The Angel's Sigh

My bicycle coasts down Tybrisa Street to the ocean in the early morning time of delivery trucks, sunrise watchers, and people sitting on benches smoking cigarettes as they vacantly stare ... somewhere else. Old men sit in doorways reading newspapers, drinking coffee or staring at the birth of a new day. The restaurants are beginning to fill with breakfast lovers, the bars are closed and City workers are blowing yesterday's leftovers away. The sun's brilliance is throwing golden rays down the streets, not yet high enough to drive all of the nights demons away. Darting in and out of luminosity and shadows, I breeze by these things, riding high. All is quiet ... aside from the seagulls, the occasional slamming of a delivery truck door and the sometimes murmuring of "Good Morning" by someone who may or may not mean it. It feels like prayer. I'm thinking about yesterday on this new day. Sarah lost her last grandparent and I still remember when I lost mine. I was in St. Martin when my grandmother died. Mom called with a broken voice to tell me. Immediately, I did all of the rearranging of plans to get home as soon as I could. In some ways her funeral was built around me.I ended up speaking at it, representing her grandchildren and it was a sad day when ... the Angels sighed. We booked Sarah's flights and she talked to her folks as the news of what was happening when became clearer. She'd preoccupied herself throughout most of the day by painting rooms as an old house is made new. There wasn't much for to do except be respectful, help when I could while staying out of the way, and sigh with the Angels. It breaks your heart when someone leaves and ... you don't know why. I believe in Angels. I don't know why but I do. When they're not helping God with Her camouflage, I think they sigh a lot. I know they did yesterday. But ... I believe in second chances too ... which is the commodity of angels. Second chances come often in life and mostly the playing cards of believers. People who don't believe give one shot and you're out. Of course if you believe, then just because life runs out doesn't mean you don't get a second chance there too. Turning my bicycle around, I coast to the top of the cross walk into the bright sunshine of this new day. He is risen! Sprinkling diamonds on the ocean, the air smells of salt and dolphins dance. I take a moment and complete my prayer. Then I make my way home again.

The Next Great Thing

"I really thought you'd be either a Bartender or a cook somewhere by now," Terry said as we enjoyed the warm night ocean breeze. "And where's you next book?" he continued. "It's been a long time. Running with the Dolphins has run out of gas. "Tour of Homes needs a new tour." "Aren't you funny?" I replied with a shrug. "So this is Fran?" he asks, standing and pointing to the wall of trees. The outside flood lights shown on her thousand shades of green and she looked delicate and beautiful ... just like she always did. Giving me a smirk as he pointed to the middle of the yard, "And that's the Palm Tree." "Pretty clever, huh," I said, as he studied the oyster shell eyes, nose and mouth, coconut bra and grass skirt. I still haven't thought of a name for her yet but inspiration will come. We've been friends for twenty-five years having worked together for most of them; he in Atlanta with State government and me with Union Mission in Savannah. We were together often and met for dinner, Braves games, pool tounaments and all means of competition between us. We also accomplished a lot of good things for a lot of people. "So what are you going to do?" he asked sitting back down. "Well," I sighed, "the guts of manuscripts for three books are laying on the desk in there. But it's had to do re-writes when I'm writing every day." Nodding, he retorted, "You got to figure that out." "I know," I concurred. "We're consolodating houses and that takes time. I am spending a lot of time working with friends putting together a new way to do multi-social media marketing." "What that?" he asked. I tell him and he says, "We could use that. Let me know when you're up and going." "Thanks," I gratefully tell him. "You know Mike, you got one great thing left in you. I made a career change when I was your age and it really saved me. Of course I didn't have to go through all of the crazy betrayals and stuff you did. But you've got more stuff to do." He's right of course. I've been pretty Zen about it all over the past couple of years ... significantly downsizing my life, the circle of friends surrounding me, filling the empty spaces inside with new things and finding love again. At the same time, a restlessness is growing inside of me. It comes in the middle of the night as I work to dream the next great thing. It manifests itself in the increasing number of phone calls I'm suddenly participating in and an intensity has crept back into my voice. I'm not quite there yet but ... I'm almost there. My Carnival of Friends have declared May to be a new month ... one that will focus on celebration because of survival. A lot of crappy things occured in April. But we have birthdays, pool christenings, and Cico de mayo to plan parties around. I'll also celebrate the passing of the old and the continuing birth of the new. Next great things are already happening. And I'm right on the verge of at least one more. "Don't rush it," Terry concluded. "It'll happen." "Yep," I affirmed. And we celebrated as good friends do.

Car Pooling ... Seriously ... Freaking Car Pooling

I was so happy when Jeremy was born. For a lot of reasons. I have a son! He's beautiful (looking a lot like his old man)! Smart and dapper! He is simply excellent! AND ... it would only be fifteen years before he could drive!!!!! I salivated ... in just a decade and a half ... I wouldn't have to drive anymore. I would let him! I would kick back on the passenger side, grooving on tunes, drinking beers and telling him which turn to take. Does it get any better? When the magic day finally arrived, Jeremy tried to thwart these plans when he was fifteen by claiming that he couldn't drive a stick shift. I didn't care. After waiting fifteen years, he was driving from Savannah to Athens for the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia football game. Honestly, I think he got away with it for a week or so, but after fifteen years of investment on my part, his little ass was driving. And it did. He'd lied about the whole stick shift thing. This wonderful period in my life began. Jeremy drove me everywhere only to be replaced by Kristen. Krissy did wreck multiple vehicles as I taught her how to drive at a Bumper Car extravaganza one weekend in Daytona Beach. She was followed by Chelsea who is the safest driver in the family ... having mostly learned from her fiancee Sam who drives slower than the slowest person who has ever driven. Then my children did the most horrible thing! They grew up and left! Suddenly, I was forced to drive again. It sucked. Slowly ... over time ... with therapy ... I got used to it. I'd listen to tunes and pretend that I was telling one my children which way to turn or cursing an imaginary child when they missed the left. Eventually, I got pretty good at it and actually enjoyed driving the Tybee Road through the marsh, with the expansive views of the ocean and where the Savannah River meets the sea. Shrimp boats, egrets, seagulls and dolphins are exclamation points that still take my breath away. Then Sarah and I got married. Three little girls need to go to school every day. I'm a morning person. I should have seen this coming but I did not. It's just like when Jeremy tried to lie his way through it by claiming that he couldn't drive a stick when he could. Sure, the oldest little girl is only ten but ... I could care less. I'm driving the morning carpool! Forced to listen to crappy music, forever tardy in leaving for school, gummy bears and feminine hygiene products left scattered throughout my car. I'm carpooling because I love Sarah ... yes! ... freaking carpooling ... without good music ... or beer! "God," I pray. "What did I do? I tried to be good. I really love you and promise that I'll eventually make it back to church. Please get me through this period of trials and tribulations. Thank you for cuss words. Amen." BUT ... in only five more years Maddie get's her learner's permit ... then the good times are going to roll again. My feet propped on the dashboard ... radio playing my tunes ... top down ... beer in hand ... on the way to somewhere good ... telling her where to turn and to slow the damn thing down! I love my kids!

Poetic License

"Never, ever, let the truth stand in the way of a good story." I don't remember which Seminary Professor it was who said that, it could have Bill Tuck in Preaching class ... or maybe Clyde T. Francisco who could really tell stories in his Old Testament class... it could have been somebody else. I just remember hearing it. It's when something happens and with each telling and re-telling, the story gets better. Elements are exaggerated or diminished, perhaps our ability to say it just gets better, but stories take on a life of their own. It's like that game where people sit in a corner and someone whispers in the ear of the person next to her. That person repeats the it to the person beside him. When the statement makes its way around the circle, it's usually something completely different. "The liberty taken by an artist or writer in deviating from conventional form or fact to achieve a desired effect," is the definition of Poetic License. Hmmmm ..... Deviate from conventional form or fact? Hell Yeah! That's how I live my life! I take lots of poetic license. Sure sometimes I lie to myself but ... most of the time I deviate from what's expected of me ... conventional forms and facts ... rules and regulations ... preconceived notions and the preponderance of evidence ... so that I may achieve the desired effect. It's all about our desired effects, isn't it? In addition to painting another bedroom in our house, I'm also painting over the canvas of my life. Previous landscapes of who I've been were glorious paintings ... long haired, high school jock with a guitar ... starting a family in college while excelling in extra-curricular activities (lots of them) ... Seminary student in trouble ... Radical Minister in Blue Jeans ... Home Missionary ... Public Speaker ... author ... CEO ... there have been lots of things in those old paintings of who I was. Now I am writing again, often deviating from conventional form or fact ... and often not. Living at the beach which remains constant yet changes little every day, like our old house becoming a new one, defying form or fact. Children who moved on into their lives remain present though they're not actually here... yet there are new children too. Talking on the phone yesterday with Tom Kohler, for a second I stepped back onto one of those old canvases of who I used to be. It was good and felt I was slipping into an old comfortable shoe. The thing is ... I don't wear shoes anymore. Maybe when I run. Or give a speech. But the desired result is that I don't wear them anymore and keep my toes in the sand and my arm around Sarah as we figure out how to continue financing this Beach Bum life. Truth often gets in the way. There are bills to pay. People to see. Things that must be done. Demands made. The truths of life. Well ... I refuse to let truth stand in the way of a good story ... the story of my life. I've got this desired effect I'm enjoying every day and very much looking forward ... to enjoying it more ... as I take poetic license ... with myself.

It is Good

A year ago today, I was living alone, healing from a lot of bad things though doing better than I'd been, had just picked up my first big contract as a self-employed individual, had a tight Carnival of Friends who sustained me. I'd just gotten back from St. Martin where I'd spend several weeks and was in serious self-debate of expatriating. I had already booked my next trip. I don't remember what I was on this particular day but the television was obviously on because there was talk of tornadoes in the Athens and Atlanta, Georgia area. I remember thinking about my son Jeremy and daughter-in-law Marie because they have this great house in Madison ... half way between where the tornadoes was traveling. Madison is picture postcard kind of town. Norman Rockwell obviously made it and General Sherman liked it so much he didn't burn it. I'm a beach bum through and through but ... I love Madison. I love Jeremy and Marie's house. I'd just gotten back from visiting them, sitting on their back deck, sipping wine, watching the sun throw rays on the trees in their backyard, marveling at the silence and proud that they'd pulled off living in such a place. Somewhere in these memories is the phone call. Jeremy's voice was shaky as he explained that they were fine. The house? Not so much. The tornado blew threw their front yard, picking up the massive oak tree dominating the front yard, slamming into the their roof, destroying the house. They'd fled to the basement moments earlier which they'd recently converted into an apartment to rent. It ended up saving them. Jeremy explained the oak tree had taken up residence in the living room and the house was literally broken in two. "On the up side Dad," Jeremy explained, "the kitchen looks good." I asked to talk my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, whose as strong of a woman as God makes, and it started off fine enough, but the emotion of it all got to her and she cried. It me cry of course so we cried together far away from one another. But ... thank God ... my kids were OK. Even the most beautiful of houses ... in the most beautiful of places ... mean precious little when it comes to those you love with everything you are. Today ... Marie is Professor at Valdosta State College doing what she loves and is moving into a new house. Jeremy has this great apartment in Athens where he finishing his Ph.D. They're as happy as they've ever been which, of course, makes me happy. The house in Madison is repaired and on the market, though nobodies buying. I'm sitting on the Beloved Back Deck looking at the glory of the morning. My beautiful wife Sarah is sleeping still. Goddess is watching over Winston, the new puppy, who is ignorant about stairs and fell through them yesterday. We're consolidating houses so we're fixing things in one while painting the other. Little girls are excited about living at the beach. While I have lots of concerns, I feel incredibly blessed. What a difference a year can make. The choirs of birds and mussels sing their Hymns, the sun dances on the leaves, flowers bloom and the Lord is looking down pronouncing ... "It is good." My eyes grow moist as I remember these things ... and celebrate them too ... at the same time. As bad as it was ... It is good.

Peeing on Parades

My good friend Bob Colvin had just finished turning the lobby of Memorial Health University Medical Center into a shopping mall complete with a coffee shop, boutique, grand piano and lots of light to shine on plastic plants. The information booth was slick, the foyer expansive it all made you feel better that it was a hospital that you were walking into. Fabulous art adorned the walls of the room. It was impressive but Bob always did things with style. At the dedication ceremony, all of Savannah's leadership stood admiring it all. Words were spoken and the audience worked to listen rather than admire the beauty of a transformed hospital. That's when the homeless guy in the trench coat walked into the middle of the room taking a stance on top of the hospital logo. Spreading his legs in a cowboy, gunslinger stance, he opened the coat and peed on it. Everyone was quite ... drowned out by the splashing noise. "You don't see that everyday," I remember saying. "Talk about peeing on a parade." The ceremony quickly dissolved into ... chaos. Bob led everyone to the reception but ... no one was hungry. Well, the elected officials all hit the buffet table but everyone else refrained. It was a shame that the punch bowl was filled with Lemonade because, with the ice and the floating lemons, it just looked like really pretty pee. I felt bad for Bob. Then again, I've had my fair share of parades that have been showered. I remember this story whenever it happens to me or when I watch people I love. We get so close to getting what we want ... we can taste it ... and there's this moment when we all take it for granted ... then it doesn't. It's like God ... or the Devil ... or elected officials kick the bucket of your life throwing everything off kilter. We get what we wanted though suddenly ... it's not all that. These times make me appreciate those times when I get something and it really is all of that all the more. To be honest those are the rarest of times. Most of the time, somebody pees on the parade ... even if its just a little. Homecomings are mostly bittersweet. Days have moments of glory eclipsed by routine, drudgery and not quite accomplishing everything you want. Families spring leaks and we use the Bible, blind love or Duct tape to stop the water. Worst of all ... just when everything's the way we like it ... something changes ... and we can never quite get it back again ... though God knows we try. The Promised Land remains ... over there ... somewhere over the rainbow ... too damn high. It's a Friday. The sun is shinning. Birds are singing and the ocean breeze is light. I find myself among the wildflowers. Soft music plays in the distance. Goddess is underneath my bare feet giving me love. Excited the weekend is finally here, I imagine everything I want it to be. I feel good about things. BANG!!!!!! The noise jolts me from the chair. Goddess jumps up barking. I hear someone yelling. Walking to the front of the house, I see that the City of Tybee is delivering new recycling dumpsters to each house. A truck with a couple of hundred of them has two guys throwing them off in stacks of ten at a time. It's loud, obtrusive and the dumpsters are downright ugly. I wonder how senior citizens will possibly roll them from the back yard to the front. A woman with a clip board is walking behind the bastards throwing the damn things in the middle of the street. She made her list and is checking it twice. When they get to the next block, Goddess and I walk outside. It takes both of but we roll our dumpster to the other side of the street. There are two apartments there and they only have one dumpster. They can have ours. I don't want it. Besides, it's a glorious Friday ... and they're not peeing on my parade. I make myself a mental note to take a Punch Bowl of Lemonade to City Hall.

Vodka and Rootbeer

We were sitting in the bedroom floor talking about money. Really, it was me talking about money. She just listened. It was both depressing and uplifting at the same time ... which is hard to pull off. To be honest I have more than I deserve and still want ... more. That's a confession. I believe I just accomplished four of the seven deadly sins in one fell swoop ... lust, gluttony, greed and sloth. That's pretty good. I mean if you're going to break them ... get them out of the way. I've also broken most of the Ten Commandments. The last time I counted, I'd broken six. Throw in speeding tickets, parking violations and wishing that several people would just hurry up and go to hell ... my prospects for the after life are likely in jeopardy. Nevertheless, I'm a happy man. I live where I want to live and it drips with beauty, often taking my breath away. I go to the places I want to travel, drink wine, have friends and sleep beside the most beautiful woman. I have a dog who loves me and another who is trying to win me over. I go to the Breakfast Club every single day and most of the time I ride my bicycle. My plants are blooming and ... Neil Young's coming out with a new album, Aerosmith's going on tour and two of the Beatles are still alive. At the same time, like everyone else, I've lost 40% of whatever I'd set aside, work comes and goes, the tire on my car has a slow leak, the weed-wacker's broke and the grass is high. I have no idea what kind of fungus is growing in the corners of my shower ... though its fascinating and changes every single day. I'm out of orange juice. I'm also out of dental floss. I do have Vodka. I wonder if Root Beer goes with Vodka? Well, that's life right? There's the good and the bad. The Ying and the Yang. The checking account with some and the Savings account with none. Angels and Assholes. Serendipitous days and sleepless nights. Good days and bad days and going half mad days. It's alright. It's all gonna be alright, according to Jesus and the major prophet Bob Marley. I whisper a prayer of thanks. Vodka does go with Root Beer.

Sailing Home

Sitting in the Soho Cafe on Liberty Street in downtown Savannah, Georgia I'm listening to a business proposition. It appears I have another opportunity. At the same time, part of my brain is tip-toeing through the past. I've had many a lunch and several dinners at Soho, a funky art/deco place with really good food. Back when we started the Starfish Cafe, a culinary arts training program for homeless people, I kept trying to pattern the ambiance after Soho. When Sarah came home, it's hte first place I took her and instructed ... "Do this." A parade of friends march through my mind that I ate there with ... Keller Deal, Mary Ann Beil, the leadership staff of Union Mission, Herb McKenzie and his wife Joan, countless visitors from other cities, and ... more than anyone else, my dear friend Stacy Jennings. Savannah is warm and pleasant. Tybee Island, where I live, is sunny but has a cold wind coming from the west. Wearing my Bar Church tee shirt ("Where wenches sing Hymns"), faded blue jeans and Bob Marley flip-flops ... I am the epitome of business. My hair is back in a pony tail and it's all longer now than when I was in High School. I have a tan while the rest of the white people there seem ... well ... really white. My lunch companion is smartly dressed. A red business dress with creases, perfect hair, glasses ... she also has notes that she's speaking to me off of ... and hand outs. Like I did when I was at Groves High School, I pretend to study them. Back on island, I'll spend serious time pouring over them. There are several people in Soho who I recognize and they recognize me ... but are too busy with their own lunch conversations to pay me any attention. In days gone by, they flocked to my table ... "Hey Mike! Can you do this for me?" ... "My son's in need of serious treatment from cocaine." ... "My daughter is depressed and Georgia Regional won't do anything. Can you help?" ... "My wife tried to kill herself. Can you ..." It was a world without ceasing ... until it ceased. Nibbling at my Cuban Panini with chips, I take a sip of Chardonnay and suddenly feel like the place is haunted. The ghosts of things that used to be seem everywhere. I'm no longer who I used to be. Truth be told, I hung around far too long for who I used to be. I was stuck and scared to make the change I wanted ... so the change made itself ... leaving me behind. Stretching my arms behind my head, I pull the holder out and shake my long hair while staring at my finely dressed lunch companion with the next great idea. Reaching a bare foot under the table, I try to locate my flip-flops. I make a mental note to call Stacy for lunch. Folding up the hand outs, I stick them in the back pocket of my jeans remembering when I used to put such things in a brief case or a coat pocket. I re-do my pony tail. People who used to ask me for things leave without speaking. Standing up, we shake hands and I promise I'll be in touch. Back in the Savannah sunshine, a homeless man passes me with a flicker of hope in his eyes. Perhaps I'll share some change. Then his eyes grow wide and he stops dead in his tracks. "Mike," he says out loud. I stop, turn and hug him. As he starts to talk, I press my index finger to his lips. "Sshhhuuu," I exhale. "Don't tell anybody." He grins as though we're sharing the deepest of secrets and hugs me back. At the car, I put the top down, crank up the Beach Boys, grab a pen and write the letter "S" on the back of my hand for Stacy ... then I sail home.

What Goes Around ... comes around

I've always been a big believer in "what goes around comes around" meaning that the things you do ... either good or bad, eventually have the same consequence for you. Good rewards good. Bad hits you in the stomach just when you thought you gotten away with it. It's Karma ... things eventually return to their original status, completing the cycle. I've done a lot of good in my life. As a result, I've had ... and have ... a lot of good things. Celebrating them daily, I thank God and do my best to keep on contributing to the good stuff. Selfishly, I want more of it. Perhaps it's not so selfish ... I want it for most everyone else too. Then again, I've done my share of bad and have certainly had my fair share of bad too. Things that I wouldn't wish on anybody. It was hard as hell for me to get through them ... then accept the fact they'd happen to me ... and finally understand that I'd contributed in some way or another. Things I'd started eventually came right back at me. There are times, normally when I'm quite and contemplative, when I check the ledger. After reviewing my inventory of sins, I remember both the random and the deliberate acts of kindness. This always leaves me frustrated. I've done far more good than bad so why in the hell did the bad that came back and hurt me so damn much? I've been betrayed, lied to, left, hurt and forgotten. I finally conclude it's because ... I've betrayed, lied, left, hurt and forgotten people and things that I shouldn't ... but I did. That's the frustrating part. Then ... randomly something happens. I pick up the newspaper, spreading it out on the counter with the first cup of coffee, and there on the front page ... above the fold ... is a story about someone who had done bad things to me. Bad things are now happening to him and they are strangely similar to the things that happened to me ... that he'd been part of orchestrating. Staring off into space, lost in the universe and oblivious to the activity happening around me, I understand I'm part of something much bigger ... God's Divine Plan ... Karma ... the simple understanding that what goes around eventually comes around. The first thought after the feeling is a Bible verse. "Let justice roll down like waters, righteousness like a mighty stream" ... or "Kick his ass! He deserves it! He can rot in hell!" Then I pause again ... thinking of Karma. Walking outside, I plop in the chair, propping my feet on the railing of the Beloved Back Deck and stare at Fran's Thousand Shades of Green. Fran died while we were in college of a disease she didn't ask for and there was no justice in whatsoever. She taught me the color green though and there is this wall of it in the backyard so she has risen from the dead in it and we talk almost daily. The Palm Tree with the oyster shell face, coconut bra and grass smirk looks at me making a face ... like "I told you didn't I? He had it coming?" I think about things I learned in Seminary. Hinduism teaches "God does not make one suffer for no reason nor does She make one happy for no reason. God is very fair and gives you exactly what you deserve ... Karma is not punishment or retribution but simply an extended expression or consequence of natural acts." It leaves me torn. There are some assholes out there who deserve the bad coming back at them and I have to admit ... I'd like to see it. At the same time, I've had my fair share bad and I don't want anymore. I want surely goodness and mercy to follow me for the rest of whatever days I have left. I'll love what I have and concentrate on what I've got and not curse the past nor wish bad things ... except for those few who ... really do deserve them.

A Future To Build

Brooks Stillwell strolls inside the Breakfast Club looking like an Eskimo. Baseball cap, fleece jacket, blue jeans ... I didn't look at his feet but I imagine he had shoes on. Sitting on the stool next to me, he saw that I wore running shorts and a long sleeve tee-shirt ... no shoes. "Hey Micheal," he warmly says with a grin. Brooks has one of the most infectious grins I've ever seen. It's this cross between Impish and Deep. He's also got these dark eyes resting under dark eyebrows so when he grins and looks at me I feel he's really a wizard impersonating an attorney. Everybody working at the Breakfast Club stops cussing as he does so. The radio is quickly changed from the Comedy Channel with lots of cussing to a Blues Station. All of the wait staff go on break. Brooks is the first customer of the day. Well ... Whitley and I are there having coffee but we don't count. Brooks has done everything. He was managing partner at Savannah's largest and most prestigious Law Firm, a City Councilman who could have been Mayor if he'd wanted but he's too smart for that, attended the University of Georgia and likes Aimee Mann. He's pretty cool. "What are you doing these days?" he asks throwing the morning edition of the Savannah Morning Blues on the counter, rubbing the chill from his hands and giving me that grin. It is very hard not to like Brooks. "Well," I stumble to answer, "I'm consulting but I don't like it much." "Oh?" he asks with wide dark eyes. "Yeah, we develop these contracts which we sign and then we spend the rest of our time arguing about what the contract says." He laughs gleefully. "That's my business. You need an attorney." Everybody working at the Breakfast Club stops what they're doing and stares at him ... including the wait staff. Whitley gets up and leaves without saying a word. "So I'm writing a lot ... and working with friends to launch this new multimedia, social media web dimension where everything is posted in real time." "I posted some pictures on Face Book recently," he says with that grin. "Oldies but goodies." "I saw them," I say. We chat about Orange Crush, the annual informal gathering of several thousand African-American college students on the beach, the trash they left behind, the dinner he had last night and the things that people who like one another but rarely see one another talk about. He orders. I slap him on the back, tell him how good it is to see him and leave. Then there is this moment. It happens every morning when I leave the Club. After yelling "Bye Kids!" to everyone and them yelling all manner of embarrassing things back, I stroll into the middle of 15th Street, look to my right, and see the sun rise over the ocean. It gives me pause. A new day is born. I have the chance to start over. The past is wiped clean. Whatever restlessness that happened in the night remains there. My mind's focused on the things I want to accomplish. I am determined. Suddenly, I turn around in the middle of 15th Street and stare back inside. A chilly wind blows as a brilliant sun shines on me. Brooks is reading the paper sipping coffee. The wait staff has no one else to wait on. The Chefs prepare a breakfast for one. The Dishwasher washes dishes. Brooks gets his two eggs over easy, bacon, wheat toast and side of grits. The Chefs prep. The wait staff waits. I am thankful. Sarah is home waiting on me. Wen and Sean are waiting on me to do things. A publisher wants a meeting. Friends are waiting for me in the other island. Dedra will be back soon. The controversy that used to be my life is on the other side of the River where Brooks works ... in Savannah where Authorities on Homeless are blowing up, the place I used to work continues a magnificent downhill slide, Board chairmen who choose to remain anonymous reign because they're too scared to say who they are, and Senator Buddy Carter has hired some company to see how many Face Book friends he can amass. It's been a long, hard road to get to where I'm at right now ... standing in the middle of 15th Street with the chills of the past blowing on me and the sunshine of the future drawing me there at the same time ... I turn around and head home. There's work to be done. A future to build.

A Baptized Sunday Morning

Organic X is playing soft, acoustic tunes as I sit at the kitchen table staring out the open doors at a rain dripped day. The doors and windows are open so I can feel the wetness. A choir of birds are singing Hymns of praise and that's a close as I'm going to get to Church today. Fran's thousand shades of green dance in an ocean breeze. Brilliant colors bloom outside of every window. There are no lights on ... other than that of the computer screen and the low hanging clouds mean that its darker than most days. One candle is lit so there is a coziness about it. There are several things about this. My son Jeremy turned me on to Organic X on Sunday mornings years ago. We'd be driving home from Athens where we'd celebrated victory or cursed defeat of Beloved Dawgs of Georgia and the radio would give us a soundtrack for mellow reflectiveness. It has become a tradition for us and a family bond filled with good memories. The candle reminds me of my long dead friend Father Vernon Robertson. We were an odd pair, he in his 60s and I in my 20s ... a Catholic Priest and a Baptist Minister ... his family wealthy and mine lived with homeless people. We did cool things together though, like starting the Roman Catholic/Southern Baptist Coalition which was basically us having lunch on Wednesdays. We also started the St. Jude's Guild as a response to the outbreak of AIDS. He also got me in as a member of The Committee of Southern Churchmen where I met, and became friends with Will D. Campbell. Will wrote the preface of my first book. Vernon always had a candle lit in the rectory where he lived. Walking in, he would forever be listening to National Public Radio so I strolled to the receiver turning the knob to loud heavy metal rock-and-roll station on. It drove him nuts ... but with a smile. On mornings like this, Vernon's ghost leads me to light the candle and I find myself staring at it thinking of him when I'm not staring outside at a baptized Sunday morning. I love Sundays. I've always loved them. Back in Port Wentworth, we'd all go to Church in the morning and then stuff the truck to go to the Highway 80 Drive-In at night ... Sunday night sins are the best sins! In college we'd all be coming back from home and meet for dinner at the Western Sizzler and the 99 cent Hamburger Delux Special. In Seminary we'd skip Sunday night Church. As a Professional Christian I finally convinced the little old ladies to do away with the Sunday night gatherings so we could watch 60 Minutes. Now, here on island, I like grilling on the Beloved Back deck or strolls with Goddess to the sad little holy dock. "Church" is a relative term. When defined as a formalized period of communal worship, I opt for Bar Church which is pretty informal and we are forever screwing something up. But I don't even want that today. "The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of," wrote C. S. Lewis, {because} our attention would be on God" ... and not on what's next in the Bulletin or who's doing what. Good church is like a good shoe ... you don't even notice you're wearing it. So this morning, while Sarah sleeps, I find myself having church. A candle is lit in glory. Acoustic Hymns of praise stream from the computer that are steeped in tradition (a Catholic thing). I send prayers of love for the friends who are dead and who are living. I find myself very aware of the holiness of the moment. I am blessed. Truly .... Verily ... Amen.

Calling Kitty Home

"Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches from next door, looking like a real life Marge Simpson in her blue towel cloth night gown and her wet hair on top of her head wrapped in a tall blue towel. It sounds like fingernails on a chalk board. Every morning I come out here to this lush sub-tropical setting to think, pray, listen to music and write. And every damn morning I hear the same thing. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." It makes me want to join the National Rifle Association. I would gladly take her and those Ferrel cats out. She collects them and has several dozen. They sleep on my car. She goes looking for them in the middle of the night with a lantern ... not a flash light, a lantern ... wearing a bathrobe with a blue towel on top of her head. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." It makes me believe in violence. The windows in my living room are across from the window in her bathroom. Watching the Braves one night, I looked up and saw her standing there ... naked! Talk about a Kitty! It was awful! I still have nightmares. One day Sarah and I were having church, baptizing ourselves in the outdoor shower, when it happened. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." "Meow!" Sarah yelped sounding like a wet thing. There was silence as the shadow from a blue towel wrapped on a wet head blocked out the sun as it passed looking for for one of those God damned cats. Talk about Dark Shadows! I need to say to my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie and other cat lovers that I worked my way through college at a Veterinary Clinic. For five years (yes ... I crammed four years into five ... and remember three of them) I showed up at 7:30 in the morning and cleaned out ... cat cages. I hate the little fur balls. I get pictures of cats and show them to Goddess. "Hate," I scream in instruction. "Kill!" She rolls over ignoring me. I understand that some people like cats. People are strange. My room mate Rocky has one. Rocky is strange. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches again. Turning up the music, I try to tune her out. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches. "Dear God," I pray the first prayer of the day, "please take her now. Please. Call Kitty home."

Angels

The sun's thrown off the clouds and is stretching in the sky as a new day comes to life. Ocean breezes rushes inland so the Palm Trees dance. Wind chimes play rhythm while birds sing. The world is made of powder blue and lush greens with sprinkles of brilliant colors popping out of the ground. Goddess is lounging on her cushion lazily watching a squirrel dart across the electric wires.

My tanned toes are propped on the outside table taking all of this in.

Sitting here I'm thinking about ... what to think about?

Sometimes it's best to not think but to just ... feel what is going on around you ... see it as it is ... not projecting anything on the place you're at ... accepting you're merely part of something bigger ... something that you often think you can control but in moments like this you know you can't ... you're just a part.

It's been a crazy week.

Life and Death have been set before you and the Bible says that God encourages us to choose life so that we may live ... which suddenly strikes me as a pretty one sided proposition. Who in their right mind chooses death?

Truth is I've seen lots of people choose it. Kenny Millet did when he overdosed on cocaine. Bruce Freyman did when he walked across the bridge over the Ohio River drunk. My Dad did when he looked at us in the hospital room and said, "I'm ready. What do you think?"

"It's OK Dad," I said with my hand on his knee as his eyes stared off into another universe, "if you're ready then I'm OK with that."

I've seen Death claim its prey without offering options too. The son of a dear friend was shot and killed in a war that should have ended a long time ago. Disease conquered kidneys. Wrecks claimed life as suddenly as the car came to a halt.

Life is a gift that none of us asked for yet each of us share.

We're here because our parents planned for us ... or they didn't. We live because we were conceived in love or lust. Parents hung around to get us through or they didn't. Some of us were born with a full deck of cards and others with the deck stacked against us.

Regardless ... life is too short.

It's a shame that its shorter for some than it is for others.

I think about Kenny, Bruce, my Dad, Tanner, Bubba and the host of Holy's who graced my life. The were gifts upon a gift.

One of my favorite song plays on the computer. I have been drunk now for over two weeks, I've passed out and I've rallied and I've sprung a few leaks ... I've got to stop wishing, I've got to go fishing, I'm down to rock bottom again ... just a few friends ... just a few friends.

And a song I've listened to for 30 years suddenly has new meaning. Just a few friends. I count them on my fingers and my toes. I celebrate the ones who are gone and I miss them. My heart bubbles with emotion for those I still have. I'm blessed that my children grew up to be my friends. My best friend sleeps beside me at night.

I don't think these things.

I feel them.

Guardian Angels seem to be orchestrating this day.

Some are dead.

Some are living.

But they are all angels.

What Beach Bums Do

Sitting in the Conference Room, I was waiting on John Tatum to walk in. He did and said, "You look like a Beach Bum."

I suppose that I did. Faded blue jeans, a Surf Sex Tee Shirt, flip flops and much longer hair than the last time he'd seen me. He looked like a damper attorney ... which he is.

We spoke for an hour as I was in need of processing things that'd left me unsettled. He was gracious enough to listen without charging me as he chimed in his recollections and thoughts.

"You know Micheal," he finally concluded, "I read this book about Holocaust survivors. The ones who did the best are the ones came to a point of forgiveness. There are some people that you have to forgive."

Forgive Nazis?

That's what I remember thinking. I believe that I said as much though I don't really remember. The next day one of the aforementioned Nazis called to say that he had no interest whatsoever in meeting with me ... unless I could help him.

This happened well over a year ago.

Since then, my hair's much longer. My tan is deeper. I can count the times I've had shoes on with my fingers and toes. I've married my love. Goddess has gotten older. I've been everywhere and I've been nowhere. Mostly, I've settled into being a Beach Bum.

It's harder work than you think.

You have to throw away the way you were raised. Work until you retire and then enjoy life while you can until you die was the way I was raised. I worked hard to modify this because a Beach Bum's work ethic is different. Work just enough to get by while enjoying yourself and the world around you is how I describe it. This flies in the face of conventionality which is why so few people actually do it. Most work until they retire and then retire until they die.

You have to understand that living on faith is the foundation of a Beach Bum's existence. I believe, therefore, it will come true. A lot of Churches preach this ... a lot of Christians say it ... but they don't do it. Beach Bums do it ... in the water ... in the sand ... in the bars. We live on faith. We live in faith. We have no idea how we're going to keep on living this life and we may worry about it but we keep doing it. At the end of each day that we're still here doing it, we pause and toast the Holy Ghost in joyous celebration that we have one more day to do it. Beach Bums live one day at a time.

Beach Bums forget. Most of its not worth remembering anyway. What is worth remembering makes for really good stories. I'll forgive but I will never forget is something that I've always heard. Beach Bums flip it. I'll forget but I'll never forgive ... meaning it's simpler to forget about whatever it was and move on. So the Angels and the Assholes from the past are left back there except when stories are needed.

A front has stalled over the ocean. Salt sticks to my skin on the Beloved Back Deck baptizing me ... exfoliating the dead things that cling to me. The tropical foliage is lush and green. A bird is singing a solo for an audience of one. A muted sun is just enough warmth and light. It makes me lose my train of thought.

"This is the day that the Lord has made. Let's go forth an rejoice in it."

That's what Beach Bums do.

Living Longer (Without Me)

No one has ever accused me of conventionality. I run to the beat of a different drum. Caution is often thrown to the wind leaving people shaking their head, making my mother mad, and leaving some angry that I do things differently. It led to a pretty interesting career and a most fascinating life.

Career wise, I was forever against the wind but made progress anyway. When I was a Professional Christian as the minister of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, my boss Dr. Russell Bennett called me into his office ... again.

"I would fire you," he angrily began.

I have no recollection of what I'd done this time. Russell kept going, "and I would except your numbers are through the roof. You're successful in a place where no one's been successful before. But let me tell you something," he extended a boney finger into my face, "if your numbers go down, you're fired."

The numbers never went down though I eventually did. It lasted eight years until my heart was no longer in it. When your heart is no longer in something, it eventually finds a way to work itself out, not always in the best of ways or according to any sort of well laid plan. It just gets out.

The Church is still going strong. We'll both live a lot longer, if you live without me.

Then it was back to Savannah where the career defied all logic. A tiny little homeless shelter became a $13 Million Company with subsidiaries in housing development, health care, employment training and placement, behavioral health care, and public policy development. We broke most every rule there was to pull these things off but we did. Our partners were hospitals, academic institutions, all manner of governments, rich people and a very small number of religious organizations.

It was quite the ride that lasted a quarter-of-a-century. It also took me around the world, made me a media presence, won me all manner of recognitions and even had me carry the Olympic Torch. I published eight books in ten years, met famous authors who wrote nice things about what I wrote, and gave speeches at places like the LBJ School of Public Policy at the University of Texas in Austin and the National Press Club in Washington D.C.

Then my heart was no longer in it and when your hearts no longer in something ... well ... it finds a way to get out. Not always in the best way.

My Savannah work continues still because it's hard to kill something once its been established, though God knows people try.

It's alright. We'll both live a lot longer if you live without me now.

Goddess and I were strolling around the Back River yesterday when my dear friend Shirley Sessions drove up in her snazzy new SUV. She made a face because, while Goddess had a lease on ... I wasn't holding the other end of it. Shirley gets on to me about this. I don't care. Goddess likes to chase marsh rabbits ... so I let her. She never catches one but loves the chase and I don't particularly want to participate.

Rolling her window down, Shirley asks how I'm doing. "You gotta love your life," she says. "My God ... the things you do."

It struck me as the funniest of things to say.

I thought about it all day and well through the night.

For the first time in my life ... it's all about me. I've given until I've got little left to give ... at least in terms of world changing things. I've changed worlds and no longer feel the need to do it (though opportunities continue to present themselves). I have achieved more than I ever imagined and also failed magnificently (thank you Soren Kierkegaard) ... at work, in marriages and in long term financial planning.

Nevertheless ...

I'm finally a Beach Bum, which has been a life long ambition.

I'm doing things few others are doing ... turning three wonderful children into six ... wearing a black wedding ring ... riding my bicycle with Sarah most places ... writing what I want ... growing sunflowers ... figuring out the next great thing (thank you Cathy Dunham!) ... discovering new music (thank you Jeremy Elliott) ... hanging around just a few friends (thank you all).

So ... I'm not ready for any person, place or thing to try to pull the reins in on me ...

Trust me.

We'll both live a lot longer.

The Taxman ... and God

"Are you working?" my mother demanded. "Because it sounds like you're just playing."

"How would you know?" I replied with a sigh.

"Because every time that I talk to you, you are doing something with your friends, going somewhere and spending money."

"I suppose it can seem that way," I answered, "but I had to write a check to the IRS. Writing the check wasn't so bad but subtracting the amount from the balance hurt like hell."

She was silent for a moment.

"I had to write them one too," she finally said.

We compared amounts.

Mine was bigger than hers.

"Apparently I made too much money last year," I concluded though I really have no idea how this is possible.

I did travel more last year than I ever have and Delta rewarded me by downgrading my status from Platinum to Gold. My overhead is low but my taxes are high. I think of the Major prophet George Harrison who explored the subject thoroughly.

Yeah, I'm the taxman and you're working for nobody but me.

It's funny because Government is where the money is these days. I make money telling people that, and telling them how to get some. Ever since the economy tanked, Government has grown like crazy. Let's be honest though, it started growing under Reagan and Obama has perfected Reaganism in terms of debt management.

So taxes go up. Democrats are blatant about it. Republicans lie about it. Both increase taxes.

This morning I'm sitting here with a depleted checking account, working on finding more work, and taking inventory of what's not taxed ... at least yet.

The sun is beautiful and the weather is warm. A choir of birds are singing Hymns. Fran's thousand shades of green sparkle in radiance. Flowers are blooming in yellows. purples, reds and whites. Love fills this house. I have just a few friends who are just enough. My children are healthy and apparently happy. I'm alive and kicking and full of dreams.

"What's your next job?" my mother demands.

"Well," I ponder as I answer, "I'd like to enjoy things. I haven't done enough of that."

Exasperated, she says, "You have to make money!"

A light breeze blows across my body.

"Yeah," I slowly sigh.

"For who?" I finally reply.

It strikes me that God is the author of all of the untaxed glory that I'm enjoying this morning.

Calling In Sick!

I'm sitting at the conference room table in Corporate Headquarters of the Company where I work. I'm the only one here so the music's blaring and Neil Young is offering encouragement. "Long May You Run" he says. I tell this is my intention. It's hard not to like Neil.

The commute in was pretty nice. The sky was a muted grey in the predawn morning, the tide was high, the marsh grass green and the view from the top of the Lazaratto Bridge always takes my breath away. The Savannah River meets the Sea here and I never grow tired of it.

Hilton Head and all of its busyness is across the way ... I swear that island is going to sink one day. Turtle Dafuski Island is behind it reminding me of Pat Conroy. Fort Pulaski there too and I played there as a kid. The Cockspur Lighthouse sits below me and it reminds me of my dear friend Bruce, when we sat on top of it together with our arms around each other, singing songs. This is a happy place.

I coast into my assigned parking place at the office. The woman in the office below is doing Pilates. She doesn't have a car though she does drive a Golf Cart. Collecting my stuff out of my car, I climb the stairs to the penthouse where my office is located. Somehow, I'm not quite certain how, I have more seniority than anybody else here, so I have the penthouse office.

My secretary shows up wearing a coconut bra and a grass skirt. She doesn't say much choosing to leave me to my own devices. She's also wearing a smirk this morning ... as cold as left over oyster shells. I surmise that she hasn't done shit since last week. I left her with multiple assignments but her hair is a mess and there's even a bird sitting in it.

I'm not making this up!

Taking my seat, I contemplate where I should start. Picking up my phone, I text my wife who I just left to tell her that I love her. Then ... I jump on Face Book to check on my kids. Family comes first in our office which is one of the reasons that I choose to work here. It's not too corporate.

Chelsea and Sam went to the Braves game yesterday and have posted pictures so I check them out. There's a picture of Jeremy smoking a cigar. Kristen hasn't updated anything since the last time I updated it for her. Cute pictures of Laurel's birthday parties also take a while for me to work through. Maddie wears a smirk like my secretary. Cassidy is afraid of sharks which makes me laugh.

Finishing this, I wander into the records room, which is a mess. My secretary sucks! I collect the stack of things that must be accomplished today and bring them outside to the conference room table. The sun is shinning bright through the non-glassed windows so I move to another seat. My secretary finally makes herself useful and stands between the sun and me.

Getting back up, I get a towel for my chair. Another thing that I like about this Company is that it doesn't have a dress code. I used to work at a place that required neck ties, long pants, a coat, shirts, shoes and ... SOCKS! It sucked. This new Company though doesn't make such demands. So I'm naked. One of the perks is that can work on your tan at the same time you're working on profits ... or lack thereof.

My secretary falls down on the job. I swear. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her fall down and then immediately jump back up as though if she did it fast enough, I wouldn't notice. She's no longer blocking the sun which is now in my eyes. She's still wearing the smirk. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why they keep her.

I've get to work. Taxes are due. Inexplicably, we made enough money last year that we owe taxes. More than I've ever owed before! Soon as I figure out where the corporate check book is, I'll write Obama a check. I'm not giving him cash. I don't mind writing him a check though ... I make myself a mental note to get someone on staff to balance the checkbook ... it's been a year and I think the Company policy says to balanced annually. I don't know.

Thank God, it's break time now. This place is a slave driver. There's always something to do. I need more fresh air.

As I'm walking away from it all, Goddess shows up to remind me it's Employee Fitness Time. The Company is health conscious and requires daily walking as a way to keep insurance premiums down. She's a bitch for reminding me. Nevertheless, it is part of Company policy so we take the mandatory walk.

Back at the office, I see that Fran has showed up. She must have had a hell of a weekend because she's all green. I'm doubtful she's going to accomplish much anything today. She and my secretary are talking in whispers. They're already planning lunch.

I check emails. "Damn," I say to myself out loud, "I cannot believe the things people want me to do."

It's my job though to figure out what to do and what not to do.

Sighing, I stare out of the non-glassed windows.

Hmmmmm ... it's a perfect day for the beach.

Grabbing my phone, I call in sick and leave myself a message.

I wonder where my secretary put the suntan lotion.

Breathing Life

I've looked Death in the face on three different occasions in my life.

When I was 16 I sneaked out of the house because my stupid parents wouldn't allow me to go to a dance. I loved to dance and still do ... so I climbed out of the window and went. It was on the other side of the viaduct in Port Wentworth at the community center. I had a good time. I caught a ride home in the back of a pick up truck. Stopped at the red light in front of Daughtry's gas station and Cowart's Drug Store, I saw my Mom riding around looking for me. Jumping out of the truck to turn myself in I was promptly hit by a car full of college students returning from Spring Break in Florida.

It knocked me to the gas pumps at Daughtry's where I rested with a shattered leg, multiple cuts and bruises. When my eyes finally opened, my Dad and Mom were staring at me, full of concern. Dad was sweating. Mom was crying. What I remember most though is the darkness of the night. There was a crowd around us but I looked at the sky ... into the stars ... listening to my own breathing ... and then hot tears poured down my dirty face.

That was the first time.

Standing in the receptionist office at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky I was the 24 year old pastor of the place. No one understands why God lost Her mind and allowed this to happen but it did. I was arguing with a homeless man over something I no long recall. He was madder than hell and I was resolved that he wasn't going to get what he wanted.

That's when he pulled out the gun and stuck it in my stomach.

It's funny how time really can freeze.

He yelled. Janice Money, the red headed fundamentalist, receptionist, jumped up. A bunch of homeless guys who loved me formed a circle around him. I could hear them talking. Again, I could hear myself breathing.

He pulled the gun back and the homeless guys beat the shit out of him in the Church office. I remember just standing there with the world spinning around me.

That was the second time.

My 8 year old son Jeremy and I were zipping down a country road in Meriweather County, Georgia on our way to lunch. We were inseparable. Kristen rode with Janice in the car we were following. Jeremy and I were laughing when the car in the other lane hit us head on in the pick up truck we'd borrowed from Claude Drouet.

The truck flipped over three times. Jeremy was thrown out through the windshield and landed in tall grass. He had a scape on his knee. I was pinned inside of the upside down truck with crushed cab.

I remember opening my eyes ... listening to myself breath again. Then I sucked in air and started screaming for Jeremy. I pulled myself out and there he stood looking at me. "He's OK," I thought as I collapsed with a broken arm, ribs, and glass cuts all my body. I woke up in a Country Hospital sometime later.

That was the third time.

I know there will a forth one day but I really don't look forward to it.

Yesterday, Sarah and I were on our way to Laurel's birthday party when I got the text that Tanner had been killed in Afghanistan. Tanner is the son of my dear friend Patti. We understand it was a skirmish with the Taliban in an open area.

It makes you stop dead in your tracks.

Which is better than stopping dead.

I heard myself breathing and remembered all of these things. Love and concern filled my heart for Patti. There are no words. You don't know what to do.

I ended up doing the only thing I knew what to do. I prayed. I thanked God for Tanner and how he graced so many lives. I asked that Patti be taken care of, along with her other sons. I cursed the Goddamn war and the politics that put us there.

Life is a gift which none of us asked for, yet each of us share.

Until we don't.

Celebrate it while you have. Celebrate the lives of those you love ... while you have them.

"This day I call before you heaven and earth as witness ... I have set before you life and death, blesses and curses. Now choose life ..." we are commanded.

Sometimes, we don't have the choice.

Everything Changes

When I opened the door, Goddess lay at the top of the landing, tail a-wagging, stretching her front legs, eying me with sleepy golden eyes. Calling her by name, I lean over to scratch her. She licks my hand so I lay in the floor with for a minute. She's done the same for me. She follows me as I lug the bags and computers upstairs. I give her a treat.

She's much more laissez faire about my homecomings than she used to be. Normally she runs around acting like a Monkey Humper attacking my leg or slamming her rear end into them so I'll sit and scratch her for as long as I was gone. She's older now and reserves such behavior for squirrels, cats and Golf Carts that happen by when we're on walks.

Sarah pulls in a little later and Goddess jumps in the window, tail a-wagging, and barks homecoming greetings. Sarah's on the phone but the dog doesn't care and leaps down the stairs. She waits by the door until I let her outside then she rushes to Sarah and acts like a Monkey Humper.

Feeling like chopped liver, I look at Goddess and call her a Bitch.

We water flowers, put things away, drag stuff out, then take Goddess for a walk. Making our way to the sad little holy dock, the choirs of mussels are ticking and popping their Hymns from the mud. The setting sun sprinkles diamonds on the Back River and the three of us stand there. Sarah and I arm-in-arm and Goddess slamming her rear end into our legs.

Making our way, she doesn't want to go home yet and drags us around another block.

Once home, she is content ... All is fine again. Lying on her bench, she rests her head on her front legs, sleepily keeping her eyes on anything we do.

What we do it talk.

Reviewing everything it took for us to get to this point in our lives, things we have to do next, and our plans for the future. We bask in the glow of just being together after living so much time alone. We drive to Spankey's for more conversation and food. It's crowded and crazy there but we're in our own universe talking about everything.

Dee shows up once we're back home. We watch a movie, laugh at lot, and talk about changes late into the night.

Everything changes. Whatever you're enjoying now ... well you better enjoy it because it's going to change. Children grow up and leave. Marriages come an end and new ones are born. Jobs come and go. Old struggles are replaced by new ones. Friends move. People die. Money flows or it dries up to the point where you count change to get by. Dark nights are replaced by new days. Cold winds eventually give way to warm sunshine ... or vise versa.

Goddess yawns.

It's way past bed time.

When we head into the bedroom, she sleepily jumps from her bench and follows us into the dark night ... soon to be replaced by the new day.

Sleeplessness

I'm normally restless the night before I travel. Either because of the excitement or the dread of the particular destination and purpose, I toss and turn and my mind refuses to shut off. I have a hard time just laying there trying to will myself to sleep. When I do dose off, I have crazy dreams that startle me awake. Typically I end up just getting on up and starting the day much earlier than normal.

We're driving home today so sure enough, at 4:31 in the morning, I'm wide awake. Every fiber optic in my brain is firing as hundreds of thoughts vie for attention. Unresolved feelings and emotions from the past rise from the dead. Concerns and worries about the future are born and grow. Present realities present themselves. Prayers for intervention erupt. A fatigue sets in. Everything seems worse at night.

My grandmother once told me that she used such nights to pray. Laying there she would call people by name, turning their problems over to the Lord and wishing them love and good things. Sometimes she would do this throughout the night. Often God would bless her unselfishness with sleep.

More turn on the television and mindlessly flip channels or return to something that has already captured their interest. Escaping is better than worrying.

Books on bedside tables are grabbed, lights are flipped on, and a new world is entered while still laying in the bed that refuses to allow rest.

I often walk outside.

At 4:37, I open the curtain and quiently slip through the door. Stars shine upon the ocean. Waves dance to the sand. The sea sings its song. Salt air sticks to my skin. The previous day has been scrubbed clean and a new one is preparing to be born. It is the time of in-between. All is calm ... all is bright ... though there is no sleeping in heavenly peace.

Standing there, my senses are suddenly filled with these things.

Leaning on the rail, I feel small in the universe. The sky is filled with stars and Galaxies. The vastness of the ocean is commanding. I'm reminded of how insignificant I am in the scope of the universe. So are my problems, unresolved issues, doubts and insecurities.

Confidence returns. Hope renews. I count my blessings ... I am loved deeply. My children are all healthy and doing well in their respective endeavors. I have "just a few friends" who have proven that they'll always be there. I'm living where I want to live. I haven't had to steal money from the change jar yet to buy food. Plans are being made for a future that is better than the past. I've had good days and bad days and going half-mad days ... but I'm still here.

"Thank you," I say out loud thinking of my grandmother laying there in bed calling out my own name.

Then I slip back inside and sleep until the sun rises and a new day is given to me.