Ripped Open (Ocean Crossing)

Take my hand across the water
You won’t leave no tracks behind
Step all over the moon lit ocean
It’s only in your mind
All these thoughts just rip me open
Who can heal a heart that’s broken?
Like the winds that blow unspoken
Blew my love away

So sings Arlo Guthrie in one of the songs that has become a hymn of my life. When Julie left it was the first part of the song that I posted as a blog because I couldn’t find my own words to write.

Looked into your eyes this morning
You were far away
You knew that I was looking for you
You knew you couldn’t stay

I was in a cab in Washington D.C. with my heart being drug from behind as though tin cans on the back of the car of a newlywed couple’s car.

I was just numb.

Then Skip Eloge called and asked me what was wrong? Where are your words? You always write. So I told him in a numb sort of way. I remember staring at the Washington Monument as I spoke and it was a bright sunny day in D.C. And Arlo’s words kept ringing in my head.

My friend Dedra and I were talking recently and she asked how I kept using lyrics in my conversations. I told her that I think in lyrics. It may as well be a foreign language that I’ve mastered. My dear friend Mitch has also mastered it and he and I can carry on complete conversations with one another just quoting song lyrics.

Anyway, Julie knew she couldn’t stay. I don’t blame her. We’d been through so much. The weight of the world had become oppressive and it crushed us. She went off to survive and I send her the very best of everything.

And I’m still here! Though “here” is a much different place from then. Some things are the same. Goddess is still the most beautiful dog though she stays near me all of the time slamming herself into the sofa or the bed when she wants love. She knows loss too. Though she knows new loves too and gets excited when they arrive.

The house is the same then again it’s not. My Mom had all these dreams about what it should look like and she is a person who has always made dreams come true. So she’s working on it. And it is taking on a different look … a different feel … becoming the right setting for a very different …me.

The friends that I have are the same that I had before though the friendships are far deeper and richer…and fewer. Far fewer! This isn’t a bad thing, I’ve come to learn. Rather than trying to satisfy the masses, I have far more time to invest myself into the few and much more appreciation for what they have invested in me. These are the people who have gotten me through.

So this morning I sit on the beloved back deck with Goddess lying beside me. The choirs of birds are singing. Fran is showering me with love in her thousand shades of green. The newness of the back yard is warm and inviting. I hear the waves of the ocean slap the shore.

On the other side of Fran’s thousand shades of green, hidden from me, are three musicians playing their instruments, remnants of the St. Patrick’s Day celebration in Savannah. A guitar, a violin and a cello sing to me through the trees. Fran has blessed this with purple wisteria shooting from the thousand shades.

And it makes me cry.

So I lean towards the ocean and reach out my hand to the future. Towards this hand that I know is reaching out to me.

I am scared.

But I believe that she’ll take it and we’ll step all over the moon lit ocean. And we’ll make it real. I’m already ripped open though the broken heart is beingl healed.

And there is no need for words.

They’ve all been blown away.

Happy St. Patrick's Day (or Not)!

I am standing under the spray in my outdoor shower washing my sins away and baptizing myself in Holy Water beside the sea. I am mesmerized at the moment. There is a hole in the wood and a brilliant beam of sunlight is shooting through as though it a laser. Molecules of water mix with the light and two of the four elements that make everything are dancing together in front of me.

Moving my hand through it, I capture the sacred mixture closing my eyes as I close my hand bathed in both water and light. Choirs of birds are singing hymns to God … or to me, I don’t know, but they are proud of their songs and sing them loudly. From the shower I see Fran’s thousand shades of green standing in erect attention not daring to move in the divinity of the morning.

I knew it was going to be a special day as I was running this morning. A red sun hung just over the calmest ocean and the breeze was light. Waves were acting up at the last moment, breaking just at the shore, playfully slapping it then rushing back to Mother Ocean. I kind of lumbered along, not really running … jogging, I guess … because it was all so … serene.

Tranquility is not something that I’ve had an abundance of so when it comes I slow down and take it in. There something about breathing deeply the things that you love…making them part of who you are … redefining your being …becoming who you are going to be.

I think these things as I stand in the baptism of the outdoor shower holding the blessed sacraments of light and water in my still closed fist.

I linger not wanting to move.

It is St. Patrick’s Day in Savannah. As I said last year, it is St. Patrick’s Day … the second highest holy day in Savannah after Christmas but before New Year’s and Easter (Easter would rank better were it not for the Baptist who refuse to participate with the other church’s in their sunrise services).

Flying in from Boston the other day into the Hilton Head International Airport located in Savannah, the plane was filled with people wearing green. They were pouring in for the party. A city of perhaps a180,000 will welcome 400,000 guests! It is something to see and before you die life, you need to see it.

When I was flying into Boston I sat beside a soldier returning from Afghanistan to his home. Next to him was a saleswoman from Albany, Georgia who was well traveled. As soon as the soldier sat down he asked if could borrow my phone.

I imagined he carried a gun, or was trained to kill with his bare hands and Delta does this “Hero Worship” military appreciation speech on every flight, so how could I say no? And he called his girlfriend of seven years. They had not seen one another in seven months. And they excitedly talked about … St. Patrick’s Day.

“Thank you sir,” he said handing me my phone.

“Yeah I appreciate you not killing me either. Oh yeah and for ‘everything that you do for us’” quoting the Delta speech.

He grinned and we got to talking. Most soldiers absolutely hate all of this adoration! It leads to bad things like homelessness, addiction, mental illness and such. I know.

Boston has the largest parade in the world but it doesn’t take place until Saturday. He starts off at a breakfast place on the parade route with his entire family. They start drinking early like we do in Savannah though they have to do it in private there. So they dart in and out during the parade so they can drink. After the parade there are parties everywhere, mostly in bars or backyards (though in snowing in Boston when I was there!).

Then I told him about Savannah. The girl from Albany confirmed my description.

“No shit!” he said repeatedly. “I gotta go!”

“Before you die,” I said. “As a matter of fact, skip this war and have some fun.”

“Yes sir,” he said and smartly saluted.

Still lingering in the baptism of the outdoor shower with the choirs of birds singing with a woodpecker now keeping time and Fran’s thousand shades of green perfectly still, I send him a prayer. I hope he’s having fun. He deserves it. We all deserve it.

And I send another to all of the hundreds of thousands in Savannah today. Y’all have fun too!

Life should be mostly fun.

Then I open my hand and the light mixed with the water resumes its dance.

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day,” I say to no one.

Health and Nazis

“Whose drunken bicycle is that outside?” Patti asked as she entered the door marked “Exit Only” now in multiple languages at the Breakfast Club.

She was smiling at me.

I pointed down the counter. “That would that drunk right there,” I answered.

She turned and, sure enough, there he was wobbling on a stool at 6:50 in the morning; un-kept blond hair, half-closed eyes and smelling of alcohol. He was sitting very close to the grill which had me worried…the whole place could go up in flames in a Nano-second.

Patti winced and said “Ouch!”

It’s Whitley’s bicycle’s fault. A couple of weeks ago at the Marlyn Monroe’s oyster roast his bike got wasted and got Whitley wasted too. I had to take both of them home in my car though they only live 3 blocks away. Nevertheless, Whitley’s bicycle has already had a tremendous negative influence on the island’s other bicycles. This is the latest example!

“Can I have a cigarette?” the blond wobbly boy asked.

“Stop mooching off my employees!” Jodee commanded as he pulled an egg beater affixed to a rubber tube, hanging from the ceiling and began to beat eggs.

I had a hard time deciding what I wanted to watch; wobbly blond boy or Jodee trying out his latest invention? You can easily lapse into sensory overload at the Breakfast Club!

Through I was only gone for two days, strange things have occurred at the Club in that time.

First of all, Phil has taken to wearing rubber gloves as he makes toast, puts pickles on plates, and butters English muffins. I assumed he was merely combining his lifelong dream of becoming a Proctologist with his love of cooking.

Then there are the hairnets! They appeared overnight and beg a very deep question. “Why do men with shaved heads wear hair nets?” I can’t figure it out.

Finally, I understand that a new dry-erase board will be installed at the end of the counter so that Franklin, who is brown, can write down the time that a dozen eggs are pulled out the walk-in cooler. This is so that customers, most of do not sit within view of the end of the counter, will know that the eggs have not just been sitting all day becoming chickens.

Now if you’ve been to the Breakfast Club, you know that they cook a lot of eggs! Crates each hour! Franklin, who is brown, is also responsible for getting everything ready for the cooks so that they can … well … cook! I think that he can write so maybe this announcement of the abortion of a dozen eggs will be meaningful to some.

But if Franklin, who is brown, will have to stop prepping every time a soon to be aborted egg comes out of the walk-in cooler then production is going to be significantly reduced and the lines at the Breakfast Club are going to get longer and then Tybee Parking Services will have to get involved and they are Nazis.

“So,” I ask in my never ending role as Chaplain of the Breakfast Club, “who thought of all of these bright ideas?”

“Health Department,” I am told.

“Hmm,” I reply. I have lots of good friends at the Health Department. Most are really good people. A couple are the dearest of friends.

“Really” I ask?

“Yeah,” I am told, “this guy with a clipboard comes in and walks around telling what is wrong and how to fix it. He just gives orders. We can’t talk to him. Then throws out scores and tells us that it better be fixed time he comes in. Then he leaves and goes and does it at another restaurant.”

“Sounds like Parking Services,” I muse. “Does he wear a hair net and rubber gloves?” I ask.

Blond, wobbly boy stands up and wobbles.

He had ordered an egg, cheese and bacon on a toasted English muffin. As I watched them prepare it … well…it suddenly seemed like NASA space experiment. Nobody could touch anything. The Chefs put on body condoms. Franklin, who is brown, was trying to write the time every time an egg came out of the walk-in cooler which was every 7 seconds.

Somehow they did it.

I was exhausted!

And I couldn’t imagine how much more protection we can stand. Government has turned into Nanies. I mean I understand that restaurants should be held to the highest of standards as they serve the public but … some of this stuff is ridiculous.

“Would you like a lid with your To-go coffee sir,” Daniel asked drunken, blond wobbly boy?

“No thanks,” he wobbled back. “I’m on a bicycle.”

And as I left, I couldn’t help but think that there is something strangely similar to both lines of logic.

Waking Up

Three young teens sat at a table with a smiling supervisor. Each was different. Long black hair spilled over the back of her wheelchair and a beatific smile of the whitest teeth greeted me as I entered the room. Her throat had a purple scar and when she said “Hello” it came out slurred as though she missed the “L’s”.

Beside her, a young chubby boy with thick black hair studied his work with deep concentration. Brown eyes sat deep back in the sockets and his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth. Using his good hand, he took the balloon and worked to affix it on top of the value. The supervisor was giving him undivided attention celebrating each time he was successful.

The last was a smaller boy with his back to me. His Red Sox cap was on backwards so I could see the dirty logo. His dirty jacket had the Patriots logo on it. He worked at lightning speed throwing completed balloons with values in the giant bag.

It filled me with emotion and moisture covered my eyes. I smiled back at the girl and told her “Hello.” Her smile grew bigger.

Later in the day I sat beside her at a table full of people with disabilities or self-advocates as they called themselves. With us were two parents and a few staff members of “The Triangle” near Boston.

“When I was growing up my mother would push me down the stairs,” a short plump girl with wild black hair explained, “she is a drug addict and calls me every day asking for money and I TELL HER NO.” The words came haltingly with the silence in between each word full of wet emotion.

A short man of perhaps 40 with a crew cut and eyes that looked in two different directions at the same time spoke in the voice of child. “My mother always protected me growing up and now I want protect myself.”

A young man who couldn’t sit still kept raising his hand then quickly putting it down again. His face remained devoid of expression and when he talked it was in a monotone voice and his eyes were looking past us into another universe. “What happened in the 4th grade will always stay with me,” and told us being attacked for simply being … different.

As each spoke the others at the table would smile and nod and mutter words of affirmation.

Then we walked into television production studio called “Ablevision.” Three people were working filming their own cable network show … One behind the camera, one at a computer working on sub-titles and the last holding the microphone talking. “We are people with ability,” he said in a loud voice.

And they are … in spite of the things that are wrong.

Finally we went into a cafeteria that reminded me of the Starfish Café that I helped to start all of those ago. Except this one was run by people with disabilities. Taking my tray down the service line each asked me with a broad smile what I wanted.

Soup? Sandwich? Salad? Cookie? Then the older man sat at the cash register at the end of the line. The room was filled with people, virtually all with … challenges that I don’t have.

Nine out of ten people with disabilities are abused in the United States. Sexual abuse is most common among the youngest of them.

I was there learning about amazing work being done teaching these folks how to be “self-advocates” and take care of themselves. They proudly demonstrated what they had learned. And I was doing my best to help them think through how to take all of this stuff to the next level.

In another meeting, a man in a wheelchair with one knarred hand spoke from a mouth that only one side worked. “There are two types of stories about us,” his slurred but passionate words informed us, “we’re either a sob story or we’re ‘Super-Crip’ throwing off our disabilities in a single bound.”

Throughout the day I kept grabbing my I-Phone to send messages to people about things that I was learning and that we’ll need as we establish an effort to help others make themselves better.

In the midst of this day something inside of me woke that’s been asleep for a while. I found myself missing … this.

And the passion that has driven me through my life is awake again.

Doing Urban

Let me begin by saying that I like Boston. Actually I’m in Cambridge which is full of students and trendy places on MASS Ave spilling into Harvard Square. I’m staying at a funky Bread & Breakfast, the “Harding House” which used to be a grocery store in the 1860s and now boast 20 guest rooms. It sits on Harvard Street and is surrounded by student apartment complexes and old Cambridge homes. The streets are brick and naked trees line them. It is quaint.

Around 3:00, after checking in I went exploring meaning I walked outside realized how cold it was and immediately went back inside. Grabbing my coat I resumed my exploration. People were bundled up and most everyone wears black or grey. Right off the bat I noticed a couple of things.

First of all, I seemed to be the only person in this city who realizes that it is COLD!!! Everybody else seemed to be under the delusion that it’s spring. Evidently in Boston if the sun is shining that means it’s balmy.

Next I noticed that white people are a lot whiter here! I had to put on my sunglasses just to nod hello or ask for directions as the balmy sun glared off of their pasty white skin magnifying light to atomic proportions. We’re talking white people! Someone should be trying to figure out how to harness that energy!

So I did what I always do when I have a few hours to kill in a city. I found a local neighborhood pup which is one of the great things about urban living in old cities. “Callahan’s Down Stairs” is a one story building with a green façade with blackened windows. From the outside looking in it appeared to be an Irish Pup that had closed decades ago. But it was open so in I went.

Dark, musty with oak floors the bar ran from one end of the building to the other and the stools were filled with men. The bar itself took up a quarter of the room. A small dance floor was in the corner with band equipment set up for some time later. Real paintings of near nudes hung on the walls and were in sore need of dusting. Flat screen televisions showing basketball games were the only hint of modern anything.

Finding a stool I nestled in between two groups of men. Both groups were older and were drinking liquor in big glasses. Obviously friends, they slapped one another on the back, cracking jokes. One group talked news. The other watched basketball. Both sets were equally integrated.

When I ordered a beer and asked for a glass both groups stopped talking to watch Mike the Bartender serve me. They watched me pour in silence. The sound of the Miller Light hitting the glass was deafening. I looked up at them, shrugged my shoulders and took a sip. Several laughed and they all resumed what they’d been doing.

After a while I made my way back to the Harding House where I met my dinner mates and we walked to a trendy restaurant “Country Kitchen” which has nothing country about it. Another old store converted into an eatery the place was filled with students. Water was served in the tiniest glasses ever invented. Wine was poured into the largest goblets that I’ve ever seen. Organic food was piled in tremendous portions.

But it was a good place to talk and we did. Topics ranged from what’s been going on in our personal lives to opportunities for new things in an ever changing world. Afterwards I was reminded of another thing that I like about urban living. After supper you walk home or back to where you’re staying. It was a pleasant end of the day.

Then I went to bed. As night deepened, the freeze resumed its command of the city. I lay in a bed piled with comforters, warm and cozy but God forbid if I needed to get out for any reason. I must confess that this makes for good sleeping. The only thing that would make it better would be to have right person to cuddle with beside me.

It was a nice slide back into the urban life. In Louisville I lived in the inner city with my family literally alongside homeless people. In Savannah my entire career was working to enhance the downtown area. My work has taken me to most every major city in the United States, some in Europe and even Havana Cuba. I’ve seen a lot of urban in my life!

Today I will spend my time doing urban in detail again. There is this group that is working to develop curriculums to teach children with disabilities how to protect themselves against sexual assault. The rate of assault for kids with problems is twice as much as kids without a disability. Most often they happen in school or church.

Fun stuff, huh?

But important stuff!

Sipping coffee this morning I feel myself gearing up to dive back into it all. I’m still not finished with the self-journey to who I am but I understand that this is part of it. And while I miss the balmy eighty degrees of Tybee Island, I am glad that I am here today.

The New Future

It is a typical travel day save that it’s happening on a Sunday. I have meetings in Boston tonight and throughout tomorrow then return on Tuesday. I walked Goddess and said goodbye to the marsh and Back River. It is going to be a glorious day on Tybee and I’m going to miss it to spend half the day in airports and then the rest in below freezing temperatures.

So I rush to the airport and because I go by my middle name “Micheal” instead of my first name “William” it can cause problems. You know how when you fill out most anything it asks for your first name, your middle initial and your last name?

Today it caused problems. Rather than booking my flight as I normally do, a travel agent did it. So when Delta tried to log me in with my frequent flyer status, Homeland Security caught the discrepancy in the names and immediately assumed that I’m a terrorist!

I’m wearing jeans, a black long shelve sweater and tennis shoes. I’m also carrying a brief case. This is apparently one of the profile pictures of terrorism. Maybe it’s because I haven’t cut my hair in a long time. Who knows?

Regardless the Delta agent and their T.S.A. representative spent about half-an-hour on the phone working everything out for me. I stood there checking on my friends on Face Book with my I-phone.

Then I made it through security who obviously did not get the memo that Homeland Security had just been checking me out. So I rushed to the gate to board the plane and of course it was delayed.

So I’m sitting here wondering about things. Airport contemplation is different from the island brand. I’m in transition from Tybee Island to Boston today. I’ve controlled a lot about how this came about but, as the above illustrates, there is a lot that’s out of my control. Ultimately I’ll make it where I’m trying to go.

It can be a metaphor for my life. The past year has been one of transition for me. Much of who I was is no longer the case. The family that I was part of is no more. Relationships continue but I am no longer defined as a husband. I’m no longer suddenly single. I live alone with a dog.

What I do no longer defines who I am. It defines who I was. Other people now oversee the things that I helped put together and in no time at all they split it in half. Even what I built is no longer defined as it was. I can’t even point to what I used to be.

What I’ve actually done for the past year is get back in touch with who I am through writing, reflecting, long walks, and circling myself with a small group of friends who took it upon themselves to define who they are.

I’ve been told this has led to me becoming a softer person, no longer relentlessly driven to succeed on saving the world from itself. I take my time now, delighting in nature, little things, friends and opportunities that come to me. Friends who love me bring me gifts of long conversations, laughter and are forever leaving notes and presents on my door, the porch, the beloved back deck and in my house. Yesterday I got home from marching in a parade and one was lying on my bed!

Transition means that we move from something towards something else. The past is being left. The future waits for us to grab and mold. We start to imagine it and then it takes hold of our heart and before we know it is the future we care about and not the past (Save perhaps as a celebration of who we used to be).

Unless we stop the transition by choosing to try our best to keep things the way that they are! A lot of what is wrong with the world, and the individuals who comprise it, is that far too many try to keep things the way that they are … scared of change and the cost that often goes along with it, not believing that things get better.

When this year of transition began for me I was tired and worn out of the way things were in my life. But I kept trying anyway. There were a lot of things wrong but I’m not a quitter so I kept at it until it all eventually came apart.

I gave it my best! I have no doubts about that. The only regret that I have is that I didn’t start this journey when I first began to imagine the possibilities of a new future. Instead I listened to the counsel of others who wanted to keep things the way that they were. And it ended up being at my expense.

I think about these things watching people wait on planes that are delayed. They are agitated and frustrated.

I don’t mind. A new future is being imagined that will be far better than the past and its already worked its way into my heart.

Tis the Season

“What’s that hat?” she asked

“It’s a covering for the head,” Daniel deadpanned in response.

I should have warned her of the incredibility witty sense of humor of the very sick people who work at the Breakfast Club but Dedra is from “up the country” and didn’t know any better.

It was one of those mornings when as soon as the doors opened the place was full. As soon as this happened, it was time to leave. “Tis the season” I said to myself. The season on Tybee used to be from June through August. Now there are a few weeks in February when things get slow!

I miss the old days.

In the old days if you drank too much you could call the Tybee Island Police Department and they would come get you and drive you home. Of course in those days the City Council would all gather at “Spankey’s” across the street from city hall for a few drinks before the meeting. Then they would all order one in large “to go” cups, walk across the street and call the meeting to order. Most of the people in the audience brought one too that they had fixed at home. City Council meetings were a lot more fun back then and it seemed like a lot more got done.

Then there was Jimmy T, THE GREATEST TYBEE POLICE OFFICER EVER!!!!!, who arrived at the scene of the crime when Bruce ran into my car when my son Jeremy and I were leaving the Post Office when it was on the south end and knocked his truck through the front door of Kitten’s Korner, an alleged strip club. My car was in the middle of Butler Avenue.

So Jimmy T, THE GREATEST TYBEE POLICE OFFICER EVER!!!!! arrived and asked what happened. I blamed Bruce. He blamed me. Jeremy broke the tie and it was Bruce’s fault.

Then Jimmy T, THE GREATEST TYBEE POLICE OFFICER EVER!!!! asked for our license and if anyone had been drinking. Bruce said, “Hold my beer” and gave it to the officer while he got his license out of the truck.

That’s the way it was back then.

It’s different now. Though there are these pockets of resistance; The Breakfast Club, the Bored Meeting, Fannie’s-on-the-Beach, kids having sex on the Sally Pierce Nature Trail and adults having sex on the Sally Pierce Nature Trail.

The old vibe continues somehow. Last night at Bernie’s, where Sam Adams and Gordon play damn good live music, a bunch of bikers from South Carolina were having a wedding party. Hairy, long haired fat men in leather with women who had bathed in tequila is just not something you see every day.

Then there is today’s parade. Its Tybee’s St. Patrick’s Day parade though St. Patrick’s Day is not until Thursday. That is because the current Tybee Island City Council doesn’t drink. Nor do they do pot.

They do overdose on hiring city employees.

Anyway they decided that a great stimulus package would be to have a parade every week. The entire Island is overdosing on parades! Pirate Fest, Christmas, New Year’s, Mardi Gras, and now St. Patrick’s Day when it’s not St. Patrick’s Day. I understand that the current sober City Council is now considering a Streaker’s Parade in honor of the 1970’s epidemic and Condom week in promotion of safe sex while cleaning out the Sally Pierce Nature Trail at the same time.

I digress.

On Tybee Island, the mantra remains any excuse for a party. We keep having them. I’m marching in today’s parade as part of the O’Neil Big Unit Brigade. It’ll be fun.

Tis the season!

Asking God Why

I suppose it’s one of those cases when if you say it then it happens. The other day I wrote about Psalms 47 where whoever wrote it says that God can cause “mountains to fall into the heart of the sea” which I surmised would cause a tsunami. Now we’ve got a tsunami that hit Japan and is now hitting Hawaii. My dear friends Valerie and Gordon live in Hawaii and they’ve saved my ass more than once so I checked her Face Book page as have other friends but there is no news save the gloom and doom of the news channels.

You have to ask yourself why?

Why do things like this happen? I mean I understand the science of it all. There is earthquake because the earth shifts itself and causes a burp under the ocean which makes a big wave. Living by the sea I notice waves eventually make their way to shore and there you have it. For the most part we love it! Especially the surfers!

Save when it’s a big shift, a big burp and a wave that is so huge than it’s given a new name. Tsunami!

We understand the how. It’s the why question that baffles us and it’s the one that we look to God to answer.

Why are there tsunamis that kill people who are just having a day at the beach? Why does a massive wave knock out the power of countries that are already struggling to survive or those that are abundant in wealth? Why do they cause the stock market to fall affecting people in Kansas who’ve never seen a wave in their life?

“Why” is the second holiest prayer that we send to God on an almost daily basis?

The first is the most basic of prayers. When we see a tsunami coming, or the power goes out when that’s the last in the world that we need or the stock market falls and we lose forty percent of our wealth overnight we utter the same prayer … “Oh God”!

Then we wait.

And we keep waiting.

God’s not big on direct responses when that’s precisely what we want the most.

So we wait.

Then other people start answering the question on God’s behalf. “Those people deserved it because they’re sinners!”

“God is sending a message that homosexuality is the cause of America’s moral decline!”

“It was bound to happen when women started taking birth control pills, put on shoes and abandoned the kitchen.”

And swear to God, there are these people who get television time to say stupid stuff like this! Pompous asses presume to speak for God. Then people desperate for answers to the why question believe them. That’s how fundamentalism, racism, sexism and discrimination are born.

But God keeps quiet.

So we ponder the answer to the why questions.

Why did she leave me? Why am I in a marriage that gives me nothing? Why did my son who I love more than anything grow up to be gay? Why did I lose my job when I gave them everything that I have? Why did I lose my house? Why is he so hateful when I’m just trying the best I know how to try? Why did she get pregnant? Why is this happening to me?

Why?

DAMMIT! WHY!

And God is quiet.

And the silence is deafening.

Then the answer comes when we least expect it.

It is what it is.

The bad comes with the good.

And there is far more good than there is bad.

But we focus on the bad because it stuns us. It consumes too many of us. And we all believe that God would never allow such things to happen.

But they do.

So I’ve come to believe that when God created life … it is what it is. There is good and bad. There is far more good than bad. But there is bad. I’ve had my share. You have too.

But it’s life we’ve got. I’m holding to this gift as long as I can! And praying for people who can’t! Or who no longer have it!

Members of the Elect

I was late stumbling into the Breakfast Club this morning because I didn’t want to get out of bed. It was warm and cozy and the weather is full of wet. The time that I normally get up passes by and Goddess rams her body into the bed. I’ve disrupted her routine and it is time for her morning belly rub she gets as I stumble from the bed to the shower.

Now that I think about it I seem to stumble a lot in the morning.

Backing out of the drive way I open the door and grab the “Savannah Morning Blues” at 5 miles per hour. At the Club everyone except Johnny O and Whitley are asleep. Whitley made the coffee this morning because nobody else seemed capable. This is probably a good thing as Whitley can now introduce coffee to his bicycle which is notorious for leaving him behind and getting my bicycle drunk.

I grab my coffee and open the paper. Then I sigh. Politics is the headline. Recently Savannah made racism front page news again in the hiring of a City Manager who is black by a black majority council with a vote split among racial lines. I know all of the players and shut the paper and handed it to Ryan so that he could do the crossword puzzle. Nothing else was worth reading.

“Same old…?” Johnny O asked and I nodded before he finished.

Most of my career I worked the political circuits…city, county, state and federal. They are all the same with the only real difference being the size and scope of the number of people who are impacted by their decisions. Politics have changed over the past few decades.

It used to be about balancing the budget, providing for the national defense, paving roads and keeping church separate from state. That’s pretty much all that we really need.

But politicians became pompous and starting believing that they know what’s best. So they started making rules which is the domain of religion so the separation of church and state went out of the window.

Let’s be honest. We got enough rules. The other day in paper I read that one of the members of the elect (a Biblical term) in the Georgia General Assembly introduced legislation that mandates children be kept in car seats until they are 8 years old!

Really?

Of course my first thought is that this member of the elect has serious personal investments in the manufacturing of car seats. You going to have to double the size of car seats and they will cost more and somebody’s profit margin is going to go up time.

And that seems to be what politics has become!

Oh I know, some good things happen because of a handful of good people in elected office but let’s again be honest. They’re the exception rather than the rule!

Members of the elect now define their constituents as the people who give them money and vote for them…not everybody that they represent. In other words, for the most part they represent people who look and think just like them. It doesn’t matter which party … Republican, Democrat or Tea! They’re all the same! A handful of individuals are different but they forever being voted down.

I have lots of stupid political stories in my 30 year career but one of my favorites occurred right here on Tybee Island (second only to “Camp Locklear” which also occurred on Tybee Island … you can search my old stuff to find it).

What is now the Rock House on the corner of Butler Avenue and Tybrisa Stree (which is between 15th and 17th but for some reason members of the elect thought it best that it no longer be 16th Street but Tybrisa …I should stop here as this is a silly enough example of what politicians do for a living …but I won’t).

Back then it was called “Kitten’s Korner” and one day my son Jeremy, my dear friend Bruce and I literally drove through the front door but that’s another story.

Kitten’s Korner had dancers and word got out that they were stripping after certain hour of night. Exposing nipples and stuff! So the entire Tybee Island City Council (all men at the time but on Tybee that really doesn’t matter) showed up to see them. This was a public investigation so the drinks were paid for with tax payer’s dollars. Everyone enjoyed the show but Kitten’s Korner was shut down a few weeks later for violation of moral codes (again the domain of the church not the government).

Then there was the rumor that there was prostitution occurring on Tybee Island. This was also discussed at a city council meeting. After heated debate, City Councilman Jack Youman uttered what is one of the all-time great political lines ever uttered.

“There ain’t no prostitution on Tybee. You can get for free!”

Ah…politics!

And the higher up the chain you go, the worse it gets.

I will not waste a day thinking about this stuff. I used to get paid to think about it but I don’t anymore. I want to do something productive. I’m going to dance in the rain.

Happily Ever After

In Stephen Sondeims’ magnificant musical INTO THE WOODS we learn about happily ever after. ACT I begins with the combined stories of Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel, Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk and a baker and his wife who are trying to start a family.

Everybody knows these stories, save the baker and his wife, so we get to witness how the wolf got butchered and spit up grandma, Rapunzel let down her hair, Cinderella finds Prince Charming, the baker and his wife have their baby and Jack tricks the giant and pleases his Mom.

We all love happy endings!

ACT I ends with everybody living happily ever after! There is much applause. The theme of ACT I is “I wish!”

ACT II describes what happens in happily ever after. It’s not a pretty sight. The baker and his wife need more room for their family but can’t afford it. The wife of the giant that Jack killed makes her way down another bean stalk and destroys the houses that they live in (along with a witches’ garden which is never a good idea). Rapunzel becomes hysterical and flees! Cinderella finds Prince Charming to be one boring dude but he does her too and seduces the baker’s wife. The giant’s wife then kills the baker’s wife.

You get the drift. Happily ever after is not all that it’s cracked up to be! ACT II ends with stunned audience. The theme of ACT II is “I know.”

Then a funny thing happens. After everything is said and done with destruction and unhappiness everywhere, Cinderella says, “I wish…”

And that’s how it ends.

“I wish” is followed by “I know” which leads to a more desperate “I wish.”

Unless we get struck in “I know” which is the reality of who we are, how we live our lives, our families, work and the people we choose to be with. Most of these things started out happily enough. Our parents wished for us to be in most cases, we wished for the spouse, the job and the friends that we have. And we got them!

And too often it becomes something less than a wish. It becomes I know that I’m not happy with who I am, what I’ve become or what I do. This isn’t what I wished for!

Husbands and wives no longer support the other but simply take instead most from the other. Unhappiness is born and it grows a bean stalk. Our families can drive us nuts. We become victims of the jobs and jobs can be abusive. People we love die when they shouldn’t. Bad things happen when we’ve just done the best that we know how. We’ve given everything only to find that our lives are messes of which we are desperate to crawl out!

It’s certainly applicable to my life! I had the life that I wanted; the wife, the career, the family, the house, and the friends. It was all happily ever after!

And then it wasn’t.

So, a couple co-existed which is not the same as living! The career became all consuming. The kids left. Friends began to demand more than any one person is possibly capable of giving. Life became oppressive.

I was lost in the woods and during the darkest of days that I lived through I can now see a few things that strike me. There are bad people who do bad things and really don’t give a shit, save for themselves (which is the definition of a bad person). Sometimes we happen to be married to them. Sometimes it’s us and we don’t admit it! But they’re here, lurking behind trees like wolves and often banding together to become giants who will stomp on you just as much as looking at you. It’s all about them (dedicated to a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous).

There are also Saints who pepper our lives, showing up at just the right time to save us from it all … like Woodsmen who use their axes on wolves or witches who turn out to be good when we thought they were anything but. They are always unexpected and end up being the blessings that we need at just the right time! We are the angles that God has given us to help each other through it all.

You would think it would just leave us all cynical which is how the bad people get born. We’ve got every reason in the world to by in a world that is all about us getting by regardless of anybody or anything else. There have been days when I was so angry at it all that I wanted to damn others to hell and just take what I needed for myself!

But you know what?

I wish.

And I know.

One day I will have what I wish for.

And I’ll be out of the woods.

God

“Be still and know that I am God…”

I’ve been still a lot lately. Too much probably! It goes with the silence that has dominated my life. Knowing the God part is a little trickier!

On the one hand, according to whoever wrote Psalm 46, “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.”

That’s pretty heady stuff keeping God busy all of the time. There are millions of us needing ever-present help when we’re in trouble and I don’t know about you but when mountains start falling into the middle of the ocean it means tidal waves and tsunamis and if I’m nearby, I’m getting scared!

Then whoever wrote this goes say that God is spending all of her time making wars cease, burning swords, shattering spears and breaking bows. I think God’s done a very decent job in this department as I don’t see many of swords, spears or bow and arrows into today’s wars but she won’t get an “A” in the ceasing war department. New ones are breaking out left and right!

Of course God may be on vacation. I wouldn’t blame her. I needed one myself.

Anyway after all of this preventing fear while causing tsunamis at the same time (no small trick!) and breaking swords and stuff while forgetting about machine guns and smart bombs, whoever wrote this gets to the end and like most great writers writes a great conclusion!

“Be still and know that I am God. I shall be exalted among the nations. I shall be exalted in the earth.”

So in the still silence of the beloved back deck I ponder these things. God seems to have two preferred ways of communication. There are all of these big picture things like making wars cease and flexing her muscle when she wants to make a mountain fall into the “middle of the ocean” says whoever wrote the Psalm.

God must have a great publicist! This is Hollywood type advertisements!

On the other hand God is a master of understatement!

Over this past year few years I’ve had heaps of trouble in my life … divorces, a major career change, empty nest syndrome, discovering that there are a fair number of people out there who have absolutely no use for me whatsoever, hair that keeps getting thinner and these splotches on my chest that came out of nowhere. Major issues!

So I’ve been trying to cash in the “God is my refuge and strength” part of this and while I would prefer an intimate face-to-face conversation God doesn’t seem to be too big on them.

Then the wind picks up from the ocean and the thousand shades of green dance in the sunshine. Goddess lays her head on my foot. The sun shines brighter and the warmth grows with each passing minute.

“Hmmm!” I say to myself.

“Hell is portable,” my friend Guy Sayles taught me one time, “you take it with you wherever you go.”

Meaning you can run but you can’t hide! Whatever problems we got are to be faced in the here and the now. Which is another point that whoever wrote this Psalm was trying to make…in spite of all of the stuff going on like wars, mountains falling in seas, divorces, job loses or changes, thinning hair and unexplained splotches … we’ve got this refuge.

It doesn’t mean running from our problems. It means running into them! Where God is waiting to do her stuff!

If Guy is right, and I believe that he is, then Love is also portable. We can make it wherever we are; with whoever we’re with! Stephen Stills was right! “Love the one you’re with!”

And love seems to have this way of minimizing hell, war, breakups, the need for refuge in the first place and the assholes who cause these things.

I remain on the love side of the things though I’ve done my fair share of trying to run from the hell in my life. But if love minimizes the hurts and the frustrations then I think that God is with the love.

Oh wait! I paid good money to learn that in Seminary! God IS love.

I hope I get an “A”.

Silence

For a little over a year now I have lived alone. This has been the first time in my life that I’ve ever lived by myself growing up with a brother and a sister, having college roommates, getting married and having children, and then suddenly one day …I live alone.

It came as a shock and my system wasn’t prepared for it. It was as though abruptly my life was filled with …stillness.

Quiet became the language that I spoke.

Solitude became the norm.

Reflectiveness descended upon me.

And I began to notice things. They were all things that I’d seen before but having an abundance of time on my hands I explored them in a fullness that I never had before.

Leaves rustling in the breeze with sun shining on them made me realize that trees can dance. Then I saw all of the thousand shades of green that the leaves are and it made me remember a friend who had first pointed out to me that leaves can be so many shades of green. So Fran was raised from the dead and I realize how much I love her still though she has been dead for thirty years.

At the end of my street is a sea of marsh grass that is dotted with several houses across the way and crowned with the Light House. It is a painting done in real life. God herself does a watercolor in the marsh every single morning and provides an ever changing landscape of sky. The houses rest on the horizon and the lighthouse is majestic in black and white with this ball of illumination that never goes out.

As I make my way around I see the Back River flowing in the distance and the houses of Wilmington Island remind me that there is another world over there. The grandeur of the Wilmington Island Club sits in the distance. I walk out on this sad little holy dock and survey the movement of the river, the swaying of the marsh, and the contrast between what God has made and what people have built.

Topping the crosswalk at the beach, the sun sprinkles diamonds on the ocean and it is sometimes blinding. There are people standing on surf boards holding onto paddles silhouetted in the sunshine making me think that they look like a crippled Jesus walking on the water. Pelicans dive into the sea and dolphins rise from the water and flash me smiles.

Back home I sit on the back deck which has become a beloved part of the silence and I rest my feet on the railing. I stare at my feet and there is this one particular toe that I consider for the longest time. Flowers bloom and weeds grow and I watch them change a little bit every day.

Phone calls have become welcomed intrusions whereas I used to curse them loudly. Family, friends and even people trying to sell me things or take surveys grew to be lighthearted celebrations of interaction. Callers from far off lands would grow quiet when talking to me and ask me if those are birds singing in the background. And I would grow quiet and listen and choirs of birds were singing never ending cantatas.

I am struck that I never would have explored these things had I not walked away from the demands of the world. The expectation of others would have me rushing to work each day and longing for home. The hundreds of “friends” that I’ve accumulated over the years all expect me to be there for them. Yet I have discovered this handful of people who have been here for me. I’ve learned who friends really are. I SEE things differently!

There has been this long intense conversation with myself. I’ve remembered all of the things that I’ve done in my life, both the bad and the good, and delight in how there is so much more good than bad. I struggled mightily to give myself permission to simply to this …be me as I am.

These things were discovered in the silence. And I am stunned by how much I have learned…about who I am…the richness of what is around me …the beauty of how it is when these things are celebrated together.

Distractions try to work themselves in. And when they do I say, “Shhuuu!”

Be quiet. Be still. Know the holiness that is the life that we are living.

Grapefruitl

b“Grapefruit, a bathing suit, chew a little juicy fruit, wash away the night,” and Jimmy Buffett gives us the hangover cure. “Dive in, guzzle gin, commit a little mortal sin…it’s good for the soul.”

Tell me about it!

Yesterday was Mardi Gras on Tybee which means that a very lame parade is an excellent excuse for a party. And if Tybee knows how to do anything, it’s party. So the streets were lined with people, the bars were flooded with people and facsimiles thereof, and tourists mixed with locals in pursuit of beads.

Unlike that other Mardi Gras party, beads are pretty easy to come by on Tybee and exposing of one’s self is not necessary though it is highly encouraged by most. So the big question asked is “If white people have brown nipples then do brown people have white ones?”

I’ll have to ask Franklin when I go back to the Breakfast Club.

So we started at the Bored meeting in front of Fannie’s were someone lost their mind and gave Roma a bullhorn so she was barking instructions at everybody. Of course we all ignored her and mulled around looking at Jenny Orr’s miniature goat “Josephine” and her roommate “Larkin”, the Irish Wolf Hound.

Then Roma rolled away in her Golf Cart which is illegal on Tybee along with Ester and a garbage bag full of beads. The rest of us made our way to the corner of Tybrisa Street (which used to be 16th Street and is after 15th Street and before 17th Street but for some reason is named Tybrisa Street) and Butler Avenue, the main drag.

Not too long ago another city went out of business and Tybee bought all of their stop signs. We now have more stop signs on this island than there are jelly fish in the ocean. It’s pretty much impossible to go more than five feet without stopping.

Anyway the parade took three hours to get from one end of Butler Avenue to the other because it kept having to stop for the 17 Stop Signs in the middle of the street.

That didn’t seem to bother the crowd standing in front of Bennie’s who were drinking heavily as the anticipation built. William, a member of the Tybee Island Police Department, proved that he can operate heavy machinery by whipping out a screwdriver and taking down one of the stop signs in an effort to hurry the parade along.

Then the parade passed us by and three minutes later it was over.

We all made our way back to Fannies where bedlam had broken out. Roma was still screaming at everyone with her bullhorn and everyone continued to ignore her. The workers of Fannies were wearing …well … Fannies and lots of people were talking about it. Couples were sharing Fruit-roll-ups with each starting at one end and nibbling to the middle in a kiss. Mardi Gras had turned into a typical Saturday afternoon!

Whitley’s drunken bicycle cruised by without Whitley on it. We all wondered what had happened to him. Everybody knows about his bicycle.

The rest of the day is a blur. It does seem as though night came and went.

So this morning I am sitting her chewing juicy fruit and seriously considering riding to the Tybee Market for a grapefruit. It would be difficult as I’m sitting at my kitchen table wearing sunglasses wondering who put my shirt on backwards and what happened to the other sock? I need someone to dress me!

Anyway it’s Sunday now. We all survived Saturday Mardi Gras on Tybee. I wonder what we’ll do today.

Wait! That was a stupid question. After Bar-Church we’ll do it all again.

I need to go to Bar Church today so that I can pray that someone takes the damn bullhorn from Roma.

By George

My friend Dedra got up her courage and broke out of Swainsboro early this morning and showed up at the Breakfast Club for coffee. She has now kidnapped my sofa and is holding it hostage. She has also commandeered the television set and is watching the “Concert for George”. Apparently she is going to hide out here for a while.

I don’t mind. She and I are huge Beatle fans. She has seen Paul McCartney in concert and I saw George Harrison on his only American tour. I also literally bumped into Yoko Ono one time in Central Park. So the music is overflowing in the house and even Goddess is watching.

Several months ago I returned to Statesboro, Georgia and hooked up with Dedra, Mitch and Linda and Mark and Gyni. We all went to college together and have taken to getting back together as often as we can. Mitch still has formal ties with the Baptists so he arranged for there to be a reunion at the Baptist Student Union which we once orchestrated a hostile takeover.

I know what you’re thinking. Micheal went back to Baptist Land?

I know. I know but I love these guys so I went back. And it was fun! Other friends from the past showed up and we caught up with one another.

The Baptist currently in charge of Baptist Land did a nice thing and pulled out these ancient photo albums and had them lying on tables for us to inspect. And there we all were back in the day.

There is one of me sitting on a stool, smiling with my guitar in my lap, hair to my shoulders wearing faded jeans and a football jersey. It was taken during a talent show that we all had one night and I had just finished singing “When I’m 64” and had dedicated it to Dedra. It was one of those moments in life that had completely been forgotten but as we stood there staring at the picture those times came rushing to each of us.

Last night was full of loneliness. I didn’t want to go out and the house was empty so I dug through DVD’s and found the “Concert for George” and filled my home with songs that I love. It was loud and I either toasted or cried over my favorites. Though it was John Lennon who taught us “Whatever gets you through the night, it’s alright” it was George that got me through last night. And at one point the songs made me thing that love would come skipping across my house looking for me.

Then Dedra texted and asked what I was doing and when I told her she said that she wanted to see it. So she broke out of Swainsboro before dawn and is enjoying it like I did.

“Somewhere in her smile, she knows.” I think it’s a Mona Lisa smile these days that keeps me hoping. You can see it right? … waiting … bemused … but full of hidden secrets and anticipation.

“You know I believe and how.”

So today I believe again.

Baby Land

I spun around on the stool and stared out of the large glass window. It was 6:30 in the morning and these three young dudes wearing wet suits were carrying surf boards as they skateboarded by the Breakfast Club. Their long hair was blowing in the wind and they were barefoot.

“Well,” I said, “you don’t see that every day.”

“Barefoot?” Val asked. “Are you crazy?”

I return to my coffee but it got me thinking.

When I was a young dude I did stuff like that. My hair was really long and to this day barefoot is my shoe of option. I’ve got a wet suit hanging in my closet and I used to ride a skateboard though I’d probably kill myself if I tried it now. I surfed back then though I never put it all together at one time like these kids did.

Though I did stuff!

Once, Gene Prevatt and I skipped class at Groves High School to have lunch at Joe’s Drive In. Joe’s was the place where the church crowd went and it was “Happy Days” but nobody knew how happy back then.

Anyway Gene and I pull up to the curb and order. We were cool! Then my Mom pulls into the curb across from where Gene and I were. I hit the floor board. Gene continued looking cool.

My Mom took 47 hours to order. I had to pee. She won. I got out and walked to her car to tell her how much I love her.

“Why aren’t you in school?” she demanded.

“Ummm,” I quickly responded, “Gene told me that we had a field trip.”

She let me slide which is pretty cool for a Mom.

Then another time Gene made me go to the Mall with him. Back then the Mall was where everybody in Savannah went to be seen. Young couples held hands and just walked in circles around the Mall. Now they’ve all grown up and go to Malls across the country to exercise by walking around. Through they don’t hold hands anymore.

Gene was buying his mother a birthday present at Friedman’s Jewelers. I was just tagging along. Then I noticed that they had a special on “pre-engagement rings” … $10 each.

I bought twenty.

“What are you doing?” Gene asked.

“Trust me,” I replied.

I put them in the glove compartment of the 64 Mustang four-in-the-floor with the rusted out body because of Continental Can. If I drove faster than 35 Miles per hour pieces of the car would blow away.

But! I would go out with girls and we would start making out and then I would pop the question.

“You want to get pre-engaged?”

It worked every time!

A couple of weeks later I told Gene we had to go back to the Mall. I needed to stock up. So we did. But damn Friedman’s Jewelers had stopped the sale. They’ve since gone into bankruptcy and I completely understand why. You can’t start a movement like the “pre-engagement” movement and then suddenly stop it.

It was a happy place in time. We were like babes in Baby Land! Just having fun and celebrating and discovering how much we enjoy one another.

They were happy thoughts on a Friday morning. There are lots of people in this world who are not happy people. They go through live justifying their actions or not taking any responsibility for the damage they’ve done. They’re self-righteous and no longer remember how to have fun.

You’ve got to laugh at life. God gave it to us to be happy (unless you’re a fundamentalist then it’s all about sadness management). And though I’ve cried a lot in this life of mine, I’ve laughed far more. And it’s the laughter that gets me through.

So I choose to forget the poisonous people and let them go. They make me angry and I do not want to live like that. I want to be who I am.

A baby in Baby Land!

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.