American Health Care and me

"I'd like to see you again in a month," my Doctor orders.

"Absolutely not," I reply, sitting on wax paper wearing nothing more than a paper towel.

She's already conducted a hostile takeover of my ears gleefully ripping wax out with an instrument invented by the Nazis.

My affectionate response is calling her an illegitimate daughter of a dog.

Smiling she lubes her gloved finger and tells me to turn over and hug my knees to my chest.

After I land she hugs me and informs me about my next appointment.

"I won't be here," I explain.

"It's the power of the pen," she smiles holding her ink pen from the white Doctor's coat. "You have to come back so I can write the prescription for the drugs you need to keep on living."

"Not at all," I say pulling my black running shorts back up. "Did they teach you about Canada in Medical School?"

Fear creeps across her face.

"I can get whatever I need out of Canada ... for a LOT CHEEPER THAN AMERICAN DRUGS ... and I don't even need your damn prescription."

Pulling my UGA tee shirt with spaghetti stains on it, she sits beside me on the cold metal table.

"How much does it cost?" she asks.

I tell her.

"Damn," she spits, "they're under cutting us bad."

"We love it," I tell her. "It's like a game ... order from Canada then guess which country your drugs come from ... Sarah and I just laugh when they arrive from ... India, Germany, France, Africa ... even Cuba."

"Cuba?" she seems shocked.

"You get your news from mainstream media?" I ask putting my arm around her shoulder.

That was over a month ago.

I receive a letter from her office ... a Memorial Health Physicians Practice ... explaining that I missed my appointment ... they understand life gets in the way ... please reschedule immediately ... so they can continue making money.

"They just wasted money," I tell myself. "I already told them I wasn't coming back. Why did they send me a letter?"

And that's the problem with the American Health Care system.

It is not customer friendly and certainly doesn't understand we have alternatives.

"You need this?" Sarah asks holding up the letter.

"No," I answer.

She throws it away.

"Did you tell them we no longer have the land line?"

Grinning devilishly I reply, "I did not."

"That's probably why you didn't get the reminder call from the Doctors."

Sarah always says "Doctors" ... in the plural ... as it's all a conspiracy.

"Damn," I say. "I hate that. I can't believe I forgot."

We both burst into laughter.

Smile

Watching the rising sun burn the fog hanging in the air, I wish it would hurry up ... this fog is killing me.

Standing I look towards town, across the Palm Trees and Pines seeing dark purples and blues.

Turning I look east, across the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and newly fashioned grass skirt ... pass the fortress of the crazy man who lives behind us ... to witness the sun's really trying.

I can't blame him ... he's doing his best ... which is as good as anyone can do.

The damn Fog refuses to relent ... even in the face of defeat ... hanging on to the reality of what no longer exists.

The sun glows brighter ... casting off rays of light ... and I can literally see pockets of wet darkness evaporate.

Within minutes the Fog retreats westward as the Sun chases.

Caught in the middle, I rip off my shirt, bask in the golden glows, retrieve my list of "Things to do" ... only to hear Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, clawing the screen of the sliding glass doors.

Muttering a repetitive explicative I stand and let them outside ... slamming the door shut so Gypsy the cat cannot get outside.

Resuming my seat, I'm now bathed in bright, warm light and ... smile.

Don't get me wrong ... everything's not perfect ... sustainability is a bitch ... "How do we keep doing this?" I ask myself ... then pick up the "Things to do" list hoping it's as right as the Bible.

There've been times in my life when I had lots of money but little love and I did my best with it though there was always more unsatisfied feelings than anything else.

These days I've got WAY MORE love than money and while it should scare the shit out of me ... I'm pretty content.

It's like the Fog fighting the sun.

Rather than focus on the darkness of what I don't have ... I'm concentrating on who ... not so much what ... I do have fulfilling my life.

If that doesn't make you smile ... nothing can.

 

Monday Morning Staff Meeting

The Cat Lady shuffles in the kitchen wearing a stained yellow Terrycloth bathrobe, blue towel piled high on her head wearing pink bunny slippers ... looking like ... Marge Simpson on meth.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, is already sitting at the table with pen and paper ready to take minutes.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, lays on his back in chair.

Goddess yawns.

My Guardian Angel burps.

"Alright, let's get started," I say clapping my hands together.

"Wait," the Cat Lady says. "Somebody's missing."

My Guardian Angel shakes her head ... takes a shot of bourbon ... a very long drag from her cigarette ... chases it with beer... burps again ... pulls her robe back over her skinny white shoulder just before it exposes her right breast.

"The Gardener is not here," I explain.

"Why not?" the Cat Lady fires back.

"She's dead," I answer.

"Oh," the Cat Lady says taking her seat as cat hair falls on the floor reminding me of Pig Pen on Charlie Brown because whenever he speaks dirt falls from his body.

"What did she die of?" she continues.

"Oh Jesus Christ," my Guardian Angel explodes, smashing out her cigarette as another miraculously appears.

"We don't know," I confess.

"WHAT?" Winston TLGD asks before answering for everyone ... "Yes we do. It was a Gypsy curse that killed her."

This makes my Guardian Angel laugh. After taking another shot she points the lit tip of the cigarette at our little dog and says, "Of course it was."

Goddess yawns.

Gypsy's disappeared.

"I'm glad everyone could make it," I sigh. "Let's get down to business."

"What business?" my Guardian fires. "You don't write about us anymore! There's nothing to talk about."

"Who put the Gypsy curse on the Gardener and her underwear?" the Cat Lady asks.

"It's best you don't ask," my Guardian Angel explains. "She could put one on you too."

"I move the meeting be adjourned," Goddess yawns.

"Seconded," my Guardian Angel says while simultaneously disappearing.

Goddess and Winston, TLGD, quickly follow suit.

I'm left alone with the Car Lady.

"So who put the curse on ..." she begins but stops dead in her tracks when my wife pulls into the carport.

"You better go," I whisper and the Cat Lady flees leaving a trail of feline hair in our kitchen.

"Hey Babes," I say as Sarah gracefully makes her up the stairs.

"How was your meeting?" she asks giving me a kiss.

"Aw, it didn't happen," I tell her.

"Why not?" she asks throwing her bag down and kicking off her shoes.

"I don't know," I answer tenderly rubbing her feet. "They were scared of something."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I can't for the life of me figure out why they would be scared."

In the distance I hear my Guardian Angel snort... laugh ... spit a logy ... take a shot and ... laugh again.

My Dance with God

The time changed last night.

I have to go to Church this morning because I'm in charge of the service.

It reminds me of a joke a Priest told at St. Meinrad Seminary and Monastery in southern Indiana.

The joke went like this.

Mom: "Get up son it's time to go to Church."

Son ... slurring his words while asleep in bed ... " I ain't going to Church."

Mom: "Yes you are. Get up and get dressed!"

Son ... putting the pillow over his head ... "I am not going to Church."

Mom: "DO NOT MAKE ME COME UP THERE! GET READY FOR CHURCH NOW!"

Son ... angrily sitting up in bed while throwing the pillow against the wall" "WHY DO I HAVE TO GO?"

Mom: "Because you're the Priest."

It still cracks me up ... primarily because there's so much truth in it.

A lot of clergy are dreading heading into work today.

It's partially because of the time change ... it'll be "Church Lite" today ... but it's also because they know they're going to give far more than they receive and it's going to leave them absolutely spent!

They're also under some delusion they pretend they haven't shot their wad so they pretend to still care when they've got nothing left to give.

These are the good clergy anyway ... there's many that really don't care and it's just a paycheck.

Back in the days when I heard the long, lanky Priest at St. Meinrad tell his joke, I was on a mission to find God. Attending a Baptist Seminary, inexplicably in charge of an inner city congregation, I was also plowing the rich fields of Catholicism ... doing the readings for Mass at St. Martin de' Tours every Wednesday and visiting lots of Monasteries.

When all was said and done, I'd shot my wad ... left organized religion as it had already left me ... but found my dance with God.

I'm heading off to Church in a bit ... after I cook the girls cinnamon rolls which is a Sunday tradition in our house ... and my priorities are in order.

Our Church is in a bar and is definitely disorganized religion.

But there's a Holiness that happens ... I don't know how ... but it does in spite of my lack of understanding.

Individually we are a flawed messed up bunch of overdrinking, under caring, cussing, smoking, lusting independents ... but collectively we become a Church ... in a Bar transformed into a Sanctuary.

It's pretty spectacular and I find great joy in it.

When it's over and I've shot my wad ... I'm pretty spent ... and care about how many Cinnamon rolls the girls ate while I was gone.

Then we settle in for a day of rest.

Maddie the 13 year old watches "The Murder Channel" ... Laurel the 10 year old talks ... Cassidy the 8 year old stays in her room playing on her Mom's I-Pad ... while Sarah and I lust surrounded by barriers.

It's a good way to spend a Sunday.

I believe God gets a big kick out of it anyway.

A Bar Becomes A Church

Worship in bars is typically seen as scandalous!

But each Sunday morning in Benny’s on Tybee Island we gather to give glory to God the best ways we know how ... and to celebrate each other ... or just to find some comfort there.

Traditional church left us wounded and lost. Many lost their religion but still need a place to feel accepted.

A collection of individuals transforms to a magical community of spiritual holiness and love, where everyone is welcomed.

A bar becomes a church.

We wish everyone could experience it for themselves because words do not do it justice.

Many out of town guests join us and continue to come worship with us on their vacations.

There's no dress code, we don’t give tithing envelopes, we don’t make visitors wear nametags.

We just open our doors, lay a potluck breakfast on the pool table, and do our best to share God’s love to all who come.

And we hope that one day soon you have the opportunity to be with us.

We rarely ask for anything because the focus is on God, praise, healing and community.

Most who come can't afford to tithe much ... working as waitresses, Bartenders, cleaning vacation condos, doing maintenance and landscaping ... but they do!

Their giving covers about 1/3 of the costs of keeping God in a Bar.

As this ministry continues to grow and ... it's growing ... we have to cover the costs!

We are aiming to have only two fundraisers a year and ask for you to help us with our first one of 2015.

Will you give $5, $10, $50, $100 or $500 to help your neighbor?

Just click www.gofundme.com/tybeebarchurch

Thank you!

Enjoy yourself today!

You are God's gift to you!

Now that's living!

Ob-li-de! Ob-la-da ... Life goes on ... "

Well ... it does and it doesn't.

I've been counting up the deaths and there've been a lot in my life.

They're gone.

I'm still here.

It's as mystifying as "Ob-li-de! Ob-la-da" ... a Jamaican phrase Paul McCartney admits he has no clue as to what it means ... but he liked the way it sounds ... so a song was born.

Why do I get to stay and they had to go?

If it were up to me I'd rather they still be here.

Well ... not all of them ... but most of them ... the ones I loved and liked ... I don't give much thought to the others.

I'm not one who believes God's got St. Peter at a desk with a Divinely appointed time chart of who's got to go when ... that strikes me as silly and sad.

I do think we're given this life and ... it's ours to do with what we wish ... some do better than others with it ... and then it ends.

It's like most everything you buy at the Grocery Store ... there's a life expectancy stamped on it.

I don't know what my life expectancy is ... I choose to not think about it ... because I'd rather focus on the good things happening at the moment.

I'm sitting in a nice chair, with a nice view, in a nice house, with a dog snoring under my bare feet, watching the floor dry where I mopped it a while ago, listening to good music my son sent me, waiting on a friend to come practice guitar for Bar Church on Sunday.

I worked hard throughout the morning and am satisfied with the progress so far.

I've got to pick up the girls in a few hours so I'm trying to get a lot done in a short period of time because ... there's no getting much anything done with little girls in one house.

My mind drifts to last night as I sat on a pillow in the floor while Sarah lounged on the sofa while we mindlessly watched television ... the girls were elsewhere for the moment ... and she drug her fingers through my hair.

Now that's living!

Of course the girls had to screw it up by coming in wanting attention ... affection ... "prayers for scary dreams" ... to deliver their ultimatums for tomorrow ... and other such stuff.

It makes me smile.

I don't know how much of this I have left.

It's a gift.

Ask God.

I'd rather not interrupt God right now as lots of my friends are dying.

I'd rather go unnoticed.

Because as bad as it can sometimes be ... Life is Good!

Remembering Roma

"Exactly," she asks cuing the ball, wearing a red lace glove so the stick slides effortlessly through her fingers, "what kind of Preacher are you?"

Leaning on my stick waiting for her to shoot, I look at her as she looks at me ... "A Damn Good One!" I answer.

Roma's laugh starts in her brain as she processes my reply, makes it way to stomach as a slight smile builds on her lips then there's an eruption of joyful happiness.

It's a Volcano laugh.

I no longer remember how I became a member of "The Bored" ... the daily gathering at Fannie's-On-The-Beach for libations, laughter and ... for many years ... pool.

The all time best meeting in the early days was when Johnny O bought a brand new white pick up truck and drove it "down Front" on a blustery winter's day.

Roma, Chicago Bob, Bil-with-one-L, Johnny and I are inside Fannie's shooting pool when Henrietta's ... Roma's Life Partner ... car pulls into the mostly empty parking lot stopping like a "Stock Car" beside Johnny's new truck ... leaving black tire marks on the pavement.

Roma's already grinning as we stop playing pool gazing out the large plate glass windows with views of the ocean on the other side of the parking lot.

Henrietta jumps out holding loafs of break ... laughing hysterically ... as Roma's eruption begins.

Opening a loaf, Henrietta throws a slice on top of the cab of the truck ... and proceeds to empty four loafs over the vehicle.

Seagulls appear from nowhere and in seconds we cannot see the truck for the blanket of birds.

"NNNNNOOOOOO!" Johnny screams.

Roma, Chicago Bob, Bil and I are holding each other up laughing as hard as we've ever laughed.

With the bread gone Henrietta blows Johnny a kiss, gets in her car, peels out the parking lot, leaving Johnny's new truck looking like a pile of Seagull shit.

A month later, strolling outside in the pre-dawn darkness to make my way to The Breakfast Club  a lit, reindeer is affixed to the top of my car.

I recognize the reindeer as part of the display in front of City Hall.

"Aw shit," I mutter, "they're going to think I did it!'

Quickly throwing the lit reindeer in my open trunk, I slowly drive to Johnny O's house and put it in the back of his dirty but brand new pick up truck ... then speed away to The Breakfast Club.

Later ... at the Bored Meeting ... I ask ... "Roma did you?"

"NO," she yells emphatically before ... the laugh's born in her brain, moves to her lips and erupts like a Volcano.

Shaking my head ... I know that she knows that I know ... and we wait on Johnny to arrive.

The last good talk with her ... Sarah and I are taking a walk ... it's almost dusk when she speeds by in her Golf Cart ... stops when she sees us... hits reverse ... and in the middle of 5th Ave and 12th ... we have a family reunion.

I got to see her right before she died.

"Hey!" I say walking into her bedroom, she laying in a Hospital bed, breathing oxygen through a tube, "you want me to make your boobs move without touching them."

A slow laugh bubbles from one side of her mouth.

"No," she slurs.

Brushing her hair, my eyes fill with moisture and ... I don't know what to do.

"Love ..." she says ... and then fades out.

"I love you too," I say brushing her hair with my fingers ... "Thank you for everything."

I have lots of Roma stories.

How can I not?

She was such a big part of my life ... a wonderful friend ... glorious partner in crime ...mischievous little girl in an old woman's body ... when Henrietta died I was there ... and when I was abandoned she was there ... and when Sarah and I became us ... she was there too.

That's a friend.

Today's for you Queen Roma!

Here's to us!

Who's like us?

Damn few! 

I love you.

I know you getting any rest or peace.

There's too much Hell to raise in Heaven.

My Little Boat of Life

The Ocean roars loudly in the distance.

The sliding glass door is open and I stare outside ... waiting ... searching ... emptying ... maybe praying.

The first few hours have productive ... some editing, marketing, planning ... coupled with fixing breakfast for Sarah and spoiling our furry ones.

Now there's lull.

It's like being on a sailboat when there's no wind.

I've got to wait it out.

It's something I've learned to accept.

I used to be one who ... when the winds weren't blowing in my direction ... filling my sails ... taking me to where I want to go ... would huff and puff blowing air ... as though I can do it alone.

I love the image.

Life's at a standstill ... nothing's happening ... I'm making absolutely no progress getting to where I want ... in my little boat of life ... the winds aren't blowing in my direction ... so I arrogantly stand up and blow in the sails ... thinking I can do it all by myself.

The truth is no body does anything by themselves.

It's a lie John Wayne made up.

You remember John Wayne ... or Google him if you don't ... he did everything by himself ... he didn't need anyone.

He's also a fictitious persona.

GOD ... we want to believe we do all ourselves ... we don't need anyone ... but it's the biggest load of Bullshit ever!

I wouldn't be here at all without Sarah who keeps me in the boat in the first place so I'm not jumping ship and drowning.

I've almost drowned a few times in life and am grateful I didn't.

Our children ... a multicolored tapestry of personalities sprinkle joy into my little boat every single day ... somehow ... I don't know how.

A few good friends float by either waiting on their sails to fill ... or they zip by quickly because they have.

I sit and wait.

The water ripples ... a Dolphin breaks the surface ... Seagulls swirl ... and I know ... with everything in me ... a Hell of a wind gust is coming ... and we're going to fly!

I can feel it.

It's almost here.
 

An Unplanned Family Reunion

I'm flying high, everything's clicking professionally and I'm pretty convinced I'm happy ... as my marriage falls apart.

I'm oblivious.

For God's sake if you're making money, live where you want to live, successfully raised children and ... pretty much doing whatever you want ... LIFE IS GOOD.

Except it isn't.

Strolling down the beach on a picture postcard day I've drink my beer ... carrying the empty in my University of Georgia Koozie ... index finger stuck in the hole of the can ... feet in the surf ... the beach is packed so I dart around kids building sand castles ... Frisbee throwers ... abandoned towels and people who refuse to move.

The one who's leaving me is home ... packing ... though I'm oblivious ... and make my way up the stairs of the Pier.

My normal friends ... and I use the adjective "loosely" ... have already left.

Michelle pops a top and refreshes my Koozie with no words spoken.

Turning to look at the Sea ... my cousin Ricky Hinely's feet are propped on the railing ... a family trait ... intensely talking to his friend.

Ricky's two month's younger than I ... along with our other cousin Rick Donaldly ... we were in an intense race to be the firstborn grandchild.

Ricky came in second.

Rick came in third.

"Cuz," he says smiling.

"Cuz," I reply as we click bottles.

"Cuz" is our family greeting.

I have a thousand cousins ... Ricky was the first.

My feet prop next to his.

He has this funny grin ... a smirk really ... endearing as Hell.

"What's a country boy doing at the beach?"  I ask.

"Country needs to come to town every once in a while," he says ... then ... "This isn't really town is it?"

"No," I reply and we laugh.

And we talk sitting in the sunshine on a glorious day ... sipping beers ... referring to each other in the family way ... feet propped on the rail.

He's sick and this is his last trip to the beach.

I'm fortunate enough to stumble upon an unplanned family reunion.

"They've taken everything Cuz," he says staring at the Sea.

"Yeah," I answer thinking I understand though I don't.

A month later I'm shocked because he is dead.

I'm still alive.

Like every Funeral ... his sucked ... primarily because he wasn't there.

A year later Rick dies.

There's a big gap in the family tree ... broken braches have fallen down  ... and we're no longer everything we should be ... but the tree remains.

I think it's a "Cuz" sort of day.

I'm going to try to make it to the Pier ... maybe get a beer ... look at the Sea ... toast Ricky and Rick ... say a Prayer thanking God for them ... and wonder why?

Something's not quite right.

And I'm determined God and I are going to work it out before I die.

Life! ... and whatever's next.

It's awkwardly funny being a divorced parent whose children just lost their last remaining grandparent on the "other side" ... as if she's with Darth Vader or something.

She didn't go to the Dark Side ... she died.

Dying is the natural conclusion to living. 

I love my kids and want to be there for them but ...their Grandmother is not part of who I am anymore ... that was then ... this is now.

Except she was a funny woman I enjoyed ... I think she enjoyed me ... and there are some nice memories.

The world has lost a little more because she's gone on to whatever's next ... and whatever it is ... she'll clutter it up in no time ... while laughing.

I worry about my kids though.

They're all different about dealing with death.

One's emotionally accepting ... another hates it because it means more change in her life ... and the last is stoic in an almost Buddhist sort of way.

I believe in them and they'll get through it but ... "once a parent always a parent" and I love them with everything in me and would take the hurt away if I could.

But I can't.

Besides they'll all adults now ... not that it matters to me ... because they'll forever be my kids ... and when I think about them it's most often in some crazy way ... where they're still kids.

If it's not bad enough ... my son's fiancée loses her Grandmother at the same time ... she has two young girls who are being exposed to death for the first time ... so that's not going well.

As this happens, Sarah, the girls and I head to a Willie Nelson concert for a happy night ... which we have.

We've got our own issues ... cash flow isn't what it should be ... bills mount ... the girls are talking about moving in with us full time ... controversy happens in the tiniest of churches ... and Flood Insurance is due and it's ridiculously expensive because it's administered by Government.

But none of these equate with D.E.A.T.H.

Nor the vacancy it leaves behind.

I'm trying to keep it all in perspective today.

Mostly I'm thinking about my kids.

And celebrating everything I have in my life today.

Because the reality is death is life's Grand Finale ... and then whatever's next.

The North verses the South ... ends of Tybee Island, GA.

The longer I live on this island the smaller it gets.

I don't go to the North End anymore.

It's about two miles away.

That's too far.

And people who live on the North End will testify they rarely come to the South End because ... it's too far.

Let me confess I love to travel and am ready to go now ... The Caribbean, South America, Europe, many cities across America, the Ivory Coast of Africa and of course to see Joey and Bill in Key West ... but not the North End of the island Sarah and I live on.

"Why?" you ask?

I'll tell you why ... it's too far.

There's lots of cops over there ... the new City Hall/Courthouse/Jail/Government-Money-Making Industry is on the North End and I don't like it one bit.

I think all City Council meetings should be held on the Beach.

That way, City Council is forever reminded of why everybody's here in the first place and the meetings would be a lot shorter.

It's too damn hot in the Summer and too damn cold in the winter to have a City Council meeting on the Beach ... so it'll create less Government right off the bat.

I think all Judicial proceedings should be held on the beach so the Judge in a black robe can sweat his ass off for once.

You take Government indoors and look what happens ... they want nicer buildings ... named after politicians ... and they have to pay for it ... which is where fees and fines come in ... so to ensure collections "Parking Services" (an oxymoron) and the Police Department are given carte blanche authority over everybody ... except the Government.

I've been to the North End.

It's nice.

We have dear friends who live over there.

There's a nice Lighthouse ... some fine restaurants ... an old fort ... a soft ball field and the American Legion.

The South End has prettier beaches ... the Back River ... four Churches with stained glass and one with no windows ... "The Breakfast Club" ... "Doc's Bar" ... and the Pier.

There's less Government on the South End but far more arrests.

I'm pondering succession.

They can have everything from 11th Street North on ... we'll take 13th Street South ... Tybee Market will be a neutral zone where everybody can pretend to be nice while buying groceries.

The Post Office is on the North End ... so they've have to deliver mail to the South End and the Northerners can continue to pick theirs up ... or they can just leave it at Tybee Market and we'll get it there.

There is a liquor store at both ends so there's no problem there.

The South End should be left alone to market the South End ... with "Clothing Optional Beaches" ... "Belly Flops off the Pier Competitions" ... and Fannie's on the Beach can bring back the "The Best Buns on the Beach competition."

Speaking of which, Jenny Orr owns both "Fannie's On the Beach" and Marlin "Monroe's" ... one's at the south end and the other on the north end ... when disputes occur I think we should just let Jenny decide what's best.

I think it's an idea who's time has come.

This Year's Garden

"Life is like a Garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory."

Leonard Nimoy ... a.k.a. Dr. Spock ... "Tweeted" that.

Like most in my generation I love Spock ... and I love Leonard Nimoy in the Bruno Mars video "The Lazy Song" ... and he died yesterday taking Spock with him ... but he leaves behind some profound words.

Perfect moments are had but they don't last.

Well they do ... in your heart and mind.

"That was a damn good day," we say out loud remembering how close to perfect it was.

Graduating ... the first kiss ... making love ... the marriage ... baby's being born ... hitting the home run ... making the perfect presentation ... writing the book ... climbing the mountain ... or surfing the wave ...

Moments of perfection!

We anticipate them ... they bloom ... it's wonderful ... they fade and they die.

Except they don't.

They stay with us somehow ... I don't know how ... but they do.

Things I've done ... things done to me ... the births of my children ... home runs I've hit ... things I've written ... a sandy kiss on the beach that I taste at this moment ... mountains I've climbed ... waves I've ridden ... I can still feel, taste and touch them all.

Strolling outside I review the dead plants on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Well that sucks," I say out loud in the cold wind of a shitty day.

Inside though, our warm home is full of sleeping girls, dozing animals and incredible love ... both the loud and the quiet kinds.

Strolling back inside I shake off the cold, take my place at the kitchen table and ponder how many plants will be resurrected this year.

Experience as a gardener has taught me that most will return in their full splendor ... and others will have to be replaced.

Like friends ...

I've lived long enough to not take any of this for granted ... because I know with absolute certainty that one day ... it's all going to be taken away from me ... or I'm going to be taken away from it.

So each time Sarah breathes as I watch her sleep ... every single time I talk to the kids ... when the girls hug or kiss
me on their own ... as Goddess lays at my feet ... the laughs with my friends ... the hopes we have and the dreams we're dreaming ... I clutch them tightly.

These are my seeds.

I love this year's garden.

The Grand Cathedral

"Rev," Chicago Bob greets me on the Pier.

"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby,"  I answer tipping my beer towards him.

Trolley Joe and Johnny O mumble their own greetings.

Michelle the bartender laughingly shakes her head.

Dean, the overseer of the Pier, rides up in a Golf Cart, which is banned on the Pier.

Thus it begins.

Others wander in and out ... Whitley Reynolds ... Kenny Wade ... Ohio Bob ... O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) ... Garrett ... even my son Jeremy ... and faces I recognize with names I don't recall. 

It lasted for several years ... this gathering of friends on sunny days at the Pier jutting out on the Beach ... overlooking girls in bikinis, surf fishermen, Frisbee throwers and Volleyball players ... we stand there taking it all in ... drinking libations ... and cracking jokes.

"Hey Rev! You look great! Who's your mortician?"

Bobby was old school before there was a school.

Leaving him with Johnny O, I stroll to Trolley Joe who's silently praying to the ocean, grateful that he ... and his wife Barbara ... are still here at all.

Cancer danced with them but they still stand with us.

We clink our drinks without saying anything standing there in Holy Community in the Grand Cathedral that God built.

"Hey, Hey, Hey," Johnny O says, "it's all getting a little too serious here.""

"What'd he say?" Trolley Joe asks.

"I have no idea," I reply.

As the tornados of change ripped my life apart ... the "Bored Meeting" sustains me.

Judy O named it that after that after attending and concluding "You are boring."

Maybe.

But God we loved each other and the time together.

Johnny O and I are the only ones still alive ... well if you don't count Whitley Reynolds or Kenny Wade.

Around 11ish today there will be an empty spot because the "Bored Meeting" is a thing of the past but ... ah ... it was one Hell of a gift.

So here's to Bobby, Trolley Joe and Dean!

I miss you guys.

There's no doubt you're having fun raising in Hell in Heaven.

Raise some for us too!

More of Life's Unaswerable Questions

Why do parents wait until they get to Walmart to spank their kids?

What happens when you get scared "half to death" twice in the same day?

Do Jewish Vampires care if you pull out a cross?

I'm thinking deep thoughts today.

I feel it's important to examine life's complex issues. It's how we grow as human beings. That's why my daily musings tackle life's tougher questions, going deep, being utterly transparent and completely honest, I seek to find the answers, create a dialogue with readers and a support system for those determined to wrestle with shortcomings and inconsistencies to find peace.

Like ...

Can a short person "talk down" to a taller person?

Why is it when we skate on thin ice it gets us in hot water?

If "pro" and "Con" are opposites, wouldn't the opposite of "Progress" be "Congress?"

If something goes without saying why do people say it?

I'll tell you why they say it! It's because we blindly steal what other people say and pretend we made it up on the spot to make us look smarter ... sophisticated ... debonair ... wise ... perhaps even "believable".

It's important to take on Life's darker side so you can understand and appreciate it's lighter side. To quote Arlo Guthrie, "you can't have a light if you don't have a dark to stick it in" which makes perfect sense.

This one's for Kris Allred, our family's meteorologist ... "When exactly does it stop being 'partly cloudy' and becomes 'partly sunny'?"

Explain that one to me!

This one's for Jodee Sadowsky ... "How fast do Hotcakes really sale?"

For our next door neighbor The Cat Lady ... "Why isn't there 'mouse flavored' cat food?"

For John O'Neill ... "If we're taught to not take candy from strangers why do we have Halloween?"

For my hotly beautiful wife Sarah, "Why not now?"

And for God, "Does staying in bed screaming your name on a Sunday morning constitute Church?"

Nothing But Blood

When I was little I spent as much time as possible with my Grandparents ... Ira and Edith Carver ... who died a long time ago but are still very much alive.

Mom and Dad were busy raising my brother David who cried a lot ... and conceiving my sister Angie whenever David fell asleep ... so they were happy to let me stay with my Grandparents.

My "formative" years were with Granddaddy and Grandma.

Ira and Edith were good, country people who ... late in life ... developed a love for Jesus boarding on Monastic.

On Wednesday nights in those days there would be "Gospel Sings."

Granddaddy, Grandma and me faithfully attended.

A piano, a guitar, a bass and a drummer accompanied a quartet of singers washing everyone in nothing but the Blood of Jesus ... making us all whole again.

In a half-filled room of believers in Pooler, Georgia with my Granddaddy and Grandma who showed every bit as much love as Jesus did, I came to believe.

I can still feel what it felt to be there ... can still recapture the moment ... raising them from the dead to live again.

It's been a frustrating week!

Misunderstandings, miscommunication, misfires and missed opportunities ... coupled with really crappy weather ... leaves us sullen and sour.

The bills are a bit out of hand, cash flow isn't coming close to projections and dinner at our house pretty much sucked last night.

I'm struggling to start today.

Then Granddaddy, Grandma and Jesus too I suppose, reach down from Heaven and make my fingers hit keys I don't mean to and ... someone's singing "Nothing But the Blood of Jesus" and stopping dead in my tracks ... I'm suddenly a little boy again at a Gospel Sing sitting between them.

I laugh to myself.

Then I print out the chords, pick up the guitar and start practicing for Bar Church.

I haven't thought of that song in decades.

But my Grandparents and Jesus too I suppose thought I needed a pick-me-up ... so they threw some blood on me.

I'm feeling pretty righteous right now.

"Oh come on world," I say out loud, "throw me some more of what you got!"

Then I'm throwing nothing but the blood back at you.

I wish it was Christmas

There's no getting around it it's terrible outside.

Wind, rain, cold and a vicious squirrel that has now attacked a second chair on the Beloved Back Deck leaves me in a foul mood.

Damn squirrel.

Making it worse, Laurel ... Sarah's 10 year old ... has named it "François".

"Oh look," she exclaims as we sit on the Beloved Back Deck in chewed up chairs on Sunday afternoon when the weather was perfect ... well for winter ... "it's Francois?"
"Who the Hell is Francois?" I ask working on my tan wearing nothing but black running shorts ... sometimes the girls really interrupt my tanning and I have to wear something.

"Him," she points at the wire hanging in the back year with the squirrel on it.

"Little Bastard," I mutter.

"MICHEAL," Maddie, the 13 year old
 clueless child who knows everything chides.

At that moment several dozen cats start howling from next door.

The Cat Lady's not home so Laurel sweetly coos, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

"What in the Hell are you doing?" I demand sitting up in my chair and taking my bare feet off the table.

"Oh they need some love Mike," she explains.

"NO THEY DO NOT," I explain. "I NEED A B B GUN!"

Maddie starts laughing and quotes something I always say when they want something ... "Well Christmas shopping just got a little easier."

"Why do you want a B B Gun," Laurel asks.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask sticking my bare feet back on the table with their bare feet.

"No ... why do you want a B B Gun?"

I have serious doubts about American Public Education.

LAUREL," Maddie yells ... because she knows everything without understanding anything ... "MIKE WANTS TO SHOOT THEM!"

A lover of animals Laurel is horrified.

"Don't you want another stuffed one," I ask?

"YOU WOULD NOT," Laurel says with ice.

"Sure I would," I reply, "where do you think stuffed animals come from anyway?"

More horrified Laurel rushes downstairs to check on the health of the several thousand stuffed animals she owns.

"A B B Gun huh?" Maddie giggles.

"I think so," I reply moving my bare feet from the table to rail ... staring at François ... pointing a finger at him ... pulling the imaginary trigger ... blowing my fingertip afterwards ... "It's time to thin the herd."

"What's that mean?" Maddie asks.

"Never mind," I say, "just make sure I get a B B Gun for Christmas."

"Okay," she answers ... "What are you getting me?"

"Shut up," I say.

"No you tell me or you're not getting a B B Gun."

G.I.R.L.S.

"What do you want?"

Several hours later we leave the Beloved Back with a long list ... a faint memory of what I want ... as that little Bastard Francois plans his next attack.
 

Why is it when you try to be nice ... about anything ... or nothing ... others don't like it?

I've never understood it.

You can raise the dead and it's going to piss somebody off.

Don't let it bother you too much.

That's all I have to say today.

God Bless you.

God Bless me too.

And while you're at it God, bless you too.

God knows there's enough un-blessing going on these days.

Double Secret Missionary Journies

"My friend Michael Ruffin has been hired by Smyth & Hewlys," I tell my son Jeremy on the phone.

Smyth & Hewlys is a religious publishing company.

Michael Ruffin and I went to Seminary together at the same time ... he and his "Good Wife" had the incredible misfortune of living below Bill Berry ... not the former drummer for REM but the other one.

I'd often go to Bill Berry's apartment when his wife Kathy wasn't home with a brown bag full of Bibles.

That's a lie ... it was a six pack of beer but as Michael Ruffin saw me walking in, I'd say something like, "We're on a Double Secret Missionary Journey that I'm not at liberty to discuss."

Because we're attending a Southern Baptist Seminary, Michael Ruffin nods his head indicating he completely understands.

Southern Baptists pioneered religious terrorism ... well ... I mean the Catholics set the bar with the Inquisition ... ISIS is now trying to raise the bar but Southern Baptist hold the record for lynching's.

Then Michael Ruffin would go to the class Bill Berry and I were skipping to drink a cold one.

The pizza arrives so Bill Berry and I would open beer number two, stuff a slice down our throats and say, "GOD IS GOOD."

I loved Seminary.

Except for that time we tried to sue each other ... but that's another story.

Regardless I'm telling Jeremy about Michael Ruffin's good fortune when I'm interrupted.

"Smyth & Helwys?" my son asks. "I have a good friend who works there. I told him that you'd published with them."

"Who's your Dad?" my son's friend asks.

So ... a long time ago ... Smyth & Helwys was a new publishing company that needed authors.

Scott Nash was their higher something there and he'd attended Seminary with Michael Ruffin, Bill Berry and me.

I'd already published some books and Scott really wanted to sign me ... which is what happened.

My first book with them was "Running with the Dolphins and other Tybee Tails" which had absolutely nothing to do with religion, Michael Ruffin, Southern Baptists or Bill Berry.

It's about the beach.

Jeremy's good friend who now works for Smyth & Helwys says, "That's YOUR Dad? He wrote the biggest seller we ever had."

So ... after that Scott Nash asked if I would write a religious book for the religious Publishing firm he oversaw and, of course, being a good Christian ... I agreed.

"Playing Hide & Seek: A Non-Church Goers Guide to God" was then published by Smyth & Helwys  and ... Scott Nash disappeared from the face of the earth and the Publisher stopped taking my calls.

All that to say ... Michael Ruffin if it's helpful ... use my name.

And congratulations Buddy!

You deserve this!

Have you heard anything from Bill Berry?

Mrs. Timmins

"It's a lot like religion and a little like sex," to steal Jimmy Buffett's words.

Or it's a lot like prayer and a major addiction.

It's about creating ... doing my best to give something back to those who've given me so much ... friends ... the earth ... the Universe ... God.

Sometimes I've been so arrogant about it I thought my writing could change the world but quickly learned people don't remember most of what they read.

My first book did quite well, received lots of terrific reviews, went through four printings, made the Publisher lots of money so naturally they encouraged me to write a follow-up ... which I did.

It was about my homeless friends and people with AIDS when everybody was scared shitless of the disease.

I learned many things from these wonderful people as they struggled through poverty, disease, discrimination and felt their heroic deeds should be shared to inspire the masses.

But with a title like "Community of the Abandoned" it's no surprise the book tanked, reviews called it "depressing," the Publisher dropped me and I was left to start over as a writer.

But then there's Mrs. Timmins  ... from somewhere in Texas ... who wrote me a letter.

I can still see her tiny feeble handwriting in blue ink, on a page ripped out of a "School Composition Notebook."

"My son is addicted to drugs and alcohol. I pray for him every day. I don't know what else to do so I pray. I saw your book and bought it because ... I don't know why. It reminds me of my son. He truly is Abandoned. Thank you for helping me understand that. God's blessings on you and please pray for me and my son."

That was a long time ago but I vividly recall the powerful emotions of reading it.

Decades later Mrs. Timmins very much remains alive though I'm certain she's long dead.

Every day when I sit down to write, sometimes full of purpose and intention, and sometimes lost in the Wilderness, she floats through my mind ... along with others who took the time to say they took something from what I'd written ... and it makes me keep at it ... even when I'd rather be doing other things.

"For we know that all of creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to now (Romans 8:22).

I take that to mean we're all in it together ... you, me and God ... delivering this baby of lives ... and these often insignificant things I write every day are my contribution. 

All Things Considered

In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that "Consider the lilies of the field" was the only commandment she never broke.

She could have done a lot worse.

Consider the lilies.

So wrote Frederick Buechner, my absolute favorite author ... yep more than Hemingway, Graham Greene, Chaim Potok, Carl Hiaasen or ... even myself!

Back to the point ... I've broken far more commandments than stopping to consider the lilies of the field.

I've broken most of the "Top Ten."

Confessing that ... again ... it is true that I spend far too much time chasing things rather than ... considering ... lilies of the field ...

or ... the turning of the Marsh Grass ...

the ever changing Beach sculpted by the Tides ...

the rising of the Sun bubbling out of the Sea ...

the setting of the sun over the Back River ...

the smell of fresh cut grass ...

the dark blues of the sky ...

the colors of the rainbows ...

the shooting of the stars.

Through I try.

At night ... when I'm already  mostly asleep ... my leg flops on top of Sarah's ... and I'm very mindful of the Holiness of it ... for those few seconds before I slide into another Universe where God considers me ... rather than the other way around.

These are the things I'm considering today.

Later, I'm going to buy Lilies.