Aruging with an Angel

"HEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I NEED YOU NOW!"

The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles but says nothing. A billion stars twinkle overhead and a symphony of waves crash in the distance. Salt sticks to my skin in the hot summer night. It's a silent night ... holy night.

"HEY!" I yell again. "NOW WOULD BE GOOD!"

"I'm busy," an Angelic voice sings out of nowhere.

"I DON"T CARE!" I snap.  "I NEED A MOMENT."

"What?" my Guardian Angel asks, appearing out of nowhere looking like a Prostitute on a good night.

"Oh good you're here," I sigh sitting down at the table on the Beloved Back Deck. "We need to talk."

"I'm busy," she says thrusting a lit cigarette tip toward my face.

"I don't give a shit," I snap. "You're my Guardian Angel and I frigging need you."

"Hold on," she sighs and disappears.

Drumming my fingers on the table, a habit I have when I'm anxious, I wait.

"What?" she asks, appearing in front of me with a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon and shot of bourbon in a glass. One wing is broken, her white robe is dirty and her black hair hangs limply around her pasty white shoulders.

 "What took you so long," I snarl impatiently.

"I was busy," she sarcastically sings then takes the shot.

"Well don't be so bitchy," I shoot. "I need to know something."

"What?" she asks rolling her eyes, taking a drawl from the beer and then from the cigarette.

Moisture fills my eyes as I stare at the heavens and my voice cracks as I speak. "So listen ... I think I'm praying more than I ever have ... I mean really praying ... not in public ... but in bed ... all frigging night ... laying there tossing and turning ... and nothing happens ... it's just quiet."

"DUH," she says adjusting her robe so it doesn't fall over her shoulder too far.

"I could really use a little help here."

She stares at me for a long time through a halo of cigarette smoke before coughing, hacking up a logy and spitting it over the side.

"Yes?" she hisses.

"I mean I got lots of stuff," I rush explaining. "How we gonna keep going? I got a wife with kids and I have to take care of them."

After a long moment of silence she lights another cigarette and asks, "Yes?"

"What do you mean 'Yes'?" I snap.

"Do you love them?" she asks as though she's helping me fill out a Driver's License application.

"Well yeah," I answer.

"Do they love you?" she asks as though she's bored out of her mind.

"Yes," I snap.

"What the Hell do you want from me?" she says standing.

"I need some assurance that every little thing's gonna be alright?" I snap getting in her face.

"Did you just quote Bob Marley?" she laughs.

Embarrassed, I admit I did.

"It is," she says placing a dirty hand on my shoulder.

"Well," I say needing to justify a 911 call to my Guardian Angel, "What about Guy Sayles? That's just not right!"

"Yeah," she says crushing the beer can on the table, "I really do need to get back to him."

"So ..." I begin.

"I told you I'm busy," she smiles flashing yellow teeth. "Go back to bed and feel the love."

A billion stars blaze on a hot summer night with a symphony of waves crashing against the shore. Salt layers my skin and the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt is smiling.

"Well then," I say facing her.

And I swear to God, the Palm Tree winks.

My Birthday Wish

The scratching of finger nails on glass wakes me from a wonderful slumber with my body completely intertwined with my wife.

"Hell," I mutter, disentangling myself from Sarah without waking her.

Stumbling through the living room to the kitchen, Goddess' tail wags and I sigh loudly.

Spying through the sliding glass doors into a dark night because the moon's already set, I see her glow ... red cigarette tip, smoky halo, dirty white robe almost sliding off her shoulder and exposing her right breast, oily black hair ... it's my Guardian Angel.

I haven't seen her in months.

Assuming Jimmy Cochran was keeping her busy, I'd been careful to not ask God for anything lest she show up ... but here she is.

Opening the doors, she stands to greet me ... something she never does ... and sure enough her robe slips further and her right breast pops out.

"Hey Birthday Boy," she says with a grin.

"Aren't you going to cover that?" I ask taking a seat at the table on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Why should I?" she snaps. "You're naked!"

"Whatevs," I sigh glazing at a billion stars overhead.

"I'm just here to wish you a Happy Birthday," she grins and two Styrofoam cups magically appear out of nowhere.

"Wait a minute," I say leaning forward. "Where's your tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon and bourbon chaser?"

"It's your birthday stupid," she snaps. "We're having a birthday toast."

"Oh," I reply with uncertainty ... because she's never this nice.

She slides one of the cups toward me.

"Hey!" I exclaim. "Just where in the Hell have you been."

"Upstate New York," she says.

"What for?" I begin but she angrily cuts me off.

"Listen you stupid ass, I'm here for your frigging birthday! Shut up and let me talk."

I remain nakedly quiet.

"To you on your birthday," she smiles holding up a Styrofoam cup with her right breast still exposed.

Taking a sip of the drink, I almost throw up while swallowing it.

"What the Hell is this?" I cough and choke.

"Purple Jesus," she answers.

"Seriously?" I ask, examining the liquid in the dark cup.

"Yeah," she explains, "we have to wring out the white cloth Catholic Priests use to clean out the chalice and save all of the leftover grapefruit juice Baptists and Methodists use ... because that's the Body of Christ. We mix it together and ... WA-LA ... Purple Jesus!"

"That's disgusting," I snort.

"Well, God started recycling way before anybody else ever thought of it."

I can't think of anything to say.

"Happy Birthday," she says fading away. "I got more important shit to do."

"Hmmm," I sigh still holding onto the empty Styrofoam cup. "Thank you Lord for thinking about me," I say out loud.

Turning towards the sliding glass door, I suddenly stop and look towards the billon blazing stars in the dark sky.

"Hey God! When I get up, I'm going to write down the things I want for my birthday. It's not a lot! A winning Lottery Ticket ... that's all!"

It thunders in the distance.

"Thank you Lord," I say returning to the wonderfulness of my sleeping wife.

The Circle of Life

Goddess is scratching the sliding glass doors to be let out so I drag myself out of bed, stumble across the living room and through the kitchen and sleepily slide the door open.

My dog shoots out but instead of darting down the stairs, she wags her tail at the figure sitting on the Beloved Back deck.

A halo of cigarette smoke floats above the long greasy black hair in the chair reserved for me.

Glancing back to make certain sleeping Sarah isn't bothered, I step out into the warm moonlit night.

Coughing, she hacks and spits over the railing, clears her throat and says, "Aren't you going to put some clothes on?"

"You're the one interrupting my night," I sigh, plopping down in the chair beside her.

Wiping her eyes, she sucks snot up her nose.

"What's wrong?" I ask suddenly fully awake.

I've never seen my Guardian Angel cry but here she sits, mindlessly smoking, drinking a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon, looking almost saintly in the moonlight. Her shear white robe is translucent. The dirty broken wing almost aligns with the other. Her pasty face is beautifully sad.

"Have you been keeping up with what's been going on?" she snaps.

"Well," I say continuing to stare while rubbing my fingers through my hair, "uh, it started out great with you helping Jimmy Cochran  get baptized in the ocean and discover a deeper level of holiness ..."

"I told Sam to wear a shirt," she laughs.

"Yeah well, Samuel Adams has his own direct hotline to your boss."

"I know," she says. "It still pisses me off."

Uncertain of what to say, I keep quiet.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says rolling her right hand over and over while taking a slug of beer with the other.

Staring at her, I'm not quite sure where she's going.

"Ronnie died yesterday," and as soon as I say the words she sobs.

Instinctively I put my arm around her and smell the cigarette smoke in her hair.

The sky turns an ever so shade of grey as the sun begins its climb out of the sea. A lone bird sings a solo and is soon joined by a choir.

"It's the circle life right?" I finally say.

Nodding, she wipes her eyes, throws her empty can in our backyard and another magically appears in her hand and she immediately takes a slug.

"Yeah," I continue, "Jimmy finds he has a deeper calling from God that he's going to follow and Ronnie's moved on to what's next. Both of them have left us behind."

"I know," she says. "It just doesn't get any easier.

"I know," I agree ... carefully extracting my arm from around her wondering how I'm going to get rid of the smoke smell before crawling back in bed with Sarah.

"Wait," I suddenly say, "isn't Ronnie going an Angel or something?"

She nods.

"Well what in the Hell are you crying for?" I ask.

"These are tears of happiness stupid," she snaps.

"Oh yeah," I agree as the sun begins to rise.

An Angel's Got to do what an Angel's got to do

"Damn your legs are white," I say with my feet propped on the back rail.

Her robe is hiked all the way to her crotch and her legs are pasty.

"I'm working on it," she slurs after taking a long drawl from her Tall Boy Pabst Blue Ribbon with a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and a shot glass in her other hand.

"I figured Angels would be tan," I offer. "I mean you're closer to the sun and all. Plus it's a pretty sheer robe you wear ... don't you just tan through it?"

"Turn up the Buffett," she shoots so I hit the keyboard and Jimmy sings "Creola."

"Yes," she continues out of nowhere, "we can tan through our robes but not like your tan through Speedos."

"You mean you have limited wardrobe options in Heaven?"

"Why do you think Catholic girls wear uniforms?" she snaps. "It's an outdated dress code but the friggin' Apostles are a bunch of old white men and they like their tradition."

"So male Angels wear white shirts and ties?"

"Think Jehovah Witness," she replies , "or Ernest Angley."

"No Shit," I blurt.

"Shit," she says.

Buffett moves on to "Floridays" and she says, "I'm glad you're back ... it's good to be home. Did Sarah have a good time?"

"We did," I reply taking a sip of my own beer. "Ireland's a wonderful place. We had fun."

"Good," she says taking another drawl from her Tall Boy.

"You would have fit right in," I continue. "White people are whiter there than other places."

"Shut up," she snaps.

"Fine," I say reapplying suntan lotion.

Another cigarette magically appears in her mouth.

"Don't you have someone to save today?" I ask. "Sarah and I plan on taking her folks and the girls to the beach and it would be awkward to have my Guardian Angel with us."

"Nope," she says stretching her skinny pasty white legs.

"Jimmy Cochran?" I press.

"Do not bring him up," she fires. "Or his mother."

"Alright," I say standing up to go check on Sarah. "Well you can't go to the beach with us."

"I'll watch the dogs," she says taking another shot of bourbon.

"That'd be great," I smile.

"Goddess and I get along just fine," she says with a smile.

"Are you telling me that Angels do pot?"

"God lets us only fly so high," she sighs. "Sometimes an Angel's gotta do what an Angel's got to do."

"Hmmm," I humph with no idea how to respond.

My Guardian Angel's New Assignment

It dawned on me last night ...

while I was studying this weeks Sunday School lesson published by the Broadman Press ...

with Sarah and the girls sitting side-by-side like perfect chaste Baptists ...

wearing white dresses with perfectly brushed hair ...

not saying a word ...

while the man of the house interpreted the Bible ...

because they love the Lord ...

that I haven't heard from my Guardian Angel since she started splitting time between me and Jimmy Cochran.

Suddenly the Holy Spirit conjures up a recollection that Jimmy has quit the church he's attended for 47 years.

Then the Holy Ghost whispers in my ear that Jimmy's said he's no longer going to play piano or organ for churches either.

"No Shit!" I say out loud.

Maddie, the 12 year old, thinks I've challenged them to a Sword Drill and madly starts flipping through her Schofield Reference Bible with all the words of Jesus in red.

"WAY," the Spirit of Truth replies.

Dismissing the girls to their prayer closets so I can pour a glass of wine, I immediately feel bad for my Guardian Angel.

No wonder I haven't seen the dirty, broken winged, chain smoking, beer drinking followed by chasers of bourbon, pasty skin, skinny to the point her robe won't stay on her shoulders so she's flashing her right breast Angel assigned to me.

Jimmy's become a full time assignment!

Strolling outside to the Beloved Back Deck where my Guardian Angel and I used to drink and talk together, I realize how much I miss her.

She used to surprise me all of the time ... making epiphanies at "Spanky's," "Fannies-on-the-Beach" and one time she was drunk out of her mind and woke me up as I snuggled with Sarah because she wanted me to intercede with God on her behalf.

I listen as Sarah and girls prayerfully read the Bible out loud together ... "Kiss me again and again, for your love is sweeter than wine. How fragrant your cologne and how pleasing your name. No wonder all the women love you. Take me with you! Come let's run to your bedroom!" (Song of Solomon 1:2-4).

I raise a toast to the Tybee stars.

"Well, great and wondrous things are happening in the life of Jimmy Cochran ... Bless his little heart! ... Bar Church needs him more anyway ... It hasn't had a real pianist since D-Luv did her one finger magic."

I hear them say, "Amen" inside and like good Christian children the girls disappeared leaving the house spotless.

"Come my King!" Sarah says still reading the Bible, "Take me to your chambers now! (Solomon 1:4)."

I hope Jimmy's treating her right because I'm very fond of my Guardian Angel.

Who knows?

They're obviously keeping each other in Lord's handcuffs.

"I will climb the Palm Tree," Sarah breathlessly reads, "I will take hold of it's fruit!" (Solomon 7:8).

I dash inside leaving Jimmy to my Guardian Angel.

"To hell with them!"

The Things I'm not thankful for

The sun shines coldly through the sliding glass doors as I sit at the kitchen table staring outside at Fran's Thousand Shades of Green while sipping coffee. Goddess lays at my feet.

Sarah's awake but still in bed, cozy under the quilts, tapping away on her I-Phone. Winston, The Little Gay Dog, is curled up in a ball beside her.


All is quiet as her girls are away and we're coming down from celebrating a romantic evening at Billy's Place in Savannah last night. It was a long leisurely meal, with a fine pianist in a historic building making us feel we're somewhere in Europe.

The sliding glass door opens and my Guardian Angel floats inside and takes the seat across from me.

She looks good for once. Her long black hair has been washed, her white robe and blue stole is relatively clean and her broken wing has duct tape on it so it's at the same height as the other.

"What's up?" I ask with suspicion.

"Making the rounds before heading to the Heavenly banquet," she cheerily answers. "Not that I want to but the Boss is going to ask what everyone's thankful for and I've got to give a report on assignments ... meaning YOU!"

"HOLY SHIT!" I exclaim. "YOU"RE SOBER!"

She gives me the evil eye which is very disconcerting because Angels shouldn't do such things.

Then again my Guardian Angel drinks beer followed with shots of bourbon, chain smokes, is always dirty and her robe is forever sliding down her shoulder so she comes close to flashing me. She's woken me up drunk out of her mind, showed up unexpected (and unwanted!) in bars I'm in, and is forever flipping me off with her middle finger.

Most Guardian Angels have a hundred people to look after but mine's permanently pissed I'm her full time assignment.

"So," she begins laying her white hands on the table, "what are you thankful for this year?"

"Seriously?" I laugh. "You've got to give a report to God and all the other Angels on what I'm thankful for?"

Her left eye twitches as her fingers impatiently drum the table.

"Alright," I say. "Jesus I don't want to make you mad ... well, let's see ... Sarah of course! She's the best! ... all the kids are healthy ... Moms doing well ... I really like what we're doing at work ..."

Out of nowhere a pen and scroll appear and she jots down the things I'm saying.

"Hey," I say watching her write, "What about the things I'm not thankful for? I want to list those too."

She sighs loudly and a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon appears in her left hand. She takes a long draw before looking at me again with the evil eye.

"This cold weather sucks," I begin my non-thankful list. "I hate it. And why in the hell did Aaron Murray's Guardian Angel leave the game early last week? Speaking of which, when did Heaven start getting involved in college football games? Tipping that pass at Auburn was just sinful ... though ... I did like the whole Georgia Southern/Florida thing!"

A cigarette appears in her right hand and she immediately inhales deeply.

"Have there been budget cuts in Heaven?" I continue, "because apparently nobody up there gives a shit about what's going on in Washington. I mean does anybody watch FOX NEWS up there?"

A tumbler of bourbon appears and she shoots it and chases with the beer. Another can appears out of nowhere.

"Then there's Miley Cyrus's new video ..."

My Guardian Angel stands up and says, "Shut up."

I stare at her without speaking.

"You know what," she begins, "Never Mind. I'm going to just start with you are thankful for Sarah and make everything else up. Finish your coffee! I'm out-a-here."

"You gonna lie to God?" I ask and realize the mistake as the words leave my mouth.

The duct tape comes loose and her broken right wind falls to one side. She crushes the beer can and throws it on the floor. Ashes fall on the table from her cigarette.

I sit down and fold my hands between my knees.

She backs away without saying a word, all the time giving me the evil eye. The sliding glass door magically opens and she disappears.

"Are you talking to somebody?" Sarah sleepily yells from the bedroom.

"Ummmm, well ... yes but not really," I tell her.

"Why don't you come back to bed," she suggest.

"Why that's a grand idea," I say standing up. "Give me one second. I need to say a prayer for someone whose going to have  a rough day today. I just hate that for her.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone else!
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Every Little Thing

"You want more coffee?"

Greasy, limp black hair hangs in front of her once cherub face, nods up and down, as she leans forward on the table squinting her eyes because of the rising sun.

I stroll into the kitchen, refill her cup and place it in front of her.

Reaching under her dirty blue stole she retrieves a bottle of bourbon and pours some into the coffee as a halo of smoke appears from the cigarette dangling from her lips.

"You're looking a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you," I say flopping into one of the deck chairs.

She sighs sipping the coffee.

Taking this as a sign she needs mental space, I keep quiet. She's dirty as ever, broken wings are more brown than white and the robe has fallen on her right shoulder.

"I look better huh?" she mutters then spits a loogie over the deck.

"Well, you don't smell," I clarify.

Rolling her eyes she takes a shot of bourbon and chases it with bourbon laced coffee.

"What are you doing here so early?" I ask, cleverly changing the subject. "You normally don't make an epiphany until the bars are open."

As she reaches inside the dirty blue stole again, Winston, the Little Gay Dog, barks and snarls at her which makes her grunt. The evil sound scares the little dog and he darts inside and hides under the bed. Laying at my feet, Goddess opens one eye and watches before sighing heavily and falling back asleep.

My Guardian Angel unfolds a note. It reminds me of the notes Sarah's girls bring home from school, more wadded up than folded. She spreads it out on the patio table which serves as my desk.

"It's from God," she says.

I take my bare feet off the railing and sit up straight. "Really?" I ask.

"Do you want me to give you the damn message or not," she snaps.

I fold my hands on the table prayerfully and wait.

For dramatic effect, she takes another sip from the cup and a long drawl from the cigarette. Finally picking up the crinkled note she reads it slowly.

"Every little thing gonna be alright."

I wait.

She crumples it up and puts it back inside her stole.

"That's it?" I ask.

She sips the bourbon.

"That wasn't God," I say. "That was Bob Marley."

She shrugs her shoulders and stands.

"But," I begin and she immediately cuts me off.

"Listen," she replies. "I've known both for a long time and Bob will be the first to tell you that it was God who gave him the idea. That's not the point though. You and Sarah have a lot going on. You're in the creation process remaking your lives as they should be. God likes that. Life is always about creation. If you're not changing, taking risks, transforming, walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death and all that shit, then you're not living. You're just existing which is nothing more than dying slowly. God likes creation people. You two have made the A List."

I've never heard her say so much and am taken aback.

"So," she continues, "every little thing's gonna be alright."

"Alright," I say and she instantly disappears and just as she does, I hear three little birds sing.
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Monday Morning Staff Meeting

The managing partner has a meeting at the other end of Corporate Headquarters and isn't at the staff meeting I've just called to order.

Sitting at the conference table under the umbrella on the Beloved Back deck, I'm taking a moment to collect my thoughts.

To my left is Winston, the little gay dog, in a pink sweater vest that reads, "Closet? What closet?" Wearing sunglasses, he's hyper and wants me to get started because he's got other things to do.

Beside him Goddess is passed out and snores in the chair with empty bags of Doritos littered on the floor. She was here when I arrived, finishing her hourly medical treatment of medicinal marijuana for the glaucoma she swears she has.

At the opposite end of the table is My Guardian Angel who looks terrible, taking long drags off her cigarette followed by sips from a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon. She seems distracted and lost in thought. Her white robe is dirty, the blue stole wrinkled, her long black hair hasn't been washed in weeks and hangs limp in her face as she blows halos in the air.

The Cat Lady wears her dingy yellow bath robe with a blue towel wrapped around her head. She looks like Marge Simpson on meth and cat hair falls every time she moves. Smelling like kitty litter, she's looking into her yard smiling at the thirty or so feral cats wandering everywhere. Her buff boyfriend of the week is shaving his chest and legs and keeps winking at her.

On my immediate right is Gypsy, the gender confused cat, obviously wondering why he's here at all. Gypsy normally shies away from most everything because of his paranoid personality disorder. He and Winston, the little gay dog, don't get along and both constantly vie for the managing partner's attention.

"All right," I say, "let's get started."

"Screw you!" my Guardian Angel snaps.

Gypsy darts from the table and runs downstairs causing the Cat Lady to jump up and run after him leaving a blanket of cat hair raining down on us.

Winston, the little gay dog, takes this as a good sign and flashes his evil genius smile while fumbling for nail polish in his man purse.

Startled, Goddess wakes up, yawns and says, "People! Please! Why can't we all just get along?"

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

My Guardian Angel angrily flips me the finger.

"Is everything alright out there?" the managing partner yells from the other end of Corporate Headquarters.

"Yes Dear," I lovingly answer.

The Cat Lady is chasing Gypsy screeching, "HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!"

Goddess rolls another Dobie and Winston, the little gay dog, paints his nails orange ... because the little Son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) knows I hate that color. My Guardian Angel throws another empty beer can in the back yard and another magically appears from nowhere.

I sigh heavily.

It's a Monday," I mutter under my breath.

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My Angel's Tattoo

"Psssst," she slurs while giggling.

Opening my eyes from a dead sleep with my arms around Sarah, I repeatedly blink.

"Pssssssssst," she giggles again. "Get up. I gotta talk to you."

"Holy Christ!" I mutter, withdrawing my arms from around my wife and crawling out of bed.

"You're naked," she says giggling more.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, she comes into focus. Shaking my head, I brush my long hair back, lift my index finger indicating she's to follow me. I don't want Sarah to wake up. She stumbles following me out to the Beloved Back Deck and I have to catch her when she slips in the kitchen.

Opening the sliding glass doors, I shove her through and silently close them behind me. Goddess immediately scratches the glass so cussing I slide them open again so my dog can come outside. As soon as I shut them, Winston, the little gay dog, does the same thing and I cuss even louder opening and closing the door one more time.

"He is so gay," she laughs.

"You're drunk," I snap turning to my Guardian Angel.

Her loosely clad blue and white robes are wrinkled with a big yellow mustard stain. They've falling off her right shoulder and I see that she's a tattoo of Pirate Wench sitting on a treasure chest. Her long black hair is askew, her eyes are puffy and her feet are dirty.

"Got a cigarette?" she asks.

"I don't smoke," I snap.

"Oh yeah, I knew that," she sighs, snapping a finger and a lit unfiltered Camel appears out of nowhere. After taking a long drag, she plops down in one of the chairs, nods her head and a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon appears.

"Why in the hell are you waking me up?" I ask irritated.

She blows a halo.

"I need to talk to you," she says suddenly thoughtful.

"About what?"

Rolling her eyes she commands, "For God's sake sit down and get your thingy out of my face."

I sit.

"Listen," she slurs, I need your help. "It's evaluation time in Heaven and I need you to put in a good word about me. I don't want to go back to being a regular angel singing damn Hosannas all day long. I really need to keep Guardian status."

'Heaven evaluates?" I ask.

"Every couple of thousand years the damn Apostles have to strut their stuff," she explains while spitting a logy over the railing into the black night.

"Swear to God," she says, "when Jesus picked them out of the gene pool there wasn't a lifeguard around."

I don't know what to say.

"So," she continues wiping her mouth with her arm after missing her mouth with the beer, "I know you talk to God a lot out here."

"Yep," I nod. "Almost every night."

"And you never say a damn thing about me do you?"

I think it's best to keep quiet. Goddess heads to the other side of the deck. Winston, the little gay dog, starts licking himself. There is no breeze and it's hot as hell. I start to sweat.

"So just thank the good Lord for your Guardian Angel every once in a while," she snaps.

"Sure," I shrug. "I mean you have helped me out a lot."

"Damn right I have," she says straightening up.

I shrug my shoulder again.

"Alright, there's a keg party I gotta get back to," she says standing and her rope falls completely over her shoulder exposing her breasts.

"Angels have keg parties," I ask as she covers herself.

"Those of us in Special Ops do," she says as she disappears.

Winston, the little gay dog, stops licking himself. Goddess sighs loudly. It's as quiet as a Church.

"I wonder if Sarah's awake," I say out loud as I head back inside.

Then I go wake her up so we can call on the name of the Lord together in the middle of the night.

And we do.

Though I don't believe either one of us said anything my Guardian Angel.
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Off the well worn roads

I seem to be getting further and further from life's well traveled roads.

Sometimes I'm a little shocked at the distance between my life and societal norms.

My career path did a U-turn, the days of being constantly available to everyone else ended, and I took time to indulge me. "I don't go to church and I don't cut my hair" and I rarely think about the way it used to be.

Were my financial advisor, minister, Guardian Angel or parole officer to conduct a SWOT analysis of me, they would likely scream in unison, "Just what in God's name are you doing?"

My answer would likely be, "Beats the hell out of me!"

Honestly though, the answer is two fold. First, everything I've lived through so far has been to get me to this point and, second, I'm not always sure where I'm going but there's certainly no going back.

The question makes me feel OK because what I'm doing these days is entirely in God's name.

My faith journey is the biggest, baddest, freaking scare-the-living-daylights out of you Roller Coaster ride EVER!

I feel I'm elite company!

Francis of Assisi and Claire, Che Guevara, Frederick Buechner, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Clarence Jordan, Jesus of Nazareth, John, Ringo, Paul and George!

These are my people!

Making it all the more exhilarating and wonderfully frightening is that I have a partner! Sarah dove head first into this faith journey and she's never looks back either!

We're hell on wheels driving recklessly towards the Promised Land.

That's what faith is right? 

If it's genuine, to blatantly steal from Guy Sayles (America's greatest minister) "it will move us and we will move with it. The movement is often into unknown places in the heart and mind."

I got that part down!

Sarah and I are definitely in unchartered waters but we're enjoying the hell out of the ride.

Then once we get the hell out, we're really going to settle down and enjoy wherever it is we end up.

Everybody else thinks we should have a better idea of where that is.

We don't.

But we've come this far and we're not going back.

We can see the Promised Land from here.

It's right over there.
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All we've got

Running the beach, massive purple clouds hang low over the gray high tide seas, clustered with surfers riding to shore. Families comb for shells, ladies power walk and children run in the surf. A crowd's gathered around the turtle tracks of the Loggerhead who hauled herself to the base of the sand dunes to lay last night. Large cargo ships make their way into the distance heading for China.

Darting through these things I run, marginally aware of the beauty surrounding me. I'm thinking about my Guardian Angel.

Lots of people believe in Guardian Angels but hardly anybody seriously thinks about them.

I don't just think about mine.

I worry about her!

She's been on double over time ever since having the incredible misfortunate of drawing me as her assignment.

The inventory is too long but it includes two car crashes that should have killed me, a gun stuck in my stomach failed to fire and a deranged homeless man came after me with a baseball bat during the sermon I was preaching. Throw in failed loves, recovery from divorces, shepherding my kids through really tough times and a drastic career change and my Angel's been incredibly busy.

I know I'm speaking in anthropomophric language but I paid thousands of dollars to go to Seminary to make a "C" in Greek and learn that word. It means "human form." We think about God in human form. God's an old man with a white beard in the sky. God has angels with wings to help get things done. God came to earth as a man. Heaven is filled with people who died, were buried but now they're people again.

I got to wondering what my Guardian Angel looked like and a few weeks ago shared it.

She's one beat up Cherub! I've put her through shit repeatedly. Once beautiful, she now looks like a Meth addict! I've driven her to smoke, drink and cuss. Her robes are dirty and ripped from keeping me here. One of her wings doesn't work. I make her believe Hell is real and she personally thinks I should go there now.

That's what she should look like.

What strikes me as I make my way through the loveliness of the beach today is that I really shouldn't be here. I should be dead at least three times now. Lost love, betrayal, disruption, the unexpected deaths of people I loved so deeply, problems, depression and such should have all done me in by now.

But they didn't.

I'm still here by the grace of God and a bloody and battered Guardian Angel.

And I'm here for reasons I don't always understand but I keep working to figure them out.

Lots of people like when I write about my Guardian Angel. I think it reminds them of theirs. The shit I've put mine through relates to experiences they've had.

By the grace of God, we're still here today. We've got each other and that's all we've got ... today and each other. Perhaps if we try hard enough, we'll find God too in human form. Maybe we'll even find our Guardian Angels and take care of them like they take care of us.

Anyway ... that's what I'm doing today.

What are you doing?
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My Angel

The full moon shines brightly through the windows as I lay in bed tossing and turning. Sarah's sleeping hard beside me and the dogs are too on the floor beside us.

"Aw hell," I mutter as I got up not wanting to disrupt their sleep and I tip toe into the kitchen for a glass of water.

My peripheral vision sees something move on the Beloved Back deck and I turn to see drinking the water and standing naked in the moonlight.

It was my Guardian Angel, sitting at the table smoking a cigarette, drinking a tall PBR as a halo of smoke circled her head. Her large brown eyes are set on me so I quietly opened the sliding glass doors and walk outside.

"You look better than last time I saw you," I say.

"For Christ sake! Aren't you going to put something on," she spits before hacking up a loogie and sending it flying the back yard.

"Oh, it's not like haven't seen before," I shrug. "You're my Guardian Angel" and I take the seat across from her.

She does look better. Her long black hair has little wave to it now. Her skin had some color and her eyes aren't as bloodshot. Her blue and white robe is clean though the one wing remains broken. Taking a long drag of the cigarette, then a longer gulp from the beer, she sighs loudly.

"What's up buttercup?" I ask.

"Oh shut the fuck up," she snaps. "I'm here on assignment."

"Wha?" I ask. "I haven't done anything lately."

"I get no time off for your good behavior," she shoots back.

"Well what do you want?" I ask yawning and scratching myself.

Throwing away the PBR another magically appears in her hand and she takes another swig before answering.

"Well, it seems like the Boss thinks you're doing some good stuff these days and told me to tell you to stop worrying. Everything's gonna be alright," as I notice every time she takes a drag from her cigarette it doesn't get any shorter.

"Humph," I exclaim.

"Listen!" she snaps jabbing the lit cigarette at me, "this is directly from the Boss. Show some damn respect!"

"It's hard not to worry sometimes," I say softly.

"Tell me about it," she sighs. "They're talking about giving me another assignment or two. Shit! You're a full time job!"

Nodding my head in agreement, I can't think of anything to say.

"Go back to bed," she commands as she stands up. The bright moonlight shines brightly behind illuminating her.

"Hey! You're not wearing any underwear!"

"What am I going to do with you?" she sighs. "Go to bed dammit."

Turning I stumble to our bedroom, crawl in bed and snuggle with Sarah.

An hour later I wake, startled at the memory and pull myself out of bed again. Walking to the Beloved Back, there is no one on it and I laugh for a second, until I see smashed out cigarettes and crushed PBR cans on the table.