Homeless Pets for Homeless People

"Lookie here," Joe Bridges says.

Engrossed in my duties as President of Union Mission, I look at our skinny, sandy hair, cowboy boat wearing maintenance man ... formerly homeless, addicted and married.

Before I can say anything, he walks away.

Trusting Joe with everything in me, I meander into the lobby, down the hall and into the courtyard of the men's shelter.

Joe and I were pretty cocky about our shelters and had the audacity to believe they should resemble a home.

Savannah, Georgia's got a lot of great private courtyards so we built one whenever we built shelters ... which was often.

The courtyard at Grace House had ten foot walls, a brick yard leading to an elaborate garden, a fountain with fish, a covered stage and a huge planter with a massive weeping willow tree sprouting out of it.

The weeping willow tree is in honor of my Grandma Carver who had one in her front yard. When she died, I thought it'd be nice to have a daily reminder of her so Joe built the planter, planted the tree which is what I saw when I stared out of my office window.

Joe designed the planter so it was four connecting benches in the shade and that's where he's sitting.

Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he coughs up a wad of spit, lets it fly over the courtyard wall and says, "You had a dumb idea. We have to kill it."

"What are you talking about?" I sigh taking my place beside him.

"Lookie," he says returning the cigarette to his mouth while nodding his head forward.

The courtyard is filled with homeless men, too sick to work or look for it. They are coughing, hacking, spitting, showing each other the X-rays the Hospital gave them ... and dogs.

I was convinced if we gave homeless people pets they'll love them, place the animals first, take the focus off themselves, learn to give rather than take and ... eventually love themselves and other people.

"It's not really a dumb idea," Joseph adds blowing smoke halos above our heads. "It's just impracticable. Somebody's gonna get hurt."

At that moment, a sick homeless guy stands, takes two steps and immediately trips over one of the two dozen leashes connecting the dogs to their owners.

Half a dozen homeless guys stumble to help the guy but his dog's barking furiously protecting his owner so they sit back down and the dog licks the blood away.

"Ouch," I say. "I see what you mean."

"I thought you would," Joseph says standing up to help the man and he has so much authority about him the dog shyly backs away.

The guy stands holding his bleeding head untangling himself from multiple leashes.

"We gonna get sued," Joe fires his final point, lights another cigarette and wanders off to whatever he's doing next.

And that was the end of the homeless pets for homeless people program ... at least in the big shelters.

Well ... except when we broke the new rule for people and pets we especially liked.

Faith and Fear

"When you're going to die," he mumbles laying in his recliner, "there's not much you care about anymore. Your family ... whatever friends you've got ... that's all that matters."

"You mean all those times you voted Republican," I ask sitting across from him, "didn't count for anything?"

He laughs a sad laugh before answering, "No."

Sarah gives me a doubtful look about my line of questioning.

"So you're telling me if I brought a sackful of cheese Krystals .... you wouldn't eat any?"

"I do love cheese Krystals," he laughs, "but I don't think I could get one down."

"You had a steak the other day," his wife enthusiastically reminds him.

Shaking his head, he grabs his belly and sighs, "If I could just control the pain."

"You got good drugs" I ask.

Holding up his latest prescription he says, "These work for about 15 minutes."

"Take more," I say.

"That's what our Son said," his wife adds.

"Micheal," he says looking at me, "I ain't afraid to die ... I am afraid of what I'm leaving behind ... her," he says pointing to his wife and the words grow moist as he loses them.

Silence hangs like salt in the ocean air.

"For everything there is a season," he quotes looking for Divine justification for a really shitty situation.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't gone to Seminary ... spent years studying Scriptures ... initiating endless conversation with God who prefers to keep quiet ... walking the fine line between faith and fear.

"Here is the conclusion of the matter, "the book of Ecclesiastes ends, "Fear God and keep his commandments ... For God will bring every deed into judgement, including every hidden thing ... whether it's good or evil."

I don't think God has much judging to do here.

My friend is doing it himself.

Typical Night in a Tourist Town Bar

"Please close me out," he slurs towards the bartender.

I wait to order while he waits on her to give him change.

"I'm gonna go play cards," he says to me. "You want to go?"

"No thanks," I reply, "I'm playing guitar with my friends right now."

Peering over  my shoulder towards the collection of players in the back room he nods, "Oh is that what y'all are doing back there?"

"We sound pretty good tonight. Don't 'cha think?"

Shrugging his shoulders he collects his change and throws a dollar on the bar.

I order.

"The card game will probably only take ten minutes or so," he says looking at me again.

I nod as she hands me a glass.

"They got 'to-go' cups," he explains standing and for the first time I notice he's soaking wet.

It'd been raining so I guess he had enough sense to come inside but now he's roaring to go ... with me.

"I'm Micheal," I say thrusting out my hand.

"Oh hey Micheal," he replies as we shake without him telling me who he is.

The sounds of Chip and Chris playing wonderful lead solos wafts from the back room laying on top of Monty's finger picking, Matt and Greg's strumming, Jim's mouth harp, a nice bass rift and steady drumming by both Jim and Conga Dave.

"I really need to get back," I say more forcefully.

"You'd have a good time," he shrugs.

"I'm already having a good time," I explain.

"Your choice," he says stumbling out the door.

The bartender looks at me and laughs.

"Typical night in a tourist town bar," she giggles.

Laughing I make my way to the back room where the Dirty Angels collect for a little while and ... the Kingdom comes on earth as it is Heaven.

Nothing Holy About It

The famous faces of political pundits are dissecting the good and evil of Israel and Hamas but mercifully the sound is turned down.

On the other side of the bar, an old man shouts at the television. "DAMN HAMAS! ISRAEL SHOULD KILL THEM ALL!"

The bartender rolls his eyes at Sarah and me.

The old man talks loudly to his wife who is much too thin to wear black and I see her arm is in a sling.

"GOD'S PEOPLE SHOULD WIPE THEM OUT!

"You mean like the Inquisition?" I ask.

The bartender stifles a laugh and it's Sarah's turn to roll her eyes.

Obviously unaccustomed to discussion, anger flares in his cold blue eyes looking straight at me.

"THESE ARE MODERN TIMES," he says grabbing his wife by her arm in the sling and leading her to the door.

The bartender finally lets the laughter out.

Looking at Sarah I shrug my shoulders as she now stifles a laugh.

The political pundits continue to move their mouths saying nothing worth hearing.

News footage of bombs exploding and bleeding human beings illustrate whatever it is they're trying to say.

Suddenly there's BREAKING NEWS ... Comedian and film star Robin Williams is dead.

Mercifully Israel, Hamas and the political pundits disappear, eclipsed by the funny little man with boundless energy, thousands of voices exploding from his mouth as though fired from a machine gun.

He committed suicide.

As Sarah and I finish our dinner I'm struck that the death of one man is eclipsing the deaths of many.

It's a crazy world we live in ... growing so angry over politics and religion ... and incredibly sad over losing one who brought us joy.

There's nothing Holy about the first but something deeply spiritual about the second.

In the end, I think Robin Williams gave us everything he could and God knows we took it all, and rather than having his soul filled by giving everything away (you get love only by giving it away ... right?) ... so he took the one thing he had left for himself ... his life.

Unlike Israel and Hamas who just take each other's lives on the grandest of scales.

And there's nothing Holy about any of it.

Thinking about my death

The Grim Reaper and I have been having quite the dance lately.

I'm a much better dancer ... doing my best to stay a step or two ahead ... so far so good.

A lot of my friends find it more challenging.

Stem cell transplants ... pancreatic cancer ... lungs and livers refusing to cooperate ... serious depression ... all make for terrible dances ... but The Grim Reaper demands it anyway ... so the dances continue.

On top of the cells, cancers, lungs, livers, depressions are ... faces of people I love.

Love's a funny thing ... something we hoard but are supposed to give away to get.

Of course when the Grim Reaper's all over the dance floor ... it makes me think about my own.

I hold on to Sarah tighter in the night ... which interrupts her sleep ... but I like where we're at and not in any hurry to leave it behind.

I feel very alive today ... deeply appreciative of everything around me ... not in a hurry ... and not too concerned about much anything.

It's going to work out.

Every little thing's going to be alright.

I have faith.

We'll see if faith delivers.

So far ... so good.

The longer I've lived ... the better it's gotten.

I don't know how much I've got left but ... it feels like being on a roller coaster climbing to the apex of the track ... and Sarah smile as she throws her arms up in the air ... so I take mine from around her waist and throw them up too ... and the adventure begins.

How to go to Hell

"Who are you to judge the life I live? I'm not perfect but I don't live to be ..."

Bob Marley said that and it's just impossible to not like Bob Marley.

I accepted my imperfections long ago.

There are times I don't like them but we've learned to co-exist.

I've learned how to forgive myself.

I really do the best I know and when others have problems with it ... it's not my problem.

It's taken a long time for me to get to this point but I have and that makes me happy.

It's like trying to hold the wind up with a sail.

Nobody can actually see it but ... it's definitely possible.

And it makes me happy.

I'm not perfect but I'm okay with myself.

Plus I've earned lots of good Karma that hasn't cashed itself in yet.

I spent decades saving the world and everyone in it.

I don't have to do that anymore.

It's taken me a long time to accept that.

If that isn't enough, my sails are full and I'm doing the best I can trying to figure out which direction I'm heading.

Sooner or later all of the good Karma's gonna kick in and this boat full of life is going to really hum across the water and I've got to stay ready.

So when I screw up ... and I will ... just like you ... take it easy on me.

I'm doing the best I can.

I've done the best I know how.

Just like you.

Forgive yourself ... like I've forgiven me ... and let's trim those sails shall we?

Because it only matters where we're going.

Nobody cares about where we've been.

And if they do ... they're going to Hell.

Quality Family Time

The house is full of sleeping girls.

Sarah, her daughters and Goddess our dog all slumber away.

Much to his dismay, I keep Winston, The Little Gay Dog, on the Beloved Back Deck with me. He would much rather be nestled up beside my wife but I'm determined to let her sleep so he's held captive with me.

Gypsy, the gender confused cat (he was making love to a frog the other day) is inside but desperately wants to be outside and is clawing at the sliding glass door letting me know it.

Yesterday was a big day and everyone's tired or cranky.

We played "Spades" late into the night.

I learned to play Spades with Guy Sayles (America's greatest Preacher) in college where we were teammates in the Baptist Student Union where we worshiped God by playing cards.

Guy and I were damn good, often going "Double Nil", kicking the asses of our fellow BSU'ers!

(TAKE THAT MITCH WESLEY, MARK WOOD AND DEDRA DUKES!!)

I hadn't played in decades ... until last month when Sarah, the girls and I went to San Salvador, Bahamas, where there's nothing to do at night except look at the stars, swim or sleep.

The place we stayed had a deck of cards so, after dinner, we broke them out and taught Laurel and Cassidy to play Spades.

Sarah and I are viciously competitive players.

Last night I held my hands together, index fingers pointing out as though a gun and shot Cass, the seven year old, for throwing the wrong card.

Sarah got all over me but a few minutes later her eyes shot daggers at Laurel for doing the same thing to her.

It was just like being in college again!

Then Cassidy fell asleep so we drafted Maddie, the 12 year old, to take her place and kept playing.

Quality family time ... all together ... trying to beat the shit out of each other in cards!

Does it get any better?

Yes it does!

Sarah and I kicked their little asses!

The Good News About Being Shot at in Savannah

Last month 24 people were shot in the City of Savannah, Georgia.

Yesterday City Alderman Van Johnson stated "The bad part is we have people come here from all over the world that visit here. And so sometimes we shoot ourselves in our own foot by creating that alarmist reality."

He was referring to the Press reporting the news that 24 people were shot in a month.

The damn liberal press had 24 separate stories on the 24 different people who were shot.

That's just not right!

But I'm here to help.

HERE'S THE GOOD NEWS!

The city's population is 140,000 and the Savannah Police Department proudly boasts this means less than 0.007% of people living in the City were actually hit.

NOW DOESN'T THAT MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER!

Conversely this means you have almost a 100% change of NOT BEING SHOT when you're in the City (99.003%).

Of course this does not factor in the number people shot at, number of shots fired or the number of misfires.

No such records are kept but, like the Savannah Police Department, lets try to keep things in perspective.

Assuming most people shooting guns within City limits or not at a City approved facility ... are high, drunk, pissed off beyond belief and just plain stupid ... we can safely conclude the following:

• They miss their target 90% of the time, meaning that approximately 2,160 shots were fired last month hitting no one.
• Assuming the majority fired multiple shots (for example 3) we can safely conclude that 713 people were targets ... but THE GOOD NEWS IS  this means only 0.005% people are actual hit in Savannah at any given time!
• Again assuming the majority of perpetrators are indeed "high, drunk, pissed off beyond belief or just plain stupid", it is safe to conclude the percentage of misfires is ridiculously high (say 80%) meaning the chances of being missed when shot at in Savannah is 99.9%

It's pretty obvious Alderman Van Johnson is right and the Damn Liberal Media is "creating an alarmist situation regarding multiple shootings."

Where is Bill Cathcart when we really need him?

Come on people! 24 people actually shot out of 140,000 is not too shabby!

Bill Cathcart would keep all this is its proper perspective.

Until God raises another Bill Cathcart, I do think Alderman Van Johnson shouldn't go shooting his mouth off.

Because you know the damn liberal media will report on that too.

Staying in Summer

Sarah and I sitting with her girls and Jeremy at the Milltop Tavern in St. Augustine to bring in the New Year ...

Floating down a Jamaican river on inner-tubes under a canopy of Tropical rain forest holding hands with my wife ...

Later that same day, strolling the sidewalk of Ocho Rios when a Rastafarian jumps from a bush asking, "Ganja Mon?" ... I say "No Thanks," ... he smiles and immediately asks, "Viagra?" ...

On a cliff above a raging ocean hundreds of feet below, fighting bitter winds, Sarah and I struggle to stand at the Lighthouse on Mizen Head in Ireland ...

Being asked to play a few with the Band in West Port, singing "God Don't Own a Car" and "Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road" to the laughing, rousing, crazy patrons of an Irish Pub ...

Shopping at the Grocery in San Salvador, Bahamas after the Food Boat arrives three weeks late before driving the old dusty car back to our private beach made in Heaven ...

Laurel, Sarah's daughter, and I sneaking into the massive salt water swimming pool at night because ... it was there and it was our only chance ...

Enjoying "Irish Kevin's" in Key West as a patron jumps on the stage, mooning the audience forcing Kevin himself to exclaim, "Good God Man! Don't do that in Key West! You'll be on your hands and knees for days!" ...

Beach days with Sarah on Tybee ... a gathering of the "Carnival of Friends" ... the kids meandering in and out ... Sarah's girls constant planning and scheming ... Jasmine growing over the railing of the Beloved Back Deck ...

Now it's Back-To-School time as everyone gets serious again.

The girls are back in school ... the kids are too ...  everyone's growing intense about work ... those who have jobs are bitching and those who don't are wishing ... and to make it all worse Congress is preparing to go back in session.

I'd rather stay in summer where everything's better.

I don't know why vacations have to end ... school starts in early August ... work intensifies ... paces quicken ... anxiety grows ... money runs out ... and Congress goes back in session.

It's been a good year so far.

There's lot of things to be anxious about but I'm not letting them overwhelm me.

As the prophet Jeremiah said, "Harvest has passed, Summer has ended and we are not saved" (8:20).

That just sounds gloomy and bad.

So I'm not going there.

I'm going to stay in summer.

Fear and Faith

"It's a combination of fear and faith," I say sitting at the counter of The Breakfast Club.

The question was, "How do you live?"

John's contemplating retiring but doesn't have the money ... or at least not enough ... so he keeps working until some magic moment arrives when he knows it's time to enjoy life ... or he die before getting around to it.

"Faith," he muses over ham, eggs, hash browns and orange juice.

"Well," I interrupt his thoughts, "fear too."

"Faith," he says again, not listening.

That's as it should be.

Fear and faith are a constant dance but faith should always win.

But we're not especially a faithful people.

Meaning ... what faith we do have we place in the wrong things ... Republicans or Democrats ... Catholics or Baptists ... Banks or Business ... Group Counseling or Self-help.

What we don't have faith in is ... ourselves.

And whenever we do something just for yourself ... it scares the Hell out of us!

So we rarely do much motivated by faith.

More often it's fear motivating us to do exactly what we're already doing ... forever maintaining a status quo that leaves us unfulfilled ... doing the same old thing ... waiting for a magic moment that never comes.

Faith is too explosive a thing for most to handle ... so we don't.

Yet the times we remember most in life are those when we acted in faith and it worked out just like we believed.

We quit the job, left the spouse, stopped believing in politics, cashed everything in and spent it all, discovered God mostly doesn't go to Church or said "I love you" out loud to the right person in the wrong place at the wrong time!

Those are the defining moments we cherish and never forget.

It makes me think of Moses who got to see the Promised Land but never actually set foot on it ... but he had one Hell of a good time ... getting that far!

My Box

My Mom gave me my box.

At her house for the first time in a long while, we packed boxes of things that were mine to bring home so Sarah and I have to figure out what to do with.

In the midst of the packing, Mom slid in my box.

She started the collection when I was born and remained diligent for almost six decades.

My baby pictures, every report card, each date at every prom stands beside me still, letters and lots of press clippings ranging from High School until now.

When I left Union Mission, she kept the notebook of press clippings so it was interesting to see what the media thought was significant about me.

Sarah laughed at all the pictures.

She holds one up as her girls wander into the room asking, "Who's this?"

"Jeremy," they quickly respond and ... aside from my son parting his hair on the wrong side we look remarkably alike ... when I was his age.

They pour over the prom and dance pictures asking "Who was that girl?"

There are many pictures and clippings from my days as a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky ... including photographs of our "infamous" church retreats ... when we'd close Church, hang a "Gone Fishing" sign on the front door, and our rag tag congregation of homeless men, public housing residents, radical Seminarians took the weekend off.

There are notes from her friends proclaiming how proud Mom must be of me.

A big part of my life is in the box.

It strikes me that Mom's moving on to other things and no longer feels compelled to keep up with me as much.

She's been there for me all these years and certainly deserves ignoring me and celebrating the rest of her life however she chooses.

I think she trusts Sarah to see me on through to whatever's next.

There's a lot of old stuff in the box but ... it's not quite full and I realize whatever else goes inside ... either Sarah or I will place it there.

I wonder what it will be?

And it makes me appreciate of my Mom more than I already do, which is a lot.

And it reminds me that life is a gift parents give and, while they certainly kept up with it, it's mine ... and not theirs ... and everything already in the box ... and everything Sarah I will place inside from now on ... is ours.

Heritage and Hope

The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary was putting out it's annual "Greatest Hits" report.

It was "Heritage and Hope" though at the time W.A. Criswell, James Patterson, James Robinson and other fundamentalist terrorists were conducting a hostile takeover of a perfectly excellent academic institution.

In retaliation, Duke McCall, Clyde Francisco, Dale Moody and J.T. Owens fought back by "loving their enemies."

The enemies kicked their ass.

The Seminary went from being where a mind is terrible thing to waste ... to ... a mind is terrible thing!

At the time, I was getting the Hell out anyway ... completely immersed in living the Gospel in the inner City of Louisville, Kentucky.

Going through an old box yesterday, I found "Heritage and Hope" and took a bittersweet trip into the past.

There's Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the real one) on his knees ... praying ... or reading ... or ... honestly I have no idea what he's doing though he looks Holy enough.

I think it's a poised picture.

And there's me in an action shot!

The Hippy Preacher talking to Fred, the mentally-ill convert to Christ in the basement of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel ... where I was inexplicably employed as a "Professional Christian" ... paid to love while asking others to do it for free.

Looking at these photographs for the first time in decades, the first thoughts are memories of fellow Seminarians asking me to autograph my picture because ... "you're one of the stars of the future."

Over beers a few days later, I ask Bill, "Hey did you get asked ..."

"Sshhhuu," he says sipping the dark brew, "it's not important."

Bill Berry and I have the gift of speaking to one another without actually completing sentences.

I stayed at Jeff Street for a while before moving on to Union Mission and a life of trying to help others help themselves.

Bill Berry never joined a band and dove in at the Graffiti Baptist Center in New York City before moving on to a life time of making life better for others.

A remnant community ... Michael Ruffin, Cindy Webber, Guy Sayles (America's greatest preacher), Molly Marshall and others ... went on to do the same.

The Seminary went to Hell.

Several years later, they called asking if I would come give a speech at a convention on the topic, "A Baptist Response to AIDS."

"Why you calling me," I ask suspiciously.

"Well," the Lord led the fundamentalist to say. "You're Baptist and ... you've got one."

After a nanosecond of prayerful consideration I reply, "I'll pass."

"We really don't have anybody else," he explains.

"I really don't the time," I say, "I'm too busy taking people with AIDS."

All these years later, I've kept the hope but lost the heritage so long ago.

My Tropical Depression

Thunder roars from the ocean and from the mainland.

Tybee Island is stuck between two different storms smashing against each other creating spectacular lighting shows, thunderous thunder and pouring a sea of rain on this already drenched clump of sand.

The island is as lush and green as I've ever seen it.

Normally Tybee's brown by now ... proving it embraces every color.

Normally in August no one has to mow grass unless you pay to water every day ... it's hot as Hell and so humid your clothes stick to your skin if you dance ... if you kiss your partner your mouth slides right off her lips ... and making love is akin to water aerobics.

But the Rapture must be approaching because the grass is green, the humidity's low, the clothes hang loose, kisses hit their mark and ... er ... um ... no water's involved in our aerobics.

Anyway, the two storms have called a truce for the moment and I'm sitting on the Beloved Back Deck under skies of purple majesty, listening to thunder roar and not liking it one damn bit.

August should be hot and dry and if you want to get wet ... take your baby to the ocean ... or into the sand dunes!

"At least it's not cold," I keep telling myself.

I HATE COLD!!!

I hate it with everything in me.

I cuss it, condemn it, regulate it to hottest parts of Hell and Georgia Power can go right along with it!

You can have the cool crisp days of Autumn, the colors of the leaves, bonfires and SNOW ... you can have all of the freaking snow allotted to me in life!

It is true I love baseball playoffs and college football (GO DAWGS!) immensely but it's hot when they start and I'm all for it staying that way.

Alas ... it's a miserable, cool, wet, stormy day on island and I sit here wishing we were back in the Bahamas.

What do you do?

Since it's not raining for the moment, I think if Sarah's up for a walk ... to the sand dunes ... she could pull me out of my Tropical Depression.

Now

Salt hangs in the air and there is no breeze.

Gnats and no-see-um's hover around me as Van Morrison sings Hymns on the Beloved Back Deck.

Fran's thousand shades of green drip with wetness though she's as lovely as ever, tactfully quiet and, as always, incredibly supportive.

Goddess wanders in and out of our home full of sleeping girls trying to prioritize who needs her most ... me or them?

Sarah and her daughters win as Goddess has positioned herself halfway between our bedroom where my wife slumbers and the girl's rooms, ready for whatever happens first.

The night was bothersome with me tossing and turning, worried I'd wake my wife, endless thunder booming in the distance and a militia of frogs croak about starting a Revolution.

At 3:02 in the morning I kiss Sarah's head and wander out to the deck.

Light rain falls on a warm summer night with no humidity.

There's no moon but stars play peek-a-boo behind the clouds.

The choir of cicada sing.

Half-an-hour later, I'm tossing and turning again, listening to the  thunder, watching the lightning and trying not to wake Sarah.

Light bubbles from the ocean so I kiss Sarah again, stumble downstairs to the outdoor shower where rain mixes with hot water as I lather, shave, wash and dry on the porch.

Then I'm off to the Breakfast Club for coffee and communion before returning home to the quietness of a home full of sleeping girls, a dog who loves us and Fran's watchful eye.

The island is more lush and green than I've ever seen it.

So is the future.

So is now.

Talking with the Dead

Get back to where you once belonged?

Who says you can't go back?

Personally I've done both and it's just not that satisfying.

Going back to old places or meeting old friends rarely recaptures old magic.

That's why we tell stories ... to honor what was ...but then the story comes to an end and we're left with ... NOW.

"Tomorrow's going to be a brighter day," Jim Croce sings from nowhere as I write this.

"Well where did that come from?" I say out loud, sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, with the house full of girls sleeping.

Let's see ... as I'm sitting here today ... asking myself questions about then ... when Jim Croce, whose been dead forever, decides to participate in the conversation.

This is why I believe in God.

These things don't just randomly happen.

Sure ... other things randomly happen ... the American political system ... Church ... most relationships ... sex ... Miley Cyrus!

But how else do you explain Jim Croce rising from the dead to say the right thing at precisely the right time to the right person in the right place?

It's God ... and Sirius XM.

If this isn't enough, Jim brings Jesus up and I'm sitting here thinking of something he said, "Don't worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of it's own" (Matthew 6:34).

How is it that I'm having a conversation with dead people in real time?

I know ... I know ... my conservative friends ... and the Republican Party ... will tell me Jesus was raised from the dead.

Tell me about it!!!

He's talking to me right now!

With Jim Croce playing in the background!

I don't want to go back to where I once belonged.

Who says I have to?

Tomorrow's going to be a brighter day.

And to paraphrase Jesus about today ... "Don't worry. Be Happy."

Throw Back

I'm not into "Throw back Thursday" on Facebook.

I mean it is funny to see what people post ... old pictures of poofy hair and funny clothes ... but I've never gotten into it.

Besides Sarah posts enough goofy pictures of me.

Plus, I write a lot of stories about the past ... Gene Prevatt, Bill Berry (not the former drummer from REM but the other one), Guy Sales, my days as a "Professional Christian" (when I was paid to love God and others), the time at Union Mission and all of the times I've been in trouble (with my Mom, a large number of clergy and numerous elected officials).

The stories are either funny or poignant ... sometimes both.

Today I have neither.

But I did find this picture from my High School Annual.

It's a full page photograph of the one and only meeting of the Groves High School sanctioned "Greaser Club" which took place at the Root Beet Drive in Garden City, Georgia.

Gene Prevatt (that's him at the very bottom proudly wearing his football jacket) and I were inexplicably called to the Principal's office and told we were not participating in enough extra-curricular activities.

We were on the football team, and I recall Gene chasing a girl in the Chess Club, but other than that we mostly had a good time.

The Principal was threatening us to do something to further enhance the possibility of actually getting a job when we graduated.

I was really into 1950's Rock-n-Roll at the time so rather than actually join an existing club, we started our own to honor the Principal's request and enhance our chances of actual employment.

There's a lot of famous people in this picture and looking at it now ... it reminds me of the album cover for "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band" ... except it's a throwback to the 1950s.

That's Mark Stewart standing on top.

That's me sitting on top of the car with my arm around Debbie saluting the school.

I remember my Mom being pretty mad about the whole thing.

Thank God that's over.

Anyway ... for whatever it's worth ... Happy throw back Thursday!

Just keep telling yourself, "Tomorrow is Friday! Tomorrow is Friday!"

To Hell with ... Hell!

If Hell is as hot as it is right now I won't have any problem acclimating.

Besides I've already been to Hell and it's not all that.

I know ... I know ... my conservative friends are saying, "Oh you just wait till you die and really go to Hell! Then you'll know what it's really all about?"

Whatev's ...

It's funny when I write about religion because while lots of people read it, no one's really got much to say ... except ... that I'm going to Hell.

Nobody ever holds up a finger and yells, "GO TO HEAVEN!"

They stick up a particular finger yelling "GO TO HELL!"

When did Hell become so popular?

"Go to Heaven for the climate," Mark Twain quips. "Hell for the company."

"I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the Saints," Bill Joel adds.

I resonate with both sentiments.

Besides I don't have to go to Hell.

It comes to me.

"Hell is portable," Guy Sayles once told me. "You don't have to go to it. It comes to you."

I think most people, even the conservative ones, can agree on that.

If others aren't putting us through Hell ... we're perfectly capable of doing it ourselves.

And the sad fact is ... WE DO!

Satan's got to have the easiest job in the world!

Well, I'm not having anything to do with it and as far as I'm concerned, Satan can go straight to Hell ... though I'm not sure that makes any sense.

The point is we're all pretty hard on ourselves ... and that makes no sense either!

Why in the Hell do we beat ourselves up when we'll really just doing the best we can?

So ... to Hell with Hell!

I'm going to enjoy the Hell out of today!

I'm not going to give myself Hell and, to the best of my ability, I'm not going to give anybody else Hell either.

I am just going to enjoy myself ... who I'm with ... where I'm at ... what I'm doing ... the temperature ... the absence of shoes ... or clothes ... the conviction God loves me ... flowers are blooming ... my friends are doing okay ... and I feel pretty good.

You know ... without Hell ... it's pretty heavenly.

Jesus: The Rolling Stone Interview

Recently we caught up with Jesus Christ on his way to save a troubled soul that he asked we not divulge though he did agree to answer several questions. This is the first published interview with Jesus since Thomas the Apostle (aka, Doubting Thomas) conducted one and I'm honored to be the first in over 2000 years to do it again.

He wanted to meet on the Pier before he walked on water to his appointment dressed in a white robe with a red sash. Blond hair was neatly coiffed, as was his beard, and his steely blue eyes carefully considered every question before answering.

Jesus, thank you for making time for this. Everyone knows how busy you are so let's right to the questions. Beatles or Stones?

"I love 'Sympathy for the Devil' by the Stones. That song always kills me! And 'The Girl with Far Away Eyes' makes me laugh out loud. But ... it's The Beatles! They bring a Hymn like quality to most everything. So ... yeah it's Beatles all the way."

So were the Beatles really more popular that you?

"Oh sure! For a while anyway."

Speaking of Hymns, what's your fav?

"Wow! That's a good question. Well ... I know it's not 'The Old Rugged Cross' ... cause that thing hurt like Hell! ... 'Jesus loves me' is really a manipulative request to get me to always look the other way ... but I'd have to say 'To God be the Glory' because it really is all about God ... oh! ... and 'Let it Be'."

Thanks for opening that door. We all know that God is the Father but who the heck is the Holy Ghost? Your brother? Some long lost uncle?

{Jesus laughs}. "We do have an unorthodox family tree. The answer to your questions are ... 'Yes.'"

Fair enough. Okay, next question ... How do you feel when people thank you at the Grammys?

"I don't really like much of the new stuff these days. It's mostly just MUZAC! The last time I really cared was when Helen Reddy won for 'I am Woman, hear me roar.' That was some good stuff! I suppose it's nice that people thank me but honestly, I think it's mostly crap."

Praise music is very popular in today's church services. Do you like it?

"It's kind of like Mick Jagger isn't it? Holding up hands and dancing around ... it's a lot like church ... if it makes people feel better I'm all for it ... but it's nothing I especially care about."

We've run out of time and I know you have to go but ... one more question?

"Sure but make it quick."

Thank you.

"Who wins the next Survivor?"

Shoe Shopping

I blew out my flip flop.

Literally!

Strolling across a parking lot, I step with my right foot and drag asphalt and the damn thing simply blows up.

So ... today we're going shoe shopping.

I happen to be married to the world's greatest expert on shoes and bargains ... well, at least she tells me they're great deals and she should be "Professional Shopper" ... but I'm not really listening to her staring at the pile of shoes she bought for her 7 year old for school ... specifically I'm wondering how in the Hell Cassidy can possibly fit another pair of shoes in her closet which already looks like Calcutta!

Not that it really matters because ... I'm not a big fan of shoes.

Certainly I have some ... four pair Sarah got me which I occasionally wear in the winter when my feet are cold ... a pair of black ones that match the Tuxedo I no longer wear ... and my flip-flops ... because if one must wear shoes they should be flip flops.

But now mine are blown which obviously call for ... Margaritas!

Besides, Sarah's already told me the plan.

We'll ride our bicycles up to "Funky Fish" which has an excellent selection of Flip Flops and I'll purchase a pair.

Then we're done.

Sarah will want to stay looking for bargains or telling me how good I'll look in this or that but I won't pay her any attention.

We have other things to do today.

As soon as I get her shoes off.

Chester's Gift

"Hey Rev," the old man weakly says from his hospital bed, "I got a present for you."

He'd been moved from the wards at old University Hospital in Louisville, Kentucky where I was the "Professional Christian" in charge of an inner city church.

Pulling the sheet away, exposing skinny white legs and feet, he beams "Lookie."

The long, gnarly, yellow toenails I'd last seen on his feet were gone.

I was mad as Hell at him when I'd seen them, ripping disgusting clothes and shoes off his body to throw him in a bathtub.

He'd been sick for a while, living in a Sunday School room converted into an apartment, and though he hadn't drank alcohol in a few years,  Chester was suddenly acting like it.

"You got to get out of bed," I yelled grabbing him, "and move around. The Doctor said so."

But he threw up so I tore clothes off his body, threw him in the Baptismal Pool that serves as the community bath tub and am appalled to see his toenails hadn't cut in years.

"I can't reach that far," he shrugs falling in the water.

I was mean to Chester those days, grabbing him first thing every morning though he screeched in pain, and made him walk the hallways of the church ... because the Doctor had said so.

It was when I learned you can't always trust Doctors.

When I'd taken Chester to the Hospital his Physician gave him a tired, obligatory once over and asked me if he was a drunk.

"He used to be," I reply, "but now he's my babysitter. He also keeps the coffee peculating 24 hours a day for homeless people. He flies around the country giving speeches with me."

I loved Chester.

He was a beloved figure at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, on the streets of Louisville, and at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where we lived.

Once we gave a speech in Mississippi and Chester had the audience of several hundred eating out of his hands.

"Where'd you learn to speak like that?" I ask as we're carried to the airport.

With his crooked grin he replies, "Awe, preaching ... panhandling ... it's all the same."

He was my partner in crime for years ... until the decades on the streets caught up with him ... and a bastard of a doctor told me to make him exercise every day ... a diagnoses without an examination.

Chester howled in pain as I listened to the Doctor.

A week later he went to the Hospital for the last time.

He was so proud of his toenails, laying there smiling and asking me what I thought.

"Who sawed them off?" I ask pulling the sheet back over his pasty white skinny legs.

"It took two of them," he replies.

I nod and grab his hand ... which is cold.

"I'm tired Rev," he mummers.

"I know," I say ... not knowing what else to say.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too," I say.

A few hours later, I'm still holding his hand when he burps and a vile black mud dribbles down his chin ... his tired blue eyes stare at me ...smiling the crooked little grin.

"Awe Chester," I cry.

A nurse appears from nowhere and wipes his face ... and the image of Mary Magdalene washing the blood away from Jesus flashes in my head.

Then the nurse, a large black woman with a child's face, takes my hand out of Chester's and holds onto it ... then she kisses my hand and tells me, "Everything's alright."

And it was.

An old, homeless, street drunk dies a beloved man.

And the last thing he ever did in life was give me a present.

To this day, I can't forget it.