It started at a Bored meeting, the daily collection of friends who gather in front of Fannies-on-the-Beach to celebrate life on Tybee Island. O Johnny got the “brilliant” idea to get us into merchandizing with hat caps and tee shirts made with “Tybidiot” on the front and “official Bored member” on the back. The first run of 12 sold out in one day.
So O Johnny decided to do more. I should share that O Johnny actually spends more time in Atlanta than he does on Tybee. To make matters worse he is actually employed by the federal government who hold him prisoner there. Regardless his thinking is very warped as a result of living in such conditions.
That is no small statement when you compare O Johnny to the other members of the Bored!
So for the first ever the Bored had money. Everyone naturally assumed it would be used to buy the next round but then a miracle happened. Chuck Courtenay, Jr. the famous musician was riding down front, saw the Bored protecting the sidewalk in front of Fannies (which consists of Roma screaming at anybody on a bicycle or skateboard on the sidewalk) and he stopped.
After a brief exchange with Roma he set up his piano and speakers on the sidewalk and did a concert for the Bored. This is akin to the Beatles famous roof top concert on the top of the Apple Recording Studio in London. It immediately became the biggest concert every held on Tybee and everybody now claim to have been present (though there were like 10).
After that Chuck had endeared himself to the Bored. So in an executive committee meeting, which consists of Roma going to the bathroom and coming out with an idea, it was determined that all of the money would be given to Chuck to hold a concert at the Oceanside Nursing Home.
Several years ago Chuck started “Door of Hope Ministries” where he does concerts in nursing homes. If you’ve ever spent much time in a nursing home then you know that they are not the most fun places to spend an afternoon. Most seem to have had all the life sucked out of them as families stick relatives there until they can die. Not all families, but a lot. It is as Nursing Homes suck the life out of the people while charging them for it (kind of like government).
Chuck takes life back in by performing concerts for the residents. He shows up with his talent, electric piano and speakers. He is charismatic and speaks to each person who can walk or be wheel chaired in. He knows the music they like prefer he starts.
Then he starts.
Yesterday Roma, Jenny O, Johnny O, Whitely, the Rev. and a friend of us all showed up at the Oceanside Nursing Home for Chuck’s concert. He started with 1950s rock-n-roll and it was as though Jesus had wandered into a Lazarus convention! Old ladies long dead in wheelchairs jumped and danced! Old men stood beside Chuck as though they were background singers and dancers, snapping their fingers and clapping their hands. People confined to their seats sang along loudly. Even those who couldn’t do anything watched with more intensity than they’ve had in years.
As the only member of the Bored who can actually dance, I grabbed the hand of a lady in red sitting in her wheel chair and spun her around.
“Oh my” she said grinning from ear to ear.
A bit later, Roma who thinks she can dance grabbed some pom-poms and twirled them around in front of Chuck. To the non-trained she almost gave the appearance of dancing except that the pom-poms were going in opposite directions. Roma only has rhythm when alcohol is involved.
But this was an amazing thing to witness…this Lazarus Convention.
For years Chuck has mostly paid for these concerts out of his own pocket. He does them all over the place because it is amazing how few really give a shit about the people who live in Nursing Homes. He and I have been friends a long time and I know how he struggles to keep doing it but he does.
Yesterday was his 60th birthday too! He could have been making money or having parties or a thousand other things but he chose to bring the dead back to life.
So…if you want to do something to make yourself feel wonderful and participate in the raising of the dead, send him a check at P.O. Box 2294, Evans, Georgia 30809 made out to Door of Hope Ministry or call him at 706-210-HOPE.
I did the other day. But I didn’t realize what I was buying until I attended my first Lazarus Convention. My God! It is an amazing thing to witness.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
Unfinished Stories
Before there was Charles, my six-foot-two, African American, mentally ill former bank robber adopted son, there was Keith. For the better part of the past decade until I left Union Mission Charles and I were extremely close and he achieved more stability in his life than he’d ever had. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen him but he crosses my mind every day. The last time that I saw him he told me that he loves me.
In 1995 though, there was Keith. From Ohio Keith was a mentally ill, Vietnam veteran with lupus. His head was permanently cocked to one side and his white face was filled with red splotches. He spoke with that high nasal twang of northern Ohio. He loved French fries, science fiction novels and pretty girls.
“Keith,” I asked him one day sitting in my office, “I really have a hard time envisioning you in Vietnam.”
“Oh Mike,” he replied in his high pitched northern voice, “I was different back then. It was before the lupus.”
I nodded, of course. It had to have been.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Oh I discovered pot,” he answered with great enthusiasm.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. “Then what happened,” I probed.
“I liked it so much I sent some to my wife back in Ohio”!
“Wait,” I said standing up, “you were married?”
“Oh yeah,” he said turning his body to look me in the eyes, “back then I was hot.”
I loved Keith.
“Then what happened?”
“Well,” he replied sitting back down with his head cocked away from me but his green eyes still looking in mine, “I mailed her really good stuff. And the Army found out so I was discharged pretty quickly.”
“You mailed it to her?”
“How else was I going to get it to her?” he stood and turned his body to look me dead in the eyes again. “I was in Vietnam and she was in Ohio.”
‘Uh huh,” I shook my head. “Then what happened?”
“Well when I got home she divorced me for being stupid.”
I didn’t know what to say.
A few weeks later I ran with the Olympic Torch and soon after I finished took it to Grace House so that homeless people could see one. There is a photograph of me still wearing the official sanctioned running wear standing next to Keith who is holding the Torch. His head his cocked to the side but his eyes are staring at the camera. He is smiling a crooked slurred smile.
So Keith became part of the family. The first time that I brought him to Tybee he went nuts over the girls in bikinis. He deserved more than life in a homeless shelter and after we got him disability I asked if he wanted to move to the Ocean Plaza Nursing Home, a couple of blocks from where I lived.
“Can I look at girls in bikinis?” he asked.
“All you want,” I told him.
So he moved into the nursing home and though Julie would visit him and play Chinese- Checkers with him sitting on his bed, he hated it. I was forever getting phone calls from Susan the administrator.
Keith had taken a boom box, placed it in the middle of the community room, hit play and the Rolling Stone’s “Sympathy for the Devil” blared into the ears of all of the wheelchair bound residents. Keith gyrated and danced and got mad that no one would dance with him.
One day I was called to immediately come because Keith had taken $1,700 on a group trip to Wall Mart. He wanted to buy a Walk-man. The Nursing Home Policy was to charge rent first and leave a bit of spending money for the residents. I’d hid Keith’s money so that he had plenty.
“Dammit Keith,” I was furious after Susan had given me back his money, “what were you thinking?”
“I don’t know what a Walk-man costs,” he calmly answered. “I didn’t want to be embarrassed if I didn’t have enough money.”
I didn’t know what to say.
In my mind I thought that it would always be this way. Keith would live and die as part of my family on Tybee. Kristen and Chelsea would visit him with us. It would be a perfect ending to a rotten life.
But Susan called me one day to tell me that Keith was gone. I rushed out to his room at the Nursing Home and he had cleaned it out. And … that was that.
Life is full of unfinished stories. We’ve all got our share.
So Keith, if you’ve figured out the Internet yet in your science fiction brain, or have a Face Book page or might you still be alive, this is for you. “Not trying to change your mind … but to say that I miss you … good luck, goodbye …”
And thank you.
In 1995 though, there was Keith. From Ohio Keith was a mentally ill, Vietnam veteran with lupus. His head was permanently cocked to one side and his white face was filled with red splotches. He spoke with that high nasal twang of northern Ohio. He loved French fries, science fiction novels and pretty girls.
“Keith,” I asked him one day sitting in my office, “I really have a hard time envisioning you in Vietnam.”
“Oh Mike,” he replied in his high pitched northern voice, “I was different back then. It was before the lupus.”
I nodded, of course. It had to have been.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Oh I discovered pot,” he answered with great enthusiasm.
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. “Then what happened,” I probed.
“I liked it so much I sent some to my wife back in Ohio”!
“Wait,” I said standing up, “you were married?”
“Oh yeah,” he said turning his body to look me in the eyes, “back then I was hot.”
I loved Keith.
“Then what happened?”
“Well,” he replied sitting back down with his head cocked away from me but his green eyes still looking in mine, “I mailed her really good stuff. And the Army found out so I was discharged pretty quickly.”
“You mailed it to her?”
“How else was I going to get it to her?” he stood and turned his body to look me dead in the eyes again. “I was in Vietnam and she was in Ohio.”
‘Uh huh,” I shook my head. “Then what happened?”
“Well when I got home she divorced me for being stupid.”
I didn’t know what to say.
A few weeks later I ran with the Olympic Torch and soon after I finished took it to Grace House so that homeless people could see one. There is a photograph of me still wearing the official sanctioned running wear standing next to Keith who is holding the Torch. His head his cocked to the side but his eyes are staring at the camera. He is smiling a crooked slurred smile.
So Keith became part of the family. The first time that I brought him to Tybee he went nuts over the girls in bikinis. He deserved more than life in a homeless shelter and after we got him disability I asked if he wanted to move to the Ocean Plaza Nursing Home, a couple of blocks from where I lived.
“Can I look at girls in bikinis?” he asked.
“All you want,” I told him.
So he moved into the nursing home and though Julie would visit him and play Chinese- Checkers with him sitting on his bed, he hated it. I was forever getting phone calls from Susan the administrator.
Keith had taken a boom box, placed it in the middle of the community room, hit play and the Rolling Stone’s “Sympathy for the Devil” blared into the ears of all of the wheelchair bound residents. Keith gyrated and danced and got mad that no one would dance with him.
One day I was called to immediately come because Keith had taken $1,700 on a group trip to Wall Mart. He wanted to buy a Walk-man. The Nursing Home Policy was to charge rent first and leave a bit of spending money for the residents. I’d hid Keith’s money so that he had plenty.
“Dammit Keith,” I was furious after Susan had given me back his money, “what were you thinking?”
“I don’t know what a Walk-man costs,” he calmly answered. “I didn’t want to be embarrassed if I didn’t have enough money.”
I didn’t know what to say.
In my mind I thought that it would always be this way. Keith would live and die as part of my family on Tybee. Kristen and Chelsea would visit him with us. It would be a perfect ending to a rotten life.
But Susan called me one day to tell me that Keith was gone. I rushed out to his room at the Nursing Home and he had cleaned it out. And … that was that.
Life is full of unfinished stories. We’ve all got our share.
So Keith, if you’ve figured out the Internet yet in your science fiction brain, or have a Face Book page or might you still be alive, this is for you. “Not trying to change your mind … but to say that I miss you … good luck, goodbye …”
And thank you.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Bye Mrs. Tommie
Back in those days, Chelsea was five or six and would wake up when I woke up. She dressed quickly and was waiting on me when I walked into her room. Kissing her good morning, I took her tiny hand and we made our way to the car for the quick drive to the Breakfast Club. In those days it opened at six a.m. and my daughter and I took our seats at the counter.
Chelsea ordered the same thing every day. “The Chelsea Special” is what Bruce called it. A grilled cheese sandwich with “the rhine cut off” and bacon. I was already dressed for work with a shirt and tie on and Chelsea never mastered the art of a napkin back then. She used the shelve of my shirt to wipe her hands after eating.
On one side of me was Jake, the master of ceremonies; deaf as he could be but equally funny. On the other side of him was Georgia who delivered the newspapers to the island.
“God I’m tired,” Georgia exclaimed one morning. “I just want to go home and take my bra off and go to sleep.”
“That explains it,” Jake said.
We all stared at him.
“Those two loud thuds I hear every morning.”
Laughter exploded on every side of the counter.
Sitting on the other side of Chelsea was Tommie Pierce, a nurse with the Chatham County Health Department. Tommie would stroll in every morning with her newspaper, kiss Jake, kiss me, and then kiss Chelsea, softly wishing each of us a good morning.
Then she would open the paper to the obituary section, order a bowl of grits and a side of bacon, and intensely study who had had died.
After about ten minutes she would look up, make the sign of the cross and exclaim, “Whew! I’m not in there. It’s going to be a good day.”
She did this every day for the decade that she was a member of the Counter Crew, first shift of the Breakfast Club.
One day she called me to tell me that her freezer had stopped working and that we were invited to the party.
“Party” I asked?
“All of this stuff is thawing so Frank and I are cooking everything and having a party. Hurry on over,” she explained.
It’s hard not to love Tommie.
She counted the days until her retirement and knew it down to the minute. When that happy day finally came, I drove to the Health Department for her farewell party and we hugged and laughed as I listened to the stories about her career. After that she no longer needed to rise so early so she became part of the Counter Crew, third or fourth shift, depending on the day. Whenever I saw her she gave me the same kiss and wished me good morning.
So yesterday at the Breakfast Club I sat on the same stool that she used to sit next to me on and I read her obituary. My eyes filled with salt water from the sea as I pictured her daily ritual. And I stared at her picture and told it that I love her.
It was fitting last night that Chelsea and I went together to the funeral home to help send her off to heaven. Now finishing college, Chelsea hugged Frank and we made our way through the crowded room talking to this person and that.
At one point, Chelsea was talking to someone and I stood there a part of the crowd but in a different universe at the same time. And I remembered how Tommie used to laugh when Chelsea would finish eating and wipe her hands on my shirt shelve before I went to work.
“Homeless people are going to be hungry all day long because you smell like bacon,” she would tell me.
So bye Tom! You remain so loved. I’m glad that you and Jake and Blind Mike are all reunited. And do me one last favor. Whenever I show up, save my seat at the counter. And save Chelsea one too. And we’ll do it all again.
Chelsea ordered the same thing every day. “The Chelsea Special” is what Bruce called it. A grilled cheese sandwich with “the rhine cut off” and bacon. I was already dressed for work with a shirt and tie on and Chelsea never mastered the art of a napkin back then. She used the shelve of my shirt to wipe her hands after eating.
On one side of me was Jake, the master of ceremonies; deaf as he could be but equally funny. On the other side of him was Georgia who delivered the newspapers to the island.
“God I’m tired,” Georgia exclaimed one morning. “I just want to go home and take my bra off and go to sleep.”
“That explains it,” Jake said.
We all stared at him.
“Those two loud thuds I hear every morning.”
Laughter exploded on every side of the counter.
Sitting on the other side of Chelsea was Tommie Pierce, a nurse with the Chatham County Health Department. Tommie would stroll in every morning with her newspaper, kiss Jake, kiss me, and then kiss Chelsea, softly wishing each of us a good morning.
Then she would open the paper to the obituary section, order a bowl of grits and a side of bacon, and intensely study who had had died.
After about ten minutes she would look up, make the sign of the cross and exclaim, “Whew! I’m not in there. It’s going to be a good day.”
She did this every day for the decade that she was a member of the Counter Crew, first shift of the Breakfast Club.
One day she called me to tell me that her freezer had stopped working and that we were invited to the party.
“Party” I asked?
“All of this stuff is thawing so Frank and I are cooking everything and having a party. Hurry on over,” she explained.
It’s hard not to love Tommie.
She counted the days until her retirement and knew it down to the minute. When that happy day finally came, I drove to the Health Department for her farewell party and we hugged and laughed as I listened to the stories about her career. After that she no longer needed to rise so early so she became part of the Counter Crew, third or fourth shift, depending on the day. Whenever I saw her she gave me the same kiss and wished me good morning.
So yesterday at the Breakfast Club I sat on the same stool that she used to sit next to me on and I read her obituary. My eyes filled with salt water from the sea as I pictured her daily ritual. And I stared at her picture and told it that I love her.
It was fitting last night that Chelsea and I went together to the funeral home to help send her off to heaven. Now finishing college, Chelsea hugged Frank and we made our way through the crowded room talking to this person and that.
At one point, Chelsea was talking to someone and I stood there a part of the crowd but in a different universe at the same time. And I remembered how Tommie used to laugh when Chelsea would finish eating and wipe her hands on my shirt shelve before I went to work.
“Homeless people are going to be hungry all day long because you smell like bacon,” she would tell me.
So bye Tom! You remain so loved. I’m glad that you and Jake and Blind Mike are all reunited. And do me one last favor. Whenever I show up, save my seat at the counter. And save Chelsea one too. And we’ll do it all again.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
An Important Question
“Tell me something,” she asked on the phone, “what makes your heart happy?”
It gave me pause. It’s not a question that is easily answered. It is certainly not one that’s honestly answered. We cite clichés or lie to ourselves by saying the things that should make us happy but don’t really. So we say Jesus or our kids or spouses or friends or work or windsurfing or something exciting. Such things should make us happy but many times … in spite of them we’re not.
When Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one that I went to Seminary with) and I were standing in the middle of Auschwitz, the Nazi concentration in Poland, I kept asking questions of our guide, a Holocaust survivor. I would impatiently blurt out questions of things that I wanted to know.
“What became of the Kappos?”
“What happened to Rudolph Hoess’ lamps?”
His name was Martin and he was dignity personified. I stood there wearing a red and white University of Georgia coat with the matching hat, knowing that I already knew everything.
As I blurted out the questions he would pause and his eyes would lock mine. He had this way of letting the moment linger so that tension was created. Then he would clap his hands together in the cold February weather and smile.
“That is an important question,” he would say. “I will answer for everyone.”
I was put in my place.
Later that day Martin and I disappeared together. He left the British tour group he was leading that Bill and I hijacked. We stood in front of the gallows where Rudolph Hoess, the most infamous Commander of the Camp, was hung after the war.
“Why do you know these things?” he asked me standing there.
And I didn’t know how to answer. In a history class at Groves High School in Garden City, Georgia of all places, Wayne Seay showed a film of the liberation of the camp. My mind and my heart woke up that day.
And it led me to college, then to Seminary, then to the worlds of homelessness, AIDS, the uninsured, the worst of poverty … and then to Denominational Headquarters, City Halls, State Capitols, Governor’s offices and Congress.
I’ve been to some bad places.
“Ummm,” I finally answered her. “I got to think about that.” Then I quoted Martin, “It is too important a question.”
I sit here now pondering it. Balmy tropical weather makes my heart leap. Islands and oceans do too. Writing comes from somewhere deep in my heart and bursts out and always surprises me. The things that I’ve done and the places that I’ve been stagger me. The smell of the marsh in the heat (sex in the tropics is what it smells like).
Goddess.
The people I love.
More important recently are the people who love me and are not afraid to show it.
Special ones who have my heart in their back pockets.
When God touches me and I cry.
When I’ve helped justice roll from the mountain tops or watched something that I said birth hope in somebody’s eyes.
It’s an important question. It will take a long time to answer.
It gave me pause. It’s not a question that is easily answered. It is certainly not one that’s honestly answered. We cite clichés or lie to ourselves by saying the things that should make us happy but don’t really. So we say Jesus or our kids or spouses or friends or work or windsurfing or something exciting. Such things should make us happy but many times … in spite of them we’re not.
When Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one that I went to Seminary with) and I were standing in the middle of Auschwitz, the Nazi concentration in Poland, I kept asking questions of our guide, a Holocaust survivor. I would impatiently blurt out questions of things that I wanted to know.
“What became of the Kappos?”
“What happened to Rudolph Hoess’ lamps?”
His name was Martin and he was dignity personified. I stood there wearing a red and white University of Georgia coat with the matching hat, knowing that I already knew everything.
As I blurted out the questions he would pause and his eyes would lock mine. He had this way of letting the moment linger so that tension was created. Then he would clap his hands together in the cold February weather and smile.
“That is an important question,” he would say. “I will answer for everyone.”
I was put in my place.
Later that day Martin and I disappeared together. He left the British tour group he was leading that Bill and I hijacked. We stood in front of the gallows where Rudolph Hoess, the most infamous Commander of the Camp, was hung after the war.
“Why do you know these things?” he asked me standing there.
And I didn’t know how to answer. In a history class at Groves High School in Garden City, Georgia of all places, Wayne Seay showed a film of the liberation of the camp. My mind and my heart woke up that day.
And it led me to college, then to Seminary, then to the worlds of homelessness, AIDS, the uninsured, the worst of poverty … and then to Denominational Headquarters, City Halls, State Capitols, Governor’s offices and Congress.
I’ve been to some bad places.
“Ummm,” I finally answered her. “I got to think about that.” Then I quoted Martin, “It is too important a question.”
I sit here now pondering it. Balmy tropical weather makes my heart leap. Islands and oceans do too. Writing comes from somewhere deep in my heart and bursts out and always surprises me. The things that I’ve done and the places that I’ve been stagger me. The smell of the marsh in the heat (sex in the tropics is what it smells like).
Goddess.
The people I love.
More important recently are the people who love me and are not afraid to show it.
Special ones who have my heart in their back pockets.
When God touches me and I cry.
When I’ve helped justice roll from the mountain tops or watched something that I said birth hope in somebody’s eyes.
It’s an important question. It will take a long time to answer.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
I Don't Care What Anyone Thinks (To Goddess)
Goddess and I stand on Shirley’s sad little holy dock feeling the heavy moisture that is suspended in the air. The lighthouse is muted across the marsh and the gray sky makes it appear as though a set in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. The sweat from the run that I just finished is making me cold so I grab the leash and pull but Goddess is content and doesn’t want to leave.
Steam is surrounding my head which is still red from the three mile sprint. My bare legs are warm enough for the moment but will soon turn cold. I tell Goddess to come on but she stands defiant and stares at me. I sigh.
Then I sit down on the wet cold dock and the back of my legs sting. Goddess sits down beside me wearing her fur coat. I call her a bitch. She happily licks my face.
Egrets and marsh hens are below us in the mud of low tide. The marsh grass has the last hint of golden to it but will soon turn brown and die. When it does the tides will carry it out to sea and eventually wash it upon the beach. The marsh itself will have been cleansed of the old making way for the birth of a new which will come in the spring.
A white egret flies behind us and Goddess runs down the dock after her. I take this as my cue and jump up and quickly catch up grabbing her lease and walking towards home. She spies the empty Gator-aid bottle in my hand and I give it to her. She carries it in her mouth.
People love to see her do this. I finish the Gator-aid after my run and just hand her the bottle. She leaps to take it out of my hand and if people see it they laugh and point and speak. Goddess has a huge fan club.
Back home I turn on the hot water of the outdoor shower. The temperature is 37 degrees but the house blocks the wind and the water is hot. I’m addicted to the outdoor shower and opt to use it most of the time. There’s something quite spectacular about standing there outside, one with nature, as yourself.
It strikes me that most people never do this and I feel sad because they don’t know what they’re missing.
Then it strikes me that most people would think I’m crazy to take an outdoor shower when it is 37 degrees. Well, I tell myself, it won’t be the first time that I’ve been called crazy.
Goddess waits for me on the porch as I grab the towel and quickly make my way into the warmth of the house. She follows me still carrying the Gator-aid bottle. While I dress she holds it between her paws and bites the top off then licks out what is left.
As I watch her my thoughts drift to a Board Chair who chose to remain anonymous. I’d had a flat tire and changed it in my driveway. It was one of those mornings when everything was just going wrong. As I worked, Goddess kept licking my face as though offering encouragement and love. I wrote about it and Jerry Rainey took offence.
“You wrote about a dog licking your face,” he said.
“Yep,” I replied. “Love is love.”
“You shouldn’t be saying that kind of stuff,” he admonished.
I look at Goddess who is lying on the beloved back deck licking green Gator-aid out of the bottle. I ponder all of the love that she has given me through the hardest of times. I love this dog.
Then I think about my friend Joe Daniel, also a former Chairman of the Board that I worked for. We had a long talk on the phone last night and we laughed and cussed and made plans to get together soon. With Joe we built a shelter for men, a shelter for families with children and a shelter for people living with HUV+/AIDS in a three year period of time.
We shared vision. We also shared jokes. He once brought Dianne Fuller and me the resume of someone he wanted us to consider hiring. He kept telling us she had great assets. We opened the file folder and it was a Playboy Centerfold. It’s hard not to love Joe.
Like it’s hard not to love Goddess.
And I don’t care what anybody thinks about it.
Steam is surrounding my head which is still red from the three mile sprint. My bare legs are warm enough for the moment but will soon turn cold. I tell Goddess to come on but she stands defiant and stares at me. I sigh.
Then I sit down on the wet cold dock and the back of my legs sting. Goddess sits down beside me wearing her fur coat. I call her a bitch. She happily licks my face.
Egrets and marsh hens are below us in the mud of low tide. The marsh grass has the last hint of golden to it but will soon turn brown and die. When it does the tides will carry it out to sea and eventually wash it upon the beach. The marsh itself will have been cleansed of the old making way for the birth of a new which will come in the spring.
A white egret flies behind us and Goddess runs down the dock after her. I take this as my cue and jump up and quickly catch up grabbing her lease and walking towards home. She spies the empty Gator-aid bottle in my hand and I give it to her. She carries it in her mouth.
People love to see her do this. I finish the Gator-aid after my run and just hand her the bottle. She leaps to take it out of my hand and if people see it they laugh and point and speak. Goddess has a huge fan club.
Back home I turn on the hot water of the outdoor shower. The temperature is 37 degrees but the house blocks the wind and the water is hot. I’m addicted to the outdoor shower and opt to use it most of the time. There’s something quite spectacular about standing there outside, one with nature, as yourself.
It strikes me that most people never do this and I feel sad because they don’t know what they’re missing.
Then it strikes me that most people would think I’m crazy to take an outdoor shower when it is 37 degrees. Well, I tell myself, it won’t be the first time that I’ve been called crazy.
Goddess waits for me on the porch as I grab the towel and quickly make my way into the warmth of the house. She follows me still carrying the Gator-aid bottle. While I dress she holds it between her paws and bites the top off then licks out what is left.
As I watch her my thoughts drift to a Board Chair who chose to remain anonymous. I’d had a flat tire and changed it in my driveway. It was one of those mornings when everything was just going wrong. As I worked, Goddess kept licking my face as though offering encouragement and love. I wrote about it and Jerry Rainey took offence.
“You wrote about a dog licking your face,” he said.
“Yep,” I replied. “Love is love.”
“You shouldn’t be saying that kind of stuff,” he admonished.
I look at Goddess who is lying on the beloved back deck licking green Gator-aid out of the bottle. I ponder all of the love that she has given me through the hardest of times. I love this dog.
Then I think about my friend Joe Daniel, also a former Chairman of the Board that I worked for. We had a long talk on the phone last night and we laughed and cussed and made plans to get together soon. With Joe we built a shelter for men, a shelter for families with children and a shelter for people living with HUV+/AIDS in a three year period of time.
We shared vision. We also shared jokes. He once brought Dianne Fuller and me the resume of someone he wanted us to consider hiring. He kept telling us she had great assets. We opened the file folder and it was a Playboy Centerfold. It’s hard not to love Joe.
Like it’s hard not to love Goddess.
And I don’t care what anybody thinks about it.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Getting My Voice Back
Lou Phelps Faced Booked me. She is the editor of the “Coastal Business Journal” had read a blog that I’d written on the changes planned for Union Mission now that I am no longer there and wanted to interview me for a story.
My initial reaction was to say no. I’ve laid low out of respect for the new leadership at Union Mission. Besides I’ve been on this Sabbatical and these are quiet times. And I’ve lived such a loud and public life. Aside from my daily musings on my blog and on Face Book the people that I’ve chosen to talk to and listen to is very small. I’ve commanded huge audiences and at this point in my life do not have the need to be center stage.
I’ve lived my whole life in the press. For twenty years Union Mission averaged 52 newspaper stories a year. That’s one a week. I was in most of them. That doesn’t count television, radio or regional and national publications. My face was recognized when I would be out and once people figured out who I was they asked for things.
“My son has an addiction problem and I don’t know what to do,” a Mother cried seated beside me at the Breakfast Club one morning.
“Look at my teeth,” a man commanded in fresh meat section of Publix. “Can you help me with them?” and they were yellow and rotting and who can buy fresh meat after that?
“I’m married but there is somebody else. Will God forgive me? I don’t know what to do,” he told me over a lunch at Johnny Harris’s.
At a Chamber of Commerce meeting a Savannah business woman wrote on her napkin and passed it me. “Can I talk to you after this?” I nodded and we did. Her daughter is a waitress and has no health insurance but is sick. I told her about the J. C. Lewis Health Center.
Sitting at the head table of a political “Eggs and Issues” breakfast the Senator sitting beside me leans over. “Hey Mike, I’ve got this …friend… Yeah, friend… Anyway my friend has AIDS. Tell me,” and his voice cracks as he finishes and his eyes grow moist and his voice quivers, “tell me what to do.”
That was my life for the better part of 30 years; raging against injustice in the media while quietly responding to the real needs of real people at the individual level. Both were relentless and on this Sabbatical, I now realize the toil that it all took.
There is this scene in “Jesus Christ Superstar” where the crowds around Jesus become a mob. They all need something from him at the same time.
See my eyes I can hardly see
See me stand I can hardly walk
I believe you can make me whole
See my tongue I can hardly talk
See my skin I’m a mass of blood
See my legs I can hardly stand
I believe you can make me well
See my purse I’m a poor, poor man
It overwhelms Jesus in the end and he scream at the pleading crowd “HEAL THYSELVES!”
No one has ever accused me of being especially Christ like and I certainly never learned to look a hurting person in the aisle of Publix and tell them to fix it themselves. But I got overwhelmed too and the thing about that is how few people give a shit. If you can’t do anything for them … well, then …what good are you?
So I locked my voice away on this Sabbatical because I needed to just be with the people who love me for me. And not for what I could do. It was an amazing lesson to see who is who.
Now thirty years of wounds have healed and I marvel at the scars. And I am grateful beyond expression to those who tended my healing. And I am not done. Thirty years is a long time. “Three years seems like thirty,” Jesus sings in Superstar.
I did my thirty.
So I called Lou and told her that I would do the interview. Rebekah came to participate and stand beside me because my knees are still a bit wobbly from it all. But I got my voice back. And I know what is what. And what isn’t.
And resurrections are funny things. You recognize them when they are happening.
My initial reaction was to say no. I’ve laid low out of respect for the new leadership at Union Mission. Besides I’ve been on this Sabbatical and these are quiet times. And I’ve lived such a loud and public life. Aside from my daily musings on my blog and on Face Book the people that I’ve chosen to talk to and listen to is very small. I’ve commanded huge audiences and at this point in my life do not have the need to be center stage.
I’ve lived my whole life in the press. For twenty years Union Mission averaged 52 newspaper stories a year. That’s one a week. I was in most of them. That doesn’t count television, radio or regional and national publications. My face was recognized when I would be out and once people figured out who I was they asked for things.
“My son has an addiction problem and I don’t know what to do,” a Mother cried seated beside me at the Breakfast Club one morning.
“Look at my teeth,” a man commanded in fresh meat section of Publix. “Can you help me with them?” and they were yellow and rotting and who can buy fresh meat after that?
“I’m married but there is somebody else. Will God forgive me? I don’t know what to do,” he told me over a lunch at Johnny Harris’s.
At a Chamber of Commerce meeting a Savannah business woman wrote on her napkin and passed it me. “Can I talk to you after this?” I nodded and we did. Her daughter is a waitress and has no health insurance but is sick. I told her about the J. C. Lewis Health Center.
Sitting at the head table of a political “Eggs and Issues” breakfast the Senator sitting beside me leans over. “Hey Mike, I’ve got this …friend… Yeah, friend… Anyway my friend has AIDS. Tell me,” and his voice cracks as he finishes and his eyes grow moist and his voice quivers, “tell me what to do.”
That was my life for the better part of 30 years; raging against injustice in the media while quietly responding to the real needs of real people at the individual level. Both were relentless and on this Sabbatical, I now realize the toil that it all took.
There is this scene in “Jesus Christ Superstar” where the crowds around Jesus become a mob. They all need something from him at the same time.
See my eyes I can hardly see
See me stand I can hardly walk
I believe you can make me whole
See my tongue I can hardly talk
See my skin I’m a mass of blood
See my legs I can hardly stand
I believe you can make me well
See my purse I’m a poor, poor man
It overwhelms Jesus in the end and he scream at the pleading crowd “HEAL THYSELVES!”
No one has ever accused me of being especially Christ like and I certainly never learned to look a hurting person in the aisle of Publix and tell them to fix it themselves. But I got overwhelmed too and the thing about that is how few people give a shit. If you can’t do anything for them … well, then …what good are you?
So I locked my voice away on this Sabbatical because I needed to just be with the people who love me for me. And not for what I could do. It was an amazing lesson to see who is who.
Now thirty years of wounds have healed and I marvel at the scars. And I am grateful beyond expression to those who tended my healing. And I am not done. Thirty years is a long time. “Three years seems like thirty,” Jesus sings in Superstar.
I did my thirty.
So I called Lou and told her that I would do the interview. Rebekah came to participate and stand beside me because my knees are still a bit wobbly from it all. But I got my voice back. And I know what is what. And what isn’t.
And resurrections are funny things. You recognize them when they are happening.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Sunday January 9th 2001 at the Breakfast Club (First Shift)
“Get that thing out of my toaster!!!” Jodee screamed.
Jodee is the owner and mastermind behind the World Famous Breakfast Club on Tybee Island, Georgia where I live. The Breakfast Club is a local’s favorite, a Savannah icon and a tourist’s mecca. Long lines form throughout the year but especially in the summer to get inside to eat what is much more than a breakfast. It is an experience! Paula Dean has nothing on Jodee.
It was a Pop Tart in the toaster. Val who runs the cash register with one hand because she is holding up her pants with the other one had tried to sneak it by him but when it popped up Phil screamed.
“OH MY GOD” he yelled. “What is that?? I’ve never seen anything like it!!”
Phil is the twelve foot tall red headed person in charge of toast, grits, hollandaise, and garnishments at the Breakfast Club.
“GET IT OUT OF MY TOASTER NOW” Jodee screamed.
“Shit,” I heard Val mutter. One arm was raised because she was using the other one to hold her pants up and retrieved the Pop Tart. She then disappeared into the back somewhere like Gollum in the “Lord of the Rings” eating a raw fish.
“Hey Mike,” Jodee said, “Were you here when we put the Strawberry Pop Tart in the toaster and turned it up high?”
I shook my head from side to side.
“Yeah you were,” he tells me.
“OK,” I reply.
“We had to take the toaster outside. I read about it in a Dave Berry column. Anyway, we dropped two strawberry Pop Tarts in and, after a minute, flames shot up four feet high! Ain’t having no Pop Tarts in my toasters.”
I am cracking up.
I start every day of my life with my extended family at the Breakfast Club. Johnny O does too. Whitley shows when he can remember where his truck or bicycle is which is becoming increasingly challenging for him.
“I played Pictionary with myself last night,” Phil tells me from above. “Katy was working. It only took me a minute.”
We have deep meaningful conversations at the Club.
“I pay taxes so that government can build bridges so that people can have a roof over their heads,” I am informed.
There is a logic to it all somehow.
“What’s the difference between Bill Clinton and the Queen of England?”
I shake my head.
“You only have to get down on one knee if you’re with the Queen.”
Coffee comes out of my nose.
Not to be outdone, Nancee strolls in like a gun slinger from the movie “True Grit.”
“Yeah,” she says as she fills a coffee pot, “what is Prince Philip going to say to his wife on their wedding night.”
We all just stare at her.
“I’ve got the whole of England in front of me.”
I am fully awake by now so I stand and say “Later kids.”
“Bye Mike!” I hear in unison.
Jodee is the owner and mastermind behind the World Famous Breakfast Club on Tybee Island, Georgia where I live. The Breakfast Club is a local’s favorite, a Savannah icon and a tourist’s mecca. Long lines form throughout the year but especially in the summer to get inside to eat what is much more than a breakfast. It is an experience! Paula Dean has nothing on Jodee.
It was a Pop Tart in the toaster. Val who runs the cash register with one hand because she is holding up her pants with the other one had tried to sneak it by him but when it popped up Phil screamed.
“OH MY GOD” he yelled. “What is that?? I’ve never seen anything like it!!”
Phil is the twelve foot tall red headed person in charge of toast, grits, hollandaise, and garnishments at the Breakfast Club.
“GET IT OUT OF MY TOASTER NOW” Jodee screamed.
“Shit,” I heard Val mutter. One arm was raised because she was using the other one to hold her pants up and retrieved the Pop Tart. She then disappeared into the back somewhere like Gollum in the “Lord of the Rings” eating a raw fish.
“Hey Mike,” Jodee said, “Were you here when we put the Strawberry Pop Tart in the toaster and turned it up high?”
I shook my head from side to side.
“Yeah you were,” he tells me.
“OK,” I reply.
“We had to take the toaster outside. I read about it in a Dave Berry column. Anyway, we dropped two strawberry Pop Tarts in and, after a minute, flames shot up four feet high! Ain’t having no Pop Tarts in my toasters.”
I am cracking up.
I start every day of my life with my extended family at the Breakfast Club. Johnny O does too. Whitley shows when he can remember where his truck or bicycle is which is becoming increasingly challenging for him.
“I played Pictionary with myself last night,” Phil tells me from above. “Katy was working. It only took me a minute.”
We have deep meaningful conversations at the Club.
“I pay taxes so that government can build bridges so that people can have a roof over their heads,” I am informed.
There is a logic to it all somehow.
“What’s the difference between Bill Clinton and the Queen of England?”
I shake my head.
“You only have to get down on one knee if you’re with the Queen.”
Coffee comes out of my nose.
Not to be outdone, Nancee strolls in like a gun slinger from the movie “True Grit.”
“Yeah,” she says as she fills a coffee pot, “what is Prince Philip going to say to his wife on their wedding night.”
We all just stare at her.
“I’ve got the whole of England in front of me.”
I am fully awake by now so I stand and say “Later kids.”
“Bye Mike!” I hear in unison.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Wild Wild Life
My eyes opened in the dark and I stared at the silhouettes of the Palm trees I can see out of the five windows I see from this view in my bed. Turning and stretching I see the shape of the lone red leaf on the tree outside of the other two windows. With seven windows in my bedroom its little wonder that I get up before the sun comes up.
Goddess is snoring on the floor. I lay there and think thoughts. “Did I dream about Art Linkletter offering me a deal to take over his company because it needs music? Then I called my Dad and Mom who showed up because they love Art Linkletter?”
This is the worst time of living alone in a house that you used to share. But I think of happier thoughts and reach for the pillow on the other side of the bed.
Getting up I stumble into the shower which is full of memories. I stand there with hot water showering on my head and remember.
When I get out I throw on running clothes and Goddess is now awake waiting on a belly rub. I wish the Lady of the House a good morning, give her treats, grab the keys and head downstairs for the car.
Typically my radio is at full blast as it was this morning. As soon as it started the lyrics filled my brain.
“I’m wearing my fur pajamas … I ride a hot potato …”
And I smile.
It may as well have been God knocking Saul off of that ass he was riding to turn him into St. Paul. The Talking Heads have always knocked me on my ass and this is my favorite song of theirs.
“Like sitting on pins and needles, things fall apart, it’s scientific …”
Ah, things fall apart. They did for me. It’s a fact of life so we may as well grab hold it and enjoy the hell out of the ride.
And driving to the Breakfast Club at 6:15 in the morning I stop the car in the middle of the road. I look at the stars and listen to the lyrics.
“Piece of mind? Piece of cake,” David Byrne sings.
Yep. I’m getting my piece of mind back.
And I say a prayer.
“Hey God,” I call her by name.
“Thank you. Mine really has been a wild, wild life. More right now than ever! At 54 you’d think that I’d be settling down but you are God after all and knew just the right moment to knock Saul on his ass and turn him into a Saint. I trust you. I have my whole life. I’ve been on my ass a lot lately but am ready to get up. Of course you are God and all so in your time … not mine.”
I think I learned that last line in Seminary.
“And forgive Guy Sayles for talking me into going to Seminary. It really wasn’t his fault. And forgive Bill Berry if you can. And when Conner and I stand before you, I promise you will laugh.”
“We wanna go where we go, where we go, I doing wild wild life,” the song goes.
Present tense I notice as I listen.
“Thanks God,” I finish the prayer. “I need coffee now. And I wouldn’t change this life all that much.”
Goddess is snoring on the floor. I lay there and think thoughts. “Did I dream about Art Linkletter offering me a deal to take over his company because it needs music? Then I called my Dad and Mom who showed up because they love Art Linkletter?”
This is the worst time of living alone in a house that you used to share. But I think of happier thoughts and reach for the pillow on the other side of the bed.
Getting up I stumble into the shower which is full of memories. I stand there with hot water showering on my head and remember.
When I get out I throw on running clothes and Goddess is now awake waiting on a belly rub. I wish the Lady of the House a good morning, give her treats, grab the keys and head downstairs for the car.
Typically my radio is at full blast as it was this morning. As soon as it started the lyrics filled my brain.
“I’m wearing my fur pajamas … I ride a hot potato …”
And I smile.
It may as well have been God knocking Saul off of that ass he was riding to turn him into St. Paul. The Talking Heads have always knocked me on my ass and this is my favorite song of theirs.
“Like sitting on pins and needles, things fall apart, it’s scientific …”
Ah, things fall apart. They did for me. It’s a fact of life so we may as well grab hold it and enjoy the hell out of the ride.
And driving to the Breakfast Club at 6:15 in the morning I stop the car in the middle of the road. I look at the stars and listen to the lyrics.
“Piece of mind? Piece of cake,” David Byrne sings.
Yep. I’m getting my piece of mind back.
And I say a prayer.
“Hey God,” I call her by name.
“Thank you. Mine really has been a wild, wild life. More right now than ever! At 54 you’d think that I’d be settling down but you are God after all and knew just the right moment to knock Saul on his ass and turn him into a Saint. I trust you. I have my whole life. I’ve been on my ass a lot lately but am ready to get up. Of course you are God and all so in your time … not mine.”
I think I learned that last line in Seminary.
“And forgive Guy Sayles for talking me into going to Seminary. It really wasn’t his fault. And forgive Bill Berry if you can. And when Conner and I stand before you, I promise you will laugh.”
“We wanna go where we go, where we go, I doing wild wild life,” the song goes.
Present tense I notice as I listen.
“Thanks God,” I finish the prayer. “I need coffee now. And I wouldn’t change this life all that much.”
Wild Wild Life
My eyes opened in the dark and I stared at the silhouettes of the Palm trees I can see out of the five windows I see from this view in my bed. Turning and stretching I see the shape of the lone red leaf on the tree outside of the other two windows. With seven windows in my bedroom its little wonder that I get up before the sun comes up.
Goddess is snoring on the floor. I lay there and think thoughts. “Did I dream about Art Linkletter offering me a deal to take over his company because it needs music? Then I called my Dad and Mom who showed up because they love Art Linkletter?”
This is the worst time of living alone in a house that you used to share. But I think of happier thoughts and reach for the pillow on the other side of the bed.
Getting up I stumble into the shower which is full of memories. I stand there with hot water showering on my head and remember.
When I get out I throw on running clothes and Goddess is now awake waiting on a belly rub. I wish the Lady of the House a good morning, give her treats, grab the keys and head downstairs for the car.
Typically my radio is at full blast as it was this morning. As soon as it started the lyrics filled my brain.
“I’m wearing my fur pajamas … I ride a hot potato …”
And I smile.
It may as well have been God knocking Saul off of that ass he was riding to turn him into St. Paul. The Talking Heads have always knocked me on my ass and this is my favorite song of theirs.
“Like sitting on pins and needles, things fall apart, it’s scientific …”
Ah, things fall apart. They did for me. It’s a fact of life so we may as well grab hold it and enjoy the hell out of the ride.
And driving to the Breakfast Club at 6:15 in the morning I stop the car in the middle of the road. I look at the stars and listen to the lyrics.
“Piece of mind? Piece of cake,” David Byrne sings.
Yep. I’m getting my piece of mind back.
And I say a prayer.
“Hey God,” I call her by name.
“Thank you. Mine really has been a wild, wild life. More right now than ever! At 54 you’d think that I’d be settling down but you are God after all and knew just the right moment to knock Saul on his ass and turn him into a Saint. I trust you. I have my whole life. I’ve been on my ass a lot lately but am ready to get up. Of course you are God and all so in your time … not mine.”
I think I learned that last line in Seminary.
“And forgive Guy Sayles for talking me into going to Seminary. It really wasn’t his fault. And forgive Bill Berry if you can. And when Conner and I stand before you, I promise you will laugh.”
“We wanna go where we go, where we go, I doing wild wild life,” the song goes.
Present tense I notice as I listen.
“Thanks God,” I finish the prayer. “I need coffee now. And I wouldn’t change this life all that much.”
Goddess is snoring on the floor. I lay there and think thoughts. “Did I dream about Art Linkletter offering me a deal to take over his company because it needs music? Then I called my Dad and Mom who showed up because they love Art Linkletter?”
This is the worst time of living alone in a house that you used to share. But I think of happier thoughts and reach for the pillow on the other side of the bed.
Getting up I stumble into the shower which is full of memories. I stand there with hot water showering on my head and remember.
When I get out I throw on running clothes and Goddess is now awake waiting on a belly rub. I wish the Lady of the House a good morning, give her treats, grab the keys and head downstairs for the car.
Typically my radio is at full blast as it was this morning. As soon as it started the lyrics filled my brain.
“I’m wearing my fur pajamas … I ride a hot potato …”
And I smile.
It may as well have been God knocking Saul off of that ass he was riding to turn him into St. Paul. The Talking Heads have always knocked me on my ass and this is my favorite song of theirs.
“Like sitting on pins and needles, things fall apart, it’s scientific …”
Ah, things fall apart. They did for me. It’s a fact of life so we may as well grab hold it and enjoy the hell out of the ride.
And driving to the Breakfast Club at 6:15 in the morning I stop the car in the middle of the road. I look at the stars and listen to the lyrics.
“Piece of mind? Piece of cake,” David Byrne sings.
Yep. I’m getting my piece of mind back.
And I say a prayer.
“Hey God,” I call her by name.
“Thank you. Mine really has been a wild, wild life. More right now than ever! At 54 you’d think that I’d be settling down but you are God after all and knew just the right moment to knock Saul on his ass and turn him into a Saint. I trust you. I have my whole life. I’ve been on my ass a lot lately but am ready to get up. Of course you are God and all so in your time … not mine.”
I think I learned that last line in Seminary.
“And forgive Guy Sayles for talking me into going to Seminary. It really wasn’t his fault. And forgive Bill Berry if you can. And when Conner and I stand before you, I promise you will laugh.”
“We wanna go where we go, where we go, I doing wild wild life,” the song goes.
Present tense I notice as I listen.
“Thanks God,” I finish the prayer. “I need coffee now. And I wouldn’t change this life all that much.”
Wild Wild Life
My eyes opened in the dark and I stared at the silhouettes of the Palm trees I can see out of the five windows I see from this view in my bed. Turning and stretching I see the shape of the lone red leaf on the tree outside of the other two windows. With seven windows in my bedroom its little wonder that I get up before the sun comes up.
Goddess is snoring on the floor. I lay there and think thoughts. “Did I dream about Art Linkletter offering me a deal to take over his company because it needs music? Then I called my Dad and Mom who showed up because they love Art Linkletter?”
This is the worst time of living alone in a house that you used to share. But I think of happier thoughts and reach for the pillow on the other side of the bed.
Getting up I stumble into the shower which is full of memories. I stand there with hot water showering on my head and remember.
When I get out I throw on running clothes and Goddess is now awake waiting on a belly rub. I wish the Lady of the House a good morning, give her treats, grab the keys and head downstairs for the car.
Typically my radio is at full blast as it was this morning. As soon as it started the lyrics filled my brain.
“I’m wearing my fur pajamas … I ride a hot potato …”
And I smile.
It may as well have been God knocking Saul off of that ass he was riding to turn him into St. Paul. The Talking Heads have always knocked me on my ass and this is my favorite song of theirs.
“Like sitting on pins and needles, things fall apart, it’s scientific …”
Ah, things fall apart. They did for me. It’s a fact of life so we may as well grab hold it and enjoy the hell out of the ride.
And driving to the Breakfast Club at 6:15 in the morning I stop the car in the middle of the road. I look at the stars and listen to the lyrics.
“Piece of mind? Piece of cake,” David Byrne sings.
Yep. I’m getting my piece of mind back.
And I say a prayer.
“Hey God,” I call her by name.
“Thank you. Mine really has been a wild, wild life. More right now than ever! At 54 you’d think that I’d be settling down but you are God after all and knew just the right moment to knock Saul on his ass and turn him into a Saint. I trust you. I have my whole life. I’ve been on my ass a lot lately but am ready to get up. Of course you are God and all so in your time … not mine.”
I think I learned that last line in Seminary.
“And forgive Guy Sayles for talking me into going to Seminary. It really wasn’t his fault. And forgive Bill Berry if you can. And when Conner and I stand before you, I promise you will laugh.”
“We wanna go where we go, where we go, I doing wild wild life,” the song goes.
Present tense I notice as I listen.
“Thanks God,” I finish the prayer. “I need coffee now. And I wouldn’t change this life all that much.”
Goddess is snoring on the floor. I lay there and think thoughts. “Did I dream about Art Linkletter offering me a deal to take over his company because it needs music? Then I called my Dad and Mom who showed up because they love Art Linkletter?”
This is the worst time of living alone in a house that you used to share. But I think of happier thoughts and reach for the pillow on the other side of the bed.
Getting up I stumble into the shower which is full of memories. I stand there with hot water showering on my head and remember.
When I get out I throw on running clothes and Goddess is now awake waiting on a belly rub. I wish the Lady of the House a good morning, give her treats, grab the keys and head downstairs for the car.
Typically my radio is at full blast as it was this morning. As soon as it started the lyrics filled my brain.
“I’m wearing my fur pajamas … I ride a hot potato …”
And I smile.
It may as well have been God knocking Saul off of that ass he was riding to turn him into St. Paul. The Talking Heads have always knocked me on my ass and this is my favorite song of theirs.
“Like sitting on pins and needles, things fall apart, it’s scientific …”
Ah, things fall apart. They did for me. It’s a fact of life so we may as well grab hold it and enjoy the hell out of the ride.
And driving to the Breakfast Club at 6:15 in the morning I stop the car in the middle of the road. I look at the stars and listen to the lyrics.
“Piece of mind? Piece of cake,” David Byrne sings.
Yep. I’m getting my piece of mind back.
And I say a prayer.
“Hey God,” I call her by name.
“Thank you. Mine really has been a wild, wild life. More right now than ever! At 54 you’d think that I’d be settling down but you are God after all and knew just the right moment to knock Saul on his ass and turn him into a Saint. I trust you. I have my whole life. I’ve been on my ass a lot lately but am ready to get up. Of course you are God and all so in your time … not mine.”
I think I learned that last line in Seminary.
“And forgive Guy Sayles for talking me into going to Seminary. It really wasn’t his fault. And forgive Bill Berry if you can. And when Conner and I stand before you, I promise you will laugh.”
“We wanna go where we go, where we go, I doing wild wild life,” the song goes.
Present tense I notice as I listen.
“Thanks God,” I finish the prayer. “I need coffee now. And I wouldn’t change this life all that much.”
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Magnatism of Jesus
It all started with Bill Berry of course (not the former drummer from R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me). He once took a Bible, cut out the pages in the middle and mailed me a magnet. I suppose he wanted to cover up the fact that it was a magnet that he was mailing me and not some subversive tape, by-products of war, or letters on stationary from God, all of which he had done before!
The Bible industry is better off because of Bill. They are his methods of concealment of choice.
Whenever we are together some adventure occurs. We’ve run into a bus (literally!) with the font end of my car suddenly resembling a tin can. We both agreed that this was an excellent reason to skip Seminary, order pizza and drink beer.
We’ve been thrown out of a Trappist Monastery after entering the forbidden zone because … well, it was forbidden.
We jumped off a British tour bus in Poland with no idea how we would get back to the train station to spend a bitter day in Auschwitz, the concentration camp.
We were once chased by a collection of Turkish whores in Prague late one night. They accosted me first, rubbing my body and asking me things I didn’t understand. Bill stood there laughing until I yelled that he had all of the money and they left me taking off after him. He took off in a sprint and I lay on the cobblestone street laughing in the dark.
In Havana Cuba we spent one night in a Cabrera talking to 1930s burlesque showgirls and it took all eight of our legs and arms to make it back to my hotel room that night where management immediately thought that we were gay and reported us to the Communist government. We were followed around by guys in coats afterwards.
Also in Havana we took public transportation to Figora, Ernest Hemingway’s house because he’s one of my favorite writers. I wore a “Georgia” tee-shirt and this huge man threw his arm around me and told me that his name was George and he was going to be my friend. I sat in his lap during the crowded ride on the “camelback”. Mothers breast fed their children, men held chickens, and this was one happy collection of people. It only costs us 35 cents a piece!
Once we got to Hemingway’s house, it was closed so we had to hitchhike back. A 1940’s pickup truck with the bed absolutely packed with people stopped to pick us up. The cab was also full but the driver made them get in the back to accommodate us and we were driven back to Havana. I had a back pack full of Snickers bars and when I threw them to everyone they cheered and exclaimed with glee.
In Berlin Germany I attacked Bill in a McDonald’s late one night for ordering a fish sandwich because he is a devote vegetarian but he was drunk and had the munchies. I was not going to allow him to blame me for betraying his vegetarianism so as I exited the rest room and saw what he’d done I sprinted across the restaurant and tackled him. “Dumm Esel!” I heard someone say.
I could go on. We’ve done more (Let’s not bring up Myrtle Beach, Nashville or the Southern Baptist Convention).
Anyway I opened the Bible, saw the cut out pages and I retrieved the magnet which was a portrayal of Jesus presenting a pizza to the Apostles.
And I was converted that day. If you come to my house my refrigerator is covered with pictures held up by Jesus magnets. “Please Jesus protect me from your followers,” says a man in a suit talking to the Savior.
“Jesus is coming! Look busy!” proclaims one with Jesus knocking on the door of a church.
“I’ve found Jesus!” proclaims another. “He was behind the sofa the whole time.”
“Stop using Jesus as an excuse for being a narrow minded bigoted ass!” says a favorite.
There are maybe 50 of them covering the white of the fridge. People will come over and spend an hour standing in front of them reading and laughing or … giving me the death stare.
Well. It’s not my fault. It is Bill Berry’s.
And in the middle of my fridge is a magnet of the Prophet Bob Marley which says “Emancipate your self from mental slavery.”
And it seems as I look at them now, 50 versions of Jesus are looking at Bob Marley and smiling.
The Bible industry is better off because of Bill. They are his methods of concealment of choice.
Whenever we are together some adventure occurs. We’ve run into a bus (literally!) with the font end of my car suddenly resembling a tin can. We both agreed that this was an excellent reason to skip Seminary, order pizza and drink beer.
We’ve been thrown out of a Trappist Monastery after entering the forbidden zone because … well, it was forbidden.
We jumped off a British tour bus in Poland with no idea how we would get back to the train station to spend a bitter day in Auschwitz, the concentration camp.
We were once chased by a collection of Turkish whores in Prague late one night. They accosted me first, rubbing my body and asking me things I didn’t understand. Bill stood there laughing until I yelled that he had all of the money and they left me taking off after him. He took off in a sprint and I lay on the cobblestone street laughing in the dark.
In Havana Cuba we spent one night in a Cabrera talking to 1930s burlesque showgirls and it took all eight of our legs and arms to make it back to my hotel room that night where management immediately thought that we were gay and reported us to the Communist government. We were followed around by guys in coats afterwards.
Also in Havana we took public transportation to Figora, Ernest Hemingway’s house because he’s one of my favorite writers. I wore a “Georgia” tee-shirt and this huge man threw his arm around me and told me that his name was George and he was going to be my friend. I sat in his lap during the crowded ride on the “camelback”. Mothers breast fed their children, men held chickens, and this was one happy collection of people. It only costs us 35 cents a piece!
Once we got to Hemingway’s house, it was closed so we had to hitchhike back. A 1940’s pickup truck with the bed absolutely packed with people stopped to pick us up. The cab was also full but the driver made them get in the back to accommodate us and we were driven back to Havana. I had a back pack full of Snickers bars and when I threw them to everyone they cheered and exclaimed with glee.
In Berlin Germany I attacked Bill in a McDonald’s late one night for ordering a fish sandwich because he is a devote vegetarian but he was drunk and had the munchies. I was not going to allow him to blame me for betraying his vegetarianism so as I exited the rest room and saw what he’d done I sprinted across the restaurant and tackled him. “Dumm Esel!” I heard someone say.
I could go on. We’ve done more (Let’s not bring up Myrtle Beach, Nashville or the Southern Baptist Convention).
Anyway I opened the Bible, saw the cut out pages and I retrieved the magnet which was a portrayal of Jesus presenting a pizza to the Apostles.
And I was converted that day. If you come to my house my refrigerator is covered with pictures held up by Jesus magnets. “Please Jesus protect me from your followers,” says a man in a suit talking to the Savior.
“Jesus is coming! Look busy!” proclaims one with Jesus knocking on the door of a church.
“I’ve found Jesus!” proclaims another. “He was behind the sofa the whole time.”
“Stop using Jesus as an excuse for being a narrow minded bigoted ass!” says a favorite.
There are maybe 50 of them covering the white of the fridge. People will come over and spend an hour standing in front of them reading and laughing or … giving me the death stare.
Well. It’s not my fault. It is Bill Berry’s.
And in the middle of my fridge is a magnet of the Prophet Bob Marley which says “Emancipate your self from mental slavery.”
And it seems as I look at them now, 50 versions of Jesus are looking at Bob Marley and smiling.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Faith of Dinosaurs
A few short years ago I was sitting in Bob Colvin’s office at Memorial Health Medical Center, Savannah’s safety net hospital and strategic ally to Union Mission. He sat in the power chair that he liked and I had my feet propped on the coffee table.
Over the previous decade we had done some amazing things together along with Peter Doliber at the hospital and Kelly McDaniel back at Union Mission.
We had pioneered the respite care movement, demonstrated significant cost savings formulas by establishing alternatives to Emergency room treatment and hospitalization, and crafted the redirection of an entire chronic needs population (homeless people) from a hospital to a community setting like Union Mission.
No one had ever done these things before (sorry Jim O’Connel, you are still the gold standard but we did all of these things first!) and had won a lot of awards because of it. Our relationship and our organization’s partnership had surpassed a decade.
“You know what Mike,” he said.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I feel like a dinosaur. No body stays at a hospital for twelve years. All of my friends tell me that I’m nuts to still be here.”
His eyes looked weary. Taking my feet off of the coffee table I leaned forward to respond.
“You” I said? “Try 20 years in the front lines of homelessness. The average tenure is two-and-a-half years. Add what I did before and it’s almost 30 years.”
“Yeah but it’s just a homeless shelter.”
Bob knew how to get me going. I busted out laughing and we both agreed to go out for beers soon to talk about the dinosaur landscape.
Not long after that Bob left the hospital. We remain friends and in touch though I will never comprehend why he returned to his home state of Idaho to live across the gorge from the guy that played Horshack on “Welcome Back Kotter”.
I lasted another three years and then “the time of Middle Earth had passed” and a new breed came who were different from the dinosaurs that we were. They believe in short term fixes and not long term results.
One of the things that I learned through my career is that if you believe in something you stick with it. It may fail but you learn from the failures and keep at it until you succeed. Perseverance and faith breed success.
Success came early for me at Union Mission. Grace House, the Magdalene Project and Phoenix Place were all built in the first three years that I was there.
Then it got harder. The Employment & Training Center took five years. Expanding Phoenix Place took five too (at the same time though). The J. C. Lewis Health Center took four after that. The Ben & Bettye Barnes Center was a gift from nuns that we used HUD money on because the relationships we had with government allowed us to suspend the rules for how to spend it. The Behavioral Health Center took seven years. Dutch Town took five years too.
Somewhere in there we sold Potter’s Place, closed the Hacienda, and birthed and killed many Sacred Cows along the way.
It was with alarm that I read of Memorial’s decision to replace Phillip Schaengold as Bob’s replacement. He’s been there less than two years. It’s hard to do much anything in two years.
But the days of Middle Earth have passed. Everybody wants perfection now without the hard work that it takes to get there. Small minded people want debts retired immediately and it doesn’t matter what that cost to the greater good or the smaller satisfactions of life. Instant gratification rules!
But I choose to remain a dinosaur. A feisty one who will relentlessly pursue what he has faith in, but a dinosaur nevertheless.
Over the previous decade we had done some amazing things together along with Peter Doliber at the hospital and Kelly McDaniel back at Union Mission.
We had pioneered the respite care movement, demonstrated significant cost savings formulas by establishing alternatives to Emergency room treatment and hospitalization, and crafted the redirection of an entire chronic needs population (homeless people) from a hospital to a community setting like Union Mission.
No one had ever done these things before (sorry Jim O’Connel, you are still the gold standard but we did all of these things first!) and had won a lot of awards because of it. Our relationship and our organization’s partnership had surpassed a decade.
“You know what Mike,” he said.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I feel like a dinosaur. No body stays at a hospital for twelve years. All of my friends tell me that I’m nuts to still be here.”
His eyes looked weary. Taking my feet off of the coffee table I leaned forward to respond.
“You” I said? “Try 20 years in the front lines of homelessness. The average tenure is two-and-a-half years. Add what I did before and it’s almost 30 years.”
“Yeah but it’s just a homeless shelter.”
Bob knew how to get me going. I busted out laughing and we both agreed to go out for beers soon to talk about the dinosaur landscape.
Not long after that Bob left the hospital. We remain friends and in touch though I will never comprehend why he returned to his home state of Idaho to live across the gorge from the guy that played Horshack on “Welcome Back Kotter”.
I lasted another three years and then “the time of Middle Earth had passed” and a new breed came who were different from the dinosaurs that we were. They believe in short term fixes and not long term results.
One of the things that I learned through my career is that if you believe in something you stick with it. It may fail but you learn from the failures and keep at it until you succeed. Perseverance and faith breed success.
Success came early for me at Union Mission. Grace House, the Magdalene Project and Phoenix Place were all built in the first three years that I was there.
Then it got harder. The Employment & Training Center took five years. Expanding Phoenix Place took five too (at the same time though). The J. C. Lewis Health Center took four after that. The Ben & Bettye Barnes Center was a gift from nuns that we used HUD money on because the relationships we had with government allowed us to suspend the rules for how to spend it. The Behavioral Health Center took seven years. Dutch Town took five years too.
Somewhere in there we sold Potter’s Place, closed the Hacienda, and birthed and killed many Sacred Cows along the way.
It was with alarm that I read of Memorial’s decision to replace Phillip Schaengold as Bob’s replacement. He’s been there less than two years. It’s hard to do much anything in two years.
But the days of Middle Earth have passed. Everybody wants perfection now without the hard work that it takes to get there. Small minded people want debts retired immediately and it doesn’t matter what that cost to the greater good or the smaller satisfactions of life. Instant gratification rules!
But I choose to remain a dinosaur. A feisty one who will relentlessly pursue what he has faith in, but a dinosaur nevertheless.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Balance of Power
Sitting in the offices of the Orlando Free Dental Clinic Bob, the Director was getting mad. A federal auditor was getting on to him because his outcomes were not pure. The grant that supported a large part of the program only allowed people meeting certain demographic requirements to be served. Bob and his staff had this notion that anybody needing dental care could come.
The federal auditor would have none of it. Rules are rules. She kept demanding proof of outcomes.
“You want outcomes,” Bob spit standing up, “I’ll show you outcomes!”
And he left the room. When he returned he carried this very large jar. He turned it upside down in front of the auditor’s chair and hundreds upon hundreds of extracted teeth showered around her feet.
“There’s your outcomes”!
He was making a powerful point. The shower of teeth represented the real pain and agony of people who may or may not have fit the guidelines. The pain was as much for those who did as for those who didn’t. Shepherd’s Hope, the clinic refused to discriminate even though the federal government paid them to do so.
When you boil my belief system down I believe in Liberation Theology, a belief that God sides with the poor and if we want to hang around God then we need to hang around the poor. It is a theology of the streets.
It doesn’t trust institutions. Any institution --- governments, banks, churches, Synagogues, or much anything else! The reason is institutions exist to perpetuate themselves above anything else. Continued existence of one means more than anybody or anything … including God, justice, charity, and family.
It is a balancing trick to be part of an institution that you know you can never really trust. There is always this tension of doing everything for the sake of the place while keeping one foot over the line. That’s what Bob did when the Shepherd’s Place served people in pain regardless of rules.
Sure, you can’t do everything for everybody. But you can try. Pushing institutions and organizations to do more than they are capable of keeps them honest. Once they become status quo, then the Bank, Church or government exists for itself at the expense of others.
Several years later Bob was at Union Mission with the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation doing a site visit for a grant we had submitted. The grant was for $500,000 to help start the J. C. Lewis Health Center. The meeting had gone well and we were feeling pretty good our prospects.
Towards the end Bob asked, “Have you thought about adding a Dental component? Oral health ranks sixth in why people go to hospital emergency rooms. They can’t afford a Dentist so …what do they do?”
It had never dawned on us. Besides we were already trying to do something incredibly ambitious.
Then Bob the story of showering the auditor’s shower of extracted teeth.
So in the course of a couple of weeks we amended our application to include oral health. Today it is the Peter Brassler Dental Clinic, this area’s only oral health center for the working poor, uninsured and homeless.
I’m no longer part of any of that but I still worry about it becoming too much of an institution that merely adheres to government rules or Income Performa or being content to do what they can without pushing themselves. Pain is pain after all.
Congress returns to session today as though any of us really need that to happen. We all have to be careful in how we approach our work and our beliefs in institutions that we belong; that we do our very best to prevent them from becoming like Congress where everyone works hard to keep it like it is.
The federal auditor would have none of it. Rules are rules. She kept demanding proof of outcomes.
“You want outcomes,” Bob spit standing up, “I’ll show you outcomes!”
And he left the room. When he returned he carried this very large jar. He turned it upside down in front of the auditor’s chair and hundreds upon hundreds of extracted teeth showered around her feet.
“There’s your outcomes”!
He was making a powerful point. The shower of teeth represented the real pain and agony of people who may or may not have fit the guidelines. The pain was as much for those who did as for those who didn’t. Shepherd’s Hope, the clinic refused to discriminate even though the federal government paid them to do so.
When you boil my belief system down I believe in Liberation Theology, a belief that God sides with the poor and if we want to hang around God then we need to hang around the poor. It is a theology of the streets.
It doesn’t trust institutions. Any institution --- governments, banks, churches, Synagogues, or much anything else! The reason is institutions exist to perpetuate themselves above anything else. Continued existence of one means more than anybody or anything … including God, justice, charity, and family.
It is a balancing trick to be part of an institution that you know you can never really trust. There is always this tension of doing everything for the sake of the place while keeping one foot over the line. That’s what Bob did when the Shepherd’s Place served people in pain regardless of rules.
Sure, you can’t do everything for everybody. But you can try. Pushing institutions and organizations to do more than they are capable of keeps them honest. Once they become status quo, then the Bank, Church or government exists for itself at the expense of others.
Several years later Bob was at Union Mission with the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation doing a site visit for a grant we had submitted. The grant was for $500,000 to help start the J. C. Lewis Health Center. The meeting had gone well and we were feeling pretty good our prospects.
Towards the end Bob asked, “Have you thought about adding a Dental component? Oral health ranks sixth in why people go to hospital emergency rooms. They can’t afford a Dentist so …what do they do?”
It had never dawned on us. Besides we were already trying to do something incredibly ambitious.
Then Bob the story of showering the auditor’s shower of extracted teeth.
So in the course of a couple of weeks we amended our application to include oral health. Today it is the Peter Brassler Dental Clinic, this area’s only oral health center for the working poor, uninsured and homeless.
I’m no longer part of any of that but I still worry about it becoming too much of an institution that merely adheres to government rules or Income Performa or being content to do what they can without pushing themselves. Pain is pain after all.
Congress returns to session today as though any of us really need that to happen. We all have to be careful in how we approach our work and our beliefs in institutions that we belong; that we do our very best to prevent them from becoming like Congress where everyone works hard to keep it like it is.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Suddenly Compact Universe
On the 11th day of Christmas, or the 3rd day of January depending on your religious persuasion, I sit alone in my kitchen staring at the reflection of the lights on the sliding glass doors of the Christmas tree that I haven’t set on fire yet.
If eleven Pipers are piping I don’t hear them yet. If I do I will call the Tybee Island Police Department who will tase them as the Tybee Island Police Department is prone to do and then there would likely be flutes, burnt grass and stuff cluttering the yard.
If 12 Drummers drumming show up tomorrow I now have a rocket launcher and will take them all out at once.
“Your writing has been so sad,” I was written.
Duh!
You live through your first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s by yourself and let me know if you don’t get sad.
I have friends who have lost their husbands or wives over the past few years and the holidays will never be the same to them again …at least not in the same way.
Perhaps they will find new love or someone to fill the void and once again the Kingdom will come on earth as it is in heaven.
Or perhaps it won’t.
Tonight it won’t.
It’s funny when you are married or in a deep relationship and you live together how much you enjoy having the house to yourself. You watch whatever you want on television, use all of the hot water in the bath, quietly sit and read or pee off of the porch if you want. You relish these times because your husband, wife, significant other or kids take it all which is most of the time.
So when you get the time alone in your own place …well…what a luxurious gift.
Then the one you love dies, leaves, can’t be there or the kids grow up and leave or some combination of all of the above. Or because the one you love has to be somewhere else.
And you get it all to yourself. The whole place is yours and you can keep the television channel on whatever you want all of the time. Or not at all!
Cook or go out becomes life’s most interesting question.
But when no one is coming, and you know that no one is coming, you either embrace that or you don’t. You curse who left or died or can’t be there or you love them in a whole different way; a way that doesn’t need words or touch or “the suddenly compact universe of skin and teeth and hair.”
And the house is filled with memories or loneliness or both.
So there is one more day of Christmas according to the old carol. Most people have already stored it away until next year anyway. And God damn those twelve drummers drumming if they show up.
Unless…
That is what love sounds like.
If eleven Pipers are piping I don’t hear them yet. If I do I will call the Tybee Island Police Department who will tase them as the Tybee Island Police Department is prone to do and then there would likely be flutes, burnt grass and stuff cluttering the yard.
If 12 Drummers drumming show up tomorrow I now have a rocket launcher and will take them all out at once.
“Your writing has been so sad,” I was written.
Duh!
You live through your first Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s by yourself and let me know if you don’t get sad.
I have friends who have lost their husbands or wives over the past few years and the holidays will never be the same to them again …at least not in the same way.
Perhaps they will find new love or someone to fill the void and once again the Kingdom will come on earth as it is in heaven.
Or perhaps it won’t.
Tonight it won’t.
It’s funny when you are married or in a deep relationship and you live together how much you enjoy having the house to yourself. You watch whatever you want on television, use all of the hot water in the bath, quietly sit and read or pee off of the porch if you want. You relish these times because your husband, wife, significant other or kids take it all which is most of the time.
So when you get the time alone in your own place …well…what a luxurious gift.
Then the one you love dies, leaves, can’t be there or the kids grow up and leave or some combination of all of the above. Or because the one you love has to be somewhere else.
And you get it all to yourself. The whole place is yours and you can keep the television channel on whatever you want all of the time. Or not at all!
Cook or go out becomes life’s most interesting question.
But when no one is coming, and you know that no one is coming, you either embrace that or you don’t. You curse who left or died or can’t be there or you love them in a whole different way; a way that doesn’t need words or touch or “the suddenly compact universe of skin and teeth and hair.”
And the house is filled with memories or loneliness or both.
So there is one more day of Christmas according to the old carol. Most people have already stored it away until next year anyway. And God damn those twelve drummers drumming if they show up.
Unless…
That is what love sounds like.
Monday, January 3, 2011
God's Golden Sidewalk
The beach is scattered with Christmas trees lying there naked and unadorned in the sand. Some are at the ocean’s edge while others were thrown in the sand dunes. Some have tinsel hanging from them as the last remnants of what they used to be. None stand any more but are on their sides, a sad testament to the “glad tidings of comfort and cheer” that they represented.
The idea is that the sand will engulf them as it blows against their branches building up the dunes and creating a tiny beach refurbishment effort.
I run between them looking at the train that the sun has painted on sea, a golden sidewalk that ends at my feet. It’s as if I believed that I could walk on water then God is surely inviting me to do so. Take a left run on the blazing yellow water and straight into the eye of God.
For years I loved morning runs with sunrises that lead to the golden sidewalk. There were times when I would just stop and stand there staring at its brilliance, trying to discern the messages that were being sent.
“What God? Am I doing the right stuff and this is affirmation? Or am I really screwing up and you’re inviting to just run away from it all? You want to demonstrate that I’m in over my head when I submerge?”
There have been a few times when I was “Running with the Dolphins” and they would hit God’s golden sidewalk and leap into the air; straight up and then return in the exact same hole in the water that they made when they jumped towards the heaven. It took my breath away and I remember just staring with my hands on my knees, breathing hard and saying the most holiest of prayers.
Oh My God!
I am struck by the contrast of the discarded symbols of peace on earth and goodwill towards men and God’s golden sidewalk on the water. I leap over one of the trees that are in front of me as I run. What was an invitation a few days ago is now an obstacle.
All of those years working with homeless people, the sick, the uninsured and the addicted led to this cynicism about the holiday season. From Thanksgiving to Christmas Day it seemed like everyone in the world cared. They came, they gave and they loved.
The day after Christmas was another story.
And the shelters were filled with manger scenes, plastic Santa’s and trees that had been delivered with fanfare and promises of Joy to the World. But there was no longer any joy. Everyone had left. Except the same broken people who had been there before the Spirit caught everyone up (which evidently last for about a month before the Spirit lets them all down again).
The discarded trees make me think these thoughts.
Then I look at the golden sidewalk again and wonder if it is God’s way of still extending the invitation while everybody else is getting rid of Christmas until next year. Is this an invitation to walk on the water and demonstrate that, if we want, miracles can occur all year long?
These are funny thoughts to have on a morning run.
“Happier New Year,” a friend of mine wished my yesterday. It is someone that I haven’t talked to in some time. I appreciated the way she said it though. “Happier New Year” acknowledges that the last one wasn’t so great.
So here I am running into a new year, jumping over the discarded remnants of the past, leaping towards the sky and new love, wondering if I have what it takes to say, “Damn it all! I’m taking a left and going to do my best to make it to the eye of God before I sink”!
It’s only water.
The worst that can happen is I get baptized.
By God.
The idea is that the sand will engulf them as it blows against their branches building up the dunes and creating a tiny beach refurbishment effort.
I run between them looking at the train that the sun has painted on sea, a golden sidewalk that ends at my feet. It’s as if I believed that I could walk on water then God is surely inviting me to do so. Take a left run on the blazing yellow water and straight into the eye of God.
For years I loved morning runs with sunrises that lead to the golden sidewalk. There were times when I would just stop and stand there staring at its brilliance, trying to discern the messages that were being sent.
“What God? Am I doing the right stuff and this is affirmation? Or am I really screwing up and you’re inviting to just run away from it all? You want to demonstrate that I’m in over my head when I submerge?”
There have been a few times when I was “Running with the Dolphins” and they would hit God’s golden sidewalk and leap into the air; straight up and then return in the exact same hole in the water that they made when they jumped towards the heaven. It took my breath away and I remember just staring with my hands on my knees, breathing hard and saying the most holiest of prayers.
Oh My God!
I am struck by the contrast of the discarded symbols of peace on earth and goodwill towards men and God’s golden sidewalk on the water. I leap over one of the trees that are in front of me as I run. What was an invitation a few days ago is now an obstacle.
All of those years working with homeless people, the sick, the uninsured and the addicted led to this cynicism about the holiday season. From Thanksgiving to Christmas Day it seemed like everyone in the world cared. They came, they gave and they loved.
The day after Christmas was another story.
And the shelters were filled with manger scenes, plastic Santa’s and trees that had been delivered with fanfare and promises of Joy to the World. But there was no longer any joy. Everyone had left. Except the same broken people who had been there before the Spirit caught everyone up (which evidently last for about a month before the Spirit lets them all down again).
The discarded trees make me think these thoughts.
Then I look at the golden sidewalk again and wonder if it is God’s way of still extending the invitation while everybody else is getting rid of Christmas until next year. Is this an invitation to walk on the water and demonstrate that, if we want, miracles can occur all year long?
These are funny thoughts to have on a morning run.
“Happier New Year,” a friend of mine wished my yesterday. It is someone that I haven’t talked to in some time. I appreciated the way she said it though. “Happier New Year” acknowledges that the last one wasn’t so great.
So here I am running into a new year, jumping over the discarded remnants of the past, leaping towards the sky and new love, wondering if I have what it takes to say, “Damn it all! I’m taking a left and going to do my best to make it to the eye of God before I sink”!
It’s only water.
The worst that can happen is I get baptized.
By God.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Dreaming
I am standing on Orient Beach with my feet in the aqua blue surf, staring at the waves lapping the reef, and the ear buds to my I-pod are blasting Michael Franti and Spearhead was blasting into my brain. “That’s the sound of the sunshine coming down.”
I am thinking hard thoughts.
Having just spent my first Christmas alone I’d moved on to dreading New Year’s. Thanksgiving had been rough, Christmas was pure agony and now because of passport issues I’d be home in time for New Year’s. I wanted to continue the diversion of the tropics until I was well into 2011.
Besides that I had a tremendous number of things to accomplish when I return, it would be winter, and there is a Christmas tree full of hanging pieces of sadness that I must contend with. I will be on the road a lot and travel alone is alright but homecomings are difficult because there is no one waiting. Goddess will flip over for a belly rub but that is exciting as it gets.
Someone stands beside me and I turn to see Hyler talking to me. I pull the buds from my ears.
“What did you say?”
“I was saying that you’re not focused enough,” he replied looking at me with sadness.
He is one of the most interesting people that I’ve ever met. He used to race cars. One time he opted not to wear the fire resistant suit and sure enough had a wreck and the car burst into flames. His body is badly scared from the fire.
It doesn’t bother him. He is standing beside me on the beach working on his tan just like I am. He became a wildly successful consultant and very popular motivational speaker earning $15,000 a speech. He had told me this the previous day and when he did I exclaimed, “YOU GET $15,000 A SPEECH?”
He held his arms up to the sky and immediately answered, “With a body like this? Of course I do.”
It would very hard not to like Hyler.
“What do you mean I’m not focused enough?” I spit back.
He is always calm, speaking in very measured words. “You stand here and daydream and dance. You get lost in your own world and you don’t mind being there. You just don’t have what it takes to be a successful speaker and consultant. You should go back to doing what you’re good at.”
Competitive juices were unleashed in my veins and my chest stuck out. I turned to face him head on.
“What’s the biggest number of standing ovations you ever got,” I immediately fire.
“Three,” he begins but I stop him before he can finish.
“I got seven in front of 7000. How big was your crowd?” I rapid fire back before he can shoot.
Hyler smiles and takes a step backwards putting a shriveled hand on my shoulder. “What’s your elevator speech?” he asks as calmly and sympathetically as anyone possibly could.
“I turned a $40,000 a year homeless shelter into a $13 Million company with a very diverse portfolio. I can help you do that too. Regardless of what your business is”!
Hyler’s mouth never quite closes so his teeth are almost always visible. But when he chooses to smile you can tell. He smiled and the withered hand patted my shoulder.
“That’s pretty good,” he said, “but you’ve got to stop all of this dreaming.”
It is my turn to pause and stare a second. I think about one of the rules of speaking which is to create pregnant pauses so that the audience is waiting on whatever it is you’re going to say next. Martin Luther King, Jr. was perhaps the best at it and I’ve spent hours watching him do it though he was long dead and seated at the right hand of God when I did.
He waits. I let the moment linger.
“Hyler,” I finally say when I can see that he is getting ready to say something to break what is becoming an uncomfortable silence, ‘just how in the hell do you turn a $40,000 a year homeless shelter into a $13 Million company without …dreaming.”
He laughs.
I win.
I am thinking hard thoughts.
Having just spent my first Christmas alone I’d moved on to dreading New Year’s. Thanksgiving had been rough, Christmas was pure agony and now because of passport issues I’d be home in time for New Year’s. I wanted to continue the diversion of the tropics until I was well into 2011.
Besides that I had a tremendous number of things to accomplish when I return, it would be winter, and there is a Christmas tree full of hanging pieces of sadness that I must contend with. I will be on the road a lot and travel alone is alright but homecomings are difficult because there is no one waiting. Goddess will flip over for a belly rub but that is exciting as it gets.
Someone stands beside me and I turn to see Hyler talking to me. I pull the buds from my ears.
“What did you say?”
“I was saying that you’re not focused enough,” he replied looking at me with sadness.
He is one of the most interesting people that I’ve ever met. He used to race cars. One time he opted not to wear the fire resistant suit and sure enough had a wreck and the car burst into flames. His body is badly scared from the fire.
It doesn’t bother him. He is standing beside me on the beach working on his tan just like I am. He became a wildly successful consultant and very popular motivational speaker earning $15,000 a speech. He had told me this the previous day and when he did I exclaimed, “YOU GET $15,000 A SPEECH?”
He held his arms up to the sky and immediately answered, “With a body like this? Of course I do.”
It would very hard not to like Hyler.
“What do you mean I’m not focused enough?” I spit back.
He is always calm, speaking in very measured words. “You stand here and daydream and dance. You get lost in your own world and you don’t mind being there. You just don’t have what it takes to be a successful speaker and consultant. You should go back to doing what you’re good at.”
Competitive juices were unleashed in my veins and my chest stuck out. I turned to face him head on.
“What’s the biggest number of standing ovations you ever got,” I immediately fire.
“Three,” he begins but I stop him before he can finish.
“I got seven in front of 7000. How big was your crowd?” I rapid fire back before he can shoot.
Hyler smiles and takes a step backwards putting a shriveled hand on my shoulder. “What’s your elevator speech?” he asks as calmly and sympathetically as anyone possibly could.
“I turned a $40,000 a year homeless shelter into a $13 Million company with a very diverse portfolio. I can help you do that too. Regardless of what your business is”!
Hyler’s mouth never quite closes so his teeth are almost always visible. But when he chooses to smile you can tell. He smiled and the withered hand patted my shoulder.
“That’s pretty good,” he said, “but you’ve got to stop all of this dreaming.”
It is my turn to pause and stare a second. I think about one of the rules of speaking which is to create pregnant pauses so that the audience is waiting on whatever it is you’re going to say next. Martin Luther King, Jr. was perhaps the best at it and I’ve spent hours watching him do it though he was long dead and seated at the right hand of God when I did.
He waits. I let the moment linger.
“Hyler,” I finally say when I can see that he is getting ready to say something to break what is becoming an uncomfortable silence, ‘just how in the hell do you turn a $40,000 a year homeless shelter into a $13 Million company without …dreaming.”
He laughs.
I win.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Happy New... Whatev's
Goddess is licking my face which is on the corner of the bed. It is way past time that I’m normally up and taking her for a walk.
“Happy New Year Pup,” I say.
She licks my face again.
I throw a pillow at her. She takes this as a sign to play and jumps into bed, tail a wagging, licking my face.
Stumbling to the shower I fall in.
“Goddess” I scream! “Turn the radio down!”
She ignores me. She can be such a bitch sometimes.
I fix coffee and pour the first cup over my head. I drink the second.
I turn on the computer and my dear friend Stacy wishes me a Happy New Year. Damn Stacy instant messages loudly!
Then my friend Dedra sends me a text and it’s even louder!
Sitting on the beloved back deck, Dean who runs the pier has a band playing or something. While the pier is about six blocks away, IT IS LOUD!
Wow. It hurt to type that.
If I had a rocket launcher Tybee Island would no longer have a pier.
OK. Happy New Year everyone!
It’s not a bad way to start. Thank God the last one is over.
My friend Claude in Louisville just to have this theory that years ending in even numbers were bad years and those ending in odd numbers were good. Of course he was from Louisiana and went to L. S.U. (which stands for “Let’s sober up” he once explained).
OK. I’m back.
I just enrolled in L.S.U.
The band on the pier is playing “Twist and Shout.”
I think that I can twist and fall down.
This is my first New Year’s Day in the United States in a long time. I now remember why I spend them in St. Martin.
Several years ago, in St. Martin I was dancing the night away when the band stopped in the middle of a song. The singer screamed “It’s time!”
Except he did it in French and I didn’t understand him. But the crowd rushed outside to the beach and I followed. Then fireworks blasted overhead. Then the remnants of fireworks fell down on our heads.
I looked over at my friend Nancy, a waitress at Papaguyo and she was crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“Oh Micheal,” she said in broken English with a French accent, “I am pregnant!”
“I can prove where I was and who I was with,” I reply.
She looks at me trying to understand relationships in the United States.
Then I lean over and kiss her stomach.
“God bless your baby,” I say.
She hugs me and then we run back inside from the falling remnants of fireworks.
What a funny thing to remember this morning.
What a lovely thing to remember this morning.
This is a year of new things for me. The old has passed away. I wished it well last night. And today things look good as I sit on the beloved back deck, with Goddess asleep at my feet, wearing shorts and no underwear and no shoes.
Wait a minute.
I had underwear last night.
“Happy New Year Pup,” I say.
She licks my face again.
I throw a pillow at her. She takes this as a sign to play and jumps into bed, tail a wagging, licking my face.
Stumbling to the shower I fall in.
“Goddess” I scream! “Turn the radio down!”
She ignores me. She can be such a bitch sometimes.
I fix coffee and pour the first cup over my head. I drink the second.
I turn on the computer and my dear friend Stacy wishes me a Happy New Year. Damn Stacy instant messages loudly!
Then my friend Dedra sends me a text and it’s even louder!
Sitting on the beloved back deck, Dean who runs the pier has a band playing or something. While the pier is about six blocks away, IT IS LOUD!
Wow. It hurt to type that.
If I had a rocket launcher Tybee Island would no longer have a pier.
OK. Happy New Year everyone!
It’s not a bad way to start. Thank God the last one is over.
My friend Claude in Louisville just to have this theory that years ending in even numbers were bad years and those ending in odd numbers were good. Of course he was from Louisiana and went to L. S.U. (which stands for “Let’s sober up” he once explained).
OK. I’m back.
I just enrolled in L.S.U.
The band on the pier is playing “Twist and Shout.”
I think that I can twist and fall down.
This is my first New Year’s Day in the United States in a long time. I now remember why I spend them in St. Martin.
Several years ago, in St. Martin I was dancing the night away when the band stopped in the middle of a song. The singer screamed “It’s time!”
Except he did it in French and I didn’t understand him. But the crowd rushed outside to the beach and I followed. Then fireworks blasted overhead. Then the remnants of fireworks fell down on our heads.
I looked over at my friend Nancy, a waitress at Papaguyo and she was crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“Oh Micheal,” she said in broken English with a French accent, “I am pregnant!”
“I can prove where I was and who I was with,” I reply.
She looks at me trying to understand relationships in the United States.
Then I lean over and kiss her stomach.
“God bless your baby,” I say.
She hugs me and then we run back inside from the falling remnants of fireworks.
What a funny thing to remember this morning.
What a lovely thing to remember this morning.
This is a year of new things for me. The old has passed away. I wished it well last night. And today things look good as I sit on the beloved back deck, with Goddess asleep at my feet, wearing shorts and no underwear and no shoes.
Wait a minute.
I had underwear last night.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Any Excuse for a Party
I am contemplating having a party and setting my Christmas tree on fire.
Alone last night I sat staring at it sitting on the floor with my arm around Goddess. She is asleep. The television is on but I’m not paying it any attention.
There will be a few ornaments that I will keep. The angel that sits atop the tree is one Chelsea made for me when she was a little girl; the Snoopy sitting on top of Frosty that I made when I was a little boy. A Celtic cross, a Tasmanian thing Shirley gave me, my Grandfather tie made into an ornament by one of my aunts … these are the ones I will keep.
The rest are all hanging pieces of sadness; relics from another time when they represented togetherness, a house full of good cheer, and the promise of better things in the New Year.
I think taking the Christmas tree outside still decorated, with some friends over and setting it on fire would be a pretty good way to put all of that behind me. Only a third of the lights work anyway.
It’s an artificial tree so I suppose that lighter fluid will be involved.
It will take longer to burn so my friends can toast, drink and sing songs around the damn thing if they wanted to.
Maybe I could get my friend Chuck Courtenay or Sam Adams and Gordon to perform from the beloved back deck while the rest of us stand in the back yard watching it burn.
“Oh Tannenbaum” or “Come on Baby Light my Fire!”
Of course Tybee Island has more government than it’s ever had before and parts of the island now resemble a police state. I suppose a permit will be involved.
Shirley is my friend, neighbor, Mayor Pro-tem of the Island, actually in charge of most of Chatham County anyway and would of course be at the party. I have complete confidence in her abilities to secure the permit.
If not though I’ll invite Dr. Ricky Temple pastor of Overcoming By Faith Church and we’ll just tell the Tybee Island Fire Department that we are conducting a religious service and they have no jurisdiction over God’s burning bushes.
Come to think of it, April my friend runs the Fire Department and she and her husband James will of course be at the party singing around my burning Christmas tree. She can handle permit thing.
So I think that I am on to something. Today is my Mom’s birthday and that would be a great surprise for her!
So it is New Year’s Eve too. Whitley and I have already agreed to allow our bicycles to get drunk. Johnny O and Judy are meeting me later. Roma appears to have survived death again. At the Breakfast Club this morning, I sat in the back room leaning against Nancee, talking to Val, about these things.
But if you are going to go through Christmas and New Year’s alone for the first time in your life …
To hell with!
Any excuse for a party!!
Especially a good excuse!!!
Like little pieces of sadness hanging from the branches of a broken family tree.
Alone last night I sat staring at it sitting on the floor with my arm around Goddess. She is asleep. The television is on but I’m not paying it any attention.
There will be a few ornaments that I will keep. The angel that sits atop the tree is one Chelsea made for me when she was a little girl; the Snoopy sitting on top of Frosty that I made when I was a little boy. A Celtic cross, a Tasmanian thing Shirley gave me, my Grandfather tie made into an ornament by one of my aunts … these are the ones I will keep.
The rest are all hanging pieces of sadness; relics from another time when they represented togetherness, a house full of good cheer, and the promise of better things in the New Year.
I think taking the Christmas tree outside still decorated, with some friends over and setting it on fire would be a pretty good way to put all of that behind me. Only a third of the lights work anyway.
It’s an artificial tree so I suppose that lighter fluid will be involved.
It will take longer to burn so my friends can toast, drink and sing songs around the damn thing if they wanted to.
Maybe I could get my friend Chuck Courtenay or Sam Adams and Gordon to perform from the beloved back deck while the rest of us stand in the back yard watching it burn.
“Oh Tannenbaum” or “Come on Baby Light my Fire!”
Of course Tybee Island has more government than it’s ever had before and parts of the island now resemble a police state. I suppose a permit will be involved.
Shirley is my friend, neighbor, Mayor Pro-tem of the Island, actually in charge of most of Chatham County anyway and would of course be at the party. I have complete confidence in her abilities to secure the permit.
If not though I’ll invite Dr. Ricky Temple pastor of Overcoming By Faith Church and we’ll just tell the Tybee Island Fire Department that we are conducting a religious service and they have no jurisdiction over God’s burning bushes.
Come to think of it, April my friend runs the Fire Department and she and her husband James will of course be at the party singing around my burning Christmas tree. She can handle permit thing.
So I think that I am on to something. Today is my Mom’s birthday and that would be a great surprise for her!
So it is New Year’s Eve too. Whitley and I have already agreed to allow our bicycles to get drunk. Johnny O and Judy are meeting me later. Roma appears to have survived death again. At the Breakfast Club this morning, I sat in the back room leaning against Nancee, talking to Val, about these things.
But if you are going to go through Christmas and New Year’s alone for the first time in your life …
To hell with!
Any excuse for a party!!
Especially a good excuse!!!
Like little pieces of sadness hanging from the branches of a broken family tree.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Getting Ready
So I am sitting next to Dr. Ricky Temple in first class on a Delta flight from Atlanta to Savannah. We go back a bit. He built “Overcoming-By-Faith Church across the street from Dutch Town, a 40 something apartment complex for homeless people, and we hit it off from the first time we met at the Starfish Cafe.
I’m not quite certain what faith actually overcame in the naming of his church but Ricky is charismatic as hell, which he would likely not appreciate me saying. I want to order him a glass of wine to see is he can turn it into water. That would be impressive. I have a lot of faith in him.
He prayed the blessing at the dedication ceremony for the Dutch Town and said a lot of nice things about me. I’ve toured his church empire which took like a week. We laughed a lot during that time.
I am surprised that he is flying home at all on a commercial airline. I figured that he would just….gravitate there…like “Beam me down there Scotty” from Star Trek kind of stuff. He’s got his own cable show and all. And he is tall, much taller than most tall people. I think he’s a little taller than God. And his smile just melts others around him.
I re-think everything and order a gallon of water and ask him to change it into wine.
I am a Capitalist. There is money to be made. Even in first class.
Ricky decides that openly associating with me in front of all of these people may tarnish his stellar reputation. He begins talking church stuff to the person sitting next him. I immediately lose interest.
Staring out of the window I think back to the morning. Angela the maid burst into my room from the rain. She spit Spanish at me as though from a machine gun then she hugged me tight.
“I have no idea what you just said,” I said to the top of her head which was buried in my chest.
Her black face looked up at me with a mouth full of the whitest teeth. Rain drops were on her glasses.
“You leaving me today! You can’t leave me today! You got another week or something. Who’s doing to teach you Spanish?”
I laugh out loud with her. “Somebody back home because you’re doing a terrible job.”
“Did you get a late check out?” she asks.
“Of course not,” I tell her. “I’ll leave when you tell me to leave. Why would I bother with the people who run the place?
She laughs. “I got you. I got you.”
She hugs me tightly and tells me goodbye as she dashes off to clean another room.
I take it as a sign to make the rounds and say goodbye to the Koster family and Jack and Loretta, all friends from Canada. Carlos isn’t at work yet so I Face Book him and we promise to talk again soon. Hyler and Cass meet me back at my tiny little studio for the shared cab ride back to Princess Julia Airport. Daisy is our driver and she and I go way back. She drives the car like she just stole it.
Ricky Temple hits me on the shoulder interrupting my thoughts as professional Christians are prone to do.
“Hey media boy,” he says with his million dollar smile, “When you went out you did it with a bang! What exactly you been doing?”
I hate it when he calls me boy.
But he is my friend and I look at him looking at me as though I’m getting ready to share a secret that nobody else knows. He leans forward across the aisle in anticipation. It seemed like forever before I answered him but it was really only seconds.
I winked at him and said, “I’ve been getting ready.”
He leans back with his smile. “Oh yeah? Getting ready for what?”
“For me,” I tell him.
And we laugh.
I’m not quite certain what faith actually overcame in the naming of his church but Ricky is charismatic as hell, which he would likely not appreciate me saying. I want to order him a glass of wine to see is he can turn it into water. That would be impressive. I have a lot of faith in him.
He prayed the blessing at the dedication ceremony for the Dutch Town and said a lot of nice things about me. I’ve toured his church empire which took like a week. We laughed a lot during that time.
I am surprised that he is flying home at all on a commercial airline. I figured that he would just….gravitate there…like “Beam me down there Scotty” from Star Trek kind of stuff. He’s got his own cable show and all. And he is tall, much taller than most tall people. I think he’s a little taller than God. And his smile just melts others around him.
I re-think everything and order a gallon of water and ask him to change it into wine.
I am a Capitalist. There is money to be made. Even in first class.
Ricky decides that openly associating with me in front of all of these people may tarnish his stellar reputation. He begins talking church stuff to the person sitting next him. I immediately lose interest.
Staring out of the window I think back to the morning. Angela the maid burst into my room from the rain. She spit Spanish at me as though from a machine gun then she hugged me tight.
“I have no idea what you just said,” I said to the top of her head which was buried in my chest.
Her black face looked up at me with a mouth full of the whitest teeth. Rain drops were on her glasses.
“You leaving me today! You can’t leave me today! You got another week or something. Who’s doing to teach you Spanish?”
I laugh out loud with her. “Somebody back home because you’re doing a terrible job.”
“Did you get a late check out?” she asks.
“Of course not,” I tell her. “I’ll leave when you tell me to leave. Why would I bother with the people who run the place?
She laughs. “I got you. I got you.”
She hugs me tightly and tells me goodbye as she dashes off to clean another room.
I take it as a sign to make the rounds and say goodbye to the Koster family and Jack and Loretta, all friends from Canada. Carlos isn’t at work yet so I Face Book him and we promise to talk again soon. Hyler and Cass meet me back at my tiny little studio for the shared cab ride back to Princess Julia Airport. Daisy is our driver and she and I go way back. She drives the car like she just stole it.
Ricky Temple hits me on the shoulder interrupting my thoughts as professional Christians are prone to do.
“Hey media boy,” he says with his million dollar smile, “When you went out you did it with a bang! What exactly you been doing?”
I hate it when he calls me boy.
But he is my friend and I look at him looking at me as though I’m getting ready to share a secret that nobody else knows. He leans forward across the aisle in anticipation. It seemed like forever before I answered him but it was really only seconds.
I winked at him and said, “I’ve been getting ready.”
He leans back with his smile. “Oh yeah? Getting ready for what?”
“For me,” I tell him.
And we laugh.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Homecoming
The wind is fierce and the roaring waves crash over the reef. Coconuts fall from the Palm trees landing around me. The top of the mountain is covered in a purple blanket of clouds. People run passed my tiny little studio trying to keep their baguettes dry. The wind chime dances violently and sings to me. My neighbor dashes by chasing a crêpe that would have been his breakfast. After days on end of postcard perfect weather a tropical depression has come.
It is a good day to leave.
I’ve been here many times and have never yet been quite ready to come home. This time I am. There is a restlessness rumbling inside of me and it is something that I haven’t felt in a long time. It is a sense of anticipation. The birth of new things is coming. The old has passed away.
A couple of years ago I was sitting on the beloved back deck talking to Kathryn Martin. I was sad and tired and my face laid in my hand as we talked. I told her that it was time for me to leave Union Mission. There was nothing else to accomplish there and the longer I stayed my life grew increasingly stale.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
I didn’t have the energy to respond.
After that I ended up staying which was a rotten mistake in many ways and a blessing in others. Isn’t it funny how life is that way? Ying and Yang always go together. Breathing in is always followed by exhaling. The good goes with the bad.
So I stayed and Union Mission survived some pretty horrific happenings. That’s the good. The bad is that it cost a lot. I became consumed with correcting the wrong. I drank too much. I grew self absorbed. I lost the capacity to really love others because it was suddenly all about me. Or the “me” that others wanted me to be. Not who I really was.
“But I still liked you better when you hated yourself,” is a song from the Badlees that my son Jeremy introduced me to. I love it. “Good friends don’t come easy, even assholes like you,” is the other great line.
And those last couple of years I grew to hate myself. And other people loved it. And I listened to assholes instead of myself (that would be you Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous). So I lost many things that I loved.
I am a huge “Lord of the Rings” fan and have read everything, and I mean everything, that J.R.R. Tolkien ever wrote. And everything that C.S. Lewis ever wrote. AND everything that Charles Williams ever wrote. They all taught together at
For years I knew everything. And the proof is in the pudding. At Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and at Union Mission success was rapid and incredible. I lived this large life. And a couple of things happen when you live large. A lot of people appreciate and admire it. They tell you so. Then there are others who hate you because you have achieved success that they feel belong to them.
For the better part of the last year I’ve been quiet. I’ve let my wounds heal and marvel at the scars. My large world suddenly became small. The thousands of people that I know were reduced to a handful of friends. I know who loves me. And I know who doesn’t.
I’m ready to do things now. The restlessness that has always guided me washes over my heart. There are new rules to be broken. Accomplishments await! Love is all around me. It just means that I have to stop being self absorbed and recognize it.
Tolkien and Lewis used to drive one another crazy as they drank pitcher after pitcher of beer. One wrote one manuscript in his entire life that was a million pages long and ended up being multiple books and an incredible trilogy of movies. The other wrote thirty books and now has his own movie series with the Chronicle of Narnia.
But both readily admitted that it was Charles Williams who motivated them to do it all. He brooded. He ordered the next pitcher. His books are dark and not well known. There are no movies made from his writings. He went to the dark places to create and inspire.
So I feel creative again. And I don’t mind brooding about it. This morning when I the wind and the rain woke me, I turned on the computer and there were lots of messages from lots of people; some wanting me to come home and others who don’t really care. One told me that I could go to hell.
That’s cool. I’ve been to hell. Now I’m coming home.
To me.
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