Party On Dudes

First we had a Toga party and sure enough everyone showed up wearing one! The last couple to arrive were non-Tybee people and were not dressed in Togas so they felt naked and uncomfortable. The rest of us felt sorry for how silly they looked in long pants and sweaters.

Then we had a Saran Wrap party. Everyone had to wear Saran Wrap though it could be in any way or fashion they chose. Mine had a Christmas theme though Sarah's took the cake.

We've been talking about what to do next.

We went to "Drag Queen Bingo" in Key West so there's the possibility of a replicating such an event at our house. The guys will come dressed as girls and the girls dressed as guys. Johnny O and Judy O have already been trailblazers in this so it would be pretty easy to pull off. The rest of us could simply follow their lead.

Sarah normally comes up with the theme and while she hasn't asked my opinion I normally give it to her anyway. I have a couple of ideas.

I think an "Anything But Clothes" party would be a huge hit. Attendees could wear a box, wrap themselves in feathers, or glue pages from books on them. If they're in a hurry they can merely show up al' natural and still have a good time.

You can see why she doesn't ask my opinion I still give it to her.

Should you all wish to start a write-in campaign for the idea then I encourage you to let her know your support of the A-B-C's or simply click yes to this so I can show her the overwhelming world-wide support for us to host this party.

Though we ran out of time we contemplated hosting a "Burning of the Grievances" party. Everyone would write down the hurts, injustices and bad things that happened to them on a piece of paper. Then we'd all gather, have cocktails and food before burning our grievances in the Chimenia on the beloved back deck.

Then I wrote my list of grievances and it was thirty-seven pages long. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) is the world's biggest grievance I can think of and it got me to wondering if needed stakes rather than the Chimenia.

This got me to thinking about how long everyone else's list would be. Such a party would have to be hosted by Jodee and Cheryl as they have one of the world's largest fire pits in their backyard. The heat from our collective fire could heat the entire island and the light it would cast would likely draw Wise Men from the East.

It's an inconsistent concept though. It's easy to connect the dots between Togas, Saran Wrap and "Anything But Clothes". There's simply no place for grievances in such parties.

Neither is there in life.

Party on Dudes!

Experiencing God

"Write your heart," she told me after I asked what I should write about.

I normally do.

One of the nicest gifts I received over the holidays was a Facebook message from my friend Jan who lives in Austin, Texas. It's one of those things that I keep and read every so often because it hasn't lost its luster and still surprises me when I read it.

"Micheal, I don't know how it is but I'm sure many people feel as I do ... that knowing you a little bit means knowing your quite well. You are so good at opening your heart and your soul --- whether it be by your mischievous smile, your wicked laughter or your heartfelt writings that could move a mountain --- that knowing you a little means knowing you well."

She goes on expressing the happiness that Sarah brings to me and then "I take hope there are more in the world who can make the rest of us sing at a whim, even though off key most of the time."

Finally, she explains that should I ever a New Year's that isn't quite happy again, she and her husband will be there for me just like they know, I'll be there for them."

I was, and remain, blown away.

I'm really good at giving affirmation, encouragement and love. I love recognizing others and celebrating their accomplishments. I really like to give someone an award.

On the other hand, I'm not so great accepting these things. I get choked up easy when affection's thrown my way. I try to deflect recognition to others. I thank everyone who should have received the award other than me.

So when Jan sent me her Christmas message directly aimed at me, I immediately understood how special such things are. I stumbled inside and read it to Sarah. It takes a lot for anyone to speak directly to another and say, "I love you." It's even more radical when they explain why.

When it happens though, the veil in the Temple hiding the Holy of Holies is ripped asunder. The skies in your heart grow dark and thunder explodes and lightening flashes, singling the Presence of God. Then the heart is warmed. The sun explodes out of the sea. A still small voice explains, "It is good."

Another Day at work

It is a beautiful January day! Sitting in shorts and a tee shirt with bare feet dangling from the high chair at the table under the umbrella on the beloved back deck, I am trying to work.

It is hard!

Waves crash into the shore continuing an opera they began yesterday. It is mesmerizing music accompanied by a choir of birds sitting in Fran's thousand shades of green.

A couple of red Hibiscus blooms are hanging on but the green leaves have turned yellow. Two marsh hens are wandering around the front yard. The sun is burning a hole through light fog throwing enough glare that I'm wearing sunglasses.

Who in the hell can work under these conditions?

I search for "Beach Music" on Rhapsody and the Beach Boys inform me that "I can hear music! Sweet, sweet music."

Staring at the screen I read an email from someone in China named Lin JianFa informing me that his company wishes to use the domain that I own. I dash off a quick two word reply utilizing only a verb and a pronoun.

The Palm Tree with the oyster shell face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles as I do so. Behind her are signs I've hung on the wooden fence. One says "Fish Naked."

Beside it is another. "It's 5 o'clock somewhere."

I google what time it is in China and it's 10:30 at night.

"Damn," I say to Goddess. "I've missed 5:00!" as I turn off the computer and close down the office for the day.

One of those nights

The waves crash onto the shore sounding like an opera.

Fire burns in the Chimenia casting shadows on the wall.

Ocean breezes blow lightly.

Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the dark.

My bare feet dance on the wooden planks of the beloved back deck.

Winston, the little gay dog, prances around my feet.

Goddess snores underneath the fire.

Orion shoots an arrow overhead in a pitch black sky though it is diamonds he is shooting.

Sarah is chasing girls, hair askew, exhausted and ready for bed.

I've just hung up the phone with Jeremy, now back in Athens missing his wife Marie who is in Valdosta so he needed a touch of home.

I'm saying prayers for Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one ... the one who has been so instrumental in me turning into me.

Taking a break from reading my friend Nanci Hartland's book "True Confessions of a Reluctant Giraffe", I ponder a few of the lines.

An old woman tells her, "Nanci dear, when you are old and your mind has quite forgotten the details, the troubles, the pain and even the soup burning on the stove, your heart will always remember love, if you have opened your heart. What has your heart forgotten? What is it you want? Open your heart to it."

I like that.

Sitting down, I prop my feet on the railing and try to take notice of the things God is up to tonight.

It's extremely warm for January and the forecast calls for it to continue for days.

I sip the wine I'm drinking now wondering what Orion is shooting.

Turning, I look inside the house through the sliding glass doors and Sarah blows me kiss as she falls on the sofa.

My open heart catches it and I turn back to God's holy night for a bit more prayer as Winston, the little gay dog, prances, Goddess snores, the fire glows and the ocean sings an opera.

The Continuing Saga of Criminal Dogs on Tybee

The dogs got off again.

The dog catcher called in sick.

I'm certain it's a paid "called in sick.

So Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, got yet another continuance. Goddess doesn't seem to give a damn. She's asleep after eating a bunch of brownies all afternoon.

Winston, the little gay dog, is scared shitless though.

Aside from being traumatized by the Tybee Island Police Department, it's Judicial System, a political system that only loves feral cats and hates coyotes, the poor little thing had his balls whacked off last week.

 I have them in a baggie.

They are "Exhibit A" for Judge Harry S (wasn't he a porn star in the 1980s?) who made it perfectly clear last time we were in court that he sides with tattoo covered officers and will not tolerate barking gay dogs.

(I don't remember a Harry S in the 1980's porn movies doing gay stuff but there is a lot of the 80's I don't remember.)

So I have Winston's, the little gay dog, balls in a baggie to demonstrate we've done everything possible to keep him quiet.

If that doesn't get Judge Harry S off, I don't know what will.

Anyway, I walked inside the Tybee Courtroom which is inside a large garage, to be greeted by a small tattooed, skin head officer demanding I empty my pockets so he could wave his wand at me. Throwing my keys, phone, money, Winston's, the little gay dog, balls in a  baggie in the dish, he had his way with me and then I was allowed inside the court ... which was packed.

Then Goddess and Winston's, the little gay dog's, attorney informed me that I'd have to come back in two weeks.

It's Tybee. It's an island. What do you do?


The Tybee Judicial system is slow. For the third time because Harry S demands it, a uniformed, wand waving tattooed Skin head with a badge gets to do me again.

Winston, the little gay dog, remains traumatized for another two weeks because of the anti-gay profiling that takes place on this island.

I'm not sure how Goddess feels about it all. She's passed out and snoring though there is one brownie left.

I'm thinking about calling a puppy psychiatrist because I don't think Winston, the little gay dog, can continue to cope under this pressure. He shakes, refuses to go outside alone, sleeps under the bed, has lost weight and the frequency of licking himself has significantly increased.

Besides I'm worried that the girls might mistake Winston's, the little gay dog, balls in a baggie for Fireballs. Sarah would go nuts if she walked in and the girls had a jaw poking out on one side and found an empty baggie on the floor.

I guess we'll find out how this ends in another two weeks.

Telling My Story

"MIKE! Did you do it?"

"No' mam," I replied.

That's probably how my story telling career actually began though I don't recall the specific incident. It could have been a lot of things.

"Did you steal all of the American flags out of the school?

"Did you steal all of the fire extinguishers out of the Mill over the Viaduct?"

"Did you and Gene Prevatt hitchhike to Tybee and go to Doc's Bar?"

"Were you caught in the Baptismal Pool at Church with a girl?"

"Did you and Gene Prevatt start a riot at Groves yesterday?"

"You want to tell me why the Police picked you up at Softball practice and brought you home?"

The answer was always, "No'mam."

Later when I went to Seminary, I learned to use adverbs and lots of adjectives which have proven to be significant additions to my story telling capabilities.

"Mike did you just hurl your Greek book outside of the second story window and almost hit Guy Sayles as you did it?"

"Hell no, Professor Olmanson. I know not of which you speak. I was studying my Sunday School lesson."

After I graduated I spent a great deal of time at the state Capitol in Atlanta and in Congress where the art of story telling has been perfected. These places taught me that you never need the whole truth when you speak. Half-a-truth will do. AND! ... if you wear a suit when you tell your story more people will believe what you're telling them.

PLUS! ... I live on Tybee Island where Police lie, bicycles get drunk but not their riders, and the Baptist Church proclaims that they "really do love everybody! Honest! We do love those filthy, rotten sinners who go to Fannie-on-the-beach and Doc's Bar!"

Each of these have taught me one of life's most valuable lessons. Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.

It should come as no surprise then that I now work for a company called "Let Us Tell It." Our tag line is "You have a story. Let Us Tell it!"

Pretty good huh?

We have a code of ethics though. If you get caught in bed with several people other than your spouse then no matter how many stories we tell, it's not going to help. We're not going to take you on as a client. Pretty much anything else goes though.

Anyway, I appreciate you taking the time to review my experience and credentials for our company.

Have a great day!

Even you Baptists who frequent Fannies-on-the-beach and Doc's Bar!

Creating New Things

Three years ago today was my last major accomplishment at Union Mission. Dutch Town Villas, a forty something unit apartment complex was Savannah's initial Housing First program taking people directly from the streets and moving them into their own homes.

I posted a Tweet that I was "off to the opening of the Dutch Town development, a home for the homeless. Not a shelter. Shelters are not the answer!" A home is.


The brand new construction sits on five acres on the city's south side and is beautiful. Hundreds of people showed up for the opening. The Mayor, County Commission Chair, state legislators, were present. Pastor Ricky Temple of Overcoming Faith Church delivered the invocation. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) was the Master of Ceremonies.

I sat on the second row, off to the right beside a wife who had already made up her mind to leave me for something better. The next time I would see her she'd inform me of our impending divorce.

Also unbeknownst to me was that my trusted Chief Financial Officer was misappropriating hundreds of thousands of dollars. It would be another few weeks before I found that out.

Nor did I know that members of the staff were formulating complaints against me primarily because I was making significant changes to the way the company was running.

A behavioral health collaborative I'd been instrumental in starting had begun to unravel because people were resistant to change, entrenched in politics and greedy to keep things the same. It would soon blow up and be front page news leaving me the bearer of the blame.

I didn't know any of these things sitting there proud of the million dollar development. It was the latest, and last, in a series of grand developments we'd orchestrated. A million dollar hospital for homeless and poor people, a behavioral health center costing the same and now Dutch Town.

I was riding high.

So when all of these things happened in pretty quick succession, my fall was far and fast.

When the air cleared, I walked away from it all. Truth be told, lots of people wanted me to, praying for it and doing anything they could to make it so. At the end, the door slammed shut behind me.

If you've never spent time wandering in the wilderness, it's quite the experience. I bounced between Tybee Island and St. Martin, maintained relationships with a very small group of friends, did some work throughout the country with the International Street Medicine Institute but mostly spent time hurt and wounded on the beloved back deck of my house.

The world I'd happily lived in was no more and I was overwhelmed by the loss.

Today I can still feel some of the feelings. The sudden loss of love, the brutal act of betrayal and the abandonment of people you believed in are things you never completely get over. All of the scars are on the inside.

I got through it though. Actually a lot of little things that got me through it. A tiny collection of friends formed themselves into my personal church, believing in me when I no longer believed in  myself. They strung together little acts of kindness and my healing began to happen. I am forever indebted to them.

Looking at it today in the rear view mirror, I'm proud of it all. Great things are never accomplished without controversy. Some grow to hate if you're more successful than them. Though there is only the slightest tinge of regret, I can't think of much I would have done differently. I gave it all my best.

Today my eyes are ahead, no longer looking back. "It's time to create new things," I used to tell people I worked with, "so go! Create!"

If anyone cares, that's what I've been doing. New love has been born. My family is bigger than it was.The routines are all different. It's a slower life though no less intense. I've held on to places and things I love but they're all different now too. I'm not the same. I've been reborn.

"No one puts new wine in old wine skins ... new wine calls for new" ... things. I'm focused on creating new things, a new me, a better one because "old things are passed away, behold, all things become new."

I like new.

Tomorrow's Prayer Today

In our house are three framed postcards of old Tybee. The first is a painting of sand dunes, Palm Trees, sea oats and wisps of white clouds in a blue sky. It is not a photograph, looking more like a painting and has a surreal aspect to it.

Below it is the "Hotel Tybee", a grand wooden structure, four stories tall with a pale green paint and numerous white columns. Ladies in long flowing gowns stand on the porch and in the yard. In 1906 it was purchased by A.M., whoever that is, and sent to Mr. John Martin at 9112 May Avenue, S.E. in Cleveland, Ohio. There is no zip code in the lead pencil script.

"Hello John how would you like to be in the excellent hotel on Tybee from A.M." all in one sentence.

The last is of the ocean between the old Tybee Boardwalk and Pavilion and hundreds of men in black tank top bathing suits wade in the low tide. None appear very happy and for the life of me I can't find a woman in the picture. In 1923 it was mailed to a Ross McFerres in Medina New York.

Whoever wrote it mailed it from Augusta, Georgia on March 26, 1923, a Saturday morning.

"Arrived here ... hot at Florida ... hope to find cooler weather soon as we've suffered from the heat yesterday. Car running fine."

I assumed whoever wrote the unsigned card was in a hurry to get away from the heat.

My Mom had them all framed and presented to me when I returned from Louisville for home on Tybee. I've gone through lots of things though this remains one of my favorites. It's a funny reminder of things that used to be.

Long before me, people came to Tybee Island finding either excellence or insufferable heat. Everyone here is either running to, or running from, something. It's beauty with a beastly side, a salty serenity sprinkled with wet wisdom, all aglow in bubbling sunrises and blazing sunsets.

Of course A.M., John and Ross are long dead now though evidence of their pictures, postcards, platitudes and problems remain. I wonder if they ever made it back to the island and feel bad for them if they never did. But at least they were here the once.

This is my 26th year as a full time resident of this clump of sand though I've been coming here all of my life. While I never saw the Hotel Tybee, I did go to the Pavilion before it burned down in 1967. It seems that half of my life has been spent with my toes dug deep in the sand, in the sun or in the sea.

I don't know how long I get to keep living here, doing the things I do, enjoying where the river meets the sea. There's something holy about the place though. It hits you like Scripture and once you've been baptized in Holy Water, you just pray to God every single day that you can do it again tomorrow.

Touching Heaven

"Time crumbles things; everything grows old under the power of Time and is forgotten through the lapse of time."

So said Aristotle.

"To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven," says whoever wrote Ecclesiastes.

George Harrison said it better. "All things must pass. None of life's strings can last. So, I must be on my way and face another day."

Over the past several days The Savannah Morning News has reported on the crumbling of the Chatham-Savannah Authority for the Homeless of which I helped conceive and found spending a decade of my life helping to build it into the nations most effective and prestigious community response to homelessness.

Then it started slipping and has now dissolved into a dysfunctional mess.

I spent the better part of twenty-five years helping build Union Mission into the nation's most effective organization. By attacking the root causes in a compassionate yet firm way, people overcame their homelessness. We were the first to embark on such an approach and were emulated throughout the world. When all was said and done we had solved more than half the problem, more than anybody else has accomplished.

Union Mission is now a shell of what it used to be.

It runs in my life I suppose. When I left the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville where I was the "Professional Christian" in charge, the Southern Baptist kicked the church out literally onto the street.

Throw in my failed marriages and I'm really looking good.

You know what?

I wouldn't change it. I've been blessed to be part of incredible things. I've been to mountain tops and, though I was either kicked off or fell, I got to see it all. I've touched heaven a few times and wouldn't trade those experiences for anything. I've also seen hell ... it's not all that.

On one hand it's sad to watch glorious things you were part of crumble. I suppose its because the right people are no longer in the right place nor is it the right time.

Yet I've been blessed because on multiple occasions to have been with the right people doing the right things in the right place at the right time.

It's a lot like sex ... you want it again.

These days I stand with a tiny group of friends on a beach and look at the burning cities and the ominous clouds throwing lightening on the mountain tops. The sea is calm, the Palm Trees smile, choirs of mussels sing and things still bloom. After years of battling in the darkness it's nice to be quiet in the light.

But I'll tell you one more thing.

There's another mountain or two for me to climb.

And you can bet your ass I'm touching heaven again.

Happinesss

"Are you as happy as you seem or do you find happiness in what's dealt?"

The question came out of the blue and caused me pause. Staring out of the window of McDonald's, waiting on Sarah to pick me up, I watched hungry people order at the Drive-In window being impatient, digging for change and appearing as they really needed coffee.

"I think it's both," I finally typed into my Netbook.

There was time to kill as I'd drop one girl off at school and then my car at the repair shop. Sarah would arrive an hour later after she'd dropped the other two girls off.

"I tend to take the 'find' Avenue," came the response.

"I am very happy," I wrote, "but I also seek it in what I have in my life right now ... I think if you stop looking then you stop finding but that has to be balanced with appreciating what you've got when you've got it."

That was pretty much the conversation.

She wrote that she wished there was an APP on her computer so she could push it and I'd be thumped on the head because of things I write,

I'm glad there's no such APP. My head would be blue on black from the constant thumping people want to give me.

Like everyone, "I've had good days and bad days and going half mad days."  Happy days far exceed hopeless ones. I try to learn from the bad days and just do my best to get through the going half mad times.

I count my blessings a lot. I try to find joy in the people I'm with, in our home and on the clump of sand we live on. Daily I celebrate Palm Trees, ocean breezes, the smell of the Marsh and the choirs of birds. Sometimes I can't comprehend why I deserve this or even how I'm still here but its a gift I worry about losing but can't stop appreciating.

I pray Thanksgiving for the love in my life, the opportunities that remain and the fact that most people still take my phone calls. Sometimes they want to meet for lunch or a drink and its always nice to be wanted. I try to enjoy these times.

Happiness is a lot of little things, I think, and in some ways its like holding sand. If you're not always replenishing it, pretty soon you're only left with a minuscule amount. Afterwards there's just the memories and the desire for more.

I woke up happy today in spite of the happiness I've lost but am determine to celebrate that which I do have and then my best to grow it like the Hibiscus plants on the beloved back deck. And I'll keep looking for more because if you stop renewing it ... then it's gone. 

Happy Day Everyone!

Bouncy, bouncy will not always come bouncing back to you

This blog contains graphic material and is of sexual orientation. Children under 17 require accompanying parent or guardian. Ministers, Republicans and member of the NRA should grab hold of themselves if they choose to read.

Winston, the little gay dog , got whacked yesterday.

There's no easy way to say it.

It hurts.

His load is not as heavy, he's lighter on his feet, his eyes are bigger than they were, he's walking a little slower though his ass is a bit higher than it was this morning.

His tail is between his legs.

He looks scared.

Goddess seems concerned but keeps going outside and returning smelling like medical marijuana. She loves her little gay brother and hurts for him.

We all do.

He has brought so much happiness to our blended family by blending us even more. He loves the girls and he adores Sarah. He sleeps under her side of the bed every night. She dresses him every day in his cute little dogie sweaters with cute little sayings like  ... "I can't even think straight" ... and he loves to sit in her lap.

Through, the gay little son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) runs from me and for the life me I don't know why. I give him treats along with Goddess. I take Goddess for walks and then come home to take him for his prance. He licks me when I get out of the shower in the morning.

Anyway, the Health Department and other manners of Government are happy now because Winston has been nurtured.

Like a rolling stone, they are gone.

The great balls of fire have been extinguished.

His AC DC has experienced a ball breaker.

The ball and chain have been severed.

Rubber ball is not coming bouncing back to you (bouncy, bouncy, bouncy).

But it had to be done. He's been traumatized by the Tybee Island Police Department for weeks. They've accused him of every crime on the island, blamed him for bring his hoodlum Coyote friends and now say that two Great White Sharks hang around the beach waiting on him.

So I'm pleaded with you to say a little prayer for Winston, the little gay dog, today. The poor guy is hurting and I feel really bad for him.

Click like so he can see that you care.

I'm going to pet him now so I have to stop typing with one hand as I'm protecting myself with the other.

Poor little guy.

A Political Prayer for Congress

If you've never been to Congress to actually see how pompous our legislators are, you haven't missed much.

They're all terrible!

I know many of you think your particular Senator or Congressperson is the exception to the rule and is honest and helps when you call. Individually they are probably nice people. Collectively they are arrogant investors into themselves and their reelection. It's all they really care about.

I've spent lots of time in Congress rushing past the permanently placed News stations so that every damn one of them can get on television to explain why they know what's best.

I've sat in their tiny waiting room, staffed by interns, and learned the place is really like Baskin Robbins. You take your number, wait your turn and the benevolent member of the Elect bestows upon you your request. Then ... you go to the back of the line. (A Congressman actually explained it to me this way!)

I've sat at $500 a plate breakfast meeting (mine was paid by someone else) for bacon and eggs and the privilege of being one of twenty to have audience with the Senator as he briefed us on what's wrong with the opposing party and how he knows best.

I was invited to their "Faith Based Summits" which is a grandiose philandering of votes and endorsements of religious leaders who gladly prostitute themselves in the name of the Lord and political favors.

Like the rest of us, I've spent the past several days watching them create a fiscal cliff (there was no such thing a few short months ago), broker deals to break them, and position themselves as Saviors on crosses they built themselves.

It's just disgusting.

Those people we keep electing are disgusting.

After almost thirty years of regularly playing on Capitol Hill, the last few have been spent on more important things ... love, children, celebrating with friends who really are good, music and simple prayers.

The biggest political controversy on Tybee Island are some coyotes running around. Half the island thinks they're cute and the other really doesn't care.

But right after Joe, Mitch and John finished screwing each other behind close doors and then gleefully announcing they'd saved us yet again, it switched to the local news.

And there was local Councilman Bill talking about how dangerous the coyote problem has become and how they city is going to address the issue.

Turning the television off, there's was nothing to do but one more prayer and go to bed.

"God, my ass hurts. Please make them stop."

Better days

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions.

You do the best you can.

If you're not doing the best you can then shame on you. You're just screwing yourself. If you are doing the best you can, then you're doing alright.

Sarah and I ended last year enjoying one another, hooking up with the Carnival of Friends, listening to Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, but coming home early to rest in each others arms.

It's been a long few years.

Lots of things happened ... not all of them good ... some of them were really bad ... but we start this year together ... and good things are happening ... good friends surround us ... life is different ... and life is damn good.

Sure (Sarah's favorite word), I don't have a clue about a lot of things but I'm doing the best I can ... and that's alright with me.

We were sitting at the Tybee Island Social Club last night, listening to a blond haired dregs singer, talking about the things that are coming.

"I haven't been this excited ..." I excitedly told her, clutching her hand, eyes dancing with glee, a broad smile painted on my face and my heart pumping with enthusiasm.

That's how this year begins.

Last year has sailed away. It's just a boat load of memories anyway.

But ... I'm looking just the horizon. To moonbeams, sunsets, zebras and butterflies. To better days.

The things next year is built upon

The biggest thing that happened this year is I married my best friend and beautiful woman Sarah, under a full moon on the beach, surrounded by our kids and friends who have stuck with us. There was a lot of laughter afterwards at Marlin Monroe's where Jenny O threw us one hell of a party! Every month there is a full moon and we take it to celebrate our love and our marriage.

Then Dedra drove us to the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) so we could fly to Atlanta so we could then fly to Belize. Standing to make a connection in the Belize City International Airport, my phone buzzed and it was Johnny O.

"I am so sorry," he said.

"For what?" I asked.

"I have no idea," he explained.

Sarah climbed in the cockpit of the little plane and we flew to the peninsular and the honeymoon was on.

We visited a lot of places this year. Atlanta (I thought it was a good idea at the time), Daytona Beach, Athens (Go Dawgs!), St. Martin of course, the Bahamas, Memphis, Seattle and the San Juan Islands and Key West. Each is now a catalog of memories that we share in our hearts.   They are stories to tell.

There was the Carnival of Friends and our first cruise. Mark, Mitch and Dedra remain risen from the dead so we had reunions. Joey Finch came out of nowhere and we are both so thankful he's enriched our lives. The members of the Bored continued to gather and Sam Adams, who plays damn good live music on the island, kept at it in Bar Church.

Sean and Wen McNally just picked up and came to Tybee as though they were manna sprinkled down from heaven. Glenn and Vicky Arnold thought it was such a good idea they sprinkled themselves in too.

We had a Toga party, a saran wrap party, tapas party, birthday parties, and other festive gatherings for no apparent reason.

The year was not without controversy. The Tybee Island Police Department started profiling Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. There's already been one court appearance and they'll be another next year.

It's been a year of changes, transitions and discovery. There were bad things but it was mostly good (though Sarah is simply great!). The kids are all great! Dani got married and I got to officiate (Welcome to the family Pete!). The beach remains beautiful, the marsh smells pungent (like the aroma of sex in the Tropics) and Shirley's sad little holy dock is the holy of Holy's.

The Bicycle didn't get drunk much. The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass still makes me smile. A fire burns in the Chiminea this time of year. Fran is still alive and beautiful in her thousand different ways.

And people have written or called, many of whom I thought were dead or irrelevant  and said the nicest things to warm my heart.

These are the things that next year is built upon.

If it's good enough for Jesus ...

"Why do you love this so much," Sarah asked as we strolled down Caroline Street in Key West.

It took me a moment to collect myself before answering. It was such a crazy, random, inexplicable question. It's like asking "Do you believe in God?" or "Is there a single sane person in Congress?"

On a sunny, warm December morning, we were strolling hand in hand, wearing shorts and tee shirts with plans to work on our tans all afternoon ... sans the clothes ... before closing it out again at "Irish Kevin's" on Duval Street. Somewhere in there, we would work in "Drag Queen Bingo", a weekly fund raiser on the island.

How can you not love it?

If such things don't put you in the holiday spirit there is simply something wrong with you.

The previous night we'd bumped into Santa Claus himself on Duval Street and he copped a feel when Sarah had her picture taken with him.

I think she said "Joy to the world" or something like that.

The first time it hit me was sitting in the back seat as Dad and Mom drove as round the big curve on Tybee Island, before there was a guard rail or a landscaped clump of sand, and I excitedly stared at the sun throwing diamonds on the ocean. God casts a line and threw a hook in my heart and reeled me in.

Salt water flows in my veins. Pirates are preferable to Priests. Sand is never confused with dirt. Under the Boardwalk is holier than inside of any Church building. Bar food is bountiful. The sun bubbles out of the sea every morning and bubbles under it every night. Romance is everywhere as the sea kisses the sand throughout the day and night.

"Well," I finally thought, "this is my temperament zone! Besides ... clothes confine. Darkness can dominate. Mountains are murderous. The country is confining. Cities confuse."

Tightening my grip around her waist we strolled under the Mango Trees.

After Jesus rose himself from the dead, the first thing he did was go to the beach to hang out with his friends. They grilled fish ... probably checked out girls wearing bikinis ... went surfing.

"If it's good enough for Jesus," I finally said, "it's good enough for me."

God I love islands.

Winston, the little gay dog, is a criminal.

Winston, the little gay dog, suddenly has aggression issues. He'll be tenderly laying there with his paws limped over beside Sarah, seemingly sound asleep, when he starts growling and then menacingly barking at Goddess.

I think the little fellow is showing signs of stress because of his impending court date. He's got a lawyer, there have been no additional complaints, and the Tybee Island Police Department actually seem to be fighting crime (when they're not  eating at the Breakfast Club or Sundae Cafe where they don't have pay full price).

The neighbor across the street who normally gardens in her underwear, which caused the dogs to bark violently, has taken to wearing sweatpants while gardening in the rain.

The other neighbor who complained, the one who rarely comes outside, hasn't been seen in days. (There is suspicion she runs a Meth Lab on the island but the Tybee Island Police Department have too busy to investigate because of Marlin Monroe's annual Christmas Oyster Roast Police payoff dinners they've been attending over the past few weeks.)

Still, Winston, the little gay dog, is traumatized by the entire episode.

On the other hand, Goddess doesn't seem to care, laying there with empty pipe bowls clutched in her yellow tip stained paws.

Sarah is sick about the entire thing and now refuses to get out of bed.

The other day, I couldn't take Winston, the little gay dog's, growling any more so I slapped him.

"Act like a man," I said.

"Meow," he replied.

Goddess stumbled outside shaking her head, apparently retrieving her stash.

"Don't hit him," Sarah whimpered from her bed ... so I put his new Christmas sweater on him ... it says "I shit rainbows" ... and put him outside with Goddess in hopes that she would mellow him out a little.

I don't know what else to do. Crime is big on Tybee and the Tybee Island Police Department is convinced that Winston, the little gay dog, and Goddess are the root of it all.

"Please", said our friend Jen the other night. "The Tybee Island Police Department came to my house, banged on my door and informed me they were giving me a citation because of my barking dog."

We stared at her in disbelief that another family was experiencing the profiling we are.

"You mean the one that died of a heart attack in my lap three months ago," she asked?

"Yes," the Tybee Island Police Department answered as they handed her the citation.

One thing I'll say about living on Tybee Island ... somebody is always on top of things.

Miracles of Grace

"Long years have taught me that most of us will experience more than one type of calling," says E. Glenn Hinson, my former and still beloved Seminary professor in his excellent autobiography "A MIRACLE OF GRACE."

Were I still in his class, I'd be sitting there nodding my head while raising my hand to ask, "Dr. Hinson why did God have to change mine with so many severe cases of whiplash?"

The powerful little man, strong at so many broken places, would flash that smirk he has when he's devilish, and likely say something like, "Mike it's because you always seem to be going in the wrong direction. God is merely trying to keep you on track."

Then he would move on with the lecture but let his eyes catch mine to let me know he enjoyed the question.

I took a lot of classes under Glenn, most dealing in the spiritual side of faith, the contemplative side, the place where prayer is the language and God is experienced. His ear always cocked to one side so he could hear, his jagged way of speaking, left me in wonder of the eminent power of a broken little man with the humblest of beginnings could so move me? 

He led me to the great classics of seekers after mature faiths and he laughed when I wrote a paper claiming that Bruce Springsteen was one.

Reading of his life now, I find myself connecting with him again in so many different ways and he again makes me think. I've been called in and out of too many marriages (never a good thing for a minister), work as a Professional Christian, then decades spent with the sick and the poor, as an author, into a very public life, all leaving me ... standing on the beach as a seeker.

Great teachers never stop and their lessons remain in your heart, not so deeply buried. In spite of my jagged little journey, the things I learned from Glenn have served me well.

His life really has been A MIRACLE OF GRACE. Years ago I wrote a book, PARTNERS IN GRACE, and all these years later ... long after its publication and much longer since Seminary ... this miracle of a man still touches me so deeply reminding me that whiplash is merely one of God's many mysterious ways of working in my life, as a partner.

Dancing Ghosts

"The game of life is hard to play, I'm going to lose it anyway. The losing card I'll someday lay; that is all I have to say."

Ghosts danced under the Christmas Tree. Laying there in a fidgety night, eyes opened as much as closed, I watch them parade through the dark spaces under the bright lights. Some I can call by name while others are unresolved feelings and emotions. My body achs for sleep but my mind remains focused so I dose to dream of past things that were never real and wake to ponder a future that isn't completely certain.

"Mike's watching an elderly show," Cassidy explained to her father on the phone earlier in the evening.

I suppose it's true that M*A*S*H is now that but to this day when I'm flipping channels and come across Hawkeye, B.J. Hot Lips, Radar, Col. Potter and the others, I stop and watch. Episodes I've seen a hundred times still speak to me. I continue to deeply care about each character though their lives have been been canceled.

And I love the song. "The sword of time will pierce our skins, it doesn't hurt when it begins, but as it works its way on in, the pain grows stronger watch it grin ..."

It's funny because the show is about surviving and doing your best to help others live in the darkest of places. The song with the haunting melody focuses on the hopelessness of survival. No matter how much you live, one day you're going to die.

Over Christmas I found myself drawn to the Gospel of Mark, my favorite, and one of the two that doesn't mention the birth of Jesus. Mark jumps right to the important stuff. John the Baptist dips Jesus in the river and the shit starts hitting the fan. Things rock-and-roll quickly and Jesus is crucified.

The following Sabbath his mother, girlfriend and another friend go to pay their respects to the dead Savior. When they arrive, the stone is rolled away and the tomb is empty. And that's where the story ends in the original version.

"The only way to win is cheat and lay it down before I'm beat ..." which seems to be the point of Mark. Jesus refused to take it laying down and there was an empty tomb. Mark never explains what happened next, just that there was no body as sunshine poured into the cave.

Tired of watching the ghosts dance, I look again at the lights of the tree before sleeping in heavenly peace.

Missing Boxing day

For years I would cook a large southern breakfast for a family of Canadians in St. Martin. After waking up, likely hung over from Christmas, I'd sleepily stumble to the pristine acqua-blue water of Orient Bay and fall face forward to wake up. Then I'd make my way to the Villa where I was to cook.

They were all still asleep as I made myself at home in the kitchen. Sausage gravy and biscuits, eggs and cheese grits were simply "Delics" as they put it! Once I had to make my own sausage which is a pain but I pulled it off (Thank you Jodee Sadowsky for all of those years watching you make it!).

Then we'd fix "Boat Drinks" and return to the beach.

I learned about Boxing Day from my Canadian friends. Those who had to work on Christmas, mostly servants, were given the next day off. Employers gave them boxes of left over food or perhaps a present for another year of service.

Over the years I prepared breakfast on Boxing Day in St. Martin, it was sometimes a lavish affair ... once there were almost twenty of us and Conner tried to play ping-pong ... and the last time, three years ago, it was just me and my Canadian friends. The day reeked of sadness and alcohol. My wife refused to go, remaining in bed, knowing that Christmas was over and she'd had begun the leaving process which would later stun me.

But I remember that day. I happily cooked for a family who dearly love one another. Over the years they were very gracious to me. I visited them in Canada and they came to Tybee Island. I wonder what they're doing today. We had many long dinners together. We danced often. I miss them. And I miss St. Martin.

But Christmas and Boxing Day have become entwined for me. The joyous celebration of the first slides into a subdued leftover. Joy hangs over though the reason has passed. I raise my glass to my Canadian friends ... to left-overs and left-behinds and the left-out.

The Christmas Tree is brightly lit though Christmas has passed. Were it up to me I'd leave it up until it's brown and needles litter the floor in an attempt to squeeze every single bit of Christmas out of it and stretch it throughout the year.

Happy Boxing Day.

And thank you Koster family.

A Beach Bum Christmas

A grey fog hangs in the air shading Fran's thousand shades of green on a warm Christmas morning. There is no ocean breeze so the leaves hang as though still sleeping. My bare feet dangle from the high top chair on the beloved back deck tenderly rubbing Goddess' hair. The Hibiscus blooms are closed but still look like ornaments on a tree.

I contemplate building a fire but there is no chill.

Squirrels dart along the wires hanging overhead. A woodpecker is drilling wood. The ocean sings in the distance. The pungent aroma of the marsh smells like sex in the tropics.

I've gotten what I wanted for Christmas. I'm a beach bum. For years this has been my aspiration but I could never quite figure out how to finance it so I worked and the work always came first. I was a beach bum in my spare time.

No more.

It's the other way around now. I am a full time beach bum who works hard when I'm working but takes time every day appreciate the things going on around me.

I celebrate my friends who either sustained me or keep raising themselves from the dead bring tidings of comfort and joy. A Carnival keeps breaking out for no apparent reason scattering smiles and laughter.

Sarah is sleeping as quiet as a mouse.

So it's just Goddess and me for the moment.

It makes me think back for a moment. I've gotten everything I've asked for this Christmas. Sure there are other things I need but I've got the things I want. Healthy and happy children. The wife I love is sleeping peacefully. I love where I live and the people who live near me. I'm doing the things I really want to do.

I'm having myself a merry little Christmas.

Well ... at least until the girls get home in a few hours then all holy hell will break loose.

Happy Christmas all.