Mutiny at Sea

What does a Pirate wear to a Captain’s Dinner?

It’s been bothering me all day.

Just because a Captain has a uniform doesn’t mean everybody else on the F-ing ship should have to put on long pants!

It makes me understand mutiny.

Of course I took several classes in mutiny in Seminary so I am an expert.

I can hear a lot of you asking, “What? They teach mutiny in Seminary?”

The answer is, of course they do.

It all started when God decided to separate the heavens from the earth, followed by the land from the water. What actually happened is the land was sick of being wet. At the time its occupation was being the bottom of the ocean which is not the best job in the universe so the land quit and formed Continents which is an ancestor of the Confederacy which of course eventually led to Congress. 

Everything’s a circle because Congress is as close as you can get to the slime sucking, bottom dwelling dark muck.

There’s also Jonah and the whale. Most have it backwards believing Jonah built a fire in the belly of the whale giving him heartburn until the behemoth threw up a man and his puppets who were, of course, Congressmen. 

In fact the opposite is true. Whales swore off politics in Biblical times beginning in Nineveh. Before there were Congressmen, there were a people run by Conan the Rotarian, who believed you could solve the problems of the world through weekly lunch meetings.

The Rotarian people made the mistake of serving a seafood buffet one Monday at 11:45 in a Hyatt Regency and all hell broke loose. The seafood wasn’t dead and included Killer Whale which held a raffle before eating the Rotarians, though a couple escaped and hold meetings to this day.

Pus everybody’s got it wrong about Sodom and Gomorrah, the Twin Cities of excessive partying. Back in Biblical times most everyone was a sinner because the Ten Commandments hadn’t been invented yet. They needed a place for an annual convention so they chose Sodom. The event proved so popular they had to expand to Gomorrah.

It got too big so God invented the Ten Commandments and brought an end to the perks, parties, prostitutes, and broken promises all happening in one place at the same time. Except … again … a few escaped though they broke off into two different factions and still meet to this day in Congress and … the Southern Baptist Convention.

This brings me back to mutiny and the Captain.

I don’t have any problems with a man who likes to play dress up. I’m not into it but if it makes him happy then fine. Just don’t go sticking my legs in long pants to make him feel better.

So I’ve spent the entire day utilizing the things I learned in Seminary, the times I spent in Congress and speaking before Rotary Clubs organizing a mutiny and let me tell you something.

As far as I can see right now, I don’t see one single person wearing pants.

Open Seas

For as far as I can see there is only water. It is a deep blue sprinkled with white. The sky is powdered blue also littered with white and purple clouds. The sun hangs low on the horizon, climbing its way to its majesty. It is warm and I wear little, sipping coffee and watching. There is no sign of land in any direction.

The boat has a gentle sway as though it dances to a rhythm that only it knows. I love the gentle rolling motion. Even in rough waters I have sea legs. Once I went “bow riding” in a high speed boat, slamming into waves, as I held onto a rope looking like a cowboy roping the ocean, dripping with salt spray and listening to my friends say, “Mike’s crazy!”

May be I am.

I’ve certainly never been a strong advocate of conventionality. I think we’re all finding our way in life and there are lots of different paths. There is no one, right way. We do the best we can, either finding our rewards … a happy and satisfying existence … or we don’t. I leave whatever happens next to God.

Last night, Sarah and I played a new game! How many people can you fit in a hot tub? We didn’t mean to play it but like life, sometimes things just happen. It had rained and there was a chill in the air, so we climbed in the bubbling water and settled in beside an elderly gentleman from Florida.

Within minutes, others followed our cue. In half-an-hour, we learned the answer. Twenty-three!

(The reason for the odd number was an old Jewish guy from New York City wearing beads and a Cowboy hat determined to tell everyone that he knew Janice Ian who sang “At 17” a thousand years ago. We gave him his own space in the pool so the rest of us were a bit crowded.)

Before the ship left Port, we had new friends. Staying in the pool until eight o’clock, we dressed and got ready for dinner. Sarah was stunning and I wasn’t the only one who thought as much. A man named Frank did too and he went out of his way to let her know it!

Afterwards, we meandered around, took in a show before stumbling to our cabin and falling in bed. She’s still asleep in the bottom of the boat while I sit high sipping coffee, far away from the cares of the world.

“You’re going again?” my Mom admonished when I told her we were setting sail. “You just got back!”

I had a most difficult time fingering out what her point.

“I don’t know Mom,” I tried to explain “it just time to go. Sarah and I have missed out on so much so we’re making up. It just seems like the things to do.”

“You Father used to do that!” she fired back. “He’d come home and tell me where we were going.”

“Aren’t those precious memories Mom?”

“Well,” she faltered, “they are now but they weren’t then. We couldn’t afford it.”

I laughed. “Well, I’m glad I got that from Dad then.”

Mom softened. “You and Sarah have a good time,” she said.

And we are.

There’s only so much life left and we have so much to do!

We’ll worry about everything else later.

Coloring outside the lines with Winston, the little gay dog.

"Dad, why is your vet calling me?"

"Oh hey Chelsea! They've already called you? Sorry. I put you down as the emergency contact because I couldn't remember your sister's phone number."

"Oh," she mumbled from Atlanta where she lives. Kristen, her sister, lives on Tybee Island where I live and where the dogs are boarded.

"Is anything wrong?" I asked.

"Um, no," she said. "But Winston, the little gay dog, did attack a German Shepherd."

"Oh," I mumbled from the car sailing south down I-95. The sun was shinning, the skies blue on an eighty-five degree day and the last thing I wanted to think about was Winston, the little gay, son-of-a-bitch (and I use the term literally).

"The German Shepherd's OK," Chelsea went on to explain.

Winston, the little gay, dog has been acting strange lately. He's in trouble with the law, has become quite the Diva, is expressing Bi-Polar Disorder tendencies and wears little sweaters with sayings on them like, "Coloring outside the lines."

"How's Goddess?" I ask.

"Same as always," Chelsea says. "Laid back, happy and snoring in her cage."

While I had inspected her thoroughly I suspect Goddess was still able to sneak her stash inside Tybee Animal Care. Maybe she had raided the Pharmacy when Dr. Iyler was separating Winston, the little gay dog, and the German Shepherd. I don't know.

"Oh well," I sighed. "It'll only be week." 

"Winston, the little gay dog, will own the place in a week Dad," Chelsea shot back.

Immediately I could envision the clinic decorated in pink and black with lava lamps and tie-die throw pillows in the cages. Giant rainbow flags flying out front behind a sign reading, "Tybee Animal Care! Ending Heterosexual Privilege!

"Yeah," I signed.

What do you do? Sarah and I are getting on a cruise ship today. We'll be gone all week. That's plenty of time to figure out where we'll board Goddess and Winston, the gay little/Diva/Bi-Polar, sweater wearing, son-of-a-bitch, next.

Sighing, I told Chelsea I loved her and hung up.

"What was that about?" Sarah asked.

"Oh nothing dear. Everything is just as it should be."

Sailing down I-95

We are sailing down I-95 on our way to the Promised Land in Florida. Along with California, Florida promises more than Amy other state. Sunshine, blue skies and ultra-violet rays. Relaxation underneath Palm Trees, laid back is a life ... Unless you live there.

When I was a kid we would go to Florida for vacation sometimes and to this day I still feel a tinge of excitement when I cross the St. Mary's River bridge and see the "Welcome to the Sunshine state" sign.  Part of me will always remain a lite boy.

Since then, I've spent countless hours in the state. From Fernadenia Beach to Key West, it's been my retreat, sanctuary and healing place. From Cedar Key to Naples on the Gulf Coast and in between on the Alligator Highway, I've seen it all.

"Now in my line of work, I seem to see a lot more than most
Write 'me down, pass 'em round, it's the Gospel from the coast
Reflections not just replays, taking time to escape the maze
Looking for Floridays ..."

(Jimmy Buffett)

This time we're only passing through. Tomorrow we're getting on a boat and sailing away to the Caribbean Sea which has been my home away from home.  For the first time since we got married, Sarah and I are going alone. Friends were invited but couldn't go for one reason or another. We'll miss them buy it's OK just being us.

Sailing past Floridays ... To better days.

Kitty Love

Just when I don't think it can get any stranger, it does.

I've got a little gay dog who is in trouble with the law, another who uses medical Marijuana, a house full of girls, a Carnival of friends, am a member of The Bored, a Southern Baptist Minister without a Church, don't believe much in underwear, haven't had a hair cut in a couple of years, and believe that clothing is optional.

But that's nothing.

My neighbor, the Cat Lady, has several hundred feral cats, dresses in a pink fluffy bathrobe with bunny slippers and a blue towel wrapped around her head. Cat hair flies around forming a halo. Her voice screeches, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY" and makes me believe in the N.R.A., Capital Punishment and the right wing of the Republican Party.

But this is where it's gotten weirder.

Now, she has a lover.

I know, I just threw up a little too.

He drives a white Bronco and arrives just after dark wearing a white long sleeve shirt rolled up to his elbows, khaki pants and brown loafers. His hair is dirty blond and he uses product in it. His teeth are glistening white. Taking the stairs two at a time he rushes inside.

The Cat Lady's window are directly across from ours so I see them embrace. Cat hair flies around like a mini-tornado and it is obvious things are getting hot. She steps back and opens up the pink bath robe and wicked grin broadens on the man's face.

I throw up a little more.

She says something and closes her robe. Then she walks to the window and closes the shutters. I can no longer see anything.

A few minutes later, the cats begin to moan. It's a choir of long, slow, car horns that don't stop. The yellow shutters keep rhythmic timing as they bang against the window. It all grows in intensity until a giant cloud of cat hair erupts from the chimney.

Then all is quiet.

The next morning, I walk outside to make the short drive to the Breakfast Club. It is still dark and as I open the car door, he does too at the same time. He flashes me a Cheshire grin and his winkled white shirt has cat hair on it.

At that moment, the Cat Lady throws open the shutters and screeches, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY."

"Right here baby," he smiles at her.

I throw up a little, jump in my car and drive like a bat out of hell to The Breakfast Club where the coffee just won't wash the taste away in my mouth.

Mcdonalds

Things are strange.

I'm sitting in one of my least favorite places in the known universe, Mcdonalds, watching a chubby girl eat three hash brown patties for breakfast. She's dressed for school and her Mother, also feasting on hash browns, is wearing pink pajamas with white bunnies on them and a black North Face jacket. They douse their hash browns in ketchup. I had no idea it takes seven packets of Mcdonalds ketchup per hash brown patty to achieve the appropriate culinary ratio for dining.

At the same time, I'm having a discussion via LinkedIn with a woman in Copenhagen. She wants to discuss buying content from me and hopes that I want graphic design from her. The world is indeed a small place.

"Senior coffee," one of the servers yells when a guy walks in.

I've never heard of senior coffee. Is it the old stuff left in the pot for several hours?

Lots of single parents are bringing their kids in for breakfast before taking them to school. After ordering chocolate milk and chicken biscuits, the adult whips out his phone and starts to read. The kid is busy opening little packets of ketchup getting all over his school uniform along with the chicken. The father doesn't notice.

Older kids are studying as they eat. They are quiet, well behaved and seemingly desperate. Several cuss as they stand before lapsing into prayer.

I'm here because I've dropped my car off for service and have no other option. There's this Mcdonalds and nothing else as I wait on Sarah to pick me up.

A single father looks up from his phone and discovers his six year old son is covered in ketchup and is licking it off his fingers. He hasn't touched his chicken biscuit.

"Are you kidding me?" the Dad says.

The kids turns his head to look at his father as he prepares to take a drink of the chocolate milk and pours it on top of the white, ketchup covered school shirt.

The Dad cusses loudly and the kids closes his eyes.

The line for Drive-In service wraps around the building, filled with folks who prefer to dine in their vehicle rather than endure a happy meal inside.

My phone buzzes and Sarah sent a text informing me that she's outside.

I can't get out of there fast enough.

The father sticks the ketchup, chocolate milk wearing son into a green Jaguar and peels out of the parking lot towards the school.

Sarah drives me home and I try to explain everything that has happened.

There's no making it up.

It happened just like that.

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Relics of the past

There is a photograph on my refrigerator of Roma with her mouth duct taped shut. Her eyes are wide and crazy as though she wants to kill somebody. One one of her shoulders is Jenny O with her eyes clasped shut and a broad late night grin. My happy face rests on the other shoulder, broad smile, happy eyes and wearing a black top hat.

I remember when Johnny O gave me the picture on New Year's Day. We'd gathered for breakfast and Bloody Mary's prior to the Polar Bear Plunge, the annual celebration of starting over by jumping into a cold ocean.

"You had a good time last night," Johnny O told me.

"Oh yeah?" I asked.

"Oh yeah," he smiled handing me the picture.

For as long as I've lived on this clump of sand I've been part of this group of crazy characters.  Beginning as a break off of The Beach Bums, we started a daily pool tournament anchored by Roma, Johnny O, Bill with two "L"'s, Tuttie, Joanie, myself and a cast of revolving visitors.

Oh and there was Bobby.

"You look great," Chicago Bob used to say. "Whose your Mortician?"

It was hard not to love Chicago Bob, even when he threw my Mother and Sister out of his house one night, because he lived one tremendous adventure. Once his wife was going out of town and admonished him to not smoke, drink or do anything crazy. He promised as he kissed her bye and sent her off.

Five minutes later she returned having forgotten something to find Bob sitting naked in the living room, smoking and drinking Scotch.

She turned and left again.

Trolley Joe came next, reflective and funny, alternating his life between driving tourists around downtown Savannah and gathering with us for the daily "Bored" meeting to celebrate life on the island.

Once I was walking to a meeting in downtown Savannah when a trolley full of tourisst stopped in the middle of the road while Trolley Joe announced on the microphone, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is "The Rev." He's famous though for the life of me I don't know why. Let's give him a hand."

The trolley full of tourists burst into applause as I just stood in the middle of Liberty Street laughing my ass off.

Chicago Bob is no longer with us and when Johnny O and I dumped his ashes off the pier into the ocean with a cluster of fishing Hispanics looking on, the ocean breeze kicked up and Bobby's ashes went in two different directions. The Hispanics dropped on their knees still holding on to their poles with one hand while doing the sign of the cross with the other.

"That explains that," Roma said.

"What?" we asked.

"His schizophrenic personality."

We burst into laughter which is a great way to end a funeral.

Trolley Joe has died too and when Johnny O and I put his ashes in the ocean a dolphin jumped through them into the sky before falling back to the sea and sending Joseph's ashes in every direction.

"You don't see that every day," Roma said.

Luckily, Whitley, Essie, O John and O Judy, Swanny, Al and others have taken their seats at the daily "The Bored" meeting.

As Tybee continues to change, The Bored may become a relic of the past. Serious behavior has no place for spontaneous celebrations.

But for twenty-five years it's been an incredible gift of friends who love one another and find something to celebrate daily. Members have gone on to become angels leaving the rest of us missing them. But, the rest of us aren't dead yet ... and that's a damn good reason to celebrate.

Bobby, cue the music!

The right side of the curtain

Sometimes you become keenly aware of nice things that happen around you. I know a waitress. a young, pretty girl who struggles to make ends meet. She's trying to put herself through school and make a life for herself. She put her name in a Supper Bowl pool and won $125. I was witness to her gleeful happiness as her co-workers celebrated with her.

A few minutes later, an older lady won $240 in the same pool. A short, frumpy woman, she's a regular spending countless hours sitting and talking to whoever takes time to reply. She lost her job and isn't prepared for retirement. She's been talking about selling her house so she can keep getting by somehow.

When handed the money in an envelop with her name written on it, she was magically transformed into a little girl on Christmas morning. With a silent smile she counted the money, put it back in the envelop and ordered her breakfast.

Everyone wasn't so lucky. My daughter Kristen worked throughout the Super Bowl, also trying to make ends meet, though there were no customers in her restaurant and no television to draw them inside. So she spent the time studying and doing homework for school where she's trying to become a nurse.

It's funny when you have the opportunity to peek behind the curtain of someone's life for a glimpse behind the scenes. Just as when Dorothy ripped the Wizard's curtain at Oz and saw him manipulating machines to portray himself as something other than who he was, most of us do the same.

We come across as confident, funny, immune to doubt and know exactly what we're doing. The truth though is we all have cracks in our confidence, the laughter is often to cover despair, self-doubt prevails and we're just praying we're heading in the general right direction.

When the great and powerful Oz finally came out from behind his curtain he was a kind, insecure, bumbling sort of wizard who tried his best. In the end, that's all any of us can do so it's sad when so many spend so much effort to portray themselves as someone other than who they really are.

Today I'll take my cue from a waitress, an old woman who doesn't know what's next and my daughter whose just struggling to become something better. They're on the right side of the curtain, just being who they are, warts and all.

It's hard not to respect that.

And to celebrate it.

Because that's the way God made us.

Putting yourself together again.

At lunch the other day with friends, one said, "It seems you're really focusing on the important things in life. Sarah. Travel. You look happy."

It was a nice thing to hear.

It's been a crazy ride! I've had my fair share of hurts and disappointments but also the thrills of surfing the big waves and coming down safely.

The other thing she said was, "You keep reinventing yourself. The rest of us more or less stay the same."

It's not something I think about though I suppose it's true. Beginning as a radical Seminary student, I somehow became a "Professional Christian" in a Southern Baptist Church of all places. It was there I learned success and storms weave the same fabric. It was there I discovered passion.

"The thing about you Elliott," Congressman Jack Kingston once told me in the halls of the Capitol, "is that you've figured out how to fund your passion. Most people ask someone else to do it."

It's true that I did what I was passionate about for the next twenty plus years and was again wildly successful! I won awards, traveled the world, broke numerous glass ceilings but ... at the cost of family and myself. Eventually  Humpty Dumpty fell, or was pushed, off a very tall wall and broke.

There was no putting it back together again so, I've now become someone else ... again.

It's not like I had much of a choice. You either pick up the pieces and try to make it into something new or you give up. So now I'm becoming something new ... again.

I'm different this time around ... just like I was different last time around. I'm more mellow now, not as quick to dive into something, extremely appreciative for everything I've got though apprehensive about how long I get to keep it. After achieving so many big things I now take great delight in the small everyday happenings of my life. I no longer have the need to fight and if someone else is picking one I keep quiet and let them.

I spend a lot of time in reflection, thought and prayer. I'm content to be alone and enjoy working from home with Sarah doing the same in another room. No longer compelled to find adventure, I'll bide my time until the next one finds me.

I still enjoy creating something out of nothing, get excited about making a deal, gathering with my friends and traveling. My kids bring me great joy as I watch them make their own lives, especially when they invite my participation.

There are still unanswered questions that I wrestle with though nowhere near as many as I used to have. When others wrestle with their questions I chime in if asked but don't feel as though I have to.

I have no idea how much time I have left, hopefully a lot, but I'm grateful for who I am today, the things I've done in the past, those who love me and the opportunity for another day. Whenever my time has passed, I won't regret lack of trying.

Life begins with endless opportunities and wide open expanses. As we live, we boil it down to a few important things. 

Do good. Love deeply. Try your best. Don't dwell on things that didn't happen. Have fun. Cry a little. Laugh a lot. Forgive yourself and jump back in. 

Because one day God will put a hand on my shoulder and say, "That's it! No more diving in. That part's over. Time for something new."

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.