The bells sound cold and make me think of winter and snow and other things I don't like. I've been left out in the cold, blown away by people I loved and heard promises of good tidings and joy only to miss them somehow.
I know the Catholic Church has bells but this is the first time I've ever heard them ring on a Sunday morning. I wonder what in the world has the Catholics in a tizzy today?
It can't be the Methodists ... they're not up yet. The Episcopalians, former Southern Baptists who converted to social drinkers, are preparing for shots at morning Communion. The Baptists pretty much keep to themselves.
Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music on weekends, is setting up at Bennie's for Bar Church. People will create a congregation by stopping in on their way home from last night or stumble in after they wake up wherever they happen to wake up ... and with whoever they happen to wake up beside.
Winston, the little gay dog, wearing an obnoxious red sweater is shivering under my dangling bare feet on the beloved back deck. Goddess is passed out under the Chiminea. The breeze is ever so slight, not enough to push Fran's thousand shades of green around. Waves sing morning Hymns in the distance.
It's a muted morning.
"This is the day that the Lord has made ... let us rejoice and be glad in it."
"You look naughty but I'm sure you're nice," could be a Tybee mantra.
It must be holy because the damn bells are still ringing!
Who wants sad when they can have happy?
Christmas in the sand beats the hell out of anything else.
And Tybee does Christmas pretty good!
The sun suddenly explodes out of the fog. The bells stop ringing as the waves crashing into the shore get louder. It's hard not to believe in God when it all happens at once.
Christmas is coming ... and its best when in comes in the sand.
