future, who I love and who I don’t, and the expectations out there that others have of me.
“Goddess,” I softly said in my own southern drawl influenced by years of public speaking. She cocked her head and looked at me.
“It really doesn’t matter what other people expect,” I told my dog. “What do you hear in these sounds?” I quoted Dar again.
“The stories that nobody hears…I collect these sounds in my ears…and that’s what I like about, that’s what I like about…these sounds.”
