One of the funny things about Face Book is how easy it is to connect with people who meant something to you even if it was just for a brief time. Yesterday, out of nowhere, was an instant message from Marv. Years ago, I was in my office at Union Mission working ... music blasting from the radio, he walked in for his appointment.
"You like Santana," he asked?
And it was indeed Carlos Santana's "Shaman" filling the room.
"I do," I replied as he took his seat.
Marv sat down smiling and said, "I do too."
So the both of us just sat there and listened to really good music together.
That is what I remember about Marv. He was homeless, living in Grace House, and we grooved to Santana that day. If he ever got around to asking me for anything I don't remember what it was.
Anyway, out of the blue yesterday, he was messaging me on Facebook reminding me of then. He's doing fine now, living in Effingham County, married and with kids and happy. He wished me well and I wished him well and that was that.
Earlier in the day Ben Barnes, former God of banking, Union Mission Board member and dear friend, and I talked on the phone. He'd been trying to track me down for days but I've been lying low ... staying away from my past. He began telling me of a visit to Union Mission because his wife Bettye had been asked to do something and I interrupted him.
"Hey Ben, lets not go there. That was then. This is now. I'd rather talk about now."
There was silence for several seconds before he asked if I've talked to Herb or Philip.
"No," I told him, "but my daughter Chelsea just graduated from the University of Georgia." Then he moved on to telling me about his grandsons and we made plans to get together next week.
Then Marv wrote. And Henry sent me a You Tube video of George Carlin's "Dealing with Homelessness" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNHIETXh4Vw). Then Kenneth sent me a message. Jimmie showed up at Bar Church yesterday where I was preaching.
These are all people who used to be homeless but aren't anymore. I knew them then and I know them now. They are very intentional about staying in touch. So are a lot of people who are still homeless. They go to the library, wait until a computer is available, log onto Face Book and get around to messaging me.
They make me talk about then ... but from a "now" point of view.
Our lives were intensely intertwined. It took a lot of people to make Union the incredible thing that it was. I had deep relationships with hundreds of people. Some said I was like a "son to them". They've gone away. So have the people I worked with. They're busy with their own lives and making things that were once whole separate. And the politicians are all busy looking after their own opportunities for "continued service" and I'm no longer in a position to assist them so I don't hear from them.
But the homeless people remain.
They remain relentless.
Though I can no longer do the things that I used to do, they remember when I could.
And they let me know.
And it is humbling when they do.
And it teaches me a lot about people who really are good ... and people who are not.
Showing posts with label Best Practice Spirituality Leadership. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Best Practice Spirituality Leadership. Show all posts
Monday, December 19, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Sometimes you Can always get what you want
On a beautiful island day I will climb into the car for the four hour drive to Athens. My baby girl graduates from college tomorrow. It all happened so quickly. She was just born yesterday. Or so it seems.
She is named after a line from the Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get what you want." "I went down to the Chelsea drug store ..." Because she was born on Tybee Island the spelling had to have "SEA" in her name and we were very insistent on the birth certificate about this.
And there's no question she's beach girl! I've logged more time sitting in the sand with her than I have anybody else in the world (and that's saying a lot!). Before she could walk I'd sling her on my shoulders and we'd top the crosswalk on 10th Street and find our spot. She'd roll around in the sand as I sat there as we basked in the sunshine with the waves singing to us.
This continued until she went to the University of Georgia.
Before she did, we went diving in the Keys, called the Vatican one night while we were there, and ... became friends as adults.
I'd see her a lot during football season but then not so much throughout the rest of the year. Some in the summer, but she was off creating her own life. She's engaged and the funniest thing is that her fiancee Sam goes to Georgia Tech and she is moving there in a few weeks. I asked if she would be hanging UGA flags as curtains in windows but Sam had already anticipated such a move and told her no.
I think that she'll do it anyway.
Conventionality is not a family trait.
It's an interesting point of life when you understand that all of your children are grown. How did this happen? I am much too young to have grown children.
Nevertheless ...
She remains fun to watch. She always has been. I would sit late into the night watching her sleep in her crib with her entire head cradled in my hand. She served me a thousand cups of imaginary tea. Together we overcame Jellyfish (though she remains scared by the whole thing). The travel bug got passed on and she lived in Italy for a while and is feverishly planning a trip to Greece. And the girl can throw a football with a perfect spiral (just ask Ken Wade who she hit squarely in the face one day when he told her that girls can't thrown).
Tonight we'll gather for dinner in Athens and celebrate all of the things that have been.
Then tomorrow, I sit and watch her march across a stage and into her life.
I love you baby.
Keep doing it the way that you've been doing it.
She is named after a line from the Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get what you want." "I went down to the Chelsea drug store ..." Because she was born on Tybee Island the spelling had to have "SEA" in her name and we were very insistent on the birth certificate about this.
And there's no question she's beach girl! I've logged more time sitting in the sand with her than I have anybody else in the world (and that's saying a lot!). Before she could walk I'd sling her on my shoulders and we'd top the crosswalk on 10th Street and find our spot. She'd roll around in the sand as I sat there as we basked in the sunshine with the waves singing to us.
This continued until she went to the University of Georgia.
Before she did, we went diving in the Keys, called the Vatican one night while we were there, and ... became friends as adults.
I'd see her a lot during football season but then not so much throughout the rest of the year. Some in the summer, but she was off creating her own life. She's engaged and the funniest thing is that her fiancee Sam goes to Georgia Tech and she is moving there in a few weeks. I asked if she would be hanging UGA flags as curtains in windows but Sam had already anticipated such a move and told her no.
I think that she'll do it anyway.
Conventionality is not a family trait.
It's an interesting point of life when you understand that all of your children are grown. How did this happen? I am much too young to have grown children.
Nevertheless ...
She remains fun to watch. She always has been. I would sit late into the night watching her sleep in her crib with her entire head cradled in my hand. She served me a thousand cups of imaginary tea. Together we overcame Jellyfish (though she remains scared by the whole thing). The travel bug got passed on and she lived in Italy for a while and is feverishly planning a trip to Greece. And the girl can throw a football with a perfect spiral (just ask Ken Wade who she hit squarely in the face one day when he told her that girls can't thrown).
Tonight we'll gather for dinner in Athens and celebrate all of the things that have been.
Then tomorrow, I sit and watch her march across a stage and into her life.
I love you baby.
Keep doing it the way that you've been doing it.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
The Stable In My Heart
"Sad faces painted over with those magazine smiles ..." is a song line that I've always loved. It's especially pronounced during the holiday season. Try as we might to embody a Norman Rockwell version of Christmas, it often ends up being a different kind of painting.
We drag out the plastic Jesus, the inflatable Snowman, the electric icicles and the synthetic garland. It's either white lights, colored lights or lights out. The scent of a fresh tree slowly dies in the stand or a spray can seeks to achieve the same. The radio blast endless versions of the same songs to make the holiday bright or make you want to get a knife.
The stuff that happens in kitchens is amazing. Some of the greatest culinary achievements of all time occur. These are balanced with the worst culinary failures. Countless last minute trips to the grocery for things long forgotten take place. Of course the lines are long ... and the one ingredient we need will be the one item not on the shelf.
There are parties to attend, families to reunite, presents to purchase and return. Some of the greatest acting occurs as many of these presents are opened ... and some of the most heartfelt moments will also occur as the paper is ripped off the box.
Churches are gearing up for the big services. Choirs are practicing cantatas which will be sung once and then forgotten. Ministers are salivating at the annual chance to "be the center of the universe for twenty minutes" as my friend Guy Sayles once put it, in front of the largest audience of the year.
The poor are actually remembered during the days leading up to the birthday of Christ, then they're put away with the rest of the decorations. Nursing homes are decorated and the visitation traffic is up, but then it quickly is down again. Hospitals try to diagnose good cheer but most prescriptions will go unfilled.
It makes me mindful.
The beginning this was so different. Joe the construction worker was hauling his pregnant wife back to his hometown because the government had ordered everybody to that. Of course Joe's family had all moved so there was no place to stay. Hotels were jacking up their prices and if there was a place to call a room they rented it. Lobbies, Broom closets, laundry rooms and even Stables out back were all suddenly revenue generating. It was good for the economy.
But at the same time ... the stars shined brightly in the sky whenever the clouds recessed. Wise guys came and went. Choirs sang ... some heavenly and others straight from hell. Mangers will full or empty
I turn and look at the lone Christmas decoration in my house. It sits beside the flat screen television. It is an ornament of a house with snow on the roof and a Snowman holding a reef standing in the front door as to welcome everyone end. It is warm and fuzzy. Above the front door are the words "New Home 2011".
It is that.
It's all new.
Christmas and how I celebrate it is being created on a daily basis. The family I'm doing it with are not blood related though we've grown to love one another deeply. The old has been thrown away and the new is being ... created. It's like a baby being born.
It's funny. I'm very much caught up in the moment. Not the Spirit of Christmas so much, but the understanding of what I have, who loves me and who I love. I perceive the opportunities lying in front of me while continuing to chronicle the good and the bad of the things I've done. This Christmas is much different from the past several which were much different from the several before that. Next Christmas will be a cosmic shift from this one.
But I'll tell you something ... the smile on my face is not a painted one ... or one from a magazine ... and it's certainly not anything Norman Rockwell could ever comprehend ... because it was given birth in the Stable in my heart.
We drag out the plastic Jesus, the inflatable Snowman, the electric icicles and the synthetic garland. It's either white lights, colored lights or lights out. The scent of a fresh tree slowly dies in the stand or a spray can seeks to achieve the same. The radio blast endless versions of the same songs to make the holiday bright or make you want to get a knife.
The stuff that happens in kitchens is amazing. Some of the greatest culinary achievements of all time occur. These are balanced with the worst culinary failures. Countless last minute trips to the grocery for things long forgotten take place. Of course the lines are long ... and the one ingredient we need will be the one item not on the shelf.
There are parties to attend, families to reunite, presents to purchase and return. Some of the greatest acting occurs as many of these presents are opened ... and some of the most heartfelt moments will also occur as the paper is ripped off the box.
Churches are gearing up for the big services. Choirs are practicing cantatas which will be sung once and then forgotten. Ministers are salivating at the annual chance to "be the center of the universe for twenty minutes" as my friend Guy Sayles once put it, in front of the largest audience of the year.
The poor are actually remembered during the days leading up to the birthday of Christ, then they're put away with the rest of the decorations. Nursing homes are decorated and the visitation traffic is up, but then it quickly is down again. Hospitals try to diagnose good cheer but most prescriptions will go unfilled.
It makes me mindful.
The beginning this was so different. Joe the construction worker was hauling his pregnant wife back to his hometown because the government had ordered everybody to that. Of course Joe's family had all moved so there was no place to stay. Hotels were jacking up their prices and if there was a place to call a room they rented it. Lobbies, Broom closets, laundry rooms and even Stables out back were all suddenly revenue generating. It was good for the economy.
But at the same time ... the stars shined brightly in the sky whenever the clouds recessed. Wise guys came and went. Choirs sang ... some heavenly and others straight from hell. Mangers will full or empty
I turn and look at the lone Christmas decoration in my house. It sits beside the flat screen television. It is an ornament of a house with snow on the roof and a Snowman holding a reef standing in the front door as to welcome everyone end. It is warm and fuzzy. Above the front door are the words "New Home 2011".
It is that.
It's all new.
Christmas and how I celebrate it is being created on a daily basis. The family I'm doing it with are not blood related though we've grown to love one another deeply. The old has been thrown away and the new is being ... created. It's like a baby being born.
It's funny. I'm very much caught up in the moment. Not the Spirit of Christmas so much, but the understanding of what I have, who loves me and who I love. I perceive the opportunities lying in front of me while continuing to chronicle the good and the bad of the things I've done. This Christmas is much different from the past several which were much different from the several before that. Next Christmas will be a cosmic shift from this one.
But I'll tell you something ... the smile on my face is not a painted one ... or one from a magazine ... and it's certainly not anything Norman Rockwell could ever comprehend ... because it was given birth in the Stable in my heart.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
This One
I hit the road again tomorrow. After a three week reprieve from travel, it's back to the airport to Baltimore for a meeting of the "Community Health Leaders" of which somehow I remain one. There are 180 of us from throughout the country who have been recognized for improvements in how health care works in the United States.
No one there thinks inside of the box so these are my kind of people. "Mama always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun, but Mama ... that's where the fun is!" That's the mantra of this group.
At this point in my life, I've been most everywhere I've ever wanted to go. A lot of places, I've been to numerous times, so much so, that most cities look the same to me. Sure, some are better than others but after a while they all seem the same. When I hit one, I try to find pubs or bookstores where locals hang out which is a lot more fun than sitting in a conference room or a hotel meeting space which all look alike.
This week, I've received texts, phone calls and emails from my St. Martin friends. "Where are you?" was the common question. Last year at this time I was there. I suppose they expected me back which is nice. After you've lived through not being wanted you learn what a wonderful thing it is to be wanted.
And I love St. Martin as much as I love anyplace. It's up there with Tybee Island for sure. Savannah used to be way high on the list but it's dropped out of the "Top Ten." Stevenson, Washington took it's place.
Havana, Cuba comes next followed by Hope Town in the Bahamas. I still get a rush in Washington, D.C. and Prague in the Chec Republic is the world's most beautiful city. New York City remains though I no longer love it as much as I used to. Athens, Georgia in the fall will never leave the list and of course, Key West rounds it all out.
Over the last year something has happened. The day before I leave has become a day of dread. I travel so much I have weeks and weeks of dread. There is a weariness to the road and honestly, I've really become a homebody. Goddess and I are quite content watering the flowers and taking walks to make sure that Shirley's sad little holy dock hasn't fallen into the marsh.
This tiny collection of friends somehow morphed into family last year and I miss them when I am gone ... and the missing grows more intense.
Then there is this one ... I miss her most of all. Days are no longer right when we cannot share them. It is not the day's fault, nor is it anybody else's ... save perhaps the Gods conspiring against us ... or forcing us to remember that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder ... though "waiting is the hardest part" according to the prophet Tom Petty and ... waiting is a bitch.
I'm fifty-five years old and have done a lot in those years. I've seen the world and liked most of it. I've been glorified and vilified. I've been crucified and I've ascended to heaven on more than one occasion. I've gotten standing ovations and have been cussed out in public. I've held the hands of the dying and I've also watched the dead come back to life. I have healed and I have been so hurt that I couldn't stand in my own house. I've been so public and now ... I am private. I used to chase things ... not I wait on them to come to me.
Today I ponder these things. It is the dread of leaving the things you love.
I have too of course. There is money to be made and possibilities to explore. But I do these things for what is coming. Not for what's been left behind ... those are just stories to tell.
The God's have stopped conspiring and Paul McCartney is now singing a Hymn.
"Did I ever take you in my arms, look you in the eye and tell you that I Do? Did I ever open up my heart and let you look inside? If I never did it, I was only waiting for a moment that didn't come. There could never be a better moment than this one ... this one."
I love you.
No one there thinks inside of the box so these are my kind of people. "Mama always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun, but Mama ... that's where the fun is!" That's the mantra of this group.
At this point in my life, I've been most everywhere I've ever wanted to go. A lot of places, I've been to numerous times, so much so, that most cities look the same to me. Sure, some are better than others but after a while they all seem the same. When I hit one, I try to find pubs or bookstores where locals hang out which is a lot more fun than sitting in a conference room or a hotel meeting space which all look alike.
This week, I've received texts, phone calls and emails from my St. Martin friends. "Where are you?" was the common question. Last year at this time I was there. I suppose they expected me back which is nice. After you've lived through not being wanted you learn what a wonderful thing it is to be wanted.
And I love St. Martin as much as I love anyplace. It's up there with Tybee Island for sure. Savannah used to be way high on the list but it's dropped out of the "Top Ten." Stevenson, Washington took it's place.
Havana, Cuba comes next followed by Hope Town in the Bahamas. I still get a rush in Washington, D.C. and Prague in the Chec Republic is the world's most beautiful city. New York City remains though I no longer love it as much as I used to. Athens, Georgia in the fall will never leave the list and of course, Key West rounds it all out.
Over the last year something has happened. The day before I leave has become a day of dread. I travel so much I have weeks and weeks of dread. There is a weariness to the road and honestly, I've really become a homebody. Goddess and I are quite content watering the flowers and taking walks to make sure that Shirley's sad little holy dock hasn't fallen into the marsh.
This tiny collection of friends somehow morphed into family last year and I miss them when I am gone ... and the missing grows more intense.
Then there is this one ... I miss her most of all. Days are no longer right when we cannot share them. It is not the day's fault, nor is it anybody else's ... save perhaps the Gods conspiring against us ... or forcing us to remember that absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder ... though "waiting is the hardest part" according to the prophet Tom Petty and ... waiting is a bitch.
I'm fifty-five years old and have done a lot in those years. I've seen the world and liked most of it. I've been glorified and vilified. I've been crucified and I've ascended to heaven on more than one occasion. I've gotten standing ovations and have been cussed out in public. I've held the hands of the dying and I've also watched the dead come back to life. I have healed and I have been so hurt that I couldn't stand in my own house. I've been so public and now ... I am private. I used to chase things ... not I wait on them to come to me.
Today I ponder these things. It is the dread of leaving the things you love.
I have too of course. There is money to be made and possibilities to explore. But I do these things for what is coming. Not for what's been left behind ... those are just stories to tell.
The God's have stopped conspiring and Paul McCartney is now singing a Hymn.
"Did I ever take you in my arms, look you in the eye and tell you that I Do? Did I ever open up my heart and let you look inside? If I never did it, I was only waiting for a moment that didn't come. There could never be a better moment than this one ... this one."
I love you.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Are you ready for some football?
It began last year I suppose when I slept walked through a football season (as did my team at the University of Georgia). This season is shaping up to be a continuation. I opted out of attending the game in Athens this past weekend because ... I was tired and other things were more important.
My Father is currently rolling over in his grave ... well if he had a grave ... he's at my sister's Angi's house and she pulls him out for every UGA game, sits him in his chair and pops a beer next to him. He's already followed more football than I have this season though he died two seasons ago.
On Saturday I purchased the UGA game and ended up watching like two minutes of it. Other things were more important (it is true in my defense that Georgia was playing Coastal Carolina which is a middle school team. On the other hand I can hear by dear friend Bill Shearouse quote my friend Pat O'Connell when his wife asked him why he was traveling to a meaningless game when she wanted him to stay at home. He stared at her incredulously and scolded her "What if everybody felt that way?" Then he left her standing in the kitchen and drove the five hours to a meaningless college football game).
Then yesterday I stayed in bed though the Pro games were on. Last night I sat on the couch to watch the Atlanta Falcons play host to Michael Vick and the Eagles and promptly fell asleep. At the Breakfast Club this morning I was informed that I missed one of the most exciting games ever.
Who knew?
Well probably everybody, except me because I was asleep.
It is true that I am road weary. I've been all over the place over the past few months. My time at home has been counted in days and not weeks. Goddess remains permanently pissed at me. I haven't been this tired in a long time. I find myself missing the luxury of no-agenda. Suddenly I've got way to much agenda! I didn't want to go to work this morning ... I had to drag my ass out of bed ... but I had to go ... all the way from the bedroom to the beloved back deck.
Well, I went to the Breakfast Club in between because I ... always go to the Breakfast Club first.
I'm in the office today and tomorrow on the beloved back deck where God has turned the air conditioner down and I'm not happy about it at all. Then Wednesday morning I get on another plane ... this one for Minneapolis/St. Paul where I'm speaking and introducing speakers for the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. I come back home on Saturday.
(I just checked the weather for Minneapolis/St. Paul and ... it's freaking cold!!! ... though it'll probably be like Denver last week ... from the 30th floor conference room that I was in I could see the mountains way over there... somewhere.)
I should not complain. At the Breakfast Club this morning, Jodee was listening to the crap talk radio crap that he always listens to before real customers arrive and the music is then changed into ... MUSIC!!! Anyway it was some conservative Republican stuff and the guy droned on and on about how poverty is at the highest level in a thousand years, Job Fairs are more attended than church, social security is being spent faster than tickets at Chuckie Cheese's and the entire nation has gone to hell ... since Bill Clinton was President and we had a surplus, everybody was working and oral sex was front page news.
So I'm am not going to complain.
Actually the sun just popped out. I have a lunch date. I just threw my shoes over the railing of the back deck. Goddess is eating my socks. James Taylor is singing to me over Pandora. Come on God ... give me ten more degrees and I'm losing the laundry.
So we all gotta do what we gotta do. For the moment I'm working and it is good work. Rewarding stuff! I have meetings scheduled, conference calls to be a part of, reports to write, money to raise and worlds to save.
Sigh ...
I'm ready for some football.
My Father is currently rolling over in his grave ... well if he had a grave ... he's at my sister's Angi's house and she pulls him out for every UGA game, sits him in his chair and pops a beer next to him. He's already followed more football than I have this season though he died two seasons ago.
On Saturday I purchased the UGA game and ended up watching like two minutes of it. Other things were more important (it is true in my defense that Georgia was playing Coastal Carolina which is a middle school team. On the other hand I can hear by dear friend Bill Shearouse quote my friend Pat O'Connell when his wife asked him why he was traveling to a meaningless game when she wanted him to stay at home. He stared at her incredulously and scolded her "What if everybody felt that way?" Then he left her standing in the kitchen and drove the five hours to a meaningless college football game).
Then yesterday I stayed in bed though the Pro games were on. Last night I sat on the couch to watch the Atlanta Falcons play host to Michael Vick and the Eagles and promptly fell asleep. At the Breakfast Club this morning I was informed that I missed one of the most exciting games ever.
Who knew?
Well probably everybody, except me because I was asleep.
It is true that I am road weary. I've been all over the place over the past few months. My time at home has been counted in days and not weeks. Goddess remains permanently pissed at me. I haven't been this tired in a long time. I find myself missing the luxury of no-agenda. Suddenly I've got way to much agenda! I didn't want to go to work this morning ... I had to drag my ass out of bed ... but I had to go ... all the way from the bedroom to the beloved back deck.
Well, I went to the Breakfast Club in between because I ... always go to the Breakfast Club first.
I'm in the office today and tomorrow on the beloved back deck where God has turned the air conditioner down and I'm not happy about it at all. Then Wednesday morning I get on another plane ... this one for Minneapolis/St. Paul where I'm speaking and introducing speakers for the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. I come back home on Saturday.
(I just checked the weather for Minneapolis/St. Paul and ... it's freaking cold!!! ... though it'll probably be like Denver last week ... from the 30th floor conference room that I was in I could see the mountains way over there... somewhere.)
I should not complain. At the Breakfast Club this morning, Jodee was listening to the crap talk radio crap that he always listens to before real customers arrive and the music is then changed into ... MUSIC!!! Anyway it was some conservative Republican stuff and the guy droned on and on about how poverty is at the highest level in a thousand years, Job Fairs are more attended than church, social security is being spent faster than tickets at Chuckie Cheese's and the entire nation has gone to hell ... since Bill Clinton was President and we had a surplus, everybody was working and oral sex was front page news.
So I'm am not going to complain.
Actually the sun just popped out. I have a lunch date. I just threw my shoes over the railing of the back deck. Goddess is eating my socks. James Taylor is singing to me over Pandora. Come on God ... give me ten more degrees and I'm losing the laundry.
So we all gotta do what we gotta do. For the moment I'm working and it is good work. Rewarding stuff! I have meetings scheduled, conference calls to be a part of, reports to write, money to raise and worlds to save.
Sigh ...
I'm ready for some football.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Surf's Up
Last year at this time I sat pretty much alone in an Athens hotel room going through the motions of a football season. It was the first after I'd found myself suddenly single and I was sad. I'd also just left a long career and wasn't certain of what would be next. What had previously been a time of family and celebration was suddenly sullen and a reminder of all that I'd lost.
Last night however I was dancing in a heap of sweat as part of a mosh pit in a club called "The 80's". All of the music was from that period so I danced like a virgin for the very first time with an angel who is a centerfold. Surrounded by my children, old and new friends. Standing on a stage we may as well been college students again though each of us have long passed that part of life. The joys of youth were again exploding in my heart.
This morning my hotel room looks like a bomb exploded in a laundry basket. Clothes are everywhere. The pullout couch is fully occupied. Body parts seem to be sticking out of everywhere. Coolers are leaking on the floor and evidently a liquor store was robbed and the entire inventory stuck underneath the window. After finally extracting myself from a lovely nights sleep washed in dried sweat and pleasantness, it too me fifteen minutes to find my travel bag.
Desperately needing coffee, I quickly showed and made my way down from the fifth floor of the Holiday Inn and stumbled into the restaurant. Everybody else at the Holiday Inn had the same idea at the same time so there was a long line. I recognized many of the people around me as the parents of the people that we had been dancing with last night.
"What a difference a year makes," my friend Ted Hardgrove once told me as we visited a program in Orlando that had worked hard for a year to make themselves eligible for support from a giant foundation.
Sipping coffee in a crowded and very unlonely room ... I marvel.
My extended family back on Tybee is waiting for the return to the endless celebrations that just will not end. The work that I'm doing is full of demands and needs which are increasingly becoming fun and challenging again. Bar Church wants me to do stuff. Our band, Fresh Live Lobster, needs to practice. Goddess wants to walk. Shirley wants to have dinner. Stacy and I have planned drinks. The Bored meeting needs to ... move to Marlin's in spite of Roma getting a new chair!
There is a game today too.
But I marvel at the explosion of happiness, joy and love that surround me. I've learned to ride it like a wave. The wave controls the speed and the direction. I enjoy the ride. Waves don't last forever ... nothing does ... but for now ... "Tubular Dude"!
Last night however I was dancing in a heap of sweat as part of a mosh pit in a club called "The 80's". All of the music was from that period so I danced like a virgin for the very first time with an angel who is a centerfold. Surrounded by my children, old and new friends. Standing on a stage we may as well been college students again though each of us have long passed that part of life. The joys of youth were again exploding in my heart.
This morning my hotel room looks like a bomb exploded in a laundry basket. Clothes are everywhere. The pullout couch is fully occupied. Body parts seem to be sticking out of everywhere. Coolers are leaking on the floor and evidently a liquor store was robbed and the entire inventory stuck underneath the window. After finally extracting myself from a lovely nights sleep washed in dried sweat and pleasantness, it too me fifteen minutes to find my travel bag.
Desperately needing coffee, I quickly showed and made my way down from the fifth floor of the Holiday Inn and stumbled into the restaurant. Everybody else at the Holiday Inn had the same idea at the same time so there was a long line. I recognized many of the people around me as the parents of the people that we had been dancing with last night.
"What a difference a year makes," my friend Ted Hardgrove once told me as we visited a program in Orlando that had worked hard for a year to make themselves eligible for support from a giant foundation.
Sipping coffee in a crowded and very unlonely room ... I marvel.
My extended family back on Tybee is waiting for the return to the endless celebrations that just will not end. The work that I'm doing is full of demands and needs which are increasingly becoming fun and challenging again. Bar Church wants me to do stuff. Our band, Fresh Live Lobster, needs to practice. Goddess wants to walk. Shirley wants to have dinner. Stacy and I have planned drinks. The Bored meeting needs to ... move to Marlin's in spite of Roma getting a new chair!
There is a game today too.
But I marvel at the explosion of happiness, joy and love that surround me. I've learned to ride it like a wave. The wave controls the speed and the direction. I enjoy the ride. Waves don't last forever ... nothing does ... but for now ... "Tubular Dude"!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Pedicures
Trolly Joe looked at me with disdain.
"Homo," he said.
"Could be," I shrugged, "but I love 'em."
"Homo," he repeated with an incredulous stare as only he could do over his Styrofoam cup full of rum and coke.
"You're the one wearing an ear ring," I said sipping my beer.
"Homo," he said yet again.
"Joseph," I said, "what is not to love about it? I do it my way. I pack a cooler, make them change the flat screen television from the Lifetime Network to ESPN, open a beer and have an Asian woman do my feet. What's not to love?"
"Homo," he said again.
Then a few months later ... he overcame this prejudice and had his first Pedicure.
"Thank you," he told me the next time we were together. "It was great!"
"Homo," I called him.
Pedicures.
I love 'em!
And I'm having one today to kick off this holiday weekend!
I have to leave the island anyway so I may as well. Besides, it's been a rough week. All of the stuff that I was working on took a crazy turn yesterday afternoon. So I took Goddess for a walk and we ended up on the sad little holy dock and Shirley ... who is now running for God ... actually made an Epiphany. I haven't actually seen Shirley since her last Epiphany so we sat on the dock in the midst of the Marsh and talked as dear friends do.
Then she had to disappear as Epiphanies do to make an appearance at a political function.
Anyway ... who cares?
During today's Pedicure, I will raise a toast to Trolly Joe and tell him that he is welcome. Then I will watch the highlights from last night's kick off of college football season, feel the love around me, and this celebratory weekend will begin.
Feet first!
Head to follow.
"Homo," he said.
"Could be," I shrugged, "but I love 'em."
"Homo," he repeated with an incredulous stare as only he could do over his Styrofoam cup full of rum and coke.
"You're the one wearing an ear ring," I said sipping my beer.
"Homo," he said yet again.
"Joseph," I said, "what is not to love about it? I do it my way. I pack a cooler, make them change the flat screen television from the Lifetime Network to ESPN, open a beer and have an Asian woman do my feet. What's not to love?"
"Homo," he said again.
Then a few months later ... he overcame this prejudice and had his first Pedicure.
"Thank you," he told me the next time we were together. "It was great!"
"Homo," I called him.
Pedicures.
I love 'em!
And I'm having one today to kick off this holiday weekend!
I have to leave the island anyway so I may as well. Besides, it's been a rough week. All of the stuff that I was working on took a crazy turn yesterday afternoon. So I took Goddess for a walk and we ended up on the sad little holy dock and Shirley ... who is now running for God ... actually made an Epiphany. I haven't actually seen Shirley since her last Epiphany so we sat on the dock in the midst of the Marsh and talked as dear friends do.
Then she had to disappear as Epiphanies do to make an appearance at a political function.
Anyway ... who cares?
During today's Pedicure, I will raise a toast to Trolly Joe and tell him that he is welcome. Then I will watch the highlights from last night's kick off of college football season, feel the love around me, and this celebratory weekend will begin.
Feet first!
Head to follow.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Disaster Relief
I have a Board meeting today.
The last one was in Chicago and I sat at a conference room table, with Rebekah sitting beside me as she has for more than a decade taking notes, surrounded by Board members, conducting business.
Today I'll be sitting in Corporate Headquarters on the beloved back deck under the red, yellow, green, brown umbrella, overlooked by Fran's thousand shades of green, picking the dead Hibiscus blooms off the trees so new ones will sprout and giggling at the Palm Tree in our Backyard that has a smiling face on it made of oyster shells, a coconut bra and grass skirt. I'll likely stare at the rock one of my friends placed in the garden with the word "Imagine" inscribed on it.
This is my first totally virtual Board meeting. The members are scattered everywhere ... Copenhagen, Chicago, Houston, Pittsburgh ... so we'll conference call it ... Skype if necessary ... all of us sitting in front of a computer screen communicating in real time ... emailing and instant messaging back and forth as we meet.
On Monday I emailed a 39 page attachment for everyone to review in advance providing financial statements, cash flow projects, fund development strategies, marketing plans, a web page and Face Book design, and the draft agenda for an International Symposium that will be in Philadelphia in October.
Today I will add to that ... there is conflict with one of the partners ... I've been invited to be one of twelve who will meet in Denver in September to offer policy initiatives to Congress on how government can better respond to natural disasters because I have overseen the evacuation of hundreds of homeless people from Savannah during a hurricane ... TWICE!
Then I bitched myself into a meeting with Philip Manango, who was President Bush's "Homeless Czar" in Washington D.C. (Thank you Jack Kingston for your help in arranging this!)
It was OK. Philip wears nice suits.
A couple of years later when another Hurricane obliterated the 9th ward of New Orleans he called me. "Hey Mike," he said in the nice sweet drippy voice of a politician who wants something, "so I guess you've seen the news. Katrina was bad."
"Yep," I say as I make my way through the Boston airport working on funding for Union Mission back home.
"So you've overseen homeless evacuations," he said, "I'm calling around talking to people who have been through it like you have. Any advice?"
I thought for a minute, standing still in front of a Legal's Seafood as people rushed by me.
"Well," I said, "wherever you send them, make sure they have drugs. They'll be there for a long time and a 3 day supply won't cut it. Then they'll go nuts and it'll get ugly."
"Oh wow," he said excitedly, "I hadn't thought of that. Thanks Mike!" and he hung up on me.
So I get to go tell that story now. Plus my answer to how to make the government response to natural disasters better ... drop the President, Speaker of the House, and Mitch McConnell's asses in the middle of whatever is going on ... then mobilize the military, FEMA and the Post Office to go get them and bring back whoever you find along the way!
I wish this wasn't a virtual Board meeting.
I really want to see their faces when they this.
The last one was in Chicago and I sat at a conference room table, with Rebekah sitting beside me as she has for more than a decade taking notes, surrounded by Board members, conducting business.
Today I'll be sitting in Corporate Headquarters on the beloved back deck under the red, yellow, green, brown umbrella, overlooked by Fran's thousand shades of green, picking the dead Hibiscus blooms off the trees so new ones will sprout and giggling at the Palm Tree in our Backyard that has a smiling face on it made of oyster shells, a coconut bra and grass skirt. I'll likely stare at the rock one of my friends placed in the garden with the word "Imagine" inscribed on it.
This is my first totally virtual Board meeting. The members are scattered everywhere ... Copenhagen, Chicago, Houston, Pittsburgh ... so we'll conference call it ... Skype if necessary ... all of us sitting in front of a computer screen communicating in real time ... emailing and instant messaging back and forth as we meet.
On Monday I emailed a 39 page attachment for everyone to review in advance providing financial statements, cash flow projects, fund development strategies, marketing plans, a web page and Face Book design, and the draft agenda for an International Symposium that will be in Philadelphia in October.
Today I will add to that ... there is conflict with one of the partners ... I've been invited to be one of twelve who will meet in Denver in September to offer policy initiatives to Congress on how government can better respond to natural disasters because I have overseen the evacuation of hundreds of homeless people from Savannah during a hurricane ... TWICE!
Then I bitched myself into a meeting with Philip Manango, who was President Bush's "Homeless Czar" in Washington D.C. (Thank you Jack Kingston for your help in arranging this!)
It was OK. Philip wears nice suits.
A couple of years later when another Hurricane obliterated the 9th ward of New Orleans he called me. "Hey Mike," he said in the nice sweet drippy voice of a politician who wants something, "so I guess you've seen the news. Katrina was bad."
"Yep," I say as I make my way through the Boston airport working on funding for Union Mission back home.
"So you've overseen homeless evacuations," he said, "I'm calling around talking to people who have been through it like you have. Any advice?"
I thought for a minute, standing still in front of a Legal's Seafood as people rushed by me.
"Well," I said, "wherever you send them, make sure they have drugs. They'll be there for a long time and a 3 day supply won't cut it. Then they'll go nuts and it'll get ugly."
"Oh wow," he said excitedly, "I hadn't thought of that. Thanks Mike!" and he hung up on me.
So I get to go tell that story now. Plus my answer to how to make the government response to natural disasters better ... drop the President, Speaker of the House, and Mitch McConnell's asses in the middle of whatever is going on ... then mobilize the military, FEMA and the Post Office to go get them and bring back whoever you find along the way!
I wish this wasn't a virtual Board meeting.
I really want to see their faces when they this.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Hungover
The island moved in slow motion yesterday. Everyone was still in recovery from the night before. Even Bar Church worshiped in three-quarters time. No body showed up at the Breakfast Club. The Bored meeting was cut off. Even the sun rose half a hour late rising. The tide struggled to come in.
"There certainly were a lot of magical moments at your party," Patti said to me.
That is certainly true.
There were lots.
But then Sunday morning came down.
Whew it hurt!
Hurt so good! (except for Whitley who had to conduct a reconnaissance mission when he woke up!)
Slowly ... throughout the day ... pictures began to surface ... memories were recovered ... people remembered where their car was ... those who never wear sunglasses had them on ... the sun seemed especially bright ... birds sang especially loud ... a few woke up beside people they did not know ... a few woke up beside someone they did know and were shocked ... Johnny O has to explain the band-aids on his hand and tells the truth ("It was a drumming accident.") ... I have bite marks and have no idea how I got them ...
... and everybody was smiling!
This is a magical place full of magical people ... who do outlandish things with pride.
I mean the Samuel Adams Band took the night off from their regular gig on a Saturday night to play on a porch. Davy the drummer told me later how much more fun it was than a regular Saturday night.
For me it is this adrenaline rush of loving memory ... Songs written and sang just because ... Lots of laughing ... Music everywhere ... Ice cream stuffed in my mouth when I don't eat it ... Dancing ... John Lennon glasses and peace signs ... My dear friend Mitch communing with God in the night looks up to see a naked man fixing a drink ... My friend Sandi doing an in-prov of the Beatles "If I fell in love with you." ... Skinny Dipping ... Kenn Wade.
Life on Tybee Island is this constant Magical Mystery Tour that never stops. It just keeps redefining the word "magic".
In spite the bad things that have happened in my life ... and I've had my share and tried to get them all out of the way at once ... magical nights come and you just stop and look in wonderment ...
at the people who love you ...
and people you love.
"There certainly were a lot of magical moments at your party," Patti said to me.
That is certainly true.
There were lots.
But then Sunday morning came down.
Whew it hurt!
Hurt so good! (except for Whitley who had to conduct a reconnaissance mission when he woke up!)
Slowly ... throughout the day ... pictures began to surface ... memories were recovered ... people remembered where their car was ... those who never wear sunglasses had them on ... the sun seemed especially bright ... birds sang especially loud ... a few woke up beside people they did not know ... a few woke up beside someone they did know and were shocked ... Johnny O has to explain the band-aids on his hand and tells the truth ("It was a drumming accident.") ... I have bite marks and have no idea how I got them ...
... and everybody was smiling!
This is a magical place full of magical people ... who do outlandish things with pride.
I mean the Samuel Adams Band took the night off from their regular gig on a Saturday night to play on a porch. Davy the drummer told me later how much more fun it was than a regular Saturday night.
For me it is this adrenaline rush of loving memory ... Songs written and sang just because ... Lots of laughing ... Music everywhere ... Ice cream stuffed in my mouth when I don't eat it ... Dancing ... John Lennon glasses and peace signs ... My dear friend Mitch communing with God in the night looks up to see a naked man fixing a drink ... My friend Sandi doing an in-prov of the Beatles "If I fell in love with you." ... Skinny Dipping ... Kenn Wade.
Life on Tybee Island is this constant Magical Mystery Tour that never stops. It just keeps redefining the word "magic".
In spite the bad things that have happened in my life ... and I've had my share and tried to get them all out of the way at once ... magical nights come and you just stop and look in wonderment ...
at the people who love you ...
and people you love.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Delusional Sunsets
Goddess Elliott and I watch a lot of sunsets on Shirley's sad little holy dock. Just down the street from A.J.'s the dock sits in the middle of the marsh and has a terrific view of the Back River. Unlike the crowds that flock to A.J.'s for dinner, drinks and watching the sun sink into the ocean, it's normally just Goddess and me sitting on the sad little holy dock. If the tide is low the choirs of mussels sing to us with their ticks and pops. If it's high the green marsh grass is covered and it looks as though God has painted it a greenish blue. Either way it is beautiful.
One of the things about the past year is I really slowed to down so that I could heal. I was tired, broken, hurt and full of a weary sadness that had become all consuming. So I dropped out of most everything and placed myself in this intensive care setting of beloved back decks, Fran's thousand shades of green, and a little holy dock. I cried enough to raise the tides a few feet higher.
I didn't do an especially good job taking care of myself during these days. I really didn't care. So I drank too much and stopped going out. I counted my losses and didn't celebrate much anything. It was a dark time and it seemed as though the sun never shined at all.
Good friends worried about me and went out of their way to make certain I was making it through in spite of it all. This tight little circle wrapped itself around me and slowly their love made its way into my heart and the healing began.
Then because I had time I started taking longer and more thoughtful walks. Shirley's sad little holy dock became a temple of prayer. My back yard became this ongoing work of art. My bicycle became the preferred mode of transportation. For the first time, I could simply explore me.
I'm a much bigger fan of sunrises than I am sunsets. Sunsets are all about the end of the day. It's over. Darkness comes. I know a lot of people who run from the darkness into bars, clubs or other people's arms as a delusional way of fighting off the gloom of their lives. I joined them too many times last year.
Sunrises are all about ... starting again. No matter how much we screwed up yesterday, the sun gives us a new day. "God's greatest gift," says Eli Wiesel, "is the chance to start over." This is from a survivor of Auschwitz ... the concentration camp in Poland. I went there once on a cold snowy February day and the place still reeks of death. Piles of discarded clothes rot outside of the crematoria that burned the bodies. In the midst of that dark experience, I found a candle that the wind had not blown out beside an unlit one. I reached down and lit the candle and a holiness descended that was shockingly unexpected.
Over the last year, something similar occurred.
Months of sunsets were suddenly balanced by sunrises.
I learned to enjoy the sunsets as they are things of beauty but they are delusional ... they make you believe that things have ended. Your day is done. And too many people sink with the sun into a watery grave where there is no light. This is where I was a long time.
Then ... the sun rose the next day. And the next ... and the next ... and I eventually believed that it will keep rising shining light in the darkest of places ... into my heart ... my soul ... eventually all of me.
Sinking suns are full of heaviness and weight. Sunrises are light and easy. Sunsets are endings. Sunrises ... beginnings.
Today with the rising sun, I am beginning again. Light, airy, full of hope and promise.
One of the things about the past year is I really slowed to down so that I could heal. I was tired, broken, hurt and full of a weary sadness that had become all consuming. So I dropped out of most everything and placed myself in this intensive care setting of beloved back decks, Fran's thousand shades of green, and a little holy dock. I cried enough to raise the tides a few feet higher.
I didn't do an especially good job taking care of myself during these days. I really didn't care. So I drank too much and stopped going out. I counted my losses and didn't celebrate much anything. It was a dark time and it seemed as though the sun never shined at all.
Good friends worried about me and went out of their way to make certain I was making it through in spite of it all. This tight little circle wrapped itself around me and slowly their love made its way into my heart and the healing began.
Then because I had time I started taking longer and more thoughtful walks. Shirley's sad little holy dock became a temple of prayer. My back yard became this ongoing work of art. My bicycle became the preferred mode of transportation. For the first time, I could simply explore me.
I'm a much bigger fan of sunrises than I am sunsets. Sunsets are all about the end of the day. It's over. Darkness comes. I know a lot of people who run from the darkness into bars, clubs or other people's arms as a delusional way of fighting off the gloom of their lives. I joined them too many times last year.
Sunrises are all about ... starting again. No matter how much we screwed up yesterday, the sun gives us a new day. "God's greatest gift," says Eli Wiesel, "is the chance to start over." This is from a survivor of Auschwitz ... the concentration camp in Poland. I went there once on a cold snowy February day and the place still reeks of death. Piles of discarded clothes rot outside of the crematoria that burned the bodies. In the midst of that dark experience, I found a candle that the wind had not blown out beside an unlit one. I reached down and lit the candle and a holiness descended that was shockingly unexpected.
Over the last year, something similar occurred.
Months of sunsets were suddenly balanced by sunrises.
I learned to enjoy the sunsets as they are things of beauty but they are delusional ... they make you believe that things have ended. Your day is done. And too many people sink with the sun into a watery grave where there is no light. This is where I was a long time.
Then ... the sun rose the next day. And the next ... and the next ... and I eventually believed that it will keep rising shining light in the darkest of places ... into my heart ... my soul ... eventually all of me.
Sinking suns are full of heaviness and weight. Sunrises are light and easy. Sunsets are endings. Sunrises ... beginnings.
Today with the rising sun, I am beginning again. Light, airy, full of hope and promise.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Would be Stalker
The famous Dr. Jim Withers is a tremendous human being for many reasons but his ability to plan is not one of them; Hence his decision to fly into the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) at 9:40 on a Friday night to come visit me. It is a 45 minute drive to and from the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) from Tybee Island where Sam and Gordon play damn good live music on Friday nights. Hence my decision to have the famous Dr. Withers take a cab to my house.
I waited on the famous Dr. Withers with Goddess on the beloved back deck. Around 11:00 he showed up and we talked and caught up as good friends do. Then I told him it was passed my bed time and left him on the beloved back deck and went to sleep.
When I got up, he got this morning.
“You going running?” he asked.
I don’t know why he would ask such a stupid question. Just because I wore running shorts, a tee shirt and running shoes is no reason to jump to logical conclusions … but he’s a doctor … they do such things.
“No,” I scoffed, “I’m going to the Breakfast Club.”
“It’s too early to eat,” he said scratching his head still trying to wake up.
“Who’s eating?” I replied. “Come on.”
So he got ready and we stumbled in the door marked “Exit-Only” and took our seat at the Counter. A bit later the place opened, quickly filled and this dark haired woman in a bathing seat took the stool next to mine.
Philip, who has red hair, is seven feet tall, and is the master of toast and garnishment at the Breakfast Club said hello and asked me who my friend was.
“This is the famous Dr. Jim Withers,” I announced to the counter. “He is the subject of the movie ‘One Bridge to the Next.’”
“Really,” Philip said as though he was impressed. “I love paying taxes to build bridges so that people can have homes under them.”
Jim looked at him, then looked at me and then looked at him again. “That’s pretty good,” he laughed.
(In truth, Phil and I planned this whole exchange last night when I stopped into the Club and visited with him while he prepped for this morning.)
“You are in a movie,” bikini girl asked between bites of a cheese omelet, grits and dry toast?
Jim nodded then told the counter that it’s about providing health care to people who live under bridges. Philip and I were laughing at one another’s incredible senses of humor.
Then Jim went on to have a serious discussion with those to his left. I sat to his right. Bikini girl sat right of me.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I help him,” I answered.
She asked several questions about street medicine, homelessness, and health care.
Then she told me that she’s from Atlanta, loves God, and thinks that our ministry is great.
“You should call it ‘Bridges of Hope’” she told me.
“Thanks,” I said.
Then she went on to explain how the world is coming to an end in 2020 but most people don’t know that because the stars and planets are going to align in 2003.
This will result in tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, and uncooked Chicken McNuggets. But you have to add the Holy number 7 to it and that’s how you know when the master plan is really going to be finished.
She is a very attractive bikini clad woman sitting there talking to me. She is also an idiot.
My friend Nance the waitress heard all of this, slams her ticket in front of her and says “You’re finished!”
Then Nance looks at me and mouths, “You owe me.”
“You live here?” attractive bikini idiot asks.
“I do.”
Where?
Pointing my thumb over my over my shoulder I show her that way.
“Do you have a place to rent? I’m sick of staying in a hotel,” she says.
“I don’t.”
“Do you ever let people stay with you?” she asks leaning into me.
“I don’t,” I tell her.
“Here’s my name and phone number,” she says writing it on a napkin before paying and leaving.
Nance grabs the napkin. “I’ll take care of that for you,” she explains, “you have enough stalkers.” Then she throws it away.
Jim looks at me.
I shrug my shoulders and the day begins.
I waited on the famous Dr. Withers with Goddess on the beloved back deck. Around 11:00 he showed up and we talked and caught up as good friends do. Then I told him it was passed my bed time and left him on the beloved back deck and went to sleep.
When I got up, he got this morning.
“You going running?” he asked.
I don’t know why he would ask such a stupid question. Just because I wore running shorts, a tee shirt and running shoes is no reason to jump to logical conclusions … but he’s a doctor … they do such things.
“No,” I scoffed, “I’m going to the Breakfast Club.”
“It’s too early to eat,” he said scratching his head still trying to wake up.
“Who’s eating?” I replied. “Come on.”
So he got ready and we stumbled in the door marked “Exit-Only” and took our seat at the Counter. A bit later the place opened, quickly filled and this dark haired woman in a bathing seat took the stool next to mine.
Philip, who has red hair, is seven feet tall, and is the master of toast and garnishment at the Breakfast Club said hello and asked me who my friend was.
“This is the famous Dr. Jim Withers,” I announced to the counter. “He is the subject of the movie ‘One Bridge to the Next.’”
“Really,” Philip said as though he was impressed. “I love paying taxes to build bridges so that people can have homes under them.”
Jim looked at him, then looked at me and then looked at him again. “That’s pretty good,” he laughed.
(In truth, Phil and I planned this whole exchange last night when I stopped into the Club and visited with him while he prepped for this morning.)
“You are in a movie,” bikini girl asked between bites of a cheese omelet, grits and dry toast?
Jim nodded then told the counter that it’s about providing health care to people who live under bridges. Philip and I were laughing at one another’s incredible senses of humor.
Then Jim went on to have a serious discussion with those to his left. I sat to his right. Bikini girl sat right of me.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“I help him,” I answered.
She asked several questions about street medicine, homelessness, and health care.
Then she told me that she’s from Atlanta, loves God, and thinks that our ministry is great.
“You should call it ‘Bridges of Hope’” she told me.
“Thanks,” I said.
Then she went on to explain how the world is coming to an end in 2020 but most people don’t know that because the stars and planets are going to align in 2003.
This will result in tsunamis, hurricanes, tornados, and uncooked Chicken McNuggets. But you have to add the Holy number 7 to it and that’s how you know when the master plan is really going to be finished.
She is a very attractive bikini clad woman sitting there talking to me. She is also an idiot.
My friend Nance the waitress heard all of this, slams her ticket in front of her and says “You’re finished!”
Then Nance looks at me and mouths, “You owe me.”
“You live here?” attractive bikini idiot asks.
“I do.”
Where?
Pointing my thumb over my over my shoulder I show her that way.
“Do you have a place to rent? I’m sick of staying in a hotel,” she says.
“I don’t.”
“Do you ever let people stay with you?” she asks leaning into me.
“I don’t,” I tell her.
“Here’s my name and phone number,” she says writing it on a napkin before paying and leaving.
Nance grabs the napkin. “I’ll take care of that for you,” she explains, “you have enough stalkers.” Then she throws it away.
Jim looks at me.
I shrug my shoulders and the day begins.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Tomorrow
“Does it seem like a year,” she asked me.
I pressed my index finger to my lips which is something that I do when I think. My hair’s getting long enough in the back again where I can also tug on it. I ponder her question.
“No,” I finally answered. “It’s funny because the Sabbatical seems likes its been a year but the resignation from Union Mission doesn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
My fingers go back to my lips and I take my time. “Probably because there are still unresolved issues that I have with certain people associated with it all.”
There was a story in yesterday’s Savannah Morning News about me. It was one year since the last story they did on me. Obviously they didn’t want me to know because my paper wasn’t delivered yesterday.
I did get all of these strange texts yesterday morning congratulating me though I had no idea what they were cheering about. Then I called my Mom for something and she said, “Nice story.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me.
At lunch with a friend, there was a discarded newspaper on the bar. She grabbed it and there I was … as I looked twenty years ago.
I’m old new so they used an old photograph.
We busted out laughing at the headline; “Pastor Goes Nationwide” like I’d sold my soul to an insurance company.
I don’t know who chooses the headlines for the Savannah Morning News but I figure that marijuana is involved. There have been some great ones! But … the fact of the matter is I haven’t pastored a church since the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel a few decades ago. I do have the “Rev” title in front of my name so I image whoever it was took a toke while writing his insurance check and came up with the headline.
We really didn’t read the article because we were laughing so hard. Apparently I had a heyday which is passed. Then the last thing you do is always the one thing that anybody remembers so the story ended with that. I’d lost my mind and decided to reform behavioral health in the state of Georgia. Who knew the whole damn system is run by crazy people? Mean crazy people!
Anyway they whipped my ass and that was the last part of the article.
Later I read the online version where marijuana use is obviously not involved in the choosing of headlines; “Elliott to tackle health care nationally.” That’s closer to what I’m actually doing these days.
“If you want to get together to talk about the future,” said the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … Jerry Rainey,” fine otherwise I have no interest in the past.”
It made me think of Jim Jones and his Kool-Aid. “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Of course the Board member who chooses to remain anonymous, Jerry Rainey, did go to Auburn.
I was in St. Martin last year when that last article came out. Nothing about the way I left Union Mission was handled right but … it happened that way. Personally I was burned out and was long overdue for a Sabbatical which the leadership didn’t want me to take. I made the mistake of listening to them … when they were wrong.
Priests and Nuns take Sabbaticals. They rotate the military so that you’re in the front lines too much lest you crack up (our military leadership seems to have forgotten this). Teachers need breaks from the students.
For thirty one years I was in the front lines with only one break and that was when I was in a serious accident and had many broken bones.
I only have one regret of my years at Union Mission. I didn’t take that Sabbatical when I knew I was sliding into burn-out. I listened to the wise men and sages. Because I didn’t listen to myself, I went from burn out to crash-and-burn which really sucks. And if you’ve never been there … you will one day … be it a marriage, a job, a lifelong commitment going sour ... it’ll happen.
Then everybody disagreed about everything and anyone is replaceable at any given time and it was time for me to go anyway … so I went. Keller Deal extended my stay. Conner threw a party. Joe Daniel called demanding to know “what in the hell was going on”? Skutch called wanting the last interview. I spent a lot of time snorkeling to the reef reminding myself that God created this order.
The fish and the stingrays do things in certain ways. They listen to themselves … eating when they need to … swimming in certain formations … reacting to the tides … scurrying from humans.
But we humans … we don’t listen to ourselves to good. We listen to others … one another … wise men and sages who are not really wise and don’t really think … about anything other than themselves … at our expense.
But you know what?
It’s all good. I like what I’m doing and know that it is going to make a difference to a lot of people. The house I’ve lived in is becoming another kind of home. I know who my friends really are and who just pretends.
But I don’t forget the past. It is what it is. I’ve done what I’ve done.
Tomorrow however, I will be what I will be.
I pressed my index finger to my lips which is something that I do when I think. My hair’s getting long enough in the back again where I can also tug on it. I ponder her question.
“No,” I finally answered. “It’s funny because the Sabbatical seems likes its been a year but the resignation from Union Mission doesn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
My fingers go back to my lips and I take my time. “Probably because there are still unresolved issues that I have with certain people associated with it all.”
There was a story in yesterday’s Savannah Morning News about me. It was one year since the last story they did on me. Obviously they didn’t want me to know because my paper wasn’t delivered yesterday.
I did get all of these strange texts yesterday morning congratulating me though I had no idea what they were cheering about. Then I called my Mom for something and she said, “Nice story.”
I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me.
At lunch with a friend, there was a discarded newspaper on the bar. She grabbed it and there I was … as I looked twenty years ago.
I’m old new so they used an old photograph.
We busted out laughing at the headline; “Pastor Goes Nationwide” like I’d sold my soul to an insurance company.
I don’t know who chooses the headlines for the Savannah Morning News but I figure that marijuana is involved. There have been some great ones! But … the fact of the matter is I haven’t pastored a church since the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel a few decades ago. I do have the “Rev” title in front of my name so I image whoever it was took a toke while writing his insurance check and came up with the headline.
We really didn’t read the article because we were laughing so hard. Apparently I had a heyday which is passed. Then the last thing you do is always the one thing that anybody remembers so the story ended with that. I’d lost my mind and decided to reform behavioral health in the state of Georgia. Who knew the whole damn system is run by crazy people? Mean crazy people!
Anyway they whipped my ass and that was the last part of the article.
Later I read the online version where marijuana use is obviously not involved in the choosing of headlines; “Elliott to tackle health care nationally.” That’s closer to what I’m actually doing these days.
“If you want to get together to talk about the future,” said the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … Jerry Rainey,” fine otherwise I have no interest in the past.”
It made me think of Jim Jones and his Kool-Aid. “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
Of course the Board member who chooses to remain anonymous, Jerry Rainey, did go to Auburn.
I was in St. Martin last year when that last article came out. Nothing about the way I left Union Mission was handled right but … it happened that way. Personally I was burned out and was long overdue for a Sabbatical which the leadership didn’t want me to take. I made the mistake of listening to them … when they were wrong.
Priests and Nuns take Sabbaticals. They rotate the military so that you’re in the front lines too much lest you crack up (our military leadership seems to have forgotten this). Teachers need breaks from the students.
For thirty one years I was in the front lines with only one break and that was when I was in a serious accident and had many broken bones.
I only have one regret of my years at Union Mission. I didn’t take that Sabbatical when I knew I was sliding into burn-out. I listened to the wise men and sages. Because I didn’t listen to myself, I went from burn out to crash-and-burn which really sucks. And if you’ve never been there … you will one day … be it a marriage, a job, a lifelong commitment going sour ... it’ll happen.
Then everybody disagreed about everything and anyone is replaceable at any given time and it was time for me to go anyway … so I went. Keller Deal extended my stay. Conner threw a party. Joe Daniel called demanding to know “what in the hell was going on”? Skutch called wanting the last interview. I spent a lot of time snorkeling to the reef reminding myself that God created this order.
The fish and the stingrays do things in certain ways. They listen to themselves … eating when they need to … swimming in certain formations … reacting to the tides … scurrying from humans.
But we humans … we don’t listen to ourselves to good. We listen to others … one another … wise men and sages who are not really wise and don’t really think … about anything other than themselves … at our expense.
But you know what?
It’s all good. I like what I’m doing and know that it is going to make a difference to a lot of people. The house I’ve lived in is becoming another kind of home. I know who my friends really are and who just pretends.
But I don’t forget the past. It is what it is. I’ve done what I’ve done.
Tomorrow however, I will be what I will be.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Groves High School Greasers Appreciation Society
My brother David has taken to posting pictures from High School Days. It all started innocently enough with Groves High School trivia questions, then photographs of himself, followed by a recounting of his successful football season but now he has apparently run out of his own material and has broken into mine.
On Face Book and the World Wide Web is a photograph that has nothing to do with David. He was nowhere near when it was taken and didn’t know anything about it until the Annual came out documenting the one and only meeting of the 1950’s Greasers Club at the Root Beer Drive Inn in Garden City.
I was called in to Gretchen’s room yet again … this time to be told that I was not participating in enough extracurricular activities. Gretchen was always getting onto me for something. I think she stayed up nights thinking up things to get on to about. Now I apparently wasn’t doing enough at school.
This made absolutely no sense to me as I was already giving them four-and-a-half hours most days. I arrived on time to spend an hour and-a-half in the parking lot behind the chorus room. We had to catch one another up on whatever had happen since yesterday. Plus we were listening to Alice Cooper and trying to determine the cause of the blanket of strange smelling smoke that filled certain vehicles.
Then I attended a couple of classes before hopping in the car and going over to Joe’s Drive-In for lunch. We’d stay in the car with aforementioned strange smelling smoke and order cheeseburgers and fries. Once my Mother parked across from us and also ordered something. Gene and I found it difficult to finish our food from the floorboard of the car. It was amazing how long it took Mom to finish her meal.
After lunch I would attend another class then it was off to the stadium for football practice. Gretchen evidently did not feel that this was enough and wanted me to do something else.
“Wha?” I asked.
“You should join the chess club or maybe aim for the National Honor Society,” she calmly replied.
Shaking my head I left her there sitting at her desk. Gene was waiting for me in the hall and had heard everything.
“You’re not going to take this shit, are you?”
Gene was my best friend and always brought a sense of logic to whatever we did. It was hard not to admire him especially when we went to the beach. He’d rip off his shirt, grab the lotion and go from girl to girl asking for help in applying it his back which he could not reach. He was great at that kind of stuff though he never did get a tan on his back.
“Hell no!” I said once we were far enough away from Gretchen.
At the time I was really into 1950’s Rock-n-roll. The Beatles had broken up and Led Zeppelin didn’t have a new album so I was listening to Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis and the Doo Wop groups. This is really good music when you’re driving around in a car full of strange smelling smoke. It makes you mellow. It makes you hungry too.
So Gene and I formed the 1950 Greasers Club to study the aforementioned effects of 1950 Rock-n-roll. We met once.
One Saturday morning around fifty fellow lovers of 1950s Rock-n-roll gathered at the “Root Beer Drive In” which was behind Joe’s Drive-In. Now that I think about it, it took Garden City several decades before it realized that the 1950s were over.
We’d arranged for a photographer to document the fact that there was actually a club and that we had met. Everyone dressed like we were at a casting call for the movie “Greese” … except the black guys. I still can’t quite figure out what they thought they were dressing for.
It was my club so I sat on the roof of the car with my arm around Debbie Hendrix and shot a bird at the camera. Not to be outdone, Mark Stewart stood above me and did the same. If we’d had another meeting there would have been disciplinary action taken against him.
There were also several bottles and cans in brown paper bags which are in plain view. I don’t recall if anyone actually had a Root Beer.
When the Groves High School Annual came out our club got a full page spread. The Chess Club got a tiny eight-of-a-page picture and I’m not certain that Groves has ever actually had a National Honor Society.
So that is how the picture came about. I must say it’s a fabulous picture! You stare at it for hours trying to figure out who is who, who’s copping feels, and who’s wearing what. It’s right up there with the Sgt. Pepper album cover.
Again David had nothing to do with this and was home counting his baseball cards or something like that.
Just saying.
On Face Book and the World Wide Web is a photograph that has nothing to do with David. He was nowhere near when it was taken and didn’t know anything about it until the Annual came out documenting the one and only meeting of the 1950’s Greasers Club at the Root Beer Drive Inn in Garden City.
I was called in to Gretchen’s room yet again … this time to be told that I was not participating in enough extracurricular activities. Gretchen was always getting onto me for something. I think she stayed up nights thinking up things to get on to about. Now I apparently wasn’t doing enough at school.
This made absolutely no sense to me as I was already giving them four-and-a-half hours most days. I arrived on time to spend an hour and-a-half in the parking lot behind the chorus room. We had to catch one another up on whatever had happen since yesterday. Plus we were listening to Alice Cooper and trying to determine the cause of the blanket of strange smelling smoke that filled certain vehicles.
Then I attended a couple of classes before hopping in the car and going over to Joe’s Drive-In for lunch. We’d stay in the car with aforementioned strange smelling smoke and order cheeseburgers and fries. Once my Mother parked across from us and also ordered something. Gene and I found it difficult to finish our food from the floorboard of the car. It was amazing how long it took Mom to finish her meal.
After lunch I would attend another class then it was off to the stadium for football practice. Gretchen evidently did not feel that this was enough and wanted me to do something else.
“Wha?” I asked.
“You should join the chess club or maybe aim for the National Honor Society,” she calmly replied.
Shaking my head I left her there sitting at her desk. Gene was waiting for me in the hall and had heard everything.
“You’re not going to take this shit, are you?”
Gene was my best friend and always brought a sense of logic to whatever we did. It was hard not to admire him especially when we went to the beach. He’d rip off his shirt, grab the lotion and go from girl to girl asking for help in applying it his back which he could not reach. He was great at that kind of stuff though he never did get a tan on his back.
“Hell no!” I said once we were far enough away from Gretchen.
At the time I was really into 1950’s Rock-n-roll. The Beatles had broken up and Led Zeppelin didn’t have a new album so I was listening to Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis and the Doo Wop groups. This is really good music when you’re driving around in a car full of strange smelling smoke. It makes you mellow. It makes you hungry too.
So Gene and I formed the 1950 Greasers Club to study the aforementioned effects of 1950 Rock-n-roll. We met once.
One Saturday morning around fifty fellow lovers of 1950s Rock-n-roll gathered at the “Root Beer Drive In” which was behind Joe’s Drive-In. Now that I think about it, it took Garden City several decades before it realized that the 1950s were over.
We’d arranged for a photographer to document the fact that there was actually a club and that we had met. Everyone dressed like we were at a casting call for the movie “Greese” … except the black guys. I still can’t quite figure out what they thought they were dressing for.
It was my club so I sat on the roof of the car with my arm around Debbie Hendrix and shot a bird at the camera. Not to be outdone, Mark Stewart stood above me and did the same. If we’d had another meeting there would have been disciplinary action taken against him.
There were also several bottles and cans in brown paper bags which are in plain view. I don’t recall if anyone actually had a Root Beer.
When the Groves High School Annual came out our club got a full page spread. The Chess Club got a tiny eight-of-a-page picture and I’m not certain that Groves has ever actually had a National Honor Society.
So that is how the picture came about. I must say it’s a fabulous picture! You stare at it for hours trying to figure out who is who, who’s copping feels, and who’s wearing what. It’s right up there with the Sgt. Pepper album cover.
Again David had nothing to do with this and was home counting his baseball cards or something like that.
Just saying.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
The Next Chapter
I was talking to Frank Stanton, former Union Mission Board member, partner in the development of the Magdalene Project, Savannah’s first shelter for homeless women and children, and the person who coined the title of my book “Partners In Grace”. I hadn’t seen or talked to him in a year. I remember him walking into my office right after I’d hired Frances Carter. She walked out and he walked in.
“Hey Parson,” he said shaking my hand. Frank’s called me Parson since we met over two decades ago when he’d ask me to speak at his Rotary Club. I had a long pony tail at the time and showed up wearing jeans with a coat and tie (I was a pioneer in the Kroger Bag Boy look!).
“Are you Frank?” I asked the gentleman obviously looking for somebody he didn’t know.
He nodded and I introduced myself. “Seriously?” he asked. “You’re a minister?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
He introduced me and I gave the speech. Afterwards Franks purchased a copy of my first book “The Society of Salty Saints.” We said goodbye and I thought that was that.
The next afternoon Frank burst into my office. “Who wrote this book?” he asked holding the book.
“Um Frank … look at the cover. That’s my name on it. And everybody thinks my name is spelt wrong so it must be mine.”
“There is no way in hell that you wrote these prayers,” Frank insisted.
“OK, you got me!” I confessed. “I broke into a vault in the Vatican and stole them.”
From that day on, Frank and I have been friends. I’d called him asking his advice on things including what my presence in Savannah should be moving forward. Aside from serving on the Step Up Board of Directors the only other thing I’ve done is talk to my friend Floyd Adams who called wanting to know what I thought about him running for Mayor again. (“Floyd, not yes but HELL YES!” is what I said.)
Now living in Augusta but deeply rooted in Savannah Frank and I talked for an hour. We talked about people, things we’d done and plans for the future.
In mid-career, Frank walked away from a comfortable job at an oil company. He cashed in his retirement, life insurance, and took loans out on everything he had to start his own company. In no time, former co-workers were asking him for a job.
“I don’t have a company yet,” he explained to them.
“We don’t care,” each responded.
He told them that they would make less money, have no fringe benefits yet and would work long hours initially. He also promised that they would have fun.
Every one of them quit their jobs to work for Frank.
Within a year they had the fringe benefits. Within two years they had surprised their previous salaries. Several years later he sold the company to a British Petroleum Conglomerate in a multi-million deal. He also signed a contract to continue running the company has he had been with the same staff. That lasted for another 8 years then Frank walked away. Each of his employees did too. Everyone could afford to.
“It’s humbling when people believe in you like that,” he told me on the phone. “It makes you work harder because you don’t want to let them down.”
Frank always blows me away and he was doing it again telling me this story.
“Let me tell you something Parson,” he concluded. “A lot of people believe in you. Everybody understood that you were finished with Union Mission. You hung around a little too long is all. You got some bad advice from people you believed in. But it all worked out. You needed a break.”
I didn’t say anything as I nodded my head in agreement standing on my beloved back deck.
“Parson?”
“Yeah Frank.”
“We’ve all just been waiting … glad you’re back,” he concluded before telling me bye and hanging up.
A John Lennon song is gifted to me as I think about Franks words.
“There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed … some forever, not for better … In my life, I loved them all …”
And I do. But I get Frank’s point. The things that I’ve loved in the past are gone. They’re mostly really good memories.
But I’m gonna love this next chapter more!
“Hey Parson,” he said shaking my hand. Frank’s called me Parson since we met over two decades ago when he’d ask me to speak at his Rotary Club. I had a long pony tail at the time and showed up wearing jeans with a coat and tie (I was a pioneer in the Kroger Bag Boy look!).
“Are you Frank?” I asked the gentleman obviously looking for somebody he didn’t know.
He nodded and I introduced myself. “Seriously?” he asked. “You’re a minister?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
He introduced me and I gave the speech. Afterwards Franks purchased a copy of my first book “The Society of Salty Saints.” We said goodbye and I thought that was that.
The next afternoon Frank burst into my office. “Who wrote this book?” he asked holding the book.
“Um Frank … look at the cover. That’s my name on it. And everybody thinks my name is spelt wrong so it must be mine.”
“There is no way in hell that you wrote these prayers,” Frank insisted.
“OK, you got me!” I confessed. “I broke into a vault in the Vatican and stole them.”
From that day on, Frank and I have been friends. I’d called him asking his advice on things including what my presence in Savannah should be moving forward. Aside from serving on the Step Up Board of Directors the only other thing I’ve done is talk to my friend Floyd Adams who called wanting to know what I thought about him running for Mayor again. (“Floyd, not yes but HELL YES!” is what I said.)
Now living in Augusta but deeply rooted in Savannah Frank and I talked for an hour. We talked about people, things we’d done and plans for the future.
In mid-career, Frank walked away from a comfortable job at an oil company. He cashed in his retirement, life insurance, and took loans out on everything he had to start his own company. In no time, former co-workers were asking him for a job.
“I don’t have a company yet,” he explained to them.
“We don’t care,” each responded.
He told them that they would make less money, have no fringe benefits yet and would work long hours initially. He also promised that they would have fun.
Every one of them quit their jobs to work for Frank.
Within a year they had the fringe benefits. Within two years they had surprised their previous salaries. Several years later he sold the company to a British Petroleum Conglomerate in a multi-million deal. He also signed a contract to continue running the company has he had been with the same staff. That lasted for another 8 years then Frank walked away. Each of his employees did too. Everyone could afford to.
“It’s humbling when people believe in you like that,” he told me on the phone. “It makes you work harder because you don’t want to let them down.”
Frank always blows me away and he was doing it again telling me this story.
“Let me tell you something Parson,” he concluded. “A lot of people believe in you. Everybody understood that you were finished with Union Mission. You hung around a little too long is all. You got some bad advice from people you believed in. But it all worked out. You needed a break.”
I didn’t say anything as I nodded my head in agreement standing on my beloved back deck.
“Parson?”
“Yeah Frank.”
“We’ve all just been waiting … glad you’re back,” he concluded before telling me bye and hanging up.
A John Lennon song is gifted to me as I think about Franks words.
“There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed … some forever, not for better … In my life, I loved them all …”
And I do. But I get Frank’s point. The things that I’ve loved in the past are gone. They’re mostly really good memories.
But I’m gonna love this next chapter more!
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