Dead Love

Running in the soft sand of the mouth of the Back River the shore is littered with dead Horseshoe Crabs and Cannonball Jellyfish. The banks of the shore are steep here so when the tides go out it leaves them behind. In the sand are the tracks of the desperate attempts of the Horseshoe Crabs to claw themselves back into the water. Some become disoriented and go in circles. Others make a straighter dash to the ocean and live to see another day.

It is a sad sight.

What makes it sadder is that Horseshoe Crabs only come ashore to mate.

Looking for love literally kills them.

The theme from M*A*S*H pops into head and plays over and over as I run through the sands of dead love.

Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me, I realize and I can see …
That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please

It’s the punk rock version that plays … lyrics relentlessly spit out over crashing drums, fiery guitars and a haunting piano melody. It’s the opposite of the sweet version on the reruns of the show.

It reeks of the pain that envelopes dying things.

“The game of life is hard to fake …” the band changes the lyric and I realize it for the first time. And I note how true it is. We stay in places we don’t like. Our relationships are unfulfilling. We go through motions we hate. We remain in rotten relationships for the kids. We sleepwalk through life with little joy, less laughter and precious little love.

We … settle.

Yesterday a friend of mine up and quit her job. She doesn’t have another one but she hated the one that she had so she quit. What makes this even more shocking is that she’s going through a divorce. Talk about guts! I can’t help but admire that! Throwing caution to the wind is one thing … kicking it in the ass is another!

Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be …

Growing up is not the absence of dreaming. Ah, but having the guts to chase your dreams …well… that is a rare thing.

I turn at the of the mouth of the ocean and there is no more dead love here. The shore has a gradual slope. The beach is clean aside from the occasional dead Jellyfish who don’t have a mind to make up anyway and let life take them … whereevs.

I keep thinking about the crabs and the two kinds of tracks that they left in the sand. Most ran in circles never making up their minds to … live.

Some realized though that there is only this one life. They had experienced love on the shore but it wasn’t what they needed so I imagine they said to themselves, “To hell with this! There’s better out there. I’m living to love another day!”

So they did.

The rest gave their lives away and litter the shore.

Premature

Today there is all of this stuff that I’m supposed to do in town. Homeless guys who are my Face Book friends have been after me forever to see them. Some want advice. Others just want to catch up. One has a business proposition for me and guarantees me big money if I come out of retirement to help him start a Fortune 500 Company.

So I picked a day and it’s today to meet with all of them.

Lunch is with my old friend and accountant Carlton.

Then it’s back to corporate headquarters to finalize stuff which should have been finalized last week (ummmm…Rebekah, exactly where are we?). There is lots of work and planning to do and I have timelines again … sigh …

This is big because I don’t go to Savannah much anymore except for the airport which really belongs to Hilton Head anyway. Hilton Head has also purchased the thunderstorm rights to Tybee so it rains there but not here.

But yesterday I took a nap and woke up with an infected ear. Normally, like most males, I would ignore this knowing that it will either go away or get worse. Either way it would work itself out. But I have to fly to Pittsburgh later this week and remember something about ears blowing up on airplanes if they’re not healthy so I resolved to get in touch with Jerry Williams this morning to make sure I’m not a terrorist threat.

Then I got in my car and the battery was dead.

Hmmmm … Is God trying to tell me something?

So … I hopped on my bike and rode it to the Breakfast Club. Johnny O was back after a week of being on loan to the Legends Golf tournament in Savannah. Over coffee he was telling me all about the tournament and I couldn’t hear anything that he said.

I reframed the entire question about God trying to tell me something. I was being blessed and didn’t know it. So Johnny O talked and I nodded my head not hearing anything that he said. Thank you Jesus! Thank you Lord!

Riding my bike back home, I got to thinking. Are these things signs? Should I be focusing on the things around me rather than the people demanding my attention who are elsewhere? My focus for the past year has been on me, healing and finding my way back to me again.

I was telling my best friend how excited I am about the future and all of the things that I’m ready to do. Hell, Skutch and I had a long funny conversation on the phone Friday (Skutch is like an actor in “B” movie playing a reporter but he really is a reporter and covered me for the past decade.). She told me that it’s nice to see me excited again.

But now I can’t help but wonder … am I being premature about all of this? Is God reminding me to not rush? To completely finish healing before I dive back in to the world and its unrelenting demands? Did God stick her wet finger in my ear to remind me that I’m not quite healed yet?

A few months ago, in a Ft. Lauderdale restaurant Dr. Jane Lowe of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and I were having dinner. She looked at me firmly and said, “Micheal do not rush this Sabbatical. It would be like having heart surgery and then going on one of your five mile runs before you can take it. You’d be far worse off than you are now.”

She’s really the only person to be so blatantly affirming of how I’ve spent the past year. Even now there are all of these people who want me to do things. Or they want to do things with me. I’m being cautious. It seems premature somehow.

My friend Samuel Admas, who plays damn good live music for a living and is the mastermind behind Bar Church, was after me last week to be a part of yesterday’s Easter Sunrise Service on the Pier. As soon as he asked me I said no. So typical Sam he asked me again. I said “Hell no.” He smiled and said “Fine, I’ll text you.”

But I stood in the back yesterday enjoying and watching it all. Tybee Church blew the other churches away (and I can’t get “Amazing Grace” to the tune of “House of the Rising Sun” out of my head. Thanks Sam!).

I was struck though, that I’d made the right decision. As they sang a funky version of “Holy, Holy, Holy” I slipped away. I’ve had my time in the limelight of the crowds. And I’ll have it again. But … now would be premature.

And God can be funny sticking a wet finger in your ear to give it an infection to remind you of the things that are most important.

Sunrise

The Baptist Minister brought the invocation and the Methodist Minister delivered the Homily but it was Bar Church’s show. It may as well have been Woodstock on a Pier in the name of Jesus! Sam Adams, Gordo, Davy and boys in the band were on their “A” game before sunrise.

With crowds spilling onto the beach, cross walks and standing in the parking lot the band was cracking it up at the annual Easter sunrise service. A white cross was behind them decorated with the green branches of Palm Trees. The ocean was calm and flat. No clouds would interrupt the rising of the sun to symbolize the rising of the dead.

A bit earlier I rode my bicycle to the Breakfast Club and stumbled in the door marked “Exit” only. Everyone was busy getting ready for what was going to be a crazily busy day. After celebrations of Saviors rising from the dead there is a mad dash to the Breakfast Club, Sunrise, and the Rock House for breakfast.

“When does it end?” Val asked me wearing white bunny ears, a fluffy white bow tie and a little white cotton tail. She’s forever showing her ass.

“When the sun comes up,” I reply.

She turns around, bends over and sticks the cotton tail in my face.

Then Ryan comes in wearing pink bunny ears. I groan. This is disgusting. I fix a to-go cup and peddle to the Pier for the show … ummmm … I mean service.

The Band outperformed the clergy! People are still talking about the “Amazing Grace” finale sung to the tune of “House of the Rising Sun”. Typical Tybee! Why can’t you have Amazing Grace in a whore house?

The sun comes up on cue.

It was impressive. A lot of people clapped and demanded an encore.

I return to my seat at the Breakfast Club. My friends are gobbling down food before it opens trying to get ready for the onslaught of Christian eaters.

And then the Lord rose. And the line formed. And it was bedlam.

The place filled up in a nanosecond. Everyone was rushing to take care of the Easter dressed crowd. A line a block and half suddenly formed outside of the door. The Breakfast Club became claustrophobic.

“Anybody need anything?” I ask standing up.

One of my duties as Chaplain of the Breakfast Club is to get cigarettes for those who forgot to them for themselves. I do this four or five times a week.

“Vodka at one o’clock,” yells Val.

“Ah,” I say, “Of course but we better make it two or Ryan will get all pissed and I don’t want him chasing me around in pink bunny ears.”

“Love you long time,” Val says giving me to-go cups to return later with.

I return to my bike and peddle down Tybrisa Street (which used to be 16th Street and is between 15th and 17th Street but elected officials once again decided to mess with the brains of the public). The other day I was almost killed on Tybrisa Street on my bike. A mad motorist in a convertible full of kids tried to run me down. By a miracle of God I somehow survived.

Anyway in the cool of the morning the Church people are lined up at every place selling breakfast. The beer bottles and cups from last night still line the sidewalks and benches. Families walk down the street holding hands and singing “Amazing Grace” to a tune about a whore house. Cigarette butts fill the street. The Mayor sits on a bench drinking coffee and reading the paper. Across the street is a woman on another bench smoking a cigarette staring toward heaven trying to remember last night.

I peddle home and get Goddess. We stroll over to the sad little holy dock.

Choirs of mussels are singing Hymns. Choirs of birds join them. The once dead marsh grass is green. Fiddler crabs dance in the mud. Pelicans fly in formation overhead. It is all teaming with life after a deep dark winter that had chased life away.

Miracle of miracles! Dead thing come back to life!

I sit on the deck with my arm around my dog. We take it all in and I say a small prayer.

“Welcome back,” I say out loud.

Surprised

Commandeer Jodi (who can be as bitchy as Beckah) ordered me to get in touch with people whom I haven’t spoken with in a year. I’ve no communication with them whatsoever being on this Sabbatical, the center of my universe has been my back deck.

My support systems have been Fran’s thousand shades of green, a tight circle of friends and a dog. Quiet reflection have been the norm. Words were no longer necessary. Fran is now an angel who hovers over this place. There isn’t a day that goes by that she doesn’t tell me how loved I am. She and Goddess must talk regularly because she lets me know too. Then these friends … well, if it’s patterns that define behavior then … they let me know too.

Out of nowhere others started coming into my life. Some college friends were raised from the dead and another net was strung under the high wire act that’s been my life.

Then a few others showed up here asking if they could be a part of my future. With sadness consuming me, I looked at them as though they had lost their minds. What future? I had no idea what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to do anything. But they persisted.

There were a handful of others … scattered around that I stayed in touch with, meaning they heard from me or saw once or twice in a year … Terry, Karen, Peter, Tina, Philip and Herb … That was it.

It’s been a small world.

After living most of my life in a very large way, it’s been … fascinating. My college friend Mitch just left. He’s leaving his career just like I left mine. I was asking him about cleaning out his office and saying that I’ve got a lot plaques that I don’t know what to do with. Hell, I’ve got an Olympic Torch that I don’t know what to do with!

These things looked great in my office but they don’t fit so well into my house. I was telling Sarah the other day that my new office is my back deck and that I’m getting a sign to read “Micheal Elliott Enterprises, Corporate Offices.”

“You need to have on drift wood,” she quipped.

So I sent out messages to a lot of people whom haven’t heard from me in a year asking them a favor. “Would you be willing to say some things about my work? What kind of difference did it make? How others would benefit from these experiences?”

It’s a strange exercise. I went through the names of elected people, government employees, some who were intense partners, former Board members, news personalities … just about every kind of person.

A thirty-one year career means that I ended up knowing lot people. I worked with them, drank with them, we ate together, told sortied jokes with them that will get you into trouble if email them, had long talks with each other and stayed in one another’s homes.

But it had been a year. I’ve given them nothing. My small universe did not include them.

So it was humbling to ask for a favor when I’d given nothing. Throughout my career, I always had something to give. I could help with this or that. I could make introductions. I could do magic. But … I’ve mostly just sat on my Back Deck, my stool at the Breakfast Club, my seat at the Bored meeting or Shirley’s sad little holy dock.

For the first time ever, it’s just been about me.

It was hard to ask for the favor.

Because I love Stacy Jennings so much, I still get the Savannah Morning News and thumb though it every morning at the Breakfast Club. Then they grab it and rip it in a hundred different directions. The crossword puzzle is most popular part, followed by used car adds, the apartment search section, sports, tide chart and horoscopes. I’m not sure anyone actually reads any news (EXCEPT … anything written by Skutch!).

Over the past few months I’ve noticed while reading of others whom I’ve worked with who are no longer where they were. These were friends at hospitals, universities and even Catholic Charities. They’re all gone. Just like I am!

Savannah of course, goes on without us.

But yesterday when email started buzzing I was overwhelmed at the responses of my request for a favor. Throughout the day came notes and comments and promises from people scattered everywhere. The things that they had to say were … overwhelming.

After dragging me out on a night on the town, Mitch and I were sitting in the Corporate Headquarters office and I was telling him about all of this.

Mitch has this great gift. He can be stoic with the best of them while being impish at the same time. He thinks hard and deep but uses humor to make his points. It’s one of the many things I love about him. So sitting in the dark after a night on the town with our feet propped on the rail, he looks over as only he can do … with this smile that some would swear is a smirk … and said …

“You made a difference. Why are surprised?”

Good Friday?

Exactly what is so good about Good Friday? I mean it wasn’t all that good for Jesus.

After a last supper that didn’t go so well with Judas storming out in the middle of dinner and Peter apparently apparently wanting chicken, Jesus needed to clear his head and wandered into the garden for fresh air. Everybody else took a nap so the food at the last supper must have been heavy (hence Peter’s insistence on chicken). Those who didn’t nap stayed at the table listening to the live music (choirs of angels singing sad songs).

“I don’t want to do this,” Jesus mumbles out loud.

Silence …

“Seriously, I don’t want to do this.”

Silence …

There is a rumble in the bushes and Judas storms back in with a crowd of his new best friends. They greet one another with a kiss.

Then all hell breaks loose. Jesus is arrested for terrorism, committing acts of violence in a Temple, holding a whip slashing it at bankers and loan sharks. He was evidently so pissed he turned over tables, yelled slanderous terms, and sent a religious congregation fleeing from a maniac.

Peter angrily wakes from up his nap violently taking the ear off of one of Judas’ friends. “It’s OK,” Jesus says.

Then there are three different court appearances during which Jesus offers no defense. Pilate sends him to Herod who sends him back to Pilate who is not happy about the workings of his own judicial system. Pilate was also having his own problems at home with a bitchy wife who was telling him how to do his job.

In midst of this a rooter crows … Peter listens to it. The chickens have come home to roost.

While all of this was going on Jesus was in Abu Ghraib getting the shit beat out of him. Then he’s hauled back to Court for his final appeal. He’s got nothing to say obviously satisfied that his actions speak for themselves.

An exasperated Pilate wants a plea.

Silence ...

Outraged at the silence, Pilate continues the interrogation by asking “What’s true here?” Jesus keeps quiet. Pilate’s frustration grows and he asked “Just who do you think you are …God?”

Jesus looks up, shrugs his shoulders, and speaks for the first time. “Whatever.”

“To hell with you,” Pilate barks.

Jesus is led outside and stripped naked. An already beaten up man is slapped with a chunk of wood and carries it through a snarling crowd … people who had cheered his last public appearance a short time ago now hated his guts with everything in them. Last week it was coverage by the liberal media but now it’s Fox News, Entertainment tonight, and someone says “the Tribe has spoken” … you’re out of here.

Before he dies, there is one last controversy. “Hey, hot shot! If you’re all that … get us out of this.”

“Aw, leave him alone. He ain’t done nothing like we did. Hey Jesus, keep me in mind.”

Jesus mutters … “Today.”

Knowing that he couldn’t help anybody, including himself, Jesus asks for one last favor. “Take care of my Mom … God I’m thirsty.”

Silence …

“Suck on this,” someone yells.

And then it was over. His last words are spoken. “It is finished.”

Then the heavens speak in thunder.

Back at the reassembled Temple the crime scene tape that had been put up to keep people out blows away.

A few hours later he was taken down by the friends who had stuck with him to the end. His body’s wrapped in an old quilt and laid on top of other bones.

Wanting no more controversy, Pilate put up crime scene tape and orders security.

And people went home …

And that was Good Friday.

The Garden

Once I was standing in front of the White House. I was in Washington to give a speech and it had gone well. It was almost dusk and Julie and I stood there pondering the sights, the power of the place, the city cut in half --- the poorest of the poor living in front of the mightiest of the mighty. It is a place the can inspire and make you sick at the same time.

“What would you do if you were President?” she quietly asked.

At the time I was staring at the lawn and said the first thing that came to mind.

“I’d probably be out here picking crab grass.”

She laughed and said “The world would be a better place if President’s came out and did that every evening.”

At that time I would come home from work, run five miles to release the stress of work, then spend an hour or so tending plants that I’d planted and pulling crab grass of the yard. I was into it and in time at all the yard, deck and flower gardens that I’d planted made the place more beautiful. Tension was gone. I was proud. And the vibes of the living plants all around me birth good karma and it was hard not to admire the beauty of it all.

Then I’m not sure when but several years ago a tipping point was tipped. Work, tension and other problems overcame the gardening. My plants died. Crab grass grew in clumps around the yard. Weeds came. Beauty faded.

And something inside of me died too.

Sadness grew around the house. My marriage ended. Work became frustrating and difficult. Life became hard.

In the middle of all of this last year I went to Home Depot and bought a lot of stuff and for the first time in years planted flowers. I called them my “Promise Flowers” because they signified better things were coming. It wasn’t much but it was a step in the right direction.

A couple of month’s ago, I was feeling better. I’d been traveling across the country working to help people and their organization do things better. The better-ness rubbed off on me and new plans had been made and started to fertilize. New offers and opportunities came my way. The joy of friends, music, and love sustained me though the bad stuff.

One day sitting on the Beloved Back Deck, I was talking to my Mom describing what I wanted to do in the back yard. For years I’d intended to turn it into a funky garden that reflected things I love. Now my mother is a gardener on steroids. The next day she shows up with supplies and work began. Somehow I became a sub-contractor in my own garden.

Today Goddess and I took a run and then we were watering the flowers. Goddess is a dog who thinks she’s a person so she helps me with lots of things. There were these trees that Mom had left to be planted so without thinking much I planted them. Goddess ran around the yard. Choirs of birds sang. The sun shone. And it felt … satisfying.

Back when I was at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel employed as a Professional Christian (getting paid to do what I asked others to do for free) we were forever going outside of the Hymn Book for inspiration. A favorite was a Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie song. We’d sing it in Sunday Service instead of those “sad old sisters of Salvation singing Nearer My God to thee” songs.

“Grain for grain, sun and rain, find my way in nature’s chain, tune my body and my brain to the music of the land.”

I haven’t thought of it in years and years but today with Goddess running around the yard, dirt on my knees, the sun on my back, the song was raised from the dead and I found myself singing as I worked. Afterwards, watering the newly planted tree, I stepped back.

“Damn,” I said out loud to Fran’s thousand shades, to all of the growing things around me, to Goddess and myself and God, “I feel good.”

Running Thoughts

If a girl wearing a thong moons you … does it make a difference?

As I ran passed the girls wearing thongs on the beach today I was struck by another random running thought. When I run random thoughts pop into my head.

Some are keepers and turn into my daily musings. Others are unanswerable questions like this one (though I’m certain that some of you have the answer). Sometimes my mind goes blank and the beach in front of me may as well in another universe then I snap out of it and I’m half a mile further along than last time I noticed.

How do they put air into a tennis ball? I wonder as I watch a boy throw one into the waves and laugh with glee as it carries it back to him.

Today was an adventurous run as there are a lot of people here. Spring Break is breaking all around me! I love it!

So as I ran north on the south end there is bank of sand dunes and laying there two is a couple making love. The term “sandy bottoms” comes to mind. I don’t want to be rude so I keep going though I do wonder how they will get all of the sand of their mouths, their bottoms and God knows where else?

Making my way past the jetty I notice the season’s first cannon ball jellyfish have washed ashore. These are the only species of jellyfish that do not sting. Tourists don’t know that and shriek and take wide steps out of the way.

The Bored, which meets every day in front of Fannie’s-On-The-Beach to celebrate life on the island, has come up with another category … there are tourists and then there are “Tourons” (tourist + moron = Touron). In spite of our outward appearance the Bored really does think about things.

When Chelsea was a little girl she and I spent days on the beach together. Just she and I. Tourists would spot a dead cannonball jellyfish, scream, poke dead marsh oats into it and stay way back. It might jump from the sand and sting them!

Little Chelsea would stroll over into the midst of the family and pick it up. Tossing it up in the air like a baseball she would look and yell “HEY DAD! Want to play catch?” Then she’d throw it at me.

So if you put peanut butter on a jellyfish what would you have? If it was crunchy peanut butter, would it make a difference?

Making my way further along I see that the marshes on Back River are being cleaned by the ocean’s rising tides. The marsh turns dark brown after it dies and as the new green marsh grows underneath it pushes last year’s sea grass up. High tide fills the marsh twice each day carrying a load of last year’s marsh out to sea. A lot of it washes ashore and I run through it.

A lot of people complain about living in the south because it doesn’t have four seasons. But it does. Just study the seasons of the marsh. In winter it is brown. In spring it turns light green. By summer, Fran has risen from the dead, and it is a thousand shades of green. In the fall, it turns golden yellow and then brown.

It’s as beautiful as any leaves on trees changing color. I don’t why people go so nuts over that. Hell, they can name more types of cars that they are driving than they can the trees of changing leaves that they are seeing.

Running under the pier (or Touron Central according to the Bored), I suddenly worry that Sam Adams is looking for me. Sunday is of course Easter, as if anybody couldn’t know that, and Sam is after me to participate in the Sunrise Service. When I was informed that it was Palm Sunday earlier this week by Sam, he immediately started asking to participate in the Easter service.

For a thousand years there have been four churches on Tybee; Baptists, Catholics, Methodists and Episcopalians … a little something for everybody. And for years they have rotated who would be the lead sponsor for the Easter sunrise service. This year however there is a fifth church.

Yep! Bar Church! Tybee Church which meets in the Wind Rose Bar every Sunday! They are the lead sponsor of this year’s Easter Sunrise service. Sam, Gordon and the entire band will be on the Pier. I’m uncertain at this point as to the roles of the ministers of the Baptist, Catholic, Methodist or Episcopalian Churches … I have a hard time seeing them singing “Jesus is just alright with me” along with the band but … it could happen.

I turn on Twelfth Street and make my home. In preparation for Easter which I’ve thought about since I learned that last Sunday was Palm Sunday, I baptize myself in the holy water of the outdoor shower.

Hugs: The Sequel

Last night I was summoned by the Breakfast Club softball team to perform my duties as Chaplain of the Breakfast Club by showing to heckle the other team which takes soft ball as serious as those church league players. You know how church league softball is! They go for the jugular, castrate the other, slide with your cleats up in the name Jesus softball!

I have played for two Tybee Island softball teams in my life; the famous “Beach Bums” and the “Breakfast Cubs”. Both were in it for the fun interrupted only by bouts of seriousness … like, why is the cooler empty?

Anyway I had not been to a Breakfast Cubs game since I delivered their victory during the fall season when they asked me to deliver the invocation before the game. I did. They won.

This time they did not ask for invocation. They asked me to show and heckle the other team which takes itself as serious as church softball players. They did look like a church soft ball team with tidy white pants with no panty lines, professional looking jerseys and hats sporting their favorite team logos. They were intimidating.

On the other hand, the Breakfast Cubs looked like a bunch of surfers. The guys wore tee shirts promoting the legalization of marijuana, bathing suit bottoms and flip flops. The girl players wore halter tops and short shorts. It was clear to see who the underdog was.

So in a moment of brilliant strategy, Ryan Sadowski called asking me to come and heckle them. He knows that I am a Baptist minister and speak “Church soft ball” as a second language, which is basically condemning the other team to hell and doing everything you can to get them there by the seventh inning.

I was flattered. I am pretty good at it from my days at Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where we formed a homeless church softball team. It was great! We never won a game. When we played Highview Baptist Church they started making fun of us before the game had even started. Sure our second baseman had schizophrenia, was intimidated by the manicured field and the bright lights so he lay down and hugged the base.

Our left fielder kept staring at the massive buildings of the mega church campus rather than watch the batter (he was learning that Baptist love buildings more than people). And our catcher never really caught anything. So they loudly made fun of us until I got … righteous indignation! Meaning they pissed me off.

So I started heckling back. My homeless team mates noticed that I was representing on their behalf. Sonny the left fielder turned to see what was going on. Dave, the second baseman rolled over and lay there staring me. Pouche the catcher kept missing every ball that came his way.

And in the name of Jesus they beat the shit out of us … laughing and celebrating like Samson did after beating the Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. So I know what it’s like to beaten by jawbones of asses. And they were!

But I learned how to heckle.

So I showed up last night but when I did there was my friend Katie and she gave me a hug. Then I was hugged by Caroline. Then Patti! And it kept on until Philip hugged me and then I was suddenly hugged out.

But I learned something. Hugging hinders heckling. I was really bad at it last night.

In the afterglow of so many wonderful hugs, I got to thinking. Hmmmm … What happens when one hug leads to another? And then another! And another! Then you’ve progressed to something else entirely!

I found this line of thought much more entertaining than the game. Then I got to thinking about what would happen if church softball teams hugged before games? Or elected officials? Police officers! Tybee Island Parking Services? (yeah … that last one’s not gonna happen)!

So I think that hugging should become a competitive sport.

I’ve been told that I’m pretty good at it and would like to take it to the next level. Training has already begun and I’m feeling pretty good about where I’m at. Of course it means rigorous commitment and high performance standards with multiple partners. I eat, sleep and dream hugging.

So … when your heart is heavy … hugs are in order.

When you’re happy … hugs are in order.

If you’re pulled over the cops … hugs are in order.

For no reason at all … hugs are in order.

Ok, I got to get back to training. My partner just showed and looks intense and well prepared. I gotta get my game face on!

Because today … I’m taking it to the next level!!

Now and then

My all-time favorite writer is Frederick Buechner, a Presbyterian minister and teacher who took the words of one of his professors Paul Tillich …

“We want only to show you something we have seen and to tell you something we have heard ... that here and there in the world and now and then in ourselves is a New Creation.”

Buechner took the phrase “Now and Then” as the title of the second book in a series that chronicles his spiritual quest. What he so beautifully says is that every now and then … we get God.

Each of us has these occasional glimpses of glory. Every once in a while the beauty of God, usually some event, even simple ones like listening to two branches from an apple tree clack together and know that it can be the voice of God talking directly to you.

Or, sitting on a sad little holy dock, lost and alone … maybe with a dog;

Or coming home to find that there are people who are being church in the holiest senses of the word because you’re in desperate need of it from them … and they haven’t been to church in years. But they are there for you.

Or maybe IT IS in Church when choirs happen to get it all just right for once and the congregation is left in stunned silence of the majesty of perfection and for a second or two they are perfect like God is perfect.

The thing is … you have to live through a lot of shit to get to these moments.

Often painful stuff … heart wrenching things that leave you without a voice to speak … or anger that is fierce and rises from deep within, often anger that was years and years in the making … and you know the anger and frustration is ripping you apart but you allow it to continue because of the hurt … so you keep getting ripped apart.

But in the midst of these things … the beauty of God’s ways of doing things can burst through for a second or two … and something new is created.

I am not the same now … as I was then.

I know that I’m not.

Yet I also know that I seem to find myself intimately involved in … a new act of creation.

Deep shit right?

But … it’s true. Now I appear to others the same but different. The memories of hurt, both that I inflicted on others and the hurt inflicted on me remain very real feelings. I can still be intense but am … softer. Lost smiles are raised from a place like hell …where there is no laughter … be it in the center of the earth or in the house that you live in.

When I left Union Mission all of my books were packed up by my Mom, Nanci- my- almost-sister, my daughter Kristen and Keller Deal. They’re in boxes at my Mom’s house. I just couldn’t bear disassembling what I’d spend 23 years putting together so they did it for me. Nor do I care for the continued disassembling of Union Mission by others who own it now. It’s painful and sad stuff.

Sitting on the beloved back deck …with Goddess …in the warm sunshine … surveying the yard that we’ve worked hard to transform into a work of art … suddenly the strangest of thoughts inexplicably burst into my head.

I remembered a book that was published in 1983 that I read and loved which is now buried in boxes somewhere at my Mom’s house.

My yard is being created. It is no longer now what it was then. A lot of work and investment has gone into it. Some parts were painful. But it is more beautiful and fulfilling now … than it was then.

And I believe that God is trying to say as I studied the creation of a new yard and made me remember a book from Seminary … is that I am too.

Though I have no idea what the end product is going to look like …

Hell I had no idea I’d ever have babies at 21 who would grow into the most wonderful family, go to Seminary on a lark and help transform a church, become an author of books and blogs … be at Union Mission for 23 years helping create work the likes which has never been seen or be living alone with a dog … but … I can feel creation happening!

I have felt this way a few times before.

Every now and then.

Startled (to Goddess Elliott)

Goddess spent the night away from home last night so there wasn’t the normal homecoming of licking me, running around in circles wanting me to rub her butt and generally acting like a monkey humper! She was at my Mom’s house and as far as I know that’s the only other house that she has stayed at without me.

I missed her as she always greets me with sheer delight.

And the longer the nigh went, the more I missed her.

Leaving St. Martin makes for a long. It starts off fine enough as the entire morning is staring at the aqua blue of Orient Bay. I stayed through lunch and went back to Orange where Oliver (pronounced Uh-lav-ahh) shook my hand, embraced me then took me to meeting his wife Ana and baby boy.

While she and I talked Oliver was holding his baby making faces cooing with the boy. I was struck that it may be true that the French make sillier faces than Americans do, when comes to playing with babies.

Then he opened the sand floor restaurant just for me (an hour early) so that I could have lunch. We chatted and he reminded me again of how good I look.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I answered, “Amore and all of that that!”

“But of course,” he shot back.

Afterwards Conner and I said goodbye and promised to do it all again after successfully reconstructing about fifty-two percent of what we did. We congratulated each other how much we’ve matured as this was the first time that we could remember over half of whatever it is we do.

The Princess Juliana International Airport was a cluster of lines and the hurry-up-and-wait flying that is thanks to terrorists. The crowded plane took off for the four hours flight and I was in Atlanta … waiting in line … after hurrying up. Then I waited for the plane to Savannah but was ecstatic that a friend had shown up to drive me back to Tybee Island.

I fell into the loving arms of my own bed and was asleep in no time.

Then … my eyes popped open in the dark. The moon cast light on the Palm Trees outside of my windows. All seemed peaceful but … something was wrong.

Then I knew.

Goddess was not snoring lying in the floor beside the bed. Not once did I hear the familiar sound of the doggie door opening and closing while she made her rounds. There was no lapping water from her bowl. Not once did she nudge her butt next to the bed so that I could rub it with one hand while remaining under the covers; nor did lick my face if I happened to be sleeping too close to the side.

For the past sixteen months it has just been Goddess and me living in this house. We start and end every day together. She makes me laugh and is forever amazing me with the things that she’ll do. She creates joy out of thin air like only the best of friends can do.

Once flying to St. Martin I made the mistake of watching the movie “Marley and me.” I cried like a baby and promised Goddess that she can have whatever she wants the rest of her life. I have the hardest time imaging my life without her.

When I was in college I worked the Bulloch Veterinary Clinic. Once this old man had his very old dog who was obviously nearing the end. Dr. Dugan told the old man it would be better if the dog was put to sleep. Tears filled the old man’s eyes and he placed his hand over his mouth … and sobbed. I can still the sound of that sob all of these years later.

The old man stumbled into a chair and hung his head. Dr. Dugan waited patiently. I held the dog.

Finally the old man stood, staring at the dog, still with his hand over his mouth and tears in his eyes. He went to leave and Dr. Dugan started preparing the syringe.

Suddenly the old man turned and held up his hand. “I think I’ll just take him home. Thank you Doctor.”

And he did … driving away in an old blue pickup truck with arm around his dog.

I understand.

I’m ready for you to come home Goddess.

Going Home

She was a black girl wearing a white bikini.

“Why don’t you take the plunge and just move here,” she asked me. “I did six months ago and I love it. You will too.”

“Hmmmm,” I mumbled.

It’s actually something that I’ve almost done on several occasions. My rebel streak, love of Hemingway, Jimmy Bufffett, Bob Marley, sunshine, ocean and commitment to sand as a lifestyle had led me to seriously contemplate expatriating from the United States and moving permanently to St. Martin.

Then last year when I found myself alone, left a career and I would spend time thinking, “Well Why Not”?

I could work from here. All I need is an airport, cell phone and lap top with Internet connection. Why not?

But then again … something changed in me over the last several months.

Last June I was here and stayed and stayed thanks to Keller Deal. When I finally went home again there were these people waiting on me. My kids, Johnny O and Judy, Keller Deal, Sarah, Shirley … They were all worried about how I would be and, truth be told I wasn’t all that great. But they were there for me when I desperately needed someone there for me.

And there was Goddess loving me through the loneliest of times.

Then I was here again in November and December with Conner and Hania but by then I was changing …

Fran was raised from the dead and reminded me how beautiful my world is. Old friends from college came back into my life bringing me joy. At the Breakfast Club hugs came back to me and at the Bored meeting I was coached back into laughing. Then Sam and Gordon got me going to Bar Church with some regularity and I was reminded of the community that I live in which is what church really is anyway.

Then there is this sad little holy dock that I’ve grown to love. And love found me there one night and … I changed.

Through the winter months I went everywhere … east coast to west coast and back again. In south Florida I was instructed to take my time and heal. Don’t rush. Rushing is the worst thing that you can do. And while it seemed like everyone else was telling me to hurry up I realized that I needed to just stop … and feel.

Then little things started to mean a lot again. Smiles came quickly over a lone red leaf still clinging to a tree outside my bedroom window, peanut butter and yellow boots; the daily gathering of the Bored to celebrate life on Tybee Island ... and time contemplating on a beloved back deck. Endless laughter with Dee that is so contagious we almost hurt ourselves.

I’ve been coming here for a decade now and love it. There are people I love that I want to share it with.

But …

It is not home.

And it won’t be.

My home …

Well …

I know where it is …

Yep …

I do …

And I’m going back to it today …

La Massage

Rope.

A Garden Hose.

Duct Tape.

Vodka.

These are the things that Conner and I walked into the Fitness Center with for our messages. Nathalie had a customer when we arrived who was frightened when she saw us and left quickly. Conner and I locked ourselves in Nathalie’s room with our supplies. We planned on being there all afternoon.

The truth of the matter is that I’d already seen Nathalie earlier in the day when I used the duct tape to tape Emma in her room. Emma is British, believes in Krishna and was with a customer at the time … meaning that she was giving a message. As I ripped the duct tape off of the roll, Nathalie came flying out of her room, saw was I was doing and busted out laughing.

“I knew that is was you,” she said in her French accent. “Where’s Conner?”

“Getting rope,” I reply.

“Rope?” she asked. “For why”?

“You,” I explain continuing to tape Emma’s door shut.

She grabs her camera and takes a picture of the duct taped door.

Conner and I don’t just get massages. We orchestrate events. A lot of spontaneous planning takes place.

Actually the people who work here have come to expect such things of us. Sometimes other people help us, especially Jacob from Norway or Chuck from Palm Springs. On occasion Conner’s wife Hania participates. When members of the staff see us coming, they start laughing and shaking their heads.

Once after Conner and I had conducted a hostile takeover of the Managers Wine-and-Cheese party, Carlos was dispatched to see us. He tried his best to be serious as he explained that we were expected to act like normal guests.

“What do you mean” we asked?

“You have to have permission to do such things,” he firmly explained in his French Caribbean lilt.

So Conner obtained “Le Permit” from Chuck a long time guest of the place giving us permission to do, pretty much whatever we want.

Now Nathalie can be an evil bitch when she wants to … especially when waxing is involved ... as it was yesterday. She would rip. Then laugh. Rip! Then Laugh! Rip! Laugh!

So we tied her up.

Later in the afternoon I was sitting on my patio looking at these beautiful pictures that my best friend had sent me. Conner strolls over (Conner never rushes or even walks … he strolls) and explains that as the Captain of a boat he can perform weddings if he is three miles off shore.

“That’s good to know Conner,” I say. He is always surprising me with useful nuggets of information.

“OK then,” he says and leaves.

I go back to studying my pictures. Then Nathalie, who is on Face Book (you can do a search … just type in “evil” and her picture pops up!) decides to send me a lesson in spelling.

I hit the delete button.

Conner returns carrying rope.

“What you wanna do now” he asks.

Then Emma walks by.

“Hare Krishna,” I say.

Celebration

Well Conner got here.

That means I have no idea how I got home last night. I did wake up in my bed hugging my I-phone. No one was with me though somebody apparently set a bomb off in my tiny little studio.

The last thing that I remember is Conner, Carlos, Damien and I were sitting at Papagayos listening to “Shine” butcher songs. As manager of the restaurant, Carlos evidently pays Shine to butcher songs. Shine thinks that he’s really good as he pumps his fist to illustrate whatever song he’s singing. The thing is all of his songs sound the same so nobody is really sure what he’s singing. Everybody ignores him.

Damien is from Barbados and is doing his best to pick up white women. He’s having a difficult time as the alcohol was preventing him from keeping a straight face. The fact that Conner, Carlos and I were laughing hysterically at everything he did wasn’t helping his efforts.

Of course I was trying to keep it at an adult level. I would introduce serious topics for discussion like adopting Russian orphans or how love is the most important part of our future.

I remember Carlos jumping up and hugging me as I said these things. He and Conner saw me get through a lot of bad times the last few years. Carlos loves me and calls me his brother and I know that the color of skin doesn’t define brothers.

Somehow last night ended up being this celebration of that. I was happy and having a good time and two of the guys who worried about me and repeatedly made themselves available to me were celebrating ... me.

I told them about where I am now. This new career is unfolding. There is love in my heart. Both have been to Tybee Island and were asking me about Johnny O and the Breakfast Club and the Bored meeting. And there was just this … affirmation in the air.

At one point I sat back and looked at the table. Conner was laughing. Carlos was grinning and looking smug. Damien was staring at white women as he slumped to the floor. It was all just … happy.

So I told them a lot last night. About everything!

And we just … celebrated.

At one point I raised my glass and toasted them all. “SEE,” I exclaimed! And we celebrated some more.

And we evidently did a real good job because I have no idea who drove me home … though I’m only about fifty feet from Papagayos so it is feasible that I walked.

Conner is nowhere to be seen. He is my slab mate meaning his studio is next to mine. Wait! Good news! He is not dead. He just stuck his head over asking for water to make tea. He looks terrible. We stare at each other for a nanosecond and bust out laughing.

“Who drove us home last night,” he asks?

I shrug my shoulders. “It’s normally Hania. She’s our designated walker but she’s not here.”

“Well it wasn’t Damien.”

“It could have been Carlos. He wanted us to go out.”

We both contemplate this. Going out with Carlos is always fun but it can last for days.

“You cut your nipple,” Conner says as he walks away to fix tea.

Sure enough, blood is all over my chest.

“Damn,” I say to the French West Indies Trade winds, “I wish it was something else all over my chest this morning.”

The Last Resort

That last year at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel I was burned out. Not yet thirty and burned out as a professional Christian. Fame had come quickly and I was in magazines, on television shows and was invited across the country to speak in front of large crowds. A little broken down inner-city congregation had become this show case of what “church” can be.

I’d grown cynical about it all. The Baptists just wanted bigger numbers and I delivered. But they didn’t like how I did it. Homelessness, AIDS and Salvadorian refugees kept me in the newspapers and the Baptists didn’t believe in these things.

The last year was just a chore. I had become known as an unorthodox preacher who would say mostly anything. And I had a style. It’s a great job when you get to be the center of the universe for twenty minutes every Sunday speaking on God’s behalf. Like most preachers, I relished that time … Orgasmic preaching where you really the only one getting off.

I had groupies. God’s name was used in multiple ways; some more heavenly than others.

My grandfather, Rev. Ira Carver remains one of my heroes though he is long dead. He would come to Louisville often to visit me and I remember him talking to me once about it all. He told me that too much had come to me too quickly. He told me to be careful. Temptation was everywhere. Then he put his arm me and told me that he loved me and that he always would. No matter what!

He knew before I knew.

I would sit in my office prior to Church listening to the Eagles sing “The Last Resort”.

And you can see them there
On Sunday morning
They stand up and sing about
What it’s like up there
They call it Paradise
I don’t know why
You call some place Paradise
Kiss it goodbye

I’d listen to it over and over sitting in the dark of an office full of books and bars on the windows. I was sad. But there were these people that I’d come to love. Homeless people ... people who had discovered AIDS and were wasting away in front of me ... these little old ladies who should have been dead but they refused to die … and these crazy Seminary students who believed that we could change the world RIGHT NOW!

This had been my world for seven years or so. My children Jeremy and Kristen were born into this world. Chelsea came later and it is fascinating to me to see how she is different from the other two. Chelsea is more withdrawn, speculative and suspicious. Jeremy and Kristen are comfortable anywhere and anytime. Homeless people raised them. They touched AIDS when we were told you could catch just breathing air.

Chelsea has broken out of her … circumspect. We just finished talking. She’s in Italy and I’m in St. Martin. She’s engaged to Sam whom I love. I’m suddenly single. Unlike her brother and sister she is a beach baby and was trying to impress me with her Italian tan. I reminded her that she has tan lines. I don’t.

There is a six hour time difference between us and Sam has just gotten online so Dad gets bumped for someone more important. So this song keeps running through my brain. “Call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye.”

Then my Granddad comes back from the dead and visits me in Paradise just to tell me that he will always love me no matter what I did.

He makes me remember the great and the horrible of the things that I’ve done. And I can see him smile his Impish grin.

Hummingbirds startle me. They are suddenly everywhere. They are lite and dart from the Palm Trees and my heart is filled with love. I watch smiling a Mona Lisa smile. I find myself wishing.

And I thank my Granddad and God at the same time. I’m in Paradise. And I blow kisses to what has been … but more …to what will be. Because what will be is everything that I was born to become.

Smile

Martina sits across from me on the patio of the tiny studio where I am staying. Her push cart full of cleaning supplies is in the middle of the sandy road. She is wearing a yellow smock and blue jeans. I’m not wearing much anything. I close my laptop and ask if she wants coffee. In her lilting Caribbean voice she tells me that she just wants to talk.

We’ve known one another for a decade now. She is tall with jet black skin and a new haircut; meaning she doesn’t have much hair anymore and what she does have is red. It is striking and I miss the long black dregs that she used to wear. But I love Martina and she waits while I pour myself more coffee.

Once I fixed lunch for everybody that works here and they all hid out in the tiny little studio and we ate, told stories and laughed. I’ll cook sausage gravy and biscuits and people go nuts over it.

It goes back to my days at Jeff Street when on Sunday mornings I would fix it for a hundred homeless people every Sunday morning. It was the cheapest and most filling thing that I could prepare.

Martina asks me if I’ve cooked any. I tell her no and she shrugs her shoulder. I sit back down with my coffee.

“Oh my God Mike,” she says in this exaggerated fashion placing her palm on her forehead, “you were just measurable. You looked like shit. It was terrible.”

I stare at her as water wells in my eyes.

Martina never really looks at me when she talks. She looks all around me and our eyes lock for only the briefest of moments. It makes me think of my best friends when we talk or don’t talk our eyes remain locked on one another.

When she first saw me this morning she screamed “Oh you’re here!” and she left her cart in the sandy road, hugged me and kissed me, and then sat down. That was an hour ago.

“Where is Mike and Hania?” she asks in the beautiful lilting way of the Caribbean.

“Conner gets here tomorrow,” I answer. “I don’t think Hania can stand us anymore.”

She smiles and returns to the previous conversation. “Oh my God Mike. You looked like shit.”

“Thanks,” I smile.

She laughs which makes me laugh.

“Tell me,” she says, “what has happened? You are different. You are like you used to be. Your smile is back.”

It makes me pause. I lost my smile? Someone stole it? I didn’t know. Of course you never do when you go through sad times.

A truck with the logo “Bati-pros” pulls into the grass beside the beach chalet across the sandy road. A guy pulls out a pressure washer.

“Ah,” Martina spits in disgust, “the Billionaire.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen him … Big black limo!”

“Little girl blond,” Martina shoots back describing the girlfriend of the week.

I laugh so hard I spew coffee on the table.

“I’m late for work,” she suddenly says standing up, “but I need to tell you something.”

I look at her. She has this way of being all serious as though she’s getting ready to tell me the secrets of the universe. She eclipses the beauty of one of the most beautiful places God has ever made.

“Your smile looks good. I am glad it is back.”

She hugs me and I think about Oliver yesterday. “You are different from last time,” he said. Now my friend Martina is agreeing with him.

We embrace again and I kiss her on both cheeks as the French do.

Then she walks inside my tiny little studio.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Cleaning your room,” she laughs.

And I just smile.

Orange

I am floating face down in the aqua blue water of Orient Bay.

It is how I wake up.

At 5:50 in the morning, the sun is shining through the windows of the tiny studio that I’m staying in. Crawling out of bed, I hit the “on” button of the coffee pot and stumble to the Bay, squinting my eyes because of the bright orange ball hanging over the ocean. Wading in up to my knees, I just fall forward and the ocean gives me a full body kiss.

“Your words seem happier when you’re down there,” a friend wrote me yesterday and it is hard not to love it here … especially when I can wake up like this.

When I need air I stand in the Bay dripping wet and survey what is around me. Waves break over the reef in the distance. Boats are moored in the Bay. Green Cay, Pinel and Anguilla are in the distance. Mount Vernon is green and dotted with condos and houses at the other end of the beach a mile and a half away. And the ocean … well … it is the most beautiful ocean.

The sun turns from orange to yellow as I stand there.

I fall back down into the water.

On the soft powder white sand of the beach people are talking drinking coffee … or rum. Some are exercising. Couples hold hands as they walk wearing nothing but smiles. By 6:30 a beach day is in full swing. Back home on Tybee Island the sun isn’t even up yet.

Standing again I study my finger nails which grow at the speed of light here. I’ve checked this out with other people and it’s true. I’m not sure why but they do.

I make my way through the sand back to my tiny studio that is literally on the edge of the beach. A white tub filled with water is beside the sliding glass doors and I stick my feet in it to wash the sand off. Angela, my friend the maid who tries to teach me Spanish when I’m here, has left a bath towel just inside so that I won’t fall on the slick tile floor.

I pour myself coffee and sit at the heavy wooden table and study the beauty of it all. It is a wonderful way to start a day.

Yesterday I made my way down the beach to have lunch at my favorite restaurant here, “Orange”.

“Micheal,” yells Oliver when he sees me in his thick French accent, so it comes out as “Mikeeeelllllllll.”

We shake hands. Then everybody who works at Orange comes over, calls me by name, asks me how I’ve been and shakes my hand. It’s all very French but the floor of the place is sand … it’s literally built on the beach so my bare feet are comfortable.

I don’t wear shoes when I’m here … unless Conner or Carlos makes me go somewhere and then it’s just flip flops. When I get home and have to put shoes back on, its … painful.

Oliver tells me how good I look. I tell him that he’s just working me for a bigger tip. He laughs and replies, “No, No … you are different than last time,” and he is all serious and is ignoring everyone else in the place to give me his full attention as only the French can do.

I love Oliver and his tip just got bigger.

“So tell me,” he commands.

And I do.

And he brings me food without me ordering.

I turn on my bar stool and study Orient Bay. The sun sprinkles Hope diamonds on the water…they are blue somehow. Oliver gives me another drink and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“You look good. Better than last time,” then he winks and smiles. “Is it love?”

“You French people,” I laugh. “It’s all about love right?”

“What else is there?” he replies with indignation.

“Ummmm,” I shrug. He’s got a point.

Thinking these things, I contemplate my day. After a morning at the beach, I think that I’ll go to Orange and spend some more time with Oliver and my friends there … with my feet in the sand … as I eat … and think about love … which may be orange …

Extraordinary

“Have you ever considered,” asks Reepicheep the gallant sword swinging mouse in ‘The Chronicles of Narnia’, “that extraordinary things happen to extraordinary people?”

He is trying to console Eustace Smith the selfish brat who lets his greed get the best of him by putting on a golden bracelet that turns him into a dragon. Eustace put his own desires above others and that always does you in. In the end he has the chance to redeem himself by putting others first and he does.

But Reep’s question is a good one. Have you ever considered that extraordinary things happen to extraordinary people?

I think so but you have to be open to it. You have to be willing to becoming extraordinary and then doing extraordinary things.

Sadly, most of us don’t.

We settle for ordinary.

We stay in the same place though it doesn’t challenge us to grow. We remain in relationships that are stale and stagnant because that’s what we’re expected to do. Routines never change. Jobs become a boring means to support what we have, though not necessarily what we want.

Standing in the Atlanta airport yesterday I was talking to my son Jeremy. Since graduating college he’s pretty much done the things that were expected of him … he was a teacher and coach ... bought a nice house … kept the grass cut … helped his wife Marie do the dishes … paid his bills on time.

And while a lot of good came out of all of this … so did a lot bad. Jobs can be lost. Storms cause trees to fall on houses. There’s never enough money at the end of the month. Routine can lead to lethargic living. Depression can set in.

So they decided to blow it all up. Sell the house. Get an apartment in town which is what they’ve always wanted anyway. Go back to school and become the family’s first Ph. D. Throw caution to the wind. Do extraordinary things which will lead to extraordinary results!

Later in “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” a little girl says to Lucy, the young heroine Princess, “When I grow up I want to be just like you.”

Lucy has been struggling to grow up to become beautiful like her sister. She doesn’t think she is and has fought through the temptation to make herself into something other than who she is.

She puts her arm the little girl and says, “No you don’t. When you grow up, you want to be just like …you.”

And that’s the thing. When we embrace ourselves and live up to the potential that is who we really are, then extraordinary things begin to happen. It often leads to leaving homes, relationships, jobs, safe routines and the same old ordinary expectations that are placed on us.

I was laughing with Jeremy. “I know right? Here I am heading back to St. Martin to hook up with a friend just … to have fun. I should be working. I should be home. I should be saving the money. I should be continuing this healing that I’ve been doing emotionally. I should stay in place.”

But I didn’t. To hell with all of that!

And I’m proud that my son didn’t either ... or his sister who is in Italy for six months with her fiancée ... or his other sister who has always defied societal expectations.

Like them, there is so much more that I want out of this life before it is no longer mine. I’ve had a lot already, much of it extraordinary but …there’s more.

I believe that God wants to have all of the life that we have and not just parts of it. I want a new career that is more satisfying and rewarding than the last one. There is a girl out there with a Mona Lisa smile that I’m determined to hold onto. There’s more of the world to see that I haven’t seen.

Pausing I look up into the canopy of long leaf Palm Trees that I’m sitting under. Coconuts are plentiful in them. Pink blooms are in the bushes across the sandy road from where I am. The Trade Winds of the French West Indies is light like the blue in the sky. The warm air embraces me. I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving that I am here.

It is simply … extraordinary.

Troppo

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.

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.

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.”
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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.