Living Prayer

"Justin never knew the rules, Hung down with the freaks and ghouls. No apologies ever need to be made ... I know you better than you fake it ..."

Fog hangs low just off the Beloved Back deck making love to Fran's thousand shades of green. Staring at it through the muted light coming in the sliding glass doors of the kitchen, my mind keeps slipping off somewhere. My chin planted firmly in my hand, I'll come back from whatever universe I was in to realize that I'm still sitting here, part of the fog.

Mellon Colly and the Infinite Silence is streaming through my computer. My son Jeremy sent me this years ago. He and I have exchanged music forever. His beautiful sister Chelsea is part of the cultural exchange too and we all keep introducing one another to new things. Music flows through our bloodstreams.

It's the perfect batch of songs for a morning like this.

I'm listening to ... 1979 ... when my mind returns from wherever its been and I realize that was three songs ago. How did I miss it? Where did Scotty beam me? I guess I do believe in out-of-body experiences.

A power transformer blows somewhere on the island. The fog's lovemaking is wrecking havoc as people prepare for work and school. Sirens from Fire Engines are in the distance.

"And we don't know where our bones will rest, to dust I guess, forgotten and absorbed into the earth below ..."

Melancholy ... sad, gloomy or depressed.

I'm not though.

It's more wishful thinking ... beliefs and making decisions according to what might be pleasing to imagine instead of appealing to evidence, rationality or reality.

"Do you pray?" I was asked last night. "I never see you pray before a meal," the little girl asked me. "Do you know that God is over 400 feet tall?"

"That's a lot," I replied looking at her. "I kind of live a prayer," told her. "I don't think God cares if I say grace or not. Sometimes I do when its important to other people. How do you know how tall God is?"

It's in some book titled God's Promises for your every need.

I'm much more into Wishful Thinking ... "Now faith is the evidence of things hoped for, not seen."

This morning, I believe this is why Scotty keeps beaming me up and I continue to miss the melancholy music and lose the fog. I'm leaving the place where are words are necessary or rules are needed ... to go to the place where freaks and ghouls are one with everyone because ... we are all freaks and ghouls.

When my grandfather Ira Vernon Carver was dying, he lay in the bed in his own bedroom, unable to get out of it. It's the same bed that I heard him kneel down beside every single night and pray our loud. They were long prayers with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on the blankets and he'd call name after name. He sweated prayer. Then he'd get under the blankets and sleep. The next morning, he would live prayers.

During his last days, I'd go see him and sit beside his bed and he'd tell me everything he'd done that day. Without ever leaving his bed ... he'd go to Charleston because he needed to talk to somebody he'd prayed about. He described heaven to me once and I asked him how he knew.

"I just got back," he explained in all seriousness.

"I'm with you Granddad," I remember saying, holding his frail dying hand.

This morning I really am.

Beam me up Scotty.

We've got stuff to do. Things to make real. Fog to cast out. Dances to have.

Amen.

Hey Scotty! Hurry up! Get me out-a-here!

Date Night

It's Greg Allman's fault.

After a lovely dinner at Avia watching the happenings in Ellis Square, we made our way to the Civic Center for his concert.

It was date night and we were making the most of it! Sarah dripped beauty on the sidewalk,s leaving those we passed with wide eyes and gaping mouths. I was happy and we were both enjoying the overwhelming charms of downtown Savannah.

The city has not been a destination of choice over the past couple of years. It consumed my life for more than two decades and I think the place is better off because of it. Then it became a road that I drove through to get to the airport.

The times that I did make my way into the city it was a chore. There were endless hours of negotiations with attorneys at Hunter, McClean, Exley & Dunn, homeless friends who love me still wanting to meet for coffee and advice, and there is this Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous who just won't go away and remains an evil pain in the ass.

There were exceptions of course. Long lunch conversations at Soho with Stacy Jennings. Popping into the office of Shirley Sessions and Kim Fitz just to say hello and catch up. Mary Ann Beil continues to educate me on the merits of Celtic Christianity (meaning she shoves it down my throat over lunch). Returning to Johnny Harris' for lunch with Ben Barnes and Herb McKenzie.

For the most part though, I've avoided the city. I gave it everything I had and the city took it.

I'm an international Beach Bum these days.

I write every morning and help people throughout the world try to do things better the rest of the day. Well ... when I'm not walking Goddess, sitting on a sad little holy dock, naked tanning on a beloved back deck, attending Bored meetings, gathering with the Carnival of Friends, doing something for Bar Church or sticking my toes in the sand.

But it was time for a date.

It's impossible to have a date on Tybee as every time that we go out we find ourselves suddenly surrounded by people we love. Even if we don't go out, they break into the house (right Dedra? Twice so far today and it's not even 9 a..m.).

So we made our way alone into Savannah. God blessed this date because we found parking ... good parking! For free! We had the most romantic of dinners at Avia. We strolled the city squares. We picked up our tickets. Making our way inside the Johnny Mercer Theater, we stopped for cocktails. (OK one of the great things about Savannah is that you can have a cocktail party anywhere and at anytime. You can carry your cocktail with you anywhere you want to go and it is not against the law. New Orleans is the only other city in the United States that is so enlightened. Otherwise you have to go to the rest of the world for moveable cocktail feasts!).

Anyway we stood in line because the economy is so bad that the Savannah Civic Center only employs two bartenders for 17,000 people. I didn't mind. Sarah was dripping beauty. I'm happier than I've ever been. We're getting ready to see freaking Greg Allman!

Then it happened.

Tybee had followed us. O Johnny and O Judy (not to be confused with Johnny O and Judy O) tapped us on the shoulder and took our picture. It was good, they are our friends ... though I fail to understand the whole Davidson thing.

Then we saw a great show.

Afterwards, O Johnny and O Judy broke into our car to ride home with us.

A little after midnight, they invited us in for cocktails.

Tybee is significantly more liberal than Savannah.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, Newt Gingrich apparently did something. I don't know what ... divorced somebody else while staying married at the same time or winning a primary. I'm not certain but I do know that Jack Kingston supports whatever it is.

Then Date Night came to an end.

Well ...

It did and it didn't.

I can't wait for our next date!

Fractured Days

It's been forever since its been like this. The house is full of warmth and love though it is quiet and early in the morning. I'm watching the sun blaze through Fran's thousand shades of green. The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles at me. Goddess sits on the Beloved Back Deck with her myriad of stuffed animals eating the treats that I've given her.

Jack Johnson sings softly in the background (sorry Stephanie Lotti but sometimes it's just right!).

This late January day is going to be 74 degrees full of warmth. The ocean breezes are light and tickle my face with salt. My bare feet dangle from the high top chair. Underwear lay unused in drawers. Life is good today.

I was talking to my friend Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island with Gordon Hill and Davy, yesterday. Sam's in the midst of his 100,000 Miles Check up. After years of working hard, making people happy, raising children, finding love and losing love ... the pipes burst in his body. So he's being treated by the body mechanics who call themselves doctors and is getting a major overhaul.

Sometime today, those of us who love him are going to gather so he can tell us what God has told him we're doing at Bar Church tomorrow. We have no idea. Only Sam knows what God wants. He tells us occasionally.

Anyway, Sam and I were talking yesterday and I suggested having him lowered in from the ceiling during the middle of the service. It's very Biblical.

"And they came, bringing to Him a paralytic, carried by four men. And being unable to get to Him because of the crowd, they removed the roof above Him; and when they had dug an opening, they let down the pallet on which the paralytic was lying. And Jesus seeing their faith said to the paralytic, "My son, your sins are forgiven." (Read Mark 2:3-5.)

Now on Tybee, I seriously doubt you could assemble four men at the same time who could carry anything ... except beer.

Removing a roof is likely out of the question ... unless enough beer is involved.

It is true that Sam is laying in bed a lot these days though I don't think he's ready to move to a pallet. And he's not paralytic though he can't lift much anything right now, including his guitar.

When I suggested this Samuel burst out laughing and asked if he could borrow one of my loin clothes. Sarah immediately suggested Fig Leafs. Dedra immediately went on a search for rope.

"We're guaranteed no day but today," God told Samuel to say.

The lyrics from RENT immediately rang through my head. "There's only now, there's only here, give in to love or live in fear ... no other path ... no other way ... no day but today."

Today is our day to do with what we will. It is a gift directly from God. None of us asked for it but we all share it. What we do with it is up to us.

Then Rocky and Bullwinkle came to me. Well not them, but the Fractured Fairy Tells from that show. Traditional fairy tales were taken, fractured and re-told ... hilariously so. (You can You Tube them!)

Today is God's gift to us. Some of us have it pretty easy today. Others not so much. Either way, it's our day to fracture or to celebrate.

I've had a lot of fractured days.

Unless something unexpected drops on me from out of the sky, today's not going to be one of them.

No Day but today.

The Bitch In the Story

I'm don't know how she knows but she knows.

I cheated on Goddess.

I went out with another dog. He's a hyper, likely on serious drugs, thief with crazy psychedelic eyes and a Weimaraner. He can chew through a twenty-seven pound bone in three minutes. When the dog jumps on you ... which is often ... he can knock you down. With his paws on your shoulders and his wild drug crazed Charles Manson eyes, you realize that he is taller than you ... by several feet. Then he runs around like a Ninja Banzai until it's time to jump on me again. Then he repeats all of this. I'm pretty sure he has a Meth-lab in his dog house.

As he drug me down the street, a SUV pulled up, rolled down the window and a lady asked me, "Is that Oscar?"

Pulling back with two hands on the lease to stop the wild crazy maniac from either selling Meth on the Street or buying more Meth on the Street, I answered and told her that it was.

"He broke into my house once," she said staring at me sympathetically through the window. "I had tenderized Pork Chops on the kitchen counter as the grill got ready. Oscar broke in and ate them."

From all of my years working with addicts, I know that they often resort to stealing to satisfy their habit. It dawned on me that Oscar likely has a record and may be wanted by ... the Dog-Catcher, Savannah Metro Police Force, C.I.A., and Homeland Security.

Turning, I let the dog drag me back to Sarah's.

When I got home, Goddess somehow knew all of this. She had busted out in the middle of the night. Now I need to say a couple of things about the Goddess. First, she is one laid back dog ... beautifully so. If she does drugs, she smokes Pot. She is mellow and loving and always has the munchies.

Second, she can open doors. When I leave the house, I have to secure the sliding door lock on her doggie door, make absolutely certain that the sliding glass doors are locked, and then drag the trash can in front of both ... because ... Goddess knows how to shove the trash can out of the way with her nose ... slide the sliding doggie door lock open ... unlock a sliding glass door by jumping on her hind legs and using her paw to unlatch the latch and then slide the door open.

That's quite the accomplishment for a dog smoking marijuana.

When I got home, my room mate Rocky asked me if I'd seen Titus, her cat. Apparently Goddess had scared Titus off, which is funny because Titus can kick Goddess' ass.

Anyway I told her that I had not. Then she told me that Goddess had broken out last night ... again! Goddess' high had worn off and she was barking like she was in Cold Turkey.

So Rocky broke into my side of the house to let Goddess back in and re-secured the doors, locks, chains, trash can.

Goddess seemed alright with it, waited on Rocky to leave, burned another one and slept through the night.

When I got home though ... she was pissed and was a real bitch about it all. She glared at me with those beautiful golden eyes as though asking, "Where the hell have you been? Why do you smell like that? You've cheated on me! WITH A BOY!"

I had nothing to say, sliding by her with my head hung low.

I spied several empty wine bottles lying next to Goddess' mat on the floor. Crushed out doobies were everywhere. Empty Doritos bags littered about.

Then Dedra walked in.

"Did you lock the lock on the sliding doggie door?" I asked.

"No why?" she said not really giving a damn about anything other than combining cheese eggs with chicken soup.

She reminded me of Oscar.

Then it hit me.

There is as bitch in this story and I know who it is.

I Love Me Too

"Well, I love you," she said trying to console me.

"I know," I replied, "I love me too."

And we busted out laughing.

But the truth of the matter is that ... I do.

I mean there are some things I don't especially like about myself I guess ... I should drop a few pounds, get back into running every single day, spend more time taking Goddess on long meandering walks ... stuff like that. But I love me far more than I like me.

This is not a narcissistic confession.

I love other people completely too and give of myself graciously to them.

"Do you call everybody Baby?" Laurel asked me not too long ago.

We were in a restaurant and I'd called the waitress Baby. Her sisters stopped whatever they were doing and stared at me waiting for my response.

"I think so," I said. "Well not everybody ... but a lot of people."

They looked at Sarah exclaiming all at once, "He calls everybody Babe"!

It was completely foreign to them. Their formative years were in western New York. Mine was the coast of South Georgia, where the River meets the Sea. Savannah is far more cosmopolitan than most southern cities and I'm convinced it is because ships from around the world have always been coming and going since the place was born. We've always had everything thrown at us and we've always been pretty accepting about it all. While other cities bombed themselves during the Civil Rights Movement, in Savannah we mostly had cocktail parties and drank our way through it (Sure there were a few days when we strayed away from this approach but, for the most part it's true!). There was no real violence here and when black people occupied the beach one day, the whites mostly watched, shrugging their shoulders saying, "That's cool. Let's get a beer."

The point is, I'm pretty free with my affections. I don't suppress much and I certainly don't bottle things up. I have two sleeves and use them both to wear it well. If I love someone, I let them know. I take strangers at face value, accepting them and the starting point is usually me calling them Babe, Baby, Dear, or Luv.

I grew up in a family of huggers. Well ... not Dad so much, but the rest of us. Mom was forever grabbing us in the middle of whatever David, Angi and I were doing and giving us hugs. She'd tell us how great we are. We hugged so much it's amazing we got anything else done. Dad got screwed up in the war when it came to showing affection (a wounded Prisoner of War rarely makes complete recoveries) so whenever he let his emotions show ... he cried.

I inherited both traits.

I'm quick to hug.

I'm quick to cry.

It's the way I was raised.

I don't take much for granted anymore. I'm more laid back than I've ever been and that's saying something given that I've always had the ability to perfectly balance laid back with incredible intensity. I can still muster intensity when I need to, but I like laid back more.

And I like saying Babe.

Sure it can get you sued these days ... make you lose your job ... make lawyers happy and wealthy ... make Sarah mad at me ... and stop three little precious girls in the middle of a meal bringing them to a dead halt when I do it.

But you know what?

I believe in love.

Love is all you need.

Might as well say it.

Damned Horoscopes!

I am not a follower of Horoscopes but every morning at the Breakfast Club, Chris grabs the newspaper from me to read his. He is a Cancer as am I. Most of the time he reads it quietly to himself, makes a face and walks away without saying a word.

Sometimes he says to me, "We're in for a day," and walks away cussing.

Then he'll just turn the newspaper upside down as he's on one side of the counter and I'm on the other, and stuff it in front of my face pointing a finger on the few sentences that determine what my day is going to be.

Yesterday was one of those days ... meaning one of THOSE days ... I had tons to accomplish and literally got nothing done.

AND THE HOROSCOPE NAILED IT!

It said something like, "Today is a day to focus on the ones you love. Do not let work and the agendas of a day redirect your attention from the things that are most important. This will lead to romance and love."

So that's what happened yesterday!

I didn't get a damned thing done ... yet I got everything done.

It started on the beloved back deck where it abruptly ceased only to resume again in the kitchen and then late into the night on the sofa in the living room. I never read an e-mail. I didn't talk to anyone on the phone. There were a couple of Face Book messages that I saw late in the evening ... one from Micah, Son of Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one) who is coming this weekend with his lovely bride Mary Catherine. The other from my friend Jessica, a writer who wants to do a story on Bar Church. Dedra also sent something that I saw before I went to bed.

The rest of the day was literally spent ... focused on one thing that was more important than all of these other things ... though those other things are important too.

Chris was off this morning.

I skipped the Horoscope section when reading the paper.

I got a lot to do today.

Giving more attention to the most important thing while also catching up on those other important things that were totally neglected yesterday.

Damn Chris and his Horoscopes!

The Truth

"And what is truth?" Pilate asked.

Everyone leaned forward waiting for his answer but silence filled the room. Jesus had nothing to say.

Theologians argue that there was no need for an answer. The truth was standing before Pilate. The response was obvious.

But I wonder what was going through Jesus' mind as Pilate looked at him waiting and as everyone in the room anticipated something from the Jews latest controversial figure. It was apparent that he done enough to upset a lot of people or he wouldn't be standing there in judgement. Whatever rules he had broken had been Jewish ones and Pilate only administered the laws of Rome and Jesus had broken none of those.

Then again, sometimes there is simply nothing to be said.

Last night I lay in bed counting my sins. It's the opposite of counting sheep which makes you fall asleep. Counting sins keeps you awake. There were some big ones of course ... breaking promises, failing to hold up my part of the deal, or purposely ignoring someone who obviously needed me. These were easy to count.

The smaller ones ... not telling the truth, being selfish, wanting what I don't have rather than celebrating all of the wonderful things in my life.

The funny thing is that is I were to weigh them, each would weigh the same. And sometimes you get called on it and ... there is nothing to say. There's nothing worth saying. You can either scream that it wasn't your fault, do your best to defend yourself or not give a damn and walk away.

Or you can let the truth of it speak for itself.

In Jesus' case, it made things much worse before anything got better. He was flogged, beaten, ridiculed and then killed which is about as bad as things can get.

But then it got better. Somehow he overcame all of these things to renew his significant relationships, bringing them out of their own despair, fears and doubts. They learned to love on an even grander scale, deeper and more holy than anything they had experienced before.

There are things in my past that I wish I'd have done differently. There are mistakes I make in my present that prevent me from being everything that I really want to be. Every day I wake up committed to growing deeper in my love for the significant one, my friends ... to do better work that makes a difference, to encourage and to be honest. Sometimes you are reminded that as far as you may have come, there is still a ways to go.

And there is nothing to say.

You beat yourself up, hear the ridicule of others and crucify yourself over the things that went wrong.

Then you reach a point where you either are swallowed by it and you die a little to all of the things that really could be. Or you just keep trying and do your best to not repeat the sins of the past. Things may get worse but you pray they get better. I've a lot of "worse" in my life. It still taints the ME that I'm struggling to become but I keep trying ... because I still believe with everything within me of all of the love that is ...

And that's the truth.

Martin and me

It was in the sweet Auburn district of Atlanta and I was sitting at a heavy scared oak conference room table. The chairs were heavy oak too but the red leather cushions were cracked and ripped with the white stuffing poking through. Sitting in one, I wore blue jeans, sneakers, white shirt, tie and blue blazer. My hair was long and I was a baby minister representing the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel.

The room reeked of the past. A faded framed photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. hung on the wall above table. A cross hung at the other end. On the side walls were hundreds of framed newspaper clippings of stories about the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Dr. Joseph Lowery sat at the head of the table and was talking about something but I wasn't hearing him. I was taking it all in.

Suddenly it hit me!

"Holy Shit!" I thought to myself.

It's the same as it was when Martin Luther King sat here planning what to do next.

I may as well have been visiting the Israel and sitting in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre ... or Golgotha ... where Jesus was crucified and buried ... then raised from the dead.

I no longer remember what Joseph Lowery was saying to us. Honestly, I don't really remember who else was there. It seems like Ken Sehested was representing Oakhurst Baptist Church. Guy Sayles may have been there too but I really don't remember. There were only a couple of us who were white though.

I do recall being touched by it ... incredibly touched.

It was probably Will Campbell who got me invited. I was a recent inductee of the Committee of Southern Churchmen, a group of white clergy who had been active during the Civil Rights Movement. Will was a good friend of Clarence Jordan (the only prophet Southern Baptist have ever produced) who was a good friend of Martin's. Martin often hid out at Clarence's commune Koininea in Americus, Georgia. Will was the representative of the National Council of Churches to the Civil Rights Movement.

My friend Father Vernon Robertson, a Catholic Priest, was an original member of the Committee of Southern Churchmen and when they were all old, and I was in my 20s, he put me up for membership. I was instructed to place a collect phone call to Will Campbell's house. If he accepted the charges I was in.

I called. He accepted then immediately hung up without saying a word.

I called Vernon and told him.

"That's great!" he said. "You're in!"

Will and I went on to become good friends and he wrote the Preface to my first book which probably was the reason it sold more copies than anything I wrote.

Later that day we went to Ebenezer Baptist Church which was Martin's Church when he was assassinated. Coretta came in and we chatted for a while. I remember we had coffee in a little side room and thinking to myself that I shouldn't have worn jeans. Everyone else was so formal.

That was all a long time ago.

For the life of me, I couldn't tell you why I was there ... or if Guy and Ken were actually with me ... I do remember a lot of young black men hovering around as through they were protecting somebody from something.

But I do remember the holiness of it all. Sitting in a chair that Martin likely sat in. Meeting Coretta for the first time. Touching the stuff on his desk. Touching things that had been Martin's.

Has anybody here seen my old friend Martin? Can you tell me where he's gone?

I know the answer.

Some people never really die. They have have been killed but they hang around somehow, still working ... still making things better than they were ... so I know where's he's at.

He's right here.

Re-Gifting to God

Today at Bar Church there will be several key elements of worship.

First, the band's doing Joan Osborn's "What if God were one of us. Just a slob like one of us ..." This is a great song for any church service and God finally told Samuel Adams to tell the rest of us so we are. Pretty Cool!

Second, there will be a special prayer service for Tim Tebow who was crucified last night. There is no doubt that he'll be raised from the dead but there is serious speculation on if he will still be able to walk on water, heal lepers or turn wine into Gator-Aid.

"Prayer Requests" follow where people call out the names of people they love and are concerned about. I will call the name of "Stacy Jennings" ... whom I pray did not do herself serious bodily damage at the end of the Saints game yesterday ... or kill Skip ... or anybody else who may have been nearby.

The band's doing a lot of lame Happy Jack Praise Songs but I'll be on the back row playing guitar, standing beside Sean on Bass and Davy on drums. What is significant about this is Sarah will be on the front row singing wearing tight jeans as she sings. GLORY!

Then it will be time for another BAR CHURCH FIRST!

We will be ordaining Joe.

This is funny because Joe used to be a minister. The guy can yell HEAL! better than anybody I know. He has also mastered saying the name Jesus in four syllables ... JA-HEE-SAS-AH! He also looks like Fabio with shoulder length blond hair, bulging biceps, and plaid shorts with a black tee shirt.

The reason Bar Church is ordaining Joe, who used to be a minister but is not now, is because the Church of God kicked him out.

He had the audacity to get a divorce.

Scandalous stuff in the Church of God which believes in speaking in tongues, picking up live snakes to prove how much faith you really have and that marriage is life without parole.

At Bar Church, we believe that everybody screws up but God says, "Hey. It's okay. You did your best. Try to do it better next time."

We also believe that people who screw up should hang around one another. So we gather and that's important. It's not what you wear, where you sit or if you smoke. Flip-flops are welcome ... so are nose rings, various colored hair, cleavage, pirates, Bar-Flies, Politicians, bankers and other known evil doers (OK, we've never had a banker attend. Shirley Sessions has attended when she was in office but they threw her out after she came to Bar Church.)

We also serve breakfast, not making the assumption that anyone has eaten, will eat, or rush out to a restaurant to beat the frozen chosen from other churches.

Anyway, we're going to ordain Joe.

It's kind of like re-gifting him to God.

Then we'll play this really lame Happy Jack Praise Music with a really good back beat.

I don't mind though. I'll be on the back row. Sarah's wearing jeans.

GLORY!

Days That Begin in the Night

It was one of those wide awake at 4:00 in the morning mornings. Staring at the ceiling fan go round and round, I turn and stare at the silhouettes of the Palm Trees I can see from my bed. Tossing the other way, Goddess snores as she lies half-way in and half-way out of the bedroom door protecting me from whatever she thinks may come for me in the night. The aroma of Pot Roast in the Crock Pot permeates through the house as it stewes in the kitchen.

I sigh and get up.

Goddess pops her head up and follows me outside to the beloved back deck. It's cold and clear. Stars twinkle and the moon baths the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. All is quiet and still.

"I can go to the Breakfast Club," I think to myself. "Somebody's already there getting ready. The Cook's Coffee is on."

The Cook's Coffee is strong stuff and could be used for multiple other purposes other than waking up for another day slaving on the grill. Given the high price of Air Line tickets I think it should be brewed as fuel for Jet Airliners.

There's been many a sleepless night when I've done this, wandering into the Breakfast Club where the grills are filled with bacon and onions or peppers are being sliced, the music is blaring, and the lights are blazing. I've stumbled in and poured myself a cup of the diesel fuel and sat down. Whoever was cooking or chopping looks up and nods but doesn't say anything. I shrug my shoulders in response and we are all together in the solidarity of a day that begins in the night.

"Not tonight," I think to myself.

I return to the bed, the ceiling fan and the Palm Trees. The tossing and the turning embrace me again. My mind runs like a broken faucet.

Goddess meanders back inside, loudly plops on the floor and sighs out loud for me.

The clock beside the bed shines the time on the ceiling and I watch the minutes slowly pass.

I get back up and turn on the lights of the Christmas Tree which is still up. Lying on the blue couch in the red room I stare at it.

Aside from a few things that my Mom saved from the past, every single ornament on it is a new gift from someone on Tybee.

I ponder this.

"That's apropos," I say out loud.

Then I get up and shower. Throwing on jeans and a tee shirt from St. Martin, I give Goddess treats for guiding me through another night. Jumping in the cold car, I drive to the Breakfast Club where the stools are crowded with others whose days started in the middle of the night.

Sipping coffee, Ryan asks if Sarah and I want to go to a hockey game with him. Wen and Sean blow in a give me hugs and we talk about our kids, mostly girls. Whitley actually appears to be awake. Car Queer is asking where Johnny O is. Philip is standing tall and proud over his coming child. Patti is suddenly interested in Cyber School.

The conversation naturally turns to when we will all live under a bridge together.

The day has begun.

We all just needed one another to get it going.

The Rotting and the Resurrected

Everybody around me is crazy right now.

I'm the only sane one.

Of course, a couple of years ago I couldn't make such a boastful claim.

I was a mess.

The wife had left. I was done with the job (then horrified to watch how quickly what took decades to build was torn apart so quickly). Beaten up, tired, frustrated, lonely and sad ... I was depressed and spent a lot of time alone. Well, Goddess was with me for most of it. I mostly stayed in bed, stared at the stars or lay in the floor.

A handful of friends showed up and I think my Mom made Chicken soup (That last part was totally made up ... My Mom couldn't make Chicken Soup if her life depended on it, which is good, because her life doesn't!). Then Shirley broke in one night. Stacy made me go out. Johnny O and Judy kept kidnapping me. Cheryl sounded like a broken record telling me how loved I am. All of my kids spent more time in the house since I changed their diapers. Sarah was here.

Slowly, I climbed out it. I stood on the back deck one warm morning (sans the clothes), felt the Sun throwing warm on me (after such a long, cold, lonely winter), a clump of trees in the back yard birthed my long dead friend Fran who sprinkled me with a thousand shades of green, and old friends returned from the past.

I discovered the island I'd lived on for more than twenty years. Music came back to my fingers and I play again. Church became meaningful after I'd long lost faith in it. Nursing Homes were suddenly special places to dance. Bored meetings are rarely boring. A Carnival of Friends gave water sports a whole new meaning.

As this re-birthing took place, the past kept coming back demanding to know why I wasn't doing it that way anymore. It came in the form of phone calls from people I'd been close to demanding to know why I wasn't doing it the way that I used to. They made threats ... "People will forget about you! You need to do what you've always done. NOW DAMMIT!"

Goddess and I would stroll over to a sad little only dock and consider their demands. Egrets would fly and my dog would watch them contently. Choirs of Mussels sang cantatas. The Holy Water of the Back River flowed carrying silhouettes of people on Paddle Boards looking like crippled Jesus' walking on the water. The Samuel Adams Band invited me in. A shell of a house became a home again ... one that is still being born.

I learned a new way of listening.

Now I listen to me (a lot of people will say that I've always just listened to me which is true in some senses I suppose but so very untrue in other ways).

This morning I'm pretty content.

That's not to say I've got it all figured out. There's work to be had so the bills can be paid and I can stay here and go where I want. There are families to tend while they birth. They're lots of people asking for ... well what they say is ... "Hey Mike. I'm going through these same things. The marriage is over. The job is done or I'm done with the job. A lot of people I always counted on disappeared overnight. No matter what I do there's criticism. I don't know what to do next ... you're a little ahead of me on this one. Thanks for writing all of that stuff so I know I'm not the only one. What should I do?"

I smile and think back to the angles and the assholes, the choirs and the critics, the daring and the demanding, the saviors and the shallow ... Board Chairs who chose to remain anonymous and the Bored ... the rotting and the resurrected.

I smile and say, "Once Upon a time ..."

When we finish that story, I rush on to the more important one.

"Then there was ... now which is more important than then ... and next is far more holy than now."

Full Moon Rising

Maybe it's the full Moon? I went to Jenny O's Full Moon Party at Marlin Monroe's the other night and ... it was beautiful. The big white orb rose from the sea sprinkling illuminated fairy dust upon the water. Mixed with the salt of the Sea, the fairy dust shown upwards and it was as though the moon and the Ocean were making love ... perfectly giving everything to one another and making each other more than they are at the same time.

God reached down from heaven and grabbed my breath when I saw it ... as though She were slapping me on the head to say, "Hey Stupid! I made this for you. Stop and appreciate it!"

So I did.

I stood there with bare feet in cool sand, engulfed in holiness and the wonder of it all.

Behind me, there was laughter as many sat around a fire blazing from a pit. Good live music was playing. Some danced as though they were pagans in the woods. Smiles were the language of the night. Bar-b-Que was the food of choice. Inside was another fire and football game, but who in their right mind would be inside on a night this ... with a Moon like that.

It's funny how things happen. I think in lyrics anyway. I'm not sure why, but I do. Music surrounds me and normally it's an I-Pod or a radio or ... the song just comes.

Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own ...

The Marcells may have well been standing on the beach beside me.

I swayed and danced a little. I said prayers of Thanksgiving ... for this ... nothing more ... it's all I need. I tapped my heart and threw the love into the sky so that it would reach the one who wasn't with me. I laughed.

Then I returned to my Carnival of Friends though I only remained for a little while. I left them happy as I climbed behind the steering wheel and drove to be with the one who wasn't with me.

That was Sunday. Today is Wednesday.

I sit on the Back Deck listening to the ocean sing with another fire crackling beside me. The one I wasn't with is now with me. The Carnival of Friends gathered last night to celebrate and to plan ... the next adventure. We toasted and laughed. There was a game on but nobody cared. There may have been a fire ... I don't know.

But if everything works out ... we'll all be Sea ... in month's time and the Moon will again be full. Hopefully, we'll all watch it rise from a calm Ocean. We'll laugh as we toast it and then the holiness of it will shut us up. Each of us are rising from the things that used to be ... and we're blessed enough to have each others hands to hold.

Through some unspoken command, we all came together last night to plan Easter.

Not the Church service, but the celebration of our own resurrections ... under a Full Moon Rising.

A Meeting With My Past

I have a meeting with my past today in the form of a lunch at Johnny Harris' Restaurant where I used to have meetings all of the time. It's an old Savannah institution with a reputation of being a "Speak Easy" during prohibition. Later it was the city's premier dance halls with stars flashed on a dark blue ceiling. It remains a popular choice for "Old Savannah" families and politicians. Some patrons sit in the same booth every time they're there as it were a church pew with the family name engraved on the side.

It will be my first visit there in a while. I'm not doing much with Savannah these days. Bay Street has become the road to the airport. After decades of giving myself to the city, I got nothing for it anymore. The waters of the Back River and the marshes that barricade Tybee Island from the mainland offer me a refuge that the damn city never offered.

I have an underwhelming sense of anticipation for the lunch as I watch the sun rise above Fran's thousand shades of green from the beloved back deck. My bare feet dangle from the table as I watch wearing shorts full of holes. The computer is sharing Pandora's music and it makes me wonder ... when she opened that jar all of those centuries ago, letting out all of the evils upon humanity she closed it leaving only "hope" inside.

This morning "hope" is the music of "My Morning Jacket" singing "Librarian" ... When God gave us mirrors, he had no idea ... Karen of the Carpenters singing in the rain, another lovely victim of the mirrors evil ways ...

I don't like mirrors.

I don't like looking backwards.

My past is written down and sits on shelves in books or it can be "Googled" by the Internet savvy.

Whatever it was I've done, I did the best I could. Sometimes it was shitty but most of the time it was good. A lot of the time it was great!

I don't think about it much.

I plan and think about the things I want to do next. Pondering how to do them. Envisioning how it is going to be before it actually is. Feeling it inside of me as it ... becomes me. Holding up my hand as though I'm posing for Michelangelo sculpting Adam being born ... I touch the holy of what is going to be.

But it is Ben Barnes and Herb McKenzie who are dragging me backwards today. It's them so I have to go ... Dammit.

I owe them ... a lot.

Ben is the 92 year old God of Banking in Atlanta and he and I spent a lot of time there finding money for Union Mission and drinking triple malt Scotch in his hotel room afterwards. We build the J. C. Lewis Health Center together and redefined what health care looks like in a city. I love Ben as much as I love anybody and he does me too. He's the one responsible for this lunch. He dragged me down and told me I'm leaving the "damn beloved back deck" to have lunch ... so I am.

Herb and I went through the best of times and the worst of times together. We redefined the way a state provides services to the mentally ill (no small feat in the United States) only to watch it crumble and be kidnapped by people who like things to stay in the past ... people of the mirror. Neither one of us have gotten over it yet and it is awkward when we are together. Though he "loves me like a son" and I "love him like a father".

So I tip-toe into the past for just a little bit today. As soon as I arrive they will be shocked. My hair is as long as it was when I auctioned it off to help Union Mission back then. I'm tanned and will represent Bar Church by wearing Flip-Flops ... maybe I'll wear jeans. I'll put on my Samuel Adams Band tee shirt for sure. I'll be representing.

They'll ask me what I'm doing and I'll tell them. They're very opinionated that I be in charge of something again. I'll tell them that I'm really enjoying helping other people be in charge ... and playing rhythm guitar from the back row of the Bar Church Band. They'll ask me about St. Martin and I'll say, "Well there is this girl" so I didn't go. They'll ask me who and I'll tell them ... then conversation should get really interesting!

Anyway, I have stuff to go. My dear friend Chuck Courtenay needs sponsors for his concerts in Nursing Homes. Jennie in Atlanta needs to recoup everything that her organization lost in the last two years. Street Medicine needs half-a-million. Diane in New York ... well ... I love a challenge.

First, I have to take Goddess for a walk. Then I'll start ... creating ... like I did with Ben and Herb. Most of it will work out. Some of it won't.

But I'm too busy for the past right now though it's fun to look back sometimes ... I guess.

I'm ready for ... next.

To hell with mirrors.

The objects in them are always closer than they appear.

I don't want much to do with them.

The Back Row

was born and raised a Southern Baptist so I have a natural preference for the back row, the pew of choice for members of God's "frozen chosen."

Back when I was a "Professional Christian" in charge of a church, I took out the first twenty-four rows of pews so that everyone would move a little closer to the front.

It did not work.

The Back Row people would have nothing to do with it. They unscrewed their pews from the floor and moved them back to their regular location. This was after I'd done all of the hard work by unscrewing those damn screws in the first place. They'd been in that floor before Billy Graham could shave or Oral Roberts learned how to heal over the fly in his boxer shorts!

So if you can't beat them join them, right? I started preaching from the back row to be closer to the people.

This also did not go over well.

While Preachers think that the real action is behind the pulpit, it's really on the back rows. Couples are holding hands. Some have a hand on a thigh underneath a Sunday dress. Others are settling into the buzz that's hitting them while a few adjust their I-Pods.

There are "traditionalists" too who have magazines they're reading inside of their Bibles. Of course there are always those who just sleep and the Restaurant Rushers who are gonna beat everyone else to the buffet line (though lets be honest ... most are fat and lose the ground they've gained from being on the back row when they "sprint" from their car in the parking lot to the double wide doors).

I haven't thought about any of this in years ... until now.

God, Guy Sayles, my Mother, Bill Berry (not the former R.E.M. drummer but the other one that went to Seminary with me), Johnny O, each of my children Jeremy, his wife Marie, Kristen and Chelsea and Sam, Shirley Sessions, Jan Skutch, Terry Ball and ... a heavenly host of others ... are aghast!

I regularly attend church again.

No one ever saw this coming.

And I do it from the back row.

Of the band.

Playing rhythm guitar and occasionally hitting really good harmony notes, I've been moved around a lot but normally I'm back row ... behind Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, Dedra or "DeLuv" but only because she sucks up to Sam, and Sarah who is beautiful in her tight jeans and makes many a congregation member yell out ... "GLORY!"

It's OK. I like being on the back row with Davy, the drummer. We share secret jokes, do really cool stuff that nobody else can see, and stare at Sarah who is beautiful in her really tight jeans. GLORY!

Sean, the bass player, used to be on the back row with us and was really cool about it. He brought really groovy dance steps to the stuff that we were doing. But ... he sold out to corporate Christianity, pulled the trigger ... rode the bullet ... to the front row yesterday.

Davy and I merely looked at one another as he drummed and I played a brilliant rhythm guitar, shrugged our shoulders and acknowledged another lost soul.

Nevertheless ... Bar Church is happening. Then last night, God summoned me back to the Bar around 5 because Sam needed the guitar that I had. (You must understand that God talks to Samuel first then normally ... but not always .... Sam passes on to the rest of us whatever it was that God said. We're always surprised!).

So last night, I ended up on the back row of the band in the bar ... not to be confused with the Bar Church Band ... playing two sets of pagan music!

It was great.

There is a point to all of this ...

Mitch Wesley!

Eat your heart out.

Oh ...

and ...

GLORY!

Zacchaeus

Speeding through the darkness of Highway 21 in Garden City we talked of injustice that had occurred in our lives. Not the gross sweeping social unfairness and greed, but the purposeful spite of some. Tears rolled down my face and when we stopped at the red light at Grumman Road, she wiped them away.

"Zacchaeus," I said out loud.

Knowingly, she nodded.

He was a "Publican", someone who cared about himself more than anyone else ... his race, his family, everything was about him. A lover of money and saving his own ass at everyone else's expense, he collected taxes from his fellow Hebrews for the occupying forces of the Romans. He was a Son-of-A-Bitch mercilessly taking money from his brothers and his sisters, swearing Pagan oaths ... whatever it took to get ahead. He care less who he stepped on, forced out and justice was a foreign concept to him. He just didn't care about anything other than himself.

For many years, I was blessed to work with great men and women: Ben Barnes, Carole Beason, Herb McKenzie, Philip Solomons, Archie Davis, Joe Daniel, Saul Rubin, John Carpenter and others.

Then one day, I didn't.

I worked with Zacchaeus.

He was fond of telling stories of how he got ahead.

A banker, he was known for arriving hours before the bank actually opened to prove that he was more than anyone else. His work hours became the stuff of legend. Co-workers asked how he did it? His supervisors took notice. His rank rose.

One morning, the President of the Bank decided to arrive in the wee hours of the morning to see for himself what the hard working Publican did. When he arrived, Zacchaeus was asleep at his desk.

When I heard the story it was delivered with laughter and boastfulness. It was the lone day that this had ever happened. In spite of it, his career continued.

Then one day, he noticed a loan that too large that had been granted and the interest payments were lagging behind. He drove to the farm of his customer to demand why payments were not being made. After long confrontations, he learned that the farmer was making no money, had fallen behind in everything, borrowed as much as he could so that his family that he loved so much would not know.

"Well, rules are rules," he was told. "We're going to have to foreclose."

That night the farmer committed suicide.

When I heard the story, he concluded by explaining, "I feel bad about it, but rules are rules."

That's the kind of man Zacchaeus is ... little, narrow, small ... yet determined to prove to everyone that he is superior, confident, always right ... especially when it comes to numbers and how things are to be done.

We were doomed together ... oil and water ... the Angel wrestling with Satan ... love and hate ... peace and war.

Except it didn't end in a draw, like in the Biblical story. The Son-of-A-Bitch won. There was nothing fair-and-square about it. It all happened in private meetings with his attorney Best Friend, phone calls made demands that couldn't possibly be met, flimsy reasons given and ... Zachaeus got what he wanted.

Just like he always does.

In the Biblical story, Zacchaeus climbed a tree to see what all the commotion was about. He had to. The crowd hated his guts for the things he'd done to them and would have beat the shit out of him.

Then Jesus looked at him and said, "I want to go your house."

Jesus would go most anywhere and he didn't care who he was seen with. That's one of the things that made him Jesus.

According to tradition, the little man saved himself in the end. Hung around Peter, went to Rome where the Romans that he'd collected all of that money for ... killed him. For some reason the Church recognizes him as a Martyr.

I wonder about the farmers and the peasants he pushed out of the way to climb that tree. The ones he'd taken money from. The ones who killed themselves because they couldn't pay. The penniless families that were left behind.

Finding a space in the airport parking lot, she looked at me and said, "I believe that it all comes around. In the end justice prevails.'

We sat in silence but love filled the car.

"I believe that too," I said.

Then we hugged in the darkness.

Zacchaeus though, is an usher at church this morning. Making his way to ... wherever the hell he wants to go.

What I Shall Be

In the middle of shagging last night with my carnival of friends, I lost my I-phone. It's probably on the floor of Doc's Bar. We'll see later. It's full of stuff that I want to keep, but who knows?

Life is that way.

Good times, surrounded by my best friends, with good music playing ... things just couldn't get better. Then almost immediately, something screws it up. I don't worry about too much anymore.

I used to.

Back in the day such stuff would send me over the edge and I'd blame the universe for bad things happening to me. I'd ask God, "Why am I being singled out? What did I do?" It was always someone else's fault!

It reminds me of John Lennon's description of the break-up of the Beatles. "It's your fault that you can't play the tambourine that everything went wrong!"

It's really hard to play a tambourine wrong.

The truth is what I did was drop my phone while I was dancing with the person I love. She's far more significant and it was heavenly. Going to heaven has its cost, I suppose. What's an I-phone when I was dancing with smile like that?

I'll go back to Doc's in a little bit and see if someone turned it up or decided to keep it. I've already called it a couple of times and made myself a mental note to change my voice mail greeting ... it sounds lame.

Last night at AJ's, where we had dinner, the obnoxious people who are my best friends were making fun of how old I am. I didn't take it personally. To quote Popeye, "I am what I am," ... which is pretty damn close to what God said to Noah after setting fire to a bush ... "I Am that I Am."

It's a funny word in Hebrew though. Like most Hebrew words, it can mean a lot of different things, though the 16 different versions of the King James English translations of the Bible pretty much keep it "I am that I am."

It also says, "I shall be what I shall be."

Just like God to always be moving forward.

That's one of the things I love about Hebrew, which is of course, God's chosen language (sorry every elected official in America, it's not English) ... there is no sense of time. I was what I was. I am what I am. I shall be what I shall be.

I've been a lot so far. I've been everywhere I've wanted to go ... well ... not Bora Bora or ... or Fiji ... or the great Barrier Reef ... but I'll get around to it.

You only live once.

I refuse to die without doing all of the things that I really was born to do.

I shall be what I shall be.

What I was last night ... was blissfully dancing with this smile on the dance floor of Doc's Bar. So what? The cost of touching heaven is an I-phone?

Today, I am what I am ... I-phone-less... but blissfully happy.

Tomorrow ... I shall be what I shall be ...

If I were you ...

I'd duck.

Marriage Rules

"Come on, take your shirt off!"

It was Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island and is the founder of Bar Church. He breezed by as a man was on mission. I'm sitting in front of my computer for past three hours writing a business plan that will become the guts of numerous grants for an organization so it was time for a break.

He was already sitting in the warm January sunshine on the Beloved Back deck, long hair hanging around his shoulders, smiling at Fran's thousand shades of green who were gushing all over him.

Taking a seat, he flashed his million dollar smile and gave me a "High Five".

"What's Up?" he asked dripping with sincerity.

So I told him. It hadn't been the best of days, but I was somehow being productive anyway. Immediately he commencerated and told me that his had been a waste so far. "We're only given today anyway," he said giving me another High-Five.

As he did his cell phone buzzed. His cell phone is always buzzing and it reminded me of all of those years at Union Mission when mine never stopped. Now I mostly leave it on the counter and check it when I walk by. I'm no longer whipping it out like Gunslinger in the Old West before the first vibration has even had the change to cease.

"OK," Sam said. "We can do that. It'll be this afternoon."

Hanging up he explained that Bar Church is helping pay an electric bill for a waitress whose been sick and unable to work. A $300 Electric Bill would have her homeless in no time. "Pay the bill, the rent, food or the medicine?" are hard choices to make when you're sick. Luckily though, her daughters are school age so she can sleep while they are learning how to things differently.

"That OK?" Samuel asked in all seriousness.

"You kidding," I replied?

We High Fived again.

"Your Mom still want you to cut your hair," he laughed.

"Yep," I answered and we slapped hands yet again.

"Y'all still getting crazy mail?" he settled back again.

"I Corinthians 7:10 and 11," I said.

"ME TOO!" he laughed, shaking his head.

At a time when the early Christians were just getting started, St. Paul was pretty serious about the relatively small group staying bound together until Jesus could take over the world. They were far outnumbered by the Romans, Greeks, Jews, Pagans and those that didn't anything. Paul was one of those "safety-in-numbers" believers.

"We got to stick together gang," he told them. "So don't get divorced. Even if your husband is beating the shit out of you ... or your wife is emotionally torturing you ... stick it out for Jesus. It's more important to pretend like you're happy than it is to be happy. So ... 'a wife must not separate from her husband but if she does she must remain unmarried or reconcile with her husband. And a husband must not divorce his wife'."

It ended being an excellent strategy for the growth of early Christianity. The numbers grew, not so much much because of the rules ... but because of the fact that God was willing to break them. Leaving heaven to dwell among us, not acting like a God at all ... spreading love and forgiveness all around ... even to whores and politicians.

Of course, St. Paul was single. What does he know about marriage?

Besides he thought the world was coming to an end at any moment. Why bother starting over again?

Samuel and I discussed these things then gave another High Five.

He grabbed my guitar and showed me the songs that he wants to do in Bar Church this Sunday.

His cell phone buzzed again. He took the call. Looking at me, rolling his eyes with a devilish grin, he stood and told me that he has to go.

"I promised Bob that I would take him to visit his son who's in jail. Poor Bob's not going to be here much longer and he can't drive anymore."

And he left.

Grabbing my guitar, I sat on the Beloved Back Deck and played Fran several songs. I said some prayers. And sun shone on me ... like it shines brilliantly on Samuel and the rest of us sinners and screw ups who get up and keep trying in spite of it ... or what others say to us about it.

In spite of miraculous accomplishments, St. Paul made rules.

God breaks them.

The Life of Words

You know it as soon as the words leave your mouth ... "Ooops! That was a stupid thing to say!" and normally it is. As much as you'd like to reach out and grab them before they hit the hears of who you're talking to ... once words are out, they're out. You can't take them back.

Sometimes the result can be glorious if the words are abrupt expressions of love, desire, friendship or utter honesty. Most often though, they are some reaction to what is taking place in front of you ... a fight with the significant other, a disagreement with a co-worker, audacity that the police officer pulled you over when people sped right past you, or you receive the bill at the restaurant and have sticker shock.

In Hebrew, words are not spoken ... they are born.

Luckily, the vast majority born are the mere function of communication. "Honey, do you want me to turn the heater up?" ... "Do I take or a right or a left at this intersection?" ... "Want to take the kids to McDonald's tonight?"

Holy words are sometimes born that refuse to die. "Four score and twenty years ago" ... "Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country" ... "Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul and mind and love your neighbor as yourself" ... and the holiest of words are "I love you."

The most meaningful words are the most basic of sentences. "I love you" ... "I can't stay anymore and am leaving" ... "We can do this!" ... "I hate you!" ... "Trust me!" ... "We'll make it" ... "I quit!" ... "We have each other."

Prayer are really just predicated on the most basic of words ... "Oh God!"

That's it!

Every other prayer ever uttered is really elaboration of this guttural, initial response to ... either something very, very bad ... or something very, very good. The rest of the prayers usually have a selfishness about them ... "Give me this" or "Take away that."

Sometimes there is no need for words. You just look and know. Eyes do the talking. Touches convey everything. Hearts say it all as they break ... or as they leap in joy.

It's best to be honest about it. In the last twelve hours, I've lived through ... and uttered ... each of the categories of words that are born.

In the last couple of years, I've either said or have heard ... every single phrase in each context described above.

This morning I sit her watching the sun rise over the ocean. The cold winds of the past several days are blowing elsewhere. Staring out of windows that need cleaning, I am quiet ... thoughtful ... praying without words ... not asking for anything but making a declaration of my faith.

"I believe."

Stuff

Sometimes stuff just get in the way of life.

There's the stupid stuff like cars that take forever to heat on a freezing morning, plants that you meant to bring in that you tenderly loved throughout the year that froze in the middle of the night, Jesus magnets that lose their staying power and drop to the floor off of the fridge, and leaks occurring in the house for no apparent reason.

There is also the valid stuff ... like why the United States has the most expensive health care in the world but rank 72nd worldwide in quality of care ... every damn member of Congress ... television weather women and men ... and Board Chairman who chose to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) cause they just can't let it go ... and the World Monetary Fund.

Then there is what is most important to me!

My wireless stopped working this morning.

The entire universe came to a screeching halt!

At 5:00 this morning I was lying in bed making the list of everything that I have to get done today. IT"S A LOT! It's all time sensitive. Albuquerque, Atlanta, New York, Philadelphia, Salt Lake City and ... then there are these studuents in China that I've fallen in love who are starting Street Medicine Programs in a Communist with and Andrew in Africa has touched my heart as he tries to start these clinics for children who has nothing.

Then there is Chuck Courtenay who has raised Jesus from the dead in Nursing Homes.

Then there's Bar Church ... where if Jesus actually attended Church ... he'd stop by most Sundays ... not all Sunday's as he's extremely busy.

Anyway, I had to take Dedra to the airport for Street Medicine stuff and then rushed back home, loved the Goddess and fired up the computer ready to ROAR ...

Only to have technical difficulties. The Wifi didn't work. I was suddenly screwed.

But then I spent an hour and fifteen minutes talking to Alvaris in the Philippines ... where it is a hell of a lot warmer there than it is here ...

Then another hour with Morales from Costa Rica ... when I decided I hate technical support people. They all live where it's warm, women go topless on the beach, and they know more about computers than I'll ever know in my life!

It's all fixed now.

I spent so much time with Alvaris and Morales that we are all planning a vacation together soon.

But the Wifi works.

And I just here ... I don't know ... with a smile.

What else you need?

Ce La Vista.

Ass Clowns

In my career, I stove to leave things better than I found them. The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel became this meca of activity to help the poor. Union Mission went from being a mere homeless shelter to an expansive array of services designed to put an end to it. Both were wildly successful ... and both had their enemies.'

It is hard to watch regression but I have. The Baptists kicked the Chapel out of its building. Union Mission tore itself asunder and continues to do so.

But I left both far better than I found them and that was all that I can do.

My work now is to help people and organizations ... make themselves better. To embrace curiosity. To stop looking backwards at what used to be ... to grab hold of change. These were the principals that make the Chapel and Union Mission were built upon only to have Ass Clowns drag them into the past.

On both Tybee Island where I live ... and throughout the world, this is becoming my work. I am not quite certain where it's taking me ... in fact I'm curious as hell about that ... but I know that I'm going. Because that's where God is.