Endless Summer

It was a hot summer night but we were on the beloved back deck anyway celebrating it and each other on a Monday night. There was tons of food and drink. The collection of people was erratic and those meeting for the first time quickly became friends. Prayers floated to the sky as laughter. The air conditioned crowd remained inside through their laughter mingled with the outsiders. People flowed freely back and forth ... inside and out.

It was laid back Beach house stuff.

People started leaving at some point and after a while there were just a few of us. My guests did all the cleaning and now my refrigerator has enough leftovers inside to feed Ethiopia. Then I was left with one friend and we stood in the front yard under the Milky Way talking for the longest time.

Afterwards texts floated across cyber space and everybody kept talking. It was around midnight when I finally went to bed.

"What is the difference between last summer and this one?" I was asked as we walked Goddess in the early morning as a breeze blew salty air at us across the Back River.

"Hmmmm," I mused out loud. "A lot."

Last summer I was a mess. I'd left a career and had been left too ... finding myself suddenly single. I was burned out, crashed and burned and then was left to wallow in a sadness that dragged throughout the summer. The first part of last summer I hid out in St. Martin surrounded by friends but they left and I stayed on alone ... and a Sabbatical was born.

I'll never forget returning home. There was this tiny collection of friends waiting on me. They were scared for me actually so they stood vigil ... and they loved me through. In the midst of this old friends were raised from the dead and we all re-membered ... bringing ourselves back together again. Fran, who is long dead, sprinkled the green spouts of new life on me and reminds me every day that ... my life is now.

Then there is this one friend, relentless in love with a shocking consistency.

And a year passed.

This has been a summer of celebrations. We keep finding reasons to have more of them. Birthday parties that aren't on birthdays ... cookouts because its a Monday ... the Friday night collection to listen to the Samuel Adams Band ... Bar Church ... beach swings ... bike rides to all of the destinations ... long walks along the Back River ... small gatherings on a sad little holy dock.

Last summer was dancing in glue ... this is an endless summer.

Or I least I want it to be.

It seems as though everyone around me is being reborn. Not in the Jesus saves me way ... but in our own ways ... each of us complimenting the other ... understanding that we only have ourselves to get one another through. Births can hurt like hell I am told so what makes us think that re-births don't either?

Once you get through though ... well it is better than it was before.

"Endless Summer" is also an album by The Beach Boys. It is a crazy wild collection of songs that don't really belong together. "California Girls" turn into "Fun, Fun, Fun." "Help me Rhonda" means "Don't Worry Baby." You can "Catch a wave" ... "In my room." ... "All summer long."

It is crazy ... like our lives! I believe that we are given things in their right time. Friends show up just when they're needed the most. Marriages end when they've run their course and individuals no longer help one another grow but stay together ... because you're supposed to. Children become adults and leave ... if you're blessed, they become your friends. Unexpected opportunities arrive when you expect them least. Love finds you when you're not looking for it.

But every single one of us reach this moment ... when we're standing alone staring at the ocean ... or off a mountain ... at a wall in a coffee shop ... sitting in a church pew ... waking up beside someone we've never slept with before ... or just taking a long walk with a dog who loves you more than anything ...

Revelation occurs. "What was once is no more." I am being re-born. I am being re-membered.

Then Kid Rock blasts across the airwaves. "All Summer Long" is suddenly different! The Beach Boys are no more but the music is just as good. I get up and dance.

Yeah this summer is so much more ... my life is so much more ... my friends are so much more ... my love is so much more.

The Promised Land

Rolling down Tybrisa Street this morning I notice quiet ones sitting on benches or chairs on their porches silently staring into another universe.

Some hold Styrofoam cups of coffee and others take long drags off of cigarettes. They've either just woken up or are preparing to go to sleep. They don't see me though I am in plain sight in front of them. They are lost in hopes and dreams or they struggle to keep their despair and worries off of the ground.

At the end of the street the sun is throwing diamonds on the ocean. There is a surprisingly large number of people wearing bathing suits at 7:30 in the morning. They are tourists squeezing every bit of joy out of just ... being here.

I turn on the other side of Spankey's heading west on Izlar Avenue. It is a combination of long and short term rental units. An old man with a long white beard and numerous tattoos is sitting staring into his coffee. The road is very narrow here and if I held my arm out I could easily grab the coffee from his hand. He doesn't notice me.

The world is divided into haves and have-nots and it is no different on Tybee Island. I've always lived with a foot in both worlds. Here in my home I have friends who have a lot and others who struggle every month for money to pay the rent. Yet we are bound together by the desire to live in this place.

Walter Brueggeman wrote a book "The Land: Place as Gift, Promise and Challenge in Biblical Faith". In it, he says that we all have our Promised Lands and people of faith do whatever it takes to get there.

For some it is easy. They have enough that, even in a down economy, they can live wherever they want. For others though the struggle to get to where you are meant to be is daunting. They pick up extra work wherever they can ... cleaning houses, picking up shifts as a waitress or learning to play bass to make money in a band. Or they leave the comforts of where they are, who they are with or what they have always done.

It is humbling to watch.

Rolling my bicycle west on Izlar Avenue, watching people figure out another day, makes me think of these things. I have a friend in St. Martin named Adrian. He is handsome, black, built like a stone statue with a beautiful smile and has worked as a waiter for the past twenty plus years. The couple he works for are not happy. The work environment is pretty rotten but the money is good.

Once he walked up to take my order, gave me a hug and sighed. He looked tired and worn out.

"You OK?" I asked.

"I been here twenty years," he explains in his French Creole accent, "what's one more day?"

One day at a time ... indeed.

But he does it because he loves where he is.

Last night Dedra and I met dear friends at Marlin Monroe's for dinner and entertainment. Roma was holding court with her new haircut as she does every Sunday. The ocean breeze cooled things off and the sea oats danced on the dunes. Michael Moore was playing music and invited my friend Joanie to sing. Now Joanie is a major talent who just lost being discovered. She sang two Janis Joplin songs and blew everyone away as she always does.

Once she sang "Amazing Grace" in Bar Church and God cried at how beautiful it was.

"This is wonderful," Dee says at one point.

Raising my hands in the air I proclaim, "What is not to love? Who gets to do this?"

And the diamonds danced on the ocean. A salty breeze kissed our cheeks. Seagulls squalled in the air. Sea oats continued to dance in the sand dunes which are pristine. The blue sky was brilliant. Dolphins broke the surface of the sea.

Moses wandered around for forty years and went through all kinds of struggles to get to the Promised Land. Many of the people sitting around me continue the struggle to get to ... or to stay in ... the Promised Land. It is a dream of a place ... and it is the place of our dreams.

What we want out lives to be ... happy, fulfilled, full of love, with the person we are truly meant to be with ... all have to have an embodiment ... a Promised Land ... a place where our dreams come true.

Getting there can be a bitch. Staying there though ... well ... once you've been to the Promised Land there is no going back.

Variations on ... Church

It is July and I love July. I was born in July. A year ago in July I got sand in my mouth and it has worked its way into my heart. I marched down Orient Beach in July with Conner and Hugh and a hundred other people and we laughed and enjoyed one another as we always do. The greatest party ever to occur on Tybee Island occurred in July! The most sensual dance I've ever had in my life happened in July! Give me hot! This is my temperate zone! Who needs clothes?

Today December is in my head.

Strange huh?

"O what a night! Late December back in 63."

I saw Frankie Vallie and the Four Seasons at the Johnny Mercer Theater a thousand years ago. Ginny Helmy and I went. I remember being turned off at their Vegas style showmanship and Frankie left me a little cold. But when the drummer sang "December 1963, O what A Night" ... I loved it.

It remains a favorite of mine.

According to legend, the band had just made it hot and was touring the country. It was Christmas time and the record company was wanting to reward the kids for making them all that money. So they sent hookers to the hotel room of whatever city they were in and ... O what a night.

So I woke up with the song in my head which is odd cause I haven't thought of it in a thousand years. But last night ... O what a Night! We were at Bernie's listening to Sam and Gordon play damn good live music. I was being colored by little girls. We danced. Ice cream appeared. I was surrounded by friends who I love and who love me.

I sit on the beloved back deck thinking about ... December. Specifically George Winston's album "December" and his incredible version of "Variations of Cannon in C by Pachelbel" ... Oh my God! ... what a religious experience ... orgasmic!

When I was in Louisville ... working as a professional Christian ... getting paid to do what ministers ask others to do for free ... I was introduced to Wyndam Hill and there was George Winston and this song. I remember sitting on the porch getting lost in it. I was living with homeless people in a church and the baptismal pool was the bathtub. My kids ... Jeremy and Kristen owned the streets of the city ... meaning that homeless people would panhandle to buy them Happy Meals from McDonalds ... Bill Berry and I were still doing stuff ... "Jesus Shaves" ... and we were in trouble a lot ... then AIDS happened and we got in much more serious trouble ... then I hired Cindy Weber to be Associate Pastor and that is much worse to Southern Baptist than AIDS ...

It all makes you tired.

So I would sit on the front porch listening to George Winston playing "Variations on Cannon" and have an orgasm over the beauty of the music.

I haven't thought about in years ... until last night.

O what a night.

So this Sunday morning ... before Bar Church ... I am in Church ... well ... a variation ... by Pachelbel ... played in C ... by George Winston.

The Lord Bless and Keep ... me

It was my second trip to Santa Barbara. The first was in 2006 and it was a hoot! The second gathering of the International Street Medicine was taking place there ... doctors and nurses who provide medicine on the streets of the world ... were gathering. I'm still uncertain how I got invited but I was. I'd been at the first the previous year in Pittsburgh and inexplicably was invited to the second.

Dr. Mimi Doolan was the hostess and had us all booked at a ... Convent. I got nothing against Convents but they have a lot of rules. I've always had problems with rules. I think I get it from my Dad. Anyway we checked into the tiny little Nun Sweet where there were two twin beds, a picture of the Sacred Heart, a window and a sink. The window had a glorious view of the city at the bottom of the mountain. The sink had a paper thin wash cloth.

On the back of the door was a list of rules. (1) No Alcohol (2) Leave things as they are (3) No profanity (4) No Copulation (5) No smoking (6) No wife beaters (8) No coveting (9) No Pizza (10) No music (11) Marijuana use in Chapel only ... the list went on and on.

"No Shit," I said out loud as I examined the list of rules that started at the top of the door and ended in little tiny writing at the very bottom.

Immediately I drove the rental car to Target with a stop at the Liquor Store. I bought speakers for my I-Pod, a cooler, beer and wine, condoms, a copy of Playboy and Hustler, and a can of tennis balls.

Returning to the Convent, a Nun in full black habit stood in the middle of the road with her legs spread and her palm held out ordering me to stop the car.

I rolled the window down. "Yes Dear?"

"The Lord Bless and Keep you," she bellowed. "Do you have any contraband that you should confess to me?"

"No Dear," I answer.

"Bless you my son," she said and let me pass.

Back in the tiny little Nun Sweet, I pushed the twin beds together, set up the speakers, cranked up The Rolling Stones "Far Away Eyes", opened the cooler and got a beer, left the door open, threw a tennis ball against the hallway wall, and opened up the Hustler to read a very interesting article.

The sound of the tennis ball bouncing against the wall brought the doctors and nurses out of their tiny little Nun Sweets. They looked at me and immediately all ran to their rental cars.

An hour later, one hell of a party commenced.

Over the next three days we broke all of the Convent rules and seven of the Ten Commandments. A couple of Doctors were seen dancing with Nuns ... but mostly it was nurses dancing with them.

When I walked into the office to return my skeleton key, it was the same Nun who had stopped me in the road who was checking me out.

"Do you have anything to confess my Son?" she asked.

"About what?" I answered.

She stared at me.

I stared back.

"May the Lord Bless and Keep you," she finally said.

"Thanks Sis," I said grabbing the cooler to take to the rental car.

But you know what? The Lord has blessed and kept me. She's really good to me.

When James Bond Settles Down

At first a part of the ocean seems to bubble like water on a stove. It shimmers then bubbles and then ... the blue hanging above it gets bluer ... lighter and lighter until there is this sliver of orange rising out of the bubbles. It lays them to rest as it rises. In just a couple of minutes the large orange ball stand on the sea announcing a new day has arrived. The chance to start again is here ... do what you will with it.

Then the orange becomes yellow. It sprinkles diamonds on the water. It chases shadows from the leaves of the trees. It shines through the shades of sleeping people tickling them awake. It makes some cuss and pull pillows over their heads. It rises quickly and a new day is born.

I'm back on the east coast and all is right with the world. The sun rises where it is supposed to. Goddess was lying beside me when I woke. The bed I slept in was full of warmth and love. The sober bicycle was waiting as though a chariot. My family at the Breakfast Club was waiting when I stumbled in. Johnny O had made plans. Everybody was still talking about the party. Dave and Sandi came in for hugs and laughs. Afterwards I coast to the ocean and pause with my bare feet in the sand.

I sigh and say a prayer to God. "Damn it's good to be home."

Peddling back home I fall into the routine. Goddess gets her walk and a visit to the sad little holy dock. The plants get watered. The outdoor shower baptizes me. Whispers of "Good Morning" and love are wished. Just as I start to work ... Goddess starts scratching and pawing wanting a treat. So I get up and give her one then get back to work.

Yesterday at this time I was sitting in a coffee shop with the famous Dr. Jim Withers, the originator of Street Rounds ... which are doctors, nurses and medical students taking their medicine to the streets to those who need it most. It's kind of like house calls to people who don't have a house. It saves millions upon millions of dollars to the American health care system (meaning those of us who pay for it) to have Street Rounds in every city.

But Jim and I are having coffee in a place called "Sambo's" in Santa Barbara and work hasn't started. We are talking about other things. I'm bitching about how slowly the day starts on the West Coast. "No wonder everybody's so laid back here," I say, "it's hard to get started."

Nodding, Jim has this way of talking about whatever it is he wants to talk about regardless of anything that I just said.

"What do you think would happen if James Bond settled down?" he ask.

"What?" I say.

He looks at me as though I'm an idiot. "What do you think would happen if James Bond ever settled down?"

I think to myself: "The guys famous. He's a genius. He's figured out how to stop the high end cost of the American health system that screws it up for everybody else. He's a doctor and I suppose that counts for something ... go with this."

"James Bond?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, "like me and you."

I shake my head as I suck air in threw my teeth. "Hey Jimbo," I say, "what in the hell are you talking about?"

He takes a bite off of a muffin and looks like a Hobbit sitting there. "We've done this work," he says staring at a waitress, "and it has ...," he stares off looking for words ... "cost us," he finally says.

I nod.

"It's kind of like we've been James Bond. We've done all this stuff. We've tried to settle down but ... there was always more stuff. You know what Mike, I'm ready to just focus on my kids and what we're doing now. And I've finally found the perfect lover ... me!"

I bust out laughing.

"How's the love life?" I ask.

"You still believe," he says staring at me intently for the longest of seconds.

And I do.

And I know with everything in me.

Soon.

But not soon enough.

Good Dad's Do

A line of homeless people quietly stand in line waiting to be served paper plates full of food by a group of teenagers and kids. The homeless folks are solemn while the kids work hard to interact as they load the plates with pasta, salad, fruit and bread. They are celebrating and smiling as they greet each man and women wearing multiple coats on this warm Santa Barbara afternoon.

We are in a park across the street from the ocean so the whole thing has a picnic feel as people spread blankets to sit on or simply plop down in the grass to eat. A long grocery cart is piled high with discarded clothes. One man has a tall one in a brown paper bag that he takes swigs from as he eats. Students walk around passing our bottles of water and socks.

Socks are the gold standard of homelessness. You spend so much time on your feet that you really go through them quickly. Imagine wearing the same pair of socks for a week with no ability to do anything other than wash them out in a public restroom. It leads to bad hygiene of course and worsens over time but what is one to do with limited laundry options? Giving someone socks is the quickest way to make a friend on the streets.

I am standing behind a taped off section where there are tables and chairs occupied with doctors, nurses, medical students and social workers treating homeless men and women. There is a great deal more interaction here as dirty patients loudly run through the litany of their illnesses ... which are many. The professionals and students are in as good a humor as the teenagers and kids serving the food.

I look passed the park to the beauty of Santa Barbara ... the harbor where I'd had lunch, the beach that I'd walked that morning, the blue Pacific Ocean and the mountains of California. The city is beauty at the beach. It is full of tourists from around the world and every language is heard. The hotels are all full and the sidewalk cafes are crowded. The sky is clear and the salt hangs in the air.

This is a tranquil and serene wonderland ... for people who can afford it. The average two bedroom house in Santa Barbara starts at $2.1 Million. No wonder everyone is dressed you nice.

Except for the ragged ones who live on the far ends of the beach and the public parks of the city. After the picnic in the park a group of us do "Street Rounds" going out in teams looking for the hidden ones. We pass a huge bush that has two feet sticking out from under it. Jennifer, a mental health outreach worker, exclaims "I know those feet! It's John!"

She rushes over and slowly John emerges from the bush. It's now dusk and he was settling in for the night. Wobbly he stands and grins at Jennifer. Laura the doctor wanders over and gives him a quick examination. A medical student opens his backpack and gives John water, fruit and socks. He smiles.

We turn and continue "Street Rounds" finding people who are not seen by most and ignored by more. It's a shame that a disproportionate number of them are veterans.

After it grows too dark to find anybody else, the Street Round teams collect back together in the park. There are hugs, stories and Laura announces it is time to go to "The Office". The Office is a bar, so everyone makes their way there for beer and debriefing. They will also plan next week's Street Rounds.

I opt of the office meeting. I've sworn them off. So I wave bye and make my way back to the hotel as I have to get up at 5:00 in the morning.

At the hotel I check out and the manager asks, "Are you with the park people?"

"I am," I say wondering if it was my University of Georgia shirt that gave me away.

"You are horrible for business," he snaps.

I stop signing stuff and look at him. He is intensely staring at me.

"You're no vacancy sign is on," I say returning to signing my bill. "We must not be too horrible."

His daughter is beside him. She is maybe ten, blond hair, Sponge Bob shirt, and one of the front teeth missing. He sends her away with the sweetest of smiles and then turns to me with a snarl.

"I took her outside the other day and their was this woman squatting right there," he said pointing, "peeing! In front of my child. Do you want your children to see things like that? Or a dirty old man holding his cock peeing? In front of your children?"

I step back from the counter but continue to look at him. "It is sad that things like that happen anywhere," I finally say, "especially in a country as great as this one."

He looks away for a moment and wipes his hand across his mouth. "Why can't you do it somewhere else?" he finally says sitting back down.

Long seconds of silence pass.

"Hey listen," I say, "we really want the same thing here. You don't want them in the park or living on the beach. We don't either. Nobody want people forced to pee in public. The thing is you want it all handled now and we think it's going to take a while which is awfully sad."

He nodded. "I just worry about my daughter."

"Good Dad's do," I answer.

He stands and shakes my hand.

In the dark of the night I walk to my room and collapse on the bed and fall asleep to dream of bushes that have feet.

Invisible People

I'm late according to east coast time but several hours early on west coast time. It is still dark outside and it's almost 10:00 back home. It's funky getting used to it. I come home tomorrow so there is no a lot of getting used to. A dinner meeting at 7:30 Santa Barbara time meant 9:30 to my body and I never eat that late. We finished up at a respectable 9:30 through after midnight where I live. I slept walked back to the hotel and collapsed on the bed immediately falling asleep.

I had a strange dream of a beautiful woman mowing the lawn wearing leopard skin gloves, rubber boots and nothing else. Of course I had been up since 3:30 a.m. east coast time so hallucinated as my mind was deprived of rest.

I woke up at 3:00 which is 6:00 on Tybee Island but had only had three hours sleep so ... I went back to sleep. It was one of those wake up every thirty minute sleeps. My mind knew it was time to get started but my body refused to cooperate. I'd fall into these deep sleeps only to jar awake thinking the things that I should be doing.

Now I up watching the sun not rise over the Pacific Ocean. I'm used to the sun bubbling out of the Atlantic Ocean and my days beginning bright and full of promise. West Coast days are slow in starting. Light creeps to the beach.

It is also cooler. It's twenty-five degrees warmer at home and well ... these people would die in our humidity. So it blows my mind that they are in the water which looks like giant blue ice cube to me.

On the beach all of the women look the same. They are blond, beautiful and play beach volleyball. All of the guys wear bathing suits and long sleeve dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up and only the bottom three buttons fastened. They don't wear flip flops. They wear sandals.

It is is a wealthy people's place. Santa Barbara is a rich people's land. A glass of the house wine in a beach bar is $9! Guys in bathing suits and long sleeve shirts order glass after glass and boat drink specials that are $12 each! No one seems to be concerned about money.

This makes the ragged people who sleep on the beach at night stand out more. Dirty, unkempt, pulling bags of possessions ... they are invisible to the fun hustle and beauty of the people on the boardwalk and beach.

Slipping coffee, I walk the half-a-block from where I'm staying to the beach. The beautiful people are not up yet. But the ragged people are. They sit and stare at the sea. They rearrange their stuff. They reek of a sadness that moves in slow motion.

So it's time to get started though my body remains confused over timing. I walk up to a young man with an old man's beard and dirty long hair. His tee shirt is filthy. Long pants have been cut off at the knees. Toenails haven't been cut in years and curl. His suit case is a garbage bag.

"Hey man," I say. "How's it going?"

He looks confused and stars at me without saying anything. I'm wearing a "Samuel Adams Band" tee shirt that is clean and fresh. Boat shorts with a belt.I-phone clipped to my side.

He sizes me and nods.

"Why man," I continue, "just want to let you know there's food in the park tonight and there will be these doctors there. Why don't you come? Those toenails could use some help."

My New World

The ticks and pops of the choirs of mussels in the mud of the marsh at low tide was incredibly melodious in the dark of the night. I was walking Goddess at four in the morning before hoping in the car and driving to the airport. Everything was quiet and there was no wind so the mussels performed their cantata for themselves. It was spectacular so I slowed our walk though I knew that I'd be cutting it close to make my plane. Sometimes you have to stop and take time to enjoy the beauty that is around you in spite of the demands of the world.

Goddess knows the routine. She senses when I am leaving so when we approached the turn back to our house she tugged in the other direction not wanting me to go. I pet and she concedes. We return home where I give her love and treats then back out of the drive.

I make the drive through the marsh with the top down to enjoy the coolness of the morning and the light show that the Milky Way was putting on for free. My mind was filled with thoughts of the last few days when my life was celebrated by one of the wildest parties that Tybee's ever seen! It was a blow out affair as we were acknowledged triumph over abandonment and loss.

When I hit Bay Street and downtown Savannah I am struck that this is where my life used to be. It was the site of tremendous accomplishments and sad endings. It hits me that the historic city now represents the past in new ways for me. I rush passed it to the airport where the door opens to my new world.

This is the first of multiple trips that will take me across the country several times. The purpose of each trip is to continue the cultivation of street medicine as a practice. Doctors, Nurses, medical students and social workers literally practice on the streets where the worst needs are. It is so much more cost efficient than the current crazy system that relies on high cost emergency rooms. We have a presence in forty-one cities around the world already.

Santa Barbara is this week. I was last there in 2005 when we were trying to help a couple of doctors get started. Everyone thought they were nuts for wanting to practice medicine ... outside. Instead of house calls, they are "homeless calls". Lots of these folks are emergency room frequent fliers and they drive up the cost for the rest of us so ... we decided to do something about it.

Sitting here now at 30,000 feet I collect my thoughts and try to arrange them. There is so much more to be done. Over the past couple of years love fled my life, I found myself alone for the first time in my life, a career that had run its course, the loss of many friends and a very uncertain future. It all happened in that order.

And my new world is coming back together sequentially. I am no longer alone and a house is again becoming a home. Friends were raised from the dead and others came from the strangest of places ... but they fill me with joy. Music returned. New love arrived. The future is becoming clearer and clearer. "Suddenly I see," goes the song, "why the hell it means so much to me."

There is fire in my belly again. Imagination is running wild for the first time in forever. Laughter surrounds me. Roots have again taken hold. It is a smaller and more compact universe but that is what I have needed. The holiness of an island that remains a Promised Land has sustained me. New things are being born.

These are the things in my new world. It's a throw of the dice that doesn't have all of the security of my old world ... but that didn't turn out to be all that secure anyway. So with the help of those who loved me through, I've gotten back up, dusted myself off and it's time to start again.

Or ... to say it another way ... let's kick some ass.

It's been too long.

Hungover

The island moved in slow motion yesterday. Everyone was still in recovery from the night before. Even Bar Church worshiped in three-quarters time. No body showed up at the Breakfast Club. The Bored meeting was cut off. Even the sun rose half a hour late rising. The tide struggled to come in.

"There certainly were a lot of magical moments at your party," Patti said to me.

That is certainly true.

There were lots.

But then Sunday morning came down.

Whew it hurt!

Hurt so good! (except for Whitley who had to conduct a reconnaissance mission when he woke up!)

Slowly ... throughout the day ... pictures began to surface ... memories were recovered ... people remembered where their car was ... those who never wear sunglasses had them on ... the sun seemed especially bright ... birds sang especially loud ... a few woke up beside people they did not know ... a few woke up beside someone they did know and were shocked ... Johnny O has to explain the band-aids on his hand and tells the truth ("It was a drumming accident.") ... I have bite marks and have no idea how I got them ...

... and everybody was smiling!

This is a magical place full of magical people ... who do outlandish things with pride.

I mean the Samuel Adams Band took the night off from their regular gig on a Saturday night to play on a porch. Davy the drummer told me later how much more fun it was than a regular Saturday night.

For me it is this adrenaline rush of loving memory ... Songs written and sang just because ... Lots of laughing ... Music everywhere ... Ice cream stuffed in my mouth when I don't eat it ... Dancing ... John Lennon glasses and peace signs ... My dear friend Mitch communing with God in the night looks up to see a naked man fixing a drink ... My friend Sandi doing an in-prov of the Beatles "If I fell in love with you." ... Skinny Dipping ... Kenn Wade.

Life on Tybee Island is this constant Magical Mystery Tour that never stops. It just keeps redefining the word "magic".

In spite the bad things that have happened in my life ... and I've had my share and tried to get them all out of the way at once ... magical nights come and you just stop and look in wonderment ...

at the people who love you ...

and people you love.

Any Excuse for a Party

I once called this place "Mayberry on Acid" and in many ways it is. There is a cast of characters that rival Andy, Barney, Opie and a whole lot of Otis' who live on this clump of sand. Unlike the fictional North Carolina town, the people who call Tybee home all seem to have this neighborly and celebratory spirit. We wave, smile and speak as we stroll or bike by each other.

Music, parties and bars are everywhere and it is easy to spend an entire day stumbling from one to the other and it will be a full day (right Whitley?) Friends sit on their porches and decks entertaining other friends. It is a place where it seems everybody really does know your name.

This against a backdrop of sunshine dancing on the ocean, sea breezes that rarely ceases, lush sub-tropical vegetation and glorious Marshes that provide the four seasons of the year. Whichever direction you face, the view is almost certainly drop dead gorgeous!

Dress is causal here. Black tie means a colored tee shirt. Shorts and flip flops are preferred by virtually everybody. Bathing suits and bikinis are dominate. There is an emerging "clothing optional" movement on the island and skinny dipping takes place on a daily basis.

There are five churches on the island and one meets in a Bar, has a Bar Band, serves breakfast and allows smoking. If you prefer your religion more restricted, there are Baptists, Catholics, Episcopalians and Methodists who have buildings that you can contribute to. Or ... you can just choose to go to the beach and worship there. There are sad little holy docks to host personal services with wine.

It is an accepting place. The serious make fun of the not-so-serious while the not-so-serious make fun of the serious. Somehow a balance is achieved and this karma has settled on the island. Nobody stays mad with anybody for too long.

There is a rich history of jokes ... both practical and otherwise. The sign in front of City Hall once proclaimed that Elvis, freshly back from the dead, would be performing at 4:00. The emerging "Clothing Optional" movement once plastered "Clothing Optional" bumper stickers on every crosswalk and most every door on the island. A dumptruck full of white rock mysteriously appeared in front of City Hall one day. "Take Penn with you!" "Free Henry!" "Camp Locklear!" ... the list goes on an one.

Salt hangs in the air ... the ocean is constantly singing its song ... choirs of mussels perform twice each day ... egrets decorate trees ... Palm Trees dance in the breeze ... sand dunes provide romantic settings for consumated love ... beach swings allows older couples to remember ... seagulls are in charge of waste desposal ... wet sand is the stuff of which castles are made!

Any of these things could make a place special and Tybee has them all ... but ... there is an acceptance here that is rare. Rarer than rare. Holy is what it is.

Births and deaths, marriages and divorces, jobs beginning and ending, sickness managed or sucummed to, people coming and people going ... they are all received with a laid back welcome. It's just life. It's the way it is. You can't force the tide to come in or to go out ... it happens the way that it is supposed to happen.

Tonight there is a party. It might rain but nobody cares. There will be live music and way too much food and drink. The "Clothing Optional" movement may conduct a hostile takeover of the swimming pool. Some will jump off the dock into the tidal creek. Others will find dark places to hide from the gathering to kiss or consumate or just talk. Community will be achieved. Funny smells may linger in the air. Dancing will occur under the stars ... or the clouds.

It doesn't matter.

Any excuse for a party on this island. Where people love each other deeply.

And tonight ... I'm the excuse.

Dancing Back to Work

Dancing across the living room floor yesterday I was in multitasking nirvana! My brain hadn't fired on all of these cylinders in a few years. (I know, I know ... many will question this. His brain fired on a cylinder? I thought it was mostly fried! ... yeah, yeah, yeah.)

I was working on multiple things at once and really enjoying myself. I danced from the red room where Rebekah and I were doing things for the International Street Medicine Institute ... into the kitchen where Dedra and Samuel Adams (who plays damn good live music at Bernie's with Gordon) to make plans for Bar Church (Sunday mornings at 10:30 at the Wind Rose Cafe!) ... and finally onto the Beloved Back Deck where I was writing an article for a magazine.

While all of this was going on I was whipping out the I-phone to answer emails and respond to texts and Face Book messages. I tweeted a couple of times. And I stayed in touch with the ones I love.

Of course music is blasting while all of this is going on! Coffeehouse rock was perfect for all the diverse activity.

It was a hot summer day on a sub-tropical island and we were dressed for it. Rebekah wore a bikini with a tee shirt while Dedra had on a sleeveless shirt and shorts. Sam looked like a surfer who had rode in on a wave ... Of course I had black running shorts on and nothing else though I was sporting my full body tan freshly cooked in St. Martin!

At one point as I danced from room to room I threw my left arm in the air as I do and yelled "I LOVE THIS!"

Sam and I hugged and high-fived. I kissed Dedra on the face while she protested and laughed. Rebekah and I called one another dirty names as we've done for more than a decade now.

This is the way that I've always worked. I mean at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and at Union Mission I had to wear more clothes but that's about the only difference. I always had music blasting. The stimulation of Rock-n-Roll fires me up and I play air guitar, head bang with the drums or just happily dance while ... creation happens.

Yesterday was the first day in a few years that work was so much damn fun again!

And creation only happens in atmospheres of fun ... love ... curiosity ... and support. All of these things were in place at the same time yesterday ... and that makes me dance!

In the book "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" the author opens by saying that he cannot understand how people can create ... or do good work ... with distractions. A radio playing distracts a mechanic from fixing everything on your car. (Sounds like advice from a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy).

While this is a great book, I thought he was out of his freaking mind when I read this!

"And we'll go dancing baby and then you'll see, how the magic's in the music and the music's in me," said John Sebastian and the Lovin Spoonful and I believe that with everything in me. (Reminds me of my dear friend Mitch Wesley, my son Jeremy and this girl I danced with at a Jimmy Buffett concert!)

I think in lyrics. I function in dance. I sing my thoughts. I play my feelings and emotions. The guitar of my soul gently weeps. The love in my heart hits all of the high notes.

"Hey Sam," I yell as I dance from room to room, "Bar Church needs a dance service. Nothing but dancing. David got naked and danced in joy in the Bible. We should do it too."

"I love it," he grinned and highfived me and we hugged again. Dedra shook her head from side-to-side. Rebekah called me names.

Then we stopped and broke bread together. Meaning we sandwiches and french fries that we all made together. We blessed it with water, beer, wine and laughter. It was as Holy as the Last Supper.

Then we went back to work and did it all again. I danced from room to room, occasionally screaming out what I love.

In such a work setting, tremendous things were accomplished. You'll soon know about the Street Medicine Institute from numerous news sources and health care in this country will be made better. Bar Church is going to explode more than it already is and God will look down and "It is good." Then there is all of this writing that I've done and it will be packaged and thrown out there. Plus there are all of these other ideas that were hatched and we'll see ... what is created.

So today I woke up ... really ready ... to go back to work!

Jimmie and the Alumni Association

Standing in the backyard comprehending that I was actually going to have to cut the grass in spite of how brown it is, the roofers on the house behind mine stopped and stared at me. I stared back.

"That your house?" this large brown guy yelled.

I nodded.

"You got serious hail damage," he said. "I'll bring you my card later."

So I called Nanci my half-sister and insurance agent and this adjuster came. We chatted about Seminary because his wife attended one. I'm not sure how that came up. But I climbed on the roof with him and it looked fine to me.

"You got serious hail damage," he said as soon as we were up there.

"What?" I asked.

"Oh you can't tell unless you know," he said with his hands on his hips. "The hail hits the shingle and knocks the tar loose. It won't take any time at all before you got serious roof issues. Got any leaks inside of your house?"

In the kitchen the ceiling had some spots. He just shook his head as to say "You're an idiot."

A week later I got a check and I called Jimmie.

I've known him twenty years, most of it during his multiple visits to Union Mission. He racked up more "frequent flier" points at Grace House and in the J. C. Lewis Health Center than ... anybody! Whoever is second is far distant second! Once he showed up with a 4.5 alcohol level!!!

"Medically he should be dead," the doctor told me.

And throughout our relationship I could have killed him many times over! He was forever getting himself straight, working, making a lot of money in a short period of time ... he can build or do anything ... then he'd "take it on the road," as my homeless friends call it. This means that he woke several days or weeks later with no real recollection of how he got there. Then he would wander into my office looking like the Wolfman with red eyes.

"Please let me back in Mike," he cried.

The first dozen times he did this, I was filled with sympathy and charity. The second dozen times I kept reminding myself that I am minister. The next two dozen times I suddenly completely understood the National Rifle Association.

Then a few years ago ... lightening struck ... something clicked ... God happened ... who knows? But he stopped. And he's been sober ever since. And he still does incredible work but a lot more consistently now.

When I found myself suddenly single, without a job because I'd left Union Mission, sad and depressed, Jimmie took to looking for me. He didn't know where I live but he knew my habits. Collectively homeless people know everything so he got on "the grapevine" and knew I go to Bored Meetings, the Breakfast Club and the Pier. So I would sleepwalk to these places and there he would be.

"What can I do for you Mike?" he asked. And the sympathy and understanding in his eyes was ... Godly.

I didn't let him do anything for the longest time. My world had become small and my trust in others had been damaged. Honestly, I just didn't care about much anymore.

But I have serious hail damage and Jimmie kept showing up leaving me with his card ... I had like 30 of them ... so I called Jimmie. He immediately dropped whatever job he had, assembled a work crew of fellow Union Mission alumni and they descended on the house.

And they kept working until I kicked them out.

There is now a new roof, new ceilings inside, a rebuilt and modern kitchen, shelf's, ceiling fans, crown molding, paint jobs, new screens on the porch, gutters ... they just kept going. I had a finite amount of insurance money to pay for the roof so I kept telling Jimmie and Alumni Association to stop. Just like when I would tell him to stop drinking back at Union Mission for all of those years ... he ignored me.

Finally, I kicked him out of house. Just like I'd kicked him out Grace House a hundred times.

He smiled and handed me his card and said, "Call me when you need me Mike. You were always there for me when I wasn't there for myself."

Last night I sat on the beloved back deck staring through the sliding glass doors into a place where ... "the old has been made new" to use the words of the Bible. "What was once is no more."

In my house.

In Jimmie's life.

And in mine.

The rushing away of the calm

Evidently I am out of sorts.

Sitting on my stool at the counter of the Breakfast Club this morning Julia sits beside me, drinking hot tea and has her "spirit stick" with her. "It wards off bad spirits," she told me, then she shook it at me.

I smiled and didn't say anything.

She walked in to give Whitley and Johnny O their Obama "Made in America" tee shirts but neither was interested and they abruptly left.

So I sat next to Julia. "Micheal, I perceive that you are troubled," she says with her eyes closed and palms facing upward on the counter. "You just need to let it come to you. It is all ordained anyway. Just let it go."

I stared at her. "I just have a lot on my mind. Work stuff," I explained.

She shook the spirit stick in response and left.

Then my friend Pattie sat on the other side of me to eat her breakfast. She does this many mornings and reads the headlines of the newspaper that I glanced through earlier. We keep each other current on our lives during this time. It's become part of the morning routine.

"What's wrong?" she asks while picking at eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes.

I stared at her. "Nothing," I answer.

She stares at me. "Right," she shoots back.

Then I stood up to make my way to the bathroom. Chris is my friend and one of the Chefs. Normally they are preoccupied in morning before the place opens so we don't talk all of that much. But I follow Chris down the hall and he's thinking about whatever he's got to do when he suddenly stops and turns around. We stand literally face-to-face in the tiny hallway.

"You alright?" he asks staring me dead in the eyes.

I shake my head staring back at him. "Yeah, I'm good."

He reaches out and touches my arm.

"Sure?"

I stare at him.

"Yeah," I stammer.

Back at the counter, Pattie pats my cheek and tells me that it will be OK.

I leave, hop on my bike and ride a block over to the ocean. The sun is sprinkling diamonds on the sea. The smoke that has blanketed the island is gone. The sky is a brilliant blue.

I roll back home and open the door and Goddess is waiting on the step. She stares at me.

"What?" I ask.

She stares at me.

Upstairs I get ready for work, staring out of the sliding glass doors at Fran's thousand shades of green.

Then ... this sense of promise engulfs me. It's like an adrenaline rush ... the anxiety that hits right before you know something big is getting ready to happen ... the rushing away of the calm before the storm ... the sudden explosion of new creation!

I smile and get to work.

Kind of like praying

It is humbling.

We used to rush to the mailbox to see if any letters arrive. On Tybee Island most of us go to the Post Office to get the mail and we pull it out of the box then flip through the stack … hold the bills back for later, throw away the multiple credit card applications, and now occasionally … but only occasionally is there a card or a letter.

Letter writing is almost a lost art.

On the other hand … email, instant messages, texting and Face Booking occurs in abundance. It all happens instantly and from anywhere in the world. My friend Jacob in Norway sends me encouraging messages while my friend Sandi on the other side of Tybee cracks me up with her Face Book posts.

I check on my kids daily through Face Book to see what they’re up to.

Valarie in Hawaii lets me know she will see me at the Street Medicine Symposium in Philadelphia while Maria in Chicago lets me know that I won’t see her.

Dedra texts me to see if she can come over while Conner lets me know they’re home from St. Martin.

Will is a friend I’ve never met though we stay in pretty constant touch and are currently planning a party together (he wants a tour of the sad little holy dock).

I hadn’t seen Rev. Jim Lowder since we were both in serious trouble with the Baptists all of those years ago but now we’ve reconnected and trust that our physical paths will cross again and not just our virtual ones (we have more Camelot’s to unfurl).

And every day I write about … what’s going on.

When I first started it was all work stuff but then I found myself “suddenly single” and it was more important for me to write about that. So I did. I just poured my feelings out figuring it best. “Let it out and let it in,” Paul McCartney told us in “Hey Jude” and I figure he’s right about that.

It got me in trouble of course (most things I do seem to get me in some kind of trouble). The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainey) took great offence that I described my hurt, the discovery of who loves me and who doesn’t, whatever Goddess did, my drunken bicycle and Fran’s thousand shades of green.

So he met me one morning when I really didn’t want to see him and chastised me about the things I posted on the Internet. Luckily he met me at the Breakfast Club and when they saw a short guy in a suit lecturing me they threw toast and bacon at the booth we were sitting in. He took offense at this too but it made me love them more.

And I didn’t listen to a word he said and kept writing about the real things that were happening to me. It was the beginning of the end of end of a pretty rotten relationship anyway.
So every day I wrote and of course things got worse. So I wrote about … worse.

And this incredible thing happened … I started getting all of these emails, texts, instant messages and Face Book posts from people who were struggling with … worse.
The things in my life resonated with the things in their lives. Or the things in my life made them feel better about the things in their lives.

And people kept writing me.

New friends came into my life. Old friends were raised from the dead. All of these friend requests came from people who were … or are … homeless. People from around the world were suddenly in my laptop every day.

Some took offense at things I said and let me know it but most said … it is really helpful to me that you do this. So I keep doing it. It is kind of like praying.

So … I pray the Lord my soul to keep … and to keep your soul too … and for hurt to go away from our lives … for worse to get better … and for peanut butter cookies.

The Best Days of My Life

What I remember about last year is I was numb. Jerry Rainey and John Tatum had me in negotiations over my leaving Union Mission and boy that was fun. My son Jeremy went with me to look menacing. I remember just being sad and tired and angry. That was my last birthday. It wasn’t all that great.

At one point during the day I got on the computer and went to Face Book and there were all of these messages and greetings. There was this one telling me how good I look for 54 and I remember staring at it for a long time … cause I felt like shit.
So it made me stop and ponder for the longest time.

Keller Deal had worked things out so that I basically stayed in St. Martin for the month of June. I’d resigned and there was all of this press and I was a pretty funny cartoon in the paper. I remember showing it to Conner and Hania on the computer. Conner shook his head, fixed me a drink and made me shut off the computer.

So I stayed in St. Martin for a long time contemplating moving here. I didn’t have anything else to give back home. But Jeremy and Marie needed to leave and get on with their lives and I had nobody else to watch Goddess. And Jerry and John demanding things and I was demanding things so there were these meetings to attend.

So not really wanting to, I went home.

And there were these people waiting on me … my children … Jeremy and Marie, Kristen, Chelsea … Keller of course … John and Judy, Sarah, Shirley, Stacy, and the collection of crazies from the Breakfast Club.

I remember watching them watch me … cause they were scared of how bad I was.
I slept walked for months.

Somehow we agreed to terms, probably because of how menacing Jeremy appeared … and I disappeared to the back side of Tybee Island ... and slept on the floor … with a dog who licked my face and slept with me. Goddess is a dog who thinks she is a person.

My birthday falls close to the 4th of July and I remember going to see the
fireworks. My daughter Kristen has a roommate … Travis … we all love Travis … he is big, black, long dregs and crazy. One time he showed up for fireworks on the beach and after we had all of this stuff to carry back to the house … chairs, tents, coolers … and Travis tells us that he’s park close by.

He was.

On the cross walk! He literally drove up it and left his car there.

It is hard not to love Travis.

Unless you’re Kristen.

But last year …

I took a walk on the beach at night …

Somehow sand got in my mouth and if you’ve ever had sand in your mouth it drives you nuts so you open and shut your mouth, trying to spit, and you just can’t get it out.
But I remember laughing and feeling love for the first time in … forever.

Jeremy and Marie woke up surprised the next morning at how good I felt. At how good

I was.

This year is of course much different.

I’m content, happy and homesick.

I’m starting anew.

It’s not the first time. But God’s greatest gift is the chance to start over. And I have.

So looking back, it’s all been pretty cool. I’ve done some great stuff and a few bad things but … here I am. It all made me … me.

But the best days of my life … are coming.

Happy Birthday ME!

Where my love is

In college we conducted this hostile takeover of the Baptist Student Union meaning we showed up, played cards and listened to the Devil’s music on the sound system. There would always be a lot of us playing “Spades” and someone’s favorite song would come on and the card game slowed while everyone sang along.

Stephen Bishop’s “On and On” was mine. Pretty girls down in Jamaica … dreaming and staying tan … tossing your heart up to see where it lands … on and on …

I’d always loved Tybee and the beach at Hilton Head before it became the traffic jam that it is today and Daytona Beach. But way back then I knew that I would make it to the Caribbean. Then Jimmy Buffett came along and added fuel to the flame and my soul started getting sand in it.

Key West came first and the drive across the seven mile bridge was orgasmic. Then the whole funky rock is a constant gyration of Cuban influence. Hemingway’s house is there and if you love the beach you love Hemingway and God the guy could write.

Next was the Bahamas … the Abacos … Hope Town … Marsh Harbor ... Eleuthera. We would get on a boat and sail to dinner in the crystal blue waters. I discovered fried Plantains and “rice and peas”. I started swimming with Stingrays.

St. Lucia followed and I would run every morning next to the side of the road out of Castries dodging goats and cows and women walking with large bundles on their heads. I hiked through a rain forest, slide down a water fall and swam with schools of squid.

When I actually made it to Jamaica, I fell in love with the prophet Bob Marley, learned that you don’t actually need a bathing suit on a beach, and studied Rastafarian. I would pound people’s fist and say “Respect” as they said it me. And Hemp was everywhere. It was hard not to get high.

Then I went to Cuba. I wanted to see it before it becomes Disneyland one day. I was invited to give a speech so it took ten days. The place is drop dead gorgeous! And the people are the world’s most beautiful people. I saw Castro, paid loving homage to Che, went to Hemingway’s other house, hitchhiked through the countryside and had students from the University of Havana move the furniture out of their tiny living room so that they could teach me to salsa. I also got busted coming back into the United States because our stupid foreign policy regarding Cuba.

St. Martin came next … half of it Dutch … half French … nude beaches … French wines … and I fell in love. For a decade now this is where I come. I make my way around the island and people call me by name. I’ve had supper cooked for me in the tiny little concrete cottages of my friends who work in the places I stay. Carlos took me to a lingerie show once where there were a hundreds of people watching … and I was the only white one.

“Stand here while I get us a beer,” he said. “Trust me, I’ll find you.”

It’s been a healing place for me. I went through a divorce here, left a career here, lost my Dad while I was here …

I counted up and this is my twenty-first trip to St. Martin. I know that I’ll be back. The place has taken root in me. I love these people. They love me. And … well … it is beautiful … well the French side is.

Every time that I’ve ever been here I just kept trying to stay longer. Normally I’ll weeks and weeks and still not be ready to go home. I almost threw it all away and moved here last year.

But last night I wasn’t in the mood for it. My friends all went out to dinner and I went to sleep. I’m ready to go home.

Maybe it’s all that I’ve been through for the last few years? I’m having fun … how can I not with Conner? And Hania makes me eat which I didn’t do last night so I am starving and all of the food is at their place which is way over there … and it’s raining.

But I am ready to go home.

Where my love is.

Hania ... not Tonya

So after everyone wishes Conner a happy birthday …

Yeah, I know his Dad shot off some rockets and Conner got conceived …

And I’ve already had to endure him waking me up this morning after keeping me out last night, watch Karima sing him “Happy Birthday” then kiss him multiple times, then Verna did the same, then he makes me change towels which is something he does every day, then Patti puts up a “Happy Birthday” thing above his door and he decides that he can do it better because it’s his birthday and Karima told him that he can do anything he wants on his birthday while I groaned listening to this …

But this isn’t about Conner. It is about his wife … Hania.

I am close to both but Hania takes care of me. Over the past year I’ve had a tendency to not eat and skip meals. This offends Hania so she reacts by stuffing whatever she has cooked into my mouth. This of course offends me but she doesn’t care and reacts by stuffing more stuff in my face. This makes Conner laugh which encourages her so my face gets stuffed with things that I do not want.

They are an uncaring couple.

And I love them with everything in me.

I tell them everything. We have no secrets. They SEE everything about me.

A couple of years ago when I found myself suddenly single Hania was the first person
I told. She happened to call for something and I burst into tears and blurted it out.

“You come here now,” she commanded. “You need to be taken care for once.”

I will never forget that.

I didn’t make plans to go to south Florida where they live so they planned it for me. Would I do a wedding for friends of theirs? Could I talk to a friend of theirs?
When I was there for work we met or I stayed at their house … and Hania stuffed food in my mouth.

Last night was a laid back Caribbean affair. My friend Hugh grilled tenderloin. Conner was off talking on the phone to a special person. Hania was watching me and at one point I watched her watch me.

And I immediately knew how blessed I am. In spite of all of the bad times, there are these wonderful people who love me. They go out of their way to prove again and again and again ... sitting on beloved back decks, sad little holy docks, at Bored meetings, in beach swings, on drunken bicycles and in orange bathrooms.

After dinner she, Conner and I walked to Papagayos for a night cap. There was hardly anyone in the restaurant but this guy from the “70’s show” … at least that’s what he looked like … disco 70’s hair … Tom Selleck mustache … wife beater black tee shirt …started hitting on Hania.

Her name is Polish which is where her family came from. It translates as “Ann Marie” in English.

Conner and I were cracking up when he said “Hania? Not Tonya? …well that is so much more beautiful.”

Hania looked at us for help.

He had a Pittsburgh Steelers tattoo on his arm.

“Are you from Pittsburgh?” I cleverly inquired.

“How did you know?” he slurred.

“Hines Ward,” I said high fiving him.

He missed.

And we laughed.

Then Hania assumed her role as designated walker …

And I woke up in my tiny little studio …

alone …

But knowing how loved I am …

And knowing how much I love …

Beach Bums for Christ (Bar Church)

This morning Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music with Gordon, showed up for the morning meeting of Counter Intelligence at the Breakfast Club. In addition to being a great musician, the coolest looking dude on the island, the owner of a golf cart partially pulled by his dog ... Sam is also the mastermind behind Bar Church.

Whenever I need a dose of organized religion, I go to Bar Church . Which is exactly what is says ... church in a bar. Sam is Psalmist as he calls himself. So the band sets up, votive candles are everywhere, a screen is set up which flashes the words of songs so everybody can sing if they want and "wallah" Church is born in a bar.

Sure some people bring Bloody Mary's or Screwdrivers ... an occasional tall one in a brown paper bag ... but most members of the congregation stumble in from wherever they were a few hours earlier. A surprising number of children are present. There is usually also breakfast in the back and coffee and orange juice in the front. It's as laid back as church can possibly be.

It's not especially organized religion though it does have rhyme and reason. A lot of praising goes on. Hallelujah type songs which I'm not especially big on. (The theology is often terrible in them ... "My husband beats me up, I'm pregnant with an unwanted child and I don't have health insurance but Jesus loves so its all alight!" Hallelujah!") but most folks seem to really enjoy these songs. They clap and dance and sing along.

I suppose that some of the dancing people are Baptists in recovery.

There is a lot of encouragement too. "My life is as screwed up as yours" is a constant message "but we can love each other through it and God loves us anyway ... so screw it!"

Now this is good theology!

And there testimonials. My favorite is from my dear friend Dave who the Lord led to stand up one day and describe how he fell down and laid there for a while unable to get up until some military guys came by and tried to help him and he said "Whoa fellas, let's make sure everything is working first."

Then he concluded by saying, "The Lord is sending me message but I haven't figured out what it is yet. But when I do ... I'll let you know."

And everybody clapped because everybody loves Dave and love is really what church is all about anyway. Not all of that other stuff.

So Sam shows up at the Breakfast Club this morning for counter intelligence and to have a long conversation with me about ... minister stuff. People who need this or that. How to sustain Bar Church with no money (most of the people who come don't have much). What the Lord has laid on Sam's heart and how to turn it into a practical reality. His concerns about certain people and what to do to help them.

So I sat there in my "Hike Naked" tee shirt and he sat there with his long hair and surfer clothes and we looked like ... beach bums having coffee. We shared the same spoon as you would expect ministers to do.

When he finished asking me stuff, Sam's eyes grow large behind his glasses and with great enthusiasm he asks, "What can I do for you?"

I sip my coffee and think for a minute.

"There is this girl out," I explain. "Pray that we find each other soon."

"Hallelujah!" he says, hugging me and kissing me on the cheek.

I love Bar Church!

Francis and me

It is a contemplative morning. It actually started around four a.m. when I got out of bed and stumbled outside into the night on the beloved back deck. Standing there under the stars, my mind was racing with thoughts that refused to be smothered with sleep. So I stood there looking at the stars ... which is something that I've always done when I need to relax and focus. They were especially bright and the sliver of moon was mostly a black ball hanging there.

I got a lot going on all of a sudden. There are manuscripts for three different books that are written and need to come to life. One is on "Taking time to Heal", another on "Passion" and then there is this sort of sequel to "Running with the Dolphins". They are like a set of triplets demanding to be born all at the same time, each with a different personality and each will turn out differently than I think they will.

Esther who I love was asking me yesterday about my books and which was my favorite. In some ways that's impossible to answer as it's like trying to say which of my children is my favorite. It's impossible as I love them all so much. Chelsea was here last night giving me her critique of the remade house that is becoming a new home. So at the moment she is my favorite, especially when we started watching Monty Python clips on You Tube and shared the same laughter that comes from the same places. But then Kristen will blow in like a hurricane bossing me around or Jeremy will call and we'll talk and then it changes. Throw us all together and we a collective hoot! Throw in Marie and Sam and we get out of hand.

So standing in the dark under the early morning stars these books were coming together in my head. And I was thinking of Esther and her question and almost 1000 pages that are just lying around. I'd already asked Dedra to help me assemble them as she is an editor.

I am convinced that there are two types of people in the world ... writers and editors. My dear friend Stacy, whom I also love, has chided me that I need an editor for my morning musings. I will never understand editors! They are whacked out people who believe in rules. They are necessary ... but who cares if I left out a word or two?

Then there is this agent in New York who's asked for my stuff. I've never had an agent. I've published like I write ... I freebase!

This of course drove my publishers crazy. The first two books were very similar and the publisher thought we were settling into a groove. Then a bigger publisher wanted the third book so I jumped ship which was fine until I wrote the forth book which was how to end homelessness in America. So they dropped me (though the book did win an award which makes it all ... ironic).

Then I wrote "Running with the Dolphins" because Tybee Island is too crazy and beautiful a place to not write about. The Tybee Island city council decided to change everything about the island after the book came out so they tore down (1) the amusement park; (2) the Desoto Beach Club; (3) put an end to the Tybee music festival which always included the Tams and the Swinging Medallions; (4) forced Spanky's to relocate to the other end of the island; (5) made a rule that the Tybee Island Police Department would no longer drive you home if you drank too much ... I could go on. Everything that is cool in that book has been done away with by the City Council.

"Playing Hide and Seek: A non-church goers Guide to God" followed which mostly got me in trouble. Trouble is one of the most consistent things about my life so it didn't bother me too much but it drove poor Bennie Mitchell and the publisher crazy. It also got me this great rejection letter from Tony Compollo who took issue with my Liberation Theology self (he was going to write the preface but then I wrote "No Savior will ever sleep in the White House" and he'd just slept in the White House and well ... it didn't work out).

My dear friend Guy Sayles wanted to write a book together at this point, so we talked and decided to do one titled "Called In/Called Out" but it didn't work out either. I think that Guy got hamstrung by Southern Baptist policy or some bullshit like that. I did write the called out part which turned into "Out From Under the Rock" (get it? "Upon this Rock I will build my Church," Jesus said to St. Peter). It's my favorite so far (but don't tell the other books). I'm not sure why. Guy is the glue that holds the book together and I gave it away to Union Mission to raise money and it did ... like $100,000 or something. But it came at a special time and means special things to me.

Keith was unforgettable. A homeless mentally ill, Vietnam veteran with lupus who I loved so much that I moved him to the Tybee Island nursing home to be near me is the reason "Tour of Homes" was written. It's my epic novel on homelessness and how crazy Savannah is. It's mostly a love letter to Keith who disappeared and I still wonder if he made his way back to the red head.

Then I stopped.

Work became all consuming. My marriage began to crumble. It felt as though rocks were being piled to keep me from doing the things that I'd always done. I became sullen. The creativity remained locked inside. I got depressed.

Then as it was all getting worse ... I started again.

And I worked my way back to me.

So standing naked under the stars this morning, birthing books in my head and heart, loving the people who encourage me with everything in me, I suddenly felt like St. Francis when he took off his robe and tossed it aside to take the hand of Clair ...

And as he did this ...

He changed everything.

Remaking you Life

When you remake your life it reaches a point when you wonder when the remaking stops.

It's been a year of remaking for me. Suddenly I was single. Then I left the career that had defined who I was (which I would highly recommend that no one ever do). I lived alone for the first time in my life. Decades of public life vanished and overnight I became very private. All of this happened at once which is the way that lives are remade in the first place.

Things may build up over time ... resentment, loss of passion, confidence erodes, and you find that you just don't care anymore. Or whoever you are with reaches these points and makes the decision for you. Or whoever you worked for decides and forces the issues. Then it's like the guy who pulls the table cloth off of the table without disrupting what is one the table ... some things are the same yet everything is different.

You life is remade in an instant.

Then what do you do?

For months I didn't do anything. I laid around.

Then these friends showed up and they all refused to take no for an answer. And love crept back in through the cracks of the doors that I'd slammed shut.

Then I was sitting here one day and decided it was time for the future to arrive. The house that I lived in was no longer the place that it had been built for. That family was no more and I had been keeping like a shrine to what used to be.

"To hell with that," I told myself.

So I called Jimmie who assembled the Union Mission alumni association and they have descended upon the house that I live in. It has been remade. An old beach house with an antiquated kitchen is now modern. Shelves fill voids. Crown molding covers old scars. Orange cover the blues that used to fill the bathroom. A back splash gives me protection where I used to leave myself exposed. Hilarious Hideous pillows adorn the sofas which make me laugh adn fill me with joy.

A once happy home is now happy again.

Happier!

The Union Mission alumni association take twice as long to accomplish anything because they keep wanting to talk and tell Dedra, who has come back from the dead again, old stories about things that I did or things that they did. We all laugh and tell one another how much we love each other.

Then ... like last night ... I'll stumble into the new kitchen ... which is far better than the old kitchen ... then do my best Conner impersonation to stroll out to the beloved back deck ... take a seat propping my feet on the rail ... and blow a kiss to Taurus the Bull which happens to rest over me.

Then I walk back into my new old house.

Remade.

Like me.

Ready for next.