To Hell with HIPPA

Digging fingernails into my wrist, salt water fills her eyes as she looks directly at me, "Please don't get sick."

Three little old ladies sit in chairs ... not wheelchairs like most in the room ... but chairs.

They can still walk.

We're packing up to leave ... storing guitars, drums and tambourines ... hauling out the sound system ... when I do my last walk around the room hugging every woman and man there ... listening to whatever they have to say ... mostly trying to not cry as moister fills their eyes and they say, "Thank you," or "Please Come back next week."

Lona, John, Faye and Mary take care of business as I pry my wrist from her fingernails.

"I'll do my part," I smile, hugging her. "I don't like being sick."

"Don't die," she says.

"It's not on my 'To Do List' either," I reply rubbing my hands.

I kiss the top of her white head ... surely breaking shitloads of HIPPA requirements for Nursing Homes.

The two little old ladies sitting besideher  look at me expectantly so I laugh and kiss them too ... shattering the record of HIPPA violations in a Nursing Home.

It's funny.

We're not allowed to take their pictures but ... each and every one of them want a touch ... a hug ... a kiss ... and a promise to come back next week.

"Hey," I say grabbing her wrist, "I'll make a deal with you. I won't die if you don't die."

Breaking into a grin, she lays her white haired head in my hands and cries.

I hug her again and cry too.

To Hell with HIPPA.

Who says God doesn't talk our loud?

Some days I have to fight through emotions, distractions, lack of inspiration and preoccupation to find words.

Today's such a day.

Sarah's hosting a business meeting on island so I volunteer to help and get the coffee and breakfast delivered on time.

Thursday is also the Bar Church Nursing Home Gig so part of my brain is planning what happens and pumping myself up for the inmates who pay to be incarcerated so their families can have a life.

I'm also horrified to learn our friend Patti is having surgery for Cancer, had to find a Hospital to "take her" because she has no insurance and she's already lost her oldest son to the war in Afghanistan.

I'm thrilled to see the joy Jodee and Cheryl are experiencing with the birth of their first grandchild.

"Should I write about how much I enjoy watching Sarah own her element and how I used to do that?"

"The joy of the Nursing Home Gig always leaves me emotionally high and, when it's over, I'm always questioning who's ministering to who ... maybe I should write about that?"

"Why do bad things happen to really good people who have already been kicked in the stomach and what point is God possibly trying to make now?"

"I don't have any grandchildren yet ... that's not true because I have Jeremy and Terenca's girls ... to go with our girls ... who perfectly match our kids ... and like Jodee and Cheryl ... I'm thankful for the happiness of it all."

If that weren't enough to wade through, Sarah's folks are here and they're a needy couple ... always wanting to know where something is and bold enough to ask.

Plus it's raining and I'm in the "Outdoor Office" on the Beloved Back Deck so I'm a bit miffed.

Pondering these things while staring at a self imposed timeline ... "O Happy Day" streams directly from Heaven through Spotify into the speaker I perpetually have blasting.

I think God's giving me both a blessing and a challenge!

I've got this day!

It's full of good and it's got some bad but ... it's mine.

Who says God never has anything to say out loud?

I have to go to the Nursing Home Now and make the inmates happy.

And enjoy what I've got for as long as I have it.
_______________

P.S. The picture has absolutely nothing to do with the story. I just like it. And Sarah got me the teeshirt which is Willie Nelson who I love ... and I'm playing which I also love. ... but I wouldn't draw too much from it.

Who's Your Pimp?

I don't know about you but I hate the News.

It's mostly Politicians talking about one dimensional things because it's beyond their comprehension to know there's always more than one way to do anything.

If that weren't bad enough ... when it's not Politicians posturing ... it's bad News like earthquakes, Tsunamis and murder.

Except when the Newscaster offer the obligatory "Good News" segment about Dr. Jim Withers offering health care for free or cute dogs for free at "The Humane Society."

There's nothing free about the News.

There's nothing free about Politicians either.

Newscasters are in it to satisfy their egos and be second rate "Pop Stars."

Politicians start off singing John Lennon's "Imagine" or "Power to the People" but ... then they're elected and it becomes a job ... and God knows ... you do everything and anything to keep a job these days.

I've earned my right to be cynical.

Three decades of "pimping" the halls of Washington, Atlanta, Chatham County and Savannah's Gold Dome gives me the right.

"Everybody's a whore," my friend Dr. Larkin Rossiter once proclaimed, "the question is who's your Pimp?"

I don't have an issue with Prostitutes trying to make an honest living ... I'm met many and most are really nice people trying to get by the best they can ... doing it for their kids ... or to get through school ...or put food on the table.

I do take issue with Politicians claiming they know everything and judging everyone.

Politics has become a profession of judgment ... and God knows we have too many Judges already!

Judges are so Old Testament!

Politicians whore themselves out to be re-elected ... it's become their sole purpose ... though they began imagining a better world ... they settle for trying to stay on top ... when they're mostly on bottom.

I freely admit I'm a whore for certain things.

I also freely admit I clearly understand who my Pimp is and ... I'm okay with that ... because it's not me.

Elvis

I'm listening to Elvis.

On a beautiful summer's day with the sun shinning through the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt ... there's no ocean breeze so the salt hangs in the air and on my skin ... the grass and colorful blooms are wet from a quick shower that happened before I rose ... and the glare from the sun is so bright I have towels hanging over the sliding glass doors so I can see the computer screen.

Elvis has a wooden heart.

Mine's pretty full these days.

A few years ago Sarah and I went to Memphis, a place I would never have chosen ... primarily because it's not an island ... but I have to say ... Memphis is cool.

But of all the coolness of Memphis ... and there's a lot ... it's belongs to Elvis.

Graceland blew us away.

If you've never been to Graceland ... you have to go.

It's like going to the Holy Land ... of music.

Sarah has to drag me out of the "Jungle Room" kicking and screaming.

Beale Street is fantastic ... the Loraine Motel is as Holy a place as there is in America ... and "Ernestine's & Hazels" is as cool as it gets.

If you've never had a burger cooked in pickle juice ... you life isn't over yet.

Anyway ... I don't know why ... but it's an Elvis kind of morning.

He's having mail returned by sender ... and I'm loving the sweet stickiness of summer.

Then again ... Elvis is dead.

Somehow I'm still here.

I wonder why sometimes.

The world would likely prefer to have Elvis back but ... it gets me.

There must be a reason.

I've done ... and do ... some good things and ... sometimes they're of Elvis stature ... but he's still selling millions after he died ... and I've pretty much dropped out of sight.

It's curious though.

They'd be no resurrection without a death ... no reincarnation either ... or Second Coming or Third Coming or however many it is ... no touching of the Lotus feet ...

I'm pretty alive today.

Life is good.

And I find Elvis is sharing it with me.

Thank you.

Thank ya very much.

One Hell of a Sermon

It's one of those days to be quiet and let the words find me.

Today's tough because I smyth words on Sunday at Bar Church (www.tybeebarchurch.com) and am normally petered out on Monday.

It's sort of like being a rock star ... I mean who else besides ministers get paid good money to be "the Center of the Universe" for 20 minutes or so once a week?

AND ... if that's not enough ... ministers also presume to speak for G.O.D.

That's pretty ballsy.

I mean I wouldn't want to be in their shoes if they say the wrong things.

Anyway ... in addition to telling stories on Sunday mornings ... I don't preach ... there's W.A.Y. too much preaching in the world already ... I tell stories ... that's enough.

To the best of my knowledge ... Jesus only preached one sermon in his life.

He took a trip to the mountains which must have been a popular destination ... like Gatlinburg ... saw the crowds ... bought them lunch ... and preached a Hell of a Sermon! ... apparently on a Mount.

The rest of the times he merely told stories.

A "Hell of a Sermon" is one still talked about today.

Let's be honest ... how many sermons do you remember?

How many fall into the "Hell that's worth remembering!" category?

I remember Pastor Johnson at the Port Wentworth First Baptist Church quoting "Jesus Christ Superstar" once ... then he started crying and says, "Jesus is my only Superstar."

Sitting on the third pew, Mrs. Johnson looks pissed.

I remember that one.

Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, won the "Clyde T. Francisco" preaching award and it was something about a minister is like a conductor of an orchestra.

I have no idea what he means though he whips out a conductor's stick and waves it at everybody.

That's all I remember about it ... but I was very proud of Bill that day.

Of course I remember several of Guy Sayles', America's greatest minister, sermons.

The best was when we are in College and I go with Guy to some Country Church and he's great! I love listening to Guy. He really is the best ever.

I have no recollection of what he says though I do remember we have to hang around forever waiting to see if he's going to get paid.

He wasn't.

We left.

I bought lunch at Shoney's.

In today's technological world, I have to blog, promote, cleverly respond to other people's postings (see Matt Few's page on Facebook) ... email, plan, message, Instagram and remind myself to check LinkedIn.

Add preaching to the mix and I'm wiped out on Monday's.

Plus all the girls are here and they want to talk ... okay they aren't really talking ... they're reacting to me when I say, "Clean your room. Your Grandparents will be here soon"

Two of the three have thrown shit under their beds or in the closet.

The other obviously doesn't care about her Grandparents.

I'm too tired to write though it's my job and I can't think of anything to write about.

Maybe tomorrow.

The Importance of Taking Personal Inventory

It's time to kick back and take inventory.

I often find myself rushing from one thing to the next without a moment to take a breath.
 
My attention gets stuck going over what has happened and I worry about what might  happen meaning I completely miss out on what is happening in the ‘here-and-now’.

I need to think about what I'm doing ... where I'm going ... while appreciating what I've got.

So ... here's what I'm going to do.

1. Go to the Beach!  Inventory is best taken on the beach.

2. Pack a cooler! Inventory is best accomplished with cold libations.

3. Take off my clothes! Taking inventory begins by lessening inventory and freeing yourself from external obligations.

4. Put on sunscreen and get Sarah to help! Everybody needs help taking inventory. You just have to be careful about getting the right kind of help.

5. Leave the Plastic Bags and Bottles behind! Neither have anything to do with taking inventory but on the beach where we live they are major revenue generators for a bloated and gluttonous Government and could disrupt taking inventory because you're repeatedly ticketed.

6. Lay out an array of Sarah's bikinis! I may need time to pause from reflecting on life and substitute it with pure, unadulterated lust ... which will help me later ... if I ever get back to taking inventory.

7. "Toes in the water ... ass in the sand ... cold beer in my hand!" It is crucial to assume the proper position when taking inventory.

8 -10. Whatever.

Sarah just informed me we have a child's soccer game to attend this morning and a dance recital downtown tonight.

Loving my wife and all our kids I enthusiastically receive this news.

"That's great Babes," I smile, "Inventory will have to wait until tomorrow."

She goes inside to get ready.

Propping my feet on the beloved back deck ... I open the already packed cooler and toast my day.

The Inspiration behind the Creation

I'm trekking to the Seminary Library to check out the latest edition of "Christianity and Social Work" only because ... I have an article in it.

It's the first time I'm published.

My  7 year old son and constant companion Jeremy accompanies me because he has no choice.

In the hallowed halls of the Library, as a lover of books and ideas, I see my name in print for the very first time, proudly showing it to my son and am deeply moved I've accomplished something.

"There's something to leave behind after I'm gone," I think to myself. "Jeremy and his sister Kristen can always point to this as a testimony that I at least accomplished this."

A few years later chewing tobacco with Will D. Campbell in his cabin in Mt. Juliet, Tennessee I'm complaining my first book "The Society of Salty Saints" isn't at the top of the International Best List.

Spitting in the golden Spittoon he laughs and asks, "Do you know how many people who've never published a book at all?"

Will's book "Brother to a Dragonfly" was a finalist for the National Book Award and he's a famous minister, activist and author who with a single question puts me in my place.

Everyone wants to write a book but few do; I have so what am I complaining about?

"Let's go to 'Gasser's and get some lunch," Will suggests so we pile in his rusty pickup truck and bump down an old dirt road.

A decade later Savannah Business leader Rick Winger and I are hosting a potential supporter for lunch in "The Starfish Café", a culinary arts program for homeless people and functioning restaurant and he says, "Tell him how many books you've written."

"Eight," I reply.

"EIGHT!" Rick exclaims. "I had no idea!" ... meaning he hadn't read any.

Another decade passes and my wife tells me it's time to write books again which I've now done and have learned that it's about the writing ... the creation of images and ideas using words ... that satisfies me.

Sarah's typically mum about anything I write but I am arrogant and honest enough to admit it "rocks my socks" so many people read it every day ... and that over the years a lot bought books ... and even more ... they take time to write me and share themselves after I've shared myself.

When all's said and done it is really is all about the sharing.

Several days ago Sarah pulls out all the books, stacks them up and takes their picture and since then I've taken time to appreciate how each and every one came about from the perspective of distance ... focusing on "How was this one conceived?" ... because they're all old now.

I wanted to remind myself of the inspiration behind the creation.

It's been a good trip down memory lane but ... as I'm fond of saying ... "Thank God that's over!" ... I've got more inspiration to find ... other things to create.

Besides ... Winston The Little Gay Dog is driving me nuts with his anticipation of the next book.

Have I mentioned that Winston, TLGD, is a Son-of-a-bitch ... and I mean that literally.

Plus I want to go to the Beach.

The Next One

Sitting on the beloved back deck working on my all over tan my beautiful wife Sarah puts her arms around me and lustfully whispers in my ear ... "I want you to write a book about Winton."

"WHAT?" I yell standing up dangling in front of her.

Kissing me on the cheek, she smiles, turns around and sings as she opens the sliding glass doors, "Let me know when it's done."

Winston is our dog.

He is gay.

Everyone who meets him immediately says, "He is gay."

He is who he is ... which is who God created him to be ... and we love him though he's a Diva ... and I personally call him "The Little Son of a Bitch" which I mean literally ... and he adores Sarah with everything he is.

"How in the Hell am I supposed to write a book about a gay dog?"

Then I get to thinking ... I've never seen a book about a gay dog ... it'd be nice to be the first ... there's bound to be lots of Gay dog lovers and ... lots of dogs who love their Gay parents.

Once again Sarah is right!

It takes a while to find the story but once I do it comes out quickly.

It's a children's book.

Goddess, my mostly Golden Retriever, and I live alone ... then Sarah and three little girls move in and we become a family ... and Sarah brings Winston home one day in her Perce.

Winston is a puppy, just starting his formative years and while he and Goddess are boarded at the Kennel ... he learns who he really is when he falls in love with Butch ... the German Shepard.

I can't give away the rest of the story because the books not out yet.

It's a dog lover's book though because ... it's entirely from Goddess' perspective.

It's a God-loves-people book too because ... it's entirely about how God loves people as they are.

It's also a blended family book because ... it's more than half of us.

The book's been brilliantly illustrated by Eddie Woods and has gotten rave reviews from both our Gay, Straight and Blended Family Friends.

In today's publishing world we're looking for "backers" to bring it life so everyone can hold it in their hands.

In the meantime ... Winston, The Little Gay Dog grows impatient.

There is nothing worse than an impatient Diva.

Happiness

Nine years come and go.

A lot happens.

By 2006 I'm  writing a daily blog covering whatever's happening in my life. Beginning as a work blog about solving homelessness and other social problems in America the higher ups at work hate it.

I often delve into the personal costs of being "Savior" but many Board of Directors are increasingly corporate, anti-technological, private and uncomfortable with the open sharing of "blogging."

The personal costs of being a "Savior" has mounted into divorce, loneliness, anger, burnout and bitterness.

Then ... as briefly as Jesus dies on the cross ... that whole piece of my life is killed too.

And just as a little while later Jesus says "I'M BAACCKK," ... I am too but no longer with the burden of keeping anyone happy for a living.

I write with reckless abandon ... for me ... and am pleased to learn that others resonate with the daily blog.

My life settles into new routines that Sarah completely disrupts when I fall hopelessly in love with her, we marry and suddenly I am "the parental advisor" and loving friend to three little girls.

Without the work my life becomes full again.

"It's time for you to write a book," Sarah informs me as I blissfully sit naked on the beloved back deck working on my tan.

"Do I have to?" I sigh.

"It'll be good for you," she insists.

"I don't want to," I protest.

"Please," she whispers in a hug. "Do it for me."

That's how "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Tapped Hearts" is born.

It's really a love story of how a sad, broken man becomes full again.

Sarah and I do the book together as she's the Publisher and I'm the writer ... meaning she overrides my decisions and deletes several things I wrote but ... she's right and holding it in my hands ... I feel joy dripping from it's pages.

I'd never written a "Happy" book before.

It feels good to hold happiness in your hand.

Everyone deserves that.
 

The Best Things

Like most great ideas this one started stupidly.

Natalie Jayroe has money she can't figure out how to spend so she approaches me suggesting we start a culinary arts program in a homeless shelter.

It's not the kind of idea you hear every day ... so I'm in!

Some food company I can't recall has given her $10 Grand to teach the hungry to feed themselves and time's running out because whoever it was wants their money back if she doesn't deliver.

A couple of weeks later homeless people in a homeless shelter kitchen learn to become culinary experts under the supervision of Chef Mike ... a culinary instructor at Savannah Technical College AND ... a Catholic Priest ... you don't see that combination very often either.

Everybody graduates the class and ... totally shocking all involved ... every single one is immediately hired.

CNN shows up to do a story which repeatedly runs over a holiday weekend and suddenly we're all rock stars.

We continue repeating the class and homeless people continue to get jobs!

What does one do with such a successful beginning other than lose their minds and decide to open a restaurant?

Which is how "The Starfish Café" came to be born.

It's a wickedly wonderful showcase of teaching, helping the poor by eating a great meal, in a tremendous ambiance with rotating funky art.

The TODAY Show does live broadcasts.

What do we do after opening a successful restaurant other than lose our collective minds and decide to publish a cookbook?

Which is how "The Starfish Café Cookbook" was published.

It's my idea because I've learned cookbooks outsell every other genre except the Bible.

The students and Chefs come up with recipes, I write stories about the students, John Zeuli takes pictures and we pay a boatload of money we don't have to be published.

Immediately "The Tabasco Company" gives it an award for being the most innovative cookbook ever.

THEN ... nobody buys it.

I mean it really tanks and we're using it to stick one under the short leg of the kitchen table to keep it level or to throw at feral cats who come too close.

THEN ... the story gets even better!

I was the first owner of "The Starfish Café" ... my wife Sarah was the last ... well I think there was somebody else after her but they just shut it down.

The Starfish Café is a wonderful idea that has a great run but ... nothing last forever.

The building remains, looking remarkably as it did then but ... it's just a shell of things which no longer exists.

Sarah and Chef Paul are having lunch today ... Paul was the last great instructor of "The Starfish Café" and the two remain very close as everyone's moved on to other things.

Though Sarah and I do have a copy of this award winning cookbook that nobody bought to remind us that the best things ... like us ... often come out of the worse circumstances.

Charlie the Christmas Coral

Laying in the dark, going through a divorce, living in a borrowed house, my six year old daughter and I make up bed time stories.

I say a sentence.

She says a sentence.

We repeat until the story is complete and fall asleep loving one another deeply.

Living at and loving the Beach our stories tend to be nautical in nature.

"Charlie the coral wanted to be a Christmas Tree," the story begins.

"He'd seen one once on a boat passing over his head," it unfolds.

There's a back story to Charlie.

My Brother-in-law Michael Thompson and I are snorkeling off Cemetery Beach in Grand Cayman Island and I see a lump of coral on the bottom of the ocean that's shaped like a Christmas Tree.

More impressively small blue, green and purple fish are feeding off of it looking like brightly colored ornaments.

"Did you see that?" I ask Michael when we surface.

"See what?" he replies.

Sometimes in life you just have to believe in what you know you saw in spite of doubt.

Years later, Chelsea and I ... laying in the bleakness of dark times ... bring Charlie to life ... one sentence at a time.

It's a story about finding yourself ... believing in who you want to be ... not listening to the naysayers ... discovering who your friends are ... and making the leap of faith.

All that takes place in four pages.

That Christmas I had little money ... so I type out the stories Chelsea and I had made up. She drew some illustrations and I got some help on some others and made a book with a limited run of copies.

Chelsea loved it and it's a reminder of a little girl's love through really tough times.

So Charlie the Coral has a very special place in my heart.

And whenever I need the Spirit of Christmas I have a detailed description of the gloriousness of the underwater Tree Charlie is today.

The Most Hated One

"Tour of Homes"... takes readers on a fascinating, disturbing, and yet often hilarious journey across the political landscape of a town trying to deal with the economic reality of too many sick people, not enough services for them, and health care struggling for survival. Elliott exposes the administrative travails of health-care management."

That's pretty good!

After "Out from Under the Rock" I'm really into honest writing and "fiction" is the best way to honestly write so "Tour of Homes" is a novel.

It's a big novel ... meaning a large book ... 368 pages!

I'm really into Pat Conroy novels at the time ... and Conroy writes really big novels about himself ... so I decide I want to do that ... so I do.

It's my sex/drugs/rock-and-roll book and there's lots of all three.

It's a fictional look at my life up to that point with the names slightly changed so I can say whatever-the-Hell I want ... meaning the truth as I understand it.

A "professional reader" in Los Angeles is hired to read it first because ... I'm friends with the wife of the Publisher ... so he can't trust me ... and pays for an objective opinion.

The "reader" loves it so ... in spite of the Publisher's misgivings ... a book is born.

The people of Savannah, where it's set, hate it.

"Why did you write that?" everyone seems to ask at the same time ... but the Mayor really rakes me over the coals one day in his office.

"You didn't say much nice about Savannah," he lectures. "Too many people are killed unnecessarily in your book."

"Well," I answer, "too many people are killed
 unnecessarily in Savannah!"

"Well I hate it," he says standing up.

"Yeah me too," I reply talking about something else entirely.

It's hard to live an honest life which is why fiction exists.

The other day I met with some friends of some friends on Tybee Island who want me to perform their wedding ceremony.

Afterwards we're talking and the friends say, "So when we were thinking about moving here ... we read Tour of Homes and were introduced to the dark sides of Savannah and Tybee ... it really helped us understand what living here is really like ... and what to expect ... thanks."

I tell Sarah when I get home ... still stunned by the words.

The other thing I remember about "Tour of Homes" is how many people tell me they hate me for writing it.

Lots of people I believed were friends tell me where to go as they walk away from my life.

I learn a lot.

And it's a long time before another book comes along.

A Completely Honest Book

The thing about raising money is you can never stop.

Money ends up taking far more than it gives.

I didn't write another book for five years because I'm so into the work ... giving it all away ... burning through relationships and sanity.

Then the budget stops balancing ... people don't have money to donate anymore ... times are tough ... but it costs to care and it's my job to fix it.

So I write a book and give it to Union Mission, Inc. in Savannah who gladly take it.

We self publish to save money ... send it to everyone on our mailing list ... don't ask for anything but include a return envelope.

Tens of thousands of dollars flood in and the Board and the Bank are happy.

"Out From Under the Rock" is my first completely "honest" book.

I'm sad, hurting and tired and it's on every page.

I love the title ... "Upon this Rock I will build my church," Jesus says to Peter ... it killed them both ... thank God I was trying to figure out how to get out from underneath such burdens before they killed me.

"You give everything away without thinking about yourself," Sarah tells me and she's right.

Holding "Rock" in my hand reinforces Sarah's truth that I failed to grasp then.

I gave it all away for others keeping nothing for myself.

It's beautiful writing that will make you cry if you like sad things.

Sometimes life is sad.

Mine was then.

While I desperately try to work my way out ... others do their best to keep you under the rock.

I should have never given that book away ... the Board takes advantage of it ... the ex-wife who it's dedicated to hates it ... nobody cares ... except for the bank ... which loves the money ... and the people who are in it ... who all want everything I have to give without giving much back.

Regardless more than 10,000 copies were printed because people kept asking for it.

It struck a chord with those who know all about living under a rock and who desperately want to get out.

The Controversial One

"Can you write a religious book this time?" Scott Nash my Publisher asks.

Scott is with Smyth & Hewlys, a new religious Publishing company, who produced "Running with the Dolphins," my book about Tybee Island which was a stretch because there was little religious about it.

"Of course I can," I assure Scott.

So I wrote "Playing Hide & Seek: A non-Church Goers Path to Finding God."

"Seriously?" Scott asks after I submit the manuscript.

It's Guy Sayles fault. He suggests we write a book together with the title "Called In/Called Out" ... about how he works for the church as a "Professional Christian" (well on his way to becoming America's greatest minister) and I have nothing to do with the Church as a very unprofessional Christian.

I wrote my part.

Guy never wrote his.

That's how "Hide & Seek" was born.

"We can't find anybody to endorse the book," Scott Nash informs me. "Nobody will write an introduction or even give you a blurb for the cover."

"Who have you asked?"

"Well ... everybody," he explains. "The best response is from Tony Compolo" ...(the famous sociologist, pastor, author, public speaker and spiritual advisor to U.S. Presidents).

"What did Tony say?"

"He takes issue with your statement that "No Savior will ever sleep in the White House" because ... he apparently sleeps in the White House."

"So you're telling me he's putting himself in the "Savior" category?

A few days later I receive a letter from Tony explaining what a terrible book I've written.

I didn't write him back and I didn't send him a Christmas Card either.

"What'cha gonna do?" I ask Scott.

"It's too damn good so we're going to publish it anyway," he explains.

Sure enough when "Hide & Seek" comes out the first page reads,  "... none of the publically known church leaders we contacted would endorse this book. Most, however, encouraged us to publish it ..."

Or, as my friend Rev. Benny Mitchell said, "Elliott, why did you do that? You said everything we think but don't say. You outted us!"

The reviews were great! My favorite was ... "At the beginning of the second Chapter I threw the book against the wall but later picked it up and kept reading ..."

It's the kind of book people ask be put in a brown paper bag before they stick it under their arms and dash out of the Book Store ... sort of like religious Porn.

It still makes me proud today because it's about how God and you can have a perfectly fine relationship with or without a Church.

It really is about just you and God.

Behind the Words

My biggest seller is also the saddest book I've written though you'd never know it unless you looked under the words.

Scott Nash calls from Smyth & Hewlys, a new religious Publishing company because "Why the Homeless Don't have Homes and what to do about it"  won a national award so I'm riding high and am in demand.

"We want to publish your next book," Scott says.

"It's about Tybee Island," I answer.

"Is it religious?"

"Well," I explain, "in the sense that God's name is used a lot on island."

"Close enough," he concludes.

"Running with the Dolphins" came about when I realized no one had written a book about Tybee Island yet though ... Lord knows ... there's plenty of material.

"That's quite the book," my friend Robin who runs a nearby book store tells me on the phone. "It's got a really nice cover."

"You have it?" I ask. "How did you get it? I don't have it yet."

Damn new publishing company!

After a quick 120 Mile-per-hour drive she hands me a copy and I have to admit I really like the cover.

"I've already read it," she says, "and really ... you call it Mayberry on Acid?"

"How else would you describe Tybee?" I reply.

"Touché," she laughs.

Great fanfare follows as "Dolphins" takes off ... selling lots of copies, going through four printings in less than a year.

That's when the "Hate Mail" starts arriving.

The first is signed by 22 people representing the "Coastal Child Advocacy Center" detailing how offended they are because I endorse child abuse so they demand lots of things like burning all the copies, a public apology and strongly recommend that I move out of the country.

The main story in the book, "The Church of the Breakfast Club" centers on a man accused of child abuse which is an indefensible crime ... people are "guilty as charged" ... even if a Court finds them innocent later ... their reputation's already ruined.

The episode also focuses on a small island community struggling to not take sides because everybody knows everybody.

Things can go horribly wrong even in Paradise.

Letters follow mostly condemning me to Hell because I don't care about children ... though my own small children are prominently featured throughout the book.

Simultaneously, the reviews are terrific, the publicity positive and people make plans to visit Tybee for the first time".

Then people moan, "Why did you write that book? We don't need more people on this island! It's perfect the way it is and you're single handedly making it worse!"

They too tell me I can go where it's warmer ... much warmer!

Holding it in my hands today, I think it's a sweet reminder of an innocent time and place that no longer exists.

Today the island is crazy, crowded, over-regulated, WAY over-enforced and a great chasm exists between islanders and tourists that borders on hate.

Plus there's no place to park.

Yet ... the beauty of the island remains ... the pungent aroma of the marsh is intoxicating ... the beauty of the beach ... sunrises, sunsets, jumping Dolphins and diving Pelicans ... and small pockets of people who remain accepting ... nonjudgmental ... welcoming ... and willing to share it with others.

Who knows how much longer we'll have these things?

It's looking worse and worse when signs are posted reading, "Island is Full! Turn Around and Leave!"

Ahem

"Hey! You won!" Richard Brown says.

"That's great!" I yell into the phone.

After a few moments of awkward silence I ask, "What did I win?"

"Um," he ponders as though I'm an idiot, "Book of the Year."

"Really?"

There's another long moment of uncomfortable silence before Richard asks, "Aren't you excited?"

Sitting in my office with my feet on my desk and a hundred people outside waiting to see me, I inquire, "Who's 'Book of the Year'?"

"Well it's actually 'Paperback of the Year,'" he boldly proclaims, "awarded to US last night by the Mid-America Book Achievement Awards in Chicago."

"Why wasn't I invited?" I ask.

"Aren't you excited?" he counters. "After all you are now ... ahem ... an award winning author."

I will never forget the ... "ahem."

Seriously Richard set it up that way because they were too cheap to fly me to Chicago for the awards ceremony and put me up for the night ... because he and Marg Pon went ... and are calling me the next day to tell me how great WE DID!

The only reason the book exists at all is because Terry Ball, Deputy Director of the Georgia Department of Community Affairs orders me to write it at Fannie's-On-the-Beach one day.

"You need to write a book about solving homelessness in America," he says over shrimp burgers.

"Why?" I mumble with a mouthful.

"Because I won't give any more money if you don't," he grins.

It is not politicians who run Government but the people who work for Politicians who run Government.

That's how "Why the Homeless Don't Have Homes and What to do About it" came to be.

I needed the money.

And the book got famous for a while.

Terry Ball was pleased and we got more money.

"Hey," Michael Stoops of the National Coalition for the Homeless asks me over beers at another awards ceremony in New York City, "you need to write another book about the homeless."

"I've got nothing else to give to them right now. I mean a Life is enough isn't it."

'Hmm," he mumbles as he sips his beer. "So what's next?"

"A book about Tybee Island where I live ... and where you've stayed ... it's almost done."

"Ahem," Michael says as we sip our beers.

"Ahem," I reply as we toast.

The Back Story

It's Sarah's fault.

Sitting down to collect my thoughts and write she has my books sitting on the table and each has a life of its own which I'm remembering after not thinking about them for years.

"I want you to write a book called 'Partners in Grace'," the successful Savannah businessman Frank Stanton orders after storming into my office.

This is the same Frank Stanton who doesn't believe I wrote "The Society of Salty Saints" and tells me so to my face though it's plainly my name on the cover.

"Do a better one this time," he continues. "The last one was depressing. Write something more uplifting like the first one."

"Right," I sigh.

Bill Thompson, the former manager of the Seminary Book Store, and my Publisher has been fired when Meyer Stone Publishing was bought by "The Pilgrim Press" whom I call to see if they're interested in publishing a new book I haven't written yet.

"Will it be like the first one?" Richard Stone, my new best friend, asks."

"Of course it will," I lie.

Richard flies from Cleveland, Ohio to Savannah, Georgia to see if I'm telling the truth and takes me to a nice lunch at "The Windows" in the Hyatt overlooking the river.

I write a book that reads like "Salty Saints" but isn't about them at all! It's about rich people who are often the poorest of us all ... in Spirit anyway.

When it's released Richard and his rich friends in Cleveland throw a big party at the exclusive "First City Club" in Savannah though none of them actually attend.

The book does very well.

Rich people love it because I make them look Holy.

Richard flies back to Savannah to explain he wants me to write another book because ... since "The Pilgrim Press" is making lots of money off "P.I.G." ... I am not ... so the least they can do is offer me another book deal.

Frank storms back in my office and says, "I like this one."

"That's because you're in it," I answer.

"No really," he protests," holding up his hand in his fine suit, "really it's a good book."
_________________

Here's a back story.

Sarah and I worked together then and she's just excellent in everything she does.

Frank Stanton storms in my office to inform me, "I'm hiring Sarah. I just want to let you know first."

"She won't go," I reply.

"I've got way more money than you can pay," he insists.

"Aren't you a member of my Board of Directors committed to taking care of the homeless, people with AIDS, the sick and suffering?" I counter.

"It's got nothing to do with that," he snaps. "It's just business."

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

Franks offers Sarah the job.

She turns him down because she cares about the homeless, people with AIDS, the sick and the suffering ... like me and my kind of people.

That was a good day!

Oh! ... You're the one!

"Hey Mike, you want to write another book?" Bill Thompson, the former Seminary Book Store manager turned publisher asks.

"The Society of Salty Saints" made the Publishing Company lots of money so they want more.

It is slowly dawning on me that I'm not making all that much but ... they want another book which strokes my ego so, of course, I say "YES!"

It's a problem from the beginning.

They want another "Salty Saints" as my writing grows less sweet ... they don't like my title so they changed it to one I didn't like ... and when it's released ... it's a major flop!

"The Community of the Abandoned" ... isn't that a suck ass title? ... I wanted to call it "Embracing the Exile" but somebody else had already named a book something like that so I'm overruled.

Yet I have a fondness for it because ... it's dedicated to my family and when I walk in Grandma Carver's house to give her a copy ... she's napping on the sofa ... but immediately comes to life ... hugs the book ... hugs me ... tells me she loves me ... then to leave her alone so can read it.

I'll never forget that.

The other thing about "Community of the Abandoned" is Dr. Henlee Barnette comes to see me ... thanks me for writing it ... tells me stories about Clarence Jordan, the only Prophet Southern Baptists ever produced ... and teaches me writing is not about money ... it's about sharing.

Henlee Barnet taught ethics at the Seminary I attended ... hosted Martin Luther King, Jr. on campus and marched with him in other places ... and was the first pastor of the rag-tag inner city congregation I was inexplicable in charge of ... the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel.

"It's a good book," he tells me with his feet propped on my desk "but it's not a popular one."

"Oh," I sigh.

"It's okay," he laughs. "I like it ... I'm the one."

And to this day if someone tells me they like something I've written I say, "Oh ... you're the one?"

"Move those books back to the table," Sarah orders today.

She's doing stuff with them and I'd placed them out of the way but she's not finished with whatever-it-is-she's-doing so they're back on the table ... so I pick it up and flip through it ... and have a nice visit with my Grandma Carver and then Dr. Barnett decides to show ... and he brings Clarence Jordan who is one of my heroes.

Laughing, I place the book back in Sarah's pile ... pet the dogs ... make the beds ... and marvel at how blessed I am.

A Relic of the Past

"The Society of Salty Saints," my first book, is the story of a rag-tag inner city congregation where I was inexplicably the minister.

Comprised of five little old ladies, homeless men, Prostitutes, Prisoners with a guard, kids from the Projects and the radical fringe of the Seminary we somehow brought hope to a hopeless world.

The great radical Will D. Campbell wrote the preface and he was riding high with his National Book Award finalist, "Brother to a Dragonfly" so his name on the cover sold a lot of copies.

"Salty Saints" was different from most books the Baptists were producing because it focuses on the very poor, how gallant they are and why God loves them so.

It came about by Divine Accident ... or Providence ... depending on your point of view.

My friend Bill Thompson was leaving his job as manager of the Seminary Book Store to work for a small publishing company and he asks if I did any writing.

I'd taken to "journaling" ... jotting down stories, prayers and descriptions of life as I saw it ... living and working in the "Hood" ... fascinated by the dire poverty of the inner city where we lived and the vast wealth of the Seminary I attended.

"Well," I answer Bill, "I've got these notebooks ..."

He asked to see them, advised I put the stories in some kind of order and give him a manuscript.

I did ... he liked it ... Meyer Stone published it and ... that's how I became a writer.

The book has had a fascinating life!

It was republished multiple times ... got incredible reviews nationwide ... made Meyer Stone lots of money ... made me hardly any ... but got me invited to lots of places to talk about the book.

Frank Stanton once stormed into my office with the book demanding to know who wrote it?

"Hmmm, that's my name on the cover," I point out the obvious.

"You couldn't have written this," he forcefully explains. "Look at you!"

I didn't know how to answer.

Sarah pulled the books out the other day, places them in order and starts taking pictures of them so we can have a sale.

One of the things about being a writer is you can end up with lots of copies of your books ... or ... can't find one for the life of you ...depending on how things are going.

For the first time in a decade or so, I picked up "Salty Saints" flip through it and ... the dead are raised ... the smell of the Louisville Stockyard on a hot summer night wafts from the pages ... the indignity of Seminary wrestles with the Holiness of the Gospel ... and an idealistic, completely unrealistic young man is still here somehow.

It's a relic of the past ... the Baptists kicked the Church out of it's Convention ... and virtually everyone in the book are dead  ... but for a time anyway ... Holiness happened in a big way and it makes me happy to hold something in my hands to prove that it did.

The Right Mix

I may be more Chemist than I am Christian.

For years I've been mixing the precise correct formula of sin and salvation.

There have been times when I got the formula completely wrong ... too much sin and ... wake up thanking God I somehow survived.

Or too much salvation when I came across as a sanctimonious ass ... till somebody put me in my place.

Reality is we need the precise chemical mix of salvation and sin in our lives.

Honestly you cannot have one without the other.

It's like Ying and Yang.

Like Light and Dark.

Like Democrat and Republican.

Like Real News and FOX News.

Like Honest Police Officers and the money generating thugs in uniform on Tybee Island ... and in St. Louis ... Atlanta ... Ferguson ... Port Wentworth.

Like stolen orange cones on one end of Lewis Avenue but not the other because ... HOLD ON TO YOURSELF ... BLACK PEOPLE ARE ON ISLAND!!!

Anyway ... Sarah's in bed ... naked under the covers ... and I'm strongly searching for the precisely right mix of S.I.N. and S.A.L.V.A.T.I.O.N!

That's all.

I hope you find the right mix today!

Enjoy!