Tropically Depressed

"I just don't understand you," my stunningly beautiful and knocked up wife sighs.

Sarah is President of a extremely large group of people who share the impossible task of seeking to understand me.

"Wha?" I cleverly reply.

Carelessly casting her lush, gorgeous hair over a cut shoulder, taking her unique baby blues and focusing them on mine, she starts.

"You only wear black running shorts and ratty Tee Shirts YET ... expensive French deodorant! Explain that!"

"I'm cosmopolitan," I shrug.

She rolls her eyes.

"Everybody believes you're some crazy, always-throwing-caution-to-the-wind person when IN FACT ... you're a homebody, worry about the girls more than me and only try new things when I push you to."

"Well," I slowly consider topping off my Styrofoam cup of wine over ice, "I like it here ... you have little idea of the trouble the girls are going to cause us and ... I've already don lots of stuff ... been to lots of places."

"Not with me!" she shoots and it's a direct hit.

"True," I confess. "Where do you want to go?"

I'm always ready to go.

I've been to all the cities and they hold nothing for me. A city is a city is a city. Some are better than others but they're all the same.

My favorite cities are ... Portland, Oregon ... Paris ... Munich ... Prague and Havana!

"I haven't been to any of those," Sarah sighs rubbing our baby.

"Let's go!" I excitedly say.

I love traveling with Sarah! She's the best traveling partner ever! Even beating out Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one).

Somehow her love of planning mixes well with my "Whatever" attitude and we make excellent adventures.

"Will you be serious," she scolds. "We can't go anywhere right now."

"Damn girls," I mutter ... though the girls and I have excellent adventures too when we travel because I throw caution to the wind picking up a hitchhiker in San Salvador much to Laurel's protest and we have the best time.

"It's not the girls!"

"Of course it isn't," I say taking a sip. "It's the fact we're not going anywhere."

"You are impossible," she concludes and I {insert gross sexual reality} a little on the spot lusting her.

It leaves me Tropically Depressed today.

This is why.

Everywhere expect America ... where we only speak American ... they start teaching children to speak multiple languages the moment they're born!

Sarah tells me our baby can already hear from the womb so I figure "Why wait?"

It's time for all of us to go somewhere else and Che can start learning Spanish now.

It's past time to be Tropically Undepressed.

Seventeen Minutes

Death smells like mildewed moth balls dipped in sweet honey.

The aroma will not escape me.

Sitting with a couple lying together in the bed waiting to see who goes first ... standing in the kitchen beside a lady in her nightgown stirring the Butterbeans to make sure they don't burn ... to the old man smoking his cigarette smirking as he explains, "The problem is I'm not dying fast enough for the system but ... I'm not in a hurry" ... the rotting, sticky smell refuses to dissipate.

"This just sucks," I say to God climbing in my car, slumping behind the wheel and struggling to find energy to keep moving.

God doesn't reply.

The memory of my Dad dying at Hospice comes to life.

I'd spent the night with him and when my family arrived early in the morning, I took a shower, dressed, joined everyone at the bedside and Dad decides it's the perfect time to go.

So he does.

I'm trying to remember the smell.

My friend Monty says, "You look Death square in the eye and don't back away. It's not right."

Having never claimed to be right ... that's the landscape of Politicians and Preachers ... I do believe death's just part of life.

Too many are premature exits ... most are not-so-grand finales ... and there's a handful we can't stop talking about.

"You can do everything right to take care of yourself," I'm fond of saying. "Eat properly, work out, don't drink too much, stay away from the stupid stuff ... and it adds on average 17 minutes to your life."

"Well I want those 17 minutes," my wife fires back with a direct hit.

We have an $8 lunch date at Kentucky Fried Chicken, splitting a box, relishing in each other alone for the first time in what seems like forever though it's only about 17 minutes.

She is stunningly beautiful.

I am grateful to simply be here.

But that damn smell just hangs in the air, hovering directly over God's silence.

Baby Che

"I know you are here to kill me," Che says with guns staring him in the face. "Shoot coward! You're only going to kill a man."

And they did.

Pulling their triggers, they shot a captured man dead.

Then they took their pictures with him.

They took one of his dead face to prove the great revolutionary ... the lover of the poor ... hater of what makes poverty in the first place ... dead.

Like the United States wanted.

Che had beaten the US at it's own game and Democracy ruled by Capitalism couldn't stand for that so, pretending the CIA were helping, America shot him dead.

America had won again!

USA! ... USA! ... USA!

Only it didn't.

Throughout the world, especially among the poor, he lives ... just as Jesus does for millions more.

Che's photograph is "the most famous in the world."

The USA won a battle.

Che lives.

Who won the war?

My baby girl is almost five months formed in Sarah's womb.

I kiss you every single day hoping the love makes it all the way to your cheek on the other side of your Mom's belly.

You will be called lots of things in your life.

I certainly have been and they're not always nice.

And there are those who will do their best to kill you too, at least in spirit, and killing's killing.

Clare Hope Elliott is your name.

Clare from a county in Ireland.

Hope because you are and it matches the names on your Mom's back.

Elliott because it's passed down to you from me.

But Che!

Well, Che is who you are.

Just the Truth

"All I've got is a photograph ..." Ringo sings.

Jumping on the computer things I've done in the past ... or friends did ... or people I worked with ... pop up in my feed.

Glancing at them, especially if they include me, I smirk and think, "Good times!"

Until some that give me pause.

This is one.

It was an exciting day.

The TODAY Show's in town and we're the reason.

The day before a film crew is interviewing and filming me doing things.

Today it's broadcast as Al Roker does four live remotes from a Culinary Arts Program for Homeless people I'd helped start ... in a restaurant they ran.

Word's leaked out it's happening so every elected official in a hundred mile radius is trying to get on National Television.

I remember Val Johnson being only the one succeeding.

Politicians live for the camera.

Al Roker's great on camera ... not so much when the lights are off.

He's nice enough ... posing for pictures for countless people we continue to parade before him for their limelight moment with a celebrity.

It's a good day ... national exposure for what we do ... well wishes from the nice people and hate from those believing it should be them and not me getting the glory.

Al Roker puts his arm around my shoulder to ask if he can return in a year for a follow up story.

After it's over, calls flood in wanting to help or learn how we did it.

It was a long time ago.

Al's gotten older though he's still vivacious when the camera's turned on ... probably depressed when it's off.

It was a different time in a different place.

This picture pops up in my feed out nowhere to give me pause.

Aside from Al, we all worked together, and I loved them dearly ... believing in them as they believed in me ... as we changed the world ... making it a better place.

Today, I struggle to forgive three of the people in this picture.

My initial reaction on seeing them is "Hell is not hot enough."

The other one warms my heart with fondness and I'd like to see him again.

I don't want hate in my life.

"God forgive them for they know not what they do," I think.

And they didn't.

I delete the picture and get on with the time on watch which says simply, "Now."

"You should just write the truth," Sarah often chides. "You don't need to embellish or do fiction."

So there Babes.

Today's is just the truth.

McDonald's Wine

"DAD!!!!!" I hear in the wind blowing through the open window of Sarah's car darting across Highway 80 to the Liquor Store.

From the corner of my eye I see my daughter Kristen racing pass in the opposite direction with her window down.

Rolling to a stop in front of the Liquor Store I hurriedly jump out ... and then jump out of the way as Kristen screeches to a halt beside me.

Father and Daughter embrace in the parking lot.

She is beautiful, on the way home, looking stunning in her Nurses uniform with her blond hair flying in wisps after a long day delivering babies and enduring Doctors.

"What are you doing here?" she asks and ... she's still my baby in some strange way and always will be though she's one tough woman.

"Getting the wine for dinner," I reply.

"Oooh," she exclaims already calculating a change of plans, "what's for dinner?"

"I've dropped Sarah and the girls at McDonalds. You want to join us?"

"McDonalds!" she snarls in disgust.

"I know," I shrug, "you have to bring your own wine."

"You eat that Sh!T?"

"Only with wine," I explain. "Care to join us?"

"Yeah," she grins, "let me get a bottle."

Making the mad dash across Highway 80 we artfully dodge Walmart people and join the girls.

Kristen kisses them as they delight their older sister is here.

Our family delightfully blends.

We talk about the newest member Ethan, his Mom Terenca and Jeremy ... Chelsea's making her way from Atlanta to Huntsville on a daily basis ... Sarah's folks arrive this week for a visit ... Johnny and Judy O ... my Mom ... and our endless number of cousins.

It would be near impossible to graph our family on a flow chart.

Branches fall off broken family trees only to take root and spout new trees, richer and more diverse, mixing new traditions and experiences into an exquisite gumbo of flavors of life.

It's like wine and McDonald's.

Things you never thought would go together can match perfectly in life so long as you're open and accepting of new things.

Maybe Manana

There's too many things rumbling around my mind that it's hard to focus on just one.

An overabundance of material is in desperate need of management.

I'm living with four girls ... three post-puberty, a Little-Gay-Dog, a gender confused cat, and Goddess who is often stoned ...

Our first grandson, Ethan, is still at the Hospital, waiting to see when Mom can go home ...

A mini-tornado danced through this week, rolling off singles, knocking down the privacy fence and branches from the tree in our front yard ...

The Cat Lady next door has several new cats and one looks remarkably like our own gender confused Gypsy ...

An "Out of Compliance" warning hangs on my door from Atlantic Waste because aforementioned fallen tree branches exceed 5 feet in length which I had nothing to do with ...

There is an overabundance of boys interested in aforementioned post-puberty girls ...

I've actually chosen a Hymn to do at Bar Church tomorrow and that never happens ...

Tybee Island now has it's own recording studio and the master minds behind Crab Creek Studios asked me to come and do some tunes there ...

The number of police cars outnumbered the number of floats in the Beach Bum parade somehow  establishing such a laid back atmosphere it seemed everyone participating had smoked large amounts of weed before starting ...

Sarah's bump is sexy as Hell ...

It's a marvelous, tropical beach day with the slightest of Ocean breezes, Palm Trees standing tall, choirs of seagulls and dancing Dolphins slicing the water ...

Our house is extremely quiet like a calm before the storm leaving me fidgety and anxious ...

I don't know where to start!

Oh well, it's an island.

Maybe Manana.

Ethan's Great Grand Dad

"Hey Dad."

"Hey Bub."

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck listening to Ziggy Marley "Forward to Love," pondering the birth of our Grandson, my Dad appears out of Heaven where he hosts a weekly Golf tournament and nightly cocktails at "Angel's Bar."

Dad died six years ago but, as they say, it's hard to keep a good man down.

"How you been Dad?" I ask staring at the sun blazing through the Palm Tree with the Oyster Eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt.

"Good!" he snaps. "I won the pool and decided to pop in and celebrate the reason for my winnings."

"What do you bet with in Heaven?" I ask. "There's money?"

"I wish," Dad sighs. "No ... the winner gets to sit beside St. Peter at the Bar. He's heard it all Mike! When he gets going after a few drinks and tells stories of the reasons people make up to get inside ... it's a riot."

"I bet," I laugh opening the sliding screen door to let Winston, The Little Gay Dog, out.

"A baby huh?" Dad laughs. "At your age."

"You're gonna love her," I answer. "You love all the girls ... starting with Angi  ... when Clare Hope gets her, she's gonna steal your heart."

"Che," Dad smirks. "That's clever."

"All Sarah," I smile.

"Well I'm here for Ethan Wilkerson's arrival," he firmly says.

"Pretty exciting ain't it? Your great-grandson?"

"Actually it's kind of anti-climatic," Dad laughs, "I get to see it all from the production end in Heaven. Ethan looks good! ... a handsome fella! ... just like the other Elliott boys."

I nod in agreement.

"I'm here to see Jeremy and Terenca but wanted to stop by and say 'Hey'," he says starting to dissipate.

"Good to see to see you Dad," I yell standing up. "Love ya!"

"Love you too," he says in the distance before I faintly hear him say, "Hey Jeremy."

Soloing

Sitting here, I'm pretty empty at the moment.

Nothing witty, poignant, funny or serious is bubbling inside.

The girls are sleeping, the dogs lay at Sarah's bedside, the cat is curled up with Maddie and the Hermit Crab is relocating to another painted shell.

Birds loudly sing outside with an Ocean breeze dancing in the Palms.

I'm trying to get inspired but it ain't happening.

In a while I'll head off to Bar Church where, unless God's made other plans and forgot to tell me, I'm soloing today.

I've soloed at Bar Church once before and it was fun but I don't really want to do it again.

It's more fun to play with others than to play with yourself.

If God wasn't involved, I'd skip today but ... I don't think it's a good idea to piss God off ... so I'm going.

I loaded the unreliable sound system in the car last night, my guitar's packed, there's a couple of tunes in my head and I have a vague notion of what I want to say.

There's not a lot of scripted stuff at Bar Church.

The attitude is leave the planning to God because, Heaven knows, none of the plans we made have ever worked out that way.

What I'd rather do today is find a quiet little Beachside Café with a sand floor and read the New York Times with Sarah, drinking Bloody Mary's and watching the sun sprinkle diamonds on Aqua-Green Ocean.

But I got to go to Church.

It sucks.

I know ... you're not supposed to say things like that!

Honestly I don't think God cares but a Hell of a lot of people get riled up over such things.

Alright, I'm putting my Jesus face on and heading out because I'm a huge fan.

Right after I make Cinnamon Rolls for my girls. 

Making Perfect Better

A baby cries in a restaurant and we turn to see quickly and ... smile.

Babies crying in restaurants ... or on planes, busses or in Church ... is typically frowned upon, though Sarah and I delight in it as the Mother eats a fried Scallop with one hand while bouncing the 7 week old in her other.

It won't be long before this is "us".

We're having a rare "Date Night" and, thankfully, Sarah's cravings are for Hushpuppies dipped in real honey butter from one of my favorite restaurants ... Bubba Gumbos.

It's hard to be off the beaten path on Tybee Island anymore with it's preponderance of Stop Signs, a cop behind every one, Tourism on Steroids hated by locals who fantasize about a gated community and no place to park for less than a quarter for 15 minutes (because the Island really like to screw Tourists up the A$$).

But Bubba Gumbos is off the beaten path.

It's also stepping back into what to Tybee used to be ... a real Island ... and not a revenue generating, plastic promotions, Kid unfriendly, parade addicted and Government laden destination.

Bubba's is a marina with a restaurant unlike say AJ's which is a restaurant that used to be a marina.

There's a big difference.

The working crowd pours in Bubba's as soon as they hit the Island to suck down a few beers, smell the marsh, watch the Dolphins and see firsthand the catch of the day ... Nets full of Shrimp, Blue Crabs and Oysters.

It's the aroma of diesel fuel mixed with salt water.

In the distance, tiny cars ebb and flow on the Causeway.

Sarah's Hushpuppies dipped in real Honey butter are Angel droppings.

The fried Flounder is what Jesus should have ordered at the Last Supper.

Daddy takes the Baby to wander into the gravel parking lot under the boat slips so Momma can attack the Blue Crabs dipped in melted butter.

Blue haired Baily McNally dances over to rub Sarah's belly and say "Hey" to Che.

Matt Few gives us long hugs as only good friends can.

"You ready?" Sarah asks looking stunningly beautiful behind sunglasses.

"Yeah," I reply wiping my eyes.

"It's funny how we destroy perfection by trying to make it better but ... there are still perfect things. And sometimes, you can make perfect better."

And Sarah and I toast a Baby who hasn't cried yet but we can't wait until she does.

Eyes for one

"You know I love you ..."

Anytime somebody begins with that you know it's gonna be bad.

"Can we talk?" is another one. "We've always been able to talk."

"You've been on my mind a lot and there's something I need to tell you."

The best one is, "The Lord's laid it on my heart and I need to share this with you."

The Shit is getting ready to hit the fan!

Meaning it's coming directly at you, launched like a missile and no matter how fast you duck ... it's going to be a direct hit.

Sometimes it's good because you need it.

Most times it's not because it's the last thing you want to hear.

Sitting here watching the ceiling fans swirl, the dogs sleeping at my feet, Elvis crooning quietly in the distance, choirs of birds singing in the distance and full Inbox of people wanting something from me ... I decide they're right!

It's time for a good "talking to."

Except to Hell with what they have to say.

It's time for me to talk to me.

"Writing is really talking to yourself," I heard the other night and that's true.

So is songwriting!

Singers who only do "covers" never get very far because they've got nothing to say ... relying on somebody else to say it for them.

So is preaching for that matter ... though God knows ... as only God can know ... most sermons are not talking to yourself but ... well remember the part about the Shit getting ready to hit the fan?

"You only have eyes for one," I tell myself.

In extreme delight, I agree with myself.

Kissing Sarah's legs in the middle of a Movie last night, she yawns and asks, "What are you doing?" in her little girl voice.

"Nothing," I answer continuing to kiss her legs. "Why?"

"You can't change the channel," she says, "I have to know if he gets his daughter back."

"It'd be a terrible movie if he didn't," I say smacking my lips.

She rolls her eyes.

He gets his daughter back.

Life's good and nothing much needs to be said when both eyes are for one.

The Gift Of Morning

The morning sun blazes through the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt making me squint to see the computer screen.

 

Alicia Bridges is “Loving the Night Life” on Sirius XM but I love mornings.

 

I always have.

 

I suppose Saterday morning cartoons started it all but I love morning sunrises, birds singing in the predawn, sunlight dancing in green leafs, bacon aroma in the air and the chance to start over every single day.

 

Sarah likes to sleep late and that's wonderful but ... lovingly laying in bed beside her ... a single bird starts singing in the predawn turning of black into grey and I listen through the open windows.

 

Soon, a chorus of birds join in.

 

Bullfrogs add bass.

 

Cicada bring violins.

 

The Ocean starts to bubble.

 

The sky turns purple ... then a dark blue ... and God finger paints the sky with pinks and reds.

 

The sun rises.

 

Everything is reborn as Squirrels dance, red headed woodpeckers peck and finches feed.

 

It's the best Church service I've ever attended.

 

And I do my very best to never miss.

 

 

Me Mum

"Don't write about me," Mom chides every time I write about her.

"Why did you write that?" she asks with frequency.

"Stop using cuss words when you write!" she scolds, "you're better than that!"

The thing about my Mother is she's never stopped trying to raise me.

A little perspective ... I'm turning 60 soon.

Mom doesn't care.

She's way too old to be raising me and like most Mothers, she should have given up by now.

There are two problems with my thinking.

First and foremost, my Mother seems to get younger with every passing year ... not older!

She does more than ever, has more friends, goes to more things, and has to work really hard to squeeze me into her social calendar because I'm blocked out by the multitudes who love her, making up reasons to drop by if she's home and excited when she opts to go out ... which is often.

I'm starting to worry about her.

Recently, she's started taking "selfies" and posting them on Facebook.

Maddie, our 14 year old who knows everything except the difference between a sink and a dishwasher, constantly takes selfies of herself.

It makes me worry about what my Mother is becoming.

Second, and I should know this by now, my Mother never ... EVER ... gives up!

She's reinvented herself more times than Michael Jackson, escaped more tragedy than Houdini, broken more glass ceilings for women than Gloria Steinem and outperformed every single man she ever worked for ... meaning she was paid more than them so they quit in anger but ... my Mom kept at it moving higher and higher up the professional landscape.

Mostly she loved my Dad, a seemingly impossible task, because my Father was something ... a giant of a heart with a teenager's soul, a great streak of bad luck surrounded with the best of friends and a sense of humor that could laugh at Hitler ... "Hey Der Furher! I know why you hate Golf ... you always finish in the Bunker."

Mom put up ... even encouraged ... him.

Not me.

I still get in trouble.

It's alright.

I love her to Hell and back.

She's going to get on to me for saying it that way.

It's alright.

I love you Mom.

Thank you for everything.

Happy Day!

Things I Know I Shouldn't Write About

A writer finds inspiration everywhere.

Most of the time it's good inspiration ... the sun bubbling out of the Ocean ... the sound of Cicada singing ... the ticks and pops of mussels in the Marsh at Low Tide ... lovers in the dunes ... the beauty of your love sleeping ... the joy of children ... the fortune of friends.

Sometimes the mind gets carried away and creates new inspiration .... drunken Guardian Angels ... gay dogs ... a Cat Lady ... revised versions of the Bible ... and drunken bicycles.

Life's absurdities make it easy too ...anything most politician says ... or preacher ... television weather ... taxes ... drug laws ... lowest bidder contracts for Highway construction ... and deals too good to be true.

Good Inspiration is everywhere!

And ... so is bad!

For example, my friend Sherri posted an article by "The Huffington Post" ... "The Top 10 Reasons to Visit Tybee Island, Georgia."

It's a good article and mostly true but immediately my mind went to the other side of the story because there are certainly "The Top 10 reasons to NOT VISIT Tybee Island, Georgia."

Nobodies writing about that!

I'm certainly not because it'll get me in more trouble and there's already one City Council Woman who thinks I'm one of Tybee's biggest problems.

But if I were going to write about reasons to NOT VISIT Tybee Island, I'd start with the three Cop Cars it takes to pull over one student dressed in uniform driving to Benedictine Military School at 7:30 in the morning so they can conduct a complete and safe search before giving the kid a ticket.

I've tried to count the number of Stop Signs on the Island but it's like counting the stars in the sky or sand on the beach ... you can't count that high.

Tybee has improved safety for locals and tourists alike by installing new crosswalks and flashing yellow lights warning drivers to stop when someone's crossing the street which works fine at night when you can see the lights flashing but ... in the day time no one notices or cares ... and blow through the crosswalks anyway.

It costs a Quarter for 15 Minutes of Parking at the limited number of meters on the Island which is outrageous for working families ... but God knows feeding bloated Government is more important ... but its more absurd if you go down 12th Street and count the number of yellow curbs where parking meters should be but aren't because ... owners have friends in bloated Government.

Traffic is a nightmare on Tybee Island often taking hours to get on and hours to get off which is especially complicated when three Cop cars pull over High School kids in Military uniforms.

That's just five reasons that immediately popped into my head!

"Don't do it!" I tell myself. "People will get mad."

Especially aforementioned City Council Woman.

So I'm not doing it.

I'm not going to write about the Methodist Church using "Crime Scene" tape to block off their parking lot on the weekend black College kids come ... Parking Services (an oxymoron) ... a Beach Bum Parade that's gotten way out of hand ... a Parade for every occasion mentality ... Tybee Court ... or the blatant prejudice against kids on Tybee.

I'm going to write about better things ... the kids who make love in the Sand Dunes at night ... the good music on this island ... the taste of the best shrimp in the world ... the views of Shrimp Boats catching them ... the roar of the Ocean sloppily kissing the beach at High Tide.

What Stickers?

"Boys," Henry Levy says sitting at the Counter of the Breakfast Club joining the collection of early morning coffee drinkers, "it's time to do something."

"Why?" Johnny O asks.

"Because we haven't done anything in a long time," Henry answers.

"Like what?" Kenny Wade inquires.

"I don't know yet," Hank admits.

"What about a new bumper sticker?" Johnny suggests. "The last one went over really good."

The last one was "Leave only your footprints but take Penn with you."

Penn Myrick was a condo developer on Tybee and, having achieved some success, was driving people crazy who wanted to keep the island just as it's always been.

The problem wasn't the island ... it was Penn.

So Henry hatched the bumper sticker and we plastered it everywhere until Hank got the bright idea to put it in front of the condo Penn lived in ... while Penn and his wide sat on the deck video taping the whole thing.

Henry had to go to Tybee Court, the revenue generating farce of justice administered on island, where he admitted guilt because it was "right thing to do" and nobody disagreed.

No one had given thought to going anything else until Henry, now 80, decides it's time.

"I know," Johnny O finally says, "Elliott just got back from the Nude Beach in St. Martin and it's time Tybee has a 'Clothing Optional' section."

"That's a great idea!" I immediately chime in. "I think it should be between 9th and 14th Streets on the beach. We can rope it off. People in textiles can have the ends of the island."

"Perfect!" Henry says standing up.

So that's what we did.

Henry had a thousand "Clothing Optional" bumper stickers printed and we split into teams ... Henry and Kenny ... me and Johnny ... and we plastered them everywhere!

On every crosswalk leading to the beach ... The Breakfast Club, of course ... all the Churches ... the American Legion ... every single Bar ... it was all going great!

Until Johnny O and I decided it's a good idea to put one on the door of City Hall.

It was not.

We were charged but denied everything.

And to this day, I have no recollection of any "Clothing Optional" stickers ever being on this island.
_________________

"(To Henry Levy ... bringing one to you soon my old friend ... it that Hell hole of a Nursing Home you're in!)

Che

Clare Hope Elliott.

"Che" for short.

That's her name and she is already so many things to me.

A mixture of Sarah and Micheal concocted by none other than God reminds me of my favorite prophet Jeremiah ... who my son Jeremy is named after ... was told by God, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you."

Isn't it just like God to always know?

Having a baby was the furthest thing from my mind. I've done my time having raised three and am now a full time consultant on three more.

Besides Jeremy's produced the first grandson so I already got a new baby!

Why do I need another?

You're too old! Why would you do that again? Don't you want to live life without those worries? Grandbabies are great because you can love them and leave them whenever you're ready.

God, the number of times I hear these things every damn day.

I don't care.

Sarah grows more beautiful with every passing day of pregnancy so every single day my breath is taken away again.

Of course she's grows more nutty every day so I try to nod and stay quite, backtrack on anything I happen to mistakenly say (which is pretty much everything), try to divert crisis by giving her anything she may want in advance and rub her feet.

It's all pretty jacked.

Then I see Che in an ultrasound ... dancing in real time ... waving ... brushing back her hair ... saying, "Hey Daddy."

I can't seem to locate words at an ultrasound sitting their staring at a miracle.

"Che" ... Clare Hope Elliott ... is Sarah's idea primarily because she needed something to go with the tattoo on her back ... "Joy" ... "Grace" ... "Love" ... the girls middle names.

Clare is a county in Ireland we fell in love when we were there and, having serious cases of "wanderlust", we hope our daughter makes it there one day because we passed it on just as "Elliott" was passed on to me.

Put the first letter of each together and you get "Che" ... one of my Heroes in life ... and I've been to Cuba tracking down his ghost.

"Is her nickname "Che" because she's been "revolutionary" in your life?" a friend of Sarah's asks.

I don't know Joshua but he's got a flair for understatement.

So my darling daughter, I whisper as I kiss your Momma's belly to kiss you this morning, let's get started shall we?

It's a quote from your namesake that, I like to think applies to me.

I know it's going to apply to you.

"Many will call me an adventurer, and that I am, only one of a different sort; one of those who risks his skin to prove his platitudes."

Being Hated

I've seen pure, unadulterated HATE directed exclusively to me only a couple of times in my life.

In a court room seated beside my Lawyer, I turn to see the man bringing charges against me to look him straight in the eyes and what I see is cold, calculating, snarling, evil ... hate.

Previously over lunch in the Starfish Café, a culinary arts training program and functional restaurant for homeless people I helped start, I listen as he berates me to the Chairman of my Board of Directors and keep quite.

Before a meeting of the Chatham County Commission, he berates me too ... calling me a liar and a thief among other things.

I end up wasting a tremendous amount of time trying to understand him, make peace and reconcile leaving me frustrated, bitter and tiptoeing into hating him back.

I never do though, instead framing him as filled with the demons of envy, anger and mental illness.

Later when he's fired because he refusing to resign and it's front page news,  I shrug and say, "What goes around comes around."

A year later, Kathryn, a mutual friend calls to say he has Cancer and his wife decides that's a good time to demand a divorce leaving him to manage it alone.

"Karma," I tell Sarah.

Yesterday I receive word he's died.

Kathryn honors whatever good things he may have done on Facebook.

Staring at his picture ... all I see is his hate.

Over wine after supper, I tell my wife who's very protective of me so she defiantly says, "Well."

"I don't care," I tell her.

And the truth is I don't.

I tried to repeatedly but he wouldn't have any of it and it took me a long time to get over because he was rejecting me and I took it personally.

In retrospect I did the best I could, which is all any of us can do, but he wanted nothing of it.

He did want the things I had ... a job at the top of the pinnacle, a place at the Beach, lots of support publically and privately, awards ... and a reputation as a "Golden Child" sought after by many.

Now, I'm still here and he's not.

I don't know why but it bothers to not give a damn.

Then and Now

After an hour of listening to college students make announcements of ways to serve Jesus by selling Chicken dinners and a retired minister deliver the message validating his retirement, I'm introduced.

It's Deja Vu all over again in the same building I ignored pleas to serve Jesus by selling chicken dinners ... primarily because I'm interested in helping girls call his name out loud and playing music on my guitar.

It strikes me as I'm dressed pretty much the same now as I was then.

Aside from a pull over shirt with a collar instead of a football jersey, it's jeans, no socks and shoes (only because Baptists require them).

Then it was called the Baptist Student Union but now it's Baptist Campus Ministries in a building that looks exactly the same except the bricks are painted red so it resembles the other edifices of Georgia Southern Universities higher education.

"You really serious about helping others find Jesus?" I ask as they much Church made pork bar-b-que, baked beans, green beans, Cole slaw, store bought rolls and the other things Jesus and the Apostles had the Last Supper.

"If you volunteer with us, I guarantee you'll be with them while they're knocking on the door."

I'm pretty pleased with the imagery.

You've seen the picture of Jesus knocking on the door of a heart waiting to be let in.

The kids loudly slurp sweet tea.

"I crawled in bed with this Lady the other day," I continue and the room grows deathly silent ... "and kiss her old wrinkled forehead and ask her what she wants?"

The old retired minister's head falls out of his hand but he jerks himself back in the same position believing that if he does it fast enough no one could noticed it ever happened.

"I'm ready," she whispers with a smile.

"Good, I told her, I'm glad."

"Her mouth breaks into a laugh as her eyes see things somewhere other than the dingy Hospital bed stuck in a corner of the Living Room that is her life."

Several students wipe their eyes with bar-b-que stained white napkins.

"If you want to help Jesus help them," I conclude, "I'll be hanging around after. Let me know."

The old retired minister gives a benediction and the students rush to class as I give thanks to the powers-that-be.

"It hasn't changed at all," I say out loud walking to my car to go visit patients.

Imagine my surprise the following day when I receive an email from Scott, a pre-med student who loves Jesus with everything in him, that reads, "I want to help Jesus help them."

Spilling Secrets

"All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them," said Karen Blixen.

"But what if a person can't tell a story about his sorrows? What if his story tells him?" replied Stephen Grosz.

The first is a great truth and the second is a great question.

Most can't tell their stories because they're scared of embarrassment or looking foolish to others so they turn them into secrets carefully hidden and only shared when there isn't an alternative.

The pain of admitting an affair to a spouse ... the agony of answering the Lawyer's question in the witness box with a whisper ... the look of your own face in the mirror seeing the scars of what you've lived ... the stories always leak out ... the problem with secrets is they can never be kept.

Believe me ... I've tried.

It's human nature though ... going back to Adam and Eve who blamed everyone around when they were busted for forbidden fruit ... but secrets spill out anyway and nothings ever the same after.

Sarah can't keep a secret if her life depended on it, even if it's a wonderful secret like a birthday present or a sweet gift for no reason other than she loves you ... she confesses what it is before you have a chance to find out for yourself.

I'm good with secrets because I've had lots experience keeping them though I try not to anymore.

I turn them into stories ... some painfully true so they're exorcisms of Evil things ... others are masterfully clothed in fiction of Guardian Angels, Cat Ladies and Gay dogs ... and a few are the history of exactly what happened as it happened.

Sarah prefers the later ... I like 'em all.

One way of spilling secrets is no better than another ... we merely have our preferences.

These days I've mostly expelled the secrets of my life though there always seems to be lingering residue ... scars is a better descriptions because ... secrets always leave scars.

Sure, they are things I'd rather you not know but ... in the end ... you're gonna find out anyway ... have a seat ... you want something to drink? ... alright sit back and listen.

"Once upon a time ..."

Giving Up Two Hours

"Well I can cross this off my 'Bucket List'," the 81 year old says taking the last bite of his burger and washing it down with Pilsner.

"What?" I ask sipping wine.

"Having my birthday dinner with you," he grins reaching for the bill.

I'm so humbled I can't speak a word if I could think of one.

This is our first meeting.

We've known each virtually for six years after he wrote me on Facebook, opening his life to me in response to things I share in blogs.

Quickly, I find myself looking forward to our exchanges as we confess who we are and why we think we're here.

He's also on the mess that is my family flow chart .... being the grandfather of my son-in-law Sam.

"You know what I like," he mumbles during his birthday dinner before telling me the answer, "you don't call me 'Mr. Simmons' and we're just talk like two people talking."

It strikes me most talking is condescending on somebody's part.

Will's primary job these days is to care for his wife who made him promise many years ago that, should she quit the Nursing Program to marry him, he'd always take care of her.

He did.

With her dementia ... it's a full time job.

He can safely leave her for maybe two hours at a time.

Those are precious hours and he's given them to me ... on HIS birthday.

"Let's do this again," he says pulling himself up from the chair in the crowded restaurant.

"Anytime," I assure him.

"Next year ... on my birthday," he replies.

"Hell yeah," I say.

So it's a date.

In the meantime ... and this is just for you Buddy ... "Selah".

My Favorite Apostle

I like Judas Iscariot.

He's my favorite Apostle.

I know ... it's not a popular thing to say ... but the Dude had a good heart.

Of the Twelve Disciples, he's the Social Worker of the bunch, lobbying money spent on perfume is better used feeding the hungry and I agree with him.

I like a Pedicure as much as anyone and if Mary Magdalene were rubbing my feet with expensive oil, I'd be pretty happy.

Same with the hair.

If Mary Magdalene wanted to wash my hair and put "product" in it ... I'm a happy guy.

Jesus obviously enjoyed it like I would.

Judas cares for the poor though ... "Why didn't we sell this for a lot of dough and helped the poor?"

That takes balls.

Jesus, being Jesus and all, is tired and needs a break and Mary's making him feel good for the first time in forever ... spends all she's made on the man ... and Judas calls her out on Jesus's on beliefs about the poor.

If you would be perfect then go and sell what you have and give it to the poor ... then you'll have treasure in Heaven so ... come on and follow me."

Busted!

Judas' reminding Jesus of things he'd taught the Disciples.

How can you not love that?

I think Judas was still trying to help the poor when he betrayed Jesus.

He did it to raise the money Mary had spent ... perhaps wasted ... on Jesus' feet and hair and I think he was going to live up to the words of his friend and help the poor.

But it didn't work out that way.

The best of intentions rarely do.

A chain of events is kicked off with a kiss ... two men die within minutes of each other ... one by the Government and the other by himself ...and ... the world's never been the same.

I believe Judas has gotten a bum rap through these centuries.

If there was a Disciple that Jesus loved the most ... I think it was Judas.

He was the first who wanted to give it all away ... to the poor ... and actually do the things Jesus talked about.

And in the end, he was the first to give his life for it too.