Broccoli and Jesus

The first time I ever saw broccoli I was in Seminary having dinner in Claude Drouet's garage apartment. Claude was actually born in southern Louisiana but is convinced he was stolen by Gypsies from New York City and left in a cotton field. He is much more a City boy than a country bumpkin and I later had the opportunity to visit both the City and Monroe, Louisiana with him.

"What in the hell is that?" I asked pointing at the green bulbs on my plate.

"Broccoli," he said eyeing me suspiciously.

"What the hell is that?" I demanding extending my line of questioning having never heard of the stuff.

There was no such thing as broccoli in Port Wentworth, Georgia in the 1960's! You couldn't find it at Crosby's Meat Shop, the L&A Market or even the Bargain Corner in downtown Savannah!

You could find green beans, pole beans, Lima beans, okra, collards, and watermelon, and corn. Those were vegetables we had when I was growing up. When company was over, we put out the china and served tossed salad with French Dressing to show we were sophisticated.

So I nibbled at the broccoli.

It had no taste.

To my horror, I learned that Claude had not used broth, lard, butter, bacon or salt to season this so called vegetable.

He had steamed it ... whatever the hell that meant.

The only thing we steamed growing up were oysters.

After dinner, Claude pulled out a new album he wanted me to hear. Bruce Springsteen's "Born to Run" instantly converted me to a fan that night. We listened to it repeatedly and later I went on to write one of the Seminary's definitive papers on the Boss being a later day prophet. I think I made a "C" on it.

Dinner with Claude continued to confirm that I wasn't in the south. At restaurants when I ordered tea it was hot and in a cup.

Grits were not served in fine dining establishments.

Some horrible abortion of a Krystal was available called a White Castle which had holes pressed in the meat.

To make up for all of this, Kentucky invented bourbon ... so I learned about forgiveness outside of the classroom.

These days I eat broccoli with regularity though I avoid White Castles at all costs. I still listen to Springsteen, prefer New York over Monroe, Louisiana, and bourbon is wonderful on a cold day.

To this day, you can only get a sack of Krystals in the south though for some strange reason you can buy frozen White Castles. It's a paradox of the universe that was never covered in Seminary and, to my knowledge, Springsteen has never addressed the matter in one of his songs.

I am pretty certain though that Jesus prefers collars, Krystals, bourbon, grits with his fish and sweet tea.

Because as we all know, on the 8th day ... God made sweet tea.

Can you really trust all dogs?

Winston, the little gay dog, is cracking up. Perhaps its the pressure of his criminal record or it could be the fact that he's so "outed". I don't know but he's showing signs of craziness uncommon even for this island.

He's become a Diva. If it rains or is even damp outside, he refuses to leave the house. He'll prance to the sliding glass doors, peer outside, look at us as we've lost our freaking minds, then return to the sofa and snuggles under a blanket.

His bi-polar personality disorder is finally exhibiting itself on a regular and consistent basis. Laying on the couch with his head resting on Sarah's leg, he'll evilly watch Goddess lazily stroll in from outside. Beginning with a low growl, he snaps to attention, snarls, jumps of the couch an bark like a banzai in Goddess' face.

Ever laid back and mellow, Goddess merely stares at Winston, the little gay Diva, Bi-polar, Son-of-a-bitch (and I use that term literally) dog as though saying, "Hey Man. It's cool. Let's go outside and I'll give you something to calm you down."

Sarah's reaction is to grab a green spray water bottle and pulls the trigger. A midst of water hit his face and Winston, the little gay dog, retreats, resumes his position on the sofa and mellows out as though nothing happened.

Goddess sort of shrugs and meanders back outside alone.

A few minutes later the beloved back deck is covered in a large blanket of smoke which is odd because there is no fire in the Chiminea. Then I swear I hear Goddess coughing and hacking. Checking on her, she's laying on her back, staring at the stars with a smile on her face. I leave her alone.

Winston, the little gay dog/Diva/Bi-Polar/Son-of-a-Bitch (and I really mean it), continues to push the envelope.

Yesterday he peed on the bed.

Not his bed.

Our bed!

Sarah screamed as she reached for the green water bottle but he jumped off and hid underneath where she couldn't get to him. She scolded him the rest of the day.

Since then he's been pretty contrite, suddenly seeming like a Catholic Alter Boy waiting on a Priest to arrive, on his best behavior and almost ... serene.

Sarah and the girls think he's the cutest thing ever, laying there wearing his red, black and white sweater that reads "Nookie is overrated". 

Goddess and I don't know what to make of this.

We don't trust him.

And we agree to watch each other's back.

When My Calling Found Me

During my fifth year of college I was sitting in the repossessed trailer I called home holding my one year old son, Jeremy, when the phone rang. It was one of those old fashion phones that hung on the wall and had the really long cord so I could conveniently wander around the trailer and even outside if I wanted.

"Hello," I answered shifting Jeremy to the other arm.

"It's Guy," said Guy Salyes. We were close friends and even though he'd graduated after only four years of college and had enrolled in Seminary and moved to Louisville, Kentucky, we still talked.

"Hey Guy. What's up?"

"What are you going to do?" he asked turning serious.

"I dunno," I honestly replied.

It was a good question. College was getting ready to throw me out. They'd even recently required that I declare a major. 

It went like this. "You have to declare a major."

"Why?"

"Because it's your fifth year of college."

Pondering this I asked, "What do I have the most hours in?"

"History," was the happy response, "but only by three hours. You have a tie for second with Literature and Religion."

In a few weeks I would be graduating with a major in History and double minor.

"Why don't you come to Seminary?" Guy asked.

I thought about it for a couple of minutes. "OK," I told him.

"Great!" he said hanging up.

That's how I got called to go to Seminary.

A few weeks later, I got my college degree, packed everything up and we moved to the big City.

It's funny looking back on it but all these years later I have the "R-E-V" in front of my name and the "M.Div" after it. I hung around long enough to also obtain a Masters in Social Work before Seminary threw me out.

During Seminary I was perpetually in trouble with the Powers-that-be though I became Pastor of a run-down inner city church that got me noticed, was christened a Home Missionary, got invited to become a member of "The Committee of Southern Churchmen", hung around Will D. Campbell and was a speaker at The Southern Baptist Convention, though I've never been invited back.

It did set the stage for who I am now. 

After a thirty year career trying to save the world, I'm spending more time on spiritual matters these days. Sure I explore the lives of gay dogs, Kitty Ladies, and island politics but mostly I prayerfully consider things. I no longer preach but I do blog. People still seek me out to do things and I try to be helpful.

It's been a great ride on the roller coaster of organized religion. In spite of how crazy the people in charge of it are, I wouldn't trade any of it.

So Guy, while the Seminary and the Baptists would seriously consider bringing back crucifixion rather than affirming your evangelical zeal to get me there, thanks for calling me all those years ago. 

Gale Warnings

"Squalls out on the Gulf stream, big storm's coming soon," though you'd never know it right now. It's beautiful outside, warm and sunny but you can see the hints if you know where to look.

Fran's thousand shades of green are restless and will not be comforted. The ocean appears angry that its tranquility is interrupted so waves chop at each other and seem to go in every direction at once. Neighbors frantically try to get things done and I hear lawn mowers, trucks slammed by garbage cans, and dogs are walked at quickened paces. Birds are not singing and for the life of me I can't find one. A sense of urgency abounds.

My bare feet dangle from the chair on the beloved back deck as I notice the concophony. The sun shines on my face. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, are inside though the sliding glass doors are open. It's a lovely morning.

The prophets on the Weather Channel though pronounce gloomy tidings. Gale force winds will arrive first shoving the warmth away. The cursed cold of the Northern countries will invade and bring their comrades rain and tornadoes. It's the end of the world as we know it, according to the Weather prophets.

But I feel fine.

My life has had its far share of bad storms and I really don't care to experience any more but I'm sure I will. I try to live in the moment. The tides come in and then the tides go out. It's the rhythm of life. Light and dark, good and bad, happy and sad, life and death are the boundary lines. Right now I'm bathed in light but in a few short hours vicious storm rips through.

Inside, Sarah and I are busy making plans. In a couple of weeks we're setting sail to places we've never been. There will be crystal clear waters and warm ocean breezes. Afterwards the Carnival of friends is planning a celebration of the birth of one of its own by conquering St. Augustine. Then we want to gather all of the kids for magic and celebration.

While the wind howls and rain slams against the windows, we will concentrate of the future. It's one of the secrets, I think, to getting through. I'm pretty happy in this moment though not naive enough to think that the bad things can hit at any moment.

But its tough to live your life under a Gale Warning. It's alright to batten down the hatches but only with the conviction that when they're opened again, sunlight and warmed will baptize you in a new day.

When Dolphins held my heart

"What's next?" Tad Hutton asked me standing in the First City Club overlooking Savannah's beautiful Johnson Square, with its massive oak trees and view of the gold leaf dome of City Hall.

Sipping my glass of wine I knew the answer before I could swallow.

"I''m going to write a book about Tybee," I answered. 

Tad is my neighbor on the island and he whistled while rolling his eyes and replied, "Oh boy." He didn't say it in the good way but in the "Have you lost your frigging mind" way.

The occasion was the release of my forth book "Why the Homeless Don't Have Homes and what to do about it." and I was on something of a roll. The book went on to win a "Book of the Year" award, which is nice.

My career as a writer though had been unpredictable. The first book had been crazy successful but the second one tanked, primarily because I wouldn't repeat myself. The third book was supposed to be the breakout one but the publisher had second thoughts about me and, while it did alright, not much came of it.

The "Homeless" book put me back on the map and everyone expected I would capitalize on it and write about political, social and spiritual issues. I have a file with letters from people encouraging me to highlight AIDS (still exploding at the time), a sequel focusing on politics and one from Michael Stoops, the head of the "National Coalition for the Homeless" imploring me to write more and be the nation's spokesperson.

Nope. I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" instead.

It's a fun and loving look at the island as it was in 1995 ... "Mayberry on Acid" is how I described it.

At the time no one had written a book about Tybee and it got a lot of press when it was released, though not without its share of controversy. Some old-timers took issue with me not portraying the island as written for a Sunday School lesson. I got some hate mail and a few nasty phone calls. It's sad but it's one of the things that goes with writing.

In terms of sales, it is by far my most successful book. In fact, it remains in print all of these years later. It's uncommon for books to stay in print for so long.

People clamored for a sequel, though staying true to my inner course,  I went on to write three other books about other things. None were as successful as "Dolphins".

Then I stopped writing books and focused on the Internet where I can be found daily on multiple sites. The web allows the freedom to write about anything I want. Sometimes I write about life on the island but most often dwell on more important matters like love faith, healing, spirituality and a little gay dog named Winston.

Suddenly, people are asking me for books again, which is nice. It's always nice to not be forgotten. I'm guessing this time they will be e-books though you never know. A couple of publishers have asked me for chapters. We'll see.

So I pulled out "Running with the Dolphins" and flipped through it. It's about an island that no longer really exist ... a life that is no more. A lot of the people in it are still alive though far too many are gone. I poke a lot of fun at the island in the book and it's harder to do that any more. Tybee takes itself very seriously these days.

"I put the book by itself on the shelf with my heart in it," is a Jimmy Buffett line that I love as only an writer of books can love.

It's true.

A piece of my heart is between the soft covers of "Dolphins" and while its nice to take it off the shelf and look at it every now and then, I know it'll never be like that again.

Nothing ever is.

Something is horribly wrong

Something is seriously messed up with the Space-Time continuum.

Strange things are happening on the island of Tybee. Wait! That's an oxymoron, like the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport! It's only strange when strange things are not happening on Tybee. Everything about the place is weird.

I was in the yard, smartly dressed in a pair of women's running shorts with the UGA logo on them trimming the weeds. It was a nice afternoon and I wanted to be outside. Goddess was on the beloved back deck, laying down as though bored out of her mind, watching me. Winston, the little gay dog, was beside him wearing his new sweater that says, "I miss my balls." Sarah was barefoot and baking in the kitchen.

It was a normal day at our house.

Nothing was out of the ordinary when I heard her screech, "Mike can I talk to you?"

I knew that voice. It was the Kitty Lady from next door.

Turning, I gasped. She was wearing blue jeans, a shirt, yellow clogs. She also had a flowery apron on.

Gone was the normal pink bath robe, the fuzzy blue bunny slippers and the matching blue towel wrapped around her head with cat hair circling around it like a halo, making her look like Marge Simpson on meth.

The hair was now frosted and straightened. She wore lipstick and either someone had punched her in both eyes or she had applied powder. Now she looked like Edith Bunker gone gay.

Before I could ask, "Who the hell are you and what have you done with the Kitty Lady?" she started talking about some zoning issue, construction on our street, a new neighbor who lied, parking problems and why we need to put matching fences up around our houses.

This was strange.

Peering over her shoulder, I noticed other strange things. Stacked on top of the other were stacks of 24 roll toilet paper. The Kitty Lady lives alone. Unless her 227 feral cats have all learned to wipe there's no way someone living alone needs that much TP!

On top of that, there are three Kayaks and a yellow Paddle Board under under the carport. I have seen the Kitty Lady roll a Kayak down the street, wearing a black wet suit with her natural wild brown crazy hair flying everywhere. She looks like the Mitchelin Man gone over to the Dark Side when she kayaks.

But I know, there's no way in hell, she and those cats can Paddle Board!.

I turned my attention back to Gay Edith who was still talking obviously not needing to breath. I have no idea what she was saying.

"Well that's great," I said, knocking her own the shoulder and turning around. "I gotta go."

And I left her there.

But I'm going to keep an eye on this.

 It's weird even by Tybee standards.

I haven't heard one single, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" screeched in days and I'm afraid something is wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Welcoming Demons

I was in a funk last night. 

We'd had a lovely day, watching a basketball game at the Y, quick shopping, nice lunch on a beautiful sunny January day on the island, but I could "feel it coming in the air tonight." 

In an effort to thwart the coming demons, I cooked dinner for two alone at home, transforming the tiny kitchen table into a candle lit romantic setting. Grilled steak, sauteed squash and garden salad were tasty. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, lay under our feet. My date is beautiful and the conversation was good but it ended all too quickly.

Afterwards we walked outside to look at the majesty of  the moon on a crystal clear night. The crashing of the waves were like music. The belt of Orion danced in the sky. 

In the distance though was loud chatter of someone having a party. Their conversation was squirrels and apparently unhappiness reigned. 

Back inside Sarah busied herself and I turned and faced the coming demons. I may as well welcome them.


Did you ever watch the old television show "Kung Fu"? A Shalion Monk expert in the martial arts found himself in the old west for some inexplicable reason and while he always won in the end, when he found himself in a bad situation or was simply overwhelmed, he would sit down in the lotus position and wait. Acceptance of your situation is the first step in dealing with it.

Somehow I've incorporated this way of coping. If Sarah's mad at me, I find myself in an unpleasant situation or ... demons are coming, I grow quiet and accept it. It's not a time to fight back, get angry or blame anything. It merely is what it is.

So they came in the demonic forms of worrying about the timing of finances, understanding there are those who wish me ill and the sad fact that I've not helped myself sometimes when I could. It leads to a spiritual question. "If someone spends their life trying to do good, helping others and sharing themselves like we are challenged to, why are their such demons?"

Why do people willingly cause others ill? Why do so many merely not give a damn? Why is the goal of so many to get in beat out everyone surrounding them?

I don't know.

Yet, instead of making me believe there is no God, or that God has abandoned us ... it makes me believe more.  

The prophet Isaiah said, "What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man conceived, [that is] what God has prepared for those who love him."

In a night when there is only darkness, the sounds are those of discontent, and hearts are cold ... this is what I believe.

I don't know why.

A Confession

It's best to be honest about it so here's a confession. Everything I write is not absolutely true. That's not to say that I lie. There are lots of ways to tell the truth and you can use farce, sarcasm, fiction or fantasy.

The arts are always ahead of the politicians in telling the truth. The Broadway Musical "West Side Story" brought racism and poverty to the public dialogue ten years ahead of popular discourse. It's a made up story about a real issue punctuated by songs spotlighting the things both right and wrong in America. There are countless other examples from the stage, popular song and, of course, in writing.

When Jesus was asked what is truth, he didn't say anything. He just stood there because the truth was so frigging obvious nothing needed to be said. He was standing there before Pilate who was quickly becoming Pontius and the Governor had a decision to make. He could do right or he could do wrong and that was the truth of the matter.

I use all of these tricks as I write about who I am, my journey, where I live, things I've done and what I hope.

Sometimes I poke fun at myself, Government, religion and things that happen. Other times I'm dead serious. Most often I merely explain what happened or what I think is going to take place. Occasionally I write comedy and a lot of people seem to like it and honestly, it's fun to write.

A long time ago I learned that no matter what I write or say, it will offend someone. It's the price of saying anything at all. It's a sad state of affairs when people remain silent so they won't get in trouble. History has proven repeatedly that bad things happen when silence reigns ... be it in a marriage, bad public policy or injustice.

Except in the case of injustice, I never mean to offend. I understand that regardless of how hard I try not to make someone mad, I will and I apologize for that.

We were created to be uniquely us. We all have gifts and talents to be shared. Someone is always going to be offended at one of your gifts ... one of your talents. And you'll likely take offence at others from time to time. What do you do?

I think you don't remain silent. You speak to the person or persons who offend you. You hope they speak to you. Truth is always in the middle. Pilate had to stare through it to ask Jesus the question. Nothing was said and bad things happened.

So when I write a lot of people say they're grateful while others inform me I'm full of it. Either way's OK. We're talking.

And that's the truth.

Happy Friday

It is Friday and everyone is ready for the weekend. People are trying their best to finish up what must be done while others have mentally checked out. A lucky few have already started and the not so fortunate others have full work days ahead as they gear up.

As a kid, I loved Fridays!  School's Out! Football games followed by date nights. Sundays were for asking for forgiveness.

In college Friday after glass meant road trips! We'd pack in someone's car, head to the beach or the city and party like its 1999. (Of course this was way before 1999.) I think the best road trip I remember, and let me be honest ... I don't remember many, was to Atlanta to see George Harrison in concert and afterwards hanging out with a bunch of Hari Krishna kids singing and playing tambourines.

In Seminary I was polishing off Sunday's Sermon. Hold up in my office in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky, I started typing them out in advance though I never exactly stuck to the script when I delivered them. This is where I learned to speak and write but Friday's weren't all that great while I sat there waiting on God to tell me what to say.

Throughout my career at Union Mission, Friday became escape day. Get it down and get away! Beach weekends or road trips with the kids to Athens for football, it was the gateway for family time. My now adult kids still view it this way.

These days, I live somewhere between a virtual world and a real one. Living at our beachhouse and working throughout the world at the same time means the days blend together. It's more of a routine that must be kept. Get up, coffee at the Breakfast Club, drive the girls to school, a three mile run and then work, mostly on the computer or on the phone. Travel is the only disruption but where we are has no real impact on the routine.

But I never have to remind myself that its Friday.

It is the "Day of Venus" the Roman Goddess of love. Even if you're not a pagan, there's something nice about Friday belonging to love.

In Greek it's a day of preparation ... to ask for forgiveness on Sunday. The Greeks liked to plan ahead.

So lets dive in shall we?

Happy Friday!

Oh ... and forgive yourself on Sunday.

Hugs

Sarah and I are hugging in the kitchen. It is one  of those romantic and heartfelt embraces that comes in the middle of a deep conversation. Goddess growls before barking and is watching us intently. Raising her left front paw she scratches the leg of the table. Never taking her eyes off of us she barks again. Her tail is wagging the entire time.

She does this every time we hug. Her beautiful brown golden eyes stare at Sarah then at me. She takes a step back and looks at both of us at the same time.

"What?" we ask, pulling back from one another yet still connected.

She steps closer, wanted to be a part.

Reaching down with one hand, Sarah scratches her rear. Goddess' full attention is on her.

I take a step away and Goddess moves her head so I can rub behind her ears while Sarah continues on her body. Suddenly content, Goddess strolls away to her water bowl before meandering outside to lay in the sun on the beloved back deck.

For seven years she has been my companion. Through major transitions, the worst of times and now, the best of times, she's given her all. I don't know what I will do when her time is up ... I can't fathom it and my eyes grow moist if I dwell on it so I try to just enjoy her now.

She obviously enjoys us. She adores Sarah. She's gleefully excited when the girls get home from school. Should my kids stroll in she leaps with joy. Goddess loves Shirley's sad little holy dock, marsh hens, stopping at our neighbor Art's for treats. And she loves it when Sarah and I hug.

When I write she sits under my feet. She loves laying under the fire in the Chimenia. She and Winston, the little gay dog, love to play and steal one another's food. When visitors arrive she barks when they knock then greets them warmly when its opened. Should the living room be full of company she'll promptly fall asleep in the middle of the floor.

Goddess has never met a pair of socks she didn't want. At night she sleeps in the floor on my side of the bed though when Sarah wakes she rushes over to tell wish her a good morning.

She's a rescued dog having been thrown away when she was born. This has been the only home she's ever known. It is a home full of cluttered joy and she is restfully content.

She meanders back inside and walks close to where I'm perched in the kitchen so I'll rub her as she passes. Then makes her way to where Sarah sits at the desk in the front room and lays down beside her, very much a part of us.

Three years from now ... and beyond

Yesterday, three years ago, I came home from a three day working retreat, excited and looking forward to everything. As soon as I walked inside though, I was told I would soon be divorced. At first I sobbed then slowly settled down to crying and finally to deep sadness. She left for Atlanta.

So life took another unexpected turn as lives often do.

I wallowed in melancholy while trying to work which didn't turn out very well. My status updates were things like "How do you mend a broken heart?" ... "Don't they know it's the end of the world?" and such. My writing was full of loss and brokenness.

The first person to figure it out was Judy O who called and demanded, "What the hell is with all of these sad songs?" and I blurted it out and told her.

Shocked her and I can still her saying, "Well Phooey! That just sucks."

Johnny O showed up a little while later to make sure I was OK. I wasn't so he gathered this carnival of friends with the principal assignment of making certain I had support.

Six months later I left Union Mission though in retrospect I'd started that process a couple of years earlier. I'd tried to plan it right, having a successor and turning the keys over on a sunny day but it didn't work out that way. Everything about everything had changed.

Such things leave scars you may get over though you never forget.

Today, three years later, I am loved. The tears are gone and the sadness hides in dark corners. The once lonely and abandoned house is now filled with activity. I'm helping others and building new things. I'm rolling dice again. Though I still stumble from time to time, my pace is picking up towards the future I desire. If I don't make it ... it won't be for lack of effort.

Throughout this time, I wrote it out every day and put it on Facebook, www.Micheal-Elliott.blogspot.com and in personal communications when people asked me things. Reading them today I was merely letting out the hurt and sadness and was surprised at the number of people who expressed gratitude because they'd gone through similar things.

I then moved on to chronicling my crazy journey to replace love, find new joy and somehow get reborn. The old had passed away. Again, I was overwhelmed at the people who were on the same quest.

As Sarah and I fell in love, this same community of readers and friends celebrated everything with us.

It hasn't been a perfect journey. There are some things I wish I'd done differently. I'm still not doing everything right all of the time. I suspect those keeping up understand there is no such thing as perfect journeys. Surprises, shocks, sudden turns and stumbles happen along the way.

It is where I am today. It's so much better than three years ago. I believe it's nowhere near as good as it's going to be three years from now ... and beyond.  

Just between you and me

There is nothing to do except sit and wait.

It can be hard work waiting on the words to come.

Sometimes they come in the middle of the night and the morning is jump started. Some stories can't wait to be told. Occasionally its a line from a song (always playing in the background of my life), a phrase from a book I'm reading or a Michael Ruffin prayer that bring them to me.

On rare occasions I close my eyes and place my fingers on the keyboard and see what happens.

Then there are days like today. I sit and wait. I've learned to not rush it.

Watching the sun rise I'm surrounded by "the holy host of others" ... Fran and her thousand shades of green ... the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt ... a "Clothing Optional" sign that Conner gave me ... Winston, the little gay dog and Goddess of course.

Sarah sleeps and I'm dutiful about checking to make sure she's not interrupted. Her three little girls can wear your ass out.

Staring out the sliding glass doors, these things go in and out of focus. My mind races with images. Brynn Grant and I saw each other yesterday and she sprinkles delight even while pumping gas.

My mentor Ben Barnes, white napkin stuffed under his chin and pants pulled high around his waste, talking to me at lunch about how the older you get the more people forget about you.

Suzanne Mendonsa speaking to Ben and then warmly recognizing me, "Oh Micheal, it's been so long. How are you?" and the way she said it warmed my heart while unleashing many memories of her and her late husband Don.

Watching Sarah's parents meet my son Jeremy for the first time as they crawled out of bed and he and I stood in this kitchen looking like Hippies making each other laugh. Sarah's youngest Cassidy hauls herself out bed, blond hair askew from the pillow, ignores her Mom and grandparents to walk straight to Jeremy and lay her head against his stomach.

Getting a phone call from one of my illegitimate kids, Mary Catherine Berry, yesterday as to tell me that Bill's father had died. My heart broke for Bill, Micah, Kathy and Amber and I drove the car, sailing across the marsh in bright sunshine. I can still hear Mr. Berry on the phone when he discovered it was me, "Mike Yes! You need to talk to Bill. Bill needs to talk to you," and the rustling and excitement until Bill was on the phone.

The glaze washes away from my eyes. They are now moist as I wipe them.

There are no stories today.

No great inspiration.

There are these prayers just between God and me.

Divine Reasons

Sitting at the large oak conference room table on the second floor of Auburn Avenue in Atlanta, Georgia, I stared at the bookshelf and it struck me these were his books. Martin Luther King used to have meetings here and though he was long dead, these were things he held. It was humbling.

I have no recollection of why I was there. A long haired, twenty something, blue jean wearing hippy preacher from Louisville had been invited for some reason so there I sat. The rest of the table was filled with black folks and I remember Joseph Lowery was one.

I also remember quoting Malcolm X a lot though I don't know why. In Seminary I'd become a devotee of Liberation Theology much to the chagrin of the Southern Baptists.  The writings born in third world poverty had led me to Malcolm and, of course, Martin. I'm sure I quoted him arrogantly.

Later I sat in the Ebeneezer Baptist Church and decided to leave the service and explore the building. So I got up from the wooden pew where people flocked to hear Martin Luther King preach and wandered into a hall.

"Hello," said a surprised but incredibly poised Coretta Scott-King.

I'm not certain I said anything though she shook my hand warmly.

A few years later I would be with her again though I have no recollection why. She wore a black dress and we actually talked. I asked her a lot of questions and she smiled at young enthusiasm. I remember her smile.

I don't know why, or how, I've gotten to do so many things in my life. For divine reasons I suppose, I've ended up in the right places at the right times. I spent hours sitting in Will D. Campbell's cabin in Tennessee, in the pulpit of Mack Jones Church in St. Louis, and conducting services with Ron Bobo.

Guy Salyes and I once spent an afternoon in the home of Florence Jordan, wife of Clarence, the only prophet Southern Baptist have ever produced.

Milliard Fuller was a friend of mine.

Every year on this day, these things come to mind. I count myself blessed. I don't know why I got to do these things and be with these people.

"Anybody here, seen my good friend Martin?"

I never did though I walked over hills with friends of his.

And I'll tell you what they've me.

"Red and yellow, black and white, all are precious ..."

What Sundays are for

The sun erupts from the sea as a lone bird sings solo unseen in Fran's thousand shades of green. The ocean breeze has died and it seems warmer than it really is. Staring in prayerful contemplation through the sliding glass doors it is a Silent Morning, Holy Morning ... all is calm, all is bright.

My morning routine has been disrupted though. I swung by and picked up my son Jeremy for coffee at The Breakfast Club. We enjoy hanging out and I view it as a gift when we have the opportunity which grows rarer as life gets in the way. He'll be back in a bit to say goodbye to Sarah and the girls before he heads home to Marie.

Last night we were at my daughter Chelsea's engagement party. It's even rarer that she and I spent time together as she's busy building her own life. "Life's a gift," I'm fond of saying and I'm proud to have been part giver in hers.

Kristen brought Sterling and I'm always mindful when I'm with all of my kids at the same time because it happens less and less.

To make it better, my Mom was there and Jodee and Cheryl and Chelsea's friend Busby whom I love.

Topping it off were oysters, cooked the old fashion way over a fire pit and under a wet croaker sack. Steam was rising while stars winked and laughter bubbled around.

I hide these things in my heart this morning as Sarah still sleeps. Her parents are downstairs visiting from New York and the girls are with them. I'm trying to be quiet out of respect but still am listening to The Pirate out of Key West where my friend Joey Finch lives. It is my Sunday morning tradition and I am warmed on winter days.

I don't know what today holds.

It's a gift that I plan on enjoying.

Goddess wanders in and lays under my bare feet dangling from the table. She sighs loudly which makes me laugh.

"Let it out and let it in," I think, quoting The Beatles.

That's why God made Sundays. Let everything in the past go. Let everything in the now in.

"Amen," I say out loud as I hear little girls whispers down stars.

Kids

My world is full of kids right now.

All of mine will be in the same place at the same time and I'll be there too which is nothing short of a modern day miracle. Friends of Chelsea are throwing her an oyster roast tonight and who doesn't like an oyster roast? The weather is perfect! Jeremy's here for it and the ever illusive Kristen is even attending.

As I age, I'm ever grateful for my kids and the fact that we really do enjoy each other.

There's the girls of course. I went from living alone to having a wife and her three daughters move in with me. Talk about culture shock! Plus Goddess is female, a real bitch! And then Winston, the little gay dog, moved in with us too. It's often overwhelming though I am learning a lot.  I never knew how much toilet paper is actually used in the course of a day. It makes me feel sorry for trees.

It doesn't end there.

There are these other kids.

Ryan and Dani Sadowski have been part of my life their entire lives. I don't know what I would do without them. I don't know what they would do without me. Yesterday I took Ryan a bag of socks. Somehow he's grown up without understanding people need socks. I admire this about him but there are times when socks are necessary.

Last night Mandy Sayles and I were going back and forth on Facebook. I've known Mandy her entire life. She lives and performs in New York City and cracks me up. She's one of the funniest people I know. Her Mother and Father kidnapped me once and forced me to attend Seminary. Years later they realized this was a tragic mistake and have spent the rest of their lives doing penitence.

Mandy has brother named Eliot. Coincidence? I think not though Guy denies I had anything to do with it.

On the other hand, Mandy has claimed that she must be my daughter because we're so much alike to which I say, "I never had relations with that woman."

Hold on, I'm lighting a cigar.

Then there's Micah Berry, son of Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one). I love Micah deeply. He is a famous musician and we share that soul though he got all of the talent. He's also funny as hell though when we have long talks he reminds me a lot of his father and Bill and I are so close that it's not funny.

His sister Amber actually moved to Savannah for a while and though we only saw each other occasionally, it was wonderful to have her near. She's on my mind a lot these days as she's embarked on an unexpected journey and her father has turned into a Hobbit and there's a picture Micah took to prove it.

I love them all.

They enrich my life, make me laugh and keep me young. I gain tremendous joy watching them become them.

Then Micah marries Mary Catherine and Dani marries Peter and the number of kids in my life grows.

Now Chelsea is finally getting around to marrying Sam and ...

it just doesn't get any better.

I love my kids.

It All Works Out

Everything has a way of working out. 

I don't profess to understand "why" and I certainly can't comprehend the "how" but it all works out somehow.

I've got a lot to do today and sitting here contemplating how to get it all done before all hell breaks lose this afternoon. 

In case you don't know, hell breaking lose transpires in the following order: (1) The girls come from school. (2) Jeremy comes from home from Athens and we plan on having fun. (3) Sarah's parents show up tonight and we have terrific mutual relationship --- I don't say much to them and they don't say much to me. (4) Chelsea and Sam show up and there's a party. (5) Someone turned the wind on so drinking on the back is no longer an attractive option.

If that isn't enough I'm scheduled lunch at The Landings, an exclusive gated community that's an hour drive from here. It was with someone I couldn't say no to ... so I' staring out the window contemplating how to get through everything.

The phone rings and it's the person I can't say no to. He has to cancel. Suddenly I'm gifted four hours back.

Hanging up, I whisper a prayer to no one in particular ... "Thank you."

Strolling to the sliding glass doors in the kitchen I stare outside. Bright sunshine glows through the wind is bitterly cold and Fran's thousand shades of green violently dance as though processed by Satan. Large flower pots lay on their sides. I hate it.

Goddess though seems to be in heaven. Her golden coat blows in the wind as she lays there contently, the sole proprietorial owner of the deck.

My mind takes me back to school, illness, marriages, awful times and grand accomplishments. I think of my friends and the things they've been through and their current struggles. People I've known who are no longer on earth lead me to others who are here now though their time is short. Everything I've done, everyone I've known and all that I am now hits me all at once.

"It all works out," I say out loud.

If you believe that ... then it really does.

If you don't ... then hell is always breaking lose. 

Memories ... rot the corners of my mind

My brother David has gone nuts! He spends all of his time scanning pictures that he stole from my mother's house and is plastering them on Facebook.

I have not signed a letter of consent and am contemplating a lawsuit.

To my knowledge, Angi hasn't signed one either and I know for a fact she sure as hell is gonna explode when she sees the picture of her pageboy haircut, looking like a goof as she sits in a wagon between David and me.

My Mom got so irritated at (a) David's photographic kleptomania (b) the pictures he keeps posting we all hate (c) she's still mad he never made up his bed a single day of his life, and (d) the time he wrecked Dad's truck, didn't know what to do so he went home and went to sleep in his unmade bed. When they woke him up asking, "Where's the truck?" he claimed to have been in bed the whole time (in his case this is a very plausible defense) ... she called him.

"Stop putting bad pictures of me on Facebook," she scolded.

"They're precious memories," he replied.

I think Mom answered with mostly verbs followed by pronouns.

Honestly, I don't care if David posts them but stop tagging me. (I don't care if you tag Angi and he's got a lot of making up with Mom to do.) In fact, I actually like the one when Gene Prevatt and I got a group together at "Root Beer Drive In" for the only meeting of the Groves High School Greasers Appreciation Society." I look good in that one.

But ... I'm not big on the past. It was mostly great but it had terrible times too. My typical response is "Thank God that's over! What you wanna do now?"

The funny thing is we're always making memories. Some are great. Others are awful. Most are completely forgotten. I prefer to think about the next great memory and to make a mountain of them one at a time.

David likes to remember the past which is great too! It's why The Cracker Barrel exists.

But I find myself thinking about Costa Rica. We haven't been there yet. It'll make a great memory!

I'll send David pictures.

He can post them.

Before my funeral

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

Some of us were planned though a lot of us weren't. The fortunate had good parents, a nice place to live, enjoyable friends and a lot of nurturing. More likely had one good parent, a place, friends and there were some good times. Way too many didn't even have these.

Many lives are long while others are tragically short. It's one of the funny things about life ... you never have any certainty whatsoever how long its going to last.

Make the most of it while you've got it. Enjoy the hell out of those you share it with because they're a changing cast of characters.  Other people's lives drop in and out of yours. Some only make camio apperances.

You only get it once so do your best to take advantage of it!

I'm fond of saying these things at funerals.

Funerals are reminders that all good things come to an end. Bad things come to an end too. Nothing last forever and when the funeral is over its best to get on with your life ... and what's left of it.

There is no funeral today.

Sitting on the beloved back deck on an unusually warm mid-January day, my bare feet dangle from the chair at the table under the umbrella. Sarah's inside on the phone. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, are inside with her. This weekend all of my kids will be in the same at the same time. Sarah's girls are begging me to both take them and pick them up from school because all of their friends think I'm cool. I have a lunch date with friends later. Tonight, I'm grilling dinner because the weather supposed to turn cooler tomorrow so ... I only have today.

We all only have today.

We'll do good things and bad things and things that cannot possibly be explained. We'll get it done or we won't. If we're lucky, we'll laugh a little, cry a little or at least find something to hold onto.

The truth of the matter is I have no clue how ... or why ... I'm still here. Death has kissed me three times in my life though I walked away each time.

There's a reason though.

I'm very grateful today of everything and every one I have in my life. Friends I love, children's laughter, kids who talk to me most every day, and a wife and best friend who I get to spend more time with anyone. I don't deserve it though I can sure as hell make a case that I do.

But I don't.

Life is gift that I didn't ask for and I get to share with an incredible family and wonderful friends.

Before I attend my funeral, I hope to understand why.

Today's News

It's been a couple of years since I've been in the Newspaper. For over twenty years I was mentioned in it almost weekly. They always used old photographs though which is why I never minded doing television interviews because they at least accurately portrayed what I looked like that day.

But today I'm in the newspaper again. I wrote a letter to the editor. It's far easier than it used to be. Back then I'd actually send a letter, a week later someone would call to verify it was me who'd submitted it and a  week later it would be published as "Old News."

Last week, I had lunch with Shirley Sessions (who actually runs most of Chatham County) and Skutch (who is a reporter who looks like an actor in a B-movie playing a reporter). They'd been after me for months to get off the island so I finally relented and met them at the Crystal Beer Parlor. We laughed a lot as we ate.

Sometime during the conversation, Skutch mentioned two articles on homelessness coming out. That used to be my life so I listened as he explained that no one seems able to explain why things are such a mess. Everybody says they're doing the best they can but it's all gotten worse.

On Sunday and Monday, I read his articles and quickly learned I had no idea how worse things have gotten. No one's in charge and it's tough to have a war on homelessness if nobody's in charge.

It's as my friend Father Vernon Robertson once told me.

"Mike, every successful organization needs one Son-of-a-bitch. That's why the Catholic Church has the Pope! He says all of the things we can't do and keeps us in line."

"Uh-huh," replied.

"The problem with you Southern Baptist is that there a hundred thousand Sons-of-bitches all believing they're the one."

That's how it is in Savannah's reactions to homelessness these days.

It broke my heart which has been broken several times over. Nobody remembers the things that worked. Fewer are keeping up with things working elsewhere. People merely seem to be chasing money. I've tried to stay away from it all but felt moved to do something so I wrote a letter.

Letters to the Editor are far easier now. I e-mailed it. The next day it's published. (The online version of the Savannah Morning News sucks! If you stay with it though, you can read the letter if you want at http://savannahnow.com/opinion/2013-01-14/letters-editor-tuesday#.UPVigR083_M )

Skutch did call to verify it was me who had sent it.

Beginning with a Noun followed by a verb he said, "Why don't you tell it like it is son ...?"

I thought he was going to keep going with the Son part but he stopped.

"I did," I answered.

There was silence followed by muffled laughter.

"Yeah," he said drawing the conversation to a conclusion. "We miss that."

Sunday Postludes

There we were sitting and standing in Doc's Bar, commonly known as "The Geriatric Ward" on the island, listening to the "Savannah Singer/Songwriter Series."  Four talented musicians told stories, played and sang their songs which is a wonderful way for a Sunday to draw to a close.

I like Sunday nights when they're done right. Too many of mine were wasted getting ready for Monday morning. For year's I dreaded Mondays through this came after decades of loving them. Both perspectives define what your Sunday evenings are like.

If you love your work and what you do, Sunday evenings are enjoyable preludes building up to a crescendo of action, intensity, comradeship and fulfillment.

If you don't love what you do, Sunday evenings become dreadful reminders that you're getting ready to give up the things you love as you sacrifice yourself again for the almighty dollar, working for the Man or simply trying to stay half a step ahead of the wolves snapping at your heals.

I've lived both and much prefer the former to the later.

Throw in Sunday night Cheeseburgers and it just gets better!

Way back in college we would go home for the weekends and return late on Sundays. The Western Sizzlin in Statesboro came up with clever promotion of 99 cent Cheeseburgers for returning students so we'll hook up there before hauling the clean laundry back to the dirty Dorms where we lived.

Those were great celebrations! We'd share what our weekends had been like as we basically had a party to conclude the end of another weekend while sliding into another Monday.

That's what we did last night.

After the music ended we strolled down the sidewalk to The Rock House ordered cheeseburgers and acted like we were still in college. We laughed, made fun of each other, challenged things and acted like kids.

"I believe if I refuse to grow I can stay young till I die," is one of my favorite lines from the musical "Pippin".

I do too.

Music, cheeseburgers, beers and friends on a Sunday night is the best Postlude to a worshipful day.

Before falling asleep I kissed Sarah, thanked my lucky stars, and said "Amen."

Oh ... and Monday!

Kiss my ass!