Baggage

Waiting for the luggage, Sarah and the girls are excited to be home. Talking at once ... well except for Maddie who is texting, utterly oblivious they've landed, walked half-a-mile and is now standing among a crowd of people... they're exclaiming the things they did in New York City.

The carousal spits out bags one at a time as travelers jostle into a mini-mob waiting to snatch a giant suitcase or golf bag the instant it rolls down the belt.

We're standing with the more patient people as Laurel and Cassidy argue over who's rolling the bag to the car.

Arms intertwined, Sarah and I are happy to be together again in the "suddenly compact universe of skin and breath and hair."

Cass grabs my UGA tee-shirt pleading because she just turned 7 she's perfectly capable of rolling the big bag by herself.

In the same instant, Laurel machine guns words, immediately overloading me with information which mostly seems aimed at Cassidy's inability to roll luggage without supervision.

Glancing up over her little blond head I spy Fran, staring stoically with folded arms, waiting on bags, standing beside us.

For the first time, I realize I've had two Fran's in my life.

I loved one of them.

She's dead.

"Hello Fran," I say to the other with the confidence of a Congressman telling another lie, "remember Sarah?"

Pauses really can be pregnant and this one was going to be volcanic when it blew!

"Micheal," she says without a smile, arms folded, a morticians face ... and then, "Of course, Sarah," with breath from Antarctica.

Sometimes history occurs in a second.

Sarah holds me tighter, grinning beatifically, and confidently says, "Of course. Fran!" with the slightest hint of "I don't give a shit!"

Fran had been a board member of the organization where we'd both worked. After 30 years in the business I begged for a sabbatical and the board said "No" so the weight of homelessness, AIDS, poverty, despair, really bad Government and hunger did me in.

Such graveyards are full of emotions.

Two large purple and white stripped bags roll passed on the belt and Fran jerks to grab them, as though a Zombie scratching the dirt off a grave and then she's instantly gone.

Cass tackles me ... "See! I can do this!"

And she does.

Well, it tips over four times before we get to the car, but dammit, she did it.

Unlike others I've known and choose to forget.
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Kissing Paradise Goodbye

And you can see them there, on Sunday morning
They stand up and sing about, what it's like up there
They call it Paradise, I don't know why
Call someplace Paradise, kiss it goodbye

I'd listen to "the Eagles" every Sunday morning before leaving the Pastor's Office for the Sanctuary ready to deliver God's message to those who came.

We were a rag-tag congregation of little old ladies, homeless people, prisoners, idealistic Seminary Students, kids from the Projects and the occasional normal person.

The students were a talented and giving bunch bringing good music, enthusiasm, commitment and joy balancing the sadness of the homeless people and the prisoners. The kids brought a greedy lust for snacks and a better place to play. The little old ladies watched it all suspiciously believing the house of cards would fall at any moment.

I was their Minister, having taken the job because no else wanted it and I liked the little old ladies and they liked me.

My first sermon was a "fire and brimstone" affair extolling my flock that we were going to do great things together. Resembling a coach's halftime speech when his team's losing badly, I let faith fly in the face of facts. The ladies quietly smiled having heard it all before.

Over time the place was reborn. A tired old building became a sanctuary where Sunday School rooms turned into apartments and the Baptismal Pool a bathtub. The "Fellowship Hall" morphed into the neighborhood's living room and the institutional kitchen became a "Coffee Shop" that never closed. The roof became a gathering place where we'd sit under the stars breathing the smell of death from the nearby stockyards and listening to the city cry.

The only time we resembled an actual church was during the Sunday morning service when I delivered the message. I grew fond of telling stories rather than preach which seemed to go over well. And I learned how to pray because people were constantly asking me to and I didn't want to say "No."

I was there for eight years and for a while it was a magical, holy, place of joy in one of the seediest parts of the city.

Towards the end, I had a hard time holding it all together. While the little old ladies were in Sunday School, the homeless people and prisoners sadly heard the "Good News" from enthusiastic Seminarians and the kids stuffed their mouths and pockets with everything they could ... I'd sit in my office listening to "The Eagles."

For a while, it really was Paradise.

I'm preaching today for the first time in a long while and it's got me thinking about old things. Under a tent on an island surrounded by vacationing Pirates and real life Beach Bums, I'll deliver God's message. They'll be good music, enthusiastic believers and those recovering from last night's celebrations. It'll be Paradise, at least for a little while.
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The End of the Rainbow

What happens when you get to the end of the rainbow?

I seem to find myself here.

A few short years ago, life was lived at a crazy, fast pace, struggle to get everything done on an ever growing list. Every answer begat two questions. Each accomplishment exposed new needs. Satisfaction was measured in seconds. Pressure weighed heavy on my shoulders. Sadness grew in my heart. Somehow, as I was changing the world it was passing me by ... I was just busy to notice.

Now, a cool breeze blows from the north on a warm island day. A canopy of purple clouds hang low over the ocean though directly over my head is deep blue sky with white puffy clouds dancing across it. Sitting here, contemplating the day, I wait on it to unveil itself to me rather than forcing my will on what should come.

A rainbow suddenly appears though there is no hint of rain.

It hangs above Fran's "Thousand Shades of Green" as I stare at it asking unanswerable questions.

"How in the hell is that happening?"

"Is this a sign?"

"God? You talking to me?"

A squirrel darts across the lines in the trees and the sun rises above the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. The rainbow disappears just as suddenly as it appeared.

Not knowing what to make of it, and since I'm sitting in front of my open laptop, I Google "Rainbow Facts" and read the following ...

"The idea that a pot of gold can be found at the rainbow's end originated somewhere in old Europe. In Silesia, an obscure area of eastern Europe it was said that the Angels put the gold there and that only a nude man could obtain the prize."

Quickly jumping up, I drop the black running shorts I'm wearing and wait in anticipation.

 Nothing happens.

"Shit," I mutter and sit back down.

The sun disappears behind a white puffy cloud as the breeze picks up. A branch falls from the Palm Tree. The squirrel disappears as the choir of cicada burst into Hymns. Swiveling the chair, I prop my feet on the railing of the Beloved Back Deck wondering what all of this means.

The computer burbs beeps of messages, notifications and reminders in stark contrast to life at the rainbow's end.

Then the door opens and Sarah walks in.
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October 2013 ♦ Embracing peace in your life! “You are one of the most tormented people I know,” she said. I was at the height of success, living at the beach, working in a beautiful city, having everything I thought I wanted…but she was right. I was miserable and didn’t know why. Then I decided to take a journey inside of myself. Life is too short and I deserved to happily celebrate my life. As much as I wanted to lay the blame at the feet of others, it was my own fault and I needed to know why I prevented myself from enjoying my life. I needed to find peace. And I did. You can find yours.

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My leaps of faith

The congregation was a crazy collection of five little old ladies, homeless people, Seminary students, prisoners in a Transitional Center, families from the Projects and a steady flux of visitors. They had collectively lost their minds and had called me as their minister.

The truth is they forced me into it.

I didn't want to do it.

I'd gone to Seminary because Guy Sayles had asked me to come  but I never had any intentions of becoming a "Professional Christian." One day the five little old ladies cornered me demanding that I become their pastor.

"Hell No!" I said.

They pressed and one had a butcher knife in her apron. Even without the knife, five little old ladies turned themselves into a gang and threatened me with violence. So to save myself, I said yes.

Having no idea whatsoever what I was supposed to do, I just made shit up.

Sunday morning breakfast was my idea. All of Louisville's soup kitchens closed for the weekend. Homeless people flocked to Catholic Mass just to get a little something to eat. I decided an alternative was needed.

The Christian gang of little old ladies said they didn't care so long as we didn't disrupt their Sunday School class.

So at six a.m. I opened the doors to the Sanctuary with bars on the windows serving up coffee, sausage gravy and biscuits. A hundred homeless people showed up and a ministry was born!

Then the people in the projects wanted to eat too so they started coming.

The radical fringe of the three Seminaries in town heard about the funky church doing crazy work started coming too just to check it out.

The warden at the Prison Transitional Center saw a way to reduce his budget while serving God at the same time asked if his population could come, eat and stay for services. I said sure and a congregation was born.

Regular attendance went from the Christian gang of five little old ladies to almost 200 thugs and peace loving Hippies.

Not everybody liked it though.

The Southern Baptists, of which I am one, were outraged and summoned me to Corporate Headquarters. Apparently I had violated Article 17; Section 3-2 of the Bylaws of Faith which says, "Thou shalt love buildings more than people." It seems I was screwing up their building.

"What do you want me to do," I asked?

You could have heard a pin drop in Baptist Corporate Headquarters. They had no idea. Church attendance was through the roof. Literally ... some homeless people slept on the roof! Baptists love numbers ... especially big ones!

As a result I was allowed to continue drawing a paycheck as a "Professional Christian."

It didn't last though. Nothing ever does. Eight years later, I could no longer handle the constraints of Baptist rules and regulations. I loved the congregation though the church was becoming oppressive. I needed to get out from under the Rock and found a way to do so. It wasn't a graceful way but my time as a "Professional Christian" mercifully ended.

I went on to do bigger and better things morphing into a President/CEO of a multi-million company. "There's big money in homelessness," I used to say and there was. I gave it my all until, decades later, that mercifully came to an end too.

These days, we're working on the next great thing, still rooted in making things better for others.

Life has been the most interesting ride. I've no regrets because everything I've done and all that I've been through got me to this point. It's fascinating, and frightening, as the other things I've done. Every day I wake up thankful and feel blessed even when night time doubts keep me awake. My Guardian Angel tells me to not worry about it.

"You taken leaps of faith before," she says. "This is just the latest ... and the biggest!" Then she shrugs her shoulders and adds, "No worries."

Rodger

Rodger Pack has died of a brain aneurysm.

That's funny. I didn't know he had a brain.

And Rodger would be the first to laugh at the joke because it's precisely what he would have said. The wonderful warped humor and cynicism of a homeless alcoholic.

When I was at Union Mission, Rodger was a client, an employee and my friend.

"You ever going to get married again?" I asked him once as we ate chili dogs from Tanners for breakfast. Once a week I'd buy breakfast for the staff and when it was Rodger's turn to choose the food it was always chili dogs.

Incredulous, the tiny man covered in tattoos wearing thick glasses that magnified his eyes just started at me.

"Rev," he finally said, "there is a lady I know downtown. I go see her from time to time. It's fun. Afterwards I give her some cash ... Hell! She even takes credit cards! ... then she says, 'Thank you Sir. Please come again.' Now you have a wife that says 'Thank you' after you have sex? Or lets you come back for more any time you want to?'"

I marveled at his argument.

"I didn't think so," he said tearing a piece of chili dog into his mouth. "Marriage has gone to shit in this country."

Yesterday I got an instant Facebook message from a friend from those days. Joe asked me if I knew about Rodger, told me what had happened and gave me his opinion on the state of homelessness in Savannah these days.

Afterwards I cried.

I can still vividly see Rodger staggering through Yamacraw Village wearing white painters paints one night when I was leaving Grace House, the shelter for men. A few days later he returned and the painters paints were filthy and he'd been beaten up. He asked for my help.

Years later he would say that I slowed down to 35 miles per hour and threw him out of the car at Potter's Place, our group home for alcoholics. "You're in charge," he claimed I yelled driving away. "You can't drink because you're in charge of alcoholics trying to quit. They will kill you."

And he never had another drink.

He remained at Potter's Place for seven year before leaving to ... get married, though it didn't last.

The last time I saw Rodger was at the funeral of his sponsor Jerry Robinson who happened to be the President of the Union Mission Board of Directors. After the service, Rodger and I hugged. He kept his emotions in check, like most homeless people, forever guarded and never completely trusting anyone.

Keeping his arms on my shoulders, he stepped back, looking me in the eyes.

"Thanks Rev," he said and sharply turned and marched away ... wearing clean white painters paints.