Surviving Dark Times

I have to admit that I'm pretty excited.

Anytime I start something new I'm excited though I think I'm more excited about this than anything I've done.

And I've done a lot!

As a "Professional Christian" I got to travel the nation because we had successfully transformed a rinky-dink inner city Church into a diverse, vibrant and action oriented community.

As the first ever Director of the Louisville Coalition for the Homeless we opened one of the nation's first Day Center's so homeless people would have a place to go during the day where they could focus on overcoming the issues that led to their homelessness.

As the President of Union Mission, Inc. I oversaw the transformation of a $40,000/year homeless shelter into a $13 Million/year diverse management corporation. We also reduced the city's homeless population by more than half!

Then the shit hit the fan.

It happened in this order. My Dad died. A project I'd spent years working on blew up and made me look like an idiot in the press. The Head of our Finance Department misused $1 Million. My wife decided that was a perfect time to leave. Then I left a career which had already left me.

It was pretty rough for a while.

NOW I'M HAPPIER THAN I'VE EVER BEEN!

Everybody lives through dark times. Hell, some of us barely see the light of day. But there are ways to get through them. I did. You can too!

Check out the things we're doing at www.meellc.com where our first session is "Surviving Dark Times."

I want to tell you, life is a lot better in the sunshine.

Praying for the world

Tornados blow through schools. Children disappear. The number of murders continue to climb. Politicians make promises they have no intention of keeping. Clergy profess to speak for God when God speaks daily without assistance. The masses are frightened. There are wars and rumors of wars.

For decades this was my world.

I was immersed in the cesspools of society, doing my best to clean it up and make things better. The homeless, hookers, addicts, abusers and the abused were my people. I saw the bad side of the world up close and personal. I touched it, finding good that most had no idea was there and shared holy moments with them. I also was witness to self-destruction, self-deception and death.

I walked the halls of Congress, state Capitols and City Hall seeking favors and indulgence from the powerfully pompous who demand more than they give themselves. Sitting in church conference rooms I asked professional Christians to remember the poor so that you may be kind to them only to be told that God helps those help themselves. I sat with the rich asking for help and was challenged, "What's in it for me?"

These things have left me changed.

I understand the frailty of the world. Our lives are like spider webs, integrally woven and wonderfully complex yet can be knocked away in the time it takes to blink. If you're lucky, like the itsy-bitsy-spider, you start over again because there's nothing else you can do except give up and die.

I understand the evil that exists in the world too. In a sea of good there are people who do bad things. Caring only about themselves, they lie, purposely hurt and never give it a thought. They take without thinking, pass without looking and are so easily hard ... so easily cold. Their favorite word is, "No."

Today I sit in the oasis of the beloved back deck, serenaded by choirs of birds, watching Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the pleasant ocean breeze. I am far away from the madness, a monk in a seaside monastery, perpetually tanned and constantly content.

I wonder if this is a gift in time, a reward for three decades of giving myself to others or an incredible streak of good fortune?

Back when I visited real monasteries with Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, we'd drink beers with monks and have long talks. In our youthful zealous exuberance for Christ, we'd ask, "But how can you just sit here when we are to be of the world, making it better! Making heaven on earth!"

With his shaved white head, wearing a white robe and blue stole, the old monk sipped his beer and smiled. "Oh,  but my job is to pray for the world. That's what I do. That's all I do."

I think I finally understand what he was saying.

Dancing on the water

Thick purple clouds hang low over the ocean and in the distance rain is falling on the Cargo Ships loaded with boxes of dreams. The sea is flat and calm, the tide is low and the beach is broad and clean. A Yacht is cruising at top speed to Hilton Head attempting to outrun the rain. Couples stroll the beach, holding hands searching for shells.

My morning run takes me through the middle of this, far from the rain I can feel the wet salt air mix with the sweat pouring out of me. A cool breeze blows from the south and seagulls are diving for fish making small splashes before flapping furiously skyward with their breakfasts. A handful of cannonball jellyfish lay dead at the high water mark.

Ahead of me, a little boy perhaps three or four, happily dances in the surf, his laughter the only music, his smile is pure joy. There is no one near him so it's just him and the ocean. He can't stop dancing on the water.

Scanning the beach I see a man briskly walking towards him, his long beard blowing to his left. We lock eyes and we exchange smiles.

Looking back at the little boy, I see that he is now looking at me, hands up in the air, bright blue eyes filled with happiness, tiny white teeth shine brighter than the sun. His joy is contagious and I laugh out loud, passing him by.

It's a day made for joy and contentment.

I make a vow to carry that little boy with me throughout this day.

I'll never see him again but what a gift he is to me on this day weighted down with thick purple clouds spitting rain on boats carrying dreams.

The Gifts inside of the Gift

There are only two dead persons on our refrigerator. There's a photograph of my dearly department Father Vernon Robertson flashing me the "peace sign" with one hand while holding his glasses in the other. I'm sitting beside him on the sofa in the beach house he was renting and I'm laughing so hard I'm wiping the tears from my eyes. The picture is easily twenty years old.

The other is of my Dad, my son and me. I'm standing between Jeremy and Dad standing on his dock just of Billy's Beach. Jeremy's dressed up for some reason wearing a collared shirt and has a really fine haircut. We're all smiling though Dad was already beginning to fade. It was the last time we were out there together marveling at the green marsh.

Everyone else on our refrigerator is alive and doing fine.

There used to be a lot more deceased people on it. Chicago Bob singing as I kiss him as Johnny O showed off his newly shaved head and Kenny Wade held a beer. We were at the Breezy Awards where Johnny had won "Best Island Character" and I was "Best Author." The only reason I was there at all is because Johnny had called me ten minutes earlier telling me to get my ass up there. I'd won.

There was one of Trolley Joe and me standing on the Pier. He'd recently been diagnosed with cancer and this was his first trip out since chemotherapy. Johnny O had called me that day too. "Get your ass up here. Trolley Joe." So I rode my bicycle as quickly as I could. The next time we were all on the Pier together it was at his funeral where Johnny and I both spoke before pouring his ashes into the ocean.

They've been replaced with the alive and kicking crowd. Jeremy and Marie, Kristen and Chelsea are smiling with my Mom. Sarah's girls adorn it; Laurel stand on her head ...Cassidy flees the ocean terrified because I'd just yelled shark and Maddie is playing my guitar.

The Carnival of Friends, Conner and Hania, Carlos and Verna, the very famous Dr. Withers, D-Luv, Shirely Sessions, Jodee Sadowsky laughing at something Cassidy as asked him and a picture I took of a painting of Che Guevara when I was in Cuba with Bill Berry. Sam Adams himself is there hugging Sarah. There's one of Roma with her mouth duct taped shut!

There are lots of Sarah and I, laughing and dancing and getting married.

Everyone is held in place by Jesus.

Not the person Jesus but the magnet Jesus.

It all started when Bill sent me a magnet depicting Jesus presenting the very first pizza to the Apostles. He had put it in a Bible where he'd cut pages out of the center to conceal the gift. I opened the box and thought he'd sent me a Bible. Then I opened it and there was the magnet.

I was an instant convert to Jesus magnets!

There must be forty of them keeping us all safe and happy.

I'm struck that life goes on. Dad and Vernon remind me that, though they're gone, they remain very much a part of who I am. Chicago Bob and Trolley Joe do too.

Staring at them all, I say a prayer of Thanksgiving for my life and the people who are in it. I can't imagine what I would be without them.

When God Created Nudity

Genesis Chapter 2
Micheal Elliott Revised Standard Version

1-4. God was done working having created pretty much everything so he took Sunday off which was righteous. Even though all of this was previously explained in Chapter 1 I'm going to tell it again adding new stuff. This is how it happened now that I've had time to think about it.

5-6. The earth was a pretty dry and barren place and it never rained and there was nobody to rain on anyway. And thus says the Lord, "I gotta water this place," and behold streams bubbled up from everywhere.

7. Then God picked up some wet dirt and blew on it and behold there was this dude.

8-9. God was a gardener and had this bodacious garden named Eden and he placed the dude there. There were all kinds of cool trees with lots of fruit but God was such a good gardener that he had grown a tree of life and another tree bearing knowledge which nobody had done before or has since.

10-14. Eden had a pretty cool river that ran in four different directions. You could get anywhere from there.

15-17. Then God told the dude, "Take care of this place and you can eat anything you want BUT ... if you touch the tree of knowledge, I'll just have to kill you."

18. And God mumbled, "It's not good that the dude is by himself. I gotta fix that."

19-20. So God started tinkering around making things, starting with cows for some reason then birds and then got a little crazy making wilder and wilder animals. But the dude was not sexually attracted to any of them.

21-22. And God said, "Dude take a nap" and it was so. While the dude was sleeping, God broke off one of his ribs without even waking him up which is hard to do. And God took the rib and made a woman which is even harder to do!

23. And the dude says, "WHOA MAN! You did that with my bone?" And the name stuck.

24. And for no apparent reason, this is why dudes leave home to hook up with chicks eventually getting married because they figured out sex.

25.  And the dude and woman were naked ... and liked it!

If you don't believe read it for yourself.

Rodger

Rodger Pack has died of a brain aneurysm.

That's funny. I didn't know he had a brain.

And Rodger would be the first to laugh at the joke because it's precisely what he would have said. The wonderful warped humor and cynicism of a homeless alcoholic.

When I was at Union Mission, Rodger was a client, an employee and my friend.

"You ever going to get married again?" I asked him once as we ate chili dogs from Tanners for breakfast. Once a week I'd buy breakfast for the staff and when it was Rodger's turn to choose the food it was always chili dogs.

Incredulous, the tiny man covered in tattoos wearing thick glasses that magnified his eyes just started at me.

"Rev," he finally said, "there is a lady I know downtown. I go see her from time to time. It's fun. Afterwards I give her some cash ... Hell! She even takes credit cards! ... then she says, 'Thank you Sir. Please come again.' Now you have a wife that says 'Thank you' after you have sex? Or lets you come back for more any time you want to?'"

I marveled at his argument.

"I didn't think so," he said tearing a piece of chili dog into his mouth. "Marriage has gone to shit in this country."

Yesterday I got an instant Facebook message from a friend from those days. Joe asked me if I knew about Rodger, told me what had happened and gave me his opinion on the state of homelessness in Savannah these days.

Afterwards I cried.

I can still vividly see Rodger staggering through Yamacraw Village wearing white painters paints one night when I was leaving Grace House, the shelter for men. A few days later he returned and the painters paints were filthy and he'd been beaten up. He asked for my help.

Years later he would say that I slowed down to 35 miles per hour and threw him out of the car at Potter's Place, our group home for alcoholics. "You're in charge," he claimed I yelled driving away. "You can't drink because you're in charge of alcoholics trying to quit. They will kill you."

And he never had another drink.

He remained at Potter's Place for seven year before leaving to ... get married, though it didn't last.

The last time I saw Rodger was at the funeral of his sponsor Jerry Robinson who happened to be the President of the Union Mission Board of Directors. After the service, Rodger and I hugged. He kept his emotions in check, like most homeless people, forever guarded and never completely trusting anyone.

Keeping his arms on my shoulders, he stepped back, looking me in the eyes.

"Thanks Rev," he said and sharply turned and marched away ... wearing clean white painters paints.

My Guardian Angel

"Are you taking meth?" I asked my Guardian Angel. "You look like shit."

Limp oily black hair hangs in her face covering bloodshot brown eyes. She's much too thin so her robe slipped way over her shoulder almost exposing her right breast. She was pasty white and one of her wings was dirty and broken.

Staring at me she takes a long drag from her cigarette. Blowing smoke halos above my head, she takes a shot of bourbon and chases it with a Pabst Blue Ribbon. She coughs, hacks and spits clearing her throat so she can answer.

"No, I'm not taking meth," said her still angelic voice. "You've done all of this to me."

"Moi?" I asked.

"Vous," she says taking another thoughtful drag of her cigarette. "At this rate I'm going to be in the freakin' Angel Hall of Fame."

"What did I do?" I asked.

"Oh let me count the ways," she said slamming a hand on the bar. "Twice I've had to save you from dying in car wrecks. I made a pistol stuck in your stomach jam when the drunk homeless guy pulled the trigger. You get Bill Berry to throw you over a wall in a Monastery landing on two Monks making them break their vows of silence ..."

"You know Bill's not the former drummer for REM," I begin but she cuts me off.

"I KNOW WHO THE HELL BILL BERRY IS," she shouts. "He's not my problem," she softens taking another sip of beer.

I decide it's best to keep quiet.

"Listen," she says, "twirling a strand of her greasy hair in a finger, "I need a vacation from you. You're going to kill me and that's never happened to an angel before."

I nod feeling very much like I did when I sat in the Principal's office at Groves High School and the Deans office at Seminary.

"So I've cut a deal with Sarah. She's gonna watch after you for the next two weeks. She's already pretty close to getting her wings for marrying you anyway. This should push her to the front of the line," she smashes out her cigarette and immediately lights another.

"Where you going?" I excitedly ask. I love vacations. As soon as one's over I'm already planning the next one.

"None of your damn business," she fires back. "You listen to me," she continues pointing the cigarette at me. "Do not fuck this up! Sarah's got my number and if she has to use it so help me God won't be able to save your ass."

After an awkward moment of silence I say, "Well alrighty then."

She stands and adjusts her robe so that it hangs from both shoulders. The good wing flaps but the broken one just hangs off to one side. Leaning over the smashed out the cigarette, she shakes her hair back and disappears.

"Hmm," I shrug sitting there. "You don't see that every day."

"See what?" the bartender asks.

Eyeing him for a few seconds I ask, "Do you believe in Angels?"

"Oh yeah," he immediately answers. "No way I'd still be here without my Guardian Angel."

"Hmm," I mumble.

"Micheal," I hear  the Angelic voice out of nowhere, "Do not fuck this up!"

Hell No I Ain't Dying

"What the hell are you doing here?" she bellows as I walk into her hospital room.

"Your daughter told me that you're dying and I should come see you," I reply strolling up to the bedside.

"BULLSHIT!" she screams.

"You look pretty good," I say. "Your voice sounds good too."

At that she laughs and puts her snarly, leathery hand on top of mine.

"Hell no I ain't dying," she says. "It would make too many people happy."

She looks thinner than last time I saw her but otherwise it was the same Georgia who once tried to kill me with a rolled up newspaper. That was bad enough but seeing her now in a hospital gown was even worse!

"So you don't need me?" I asked.

"Now what in the hell would I need you for?" she said jerking her hand away.

"Ummm, because I'm the only minister who'll talk to you?" I mockingly said.

That made her laugh again.

Back in the day, we'd have coffee together every morning. She'd have just finished delivering the newspapers on the island and I'd show up at the Breakfast Club for coffee before heading to work. Jake Jacobs, Blind Mike, Mrs. Tommy, Jesse the racist and Johnny O were the other regulars. We were a wonderful, crazy and completely dysfunctional group who loved each other dearly.

"Damn," Georgia mumbled one morning," I can't wait to get home and take this bra off."

"You take your bra off every morning when you leave here?" Jake asked.

"Yep," she said as she slapped my hand as I stole a piece of her bacon.

"Well that explains that," Jake announced.

"What?" she said looking at him.

"Those two thuds I hear every morning at 8:30."

Georgia hit Jake with a rolled up newspaper. She was really good at it making it Ninja like. Ninjas throw little silver stars with incredible precision. Georgia does the same thing with rolled up newspapers.

"Well," she exclaims in the hospital room, "I don't need no damn minister now."

"Fine," I say turning to leave.

"Come back when I'm dead," she says picking up the phone on the institutional bedside table. "I may need you then."

"OK," I reply opening the door. "Later then."

She doesn't answer because she's already talking on the phone.

"I want to see the little Son-of-a-bitch doctor who told my daughter I'm dying. I'm going to kick his little ass."

It's hard not to love Georgia.

The Prodigal Father

"I love you like a son," he'd said in a quivering voice, moisture filling his eyes as he threw his arms around me.

That was several years ago and he's become the Prodigal Father, disappearing from my life, leaving me questioning why and wondering what I did to drive him away. Time passes and I've gotten used to it as best I could though when someone just leaves there's a gnawing, unresolved wonderment.

I marvel at those who can quickly end relationships, moving on, never looking back and not really caring about someone who was once significant. In fact, I've come to believe that this is most people.

But it's not me.

I think the moment you meet someone, you cannot be unchanged. Both the significant ones and the inconsequential leave something of themselves as part of who I am.

Once I was driving down Bay Street in downtown Savannah, Georgia on a beautiful spring day. The sky was blue, it was warm and pleasant and everything was in bloom. The windows were rolled down and I was taking my sweet time getting to wherever I was going determined to enjoy such an incredible day.

For no reason whatsoever I glanced over to the car heading in the opposite direction and saw her. Long brown hair hung forward as she slumped over the steering wheel, forehead resting on it. She held her head up and was sobbing, tearing gushing from her eyes and pouring down her freckled face. Her mouth was open and though I could not hear the crying, I could feel it. Our eyes met for the briefest of seconds and then she was gone.

Though it happened twenty years ago, she is part of me now.

Sometimes when I'm sad, or empathetic to others going through hard times, she comes to me just as alive and hurting as she was then. I can still see her. I can still feel her.

So when I saw the Prodigal Father yesterday as he exited and I entered the Chick-fill-A on Victory Drive in Savannah, I was unprepared for the moment.

He was too.

"Micheal Elliott," he called me by name as if to remind him that I still exist. I called him by name in return and the most awkward of silences filled the moments that slowed to a crawl.

"Take care Herb," I finally said moving forward.

"Yeah. You too Micheal," he replied passing me by.

And our lives go on.

Though I know deep inside of me that the Prodigal Father will never come home again.

Snipers on the High Road

"He's the biggest Son-of-a-bitch I've ever met," I angrily said.

"He says the same thing about you," was the quick reply.

Peter Doliber and I were having lunch, talking about things we'd done and people we'd worked with back when we did a lot of work together. For several years our friendship grew, based on common work and compatible personalities, and we were truly fond of each other. Then Peter moved onto other work and I did too. There's not much of a relationship anymore. Over lunch we were reaching into the past but not making it very far.

Our conversation focused on things that had gone wrong. Though we had accomplished groundbreaking things together in health care, housing and mental health services we both focused on scars we still have, unresolved anger that still eats away.

By nature, I am not an angry person. I rarely get mad figuring the anger is one of the Seven Deadly Sins for a reason. It is true however there are a few people who hurt me beyond my ability to understand why, leaving me wounded. While I can still name them, I choose to not think about them. They no longer merit my energies. I'd rather focus on other, happier, things.

Sometimes at night, these people and the things we did to one another, scurry on the fringes of my dreams but when I awake I dismiss them quickly. There are too many good things I prefer to think about.

I'm a contemplative soul by nature, enjoying sitting on the beloved back deck with my feet propped up on the rail, music in my ear, watching the stars and smelling the ocean. Occasionally the angry people kidnap my prayers and as soon as I am conscious that I'm giving them room in my life, I cast them out like demons.

I write about the past a lot but I certainly don't live in it. That was then. This is now. I delight in my three grown children and live with three little girls. My resume is full of things I'm proud of but I'm much more excited about the things I do now. While I still have scars from old wounds, I've survived them and enjoy my life.  I live with and love my best friend who happens to be incredibly lovely.

These are the things I give myself to now because its where I find joy. It's where love reigns; where laughter falls frequently; where contentment comes easy; and where happiness is achieved.

I know there are bad people in the world and I've met my fair share. They are angry people, snipers on the high roads of life, not giving a damn about anyone other than themselves. It's best to shy away from such people, in person as well as in my thoughts and dreams.

If there is a hell, it's made by the angry people who don't wait to die before going there.

Likewise, I'm not waiting for heaven either.

It's here now for the taking.

Growing Backwards

My Mom has redefined herself ... again.

Now she's into painting a rug on a wooden deck. She was going to get a real rug but decided it would mildew so she decided to paint one. It is something I never would have thought of and I have to admit it looks pretty damn good!

My Mom's been a lot of things in her life. Billy's wife (no small feat!), mother of three adorable and sinless children (well, Angi was a little weird), secretary turned banker and then "Originator of the Year" for 17 consecutive years making men look like gross underachievers, a world traveler, then she got into antiques and finally gardening.

Now she'll likely add "wooden rug painter" to her already impressive resume.

Not that she really cares about things like that.

What she does care about is her Book Club, Canasta Club, Wine, how the yard looks, getting together with her brothers and sisters, keeping up with her grandchildren and she has her own Carnival of Friends who are forever showing up to sit in rocking chairs on the porch or on the back deck with the painted rug.

If that's not enough, she and Betty Geriner talk on the phone and that can take the better part of a day.

Mom is forever coming to Tybee for something or another but she's always too busy to stop by our house. She always lets me know though.

She'll call and explain, "I'm coming to Tybee and staying at Diane Herrin's but don't have time to stop by your house and see you and Sarah. You'll have to come to Diane's if you want to see me."

People ask me, "How's your Mom doing?"

"She's 70-something going on 50," I answer.

I'm pretty convinced soon I'm going to be older than her.

I sent her a card earlier this week and she told me she got it. I hope to catch up with her at some point today but I never know. She's always up to something.

Bob Dylan comes to mind when I think about Mom. "I was so much older then; I'm younger than that now."

That's my Mom.

Happy Mother's Day.

I love you.

Your Eldest Son.

Ten Reasons Not To

1. Last night I went to both 6 year old girl's soccer practice and a 9 year old girl's soccer game which occurred simultaneously, ran into a "Professional Christian" who knew me and wanted to talk before running into political guru Dave Simmons who wanted to talk except he was on the phone the entire time.

2. Yesterday was also Sarah's birthday and she has strep throat and that just sucks! I had the bow strategically affixed in the right place but there was no unwrapping that big boy last night AND THAT REALLY SUCKS!

3.  I ran a 5K run with aforementioned 9 year old this morning at "Girls On the Run" which should have additional categories like (a) Girls on a Walk (b) Girls on a Stroll (c) Girls pushing baby carriages wearing Spandex (d) Girls sitting on sidewalks (e) Girls who walk and talk without ceasing not giving a damn about who is front of them.

4. Afterwards, I went to aforementioned 6 year olds soccer game and while she successfully dribbled the entire length of the field twice, she failed to score.

5. Sarah is still sick and this bow is really becoming something of a nuisance but I remain determined that she will love the present when she takes it off.

6. It is an incredibly glorious day on Tybee Island and we are now home.

7. Ohio Bob is throwing his annual party later today and Randy "Hatman" Smith will be playing and there's a terrific view of the ocean view and most of the island's more ... eccentric characters will be attending.

8. The sign in front of City Hall welcomes thousands of visitors by flashing "PARKING LAWS STRICKLY ENFORCED."

9. I'm planning to get lucky and have the bow taken off later tonight.

10. It's lunch time.

So ... I'm not going to write anything today.

Sarah Smile

"Micheal Elliott," I said in a tired voice into the phone, sitting at my desk and wishing I was somewhere else on a winter's day.

A long second of silence followed before she said, "Sarah Lingenfelter. Is that seriously how you answer the phone?"

It had been ten years since I'd last seen her. Then, she was my Administrative Assistant, killing time until she and her family moved to New York. Ridiculously over-qualified for the position, she impressed everyone. Members of my own Board of Directors tried to hire her away from me but she takes her commitments seriously.

Since then, I'd seen pictures of her three children, knew that she ran a School mentoring program for the State of New York and lived in a place so far out in the wilderness the city prided itself as being sinless.

"Hey Sarah," I said immediately perking up.

"Do you remember," she began, "when you said that I had a job if I ever wanted to come back?"

"Yes," I replied.

And I had. Sitting on the beach one day, instead of being in the office where I was supposed to be, she'd called me. Sarah always had this knack of knowing when I was doing things I wasn't supposed to be doing. Rather than deny what I was doing I answered by asking her, "Now aren't you going to miss this when you're gone?"

And I told her if she ever wanted to return she was hired on the spot.

"I want to come back," she said. "Do you still mean it?"

It took a couple of months but by April she was living in Savannah and working as a Vice-President for the company.

Then God got involved.

I found myself suddenly single. She divorced. I left the company. And on a wonder summer's evening we kissed on the beach.

And that was that!

We've been married for over a year now, happily exploring Beach Bum lifestyles while creating new work together.

And today's her birthday.

So Happy Birthday my love!

As soon as I can figure out where to stick the bow, I'm giving you this present!

The Music We Make

"It's getting better all the time," Paul McCartney sang.

"It couldn't get no worse," John Lennon replied.

They were both right of course. The most popular musicians of modern history, cultural icons and incredibly successful ... they had achieved everything. And felt trapped by it all. It wasn't fun any more. Fame, fortune and success wasn't everything it was cracked up to be.

They were both right.

That's life though right? There is always a duality, ying and yang, lightness and darkness, good and bad. It's how you look at them. It's always a matter of perspective.


 
 
 
It's an absolutely beautiful day. Brilliant blue skies, warm ocean breezes, choirs of birds and people strolling on the beach are all smiling.

And Sarah's sick, laying under the covers in bed as I sit here working and doing my best to keep Winston, the little gay dog, away from her. He'll jump up beside her and keep her awake.

I hate it when she doesn't feel well, is off kilter or things just aren't going right. When you love someone like I love her, you never want things to not be perfect. This is especially true when I'm feeling terrific, loving life and have dancing feet.

There's just something not right about it.

But it's the way life works sometimes.

If I could take her sickness away from her and carry it for her, I would.

Alas, I can't.

It'll be alright. We're like the Beatles in a way. The music we make together is beautiful even when everything else may be slightly off in the world.

A Sad State of Affairs

Regardless of who runs for office, it's always the Government that gets elected.

So said the Major Prophet George Harrison and yesterday South Carolina put lifetime politician Mark Sanford back Congress. As if Congress couldn't get any worse!

Of course in Georgia Sen. Saxby Chambliss has set off a firestorm by announcing he's not running for re-election and proves it by getting a hole-in-one while playing the President. He no longer has to give a damn about protocol.

So Congressman Jack Kinston is running for U. S. Senate so State Senator Buddy Carter can run for Congress so that Congressman Kingston's brother-in-law State Representative Ben Watson can run for the State Senate.

It's all very incestuous.

I spent decades playing the political games of City Hall, the County Commission, the Georgia State Capitol and in the halls of Congress. These are the things that I learned.

• They're all the same. There is no difference between Republicans and Democrats because they share the same ultimate goal which is to be re-elected or to move to a higher office.
• Libertarians are Republicans who smoke pot.
• The Tea Party movement is comprised of pissed off Republicans who believe wacked out stuff as evidenced by Christine O'Donnell from Delaware who said, "It is not enough to be abstinent with other people, you also have to be abstinent alone. The Bible says that lust in your heart is committing adultery. You can't masturbate without lust! ... You're going to be pleasing each other. And if he already knows what pleases him and he can please himself, then why am I in the picture?"

Please take a moment to shake your head while saying, "Do what?" as you try to make sense out of the above quote.

• Bill Clinton is the greatest recent American President because he balanced the budget, left a surplus, dropped one bomb that never hit anybody and made oral sex popular.
• Congress runs like a Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream store. You take a number, wait to be served and then get your ice cream. Then you must go to the back of the line, get a new number and start over if you want more ice cream. This was explained to me one day by an angry Congressman Jack Kingston after the Lobbyist for Memorial Health University Medical Center asked for more money immediately after receiving some.

I could go on but will conclude by saying I think it's good when Politicians sleep with one another in spite of what the Tea Party movement believes. Because if they're sleeping together, they can start doing to each other what they keep doing to us. And I'm tired of my ass hurting.

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.