This Dying Night

A faint greyness climbs out of the Ocean against the backdrop of black that is the night.

Stars begin a westward retreat.

There is no Sea breeze and the silhouettes of the Palm Trees stand in quiet attention.

A lone bird sings, "Morning has broken."

All is calm ... the greyness is turning bright.

It's 5 am and I'm sitting naked on the Beloved Back Deck with my feet propped on my writing table underneath a red umbrella in a chair with extra pillows covered by a blue beach towel.

"Hey Goddess," I say to our dog snoring under the table, "Here comes the Sun."

When I can't sleep, stumble outside on the deck and Goddess always follows to make certain I don't do anything stupid.

A car roars down the street and I hear the thud of a newspaper hitting the ground.

Nothing's bothering me ... my eyes just popped open at 5 am and, according to Sarah, I kept her up the other night tossing and turning because ... allegedly ... I had too much wine ... and I don't want to risk the wrath of my beautiful pregnant wife ... so here I sit.

I don't mind.

It's actually quite stunning witnessing the labor pains of a new day's birth ... the quiet is deafening ... tranquility leaves tingles and I rub my bare shoulders.

My thoughts are interrupted as Goddess paws the sliding glass doors telling me it's time to come back inside.

Stumbling back to bed, I hold sleeping Sarah grateful for the last delicious morsels of this dying night.

When the Holy Spirit Breezes through

I don't know ... sometimes the stars really do align ... the sun shines directly upon you in just the right way or the Holy Spirit really does breeze through.

That was yesterday's Bar Church.

After it was over, I showered to wash off the smoke, swam twice in the water but the aroma of God's presence remains.

Honestly, I drug myself to the service, having driven from Fort Lauderdale the day before after a week away and I just wanted Sunday to myself.

But I didn't want to let anyone down.

I'd missed the previous week and, while I know things were great without me, something inside moved me to go.

It wasn't an elaborately planned service.

John the Conga player didn't show ... Bob Fulton's air conditioner broke and that kept him home ... others who wander in to share their gifts were led to other places.

None of it mattered ... I believe things happen the way they're supposed to ... if we're open to it.

Lona was there with her sound system and full of excitement of two weeks of new things to share.

Gordo and the lovely Jamie stumble in with harmonicas and Bloody Mary's.

And I brought my guitar.

Mrs. Bobbie, Mary, Sam Sahr, Steve, and others filled the Pool Table with a feast fit for a Queen.

Then the Spirit blew in a congregation from the four corners of the world, dressed in every imaginable way but sharing a readiness for something special.

"I fell down, down, down in a dark lonely hole," the service begins, "there was no one to care about me any more ..."

And every damn person in the room cares.

From that moment until we knocked on Heaven's Door, it were as if tongues of fire descended from above.

I've been in and out of Bar Church almost from the beginning ... outside of Sam Adams and Gordo who founded it, I was the first outside speaker ... then Sarah and I were in the Band ... then we were kicked out ... before I'm invited back to lead things after Sam Adams left.

In that time I've watched people come and go ... great musicians lead us to the Promised Land ... wonderful speakers ... touching moments ... and shared tears.

I've also seen anger over meaningless things ... hurt feelings when none were intended ... shitty attitudes ... idolatry of a past that's never coming back ... and apathy.

I've never experienced a collection of people so ready to share, give, sing, dance and celebrate. Everything we threw at them, they caught, internalized, loved and shot right back.

We come hoping against hope God would come too.

Yesterday God did.

Holy Shit! Bar Church has never been like that!

It was a Communion of the Saints without a plan.

Maybe God had it planned.

I don't know.

But today, I still tingle from Bar Church yesterday.

Straightening Out The Christians

"Alright, you straighten out the Christians today," Frank says as I stand to leave.

"What?" I ask stopping dead in my tracks leaving the Breakfast Club where I have coffee every morning.

"Yeah," one of the cooks agrees. "They need serious help."

"Well how in the Hell am I supposed to do that?"

They shrug their shoulders and look the other way.

"Novices," I mutter stumbling outside where the rest of the staff enjoy a last cigarette or text before opening for the long line already formed by the front door.

At 6:50 in the morning Butler Ave, Tybee Island's main drag, is already as filled as most American Main Streets on a hopping Saturday night.

Sleepy couples barely clad in clothing carry sandy blankets and "empties" from the Beach where they either watched the sun rise or made love in the Sand Dunes throughout the night.

Cop cars line the street in front of "Sunrise" where crime is fought over breakfast.

Stairs and stoops are occupied with bleary eyed men and women with 3 miles stares, thoughtfully smoking and pouring something in Styrofoam Coffee Cups to make it stronger.

The Baptist Preacher's already parked in front of Chapel by the Sea ... Catholics say rosaries in St. Michaels before Mass ... the Methodists are sleeping in ... well dressed Episcopalians straighten out the manicured pine straw under the Palm Trees ... and the Bar Church crowd are wondering where the night went.

"Straighten out the Christians my ass," I mutter driving home listening to "School's Out" by Alice Cooper loudly playing with one hand hanging out the open window and the other catching the wind through the sun roof.

"Christians can't save Christians! That's why they try to save everybody else."

A lady with a map in spread over the steering wheel of the car she's driving waves me to a stop as I pass her on 12th Street.

I turn Alice down.

"Can you tell me where the Lighthouse is?" she asks as her husband looks embarrassed in the passenger seat.

"Sure," I explain for the thousandth time since I've called Tybee home. "Go straight down Jones till you come to a red light. Take a left. Go to the next red light and take a right. When you come to a dead end, take a left then take your first right. Go around the curve and look up. Look to the left. Don't look to the right or you'll miss it."

"Well that's what we did," she replies confused.

Having done my best, I turn Alice back up and drive home.

After kissing Sarah's sleeping head, the dogs and I meander to the Beloved Back Deck where I can't get the words, "straight is the path and narrow the way" out of my head.

It's from Hank Williams magnificent Bar Church song, "I saw the Light" which we do with regularity.

"Wait a minute!' I say out loud sitting up to Google "straight is the path and narrow the way."

Sure enough! It's in the Bible!

Matthew 7:14 ... "Straight is the path and narrow the way that leads to life ... only a few find it."

"Only a few?" I ask out loud.

The Baptists, Catholics, late starting Methodists and emasculate Episcopalians will have decent size crowds by island standards.

After brunch on the Pool tables, Bar Church takes the "where two or three are gathered in his name" pretty serious.

I'm pretty relieved by the whole "only a few find it" part of the Bible because that means it's not my job to save everybody.

It's theirs. 

The Things that are coming

If sleeping is practice for dying, as it's been said, it makes me wonder.

Sleep "is a rehearsal for the final laying down of arms, of course, when you trust yourself to the same unseen benevolence to see you through the dark and to wake you when the time comes --- with new hope, new strength --- into the return again of light" (Frederick Buechner).

Sarah will be the first to tell you when I first fall asleep I'm "deader than a door nail."

Three little girls watching Netflix, the Tybee Island Weather Warning System or the constant droning of televangelists asking for money can't wake me.

I am gone from this world to ... I don't know ... but even Sarah's sweet caresses and kisses can't raise me from the dead state I'm in but ... eventually ... I come back.

Sometimes I watch people actually die and it really is a lot like falling asleep ... it just takes a lot longer because this time there's no waking up so ... nobody's in a hurry.

Last night, snuggled tightly with my wife, I relentlessly dreamed, one after another as though waves in the Ocean hitting the shore.

They were full of people long deceased and still living, relics of the past and places I've never been, things I've actually done and others I'd never consider, impossible circumstances and improbable realities.

Some were in black and white while others were in color.

Some were silent dreams as if words are unnecessary while one clearly contained the voice of my Grandmother singing "Precious Memories" holding me in her arms.

At one point, I have to pee and don't want to get up ... I'm really enjoying these dreams ... but my body calls me back to the demands of the living so I unwrap myself from Sarah and stumble to the bathroom.

"Well if sleeping is the rehearsal for dying," I think standing their hoping my aim is true, "I wonder if dreams are previews of coming attractions?"

What comes next will not be confined by current realities but will be an inclusive something or another where we easily move between the living and the dead, renew things we've loved and embrace new loves we've never tried with improbable people in impossible ways.

Stumbling back to bed, it strikes me how much I like these thoughts.

Re-entwining myself with Sarah, I try to fall back asleep as soon as I can, ready to dream and to practice for the things that are coming.

Not Yet

For my birthday I got ... more killings.

Police officers shoot people.

People shoot police officers.

"There will be wars and rumors of wars ... these things will happen ... but the end is not yet."

It's pretty shitty news to wake up to on one's birthday.

It all started nicely enough with the sun bubbling out of the Gulf of Mexico, creeping out of bed so Sarah and the girls can sleep, stumbling into the sand in bare feet to get coffee and taking my seat on the tiny deck under the Palm Trees.

Opening my tiny computer, I find the cards Sarah and the girls left and they warm my heart and make me cry joyful tears.

I stream music from a playlist my son Jeremy made for me and am thankful for how much I have in my life.

A giant green and blue Iguana meanders up, nods his head wishing me "Happy Birthday" too.

It's a damn nice start.

Then I see the latest news of "Us" against "Them" and am again saddened of how we have become such a divided nation ... where there is a Party of the "Right" opposed by a Party of the "Wrong" ... and lives of color matter more than the colorless ... and everyone feels justified at the expense of everyone else.

Strolling down to the water, I feel of the cool refreshing salt water and am baptized in the incredible yellow glow of the rising sun.

Looking down, the Iguana has brought friends to my party and they follow as I peak inside to check on my sleeping girls.

"But the end is not yet," the Bible says, "regardless of the wars and the rumors" ...  of the killing of the "Us" and the "Them" ... of senseless deaths regardless of color ... and the mindless dogma of "Right" and "Wrong."

The End is not yet.

And a breeze blows from somewhere out in the Ocean, rippling the water of the Gulf, making the Palm Trees dance and cooling me in a tingly, salty delight.

My friends the Iguana scurry away, leaving me alone with these things on this, my birthday.

Goodbye Micheal

"Well I guess you had to be there ... it was a Hell of a ride!"

Yep, on my last day as a 50 something year old, I have to admit my, "lines were blurry and hurried but it felt like the stars had aligned."

My fiftieth birthday was a massive party thrown by people I worked with and attended by lots claiming to love me but I don't think I'm friends with any of them now.

Tomorrow is a quiet affair riding with the woman I love ... and two of our girls who'll want to listen to really bad music (honestly it's not music at all ... bad poetry about sex layered over computer generated bass and drums loops ... but they're kids ... what do they know?)

In 2006 I was on top of the Corporate world having taken a local non-profit to unheard of heights, I was a nationally recognized leader, relentlessly traveled the world and could do anything I want.

Now I write a blog, lead Church in a Bar and help people live until the moment they die.

Then everyone wanted me and I had to flee to find time alone.

These days, aside from going to work, Bar Church and the Tuesday Night Acoustic jam at Doc's, I rarely make it out of the front yard.

I was the epitome of good shape then but now find my Dad left me his gut in some obscure part of his will (of course it didn't help that, like Forest Gump, one day I just stopped running).

The last thing on my mind were kids and now I have a gazillion with Baby Che on the way!

There were lots of unexpected, and unwanted surprises in ten years but, when all's said and done, the best and most precious is Sarah, bursting out of a past she had no business leaving to shower me in love like I've never known.

Some things I wish hadn't have happened but I wouldn't change anything now.

All those people who loved me left but I learned who're my friends, picked up a couple of new ones and reclaimed a few old ones.

My friend Joey Finch and I commiserated the other morning about turning 60 and we're both sort of shocked it's happening but ... what the Hell! ... Here we are!

And we're sure glad to be here because it's great where we are but we're more excited to where we're going next.

So goodbye 50 year old Micheal!

You pale in comparison to what's happening now and the stuff getting ready to hit the fan!

Right Joey?

Right Sarah?

Vacation Rules

You're not supposed to think about work on vacation yet here I am ... watching a beautiful sunrise on a beautiful Key West morning.

Colorful hammocks lay still as there's only the slightest breeze.

Finches and Hummingbirds dart through Tropical vegetation.

A couple sits on the floating dock holding hands with their toes splashing in the Gulf of Mexico.

Our Lesbian neighbors slide open their doors, wish me a cheerful "Good Morning" before passionately kissing and a hot morning gets hotter.

I'm sitting with my bare feet on a Palm Tree, hair in a pony tail, wearing as close to nothing as I can, wondering how one of my patients is doing.

Inside of my brain I envision Sarah getting on to me. "Stop thinking about that! You're on vacation! You need a break!"

And she's right of course ... but working with the dying keeps things really alive ... and as a Chaplain for Compassionate Care Hospice I'm sending him prayers, good Karma and wishes for the best of luck.

He finds himself "suddenly single" in his 90s'.

His family either died or went home to their own lives and he's alone ... well, except for us ... and I'm on vacation.

I've been "suddenly single" when abandonment and betrayal crashed down, a home became a house and my only companion was Goddess, the dog.

Honestly she would have taken the dog too but didn't have the room.

I've never been so hurt and lost.

But then a group of people who really love me, led by Sarah, came in a raised Lazarus from the dead so here I sit in Key West with tanned feet against a Palm Tree watching the sun rise and full of concern about my "patient."

I mean according to HIPAA he's my "patient".

In reality he's my friend and perilously close to being "family."

I'm tempted to text my zealously compassionate colleagues to see how he's doing but that would breaking the rules of vacation ... besides ... Sarah's typically right on such things.

So as a "man of faith" I have to rely on prayer, good Karma and best wishes this morning.

Plus the excellent team I'm part of back home.

It's hard ass work but I've learned that if I don't take care of myself, I ain't worth a damn taking care of anybody else.

When you see my wife ... tell her I said that.

Life in the Blender

"But there's booze in the blender ..."

"I need to change subjects," I say to Sarah sitting in the Key West night watching the after fireworks show in the distance ... meaning people are still shooting fireworks over the Ocean long after the official show.

We'd driven to Smather's Beach to watch the fireworks, found parking, joined the crowd on the Sea Wall, saw the show, joined the hundreds of cars trying to leave at once and an eight minute drive took fifteen.

No cops ... no orange cones ... no problem.

Living on Tybee Island we're unaccustomed to unsupervised activities.

"Yes," my wife asks, hair pulled on top of her head with wisps blowing above piercing blue eyes, with her chin propped in one hand while the other rubs our baby in her belly.

"It's crazy," I begin after sipping my wine, "I know I'll  never be their father ... that's impossible ... but ... they're starting to feel like they're my daughters too ... especially Maddie (the clueless 14 year old who knows everything) whose lived with us full time for a year and a half now."

Sarah smiles but doesn't say anything.

Someone paints the sky in the distance.

"Where the boys are," plays on the sound system at the Ibis Hotel were we're staying.

"It's little things," I continue as the Lesbian couple staying next door comes out to lay together in a hammock, "glances we give each other ... tiny hugs ... quietly understanding one another if you're  upset ... the comfortableness we've grown of our give and take."

Sarah stares remaining silent.

"Don't get me wrong! She nuts and I can kill her half the time but ..." and my voice drifts out into the Ocean.

Sarah squeezes my hand.

It's life in a blender, I suppose.

Melding families means dicing up hearts and making them stronger in the broken places.

"Are you going to sleep outside?" Sarah asks because it's hot and sticky and she's ready for air conditioned sleeping.

"Maybe for a little while," I answer so she kisses me and heads inside.

I lay in the hammock, staring at the stars and unofficial fireworks above the Palm Trees.

It's nice.

I love it.

But ... I head inside the ice box to be with my wife and kids.

Funny Fireworks

A little girl in her bathing suit rushes out the sliding glass door like it's Christmas morning on this sticky 4th of July morning!

Her one piece is purple with pink trim, her blond hair's been braided into Bahamian corn rows and she claps at the rising sun doing a funny little dance in the sand.

Her Mom's been sleeping in a hammock since I've been sitting here sipping coffee but I see her hands rise and clap for her daughter.

Dad stumbles out wiping his eyes and cursing the brightness of a new day.

Mom pulls herself out of the hammock only to face plant in the sand under the Palm Trees wearing a white tee shirt reading "Key West" and pink panties.

The little girl squeals in delight.

I spew coffee laughing.

Brushing the sand from her face, Mom looks at me and laughs too as her daughter continues in delight and Dad seems oblivious to everything.

"Why don't you like fireworks Micheal?" Cassidy the nine year old asks last night as we lounge in the salt water pool after watching the sunset in Mallory Square.

"When's the last time you watched a sunset?" Sarah asks Maddie, the clueless 14 year old who knows everything.

"I dunno ... five or six years ago," she answers staring at her I-phone.

"I'm not big on celebrations," I answer Cass over Sarah's shoulder who's sitting in my lap in the water.

"Steer clear of royal welcomes," the Major Prophet James Taylor warns, "avoid a big to do ... a King who'd slaughter the innocents, will not cut a deal with you."

"Race me Micheal!" Cass asks obviously disliking my answer ... so we do.

"I'm going to stay outside with you tonight," Maddie says forever surprising me again.

Sarah bristles when I kiss her wet back.

Fireworks are funny things.

You can try to make them or you can wait for them to come to you ... buy them from a store or watch them naturally unfold.

Mom hugs her daughter, picking her up and they share sandy kisses.

She wacks Dad beside the head as he continues to stand there oblivious to everything happening around him.

I return to the brilliant rising of Earth's greatest light.

Seeing for myself

We'd somehow talked ourselves onto a British Tour Bus making it's way from Krakow to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Poland.

The English were loud, boisterous and full of smiles as we rode past the grim countryside as though conquering victors celebrating the spoils of victory.

There are no words to describe the massive terror the abandoned Death Camp still strikes ... nothing but feeling erupt standing on the railroad tracks that brought millions to their slaughter ... only sadness as I find a pair of broken children scissors on the ground in front of the Crematoria.

The journey here began at Groves High School when Wayne Seay showed recently declassified military films of the liberation of the Nazi Concentration Camps.

Something was both broken and born in me then.

I became fascinated with the Nazi abuse of political power, the ruthlessness of Government that serves itself and, most of all, the cruel extent to which leaders will go to do away with their enemies ... both real and perceived.

It's why I'm so suspicious of any Government today, especially the way they use force to implement their will.

As death was manufactured in Auschwitz and the other Camps, the victims pleaded for the Messiah to come and save them.

"Do not look for the Messiah to come and save us," Eli Weisel replies. "The Messiah is already here with us."

It brought new meaning to the "God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son ..." that I'd learned at the Port Wentworth First Baptist Church meaning.

The Messiah is already here ... with those who need him most.

If you want to be close to God ... then be close to them.

With all of the world's corruption and brokenness ... where "cruel leaders are replaced by leaders who become cruel (Che) ... and the most popular prayer is "Thank God it wasn't me" ... Eli Weisel also says that "God's greatest gift is the chance to start over."

Eli Weisel died yesterday and one of the things I'm learning about working with the dying is how quickly they're forgotten or replaced when they're gone.

I struggle with the sadness of that.

Books by great people and journeys to places like Auschwitz have molded me and today I am one who tries his best to not forget ... someone who sees the Messiah who is already here among us.

Ready to go

"Where are you going?" he asks for the third time as he stares a million miles beyond me seated across the kitchen table from me.

"Key West," I repeat.

"I've been there," he explains again. "In the Military. I was stationed there for two years."

Trying to not convey frustration at the repetitiveness, I smile and answer, "Yeah, you lived at the Truman Complex."

"I did?" he asks suddenly focusing on me.

"Yeah," I say patting his hand. "For two years."

"If you say so," he shrugs unknowingly.

My heart breaks.

Pictures of him as a younger man adorn the walls of the house that he's paid for ... one dressed in uniform standing under a Palm Tree at the Truman Complex in Key West.

Alzheimer's is a terrible thing to watch.

"Would you like to go back?" I prod.

"Where?" he asks suspiciously having spent part of the day visiting an Assisted Living facility he has no interest in though his family is desperate.

"Key West," I sigh.

"I've been there," he repeats ...

"You know what I really want Micheal," he says with a sudden clarity that shocks me out of frustration.

"No ... where?"

"I've already been everywhere," he says now holding my hand. "There's no place I want to go back but ..." the million mile stare returns ... "I'm ready to go."

Something in my throat jumps into my eyes and I quickly start rubbing them with the hand he's let go of.

"I know you are," I stammer. "God's getting things ready."

"I wish God would hurry up."

I laugh ... as much to bring life to the room as to keep my heart from breaking more.

He stares at me with focus again and asks, "Where are you going?"

Holly's Wishing Tree

Our friend Holly has a wishing tree.

I like it.

With a great fondness for quirkiness, I admire Holly's Wishing Tree which I do not know the story behind but I love the end result.

An Oak filled with Seashells, a smiling sun, blue bottles, flowers, a wreath, antlers and a hammock ... I can't help but wonder what Holly wishes?

I figure it's a world of no litter, nice people who are all in shape, fat chickens, fresh farm grown veggies, great carry out from Parkers, wonderful grandchildren, books, a husband who's often talked about but rarely seen and "Freebird" is the background music.

Last time Sarah and I saw Holly, Lew stayed in the car not wanting to be seen in public.

I figure he's like Dolly Pardon's husband ... everybody knows he exist but nobody's ever actually seen him.

Regardless I love Holly's Wishing Tree.

In our yard we have a Palm Tree with oyster eyes, a coconut bra and a grass skirt.


Obviously I have simpler wishes than Holly.

But we share wishing.

It's a key part of living.

"The trees, ghosts, dreams, faces, the waking up and eating and working of life, are trying to tell us something, to take us somewhere," says Frederick Buechner.

Living is about always being on the move, doing your best to finally get to where you want to be and if you're forever wishing for it, chances are you're not getting anywhere.

Strolling outside on the Beloved Back Deck, the Palm Tree winks an oyster eye to remind me we're moving the right direction.

It makes me wonder if Wishing Trees talk to each other as a support group of sorts ... because we're so thick when it comes to our wishes ... they've got their work cut out for them.

Dressing for Church

Now I'm not cool like Tom Cooler is cool.

Tom Cooler is a great musician and friend who plays throughout the region and occasionally at Bar Church where, inexpiably I'm the Cleric-in-Charge.

I am no longer a Professional Christian as there's no money in Bar Church ... just a lot of need.

Anyway, the very cool Tom Cooler shows up one Sunday to play and we set up the speakers, do a sound check, run through the order, have a prayer asking forgiveness for cussing the sound system, enjoy the crowd and brunch on the Pool Tables before Church starts.

Actually Bar Church never starts on time because we're composed primarily of musicians, Barflies, tourists and people who couldn't tell you if it's 10nish in the morning or 10nish at night if their life depended on it.

But before Bar Church starts this day, the very cool Tom Cooler CHANGES SHIRTS!

The ratty white tee shirt with holes in it we practiced in is swapped for a very cool blue plaid with rolled up sleeves from American Eagle or some place like that!

How cool is that?

I wish I was that cool ...

I show up for Bar Church typically wearing the same thing I wore on Saturday doing the things I'm asking forgiveness for on Sunday morning at 10nish.

A faded green tee shirt that reads "Willie Nelson First Aid" printed over marijuana leaves, black running shorts and ... I swear to God I meant to actually wear flip flops today.

Oh well ... Lona Crask always dresses nice ... John Iacovini dresses like he's just been transported in from a Hippie campout in the mountains somewhere ... Faye Allan dresses nice too ... Kris Nilson is forever in blue jeans ... Gordo wears a starched shirt ... I wonder if it's from American Eagle too? ... and Tom Freeland dresses like he's playing for tips in a Hawaiian shirt and boat shoes.

When Bob Fulton plays he's dressed for the Grand Ol' Opry.

No body really know what Clark Byron wears because when he starts singles the Angels in Heaven stop.

Ricky Stokes dresses like a guitar player meaning I don't have a clue what he's wearing either because he plays so damn good.

Monty Parks does it best though with his Bar Church tee shirt that he bought for a quarter from Goodwill and he somehow makes songs by The Monkees and Tennessee Ernie Ford really work in a worship service.

Honestly, the people who come to Bar Church dress way better than we do leading Bar Church.

Well ... except for the very cool Tom Cooler.

But Bar Church isn't about what you wear, if you're on time, can't tell night from day.

Technically I'm not even sure we're really a Church but I do know this ... something Holy and it's never planned or guessed.

But every single Sunday God does a drive by and if you happen to be wearing socks ... they're blown straight to Hell.

A Perfect 7

I'm getting my "Church Face" on sitting mostly naked on the Beloved Back Deck, streaming Carolina Beach Music, marveling at the quietness of the morning under a thin blanket of grey clouds and a lone bird singing a Hymn of Praise.

The Back Yard is an incredible array of greens dotted with purple Wisteria, Petunias and orange Hibiscus blooms.

Sarah and the girls peacefully sleep and I'm determined to let them keeping the dogs outside with me.

I'm counting my Blessings ... a Sunday morning ritual.

Sarah grows more beautiful every passing day of pregnancy and I don't deserve such a blessing but I got it!

The girls didn't ruin anything last night, though they did leave a sink load of dirty dishes, their rooms look like they were attacked by Terrorists and an unfinished Jigsaw Puzzle has sat on the coffee table for six weeks not which is never going to see completion.

Our grandson left but our hearts remain full of him and we talk a lot of Che who's on her way and does these little dances each night to prove her reality.

The Ocean breeze blows west and I feel salt air sticking to my skin.

A drummer and fiddle player will be in the Bar Church Band today and God may decide to add others but I haven't been cleared for that information yet.

Sarah has a work function at the "Beachview Bed & Breakfast" later and I hope I'm her date because I love dating my wife but try not to take it for granted.

There's a running joke in our house where once Sarah was dressed to kill one night for something and I was asked how she looks.

"You are a perfect 7," I say.

"Seven?" all the girls recoil. "She's a TEN!"

"Seven is the perfect number in the Bible," I explain. "It's the Holiest number."

They didn't care and still don't.

"Am I a 7 tonight?" one sarcastically asks when they're dressed to the nines.

Why do they dress to the nines when they want to look like a ten?

Oh well, on the 7th Day ... God rested ... and I'm with God on this one ... right after Bar Church is over.

Oh

Friday night is movie night at our house.

Now Sarah and the girls are not fans of "previews of coming attractions" which I love so when Netflix delivers I watch them all yelling out, "Let's watch that one" or "That one sucks" whereas the girls pop Popcorn, fix drinks or groan in general that I watch the Previews.

Add to this that Sarah has a wonderful knack for picking great "undiscovered" films and ... the girls normally flee for the sanity of their rooms and the completely controlled entertainment of hand held electronic devices.

Leaving Sarah and I to enjoy the movie alone.

Last night's fare is "The Farewell Party", an Israeli film with subtitles about a facility for the elderly where they come up with a machine to end their lives when they want ... and not listen to their doctors ... or families.

"Is this going to be too close to work stuff for you?" Sarah asks as we sit on the sofa.

"What's one more death?" I answer.

As Chaplain for Compassionate Care Hospice, I see a lot of deaths.

In the movie there are three, each magnificently orchestrated ... meaning I wish my patients had it that good.

Anyway, at some point Cassidy our nine year old meanders out to see what we're watching and joins us.

Maddie, the clueless 14 year old who knows everything ... like most 14 year olds ... wants nothing to do with her family as she lusts other families with bigger houses and more money.

The movie shows an old man answering the door of his apartment not wishing to be bothered ... because his naked gay lover is hiding in the wardrobe and the door creaks open ... and he's very much in the closet.

"Why is that man naked?" Cass asks.

"They're gay," Sarah explains nonchalantly.

"What?"

"They're in love," I add.

"Oh," Cass says. "Why's he hiding in the closet?"

"Beats me," I tell her.

"Because he's married and his wife doesn't know," Sarah says.

"Oh," Cass says and ... that's that.

The movie's great if you're looking for something to watch but ... my take away from last night ... is how proud I am of Cass for saying, "Oh" ... and moving on.

The purpose of life is to find love and when you do never let go.

True love's not defined by color, sex, orientation, money or how big your house is among other things.

Cass already seems to know that.

It makes me very proud.

I wish more people knew what Cass knows.

A Day Off

For the first time in a long, long time I'm off today and nobody's home with me except Goddess, Winston The Little Gay Dog and Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat.

I've been extremely productive this far having accomplished the following:

Kissing Sarah's pregnant belly and then taking it to a whole deeper level.

Cut the grass.

Fed my grandson ... burped him ... cleaned a little spittle ... marvel at his fragile tininess ... whisper in his ear secrets only he and I share ... and feel humbly blessed to have my wonderful family that you'd never get right on a flow chart.

Skinny dipped.

Mopped the floors so Sarah will be pleasantly surprised when she comes home.

Skinny dipped again but, this time, with a beer.

Started thinking about trimming the overgrown Sub-Tropical foliage in the back yard before quickly regaining my senses and saying to Goddess, "To Hell with that!"

Picked up the work phone, read one email ... unplugged the work phone, turning it off and dropping it in Gypsy's litter box.

Spent an undetermined amount of time staring at Che's ultrasound pictures already celebrating how much fun my grandson's going to have playing with his Aunt.

Got a text from Sarah telling me she loves me so I texted her back telling her the same thing.

Started wondering if Christian Scientists wear lab coats to Church.

Began planning the afternoon.

1. Lunch

2. Skinny dip

3. Nap

4. Skinny dip to wake up

5. Cook dinner for Sarah and the girls

6. See what happens tonight

Well that's it so far.

What do you expect?

It's my day off!

A Father's Boy

It's my son's first Father's Day as a Dad.

Part of me consciously knows and accepts the fact he's a grown man with a wonderful family but there's another part in complete denial because he's still my little boy.

You'd think I'd be more adult about it but I'm not and ... honestly ... I don't care that I'm not.

One of the greatest compliments I've ever received was standing on the balcony of the old courtyard at the Holiday Inn in Athens, Georgia on a glorious University of Georgia football weekend.

Jeremy had wandered inside to see what was happening on ESPN's Gameday and I stood with Bill Shearouse, Mark Berry, Mike Ryan and whoever else showed on that particular Saturday to enjoy the glories of College football in the South.

"I don't know how you do it Mike," Bill says facing me directly. "You and Jeremy do everything together. He's one of the boys. I could never do the stuff y'all do with my Dad."

I couldn't imagine not doing everything with Jeremy.

My son and I were inseperatable forever ... taking boys trips, hanging with the boys, doing things only boys do and ... Hoo Boy! ... we always had a good time.

Life's currents flow in different directions and these days, Jeremy's living in exile in the wilderness that is Alabama while my heart's held hostage by four-and-a-half girls on an island that will not let me go.

But he's coming home today and he's bringing his boy with him!

Ethan Elliott is now one of the boys!

Happy Father's Day son!

This one's for you!

Monkey Bar People

When did Monkey Bars become evil instruments of torture?

Where did Diving Boards go?

Who decided the giant aluminum Super Slides you rode down on a Croaker sack were dangerous?

Was it Government that decided to be safe on a bicycle you need a helmet, elbow pads, knee pads and ride on a particular side of the road?

What's wrong with building a fire on the beach to roast hot dogs?

Diving off the Pier was always a blast but now you can't get in 30 feet of it unless you're standing on it but you sure as Hell can't have a dog, hold a bottle or butcher the shark you just caught to keep it fresh!

Making love in the Sand Dunes is a rite of passage but now you can be fined for creating an ecological disturbance.

My son Jeremy and I once hurled water balloons at all the cars that drove to Tybee just to turn around in our drive way but we'd be arrested now!

And God knows if your dog barks on this clump of sand they haul your ass to Court where the Judge tries to look at you as you're fined hundreds of dollars.

We now live in an age where other people know what's best for us.

It's a time of protecting you from yourself.

When I was a kid, Monkey Bars were cool!  High Dives were better than Low ones! Aluminum Super Slides were the rush in the K-Mart parking lot! Bicycles were meant to go recklessly fast down the Port Wentworth Viaduct against the one coming traffic. Drift wood meant beach fires and hot dogs. The Sand Dunes were for love.

Today, a SWAT will take you down before you can jump from the Pier.

It can't get any crazier in this Para-military Police driven economy run by a Government that knows best world that makes us scared of ourselves because it make them feel ... I don't know ... like they've made a difference.

My entire generation of crazy Monkey Bar climbing, diving board jumping, Super Sliding, unprotected bike riding, drift wood burning Pier jumpers who lost our virginity in Sand Dunes  have ... SURVIVED.

We did it without protection!

All that to say ... look at this!

Now the Tybee Island Police Department is hosting a "Civilian Response to Active Shooter events" class!

It's designed to help you shoot them before they shoot you.

AND IT'S FREE!

Gomer Pile's "Citizen's Arrest" is now kill the Muthafucker because you ... might get hurt.

Doing away with Monkey Bars is one thing but giving the general public training and permission to shoot is something else entirely.

AND IT'S MY GENERATION CONCOCTING SUCH STUPID THINGS!

We've become so scared of everything because we've forgotten how to have fun.

Sure I understand Terrorist could blow up a boat in the Savannah River and if you had your gun you'd probably be able to take em out from Savannah River Sweets before it happened while licking your ice cream.

I also understand that on Tybee when Orange Crush happens armed white residents are scared of congregating black kids and could shoot anything that moves.

And our Government ... through our Paramilitary Police force ... is all for it!

We've forsaken having fun on the Monkey Bars so the Monkeys can be in charge.

Living to Die

Follow me here ...

As near as I can see there are 3 ways to die.

(1) FUCK! I DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING!! And they're shot, run over, fall off a mountain, have a heart attack or lay in their recliner watching the News waiting on the wife to bring the ice cream and ... that's that!

(2) "WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M DYING! YOU STUPID MORON! I AIN'T DYING!" And they hook themselves up to machines, take amazing quantities of drugs to make themselves feel alive again, ask for copious amounts of prayer, makes deals with the Devil and fight like Hell sometimes even though they've already lost.

(3) "I AIN'T NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE. IT'S A LITTLE SCARY." And they lay there in acceptance, saying goodbye to everyone they need to, giving whatever advice they're compelled to give, taking the time to take one last look around ... at birds singing, music playing, waves rolling in and out, the faces of their children and ... it's like going to sleep for them ... except with a hiccup or jerk at the end given the definite impression they've moved on.

Still with me?

 

I'm beginning to believe people die like they live.

 

I mean how in the world are some people still here at all? They're goofy wanderers through life waiting on whatever's going to happen. They don't plan, read or think yet somehow ... inexpiably they keep their jobs, never moving too far up and rarely getting fired but never really doing much either ... just waiting life out ... until something happens.

 

Then there's the pissed off people who are mad at everything! Believing everything should always go their way when hardly anything ever does, they know with unwavering conviction they are entitled!  They're everywhere but unusually large numbers are politicians, preachers, philanders and people who work in the News Industry. They deserve everything ... and take advantage of anything ... even if it's at your expense because ... Goddammit! ... it's meant for them anyway.

 

And there are those who accept ... perhaps not always gratefully ... what they have, who they're with and where they're at. Wistfully, they sometimes wish they could still do things they used to ... or do some things they never have ... but every day's a good one even if there's no idea whatsoever of what it holds.

 

Me?

 

I've mellowed about life.

 

Crazy, unplanned things are going to happen and there's no getting around them, though I've found most are survivable. At least I've survived lots of things I had no business surviving.

 

It takes a lot to piss me off anymore. Anger takes too much energy and over time I've come to know it's never particularly rewarding to be pissed. Unless it's something big like bullying or racism or meanness ... anger rarely helps anything.

 

For reasons I do not understand or fully appreciate, I have a wife who loves me richly, children and grandchildren filling my life, work I enjoy, living in a beautiful place that suits me. Oh yeah, there are lots of times I wish I were somewhere else or could do something again but ... day by day ... this is pretty damn good!

 

Last night I had a lunch date with Cassidy our 9 year old. At Chick-Fill-A, as she gobbled down two, and I sipped wine I'd snuck in, she asks, "How much longer you think you got Micheal?"

 

Well who's prepared for such a question?

 

"I mean," she mumbles with a full mouth, "you gonna be here to see Baby Che's baby?"

 

"I hope so," I answer as she lovingly looks at me, loudly slurping her Coke.

 

"Can I go to work with you?" she asks changing subjects.

 

"Why?"

 

"I can make them feel better," she confidently shoots.

 

"You know Cass," I tell her taking the last bite of my spicy chicken sandwich, "I know you can too. You make me feel better."

 

Smiling she asks, "Can we go to Starbucks? I want some birthday cake pops."

 

I hate Starbucks. It's the McDonalds of coffee.

 

"Absolutely," I say and on the way home, she gives me something I never would have otherwise had in life ... a bite of birthday cake pop.

Like the Movies

Did you ever give a compliment and it was promptly given back?

It happened to me yesterday.

"Do you remember that Movie we saw where the guy kept looking at the girl?" I said holding my wife in my arms.

"Are you comparing me to a Movie?" she asks.

"No, I'm not comparing you to a Movie. I am saying I know how that guys feels."

"It's just a Movie."

"Will you shut up and listen! I'm telling you that every single day there is a moment when you just take my breath away."

"Like in the Movies."

"No like now! Well not right now because sometimes you drive me crazy."

"Well you drive me crazy."

"That's not what I'm talking about! I'm talking about how you take my breath away every single day."

"Well you drive me crazy," she says.

"Jesus Christ," I mumble in prayer. "This is crazy."

Sarah gracefully glides to the chair beside our bed to pick up her phone and check on the girls.

Now the girls are crazy and I think she'd completely agree with me on this but I'm sure as Hell not bringing it up right now ... I'm praying.

"Dear Jesus, how did I get in trouble for telling my wife how beautiful she is and takes my breath away every single day?"

Apparently Jesus doesn't know because he keeps quiet.

Cue the crickets chirping.

Sarah finishes with the phone and takes my breath away but I'm keeping my damn mouth shut about it.

She's crazy!

In the most beautiful ways I've ever seen.