Better days

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions.

You do the best you can.

If you're not doing the best you can then shame on you. You're just screwing yourself. If you are doing the best you can, then you're doing alright.

Sarah and I ended last year enjoying one another, hooking up with the Carnival of Friends, listening to Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, but coming home early to rest in each others arms.

It's been a long few years.

Lots of things happened ... not all of them good ... some of them were really bad ... but we start this year together ... and good things are happening ... good friends surround us ... life is different ... and life is damn good.

Sure (Sarah's favorite word), I don't have a clue about a lot of things but I'm doing the best I can ... and that's alright with me.

We were sitting at the Tybee Island Social Club last night, listening to a blond haired dregs singer, talking about the things that are coming.

"I haven't been this excited ..." I excitedly told her, clutching her hand, eyes dancing with glee, a broad smile painted on my face and my heart pumping with enthusiasm.

That's how this year begins.

Last year has sailed away. It's just a boat load of memories anyway.

But ... I'm looking just the horizon. To moonbeams, sunsets, zebras and butterflies. To better days.

The things next year is built upon

The biggest thing that happened this year is I married my best friend and beautiful woman Sarah, under a full moon on the beach, surrounded by our kids and friends who have stuck with us. There was a lot of laughter afterwards at Marlin Monroe's where Jenny O threw us one hell of a party! Every month there is a full moon and we take it to celebrate our love and our marriage.

Then Dedra drove us to the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) so we could fly to Atlanta so we could then fly to Belize. Standing to make a connection in the Belize City International Airport, my phone buzzed and it was Johnny O.

"I am so sorry," he said.

"For what?" I asked.

"I have no idea," he explained.

Sarah climbed in the cockpit of the little plane and we flew to the peninsular and the honeymoon was on.

We visited a lot of places this year. Atlanta (I thought it was a good idea at the time), Daytona Beach, Athens (Go Dawgs!), St. Martin of course, the Bahamas, Memphis, Seattle and the San Juan Islands and Key West. Each is now a catalog of memories that we share in our hearts.   They are stories to tell.

There was the Carnival of Friends and our first cruise. Mark, Mitch and Dedra remain risen from the dead so we had reunions. Joey Finch came out of nowhere and we are both so thankful he's enriched our lives. The members of the Bored continued to gather and Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music on the island, kept at it in Bar Church.

Sean and Wen McNally just picked up and came to Tybee as though they were manna sprinkled down from heaven. Glenn and Vicky Arnold thought it was such a good idea they sprinkled themselves in too.

We had a Toga party, a saran wrap party, tapas party, birthday parties, and other festive gatherings for no apparent reason.

The year was not without controversy. The Tybee Island Police Department started profiling Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. There's already been one court appearance and they'll be another next year.

It's been a year of changes, transitions and discovery. There were bad things but it was mostly good (though Sarah is simply great!). The kids are all great! Dani got married and I got to officiate (Welcome to the family Pete!). The beach remains beautiful, the marsh smells pungent (like the aroma of sex in the Tropics) and Shirley's sad little holy dock is the holy of Holy's.

The Bicycle didn't get drunk much. The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass still makes me smile. A fire burns in the Chiminea this time of year. Fran is still alive and beautiful in her thousand different ways.

And people have written or called, many of whom I thought were dead or irrelevant  and said the nicest things to warm my heart.

These are the things that next year is built upon.

If it's good enough for Jesus ...

"Why do you love this so much," Sarah asked as we strolled down Caroline Street in Key West.

It took me a moment to collect myself before answering. It was such a crazy, random, inexplicable question. It's like asking "Do you believe in God?" or "Is there a single sane person in Congress?"

On a sunny, warm December morning, we were strolling hand in hand, wearing shorts and tee shirts with plans to work on our tans all afternoon ... sans the clothes ... before closing it out again at "Irish Kevin's" on Duval Street. Somewhere in there, we would work in "Drag Queen Bingo", a weekly fund raiser on the island.

How can you not love it?

If such things don't put you in the holiday spirit there is simply something wrong with you.

The previous night we'd bumped into Santa Claus himself on Duval Street and he copped a feel when Sarah had her picture taken with him.

I think she said "Joy to the world" or something like that.

The first time it hit me was sitting in the back seat as Dad and Mom drove as round the big curve on Tybee Island, before there was a guard rail or a landscaped clump of sand, and I excitedly stared at the sun throwing diamonds on the ocean. God casts a line and threw a hook in my heart and reeled me in.

Salt water flows in my veins. Pirates are preferable to Priests. Sand is never confused with dirt. Under the Boardwalk is holier than inside of any Church building. Bar food is bountiful. The sun bubbles out of the sea every morning and bubbles under it every night. Romance is everywhere as the sea kisses the sand throughout the day and night.

"Well," I finally thought, "this is my temperament zone! Besides ... clothes confine. Darkness can dominate. Mountains are murderous. The country is confining. Cities confuse."

Tightening my grip around her waist we strolled under the Mango Trees.

After Jesus rose himself from the dead, the first thing he did was go to the beach to hang out with his friends. They grilled fish ... probably checked out girls wearing bikinis ... went surfing.

"If it's good enough for Jesus," I finally said, "it's good enough for me."

God I love islands.

Winston, the little gay dog, is a criminal.

Winston, the little gay dog, suddenly has aggression issues. He'll be tenderly laying there with his paws limped over beside Sarah, seemingly sound asleep, when he starts growling and then menacingly barking at Goddess.

I think the little fellow is showing signs of stress because of his impending court date. He's got a lawyer, there have been no additional complaints, and the Tybee Island Police Department actually seem to be fighting crime (when they're not  eating at the Breakfast Club or Sundae Cafe where they don't have pay full price).

The neighbor across the street who normally gardens in her underwear, which caused the dogs to bark violently, has taken to wearing sweatpants while gardening in the rain.

The other neighbor who complained, the one who rarely comes outside, hasn't been seen in days. (There is suspicion she runs a Meth Lab on the island but the Tybee Island Police Department have too busy to investigate because of Marlin Monroe's annual Christmas Oyster Roast Police payoff dinners they've been attending over the past few weeks.)

Still, Winston, the little gay dog, is traumatized by the entire episode.

On the other hand, Goddess doesn't seem to care, laying there with empty pipe bowls clutched in her yellow tip stained paws.

Sarah is sick about the entire thing and now refuses to get out of bed.

The other day, I couldn't take Winston, the little gay dog's, growling any more so I slapped him.

"Act like a man," I said.

"Meow," he replied.

Goddess stumbled outside shaking her head, apparently retrieving her stash.

"Don't hit him," Sarah whimpered from her bed ... so I put his new Christmas sweater on him ... it says "I shit rainbows" ... and put him outside with Goddess in hopes that she would mellow him out a little.

I don't know what else to do. Crime is big on Tybee and the Tybee Island Police Department is convinced that Winston, the little gay dog, and Goddess are the root of it all.

"Please", said our friend Jen the other night. "The Tybee Island Police Department came to my house, banged on my door and informed me they were giving me a citation because of my barking dog."

We stared at her in disbelief that another family was experiencing the profiling we are.

"You mean the one that died of a heart attack in my lap three months ago," she asked?

"Yes," the Tybee Island Police Department answered as they handed her the citation.

One thing I'll say about living on Tybee Island ... somebody is always on top of things.

Miracles of Grace

"Long years have taught me that most of us will experience more than one type of calling," says E. Glenn Hinson, my former and still beloved Seminary professor in his excellent autobiography "A MIRACLE OF GRACE."

Were I still in his class, I'd be sitting there nodding my head while raising my hand to ask, "Dr. Hinson why did God have to change mine with so many severe cases of whiplash?"

The powerful little man, strong at so many broken places, would flash that smirk he has when he's devilish, and likely say something like, "Mike it's because you always seem to be going in the wrong direction. God is merely trying to keep you on track."

Then he would move on with the lecture but let his eyes catch mine to let me know he enjoyed the question.

I took a lot of classes under Glenn, most dealing in the spiritual side of faith, the contemplative side, the place where prayer is the language and God is experienced. His ear always cocked to one side so he could hear, his jagged way of speaking, left me in wonder of the eminent power of a broken little man with the humblest of beginnings could so move me? 

He led me to the great classics of seekers after mature faiths and he laughed when I wrote a paper claiming that Bruce Springsteen was one.

Reading of his life now, I find myself connecting with him again in so many different ways and he again makes me think. I've been called in and out of too many marriages (never a good thing for a minister), work as a Professional Christian, then decades spent with the sick and the poor, as an author, into a very public life, all leaving me ... standing on the beach as a seeker.

Great teachers never stop and their lessons remain in your heart, not so deeply buried. In spite of my jagged little journey, the things I learned from Glenn have served me well.

His life really has been A MIRACLE OF GRACE. Years ago I wrote a book, PARTNERS IN GRACE, and all these years later ... long after its publication and much longer since Seminary ... this miracle of a man still touches me so deeply reminding me that whiplash is merely one of God's many mysterious ways of working in my life, as a partner.

Dancing Ghosts

"The game of life is hard to play, I'm going to lose it anyway. The losing card I'll someday lay; that is all I have to say."

Ghosts danced under the Christmas Tree. Laying there in a fidgety night, eyes opened as much as closed, I watch them parade through the dark spaces under the bright lights. Some I can call by name while others are unresolved feelings and emotions. My body achs for sleep but my mind remains focused so I dose to dream of past things that were never real and wake to ponder a future that isn't completely certain.

"Mike's watching an elderly show," Cassidy explained to her father on the phone earlier in the evening.

I suppose it's true that M*A*S*H is now that but to this day when I'm flipping channels and come across Hawkeye, B.J. Hot Lips, Radar, Col. Potter and the others, I stop and watch. Episodes I've seen a hundred times still speak to me. I continue to deeply care about each character though their lives have been been canceled.

And I love the song. "The sword of time will pierce our skins, it doesn't hurt when it begins, but as it works its way on in, the pain grows stronger watch it grin ..."

It's funny because the show is about surviving and doing your best to help others live in the darkest of places. The song with the haunting melody focuses on the hopelessness of survival. No matter how much you live, one day you're going to die.

Over Christmas I found myself drawn to the Gospel of Mark, my favorite, and one of the two that doesn't mention the birth of Jesus. Mark jumps right to the important stuff. John the Baptist dips Jesus in the river and the shit starts hitting the fan. Things rock-and-roll quickly and Jesus is crucified.

The following Sabbath his mother, girlfriend and another friend go to pay their respects to the dead Savior. When they arrive, the stone is rolled away and the tomb is empty. And that's where the story ends in the original version.

"The only way to win is cheat and lay it down before I'm beat ..." which seems to be the point of Mark. Jesus refused to take it laying down and there was an empty tomb. Mark never explains what happened next, just that there was no body as sunshine poured into the cave.

Tired of watching the ghosts dance, I look again at the lights of the tree before sleeping in heavenly peace.

Missing Boxing day

For years I would cook a large southern breakfast for a family of Canadians in St. Martin. After waking up, likely hung over from Christmas, I'd sleepily stumble to the pristine acqua-blue water of Orient Bay and fall face forward to wake up. Then I'd make my way to the Villa where I was to cook.

They were all still asleep as I made myself at home in the kitchen. Sausage gravy and biscuits, eggs and cheese grits were simply "Delics" as they put it! Once I had to make my own sausage which is a pain but I pulled it off (Thank you Jodee Sadowsky for all of those years watching you make it!).

Then we'd fix "Boat Drinks" and return to the beach.

I learned about Boxing Day from my Canadian friends. Those who had to work on Christmas, mostly servants, were given the next day off. Employers gave them boxes of left over food or perhaps a present for another year of service.

Over the years I prepared breakfast on Boxing Day in St. Martin, it was sometimes a lavish affair ... once there were almost twenty of us and Conner tried to play ping-pong ... and the last time, three years ago, it was just me and my Canadian friends. The day reeked of sadness and alcohol. My wife refused to go, remaining in bed, knowing that Christmas was over and she'd had begun the leaving process which would later stun me.

But I remember that day. I happily cooked for a family who dearly love one another. Over the years they were very gracious to me. I visited them in Canada and they came to Tybee Island. I wonder what they're doing today. We had many long dinners together. We danced often. I miss them. And I miss St. Martin.

But Christmas and Boxing Day have become entwined for me. The joyous celebration of the first slides into a subdued leftover. Joy hangs over though the reason has passed. I raise my glass to my Canadian friends ... to left-overs and left-behinds and the left-out.

The Christmas Tree is brightly lit though Christmas has passed. Were it up to me I'd leave it up until it's brown and needles litter the floor in an attempt to squeeze every single bit of Christmas out of it and stretch it throughout the year.

Happy Boxing Day.

And thank you Koster family.

A Beach Bum Christmas

A grey fog hangs in the air shading Fran's thousand shades of green on a warm Christmas morning. There is no ocean breeze so the leaves hang as though still sleeping. My bare feet dangle from the high top chair on the beloved back deck tenderly rubbing Goddess' hair. The Hibiscus blooms are closed but still look like ornaments on a tree.

I contemplate building a fire but there is no chill.

Squirrels dart along the wires hanging overhead. A woodpecker is drilling wood. The ocean sings in the distance. The pungent aroma of the marsh smells like sex in the tropics.

I've gotten what I wanted for Christmas. I'm a beach bum. For years this has been my aspiration but I could never quite figure out how to finance it so I worked and the work always came first. I was a beach bum in my spare time.

No more.

It's the other way around now. I am a full time beach bum who works hard when I'm working but takes time every day appreciate the things going on around me.

I celebrate my friends who either sustained me or keep raising themselves from the dead bring tidings of comfort and joy. A Carnival keeps breaking out for no apparent reason scattering smiles and laughter.

Sarah is sleeping as quiet as a mouse.

So it's just Goddess and me for the moment.

It makes me think back for a moment. I've gotten everything I've asked for this Christmas. Sure there are other things I need but I've got the things I want. Healthy and happy children. The wife I love is sleeping peacefully. I love where I live and the people who live near me. I'm doing the things I really want to do.

I'm having myself a merry little Christmas.

Well ... at least until the girls get home in a few hours then all holy hell will break loose.

Happy Christmas all.

An Unexpected Christmas Jounney

Three years ago today I was happily married to an unhappy woman who already knew she was leaving after the New Year but was keeping it to herself through the Holidays. We were in St. Martin and I was full of joy, cheer and plans for the future. It had been a difficult few years at work and it had taken its toil but I was rebounding and excited about what was coming.

Two years ago I was back in St. Martin ... alone. Fulfilling a promise to herself she had left sending me into a baptism of loneliness, depression and self-pity. As Christmas approached I went back to the place I love because I refuse to let her take that away from me too. Fortunately I was blessed with good friends who made sure I had company and I smiled that day.

Last year I remained home on Tybee Island for Christmas for the first time in years. A Carnival of friends held me close and also for the first time in a decade I watched children wake to open presents and spread Christmas cheer as only kids can do. I was becoming part of a couple.

Today I'm happily married to a happy woman. We're in Key West on a beautiful Christmas Eve though tonight will reunite with the Carnival of friends on Tybee. Tomorrow I'll again watch children open presents under our tree. My children will all dart in and out over the next several days. We'll be home.

It's a long way to come in a short period of time. So much is between the lines that it would take forever to understand just how treacherous the journey was. A lot of things could have happened so that the ending wasn't so happy. Guardian Angels, good Karma, God's love or good luck ... maybe all of them ... got me here today.

There is joy this Christmas and while there may not be peace on earth there is peace in my heart. I'm no longer who I was, unexpected journeys will do that to you, but have a contentment that is hard to describe. I don't know what the future holds but it doesn't frighten me. I am surrounded by love.

So as I kiss the hand beside me, I'm thankful this Christmas. I hope you are too.

The Setting Sun

The setting sun glistened off the aqua waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Standing under a juggler sitting on a ten feet tall unicycle, we listened to a dark skinned Hispanic guitar player crucifying Jimmy Buffett. To our back a guy wrapped in a straight jacket, then in chains, balanced himself on a board resting on top of a barrel screaming at the crowd to watch him and not the impending sunset.

There's nothing quite like the nightly celebration on Mallory Square in Key West.

Several hundred of us were gathered, representing most every nationality, religion, political persuasion and sexual orientation. It felt like what Church should be rather than what it is.

"Excuse me," the plumb woman said as she tapped me on the shoulder.

We were already squeezed tightly together where Sarah and I stood surrounded by Asian and Latino families with their feet dangling off the concrete pier.

"Sure," I signed twisting to one side so she could pass.

Her hand hand was held behind her plump ass holding onto a boy, perhaps fourteen, wearing a helmet, mouth agape with drool. His white spiny leg difficultly lifted itself onto the pier as he moved in slow motion.

His mother beamed with excitement as she hurriedly described the miracle of a setting sun. Sitting down on his knees, his dull brown eyes looked at the Latino families eating Oreo's while shooting words shot out of their mouths as though they were machine guns. He yawned.

His mother waved in our direction asking that her husband join them. He stood behind us with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans looking tired.

"It's warmer here," I said and he laughed for the briefest of moments and remained with us.

The performers stopped performing as the bottom of the sun hit the top of the ocean. The crowd applauded and holding its collective breath as the ancient order of the day's ending leads to the birth of a night.

The excited mother clapped as she described everything to the boy. He looked at it for the briefest of moments then covered his eyes as mine grew moist.

The ocean swallowed the sun and the crowd cheered.

"IT'S OVER!" the performers all yelled. "WATCH ME!"

And I lost him in the crowd.

"Did you see ..." Sarah began to ask but then she saw the ocean in my eyes and knew that I had.

Thank God another Winter Solstice is over

The good news is that Winter Solstice is over.

As much as Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one who went to Seminary with me) will hate me saying this, the days are starting to grow longer now. Warmer days will follow! Daylight will begin to linger. The Tides will carry out the dead brown Marsh grass so that green sprouts will grow tall. Northeast winds will cease so that warm southern breezes can blow.

I know ... I know ... we still have the dead of winter to get through. There's little pleasant about January and February. March is schizophrenic. Plus it snows in a lot of places and while it's pretty to look at and for an hour or two ... I hate it.

Bill Berry, on the other hand, absolutely loves it! He likes to actually go outside and get in snow. He rolls around in it and says its invigorating. He and I were actually hit by a bus once on the way to class in Seminary and I don't think he's ever recovered. He loves winter.

I hate it and am ready for it to end. It can't happen soon enough as far as I'm concerned. I hate darkness that falls at 5:30 in the afternoon! Has anything good ever come out of Northeastern winds? Snow turns to sludge. Simply put, cold sucks!

Sarah and I are sitting outside having breakfast in Key West. It is sunny and bright and relatively calm after another boisterous night. It's as Christmas should be except there is a wind blowing out of the north bringing a chill that has sweatshirts with stupid things written on them being the top seller for the Cruise Ship people.

Still ... it's twenty degrees warmer here than at home, I'm wearing black running shorts and a long sleeve University of Georgia tee shirt. The people who work here are all dressed like Eskimos.

Tomorrow's supposed to be near eighty degrees and that's alright with me.

Thank God another Winter Solstice is over.

Reality is a Drag

Let me preface this by saying that I've known a lot of Drag Queens most of my life. It started in Seminary where some students, after lying on their admissions forms, got better paying jobs than the rest of us in the Clubs downtown.

Louisville had a really large and thriving Porn Industry conveniently located in the middle of downtown. Because the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary admonished students to not drink, they filled their free time in other ways.

It was there that I noticed Drag Queens who looked familiar. It didn't take me long to figure out why. When she sat next to me in New Testament studies, she was he! Isn't it miraculous what God can do? Changing a persons sex in the course of a day and then back again is a testimony to the wonderment of it all. I was proud to be in Seminary!

You may be asking what I was doing in the Porn District. I actually lived next door in the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was the Professional Christian. As such Hookers, addicts, homeless people and, yes, Drag Queens sought me out for help so, I was doing it for God. It made me proud to be a Southern Baptist Minister!

Years later Lady Chablis, a very famous Drag Queen, offered to do a show at the conclusion of an AIDS Walk For Life we were sponsoring. I immediately thanked her and everything was arranged. Almost 300 people marched the streets of Savannah  in support of those living with and fighting the disease.

The walk ended at Club One Jefferson where we were all treated to hamburgers, hotdogs and a show by Lady Chablis and her friends!

About half the walkers were children and I've never seen mothers move so fast to cover the eyes of the kids and drag them outside. It's a shame they missed the end of the show which was terrific. It made me proud to be a sponsor of the Walk!

But last night Sarah made me go to the worst group of Drag Queens I've ever seen perform. They were attractive enough, wearing really nice gowns and make up. The place was great and the service super. The crowd was really into the show.

BUT ... I couldn't help but notice when one was singing her mouth wasn't in sync with the song. It was like one of those old Japanese movies where the mouth opened and closed just out of time with the words being said.

Which of course got me tickled.

I laughed my ass off much to the chagrin of Sarah and everyone else inside, especially the performing Drag Queens.

I couldn't help it though. It was one of those times when once you start laughing you just can't stop even if its the same thing over and over again that's making you laugh.

Eventually we left but I continued to giggle. I knew the world was suppose to end today and what better way to prepare for it than to laugh.

So he we are today anyway. The world didn't end.

I'm still giggling as I wonder what we're going to do today.

Gimmie an awkward morning!

It's was the kind of day you pray for but rarely get. The hardest part was dropping Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, off for boarding but even that turned out great. We found a new Vet just a few blocks from the house! By the time we left the island they'd been treated for everything and are well.

Cheryl Sadowsky showed up and drove us to the airport and we laughed and had a blast as the best of friends do.

Going through security at the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron), Sarah helped a woman with two children and a double stroller through X-Ray because the TSA didn't give a damn the Mom was dragging one child while carrying another. I would have helped but TSA was  doing a thorough inspection of my pony tail band.

Seriously, the dude was fingering my band which was still in my hair while making me hold my arms out and spreading my legs!

But the flights were on time, we were given free cocktails and landed in Key West a few minutes early! The weather was sunny, bright and warm ... perfect to kick off Christmas!

Through the miracle of Facebook, I've reconnected with Joey Finch whom I haven't seen since Groves High School almost forty years ago. He graciously was standing there as we entered the Key West International Airport (which is NOT an oxymoron) to greet us and drive us to our Inn.

Years melted away as he drove to the Lighthouse Inn across the street from the Hemingway House. We have a stand alone bungalow with a lighthouse on one side and a swimming pool on the other. It's perfect!

Joey picked us up again and drove us to dinner at a Cuban restaurant where we renewed the celebration of our reunion over whole fried fist, chicken stewed bar-b-q, yellow rice and beans and a pitcher of Sangria!

It's funny how the world is as big, or as small, as we make it. The dead continue to come back to life for me. A couple of years ago it was college mates who reconnected. Now it's people I haven't seen since I was that other person long, long ago in High School. No amount of words can adequately convey witnessing and participating in the miracle of  old things becoming new again. Joey gave us that gift last night.

Afterwards we were on Duval Street where a large crowd was gathered outside of Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville because Kenny Chesney was playing. The guy at the door took one look at Sarah and let us into the hottest ticket on Key West. It was too crowded to dance but we sand and toasted our good fortune.

When it ended we stumbled outside only to be kidnapped by two incredible musicians making their own music. We dove into the celebration. "Gimme an awkward morning over any lonely night" was the mantra of the place and Sarah and I sand and celebrated before walking arm in arm to our bungalow.

I woke to the sound of roosters crowing.

It's not something you hear on Tybee Island. I laid there for the longest time wondering what it was.

After a while I got up and stumbled outside and fell face first in the pool and floated mooning anyone who cared to be up.

A rooster crowed.

Nobody else seemed to care.

And so the day begins.

Time Off (A critical part of work)!

I JUST HATE WORKING FOR THE MAN!

The problem is I'm the man.

I work for myself and have three partners as we help others help themselves be better companies. They will be the first to tell you that I also continue to give too much of myself away for free. We work from home, when we're not traveling to meetings, and this is far more difficult than I could have ever imagined. There are so many distractions like a beautiful sunny day throws glare on the computer screen so I may as well lose the laundry and work on my tan.

Who can work under such conditions?

Plus there's beer in the fridge.

Sarah also brought three little girls to live with us and they have the unabashed audacity to ask me to play with them when I'm working. What do you do? I never knew I was so good at putting a bow in a doll's hair.

To make it all worse, customers are wanting stuff all of the time. While they are critical to our success, they can be such a nuisance, always wanting something when they want it! Don't they know I'm sitting naked on the back deck trying to get the bows just right in the doll's hair before the girls get home from school and I have to put clothes on again?

The good news is I'm pretty lenient with myself. The company has a pretty loose dress code policy, the commute is nice and we're a pet friendly office. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, go to work with me every day.

Sarah works in the office a few doors down from mine and we really enjoy mandated employee break time at 10:00.

Sean and Wen's offices are a short bike ride away.

But it's the pressure of the holiday season and I'm about to snap! There have been too many deadlines in a row, more proposals to write, new justifications to the bank because we haven't made a deposit in three months and I got the wrong damn colored bow in the friggen doll's hair.

Besides I've been in the corporate world. I know that half of everybody working is already off for Christmas and those who aren't off hate those who are. They are holding grudges and not doing a damn thing in the office!

So we're closing the office for a few days before Christmas and going to Key West. I know ... I know ... you're saying, "Let me get this straight. You live on an island. You work on an island. You're going to another island to get away from your island?"

To which I say, "DUH."

I'll tell you one more thing!

The only doll I'm taking with me is Sarah.

Working A Room

I worked rooms for years. Entering I'd go a quick glance over of who was present, prioritize them in my head in terms of must connect with, would be good to connect with, and if I get to them it'd be nice though its not critical.

Of course the same time that I'm doing this so is everyone else in the room there to work and not party. It's easy to tell who is who. The party people are drinking, eating, dancing and laughing. The working people are doing these things too except in a more subdued and calculated manner. We have one eye always searching for who we're going to talk with next.

The biggest and best of such events is the Savannah Chamber of Commerce's annual Savannah Day In Atlanta kicking off the beginning of the Georgia Legislative Assembly. A thousand people, mostly the city's business elite, wanna-be's, State Officials and a handful that I could never figure out why in the hell they were there crowded inside.

Beer, wine and cocktails flow freely. The crowd feasts on oyster, boiled shrimp, pork bar-b-que and Low Country Boil. (If you don't know what a Low Country is then you haven't completely experienced life and will die unfulfilled).

I'd show up a few minutes early, grab a glass of wine and dive into the crowd as though off a diving board into the deep end of the pool. Back and forth the long cavernous room I'd go, talking to this person or that. I rarely got around to eating and by the time things were winding down I was starving, soaked in sweat and ... satisfied.

I'd connected with who I needed and was walking away with either a commitment or the promise of a follow up meeting.

To celebrate, we'd find a quiet restaurant, order a bottle and meticulously review everything that had happened. Who would be followed up first? Who did we miss? What were the surprises and disappointments?

Later I'd go to the hotel bar and sit quietly with my thoughts, often satisfied by sometimes not. Late at night I'd stumble to my room and fall asleep so that I could get up and do it again the next morning.

This was a large part of my job for decades. I've worked rooms across the country and in Europe but the epicenters were always Washington, D.C. (once I kidnapped UGA, the mascot for the beloved University of Georgia and was the most popular person in the room. Sometimes you have to do whatever it takes to get noticed), Atlanta (once I grabbed Governor Zell Miller by the arm and pulled him away from whoever he was talking to saying, "We need to talk. This is important." He had no idea who I was but he did get my elevator speech. Every time I saw him afterwards he told this story.) and Savannah (I once was sneaked into the State GOP meeting by carrying a case of Scotch with a homeless waitress friend. "What the hell are you doing here?" Mayor Susan Weiner yelled, "You're a liberal! I was escorted out by security.).

It was all intense and exhausting fun.

I was good at it.

The other night Sarah and I went on a date to the Holiday Hoedown, a bunch of bands we like were raising money for the needy. Three hundred people gathered in a cavernous hall. Beer, wine and cocktails flowed. Bar-b-que was served. Local celebrities wandered in.

And I didn't do anything. We stood in the back and enjoyed the music. A couple of friends sought us out. I saw one I wanted to say hello to so we did.

It was a nice night in such a setting and it makes me wonder about how much I've missed because of how hard I worked.

But I figure it will get easier. I can still work a room with the best of them if I have to. The thing is, at least for now, I don't have to. 

A Hole In My Heart

Sitting in the auditorium of the newly finished Behavioral Health Center I witnessed a miracle. On stage were thirty mentally ill men and women singing Christmas songs, reading poems or performing dance. When the Center opened in August many of them shuffled their feet into group rooms for therapy or screamed loudly for their medicine. Unorganized chaos had been transformed into Holiday Pageantry.

A pretty long haired blond girl read a letter she'd written. She did so in a low voice unaccustomed to addressing an audience of 200 who collectively leaned forward in our seats to capture her every word. It was the first time she had spoken out loud since arriving.

I cried like a baby in wonderment.

Afterwards a Superior Court Judge with tears in her eyes told me that it was the most wonderful thing she had ever witnessed.

"Next year, I'm bringing all of the Judges. This is amazing."

There was never a next year.

A state-of-the-art treatment center, the first in Georgia in decades, shut down because of bureaucratic Government oversight, personal jealousy, and an angry group of Judges who mandated treatment instead of jail and were frustrated when it created more demand for services than we could possibly deliver.  

When all was said and done, I was left holding an empty bag ... in this case a brand new but empty building ... with lots of egg on my face. It was front page news of course and my two decade track record of delivering one successful program after another crashed into a wall and burned around me.

At the Christmas party the following year, almost one-hundred employees who had lost their jobs thanked me for trying. Most were going back to work at the way it used to be.

I cried then too.

I didn't know it then but it was my last Christmas doing that work after three decades of giving it everything I had ... wives, time, money, compassion and lots of sanity.

Today, three years later, I am mostly recovered though there is a tremendous hole in my heart that was ripped away when it all fell apart. When love collapses it leaves scars and holes that are never fully repaired.

Over the past several days Sarah and I have mourned with the rest of the world at what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Twenty babies, seven school teachers and one mentally ill person are all dead.

If I were there I know I'd be crying. In addition to the slaughter of innocents I'd also weep for what the United States does to mentally ill people which isn't much. Treatment is under funded, often in horrible conditions, uncovered by insurance and weighted down by bureaucrats who really don't give a shit. The mentally ill are mostly left to their own devices, abused and raped by those hired to "care" for them, under-treated, under-medicated and un-cared for by society.

Sure, there are a few bright exceptions but exceptions never make the rule.

Looking back on it, I am proud that I tried yet still coping with failing.

Over the past few months, I've run into some of the players from the failure. Jim Lientz and B. J. Walker said they are proud we tried and helped the people we did. Peter Doliber told me over breakfast that we were just ahead of our time and I was too caustic and polarizing. He said Mark Baggett tells everyone I'm a Son-of-a-bitch and I'm more than happy to oblige him. Frank Barker isn't worth talking about.

The Bible teaches we're to care for the least of these, our brothers and sisters. I know first hand that the mentally ill are un-cared for or under-cared for if treatment is available. The United States believes prison is the answer so it's one of our biggest industries. Lock them away! If you hide the problem then it doesn't exist.

Until a sick person gets a gun leaving us all wounded and wondering.

Christmas in Saran Wrap

"What is going on?" Sam Sahr exclaimed as she wandered up the stairs, toting Eggnog that she'd made herself but was delivering for Dedra who had lost both her keys and her driver's license and was obviously lost herself.  She wasn't at the party.

Sam Sahr stood there staring at us with a most perplexed face.

I suppose it is true that you don't see a group of people dressed in Saran Wrap every day but there we stood wearing plastic hats, ties, dresses, headbands and shorts. Most anyone can throw a Christmas party but we opted for a more creative option and I must say that the Carnival of Friends were indeed creative.

I strolled over to Sam Sahr wearing a red Christmas fig leaf under my Saran Wrap, some tinsel held by Saran Wrap around my chest and a Saran Wrap headband. I was quite dashing.

When I hugged her her body tensed and she felt like concrete.

She didn't stay long.

However, the rest of us had a grand time!

There is a lot of sad and serious stuff going on in the world. The economy still works for those who have a lot but leaves the rest pleading for recovery every day. Degrees from the Government have been issued saying that taxes are going up and we all better register so we can pay up. War is declared on innocent children and the media makes killers rock stars. Poor Joe's are hauling their pregnant wives in search of shelter and there seems to be no room in the Inns.

So we did something about it.  We bought everybody Saran Wrap and told them to get creative. Do something the world doesn't expect you to do. Make it different and fun. Christmas is a time to celebrate but sometimes the weight of the world makes it as plastic and as fake as yard ornaments.

So that's what we did.

Sam Sahr is a witness (though she may be requesting assistance from the relocation program this morning ... or praying for us at Bar Church this morning.)

But in a gloomy world, filled with bad and nasty things, where dreams are often bad nor do they come true like they used to ... we laughed.

Somewhere in the laughter, the hugs, the jokes, the music and the unexpected is the reason for the season. Peace on earth was here for a few hours. Angels sang on high but were drowned out by the noise we were making. Love was here as though it rests in a manger in the living room.

The Massacre of the Innocents

"A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel is crying for her children and there is no one to comfort her because they are no more."

Sadly, it's part of the Christmas story.

As Jesus was born the Government ordered the massacre of children so as not to disrupt things.  Babies were slaughtered just because one had been born. A rumor spread by three Orientals who came looking for the new King who was just born started it all.

The guys got wise and left before all hell broke loose.

Joseph had a dream to get the hell out of there too. So he packed his family up again and hawed ass.

Then babies were killed. Government enabled it to happen.

This Christmas it's all happened again. Sadly this time there is nothing apocryphal about babies being slaughtered. There are no wise men to prevent it from happening. No dreams from God warned parents to flee.

Government policy allows for anyone to own an automatic weapon and funding for people with mental disorders has been slashed to hell. (NOTE: This is applicable to killers who happen to be white. Obviously white killers have a mental disorder. Black killers are just killers.)

Just like then, the search for Jesus yields no results. There is only weeping and great morning. Mothers and Fathers are crying for their children and there is no one to comfort them.

Perhaps this year's Christmas story will end like the first one did. New children were born and Jesus came home. Life went on. The years passed quickly and the next thing you know Jesus is twelve. Then in the blink of an eye, he's thirty. Three short years later, he's slaughtered too.

This Christmas has the eerie beginning of the first Christmas. A great deal happened after the innocents were slaughtered. Some of it was holy ... a great deal wasn't.

Today I pray that we've learned a lot in 2000 years but right now I'm not so sure.

Really Nice Hair

I couldn't take my eyes of Mick Jagger's hair. Sarah and I were sitting on the sofa watching the Concert for Sandy Benefit in New York and the Rolling Stones were on the stage. For the most part they looked like they're supposed to. 

Drummer Charlie Watts appeared to be dead.

Guitarist Ron Wood looked like Keith Richards.

Keith Richards looked like pirate Santa Claus on crack.

But Mick was sporting new hair. It was the hair of a twenty year old and was damned perfect for a super rock star. It didn't quite fit on the 70 year old man prancing around the stage, ripping his shirt open and screaming instead of singing, "Jumping Jack Flash is a gas, gas, gas."

The Stones are kicking off their fiftieth anniversary concert tour and to promote their new album "GRRR."

"What do you want to call the new record?" the producer likely asked.

"GRRR," drooled out of one of the Stones mouth and that was that.

In preparing for the tour, I wonder if Mick picked up the phone and called Elton John.

"Elton, where did you buy your hair?"

I figure Mick went to the same store. It's probably an exclusive place designed for aging Rock Stars though I really have no idea.

"I may be old but I got to see all the cool bands," reads a magnet on our refrigerator and it's true I think.

I've seen Clapton, Emerson, Lake & Palmer, the James Gang, George Harrison, Elton John, Jimmy Buffett, Grand Funk Railroad, Bruce Springsteen and the Carpenters. There were several other big name bands that I can no longer recall.

All of them had regular hair.

Then again Mick Jagger's always been a trail blazer (though most of us could never quite figure out the trail he was blazing). Perhaps he's doing it again trying to teach a new generation the difference between playing the drums and listening to a drum machine.

I don't know.

He's got really nice hair though.

GRRR!



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Who says you can't?

"Who says you can't go home again?"

Thomas Wolfe says you can't.

Bon Jovi asks, "Who says?"

I'm with Bon Jovi on this one though I appreciate what Thomas Wolfe said.

"You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ...  back home to a young man's dreams of glory and fame, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed so everlasting but which are changing all the time ... back home to the escapes of time and memory."

The response is, "It doesn't matter where you are, it doesn't matter where you go; If it's a million miles away or just a mile up the road, take it in, take it with you when you go. Who says you can't go home?"

I came home.

After High School, with some nudging from my Mom, I went to college a mile up the road and then to Seminary a million miles away. Everything about me changed in those places. I earned degrees, gained experiences, had success and had babies.

Then one day I wanted to go back ... so I did.

It went well for the longest time. Every time my name was in the Savannah Morning News it was followed with, "a Savannah native." It still means something here though I didn't care much about it.

I live where I want, on a clump of sand, outside of the city. I achieved success where no one obtains it, having one hell-of-a-ride that took me around the world. Honors, books, prestige, and broken glass ceilings rained down upon me.

I gave it everything I had. 

And they took it.

Then home didn't want me anymore.

So I went around the world but adamantly refused to give up the clump of sand, the smell of the marsh, the smell of the sea. A group of co-conspirators rallied around me and transformed themselves into a Carnival of Friends.

When home kicks you out ... you're  supposed to leave. They want you gone, meaning you may as well be dead as far as they're concerned. You're not supposed to come back.

That's the story of Jesus right? They nailed his ass to a cross then buried the body behind a large rock so it would never be seen again.

"To hell with this," Jesus said laying there in the dark. In spite of what everyone else wanted he decided to come back out. That's when all hell really broke lose.

It's hard to not like Jesus when he did stuff like that!

Last night I was with my family ... childhood friends and cousins surrounded me, back to where my dreams of fame and glory were birthed, where the old forms and systems I've long broken away from still reign supreme, where time and memory are as alive as I am sitting here.

"I'm not dead yet," the Black Knight says to King Arthur in Monty Python's "In Search of the Holy Grail."

"Tis but a scratch."

He says this even though both arms have been severed as has his legs and his blood is spewing everywhere. He refuses to give up.

If you're going to ever go home again ... then that's the spirit!

So to all of my Homies in Port Wentworth, behind the closed gates of the Landings, in Savannah's historic district, in the Baptist Church that kills spirits while preaching resurrection, in the pompous halls of Government where I once roamed ...

I don't care what you say. I'm home and I'm not leaving in spite of your wishes. As a matter of face I have two words for you ... one is a verb ... the other is a pronoun.

Who says you can't go home?

I have.