The Not-so-faithful community

"When I die, I want you to do my funeral," he said.

"I'd prefer you hang around," I replied.

So far ... he's the only one who has.

I run the beach every morning, bandana on my head, I-Pod in my ears, keeping an eye on the ocean. Between songs I hear the crunching of the tiny shells under my feet. The ocean is flat and quiet with waves barely breaking as they kiss the shore. The sand dunes are high layered with green and gold sea oats. The sky is brilliantly blue. Paddle boarders look like a crippled Jesus walking on the water.

As I made my way, I'd see them all.

Otto, wearing white shorts, white tee shirt, white wrist bands and white shoes was tall and skinny. He carried dumb bells and when he saw me would wave one high in the air and shake it at me. His broad grin shooting warmth and happiness my way,

Beside him was his wife Carol limped because of a bad hip, also smiled and waved. It was always funny because Otto was running and she was walking but they were always side-by-side.

Artie, my neighbor, runs towards me and stops to talk in the middle of our run. I jog in place but he stops and we discuss college football or whatever the island gossip happens to be. We only chat a minute because we'll see each other again when I take Goddess for my cool down walk. He give her dog treats and we'll take our time talking as good friends do.

Mr. Moody was a retired college professor and is Muslim. He walks rather than runs and dresses like an Indian. He smiles broadly as I pass and asks if I've seen Artie. I point behind me and continue my way down the beach.

Alan would pretend to be fishing though he was really checking out the girls in bikinis strolling in the surf. In all of those years I never saw him catch a fish.

Every morning, for a few moments anyway, we were a family, checking on each other and growing concerned if someone was missing for more than a day or so.

Once Artie got us all together at his house for oysters and beer. Everyone came and for one hot summer evening we laughed and learned about each other. Otto was an Episcopal Priest. Moody's wife was a college professor too. Alan was retied and told fish stories keeping me in stiches. Artie is an Auburn wife and his wife Wanda is a substitute teacher.

All those years ago when Artie asked me to perform his funeral ... "Actually, I just want you to say a few words to whoever shows up for the one hour open bar I'm going to have. My picture will be on the bar. Say something nice about me and then drink up!" ... neither of us knew that we'd be the only ones left.

Moody died first and then Carol did too. Otto moved away. Alan disappeared.

Now it's just Artie and me though Sarah runs too and is making herself a part of the community of the not-so-faithful. Joe Nettles is out there most mornings. Tourists come and go, joining us for a few days before making their way home again.

Making my way this morning, I found myself thinking about them all.

The dunes are higher now. Sub-Tropical vegetation grows between the dunes. The beach is broader and wider than it's been in years. Tiny crosswalks have been replaced by long ones. Everything else is the same ... the grey white sand, the green grey water, the brilliant blue skies, tanker ships and shrimp boats, seagulls and dolphins.

"Hey God!" I say out loud.

"Bless them all! Thank you for them. Thank you for Sarah. Thank you for all of this."

In the distance I can make out Artie running towards me as a dolphin jumps out of the water letting me know that God heard everything I said.

This Incredible Gift

I've long believed that more significant conversations about God occur in bars than in churches. Last night in Doc's Bar we had one as the guitar player sang at the other end of the room but we were oblivious to his songs. Sitting at a high top table sipping drinks we learned forward as we talked with an intensity uncommon here.

The 8 year old son of a close friend has been diagnosed with Muscular Dystrophy.

"Why would God do that?" was the first question.

'There can't be a God when shit like this happens," was his frustrated and angry conclusion.

What does one say?

My mind raced back to college and Fran Janachec who had beautiful long black hair, olive skin, large brown eyes the size of moons and Muscular Dystrophy.

She carried her tiny lithe body on a bicycle built for two because she couldn't possibly peddle one by herself. If someone brushed her in the hall way she would topple over spilling her books and papers over the floor with grace and beauty as tears welled in her eyes.

I'd find her sitting there, students rushing by and bend over to pick her up, furious no one was helping her. Throwing her arm around my shoulder she would laugh and kiss my check and say, "Why yes. I'd love to dance."

I'd often find her lost in thought, staring at trees as though they held the secret to the universe.

"What'cha doing Fran?" I asked when I found her this way once.

She had this way of moving in slow motion as though she was dragging herself back from one world to another.

"Have  you ever noticed how many shades of green there are?" she finally said in response.

Looking at the cluster of trees I saw them as she did, an incredible array of colors all brilliantly different from each other. In that instant Fran taught me green.

We got shit faced drunk together once because she wanted to do it before she died and nobody would join her because they were afraid of hurting her, or were too Christian or they simply didn't care. We put on a Doobie Brothers album in her dorm room and popped the first beer. By the time the second side was done we were laughing uncontrollably at everything.

The last thing she wanted was to make love before she died. She finally did with this boy she kind of liked and told me all about it one afternoon in Landrum Hall.

"It was wonderful," she said in her beatific, slow motion, dream way.

"You crack me up," was my response.

And then she was gone.

The next semester, she didn't return and when I called her she told me it was for the best though she loved every single second of college, and the hours we'd spent together and the times I'd danced her to class when she fell to floor.

Then she died.

She'd was one of the most incredible gift of life I'd ever experienced and to this day she can make me cry.

Fran was again raised from the dead last night in Doc's in my heart and in my head. And it was her words that came out of my mouth as I replied to his questions.

"Life is this gift. We don't know how long we have it or how many we get to share it with so enjoy the hell out it. It doesn't last forever but God! ... what a thing it is ... when it's ours."

Rainbow Promises

Somewhere over the rainbow way up high there's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby ...

God promised Noah that he would never again engage in terrorist activities like wiping out all of humanity. In Genesis 9 God must be forgetful because he tells Noah, "Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures."

It's a funny beginning for such a beautiful thing.

God needed a reminder to not drown us all in a flood.

It also makes me wonder about tsunamis. A flood is starting and then the rainbow appears reminding God to not do it so its confined to one geographic area?

These things ran through my mind as I raced home through the marshes yesterday and was witness to one of the most spectacular rainbows I've ever seen.

Cars stopped in the middle of the Bull River Bridge to gawk and take pictures. Though I was in a hurry, I didn't mind. It was a stunning sight, stretching from the waters of the Intercostal Waterway on one side and seemingly ending on top of my house on Tybee Island.

I was rushed because the first ever Tybee Gay Days were taking place and I was picking up Sarah to meet the Carnival of Friends at a "White Party," fundraisers for AIDS research.  Everyone wears white because it "stands for purity. White is elegant, non-political, noon-combative and people just look plain beautiful."

Of course on Tybee this reasoning was butchered.

"If it's whites only," Johnny O explained, "I'm not going. That's racist."

"I look terrible in white," Cheryl said.

"I only have white shorts and I'm not wearing them," my son Jeremy confessed.

Nevertheless we were all going and I was driving back from Savannah when the rainbow appeared in

the sky stopping everyone driving to or from Tybee dead in their tracks.

Of course the rainbow flag is the symbol for Gay Pride and I was speeding back to Tybee Gay Days and God decides this is an excellent time to place a rainbow in the sky so stunningly spectacular that people are stopping to take notice.

Long ago it was a reminder that people will survive, regardless of how high the water rises. I couldn't help but believe that God was using it again as a promise that people, regardless of their sexuality, are finally free and their celebration can begin.

And last night that's precisely what we did.

A Day to Celebrate

Trees are dancing violently in the harsh winds blowing onshore. The tides are higher than normal swallowing sand into the sea. The beach is not as broad as it was yesterday. The ocean is a constant series of waves, more white than grey, perpetual motion calling a lone kite surfer to twist and turn wildly in the sky before crashing back into the sea.

It is not cold but I wear a long sleeve anyway as I run. Kermit the Frog is singing me The Rainbow Connection through my I-pod and I'm pretty content. I mean it's Kermit the Frog for God's sake. I love Kermit!

It's "Gay days" on Tybee though the weather is nothing to be happy about.

Normally it's beautiful and "beachy" this time of year but from the inside looking out it's like a Hurricane. Being outside, it looks like one but doesn't feel like it so I lumber along enjoying it all anyway.

What's not to enjoy?

Sarah's in bed and when I get home I'll snuggle her awake.

Jeremy's here and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie will arrive later today. Tonight we're heading up to the "White Party", a celebration of acceptance. I like celebrations and this one should be fun.

For some reason there is a "Beach Sweep" today and volunteers are combing the beach looking for trash to pick up. Even if there were any, there's no way they could put it in the large black trash bags billowing in the wind over their heads. They'd have to throw the trash up hoping it flies into the bag.

They don't have to worry about it though. God's already swept the beach with all of this wind.

I'm also doing a wedding today so between Sarah, Jeremy and Marie, "Gay Days", Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, Johnny O being the Big Kahuna for the Beach Bum parade, Cheryl's birthday and tonight's "White Party" it's just a day jam full of celebration.

The lovers, the dreamers and me.

My Robe and me

It was an uncommonly hot day in Louisville and even the large cavernous Cathedral I was sitting in was stagnant with heat. Fans blew from on high but the cool air quickly evaporated before it reached the worshippers. Mostly little old ladies, sleeping homeless men and a few fervent young business types, they genuflected, sleepily saying the words of the Liturgy. Sweat dripped from the nose of the old lady praying on the front row.

It was Wednesday's Noon Day Mass and, as the Southern Baptist Minister in the inner city neighborhood, I was of course present to deliver the readings before the homily. Then the old Priest would arise in his black robe, say a few words, launch into the Mass and end by placing the body of Christ in the hands or the tongues of the believers.

Afterwards, the old Priest and I would go to lunch.

Strolling into the sacristy, Father Vernon Robertson took off his vestments and underneath he wore a red Polo cotton pull over, plaid  Bermuda shorts and black shoes.

And the word of the Lord descended upon me as though God slapped me on the side of the head.

And I said the words out loud, "I Gotta Get Me One Of Those!"

Baptist Ministers, especially of the Southern variety, wear suits.

Suits suck!

I swear to God in Seminary there was a professor who lectured on the importance of keeping your socks pulled up while you're sitting in front of your congregation. (Back me up Michael Ruffin)!

As soon as lunch was over I went back to the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was employed as the "Professional Christian" and tore into the choir room. We didn't have a choir but we had a room. In the closet were twenty black robes hanging there just in case we ever did.

I stole one.

For the last thirty years it has served me well. I conducted weddings, funerals, baptized babies, presided over civil unions and illegal gay marriages WAY BEFORE they were popular.

Underneath my robe, I wore whatever I wanted. Sometimes this meant nothing at all.

My beautiful daughter Chelsea is getting married soon and I'm blessed to perform the ceremony. Knowing how much I love my robe, she came to see us the other day and let Sarah know there was a dress code and I was to adhere to it. Damn the robe!


To make things more complicated, my former roommate Rocky Moore stole the robe that I'd stolen from the Church and made the mistake of washing it. After thirty years of tremendous usage it was paper thin from the salt air, ocean water and pee stains that she spent the better part of the afternoon picking it out of the washer piece by holy piece.

Feeling naked without it, Sarah jumped on the Internet and did a search for "Used Black clerical robe, Out of Business Ministers and People who have been kicked out of Church choirs."

BINGO!

A person kicked out of a Church choir sold us a robe that had only been worn once for $19.

I am back in business!

I'm using it tomorrow for the wedding of a daughter of a friend of a friend.

Just me and my robe.

Ministers should never do weddings of daughters of friends of a friend.

A Hula Girl At Heart

My wife is a Hula Girl at heart.

It's really starting to come out now.

In spite of her course northern vernacular, tough public façade and utter lack of ability to use a Hula Hoop, she's got the spirit and a little more comes out every day.

She's got a great tan and let me tell you she looks damn good when she just wears it!

Tan lines are just a distant unpleasant memory. She no longer has to worry about wearing clothes to cover the white parts and she doesn't have a cotton tail any more.

Her tee shirt collection has grown in direct proportion to her life on this island. She prefers V-necks that cling to her curves often rendering me completely speechless.

The bicycle has emerged as her preferred method of transportation and though hers hasn't gotten drunk yet, it's just a matter of time. Whitley Reynolds' bicycle lives right across the marsh and his bike is just circling hers like a shark waiting for the right moment.

Sarah is a full fledged participating member of the Carnival Of Friends and has proven her worth by conducting bathroom supervision when Rocky Moore has to go, drinking Jodee's special concoctions, assisting in a hostile take over of Dedra's bed when she was away and photographing Judy O'Neill prepare her own special hot dog. Hell! She and Cheryl plan most Carnival activities.

She's led worship in Bar Church, played with the Boys in the Band at Bernie's, been hugged by Roma and Esther Guy loves her. She waded in the water for Trolley Joe's funeral,  sleeps through the Turtle Trot and is hit on by women who visit Doc's Bar.

She brought Winston, the little gay dog, into our home who has become an icon on the island and within one year of his arrival has arranged the first annual Gay Days on Tybee which will take place this weekend. Of course we're all going, he loves Sarah more than anything.

She avoids politics, institutional religion and has developed a severe case of Tybee-itis which is dreaded fear of crossing the Lazaretto Bridge. She prefers being on-island.

She now likes to vacation on other islands, likes cruise ships, is a pretty good roulette player and wants to live next door to Joey Finch in Key West. Conner and Hania love her so she's part of the family. Carlos and Verna do too. And Franklin, who is brown, lusts after her in a way that borders on obsession.

Her birthday is next week and it's also Mother's Day but I'm not worried.

I know exactly what I'm getting her.

A grass skirt!

It's time for you to jump over your fears

I have a friend who surfs.

The thing is, he can't swim.

Another was getting by another year in the 27th unhappy year of her marriage when one day she got in the car and drove to Tybee Island because a friend had made the offer, "You can stay here anytime."

And she spent a year reevaluating herself, her marriage and how she wants to live the rest of her life.

Now she's back home but living on her own terms and even if it doesn't work out right, at least she gave herself the most enjoyable year she's lived so far.

A mother of three small children in upstate New York picked up the phone and called a man she hadn't seen in a decade because he'd once said that she could always come back. So she did. After relocating to the South she's built a new life and the two are very happily married.

Most are scared to do such things. Why in the world would someone who can't swim surf? How does a wife take a year off from her marriage? What possibly motivates a mother of three young children to believe she can successfully have a different life?

After all, we're not supposed to do these kinds of things. They're not acceptable. They are risky. They throw caution to the wind and are outrageous acts of irresponsibility.

The ramifications of taking such steps can be drastic. Parents scold children, Ministers pronounce sins, friends take sides, society pushes you to the outside. You're a black sheep, rebel, outcast or the crazy one in the family. People tell you you're going to hell.

A lot of us want the most out of life. Unfortunately we're too frightened to take the first step, feeling trapped by the choices we've made, the relationships we're in or the jobs we have.

So we never do anything.

I wanted to bungee jump.

Climbing to the top of a massive tower I was strapped in to the cord that would prevent me from crashing onto the ground far below.

"OK," the kid said. "Go for it."

Peering over the edge, the ground was some eighty feet below. The cord was some sixty feet long.

My mouth went dry. A ball of fear suddenly churned in my stomach. My knees shook.

Turning, I looked at a bunch of young girls standing behind me. They were waiting to go next.

"Come on Old Man!" they laughed. "Do it!"

I'm still uncertain what it was. I knew that I wanted to jump believing it would add to my life's experiences. I disliked the girls calling me old and indicating that the foolishness of youth had passed me by. I distained fear taking over my life even for a moment.

So ... like a surfer who can't swim ... an unhappy wife stuck in unhappiness... and a mother of three who wants so much more ... I jumped.

In each case, it's scary as hell and as exhilarating as heaven!

We're all happier and more fulfilled people than we ever could have been without jumping.

Today I'm thinking of all of the people who want to jump from the lives they are living into the one they want so much. But they're scared, feeling stuck and choosing to allow unhappiness and unfulfilled lives to continue.

I want to tell them.

"It's alright. JUMP!"

Jesus's Boat ride

Mark 5:1-10

Micheal Elliott Revised Version

1. They came to the other side of the sea to the land of the Gerasenes for bar-b-que because Israel forbade barb-que joints but the Gerasenes did not.

2. As soon as Jesus hopped out of the boat he ran smack dab into a man who lived in a graveyard and the dude was dirty.

3. The man was wearing broken handcuffs and a chain

4. The Sherriff had arrested the man a lot because he kept breaking public nuisance laws and the public hates nuisances of any kind! The man didn't wear clothes and scared kids and old ladies. He also smelled and hadn't taken a bath in a long time.

5. If that wasn't bad enough, all damn night and all damn day, the dude would just scream bloody murder in the graveyard which really pissed the preachers off when they were doing funerals. As part of the public, they called the Sheriff.

6. When he saw Jesus the dude fell down.

7. And he screamed, "WHAT DO WANT JESUS? DON'T FUCK WITH ME!"

8. At the same time Jesus was saying to the dude, "You got too much going on man. We gotta lighten your load."

9. And Jesus stuck out his hand and said, "My name's Jesus. What's yours?" And the dude said, "Hi Jesus. I'm Lee, which is short for Legion which is a terrible name and I got lots of issues in no small part because my Mama named me that."

10. Then he said, "I don't want to be deported" for he was an illegal immigrant.

11. Now there was a huge pig farm next to the graveyard to supply the bar-b-que joints with plenty of pork because all of the people of Israel would desire bar-b-que sandwiches at the moment the Rabbi said, "Thou Shalt Not Eat Bar-b-gue sandwiches or ribs" and as soon as Temple was over they got in their boats and crossed the sea because there is nothing better than a good bar-b-que sandwich.

12. And Jesus got the idea to put all of Lee's issues in the pigs because it pissed Jesus off that the very wealthy pig farmers didn't give a rat's ass about a naked, messed up illegal immigrant living in the graveyard next door.

13. Verily, Jesus said, "Sooie!" and simultaneously Lee stood up straight and all the pigs stampeded into the sea and drowned putting the pig farm out of business.

14. Horrified, the pig farmers ran to town to get a lynch mob together because bar-b-que sandwiches just got a hell of a lot more expensive.

15. When the pig farmers showed back up with the Sherriff and a crowd, Jesus was sitting there talking to Lee who was looking good all washed up, wearing a white Latitudes 32 Full Moon Party tee shirt, Hook & Tackle shorts and flip flops which scared the shit out of the pig farmers, the Sherriff and the mob who all wore pleated Kaki!

16. Witnesses who had seen the whole thing described what had happened for the News which had a mobile truck on site. The witnesses all lived in a nearby trailer park and were wearing stained whife-beater tee shirts and flowery Moo-Moos.

17. The witnesses, reporters, pig farmers, Sherriff and mob immediately began the process to deport Jesus.

18. Verily Jesus said, "No problem Mon," and started climbing back in the boat when Lee said he wanted to go.

19. And Jesus said, "Naw, go home. They're going to deport you anyway. Tell your people want happened." Then Jesus looked at the whole crazy scene and said, "Lord have mercy" as they sailed out of sight.

20. And Lee told everyone he met that Jesus is one cool dude.

A Career Interlude

It's a muted Monday... not a manic one.

A blanket of clouds holds the warmth of the day and last night's rains washed away the sins of the past. The ocean is calm but there is a restlessness beneath the waters that swell and roll yet never break the surface.

But it is there and I can feel it.

I'm running on the sand as the sun sticks its head out of the blanket of clouds throwing diamonds on the water. The rolling restlessness is accentuated by the glare of the day.

Reaching down I grab a belly full of fat and it is soft in my hand. A few weeks ago it was hard and I wasn't able to do it. I am literally changing. I'd stopped running and it ended up not being a good thing so I'm back at it and all of the positive things are returning. My legs are strong again, the breathing is regular, the sweat is good and the contemplation is healthy. I'm feeling and looking like myself again.

It's as if I'm training for something.

In the movie "The Exorcist" an overweight detective finds a Priest running around a track and stops him.

"Have --- have we met?" asked the Jesuit.

"No Father. No but they said you look like a boxer ..."

That scene has stuck with me through the years.

A Priest is in training for things that Seminary could never prepare him for. Deep inside he knows to train for something, though God only knows what and God's not sharing. So in spite of the comforts of his religion and the safety of his church he has a rolling restlessness inside. There is more to come in his life though he has no idea what, so he prepares himself as best he can.

Laying in bed last night, I listened to the rain fall. The windows were open and I could see the silhouettes of Palm Trees dancing in the wind. It had been a wonderful day, full of love and celebration but I lay in the darkness tossing and turning thinking about work. Professionally I am restless. There is so much more for me to give.

My career is in-between things. After an incredibly successful and endeavors in most everything so far ... I've dabbled in consulting and spent a wonderful year with the International Street Medicine Institute helping build a foundation for it. I've been writing and reconnecting with my spirituality.

Personally, Sarah and I are making a home and weaving new things out of old which has been wonderful. We celebrate daily and look forward to everything we're doing and going to do. The Carnival of Friends are terrific and island life remains holy and happy. The personal side of life is the best its ever been!

Professionally though it feels like an interlude. ACT I of my career was a blast though it's now plainly over. I've been waiting in the wings for ACT II to get started. I am ready! Sarah's ready! Our partners are ready!  Lot's of people are anticipating what's coming!

So I prepare myself as best I can, rolling with the restlessness that's just below the surface of creativity and the joys that come from making the world a better place.

Soon, unexpectedly and before I'm totally ready, it will break free and we're going to surf the wild and wonderful ride of the career ahead of us.

Winston, the little gay dog's, plans

"Who's Winston?" the Dude asked.

"THE LITTLE GAY DOG!" exclaimed the seven people sitting on the porch with him.

It is true that Winston, the little gay dog, has cultivated a following.

Chris from Yates Astro was spraying the house for bugs when he stopped what he was doing, his eyes growing wide and he asked, "Is that Winston, the little gay dog?"

Winston was watching him wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and a black sweater vest with words in white. "Homoland Security! Protecting America from Heterosexuals!"

"Yep," I answer. "That's the little Diva."

Chris went nuts and asked if he could take pictures.

"I guess," I said as he whipped out his phone and snapped several shots.

Shrugging my shoulders, I looked at Goddess who has obtained a prescription to treat Glaucoma with marijuana from the Veterinary Clinic. She's surfing the Web and spends a lot of time at ourweed.com. She's also spending more time in the yard and has learned how to turn on the water hose.

I need to investigate but Winston, the little gay dog, has been working on his autobiography and he's absolutely convinced it will become a major motion picture.

He hasn't let me read it but Sarah says it's pretty good.

He spends more time with her than me and I think she's helping him polish the manuscript before deciding who he wants to use as a publisher. He talks about her being his agent.

I gotta go.

UPS is at the door with a package for Goddess.

Off Island

I'm back on island.

Thank God.

The sun is shinning, the ocean is blowing kisses this way, the flowers on the beloved back deck are blooming and it's all alright by me.

I see no reason to leave.

Besides I'm still recovering from last night when we had to go off island. Going off island just sucks but sometimes you just have to do it so we did.

Now my friend Julia Just Julia once spent the better part of a year never leaving the island. She ordered everything she needed online. Groceries were delivered to her front door by UPS. Household items were easily ordered. She even had cases of toilet paper brought to her. I really admire her commitment to island living.

When we got back we recovered from the experience by stopping at Marlin Monroe's and immediately ran into Michael Moody who plays really good music there at the Sunday Oyster Roast. He explained he was celebrating his birthday, his anniversary and most everything else he could think of celebrating by staying in his condo.

What makes this interesting is that Michael's house is three blocks away from his condo. He was taking a vacation within easy walking distance from where he lives!

Now I live on an island and my vacation destinations all tend to be islands but Michael has taken his love of this particular island to a whole new level!

Doc's Bar was celebrating it's 65 birthday so we made our way to the combat zone to help. Besides the very excellent "Eight Mile Bend" was playing and my cousin Chad Carver is the lead singer. We had a blast meeting new friends who had all rushed to the island to celebrate Tybee's oldest bar!

The island takes its bars very seriously! When word got out that the old Desoto Hotel and Bar was going to be torn down several hundred people held a candlelight prayer vigil in front of City. Apparently God wasn't that big a fan of the Desoto and it was razed anyway.

Besides, the Carnival of Friends has called an emergency meeting later today. We need to rest up for that. Then the sun is going to set and that's always a big deal on an island. We've got to do that.

Then it will be dark and island is dark is different from other dark. Strange and unexpected things happen so you have to always be prepared for the irreparable.

So I'm just going to sit here for a while.

Well, at least until I need to replace this beer.

It's not an underwear kind of day

I'm late doing this today because of underwear.

It's not politically correct to say this or morally acceptable but it is best to be honest.

After a marvelous night out with my son Jeremy in Athens, Georgia listening to the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, I had to drive home this morning.

Before I could do that I had to get dressed.

Getting dressed necessitates underwear sometimes.

Today was one of those days.

It sucks.

Typically if I have to wear clothes it's running shorts.

It's all you really need.

I prefer formal black running shorts but I understand some people like to  make fashion statements.

I don't have any problems it.

"Power to the people" is what I say.

On the other hand, Politicians and Southern Baptist like boxer shorts with strips or "Tidy Whities".

That's why they're so uptight.

The point is ... THANK GOD THAT'S OVER!

Jeremy and I had a blast and will do it again soon.

But putting on underwear in case you're pulled over by the cops or are in a wreck is just rotten!

I hope whatever you had to do today that was unpleasant is over and you've lost the laundry.

If you haven't ... well God bless.

I'm just going to be here blowing in the wind.

Effective Prayer

Ira would kneel on the floor every night, his elbows resting on the mattress of his bed, bony hands clasped together and his head bowed. His eyes were closed and he spoke out loud.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” he would begin and … he’d spend a good half hour thanking God for most everything, even the things that were not that great. Then he’d start naming names. One after another he called on the Lord to be present in their lives because of sickness or infirmities, temptations or travels, blessings or curses.

“Forgive it all,” he would loudly say wrapping it up.

Finishing, he would thank God for listening and for sending Jesus before saying Amen. Then he’d crawl into bed and go to sleep.

Edith waited until she was in bed. She’d lay there staring in the blackness of the night and speak softly as though she were telling secrets. She mostly named names too though she didn’t ask for much until something really bad was going on; rather she would just focus on people’s faces and love them and ask God to love them too. That’s how she would fall asleep.

My grandparents worshiped God.

I worshiped my Grandparents.

Staying with them as often as I stayed at home, every night I was witness to their prayers. They prayed without ceasing, grounded in love and they simply believed with everything in them that God would take care of everything.

This morning I opened a Facebook message from a friend asking me to pray for him. Without ceasing, I wrote back “Absolutely.”

Last week I got a text from someone I’ve never met asking me to say prayers for her. Dire things were going on and she understands that I am a person of faith and while God may not listen to her, well … God might listen to me.

“If you’re looking for some safety-in-numbers support, I’m with you,” I replied.

A grandfather comes to see me to explain that his granddaughter is having surgery and his voice cracks while his eyes grow moist.

“You are a person of God,” he says almost as if he’s begging, “please pray for her.”

What do you do?

The fact is I pray like my Grandmother Carver did. I conjure up visions of the people, regardless if I know them or not, and try to send feelings of love and support. I figure throwing in good Karma can’t hurt so I do that too. I think about God and try to nudge an intervention or two.

And I leave it at that.

I understand my limitations.

Homeless people used to have me in court to testify on their behalf and I’d sit there waiting for the Judge to ask me if I knew them and what I thought of the situation.

“I like him,” I answer under oath. “He tries hard. He’s screwed up a lot but I think he’s really working on it.”

The Judge would eye me over and there was always a long pregnant pause.

Some considered my words and gave the poor guy another chance. Others threw the book at the book at ‘em having the bailiffs haul his ass to jail in handcuffs.

Either way I did my best for them.

I still do though I’m incorporating more of Granddaddy in my prayers speaking out loud.

“Hey God, that’s just wrong!” I’ll say. “Nobody deserves that. She’s doing her best! Give him a break!”

 I’ll grow quiet for a second before concluding, “Amen.”

Reviewing my reviews and then moving on

My favorite review of one of my books was in The Western Recorder of all places! The state newspaper for Kentucky Baptists did a review of "Playing Hide and Seek with God" long after I'd ceased being a"Professional Christian" indebted to them for a paycheck.

The review went something like this. "I read the first couple of chapters of this book and got so mad I flung it across the room and stormed outside! After I cooled down I went and picked it back up and finished it. This is not pleasant to read but it's a book we must read."

How cool is that?

You can see why its my favorite.

I've got a notebook somewhere of all of my book reviews though I could probably find them all online if I wanted. It's not something I think about though they were fun when the books were published. Other than The Western Recorder, I really don't remember them.

My first book "The Society of Salty Saints" got the most and some woman gave a speech at a missions conference holding it up saying, "we need more Christians like this!" I'd already left the church when she said but I've always wondered if she was going to leave it too.

"Running with the Dolphins" got the next most though I got a lot of mail with that book. Some of it was hate mail! Chris Rice wrote a letter saying what a lousy person I am and 22 other people to signed it with her. I kept the letter and have it stuck in the notebook with the reviews.

Then after eight books in ten years, I stopped writing them.

Until yesterday.

Nine years after my last book was published my wife Sarah said, "I want you to write a book" and she went on to tell me what it should be about. She could have written it herself but for some reason she wanted me to do it. She may have been doing the laundry. I don't know.

That was six months ago.

It took me a long time to figure out how to get started which is the hardest part of writing a book. Then it hit me like a bolt of lightening and yesterday I finished the draft and handed it to her.

I was standing nearby when she finished reading it and said "OH MY GOD" and laughing at the same time.

I took this as a good sign.

Unlike book reviews I care most about what she thinks it ... especially when it was her idea in the first place.

Now its like getting pregnant. I have to wait around until it actually becomes a book. Then I'll look forward to reading the reviews which I will promptly forget.

Well, unless it's in The Western Recorder.

Forgiving myself

I heading down to the Oceanside to wash my sins away!

Actually I feel alright about my sins.

I made them.

In most cases I asked forgiveness to whoever I screwed and then forgave myself.

"Whatever gets you through the night, it's alright" the major prophet John Lennon taught us and I believe that.

I think we all do the best we can and most of the time we do good.

Sometimes we don't and miss the target, which is what the word sin means in Hebrew. We tried to do good but we didn't. Dammit! I hate it when that happens. I like getting it right every time but I'm no longer under the illusion that I will. Or that anybody else will either.

As a result, I'm pretty quick to forgive. "Ah, you fucked up. It's alright. You probably tried your best but ended up missing the target. In fact you didn't even come close. I know what that feels like. Let's try not to do that again."

Sure there are some major sins like purposely killing people or harming the earth and other living things that are damn near possible to forgive or forget. I still hold on to a couple of those but in my day-to-day life, I'm quick to shrug my shoulders and say, "It's alright. Just try not to do it again. I'll try just as hard."

Homeless people used to visit to explain the reason they were homeless is because they'd committed the "unpardonable sin."

"Oh yeah?" I would ask. "You blasphemed against the Holy Spirit? Do you know what blasphemy means?"

Most had no idea so I'd go on to tell them there were a lot of reasons they were homeless but blasphemy wasn't one.

And a lot of people have said, "I just can't forgive myself. How do you do that?"

"Hey man," I replied, "Was that the best you could do at the time? If it was then it was your best. You're different now. You wouldn't do that way again. You learned from the experience. Stop reliving it."

I think that's how you forgive yourself.

Having said all of that, it's time for me to baptize myself.

Later y'all!

Surf's Up!

Trusting Monday

My friend Mitch posted "Monday, Monday can't trust that day" from the Mamas and Papas and for the life of me I can't figure out what could have possibly been on the Lord's mind when this day was made!

Violent winds blow white sand across a grey beach as though they are snakes slithering to the sea. Sharks teeth litter the beach offering tribute to the wickedness of the wind. The ocean is angry and waves slap one another haphazardly. White caps fight for supremacy over the water. Grey clouds sprinkles a cold mist. There is nothing lovely about this day.

I am alone on the beach.

No one else wants it today but I run along the water's edge feeling the sand snakes bite the calves of my legs. In the distance I see bright lights inside of homes and imagine that people are sipping coffee, reading newspapers or psyching themselves up to drive to work.

"Hey God," I say out loud as I trudge along, determine to get myself back in shape, "what the hell did we do? It's a shitty day! You can do better."

I wait but God chooses not to respond.

"Oh well," I mumble, "have it your way then."

My mind carries itself away and I think about the beaches on Orient Bay and Belize. I imagine sunsets over the sad little holy dock, the smell of the marsh and blue skies. Dolphins sometimes jump as I run, seagulls squawk and children squeal in delight as soft waves carry them to shore. Sipping wine while holding Sarah's hand in a swing in the sand dunes as we watch the moon rise.

These are the things I want today.

A bad day at the beach is better than a good day at the office.

"Hmmm," I ponder trudging along. "Maybe I've got this all wrong. I don't have to go to the office any more. Those are over. I don't have to wear a coat and a tie. Socks are no longer necessary. I've already got a good tan and its not even summer. It's not cold today, just windy. Sarah's home. Nobody's on the island so there are no lines, no traffic, no problems mon."

"Hey God," I yell out loud again. "I get it! Thanks! This is a day that the Lord has made for me!"

A bit of blue erupts through the grey clouds.

"Whoa," I say. "Hey Mitch! I'm gonna trust this day. Suddenly I'm feeling pretty good about it!"

Standing in the need of prayer

I'm worried that Bar Church is becoming too corporate.

Oh it still meets in a Bar, has breakfast for those who need it, great music, a terrific spirit and encourages smokers and flip flops.

Psalmist Samuel Adams is now assisted by fellow Psalmist Stephen and Minister Joe.

All of that 's good.

This is what concerns me.

Forever, if you needed prayer you'd call Sam and leave a message.

You never actually got Sam because he never answers his phone.

He doesn't return calls either, leaving it to God to assure you that you're being prayed for.

I like it this way!

Sam doesn't try to be the middle man between you and God like most ministers do.

All of this may go by the wayside now because Bar Church has a 24 prayer line that will be answered by a live Psalmist Stephen, Minister Joe and members Angie, Susan and Danny, Ann and Lisa. Bar Church now guarantees someone will answer the phone when you call for prayer.

I have a visual in my head. Psalmist Stephen is at his job running the Sugar Shack and is frying French fries when his cell phone rings. It is someone needing prayer immediately. Stephen closes eyes, prays, burns the French fries, cusses when he realizes it, and then asks the person who called for prayer to pray for him.

Now I love Stephen and have since before he was a Psalmist.

I do not want him to burn French fries or himself as it would effect either the Sugar Shacks bottom line or his excellent guitar playing.

I'm sticking to the old ways.

When I need prayer, I'm calling Sam directly who will not accept or return my call.

Instead Sam will leave it to God to get back to me directly.

Now I think I'll beat the after church crowd at the Sugar Shack and head on up there now ... before Psalmist Stephen has a chance to burn the French fries.

Oh ... and Amen!

Duck Dynasty Mexicans

After a riveting 3-2 soccer game played by 9 year olds, Sarah and I stopped for a romantic Mexican lunch at the Mall.

I hate the Mall.

I have always hated the Mall.

I hate any Mall but especially the one founded by General Oglethorpe!

On the other hand I like Mexican food and the Oglethorpe Mall happens to have an excellent restaurant that may, or may not, be full of illegal immigrants.

Personally, I don't give a damn. The American economy is built upon Mexicans and it would crash without these people. Who would wash cars? Put roofs on houses? Landscape?

Sarah and I were holding hands, feeding each other cheese dip on fresh Tostitos when we could not help but to overhear the table behind us ordering from the nice Mexican gentleman.

"I want Tacos. I want them hard too. But I don't want no Mexican cheese. I want American cheese. You got Dat?"

The waiter must have nodded because the next guy was already ordering.

I want tacos too but I want mine soft. I want ... this here ... trio ...it's got meat, chicken and pork. No Lattice," he commanded.

"Lattice? He going to eat a fence?"

Sarah is from somewhere up north and was not understanding the southern pronunciation of lettuce.

"Well then," said the third. "I suppose I'll be having Tacos too. I don't want no lattice neither. And I don't want no damn tomatoes. I'll take my cheese made in the gold ol' U.S. of A too. And ... hum ... I want beans. You boys want beans? I'm having me some beans."

"Yep we want beans," they said in unison. "Hell yeah we want 'em!"

"Sarah my love," I said staring at her while continuing to hold her hand, "is the cast of Duck Dynasty sitting behind me?"

"Yep," she said butchering a fine southern word.

I don't watch Duck Dynasty. Dedra watches Duck Dynasty and after ranting and raving about how wonderful it is, Sarah and I turned it on one night. It reminded me of the people in Congress and I threw up in my mouth a little and immediately turned the channel to M*A*S*H to find sanity.

Dedra has been in hiding since all of this happened and for all I know she sleeping with these Duck Dynasty people. She is from those parts.

Thankfully we were finished with our romantic lunch and decided to have dessert when we got home, if you know what I mean (wink wink nudge nudge).

Standing to leave, sure enough they looked like Duck Dynasty people having Mexican food in the Mall on a Saturday afternoon.

The fine Mexican waiter, immaculacy dressed in a red vest, white shirt and black trousers with creases said "Thank you in perfect English. I hope they did not bother you."

"Oh no," I said thanking him for his excellent service.

"By law we can't discriminate," he whispered into my ear.

"Nor should we," I replied "We need these people. I don't know why we need them. But we must need them for something."

The Alternative Universe of Tybee

After giving it much thought, I confess that I live in an alternative universe.

Tybee Island is different from any other place ... ever!

Oh, we have our sister islands ... a confederacy of lunacy ... like Key West and ... er ... well ... I can't think of any other place remotely like Tybee except for Key West.

The island is completely schizophrenic with at least three distinct personalities.

First, there are those who believe we are a normal American small town. They serve on committees and hold events to raise money for things and go to church. Well, they don't go to Bar Church but they do attend the McReligions ... Baptist, Catholic, Episcopal and Methodist.

Strangely they believe they are the only people who actually live on the island.

They believe with everything in them that the rest of us are visitors who will eventually go away.

Second are the Bar people. We have our own Church that meets in a Bar and encourages smokers and flip-flops. We don't serve on any committees though we do have a Bored meeting. We sponsor parades, parties, skinny dipping and the broad base utilization of medical marijuana. There is a lot of music around what we do and we are a strange collection of pagans, Lesbians, Druids and I'm the token "REV".

The Bar people pay no attention whatsoever to the McReligious people who wonder why we're still here and keep passing new laws and putting up more "Stop Signs" to discourage our behavior.

Finally, there are the visitors.

Honestly, the visitors like the Bar People WWWAAAYYY more than the McReligious people.

The McReligious people think they're cool if they wear a tuxedo top with cut off shorts which actually looks ... STOOPID!

The Bar people eventually find ways to lose the laundry and dance naked.

The Visitors immediately know who they're siding with!

Throw us all together and its a strange gumbo that somehow works.

Just don't tell the McReligious people that it works.

They think they're the only ones here.

It's Still A Wonderful World

"I'm going to turn off the news," my friend Meredith posted. "I just might break."

Bombings in Boston ... exploding factories in Waco ... poison letters mailed from Mississippi ... and that was just yesterday's news!

I understand Meredith's feelings.

There is a lot of bad out there but ...

"I see trees of green ... red roses too ... I see 'em bloom for me and you and I think to myself ... what a wonderful world."

The song streams through my computer as though a direct message from God that in spite of all of the bad things happening, it's still a beautiful world.

Sitting back I take inventory.

I am sitting on the beloved back deck on a absolutely glorious morning. Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the ocean breeze. Hibiscus blooms surround me and sunflowers are reaching towards the sky. Choirs of birds are singing hymns of praise. The woman I love is inside making old things new. Within a mile radius live my Carnival of friends.

How am I so blessed?

There are a lot of things I do not like. I abhor war and rumors of war. I distain suffering of any kind. Selfishness sucks. Injustice is intolerable. I hate it when bad things happen to good people.

I've had my share of these things and, on occasion, have been as hurt and wounded as those in Boston and Waco with broken bones and a broken heart. I can feel there pain in a way that a politician never can.

Still ... in spite of malicious evil, deaths that are unjust and not fair to those it leaves behind, or the anguish of unanswered prayer ...  I can't help but to think to myself  ... what a wonderful world.