Staff Meeting

The three of us huddled around my tiny kitchen table with notebooks spread out before us running through a diverse agenda. My kitchen also serves as the Executive Conference Room for the new company we’ve started. It’s kind of nice because the fridge is right there if anybody wants anything. “Acoustic Café” my Sunday morning ritual is playing on the radio. If things get touchy, the liquor cabinet is also within arm’s reach.

The kitchen/Executive Conference Room is adjacent to my Beloved Back Deck which also serves as the Executive Offices of the President/CEO. We’re establishing satellite offices on Wilmington Island and Pooler (more on the expansion plans later). The living room completes the Corporate Headquarters although we haven’t figured out its use yet.

We’re having our first staff meeting. We’ve meet over lunch a couple of times but this is the first official staff meeting and we’re dressed for the occasion. I have on running shorts and a tee shirt.

I’ve really missed corporate life!

For years I ran a weekly management meeting with all of my direct reports. I tried to keep it light and fun because the issues we were managing were so serious and dark. Over time, I turned over the management of the management meeting to a Chief Operating Officer. She was a bit more serious about it all than me though she rarely showed up on time.

Towards the end at Union Mission I took to taking the entire management team out to lunch for meetings at Johnny Harris’s, a Savannah institution. None of the African-Americans liked it but it is where old Savannah goes (all white) for meetings. In Savannah most every important decision takes place over lunch. I’m not sure why this is, but it is.

Besides I really like their “Noon Special”

We’d gotten through a lot of trauma and everybody was working killer hours so I thought it important to lighten everything up a bit. Not that I was especially light at the time. I was depressed.

Anyway a year has passed since I’ve haven’t hosted a staff meeting ... or a meeting of any kind. I do attend Bored meeting but I don’t think that counts.

But yesterday we met for about three hours. One showed up Bra-less because she thought we were going to Bar Church and when she’d asked me what people wear to Bar Church, I thought she’d said Bra-Church and told her that I’d never seen one there.

The other wore blue jean shorts and some designer tee shirt.

I must say that I’m very pleased with the corporate culture we are establishing in the new Corporate Headquarters of the new company we have started.

To commemorate the “soft” launch of the new company I’d cooked sausage gravy and biscuits for brunch which was served in the kitchen/Corporate Board Room. This was a symbolic decision on my part. Sausage gravy and biscuits launched my career in Louisville when I’d craw out of bed on Sunday mornings and cook it for over a hundred homeless people because all of the soup kitchens were closed for the weekend (who knew hunger took time off?).

Those Sunday morning breakfasts were the starting point of a career that has been amazing. Well … up until last year. But it’s kind of like the wedding renewal vows that I’m conducting on the beach later today. They’ve been married 25 years and want to renew their vows. So we’ll gather on the beach and I’ll say something like …

“Dearly Beloved! We are here today to celebrate O Johnny and Judy’s 25th wedding anniversary … 16 of the happiest years of their lives.”

21 out of 23 years for me isn’t too shabby!

Anyway … I wanted to signify the launch of this effort is going to be just as amazing as that first one was. Jesus started the whole “Born Again” movement with a Last Supper consisting of bread and wine. I figured sausage gravy and biscuits, served with screwdrivers is perfect for this endeavor.

At some point we left the kitchen/Corporate Board Room and retreated to the Beloved Back Deck/Corporate Executive Office of the President/CEO. It’s at this point that I lost the tee shirt. But we sat out under Fran’s thousand shades of green talking about how committed we are to this. How the opportunities are there! How the needs for what we have to off are incredible. How business has already sought us out. Even Union Mission could use some of what we got.

Then “Acoustic Café” was over and they started playing regular rock ‘n’ roll. I called the meeting to an end and everyone left with their assignments. I played Frisbee with Goddess.

Last night I returned to the Beloved Back Deck/Corporate Executive Office of the President/CEO and propped by feet on the railing. I was thinking deep thoughts like “Is your foot equal to the size of our face”?

Then I had to go to bed. The rest of the week is full of stuff that I’m now obligated to do. It’s a good thing that Corporate Headquarters is located beside the ocean. Cause we’re diving in the deep end.

And it’s going to be a beautiful dive!

The Masterpiece

Even the choirs of birds are mindful of the quiet of this Sunday morning. The tide doesn’t move and is still over the marsh grass. Goddess bows on Shirley’s sad little holy dock. In the distance a lone kayaker floats across the Back River which is glistening in the morning sun. The sky is painted deep blue and the lush green trees stand proudly in contrast. Red, yellow and purple flowers mean that the bushes are wearing their Sunday best.

It is a holy day.

Every morning I take Goddess for a walk. Some mornings are more special than others. Today God has painted a masterpiece! I find that I can’t move because I want to be a part of it. Goddess seems to understand this. After all she is a dog who believes that she is a person. She lies contently, almost prayerfully, at my feet.

So I stand at the end of the sad little holy dock and raise my arms in Thanksgiving. This is the day that the Lord has made.

Indeed.

No one is out and about on this part of the island. They’re getting ready for church or standing in line at the Breakfast Club. Many are still sleeping while others take long drags off of cigarettes and try to remember what yesterday was like. Runners are running and walkers are walking along the beach. Somewhere someone is singing.

I figure it’s a good time to count my blessings. After a shitty couple of years, I am happy. On a morning like this I am mindful of the special things that have made me so.

Somehow, I’m still not quite sure how, I was given the gift of time ... to be quiet … to have solitude and time for reflection. I was able to take inventory. Over time I began to notice the things around me in new and deeper ways. Sitting on this dock or underneath Fran’s thousand shades of green all of the hurt in my life began to … heal.

I’m not one to dwell on regrets. I did the best that I could and, sure I screwed up some along the way, but everybody screws somewhere along the way. It’s just the way life works. Sure, if I could do things over again I would do some differently but we don’t get to do things over again.

Over this time, I’ve thought long and hard about this. There are a handful of regrets. As much as I would like for there not to be any, they are. Uninformed decisions, poor choices or selfish reasons were the foundation of each.

Sometimes it was me just being me and having to pay the consequences It’s amazing to me the people who don’t want me to be me … who I am. They want me to be someone else. They want me to be who they want me to be.

To hell with them! There is unholy evil in that. God made me. I trust her to be live my life as me. They can go to church and pray for me if it makes them feel better.

But … I feel fine.

With my arms raised on the end of Shirley’s sad little holy dock I say a one word prayer.

“Thanks”

And at that moment, the choir of birds burst into their songs. The sun climbs higher and sprinkles more diamonds on the Back River. The lightest of breezes suddenly kisses my face. Goddess stands and nudges my leg. A dolphin jumps and returns to the same hole in the water that she made when she leaped into the air.

All of this happening at the same time takes my breath away.

God’s not finished with her masterpiece.

She’s just getting started.

And I’m gonna play.

Beach Run

A few hundred of us showed up for today’s “Turtle Trot” 5K race for the Marine Science Center here on Tybee. It’s the first time that I’ve officially registered and participated. A friend asked me to do it then Kristen and her boyfriend Sterling wanted in so it became a family affair.

I’d run by it for the past several years but had never got around to actually registering. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have this year either were it not for the specific invitation. Kristen and Sterling arrived at the Pier first and registered for us.

We arrived and got ready.

Sterling has this thing about wanting to compete with me on anything. We shot pool together Friday night and he’s a real trash talker. For the race he said, “I’ll be waiting on you at the finish line, sitting in a beach chair and having a beer.”

“Uh-huh” I say.

“By the time you cross the finish line I’ll probably have killed a six-pack.”

“Uh-huh,” is my witty reply.

It is a glorious day on Tybee Island. The sun is bright, the sea is calm and there are no clouds in the sky. It’s a day that has “beach” written all over it!

I don’t recognize most of the people in the crowd. They all seem to be from somewhere else. A handful are friends from Tybee. It’s a funny collection of serious runners dressed in spandex, compression socks up to their knees, special caps and sunglasses. Then there’s the rest of us.

I have on a “St. Marteen Drinking Team” tee shirt, black shorts and shoes off of the sales rack.

Kristen has lost her mind and is wearing sweat pants. By far my most independent child, she’s always done things her own way and I never give it much thought anymore.

The thing about trying to organize a serious run on the beach is … you’re on the beach. Only the ones in Spandex and compression socks seem to be unaware of this. They stretch and run in place.

I’m looking at girls in bikinis.

Bob Marley is blasting from my I-Pop. “Livy yourself up,” he sings, “nobody will do it for you.”

People start running pass me and I surmise that the race has started. So we run.

There are maybe 300 of us including a midget who is serious runner. And she could fly! It was fascinating watching her dart through the people of all shapes and sizes moving at various speeds. She kept checking her running watch as she did so. The woman is a runner!

After about a mile I’m sliding into a zone. Bob is now telling me to “Stir it up.” My pace quickens as the sweat comes. I stay with my friend and try not to run into people as I keep looking at the sunlight dancing like diamonds on the ocean. A giant cargo ship is on the horizon. Dolphins swim to the side of us running. Cannonball jellyfish litter the beach.

I think about picking one up and throwing it at Sterling as he runs passes me but think better of it. Most people don’t know that these are the only jellyfish that don’t sting and I could start a riot.

In the middle of the race my friend has to pee. I run faster. This could be uglier than me throwing a jellyfish. The wind is in our face so if she pees while running the people behind her could get sprayed.

I don’t want anything to with this. I decide to catch up with Sterling and kick it up a notch.

Bob’s now telling me “No Woman, No Cry.”

“Tell me about it,” I tell him back.

As I cross the finish line a few short steps behind Sterling, Bob is saying “Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright! Everything’s gonna be alright!”

Sterling high-fives me and I tell Bob.

“It already is.”

Then I turn around to see what damage my friend has done.

Reconvening the Kitchen Cabinet

“Well if it’s not the Prodigal Son,” said Ben Barnes into the phone after his wife Betty had told him that it was me calling.

“Hi Prodigal Pop,” I replied.

Ben is 92 years old, the former Chairman of the Board of Union Mission, my partner in starting the Employment & Training Center, J. C. Lewis Health Center and the Starfish Café, and a dear friend. He is a long retired banking God (First Atlanta, Bank of England and started the now Wells Fargo Bank in Savannah for fun in his retirement).

We would travel together bringing money from other places to Savannah. At 5:00 every afternoon I would go to his hotel room and he would open his briefcase and pull out a bottle of triple malt scotch.

“Nectar of the Gods,” he would say while pouring.

It’s hard not to love Ben. We would sit in his room processing the day and making plans for tomorrow.

“What are you doing?” he demanded into the phone.

So I told him. We’re meeting for lunch at the Starfish Café next week so that he can advise me on things. Ben is a mentor and member of my kitchen cabinet.

Back when Andrew Jackson was President he got sick of the bad advice from people he worked with so he fired them all. In their place he collected people he trusted to give him advice. They were dubbed the Kitchen Cabinet.

Throughout my career I’ve had a Kitchen Cabinet. They have guided me well. Those last years at Union Mission the work got so messy and complicated and I stopped convening them.

I had a small minded person who never met anything that he didn’t like to rape asking me to justify everything that I was doing. Plus the agenda was suddenly daunting though … very manageable but he zapped my time and energy with minutia and small minded matters. At the same time I’d fired those who proved untrustworthy. It was emotional and taxing. Then my wife left and it got worse and I stopped calling on the Kitchen Cabinet.

That was a mistake!

Now it’s time to do things again. So I’m reconvening the Kitchen Cabinet.

After Ben I called his daughter Carole Beeson, also a former Board Chair of Union Mission. She was the first woman to ever chair the Board and is a fireball. “Well, my brother is finally back from the dead,” she exclaimed into the phone.

After catching one another up on personal stuff she told that it was time to straighten things out.

“You mean rearrange the past?” I asked.

“Yep,” she said with utmost confidence.

Then Philip and I had an email conversation. Joe Daniel and I have been going back and forth. Herb will be back soon. Mary Ann Beil and I are getting together next week after I meet with Ben. Terry Ball will be in town soon. I still have to track Thurmond Tillman down but he’s a minister and damn near impossible to get hold of. I’m thinking about adding Tony and DaVena Jordon because they make it all younger. And youth is the secret to creativity!

For the first time in a long time, I sit at a table and roll my fingers across the top. My leg shakes under the table full of energy and vigor. My senses are exploding. It’s time to create!

When I was at Union Mission I would end every meeting with every staff person with the mantra “Go create something.”

And we did.

The likes of which have never been created before.

It was the youthfulness of the people I worked with coupled with the wisdom of the Kitchen Cabinet that made it so.

Today, I’m young again after a couple of years of being old. I’ve surrounded myself with the youthful thinking of creative people regardless of their age.

It’s time to kick ass.

And I need my Kitchen Cabinet again.

Everybody else … needs to get out of the way.

The Theater of Bad Things

Last night a tornado decided to take a stroll down Park Lane in Madison, Georgia which happens to be where my son lives. Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie have this killer house on a beautiful street in a drop dead gorgeous area in one of the country’s most picturesque southern towns.

As much of a beach bum as I am their place is one of the only non-ocean retreats that I like. Every view is a postcard view. We enjoy one another anyway and our senses of humor complement one another’s so we laugh a lot. We can also have prolonged serious conversations about most anything. But when you get to do it in a setting as charming as where they live … it is this quaint bonus.

Coming home from Pittsburgh yesterday I kept hearing about storms coming. They were supposed to sit the Steel City around 4:00 and I was hoping that I could get out early. Because of pre-planning we finished a meeting scheduled for six hours in three. I was back at the airport booking myself on an earlier flight.

That flight was delayed.

So I chatted on the phone for an hour with my friend about dancing, the state of homeless work in Savannah, angels, assholes and which church we would like to attend. The hour passed quickly and then my plane was delayed for another hour … because of storms. I finally made it to Atlanta which was of course a cluster. There were long lines at every gate.

As soon as I got off the plane I looked at the monitors for the first flight to Savannah though the one I was booked for was now leaving well after midnight. Luckily it was on the same concourse so I ran down, showed them my ticket, got a seat, ordered a glass of wine and came home.

When I got home from the Breakfast Club this morning, Age my sister … her real name is Angi but I’ve always called her Age … was texting me asking me if I’d talked to Jeremy.

“Why?” I texted back.

Before she could respond a voice mail message popped up from Jeremy. The quaint massive oak tree in their front yard is now in their living room. Jeremy, Marie, Smoo and Beans (their cats) made it into the basement with about three minutes to spare.

“Damn storms,” I muttered.

But my kids are safe. None of that other stuff matters. It’s just stuff. Stuff can be replaced. Kids cannot.

My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie calls and describes what had happened. After she finished she said, “One day we have to have a long talk about all of this.”

I understood her meaning.

Why do bad things happen to good people?

Throughout my career I’ve had a front row seat at the theater of bad things. Homelessness ... AIDS ... The worst access to the best health care in the world … The hell that is behavioral health ... The Georgia State Capitol ... Congress ... Mega-churches … Tybee Parking Services. I’ve had first-hand experience with it all of it.

After I hung up with Marie the first thing I did was to say the most holy and simplest of prayers.

“Thank God.”

Then I told my friend what had happened. Then I talked to Janice and Kristen … and Chelsea and Sam just need to keep having a good old time being engaged in Europe right now with no worries.

So Goddess and I wandered out to the beloved back deck and took our places. The tree in my backyard is growing its own mushroom. Who knew that trees do mushrooms like we did in college (not you Dedra, Mark and Mitch … oh … by the way … that’s where I was all of those Baptist Student Union nights that I didn’t show up to)?

But my kids are alright.

Saltwater fills my eyes and the prayer becomes even holier.

“Thank God.”

I hate the theater of bad things.

Then I keep praying.

“Hey God. Just why in the hell did you make it?”

I Feel Fine

“Morning Rev. Elliott,” she called as I made my way through the airport.

She looked vaguely familiar and was surrounded by High School kids who were all taking over the Starbucks near the Delta gates.

“I’m Dora. I used to work at Union Mission,” she beamed as we shook hands. She was there with a Bulloch County High School is on their way to New York City for an “Educational” trip she explained while making quotation marks with her fingers.

I laughed. “Good for you!”

“You look good” she said rubbing my shoulder.

“Thanks. I am good.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Pittsburgh.”

“OK … hey I just want to say that I loved working for you. It was a wonderful time.”

I smiled and rubbed her shoulder. “I want to thank you for everything you did to make us do all of those things. We helped a lot of people.”

“We sure did,” she exclaimed.

Making my way through the kids I couldn’t help but think that this is a nice way to start the day. It’s funny I fly out of Savannah a lot and rarely do I encounter people that I know. Most seem to be going to and from Hilton Head. I see more Savannah people in the Atlanta airport than I do in Savannah.

Settling into my seat on the plane I spy a couple in the seats in front of me whispering intently. Then this elderly couple stands and turns towards me awkwardly.

“Are you Micheal Elliott?” both ask at the same time.

“I am,” I reply awkwardly standing to shake their hands.

They smile at me. “You helped our son a while back. We never said thank you. We thought that it was you.”

What does one say?

“You’re welcome,” I reply. “That’s why we were there.”

They sit back down. I sit back down. I have no idea who they are ... or who their son is.

Last week and this week Jodi has had me getting in touch with people that I haven’t talked with in a year. So I sent them an email asking for a favor and it’s been interesting. There was this immediate burst of replies from people across the country … Atlanta, Idaho, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Chicago …

Then typical Savannah waited a few days before responding (well, aside from Peter Doliber who is always fast on the draw) so over the weekend and the first of this week I started getting responses. Also in typical Savannah fashion most said that they would but only if I would meet them for lunch first.

Hmmmm … this could become a pain in the ass. Of course in Savannah all business actually takes place during lunch, Happy Hour, dinner or on somebody’s boat. I’m not really sure why anybody has an office.

But … I feel good. I evidently look good too. Who knew? And though I’ve been doing this work sporadically over the past few months, it begins in earnest today.

I’ve signed a contract and work starts in Pittsburgh before moving on to Anchorage, Austin, Cleveland, San Juan, and Santa Barbara. There is also this thing in Philadelphia that I’m committed too. Atlanta keeps calling but … it’s Atlanta.

This Sabbatical that I’ve been on has been long was overdue and it has been good for me. If you ever feel that you need one, or have to just get away from it all, then I strongly encourage you to listen to yourself.

I didn’t and it costs me.

But then it sent me on this journey because I had no choice. At first I simply went around in circles like dying Horseshoe crabs on the shore. Then I said to myself, “To hell with this. I got one life to live. I’m not going to spend the rest of it like this. I’m living to love another day.”

And I do.

And it’s time to go back to work.

So today I am.

But there is nothing the same about who I am.

And I feel fine.

Dead Love

Running in the soft sand of the mouth of the Back River the shore is littered with dead Horseshoe Crabs and Cannonball Jellyfish. The banks of the shore are steep here so when the tides go out it leaves them behind. In the sand are the tracks of the desperate attempts of the Horseshoe Crabs to claw themselves back into the water. Some become disoriented and go in circles. Others make a straighter dash to the ocean and live to see another day.

It is a sad sight.

What makes it sadder is that Horseshoe Crabs only come ashore to mate.

Looking for love literally kills them.

The theme from M*A*S*H pops into head and plays over and over as I run through the sands of dead love.

Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be
The pains that are withheld for me, I realize and I can see …
That suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
And I can take or leave it if I please

It’s the punk rock version that plays … lyrics relentlessly spit out over crashing drums, fiery guitars and a haunting piano melody. It’s the opposite of the sweet version on the reruns of the show.

It reeks of the pain that envelopes dying things.

“The game of life is hard to fake …” the band changes the lyric and I realize it for the first time. And I note how true it is. We stay in places we don’t like. Our relationships are unfulfilling. We go through motions we hate. We remain in rotten relationships for the kids. We sleepwalk through life with little joy, less laughter and precious little love.

We … settle.

Yesterday a friend of mine up and quit her job. She doesn’t have another one but she hated the one that she had so she quit. What makes this even more shocking is that she’s going through a divorce. Talk about guts! I can’t help but admire that! Throwing caution to the wind is one thing … kicking it in the ass is another!

Through the early morning fog I see, visions of the things to be …

Growing up is not the absence of dreaming. Ah, but having the guts to chase your dreams …well… that is a rare thing.

I turn at the of the mouth of the ocean and there is no more dead love here. The shore has a gradual slope. The beach is clean aside from the occasional dead Jellyfish who don’t have a mind to make up anyway and let life take them … whereevs.

I keep thinking about the crabs and the two kinds of tracks that they left in the sand. Most ran in circles never making up their minds to … live.

Some realized though that there is only this one life. They had experienced love on the shore but it wasn’t what they needed so I imagine they said to themselves, “To hell with this! There’s better out there. I’m living to love another day!”

So they did.

The rest gave their lives away and litter the shore.

Premature

Today there is all of this stuff that I’m supposed to do in town. Homeless guys who are my Face Book friends have been after me forever to see them. Some want advice. Others just want to catch up. One has a business proposition for me and guarantees me big money if I come out of retirement to help him start a Fortune 500 Company.

So I picked a day and it’s today to meet with all of them.

Lunch is with my old friend and accountant Carlton.

Then it’s back to corporate headquarters to finalize stuff which should have been finalized last week (ummmm…Rebekah, exactly where are we?). There is lots of work and planning to do and I have timelines again … sigh …

This is big because I don’t go to Savannah much anymore except for the airport which really belongs to Hilton Head anyway. Hilton Head has also purchased the thunderstorm rights to Tybee so it rains there but not here.

But yesterday I took a nap and woke up with an infected ear. Normally, like most males, I would ignore this knowing that it will either go away or get worse. Either way it would work itself out. But I have to fly to Pittsburgh later this week and remember something about ears blowing up on airplanes if they’re not healthy so I resolved to get in touch with Jerry Williams this morning to make sure I’m not a terrorist threat.

Then I got in my car and the battery was dead.

Hmmmm … Is God trying to tell me something?

So … I hopped on my bike and rode it to the Breakfast Club. Johnny O was back after a week of being on loan to the Legends Golf tournament in Savannah. Over coffee he was telling me all about the tournament and I couldn’t hear anything that he said.

I reframed the entire question about God trying to tell me something. I was being blessed and didn’t know it. So Johnny O talked and I nodded my head not hearing anything that he said. Thank you Jesus! Thank you Lord!

Riding my bike back home, I got to thinking. Are these things signs? Should I be focusing on the things around me rather than the people demanding my attention who are elsewhere? My focus for the past year has been on me, healing and finding my way back to me again.

I was telling my best friend how excited I am about the future and all of the things that I’m ready to do. Hell, Skutch and I had a long funny conversation on the phone Friday (Skutch is like an actor in “B” movie playing a reporter but he really is a reporter and covered me for the past decade.). She told me that it’s nice to see me excited again.

But now I can’t help but wonder … am I being premature about all of this? Is God reminding me to not rush? To completely finish healing before I dive back in to the world and its unrelenting demands? Did God stick her wet finger in my ear to remind me that I’m not quite healed yet?

A few months ago, in a Ft. Lauderdale restaurant Dr. Jane Lowe of the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation and I were having dinner. She looked at me firmly and said, “Micheal do not rush this Sabbatical. It would be like having heart surgery and then going on one of your five mile runs before you can take it. You’d be far worse off than you are now.”

She’s really the only person to be so blatantly affirming of how I’ve spent the past year. Even now there are all of these people who want me to do things. Or they want to do things with me. I’m being cautious. It seems premature somehow.

My friend Samuel Admas, who plays damn good live music for a living and is the mastermind behind Bar Church, was after me last week to be a part of yesterday’s Easter Sunrise Service on the Pier. As soon as he asked me I said no. So typical Sam he asked me again. I said “Hell no.” He smiled and said “Fine, I’ll text you.”

But I stood in the back yesterday enjoying and watching it all. Tybee Church blew the other churches away (and I can’t get “Amazing Grace” to the tune of “House of the Rising Sun” out of my head. Thanks Sam!).

I was struck though, that I’d made the right decision. As they sang a funky version of “Holy, Holy, Holy” I slipped away. I’ve had my time in the limelight of the crowds. And I’ll have it again. But … now would be premature.

And God can be funny sticking a wet finger in your ear to give it an infection to remind you of the things that are most important.

Sunrise

The Baptist Minister brought the invocation and the Methodist Minister delivered the Homily but it was Bar Church’s show. It may as well have been Woodstock on a Pier in the name of Jesus! Sam Adams, Gordo, Davy and boys in the band were on their “A” game before sunrise.

With crowds spilling onto the beach, cross walks and standing in the parking lot the band was cracking it up at the annual Easter sunrise service. A white cross was behind them decorated with the green branches of Palm Trees. The ocean was calm and flat. No clouds would interrupt the rising of the sun to symbolize the rising of the dead.

A bit earlier I rode my bicycle to the Breakfast Club and stumbled in the door marked “Exit” only. Everyone was busy getting ready for what was going to be a crazily busy day. After celebrations of Saviors rising from the dead there is a mad dash to the Breakfast Club, Sunrise, and the Rock House for breakfast.

“When does it end?” Val asked me wearing white bunny ears, a fluffy white bow tie and a little white cotton tail. She’s forever showing her ass.

“When the sun comes up,” I reply.

She turns around, bends over and sticks the cotton tail in my face.

Then Ryan comes in wearing pink bunny ears. I groan. This is disgusting. I fix a to-go cup and peddle to the Pier for the show … ummmm … I mean service.

The Band outperformed the clergy! People are still talking about the “Amazing Grace” finale sung to the tune of “House of the Rising Sun”. Typical Tybee! Why can’t you have Amazing Grace in a whore house?

The sun comes up on cue.

It was impressive. A lot of people clapped and demanded an encore.

I return to my seat at the Breakfast Club. My friends are gobbling down food before it opens trying to get ready for the onslaught of Christian eaters.

And then the Lord rose. And the line formed. And it was bedlam.

The place filled up in a nanosecond. Everyone was rushing to take care of the Easter dressed crowd. A line a block and half suddenly formed outside of the door. The Breakfast Club became claustrophobic.

“Anybody need anything?” I ask standing up.

One of my duties as Chaplain of the Breakfast Club is to get cigarettes for those who forgot to them for themselves. I do this four or five times a week.

“Vodka at one o’clock,” yells Val.

“Ah,” I say, “Of course but we better make it two or Ryan will get all pissed and I don’t want him chasing me around in pink bunny ears.”

“Love you long time,” Val says giving me to-go cups to return later with.

I return to my bike and peddle down Tybrisa Street (which used to be 16th Street and is between 15th and 17th Street but elected officials once again decided to mess with the brains of the public). The other day I was almost killed on Tybrisa Street on my bike. A mad motorist in a convertible full of kids tried to run me down. By a miracle of God I somehow survived.

Anyway in the cool of the morning the Church people are lined up at every place selling breakfast. The beer bottles and cups from last night still line the sidewalks and benches. Families walk down the street holding hands and singing “Amazing Grace” to a tune about a whore house. Cigarette butts fill the street. The Mayor sits on a bench drinking coffee and reading the paper. Across the street is a woman on another bench smoking a cigarette staring toward heaven trying to remember last night.

I peddle home and get Goddess. We stroll over to the sad little holy dock.

Choirs of mussels are singing Hymns. Choirs of birds join them. The once dead marsh grass is green. Fiddler crabs dance in the mud. Pelicans fly in formation overhead. It is all teaming with life after a deep dark winter that had chased life away.

Miracle of miracles! Dead thing come back to life!

I sit on the deck with my arm around my dog. We take it all in and I say a small prayer.

“Welcome back,” I say out loud.

Surprised

Commandeer Jodi (who can be as bitchy as Beckah) ordered me to get in touch with people whom I haven’t spoken with in a year. I’ve no communication with them whatsoever being on this Sabbatical, the center of my universe has been my back deck.

My support systems have been Fran’s thousand shades of green, a tight circle of friends and a dog. Quiet reflection have been the norm. Words were no longer necessary. Fran is now an angel who hovers over this place. There isn’t a day that goes by that she doesn’t tell me how loved I am. She and Goddess must talk regularly because she lets me know too. Then these friends … well, if it’s patterns that define behavior then … they let me know too.

Out of nowhere others started coming into my life. Some college friends were raised from the dead and another net was strung under the high wire act that’s been my life.

Then a few others showed up here asking if they could be a part of my future. With sadness consuming me, I looked at them as though they had lost their minds. What future? I had no idea what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to do anything. But they persisted.

There were a handful of others … scattered around that I stayed in touch with, meaning they heard from me or saw once or twice in a year … Terry, Karen, Peter, Tina, Philip and Herb … That was it.

It’s been a small world.

After living most of my life in a very large way, it’s been … fascinating. My college friend Mitch just left. He’s leaving his career just like I left mine. I was asking him about cleaning out his office and saying that I’ve got a lot plaques that I don’t know what to do with. Hell, I’ve got an Olympic Torch that I don’t know what to do with!

These things looked great in my office but they don’t fit so well into my house. I was telling Sarah the other day that my new office is my back deck and that I’m getting a sign to read “Micheal Elliott Enterprises, Corporate Offices.”

“You need to have on drift wood,” she quipped.

So I sent out messages to a lot of people whom haven’t heard from me in a year asking them a favor. “Would you be willing to say some things about my work? What kind of difference did it make? How others would benefit from these experiences?”

It’s a strange exercise. I went through the names of elected people, government employees, some who were intense partners, former Board members, news personalities … just about every kind of person.

A thirty-one year career means that I ended up knowing lot people. I worked with them, drank with them, we ate together, told sortied jokes with them that will get you into trouble if email them, had long talks with each other and stayed in one another’s homes.

But it had been a year. I’ve given them nothing. My small universe did not include them.

So it was humbling to ask for a favor when I’d given nothing. Throughout my career, I always had something to give. I could help with this or that. I could make introductions. I could do magic. But … I’ve mostly just sat on my Back Deck, my stool at the Breakfast Club, my seat at the Bored meeting or Shirley’s sad little holy dock.

For the first time ever, it’s just been about me.

It was hard to ask for the favor.

Because I love Stacy Jennings so much, I still get the Savannah Morning News and thumb though it every morning at the Breakfast Club. Then they grab it and rip it in a hundred different directions. The crossword puzzle is most popular part, followed by used car adds, the apartment search section, sports, tide chart and horoscopes. I’m not sure anyone actually reads any news (EXCEPT … anything written by Skutch!).

Over the past few months I’ve noticed while reading of others whom I’ve worked with who are no longer where they were. These were friends at hospitals, universities and even Catholic Charities. They’re all gone. Just like I am!

Savannah of course, goes on without us.

But yesterday when email started buzzing I was overwhelmed at the responses of my request for a favor. Throughout the day came notes and comments and promises from people scattered everywhere. The things that they had to say were … overwhelming.

After dragging me out on a night on the town, Mitch and I were sitting in the Corporate Headquarters office and I was telling him about all of this.

Mitch has this great gift. He can be stoic with the best of them while being impish at the same time. He thinks hard and deep but uses humor to make his points. It’s one of the many things I love about him. So sitting in the dark after a night on the town with our feet propped on the rail, he looks over as only he can do … with this smile that some would swear is a smirk … and said …

“You made a difference. Why are surprised?”

Good Friday?

Exactly what is so good about Good Friday? I mean it wasn’t all that good for Jesus.

After a last supper that didn’t go so well with Judas storming out in the middle of dinner and Peter apparently apparently wanting chicken, Jesus needed to clear his head and wandered into the garden for fresh air. Everybody else took a nap so the food at the last supper must have been heavy (hence Peter’s insistence on chicken). Those who didn’t nap stayed at the table listening to the live music (choirs of angels singing sad songs).

“I don’t want to do this,” Jesus mumbles out loud.

Silence …

“Seriously, I don’t want to do this.”

Silence …

There is a rumble in the bushes and Judas storms back in with a crowd of his new best friends. They greet one another with a kiss.

Then all hell breaks loose. Jesus is arrested for terrorism, committing acts of violence in a Temple, holding a whip slashing it at bankers and loan sharks. He was evidently so pissed he turned over tables, yelled slanderous terms, and sent a religious congregation fleeing from a maniac.

Peter angrily wakes from up his nap violently taking the ear off of one of Judas’ friends. “It’s OK,” Jesus says.

Then there are three different court appearances during which Jesus offers no defense. Pilate sends him to Herod who sends him back to Pilate who is not happy about the workings of his own judicial system. Pilate was also having his own problems at home with a bitchy wife who was telling him how to do his job.

In midst of this a rooter crows … Peter listens to it. The chickens have come home to roost.

While all of this was going on Jesus was in Abu Ghraib getting the shit beat out of him. Then he’s hauled back to Court for his final appeal. He’s got nothing to say obviously satisfied that his actions speak for themselves.

An exasperated Pilate wants a plea.

Silence ...

Outraged at the silence, Pilate continues the interrogation by asking “What’s true here?” Jesus keeps quiet. Pilate’s frustration grows and he asked “Just who do you think you are …God?”

Jesus looks up, shrugs his shoulders, and speaks for the first time. “Whatever.”

“To hell with you,” Pilate barks.

Jesus is led outside and stripped naked. An already beaten up man is slapped with a chunk of wood and carries it through a snarling crowd … people who had cheered his last public appearance a short time ago now hated his guts with everything in them. Last week it was coverage by the liberal media but now it’s Fox News, Entertainment tonight, and someone says “the Tribe has spoken” … you’re out of here.

Before he dies, there is one last controversy. “Hey, hot shot! If you’re all that … get us out of this.”

“Aw, leave him alone. He ain’t done nothing like we did. Hey Jesus, keep me in mind.”

Jesus mutters … “Today.”

Knowing that he couldn’t help anybody, including himself, Jesus asks for one last favor. “Take care of my Mom … God I’m thirsty.”

Silence …

“Suck on this,” someone yells.

And then it was over. His last words are spoken. “It is finished.”

Then the heavens speak in thunder.

Back at the reassembled Temple the crime scene tape that had been put up to keep people out blows away.

A few hours later he was taken down by the friends who had stuck with him to the end. His body’s wrapped in an old quilt and laid on top of other bones.

Wanting no more controversy, Pilate put up crime scene tape and orders security.

And people went home …

And that was Good Friday.

The Garden

Once I was standing in front of the White House. I was in Washington to give a speech and it had gone well. It was almost dusk and Julie and I stood there pondering the sights, the power of the place, the city cut in half --- the poorest of the poor living in front of the mightiest of the mighty. It is a place the can inspire and make you sick at the same time.

“What would you do if you were President?” she quietly asked.

At the time I was staring at the lawn and said the first thing that came to mind.

“I’d probably be out here picking crab grass.”

She laughed and said “The world would be a better place if President’s came out and did that every evening.”

At that time I would come home from work, run five miles to release the stress of work, then spend an hour or so tending plants that I’d planted and pulling crab grass of the yard. I was into it and in time at all the yard, deck and flower gardens that I’d planted made the place more beautiful. Tension was gone. I was proud. And the vibes of the living plants all around me birth good karma and it was hard not to admire the beauty of it all.

Then I’m not sure when but several years ago a tipping point was tipped. Work, tension and other problems overcame the gardening. My plants died. Crab grass grew in clumps around the yard. Weeds came. Beauty faded.

And something inside of me died too.

Sadness grew around the house. My marriage ended. Work became frustrating and difficult. Life became hard.

In the middle of all of this last year I went to Home Depot and bought a lot of stuff and for the first time in years planted flowers. I called them my “Promise Flowers” because they signified better things were coming. It wasn’t much but it was a step in the right direction.

A couple of month’s ago, I was feeling better. I’d been traveling across the country working to help people and their organization do things better. The better-ness rubbed off on me and new plans had been made and started to fertilize. New offers and opportunities came my way. The joy of friends, music, and love sustained me though the bad stuff.

One day sitting on the Beloved Back Deck, I was talking to my Mom describing what I wanted to do in the back yard. For years I’d intended to turn it into a funky garden that reflected things I love. Now my mother is a gardener on steroids. The next day she shows up with supplies and work began. Somehow I became a sub-contractor in my own garden.

Today Goddess and I took a run and then we were watering the flowers. Goddess is a dog who thinks she’s a person so she helps me with lots of things. There were these trees that Mom had left to be planted so without thinking much I planted them. Goddess ran around the yard. Choirs of birds sang. The sun shone. And it felt … satisfying.

Back when I was at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel employed as a Professional Christian (getting paid to do what I asked others to do for free) we were forever going outside of the Hymn Book for inspiration. A favorite was a Pete Seeger and Arlo Guthrie song. We’d sing it in Sunday Service instead of those “sad old sisters of Salvation singing Nearer My God to thee” songs.

“Grain for grain, sun and rain, find my way in nature’s chain, tune my body and my brain to the music of the land.”

I haven’t thought of it in years and years but today with Goddess running around the yard, dirt on my knees, the sun on my back, the song was raised from the dead and I found myself singing as I worked. Afterwards, watering the newly planted tree, I stepped back.

“Damn,” I said out loud to Fran’s thousand shades, to all of the growing things around me, to Goddess and myself and God, “I feel good.”

Running Thoughts

If a girl wearing a thong moons you … does it make a difference?

As I ran passed the girls wearing thongs on the beach today I was struck by another random running thought. When I run random thoughts pop into my head.

Some are keepers and turn into my daily musings. Others are unanswerable questions like this one (though I’m certain that some of you have the answer). Sometimes my mind goes blank and the beach in front of me may as well in another universe then I snap out of it and I’m half a mile further along than last time I noticed.

How do they put air into a tennis ball? I wonder as I watch a boy throw one into the waves and laugh with glee as it carries it back to him.

Today was an adventurous run as there are a lot of people here. Spring Break is breaking all around me! I love it!

So as I ran north on the south end there is bank of sand dunes and laying there two is a couple making love. The term “sandy bottoms” comes to mind. I don’t want to be rude so I keep going though I do wonder how they will get all of the sand of their mouths, their bottoms and God knows where else?

Making my way past the jetty I notice the season’s first cannon ball jellyfish have washed ashore. These are the only species of jellyfish that do not sting. Tourists don’t know that and shriek and take wide steps out of the way.

The Bored, which meets every day in front of Fannie’s-On-The-Beach to celebrate life on the island, has come up with another category … there are tourists and then there are “Tourons” (tourist + moron = Touron). In spite of our outward appearance the Bored really does think about things.

When Chelsea was a little girl she and I spent days on the beach together. Just she and I. Tourists would spot a dead cannonball jellyfish, scream, poke dead marsh oats into it and stay way back. It might jump from the sand and sting them!

Little Chelsea would stroll over into the midst of the family and pick it up. Tossing it up in the air like a baseball she would look and yell “HEY DAD! Want to play catch?” Then she’d throw it at me.

So if you put peanut butter on a jellyfish what would you have? If it was crunchy peanut butter, would it make a difference?

Making my way further along I see that the marshes on Back River are being cleaned by the ocean’s rising tides. The marsh turns dark brown after it dies and as the new green marsh grows underneath it pushes last year’s sea grass up. High tide fills the marsh twice each day carrying a load of last year’s marsh out to sea. A lot of it washes ashore and I run through it.

A lot of people complain about living in the south because it doesn’t have four seasons. But it does. Just study the seasons of the marsh. In winter it is brown. In spring it turns light green. By summer, Fran has risen from the dead, and it is a thousand shades of green. In the fall, it turns golden yellow and then brown.

It’s as beautiful as any leaves on trees changing color. I don’t why people go so nuts over that. Hell, they can name more types of cars that they are driving than they can the trees of changing leaves that they are seeing.

Running under the pier (or Touron Central according to the Bored), I suddenly worry that Sam Adams is looking for me. Sunday is of course Easter, as if anybody couldn’t know that, and Sam is after me to participate in the Sunrise Service. When I was informed that it was Palm Sunday earlier this week by Sam, he immediately started asking to participate in the Easter service.

For a thousand years there have been four churches on Tybee; Baptists, Catholics, Methodists and Episcopalians … a little something for everybody. And for years they have rotated who would be the lead sponsor for the Easter sunrise service. This year however there is a fifth church.

Yep! Bar Church! Tybee Church which meets in the Wind Rose Bar every Sunday! They are the lead sponsor of this year’s Easter Sunrise service. Sam, Gordon and the entire band will be on the Pier. I’m uncertain at this point as to the roles of the ministers of the Baptist, Catholic, Methodist or Episcopalian Churches … I have a hard time seeing them singing “Jesus is just alright with me” along with the band but … it could happen.

I turn on Twelfth Street and make my home. In preparation for Easter which I’ve thought about since I learned that last Sunday was Palm Sunday, I baptize myself in the holy water of the outdoor shower.

Hugs: The Sequel

Last night I was summoned by the Breakfast Club softball team to perform my duties as Chaplain of the Breakfast Club by showing to heckle the other team which takes soft ball as serious as those church league players. You know how church league softball is! They go for the jugular, castrate the other, slide with your cleats up in the name Jesus softball!

I have played for two Tybee Island softball teams in my life; the famous “Beach Bums” and the “Breakfast Cubs”. Both were in it for the fun interrupted only by bouts of seriousness … like, why is the cooler empty?

Anyway I had not been to a Breakfast Cubs game since I delivered their victory during the fall season when they asked me to deliver the invocation before the game. I did. They won.

This time they did not ask for invocation. They asked me to show and heckle the other team which takes itself as serious as church softball players. They did look like a church soft ball team with tidy white pants with no panty lines, professional looking jerseys and hats sporting their favorite team logos. They were intimidating.

On the other hand, the Breakfast Cubs looked like a bunch of surfers. The guys wore tee shirts promoting the legalization of marijuana, bathing suit bottoms and flip flops. The girl players wore halter tops and short shorts. It was clear to see who the underdog was.

So in a moment of brilliant strategy, Ryan Sadowski called asking me to come and heckle them. He knows that I am a Baptist minister and speak “Church soft ball” as a second language, which is basically condemning the other team to hell and doing everything you can to get them there by the seventh inning.

I was flattered. I am pretty good at it from my days at Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where we formed a homeless church softball team. It was great! We never won a game. When we played Highview Baptist Church they started making fun of us before the game had even started. Sure our second baseman had schizophrenia, was intimidated by the manicured field and the bright lights so he lay down and hugged the base.

Our left fielder kept staring at the massive buildings of the mega church campus rather than watch the batter (he was learning that Baptist love buildings more than people). And our catcher never really caught anything. So they loudly made fun of us until I got … righteous indignation! Meaning they pissed me off.

So I started heckling back. My homeless team mates noticed that I was representing on their behalf. Sonny the left fielder turned to see what was going on. Dave, the second baseman rolled over and lay there staring me. Pouche the catcher kept missing every ball that came his way.

And in the name of Jesus they beat the shit out of us … laughing and celebrating like Samson did after beating the Philistines with the jawbone of an ass. So I know what it’s like to beaten by jawbones of asses. And they were!

But I learned how to heckle.

So I showed up last night but when I did there was my friend Katie and she gave me a hug. Then I was hugged by Caroline. Then Patti! And it kept on until Philip hugged me and then I was suddenly hugged out.

But I learned something. Hugging hinders heckling. I was really bad at it last night.

In the afterglow of so many wonderful hugs, I got to thinking. Hmmmm … What happens when one hug leads to another? And then another! And another! Then you’ve progressed to something else entirely!

I found this line of thought much more entertaining than the game. Then I got to thinking about what would happen if church softball teams hugged before games? Or elected officials? Police officers! Tybee Island Parking Services? (yeah … that last one’s not gonna happen)!

So I think that hugging should become a competitive sport.

I’ve been told that I’m pretty good at it and would like to take it to the next level. Training has already begun and I’m feeling pretty good about where I’m at. Of course it means rigorous commitment and high performance standards with multiple partners. I eat, sleep and dream hugging.

So … when your heart is heavy … hugs are in order.

When you’re happy … hugs are in order.

If you’re pulled over the cops … hugs are in order.

For no reason at all … hugs are in order.

Ok, I got to get back to training. My partner just showed and looks intense and well prepared. I gotta get my game face on!

Because today … I’m taking it to the next level!!

Now and then

My all-time favorite writer is Frederick Buechner, a Presbyterian minister and teacher who took the words of one of his professors Paul Tillich …

“We want only to show you something we have seen and to tell you something we have heard ... that here and there in the world and now and then in ourselves is a New Creation.”

Buechner took the phrase “Now and Then” as the title of the second book in a series that chronicles his spiritual quest. What he so beautifully says is that every now and then … we get God.

Each of us has these occasional glimpses of glory. Every once in a while the beauty of God, usually some event, even simple ones like listening to two branches from an apple tree clack together and know that it can be the voice of God talking directly to you.

Or, sitting on a sad little holy dock, lost and alone … maybe with a dog;

Or coming home to find that there are people who are being church in the holiest senses of the word because you’re in desperate need of it from them … and they haven’t been to church in years. But they are there for you.

Or maybe IT IS in Church when choirs happen to get it all just right for once and the congregation is left in stunned silence of the majesty of perfection and for a second or two they are perfect like God is perfect.

The thing is … you have to live through a lot of shit to get to these moments.

Often painful stuff … heart wrenching things that leave you without a voice to speak … or anger that is fierce and rises from deep within, often anger that was years and years in the making … and you know the anger and frustration is ripping you apart but you allow it to continue because of the hurt … so you keep getting ripped apart.

But in the midst of these things … the beauty of God’s ways of doing things can burst through for a second or two … and something new is created.

I am not the same now … as I was then.

I know that I’m not.

Yet I also know that I seem to find myself intimately involved in … a new act of creation.

Deep shit right?

But … it’s true. Now I appear to others the same but different. The memories of hurt, both that I inflicted on others and the hurt inflicted on me remain very real feelings. I can still be intense but am … softer. Lost smiles are raised from a place like hell …where there is no laughter … be it in the center of the earth or in the house that you live in.

When I left Union Mission all of my books were packed up by my Mom, Nanci- my- almost-sister, my daughter Kristen and Keller Deal. They’re in boxes at my Mom’s house. I just couldn’t bear disassembling what I’d spend 23 years putting together so they did it for me. Nor do I care for the continued disassembling of Union Mission by others who own it now. It’s painful and sad stuff.

Sitting on the beloved back deck …with Goddess …in the warm sunshine … surveying the yard that we’ve worked hard to transform into a work of art … suddenly the strangest of thoughts inexplicably burst into my head.

I remembered a book that was published in 1983 that I read and loved which is now buried in boxes somewhere at my Mom’s house.

My yard is being created. It is no longer now what it was then. A lot of work and investment has gone into it. Some parts were painful. But it is more beautiful and fulfilling now … than it was then.

And I believe that God is trying to say as I studied the creation of a new yard and made me remember a book from Seminary … is that I am too.

Though I have no idea what the end product is going to look like …

Hell I had no idea I’d ever have babies at 21 who would grow into the most wonderful family, go to Seminary on a lark and help transform a church, become an author of books and blogs … be at Union Mission for 23 years helping create work the likes which has never been seen or be living alone with a dog … but … I can feel creation happening!

I have felt this way a few times before.

Every now and then.

Startled (to Goddess Elliott)

Goddess spent the night away from home last night so there wasn’t the normal homecoming of licking me, running around in circles wanting me to rub her butt and generally acting like a monkey humper! She was at my Mom’s house and as far as I know that’s the only other house that she has stayed at without me.

I missed her as she always greets me with sheer delight.

And the longer the nigh went, the more I missed her.

Leaving St. Martin makes for a long. It starts off fine enough as the entire morning is staring at the aqua blue of Orient Bay. I stayed through lunch and went back to Orange where Oliver (pronounced Uh-lav-ahh) shook my hand, embraced me then took me to meeting his wife Ana and baby boy.

While she and I talked Oliver was holding his baby making faces cooing with the boy. I was struck that it may be true that the French make sillier faces than Americans do, when comes to playing with babies.

Then he opened the sand floor restaurant just for me (an hour early) so that I could have lunch. We chatted and he reminded me again of how good I look.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I answered, “Amore and all of that that!”

“But of course,” he shot back.

Afterwards Conner and I said goodbye and promised to do it all again after successfully reconstructing about fifty-two percent of what we did. We congratulated each other how much we’ve matured as this was the first time that we could remember over half of whatever it is we do.

The Princess Juliana International Airport was a cluster of lines and the hurry-up-and-wait flying that is thanks to terrorists. The crowded plane took off for the four hours flight and I was in Atlanta … waiting in line … after hurrying up. Then I waited for the plane to Savannah but was ecstatic that a friend had shown up to drive me back to Tybee Island.

I fell into the loving arms of my own bed and was asleep in no time.

Then … my eyes popped open in the dark. The moon cast light on the Palm Trees outside of my windows. All seemed peaceful but … something was wrong.

Then I knew.

Goddess was not snoring lying in the floor beside the bed. Not once did I hear the familiar sound of the doggie door opening and closing while she made her rounds. There was no lapping water from her bowl. Not once did she nudge her butt next to the bed so that I could rub it with one hand while remaining under the covers; nor did lick my face if I happened to be sleeping too close to the side.

For the past sixteen months it has just been Goddess and me living in this house. We start and end every day together. She makes me laugh and is forever amazing me with the things that she’ll do. She creates joy out of thin air like only the best of friends can do.

Once flying to St. Martin I made the mistake of watching the movie “Marley and me.” I cried like a baby and promised Goddess that she can have whatever she wants the rest of her life. I have the hardest time imaging my life without her.

When I was in college I worked the Bulloch Veterinary Clinic. Once this old man had his very old dog who was obviously nearing the end. Dr. Dugan told the old man it would be better if the dog was put to sleep. Tears filled the old man’s eyes and he placed his hand over his mouth … and sobbed. I can still the sound of that sob all of these years later.

The old man stumbled into a chair and hung his head. Dr. Dugan waited patiently. I held the dog.

Finally the old man stood, staring at the dog, still with his hand over his mouth and tears in his eyes. He went to leave and Dr. Dugan started preparing the syringe.

Suddenly the old man turned and held up his hand. “I think I’ll just take him home. Thank you Doctor.”

And he did … driving away in an old blue pickup truck with arm around his dog.

I understand.

I’m ready for you to come home Goddess.

Going Home

She was a black girl wearing a white bikini.

“Why don’t you take the plunge and just move here,” she asked me. “I did six months ago and I love it. You will too.”

“Hmmmm,” I mumbled.

It’s actually something that I’ve almost done on several occasions. My rebel streak, love of Hemingway, Jimmy Bufffett, Bob Marley, sunshine, ocean and commitment to sand as a lifestyle had led me to seriously contemplate expatriating from the United States and moving permanently to St. Martin.

Then last year when I found myself alone, left a career and I would spend time thinking, “Well Why Not”?

I could work from here. All I need is an airport, cell phone and lap top with Internet connection. Why not?

But then again … something changed in me over the last several months.

Last June I was here and stayed and stayed thanks to Keller Deal. When I finally went home again there were these people waiting on me. My kids, Johnny O and Judy, Keller Deal, Sarah, Shirley … They were all worried about how I would be and, truth be told I wasn’t all that great. But they were there for me when I desperately needed someone there for me.

And there was Goddess loving me through the loneliest of times.

Then I was here again in November and December with Conner and Hania but by then I was changing …

Fran was raised from the dead and reminded me how beautiful my world is. Old friends from college came back into my life bringing me joy. At the Breakfast Club hugs came back to me and at the Bored meeting I was coached back into laughing. Then Sam and Gordon got me going to Bar Church with some regularity and I was reminded of the community that I live in which is what church really is anyway.

Then there is this sad little holy dock that I’ve grown to love. And love found me there one night and … I changed.

Through the winter months I went everywhere … east coast to west coast and back again. In south Florida I was instructed to take my time and heal. Don’t rush. Rushing is the worst thing that you can do. And while it seemed like everyone else was telling me to hurry up I realized that I needed to just stop … and feel.

Then little things started to mean a lot again. Smiles came quickly over a lone red leaf still clinging to a tree outside my bedroom window, peanut butter and yellow boots; the daily gathering of the Bored to celebrate life on Tybee Island ... and time contemplating on a beloved back deck. Endless laughter with Dee that is so contagious we almost hurt ourselves.

I’ve been coming here for a decade now and love it. There are people I love that I want to share it with.

But …

It is not home.

And it won’t be.

My home …

Well …

I know where it is …

Yep …

I do …

And I’m going back to it today …

La Massage

Rope.

A Garden Hose.

Duct Tape.

Vodka.

These are the things that Conner and I walked into the Fitness Center with for our messages. Nathalie had a customer when we arrived who was frightened when she saw us and left quickly. Conner and I locked ourselves in Nathalie’s room with our supplies. We planned on being there all afternoon.

The truth of the matter is that I’d already seen Nathalie earlier in the day when I used the duct tape to tape Emma in her room. Emma is British, believes in Krishna and was with a customer at the time … meaning that she was giving a message. As I ripped the duct tape off of the roll, Nathalie came flying out of her room, saw was I was doing and busted out laughing.

“I knew that is was you,” she said in her French accent. “Where’s Conner?”

“Getting rope,” I reply.

“Rope?” she asked. “For why”?

“You,” I explain continuing to tape Emma’s door shut.

She grabs her camera and takes a picture of the duct taped door.

Conner and I don’t just get massages. We orchestrate events. A lot of spontaneous planning takes place.

Actually the people who work here have come to expect such things of us. Sometimes other people help us, especially Jacob from Norway or Chuck from Palm Springs. On occasion Conner’s wife Hania participates. When members of the staff see us coming, they start laughing and shaking their heads.

Once after Conner and I had conducted a hostile takeover of the Managers Wine-and-Cheese party, Carlos was dispatched to see us. He tried his best to be serious as he explained that we were expected to act like normal guests.

“What do you mean” we asked?

“You have to have permission to do such things,” he firmly explained in his French Caribbean lilt.

So Conner obtained “Le Permit” from Chuck a long time guest of the place giving us permission to do, pretty much whatever we want.

Now Nathalie can be an evil bitch when she wants to … especially when waxing is involved ... as it was yesterday. She would rip. Then laugh. Rip! Then Laugh! Rip! Laugh!

So we tied her up.

Later in the afternoon I was sitting on my patio looking at these beautiful pictures that my best friend had sent me. Conner strolls over (Conner never rushes or even walks … he strolls) and explains that as the Captain of a boat he can perform weddings if he is three miles off shore.

“That’s good to know Conner,” I say. He is always surprising me with useful nuggets of information.

“OK then,” he says and leaves.

I go back to studying my pictures. Then Nathalie, who is on Face Book (you can do a search … just type in “evil” and her picture pops up!) decides to send me a lesson in spelling.

I hit the delete button.

Conner returns carrying rope.

“What you wanna do now” he asks.

Then Emma walks by.

“Hare Krishna,” I say.

Celebration

Well Conner got here.

That means I have no idea how I got home last night. I did wake up in my bed hugging my I-phone. No one was with me though somebody apparently set a bomb off in my tiny little studio.

The last thing that I remember is Conner, Carlos, Damien and I were sitting at Papagayos listening to “Shine” butcher songs. As manager of the restaurant, Carlos evidently pays Shine to butcher songs. Shine thinks that he’s really good as he pumps his fist to illustrate whatever song he’s singing. The thing is all of his songs sound the same so nobody is really sure what he’s singing. Everybody ignores him.

Damien is from Barbados and is doing his best to pick up white women. He’s having a difficult time as the alcohol was preventing him from keeping a straight face. The fact that Conner, Carlos and I were laughing hysterically at everything he did wasn’t helping his efforts.

Of course I was trying to keep it at an adult level. I would introduce serious topics for discussion like adopting Russian orphans or how love is the most important part of our future.

I remember Carlos jumping up and hugging me as I said these things. He and Conner saw me get through a lot of bad times the last few years. Carlos loves me and calls me his brother and I know that the color of skin doesn’t define brothers.

Somehow last night ended up being this celebration of that. I was happy and having a good time and two of the guys who worried about me and repeatedly made themselves available to me were celebrating ... me.

I told them about where I am now. This new career is unfolding. There is love in my heart. Both have been to Tybee Island and were asking me about Johnny O and the Breakfast Club and the Bored meeting. And there was just this … affirmation in the air.

At one point I sat back and looked at the table. Conner was laughing. Carlos was grinning and looking smug. Damien was staring at white women as he slumped to the floor. It was all just … happy.

So I told them a lot last night. About everything!

And we just … celebrated.

At one point I raised my glass and toasted them all. “SEE,” I exclaimed! And we celebrated some more.

And we evidently did a real good job because I have no idea who drove me home … though I’m only about fifty feet from Papagayos so it is feasible that I walked.

Conner is nowhere to be seen. He is my slab mate meaning his studio is next to mine. Wait! Good news! He is not dead. He just stuck his head over asking for water to make tea. He looks terrible. We stare at each other for a nanosecond and bust out laughing.

“Who drove us home last night,” he asks?

I shrug my shoulders. “It’s normally Hania. She’s our designated walker but she’s not here.”

“Well it wasn’t Damien.”

“It could have been Carlos. He wanted us to go out.”

We both contemplate this. Going out with Carlos is always fun but it can last for days.

“You cut your nipple,” Conner says as he walks away to fix tea.

Sure enough, blood is all over my chest.

“Damn,” I say to the French West Indies Trade winds, “I wish it was something else all over my chest this morning.”

The Last Resort

That last year at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel I was burned out. Not yet thirty and burned out as a professional Christian. Fame had come quickly and I was in magazines, on television shows and was invited across the country to speak in front of large crowds. A little broken down inner-city congregation had become this show case of what “church” can be.

I’d grown cynical about it all. The Baptists just wanted bigger numbers and I delivered. But they didn’t like how I did it. Homelessness, AIDS and Salvadorian refugees kept me in the newspapers and the Baptists didn’t believe in these things.

The last year was just a chore. I had become known as an unorthodox preacher who would say mostly anything. And I had a style. It’s a great job when you get to be the center of the universe for twenty minutes every Sunday speaking on God’s behalf. Like most preachers, I relished that time … Orgasmic preaching where you really the only one getting off.

I had groupies. God’s name was used in multiple ways; some more heavenly than others.

My grandfather, Rev. Ira Carver remains one of my heroes though he is long dead. He would come to Louisville often to visit me and I remember him talking to me once about it all. He told me that too much had come to me too quickly. He told me to be careful. Temptation was everywhere. Then he put his arm me and told me that he loved me and that he always would. No matter what!

He knew before I knew.

I would sit in my office prior to Church listening to the Eagles sing “The Last Resort”.

And you can see them there
On Sunday morning
They stand up and sing about
What it’s like up there
They call it Paradise
I don’t know why
You call some place Paradise
Kiss it goodbye

I’d listen to it over and over sitting in the dark of an office full of books and bars on the windows. I was sad. But there were these people that I’d come to love. Homeless people ... people who had discovered AIDS and were wasting away in front of me ... these little old ladies who should have been dead but they refused to die … and these crazy Seminary students who believed that we could change the world RIGHT NOW!

This had been my world for seven years or so. My children Jeremy and Kristen were born into this world. Chelsea came later and it is fascinating to me to see how she is different from the other two. Chelsea is more withdrawn, speculative and suspicious. Jeremy and Kristen are comfortable anywhere and anytime. Homeless people raised them. They touched AIDS when we were told you could catch just breathing air.

Chelsea has broken out of her … circumspect. We just finished talking. She’s in Italy and I’m in St. Martin. She’s engaged to Sam whom I love. I’m suddenly single. Unlike her brother and sister she is a beach baby and was trying to impress me with her Italian tan. I reminded her that she has tan lines. I don’t.

There is a six hour time difference between us and Sam has just gotten online so Dad gets bumped for someone more important. So this song keeps running through my brain. “Call some place paradise, kiss it goodbye.”

Then my Granddad comes back from the dead and visits me in Paradise just to tell me that he will always love me no matter what I did.

He makes me remember the great and the horrible of the things that I’ve done. And I can see him smile his Impish grin.

Hummingbirds startle me. They are suddenly everywhere. They are lite and dart from the Palm Trees and my heart is filled with love. I watch smiling a Mona Lisa smile. I find myself wishing.

And I thank my Granddad and God at the same time. I’m in Paradise. And I blow kisses to what has been … but more …to what will be. Because what will be is everything that I was born to become.