I was lost in thought, walking Goddess, I-Pod streaming Jim Morris beach music into my ears. My neighbor threw down his weed-whacker and walked towards me.
He is a large man with a large house and a large family. Whenever I see him on the beach he has large flags flying over this set up. The U.S. flag, the University of Georgia flag, Furman University and the Irish flag. He also has a large smile whenever he waves at me.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and I was touched by the sincerity in his eyes. “I mean you’re not really retired are you?”
“What are you doing?” It is the question that I have been asked the most throughout my life. Many times it’s “Just what in the hell are you doing?”
Growing up my parents asked me. In college it was my friends and professors. In seminary, I helped those ordained teachers learn to cuss when they asked it. While earning my Masters of Social Work, I was sitting across from the Dean who wanted to throw me out of school when she asked it.
As a professional Christian in charge of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel the people at corporate headquarters in Atlanta would fly me there to ask it. And at Union Mission Board members would enter my office with exasperated expressions and demand me to answer.
Now when I’m not doing anything people still want to know what I’m doing.
“I am gathering my thoughts and rearranging them,” I replied.
“Oh, you’re consulting,” he said flashing the large grin.
Laughing, I told him that I am. I didn’t tell him that I am mostly consulting myself right now.
The other morning at breakfast with two former Board members I was asked the same question and I replied that I am writing, learning to live alone, and taking the Sabbatical that I wanted several years ago that I think would have altered the direction that my life has taken.
“You’re gathering your thoughts,” he shot back. “You need to be doing something!”
Well, I am doing something. I’m taking advantage of the gift of these moments because none of us are assured much anything. And I am not relentlessly changing people or things for the first time. And I am getting myself back after pretty much giving all of me away for the past three decades.
It is hard work.
And I am deciding. Dive back in to the deep end of the work pool or expatriate to a place where there is no winter. I know that I would do well regardless of what I decide to do. Self-confidence has never been an issue.
That’s enough for today. I have to get back to doing something as I stare out of the window and enjoy just how beautiful Fran’s thousand shades of green are in the trees in the yard.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Back to Normal
After Labor Day passes, Mike Hosti owner of the Tybee Markey normally has the sign out front of the grocery store proclaim “Back to Normal!” The tourists are gone and the island is ours again. The letter N is typically backwards because Tybee’s sense of normal is not quite like anyone else’s. It’s one of the many reasons that I love living here.
For the first time in my life I have not returned to work on the day after Labor Day along with everyone else. It’s a bit strange but I have list of things to do today:
(1) Go to the Drug Store for prescriptions which I was to have picked up on Friday but never got around to it;
(2) Swing through Wall Mart because Goddess keeps eating everything in the house and she needs new stuff;
(3) Attend the Bored Meeting;
(4) Maybe go to Johnny O’s to watch squirrel feeding (or as his wife Judy calls it when I sit on their porch “It wine and Whine!”)
(5) Call my mother because she’s leaving me messages to call her and I haven’t gotten around to it yet. (Mom, I am not sure why this is number 5. You know you’re number one but my computer keeps dropping you to fifth. Technology!)
(6) Have Goddess take me for a walk.
(7) Try to come up with an answer to Mom’s question when I finally do get around to calling her. She ends every conversation with “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” because she knows that I have no idea and will often not even bother with it.
(8) Breeze by my 30-going-on-17 year old daughter Kristen’s weekly beach volley ball tournament and watch her be the only girl to beat the boys.
(9) Attend Roma’s weekly pool tournament at the Quarter and try to get their in time to actually play.
(10) Brush Goddess on the beloved back deck, prop my feet on the rail, sip a glass of wine and dance with the stars.
A few years ago, Union Mission went through a very difficult period and I had conversation with Aretha Jones. We both acknowledged how much of our self identity was tied up in our jobs. Who we were was determined by where we worked.
I now understand that this is a perverse way of living life. God created us to be …us. Not to work for the man (or woman)! Sure work is something that we do but it is not who we are. I am at a place now where I am trying to get back to Normal…to be the unique “me” that I was born to be.
I think that each of us reach a point in our lives where we have to face ourselves. And we either do or we don’t. And those who do embrace themselves for who they are grow closer to God in the process. And those who don’t lose a little bit more of themselves every day.
So I am working on getting back to normal by facing myself as just me and doing my best to embrace me for me.
Of course, the N is backwards in my normal. Just as God intended it to be. She’s smart that way.
For the first time in my life I have not returned to work on the day after Labor Day along with everyone else. It’s a bit strange but I have list of things to do today:
(1) Go to the Drug Store for prescriptions which I was to have picked up on Friday but never got around to it;
(2) Swing through Wall Mart because Goddess keeps eating everything in the house and she needs new stuff;
(3) Attend the Bored Meeting;
(4) Maybe go to Johnny O’s to watch squirrel feeding (or as his wife Judy calls it when I sit on their porch “It wine and Whine!”)
(5) Call my mother because she’s leaving me messages to call her and I haven’t gotten around to it yet. (Mom, I am not sure why this is number 5. You know you’re number one but my computer keeps dropping you to fifth. Technology!)
(6) Have Goddess take me for a walk.
(7) Try to come up with an answer to Mom’s question when I finally do get around to calling her. She ends every conversation with “What are you doing for dinner tonight?” because she knows that I have no idea and will often not even bother with it.
(8) Breeze by my 30-going-on-17 year old daughter Kristen’s weekly beach volley ball tournament and watch her be the only girl to beat the boys.
(9) Attend Roma’s weekly pool tournament at the Quarter and try to get their in time to actually play.
(10) Brush Goddess on the beloved back deck, prop my feet on the rail, sip a glass of wine and dance with the stars.
A few years ago, Union Mission went through a very difficult period and I had conversation with Aretha Jones. We both acknowledged how much of our self identity was tied up in our jobs. Who we were was determined by where we worked.
I now understand that this is a perverse way of living life. God created us to be …us. Not to work for the man (or woman)! Sure work is something that we do but it is not who we are. I am at a place now where I am trying to get back to Normal…to be the unique “me” that I was born to be.
I think that each of us reach a point in our lives where we have to face ourselves. And we either do or we don’t. And those who do embrace themselves for who they are grow closer to God in the process. And those who don’t lose a little bit more of themselves every day.
So I am working on getting back to normal by facing myself as just me and doing my best to embrace me for me.
Of course, the N is backwards in my normal. Just as God intended it to be. She’s smart that way.
All Over the Place
It is Labor Day and I am working on me these days after decades of working on others. In many ways, it is much more difficult work.
Over the years I had assumed many postures and positions that weren’t really me but I used them to accomplish or to cope and now I am stripping them away to get back to just me. It’s like scraping barnacles from the bottom of a boat. It hurts like hell but is necessary for smooth sailing.
One of my weekend traditions is to review all of the things that I wrote that week. I read them bask-to-back-to-back, sort of taking an inventory of me. Recently a friend of mine told me that I was all over the place so I started looking at it from that perspective.
It is true. I am all over the place.
Everything from bicycles that drink too much to 91 year old men who forsake their numbered days for my benefit; from my adopted son Charles to making out with my High School girl friend at the Drive Inn on Sunday nights; and, of course, to the family all agreeing that my baby sister Angi would enjoy a Sunday Drive better from the trunk.
I’ve written 8 books (one self-published as a fund raiser for Union Mission) and one of the things that kept getting me in trouble as an author is that I would never stick to a particular subject line. My books are all over the place too! So I had to keep finding new publishers because the old ones didn’t like the new subject matter. They wanted me to write the same stuff. I wasn’t interested in that. I wrote about what I WAS interested in.
It may very well be that being all over the place is the way that I’ve always lived my life and not just recently because of the trials and traumas of relationships that fall apart and work that comes to an end.
Union Mission is as diverse and as complex as it is, in many ways, because I was always interested in moving on to the next thing.
My 91 year old friend Ben told me the other day, “I’ve watched you a long time now. You like to create. Then at the ribbon cutting you smile and pat someone on the back, hand them the keys and move on to the next thing.”
As soon as the words hung in the air at Johnny Harris’ restaurant, I knew that they were as true as any that have ever been spoken.
For decades I survived work by carving out this schizophrenic lifestyle where in Savannah, I was one person --- public, driven, relentless; but on Tybee I was another --- laid back, beach bum, picking up crab grass in the yard. It worked great. Until it went to hell!
A few years ago work started invading Tybee and my home. It became all consuming and so it consumed all.
Today I sit here looking at Fran’s thousand shades of green in the bright sunshine and for the first time in my life appreciate Labor Day. Most every one has the day off. The government of all things created a holiday to say to us, thanks for the hard work. You did good! Take a little time for yourself and your family. They are more important anyway.
And I’m coming to realize that I’ve always been all over the place. It is who I am. For Christ’s sake my friends range from Johnny O, Conner, Roma, O Johnny and Trolley Joe to Will Campbell (Southern Baptist prophet) , Jack Pegrim (does street medicine in Calcutta), Lucy Hall (Amazon woman in Atlanta saving addicts on the streets), and Dr. Jim Withers (founder of the Street Medicine movement). Talk about a schizophrenic collection of people! And I love them all in equal proportions.
So, on this Labor Day, I am going to celebrate me and the work that I am doing to get back to just me.
It’s all over the place.
Over the years I had assumed many postures and positions that weren’t really me but I used them to accomplish or to cope and now I am stripping them away to get back to just me. It’s like scraping barnacles from the bottom of a boat. It hurts like hell but is necessary for smooth sailing.
One of my weekend traditions is to review all of the things that I wrote that week. I read them bask-to-back-to-back, sort of taking an inventory of me. Recently a friend of mine told me that I was all over the place so I started looking at it from that perspective.
It is true. I am all over the place.
Everything from bicycles that drink too much to 91 year old men who forsake their numbered days for my benefit; from my adopted son Charles to making out with my High School girl friend at the Drive Inn on Sunday nights; and, of course, to the family all agreeing that my baby sister Angi would enjoy a Sunday Drive better from the trunk.
I’ve written 8 books (one self-published as a fund raiser for Union Mission) and one of the things that kept getting me in trouble as an author is that I would never stick to a particular subject line. My books are all over the place too! So I had to keep finding new publishers because the old ones didn’t like the new subject matter. They wanted me to write the same stuff. I wasn’t interested in that. I wrote about what I WAS interested in.
It may very well be that being all over the place is the way that I’ve always lived my life and not just recently because of the trials and traumas of relationships that fall apart and work that comes to an end.
Union Mission is as diverse and as complex as it is, in many ways, because I was always interested in moving on to the next thing.
My 91 year old friend Ben told me the other day, “I’ve watched you a long time now. You like to create. Then at the ribbon cutting you smile and pat someone on the back, hand them the keys and move on to the next thing.”
As soon as the words hung in the air at Johnny Harris’ restaurant, I knew that they were as true as any that have ever been spoken.
For decades I survived work by carving out this schizophrenic lifestyle where in Savannah, I was one person --- public, driven, relentless; but on Tybee I was another --- laid back, beach bum, picking up crab grass in the yard. It worked great. Until it went to hell!
A few years ago work started invading Tybee and my home. It became all consuming and so it consumed all.
Today I sit here looking at Fran’s thousand shades of green in the bright sunshine and for the first time in my life appreciate Labor Day. Most every one has the day off. The government of all things created a holiday to say to us, thanks for the hard work. You did good! Take a little time for yourself and your family. They are more important anyway.
And I’m coming to realize that I’ve always been all over the place. It is who I am. For Christ’s sake my friends range from Johnny O, Conner, Roma, O Johnny and Trolley Joe to Will Campbell (Southern Baptist prophet) , Jack Pegrim (does street medicine in Calcutta), Lucy Hall (Amazon woman in Atlanta saving addicts on the streets), and Dr. Jim Withers (founder of the Street Medicine movement). Talk about a schizophrenic collection of people! And I love them all in equal proportions.
So, on this Labor Day, I am going to celebrate me and the work that I am doing to get back to just me.
It’s all over the place.
Do You know how big this is?
The sky has been finger painted with pinks, whites, and purples against a dark blue backdrop. The temperature is warm as I sip coffee and stare out of the fifth floor window watching a line of cars make their way into Athens then a group of jogging co-eds divert my attention. College football has arrived.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
Do you know how big this is?
The sky has been finger painted with pinks, whites, and purples against a dark blue backdrop. The temperature is warm as I sip coffee and stare out of the fifth floor window watching a line of cars make their way into Athens then a group of jogging co-eds divert my attention. College football has arrived.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
This is a time of family, friends, stories and traditions. We have done it this way for as long as I can remember. My Dad would bring us to Athens to cheer for the University of Georgia, to tailgate, eat and drink, and to marvel at the beauty of the campus. My brother David and I quickly became more interested in the beauty of the co-eds.
Ah, some childhood activities never fade.
Driving up yesterday, I swung through Madison to pick Jeremy up and after a brief visit with my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, we sped on into Athens. Chelsea is a senior at UGA and she was waiting on us to arrive.
We got checked into a new room at the Holiday Inn and decorated it with flags, photographs, and this banner thing that Julie bought last year that has bulldogs, “Go Dawgs” and tassels on it. Then Jeremy and I fix ourselves cocktails and toast the beginning of another fall of family.
Don’t get me wrong, we love the Dawgs and for 4 hours once a week nothing else in the universe matters except that they win. It is a wonderful diversion from the rises and falls of life. But this is the time of year that the kids and I are together most every weekend.
We visited our friend Bill to inspect his new room and end up visiting with Matthew and Mike too. We laugh and tell stories of things we have done and make plans.
These are the same people that I came to Athens with in the spring and we ended up getting drunk and a healing began in my life. Walter is nowhere to be found because Bill and Matthew are already talking about doing it again. Not on a Friday night, the game is a 12:00 noon kickoff. Tomorrow night. After the game.
I shake my head and Chelsea and Jeremy and I wander downtown and find a place with sidewalk seating. We order and drink and talk the evening away about all of the things that are going on in life and discuss all of the changes. This year, even the tradition of what we do on game day has changed and we are all in new rooms and trying to figure out where the ice machines are.
We return to the room and continue our conversation when I receive a call from Bill. They are in Flannigans, a downtown bar, and want me to join them. I grab tissue paper and crumble it in the phone to sound like static before hanging up on him. I can’t do that again!
And now I stand, sipping coffee and wait. Kind of like the rest of my life. Chelsea will return soon. Mark, my illegitimate brother will soon show up with his son Nolan and a collection of friends that I don’t know yet. Then we will bounce around the hotel visiting friends that we’ve known for decades.
Then we’ll walk to Sanford Stadium and sing the Star Spanked Banner, yell “Go Dawgs” high-five one another, before returning to the room to do all of the same things that we did before the game.
“Do you know how big this is?” Bill calls me every Friday to ask, referring to the game.
I laugh but the answer is yes.
I do know how big this is. There is nothing better than having a blast with your kids and their lovers and your friends.
Amazon Woman
I spotted her from a half a mile away. I was on my morning run lost in thought at the beauty of the day. There were no clouds in the sky to hinder the brilliant sun’s dance on the ocean. The weekend crowd has yet to descend on the island so there are only a few other people on the beach but Lucy is definitely one.
I couldn’t miss her.
Lucy Hall is an Amazon of a woman over six feet tall. Her dark black skin glistens in the sun as recognizes me about the same time that I spot her. She starts laughing and clapping as I run to her and we embrace and I strain my neck upward to hit her face with a kiss.
“Hello My Brotha!” she gives me as a regular greeting.
Sometimes she calls me handsome. “Hello Handsome” and she’s more subdued when I get this greeting and I know the conversations are going to be serious.
Today she is excited because she didn’t know I was here and I didn’t know she was so it is “Hello Brotha!” So I understand that she is delighting in us unexpectedly running into one another on a mostly deserted beach. She believes it’s a gift from God.
Lucy is the President of the Mary Hall Freedom House in Atlanta, a program for women who are addicts. She came from these women and her story is as compelling as they come. Out of nowhere she has built one of the country’s most unique and effective programs. She is also famous and has graced numerous magazines, television shows, radio spots, and newspaper articles.
We met nine years ago in Washington D.C. when Lucy was being awarded the “Community Health Leadership Award” by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation which included a $100,000 cash prize and a ceremony at the National Press Club. I was one of the speakers as a previous winner.
In the middle of my speech Lucy said out loud, “Oh you are going to be significant in my life!”
I’d never had that happen before during a speech and I remember just stopping and staring at her. She was grinning at me with knowing eyes sitting in the middle of an audience of perhaps fifty people. But she has proven right. Lucy and I are close.
She often retreats to Tybee and either brings a bunch of folks and rents a place or she comes alone and stays in the apartment downstairs. She’s made numerous visits to Union Mission and I’ve been to the Mary Hall Freedom House and we both blew one another away in the stuff that we were working on.
Later, I was at Marlin Monroes, talking to Chela Gutierrez who has the most color arms on the planet, when Lucy strolled in.
“Hello Handsome,” she smiled.
We took a table inside with a view of the ocean and immediately fell into deep conversation like good friends do. So I caught her up on everything and then she caught me up on everything and then she looked at me and asked, “Tell me where you are with God.”
I laughed. “OK, let’s frame this conversation first. You use very traditional religious language and I don’t. But I understand what you’re saying and you can understand the way that I say things.”
She laughed with sparkling eyes and an evil grin.
“I think we’re fine,” I answered, “she and I dance most every day.
“You listening to Him?” she asked.
“She always whispers,” I said back. “I wish she talked a little louder.”
“So long as you’re listening,” she concluded.
And we laughed together though I knew that Lucy was being as serious as a heart attack.
Then we made plans to see each other in a few weeks when I’m in Atlanta before hugging each other and going our own ways. I had a paper to finish and she wanted to invade the Tybee Island YMCA so that it achieved integration.
You’ve got to love friends like that.
I couldn’t miss her.
Lucy Hall is an Amazon of a woman over six feet tall. Her dark black skin glistens in the sun as recognizes me about the same time that I spot her. She starts laughing and clapping as I run to her and we embrace and I strain my neck upward to hit her face with a kiss.
“Hello My Brotha!” she gives me as a regular greeting.
Sometimes she calls me handsome. “Hello Handsome” and she’s more subdued when I get this greeting and I know the conversations are going to be serious.
Today she is excited because she didn’t know I was here and I didn’t know she was so it is “Hello Brotha!” So I understand that she is delighting in us unexpectedly running into one another on a mostly deserted beach. She believes it’s a gift from God.
Lucy is the President of the Mary Hall Freedom House in Atlanta, a program for women who are addicts. She came from these women and her story is as compelling as they come. Out of nowhere she has built one of the country’s most unique and effective programs. She is also famous and has graced numerous magazines, television shows, radio spots, and newspaper articles.
We met nine years ago in Washington D.C. when Lucy was being awarded the “Community Health Leadership Award” by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation which included a $100,000 cash prize and a ceremony at the National Press Club. I was one of the speakers as a previous winner.
In the middle of my speech Lucy said out loud, “Oh you are going to be significant in my life!”
I’d never had that happen before during a speech and I remember just stopping and staring at her. She was grinning at me with knowing eyes sitting in the middle of an audience of perhaps fifty people. But she has proven right. Lucy and I are close.
She often retreats to Tybee and either brings a bunch of folks and rents a place or she comes alone and stays in the apartment downstairs. She’s made numerous visits to Union Mission and I’ve been to the Mary Hall Freedom House and we both blew one another away in the stuff that we were working on.
Later, I was at Marlin Monroes, talking to Chela Gutierrez who has the most color arms on the planet, when Lucy strolled in.
“Hello Handsome,” she smiled.
We took a table inside with a view of the ocean and immediately fell into deep conversation like good friends do. So I caught her up on everything and then she caught me up on everything and then she looked at me and asked, “Tell me where you are with God.”
I laughed. “OK, let’s frame this conversation first. You use very traditional religious language and I don’t. But I understand what you’re saying and you can understand the way that I say things.”
She laughed with sparkling eyes and an evil grin.
“I think we’re fine,” I answered, “she and I dance most every day.
“You listening to Him?” she asked.
“She always whispers,” I said back. “I wish she talked a little louder.”
“So long as you’re listening,” she concluded.
And we laughed together though I knew that Lucy was being as serious as a heart attack.
Then we made plans to see each other in a few weeks when I’m in Atlanta before hugging each other and going our own ways. I had a paper to finish and she wanted to invade the Tybee Island YMCA so that it achieved integration.
You’ve got to love friends like that.
No Longer Work
I’m in downtown Savannah this morning for the first time in several weeks for meetings and personal business. Using it as an opportunity to have my car tuned up for the drives to Athens for University of Georgia football games I stroll through the parks towards my favorite coffee shop.
As soon as I hit the south end of Forsyth Park, I hear my name being called. “Mike Elliott!! Mike, it’s me!!”
An older African-American man walks his bicycle towards me. He is flashing a dirty grin underneath a faded red baseball cap.
“Man I went to see you recently and they told me that you retired. Man! I thought that you would always be there!”
His name is David and I’ve known him for years. He was homeless when we met and I was still at Union Mission. That was years ago but David would come to see me from time to time, checking in, often to ask for my advice on something that he was working on.
That was a lot of what I did as President of Union Mission; talking to people who were or are homeless. It was a good reality check to make certain the things that we were doing were actually needed. Most of the programs that make up Union Mission were conceived as a result of these conversations.
That was then and this is now. David and I shook hands and then he embraced me. “Hey when you have time will you look at a business plan that I’m putting together.”
I laughed and said sure.
“Great! Thanks Mike! I’ll give it to Mrs. Joy and she can get it to you. That alright?”
“That’s fine David. You take care of yourself.”
“You too Mike! Good to see you man!”
I hadn’t been in downtown for five minutes yet. I began making my way through the Big Park and immediately ran into Charlie. Long blond hair fell out of the baseball cap that he was wearing. He was sprawled out on a park bench.
“Hey Rev,” he said with a grin then held out his hand for me to shake it. Charlie is an alcoholic who went through Union Mission several times. He may still be there for all I know.
“You staying clean?” I ask.
“Quit drinking five times yesterday,” he shot back. “I remain committed.”
I laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
“Take care of yourself Charlie,” I say and make my way on.
This happens two more times before I make it to the Express Café on Chippewa Square. I sit and sip coffee and realize that these are still my people. A 30 year career surrounded by people falling into or crawling out of homelessness taught me how we are all the same. Everyone has issues and struggles and flaws and incredible abilities all at the same time.
I note that I felt lighter as I encountered my friends than I used to. Before they would be wanting me to do something for them. It was never ending and I would often have a list of commitments or instructions when I got back to the office.
It is good to not have to feel that way today. It is also nice to understand how much they still appreciate the things that I did. I am reminded that real things happen at the one-to-one level and not on a grand scale. And I notice that I enjoyed seeing these guys and it no longer seems like work.
As soon as I hit the south end of Forsyth Park, I hear my name being called. “Mike Elliott!! Mike, it’s me!!”
An older African-American man walks his bicycle towards me. He is flashing a dirty grin underneath a faded red baseball cap.
“Man I went to see you recently and they told me that you retired. Man! I thought that you would always be there!”
His name is David and I’ve known him for years. He was homeless when we met and I was still at Union Mission. That was years ago but David would come to see me from time to time, checking in, often to ask for my advice on something that he was working on.
That was a lot of what I did as President of Union Mission; talking to people who were or are homeless. It was a good reality check to make certain the things that we were doing were actually needed. Most of the programs that make up Union Mission were conceived as a result of these conversations.
That was then and this is now. David and I shook hands and then he embraced me. “Hey when you have time will you look at a business plan that I’m putting together.”
I laughed and said sure.
“Great! Thanks Mike! I’ll give it to Mrs. Joy and she can get it to you. That alright?”
“That’s fine David. You take care of yourself.”
“You too Mike! Good to see you man!”
I hadn’t been in downtown for five minutes yet. I began making my way through the Big Park and immediately ran into Charlie. Long blond hair fell out of the baseball cap that he was wearing. He was sprawled out on a park bench.
“Hey Rev,” he said with a grin then held out his hand for me to shake it. Charlie is an alcoholic who went through Union Mission several times. He may still be there for all I know.
“You staying clean?” I ask.
“Quit drinking five times yesterday,” he shot back. “I remain committed.”
I laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
“Take care of yourself Charlie,” I say and make my way on.
This happens two more times before I make it to the Express Café on Chippewa Square. I sit and sip coffee and realize that these are still my people. A 30 year career surrounded by people falling into or crawling out of homelessness taught me how we are all the same. Everyone has issues and struggles and flaws and incredible abilities all at the same time.
I note that I felt lighter as I encountered my friends than I used to. Before they would be wanting me to do something for them. It was never ending and I would often have a list of commitments or instructions when I got back to the office.
It is good to not have to feel that way today. It is also nice to understand how much they still appreciate the things that I did. I am reminded that real things happen at the one-to-one level and not on a grand scale. And I notice that I enjoyed seeing these guys and it no longer seems like work.
Horizontal
It’s hard to be upwardly mobile when you’re horizontal in the sun.
Right now I’m horizontal, lying in the sand, listening to the surf, feeling my growing hair blow in the breeze.
The only regularly scheduled thing on my calendar is the daily Bored meeting and that after morning prayers at the Breakfast Club. Other than that its salt air and sea spray and beach music.
I’ve had way too much vertical in my life. Always shooting upward or doing my best to propel others to do so. I’ve danced with all of the stars of politics, business and celebrity and am glad to be away from all of that …ego. I’m doing my best to drown mine in the ocean. It has served me well I suppose but I don’t want to be over reliant on it again.
My geography is small and the people that I talk with is very tight these days. No longer being there for everybody all of the time. Just some.
One wrote me over the weekend. “We’re just waiting to see when you’ll heal and get off that damn roller coaster. It kind of seems that you’re all over the place right now (as it should be) …Wow! When Stellar gets his grove back and gets back to a giving place in his heart … sure would be cool to be on that radar.”
The words made me stop and ponder them for a long time.
I thought that I was healing. I believe that my heart is still capable of giving. My groove’s gone? I thought with this small geography and tight circle of friends that I wasn’t all over the place.
But her words proved me wrong. And her right.
My friend Kim Hinely likes something called “Depression is not a sign of weakness it is just a sign that we’ve been too strong for too long.”
I was checking the status of my friends on Face Book when I saw that she had liked this link.
These words also gave me pause and I pondered them. What is the aftermath of being so strong for so long for others who didn’t have it in them to be strong for themelves?
Everything has a cost and all of my success, vertical achievements and upward mobility has left me here sitting in the wind on my beloved back deck, alone for the first time in my life, wondering exactly what it is that I want to do next.
This morning I the Breakfast Club I was sitting with Helen, Jodee’s mother, and the woman who actually started the place. She was asking me what I’m going to do next so I was throwing out what my options are. Helen was excited about each one and it is hard not to love someone who conveys excitement over you. It made me excited about my possibilities.
Then we talked about being alone. She likes her space and routine.
“Home is wherever you happen to be,” a homeless friend of mine told me, and what I have come to think that he meant by this is that we are ultimately home to ourselves. It’s just us. If we’re fortunate we don’t have to do it alone.
My horizontal time will soon be over. I’m finally on the Sabbatical that I wanted three years ago that likely would have changed a lot of things. That’s the thing about gifts right? You never know when they’re going to arrive. Not necessarily when you ask for them but always later. And gifts have cost associated with them too.
So for now I’m going to stay horizontal, laying my head back down in the sand. Not an ostrich but to enjoy the feeling of warm sand on my face.
Right now I’m horizontal, lying in the sand, listening to the surf, feeling my growing hair blow in the breeze.
The only regularly scheduled thing on my calendar is the daily Bored meeting and that after morning prayers at the Breakfast Club. Other than that its salt air and sea spray and beach music.
I’ve had way too much vertical in my life. Always shooting upward or doing my best to propel others to do so. I’ve danced with all of the stars of politics, business and celebrity and am glad to be away from all of that …ego. I’m doing my best to drown mine in the ocean. It has served me well I suppose but I don’t want to be over reliant on it again.
My geography is small and the people that I talk with is very tight these days. No longer being there for everybody all of the time. Just some.
One wrote me over the weekend. “We’re just waiting to see when you’ll heal and get off that damn roller coaster. It kind of seems that you’re all over the place right now (as it should be) …Wow! When Stellar gets his grove back and gets back to a giving place in his heart … sure would be cool to be on that radar.”
The words made me stop and ponder them for a long time.
I thought that I was healing. I believe that my heart is still capable of giving. My groove’s gone? I thought with this small geography and tight circle of friends that I wasn’t all over the place.
But her words proved me wrong. And her right.
My friend Kim Hinely likes something called “Depression is not a sign of weakness it is just a sign that we’ve been too strong for too long.”
I was checking the status of my friends on Face Book when I saw that she had liked this link.
These words also gave me pause and I pondered them. What is the aftermath of being so strong for so long for others who didn’t have it in them to be strong for themelves?
Everything has a cost and all of my success, vertical achievements and upward mobility has left me here sitting in the wind on my beloved back deck, alone for the first time in my life, wondering exactly what it is that I want to do next.
This morning I the Breakfast Club I was sitting with Helen, Jodee’s mother, and the woman who actually started the place. She was asking me what I’m going to do next so I was throwing out what my options are. Helen was excited about each one and it is hard not to love someone who conveys excitement over you. It made me excited about my possibilities.
Then we talked about being alone. She likes her space and routine.
“Home is wherever you happen to be,” a homeless friend of mine told me, and what I have come to think that he meant by this is that we are ultimately home to ourselves. It’s just us. If we’re fortunate we don’t have to do it alone.
My horizontal time will soon be over. I’m finally on the Sabbatical that I wanted three years ago that likely would have changed a lot of things. That’s the thing about gifts right? You never know when they’re going to arrive. Not necessarily when you ask for them but always later. And gifts have cost associated with them too.
So for now I’m going to stay horizontal, laying my head back down in the sand. Not an ostrich but to enjoy the feeling of warm sand on my face.
Could We Start Again Please?
Ryan and I have decided that we are cursed when it comes to women in our lives and romance. He lost his girlfriend recently and I have no body in my life either. Neither of us have anyone interested in us either, so we sat beside one another at the counter of the Breakfast Club and came to the conclusion that we are cursed.
Unfortunately Johnny O was sitting there when we made this announcement. He looked at Ryan first and said, “It’s because you look guilty.”
“Oh is that it?” Ryan laughed.
“Yep,” Johnny O continued, “even when you’ve done nothing wrong you look like you have and women don’t trust that.”
“And you!” he said pointing a finger at me, “you’re out of control!”
Then he left. Johnny O has never been known for bringing conversations to a meaningful conclusion.
“Well I know what I want to do,” Ryan said after a few minutes of silence. “I’m moving to Colorado and am going to get a job as a Ski Lift assistant and help women get on it.”
At only 24 years of age, Ryan still has a lot to learn.
“I know what you mean,” I reply. “You got to have hope. I’m going to get a job as the towel boy for the University of Georgia girl’s swim team.”
“Now you’re talking,” Ryan smiled.
Franklin, who is brown, stood on the other side of the counter listening to us. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he chimed in, “there are no available women on this island except gay ones. I want to be a professional beach volley ball player; a woman’s team or co-ed because it really doesn’t matter. I’m pretty desperate.”
And you can’t help but wonder sometimes why love remains elusive when it is the thing that each of us wants the most. This isn’t necessarily the same thing as being married or in a significant relationship with someone for a long time. I know a lot of people who live together but don’t share the kind of love that they desire with everything inside of them.
There is no one in my life at this time. Love hides from me. Serendipity has fled for other horizons. I sit in my red room and stare out of the windows at lush vegetation and brilliant green marsh grass and I can’t help but wonder where it went wrong. I’ve made a successful career for myself giving love away only to find myself sitting here alone.
There is this scene in the musical “Jesus Christ Superstar” that is very meaningful for me. The Disciples are sitting outside of the gate among the crowd as Jesus is getting his ass kicked by Pilate’s men. Mary Magdalene and Simon Peter stand and sing.
“I’ve been living to see you, dying to see you but it shouldn’t be like this; this was unexpected, what do I do now? Oh, could we start again please?”
They are desperate to get back to Jesus’ promises of a new world full of love and possibilities. Instead they watch love being beat to hell. They long for what was as they regret what is.
I think it is healthy to take an inventory of how you’ve lived your life from time to time; Reflections of my life. I suppose that’s what I’m doing. Could we start again please? It is a valid question because in the end that is all that we have; to get up every day and start over, trying to not repeat the mistakes or the mishaps of the past.
And always looking to the future where there is the love that we want with everything that is inside of us.
Happy Birthday Charles!
“Charles asked me to tell you that we celebrated his birthday today and gave him a cake and ice cream. He wanted to make sure you knew about the festivities. He said to tell you he is 53.”
53 going on 8.
I burst into tears when I read the text message from Joy, sitting on my beloved back deck, in the middle of what is turning out to be the Sabbatical that I wanted several years ago.
For the past fifteen years, Charles and I have been constants in one another’s lives. He was my six-foot-two, African-American, mentally ill, former bank robber, current Union Mission janitor, and what was called my “adopted son” by the people I used to work with.
He has slept in the exact same bunk bed in Grace House for those fifteen years except for four nights when I allowed him to make a pilgrimage to his home town of Augusta which is the last place that he remembers his parents. We got him a bus ticket and a room at the Riverfront Marriott and Joy would pack him food and he would go and never really leave the hotel room.
The first time he went I pinned a note to his sleeve that read “My name is Charles and if I am in trouble please call Rev. Micheal Elliott at …” I was more worried than most mothers when they drop their babies off for the first day of school.
Charles is not the snappiest dresser. I saw him a week ago and his orange shirt was filthy. His green jeans were mostly held together by duct tape. His flip flops provide cushion to his toes, but little else.
But when Keller Deal, Joy Panky and I would send him to Augusta, he would put on real shoes, new jeans, and a clean shirt. These were birthday or Christmas presents that we would give him that he stored in his locker and never wore. Going home was something special to him though it was only in his head.
“Dammit Charles,” I would say, “Why are you wearing that old stuff when you have all of this new stuff that we’ve given you?”
He would look at me for a second, towering over me, close his eyes, place one hand on top of his head and say in his deep voice, “Ummm, these still have life in them sir. When the life is gone from them I’ll put on the other things.”
I had no idea how to respond.
For all of those years, Charles was the embodiment of why my work was important. Thousands came and went and were helped, but Charles always reminded me why. He is as child-like a creation as I’ve ever met and God made him so special that he will never lose the child-like-ness that the rest of us abandoned forever ago. He is perfect.
We are no longer in one another’s lives though he very much remains in my heart. Whenever I write about him, those who have met him respond or react. He is forever given little presents to those who impress him --- a stamp to Meredith, a gold dollar to Julie, a photograph to Laura, and a thousand other little things.
Once he and I sat in the Grace House dining room floor together and he shared his Oreo’s with me. He taught me to eat them by taking off the top cookie and licking the cream frosting first and then eating the second cookie. That was the first day that I ever met him all of those years ago after several Bank President’s called me to tell me that a bank robber was at Union Mission.
We broke every rule ever made for him. He deserves special considerations. Special people always do.
So on my beloved back deck, I cried because he has made it to 53 when he never had a snow balls chance in hell of making it that far. And he never would have without a lot of people ignoring a lot of rules and regulations. Efficiency is going things right, I read not too long ago, but effectiveness is doing the right things.
Happy Birthday Charles! I send prayers that the right things continue to come your way.
I love you still though I don’t see you much any more.
53 going on 8.
I burst into tears when I read the text message from Joy, sitting on my beloved back deck, in the middle of what is turning out to be the Sabbatical that I wanted several years ago.
For the past fifteen years, Charles and I have been constants in one another’s lives. He was my six-foot-two, African-American, mentally ill, former bank robber, current Union Mission janitor, and what was called my “adopted son” by the people I used to work with.
He has slept in the exact same bunk bed in Grace House for those fifteen years except for four nights when I allowed him to make a pilgrimage to his home town of Augusta which is the last place that he remembers his parents. We got him a bus ticket and a room at the Riverfront Marriott and Joy would pack him food and he would go and never really leave the hotel room.
The first time he went I pinned a note to his sleeve that read “My name is Charles and if I am in trouble please call Rev. Micheal Elliott at …” I was more worried than most mothers when they drop their babies off for the first day of school.
Charles is not the snappiest dresser. I saw him a week ago and his orange shirt was filthy. His green jeans were mostly held together by duct tape. His flip flops provide cushion to his toes, but little else.
But when Keller Deal, Joy Panky and I would send him to Augusta, he would put on real shoes, new jeans, and a clean shirt. These were birthday or Christmas presents that we would give him that he stored in his locker and never wore. Going home was something special to him though it was only in his head.
“Dammit Charles,” I would say, “Why are you wearing that old stuff when you have all of this new stuff that we’ve given you?”
He would look at me for a second, towering over me, close his eyes, place one hand on top of his head and say in his deep voice, “Ummm, these still have life in them sir. When the life is gone from them I’ll put on the other things.”
I had no idea how to respond.
For all of those years, Charles was the embodiment of why my work was important. Thousands came and went and were helped, but Charles always reminded me why. He is as child-like a creation as I’ve ever met and God made him so special that he will never lose the child-like-ness that the rest of us abandoned forever ago. He is perfect.
We are no longer in one another’s lives though he very much remains in my heart. Whenever I write about him, those who have met him respond or react. He is forever given little presents to those who impress him --- a stamp to Meredith, a gold dollar to Julie, a photograph to Laura, and a thousand other little things.
Once he and I sat in the Grace House dining room floor together and he shared his Oreo’s with me. He taught me to eat them by taking off the top cookie and licking the cream frosting first and then eating the second cookie. That was the first day that I ever met him all of those years ago after several Bank President’s called me to tell me that a bank robber was at Union Mission.
We broke every rule ever made for him. He deserves special considerations. Special people always do.
So on my beloved back deck, I cried because he has made it to 53 when he never had a snow balls chance in hell of making it that far. And he never would have without a lot of people ignoring a lot of rules and regulations. Efficiency is going things right, I read not too long ago, but effectiveness is doing the right things.
Happy Birthday Charles! I send prayers that the right things continue to come your way.
I love you still though I don’t see you much any more.
Breaking The Ten Commandments
I've broken four of the Ten Commandments. It's best to be honest about such things and get it out there, otherwise you might be bearing false witness which gets real close to breaking one of them.
Just so everyone remembers, they are: Worship only God, don't make graven images, don't take God's name in vain, keep the Sabbath day holy, honor your parents, don't kill anybody, don't commit adultery, don't steal anything, don't bear false witness, and don't covet other people's stuff.
This morning at the Breakfast Club, I felt it my duty as Chaplain to my friends who work there, to ask how many of the Ten Commandments have you broken? Every single one admitted to breaking some in their life.
Phil asked if you break the same commandment multiple times does it still count as just breaking it once. After all, once it's broken it's broken.
I told him that I'd get back to him.
When I asked Val, she simply started laughing and left the room.
"Which Commandments?" Nick demanded, I think as a way of avoiding answering the question.
Jodee ignored the entire conversation and concentrated on his crossword puzzle. Then again he has his own mail order ordination to the ministry which hangs on the wall of the restaurant.
The point being I think that we all are doing our best to get through life in the best ways that we know how. We all want the same things I think --- a safe place to be, love and acceptance, to feel that our life has meaning, and to be happy.
We're not perfect though so we screw up from time to time. Sometimes the screw ups can be of Biblical proportions! And it is at these broken places where we experience God and not rules. Grace trumps judgment! Forgiveness is the thing that allows us to move on.
Maybe it's because I spend all of those years working with people who were homeless. They would come in as broken people. They had lost family, love, homes, and most possessions. Many had been arrested for breaking various laws. Most had lost hope. Each had felt the wrath of the judgment of society for merely being ... who they are.
Each was looking for someone to say to them, "I know you screwed up. We all do! It's OK. Try not to do it again. I'm pulling for you."
Through the years I've learned to not be especially judgmental because of this. I try to accept people as they are because it is silly to want them to be anything else. I want to be accepted just as I am too. We want the same thing.
I think that there is too much judgment in the world. I understand that Commandments and laws are needed and necessary but it's just as true is that we are going to break them or come very close sometimes. I am always amazed at how stern and self-righteous people can be when judging the faults and failures of others. We'll all doing the best that we can. Lighten up!!
Sure if someone keeps doing things that hurt themselves or others and won't stop then judgment is deserved. But I don't think that this is most people. Most of us are wanting to be forgiven for any wrong that we've done. But in order to get it, you have to give it.
The thing is that we all need one another so that forgiveness can occur, grace is experienced, hope is rekindled, and we have the chance to start over again. And this is a more important truth than Commandments.
Just so everyone remembers, they are: Worship only God, don't make graven images, don't take God's name in vain, keep the Sabbath day holy, honor your parents, don't kill anybody, don't commit adultery, don't steal anything, don't bear false witness, and don't covet other people's stuff.
This morning at the Breakfast Club, I felt it my duty as Chaplain to my friends who work there, to ask how many of the Ten Commandments have you broken? Every single one admitted to breaking some in their life.
Phil asked if you break the same commandment multiple times does it still count as just breaking it once. After all, once it's broken it's broken.
I told him that I'd get back to him.
When I asked Val, she simply started laughing and left the room.
"Which Commandments?" Nick demanded, I think as a way of avoiding answering the question.
Jodee ignored the entire conversation and concentrated on his crossword puzzle. Then again he has his own mail order ordination to the ministry which hangs on the wall of the restaurant.
The point being I think that we all are doing our best to get through life in the best ways that we know how. We all want the same things I think --- a safe place to be, love and acceptance, to feel that our life has meaning, and to be happy.
We're not perfect though so we screw up from time to time. Sometimes the screw ups can be of Biblical proportions! And it is at these broken places where we experience God and not rules. Grace trumps judgment! Forgiveness is the thing that allows us to move on.
Maybe it's because I spend all of those years working with people who were homeless. They would come in as broken people. They had lost family, love, homes, and most possessions. Many had been arrested for breaking various laws. Most had lost hope. Each had felt the wrath of the judgment of society for merely being ... who they are.
Each was looking for someone to say to them, "I know you screwed up. We all do! It's OK. Try not to do it again. I'm pulling for you."
Through the years I've learned to not be especially judgmental because of this. I try to accept people as they are because it is silly to want them to be anything else. I want to be accepted just as I am too. We want the same thing.
I think that there is too much judgment in the world. I understand that Commandments and laws are needed and necessary but it's just as true is that we are going to break them or come very close sometimes. I am always amazed at how stern and self-righteous people can be when judging the faults and failures of others. We'll all doing the best that we can. Lighten up!!
Sure if someone keeps doing things that hurt themselves or others and won't stop then judgment is deserved. But I don't think that this is most people. Most of us are wanting to be forgiven for any wrong that we've done. But in order to get it, you have to give it.
The thing is that we all need one another so that forgiveness can occur, grace is experienced, hope is rekindled, and we have the chance to start over again. And this is a more important truth than Commandments.
Standing Still
There is no breeze and everything is still. The thousand shades of green in the trees glisten with wetness. The air is full of moisture and the purple-blue sky looks as though it will burst into tears at any moment. The silence is deafening. Goddess and I stand on the wet boards at the end of Shirley’s sad little holy dock. The tide is high but the water doesn’t move. The marsh grass stands straight.
It seems that all of life has stopped for the moment and while nothing is happening I can tell that it is getting ready to. It is a moment of anticipation. At any moment, all hell can bust loose.
I am one with the stillness as I take the time to appreciate it. It mirrors my life at this moment because I’ve stepped outside of what it used to be. A couple of years ago I tried to take a Sabbatical from the relentless needs of Union Mission but couldn’t make it happen.
My life was out of balance at that time and I knew it. Too much of it had been consumed by the work and managing the tragedy of a whole city. The work never went away anymore. It invaded my nights and stole the time that I had with my wife. It left me numb and as time passed I grew resentful of those that got in the way of it.
Things have a way of happening that are supposed to even though you’ve got other plans. I’d always lived a very public life in the press and in public so it didn’t bother me when there was an explosion of publicity about things that I’d been managing. For the first time in two decades things failed to go as I’d planned. So I managed harder and the parts of me that I’d refrained from giving to work were suddenly consumed.
My wife left. Then I left work. And in the holy arms of St. Martin my fast pace, relentless, 350 emails per day, world came to a screeching halt. And it was quiet like it is today.
I remember sitting on the patio of the little studio that I was in, after rain over the aqua-blue water noticing how still it was. It was the day after I’d resigned and my life was as still as the air for the first time in three decades. I didn’t know what to do and I just sat there stunned that things do not have to move.
That was almost three months ago. A line from an Arlo Guthrie runs through my head. “All these thoughts just rip me open, who can heal a heart that’s broken; like the wind that blows unspoken, blew my love away.”
I stand today one with the stillness.
Comfortable in it.
But full of anticipation.
So that the sky can bust open and the wind can blow the love back into my life.
It seems that all of life has stopped for the moment and while nothing is happening I can tell that it is getting ready to. It is a moment of anticipation. At any moment, all hell can bust loose.
I am one with the stillness as I take the time to appreciate it. It mirrors my life at this moment because I’ve stepped outside of what it used to be. A couple of years ago I tried to take a Sabbatical from the relentless needs of Union Mission but couldn’t make it happen.
My life was out of balance at that time and I knew it. Too much of it had been consumed by the work and managing the tragedy of a whole city. The work never went away anymore. It invaded my nights and stole the time that I had with my wife. It left me numb and as time passed I grew resentful of those that got in the way of it.
Things have a way of happening that are supposed to even though you’ve got other plans. I’d always lived a very public life in the press and in public so it didn’t bother me when there was an explosion of publicity about things that I’d been managing. For the first time in two decades things failed to go as I’d planned. So I managed harder and the parts of me that I’d refrained from giving to work were suddenly consumed.
My wife left. Then I left work. And in the holy arms of St. Martin my fast pace, relentless, 350 emails per day, world came to a screeching halt. And it was quiet like it is today.
I remember sitting on the patio of the little studio that I was in, after rain over the aqua-blue water noticing how still it was. It was the day after I’d resigned and my life was as still as the air for the first time in three decades. I didn’t know what to do and I just sat there stunned that things do not have to move.
That was almost three months ago. A line from an Arlo Guthrie runs through my head. “All these thoughts just rip me open, who can heal a heart that’s broken; like the wind that blows unspoken, blew my love away.”
I stand today one with the stillness.
Comfortable in it.
But full of anticipation.
So that the sky can bust open and the wind can blow the love back into my life.
We Can Change the World!
Two North Riverside Plaza sits among other high rise complexes on the side of Chicago’s theater district. Sitting in a conference room on the 11th floor, I am surrounded by heroes of health care for homeless people.
Dr. Jim Withers is the founder of the International Street Medicine Institute. Dr. Dave Buck of Houston is developing hand held electronic medical records systems that can be used on the streets and communicate with hospitals in real time. Joe Benson, a formerly homeless veteran sits in his wheelchair and represents the Homeless National Advisory Committee. Linda Sheets is the Director of Operation Safety Net in Pittsburgh. Our host is Richard Kincaid, a wildly successful businessman and the founder of the Because Foundation.
We are discussing health care reform policies and developing strategies to advance medicine and delivery systems in a world that is changing. We are determined to influence some of that change to help the poor, the mentally ill, and the fragile populations who will soon have insurance for the first time in their lives.
We have been meeting seriously for more than two years and in that time over 160 nurses and doctors have come together forming a movement of medicine on the streets. In spite of what the President and those people in Congress say, health care reform isn’t rocket science. It is far cheaper to take health care to where people need it than require them to go to a hospital. It’s as simple as that!
In practice anyway.
Politically, socially, and from a policy perspective we have built a crazy system that is upside down, has runaway costs, discriminates against those who need it the most, and ensures that the only people who pay 100% of their hospital bill are those with the least amount of money.
The United States does have the best health care in the world, but we have one lousy system of getting to it. My friend Dr. Doug Skelton is optimistic about the President’s health care plan. Maybe. We’ll see.
As we talk through these things, there is a great deal of laughter and jokes. We make fun of policies, practices and ourselves. We also challenge, invigorate and encourage one another. Nothing is created inside of a box. Creation always occurs outside of one! We are trying to create.
After about two hours, we all have a collective “Ah-Ha” moment! “Oh,” we say to ourselves,” pretty much at the same time, “that’s how you do it!”
And we laughed at the simplicity of it all.
Then we quickly grew serious again and started rapidly discussing the practical applications and the economic benefits. We gave one another home work assignments and will meet again this October in L.A.
I’ve always been questioned as to why I participated in meetings such as this. When I was at Union Mission, they felt that I should be giving my time to Union Mission. Well, I was. They just didn’t know it.
Jesus said by giving yourself away you find yourself. It is a good principal. By helping others, you help yourself. It may be a contradiction, but again, it’s not rocket science. And I don’t believe that Jesus ever built a rocket.
I’ve learned far more through experiences such as these that not only helped Union Mission, but many other communities around the world. We’re all in this together, after all.
Graham Nash’s song “Chicago” kept playing in my head as Jim and I find a bar after the meeting.
“Won’t you please come to Chicago for the help that you can bring? We can change the world! We can change the world! And make it better!”
I believe that.
But it means crawling outside of whatever box you have yourself in and joining a community of believers to do it.
Dr. Jim Withers is the founder of the International Street Medicine Institute. Dr. Dave Buck of Houston is developing hand held electronic medical records systems that can be used on the streets and communicate with hospitals in real time. Joe Benson, a formerly homeless veteran sits in his wheelchair and represents the Homeless National Advisory Committee. Linda Sheets is the Director of Operation Safety Net in Pittsburgh. Our host is Richard Kincaid, a wildly successful businessman and the founder of the Because Foundation.
We are discussing health care reform policies and developing strategies to advance medicine and delivery systems in a world that is changing. We are determined to influence some of that change to help the poor, the mentally ill, and the fragile populations who will soon have insurance for the first time in their lives.
We have been meeting seriously for more than two years and in that time over 160 nurses and doctors have come together forming a movement of medicine on the streets. In spite of what the President and those people in Congress say, health care reform isn’t rocket science. It is far cheaper to take health care to where people need it than require them to go to a hospital. It’s as simple as that!
In practice anyway.
Politically, socially, and from a policy perspective we have built a crazy system that is upside down, has runaway costs, discriminates against those who need it the most, and ensures that the only people who pay 100% of their hospital bill are those with the least amount of money.
The United States does have the best health care in the world, but we have one lousy system of getting to it. My friend Dr. Doug Skelton is optimistic about the President’s health care plan. Maybe. We’ll see.
As we talk through these things, there is a great deal of laughter and jokes. We make fun of policies, practices and ourselves. We also challenge, invigorate and encourage one another. Nothing is created inside of a box. Creation always occurs outside of one! We are trying to create.
After about two hours, we all have a collective “Ah-Ha” moment! “Oh,” we say to ourselves,” pretty much at the same time, “that’s how you do it!”
And we laughed at the simplicity of it all.
Then we quickly grew serious again and started rapidly discussing the practical applications and the economic benefits. We gave one another home work assignments and will meet again this October in L.A.
I’ve always been questioned as to why I participated in meetings such as this. When I was at Union Mission, they felt that I should be giving my time to Union Mission. Well, I was. They just didn’t know it.
Jesus said by giving yourself away you find yourself. It is a good principal. By helping others, you help yourself. It may be a contradiction, but again, it’s not rocket science. And I don’t believe that Jesus ever built a rocket.
I’ve learned far more through experiences such as these that not only helped Union Mission, but many other communities around the world. We’re all in this together, after all.
Graham Nash’s song “Chicago” kept playing in my head as Jim and I find a bar after the meeting.
“Won’t you please come to Chicago for the help that you can bring? We can change the world! We can change the world! And make it better!”
I believe that.
But it means crawling outside of whatever box you have yourself in and joining a community of believers to do it.
The Little Things
I am an early riser but 4:00 is a bit too early. But there I lay, wide awake with a thousand thoughts rumbling around inside of my head. Goddess snored as I stared at the numbers projected on the ceiling. I sighed and put my hands behind my head.
I am heading to Chicago today but it was all of these other thoughts that had me awake. I was thinking about people whom I love who are going through difficult times and circumstances; staring a new company which is radically from the work that I’ve been doing my entire career; and, wondering what plan B would be if these new things didn’t work out.
Why do such thoughts only come at night?
Climbing out of bed, I showered, dressed, woke Goddess up to let her out, grabbed my things and took off. Swinging by the Breakfast Club, Jodee was inside working away. He greeted me warmly as I fixed a cup of coffee for the drive to the airport and I was struck by how nice it is to have someone say “Good Morning” and mean it.
Living alone is making me appreciate such things more.
“Chicago, huh?” he asked with a smile. Jodee and Cheryl are both from the Windy City. And I thought how nice it is to have friends who know what’s on your plate.
“Safe Travels,” he yelled as I walked out the door, and I appreciated it deeply. I used to have significant others in my life who did these things and I suppose that I came to take them for granted. These days, I am very mindful and appreciative of what a tremendous difference these little things make.
At 4:35 in the morning I am driving down Tybee Island’s main drag and notice joggers and walkers are already out. So are people sitting on benches, smoking and lost in thought. People of the night.
Through the marsh I drive and it is quiet and holy and I think about the coming day. I will be with people I respect today at a meeting of the International Street Medicine Institute. We have a lot to accomplish in several hours and I will be the one in charge of the meeting so I was trying to organize myself so that I can keep things organized.
Driving through downtown Savannah, I see more people of the night. There are more cars now as people either make their way to or from their work. My work is an idea right now. It is coming together, but as with anything new or that you haven’t done before, it leaves you apprehensive. I’ve never been one to shy away from new or different so I tell myself it will all be alright.
At the airport, we line up to rush onto the plane where we will sit for half-an-hour before we take off. I stare out of the window into the dark sky that is now punctured with the color pink on the horizon. The day comes and the people of the night will be chased away.
As yesterday’s sun sat, I sat on a swing on the beach, staring at the ocean thankful for friends that had been there for me. It is the first time that I’ve sat in a swing this summer. Last year, I did it most every night, leaving Julie home alone. I pondered how this likely contributed to our demise but I was trying to work through so many issues at work and so many people’s problems.
Last night, I was celebrating the little things that had made my day full and enjoyable. It was very different from the last time that I sat there. The difference between last night and last year is that I am embracing the quiet. I am taking stock of the little things that I ignored then. I am listening to the still small voice of holiness and ignoring the distractions and business.
And I am finding that I am better because of it.
I am heading to Chicago today but it was all of these other thoughts that had me awake. I was thinking about people whom I love who are going through difficult times and circumstances; staring a new company which is radically from the work that I’ve been doing my entire career; and, wondering what plan B would be if these new things didn’t work out.
Why do such thoughts only come at night?
Climbing out of bed, I showered, dressed, woke Goddess up to let her out, grabbed my things and took off. Swinging by the Breakfast Club, Jodee was inside working away. He greeted me warmly as I fixed a cup of coffee for the drive to the airport and I was struck by how nice it is to have someone say “Good Morning” and mean it.
Living alone is making me appreciate such things more.
“Chicago, huh?” he asked with a smile. Jodee and Cheryl are both from the Windy City. And I thought how nice it is to have friends who know what’s on your plate.
“Safe Travels,” he yelled as I walked out the door, and I appreciated it deeply. I used to have significant others in my life who did these things and I suppose that I came to take them for granted. These days, I am very mindful and appreciative of what a tremendous difference these little things make.
At 4:35 in the morning I am driving down Tybee Island’s main drag and notice joggers and walkers are already out. So are people sitting on benches, smoking and lost in thought. People of the night.
Through the marsh I drive and it is quiet and holy and I think about the coming day. I will be with people I respect today at a meeting of the International Street Medicine Institute. We have a lot to accomplish in several hours and I will be the one in charge of the meeting so I was trying to organize myself so that I can keep things organized.
Driving through downtown Savannah, I see more people of the night. There are more cars now as people either make their way to or from their work. My work is an idea right now. It is coming together, but as with anything new or that you haven’t done before, it leaves you apprehensive. I’ve never been one to shy away from new or different so I tell myself it will all be alright.
At the airport, we line up to rush onto the plane where we will sit for half-an-hour before we take off. I stare out of the window into the dark sky that is now punctured with the color pink on the horizon. The day comes and the people of the night will be chased away.
As yesterday’s sun sat, I sat on a swing on the beach, staring at the ocean thankful for friends that had been there for me. It is the first time that I’ve sat in a swing this summer. Last year, I did it most every night, leaving Julie home alone. I pondered how this likely contributed to our demise but I was trying to work through so many issues at work and so many people’s problems.
Last night, I was celebrating the little things that had made my day full and enjoyable. It was very different from the last time that I sat there. The difference between last night and last year is that I am embracing the quiet. I am taking stock of the little things that I ignored then. I am listening to the still small voice of holiness and ignoring the distractions and business.
And I am finding that I am better because of it.
Cheerful Living
Goddess is staring at me intently.
Rain is pouring down outside and the canopy of green in the back yard drip with water. Thunder rumbles in the sky. It is dark inside of the house and I have lights on which normally never happens during daylight hours with all of the windows in this house.
Thunder claps.
Goddess stares at me intensely.
In contrast to this reality, the music is blaring from the Bose with happy beach music. For my birthday, my friend Judi Ross made these four CD’s of non-Jimmy Buffett beach music. Jim Morris is singing, admonishing me to “Pretend Your in Tahiti” dancing in the sand with topless girls.
And in my head I am in Tahiti doing exactly that. The rolling thunder simply makes me want to go more. “I like my ocean warm and blue and a little bit wavy.” And it is true that I do. Passionately!
“Give me a beach where there’s nobody there, plenty to drink and nothing to wear!” Now we talking!
“I’m addicted to the tropical life, nobody save me!”
And I am suddenly struck by the analogy. Outside it is pouring rain and dark and thunder rolls. It is nasty; much like a great many things in my life over the past few years. There has been betrayal and sadness and unwanted changes and the uncertainty of what is next.
Inside though, the sun is shinning and the water is aqua-blue-green and 75 degrees is about as cold as it gets. Who needs shoes? Who needs laundry? It’s just another bill to pay! And the beach music plays and my friends and I dance in the sand to the songs of the sea.
I am not yet where I want to be. I’ve had to navigate too “many potholes in the road to cheerful living.” But dammit it is going to be cheerful living that I end up with. I managed way too much sadness in my life. I’ve had way too much. I want the serendipity of sunshine, blue skies, ocean breezes where cold never comes near my heart.
So the rain pours and the thunder rolls while I dance around my kitchen, happy and warm and safe and determined.
And I think that this is why Goddess is staring at me so intently.
Rain is pouring down outside and the canopy of green in the back yard drip with water. Thunder rumbles in the sky. It is dark inside of the house and I have lights on which normally never happens during daylight hours with all of the windows in this house.
Thunder claps.
Goddess stares at me intensely.
In contrast to this reality, the music is blaring from the Bose with happy beach music. For my birthday, my friend Judi Ross made these four CD’s of non-Jimmy Buffett beach music. Jim Morris is singing, admonishing me to “Pretend Your in Tahiti” dancing in the sand with topless girls.
And in my head I am in Tahiti doing exactly that. The rolling thunder simply makes me want to go more. “I like my ocean warm and blue and a little bit wavy.” And it is true that I do. Passionately!
“Give me a beach where there’s nobody there, plenty to drink and nothing to wear!” Now we talking!
“I’m addicted to the tropical life, nobody save me!”
And I am suddenly struck by the analogy. Outside it is pouring rain and dark and thunder rolls. It is nasty; much like a great many things in my life over the past few years. There has been betrayal and sadness and unwanted changes and the uncertainty of what is next.
Inside though, the sun is shinning and the water is aqua-blue-green and 75 degrees is about as cold as it gets. Who needs shoes? Who needs laundry? It’s just another bill to pay! And the beach music plays and my friends and I dance in the sand to the songs of the sea.
I am not yet where I want to be. I’ve had to navigate too “many potholes in the road to cheerful living.” But dammit it is going to be cheerful living that I end up with. I managed way too much sadness in my life. I’ve had way too much. I want the serendipity of sunshine, blue skies, ocean breezes where cold never comes near my heart.
So the rain pours and the thunder rolls while I dance around my kitchen, happy and warm and safe and determined.
And I think that this is why Goddess is staring at me so intently.
The Community of the Blogs
After a very full day of doing things, I slid into the evening with my friend Terry Ball. He is in town for a Georgia Emergency Management Agency (GEMA) meeting where he is the Assistant Director or some such title. We met over 20 years ago when he was in charge of homeless programs for the Georgia Department of Community Affairs (DCA).
He reminded me that the first time we met, as he announced new funding opportunities for the state, that I handed him a cigar.
So I stood out from every other potential applicant. He evidently enjoyed the cigar, for a decade DCA became Union Mission’s largest funding source, and Terry and I have become dear friends.
He drove out to my house on Tybee and we visited on my beloved back deck for a bit before making our way to Marlin Monroe’s for supper. Marlin’s has an outside deck literally in the sand dunes and a nice view of the ocean. It makes for a good setting for good conversation and food.
As soon as we entered the deck we were met by Chela Gutierrez, another long time friend. Now Che is unlike most women. That is an understatement! Her arms are adorned with colorful tattoos from her wrists to her shoulders. She is extremely fit and is a former fire fighter for the City of Savannah. She is a very talented writer who has been published in the Oxford American. She has a wicked sense of humor and in her past would often show up at my house … just because. Whenever she wanted to! Thanksgiving dinner? It didn’t matter she would walk in unannounced and uninvited and take a seat at the table.
She and I also got into a letter writing dual in CONNECT Savannah a decade ago when she referred to “the old men at the Breakfast Club” that she sometimes hangs with. That merited a response which led to her making other wild allegations which led to another well thought out intellectual argument. Finally publisher Jim Morekis saw that readership was plummeting so he stopped publishing us.
Terry and I took our seats and when Che wasn’t joining us between doing her job and actually waiting on customers, we talked into the night. It had been a while since we had actually been together so there was a lot of catching up to do. Terry reads my blogs on a daily basis and was both current at what had been happening in my life and had lots of questions at the same time.
He was very curious about the responses my daily writing generates and asked at one point, “Does it feel like a ministry?”
And he stopped me in my tracks. It does. My ministerial roots are somehow manifesting themselves over the Internet. And lots of people, many whom I know and many who are new friends, chime in to celebrate, laugh, cry or resonate with the things that are going on.
Terry nodded and advised that as I move forward that I understand that one of the by-products of the blogs is “community is born” which is one of the holiest of things. “A lot of us benefit from it,” he said, “just like you are benefited by writing it.”
We finished dinner and took a walk down the beach so that the community was no longer virtual but flesh and blood. A few weeks ago the friends that I went to college with and I did the same thing. After reconnecting on-line, and multiple posts on my blogs, we held a reunion at my house and it was a wonderful magical day of community of love. Today I am having lunch with a special friend that I met because of my daily confessions. Even Che and I read one another’s stuff and we celebrated one another last night because it had been a long time since we had seen one another and we embraced when we did.
I could go on and on. My daily confessions lead to conversations which lead to community. And in increasing doses, the word becomes flesh, and we get together and we laugh and we talk and we hug and we love.
He reminded me that the first time we met, as he announced new funding opportunities for the state, that I handed him a cigar.
So I stood out from every other potential applicant. He evidently enjoyed the cigar, for a decade DCA became Union Mission’s largest funding source, and Terry and I have become dear friends.
He drove out to my house on Tybee and we visited on my beloved back deck for a bit before making our way to Marlin Monroe’s for supper. Marlin’s has an outside deck literally in the sand dunes and a nice view of the ocean. It makes for a good setting for good conversation and food.
As soon as we entered the deck we were met by Chela Gutierrez, another long time friend. Now Che is unlike most women. That is an understatement! Her arms are adorned with colorful tattoos from her wrists to her shoulders. She is extremely fit and is a former fire fighter for the City of Savannah. She is a very talented writer who has been published in the Oxford American. She has a wicked sense of humor and in her past would often show up at my house … just because. Whenever she wanted to! Thanksgiving dinner? It didn’t matter she would walk in unannounced and uninvited and take a seat at the table.
She and I also got into a letter writing dual in CONNECT Savannah a decade ago when she referred to “the old men at the Breakfast Club” that she sometimes hangs with. That merited a response which led to her making other wild allegations which led to another well thought out intellectual argument. Finally publisher Jim Morekis saw that readership was plummeting so he stopped publishing us.
Terry and I took our seats and when Che wasn’t joining us between doing her job and actually waiting on customers, we talked into the night. It had been a while since we had actually been together so there was a lot of catching up to do. Terry reads my blogs on a daily basis and was both current at what had been happening in my life and had lots of questions at the same time.
He was very curious about the responses my daily writing generates and asked at one point, “Does it feel like a ministry?”
And he stopped me in my tracks. It does. My ministerial roots are somehow manifesting themselves over the Internet. And lots of people, many whom I know and many who are new friends, chime in to celebrate, laugh, cry or resonate with the things that are going on.
Terry nodded and advised that as I move forward that I understand that one of the by-products of the blogs is “community is born” which is one of the holiest of things. “A lot of us benefit from it,” he said, “just like you are benefited by writing it.”
We finished dinner and took a walk down the beach so that the community was no longer virtual but flesh and blood. A few weeks ago the friends that I went to college with and I did the same thing. After reconnecting on-line, and multiple posts on my blogs, we held a reunion at my house and it was a wonderful magical day of community of love. Today I am having lunch with a special friend that I met because of my daily confessions. Even Che and I read one another’s stuff and we celebrated one another last night because it had been a long time since we had seen one another and we embraced when we did.
I could go on and on. My daily confessions lead to conversations which lead to community. And in increasing doses, the word becomes flesh, and we get together and we laugh and we talk and we hug and we love.
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