Thanks Will B. Dun

"You want to be a member of the Committee of Southern Churchmen?" Vernon asked.

A Catholic Priest, Father Vernon Robertson was my friend, though he was much older than me. On Wednesday's I did the readings for the noon Mass and he would speak to the evening gathering of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was the "Professional Christian".

The Committee was a group of clergy that worked with Martin Luther King, Jr. in support of the Civil Rights movement. In the 1980's I didn't know it was still around.

"Sure," I replied.

"Call this number," he instructed which I did, not recognizing the area code.

"Hello?"

"It's Micheal Elliott," I said.

"OK," the voice said and hung up.

"What the ...?" I called Vernon back reporting the conversation,

"That great!" he exclaimed. "You're in!"

"Who answered the phone?" I demanded.

"Will did," he answered.

"Will Campbell?"

Will D. Campbell is a famous preacher, wanna-be country singer who happened to be close friends with Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Tom T. Hall, incredible author of Brother to a Dragonfly,  and was with Martin Luther King the night he was killed.

During this time Vernon and I were knocking around with Will. He'd done a concert for us at St. Martin of Tours Church with Vernon and had preached at Jeff Street which pissed Southern Seminary off because it though he should have preached there first.

"No one asked me to preach except Mike," he told them.

A few weeks later he preached in the Chapel at the Seminary and began his sermon by saying, "It's nice to be with the Pharisees again."

Will cracked  me up.

I visited his Mt. Juliet, Tennessee cabin several times and we'd chew tobacco, have long talks about "Steeples" his term for churches and go to Gassers for lunch. Gassers was a gas station restaurant adored with floor to ceiling country music album covers.

Will also wrote the preface to my first book "The Society of Salty Saints" which propelled it places it never would have otherwise gone.

When I learned that Will died last night my head and heart were flooded with memories. A great man graced by life for several years for which I remain grateful. What a hell of a life he lived! What a hell of a difference he made!

So thanks Will! Thy Will B. Dun.

Religious Rules

"Dear Lord, I plan each day with what I will not do or say ..."

It's how a lot of people approach their religion, thinking its a bunch of rules that you follow. Sure there are Ten Commandments of which I've broken eight. Most everybody has broken some of them and its best to be honest about it and say so.

I've done a much better job with the Greatest Commandments, "Love God with everything you got and Love the people in your life like you love yourself" (Micheal Elliott Revised not-so-standard version). God and I have a pretty good relationship. We have wine together most every night on the Beloved Back deck. I say all sorts of things though God keeps pretty quiet. I'm convinced I'm heard though and every once in a while God actually speaks.

Most of my neighbors like me and I like most of them. Oh sure, the Kat Lady drives me nutty sometimes with her "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty" screeching and across the street a fat lady gardens in her underwear which is not a pretty site. But we speak and get along all right.

I don't pay any attention to all of those church rules. Attendance for example. If's hard to even remember what the rules are if you never go. Consequently, I'm not too bothered about what I'm not doing.

Even at Bar Church, I've taken to stopping by sometimes before it starts to talk to Psalmist Stephen. He'll tell me what's happening and I'll leave before it starts. That's pretty much enough for me these days.  If I need more organized religion I visit Psalmist Stephen at the Sugar Shack to get sprinkles of wisdom.

I've noticed lots of people discussing how there are too many religious rules these days and how lots of them are made up things that somehow got inserted into God's rule book. God knows nothing about it.

America's Greatest Minister Guy Salyes wrote a great piece on "Being and being Loved, Before doing and duty" which is a crazy title. Then again he's always been a wild and crazy Guy. He goes on to dismiss the majority of rules Churches have as they get in the way of a real relationship with God. He doesn't come right out and say "To hell with these rules" like I do but it's pretty close.

Plus I've been working on the Micheal Elliott Revised Not-So-Standard Version of the Bible which will soon be available in paperback for $666. It's a much more accurate translation accentuating the sex, murder and debauchery of the Bible which is glossed over by most churches. When's the last time you heard a really steamy sermon from Song of Solomon?

If that wasn't enough I'm reading Georgia's Greatest Christian runner up Michael Ruffin's "Prayer 365" which is a bunch of prayers. I really distain bad prayers and have heard way too many when both God and I fell asleep. Mike has really good prayers that get to the point where its like he's sitting here on the Beloved Back Deck with God and me having wine. I like that.

All of that to say, I do not get up every day promising God what I won't do in order to be religious.

I do get up every day and say, "Hey God. What we doing today?"

Book Covers

"I'm a part time meat cutter at Walmart," he said in his country twang voice sitting on the stool next to mine at The Breakfast Club, "and a writer."

Everyone turns to look at him.

Short cropped white hair and a white goatee on a white face marked him his as a tourist.

"Any of y'all write?" he asks.

Johnny O, Whitley, Phil, Car Queer, and Caroline all point directly at me.

"He does," they yell in unison.

"I got 9000 followers on Twitter," he says looking straight at me. "You?"

"What?" I ask. There is no way in hell this country bumpkin has that many followers. "Couple of hundred," I answer with a shrug.

"I'm a poet," he continues. "You?"

"Ummm," I mutter, not really wanting to talk. "I'm all over the place."

"I've got one book published," he says plowing ahead. "You?"

"Eight," I answer.

He sits up straight exclaiming "Eight?"

Caroline places coffee in front of him and asks if he wants to order.

"Naw," he dismisses her, "we gonna eat at the Ocean Plaza where we're staying. My wife loves it. HEY, you work there!" he says to Johnny O. "Maintenance?"

"Front Desk Manager," Johnny replies.

"Y'all got pizza? My wife loves pizza."

Johnny gets up and leaves and Caroline jerks the menu from him.

"I've only made about $2 off my book," he says returning his attention to me. "You?"

"A little more than that," I tell him.

"You on Facebook?" he asks, returning his attention to me.

"Yep," I answer.

"How many friends you got?"

"Couple of thousand," I say.

"Couple of thousand!" he exclaims. "I want to be Facebook friends. You?"

Caroline immediately handed me a pen and paper with a devilish smile. I could kill her.

So we swap names and later in the day become Facebook friends. Sure enough, he's a poet and writes daily. He also has 9000 followers on Twitter which blows my mind. He manages a Facebook group called "Poetry Pad" of which I'm now a member. He has endorsed me on Twitter and I'm reading his poems every day. He and Sarah are now Facebook friends.

All of which goes to prove ... you really can't judge a book by it's cover.

Hooters and my wife

It has been suggested by my friend Bobby that my wife works at Hooters.

She does not but I am all for it!

I'm not just saying this off the cuff.

I've done my research. I checked out her qualifications and HOO BOY! She has the perfect qualifications to be a Hooters girl.

Sarah also has experience as a waitress so that part of the job should be a breeze. She can read and write while standing up.

People like her. She's easy to talk with. She's very confident, cocky and competitive. The other Hooters girls don't stand a chance.

She's also grown accustomed to people having a conversation with her never looking her in the eye.

Oh sure, sometimes I've watched her grab them by the chin with one hand, spread her first two fingers on the other hand pointing them at her eyes and then at his eyes and then at her eyes again ... but I don't think she is too bothered when this happens.

I also went to check out how she looks in the Hooters uniform but we don't have one. Sarah does have an orange bikini which is close enough and her assets were definitely accentuated.

The final test came when I drank a few beers and ate chicken wings. I asked Sarah to wear the orange bikini top and bring me a beer and the wings. When she leaned forward to place them on the table I missed my mouth because I was ... preoccupied.

Finally, I asked for her phone number and she just rolled her eyes and walked away. As she did so I realized she additional assets she will bring to the job.

I don't know how many wives work at Hooters but its probably not enough. So I'm working with Sarah to start a movement to place more wives at Hooters with her leading the charge.

She'll be the one in the forefront on this.

I'll be working on from behind.

Finding Hope Again

Tears welled in the beady eyes of the tiny bald homeless man who had just burst into the kitchen in the basement of the church where I was cooking. Turning from the sausage gravy I was making for the hundred or so homeless people who were waiting for breakfast, he went to speak but only a sob came out.

"It's ... it's ...," he tried to say but couldn't so he grabbed my hand pulling me up the stars and out into the street. Dragging me along we went half-a-block and he stopped pointing at the open door of a two story shotgun house. No one lived downstairs save the homeless men who drank and slept there.

Upstairs was occupied by Florence, an old tiny mean woman who called me "Mr. Mike" in a sweet little girl's voice when she wanted something and most everything else when she didn't. She let the homeless men live there so anyone wanting her would have to get through them first.

The little man covered his mouth with his hands and tears flowed freely down his weather beaten face. Walking passed the trash and empty bottles to the stairs I climbed up and her door was open. I called but no one answered so I went in and there she was, laying on the bed, arms up over her face but feet still on the floor. She must have died as soon as she sat down.

Back outside, I grabbed Sonny and drug him back to the church. After calling the Police, I sat down with him, focusing on the living rather than the dead.

"Hey Sonny," I said with my hands on his knees. "You're going to be OK. Me and the boys are going to stick with you."

And we did. My core homeless friends and I adopted Sonny, making him one of our own. By the time I left Louisville, he was no longer homeless, worked at the Church and at a Bar down the street, dying several years later clean and sober.

Working in Savannah, I got the call that Christine's 17 year old son had taken his own life. Immediately I drove to her house in the islands where she sat on the sofa, staring into space and paying no attention to those offering comfort. Her eyes locked mine when I opened the door and her pain erupted as I held her.

I was the minister at his funeral and his classmates spoke and laughed of the wonderful times they'd had with him trying to celebrate a life rather than face a death. Christine sat without moving, staring straight ahead, crossing her thumbs over and over, completely oblivious to the things taking place around her.

Afterwards, we had long talks together. She had lots of questions though I didn't have many answers so we'd sit silently. Eventually she returned to work, giving twice the love to her remaining son.

I've known and still watch lots of people living in desperate situations ... trapped in a marriage they don't want ... a job that takes their life away while they're still alive ... acting as caregivers for parents, spouses or children who can't care for themselves ... hiding their pain rather than working through it ... longing for a different life but with no real hope it'll ever happen.

Too many lose hope. You can't have faith without hope and without faith, life has no assurance and little if any conviction.

When people lose hope they become lonely, regardless of how many people they're around.

Throughout my life, I've worked to help folks rediscover their hope which is best done in groups. I've watched the homeless be raised from the dead to achieve wonderful lives, people dying with AIDS live happily and fulfilled, abandoned people form communities and the unlovely be loved.

I know, with absolute conviction, with everything within me, that pain can be worked through, hope can be recovered, Chains ... self-shackled or otherwise ... can be broken and everyone can live how and where they want!

That's why I've decided to offer group hope opportunities. It's what I've always done and have a track record of  helping people hope again, which leads to a conviction which leads to living again! Especially living the way you've always wanted to live!

Goddess and me

Sometime next year Goddess and I will be the same age.

She is 7 now or 49 in dog years. I am 56 and on her birthday she will catch me ... and then in no time at all she will pass me by.

Siting there her eyes lock on me as I write, panting and laying on the coolness of the tile floor. After sleeping, I think her favorite thing is watching me. She sleeps in the floor on my side of the bed at night, welcomes me whenever I walk in the door, waits on me on the bottom step when I walk out of the door and follows me around.

She minds when I tell her to stop, likes to sit under my feet when I'm working and somehow knows what day I'm returning when traveling.

We've been through a lot together and sometimes we were the only things we had to get through. She was rescued from a box on the side of the road as a puppy, learned to trust by sitting in my lap every night, and I laid on every step when she took her tentative step when she first climbed them.

Initially I wanted to name her God. I thought it sent a great theological message that God is indeed a woman. It's dog spelled backwards. And I thought it would be funny to call her, "GOD! GOD! Dammit come inside right now! Divine intervention happened I suppose and she became Goddess.

When I was suddenly single, she never left my side, understanding somehow that she'd been left too. She'd lay with me when I cried, licking away tears and would sleep in the bedroom doorway protecting me from whatever might come after me in the night. We'd take long meandering walks together often ending together on Shirley's sad little holy dock.

My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie taught Goddess how to sit, shake, lay down and mostly roll over. My neighbor Art gives her treats every day on our afternoon walks. She loves company, greeting them enthusiastically before boring and falling asleep at their feet.

Now she plays with Winston, the little gay dog, and the two of them go crazy when Sarah's girls get home from school. They vie for Sarah's attention and she rewards them with food from the table. When we take them for walks together people ask, "Is that Winston, the little gay dog? Is that Goddess?"

Several years ago when my life was in upheaval, my friend Johnny O advised, "Get rid of the dog!" and I was horrified. A short while later he apologized, saying, "I was wrong." People on the island acknowledge that she is special.

I can't imagine my life without her. It would be like not having Sarah. It would be like losing Jeremy, Kristen or Chelsea. It would be like losing a part of me.

Though that day will come, I'm going to keep living in the moment. Besides she and I are going to be the same age for a little while and that's a hell of an excuse to celebrate! The only thing we can be sure of is this moment, the people who are in our lives and what we do with both.

My life is at the right place at the right time with the right people ... all of which has been overseen by the most perfect dog I could have ever loved.

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!"