One of my proudest accomplishments in my career was developing the J. C. Lewis Health Center along with Melanie Finnacario, Trisha Smith, Regina Smith and Bob Colvin. Others came aboard later but these were the ones who began it all.
It started as primary care clinics in homeless shelters where homeless people go to emergency rooms more than most anyone else. In less than four months, we demonstrated that if you take health care to the people who need it, rather than require them to go to where it is, they get better and hospitals save millions of dollars.
I mean most things are not rocket science.
Those clinics which were located across Savannah, Georgia became this linked network. Then we built the J. C. Lewis Health Center which added an in-patient component. My friend J. C. Lewis was a part of this, but in equal proportions so were St. Joseph/Candler Health System, Earl Mecham from HUD, Ted Hardgrove from the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and a lot of people from Savannah who believed in the cause.
We were pioneers in the development of the respite care movement in the nation. Over time we added oral health care (which was a throw away idea from Ted) and then Behavioral Health (because I lost my mind).
The Lewis Center eventually became a Federally Qualified Health Center, which is a big deal. Today thousands of people get their health care from it. In the years to come, thousands more patients will be added.
So it was ironic to me yesterday when I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up several prescriptions that I was told that my insurance had lapsed.
I sighed and paid six times as much as I normally would have. Union Mission had given me COBRA and it had yet to be processed. My precious daughter Chelsea and I are among the ranks of the uninsured which I have won numerous national awards for by providing them health care.
The United States may have the best health care in the world, but we have terrible coverage and a lousy system of access. And the President’s plan doesn’t really do much to fix it.
But I stood there laughing at the irony.
At home I fired an email to our agent who immediately responded and told me that it would be fixed within 24 hours. I would be reimbursed for the five times over the amount that I paid. The doctor that I am scheduled to see next week will receive insurance payment after my co-pay.
Chelsea can leave her room.
Union Mission got into health care one day when a man with H.I.V. was too sick to be in the dorm so I put a bed in a broom closet and we took care of him until he died. This led to the Phoenix Project which is one of the nation’s premier programs for people living with AIDS.
A few years later, I was sitting with several homeless men in the courtyard at Grace House asking them why they were so sick. They wore bandages, hacked and coughed and spit in the water fountain and one showed me his chest X-rays. Out of that came the J. C. Lewis Health Center.
But it remains a screwed up system. And Chelsea and I became victims for a little while yesterday. We were able to take care of it, but I have lots of friends who cannot.
A couple of years ago I did the eulogy for a friend of a friend on Tybee who had died way too young. She was a bartender who had cancer and no insurance, meaning she had to pay 100% of the costs. This only happens to the uninsured. A hundred of us were gathered in the bar where she had worked.
So I prayed. “God, please forgive her for being uninsured. But please forgive those who run health care in this country more.”
And it was the only time that I have ever been cheered in the middle of a prayer.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Why Be Conventional?
Today I have to cross the bridge and drive through the marsh in Savannah for meetings. Luckily they are with friends whom I love. Tomorrow on the other hand, Chelsea and I are driving to Atlanta (which believes it is the Center of the Universe). There are not many reasons that would get me to Atlanta these days but Dr. Jim Withers is one.
Jim is the founder of Operation Safety Net in Pittsburgh and he practices medicine on the streets where people actually need it. He is also the founder of the International Street Medicine Institute which carries the practice world-wide. I am the Chairman of the Board of Directors.
We are gathering in Atlanta to interview a candidate for the position of Executive Director. I’ve never been a big believer in the interview process, so Jim was horrified when I asked the candidate to see if she could get us tickets to the Braves game. We would conduct the interview there.
“What are you doing?” Jim asked.
“What better way to get to know if she’s resourceful or not?” I replied. “If she can score the tickets for free then we know she knows how to work the system.”
“Um-hum,” he replied.
“Then we can see if she understands baseball, drinks beer, can eat a hot dog without spilling mustard on her shirt, and has a sense of humor. What better way to interview someone?”
A few days later we got an e-mail that she had scored the tickets so it is off to Atlanta I go. Jim remains apprehensive but is allowing me to drive the process.
I have never been accused of being conventional. In fact when I was a professional Christian working at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, I would often have to travel to corporate headquarters in Atlanta because I was in trouble with the Baptists. They would fly me in, tell that I couldn’t do the things that I was doing, and then I would go to a Braves game before returning to Louisville and continuing to do the things that I’d been doing. Good times!
During the last days I was at Union Mission, the Chairman of the Board (who wishes to remain anonymous) told me that he didn’t like his name used publicly. “Fine,” I replied, “I’ll just refer to you as the Chairman of the Board who chooses to remain anonymous.”
He laughed and said, “You have never been conventional.”
“Union Mission would never have become what it did if I were conventional,” I told him.
And that is true. Conventionality is way over rated.
New things don’t happen if you follow the same rules all of the time. New discoveries aren’t made if you keep doing things the same way. You don’t grow if you do not challenge yourself by breaking away from the safe, familiar routine. Adventures don’t occur if you lock yourself in the car and refuse to participate. The joy of an adrenaline rush never occurs if you stay in line. God is not praised if you never create.
So I got a lot to do today.
You do too.
Jim is the founder of Operation Safety Net in Pittsburgh and he practices medicine on the streets where people actually need it. He is also the founder of the International Street Medicine Institute which carries the practice world-wide. I am the Chairman of the Board of Directors.
We are gathering in Atlanta to interview a candidate for the position of Executive Director. I’ve never been a big believer in the interview process, so Jim was horrified when I asked the candidate to see if she could get us tickets to the Braves game. We would conduct the interview there.
“What are you doing?” Jim asked.
“What better way to get to know if she’s resourceful or not?” I replied. “If she can score the tickets for free then we know she knows how to work the system.”
“Um-hum,” he replied.
“Then we can see if she understands baseball, drinks beer, can eat a hot dog without spilling mustard on her shirt, and has a sense of humor. What better way to interview someone?”
A few days later we got an e-mail that she had scored the tickets so it is off to Atlanta I go. Jim remains apprehensive but is allowing me to drive the process.
I have never been accused of being conventional. In fact when I was a professional Christian working at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, I would often have to travel to corporate headquarters in Atlanta because I was in trouble with the Baptists. They would fly me in, tell that I couldn’t do the things that I was doing, and then I would go to a Braves game before returning to Louisville and continuing to do the things that I’d been doing. Good times!
During the last days I was at Union Mission, the Chairman of the Board (who wishes to remain anonymous) told me that he didn’t like his name used publicly. “Fine,” I replied, “I’ll just refer to you as the Chairman of the Board who chooses to remain anonymous.”
He laughed and said, “You have never been conventional.”
“Union Mission would never have become what it did if I were conventional,” I told him.
And that is true. Conventionality is way over rated.
New things don’t happen if you follow the same rules all of the time. New discoveries aren’t made if you keep doing things the same way. You don’t grow if you do not challenge yourself by breaking away from the safe, familiar routine. Adventures don’t occur if you lock yourself in the car and refuse to participate. The joy of an adrenaline rush never occurs if you stay in line. God is not praised if you never create.
So I got a lot to do today.
You do too.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Why I Do It
Most communication is electronic these day so we text, email, instant message, video blog or post. We pay our bills online. And those who don’t will very soon be replaced by those who do. Paper is increasingly becoming useless. Books are being replaced by Kendals. Newsletters will soon be passé. Television and radio no longer command the airwaves.
One of the things about living on Tybee Island is that we have a Post Office that doesn’t deliver the mail so you have to go get it. This proves to be a challenge for many of us. So once or twice each month we swing by the Post Office and spend half an hour trying to pry the mail out of the box. Yesterday was my first trip to the Post Office in…well, I’m not sure when.
Back home I made my way through the stack and there were two old fashioned handwritten cards to me. The first was from Preston Blackwelder of Port Wentworth, Georgia where I grew up. Pep has always been in my life and is one remarkable man. He was the first true story teller that I ever saw and he can cast a spell on a church crowd.
Inside the card he had clipped out all of the press that I got when I resigned from Union Mission. “A mere thank you seems inadequate for the leadership and accomplishments…you end your mission on a firm foundation of hope for the ‘least of these’.”
I wiped my eyes.
“From the days of your infancy, till the Lord calls me home, I’m on stand-by as a stand-in Dad if you ever need me.”
Tears rolled down my face and I had to walk outside to compose myself a bit. Goddess was rubbing herself against me trying to force my attention in another direction.
Returning inside, I opened the second card which was from Gretchen Patricio, my High School English teacher and the one largely responsible for me graduating with any knowledge in my head at all. “Micheal, thank you for everything that you have done to love the unlovely…when you generously gave me a copy of “Tour of Homes” I was not in a place to read it. Seeing your retirement on TV, I remembered it, and have spent the last two weeks enjoying it Reading it was like seeing parts of your life over the last thirty odd years. (The language was rough!)
I laughed out loud as I wiped my eyes again.
Later at my computer I read messages from people who read my daily blog. “I am not liking how late they are these days. They are like coffee to me.”
“Thanks for seasoning my days well with your blogging. Keep on being real. You help me…” wrote a minister friend of mine in another city.
Then on Face Book there are all of these posts under the blog. Many are funny. Many are heartfelt.
I write first for me. They are prayers of my life. Some of Thanksgiving. Others of frustration. Celebration. Or anger. They represent the realities of my day and it is helpful for me to write them out of me. My son Jeremy once said of my writing, once he writes it out it is gone from him.
Then I share it. I used to share it through my books, articles in magazines or newspapers and still do from time to time. But most is through the blog posted in a couple of places. When I wrote books people would send me letters. When I post the blog they send me instant messages.
The thing about sharing yourself is you receive far more back than you give. New friends arrive out of nowhere and you love them as much as you have ever loved anyone. Old friends reacquaint. Many respond privately with confessions from their own lives which puts whatever I am going through into perspective. Through the sharing, community is born which is a very holy and precious thing.
Some think it to be self-serving and I suppose that it is. But, by giving you shall receive, we have been taught. And giving yourself away is how you get yourself back. And that is why I write.
One of the things about living on Tybee Island is that we have a Post Office that doesn’t deliver the mail so you have to go get it. This proves to be a challenge for many of us. So once or twice each month we swing by the Post Office and spend half an hour trying to pry the mail out of the box. Yesterday was my first trip to the Post Office in…well, I’m not sure when.
Back home I made my way through the stack and there were two old fashioned handwritten cards to me. The first was from Preston Blackwelder of Port Wentworth, Georgia where I grew up. Pep has always been in my life and is one remarkable man. He was the first true story teller that I ever saw and he can cast a spell on a church crowd.
Inside the card he had clipped out all of the press that I got when I resigned from Union Mission. “A mere thank you seems inadequate for the leadership and accomplishments…you end your mission on a firm foundation of hope for the ‘least of these’.”
I wiped my eyes.
“From the days of your infancy, till the Lord calls me home, I’m on stand-by as a stand-in Dad if you ever need me.”
Tears rolled down my face and I had to walk outside to compose myself a bit. Goddess was rubbing herself against me trying to force my attention in another direction.
Returning inside, I opened the second card which was from Gretchen Patricio, my High School English teacher and the one largely responsible for me graduating with any knowledge in my head at all. “Micheal, thank you for everything that you have done to love the unlovely…when you generously gave me a copy of “Tour of Homes” I was not in a place to read it. Seeing your retirement on TV, I remembered it, and have spent the last two weeks enjoying it Reading it was like seeing parts of your life over the last thirty odd years. (The language was rough!)
I laughed out loud as I wiped my eyes again.
Later at my computer I read messages from people who read my daily blog. “I am not liking how late they are these days. They are like coffee to me.”
“Thanks for seasoning my days well with your blogging. Keep on being real. You help me…” wrote a minister friend of mine in another city.
Then on Face Book there are all of these posts under the blog. Many are funny. Many are heartfelt.
I write first for me. They are prayers of my life. Some of Thanksgiving. Others of frustration. Celebration. Or anger. They represent the realities of my day and it is helpful for me to write them out of me. My son Jeremy once said of my writing, once he writes it out it is gone from him.
Then I share it. I used to share it through my books, articles in magazines or newspapers and still do from time to time. But most is through the blog posted in a couple of places. When I wrote books people would send me letters. When I post the blog they send me instant messages.
The thing about sharing yourself is you receive far more back than you give. New friends arrive out of nowhere and you love them as much as you have ever loved anyone. Old friends reacquaint. Many respond privately with confessions from their own lives which puts whatever I am going through into perspective. Through the sharing, community is born which is a very holy and precious thing.
Some think it to be self-serving and I suppose that it is. But, by giving you shall receive, we have been taught. And giving yourself away is how you get yourself back. And that is why I write.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Love and Laughter
As soon as I saw Skutch wearing a tie I knew that it wasn't going to go well. He had arranged to meet Shirely Sessions and I at the Breakfast Club for lunch and conversation to catch up with one another.
Skutch is a reporter for the Savannah Morning News who covered Union Mission and me for years. While he doesn't look like it, he is the consumate professional. He looks like an actor in a "B" movie playing a reporter.
But yesterday he stood in front of the Breakfasat Club wearing a tie and a white shirt. That never bodes well at the Breakfast Club. It was 90 degrees and sunny and I was wearing a St. Martin tee-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.
"Skutch, for Christ's sake! You got a tie on! And it's baby blue!"
"Some of us have to work for a living," he shot back with a crooked smile.
So we went inside where my extended Breakfast Club family were in full freenzy mode. Meaning they had lost their collective minds a couple of hours earlier, could taste the beers that they would be having at closing and were on the prowl to create fun.
I led Skutch to a booth and warned Val to leave us alone after telling her that he is my friend. Of course that did no good whatsoever. As soon as he and I took a seat in a booth, Val let a cube of ice fly across the restaurant and it hit Skutch right in the nose!
"I missed!," Val screamed. "That was meant for you!"
I've known Val a long time. She never misses.
Laughing, Skutch yells, "Did I mention I'm a reporter? You're in tomorrow's paper."
Val continued pleading her case. "I didn't know. It was meant for him!"
Then she disappeared and we never saw her again.
Shirely arrived twenty minutes late because she had to go home and change out of work clothes before coming to the Breakfast Club. Shirley is a very smart person who covertly runs Tybee Island, the United Way and most everything that happens.
So we fall into deep conversation with one another catching each other up as we had promised. When Ryan Sadowski, who looks like a serial killer, sat down next to Skutch, closed his eyes and asked, "Wadda ya want?"
We ordered burgers and home fries but Ryan had fallen asleep so we had to write the order down ourselves.
And with Ryan sitting there next to Skutch, sucking his thumb, sound asleep, Shirley, Skutch and I returned to talk.
What's next? Why are you thinking that? Who are you talking about? All of the things that friends talk about.
There was a lot of laughter.
I had another appointment so I had to crawl over Ryan who was now in the fetal position with his head in Skutch's lap, rubbing the baby blue tie across his face. Shirley, Skutch and I promised to get together again soon.
"Hey!" Skutch yelled. "Let me know whatever you do next! It's a story."
"I'm a has been," I grin back. (Joe Driggers, who is not my friend, and I are contemplating starting a new company of people like us. He wants to call it HASBE, pronounced Has-B, because he wants to think he's a rapper or something.)
There were a lot of hugs on the way out of the Breakfast Club from customers and my extended family and other members of my family who were there.
Driving into town, I found it hard not to smile. My friend Mitch Wesley (who is the greatest modern day philosopher alive today) said the other day that Einstein and Harry Chapin are right. You can move at such light speed that the future becomes the past and it is all one. He is right of course.
The elements of my past that will be going with me into my future are becoming more evident every day. Leave the not-so-plesant parts behind. Hold on to the people who have been so consistently there for you is a real no-brainer.
And I notice that love and laughter go together.
Skutch is a reporter for the Savannah Morning News who covered Union Mission and me for years. While he doesn't look like it, he is the consumate professional. He looks like an actor in a "B" movie playing a reporter.
But yesterday he stood in front of the Breakfasat Club wearing a tie and a white shirt. That never bodes well at the Breakfast Club. It was 90 degrees and sunny and I was wearing a St. Martin tee-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.
"Skutch, for Christ's sake! You got a tie on! And it's baby blue!"
"Some of us have to work for a living," he shot back with a crooked smile.
So we went inside where my extended Breakfast Club family were in full freenzy mode. Meaning they had lost their collective minds a couple of hours earlier, could taste the beers that they would be having at closing and were on the prowl to create fun.
I led Skutch to a booth and warned Val to leave us alone after telling her that he is my friend. Of course that did no good whatsoever. As soon as he and I took a seat in a booth, Val let a cube of ice fly across the restaurant and it hit Skutch right in the nose!
"I missed!," Val screamed. "That was meant for you!"
I've known Val a long time. She never misses.
Laughing, Skutch yells, "Did I mention I'm a reporter? You're in tomorrow's paper."
Val continued pleading her case. "I didn't know. It was meant for him!"
Then she disappeared and we never saw her again.
Shirely arrived twenty minutes late because she had to go home and change out of work clothes before coming to the Breakfast Club. Shirley is a very smart person who covertly runs Tybee Island, the United Way and most everything that happens.
So we fall into deep conversation with one another catching each other up as we had promised. When Ryan Sadowski, who looks like a serial killer, sat down next to Skutch, closed his eyes and asked, "Wadda ya want?"
We ordered burgers and home fries but Ryan had fallen asleep so we had to write the order down ourselves.
And with Ryan sitting there next to Skutch, sucking his thumb, sound asleep, Shirley, Skutch and I returned to talk.
What's next? Why are you thinking that? Who are you talking about? All of the things that friends talk about.
There was a lot of laughter.
I had another appointment so I had to crawl over Ryan who was now in the fetal position with his head in Skutch's lap, rubbing the baby blue tie across his face. Shirley, Skutch and I promised to get together again soon.
"Hey!" Skutch yelled. "Let me know whatever you do next! It's a story."
"I'm a has been," I grin back. (Joe Driggers, who is not my friend, and I are contemplating starting a new company of people like us. He wants to call it HASBE, pronounced Has-B, because he wants to think he's a rapper or something.)
There were a lot of hugs on the way out of the Breakfast Club from customers and my extended family and other members of my family who were there.
Driving into town, I found it hard not to smile. My friend Mitch Wesley (who is the greatest modern day philosopher alive today) said the other day that Einstein and Harry Chapin are right. You can move at such light speed that the future becomes the past and it is all one. He is right of course.
The elements of my past that will be going with me into my future are becoming more evident every day. Leave the not-so-plesant parts behind. Hold on to the people who have been so consistently there for you is a real no-brainer.
And I notice that love and laughter go together.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Screwing Up the Time/Space Continuum
Everyone who I care about the most in my life is going through the same thing at the same time.
Including me!
I’m not sure where it began.
Dad, I guess. He got sick. Then he got worse. Then he died and left Mom to adjust to a new life without him after almost more than fifty years. Major changes came and she is learning to live a different life without him. She misses him and he is still there in some ways but it is not the same.
Then Sarah left western New York to come here and do the work that she was born to do. And as soon as she got started, those of us who she came to do it with left. So it is not what she thought … but then again it is. The work is important and her friends are here for her but not on a daily basis; an in your face basis.
Jeremy, my son, left his job as Athletic Director of a private school in Athens, Georgia and he is figuring out what he wants to do next. His wife --- my brilliant daughter-in-law --- is doing the same thing. She is changing jobs. They are putting their house on the market. It’s all blowing in the wind.
My daughter Kristen has worked for other people her whole life. She’s made them a lot of money, most often at her own expense. Now she is determined to start her own business. So she’s gone to the bank and she has done the things that you need to do to get started and I haven’t seen her this resolved since she was a sports great in High School.
Chelsea is a senior at the University of Georgia. Charges are biting her heels.
Keller Deal’s last day at Union Mission was yesterday. Today she begins a new job and a new future unfolds.
And I have earned a Ph.D. in radical change over the past few years. Lose a CFO. Kill a major program while starting another one. Lose a wife. Resign a job. I’ve beat them all!
And the other people whom I love the most are changing jobs, or trying to,
living in new places,
moving out with someone or moving in with someone …
We all have a tie that binds. Loving one another through massive changes.
My friend Jodi told me recently that she told her daughter Rachel that if she ever wore the wrong numbered socks, the entire time/space continuum would be thrown off. Rachel always matches up the Monday with Monday and Tuesday with Tuesday because she isn’t going to be the one responsible for throwing the entire time/space continuum out of whack.
And while Rachel did her part, the rest of us have done serious damage to it.
What was is no more.
What will be is in front of us but we’re not really certain of what it is.
But you know what? It’s ok. We all have each other. We’re all going through it together. We all love one another dearly. What else you need?
And the future is going to be better than the past. Because the future always is. And we all will have one another there.
And I cannot think of a better way to live it on out. I cannot think of any other group of people that I would want to live it out with.
Though Rachel is going to have to teach me this whole sock matching thing. Mondays have always slammed into Wednesdays in my life. Thursdays became Fridays. I never knew what happened to Sundays. I believe that I have a lot to learn from her.
And who knew that I was the one who threw off the whole time/space continuum?
Along with the people that I love the most!
Including me!
I’m not sure where it began.
Dad, I guess. He got sick. Then he got worse. Then he died and left Mom to adjust to a new life without him after almost more than fifty years. Major changes came and she is learning to live a different life without him. She misses him and he is still there in some ways but it is not the same.
Then Sarah left western New York to come here and do the work that she was born to do. And as soon as she got started, those of us who she came to do it with left. So it is not what she thought … but then again it is. The work is important and her friends are here for her but not on a daily basis; an in your face basis.
Jeremy, my son, left his job as Athletic Director of a private school in Athens, Georgia and he is figuring out what he wants to do next. His wife --- my brilliant daughter-in-law --- is doing the same thing. She is changing jobs. They are putting their house on the market. It’s all blowing in the wind.
My daughter Kristen has worked for other people her whole life. She’s made them a lot of money, most often at her own expense. Now she is determined to start her own business. So she’s gone to the bank and she has done the things that you need to do to get started and I haven’t seen her this resolved since she was a sports great in High School.
Chelsea is a senior at the University of Georgia. Charges are biting her heels.
Keller Deal’s last day at Union Mission was yesterday. Today she begins a new job and a new future unfolds.
And I have earned a Ph.D. in radical change over the past few years. Lose a CFO. Kill a major program while starting another one. Lose a wife. Resign a job. I’ve beat them all!
And the other people whom I love the most are changing jobs, or trying to,
living in new places,
moving out with someone or moving in with someone …
We all have a tie that binds. Loving one another through massive changes.
My friend Jodi told me recently that she told her daughter Rachel that if she ever wore the wrong numbered socks, the entire time/space continuum would be thrown off. Rachel always matches up the Monday with Monday and Tuesday with Tuesday because she isn’t going to be the one responsible for throwing the entire time/space continuum out of whack.
And while Rachel did her part, the rest of us have done serious damage to it.
What was is no more.
What will be is in front of us but we’re not really certain of what it is.
But you know what? It’s ok. We all have each other. We’re all going through it together. We all love one another dearly. What else you need?
And the future is going to be better than the past. Because the future always is. And we all will have one another there.
And I cannot think of a better way to live it on out. I cannot think of any other group of people that I would want to live it out with.
Though Rachel is going to have to teach me this whole sock matching thing. Mondays have always slammed into Wednesdays in my life. Thursdays became Fridays. I never knew what happened to Sundays. I believe that I have a lot to learn from her.
And who knew that I was the one who threw off the whole time/space continuum?
Along with the people that I love the most!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
It's Getting Better All the Time
One of the things about writing what you feel and sharing it is that people respond. So when I shared that yesterday had crashed and burned and that the day just sucked, my phone started ringing, people stopped by, or wrote me messages.
They asked if I was alright. Some agreed that the day sucked for them too.
Then last night I ended up being with friends throughout the evening. I returned to Huck-A-Poos where it remains just as crazy crowded but I stayed for a bit. Then I met another friend on Shirley's sad little holy dock and we stayed late into the night.
Somewhere in there I tried to take a barometer reading of serendipity.
Today began with good laughter at the Breakfast Club and then I made the drive to meet with financial advisors who are helping me draft the next chapter of my life. I have found a quiet corner of a Starbucks to get some work done before meeting my Irish Catholic friends for lunch.
I haven't been with them in a couple of months and they have let me know it. So they will rib me and we will laugh.
The thing about bad days is once you get it out that you are having one and your friends respond, it immediately starts getting better. When we keep it to ourselves or don't respond when our friends reach out to us, then they just get worse. We either embrace the saddness of a day or we call it what it is and start doing things to change it. The longer my day went yesterday, the more that it changed and it ended up lovely.
What a difference a day makes, huh?
I am taking steps towards a future that is very different from my past. Later today is a planning meeting with a west coast mover and shaker and we will see if we can help one another.
Yesderday's saddness has become today's promise.
It's getting better all of the time, as the Beatles sand, because it couldn't get much worse.
I am finishing up the last pages of the Chapter of my past and am so looking forward to turning the page and writing my future. The constant will be the friends in my life go with me.
They asked if I was alright. Some agreed that the day sucked for them too.
Then last night I ended up being with friends throughout the evening. I returned to Huck-A-Poos where it remains just as crazy crowded but I stayed for a bit. Then I met another friend on Shirley's sad little holy dock and we stayed late into the night.
Somewhere in there I tried to take a barometer reading of serendipity.
Today began with good laughter at the Breakfast Club and then I made the drive to meet with financial advisors who are helping me draft the next chapter of my life. I have found a quiet corner of a Starbucks to get some work done before meeting my Irish Catholic friends for lunch.
I haven't been with them in a couple of months and they have let me know it. So they will rib me and we will laugh.
The thing about bad days is once you get it out that you are having one and your friends respond, it immediately starts getting better. When we keep it to ourselves or don't respond when our friends reach out to us, then they just get worse. We either embrace the saddness of a day or we call it what it is and start doing things to change it. The longer my day went yesterday, the more that it changed and it ended up lovely.
What a difference a day makes, huh?
I am taking steps towards a future that is very different from my past. Later today is a planning meeting with a west coast mover and shaker and we will see if we can help one another.
Yesderday's saddness has become today's promise.
It's getting better all of the time, as the Beatles sand, because it couldn't get much worse.
I am finishing up the last pages of the Chapter of my past and am so looking forward to turning the page and writing my future. The constant will be the friends in my life go with me.
Friday, July 23, 2010
The World is saved one Ronald at a time
I have a friend who wishes to remain anonymous when it comes to my writing.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action.
Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared.
They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action.
Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared.
They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Fran
Olive skin, long deep dark hair that curled into ringlets, bright brown moon eyes, and a pirate smile, Fran Janichik was beautiful. Oh My God she was beautiful. She also had M.S. when we were in college meaning that she would simply topple over as we walked down the hallway for no reason other than she couldn’t control her legs.
When this happened she would sit there on the floor, with that beautiful smile, embarrassment on her brow, and that just made her flawed self all the more beautiful.
I would reach down to pull her up and she was tiny and was like a feather. Then she would throw her arm over my shoulder so that she wouldn’t do it again and I would walk her to her class before walking myself to mine.
Once I walked outside to see her staring at a bunch of trees from the History Building at Georgia Southern College. She stared intently and was lost in thought.
“Hey Fran,” I said. “What are you doing?”
Cow eyes looked at me for a minute and she finally said, “Hey Micheal.” I think that Fran was the first person to ever call me Micheal. I was always just “Mike” but Fran saw the universe in a different way.
”Have you ever noticed all of the shades of green?” she asked, turning her face back to what she was looking at before I bothered her.
I stopped and looked and for a blissful moment, I saw the world as she did. There were a hundred evergreens next to the building and we would pass them every day and they were…green. I stared and saw a thousand shades of green as I have never seen the color green. I saw it as I had never seen it.
From the perspective of someone who is dying.
Fran was far too young and beautiful to die but she knew that she was. And she was so appreciative about everything going on around her and so graceful about her embarrassing falls that you couldn’t help but love her as much as you have ever loved anything.
“Micheal,” she asked me as only she could, “before I die I want to get drunk.”
So we did, listening to the Dobbie Brothers whom she really didn’t care for but she loved the Kenny Loggins version of “What a Fool Believes” and she talked loudly about that night and we laughed and were stupid as are people who drink too much.
“Micheal,” she asked again later, after we were much closer after getting drunk together, “before I die I want to make love.”
And we didn’t.
She was so fragile and I would never hurt her. I was scared to hurt her. I think that this was the first time that I touched love.
When my college friends came last week after all of those years, I asked if they remembered Fran. They all shook their heads and said that they remembered her name but they couldn’t remember her face.
I do Fran.
You taught me green. You were beautiful and you left major impressions on my life that remain with me still though you are thirty years gone.
And today I sit on my beloved back deck and stare at the thousand shades of green and I think of you.
Thank you, Fran.
You are still alive inside of me.
When this happened she would sit there on the floor, with that beautiful smile, embarrassment on her brow, and that just made her flawed self all the more beautiful.
I would reach down to pull her up and she was tiny and was like a feather. Then she would throw her arm over my shoulder so that she wouldn’t do it again and I would walk her to her class before walking myself to mine.
Once I walked outside to see her staring at a bunch of trees from the History Building at Georgia Southern College. She stared intently and was lost in thought.
“Hey Fran,” I said. “What are you doing?”
Cow eyes looked at me for a minute and she finally said, “Hey Micheal.” I think that Fran was the first person to ever call me Micheal. I was always just “Mike” but Fran saw the universe in a different way.
”Have you ever noticed all of the shades of green?” she asked, turning her face back to what she was looking at before I bothered her.
I stopped and looked and for a blissful moment, I saw the world as she did. There were a hundred evergreens next to the building and we would pass them every day and they were…green. I stared and saw a thousand shades of green as I have never seen the color green. I saw it as I had never seen it.
From the perspective of someone who is dying.
Fran was far too young and beautiful to die but she knew that she was. And she was so appreciative about everything going on around her and so graceful about her embarrassing falls that you couldn’t help but love her as much as you have ever loved anything.
“Micheal,” she asked me as only she could, “before I die I want to get drunk.”
So we did, listening to the Dobbie Brothers whom she really didn’t care for but she loved the Kenny Loggins version of “What a Fool Believes” and she talked loudly about that night and we laughed and were stupid as are people who drink too much.
“Micheal,” she asked again later, after we were much closer after getting drunk together, “before I die I want to make love.”
And we didn’t.
She was so fragile and I would never hurt her. I was scared to hurt her. I think that this was the first time that I touched love.
When my college friends came last week after all of those years, I asked if they remembered Fran. They all shook their heads and said that they remembered her name but they couldn’t remember her face.
I do Fran.
You taught me green. You were beautiful and you left major impressions on my life that remain with me still though you are thirty years gone.
And today I sit on my beloved back deck and stare at the thousand shades of green and I think of you.
Thank you, Fran.
You are still alive inside of me.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
How Life is t be Lived
Bonaventure Cemetary was established in 1794 as a family burial blot on a Southern Plantation. It became public over 100 years ago and is known for it's majestic oak trees, ornate grave markers and shrines, views and who is buried there. Tourists flock to it and there is a Savannah tradition to take a bottle of wine and sit on the bench beside poet Conrad Aiken's grave.
All lovely things will have an ending
All lovely things will fade and die
And youth, that is now so bravely spending
Will beg a penny and by
Conrad was never known for his humor.
I travel there today to bury my cousing Rick. I'll don the black robe and oversee a brief graveside service. It will mostly be family. A formal service was held in Birmingham a couple of days ago and a couple of hundred people celebrated his life. Today we will say goodbye and send him off with tears. He will raise from the dead as we leave and occupy a piece of each of our hearts from here on out.
Rick suffered from M.S. for the last half of his life. He lost his control of his body and he was confined to a wheelchair. His speech became slurred and slow and very dilberate. His wife divorced him after his sickness became dominate and his last year's were in an assisted living facility. He was one month younger than me.
He was an amazing man though. He never lost his love for life. He delighted in it, perhaps because he knew that he was losing a little of it every day. Who knows?
But he laughed often and loved it when he was with others. The last few years we tried to stay in touch over email but his fingers never allowed him to respond to whatever I wrote.
But it is that love of life, in spite of suffering that I will never forget. He had the incredible misfortune of being raised an Auburn fan and loved to rag me when they beat my beloved Dawgs of Georgia. And as much as I hated losing to Auburn I could not help but laugh with Rick as he delighted in his victory. He exuberted joy and he made it contagious.
I loved him.
Life is not always fair, is it? 53 is too young to die and leave children who are still growing up behind. M.S. is a horrible thing that no one deserves. Living your life knowing that you are losing a little of it with each passing second has got to be a terrible burden.
But Rick smiled and laughed and held on to his life fiercely. He appreciated it much more than most of us do. So...he left a lot of gifts. Children for sure to contribute to what this world is. An example of how to go about approaching every day as though it is our last. He was grace personified.
And I will cry a bit, and toast him later with Goddess on Shirely's sad little holy dock, and thank him for teaching me how this life is to be lived.
All lovely things will have an ending
All lovely things will fade and die
And youth, that is now so bravely spending
Will beg a penny and by
Conrad was never known for his humor.
I travel there today to bury my cousing Rick. I'll don the black robe and oversee a brief graveside service. It will mostly be family. A formal service was held in Birmingham a couple of days ago and a couple of hundred people celebrated his life. Today we will say goodbye and send him off with tears. He will raise from the dead as we leave and occupy a piece of each of our hearts from here on out.
Rick suffered from M.S. for the last half of his life. He lost his control of his body and he was confined to a wheelchair. His speech became slurred and slow and very dilberate. His wife divorced him after his sickness became dominate and his last year's were in an assisted living facility. He was one month younger than me.
He was an amazing man though. He never lost his love for life. He delighted in it, perhaps because he knew that he was losing a little of it every day. Who knows?
But he laughed often and loved it when he was with others. The last few years we tried to stay in touch over email but his fingers never allowed him to respond to whatever I wrote.
But it is that love of life, in spite of suffering that I will never forget. He had the incredible misfortune of being raised an Auburn fan and loved to rag me when they beat my beloved Dawgs of Georgia. And as much as I hated losing to Auburn I could not help but laugh with Rick as he delighted in his victory. He exuberted joy and he made it contagious.
I loved him.
Life is not always fair, is it? 53 is too young to die and leave children who are still growing up behind. M.S. is a horrible thing that no one deserves. Living your life knowing that you are losing a little of it with each passing second has got to be a terrible burden.
But Rick smiled and laughed and held on to his life fiercely. He appreciated it much more than most of us do. So...he left a lot of gifts. Children for sure to contribute to what this world is. An example of how to go about approaching every day as though it is our last. He was grace personified.
And I will cry a bit, and toast him later with Goddess on Shirely's sad little holy dock, and thank him for teaching me how this life is to be lived.
Monday, July 19, 2010
My Way
Little late today getting started. Between Goddess and the stuff that I absoultely had to do I feel incredibly behind schedule which is funny as hell because at the moment I am not doing anything. Ah the pressures of being a Type-A personality who struggles to be a beach bum.
Speaking of which, it seems that all of the people of Tybee Island where I live are really pulling for me to succeed in losing the Type-A stuff and just slow down, roll around in the sand, keep salt water in my hair (as Summer Teal has pulled off today!), and attend the entire sessions of both Bored meetings.
At the Tybee Market, Nancy the cashier looked at me and told me, "When I pass you while you're running and you have a smile on your face, I'll know that you have finally slowed down."
It is true that for years now I would run and during that time be contemplating how in the hell this person was going to be helped or that program was going to get advanced or how to get that particular elected official would stop bothering us. Heady stuff that I no longer have to think about.
My friend Jenny Orr hugged me the other day and said, "I'm sad for Savannah but happy for you." What a thing to hear!
And to be honest I've only been to Savannah a couple of times since I've been back. A lunch with a dear friend at Johnny Harris' and with another at Soho Cafe. Negotiations with attorneys. To meet my C.P.A. The rest of the time I've been an island boy. I've only been in my car a few times!! It is a bit of a shock after the relentlessness of the past 30 years of trying to save a corner of the world.
This morning at the Breakfast Club, I slid in with my friends Dave and Sandy for a moment. They were laughing at the story of the gun shooting in the haunted house when I was in college with my friends. Then Sandy said had never done anything like that. I laughed and said, "Well....seems I've done them my whole life." They laughed and it made me laugh.
And I must say that there has been little conventional about my life.
My Dad used to love Elvis singing "My Way" and I remember watching him just love it. He often struggled doing things his way. Many times he would assume that the worse was going to happen, even during those times when he was on top of the world. "MY Way" was what he wanted more than anything.
My friend Tracy Thompson tells me that I am the eternal optimist. I had to be to survive the depths of human suffering and triumph that has marked my professional carreer. During all of the crap of the past few years, she would look at me, or scold me, and say how can you be so upbeat? She was angry with me most of the time that she was asking.
I dunno.
I believe in good. I believe good things happen if you believe in good. If you consistently do good things then good things happen all around. Even when you are in the middle of a shitstorm! Good is stronger than that. Serendipity prevails. Grace abounds.
Good Karma is what it is all about because karma comes back to you (and lets be honest again, there is some bad karma that is going to come around that I really am looking forward to unfolding and hope that I have a front row seat for it...sorry...just saying).
But that is my way. And while it has cost me a lot, I can't imagine doing it another way. There is just this one me. I am doing the best that I can with it. I think that I've done much more good than bad. At least I feel that way, but others will judge it as they will. They are the jury. I am just me. Doing it the best way that I know how.
My Way.
(I love you Dad)
Speaking of which, it seems that all of the people of Tybee Island where I live are really pulling for me to succeed in losing the Type-A stuff and just slow down, roll around in the sand, keep salt water in my hair (as Summer Teal has pulled off today!), and attend the entire sessions of both Bored meetings.
At the Tybee Market, Nancy the cashier looked at me and told me, "When I pass you while you're running and you have a smile on your face, I'll know that you have finally slowed down."
It is true that for years now I would run and during that time be contemplating how in the hell this person was going to be helped or that program was going to get advanced or how to get that particular elected official would stop bothering us. Heady stuff that I no longer have to think about.
My friend Jenny Orr hugged me the other day and said, "I'm sad for Savannah but happy for you." What a thing to hear!
And to be honest I've only been to Savannah a couple of times since I've been back. A lunch with a dear friend at Johnny Harris' and with another at Soho Cafe. Negotiations with attorneys. To meet my C.P.A. The rest of the time I've been an island boy. I've only been in my car a few times!! It is a bit of a shock after the relentlessness of the past 30 years of trying to save a corner of the world.
This morning at the Breakfast Club, I slid in with my friends Dave and Sandy for a moment. They were laughing at the story of the gun shooting in the haunted house when I was in college with my friends. Then Sandy said had never done anything like that. I laughed and said, "Well....seems I've done them my whole life." They laughed and it made me laugh.
And I must say that there has been little conventional about my life.
My Dad used to love Elvis singing "My Way" and I remember watching him just love it. He often struggled doing things his way. Many times he would assume that the worse was going to happen, even during those times when he was on top of the world. "MY Way" was what he wanted more than anything.
My friend Tracy Thompson tells me that I am the eternal optimist. I had to be to survive the depths of human suffering and triumph that has marked my professional carreer. During all of the crap of the past few years, she would look at me, or scold me, and say how can you be so upbeat? She was angry with me most of the time that she was asking.
I dunno.
I believe in good. I believe good things happen if you believe in good. If you consistently do good things then good things happen all around. Even when you are in the middle of a shitstorm! Good is stronger than that. Serendipity prevails. Grace abounds.
Good Karma is what it is all about because karma comes back to you (and lets be honest again, there is some bad karma that is going to come around that I really am looking forward to unfolding and hope that I have a front row seat for it...sorry...just saying).
But that is my way. And while it has cost me a lot, I can't imagine doing it another way. There is just this one me. I am doing the best that I can with it. I think that I've done much more good than bad. At least I feel that way, but others will judge it as they will. They are the jury. I am just me. Doing it the best way that I know how.
My Way.
(I love you Dad)
Friday, July 16, 2010
What is Wrong with the World
So there is a woman that I know with long blond hair and the ability to catch your eye for a moment but little more. She has a crooked nose so that the right nostril is perfect but the left one crumbles like a tissue when she smiles or cries. She cries a lot because her life is a wreck but she pretends that everything is perfect, like she is perfect on the outside. On the inside, she is shallow. Externally she is reserved, meaning she hides who she really is. She takes more than she gives. Much more!
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
What is Wrong with the World
So there is a woman that I know with long blond hair and the ability to catch your eye for a moment but little more. She has a crooked nose so that the right nostril is perfect but the left one crumbles like a tissue when she smiles or cries. She cries a lot because her life is a wreck but she pretends that everything is perfect, like she is perfect on the outside. On the inside, she is shallow. Externally she is reserved, meaning she hides who she really is. She takes more than she gives. Much more!
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
What is Wrong with the World
So there is a woman that I know with long blond hair and the ability to catch your eye for a moment but little more. She has a crooked nose so that the right nostril is perfect but the left one crumbles like a tissue when she smiles or cries. She cries a lot because her life is a wreck but she pretends that everything is perfect, like she is perfect on the outside. On the inside, she is shallow. Externally she is reserved, meaning she hides who she really is. She takes more than she gives. Much more!
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
My LIfe's Purpose
My son Jeremy, or J-Luv as he is known on the island, and I went out last night after a killer dinner of bar-b-que chicken (which cures a lot of things), al gratin potatoes from scratch (I'm gonna make someone a hell of a wife one day!) and cole slaw (KFC...some things cannot be improved on).
Anyway Jeremy has relocated his bike from his home in Madison, Georgia to Tybee Island so that we don't have to get into the car. So we breezed down to Bearnie's to listen to Sam Adams and Gordon. The courtyard is filled with tourists and we sit on stools and just talk.
Well, we talk when I am not texting a dear friend who is making cupcakes or Keller Deal isn't calling me with orders. I am not certain how this happened. Keller Deal and I used to work together. We don't anymore. Nevertheless, she still calls and tells me what to do.
Even J-Luv says, "Dad, it's Keller Deal. You better take it." So I do. And Keller Deal proceeds to tell me what to do. And I make mental notes and will do my best to do it but I normally only get about three-forths of what Keller Deal tells me. But that just gives her another excuse to call me and order me around. I think that she has discovered her life's purpose.
But I digress.
Sam Adams and Gordon take a break and work the crowd for a while. After they finish with the tourists, they stop by to say hello. Sam and I make plans to get together soon. Then Gordon comes over to let me know that he does not look like the Wolfman, talk like Sling Blade, or frighten children. He does give them harmoincas.
Which is true. Any child who enters the place gets a harmonica from Gordon. He believes that it makes you a better person. Who cannot be impressed with this?
So Gordon is talking to J-Luv and me when I ask him how he got started with the harmonica. And the Wolfman answers in his Sling Blade voice, "I was 27 and had hurt my back in the Navy. I'd joined the Navy to take care of my family. But I was hurt and couldn't work. So I bought a Jimmy Buffett album and a harmonica. Four wife's later I could play pretty good."
Now he tells me this as I am in transition mode in my own life. I believe that I want to be a beach bum when I grow up but have this knack of trying to catch people who are going to hell and sending them in a different direction.
But Gordon and Sam have pulled it off.
There is hope.
I just pray that I don't have to get through four wives to get to where I want to be.
I really just want the one true love.
Anyway Jeremy has relocated his bike from his home in Madison, Georgia to Tybee Island so that we don't have to get into the car. So we breezed down to Bearnie's to listen to Sam Adams and Gordon. The courtyard is filled with tourists and we sit on stools and just talk.
Well, we talk when I am not texting a dear friend who is making cupcakes or Keller Deal isn't calling me with orders. I am not certain how this happened. Keller Deal and I used to work together. We don't anymore. Nevertheless, she still calls and tells me what to do.
Even J-Luv says, "Dad, it's Keller Deal. You better take it." So I do. And Keller Deal proceeds to tell me what to do. And I make mental notes and will do my best to do it but I normally only get about three-forths of what Keller Deal tells me. But that just gives her another excuse to call me and order me around. I think that she has discovered her life's purpose.
But I digress.
Sam Adams and Gordon take a break and work the crowd for a while. After they finish with the tourists, they stop by to say hello. Sam and I make plans to get together soon. Then Gordon comes over to let me know that he does not look like the Wolfman, talk like Sling Blade, or frighten children. He does give them harmoincas.
Which is true. Any child who enters the place gets a harmonica from Gordon. He believes that it makes you a better person. Who cannot be impressed with this?
So Gordon is talking to J-Luv and me when I ask him how he got started with the harmonica. And the Wolfman answers in his Sling Blade voice, "I was 27 and had hurt my back in the Navy. I'd joined the Navy to take care of my family. But I was hurt and couldn't work. So I bought a Jimmy Buffett album and a harmonica. Four wife's later I could play pretty good."
Now he tells me this as I am in transition mode in my own life. I believe that I want to be a beach bum when I grow up but have this knack of trying to catch people who are going to hell and sending them in a different direction.
But Gordon and Sam have pulled it off.
There is hope.
I just pray that I don't have to get through four wives to get to where I want to be.
I really just want the one true love.
Trolling for Mermaids
It was 100 degrees at 4:00 yesterday but I was sitting on my beloved back deck, more or less dressed...well, less really...on my cell phone talking to Robert who lives in Prescott, Arizona.
Gary, my next door neighbor began yelling my name, so I strategically stood up while continuing the phone conversation. (I can multi-task!)
"Is your power on?" he asked with his hands cupped around his mouth. Gary is a retired hippy. I am not certain how he was able to pull this off but I respect the hell out of him because he did. Though he is a yankee and power is evidently very important to him. I strategically opened the sliding glass door and learned that I had no power either. Who knew?
So I nodded that I didn't and he thanked me and went away. I returned to my phone conversation with Robert. "So," he continued, " vital, challenging, passionate activity is good for you. It is good for your health. It is good for your mental health. It is good for your life. When you do things that you are passionate about, you are doing what God created you to do."
And it was one of those statements that is so simply true that the world stops spinning for a second when you hear it. And it did.
My life has never been convintional, as a former Board Chairman who choses to remain anonymous, once told me.
But I am not convinced that there is much passion in convintionality. Or anything is vital about it. Or challenging. Or that it is especially good for you. Nor am I certain that convintionaility accomplishes much. I mean it gets you by but who wants to merely get by?
"You got no reason to believe it," Robert continued, "other than you got no reason not to believe it." Robert does have the ability to reduce the entire argument for the existance of God into a 17 word sentance.
Congressman Jack Kingston once told me in his Washington D.C. office, "Elliott, the thing about you is that you have figured out a way to finance the things that you are passionate about. All of these people come to me wanting me to finance what they are passionate about. But you have done that so I just make investments in what you are doing because it is already financed."
I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, I want to be a beach bum. Something's gone wrong here."
Then through the miracle of Face Book, my friend David Harmon-Vaught whom I haven't seen or talked to in 25 years, wrote me. He had been thinking about me when he heard a quote on an audio book. "Some want to live within the sound of church and chapel bell. I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell."
And Johnny O immediately popped into my head. I know, I know...what in the hell does he have to do with any of this? Other than hell is probably in both of our futures because we've both raised so much of it in our lives. And he is as unconventional as I've ever been.
And I've hung around hell a lot more than I've hung around church or chapel bell. I'm pretty sure that this is true for Johnny O too.
As a matter of fact, I am talking to a friend as I write this who is in the middle of a hell time, and she is letting it out and I am listening to her. And I think to myself as I tell her that she is loved, "Been there. Done that. Threw the tee-shirt away."
So it's Friday. And I have vague ideas about what I want to do next but it will be something or someone that is vital, challenging, passionate activity for me. Everything else will take care of itself. So.
I'm going trolling for mermaids.
What are you doing today?
Gary, my next door neighbor began yelling my name, so I strategically stood up while continuing the phone conversation. (I can multi-task!)
"Is your power on?" he asked with his hands cupped around his mouth. Gary is a retired hippy. I am not certain how he was able to pull this off but I respect the hell out of him because he did. Though he is a yankee and power is evidently very important to him. I strategically opened the sliding glass door and learned that I had no power either. Who knew?
So I nodded that I didn't and he thanked me and went away. I returned to my phone conversation with Robert. "So," he continued, " vital, challenging, passionate activity is good for you. It is good for your health. It is good for your mental health. It is good for your life. When you do things that you are passionate about, you are doing what God created you to do."
And it was one of those statements that is so simply true that the world stops spinning for a second when you hear it. And it did.
My life has never been convintional, as a former Board Chairman who choses to remain anonymous, once told me.
But I am not convinced that there is much passion in convintionality. Or anything is vital about it. Or challenging. Or that it is especially good for you. Nor am I certain that convintionaility accomplishes much. I mean it gets you by but who wants to merely get by?
"You got no reason to believe it," Robert continued, "other than you got no reason not to believe it." Robert does have the ability to reduce the entire argument for the existance of God into a 17 word sentance.
Congressman Jack Kingston once told me in his Washington D.C. office, "Elliott, the thing about you is that you have figured out a way to finance the things that you are passionate about. All of these people come to me wanting me to finance what they are passionate about. But you have done that so I just make investments in what you are doing because it is already financed."
I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, I want to be a beach bum. Something's gone wrong here."
Then through the miracle of Face Book, my friend David Harmon-Vaught whom I haven't seen or talked to in 25 years, wrote me. He had been thinking about me when he heard a quote on an audio book. "Some want to live within the sound of church and chapel bell. I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell."
And Johnny O immediately popped into my head. I know, I know...what in the hell does he have to do with any of this? Other than hell is probably in both of our futures because we've both raised so much of it in our lives. And he is as unconventional as I've ever been.
And I've hung around hell a lot more than I've hung around church or chapel bell. I'm pretty sure that this is true for Johnny O too.
As a matter of fact, I am talking to a friend as I write this who is in the middle of a hell time, and she is letting it out and I am listening to her. And I think to myself as I tell her that she is loved, "Been there. Done that. Threw the tee-shirt away."
So it's Friday. And I have vague ideas about what I want to do next but it will be something or someone that is vital, challenging, passionate activity for me. Everything else will take care of itself. So.
I'm going trolling for mermaids.
What are you doing today?
Escape
This morning, Val, who is under the illusion that she actually manages the people who work at the Breakfast Club, was in an accusatory mood with me. As soon as she walked in she bellows, "Mr. Elliott! What are you doing getting one of my employees drunk so that they are late for work?"
"I don't know Val," I calmly reply in my Chaplains voice, "what happened the last time that you got me drunk with Johnny O and Judy?"
"That's different," she exclaimed before changing the subject.
"And what are you doing having a breakfast meeting at some place other than the Breakfast Club?" she demands.
Who knew that Val can read?
She obviously saw yesterday's blog and, now that I think about it, probably got Nick to read it to her. Nevertheless she was aware that I had a meeting at Larry's Restaurant in Savannah.
"Well," I reply as she sits next to me waiting on the answer, "do you remember the last time that I had a meeting here?"
She has a blank look on her face.
"I sat right there in 24," I said. There are six booths in the front part of the Breakfast Club, but for some reason they all number in the twenties. I suppose it is part of the Club's Master Plan.
"I was meeting with the Chairman of my Board, who was an intense little fellow back then, and the two of us really didn't gell. But we were trying to find some common ground. Anyway, the moment I walked in and he got intense, you started throwing toast and bacon at us whlie he ate. Do you remember that?"
"Oh yeah," she sleepishly replied. "Sometimes when I get started I can't stop."
"Tell me about it," I answer. "And you are amature compared to the things that Bruce used to do, but my Board Chair never got over it. He's never been back."
"I was looking after you," she said with a smile.
And it had been true for years that the Breakfast Club has looked after me. Especially when it came to work. If people got too intense or serious with me, toast would fly. At me and whoever I was with!
Or coffee would miss the cup and be poured on the counter in front of whoever was intruding into my private time. "I am so sorry, I've never missed the cup before."
Or Franklin, who is brown, will come over and pick up my glasses and stick them in his pants and do a little dance in place before placing them back down. He does all this without saying a word.
Or Jalapenos would secretly be inserted in the ham and cheese omlet that the person had ordered so that the first taste would lead to screams at the counter and demands for water.
Or Johnny O would suddenly jump up from his seat across from me and exclaim, "I ain't listening to this shit!" and storm out of the place.
I could go on.
The point is, I guess, is that we all need places where we can escape from the demands of our life. Safe places. Where people take care of you because you've run out of gas in your ability to take care of yourself. Holy places.
They can be most anywhere and they don't necessarily have to look or act all that holy, but they are. And we need them as much as we need air to breath and water to drink and food to eat.
Because they get us through.
Unless you ask Jodee, the owner of the Breakfast Club. Then the place is falling apart.
"I don't know Val," I calmly reply in my Chaplains voice, "what happened the last time that you got me drunk with Johnny O and Judy?"
"That's different," she exclaimed before changing the subject.
"And what are you doing having a breakfast meeting at some place other than the Breakfast Club?" she demands.
Who knew that Val can read?
She obviously saw yesterday's blog and, now that I think about it, probably got Nick to read it to her. Nevertheless she was aware that I had a meeting at Larry's Restaurant in Savannah.
"Well," I reply as she sits next to me waiting on the answer, "do you remember the last time that I had a meeting here?"
She has a blank look on her face.
"I sat right there in 24," I said. There are six booths in the front part of the Breakfast Club, but for some reason they all number in the twenties. I suppose it is part of the Club's Master Plan.
"I was meeting with the Chairman of my Board, who was an intense little fellow back then, and the two of us really didn't gell. But we were trying to find some common ground. Anyway, the moment I walked in and he got intense, you started throwing toast and bacon at us whlie he ate. Do you remember that?"
"Oh yeah," she sleepishly replied. "Sometimes when I get started I can't stop."
"Tell me about it," I answer. "And you are amature compared to the things that Bruce used to do, but my Board Chair never got over it. He's never been back."
"I was looking after you," she said with a smile.
And it had been true for years that the Breakfast Club has looked after me. Especially when it came to work. If people got too intense or serious with me, toast would fly. At me and whoever I was with!
Or coffee would miss the cup and be poured on the counter in front of whoever was intruding into my private time. "I am so sorry, I've never missed the cup before."
Or Franklin, who is brown, will come over and pick up my glasses and stick them in his pants and do a little dance in place before placing them back down. He does all this without saying a word.
Or Jalapenos would secretly be inserted in the ham and cheese omlet that the person had ordered so that the first taste would lead to screams at the counter and demands for water.
Or Johnny O would suddenly jump up from his seat across from me and exclaim, "I ain't listening to this shit!" and storm out of the place.
I could go on.
The point is, I guess, is that we all need places where we can escape from the demands of our life. Safe places. Where people take care of you because you've run out of gas in your ability to take care of yourself. Holy places.
They can be most anywhere and they don't necessarily have to look or act all that holy, but they are. And we need them as much as we need air to breath and water to drink and food to eat.
Because they get us through.
Unless you ask Jodee, the owner of the Breakfast Club. Then the place is falling apart.
Everybody Hurts
"Welcome to the Tybee Church!" proclaimed the sign that was taped over the door to the Wind Rose Cafe in the middle of the combat zone full of bars and tee shirt shops, a half a block from the sea.
"Mayberry By the Sea" it read underneath, through when I wrote "Running With the Dolphins" I called it Mayberry on Acid.
"Flip Flops and Smokers Wecome" it finished with a flurry.
The Church is the brain child of Sam Adams and Gordon who are musical staples on the island. Sam had been badgering me for months to come and "bring the word" so yesterday, I did. The dark bar had somehow been tranformed into a church with votive candles everywhere. Sam was on an electronic keyboard. Beside him was a large screen with the words to praise music on it.
(A Confession: I am not a fan of Praise Music, or Happy Jack as I call it. The music may be ok but the theology of most is simply horrible. "My husband beats me, my kids hate me, I've lost everything but Jesus loves me and it's OK!")
Anyway long haired Sam is about as cool as they come on the island and the smile never leaves his face and I was greeted warmly.
Gordon, who resembles an older version of Wolfman Jack was seated on a bar stool, blowing into his harmonica. It was surreal.
At five minutes after 11 about 35 people filled the bar and Sam and Gordon played and sang. All of my friends from the Breakfast Club wanted to attend but they had to work except Patti who showed up. It was an ecclectic crowd most of whom I recognized from the island.
Then I was introduced and talked about the time Jesus met a crazed mentally ill person in a graveyard after taking a boat ride. I mean this is exactly the kind of thing that happens on Tybee every day. Everybody there seemed to understand everything that I was saying as they drank coffee, orange juice or smoked.
And I talked about how everybody hurts (to steal a line from R.E.M.). We just choose to deal with it in different ways. Some are honest and speak it out loud while most cover it up. The miracle in the Biblical story (Luke 8:26-39 if you want to read it for yourself) is that after this dirty, naked, broken hand-cuffs, mentally ill person screams at him, Jesus sticks out his hand and says "Hey! My name's Jesus. What's yours?"
Most of us would have run.
Or called the police.
But the point is that we are all we have to get one another through hurt and disappointment. And we either help one another or we don't. And we either take advantage of the help that is offered or we don't.
When I finished they clapped and the bartender started getting ready for the 12:30 opening of the bar and there was a lot of hugging and such but church was over and the party was about to begin.
Afterwards Patti, who is from Texas where the religion is really screwed up, wanted to discuss theology. So we did on the pier. Johnny O and Trolley Joe fled over the subject matter. Sam Adams on the other hand, showed up with a band and put on a concert for free.
Then the beach was crowded and I was tired so I rode my bike home for the refuge of my beloved back deck. I talked to a few folks and some dear friends dropped by and I wrote a little.
The Breakfast Club was celebrating the birth of one of their own at Huck-A-Poo's and I made the decision to attend. So I drove my car to the far side of the island, a whole 1.3 miles away, noting that I never really come to this side of the world. My geography has become very small.
Huck-A-Poo's was packed and everyone there seemed to be from Savannah and they all knew me. "Hey Micheal! Tell me about your retirement!
" Hey, can you get my son in the Health Center?"
"Micheal! Can I ask you a confidential question?"
Suddenly, I was exhausted. In the past, I would have worked the crowd and answered every question. I would have made notes and followed up on everything first thing this morning.
But this is not the past.
I left after only a couple of minutes.
And I went to the beach and watched the full moon rise over an ocean filled with phosphorus, meaning that the water reflects it back and the moon appears to be rising from above the ocean and below it at the same time.
It is a most incredible sight.
I prayed that I was forgiven for whatever it was I did when I left the party tonight or for whatever it was that I had not done. Even Jesus turned his back on the mobs wanting healing to flee on a boat for some peace and quiet.
I concentrated on the moon and the water and the holiness of it all. In the background I could hear the police cars racing down Butler Avenue to handle whatever mess was happening back there. I heard yelling and laughing and cursing from somewhere else.
But I wasn't there. I was with the moon and the sea and the phosphorus and the still small place where God sometimes makes house calls.
I am where I need to be.
"Mayberry By the Sea" it read underneath, through when I wrote "Running With the Dolphins" I called it Mayberry on Acid.
"Flip Flops and Smokers Wecome" it finished with a flurry.
The Church is the brain child of Sam Adams and Gordon who are musical staples on the island. Sam had been badgering me for months to come and "bring the word" so yesterday, I did. The dark bar had somehow been tranformed into a church with votive candles everywhere. Sam was on an electronic keyboard. Beside him was a large screen with the words to praise music on it.
(A Confession: I am not a fan of Praise Music, or Happy Jack as I call it. The music may be ok but the theology of most is simply horrible. "My husband beats me, my kids hate me, I've lost everything but Jesus loves me and it's OK!")
Anyway long haired Sam is about as cool as they come on the island and the smile never leaves his face and I was greeted warmly.
Gordon, who resembles an older version of Wolfman Jack was seated on a bar stool, blowing into his harmonica. It was surreal.
At five minutes after 11 about 35 people filled the bar and Sam and Gordon played and sang. All of my friends from the Breakfast Club wanted to attend but they had to work except Patti who showed up. It was an ecclectic crowd most of whom I recognized from the island.
Then I was introduced and talked about the time Jesus met a crazed mentally ill person in a graveyard after taking a boat ride. I mean this is exactly the kind of thing that happens on Tybee every day. Everybody there seemed to understand everything that I was saying as they drank coffee, orange juice or smoked.
And I talked about how everybody hurts (to steal a line from R.E.M.). We just choose to deal with it in different ways. Some are honest and speak it out loud while most cover it up. The miracle in the Biblical story (Luke 8:26-39 if you want to read it for yourself) is that after this dirty, naked, broken hand-cuffs, mentally ill person screams at him, Jesus sticks out his hand and says "Hey! My name's Jesus. What's yours?"
Most of us would have run.
Or called the police.
But the point is that we are all we have to get one another through hurt and disappointment. And we either help one another or we don't. And we either take advantage of the help that is offered or we don't.
When I finished they clapped and the bartender started getting ready for the 12:30 opening of the bar and there was a lot of hugging and such but church was over and the party was about to begin.
Afterwards Patti, who is from Texas where the religion is really screwed up, wanted to discuss theology. So we did on the pier. Johnny O and Trolley Joe fled over the subject matter. Sam Adams on the other hand, showed up with a band and put on a concert for free.
Then the beach was crowded and I was tired so I rode my bike home for the refuge of my beloved back deck. I talked to a few folks and some dear friends dropped by and I wrote a little.
The Breakfast Club was celebrating the birth of one of their own at Huck-A-Poo's and I made the decision to attend. So I drove my car to the far side of the island, a whole 1.3 miles away, noting that I never really come to this side of the world. My geography has become very small.
Huck-A-Poo's was packed and everyone there seemed to be from Savannah and they all knew me. "Hey Micheal! Tell me about your retirement!
" Hey, can you get my son in the Health Center?"
"Micheal! Can I ask you a confidential question?"
Suddenly, I was exhausted. In the past, I would have worked the crowd and answered every question. I would have made notes and followed up on everything first thing this morning.
But this is not the past.
I left after only a couple of minutes.
And I went to the beach and watched the full moon rise over an ocean filled with phosphorus, meaning that the water reflects it back and the moon appears to be rising from above the ocean and below it at the same time.
It is a most incredible sight.
I prayed that I was forgiven for whatever it was I did when I left the party tonight or for whatever it was that I had not done. Even Jesus turned his back on the mobs wanting healing to flee on a boat for some peace and quiet.
I concentrated on the moon and the water and the holiness of it all. In the background I could hear the police cars racing down Butler Avenue to handle whatever mess was happening back there. I heard yelling and laughing and cursing from somewhere else.
But I wasn't there. I was with the moon and the sea and the phosphorus and the still small place where God sometimes makes house calls.
I am where I need to be.
The Bar Church
Friday night, I hopped on my bike and rode to the middle of the Tybee island combat zone because I wanted to listed to Sam Adams and Godon play live music at Bearnies. I strolled through the bar into the courtyard in the back and sure enough Sam was playing and singing...to himself. There wasn't a soul there.
"Hey Rev!" he said with an angelic smile, "if you can't play for yourself you can't play for other people."
I smiled and nodded and found a stool. Sam personifies "beach bum"... Shouder length hair, tanned, tank-topped, shorts and flip-flops... all of time! Guitar, sunglasses and laid back, the guy is the epitome of island character.
Within seconds, I was recognized by this guy from Atlanta. "You're Micheal, right?" he asked.
I said that I was, wondering who he was, but he went and got his wife, sister-in-law and mother and brought them to join me.
They were talkers and as I tried to listen to Sam and Godon, Walt just wouldn't shut up. And the sister-in-law was a competitive talker too. They shot words out of their mounths as though from a machine gun, one after another after another.
Then Sam used his microphone to quiet them for a second when he called my name.
"Hey Rev!" he yelled while playing his guitar in the background. Gordon softyl blew into his mouth harp.
"Why don't you come give the word on Sunday?"
Sam and Gordon are not normal musicians (I know, I know...has there ever been a normal one?) because one of the things that they do is conduct a Sunday worship service at 11:00 in the Windrose Cafe, which is a bar that serves food so that they can serve alcohol on Sundays. There is no dress code (there is really no such thing on Tybee anyway), smoking is encouraged and the music is acoustic.
I've never been though Sam has been after me forever to do so. Part of me has wanted to go but I listen to the "Acoustic Cafe" on Sunday mornings and have my routine so have never gotten around to it. Then the Bored meeting starts at 11-something (or whenever Johnny O says it does) and I attend every Sunday because Trolly Joe is there.
"Will you come deliver the word?" Sam asked again.
I delilver words most every day. It didn't seem like much of a stretch and its been awhile since I've gone to Church and a worship service in a bar going on at the same time as every other worship service in the world is funny. Why not?
So I yelled, "OK Sam, I'll do it."
"You will?" he genuinely seemed surprised.
Gordon sounds like the guy from Slingblade when he talks so when he dropped his harmonica and grabbled the microphone, mothers grabbed their children.
"Ladies and gentlemens," he announced, "we have a little service on Sundays at the Windrose, which is next door. Everyone is welcome as they are. Leave your pretence at the door. You can smoke," and he took a drag off his cigarette as he explained this, "and the Rev is coming this Sunday."
So.
That is what I'm doing today.
I explained to my friend John Tatum the other day that Tybee is an entirely different universe. And this is just another example of that. And why would anyone want to be anywhere else.
"Hey Rev!" he said with an angelic smile, "if you can't play for yourself you can't play for other people."
I smiled and nodded and found a stool. Sam personifies "beach bum"... Shouder length hair, tanned, tank-topped, shorts and flip-flops... all of time! Guitar, sunglasses and laid back, the guy is the epitome of island character.
Within seconds, I was recognized by this guy from Atlanta. "You're Micheal, right?" he asked.
I said that I was, wondering who he was, but he went and got his wife, sister-in-law and mother and brought them to join me.
They were talkers and as I tried to listen to Sam and Godon, Walt just wouldn't shut up. And the sister-in-law was a competitive talker too. They shot words out of their mounths as though from a machine gun, one after another after another.
Then Sam used his microphone to quiet them for a second when he called my name.
"Hey Rev!" he yelled while playing his guitar in the background. Gordon softyl blew into his mouth harp.
"Why don't you come give the word on Sunday?"
Sam and Gordon are not normal musicians (I know, I know...has there ever been a normal one?) because one of the things that they do is conduct a Sunday worship service at 11:00 in the Windrose Cafe, which is a bar that serves food so that they can serve alcohol on Sundays. There is no dress code (there is really no such thing on Tybee anyway), smoking is encouraged and the music is acoustic.
I've never been though Sam has been after me forever to do so. Part of me has wanted to go but I listen to the "Acoustic Cafe" on Sunday mornings and have my routine so have never gotten around to it. Then the Bored meeting starts at 11-something (or whenever Johnny O says it does) and I attend every Sunday because Trolly Joe is there.
"Will you come deliver the word?" Sam asked again.
I delilver words most every day. It didn't seem like much of a stretch and its been awhile since I've gone to Church and a worship service in a bar going on at the same time as every other worship service in the world is funny. Why not?
So I yelled, "OK Sam, I'll do it."
"You will?" he genuinely seemed surprised.
Gordon sounds like the guy from Slingblade when he talks so when he dropped his harmonica and grabbled the microphone, mothers grabbed their children.
"Ladies and gentlemens," he announced, "we have a little service on Sundays at the Windrose, which is next door. Everyone is welcome as they are. Leave your pretence at the door. You can smoke," and he took a drag off his cigarette as he explained this, "and the Rev is coming this Sunday."
So.
That is what I'm doing today.
I explained to my friend John Tatum the other day that Tybee is an entirely different universe. And this is just another example of that. And why would anyone want to be anywhere else.
Saving the World One Ronald at a time
I have a friend who wishes to remain anonymous when it comes to my writing.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
Saving the World One Ronald at a time
I have a friend who wishes to remain anonymous when it comes to my writing.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
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