Sailing Home

Sitting in the Soho Cafe on Liberty Street in downtown Savannah, Georgia I'm listening to a business proposition. It appears I have another opportunity. At the same time, part of my brain is tip-toeing through the past. I've had many a lunch and several dinners at Soho, a funky art/deco place with really good food. Back when we started the Starfish Cafe, a culinary arts training program for homeless people, I kept trying to pattern the ambiance after Soho. When Sarah came home, it's hte first place I took her and instructed ... "Do this." A parade of friends march through my mind that I ate there with ... Keller Deal, Mary Ann Beil, the leadership staff of Union Mission, Herb McKenzie and his wife Joan, countless visitors from other cities, and ... more than anyone else, my dear friend Stacy Jennings. Savannah is warm and pleasant. Tybee Island, where I live, is sunny but has a cold wind coming from the west. Wearing my Bar Church tee shirt ("Where wenches sing Hymns"), faded blue jeans and Bob Marley flip-flops ... I am the epitome of business. My hair is back in a pony tail and it's all longer now than when I was in High School. I have a tan while the rest of the white people there seem ... well ... really white. My lunch companion is smartly dressed. A red business dress with creases, perfect hair, glasses ... she also has notes that she's speaking to me off of ... and hand outs. Like I did when I was at Groves High School, I pretend to study them. Back on island, I'll spend serious time pouring over them. There are several people in Soho who I recognize and they recognize me ... but are too busy with their own lunch conversations to pay me any attention. In days gone by, they flocked to my table ... "Hey Mike! Can you do this for me?" ... "My son's in need of serious treatment from cocaine." ... "My daughter is depressed and Georgia Regional won't do anything. Can you help?" ... "My wife tried to kill herself. Can you ..." It was a world without ceasing ... until it ceased. Nibbling at my Cuban Panini with chips, I take a sip of Chardonnay and suddenly feel like the place is haunted. The ghosts of things that used to be seem everywhere. I'm no longer who I used to be. Truth be told, I hung around far too long for who I used to be. I was stuck and scared to make the change I wanted ... so the change made itself ... leaving me behind. Stretching my arms behind my head, I pull the holder out and shake my long hair while staring at my finely dressed lunch companion with the next great idea. Reaching a bare foot under the table, I try to locate my flip-flops. I make a mental note to call Stacy for lunch. Folding up the hand outs, I stick them in the back pocket of my jeans remembering when I used to put such things in a brief case or a coat pocket. I re-do my pony tail. People who used to ask me for things leave without speaking. Standing up, we shake hands and I promise I'll be in touch. Back in the Savannah sunshine, a homeless man passes me with a flicker of hope in his eyes. Perhaps I'll share some change. Then his eyes grow wide and he stops dead in his tracks. "Mike," he says out loud. I stop, turn and hug him. As he starts to talk, I press my index finger to his lips. "Sshhhuuu," I exhale. "Don't tell anybody." He grins as though we're sharing the deepest of secrets and hugs me back. At the car, I put the top down, crank up the Beach Boys, grab a pen and write the letter "S" on the back of my hand for Stacy ... then I sail home.

What Goes Around ... comes around

I've always been a big believer in "what goes around comes around" meaning that the things you do ... either good or bad, eventually have the same consequence for you. Good rewards good. Bad hits you in the stomach just when you thought you gotten away with it. It's Karma ... things eventually return to their original status, completing the cycle. I've done a lot of good in my life. As a result, I've had ... and have ... a lot of good things. Celebrating them daily, I thank God and do my best to keep on contributing to the good stuff. Selfishly, I want more of it. Perhaps it's not so selfish ... I want it for most everyone else too. Then again, I've done my share of bad and have certainly had my fair share of bad too. Things that I wouldn't wish on anybody. It was hard as hell for me to get through them ... then accept the fact they'd happen to me ... and finally understand that I'd contributed in some way or another. Things I'd started eventually came right back at me. There are times, normally when I'm quite and contemplative, when I check the ledger. After reviewing my inventory of sins, I remember both the random and the deliberate acts of kindness. This always leaves me frustrated. I've done far more good than bad so why in the hell did the bad that came back and hurt me so damn much? I've been betrayed, lied to, left, hurt and forgotten. I finally conclude it's because ... I've betrayed, lied, left, hurt and forgotten people and things that I shouldn't ... but I did. That's the frustrating part. Then ... randomly something happens. I pick up the newspaper, spreading it out on the counter with the first cup of coffee, and there on the front page ... above the fold ... is a story about someone who had done bad things to me. Bad things are now happening to him and they are strangely similar to the things that happened to me ... that he'd been part of orchestrating. Staring off into space, lost in the universe and oblivious to the activity happening around me, I understand I'm part of something much bigger ... God's Divine Plan ... Karma ... the simple understanding that what goes around eventually comes around. The first thought after the feeling is a Bible verse. "Let justice roll down like waters, righteousness like a mighty stream" ... or "Kick his ass! He deserves it! He can rot in hell!" Then I pause again ... thinking of Karma. Walking outside, I plop in the chair, propping my feet on the railing of the Beloved Back Deck and stare at Fran's Thousand Shades of Green. Fran died while we were in college of a disease she didn't ask for and there was no justice in whatsoever. She taught me the color green though and there is this wall of it in the backyard so she has risen from the dead in it and we talk almost daily. The Palm Tree with the oyster shell face, coconut bra and grass smirk looks at me making a face ... like "I told you didn't I? He had it coming?" I think about things I learned in Seminary. Hinduism teaches "God does not make one suffer for no reason nor does She make one happy for no reason. God is very fair and gives you exactly what you deserve ... Karma is not punishment or retribution but simply an extended expression or consequence of natural acts." It leaves me torn. There are some assholes out there who deserve the bad coming back at them and I have to admit ... I'd like to see it. At the same time, I've had my fair share bad and I don't want anymore. I want surely goodness and mercy to follow me for the rest of whatever days I have left. I'll love what I have and concentrate on what I've got and not curse the past nor wish bad things ... except for those few who ... really do deserve them.

A Future To Build

Brooks Stillwell strolls inside the Breakfast Club looking like an Eskimo. Baseball cap, fleece jacket, blue jeans ... I didn't look at his feet but I imagine he had shoes on. Sitting on the stool next to me, he saw that I wore running shorts and a long sleeve tee-shirt ... no shoes. "Hey Micheal," he warmly says with a grin. Brooks has one of the most infectious grins I've ever seen. It's this cross between Impish and Deep. He's also got these dark eyes resting under dark eyebrows so when he grins and looks at me I feel he's really a wizard impersonating an attorney. Everybody working at the Breakfast Club stops cussing as he does so. The radio is quickly changed from the Comedy Channel with lots of cussing to a Blues Station. All of the wait staff go on break. Brooks is the first customer of the day. Well ... Whitley and I are there having coffee but we don't count. Brooks has done everything. He was managing partner at Savannah's largest and most prestigious Law Firm, a City Councilman who could have been Mayor if he'd wanted but he's too smart for that, attended the University of Georgia and likes Aimee Mann. He's pretty cool. "What are you doing these days?" he asks throwing the morning edition of the Savannah Morning Blues on the counter, rubbing the chill from his hands and giving me that grin. It is very hard not to like Brooks. "Well," I stumble to answer, "I'm consulting but I don't like it much." "Oh?" he asks with wide dark eyes. "Yeah, we develop these contracts which we sign and then we spend the rest of our time arguing about what the contract says." He laughs gleefully. "That's my business. You need an attorney." Everybody working at the Breakfast Club stops what they're doing and stares at him ... including the wait staff. Whitley gets up and leaves without saying a word. "So I'm writing a lot ... and working with friends to launch this new multimedia, social media web dimension where everything is posted in real time." "I posted some pictures on Face Book recently," he says with that grin. "Oldies but goodies." "I saw them," I say. We chat about Orange Crush, the annual informal gathering of several thousand African-American college students on the beach, the trash they left behind, the dinner he had last night and the things that people who like one another but rarely see one another talk about. He orders. I slap him on the back, tell him how good it is to see him and leave. Then there is this moment. It happens every morning when I leave the Club. After yelling "Bye Kids!" to everyone and them yelling all manner of embarrassing things back, I stroll into the middle of 15th Street, look to my right, and see the sun rise over the ocean. It gives me pause. A new day is born. I have the chance to start over. The past is wiped clean. Whatever restlessness that happened in the night remains there. My mind's focused on the things I want to accomplish. I am determined. Suddenly, I turn around in the middle of 15th Street and stare back inside. A chilly wind blows as a brilliant sun shines on me. Brooks is reading the paper sipping coffee. The wait staff has no one else to wait on. The Chefs prepare a breakfast for one. The Dishwasher washes dishes. Brooks gets his two eggs over easy, bacon, wheat toast and side of grits. The Chefs prep. The wait staff waits. I am thankful. Sarah is home waiting on me. Wen and Sean are waiting on me to do things. A publisher wants a meeting. Friends are waiting for me in the other island. Dedra will be back soon. The controversy that used to be my life is on the other side of the River where Brooks works ... in Savannah where Authorities on Homeless are blowing up, the place I used to work continues a magnificent downhill slide, Board chairmen who choose to remain anonymous reign because they're too scared to say who they are, and Senator Buddy Carter has hired some company to see how many Face Book friends he can amass. It's been a long, hard road to get to where I'm at right now ... standing in the middle of 15th Street with the chills of the past blowing on me and the sunshine of the future drawing me there at the same time ... I turn around and head home. There's work to be done. A future to build.

A Baptized Sunday Morning

Organic X is playing soft, acoustic tunes as I sit at the kitchen table staring out the open doors at a rain dripped day. The doors and windows are open so I can feel the wetness. A choir of birds are singing Hymns of praise and that's a close as I'm going to get to Church today. Fran's thousand shades of green dance in an ocean breeze. Brilliant colors bloom outside of every window. There are no lights on ... other than that of the computer screen and the low hanging clouds mean that its darker than most days. One candle is lit so there is a coziness about it. There are several things about this. My son Jeremy turned me on to Organic X on Sunday mornings years ago. We'd be driving home from Athens where we'd celebrated victory or cursed defeat of Beloved Dawgs of Georgia and the radio would give us a soundtrack for mellow reflectiveness. It has become a tradition for us and a family bond filled with good memories. The candle reminds me of my long dead friend Father Vernon Robertson. We were an odd pair, he in his 60s and I in my 20s ... a Catholic Priest and a Baptist Minister ... his family wealthy and mine lived with homeless people. We did cool things together though, like starting the Roman Catholic/Southern Baptist Coalition which was basically us having lunch on Wednesdays. We also started the St. Jude's Guild as a response to the outbreak of AIDS. He also got me in as a member of The Committee of Southern Churchmen where I met, and became friends with Will D. Campbell. Will wrote the preface of my first book. Vernon always had a candle lit in the rectory where he lived. Walking in, he would forever be listening to National Public Radio so I strolled to the receiver turning the knob to loud heavy metal rock-and-roll station on. It drove him nuts ... but with a smile. On mornings like this, Vernon's ghost leads me to light the candle and I find myself staring at it thinking of him when I'm not staring outside at a baptized Sunday morning. I love Sundays. I've always loved them. Back in Port Wentworth, we'd all go to Church in the morning and then stuff the truck to go to the Highway 80 Drive-In at night ... Sunday night sins are the best sins! In college we'd all be coming back from home and meet for dinner at the Western Sizzler and the 99 cent Hamburger Delux Special. In Seminary we'd skip Sunday night Church. As a Professional Christian I finally convinced the little old ladies to do away with the Sunday night gatherings so we could watch 60 Minutes. Now, here on island, I like grilling on the Beloved Back deck or strolls with Goddess to the sad little holy dock. "Church" is a relative term. When defined as a formalized period of communal worship, I opt for Bar Church which is pretty informal and we are forever screwing something up. But I don't even want that today. "The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of," wrote C. S. Lewis, {because} our attention would be on God" ... and not on what's next in the Bulletin or who's doing what. Good church is like a good shoe ... you don't even notice you're wearing it. So this morning, while Sarah sleeps, I find myself having church. A candle is lit in glory. Acoustic Hymns of praise stream from the computer that are steeped in tradition (a Catholic thing). I send prayers of love for the friends who are dead and who are living. I find myself very aware of the holiness of the moment. I am blessed. Truly .... Verily ... Amen.

Calling Kitty Home

"Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches from next door, looking like a real life Marge Simpson in her blue towel cloth night gown and her wet hair on top of her head wrapped in a tall blue towel. It sounds like fingernails on a chalk board. Every morning I come out here to this lush sub-tropical setting to think, pray, listen to music and write. And every damn morning I hear the same thing. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." It makes me want to join the National Rifle Association. I would gladly take her and those Ferrel cats out. She collects them and has several dozen. They sleep on my car. She goes looking for them in the middle of the night with a lantern ... not a flash light, a lantern ... wearing a bathrobe with a blue towel on top of her head. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." It makes me believe in violence. The windows in my living room are across from the window in her bathroom. Watching the Braves one night, I looked up and saw her standing there ... naked! Talk about a Kitty! It was awful! I still have nightmares. One day Sarah and I were having church, baptizing ourselves in the outdoor shower, when it happened. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." "Meow!" Sarah yelped sounding like a wet thing. There was silence as the shadow from a blue towel wrapped on a wet head blocked out the sun as it passed looking for for one of those God damned cats. Talk about Dark Shadows! I need to say to my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie and other cat lovers that I worked my way through college at a Veterinary Clinic. For five years (yes ... I crammed four years into five ... and remember three of them) I showed up at 7:30 in the morning and cleaned out ... cat cages. I hate the little fur balls. I get pictures of cats and show them to Goddess. "Hate," I scream in instruction. "Kill!" She rolls over ignoring me. I understand that some people like cats. People are strange. My room mate Rocky has one. Rocky is strange. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches again. Turning up the music, I try to tune her out. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty," she screeches. "Dear God," I pray the first prayer of the day, "please take her now. Please. Call Kitty home."

Angels

The sun's thrown off the clouds and is stretching in the sky as a new day comes to life. Ocean breezes rushes inland so the Palm Trees dance. Wind chimes play rhythm while birds sing. The world is made of powder blue and lush greens with sprinkles of brilliant colors popping out of the ground. Goddess is lounging on her cushion lazily watching a squirrel dart across the electric wires.

My tanned toes are propped on the outside table taking all of this in.

Sitting here I'm thinking about ... what to think about?

Sometimes it's best to not think but to just ... feel what is going on around you ... see it as it is ... not projecting anything on the place you're at ... accepting you're merely part of something bigger ... something that you often think you can control but in moments like this you know you can't ... you're just a part.

It's been a crazy week.

Life and Death have been set before you and the Bible says that God encourages us to choose life so that we may live ... which suddenly strikes me as a pretty one sided proposition. Who in their right mind chooses death?

Truth is I've seen lots of people choose it. Kenny Millet did when he overdosed on cocaine. Bruce Freyman did when he walked across the bridge over the Ohio River drunk. My Dad did when he looked at us in the hospital room and said, "I'm ready. What do you think?"

"It's OK Dad," I said with my hand on his knee as his eyes stared off into another universe, "if you're ready then I'm OK with that."

I've seen Death claim its prey without offering options too. The son of a dear friend was shot and killed in a war that should have ended a long time ago. Disease conquered kidneys. Wrecks claimed life as suddenly as the car came to a halt.

Life is a gift that none of us asked for yet each of us share.

We're here because our parents planned for us ... or they didn't. We live because we were conceived in love or lust. Parents hung around to get us through or they didn't. Some of us were born with a full deck of cards and others with the deck stacked against us.

Regardless ... life is too short.

It's a shame that its shorter for some than it is for others.

I think about Kenny, Bruce, my Dad, Tanner, Bubba and the host of Holy's who graced my life. The were gifts upon a gift.

One of my favorite song plays on the computer. I have been drunk now for over two weeks, I've passed out and I've rallied and I've sprung a few leaks ... I've got to stop wishing, I've got to go fishing, I'm down to rock bottom again ... just a few friends ... just a few friends.

And a song I've listened to for 30 years suddenly has new meaning. Just a few friends. I count them on my fingers and my toes. I celebrate the ones who are gone and I miss them. My heart bubbles with emotion for those I still have. I'm blessed that my children grew up to be my friends. My best friend sleeps beside me at night.

I don't think these things.

I feel them.

Guardian Angels seem to be orchestrating this day.

Some are dead.

Some are living.

But they are all angels.

What Beach Bums Do

Sitting in the Conference Room, I was waiting on John Tatum to walk in. He did and said, "You look like a Beach Bum."

I suppose that I did. Faded blue jeans, a Surf Sex Tee Shirt, flip flops and much longer hair than the last time he'd seen me. He looked like a damper attorney ... which he is.

We spoke for an hour as I was in need of processing things that'd left me unsettled. He was gracious enough to listen without charging me as he chimed in his recollections and thoughts.

"You know Micheal," he finally concluded, "I read this book about Holocaust survivors. The ones who did the best are the ones came to a point of forgiveness. There are some people that you have to forgive."

Forgive Nazis?

That's what I remember thinking. I believe that I said as much though I don't really remember. The next day one of the aforementioned Nazis called to say that he had no interest whatsoever in meeting with me ... unless I could help him.

This happened well over a year ago.

Since then, my hair's much longer. My tan is deeper. I can count the times I've had shoes on with my fingers and toes. I've married my love. Goddess has gotten older. I've been everywhere and I've been nowhere. Mostly, I've settled into being a Beach Bum.

It's harder work than you think.

You have to throw away the way you were raised. Work until you retire and then enjoy life while you can until you die was the way I was raised. I worked hard to modify this because a Beach Bum's work ethic is different. Work just enough to get by while enjoying yourself and the world around you is how I describe it. This flies in the face of conventionality which is why so few people actually do it. Most work until they retire and then retire until they die.

You have to understand that living on faith is the foundation of a Beach Bum's existence. I believe, therefore, it will come true. A lot of Churches preach this ... a lot of Christians say it ... but they don't do it. Beach Bums do it ... in the water ... in the sand ... in the bars. We live on faith. We live in faith. We have no idea how we're going to keep on living this life and we may worry about it but we keep doing it. At the end of each day that we're still here doing it, we pause and toast the Holy Ghost in joyous celebration that we have one more day to do it. Beach Bums live one day at a time.

Beach Bums forget. Most of its not worth remembering anyway. What is worth remembering makes for really good stories. I'll forgive but I will never forget is something that I've always heard. Beach Bums flip it. I'll forget but I'll never forgive ... meaning it's simpler to forget about whatever it was and move on. So the Angels and the Assholes from the past are left back there except when stories are needed.

A front has stalled over the ocean. Salt sticks to my skin on the Beloved Back Deck baptizing me ... exfoliating the dead things that cling to me. The tropical foliage is lush and green. A bird is singing a solo for an audience of one. A muted sun is just enough warmth and light. It makes me lose my train of thought.

"This is the day that the Lord has made. Let's go forth an rejoice in it."

That's what Beach Bums do.

Living Longer (Without Me)

No one has ever accused me of conventionality. I run to the beat of a different drum. Caution is often thrown to the wind leaving people shaking their head, making my mother mad, and leaving some angry that I do things differently. It led to a pretty interesting career and a most fascinating life.

Career wise, I was forever against the wind but made progress anyway. When I was a Professional Christian as the minister of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, my boss Dr. Russell Bennett called me into his office ... again.

"I would fire you," he angrily began.

I have no recollection of what I'd done this time. Russell kept going, "and I would except your numbers are through the roof. You're successful in a place where no one's been successful before. But let me tell you something," he extended a boney finger into my face, "if your numbers go down, you're fired."

The numbers never went down though I eventually did. It lasted eight years until my heart was no longer in it. When your heart is no longer in something, it eventually finds a way to work itself out, not always in the best of ways or according to any sort of well laid plan. It just gets out.

The Church is still going strong. We'll both live a lot longer, if you live without me.

Then it was back to Savannah where the career defied all logic. A tiny little homeless shelter became a $13 Million Company with subsidiaries in housing development, health care, employment training and placement, behavioral health care, and public policy development. We broke most every rule there was to pull these things off but we did. Our partners were hospitals, academic institutions, all manner of governments, rich people and a very small number of religious organizations.

It was quite the ride that lasted a quarter-of-a-century. It also took me around the world, made me a media presence, won me all manner of recognitions and even had me carry the Olympic Torch. I published eight books in ten years, met famous authors who wrote nice things about what I wrote, and gave speeches at places like the LBJ School of Public Policy at the University of Texas in Austin and the National Press Club in Washington D.C.

Then my heart was no longer in it and when your hearts no longer in something ... well ... it finds a way to get out. Not always in the best way.

My Savannah work continues still because it's hard to kill something once its been established, though God knows people try.

It's alright. We'll both live a lot longer if you live without me now.

Goddess and I were strolling around the Back River yesterday when my dear friend Shirley Sessions drove up in her snazzy new SUV. She made a face because, while Goddess had a lease on ... I wasn't holding the other end of it. Shirley gets on to me about this. I don't care. Goddess likes to chase marsh rabbits ... so I let her. She never catches one but loves the chase and I don't particularly want to participate.

Rolling her window down, Shirley asks how I'm doing. "You gotta love your life," she says. "My God ... the things you do."

It struck me as the funniest of things to say.

I thought about it all day and well through the night.

For the first time in my life ... it's all about me. I've given until I've got little left to give ... at least in terms of world changing things. I've changed worlds and no longer feel the need to do it (though opportunities continue to present themselves). I have achieved more than I ever imagined and also failed magnificently (thank you Soren Kierkegaard) ... at work, in marriages and in long term financial planning.

Nevertheless ...

I'm finally a Beach Bum, which has been a life long ambition.

I'm doing things few others are doing ... turning three wonderful children into six ... wearing a black wedding ring ... riding my bicycle with Sarah most places ... writing what I want ... growing sunflowers ... figuring out the next great thing (thank you Cathy Dunham!) ... discovering new music (thank you Jeremy Elliott) ... hanging around just a few friends (thank you all).

So ... I'm not ready for any person, place or thing to try to pull the reins in on me ...

Trust me.

We'll both live a lot longer.

The Taxman ... and God

"Are you working?" my mother demanded. "Because it sounds like you're just playing."

"How would you know?" I replied with a sigh.

"Because every time that I talk to you, you are doing something with your friends, going somewhere and spending money."

"I suppose it can seem that way," I answered, "but I had to write a check to the IRS. Writing the check wasn't so bad but subtracting the amount from the balance hurt like hell."

She was silent for a moment.

"I had to write them one too," she finally said.

We compared amounts.

Mine was bigger than hers.

"Apparently I made too much money last year," I concluded though I really have no idea how this is possible.

I did travel more last year than I ever have and Delta rewarded me by downgrading my status from Platinum to Gold. My overhead is low but my taxes are high. I think of the Major prophet George Harrison who explored the subject thoroughly.

Yeah, I'm the taxman and you're working for nobody but me.

It's funny because Government is where the money is these days. I make money telling people that, and telling them how to get some. Ever since the economy tanked, Government has grown like crazy. Let's be honest though, it started growing under Reagan and Obama has perfected Reaganism in terms of debt management.

So taxes go up. Democrats are blatant about it. Republicans lie about it. Both increase taxes.

This morning I'm sitting here with a depleted checking account, working on finding more work, and taking inventory of what's not taxed ... at least yet.

The sun is beautiful and the weather is warm. A choir of birds are singing Hymns. Fran's thousand shades of green sparkle in radiance. Flowers are blooming in yellows. purples, reds and whites. Love fills this house. I have just a few friends who are just enough. My children are healthy and apparently happy. I'm alive and kicking and full of dreams.

"What's your next job?" my mother demands.

"Well," I ponder as I answer, "I'd like to enjoy things. I haven't done enough of that."

Exasperated, she says, "You have to make money!"

A light breeze blows across my body.

"Yeah," I slowly sigh.

"For who?" I finally reply.

It strikes me that God is the author of all of the untaxed glory that I'm enjoying this morning.

Calling In Sick!

I'm sitting at the conference room table in Corporate Headquarters of the Company where I work. I'm the only one here so the music's blaring and Neil Young is offering encouragement. "Long May You Run" he says. I tell this is my intention. It's hard not to like Neil.

The commute in was pretty nice. The sky was a muted grey in the predawn morning, the tide was high, the marsh grass green and the view from the top of the Lazaratto Bridge always takes my breath away. The Savannah River meets the Sea here and I never grow tired of it.

Hilton Head and all of its busyness is across the way ... I swear that island is going to sink one day. Turtle Dafuski Island is behind it reminding me of Pat Conroy. Fort Pulaski there too and I played there as a kid. The Cockspur Lighthouse sits below me and it reminds me of my dear friend Bruce, when we sat on top of it together with our arms around each other, singing songs. This is a happy place.

I coast into my assigned parking place at the office. The woman in the office below is doing Pilates. She doesn't have a car though she does drive a Golf Cart. Collecting my stuff out of my car, I climb the stairs to the penthouse where my office is located. Somehow, I'm not quite certain how, I have more seniority than anybody else here, so I have the penthouse office.

My secretary shows up wearing a coconut bra and a grass skirt. She doesn't say much choosing to leave me to my own devices. She's also wearing a smirk this morning ... as cold as left over oyster shells. I surmise that she hasn't done shit since last week. I left her with multiple assignments but her hair is a mess and there's even a bird sitting in it.

I'm not making this up!

Taking my seat, I contemplate where I should start. Picking up my phone, I text my wife who I just left to tell her that I love her. Then ... I jump on Face Book to check on my kids. Family comes first in our office which is one of the reasons that I choose to work here. It's not too corporate.

Chelsea and Sam went to the Braves game yesterday and have posted pictures so I check them out. There's a picture of Jeremy smoking a cigar. Kristen hasn't updated anything since the last time I updated it for her. Cute pictures of Laurel's birthday parties also take a while for me to work through. Maddie wears a smirk like my secretary. Cassidy is afraid of sharks which makes me laugh.

Finishing this, I wander into the records room, which is a mess. My secretary sucks! I collect the stack of things that must be accomplished today and bring them outside to the conference room table. The sun is shinning bright through the non-glassed windows so I move to another seat. My secretary finally makes herself useful and stands between the sun and me.

Getting back up, I get a towel for my chair. Another thing that I like about this Company is that it doesn't have a dress code. I used to work at a place that required neck ties, long pants, a coat, shirts, shoes and ... SOCKS! It sucked. This new Company though doesn't make such demands. So I'm naked. One of the perks is that can work on your tan at the same time you're working on profits ... or lack thereof.

My secretary falls down on the job. I swear. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her fall down and then immediately jump back up as though if she did it fast enough, I wouldn't notice. She's no longer blocking the sun which is now in my eyes. She's still wearing the smirk. For the life of me, I cannot figure out why they keep her.

I've get to work. Taxes are due. Inexplicably, we made enough money last year that we owe taxes. More than I've ever owed before! Soon as I figure out where the corporate check book is, I'll write Obama a check. I'm not giving him cash. I don't mind writing him a check though ... I make myself a mental note to get someone on staff to balance the checkbook ... it's been a year and I think the Company policy says to balanced annually. I don't know.

Thank God, it's break time now. This place is a slave driver. There's always something to do. I need more fresh air.

As I'm walking away from it all, Goddess shows up to remind me it's Employee Fitness Time. The Company is health conscious and requires daily walking as a way to keep insurance premiums down. She's a bitch for reminding me. Nevertheless, it is part of Company policy so we take the mandatory walk.

Back at the office, I see that Fran has showed up. She must have had a hell of a weekend because she's all green. I'm doubtful she's going to accomplish much anything today. She and my secretary are talking in whispers. They're already planning lunch.

I check emails. "Damn," I say to myself out loud, "I cannot believe the things people want me to do."

It's my job though to figure out what to do and what not to do.

Sighing, I stare out of the non-glassed windows.

Hmmmmm ... it's a perfect day for the beach.

Grabbing my phone, I call in sick and leave myself a message.

I wonder where my secretary put the suntan lotion.

Breathing Life

I've looked Death in the face on three different occasions in my life.

When I was 16 I sneaked out of the house because my stupid parents wouldn't allow me to go to a dance. I loved to dance and still do ... so I climbed out of the window and went. It was on the other side of the viaduct in Port Wentworth at the community center. I had a good time. I caught a ride home in the back of a pick up truck. Stopped at the red light in front of Daughtry's gas station and Cowart's Drug Store, I saw my Mom riding around looking for me. Jumping out of the truck to turn myself in I was promptly hit by a car full of college students returning from Spring Break in Florida.

It knocked me to the gas pumps at Daughtry's where I rested with a shattered leg, multiple cuts and bruises. When my eyes finally opened, my Dad and Mom were staring at me, full of concern. Dad was sweating. Mom was crying. What I remember most though is the darkness of the night. There was a crowd around us but I looked at the sky ... into the stars ... listening to my own breathing ... and then hot tears poured down my dirty face.

That was the first time.

Standing in the receptionist office at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky I was the 24 year old pastor of the place. No one understands why God lost Her mind and allowed this to happen but it did. I was arguing with a homeless man over something I no long recall. He was madder than hell and I was resolved that he wasn't going to get what he wanted.

That's when he pulled out the gun and stuck it in my stomach.

It's funny how time really can freeze.

He yelled. Janice Money, the red headed fundamentalist, receptionist, jumped up. A bunch of homeless guys who loved me formed a circle around him. I could hear them talking. Again, I could hear myself breathing.

He pulled the gun back and the homeless guys beat the shit out of him in the Church office. I remember just standing there with the world spinning around me.

That was the second time.

My 8 year old son Jeremy and I were zipping down a country road in Meriweather County, Georgia on our way to lunch. We were inseparable. Kristen rode with Janice in the car we were following. Jeremy and I were laughing when the car in the other lane hit us head on in the pick up truck we'd borrowed from Claude Drouet.

The truck flipped over three times. Jeremy was thrown out through the windshield and landed in tall grass. He had a scape on his knee. I was pinned inside of the upside down truck with crushed cab.

I remember opening my eyes ... listening to myself breath again. Then I sucked in air and started screaming for Jeremy. I pulled myself out and there he stood looking at me. "He's OK," I thought as I collapsed with a broken arm, ribs, and glass cuts all my body. I woke up in a Country Hospital sometime later.

That was the third time.

I know there will a forth one day but I really don't look forward to it.

Yesterday, Sarah and I were on our way to Laurel's birthday party when I got the text that Tanner had been killed in Afghanistan. Tanner is the son of my dear friend Patti. We understand it was a skirmish with the Taliban in an open area.

It makes you stop dead in your tracks.

Which is better than stopping dead.

I heard myself breathing and remembered all of these things. Love and concern filled my heart for Patti. There are no words. You don't know what to do.

I ended up doing the only thing I knew what to do. I prayed. I thanked God for Tanner and how he graced so many lives. I asked that Patti be taken care of, along with her other sons. I cursed the Goddamn war and the politics that put us there.

Life is a gift which none of us asked for, yet each of us share.

Until we don't.

Celebrate it while you have. Celebrate the lives of those you love ... while you have them.

"This day I call before you heaven and earth as witness ... I have set before you life and death, blesses and curses. Now choose life ..." we are commanded.

Sometimes, we don't have the choice.

Everything Changes

When I opened the door, Goddess lay at the top of the landing, tail a-wagging, stretching her front legs, eying me with sleepy golden eyes. Calling her by name, I lean over to scratch her. She licks my hand so I lay in the floor with for a minute. She's done the same for me. She follows me as I lug the bags and computers upstairs. I give her a treat.

She's much more laissez faire about my homecomings than she used to be. Normally she runs around acting like a Monkey Humper attacking my leg or slamming her rear end into them so I'll sit and scratch her for as long as I was gone. She's older now and reserves such behavior for squirrels, cats and Golf Carts that happen by when we're on walks.

Sarah pulls in a little later and Goddess jumps in the window, tail a-wagging, and barks homecoming greetings. Sarah's on the phone but the dog doesn't care and leaps down the stairs. She waits by the door until I let her outside then she rushes to Sarah and acts like a Monkey Humper.

Feeling like chopped liver, I look at Goddess and call her a Bitch.

We water flowers, put things away, drag stuff out, then take Goddess for a walk. Making our way to the sad little holy dock, the choirs of mussels are ticking and popping their Hymns from the mud. The setting sun sprinkles diamonds on the Back River and the three of us stand there. Sarah and I arm-in-arm and Goddess slamming her rear end into our legs.

Making our way, she doesn't want to go home yet and drags us around another block.

Once home, she is content ... All is fine again. Lying on her bench, she rests her head on her front legs, sleepily keeping her eyes on anything we do.

What we do it talk.

Reviewing everything it took for us to get to this point in our lives, things we have to do next, and our plans for the future. We bask in the glow of just being together after living so much time alone. We drive to Spankey's for more conversation and food. It's crowded and crazy there but we're in our own universe talking about everything.

Dee shows up once we're back home. We watch a movie, laugh at lot, and talk about changes late into the night.

Everything changes. Whatever you're enjoying now ... well you better enjoy it because it's going to change. Children grow up and leave. Marriages come an end and new ones are born. Jobs come and go. Old struggles are replaced by new ones. Friends move. People die. Money flows or it dries up to the point where you count change to get by. Dark nights are replaced by new days. Cold winds eventually give way to warm sunshine ... or vise versa.

Goddess yawns.

It's way past bed time.

When we head into the bedroom, she sleepily jumps from her bench and follows us into the dark night ... soon to be replaced by the new day.

Sleeplessness

I'm normally restless the night before I travel. Either because of the excitement or the dread of the particular destination and purpose, I toss and turn and my mind refuses to shut off. I have a hard time just laying there trying to will myself to sleep. When I do dose off, I have crazy dreams that startle me awake. Typically I end up just getting on up and starting the day much earlier than normal.

We're driving home today so sure enough, at 4:31 in the morning, I'm wide awake. Every fiber optic in my brain is firing as hundreds of thoughts vie for attention. Unresolved feelings and emotions from the past rise from the dead. Concerns and worries about the future are born and grow. Present realities present themselves. Prayers for intervention erupt. A fatigue sets in. Everything seems worse at night.

My grandmother once told me that she used such nights to pray. Laying there she would call people by name, turning their problems over to the Lord and wishing them love and good things. Sometimes she would do this throughout the night. Often God would bless her unselfishness with sleep.

More turn on the television and mindlessly flip channels or return to something that has already captured their interest. Escaping is better than worrying.

Books on bedside tables are grabbed, lights are flipped on, and a new world is entered while still laying in the bed that refuses to allow rest.

I often walk outside.

At 4:37, I open the curtain and quiently slip through the door. Stars shine upon the ocean. Waves dance to the sand. The sea sings its song. Salt air sticks to my skin. The previous day has been scrubbed clean and a new one is preparing to be born. It is the time of in-between. All is calm ... all is bright ... though there is no sleeping in heavenly peace.

Standing there, my senses are suddenly filled with these things.

Leaning on the rail, I feel small in the universe. The sky is filled with stars and Galaxies. The vastness of the ocean is commanding. I'm reminded of how insignificant I am in the scope of the universe. So are my problems, unresolved issues, doubts and insecurities.

Confidence returns. Hope renews. I count my blessings ... I am loved deeply. My children are all healthy and doing well in their respective endeavors. I have "just a few friends" who have proven that they'll always be there. I'm living where I want to live. I haven't had to steal money from the change jar yet to buy food. Plans are being made for a future that is better than the past. I've had good days and bad days and going half-mad days ... but I'm still here.

"Thank you," I say out loud thinking of my grandmother laying there in bed calling out my own name.

Then I slip back inside and sleep until the sun rises and a new day is given to me.

Real Americans DOn't Wear Pajamas

I've never had any use for Pajamas. I has three the last time I wore a pair. They had Batman on them and a little fly that stayed open all of the time (draw your own conclusions as to why). I thought they looked stupid and stopped wearing them.

They were invented in Persia as "leg garments".

Who the hell needs a leg garment? Especially in Persia where it's hotter than hell? Iran, Iraq and all of those places where they keep trying to figure out ways to bring the world to an end and the United States pays a gazillion dollars every year ... not to mention sacrificing our young ... anyway ... this is where Pajamas from.

How can any decent American stand to wear the things?

Sitting here this morning, I'm observing that a great many Americans support Persian countries by wearing Pajamas. They are all wandering around the swimming pool in Daytona Beach as the sun comes up.

Baggy green felt looking things are offset by a man wearing a wife beater that almost covers his stomach. At least he's barefoot. It's quite styling.

Women cover their Pajamas with Bathrobes. Talk about layering! I understand the concept if you live in Michigan or some place like that where it's cold all of the time but in Florida? I don't know but I assume that Bathrobes were also invented in Persia. It's crazy over there.

Then there are the ladies who wear Pajama bottoms with bathing suit tops. I suppose they cannot make up their minds if they support Persia or the United States. Maybe they're spies. Who knows?

I know that ... I don't care.

I am 100% American who says TO HELL WITH PAJAMAS ... even if they do have Batman on them! I'm not giving Persia any more of my money ... until I have to fill up the car to get home. They can take their leg garments and stick em up their ass. I will NEVER WEAR PAJAMAS because I love my country!

OK, I gotta go.

Sarah just came out wearing something from Victoria Secrets.

To Celebrate ... or not

This morning, in the darkness of a hotel room, the eight year old creeps searching for whoever's awake. She's turned eight only hours earlier and is in desperate need of someone to celebrate the fact with her. Her mother's asleep or pretending to be asleep so the first birthday wish of her day come from me, lying there in bed.

"Happy Birthday Laurel," I said with my hair askew, wondering where I'd thrown my shorts.

This seems to immensley please her so she goes back to bed ... which is good because it gives me the opportunity to find wherever I'd thrown clothes.

There are people who celebrate birthdays and there are those who don't.

For the most part, I've been the later. Birthdays came and went and I never gave them much thought. It's just another day.

When I turned 50 though the staff at Union Mission threw me a tremendous celebration in the park on Tybee. It was the most intergrated event Tybee has ever witnessed. My dear friends Carlos and Verna came from St. Martin and we danced the night away. Paul and Nancy came from Canada and of course, Conner and Hania showed and we all did a naked takeover of a sad little holy dock.

After that, a lot of things went wrong. Finding myself suddenly single, the topic of intense controversy in the newspapers, and beginning my career break, the last thing I cared about was my birthday.

But I have this Carnival of Friends, and these other friends who came back from the dead after graduating from college back when dinasours ruled the world, and the Tybee Community decided to throw this birthday party to end all parties. Under the tight supervision of cruise director Cheryl Sadowski with the amble support of her sidekicks Dedra Shuman and Judy O'Neill ... well ... Hoo Ha was there a party.

The Sam Adams Band, who play damn good live music on Tybee, played. The reclusive Mitch Wesley showed up and played bass. Sandi Postle did a killer version of the Beatles, "If I Fell" which almost killed her. Johhny O did his famous and rarely preformed song Booger. The whole thing ended up with naked people in a swimming pool.

It changed the way that I look at birthday parties!

I am all for them now.

After finding my shorts, I retrieve Laurel and we go out for doughnuts. Everyone's awake when we return with presents.

She goes on an on ... and on and on ... and on and on ... about this being her birthday.

"It's my special day," she exclaims with a mouth full of chocolate covered doughnut, wearing sunglasses with the top down on the car, on A1A. The morning sun drips blue skies all over her hair.

"Yeah," I reply laughing at her. "What else you want?"

She thinks for a nano-second before replying, "To go to a restaurant where they sing Happy Birthday to me.

OK then.

Next up on the birthday list is Kristen whose already called. Then Sarah. Then Chelsea followed by me and then Jeremy.

There's a lot of parties to get ready for.

Career Break

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."

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.

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.

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 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.