Island Fever

I've got a serious bout of island fever.

Not that I'm complaining.

It's been a lifelong condition.

I still vividly remember the excitement of seeing the ocean under a brilliant blue sky with the sun showing the sea with diamonds for the first time. In the back seat of the car, my Dad steered around the big curve on Highway 80, before the guard rail was there, I saw the unobstructed view. Salt water jumped into my heart and I've never been the same.

God decided to test my commitment and I was held prisoner of war by the Southern Baptist for 8 years in Louisville, Kentucky. I found the seafood shacks on old River Road that runs along the Ohio River to drink beer and hang out in when I wasn't attending classes at the Seminary. I thanked God for St. Matthews Seafood daily for its trucks of fresh fish and shrimp. I worked on my tan laying on the roof of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel.

In 8 short years I'd  successfully alienated most Southern Baptist and I think was a full 2 years ahead of god's original plan. I was rewarded by returning to the coast where I've been ever since.

Now I openly admit, freely and without shame, that I live on an island and choose to vacation on  other islands.

My favorite other island is St. Martin and Sarah and I leave tomorrow to make our way to the aqua-teal waters of Le Orient. Conner is already laying in wait for us. There are new adventures to be had, create stories to replace the old ones and collect new friends from somewhere else.

And my friend Carlos is having us bring him a new basketball because they're hard to come by down there. His last one went flat from overuse. I'm sure this will be akin to Ark of the Covenant being restored to Solomon's Temple and an excuse for a beach party!

The great thing about approaching life this way is when vacation is over you go home where you're still on vacation.

Think about it.

I will confess that I've reached the age and experienced enough bad in my life, that I sometimes wonder if I'll be able to keep it up. The sea and its allure have been my life's most constant sustenance. Continuously it restoreth my soul.

It's gotten me this far so I may as well keep at it.

It's like the Baptist taught me all those years ago. Once on vacation always on vacation ... or something like that.

One Hell of a life!

Sweat pours from my body as I run in the early morning humidity. An ocean breeze blows from the south but I know when I make the turn on the beach it will be at my back and it will be stifling until I turn again to make my way home.

Topping the 19th Street crosswalk, I look over tall while sand dunes crowned with green sea oats to a high tide with rolling white waves. The sun is mercifully blotted out by a summer squall over the ocean. I see purple rain falling heavily into greenish grey sea. Crossing the dunes, I turn left and run along side the water towards the main beach.

Jimmy Buffett is telling to "take another road to another place."

I feel good.

Yesterday Sarah and I took the girls to the beach and made a day of it. Last night we went to the "Full Moon" party at Marlin Monroe's where we got married.  We celebrate our anniversary each month rather than annually.

The Carnival of friends were all present bringing laughter with them. Sarah and I were wished "Happy Anniversary" repeatedly though we married in March.

Afterwards, we sat in a swing at the end of our street watching the magnificence of the moon rise over the ocean. Once home, the girls thankfully went to bed but Sarah and I remained awake to celebrate in a different way.

Such days make it hard to not be grateful for everything!

My red running shorts are completely soaked as I pass under the Pier. Looking ahead, I notice walkers have stopped walking and runners stand with a hand over the eyes, staring behind me.

Turning my head I look backwards and witness the most incredible water spout I've ever seen! A long dark funnel dips from the purple clouds touching the ocean. Water explodes upward, spectacularly splashing 30 feet high in every direction. It is holy!

The wind suddenly comes from every direction. The temperature drops significantly in mere seconds. Rain is immediate as the squall hits the shore and there is nothing to do but keep running, rain pelting me as though it's BB's fired from a relentless machine gun. I have to keep my head lowered and watch one foot repeatedly step in front of the other.

The rain hurts too much so I turn and splash down 7th Street, making my way home. Thunder roars. Lightening cracks as I run down the puddle that is now 2nd Avenue. Dan Fogleberg is telling me about Heartbreak Hotels. I wonder how my I-Pod and the rain.

Suddenly the sun blazes through the trees still dripping with rain. The temperature shoots upward. Sweat again pours from my body. My I-Pod keeps playing even when I hit pause.

On 12th Street, I take a right to see a brilliant broad rainbow hanging over our house. Behind it, purple rain falls on the marsh. Lightening flashes over Wilmington. I am bathed in sunshine watching darkness retreat and it's hard to not take it as a message from God. I had it good. Things got bad. It's good again. Whatever darkness is left is left in my life is moving away quickly.

"Thank you God," I say out loud as I turn towards our yard. "That was one hell of a run!"

"I'm living one hell of a life!"

No Vacancy

There are no vacancies on the island.

Even the three steps leading into The Captain's Quarters has people sleeping on them. Well, one shirtless guy is sitting up drinking a Poweraid staring off into space.

The two benches in front of Bernie's are also occupied. One by another shirtless guy and the other by a girl fast asleep wearing a sun dress with one leg hiked over the back of the bench. Five crew members of the Department of Public Works were giving extra attention to cleaning up the area around her bench.

My bicycle rolls on down street, which is located between 15th and 17th Street but for some inexplicable reason is called Tybrissa. At the end is a crosswalk to the beach and it too is completely occupied by a group of people wearing the same colored tee shirts.

Coasting to a stop I see they are missionaries from South Carolina. Yellow shirts proclaim in black "Jesus road trip to Savannah, Tybee Island and Jekyll Island." Who knew there was such a large concentration of unsaved heathens in these places? They are praying loudly so I peddle on to the Pier.

Have you ever been under the Pier?

I spent 30 years working with homeless people and watched them create elaborate homes out of cardboard, plastic and other people's garbage. I've been to tent cities across the street from the street from the White House. It was fabulous with matching white sheets perfectly pitched in neat rows. I've visited the communities under the bridges of cities throughout this great nation and am proud of America for building so many bridges so people can have a roof over their head!

BUT, that's nothing compared to what goes on under the Pier!

Holy Jesus there must have 300 people living in tiny little segregated communities down there! And they all seemed to be sectioned off according to lineage.

The brown people originating from Mexico had grills smoking under the main portion of the Pier. In front of them were the black people originating from Africa who were sitting in chairs placed in a circle and quietly reading the Bible. In front of them, nearest the water, were the white people originating from South Carolina, smoking cigarettes and drinking beers, throwing the bottles on the beach while having sex.

I contemplated introducing them to the missionaries from South Carolina but try to stay away from religious squabbles.

Tooling on down through the 14th Street Parking lot, I stopped with my back to the ocean so I could face of the couple of hundred balconies of The Ocean Plaza. The liberal media reported on FOX NEWS that smoking has dropped to 18% of the U.S. population.

They were evidently having  a convention at The Ocean Plaza!

If you've never visited the 14th Street parking lot, turned your back to the ocean and stared at the couple of hundred balconies of The Ocean Plaza ... well ... boy are you missing out on some sensory overload! Every single aspect of life takes place simultaneously in front of your very eyes.

I threw up in my mouth a little and kept on peddling.

The sidewalks were also filled with people unable to find a place. Shuffling their feet with blank stares they seem to just be wandering up and down Butler Avenue wearing the same clothes they wore yesterday. My friend and partner Sean McNally reminds me that Georgia produces more Zombies than any other state. They are all on the sidewalks of Butler Avenue right now.

But it's a beautiful day. Miles and miles of clear blue sky. Calm ocean and the water is warm. Soft sand with a lite breeze. Beers are chilled and rum is on ice. It's a perfect beach day!

It's a shame there's no room for you here.

Summer Squalls

Out of nowhere the wind picks up, quickly changes directions, and the rain hits as if fired from a water cannon. Yet on the horizon, over a dark ocean blanketed by dark clouds, are blue skies basking in sunshine. The sea in the distance is brilliant, shimmering with diamonds. A rainbow hangs in the sky separating the two.

I'm running in the rain.

I want to be in the sunshine but the summer squall sneaks up, never giving warning, and hitting me when I least expect it.

I can see where I want to be, but here I am.

"Shit!" I say out loud.

Others on the beach hug one another standing under tents, biding their time, waiting on it to end.

The fishermen don't care as they cast their worries away, content to eventually haul in hope.

Couples stroll hand in hand, feet in the surf, knowing the wet clothes are soon going to come off anyway back in their rooms. They smile and laugh, oblivious to the reality of it all.

I run on, madly hitting the wheel on my I-Pod searching for something that soothes my soul but nothing seems to fit. I keep hearing the click through my ear buds.

The rainbow grows.

The rains slow to a drizzle.

The brilliant blue sky in the distance comes closer.

Squalls are part of life. We're hit with the unexpected all of the time. Nights we'd planned are wrecked by unanticipated interruptions. Things we desire from others go unrealized. Dreams are smothered by stark realities. The hand of Death reaches up snatching someone we love. God seems to hide behind thick clouds like the sun.

We notice we're standing alone in the dark.

Rain falls on us.

On a warm day, cold winds blow from nowhere or everywhere.

But ... just over there ... where the rainbow is ... the skies are blue, the sun is shinning, the ocean gleams, dolphins jump, the glow of God is peeking over the clouds.

I see it in the rain.

Hope is right over there.

Summer Solstice

I love summer!

I love Summer Solstice!

It's a day of gathering for the Druids, of whom I am extremely fond. Druids were uninhibited people who were very spiritual. I'm as much Druid when it comes to my religion as I am anything else.

It's the longest day of the year in terms of sunshine!

Yesterday I actually walked inside the YMCA to pick up one of Sarah's girls and Jim Klutz exclaimed, "MICHEAL! WHAT ARE YOU DOING INSIDE!"

"Hey Jim," I replied, extending my tanned hand to his white one. "What you doing?"

"Got a meeting," he beamed.

"Ouch," I said. "I don't do those anymore."

"Laurel," I told her as we left, "if you go to meetings in your life you will get very, very white. It's not a good thing."

"Sssh," she said. "I'm very peaceful right now. I love yoga."

"How can a 9 year old love any ...?

"Sssh," she demanded.

We went home, put leashes on Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, and told them outside on a walk to Shirley's sad little holy dock. Sitting in the middle of the marsh we celebrated Summer Solstice Eve as one with nature.

Summer Solstice is also my beautiful daughter Chelsea's birthday. She is a summer girl who is currently in Paris finishing up her honeymoon. Two weeks ago she married on the beach as the sun set and the moon rose simultaneously in a dark blue sky. When she gets back she'll be Jones-ing for the beach as all children raised Druid do.

Plus everyone wears less laundry during the summer. The Druids blazed this practice and considered it holy.

If all that weren't enough, Summer Solstice falls on a Friday!

To which I say, "Surf's Up! Party on Dude and Dudettes!"

This is a great day to enjoy!

My Award Winning Church

The Church that employed me as its "Professional Christian" had won an award. Miraculously, the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel had morphed from a broken down, rag tag congregation of little old ladies into a vibrant, diverse, constantly-in-the-news group because we'd turned Sunday School rooms into apartments so homeless people would have a place to live and the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub so they would have a place to bath.

We reasoned that Church buildings are poor examples of stewardship. They sit vacate six days each week and we decided there was a better way to use a building to glorify God.

Having homeless people live in Sunday School rooms brought a life into the building that hadn't been there before. Before long, people who thought it was a cool idea began attending. Attendance went from 5 little old ladies to a couple of hundred.

Now as the Southern Baptist teach us, "Our Lord told us to count his sheep. Not feed them."

And someone in Baptist Corporate Headquarters in Nashville saw that our numbers were the roof!

Of course I was also counting every bath the homeless guys took as a Baptism and reporting that to sheep counters in Baptist Corporate Headquarters.

We'd received noticed that we were going to receive a trophy for shattering the Kentucky state record for Baptisms in a year AND it would be presented by the President of Kentucky Baptist Convention.

Obviously proud, we decided to spruce things up before they arrived on Sunday.

The building looked a little lived in and it needed painting. A group of church volunteers assembled and worked all Saturday to finish. Late in the day everyone was tired and ready to be finished. Besides we all wanted to be ready for Sunday morning trophy presentation.

So Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, "Brothers and sisters in Christ. Go home. There's only one wall left. I'll finish it."

We protested but he remained adamant. So we left.

Everything was perfect as I waited for the Baptist Ayatollah. The sanctuary was packed with proud members who I heard laughing and celebrating in anticipation of our award. When the Ayatollah arrived I proudly led him into the church.

His face went white.

In bold red letters on one wall of the sanctuary, Bill had painted the words "JESUS SHAVES!"

We never did get the award but we had one hell of a celebration.

What's wrong with the Church.

The purpose of church is so people can get together and remind themselves to think about something other than themselves.

Most churches fail miserably!

We take ourselves to church often knowing what we want to get out of it before we get there.

We want God to do this or that ... heal something we can't manage ourselves ... forgive us when we can't forgive ourselves and curse those we can't forgive ... we seek refuge from guilt, fear and loneliness.

Or we come for the entertainment!

We want good music ... funny sermons that can also make you cry ... great people watching ... wonderful gossip ... fervent political rhetoric ... opportunities to pass judgment ... to be part of a mob.

We go to church with so much agenda!

God help the clergy because most try to deliver on all of these things. They script the service with the precision of a Broadway musical or a military campaign. They ensure their people have the latest popular trend in worship ... excellent sound systems, large flat head television screens so everyone can see, elegant robes and mood lighting. They steal blindly from their peers for the best material. Some even orchestrate valet parking.

Often the result resembles an addiction. The junkies want their fixes and the minister is happy to serve them as the dealer.

Lenny Bruce, of all people, once quipped, "Every day people are straying away from the church and going back to God."

It's little wonder.

Love God like you love yourself. And love others like you love yourself.

That's what it's suppose to be about.

It's a shame its about so many other things.

Dreams and Visions

"Hey God! You listening?"

The house is silent.

"Of course you're listening. You're God. You're always listening."

God doesn't say anything in response.

"Anyway I want to talk to you for a few minutes."

God doesn't tell me to shut up or go to hell so I take it as a good sign and move ahead.

"I had crazy dreams last night that kept waking me up. I'm talking really stupid stuff! My son Jeremy goes missing and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie keeps demanding that I go and get him. Sarah and I bump into my Granddaddy Carver who wants us to help him drive a tractor to New York and I just can't see him in New York for anything! Winston, the little gay dog, joined the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Crazy stuff!"

God keeps listening without interrupting.

"Listen will you do me a favor. I know you said that 'old men will dream dreams and young men will see visions.' I also know I'm 56 but I don't think that's old enough for me to be dreaming all of these dreams. I liked having visions better and as you remember I was pretty damn good at it."

I can tell God is mulling the point.

"I envisioned a little broken down church becoming a haven for homeless people and radical Seminarians and the place took off. Then I had visions to start Phoenix Place, the J.C. Lewis Health Center and the Starfish Café. Those were all pretty good visions that all came true! I had visions of Sarah in and out of a bikini way before it actually happened! God, I want to keep having visions and ask that you cut off the dream machine until I'm into my 60s at least."

God doesn't say no.

"Thank God," I rush to conclude. "You're great! OK, I know you're busy so I'll stop bothering you. Bye."

I get outside as fast as I can.

The sun is blazing bright in a brilliant blue sky. A breeze blows from the west, across the marsh bringing the delightful aroma of sex in the Tropics. The grass is green, the ocean flat and flowers bloom everywhere.

I always feel better when God and I talk.

I hope that you do too.

A Bible and a bone

Winston, the little gay dog, pranced into the kitchen wearing a sleeveless tee shirt that read "Too cute to be straight" over a multicolored rainbow. He's wearing sunglasses and has his doggie Bible with him obviously ready to go to Bar Church.

Goddess is passed out in the floor between the kitchen and the living room, snoring loudly and reeking of medical marijuana. She isn't budging so Winston, the little gay dog, lithely jumps over her and makes his way to the doggie treats, picks out a big bone to suck on and lays it on top the little doggie Bible.

Sarah is wearing a bikini and is lathering herself up with suntan lotion as I pack the cooler. We're planning on spending the day at the beach. Goddess doesn't care that we're skipping Bar Church to go to the beach but Winston, the little gay dog, is pretty indignant and told me that I'm going to hell.

I gave him the finger and continued getting ready for the beach. He got all miffed and hasn't said anything since.

The other day I couldn't find any of my bandanas. I wear them when I run in the mornings but every single one had disappeared. Eventually I got down on my hands and knees and looked under our bed which Winston, the little gay dog, has made his own.

I was shocked at what I found.

A tiny disco ball revolved from one of the slats reflecting bright colors from the little Christmas lights hanging on the other slats. A tiny Chaise Lounge lay to one side covered by my bandanas. A lava lamp rested on a coffee table beside a stack of doggie porn.

I yelled at Winston, the little gay dog, and ever since he's gotten all religious on me.

I don't care that he's created his own space. Everybody needs there own space. I don't even care that he has stacks of doggie porn but He SHOULDN'T HAVE STOLEN MY BANDANAS!

Walking out the door, Sarah and I grab our beach chairs and take a right. Winston, the little gay dog, totes his Bible and bone, takes a left and prances down the street towards Bar Church where Psalmist Stephen can try to knock him off his Holy throne.

I let Sarah walk in front so I have something else to focus on.

A Bible and a bone!

Give me a break.

The Last Time with my Dad

I'd call and say, "Happy Father's Day."

"Same to you," he'd shoot back and quickly move on to talk about other things. He'd tell me about lunch with the boys, the latest jokes he'd heard, Georgia football or about the kids.

Those last years I talked to him pretty much every day.

If I didn't call him, he'd call me and God forbid we didn't hook up because he'd take it out on Mom who had nothing to do with any of it.

The other day my son Jeremy posted on his Facebook page, "Today would have been a good day to head over to Dutch Island and watch golf in the basement with Granddad. Wish he was still around on this Father's Day weekend."

I burst into tears when I read it.

I miss my Dad.

I drove him nuts as a kid. He never anticipated a long haired, music loving, hippy looking, girl crazy, marginal student who forever got in trouble.

That's not all true.

I inherited being girl crazy from him.

For reasons David and I could never figure out, Dad was crazy about Angi. When Kristen was born he was beside himself and Maggi and Chelsea made him a very proud grandfather. He would laugh that I live in a house full of girls now.

I utterly confused him when I went to Seminary though he made regular treks to Louisville, Kentucky where we'd drive to Brown County Indiana and drink beers together. Once he realized I was still going to drink beer with him he was OK with Seminary.

He'd call me all of the time at Union Mission asking me to do something for a bartender he liked or a Maintenance worker who needed counseling. He'd already told them that I'd do it so of course I had to do it. He was getting me back from driving him nuts as a kid.

The last time we had beers together was in Sandfly where he went every day to the Drift Away Cafe to spend time with his mates. Bob Colvin and I met there because we were working on lots of things together at the time. Dad was elated and bought whatever we had.

He'd asked me to hang around after we were done so I walked up behind him. Whoever was sitting on the bar stool beside him was asked to move.

"This is my son," Dad explained. "You probably know who he is."

He probably didn't but in Dad's mind he did.

The guy left and I sat beside Dad. He ordered us two beers which was funny because he didn't drink beer any more.

We clicked mugs together and sipped quietly, talking about things we'd already talked about.

Today, I've got two mugs in the freezer. They'll frost over when I pull them out in a little while. I keep his picture in the kitchen where I spend most of my time when I'm inside. He's looking at me now. Then I'm going to pour us two beers.

I'm going to toast him and wish with everything inside of me that he was toasting me back.

I love you Dad.

Happy Father's Day.

Already Home

Four miles into a five mile run I stopped.

I don't know why. I had every intention of finishing and have been on a roll lately but it seemed like a good idea so I gave myself permission to stop. I bent over and untied my shoes, pulled the socks off and strolled in the surf.

It's one of those picture postcard kind of days. The ocean is flat with soft rolling waves. Pelicans make splashes as they dive for fish. Shrimp boats drag green nets on the horizon. There's miles and miles of blue skies dotted with white clouds. The sea breeze is pleasant and the humidity is low under the blazing sun.

Grabbing my I-Pod, I find Jim Morris music to enjoy "the hellacious floating opera going by."

The cool ocean water was intoxicating to be toes.

"God I'm blessed," I say out loud.

Not a word is said in response but I can feel God smiling.

I wade out to my waist and am suddenly flooded by thoughts of people I care about. D-Luv, Michelle, Conner and Hania, Jimmie, Linda, Carlos and Robin all seem to be with me though they're all somewhere else. The ocean and me are holding them in our hearts.

Making my way back into the white sand, I smile at the runners and the walkers. Couples hold hands and return my smiles. A little boy runs naked around his mother.

I'm in no hurry.

I'm already home.

A Godly Use of One Finger

I was multitasking ... watching Sarah's girls splashing in the ocean, having a conversation with three different people at the same time on my I-phone and working on my tan. There was lots of space around me at low tide though lots of people were strolling in the surf, throwing a Frisbee or sipping beers while they talked.

The phone conversation was pretty intense as I read texts that were flying through cyberspace.

In the distance, a man stood from his beach chair and finished off the cheeseburger he'd bought on the Pier and threw the Styrofoam container in the air. The ocean breeze blew my way and it eventually landed in the ocean where the waves ended their journey on the shore.

He just watched it and shrugged his shoulders before resuming his conversation with his friends.

I couldn't believe it!

Jumping out of my beach chair, I stormed to the surf and retrieved his trash. As I stood, he was watching me. I held up my hands as to ask, "What the hell?"

Laughing, he shrugged his shoulders with a smirk on his face.

So I did what any good Christian who loves the beach and others would do ... I flipped him off and said, "Asshole."

He sat back in his chair not giving a damn.

BUT ... I sure felt better.

It's amazing to me what people are capable of doing to the earth and to themselves. Living at the beach, I care deeply about the environment because daily I watch how people are so cruel to it. Mornings I ride my bicycle down Tybee Island's main drag as City workers blow mountains of cigarette butts, plastic cups, articles of clothing and paper wrappers on to the street. At the same time a platoon of workers are walking the beach picking up the same items that were left behind by yesterday's crowd.

He could be the world's greatest brain surgeon for all I know. Perhaps a generous philanthropist ... minister of a great church ... fabulously rich investor ... or a redneck from the country! He could be all of those things.

What he is at this particular moment is an asshole.

Somebody needed to tell him and I'm glad it was me.

While it was a physical act on my part, it was also an emotional one. I shared my feelings, letting them out rather than stuffing them inside of me which is extremely unhealthy. It's better to let it out.

I figure that God placed me there watching Sarah's girls play in the ocean, texting with friends in real time cyberspace, getting darker by the hour for that moment.

"Asshole," I said again, sitting down with his trash.

Then I returned to the conversation with my friends.

You've got to have friends!

"Crawl inside and I'll take your picture," I said.

We were standing in front of the ovens at Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp outside of Munich, Germany.

 Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

"You're sick," he replied and then shrugged his shoulders and added, "It would be a funny sick picture."

We'd already gotten in trouble with the keeper of Nazi things on this trip.

A few days earlier we'd been in Berchtsgarden where Hitler had a summer home on top of a mountain with sweeping and stunning views. A section was fenced off so, having come that far anyway, we jumped it and made our way to a bombed out bunker. It had been turned into shrine of sorts by people who still harbor anti-Semitic feelings.

We weren't able to stay long because of the guards who, as luck would have it, spoke no English so we played dumb and they ran us off.

If that wasn't enough, I was detained by Immigration in Amsterdam. I still don't know why but this very day blond, long legged Nordic security guard plucked me out of line. She wore a tight dress with a Pill Box hat right out of the 1950s. I wore a University of Georgia Sweatshirt, blue jeans and had a back pack which she went through.

When she started studying the picture on my passport and then staring at me, I burst out laughing.

On the other side of a glass wall, Bill hung his head, shaking it from side to side, which made me laugh even louder. Of course this infuriated my guard who was saying something to me in a language I did not understand.

Bill made his way to our side of the glass and explained to the guard that I was mentally ill and he was my caregiver. This made me stop laughing and the guard nodded sympathetically. She placed my hand in his and he led me to the plane.

"How did you ...?" I started as we were walking.

"Shut up," he said. "Just act mentally ill. It shouldn't be hard."

So, I tell you all of that to tell you this.

You got to have friends.

A Jazzy Funeral

Poolside in a private courtyard in the French Quarter of New Orleans, I nursed a beer while working on my tan. I had a day to kill before Guy Sayles, America's greatest minister, was due. We'd planned to rendezvous and prop one another up for long weekend.

He was changing churches again and professed he needed a break though I've long known that Guy loves church more than most anybody. Guy, Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and I spent a weekend in the woods outside of East Dublin, Georgia years earlier. We drank beers and smoked cigars throughout the night, talking about where we thought we'd end up. Guy made it clear he loved the church and was giving his life to it. Bill and I weren't so sure.

Shortly after that weekend, Guy figured his career would be significantly enhanced if he stopped hanging out with Bill and me in the woods, smoking cigars and drinking beers all night long.

So he said we could both fly into New Orleans, far away from his church and hang out where nobody would know who he was. I think he told his wife Anita that he was going on a church retreat or something. He didn't want her to know we were hanging out.

I was flat broke and trying to figure out what to do next in life. I was living in a borrowed Cottage as my divorce was being finalized. The pain of not seeing my kids every day was killing me. I needed a break from it and had a credit with just enough space on it to buy a plane ticket and book a room after calling Guy and saying I needed a friend.

Music hung in the air at 10:30 in the morning and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. I was the only occupant of the tiny guest house and was taking advantage of it laying naked by the pool.

But the music hung there.

Getting up, I threw on some clothes and opened the door to walk out on the sidewalk.

And there it was!

A funeral was passing before me. Women in long dresses with parasols wiped their eyes with lace handkerchiefs. A black man wearing all black beat a drum in a slow hypnotic bang. Two saxophones blew sadness. A lone trumpet harkened the Angels. Behind them was the casket being carried by six pallbearers and behind them were the family and friends weeping in their cocktails.

Standing on the sidewalk wearing black running shorts, a University of Georgia tee shirt, flip flops and holding the beer in my hand, I was mesmerized.

There are times in life when you have to make an instant decision. An opportunity presents itself and you either grab it or let it pass never to come again. This was one of those moments.

Stepping into the street, I joined the family and friends.

An old woman toasted me.

I cried with them all the way to the graveyard.

As the casket was covered with dirt, the music changed and upbeat Jazz filled the air. The old woman grabbed my hand and we danced among the tombstones. People clapped and joined us. Life was conquering death.

Smiling, I returned to the tiny guesthouse with the pool in the courtyard. I threw the clothes in the room and baptized myself in the pool.

I'd thought this was going to be a sad trip, filled with me crying to my friend about everything that was wrong.

I knew better now.

Everything was going to be fine.

Tybee Island Normal

Every fall Mike Hosti puts on the sign at the IGA "Back to Normal" because the tourists supposedly have left. The letter "R" is always backwards. Tybee Island could then slip back into its normal, laid back lifestyle.

It's not that way now. Tourist season is upon us and for those of you who aren't here but have any interest whatsoever of what's going on, here are the things that happened on Tybee Island yesterday.

Cheryl Sadowsky, owner of the world famous Breakfast Club was accosted by Honey Boo Boo's body guard at The Crab Shack and her drink was knocked to the ground causing lots of locals to burst into tears. A prayer vigil for the spilled drink is currently being planned. Cheryl is shaken but word is that a full recovery is expected.

Honey Boo Boo is apparently on the island though nobody gives a shit other than her body guard.

The Tybee Island Parking Service Nazi-mobile drove through a Pedestrian crosswalk full of people at 35 Miles per hour apparently in a rush to give someone a ticket.

Morning beach combers discovered that at least twenty-seven couples made love in the sand dunes last night and collected left behind articles of clothing and condoms (we recycle!).

My friend and partner Wen McNally did a Zombie photo shoot on the Pier last night during one hell of a thunderstorm which is something you just don't see every day. As her husband Sean points out though, the state of Georgia produces more Zombies than any other state and I agree with him. TO find out for yourself just visit the Georgia State Capitol in Atlanta when the legislature is convened.

My friend Keith was hit by a truck and taken to the Emergency Room where he immediately called Ken Nugent whose motto is "One Call! That's All." He didn't call his family because he doesn't want them to know if any impending litigation is successful.

There was a long line of tourists at The Breakfast Club at 6:45 this morning prompting the astute observation, "If I'm on vacation the last damn thing I'm doing is getting up early to stand in line to have breakfast."

Obviously having stepped away from the pipe, Johnny O went to work ten minutes early.

That's a lot of activity for twenty-four hours.

Let's see what happens today.

When it all goes wrong

"Will you just give me a break," she exclaims in exasperation, "I think I've lost my boyfriend and my job."

She was much too thin, greasy black hair, vacant brown eyes that were misted over, a white tank top with pink bra straps slipping over her shoulders, and cut off blue jeans. A tattoo of Celtic letters were painted in black on the base of her neck matching a circle of them around her left arm. A trampy Olive Oil, chain smoking, was doing everything wrong and someone had called her out on it.

Sarah and I had stumbled in for something to eat after attending the Savannah Singer Songwriter Series on the island.

"Will you please just leave?" she begs her customer and he does.

Everything she does seems to keep getting worse. After giving up rewriting the menu board, she grabs a dollar from the cash register and plays a sad song, very loudly, on the juke box. This ran off another customer.

When the song's over, the only other person in the bar besides us walks to the juke box and feeds it money. Country music blares over the basketball game that's on the television. We watch because there was no way we can hear anything that's said.

The greasy Olive Oil lights another cigarette and cries as she stares into place.

She took our order but never gave it to the cook. When the songs finally finished we tell her.

Everybody has those kind of days. Everything just seems to turn to shit. The harder you try, the worse it gets. Your roof may as well leak, your house have fleas and your car won't start. Broken hearts break a little more, loneliness grows, your best of friends give stupid advice and you just want to cry.

Our food arrives and Sarah asks for napkins.

She rushes, apologetic for the tardiness of our meal, grabs one a Coca-Cola napkin dispensers and places it before Sarah. It's empty.

We leave her a nice tip. There isn't anything else really to do.

And we both throw her prayers. We've had those kind of days.

The prayers may not help.

They sure as hell couldn't hurt.

My Ministry

"What everyone wants to know," explains the very famous Dr. Jim Withers, "is how you possibly defied the laws of physics and social expectations to live the life that you're living?"

"Hold on," I say into the receiver.

His question constitutes a beer. I walk inside to the fridge and grab one and stroll back to the Beloved back deck and pick the phone back up.

I'd called Jim, the founder of the International Street Medicine Movement, because Dr. Andrew Chapya in Africa had reached out to me for help. After talking about Jim for a few minutes we'd moved on to catching each other up on our personal lives.

"We missed you at the Flotilla," I'd said.

A few years ago I'd convinced Jim he needed a break for the world and there is no better place to leave the real world than Tybee Island.

"Sarah looked good," he replied. "I saw the pictures."

"Yep," I answered, "you should have joined us."

Then he paused and asked me his physics question.

"Beats me," I answered.

"Me too," he replied.

We hung up and I plop down in my chair and prop my bare feet on the railing. My feet are a golden brown, in no small part, because I work mostly naked on the Beloved Back deck everyday. I think about his question.

It is true that I am a technologically advanced minister-at-large with a world wide congregation that never gets together.

My study is my back deck and my secretary is a Palm Tree with oyster eyes, a coconut bra and a grass skirt.

The sanctuary is the beach which was created by God in the first place and, unlike other ministers, I see no reason to try to make improvements on the design.

There is no dress code in this church so there is little pretentiousness that comes with decided what to wear when worshipping God.

Getting here was most interesting and I wouldn't wish the things I've been through on anybody. (That's not true. There are some people I wish it on.) Nevertheless, here I am.

Sipping the beer, I notice how hot it is and decide to go baptize myself.

It's got to be the Seventh Day somewhere.

That's a day of rest.

I give myself the rest of the day off.

It's good work if you can get it.

Welcome to love

Having donned the black robe, the tarnished man at least gives an initial appearance of holiness. He stands waiting as they approach one by one. Upon reaching him, half take their places on his right and half on his left. He watches each of them, locking eyes and witnessing their smiles. He glimpses faces in the audience though remains focused on the procession.

Finally, he sees her, standing there more beautiful than she's ever been though she was already beautiful. She walks slowly, purposely, full of joy. The ocean breeze blows wisps of her blond hair, the setting sun radiates her face and a choir of seagulls sing praise.

She is standing before him now but her eyes are on the man standing to his left. Their eyes are locked as they share a smile, before holding hands, making vows and giving themselves completely away. Then they turn and stare at him in anticipation.

The ones on the right and the ones on the left turn and face him too, also waiting.

People sitting or standing around the semi-circle cock their heads or crane their necks also setting their eyes on him, straining to hear as the ocean breeze blows, waves roll onto the shore and seagulls sing.

It is the most pregnant of moments and it hangs there.

What can he possibly have to say?

He's not the most creditable person on the earth when it comes to marriage. Everyone witnessed his own heart shatter into millions of pieces and slowly put together again by the few who loved him anyway. They watched him reluctantly pull himself up and stand on wobbly knees. Surprise hit them when he began to dance and it quickly turned to shock when he himself stood where the couple are standing now.

Say what you will, he still believes in love.

He steals a glance at his wife sitting in audience reaffirming their own vows and sharing their own smile in the pregnant moment.

Then he clears his throat and gets down to business.

Looking at his little girl holding the hands of the man she loves, he says to the fishes in the ocean, the people on the beach, the seagulls in the sky, the audience sitting or standing, the wedding party and to God himself ...

"Dear friends, welcome to love."

Laid Back

It has come to my attention over the past several days that I'm pretty laid back.

That's good.

I've worked hard to get here.

My world turns very slow.

Not much bothers me.

Well ... politicians bother me. They can all go to hell. I'm non-discriminatory about it ... they all suck. They start off believing they can make a difference but in the end, the major prophet George Harrison was right when he said, "No matter who runs for office, it's the Government that always gets elected."

Television preachers bother me too. They also suck and can go to the same hell they're telling me I'm going to just because I happen to have broken eight of the ten commandments. They hang around Saints claiming to be with the "In-crowd" whereas I prefer my friends the Sinners. We have more fun and we spend a lot of time laughing at Joel Osteen and T.D. Jakes, just waiting on them to have their "Jim and Tammy Baker" moments.

Other than that though, nothing much bothers me.

My daughter Chelsea is getting married tomorrow and a Tropical Storm happens to be passing over head and everybody's in a tither about it.

"It'll be alright," I tell them with a shrug. "The sun always comes back out."

Besides I've never done a beach wedding in the rain. It could be fun, combining the best elements of nuptials with nipples in a wet tee-shirt contest.

There's also all of the drama that goes with a wedding. Who's coming and who's not? Everyone assumes the worst. I don't get caught up in all of that.

It won't matter anyway. I won't see them as I'll be crying my eyes out.

Plus I'm performing the ceremony as a former "Professional Christian" so I have to multi-task by talking and crying at the same time.

It'll all be alright.

When Sarah and I got married we decided to kidnap a party that was already going on and only invite a few friends. Two hundred people showed and the party someone else was throwing became ours. It was a magical night.

It will all work out.

It always does.

Now

Lots of people have problems with the past.

They're haunted by it, stuck in it or forever try to relive it.

I'm with Oscar Wilde on this one.

"The one charm of the past is that ... it's the past" ... meaning it's not now.

I tell a lot of stories and a many of them are from things I've done. I've happened to have done a lot doing my best to take full advantage of this gift of life that I have. I do my best to exploit it, squeezing every single drop out to enjoy.

Like everyone else, there's bad shit in my past. Much of it was self-inflicted but a far share was instigated by others. Sometimes I'll tell those stories too as a way of making certain I learned the lesson because I sure as hell never want to do any of that stuff again!

Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, and I have had many excellent adventures that merit retelling. We have every intention of having many more.

Carlos wrote me yesterday from St. Martin to say there are growing rumors that Conner and I will be back soon and we're bring Hania and Sarah. He already knew we're returning because I told him so a few weeks ago. Conner and I have had many excellent adventures there, both famous and otherwise, and everyone is abuzz not because of what we've done, but because of what we might do.

I love summer. I love it even more than college football season. Summer's my favorite time of year ... you got your baby, got blanket, got your bucket of beer ... and I've had good ones and bad ones. What I remember about the bad ones is just trying to get through them. Several were in St. Martin where Carlos and Verna checked on me everyday and brought me jerked chicken. But I don't want to that again either.

Now this summer is what's exciting me!

Sarah and I kicked it off this past weekend by floating from the mouth of the ocean through the Back River to The Crab Shack where we had a lovely lunch and a better talk. We've got big plans to enjoy the hell out of this one.

Jimmy Buffett is running through my head. "It's the reason for living, that's what I'm given, I don't need no history lesson to tell me why ... I love the Now!"

I'm not big on when the past comes to visit me. It's just what was. There are some good stories to still tell but the rest is best left back there. I don't want to go back to it and I certainly don't want it come back to me. College was great but I'd die if I had to go back.

Seminary was a defining part of my life but they'd shit their pants if I wanted to return, which I don't.

My days as a "Professional Christian", President & CEO, political advocate, and such were key moments for me too but it would be pure hell to do any of them again.

I'm too busy anyway.

Living the NOW and loving it!