Like all enlightened people George Harrison found the beach after the Beatles. He got a place on a mountain overlooking the ocean in Hawaii. He’d had a string of strong solo albums until he did one titled “Gone Troppo” about life at the beach. It did not sell well so George said “What the hell?” and took several years off to be a beach bum before coming back and starting the “Traveling Wilburys” to finish his career.
On the album is this catchy little tune “Gone Troppo” that is just full of visuals of life at the beach.
I am one of those people who live at the beach and vacation at other beaches.
This morning in the warm dark of the back deck I sipped coffee and petted Goddess. No breeze disrupted the quiet and salt water hung in the air. Then Kristen comes blowing making tons of noise screaming for coffee. Her long blond hair is brushed but the rest of her looks like she has just drug herself out of bed. Which she had!
Goddess was immediately suspicious. She jumped on her bed and just started at me. I knew what she thinking. “He’s leaving again, damn him!”
I’m off again to St. Martin where Conner and I will reform “Team Mike” and spontaneously figure out ways to make ourselves laugh without ceasing. Carlos, Verna and my other Chelsea will be there. And Nathalie is already worried because Conner has booked time with her (waxing will be involved).
I’m looking forward to this trip because the last couple of times I was on St. Martin it was a much more difficult time. In November with Conner and Hania I was still just trying to cope managing so many radical changes in my life occurring at the same time. At one point Conner told me that I wasn’t doing all that good. Hania kept trying to get me to eat.
Over Christmas I was just trying to get through the holidays without getting depressed. But I learned that it’s never a good idea to be in a foreign country with an expired passport and was ordered by none other than Trish DuPriest to “get your ass home now.” So I did.
This time though, I feel good. Productivity has suddenly become abundant again and possibilities suddenly abound. There are things that I will actually miss while I’m gone … a birthday party of a little girl who has come to mean a lot to me … Chuck Courtenay’s concert at Marlin Monroe’s …to see if Franklin (who is brown) survives another day … Goddess, the beloved back deck and the sad little holy dock.
Yet this trip comes at a good time. It will wash the taste away of the disrupted Christmas. It is a dividing line of finishing the Sabbatical because when I return there is a lot that I will be doing. Before this trip I wallowed in lost love but now I’ll come back full of it and ready to share it. Bikinis will be in season when I return to Tybee and there is a belly or two that I really enjoy looking at!
For the past couple of years I was in a state of shock in St. Martin. For the first time I was traveling alone and it was depressing. Conner and Hania took on the role of caregivers as good friends do during difficult days. Whenever I would return from St. Martin my close friends and the ones I love the most would be waiting on me to see how I was handling things.
These are the people that I will keep posted on this trip because they care and have become daily constants in my life. I love them so. Rather than hooking up with Conner needing him to drag me into good times, today I just can’t wait!
And in just a few hours I’ll be standing in the surf of the aqua blue bay staring at the island of Anguilla in the distance and watching the waves crashing over the reef and then gently settling into the bay. I’ll probably compare that image to my life. Not too long ago I was crashing around through life. Now a gentleness has come to dominate it.
So I leave looking forward to a celebration of how far I’ve come and very much looking forward to coming back for the beginning of summer on Tybee Island. And all of the crazy love that encompasses me there.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Hugs
My friend Shirley ends all of her messages with the word “Hugs”! It’s full of warmth and affirmation.
All of those years working with homeless people I witnessed lives without hugs of affirmation and what that can do to a person. They would come up and tell me their story or ask me to do something on their behalf and I always made sure that I touched them … shaking a hand or giving a hug.
Often times they would tense up because nobody had touched them in years. I thought it was the first step to helping them solve the issues that led to homelessness.
After all where does one go for a good hug these days?
Some religious gatherings still offer them freely but they sure seem to be growing rarer. I think that young people offer far more hugs than older people but with every passing year they lose a bit of the ability to keep doing it. And in the business world hugs lead to charges of sexual abuse.
It’s sad.
I’ve always ignored society’s increasing intolerance of hugs. It’s a big part of what is wrong with the world! If every meeting started with everyone giving everybody else a hug there would probably be a lot more productivity.
Or maybe not! Because people would get carried away with hugging one another and remain focused on the affirmation, sensuality and generally good vibes that hugs produce.
It would be great if every member of Congress and the State Legislature were forced to hug one another before they started screwing things for the day. I think that there would be far less screwing up!
During my last days at Union Mission I had a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous who witnessed his predecessor and I hugging one another at the end of a meeting. The next time that the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous and I were alone talking, he looked at me and said, “I am not one of those kinds of people.”
“What kind of people?” I asked, thinking that is how most refer to homeless people. They’re not people …they’re “those kinds of people”.
“I don’t hug,” he said emphatically. “I don’t get emotional. I just get to what needs to be done. It’s all business with me.”
I remember just sitting in my chair looking at him. It was first time that I’d ever seen one of “those kinds of people.”
Then a bunch of stuff happened and I left Union Mission. When I finally returned from a long restful stay in islands, I had to sit through a lot of meetings at Hunter, McClean, Exley & Dunn … Savannah’s largest law firm. When we finally got to the end of all this, there were a lot of hugs between the attorney, the previous Board Chair, a previous Board Chair to him, and then … the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous caved into peer pressure and gave me the most awkward hug I’ve ever had in my life.
It was a start.
Though homeless people who hadn’t been touched in years offered or responded to better hugs.
Last year at this time I was burned out and depressed; finally taking time away from it all to get back to me. I was hurt, sad and lonely. And I didn’t accomplish much during this time. Every morning I would crawl out of a king size bed of which one half had been deserted. I’d go through the motions of getting ready for a day that really only had one agenda … getting through the day.
Then I’d go to the Breakfast Club. Now I’ve been going there a long time. But as I was suffering more than I’ve ever experienced something changed. Nance started hugging me every morning. Long, passionate, affirming hugs! Then Denise joined in ... then Patty ... then Ryan? ... then Franklin (who is brown). And though it got weird … it got me through.
I was struck this yesterday. My days are now full of hugs … be it the Breakfast Club, listening to Sam and Gordo play good damn live music … sitting with Johnny O and Judy at “Whine and Cheese” … or in the parking lot at Target!
They are not all physical. Lots of messages float across cyber-space and they are technological hugs of affirmation and warmth.
A couple of weeks I returned to the Starfish Café after a year long exile by a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous. As soon as I entered Philip and I hugged for a long time. Then Gloria and I hugged for a long time. Then Chef Paul and I hugged for a long time but he added kisses.
And as this happening, I remember thinking … no I remember feeling … no, I remember being …damn … it’s good to be home again.
All of those years working with homeless people I witnessed lives without hugs of affirmation and what that can do to a person. They would come up and tell me their story or ask me to do something on their behalf and I always made sure that I touched them … shaking a hand or giving a hug.
Often times they would tense up because nobody had touched them in years. I thought it was the first step to helping them solve the issues that led to homelessness.
After all where does one go for a good hug these days?
Some religious gatherings still offer them freely but they sure seem to be growing rarer. I think that young people offer far more hugs than older people but with every passing year they lose a bit of the ability to keep doing it. And in the business world hugs lead to charges of sexual abuse.
It’s sad.
I’ve always ignored society’s increasing intolerance of hugs. It’s a big part of what is wrong with the world! If every meeting started with everyone giving everybody else a hug there would probably be a lot more productivity.
Or maybe not! Because people would get carried away with hugging one another and remain focused on the affirmation, sensuality and generally good vibes that hugs produce.
It would be great if every member of Congress and the State Legislature were forced to hug one another before they started screwing things for the day. I think that there would be far less screwing up!
During my last days at Union Mission I had a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous who witnessed his predecessor and I hugging one another at the end of a meeting. The next time that the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous and I were alone talking, he looked at me and said, “I am not one of those kinds of people.”
“What kind of people?” I asked, thinking that is how most refer to homeless people. They’re not people …they’re “those kinds of people”.
“I don’t hug,” he said emphatically. “I don’t get emotional. I just get to what needs to be done. It’s all business with me.”
I remember just sitting in my chair looking at him. It was first time that I’d ever seen one of “those kinds of people.”
Then a bunch of stuff happened and I left Union Mission. When I finally returned from a long restful stay in islands, I had to sit through a lot of meetings at Hunter, McClean, Exley & Dunn … Savannah’s largest law firm. When we finally got to the end of all this, there were a lot of hugs between the attorney, the previous Board Chair, a previous Board Chair to him, and then … the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous caved into peer pressure and gave me the most awkward hug I’ve ever had in my life.
It was a start.
Though homeless people who hadn’t been touched in years offered or responded to better hugs.
Last year at this time I was burned out and depressed; finally taking time away from it all to get back to me. I was hurt, sad and lonely. And I didn’t accomplish much during this time. Every morning I would crawl out of a king size bed of which one half had been deserted. I’d go through the motions of getting ready for a day that really only had one agenda … getting through the day.
Then I’d go to the Breakfast Club. Now I’ve been going there a long time. But as I was suffering more than I’ve ever experienced something changed. Nance started hugging me every morning. Long, passionate, affirming hugs! Then Denise joined in ... then Patty ... then Ryan? ... then Franklin (who is brown). And though it got weird … it got me through.
I was struck this yesterday. My days are now full of hugs … be it the Breakfast Club, listening to Sam and Gordo play good damn live music … sitting with Johnny O and Judy at “Whine and Cheese” … or in the parking lot at Target!
They are not all physical. Lots of messages float across cyber-space and they are technological hugs of affirmation and warmth.
A couple of weeks I returned to the Starfish Café after a year long exile by a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous. As soon as I entered Philip and I hugged for a long time. Then Gloria and I hugged for a long time. Then Chef Paul and I hugged for a long time but he added kisses.
And as this happening, I remember thinking … no I remember feeling … no, I remember being …damn … it’s good to be home again.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Best Buns on the Beach
I was standing between Johnny O and David R on the Pier at Tybee Island where I live. It was a beautiful day and we were there to raise money for our friend Jenny Orr who was sponsoring the “Best Buns on the Beach” competition. Jenny is a successful business woman who operates “Fannie’s-on-the-Beach” and “Marlyn Monroes”.
(We stop this blog for a brief announcement. Chuck Courtenay, musical extraordinaire will be performing at Marlyn’s on Sunday around 3:00. It is the must attend event on Tybee this weekend!! Now … back to our regularly scheduled blog.)
Jenny was raising money for Diabetes so we were all volunteering. At the time I was President of Union Mission and spent all of my time raising millions of dollars for its work. But Jenny can be quite convincing so there I was between Johnny O and David R wearing a black thong underneath my Preacher’s robe.
A huge crowd had gathered to watch us perform and then choose who had the best buns on the beach. Music was playing, drinks were being purchased and the crowd was growing festive. The idea was that we would dance and the crowd would stuff dollars into our costumes and whoever raised the most had the best buns.
“Don’t worry boys,” Jenny said standing beside us, “this is gonna be great.”
.
We were not so convinced. Well, David was. But that was because Jenny, being the astute business woman that she is, had a cooler full of cold Crown Royal on one side of the waiting area and another of beer on the other. It was free to those of us donating our time and David was on his second cooler of Crown.
Then it was time. Johnny O was first to perform. For those of you who have never met Johnny O, think of Mr. Rogers with glasses. Think of Mr. Rogers with glasses high on pot … with the sweater. That’s as close as I can paint a visual picture.
So Johnny O walks to the stage, drops his pants, is wearing “whitey tighties” and just stands there as some crazy computer gibberish plays. It was awful. I took a shallow of David’s Crown Royal and he kissed me right on the mouth. I’ve never had another drink of Crown Royal since.
I think Johnny O raised $1.23 for the cause.
Then it was my turn. I confidently strolled to the stage in my black Preacher’s robe with Dusty Springfield singing “Son of a Preacher Man” in the background. Putting my hands in the praying position I stood there a moment as the crowd bowed their heads. Then as Alice Cooper blasted “School’s Out”, I ribbed the robe open and danced in my black thong.
I was great! Thousands of dollars were thrust into my thong including quarters that had been frozen. I had the best buns but those quarters … well … they prevented me from advancing in other categories.
Then it was David’s turn.
Now David is big man with a shaved head and a goatee. He’s a Tybee legend! He was also full of Crown Royal. Dispensing with any kind of set up, he stripped to a pair Lady’s leopard skin thong panties and danced amazingly. With one hand on top of his head, with his eyes closed, he stood on a picnic table and gyrated to “What’s love got to do with it?” People swarmed him sticking twenties into his thong. Some had to throw up first but it was for a good cause and we all love Jenny so they kept at it.
Then it happened.
I was standing between Johnny O and Jenny, robe back on, watching David’s incredible performance when one of his testicles fell out. Johnny, Jenny and I all covered our mouths at the same time.
“Hmmmm,” Jenny said. “You don’t see that every day.”
I threw up little.
Now David has a devoted wife who loves him dearly. David was oblivious to what had happened and continued gyrating with his eyes closed feeling the love of the crowd. So she rushes up to the picnic table, takes one finger and pokes it back into the leopard skin thong panties. Then she retreats back into the crowd proud of her husband who was obviously going to have the best buns on the beach. People were writing checks and leaving their credit cards.
“Hmmmmm,” I said to Johnny O and Jenny when she ran up and poked it back in, “you don’t see that every day.”
A couple of years later Jenny had to stop sponsoring the wildly successful “Best Buns on the Beach” competition. It got out of hand.
But that first one … Wow!
Never have I witnessed the love of a wife to her husband like that.
(We stop this blog for a brief announcement. Chuck Courtenay, musical extraordinaire will be performing at Marlyn’s on Sunday around 3:00. It is the must attend event on Tybee this weekend!! Now … back to our regularly scheduled blog.)
Jenny was raising money for Diabetes so we were all volunteering. At the time I was President of Union Mission and spent all of my time raising millions of dollars for its work. But Jenny can be quite convincing so there I was between Johnny O and David R wearing a black thong underneath my Preacher’s robe.
A huge crowd had gathered to watch us perform and then choose who had the best buns on the beach. Music was playing, drinks were being purchased and the crowd was growing festive. The idea was that we would dance and the crowd would stuff dollars into our costumes and whoever raised the most had the best buns.
“Don’t worry boys,” Jenny said standing beside us, “this is gonna be great.”
.
We were not so convinced. Well, David was. But that was because Jenny, being the astute business woman that she is, had a cooler full of cold Crown Royal on one side of the waiting area and another of beer on the other. It was free to those of us donating our time and David was on his second cooler of Crown.
Then it was time. Johnny O was first to perform. For those of you who have never met Johnny O, think of Mr. Rogers with glasses. Think of Mr. Rogers with glasses high on pot … with the sweater. That’s as close as I can paint a visual picture.
So Johnny O walks to the stage, drops his pants, is wearing “whitey tighties” and just stands there as some crazy computer gibberish plays. It was awful. I took a shallow of David’s Crown Royal and he kissed me right on the mouth. I’ve never had another drink of Crown Royal since.
I think Johnny O raised $1.23 for the cause.
Then it was my turn. I confidently strolled to the stage in my black Preacher’s robe with Dusty Springfield singing “Son of a Preacher Man” in the background. Putting my hands in the praying position I stood there a moment as the crowd bowed their heads. Then as Alice Cooper blasted “School’s Out”, I ribbed the robe open and danced in my black thong.
I was great! Thousands of dollars were thrust into my thong including quarters that had been frozen. I had the best buns but those quarters … well … they prevented me from advancing in other categories.
Then it was David’s turn.
Now David is big man with a shaved head and a goatee. He’s a Tybee legend! He was also full of Crown Royal. Dispensing with any kind of set up, he stripped to a pair Lady’s leopard skin thong panties and danced amazingly. With one hand on top of his head, with his eyes closed, he stood on a picnic table and gyrated to “What’s love got to do with it?” People swarmed him sticking twenties into his thong. Some had to throw up first but it was for a good cause and we all love Jenny so they kept at it.
Then it happened.
I was standing between Johnny O and Jenny, robe back on, watching David’s incredible performance when one of his testicles fell out. Johnny, Jenny and I all covered our mouths at the same time.
“Hmmmm,” Jenny said. “You don’t see that every day.”
I threw up little.
Now David has a devoted wife who loves him dearly. David was oblivious to what had happened and continued gyrating with his eyes closed feeling the love of the crowd. So she rushes up to the picnic table, takes one finger and pokes it back into the leopard skin thong panties. Then she retreats back into the crowd proud of her husband who was obviously going to have the best buns on the beach. People were writing checks and leaving their credit cards.
“Hmmmmm,” I said to Johnny O and Jenny when she ran up and poked it back in, “you don’t see that every day.”
A couple of years later Jenny had to stop sponsoring the wildly successful “Best Buns on the Beach” competition. It got out of hand.
But that first one … Wow!
Never have I witnessed the love of a wife to her husband like that.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Castles in the Air
Heading south on A-1-A just outside of St. Augustine, with the ocean to the left and beach houses to the right, there is a castle.
Somebody built it as a home and there is no mistaking it. It towers above the beach houses, has the tutor windows and guards for archers to launch their arrows from the top. It is something right out of the thirteenth century.
Every time that I’ve ever driven past it, I’ve admired the hell out of whoever built it. This is someone who doesn’t believe in conforming, thumbs her nose at expectations, and follows his convictions in spite of the cost.
I laugh when I picture members of the Homeowners Association dropping by to complain and wonder if hot oil is poured from the top as they knock on the door. Or when the City Marshall delivers a summons because the castle is out of code compliance if rocks are dropped from on high to get rid the pesky rule enforcer. If you happen to own and live in a castle, you have these kinds of options.
A man’s home is his castle, so goes the old saying, but it’s really not. I wonder if the people living in the beach houses surrounding the castle pop themselves on the forehead and exclaim, “Shit! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Even worse, some guy is probably watering his grass when his wife comes out, folds her arms staring at the castle and says, “Well Skippy you always told me that you give anything but nooooo … you didn’t get me a castle now did you? You are so cheap! Sleep on the couch tonight. Again”!
My friends Johnny O and Judy, then Whitley of all people, have been to St. Augustine recently. It is one of my favorite places in the universe! There is a little hotel at the marina just north of the city where I love to stay. I never tire of wandering down St. George or sitting at the Milltop listening to live music with an incredible view of the harbor and the fort. I just love the place!
I was last there in October. It was Georgia/florida weekend so Mom, Sam, the kids and I drove down A-1-A from Jacksonville to America’s oldest city. I was not in a good place at the time. Suddenly single had turned into definitely divorced. I was burned out from a career that I’d recently walked away from and the settlement stuff was running out so there was all of that to think about. The beloved Dawgs of Georgia were in the midst of a rotten football season that was as painful to watch as I was trying to get through the nights. I wasn’t eating and drank way too much. It was simply an awful time.
Then we passed the castle.
I’ve probably seen it a hundred times and it always mystifies me.
Later that day at the Milltop, I was suddenly in a festive mood. We all laughed and joked and had a good time. The views were as gorgeous as ever and I celebrated all of the wonderful hours I’ve spent there.
And I kept thinking about the castle. Throughout my life I’ve always had a tendency to do things my own way. In college I turned a four year track into five and was basically ordered to declare a major so that they could be done with me as quickly as possible (streaking and the hostile takeovers of a Haunted House and a Baptist Student Union were involved in their reasoning). But I learned how to learn.
In Seminary it took a lawyer to get me out of there as apparently God told everybody else one thing and me another. Who knew God is practical joker? But while I was there this little rag tag inner city collection of little old ladies became the city’s most dynamic and groundbreaking Church.
Back in Savannah a little $40,000 a year, twelve bed homeless shelter morphed into a $13 Million company that helped cut a city’s homeless population by more than half. It’s the only such accomplishment in the United States.
The castle builder in me contributed to these things.
This morning as I was running the beach the sun shone brightly on the ocean creating a sidewalk across the sea that ended at my feet. I love seeing this and have come to attach religious significance to it. Throughout the good days and the terrible days at Union Mission I would run and the eye of God blazed that sidewalk on the sea affirming that I was doing holy things.
The last few years have felt anything but holy. More like hell! But today as I ran I was thinking about all of the things that are next. My brain was wrapping itself around new things, new loves, different work, better adventures and …happiness.
Then I noticed that the golden sidewalk on the sea was wider and broader than I’d ever seen it! It was a road of yellow dancing diamonds that led to the sunshine mixed with ocean that gives us all life.
And I smiled. God was letting me know once again that I’m on the right track. As painful as it’s been, it’s getting better. And the next castle is going to be far superior than the last!
Somebody built it as a home and there is no mistaking it. It towers above the beach houses, has the tutor windows and guards for archers to launch their arrows from the top. It is something right out of the thirteenth century.
Every time that I’ve ever driven past it, I’ve admired the hell out of whoever built it. This is someone who doesn’t believe in conforming, thumbs her nose at expectations, and follows his convictions in spite of the cost.
I laugh when I picture members of the Homeowners Association dropping by to complain and wonder if hot oil is poured from the top as they knock on the door. Or when the City Marshall delivers a summons because the castle is out of code compliance if rocks are dropped from on high to get rid the pesky rule enforcer. If you happen to own and live in a castle, you have these kinds of options.
A man’s home is his castle, so goes the old saying, but it’s really not. I wonder if the people living in the beach houses surrounding the castle pop themselves on the forehead and exclaim, “Shit! Why didn’t I think of that?”
Even worse, some guy is probably watering his grass when his wife comes out, folds her arms staring at the castle and says, “Well Skippy you always told me that you give anything but nooooo … you didn’t get me a castle now did you? You are so cheap! Sleep on the couch tonight. Again”!
My friends Johnny O and Judy, then Whitley of all people, have been to St. Augustine recently. It is one of my favorite places in the universe! There is a little hotel at the marina just north of the city where I love to stay. I never tire of wandering down St. George or sitting at the Milltop listening to live music with an incredible view of the harbor and the fort. I just love the place!
I was last there in October. It was Georgia/florida weekend so Mom, Sam, the kids and I drove down A-1-A from Jacksonville to America’s oldest city. I was not in a good place at the time. Suddenly single had turned into definitely divorced. I was burned out from a career that I’d recently walked away from and the settlement stuff was running out so there was all of that to think about. The beloved Dawgs of Georgia were in the midst of a rotten football season that was as painful to watch as I was trying to get through the nights. I wasn’t eating and drank way too much. It was simply an awful time.
Then we passed the castle.
I’ve probably seen it a hundred times and it always mystifies me.
Later that day at the Milltop, I was suddenly in a festive mood. We all laughed and joked and had a good time. The views were as gorgeous as ever and I celebrated all of the wonderful hours I’ve spent there.
And I kept thinking about the castle. Throughout my life I’ve always had a tendency to do things my own way. In college I turned a four year track into five and was basically ordered to declare a major so that they could be done with me as quickly as possible (streaking and the hostile takeovers of a Haunted House and a Baptist Student Union were involved in their reasoning). But I learned how to learn.
In Seminary it took a lawyer to get me out of there as apparently God told everybody else one thing and me another. Who knew God is practical joker? But while I was there this little rag tag inner city collection of little old ladies became the city’s most dynamic and groundbreaking Church.
Back in Savannah a little $40,000 a year, twelve bed homeless shelter morphed into a $13 Million company that helped cut a city’s homeless population by more than half. It’s the only such accomplishment in the United States.
The castle builder in me contributed to these things.
This morning as I was running the beach the sun shone brightly on the ocean creating a sidewalk across the sea that ended at my feet. I love seeing this and have come to attach religious significance to it. Throughout the good days and the terrible days at Union Mission I would run and the eye of God blazed that sidewalk on the sea affirming that I was doing holy things.
The last few years have felt anything but holy. More like hell! But today as I ran I was thinking about all of the things that are next. My brain was wrapping itself around new things, new loves, different work, better adventures and …happiness.
Then I noticed that the golden sidewalk on the sea was wider and broader than I’d ever seen it! It was a road of yellow dancing diamonds that led to the sunshine mixed with ocean that gives us all life.
And I smiled. God was letting me know once again that I’m on the right track. As painful as it’s been, it’s getting better. And the next castle is going to be far superior than the last!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Contemplation
By nature I am a contemplative soul. It is easy for me to slide away from a house full of people to sit on the beloved back deck and just … stare at the stars. Most often there is music in my ears but not always. I can go to the beach and just sit there staring at the ocean lost in thought. Goddess and I will walk over to Shirley’s sad little holy dock and simply sit there smelling the marsh and listening to choir of mussels and be … content.
A couple of years ago all of the kids were here and we’d eaten dinner and they were watching television with Julie. I slid off to the beloved back deck and was just staring at the stars … thinking … feeling … praying, I guess.
“Why does he do that?” Chelsea asked out loud.
“I don’t know,” Julie answered with a bit of frustration.
I looked through the sliding glass doors through the kitchen into the living room and they were all watching … I don’t know.
As a kid I loved television. I was always the first one up and would sit in the floor with my nose inches from the screen, turning (back then we turned, we didn’t flip!) totally engrossed in whatever was on. My Dad would come in and tell me that I was going to go blind from sitting so close to the television.
I ignored him.
Now, I find it pretty boring. There’s not much that holds my interest. When the Tsunami hit Japan last month I was a day behind the breaking news. I came home from the Breakfast Club where everybody was talking about it and turned on CNN and watched the waves wash the cars and buildings and people.
For the most part I use TV as a radio playing music all day long.
Music is better suited for contemplation.
The older I get, the more I just enjoy the beauty of what is around me. And who chooses to be around me. It is far more entertaining to watch the stars and discover what messages they are sending me than it is to see who dances with them.
My friend Bill Shearouse told me a story about his Dad’s last days. Mr. Shearouse and his wife Bootsie was great people and friends too. They adopted me and my kids at University of Georgia Football games. In his latter days, Mr. Shearouse would sit in the living room looking out of the large plate glass window while everybody else was busy doing something else.
“What you looking at Dad?” Bill asked.
Slowly, Mr. Shearouse pulled himself from the contemplation and looked at his son. “The birds,” he finally said.
Bill looked out the plate glass window and sure enough … there were birds.
“He knew,” Bill explained later when he told me this story. “He was getting ready.” And soon after that Mr. Shearouse died, sitting in his recliner, waiting on Bootsie to bring his desert watching the beloved Dawgs of Georgia on television.
I think that God created this world for a lot of reasons but one of them is for us to delight in it. I’ve seen incredible things just sitting on the beach, the deck and the dock. Possums walk hanging upside down on electric wires. Mussels form themselves into choirs and sing hymns at low tide. On a hot summer day the marsh smells like sex in the tropics. Dolphins dance and smile when they do so. God paints a different masterpiece in the sky every single day.
There are times when someone shares these things with me. Most often it is Goddess my dog. She loves to watch egrets flying over the marsh, squirrels climbing trees and rabbits in the thickets by Shirley’s house.
Sometimes it is others. Trolley Joe and I are fond of standing on the pier staring at the ocean and occasionally saying something to one another. When my son Jeremy is here, he’s taken to sitting on the beloved back deck in silence with me taking it all in. Words are few but the senses are filled to the point of exploding. As someone who makes his living speaking and writing words it is fascinating to learn how unnecessary they are to appreciate … love.
It is raining now and is a good day to do … nothing. Except watch the trees dance in the wind … listen to the songs of the falling water … dance to the claps of thunder … marvel at the lightning … and whisper prayers of thanksgiving that I am part of this incredible gift called life.
A couple of years ago all of the kids were here and we’d eaten dinner and they were watching television with Julie. I slid off to the beloved back deck and was just staring at the stars … thinking … feeling … praying, I guess.
“Why does he do that?” Chelsea asked out loud.
“I don’t know,” Julie answered with a bit of frustration.
I looked through the sliding glass doors through the kitchen into the living room and they were all watching … I don’t know.
As a kid I loved television. I was always the first one up and would sit in the floor with my nose inches from the screen, turning (back then we turned, we didn’t flip!) totally engrossed in whatever was on. My Dad would come in and tell me that I was going to go blind from sitting so close to the television.
I ignored him.
Now, I find it pretty boring. There’s not much that holds my interest. When the Tsunami hit Japan last month I was a day behind the breaking news. I came home from the Breakfast Club where everybody was talking about it and turned on CNN and watched the waves wash the cars and buildings and people.
For the most part I use TV as a radio playing music all day long.
Music is better suited for contemplation.
The older I get, the more I just enjoy the beauty of what is around me. And who chooses to be around me. It is far more entertaining to watch the stars and discover what messages they are sending me than it is to see who dances with them.
My friend Bill Shearouse told me a story about his Dad’s last days. Mr. Shearouse and his wife Bootsie was great people and friends too. They adopted me and my kids at University of Georgia Football games. In his latter days, Mr. Shearouse would sit in the living room looking out of the large plate glass window while everybody else was busy doing something else.
“What you looking at Dad?” Bill asked.
Slowly, Mr. Shearouse pulled himself from the contemplation and looked at his son. “The birds,” he finally said.
Bill looked out the plate glass window and sure enough … there were birds.
“He knew,” Bill explained later when he told me this story. “He was getting ready.” And soon after that Mr. Shearouse died, sitting in his recliner, waiting on Bootsie to bring his desert watching the beloved Dawgs of Georgia on television.
I think that God created this world for a lot of reasons but one of them is for us to delight in it. I’ve seen incredible things just sitting on the beach, the deck and the dock. Possums walk hanging upside down on electric wires. Mussels form themselves into choirs and sing hymns at low tide. On a hot summer day the marsh smells like sex in the tropics. Dolphins dance and smile when they do so. God paints a different masterpiece in the sky every single day.
There are times when someone shares these things with me. Most often it is Goddess my dog. She loves to watch egrets flying over the marsh, squirrels climbing trees and rabbits in the thickets by Shirley’s house.
Sometimes it is others. Trolley Joe and I are fond of standing on the pier staring at the ocean and occasionally saying something to one another. When my son Jeremy is here, he’s taken to sitting on the beloved back deck in silence with me taking it all in. Words are few but the senses are filled to the point of exploding. As someone who makes his living speaking and writing words it is fascinating to learn how unnecessary they are to appreciate … love.
It is raining now and is a good day to do … nothing. Except watch the trees dance in the wind … listen to the songs of the falling water … dance to the claps of thunder … marvel at the lightning … and whisper prayers of thanksgiving that I am part of this incredible gift called life.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Rings
Wedding rings ... The rings around Saturn … The Lord of the Rings … Earrings … the ring in the toilet and the bath tub … the luminous ring around the moon at night … rings of all kinds …
As far as we know the first rings worn were found on the fingers of Mummies in Egypt and in Greek urns. In Ireland they started using rings to symbolize engagement in the 17th Century. These would have a clasped hand, a crown and heart engraved on them symbolizing friendship, love and loyalty.
The Egyptians were the first to use rings to symbolize a woman belonged to man … but they meant it like slavery. It’s funny how this tradition continues in a lot of marriages.
It’s only been in recent times that a wedding ring symbolizes equality in a relationship. It’s funny though, most relationships have a dominate person and another who, for whatever reason, is submissive. It doesn’t have anything to with gender though it can I guess.
There are two wedding rings in the second bedroom lying with a bunch of other things on a silver plate in the shape of a crab. The crab claws from a ring around the plate. I wander around the house pondering these things. I told my friend Dedra recently that I need to have a garage sale of wedding rings.
Honestly, what do you do with old wedding rings?
Are they relics of the past like those on mummified fingers? Do I pass them on to the kids when they married? Do I take them to Pawn Shop? Do I walk down to the ocean and throw them as far away as I can in some ritual of days are gone? Like Fordo Baggins do I wear them on a chain around my neck because they represent the hurt and darkness of lost love?
Love never dies says the Bible.
But it sure as hell can stop! It can become stagnant and stale. It can be twisted into hate. It can become violent. It can be passive to the point where it is meaningless. Or it can you soar!
But it never dies.
Over the past several months I’ve had a lot of company and people leave things. On my table is a child’s sock. On another table lay a pair of earrings. There is a book that I’m not interested in reading. There is Tupperware that I do not recognize. There are clothes that are not mine.
I hold on to these things believing that whoever left them will eventually return and reclaim what they’ve lost.
Then I’m struck by the wedding rings and comprehend that there’s no getting back what was lost when they were taken off. It took me a long time to take mine off. I liked wearing it. I liked the way my fingers would tan and there would be this white circle around the one because the ring prevented the sun from going there.
Hmmmmm …
The ring stopped the sun from shinning completely.
It gives me pause.
At the end of “The Lord of the Rings” Gollum finally recapture the ring of power by biting off Frodo’s finger and falls into the abyss loving what he’s recaptured. A fingerless Frodo survives … but he is changed and is never the same again. Finally recognizing this, he sets sail with others who have also been changed leaves and his life behind … for another.
I send love to those who shared rings with me. They deserve the very best. They earned it by putting up with me. I earned it too by putting up with them. And the love doesn’t die but it will ever be the same again.
Looking at the earrings I find myself laughing … and telling myself that I should change the kind of rings that I’ve been using. I always meant to get my ear pierced but just never got around to it.
As I’m setting sail towards this new life I wonder if three’s the charm on getting a new ring. Or … perhaps it’s finally time for that earring.
As far as we know the first rings worn were found on the fingers of Mummies in Egypt and in Greek urns. In Ireland they started using rings to symbolize engagement in the 17th Century. These would have a clasped hand, a crown and heart engraved on them symbolizing friendship, love and loyalty.
The Egyptians were the first to use rings to symbolize a woman belonged to man … but they meant it like slavery. It’s funny how this tradition continues in a lot of marriages.
It’s only been in recent times that a wedding ring symbolizes equality in a relationship. It’s funny though, most relationships have a dominate person and another who, for whatever reason, is submissive. It doesn’t have anything to with gender though it can I guess.
There are two wedding rings in the second bedroom lying with a bunch of other things on a silver plate in the shape of a crab. The crab claws from a ring around the plate. I wander around the house pondering these things. I told my friend Dedra recently that I need to have a garage sale of wedding rings.
Honestly, what do you do with old wedding rings?
Are they relics of the past like those on mummified fingers? Do I pass them on to the kids when they married? Do I take them to Pawn Shop? Do I walk down to the ocean and throw them as far away as I can in some ritual of days are gone? Like Fordo Baggins do I wear them on a chain around my neck because they represent the hurt and darkness of lost love?
Love never dies says the Bible.
But it sure as hell can stop! It can become stagnant and stale. It can be twisted into hate. It can become violent. It can be passive to the point where it is meaningless. Or it can you soar!
But it never dies.
Over the past several months I’ve had a lot of company and people leave things. On my table is a child’s sock. On another table lay a pair of earrings. There is a book that I’m not interested in reading. There is Tupperware that I do not recognize. There are clothes that are not mine.
I hold on to these things believing that whoever left them will eventually return and reclaim what they’ve lost.
Then I’m struck by the wedding rings and comprehend that there’s no getting back what was lost when they were taken off. It took me a long time to take mine off. I liked wearing it. I liked the way my fingers would tan and there would be this white circle around the one because the ring prevented the sun from going there.
Hmmmmm …
The ring stopped the sun from shinning completely.
It gives me pause.
At the end of “The Lord of the Rings” Gollum finally recapture the ring of power by biting off Frodo’s finger and falls into the abyss loving what he’s recaptured. A fingerless Frodo survives … but he is changed and is never the same again. Finally recognizing this, he sets sail with others who have also been changed leaves and his life behind … for another.
I send love to those who shared rings with me. They deserve the very best. They earned it by putting up with me. I earned it too by putting up with them. And the love doesn’t die but it will ever be the same again.
Looking at the earrings I find myself laughing … and telling myself that I should change the kind of rings that I’ve been using. I always meant to get my ear pierced but just never got around to it.
As I’m setting sail towards this new life I wonder if three’s the charm on getting a new ring. Or … perhaps it’s finally time for that earring.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Stuck Inside a Cloud
Saturn hangs low in a deep dark predawn sky over the ocean. It may as well be the top of the Lighthouse it is so bright. There are no stars to distract from its brilliance. There are no clouds either. The sea is calm. Even the Sun lingers from rising allowing the sixth planet to have its moment.
I stand in the middle of 15th Street and look at it. Even before coffee I feel holy and humbled. It is a good way to start a Sunday. I have this disease where songs are forever popping in my head and as I’m surveying this majesty it happens again … with the strangest song.
Talking to myself
Crying out loud
Only I can hear me
I’m stuck inside a cloud
George Harrison is singing about his death which he knows is coming. He writes about losing motivation; he can’t sleep, can’t eat …never been so crazy … or sure … he wishes he had answers because he knows that there’s no cure. In spite of these feelings, the only thing that matters to him is to “touch your lotus feet” … meaning God.
(Yeah, yeah, yeah {Get it? The Beatles!}… I know he’s talking about Krishna but its God the way that he believed in God. She’s pretty cool about such stuff and doesn’t get hung up in just one way of being …God! I don’t know why the rest of us get so hung up about it.).
Yet I stand there staring at one planet in the sky and everything else gone away leaving it behind … alone. Then the oddest lyrics are running through my mind and a dying man who understands that he is … alone. And I stand in the middle of the street by myself in the quiet of a predawn morning.
I’m a big believer that we listen out for God whom I also think is a big believer in direct communication. Clergy are useful in helping us understand a lot of things but in the end it’s just us and God.
Standing there under the brightest Saturn I’ve ever seen, in a deep dark sky absolutely devoid of anything else with a dying George Harrison running through my brain …
Looking to my right into the large windows of the Breakfast Club, I see my friends busy preparing for what is surely to be a busy day. Then I turn away from them for a few more minutes to … listen. I think that hearing God sometimes, though certainly not always, means just focusing on what is happening around you.
I stop and pray one of the simplest yet mightiest of prayers …
“What are you telling me?”
My mind suddenly explodes in images all rushing together as though I’m watching a montage of pictures flash almost simultaneously. They are my pictures. Things start going wrong at work. Things start going wrong at home. My Dad dies. I start losing myself. Others ask me to give them more than I already have which was everything. Then my wife leaves. Then I leave my career. And then …
I’m alone. With a dog named Goddess.
Homeless people have been my friends throughout my whole career. They’d often arrive seeking shelter with everything that had in a bag (a homeless suitcasw is a plastic Piggly Wiggly bag) and, in many cases, a dog. Shelters do not allow dogs and I often witnessed a homeless man or woman turn their eyes away from hearing this news and wistfully sigh, “OK thanks anyway,” and walk away with the things that they had left. With the only friend they had left.
Thinking these things, I stare at Saturn.
Slowly … ever so slowly … painfully slow … the sun wakes up and rises … joining her brother in the sky. The brilliance of the sun eclipses the beauty of a planet and joins it invites it to dance.
I laugh. God joins those who of us who are left behind just as the sun rises to share the sky with the only thing left in it this morning. They dance against a blue black drop that grows increasingly paler. And I get the message.
We’re never really alone.
Even when we’re dying! And there are so many ways to die … literally … but also in a marriage … a job …a family … a place … so many ways …
I’ve certainly watched a lot of things die in my life over the past few years … and big pieces of me died too …
But … miraculously I somehow hung around … alone … like a lone star in the sky …
Just when I thought that I couldn’t stand it anymore, the sun rose and joined me.
The loneliness faded. I was no longer alone.
I blow God a kiss of thanks.
Then I walk into the Breakfast Club and a new day begins.
I stand in the middle of 15th Street and look at it. Even before coffee I feel holy and humbled. It is a good way to start a Sunday. I have this disease where songs are forever popping in my head and as I’m surveying this majesty it happens again … with the strangest song.
Talking to myself
Crying out loud
Only I can hear me
I’m stuck inside a cloud
George Harrison is singing about his death which he knows is coming. He writes about losing motivation; he can’t sleep, can’t eat …never been so crazy … or sure … he wishes he had answers because he knows that there’s no cure. In spite of these feelings, the only thing that matters to him is to “touch your lotus feet” … meaning God.
(Yeah, yeah, yeah {Get it? The Beatles!}… I know he’s talking about Krishna but its God the way that he believed in God. She’s pretty cool about such stuff and doesn’t get hung up in just one way of being …God! I don’t know why the rest of us get so hung up about it.).
Yet I stand there staring at one planet in the sky and everything else gone away leaving it behind … alone. Then the oddest lyrics are running through my mind and a dying man who understands that he is … alone. And I stand in the middle of the street by myself in the quiet of a predawn morning.
I’m a big believer that we listen out for God whom I also think is a big believer in direct communication. Clergy are useful in helping us understand a lot of things but in the end it’s just us and God.
Standing there under the brightest Saturn I’ve ever seen, in a deep dark sky absolutely devoid of anything else with a dying George Harrison running through my brain …
Looking to my right into the large windows of the Breakfast Club, I see my friends busy preparing for what is surely to be a busy day. Then I turn away from them for a few more minutes to … listen. I think that hearing God sometimes, though certainly not always, means just focusing on what is happening around you.
I stop and pray one of the simplest yet mightiest of prayers …
“What are you telling me?”
My mind suddenly explodes in images all rushing together as though I’m watching a montage of pictures flash almost simultaneously. They are my pictures. Things start going wrong at work. Things start going wrong at home. My Dad dies. I start losing myself. Others ask me to give them more than I already have which was everything. Then my wife leaves. Then I leave my career. And then …
I’m alone. With a dog named Goddess.
Homeless people have been my friends throughout my whole career. They’d often arrive seeking shelter with everything that had in a bag (a homeless suitcasw is a plastic Piggly Wiggly bag) and, in many cases, a dog. Shelters do not allow dogs and I often witnessed a homeless man or woman turn their eyes away from hearing this news and wistfully sigh, “OK thanks anyway,” and walk away with the things that they had left. With the only friend they had left.
Thinking these things, I stare at Saturn.
Slowly … ever so slowly … painfully slow … the sun wakes up and rises … joining her brother in the sky. The brilliance of the sun eclipses the beauty of a planet and joins it invites it to dance.
I laugh. God joins those who of us who are left behind just as the sun rises to share the sky with the only thing left in it this morning. They dance against a blue black drop that grows increasingly paler. And I get the message.
We’re never really alone.
Even when we’re dying! And there are so many ways to die … literally … but also in a marriage … a job …a family … a place … so many ways …
I’ve certainly watched a lot of things die in my life over the past few years … and big pieces of me died too …
But … miraculously I somehow hung around … alone … like a lone star in the sky …
Just when I thought that I couldn’t stand it anymore, the sun rose and joined me.
The loneliness faded. I was no longer alone.
I blow God a kiss of thanks.
Then I walk into the Breakfast Club and a new day begins.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The Coffee Conclave
Guy Sayles started in it when we were in Seminary. Guy doesn’t especially want anyone to know that we went to Seminary together, but we did. It’s his fault.
He called me.
Every morning at ten o’clock classes ceased and there was a Chapel service. In typical Baptist fashion attendance was not required but it was clearly stated in the Student Handbook, Section III Article A that you …“would rot and burn in the hottest parts hell if you didn’t go.”
So we went and did homework or took naps. The religious people at Seminary seemed to enjoy it. The rest of us just tried to catch up.
Then one day Guy couldn’t take it anymore and announced that the Angel Gabriel had shown up at his and Anita’s place the previous night. Guy’s a terrific cook so none of had any doubt whatsoever that this could have happened. We doubted many things in Seminary … especially the Baptist exclusion of gays as there were so many there. But we doubted Guy’s cooking abilities.
Evidently over after dinner coffee Guy and the Angel Gabriel were chatting and having a cigar. The Angel Gabriel looked over and spoke to Guy. “You know, that part of the Student Handbook isn’t inerrant. In fact Guy, it is fallible. You guys should skip Chapel and go get coffee.”
The next day Guy told us this and so ... it came to pass.
We would pile in Bill Stooksbury’s car and drive to the Mall where there was Conti’s Coffee shop. There were a bunch of old men having coffee and no table was available. Deciding that we had God on our side because it was the Angel Gabriel who had spoken from on high (or maybe it was that Guy was high? We never bothered to ask.) we did a hostile takeover of one of the tables.
And that is how the Coffee Conclave was born!
A conclave is a private or secret meeting. It is especially “a meeting of Roman Catholic Cardinals.” Apparently the Angel Gabriel informed Guy of this information and told him to name us this as we skipped Chapel at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.
We would gather every day over coffee and Guy and Bill Stooksbury were in charge. (A few descriptive words about Stooksbury: The guy was born a Baptist minister! Meaning he was born in a three-piece suit! He had Baptist hair, thick, wild and combed over! He would whip out his handkerchief at a moment’s notice a cry on cue! He was incredible!)
It was Guy’s meeting though!
As far as any of us knew, Stooksbury had been spoken to by (a) the Angel Gabriel; (b) an Angel; (c) God; (d) Jesus; (d) the Holy Spirit; (e) the God of any other major religion; (f) the God of any minor religion … you get my point. Stooksbury was a born Minister!
And Guy would make us talk about religion over coffee which is far preferable to listening to mostly old white men talk about God in Chapel.
Though in honesty what I mostly remember is how much we laughed … and grew to love one another ... and challenged one another to step out from under the rock (get it? Jesus said to St. Peter “Upon this rock I will build my church.” Who knew the rock could land on top of so many people squishing the life out them?).
It was an intense and wonderful time. I think we learned far more from each other than we ever did in Seminary.
Today I intended to write about how the Breakfast Club celebrated April Fool’s Day (have you ever poured Mountain Dew in a bucket, thrown toilet paper on top, placed the containers in the restrooms and put “Out of Order” signs on the bathroom doors? Me neither … but they have!).
But then the Angel Gabriel showed up and asked me what I was going to write about? I told him. He asked for a Screwdriver. I fixed him one.
He told me to fix me one.
When an Angel tells you to do something, you do it.
“Don’t write about that,” he said showing off a really beautiful leg with a high slit in his robe. “Let me tell you what to write about.”
So I did.
He called me.
Every morning at ten o’clock classes ceased and there was a Chapel service. In typical Baptist fashion attendance was not required but it was clearly stated in the Student Handbook, Section III Article A that you …“would rot and burn in the hottest parts hell if you didn’t go.”
So we went and did homework or took naps. The religious people at Seminary seemed to enjoy it. The rest of us just tried to catch up.
Then one day Guy couldn’t take it anymore and announced that the Angel Gabriel had shown up at his and Anita’s place the previous night. Guy’s a terrific cook so none of had any doubt whatsoever that this could have happened. We doubted many things in Seminary … especially the Baptist exclusion of gays as there were so many there. But we doubted Guy’s cooking abilities.
Evidently over after dinner coffee Guy and the Angel Gabriel were chatting and having a cigar. The Angel Gabriel looked over and spoke to Guy. “You know, that part of the Student Handbook isn’t inerrant. In fact Guy, it is fallible. You guys should skip Chapel and go get coffee.”
The next day Guy told us this and so ... it came to pass.
We would pile in Bill Stooksbury’s car and drive to the Mall where there was Conti’s Coffee shop. There were a bunch of old men having coffee and no table was available. Deciding that we had God on our side because it was the Angel Gabriel who had spoken from on high (or maybe it was that Guy was high? We never bothered to ask.) we did a hostile takeover of one of the tables.
And that is how the Coffee Conclave was born!
A conclave is a private or secret meeting. It is especially “a meeting of Roman Catholic Cardinals.” Apparently the Angel Gabriel informed Guy of this information and told him to name us this as we skipped Chapel at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.
We would gather every day over coffee and Guy and Bill Stooksbury were in charge. (A few descriptive words about Stooksbury: The guy was born a Baptist minister! Meaning he was born in a three-piece suit! He had Baptist hair, thick, wild and combed over! He would whip out his handkerchief at a moment’s notice a cry on cue! He was incredible!)
It was Guy’s meeting though!
As far as any of us knew, Stooksbury had been spoken to by (a) the Angel Gabriel; (b) an Angel; (c) God; (d) Jesus; (d) the Holy Spirit; (e) the God of any other major religion; (f) the God of any minor religion … you get my point. Stooksbury was a born Minister!
And Guy would make us talk about religion over coffee which is far preferable to listening to mostly old white men talk about God in Chapel.
Though in honesty what I mostly remember is how much we laughed … and grew to love one another ... and challenged one another to step out from under the rock (get it? Jesus said to St. Peter “Upon this rock I will build my church.” Who knew the rock could land on top of so many people squishing the life out them?).
It was an intense and wonderful time. I think we learned far more from each other than we ever did in Seminary.
Today I intended to write about how the Breakfast Club celebrated April Fool’s Day (have you ever poured Mountain Dew in a bucket, thrown toilet paper on top, placed the containers in the restrooms and put “Out of Order” signs on the bathroom doors? Me neither … but they have!).
But then the Angel Gabriel showed up and asked me what I was going to write about? I told him. He asked for a Screwdriver. I fixed him one.
He told me to fix me one.
When an Angel tells you to do something, you do it.
“Don’t write about that,” he said showing off a really beautiful leg with a high slit in his robe. “Let me tell you what to write about.”
So I did.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Roca
It is snowing like crazy outside. The cab driver told me that they are expecting six inches today and it’s just started. The weather Gods got it wrong again as they’d reported it was starting yesterday afternoon but it held off until this morning. I’m leaving just in time.
Springfield, MASS is an interesting place. The downtown area where I stayed is nice enough. It is about eight blocks of hotels, restaurants, and shops. The interesting thing about walking around is that there was absolutely no one there. It is as though the Rapture occurred and I was left behind along with the bartenders and convenience store clerks.
I was ok with it.
So I wandered back to the Sheraton and found the hotel bar and set up the computer and went to work. I was writing up a report for an organization named Roca, which is based in Chelsea but is starting operations in Springfield.
There are 26 gangs here. They average two murders every three weeks in gang wars. Maybe the reason nobody is downtown is because of the gangs.
I’d spent the entire day in a Board room of the Sherriff’s office listening to this fascinating group of people describe how they spend their days and nights on the streets. Anisha had jet black hair, eyebrows, shirt, pants and shoes. She could almost pass for a Ninja if had she covered her mouth. She is a street worker.
Roca Street workers literally go out and work the streets finding gang members, introducing themselves and saying “Hey, I’m Anisha and I’m going to be your friend.”
The surprised gang member normally responds with a verb followed by a pronoun. The pronoun is “you”.
“Yeah anyway,” Anisha replies, “we’re gonna be friends.”
And every day for the next six to nine months Anisha shows up after tracking down the gang member wearing a bright orange shirt and Ninja everything else. Day after day after day, she shows up.
It becomes water dripping on a rock.
Finally the gang member grows to rely on her, then trust her, and then they start planning a life away from the gang. Talk about dedication!
Later I am surrounded by ten young men wearing blue shirts, blue jeans and work books. Each wears tattoos on their neck proclaiming whichever gang they were in. I shake all of their hands, look them in the eye and introduce myself.
“Hey Micheal,” they all say in response and tell me their names.
They are part of a work crew and were heading out to the Department of Public Works for a contract they had. I asked what they would be doing there.
“Car Wash,” Antonio said laughing. Everybody else laughed.
Seeing that I didn’t get it Antonio explained, “We get to wash the dump trucks.”
Then off they went happily to work. It was amazing.
What is more amazing is that Roca has a 90% success rate with these kids. Over 800 left gangs, found work and started new lives last year. I was blown away!
Molly, the woman who started this work, has been doing it for 21 years! We wandered away from a tour at one point and just talked. She was in the middle of a construction project on a new center that could accommodate 250 gang members leaving their gangs. Anisha joined us at the end and we all hugged and promised to stay in touch.
I sit here now watching the snow at the airport hoping that my plane takes off. I’m ready for home and to breath inside the things that I love. But if my plane is delayed or canceled, I’ll eventually get there.
But these guys … I think to myself. It takes people like Anisha and Molly who just make a decision that they will not spurned. They will become friends with the most unlovely people because … the most unlovely people deserve a chance too.
Springfield, MASS is an interesting place. The downtown area where I stayed is nice enough. It is about eight blocks of hotels, restaurants, and shops. The interesting thing about walking around is that there was absolutely no one there. It is as though the Rapture occurred and I was left behind along with the bartenders and convenience store clerks.
I was ok with it.
So I wandered back to the Sheraton and found the hotel bar and set up the computer and went to work. I was writing up a report for an organization named Roca, which is based in Chelsea but is starting operations in Springfield.
There are 26 gangs here. They average two murders every three weeks in gang wars. Maybe the reason nobody is downtown is because of the gangs.
I’d spent the entire day in a Board room of the Sherriff’s office listening to this fascinating group of people describe how they spend their days and nights on the streets. Anisha had jet black hair, eyebrows, shirt, pants and shoes. She could almost pass for a Ninja if had she covered her mouth. She is a street worker.
Roca Street workers literally go out and work the streets finding gang members, introducing themselves and saying “Hey, I’m Anisha and I’m going to be your friend.”
The surprised gang member normally responds with a verb followed by a pronoun. The pronoun is “you”.
“Yeah anyway,” Anisha replies, “we’re gonna be friends.”
And every day for the next six to nine months Anisha shows up after tracking down the gang member wearing a bright orange shirt and Ninja everything else. Day after day after day, she shows up.
It becomes water dripping on a rock.
Finally the gang member grows to rely on her, then trust her, and then they start planning a life away from the gang. Talk about dedication!
Later I am surrounded by ten young men wearing blue shirts, blue jeans and work books. Each wears tattoos on their neck proclaiming whichever gang they were in. I shake all of their hands, look them in the eye and introduce myself.
“Hey Micheal,” they all say in response and tell me their names.
They are part of a work crew and were heading out to the Department of Public Works for a contract they had. I asked what they would be doing there.
“Car Wash,” Antonio said laughing. Everybody else laughed.
Seeing that I didn’t get it Antonio explained, “We get to wash the dump trucks.”
Then off they went happily to work. It was amazing.
What is more amazing is that Roca has a 90% success rate with these kids. Over 800 left gangs, found work and started new lives last year. I was blown away!
Molly, the woman who started this work, has been doing it for 21 years! We wandered away from a tour at one point and just talked. She was in the middle of a construction project on a new center that could accommodate 250 gang members leaving their gangs. Anisha joined us at the end and we all hugged and promised to stay in touch.
I sit here now watching the snow at the airport hoping that my plane takes off. I’m ready for home and to breath inside the things that I love. But if my plane is delayed or canceled, I’ll eventually get there.
But these guys … I think to myself. It takes people like Anisha and Molly who just make a decision that they will not spurned. They will become friends with the most unlovely people because … the most unlovely people deserve a chance too.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Romancing the Chicken
Something strange has happened this week and I’m trying to figure out how it got started. I think that it all began with the people that I went to college with then we took several decades off from one another before reconnecting on Face Book then collecting at my house last summer. While our lives took us all in different directions each of us retained an incredibly warped sense of humor.
So Mitch, who is the most serious of us, would post some status update, typically some obscure Celtic nonsense, and the rest would kidnap it. We would go on and on making fun of Mitch, world events, major religions and obscure Celtic nonsense. We mostly kept it to ourselves.
Then these friends met my Tybee friends and it was like Cheech meeting Chong. Spontaneous Combustion! Lots more laughter! And we all took to posting on one another’s post.
Then childhood friends from Port Wentworth decided to get involved as West Siders are known to do!
Then they all gathered forces and started kidnapping my blogs this week. It started with Spam, worked through Rain and obliterated Hate. This was accomplished by introducing nudity, tube socks, establishing a contest over the number of people responding to what I wrote (137 and counting), obscure Celtic nonsense, and now … a chicken.
I got nothing against Chicken. One of my most recent most pleasurable experiences was at K.F.C. It was like being a baby in Baby Land! I loved it! I suppose you could say that I was romancing the chicken.
But I digress.
Aside from writing about Spam, everything else that I’ve written this week has been serious. It has been from the heart and soul. I’ve explored my dreams and fears and even bad experiences that I somehow got through.
My friends didn’t care!
Except for Mitch, who is the most serious of us all. He consistently responded by posting obscure Celtic nonsense.
Everybody else … decided to collectively kidnap my blogs! It’s gotten out of hand.
A blog about rain and losing power turns into the fact that I need to learn to use a cane in the dark! A blog about Hate suddenly involves “nekkid”, loaded guns, whipped cream and a tube sock.
Suddenly my friend Valerie, an award winning nationally recognized nurse, wants to meet the above friends. That frightens me. If that should happen, God knows … Floyd Adams and Pig Jones will start joining in. Jack Kingston, who once sang “The Fish Cheer” on the floor of Congress might do it on my blog! Roma might actually get on the Internet! Keller Deal will start showing again. And God Jenny Orr who already has a goat and horse that thinks it’s a dog will get a chicken.
Wait a minute! My friend Chela already has chickens!
You see what I’m saying. This could all get out of hand.
Because I’ve never been a big believer in following rules this is hard for me to say. For the sake of keeping us from all being thrown off of Face Book, I think that we need to stay on topic when I blog.
There.
I’ve said it.
Everybody enjoy today and my blog.
Thank you.
So Mitch, who is the most serious of us, would post some status update, typically some obscure Celtic nonsense, and the rest would kidnap it. We would go on and on making fun of Mitch, world events, major religions and obscure Celtic nonsense. We mostly kept it to ourselves.
Then these friends met my Tybee friends and it was like Cheech meeting Chong. Spontaneous Combustion! Lots more laughter! And we all took to posting on one another’s post.
Then childhood friends from Port Wentworth decided to get involved as West Siders are known to do!
Then they all gathered forces and started kidnapping my blogs this week. It started with Spam, worked through Rain and obliterated Hate. This was accomplished by introducing nudity, tube socks, establishing a contest over the number of people responding to what I wrote (137 and counting), obscure Celtic nonsense, and now … a chicken.
I got nothing against Chicken. One of my most recent most pleasurable experiences was at K.F.C. It was like being a baby in Baby Land! I loved it! I suppose you could say that I was romancing the chicken.
But I digress.
Aside from writing about Spam, everything else that I’ve written this week has been serious. It has been from the heart and soul. I’ve explored my dreams and fears and even bad experiences that I somehow got through.
My friends didn’t care!
Except for Mitch, who is the most serious of us all. He consistently responded by posting obscure Celtic nonsense.
Everybody else … decided to collectively kidnap my blogs! It’s gotten out of hand.
A blog about rain and losing power turns into the fact that I need to learn to use a cane in the dark! A blog about Hate suddenly involves “nekkid”, loaded guns, whipped cream and a tube sock.
Suddenly my friend Valerie, an award winning nationally recognized nurse, wants to meet the above friends. That frightens me. If that should happen, God knows … Floyd Adams and Pig Jones will start joining in. Jack Kingston, who once sang “The Fish Cheer” on the floor of Congress might do it on my blog! Roma might actually get on the Internet! Keller Deal will start showing again. And God Jenny Orr who already has a goat and horse that thinks it’s a dog will get a chicken.
Wait a minute! My friend Chela already has chickens!
You see what I’m saying. This could all get out of hand.
Because I’ve never been a big believer in following rules this is hard for me to say. For the sake of keeping us from all being thrown off of Face Book, I think that we need to stay on topic when I blog.
There.
I’ve said it.
Everybody enjoy today and my blog.
Thank you.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Hate
I’ve seen the faces of people who hate me.
It is an incredible breakthrough of understanding when you’re sitting there doing the best you know how to do and … you see these cold eyes staring back at you … a death stare … just … hate.
One time I was giving a speech at Memorial Hospital and then Mayor (and a dear friend) Floyd Adams was sitting next to me. It was during the question-and-answer period and he was moderating when this woman got up and started saying all kinds of hateful things about I’d been doing at Union Mission and about me personally.
She went on and on in a very loud and agitated way.
Floyd leaned over and whispered in my ear while she was screaming, “If you do anything that’s important … people hate you for it. Just grow thick skin.”
I remember nodding my head up and down staring at this woman who just kept giving me the cold eyed vision of … death?
If looks could kill, as the saying goes, I’d be long gone.
What’s funny is that Floyd saw it too and in the middle of it leaned over and whispered … encouragement.
Whenever Floyd and I see one another, which is rare these days, we have this special bond. We embrace regardless of where or in front of who!
Last time was in “Larry’s Restaurant” where he was holding court and I was meeting with two former Union Mission Board members. When I walked in, Floyd and I locked eyes and he stood up as I walked directly to him shaking some hands on the way, and we just hugged.
Hate makes you appreciate … love.
In my last years at Union Mission hate intensified in my life. This coalition of people who hated me came together (Hi Mark! Hi Frank!) and I learned that at the individual level hate is manageable. When it has followers … it’s hard to stop.
And I wasn’t able to stop it. It grew. It infiltrated where I worked. It converted people whom I trusted. It gained steam. Those who are easily manipulated were easily manipulated (you’d be surprised how many are government employees!).
And they blew me away!
And they were self-righteous in doing so.
They were smug and felt vindicated in the end.
And … they won.
Well …they won the battle.
So I need to pull out some of the things that I paid good money to learn in Seminary. In Hebrew there is no real sense of time. Moses wandering in the desert for forty years means … he couldn’t figure out what he was doing for a long, long time. But then he did!
And when Jesus went into a borrowed tomb after being nailed to a cross by people who loved him one day and hated him with all that they were the next, he lay there for three days … or three years … or thirty years … or ninety.
Mark, the first Gospel was written about ninety years after Jesus was laid to rest. But either three days later or ninety years later, Jesus came back and overcame the hate.
I know … there are those who will hate me for saying that. And they will. It’s ok. The point is that the love that Jesus embodied proved more powerful than the hate that threw his dead body in a borrowed tomb.
So, I’ve seen hate directed at me. It did bad things to my life. It cost me … many things.
A year ago at this time, when even those who had always said that they loved me the most left and I wallowed around in darkness …
Well …
I’m still here.
And there are those still who hate me … those who are still enjoying the spoils of the battle that they won … some still at Union Mission … and then the most arrogant of them all who believe that they’ve won everything.
But Moses ended up getting it right.
The love of Jesus trumped the hated of the many.
Oh yeah … before I finish … thank you Floyd. I love you a lot.
Now, where was I?
Oh yeah …
It’s time to play!
It is an incredible breakthrough of understanding when you’re sitting there doing the best you know how to do and … you see these cold eyes staring back at you … a death stare … just … hate.
One time I was giving a speech at Memorial Hospital and then Mayor (and a dear friend) Floyd Adams was sitting next to me. It was during the question-and-answer period and he was moderating when this woman got up and started saying all kinds of hateful things about I’d been doing at Union Mission and about me personally.
She went on and on in a very loud and agitated way.
Floyd leaned over and whispered in my ear while she was screaming, “If you do anything that’s important … people hate you for it. Just grow thick skin.”
I remember nodding my head up and down staring at this woman who just kept giving me the cold eyed vision of … death?
If looks could kill, as the saying goes, I’d be long gone.
What’s funny is that Floyd saw it too and in the middle of it leaned over and whispered … encouragement.
Whenever Floyd and I see one another, which is rare these days, we have this special bond. We embrace regardless of where or in front of who!
Last time was in “Larry’s Restaurant” where he was holding court and I was meeting with two former Union Mission Board members. When I walked in, Floyd and I locked eyes and he stood up as I walked directly to him shaking some hands on the way, and we just hugged.
Hate makes you appreciate … love.
In my last years at Union Mission hate intensified in my life. This coalition of people who hated me came together (Hi Mark! Hi Frank!) and I learned that at the individual level hate is manageable. When it has followers … it’s hard to stop.
And I wasn’t able to stop it. It grew. It infiltrated where I worked. It converted people whom I trusted. It gained steam. Those who are easily manipulated were easily manipulated (you’d be surprised how many are government employees!).
And they blew me away!
And they were self-righteous in doing so.
They were smug and felt vindicated in the end.
And … they won.
Well …they won the battle.
So I need to pull out some of the things that I paid good money to learn in Seminary. In Hebrew there is no real sense of time. Moses wandering in the desert for forty years means … he couldn’t figure out what he was doing for a long, long time. But then he did!
And when Jesus went into a borrowed tomb after being nailed to a cross by people who loved him one day and hated him with all that they were the next, he lay there for three days … or three years … or thirty years … or ninety.
Mark, the first Gospel was written about ninety years after Jesus was laid to rest. But either three days later or ninety years later, Jesus came back and overcame the hate.
I know … there are those who will hate me for saying that. And they will. It’s ok. The point is that the love that Jesus embodied proved more powerful than the hate that threw his dead body in a borrowed tomb.
So, I’ve seen hate directed at me. It did bad things to my life. It cost me … many things.
A year ago at this time, when even those who had always said that they loved me the most left and I wallowed around in darkness …
Well …
I’m still here.
And there are those still who hate me … those who are still enjoying the spoils of the battle that they won … some still at Union Mission … and then the most arrogant of them all who believe that they’ve won everything.
But Moses ended up getting it right.
The love of Jesus trumped the hated of the many.
Oh yeah … before I finish … thank you Floyd. I love you a lot.
Now, where was I?
Oh yeah …
It’s time to play!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Rain
Yesterday morning I was sitting on the beloved back deck working on my tan. It was beautiful, warm and sunny. Then it was noon, time for the Bored meeting which was sunshine with an ocean breeze as girls in bikinis made their way up and down the sidewalk. It was shaping up to be a glorious day!
Then I took Goddess for a walk and we made it to the marsh and the Lighthouse and watched these purple clouds rolling in from the west. Moisture hit my face and I grabbed the leash and we raced back to the house barley making it before the hail came. Hail?
“What the hell?” but there is was pelting the beloved back deck, filling up Goddess’ water bowl and knocking the petals off of the flowers. In about a minute the entire deck was covered with white balls of ice.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon the temperature dropped. I didn’t like this one bit! Surely the world is coming to an end! I started getting worried about the people that I love and grew contemplative and suspicious. Sitting at the kitchen table I turned on the computer and finally hooked up with my friend whom I love and we talked until late in the night. The first part of the conversation was slow and guarded but then we busted through those things as friends who love each other do. Then we shared and I found myself excited about tomorrow and the future. So I rubbed Goddess’ belly and fell into bed.
The windows have been open for days and though it was cool inside it was that good snuggle weather under the covers kind of night. I like sleeping when it’s like this and was immediately having wonderful dreams of girls with Mona Lisa smiles and laughter that is contagious.
The next thing that I knew … all of hell was breaking loose! Somebody was pouring the ocean over the top of my house. I bolted into a sitting position and looked out of the seven windows that I can see from the bed and the house was obviously under a waterfall somewhere.
I prayed a simple prayer.
“Jesus Christ!” I said out loud.
It was pitch black! The alarm clock that projects on the ceiling had been taken out by an act of God … or Georgia Power. Either way it was gone; as were the other things that project something into the darkness to give just enough light so that I know where I am. I couldn’t hear myself think, much less if Jesus Christ would have heard me when I called out his name.
So I got up to shut the windows and immediately tripped over Goddess who was half under the bed and half out.
Then I yelled out a noun followed by a verb followed by a pronoun (though the verb and the pronoun are normally written as one word or sometimes it is a noun/verb combination followed by a pronoun).
Then I had to pee in the dark. Darker than dark actually! My friend Angela keeps referring to this Sabbatical as me spending time in a cave. I found the cave last night. It is my bathroom! So I felt around until I found the toilet and then had to make one of the most important decisions of life in the dark … sit down or stand up?
Of course I tripped over Goddess again on the way back to the bed. She obviously has no trouble seeing in the dark and was flat on her back with her paws up in the air wanting a belly rub. Now I am a lover of certain bellies and Goddess’ has one of those … though underneath a waterfall, in pitch black darkness, with a Monsoon going on outside is not the best of places to give one.
So I tripped over Goddess and literally fell back into bed. Sitting up observing the Apocalypse that was obviously taking place, I started to laugh. Then Goddess decided that she was over belly rubs and had moved on to butt rubs. She slammed her body into the side of the bed! Again and again and again! She was not going to be denied. Even in pitch dark, monsoon waterfalls outside of the windows and thunder and lightning decided to show up as if on cue.
So I fell back into the bed with my arm sticking out in the dark rubbing Goddess’ butt. I found myself smiling a Mona Lisa smile. I love this house. I love this island. I love my friends who have taken care of me through dark places. I love … for the first time in years … I mostly love!
Then Goddess turned around and licked my hand in the dark. And I fell asleep again, dreaming good dreams about things to come.
Then I took Goddess for a walk and we made it to the marsh and the Lighthouse and watched these purple clouds rolling in from the west. Moisture hit my face and I grabbed the leash and we raced back to the house barley making it before the hail came. Hail?
“What the hell?” but there is was pelting the beloved back deck, filling up Goddess’ water bowl and knocking the petals off of the flowers. In about a minute the entire deck was covered with white balls of ice.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon the temperature dropped. I didn’t like this one bit! Surely the world is coming to an end! I started getting worried about the people that I love and grew contemplative and suspicious. Sitting at the kitchen table I turned on the computer and finally hooked up with my friend whom I love and we talked until late in the night. The first part of the conversation was slow and guarded but then we busted through those things as friends who love each other do. Then we shared and I found myself excited about tomorrow and the future. So I rubbed Goddess’ belly and fell into bed.
The windows have been open for days and though it was cool inside it was that good snuggle weather under the covers kind of night. I like sleeping when it’s like this and was immediately having wonderful dreams of girls with Mona Lisa smiles and laughter that is contagious.
The next thing that I knew … all of hell was breaking loose! Somebody was pouring the ocean over the top of my house. I bolted into a sitting position and looked out of the seven windows that I can see from the bed and the house was obviously under a waterfall somewhere.
I prayed a simple prayer.
“Jesus Christ!” I said out loud.
It was pitch black! The alarm clock that projects on the ceiling had been taken out by an act of God … or Georgia Power. Either way it was gone; as were the other things that project something into the darkness to give just enough light so that I know where I am. I couldn’t hear myself think, much less if Jesus Christ would have heard me when I called out his name.
So I got up to shut the windows and immediately tripped over Goddess who was half under the bed and half out.
Then I yelled out a noun followed by a verb followed by a pronoun (though the verb and the pronoun are normally written as one word or sometimes it is a noun/verb combination followed by a pronoun).
Then I had to pee in the dark. Darker than dark actually! My friend Angela keeps referring to this Sabbatical as me spending time in a cave. I found the cave last night. It is my bathroom! So I felt around until I found the toilet and then had to make one of the most important decisions of life in the dark … sit down or stand up?
Of course I tripped over Goddess again on the way back to the bed. She obviously has no trouble seeing in the dark and was flat on her back with her paws up in the air wanting a belly rub. Now I am a lover of certain bellies and Goddess’ has one of those … though underneath a waterfall, in pitch black darkness, with a Monsoon going on outside is not the best of places to give one.
So I tripped over Goddess and literally fell back into bed. Sitting up observing the Apocalypse that was obviously taking place, I started to laugh. Then Goddess decided that she was over belly rubs and had moved on to butt rubs. She slammed her body into the side of the bed! Again and again and again! She was not going to be denied. Even in pitch dark, monsoon waterfalls outside of the windows and thunder and lightning decided to show up as if on cue.
So I fell back into the bed with my arm sticking out in the dark rubbing Goddess’ butt. I found myself smiling a Mona Lisa smile. I love this house. I love this island. I love my friends who have taken care of me through dark places. I love … for the first time in years … I mostly love!
Then Goddess turned around and licked my hand in the dark. And I fell asleep again, dreaming good dreams about things to come.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Spam
Well, you may wonder how I write these things every day. I do too. Often I am inspired by the beauty of life here on Tybee Island, things that I’ve done with my friends, things that I’ve been fortunate enough to do, travels, where I live, and my wonderful dog Goddess. Sometimes God tells me what I should write and it’s important to do what God tells you to do. Stimulation sometimes comes to me in the middle of the night, crawling into bed with me and filling my senses. So I write from the heart and a lot of people seem to like it. So I keep searching for the inspiration to write which comes from everywhere. Then there is Dedra. “What should I blog about today?” I asked her last time that she was here. “Grapefruit,” she immediately replied. “What?” She repeated herself and I closed my eyes and Jimmy Buffett’s song “Grapefruit Juicy Fruit” popped into my head. We’d been out listening to Sam and Gordo play damn good live music the night before so I wrote about that and a hangover cure. So I should have known better than to ask her a second time. But I did. “Spam,” she said. “WHAT?” “Spam,” she repeated. So, I first remembered the last time that I ate Spam which was multiple decades ago. I think that we fried it. Then I did a You -Tube search for Monty Python’s original “Spam” skit and laughed as much this time as I did the first time that I saw it in college all of those years ago. I made Dedra watch it too which got us looking at their videos of “Philosophical Football” and “The Philosopher’s Song.” So we’ve spent the morning on the Beloved Back deck laughing our ass’s off. Finally I did a Google search for the lyrics to the “Spam” Song. Lovely Spam, wonderful Spam Lovely Spam, wonderful Spam Spa-a-a-a-a-m-m-m Spa-a-a-a-a-m-m-m SPA-A-A-A-M-M-M SPA-A-A-A-M-M-M LOVELY SPAM, LOVELY SPAM! As you can see, a lot of research goes into these daily musings. After gathering all of the background information necessary to produce a thoughtful and inspirational musing that hopefully is meaningful to others, I write. Sometimes I need the help of others and can always count on Mitch for obscure Celtic nonsense; Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one that I went to Seminary with) or I just flat out steal something that Guy Sayles wrote (which begs a question … in business it’s called gaining competitive advantage but in school it’s called plagiarism!) Well, I’m done. It’s time for breakfast. Spam, eggs, bacon, spam and spam. Dedra’s having two helpings. Damn Her!
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Duct Tape
They’ve put duct tape over my name at Union Mission.
Pretty funny, huh?
I suppose it is akin to trying to blot my name out of the “Book of Life” and there is no doubt that there are those, including a former Board chair who chooses to remain anonymous, who would like nothing more than that!
But, seriously … Duct tape?
There is a sign in my old parking space. It was a gift of love of the Health Services staff and it had my name on it, proclaiming my parking space and that it was a gift of one of the staffs. It’s all still there except there is the Duct tape over my name.
It cracks me up!
I hope that whoever did it used their own Duct tape and NOT the stuff that Charles uses to patch his pants. For more than a decade I was the principal care taker of the six-foot-four, mentally ill, African-American former bank robber and I still love him still as much as I’ve loved anybody. Though Joy and I controlled his money he somehow had a never ending supply of Duct tape that he used to patch his pants, put Christmas decorations on trash cans, and leave notes for me on my door.
Then again, Union Mission is a much different place than when I was there. I would go nuts if I saw signs taped to anything! It’s just not professional. Even if it was the clear tape that grows yellow over time. You’d never see that stuff in bank. Well … maybe the one that the former Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ran for eighteen months.
Though I must confess I’ve grown to appreciate Duct tape. It first happened in St. Martin. I forgot why but Conner and I were in serious need of the magic stuff. I think that we did a hostile takeover of the fitness center and needed to shut Nathalie up so we needed to Duct tape her mouth. Nathalie works at the fitness center even when she is hung over (see you in a couple of weeks!). I remember wine and cheese and a Norwegian being involved.
Now we’re in the Caribbean and Duct tape is hard to come by. Then Lynn O’Quinn says “I got Duct tape.” Then she goes through the forty seven storage bins that she had, one of which was filled with Duct tape and hands Conner and I roll still wrapped in the plastic stuff that it comes in.
We tell her thanks and then start to search for a knife.
“I got a knife,” she says as she opens another storage bin and pulls out a knife like the Jason used in those movies. “This is the one that I was planning to use on my husband but you can borrow it for a second.”
Conner and I both kind of just stood there … neither one of us wanting to get that close to Lynn who was holding a knife.
But we kept the Duct tape.
Now I make absolutely certain that I have Duct nearby at all times.
If you come to my house you will see my refrigerator which is covered with “Jesus” magnets holding up pictures of people whom I love, one wearing yellow boots for some reason.
Anyway there is one of Jenny Orr and me with Roma in the middle. Roma’s mouth is Duct taped shut. Jenny and I are smiling. It’s the only time that I ever remember that Jenny and I talked without Roma saying something.
So I’m done with this blog.
It’s kind of held together by Duct tape anyway.
My fingers are sticky.
Pretty funny, huh?
I suppose it is akin to trying to blot my name out of the “Book of Life” and there is no doubt that there are those, including a former Board chair who chooses to remain anonymous, who would like nothing more than that!
But, seriously … Duct tape?
There is a sign in my old parking space. It was a gift of love of the Health Services staff and it had my name on it, proclaiming my parking space and that it was a gift of one of the staffs. It’s all still there except there is the Duct tape over my name.
It cracks me up!
I hope that whoever did it used their own Duct tape and NOT the stuff that Charles uses to patch his pants. For more than a decade I was the principal care taker of the six-foot-four, mentally ill, African-American former bank robber and I still love him still as much as I’ve loved anybody. Though Joy and I controlled his money he somehow had a never ending supply of Duct tape that he used to patch his pants, put Christmas decorations on trash cans, and leave notes for me on my door.
Then again, Union Mission is a much different place than when I was there. I would go nuts if I saw signs taped to anything! It’s just not professional. Even if it was the clear tape that grows yellow over time. You’d never see that stuff in bank. Well … maybe the one that the former Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ran for eighteen months.
Though I must confess I’ve grown to appreciate Duct tape. It first happened in St. Martin. I forgot why but Conner and I were in serious need of the magic stuff. I think that we did a hostile takeover of the fitness center and needed to shut Nathalie up so we needed to Duct tape her mouth. Nathalie works at the fitness center even when she is hung over (see you in a couple of weeks!). I remember wine and cheese and a Norwegian being involved.
Now we’re in the Caribbean and Duct tape is hard to come by. Then Lynn O’Quinn says “I got Duct tape.” Then she goes through the forty seven storage bins that she had, one of which was filled with Duct tape and hands Conner and I roll still wrapped in the plastic stuff that it comes in.
We tell her thanks and then start to search for a knife.
“I got a knife,” she says as she opens another storage bin and pulls out a knife like the Jason used in those movies. “This is the one that I was planning to use on my husband but you can borrow it for a second.”
Conner and I both kind of just stood there … neither one of us wanting to get that close to Lynn who was holding a knife.
But we kept the Duct tape.
Now I make absolutely certain that I have Duct nearby at all times.
If you come to my house you will see my refrigerator which is covered with “Jesus” magnets holding up pictures of people whom I love, one wearing yellow boots for some reason.
Anyway there is one of Jenny Orr and me with Roma in the middle. Roma’s mouth is Duct taped shut. Jenny and I are smiling. It’s the only time that I ever remember that Jenny and I talked without Roma saying something.
So I’m done with this blog.
It’s kind of held together by Duct tape anyway.
My fingers are sticky.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Lent
“I gave up candy for Lent,” Franklin says for no apparent reason.
“I gave up men,” Patti responds sitting on the other side of the counter.
“Patti’s a lesbian!” Franklin yells.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says in exasperation.
“I gave up giving up,” Nance says staring off into space.
“How else is Franklin supposed to take you’re giving up men?” Val asks Patti.
She shrugs her shoulders.
They all stop and look at me.
“I gave up religion,” I say.
“Oh Great” Franklin exclaims as he gets up from the stool beside the one that I’m sitting on.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before I asked for all of this advice?”
“Why God Why? …Why does nothing here make sense! … Why God why? … Show your hand?” are the very legitimate questions asked in the musical Miss. Saigon.
Well, I know the answer to why nothing here makes sense.
I’m at the Breakfast Club.
The “Why God Why?” question is a bit more difficult to answer.
I suppose that is why the Catholics invented Lent … so that we can position ourselves to ourselves for God’s answers which apparently come every Easter. So for forty days or thereabouts, we get ready … because we know God’s answers are the biggest answers! They’re the ones we want the most!
Then Hallmark bought the rights of Lent from the Catholics and it has become this broader tradition where even non-believers participate. (Hallmark can do most anything! They’re like Google and Wall Mart!)
I gave up giving up.
Sitting here in the afterglow of the caffeine and adrenaline rush that I get every morning at the Breakfast Club I think that Nance has it most right.
God would prefer that we give up giving up.
God gave us this life. It’s the ultimate present! Too many of us give up on it! Or pieces of it! Or we settle to be less than we are capable of being. Or we give ourselves away to others and let them determine who we are. We screw up God’s ultimate gift to us.
And that is life’s biggest sin!
As you can probably tell, I’m not into Lent all that much.
I think that God wants us to celebrate this life! She would rather us dance for forty days straight! And she’s probably making St. Augustine dance throughout eternity because he’s the one who thought up most of this depravity stuff. We should give up the things … and the people … who stop us from being … us.
“It’s tearing me apart to hold you tight. Let’s dance like it’s the last night of the world.”
That’s how I think that God wants us to spend Lent!
“I gave up men,” Patti responds sitting on the other side of the counter.
“Patti’s a lesbian!” Franklin yells.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says in exasperation.
“I gave up giving up,” Nance says staring off into space.
“How else is Franklin supposed to take you’re giving up men?” Val asks Patti.
She shrugs her shoulders.
They all stop and look at me.
“I gave up religion,” I say.
“Oh Great” Franklin exclaims as he gets up from the stool beside the one that I’m sitting on.
“Why didn’t you tell me that before I asked for all of this advice?”
“Why God Why? …Why does nothing here make sense! … Why God why? … Show your hand?” are the very legitimate questions asked in the musical Miss. Saigon.
Well, I know the answer to why nothing here makes sense.
I’m at the Breakfast Club.
The “Why God Why?” question is a bit more difficult to answer.
I suppose that is why the Catholics invented Lent … so that we can position ourselves to ourselves for God’s answers which apparently come every Easter. So for forty days or thereabouts, we get ready … because we know God’s answers are the biggest answers! They’re the ones we want the most!
Then Hallmark bought the rights of Lent from the Catholics and it has become this broader tradition where even non-believers participate. (Hallmark can do most anything! They’re like Google and Wall Mart!)
I gave up giving up.
Sitting here in the afterglow of the caffeine and adrenaline rush that I get every morning at the Breakfast Club I think that Nance has it most right.
God would prefer that we give up giving up.
God gave us this life. It’s the ultimate present! Too many of us give up on it! Or pieces of it! Or we settle to be less than we are capable of being. Or we give ourselves away to others and let them determine who we are. We screw up God’s ultimate gift to us.
And that is life’s biggest sin!
As you can probably tell, I’m not into Lent all that much.
I think that God wants us to celebrate this life! She would rather us dance for forty days straight! And she’s probably making St. Augustine dance throughout eternity because he’s the one who thought up most of this depravity stuff. We should give up the things … and the people … who stop us from being … us.
“It’s tearing me apart to hold you tight. Let’s dance like it’s the last night of the world.”
That’s how I think that God wants us to spend Lent!
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Open
All of the windows in my house are open and the cross breeze from the Back River marsh rushing towards the ocean blows through it. There are 15 windows in the red room that allows it in, rushing through the yellow living room then into the purple kitchen and finally through the open sliding glass doors where it becomes concentrated hitting me sitting on the beloved back deck where. I may as well be sitting in front of a giant fan blowing on me.
I love it!
This time of year and into early summer I’ll keep the windows open. The outside becomes part of the inside at my house. It is hard to differentiate one from the other. Rooms literally spill into one another mostly distinguished by colors. The kitchen spills out onto the beloved back deck so it’s like one big room.
Fran is loving this time of year as she’s decorated her thousand shades of green with purple wisteria. It is beautiful just like she was so beautiful and I have a hard time not just staring at it. Celebrating it! Knowing that it won’t last … just like she didn’t last. Just like so many others didn’t last either.
Where I live is a pretty open place. I like it that way.
When it’s all closed up for winter it’s not as nice. The warmth flees. Cold descends. Hearts break.
As I sit here looking through three large rooms out of the windows in the front of my house I’m struck by something. I try to live my life like the house I live in … open.
Lots of color!
Lots of diversity!
Fun!
A celebration!
For better or for worse, that’s what I’ve done.
It’s hard to not think about worse first. Its human nature I guess … like slowing down to look at a car wreck. These images flash through my mind like the wind rushing through my house.
Then Fran bops me on the head with her purple wisteria and the beauty of things to come take over my thoughts. The beloved back deck is filled with color and loveliness. A Palm Tree sits close to me as I write. Behind Fran’s thousand shades of decorated green are trees of every kind … Palms and Pines and things I don’t know.
They’re all budding and blooming and spring has put the cold dark nights of winter behind me. And it was “a long cold lonely winter” to quote one of the hymns of my life. I feel a part of all of this be-birthing.
There is this one tree though. It is a hold out. There are no blooms. There’re not even any buds. It is cold and naked as though winter still commanded life.
I know a lot of people like that. They stay rooted in what is behind them. They remain stuck in the past. In spite of the beauty surrounding them, they stick out like a sore thumb. They are sore thumbs!
I was in Savannah yesterday, a rare trip these days. The first person that I met with remains stuck in the past so that’s mostly what we talked about and it was … sad.
The next person that I met with had one foot in the past and another in the future. It was a crazy conversation bouncing back and forth between … then … and now. It occurred in a happy place however where I was greeted with warm hugs and kisses.
My last meeting was about the future. Smiles abounded and were shared. Souls connected and words were not always necessary. The future has a way of pulling you along like that if you’re willing to give yourself to it.
The sun takes this moment to dance through the Palm Tree sitting beside me. I pause to watch.
Life is good today.
I wonder why?
Then I know.
It’s all about tomorrow.
I love it!
This time of year and into early summer I’ll keep the windows open. The outside becomes part of the inside at my house. It is hard to differentiate one from the other. Rooms literally spill into one another mostly distinguished by colors. The kitchen spills out onto the beloved back deck so it’s like one big room.
Fran is loving this time of year as she’s decorated her thousand shades of green with purple wisteria. It is beautiful just like she was so beautiful and I have a hard time not just staring at it. Celebrating it! Knowing that it won’t last … just like she didn’t last. Just like so many others didn’t last either.
Where I live is a pretty open place. I like it that way.
When it’s all closed up for winter it’s not as nice. The warmth flees. Cold descends. Hearts break.
As I sit here looking through three large rooms out of the windows in the front of my house I’m struck by something. I try to live my life like the house I live in … open.
Lots of color!
Lots of diversity!
Fun!
A celebration!
For better or for worse, that’s what I’ve done.
It’s hard to not think about worse first. Its human nature I guess … like slowing down to look at a car wreck. These images flash through my mind like the wind rushing through my house.
Then Fran bops me on the head with her purple wisteria and the beauty of things to come take over my thoughts. The beloved back deck is filled with color and loveliness. A Palm Tree sits close to me as I write. Behind Fran’s thousand shades of decorated green are trees of every kind … Palms and Pines and things I don’t know.
They’re all budding and blooming and spring has put the cold dark nights of winter behind me. And it was “a long cold lonely winter” to quote one of the hymns of my life. I feel a part of all of this be-birthing.
There is this one tree though. It is a hold out. There are no blooms. There’re not even any buds. It is cold and naked as though winter still commanded life.
I know a lot of people like that. They stay rooted in what is behind them. They remain stuck in the past. In spite of the beauty surrounding them, they stick out like a sore thumb. They are sore thumbs!
I was in Savannah yesterday, a rare trip these days. The first person that I met with remains stuck in the past so that’s mostly what we talked about and it was … sad.
The next person that I met with had one foot in the past and another in the future. It was a crazy conversation bouncing back and forth between … then … and now. It occurred in a happy place however where I was greeted with warm hugs and kisses.
My last meeting was about the future. Smiles abounded and were shared. Souls connected and words were not always necessary. The future has a way of pulling you along like that if you’re willing to give yourself to it.
The sun takes this moment to dance through the Palm Tree sitting beside me. I pause to watch.
Life is good today.
I wonder why?
Then I know.
It’s all about tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Pausing
So the guy beside me on the plane is having a bad day. When I strolled up to Gate 76 he was asleep with his mouth wide open surrounded by the other people waiting to get on Delta fight 1176. They were all staring at him. When I say his mouth was open, it was really open. It was hard not to notice. Like a train wreck.
He is Asian, wearing no tie, has leaned his chair back with his feet up (brown untied shoes with a grey suit), his fingers are laced across his belly and his mouth is open.
Wide open!
The plane could fly inside.
And his glasses are crooked.
This isn’t the only reason that I know he’s having a bad day. When we took our seats he was on his I-phone, as was everyone else around us, and I could see what he was writing to whoever he was writing to.
“It is not a happy day,” I saw then I tried to look away because I was invading his privacy but then it was like a Soap Opera and I was hooked. I had to know more.
Then the “Flight Attendants” were telling us how to fasten a seat belt and if anybody is caught in the bathroom “dismantling, disabling or destroying a smoke detector” then all of hell is going to break loose.
When I looked back, his I-phone was put away, he’s asleep and his mouth is wide open. He has five fillings. Not the gold fillings. The other kind.
I think that he also had Spinach Salad for lunch.
Either that or he is returning from working on the Nuclear Power plants in Japan though I’m pretty sure it was Spinach Salad.
So this has got me to thinking.
I remember one time I was driving along Bay Street in Downtown Savannah. It’s a beautiful street aside from the thousands of trucks that use it every day for some inexplicable reason other than people who were elected to public office spend all day long making decisions that have inexplicable reasons!
Anyway, I’m driving down Bay and I pass this other car. It was red. And there was this girl driving it and she had long dirty blond hair. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. And tears were streaming from down her face which was twisted in agony. And I got all of this in less than ten seconds … from the time it takes to stop a car and look up and see something and then the light changes and then the world changes.
This occurred a long, long time ago. But I can still see her now just as clearly as when I was heading in one direction and she was heading in another and we both paused for a few seconds.
Whenever I drive down Bay Street these days and am stopped by one of the traffic lights she flashes through my mind. What was the agony? She left her husband or he left her? The doctor gave her the bad news? Something horrible happened to the kids? The boss abused her? Maybe it was the period from hell! I don’t know.
But there is something beautiful about simply being who you are … where you are … and not allowing anyone or anything to hold you back from … YOU!
I believe that God gave us life … to be us! It’s such a rotten shame that we spend so much time and energy trying to be what other people want us to be … husbands, wives, children, bosses, friends, clergy and those stupid people who run television.
We literally give ourselves away. We sell our souls. We try to make ourselves into what others want us to be. And we die a little every day when we do this.
So I’ve been on this journey for the past year. A Sabbatical. I paused from life though at a stop light. I’d given everything that I had to give to others and they sure as hell took it all!
And for the past year it’s been my time! For me!
And I’ve clawed myself back to me. There are people who I care about but that is different from caring about what other people think. Or want me to be! The rest of my life is God’s gift to me. And I’ve found my friends. And love has reclaimed my soul after it had been stripped, abandoned and left with no concern whatsoever by others. It was a barren place. Now after this visit to Pittsburgh I’ve suddenly got lots of stuff to do.
The Sabbatical is over.
The rest of my life has begun.
But that girl, crying in her car as we both paused for just seconds, remains a vision of pain and beauty to me all of these years later.
Unlike the guy next to me with his mouth wide open. Though I do hope his day gets better.
Like mine have!
And like I pray that yours do.
He is Asian, wearing no tie, has leaned his chair back with his feet up (brown untied shoes with a grey suit), his fingers are laced across his belly and his mouth is open.
Wide open!
The plane could fly inside.
And his glasses are crooked.
This isn’t the only reason that I know he’s having a bad day. When we took our seats he was on his I-phone, as was everyone else around us, and I could see what he was writing to whoever he was writing to.
“It is not a happy day,” I saw then I tried to look away because I was invading his privacy but then it was like a Soap Opera and I was hooked. I had to know more.
Then the “Flight Attendants” were telling us how to fasten a seat belt and if anybody is caught in the bathroom “dismantling, disabling or destroying a smoke detector” then all of hell is going to break loose.
When I looked back, his I-phone was put away, he’s asleep and his mouth is wide open. He has five fillings. Not the gold fillings. The other kind.
I think that he also had Spinach Salad for lunch.
Either that or he is returning from working on the Nuclear Power plants in Japan though I’m pretty sure it was Spinach Salad.
So this has got me to thinking.
I remember one time I was driving along Bay Street in Downtown Savannah. It’s a beautiful street aside from the thousands of trucks that use it every day for some inexplicable reason other than people who were elected to public office spend all day long making decisions that have inexplicable reasons!
Anyway, I’m driving down Bay and I pass this other car. It was red. And there was this girl driving it and she had long dirty blond hair. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. And tears were streaming from down her face which was twisted in agony. And I got all of this in less than ten seconds … from the time it takes to stop a car and look up and see something and then the light changes and then the world changes.
This occurred a long, long time ago. But I can still see her now just as clearly as when I was heading in one direction and she was heading in another and we both paused for a few seconds.
Whenever I drive down Bay Street these days and am stopped by one of the traffic lights she flashes through my mind. What was the agony? She left her husband or he left her? The doctor gave her the bad news? Something horrible happened to the kids? The boss abused her? Maybe it was the period from hell! I don’t know.
But there is something beautiful about simply being who you are … where you are … and not allowing anyone or anything to hold you back from … YOU!
I believe that God gave us life … to be us! It’s such a rotten shame that we spend so much time and energy trying to be what other people want us to be … husbands, wives, children, bosses, friends, clergy and those stupid people who run television.
We literally give ourselves away. We sell our souls. We try to make ourselves into what others want us to be. And we die a little every day when we do this.
So I’ve been on this journey for the past year. A Sabbatical. I paused from life though at a stop light. I’d given everything that I had to give to others and they sure as hell took it all!
And for the past year it’s been my time! For me!
And I’ve clawed myself back to me. There are people who I care about but that is different from caring about what other people think. Or want me to be! The rest of my life is God’s gift to me. And I’ve found my friends. And love has reclaimed my soul after it had been stripped, abandoned and left with no concern whatsoever by others. It was a barren place. Now after this visit to Pittsburgh I’ve suddenly got lots of stuff to do.
The Sabbatical is over.
The rest of my life has begun.
But that girl, crying in her car as we both paused for just seconds, remains a vision of pain and beauty to me all of these years later.
Unlike the guy next to me with his mouth wide open. Though I do hope his day gets better.
Like mine have!
And like I pray that yours do.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
No Socks, Nice Legs and the Underwear-less Congregation
I forgot my socks.
Wouldn’t you know it? I know a power meeting with a hospital President and her Chief Operations Officer and I won’t have socks on. I just forgot to pack them.
It doesn’t bother me as Southern boy to wear a coat, dress slacks and loafers with no socks. Everyone that my Dad ever hung around dressed this way. It is a southern thing and back home no one would give this any thought whatsoever.
Sitting in the coffee bar of the Pittsburgh Airport Hyatt I can’t help but notice that everyone else here is wearing socks. Like me they’re dressed for meetings with coats and slacks and stuff except their ensemble is complete and mine is … tanned.
My feet and ankles are sporting a rather nice golden brown and look healthy! I take care of them and rubbed Queen Helene on them last night. They are moisturized. And I’m sporting them proudly by sitting at a high top table with my feet on the legs of a bar stool so that my pants are riding high so that I’m showing off my legs.
Speaking of which, when I did Bar Church the other day as soon as I was introduced by Samuel Adams somebody in the congregation yelled out “Nice legs Preacher!”
I’d never had this happen before preaching a sermon before. Of course it was the first sermon that I’ve ever delivered wearing running shorts (check it out on the Tybee Church Face Book page to see for yourself!). That’s the great thing about Bar Church … it’s laid back and comfortable.
Once I went to a worship service on a nude beach. It was interesting though I don’t remember anything that the woman delivering the sermon said. She looked good though.
And when it came time to pass the peace I recall that it took a really long time! No body seemed to be in a hurry.
I remember my Dad telling me once that whenever I spoke in front of a crowd to just imagine everyone in the audience sitting out there in their underwear. Now that I’ve actually been a part of an underwear-less congregation I have surpassed his expectations.
Wait!
There’s somebody else here wearing no socks!
Damn he’s got some white feet!
Alright! It’s time to get my game face on and be prepared to stick my feet where the sun don’t shine if need be.
I got the feet for it!
Wouldn’t you know it? I know a power meeting with a hospital President and her Chief Operations Officer and I won’t have socks on. I just forgot to pack them.
It doesn’t bother me as Southern boy to wear a coat, dress slacks and loafers with no socks. Everyone that my Dad ever hung around dressed this way. It is a southern thing and back home no one would give this any thought whatsoever.
Sitting in the coffee bar of the Pittsburgh Airport Hyatt I can’t help but notice that everyone else here is wearing socks. Like me they’re dressed for meetings with coats and slacks and stuff except their ensemble is complete and mine is … tanned.
My feet and ankles are sporting a rather nice golden brown and look healthy! I take care of them and rubbed Queen Helene on them last night. They are moisturized. And I’m sporting them proudly by sitting at a high top table with my feet on the legs of a bar stool so that my pants are riding high so that I’m showing off my legs.
Speaking of which, when I did Bar Church the other day as soon as I was introduced by Samuel Adams somebody in the congregation yelled out “Nice legs Preacher!”
I’d never had this happen before preaching a sermon before. Of course it was the first sermon that I’ve ever delivered wearing running shorts (check it out on the Tybee Church Face Book page to see for yourself!). That’s the great thing about Bar Church … it’s laid back and comfortable.
Once I went to a worship service on a nude beach. It was interesting though I don’t remember anything that the woman delivering the sermon said. She looked good though.
And when it came time to pass the peace I recall that it took a really long time! No body seemed to be in a hurry.
I remember my Dad telling me once that whenever I spoke in front of a crowd to just imagine everyone in the audience sitting out there in their underwear. Now that I’ve actually been a part of an underwear-less congregation I have surpassed his expectations.
Wait!
There’s somebody else here wearing no socks!
Damn he’s got some white feet!
Alright! It’s time to get my game face on and be prepared to stick my feet where the sun don’t shine if need be.
I got the feet for it!
Monday, March 21, 2011
Giving Thanks
After giving Savannah passionate kisses, I’m back at the airport.
Waiting …
Watching …
It is a different type of contemplation than I have on the beloved back deck. Everyone seems anxious.
I’m off to Pittsburgh for meetings tonight and tomorrow with the goal of launching the International Street Medicine Institute. The Board of Directors, of which I’m one, is meeting with the President of the Pittsburgh Mercy Health System. The last time that I was in Pittsburgh it was during the NFL playoffs and the Steelers were cruising towards the Super Bowl though they crashed and burned once they got there.
I know all about crash and burn. A year ago at this time I’d already passed burn out and when I found myself “suddenly single” I crash and burned in the worst sort of way.
But yesterday I had the opportunity to say “Thank you” to a collection of people who got me through that rotten part of my life. While several weren’t present at Bar Church, many were. So I told the story of my crashing and burning and then I moved to the incredible friends who rearranged their lives to take care of me when I wasn’t capable of taking care of much anything.
I don’t take much for granted anymore though certainly there were times when I did. Once you survive crashing and burning it leaves you changed. I’m told that I’m softer than I used to be ... humbler … slower …delighting in little things. Celebrating my friends!
I’ve learned a lot about friendship through all of this. After leaving a career that I’d given everything and then being left by someone I’d given everything to, yesterday I thanked my friends publicly. These are the one who refused to take “No” for an answer. They showed up, broke in, cooked when I wouldn’t eat, drug me out when I refused to go, made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.
They are incredible people and they brought me back to life when I was long gone and buried in this tomb of loneliness.
I know a lot of people. Many of them consider themselves my friends. And I like most. But the ones who refuse to take no for an answer … well … they’re special.
So I’m raising a glass at the airport to some special people. Johnny O and Judy, Whitley of all people, Trolley Joe, Jenny Orr, my extended family at the Breakfast Club, Shirley, Stacy, Sarah, Dave and Sandy and this wonderful dog … Goddess.
Conner and Hania. (woo boy …Conner … I really do hope we get to stand before the Judgment throne together! If we don’t crack God up then we’ll be laughing all the way to Hell!)
Then there are these other friends who rose from the dead to be with me. Dedra, Mitch, Mark, Gyni, Linda and most of all … Fran.
And I’m blessed with children who turned into friends.
And a mother who won’t quit!
Now it’s time to fly.
And I’m looking forward to whatever is going to happen in Pittsburgh but I’m looking forward more to coming home.
To my friends …
Whom I love …
Waiting …
Watching …
It is a different type of contemplation than I have on the beloved back deck. Everyone seems anxious.
I’m off to Pittsburgh for meetings tonight and tomorrow with the goal of launching the International Street Medicine Institute. The Board of Directors, of which I’m one, is meeting with the President of the Pittsburgh Mercy Health System. The last time that I was in Pittsburgh it was during the NFL playoffs and the Steelers were cruising towards the Super Bowl though they crashed and burned once they got there.
I know all about crash and burn. A year ago at this time I’d already passed burn out and when I found myself “suddenly single” I crash and burned in the worst sort of way.
But yesterday I had the opportunity to say “Thank you” to a collection of people who got me through that rotten part of my life. While several weren’t present at Bar Church, many were. So I told the story of my crashing and burning and then I moved to the incredible friends who rearranged their lives to take care of me when I wasn’t capable of taking care of much anything.
I don’t take much for granted anymore though certainly there were times when I did. Once you survive crashing and burning it leaves you changed. I’m told that I’m softer than I used to be ... humbler … slower …delighting in little things. Celebrating my friends!
I’ve learned a lot about friendship through all of this. After leaving a career that I’d given everything and then being left by someone I’d given everything to, yesterday I thanked my friends publicly. These are the one who refused to take “No” for an answer. They showed up, broke in, cooked when I wouldn’t eat, drug me out when I refused to go, made me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.
They are incredible people and they brought me back to life when I was long gone and buried in this tomb of loneliness.
I know a lot of people. Many of them consider themselves my friends. And I like most. But the ones who refuse to take no for an answer … well … they’re special.
So I’m raising a glass at the airport to some special people. Johnny O and Judy, Whitley of all people, Trolley Joe, Jenny Orr, my extended family at the Breakfast Club, Shirley, Stacy, Sarah, Dave and Sandy and this wonderful dog … Goddess.
Conner and Hania. (woo boy …Conner … I really do hope we get to stand before the Judgment throne together! If we don’t crack God up then we’ll be laughing all the way to Hell!)
Then there are these other friends who rose from the dead to be with me. Dedra, Mitch, Mark, Gyni, Linda and most of all … Fran.
And I’m blessed with children who turned into friends.
And a mother who won’t quit!
Now it’s time to fly.
And I’m looking forward to whatever is going to happen in Pittsburgh but I’m looking forward more to coming home.
To my friends …
Whom I love …
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Counting Sheep
“It’s Tybee Church,” Johnny O said for no apparent reason.
I looked at him as I took a sip of coffee. I’m never certain where these conversations are going to go. Once he called me just to tell me that he had soiled his pants in the parking lot of Chu’s convenient store. You get my point. Conversations with Johnny O are like roller coaster rides.
“You call it Bar Church,” he continued. “It’s Tybee Church.”
“Whatever,” I replied. “It’s church. It’s in a bar. It’s Bar Church.”
“It’s Tybee Church,’ he scolded.
I thought “Really? I’m being scolded by Johnny O?” The world is surely coming to an end. The moon’s closer to the earth than it’s been in 19 years. That was the last time the world was coming to an end.
“If you have 86 people there,” he continued, “you’ll beat my record by one.”
I thought back to my days as a professional Christian in Louisville at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. I was always in hot water with the Baptists (which is another way of saying they are convinced that I’m going to hell on the express train) and the only reason that I never got fired was because my numbers were through the roof (or heaven bound as I told them). The entire time that I was at Jeff Street more people kept coming! It was a wild collection of little old ladies, homeless people, hookers, kids from the projects and radical Seminarians.
It was orgasmic!
Anyway I would stroll into the pulpit while Shannon Freeman played the dance music from “A Charlie Brown Christmas” and sit in the throne type chair that Southern Baptist ministers prefer. I would make certain that my socks were pulled up and wondered if I should shave my legs? Then knowing that I would be trouble for something that week, I would count the number of people who were there that day so that I could complete the form that the Baptist required me to complete each week.
How many came to Sunday School? How many came to Church? How many got saved? How many got Baptized? Did anybody dance? Did another Baptist see you in the liquor store?
You know stuff Baptists care about!
One morning I walked into the sanctuary to the throne seat and somebody had put a cartoon in it. Underneath drawings of sheep were the words “Jesus called us to count his sheep. Not to feed them.”
I busted out laughing in front of a room full of people which is not a bad way to start a worship service.
All of these images rushed through my head as Johnny O paid for his coffee and told me that he would see me at Tybee Church.
I shrugged my shoulders. Another image came to me from my days as a Professional Christian.
“Get up!” I would be commanded.
“No!” I would yell back.
“YOU HAVE TO GET UP!”
“I do not,” I’d bark with the pillow over my head.
“GET UP NOW!”
“Give me one good reason dammit!” I yelled with my eyes still shut.
“It’s Sunday and you’re the minister!”
“Oh yeah,” I’d said. Then I’d get up.
So I’m up and it’s Sunday and I’m preaching at Bar Church today.
Hmmmm!
I wonder if I’ll have any words?
It doesn’t matter. It’s Bar Church. It’s all good.
I looked at him as I took a sip of coffee. I’m never certain where these conversations are going to go. Once he called me just to tell me that he had soiled his pants in the parking lot of Chu’s convenient store. You get my point. Conversations with Johnny O are like roller coaster rides.
“You call it Bar Church,” he continued. “It’s Tybee Church.”
“Whatever,” I replied. “It’s church. It’s in a bar. It’s Bar Church.”
“It’s Tybee Church,’ he scolded.
I thought “Really? I’m being scolded by Johnny O?” The world is surely coming to an end. The moon’s closer to the earth than it’s been in 19 years. That was the last time the world was coming to an end.
“If you have 86 people there,” he continued, “you’ll beat my record by one.”
I thought back to my days as a professional Christian in Louisville at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. I was always in hot water with the Baptists (which is another way of saying they are convinced that I’m going to hell on the express train) and the only reason that I never got fired was because my numbers were through the roof (or heaven bound as I told them). The entire time that I was at Jeff Street more people kept coming! It was a wild collection of little old ladies, homeless people, hookers, kids from the projects and radical Seminarians.
It was orgasmic!
Anyway I would stroll into the pulpit while Shannon Freeman played the dance music from “A Charlie Brown Christmas” and sit in the throne type chair that Southern Baptist ministers prefer. I would make certain that my socks were pulled up and wondered if I should shave my legs? Then knowing that I would be trouble for something that week, I would count the number of people who were there that day so that I could complete the form that the Baptist required me to complete each week.
How many came to Sunday School? How many came to Church? How many got saved? How many got Baptized? Did anybody dance? Did another Baptist see you in the liquor store?
You know stuff Baptists care about!
One morning I walked into the sanctuary to the throne seat and somebody had put a cartoon in it. Underneath drawings of sheep were the words “Jesus called us to count his sheep. Not to feed them.”
I busted out laughing in front of a room full of people which is not a bad way to start a worship service.
All of these images rushed through my head as Johnny O paid for his coffee and told me that he would see me at Tybee Church.
I shrugged my shoulders. Another image came to me from my days as a Professional Christian.
“Get up!” I would be commanded.
“No!” I would yell back.
“YOU HAVE TO GET UP!”
“I do not,” I’d bark with the pillow over my head.
“GET UP NOW!”
“Give me one good reason dammit!” I yelled with my eyes still shut.
“It’s Sunday and you’re the minister!”
“Oh yeah,” I’d said. Then I’d get up.
So I’m up and it’s Sunday and I’m preaching at Bar Church today.
Hmmmm!
I wonder if I’ll have any words?
It doesn’t matter. It’s Bar Church. It’s all good.
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