Coming Back

I am back to full time Sabbatical beginning today; meaning that I am home for the next month with no planned trips at this point. During the summer months, from July through September this is what life was for me and Goddess as I worked through the things that people work through when they are on Sabbatical.

It was just a shame that it came two-and-a-half years after it was desperately needed but a Board Chairmen who chooses to remain anonymous (God forbid someone find out who he is and the decisions he’s made) and wiser men than me knew better. So I didn’t.

Since listening to them I’ve lost a wife, relationships with many people that I trusted, loved and had long-term relationships and I left a thirty-one year career which was part of some pretty significant things.

Now I resume … gathering my thoughts as I was recently told by one of the sages.

Except tomorrow I have lots to do. First there are tons of personal things that I simply haven’t paid much attention too over the past, oh … year. I started a couple of weeks ago and the stack is getting smaller but Chelsea’s car insurance ended up in never- never land and our health insurance is suddenly at risk (which is most ironic as one of the things I’m known for is taking health care to people who had none! I’ve won national awards for it and gave a hundred thousand dollars to Union Mission to advance its efforts because of it. Yet here I sit. Exposed!)

Most full time Beach Bums don’t have health insurance; so why should I be any different. Pretty funny huh?

There is a looming Christmas that I have to get myself through.

And there is a lot of “work” things that I have to do. There are twenty-two grants to read. My Atlanta “client” is coming to see me. Rebekah has a long list of things that suddenly have time lines. There are trips to plan in January and February.

More importantly, my friend Conner called me the other night and told me that he needs me to “help with words” at the memorial service for his father who died last week. I never met Conner’s Dad but feel like I have after years of stories. Plus I would do anything for Conner and Hania.

Both of us would likely pay good money to reconstruct whatever it was we did in New Orleans last month. We’ll likely find out when we stand in front of the throne of Judgment and God leans over and says, “Really?”

I hope that Conner and I are standing beside one another when this happens as I know that we will look at one another and then we will look at God and then we will both say at the same time … “Wha?”

In honesty, the Sabbatical is over as much as I wish that it could linger. The past is dead and gone and it is never coming back again. I am proud of the things that I’ve accomplished, cherished whom I’ve loved, and only have a few regrets; though the ones that I do have haunt me from time to time.

There are pieces of the past that go with me into the future though I am surprised at how small that package is. I’m also surprised at who those friends are marching with me to what will be. And the circle of those whom I love came from … nowhere … from God and after Conner and I are done explaining New Orleans I will thank her profusely.

So I have to go to work. It is a brave new world. I am doing things that I’ve never done before. I am gambling everything that I have with the belief that it will all work out for the best. I feel good about it.

I pause and think to myself, “Wait! What is different about this? It is how I have always lived.”

I don’t feel any doubt, except for fleeting moments in the middle of the night, but I chase these thoughts away and climb out of bed with a “Kick Ass” attitude; probably pretty much the same attitude that Jesus had when they nailed him on the cross.

“Go ahead! Crucify me! I’ll be back!”

So because I love all of the people who read this I want you to be the first to know.

I’m almost back.

Count on it.

The Lost Season

I sit sipping coffee on the last football game of the season. This is actually the first one that I feel like I’ve actually been at though it is cold and the streets of Athens were unusually deserted last night.

The first game of the season I slept walked through the motions of decades of traditions and friends. Everything about it reeked of loss and reminded me of things that I used to have. Of course the kids and my friends went overboard on my behalf, giving me rides, taking me out, poking fun at the emotions that I brought to Athens with me.

They also worried about me among themselves; talked about me privately; expressed concern that I wasn’t taking care of myself. Several sought me out for private conversations just to let me know that they had survived similar things and that I can always count on them.

In the middle of it all I took a Sabbatical from football season and went back to St. Martin missing two games. This is sacrilegious and I am certain that I am now condemned to football purgatory for at least two years before advancing on to football nirvana.

On those two Saturdays that I was in the Caribbean as I stood on the beach as game time approached, I knew exactly what everyone was doing though I was thousands of miles away. Our routines and traditions are long established so in my mind I celebrated with them but needed something different for myself as I continue to envision a new life because there isn’t much similar to the old one.

I drove up alone yesterday for the first time since the first game of the season. All of those games in between, I either rode with my friend Bill or was flying in from somewhere so that Chelsea and Sam would pick me up in Atlanta and bring me to Athens. Yesterday I had four hours to think about everything that has happened this fall.

On that first game day of the season I sat exactly where I am sitting now doing the exact same thing. It was a season full of promise and hope. Aside from a new quarterback we had so many starters coming back. Last year had ended with a flurry so expectations were high.

Alas, things did not go as planned.

I know how the team feels.

Last week I was making my way from Pittsburgh to Atlanta to Savannah and I texted my son Jeremy asking him for the score of the Falcons game.


“You care?” he wrote back.

“I do,” I shot back. “What’s the damn score?”

“It’s good to have my Dad back,” he conveyed and then gave me the score.

When you go through difficult stuff you get through the best way that you know how. Of course everybody else wants you to do it differently but in the end it is just you getting yourself through. As we do, we often don’t realize that we are going through major changes in who we are and how we do things. Our family and friends see things that we are unable to see as we fight our way through being re-born. Giving birth to something new can be a painful and traumatic thing.

When you are done though, there is something new. A new life emerges.
I feel as though I have lost this entire season. I just wasn’t really here. But I am looking forward to today. I am excited about it. And I am no longer the same person I was on that first football Saturday. Something new is being born.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Soul Miner’s Daughter is wailing away in the back ground but Goddess won’t shut up for me to listen to them. She is standing here barking at me and scratching the chair. It is past time for her walk and the dog knows how to tell time. We are about twenty minutes behind schedule and the bitch doesn’t grasp the concept of a holiday.

If that weren’t enough my neighbor adopts feral cats and has about 2000 of them; half of which sleep on my car every night. She is standing on her back deck screaming, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” She isn’t really screaming. She is screeching!

I suddenly believe in violence.

Goddess even stops and walks to the side of the beloved back deck to stare at her. Her tender loving call to the cats borders on the obscenity; finger nails sliding across a chalk board.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” she shrieks.

Goddess lies down as though someone has beaten her with a stick. She moans and puts her paws over her head.

I look over to my neighbor’s deck and see Edith Bunker in a nightgown; complete with a bandana tied in her hair. To make it worse, her sister is visiting for the holidays. There are two of them!

Goddess runs inside.

I wave. “Happy Thanks …. Yeah, whatever,” I sigh.

“Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” they shriek in harmony.

I use a verb and a pronoun.

The pronoun is “me.”

They walk down the stairs into their backyard, wandering around in their bandanas, one green and one yellow, in lime green towel cloth bathrobes, screeching, “Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!”

I give serious though to joining the N.R.A. Some things are completely justifiable!

If I did take them out it would be a pretty pleasant morning. The sun is shinning, it is a pleasant 70 degrees and climbing, and I have little laundry on. People who I love have texted me “Happy Turkey Day” wishes.

Johnny O called and started to give me advice on my love life. I hung up on him.

The neighbor’s mother walks out on the deck telling them that breakfast is ready. She looks like a mummified Edith Bunker wearing a dirty orange towel cloth bath robe and a red bandana in her hair. The poor woman obviously died several years ago but no one has bothered to tell her.

“Omelets,” she screeches in a way that somehow combines the capacity of her two daughters.

“Cat hair omelets?” I think as I watch cat hair fly around her as though it were a halo.

“Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” the two sisters scream in unholy harmony.

The mother looks at me. “Happy Thanksgiving”!

I wave.

“Whatever,” I say, as I get up and fix a screwdriver.

Preparing for Thanks

I knew the look on her face all too well. She leaned against the doorway with slumped shoulders, staring off into a space with eyes opened wider than normal. Her eyelids were containing the tears but barely and the damn could rupture at any moment. Over anything. The normally vivacious voice was muted and cold. The fire had gone out in her heart.

She glanced up at me and I smiled. She smiled back and made her way to where I was sitting. She placed her hand on the table and I placed my hand on top of hers.

“I know exactly how you feel,” I said.

Her eyes filled with moister, her lip quivered and she nodded her head up and down. Normally words come easy for her but she had none. She couldn’t conjure then up if her life depended on it. There were only feelings of brokenness and hurt and loss.

Her thumb moved up over mine and there was the slightest of pressure. It was all that she had to give.

“So, remember last January and February and March?” I asked. “Well you are me then. I know your look. It was my look. I know exactly how you feel.”

She withdrew her hands, wiped her eyes, and told me that she’d be right back. Briskly she took herself outside and both hands covered her eyes and the sobs came. I watched her through the window and felt the moisture in my own eyes. I can still feel that way.

Eventually she returned and again placed her hand on the table. I placed my hand over hers again. She smiled but it was a vacant expression of gratitude. Her brain knew to say thanks but there was nothing anywhere else.

“Anyway,” I said, “remember when it was me? You took to given me big hugs every day. Every single day you would come up behind me and just hug. It was really the only touching that went on in my life during that time. You don’t know how much that meant to getting me through it.”

Her eyes again filled with moisture and just before the damn broke again I said, “And we’ll get you through too.”

Again she ran outside with her hands over her eyes, stifling sobs that desperately needed to be released.

When she returned people were standing around me asking me what I’m going to do for Thanksgiving. She stopped and stared at me intently and I knew that she had nothing to do for Thanksgiving. Hell there was little to be thankful for at this moment in her life.

“I dunno,” I answered. “I suppose that I’m doing a progressive one. My Mom wants me to drop by the family thing which is in the morning. Then my Breakfast Club family wants me to stop by. Then there is the Tybee celebration at Fannies-On-Beach where the Bored will collect.”

As I said these things, the damn burst again and I watched her run outside for the third time. “Let it out,” I whispered. “Let it out.”

She returned yet again and asked me what I did yesterday so I told her about sitting on the Beloved Back deck with a fire going and Pandora radio and Goddess lying on her mat staring at the first.

“I miss my dogs,” she sobbed never making it outside.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know someone else who does too.”

For thirty years I was in charge of Thanksgiving for hundreds of homeless people, orchestrating tremendous celebrations of food, music, presents, and merriment in the most depressing of contexts. The poor and the homeless hate the holidays more than anything. From Thanksgiving through New Year’s, but especially at Christmas, everything that they do not have is rammed down their throats.

Celebrations consist of outside of the ordinary food, different people serving it, plastic Turkeys, Pilgrims, Santa’s and birth announcements of Jesus are plastered everywhere. Other than that it is still a homeless shelter and the day after New Year’s it will be stripped of all of the “good times and cheer.”

I watched her and realized that it happens at the individual level too; outside of homeless shelters, hospitals or Hospices. This is the first Thanksgiving that I’ve only had to plan for me. This is the first that she’s only had to plan for her. She stares at me and the corners of her lips barely turn up below the wettest of eyes.

“We’ll be ok,” I tell her, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

Tears rolled down her face, but when she squeezed my hand, it was with force and there actually was the slightest bit of thankfulness in the air.

Church

Goddess and I spent most of last night on the beloved back deck. We had a fire going in the outside whatever it’s called, music from Pandora radio and the sound of waves crashing in the distance. We stared at Fran’s thousand shades of …black. Darkness blanketed her greens.

The moon was full and the temperature pleasant. Every once in a while I would look over my shoulders through the double sliding glass doors at a football game that I didn’t really care about, but the inside of the house looked warm and inviting with every room a different pastel color; summer time on the inside.

The I-phone was in there somewhere and the land line was off of the hook which is something that I’ve done for years. At Union Mission it was a life where needs were forever intruding so I stopped taking the phone with me on walks with Goddess and many times I would just grab the land line and put it in a drawer. Some habits die hard.

It was just me and Goddess and she was pretty content on her bed staring at the fire. My feet were propped on the rail and I praised God that laundry requirements were kept to a minimum in late November. I was pretty content too.

It is good to be home after being away for the better part of the past six weeks.

I left the sliding glass doors open when I went to bed so that I could listen to the waves. As I was waking this morning, at that moment when you open your eyes and then close them again, sigh and roll over, I wondered what had happened. Someone had lifted my bed and transported it inside of St. Martin de Tours Catholic Church in Louisville, Kentucky. Either that or I had died and gone to Catholic heaven.

Everything reeked of incense.

With my eyes closed, my mind raced back to Father Vernon Robertson who was the then 60 year old Priest of St. Martin Catholic Church. When I was a 25 year old Professional Christian we became fast and dear friends. I would do the readings for noon day Mass and he would deliver homilies for Wednesday night services at Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. We were often in trouble together.

I was in Atlanta when he died, likely being yelled at for something by Baptist Corporate Headquarters but I remember sitting on the side of the bed at the Hyatt Regency and crying when Janice called to tell me.

So incense filled my lungs and Vernon filled my brain and I rose and stumbled to see who had broken into my house to light the incense.

I saw the open sliding glass kitchen doors and the smoldering store bought pressed paper log. Goddess followed me and while I laughed, she stretched wondering what was funny.

Today everything has been different. Everyone arrived at the Breakfast Club out of order. Goddess wanted to take me on a tour of the island rather than let me run. The temperature is summer time pleasant and I’ll get around to putting on …something.

Now I sit on the Beloved Back Deck again beside the smoldering log with Goddess asleep in the dirt below me. Fran has risen from the dead again today and the brilliant sun dances through her thousand shades of green. I notice that the leaves are changing colors. All is quiet in the world.

I sit and feel as though I am in church.

Chicago Bob's Funeral

“Rev. It’s Johnny O. Meet me on the pier in thirty minutes.”

“Sure Johnny,” I reply into the phone. “What’s up?”

“I tell you when you get there,” and he hung up.

That should have been my first clue.

Immediately the phone rings again.

I answer and he says, “Bring your robe.” And he hung up again.

That should have been clue number two.

So I throw on a tee shirt over my running shorts, grab my robe, hop on my bicycle and peddle to the pier. It is a Sunday and the beach is packed. Butler Avenue is a parking lot. The parking lots are fist fights of people looking for parking. Tybee Parking Services (Nazis) are beside themselves with glee as they happily write ticket after ticket.

I am careful with my robe. It is 30 years old and is coming apart in some places. I bought it from a Minister who was going out of business for $10. His name is sewed into the inside part of the collar. It is basic black and Puritan and has served me well (not so much the Puritan part).

On Sunday’s everyone of Hispanic heritage in a 27 state radius comes to the Tybee Island Pier to fish. Needless to say it was as packed and fishing lines had been thrown in every direction. There was a long line at the bar, another at the hamburger stand and another for the bathrooms.

I stroll up to the VIP section of the bar, which is reserved for Bored members, and there is Johnny O, Roma, Tudi, and several other people.

“What up?” I say.

“Funeral,” Johnny replies. “You’re conducting.”

“What?” I exclaim.

“Chicago Bob,” he says.

“Oh,” I answer.

Chicago Bob! Tybee has witnessed, experienced and survived many things, including hurricanes and the last fifteen political administrations but none were more influential than Chicago Bob. He was from Chicago of course, from the Rat Pack era, could work a crowd, sing a song and deliver one liners with the best of them. He was a member of the Bored, once threw my Mother and Sister out of his house during the Beach Bum parade, loved to climb in Hot Tubs with tourists, and for years Roma and I had to endure him and Johnny doing their act at Fannies-on the-Beach. He could occasionally shoot pool.

So I turned and there was his widow ready for the funeral. She was crying.

“Where’s Bobby?” I asked.

“Shit!” she said “I forgot him. I’ll be right back.”

Johnny O ordered another round. A few minutes later the widow came back with a Target bag. She handed it to me. Inside was a box full of Chicago Bob’s ashes. Johnny looked at me and said, “Let’s go.”

So we walked to the end of the pier, where the Hispanic populations from 27 states were fishing, many with crossed lines, and I put on my used black $10 robe. Johnny O said a few things about Chicago Bob then I did the “ashes to ashes” thing. Bob wanted to have his scattered at the ocean but near a bar. This was the perfect place as he could have his cake and eat it too.

The Hispanic fishermen from 27 different states were all Catholic of course and horrified. They all dropped their poles into the ocean, dropped on their knees and started doing the sign of the cross over and over again.

I opened the Target Bag and committed Chicago Bob to God.

A wind gust came at that particular moment and Chicago Bob’s ashes went in two different directions. Half towards the open ocean and the other half into the waves that would crash into the thousands of tourists who were body surfing, swimming, or just wading in the water.

“Hmmm,” Roma said. “I always knew he was schizophrenic.”

And that was pretty much Bobby!

The Valley of Death

Sitting high on top of a mountain, the restaurant had walls of glass that allowed us to gaze down on Pittsburgh at night. It was beautiful and I found myself having trouble following the conversation because I just wanted to look down on the city of Steel. It made me want to have people I love with me to share the experience. It was that serene.

I’ve been here a lot over the past decade so the city is filled with memories. The first time was to visit Dr. Jim Withers and do “Night Rounds”. So Cathy Dunham and I followed Jim and his partner Mike around the city, into the parks, and under the bridges looking for homeless people who slept outside and were in need of health care. Jim and I quickly became good friends.

The next trip was a collection of about 20 of us who were trying to redefine health care for the poor. If you’ve never seen 20 people fall in love with one another at one time well … it is something. Back home we were all wolfs crying in the wilderness but in Pittsburgh over a three day period we found one another. The result was the birth of the International Street Medicine Institute.

After that I was at Operation Safety Net, Jim and Linda Sheet’s non-profit that woos those homeless folks from under the bridges and out of the parks into their own homes. Health care and mental health treatment are added. I remember that we added days to that visit and just spent time playing in the city.

Two years ago I was here and extremely glad to be. Back home one of my programs had blown up in my face and I was quite frustrated. I remember standing in the airport watching it snow, watching snow plows blow snow, wondering if I could ever be able to take off. My cell phone buzzed and it was my Board Chair who spent half an hour reading me the press in the Savannah Morning News over the blow up and describing the political cartoon which was a drawing of me. A season of depression was born.

Last year I was snowed in for four days. Aside from an evening with my friends Suzanne and Jim, where I first experienced a hot tub in the snow, it was a very depressing trip. I was suddenly single which had not been a part of the plan. There was little to do except drink, stare out of the window watching snow fall, and grow more depressed. That was the lowest point of my life.

When I arrived yesterday everyone who works here knew my name. They remember me from having stayed so long with nothing to do. Last year they all felt sorry for me because I looked pretty miserable. This year they smiled, welcomed me back and told me how good I look. They launched into stories of how rotten a snow that had been.

I am now sitting where I spent most of my time last year. At a Coffee Shop with glass windows looking at naked trees and fallen leaves. They were blanked in white last year and the drift was six feet high. Jim and Dave Buck and I sat here and laughed a lot last night as we drafted one another’s profiles for “Match Maker.com”.

Life is supposed to be a series of peaks and valleys, people say. Incredible highs and woeful lows! Soaring spirits and shattered hearts. Breaking free or staying stuck. Finding our way back again or staying lost. Giving up or re-claiming what you deserve. Accepting what is or molding what will be.

Staring out of this window where the cold snow used to be, I can see that I’ve walked through the shadow of the valley of Death and somehow made it through.

The Best of Everything

After a comedy of communication errors which were mostly my fault I am on a plane heading to Pittsburgh. I know, on a college football Saturday? When it is going to be 71 degrees on Tybee? When my family is gathering at my Mom’s house this weekend?

Yeah, I screwed up.

Probably because I was subconsciously trying to sabotage the trip I made arrangements to arrive the day before the meeting leave the day of it. Pretty clever how our brains can work! But the leadership of the International Street Medicine Institute all rearranged their schedules around mine so here I sit. Damn they are an accommodating group!

Last week a friend of mine told me how driven a person I’ve always been. “Your drive inspires others,” she said. “You stir things up.”

Looking back over a thirty one year career I suppose that she is right. For 8 years in Louisville, Kentucky and then 23 in Savannah, Georgia I was a very driven person. Because I was fortunate enough to be surrounded with other driven and talented people we accomplished some pretty remarkable things. More importantly we made a lot of people’s lives better.

Last January though it all came crumbling down and I lost my drive among many other things. While I thought I still had a great deal to give, I really didn’t. I was going through the motions and the results of that is never a good thing. I was no longer over-achieving. I was under-achieving in every aspect of my life.

So in the same way that I subconsciously tried to wreck this trip, I orchestrated myself out of Union Mission. Everyone congratulated me on my retirement. I was trying to save myself and survive! Retirement has become a joke.

I can see that now though I couldn’t then. It has taken this exile that I’ve been on to get to the place where I am regaining …me.

From June until now there have been a handful of constants. I’ve written every day looking inside of myself to see what is there. This reflection occurs after a set routine. I go to the Breakfast Club, I walk Goddess, I run, walk Goddess again as I cool down, water the flowers, hit my outdoor shower, then sit on my beloved back deck and write.

Then I share whatever it was that came out through the blogs, on Face Book, or through emails. And I’ve been taken aback at the response. Because I was sharing things that people think or feel but rarely say out loud a lot of people reacted; overwhelmingly positive though it drove members of the Union Mission Board nuts. But my gut told me that it was the thing to do, and according Scripture God speaks to us through our guts, so I listened and remained true. And am glad that I did.

I discovered who my friends are. And I discovered who they are not. It was pretty interesting on both sides of that ledger. In the public eye most everyone is your friend (though you have your enemies too). Stepping away from it taught me who really loves me. It is better knowing.

I’ve reconnected with the beauty of the earth, pausing now to celebrate the glory of creation, noticing things that I’d always rushed passed. Mussels form themselves into choirs and perform concerts at low tide! Who knew?

Now I do.

Other than that I’ve pretty much waited on things to come to me and I have marveled at what has and what hasn’t. I do not know how much longer I have to keep at it this way. In spite of the public’s conviction, I can’t retire. And I’d really prefer not to be a client of Union Mission (as I would likely orchestrate a resurrection and end up being in charge again!).

I’m just trying to live the gift of every moment. To appreciate it and hold it up to the light to see what it has for me. But as time passes I am noticing old habits creeping back in. I shake my leg as I think. I drum my fingers across the table with a thought is about to explode. I grow anxious.

“So great talking to you today and hearing that you are in a good place. You deserve the best of everything!” a friend told me yesterday.

I wonder what that means. Over the past few months, I am learning that I’ve had the best of everything.

Johnny O's Birthday

I am normally the first to arrive at the Breakfast Club followed by Johnny O and then Whitley. This was again true yesterday through Whitley arrived before Johnny. When Johnny did arrive he stood over me and loudly greeted me with a verb followed by a pronoun.

“You did it didn’t you? Then he repeated the aforementioned verb followed by a pronoun. “You wrapped by car in crime scene tape.” Then he once again used the aforementioned verb followed by a pronoun.

Many years ago when I was teaching my young daughter Chelsea Tybee survival tactics we took to looking after our dear friends Johnny O and Judy’s house whenever they left the island. They often took Judy’s car leaving Johnny’s (then) truck beside the house. So Chelsea and I got a lot of cellophane and wrapped the truck for safe keeping. Another time we decorated it for Christmas. I think that we also put it up for sale one time and Johnny received several handsome offers. So I could understand how Johnny would think that it was me though Chelsea is now away in college.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I innocently replied because I had the truth on my side.

John again responded with the aforementioned verb followed by a pronoun.

“Happy Birthday Johnny,” I told him with even more sincerity.

“Are ya‘ll coming to my surprise birthday party today?” he asked finally leaving the crime scene incident behind.

Whitley and I assured him that we would be present.

The surprise birthday party was a hostile take over of the daily Bored meeting in front of Fannies-On-the Beach. Jenny Orr the owner had transformed the sidewalk that we occupy everyday into a party scene. There was an outdoor buffet with shrimp, pizzas, fruits and cheeses. White tablecloths covered the mesh tables and the trashcan. There was a kissing booth with a miniature goat in it. A typical Tybee gathering.

And there was a crowd. Many of the Beach Bums showed up and every member of the Bored did too; except for O Johnny, Trolley Joe, Kathy Brown, Joni Woodcock, Al and…and to be honest I’m no longer certain of who is actually on the Bored or not anymore because Roma and O Johnny have franchised the thing.

A lot of regular Tybee people were there too. Wait! That’s an oxymoron.

Tybee Dave and Sandy, Cheryl Sadowski, Ohio Bob and Margaret, Ester Guy, Jack Boylston, Bonnie Gaster and Roberto and a lot of other people. At one point I swear to God I heard the voice of Chicago Bob exclaim, “There’s a lot of love on that sidewalk!” I’m pretty sure Chicago Bob’s voice came from above though he once threw my Mother and my sister Age out of his house during the Beach Bum Parade. It could have come from below.

Then I left. I had stuff to do; being the Chaplain of the Breakfast Club means that I may be called away at any moment.

I have since learned that a transvestite showed up to sit in Johnny O’s lap, kiss his face with purple lisp stick, and sing Happy Birthday to him. Johnny explained that he knew it was a transvestite when she sat in his lap.

“You should have stayed,” Johnny O told me this morning.

Then Ryan Sadowski, who cannot decide if he wants to be a Rastafarian or Ozzy Osborn when he grows up, chimed in. “What Mike left early? Not Mike? He always just makes appearances and then leaves his friends and family behind. Seriously? Mike left?”

Ryan used to be a good kid.

So that was Johnny O’s birthday. He seemed pretty pleased with it this morning as he explained the precise moment when he learned that it was a transvestite in his lap. When he explained this Whitley and I looked at him and said at the same time … well … we used a verb followed by a pronoun.

Robin Hood

It was again in the days of my professional Christianity where I got paid for trying to live like God would like while I asked that everyone else do it for free. Working for Baptist Corporate Headquarters we had to take a lot of tests, specially the Myers-Briggs Personality Indicator. We were told that we would learn how we perceive the world and how we make decisions. What they were really trying to do was weed out gays, pacifists, liberals and increasingly women.

I was on another forced retreat in some park in Kentucky and we all had to take the Myers-Briggs test and write a paper about something we were passionate about. Then while we all took break a Christian psychologist reviewed our things and was going to report back to us during the evening session. I used the break as an opportunity to run to the liquor store (and actually ran into several of my fellow retreat mates there).

Later the Christian psychologist told each of us about ourselves. When she got to me she just stopped and put her hands on her hips with my profile page in one hand. “And then there is you,” she began.

“You are the first person whom I’ve ever encountered who scored dead center of the Myers-Briggs test. I suppose you can swing in any direction. You can be an introvert or an extrovert. You can both think and feel. Sense and intuit.”

I sat up a little straighter in my chair feeling quite proud of myself. I sensed all my other professional Christian retreat mates were in awe. I started to think that it was time to ask for a raise.

“Then I read what you wrote about you. You certainly have a lot of passion!”

Oh yeah, I’m thinking. Big raise!

“In the end, you are Robin Hood. You prefer the fringes but are quite comfortable sitting in the seats of power. You don’t mind hiding out in the woods with your friends or strolling down the aisle of the Cathedral in the middle of a service because you have something to say. You do not like to be pigeon holed. You do not take orders well. Everybody loves you anyway. You really don’t have the right personality of a minister.”

Shit! I thought. There goes the raise!

All of my fellow professional Christians were looking at the floor or the ceiling; at anything other than me! I think that I remember one took a drink.

So began the ending of my days as a professional Christian.

I was maybe 26 or 27 when that happened but I remember it vividly. The Christian psychologist wore a red dress when she nailed me. Isn’t that funny?

Ever since then I’ve been a big fan of Robin Hood. I watched the latest version on the plane to St. Martin a few weeks ago; the version with Russell Crowe. And I cried as I did. He was helping my people! The hurt, the lonely, the addict…the widow, the orphan and the sojourner.

A few weeks ago I was talking to a former Board member at Union Mission. Of course anytime you leave somewhere you are the blame for anything that ever went wrong until they reach a point where they can’t possibly blame you anymore because you weren’t around when it happened!

After a bit of listening to things that I didn’t do especially well I snipped, “Well you know when you’re Robin Hood it’s kind of hard to play by the rules!”

There were long moments of silence before he finally said, “I have nothing to say to that. I completely understand.”

So I’ve been hanging out in the woods of Sherwood Forrest for several months, healing from the wounds of my battles and contemplating the next attacks. Though I must admit that I really keep wishing Maid Marian would drop by at night. I am proud of the things that I have done and wouldn’t change any of them.

Other people would change them but that is not my problem.

So this morning at the Breakfast Club a dear friend of mine had tears in her eyes. She gave me a big hug and because we were in front of others I just hugged her back and didn’t say anything. I would never embarrass her. So when I left, she walked out with me. She burst into tears and told me everything and I just hugged her told her that everything would be alright. That is what I’ve always done.

And I sit here now staring at Fran’s thousand shades of green, thinking to myself.

It’s time to leave this friggin forest!

Moving On

The most consistent thing that people have said to me over the past year is that I need to move on! What they mean by this of course is that they do not care for the way that I’ve handled things. They want me to be the way that they want me to be; to do things differently from the way that I’ve chosen to do them. To hell with how I feel or that healing needs to occur! Move on!

This isn’t to say that all of these folks don’t care about me. I know that many of them do. Some love me dearly. That isn’t to say that they collectively give bad advice. You have to listen to yourself first. Then you can listen to others.

Back in the days when I was a professional Christian I worked for Baptist Corporate Headquarters though I was unexplainably in charge of a rag tag congregation in the inner city. I worked for was Russell Bennett and he took us all on a retreat one time in Kentucky. There were perhaps twelve of us (no comparisons to Apostles at all!) and we were in this gorgeous park. I remember driving over with my James Furr and we listened to Eddy Murphy’s first comedy album on the drive laughing our asses off.

When we arrived the afternoon was free so James, Steve and I decided to explore the park. Soon we stumbled upon a cave and decided to go spelunking. Somehow we had two flashlights between the three of us. So we enter the dark cave and made our way until we came to a place where it grew narrow. A sign was posted that said “No further entry.”

Of course I said, “Let’s go on in!”

And we did. As I’ve explained we were not Apostles. As we made our way deeper into the forbidden area the cave grew narrower, we began to wade in water and it was darker than I’ve ever seen dark. We were literally on our knees in the mountain stream when one of the flashlights went out. I had the only one that remained shinning.

Steve panicked and started ordering that we retreat. He was a Southern Baptist minister so he was quite loud and demanding about it. So to shut him up I unscrewed the top of the flashlight and we were in complete darkness. He shut up. Well, he actually mumbled the most holiest of prayers … “My God.”

He was standing beside me so I grabbed his arm and groped my way to his hand. I placed the flashlight batteries in them.

“When you calm down,” I told him, “we can start again.

He called me many names for a bit but then he grew quiet. “Hand me the flashlight,” he finally said.

“Say please,” I told him.

“Please,” he replied.

So I did and he led us out of the cave. Once outside he resumed calling me names.

A few years later we were together again on another forced retreat. And we were all sitting in a circle and we were all supposed to share something about ourselves that no one else knew. When it came Steve’s turn he looked sheepishly at me. Then he looked at James.

“The most exciting thing that I’ve ever done in my life,” he said staring at the floor, “was a couple of years ago. When I broke a rule with some friends and we went deeper into a place where we weren’t supposed to go. It is most alive I’ve ever felt in life!”

I jumped up and gave him a hug. James followed suit and the three of us stood there embracing one another in front of Baptist Corporate leadership who do not believe in hugging, the poor, speaking in tongues, or good music. I think that they thought we were dancing. They were all speechless and looked uncomfortably in other directions.

So I’m moving on in my own way; at my own pace. I’ve been through the darkest part of my life. Sometimes there was no light at all. I sit here staring at Fran’s thousands shades of green with the sunlight shinning through them and the wind making them dance. I feel myself being raised from the dead.

Last Night's Dream

I was pretty tired after all of the travel and went to bed early expecting to sleep through the night. By midnight I was kicking covers and thrashing around the bed with thousands of thoughts running through my mind. Goddess was, of course, snoring softly beside the bed unaware and unconcerned about me.

Sometime around 3:30 I feel asleep. And I dreamed. I do not normally dream or if I do I don’t remember them. Most of my life I’ve been a Day Dream Believer writing or making up programs or plans. But not last night! It was a vivid dream.

I was with my friend Gene and we were beginning an internship with a large law firm in Atlanta. The offices were in a corporate tower and everyone there seemed very excited that he and I were starting. Then we were called in to meet with our supervisor.

An attractive African-American woman was smartly dressed and flashed a very nice smile as she asked us to take our seats at the oak conference room table in her office. After talking for a while about things we’d done and things that we would be doing she stopped and started at me.

“You don’t remember me do you?” she asked with an intensity that bordered on anger.

I stared at her while Gene tugged at his collar and was obviously wishing that he was somewhere else. She locked my eyes and I searched and searched for some memory but there was none to be found.

“Back when I was in school,” she began crossing the border into anger, “I did a film of your work. It was the first big break that you ever had! After that, you never had any trouble getting your press did you? And you have no memory that it was me who got you started!”

The dream fast forwarded and Gene and I were with the other people in the office. They all reached out sympathetically telling me not to worry about it. That evening there was a banquet during which Gene and I were to be introduced. As she was making here speech, one of the young bright attorneys leaned over to whisper to me.

“Micheal, she’s not going to introduce you unless you sign this,” and a legal document was thrust in my hands. “It says that you must agree to never serve on the Board of this firm.”

I shook my head. “Sure,” I shot back, “I have no problem with that whatsoever,” and I signed the contract.

During the after party, many people came up to me telling me not to worry about it. The young attorney who had handed me the contract said, “Don’t worry about it Micheal. I changed some of the words around so there’s no way that she can enforce it.”

Then Dan Vaden of all people stood beside me and asked me what I was thinking. Dan is a friend, a successful Savannah businessman and a civic leader. I looked at him and he was giving me this large smile. Then he said, “We’ll going to have some fun.”

Crazy dream huh?

Throughout my career I’ve been an encourager of the people I worked with. “You’re more than you think you are,” I would often tell them quoting J.R.R. Toilken from “The Hobbit.” And I’ve tried to give others the credit while I shouldered the blame. So it’s funny that the dream was the reverse of what I’d tried to make my practice.

I’ve also known that no one accomplishes anything by themselves. Those who claim to have done it all by themselves are likely liars with the most inflated of egos. In my work help and support often were found in the most unlikely of places and the most unexpected of people. So it doesn’t surprise me that is what happened in the dream.

Attorneys? God knows I’ve spent enough time with them over the last four or five years. Recently I told one that I no longer wanted to have meetings at his firm as all of the news is normally bad and I’d rather meet in a happier environment so it’s a bit of a surprise that my dream had me interning at one.

And I’ve always looked for fun in the things that I have done and if you can pull that off with homeless people, the sick and the infirmed, then you’ve figured our survival.

I’ve read that dreams often represent the opposite of what one should expect. There were a lot of opposites in mine. We’re also taught that God speaks to us through dreams and I ponder the morning wondering what she is trying to teach me now.

Almost Home

Of all of the airports in the world Miami is the worst. Denver is up there somewhere because of the smoking policy. In Boston you can get on a bus between planes and never get off. Let’s not even bring up Atlanta.

Paris on the other hand is great. As is Berlin. Though in Amsterdam this blond haried buxom woman patted me down and I thought it was great! I tried to go back twice but Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one who went to Seminary with me) made me get on our flight to Prague.

In Havana I was thrown into an office and yelled at. I also had to pee really bad at the time and they make you pay to pee in Havana. Capitalism is working after all. The same thing happened in Nassau when I tried to return from Cuba though this time it was Americans yelling at me.

I got stuck in Pittsburgh for four days which is one of my all time favorite airports but there was like 37 feet of snow on the ground and I hate snow as much as I hate Satan or Hitler. My friend Suzanne made it tolerable with her Hot Tub though she taught me how to cuss with the best of them. Jim Withers, the famous doctor was there that night but he pretty much proved to be useless.

The Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport is an oxymoron.

But somehow tonight I cleared customs in Miami and actually made the connection. I have a window seat on a tiny plane and it looks as though someone took a giant Christmas tree and flattened it over an entire city. There are white lights mostly for those who prefer those at Christmas and the red and green lights are rushing down the highways.

The blackness of the ocean separates it all over there. I am struck that when I started this trip it was with a magnificent sunrise from way up high and as I end it is with blackness and flattened Christmas tree lights.

Ho, Ho, Ho.

So it is back home now. I have missed a lot. And I haven’t missed it at all.

If I had my preference I would pluck many people out of their lives and take them to St. Martin with me. Of course I would also take them home to Tybee Island with me. They could take Goddess for a walk when I’m watching football on the porch. Or let’s be honest, I’m probably sitting on the beloved back deck with Goddess and if you want to take a walk then she and I are fine with it.

But I am ready for home. I miss the smell. When I lay in bed with Goddess snoring beside me there is a smell that I love; salt air and must and something that God sprinkles down when she isn’t busy saving us all.

But there is a future to build and I’m pretty determined that love will be a big part of it and Rebekah keeps giving me orders and I trust her though I don’t always listen to her. And I’ve missed my family at the Breakfast Club and according to Keller Deal Johnny O is spreading rumors about us. And Roma evidently learned to type while I was gone. And Chuck Courtenay is going to do another sidewalk concert and I love Chuck.

So there’s a lot to do.

And I have to go to Pittsburgh next week.

And the Hot Tub is finally fixed.

Ho, Ho, Ho.

Anticipation

The sound of the waves hitting the reef is loud. The Trade Winds have picked back up so a breeze makes the Palm Trees dance in rhythm. Thin wisps of white clouds roll over a baby blue sky. The sun is a bright yellow orb. Hummingbirds dart in and out of the lush green foliage. I sit alone watching it all.

I have hung a set of wind chimes outside of the tiny studio that I’ve called home for the past two weeks. It is a blue crystal hummingbird holding up silver and blue chimes with a smaller bird suspended from the bottom. It dances and sings for me and I find that I am mesmerized by it.

It is a relic of the past. Representing love, romance and companionship that used to be mine, I hang it up every time that I am here. It is a thing of beauty, both delicate and sturdy. I suppose that is why I hold on to it and go through the ritual of choosing the right place for it to be placed. It reminds me of what was.

My friend Conner came busting into my room this morning waking me up to tell me goodbye. The taxi had arrived an hour early for them. I stumbled outside to find Hania making English Muffins and peanut butter determined that she feed me one more time before they leave. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and brush my fingers through my hair. In no time at all they are gone. I didn’t eat.

Conner talked me into coming here at this time. Normally I would have waited until the end of the year but he was determined and I would do most anything for him and Hania. Like always he and I made mischief while Hania and I had long thoughtful conversations about …what used to be.

I also did my best to inform them about my life now. New love and new adventures await. We make plans to see one another after the first of the year. I have to be in South Florida then and they want to return to Tybee Island for another visit.

I sit alone now celebrating the time that we had together. I am also thankful that my carnival of friends back home want me to return; it is good to be missed. There is a great deal to do when I get back as I have a future to build that already is very different from what used to be. It is mine for the molding and I close my eyes and imagine how I want it to be. I think that we create our lives in the same way that artists paint or sculpt. We start with some notion of what we want and then it takes us to places we never would have dreamed.

Last night we all gathered for the Last Supper with one another. The thing about Last Suppers is that you know once you’re done with them, they signify an ending; to a trip or a relationship or a Savior. A muteness hung in the air even though we laughed and drank wine and danced. Today it is part of what was.

I have a few hours to myself in this place that I love before I travel to the other side of St. Martin to catch the plane that will take me home to Tybee Island. When I get there I will put my arms around Goddess and take her to Shirley’s sad little holy dock. I resume my seat at the Breakfast Club and the Bored meeting. I’ll go back to Johnny O and Judy’s porch. I’ll resume the things that I love.

This has been a good trip for me though it has been far different from all of the other times that I’ve been here. The wind chimes have now stopped singing. That part of my life is over. I find that I am full of anticipation for the love that awaits when I return.

Professional Christianity

Back in the days when I was a professional Christian, getting paid to do what God was asking everyone else to do for free, the church that I was in charge of was not a normal church. I’m not sure there is a normal church with everybody showing up with their sins and all … crowding them into the same room … all demanding forgiveness at the same time. But I digress.

The congregation that came to my church was comprised of several little old ladies, homeless men, hookers, incarcerated drug abusers who were dropped off by a guy with a gun, and a bunch of radical seminary students who refused to get their hair cut at Dairy Queen (swirl tops) or wear suits. There were also a lot of kids from the projects who were running around.

When I first got there, the previous professional Christian refused to let a lot of these people inside. But I knew that a Sanctuary is a place that you get into. This one had bars on the windows to keep people out. I did away with that and the result is that a zoo was created.

Sunday School rooms were turned into apartments and the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub so that homeless guys could take baths. The social hall was turned into a Drop-In Center so that people who had no place to go could hang out. The kitchen pumped out food so people could eat. We broke a lot of rules.

We orchestrated good times as everybody individually managed through their tragedies. So the Prelude to the Sunday morning worship service was mostly the dance song from “A Charlie Brown Christmas” which got everybody in a good mood. Many mornings we would all break into dance over this with everyone mimicking the dance of their favorite Charlie Brown character. I do a mean Pig-Pen.

The offering plates got passed around but nobody had any money to put in them so the collection was always interesting. The little old ladies wrote I.O.U. on offering envelopes. The homeless guys would slip in discount coupons from the McDonalds around the corner. The incarcerated guys would spit their gum in. The Seminary students would dig deep into their pocket to find lint. The place never broke even.

Then when it came time for me to be the center of the universe for 20 minutes and preach, I was challenged to keep everyone’s attention. It took me a while to figure out that preaching a regular sermon wouldn’t do it. The few times that I tried the little old ladies snored so loudly that no one else could hear anything that I was saying.

So I got a little dramatic. That is an understatement. I got a lot dramatic.

One of my favorite sermons was on friends accepting one another as friends regardless of our imperfections. As soon as I made the point, I looked at our D.J. (yes we had a D.J.) and he hit play. Bruce Springsteen’s “Bobby Jean” came on and everybody got up and started dancing. It is a song that makes the same point as I was making and Bruce is the Boss and all. Everybody seemed to get something out of it.

Another time I was talking about having faith and Jesus walking on the water. The Baptismal Pool was full of dirty water so I wasn’t going there. Instead I walked across the pews. I jumped off the stage onto the top of the first pew and then danced to the second one and then the third and so on. It was a miracle that I didn’t fall and break my neck. Afterwards the entire congregation came to believe in miracles.

Of course I wasn’t always successful. Once in the middle of a sermon a drunk homeless guy carrying a baseball bat made his way down the aisle giving me a death stare. Talk about stopping the word of God dead in its tracks. This guy didn’t like my preaching. Lucky for me there were several other homeless guys who did and they tackled him and beat him up in front of the pulpit.

After they were done everyone was staring at me and I just stared at everybody for a second and said, “Let’s eat.”

What else do you say?

So I lasted for eight years. But it was a very good eight years.

Then I moved on to unprofessional Christianity.

Standing Still

God painted the sky in blues and it was amazing. Deep blue sky covered with light blue clouds suspended over an aqua blue ocean. The Trade Winds had ceased so there was no breeze and all was quiet. I stood with my feet in the water willing myself to be absorbed into the vastness of it all.

I would then turn to face the other direction and Fran’s thousand shades of green were painted in the Palm trees and cover the mountains behind them.

Brilliance is everywhere.

I feel small and whisper a prayer of thanks to be able to witness this.

Throughout my life the ocean has been a healing place for me. Car crashes and broken bones were mended by the sea. So was a heart that’s been broken more than once. And years of carrying the burdens of the poor, the sick, and the dying was put into perspective as I made my daily run beside the water.

I’ve spent the last few months coming to terms with a past that has left me behind. Perhaps I left it behind. I’ve been gathering my thoughts as someone told me. Having long conversations with myself as I’ve tried to learn from the things that I’ve done and plan for what I want to do next. The smell of the marsh and the salt of the sea have given me context for these chores.

I’ve made the pilgrimage from the spotlights of the city where hundreds of people made demands on me to the solitude of a beloved back deck and a dog that I love. My friends have sought me out proving who they are and offering me love when I had none left to give. My dear friend Fran was raised from the dead in my back yard and is still teaching me to stop and appreciate what is around me in this moment. These things happened in a beach house that I rarely left.

When I did leave it I was most often on my bicycle for the morning communion of the Saints at the Breakfast Club where my days began with coffee and hugs. Or I peddled to the Bored meeting at “Fannie’s” for laughter and a daily celebration of the island that is my home. On Friday nights I parked my bike besides friends so that we could stumble in and out of Bernie’s, Doc’s and by then I don’t remember anymore.

Most every day Goddess and I have sat on Shirley’s sad little holy dock listening to the choir of mussels popping and ticking their songs. My feet dangle off the side and my arm is around Goddess. It is the place where I rediscovered that I still have love to give.

Daily I looked inside of myself and have written about what I found. It has been a prayerful conversation with myself. I inventoried my sins, confessed them aloud, and forgave myself for sometimes coming up short when I was really just doing the best that I could.

And I delighted in the surprises of those who read what I write and offered their own wisdom, consolation, encouragement or stories. I found joy when the “word became flesh” these discussions were face-to-face and arm in arm.

Aside from when I was forced to go to other cities, the only place I’ve chosen to visit is back here in St. Martin. I marvel at the consistency of its beauty; and the consistency of my friends who have stood steadfast by my side both when they are here and when we return to our own homes. The friends who live here have welcomed me back with open arms and large smiles. Again!

I know that this time of reflection and celebration of who I am will soon be coming to an end. In a few weeks or a few months there will be lots to do, places to go, people to see. There is a partner that I am obligated to, a corporate identity to fulfill, and customers to satisfy. I can smell the changes as the waves lap against my feet.

I’ve been standing still. For perhaps the first time in my life I have stopped. And I am humbled by what I have found when I did.

Laughter

So I believe that life is a gift that each of us has and none of us asked for. It is also sprinkled with friends who come and go. More go than remain. Though sometimes God reaches down and drops old ones back in again.

A thousand years ago when I was in college I fell in with this magnificent group of friends. It was the time when we had all left home and discovering who we were as people and we all held one another’s hands into us becoming us. When you do that you realize that love is all around you.

Then you graduate and everyone scatters to the four corners of the world and your friends become memories or stories that you tell. You get on with your life, find a career, start a family, do well, screw up, start over and eventually become who you are.

And there is no going back.

But for those of us who believe in miracles, and I am one, sometimes you do. Through the creation of Face Book we all found one another again. We stared at one another’s pictures and looked at how we’ve aged. We admired one another’s children and marveled at what each of us have done.

Then we started messaging and talking and the laughter returned easily. Then we decided that the word needed to become flesh and we all met at my house one day and we laughed. We told stories and remembered. And we learned something. That intense love that we shared all of those years ago remains.

Since the reunion, we talk almost every day either as a collective group, or individually. We call one another offering encouragement and advice and support. Three of the four of us are going through major life transitions and we’re relying on the one who is not to be there to support us all if things don’t work out.

I think that one of the things that gets you through life is laughter. If you are in a place where you don’t laugh or with someone who doesn’t help you laugh then God’s gift of life is reduced and it is like we are throwing it back in her face.

Now these friends of mine … well we can make one another laugh. A lot! Individually we are humorous. Collectively we are a riot!

And we do not let up. We keep egging one another on. One continuously topping the other and I find myself spitting out my drink because of the unexpected laughter.

So because I truly love these people I will not tell you that their names are Dedra, Mark and Mitch. They would kill me if they thought their friends might know that we enjoy each other so much.

So much for today’s musing. I’ve got to let it pee.

Home

Like a river that don’t know where it’s going
I took a wrong turn and I just kept going

Bruce really summed up my approach to living well with that line. Dianne Reel Fuller and I went to see him together when we were in Seminary. She was also a member of the congregation that I was inexplicably put in charge of. Later she was also the very first person that I hired at Union Mission.

I remember the audience went nuts when the E Street Band launched into “Hungry Heart” and Lady Di and I danced in the aisle with thousands of others.

I was living in the gritty inner city of Louisville, Kentucky surrounded by homeless people, prostitutes, and poor little old ladies who had just one leg up on their poverty. And the poverty went on for blocks and blocks for as far as I could see when I stood on the roof of the Church building that housed us all.

Hungry Hearts indeed!

Daily I’d drive to the beautifully kept campus of the Seminary to be indoctrinated on the Baptist brand of faith which minimized “those kinds of people.” So because it was those kinds of people who were “my people” I took it upon myself to represent them in class which of course got me in trouble with the professors.

I was forever being summoned to the Dean’s office for being “confrontational in class” and I was instructed to absorb the knowledge of the esteemed mostly white men with suits and swirl top hair cuts from Dairy Queen.

But back in the inner city the Hungry Hearts kept coming and the tiny broken down church grew and drew the attention of the Baptist corporate offices and the secular press. And I was introduced to media management which wasn’t taught in Seminary.

And we got a lot of it!

Which really didn’t sit well with the esteemed mostly old white men of the seminary. I was getting more press than they were and I was saying things that weren’t particularly Baptist.

I took a wrong turn and I just kept going.

Now I look back on those days with pride and satisfaction. I am certain that my name has been “blotted from the Book of Life” at the seminary and it makes me kind of proud.

But what I remember is the satisfaction and happiness of those homeless men, hookers, little old ladies, and increasingly other students of the Seminary who were not satisfied with what they were being taught and how “everybody found a home.”

Everybody needs a place to rest
Everybody wants to have a home
Don’t make no difference what nobody says
Everybody wants to have a home

For eight years in Louisville I found one that I am still proud of and it fills my heart. And there are old press clipping to remind me that it all happened that way.

Disconnected

My I-phone died yesterday.

Maybe it was because it poured rain most of the day and Conner, Hania and I were running through it in Philipsburg the Capital of the Dutch side of the island. Of course I was using it in the rain. Then we got back to my tiny studio and I was reading a long message from a friend asking questions about my writing when it just went dead.

At about that same moment, it stopped raining and the sun came out. I think that I heard a choir of angels. Maybe.

Everyone who knows me knows that I am wed to the thing constantly whipping it off my hip and letting my fingers fly. At Bored meetings Johnny O and Trolley Joe are forever rolling their eyes at me when I do this. They tell one another that Micheal is “sex-ting” again.

Once Conner took it away from me and put it in the freezer handing me a beer at the same time. He put his arm around my shoulder and took me to the beach to get away from it.

My son Jeremy once said, “Jesus Dad you use that thing more than anybody. No wonder you’re always having to charge it!”

Now God has intervened and struck it dead.

I tried to raise it from the dead last night but charging it through the evening but, alas I evidently am not Christ like enough and it is still as dead as a door nail. I stare at it in disbelief.

What in the world am I going to do? Even Conner seems sympathetic.

But the Tropical Storm has passed and the sun is shinning and there are all of these hummingbirds and butterflies whisking around me. The waves are breaking softly on the reef. The weather is warm.

I suppose on the one hand that I am disconnected. On the other hand I’m standing here with my feet in the aqua-blue-green warm water and feel very much alive.

I suppose that God made the decision for me.

Tropical Storms

A Tropical Storm blew over St. Martin last night and it has been steadily raining since. During the night the Trade Winds were up and water pounded the metal roof of the tiny studio that I am in. There was nothing much to do except go to bed and listen to the roaring sounds that were passing by. And there isn’t much to do yet aside from stay in bed listening to it drip onto the lush tropical foliage.

“And here I am just waiting on this storm to pass me by...” by Michael Franti and Spearhead, “and that’s the sound of sunshine coming down.”

It’s all at how you look at things I suppose, opting to feel good about whatever situation you happen to be in because feeling bad about it just makes things worse.

So what that it’s raining? It’s warm here and I hate the cold anyway. Friends are nearby and there is no doubt that some adventure will find us today as they have a tendency to do in the Caribbean.

Yesterday we repeated a great moment in Team Mike history by returning to Nathalie and getting waxed. She just laughed and of course Conner and Hania were doubled up as I flipped and jerked on the table like a fish on the sand.

Then Nathalie grew even more torturous than she had previously been by introducing a pair of tweezers to the experience. I know completely understand violence and have never wanted to hit a woman so bad in my life.

I did have my opportunity to get Conner back when it was his turn. As the bitch Nathalie spread hot wax on his back I poured a glass of cold wine on his butt. It caused quite the reaction!

The first time that we encountered the evil Nathalie was this past June on another rainy day. We got bored and started daring one another to do things and, well one thing led to another and that was how a great moment in Team Mike history was born.

And then I wrote about it there was quite a reaction. Most people laughed and asked, “You did not!” or “Oh My God!” Several were upset because you’re not supposed to write about such things. What’s wrong with good friends having fun and then talking about it?

I’ve always tried to live life honestly and try to be pretty transparent about it all. I do my best tell the truth because lies just make everything worse. I do my best to enjoy myself and encourage others to do the same. I am a hopeless romantic and know it. I believe that good always will trump evil even if it sometimes takes a while. I’m an eternal optimist who is also a realist. I do my best to sense the holiness that surrounds me and acknowledge it when I see it.

As I’ve said many times before I like to create … be it blogs or books or programs to help people or friendships. My friend Tina recently sent me a quote by John O’Donahue, the Celtic Christian poet and philosopher. The gist of it was in order to create you have to do things that you don’t normally do. You have to step away from the routines, the rules and the traditions. You have to have the desire for something new.

So those are the rules of my living I guess. Now I wait on new fun and new stories to come my way today. And here I am just waiting on this storm to pass me be.