Giving Up Two Hours

"Well I can cross this off my 'Bucket List'," the 81 year old says taking the last bite of his burger and washing it down with Pilsner.

"What?" I ask sipping wine.

"Having my birthday dinner with you," he grins reaching for the bill.

I'm so humbled I can't speak a word if I could think of one.

This is our first meeting.

We've known each virtually for six years after he wrote me on Facebook, opening his life to me in response to things I share in blogs.

Quickly, I find myself looking forward to our exchanges as we confess who we are and why we think we're here.

He's also on the mess that is my family flow chart .... being the grandfather of my son-in-law Sam.

"You know what I like," he mumbles during his birthday dinner before telling me the answer, "you don't call me 'Mr. Simmons' and we're just talk like two people talking."

It strikes me most talking is condescending on somebody's part.

Will's primary job these days is to care for his wife who made him promise many years ago that, should she quit the Nursing Program to marry him, he'd always take care of her.

He did.

With her dementia ... it's a full time job.

He can safely leave her for maybe two hours at a time.

Those are precious hours and he's given them to me ... on HIS birthday.

"Let's do this again," he says pulling himself up from the chair in the crowded restaurant.

"Anytime," I assure him.

"Next year ... on my birthday," he replies.

"Hell yeah," I say.

So it's a date.

In the meantime ... and this is just for you Buddy ... "Selah".

My Favorite Apostle

I like Judas Iscariot.

He's my favorite Apostle.

I know ... it's not a popular thing to say ... but the Dude had a good heart.

Of the Twelve Disciples, he's the Social Worker of the bunch, lobbying money spent on perfume is better used feeding the hungry and I agree with him.

I like a Pedicure as much as anyone and if Mary Magdalene were rubbing my feet with expensive oil, I'd be pretty happy.

Same with the hair.

If Mary Magdalene wanted to wash my hair and put "product" in it ... I'm a happy guy.

Jesus obviously enjoyed it like I would.

Judas cares for the poor though ... "Why didn't we sell this for a lot of dough and helped the poor?"

That takes balls.

Jesus, being Jesus and all, is tired and needs a break and Mary's making him feel good for the first time in forever ... spends all she's made on the man ... and Judas calls her out on Jesus's on beliefs about the poor.

If you would be perfect then go and sell what you have and give it to the poor ... then you'll have treasure in Heaven so ... come on and follow me."

Busted!

Judas' reminding Jesus of things he'd taught the Disciples.

How can you not love that?

I think Judas was still trying to help the poor when he betrayed Jesus.

He did it to raise the money Mary had spent ... perhaps wasted ... on Jesus' feet and hair and I think he was going to live up to the words of his friend and help the poor.

But it didn't work out that way.

The best of intentions rarely do.

A chain of events is kicked off with a kiss ... two men die within minutes of each other ... one by the Government and the other by himself ...and ... the world's never been the same.

I believe Judas has gotten a bum rap through these centuries.

If there was a Disciple that Jesus loved the most ... I think it was Judas.

He was the first who wanted to give it all away ... to the poor ... and actually do the things Jesus talked about.

And in the end, he was the first to give his life for it too.

Missing My Dad

I was really missing my Dad yesterday.

Sarah, the girls and I are taking it easy, playing cards and laughing together after lunch before I retreat to the sofa for a nap.

Later, I turned on the Spring Day football game ... really a practice ... for the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia ... sent text to my son and daughter ... and ...

call my Mom.

She isn't watching the game because she doesn't have the elaborate and more expensive TV package allowing all things College football.

Sarah, indeed, loves me a lot.

"I wish Dad were here," I say to Mom. "He'd love this."

My sister Angi starts posting her feelings about the game online and I imagine she's thinking of Dad too, as she has his ashes and pulls them out for all UGA games, opening a beer beside what's left of him to enjoy.

Jeremy and Chelsea send text.

Sarah rolls her eyes.

"He always loved it when you called to talk about whatever was happening," Mom says and I can see him sitting in his chair in the elegant "Man Cave" she made him, staring at the television and dissecting whatever it is we've seen.

I would have really liked to do that again yesterday.

One of the funny things about working with the dying is how much it reinforces the love of living while you got.

"Let's go for a bike ride and check out Orange Crush," Laurel our 12 year old says.

"The game's not over," I say pointing to the television.

"Aw come on," she coos.

So we pump air into the bicycle tires and glide into the thong of College students, police officers, elected officials monitoring  the situation, frightened white home owners and the unafraid ones too, sitting in their yards instructing kids where to park.

"Dad would love this too," I say out loud.

"What?" Laurel asks.

I smile at the beauty of a 12 year old becoming a woman.

"I said my Dad would've loved you."

She smiles and my eyes grow moist.

Anyway, I missed my Dad yesterday.

Somehow I know that he knows.

A Jaded Day

"Yeah I think you're too jaded to be objective in your posts when you speak on behalf of others but it does generate conversation."

My wife text me that yesterday.

Jaded is such an interesting word ... "tired, bored or lacking enthusiasm, typically after having too much of something."

It's true, I suppose, in that I've had way too much racism, sexism, bigotry, stupid politicians and bad music in my life.

It pisses me off when I'm confronted with such things.

There's nothing unenthusiastic about me being pissed off.

It takes a lot to make me angry these days.

I used to be full of righteous indignation and fought the good fights ... winning more than I lost but losing a lot in the process.

These days I celebrate everything I've got while helping others leave everything behind to whatever comes next.

I'm not angry today.

I'm sad.

On this Paradise of an Island, we're surrounded by hate, bigotry, racism, stupid politicians and visitors who'll bring what I believe to be really bad music, though somehow it's meaningful to them.

Everything I hate collides today on Tybee Island.

Self righteousness is the guiding principal for everyone calling this clump of sand home.

The kids coming today will do little more than what we all did as kids ... get away with as much as you can ... because you only live once ... and you're only young this once.

Everyone's hate is broadcast in politically correct language.

Everybody says they love everybody else.

Everybody just wants to keep everybody safe.

What a load of Bullshit!

Hearing A Smile

The most memorable funeral I ever did was Trolley Joe's.

For years Joe drove a Conch Train in Key West before moving to Savannah to drive a Trolley pointing out the city's marvelous history, architecture and happenings.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, if you look to the right ... that's 'The Rev' walking down the sidewalk ... he's as famous as Spanish Moss around these parts."

Not knowing what else to do, I wave to a crowded Trolley of tourists.

Trolley Joe, Johnny O, Judy O, Jenny O, O Johnny, O Judy, Chicago Bob, Roma, Essie, Dave, Jodee & Cheryl, Handleman and ... in the later days Sarah herself ...  along with an ever changing cast of characters ... were "The Bored."

Meeting every day at 2ish, Island Standard Time ... which is as early as 11 or as late as 4 ... met to have fun.

Alcohol was a factor.

We solved all of the world's problems and never told anybody.

We mostly had a lot of fun.

Then "The Bored" started dying off ... Chicago Bob first ... Trolley Joe ... Roma ... Dave ... and it became too boring to be bored ... so we stopped ... though other incarnations remain ... and occasionally it comes close to being what it was.

When Trolley Joe died, Johnny O calls to say I'm conducting the funeral.

So I grab my robe, ride my bike to the Pier, say a few words ... "Of all the people who hate this is happening, I think Joe hates it the most" ... then Johnny and I break the law by carrying the ashes into the Ocean.

The Funeral Home people say they can't participate but ... the woman kicks off her shoes, rolls her black pants and wade into the water with us explaining, "If the Law comes, I'll say this is an official part of the ceremony."

You can't be too careful about the Law on Tybee Island.

We drop Joe into the Ocean and ... a dolphin breaks the water leaping high into the air before diving back into the same hole.

We gasp and people on the beach start clapping.

That is a cool funeral.

Stumbling though the door marked "Exit Only" this morning, Johnny O is sitting beside Todd, Trolley Joe's son.

We hug ... talk a little about the past ... a lot about babies being born ... and life at our age.

"I woke up at 3:30," Todd explains, "and today's Daddy's birthday so I took a shower, made a pot of coffee and drove here ... to be with y'all."

My eyes grow moist.

"You need help at Bar Church?" Todd asks.

"Always," I answer.

"See you there."

Before coming home to a house full of sleeping girls, I stroll on the Pier where the Bored used to meet, and look at the spot in the water where the dolphin jumped.

"Happy Birthday Joe."

And I swear to God ... I heard a smile.

Truth

Sometimes you find yourself working beside an asshole.

While it's not politically correct to say such a thing ... it is often the honest truth.

The Bible teaches the truth shall set you free.

No one ever ... well other than elected officials ... has proclaimed political correctness will.

You have to stand up for the truth though and I'm doing it right now ... even though my Mom is really going to give me Hell for using the word "Asshole" for public consumption.

"You're better than that," she will tell me for the thousandth time.

"Mom," I'll answer, "you also taught me 'It is what it is"."

"True," she will say.

Now that Mom's out of the way ... and elected officials could care less about the truth ... let's move on to the "Assholes."

On the surface they like you and are your best friend, lavishing you with praise, wanting to hang out after work, share personal secrets, swear allegiance and promise you to always be there for you.

An overwhelming number of assholes are very religious people.

As are a majority of elected officials.

The thing is they don't deliver on much, leaving you hanging because you believe in them ... take them at their word ... and give them more than they give themselves.

It's sad so many "enable" assholes to be assholes because they're afraid of telling the truth, are politically correct,  believe God wants you to show them love by accepting their "assholeness" or are simply too unsure of themselves to risk losing a "friend."

You know, John the Baptist calls such people 'brood of vipers" or ... in today's vernacular ... "lower than a snake's ass."

Anyway, whenever you find yourself working with, sleeping beside, sharing a home or a Church pew ... it's best to tell it like it is.

The truth will set you free.

Because life is too short to endure mean spirits hiding behind dashing smiles.

So choose truth and say it out loud.

It'll make you feel better.

Leave the asshole to Jesus.

A Preview of Coming Atttractions

A million years ago when Dinosaurs roamed the earth, I was in a Baptist Seminary and wrote a paper my Professor, Diana Garland, quipped "should be published."

I submitted it to "The Journal of Christianity and Social Work" and ... Lo and Behold ... it's published.

On a cold snowy day my 4 year old son Jeremy and I trudge to the Library so I can show him my name in print, now immortalized forever.

"Can we go play football Dad?" he asks after seeing my name on the page.

A couple of years later, instead of preaching a sermon in the church where I'm employed as the "Professional Christian" I read a letter to Jeremy who was celebrating his 7th birthday.

"I'm afraid I won't leave you much of value in terms of material things," I wrote, "a lot of books, hopefully some nice memories and a permanent place in your heart ..."

Since then I've written ten books, fifty or so published articles and almost five hundred blogs.

All the books I promised Jeremy I've given away.

All of the words though ... my words ... are floating in cyber space ... waiting for anyone who may wish to learn a little about me, discover funny stories and sad ones too, learn how Humpty Dumpty can be put back together again.

Pondering my words today, I'm thinking about a baby who's not even here though, word is, it won't be long.

Ancient words come to mind ... "For unto us a child is born ..."

Today you can see the previews of coming attractions that'll hit daylight three or four months after I turn sixty and five months after Jeremy and Terenca give us our first grandchild.

It's all pretty preposterous.

"How long will I have?" I ask myself.

Sarah's forever after me to take better care of myself so I'll be around for the long haul but you can do most everything and it adds an average of 17 minutes to your life.

The worst case scenario is I die way too soon and leave them lots of words to discover the old man.

It makes me thankful I've given away all those words.

The best case is they get to hear them from me.

Either way, I'm pretty damn excited it won't be long before ... as my lights dim, the curtains open on something far more than I'll ever be.

At night, I place my hand on Sarah's sleeping belly with trembling fingers and feel as alive as I've ever been.

The Nutty Season on Tybee Island

The Nutty Season has begun on Tybee Island.

You may be asking, "Micheal, how can you tell? It's always nutty on Tybee."

Excellent Question!

Let me start with the obvious ... our elected officials.

A little background first.

Every year for years, black kids choose a weekend to come to Tybee and shake their booty among other things. From the very beginning, islanders have hated "Orange Crush".

Here's how one part time islander recently put it ... "OC is its own kind of bad, and can't be compared to other events...the level of violence, debauchery, drugs, and general disregard for law and decency is not even fractionally experienced at other events ...why must this particular group be given special consideration when the event is not even permitted and sanctioned legally, with proper sponsorship?"

I'm not sure about you but when I was a teenager/college student ... planning was not my forte.

If the timing was right, it felt good and nobody was looking a good time was had by all!

A slogan of the times was "I love it when a plan comes together!"

So what nobody sponsors a teenage/college event fueled by the Internet (which I didn't have the opportunity to exploit then but God knows that would have been fun!)?

But not wishing to appear "racist" our elected officials are considering banning public consumption of alcohol for the entire month of April ... "so we can get a handle on Spring Break."

Isn't that just like a politician?

They're not targeting black people but the white ones too who come on the other weekends that aren't Orange Crush.

But ... as our friend Marie recently asked, "Does this include the Tybee Wine Festival?"

Every April, the rich white people who live on island throw a very nice event to raise money for an excellent cause that is based on the public consumption of alcohol.

Hmmmm ...

So if banning alcohol throughout the month of April for black college kids is in the best interest of the island  then ... there should be no alcohol for the rich white full time residents and their friends either!

Right?

I'm certain an exception will be made in this case as they always are when fortunate sons and daughters do ... or try not to do ... anything.

Many are going to say, "But Micheal! Orange Crush is different! There have been two shootings in the 20+ year history of the event!"

That's true.

But the last several murder cases investigated on island focused on white people.

And at the Beach Bum Parade a couple of years ago cars ran over kids.

I'm going to stop now and prepare myself for the response I'm going to get.

For what it's worth though, Sarah, the girls and I are looking forward to Orange Crush again this year.

There’s always exceptions in every crowd but it really is a swell group of kids.

Laughing till I die

Let me begin by being honest.

I am freaking funny!

I crack myself up!

It's such a shame other people don't know ... or can't appreciate it as much as I do.

Mitch Wesley comes pretty close.

Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, used to share it with me and be just as funny but ... I don't know what happened ... he grew up or something .... has grandkids.

Now my son Jeremy still gets it. Put us together and we're funny as Hell mostly cracking each other up! It's a great and magical gift when father and son can constantly make each other laugh.

The girls don't get it at all.

After saying something wickedly and brilliantly humorous in a deadpanned delivery, Maddie ... the genius yet utterly clueless 14 year old who knows absolutely everything ... looks up from her cell phone and says ... "Wha???"

Sarah mostly shakes her head and, if I'm lucky, walks away ... if not, I get a lengthy explanation of why "That's just wrong!"

My Mother scolds me ... "Why did you write that?" Don't do that again! And stop cussing! You're better than that!"

Let me tell you something.

It's hard to be funny these days.

It's no longer appreciated, honored or revered in America!

Well unless you're elected to Public office ... then you're funny as Hell but have no idea how funny you are ... because you're taking it too f$CK!NG serious ... and the thing is everybody's laughing at you and not with you.

These days you can be sued for pulling off a really good practical joke!

It's just wrong and I'm not going down without making a joke about.

I work for Compassionate Care Hospice!

Doesn't that just kill you?

It kills me.

Anyway ... I gotta go.

Behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes.

That's me right now.

Nobody's Easter

 All my preacher friends ... Professional Christians all ... are giddy as Hell today.

It's Easter!

Attendance is the biggest of the year, collections are huge and orgasmic preaching is going to happen.

I learned about "Orgasmic Preaching" at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Preaching Class under the wise tutorage of Dr. William Tuck.

"When you're in that moment when the word of God is flowing through your veins, into your heart, filling your lungs and pouring out of your mouth into the thirsty souls of your congregation ... it is orgasmic."

"Excuse me Sir," I interrupt after his great delivery, "am I to understand our goal is to engage in sex in the pulpit and it's a threesome between God, the congregation and the Pastor?"

I don't recall Dr. Tuck's answer but I can still vividly see his face ... as I can those of my fellow soon-to-be Professional Christians ... who obviously thought I'd just shattered several Commandments, several Cardinal Sins and a couple of dozen venial ones.

Good Christians aren't supposed to talk about such things.

I've never professed to be a good Christian.

I'm getting ready for Bar Church and honestly I'm not expecting a whole lot.

I'm the not-so-good-Semi-Professional Christian in charge of a service where someone stole all but one microphone, the sound system sucks and our drummer's in West Palm Beach.

On the up side, people who wouldn't be caught dead in Church bring covered dishes to lay on the Pool tables, there's freshly brewed coffee and a disco ball flashes colors throughout the Bar which smells like Lysol and stale beer.

The Baptists, Catholics, Methodists, Presbyterians, Spiritualists, Democrats and Republicans didn't invite us to participate in the Sunrise Service on the Pier ... again.

All the best Christians fly onto the island before sunrise getting parking places close to The Breakfast Club before rushing to the Ocean sipping coffee in insulated tumblers to listen to old Hymns, smell the salt air, see who's wearing what and who is who before rushing back to get a seat edging out the other believers.

At Bar Church we stumble in late desperate for coffee, juice and Sam Sahr's food to fill empty grease and alcohol laden stomachs wearing wrinkled tee shirts and yesterday's jeans or shorts, our hair is askew from pillows or whoever we woke up beside.

We're not much anything.

We're not anybody.

But we are together ... sleepily forming a congregation of sorts ... some believers and some hoping just to make it through another day ... shocked as Hell we survived the last one.

They'll be no majestic Hymns, collections are a drop in the bucket and the sermon's anything but orgasmic as I tell a few stories hoping for a laugh or any sign on life on this Easter Sunday.

The funniest thing is ... well I don't know if God makes it to the sunrise service on the Pier or not ... we're not invited ... but I'll be damned if She doesn't show up here every year ... raising the dead for at least another day.

Tiny Boxes of Rage

There are those in my life ... in yours too ... who've hurt me badly, scaring my heart as they positioned themselves at my expense ... and I believed in them long after they ceased caring about me.

They're just like most people ... self absorbed takers .... desperately trying to survive their own lives riddled with self doubt, conspiracy theories about everyone they know and the shallowest of self confidence.

With names like Jerry, Lavanda, Aretha and Loren ... they pass for most everyone ... because they're most everybody.

They devastated me because they built themselves up by tearing me down while I passionately believed in them.

It leaves you changed.

Moving on through life, meeting new people, my heart still believes though my head flashes off warning singles that they're just like everyone else.

The reality is that I've taken those hurts, betrayals and hate ... because in the end that's who such people are ... unable to love themselves without hating you ... and packed them in tight emotional boxes to never be released again.

I've done my best to bind them tightly by talking to friends, therapists and Holy Shaman who tell me I'm better than that and should rise above it all.

Life's moved on but I'm more suspicious than I used to be ... less trusting.

Good things happen as life moves on and little boxes of rage I carry are overshadowed by a beautiful partner, little girls, a Church in a Bar and a job that I love.

Then ... someone falls into your life who ... is them.

Repeating old patters, I do my best, give him a lot ... too much really ... and believe with everything inside they'll return in kind.

They don't.

And the lids of little boxes of rage open as everything bad that's ever happened fills my soul.

The difference between then and now ... is I have learned when to stop giving to those who give nothing back.

Remaining on the high road ... and in the most Christian way I know ... I say, "Fuck them."

I'm not doing that again.

Jesus was only crucified once.

He was way too smart to do it again.

I'm following Jesus on this one.

I've been called worse

"U are a false preacher if U believe homosexuality is OK with Jesus."

Pretty quick answering private Facebook messages I reply, "I never claimed to be a true preacher."

But he had already unfriended me so a really good ... and true ... comeback gets lost in cyberspace only to be known by God ... should God have any desire to care about such a silly exchange.

Actually Jesus never said anything about homosexuality one way or the other.

I don't think he cared.

He had bigger fish to fry  ... like getting everybody to love each other because God is love and if you want to be with God then you have to dirty in love.

It doesn't matter if you're red or yellow, black or white ... all are precious in his sight ... including gays, straights, transgender, elected officials of any persuasion, Southern Baptists and ISIS and people who wear brown shoes with black pants.

Sure there are some anti-gay verses in the Bible ... just as there verses condemning anyone who ever committed adultery, broke Commandments or ate shell fish.

In the end God loves them anyway.

Jesus said as much.

I don't have any bad feelings about being called a false preacher.

Hell! I've been called worse.

I do feel sorry for the guy though.

He's depriving himself of all the love this world has to give ... meaning everyone in it ... and that's a shame ... because in his life anyway ... the Kingdom will never come on earth as it is in Heaven.

Good Mourning!

A girl's High School Softball dressed to kill whoever they're facing today while still looking hot for any boys who may be watching ...

A group of boys all dressed in black, totting black cameras with baseball hats backwards on their heads with fashion logos and colorful converse sneakers ...

An elderly couple watching everything except each other are having a painful conversation ... "How's yours?" ... "Good" ... "And yours?" ... "Good" ....

People dressed in orange hoodies balancing mountains of food on Styrofoam plates carefully carry leaning towers of carbs to wooden tables where toast and cereal spill as they sit ...

A sleepy genius wearing a hoodie reading "Break necks ... Kill Egos" drops the spoon for the scrambled eggs on the floor so he grabs the Ladle for sausage gravy to scoop his eggs leaving it there for whoever follows ...

The idiot coming next stands in scrambled eggs on the floor, can't figure out why a gravy laden Ladle is in a bowl full of eggs and waits until the poor elderly black Lady keeping things fresh and clean fixes things for him.

Drinking coffee and watching, partially hidden behind a tiny netbook, smartly dressed in black running shorts and a UGA tee shirt ... I'm appalled.

Virtually everyone eating or spilling breakfast ... leaving mountains of dirty plates for someone else to clean up ... stare at their phones as they shovel food into their mouths.

Half the room sucks snot up their nose while the other half seems to blow it out into napkins which they lay on top of uneaten food.

The elderly black lady is earning whatever it is she's getting paid by cheerfully smiling, replenishing the dishes and cleaning up.

No one tells her "Thank you" or responds when she wishes them "Good Morning."

So ... unable to stand it any more ... as she refills the coffee urns and cleans the spills ... I stumble over and wish her a "Great Day" ... tip her a few dollars ... say "Thanks" and walk away before she can respond.

The spoon from the scrambled eggs hits the floor again and I watch her rush over to clean up other people's messes.

A baby starts screaming and her exasperated mother exclaims, "Can't you wait till I finish eating!"

Some days, it's so easy to lose your faith even after you do your best to keep it.

Girl Travel

I'm used to traveling alone having jetted around most of the United States and half the world for work, pleasure or adventure.

Routines are quickly developed traveling alone ... where to park at the airport, where to sit while waiting, how to talk to people or not, food and bar preferences, how to be entertained or not.

For a while, my son Jeremy and I did a fair amount of traveling together ... to UGA football games or rock concerts and we also developed our own routines ... once I learned he was lying and could drive a stick shift!

I've gone to the Keys with my daughters during Daddy/Daughter trips and while Kristen stayed on her phone the entire time with her boyfriend, Chelsea and I called the Vatican one night sitting beside the pool in Key Largo because we needed to ask the Pope something.

1-800-VATICAN.

The phone rings but no one answers.

The most enjoyable travel these days is when Sarah and I get to go somewhere alone, which hardly ever happens, but we have tremendous fun because everything is a brand new adventure and we exploit the Hell out of it making up for lost time.

This trip ... it's me and four girls.

Sarah, Maddie, Laurel and Cassidy are redefining travel fun ... primarily because I've acclimated to their travel values which consists of inspecting the hotel ... scoping out the boys ... hitting the pool ... leaving all manner of clothing scattered around the room ... eating out ... sleeping late ... waiting until the last minute to eat breakfast and ... getting ready.

I used to be in a hurry, get frustrated, react unnecessarily and ask God why this is happening to me?

Then something of a miracle occurred.

Yesterday, Sarah's honking the horn as she, Laurel and Cass are ready to go but Maddie and I take our time.

Maddie is the beguiling 14 year old genius who knows everything but balances it by remaining clueless.

Honestly I don't believe I'll ever be the last person ready to leave until Maddie moves out which, if everything goes right, is in three years.

But despite the cost to every hotel room we've ever shared, the girls have taught me to ... relax and enjoy.

There's too much hurrying in life as it is!

There are too many rules.

So what if it takes 28 hotel towels to dry off after 15 seconds in the pool?

Traveling should be enjoyed!

And you know what?

I'm enjoying the Hell out of this trip.

Spirit Surfing

Last week at Bar Church I did something I've always dreamed of but somehow it never happened.

Unlike most Churches, it's impossible to plan Bar Church.

You never know who's going to show up or what's going to happen and while we try to do a weekly Bulletin it's impossible to assign order to chaos.

We just go with the flow ... surf in the Spirit ... or wait to see what's going to happen.

So last Sunday, Davy the drummer was a no-show preferring West Palm Beach to Tybee Island ... Lona Crask took her guitar and mountains of equipment to care for dying mother leaving us to fend for ourselves ... John Iacovini's arm's in a sling so he can't bang the Congas ... Gordo's in love with Jamie up north somewhere ... apparently Samuel Adams has been raptured ... and no special guests were scheduled.

Leaving just me.

It sucks to do "Church" by yourself ... no matter what they say.

It takes two or three from what I hear.

Mary shows up to help set the Bar up for Church ... a couple of hung over guys wander in needing coffee and aspirin ... John with one good leg makes his way from the Campground bringing his great smile ... Sam Sahr rushes in with mountains of food to lay on the Pool Table ... Tourists wander in looking lost ... gays and straights ... white and black ... precious and not-so-much in my sight eventually fill the place up.

It's hard to pinpoint when Bar Church actually begins.

Ten-ish ... Island Standard Time ... is how I explain it ... meaning it begins when it happens ... normally a little after Sam Sahr arrives with the food.

And I did a solo gig with a pattern of telling a story to introduce a song ... like a one two punch ... the stories were great ... the songs were my favs ... the crowd hung on every word ... and I had a Hell of a good time!

Nobody walked out and there was lots of laughing and clapping.

Even Dedra came back from the dead to see what was going on.

As soon as we finish the Bulletins arrive and are distributed.

I'm glad it happened this way because God only knows what's going to happen this Sunday at Bar Church.

Not Dead Yet

"How do you do it," he asks.

"Do what?" I reply taking a sip.

"Work with dying people?"

"They're not dead yet."

"But they're dying."

"From the day we are born we start dying," I say now gulping the wine.

"It's depressing," he sighs hugging his beer. "I couldn't do it."

"Aw, you're just scared of dying," I say putting my arm around his shoulder.

"Aren't you?" he squeals.

"Well, I'm not in any hurry for it to happen but ... it's part of life."

"IT IS NOT!" he exclaims, "you die when you stop living."

"Exactly," I smile.

"What?"

"What you said ... you die when you stop living."

"WHAT IN THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?"

I realize my friend is an idiot.

"When you stop living you die," I answer shaking my head.

"Everybody knows that!" he snaps.

"You're the one who asked," I reply returning to the wine.

"What do you mean by that?" he demands slapping his beer on the counter.

"If," I answer, "for whatever reason ... health ... mental health ... the people around you ... where you're at or where you're not ... you decide to stop living then you start dying."

"What?"

"Yeah some just it faster than others."

He shakes his head and guzzles the beer.

"My dying friends remind me every day to enjoy the Hell out of now! Who knows how much 'Now' I've got?"

"You're not right," he says standing to leave.

"Probably not," I agree, standing. "I've got to go too. I have a lunch date with a lady in a Nursing Home who wants to shake the place up."

He rushes out the door never appreciating her lust of life ... as she slowly dies.

A Different Sunday Morning

Cassidy, the 9 year old, sleepily stumbles into kitchen where Bon Jovi's blasting "Raise your hands" through the ear buds as send Monty Parks his birthday present on Facebook.

The world stops and as the sun blazes through the Palm Tree with the Oyster Eyes, Coconut Bra and Grass Skirt as I whip the buds from my ears and pick her up.

"What are you doing up sick girl?" I ask.

"Apparently being picked up by you," she answers laying her head on my shoulder.

It makes me laugh. I'm trying to teach the girls sarcasm which is beyond their capacity to comprehend because they're all "literalists" so this constitutes a major step forward.

"I'm hungry," she coos.

"I'll fix the Cinnamon Rolls," I say putting her down.

"No, I don't want any," she says. "It'll make me sicker."

All the girls in our house are sick.

"What do you want then?"

"Fruity Pebbles."

"Of course, that'll make you feel better."

I fix her a bowl and she sits across the table above my computer screen.

"I don't want you to go to Bar Church today," she slurps.

"Yeah," I sigh, "well I have to."

"Oh," she sighs in her little girl way and my heart breaks a little.

"Can we go to the Dunes today?" she asks.

"Yeah if you're up to it."

Sand dunes break the chilly ocean breeze and the sand, sun and solitude are warm and toasty for working on our tans.

"Can we get in the water?"

"Not a chance in Hell," I answer.

The water's cold.

"Okay," she says munching a mouth full of Fruity Peebles. "I'm just going to sit here with you."

And she is.

A Sunday morning hasn't been this nice in quite some time.

Finding Musical Common Ground

Lately I've been reading ... when I read rather than write ... biographies of the rock stars who were so significant to influencing who I've become.

George Harrison, John Lennon, Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt, Johnny Cash, Eric Clapton, Carly Simon, Graham Nash, Bob Marley ... it's a big list.

Driving home after retrieving Maddie, the 14 year old who knows everything, we listen to "her" music ... mostly "Spoken Word" recorded over a monotonous computer generated drum beat and an occasional other instrument.

She dances and gyrates in her seat just like I did all those years ago, singing along, knowing every, mostly profane word.

"Is every song about fu#king?" I ask her.

"Yeah," she replies rolling her eyes.

"Hmmm," I shrug because, God knows, I've got nothing against sex, drugs and Rock-n-Roll.

"WHY IS IT SO LOUD?" Maddie screams.

I cannot understand the child as I pick her up from school blasting Derick & the Dominos "Why does love got to be so sad?" from the Bose speakers through the open sun roof and rolled down windows.

My music's loud.

Hers is repetitious, rhyming raps about ramming and relieving one's self in a raspberry tart.

I struggle to remain open minded.

I like sex as much as anybody!

It's especially good with music.

I wish Maddie's had some.

But her generation finds value in it in ways I can't appreciate though I try reminding me of my Dad trying really hard to find common ground with me as I blasted "Why Don't We Do It In the Road" on the radio in the 69 Impala as he drove me to School.

Praying to ourselves

Sitting in the back of the bus surrounded by Southern Baptist Ministers making our way back to Louisville from Washington D.C. which we had failed to save.

Everyone wore three piece suits with their vest unbuttoned to relax except me.

I wore blue jeans, Hushpuppies, a plaid button down, sock tie and corduroy jacket with my feet propped on the seat in front of me trying not to burp.

I sucked down a couple of beers before getting on the bus and didn't want to burp on the fact with my ... peers.

"Let's pray for our country," sighs the Pastor of the Lyndon Baptist Church.

"Why?" I ask covering my mouth.

"So that the Lord will intervene and again use our country to glorify the Lord," he booms.

I burp.

My peers eye me with grave suspicion before bellowing, "WE NEED THE LORD TO INTERVENE!"

"I don't know guys," I say sitting up, "I think he already has."

"We need God to do it again!" they spit demandingly.

"It's hard to do anything twice just as good as the first time," I explain.

Buttoning their vests to go to work on one of their own, the Pastor of the Highland Baptist Church asks, "Just what do you think prayer is?"

"I dunno ... I think it's pretty much us talking to ourselves and hoping God's listening. I think it's pretentious to always be asking for something when God's already given us everything."

A long moment of silence follows before the Pastor of the Beulah Land Bible Baptist Church exclaims "You're not one of us! The Bible proclaims God will deliver unto us everything we need."

"Yeah, yeah," I wave him off, "but not everything we want."

The Pastor of the Colgate Baptist Church ... home of the brightest smiles under Heaven ... starts to pronounce me a pagan and a Heathen but the other stop him as they all move to front seats on the bus.

"What's prayer?" asks Frederick Buechner.  "It's shooting shafts into the dark. What mark they strike, if any, who's to say?"

It's reaching for a hand you cannot touch.

The silence is so fathomless that prayers like plummets vanish in the sea."

You beg.

You whimper.

You load God down with empty praise.

You tell him sins that he already knows full well.

You seek to change his changeless will ...

Yet ... Prayer is the wind that fills {the} sail. Else waves would dash {us} on the rocks, or {we} would drift with witless tides.

And sometimes, by God's grace, a prayer is heard.

Almost Time

According to a reliable source ... Facebook ... Al Sharpton will leave the United States if Donald Trump's elected President.

Of course Russ Limbaugh apparently said the same thing if Obama were elected but he's still here.

Lots of people say such things but they don't mean it.

On the other hand, I'm ready.

Belize ... San Salvador ... Costa Rica ... the littler Caribbean Islands ...

It's sunny and bright here but there's a chill in the air which I'd just assume never experience again.

Government's out of control in America ... from the insanity of Washington D.C. to the retirement community/police state of Tybee Island ... and it's getting worse with no end in sight.

So called "Leaders" are anything but pretentious pretenders.

I've done my stint trying to make the world a better place and though we did lots of good, everything comes with a cost and thirty years of saintly work has left me cynical and weary of intolerance.

I'm ready to step back to a simpler, more trusting time where winter comes, the Ocean is aqua-blue and clothing's only occasionally necessary.

We can't do it right now because of responsibilities we're committed to fulfill mostly centering around divorce decrees and little girls.

But there's an excitement bubbling inside of Sarah and me about what's coming!

It can't get here soon enough but dreams take time to become reality.

We're completely finishing our current dream real before shipping off for the next one ... which we can see ... almost taste ... just over the Ocean's horizon.