Glorious

"You look terrible," Cheryl said as she crashed into the living room and plopped herself down between Sarah and me.

I felt terrible. After a great New Year's Eve night where we played in the band surrounded by the best of friends, someone planted a bomb inside of my head and blew my sinuses up.

While they talked, I took a hot shower and tried to breath.

"You look better," she said when I came out. "Let's go."

So we made our way to Marlin Monroe's for the Sunday afternoon Oyster Roast. The place was packed but Johnny O, Judy O, Julie-Just-Julia and Ronnie had saved us a table.

"Thanks for the introduction," Johnny O said as he waved at me with one finger.

I was to have introduced him in Bar Church that morning but cosmic events got in the way. My beautiful daughter Kristen kicked the door in yelling, "Why is there no parking on this damn island? Why is the Breakfast Club closed? Why are so many people trying to get into the sunrise? AND ... I've got boyfriend issues!!"

She sits on the side of the bed and lets it out.

We have breakfast.

Then that's about all I can accomplish so I fall asleep on the sofa, only to have Samuel Adams who plays damn good live music on the island, break into the house to wake me up. Monique is with him and tells me something about parking tickets. I have no idea what Sam was telling me but he was happy about whatever it was.

They leave and I fall back asleep until Cheryl breaks in.

Dedra broke in at some point. I was asleep so I don't know.

It's hard not to have a good time at Marlin's and we did, feasting on oysters, grouper, and a burger. I ask Johnny O if he'll give me away at the wedding which will either take place on a boat, in a back yard with tents, on the beach or ... in Vegas. Everyone seemed very opinionated about it.

Then it was back home to the sofa and I never mounted another rally but fitfully slept. The bomb planted inside of my head turned out to be a mind field and explosions occurred all night.

But I want to tell you something. This New Year's Day is so incredibly different from those in the past. I'm taken care of and fretted over. Love showers on me like soft summer rain. Laughter erupts often. Long thoughtful conversations take place as the future is planed. The Jesus magnets on the refrigerator hold new pictures in place that capture moments of happiness and joy. Little girls dance on it.

Even though I'm sick at the start of the New Year, I wouldn't trade it. Too many good things have happened last year that are the foundation of all of the better things that are happening this year.

"What we need," someone said at Marlin's, "is a party."

"On a cruise ship," someone else said.

"Let's go to St. Augustine," was next.

"Or Vegas."

I smile and hold a hand under the table struck by the wonderfulness of it all. Like everyone else there are things to get through, unpleasantness to contend with, work issues, disapproving people, Board Chairs who choose to remain anonymous ... and exploding sinuses!

It's glorious though ... simply glorious.

A Very Happy New Year's Day

Why are Church services being held on New Year's Day?

This is lunacy!

Who's capable of real worship when they're so hung over and tired?

Never mind ... that's most people on Sunday mornings.

I really wouldn't care except that Johnny O is "preaching" at Bar Church this morning. His wife Judy O has already said she's not going. This is confusing as I think that Sarah and I are supposed to play in the band. Dedra will surely be there. I have no idea about Sean and Wen.

The last time I saw them was a few hours ago when Dedra slowed down to 35 Miles-per-hour and threw us out of her van in front of our house.

We had a good time though. We were in the band last night for the New Year's Eve celebration at Bernie's. Unlike the disastrous Christmas Eve concert ... last night we were pretty good. We did two sets and ended with "Free Bird". Cheryl stood and swayed with her Bic lighter.

Sarah looked incredibly hot as the lead singer. Sean is cool as always. Gordon had on a tuxedo. Johnny O was throwing drum sticks at people. Samuel Adams played lead and told the rest of us what God had told him to tell us. I danced and played guitar at the same time.

The place was packed! And they were happy, singing along and enjoying the music.

Of course they were also drunk. It could have been Alvin and the Chipmunks and they would have loved it.

Nevertheless, I am sitting here with a hot towel on my head, on the Beloved Back Deck with Goddess. It is almost seventy degrees, I'm wearing a UGA tee shirt and nothing else, bouncing around Face Book. The coffee can't go down fast enough.

Somehow I am scheduled today. How in the hell did that happen? First there is Johnny O at Bar Church. Then there is the Polar Bear Plunge at noon (ok to all of my dear friends who are freezing there asses right now, I need to say ... HA!). Then I think we obligated ourselves to return to the scenes of last night's crimes for leftovers though that part is fuzzy.

What I do know is that this year is already far better than last year.

Or the one before that ... and even the one before that!

I was talking to my kids the other day. All three of them expressed the same thought. "Hey Dad, we just want you to be happy."

They'd witnessed all of those years of me giving it all away. Helping the homeless and the rich who have screwed up kids ... playing the game with politicians who just take far more than they give ... kissing funder's asses and sharing camera time with the reporter who wanted the interview.

Anyway ... I told Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea ... I'm very happy!

For the first time, in a long, long time.

I hope you are too.

Happy New Year!

The Family

I was dancing with Sarah, Judy and Wen and we were in Doc's Bar.

I can multitask with the best of them.

We were in a huddle of sorts, arms around each other and swaying to Roy singing "Beach Music" songs.

It's a warm Spring night on the next to the last day year and the "family" is celebrating.

We started off at Bernie's so we could listen to Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, do an acoustic set. It didn't last. Gordon Hill, who plays the best mouth harp ever, showed up and joined him. The family sat there laughing and enjoying one another.

Then for some reason we lost our collective minds and wandered into the "Geriatric Ward" also known as Doc's. But the music is good and the drinks are cheap and we danced.

What a year it's been!

Last year at this time United States Homeland Security forced me to leave St. Martin and spend New Year's Eve at home. I was in a perpetual state of shock. But ... the family was coming together then. Cheryl, Jodee, Johnny O and Judy O, Dedra, Samuel and of course Sarah ... throughout the year we were born.

The actual birth was the week after my birthday in Julie when they all threw a birthday party, the likes of which the island has never seen ... and that's saying a lot given this island!!

Since then ... it's been this moveable feast!

God have we had fun!

Then we adopted Seana and Wen ... maybe they adopted us ... who cares ... they're in!

It's not all about the parties though. The changes that we have been through ... and the ones we are still going through ... well those are the ties that bind us all. Every single one of us is either going through or has just been through ... deep shit.

But God we love each other!

And God has given us ... NOW.

And She has given us one another ... NOW.

And sometimes you know when God is being active.

So ... on behalf of the family I want to thank God!

I love these people with everything inside of me.

Not Like It is Now

Wearing several layers of clothes, a three day beard on his face and alcohol on his breath he entered the Bank of America building on Johnson Square in downtown Savannah. Immediately after walking through the doors, he took a left upstairs to the second floor where the Executive offices are located. There is a Bullpen of large oak secretary desks with pretty secretaries sitting at them.

"May I help you Sir," one suspiciously asked.

In truth she was familiar with suspicious looking men entering the Trust Department to meet with Joe Daniel, her boss, so that he could manage their money.

The homeless looking man said nothing. He took another left in front of the second office and walked inside.

Joe was sitting at his desk, chewing tobacco, spitting into a silver chalice with his initials engraved on it.

Startled, because he was used to keeping people waiting until he was ready for them, Joe looked up from what he was doing, spit in cup and said in a shaky voice, "May I help you?"

The man just stood their staring at him.

"Can I help you?" he heard the secretary ask outside.

Then another man wearing several layers walked inside and stood beside the first one. He stank and had stains of dried mud in his hair. He said nothing.

"Can I help you?" Joe asked repeating what the secretary had just asked.

Then a third walked in ... a fourth ... a fifth ... a sixth

The exasperated secretary looked over her shoulder. Everyone who worked in the Trust Department of the Bank of America were huddled in a corner preparing themselves for the robbery ... or the murder that was about to happen. She called Security.

A seventh homeless man entered the room. Most menacing of all, he wore a dirty black Trench coat and carried a wooden club. The Secretary stared at him and before she could ask, he held a finger to his lips ordering her to stay quiet.

She left her desk and hugged the huddle of co-workers in the corner.

Strolling into Joe's office, the seven were complete. Joe was gripping the arms of his chair, staring wondering what was going to happen.

Then it did.

"Happy Birthday," the seven sang in unison. "Happy Birthday. Gloom and Doom your life is done. Happy Birthday."

Wide eyed Joe sat there staring.

When they'd finished the birthday greeting, they filed out one at a time. Silent. Never speaking another word other than the macabre singing of "Happy Birthday."

When the seventh one left. I entered.

"Hey Joe!" I said with glee.

He was sitting there sweating and looking like a ghost.

"Gotcha!"

He called me a Son-of-a-Bitch as I left.

He was the President of the Union Mission Board of Directors at the time. I was the CEO. We played jokes on each other. It was my turn to get him ... and I did.

And that's the way it used to be.

It's not that way anymore ... and that is sad.

Joe called me recently and we told all of the old stories. We laughed a lot. He asked about the assholes who run things now. I told him that they are meaningless people. We made promises to get together which we may or may not keep. Life has moved on.

But before it did ... it was something. We built a lot. More were helped. We cared about each other more than we cared about ourselves. We laughed a lot. We played jokes and broke rules ... and changed a city.

Not like it is now.

Great Expectations (Or Not)

"What are you wearing" my boss Russell Bennett asked me?

Shrugging my shoulders I replied, "I dunno."

"You are not going to embarrass us," he chided. "I've seen the way you dress. Blue jeans with a coat and tie in the pulpit. Tennis shoes! It's just not acceptable!"

"I'll find something," I said turning.

"Come with me now," he commanded and he drug me to some store in downtown Louisville where I was measured for my first three-piece suit. I had not worn a suite since I was eleven. Russell was pissing me off.

"You would have wandered down in the clothes closet where you give out stuff to homeless people and found one," he said as the man stuck one end of a tape measure against my crotch.

It was true that the clothes closets was jammed packed with suits for homeless people. As a matter of fact, more suits are donated to the homeless than any other article of clothing. They have really wide lapels and some are even crushed velvet. These are just the things that people need to get out of homelessness.

Several days later, he took me back to get the suit.

The reason is I'd been asked to be a key speaker at the Annual Meeting of the Women's Missionary Union of the Southern Baptist Convention ... at the Southern Baptist Convention. Russell was determined that I meet his expectations and look the part.

So I bought an ear ring.

When I showed up to give the speech, a diamond stud was in my earlobe. There's a picture of me somewhere waiting to on stage in front of several thousand people wearing the suit, the ear ring and a really big grin.

Then God said it was "Show Time" and we took the stage. The guy sitting next to me was speaking right before me. He was a foreign missionary or something. He kept staring at the ring in my ear. Then he got up and gave one of the most boring speeches ever given in the history of the world.

Have you ever watched hundreds of people fall asleep at the same time? It is something to see!

Then I got up, ear ring and all, and God liked me that day. I talked about the poor and how they are God's gift to us so that we may be kind to them. I told stories of my friends Chester who used to live in a garbage dump and of Pouche who lived in alley ways.

And applause came. At first it was a sprinkle. Then it was a roar. Finally it was thunderous. And the thunder continued. Seven times they stood and I stood there not quite knowing what to do. I'd go to say something but the noise was too much so I stood until they sat and then I said something else then it started all over again.

To this day I can see the face of one member of the Women's Missionary Union ... Pillbox Hat and fine blue dress suit, smiling from several rows out as she clapped. The lights were so bright it was hard to see much anything but I could see her with halos surrounding her head.

Afterwards, I remember my friend Bert Breland being pissed because he thought that he should have been the one giving the speech and not me. I also remember Guy Sayles running across the room to bear hug me and throw me around like a rag doll.

Later Russell came up to me shaking his head with a smirk on his face.

"You had to do it didn't you," he asked. "Look at your shoes for God's sake!"

I looked down. Beneath the three piece suit was a pair of black patient leather shoes with massive gold leafs on them and argyle socks. I'd gotten them out of the clothes closet.

He grabbed the ear ring from my ear.

As this was happening, lots of people were coming up and patting me on the back, giving me hugs and asking for my card which of course I had none.

As Russell turned to walk away, I asked, "What? I didn't live up to expectations?"

He shook his head and disappeared into the crowd.

Landing In Trouble

"You need to cut your hair. Stop hanging around that group of people. And don't do what you're doing," she said in an exasperated voice.

I pondered the words before replying.

"Mom that's the exact same thing you told me when I was seventeen."

It's true. At seventeen I had really long hair, hung around people that my parents did not approve of and was in a serious relationship with an older woman (Ginny was a Senior. I was a Junior).

At seventeen, I was mostly in trouble. So much so that it became one of my life's guiding principals. If I wasn't in trouble about something or the other, then I must not be doing something right. So in High School I got in trouble. In college I got in trouble. In Seminary, I got in serious trouble. At the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, where I was employed as a Professional Christian, I was forever being written up. And at Union Mission, there were lots of lectures, Letters-to-the-Editor and Tom Barton Editorials informing the world of the troubles I was in.

It's all come full circle.

I'm in trouble with my Mom again.

My hair is longer than it's been in years (what's left of it anyway), I hang around a tight group of suspicious friends ... and I'm in a relationship with a Junior to my Senior (though neither words are defined the same now as it was then).

Over the past two years, Mom and I have spoken almost daily. Everything about my life changed and like all good Mom's, she swooped into help her oldest child. Then I went on a Sabbatical to put the past in perspective and to plan the future and she was my confidant along the way. She encouraged and she chided. She gave suggestions that were perfect and others that were ignored. Yet we were together all along the way.

Then it started happening.

New patterns started to develop. "Why are you doing that?" became the first thing said in many of our conversations.

In other parts of my life, I struggled to answer that question. I'd fumble words, try to find logic, be politically correct or ... just grow silent. I'd crumble to the heaviness of the expectations of others to be ... whatever it was they thought I should be. I'd conform when I knew better.

I have no problems answering the question anymore.

I'm following my heart.

And following your heart always lands you in trouble.

Looking Forward

"Looking forward, all that I can see is good things happening to you and me ... I want to live like a free roaming soul on the highway of our love."

The wooden music of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young fill this Christmas Eve morning on the Beloved Back Deck. A fire is in the Chimania to knock off the slight chill of the morning. The ocean sings carols of Good "Tides" of Joy and Cheer. All is calm and bright this morning. Goddess loves the fire and snuggles next to it.

Aromas of stew cooking fill the house on the other side of the sliding glass doors. Inside Christmas music is softly playing. The tree is lit with colored lights and the kids stocking hang though they themselves are all scattered to and fro on the face of the earth. It is a warm and inviting view and it is only slightly warmer inside than out but the sun is just starting to climb above the Palm Trees.

Last night night we went wassailing, meaning that we went to a gathering of dear friends though we didn't do any caroling. So we did shots instead. There was a spread befit of good King Wenceslas, story telling, gift giving and ... then "da kiddies" got drunk and caused a scene but what's Christmas without a little drama. But then again we live on an island. There's drama everywhere.

This morning is holy and bright. It's the first time in seven years that I've been here for Christmas and ... it's nice. I miss St. Martin and my friends there. I could use the additional twenty degrees that is there but this is pretty damn nice too.

I think God sees all of this and decides to say something to me. So it was Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young that pops up on Pandora on this glorious Christmas Eve, with a fire blowing smoke, and they bring prophetic greetings from on high.

"Looking forward all that I can see is good things happening to you and me ... I want to live like a free roaming soul on the highway of our love."

Then the sliding glass doors burst open and the roaming soul hits the road.

Riding the Christmas Wave

For years ... decades really ... I was in charge of planning the holidays for hundreds of people. Hundreds of volunteers and sponsors were involved. It started several weeks before Thanksgiving and ended the day after New Year's. It was a crazy whirlwind of activity! To be honest Thanksgiving was more for the volunteers than the people with no place to go. So the volunteers were thankful but the homeless were still homeless.

I do love the Old Savannah City Mission's handling of Thanksgiving because they are clever enough to understand that it is really this incredible marketing opportunity. They feed thousands of people in the park who may or may not be hungry. Thousands of volunteers show up. It is a great photo op! Now that's smart. The Mission is thankful the rest of the year.

Christmas was worse. The birth of the Savior means everybody cares about the poor for a couple of weeks and are very intense about it. The givers are cheerful because for once during the year they are actually doing what God commands them to do ... be cheerful givers ... to the poor. Such cheerfulness just make the poor feel worse about things. Depression grows. The suicide rate climbs. Santa Claus doesn't visit everybody. But the cheerful givers are blessed.

One Christmas night I was leaving the "celebration"we'd had. In the Grace House laundry room I heard a noise. It was like a fight. Alarmed, I fiddled with my keys until I found the right one, stuck it in the knob and opened the door as quickly as possible.

The homeless man was making love to the homeless woman on top of the dryer.

"Hey Rev" he said without pausing. She said hello too.

How does one respond?

"Merry Christmas!" and I shut the door and let them ... celebrate.

By the time New Year's rolls around all of the cheerful givers have given out ... except for my dear friend Chuck Courtenay, the famous musician. He'd put on a New Year's Eve party for the homeless playing songs with his lovely wife Vicky grabbing them to dance. He brought food and those were the best nights. Everyone was feeling the same thing. Last year sucked! God I hope next year is better! Let's dance!

{Chuck. I never thanked you enough. Thank you.}

Then I just couldn't do anymore. I burned out on trying to make it all special for everybody. I'm not Norman Rockwell though I love his paintings of the ways that things should be ... but they're not. It took me a long time to learn that.

By this time there were enough people for me to pass things over to ... so I did. And I went to St. Martin. Christmas was white sand, aqua blue/green water, Trade Winds over the reef, Santa hats and steel drums. The cell phone rang with a lot with people wanting me to make decisions on the Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's celebrations back home.

And I did ... but I had no more heart to give. It was all gone ... but once you give you heart ... people keep wanting it .. and if they don't give you theirs ... then you wake up one day and realize that yours is gone.

This year is different.

I'm riding the Christmas wave.

Dolphins jump behind me in the brown Tybee waters that make our seafood taste better than anyone else's. I'm not in St. Martin. I'm not in the homeless shelters. I'm sitting under Fran's thousand shades of green with the ocean singing loud songs.

But yesterday, I was in the nursing home playing guitar with the Samuel Adams band. We'd given everyone Harmonicas and old people in wheelchairs where sucking in and blowing out and ... smiling and singing and crying. I played in front of a woman trying to blow and sing and laugh at the same time. Grabbing her hand I said, "Let's Dance!"

She was in her wheelchair.

"Nobody's asked me in years," she said with tears of happiness.

So we danced.

And so this is Christmas.

It is small and intimate ... tiny and thoughtful ... humble and holy ... little ... like a baby in manger.

My friend Wen took a picture. I am leaning over dancing and smiling. The old woman sits in wheelchair flashing the joy of Christmas on her face.

Were he still alive ... Norman Rockwell would paint this.

The Light of Arthus (Winter Solstice)

It is the longest night of the year. The Winter Solstice or as the Druids named it "The Light of Arthur" the time of death and rebirth. At one point in his life King Arthur pulled the sword out of the stone and Camelot was born. Later, he stuck it back in and we've been waiting on Camelot ever since.

The sun, and the light in our lives, seems to be going away. The Druid prayer is "Cast away, O man and woman, whatever impedes the appearance of light." In the darkness, they believe that light will come again. A candle is lit symbolizing this belief ... Things will get better. It can't stay this bad.

Jews light Hanukkah candles.

Christians light Christmas Trees to chase the darkness away.

It's funny, Jesus was born in the Spring but the early Church knew that the Druids were onto something so ... to symbolize the "Light of the World" entering the Darkness and lighting our lives ... they moved his birthday to the Winter Solstice time.

All of that to say, I am sitting at the Breakfast Club with my friend Whitley sipping coffee. He looks at me and, "Tomorrow the days start getting longer."

I stop reading the Savannah Morning News and stare at him.

Politically, Whitley is far right of Attila the Hun and Ronald Reagan immediately assented to heaven prior to his death. That is normally what Whitely talks about. I ignore him most of the time (unless we're on our bicycles together ... then it is a different story).

Seeing my confused, questioning face, he says, "Today is Winter Solstice."

Who knew Whitley is a Druid?

For a lot of people I know, this year has sucked.

The economy remained in an Outhouse. Political leadership (an oxymoron!) got worse! Relationships went to hell. Jobs were lost. Everyone who had a certain amount set aside for retirement lost 40% of what they had. The rich got richer. The poor got poorer.

We talk about it we all so want better days ahead.

So ... Happy Winter Solstice. This is the end of the worse of it all. Arthur returns to the stone and pulls it out again. Camelot returns. The days grow longer and in the words of one of the greatest Hymns of all time ... "Here Comes the Sun."

The Druids did the funniest thing to express their convictions in believing that better days are upon us. On the darkest, longest and coldest night of the year ... they entered the woods, took off their clothes ... and danced.

Just like lighting the candle ... they showed what they believed in spite of the realities of what is around them.

I love the Druids.

Just like the Jews.

Just like the Christians.

And in my house, Goddess and I have the lit tree, lighted candles, and ... we dance.

Oh "Tides" of Comfort and Joy

Standing on the beloved back deck, the ocean is roaring a few blocks away and I'm mesmerized by the sound. The tide is high and "Blondie" lyrics are running through my head. "The tide is high but I'm rolling on. You're gonna be my number one, my number one."

It's a beautiful December day with bright sunshine and temperature pushing 70. I'm barefoot staring at the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. "This is the way that winter should be," I think to myself. To hell with Christmas snow!"

I stare through the sliding glass doors at the Christmas tree on the other end of the house with it's colored lights and am struck by the contrast ... Palm Tree? ... Christmas Tree? ...

As if that merits serious consideration.

This will be the first Christmas in seven years that I spend in the United States. The rest have been spent on St. Martin and I have countless messages from my dear friends there asking when I'm arriving. White Christmas there means sand. The powdery kind. With warm Trade Winds kissing the reef before the aqua blue/green water kisses the shore. Normally, I'm standing there with my feet in that place where the water ends, sunk into the wet sand, beer in hand, I-Pod blasting in my ears, nodding at passerby's wearing Santa hats but nothing else.

Now that's Christmas!

"Seven years" I think to myself as the waves continue to sing and the sun continues to beam.

Seven times seven.

The Year of Jubilee.

Before God got around to thinking about having a son and birthing Christmas, the celebration was the year of Jubilee. It's Old Testament stuff. Slaves were set free because in the end God doesn't believe in slavery. Land that had been bought or stolen or confiscated by the government was returned to the original over (and it all started again.) Everybody got the chance to start over.

It all started when someone would blow into a Ram's horn and, I imagine, all hell broke lose! It was the forerunner of Christmas morning when presents are ripped open. Back then, it was everything about the way that you'd been living was ripped opened. You were re-born and got back the things you'd lost. Being owned by someone was obliterated because you were set free. There was dancing in the street.

God's greatest gift came in the Year of Jubilee ... the chance to start over.

From bad relationships ... meaningless jobs ... unfulfilling places ... discrimination ... unrealistic expectations ... people you don't really like ... people who don't really like you ... marriages that no longer do anything for either ... from not not forgiving yourself.

If you follow God's logic here (and She never has to logical because ... she's God for God's sake!), Jesus was born and Christmas was created so that we could all be forgiven for all of the mean things that we do to ourselves and each other whenever it's NOT the Year of Jubilee!

These things run through my mind as I listen to roar of the waves, in bare feet, with sunshine washing my skin golden.

Last year at this time it was 23 degrees with a Twenty-five knot wind blowing from the northeast. I was freezing, lonely and sad. I fled to another Christmas in the Caribbean.

I'm not doing that this year (though I will be going back sometime).

I don't need to.

The Tides are telling me that this is the Year of Jubilee.

Tides of Comfort and Joy.

Staying Away from My Past

One of the funny things about Face Book is how easy it is to connect with people who meant something to you even if it was just for a brief time. Yesterday, out of nowhere, was an instant message from Marv. Years ago, I was in my office at Union Mission working ... music blasting from the radio, he walked in for his appointment.

"You like Santana," he asked?

And it was indeed Carlos Santana's "Shaman" filling the room.

"I do," I replied as he took his seat.

Marv sat down smiling and said, "I do too."

So the both of us just sat there and listened to really good music together.

That is what I remember about Marv. He was homeless, living in Grace House, and we grooved to Santana that day. If he ever got around to asking me for anything I don't remember what it was.

Anyway, out of the blue yesterday, he was messaging me on Facebook reminding me of then. He's doing fine now, living in Effingham County, married and with kids and happy. He wished me well and I wished him well and that was that.

Earlier in the day Ben Barnes, former God of banking, Union Mission Board member and dear friend, and I talked on the phone. He'd been trying to track me down for days but I've been lying low ... staying away from my past. He began telling me of a visit to Union Mission because his wife Bettye had been asked to do something and I interrupted him.

"Hey Ben, lets not go there. That was then. This is now. I'd rather talk about now."

There was silence for several seconds before he asked if I've talked to Herb or Philip.

"No," I told him, "but my daughter Chelsea just graduated from the University of Georgia." Then he moved on to telling me about his grandsons and we made plans to get together next week.

Then Marv wrote. And Henry sent me a You Tube video of George Carlin's "Dealing with Homelessness" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNHIETXh4Vw). Then Kenneth sent me a message. Jimmie showed up at Bar Church yesterday where I was preaching.

These are all people who used to be homeless but aren't anymore. I knew them then and I know them now. They are very intentional about staying in touch. So are a lot of people who are still homeless. They go to the library, wait until a computer is available, log onto Face Book and get around to messaging me.

They make me talk about then ... but from a "now" point of view.

Our lives were intensely intertwined. It took a lot of people to make Union the incredible thing that it was. I had deep relationships with hundreds of people. Some said I was like a "son to them". They've gone away. So have the people I worked with. They're busy with their own lives and making things that were once whole separate. And the politicians are all busy looking after their own opportunities for "continued service" and I'm no longer in a position to assist them so I don't hear from them.

But the homeless people remain.

They remain relentless.

Though I can no longer do the things that I used to do, they remember when I could.

And they let me know.

And it is humbling when they do.

And it teaches me a lot about people who really are good ... and people who are not.

God and Each Other

Back in the day I was a preacher. Inexplicably I was in charge of a church and in the end we ended up doing all right. We turned Sunday School rooms into apartments so homeless people could move inside, turned the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub and had the "Bob Dylan" pew.

There were a lot of Dylan fans who came so they sang together during the hymns mimicked his singing style. So "Amazing Grace" came out like Dylan would sing it.

"Ah...MAZ...ing Grace ... how sweet .... the sound."

They were hilarious.

We also danced in the aisles, played lots of unplugged hymns way before MTV launched "Unplugged" and once a year we'd close the church and go on a retreat. I'd always hang a "Go Fishing" on the front door of the church while we were gone.

Towards the end of my time there, I got invited to a lot of places to preach. Once in Knoxville, Tennessee after I'd finished a woman stood up in the middle of the congregation, crying and wailing. She said something about how everybody should listen as the Gospel had finally been preached.

I was never invited back.

Another time in Kansas City, I was in the middle of my sermon when this man yelled out, "THE POOR WILL BE WITH YOU ALWAYS!"

To which I said, "Finish the verse."

He didn't say anything.

"The poor will be with you always so that you can help them ...but you won't always have me."

I was never invited back.

I don't preach much any more. Now I give speeches and honestly I'm giving less and less of them. But this morning I'm preaching at Bar Church. I think this is my third or forth time. We meet in a bar and the bands really good. There's a brunch for those who have don't have much. The congregation is this rag-tag collection of people who normally wouldn't be caught dead together ... though most know what everybody else did on Saturday night.

There are no pews, carpet, baptismal pool or even a cross hanging anywhere. We do have really cool tee shirts though.

It reminds me of something my favorite writer of all time Frederick Buechner once said, "They make you wonder if the best thing that could happen to many a church might not be to have its building burn down and to lose all its money. Then all that the people would have left would be God and each other" (Listening to Your Life, Harper, 1992).

That's all we got at Bar Church ... God and each other.

Oh ... and really good music.

Bar Church Magic (Practice)

It is a warm and pleasant December evening. Stars blaze in the pitch black sky above the vast dark ocean with its waves singing in the night. We pull into the parking lot on Izlar Street which is just off the "Combat Zone" of Tybee Island. One block away, the highest concentration of bars and tee shirt shops lay in wait for party people but here on this little quiet lane there is a sanctuary from the craziness of night time beach living.

Reaching inside of the car I pull out my guitar. At one time I was pretty good. Then I took a thirty year vacation from it. When my friend Mitch Wesley showed up last year, he shammed me into retrieving it from the back of the closet where it rested. We played old songs and my fingers were so sore.

Then Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee along with Gordon Hill, insisted that God had told him to tell me to start playing at Bar Church. I think God talks to Sam more than She does the rest of us. She's forever telling him to not play that verse, add a solo where there hadn't been one before or invite me to say something on the spot. Of course, God doesn't tell the rest of us any of this, so ... we just try to follow Samuel.

This has been going on for weeks now. Ever since the beloved Dawgs of Georgia were slayed by the Philistines of Louisiana, we've been pretty steady in Bar Church. And we've been in the band! My fingers have now calloused over and every week they seem to remember things that they used to do.

God had told Sam to tell the rest of us to do something that we'd never done before ... practice.

So we all showed up at his house. God also told Sam to take a shower before we got there and he evidently enjoyed it so much he remained until the hot water ran out ... leaving us pounding on the door. He had sofas on his porch so I was pretty cool about it all. I sat on the couch and waited. You can't rush God ... or Sam.

Eventually he let us in. Dedra immediately disappeared into back to participate in some holy smoke. There's a lot of holy stuff in Sam's house. We tuned guitars and put music in order. Sarah searched for her notes. As soon as we started playing, Sean and Wren showed up with cupcakes. You can't have a religious service without the breaking of the bread.

God had told Sam to tell Sean to play bass in the band. Sean had no choice. {Mitch Wesley, on the other hand, doesn't listen to God since he retired.}

As soon as we started to play, Davy the drummer rushed in screaming and scaring the Holy Ghost right out of all of us. Nevertheless, the band was assembled for its first practice. Well ... except for Gordon ... and Joe ... and Jean-Marie who obviously opted out of listening to God.

Then we launched into the first song, which will be the last song at Bar Church tomorrow. As soon as we started, God started telling Sam stuff and Sam actually passed it on to the rest of us. "Start here. End there. Everybody sing this." So we listened and the first time we did it like God had told Sam for us to do it ... it was magic.

We recognized it as it was happening. I looked at Sean who was looking at me and smiled. Sarah and I exchanged winks. Davy pounded away. Nobody was certain what Dedra was doing. Sam was smiling as he played with his eyes closed apparently still in conversation with God about the order of the service.

God suddenly told Sam to tell us to take a break. So we did. Sam went to the computer and started transferring money. I told myself to bring Sam my stock investments so that God could tell him to tell me what to do to maximize those babies.

It was back to practice after the money-changers had finished. Though Davy either had spontaneously combusted playing the drums or been called to heaven. Either way, he wasn't there anymore. Then it was cupcake time which was followed by a carnivore's delight.

We came home happy, fully prepared and knowing what we're going to do in Bar Church tomorrow.

Well ... until God tells Sam to tell us what we're really going to do.

Graduation(s)

The small styrofoam cooler was between my legs under the black gown that matched my cap. It was awkward walking into the "Hanner Field House" but I had mastered it. Once I got to the chair in the right row where we were all seated in alphebetical order, I set it on the floor and took off the top. Reaching inside, I pulled out the six pack of beer, popped the top and handed one to the guy sitting next to me.

I didn't know him but I immediately liked him. He had writting in white letter on top of his cap "I NEED A JOB!" followed by his phone number. All of the parents, brothers, sisters and family members sitting up could see it. This guy was goning to go far.

I opened another beer for me and we toasted each other.

Then I settled back to enjoy my college graduation.

Eventually, my row stood and we walked across the stage. I was handed my diploma, walked off the stage, back to my row and while the graduates in front of me turned to resume their seats, I kept walking.

Those waiting to be called to the stage laughed and then started yelling "Boo!"

I walked straight to my car and the last I saw of college was in my rear view mirror.

I'd loved it all but it was time to move on.

The first time I graduated from Seminary the Baptist were confused about the spelling of my name. During the practice some professor kept saying that couldn't be right. I kept saying that it was. When I got the diploma the next day my name was spelled wrong. Baptist are always going to believe what they want to believe in spite of the facts.

The second time I graduated from Seminary my attorney had to attend. The Dean of the School of Social Work and I were having issues. During the final year I'd spent as much time in her office as I had in class. At the same time I'd already gained a reputation as speaker and had traveled the nation giving speeches. In fact, the Dean of the School of Social Work and I were on the same stage at the Southern Baptist Convention to give a speech. She went right after me. I got seven standing ovations. She didn't get any. Our relationship soured soon afterwards.

And that was the last time I graduated from anything.

Well ... unless you count church, marriages, jobs, the Breadfast Club softball team, the Tybee Island Beach Bums, and country music.

In a little while, I'm attending my daughter's graduation from the University of Georiga so I'm in a bit of a rush. I have to go to the store. Buy a Styrofoam cooler ... you know the rest.

Sometimes you Can always get what you want

On a beautiful island day I will climb into the car for the four hour drive to Athens. My baby girl graduates from college tomorrow. It all happened so quickly. She was just born yesterday. Or so it seems.

She is named after a line from the Rolling Stones "You Can't Always Get what you want." "I went down to the Chelsea drug store ..." Because she was born on Tybee Island the spelling had to have "SEA" in her name and we were very insistent on the birth certificate about this.

And there's no question she's beach girl! I've logged more time sitting in the sand with her than I have anybody else in the world (and that's saying a lot!). Before she could walk I'd sling her on my shoulders and we'd top the crosswalk on 10th Street and find our spot. She'd roll around in the sand as I sat there as we basked in the sunshine with the waves singing to us.

This continued until she went to the University of Georgia.

Before she did, we went diving in the Keys, called the Vatican one night while we were there, and ... became friends as adults.

I'd see her a lot during football season but then not so much throughout the rest of the year. Some in the summer, but she was off creating her own life. She's engaged and the funniest thing is that her fiancee Sam goes to Georgia Tech and she is moving there in a few weeks. I asked if she would be hanging UGA flags as curtains in windows but Sam had already anticipated such a move and told her no.

I think that she'll do it anyway.

Conventionality is not a family trait.

It's an interesting point of life when you understand that all of your children are grown. How did this happen? I am much too young to have grown children.

Nevertheless ...

She remains fun to watch. She always has been. I would sit late into the night watching her sleep in her crib with her entire head cradled in my hand. She served me a thousand cups of imaginary tea. Together we overcame Jellyfish (though she remains scared by the whole thing). The travel bug got passed on and she lived in Italy for a while and is feverishly planning a trip to Greece. And the girl can throw a football with a perfect spiral (just ask Ken Wade who she hit squarely in the face one day when he told her that girls can't thrown).

Tonight we'll gather for dinner in Athens and celebrate all of the things that have been.

Then tomorrow, I sit and watch her march across a stage and into her life.

I love you baby.

Keep doing it the way that you've been doing it.

Life's A Beach

I did a drive-by of Roma's 80th birthday party last night. After an especially blissful day and my first attendance at an elementary school band concert in years, I stopped at Marlin Monroe's to pay homage to the self-proclaimed Queen of the island. I've known her since before she assumed the throne. She is dear to me and we took walks together after I found myself "suddenly single" and she mostly listened to me let it all out.

Then I started letting it in.

"So let it out and let it in, hey Jude ... begin ..." the Beatles instructed.

That's what I did.

I was three hours late to the party so everybody was pretty much hammered when I got there. There were hugs and admonitions and a lot of laughter. I bowed before the Queen who sarcastically proclaimed that "it's nice of you to show up. Now get out!"

There was a lot of love in the room last night.

You gotta love her though. From Homerville, Georgia, the former school teacher found her way to an island and completely transformed who is. In her sixties she wore alter tops, shorts and a bandana. In her seventies she became a tourist attraction, sitting in her over-sized chair in front of Fannies-On-the-Beach. God only knows what her eighties hold!

Standing there at one point, I smiled and enjoyed the karma of the night. It was all good. Perfect strangers came up to introduce themselves and explain they think they've found a place ... to live.

Life's a Beach!

It's funny because the phrase originates from a previous phrase ... "Life's a bitch, then you die."

Some really optimistic person knew better. Life's a Beach ... or a mountain top ... or that certain part of the city ... or whatever. It's your life and you only have the one. What do you do with it?

Roma transformed herself from a country teacher in Homerville to the Queen of an island where crowds flocked to pay homage and hear her sing the worst version of "Purple Rain" ever sang.

A lot of my friends are transforming themselves right now. It is our tie that binds. Marriages end while new relationships begin. Jobs disappear while opportunities wait to be discovered. Children leave home and suddenly there is the chance to finally be yourself. Age happens and some choose to remain young until they die ... while others just die a little more every day.

Whatever the circumstances, we're left with a choice.

Either ... life's a bitch ... or life's a beach

I don't know about you, but when I die ... it's gonna be on a beach.

Excommunucation

"He's a real nowhere man, living in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans ... for nobody," points out the Major Prophet John Lennon.

Self absorption is an interesting thing.

This morning while I sipped coffee at the Breakfast Club, a man who has been trying to track me down for a while finally prevailed. He sat next to me and talked. Showing me pictures of his past, he lobbied for me to intervene on things he wanted done but are impossible to accomplish. He an ordered an omelet, cut it up, stuck the fork into it and then held the first bite in the air for minutes ... as he continued talking.

"You better eat," Ryan told him, "it's going to get cold."

So he looked confused for the briefest of seconds. He inspected the first bite and ... he kept talking to me.

Ryan shook his head with a smirk and looked at me. I winked and he shrugged his shoulders.

By now I was fascinated. How long will it take before he eats the food dripping from the fork in front of his face? Luckily, there is clock at the Breakfast Club and it was behind him so I could track this. Jodee was making faces at me as he ate breakfast sitting behind the person talking to me. With all of the preposterous stories I've heard in my career, I've learned to keep a straight face though Jodee tries his hardest.

Five-and-a-half minutes he shoved the fork in his mouth.

That was my litmus test. As soon as he did and couldn't talk anymore, I stood up and slapped his shoulder. "I have to go," I said.

And I did.

Ryan looked at me with a grin. Jodee laughed. Franklin, who is brown, looked at me with his thumb stuck to his ear and his pinky in front of his mouth as though it were a phone and mouthed the words, "Call me."

I came home.

It's funny. For decades my job was to fix things that people thought were wrong. Even now, as I write this, my table is covered with notes of people who've called imploring me to help them get into Union Mission, the J. C. Lewis Health Center and the Peter Brassler Dental Clinic. These are programs that I helped revive or start but no longer have anything to do with.

We excommunicated each other. I have nothing to do with them. They have nothing to do with me.

In my own self-absorbed way, I think the place has gone to shit since I left, though if you talk to the people running things now I'm sure they would say that everything's great!

When I walked into the house this morning, I grabbed a box and started opening drawers. There are all of these framed pictures that used to be meaningful but they're not anymore. So I filled one box and then got another one and filled it too. Then I flipped through pictures and made a pile of the ones that I thought my beautiful daughter Chelsea may want. And another for my beautiful daughter Kristen. Then I noticed there was nothing for Jeremy.

I felt bad.

Carrying the boxes downstairs to trash can, I tossed them in and walk back into the warmth of the house.

Then I looked at all of the newspaper clippings of things I used to do. I throw them away.

Afterwards, I search for notebooks full of things I've written. I throw them away too.

Cleaning the kitchen from the mess made last night, the sun pops up shinning through the sliding glass doors. Fixing myself something to drink, I walk outside on the beloved back deck and kick my shoes off. Warmth has returned. Sitting, I toast Fran's thousand shades of green. Goddess meanders out and lay beside me.

Today is future focused and not past driven. I have lots of things to do that I'm looking forward to. Some will be hard or awkward. Others will be liberating and my cup will overrunneth with joy.

"Hey God," I say out loud. "Thank you for all of that. Some of it really sucked but I'm not going to focus on those things. Most of it was great! But ... thank you most of all for now ... It is so much better."

Amen.

Ornaments

We collect them over the years and they're full of sentimental value reminding us of love and good times ... until they don't.

If you're lucky they always remind you of love but0 this is life and it occurs with more regularity than Coca-Cola versions of Christmas. Still ornaments for the tree are ... special.

Last year I threw the ornaments collected over the years. Actually my Mom and daughter did. I'd fled to St. Martin. When I got home ... early because of Homeland Security issues ... Mom had thrown the artificial tree away because she thought that my plans were in poor taste. I wanted to have a tree burning party in the back yard. Just take the whole damn thing into the back yard, invite my carnival of friends, set the tree on fire and toast the end of what used to be.

The year marched along and there were summer breezes, parties that kept trumping the previous party, new work, Bar Church, then being in the Bar Church band (if we only had a bass player ... Mitch!), travel to every corner of the United States, and a home that continues the evolution into a new home.

Suddenly Thanksgiving was here, the college football season was ending, the weather turned to shit and then ... people started demanding that I get a Christmas tree.

It's best to be honest. When I leave the island of Tybee, an increasingly rare occurrence, aside from the Christmas lights that God has thrown across the sky, there is this boat at the Bull River Marina. The mast is decorated with white lights. A stocking hangs from the mainsail. It reminds me of summer breezes. My kind of Christmas!

In Seminary I paid good money to learn that Jesus was probably born in April or March. Not December. The early Church chose the date to kidnap the perfectly acceptable Druid celebration of Winter Solstice so they would go away and Christianity could continue its worldwide domination campaign.

{I need to say that I love the Druids. They ran naked in the woods to celebrate the Winter Solstice. We're thinking about starting a Tybee chapter. Let me know if you have interest in becoming a charter member.}

So on a cold windy day, I got a Christmas tree, brought it to my Key West influenced house and put on the new colored lights that I'd purchased because my ass got drug to Wally World.

After it was decorated, I opened up the drawer to look at the ornaments that Mom had not thrown out. She tried to be thoughtful about it and she got it mostly right. There was Sarah's bringing of JOY. A large peace sign that Shirley gave me. One from my childhood. Another from Chelsea. A pair of purple thong underwear and another pair of black pair of panties with stars on them.

When I'd finished, less than a quarter of the tree had ornaments.

Then Cheryl made an epiphany carrying a brown paper bag. Inside were ornaments. A creation by Dani and Ryan when they were kids and we all lived together. Flip-flops. A picture of holiness in a frame. Then she disappeared as soon as she came ... but the tree reeked of love.

Then Dee blew in with sponge from the ocean and Beach themed depictions of laundry hanging on a line (lose the laundry at the beach).

Then Cass made me a paper machete coloring of a cat.

Like my life, the Christmas tree suddenly has little rhyme or reason.

But it grows fuller.

Like my life.

The ornaments that remain are the dearest of friends. They are far more than dangling pieces of pretty.

They are Christmas ... the reason there was oil in the Hanuka lights ... and the reason Druids danced naked in the woods on the first day of Winter.

Christmas Island

Perhaps it's because of the limited geography, islands have watery boarders, and it's easy to get from one end of Tybee Island to the other. The drive is only a few minutes. A bike ride from the south end to the north end takes less than fifteen. Depending on the shape you're in you can walk it in under an hour. I suppose you could swim around it but I have no idea how long that would take.

"Everybody who lives on an island is either running to ... or from ... something," Jane Fishman once explained to me.

The trick is knowing who is who.

While my house is nearer the south end it has been the epicenter of activity this weekend. Friday night we had party with my carnival of friends and were having a good time on the beloved back deck. Rocky strolled upstairs which was fine but then these other people followed her route and suddenly there were more of us. Then a friend of a friend who's not a friend at all broke in and silenced the entire party.

So the sign that has hung beside the front door "The Elliott's, Est. 1999" though in face we dissolved years ago, was finally replaced with a new sign welcoming warning.

"Friends of friends may not bring friends!"

Then we ended up at Doc's Bar which is easy to get to from my house. Doc's is Tybee's oldest bar. It's nickname is "The Geriatric Ward" because of the common age of most patrons. Nevertheless it is normally fun and it certainly was then. Johnny O introduced us to a real life "Pocahontas".

After later being questioned about this by his wife Judy O, he responded, "You just don't like the fact that ethic women are attracted to me."

To which Judy O said, "I don't like the fact that you're attracted to whores ... unless they're my whores."

She meant us.

The Carnival of friends.

Yesterday was a blur. We were entertaining as soon we were up. After orchestrating a brunch at the Breakfast Club, we went to Nicki's birthday party. Nicki is the Godfather of the Mafia on Tybee. He owns most of the businesses on the island so we had to go. He's also the bails bondsman on the island so ... we had to go. You never know when you're going to be one of those ... running from something.

Then it was back to the house where the Bar Church band had scheduled a practice for this year's Christmas cantata. Only three showed up and the choir director was missing-in-action. So we practiced without him until out-of-town quests arrived demanding dinner.

I wasn't cooking again so it was off to Jenny O's "Full Moon Party" at Marlin Monroe's. Platters of seafood, fresh grouper, grilled pineapple and ... two chicken fingers filled everyone. And intense coloring contest broke out. Lots of friends dropped by our table, some bearing gifts. The crowd grew into a frenzy. Dancing was fierce. The music was great.

And in the middle of a mosh pit, we looked at one another and knew it was time to go. So quick goodbyes were given and we escaped the eruption of good times and went back home.

A fresh Christmas tree had been put up for the first time in years. Old fashioned colored lights gave it a glow from my childhood. The handful of ornaments that were not thrown out hang on it. "Joy". A peace sign. Santa Claus swimming with a dolphin. And hand painted "Snoopy" sitting on a snow man that I'd done as kid in Port Wentworth where I grew up. On top is an angel that my beautiful daughter Chelsea made me when she was a kid.

So we sat underneath the tree in the quiet of the night, away from the hustle and bustle of city sidewalks, full moons and carnivals of friends.

The first Christmas has begun.

The Stable In My Heart

"Sad faces painted over with those magazine smiles ..." is a song line that I've always loved. It's especially pronounced during the holiday season. Try as we might to embody a Norman Rockwell version of Christmas, it often ends up being a different kind of painting.

We drag out the plastic Jesus, the inflatable Snowman, the electric icicles and the synthetic garland. It's either white lights, colored lights or lights out. The scent of a fresh tree slowly dies in the stand or a spray can seeks to achieve the same. The radio blast endless versions of the same songs to make the holiday bright or make you want to get a knife.

The stuff that happens in kitchens is amazing. Some of the greatest culinary achievements of all time occur. These are balanced with the worst culinary failures. Countless last minute trips to the grocery for things long forgotten take place. Of course the lines are long ... and the one ingredient we need will be the one item not on the shelf.

There are parties to attend, families to reunite, presents to purchase and return. Some of the greatest acting occurs as many of these presents are opened ... and some of the most heartfelt moments will also occur as the paper is ripped off the box.

Churches are gearing up for the big services. Choirs are practicing cantatas which will be sung once and then forgotten. Ministers are salivating at the annual chance to "be the center of the universe for twenty minutes" as my friend Guy Sayles once put it, in front of the largest audience of the year.

The poor are actually remembered during the days leading up to the birthday of Christ, then they're put away with the rest of the decorations. Nursing homes are decorated and the visitation traffic is up, but then it quickly is down again. Hospitals try to diagnose good cheer but most prescriptions will go unfilled.

It makes me mindful.

The beginning this was so different. Joe the construction worker was hauling his pregnant wife back to his hometown because the government had ordered everybody to that. Of course Joe's family had all moved so there was no place to stay. Hotels were jacking up their prices and if there was a place to call a room they rented it. Lobbies, Broom closets, laundry rooms and even Stables out back were all suddenly revenue generating. It was good for the economy.

But at the same time ... the stars shined brightly in the sky whenever the clouds recessed. Wise guys came and went. Choirs sang ... some heavenly and others straight from hell. Mangers will full or empty

I turn and look at the lone Christmas decoration in my house. It sits beside the flat screen television. It is an ornament of a house with snow on the roof and a Snowman holding a reef standing in the front door as to welcome everyone end. It is warm and fuzzy. Above the front door are the words "New Home 2011".

It is that.

It's all new.

Christmas and how I celebrate it is being created on a daily basis. The family I'm doing it with are not blood related though we've grown to love one another deeply. The old has been thrown away and the new is being ... created. It's like a baby being born.

It's funny. I'm very much caught up in the moment. Not the Spirit of Christmas so much, but the understanding of what I have, who loves me and who I love. I perceive the opportunities lying in front of me while continuing to chronicle the good and the bad of the things I've done. This Christmas is much different from the past several which were much different from the several before that. Next Christmas will be a cosmic shift from this one.

But I'll tell you something ... the smile on my face is not a painted one ... or one from a magazine ... and it's certainly not anything Norman Rockwell could ever comprehend ... because it was given birth in the Stable in my heart.