Beachin'

Yesterday Dave Buck, who is a successful doctor with the unfortunate luck to live and practice in Houston, Texas sent me a Facebook message asking if I would recommend a breach for he and his girlfriend to spent some time at.

FINALLY! We get to a subject that I dearly love and am more than happy to share my immense expertise.

My family and friends know that I live at the beach and my vacation destination of choice are other beaches. I do not know why I have the incredible good fortune of God making me this way but it's who I am.

Immediately I wrote Dave back seeking to narrow his search by asking what kind of beach accommodations is he looking for. He responds something with a couple thousand rooms that's quiet.

Not recognizing the bizarre Houston humor, I told him Myrtle Beach.

He writes back something a little more off the beaten path is preferable.

There are already enough people on Tybee Island this time of year so I opt to not tell him where I live.

I do recommend either the Outer Banks of North Carolina or the Florida Keys, though personally I would choose the later because the latitudes are smaller and that is my temperate zone. In my study of beaches I have discovered that the further north you go, the more likely clothes are involved at least with more regularity through the course of the year. That's just not the best way to take full advantage of whatever beach. Less is beautiful and nothing is sublime, if you know what I mean.

He hasn't written me back yet. I suppose he's trying to save somebody in Houston or something.

It's alright. I just finished my run on the beach and have big plans for this afternoon! While Sarah's girls were getting ready for school this morning, I suggested we all go to the beach when they get home!

I think its best to have your day organized and am trying to teach them this lesson.

After all, it is true, that life really is ... a beach.

That's why I'm here

The moon shown through the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt and my feet were propped on the railing of the Beloved Back Deck. Sarah flashed me a smile through the sliding screen doors. Ocean breezes blew over an island finally quiet after the holiday weekend.

"Person to person and man to man," James Taylor sings on my I-Pod, "I'm finally in touch with my long lost friend. Listen to reason and understand and think of me from way back when."

Way back when I was on a pretty relentless climb to prove myself and conquer the world. It was a very public life, being there for everyone all of the time, bought me the fame affirmation I so desperately craved. Invitations came to travel so I got to go most everywhere. Awards followed and my picture was published in lots of things. Money also came and when it does it brings the fear of losing it, the very thing that gives you security makes you afraid being without it.

Of course everything has a cost and I lost lots of time that I should have saved for the people I love and for me. When you're so busy being everyone's friend you get spread so thin and can only go so deep. Everyone said they loved me but I was lonely and unfulfilled. At the end I was sad and tired in some of the coolest and hippest places in the world.

But that was way back when.

Today I'm back in touch with my long lost friend ... me.

Life now is quiet. My love for Sarah is deep. I enjoy my children more as they are seeking to conquer their worlds. The friendships I have are deep and enriching. I'm not a Platinum level frequent flier anymore having slipped all the way down into the Silver category. The most exciting things going on in my life is having lunch with Chelsea today and going to watch Sarah's daughter Madison get inducted into the National Honor Society tonight.

I've always been contemplative but island life has turned me into a sunburned Monk with tanned dreams. I run, I write, I celebrate a daily communion with Sarah and I get excited about Hibiscus blooms. A highlight of every day is baptizing myself in the holy water of the outdoor shower. God  and I have long discussions over wine.


My work is still helping others help themselves and I still have a tendency to overdo it sometimes. I pray for folks more than I ever have and send them all of the good Karma and wishes I can muster. I hold them dear when they can't do it for themselves.

And that's why I'm here.

I had to go through the first part to get here. I'm never going back, who in their right mind would want to? Besides its so easy to like it here when you so like yourself.

Remembering the Party

Everybody is slow moving today, sleeping in or if awake it's as though we're dancing in glue. The birds are singing WAY to loudly, the sun is especially bright and someone's phone won't stop ringing causing the headache in my brain to pound. I'm having a hard time getting focused on what to do next so I don't seem to be doing anything. I have to put on sunglasses so that I can pour the coffee.

But, we certainly had a good time last night!

I'm not sure how many people were crammed on the Beloved Back Deck but it was most everybody at the party.

And what a party it was!

I'd share it with you if I could remember anything other than the snippets of memories flashing through my mind.

Jodee and Nanci are talking intensely about something.

Sean stands with his arms waving wildly telling a story about something or another.

Derick discusses Manicures and Pedicures.

Sarah sits on my lap.

Jackson wears psychedelic sunglasses.

D-Luv made a rare island appearance.

Cheryl and Wen are standing talking.

Everyone is laughing like crazy.

OK ... that's all that I remember at the moment.

Over the course of the day, the others will fill in the blanks and I'll get back to you on everything else that took place.

In the meantime I have to clean up the coffee that's on the counter because I missed the cup.

Hoo Boy, that was fun.

I can't wait to do it again.

Making Love, not war

My Dad went to the unveiling of the Korean War Memorial in Savannah, Georgia kicking and screaming. We made him go though he wanted nothing to do with it. I can't say that I blame him much. He had a rotten time in Korea!

Having lied about his age and getting in the Marines as a member of Dog Company, Dad was promptly captured by the Koreans, escaped, captured again and then shot when escaping again. He was left for dead but wasn't and made his way back to his platoon and was promptly sent home. He never said anything about having a good time.

Decades later when America remembered we had been in Korea at all, Memorials were unveiled. The one in Savannah has the names of each member of Dog Company. The survivors names are in one color and the ones who didn't make it home names are in another color. Dad cried like a baby as he rubbed his fingers over the names of the dead.

He proudly served his country but didn't give a goddamn about the war ... any of them.

"I think its a crying shame," he once told me over beers in the Shipwatch Lounge, "that a lot of guys think the highlight of their life is a damn war. There are more important things than that."

His attitudes about war had a big influence on me.

Of course I grew up in the 60s when the anti-Vietnam War movement was at its zenith so I was indoctrinated in "Make Love Not War" philosophy. And I confess I try to live this way, making love with Sarah every single chance I get and never declaring war on anybody. Every time I think about declaring war on anybody, we make love and I forget all about it.

So I got to thinking.

Memorial Day should certainly be about remembering those who have sacrificed anything or everything to keep America free.

But, wouldn't it be great if we also remembered all of the love that they made?

They made love before they made war and, if they were lucky enough, they went back to making more love.

That's how David, Angi and I got here. Dad concentrated on making love when he got back from the war.

And when he did look back on it, touching the names of his friends who had died, he sobbed like a baby and walked away from it.

Then he went and kept making love ... right up until he died.

A Bad Start to a Great Day

I watched him stare at the newspaper in the box through the large plate glass windows of The Breakfast Club. He dug in his pockets for quarters, saw the price is now a dollar instead of 75 cents, made a face, and stuck the change back in his pants. His short white hair and closely cropped  white beard made him look like a tall thin Santa Claus dressed for vacation. Tropical shirt, jams and flip flops were a stark contrast to his pasty white skin.

Looking up he saw me sitting sipping coffee. Quickly glancing at the others waiting for the restaurant to open, he looked back at me. He had a wondering look on his face. "How do you get to ..."

"Shit!" I thought to myself. "He's going to sit by me."

Caroline unlocked the doors and the explosion of people is shocking as they rush inside quickly filling the booths and sliding onto the stools of the counter so they can watch the four person ballet of cooks do magic on the grill.

He strolls in at the end of the rush and sits beside me.

"Micheal," he says in a measured and formal way.

"Gordon," I nod, not caring one way or the other.

After ordering coffee, he asked if I was finished with the newspaper and I slid it in front of him saying, "Nothing happened yesterday."

Greedily he took it and there was an awkward silence.

"How's The Starfish Café doing?" he asked.

"How would I know?" I answered.

The Starfish Café is a working restaurant that's also a culinary arts training program for homeless people that I helped start. It was quickly recognized for its innovation and was profiled on the TODAY Show, CNN and featured in national and regional magazines. The last time I was there my wife, Sarah, ran it but that was three years ago.

He took a sip of coffee while staring straight ahead. I remembered when he was the Treasurer of my Board of Directors. It had been a wild ride. I was on fire writing grants and raising money and millions of dollars were pouring into Union Mission. He oversaw the spending. Together we built a massive infrastructure of services unlike any in the nation.

"You still doing the homeless?" he asked condescendingly.

"I don't have too," I said, "they're fucked enough already."

The thinnest of smiles graced his already thin lips.

Back in the day he walked into my office and told me we needed to stop. "It's growing too fast," he explained. "You're taking it in directions that have nothing to do with our mission. Why are we building housing for people with AIDS? What does health care have to do with homelessness? Why are we building a health care center? I'm telling you we don't need to do anything new for the next few years."

I remember looking at him as though he were possessed by Satan himself. Homelessness had been reduced by 54% and I wasn't going to stop until the job was done.

"You were always good at politics," he said. "You still doing that?"

"They're all the same," I shot back. "None are any better than the other. They can all go to hell."

He started to protest. "But what about Jack? He's a nice guy."

"I don't have to do this anymore," I told myself.

"Bye Gordon," I said standing up.

"But ..." he said.

And I walked outside, got on my bicycle, coasting down Tybrissa Street to the ocean, basking in the sunshine of a glorious day.

Smelling PDF's

Love really is about acceptance.

There are truths in everything though not all truths are created equal.

Some are more important than others.

This is one.

I think marriages fail like they do because once we see the imperfections, frailties, faults and shortcomings of those we love ... well ... acceptance is a hell of a lot harder. Instead of building on a preponderance of wonderful things held in common, we exaggerate the bad.

Most often its because we have very particular and concrete notions of what our relationships should be. When they're not ... it's the partner's fault. We believe in our notions more than we believe in spouses with faults.

I Love you. You're perfect. Now change!

A great Off-Broadway musical centered on this theme though the reality is we don't really change. Perhaps a little here and there but for the most part we are who we are. The thing in successfully relationships with anybody is acceptance.

Let me give you an example.

I'm not a farter.

Well, everybody farts but I'm a private farter.  I don't know why but I am.

My Dad was a public farter and made jokes about it. He would be walking across the room, fart and then jump off the ground exclaiming, "I stepped on a frog." It always made me laugh as a kid though I never became a public farter.

Now my wife doesn't mind sharing her farts. At first I thought she stepped on a box of frogs but she's just being her. I accept that and even comment on them now.

"Feel better?"

And the funny thing is I really mean it. I want the best for her. I want her to feel better about everything. Even farts.

Now she will say that I fart in my sleep which I don't believe for a second. I think its her way of retaliating because I'm so nice about her PDF's ... Public Displays of Farting, like when politicians speak. But that's not the point.

The point is we accept each other.

And love is all about accepting one another.

Making Life Better

"Nobody could have survived what you have," he said standing in front of me with empathetic hurt on his face.

He would know.

At my Dad's funeral, he sat with other members of the Board of Directors, smiling and acting like a surrogate father which he believed he was, forever saying that he loved me like a son.

He was the first person I'd told that our company's Chief Financial Officer had misused over $1 Million, purposely covering it up in her finance reports. He was with me when I fired her and he kept checking on me as I called our supporters to explain what had happened.

He was along for the ride when the behavioral health collaborative I'd put together achieved tremendous initial success and then crashed and burned leaving me with egg on the picture of my face in the newspaper.

In the bar of the Phoenix Park hotel in Washington, D.C. I said to him, "I'm going to tell you something but I can't take your reaction but I need to tell you," and I told him that my wife had left demanding a divorce. He stiffened quickly and grabbed my arm and started saying how sorry he was.

During the last Board meeting I attended he gave a passionate, teary speech about how special I am and how much I'd given the company ... meaning pretty much everything. I sat staring at my hands, numb and untouched as though it was an out-of-body experience.

When I returned from St. Martin, having resigned from the company and it being front page news, he met me for coffee at Larry's Restaurant to ask, "What are you going to do now?" The truth of the matter was I had no idea. I was hurt, angry and exhausted.

"You need to get back on the horse right now," he instructed. "You've got too much to give."

I stared at him a long time before saying, "The last advice you gave me was some of the worst ever. Why should I listen to you now?"

And I didn't.

I'd known it was getting to be too much. Thirty years of giving it your all will catch up with anybody. I said as much, explaining I needed to step away for a while, take a Sabbatical, recharge my batteries so I could continue to give it my all.

"You can't do that," he'd told me. "You're too important. People will think it's a sign of weakness. Take it from me. It's for the best."

Pretty soon after that, everything happened quickly, leaving him to conclude that "Nobody could have survived what you have."

So in  Larry's Restaurant that day, I stood and said, "I'm not listening to you this time." And I left him sitting there with his coffee and confidence.

For the last three years, I've put Humpty Dumpty back together again and I have to say, "It's pretty damn good!"

I gave myself the Sabbatical. I spent a year working with the International Street Medicine Institute. Sarah came home after being away for a decade and love blossomed and we married and every day is a celebration. We have a beach home, Carnivals of friends, a wonderful family and lots of joy.

But something was missing. So we went to work creating new work to help others who are struggling through difficult and dark times. I survived and am happier and better off because of it. I want to help others do the same. Through a series of online classes, teleseminars, consistent and personal messages and direct communication we have the tools people need to survive the dark times ... AND TO MAKE LIFE BETTER.

I hope you never need it but, if you ever do, then help is there for you.

Check it out at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/services/

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!