A Birthday Blessing

It's my son's birthday.

He's 36 which throws me for a bit of a loop because there's no way I'm old enough to have a son that old but ... I do.

He's had quite a year ... full of transitions, tragedy, accomplishments, frustrations and surprises but seems to have landed in a pretty sweet spot.

He was the recipient of a divorce, lost his best friend in a tragic accident, moved from his dream apartment to student housing, won scholarships, is perilously close to graduating with his Ph.D. and was surprised to find love.

That's a lot in a year.

Jeremy handled them with a grace and determination that leaves me proud though most likely view him as unconventional.

Three things left a big impression on me.

For a man who hasn't made his mind up on God he maintained a devote grace Priests and Preachers would kill for ... never turning to anger or hate but instead accepting and relying on those who love him ... which is one of the hardest things to do in life.

When his best friend Matthew Wilkerson was tragically killed driving home from work ... Jeremy exploded in grief and then pulled it all together to do the things Matt would have needed and wanted ... focusing on Jen and the kids ... helping with all of the details death brings ... and then delivering a eulogy Priests and Preachers would kill for ... and I know drew love and laughter from Matt.

And when Terenca showed up from the past in the wake of Matt's death, Jeremy embracing love, two little girls and making plans for a whole new life.

This year Jeremy will graduate from the University of Georgia, already his alma mater, and I'm looking forward to watching whatever that means.

Sarah's much bigger on birthday celebrations than I am ... to me it's just another day ... but I try to listen to her and understand what a blessing my son is to the world ... just like her little blessings ... so I'm  mustering up all of my clerical best to wish you Happy Birthday Son.

You are loved beyond description.

Terenca and the rest of us will let you know that.

I love you.

Lots of people do.

Why do good people do bad things?

"It isn't my fault," she pleads.

Standing in the rental house from which she's being evicted, she cries and mascara runs down a pasty white face.

It's not her rental house ... she was just staying there with her boyfriend who'd signed the lease but they didn't get along so he left ... and she stayed.

In frustration, anger and tunnel vision focus only on herself ... she trashed the place.

There's no way she's going to be out by the deadline ... forcing the owner whose already losing money with every second she remains in the house to make an ethical/moral/religious decision on the spot.

Call the Police and confiscate her belongings (all scattered on the floor ... including the pictures of her two small children) or ... give her one more day?

And it's raining.

The owner has done nothing wrong yet feels God's punishing her for past sins.

Most blame belongs to the boyfriend who signed the lease, realized he's in a shitty relationship and ... rather than deal with it ... flees. (I don't know why the story of the Prodigal Son flashes through my head at this point.)

Wearing running shorts that don't cover her ass, dirty hair piled on top of her head, standing over the photographs of her children on the floor ... she cries explaining the boyfriend said he'd paid the rent and she has time to figure out what to do ... and where to go.

"It isn't my fault," she sobs ... using the only weapon she has left ... manipulation.

"This is my kids stuff."

The air is sucked out of the room.

Sitting on the banister of the staircase, bare feet dangling in the air, Styrofoam cup in hand, staring at the trashed house ... I watch and listen ... and think.

Why do good people do bad things?

I don't know how good they are ... most are better than others ... some seem Angelic ... but whatever amount of good is in this mother of two ... and her relocated boyfriend ... has crashed on the shoulders of the owner of the house like a heavy cross ... with Roman shoulders slashing with whips ... in front of a snarling crowd.

It just ain't right," as Grandma Carver used to say.

Why do people ... regardless of how much good they have in them ... do bad things?

Why do tornadoes swoop down blowing up homes and killing people? ... How do tsunamis roll out the sea flooding homes and drowning families? ...  Lighting strikes from nowhere killing a father watching the sun set as his family plays in the sand ...

Can it be that bad things are simply part of the way life is?

Let's be honest ... we all got bad in our lives ... some more than others ... and bad always arrives at the worst possible time.

But ... it is what it is ... as my Mother says.

What do you do when it comes?

That's the real question.

What do you do?

Snorting Holy Water

I had a friend who snorted BC Headache Powder.

"What in the Hell are you doing?" I demand the first time I witness him empty the wax paper onto the desk, straighten the white powder into a thin line, roll up a dollar bill and snort it up his nose.

"I think you're suppose to swallow the stuff," I offer.

"Why?" he asks wiping his nose with his sleeve, "I don't have a stomach ache."

I don't know how to respond.

"I got a headache," he continues. "This is the fastest way to get rid of it."

I found it hard to not love Rodger Pack.

It made such an impression I included the whole scene in my book "Tour of Homes" though, honestly, I haven't thought about it in years.

Until last night.

Sarah's oldest, Maddie's been on a four week trip with her grandmother, the Virgin Mary.

The Virgin Mary is a very devote, opinionated and dictatorial Catholic and as she and her husband drove Maddie across the country they stopped for Church a lot.

The Virgin Mary and her husband prayed and genuflected while 12 year old Maddie checked out the boys.

Anyway ... Maddie returned home last night bearing presents for Sarah, her sisters and me!

I got a bottle of Holy Water.

A white cap carved into a rose adorns the top of a glass vial with an elaborate metal engraving of Jesus touching his scared heart and a Celtic Cross behind his head.

For some reason ... the number "69" is on the bottom.

"Is this from you or the Virgin Mary?" I ask as she laughs when handing it to me though it quickly turns to horror when I unscrew the top and take swig.

"Oh My God," Maddie exclaims covering her mouth as her sisters burst out laughing.

"What?" I ask before taking a snort up both nostrils, "I want to be filled with Jesus."

"I'm going to tell my Grandmother," Maddie threatens.

"Go for it," I reply.

Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, asks, "Can I have some?"

"No precious child," I explain, "this is all mine."

Laurel, the 10 year old and by far the most religious of the girls, tells us she's going to her room.

"It's only eight o'clock," Sarah says. "It's too early to go to bed."

"I'm not going to bed," Laurel explains walking down the stair. "I'm going to pray for Mike."

"Aw thanks Laurel," I beam. "That can only help."

Our Journey Begins

"The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet."

That's what Lao Tzu said, though we've changed it to the journey beginning with a the first step.

There are two different meanings.

Taking the first step of a journey involves will power, determination, action, putting one foot in front of another and moving towards ... or away ... from something ... or someone.

A journey getting started under one's feet means action arises from stillness ... it's contemplation ... praying ... wondering ... coming to terms with what's next.

I understand why the sayings been changed ... we find it hard to sit still.

It's better to take control ... be in charge ... ask for forgiveness rather than permission ... kick ass and take names!

It's harder to wait ... be quiet ... listen ... feel what's right ... be grounded ... imagine what's coming before it happens ... know what's next.

Some days I just don't know how to start.

Getting up, I stumble to the outdoor shower, baptize myself as the sun begins to bubble from the sea and begin to come to life.

With more vigor I walk up the stairs, kiss my sleeping wife, dress, throw the dogs a treat and head for coffee with friends.

Half-an-hour later I'm home, sitting on the Beloved Back Deck, ready to start.

Some days, it's easy ... like the other night my Guardian Angel came in a dream to show me how "Purple Jesus" is made.

Other days ... I have no idea.

I sit and wait.

Then something happens ... a saying I haven't thought of in years pops into my head ... it strikes me as apropos to where Sarah and I are in life so I look it up and ... it's exactly the right thing to think about at exactly the right time.

The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet.

It's our quiet time as ... we wait ... we're silent ... we're listening ... we're feeling for what's right ... grounding ourselves in one another ... imagining together ... coming to know what's next ... falling deeper in love.

Soon we'll be taking control ... in charge of whatever it is ... needing nobody's permission ... kicking some royal ass and ticking off their names.

But it's not that time yet.

It's still the marvelous moments when the ground shakes beneath our feet ... quivering with anticipation ... the same Holy ground Moses stood upon before the Journey to the Promised Land.
_____________________________

To signify the coming Promised Land, a prophet visited our house the other day. Jonah affirms we're doing the right things at the right time. That's him standing between us.

Post Biirthday Blues

Staring at all of the birthday wishes on my computer screen ... I'm incredibly thankful.

Sarah got an early jump posting a sweet love note to me on Facebook and a slew of friends jumped on it with their own birthday wishes.

Other friends took time to send wishes and comments on my Facebook page and it was great to hear from many I haven't talked with in a long time.

There were several messages on LinkedIn and my friend Rick Smith actually send on an old fashion e-mail.

Going completely over the top, Sarah also presented me with an actual birthday card with a message SHE HAD WRITTEN with a pen!

Judy O burst into The Breakfast Club and gave me a birthday hug which led the team that works there to scream "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" repeatedly at the top of their lungs.

Sarah gave me more than a hug later in the morning.

Each of my kids called and we shared great conversations.

Two of Sarah's girls called to sing me "Happy Birthday" and the other messaged a bunch of happy faces then quickly moved on to lobbying me to take them to Florida.

I worked part of the day ... meaning I looked for work because things are slow right now.

We have renters who relocated to another state without telling us and that cannibalized part of my special day.

I did get a birthday nap, snuggled beside Sarah, which is a wonderful gift.

We went out for dinner and afterwards sat in "our" swing on the beach but it was too windy so we left to listen to Sam Adams play damn good live music on the island.

As soon as we entered, God told Sam to stop playing in the middle of a song to hug us and talk for a while which was nice and we enjoyed each other as friends do, though God told Sam to tell me it's time for me do something in Bar Church again.

Back home again, Sarah and I watched a movie while birthday wishes buzzed on my phone then it was time for bed.

Now I've reread each and every wish, watched the cute videos people linked, listened to the voice mails, replied to the personal messages while touching the card Sarah gave me.

I find myself with the post Birthday blues.

It's not centered on being older ... I'm a kid at heart!

And it's not that I lack in much, because I don't, though I fret about how to keep it all.

But there's a restlessness ... a boredom that's crept inside ... that's leaving me melancholy on a lovely sun drenched morning kissed with a delightful ocean breeze.

It happens after most birthdays ... and with some regularity throughout the year ... a question haunts ... the fire in my belly burns ... in spite of everything I've done and I've done a lot ... the only thing matters is what's next?

Thank you everyone.

My Birthday Wish

The scratching of finger nails on glass wakes me from a wonderful slumber with my body completely intertwined with my wife.

"Hell," I mutter, disentangling myself from Sarah without waking her.

Stumbling through the living room to the kitchen, Goddess' tail wags and I sigh loudly.

Spying through the sliding glass doors into a dark night because the moon's already set, I see her glow ... red cigarette tip, smoky halo, dirty white robe almost sliding off her shoulder and exposing her right breast, oily black hair ... it's my Guardian Angel.

I haven't seen her in months.

Assuming Jimmy Cochran was keeping her busy, I'd been careful to not ask God for anything lest she show up ... but here she is.

Opening the doors, she stands to greet me ... something she never does ... and sure enough her robe slips further and her right breast pops out.

"Hey Birthday Boy," she says with a grin.

"Aren't you going to cover that?" I ask taking a seat at the table on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Why should I?" she snaps. "You're naked!"

"Whatevs," I sigh glazing at a billion stars overhead.

"I'm just here to wish you a Happy Birthday," she grins and two Styrofoam cups magically appear out of nowhere.

"Wait a minute," I say leaning forward. "Where's your tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon and bourbon chaser?"

"It's your birthday stupid," she snaps. "We're having a birthday toast."

"Oh," I reply with uncertainty ... because she's never this nice.

She slides one of the cups toward me.

"Hey!" I exclaim. "Just where in the Hell have you been."

"Upstate New York," she says.

"What for?" I begin but she angrily cuts me off.

"Listen you stupid ass, I'm here for your frigging birthday! Shut up and let me talk."

I remain nakedly quiet.

"To you on your birthday," she smiles holding up a Styrofoam cup with her right breast still exposed.

Taking a sip of the drink, I almost throw up while swallowing it.

"What the Hell is this?" I cough and choke.

"Purple Jesus," she answers.

"Seriously?" I ask, examining the liquid in the dark cup.

"Yeah," she explains, "we have to wring out the white cloth Catholic Priests use to clean out the chalice and save all of the leftover grapefruit juice Baptists and Methodists use ... because that's the Body of Christ. We mix it together and ... WA-LA ... Purple Jesus!"

"That's disgusting," I snort.

"Well, God started recycling way before anybody else ever thought of it."

I can't think of anything to say.

"Happy Birthday," she says fading away. "I got more important shit to do."

"Hmmm," I sigh still holding onto the empty Styrofoam cup. "Thank you Lord for thinking about me," I say out loud.

Turning towards the sliding glass door, I suddenly stop and look towards the billon blazing stars in the dark sky.

"Hey God! When I get up, I'm going to write down the things I want for my birthday. It's not a lot! A winning Lottery Ticket ... that's all!"

It thunders in the distance.

"Thank you Lord," I say returning to the wonderfulness of my sleeping wife.

A burst of life!

"Aren't you going to have breakfast Hun?" the older woman in the white shirt with the "Fairfield Inn and Suites" logo asks as I sip coffee from a Styrofoam cup staring intensely at my Netbook.

"Jaynce" is printed on her nametag.

"No," I reply smiling at her smile, "I'm waiting on my wife and the girls."

"Awe, that's sweet," she says floating to the next table of overnight stayers asking, "Are you enjoying your breakfast?"

It's hotel food ... pans of scrambled eggs, pork sausage, gravy and biscuits, tiny pastries, boiled eggs and a self-service waffle maker.

I've been at a thousand of them, and you probably have too, but Jaynce made this one feel like my grandmother is hovering over making certain everyone's happy, pleased and full.

She magically transforms a bland, pseudo-meal into a breakfast and almost pulls of making a room full of strangers a ... family.

Darting around speaking to everyone, she refills the coffee urns, restocks the pastries and cleans up the spills from the waffle make ... all the while dripping delightfulness.

"She's so nice," I think to myself, "in all my travels I've never seen a server at a hotel work such magic."

She's older ... has a husband she mentions ... my guess is they retired to Florida and the money ran out and she takes "Speed" to dart around like this.

"No, I got it baby," she tells her supervisor who's come to check on the woefully overcrowded room.

Ignoring my Netbook, I'm completely mesmerized.

Shifting my attention to my fellow overnight stayers, they look like sleepy hotel guests sipping coffee, eating pastries and making a mess at the waffle station ... EXCEPT ... when Jaynce asks them if they're enjoying themselves ... what they're doing today ... and if they need anything?

Suddenly bursting into life ... they're all smiles, full of vigor and ready to tell their story.

It's almost like church.

I wonder why more aren't like her?

She truly seems to be enjoying the moment.

No doubt her feet will hurt when she gets home to her husband and she'll be tired of talking.

I image them fixing drinks and sitting there until they're ready to talk about the day they had, the money made, the crazy or wonderful things that happened or look for other jobs.

I am inspired by her and will lobby that Fairfield Inn and Suites give her a huge ass raise.

The hotel was nice.

She was incredible.

An Unexpected stop

The only speed limit sign … 25 Kilometers/hour … is in Cockburn Town, the only population of any size on San Salvador … which isn’t saying a lot.

Less than 1000 people call the 13 mile long island home but we see less than a hundred in the capital.

Laurel, Sarah’s 10 year old and I stroll into the island liquor store that also serves as the town bar.

It’s her first time in a liquor store and she’s excited … until she hears the loud music, the roars of laughter, the clacking of Domino's hitting the table and cheers for soccer on the television.

Suddenly suspicious Laurel hangs near my leg as I buy bottles of wine then she breaths sighs of relief when we tip toe passed the men drinking on the sidewalk and crawl inside our rusty rental car.

The road back to Sandy Point and our tiny house is lined with pristine beaches, brownish green scrub brush, a large white cross where Christopher Columbus allegedly made land fall in the Americas and sprinkled lightly with houses.

A man limps down the little road with his thumb stuck out.

“Let’s give him a ride,” I say slowing down.

“NO, NO, NO,” Laurel begs with wide horrified blue eyes. “HE COULD HAVE A KNIFE. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE!”

“Hey man,” I say opening the back door.

“Hey Mon,” the lanky black man grimaces, “my name is Willie. I hurt my leg today.”

Long bony fingers on a paper thin hand shakes mine as I tell him my name.

“This is Laurel,” I say.

Willie shakes her hand.

I stifle a giggle when she stares at her tiny now defiled white hand before giving total concentration to the book in her lap.

“How’d you hurt your leg?” I ask.

“I fell.”

“Well,” I reply not knowing how to reply.

Willie stares out the window at the scrub brush while Laurel continues to stare at her book and I drive down the tiny road at 50 Kilometers per hour.

“Can you pick up any radio stations on the island?” I ask.

Willie shrugs saying, “Maybe AM.”

                                                                                      

We speed along passing no one for 5 or 6 miles before he sits up exclaiming we’re at his road.

Laurel breathes sighs of relief as Willie limps out into the bright sunshine.

“Let’s go find someone else to give a ride to,” I smile.

“Take me to my Mommy,” she frowns.

After a few off the road explorations we return to the tiny little house and Laurel tells Sarah what I did.

I listen with a smile but reflect on how biased we are to not be nice to others. Fearful we'll be taken advantage of,  we protect ourselves first and those we love. Besides we've helped others only to be burned with ingratitude, forgetfulness or theft. 

We become very literally with Jesus' words, "What you do for the least of these my brothers and sisters ..." is really restricted to our blood kin ... except for the ones we have little use for.

These things have certainly happened to me and I have scars to prove it but ... somehow I still believe it's better to be nice, occasionally stopping whatever it is I'm doing and give a stranger a ride.

Spending Faith

In many ways I've been sliding into this for a long time.

Sarah laughs at me, charging I have too much need to remain connected because of all those years when I was the center of a universe. Everyone wanted me then so I was always on the phone, responding to text and email ... even when I wasn't working.

Once in St. Martin my friend Conner saw this, shook his head as he strolled over, ripped the phone from my hand and stuck it in the freezer then handed me a beer and led me to the beach.

These days I'm no longer needed as much and have spent years now exploring the Monk within me.

Old habits die hard though and Sarah's right that I'm quick to check on things when there's nothing to check on anymore.

Sitting in San Salvador, Bahamas I really have to give it my all to get the connections to work at all.

The Internet is virtually non-existent and when the stars are aligned, I can only "connect" for a few minutes which makes it pretty damn frustrating so ... I give up.

I still have the love of standing on this deserted beach, watching the magic of crystal clear water dance in the sun, feel the ocean breeze kiss my body and dig my toes deeper in the sand.

There's no better way to spend a day.

Add a cool drink, an I-pod of good music and a best friend of a wife with a really hot body and ... well ... that's Paradise.

It's such a shame I ate of the tree of knowledge all those years ago.

The truth is I love the life I'm living right now but figuring out the continued financing is quite challenging which makes me ... antsy.

I'm not the only one in this boat as I know many who've reached a place they love only to fret how to maintain it.

Worse are others who know what they love but don't believe they're capable of sustaining it so they don't try ... working and waiting until the right time which never seems to arrive.

I'll tell you something though.

The only bread you can buy on San Salvador is baked by a lady who sells it from her home and at the local Grocery Store.

It's fresh daily and we have to slice it ourselves.

No additional nutrients or bleaches are added.

It's just freshly baked bread.

While Sarah and her girls are sleeping ... I'm having communion.

Choirs of birds sing. Palm Trees with coconuts dance in the breeze. The blue and teal ocean beacons me for baptism. Orange and black crabs dart around like anxious Alter Boys. I taste the Holy Host and pray that I'm not too antsy to enjoy the gift of today ... in this place ... with those I love ... because that's really all I've got anyway.

Financing's always a bitch anyway, regardless of what bankers say.

What it boils down to is how I ... and you ... spend our faith.

Routine Paradise

The days have no names here.

The sun slowly rises and dances with bluish clouds in a deep blue sky before magnificently easing itself into the sea.

The routine is to rise whenever we wish, sip coffee or juice, eat a little breakfast and stroll to our deserted beach for the day.

We were joined by five sharks yesterday ... each four feet or longer ... gliding through the pristine water just out of arms reach.

There's also a large Stingray we hovered above while snorkeling.

And an old dog walks the beach every afternoon and plays with Sarah's girls.

We're not lonely on our deserted beach.

Returning to our tiny house we prepare lunch and dinner and after the sun sets we play vigorous games of Spades until bedtime.

We've broken the routine twice, climbing into our rusty rental car to circle San Salvador learning just how few people call this island home.

Stopping at the Lighthouse built in 1866, we climbed the 76 stairs to the top and surveyed 19 miles of sea and sky. Still running on kerosene, a dusty 40 watt bulb sits between the glass prisms which made us laugh.

We've also made runs to the Grocery store replenished on Sunday only to have sold out of anything fresh by Monday morning. It was the first time in 3 weeks the Food Boat delivered so everyone was out of most everything.

The meats are frozen and unmarked so I study to tell the difference between ice covered steaks and ham.

There is an ATM on San Salvador which I used a couple of days ago. Yesterday a nice woman strolled into our tiny house to return my bank card which I'd inadvertently left in the machine. There's no crime here and the one police officer drives around the island twice daily to make certain of it.

There are two resorts on the island. One's a divers paradise that looks like a run down Motel 6 with an incredible ocean view and the other is a tiny Club Med with guests mostly from France.

We had lunch at Riding Rock Resort, the divers resort, and was waited on by Angela, a lovely Baptist Minister, seamstress, waitress, event planner and bookkeeper. It seems employment is very diversified on the island.

Today we're heading to the Club Med to hang around the French.

The coffee's gone and it's time for my morning naked swim then I'll fix breakfast for Sarah and the girls before we do it all again.

Our Deserted Beach

We're on a deserted beach which is pretty nice.

Five houses line the bluff overlooking the beach but only one has someone in it and he's pretty reclusive.

So the morning is to get up, stumble across the dead coral that makes up the bluff and across the powder white sand to the blue teal water and fall face forward to wake up.

It's a wonderful way to start the day. 

Returning to the house we're in, the coffee's made and I pour myself the first of several cups and stare at the deserted beach until my thoughts are collected in some order.

Turning on the computer, I check to see if I can connect with the world which is a crap shoot.

Yesterday the breeze blew from the west knocking out the Internet but today it's blowing from the same direction so everything's working. We'll see for how long.

The girls are blissfully asleep after vicious games of Spades last night.

There's no television but we have music from my I-Pod or the hum of the ceiling fans.

It's a big day because the Food Boat came yesterday so, along with everyone else on the island, we're going to the grocery store.

We'll take the one road full of pot holes which  is a perfect circle and drive around the island, stopping at the white cross marking where Columbus first set foot in the "New World."

There's not much "New" about it but God it's beautiful!

I'm done drinking coffee and the Internet is starting to act up so I'm taking this has a sign to head back down to the deserted beach where the girls will find me whenever they wake.

Have a great day everyone!

Nassau

Having taken my sweet time to evaluate this thoroughly before I say anything out loud ... I am now ready to publicly pronounce that Nassau, Bahamas sucks.

Sure, Sarah and I had a wonderful afternoon once fleeing the Atlantis Resort in a cab driven by a crazy guy trying to sell us weed while picking up girls on the sidewalk and introducing us by saying, "No they be cool Mon. They be like

us."

And the girl got in!

There are four cruise ships today and the Government here has butchered the downtown area.

The Straw Market has been replaced by a large garage with vendors who grab you be the throat.

Storefronts are exact replicas of those on Grand Cayman, Jamaica, Half Moon Cay and St. Martin, all resemble outdoor shopping malls with the lone redeemable attraction of publicly drinking.

Now Nassau has ripped down buildings to build an exact replica of the welcome areas in ... Grand Cayman, Jamaica, Half Moon Cay, St. Martin and Disney World.

The uniqueness of a grand place is no more.

The El Grekco motel is a tiny sliver of the way things used to be and Sarah and her girls are loving it!

Across the street from Junkaroo Beach, a nice but overpriced escape from cruise ships, the hotel remains as it was.

"Hello Sarah," she says as we wander in for the first time in our lives.

What's not to like ... though the towels are thread bare, there's no restaurant or bar, and if  you want ice you have to go to the front desk so they can get it for you to cart back to your room.

BUT ... the place is old time elegance.

The pool is 8 feet deep surrounded by a Spanish tile patio and only 40 rooms.

Somehow Sarah got us in the "Presidential Sweet" which overlooks the pool with a terrific balcony, a large room with two beds and a bathtub with stuff on the bottom none of us can identify.

A pack of Christians in matching orange shirts are also here to save someone from something though the chaperons seem to be going through the motions while the kids apparently text God's love without ceasing.

We celebrate the time here by feasting on a last meal of overpriced American food before leaving for San Salvador where the choices are mostly conch and fish, although Sarah learned of a roadside hamburger shack.

I talk to my kids one last time and call my Mom to say I love them, something I believe you can never do enough in life.

I take one last look at the crazy things going on at home where I apparently made news without even trying.

I look over my shoulder for a brief moment at all the things that got me to this point in my life, leaving me here in Nassau with a thirst for something more and a passion for life that's not done yet.

I stare through the window at the girls, already in bed, and Sarah gives me a wink and a tired smile.

"Alright God," I say to the warm Bahamian night, "thanks for getting us here. Take care of everybody back home. Let's get this party started and see where you're taking me next."

Amen.

Better Things

"There you go again," Ronald Reagan used to say when he disagreed with whatever Jimmy Carter claimed.

As my wife will quickly point out, I am not much of a literalist, rarely taking anything at face value and finding multiple meanings everywhere.

While things are either black or white, truth is mostly found in the middle where it's always grey.

Reagan knew part of the truth but so did Carter and it's a shame they never co-Presidented.

The United States would likely be in much better shape!

Today though I'm taking Reagan literally ... "There I go again."

Sarah and I are taking her youngest kids to the Bahamas primarily so I can cross something off my bucket list.

My wife loves me a lot because there is absolutely nothing to do on San Salvador, an island of less than 1000 people, two hotels, a tiny grocery stores and a food boat that restocks the island every 10 days.

We're stepping back in time 50 years to the way island life used to be.

We have a house on a beach with no television, Internet or telephone. We'll have a car to navigate the one road on the island. A suitcase of food will get us by until the food boat arrives or after its gone. I-Pods will offer music variety and Sarah has another suitcase full of books.

There is Internet access on the island but only in certain places and it's spotty at best. I'll be writing daily but who knows when I'll be able to share with anyone.

For years I've heard people talk about Key West the way it used to be and now even Tybee Island before it was ruined by too much Government, a paramilitary police force and money wasted on Waste Management.

For a little while anyway, I want to escape the ridiculous madness of politics, the shallow excuse for news reported nightly by "personalities", religion that's at war with itself, policies set by corporate greed and the stuff that passes for music these days.

We're looking for better things.

San Salvador is the spot where Christopher Columbus first set foot in America as he discovered the new world.

We're looking to discover all sorts of things too ... about an island ... but mostly about ourselves.

Manyana ... maybe.

If I were President

So much is happening in the world today that it's hard to keep up so I've fallen behind in sharing my opinions on current events.

Not that anyone asks me for my opinion.

I used to get asked my opinion all of the time but not so much these days.

My favorite is when I was speaking at Christ Church in historic downtown Savannah, Georgia.

Savannah's Christ Church is what would have happened if Jesus had gone to Peyton Place ... ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE!

But those crazy Episcopalians know how to throw a schism!

Anyway I gave a speech and it must have been good because during the Q and A (that's questions and answers for the non-doctrinated ... though Unitarians have mastered all the questions but none of the answers while Southern Baptist have all the answers with no clue of the questions) ... people asked my opinion of things.

"If you were President, what would you do first?" the beautiful and gentile Mrs. Sprague asked.

I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

When I finally stopped she stood in front of the congregation expecting an answer.

I can't recall if I was being paid for this speech as a "Professional Christian" or if I was actually being a Christian in my spare time but ... I felt obligated to answer.

"Well," I cleverly began remembering Clarence Jordan, "if I was President ..."

Mrs. Sprague and the entire congregation burst into uncontrollable laughter at such a prospect.

When they finally stopped I continued.

"If I was President I would reinstate a mandatory draft ... EXCEPT we'd only draft people 62 or older. That way we'll wipe out all Social Security/Medicaid/Medicare expenses because they'll be in the Military. The budget will immediately be balanced and nursing homes will go out of business."

Mrs. Sprague and the congregation seemed confused but were pondering what I'd said.

"It gets better," I said sounding like every other President shoveling promises down throats, "all these AARP heroes aren't going to carry packs or guns making it difficult to engage in war. I believe we've had enough wars in America!"

Some members of the congregation clapped while others prayed for deliverance though one veteran stood and demanding to know how we'd protect the country against our enemies.

"We'll send our troops over to show the enemy pictures of their grandchildren! Who doesn't love grandchildren? The enemy will pull out their own photographs and before you know they're all planning some reunion."

The congregation applauded ... well except for the ones leaving in a hurry.

"Now isn't that the kind of war we want to fight in America?"

That was the last time I've been to Christ Church to speak.

But they've been busy at war with themselves ever since.

Cinnamon Rolls are like Life

I never thought I'd be baking Cinnamon Rolls again but here I am staring at the Pillsbury Doe Boy who's smiling at me.

I hate the little bastard!

When I opened the can, tearing off the little silver piece, only the tinniest sliver of wrapping comes off leaving no way for the can to POP open.

Sarah and the kids are still sleeping so I can't beat the Hell out of it on the counter top.

Pillsbury and its frigging little Doe Boy makes me cuss.

Taking a butcher knife I stab the cute little SOB and cut the can.

POP ... doe magically appears from the wound.

Shards of Pillsbury Doe Boy and his defective can fall to the floor ... which makes me smile.

In spite of the false promises of Pillsbury marketing of easy open cans, I bake five Cinnamon Rolls, slather them with icing and watch Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, eat the tops.

"Why aren't you eating  the bottoms?"

"They're burnt," she tells me.

"When did golden brown become burnt?"

She shrugs her shoulders leaving the bottom of five Cinnamon Rolls on her plate.

Leaving her to finish the chocolate milk, I stroll outside to the Beloved Back Deck realizing how much cooking Cinnamon Rolls is like life.

Everything seems perfect when we start, largely because we believe all the false promises that everything is perfect.

In actuality most everything is defective ... you, me, the world and the way things really work.

Discovering this makes us angry forcing us to lash out at the beliefs in perfection and the false Prophets who sold us such crock.

In spite of this we somehow figure out a way to make it work.

Even when we pull things off ... even miraculously! ... not everyone is pleased.

That's Life!

I may as well accept it.

Damn little Pillsbury Doe Boy!  

A Question of Faith

You know those stories of someone who finally retires only to die?

They finally hit the magic money number, feeling they can afford to "live" without work, but the shock is too much for their system so they shut down ...  way before they planned.

It's the ultimate irony.

Work hard to finally get what you want to not have it when you want it.

It's like Moses leading the people to the Promised Land only to die before he got there.

Honestly it all works out for many and while that doesn't seem fair you can't begrudge it when they have the happiest of lives.

The crazy thing is our body shuts down and wears out just as we hit the "golden years," so instead of traveling the world we hire home health to ensure we remain home or move into assisted care facilities.

And all the things we always meant to do ... remain things we always meant to do.

Life is a gift all of us share yet none of us asked for ... and it's not always fair.

I don't know why God made it this way but ... it is what it is.

I've known lots of people who had bad luck hit them way before their time ... cancer in their prime ... their child dies ... a parent needs constant caregiving ... jobs are lost ... the money runs out while friends run away.

What do you do?

The song "Living on a prayer" keeps running through my mind and I think the answer's along that train of thought.

Ultimately life is a big question of faith.

I believe things work out the way they're supposed to.

Even when cancer hits someone in their prime it forces life to appreciated like never before ... when a child dies we understand the incredible gift of a child ... caring for a parent no longer capable of tending for themselves enables us to pay them back ... lost jobs mean new opportunities ... no money in the bank leaves you with nothing but God to rely on ... lost friends leave you with an appreciation of who remains with you.

It's not always fair but it is always life.

"What to do? What to do?"

That's the only question.

And the only answer is ... enjoy this or not?

Believe it's supposed to happen this way or not.

Make the most of whatever it is you got or wish for a life that you don't have.

Because it is what it is.

Undercover for Jesus

"What do you do?" she asks with a twang in her a voice from south Alabama or Texas.

"About what?" I reply sipping coffee at the counter of "The Breakfast Club" where she's taken the stool beside mine.

On her other side sits a man who waited in line beside her for the world famous restaurant to open and he's suddenly intrigued by our conversation.

"What do you mean about what?" she demands in a very high pitch Soprano on steroids voice that can shatter stained glass.

Simultaneously the staff stops cooking, waitressing, bussing and washing dishes because her voice is that grating.

"I dunno," I continue. "You talking about achieving world peace? Ending homelessness? Getting Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi to sleep together? How to prevent a last second score in a soccer game?"

"Did y'all watch?" she suddenly squeals.

The man on the other side admits he did not stuffing a fork full of over easy eggs and hash browns in his mouth.

"I was out on a date with my wife," I explain.

"It was so exciting," she claps and I swear her Dolly Parton hair moves.

Taking a sip of coffee she stares at me intensely with deadly eyes that betray the sweetness of her voice.

"I want to know what you do for a living Silly," she explains with a politician's smile.

Not wanting to talk, I give my stock answer that always shuts people up who want to know what I do for a living.

"I'm a Southern Baptist Minister," I confidently announce dropping my voice two octaves.

"Ooh," she claps again. "I'm Baptist ... Pastor."

"Shit," I mutter as Jessie the cook and Denise the waitress stifle giggles.

Darkness returns to her eyes as she stares at me again while taking another sip of coffee and she dubiously says, "You don't look like a Baptist Minister."

"Thanks," I say taking a sip of my own coffee.

The man on her other side laughs and if looks could kill she would have sent him straight to Hell in that instant.

"Alright," I say standing up. "I'm going to go proselytize or something."

Confusion fills her face.

"Save the heathens," I explain.

"Oh," she nods. "Is that why you dress wear black running shorts, a vulgar tee shirt and flip flops?"

"Yes man. I'm undercover for Jesus."

"God Bless you," she says as I leave and the entire staff bursts into glorious laughter.

Night Prayers

Scratching on the sliding glass doors wake me at 2:30.

Sighing, I stare at the silhouettes of Palm trees outside of our window, disentangle myself from a lovely sleeping position with Sarah and quietly pull myself out of bed.

Stumbling into the living room there's enough moonlight to easily make my way.

In the kitchen the silhouette of our dog Goddess jumps up and her tail wags as I slide the door open so she can go out.

Following her out, the heat of the night embraces me in sharp contrast to the coolness of the air-conditioning inside.

Goddess rushes down the stairs to the back yard as I lay my hands on the rail of the beloved back deck sleepily taking inventory.

Stars dance around a bright half moon to the song of a choir of cicada.

Every light is on in our neighbors house and her television throws off colorful hues as she sleeps passed out on her sofa.

Aside from the cicada choir, all is silent ... all is calm ... all is bright.

I stand naked in a Monastery built by God and on an oh so Holy night.

Prayers rush through my mind, first of Thanksgiving for Sarah and this life, then petitions to look over the ones we love and finally for interventions to guide us to the things we must do next.

I hear the scratches of Goddess' paws as she lumbers up the wooden stairs and takes her place beside me.

Yawning and scratching my head, I say "Amen" out loud before returning to the coolness of the sanctuary that is our home.

Goddess continues to wag her plume of a tail, breathing excitedly as I crawl back into the manger with Sarah grateful for night prayers and a dog who insists that I have them.

Amen.

Today's Present

It's best to be honest about it.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, has issues.

Let me begin by clarifying that Winston, TLGD, and I get along fabulously.

Sure I call him names a lot, especially you little-son-of-a-bitch, which I mean literally ... because he is.

But we hang out together on the beloved back deck because he likes to tan and I prefer being outside.

He asks my advice when he's online shopping.

Just yesterday I showed him a black V-neck and no sleeves with white letters reading ... "I'm out therefore I am." He loves it!

I give him treats every morning. He prefers really big bones and I make certain he has one to start every day off right.

Sure he sheds all over the sofa, makes the bed feel like it has "Magic Fingers" as he cuddles beside Sarah and barks like a girl ... but he's a little gay dog so I expect such things.

But this morning he's really ticked me off.

He left a little present on the living room floor.

Sarah's still asleep and the little SOB is hiding under the bed where he knows I won't go because I love my wife and want her to sleep late.

I could kill him.

After cleaning it up I'm sitting here fuming pondering my revenge.

It has to be sometime diabolically clever that he will hate and Sarah will never know.

I don't know what it is yet so your suggestions are welcome.

I am contemplating puppy Prozac for him but want to get him back before he gets too mellow.

The best suggestion gets a free book!

Marvelous imperfections

I belong to "Memories of growing up in Savannah," a Facebook group where people remember things that are no more.

Daily I click the site and my memory's jogged to recall things long forgotten.

My favorites are old photographs of everything from the "Shoney's" on Abercorn to the crumbling beach wall on Tybee Island ... though I'm naturally drawn to old pictures.

Whenever we travel I find the local history of mostly black and white photos and I imagine what it must have been like before neon lights, Interstate Highways or jumbo jets.

Things are both better and worse then ... a marvelous imperfection where things were as good as they could possibly be but would soon get better.

Through there are always causalities.

The "Shoney's" is long gone, along with the old seawall ... Joe's Drive In, the Highway 80 Theater, the Bounty House Restaurant, the Krystal downtown, swimming pools with diving boards and the water park on Tybee.  

Each had its moment in time, now forever frozen in memories and old photographs.

Friends too had their moments and, while either they've moved on or we have, the best of us never forget the impact they had on us.

"He was great when he was great," George Harrison once said of Elvis Presley. "Last time I saw him I said, "Put your jeans back on and do 'That's alright Mama" because that really is your way ... not singing 'My Way.''"

I love the sentiment because Elvis was freaking great ... when he was freaking great ... then one day he wasn't.

It's the same with most everyone else.

While I enjoy memories of growing up I sure as Hell don't want to go back.

I like this part of the journey better.

I love reconnecting with old friends, especially when they mix well with my new ones.

What I enjoy most are seeing old friends who grew into themselves. When we're together there are short stories about the past but learning, experiencing and enjoying who they are now is far better.

All of that to say ... see you in a month Joey Finch!

Sarah and I can't wait.