Sunday, April 24, 2011

Sunrise

The Baptist Minister brought the invocation and the Methodist Minister delivered the Homily but it was Bar Church’s show. It may as well have been Woodstock on a Pier in the name of Jesus! Sam Adams, Gordo, Davy and boys in the band were on their “A” game before sunrise.

With crowds spilling onto the beach, cross walks and standing in the parking lot the band was cracking it up at the annual Easter sunrise service. A white cross was behind them decorated with the green branches of Palm Trees. The ocean was calm and flat. No clouds would interrupt the rising of the sun to symbolize the rising of the dead.

A bit earlier I rode my bicycle to the Breakfast Club and stumbled in the door marked “Exit” only. Everyone was busy getting ready for what was going to be a crazily busy day. After celebrations of Saviors rising from the dead there is a mad dash to the Breakfast Club, Sunrise, and the Rock House for breakfast.

“When does it end?” Val asked me wearing white bunny ears, a fluffy white bow tie and a little white cotton tail. She’s forever showing her ass.

“When the sun comes up,” I reply.

She turns around, bends over and sticks the cotton tail in my face.

Then Ryan comes in wearing pink bunny ears. I groan. This is disgusting. I fix a to-go cup and peddle to the Pier for the show … ummmm … I mean service.

The Band outperformed the clergy! People are still talking about the “Amazing Grace” finale sung to the tune of “House of the Rising Sun”. Typical Tybee! Why can’t you have Amazing Grace in a whore house?

The sun comes up on cue.

It was impressive. A lot of people clapped and demanded an encore.

I return to my seat at the Breakfast Club. My friends are gobbling down food before it opens trying to get ready for the onslaught of Christian eaters.

And then the Lord rose. And the line formed. And it was bedlam.

The place filled up in a nanosecond. Everyone was rushing to take care of the Easter dressed crowd. A line a block and half suddenly formed outside of the door. The Breakfast Club became claustrophobic.

“Anybody need anything?” I ask standing up.

One of my duties as Chaplain of the Breakfast Club is to get cigarettes for those who forgot to them for themselves. I do this four or five times a week.

“Vodka at one o’clock,” yells Val.

“Ah,” I say, “Of course but we better make it two or Ryan will get all pissed and I don’t want him chasing me around in pink bunny ears.”

“Love you long time,” Val says giving me to-go cups to return later with.

I return to my bike and peddle down Tybrisa Street (which used to be 16th Street and is between 15th and 17th Street but elected officials once again decided to mess with the brains of the public). The other day I was almost killed on Tybrisa Street on my bike. A mad motorist in a convertible full of kids tried to run me down. By a miracle of God I somehow survived.

Anyway in the cool of the morning the Church people are lined up at every place selling breakfast. The beer bottles and cups from last night still line the sidewalks and benches. Families walk down the street holding hands and singing “Amazing Grace” to a tune about a whore house. Cigarette butts fill the street. The Mayor sits on a bench drinking coffee and reading the paper. Across the street is a woman on another bench smoking a cigarette staring toward heaven trying to remember last night.

I peddle home and get Goddess. We stroll over to the sad little holy dock.

Choirs of mussels are singing Hymns. Choirs of birds join them. The once dead marsh grass is green. Fiddler crabs dance in the mud. Pelicans fly in formation overhead. It is all teaming with life after a deep dark winter that had chased life away.

Miracle of miracles! Dead thing come back to life!

I sit on the deck with my arm around my dog. We take it all in and I say a small prayer.

“Welcome back,” I say out loud.