Daytona Beach is 23 miles long and about 50 feet wide at low tide. As far as beaches go it doesn't come close to being one of the largest. That's Cox's Bazaar in Bangledesh of all places! It's never struck me that famine plagued Bangledesh would be a breach destination. Nonetheless, Cox's Bazaar is now on my list of things to do before I die.
Sitting here this morning with a post coffee drink, Sarah and the girls are all asleep, Jeremy's back in school, Marie's educating the next generation, Kristen's home from work, Sam is studying and Chelsea is probably walking her bunny in Atlanta. Early morning time alone is something that I've always loved and appreciated.
I'm watching loving, but sleepy, fathers carry babies around the pool while their wives presumably sleep. Old men in tank tops smoke cigarettes on balconies staring a flat and calm ocean. Women in Moo-moos are ... I don't know what they are ... outlandish! Kids who wouldn't go to bed are already up and screaming to the tops of their lungs as they cannon ball into the pool. I'm certain their parents ... and a great many other people ... want to kill th m.
"Leave your mind behind, Baby James" and I have ... I think. All of the things that have worried me are back home. We didn't pack them. There is a phone call that I have to make but other than that ... I plan on doing a whole lot of ... this.
A woman in a Moo-moo is now choaking her daughter who screamed Bloody murder as she hit the water, splashing her mother and their towels.
A crowd gathers cheering for the Mom.
I offer a toast to vacation.
Europeans do them far better than Americans. They're also called holiday, sabbatical, gap year, and ... my personal favorite ... career break.
"What are you doing these days," people ask me? When they do, Sarah and I exchange glances and laugh because there are two ways to answer.
On the one hand, we're doing nothing, living smack dab in the middle of a career break.
On the other hand, we're incredibly busy ... as busy as I've ever been! I'm writing more than ever, considering publishers, traveling more than ever, consulting (when I remember to), blending families, helping with Bar Church, practicing the guitar, watering flowers, planning more travel, re-tooling the house, pondering the future, forgetting the past, enjoying the Carnival of Friends and loving the hell out of Sarah (and I mean that in the most literal of ways).
The music blaring from the Tiki Bar beside the pool has woken the old man staying beside us. His white hair and beard match his white skin. He looks at me and smiles.
"Does it get any better than this?" he asks, whiping the sleep from his eyes. His smile is that of a little boy on Christmas morning.
I raise my post coffee drink to him.
"Nope," I smile. "It doesn't."
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Monday, April 9, 2012
Beach Vacations
A couple of weeks ago, I went on Adult Spring Break. So as not to discriminate, today I am off to Kids Spring Break. It's OK ... I'm 55 going on 17. Plus we are heading to another beach! Sarah will wear a bikini as will thousands of others walking up and down Daytona Beach.
To this day I still get a sense of excitement as we cross the St. Mary's River bridge and spy the "Florida" sign. Growing up, it was the most exotic destination that my family could afford. We didn't go every year but when we did it was certainly special. Come to think of it ... it is where I first cultivated my appreciation of bikinis.
Growing up with Tybee Island, Hilton Head and Daytona Beach as playgrounds, it is easy to see the development of my life's goal of being a Beach Bum. Salt water runs through my veins. My hair is sun streaked. I have a permanent tan. The only shoes worth having are flip-flops. Sitting outside is better than sitting inside. Ceiling fans are a requirement of housing. Windows should always be open. Sea breezes are the best breezes. The aroma of sun tan lotion is intoxicating. Beer is best served in a koozie. Wine needs ice.
We're heading down to stay at a place where I stayed as a kid. It has a great pool beside the beach and a balcony for me to sit on. There's a kitchen and restaurants if we decide to eat out. There's a coffee shop that I will frequent in the mornings as I read the Daytona Beach Journal while the girls sleep. Then it's outside living until dark. Then there's looking for sand crabs at night.
John McDonald, creator of the famous (and required reading for any Beach Bum) Travis McGee novels, once wondered why condos built beside the ocean were often hermetically sealed. "Silence by the sea," is how he described it. He never understood it and I don't either.
I need sand in my toes.
I'm cool with sand in my house.
Sand is a lifestyle commitment on my part. It is far superior to dirt.
I got my Bob Marley, Jimmy Buffett, Beach Boys, Spearhead and Jim Morris tunes loaded up on the my I-Pod. I want to watch the kids play while I hold hands with Sarah. I want to reflect on the Crab trap of life.
There's something about living at the beach and vacationing at other beaches that is perfectly logical to me. The highest and best mountains are all underwater anyway! And there's no bikinis in the mountains!
Now if I can just my pop-up cooler, it's time to go.
Pale invaders and tanned crusaders are worshiping the sun
on the corner of walk and Don't walk somewhere on U.S.
I'm back to living Floridays
Blue Skies and ultra-violet rays
Looking for better days
I believe that I've found them.
To this day I still get a sense of excitement as we cross the St. Mary's River bridge and spy the "Florida" sign. Growing up, it was the most exotic destination that my family could afford. We didn't go every year but when we did it was certainly special. Come to think of it ... it is where I first cultivated my appreciation of bikinis.
Growing up with Tybee Island, Hilton Head and Daytona Beach as playgrounds, it is easy to see the development of my life's goal of being a Beach Bum. Salt water runs through my veins. My hair is sun streaked. I have a permanent tan. The only shoes worth having are flip-flops. Sitting outside is better than sitting inside. Ceiling fans are a requirement of housing. Windows should always be open. Sea breezes are the best breezes. The aroma of sun tan lotion is intoxicating. Beer is best served in a koozie. Wine needs ice.
We're heading down to stay at a place where I stayed as a kid. It has a great pool beside the beach and a balcony for me to sit on. There's a kitchen and restaurants if we decide to eat out. There's a coffee shop that I will frequent in the mornings as I read the Daytona Beach Journal while the girls sleep. Then it's outside living until dark. Then there's looking for sand crabs at night.
John McDonald, creator of the famous (and required reading for any Beach Bum) Travis McGee novels, once wondered why condos built beside the ocean were often hermetically sealed. "Silence by the sea," is how he described it. He never understood it and I don't either.
I need sand in my toes.
I'm cool with sand in my house.
Sand is a lifestyle commitment on my part. It is far superior to dirt.
I got my Bob Marley, Jimmy Buffett, Beach Boys, Spearhead and Jim Morris tunes loaded up on the my I-Pod. I want to watch the kids play while I hold hands with Sarah. I want to reflect on the Crab trap of life.
There's something about living at the beach and vacationing at other beaches that is perfectly logical to me. The highest and best mountains are all underwater anyway! And there's no bikinis in the mountains!
Now if I can just my pop-up cooler, it's time to go.
Pale invaders and tanned crusaders are worshiping the sun
on the corner of walk and Don't walk somewhere on U.S.
I'm back to living Floridays
Blue Skies and ultra-violet rays
Looking for better days
I believe that I've found them.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
The Risen Sun
The Christians conducted a hostile takeover of the Breakfast Club this morning.
It started just as the minister of whichever church it was called for the Benediction.
"Let's go," the wife said to her husband or the husband said to his wife.
Then after celebrating Jesus rising from the dead ... like the sun rises from the sea ... all hell broke loose.
There was a mad dash from the Pier to the Club.
Christians trampled Christians ... food was involved.
Sitting there sipping coffee, I watched Jodee hide the eggs.
"Isn't that what you're supposed to do on Easter," he asked?
If Jesus planned his resurrection today, I suppose that Brunch would be involved. Mimosas and Bloody Marys would be served. There would be Hollendaise sause.
"Can you get us cigarettes," Val asked. "It's gonna be a long day."
Nodding, I took the money and walked outside. A line stretched down the block and I broke through it to get my bicycle then coasted to the store.
"Happy Easter Rev," Jackie said as I entered. "Who you buying for?"
"Happy Easter Babe," I replied, "Val, Ryno" and as soon as I called the names she jerked them from the shelve and threw them on the counter.
Back at the Breakfast Club, hell was still breaking loose.
The line was longer.
The sun has risen.
It started just as the minister of whichever church it was called for the Benediction.
"Let's go," the wife said to her husband or the husband said to his wife.
Then after celebrating Jesus rising from the dead ... like the sun rises from the sea ... all hell broke loose.
There was a mad dash from the Pier to the Club.
Christians trampled Christians ... food was involved.
Sitting there sipping coffee, I watched Jodee hide the eggs.
"Isn't that what you're supposed to do on Easter," he asked?
If Jesus planned his resurrection today, I suppose that Brunch would be involved. Mimosas and Bloody Marys would be served. There would be Hollendaise sause.
"Can you get us cigarettes," Val asked. "It's gonna be a long day."
Nodding, I took the money and walked outside. A line stretched down the block and I broke through it to get my bicycle then coasted to the store.
"Happy Easter Rev," Jackie said as I entered. "Who you buying for?"
"Happy Easter Babe," I replied, "Val, Ryno" and as soon as I called the names she jerked them from the shelve and threw them on the counter.
Back at the Breakfast Club, hell was still breaking loose.
The line was longer.
The sun has risen.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Better Days
I imagine they got drunk ... or laid ... or sat staring at their hands unable to conjure up words ... or cried.
The man they'd put all of their hopes, faith and love in was dead. It had been a terrible thing to watch.
To make it all worse, one of their best friends hung himself ... or cut himself in two, depending on which version you believe.
Regardless, their world had crumbled.
Each wondered what they were going to do now? Every single one of them questioned how in the hell they could have allowed themselves to give their life completely away ... to what somebody else believed.
Somebody had let them down.
There was no Kingdom Come. All of his promises of peace and love proved to be nice talk but nothing else. The man had known how to use words ... damn he could talk pretty ... making them believe with everything inside of them ... only to be left with nothing.
Then the Government made plans with the Preachers, and it's never good with those two mix, and they took him ... beat the shit out of him ... and nailed his ass to a cross.
Disciples watched in horror.
A whore cried.
A mother wailed.
But most everyone else ... laughed. Then again the majority party normally does.
I know how they felt. I've been there. It sucks. I was left behind. I've lost what I believed in. Things I'd spent years believing in and working towards were snatched away by self-serving bastards. I was left staring at my hands with nothing to say. I got wasted. I got laid looking for comfort that wasn't there. Words failed me. I felt like a failure. I know what it's like to be passed over.
I like the Disciples.
I think that I am one.
They are my kind of people.
But I know something that they didn't ... better days are ahead.
The man they'd put all of their hopes, faith and love in was dead. It had been a terrible thing to watch.
To make it all worse, one of their best friends hung himself ... or cut himself in two, depending on which version you believe.
Regardless, their world had crumbled.
Each wondered what they were going to do now? Every single one of them questioned how in the hell they could have allowed themselves to give their life completely away ... to what somebody else believed.
Somebody had let them down.
There was no Kingdom Come. All of his promises of peace and love proved to be nice talk but nothing else. The man had known how to use words ... damn he could talk pretty ... making them believe with everything inside of them ... only to be left with nothing.
Then the Government made plans with the Preachers, and it's never good with those two mix, and they took him ... beat the shit out of him ... and nailed his ass to a cross.
Disciples watched in horror.
A whore cried.
A mother wailed.
But most everyone else ... laughed. Then again the majority party normally does.
I know how they felt. I've been there. It sucks. I was left behind. I've lost what I believed in. Things I'd spent years believing in and working towards were snatched away by self-serving bastards. I was left staring at my hands with nothing to say. I got wasted. I got laid looking for comfort that wasn't there. Words failed me. I felt like a failure. I know what it's like to be passed over.
I like the Disciples.
I think that I am one.
They are my kind of people.
But I know something that they didn't ... better days are ahead.
Friday, April 6, 2012
The Eyes of the Heart
If faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen ... then I'm there!
I have lots of hopes that are not based on much evidence! It's all gonna by alright ... I don't quite know how it's all gonna be alright, but it is. It's like believing in God or Jesus or the Saints and all the prophets ... hoping for the evidence of things not seen.
My favorite writer, Frederick Buechner says "Our eyes are just our eyes and not all we have for seeing, maybe not even the best we have for seeing. Facts are all the eye can see, eyes cannot see truth. It's not with the eyes of the head that we see truths like that, but with the eyes of the heart. To see (Jesus) with the heart is to know, in the long run, that his is the only life worth living."
So if you're going to try to emulate the life of Jesus, you need to understand that crucifixions are involved.
It's Good Friday ... which wasn't all that good for Jesus. After getting the shit kicked out of him, they nailed his ass to a cross ... to hang naked in the sun (there was no little white cloth to cover him) ... until he died ... which he did.
Which is where the whole faith part comes in.
I think Jesus hoped he'd come back but nobody had done it before. There was no real evidence that he would. He was a romantic though ... he believed ... he had faith.
Hanging there on the cross, he had to have thought to himself more than once ... "I hope I have this right."
It's the same with the rest of us.
God, I hope I have this right though the evidence I have is noticeably lacking.
Oh well, my heart tells me I'm doing the right things.
And some of us do ... and some of don't.
And there are the selfish bastards who make up the rest of the Easter story ... Governors, High Priests, soldiers who just follow orders ... Mothers, believers and the occasional rich person who gives up his prepaid tomb so a homeless dead man can have be rolled away.
Then ... figuratively or literally ... Jesus came back from the dead.
All of these later, he dominates the calendar with Christmas and Easter, has his own section in bookstores, owns his own recording industry, has his name invoked at most awards ceremonies, is a guttural response to good things happening or bad things happening around the world and literally owns eleven o'clock each and every Sunday!!!
If it was changing the world that Jesus had hoped for, with no evidence of it ever happening ... he did all right.
But if it was something more ... giving the rest of us an example of what it means to look at things from the eyes of the heart ... then he did that too.
I think it's the later.
I have lots of hopes that are not based on much evidence! It's all gonna by alright ... I don't quite know how it's all gonna be alright, but it is. It's like believing in God or Jesus or the Saints and all the prophets ... hoping for the evidence of things not seen.
My favorite writer, Frederick Buechner says "Our eyes are just our eyes and not all we have for seeing, maybe not even the best we have for seeing. Facts are all the eye can see, eyes cannot see truth. It's not with the eyes of the head that we see truths like that, but with the eyes of the heart. To see (Jesus) with the heart is to know, in the long run, that his is the only life worth living."
So if you're going to try to emulate the life of Jesus, you need to understand that crucifixions are involved.
It's Good Friday ... which wasn't all that good for Jesus. After getting the shit kicked out of him, they nailed his ass to a cross ... to hang naked in the sun (there was no little white cloth to cover him) ... until he died ... which he did.
Which is where the whole faith part comes in.
I think Jesus hoped he'd come back but nobody had done it before. There was no real evidence that he would. He was a romantic though ... he believed ... he had faith.
Hanging there on the cross, he had to have thought to himself more than once ... "I hope I have this right."
It's the same with the rest of us.
God, I hope I have this right though the evidence I have is noticeably lacking.
Oh well, my heart tells me I'm doing the right things.
And some of us do ... and some of don't.
And there are the selfish bastards who make up the rest of the Easter story ... Governors, High Priests, soldiers who just follow orders ... Mothers, believers and the occasional rich person who gives up his prepaid tomb so a homeless dead man can have be rolled away.
Then ... figuratively or literally ... Jesus came back from the dead.
All of these later, he dominates the calendar with Christmas and Easter, has his own section in bookstores, owns his own recording industry, has his name invoked at most awards ceremonies, is a guttural response to good things happening or bad things happening around the world and literally owns eleven o'clock each and every Sunday!!!
If it was changing the world that Jesus had hoped for, with no evidence of it ever happening ... he did all right.
But if it was something more ... giving the rest of us an example of what it means to look at things from the eyes of the heart ... then he did that too.
I think it's the later.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Getting What you Want
You know how you always wanted something and then you finally get it and ... well it's just different from what you thought?
It could be a house or a spouse, a job or a suave new car, salvation or finally giving in to the temptation that's taunted you for so long. Retirement or the most recent acquirement. Anyway, you get it and ... it's not all that.
Like being at a wedding and the song is sung for the Bride and the Groom ... You Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones. Everything is perfect ... except that it's not.
And you know it.
A lot of people lapse into pretense when they realize this.
It may not be what I thought it was ... but I'd convinced myself that this is everything ... so I'm just going to keep on believing it is ... even though it's not.
We do funny things to ourselves.
It's Maundy Thursday when the Disciples thought Jesus lost his mind as he stripped naked, grabbed a towel, washed their feet and used the towel he was wearing to dry their feet. Pretty scandalous stuff ... even by today's standards. I'm pretty sure it's illegal in the State of Georgia!
It's funny though because the Disciples were finally getting what they'd been asking for ... to be close to one they love.
"Do me all over," sums up Peter's reaction once he understood what was going on. Apparently Peter liked doing it all.
On the other hand, Jesus said, "You ain't all clean," and whoever wrote the Gospel of John takes that to mean Judas wasn't catching on at all.
Judas could have been turned off by the whole feet washing thing by a guy wearing only a towel that he used to dry twelve pairs of feet. I know for certain that Chatham County Health Department would be all over that requiring a different towel for each foot dried, rubber gloves and an inspection score published in newspaper on how good a job Jesus had done.
Judas did seem to understand the economics of it all though. When Jesus got his feet own washed by a woman who used tears and her hair as a towel, he calculated the cost of it all.
In the end Jesus told Judas it was worth it ... regardless of the cost.
Once money wasn't part of the equation, Judas didn't want anything to do any of it. He may have been a Republican. I don't know. He was certainly a capitalist.
In the end though, they all got what they wanted. Judas got paid. Peter got the whole church built using his name as credit with no down payment (well ... he was crucified upside down so I suppose there was a down payment).
And Jesus made his point. "Let's do nice things for each other. Forgive people. If somebody tries to do something nice for you, appreciate it. Nobody is better than anybody else ... and if you do these things ... you're blessed."
To which I would add, it you don't do these things ... you're screwed.
It could be a house or a spouse, a job or a suave new car, salvation or finally giving in to the temptation that's taunted you for so long. Retirement or the most recent acquirement. Anyway, you get it and ... it's not all that.
Like being at a wedding and the song is sung for the Bride and the Groom ... You Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones. Everything is perfect ... except that it's not.
And you know it.
A lot of people lapse into pretense when they realize this.
It may not be what I thought it was ... but I'd convinced myself that this is everything ... so I'm just going to keep on believing it is ... even though it's not.
We do funny things to ourselves.
It's Maundy Thursday when the Disciples thought Jesus lost his mind as he stripped naked, grabbed a towel, washed their feet and used the towel he was wearing to dry their feet. Pretty scandalous stuff ... even by today's standards. I'm pretty sure it's illegal in the State of Georgia!
It's funny though because the Disciples were finally getting what they'd been asking for ... to be close to one they love.
"Do me all over," sums up Peter's reaction once he understood what was going on. Apparently Peter liked doing it all.
On the other hand, Jesus said, "You ain't all clean," and whoever wrote the Gospel of John takes that to mean Judas wasn't catching on at all.
Judas could have been turned off by the whole feet washing thing by a guy wearing only a towel that he used to dry twelve pairs of feet. I know for certain that Chatham County Health Department would be all over that requiring a different towel for each foot dried, rubber gloves and an inspection score published in newspaper on how good a job Jesus had done.
Judas did seem to understand the economics of it all though. When Jesus got his feet own washed by a woman who used tears and her hair as a towel, he calculated the cost of it all.
In the end Jesus told Judas it was worth it ... regardless of the cost.
Once money wasn't part of the equation, Judas didn't want anything to do any of it. He may have been a Republican. I don't know. He was certainly a capitalist.
In the end though, they all got what they wanted. Judas got paid. Peter got the whole church built using his name as credit with no down payment (well ... he was crucified upside down so I suppose there was a down payment).
And Jesus made his point. "Let's do nice things for each other. Forgive people. If somebody tries to do something nice for you, appreciate it. Nobody is better than anybody else ... and if you do these things ... you're blessed."
To which I would add, it you don't do these things ... you're screwed.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
The Fountain of Youth
I think that Paul McCartney is 69 years old. Will you still need me, will you still feed me ... when he was 64? He's 69 going on 70 ... and going out on tour with a new album.
Given that ... and the fact that he walked barefoot across Abby Road (we prefer the same kind of shoe) ... plus ... ALL OF THAT MUSIC! ... it's hard not to like Paul. Two of the Fab Four are dead and Ringo hangs around Stars. Linda, the love of Paul's life is long dead now ... and after a not-so-successful marriage to Heather Mills, he just got married again.
{She} takes a licking and keeps on ticking, as I recently promised to Sarah under a full moon.
"The answer to divorce," Sir Paul recently said, "is marriage."
The Major Prophet John Lennon, who used to hang around Paul, once said, "Flower Power didn't work. So what? Let's try again."
Paul's saying the same thing.
Obviously ... I am in agreement.
All of that to say ... I'm in a band.
My wife Sarah is also in the band.
Dedra is the band.
We mostly do Church gigs in a bar ... though I fronted a killer version of "Knocking on Sarah's Door" at Bernie's recently ... played a couple of sets at Bennie's ... and Tybee's most famous concert was held on Cheryl and Jodee Sadowski's porch last summer where we played live with the famous ... and reclusive Mitch Wesley! Who gets to say that? The man is rarely seen in public?
So we practice with Samuel Adams who thinks he's in charge.
Steven is the lead guitarist and looks like one.
Davy is the drummer and acts like one.
Gordo blows the harps.
Sean plays bass, twelve string, six string, rolls out cords before the gig and then again after the gig.He also sells popcorn during intermission and ... probably mops the floors after we're gone.
Lea drops words like babies on the stage.
Gladius ... or Sparticus ... or Amerilus or whatever his name is ... plays a really mean Spanish guitar that leaves everyone breathless. Hennie plays congos and makes us look black.
We have a good time.
People seem to like it because we throw in prayers, sermons, confessions, laughter and we Speak in tongues in a language that only we can understand.
But you know what?
At 55 years of age, I'm still a punk rocker. I remain a Beatle-wanna-be. My hair is long and guitar playing is better than it's been since last time I was in a band ... which was just after the Beatles had broken up. And hanging around these younger, beautiful, passionate, struggling, gifted, wonderful members of the band ... keeps me young.
Well ... them and Sarah.
The Fountain of Youth bubbles with music.
That's the reason a chorus of Angels show up to announce births of Saviors.
Rock On!
Given that ... and the fact that he walked barefoot across Abby Road (we prefer the same kind of shoe) ... plus ... ALL OF THAT MUSIC! ... it's hard not to like Paul. Two of the Fab Four are dead and Ringo hangs around Stars. Linda, the love of Paul's life is long dead now ... and after a not-so-successful marriage to Heather Mills, he just got married again.
{She} takes a licking and keeps on ticking, as I recently promised to Sarah under a full moon.
"The answer to divorce," Sir Paul recently said, "is marriage."
The Major Prophet John Lennon, who used to hang around Paul, once said, "Flower Power didn't work. So what? Let's try again."
Paul's saying the same thing.
Obviously ... I am in agreement.
All of that to say ... I'm in a band.
My wife Sarah is also in the band.
Dedra is the band.
We mostly do Church gigs in a bar ... though I fronted a killer version of "Knocking on Sarah's Door" at Bernie's recently ... played a couple of sets at Bennie's ... and Tybee's most famous concert was held on Cheryl and Jodee Sadowski's porch last summer where we played live with the famous ... and reclusive Mitch Wesley! Who gets to say that? The man is rarely seen in public?
So we practice with Samuel Adams who thinks he's in charge.
Steven is the lead guitarist and looks like one.
Davy is the drummer and acts like one.
Gordo blows the harps.
Sean plays bass, twelve string, six string, rolls out cords before the gig and then again after the gig.He also sells popcorn during intermission and ... probably mops the floors after we're gone.
Lea drops words like babies on the stage.
Gladius ... or Sparticus ... or Amerilus or whatever his name is ... plays a really mean Spanish guitar that leaves everyone breathless. Hennie plays congos and makes us look black.
We have a good time.
People seem to like it because we throw in prayers, sermons, confessions, laughter and we Speak in tongues in a language that only we can understand.
But you know what?
At 55 years of age, I'm still a punk rocker. I remain a Beatle-wanna-be. My hair is long and guitar playing is better than it's been since last time I was in a band ... which was just after the Beatles had broken up. And hanging around these younger, beautiful, passionate, struggling, gifted, wonderful members of the band ... keeps me young.
Well ... them and Sarah.
The Fountain of Youth bubbles with music.
That's the reason a chorus of Angels show up to announce births of Saviors.
Rock On!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
A Better Place to be
Sometimes you wonder why you did the things you've done. It all seemed logical and right as I was doing it ... God knows it was holy causes and pure motives ... and things worked out for the most part but at what cost?
When you're in the middle of gross unhappiness, you don't really know you're there ... getting up every morning and giving it your best, telling yourself it's a new day that will be better than the one before.
Then it's not.
A lot stay stuck right here ... getting up every day, trying a new start by doing the same thing. The anchors of unhappiness take hold and dig deeper in the deep dark nothingness. Eventually life fizzles out. The obituary is an attempt to capture highlights that are exceptions to the rule.
Some leave the unhappiness of who they are with, where they're at or who they are. Picking up life, they re-mix the salad, throwing out the old and getting a lot of new ... which may or may not replace the old. Moving to new places running from who they are ... only to discover that Hell is portable. You take it with you wherever you go.
Or you are the left one ... wondering how could this possibly happened to you. You did everything. Never missed the opportunity to be the caregiver, took care of business, gave everything asked. Only to discover that you didn't have the answers to the questions being asked. You gave yourself when they were asking for somebody else. You're left with ... you ... just you.
Maybe, like me, all of these things happened to you ... in rapid, machine gun fire succession and your holiness is full of holes.
You appreciate shells ... because you are one.
In spite of it all, you continue to believe ... you're just not quite sure what it is that you are believing in ... yet you do.
It's funny too how you find yourself surrounded by others who seem ... just fine! They smile, joke, are happy as a lark, forever seem to get ahead, doing everything just right. If you hold on to your senses and don't become to self-absorbed or absorbed with them, you eventually figure out they're just like you ... Fucked up and struggling.
Rich or poor ... it doesn't matter. The only difference is the more money you have, the more you spend to try to hide how your problems, or family, are no different from the homeless woman on the street or the addict in the alley. They're the same tears spilling on satin sheets as falling on a bunk bed in a shelter. Lies told at the Country Club are strangely similar to those in a jail cell. Enthusiastic greetings at Church are as meaningless as political promises.
You know what?
I've lived all of these things. I'm OK with me still being here ... which is much easier said than done. I'm in love with someone who loves me. We struggle like everyone else does who is in love. We hate it when we're on different pages. We want to make others happy and accepting but it's not our problem. It is theirs. When we're alone, we're just happy. We have kids we want to be happy too. And we have friends (the ones still here and the ones who have returned from the dead) that wish us the same happiness we wish them.
I was reminded of these things last night.
This morning, after chores upon chore, mitigating fights and meeting deadlines ... I pause ... and look at her.
In spite of what it took to get here ... which I wouldn't wish on anyone ... (that's a lie, there are several people I do wish it on) ... it's a better place to be.
I'll take this.
When you're in the middle of gross unhappiness, you don't really know you're there ... getting up every morning and giving it your best, telling yourself it's a new day that will be better than the one before.
Then it's not.
A lot stay stuck right here ... getting up every day, trying a new start by doing the same thing. The anchors of unhappiness take hold and dig deeper in the deep dark nothingness. Eventually life fizzles out. The obituary is an attempt to capture highlights that are exceptions to the rule.
Some leave the unhappiness of who they are with, where they're at or who they are. Picking up life, they re-mix the salad, throwing out the old and getting a lot of new ... which may or may not replace the old. Moving to new places running from who they are ... only to discover that Hell is portable. You take it with you wherever you go.
Or you are the left one ... wondering how could this possibly happened to you. You did everything. Never missed the opportunity to be the caregiver, took care of business, gave everything asked. Only to discover that you didn't have the answers to the questions being asked. You gave yourself when they were asking for somebody else. You're left with ... you ... just you.
Maybe, like me, all of these things happened to you ... in rapid, machine gun fire succession and your holiness is full of holes.
You appreciate shells ... because you are one.
In spite of it all, you continue to believe ... you're just not quite sure what it is that you are believing in ... yet you do.
It's funny too how you find yourself surrounded by others who seem ... just fine! They smile, joke, are happy as a lark, forever seem to get ahead, doing everything just right. If you hold on to your senses and don't become to self-absorbed or absorbed with them, you eventually figure out they're just like you ... Fucked up and struggling.
Rich or poor ... it doesn't matter. The only difference is the more money you have, the more you spend to try to hide how your problems, or family, are no different from the homeless woman on the street or the addict in the alley. They're the same tears spilling on satin sheets as falling on a bunk bed in a shelter. Lies told at the Country Club are strangely similar to those in a jail cell. Enthusiastic greetings at Church are as meaningless as political promises.
You know what?
I've lived all of these things. I'm OK with me still being here ... which is much easier said than done. I'm in love with someone who loves me. We struggle like everyone else does who is in love. We hate it when we're on different pages. We want to make others happy and accepting but it's not our problem. It is theirs. When we're alone, we're just happy. We have kids we want to be happy too. And we have friends (the ones still here and the ones who have returned from the dead) that wish us the same happiness we wish them.
I was reminded of these things last night.
This morning, after chores upon chore, mitigating fights and meeting deadlines ... I pause ... and look at her.
In spite of what it took to get here ... which I wouldn't wish on anyone ... (that's a lie, there are several people I do wish it on) ... it's a better place to be.
I'll take this.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Wonderful Moments
Standing on the deck grilling steaks and listening to Sheryl Crow I can't help but think how blessed I am. Sure there are things I wish were better or different ... who doesn't? ... but this moment in time is pretty damn good. And that's all we really have anyway ... this moment. Hopefully the next one comes ... and the one after that ... but you never really know.
At this second though all is blissfully good. The television is blaring at ten decimals inside as the Disney Channel has conquered three little girls with what passes for acting these days. Sarah is doing the fourteenth load of laundry of the day. The house is mostly clean if you don't count Laurel's room which looks like Beirut.
And I'm outside on the deck, basking in the sunshine, wearing a pair of Sarah's running shorts because I forgot to bring any, sniffing the steaks and humming along with Sheryl Crow.
I'm gonna soak up, gonna tell everyone to lighten up.
The cell phone buzzes and I see I've missed a call.
Hitting voice mail, I hear the voice of Ted Hardgrove. Ted is a retired Director with the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation who I first met in 1998 when Ben Barnes, Mary Ann Beil and I drove to Charleston, South Carolina. Ted was in a conference there and had agreed to meet with us. A year later the Foundation gave Union Mission $613,000 to help start the J. C. Lewis Health Center and the Brassler Dental Clinic. The trip had been worth the price of the gas.
After that, Ted orchestrated my appointment as a member of the Foundation's National Advisory Board which takes me throughout the United States visiting and learning from the best of the best. I'm still a member of the Board. Ted is retired in Princeton, New Jersey a couple of miles from his old office.
It's been a couple of years since we've talked and at seventy-five his voice is that of man much younger.
"Micheal my friend, I am calling with Congratulations. We cannot wait to meet Sarah! It has been too long since we have talked. Call me."
So I did.
There is something about old friends. They stay in touch even though there are long gaps in the episodes of communication. We talk for a long time and it's as no time had passed at all. It may as well have been yesterday since we were together.
I think it's that way with friends who really love each other.
Friends who disappear ... in spite of whatever reason ... they were friends for different reasons ... not really friends ... just meeting mutual needs or taking mutual advantage of one another at the same time. Listening to Ted's warmth and obvious affection reminds me of this. Images of faces of those I once thought to be dear friends flash across my mind.
I tell them Goodbye.
They are soon replaced by the images of those I know love me. I tell myself that it's my turn to call them.
"Have you talked to Ben?" Ted asks as though he's reading my mind.
"Not too long ago," I answer.
"Call him now," Ted commands, "tell him I said Hi."
So I did.
"Micheal my son," the ninety-four year old Ben exclaims into the phone. "Congratulations are in order."
I cry as I flip the steaks over.
These are wonderful moments.
And I am blessed to understand them as they happen.
At this second though all is blissfully good. The television is blaring at ten decimals inside as the Disney Channel has conquered three little girls with what passes for acting these days. Sarah is doing the fourteenth load of laundry of the day. The house is mostly clean if you don't count Laurel's room which looks like Beirut.
And I'm outside on the deck, basking in the sunshine, wearing a pair of Sarah's running shorts because I forgot to bring any, sniffing the steaks and humming along with Sheryl Crow.
I'm gonna soak up, gonna tell everyone to lighten up.
The cell phone buzzes and I see I've missed a call.
Hitting voice mail, I hear the voice of Ted Hardgrove. Ted is a retired Director with the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation who I first met in 1998 when Ben Barnes, Mary Ann Beil and I drove to Charleston, South Carolina. Ted was in a conference there and had agreed to meet with us. A year later the Foundation gave Union Mission $613,000 to help start the J. C. Lewis Health Center and the Brassler Dental Clinic. The trip had been worth the price of the gas.
After that, Ted orchestrated my appointment as a member of the Foundation's National Advisory Board which takes me throughout the United States visiting and learning from the best of the best. I'm still a member of the Board. Ted is retired in Princeton, New Jersey a couple of miles from his old office.
It's been a couple of years since we've talked and at seventy-five his voice is that of man much younger.
"Micheal my friend, I am calling with Congratulations. We cannot wait to meet Sarah! It has been too long since we have talked. Call me."
So I did.
There is something about old friends. They stay in touch even though there are long gaps in the episodes of communication. We talk for a long time and it's as no time had passed at all. It may as well have been yesterday since we were together.
I think it's that way with friends who really love each other.
Friends who disappear ... in spite of whatever reason ... they were friends for different reasons ... not really friends ... just meeting mutual needs or taking mutual advantage of one another at the same time. Listening to Ted's warmth and obvious affection reminds me of this. Images of faces of those I once thought to be dear friends flash across my mind.
I tell them Goodbye.
They are soon replaced by the images of those I know love me. I tell myself that it's my turn to call them.
"Have you talked to Ben?" Ted asks as though he's reading my mind.
"Not too long ago," I answer.
"Call him now," Ted commands, "tell him I said Hi."
So I did.
"Micheal my son," the ninety-four year old Ben exclaims into the phone. "Congratulations are in order."
I cry as I flip the steaks over.
These are wonderful moments.
And I am blessed to understand them as they happen.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
What Day Is It?
Somehow I am in a horizontal position.
I have no idea how.
Normally fog rolls across the marsh and the ocean but this morning it fills my head. I'm wearing sunglasses as I have coffee.
Goddess stares at me with a perplexed look on her face. I throw her doggie treats but she seems more concerned about me than eating them. I notice that my shirt is on backwards.
I'm doing better than Sarah.
She's laying in there laughing in her sleep.
Chocolate Martinis were involved.
The Carnival of Friends gathered for a April Fool's Eve party and man ... did we act the fools. There was food, body part exhibitions, floor dances, wine, chair-on-wheels crashes, Scotch, French Onion Soup, Dean Martin, lots of laughter, tan admiration, something about Milk Men and ... Chocolate Martinis!
Sarah is still laughing about it.
It's April Fool's Day ... or Palm Sunday ... depending on your point of view.
Could be both!
It certainly was for Jesus!
"Come on in!" they yelled. "We love you! Hosanna."
Man, I know the feeling.
Hosanna means "Save me Now" in Hebrew and I am in desperate need of saving this morning.
That's the Palm Sunday part of it.
The April Fool's part of it was the crucified Jesus right after they said Hosanna.
I think we have this right though.
Apparently, the Carnival of Friends tried to crucify one another last night ... so we got that out of the way first. This morning we are in desperate need of salvation.
April Fools!
We're still here!
The weather's warm.
Bird's are singing.
Flowers are blooming.
Sarah's laughing in her sleep.
We're just getting started.
I have no idea how.
Normally fog rolls across the marsh and the ocean but this morning it fills my head. I'm wearing sunglasses as I have coffee.
Goddess stares at me with a perplexed look on her face. I throw her doggie treats but she seems more concerned about me than eating them. I notice that my shirt is on backwards.
I'm doing better than Sarah.
She's laying in there laughing in her sleep.
Chocolate Martinis were involved.
The Carnival of Friends gathered for a April Fool's Eve party and man ... did we act the fools. There was food, body part exhibitions, floor dances, wine, chair-on-wheels crashes, Scotch, French Onion Soup, Dean Martin, lots of laughter, tan admiration, something about Milk Men and ... Chocolate Martinis!
Sarah is still laughing about it.
It's April Fool's Day ... or Palm Sunday ... depending on your point of view.
Could be both!
It certainly was for Jesus!
"Come on in!" they yelled. "We love you! Hosanna."
Man, I know the feeling.
Hosanna means "Save me Now" in Hebrew and I am in desperate need of saving this morning.
That's the Palm Sunday part of it.
The April Fool's part of it was the crucified Jesus right after they said Hosanna.
I think we have this right though.
Apparently, the Carnival of Friends tried to crucify one another last night ... so we got that out of the way first. This morning we are in desperate need of salvation.
April Fools!
We're still here!
The weather's warm.
Bird's are singing.
Flowers are blooming.
Sarah's laughing in her sleep.
We're just getting started.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Beach Bites
"I lost my wife of 54 years," he said handing me a loaded hot dog for Sarah. The girls are rushing to eat so they can get soft serve ice cream.
We're standing in front of Beach Bites on Tybrisa Street, the main drag on Tybee Island. Beach Bites is a hole-in-the-wall ... literally! A walk up window to order food ... burgers, dogs, chips and soft serve ice cream. It's as though an ice cream truck ran into a brick wall and just decided to make the best of it.
HE ... is a 74 year old black man wearing a green sweat shirt on a beach day, jean shorts draging just below his knees and crocks with white socks. He has a sweet smile and keeps his head bent slightly down when he talks. He works the day shift for his son who opened the place.
"... and I needed something to do," he completed the thought.
"How many hot dogs did you get?," he asks getting back to business.
I tell him three, two nachos, and four Cokes. Methodically, he hits buttons on the cash register as I remind him of the food that he's prepared for us.
"I'm sorry about your wife," I say as I hand him money and he looks directly at me for a second with far-away eyes.
"Thank you," he softly says giving me change which I immediately throw in the tip jar.
"How do you like it?" I ask him as the girls line up for ice cream.
Looking at me directly again, he smiles. "Well, the scenery sho' is good. And it's better than being dead."
I burst out laughing and tell Sarah what he said. He laughs with us. The girls look at us with no understanding of the joke ... in light of his deceased wife of 54 years.
Sticking my hand through the window I tell him my name. Staring at me again, he takes my hand and introduces himself as Leo.
Sarah and the girls order ice cream which Leo makes slowly and one-at-a-time. Again he asks me how many ice creams I've ordered after he's just prepared them. Then he methodically hits buttons on the cash register. He is immediately one of my favorite people on the island.
I am a newly converted patron of Beach Bites.
Back on the beach, Sarah and I sit and talk while the girls play or ... are hit on by boys.
"You know," I tell her, "looking back at it all, there were these great moments of joy that made up my life. Now, my life seems joyous all of the time. You just have to keep at it. You know ... like Leo said."
She smiles and squeezes my hand.
It's a glorious day at the beach!
We're standing in front of Beach Bites on Tybrisa Street, the main drag on Tybee Island. Beach Bites is a hole-in-the-wall ... literally! A walk up window to order food ... burgers, dogs, chips and soft serve ice cream. It's as though an ice cream truck ran into a brick wall and just decided to make the best of it.
HE ... is a 74 year old black man wearing a green sweat shirt on a beach day, jean shorts draging just below his knees and crocks with white socks. He has a sweet smile and keeps his head bent slightly down when he talks. He works the day shift for his son who opened the place.
"... and I needed something to do," he completed the thought.
"How many hot dogs did you get?," he asks getting back to business.
I tell him three, two nachos, and four Cokes. Methodically, he hits buttons on the cash register as I remind him of the food that he's prepared for us.
"I'm sorry about your wife," I say as I hand him money and he looks directly at me for a second with far-away eyes.
"Thank you," he softly says giving me change which I immediately throw in the tip jar.
"How do you like it?" I ask him as the girls line up for ice cream.
Looking at me directly again, he smiles. "Well, the scenery sho' is good. And it's better than being dead."
I burst out laughing and tell Sarah what he said. He laughs with us. The girls look at us with no understanding of the joke ... in light of his deceased wife of 54 years.
Sticking my hand through the window I tell him my name. Staring at me again, he takes my hand and introduces himself as Leo.
Sarah and the girls order ice cream which Leo makes slowly and one-at-a-time. Again he asks me how many ice creams I've ordered after he's just prepared them. Then he methodically hits buttons on the cash register. He is immediately one of my favorite people on the island.
I am a newly converted patron of Beach Bites.
Back on the beach, Sarah and I sit and talk while the girls play or ... are hit on by boys.
"You know," I tell her, "looking back at it all, there were these great moments of joy that made up my life. Now, my life seems joyous all of the time. You just have to keep at it. You know ... like Leo said."
She smiles and squeezes my hand.
It's a glorious day at the beach!
Friday, March 30, 2012
Deep Morning Questions
It's been a long time since I've fed a little girl but Cassidy says that she can't take her hands out of the blanket because the bugs will bite her. Sitting here on the Beloved Back Deck she's covered in a blanket with only her bright blue eyes, nose with a scratch under it, and an open mouth waiting on me to shove a Cinnamon roll inside.
She is also "speaking without ceasing" as I sit with music streaming and trying to write. So this pattern is developing. I'll cram Cinnamon roll inside her mouth, she'll chew, I'll type a couple of words and she's talking again.
"Can I have all of the Cinnamon Rolls and my sisters not get any?"
"Are woodpeckers nice?"
"Can we kill Oscar (Sarah's dog) and bury it in the backyard?"
"Mike, when I die will you promise to put all of my Criplights (doll) in the hole with me?"
Staring at her, I marvel at both the diversity and depth of the topics. It's not eight o'clock in the morning yet and she is full tilt throttled already.
"What are you doing," she suddenly asks and I tell her.
"Read me the whole story," she commands so I do.
"Who is going to hear that story," she demands.
"The whole world," I tell her raising both arms towards the sky.
"Not my sisters," she forcefully commands. "My Mom can see it. And Cheryl. And Jodee. And my Pop and Gammy. And Goddess ... but nobody else."
I nod.
"Do woodpeckers have names," she asks changing topics.
"I just know about Woody the Woodpecker," I reply.
"Who's that?"
I explain the cartoon character from when I was a kid and she loses all interest.
"Hey Woody," she yells at the woodpecker in the tree, "have a nice day and no scary dreams tonight."
So the day begins ...
She is also "speaking without ceasing" as I sit with music streaming and trying to write. So this pattern is developing. I'll cram Cinnamon roll inside her mouth, she'll chew, I'll type a couple of words and she's talking again.
"Can I have all of the Cinnamon Rolls and my sisters not get any?"
"Are woodpeckers nice?"
"Can we kill Oscar (Sarah's dog) and bury it in the backyard?"
"Mike, when I die will you promise to put all of my Criplights (doll) in the hole with me?"
Staring at her, I marvel at both the diversity and depth of the topics. It's not eight o'clock in the morning yet and she is full tilt throttled already.
"What are you doing," she suddenly asks and I tell her.
"Read me the whole story," she commands so I do.
"Who is going to hear that story," she demands.
"The whole world," I tell her raising both arms towards the sky.
"Not my sisters," she forcefully commands. "My Mom can see it. And Cheryl. And Jodee. And my Pop and Gammy. And Goddess ... but nobody else."
I nod.
"Do woodpeckers have names," she asks changing topics.
"I just know about Woody the Woodpecker," I reply.
"Who's that?"
I explain the cartoon character from when I was a kid and she loses all interest.
"Hey Woody," she yells at the woodpecker in the tree, "have a nice day and no scary dreams tonight."
So the day begins ...
Thursday, March 29, 2012
I've Been Booted From Better
Less than ten hours after being asked to deliver the Opening Bar at the Easter Sunrise Service on the Pier on Tybee Island ... when all of the churches come together to celebrate, including the Baptists ... I've been booted from the program.
Samuel Adams himself, who plays damn good live music on the island, drove to my house to tell me ... and to ask if he could have the Frankincense back.
Apparently, the Baptist Minister and the Methodist Minister want me nowhere the ocean when the sun comes up.
Ones been here since Jesus' first term of duty and the other looks like he just turned twelve.
I don't mind.
I was doing it for Sam and Bar Church anyway.
Besides, I can sit on the Beloved Back Deck at the house and listen to them Praise God from afar. That is if I'm not streaming Acoustic Sunrise on DAVE FM out of Atlanta.
I've been booted from better!
Actually there is something Biblical and holy about all of this. Jesus was booted from being Savior but refused to take it laying down. After fuming for three days he kicked the stone out of the doorway ... kicking ass and taking names.
Besides, I'm into the flowers on the Beloved Back Deck anyway. All but one has survived the winter. They're in bloom and I arrange them this way and that ... until I find whatever the right mix is for this year.
This year's already better than the last ... much better!
This morning after dropping little girls off at school, Goddess and I were sailing through the marsh on the Tybee Road. The marsh has been reborn and brown grass has given away to green. The sky is a brilliant white/blue and the sun is throwing diamonds on the ocean. The tops down on the car and Goddess is blowing in the wind.
I'm singing to the top of my lungs.
"They've given me a number and taken away my name. Secret Agent Man."
I know that feeling.
Religions, political parties, banks (like the one Jerry Rainy couldn't run only to be outdone by the Bank of America which gave its CEO a $7.5 Million bonus for becoming the first fully federally subsidized bank) ... they reduce people to numbers ... taking away their names.
I know the Baptists sure as hell do it too.
"Jesus called us to count his sheep ... not to name them," is one of the ways I've heard it put best, back in the days when I was a "Professional Christian" (getting paid to do what I asked others to pay to do).
All of that to say ... I'm cool.
The sun's coming up just like the Son did.
Me too.
Samuel Adams himself, who plays damn good live music on the island, drove to my house to tell me ... and to ask if he could have the Frankincense back.
Apparently, the Baptist Minister and the Methodist Minister want me nowhere the ocean when the sun comes up.
Ones been here since Jesus' first term of duty and the other looks like he just turned twelve.
I don't mind.
I was doing it for Sam and Bar Church anyway.
Besides, I can sit on the Beloved Back Deck at the house and listen to them Praise God from afar. That is if I'm not streaming Acoustic Sunrise on DAVE FM out of Atlanta.
I've been booted from better!
Actually there is something Biblical and holy about all of this. Jesus was booted from being Savior but refused to take it laying down. After fuming for three days he kicked the stone out of the doorway ... kicking ass and taking names.
Besides, I'm into the flowers on the Beloved Back Deck anyway. All but one has survived the winter. They're in bloom and I arrange them this way and that ... until I find whatever the right mix is for this year.
This year's already better than the last ... much better!
This morning after dropping little girls off at school, Goddess and I were sailing through the marsh on the Tybee Road. The marsh has been reborn and brown grass has given away to green. The sky is a brilliant white/blue and the sun is throwing diamonds on the ocean. The tops down on the car and Goddess is blowing in the wind.
I'm singing to the top of my lungs.
"They've given me a number and taken away my name. Secret Agent Man."
I know that feeling.
Religions, political parties, banks (like the one Jerry Rainy couldn't run only to be outdone by the Bank of America which gave its CEO a $7.5 Million bonus for becoming the first fully federally subsidized bank) ... they reduce people to numbers ... taking away their names.
I know the Baptists sure as hell do it too.
"Jesus called us to count his sheep ... not to name them," is one of the ways I've heard it put best, back in the days when I was a "Professional Christian" (getting paid to do what I asked others to pay to do).
All of that to say ... I'm cool.
The sun's coming up just like the Son did.
Me too.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Seminary and me
I was not a conventional Seminary student. Consequently, I hung around other Seminary students who were not conventional ... meaning we were often in trouble with the Ayatollahs and Dictators that ran the Seminary.
When all was said and done, I actually graduated ... with the assistance of Stan Wexell, my attorney. God does work in mysterious ways.
By no means was I the most unconventional of Seminary students though they were my friends.
Michael was great! He made an "A-" in his "Marriage Enrichment" class as his divorce was finalized. Now that's an accomplishment!
He was also the one on the last day in the "Exit to Ministry" class, raised his hand and said, "I think we've all made a mistake. If Jesus were here right now, he'd rent a bulldozer and level this place." He skipped graduation a couple of days later and never got his degree. He did go to Law School is a very successful attorney in Georgia.
There was Tim, my favorite because of his wild red hair, white tee-shirt and blue overalls. He was closer to heaven than everybody else in Seminary ... because he was high the whole time he was there. His room in Mullins Hall had an easy chair made entirely out of six-packs of beer. Sitting in it, he'd reach down and jerk a can out of the chair he was sitting in and slug it down! I've never seen that at Rooms-to-Go.
In "Debate" class, Tim stood there listening to a proper Seminary student dominate the argument he was losing. The whole grade came down to this debate and Tim hadn't said anything choosing instead to suck on a toothpick.
"Don't you have anything to say," the Professor finally asked as the proper Seminary student had presented an excellent ... albeit totally one-sided case.
"Yep," Tim replied taking the toothpick out of his and pointing it at his opponent. "I know what a Philistine feels like now."
Then he stuck the toothpick back in his mouth and looked out the window.
"What," the Professor asked?
Taking the toothpick out again and pointing it at his opponent with narrow focused eyes, Tim explained, "I've been beaten by the Jawbone of an Ass."
I fell on the floor laughing as did the rest of the class.
Tim never graduated but is a very successful politician now.
Then John who never studied. When finals rolled around he hadn't cracked a book. It was common for Seminary professors to call upon students to offer a prayer at beginning of each class. Before the test John was tasked with the job. Standing by his desk, he closed and eyes and proceeded to pray ... for an hour ... then the bell rang ... he said Amen and strolled out of the classroom without ever taking the exam.
I love these people!
All right, I got to go to work.
Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, has asked that I deliver the opening prayer for the Easter Sunrise Service on the pier. Sam is Palmist at Bar Church where I am Senor Pastor. All of the island's churches come together for the Easter Service where Bar Church is by far the most unconventional. However, the Methodists, Episcopalians and Catholics work with Bar Church to put on the service.
Last year the Baptists even came back after having boycotted the sunrise service for a while.
So I've got to get myself ready. I must get in a prayerful and holy state of mind. It's a nice day for it ... sunshine and with highs in the 80's.
Yep.
Time to worship the sun.
When all was said and done, I actually graduated ... with the assistance of Stan Wexell, my attorney. God does work in mysterious ways.
By no means was I the most unconventional of Seminary students though they were my friends.
Michael was great! He made an "A-" in his "Marriage Enrichment" class as his divorce was finalized. Now that's an accomplishment!
He was also the one on the last day in the "Exit to Ministry" class, raised his hand and said, "I think we've all made a mistake. If Jesus were here right now, he'd rent a bulldozer and level this place." He skipped graduation a couple of days later and never got his degree. He did go to Law School is a very successful attorney in Georgia.
There was Tim, my favorite because of his wild red hair, white tee-shirt and blue overalls. He was closer to heaven than everybody else in Seminary ... because he was high the whole time he was there. His room in Mullins Hall had an easy chair made entirely out of six-packs of beer. Sitting in it, he'd reach down and jerk a can out of the chair he was sitting in and slug it down! I've never seen that at Rooms-to-Go.
In "Debate" class, Tim stood there listening to a proper Seminary student dominate the argument he was losing. The whole grade came down to this debate and Tim hadn't said anything choosing instead to suck on a toothpick.
"Don't you have anything to say," the Professor finally asked as the proper Seminary student had presented an excellent ... albeit totally one-sided case.
"Yep," Tim replied taking the toothpick out of his and pointing it at his opponent. "I know what a Philistine feels like now."
Then he stuck the toothpick back in his mouth and looked out the window.
"What," the Professor asked?
Taking the toothpick out again and pointing it at his opponent with narrow focused eyes, Tim explained, "I've been beaten by the Jawbone of an Ass."
I fell on the floor laughing as did the rest of the class.
Tim never graduated but is a very successful politician now.
Then John who never studied. When finals rolled around he hadn't cracked a book. It was common for Seminary professors to call upon students to offer a prayer at beginning of each class. Before the test John was tasked with the job. Standing by his desk, he closed and eyes and proceeded to pray ... for an hour ... then the bell rang ... he said Amen and strolled out of the classroom without ever taking the exam.
I love these people!
All right, I got to go to work.
Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, has asked that I deliver the opening prayer for the Easter Sunrise Service on the pier. Sam is Palmist at Bar Church where I am Senor Pastor. All of the island's churches come together for the Easter Service where Bar Church is by far the most unconventional. However, the Methodists, Episcopalians and Catholics work with Bar Church to put on the service.
Last year the Baptists even came back after having boycotted the sunrise service for a while.
So I've got to get myself ready. I must get in a prayerful and holy state of mind. It's a nice day for it ... sunshine and with highs in the 80's.
Yep.
Time to worship the sun.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Dancing with Palm Trees
The wind is blowing hard off the ocean kicking up the sand and sending it down the paved streets. Sand snakes is what Chelsea used to call them when she was a little girl and that's what they look like ... white snakes slithering down the road and biting your legs if you happen to stand in their way.
I point it out to the girls and they sleepily ignore me until a huge burst of sand blows against the windshield sprinkled with salt water.
"Whoa!" they exclaim.
I'm not certain where this wind came from. The past several days have been perfect Beach Weather ... clothing's been optional if necessary at all. It's all good until ... cold winds blow driving me under the covers and in search of long sleeve shirts.
"Where did this come from," I ask out loud?
I don't like it at all.
I can relate though.
For decades I was rocking-and-rolling along, doing everything mostly right, having a good time, surfing in perfection ... until the winds changed and knocked me off my board leaving me heals over head under the water.
It's life though. Most of the time it's all good until those days come ... when the wind is hard and cold leaving you breathless and tired.
Staring at the stack of papers on my kitchen table, I see all of the things I need to do today. They're the same things I didn't do yesterday. There's a list of names and phone numbers that I must call at some point though it's nobody I really want to talk to. I shutter to open the emails that I know have grown since the last time I ignored them.
Looking at my hands, I see how tan I am. Green Palm trees dance outside of the window. Yellow sunshine falls and I can't help but see the contrast. The Sounds of Silence plays on the computer. Sarah sleeps. I wonder about the wind.
The sun promises better days again.
The cold wind challenges that.
Walking outside, I believe in the sun and let the sand snakes hit me.
"Give me your best shot," I say out loud. "I've had worst."
Then the Palm Tree and I dance.
Silence replaced with birds singing in defiance of the wind.
I point it out to the girls and they sleepily ignore me until a huge burst of sand blows against the windshield sprinkled with salt water.
"Whoa!" they exclaim.
I'm not certain where this wind came from. The past several days have been perfect Beach Weather ... clothing's been optional if necessary at all. It's all good until ... cold winds blow driving me under the covers and in search of long sleeve shirts.
"Where did this come from," I ask out loud?
I don't like it at all.
I can relate though.
For decades I was rocking-and-rolling along, doing everything mostly right, having a good time, surfing in perfection ... until the winds changed and knocked me off my board leaving me heals over head under the water.
It's life though. Most of the time it's all good until those days come ... when the wind is hard and cold leaving you breathless and tired.
Staring at the stack of papers on my kitchen table, I see all of the things I need to do today. They're the same things I didn't do yesterday. There's a list of names and phone numbers that I must call at some point though it's nobody I really want to talk to. I shutter to open the emails that I know have grown since the last time I ignored them.
Looking at my hands, I see how tan I am. Green Palm trees dance outside of the window. Yellow sunshine falls and I can't help but see the contrast. The Sounds of Silence plays on the computer. Sarah sleeps. I wonder about the wind.
The sun promises better days again.
The cold wind challenges that.
Walking outside, I believe in the sun and let the sand snakes hit me.
"Give me your best shot," I say out loud. "I've had worst."
Then the Palm Tree and I dance.
Silence replaced with birds singing in defiance of the wind.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Girls and Me
It is funny seeing the world through the eyes of kids again. It's been many years since I've spent so much time with children that I find myself in a constant sense of amazement. Making it more challenging is that there are three of them! And they're all girls! Add their Mom to it and I'm surrounded!
Nevertheless, I am learning or ... re-learning many things.
Like Maddie's diet consists entirely of chicken fingers and cheese sandwhiches from Subway. And a lot of crap! To try to be a good parental influence, I've made a goal to take her to places where none of that stuff is offered. Last night Sarah and I surprised the girls by saying we were going to McDonalds so they would get in the car but took them to Cabash, a Morrocoan restaurant.
"Do they have chicken fingers," Maddie asked.
I laughed.
We ordered lamb, beef and chicken. Laurel devored all of the chicken. Cassidy ate evereything in site. Maddie eventually ate a morsel of chicken.
When the belly dancer came, they were all mesmerized. Laurel and Cassidy made their way to the dance floor and gave it a try.
I joined them, raising my shirt to show off my belly button which embarrassed the girls and sent them fleeing to their mother.
We got home and I was exhausted from staring at the belly dancer and promply fell asleep.
The girls are pretty good about retreating to their rooms and going to bed. Each finds twenty-seven reasons to get up and come ask for something before falling asleep. Therefore I have re-learned how to grunt a non-verbal response that is meaningless. Of course they take it to mean whatever they want so the next morning I repeatedly say, "I never said that!"
Most of the time Sarah takes my side because she feels sorry for me.
When we actually go to bed, Laurel crawls in with us at some point during the night. At first I thought Sarah had turned into a four armed and four legged monster with a blankey. I have re-learned how to sleep on a six-foot by two-inch sliver of bed without falling off.
In the morning I am stunned watching them have breakfast. Each girl has an affinity for ketchep and liberally pour it on ... EVERYTHING. Who knew that toasted stawberry strudel is better with ketchep? Or that hot dogs are breakfast food?
When I take them to school they turn the radio to the shitty station that plays the same 97.3 song over and over again. I actually know who Ava Lavigne is! So we invented this game where I change the station and they change it back. We see how many times the station can be changed in a two mile ride to school and have broken the two-hundred mark consistently.
Then it's to work. I'm normally exhausted from sensory overload this point and need a drink.
It's all been good for me. I'm a better and more understanding person because of the girls.
And, I have re-learned the secret of dealing with daughters ... Vodka.
Nevertheless, I am learning or ... re-learning many things.
Like Maddie's diet consists entirely of chicken fingers and cheese sandwhiches from Subway. And a lot of crap! To try to be a good parental influence, I've made a goal to take her to places where none of that stuff is offered. Last night Sarah and I surprised the girls by saying we were going to McDonalds so they would get in the car but took them to Cabash, a Morrocoan restaurant.
"Do they have chicken fingers," Maddie asked.
I laughed.
We ordered lamb, beef and chicken. Laurel devored all of the chicken. Cassidy ate evereything in site. Maddie eventually ate a morsel of chicken.
When the belly dancer came, they were all mesmerized. Laurel and Cassidy made their way to the dance floor and gave it a try.
I joined them, raising my shirt to show off my belly button which embarrassed the girls and sent them fleeing to their mother.
We got home and I was exhausted from staring at the belly dancer and promply fell asleep.
The girls are pretty good about retreating to their rooms and going to bed. Each finds twenty-seven reasons to get up and come ask for something before falling asleep. Therefore I have re-learned how to grunt a non-verbal response that is meaningless. Of course they take it to mean whatever they want so the next morning I repeatedly say, "I never said that!"
Most of the time Sarah takes my side because she feels sorry for me.
When we actually go to bed, Laurel crawls in with us at some point during the night. At first I thought Sarah had turned into a four armed and four legged monster with a blankey. I have re-learned how to sleep on a six-foot by two-inch sliver of bed without falling off.
In the morning I am stunned watching them have breakfast. Each girl has an affinity for ketchep and liberally pour it on ... EVERYTHING. Who knew that toasted stawberry strudel is better with ketchep? Or that hot dogs are breakfast food?
When I take them to school they turn the radio to the shitty station that plays the same 97.3 song over and over again. I actually know who Ava Lavigne is! So we invented this game where I change the station and they change it back. We see how many times the station can be changed in a two mile ride to school and have broken the two-hundred mark consistently.
Then it's to work. I'm normally exhausted from sensory overload this point and need a drink.
It's all been good for me. I'm a better and more understanding person because of the girls.
And, I have re-learned the secret of dealing with daughters ... Vodka.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Living on Tybee
"What it like to live on Tybee" I was asked.
How does one begin?
To use Hemingway's line, it's a moveable feast.
And man did we move last night ... and the night before.
Friday night began at Julia-Just-Julia's house on the marsh with Wendell Matthews singing Beneath the Reefer Moon washing it down with wine and bar-b-que. Sarah and I were the only ones who danced but everyone had a good time! The smell of the marsh on a warm spring night is the pungent aroma of sex in the tropics. Coupled with good music, friends and wine, the birth of the weekend exploded our senses.
At dark we left and went to Marlin Monroe's to meet our friends Paul and Lammy who are staying on the island for the weekend. We haven't seen them in forever and quickly made up for lost time. Jenny O came over to our table and we thanked for for our "Full Moon Wedding" because it's your friends who make special things holy and pure. We made plans for the next day and made our way home.
Yesterday, I got my drunken bicycle out of re-hab and Sarah and I rode to Vickie's, the island's newest eatery. Dark clouds were suspended over the marsh and the back river. It was raining in Savannah and we could hear the thunder. Inside Vickie's I ate Whiting and Sarah ate cake as we planned our future. We then rode to the Library and ran into our friend Jack who was there to use the computer.
Our phones were buzzing with commands from our friends to attend the Bored Meeting in front of Fannie's-On-the-Beach so off we went. We learned that there is a company in New York named "Tibi" who is suing us for calling ourselves Tybidiots and putting it on T-shirts and hats. Apparently it's very easy to get into trouble on Tybee.
The dark clouds were peeing on the island so we ran to our bikes and made our home. The rain fell outside of the open windows. Sarah sat at the table fulfilling the plans we had made while I listened to rain until I slept.
Then it was off to Marlin Monroe's again to hook up with our dear friends the Sadowski's where we planned Dano's wedding. She and Paul are visiting from Montana and were in desperate need of seafood. Dano bought her wedding dress this week ("The good news Dad is that I didn't get the most expensive one" ... which is always a bad way to start). After deciding that dogs should be a part of the ceremony, our work was done so we left.
Then it was to Bernie's where I played with the Samuel Adams Band, playing damn good live music on the island. Wwe did a killer version of "Knocking on Sarah's Door" until the entire gig was overrun by groupies. So we left and went to Doc's Bar and danced our brains out to Roy Swindell's excellent sounds. Shots appeared out of nowhere.
I have no idea what time we got home.
Now I sit here sniffing the salt air, wearing sunglasses because of the bright sunshine on the Beloved back deck, listening to the Wendell Matthews "Under the Reefer Moon". I think I'm supposed to be at Bar Church but Sarah talked me into skipping.
Oh well ... this is the Sabbath.
A day of rest.
I need it.
Until noon.
Then the moveable feast starts again.
How does one begin?
To use Hemingway's line, it's a moveable feast.
And man did we move last night ... and the night before.
Friday night began at Julia-Just-Julia's house on the marsh with Wendell Matthews singing Beneath the Reefer Moon washing it down with wine and bar-b-que. Sarah and I were the only ones who danced but everyone had a good time! The smell of the marsh on a warm spring night is the pungent aroma of sex in the tropics. Coupled with good music, friends and wine, the birth of the weekend exploded our senses.
At dark we left and went to Marlin Monroe's to meet our friends Paul and Lammy who are staying on the island for the weekend. We haven't seen them in forever and quickly made up for lost time. Jenny O came over to our table and we thanked for for our "Full Moon Wedding" because it's your friends who make special things holy and pure. We made plans for the next day and made our way home.
Yesterday, I got my drunken bicycle out of re-hab and Sarah and I rode to Vickie's, the island's newest eatery. Dark clouds were suspended over the marsh and the back river. It was raining in Savannah and we could hear the thunder. Inside Vickie's I ate Whiting and Sarah ate cake as we planned our future. We then rode to the Library and ran into our friend Jack who was there to use the computer.
Our phones were buzzing with commands from our friends to attend the Bored Meeting in front of Fannie's-On-the-Beach so off we went. We learned that there is a company in New York named "Tibi" who is suing us for calling ourselves Tybidiots and putting it on T-shirts and hats. Apparently it's very easy to get into trouble on Tybee.
The dark clouds were peeing on the island so we ran to our bikes and made our home. The rain fell outside of the open windows. Sarah sat at the table fulfilling the plans we had made while I listened to rain until I slept.
Then it was off to Marlin Monroe's again to hook up with our dear friends the Sadowski's where we planned Dano's wedding. She and Paul are visiting from Montana and were in desperate need of seafood. Dano bought her wedding dress this week ("The good news Dad is that I didn't get the most expensive one" ... which is always a bad way to start). After deciding that dogs should be a part of the ceremony, our work was done so we left.
Then it was to Bernie's where I played with the Samuel Adams Band, playing damn good live music on the island. Wwe did a killer version of "Knocking on Sarah's Door" until the entire gig was overrun by groupies. So we left and went to Doc's Bar and danced our brains out to Roy Swindell's excellent sounds. Shots appeared out of nowhere.
I have no idea what time we got home.
Now I sit here sniffing the salt air, wearing sunglasses because of the bright sunshine on the Beloved back deck, listening to the Wendell Matthews "Under the Reefer Moon". I think I'm supposed to be at Bar Church but Sarah talked me into skipping.
Oh well ... this is the Sabbath.
A day of rest.
I need it.
Until noon.
Then the moveable feast starts again.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Rolling Change
Sitting on the stool at the Breakfast Club, I sipped coffee watching my friends finish the last of their preparations for another busy day. I'm moving slow because it'd been a busy night on Tybee Island. Sarah and I went to Julie-just-Julia's Five O'Clock party listening to good live music on her dock (Whitley's bicycle got so drunk that he actually had to walk it home), then we were off to Marlin Monroe's where we met with old friends from Union Mission days. I have no idea what time we got home.
She walks in the door and sits at the counter. I know her. She's recently become a regular having moved here from the Washington D.C. area after her job ended. As long as I've known her she's been looking for something else to do for a living. Every day she seems a little sadder than she was the day before.
"G' morning Micheal," she says sitting down and I sleepily reply.
Reaching into an oversize bag, she pulls out rolls of quarters, dimes, nickles and pennies lying them on the counter.
"Can you use these," she asks Val.
I watch this intently as it seems as all of the air is sucked out of the room.
After the most pregnant of pauses, Val grins and says, "God Bless you! Absolutely!"
The slightest of smiles creeps over the face of someone who is now ... relieved.
"Rolling Change," I ask?
She nods saying "Got nothing else to do."
I nod back.
My Dad used to come home from work every day and throw whatever change was in pocket into a large jar. Over the course of a year it filled and at Christmas he tell one of his grandchildren that, if they could pick up the jar then they could have everything inside. It became the biggest of traditions and each of the kids couldn't wait until it was their year to get the change.
I picked up the habit and in my closet there is a giant jar full of quarters, dimes, nickles and pennies. There's probably close to $200 in it. It's my emergency fund. As long as it sits there, I have some money.
Over the years I've known thousands of homeless people. One of the things that I learned from them is ... whenever they got a job, found a place to live and regained control of their life ... they would get a $100 bill that they'd fold into a tight tiny sliver and hide it in their billfold or purse.
"If it all goes to hell," they would explained, "at least I have something to get me through ... or at least to buy me another drink so I don't care anymore.
I was always amazed at this homeless tradition. It continued from year to year and decade to decade.
"What you doing today," she asked as took $21 from Val and gleefully put it inside the oversize bag..
Thoughtfully, I sipped the last of my coffee.
"Rolling change," I said standing up.
She nodded with a sad understanding.
I meant it too.
It's just a different kind of change that I'm rolling.
She walks in the door and sits at the counter. I know her. She's recently become a regular having moved here from the Washington D.C. area after her job ended. As long as I've known her she's been looking for something else to do for a living. Every day she seems a little sadder than she was the day before.
"G' morning Micheal," she says sitting down and I sleepily reply.
Reaching into an oversize bag, she pulls out rolls of quarters, dimes, nickles and pennies lying them on the counter.
"Can you use these," she asks Val.
I watch this intently as it seems as all of the air is sucked out of the room.
After the most pregnant of pauses, Val grins and says, "God Bless you! Absolutely!"
The slightest of smiles creeps over the face of someone who is now ... relieved.
"Rolling Change," I ask?
She nods saying "Got nothing else to do."
I nod back.
My Dad used to come home from work every day and throw whatever change was in pocket into a large jar. Over the course of a year it filled and at Christmas he tell one of his grandchildren that, if they could pick up the jar then they could have everything inside. It became the biggest of traditions and each of the kids couldn't wait until it was their year to get the change.
I picked up the habit and in my closet there is a giant jar full of quarters, dimes, nickles and pennies. There's probably close to $200 in it. It's my emergency fund. As long as it sits there, I have some money.
Over the years I've known thousands of homeless people. One of the things that I learned from them is ... whenever they got a job, found a place to live and regained control of their life ... they would get a $100 bill that they'd fold into a tight tiny sliver and hide it in their billfold or purse.
"If it all goes to hell," they would explained, "at least I have something to get me through ... or at least to buy me another drink so I don't care anymore.
I was always amazed at this homeless tradition. It continued from year to year and decade to decade.
"What you doing today," she asked as took $21 from Val and gleefully put it inside the oversize bag..
Thoughtfully, I sipped the last of my coffee.
"Rolling change," I said standing up.
She nodded with a sad understanding.
I meant it too.
It's just a different kind of change that I'm rolling.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Bar Church Sins
Bar Church is getting too big.
It's driving me nuts. We're starting to have meetings and stuff. Pretty soon we'll have committees and then the whole thing goes to hell. We've already got titles for Christ's sake!
Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, is the Psalmist, though I have never known of Sam writting a Psalm in his life. He does write music which counts towards something but I haven't seen a single Psalm.
Sean McNally is Associate Pastor primarily because he associates with us. He refuses to acknowledge this title and I, for one, support him in this. I wouldn't associate with us either.
I am Senor Pastor ... meaning I like Margaretta's, Mexican climates and regularly breaking the majority of the Ten Commandments.
Dedra is ... secretary. You can't have a church without a secretary. Jesus said that in the Sermon on the Mount or something. Like every secretary, she is much more than that. She is front person for the DeLuv Band, author of the church newsletter which nobody reads, and holds the archives of every piece of music we've ever needed but don't have because ... it's at her freakin' house!
Sarah is the lead singer ... because she's hot! The rest of us love standing behind her as she sways for God in tight jeans. Hallelujah!
Stephen is the stoic. Davy is the drummer. Hennie is ... we have no idea what Hennie is ... Jeanmarie dances like David danced and Gladius is some epiphany ... no one is sure he came from or why he's there.
As you can tell, we're pretty organized.
Anyway, we're getting too big. There is talk about splitting the band up and having more than one service on Sundays. Hell, most of us can barely make it to the one!
We see the growth potential of it all. The state of Georgia now has Sunday liquor sales which has attendance climbing every time we show up. We may have to hire a consultant like Guy Salyes or Mitch Wesley to tell us what to do ... over beers.
Bigger is not always better. Just ask the Bank of America, anybody who keeps up with the bullshit in Congress or either political party or Christ Church in downtown Savannah, Georgia.
For the moment anyway, Bar Church remains this crazy, simple, and holy little thing. It does things no other church comes close to doing ... making those so wounded by church, the non-churched and the church-haters into a congregation.
"All Things Must Pass," instructed the major prophet George Harrison, and I know that is true.
But this morning I'm praying, "Dear God, don't let it pass just yet."
It's driving me nuts. We're starting to have meetings and stuff. Pretty soon we'll have committees and then the whole thing goes to hell. We've already got titles for Christ's sake!
Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, is the Psalmist, though I have never known of Sam writting a Psalm in his life. He does write music which counts towards something but I haven't seen a single Psalm.
Sean McNally is Associate Pastor primarily because he associates with us. He refuses to acknowledge this title and I, for one, support him in this. I wouldn't associate with us either.
I am Senor Pastor ... meaning I like Margaretta's, Mexican climates and regularly breaking the majority of the Ten Commandments.
Dedra is ... secretary. You can't have a church without a secretary. Jesus said that in the Sermon on the Mount or something. Like every secretary, she is much more than that. She is front person for the DeLuv Band, author of the church newsletter which nobody reads, and holds the archives of every piece of music we've ever needed but don't have because ... it's at her freakin' house!
Sarah is the lead singer ... because she's hot! The rest of us love standing behind her as she sways for God in tight jeans. Hallelujah!
Stephen is the stoic. Davy is the drummer. Hennie is ... we have no idea what Hennie is ... Jeanmarie dances like David danced and Gladius is some epiphany ... no one is sure he came from or why he's there.
As you can tell, we're pretty organized.
Anyway, we're getting too big. There is talk about splitting the band up and having more than one service on Sundays. Hell, most of us can barely make it to the one!
We see the growth potential of it all. The state of Georgia now has Sunday liquor sales which has attendance climbing every time we show up. We may have to hire a consultant like Guy Salyes or Mitch Wesley to tell us what to do ... over beers.
Bigger is not always better. Just ask the Bank of America, anybody who keeps up with the bullshit in Congress or either political party or Christ Church in downtown Savannah, Georgia.
For the moment anyway, Bar Church remains this crazy, simple, and holy little thing. It does things no other church comes close to doing ... making those so wounded by church, the non-churched and the church-haters into a congregation.
"All Things Must Pass," instructed the major prophet George Harrison, and I know that is true.
But this morning I'm praying, "Dear God, don't let it pass just yet."
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Living Again
The Bahamas ... Belize ... Tybee Island ... Pittsburgh?!
What's wrong with this picture?
I must have done something wrong. Perhaps I've committed the unpardonable sin. This is a crazy turn of events. At least the weather is good. Last night I stood on the banks of the Allegany River wishing that it was carrying me out to Sea. I was with the very famous Dr. Jim Withers and his friend Bita, a soon-to-be professional Psychiatrist. She was analyzing me.
"When you meet her," the very famous Dr. Withers had cautioned me, "act like you're a Christian. She's very Christian so don't offend her."
I have no idea how the very famous Dr. Withers got to be so very famous.
Nevertheless, I acted very Christian, didn't say any cuss words, made the sign of the cross when I met her and hugged her when we said goodbye. She even invited me back.
"Nice job," the very famous Dr. Withers said as we ran back to his car, already twenty minutes late for the meeting that I'm in Pittsburgh to attend.
He drives like a bat out of hell while reading the GPS on his I-Phone.
I pray like I've never prayed before.
We arrive at a seafood restaurant which stikes me as the epitome of irony.
As we enter, the people we are joining stand and applaud. They are from across the country, including two from Texas and you never know what to expect with Texans.
"Congratulations," exclaims the not so famous Dr. Dave Buck. He's from Texas.
I look at the very famous Dr. Withers who is looking at me. Neither of us have a clue what is going on.
"You're married," he said. "Show us the ring."
I did, explaining, "It's titanium knock-off," and can see my wife Sarah rolling her eyes as I do so. It makes me feel closer to home.
They ooh and ah, which I am not expecting.
As we sit, there are handshakes, pats on the back, hugs, and congradulatory comments. The meeting they had been having is interrupted to celebrate me being married. They ask me how Sarah is though the very famous Dr. Withers is the only one to have actually met her. My heart smiles.
The other day at Bar Church I talked about what it's like to have been dead and then be alive again. That is the truth of my life. We live ... we die ... and if we're lucky and blessed, we live again. It's a very Christian belief.
This afternoon, I'm heading south again ... back to the islands ... where my heart and home is. Where I live ... again.
What's wrong with this picture?
I must have done something wrong. Perhaps I've committed the unpardonable sin. This is a crazy turn of events. At least the weather is good. Last night I stood on the banks of the Allegany River wishing that it was carrying me out to Sea. I was with the very famous Dr. Jim Withers and his friend Bita, a soon-to-be professional Psychiatrist. She was analyzing me.
"When you meet her," the very famous Dr. Withers had cautioned me, "act like you're a Christian. She's very Christian so don't offend her."
I have no idea how the very famous Dr. Withers got to be so very famous.
Nevertheless, I acted very Christian, didn't say any cuss words, made the sign of the cross when I met her and hugged her when we said goodbye. She even invited me back.
"Nice job," the very famous Dr. Withers said as we ran back to his car, already twenty minutes late for the meeting that I'm in Pittsburgh to attend.
He drives like a bat out of hell while reading the GPS on his I-Phone.
I pray like I've never prayed before.
We arrive at a seafood restaurant which stikes me as the epitome of irony.
As we enter, the people we are joining stand and applaud. They are from across the country, including two from Texas and you never know what to expect with Texans.
"Congratulations," exclaims the not so famous Dr. Dave Buck. He's from Texas.
I look at the very famous Dr. Withers who is looking at me. Neither of us have a clue what is going on.
"You're married," he said. "Show us the ring."
I did, explaining, "It's titanium knock-off," and can see my wife Sarah rolling her eyes as I do so. It makes me feel closer to home.
They ooh and ah, which I am not expecting.
As we sit, there are handshakes, pats on the back, hugs, and congradulatory comments. The meeting they had been having is interrupted to celebrate me being married. They ask me how Sarah is though the very famous Dr. Withers is the only one to have actually met her. My heart smiles.
The other day at Bar Church I talked about what it's like to have been dead and then be alive again. That is the truth of my life. We live ... we die ... and if we're lucky and blessed, we live again. It's a very Christian belief.
This afternoon, I'm heading south again ... back to the islands ... where my heart and home is. Where I live ... again.
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