A Far Better Way to Live

"You believe that there's good in everybody," she told me. "I don't."

Sipping from my wine I answered, "I don't know how else I could have survived a thirty year career doing the things I've done."

Now I've met my fair share of sons-of-bitches and there are certainly people I don't like but I do believe everyone was at least born with good in them. I still do.

"For God is good and Her love endures forever; and Her truth endures to all generations."

Having said that if I could find some good in Hitler would it matter? He killed millions! So what if he helped a little old lady across the street or gave candy to kids?

I suppose even if there is some good in every person, there's a lot more evil in many that completely negates it.

There are others too who are self-absorbed with themselves and what they want that it's always at the expense of those around them. The end of my time at Union Mission was filled with them and while individually they're a pain-in-the-ass, collectively they can smother anything that's good.

What do you do?

Keep your guard up? Never completely trust anyone? Forgive but never forget? Take an eye for an eye? Shut people completely out of your life and pretend they don't exist so you can build a fantasy world?

For me, it comes down to believing. If I'm going to believe in God then I'm going to believe in good; that it can conquer evil but doesn't always. I think love is better than hate. Forgiveness is healthier than forgetting and that its healthy for me and not necessarily the person I'm forgiving.

Honestly, there are several people I really struggle with forgiving, loving or even liking. These are the people who make me believe in hell. These are the demons in my life. We're taught that the first step in casting out demons is to name them and I'm certainly tempted to call them all out right now (this includes you Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy) but I'll refrain and be ... mostly good.

I've seen a lot of bad in my life. I've encouraged wives to leave abusive husbands and helped them do so. I worked to separate kids from bad parents. I'm still overwhelmed by selfish politicians and preachers and they fill me with cynicism. I've touched far too many of the dead having fought with them to keep their life ... while they're families no longer gave a damn. I've been left, abandoned, betrayed and somehow survived my own crucifixion.

But ...

I still believe in good. I still believe in love. I still believe in God.

I try to live these things.

I think its a far better way to live.

With a song in my heart

Driving back from Athens yesterday morning I was flipping through the radio stations of middle Georgia and discovered two things.

First, almost all of the stations were either country music or church service broadcasts. I therefore assume that people who listen to country music do not attend church. They must be home listening to country music (or in their trucks, at Wallmart or perhaps in a dear stand). Radio stations spend lots of money to determine their markets so it has to be true with so many country music stations playing country music during church.

Second, listening to several of the church services I can completely understand why people would prefer to stay home and listen to country music. I mean these were services with bad music, worse preaching and a generally bad feeling about the shape of things. I could envision two things happening listening to these "Worship Experiences" ... people in the pews were silting their wrists and Jesus was rolling the stone back in front of the tomb.

Thank God there was several alternatives to these two choices! Every other radio station in middle Georgia was playing Christmas music.

Not the good Christmas music but repetitive versions of a six year old Michael Jackson belting "I Saw Mommie kissing Santa Claus", Brenda Lee's "Rockin' around the Christmas Tree" and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir .... come to think of it, middle Georgia Christmas radio stations seem to prefer voices that haven't changed with puberty.

Hmmm .... what does that say about the state of modern radio?

So it got me to thinking about my favorite Christmas songs so here they are.

10.  Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmas Time" is just a happy thing and I really like the video back when there were videos.

9.  Detroit December by Jon Hart is a sad melancholy thing about being broke and alone.

8.  Hard Candy Christmas by Dolly Parton makes being broke and alone sound better if you're in the mountains.

7. Have yourself a merry little Christmas by THE MUPPETS and John Denver though Rowlf steals the show.

6. George Winston's Variation on the Kanon by Pachelbel is a religious experience.

5. James Taylor's Home by Another Way which has some of the greatest lines ever ... "Those magic men the magi, some people call them wise, or Oriental even kings, well anyway those guys." Great stuff!

4. Jimmy Buffett's version of Up on the House Top is a rocking beach song about surfing. It's "TUBULAR DUDE!"

3. Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem's version of Little St. Nick. It's just the best!

2. Darlene Love and the E Street Band's Nobody Ought to be alone on Christmas from Home Alone II. It really is Christmas.

1. Of course, John Lennon's Happy Christmas (War is Over) which is why we're supposed to have Christmas in the first place.

So those are mine. Now I'm on to work with visions of sugar plumbs ... or something like that.

Thanking God for what I've got

It's become a precious and increasingly rare gift when my kids and I are in the same place. I've had family time come in waves over the past several days.

Kristen came blowing into the house like a hurricane which is how my daughter does most everything. She was there to watch the girls so that Sarah and I could fight for Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, at Tybee Court. We didn't get to spent much time with Kristen because she blew right out when we got home. It was something about a date.

On Thanksgiving I saw my Mom for the first time in a few months. I was the lone representative among her children and it was Sarah and the girls introduction to my large extended family. There were almost one hundred of us gathered at my Aunt June's house where we feasted and played as we do every Thanksgiving.

The weekend has been spent in Athens. Jeremy and Marie were at dinner on Friday and we celebrated in grand style. Chelsea and Sam arrived yesterday and a good time was had as the beloved DAWGS of Georgia won a a glorious football Saturday. (Well ... everybody had a good time except Sam but he sure looked nice.)

After dinner last night Sarah and I had time alone just relaxing in our room. It was a great way to wind down. She is my family and we celebrated that.

It's a cold, bright Sunday and we'll drive back home to continue the liberation of Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, from the house they've been cooped up inside. Kristen has blown in and out to feed them but they'll be happy when we're home.

My bag is packed and Sarah's is getting there as it rests beside mine. I can't help but feel good. Everyone is healthy and seems happy. We have a wonderful home to return to and there are terrific friends waiting.

There is no better way to celebrate a Sunday than to thank God for the things you have. Tomorrow we can worry about what we may need.

Discrimination on Tybee Island

It ended up being a homecoming of sorts. Sitting inside of East/West, one of our favorite Athens restaurants, the lawyer sitting at the table grew increasingly frustrated at the conversation. We were telling the story of the sad state of affairs in the Tybee Judicial system, how the Police Department engages in doggie profiling and discrimination against gay dogs is rabid on the island.

"Just pay the fine," he advised.

"Where is the justice in that?" I fired back. "There's been enough discrimination again gays in this country. I'm proud of Winston for being who he is."

"YEAH!" screamed Sarah and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie. I think my son Jeremy was getting ready to pull a knife out of his pocket and attack our friend the attorney.

To defuse the tense moment, I poured a glass of wine in Sarah's lap.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched as I licked the wine off of her. (To be honest, I love pouring wine on Sarah and then engaging in holy communion!)

Eventually the conversation resumed when the attorney said, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

And that's the problem with America!

When it comes to little gay dogs like Winston ... or Goddess who is seven and uses marijuana for medical purposes ... nobody wants to have intelligent conversations about why discrimination exists.

Sure, Bill O' Reilly rants and raves against gay dogs and pot smoking but that is not an intellectual discourse. (It is someone who seems fascinated by killing Presidents. His last two books are about the assassinations of Abraham Lincoln and John Kennedy. It seems the man has problems.) 

The dinner ended so Jeremy, Marie my brilliant-daughter-in-law, Sarah and I needed to clear our heads ... so we did mega shots of tequila as we bitched about the legal system, discrimination against gay friends, biases against medical marijuana and books about killing perfectly good Presidents.

So you know what?

We're resolved to not pay the fine.

To hell with the Tybee Judicial system!

Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, have been charged with being ... DOGS!

And what is wrong with that?

Landing on our feet

When he was a little boy this Daddy picked him up by the leg and held him out over a ledge. Hanging upside down, three stories high, the little boy was terrified. His Daddy laughed and though the little boy was crying and begging he could hear the coins jingling in the man's pockets.

"Oh don't be scared," the Daddy admonished. "I'm not going to drop you ... but I could. I don't want you to grow up to be a scaredy cat."

The boy grew up to be petrified of heights.

He also grew up with an unyielding desire to prove to his father that he was a good boy.

"You know the thing about you Mike," he told me years later, as we sat together ... him drinking coffee and me having a beer ... "had it been you hanging there by a leg, you would've believed it all would have been alright. You're going to land on your feet. You always believe you're going to land on your feet."

"Well," I said slowly sipping the beer, "if you believe you're going to land on your feet then the odds of actually doing is bound to go up."

A few years later I met his Daddy, a small jovial man in a white shirt and dark trousers. He had one hand in his pockets, jingling change.

He didn't know what to make of me. I was the opposite of his son with my long hair, football jersey and faded jeans. Standing in the church which his son was Pastor, the man laughed at things I said but he never took his eyes off of mine.

It was a funny church. Southern Baptist normally don't have a sanctuary built in an Orthodox style with a small balcony that could perhaps seat four twenty feet above the pulpit.

"Oh," I remember saying, "I didn't know you did High Church."

The son laughed loudly.

His Daddy jingled the coins in his pocket.

The son has been Pastors of churches across the nation. He is a great Minister, a most eloquent speaker, a wonderful writer, the epitome of belief. He is beloved by everyone he encounters.

His Daddy's dead and never got the chance to see the boy landed on his feet.

Decades later I remember these things and I raise my glass to the boy, though he is far away. Tipping it to night sky with my bare feet warmed by the fire on the beloved back deck, I say out loud in prayer ... "To you my friend! May we all land on our feet ... even when we don't believe."

You can get anything you want ... on Thanksgiving

I had every intention of sitting down this morning and writing down all of the things I'm thankful for but Arlo Guthrie "Alice's Restaurant" keeps running through my mind.

"You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant. It's a song about Alice ... and her restaurant. It's not the name of the restaurant. It's the name of the song," which is why it's called "Alice's Restaurant."

It's a Hymn about Thanksgiving and the fact that in the 1960's if you were convicted of  a crime such as littering, you wouldn't be eligible for the draft. The Vietnam War was waging at the time and nobody wanted to go. They wanted to stay home for Thanksgiving like everyone else.

It's a hilarious romp about micromanagement of public policy, law enforcement and the military.

Fast forward fifty years and things are pretty much the same.

Politicians are taking a day off from enacting stupid rules. Law enforcement are giving tickets. And the military are off fighting wars for the politicians.  The politicians give thanks while the rest of us pay tickets with money we don't have, mourn our sons and daughters who are missing the day or just sit counting what's left.

Just like the garbage in the bottom of the church where Alice lived, religious leaders keep quiet about all of the above, rendering unto Caesar and all of that. (Sure there are a few exceptions among the clergy, but only a few.)

In the end, it's a happy song. "You can get anything you want ..."

Well, you can and you can't.

Everything you have has cost you a lot.

Everything you've lost has too.

Yet here we are on this Thanksgiving Day. Most of us have family to see ... there are good smells in the house ... it's a day of rest (except for all of the work of putting on the perfect gathering), and there's thanking God, Clergy, politicians, law enforcement and such.

What would we be without them?

Sarah walks by to check the bread she's baking and kisses me on the check. Goddess nudges the door open with her nose and rubs herself against my leg. The sun is shinning. The heat is on. The house is a wreck. Disney is celebrating the day on television (LOUDLY). My kids are all good and happy. Sarah and I are off to Key West soon to hook up with Joey Finch (whose been raised from the dead). Then there's Christmas.

It's all pretty good when ... you can get anythings you want.

The Tybee Judicial Process

Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, got a continuance in Tybee Court last night. They have to reappear on December 4 having been charged with barking which brought the Tybee Island Police Department to our house on numerous occasions.

Seriously five different officers visited on three different occasions and wrote three different citations in a one week period! Someone had complained.

Dog barking is apparently one of Tybee's most major crimes ranking in the same category as DUI, swimming beyond fifty feet of the Pier, using your yard to make money by selling parking on the forth of July or walking into a party of underage drinkers as the only one of legal age.

The Tybee Coyote was not mentioned last night but the fifteen police officers present all kept a hand on their guns just in case.

Goddess seemed cool about it all. I think she smoked a few doobies before heading to court.

Winston, the little gay dog, was upset because he was wearing his "Alcohol Was A Factor" sweater that he got from the Bored Meeting. He bought it from O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) when the Bored got into merchandizing.

This is how Tybee Court works.

First you stand in line so an officer can use his magic wand on you. He takes longer with some people than he does with others. He took a long time with Sarah and not so much with me.

Once inside you have to find a seat. Of course there are none as they're all taken up by the fifteen members of the Tybee Island Police Department.

That's not completely true. Several stand guard over the women's rest room at all times. Evidently bad things have happened in the women's restroom at Tybee Court. I could just waltz into the Men's restroom without being re-wanded.

The Judge comes out. Judges are people who used to be normal human beings until they put on a black robe. Then they become something completely different.

Court begins.

The guilty go first, meaning they plead guilty and are assessed fines, community service, school, counseling,  listen to a lecture from the black robed Judge, talk to the Public Defender and informed that checks are not taken ... credit cards and money orders only.

Afterwards the attorneys go with their clients.

The Judge knows them all so they all joke and laugh a lot. "May I approach?" the attorneys ask and the Judges winks and says "You may, " and they joke, giggle and such with their backs to everyone. A Plea Bargain is announced and the attorneys get to leave while the rest of us have to wait.

The Not-Guilty pleas follow. The Judge warns every single one that they need an attorney. There are none to be found which dispels a myth that they are ambulance chasers.  It does create another one though that Judges are in collusion with attorneys.

As all of this is happening, the Court credit card machine is racking up major bucks. Everyone is fined something or given community service on Tybee (which is free labor). The Tybee Island Police Department all appear happy. The Judge is obviously ready to be done. Tybee is rolling in the dough.

That was three hours of my life last night for the barking of a seven year old pot smoking dog and a little gay thing, Winston, who cried all night because he felt he'd dressed wrong.

But it got a continuance.

We get to do it all again in two weeks.

Coming in the air

Though the wind continues to blow, the sun shines brightly making things more cheery than the cloudy bluster of the past several days. It was warm enough last night for me to sit outside with my bare feet resting near the fire in the Chiminea my kids gave me, though blue jeans and a long sleeve was necessary.

It's a time of transition.

I can feel it in the air.

I can see it in a number of friends.

I can sense it in me.

This time a year ago, Sarah and I were planning our first Thanksgiving together. Two years ago Goddess struggled dealing with little girls who were suddenly around. Three years ago, I lived a completely different life. I was a completely different person.

For the past several months, I've been working to start a new business which is now coming together. We've accomplished a lot though as with anything new there are so many things to be done. It's a communications company that weaves visual story-telling through both social and traditional media streams. And we do it so the customers can do what they do best ... their business! We also bring the one thing that most media managers can't do for clients ... we do it every day! (www.letustellit.com)

A lot of people are surprised because it's a regular American for-profit corporation. My career was born in the church where I learned radial behavior because Scriptures teach radical things. It progressed to decades of non-profit work where I gave myself completely away to things I believed and I learned an important lesson ... if you give yourself away ... people will take it.

I was luckier than most. Somehow I'd amassed enough capital to finance myself through an adventure of self-renewal. In reality I think it was self-discovery (when you're so busy giving yourself away you forget who you really are which is really where the whole concept of being reborn comes from).

A long time ago I wrote a book, "PARTNERS IN GRACE." My friend Frank Stanton coined the title. It's about how grace just happens ... unexpected gifts from God if you believe in God ... serendipity or karma if you don't ... but each of us are lucky enough to have good things happen. Sprinkles magically appear on ice cream, music comes from nowhere, in the midst of loss you find things ... you learn you can't have resurrections without crucifixions which is a bitch of a lesson.

For me, a carnival of friends burst into my life to take control when I wasn't in charge of much anymore. Other friends were raised from the dead and rolled away the stone preventing the light from entering. Bar Church was born. Sarah came home.

Now the capital needed to allow time for grace to occur is dwindling so it was to be replenished which is the bitchy thing about money ... you always have to replace it! The more you need, the more it takes. The more you spend, the more you need.

I was thinking these things at 2:43 this morning. Something was different though. Sarah lay beside me so all was calm, all was bright. One of the friends who raised himself from the dead wrote me demanding that it's time for us to make our own music again. The Carnival of Friends had a party and the evidence is online today. The gift my kids give me continues to throw warmth.

"I can feel it coming in the air coming in the air tonight," Phil Collins sings and everybody groans because we've heard it so many times.

But it's the next line that has me captured this morning.

"Oh Lord, I've been waiting for this moment all my life."

The Slap of Reality

It is definitely Monday.

I wish I were somewhere else.

Actually I wish that Sarah and I were in St. Martin where I wouldn't have need of the shirt that I'm wearing or anything else either. The aqua-blue water of Orient Bay, the powdery white sand, the glorious view of waves breaking on the reef and the sun dripping warmth would do us good right now.

Alas, the beloved back deck is carpeted with brown leaves, the sun refuses to come out from under the blanket of clouds, and a chilly breeze blows from the ocean. The list of things to do is long and its only a two day week to accomplish them all.

It was a glorious weekend, as they normally are, and good times were had by all. Friday began with a date, Saturday was an explosion of activity and Sunday was born in worship and ended with the Carnival of Friends. Sunday ended late last night.

Monday arrived WAY TOO EARLY!

I've had a lot on my mind lately, mostly work related stuff. Creating something out of nothing is always a challenge. Businesses, books and brokering take a lot of effort. They also play Mind Games with me, waking me up at 4:30 in the morning and leaving me restless to tackle them. I feel the need to deliver as it's been a long time since I've been so conscious of such things.

Monday begins with a stutter, as though it is an Albatross around my neck ... an anchor pulling me back into Sunday where I'd much rather be. But there is work to be done and it's harder working this way sometimes. There are so many distractions, so many delights, always tempting me to forget that if I'm going to keep living, there are things to be done.

I am full of wishful thinking today. It's the planning for pleasant things instead of the harsh realities that things simply must be done. I'd rather stay in the fantasy cycle but I'm smart enough to know that make-believe can never be reconciled with reality. So I drag my ass out of bed to get started.

Mondays are always a slap of reality to your face when I'd much rather be somewhere else.

And When I Die

We were having our wills done when Bill Shearouse asked, "And when you die?"

"Cremate me," I quickly said.

"Seriously" Sarah asked?

"Yeah, why?"

"I think I'm going to be buried," she explained.

"That's alright," I told her, "You can throw my ashes on your casket."

Bill didn't seem to know what to write down.

The fact of the matter is, I've always planned to be cremated. My Dad was cremated and hasn't missed a University of Georgia game since. Angi, my sister, pulls him out and sets him in his chair, opens a beer beside him and Dad cheers for the DAWGS with the rest of us.

I've instructed Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea ... my kids ... that when I die, cremate me and put my ashes in little baggies that I will leave for them. Each baggie will have a name on it. The names are of people I don't like ... the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) and other assholes like him.

Then one of my beloved children will tap one on the shoulder having dumped my ashes from the baggie into their hand.

"Dad says Hi," the will explain as they blow my ashes into their face.

I think its a wonderful way to go out.

What are your funeral plans?

As you can see, I've got mine all figured out.

My Daughter's Mixed Marriage

Chelsea called yesterday to tell me that my soon to be Son-in-law is not only graduating from Georgia Tech next month but has accepted a paid internship with the Georgia Department of Transportation.

She was driving to her Alma Mata, the University of Georgia, for today's game when she gave me Sam's big news.

It is true that they're going to be a mixed marriage.

We all know that love is strange but Georgia marrying Georgia Tech? God did not ordain the universe this way. But I love my daughter and have grown to love Sam and cannot imagine them not being together.

Well, today they're not together.

She's at the Georgia game with her brother Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie and Sam is going to attend whatever is going to occur on Grant Field at Bobby Dodd Stadium.

As brilliant as my future son-in-law is, Sam sometimes makes really stupid decisions. He could be with Chelsea who is beautiful, at a better game, with a prettier stadium, more attractive uniforms, stunning cheerleaders, and cheer for the team that God pulls for.

Alas, he opted out.

I think its going to work out fine at the Georgia Department of Transportation. The place is a mess and has been for years. Georgia has lots of roads that lead to nowhere so Sam has the opportunity to fix that.

Of course he will only be one person among numerous Georgia Tech graduates working at the Georgia Department of Transportation. There's only so much he will be able to do. I mean have to you seen how they screwed up Atlanta? The civil engineering in Georgia's capital is perfect ... if you like to sit in your car.

I've become convinced the reason Smart phones were invented is so people sitting in cars in Atlanta traffic trying to get to the office can get some work done while they wait. They'll get to the office just in time to leave for the commute home.

I have a lot of confidence in Sam though.

He'll fix all of this soon.

I'll make sure of this next weekend when I see him again. When the rambling wreck of Georgia Tech (concrete evidence they don't teach poetry there) visits the promised land in Athens. Where traffic flows freely, the skies are always blue, and the beer at the Globe is the best.

Me and Barry White

Having just lit the grill, I throw more Palm fronds on the fire. It's dark and I have Barry White streaming on the computer so sex is dripping from the stars and people are in ecstasy somewhere. The Lord's name is not being taken in vain but in other, more glorious ways.

It makes me wonder if Barry started as a Gospel singer. Can you imagine what he'd do to a Hymn in Church?

I can just see the laying on of hands ... the speaking in tongues ... the utterances of God's name in new and creative ways ... the slaying of the spirit ... THE BAPTISM IN THE HOLY WATER!

Hallelujah!! Glory!!

My friend Gloria Coleman once told me that more babies were made to Barry White music than any other musician and I believe it. The man sings sex. Prince just pretends in the same world as Barry. He's not.

It's hard not to like Barry White but I can see why he was never invited to sing in church.

So I'm doing this little dance to "Can't get enough of your love baby", standing by the fire on a cold, damp night. I'm dancing between the fire and the grill to turn the steaks.

The storm we just experienced is not without its benefits. Palm fronds are littered around the yard. I pick them up and throw them on the fire. Even when they're wet they burn great. So while it's cold everywhere else on the island, the beloved back is HOT because of Barry White and fire!

And it's almost the weekend.

I'm ready for the weekend! Sarah and I have date tonight.  Tomorrow is a 1950's theme party at Ohio Bob's house. The beloved DAWGS of Georgia play. It's Johnny O's birthday and his anniversary with Judy O! (The man is smart. He may forget one but he never forgets the other.) God told Samuel Adams to tell Sarah and me that we're back in the Bar Church band. It's a lot!

Barry White has now moved on to "It's Ecstasy when you lay down next to me" and I wonder where Sarah is.

Can I get an AMEN?

Hopping Time

"Am I in your book," sweetly asks each of the girls most every day.

"I dunno," I say shrugging my shoulders. "If you pick up your toys. I might put you in."

We engage in mutual manipulation.

The fact is they are in a lot of the stories. They're part of my life which is what I write about so how can they not be? I just don't want to tell them yet. I need to always keep an Ace or two in pocket.

Besides, they need to talk to my kids who have were in my other books. They'll be the first to say that it's not all that.

There are other references too. People I included in books who got really pissed off that they were in one. I thought I was showing them love and respect and they thought otherwise. What do you do? Move on. Gain friends while losing others, trade in old dreams for new ones, and learn to trust ... your love, yourself, God, the things you believe.

I downloaded a new App the other day. Timehop shows what I wrote as a status report on Facebook last year, the year before and the year before that. It's fascinating!

Three years ago my status was, "thinks there's too many windows in this heart hotel." I just discovered I was suddenly single along with the rest of the world.

The next year I "going home by another way." I was in St. Martin when I wrote that seriously considering moving there permanently.

Last year I knew "that the pain comes today, is here then goes away, and we are homeward bound and I ... I want this more than life." I was actually home when I wrote this waiting on Sarah.

You can tell I've come a long way. Today's status is "everybody knows there's nobody meaner than the little old lady from Pasadena." I was singing to the Beach Boys driving home after taking Maddie to school.

Part of today will be spent working on the book that the girls want to be in and they are there ... somewhere in the stacks. Along with my kids, friends lost and gained, old dreams and new ones, Sarah, me, God and the things I believe in.

I'm hopping time. Remembering the past but very much living in the present.

And hoping like hell for tomorrow.

Everything is a lot

The kitchen table looks like it was hit by a Mail truck! Almost 600 pieces of paper are in stacks of various sizes associated into topics ... being suddenly single and surviving a divorce, Non-Profit leadership, life on Tybee Island, Spirituality and finding love again while starting over.

I sigh.

There's another 600 pages of this stuff that hasn't been printed yet for me to wade through.

Last week I spoke with a Publisher and she expressed interest in books on four of the topics. Can you give me the first three chapters of each?" she asked. "Next week?"

Every single day for the past three years I've written what was going on in my life and put it out there. My life is not-so-neatly stacked in four piles.

Picking up something I wrote two years ago, I look at how long it is. I read it and the words drip in darkness. Behind the words I can see me fighting through sadness. I put it back in its stack.

It's tough work to examine your life like this.

It's even harder to share it.

Grabbing another stack I read, "I am contemplating having a party and setting my Christmas Tree on fire ... there's nothing like little pieces of sadness hanging from the branches of a broken family tree."

I walk outside.

Goddess raises her head from sleeping and watches me. Out of old habits, she seems concerned.

A cold ocean wind whips through the trees. Brown leaves are strewn across the deck. There is no sunshine today.

Things I wrote three years ago are long, brooding paragraphs. What I wrote yesterday was lighthearted fun. A lot happened in-between.

I don't know how I would have gotten through without "writing it out," as my son Jeremy puts it. It was my way of letting all of the sadness and hurt out. It's easier to blog than it is to publish a book and I was fighting for survival and didn't have the time anyway.

And the daily writing became more akin to praying.

Then I was shocked to learn that people actually read it every day. A lot took the time to let me know. More than I thought told me they were experiencing similar things but just didn't know how to express it. These were the ones who encouraged me to keep doing it ... for them.

I'm busy remaking my life these days. Aside from my kids and where I live, everything has changed! Everything is a lot.

Staring at the stacks describing who I was, I whisper a prayer for who I am.

Who Knew?

The eight year old woke believing she is an Opera Singer and is screeching to the top of her lungs. The six year old has me spraying sparkles in her hair so it's difficult to type ... much less complete a  thought.

On the way to my nine o'clock meeting in Savannah I'm going to slow down to 35 miles per hour and drop them off at school.

Then I'll have some quiet time.

It's a crazy way to begin a day with a heavy agenda. I'm used to crazy. Thirty years of working with homeless people, I've seen and heard everything! I know how to deal with the real life crisis of people's lives.

So I lock the girls in their room and tell them to get ready for school.

It's a beautiful day as I sit on the beloved back deck.

Waves are giving loud sloppy kisses to the shore. Choirs of birds are singing hymns. The sun is throwing diamonds on the ocean. I believe in God again.

The Opera screeching resumes and the birds all fly away.

The six year old complains that I only sprayed one side of her hair and is now making demands that I stop what I'm doing and fix it.

The sun hides behind a cloud.

But I've learned new things today already.

Who knew Opera could be sung at that high of a pitch?

Who knew glitter is to be evenly sprayed in hair?

I have a feeling that I'll be learning lots more today.

This side of Monday

Monday began with the sound of waves crashing. Laying in the dark, the steady roll of the ocean carried the soft crash into the sand through our open bedroom windows. There is no better sound to regain consciousness to and while Sarah continued to sleep, I lay there appreciating it.

At The Breakfast Club I wished everyone a good morning, poured myself a cup of coffee and walked back outside. The waves are louder here because I'm just steps from the ocean. I imagine Mermaids frolicking in the surf.

Back home, I fire the computer and take my seat in the high top table on the Beloved back deck. The waves continue to sing. Opening Facebook, there's my friend and business partner Wen McNally's post. "It's getting late but I have enjoyed the peaceful sounds of the crashing waves ..."

Pausing, I listen to them as the sun rises. It's further to the south now so it misses the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt, choosing to rest between it and Fran's thousand shades of green.

Looking back to Facebook, my friend Leigh writes, "Good morning Outer Banks! Your sunrise was beautiful this morning. I love the sound of waves. So peaceful."

Sitting back, rubbing my fingers through my hair, the waves continue to sing drowning out the choirs of birds.

"There is something special about this Monday," I think to myself.

There is a holiness to it that's uncommon for the first day back to work. A playful peacefulness permeates.

I am five blocks from the ocean but it sounds as though the waves are kissing the shore in my back yard. A beauty drips on my bare feet and Goddess watches me carefully. Sarah is still in bed but its only seven o'clock. It strikes me that the sound of waves is the language of prayer, much purer than Church and created by God Herself.

The phone rings and I run like a banzai to get it before Sarah can hear it. It's her oldest daughter who is at school but has forgotten something. Apparently if she doesn't get, the world will come to an end.

The other side of Monday raises its ugly head. Sarah is awake. Information is exchanged. Shit suddenly starts to happen. Work has begun.

Strolling back to the deck, the waves continue to sing. Mermaids are still dancing. The sun is wearing a smile. Fran's thousand shades of green are dancing.

I'm going to stay on this side of Monday today.

Something very special is in the air.

Ready to be Home

It's been like three years in a row. I've written every single day and got it on-line ... somehow. I've been all over the country and in several Caribbean Islands and Central America and still wrote every day. On our honeymoon, Sarah slept late and I wrote on the balcony in Belize. Between looking at Sarah sleeping and the Sea, it took me a long time to get anything done, but I did.

After an extremely successful celebratory night ... after the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia assumed the throne of the SEC East ... Bill Berry (not the drummer for REM but the other one) and I ended up in a hot top full of black people. We toasted and laughed.

The next thing I knew I woke up ... in the hotel room bed ... I have no idea how I got there.

I was instantly awake and ready to go.

Stumbling to the other bed room in the condo, Bill was snoring. I assume he had no idea how he got to bed either.

The sun was rising.

The living room looked like a National Linen Truck had crashed into it. Clothes were everywhere.

It took me a while to fund my phone under one of the piles.

I needed coffee bad. So I threw the clothes in my UGA bag, grabbed the phone and jumped in the car. First I wrote Bill a text ... "Later", it said.

An hour and a half later my phone starts buzzing. It was Bill wanting to know where in the hell I was.

I couldn't take the call because I was holding my head with one hand and driving with the other.

The phone kept buzzing. Staring at it through the two pair of sunglasses I was wearing, it was friends wanting to know where in the hell my blog was.

"Shit," I thought to myself. "I forgot to blog too."

Then Bill was calling me nasty names so I put the phone back under the clothes which were then in the back seat.

The sun came up so I put a third pair of sunglasses on and hit the cruise control.

The radio was blasting the Acoustic Storm. Cops blew by me. I put the top down and my hair blew in the wind. The throw up feeling went away.

"Ah," I thought to myself, "I'm ready to be home."

A Sports Bar Night

Bill's truck pulled into the parking lot and he broke into a large grin. Sitting on the trunk of my car having an adult beverage, I returned the smile. We embraced and the weekend reunion of two great friends began.

"I may as well tell you now," I said after he stood back. "I got bad news."

His face filled with grave concern. "What," he asked.

"We got to find a sports bar tomorrow night," I explained.

"Are you telling me ..." he spit.

"Yep, the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia are playing for the championship and we have to watch it."

"The other week I sent you a picture of me in pink bunny suit and you didn't even respond," he told me. "An hour later I send you a picture of naked people painted blue and red at Fantasy Fest ... no reaction. Then I send you a congratulations on Georgia betting Florida and you immediately come back with 'GO DAWGS!' I see how it is."

"Do you have a point," I asked.

Bill has the incredible misfortune of being poorly raised by really terrific parents. They did everything right except teach him to love college football, especially in the South. He lives in Virginia which used to be in the south but I believe its moved north. That could be the reason.

"I tell you what," I continue as I slap him on the back. "It'll be a really nice sports bar."

Later in the day, we take a break from reminiscing, storytelling and lies so I call Sarah and tell her how Bill's attempts to message me and the lone response I had.

"Welcome to my world," she signed.

"Do you have a point," I lovingly asked her?

For some reason Bill want to know go get Breakfast. I want to go scope out Sports Bars for the game which could put the "Chosen DAWGS of Georgia" back on the throne of the SEC East. It's only 12 hours to kickoff.

He wants breakfast.

Jesus!

Picking up where we left off

I'm zipping up I-95 until I turn off on to Highway 17 for a ride through the marshes until I bypass Charleston and then drive through more marshes until I arrive in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I am doing this, not because it the birthplace of Shag but to meet up with Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one).

We met in Seminary and for the past quarter of a century have gotten together at least annually. We've been everywhere together. Our first "boys trip" was to Bardstown, Kentucky about an hour from the Seminary. We would drive there for the bourbon and to visit Gethsemane, the Trappist Monastery made famous by Thomas Merton. We were thrown out of it once for jumping the wall into the cloistered area and literally landing on top of two Monks who had taken vows of silence. When I landed on them they quickly broke their vows.

We've been to New York City where there is this Irish Pup on the lower east side. That's all I remember about that trip.

Paris, France was next and I fell in love with the place. The french fries really are better than anything in the United States and we couldn't bear to leave so we didn't for a while.

Then we went to Munich, Germany and found the beer halls. We locked arms with a hundred Germans, singing songs we didn't know and planned revolution over a bonfire that night. Somehow we made it out of the country.

Cuba was next which was great. American foreign policy towards Cuba is crazy. Those are some of the nicest people I've ever met. When I flew home I was busted by American Immigration. I didn't have a letter from the Treasury Department. They threw me in a room and yelled at me.

When I got out I called Bill and asked him about aforementioned letter.

"Damn," he said. "I knew I forgot to give you something.

Krakow Poland was after that and the Nazi concentration camp of Auschwitz. My life changed that day. Standing in front of a Crematorium that burned Jews and Gypsies, I found a broken pair of children scissors laying on the ground. They broke my heart and rest in a place of honor in our home for the little girl or boy who dropped them before being murdered.

I could go on.

Bill and I met as young adults, on fire for God and were blessed with the chance to grow up together. We're still growing up. We're still helping each other do it.

Lifelong friends are hard to come by. Count your blessings when you have some. Bill and I somehow can go months without talking and then pick right back up where we left off. So for the next 48 hours that's what we're going to do. Pick up where we left off. 

When the sky falls down

The wind was whipping off the ocean slapping our faces with cold while Chelsea and I made our way back to the warmth of The Breakfast Club, a block away. The New Year's Day fireworks were painting the sky in brilliant colors but the damned Northeastern wind kept blowing the colors away from the sea where they were supposed to explode in delight to the parking lot of the Strand.

Then pieces of the sky started to fall as the paper balls that hold the explosives were blown backwards. They hit the beach, the parking lot and the water front homes. And one hit my little daughter directly on top of her head. She burst into tears and I grabbed her.

The celebration of one year's death and another's birth would go on without us.

I dreamed about that last night. Something I haven't thought about in years was just as real as when it happened. I could see the smoke cover the bright colors in the sky, hear the sound of the plastic and cardboard hitting the ground, taste my little girl's tears and curse the cold.

Life's like that sometimes.

Brilliant colors explode giving you delight. Love erupts, promises are made, everything fits together nicely and everything feels like a blessing. Prayers of thanksgiving are made followed by pleas that God never changes anything. Life is perfect!

Then it's not.

The sky falls.

Anger flashes. Love is reigned in as though trying to hold sand in your fingers but you don't want to be hurt. Blessings suddenly feel like burdens. Prayers become deals ... "God if you do this for me then I'll do whatever you want." Loneliness drips like cold rain. Nights become long.

We all experience falling skies and damaged lives.

My friend Shirley Sessions takes a very Buddhist approach to such things. She wrote me the other day, "If we don't have sadness in our lives from time to time, we may not appreciate joy when it pops up and fills us with giggles,  laughter and smiles."

Or as the prophet Arlo Guthrie once said, "You can't have a light without a dark to stick it in."

After a long restless night, I woke to a rising sun in clear skies. A little girl was my companion as we made our way to The Breakfast Club. The ocean breeze was light and I whispered prayers of thanksgiving that the darkness was breaking up. Nothing was falling on the ground. There were no tears.

God had wiped it all away.

The blessing is the new day given to us.

It's up to us to whatever we do with it.