Who Cares?

Most people get lost in thought.

I get lost in feelings.

It's easy for me to laugh, cry, joke or slide off into an alternative universe of emotions where there is no time.

It's very Monk-like in that I'll be thinking about something before I realize I'm staring at the sunlight shinning on green leaves dancing in the breeze.

How did 30 minutes just pass?

Where was I?

Did Scotty beam me up and back down again?

Was that prayer?

I'll give you an example.

Several years ago I was invited to the LBJ School of Public Policy at the University of Texas in Austin (a most beautiful college campus) and a really lovely town.

I was to share the stage with the head the Texas head of Public Health, the School's Dean of Public Policy and others ... it was a big deal.

I impressed upon the school that if they were going to pay for me to come all that way and if they anted the whole story, they should also invite Peter Doliber from Memorial Health University Medical Center.

We were doing great stuff at the time.

So they invited Peter too.

The Lyndon Baines Johnson (LBJ) School is a freaking cool place, especially the replica of his office when he was President!

I was mesmerized by the red phone on his desk with one button on it pressed only to use nuclear bombs to destroy the world.

Anyway, Peter and I killed them that day.

"Well," the Dean said after the session, "you certainly were ..." as he struggles to find the right word, "entertaining."

It was a great day!

It was also a long time ago and a lot's happened since.

Peter's back home in the Northeast being in charge of something and I'm a happily married beach bum coping with three little girls.

But I just spent 30 minutes in an alternative universe feeling those things again.

When Scotty beams me back down I'm full of emotion and wonder if Peter ever thinks about these things.

Isn't it funny how you do nice things for people in life and they don't remember?

Or care.

It's funny in a sad sort of way.

The next thing I know I'm staring at the sunlight illuminating the thousand shades of green dancing in the breeze with tear drops of purple Wisteria falling on them.

Suddenly I'm aware that Neil Young is reminding me that "Yes only love can break your heart."

"Hmmm," I mutter out loud and I wish Sarah was home.

Praying the Blues

"When you least feel like praying is when you really need to."

The Gospel according to Hooker Man.

Sarah and I met Hooker and his beautiful wife Levy last year in St. Martin, though I'd heard about them previously from our friend Hugh.

Hooker and Levy are musicians who reside in Coleman, Michigan. He wears glasses over a nose that floats above a long gray beard and you just know he played Woodstock. Wearing overalls and sandals, he stands lost in the sounds wailing from his guitar.

Levy's hair falls over her shoulders but her large captivating smile is what affects you. Her smile throws warmth your way. Her voice soothes. A gifted story teller, her eyes work the crowd then shares devilish delight with Hooker's as they make the music of angels.

On a hot Tropical night in St. Martin, Hooker and Levy performed an impromptu concert on the patio of their Garden Chalet. Our friend Marty joined in wailing on his harps. Perhaps thirty of us stood under the moonlit Palm Trees with the waves crashing on the reef serving as percussion.

"In spite of ourselves," Levy sang while Hooker played, "we'll end up a sittin' on a rainbow."

The lyrics to the John Prine song were our wedding vows when Sarah and I married under a full moon on the beach at Tybee. We smiled and danced as Hooker and Levy re-gifted our vows to us.

Michigan is a long way from Tybee Island but through the magic and wonder of Facebook, we all keep up with each other. Isn't it wonderful that once one time meetings that became distant memories are now ongoing friendships where we can immediately touch over distance and time?

At 3:00 in the morning Hooker posted that when you least feel like praying is when you need to. I don't know if he played last night, he could have just gotten home from work and was sitting there having the days last cigarette and washing it down with a beer. Levy might have been rubbing his shoulders. Or he could have been laying there, trying to sleep before saying "To hell with it!" and sitting before the computer thinking about prayer.

I don't know.

I do know that a friend of Hooker's was hurt really bad yesterday. Great musicians think with their hearts and Hooker's was troubled. Sometimes prayers are really the blues, our way of saying to God, "This just ain't right."

And that's alright. Sometimes life just isn't right and we have every right in the world to tell God and everybody else it ain't! Bad things happen. Incredible life's are cut short. Friends hurt themselves. Lover's disappear.  Loneliness is found. Hunger of all sorts happens.

I believe that God prefers listening to the blues. It's far purer than choirs of Angels singing Hymns. It's far more substantive than the Gospel songs of praise heard in church. It's much more honest than anything in the Hymnal.

At 3:00 in the morning, without his guitar, Hooker was praying the blues.

And I heard you man.

And I'm praying them with you.

The Way we like our religion!

"Don't let me down," begged the Major Prophet John Lennon.

But of course they do.

Jesus put a positive spin on it when he said, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

But we don't.

We've been burned too many times, giving openly and honestly to others only to have them not give back to us in kind. The result is we are taken advantage of, hurt and left to clean up other people's messes.

Every time it happens, we add another brick to the wall we build to protect ourselves from such things. The number of people we trust grows very small. We hoard our feelings for ourselves. Our community is tiny. The love we do give away is questioned, guarded and reserved for only a few. Most can count the true loves they have on one hand.

The "Golden Rule" is in every single one of the world's religions yet it remains the least practiced form of faith.

It ends up pissing everybody off so to hell with it. We take the rest of the world's religions except this part. It makes religion so much easier, leaving plenty of room for intolerance, bigotry, exclusion, hate and terrorism. Now that's how we like our religion!

If it weren't so then why is much of it in the world today.

Last night Sarah and I sat in the red room shell shocked for what others had done unto us that we hadn't done unto others.

After letting our anger out, continuing to say to one another "I'm not mad at you! I'm just mad and don't have anybody else to mad at right now!", we began to calm down. I grew contemplative as Sarah continued to process things that had been done leaving us with a great deal of unexpected things to do.

I had a hard time sleeping last night because of it all. Laying there staring at the ceiling fan, Goddess laid on my side of the bed licking my hand and John Lennon kept singing in my head.

"Don't let me down."

"Don't let me down."

It is a shame that we do let each other down as a daily practice of our faith.

It's more than a shame.

It's just another brick in the wall.

Praying for the world

Tornados blow through schools. Children disappear. The number of murders continue to climb. Politicians make promises they have no intention of keeping. Clergy profess to speak for God when God speaks daily without assistance. The masses are frightened. There are wars and rumors of wars.

For decades this was my world.

I was immersed in the cesspools of society, doing my best to clean it up and make things better. The homeless, hookers, addicts, abusers and the abused were my people. I saw the bad side of the world up close and personal. I touched it, finding good that most had no idea was there and shared holy moments with them. I also was witness to self-destruction, self-deception and death.

I walked the halls of Congress, state Capitols and City Hall seeking favors and indulgence from the powerfully pompous who demand more than they give themselves. Sitting in church conference rooms I asked professional Christians to remember the poor so that you may be kind to them only to be told that God helps those help themselves. I sat with the rich asking for help and was challenged, "What's in it for me?"

These things have left me changed.

I understand the frailty of the world. Our lives are like spider webs, integrally woven and wonderfully complex yet can be knocked away in the time it takes to blink. If you're lucky, like the itsy-bitsy-spider, you start over again because there's nothing else you can do except give up and die.

I understand the evil that exists in the world too. In a sea of good there are people who do bad things. Caring only about themselves, they lie, purposely hurt and never give it a thought. They take without thinking, pass without looking and are so easily hard ... so easily cold. Their favorite word is, "No."

Today I sit in the oasis of the beloved back deck, serenaded by choirs of birds, watching Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the pleasant ocean breeze. I am far away from the madness, a monk in a seaside monastery, perpetually tanned and constantly content.

I wonder if this is a gift in time, a reward for three decades of giving myself to others or an incredible streak of good fortune?

Back when I visited real monasteries with Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, we'd drink beers with monks and have long talks. In our youthful zealous exuberance for Christ, we'd ask, "But how can you just sit here when we are to be of the world, making it better! Making heaven on earth!"

With his shaved white head, wearing a white robe and blue stole, the old monk sipped his beer and smiled. "Oh,  but my job is to pray for the world. That's what I do. That's all I do."

I think I finally understand what he was saying.

The Prodigal Father

"I love you like a son," he'd said in a quivering voice, moisture filling his eyes as he threw his arms around me.

That was several years ago and he's become the Prodigal Father, disappearing from my life, leaving me questioning why and wondering what I did to drive him away. Time passes and I've gotten used to it as best I could though when someone just leaves there's a gnawing, unresolved wonderment.

I marvel at those who can quickly end relationships, moving on, never looking back and not really caring about someone who was once significant. In fact, I've come to believe that this is most people.

But it's not me.

I think the moment you meet someone, you cannot be unchanged. Both the significant ones and the inconsequential leave something of themselves as part of who I am.

Once I was driving down Bay Street in downtown Savannah, Georgia on a beautiful spring day. The sky was blue, it was warm and pleasant and everything was in bloom. The windows were rolled down and I was taking my sweet time getting to wherever I was going determined to enjoy such an incredible day.

For no reason whatsoever I glanced over to the car heading in the opposite direction and saw her. Long brown hair hung forward as she slumped over the steering wheel, forehead resting on it. She held her head up and was sobbing, tearing gushing from her eyes and pouring down her freckled face. Her mouth was open and though I could not hear the crying, I could feel it. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds and then she was gone.

Though it happened twenty years ago, she is part of me now.

Sometimes when I'm sad, or empathetic to others going through hard times, she comes to me just as alive and hurting as she was then. I can still see her. I can still feel her.

So when I saw the Prodigal Father yesterday as he exited and I entered the Chick-fill-A on Victory Drive in Savannah, I was unprepared for the moment.

He was too.

"Micheal Elliott," he called me by name as if to remind him that I still exist. I called him by name in return and the most awkward of silences filled the moments that slowed to a crawl.

"Take care Herb," I finally said moving forward.

"Yeah. You too Micheal," he replied passing me by.

And our lives go on.

Though I know deep inside of me that the Prodigal Father will never come home again.