Being the Rev

While the ordination was bestowed upon me by a collection of Southern Baptists, including my Granddaddy, the Rev. Ira V. Carver, the title was given by a bunch of homeless guys.

"Hey Rev," says Sonny Broughton, a tiny little man with a very big mouth.

There were five of them who comprised the inner circle introducing me to the world of homelessness.

Chester Fawbush, Lorenz, Bruce, R.P and Sonny, all homeless, were some of the most funny, conniving, creative and wonderful friends and they're the ones who named me "Rev."

"Hey," I ask strolling into the Church social hall converted into a Day Shelter for people with nowhere to go, "have you been drinking?"

"Naw," the elderly Chester replies, "I've already quit six times today."

The others howl and I have no idea whatsoever how to respond.

It was a magic and wonderful time ... until Chester dies ... Bruce falls off a bridge and drowns ... R.P. disappears and Sonny never wakes up from his bed above the bar.

Senseless deaths made me try harder to save homeless people and for 30 years I gave everything I knew how to not lose anymore.

Somehow the name stuck across time and cities.

"Hey Rev, can you ...?" is how most conversations began.

Of course they gave me every bit as much as I gave them.

Once I wanted to gain entry to a private Republican function with lots of security to keep liberals and other non-believers out and standing on the outside I suddenly see someone I know staring me.

"Hey Rev," she calls wearing clean black pants and a crisp white shirt carrying a case of Scotch, "What in the world are you doing here?"

I explain and smiling she boasts, "I can get you in. Carry this!"

Thrusting the Scotch in my hands she orders, "Follow me."

Leading me to the service elevator we ride to the 3rd floor ballroom and ... I'm in ... standing face to face with Newt Gingrich ... who wants a drink.

"Anytime Rev," she says retrieving the Scotch and walks away.

It pays to be the Rev.

Actually I went from being merely "Rev" to "The Rev" when Chicago Bob so christened me on the Pier at Tybee during a "Bored" meeting.

Johnny O, Trolley Joe, Whitley Reynolds, Dean, Ohio Bob and Chicago Bob and I met on the Pier for cocktails, conversations and lots of lies every chance we had. Judy O, Johnny O's wife, thinks we're boring so she christened us "The Bored Meeting."

"Hey," Chicago Bob says sprinting across the Pier to the bar, "it's the Rev! You look great! Who's your mortician?"

Chicago Bob always thought he was funny and the rest of us play along with it.

So, on island, I'm "The Rev."

I don't have to do much.

There's the occasional wedding or funeral (I did both Chicago Bob's and Trolley Joe's on the same Pier) ... if no one can think of anything to say at a public function they'll call on me (unless a politicians around) ... plus I'm an occasional leader at Bar Church ... and people seek me out privately to counsel, lay on hands and pray or just sit and sip in silence because they need someone.

There's  no money in it but it can be as rewarding as Hell!

So I tell you all of that to tell you this.

My wife Sarah ... plays the piano.