He's got the whole wide world in his hands ...

I'm literally holding a sliver of my whole wide world. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts is my 9th book and it's a funny thing to hold it like a baby, making certain it has all the fingers and toes, is breathing right and has life.

In some ways its like flipping through a photo album, seeing images of good times or bad ones, remembering things that were.

"What's it about?" people ask.

"Me," is the honest response though it's a terrible answer.

Specifically, its about the death of who I used to be and the rebirth of who I am now.

Sarah came up with the title and there really is a Sandy Bottoms though she's not in the cast of characters living in the pages.

What Sarah had in mind after reading the thing is that we all scrape bottom in life and get through somehow with Duct Tape, prayers and dreams holding it together as best as we know how. I think my wife is brilliant so that was the title without discussion.

And that's what the book is about from my point of view, experiences and stories.

It's funny to hold your life in your hands but that's what I'm doing ... at least several years of it.

There are Angels and Assholes in the pages, friends who showed me love when I was unlovely, and Sarah whose the real heroine of the whole thing. I laugh as I read names of people I love and the things we did. I pay homage to Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, people raised from the dead, and God who wakes me up in the middle of the night to talk.

It's about survival, resurrection, finding inspiration in the weirdest of places and love.

There are parts of it that make me bust out laughing or burst into tears.

It's my life.

I'm sharing it is all.

Lots of folks keep walls around their lives, hoarding secrets and pretending everything's great when it's not. Professing faith when they've lost it, acting life's wonderful when its crumbling or hiding from people and things they detest.

I think it's better to let it all hang out.

So I do.

You can see the scars on my ass and the duct tape around my heart.

I'm doing great and love this life!

I hope you are too!
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The best thing in life

I remember watching Liberace, the flamboyant incredibly talented pianist and showman, when I was a kid sitting on the floor in the Den with my family. Wearing a fur cape and brightly colored tuxedo, he'd stare straight into the camera, directly at us in TV land, never looking at the piano keys while playing beautifully.

The man was magic!

And he was gay.

No one in America seemed to care he was gay and Liberace himself shied away from the topic whenever it was brought up. For more than two decades he was the highest paid entertainer IN THE WORLD!

Sarah and I were watching the magnificent movie "Behind the Candelabra" when I'm reminded of Liberace's incredible talent, opulent lifestyle, incredible showmanship, life in the closet and ... for a second ... I was transported to another time ... another place.

Eight of us were gathered in the very opulent home of Jack Kersy, with flowing fountains, chandeliers, long dining room tables and statues of naked men. Four of us were clergy and four others gay ... some in the closet and some not.

We were the St. Jude's Guild.

St. Jude is the patron Saint of desperate cases and lost causes.

It was 1984 and AIDS was exploding across America. I was the 28 year old pastor of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky and HIV infected people were begging me to give them a place to live. Their landlords were evicting them out of fear of catching the disease.

So the eight of us joined forces to do something because we didn't know what to do. Fred Schloemer and I were the babies of the bunch, the others being older, established, reputable and wealthy.

The result was Glade House, the nation's second housing program for people with AIDS (the first was in L.A.).

It was the first time I comprehended what it's like to live as a gay person. In those days, there was fear, hate, condemnation and prejudice. And AIDS made it all worse as a Holocaust was launched by the good and faithful folk of America.

Since then AIDS left its exclusive hold on one segment of people jumping to women and children as its favored mode of transmission.

I shared these things with Sarah as I rubbed her feet, sitting in the floor watching a movie on television.

"The best thing in life," Liberace explains, "is to just be yourself."

"Yep," we both say out loud at the same time.

Because why in hell would you want to be anything else?
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Another Tybee Update

I suppose it began when the sad, little holy dock became a private gated community but that was merely the beginning of strange things happening on Tybee Island.

Against a backdrop of wailing police sirens, a now extremely common occurrence on the island, I ponder the single biggest question being asked.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO HODAD??

Hodad, affectionately known as HO to his friends, unexpectedly resigned from the Police Department. By far the island's nicest officer everyone is aghast and asking, "What happened?"

The answer is evidently personal terrorism initiated by one of the numerous cells on the island, this one operating on the corner of 13th and Butler Avenue.

If this isn't enough, our neighbor Art has suddenly turned into a Bible scholar which is very scary shit!

"What's Lot's wife name?"

He quizzes me as Sarah and I walk the dogs.

"Beats me," I reply.

"You are correct," he says.

"Now let me ask you a more difficult question," he presses.  "When God sent Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden and they had Cain, then Cain got married ... where did his wife come from?"

"Beats me," I answer.

"Me too," he says.

Sarah pulls me away before Art can ask another question.

This is weird!

Vandalism is a regular method of paying it forward on the island and I understand Johnny O and Judy O's porch chairs were recently accosted by a giant fly swatter. Every afternoon they have "Whine and Cheese" on the porch though I hear Judy O now refuses to sit in her chair and whines about having to stand to sip her wine.

People are being ticketed for driving on Lewis Avenue which has a speed bump every ten feet. I can't figure out how you can break the 25 MPH speed limit in 10 feet but it's apparently happening and the Hodad-less Police Department is all over it!

Plus it's election season and there's nothing stranger than politicians.

SpongeBob Squarepants is back on the island filming a movie, transforming the parking lot down front into a garden and planting Palm Trees on the Pier.

There's a full moon but no Full Moon Party at Marlin Monroe's which is how Sarah and I celebrate our anniversary every month so we're confused on what exactly we're supposed to do.

I already miss tourists season.

As long as tourists are here we feast on them.

But they're gone and the only thing we have to feast on is each other.
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Cicada Hymns

It's simply a spectacular day!

The sun blazes white light in a deep blue sky. Only a few whips of white clouds dot the heavens. Fran's thousand shades of green hang gloriously above waving every so slightly in the ocean breeze. The pungent aroma of the marsh is intoxicating. Birds sing solos as yellow butterflies make love to purple blossoms of the petunia.

It's quite the contrast from things going on in the world.

Government employees return to work because the bastards we've elected orchestrated yet another crisis so they could again save the day.

If the Bible were still being written, prophets would rise against the Pharisees and Sadducees governing by lavishing riches upon themselves while overseeing famine throughout the land proclaiming to do it in the name of God.

I believe in Hell because of every damn one of them.

And I pray every damn one of them goes to Hell.

That's a harsh beginning to a spectacular day.

The birds form themselves in a choir forcing me to pause from dark thoughts and enjoy their Hallelujah Chorus.

I stand applauding and they bow before flying away into the glorious day.

Returning to the darkness, people I love are hurting flash across my brain and heart. Their lives are fragile as the spider web I stare at running from the gutter to the Hibiscus plant on the back deck.

Glancing away I realize I've stared at it for 20 minutes completely engulfed in prayer for those I love with no cognition whatsoever of the fact I'd been transported to another universe. I think that's what prayer really is ... losing ourselves in God ... completely leaving our bodies only to snap awake and wonder what happened to the last 20 minutes.

The choir of cicada begin their Hymns and I listen.

My friend Kyle Shiver recently sent me a recording of Cicada singing on two tracks. The first in real time but the second is slowed sounding like Angels chanting. It's incredible! I always though Cicada sound holy when they sing. Now I'm convinced.

I come out of another prayer trance. Fifteen minutes has passed.

"Dammit Scotty," I say out loud. "Stop beaming me up!"

Then I wonder if it's Scotty at all.

It may be God.

"Do not worry about tomorrow," inexpiably runs through my head. "for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

I have no doubt about the second part of that. Every day's got troubles.

It's the first part I struggle with. Don't worry about tomorrow. Let it worry about itself.

What I've got is today.

Don't worry about it.

Enjoy it.
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The no longer sad little holy dock

It good be a good economic sign or a bad one.

I don't know yet.

But the sad little holy dock is now a gated community for no one.

Goddess was taking me on a stroll down our street to the marsh where we take a left. Half-a-block later we turn to the left again and there is the dock jutting out into the marsh.

It is not a fine dock by any stretch of the imagination with its warped boards that have pulled the nails out of the beams. The "T" at the end is shaky and sits low in the marsh. The planks are weatherworn and old. There is nothing ornate about it other than seagull droppings. You feel the whole thing will topple over at any moment.

There was a while when it suited me perfectly! Goddess and I would meander aimlessly around the island and end up sitting on the sad little holy dock for hours on end. We were lost in the marsh.

But things changed.

Sarah and I began taking walks and held hands on the sad little holy dock. Sitting with our feet dangling above the green grass and black mud, we shared dreams, kisses and more.

Now when Sarah's girls and I walk the dogs they love to sit on the dock and tell me about school, boyfriends, problems or what's for dinner.

The truth is I no longer visit the dock like I used to because I'm in a hurry to get back home.

Yet it's with interest that I see the gate with a chain blocking entrance to the sad little holy dock.

Personally, I hope Shirley is turning it into a tourist attraction!

God knows I've written enough about it! People want to see it when they visit us.

"Is that the sad little holy dock," they ask?

"Well it was," I answer, "but its not anymore."

It's just an old relic of a past that's no more.
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Writing my dream!

"You always wanted to be a writer," Mom says as I pick dead leafs out of flower pots on the Back Deck where the laptop is open on the picnic table and my notes are scattered. My I-Phone and pens serve as paperweights as a light ocean breeze occasionally rearrange the papers.

I'd called her needing a break from writing.

I have no recollection when I wanted to become a writer though I do recall the first time I said it publically. I'd resigned my job as my first book was released. It was time to become a full time writer so I explained this was the reason I was leaving.

The Society of Salty Saints got great reviews and had multiple printings. The publisher was interested in what else I had though I had nothing.  It was time for me get intense and give it my all. I relocated to a small barrier island perfect for inspiration and new stories and dove in the deep end of the pool.

A short time later I was broke.

While Salty Saints sold a lot of copies, I didn't make much money from it.

So I got a job to finance my writing habit. What I believed would be a short term position turned into a 23 year career. I'd been hired as a leader and both the company and my stature rose significantly, in no small part because I continued to write.

Seven more books were published during this time and one received a "Book of the Year" award. I penned numerous articles, diversified into grant writing, cultivated vignette story telling for the company newsletter and wrote countless speeches I gave.

"You could make math problems interesting," someone once quipped about me.

Though the job still paid the bills and not the writing.

The books, articles, newsletters and speeches actually marketed the company and my reputation. The company received millions of dollars and I achieved notoriety. The first skill I looked for when hiring was the ability to write.

"I'd like to see a sample of your writing," I asked one applicant. She got a pen and paper and wrote exactly what I'd said then proudly showed it to me.

"I write pretty well," she beamed.

Though her penmanship was terrific, she wasn't hired.

Over the decades I learned writing is a passion that consumes completely. A lucky few make a living at it but most keep at it for other reasons.

Every day for the past five years, I've written. Technology advancements allow me to publish it immediately which I find invigorating. Daily blogs lead to dialogue and discussion in real time. Feedback is instant. Thousands of pages are mined for potential and cultivation and Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts, my first book written just for me, is now available.

Through these years, writing was my major coping mechanism. Navigating a complete life change, the daily musings and their immediate release, were my therapy. Anger, loss, kindness, faith, surprises, friendship, self-discovery, joy in little things and discovering new capacities to love are the constant themes. I would never have survived without writing.

I'm finally a full time writer ... at least for now. Every day, it is the core of my work. The pays not as good as the job had been but I'm living my dream. I try to help others live theirs too. It's as exhilarating as it is scary! As rebellious as it is rewarding! A fulfilling sacrifice!

"Alright Mom," I excitedly say, "I've got to get back to work."

"It'll be great," she says as she always has.

I know it will be for me ... just like it has been for so long.
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A Secret to Happiness

"Look," Allocia says firmly, "the truth of the matter is the sun's up. You're here. You feel like
somebody's kicked you in the stomach but today is yours to take or break."

Tim stares at his clasped hands resting on his knees. He hears the words, even manages a nod but his wife's left him and took his daughter too. He struggles to simply breath.


Sighing, Allocia grabs Tim by the arm commanding, "Get up!"

Limply he stands though his head remains bowed and he stairs at his feet.

Pulling him along she explains, "We're taking a walk. You can't just sit here."

"I don't know what to do," he mumbles.

"Were y'all happy?" Allocia asks guiding him into a park full of children playing on a merry-go-round and Monkey Bars.

Shaking his head from side to side, Tim admits he was not but the sense of loss is overwhelming and he's full of fear. Feelings that are really questions rumble in the pit of his stomach.

I don't want to live alone. How am I going to manage being by myself? We may have fought all the time but at least she was there. When will I see my daughter? I can't live without her. What are all my friends going to say? What am I going to tell my Mom? It took everything both of us make to live. How am I going to survive without her income too?

Allocia pulls Tim down on a bench and he hears the squeals of joy, music of laughter and playful challenges of children.

Realizing he's in a park, Tim stares at single mothers sitting on benches talking as they watch their kids. Fathers push swings with sons and daughters begging to go higher. The grass is green, birds sing, the sun hangs in a deep blue sky illuminating everyone in yellow light. Everything is ALIVE!

His sense of loss ignites and seems to grow. Tim sobs and Allocia puts her arm around his shoulders and they sit in silence together until shadows grow from the trees and the park thins out.

"You know what?" she asks. "Tomorrow the suns going to rise again and this park's going be full of children."

Allocia introduces Tim to me a few days later and they share what's been happening. Mostly I listen until he's got nothing else to say.

"Yeah, I've been there," I grin. "Resurrections are better than crucifixions. Life beats the hell out of the alternative. I'm testimony to that."

Tim asks me lots of "How did you?" questions and I answer each of them.

In the months that follow, we talk occasionally and I slowly observe Tim's rebirth. First he spends nights alone and explains why to everyone. Each time he does, it gets easier. There's less money but its cheaper to live alone. He loses friends but gains some he never realized were his.

One day he and Allocia hold hands and I'm introduced to Tim's smiling daughter. Happily they share plans to live together and I share their joy.

"The best lovers are friends first," I say and they nod.

It makes me wonder why so many get stuck staring at their hands and learn to live with loss, regretting things that might have been and filling time with superficial diversions. They live with people they don't love, do things they don't want and keep thinking things will get better by doing them over and over.

Everybody goes through these experiences but too many choose to remain on the darker side of their lives. I certainly did and you probably have too.

This is what I learned, change is inevitable and growth is hard but accepting both is a secret to happiness.
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My To-Do List

My list of things to do today.

• Open my eyes. Thank God they opened and I'm given another day.

• Roll over, listen to Sarah breath and watch her sleep and thank God for having her to share this day with.

• Quietly crawl out of bed, sidestep our dog Goddess sleeping on the floor beside the bed and stumble through the dark to the bathroom.

• Sneak down the staircase to the outdoor shower, stand under the hot water and look up at the sky to see exactly what kind of day we've been given.

• Get dressed, give the dogs treats, kiss the top of Sarah's sleeping head and ride my bicycle to the Breakfast Club for coffee served with friendship.

• Open the outdoor office on the Beloved Back deck by 7:30 and get to work.

• Immediately stop whatever I'm doing when the Managing Partner arrives so she is greeted appropriately.

• Return to my office, thank God again for the day and dive back into whatever it is I'm working on.

• Around 10ish, the Managing Partner needs a snack. Again I cease whatever I'm doing to determine if a coffee break is in order. Some days the Managing Partner grabs a snack and immediately returns to her office. A lot of times she lingers wishing to talk. This is a good sign that we will indeed have a break in the Board Room with the bed in it.

• It's back to work after that but everyone in the office is extremely happy about it!

• Soon after noon, I close up the computer and ask the Managing Partner if she wants to have lunch. Coffee breaks give us the munchies so we take an hour for lunch. Often we discuss work but sometimes we remind ourselves to actually buy coffee.

• Around 1:00 we're both back in our offices working on whatever it is and continue through the afternoon.

• Then Sarah's girls get home from school and all Hell breaks loose as it's one big blur of boyfriends, snacks, homework, playing games, singing songs, phone calls, changing clothes repeatedly while demanding to know what's for dinner.

• After dinner, I return to my office to finish up and plan for the next day. Some nights there are classes I teach, orchestrated discussions and lots of social media management.

• Then the work day is over, Sarah's clocked out from being Managing Partner and puts the girls to bed which takes a couple of hours. While she's doing this, I'm sipping wine on the Beloved Back Deck or watching a game on the porch trying to unwind from the day.

• Once the girls are asleep, Sarah and I cuddle on the couch and talk about things. Sometimes she goes back to work but I'm toast by 10ish and am pulling her towards the bedroom.

That's the list of things for me to do today.

I just noticed that tomorrow's list is the exact same as todays.
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Kissing Paradise Goodbye

And you can see them there, on Sunday morning
They stand up and sing about, what it's like up there
They call it Paradise, I don't know why
Call someplace Paradise, kiss it goodbye

I'd listen to "the Eagles" every Sunday morning before leaving the Pastor's Office for the Sanctuary ready to deliver God's message to those who came.

We were a rag-tag congregation of little old ladies, homeless people, prisoners, idealistic Seminary Students, kids from the Projects and the occasional normal person.

The students were a talented and giving bunch bringing good music, enthusiasm, commitment and joy balancing the sadness of the homeless people and the prisoners. The kids brought a greedy lust for snacks and a better place to play. The little old ladies watched it all suspiciously believing the house of cards would fall at any moment.

I was their Minister, having taken the job because no else wanted it and I liked the little old ladies and they liked me.

My first sermon was a "fire and brimstone" affair extolling my flock that we were going to do great things together. Resembling a coach's halftime speech when his team's losing badly, I let faith fly in the face of facts. The ladies quietly smiled having heard it all before.

Over time the place was reborn. A tired old building became a sanctuary where Sunday School rooms turned into apartments and the Baptismal Pool a bathtub. The "Fellowship Hall" morphed into the neighborhood's living room and the institutional kitchen became a "Coffee Shop" that never closed. The roof became a gathering place where we'd sit under the stars breathing the smell of death from the nearby stockyards and listening to the city cry.

The only time we resembled an actual church was during the Sunday morning service when I delivered the message. I grew fond of telling stories rather than preach which seemed to go over well. And I learned how to pray because people were constantly asking me to and I didn't want to say "No."

I was there for eight years and for a while it was a magical, holy, place of joy in one of the seediest parts of the city.

Towards the end, I had a hard time holding it all together. While the little old ladies were in Sunday School, the homeless people and prisoners sadly heard the "Good News" from enthusiastic Seminarians and the kids stuffed their mouths and pockets with everything they could ... I'd sit in my office listening to "The Eagles."

For a while, it really was Paradise.

I'm preaching today for the first time in a long while and it's got me thinking about old things. Under a tent on an island surrounded by vacationing Pirates and real life Beach Bums, I'll deliver God's message. They'll be good music, enthusiastic believers and those recovering from last night's celebrations. It'll be Paradise, at least for a little while.
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The Gift of a New Day

The sun bubbles out of the ocean and hangs behind the Palm Tree with the Oyster smile, coconut bra and grass skirt giving me shade as I stare at the computer screen.

Goddess is laying on the Beloved Back Deck beside me peacefully slumbering.

Winston, the Little Gay Dog, is underneath the table with the umbrella and he's frustrated because I won't let him inside the house.

The sliding glass doors are shut to keep him away from Sarah who is sleeping. Were I to open the doors, he would spring up, dart inside, jump into the bedroom door so it opens and leap into bed with her. He adores Sarah but I want to let her sleep so he's mad and I don't care.

Inside the house is dark, ceiling fans twirl, and the windows are open.

Outside, birds sing, the slightest breeze blows from the sea so the blooming flowers dance.

A white moon fades behind me in a deep blue sky as the night comes to an end and a new day is born.

A squirrel slowly walks across the power line and I swear she smiles when she looks  my way.

If you took a photograph of peace, it would look like this.

I've always loved the early morning. It's a time to contemplate and pray ... to make plans or find forgiveness ... to dream and to wait on them ... to come to life with the dawning day.

Goddess shifts and lays her head on my bare foot reminding me how much I love her.

Winston, the Little Gay Dog, notices and moves closer to me while keeping his eyes on the glass doors where Sarah sleeps.

The sun rises above the Palm Tree with the Oyster smile, coconut bra and grass skirt blinding me with brilliance.

The gift of a new day has been given to me.

Hallelujah!

Amen.
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Friday at the office just kills me!

On Fridays people don't read my stuff.

I'm savvy enough of a social media guy to occasionally read the tracking of whose reading what I write. It's looks pretty good except on Fridays when the lines on the graph plummet.

On Friday's you people suck.


I don't blame you.

We're all excited it's Friday.

Who want to read?

Who wants to do much anything except ... PARTY!!!!! ... however you define it.

But it's not officially the weekend yet. I have lots of work to do today.

Making it worse, the managing partner is in her office, clamoring around and banging stuff. Occasionally she glares this way so I'm trying to look very busy.

Goddess is passed out in the kitchen and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, is wearing a sweater vest that reads, "Homosexual Agenda ... spend time with the family ... be treated equally ... buy milk" while he kisses the managing partner's ass.

His nose is so freaking brown!

Literally!

The little son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally too)!

Gypsy, the gender confused, paranoid personality disordered cat, is giving himself a bath in the kitchen sink which is just ... bizarre.

The Cat Lady has the day off and is on her back deck wearing a dirty yellow bathrobe, fuzzy pink slippers, and a blue towel wrapped around her head so she looks like Marge Simpson on meth. She's staring at a weed whacker. Her buff boyfriend of the week is lighting candles in her bedroom. I'm trying very hard to not think about what they're up to.

I just threw up in my mouth a little thinking about it.

The managing partner just stormed out of my outdoor office. She told me a bunch of stuff, apparently each thing important, but I have no idea what she said.

I'm trying to concentrate on writing.

Besides it's Pirate Fest on Tybee Island and I wonder how we're dressing. Our friend Wen McNally is evidently wearing an eye patch and flip flops.

It's going to be hard for Sarah and I to top that costume!

Winston storms into my office, lays at my feet and starts licking his G-spot.

I guess his weekend is starting early.

I wish mine could too but I have to finish this blog no one's going to read anyway.

It's Friday.

Life's Greatest Lessons

Mostly I am a teacher.

I'm a non-conventional, anti-institutional, radical free thinking, rebellious spiritual educator but, nevertheless, I teach.

I've gone through lots of indurations, from a playing football coach at the Baptist Student Union to the "Professional Christian" of an inner city church; a corporate CEO, writer, speaker, wonderful father, spiritual renegade, guitar playing beach bum, doting husband and step-less father of three little girls ("I'm your friend and you can tell me anything and I promise not to tell your Mom. I'll make you tell her. It's funnier that way.")

Each of these steps made me a better teacher.

These days people from around the world figuratively come to the beloved back deck for help living the life they really want.

They log on to my website, register for online classes, read blogs, books, instant message, call or show up knocking when I'm not home and my beautiful wife Sarah's just shut the bathroom door for some well deserved ... "quiet time."

If anyone reviews my professional educator curriculum vita they are horrified to find:

• As a grad assistant at Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, I taught God was closer to saving America during the 1960s than at any other time in history but we chose to enter the 70's and God hates Disco as much as the rest of us. The seminary never invited me back.
• As an adjunct professor teaching how to raise money at Savannah State University, I instructed the class to develop their own idea to raise bucks. They devised a Topless Carwash. Girls in bikinis held signs, cars lined up and the students washed everything except the top of the cars. I gave them all "A's". The university dropped me when the class ended.
• Savannah State University fired the president, got a new one who invited me to again teach. The class was "Social Advocacy" so I asked the students which social ill needed attacking? They replied on-campus student housing so we went to war with the university. I gave them all "A's", the president fired me, then the president got fired but the students got new housing.

I finally figured out I'm a much better teacher away from academic environments.

I'm also a much better minister independent from the church and organized religion.

Many see these as a contradiction but I don't.

It's coloring outside the lines or painting without instruction, creating a masterpiece. The greatest journeys are often without destinations, fun is born in boredom, inspiration hits when its least expected, forsaken plans yield great results and we find ourselves strong at the broken places. Love conquers just when we've sworn it off once and for all.

I believe these are life's greatest lessons.

They happen outside the classroom, away from the campus, far from the church, when the book is closed, once the pen's put down and the computer is in sleep mode.

That's when we can finally talk to ourselves and listen to what we have to say.

"I come down and talk to me, when is coast is clear," is how Jimmy Buffett puts it.

But then we need someone else to share with; a confidant, interpreter, encourager and sustainer of dreams. A help-mate is the way old crazy people describe it, someone to pull us along when we forget where we were going.

That's the teaching that I do.

The first questions in today's class of life are "Where are you going?" and "Do you have any idea of how you're going to get there?"
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In-depth 28 day classes allow you to join others (at your own comfortable level of participation) in a private online supportive environment. Through three 45-minute teleseminars with Micheal (recorded and distributed to you in case you miss the live one), with a coordinating workbook and weekly discussions you delve deeper into your own life. Class is 100% online. Invest in yourself for just $42 per class.

Doing the Right Things for you starts  December 2013. Register now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/onlineclass/

Sure Enough it's gonna be a show!

The fears I fear are never gone ... The things I know are coming on ... are not so nice to look upon ... so closely ...

Confesses Jesus in the magnificent "Cotton Patch Gospel" by Harry Chapin. It's the Gospel story set in Georgia and Jesus' on his way to Atlanta where he suspects things are not going to go so well.

The Disciples are beside themselves with excitement believing the Kingdom is finally coming on earth as it is in heaven and they have front row seats.

Jesus knows better though he gets caught up in their joy.

"What does Atlanta mean to me?" he sings as they gleefully anticipate getting to the top ... the bright lights ... the show down ... sure enough it's going to be a show.

"It means being what I'm supposed to be," Jesus answers himself.

You know what happens.

Everything goes horribly wrong and he ends up deader than a doornail, thrown in a donated grave and surrounded by 24/7 security.

But ... miraculously if you like a really good story or really do believe in miracles ... it all works out.

Security falls asleep.

People who love Jesus refuse to leave him alone.

The stone's rolled away.

Jesus gets up.

His best friend mistakes him for the gardener who keeps the cemetery looking good.

Even the Disciples who'd fled to save their asses come together and reform for a reunion tour ... though without the original lead singer.

Sure enough it's a show people still talk about.

"My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me ... is how Jesus says it in the Bible.

We still tell the story all these centuries later because Jesus takes the risk, throws caution to the wind, believes in miracles without a single shred of evidence to become who he's supposed to be and ... it all works out.

Why don't we do that?

It can be our story too can't it?

Why do we get caught up in our fears, convince ourselves if we actually be who we're supposed to be ... all hell's going to break loose and our asses are going to be crucified?

We're stuck, fearing our fears, living the lives others want us to have, trading freedom for security, never taking risks or throwing caution to the wind so ... we never rise to much anything.

It's ourselves we betray and have no one to blame other than ourselves.

I've been through several crucifixions, survived divorces, betrayals, walked away from expectations of others, lost people I love and I'm the first to tell you, and I'm certain Jesus would agree, they suck and hurt like hell!

But you know what?

Just like Jesus got through his, I got through mine and these days it's pretty heavenly around here. I wouldn't change anything!

What about you?

Would you change anything?

Or are the fears you feel never gone?

I'm here to tell you ... grab hold of your fears and hang their sorry asses on the cross. Life's heavenly when you're who you're supposed to be. You can rise above the loveless living, sorry friends, things you don't care about, loss and repeatedly being hurt by those you think make you secure. If you need help, I'm here.

But you can do this!

I did.

Sure enough, my life's one hell of a show!

It's time for yours to be one too!
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Sign up in that journey now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/onlineclass/

God wants me to whack what???

Genesis 17
Micheal Elliott Revised not-so-standard version

1. Abram saw God when he was 99 years old and it's a miracle in and of itself he could see anything. Making it even more miraculous is that he  heard God too and there weren't even hearing aids in those days. Just for fun God says, "Walk this way ... you lead ..."
2. If you don't fall down or walk into anything I promise you this ... I'll make sure you have a lot of kids."
3. Of course Abram immediately fell down. 
4. "We're talking lots of kids," God continues while Abram lay in the dirt.
5. "And I've never liked your name either. We're changing it to Abraham ... it sounds more fatherly. We're talking about you having a shit load of kids."
6. "I'm making your loins machine gun powerful and not one bullet you shoot will be a blank. We're talking lots of kids."
7. "And I promise to be there for them just like I'm here for you now."
8. "You're going to need a really big place for all your kids so I'm giving you Canaan. It's very prime real estate. And I'm going to live there too."
9. "What?" Abraham says so God repeats everything.
10. Rolling Her eyes God says, "To make sure you don't forget, I want you to circumcise yourself. All your kids too. Well, not the girls but every single one of the boys."
11. "So go circumcise yourself and that's your end of the bargain."
12. "But wait until your sons are 8 days old before you do them. They'll scream like crazy. Oh yeah, if you have kids with Hookers or lose women ... Hell even if you adopt ... circumcise them too."
13. "And that'll be the bond between us forever."
14. "And if you don't circumcise one of them ... put him for adoption."
15. "Oh yeah! We're going to change your wife's name too. Sarai should be called Sarah. It's just sexier."
16. "And she's gonna receive those loaded bullets from your loins and pop those little blessings out!"
17. Still laying on the ground from falling down, Abraham starts laughing. "I haven't gotten it up in years! And have you seen my wife? She's older than dirt."
18. "Plus she's already got a kid. I gotta whack him too? His name's Ismael. You're going to look after him too, right?"
19. And God said, "Listen you old fart! Your wife is getting ready to be knocked up and you're the man whose going to do it. And I want you to name him Isaac ... I like these naming opportunities. He's going to have lots of kids too."
20. "Yeah, I hear you about Ismael. He can have lots of kids too. It'll be great!"
21. "And Sarah's going to be knocked up with Isaac by this time next year."
22. Then God left.
23. Now Abraham had been having kids all along, just not with Sarah, who already had the one, Ismael, so they'd both been around the block. Abraham had obviously been with lots of Hookers because there were lots of boys running around. He whacked every single one.
24. And at 99 years of age, he circumcised himself (which I just can't imagine!)
25. Ismael was 13, much older than the 8 days God had instructed the old man to circumcise his sons at but ...
26. Pissed off at how much it hurt, he grabs Ismael and whacks his pee pee next ... POST PUBERTY! (CAN YOU SAY "OOOOUUUUUCCCCHHHHH"?????")
27. And Abraham was like Slingblade, whacking penises one after the other. It didn't matter who they were. (While this was going on , God was nowhere around).

If you don't believe it, read it for yourself in whichever version of the Bible you like best!
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You are Great!

The eight year old boy shuffles into the kitchen wiping snot from his nose and crying. He'd been playing in the vacant lot when a fight broke out and he ended up on the wrong side of the bigger boys who knocked him to the ground and kicked him.

"What's wrong?" his mother asks, dropping the dish rag she's holding in front of the kitchen sink. Dropping to one knee, she embraces him at his level, blue eyes blazing into his wet ones.

Eventually, he explains and blames himself for being too small, not smart enough nor quick enough to outrun them.

She picks him up and sets him on the kitchen table, dirty bare feet dangling in the air. Cupping his face in her hands, staring fiercely in his eyes so he has no choice but to stare back, she says, "You are going to be great? Do you understand that? You are the greatest!"

He stops crying, sucks snot back up his nose and nods his head.

"You are going to be great," she repeats before hugging him and cleaning his face.

In the years that follow, she does it again and again. They were always alone and she grabs him setting him on the kitchen table, cups his chin with blue eyes blazing into blue eyes, "You ... are ... going to be ... great!"

After a while, he knew it to be true.

And I went on to do great things having a long career selling homelessness, AIDS, addiction and health care to those who could afford to eradicate such things. I raised millions of dollars from people and Governments who really didn't care about homeless people, people with AIDS, addicts and the uninsured. I became an award winning author, sought after speaker and renown expert.

I also learned to blow my nose without help.

Many people think I've retired and am living the good life at the beach with Sarah my wife.

It's true Sarah and I are living a good life at the beach but we're also working hard doing the things I've always done. Instead of exclusively giving hope and success to the sick and the poor, I'm now helping everyone! I write daily blogs that inspire, books that challenge, online classes transform lives and personally coach helping to meet goals and achieve dreams.

"I would have never left had it not been for you," a retired teacher says. "I'd settled for a life I didn't want with a man I didn't love. Now I'm doing what I want and loving it!"

"One month in your class," a minister writes, "was more productive than paying for years in therapy."

"Thanks for helping me become a speaker and writer," a successful musician explains. "I had to get out the bars! Now I'm playing and speaking throughout the southeast in places I really want to be."

I'm too busy to retire because right now I'm looking you in the eye ... my blue eyes on you ... affirming the things you desire ... and I have something to tell you ... "You're great! Do you understand that? You're the greatest!"
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Order your copy of my new book at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

Today

The beach is packed with people watching the sun rise.

They sit in chairs intensely focused on the horizon, wade in the surf, or hide their faces behind cameras clicking away.

Couples hold hands, laughing while strolling in the sand.

Kids build castles and chase crabs.

Teenagers profess their love by writing their names in the sand.

I'm darting through them on my bicycle, gliding beside the ocean's edge, marveling at the low line of purple clouds the sun is hiding behind.

A slight sea breeze blows my hair back and the smell of salt hangs heavy in the air.

I'm zipping pass the slow motion in a universe of my own.

At 13th Street I turn into the soft sand and the bike immediately sinks to a stop. Climbing off I push it to the crosswalk over the sand dunes and sea oats. On top I put the kick stand down and sit on the railing, letting my flip flops drop to the wooden planks.

A little girl with a bag of potato chips giggles as she throws them one by one into the air so seagulls pluck them from the sky squawking in delight.

Cargo ships are coming and going in the channel.

The sun bursts above the clouds turning them the colors of the rainbow and everyone on the beach stops to admire God's finger painting. I hear them hold their collective breaths.

A smacking sound draws my attention to the huge sand dunes and I see a couple laying together passionately kissing.

Shrugging my shoulders, I smile and jump back on my bicycle and coast down the crosswalk for the ride home.

The streets are intensely quiet. Pastel colored houses sit still. Palm trees sway slightly in the breeze. The pungent aroma of the marsh emerges overwhelming my senses.

This is the day the Lord has made and She's done a damn fine job!

I'm going to wait until Sarah wakes up then we're going to rejoice and be glad in it.
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The Phantom

"I wouldn't want to be in your shoes," Robin says as I make my way to The Breakfast Club.

White teeth flash in the predawn darkness as she stops in front of me. Shaking her head, she explains, "Georgia's going to kill you."

"Whatever," I shrug opening the door marked "Exit Only."

Taking my seat at the counter, I sip coffee peacefully until a rolled up newspaper slams on the counter. I jump and spill coffee everywhere.

"I'm going to kill you," Georgia says leaning into me.

"Pffssss," I hiss grabbing napkins. "No you won't. I made you famous."


"You busted me out," she snaps, again slapping the rolled up newspaper on the counter.

"Sit down. Let's split breakfast," and we order hash browns stuffed with broccoli, mushrooms and jack cheese.

"I don't care about that other shit," she says leaning into me again, "but you told everybody I'm the Phantom. It's a secret dammit."

Putting my arm around the large woman with leather skin, short cropped grey hair and clothes stained the colors of  the rainbow, I say, "Georgia everybody already knows you're the Phantom. I just put it in a book."

"They do not," she shoots back.

Rolling my eyes, I pick up Running with the Dolphins and sign it for her.

A book about Tybee Island, where I live and love, is impossible to write without including Georgia. Singlehandedly, she coached every kid on the island in sports, grew a Girl Scout Troup out of nothing and delivered the newspaper to every home with a Ninja precision from a car speeding down side lanes at 35 miles an hour.

The cops were scared of her.

And she was the Phantom. If anyone was sick, in need, hurting or had died, Georgia would "mysteriously" leave cards, toys, food, even medicine on the door stoop. The morning of a funeral she'd have The Breakfast Club prepare a full breakfast for the family and "secretly" take it to them.

She pretended she was tough and pissed off but hers was a heart of pure gold. Mother Teresa on steroids. An Angel with an attitude.

Sadly she died this week.

It's with joy there's a new story about her. Writing about the island a decade later, she's still too much part of the place, I had to include Georgia in Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts.

The last time I saw her, Robin again cornered me at The Breakfast Club asking I visit her mother. I drive to St. Joseph's Hospital, find her room, open the door and Georgia screams"WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

"I understand you're dying," I answer strolling to her bed.

"BULLSHIT!" she screams.

It's just very hard to not love her.

That's the beginning of the story and it pleases me Georgia has another testimony to her incredible legacy.

A celebration of her life will take place on the ball field where she taught so many kids so many things. Though I'm certain I'll cry like a baby, I'm proud to officiate.

I love you Georgia.

Now you're really the Phantom that you always wanted to be.

Kick some Holy ass like I know you will.
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You can purchase a copy of "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts" at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/ 

Changing Corners of the World

Strolling inside "The Mansion on Forsyth Park" the Maitre d spies suspiciously, her head moving in slow motion from the top of my long shoulder length hair all the way down to the Bob Marley flip flops Sarah bought me.

"Well hello," I announce confidently in my preacher's voice, an octave below my normal level. Smiling I confidently walk through the elegance to her.

"Lunch for two please. We'd like to sit outside on the private porch. And I have to pee. Where's the restroom?"

Startled, she gives me directions down the hall, grabs menus and crosses out a drawing of the table on the private portico.

Returning to the lobby my lunch mate blows in wearing a red Economist tee-shirt, dark blue shorts and flip flops. We embrace and are immediately led outside to the private dining balcony overlooking Savannah's largest square. After ordering drinks Chris instructs the waitress to give us half-an-hour before we order. She shuts the door and conversation erupts.

It's been four years since we've seen one another.

We were different people then, committed to changing a city, making it a shining light upon a hill. He made The Creative Coast while I cleaned the streets of social problems. We were both successful.

We'd see each other at crowded cocktail parties, formal banquets and Chamber of Commerce events. I hosted him for lunch once at The Starfish Café, a working restaurant and culinary arts training program for homeless people. We enjoyed each other but rarely had opportunities to grow a friendship. Admiration was from a distance.

Then, pretty simultaneously, we both left.

He moved across the world to Estonia, between Sweden and Finland, and I sailed across the Bull River Bridge to Tybee Island where everyday I travel the world while sitting on a Beloved Back Deck.

We kept up with each other and Chris still spends part of the year in Savannah. He's pretty persistent when he wants something and kept after me until I crossed the bridge again to catch up in person.

We spend three hours talking like the friends we always could have been.

We discuss the city we both love and gave so much to make better. Savannah took everything we had until so little was left, we moved on. It reverted to what it's always been, a city that loves its history and will keep you stuck in the past.

We mostly talked about now, changing other corners of the world, and new possibilities. He's ready to get back to Europe and I'm Jonesing for my island in the sea. We vow to remain connected.

"Hey," he says as we conclude, "one of my partners will be in town and I want to take him to Doc's Bar on Tybee. You want to join us for beers?"

"Yeah," I quickly answer ... because parts of the world really don't need changing.

Driving through the marsh with the top down, the sun blazing in a cloudless blue sky, radio blasting Bon Jovi screaming "Who says you can't go back?" make me smile.

"Who wants to?" I say out loud.

And I drive straight to the future.
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Enjoy ... or not.

We were one stressed out lot of students and we must have looked it. Dr. Davis had taken her position at the lectern launching into her lesson when she suddenly stops and stares. Of course we stare back uncertain of what's happening ... or we're collectively sleepwalking through her class ... it could have been either.

"You all look tired," she says. "It has been a grueling semester."

It was the beginning of spring and after a long, cold, dreary winter, the sun's shinning outside. It's still freezing but the sun's reminding us that the tired cold will eventually go away.

"I tell you what," the short, plumb, brilliant professor says, slamming her hand on the podium flashing an evil grin, "to hell with it today."

She immediately got our attention because it isn't something you often hear in Seminary.

"I want you to leave here now and go find something that makes you happy. Do whatever it is the rest of the day. You can tell me about it tomorrow."

And she throws her notes in her briefcase, shoots the "Professor" stare, and walks out of the room.

"Holy Shit!" we collectively say in a prayerful, Christian sort of way.

And we leave.

The following afternoon, Dr. Davis again takes her position behind the lectern. Smiling, she begins, "I truly hope everyone had a fantastic day yesterday. I prayed for you too. Now today, I want to hear all about it. Everyone is going to share what you did."

Looking at the first student in the first row to her right (Baptists don't do left), she says, "Jimmy you start."

Startled, Jimmy sits bolt upright in his seat. Tall, thin, with a helmet haircut, he looks lost in his flannel shirt. In a deep southern drawl (he helped put the "southern" in Southern Baptists), he reports, "Well mam ... the truth of the matter is ... ummm ... I drank hot apple cider, ate peanut butter crackers and ... ummm... watched "Rocky and Bullwinkle."

I've never seen a distinguished Professor lose it so quickly and laugh so hard.

The room is a spontaneously combustion of laughter.

"Love it!" Dr. Davis said. "I watched Andy and Barney."

The room howls.

One by one we confess. Some went to work, the Library or launched into catching up. Others took walks, naps or the chance to be with their baby. A few prayed in the Chapel. A couple of students had no idea what to do with unstructured time so they did nothing.

I drank beer listening to the new Jimmy Buffett album.

"Of course you did," Dr. Davis sighs.

It was one the most impressionable things that occurred during my Seminary career.

Ann Davis dispensed grace which is always unexpected and shocking.

"It's OK," is how it comes across. "You can go ... you're free ... liberated ... forgiven ...released ... in fact, go do anything you want ... and try to not screw it up."

All these years later, I end conversations by saying, "Enjoy!"

Because we just have this one life and we either will or we won't.

Today ... I hope you enjoy!

That's what I'm going to do.
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You're Rich too!

"I'm so broke," he says with a smile taking the seat across from me.

"I've got to pay the rent," he continues waving a white envelope in the air. "I'm only $100 shy."

His landlord strolls to the outside table where we're sitting. She's elderly with wild white hair and hugs me and then him.

Handing her the envelope he explains, "I still owe you $100 from last month and I'm a $100 shy for this month too but I'll make it up when I get well."

Flashing a Cheshire smile she nods, "It's OK. How're you feeling?"

He smiles and holds up his cane. "Better everyday."

She nods and looks at me. "How's your mother?"

A thousand years ago they'd worked together.

"She's great," I reply. "I was with her over the weekend."

"Good, you tell her I said hello," as she turns back to him, "and you take care of yourself."

She leaves us alone sitting at the plastic table under an umbrella with a book and my papers spread over it. A basket of shrimp arrives and I offer him some but he declines saying he has to leave.

Standing, he smiles as we embrace and he hobbles away.

I sigh as I sit back down.

"Blessed are the poor for everything God has will be yours," Jesus said and it makes me wonder.

No longer hungry, I push the basket away and take a sip of wine. The sun rains warmth down on me as I stick my bare feet in a chair looking at the deep blue sky. An ocean breeze blows cool from the north as I take my sunglasses off and rub my eyes trying not to think with my head but with my heart.

A couple enters the patio ordering Bloody Mary's and steamed oysters. Sad country music plays from speakers suspended overhead. The bartender sticks his head out and gives me a thumbs up and I nod to let him know I'm fine.

"Blessed are the poor ... MY ASS!" erupts from my heart. "Poor sucks!"

A flock of seagulls squawk circling overhead admiring the shrimp basket. The couple slurp oysters. All is calm. All is bright.

Then my head kicks in responding to my heart. "Blessed are the kind ... because they find kindness" and it makes me wonder about Karma.

A beer commercial comes on the television suspended overhead. The sound is turned off but I watch the "most interesting man in the world" do fabulous things before topping it off with a Dos Equis beer. I stare at it.

I know what it's like to be broke. I've been poor and been surrounded by others poorer than me. I've witnessed incredible acts of kindness and horrible indifference ... often by the most righteous of people. I've been abandoned and been found again too so I pause, tap my chest and blow a kiss to Sarah whose spending the day off island. I ponder these things and take another sip of wine.

A seagull flies down and steals a shrimp.

Grabbing my I-phone I update my status. "Sometimes God kidnaps your day. Like today. You know that Beer commercial with the most interesting man in the world. That's bullshit! It's me."

The bartender changes the radio station and "The Beatles" preach "Baby you're a rich man too."

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Interested in being a better writer? You can beginning in November through personal coaching. Check it out at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/writingworkshop/