Walmart

“Does anyone know what this key is for?” Val asks holding a key in her hand.

“I believe that it’s used to unlock a door,’ Ryan responds.

Val sticks her finger in his sandwich and I roll my eyes.

Such is the incredible wittiness of the Breakfast Club early in the mornings.

A set of arms slide around me from behind and I already know that it is Nance giving me my morning hug. I squeeze her arms back.

Nance has the all-time greatest “50 Ways to leave your lover” story ever! She was in a rotten relationship and depended on the guy at that time in her life. She wanted to flee but didn’t know how she would be able to do it. She had no money. One day she visited all of the military recruiting offices and asked which could get her out of town the quickest. It was the Army. So she enlisted and two days left the guy a note.

“See Ya! Love Nance!”

And the world became a safer place because Nance was in the Army.

“What are you doing today?” she asks me.

“I gotta go to Walmart,” I sigh.

“Ouch!” she winces.

Living on Tybee Island there is this condition called “Tybeeidous” which is a dreadful fear of crossing the Lazaretto Creek Bridge which is how one gets on or off the island. I’ve come down with a serious case.

I was going to go to Walmart yesterday but my friend Mandy Salyes wrote and told me “Nooooooo!” That was all I needed so I stayed home and have dreams of beautiful girls with aqua colored eyes. Goddess and I grilled steaks on the beloved back deck and the ocean sang us her song as background music. It was a very good day!

I’ve got nothing against Walmart other than hating the place.

I do like the “People of Walmart” web page showing terrific photographs of …people at Walmart! Regardless of what kind of shape you’re in or if your self-esteem is low spending a little time surfing “People of Walmart” makes you feel great about yourself! I often use this in counseling sessions when people are feeling bad about their lives. They thank me profusely and become repeat customers.

Nance gives me another hug. “Hey can you pick up a couple of things for me?” she asks.

I reply by using a verb and pronoun. The pronoun was “me”.

Leaving the Club with Nance’s list in my pocket I drive home to take Goddess for her walk. Now Goddess has these golden sad girl eyes and when she wants to, she can pout. When I got home she was pouting. I knew why. The other day I worked all day and into the night and Goddess didn’t get her walk. Then yesterday I did it again save for a mid-afternoon break to …well, honestly …take a nap and dream of aforementioned aqua eyed girls.

So I tried to make to it up to Goddess with steaks on the grill. She liked them well enough but then she demanded butt rubs late into the night. When Goddess demands butt rubs we’re talking serious work. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing when she wants one… her butt is in your face …literally! So that is what I did for a couple of hours before going to bed last night. My fingers still hurt this morning.

When I opened the door she laid there pouting giving me the sad eyes. “Goddess,” I chide, “I want to be into aqua eyes! Like my beaches!”

She makes her eyes sadder and then sighs heavily.

I use aforementioned verb and pronoun again.

So I’ve got her leash in my hand and she is jumping up and down in gleeful bliss. Walmart is looking doubtful. I don’t know what I’m going to tell Nance but I’ve got all day to think of something.

Suggestions are welcomed.

Now … what did I do with the suntan lotion?

The Nightly Visitor

When I decided to throw caution to the wind and make a major investment in myself after three decades of investing in most everybody else I set a timeline. I was with Conner in St. Martin and we talked about it sitting on the patio of his studio then decided that when fall rolled around it would be time for me to do stuff again.

My whole life had become this series of deadlines so I was used to them. The work I did required juggling multiple deadlines while also managing hundreds of employees and a thousand people needing services all at the same time. Every day was deadlines with major obstacles in front of meeting them.

Then fall came I realized that I wasn’t ready so I set another deadline. My days were filled with writing, reflecting, healing and learning to move without it being at break neck pace. Obstacles got in the way of this too as a company in Atlanta called wanting to me to help them do things better. So I did but the major emphasis remained on me.

Then there were these commitments to the Street Medicine movement, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and several people across the country who wanted my help on this or that. Then it was New Year’s and I learned that it is not a good idea to be out of the country with an expired passport.

I happily did these things and they provided income to finance this investment in myself, I mostly took Goddess for long meandering walks, doubled the amount of time that I spend sitting at the Breakfast Club Counter, attended most every Bored meeting, studied the marsh from Shirley’s sad little holy dock and watch Fran rise from the dead every day in her thousand shades of green.

Then sometime in mid-January it came in the middle of the night when I would lie awake staring out of the six windows I can see through from my bed. Staring at the silhouettes of Palm Trees with the moon shining on them, I was suddenly restless.

“What are you doing?” I’d ask myself in the dark and I’d lay there for a while pondering it all till I rolled over and told myself “Ssshhhuuu!” and fall back asleep.

But it became a nightly visitor.

So yesterday was bit of a shock! It was like old times. At 7:30 in the morning I was firing emails as through out of a machine gun. I was working the phones by 9:00 and had scheduled calls at noon and at 2:00 with employment opportunities to consider. Goddess didn’t get her walk.

Then Rebekah showed and we worked into the night until a friend showed telling us to break it up. So we did and I relaxed for first time all day. I hadn’t done that in months.

Yesterday my friend Guy Salyes wrote a blog titled “Instead of worry” where he says that “fear is faith’s adversary.” I’ve always loved Guy though he is the one responsible for me going to Seminary and I think I’ve forgiven him but am not sure. He’s the best writer I know and his words yesterday stuck to me like peanut butter.

Over the past several months I’ve witnessed something that I knew intellectually but not personally. Tybee Island is place of haves who live along side have-nots. The rich co-exist with the poor in tight quarters. They often drink together, sleep together, and pretend that they don’t know one another in certain situations.

I’ve had time to focus on both sets of friends and realized something at a much deeper level than ever before. My waitress friends struggle on a day to day basis just to survive here. They pay their bills in cash, grab fun the moment it presents itself because they know it won’t last and are always searching for a cheaper place to live. They have no idea how long it will last other than …today.

My other friends worry too but about different things. Wives who won’t get out bed because of depression, sons who are addicts, daughters who are victims, and …a deep thirst to chase fun like waitresses. They are burdened by what they do and long for a day other than the one they have.

Then, as ministers are prone to do, Guy quotes Jesus. “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? . . . Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today”

I haven’t thought about these words in a long time. Perhaps since Seminary! But they resonated yesterday and Jesus was raised from the dead like Fran.

And I think that Jesus would be closer to the waitresses.

The sun is shining on the beloved back deck and Goddess snores at my feet. I’m supposed to go to Wall Mart which is 15 a minute drive off the island but it may as well be San Francisco.

Fran is dancing in the leaves laughing at me. “Don’t do it Mike,” I hear her say. “You gave yourself away yesterday. Today is for you.”

Then this rustle of wind shakes the thousand shades of green. And I have to go now. Fran is asking me to dance.

Shut Up

It was 1985 in Dallas Texas and the day before I had given a speech to the annual meeting of the Women’s Missionary Union of the Southern Baptist Convention. Dr. Russell Bennett was my boss in those days and we became friends playing racket ball together. He was a terrible racket ball player but he was the boss.

I was the 28 year old Professional Christian in charge of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky. Over the past few years the broken down little congregation had taken off. It was this funky mixture of little old ladies, homeless people, kids from the Projects and radical seminarians. We were forever doing crazy things that most churches would never do … like turning Sunday School rooms into apartments and letting homeless people live in them.

We ended up getting a lot of publicity and then the Baptists sent people to do magazine articles and videos of us and such. Then some of the homeless people started getting famous too. Chester, an old homeless guy and babysitter of my children, did this video showing them where he used to live in garbage dump and then sitting on the bed of his Sunday School room turned into an apartment.

Kristen used that tape a few years so that she could record “Dirty Dancing” on top of it. I could have killed her! She could have taped Monty Python over but “Dirty Dancing”? Jesus.

Anyway I got invited to be one of the speakers at the annual convention of Baptists. In those days the fundamentalists had started a hostile takeover of perfectly good religion. But they were fundamentalist so there is no talking to them. Once they make up their minds and convince themselves that God told them to do it, they’re pretty much out of control. Like terrorists.

So Russell called me and asked me what I was wearing to give this speech in Dallas in front of a few thousand people. It was a good question. I was a pioneer in the “Kroger” look…like a bag boy. There were bag ladies in those days so I was a bag boy in solidarity with them…long sleeve button down shirt, sock tie and blue jeans. I was styling.

Jeff Street had a clothes closet that Grace Nickens kept organized and it was full of suits. You’d be surprised how many suits are donated to homeless shelters as though dressing them for success means everything. I told Russell I’d find a suit in the clothes closet.

The next day he kidnapped me and took to a better part of Louisville where there are these people called tailors. Who knew? So while I cussed, kicked and screamed, Russell made me be fitted for a new suit. It was the first time that I’d ever been felt up by a guy.

Russell was an important man so he kept looking at his watch. He had places to be. People to see! So after the measurements were taken and the suit was being made for my speech, he gave me money to pick out the shoes to go with the suit and he left.

I used to the money to buy an ear ring. Damn Baptists telling me what to do!

But it all worked out fine. I showed up in Dallas in a three piece suit with an ear ring. I got shoes from the clothes closet. And I ended up giving a hell of a speech! I mostly talked about Chester and how cool he was, how the fundamentalists were really ruining things and that Jesus would rather everybody hang around Chester that fight about religion.

When you give a speech in front of a few thousand the lights are blinding. I could only make out people in the first couple of rows. And I kept getting standing ovations. And there was this one woman. She was older but a proud Baptist lady. Whenever the applause came she was the only one I could see but I can see her to this day …frosted hair piled on top of her head, beige dress with matching beige purse clapping and smiling. I love that woman because she represented …God’s affirmation of craziness!

The next day was the Southern Baptist Convention and I was on a roll. Charles Stanley was in charge though I can’t recall if was President or conducting his own terrorist activities. So he was saying something that excluded the poor and I felt that I needed to say something.

I stood in line and then had my chance and …while the details are fuzzy now…I may have started giving my speech again. I was good though. I wanted to sit down and notes on myself.

Then somebody standing in line next to me, I think it was Bert Breland who was Pastor of some other church in Louisville, said, “Micheal, he just told you to shut up. You should probably shut up.”
I turned and said into microphone, “Really? He told me to shut up?” It made me feel good!

But you know how Baptists are. Somebody else had grabbed the microphone and was making this suggestion for a by-laws change to the Bible. He wanted it say “Jesus called us to count his sheep …not to feed them.”

He did have a nice suit on though.

So that was that. You can’t make stuff up.

And if you don’t believe me, “Shhhhhuuuuu!”

Bike Week(s) Begins

Whitley’s bicycle got really drunk yesterday! The first drunken bicycle of the season! And it should come as no surprise that it was Whitley’s.

It’s already old news as the moment it happened there was video footage and photographs all over the Internet.

I am proud to say that my bicycle, sober for many weeks now, stayed home studying a Sunday School lesson …or something like that. My bike is fit with bright blue paint, firm tires, and a seat cushion that fits just right. She does have a scar from back in her drinking days and a cup holder is busted from an unfortunate fall when she was hanging out with Whitley’s bike last fall. But I am very proud of her and she looks good.

Whitley’s bike however has not hold up so well. It spends more time lying on the ground that upright, is bloated and oversized, and couldn’t drive straight if its life depended on it. I think Whitley’s bicycle is bi-sexual. As a matter of fact Whitley is forever locking his bike up to keep it from running back to the bars on Tybee.

But no one expected this! It’s still February for Christ’s sake. Nothing happens in February which is why Hallmark invented Valentine’s Day.

I suppose there is basketball season but it is pretty boring stuff. In the pro’s they should just spot both teams 100 points, let them play for two minutes and then the games over. It would save a couple of hours of boring watching. At least in college they do shots of the cheerleaders but you still have to sit through a lot of basketball to see girls thrown in the air or jumping down from some dude’s shoulder. Some people claim its better in March.

I was busy yesterday doing the Lord’s work like I do every day. It was a beautiful day. Eighty degrees and girls in bikinis were everywhere. They kept bumping into me as I carried on my Chaplain functions. Around 3 o’clock I was tired and needed a break. After all just praying for all of the people who live here is time consuming enough but then you add all of the laying on hands I have to do and it is downright exhausting!

Roma, who is not dead, has been after me for months to attend the Sunday afternoon Oyster roast at Marlin Monroe’s owned by my friend Jenny Orr. So I drove down there for a much needed break. Sure enough Roma was holding center court taking people’s money for a kid’s fishing tournament. If you win the raffle you get a basket of cheer … meaning a bunch of kids smelling like fish.

As I walked up I witnessed Roma force Whitley to pry his wallet open. This is no small task as Whitley is one of the cheapest people I’ve ever met. It out Republicans Republicans! He’s worse that Mallory! Anyway Roma needed Ester, O Judy and Francis’ help to hold Whitley down so that he could contribute $10 to the kids and fish.

As soon as they let him up he ran for me. I sighed. The Chaplain was back on duty. The Lord’s work is never done.

The first thing that I did was ask Whitley about his bicycle. I’ve been around a long time and know where to start. Of course Whitley had no idea. He’d been busy being Santa Claus at the Oyster roast having selected customer sit in his lap and tell him what they wanted for Christmas.

I sighed again. This was going to be a full day.

So we went looking for his bicycle.

Meaning I went looking for it. Whitley was still full of the Christmas spirit and who could blame him? Girls in bikinis were everywhere, the crowd was a crazy eclectic collection of crazies and Roma had taken all of his money.

So I bounced back between looking for Whitley and then for his bicycle. After much prayer and soul searching I brought them both together. It was kind of like that scene in the movie “Moses” with Charleston Heston when the Red Sea is un-parted and drowns all of those Egyptians. Whitley and his bicycle fell into one another.

“I can’t take him home,” Whitley told me full of frustration and disappointment at his bicycle.

“It’s only three blocks,” I said.

“Look at it,” Whitley pleaded.

I sighed. A Chaplains work is never done.

So we went to my car and Whitley did the knobby knee weight lift dance to put his drunken ass bicycle in the back of my car and I drove them home. Except Johnny O, smelling a story because he used to be in the media, called me. I drove by his house and Johnny O snapped the picture. It was instant World Wide news… right up there with Charlie Sheen.

I let them out of the car doing 35 miles per hour by Whitley’s house and then went home. My bicycle was sober, clean, smelled fresh and quoted me several Bible verses from the Song of Solomon. I hugged her tightly and told her how proud I am of her. Then I lectured her a little bit.

Whitley’s bicycle has already gotten drunk! Bike week has begun. It will last until November.

Light

The sun is a gray muted ball lying behind a blanket of fog which also is covering the marsh and most of the street. The air is damp and sticks to my bare legs. At least it’s warm and the cold winds of yesterday are somebody else’s problem. I bend and do some squats before sprinting away. As is my custom I turn to wave to Goddess who is staring at me from her perch upstairs. She’ll continue to watch until I return.

The fog breaks just enough for me to see about ten feet in front of me and I can feel it close behind me. High Powered Rock and Roll is blasting in my ears in contrast to the ambiance and Manfred Mann is telling me about “Princess cards and bar room eyes that shine vacancy.

It fits my mood.

My mind starts to drift like it does during every run. A stream of consciousness projects one image after another on the screen in my head. Fog has been my life for the better part of a year.

When I hit soft sand of the beach I remember the Polar Bear Plunge a few years ago. On New Year’s Day on Tybee a crowd of us gather to sober up in the cold waters of January. A lot of people wear costumes. There were two women the last time that I did it who wore their wedding dresses. I thought that was a great way to put the past behind you.

Immediately after laughing at them, Justin from Breakfast Club showed wearing mesh black panties and a Chef’s hat. It was not a pretty sight. When he saw me he burst into a full run and tackled me throwing me into the sand landing on top of me. It really wasn’t a pretty sight as wallowed like a pig with me underneath!!!

He was pretty wasted so as my friends tried to get him off he would go limp like a child. The whole time he was spitting in my ear, “I love you Rev. I love you Rev.”

It was disgusting.

Finally my friends got him off of me. (Well, not Johnny O! He was taking pictures which are now posted on his Face Book page.)

I hit the shore of the mouth of the Back River on the south end of Tybee which is my favorite part of the beach. I slow down to enjoy the views of Little Tybee, where the ocean flows into a river, the sand bars at low tide covered with seagulls, and the ocean itself which is flat and calm this morning.

Peter, Paul and Mary are now telling me how they’d rather be in love. I nod and agree.

In the distance, I see a massive beam of white light burst through the fog sprinkling the ocean with diamonds. Ahead on the beach another streak of sunshine throws off its blanket and gray sand is immediately transformed into white. These things are in the distance as the fog holds on to me.

Lines from messages that I’ve gotten over the last couple of days run through my mind as the sweat starts to pour down my face. “You’re writing has gotten lighter.”

“You’re coming out of the cave.”

“I cannot tell you how much seeing and hearing you happy thrills me … you have that a lot lately … your voice … your face …your eyes.”

“I really want you to think of you …sometimes we all take you for granted … laying our shit on you and not thinking that you need a shoulder.”

Uncle Cracker is helping me to smile and when I do the fog is burned away and the eye of God blazes at me like the sun.

Goddess greets me and I grab the Gator Aid and her leash. We walk to Shirley’s sad little holy dock and review the marsh for the first time as it stands naked in front of us. Below the sea of brown dead marsh I can see the green of the marsh that is to come. Fran is getting ready to dance. New is coming not as an adjective but as a noun.

I hold up the last of the Gator Aid and have Communion by myself with God.

Then Goddess and I walk home and I baptize myself in the holiness of the outdoor shower.

And God’s grin is brilliant like a thousand suns.

Beach Bum

“You look like a beach bum!” John Tatum exclaimed when he saw me in the lobby of Hunter, McClean, Exley & Dunn, Savannah’s largest and most prestigious law firm.

“Thanks,” I said catching the compliment in typical beach bum fashion.

I suppose that I do. My hair is longer than it’s been in while and I have to slick it back giving me the Don Henley “Boys of Summer” look. I’m also pretty tanned for winter because my house blocks winds from the west so the beloved back deck always me to sit there. A black tee shirt, jeans and tennis shoes with no socks complete the ensemble.

He was wearing a suit of course. Everybody there was wearing a suit. When did women get suits? I mean I understand pant suits (my Mom blazed that trail) but these ladies wore guy suits…with a tie?

I threw up a little.

So we went to the corporate office conference room where I used to wear suits and we talked. Have you ever noticed that when you go to lawyer’s offices it is rarely, if ever, for good news? Typically it’s bad. I told John several months ago that I would never have another meeting at his office because they had all been bad news meetings.

But…I’ve been a full time beach bum for months now and that changes your perception on most everything. I didn’t mind being there. I was on my terms. He had no idea why we were meeting. I was laid back and causal which are requirements to be a beach bum.

Riding the elevator up to the corporate office conference room he told me that he is going to Jamaica soon and that he’d never been.

“You’ll love it,” I told him. Bob Marley is a rite of passage for beach bums.

We talked for an hour and then it was time for the elevator ride down. “You know Micheal,” he said in parting, “I’ve got a couple of cases to finish then I’m taking a Sabbatical. I learned that from you.”

“Damn,” I thought to myself. “I wish that I’d learned that from me.” Then we hugged and I went my way and he went his.

Except after court he’s heading to Jamaica. And I’m not though there is always the possibility that I could head to court. I was jealous.

Jack Boylston was my next door neighbor when I moved to Tybee Island all of those years ago. One day he asked if I wanted to play soft ball for the “Bums”.

“Just for fun,” he explained, “we don’t take anything serious.”

The first game Batman and Jim Green showed up wearing ski masks. It was June and a hundred degrees outside. The “Bums” bench had coolers of beer and cheerleaders. Batman and Jim Green fainted in the second inning while playing first and second base…kind of at the same time. This was my introduction.

Then it became a quest.

Then there was this parade.

So I’ve done a lot of stuff in life. I’ve been around the world (well, not Asia though Bill Berry … not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one …keeps trying to talk me into it). I’ve busted through glass ceilings, danced on grand stages, made out in cemeteries, written books and had Rev. Charles Stanley tell me to “Shut up” in front of several thousand people.

But none of that compares to being a beach bum. It is …causal in the holist sense of the word. Worship involves the sun in ways that churches never consider. Community takes on deeper meanings. We wear our beliefs on our shoulders…which are tanned. We look good. We laugh a lot. Music is everywhere.

My phone rings. Bare feet glide across tile floors to answer it. The sliding glass doors are open and the breeze from the ocean is brisk. Fran’s thousand shades of green dance in delight. I grab the phone and walk onto the beloved back deck which is bathed in sunshine.

“What up?” I say.

After a moment of silence this woman with a nice voice tries to convince me to come to a resort that I’d been to several years ago. She suddenly stops in mid-sentence.

“Are those birds singing?” she asks.

I listen. Multiple choirs of birds are all competing to see who can sing the loudest.

“They are,” I reply.

Another moment of silence before she says, “I hate you.”

I smile and hang up.

I love me. And I love …here.

What I Miss

It was a glorious spring day in downtown Savannah and I was reminded again just how beautiful the city is. Moss draped massive Oak Trees and the sun shining through them so beams fell upon the children playing in the park. The weather was a pleasant 70 degrees and it seemed as though everyone was smiling.

I’ve made a handful of trips to Savannah over the past seven months but yesterday required an entire day. My friend and Union Mission Board of Directors Chairman John Tatum and I met for a long conversation, followed with my friend and accountant Carlton Hodges… then a delightful lunch with my dear friend Stacy Jennings of the Savannah Morning News.

At one point I was making my way through Forsyth Park and ducked into the café there for a drink. As I was leaving I heard my name yelled loudly, “MIKE!”

Turning around I saw the bright white happy smile on the dark black man. He ran across the room and we shook hands. Then he stepped back, looked at me still grinning and through his arms around me.

“I’m sorry,” he said loudly in my ear, “Rev. Elliott. We miss you!”

He stepped back still grinning. Over his shoulder I spotted his homeless friends who were seated at an outdoor table nursing their coffee cups. They could have been drinking coffee. I learned not to trust those first appearances a long time ago. It may have been beer in a coffee cup (Southern Baptist use the same kinds of tricks!). They all saw me looking and waved with grins.

“Hey Dave,” I said patting him on the shoulder. “You look good. You doing good?”

“I promise,” he said with sudden seriousness. “We miss you!” he repeated.

I nodded. “I miss y’all too. I gotta go Dave but there’ll be a visit soon.”

The smile returned to his face and I waved to guys behind him. Then I left.

And the truth of the matter is that I do miss them. I don’t miss much else…some of the people I worked with, people that I used to work with who aren’t at Union Mission anymore, and the challenges of it all. Mostly I miss the people who needed us.

It’s funny now. Homeless people go to the library a lot and while they used to read newspapers or books they now log on to the computers. They create Face Book accounts and send me friend requests. I accept and we carry on virtual conversations. They ask me questions and I give them advice. They also want to know about me. Like Dave they tell me that I’m missed.

A few are quite savvy about technology and have started their own blogs describing what it’s like to be homeless in Savannah and who cares and who doesn’t ( I was going to use different adjectives here but decided to keep it P.G for a former Board Chair who wishes to remain anonymous). It makes for fascinating reading.

Those last two years at Union Mission I was burned out. I did my best but there was nothing else to accomplish professionally and I had little left to give from inside. Keller Deal and I were doing creative stuff and though that was fun nobody around us seemed to get it. Most were thick and stuck in their ways and that is not how creation occurs.

At one point yesterday I reclaimed the Café Expresso as mine. It is a coffee shop on Chippewa Square. That last year at Union Mission I would arrive in Savannah, grab my lap top and Blackberry and start my work day there. I could no longer bear to go straight to the office. Burn out is a bitch (Ooops! Sorry former Board Chair who wishes to remain anonymous!) so I would have more coffee (the Breakfast Club starts it all) and answer emails and phone calls. So yesterday I did it again

Sitting there typing away my friend and Union Mission friend Curtis Faircloth came to me and we caught up with one another. Later Jacques Beauchamp and London Mainor visit for few minutes. They used to sponsor a Masquerade Ball to raise money for our work. It was pleasant being there interacting with the people that I used to interact with.

But the honest truth is that it is my homeless friends that I miss the most. They were forever wandering in and out of my office, stopping me on the street or taping letters to my door. They always got first preference because …well…that’s why we were there. That last year they were the reason that I kept showing up (other than the work Keller Deal and I were doing and the fact that I love a challenge...what’s $2.5 Million? We know how to do that! Hell! We’d just done it!).

Making my way back to the Sabbatical on Tybee Island I was thinking all of these thoughts and they made me smile. I looked up to the eye of God that was blazing at me like the sun and said out loud, “I hope someone there is still getting notes still taped to their door most every morning.” It’s a sign of trust.

Then I returned home away from it all. Goddess loved me like a monkey humper. I spent time with my daughter Kristen. Then I slept like a baby in baby land.

Bars

The first time that it happened is when I was subpoenaed to court.

I walked in having no clue why I was to be there and there were two pews of homeless guys and as soon as I walked in they collectively yelled…

“REV!”

I waved.

They waved.

I was there as a character witness for about a dozen of them.

My life changed in an instant.

It’s my Dad’s fault. He was a bar guy. I’m a bar guy. We did bars. I still do, preferring Pups over restaurants.

The first Dad I did together was the “Captain’s Lounge”. We split a pitcher and talked about my brother David and his soon to be wife Susan. Then we talked about each other. During my High School years Dad and I had a rough time with one another but that night we made peace and toasted one another with frosty mugs. Not enough Fathers and Sons do such things. Every time that I drive by the Captain’s Lounge I think of this.

In Louisville I was forever wandering in and out of bars surrounding the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. This is where I learned public speaking which always leaves you thirsty. One Sunday Ken Sehested, famous radical from Oakhurst Baptist Church in Atlanta, and I discovered that the best beers are the ones downed after delivering the Sunday Sermon. I was hooked after that!

Now I live on Tybee Island where there are 23 places that serve alcohol and four churches. We even have a Bar-Church and when I attend that is where I go! These days I mostly hang out at Fannie-on-the-beach and Bernie’s where Sam Adams and Gordon play good live music.

I was reminded of all of these things last night. It had been a productive day and the most lovely of afternoons. I’d skipped the Bored meeting and, aside from taking Goddess for a walk, had not been outside. Around seven o’clock Goddess was snoring loudly and there was no one to talk with and the talking heads on television were not good company. I decided to take myself out for dinner.

Strolling into Nicki’s a crowd of people turned around and yelled out loud …”REV!”

I smiled and waved back and took a seat at the bar. Rita leaned over and pecked me on the check with a hello and handing me a glass of wine at the same time. About half the room came over to shake my hand and ask how I was doing?

The empty seat beside me was soon occupied by Alan who fishes every morning in the surf. He is long retired from whatever it was he did. On Tybee nobody cares what you did.

“Micheal,” he whispered in my ear with an arm slung over my shoulder, “I’m getting lazy. That’s why you haven’t seen me fishing lately. I’m gonna get un-lazy though because I miss our talks.”

I nodded. Alan moved on and Richard who bends nails for a living when he can find work walked over with a woman. “Rev, this is my sister. I want y’all to meet.”

I shook her hand and we chatted for a few minutes before they moved on.

A hand suddenly rested on my shoulder from behind a voice that sounded like the guy in “Slingbalde” spoke. “Rev,” said Gordon. He smiled broadly and we talked about Bar Church for a minute.

Then I had some time to myself. Propping my feet against the bar and leaning back in my chair, I surveyed the entire room at once. Couples were softly talking while holding hands. Friends were shooting pool and laughing. Several thoughtfully ate their meals. A collection surrounded the juke box choosing the background music.

And I was reminded again why I love it here. When I stood to leave the entire room turned to watch and yelled in union “LATER REV!”

Walking home I could hear the ocean singing its song and my feet were so light it was as though they were bouncing on a fine trampoline.

My Teaching Career

I heard from my friend Phyllis this morning. I first met her when I was teaching a class at Savannah State University, a historical black college. Somehow the administration there lost their collective minds and had me teach a class on “Community Organizing” which is one of the things that I did for a living. Phyllis was one of my students.

The first day of class I strolled in as the lone white person in the room and announced that advocates must make themselves known. As a result I would not be taking roll but if I didn’t know your name by the end of the semester you would fail the class.

The class met twice so it could have been a daunting task for a shy student when there were over twenty people in the class.

Not for Phyllis. She would show up with a name plate on her desk one day and a tiara on her head the next week that spelled it out. Sweatshirts with her name on it and a banner too. She was relentless.

Whenever I called on her she would say “Phyllis here sir,” answer whatever the question was and conclude with “Phyllis reporting sir.”

I learned who she was before anybody else.

It was a good class and naturally I got them in trouble. Telling them that community organizers need money, the assignment was to develop their own fund raising plan and carry out to see how much money they could raise. I offered no help in devising or influencing the plan.

A few Saturdays later, girls in bikinis lined the circle at State holding signs over their heads that read “TOPLESS CAR WASHES.”

A traffic jam quickly ensued with students wanting their cars washed.

And the class responded by taking their money and washing everything except the top of the car.

I gave them all an “A”.

The following Monday I was summoned to the President’s office where my teaching career was quickly in jeopardy.

“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” I remember being told …not for the first time in my life so it was like water on a duck’s back.

At the time State’s dorms were not in the best of shape. The class told me that they wanted to organize against the college to get better dorms.

I love a challenge and this was a great one.

So on WTOC the CBS affiliate that night was a story of students chaining themselves to a dorm in of renovations.

I gave them all an “A”.

The following Monday I was again summoned to the Principal’s …er…I mean President’s office where I was informed that my contract would be renewed.

So a great teaching career came to an end.

But I hired Phyllis at Union Mission.

And pretty much the rest of the class too.

The Gift of this Day

The sun burst out of the ocean blazing like the eye of God! 12th Street was bathed in golden sunshine and Goddess’ yellow coat was electric in luminosity. She didn’t walk as much she danced.

I held my hand up and looked and particles from the golden streets of heaven were showering on me. I could actually see them hitting my arm and the shadows of the dark places were pushed back into the ground behind us. We just stood there for the longest time trying to take it all in.

Choirs of birds were singing hymns in harmony. Squirrels darted around like church ushers chasing collections. The trees which are the pillars of the Cathedral that God built were adorned with white egrets. The brown marsh grass bowed in prayer. The holy waters of baptism rose in celebration of the gift of this day.

Such a day demanded that normal routines be damned so Goddess and I continued the walk along the Back River. Sniffing below at everything and leaping up towards the choirs of birds when they flew by, Goddess was in no hurry. She was enjoying it as much as I was.

Making our way back home I sigh. There is much that I have to do. I’d rather keep walking. But the demands of the world most often eclipse the gifts of God.

When that happens, Caesar takes charge and force poor Joe’s to ride on their ass even with pregnant wives … Taxes are more important and collections mean everything.

Stoning occurs every day in the country’s Capitol or in daily blues that is thrown in the front yard.

Crucifixions are given top honors on the nightly news.

And the world dances in glee when someone is caught with their pants down.

We all live in both worlds at the same time.

Every day we all have to choose where we want to focus our energies.

My dear friends Mary Ann and Mitch are big believers in Celtic Christianity, part of which believes in the dark places where roots take hold, conceptions occur and Saviors rise from the dead.

I appreciate their perspective but … I’m tired of dark.

I’m sick of Caesar … the hypocrisy of judgment … the daily crucifixions that we all get to witness … elected officials who believe they are leaders merely because they’re the only ones willing to run for office…and Fox News.

I’m sick of the dark.

So I ignore the demands of the world and sit on the beloved back deck. Goddess is at my feet snoring. God continues to rain the tiny pieces of heaven down on me. I try to decide what’s more important … managing through the paperwork or enjoying … this.

Ignore all that I feel obligated to do or appreciate what God is giving me?

My I-phone buzzes. It is someone I love who had hard and dark times thrust into life. Stupid shit that had to have been dealt with! She’s tired and I ache for her. Yet as we chat she tells me this story of laughter. The eye God looks into any situation and reminds us that dark places are always overcome in luminosity.

I hang up and my I-phone buzzes again.

There is a blizzard in Pittsburg. Most of the work that I have to do today involves that place. “Hundreds of commuters are inching through it while the business of Pittsburgh is conducted on cell phones,” is how friend Jim Withers put it.

Looking up, a blanket of clouds has covered the sun.

The winds of Caesar blow through the Palm Trees.

I rub Goddess.

Today is this incredible gift from God. I think that I’m going to spend it with her.

And the eye of God bursts through the clouds blazing at us like the sun.

Salty Saints

Sitting in the one room log cabin hidden behind the giant fence of bamboo, Will D. Campbell spit tobacco juice into the spittoon. I was sitting across from him wearing blue jeans, a flannel shirt and cowboy boots. He was dressed like a Puritan, all in black including a felt hat. Large glasses rested on top of his large nose. We were talking about church and I’d just asked him if he attended when he spit before answering.

“You mean to those Steeple things?” he replied.

I laughed. Will is one of the most interesting people that I’ve ever met. He is famously many things. He is a graduate of Yale Divinity School; worked closely with Martin Luther King, Jr., with the World Council of Churches, and as Chaplain to the Klu Klux Klan after Martin was assassinated (he was trying to love his enemies).

He then quit all of this and wrote a book, “Brother to a Dragonfly” about his experiences and theology, and it was a National Book Award finalist. He kept writing books and giving speeches and became a minor prophet of the Southern Baptist (who have produced only one major prophet --- Clarence Jordan).

And he hung around cool people like Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Tom T. Hall. They gathered together most weekends to play music and talk. Will was their Chaplain.

We’d met several months earlier through a mutual friend and Will had made the trek to Louisville, Kentucky and we made the Seminary folks mad by not telling them. He spoke at Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was employed as a professional Christian (getting paid to do what I asked others to do for free).

He showed up with a guitar dressed like a Puritan and stared his sermon by singing “Red Neck, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer.” Then he sat down and talked about people being church to each other and that buildings are not required. Every radical Seminarian and a lot of homeless people were howling in the audience.

The Seminary paid good money to have him come do the same thing several weeks later though they remained miffed at me (I seemed to always be in trouble there).

So I’d made the trek to Mt. Juliet Tennessee because my first book was about to be published and I was asking the famous author if he would write the preface. He did and his name is bigger on the cover of “The Society of Salty Saints” than mine. It ended up being a very successful book telling the story of a rag tag congregation comprised of homeless people, addicts, hookers and radical seminarians.

After that Will called me one time and asked if I’d ever heard of “The Committee of Southern Churchmen”? Of course, I was a radical seminarian! It was a group of seven different clergy from seven different brands of faith who tried to influence things, especially during the Civil Rights Movement.

“Good,” Will said “then call this number collect and ask them to accept the charges.”

“OK,” I said, because it was Will D. freekin Campbell.

So I dialed and asked the operator who asked whoever answered the phone if they would accept the charges for a collect call from Micheal Elliott.

There was a long pause, a snort, a loud burp, the sound of ice in a glass and then a man’s voice said, “Yes.”

Then he hung up.

I called Will back and told him. “That’s Great!” he said, “You’re in!” Then he hung up.

So I tell you all of that to tell you this.

I’m sitting on my beloved back deck remembering these things. Salt from the ocean hangs in the air. My feet are bare and I’m seriously considering finding a hula-hoop today because that is the kind of thing that people who live on Tybee Island do.

At Bar-Church a couple of weeks ago, my friend Johnny O, who is one of the greatest heathens ever to preach was preaching. The Church takes place in a bar that is somehow converted into a church for an hour. There is no Steeple. At the end of his remarks Johnny O said something like “Don’t let anybody tell that this isn’t a real church. It is! And those people are full of crap.”

Johnny O channeled Will. D. Campbell.

Who knew?

So Harry Chapin’s “All My Life’s A Circle” is playing on Pandora on my I-Phone. And I sit here with my feet propped on the deck and find myself nodding. I started with Salty Saints in Louisville. It was a different brand of salt, trying to preserve things and such.

Now it’s salt that sticks to your skin and works its way into your veins.

But it’s the people regardless of the kind of salt. Most all are Saints who do church in the oddest of ways and in the strangest of places. And you can’t help but love them. As you feel loved.

The Girlfriends

Dedra, Goddess and I were standing on Shirley’s sad little holy dock when Shirley made an epiphany and materialized out of thin air. This is a rare and religious experience because while Shirley has a house around the corner from mine she is rarely seen there. That’s because she runs Tybee Island, United Way, most of Chatham County and is now expanding into Effingham County, Georgia.

The four of us stood there talking and laughing surrounded by brown marsh grass, a waning tide, brilliant blue sky and a bright yellow sun. I wore running shorts with a tee shirt and had no shoes on my feet. Dedra and Shirley were dressed as though they were preparing to go to Iceland. Goddess of course was wearing her fur coat.

Anyway Shirley gave us a message from on high that “The Girlfriends” were singing at Doc’s Bar and we should come. Then Shirley disappeared into thin air and was gone as suddenly as she had appeared.

If Shirley tells you to do something you’re pretty much doomed that it’s going to happen because she runs most everything anyway.

Doc’s is Tybee’s oldest bar. Sitting in the middle of Tybrisa Street, which used to be 16th Street and is preceded by 15th Street and followed by 17th Street, but for some reason Shirley decided it should be named Tybrisa.

And so it came to pass.

Doc’s is a dump with a bumper pool table and a bar. So it is one of the most popular places on the island. There are many famous stories about Doc’s but my favorite was the last time that a Hurricane was blowing towards Tybee. The island was evacuated but Doc’s decided it was the perfect time for a party…a hurricane party. So a bunch gathered and nailed the door shut from the inside. Then they raided the bar and got collectively wasted.

Shirley must have been a part of the hurricane party and decided that she really didn’t want a hurricane to come to Tybee so at the last moment it changed course and slammed into Charleston, South Carolina.

So last night Dedra and I strolled down 16 …er…I mean Tybrisa Street (Now I have to say three Hail Shirley’s) into a very packed Doc’s. We grabbed air space next to the bumper pool table.

The Girlfriends is a singing group comprised of Sandy (rumored to be the sister of Shirley though surely she is illegitimate), Susan and Jamie. Barri runs the sound system (Barri and I have lived together twice but that’s another story). Wearing pink shirts, black everything else with bobby socks and saddle oxfords, they sing songs from the 1940s into the 1960’s meaning that Sandy, Susan and Jamie haven’t learned anything since that time period.

Nevertheless they are quite entertaining. At some point Shirley made another epiphany and materialized on the dance floor. How could I not take advantage of this opportunity? Having never danced with a Deity I leaped onto the floor, grabbed her by the hand and said, “Keep your back straight and don’t let go.” And we whirled and twirled around smiling and laughing.

As soon as the dance was over though Shirley returned to heaven or wherever it is she spends most of her time.

The Girlfriends continued to bring the house down. People were smiling and laughing and clapping.

And I leaned against Dedra and thought to myself. “Another Saturday night” but …for the moment …I have somebody. It was a sweet feeling as though I had run in from crazed business and a driven life to have someone reach in and fix my windblown hair.

Then it was over. Shirley was gone so there was no reason to hang around anymore. When she left the energy was sucked out of “The Girlfriends” and Sandy, Shirley’s illegitimate sister, could no longer sing.

So Dee and I left. Through I thought I heard them nailing the door shut…from the inside.

The Circle of Friends

I’ve always been blessed with a lot of friends. My morning starts surrounded by them at the Breakfast Club where we all somehow take care of one another while having coffee. Most are working, others of us are watching but all of us are engaged with each other. There are hugs, lays, pats on the shoulder and quiet contemplative moments where we all stare into the vastness of the universe.

It progresses to the Bored Meeting in front of Fannies-On-the-Beach and we toast the ocean, life on the island, Roma’s increasing age, and how funny tourists can be. At the same time when one of us is having a difficult time the rest are there supporting, listening, encouraging or saying “You really are full of it” when we really are and don’t realize it.

Then there is Goddess. Forever exited when I walk through the door, constantly pushing her butt in my face so that I can let love out, doing funny things to make me laugh when laughing is the last thing that I want to do and sleeping in the doorway to my bedroom protecting me from whatever she thinks is going to come after me in the middle of the night. On walks I talk to her as much as I talk to anybody else and she cocks her head to the side to listen and agrees with most everything that I have to say. Not always! Sometimes she makes me take her out when it’s the last thing that I want to do but she knows I need the exercise.

Then there is the “moving parts” community … this collection of changing friends who congregate at various times for no apparent reason. Last night at Bernie’s there were friends from the Breakfast Club, from the Bored meeting, from my college days, neighbors and this strange couple from Savannah who kept us all entertained.

I am one of the fortunate parents who have children who grew up to be friends with me and one another. Individually and collectively we do all of the things that good friends do and I’ve learned how incredibly fortunate I am in this area.

Sometimes I get messages from people who are going through really difficult times, blaming themselves for things going wrong in the relationships that they are in. Hurting and grieving they remain because they fear what will happen if they leave or they leave because it’s easier for them. Leaving comes natural. Friends come and go in their lives. I don’t understand these people so I mostly listen and wonder how they do it.

There is this wider collection who maintains communication through technology and phone calls. They are from everywhere …literally around the world. I’ve been with them for long periods or short periods but we remain persistent in being part of one another’s lives.

Yesterday my friend Dedra showed up. We were friends in college then we took a thirty year vacation from one another. The miracle of Face Book got us back in touch (along with Mark and Mitch) and we realized that the friendship is as good as it ever was. I loved her then but I love her more now.

We just finished a morning start at the Breakfast Club, a walk with the Goddess and had a long talk in doing so … meaning that I did most of the talking. Dee is a really good listener. She soaks in the words and takes a long time pondering them before speaking. She walks away in the middle of a conversation and writes down all of her points on posted notes, spreading them all over the table so that she can make her points when the discussion resumes.

Then there is this one friend. She’s out there somewhere. “One day,” I tell myself, “we’ll be together and the friendships that I have will be blessed with a best friend.” I don’t know.

I just believe.

But I know that she’s there … painting her kitchen or cleaning up a mess or sleeping late or … whatever.

And one day … the circle of friends will be complete.

Say You Will

The last time I wore cowboy boots I lived in Louisville, Kentucky where a lot of preachers thought they were cowboys. For a little while I fell under their sway and got me a really good looking pair of cowgirl boots because I’ve always been in touch with my feminine side.

“The boy is strange,” I heard someone say. “Ain’t he?”

Anyway while they looked good and I looked good in them I had a terrible time getting them on and off because of calves. As a runner my calves are pretty imposing.

So after about of hour of pull and tug, I walked them over to the dumpster and threw them away. My cowboy days were over. I still have the Cowboy hat though and like to dress Goddess up in it sometime. She has no problem with masculinity.

After that flip flops became my foot ware of choice. That’s not true. Bare feet are my first choice. Then flip flops but only if they’re required. In the winter time its tennis shoes. I have of hiking boots but I haven’t had them on since I was in Europe with Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one).

But I can remember dropping them in dumpster. As soon as my hand let them go and they were still falling, I became someone else in an instant.

This morning while I was running beside a flat almost blue tinted ocean with the sun sprinkling diamonds on it and the sun was a bright yellow warm orb and the sweat came quickly because of the warmth, I remembered dropping those boots.

As always there is music surrounding me and these words were pulsating through my ears.

Something in you put a hold on my heart, hard to believe it now
Here is a place that will never be dark, I remember that place
That kind of touch, electricity of love, that certain kind of grace
That you love because you become someone else in an instant.

Looking back over my life there are those times when I’ve become someone other than who I was. I’ve been a lot of things. A southern child who discovered the Beatles one night listening to the radio in Port Wentworth, Georgia and learned that there is a world.

A timid college freshman, homesick and discovering the world for the first time turned into a student who loved to play and then loved to learn. So when college threw me out with a degree I kept going to school. Then it was Seminary and social work school and then I understood that I could learn by myself and I plowed the mines of books and music and art.

Then I became a father. Then a husband;

A minister; then a single parent and then a husband again;

An author;

Then a recognized President & CEO managing compassion;

The parent of grown children …friends with the people who used wives … a beach bum on Sabbatical.

Who knows what’s next?

Each of these things happened in an instant.

And there is this touch, this kind of electricity, this certain kind of grace … that you love because you become else in an instant.

And it’s good.

There are a lot of people who talk saying they want to be someone other than who they are right not. They no longer care for what they do, who they’re with, how they feel, how they relate to others or how they relate to themselves.

They can see who or what they want to become but lack the gumption to walk to the edge of the cliff, close their eyes smile and jump… believing with ever thing in them that it would be …better.

Looking back over my life, and remembering dropping those boots (which is akin to jumping off a cliff) it’s all gotten better.

Sure there were hard times. Painful times! But it still got better. I got better.

So there are a lot people that I would ask to give themselves permission to become who they are … now. Because if you don’t nobody else will.

Say you will.

The Sunshine Hours

In my book “Running with the Dolphins” I talk about how I carved out this schizophrenic life. On the one hand I was this public figure, relentlessly trying to make Savannah a better place by trying to save people from themselves and ridiculous government policies. I wore a coat and tie, socks and underwear to work every day. It was hard work and I did it for 23 years.

On the other hand, when I wasn’t working I was living on Tybee Island. I sat on the beach, cooler by side, UGA cap on my head and sunglasses on my face. I wore the barest of tan through bathing suits…well …when I wore bathing suits. Beach music played in my hears and worship services consisted of the “Buffet break” Sunday’s at 12;30 on my buddy Jerry Rogers’ radio station. Jerry is also a beach bum.

My days consisted of bouncing back and forth between the two alter egos. I think one of the reasons that I survived the work for so long was because of the escape to the Island.

Since June virtually all of my time is spent on Tybee (though some will argue that I remain schizophrenic!). While I still travel and work every day, the pace is slower and I am often interrupted by Fran’s thousand shades of green, egrets resting in pine trees making them look decorated for Christmas, and the way the sun dances on the ocean. It takes longer to get things done with such distractions.

Yesterday I returned to Savannah to have lunch with my friend Erin Jenkins (who is famously in SOUTH Magazine right now). Strolling down Liberty Street to Soho Café, a trolley bus full of tourist pulled over to the curb and the door opened.

“Welcome back Micheal,” said my friend Trolley Joe was driving the bus and is a charter member of “The Bored” back on Tybee. He deemed it more important to be stop in the middle of the tour he was giving to say Hi. The bus full of tourists stare at me and I’m certain that Trolley Joe told them numerous lies about me as he continued their tour.

Erin and I had a nice lunch and laughed, gossiped and told stories. Walking back to our cars afterwards, a car stopped at a red light and the driver was waiving at me.

“She wants to talk to you,” Erin said.

So I walked into the street and it was Ellen, who I used to work with. “Where have you been?”

“Having fun,” I replied.

Then it was back to Tybee where I hosted a conference call with my bare feet propped on the rail of my beloved back deck. Afterwards I grabbed my lap top and spent the rest of the sunshine hours typing away at the outdoor table on the deck.

The only thing wrong was the music that I was listening to. Some band was crucifying John Lennon with the worst version of “Imagine” ever recorded. It was kind of like “The Cure” combined with “Lou Reed” just to butcher one of the greatest songs ever written.

Then the sun set and I was ready for a break. After taking Goddess for a walk and watching the sun set from Shirley’s sad little holy dock, I hopped in the car to grab some dinner and ended up at Nicki’s where I ran into friends from the Breakfast Club.

I should have immediately fled.

But I didn’t. I crashed their party and learned that my friend Val has mastered the utilization of the following formula” “One verb + One pronoun = One sentence.”

It was fascinating!

So today I’m back into the sunshine hours hoping that it all happens again.

Except for that version of “Imagine”, which suddenly made me believe in violence and the N.R.A.

Oh.

And I’m writing this from the table on the beloved back deck.

No shoes.

No underwear.

Home

The tide is high as Goddess and I stand on the end of Shirley’s sad little holy dock. The water is clear so we can see the marsh grass underneath as it sways in the currents. A light wind blows so flags flutter on top of poles but we do not feel it. All is quite.

I suck in the air and can taste the salt of the sea that mixes with it. The lighthouse is clear and brilliant in the distance. Looking off towards Back River the rising sun creates diamonds on the water and I wish that I’d brought my sunglasses. It is going to be a glorious day!

I am home.

Yesterday I made a last second decision to return to Tybee Island rather than spend more time in Myrtle Beach. This morning I am glad that I did. Though there are meetings and conference calls to participate in, but it is good to do these things here.

Goddess runs off the dock to the thicket where rabbits hide during the summer. She chases marsh hens and egrets that fly away just as she closes in on them. It makes me laugh and then I go chasing after her

We make our way around the block and back to my house. Over the past several months my office has become my kitchen table. My lap top sits on the table and I stare out of the sliding glass doors that lead to the beloved back deck. Fran’s thousand shades of green provide the backdrop and dance in the breeze.

In a few weeks the office will move to the table on the beloved back deck and the need for all of this laundry that I have on will cease. Underwear will become completely optional.

There are trips to finish planning …Boston, Springfield, St. Martin …maybe Pittsburgh …perhaps Princeton… different things that I’m working on. We’ll see how they play out.

Goddess plops with a thud on the tile floor at my feet. She is content.

Opening the emails I stare over the top of the laptop at the sun shining off of the outside table. Fran’s thousand shades of green are on brilliant display.

I shut the computer. This is too holy a moment to ignore everything that is going on around me. Love is returning slowly but surely to this place. I not certain when yet but I know it’s coming. And I know that this house has become a sanctuary and while this Sabbatical begins to wane it’s not over yet.

So for now I celebrate …home.

This One

I was sitting at the kitchen table talking to my best friend with my chin resting on top of my hands which were folded and resting on a cup. The cup held Coke which I rarely drink. It was one of those thoughtful conversations and there was no hurry. We were enjoying the time together which we never seem to have enough of.

“Well, I show my emotions as I have them,” I confessed.

“No?” came the mocking reply.

And it is true that my emotions are never held in check. I allow them to live as they come. Hugs erupt abruptly and I’ll sling my arms around a neck in the second that it demands to be let out. Kisses happen easily. Words flow as they are needed. I am never guarded.

I think that life is better if it’s lived this way. Too often we mean to hug someone or let them know that they’re loved and we never get around to it. Then the moment is gone and it becomes something that we meant to do but didn’t.

This can often become a pattern. And that is how friends are lost or how love dies. We mean to do the things necessary to care for them but somehow we don’t get around to it. Other things seem to be more important. Or we become self-absorbed with something that we deem to be more important. Many times we start to care more about ourselves more than others. The love in our lives is then slowly strangled as though we tie panty hose around our necks and suspend ourselves from the ceiling.

Did I ever take you in my arms, look you in the eye and tell you that I do?
Did I ever open up my heart and let you look inside?
If I never did it, I was only waiting for a better moment that didn’t come.
There could never be a better moment than this one. This one.

So sings Paul McCartney in one of my favorite songs. Years ago I was in a relationship that ended up dying and most of the reason was because everything was taken for granted. Love became a routine and an expectation. Conversations drifted to the most superficial of communications. We stopped helping one another to grow as individuals.

I remember listening to this song and I resolved to never take things for granted again. That if a moment to tell someone I love them presents itself then I’m grabbing it.

If someone obviously needs a hug then I’ll give them one regardless of where we happen to be standing.

If they need an honest and open immediate answer then why should I wait?

Over time, this is increasingly how I’ve chosen to live my life. It startles a lot people because they are guarded with their feelings or emotions, choosing to hold them in check for fear of being rejected or hurt. I don’t think that this allows us to live life to its fullest which is the way that God intends us to live it. So by not taking advantage of the opportunities to express love we reject the life that God gave us.

And you never know how many moments you’re going to get anyway. Especially how many you’re going to have with the people you care about the most! So it’s best to take advantage of them as they come.

Because there is no better moment … than this one.

Valentine's Day

bSipping coffee I watch a pure unobstructed sunrise bubble up from the ocean. Bill Berry (not the former drummer from R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary and around the world with me) is sitting beside me. We are on the eighth floor balcony of a Myrtle Beach hotel. Neither of us speaks as we watch. The birth of a day is a holy thing.

When we do talk, I falter. Emotions seem to be getting the best of me. I go back inside and look for distractions. Turning on my computer I find my favorite radio station in St. Martin in an attempt to flee to another life in a happier place.

Beneath the tide, the fishes glide, fin to fin and side by side.
For fishy love has now begun, fishy love, finny fun.

James Taylor fills my brain with his quirky ode to this day. It is a song full of images. “Paper moon, paper heart, pink balloon, work of art, Al Calpone, Bugs Moran, Valentine’s Day …”

The sunshine now fills the room. Bill has retreated so that I can reel myself in. The song will not leave my head.

“Land your punch, I stand my ground. We break for lunch and have a second round.
We set them up, we knock them down. Valentine’s Day.”

Love is the most powerful and overwhelming of emotions. When it bursts into your life it is all consuming. When making love with the one you love the entire universe is reduced to skin and breath and hair. I suck it inside of myself and it fills my soul. Lightning strikes and the sun rises at the same time! Your senses are completely filled with love.

Then it has this way of settling. And love becomes subtle. Food rubs and lotion, chicken noodle soup, bread, or getting a blanket for the person you love become powerful though simple expressions of what you feel and who you are.

“Oh day to repay the one that you love, Gentlemen take off your hats as I speak thereof.
Just a brief break from the push and shove, we may go a few rounds without boxing gloves.”

Then love can be reduced to token expressions because they are expected. Flowers are bought, dinner reservations made, cards are exchanged and pecks are given to cheeks with quick wishes of “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

And you find yourself pondering what happened to the love? It is reduced to a routine only interrupted when … it is challenged.

By another. By the threat of a partner who no longer wants you. By demands of something more.

“Me and you, you and him, him and her, us and them, we keep score, love as war. Valentine’s Day.”

I think these things as I stare off of this eighth floor balcony at the vastness of the ocean and the brilliance of the sun. I have a lot of love inside of me that I don’t know what to do with. It is as vast as the ocean and as bright as the sun. It is ready to explode out of me but remains captive by … circumstances.

Bill returns to make more coffee. He asks what I’m writing and I try to explain it to him. He just stares at me for a bit as though processing what I’m saying. He has this way of listening where you feel you have every fiber of his being focused on you.

He walks to where I’m sitting and hugs me.

At least you’re with somebody that loves you.

“Yep,” I nod as the emptiness returns.

Billy's Beach

Standing on the end of the dock where my Dad’s ashes will be scatted one day mixed with my Mom’s I felt the arms of love wrapped around me. It was though Mona Lisa herself was smiling at me, bemused with anticipation.

After Dad died and was cremated my brother David said one night, “Mom, we’ve got to follow Dad’s wishes. We’re going to scatter his ashes in the marsh and then throw you on top.”

We’re not too sure about David.

Dutch Island is beautiful but my parent’s house is one of the pinnacles of splendor. The place had everything. A fantastic house that is decorated to look like the finest “Cracker Barrel” ever! It is full of antiques, pictures, old books and windows with breathtaking views.

There is a lush and manicured yard that seems to go forever, until it ends at the marsh that my Dad loved so much.

Then a dock that extends through the marsh to the tidal creek that we swim and float in.

And though my Mom used to be famous like me and was wildly successful in banking and collecting antiques, she has a bit of insanity that she passed on to my sister Age and me (David was skipped but neither Age or I are certain he actually shares our DNA anyway).

Mom decided that my Dad, beach bum that he was which I thank God every day that he passed that gene on to me, should have his own beach.

In the back yard.

So she built him one.

Trucks of sand were brought in. A lifeguard stand was built (though I’m not certain Dad ever actually got in it). A life preserver proclaims this to be “Billy’s Beach” and it was. And it is.

Dad was forever throwing parties and cooking oysters. For every special occasion, birthdays, anniversaries, divorces, Christmas, deaths (including his own day) … the oyster cooker would come out and we would feast.

So a couple of years after he died, Mom decided that it was time for an oyster roast. So it happened last night and about seventy people showed up to toast an incredible sunset over a golden brown marsh. There were lots of hugs and many laughs.

New friends were made and old friends were reacquainted. Mom fretted at the number of red wine drinkers who had shown up.

My cousin Jason fluttered around being in charge until he realized that nobody was listening to him so he stood around with the rest of us toasting and laughing and enjoying the hell out of a magic night.

David and I slid off at one point to talk about the future. He has one and I suppose that I do too. People kept interrupting us, obviously bothered that we may not share the same DNA, so it took us about an hour to finish our conversation. But I’m happy for him. And he seems to be inching closer to forgiving me.

Then as the stars twinkled and nighttime came, I walked alone back onto the dock. I wanted Mona Lisa’s smile again.

“Hey Dad,” I said to the marsh. “You’d love this.”

And a breeze kicked up and the marsh grass danced. I threw my wine into the tidal creek as the music of laughter sang from the sand on Billy’s Beach.

And Dad told me that he loves me still.

And was loving the hell out of this party.

What Love Is

It was a strange yesterday. It seems as though I spent the entire day covering people’s asses. But if you love somebody that’s what you do. You cover their ass when they can’t cover it themselves.

Enough about my friend Dee!

It all started with my son Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie. They showed up and that led to Fish Tacos at Café Loco which led to Roma and the Bored meeting which led to Bernie’s last night where Sam Adams and Gordo play damn good live music! Then it all got crazy. Typical Tybee!

Yet in the midst of all of this I am reminded that I live on an island. Goddess and I walk to Shirley’s sad little holy dock and it takes my breath away. I jog the beach and the joy of the ocean still makes me tingle with excitement as though I were still a little boy. The smell of the marsh (it smells like sex in the Tropics) makes my skin come alive and the breath that I inhale is pure, unadulterated love. And you take love where you find it and you hold onto it with everything that you have inside of you.

That’s Tybee.

Just a few months ago I would have never noticed these things. I was living a fast and famous life changing the way that the world dealt with homelessness, health care for the uninsured, treating the mentally ill and such. I never slowed down. I never stopped. It was all consuming and … in the end, it consumed my all.

For seven months now I’ve been on this Sabbatical. I left my career. Love left my house. Having never really been alone, loneliness blanketed where I lived. Quiet became the language that I spoke.

Sustenance came from the most unlikely of places --- my children made certain that I ate; the Breakfast Club ensured that I was touched with love; Shirley would break into my house to force company. Stacy was relentless in sending me messages of love.

Roma of all people took long walks down the sidewalk with me with her old arm hung over my shoulder and just listen and nod. O Johnny demanded to know what was wrong and when I told him he just showed me friendship. Cheryl and Jodee were constantly letting me know that I always have a place to go.

And Johnny O and Judy rearranged their lives to take care of the one that I had which was in shambles.

And a dog licked my tears when I was immobile to do anything other than cry.

So I sat beloved back deck with that dog and several things happened. My dear friend Fran came back from the dead and reminded me of her thousand shades of green and all of the love that hides there. Goddess took to writing with me every morning my laying her head under my bare feet as I typed and it was …family. My friend Nancee at the Breakfast Club took to kissing me and giving me long hugs to chase the sadness away from the morning. Old friends from college made a pilgrimage to my house and laughter returned. An old partner returned and demanded to be a new partner.

Someone asked me yesterday what I’ve learned on this Sabbatical. There are several things. You notice more when you slow down --- the colors of the marsh, Fran’s thousands shades of green, how much a hug can mean, and the joy of laughter.

That it’s better to be honest because it takes too much energy to be something else. I’ve learned to be open to the things and people that come my way and to not chase things as much.

I’ve learned who my friends are. And I’ve really learned who they are not.

I’ve learned that it is ok to invest time and money in me because nobody else will. This is the only life I’ve got so while I’ve given a lot of it away to others it is fine and perfectly acceptable to give pieces of it to yourself. And that nobody … and I mean nobody … will give you permission to do that except you.

When you just stop and have only yourself …in the end …it is just yourself that you have anyway. It’s only you that you have influence over. Be open to what you want and need. Everybody else will deny you of these things and you are the only person who will allow you to follow your heart.

For the past couple of years my life was exposed to the world to do with what it wished. It wasn’t pretty and I lost a lot.

But then these things happened on this Sabbatical. And people who love me covered my ass when I couldn’t. And I love them.

And the most important thing that I’ve learned on this Sabbatical is …what love is.

And what it’s not.