Why aren't we there yet?

Let's be honest ... waiting on God isn't easy.

We're ready WAY before God's ready!

Heal me now ... Protect my child ... Save me from this rotten marriage ... Please make this car last another year ... Strike down the President! ... resurrect Ronald Regan! ... Keep the IRS from knowing about this ... Help the bank grant this loan ... Let this plane land safely ... GET ME OUT OF HERE ... Get me this job ... and, "Please Lord, let these be the winning Lottery numbers!"

We're ready.

All of the time!

Immediately!

NOW!

God doesn't seem to be in a hurry about much anything.

Nothing tests our faith more!

"The Lord's time is not our time," Religious leaders explain.

"No kidding," we respond. "Tell us something we don't know Sherlock."

"You should petition the Lord with Prayer," the Religious leaders reply quoting Jim Morrison of The Doors.

Still being honest here, WE DO PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER!

Every damn day!

REPEATEDLY!

The result's a mixed bag.

Most are not healed through most kids make it home safe ... Half of all marriages fail and more often than not the car gets us there ... One President's always replaced by another and everyone has a favorite ... the IRS makes us pay and banks mostly lend money ... planes safely land only to be filled again with people needing to get the hell out of here now ... and we see stories of others winning the Lottery so we know it happens ... just not to freaking me!

Those who get what they ask for give all of the glory to God.

Those who don't ... are being tested or something to see if they're worthy of getting what they want.

"The Lord will never give you more than can handle," the Religious leaders tell us when we don't get what we ask.

God didn't say that.

Mother Theresa said that.

She was consistently overwhelmed and burdened and her actual quote is "I know God won't give me anything I can't handle. I just wish he didn't trust me so much."

Everybody likes Mother Theresa and to prove it we've butchered what she said ... so Religious leaders can make those of us who don't get what we want from God when we want it ... feel better.

I know that I have faith and I'm keep asking just like I always have.

"Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are. We. There. Yet.? ...

Parenting alone with adult supervision

"I WANT TO GO TO THE BEACH!" she yells.

"I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE BEACH!," yells the younger one.

"I'M BORED," yells the first sitting in front of the blaring television.

"I gotta go," their mother explains.

The older sister has a birthday party and there are groceries needed to restock the shelves but mostly, I think, my wife needs a little time to herself.

She and the older sister leave.

I'm left to "parent" alone ... without adult supervision.

They're still arguing about whether or not to go to the beach.

"Hey," I offer, "y'all work it out and let me know."

Popping a beer, Goddess and I stroll downstairs to the porch and turn on the football game.

No sooner than I'm interested than the one who didn't want to go to the beach strolls down in her bathing suit saying, "I'm ready."

She climbs in my lap to watch the game.

The one who did want to go to the beach meanders out later.

"Get a towel," I tell them.

"Where are they?" they simultaneously ask having no clue how clean towels magically replace wet ones on the floor.

"That way," I point and they get their towels.

Arriving at the beach, one wants to swim and the other wants to build a sand castle and both want me to help.

Adjusting the ear buds while turning up the tunes on my I-Pod, I offer, "Y'all work it out and let me know."

Listening to Michael McCloud music, I glance up to see an intense sand castle competition taking place. Both are looking at me ... saying something ... so I give them the thumb's up sign.

When the songs are done, I stand up and stretch, ready for a swim.

"Who won?" they ask at the same time.

"I think Laurel takes the 'Most Ambitious' category," I reply strolling towards the ocean, "but Cass definitely wins 'Most Creative'."

The both applaud.

I hit the water and Laurel joins me.

"There's Jellyfish," Cass screams. "I'm not swimming."

"Whatev's," I say, diving deeper.

Before I can dive twice, Cass is sitting on my shoulders.

"OUCH," I scream. "JELLYFISH! JELLYFISH!!!"

Holding me tighter, realizing I'm lying, she laughs.

The three of us spend a delightful half-an-hour playing together in the Sea before I say, "Time to go."

"We don't want to go," they scream in unison.

"Tough! We gotta help your Mom unload the groceries."

"Awe," they sigh.

Making our way to the crosswalk, Cass spies a feather in the sand, stops the World from spinning to pick it up and takes it home.

After unloading the groceries, picking up the several dozen wet towels it takes for two small girls to use after the beach, I'm sipping wine on the porch watching football when Cass interrupts me.

"Here," she says, handing me the feather and a shell I'd given her weeks ago that she now believes she found on her own. "These are for you."

We went on to have a nice night, though everyone was Sunday night exhausted, dreading Monday morning obligations.

Working now, I glance over at the feather and the shell, which I've now placed beside me on the Beloved Back Deck ... and they make me smile.

The ocean breeze picks up and carries the feather back to beach.

In no time at all, the girls will be gone ... like my kids are gone ... and it'll only be Sarah and me.

In the meantime though ... the girls are a lot of fun!

Especially when I'm left to parent alone without adult supervision.

A Brown Boy Morning

"Y'all did this to me," Franklin, who is brown, says standing on the other side of the counter.

I shrug my shoulders,

"Yeah!" he continues, taking a break from the prep work taking place at The Breakfast Club in the morning before it opens.

"You and John O'Neill!"

I sip my coffee and look the other way.

"I was a small impressionable child when I started here and y'all were already here. It's your fault."

Franklin is making these wild allegations because he said something remarkably crude to Judy O'Neill as he held her hand.

She left pretty quickly afterwards.

John missed it all as he'd already departed for his job as "Supervisor of Redneck Love Services" at the Ocean Plaza resort ... where cigarettes are available in the swimming pools.

Perhaps it's because I'm the Rev ... or it's a predawn Sunday morning ... or he's afraid Judy left to report what he said to the Island Paramilitary Police ... whatever ... the brown boy is both confessing, looking for an alibi and lining up his defense.

"It could be the people you work with," I say, getting up to pour myself another cup of coffee.

"Oh yeah," he exclaims. "They've ruined me too. You've seen the people I work with."

Glancing over his shoulder I see Ryan's head covered in a blue Cubs hoodie while eating breakfast still asleep (an incredible feat!) ... Kim is doing her hair while eating breakfast ... Denise is talking while eating breakfast ... Randy brushes his teeth while eating breakfast ... Caroline smokes while eating breakfast ... and I'm afraid to study what Richard is doing for breakfast but it looks gross.

"You got a point there Brown Boy," I say sitting back down.

"MIKE!" Jodee yells, "TRY THE FISH! You can't get this dish outside of France!"

Jodee is my friend, one of the world's greatest Chefs, a key cog in the "Carnival of Friends," owner of The Breakfast Club, mouth harp player, voracious reader of books, boat Captain, can fix anything that's broken and makes Sarah special cocktails when they're together.

"Gotta go Brown Boy," I say standing again to make my way to the back dining room.

Franklin returns to the Hollandaise he is making.

On a table in the back is a plate prepared by Jodee consisting of four Trout he caught yesterday swimming in a brown and yellow sauce with white and brown sprinkles on top.

I taste it and ... the Kingdom comes on earth as it is in Heaven!

"My God Jodee!" I say in religious ecstasy, "that is great!"

"Isn't it?" agrees Mike, who lusts after Sarah's oldest Maddie and cooks, says sitting next to me eating his breakfast.

Maddie's 13.

Mike's old enough to know better.

"I didn't think it would good but ... man that's good, he continues "eating something besides the fish."

Finishing my coffee, I stand and say, "Alright goodbye kids! I gotta go check on Sarah and the girls!"

"BYE MIKE!" they yell as though Sesame Street characters.

"MORNING MIKE!" Jodee yells wishing me a good morning.

It's a great way to start a day ... well ... except for Franklin who is brown.

He wishes me a good morning with verb and a pronoun.

I have no idea who he learned that from.

The Next Great Adventure

What happens when you die?

"Now comes the mystery," were the last words of the famous clergyman Henry Ward Beecher.

"After all, to the organized mind, Death is but the next great adventure," Dumbledoor explains to Harry Potter.

Most try to hedge their bets and have it all figured out in advance.

Leaving the body to decay ... the spirit sours and we are whisked to ... Heaven or Hell ... Paradise or Oblivion ... new bodies take the place of the old ones ... blazing white light guide us to wherever we're going ... deceased family members wait with open arms ... we live on the memories of those who love us ... St. Peter waits to check us in ... we become part of a grander existence.

Or not.

We take these things on faith because none of us have first hand experience.

We just have the word of others.

"Now comes the mystery ... indeed!"

The deathbed is the beginning of the next great adventure ... or the adventure really is ending and we bring the curtain down on our life as gracefully we capable.

"I think we're going to see Art again," Sarah's ten year old says to me last night.

"Do you now?" I ask dragging my toes in the sand sitting in a swing waiting for the moon to rise.

"I do," she defiantly exclaims.

"Good," I say putting my arm around her shoulder. "That'd be nice."

The channel markers blink red and green dancing on the calm ocean. 

The white lights of the gambling boat and the tanker ships lining up to enter the Savannah River look like stars on the water.

Constellations form in a pitch black sky.

"You're going to die before my Mom," she says out of nowhere.

"Well aren't you full of happy thoughts tonight?"

"She'll be a widow," she says wiping her eyes.

"What if I'm a widower?"

"What a widower?" she asks with a confused face.

"Who knows Laurel?" I say standing up. "Life's a gift. I don't know how much I got but I sure as hell like it.  I like your Mom's too. And I like that we get do stuff like this."

"The moon hasn't risen yet," she protests.

"Yeah, that's a bummer. We gotta go home."

"Okay," she says falling into step beside me. "Can we come tomorrow night?"

"I hope so," I tell her throwing my arm around her shoulder again.

"Who knows?"

Checking facts in the Reers

I used to be a News Junkie.

This was largely because I was often in the news and hung around other people who were in the News too.

Reporters were good friends.

I was a master of a good quote, a quality sound bite and long interviews that were both informative and funny.

I was trying to change an entire city and the media's extremely helpful in getting the word out.

They also asked others to comment on how I was doing, printing their quotes after my quotes, to achieve a "fair and balanced" representation of whatever-it-was.

Consequently I learned who loved me and who hates me ... learning to be alright with it because everybody doesn't love any one person.

Decades of living this way changed me.

If someone doesn't like what I'm doing and are vocal about it, I typically shrug my shoulders and say to Sarah, "I guess he's not a fan."

"Did you hear what he said?" my loving and overly protective wife shoots back.

"It's what he thinks," I say holding her hand, "I guess it's better that he lets it out rather than internalize it."

I mean I wouldn't want his hatred of me to foster so much anger that his heart blows up causing him to drop dead on the spot!

If calling me names prevents such things from happening ... I'm pretty cool with it.

The other night we were at a church meeting and someone was upset I blatantly blog about how very appreciative I am of my wife's anatomy.

I suppose he hasn't taken the time to review it for himself and she how fine it is but I understand that everybody's busy.

For the first time in a long time I had to defend things I've said.

It was cool.

I'm used to it.

But he really should check out his facts before criticizing what I've said.

Because he'd clearly see how exactly right I am on this one.

Rocking with myy Angel

Hey," she growls ... making me jump because I'm lost in thought on the Beloved Back Deck listening to the choir of cicada ... and have no idea she's here.

A halo of cigarette smoke floats above my head.

"Jesus Christ! You scared me to death!"

She giggles and bourbon dribbles down her chin because she missed her mouth with the shot glass ... obviously pleased she frightened me.

She makes me laugh ... which makes her laugh ... which makes us laugh together.

"HEY!" she screams at the choir of cicada ... "SHUT UP!"

Suddenly it's a silent night, holy night.

"How did ..." I begin ... then stop and suspiciously ask,  "what do you want?"

Pointing the lit cigarette tip directly at me, taking a long draw from the tall boy PBR, then wiping her mouth with a dirty sleeve ... she spits a logy over the rail and replies, "I'm just making sure you're okay."

"Where the Hell you been?" I ask propping my tanned feet on the rail beside her pasty white  toes.

"Well," she sighs while taking a long draw from the cigarette ... "actually I've been in Hell. Other people's Hell."

One cicada starts to sing and she snaps her head in that direction ... and all is silent and holy again.

"Did you help?" I ask ... giving her a once over ... same oily black hair draping over skinny shoulders, wearing a dirty white robe falling to one side almost exposing her breast ... cigarette, shot glass miraculously full of bourbon and a tall boy PBR that never runs out.

"That's my job," she sighs blowing smoky halos in the air.

"Got another one of those?" I ask ... and from nowhere she hands me a frosty tall boy PBR.

"Just stopping by to check on you," she says. "I've been so damn busy ... Bar Church ... the Tybee Island Methodist Church and its obsession with yellow crime scene tape ... Georgia Kyle ... being there whenever anybody you love  dies ... Jimmy Cochran ... there's a lot more to being a Guardian Angel that most people think."

Smirking my face and shrugging my shoulders I toast her PBR with mine and confess, "I couldn't do it."

Nodding in agreement she says, "You're actually the problem."

"What does that mean?"  I snap.

"Do you realize," she thoughtfully explains, "the more people you love and care about ... the more work it means for me?"

"Hmmm," I mumble not knowing what to say.

"HEY SING A QUITE ONE!" she commands and the Cicada softly hum Cat Stephens' "Morning has broken."

"Well isn't that what we're supposed to do?" I ask. "Love God by loving others?"

"Yeah," she sighs, taking another shot, "Who knew you were so good at it?"

"Yeah, Sarah tells me that," I respond sipping the beer.

"Speaking of Sarah," my Guardian Angel says standing up, "where is she? I need to talk to her."

"She's at work," I shrug.

"Aw, that's right," she says knocking her forehead with her hand. "You've got me so busy I forgot."

"You want me to tell her something?"

"Yeah," she says sipping her beer, "it's time for my annual vacation. She's going to have to be in charge for a couple of weeks ... so I can recharge."

"I don't know," I say. "She's pretty busy these days and trying to figure out when she's going to do her two mile run in everyday and Yoga at night."

Sitting forward she blows smoke in my face, causing me to cough and hack.

"Just give her the message," my Guardian Angel spits.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say waving off the smoke, "I'll tell her."

"Fine," she says disappearing.

The choir of cicada suddenly burst into "The Hallelujah Chorus.

"HEY" I yell into the sky. "WHERE YOU GOING?"

I can't tell if she replies because the choir of cicada transition into "Rock me Amadeus."

Crying Like A Baby

I'm running all over the place.

My cell phone is glued to my ear as I stroll into HOSPICE ... which certainly is a sin ... but we've been talking for half-an-hour and he's sharing important things ... so I'm in the awkward position of listening to him pour out his heart while lots of people with serious things on their minds are staring at me ... and I can feel what they're thinking ... and it's not nice.

"Hey," I say into the phone in front of the receptionist who's consoling several crying women, "I gotta go. I'm at Hospice."

"OH!" he exclaims. "Go be you man!"

"Thanks," I say hanging up walking into room 7.

I haven't been to Hospice since my Dad died so ... maybe I was blessedly on the phone to not deal with the emotion of coming back ... regardless ... opening the door there's my friend Art.

His mouth's open and his eyes are looking at something far, far away but when he sees me the glaze vanishes and he kicks his legs.

"War Damn Eagle," I say not meaning it at all but ... well, I do love Art so I tell him what he wants to hear.

Immediately salt water fills my eyes as I watch him try with every ounce of strength inside to say something to me ... but he can't.

His wife falls in my arms and we share salt water.

She can't speak either ... beats her head on my shoulder ... keeps asking "Why?" ... and the only thing I can do is stand there and take the beating.

I cry like a baby.

"Can you give me a minute," she says grabbing her phone and leaving the room.

Leaning over the bed I brush his white hair with fingers like I've watched her do.

"Hey Artie," I tell him, "Georgia's going to kick Auburn's ass."

His knees swing wildly from side to side and his eyes remain locked on mine.

"I love you Art," I say.

Somehow he moves his hand to meet mine halfway and we shake.

"I know," I tell him. "You know Auburn's going to kick our ass."

I feel the slightest of squeeze ... and then the far away look comes back and he's somewhere else.

His wife returns and beats her head against my chest a little while longer.

"Sarah and I will do whatev's ..." and she nods.

I'm in a fog when I leave and at a Red Light, glance out of the window to see "The Captain's Lounge".

My Dad and I used to go share pitchers of beer there when I was home from Louisville a thousand years ago.

So I pull in the parking lot ... and cry like a baby for a little while longer.

What I'm doing now

Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, and I are sitting in a Beer Hall in Prague, Czech Republic drinking beer.

It's been quite the adventure so far.

We're wondering how we've survived.

Twenty Turkish whores chased us across a Plaza ...

dinner in a snow covered Castle in front of a roaring fire with friends who barely spoke English ...

an overnight train ride to Poland and was busted by Immigration ...

jumping on a bus of British tourists to take us to Auschwitz, the concentration camp ...

let the bus leave us with the Brits yelling "Wish I had your balls mates!" ...

walking the same railroad tracts that brought all the Jews, Gypsies, mentally ill, and politically undesired in because we had no idea how to get back ...

speaking to a group of Czech pastors because they wanted to understand how we care for the homeless ...

lingering in the Jewish cemetery where trees grow over tombstones ...

tackling him in a McDonald's in Berlin because we were drunk and my Vegetarian friend was biting into a fish sandwich ...

We drank a lot of beer.

It's was quite the trip!

Many defining moments in my life!

So Sarah and I are downsizing ... which means throwing a lot of shit away while buying more to replace it ... but we're having a good time and laugh a lot ... and God she looks good throwing stuff away.

Then I found these coasters I kept when Bill and I were in Prague, Berlin, Auschwitz, on a train holding our hands in the air because Immigration was pointing guns at us wanting to see our documents ...

"We have to keep these," I say to my wife.

Sarah cuts me lots of slack.

They're moldy, 25 years old and smell.

"Of course Honey," she smiles with the grin that melts my heart.

Now they're all over the house.

Sarah's girls use them.

I use them.

It makes me happy.

Because I like what I've done.

But nowhere near as much as I love what I'm doing.

A Feast fit for a King or Queen

I wasn't going to write today because I'm angry, frustrated and don't want to give anybody anything.

I don't like being angry.

It's not my nature and it takes a lot to get me here ... but here I am ... Dammit!

It's unhealthy ... incorrigible ... damaging to others ... and a minor act of suicide, except nobody dies while you kill because it hurts more that way ... and hurting others or yourself is what anger's really about.

"Of the Seven Deadly Sins, Anger is possibly the most fun," Frederick Buechner says. "To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are giving and the pain you are giving back --- in many ways that's a feast fit for a King. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you."

How does one respond?
Either plow ahead, be pissed and eat yourself alive or ... let that stuff go.

There was a time when I was full of anger ... it didn't matter why ... it was just great to be full of anger ... Politicians, Religion, Sex or the lack thereof, Work, or the radio wouldn't play the right damn song at the right time ... I've been repeatedly raped by anger.

I consider myself a survivor.

Every day I wake up, determined to enjoy the wonderful people and things in my life ... sure they haven't always been there for me and some were downright mean ... but I'm not going to hurt myself anymore.

And I certainly wasn't all that great to them either, instigating far too many hurts that are never forgotten.

I've done way too much of that and have the scars to prove it and can point to the ones I caused.

So I'm writing the anger out.

For me.

And I share it too for whoever might find it useful.

And its very satisfying when people say "Thanks, that's what I was thinking!" ... and when they say, "You're crazy! You piss me off!"

Either way's alright.

If someone needs me to be pissed at ... I can do that.

It's not fun but I can love them enough to take it ... though I may get frustrated and hurt.  

I do delight when people say, "Hey thanks! That's what I was thinking but haven't said."

It's hard to not love that ... and to feel better about myself.

The sun just popped out from behind every dark clouds.

I just kissed a picture of my wife.

Our dog Goddess just kissed me.

It's hard to be angry when I have so much.

It's out now and I'm going to enjoy what's left of this life I have, my wonderful wife and family, delightful friends, and marvelous opportunities.

I'll have plenty of time to be angry ... when I'm dead and missing these things.

Living the Life Jimmy Buffett writes about

"You're not really a Beach Bum," Sarah says.

"Oh yeah," I ask ... standing halfway in and halfway out of the house at the sliding glass doors wearing only a wrap because her girls are home.

"Yeah, you don't a have tattoo and refuse to get one. You took your ear ring out. Plus you're way too connected!"

"Hmmm," I say ignoring her definition and meandering outside to the Beloved Back Deck, taking my seat at the table under an Umbrella beside a Palm Tree with an oyster face, wearing a red coconut bra and a green grass skirt.

My lap top is streaming Jim Morris music, the sun dances on the lush green Sub-Tropical leaves, orange blooms on Hibiscus plants and Geckos scurry across the railing.

I glance back inside where she's still standing doing something over the sink.

God I've got a good looking wife!

She's not wearing much either and I find it hard to concentrate ... well actually its not ... I'm just concentrating on her ass and not much else.

Sarah's taking the older girls to volunteer at "Surfers for Autism" and I've been ordered to stay here and babysit the Little Lingenfelter ... which I am perfectly cool with ... largely because she's still asleep ... and I'm really enjoying my life.

"I'm living the life Jimmy Buffett only wrote about," streams from the lap top ... and the line gives me pause.

"Hell Yeah!" I say to Sarah's ass ... which is magnificently walking out of the kitchen to tend to something else.

I wonder how she claims I'm not a Beach Bum?

My clothing is optional.

I shower, work, meander and tan outside.

I prefer to eat in bars.

I love live music ... mostly as an aficionado ... but also as an occasional instigator.

I wrote her a love song called "Sandy Kisses" because our first kiss was filled with sand and salt and ... there's never been more wonderful.

Well ... later it got more wonderful!

"Hey Babes," Sarah says interrupting my obsessions standing in the doorway holding her bikini top over her boobs, "will you tie me?"

Knocking over everything on the table under the Umbrella I jump up and grab her strings.

"Double knot me, okay?" she says.

"God I want to," I think.

She leaves to get the other Lingenfelters ... which is good ... because I need to catch my breath ... and get a grip on myself.

Plopping back in my chair I release the grip on myself.

Jim Morris reminds to be laid back and Key Wasted ... so I plop my tanned feet on the rail only to be very pleasantly surprised when Sarah plants a big one on me to say goodbye.

She and the older Lingenfelters leave.

The little one's still asleep.

"Well," I say to myself. "I'm not Beach Bum enough for her."

So I write Sean asking if we can get together for beers because ... obviously ... I need coaching.

Sin ... from a Sinner's point of view

In Seminary I paid lots of money to learn the definition of the word "SIN" ... "to miss the mark."

Like a shooter aiming for the Bull's eye ... you come close way more often than hitting the target dead on.

Either way I think we do the best we can.

We try our very best to not miss the mark but ... odds are ... we will not hit dead center except every once in a while.

All these people who say we should get it perfect every time ... they're just not right.

Jimmy Swaggart  ... Bishop Eddie Long ... Jim Bakker ... Earl Paulk ... and Rev. Gilbert Gauthe (in my hometown) ... and a thousand other ministers preached fidelity and abstinence ... BUT ... (this is ugly) they did everything ... and everyone ... from Alter boys to little girls ... Pretty Prostitutes and Ugly ones ... numerous members of the Congregation (male and female) ... and, my personal favorite ... having sex with your sister-in-law, conceiving a child, trying to hide it (as if you could) and then explaining it by saying, "I don't know how this could happen!" (Earl Paulk)

The point being ... nobody hits the mark all of the time.

Truth is ... it's a rare thing to hit the mark consistently.

Most of us hit it occasionally.

Sadly some never hit it.

Worse are those who never try to hit it at all!

"For all have sinned," says St. Paul ... so why all the bullshit about not sinning?

You sin!

I sin!

We all sin!

Sinning is the norm.

That's not to say I want to settle for sinning.

I don't sin anywhere as much as I used to.

I don't miss the days when I sinned a lot at all!

But you know what?

It's alright.

It got me to where I am now.

Happily in love ... content with life ... consternated about figuring out the continued financing ... wonderful adult children who keep me fascinated with what they're doing ... three little girls living with me who keep me guessing ... at a place I love ... with Sarah ... who only makes me question "Hey God! Why did it take so long to get to this?"

In the end, I think it's all about forgiveness.

"Ah shit," God says. "You missed. It's alright. Let's try again. I know you're going to hit it."

Other Dangersous Things About Tybee Island, Georgia

After an overwhelming response to yesterday's "The Ten Most Dangerous Things About Living On Tybee Island" ... I am compelled to share what readers have to offer.

Both residents and visitors alike offered dangerous things about Tybee Island that I've experienced and they were willing to share.

For all those who initially wrote considering purchasing one of the several thousand homes currently on the market and who have concerns about what life is really like on the island ... I offer what others have to say.

Republicans: There are a shitload of them on Tybee. They're easy to spot because they're all white. I mean really white! I mean like they haven't seen sunshine in decades!

This is because they're always meeting at the "American Legion" for "Hate Obama," "Hate Hillary" and "Hate Most Everything" meetings.

They are so intense they never notice the hippies, hipsters and surfers crashing whatever's going on because the Legion serves the cheapest drinks on Tybee Island.

(Thank you Robin Wheeler).

The Beach Bum Parade: Honestly the people of Tybee hate tourists.

That's why everybody who visits gets a ticket.

It's also why we have the annual Beach Bum parade which is a giant, orchestrated water fight to empty the Florida Aquifer because ... in spite of recycling cans in everybody's yard ... Tybee Island carts it all to the same landfill.

While the parade was a wonderful in the beginning ... it quickly eroded into people standing their yards with garden hoses and water balloons waiting on tourists arriving for the weekend with their windows rolled down.

God that's fun!

"We're finally on Tybee Baby!" yells the driver.

"Oh Honey, I love you for booking three nights at the Royal Palms and tonight I'm going to prove it ...SPLAT!!!"

She never finishes because the water balloon full of ice water hits her on the side of the head.

That's tame stuff now because a couple of years ago we started running over people.

(Thank you Sandi Postal)

Speed Signs: As though Tybee doesn't have enough cops ... we have a paramilitary police force with more heavy duty weapons than anywhere outside of the United States! ... electronic signs are strategically placed on the island to inform drivers of their speed.

The signs register a vehicle's speed at 5 miles/per/hour less than it's actually traveling.

This is where a paramilitary police officer is strategically placed to give the driver a ticket for speeding ... so the City can pay for speed scanners deemed illegal by the state, Tasers, sleek police cars and the operating cost of a new Headquarters paid for by a Special Options Sales Tax with no increases in the annual budget.

(Thank you Matt Few)

Sand Gnats: I'm uncertain if this refers to the minor league baseball the City Of Savannah is trying to give away because it's spending all of its Special Option Sales Tax money on a new Civic Center in a place nobody wants it ... or the little bastards that bite you when you've just laid your towel in the sand and you can't see 'em so you can kill 'em.

Come to think of it ... Savannah City Council and actual Sand Gnats are both the same.

(Thank you Santa John Driggers)

2nd Avenue: In an effort to prevent golf carts, bicyclists, walkers, joggers, and parents pushing baby carts being run over by the Tybee Island Paramilitary Police speeding after whoever they're going to ticket and not endanger pedestrians ... the "Elected People" on City Council designated 2nd Avenue a "Safe Place" to enjoy the island.

It works pretty good until you pass the daily "Whine and Cheese" where every one stops for a ... what President Clinton didn't do ... and some good Christian fellowship.

Actually the only time it doesn't work is when the Tybee Island Paramilitary Police speed down the "Pedestrian Friendly" street to ticket someone to pay for aforementioned slick new Headquarters.

(Thank you Anonymous Person scheduled to appear in Tybee Court in the aforementioned slick new Police Collusion Center in the not-too-distant future where you will pay as charged!)

Shirley Sessions: If you're coming to Tybee to escape everything wrong in your life ... and you need to commune with God ... be engulfed in the beauty of nature ... marvel at sunrises, sunsets and rainbows ... and heal ...

The last thing you need is someone telling you how "FABULOUS" everything is ... your life ... the husband you just deserted ... your child just you visited in prison ... the taxes you owe ... wondering how you're going to pay for this trip because you've been ticketed three times already and have two scheduled appearances in Tybee Court ... yours is one of several thousand homes on the island for sale ... or you went to the Methodist Church and your car is surrounded by "crime scene" tape because you're a person of color and the Tybee Island Paramilitary Police are waiting with Tasers ...

The last thing you need to head is Shirley saying, "FABULOUS!"

(Thank you Sandy McCLoud).

I could go on but have a life to live, Paramilitary Police to avoid, bills to pay and see what Mack's daily special is at IGA.

Have a great weekend everybody!

(Thank you Doug Weathers)

And if you come to Tybee ... enjoy your time in Paradise!

(Thank you Don Henley).

The Most Dangergous Things about living on Tybee Island

People throughout the world write me asking ...

"Micheal we're really thinking about moving to Tybee Island and read everything you write to gain a better understanding of what life's really like there. We've visited several times and marvel at the beauty of the Back River, the smell of the Marsh, the beautiful beach, excellent night life, a healthy competition between the churches and wonderful food.

But, we know everything has a dark side ... even a beautiful place like Tybee. Should we pull the trigger and purchase one of the several thousand homes currently for sale?

 What should be frightened of?"

Rather than write everyone individually, I'll use this public forum to describe the "THE TEN MOST DANGEROUS THINGS ABOUT LIVING ON TYBEE ISLAND!"

Driving through Savannah to get here: There's a 50% chance bullets will be flying around your car as you make your way ... doesn't matter if you take Bay, Liberty, Victory, 37th or the little secret shortcut I can't talk about.

The good news is shooters rarely hit their targets, unless you come in July. The odds go way up in July.

Premature Intoxication: Everybody wants a drink after successfully surviving the drive from Savannah! You have to be careful because of the salt air, abundance of drinking establishments, girls in bikinis, Tropical rhythms and ... running into Shirley Sessions with her one word vocabulary of "FABULOUS!"  ... which is just another cause to celebrate.

Unfortunately "Premature Intoxication" is an all too common occurrence on the island. If you want to witness it firsthand, attend a City Council meeting and watch the audience and 1/3 of the elected officials.

You have a 76.2% chance of being ticketed for something or another:  Tybee has one of the best paramilitary police forces in THE WORLD!

Unleash this force in Afghanistan or against ISIS anytime of day ... other than 11:30 am to 12:30 pm ... and our Police Department will have everyone convicted, tried and arrested in mere moments. THEY ARE THE BEST at keeping order having crushed countless oranges and activities by other peoples of color!

Except at lunch time when they're all eating at Sundae Café.

Mallory Pierce doing a caricature of you: This popular island character once got in a hot tub with Jane Fonda, teaches college classes, was repeatedly elected to City Council and single handedly integrated Tybee.

But he thinks he can draw.

Then he'll want a beer.

Be careful!

Road rage when looking for parking at IGA, the Liquor Store and when you get stuck behind the tourist driving 35 miles/per/hour on the Tybee Road (either coming or going):

Inevitably ... you are in a hurry to get on island and start enjoying or ... you have to get off island fast because your Grandmother's having a heart attack!

It doesn't matter because either way you're be behind a Tourist enjoying the beauty of the Marsh at 35 miles/per/hour or "Georgia Rolling Thunder" is to going to pull you over.

So calculate at least one additional hour of driving time to get onto Tybee and 3 additional hours to say bye to Grandma.

Roma Rage: This is completely different from road rage if you drive the wrong way down front or ride a bicycle on the sidewalk.

A sweet, Grandmotherly, former school teach is going to kick your ass!

You need to know.

Pay attention to the sign in front of City Hall: Most people stare at the ocean or are looking for their rentals and miss important messages like ...

"Drive Safe: We're going to pull you over anyway!" ...

"Parking Strictly Enforced 8 am to 8 pm: But you'll still get a ticket!" ... and of course,

"Family Friendly Community! Unless you have a disability!"

The Methodist Church: Their motto is "We have crime scene tape and we're not afraid to use it in the glory of God!"

Just trust me here ... they're not.

Jelly Fish in August: Tybee closes the ocean every August because of some long term rental agreement the City Manger reached with vacationing Jelly Fish.

If you try to share it with them ... you will get stung ... then you're get arrested ... and then ...

Tybee Court: "Pay as charged," is what you mostly hear but it's very efficient and out-collects the Baptist, Catholic, Methodist and Presbyterian Churches combined!

Only Bar Church does better!

These are the top ten most dangerous things about living on Tybee.

Other than that, it's Paradise!

Hump Day

Every morning when I leave The Breakfast Club I relish in the early morning happenings of the island.

Strolling out the door marked "Exit Only" I pass the line waiting to enter and I see them wondering why I'm leaving just as the famous restaurant is opening.

Nodding their way I either hop in my truck parked where they're waiting or next door to Helen's driveway where my bicycle rests against her porch, and make my way to the sun rising over the ocean.

If I'm in a hurry I take a left passed Sean and Wynn's house and scurry on home.

If I'm not, I take a right meandering down front, wave at Jerry the "Animal Control Officer" ... (what happened to Dog Catchers?) ... make my way down one of the lanes or alleys stuffed full of vacation rentals and apartments ... take a right on Butler Avenue ... (which is somehow also called the Korean War Memorial Highway though I rarely see any Koreans on it)... passed hotels, bars and restaurants.

Along the way I pass early morning joggers, power walkers, stumblers wondering what happened to the night, philosophers sitting still drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes while staring into space but they all disappear when I make the turn on 13th Street.

13th Street is only a few blocks long, has a rich canopy of lush sub-Tropical trees, ending in the Marsh with spectacular views of the Back River, Wilmington Island and mind numbing sunsets.

I'm heading west so the sun's over my shoulder and deep shadows sprinkled with dancing sparkles of light blanket the road.

It takes my breath away every single day.

It's magical about this time of morning ... the sun bubbling out of the Sea, the lushness of the trees, the heat of the morning, the smell of the Marsh and the tranquility of the Back River.

Today I'm in a hurry because Sarah asked me to make certain she's up and ready for work so I wave at Sean and Wynn's house, speed on down Butler, hang a fast curve on 13th and ... stop.

I'm not sure if the Garden of Eden was any better because it's pretty amazing.

Art lives at the end of the street so I say a prayer for him, inhale the pungent aroma of the Marsh at Low Tide ... the smell of sex in the Tropics ... and wonder how many more days I get to be blessed by this.

Then I rush home to make sure Sarah's up and moving, fix her coffee, start getting my day in order, admire my wife when she strolls into the kitchen and in a nanosecond ... the day has stuffed out the morning.

Sarah leaves ... the phone rings ... the cell phone buzzes without ceasing ... Goddess wants to wander in and out the sliding glass doors ... I can't believe the number of emails ... four different people want me to do four different things right now and I try to prioritize ... rubbing my hands over my head they're full of hair when I start typing again.

"Ahhhh," I sigh.

It's Hump Day and I wish you a nice one.

I think Goddess is taking me for a walk to remind me how precious it all is.

Heavy Metal Hymns

Choirs of birds are waging harmonious war with choirs of cicada.

It's so damn loud outside I can't hear myself think.

I'm trying to be contemplative because there's a lot on my mind right now.

Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, have retreated inside to get away from the noise but it's too cold in there for me.

Sitting in the bright sunshine, working on my all over tan, I'm wondering how many cicada does it take to make a choir?

Suddenly a hoodlum gang of squirrels get in a fight in the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt and it's even louder.

Grabbing one of Goddess' tennis balls, I hurl it in the branches of the Palm Tree and the squirrels, thugs that they are, scurry away.

Resuming my seat, I prop my feet on the rail noting the choir of cicada have chased away the choir of birds.

It reminds me of the time the choir in the Methodist Church sang "How many stars will there be in my crown?" while the Baptist Church choir next door sang, "No Not One."

Church jokes really are the worse jokes.

My cell phone buzzes and it's Samuel Adams, who used to play damn good live music on Tybee Island, actually following up with a text.

Miracles really do happen!

"SHUT UP!" I yell at the choir of cicada. "IT'S SAM FOR GOD'S SAKE! HE NEVER WRITES!"

Apparently unconcerned about whatever it is Sam has to say, the choir of cicada sing louder.

Finally looking at his text I read, "I'll get back to you after I make a Doctor's appointment. ASAP! Peace!"

It strikes me this is the longest text message Sam's ever sent.

Goddess meanders out to check on me.

"You think Cicada are charismatic?" I ask.

Our lovely Golden Retriever mixed with Boarder Collie lays down at my feet, sighs heavily and covers her ears with paws.

"Yeah I think so too," I concur. "They only know Heavy Metal Hymns. Damn charismatics!"

Goddess nods and closes her eyes.

No Doubt

"Get in!" he says.

I hand him the cooler ... the chair ... the beach bag ... the Styrofoam cup full of beer ... and climb inside his van.

"Where you going?" he asks while leaning over to awkwardly hug me.

"Seriously?" I reply.

He laughs as only Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island whenever he feels like it, can.

It's a self-depreciating, having fun with himself while having fun with you, laugh.

Sam cracks me up when he laughs and it makes me laugh.

"13th," I say and he turns the van around to drive me the four blocks I would have walked to the beach.

"I think it's God's will that I found you like this," he says suddenly serious.

"Well then," I mumble sipping the beer, "then it must be."

"It is," he says stopping at the end of the street, in a shady spot where he illegally parks before awkwardly hugging me again before settling in for serious conversation.

Sam Adams has always been Tybee Island's coolest character.

Sure John O'Neill you're funnier ... Roma's more stately ... and Monty Parks is more electable ... but Sam's the coolest.

"What do you want?" I ask ready to hit the beach.

"God wants us to talk," he pronounces looking like a Saint getting ready to pray.

"Well Shit," I think to myself, "God normally talks through Sam ... according to Sam."

"What's God want us to talk about?" I ask.

"Us," he says with conviction.

"Shit!", I think to myself.

"I just want to go the beach," I confess.

"In a minute," he proclaims.

"Shit," I think really wanting to hit the beach but ... it's God talking so I remain in the van.

"It's time," he says.

"Tell me about it," I say taking another sip of beer, "there's not going to be a spot left on the beach if I don't get on out there."

He laughs again and it melts my heart, "No it's time for you to step up," he explains.

"Well," I say not knowing what to say.

"We've both known for a long time," he continues.

"Hmmm," I mumble watching the endless parade of families carry beach supplies over the crosswalk.

"Where you been?" I ask.

"Where I'm supposed to be," he says.

"Of course," I agree.

"We'll get together this week," he concludes.

"You never respond to a freaking text," I snap.

"Oh I will," he smiles.

And there comes a moment when you either believe ... or you don't.

You're full of faith or as empty as a dry dog dish.

"Alright," I say grabbing my cooler but Samuel grabs me instead giving me another awkward hug and I spill beer on myself.

"It's gonna be great," he says with his infectious smile.

"No doubt," I say grabbing my chair and heading to the beach.

Questions about Worship

I'm in good spirits, mostly from napping, and it takes me away from it all.

Which got me thinking about Church.

My sister Angi updates her status to let the world know she's "@worshipping God."

My brother David is not as cutting edge and goes to Church without letting the entire world know.

My Mom goes to early service and gets home in time to watch the highlights on ESPN of the Georgia game.

Sarah's Dad is conducting service at this very moment and she's supporting him by staying in bed, waking up slow,  pondering what we're going to do today ... if we do anything today.

I'm the Heathen of the bunch which is funny because I'm an ordained Southern Baptist Minister sitting on the Beloved Back Deck, singling island songs, eyeing the new blender Sarah bought, envisioning the wonderful concoctions we're going to make to "Praise the Lord" later today.

Somewhere just under 50% of the nation is attending Church right now and it makes me wonder ...

How many congregants are staring at their phones during worship?

How many still fall asleep during the sermon like in the olden days?

How many are lusting?

How many are wishing they were somewhere else?

How many are hungry and thinking about dinner (e.g. lunch for Northern readers)?

How many are marveling at how the Preacher got his hair to stay that way?

How many are wondering why in the Hell a woman's in charge?

How many are already pumped about the Nascar race starting in a couple of hours?

How many are reliving the great sex they had last night and smelling their fingers?

How many are singing songs in their head?

How many have to pee but refuse to embarrass themselves by getting up in the middle of the pew and kneeing themselves out?

How many are watching the "Minister of Music" study his fingernails?

How many can't see around the head in front of them?

Me?

I'm thinking about going to the beach.

This is the day that the Lord has made.

Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
 

It's Game Day in Athens

It's a well known fact I love the beach.

I live at the beach and prefer to vacation at other beaches.

I love islands, staring at the ocean, turning my back to the mainland with all of it's congestion, crowds, politicians and cities.

Shrimp boats, lighthouses, Palm Trees, seagulls, salty air, Piers and seafood platters are necessary ingredients in my happy life.

The love of my life can talk me into going places like Disney World but that's purely a testimony to the depth of how smitten I am of Sarah.

She did talk me into going to Ireland, which had never occurred to me at all, but thankfully we mostly visited quaint sea villages that serve "cockles and mussels" and the Pubs have bands playing songs about the sea.

When work requires me to leave the island, I curse as my dark side goes public.

There's only one thing I've voluntarily, willingly and excitedly left the island for (well other than Sarah's house before we were married and she lived two islands to the west) and that is Athens, Georgia.

When I was 12 and my brother David was 11, my Dad took us to witness the Beloved DAWGS of Georgia play the demonic team from Houston.

I still vividly remember sitting in the Sanford sunshine, my hand on Dad's knee and David's hand on his other knee, and while we were already raised to be DAWGS, I really became one that day.

In no time at all I had children of my own and first took them to watch Georgia play Kentucky in Lexington until we made it to the island and got season tickets.

Every weekend in the fall became a wonderful celebration of family, friends and football.

So it's funny today.

This is the first home opener I've missed in 26 years but I'm on island with the love of my life ... who already knows I'm going to drive her and her girls absolutely crazy when the game starts.

"What's wrong honey?" she's already asked. "You seem bothered."

I'm not bothered.

I've got my game face on.

The Beloved DAWGS of Georgia are playing and I'm 12 years old again.

I'll be watching with my Dad, who died several years ago, my kids ... one of whom is there and the other two wishing they were ... the holy host of friends who've celebrated Game Day with me from New York City to the epicenter of the Universe in Athens for four and a half decades ... and Sarah and her girls who'll think I've lost my mind screaming at the television, hunching over in despair or jumping up and down in delight.

I find myself full of emotion sitting in the bright sunshine on the Beloved Back Deck with the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiling at me under Fran's thousand shades of green.

I miss being in Athens today but I love the Now.

We're going to the Beach.

Afterwards we're coming back.

Then it's all GOOOOOOOOOOO DAWGS! SIC EM! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!

Dad, Jesus and me

My Dad used to make Salmon Croquets and I haven't thought of that in years until yesterday as Sarah and I push the cart in Publix and I saw the cans of Salmon on the shelf.

Immediately Scotty beamed me back to our kitchen in the house on Clifton Drive in Port Wentworth, Georgia and I could smell the Croquets frying in the skillet.

He served them with stewed tomatoes with lots of pepper over white rice, green beans and the thinnest crunchy corn bread ever made.

Dad was quite the cook and because he worked the night shift at the railroad, and Mom worked the day shift at the bank, he cooked supper.

We ate when Mom got home and then he went to work and we went back outside to play.

Scotty beamed me back pretty quickly and I hear Sarah ask, "What are you thinking about?"

"Salmon Croquets," I reply and she flashes a look of loving concern that I've lost my mind.

Sarah and her girls do not eat fish which is one of the great tragedies of life.

The first thing Jesus did after being raised from the dead was have a fish fry on the beach for his friends!

I've always wondered if Jesus walked on the water as a way to streamline fishing. Once above a school of fish, did he just reach down and pick the ones he wanted?

I never did learn the answer in Seminary because none of the Professors could fish for fish because the Baptists were always fishing for men ... NOT WOMEN ... just men ... or GAY PEOPLE ... just men.

Anyway, now I'm really jonesing for Salmon Croquets which I haven't had since Dad cooked them.

Obviously I'll have to cook them when Sarah and the girls are away because they don't appreciate the wonderful aroma of fish frying in grease in a cast iron skillet inside the kitchen like Dad, Jesus and I do.

Savoring every single moment

Things look different when you know they're about to change.

My friend Erin Sorenson wrote that and it hit me right between the eyes.

I spend a lot of time these days telling Sarah how much I love everything.

I love our house, the incredible transformation taking place and am forever stopping to admire how beautiful it is and how much it feels like a loving home.

I love when Sarah's girls are here because, in spite of driving me absolutely crazy, they are fun and show love in the most obscure yet over-the-top neurotic ways ... plus they've become vicious Spades players and we love beating each other!

I love when my kids wander in an out, always unexpectedly and typically cramming lots of information and emotion in the smallest amounts of time.

I love Tybee Island still ... though Jesus Christ has it changed! ... with it's paramilitary police force, Stop Signs everywhere for no apparent reason, no parking whatsoever, a sign in front of City Hall flashing "Welcome! Parking Laws Strictly Enforced 24/7!" and it still won some award for being family friendly anyway.

I love my friends ... both the close ones and the virtual ones on Facebook who bring mostly humor and occasional drama ... sharing lots of music, dinner, drinks, opportunities for good times and who are there whenever I need them.

I love the Tybee Island Tuesday Night Acoustic Jam in the bar formerly known as Doc's because it's eclectic as Hell, funny, too serious, and magic sometimes happens that lingers for days.

I love Goddess, Winston The Little Gay Dog, Gypsy the formerly gender confused cat and a Hermit Crab I never actually see because they love us with incomprehensible depth and passion.

I love every trip Sarah and I have taken, from Ireland to San Salvador, Belize to Memphis, Costa Rica to Athens, Georgia and Disney World to downtown  ... the ones we're planning ... and the time when we finally do expatriate!

I love the solitude and the frivolity of the Beloved Back Deck where friends rise from the dead, drunken Angels visit, God listens while I talk, I listen to the quiet response, a choir of Cicada sing Hymns and where the party always end up happening.

I love delighting in Sarah from the ever-so-slow way she wakes in the morning to the passion of the moments that sprinkle our days. 

And I love me! It's taken a long time to get here but, as Mom says, it is what it is, and I've forgiven myself for the things I did wrong, celebrate all the good things and find myself extremely comfortable in my own skin.

I'm looking at everything these days knowing they're going to change.

Houses need constant repair ... little girls grow up ... children have families of their own ... Government justify themselves by increasing rules, regulations, fees and fines ... friends move or die ... religious ecstasy is harder to come by the older you get and ... Sarah goes back to work next week changing the way we live our days.

It's all good!

It's better to have loved and lost ... screw that!

It's just better to love!

Enjoy it while you got it!

Savor every single moment.

That's what I'm doing these days.