Manly Pedeicures

I went straight from the conference call in the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant to the Pedicure.

I love Pedicures and converted my dearly departed friend Trolly Joe to them. He called me a "homo" forever because I got Pedicures. I like to take a large glass of wine, make them turn the television to ESPN and have women play with my feet in the water.

Trolly Joe hated hearing this ... until he did it.

Then he realized that you can be manly and still enjoy Pedicures. There is a picture of him on Face Book and his feet are in the water and he has a Rum and Coke in his hand and is smiling and enjoying the Asian woman playing with his feet.

When he first showed it to me, I called him a "homo".

The conference call had been brutal. It was with a bunch of doctors who were all prescribing different things. They had no idea. I order my drugs from Canada (meaning they actually come from Germany for some reason) but they cost 75% less than what the American health care system charges. I like bargain basement drugs!

As soon as I hung up, I ate a Taco. Then Sarah, my beautiful daughter Kristen and Dedra and I showed up for Pedicures.

"Oh no," said the owner as we walked in. "Not you."

I immediately walked to the television to change the channel from the LIFETIME network to ESPN 2.

Ripping the remote my hand, the owner told me that we were going to watch NET FLIX. Staring at her, I took a sip of wine and said, "Alright then."

I sat down and was ignored for about an hour. The water my feet were soaking in got cold. The owner was giving Sarah a Pedicure who was sitting beside me.

Grabbing my I-Phone I called the owner whose phone number was on her smock.

"Hell-Row," she said into her phone.

"Hey, how long do I have to sit here," I asked?

She hung up on me.

On the other side of the room Dedra was bitching about something so I called her to see what was wrong. Dedra never took phone in college so she is challenged. Instead of answering, she yells across the room, "What do you want?"

She is an unsophisticated country girl. I was embarrassed for her.

"That's my Dad," Kristen announced as the rest of the customers left.

Sarah reached out and tenderly held my hand ... so that I couldn't use my phone anymore.

Finally I got my Pedicure.

After they threw us out, I wanted to work on our collective tans. We walked into the Tan Shop and this really tanned woman with really white teeth tried to sell me package deal.

Since when do tans come in packages?

I needed time to think about it so we left.

Most of the time, I try to make point when I write these things.

Not today. I'm merely telling you what actually happened yesterday.

Oh ... and can somebody tell me how I got home last night?

Last Rights and First Rights

I'm sitting here watching the cars go by, sipping hot coffee, smelling yellow Jasmine underneath some overgrown Palm trees. Barefoot wearing jeans and my Samuel Adams Band tee shirt, I am glad that it is Friday. I want to dance at Doc's tonight.

Doc's is the oldest bar on Tybee Island, Georgia where I live. When I first went, "Doc" actually owned the place and I was with my Dad. We split a pitcher of Past Blue Ribbon and talked about things. There were two guys sitting down the bar from us and they were on their third or forth pitcher of PBR. They were loud and their conversation was fascinating so Dad and I grew silent and listened.

"I know how we can make a living," the first said. "We go into the burial at sea business."

"We got get to a boat," replied his partner.

"Yeah, I know, but think about it. Everybody wants to get buried at sea. We'll make a killing."

"That's funny!" the partner laughted as he poured them another one.

"We'll take the family and the coffin out a little bit, not too far, then we'll drop the coffin in the ocean, bring family back and serve Mimosa's."

They tapped their mugs together before the partner protested, "Wait a minute. Coffins float."

"Shit!" said the master mind.

The two stared off into space, lost in thought.

"I got it!" the master mind announced. "Led coffins. We'll have to use led coffins so they'll sink."

They toasted again.

"You know what?" the partner asked. "If we keep going to the same spot using led coffins we'll eventually build an artifical reef. Fish will be everywhere."

Mastermind slapped his hands on DOc's Bar. "Last rights and first rights!"

"What?"

"Last rights and first rights. We bury the dead and give the family a license for fishing rights at our reef. They'll be a lot of repeat business. Who gets repeat business doing funerals?"

"You're brilliant!"

Dad and I tapped our mugs at their thought processes. It was indeed brilliant.

Hoo-Hah!

Crowded around the kitchen table, four of us are busy making plans. Sunshine floods through the sliding glass doors and the window above the sink. Jesus smiles upon us from the magnets on the refrigerator. Pope Benedict XVI nods in approval after I slap the top of his head. Chocolate covered strawberries consummate wishes being turning into plans.

Sitting back for a moment, I appreciate the reality of what's happening.

In a general sense, each of us have expatriated, having left what was ... now living in a foreign culture because it's not the one we brought up to follow.

We're creating our own.

We've left marriages or had them leave us ... live on a clump of sand on top of the ocean by choice ... four laptops are open in front of us as we put the pieces together ... bound by the common conviction that there is no going back.

"No matter where you go," explained Buckaroo Banzai, "there you are."

Here we are.

Expatriates.

Just like Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and the other members of The Lost Generation living in Paris in the 1920's or the songs that Jimmy Buffett sings The Weather is here, I wish you were beautiful ...

"There's no place like home when you're this far away. I don't care what they say."

And we don't.

Our parents care. Ex-wives and Ex-husbands care. People who want us to do what we used to do care. Our children care because we're not acting like adults anymore. Politicians are suspicious. Clergy are hurling prayers our way because it scares the hell out of them. Our bankers definitely care! Our creditors are considering their options.

Ever since I read Hemingway those years ago, I've wanted to expatriate and leave the United States for ... an island. Jimmy Buffett had much to do with the location choice ... as did Bob Marley.

Visiting home once when I was living in Louisville, we rode out to Tybee and I knew with as much conviction as did St. Paul when God knocked him off that ass and told him what to do ... that this was home. I didn't live here but I knew I would one day. And I do.

So does Dedra ... and Sean and Wyn and their kids ... Sarah's already got one foot here ... then there's the Carnival of Friends ... Johnny O and Judy O expatriated here years ago ... Roma did too ... O John and O Judy have ... Cheryl and Jodee ran out of gas just as they rolled onto the island ... Samuel Adams stumbled in and brought music ... I found Rocky on my doorstep one night.

Everybody thinks we're nuts and are quick to say so. They're very judgmental about it too.

So we throw Judgement Parties at Fannies-On-the-Beach and Marlin Monro's. We dance at Doc's, brunch at Bar Church, burn some out back at Bennie's and skinny dip off the dock and in the pool at the top secret locations. The only rule in attending is there is no judgement.

So, none of us are quite certain of where we're going but ... here we are.

Hoo-Hah!

In some ways it's as scary as it possibly gets. How do you keep paying for this? How come we haven't been caught? We acknowledge that we've broken the Ten Commandments but God hasn't hurled bolts of lightening at us yet.

So we're going to stay the course.

Between navigational beacons that we can't see.

And that's an excuse for a party!

Hoo-Hah!

The Best Life I Ever Had

My friend Joe got in touch asking what I'm up to these days.

I told him that I'm very much in love, writing a lot, doing work for a diverse collection of organizations helping them raise money and getting ready to hit the road again traveling.

He came right back saying how wonderful that is. Then he said, "You did so much for the Recovery Community. Now enjoy yourself."

And that was it.

It left me remembering Potter's Place, a long term transitional house for addicts. In a grand old Victorian house on 34th Street in downtown Savannah, twelve men lived in community with one another. Each doing his best to recover, stay clean and do good work. I always loved visiting which I did often.

It was a broken down old house when I was hired by Union Mission but in couple of years we'd raised what we needed to renovate it. The guys really got into renovations as they represented lives being changed. It was always a happy, profane bunch of smokers who drank coffee by the gallon. The budget for coffee was the single largest budget line item!

Later we took over The Hacienda, a seven bed program for women. It was just as much a dump when we got it with a big hole in the living room floor. The ladies were all rail thin from their addictions. They flaunted their sexuality, all spoke with gravely voices and drank coffee like the men at Potter's.

Together they would throw these cook-outs and invite every addict in Savannah to come ... and they all came. You couldn't see any of them for the clouds of smoke but I could hear them slurping coffee, speak in gravel voices and explode into coughing fits whenever they laughed.

They always invited me to say a few words at the beginning then ... they wanted me to leave. As much as they liked me and as much I loved them, I wasn't a member.

"When you go home at night," Andi Grant once asked me at The Hacienda as she flipped burgers on the grill, winking at me with one eye with a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth, "do you just get freaking wasted?"

"Sometimes," I honestly answered.

"Man," she continued taking a long drag from the cigarette, "I would stay wasted forever if I did what you do."

I shrugged my shoulders.

I loved Andi. She worked as a waitress at the old Checker Club where the Savannah Visitors Center is now located. I'd eat lunch their several times each week because the food was good and Andi always made me laugh ... and think.

Eventually, she found a better job and moved into a trailer off Highway 17.

We lost touch.

Then she called me one day out of the blue. "Hey Rev," she said in gravely voice. I could picture her with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I asked her how she's doing.

"You know Mike," she said as I heard her exhaling the smoke, "the happiest days of my life were at The Hacienda and those cookouts. We all loved each so much. And we were all messed up Mother Fu&%ers."

I've never forgotten that. The happiest life had for her was a homeless shelter? There's something wrong with that. But what she missed was the community of strugglers all sharing the same addiction. Somehow they loved each other through. It was as holy as it gets. I'm proud to have been a part of it.

A few years, Andi died of complications from AIDS. We sold Potter's Place for almost half-a-million dollars and used the money to help start the J.C.Lewis Health Center. The Hacienda also closed though we started the Ben & Bettye Barnes Center to take its place. Both of those are still going strong.

These days it cost a lot of money to recover from addiction. Most programs are court ordered and pay for themselves by charging addicts crazy expensive fees.The logic is to punish the addict by taking their money away and giving it FOR-Profit companies who do quite nicely. It supposed to not be a burden to tax payers ... except it is. When they can't pay the courts have them arrested and they go to jail which is paid for ... by the tax payers.

It begs a question doesn't it? Where do addicts get money when they have none? Right? It makes little sense.

While I'm busy creating this new life for myself, I appreciate the Joe's and Andi's I've had the honor of knowing and loving. It's nice that they remember the things we did then.

Maybe we'll do them again one day.

The world sure needs them.

Heart & Soul

The last time it happened, Chelsea did it.

She always made me things; drawings with notes or lyrics ... scrapbooks of photographs of the two of us illustrated with her creativity and remembrances ... Compact Discs full of music she wanted to share.

Before that Kristen did too.

And that was Valentine's Day.

I'd buy them candy in boxes shaped like hearts.

As they got older, I'd take them out to dinner ... unless somebody else was which was normally the case.

This time last year I was in Myrtle Beach with my son Jeremy and Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me). It was a bachelor's celebration of love ... meaning Jeremy called my brilliant-daughter-in-law Marie and talked about how much he loved her and Bill called Kathy and talked about how much he loved her and I ... drank wine and looked at the ocean.

We all got wasted later and Jeremy threw a temper tantrum over wanting me to be happy ... Now! ... Dammit!!

I think Bill lapsed into prayer or something ... no ... I remember ... he ordered another round.

Jeremy and I made up driving the four hours back to Tybee. We're very close anyway and I think he was bummed that I was spending Valentine's Day "Valentine-less". It was OK. Like every time he and I do something together, it fun and memorable ... now it's another story to tell.

But then last night ... I stumbled in Sarah's door and had a pink piece of paper thrust in my face with silver words describing in detail everything that Laurel likes about me. The page was full of interesting things. Who knew my long curly hair is endearing to her? It drives my Mom nuts. Or ... that my occasional utilization of cuss words has made the impression that I'm standing up for myself?

She had to sit at the table and read it to me which was ... I don't know the word ... Heart Smiles. Sometimes you need two words.

Then Maddie had a keyboard and wanted to play me the song that I was teaching her last week. So we sat on the couch and played Heart and Soul together.

Cassidy was dressed like a rabbit for no apparent reason as she handed me a bag with tissue paper coming out of the top. Inside was a jug of the wine that I drink (Yes Cheryl Sadowski ... Really!) and a travel coffee mug.

They wanted what I'd brought them but I told them they'd have to wait. It wasn't Valentine's Day yet.

Then we watched "The Bachelor".

Let's be honest. I could less about him. He seems to be doing alright. He and a bunch of beautiful but bitchy women were in Belize. Sarah and I are going there soon so it was more kind of like the Travel Channel ... except for that really bitchy girl with the black hair on top of the Mayan Ruins who put the Tarantula on her arm. I like her ... though Maddie, Laurel and Cass all think she's a bitch and are in disbelief that she got a rose.

But Ben the Bachelor seems pretty happy about it all. How can he not be? When he's not giving out roses ... he's making out.

(Which brings me to Robin Wheeler. I delivered the message. Let me know what happens.)

This morning, in the darkness, I lay velvet heart shaped boxes in front of three bedroom doors. I blew kisses of love to Kristen and Chelsea. I wished Jeremy all of the love that he deserves and I thanked God for giving him Marie. Then I remembered Sam Harris who loves Chelsea and a bunny and thanked him too.

Then Goddess and I drove home in predawn of the day.

And the sun rose ... looking like a velvet heart in the sky.

"Well I just hope that you're not making a mockery of church," my Mother said in a scolding way.

"It's Church Mom," I explained. "It just happens to be in a bar. And our music is really good."

"It sounds like a mockery," she said again.

"It's like Jeff Street was," I quickly countered.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

Then everything got quiet.

I could hear her breathing into the phone as she contemplated this. She could hear me breathing into the receiver. But I knew that she knew what I'd just said.

Jeff Street was ... and remains ... something very special. Holy.

A broken down little inner city church in a big building owned by the Southern Baptist (who love buildings far more than they love people) was kidnapped by God. The most specific example I remember is Chester Fallbush and Micki Davis. He was a homeless alcoholic. She was a broke Seminary student. He was old beyond his years. She was young and beautiful.

At the end, when he was dying, he lived with me. I was figuring out government at the time and Chester ended up with a large social security payout when he died (I held his hand when he did). He'd worked for many years before falling into his addiction.

Then Jeff Street, a church that followed no rules ... made up of people who loved God and the idea of loving others as we love God ... did crazy stuff. The Baptismal Pool was the bathtub. Sunday School rooms became apartments. Music was an integral part and the dance from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was a cornerstone of Sunday Services (we all acted out our favorite parts). We closed once a year to go on retreats ... because we needed a break from it all.

It was this jumbled mix of homeless men, hookers, little old ladies, kids from the projects, Seminary students who believed in God way more than they believed in Seminary, prisoners who were escorted to worship by a guard with a gun ... it was crazy.

I was the pastor.

When Chester died a few months after receiving the money, he left it all to Micki ... who had nothing.

I remember sitting in my office, giving it to her.

And how she cried.

Which of course, made me cry.

But Chester died sober and beloved. Mickie had the money to get through. It was about as holy as it gets.

Fast forwarding 30 years, my Mom is struggling to comprehend Bar Church. There were 131 one of us there yesterday according to the Counters of Sheep (though they Bible says we're supposed to Feed them and not count them). We've almost outgrown our second Bar. Success is coming fast.

I lived it at Jeff Street.

At Union Mission too.

Now I see it at Bar Church.

Sitting here, I think about Jeff Street. It's still there doing the things that it did to make it special (though the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention kicked them out because of the leadership of Dr. Russell Bennett and other Pharisees).

Union Mission is split asunder but it's still there too ... doing a mixture of good and bad (because of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, meaning Jerry Rainy and assholes who think they're leaders). And now Bar Church is doing it all again.

When you hit stride with God though ... it's a roller coaster of a ride! At some point you shake your head asking, "What the hell was that?"

Later ... maybe seconds later, hours, days, years, decades ... it all the same in God's time ... you realize that holiness is exploding around you. Hopefully you're not too preoccupied with the details to notice.

Three times in my life I been a part of it and never really comprehended it as it was happening.

The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky.

Union Mission in Savannah, Georgia.

And now ... Bar Church on Tybee Island ... where everybody is either running to ... or from ... something.

But I can see it. Taste it. Know it.

God is here.

Things are exploding.

Praise be to God.

It's been a while ... but it's time to ride a bullet.

One more time.

Questions for God (again)

Hey God? You still up?

Of course you are ... you're God. You're always up.

Can I ask you something?

Why do you keep waking me up?


This is getting old.

Anyway ... since we're both up, can we chat for a few?

It's dark, the house is quiet ... well I got Dave F.M. streaming "Acoustic Sunrise" but other than that it's quiet ... and Johnny Cash is singing "Sunday Morning Coming Down" and it makes me think of you.

First, as much as it irritates me you woke me up when I was snuggled and warm in bed, you did it in a really cool way. So I appreciate that. The way you sprinkled stars in a pitch black sky so they shone especially bright was excellent! Then the way you had them throw stardust straight into my eyes forcing them open was pleasant to look at ... until I couldn't shut my eyes anymore.

So I lay there figuring why you were waking me up yet again. Rather than toss and turn for an hour or so, I just got up. Thanks a lot! (and I mean that sarcastically!).

I got dressed, saw that it 4:32 and, as you know, said "Thank God."

There would be coffee at the Breakfast Club.

The next words I said were, "Good God! Jesus Christ! It is frigging cold!"

Stumbling inside the door marked "Exit Only" four chefs all simultaneously stopped what they were doing and staring.

"Where you off to?" Chris asked.

He did this because normally when I'm traveling I storm through the Club at an ungodly hour. (Hmmm ... God did you invent ungodly hours? That's an interesting question. I'd like an answer to that one.) I grab a coffee for the airport and they ask me where I'm going.

"Nowhere," I answered him today. "I just missed y'all."

"Bullshit!" all four said at the same time.

I poured myself coffee and sat down.

Back home now, I'm pondering why you woke me up so early. This is becoming a habit and I must confess ... and confession is good for the soul ... I really don't care for it. I get up early anyway. This is getting ridiculous. What do you need me up so early for?

I see ... no answer.

Thanks.

I'll talk. I hope you're listening. I believe you are.

I find myself a bit antsy these days ... like I'm full of anticipation that things are getting ready really take off. It's the calm before the storm syndrome ... nothings happening yet but I sure feel it coming. I'm finding this makes me more reflective and ... that makes my friends ask questions like "What the hell is up with you?"

Shirley sent me hugs and concerns. Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, hugged me and told me that you told him to tell me what to do. Conner and Hania called from heaven knows where demanding to know ... when and where. My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie is ordering me to make plans. Johnny O keeps telling me how warm it's going to be. Sarah just keeps looking at me and smiling.

So God ... I figure you're up to something. It's like you're planning a surprise birthday party. Is that it?

I see.

You're still keeping quiet about it all.

Fine then.

I don't have a clue what you're doing to my life but ... I don't know ... people seem excited about.

Thanks.

I'm going back to bed.

The Wretched Refuse

Throughout my life I've spent a lot of time with underdogs. The tired. The poor. Huddled masses yearning to be free. The wretched refuse of teeming shores ... the homeless and tempest tossed ... All of the people that America used to welcome with a lifted lamp beside its golden door but ... doesn't anymore.

Yesterday I spent a few minutes marching in the Savannah Founder's Day Parade with a bunch of first graders. They were dressed as Pilgrims, Indians or in school uniforms. It was impromptu as I held the hand of a little girl who was holding the hand of a little boy, I started dancing and singing.

There she comes just a' walking down the street singing

Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy-Do-Ditty Dum

Snappin' her fingers and shuffling her feet

The kids started laughing. Their teacher gave me the evil eye.

"Come On!" I yelled snapping my fingers and shuffling my feet," EVERYBODY!"

The teacher with the evil eye rushed the tiny Pilgrims, Indians and Preppy kids away from me. They continued to laugh though and I felt good showing them that you don't always have to be so regimental about things.

I love the movie Stripes with Bill Murray and Harold Ramis and the whole Do-Wah-Diddy thing was blatantly stolen from it. It was fun to introduce it to first graders.

Then in the middle of the night I lay thinking about the little Indians holding the hands of little Pilgrims who were holding the hands of the little Preppies who refused to be costumed. They were black and white ... rich and poor ... yet too young and innocent to care There's always hope the next generation will get it right cause ours sure as hell hasn't.

Somewhere in the darkness, Bill Murray popped into my head. "We are the wretched refuse, the stupid ... we're mutts. We're Americans with a capital A which means that our forefathers got kicked out of every decent country in the world."

And we rose to be the greatest nation ever ... with nothing but ourselves to rely on. Wretched refuse was enough.

I live on the vacation paradise of Tybee Island. It's home to a mix of people who normally wouldn't be caught dead together. Old Savannah families who kept the island as their private retreat for generations. New comers who relocated to the warmer sub-tropical climate with retirement funds ... and the others.

I've been spending much more time with the others lately ... bartenders and Bar-flies ... waitresses and hotel clerks ... maids and yard keepers ... those who hit nails straight and those who bend them for a living ... musicians and artists ... folks on fixed incomes and folks looking for fixes. The wretched refuse.

I marvel at them.

The only thing they have going for themselves is ... themselves and each other. Every month they struggle to pay to rent yet somehow they do. They're quick to give money and to forgive when its not paid back. Food is shifted from refrigerator to refrigerator. Passenger side seats are filled with those who don't own a car ... They are Statue of Liberty kind of people.

They are more Biblical than most and on Sundays they gather in a Bar for Church. Breakfast is served because no one believes that everyone there will have the a full meal even on a Sunday. Hugs are freely distributed, forgiveness of the previous nights sins quickly acknowledged and dispensed, hymns are sung while Davy beats the hell out of the drum. Dancing often breaks out. Smokers, flip-flops are welcome and communion can break out at anytime by anyone.

While we don't really mean it anymore, the Statue of Liberty still hold the lifted lamp beside the golden door for the wretched refuse ... my kind of people.

My Questions for God

Hey God! You up?

Of course you're up. You're always up.

First question I'd like to ask is, "Why'd you wake me up? I was sleeping perfectly fine until 2:59 when you decided that the world would be closer to salvation by having me awake. So I lay there staring at the clock in the dark for an hour. Then I used a VERB followed by a PRONOUN, which I'm sure you heard 'cause you're God and all, so please forgive for that if its a sin which I'm not sure it is. Let me know."

As you know, I stood there in the shower for a long time questioning why in the hell you have me up at this hour thinking deep thoughts. I'd much prefer to be dreaming sweet dreams with erotic content. I don't think there's anything wrong with that so I'm not asking for forgiveness. Besides according to the Bible you're the author of dreams anyway and let me say you are a master of creating erotic dreams.

I do want to thank you for the coffee. Hallelujah for coffee! As you know since you were already up, I stumbled naked down the long hallway to hit the "On" button of the coffee pot before standing in the shower. That way it brewed while I thought the deep thoughts in the shower that you obviously woke me up to think about.

Driving back to Tybee Island in the pre-Dawn darkness, I admired your work. The moon is really something and the way you sprinkled stars across the sky ... I just have to say it's some of your best work. I sipped coffee looking at it on the Tybee road in the middle of the marsh. It was worshipful.

I do have a question though.

Why are the cops out hiding in the darkness under Palm Trees? There were tons of them! It makes no sense at this time of night. They should either be home with their lovers, cleaning their guns, surprising criminals in the act or ... I don't know. It makes no sense to me. You obviously led them to do this so I'm just interested in why.

Don't rush on that one. It can wait. I'm just curious.

I want to thank you for Goddess, who as you know, is named after you. She was wagging her tail when I opened the door and flopped around on her back so that I could rub her belly. It was pure love so I lay in the floor scratching her tummy for a while.

Do you like to have your belly rubbed God? I mean I do. Surely you do too ... in an anthropomorphic sort of way. I want to thank you for the gift of belly rubs. Goddess does too.

Now ... as you already know ... I'm sitting on the Beloved Back waiting on you to approve the coming up of the sun. I wish you'd hurry up.

Killing time now ... I pray a little bit, mostly asking you to bless and take care of people who I love. Not questioning your judgement or anything but you do allow crazy shit to happen. I'm sure you've got a master plan but ... it really is some crazy stuff! Heart attacks and floods, unjust firings and unholy Sons-of Bitches who end up in charge, Congress ... I could go on. It's a pretty long list. But I'm just going to trust that you know what you're doing because it makes absolutely no sense to me.

Oh yeah, before I forget. Thank you for inventing communion. I find it really helpful on a daily basis. But you already knew that.

Now back to the questions.

Why is it that my life was rocking and rolling merrily along and you decided to reshuffle the deck? I was pretty content with it all and I really liked the way that you were handling things. Then you apparently got distracted. It could have been Israel which seems to keep you permanently distracted according to Fundamentalists of any kind and most Republicans.

Anyway it's a different life now since you threw the cards of my life against the wall leaving me to pick up the ones I chose. So, let me go ahead and say that while I question your methods, thank you for Sarah, the girls, my children, the Carnival of friends, the college reunion, and not having the faintest notion of what I'm doing. Or how I'm going to pay for it.

Again, and I hate repeating myself, but I'm really counting on this master plan of yours ...

OK, I'm back.

Why did you wake up so many people to get on Face Book at this time of the day? It's crazy! And you're leading them to post really stupid stuff. Seriously? This is in the master plan?

As you already know, it's time for me to go the Breakfast Club. I could use some more coffee. And I want to see what Whitley did last night.

Thanks ... I guess ... for dragging me out of bed at 4 in the morning. I have no idea how this helps anything but you're God and know much more than I do.

We'll talk again soon.

Ummm ... but next time, let me call you.

The Middle of the Road

It is one of those magic mornings when a full sun is rising from a blanket of clouds above an angry ocean and a cold wind. It is red and majestic and seems to say it trumps the unpleasantness choppy seas and biting gusts.

On the other side of the sky is a full moon, holy and white, against a dark blue sky. Having guided us through another dark night, it begins to slowly fade though it remains higher than the sun is at the moment.

In the middle of 15th Street I look at the sun and then at the moon. Inside of the Breakfast Club customers and friends are drinking hot coffee, eating cheese grits and staring at crossword puzzles. I've left them because there are things that must get done ... unpleasant tasks that make me sigh, then suck in air and make me try to tackle them one at a time.

I make it no further than the middle of the road before the rising sun commands my attention as though it's a King ascending to his throne wrapped in white sheets of clouds, throwing light to his subject, bathing me in a golden glow of sanctity. Just as large and beautiful is his Queen the Moon. She is complete throwing off her own loveliness with the confidence of a woman who knows she can take your breath away by just ... being.

In days gone by I would have thought to myself, "Stuck in the middle with ...me."

That is no longer true.

But I am in the middle of the road.

Another song lyric burst into my brain.

Crossing the highway late last night, should have looked left and should have looked right, didn't see the station wagon car, skunk got squashed and there you are ... dead skunk in the middle of the road.

"Hmmm," I think to myself laughing out loud.

I'm very much in the middle of the road ... literally and in every other way too.

Who I was is no longer who I am ... and it's certainly not who I'm becoming.

Yesterday, something I've spent months working on ... blew up. I'd planned on it happening but it's not going to ... at least in the way that I'd planned it. Come to think of it, most things I plan never quite work out the way I imagined.

Oh well.

What do you do?

The Moon throws fading beams on me, patting my back to remind me that I'd done my best. "It's alright," I'll watch over you tonight."

Simultaneously, the sun speaks louder, "Forget about it! That was yesterday. What are you doing today?"

My head turns from one to the other as I recognize that I need both. Consolation and challenge are perfect complements because one desperately needs the other ... and I find myself in desperate need of both.

Blowing a kiss to the moon, I leave the middle of the road ... very much alive and knowing that it's all going to work out alright. Opening the car door I throw a salute to the sun, now yellow and godly, understanding that today I'll make new plans.

Yesterday is gone. I did my best.

Today is here for me to do with what I will. I'll let you know or ... it'll be pretty obvious soon. Or it won't.

Tomorrow though, holds my heart and my promise. I wish the planning was better thought out but it's not ... yet anyway.

Oh well ... at least I'm not in the middle of the road anymore. Stuck or dead.

Hell

I was late but he waited patiently. Not patiently enough to refrain from ordering without me, assuming that I wasn't coming so a plate of fried fish, Cole slaw and baked beans were steaming in front of him as I sat. He smiled as I sat in the booth across the table from him. He looked frail and beaten though his eyes had the sad look of gratefulness that I'd made it ... that anybody had made it ... that anyone cared at all.

I ordered a glass of wine and fried chicken with a smile.

His grey eyebrow raised in condemnation of the wine ... so I ordered a glass of water too.

"Hey Jim," I said, "Don't worry. I'm going try to turn the water into wine and the wine into water. That would be pretty cool."

Shaking his head and laughing, light flickered behind his eyes before they turned sad again.

I know the feeling. He'd been a a very public person who did really good things. Much more religious than I am, he quotes Scripture a lot and begins sentences with "God led me to do this..." or "Then God told me ..."

I've never figured that out. God's never said squat to me ... until after the fact. Looking back on my life's triumphs and tragedies, loves and losses, hurts and happiness, I can see God was involved in these things. I never recognize it until after the fact and I have a hard time trusting people who say that God told them what to do before they did it.

But Jim believes that God tells him what to do first and then he tries to do it. This always worked out fine until the last time God told him to do something.

"There are women and children living on the streets of Savannah," God said. "Help them."

"How Lord," Jim asked?

"Buy an old Bakery and turn it into a home for them."

So as he's always done, Jim listened to God.

Then all hell broke loose!

Apparently God forgot to tell the neighborhood surrounding the Bakery or the Politicians representing them. They rioted calling Jim all manner of evil. Then the people he worked for were instantly converted to popular opinion and they fired him on the spot. The newspaper reported it all so it was a public crucifixion. The providers of Sanctuary ripped his world out from under him not giving a damn and being righteous about it.

And he was left alone, unemployed, unsure of what to do, continuing to wait for God to tell him.

I knew him marginally. Sitting at the counter at the Breakfast Club I'd followed all of this in the Savannah Morning Blues and I felt bad for him. I've been there. He was being purposely hurt for doing his best to go good. It's funny how the Gospel story repeats itself for those who believe. Crucifixions are part of believing and if you haven't been crucified then you probably don't believe.

A mutual friend called me. "He could use you," he'd said. "Will you meet with him?"

It's funny that the mutual friend is the reporter who had covered his crucifixion.

So I called and we were sitting at Johnny Harris' and I reached out and touched his arm. He looked shocked and flinched in recoil. For months he'd been shunned. He was no longer used to being touched ... or wanted.

"Hey listen," I said. "God told me to tell you that you tried. You did your best and She appreciates it."

He shook his head at me referring to God as a woman (though Jesus described God as a hen gathering her brood to protect them. What's the sexual hang up over God? It's God for God's sake and God can be whatever God wants to be).

I squeezed his arm.

"You didn't deserve what they did to you. That Son-of-a-bitch who runs the Church that did you in ... and the politicians whose ass he kissed so that women and children can stay on streets ... they all have reservations in hell."

Diverting his eyes from mine, he smiled as his covered his face with his shoulder.

"You did good," I continued. "God likes good."

He cried.

It made me cry.

"You've been a blessing," he said. "I didn't know what to expect meeting you today but I didn't expect a blessing."

I smiled. "Yeah, I'm not all that," I answered, "I got blessings in my life and I don't mind hell. I've been there. I don't mind going back. Especially if I get my chance with the self righteous Sons-of-Bitches who who did this to you."

He cried again.

I cried again.

We left one another with an embrace.

As I walked out my blood pumped with anger at the Sons-of Bitches who run Savannah ... and the women and children they leave on the streets every night ... and a believer in God who they broke.

Sarah picked me up and I told her about it. I needed healing and she gave it to me. Then I prayed for him so that he gets it too.

God damned he deserves it.

And God damned there are people who deserve hell.

Hope

I've penned almost a thousand of these things now. Since I began a few years ago, I haven't missed a day.

Every morning I sit collecting my thoughts or have them forcibly grab me by the throat. Sometimes I break into my heart while other times it was already broken. There are times when I can't type words fast enough as they rush to get out but then I can sit staring off into space waiting on them to come.

It's a lot like prayer ... except I'm not asking for anything.

Occasionally I go back and revisit them but I have a tendency to not look back very much. I should actually pay more attention to them. There is enough written to comprise three different books.

It's been a while since I've written one.

Tour of Homes was published in 2004 though I actually wrote it a couple of years prior to that. It's big, ending on page 368 and what I remember is that I wanted to write a big book with lots of stories woven together to make one story. I also was determined not to restrict myself so the language is salty, there's plenty of sex and no sugarcoating anybody or anything. I call it "my sex, drugs and rock-and-roll" book.

What it really was though is me working my way out of the world that I'd created. It's a description of what I loved and hated at the time ... the marriage I was in, the heavy burden of an incredibly successful career working with the poor and hurting, the hope for better days ... with an ending where evil wins ... though the very last words are from a mentally ill homeless man ... possessed by demons who are speaking in his head ... as he smiles at the thought of going home again ... wherever that is.

There's no place like home ... sometimes meaning that home is no place.

Dorothy was wrong ... Home is what you make it.

Since then ... the marriage ended, the career abruptly ceased several years after I started trying to leave it, a public life became private and there were hundreds of days when the only thing that I did was write ... and drink.

I believe things happen when they're supposed to. All of these pages were written on Face Book , Blogger.com and in a Word Document. The World Wide Web published them in real time for whoever wanted to read them. Gone are the days of driving to the Book Store or Library to search shelves of what may be interesting reading. Now you can drag the mouse over the first few lines and if they appeal to you, you click more and keep reading.

It's a new world being created. I still love book stores but not as much as I used to.

This morning, lying in bed looking out of the window at an almost full moon and the beauty that surrounds it ... everything I've written came rushing into my head as though children all demanding individual attention at the same time. I watched them as though they were sheep leaving me wide awake.

What I thought about was they all make up three different stories. The first is of love lost, betrayals of the worst kind and what survival looks like. Second is a manual to putting a broken heart back together and how you can never quite get it right again. The last are examples that faith, hope and love abide ... and the greatest of these is love.

The funny thing is the people who kept up and who read these things. Sometimes they comment. Sometimes they don't. I wonder if I stopped would anyone notice? Who knows? It's my way of praying anyway.

When I die and if my kids have any interest left in me, there are books, blogs and notes that they can visit anytime if I'm missed. The same goes for my friends who are now a tight and small Carnival of people. I've had audiences before and they may still be there but I have no need to satisfy them anymore.

When my world crumbled around me, Herb McKenzie told me "With your ability to communicate ... to speak and to write ... you'll do fine," spoken as though it were Pilate himself washing his hands.

So today I'm doing fine. I'm deeply in love. I'm working but in a completely different way. I'm out of the public eye and actually like it, enjoying helping others be in the public eye. I've raised millions of dollars helping my work and now do it to help others do theirs. I speak in Bar Church and ... I write.

I know lots about yesterday, last year and before that too. They're just a bunch of stories.

What is much more interesting is tomorrow.

I've always had faith.

I have love again.

But let me tell you about the hope of what's coming.

It's pretty Kick-Ass!

These Days

What I remember about last year's Super Bowl is that it was depressing as hell. It wasn't that Green Bay won the game, but that I was home alone watching it.

I'm uncertain why I did this but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Except it wasn't.

Super Bowls are family and friends, chips and dips, chicken wings and pizza, wine and beer. There is the game of course, and the funniest commercial to be on the look-out for, and a half-time show that may or may not be memorable. That was always the way it had been.

Then two years ago I can't even remember the Super Bowl. I was suddenly single and likely wasted out-of-my-mind. The other day Maddie was telling me about the 2009 game and I had no recollection of it what-so-ever (sorry Stacy Jennings). I remember listening to ten year old Maddie tell me about something that I know far more about than she does.

I knew nothing.

Yesterday was so different.

Starting at Bar Church, where we were all spotting a Samuel Adams in recovery from surgery, we rocked! The vibe was good, the music soared and the Kingdom came on earth as it is in heaven. I preached but was immediately forgiven by the congregation of Bikers, Bar-flies, those rising from the deaths that occurred on Saturday night, a former politician and a current member of the Methodist Church who is quitting them to join us.

(God is leading us to have a transfer of membership service where anybody who wants to quit the Steeple they've been attending can do so. We will send a scroll to aforementioned Steeple demanding their letter of membership or we be coming after your booty Mate! Especially the fine booty in the Soprano and Alto Section of your choir! AAARRRGGG-MEN! Then Methodist, Baptists, Presbyterians and other known sinners will show up with the transfer of membership letters and ... we'll burn them. Cause we really don't give a shit about things like that.)

Anyway, then I went to a little girl's birthday party in the park. It was almost 80 degrees on island in February and life was good. We ate cake, washed it down with PBR and played in the playground. We played in the cemetery until we were ran out for waking up the dead.

Then it was time for the Super Bowl.

And the house was full of love and celebration. We watched, ate, laughed, snuggled and ... enjoyed it.

This morning I stumbled into the Breakfast Club where once again I lost the Super Bowl Pool. Then I came back home with an incredible sense of expectation and joy. The weather has turned windy and somehow 20 degrees vanished overnight.

So I may as well ... work. I've got plenty to do. People from everywhere all seem to be wanting something at once. My list of things to do is ridiculously long and complicated.

But unlike last year, the Super Bowl was fun last night.

As was Ava's party in the park ...

As was Bar Church ...

As is everything these days.

Way Back When ...

Way back when I was in Seminary School

There was a person there

who put forth the proposition

that you can petition the Lord with prayer

Petition the Lord with prayer

Petition the Lord with prayer

YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER!

So says Jim Morrison of The Doors in their classic song The Soft Parade, a crazed psychedelically jazzed explosion of different tempos thrown together into one song.

Growing up in Port Wentworth, Georgia ... a tiny Mill town with with a mill, Mr. Cowart's Drug Store, Frank Daughtery's gas station and an abandoned saw mill in the woods that we magically transformed into a fort ...

Jerry Rogers at WSGA introduced me to the world. Jerry was (and remains) the greatest DJ ever and now runs his own independent station which is the one I listen to most these days.

I first met him at a High School dance at the Starland Dairy in Pooler, Georiga. He showed up with hair down to his shoulders, stacks of records a microphone and just dripped of coolness. He may as well have been one of The Beatles.

Growing up in Southern Baptist land which was still coming to terms with the reality that black people are equal, you couldn't drink on Sundays and sex was something never discussed and rarely achieved ...

Jerry Rogers represented the outside world of rock-and-roll. New ideas and ways of thinking were exploding and Jerry delivered them personally to my house in a Mill Town.

Later, I remember him introducing the bands that played at the Savannah Civic Center. We all flocked to see The James Gang, Emerson Lake & Palmer, Grand Fund Railroad, Eric Clapton and ... The Osmond Brothers, Olivia Newton-John and The Carpenters. Jerry was the Master of Ceremonies and he was bringing the world to us.

Then he did this FM station and the music got better and deeper.

I remember sitting in my bedroom for hours listening to him introduce me ... everything.

And I specifically remember hearing The Doors do The Soft Parade which begins with this little sermon that was contrary to everything I'd ever been taught at the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth. "Way back when I was in Seminary School ..."

The funny thing is that now I can say that and mean it. Way back when I was in Seminary School with Guy Sayles, Mitch Wesley and Bill Berry, I heard lots of talk about petitioning the Lord with prayer.

Ask and it shall be given.

Sometimes that's true.

Most times its not.

Or if it is, then not in the way that I asked for it.

I've asked for a lot of things and have gotten many.

Other times God said "No", "HELL NO!" or "Maybe later."

It's OK.

God's awful busy.

Today, I live on Tybee which is one of the affirmatively answered prayers, around the corner from Jerry Rogers who remains a hero and an icon, and later this morning I'm playing guitar in Samuel Adam's Bar Church Band ... where the Lord will be petitioned with prayer.

It's all good Karma.

So today is the day that the Lord has made ...

Let's rock and roll!

What's Next for me (and Mitch)

Mitch Welsey got in touch with me yesterday because he wants us to start our own morning radio show. We'd play really good music, Mitch would fill listeners in on everything that nobody knows about the song or the band. I'd make fun of politicians, current events and religious hypocrisy.

There is no doubt in our minds that the morning show would be incredibly popular while being very politically in-correct yet still drawing the wrath of most anyone of significance in music, politics, current events and religion.

The fact that no radio station, owner, or programmer has given us any thought whatsoever is totally insignificant. Mitch and I attended both college and then Seminary together so God is overriding the decision makers while calling Mitch and I to do this.

At the same time, Mitch retired recently and has a lot of time on his hands.

He also lives in Milledgeville, Georgia and unless you're enthralled by one of the largest strip malls in America, there's not a lot to hold your attention there.

There is a college and a closed mental health facility but the people of Milledgeville kept confusing the two. Instead of diplomas, graduates got prescriptions for Zanax while patients received graduate degrees in Political Science (which explains the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention, half the population of Atlanta, Jerry Rainy and Congress).

Nevertheless, I love Mitch and if he wants to give this a shot then I'm in.

I've already started writing the political commentary. Mayor Edna Jackson of Savannah would be portrayed as Weezy on the Jeffersons. County Commission Chairman Pete Liakakis is Jack Lalanne with a side job selling diet pills and "Hair Care for Men" products. Governor Nathan Deal is the Unknown Comic and Newt Gringrich is the Pillsbury Doe Boy. Mitt Romney was named after catcher's glove that kept dropping the ball. President Obama would be the reincarnation of Calvin Coolege as a black man.

Certainly you are beginning to glimpse how zany and funny we're going to be.

This isn't all though.

Mitch knows everything about music so he will enlighten listeners with useless information ... like the Ronettes classic Da do run run is really about a drug bust.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow was written after the Lion, the Tin Man and Dorothy smoked the Scarecrow having found that he wasn't stuffed with hay after all.

And the old gospel hymn Victory in Jesus was initially conceived while Eugene Monroe Bartlett watched two girls wrestle in a pool filled with Jello (he was for the girl in the blue bikini who obviously won).

We'll have special guests on the show. Mark Wood has nothing to do so he is going to come on every day and inform listeners how to transform their porches and decks into international corporate headquarters and other decorating tips.

Dedra Shuman will ... I'm not certain what she will do. I'm never certain what she will do. Hell, I'm never certain what she does. But she'll do something.

Micheal Guido died several years ago and we are after the incredibly famous Sr. Guy Salyes to take his place with little 30 second devotionals that will leave people crying, scratching their heads, or planting gardens (see above reference to the Scarecrow being smoked).

Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with Mitch and me) will ... probably never show up.

Johnny O will deliver the news every half hour.

Judy O will deliver the news every fifteen minutes correcting everything that Johnny O got wrong on the half hour.

The Samuel Adams Band who play damn good live music on Tybee Island will be the house band and Bar Church will be broadcast live every Sunday morning during cocktails and on Wednesday nights at eleven.

The Breakfast Club caters all Micheal & Mitch events (billing is separate).

I have to go.

Wen is taking photographs of Sarah in a bikini for promotional purposes only. Seriously! They are for promotional purposes only!

Seriously!

I gotta go.

The Tybee Bomb

"I love this island," she exclaimed as we stood around the pool table in Bennie's for the afternoon gathering of "The Bored."

"Tybee is just one great island," she gushed on. "The ocean, the breeze, the Palm Trees ... the laid back way of it ... and everyone is just so friendly and accepting."

"Uh, huh," several of us muttered as we either (a) sipped our libation (b) ordered another round (c) watched whoever was taking the next shot at the pool table (d) took the next shot at the pool table or ... was doing what I was doing which was watching girls walk down the sidewalk in bikinis.

"The only thing that I don't understand," she went on in an exasperated and exaggerated way "is why y'all can't decide on a speed limit."

Everyone in the place stopped what they were doing at the same time and looked at her.

Well ... everyone except me.

I was incredibly focused.

"What?" Johnny O asked.

She placed her hands on her hips. Wearing shorts and and an air-brushed tee shirt with a colorful painting of a pirate driving a stock car into a sunset over the ocean. Her fingernails were painted blue with designer streaks in them and her toenails were matching. The earrings were silver dolphins dangling. The sandals were Birkenstocks ... with black socks. She was pretty enough in a non-matching sort of way.

"What I mean is," she said looking at Johnny O as though he were a fifth grader, "is why in the hell does your speed limit keep changing? I mean one second it's 30 miles an hour and the next second it's 29. Then it changes again for God's sake! Then it's 32 and then it's 30 again."

The entire crowd gathered at Bennie's burst into explosive laughter as though the Tybee Bomb had finally gone off. Turning my head from the girls in bikinis, I saw Johnny O's mischievous grin and the woman's confused look as to why everyone in the whole damn bar was laughing their heads off.

Johnny O leaned his pool stick against the table and put his arm around her. He looked like a missionary who had found a lost person in the woods of Africa. She looked up at him like a lost person in a bar on Tybee Island.

"Honey," he said with words soaked in honest sarcasm, "have you ever seen a speed detector?"

Appearing confused yet confident she replied, "No sir but I seen signs all up and down the expressway that speeds in Georgia are detected by detection devices."

The Tybee Bomb went off a second time. Bennie's exploded in laughter. Girls in bikinis wandered inside to see what was going on. Because I was standing by the door, I grabbed a stool and pretended to be the bouncer and asked for their ID's to get inside, which they obviously had to search for.

It was a good day.

Johnny O was still giving the missionary smile.

"Honey," he said, "its a machine that lets you know how fast you're driving so you know if you're going over the speed limit or going under it. It's a public service."

"Oh," she said in that embarrassed sort of way.

"Don't worry about it," Johnny O said putting his arm around her. "It's not for you."

"What?" she asked with tears welling up in her eyes.

"Hell no," Johnny O said still hugging her.

"What's it for?" she asked wiping snot off of nose with her arm.

"The Tybee Island Police Department," he explained.

"Thank you," she said wiping more snot off her nose with the other arm.

"Sure thing Hon," Johnny O continued. "Next we'll teach you about Parking Services."

The Tybee Bomb went off yet again.

The Lives I've lived

I've lived a bunch of different lives so far and the next one is being born now.

Growing up in Port Wentworth was a wonderful thing. Riding cardboard boxes down the bank of the viaduct, being part of a fleet of bicycles to Mr. Cowart's Drug Store, stealing all of the flags from the Elementary School, playing army in the woods, and having my first kiss in an empty baptismal pool in the First Baptist Church listening to Tommy James and the Shondells (because the church was always unlocked and had a really good sound system).

In High School I became someone else ... A long haired football player who really wanted to play guitar. It seemed that I started to get in trouble a lot while getting affirmed for the things that I was getting in trouble about at the same time. It lead to a conclusion that trouble leads to affirmation.

Where do I begin?

I danced with a black girl at a segregated dance and was beaten up by the white guys the next day (thank you Gene Prevatt for trying to help that day). Afterwards, I was an honorary member of the black community, no small feat in Garden City Georgia in those days.

At college I fell into this group of crazy people who were all Baptist (we all still gather today for reunion tours and I'm sure the Public Broadcasting System will do a show on us soon for one of their fundraisers before we all die. Mitch Wesley will be the surprised guest.). I still had long hair, played football for the Baptist Student Union, occasionally went to class because I also played guitar, and learned about birth control. Jeremy was born and changed everything about everything.

When college threw me out, God "called me" to go to Seminary ... meaning Guy Sayles called me one night and asked me to come. So I did. Then everything really started going crazy!

I became Pastor of an inner city church, found fame and groupies, learned that I still didn't know anything about birth control and Kristen was born and stole my heart. I learned to love the underworld of homelessness, hookers, addicts, and the people thrown away by everybody else. I became part of this crazy radical community sprinkled throughout the US ... Jim Lowder, A.B. Short, Will D. Campbell, Ken Sehested, Bill Bowling, Cindy Weber and ... most of all Father Vernon Robertson.

So when the Baptist threw me out, Jimmy Buffett called me home.

We moved to Tybee Island which remains home. While I've imagined leaving, I've never really been able too. On island, I've become a Beach Bum who's also juggled a nutty career that has taken me around the world. Chelsea was born here reminding me that I still don't know anything about birth control but ... her heart is filled with sand just like mine and we've logged more hours in the sun together than anybody.

Then the kids all moved into their lives and left me here with this one. We all remain incredibly tight in a non-controlled sort of way but then again ... they were raised to not believe in control.

Afterwards, everything about the way I lived changed and I became a full time Beach Bum. I'm not sure that I ever want to leave it, though I am doing interesting stuff here and there while not really understanding what I'm doing at all. Yet after spending a couple of years with a dog in an empty house ... life is changing again.

Sarah came home and brought home back with her. She also brought three little girls. According to Jeremy, we're becoming the Brady Bunch. That alright ... my life would make a pretty interesting television show anyway. Sure, there are some things that I would do differently if I had the chance, but I wouldn't change anything.

So the sun's up and Chelsea's waiting for me at the Breakfast Club. Sam's studying for something. Chels and I are not certain about Kristen who has never seen the sun actually rise. Jeremy's traveling to Valdosta for Marie's birthday. Three little girls are re-arranging the house.

But you know what?

The sun is blazing, the air is warm and I'm barefoot.

Those other lives were great.

Ah ... but this one!

It's time to dive in.

Close your eyes and hear the splash.

Being who you're supposed to be

I logged on to Delta.com seeing for the first time in a decade that I didn't have a plane ticket for anywhere.

It gave me pause ... I had nowhere to go ... no place to be other than here ... no one was expecting anything of me.

I'd just been divorced and had left a career but old habits die hard and I'm not sure why on that day but I whipped out the I-phone and hit the Flight Status app and ... I didn't have one.

It was a very cathartic moment.

Wandering outside to the Beloved Back deck, I sat and pondered. Work no longer defined who I am. The relationship I'd given myself to had cashed in the chips and took them with her. For decades I was a very public figure, always in the news, giving speeches, writing books and fielding request to do something or the other.

Now the phone didn't ring, there were no invitations in the mail and many, many people who used to want something from me had moved on to wanting it from somebody else.

I was feeling pretty rotten about it all.

On a warm winter day I poured myself a glass of wine, meandered out to the back deck and propped my bare brown feet on the rail.

Holding my I-phone to my lips, I felt it rise from deep inside of me somewhere. Then it all happened quickly.

I hit Delta.com and booked for St. Martin ... twice! It was time to move.

Then I booked a flight to Pittsburgh on the suspicion that something might be there. There was an old invitation to go to Dallas so I bought that ticket too. Then an email came asking if I could be in St. Paul? Impulsively I bought that ticket too.

I was burning through the bank account but it felt right somehow.

Godly almost. "Hey Abram, you old man," God yelled, "get off thine ass as go! ... It'll be great!"

And the old man was foolish enough to listen.

It worked out for him so I figured it may work for me ... and it did.

I spent a month on an island that I love and was loved dearly by it and friends who had vague notions of what I'd done for a living or who I'd been with. Pittsburgh led to a contract that took me from Alaska to San Juan, Santa Barbara to Cleveland ... and others I don't remember anymore. It ended up being a terrific spring, summer and fall.

So yesterday I did it again. There were no outstanding obligations to go anywhere. I did have stuff to do but was itching for adventures.

Firing up the computer we went to Delta.com. and am returning to St. Martin soon. Then it's off to Washington state for a wedding I'd promised to do for Conner (and I'd do anything for Conner), now it may be Mexico (sounds so sweet that I just got to go). Oh yeah ... a presentation in Philadelphia is in there.

So I'm burning through what's left in the bank account but ... it's time to go.

It'll all work out. It always does. May as well have fun while its making its way to working out.

Besides, it's Biblical.

Get off thine ass and go ... be who you're supposed to be.

Why Not?

The sun is moving from the left side of the sliding glass doors to the right ... meaning that it's glaring directly in my eyes. Normally in the winter it rises behind Fran's thousand shades of green and muted sunshine makes the kitchen glow with a coolness that's cozy. In the summer, it rises behind the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt giving it's hairdo fawns a golden crown. Today it rises between the two and is blazing directly in my eyes.

I could turn in the other direction but it would make my computer screen go white and I wouldn't be able to see anything that I'm doing. I could go in another room but I like looking outside to see what the day's throwing my way. Besides, in just a little bit, it'll rise above the umbrella on the Beloved Back Deck and I'll see things fine.

I've never minded the sunshine. Lying on the beach for so many years, I love the way the blazing sun sprinkles diamonds on the ocean. I love the warmth that makes me feel loved. I love the light that drives the darkness from my heart. I love the slow red glow that begins behind the ocean and slowly rises until the sea bubbles then a new day is born that's just as holy as Jesus rising from the dead.

Every single day, the sun reminds me that I have the chance to begin again. Regardless of how sleepless the night was with worry, fitfulness or hopelessness, the rising sun greets me with a chipper, "Good Morning. Thank God that's over! Let's start again."

And we either do or we don't.

Yesterday was a long day for me. It began with great expectations, good work, lots of things accomplished with a crescendo around mid-after noon. With everything going on, I knew that somebody had my back!

Then as the sun set, the curve balls came everywhere. The rules I'd been playing by were suddenly changed. Much of the work that I'd completed now had to be re-worked. Emails were flying at me from across the country ripping the dusk into the day and welcoming the demons of the night.

I sighed leaning against the kitchen sink as the sliding glass doors were now painted in black.

I responded to the emails and they responded back. My stomach started growling. I poured a glass of wine.

"I always appreciate your optimism," an email informed me ... and it gave me pause.

Indeed, I am an optimist. Regardless of the moment, and how bad it is or how much it hurts or sucks, I am somehow in an optimum state. It'll be alright.

The major prophet Bob Marley runs through my head. "Everything's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be alright! Everything's gonna be alright. No woman, No Cry."

What is amazing to me is how so many people need my optimism shot into their lives. So many seem to just assume the worst and almost welcome it. I think they're nuts.

Looking back over my career, the commodity that I sold sold the most of was hope. "What do you mean we can't do this?" was the first question I asked. "Why not?"

I think "Why not?" is the most important question anyone can ask ... EVER!

Last night, while a lot of people were worrying and depressed about the way the day had ended, I lay in bed full of anticipation of the coming day. Sure I was awake in the middle of the night, in a bed full of hope and love, pondering ...the things that I am hoping for.

"There is always a way," is one of my mantras, so I lay there breathing in the scents of love ... figuring out the way.

"Now faith is the evidence of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" ... but they are sure as hell felt! They are dreamed! They are known somehow even though they are far from real at the moment. Who cares? Believe in them anyway.

So last night I held my hopes tightly to my chest as though a pillow I hugged. The darkness had a light to it as I pondered the roadblocks, realities and realistic circumstances that I find myself in. But I wasn't focused on them as much as I lay there contemplating how to overcome them ... because I will.

Why not?

Just as sure as I was that the sun was going to rise ... and I'm watching it do an amazing job of it this morning.

"Oh Lord," I pray out loud, "Let me be like the sun today. I'm gonna rise above all of this darkness."

Amen.

Self Titled

Rene asked me the other day night why all of my status updates are songs. Actually they're all song titles though lately I've been throwing in some of the lyrics too. Every single update I've posted as had a song title in it.

When I found myself Suddenly Single I was posting things like "Micheal wants to know how do you mend a broken heart? As I continue to be mystified by the things most every elected official does it would be "Micheal asks And they call this democracy?" As I came out of a funk, "Micheal was sitting on the dock and Here comes the sun! As Sarah came around it was "Micheal says Love me Do!"

You get the idea.

It's fun and challenging as I try to never repeat the same song title. I also try to make it fit in with whatever I'm feeling, doing or thinking that day. Sometimes I choose obscure things just to see if there is a song that Mitch Wesley doesn't know (he's freaking amazing).

It all goes back to the days when I was a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. A "Professional Christian" is one who get paid for what everybody else is asked to do for free. So as Pastor of the Chapel (and I use the term lightly) I had to write and deliver a sermon every Sunday. I was pretty good at the writing and delivering part. I really sucked at the naming part.

If I'd had my way I'd just name them Sermon I, Sermon II, Sermon III ... or just date them or something.

That didn't go over very well with the little old ladies, homeless people and radical Seminary students who made up the congregation. They demanded to know what the sermon was about before they fell asleep asleep, did drugs or walked out.

So I took to naming sermons after song titles. My examination of Noah and the Flood was called Riders on the Storm.

The lessons of John the Baptist was One Tin Soilder. Looking at promises of life after death was Don't fear the Reaper. Scripture from Revelation was It's the end of the world as we know it. And of course on Easter Sunday was Always look on the bright side of life.

The little old ladies didn't always get it but everybody else thought it was pretty funny.

So I kept at it.

Then God invented Mark Zuckerberg to invent Face Book, I resumed the practice with status updates.

I still struggle with titles ... I've only named half of the eight books that I've written. The first four the publisher thought my title sucked. They over rode me and picked something they liked better. The Society of Salty Saints, Community of the Abandoned, Partners in Grace, and Why the Homeless Don't Have Homes were all titles I had nothing to do with.

I got better at it. Running with the Dolphins, Playing Hide and Seek with God, Out From Under the Rock and Tour of Homes were all things I actually thought of and they weren't rejected.

But I like the whole using song title thing. I mean all of these great artists, writers and singers have already come up with the greatest titles in the world. Why not recycle them if they work for you?

So my Mom's been after me to get a haircut lately so yesterday it was Mama told me not to come ... but I did anyway. I had a great Sunday at Bar Church, with Sarah and unexpected and lucrative business opportunities dropped in my lap making me feel like everything is getting ready to happen at once I've got a feeling ... a feeling deep inside.

So that's the story behind the status.

I don't know if anybody cares or not but it's fun for me.

And sometimes you just got to do stuff just for you.

OK, I got to get to work. Back on the Chain Gang.