Cancer in baby steps

If you're going to have pancreatic cancer in your early 60's it's best to have a 3 year old child!

I'm first to admit this isn't what most enduring chemotherapy, radiation treatment and radical Whipple surgery consider but, take it from me, a 3 year old is most helpful to recovery.

Whipple is an operation to remove the head of the pancreas, part of my stomach, the first part of the small intestine, the gall bladder and the bile duct. The remaining organs are reattached to allow you to digest food normally ... though there's nothing normal about it!

Sarah's a member of a Caregiver Support Group and when she shared she cares for me, maintains a full time job and we have a 3 year old, the overwhelming response was, "I'd hate to be you!"

I'm not sure how much help she receives from being a member.

Recovery is long and hard and sitting in the kitchen talking to my wife who's cooking supper, I feel bad for us. She's exhausted from the never ending responsibilities and I feel my body's entirely made up of small bags of wet cement but we discuss possible future treatment options because the radial surgery didn't get all the cancer.

We're close to tears when our 3 year old Che wanders in wearing a brown winter coat with a fur hood.

She's grown almost six feet since we last saw her a few minutes ago.

Her arms are longer and she's taken to wearing a watch, which she's never done before.

Her legs are also extremely long and tanned from the salon her sister uses because Maddie pays for a fake bronze body than lay in the sun on the beach for free.

"Hello," Che says in a voice an octave lower than usual ... her "boy" voice is what she calls it.

We burst into laughter which, we've been told, is the best medicine.

Later, I feel awful but endure taking the stairs to lay with Che for "rest time."

Laying her head on my shoulder she says, "You're best Daddy in the wide whole world!" and hugs me tightly.

Salt water wells in my eyes.

"Dada," she says, rubbing her tiny finger on the scar on my belly, "I lub you."

"Do you like my Pirate scar?" I ask.

"What?" she exclaims sitting up.

"Yeah, I got in a fight with a Pirate. Look what he did."

Pulling up my "The guitar is my retirement plan" tee shirt, she sees the long purple and light flesh tone line running from where my belly button used to be to just below my rib cage.

"Does it hurt Daddy?"

"It would if I hadn't beaten that mean Pirate and tossed him in the Ocean," I answer.

"Tell me," she insists so I share a long, strange story of Pirates, mermaids, a hidden treasure chest, crooked politicians, developers and a beauty island that needs saving from a pandemic of people.

It's an ugly ass scar but it brings happiness to Che now which makes it much more bearable to me.

After Sarah, Che's my biggest caregiver and it's fascinating watching her mind quickly process how bending over to pick up her doll might hurt me so she flies across the room to do it before I can.

"Daddy can't bend over yet," she announces to her sisters, warning them not dare ask me.

It brings me smiles.

At 3:30 in the morning I wake to he screaming my name and make my way up the stairs as fast as I can (which isn't very fast) and find her dreaming, crying and reaching for me.

"Please don't die Daddy! Please."

Contorting in ways I shouldn't, I repeatedly kiss her face until she quietly sleeps again. In the dark, my hair askew from the pillow, I watch her sleep, rubbing her back, resolved to live long enough to see her off to whatever she makes of her future.

Che has magical ways of breaking through the weary burden of cancer and each night Sarah and I recount whatever she's done that day.

It's more Divine intervention than prayer but it leaves us eternally thankful we have the nonstop madness of our baby.

She can't cure the cancer but she sure as Hell leads me to the right places to live with it.

Home

"A cup of ice please."

There's a pause at the other end of the Television Remote Control and call button to the Nurse's station before the static goes suddenly quiet.

Heather meanders inside looking every bit of tired as 4:30 in the morning can be with two-and-a-half hours left on the shift.

"You've had enough ice," she sighs.

"Alright," I say. "What are my other options?"

Rolling her eyes, she explains for the hundredth time, "your orders call for ice chips only."

"Great! I'll have a cup."

"You're far exceeding what your body can tolerate given your surgery."

"I'm okay with something else. What are my choices?"

Without answering her weary feet shuffle towards the ice maker.

I hit play on my phone and Band of Horses runs through the wireless speaker explaining how they found it in a drawer.

The door opens and another Nurse strolls in pushing a machine.

"You taking or leaving?" I ask from my Hospital bed.

"Taking," she laughs. "Blood work."

She wraps the plastic tourniquet around my arm sticking the needle in a vein.

"Let me get this straight! Every morning and every night, y'all come in an take three tubes of my blood. That's six tubes a day. There's no way it takes that much blood to run tests, especially at night. Are you selling the extra blood on the black market?"

Howling with laughter, she replies "Yep, it all goes to the Nurse's retirement fund."

"I figured as much," I say as she pulls the needle from my arm.

Meandering out, she leaves me alone.

I try to sleep but there's no real way to rest in a Hospital as Doctors, Nurses, Nutritionists, technicians and strangers wander in and out of my room whenever they wish.

It makes sense.

They're working and I happen to be what they're working on so I'm existing for them and not as much them for me, though there is a strange duality.

After all the purpose of a Hospital is not to make people well but, regardless of non-profit status, to manage illness in ways producing a positive financial yield.

After a ten hour surgery to eradicate pancreatic cancer from my body, I spend six days impacting the institution's bottom line.

Aside from when Sarah walking into the room, or she and Che Face timing me, these are the memorable moments from my stay.  Most of the time there I was pretty ... restless.

When Sarah enters though, I light up and we visit, huddled in chairs by the window overlooking ugly roof tops littered with massive air conditioning units. We're grateful for lots of things. I'm alive. We're together. The kids are okay. We're ready to get back to living our lives.

After a while I climb back into bed, immediately fall asleep and rest while Sarah sits in the chair.

There's no rest in the Hospital when she's not with me but I'm home when we're together and slumber peacefully.

Sarah is my home.

I had the incredible misfortune of remaining in the Hospital over the weekend when absolutely nothing happens as Doctor's enjoy their weekends, Nurses and Techs call in sick and only the Emergency Room heats up.

It was excruciating.

First thing Monday morning they say I can go home.

Sometime that afternoon, they let me go.

Che runs circles of delight as she sees me, hugs me tightly as I collapse on the sofa and kisses me a thousand times. The girls hug me, repeatedly asking if I need anything. Sarah shoos them away and I fall asleep because ... I'm home where it's possible to collect yourself after days of others taking pieces of you without giving back.

It's been a month now and aside from daily walks to regain lost strength and stamina, I remain home entirely focused on healing under my wife's watchful eyes.

Che's very protective of her old man and never lets me go too far without her by my side.

The girls crazy teenage zaniness gives us plenty to laugh at and discuss.

"For every hour of surgery, it takes a month to recover," the Doctor explains, meaning it'll be close to a year before I'm close to being what I was before.

Plus a little bit of cancer remains they couldn't get so we have to figure out what to do about it.

But I'm in no hurry.

I'm home, surrounded by very tangible expressions of love, understanding it's time to be still and know these gifts of God.

There's no rush.

There's just now.

Still rising from the Dead

After more than an hour, Nurses swoop in to whisk me out of the prep room where Sarah and I have been talking about our future life without cancer.

They're in a hurry so there's no time for the goodbye we want, only a quick peck on the lips and saying, "I love you."

My bed rolls down white and grey, antiseptic, cluttered halls turning and twisting into the belly of the Hospital.

When we stop, my bed's laying beside another which I'm told to slide on which is difficult with the IV's, tubes and the damn Hospital gown. When I finish, I stare at a ceiling of white lights in blue casings giving me the impression I'm on a set for Star Wars.

Nurses and Anesthesiologists hover above my head obstructing my view.

It ends here.

I'm dead to the world.

For ten hours they cut me open, take out pieces of my original plumbing, reconstruct everything so it's efficient, tie it all together with a vein from my leg and staple me shut.

They also take out virtually all of the cancer.

I have no idea.

I'm still dead to the world.

When my eyes open I'm in a large open room with patients in other beds nearby. Sarah stands beside me.

"Let's not fight anymore," I say in a hoarse sleepy voice.

The day before surgery, we'd grown short with each other, because of the tension of the roller coaster ride of cancer we've been riding. In a waiting room preparing for yet another scan, I'm texting rather than listening and miss a great deal of what Sarah was saying. It wasn't my finest moment, trying to care for others, when it was just she and I who needed the caring.

"Don't be such an ass," she replies, though I'm dead to the world again and don't hear a word.

Earlier Doctor Sinkowski brought my wife to me and explaining things, he reaches out and tenderly plays with my foot, endearing himself to Sarah.

When I rise from the dead again, Sarah's gone and I stare at the staples, tubes, monitors and wires that are part of who I am now.

I'm alive.

Going into the surgery I wondered if I'd survive.

I wonder what Lazarus thought when Jesus raised him from the dead.

Was he as tired and thirsty as I am?

Sarah returns sometimes during the night or day, I have no idea which, and she tells me everything that happened while I was gone.

"They got virtually all the cancer", she reports. "There's some spots still on your liver."

I take it as information and file it away somewhere, focusing on Sarah's hand I'm holding on to.

I'd worried I'd never be able to do it again and now, in spite of the staples, tubes, monitors and wires, it's all I care about.

The Bible's pretty mum on Lazarus after Jesus calls him out of the tomb.

A little while later they attend a dinner together but the powers that be are angry because Lazarus is now a celebrity who's endorsing Jesus politically.

The only other thing we know is he eventually dies again ... this time without any divine intervention.

The thing about being raised from the dead, either physically or metaphorically, is it's a process.

Waking up is only the beginning.

What I do now is what matters most.

I'm no longer what I was but have a new life to master.

What's funny about the business of healing is I really do have to go into a tomb of sorts to do it..

It's hard work and I only have so much energy these days so I give it to sucking all the life I can out of the enjoyable moments with Sarah, Maddie, Laurel, Cassidy and Che! Friends let us know they're thinking of us and it adds fuel to the healing, which is not to say it happens any quicker.

My days now are walking as much as I can, eating what I'm able, managing exhaustion and wondering what to do about the cancer that's left.

I'm in no hurry to figure it out.

Che lays beside me on the sofa, repeatedly kissing my hand, arm and face.

The girls immediately try to address my every discomfort.

And Sarah and I hold hands every chance we get.

Foot Tattoos & the travesties of coping

"What's wrong with your foot?"

The Nurse pulls the sheet back as I lay on the cold metal table waiting for the MRI.

"What?"

I'm inside a tubular machine to determine how much the cancer's spread and can't see the foot he's examining.

"Oh," I finally recall, "my daughter put a tattoo of a Birthday cake on there."

After serious inspection it, he huffs, "It is a birthday cake."

Placing headphones over my ears, he leaves the machine to beep, hum and whirl as an electronic female instructs, "Breath in ... breath out ... relax" interrupting Bob Dylan's "Murder Most Foul" that I chose to listen to for the hour of laying still on a cold plate of metal.

Inside the tube I giggle, thinking "I've got pancreatic cancer and he's worried about a temporary tattoo."

Yesterday, as I sat on another metal table for an Octeotride, our 3 year old Che confesses to her 16 year old sister Laurel, "It makes me sad Daddy's sick ... It makes us all tired ... I miss my Daddy ... I wish he wasn't sick."

Cancer doesn't just conduct terrorist attacks on my body, it  blankets our home.

Che's right!

Sarah's exhausted from managing her work, teenage girls, a 3 year old, a sick husband while navigating the American Health Care system and trying to care for herself.

Three girls are weary of growing into adulthood with diminishing options while forced to incorporate a sick Stepdad's schedule as their mother carts him off to yet another Doctor's appointment.

Che's tired of having no one to play with and her old man's isn't always capable of doing everything they used to do together.

And I'm sick of it too ... of living in a pandemic, gross unemployment, race riots, police brutality, an absence of moral leadership ... Hell, the vacancy of any leadership ... with a loving yet exhausted wife and kids makes living with cancer all the more depressing.

Most days I manage well, doing everything I can to make things easier for Sarah, fun with Che and tolerable for the girls.

The demons are kept at bay by the constant search for moments of joy or slipping into the fantasy future my wife and I share of life on the little island surrounded by aqua-teal water where it's never winter.

When these fail we take it out on each other of course, because there's no one else to take it out on.

Love somehow gets us through these travesties of coping with lives that aren't always fair.

Maybe that's why when Che's sick and tired of all of us being sick and tired, as she misses the Daddy she's used to, and wishes things were like they were ... she plants happy tattoos on my foot.

She puts them on her sisters faces.

On her Mother's arms.

She plaster them on the walls of the house.

They're to remind us of how it's going to be again ... edging us closer to the fantasy future we know is ours.

What Che knows

I don't know how a three year old knows but I know that she knows.

"Daddy, are you going to the Doctors today?" she asks climbing out of bed.

"Not today honey," I answer and she smiled pulling me inside the black hole of playing with her Barbies.

It's good I poured a cup of coffee before making my way to her bedroom.

It’s certainly because of the pandemic forcing preschool cancellations, playgrounds closing, McDonald's not allowing indoor seating and Chuck E Cheese going dark that all of her emotions are extreme.

Affection is over the top but frustrations are intense causing us to worry she may explode.

Naps or putting her to bed is agony because she fights sleep, though she’s exhausted, but is desperate to not be separated from her mother, me or her sisters.

To a three year old going to sleep may as well be dying.

Lord knows there's been concern about that in our house.

"Da-da how old will you be when I am 17?" she playfully asks because her sister Maddie's prompted her after exclaiming when she's 40 Clare will be 25.

"Tell Mad you're still get her into all the cool places when she's old," I say, deflecting the question.

"Dear Jesus please let me be alive when she's 17," I pray without words, staring at the joy she shares with her sisters.

"You'll be 77," Cassidy blurts out.

"Damn," I say without words, bringing my prayer to an end.

"I lub you for-e-net Dada," Che laughs running across the room to kiss me repeatedly on my bare leg.

My heart jumps, throat fills and moisture covers my eyes.

Cancer occupies my body but permeates our home, impacting each member of our family, influencing every decision, clouding plans and filling us with dreadful possibilities.

There is hope of course.

The good news is only 14% of the people who have the surgery die during the operation.

The bad news is the percentage goes up each year after every successful operation.

Many live long yet very different lives after the cancer's gone, though each passing year though many don’t. Internet research is maddening.

It's a good thing I'm in utter disbelief I have cancer.

Though I did come close to dying just a few short months ago and had it not been discovered terrorist cells were invading my body, I likely wouldn't be writing this now.

But my wife Sarah is one Hell of a warrior woman with Gypsy blood so she forces me to do things I don’t want and, much to her dismay, it’s cancer.

Health care is an amazing thing!

A few operations bring the symptoms under control and I feel, and look, better than I have in a year.

At the moment, you'd never know I have cancer.

But Che knows.

Sarah and the children know too.

And of course, I know but I don't think about it much.

I think about Sarah, Che, our children, friends who've surprised me and wonder why in Heaven's name God believes it's good we go through this.

“It is what it is,” my Mom’s fond of saying.

It reminds me of what God said to Moses ... “I am who I am.”

Sarah knows who I am.

Che does too.

I don’t know how but they do.

I Believe God does too.

Now it’s up to the cancer to learn what Che knows.

Jesus and Health Insurance

As I prepare for surgery and the horrific preparations the week prior when hair loss and inhibited sex drive are real possibilities, I reflect back to my faith.

When you have pancreatic cancer that spreads to your liver, all you have is your faith ... or in my case that of my wife Sarah Elliott which is intense and something like having a personal trainer 24/7.

I also have 3 Bibles and 50+ Jesus magnets.

Pancreatic cancer forces you to realize how much you’ve accumulated in life is meaningless.

Therefore, as I reported yesterday, I’ve downsized and got rid of numerous Jesus magnets which I now consider trite.

That leaves me with about 20 which I still find powerful!

Like this one!!

It’s my first given to me by none other than Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one).

It has helped fortify my faith all these decades and I can’t bear the thought of parting with it.

Except having pancreatic cancer is expensive as Hell!!!

Even if you have insurance there’s thousands of dollars in deductibles.

I don’t have health insurance so it doesn’t bother me.

But ... I want to live and enjoy every fantasy and plan Sarah and I share!

Plus we have Che, our 3 year old who I adore and want to be around to see what she becomes.

Then there’s these wonderful kids, girls and grandchildren I have to ... advise with my life
experiences as they make their way.

So the Lord has told me to sell this precious and Holy relic to the highest bidder ... to defray the cost of having pancreatic cancer in the United States.

Now it is time for you to ask God how much you’re willing to pay for perfect and blessed Pizza every time you order it regardless of from where.

Please private message your bid ... we, I mean offering ... and know what a blessing you are in this life.

Thank you.

Peace out.

Carrying Cancer with me

There are lots of hard things about having pancreatic cancer but by far the most difficult is how quickly it's assimilated into our 3 year old Che's way of thinking.

"Do you have to go to the Doctor tomorrow?" she asks as we sing night time lullabies.

She's cries and I try picking her up but she holds her hands in protest, backing away, screaming, "No Daddy you have boos-boos on your tummy and can't pick me up!"

We're cuddled on the sofa watching a movie and she playfully kicks one of the surgical scars healing, "knife wounds" is what Sarah calls them, making me wince in pain.

Making a tent we lay on the floor underneath and when we're called to dinner, Che scampers away but it takes me five minutes to roll myself into the right position to slowly pull myself up.

Today I had another Doctor's appointment.

Che's excited to play Barbies with her Mom while I'm gone.

When the moment comes to say goodbye, Che throws the Barbies on the floor, tears exploding from her eyes and screams, "I don't want you to go to the Doctor's Daddy!"

Painfully, I make my way outside.

Upon my return, Sarah hands me a letter Che wrote while I was gone.

She's forever drawing us pictures, coloring pages and making creative works of art on her bedroom wall, but this is the first actual letter she's written.

It's to me and I have no idea what it says.

Sarah hands me another page where she's had our little girl transcribe the words.

Dear Daddy,

I love you and hope you can be all better again!

You are wonderful.

Love, Clare.

My heart pumps fast, eyes fill with salt water and there are no words.

"She loves you," Sarah says with a smile.

It's so hard watching those I love most carry Cancer with me.

Yet at the same time I've never felt more loved.

Who ever said love is easy?

And when you're going through hard times, I can feel it in my fingers ... I feel it in my toes ... and while I hate the Cancer, I bask in the love.

Pain Managment

"My husband is having his Whipple surgery for pancreatic cancer and I'm trying to prepare for when he is released and wonder about things that really help in recovery?"

Sarah's reading from an online support group she's joined and pauses to make certain I'm listening before giving me someone's response.

Confirming she has my attention she continues, "For pain I didn't take the meds but smoked marijuana for the first time in my life! It took care of everything! Pain, appetite, sleep were all handed by it."

Laughing out loud, I hear Cheech or Chong's voice.

"Pot even makes you amorous in your recovery," he adds.

I like this guy!

"Dave's not here man," I say.

"What?" Sarah asks.

"Nothing," I sigh.

We opt to listen to Cheech or Chong's advice, foregoing prescriptions to go with Pot upon my release from the Hospital.

In no time at all Sarah has me loaded with marijuana, Gummy Bears, THC Oil, a grinder and, given my tremendous devotion to Bob Marley's religion, a Rastafarian Pipe ... everything one needs for successful pain treatment.

Before starting however Sarah watches several YouTube videos and invites our friend Tim over to demonstrate proper usage protocols before diving into proactive pain management.

"It's best to not wait on the pain but get ahead of it," Cheech or Chong writes in the Whipple Support group so I start several days before the surgery.

Much to my delight, amorous kicks in first, but that's another story.

As a minister in a state that outlaws marijuana use except in strict circumstances, but thankfully in a visionary City where it's only a misdemeanor, I find myself thankful for a natural alternative to Oxycodone and opioids favored by the insurance industry.

God was into the science of pain management way before scientists were ... as a matter of fact theologically it's argued God is the first scientist ... giving us plant based herbs to use for self-medication.

I know that some of you are skeptical.

Remember Genesis Chapter One when God says, "Let there be vegetation, seed bearing plants and fruit trees ..."? though the Bible doesn't go into detail of all the plants God created but Hemp was one of them!

Then on the 7th day God rested!

It's easy to wonder if God used some of his creation to relax, rolling a big fat one on an unspoiled Beach and working on his tan.

"YAY FOR GOD!" is what I say. "THANK YOU LORD!"

Anyway, here I sit, three surgeries into treatments for pancreatic cancer and I've yet to take an opioid and feeling pretty damn good about it.

Of course, I'm feeling pretty good about everything!

I'm spiritually calm.

Sarah and I have embraced each other regardless of what life has thrown at us ... including the stuff we throw at ourselves ... facing it as it comes and emerging closer than before.

Having, and even more so, caring for someone with, cancer is incredibly hard yet life engaging, especially with a 3 year old.

"Waiting is the hardest part," as the minor Prophet Tom Petty says, especially when Doctors are involved.

And for the next three days our life is full of Doctor appointments which is a pain.

Which got me thinking.

Doctor visitation requires pain management!

"Stay higher than the people trying to bring you down," Cheech or Chong famously advised.

So, if you're looking for me, I'm the one in a cloud.

One sided Prayer

"Hey God! You listening?"

There is only silence.

"Of course you're listening. You're God! You're always listening."

More silence.

"I'd like for you to talk a little more."

Nothing.

"Fine. You don't have to talk but I have a few things I need to share with you."

Sarah's in bed reading an inspirational book she ordered from somewhere. Che's watching a movie about a bear and a baby on television. Laurel, our 16 year old, is still asleep upstairs. This may be my only uninterrupted moment I have today.

Every day is insanely busy at our house. From the moment I get out of bed, Che and I interact by snuggling, tickling, singing, taking or giving a bath, eating breakfast, getting dressed, taking walks or playing in her room.

Sarah crawls out of bed already focused on fighting numerous battles at the same time in a complicated war against injustice for patients with disabilities, productivity during a pandemic, structure for three teenage girls, potential financial destruction by the American Health Care system that values profit over physical fitness while caring for a husband with pancreatic cancer.

Laurel will sleep until noon oblivious to these things.

Diving back into the silence by drowning out the bear, the baby and Che's squeals of delight, I get back to the one sided conversation which is prayer.

"Anyway God, I don't understand what's happening. I mean the last couple of years we were hit by two hurricanes, a costly lawsuit, job losses, ongoing sickness, a move and a pandemic. Don't you think adding pancreatic cancer right now is a bit much?"

God doesn't say anything.

My prayer runs out of steam with the silence so I mull things over trying to feel my way through.

From the bedroom I hear Sarah talking to her Mom who lives in New York. Che contently eats a Rice Krispy Cake staring intently at the bear and the baby decorating a Christmas Tree. Laurel's still sleeps.

"It just doesn't seem fair," I say to the silence.

Life will not be the same after Friday. At least it won't for me. Probably not for Sarah and the girls either. This is assuming I survive which the Doctor assured me is bound to happen ... unless something goes wrong. If that happens then the chances of me dying increases greatly.

I had no idea they teach Murphy's Law in Medical School!

But if everything goes right, I get to keep living, albeit in a drastically different way ... at least for the foreseeable future.

"You know God," I say staring out the windows, "this is all far worse to Sarah than me and that really doesn't seem fair either! She's done nothing."

I feel God agreeing but nothing's said one way or the other.

"Dada," Che interrupts. "I need Red Juice."

Red Juice is Hawaiian Fruit punch which our 3 year old drinks by the gallon. Grabbing her empty cup, I stumble into the kitchen, fill her sippy cup and hand it back to her.

"Sit with me Dada," she asks. Che knows I'm sick, starting every day by asking if I have to go to the Doctor. We're honest with her and she struggles to understand knowing something's wrong. I slide beside her on the sofa and she resumes watching the bear and the baby.

"It's not fair to her either," I tell God.

The noise from the television fills the room.

I reflect of the times I spoke in front of congregations ranging from grand city cathedrals to one in the church in a bar on an island ... conventions of thousands to one person sitting across the table ... in homes and hospital rooms ... blessing newborn babes or laying old bodies in the ground ... in every setting, I've presumed to speak for you while you're content keeping silent.

I said you are love personified ... always with us ... that you're not loud, boisterous or sound like clanging cymbals ... but that you're still a small voice, barely audible, only occasionally needing words to make your point.

Sarah meanders from the bedroom to check on us, sees me sitting with Che watching the bear and the baby and quietly joins us.

My phone vibrates and, hitting the icon, I read several new messages adding to the hundreds already received from people I've known all my life, scattered to and fro on the face of the earth, most I haven't spoken to in years, often decades, all sending love, prayers, words of encouragement, arranging times for meals to be delivered or get our address to send gift cards or money.

It suddenly strikes me that while I may not understand why things happen to me or see any justification in any of it, I'm certainly not alone in facing them.

Salt water wells in my eyes as I understand that without saying a word God has been letting me know all along.

I'd simply made the mistake of looking up instead of around.

It's a common mistake when it comes to God and, especially, religion.

Che lays her head in my lap.

Sarah reaches her hand out to hold mine and we exchange phones  to read messages from people who are sharing love with us as best they can.

The bear and the baby sing a song and Che giggles.

The room seems full as the three of us cuddle in a corner.

"Amen," I softly say, wiping my eyes.

My Community of Believers

Learning I have Pancreatic Cancer is overwhelming, crashing into my world of schemes and dreams with a cold, hard slap of the reality of mortality.

Immediately, I think of life without me.

Sarah, Che, the girls, kids and my grandchildren fill me with visions of what it'll be like for them when I'm gone loading me with melancholy.

I see lives without me, after all the world goes on as I've witnessed hundreds of times already when people I love and respected died and, life goes after they left ... as it will when I finally leave.

A believer in spiritual things, I'm convinced it doesn't simply end, though it may and that's okay if it does because it's been a rich and wonderful life I've lived, so who am I to ask for more, though I do and am convinced God's got plans.

We'll see, as I'm fond of saying about most things promised.

Things settled though and now I'm living with Cancer which is a whole new way of getting through days, using all my energy to fight the unwanted squatter inside my body and give every ounce of love to Sarah and the kids NOW, because there may not be a THEN.

Still, there are marvelous distractions.

Sarah's the biggest as she embodies love amidst chaos, craziness and the cacophony of demands placed on her every day.

Living with Cancer means I appreciate the beauty of the earth in deeper and more immediate ways than I ever have before.

A full white moon in a deep blue sky stops me dead in my tracks, Fran's thousand shades of green are lusher than I've ever seen, the pungent aroma of the Marsh is orgasmic and the majesty of the Ocean has never been more regal filling my eyes with its salt water.

And every single day since I learned of the Terrorists hostile take over of my body, there's been an constant outpouring of love, good karma, good wishes and prayers on mine and Sarah's behalf.

People have stopped what they're doing, purposely interrupting an already busy day, to post a message, send a text, write an email, mail a card or letter, call, cook or buy and deliver a meal, give money to help or even drive all the way to our house to make music in the front yard just for us.

They are hundreds of them, encompassing every facet of my life ... childhood chums to recent acquaintances  ... old friends I haven't heard from in decades to the constant companions ... co-workers and professional peers ... and confidants I had no idea hold me in such regard.

They share stories of things we shared, most of which I recall though far too many I have no recollection of leaving me full of wonder how I've lost something so meaningful to them yet forgotten to me.

Most things shared open damns long shut in my head unleashing fond memories of times together, adventures enjoyed, demons exorcised and laughter raised from the dead like Angel songs filling me with joy.

There are people unknown to me completely but who have known Sarah at important crossroads of her life as she's been there for them or they for her and somehow pancreatic Cancer has reunited them and made introductions of me.

The wonder of this eclectic collection of people is nothing short of miraculous, leaving me to consider this community of believers in Sarah and me, each individually pausing to reach across time and space to do Holy acts, rooted in love and giving.

I'd thought most had dropped out of my life, moving on to make the best of their own, yet for a moment anyway, they've stopped to become ... a church.

Most mistakenly believe Church is a building, fixed order of worship or some adherence to creed or doctrine.

It's not.

Individuals coming together to perform acts of giving and love make Church happen.

And a few hundred is a good size Church by anyone's standard.

How does one say thank you to unadulterated kindness, support and love?

We are overwhelmed with appreciation, gratitude and are sustained because of the community of believers.

I can only illustrate it be sharing part of the offering once received in the bucket at Bar Church where there are no offering plates and if someone's moved to give, they quietly drop something inside.

My favorite every was a note scribbled on a cocktail napkin that read what I'd like to say to each and every one of you, my beloved community of believers.

"Thank you Lord for thinking 'bout me, I'm alive and doing fine."

Happy for Sarah

Even when she's sitting still her mind's in constant motion, plotting, calculating, searching, researching, remaking plans into something better and forever finding deals.

Sometimes she stops all of the external agendas to focus within to think, feel, write, let her fortifications down and share with others.

Most of the time she's a master juggler of teenage girls, a sick husband, full time work from home job with 40 fragile people she ensures are getting what they need to survive, daughter to pastoral parents, committed to running and exercise routines preventing her body from showing her age as she fools everyone who exclaims, "WHAT? THAT BODY GAVE BIRTH TO FOUR CHILDREN?"

It's an impossibly busy and complicated life she rules rather than reacts to as she's forever changing course to keep steering the boat in the right direction to reach the goals of ... simplicity.

Life will be unplugged,  disconnected, lacking technology and complications where home is a shack on a Palm Tree Beach with sandy floors, open windows and trade winds for air conditioning. Friends are good but few and there's plenty of time for long walks, longer talks, learning the new language, making music, great food and love.

She never loses sight of where we're going regardless of the obstacles in our way.

Of course it's BOTH Mother's Day and her Birthday!

She's far too much of a woman to be contained into one celebratory day!

We'll do as much as we can to make it special for you though we're doomed to never come close to what you make every day for us.

Happy Everything Sarah!

You deserve everything because you are everything!

I love you,

ME

My Squatter

Regardless of how large your world, hearing it's "pancreatic cancer" everything is suddenly very, very small.

It never, ever, dawned on me Cancer would be in the same sentence as "me".

"It's surreal to hear you say that," our daughter Chelsea says reacting to something I'd shared.

It gives me pause.

Ever so matter of fact, Dr. Carpenter tells me what's inside my body; the source of my problems.

"You have pancreatic cancer," he says like a talk show host.

The first thing I do is look pass him with a three-mile-stare into the face of my wife Sarah, who's not in the room because the Coronavirus prevents her from entering the Hospital with me.

"It's not fair to her," are the words I hear in my head because Sarah and I have endured so much and she doesn't deserve more.

My mind shoots to Che, our three year old daughter and, I can't imagine life without her ... hers in mine or mine in hers. We're two pearls in the same oyster enjoying every bit of life coming our way!

But, as a matter of fact, I have this tumor.

Pancreatic cancer's bad enough during the best of times but we're doing it during a pandemic.

Sarah's always saying how she loves a challenge.

Perhaps we've gone overboard with this time.

I spend a lot of time listening to my body now instead of others, getting to know the squatter sucking life and energy rather than paying rent. At first it was easy to notice because the cancer made me jaundice, evaporated 50 pounds from my body and left me perpetually exhausted.

Thanks to a biopsy on a Friday, followed by a stent implanted the following Monday, two weeks later those symptoms are gone. My skin's pink, I've gained 4 pounds and I make it through some days without sleeping away the afternoon.

I have a reprieve of two weeks before the major surgery forever transforms my body into plumbing God never intended though, we're promised, the cancer disappears with other body parts.

"You have less than a 1% chance of dying on the operating table," the matter of fact Doctor explains, "unless something else goes wrong."

You gotta love Doctors. They're like professional gamblers in Vegas always hedging the bets.

Each moment is focused on Sarah and Che, trying to squeeze each drop of juice from the Lemon I'm managing.

Meaningful distractions take place daily ... I spend more time Face Timing Ethan and Lily, our grandchildren ... Laurel our 16 year old strolls in wearing a "My Dad's Stronger than Cancer" tee shirt leaving me in tears ... a carnival of friends bring food and gifts almost daily breaking the monotony of quarantined living ... Che lays her head on my chest at night to softly ask, "Daddy, why are you so sick?" ... Sarah dutifully prepares for the new normal after surgery.

There's no time to think about it, save perhaps on sleepless nights.

Every day is filled with a quarantined 3 year old bouncing off the walls ... a wife working from home surrounded by three other teenagers, a sick husband, the insanity of the American Health Care system to navigate ... and the almost daily loving expressions of friends giving love in various and sundry ways.

Otherwise I've let go of most everything that used to occupy me.

I've resigned from Bar Church, released the constant communication from people wanting something, don't initiate much as I try to conserve all of my energy for Sarah, Che, the kids, the family without bloodlines and my squatter.

I don't like my intruder very much and look forward to his eviction.

It costs a great deal to get anyone evicted these days.

It's certainly costing Sarah and me.

Meanwhile, I bide my time, eating like a horse, tanning with Sarah and Che, feeling deep things and thinking thoughts that don't have words.

I get frustrated with myself when I grow short, trying to turn negativity back into joy ... caressing Sarah, hugging Che, laughing at Laurel's supply train of medicinal medications, a white moon in a deep blue sky and unexpected expressions of love from people I'd never have thought.

I'll take this reprieve because God knows I can use it but, more importantly, it gives me time for the fight of my lifetime anyway, with this son-of-a-bitch squatter inside of me.

"You're like a lot I know," I tell the bastard late at night. "Forever taking and never giving. I've known a lot like you. You're up against love this time! You should know now ... you don't stand a chance."

Cancer Comes to Church

"Jesus Christ!" Monty spits as we lug equipment from his truck into The Sand Bar, "You look like you got Hep-C!"

It's true my skin is a florescent yellow and my blue eyes swim in yellow.

"Mother of God," Elisa Dunnibeier exclaims, "you're green!"

Aside from looking bad, I feel awful and have to sit throughout worship that morning but it's not just me.

Monty's off kilter about something. Gordon's emphysema is flaring up and as he blows the harmonica he explodes into fits of coughing. Eric's got band aids all over his fingers as he plays his guitar. Only perpetually good nature David Dunniebier, our bass player seems the same.

Lead guitarist Chip is off in Tennessee visiting his mother and Davy, the drummer, has disappeared as drummers often do. If he's not back by next Sunday we'll start to worry.

I didn't know then but it was the Sunday my pancreatic cancer came out in Bar Church.

My protective wife Sarah is mad as Hell because I'm too sick to go but, like most clergy, I have a morbid suffering servant complex baked in giant ego that God can't possibly succeed without me.

Yet in spite of everything wrong, something Holy happens and ... Gordo finds enough breath to blow magic ... Eric finds a voice fuller than his rich baritone already is and plays perfect guitar through band aids ... David, who never sings harmony, sets up and sings perfectly.

And I swear, tiny pillars of fire rested atop each of Monty's stubby fingers, and he played lead guitar like we've never heard him before or since and ... the Holy Spirit settles in.

Bar Church was crazy packed that day.

Towards the end of the video, you see Monty smile at me, as we all briefly comprehend, we joined the choir of Angels for a bit.

The song is "Clouds", Zach Zobiech's masterpiece of hope after diagnoses with cancer.

I fell down, down, down into this dark and lonely hole.
There was no one to care about me any more.
I needed a way to climb out and grab hold.
One the edge you were sitting there, holding a rope.

When Sarah and I agreed Bar Church would become a major part of our lives, I felt this was the song that says it all about who we are as a church.

The "you sitting there holding a rope" is Sarah of course ... or God ... maybe the communion of Saints ... certainly Sarah ... certainly God ... Lord only knows who else?

Today, even months later, we know it's pancreatic cancer I have and though, thankfully I'm not yellow this morning, Sarah and I have massive life changes we're managing and so, we resigned from Bar Church a few days ago.

It'll be fine.

It's bigger than Samuel Adams ever was and certainly much larger than me.

But we wanted to thank you all for the past, almost seven years of Church in a Bar and daily exchanges on this Face Book page.

I've grabbed hold of the hope with plans to fly a little higher.

Our prayers are, you do too.

Love,

Micheal and Sarah   

Treating Slime

As screwed up as the American Health Care system is, predicated on income generation more than health outcomes, there's sometimes a nurse ... rarely a doctor ... who will shoot straight with you in your darkest hour.

I've had a bitch of a month!

First I expressed all the symptoms of COVID-19 and spent a week in bed sweating and sleeping until it was figured out I have pancreatic cancer instead.

"It's why you're so damn yellow," the straight talking Angel told as I lay on the operating table waiting on the doctor who is late.

I've been yellow for the better part of six months, itch like a mutha and and urinate every five minutes.

"We getting rid of all that shit right now," she says stuffing my long hair under a net.

"Believe me! You gonna want this or you're hair's gonna get messy like you never seen messy before."

"Why's that?" I softly ask.

Green eyes peer at me upside down from above my face and she smiles.

She has lots of freckles and is smiling.

"After we get this stent in you, we gonna turn you over on your stomach! The stent's gonna loosen the bile held captive in your body and it's gonna flow like the River Jordan."

I'm picturing my surgery as a raging yellow river.

"There's a hole in the bottom of the table where your head's gonna be and a bucket under the hole. All the sludge is gonna run straight to it."

"Sludge?" I ask.

"It's a medical term. All the bile cooped up in your swollen gallbladder turns to sludge ... like in your oil pan."

"Who knew?"

"Then we're gonna keep wracking you on the ass until it's all out."

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

The Doctor arrives frustrated the other Hospital delayed him for no real reason that lousy scheduling.

"Ready?" he asks.

"He sure is," my Nurse answers.

A few hours later, my sweet wife's face stares into mine full of love and concern.

"It went well," she tells me.

At least this is the version of waking up I remember.

She recalls it differently saying that I was awful.

But the itching's dissipated.

Yellow skin is already fading.

I don't have to pee.

"Good," I say squeezing her hand.

"Why's my ass sting so badly?"
_____________

TOTAL HOSPITAL CHARGES - $4,300
ACTUAL HOSPITAL COSTS   -  $  800

AMOUNT TURNED OVER TO DEBT COLLECTORS - $100%

Hard times for Musicains

Sarah and I have the incredible good fortune to have lots of friends who are musicians and during this time of Quarantine and social distancing, they've taken to streaming live concerts.

Roy Swindell streams shows from his house every night at 7 and it's a rocking good time with tons of great comments by an audience scattered everywhere.

Joe Jarka broadcasts weekly porch concert and added 5 minutes of Beach time music from a dock overlooking the Beach that is closed to the public during this time of the Coronavirus.

Tracy Merrit and her daughter Emma are onscreen with some great harmonies from their living room to share old fashion Gospel.

Kyle Shriver plays slide guitar and acoustic Led Zep tunes to the glee of all!

Even my shy wife was challenged by a friend to share her music and, though she's shy to be on camera, Sarah loves a challenge and she's there for the world to watch playing "Sonatina" on piano.

She helped too as I got in on the act Live streaming Bar Church from our backyard and Che, our 3 year old, is seen singing and dancing as Sarah's Angelic voice floats in the air from behind the camera.

I find this all tremendously rewarding and fun.

These are sobering times for musicians.

Our friend Stephen O'Connor, aka Savannah Steve, lost 21 paying gigs on the day the economy slammed into a brick wall.

This rings true for all of our friends.

On a day when claims for unemployment insurance tops 6.3 Million, twice what the Government projected which shows you the accuracy of our elected officials, I'm grateful there's a new category that includes self-employed musicians.

They all deserve 10 times what the Government will give them.

Government doesn't believe in music and the arts anymore as demonstrated by the rape of funding for the these things.

Yet during these times of isolation and quarantine it's the musicians leading the war against loneliness and despair.

From Italian Balconies to families in living rooms perfectly singing "One More Day" from Les' Miserables to Roy Swindell's nightly concert, they're all making the world keep spinning come Hell or High water.

Even Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood got in on the act but it was way after the local players stormed out of the gate.

Sarah, Che and I want to say thank to the boys and girls in the band!

You're the first lights we all see in these dark times.

Quarantining Pirates

Che and I are playing Pirate for the umpteenth time today, a game her Mother started as a way of keeping our 3 year old daughter in bed a while longer in the mornings.

Che springs to life when she wakes and many hours later passes out while still putting up a valiant fight with sleep.

"DAD-DEE" she yells though tucked in for the night, so I climb the stairs leaving an already collapsed Sarah on the sofa, stumbling into Che's dark bedroom where the issue ranges from the need to potty to ghosts hiding in the dark to one more kiss and hug.

We have no idea how she keeps going but her boundless energy could light the entire Western Hemisphere.

We're quarantined in a playground because Maddie, home from her freshmen year in College to isolate with us, has promised Che to take her for days but can't find the time to do so.

Sarah's close to exploding because her work expects her to care for 41 clients without actually seeing them during this pandemic.

I'm sick of the house and Che desperately needs to run around so we at the playground.

The gnats were too bad at the first so we're at another, tucked away behind a Church that's closed for business.

"Pirate Daddy, what do you see?" she asks holding a pretend telescope.

My bare feet dangle in the air from the top of a plastic blue jungle gym and she stands behind me with an arm on my shoulder.

The phone buzzes with a text from Sarah detailing the Governor's latest round of restrictions to save us from being infected with the Coronavirus.

"Let's show Mom what we're doing," I say.

"Okay Pirate Daddy," she smiles and I snap this picture.

The photo clearly shows our little girl in pure Pirate mode while her ol' man looks okay behind the smile, sunglasses and weathered cap.

Truth is, I'm exhausted.

Sarah is too.

None of the girls are.

I feel every bit like a 63 year old man after an almost full day of being primary parent to a 3 year old.

The phone buzzes again and Sarah's sent a completely unintelligible message having something to do with Cassidy, but my mind's turned to dinner and I'm thinking about picking something up before coming home because I don't want to cook or clean.

Quarantine is hard work, especially with small children and indestructible teenage who challenge every decision, though I know it's hard for everyone.

Every moment there are between four and six of us in a house too small for everyone to have private space.

The other morning I got up at 4 am just to have time to myself.

It's a brave new world we suddenly find ourselves managing pretty much alone though we are a society built upon social gatherings ... in Church, at political rallies, in Bars, restaurants, music venues, the park or a thousand other places we interact.

Such things may kill us.

Sarah sees the pandemic as a way of hitting reboot ... for our family first and, maybe if everyone else takes this to leave the past and build a new future, the world can start over too.

The muddy waters of Venice, Italy are suddenly clear again because of the Quarantine.

As hard as all of this is, and it's very hard, it's the image I keep in mind in hopes that it's me too that cleansed of old rotten ways of doing things through self discovery of my self, loved one and friends I now have to deal with virtually.

In the Bible, the Apostle John was sentenced to live out his life quarantined on a deserted island. While there he wrote the book of "Revelation" which is the end of the Bible,  where he saw "a new Heaven and a new Earth" because the old had passed away ... and God dwelt among the people.

I take this to mean the incredible and great good that can come from being Quarantined.

As hard as it is.

Because it's very hard.

God or Government?

What it boils down to is, of course, trusting the Government or not?

Does fear of the Coronavirus justifies closing most everything to dictate "social distancing" in a society predicated on coming together?

Many blame the media but they're merely reacting to the Government's news with each outlet's own spin.

Inside the Government is the question is who's in charge of a system built upon reacting to itself?

Local Governments look to State Governments which looks to the Federal Government for direction as the Feds gauges the winds of the states who desperately try to get a feel for the general consensus of the masses.

It's an endless circle of leaders searching for where the buck stops and, these days any way, it doesn't stop with anybody.

"Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's" is the only real Biblical instruction there is, "and to God the things that are God's."

It doesn't help much.

Is the Coronavirus a Government plot to further take rights away from citizens or is it a plague sent from God as punishment of how far we've distanced ourselves from things that are holy?

Everyone has strong opinions one way or the other.

So far most every public gathering has censured itself to protect the greater good waiting on someone to take charge.

A tiny few say "Fuck it! Let's have a parade! If we're all gonna die let's make it a party!"

As with most things of huge consequence, the Church is silent as it waits on God or circumstances to sort things out.

It leaves to to capitulate to fear or live like there's no tomorrow.

Strong and compelling arguments are being made on both sides of the equation.

On a global scale, I don't know Government's are strong enough to dictate singular courses of action. Circumstances appear to be driving leaderless Governments mimicking one another in face of pandemic.

At the same time, regardless of your belief in Divine Beings, I don't believe God's out to get anybody.

History's proven creation is a flawed system filled with mutations of weather, climate, environment and the health of all living things.

These mutations are the price everyone pays for the privilege of being here.

So what are we to do in the middle of something that's literally scaring the Hell out of everyone?

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart mind and soul," Jesus says, "and LOVE your neighbor as yourself."

While the Government says distance will increase the chances of limiting the spread of infection, faith indicates we're to manage mutations of health by believing in deliverance and helping each other out to the best of our capabilities.

Hoarding, be it information or toilet paper, is a clear indication of choice.

So is reaching out to others as best you can.

I know which I believe is the right way to get through not just the Coronavirus, but life itself.

_____________

THIS SUNDAY AT BAR CHURCH, we gather to decide how best to help each other get through this. You can be part of the conversation if you wish but we understand if you choose otherwise.

There's no judgment.

Forever

Holding my hand with both of hers, she says, "Don't worry Daddy. I protect you. I want you to live forever."

She pronounces it "bore-ebber."

Sarah, Che and I are taking the Winston The-Little-Gay-Dog, TLGD, for a walk and ... I have no recollection of the conversation but still feel her 3 year old hands on mine.

The conviction in her voice rings in my head.

"I will protect you."

She doesn't know yet how little we're capable of protecting in life.

If it's not the Coronvirus that does us in, it'll be a heart attack because of a Stock Market plunge, a piece of a satellite falls on us inexplicably from the sky, the person we love most suddenly leaves or we literally are bored to death during a sermon.

It reminds me the old Steven Wright joke.

"I plan on living forever! So far, so good." 

And it has been good so far!

There's been some really bad spots yet here I am strolling with my lovely wife, TLGD and our love child who assumes things can always be like they are now.

Soon we'll teach her that just as every moment is a gift, so is every enjoyable situation or circumstance.

Nothing last forever.

Hell, nothing last for very long when you consider it.

It's best to make the most out of now and whatever that means for you.

If we do that then it'll be good.

And it'll get us further.

10 Reasons to go to Bar Church

An article someone posted on the Internet covers "10 Reasons to go to Church even when you don't feel like".

Pastor Tim explains Satan invented all sorts of diabolical reasons to make attending Church inconvenient such as kids soccer games, family getaways, going on your honeymoon, vacation, parents in Hospice or being invited to go to the Caribbean for free by a friend.

They seem like perfectly good reasons to skip Church but Pastor Tim says, "you're choosing the captivity of activity over what God says is more important."

Pastor Tim never states when God tells him this but quickly moves on to listing ten reasons to force yourself to be in Church when you have other places to be or people to enjoy.

Not wanting to be left behind, Bar Church has come up with it's own list to attend even though it's the last things in Hell you want to do!

1. See who's in the Band! The Duct Tape Choir's most consistent member is David Dunneibier and he's not even sure he's a Christian! Everyone else floats in and out, joins then quits or shows up at the wrong gig. It's always loads of fun to see who's actually singing at Bar Church every Sunday because only God knows for sure!

2. Pick out who's actually attending worship as opposed to who fell asleep in the Sand Bar last night and wakes up in the middle of Church! Then count how long before they realize they're part of a congregation! It's loads of fun!

3. Likewise, lots of tourists wander inside looking for a drink, cozy up to the Bar, slowly realize it's not open yet and they're in a Church service and laugh your head off as they try to tactfully get the Hell out as quickly as possible.

4. Check out the Potluck on the Pool table to see if anyone stopped at McDonald's for a sackful of sausage-and-biscuits, what Sam Sahr's casserole is and how many Deviled eggs Mary brought! (Deviled eggs in Bar Church cracks us up!)

5. Will the Rev's sermon be from a manuscript or will he be shooting from the hip? He swings both ways so when you're counting on him publishing the text on Facebook he didn't write it down and when you can less what he said, the entire text is published.

6. What are this week's Drink Specials? The Sand Bar starts serving around the same time the Rev starts preaching and there are specials. Most Church only serve grape juice in little tiny plastic cups or real wine in a Priest controlled chalice shared by all.

7. Will girls wearing bikinis wander in during the service? Will guys without shirts worship with us (for you Chuck Cox!)? Will the Rev wear a religious tee shirt (with the OM symbol on a George Harrison tee) or a secular one (like the one promoting "Pippin" on Broadway)?

8. How far away will you have to park to attend worship? Way more people come to Tybee Island than parking allows so it's possible to spend the entire service riding around hopelessly looking for parking rather than attending. This fosters both prayer for an open spot and the use of the God's name in vain both of which count as expressions of faith at Bar Church.

9. How many verses will there be to "Knocking on Heaven's Door" and how many will be made up? Depending on the enthusiasm of the congregation determines the length of the service's concluding Hymn,

10. Will the congregation call for an encore after the service ends? It happens with increasing regularity in Bar Church and you can't say that about most churches!

_________

This Sunday at Bar Church the Duct Tapped Choir is having open auditions.

Apprehensive Fun

I was more apprehensive than worried.

Gordo wouldn't be at Bar Church because he and Jaime are attending a wedding somewhere around Atlanta so no great harmonica fills or leads.

Chip's on a rock-n-roll cruise somewhere in the Caribbean so no lead guitar or high harmonies in today's service.

No special guests to elevate the music like Keith Rea, Ricky Stokes, Tom Cooler and their ilk can nor any of the "rotating regulars" such as Bob Fulton, Kris Nilson or Denise and Heath Holly.

No Monty Parks with all of his technical wizardry or sweet sounds from founder Samuel Adams or the heart felt earnest songs of Lona Crask who've moved on to other things.

It would just be Davy on drums, David on bass, Michel on a 12 strong acoustic and Eric inexplicably playing an electric guitar.

We had no idea what kind of music we're bring to worship in a bar.

So much was missing I could only see the holes.

As Church unfolded it became apparent the music was laid back, relaxed, filled with problems but loaded with fun!

Jesus did we have a good time.

And the congregation did too, singing and dancing along.

When it was over we kept playing and no one leaves choosing instead to enjoy themselves "just a little bit longer" as the song goes.

It was one of those rare times when everyone present was a  member of band, everyone raising the other's spirits to higher planes manifest with smiles.

Worship just doesn't get any better than that!