Morning Prayers

In the quietness of the predawn morning I light a candle in the kitchen.

Goddess, Winston The Little Gay dog and Gypsy flock to space under my feet wanting Communion in the form of treats, which I give them gladly.

Turning on soft music, Winston, TLGD, prances back to our bedroom, head butts the door and jumps back into bed with sleeping Sarah.

Gypsy gracefully leaps on the sill of the open window and keeps watch over the end of the Holy Night.

Goddess collapses under my dangling bare feet and sleeps.

Noticing a faint light I make my way to Cassidy's room to find her sleeping while still holding her phone watching Netflix. Smiling I turn her light off.

The sky turns grey and lush green leafs drip with rain which I can feel through the screen door leading out to the Beloved Back Deck.

A colorful wet beach towel hangs limply on the chair I normally write in and little metal desk decorated with seashells and an Tiki Bar oil lamp is filled with water.

Birds begin to sing.

Squirrels dart through Palm Trees carrying nuts in their mouths.

All is calm ... all is bright.

Next door the Cat Lady rolls the trash can over the rock gravel of her drive way though she is mercifully quiet this morning.

Sarah's made pumpkin bread so I pick some from the crusty ends which the girls don't like.

The computer starts to "ping" as my friends from college shoot verbal darts and I return the favor , stifling laughter so the girls can sleep.

Goddess licks my foot.

It's time to cook the Cinnamon rolls ... the Sunday tradition at our house.

Afterwards, I'll pack up and head to Bar Church but ... I doubt the worship can top how this day's already begun.

Great Questions

I've been pondering some of life's questions lately. It's been quite the exercise ... difficult yet rewarding ... heart wrenching but satisfying ... exhausting and exhilarating. As a service to humanity I want to share these questions and the answers with you so your life may be fuller.

I did not Google any of the answers and each question just came to me. I'm not sure from where but they are life's deepest questions.

Here you go!

"Are we human or are we dancer?"

On the surface this seems a stupid question ... unless you transform your humanity by dancing. Then it makes perfect sense.

"Why don't we do it in the road?"

A Great Question always begs another one! Why not?

"Have you ever seen the rain?"

I'm watching it now. It sucks.

"What's love got to do with it?"

It all depends on what "IT" is. In some cases love's got everything to do with it while in other cases it's got absolutely nothing to do with it.

"Where have all the Cowboys gone?"

Aside from the ones in Dallas I have no idea and honestly don't really care about the ones in Dallas either.

"Where is the love?"

I got it right here.

"Does anybody really know what time it is?"

Actually I do care because there are some games on today and I will be incredibly focused at 3:30.

"Is this real life? Is it just fantasy?"

Yes.

20 Minutes of Nothingness

There's finally a Pope I like ... a sinner friendly guy with a Liberation Theology background ... but he screws it up by meeting with a bigot ... Kim Davis.

You already know who the Pope is ... arrogant enough to take the name of St. Francis of Assisi ... the most Christ-like person to live ... since Christ!

And you know who Kim Davis is... a narrow minded believer ... stretching her 15 minutes of fame into 20 ... by refusing to acknowledge love happens in more ways than one.

The Vatican is "distancing itself" from her.

She's embracing him like no man she's ever had ... including her husband Joe ... her 4th husband ... and I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that ... God knows I'm not one to judge ... but it is funny.

All that to say ... THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH LOVE!

"It is what it is," as my Mom likes to say.

Gay .. Straight ... or otherwise.

GOD is LOVE.

One of the great things I paid damn good money to learn in Seminary is ... the "thorn in Paul's flesh" was his homosexuality.

"Take it away from me," he pleaded with God on three occasions.

"It's cool," God answers. "I love you the way you are."

And there would be no Church today without Paul.

So I know Kim Davis is a bigot.

And the Pope I liked so much is an idiot.

But the God I love ... is love.

And I hope Kim Davis ... and the Pope too ... enjoy their 20 minutes.

Killing Huggers

It pisses me off that "Hugs" are politically incorrect these days.

They'll get you sued for sexual harassment and wreck careers if you give one in the work place.

Doesn't matter if it's a same-sex hug or not ... Hugging gets you fired, sued and placed on the sexual predator list.

My friend Millar Fuller gave a hug to some volunteer in his office at "Habitat for Humanity" which he founded ... building houses around the world for those who had none ... developed the concept of "Sweat-Equity" meaning if you can't pay for your house with money, work with us and pay in sweat ... was a devoutly Christian man who started his path with the only Prophet Southern Baptists ever produced ... Clarence Jordan.

Everyone from former Presidents to Nobel Prize winners helped him build houses for people who didn't have one and ... was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

He housed more people than anybody ... ever!

But Millard gave a hug and it got him fired.

Devastated, he rallied and started the Fuller Center for Housing and continued building houses for people who don't have one.

"Our conclusion was that Millard was a hugger and was misinterpreted, and some people went out of their way to make something big out of something that wasn't really that big," said John Wieland ... who I also knew ... and was on the Habitat Board at the time.

Millard and I hugged on numerous occasions and I never felt sexually threatened ... though there was some peace that surpasses all understanding.

Millard died several years ago, never fully recovered from hugging.

The last time we were together was in Atlanta to receive awards and recognitions for housing people who didn't have a house.

He was sad ... his head was down ...as we sat at the head table with 8 others ... and when my name was mentioned ... he looked up and our eyes met.

He stood ... and I stood ... and we hugged in front of a thousand people.

"You alright?" he whispers in my ear.

"Yeah," I whisper back still holding him, "it's good to see you again."

"You too," he says letting me go.

"Yeah," I smile.

"Love you," he says placing both hands on my shoulders.

I cry ... and mumble, "Love you too."

And the world's not as nice as it was when Millard was alive ... and before we starting killing huggers.

One of those moements

It's one of those moments.

Sitting on a stool in Doc's Bar, waiting my turn to play guitar ... or join someone who already is ... I stare around the room at people I've become very fond of and ... I'm wondering how the new songs I'm bringing are going to be received.

Truthfully, none of us care, because we're bringing the best of what we've got and sharing.

It's cheaper than therapy.

Then Monty Parks does an incredible song he wrote about Detroit where he was raised and melancholy drips from his guitar strings.

Thomas Oliver follows with a striped down, slowed down version of "Hey, Hey Baby ... I want to know ..." and it's the best damn version I've ever heard ... with Chip Zulliger playing a killer lead.

And God Herself decides to stick her head in and listen as Greg Bell stares at the Post-it note on the side of his guitar.

And Scotty beams me up.

The back door's open and the Ocean's loudly singing in the distance.

Warm, salt air floods inside the back room with God.

Turning in my chair to stare outside and welcome our guests ... I don't hear anything for the longest time.

I've fallen into some Vortex of Salty Sea and Holiness.

"Hey," God says.

Unable to speak, I nod.

The propped open door is filled with darkness though in the distance are lights from tiny apartments in an alley.

I am baptized in salt air ... the aroma filling my lungs ... the stillness of the island on a lazy night shouting quiet.

Clark Byron finishes singing "Southern Nights" and Scotty beams me back down because it's my turn.

Reclaiming my focus, Lona Crask stares at me wondering what I'm bringing.

She's my partner at a weekly Nursing Home gig.

And God says, "Don't you love it?"

Hanging my head, I wipe my eyes.

"Don't you love them?" She presses.

Fumbling, I strum a G chord.

"Enjoy," She concludes and vanishes.

Everyone's staring wondering what I'm going to do.

And I play ... and sing ... giving myself to them ... just as they've given themselves to me.

It's a gift when such things happen.

God Herself reminded me tonight.

A Prophet's Daughter

"Rev. Elliott," Dr. J.J. Owens proclaims in a voice dripping with dignity, "may I see you down front?"

Down front means the center of the Amphitheatre.

He's teaching Hebrew to a group of a 100 or so and ... I'm on the back row with a group of friends drinking Rum and Coke in Styrofoam cups ... my greatest contribution to the pronunciation of Hebrew.

It's a lot easier to pronounce if you're a little high ... or "Closer to God" as we used to say in Seminary.

Hebrew is written from right to left ... rather than left to right ... only has 200 characters ... meaning combinations of letters ... there are no vowels ... so "Wheel of Fortune" is a purely "Christian" endeavor ... so to replace vowels ... Scribes used "Dots" and "Dashes."

You ever tried to read ... or pronounce a "Dot" or a "Dash" or speak a word with no vowels?

It'll drive you to drinking.

Grabbing my Hebrew Lexicon and Styrofoam Cup, I make the long trek to the front of the class completely prepared for the worst.

Throwing his arms around my head and whispering in my ear, smelling the Rum on my breath, he asks, "So you have a daughter?"

I nod because I'm completely overwhelmed by the moment.

"She is Jeremiah's brother?"

Jeremiah is the greatest prophet as far as he's taught us ... the one daring to talk back to God ... call Him names ...be carted off to another land ... and die a horrible death because he believes in his friend anyway ... God.

"Jeremy," I stutter.

"Same thing in Hebrew," he wetly whispers in my ear.

"What's your daughter's name?"

"Kristen," I answer.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Dr. Owens proclaims from on High,  looking like an Old Testament Prophet.

"Rev. Elliott has a daughter. In the Old Testament you make sacrifices over such Holy events so ... he is going to be excused from today's class ... and as a gift ... he may take whoever he chooses to go with him."

I'm crying ... standing there in front of a 100 or so ... really wanting to go home and hold my baby.

"Well?" Dr. Owen asks with a grin I've never seen.

Holding up the Styrofoam Cup, the entire back row follows me out the door.

In the hallway we laugh and hug and then ... I rush to work as a waiter ... to make a little more money ... because we have none ... and the girl can drink milk ... not her Mother's ... the store bought kind.

$1.27/can.

Around midnight, I hold her in my arms, give him his bottle and we fall asleep together.

Raising the Dead

"When someone dies you don't know what to do," my friend Will D. Campbell said, "so you make potato salad if you're in the South and take it over."

It's your way of saying, "I care ... I don't know what to say ... and I don't know what to do ... but I love you ... I'm hurting with you ... and here's some potato salad."

On another occasion, Will explained when a friend of his died,  he took a Bible and bottle of bourbon.

"If one doesn't get you through, the other might."

Receiving a message from a friend, I read ... "Will you please write about Ricky? I'm afraid the world's going to forget he was ever here. If you write about him ... they'll be something left for others to be reminded."

Well ...

What does one say?

What does one do?

I'm being asked to raise the dead.

A funny thing about being a writer is ... I can ...and do ... bring people back to life ... at least reigniting feelings, memories and stories in those who loved them.

It's a blessing and a curse ... as my wife often says ... keeping them alive though their stories comes with a cost ... everything comes with one ... in this case it's putting myself back then to recapture them  and ... at the same time ... remind myself of my own impending death.

But ... it costs to bring the dead back to life.

Ricky Hinely was my cousin. We grew up together ... snuck out ... drank beer when we were underage ... shared two girlfriends ... loved music ... snuck off alone to do things nobody knows though perhaps they'll be revealed in Heaven ... and the last time we were together was on the Pier, staring at the Ocean, sharing beers and talking about how it's a shame we grew up.

We went in different directions ... but we toasted the times ... gave each other hugs ... and said "I love you" ... which are the last words I ever told him.

The last words he ever told me.

So today Cuz ... welcome back ... missed you ... want some potato salad? ... maybe a shot? ... then lets open the Bible and get Grandma and Granddaddy here ... sing a few old songs ... make our way to the Pier again ... and tell old stories.

Then we'll do what we did before ... going our own ways ... doing our own things.

Though I do enjoy these visits.

I know you do too.

Sunday's Dilemma

I start this Sunday in a dilemma.

For some reason neither Sarah nor I bought Cinnamon Rolls.

It's a Sunday tradition at our house that there are hot, sticky sweet, frosted buns waiting on the girls when they wake.

Cassidy, the 9 year old, is typically up first and eats 4 or 5 of the eight rolls before her sisters wake  though, occasionally, Maddie, the 14 year old, surprises everyone by getting up before noon and reaches the Cinnamon Rolls first.

She'll eat several completely disrupting Cass's math and her sense of fairness.

Laurel, the 12 year old, always seems to get the last Cinnamon Roll ... if there is a last one.

On occasions as rare a "Blood Moon" Sarah gets one.

Here's the problem ... Tybee Market opens at 8:30 ... the time I head to Bar Church ... so I need to be in two places at the same time.

Sarah is a master of such things ... masterfully and gracefully cramming multiple activities into a single moment.

I'm not.

So the plan is ... pre-heat the ocean while I run to Tybee Market and pray like Hell it opens on time ... but the Cinnamon Rolls ... drive like a bat out of Hell back home and throw them in the oven without waking the girls ... watch them cook ... pull them out and spread the frosting evenly across the bun ... the girls are sticklers about evenly spread frosting and raise Holy Hell is a roll isn't completely covered in sugar ... write them a love note above the hot buns on the stove ... then drive like a bat out of Hell to Church.

At Church, I'll say ..."What? I'm late? Our clocks must be wrong. I need to check on them when I get home."

So that's the plan.

I think it's God ordained.

We'll see.
I start this Sunday in a dilemma.

For some reason neither Sarah nor I bought Cinnamon Rolls.

It's a Sunday tradition at our house that there are hot, sticky sweet, frosted buns waiting on the girls when they wake.

Cassidy, the 9 year old, is typically up first and eats 4 or 5 of the eight rolls before her sisters wake  though, occasionally, Maddie, the 14 year old, surprises everyone by getting up before noon and reaches the Cinnamon Rolls first.

She'll eat several completely disrupting Cass's math and her sense of fairness.

Laurel, the 12 year old, always seems to get the last Cinnamon Roll ... if there is a last one.

On occasions as rare a "Blood Moon" Sarah gets one.

Here's the problem ... Tybee Market opens at 8:30 ... the time I head to Bar Church ... so I need to be in two places at the same time.

Sarah is a master of such things ... masterfully and gracefully cramming multiple activities into a single moment.

I'm not.

So the plan is ... pre-heat the ocean while I run to Tybee Market and pray like Hell it opens on time ... but the Cinnamon Rolls ... drive like a bat out of Hell back home and throw them in the oven without waking the girls ... watch them cook ... pull them out and spread the frosting evenly across the bun ... the girls are sticklers about evenly spread frosting and raise Holy Hell is a roll isn't completely covered in sugar ... write them a love note above the hot buns on the stove ... then drive like a bat out of Hell to Church.

At Church, I'll say ..."What? I'm late? Our clocks must be wrong. I need to check on them when I get home."

So that's the plan.

I think it's God ordained.

We'll see.

Endless Summers

It is widely known I HATE cold!

 

There’s an old wives' tale that you love the weather you are born into.

 

I was born in July so it makes perfect since I LOVE summer.

 

Old wives and their tails begin to break down afterwards though.

 

Sarah was born in May so you figure she’d love hotter weather but ... to quote John Belushi ... “NOOOOO!” ... she prefers colder stuff.

 

Same with Maddie who was born in September. It’s still hot then but the child begs for air conditioning ... begging for blanket and hot chocolate.

 

Laurel was born in April and is therefore a bit schizophrenic about weather! She loves dressing winter clothes during the summer and goes near naked in the winter.

 

Same with Cassidy who was born during November ... the child believes in dressing for style and doesn’t give a damn about weather consequences ... fur boots in August are fine!

 

Jeremy keeps this train going because, though he was born in July like his Old Man, he prefers cooler temps which makes no sense.

 

Kristen, born in April, loves summer weather just like me.

 

Chelsea who was born on Summer Solstice definitely higher temperatures and little lattitudes.

 

In our house, the girls can’t wait for winter, layers of clothing, ice skating and the dispictable thing Satan ever created ... SNOW.

 

“Cold as Hell,” is said for a reason ... it’s the Devil’s work!

 

“But Mike,” some say, “you love College Football which is played on cool, crisp days!”

 

True ... though I think the entire season should be in September with games played every other night.

 

Regardless, the girls are excited and it’s hard to not enjoy their anticipation though I prefer endless summers.

 

You have to make compromises in life and love ... some are harder than others ... so I take solace in the fact that soon ... TOO DAMN SOON ... we'll all be snuggling under a blanket together ... drinking something HOT ... dreaming of summer. 

One Hell of a Nice Guy

The Pope would like to see you." she says unexpectedly.

"Don't give me that shit," I fire back.

She ... is my Guardian Angel ... a chain smoking, drinker of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Bourbon ... loogy spitting ... skinny ... pasty ... dirty ... Cherubim with a broken wing and a robe that doesn't fit.

"No seriously," she replies ... "I don't know why but the Holy Father wants to see you."

It strikes me for the first time in our relationship that I have no idea what faith my Guardian Angel practices.

"Are you Catholic?" I ask.

She laughs taking a long drag off her cigarette ... "No ... no ... Hell No."

"Well you're not a Baptist!"

She wails in laugher, bending over exposing a breast, limp oily hair hanging over the railing on the Beloved Back Deck ... which tickles me  ... so I'm laughing at her laughing ... then we're both laughing together.

Finally calming down, she asks if I want a beer.

"Not yet," I say holding up my hand in protest ... but a PBR magically appears from ... I don't know where.

Toasting her can with mine, I hear her gravely voice say, "Well the Pope wants an audience."

I stare at her in disbelief for a long time and finally ask ... "Do you know that you sound exactly like Janis Joplin?"

Smiling, she sits up straight, adjusts her robe and says, "Thanks."

"You're welcome. It's pretty cool actually," I say taking a sip. "So what's the Pope want with me?"

"I have no idea," she replies taking her own sip. "He's sinner friendly though."

"Yeah, I like that about him."

"Why is this taking so long?" Pope Francis demands in an epiphany, "I'm on a schedule."

"WOAH!" I mumble.

My Guardian Angel makes another PBR appear, hands it to Francis and he takes a swig.

"This is pretty cool," I eventually say. "Sarah wants to go to Italy and see the Vatican ... can you get us Hall Passes?"

Shaking his head, he flashes that sinner friendly smile, leans forward and explains, "No you have to pay like everyone else ... mea cupa."

"I completely understand," I reply, "business is business."

Laughing he takes another swing and says, "I deal with a lot of assholes ... been in Washington, the Capitol City ... I just needed a break and figured this is safe ... I waited till Sarah left."

"Smart," I tell him.

"She's a Saint," Francis says.

"Yeah," my Guardian Angel and I sigh simultaneously.

"Alright, I've got to get back," he heavily says. "I'm working on getting rid of Boehner."

"Really?" I ask.

"It's a start," he shrugs.

"Want another beer Father?" my Guardian Angel asks.

"I do," he slumps, "but ... Micheal's been to Washington ... he knows what it's like ... it's a lot of work and I gotta get back."

I nod as Pope Francis disappears.

"Damn," I say to my Guardian Angel. "He's a Hell of a nice guy!"

"Yeah," she agrees, "but you know what's great about him?"

"What?"

"He likes people like us," she says lighting another cigarette.

"Hell of a nice guy," I repeat.

Who's rich and who's not?

Sarah points out my social calendar to me.

1. Breakfast Club for coffee every day.

2. Monty's Jam on Tuesday nights.

3. Bar Church gig at the Oceanside Nursing Home on Thursdays.

4. UGA football on Saturday.

5. Bar Church on Sunday.

"That's it," she rightly concludes.

It sounds sort of ... lame.

Well ... I'm a bit defensive ... "I do clean the toilets on Fridays" I think to myself ... but I don't bring it up.

"You need to get out more," she presses.

I love going out with Sarah ... and while I may initially bitch about it, I enjoy taking the girls to wherever it is they have to be and we always have a good time ... and I often drag my ass into the Nursing Home and Bar Church but they always end up being special and Holy.

In truth I spend a lot of time praying, thinking, writing ... and looking for work.

In spite of what elected officials say ... the economy SUCKS!

It reminds me of a truth ... the only time a politician tells the truth is when s/he calls another politician a liar.

That's pretty funny ... and sad ... and often true.

Isn't it a shame you don't get paid to pray ... we'd be rich.

Isn't it a pity you don't get paid to think ... we'd be rich.

Isn't it atrocious you don't get paid to write ... well John Grisham does ... a handful of others ... but most of us do it for the love of writing otherwise ... we'd be rich.

Worst of all, isn't it demonic you don't get paid to love?

Because it would be fascinating to see who's rich ... and who's not?

Fishing

I've gone fishing today.

Why don't you write something in my place?

You can say what you really want to and attribute it all to me.

I don't care.

It's therapeutic and fun.

Or not.

You decide.

Be back tomorrow.

Maybe.

Thank You Doctor

You know when you get the call?

"Hey," they always say, "calling with bad news. You probably already know because you're techno savvy but she's died."

It's always a bit of a kick in the stomach followed by a long, slow exhale.

Sometimes it's followed by instant sobbing and overwhelming emotion.

Often, the most basic prayer ... "Oh God" ... is said before these other things.

She ... is Dr. Diana Garland ... my professor in Seminary ... who I once kidnapped, taking her to a Gay bar during the early days of AIDS ... meeting up with three fellow male students ... and we drank beers, ate good food and introduced her to friends she would have never otherwise met.

I remember she was frightened the people at the Seminary ... the ones who wrote her check each week ... would find out.

"Please never mention this to anyone," she said as I left her out safely on campus.

I drove her crazy and somewhere there's a letter she wrote me saying as much.

"You cannot be a Liberation Theologian in a Baptist Seminary," she scolded.

"Why?" I fire full of righteous indignation.

When my first book, "The Society of Salty Saints" was published she called it "a sweet little testimony."

When I got in trouble with Southern Baptist Corporate Headquarters ... for committing lots of sins while employed as a "Professional Christian" ... she took their side ... which was the right side if you're going to remain a Baptist ... because there was no question I'm committing sins left and right.

And that was it.

I went away ... finding the beach and a roller coaster life.

She went away ... back home to Texas ... and Baylor University ... to raise her family ... teach the things she believed ... and die.

Somewhere in there, we had one final exchange.

"I was always proud of you," she wrote. "You drove us crazy but you ... I don't know ... you were you ... you were special."

That was a long time ago.

Today I receive the call and Diana's left her husband David and her kids and gone to ... Heaven knows where.

But as you're going away I want to say "Thanks."

You drove me crazy too.

You taught me a lot ... mostly about myself ... and I'm doing the best I can with it.

So today ... just like that one in the Gay Bar all those years ago ... during the height of the AIDS epidemic ... you, three other guys and me toasted and laughed.

Today it's just me toasting because you all are gone.

And I know ... I don't know how I know ... but I do ... God's got you ... and them ... and us too ... now.

An unwanted meeting

"Why come you don't write about me anymore," she slurs, spitting a loogy over the deck, takes a drag from her cigarette and chases with a tall boy PBR and a shot of bourbon.

"Why come?" I ask laughingly.

"Yeah ... why come you don't write about me anymore either?"

It's my drunken bicycle who's been pretty upright for the last few years.

"Screw off," my Guardian Angel says flipping him off with one hand while pulling her dirty robe back over her shoulder to cover her exposed right breast.

"Ruff," Winston The Little Gay Dog barks in his high pitched voice ... wearing a black sweater vest with pink letters ... reading ... "3 words to save the American Economy: GAY BRIDAL REGISTRATION!"

"Shut up," I say.

"Here Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!" the Cat Lady screeches from next door. "Dammit Micheal! You don't write about me anymore either."

"Oh for Christ's sake," I mutter.

"I didn't like the way you handled my death," says the neighbor who used to garden in her underwear. "You could have done much better."

"You're dead," I reply. "Why are you here?"

Smiling she answers, "Haunting's in my future."

"You don't get new panties in Heaven?" I ask which pisses her off so she tries to call the Tybee Police on our dogs but hasn't mastered cell phones yet.

"Who in the Hell are all these people?" my Guardian Angel demands crushing out her cigarette on the kitchen table.

"Figments of my imagination," I grin.

"TO HELL WE ARE!" they screech in unison.

My left foot is suddenly warmer than the right one and looking down Winston, TLGD, is peeing on it.

"Listen," my drunken bicycle slurs, "don't you forget that we're the ones who made you what you are today?"

"What's that?" I ask suddenly interested.

They all look at each other searching for an answer.

"GET OUT!" I yell.

Everyone disappears except  my Guardian Angel ... who hands me a beer and smiles, "You can't do that with me."

"Ruff," Winston, TLGD, barks in his pitched voice.

Apparently I can't do it with him either.

Things you're born to do

The other day I pull into the parking lot beside Benny's at 9nish in the morning and Monty Parks stands beside his car, playing guitar and singing to himself.

"Whatup?" I say.

Ignoring me, he finishes his song that nobody's listening to other than Monty.

He then helps me lug in sound equipment he's loaning us for Bar Church because we're too poor to have our stuff ... so like the first Christians we borrow, beg and steal and meet in borrowed places.

Monty leaves after we set up and Church has a righteous bodacious services with lots of Lesbians, people who don't know if they're coming to the Bar or leaving it, a few students, lots of coffee drinkers, lots of hungry people partaking of Potluck on the Pool Table and several families with kids.

I don't feel like writing today.

It sucks when I feel this way.

It was a crazy weekend ... Sarah and I had little time for one another ... because Tybee believes kids actually live here in an obligatory sort of way ... "There's plenty for kids to do here! Take them to the Beach! Or to one of the Bars!" ... so we mostly pass on the Tybee road carting our girls somewhere!

So Monday gets off to a rocky start sapping the creativity right out of me.

Meandering around the Back Deck, I'm restless and fidgety ... the music's not right ... the plants need water ... the dogs won't shut up ... and this one bird squawks instead of sings ... making me believe in the NRA in a momentary lapse of sanity.

Then the image of Monty pops in my head playing "real good for free" to himself on the sidewalk ... doing something nice ... for somebody else.

"I write for myself," I often say ... and it's true ... it's my way of processing, coping, venting, inventing or letting out.

But I also write for others for free.

I'm not sure if anyone heard Monty that day ... save Monty.

Hell I don't know if anyone's going to read this!

But each and every one of us was born to do something ... hopefully several things ... all grounded in love ... or selfishly making as much as you can for yourself ... or just trying to keep your head above water.

I'd rather be sitting here with Sarah, naked on the back deck, feet propped on the railing, holding hands, talking about things we've had no time to discuss.

Instead I'm writing.

Sarah's in town working.

Monty was playing.

Each doing something we were born to do.  

My Blessings

Stumbling out of bed, I kiss my sleeping Sarah somewhere on the side of her face and make my way into the bathroom and fumble in the dark for my toothbrush.

After knocking several things over, quietly cussing each time, I find it and turn to make my way to the outdoor shower.

Tripping over the shoes Maddie left in the floor I quietly cuss again before stopping to pick up the silver sandals.

She was stunningly beautiful last night as she went to her first formal dance and a tenderness comes over me as I place her shoes next to the stairs leading to her room.

In the dark I make my way outside only to discover Cassidy sleeping on the sofa.

I was sleeping on the sofa last night trying to watch the football game when Sarah left to retrieve Maddie from her big night out and vaguely remember Cass kissing my forehead.

Stooping over I return the love.

Making my way outside again I trip over Goddess who's sleeping on the floor beside Cassidy protecting her from whatever may come in the night.

I quietly cuss again.

Finally under the hot water in the outdoor shower, I stare at a billion stars in pitch black sky ... and notice a grey light coming out of Laurel's room.

Stumbling out the shower I peek inside to see her watching Netflix on her smart phone.

The child has boundless energy, doesn't accept criticism when it hits her in the face and is always up to something.

She and I had a lunch date yesterday at Wendy's ... her choice ... and when I order the spicy chicken sandwich with pickles, she did too.

"Man, this is hot," she sweats in the middle of our date.

"Why'd you get it?" I mumble with a mouth full.

"Cause you did," she replies wiping her forehead and ... I just melt.

Returning to the shower, I count my blessings.

Sarah often refers to the girls as her "blessings."

I think they've become mine too.

Afternoon Delights

I was listening to "Afternoon Delight" and was suddenly struck by the fact that ABBA sounds like a Church Choir singing about sex in the middle of the day.

It would strike me as wrong if it wasn't so right!

Let me explain that.

Sarah listens to the radio.

I don't.

I search the World Wide Web for what I want to hear.

Sarah lets the people who talk a lot on 98.7 occasionally play one of several songs.

"Afternoon Delight" is one of those tunes.

I love my wife and endure the station as she has breakfast ... though the moment she leaves I rip the chord out of the wall, smash the radio on the floor, curse that boring woman and two men who won't shut up.

Then I put everything back like it never happened listening to Spotify ... more specifically Brian Wilson's "No Pier Pressure" ... followed by Alice Cooper "Only Women Bleed" ... David Bowie's "All the Young Dudes" from the excellent Live 1974 ... Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing" ... Paul Thorn's "Today's a good day to whup somebody's ass" ... and "My Sweet Lord."

But ...

Afternoon Delight should be like worship  in Church.

It never dawned on me until I notice how much ABBA sounds like a choir in the First Baptist Church of somewhere in the South singing about sex.

Having been in a Church choir I am well aware there's a great deal of repressed sexual activity during a terrific version of "Love Lifted Me."

Anyway ...

I'm all afternoon delights.

Hell ... I'm all for love lifting me!

I wonder where Sarah is?

Living and Dying

"Some days you feel you've lived too long ... the days drip slowly on the page," (Bruce Cockburn).

It's one of those days.

I seem to be miss stepping, miss speaking, miss the mark in what I mean when I write, miss planning, miss firing and missing the dreams for today.

Inside of every old person is a young person wondering what happened?

I don't feel old ... too in touch with the little boy inside ... but things aren't quite working out the ways I've imagined.

It's been a large and crazy life so far.

It would make a great mini-series on a cable network where there's plenty of room for intrigue, politics, sex, cussing, betrayal, and incredible achievements leaving everyone scratching their heads wondering ... where did that come from?

That was then.

This is now.

When I wrote "Tour of Homes" ... in retrospect a book where I'm saying goodbye to lots of things and lots of people ... I was very captivated by the "in-between."

People often get caught "in-between" ... jobs ... houses ... destinations ... loves ... life and death ... belief and unbelief ... we never expect to but we do.

I've been fortunate enough in my life to have lots of homeless friends who are the most in-between of all ... and they taught me ... you either wait it out by doing your best ... or you die.

Other's are pretty certain what you should be doing but ... I was always amazed at how my homeless friends knew when it was time to move up or move on ... regardless of what everyone was telling them.

I find myself in that place.

On the one hand I'm more loved than I've been ... frustratingly so for those who love me ... more content and at peace than I've ever known ... happy to simply be.

On the other hand I'm frustrated as Hell ... things that worked before aren't now ... faith and will power used to be my perfect combination but now act like oil and water ... and I WANT MORE than what I've got ... not so much for me  but for those who love me.

Perfectly in between is pure Hell.

It's time to either move up or move on.

I'm not ready to move on yet.

There's too much to live for.

I'm not quite sure how yet ... but that's never bothered me before ... the question's with who?

I've cast my lot and I have no more to cast.

It really does boil down to faith ... and keep doing the things I believe ... because if you believe in love ... which I do ... then it all works out.

Or I die trying.

And if it's death, I'd rather it happen as I try  to do the things I believe ... be who I am ... and love back those who love me.

I have found funny!

It's been a long time since I've laughed so much with Republicans.

As a matter of fact the last time was in Washington DC as a member of the "Leadership Savannah" Class listening to some Republican Congressman from California bitch out federal funding for the "National Endowment for the Arts" because Robert Mapplethorpe got some of the money.

If you don't remember, Robert Mapplethorpe was a very controversial artist who produced a painting of Jesus as a homeless person shooting heroin in his arm laying on a sidewalk.

"LOOK AT THIS!" the Republican Congressman screams ... "this isn't our Jesus!"

Raising my hand I reply, "Actually it is our Jesus. He came to be with the sick and hurting right? An addict's hurts. That's why they shoot heroin ... they self medicate. I think this is a pretty cool representation of that."

The Republican Congressman was speechless ... as were all my Leadership Savannah friends ... and all the staffers in the Congressional hearing room ... though Steve Acuff laughed and gave me a thumbs up sign.

I have no idea what happened to the Republican Congressman.

Steve Acuff retired but Edna Jackson, from our Leadership Savannah Class, is Mayor of the City strictly enforcing sign ordinances of those running against her.

I haven't thought about this in years until last night ... watching the Republican Presidential debate!

God I love these people!

I have found funny!

The Donald is a hoot. Carly Finoria cut his balls off over sexism. Ben Carson, a black guy, makes the most sense! Everyone else is an idiot.

How I laughed.

It's been years since I've cared about the selfish, egotistical, meanness of the members of the Elect ... but ... well ... the Republicans are lighting those fires again ... because they are fucking funny.

The Hat Trick

As a kid sitting in the back seat as Dad pulls into the driveway of Robert Dicky's house off Highway 21 or South Coastal Highway depending on who you believe, a car full waits.

We're picking up David Dicky who's 7 or 8.

I'm a mature 12 or 13 sitting in the back seat beside my incredibly immature brother David who's 11 or 12.

Mom's in the front passenger seat holding our enfant and immature sister Angie who mostly cries demanding all attention be focused squarely on her.

It's a hot day and the windows are rolled down.

To keep us quiet Dad's changed the radio station to WSGA's Jerry Rogers and rock-n-roll, sacrificing his beloved country music, so David and I will shut up.

I'm trying to grow my hair over my ears which Dad absolutely hates so he and I are entering the struggling years.

When little David Dicky comes out to climb in the car with us, his father tells him, "I love you" and kisses him squarely on the lips.

Watching in the hot, airless car I'm appalled ... a father kissing his son on the lips is foreign to me.

Afterwards, I swear Mr. Dicky cries and David throws his arm around his Dad and ... in all my maturity ... I recognize love.

That was a long time ago.

I just finished talking to my 35 year old son who's now living in Huntsville, Alabama with his beautiful wife Terenca and wonderful daughters Ava and Nina.

Jeremy and I always enjoy each other ... and have been together through bad times too.

"I love you Son," I say with moist eyes as we hang up.

"I love you Dad," he rushes to say, "we'll text and talk over the weekend."

Hanging up, the long forgotten memory of Mr. Dicky kissing his son, and the ensuing battle to let him go ... comes back to me.

I know exactly how he felt.

I'm a blessed man.

My kids are doing okay and we're quick to say "I love you."

I have little girls who roll their eyes at me, rub my growing belly, ask me to take them to McDonalds or for advice and tell me they love me.

It reminds me of Mr. Dicky trying with everything in him to let his child go ... and it's a lot harder done than said.

But it's quite the miracle when ... in spite of time and distance ... you still feel it ... and say, "I love you " ... especially when the aftermath is a lingering happiness and appreciation ... and longing.

Sarah and I watched a great movie about a couple losing their children who're moving on to live their own lives.

That's the way life is.

But the Hat Trick is still loving each other once everyone's moved.