Night Prayers

Scratching on the sliding glass doors wake me at 2:30.

Sighing, I stare at the silhouettes of Palm trees outside of our window, disentangle myself from a lovely sleeping position with Sarah and quietly pull myself out of bed.

Stumbling into the living room there's enough moonlight to easily make my way.

In the kitchen the silhouette of our dog Goddess jumps up and her tail wags as I slide the door open so she can go out.

Following her out, the heat of the night embraces me in sharp contrast to the coolness of the air-conditioning inside.

Goddess rushes down the stairs to the back yard as I lay my hands on the rail of the beloved back deck sleepily taking inventory.

Stars dance around a bright half moon to the song of a choir of cicada.

Every light is on in our neighbors house and her television throws off colorful hues as she sleeps passed out on her sofa.

Aside from the cicada choir, all is silent ... all is calm ... all is bright.

I stand naked in a Monastery built by God and on an oh so Holy night.

Prayers rush through my mind, first of Thanksgiving for Sarah and this life, then petitions to look over the ones we love and finally for interventions to guide us to the things we must do next.

I hear the scratches of Goddess' paws as she lumbers up the wooden stairs and takes her place beside me.

Yawning and scratching my head, I say "Amen" out loud before returning to the coolness of the sanctuary that is our home.

Goddess continues to wag her plume of a tail, breathing excitedly as I crawl back into the manger with Sarah grateful for night prayers and a dog who insists that I have them.

Amen.

Working out love

"Do not be anxious about anything," St. Paul writes in his jail cell, "but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your request to God."

I suspect the old Apostle's request to God was "Get me the hell out of here! I'll thank you later!"

And in time, he eventually did get out, though it's unclear how much, if anything, God had to do with it. He'd done his time and they needed the space because it's always brisk in the jail business.

I've known and visited lots of people in jail. I offered housing to many released from prison who had no home to go to so they came to me.

Over time it was easy to see virtually all of them were very religious people.

Faith is easier to find when you're locked up and lonely. With no one else to talk to, they talked to God.

"Please get me out of here," they beg, "and I promise I'll do better next time."

Like the old Saint, they were eventually released too with a chance to start over albeit with the albatross of a criminal record that greatly reduced the opportunities facing them.

Because I have the "REV" in front of my name, they shared their stories with me, made confessions or asked my forgiveness for things I knew nothing about. There was a desperateness to their faith which I've rarely seen in religious institutions of any kind.

At the same time, I've never met anyone who isn't imprisoned by anxieties.  Everyone expects the worst even when they're praying for the best. We worry about most everything, sometimes to the point of becoming completely overwhelmed. The older we grow, the worse it seems to get.

Like the prisoner sitting in his cell, we long to be free too. Free to go somewhere else, be with somebody else, do something else and do these things completely free of fear.

"What's it like?" a friend asked. "I mean you get up every day and do what you want. You live where you wish and with Sarah who works with you. I want to do what you're doing. How do you do it? Aren't you anxious?"

"Sure," I reply. "Of course I am but so far so good. We're not certain how sustainable it is but we're giving it our best and we believe with everything in us that it'll work out in the end."

"There are two basic motivating forces," said the Major Prophet John Lennon, "fear and love. When we're afraid we pull back from life. When we are in love we are open to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement and acceptance."

So I'm doing the things I love and doing them now! I'm afraid to put it off like lots of people do. So I'm going to keep working on the things I love with a belief that love works everything out so I don't have to worry.
____________________________________________

There's one week left to sign up for my writing workshop! You know you want to write your book! Here's your change with personal coaching from me. Give yourself a present and register now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/writingworkshop/

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.
_______________________________________

There is still time to register for my Writing Workshop beginning in November! Let the stories you're holding inside come to the light of day and share them with the world. Register at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/writingworkshop/

You are Great!

The eight year old boy shuffles into the kitchen wiping snot from his nose and crying. He'd been playing in the vacant lot when a fight broke out and he ended up on the wrong side of the bigger boys who knocked him to the ground and kicked him.

"What's wrong?" his mother asks, dropping the dish rag she's holding in front of the kitchen sink. Dropping to one knee, she embraces him at his level, blue eyes blazing into his wet ones.

Eventually, he explains and blames himself for being too small, not smart enough nor quick enough to outrun them.

She picks him up and sets him on the kitchen table, dirty bare feet dangling in the air. Cupping his face in her hands, staring fiercely in his eyes so he has no choice but to stare back, she says, "You are going to be great? Do you understand that? You are the greatest!"

He stops crying, sucks snot back up his nose and nods his head.

"You are going to be great," she repeats before hugging him and cleaning his face.

In the years that follow, she does it again and again. They were always alone and she grabs him setting him on the kitchen table, cups his chin with blue eyes blazing into blue eyes, "You ... are ... going to be ... great!"

After a while, he knew it to be true.

And I went on to do great things having a long career selling homelessness, AIDS, addiction and health care to those who could afford to eradicate such things. I raised millions of dollars from people and Governments who really didn't care about homeless people, people with AIDS, addicts and the uninsured. I became an award winning author, sought after speaker and renown expert.

I also learned to blow my nose without help.

Many people think I've retired and am living the good life at the beach with Sarah my wife.

It's true Sarah and I are living a good life at the beach but we're also working hard doing the things I've always done. Instead of exclusively giving hope and success to the sick and the poor, I'm now helping everyone! I write daily blogs that inspire, books that challenge, online classes transform lives and personally coach helping to meet goals and achieve dreams.

"I would have never left had it not been for you," a retired teacher says. "I'd settled for a life I didn't want with a man I didn't love. Now I'm doing what I want and loving it!"

"One month in your class," a minister writes, "was more productive than paying for years in therapy."

"Thanks for helping me become a speaker and writer," a successful musician explains. "I had to get out the bars! Now I'm playing and speaking throughout the southeast in places I really want to be."

I'm too busy to retire because right now I'm looking you in the eye ... my blue eyes on you ... affirming the things you desire ... and I have something to tell you ... "You're great! Do you understand that? You're the greatest!"
_____________________________________________

You can register for upcoming on line classes at  http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/onlineclass/

Order your copy of my new book at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

C'est La Vie

It has been brought to my attention that I am remarkably consistent in my inconsistency.

I don't deny it.

Most people believe in absolutes. Things are black or white. You're liberal or conservative. There are believers and non-believers, lovers and haters, the good and the bad.

I believe life's more grey.

Like piano keys, black and white mixed together can make beautiful sounds. If just one set of keys are played it's pretty one dimensional.

Politics is for extremists though the truth is most often in the middle.

Believers are filled with doubt while non-believers long for something to fill empty places.

Lovers absentmindedly fall into apathy and haters sometimes overcome above their indifference.

Good people occasionally do bad things and bad people surprise everyone when they rise to the occasion.

You can never quite be sure.

There's always more than one side to a story.

It's not to say I don't have convictions because I certainly do!

I hate cold weather with everything in me. I love my kids, the girls, Goddess, Winston, the little gay dog, summer, the beach, St. Martin and the University of Georgia football team with everything inside of me.

I simply adore my beloved Sarah and emotionally fall apart when we're not on the same page. I just shut down.

The older I get, the more I think it's all C'est la vie.

That's life!

Clarity often slips into ambiguity and then slides back to crystal clear visions but with nagging wonderment if it's the right way or not?

We're all working our way through the best we can.

Some of us do better than others though each of us struggle.

I have both the blessing and the curse of being an extremely empathetic person. I feel what others share deeply and in real time.  A friend is hurting, feels taken advantage of, hates life or wants something different shares with me and I share it back. I live the moment with them even though I often think they've made their own bed and are now laying in it.

I don't tell them that though.

I encourage instead.

Life's hard enough to get through.

We can all use more encouragement.

I overdo it and I know I do.

Sometimes at my own expense.

Certainly at the expense of others.

Sitting here pondering these things, I say the same prayer that I say every single day.  It's one of my absolutes.

"Hey God! Help me to be the best me I can be today. I'm sure I'll fuck some things up but I really am doing my best. If I can help anyone else along the way then that's good too. Bless the things I love and let me love them like you do. And if you can find a use for the things I hate ... well that's great. You being God and all made it for a reason. Oh ... and thanks for this life. Thank you for Sarah, the kids the girls, Goddess, Winston, the little gay dog, warm weather, the here and the now."

It's my life.

C'est la vie!
_____________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. Over 200 pages of his musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story, Elliott’s ninth book takes you on a wild journey of “Wow! Really! I can’t believe that!” every day moments. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts exemplifies his gift of capturing common thoughts and painting them perfectly into words. Release date (pre-order books ship) is September 23, 2013.

Pre-order your copy for $10.95, plus $4 S&H now! Offer ends August 31st.

(Regular price $14.95, plus $4 S&H takes effect 9/1)

Prayers

A little before five o'clock I crawl out of bed and stumble outside to the Beloved Back Deck. Goddess immediately jumps up and follows me. Winston, the little gay dog, takes this as his cue to take my place, jumps into the bed and snuggling with Sarah who is soundly asleep.

The black sky is ablaze with stars casting enough light that I see the leaves of Fran's thousand shades of green. The red, purple, pink and orange blooms on the plants glow in praise. The choir of cicada sing their endless hymn of praise.

I plop down in my chair and cross my feet on the railing.

"Hey God," I say out loud, "I need to tell you a few things."

In the distance waves break on the beach.

"So I got some friends who need a little looking after right now. They're going through some tough shit. One is sick and broke. She ain't got a dime and can't afford the debt of getting well."

The choir of cicada soften to a hum.

"Matter of fact God, I got several friends in the same boat. It's a boat full of leaks," and I laugh at the analogy.

It grows lighter and I can easily make out the outlines of our neighbor's homes.

"Anyway, Nancy and Amy just lost their Mommas and that really sucks. They are devastated. I understand how much they hurt. Thanks for my Dad and tell him I miss him. And I'm really glad my Mom still tells me what to do all of the time even though I don't listen to her."

A shooting star flames across the sky disappearing behind a purple cloud.

"And I got a bunch who are pretty disgusted at how quiet you been. They're really needing a little something from you right now. Can you please throw a little love their way?"

Goddess heavily sighs and I scratch her head in silence. She licks my hand and my hearts erupts with love for her.

"And Kristen's going throw some crazy stuff right now so look after her OK?"

Scratches on the glass door demand my attention and I see Winston, the little gay dog, wanting to join us. Reaching my arm backwards around my head I slide it open and he prances out.

"Anyway, I know you're busy and stuff but they're all really hurting right now. Bless 'em. OK? Nobody deserves shit like that."

The choir of cicada stop and the silence is deafening.

"Thanks God," I mumble feeling overwhelmed by the holiness of it all.

Standing, I take one final look around.

Goddess immediately jumps up waging her tail.

Winston, the little gay dog, watches me.

"Hey," I say before I turn, "thank you for Sarah. I don't know what I would do ..."

Goddess scratches the door and I stop talking.

Turning, I open it and the dogs rush inside so I follow and crawl back in bed with her.

"Oh yeah," I whisper after getting the pillows right.

"Amen."

And I sleep like a baby.
____________________

Interested in more? Check out http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

When it all goes wrong

"Will you just give me a break," she exclaims in exasperation, "I think I've lost my boyfriend and my job."

She was much too thin, greasy black hair, vacant brown eyes that were misted over, a white tank top with pink bra straps slipping over her shoulders, and cut off blue jeans. A tattoo of Celtic letters were painted in black on the base of her neck matching a circle of them around her left arm. A trampy Olive Oil, chain smoking, was doing everything wrong and someone had called her out on it.

Sarah and I had stumbled in for something to eat after attending the Savannah Singer Songwriter Series on the island.

"Will you please just leave?" she begs her customer and he does.

Everything she does seems to keep getting worse. After giving up rewriting the menu board, she grabs a dollar from the cash register and plays a sad song, very loudly, on the juke box. This ran off another customer.

When the song's over, the only other person in the bar besides us walks to the juke box and feeds it money. Country music blares over the basketball game that's on the television. We watch because there was no way we can hear anything that's said.

The greasy Olive Oil lights another cigarette and cries as she stares into place.

She took our order but never gave it to the cook. When the songs finally finished we tell her.

Everybody has those kind of days. Everything just seems to turn to shit. The harder you try, the worse it gets. Your roof may as well leak, your house have fleas and your car won't start. Broken hearts break a little more, loneliness grows, your best of friends give stupid advice and you just want to cry.

Our food arrives and Sarah asks for napkins.

She rushes, apologetic for the tardiness of our meal, grabs one a Coca-Cola napkin dispensers and places it before Sarah. It's empty.

We leave her a nice tip. There isn't anything else really to do.

And we both throw her prayers. We've had those kind of days.

The prayers may not help.

They sure as hell couldn't hurt.