Independence

It's a big day in St. Martin!

The 4th of July in the United States here is an excuse for an American style buffet (pronounced Boo-fey) consisting of hamburgers, hot dogs and ribs for the low cost of 23 Euros. We'll be dining in this evening at a much lower cos

t before heading over dancing afterwards.

It's also Conner's birthday which is a big deal here. Sarah and I decorated the patio of his studio this morning before heading to Le Boutique to get croissants for breakfast. As we paid I began to explain why we were buying them, Mimi decked in red, white and blue snapped in her thick French accent, "I know it's Conner's birthday! We have it written down!"

Go figure.

There's also a parade down the beach this morning. The Americans will deck themselves in patriotic attire and wave flags strolling down Orient Beach. The non-Americans, mostly French, sitting in their chairs or laying on blankets will be ambivalent about it but we'll have a good time.

I love my country though our Government drives me absolutely crazy! The Founding Fathers had great ideas that elected officials have consistently eroded ever since. Congress is an absolute mess of partisan zealots whose common goals are re-election or retirement with the greatest of perks. Having spent a large portion of time in Atlanta and Washington, I'm cynical about them all.

The news drives me nuts. I don't care if its the liberal media or Robert Murdock's desire to drive everyone to the right, the news is all bad. The airheads who deliver the news are mostly entertainers with nothing much to say. I pretty much ignore them these days.

Our religious institutions follow suit of the elected politicians taking sides on most everything. The attitude of many churches is "you're either with us or you're going to hell. So go to hell!" I was invited to the nation's first "Faith Based Summit" in Washington and was appalled to see the blatant ass kissing taking place.  I try to shy away from such clergy.

Our health care system is absolutely broken. We have the best product in the world with the worst delivery system ever invented. Try as they may to fix it, or least make it better, the Government seems to only make it worse.

Yet, we're still the greatest country on earth.

The freedoms we have, the truths we hold dear, the right to congregate and say whatever we have to say ... these things remain mostly in place.

Political correctness is killing us. Parasitism is too. Fundamentalism of any kind is a terrible and evil thing.

But, as a crazy as things have gotten, America still huddles the masses ... stoops to help the fallen ... protects the weak ... defends against tyranny ... believes God has a purpose for us all.

So we will march this Independence Day, showing our French friends, how proud we remain to be who we are.

Letting Go

Moses led the chosen people to the Promised Land. It took them a while to get there, as fights broke out and God kept doing things to help them along ... but they eventually got there. They certainly took the scenic route.

The Promised Land was their place. A holy and special land they claimed as their own. A place that is part of them. They are part of the place. The land and the people became one.

I know that feeling.

It took me a while to get to the beach. Starting off in a mill town, I made my way to college and then to Seminary in a land far, far away before eventually landing on Tybee Island. There were fights along the way, mostly with myself, as I struggled to find my purpose in this life. A couple of false starts led to start all over again. Looking back on it I can see how God nudged me this way or that. And in the end, I found my Promised Land.

Like the chosen people I had to let go of the past and resolved myself to live in the present. I have lots of stories to tell about how I got here but I excommunicated the feelings behind them a long time ago. Mercifully, I have friends scattered in all sorts of places living in their own Promised Lands or still trying to find it.

I don't hold on to feelings from the past. They're just part of yesterday and you can't live in the present if you're forever dealing with the past. There have been good people and not so good, Saints and Sinners, who have been part of this journey and sometimes they come up in conversation but most are not part of my life today.

Today is Sarah, close friends, little girls and grown children, Palm trees, ocean breezes and a world that comes to me every day on my computer screen. It is travels to other lands, most seaside places, work that is rewarding and occasionally profitable, and the daily enjoyment of a sense of belonging. It is bike rides, walks holding hands, supper conversations we can never guess ahead of time, and trying to expand culinary options beyond McDonald's.

I talk to God here daily. We've found ways to communicate and I find myself listening harder than I ever have. I don't think God's that big on using words, preferring to make make it real. God uses feelings to get my attention.

It's my Promised Land.

If you're not in yours yet, I hope you keep at it. You can get there in spite of fights with yourself or others, a quiet God, and obstacles in the way. What you'll be most surprised about when you get to the Promised Land ... is you.

Hot Tropical Nights

The place does have some deficiencies.

"What's the lack of entertainment tonight?" I asked as we stood on the beach.

"Shine," Hania replies.

"Shit!" I exclaim.

He is a disc jockey who sings the songs. It's a mixture of 1950's rock-n-roll, Bob Marley Reggae, and the "Electric Slide."

The old people love it and crowd the dance floor at Papagayo's which is managed by my friend Carlos. He often weaves through the crowd dancing with this person or trying to hold someone up  gasping for air in the hot sticky night.

Their is no other option.

After a nice dinner which we prepared ourselves and ate under the stars, the four of us make our way to be entertained. As soon as we enter, Carlos grabs Sarah and the dancing begin. Releasing her to rescue another elderly woman gasping for air, she and I dance wildly and passionately. We smile, enjoying ourselves and occasionally join Conner and Hania at the bar. Our bodies are hot with sweat in the thick Tropical air.

When Slide plays the "Electric Slide" Carlos joins Sarah in mimicking the way I do it, with a wild high kick on the turn. The three of us look as though we've practiced but they laugh as they make fun of me.

There is a law here that the music stops at 10:00 which makes absolutely no sense, other than allowing people to go to bed early without hearing music. Of course this is completely negated by the music coming from Le Gallion, a beach bar around the cove.

But precisely at 10:00 Slide mercifully stops crucifying songs.

We bid Carlos and other friends good-bye and stroll under star lit Palm Trees swaying in the Trade Winds. Sarah and I hold hands as our feet glide over the sandy road leading to our tiny studio where another dance erupts as the hot Tropical night continues.

Dad's Gifts

It was four years ago that my Dad died.

He waited around until I could get back from St. Martin, made sure I was alright with it, and went peacefully several days later.

Sarah and I are back in St. Martin on this anniversary of his departure.

It's funny because I'm increasingly mindful of the things Dad passed on to me. He loved the sea, the smell of the marsh, the shape of Palm Trees and the blaze of the sun. He was forever tanned and forever working on it. He loved to catch crabs and pick them for others. He loved sea food.

He had a serious case of "Wanderlust" and would pick up and go whenever the opportunity presented itself. He and the boys were forever taking off for the Bahamas or Fernadina Beach. He and Mom traveled the Caribbean and Europe.

I was in my office once when he called me on the phone.

"Hey Bub, you want to go to the Bahamas?"

"Yeah Dad! When?"

"Now. Meet us at the airport in an hour," and he hung up.

Somehow I made the plane and spent a week with my Dad and his cronies in Marsh Harbor. It was my first trip to the islands and I am forever indebted to him making that introduction.

He passed the Wanderlust on to me.

Dad loved to laugh and to make others laugh. Forever telling jokes or playing them on someone, he lived to laugh. There's enough bad things in life to drag you down and Dad's solution was to surround himself with people who would laugh. My life is filled with the same kinds of folks.

He loved to cook and was damn good at it. His friends invited him on trips just so he would do the cooking. He especially loved to grill and again he passed these loves on to me. Dad and I have passed them on to Jeremy.

These things keep Dad very much alive to me though it's hard for me to believe that four years have already passed. I don't dwell on the sadness or the loss. I just focus on the things he left behind.

Or as Dad would say, "It's all good."

Heaven on earth

George is a  tall thin black man from Great Britain. He landed on St. Martin several years ago to live and work on the beach ... literally! During the day he built elaborate sand castles that people would snap pictures of them for tips. At night, he slept beside the giant Santa Claus or mermaids by  the sea.

A year later he progressed to renting chairs and umbrellas to visitors. At night he slept in one of the lounge chairs.

This year he is a waiter at "Andy and Cheryl's Baywatch", a popular beach shack with really good food.

"When I was 23," he says in his English accent that throws me off because of his black skin for some reason, "I wore a tie and worked in an office. I hated it so I quit. I wanted to see the beaches of the world and that's what I've spent my life doing."

Nodding in agreement, I completely understand. I live at the beach and am vacationing on my favorite beach which George calls home.

"What's the favorite place you've lived," Sarah asks.

"Bora Bora," he immediately replies. "I was there 20 years ago. I'd like to go back but you never can you know. It's too developed now. I would hate it. But back then it was the most beautiful place I've ever seen."

Bora Bora is on my bucket list and I'm distraught to hear of its development.

"I'm going to retire next year when I turn 50," George continues. Then I'm going to Australia. I haven't been there yet."

My mind reals. How do you retire at 50? Why would you stop doing what you're doing now? Why leave here when you have a job with the most incredible views?

George is suddenly my hero!

I'm often asked what is it about St. Martin that has captured me so. The island can be crowded and crazy. It takes a long time to go shopping and there are no Wall Mart's for convenience. The Euro is still smacking the dollar.

Then I get to Orient Bay and the world changes. The constant crashing of the waves on the reef. The green mountains that fall down into the Caribbean Sea. The powder white sand and constant Trade Winds. Coconuts, large green Geckos and other islands rising out of sea in the distance all take my breath away.

I try to share it with others and they often struggle with my love of this place. I don't care. This place has anchors tethered to my heart. It's hard to explain but this is my version of heaven. I can't get enough of being here and will always come back.

People talk about heaven on earth.

I've found mine.

A Perfect Day for Hugs

"It is so good to see you so happy," Char said after jumping out of her chair to hug me on the beach.

"Hi Sarah," she said reaching out to shake my wife's hand.

Char and her husband Mike have been coming to St Martin for a long time and I've known them for years. Mike had hats made for his friends that read "Drink Naked" on them and one hangs proudly at our house.

This place is a community of sorts, regulars who arrive every year at the same time, and annual relationships are built.

"I know more people here," Conner said as we walked from lunch, "than I know in my neighborhood.

It's true.

Yesterday was a day of hugs. The four of us would make our way down the beach and friends we haven't seen in a year or two would jump up and give us hugs. Because of Facebook, many knew all about Sarah as they met her for the first time or friends she's already collected knew where to find us. It's kind of like a Camp for Adults only, though there are some children here.

When its time for people to leave there is a tradition of "gifting" things to those who remain. Beers, liquor, food, floats and all manner of things necessary for a successful stay at the beach. Jenci and Patricia have already told Sarah and I not to buy certain things because they are gifting to us in a couple of days.

Last night at dinner we ran into friends who live here. Afterwards, Sarah and I danced while Conner and Carlos watched with smiles.

Today the sun is glistening and the Trade Winds have picked up. Sarah wakes and we share the first hug of the day. I'm certain there will be many more because its a perfect day for hugs.

This Day

Waking, I kiss the top of Sarah's head and stumble through the darkness out of the back door into the bright sunshine of a Caribbean morning. My hair is askew, my joints haven't loosened up and my eyes are not fully open. My feet shuffle through the soft powder white sand carrying me to the teal blue water of Orient Bay. When I wade in up to my knees I fall face forward submerging myself and float face down until I have to breath. Then I flip over and float on my back, eyes now squinting at the sunshine.

This is how I wake up here.

I walk with purpose back to the tiny studio and pour myself a cup of coffee. The Palm Trees dance   in the Trade Winds. Yellow Butterflies flutter and Finch birds dark through the air. Large Geckos slither through the grass.

Sarah wakes and I join her back in bed and we celebrate being here.

With a second cup of coffee, I stand in the back door and immediately burst into laughter. Carlos walks toward me wearing a full sweat suit on a 82 degree morning.  Last night at dinner he said he wanted to run with me because he's put on some weight and true to his word here he is!

"He's Here!" Sarah yells from the bed.

"G'morning," he says in his French West Indies lilt.

I throw on running shorts and tie the bandanna around my head and we make our way to the Bay. It is one-and-a-half miles from one tip of Orient Beach to the other and I daily make a three mile run. Carlos makes it one mile before needing to walk so I jog in place beside him so we can talk.

It's been a year since we've been together though we've been friends for more than a decade. His first visit to the United States had been to our house. He and Verna spent a month with me and our friendship was cemented. When I found myself suddenly single I spent lots of time here and he and Verna crossed the imaginary line and became part of my family.

"Is that?" he says pointing in the distance. "That is Sarah?"

"Yep," I answer bopping up and down.

"Looks at those legs," he says. "Ay Yi Yi."

"I do," I say laughing.

She runs past us in determination.

We encounter Victor, Carlos' father, and his father also named Victor, who are on their morning walk. They embrace me welcoming me home.

Back at the studio, Sarah puts Carlos through additional exercises. Conner stumbles over sipping a cup of tea to watch. A moment later Hania follows suit. Happy laughter fills the air.

The rest of the day will be on the beach with these and other friends. In a magic place that drips lovely, we celebrate this day.

Watching Friends Die

I learned yesterday Michael Sullivan died.

That sucks!

We liked each other. He managed the news and I often gave him some.

I'd show up at the TV station for "Live at 6" and we'd sit in his tiny little office and crack jokes or wax crazy philosophy like that in  A Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy ... which makes perfect sense if you've been drinking ... which we did on occasion ... on Tybee Island where we both lived ... making it worse was Chicago Bob and Johnny O were part of this circle meaning we were never quite sure which Galaxy we were actually hitchhiking to or from.

We also serious stuff together and he was always supportive of anything I was doing.

Mostly though, I'd stroll to the Pier when Dean still ran it for The Bored Meeting with Johnny O, Chicago Bob, Whitely Reynolds, Trolley Joe, O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) and Michael Sullivan.

Sitting on the beloved back deck, I can't help but think to myself and say to God. "Holy Shit! Another friend has died."

Chicago Bob went first. Trolley Joe second. Some have claimed that Whitley died but nobody ever told him so he keeps doing the same stuff.

I get to thinking about it and it starts adding up. My Dad died a few years ago. My sweet cousin Sheri Baker died last year. Rick Donnelly, also my cousin, was the same age as me, left two years ago. Dean who ran the Pier and made us our own VIP section at the bar one night while the Tams played.

It sucks.

But I'm a minister and am supposed to make sense of it somehow. All I know is that life's a gift that none of us asked for yet each of us share. None of us know how long we got it ... or how much we have one another in our lives ... all we know is this is what we got or this is who we've had.

A lot of people are glass-half-empty people (like politicians, preachers and news reporters). They look at the dying that goes on around us and lament, "Well, this just sucks and it's going to happen to me one day too ... AND THAT SUCKS MORE!"

Like Michael, Chicago Bob, Johnny O, O Johnny but most definitely Trolley Joe, I look at it all a little differently.

It's great to be alive today!

It's wonderful having the people I have in my life right now!

It was incredible having the people I've had in my life because I don't know what I would have done without them!

So Michael, the party goes on, just as I know you would have insisted. It's a little different than what it would be if were still here but you're not.

But your spirit is. Your influence remains. Some of the laughter sounds like yours. Some of the crying does too.

Or to put it in the words of the Major Prophets John, Paul, George and Ringo ... "O-blah-dee, O-blah-dah, life goes on! BRAH!"
________

Interested in enhancing your discussions with God and taking them to a deeper level? If you are don't miss the chance to learn more at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/august-class/ — with Micheal Elliott.

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.