Come Monday is it alright?

It's Monday and you're either hauling ass back to work or wishing you were.

There's either regrets left over from the weekend or joyful residue because it was so great.

All of your sins have been washed away or you've missed the mark so many times there's no reason to care anymore.

You can't wait for the day to begin, already wish it were over or are merely biding time until the end of the week.

Sunday is full of promises that the slate may be wiped clean and we can start over but it's Monday that proves the Sabbath's commitments.

Come Monday, what is it?

I've lived each of Monday's various incarnations. I dreaded it when I was in school, couldn't wait for it when I was employed as a "Professional Christian," enjoyed it as my career hit stride, came to passionately hate it as thirty years of  giving everything away to others took its toil and now gladly accept it as another day I've been given to live.

It's as much of a gift as Sunday or the rest of them.

It's mine to do with what I want or I can carry it like a burden for others to see.

It's started slowly for me as we watched the sun rise from bed listening to the waves make love to the shore. A two hour drive awaits before I dive into a very full work day that will end tonight around eight, long after the day ends.

I'm looking forward to it, actually enjoying it already.

It might be the last one I'm ever given.

I don't want to waste it.

What are you doing today?
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 “Check out Micheal Elliott’s new book, Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts! Heartwarming musings about life, God, second chances and much more.”- Jefferson Ross . Get your copy now at www.meellc.com/newbook

Where to live?

I could live here.

Here is a tiny seaside condo with a glass wall spilling onto a concrete deck standing beside sand dunes allowing a completely unobstructed view of the ocean.

The doors are open and the hypnotic, rhythmic, crashing of the waves is the only sound. A blazing sun hangs in a white blue sky and on the horizon are cotton candy clouds that I can barely make out.

It is a tiny two bedroom twice as long as it is wide, white panel and blue stucco interior, tastefully decorated, light and airy. It's very economic and efficient.

"I could live here," Sarah pronounces, "if it was just in another country."

I agree.

We have a dream of living in a house with a sand yard, landscaped with Palm Trees, sunflowers and Hibiscus. We like the idea of southern Belize where it never gets cold, the dollar is strong and the people are nice. It's far less crowded than St. Martin which has long been where I would have chosen but we're moving on to other things.

While Sarah likes the first snowfall of the year and then again on Christmas Day, I don't ever want to see the stuff again.

Aside from Tybee Island, the only other place we'd choose to live in the U. S. is around the corner from our good friend Joey Finch in Key West or on the house boat I've always wanted.

But life is getting in the way.

"We have to wait until the girls finish school," she says. "They're in really excellent schools."

"Honey, I say exasperated at her logic, "if we all lived on a house boat any time we didn't like the schools or the neighbors, we'd just move to another place with better schools and neighbors."

She rolls her eyes.

Plus my kids are all busy building their lives and its fun to watch and be an occasional participant. I think they should all get a house boat so we could launch a "Family Fleet."

It's alright though. Sarah and I have a day to ourselves in this tiny little place in north Florida. There is nothing on the agenda. We have no "To-Do" list. She said last night we may not even stroll down the beach for dinner but order in instead.

It's that kind of day.

We have plenty of time to plan for when the time comes to go.
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♦ “I received my copy of Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. It was just wonderful. I laughed, I cried, I shook my fist and the sky and said ;You tell em Micheal!’ I’ll be picking it up again, re-reading some of my favorite passages.” Sharron Brand

Order your copy now at www.meellc.com/newbook

Listening to the Sea

There's just something about a beach!

I just can't get enough of them.

"Let me get this straight," I was once asked. "You live at the beach and when you vacation you go to another beach?"

"Yes," I confidently reply.

"That's just not right."

It was the stupidest question I've ever been asked.

The beach is where God started when creation begins so I figure there's no better way to start and end every single day.

I've never met a beach I haven't loved. Even the cold weather beaches like in Rhode Island or Roche Harbor Washington have a charm that soothes my soul.

Personally though, I love the hot weather beaches where clothing is optional, bicycles are the preferred mode of transportation and food is best consumed outside.

This morning Sarah and I lay in bed with the doors open listening to the waves kiss the shore. A light rain is falling so the ocean is calm and flat with rhythmic swells that are mesmerizing. Time slows and whatever is happening in the rest of the world doesn't matter.

I've been this way my whole life having been born with salt water in my blood.

Luckily, Sarah's dream has always been to live at the beach so I have the joy of participating with her as she discovers all of the wonder of ocean side living.

There's not much to say laying here listen to what the sea has to say.

So that's what I'm going to do.
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Read more in my new book "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts" at www.meellc.com/newbook

Happy Day of the Dead!

Happy Day of the Dead!

I'm not really certain if that's the appropriate greeting but I like the Day of the Dead.

Originating with the Aztec Indians in Mexico, it's a day for family and friends to gather and remember friends and family members who have died.

In Christianity, it's called All Saint's Day to remember and celebrate all of those who are in Heaven, which is a better way of saying, "They're not dead, they're in Heaven!"

* There is no mention of remembering anybody who went to Hell instead of Heaven on All Saints Day who are also dead which is merely the Christian way of saying "Aw, to hell with them!"

I like the "Day of the Dead" better.

It says it like it is.

People I love died.

I'm not big fan of death but I understand and accept the fact that it happens.

Given my druthers, I like to have all friends and family back but that's simply not the way life works.

The Day of the Dead makes time to remember them and to celebrate the fact they lived. This is done by cooking the person's favorite food, having a picnic at the grave and celebrating their lives.

I think that's a good way to do it.

It would take me a month or so to get the celebrations done. Granddad and Grandma Carver, Dad, Uncle Fred, Ricky, Rick, Sheri, Uncle Bud, Granddad and Grandma Elliott, Aunt Regis, Uncle Ruben ... Hell that's two weeks worth of celebrating right there!

And that's just my family!

Bubba, Fran, Chicago Bob, Trolley Joe, Georgia, Bruce Barns, Chester Fawbush, Joe Bridges, Rodger Pack, Sidney Daniels, Dan Sheehan ... SHIT! Naming all of my friends who have died is going to take a long time so that's just going to make the celebration last longer.

Like I said, the Day of the Dead celebration is going to take a month or so in my case!

Though, the truth is hardly a day goes by that I don't think about them.

They're still alive in my heart where I keep them safe and hold them dear. My Dad and I still have beers together, Bubba still makes me laugh, Fran's still teaching me green, Chicago Bob feeds me his great lines when I need them, and Grandma Carver says prayers with me in the middle of the night.

I don't know how I would get through a day without them.

I celebrate them every day so I suppose, for me at least, every day is the Day of the Dead.

It's not morose, macabre or weird that I can still feel Trolley Joe's arm around my shoulders when I'm having a shitty day or Dan Sheehan's always there when I'm having to do something I really don't want or Uncle Fred reminds me when I need to exhibit grace.

As time passes my friends and family who have died become more precious to me and I find myself interacting with them more some days than when they were alive. I delight in them and am increasingly thankful they graced my life. I don't focus much on the fact that they're gone but concentrate intensely that they were here. I would never have become me without them.

It's a good Day of the Dead!

I'm already celebrating!

How are you going to celebrate it?
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Ready for a good read? My new book "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts" is now available at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

Halloween Inspiration

It is a perfect day!

A bright sun hangs in a crystal blue sky with the slightest wisps of white stretching out like fingers holding heaven in place.

A lite breeze blows salt air from the ocean and Fran's thousand shades of green shimmy ever so slightly. Birds sing hymns of glory from the branches of palm trees. Squirrels play chase on the wooden fence. Goddess lays at my bare feet as I marvel at the sheer beauty of this day.

It changes in an instant.

"HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!" screeches a horrible voice sounding like long fingernails scraping over a blackboard.


I jump straight up in the deck chair and pee my black running shorts a little. Goddess bolts inside. The birds fly away and the squirrels hide behind trees. Even the white finger like clouds disappear while a black one appears from nowhere blocking the sun.

"HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!" she screeches again as my butt slams back into the chair.

Standing on her deck wearing a dirty pink terry cloth bathrobe, fuzzy yellow slippers with a blue towel wrapped high on her head she looks like Marge Simpson on meth.

A hundred black feral cats respond to her commands as though a gathering of Witches Covens. Her yard is a dark forest, the house is moldy and even the seashells decorating her porch are black. Snakes slither around her carport which is filled with bottles and canisters surely containing ingredients for her potions.

"HERE KITTY, KI ... oh, Good Morning Mike," she hisses.

Where's my freaking Guardian Angel when I need her?

In every life there is darkness. Things go bump in the night. Scary dreams sometimes come true. Hurt slams into hearts and hate eclipses love. People do mean things, others counted on leave and fires are lit to burn out happiness. Cats moan, lightening flashes, thunder rolls and there is hell on earth.

"Morning," I reply trying to not look at her.

"What are you and Sarah doing for Halloween?"

"Hmmmm ... not sure yet," I mumble.

"Me neither," she screeches.

"HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!" and my skin crawls.

Strolling inside Sarah is frantically trying to calm Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, down from being traumatized.

"Hey," I say ignoring her efforts, "do we have any blue towels? Don't the girls have pink bathrobes?"

"Yes," she answers. "Why?"

"I know what we going to be for Halloween."
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Every Little Thing

"You want more coffee?"

Greasy, limp black hair hangs in front of her once cherub face, nods up and down, as she leans forward on the table squinting her eyes because of the rising sun.

I stroll into the kitchen, refill her cup and place it in front of her.

Reaching under her dirty blue stole she retrieves a bottle of bourbon and pours some into the coffee as a halo of smoke appears from the cigarette dangling from her lips.

"You're looking a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you," I say flopping into one of the deck chairs.

She sighs sipping the coffee.

Taking this as a sign she needs mental space, I keep quiet. She's dirty as ever, broken wings are more brown than white and the robe has fallen on her right shoulder.

"I look better huh?" she mutters then spits a loogie over the deck.

"Well, you don't smell," I clarify.

Rolling her eyes she takes a shot of bourbon and chases it with bourbon laced coffee.

"What are you doing here so early?" I ask, cleverly changing the subject. "You normally don't make an epiphany until the bars are open."

As she reaches inside the dirty blue stole again, Winston, the Little Gay Dog, barks and snarls at her which makes her grunt. The evil sound scares the little dog and he darts inside and hides under the bed. Laying at my feet, Goddess opens one eye and watches before sighing heavily and falling back asleep.

My Guardian Angel unfolds a note. It reminds me of the notes Sarah's girls bring home from school, more wadded up than folded. She spreads it out on the patio table which serves as my desk.

"It's from God," she says.

I take my bare feet off the railing and sit up straight. "Really?" I ask.

"Do you want me to give you the damn message or not," she snaps.

I fold my hands on the table prayerfully and wait.

For dramatic effect, she takes another sip from the cup and a long drawl from the cigarette. Finally picking up the crinkled note she reads it slowly.

"Every little thing gonna be alright."

I wait.

She crumples it up and puts it back inside her stole.

"That's it?" I ask.

She sips the bourbon.

"That wasn't God," I say. "That was Bob Marley."

She shrugs her shoulders and stands.

"But," I begin and she immediately cuts me off.

"Listen," she replies. "I've known both for a long time and Bob will be the first to tell you that it was God who gave him the idea. That's not the point though. You and Sarah have a lot going on. You're in the creation process remaking your lives as they should be. God likes that. Life is always about creation. If you're not changing, taking risks, transforming, walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death and all that shit, then you're not living. You're just existing which is nothing more than dying slowly. God likes creation people. You two have made the A List."

I've never heard her say so much and am taken aback.

"So," she continues, "every little thing's gonna be alright."

"Alright," I say and she instantly disappears and just as she does, I hear three little birds sing.
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In just 60 days I will help you so that you are writing the book you have always wanted to write. Or writing the compelling grant argument to secure needed funds. Or writing the short story to submit to a magazine. You don't want to miss this! Just a few spaces left. Starts this Friday. http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/writingworkshop/

What would you call it?

Winston, the Little Gay dog, has taken the day off so he can get his nails done.

He got all dressed up in a black fur sweater with "Two Pairs beat a Straight" written in  pink on it with matching pink ascot as the Managing Partner drove the literal Son-of-a-bitch to his appointment.

Goddess and I believe the Managing Partner plays favorites.

Goddess is all bumped out, claims her eyes are killing her and is doubling up on the medicinal marijuana. I told her to slow down her consumption and could barley make her out through the hazy cloud as she replied, "Well just call me Spiderman because I'm in love with Mary Jane!"

I called Johnny O to talk to her. He knows much more about these things that I do.

Things started getting crazy when my book Sandy Bottoms and Duck Taped Hearts came out before his book which doesn't even have a title yet.

His book is done but he can't make up his mind what to call it.

First it was going to be "Winston, the Little Gay Dog" until we told him that's a pretty bland title and he got mad.

A few days later he prances in and announces he will call it, "Winston comes Home-Oh!"

Goddess and I burst into laughter telling him that's a stupid title so he storms off to complain to the Managing Partner.

His next idea was "Goodbye Balls! A True Horror story!" and that's when Goddess began doubling up on her medicinal marijuana treatments.

"Winston discovers Big Ben's a Clock?" was next.

At that point the Managing Partner intervened and is spending more time placating him.

She made out this big "To-Do" list for us but Goddess ran out of rolling paper it went up in smoke.

I'll be glad when Winston, the Little Gay Dog, can figure out what his book's going to be called.

At this point I'm sure he's open for suggestions if anyone has any.

The release date is soon and he's growing desperate.

I really do hope getting his nails done calms him down.

Poor little thing.
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In just 60 days Micheal Elliott will help you so you are writing the book you have always wanted to write. Or writing the compelling grant argument to secure needed funds. Or writing the short story to submit to a magazine. You don't want to miss this! Just a few spaces left. Starts this Friday. http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/writingworkshop/ 

Growing Hope

Reading the back cover of my new book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts, she says I'm a "Renegade beach bum at heart," and laughs.

Sipping coffee I nod enjoying the moment.

A twenty-something blond waitress, she's recently returned to school and struggles with the structured, regimented bureaucracy that is American education.

Suddenly serious she reads I "spent 30 years in the non-profit world successfully fighting homelessness, AIDS, mental health, substance abuse, health care and government bureaucracy."

"Where did you do these things?"

"Here," I absentmindedly shrug.

"What did you do?" she presses. 

"Oh I was at Union Mission," I mumble.

Her eyes grow wide. "Grace House? Phoenix Place? The Starfish Café? The freaking J. C. Lewis Health Center! You did those things?"

"I used to do those things," I explain.

She places the book in front of me saying, "I want to buy but a book I don't have any money right now."

I smile nodding my head. I wish I could give them away but I can't.

Sarah and I are hard at work starting new things taking our experiences and life lessons helping others grow hope in their lives. The book is one way though there are topical classes, workshops, speeches and personal coaching too.

Starting new things is hard work. Creating something out of our experiences and life lessons seems daunting. We know everything's going to work because we have faith, passion and love for what we're doing. Actually it's already working because people tell us how they've benefitting. Hope has grown in specific and concrete ways and they're trying their own new things!

Besides as the saying goes, "Don't fear failure so much that you refuse to try new things. The saddest summary of a life contains three descriptions: could have ... might have ... should have" (Louis Boone).

"Hey," she says interrupting these thoughts, "I got the money. Can I buy a book now?"

Greedily she grabs it throwing bills on the table with a smile making a choice to instantly invest in herself.

"Thank you," I say watching her walk away towards her own new thing.
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Purchase your copy of "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts" at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

A Million Little Things

Staring at a long leaf Palm Tree, taking a long drag off her cigarette, with a steaming cup of coffee on the heavy picnic table, she sits. Darkly tanned with short black hair, the old woman seems lost in thought on a warm Caribbean morning.

Bopping down the sandy road in bare feet, I recognize her from the picture on Travel Talk though we'd never met.

She and her husband had been coming to St. Martin for years. They planned big gatherings with friends they'd collected through the years.

"Sugarae?" I ask pausing in front of her tiny concrete patio.

I love her name.

Sugarae is southern as it gets though she was born and lives in Portland, Maine. Her name combines sugar with rays of sunshine,

Flashing a crooked grin, she nods and invites me to sit.

"It's nice to meet you," I say shaking her hand. "I read your stuff on Travel Talk."

Travel Talk is a web site for those who love the Caribbean and traveling there. Categories are divided into islands. Clink "St. Martin" and I'm suddenly a member of people who love the place like I do.

I don't remember anything else about meeting Sugarae though it was with sadness that I read on Travel Talk that she's died.

Clicking to the Conroy-Tully Crawford Funeral Home website, I find her obituary and read.

"I didn't attend the funeral," Mark Twain quipped, "but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it."

Sarah's girls asked, "How many famous people have you met?"

Looking for themselves reading Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts they've noticed I've met Presidents, Prophets, Priests, Philanders and other people.

I marvel at the people who have graced my life. I'm humbled by those who are part of it now.

"Friendship isn't a big thing. It's a million little things," goes an old saying.

I sit staring at three little girls who are staring at me.

"I dunno," I answer taking a sip of wine. "A lot."

"What were they like," Laurel asks.

"Just like you," I reply.

And I raise my glass to the sky thanking God for everyone of them and for sugar and sunshine.
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Life outside of the box

Is the money I make worth the price that I pay? asked Graham Nash.

I vividly remember sitting in the floor in front of the television when The Beatles were on Ed Sullivan with my Dad complaining, "They'll never be Elvis.

"And in the end ..." they were more than Elvis.

Of course there would be no Beatles without Elvis.

He came first.

The only people to come close to them since are Michael Jackson and Bob Marley.

Each were incredible trailblazers leaving massive imprints on the world. Each doing what they wanted, achieving unimagined success, becoming imprisoned by it and killing four of the six before their time.

Their music remains and annually they outsell the newest stars making today's best sounds.

It makes me wonder.

All of them stepped outside of the box, forfeiting societal norms and the expectations of others to do their own thing.

And they did their own things magnificently!

So I wonder why the rest of us aren't doing our own thing?

We spend our days and nights doing other peoples things.

Going to work, taking care of parents, fulfilling the demands of religion, living in a certain place because the schools are better for the kids, working the allotted number of years before retirement ... we become indentured servants waiting on our happiness and freedom to arrive later.

When do happiness and freedom arrive?  We can all tell stories of those who do all the right things, meet each demand, fulfill every obligation, make the sacrifices to retire ... only to die soon afterwards.

I've done my time, gave others everything, met the demands, raised the kids, fulfilled expectations and ... jumped ship.

Sarah jumped too.

We washed up on a beach, tattered, torn, hurting and alone so we did what creatively, desperate people do ... shared sandy kisses. We had Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts!

We've made a life outside of the box since then.

We're making a career outside of the box too.

And we're doing it all wrong.

We're too young.

We're investing in us now instead of later.

We're having fun.

Elvis died too young. So did John and George. The King of Pop too. Certainly Bob Marley did.

Who knows how much time we have left?

I just know I not giving mine away anymore except to the things most important to me! Not to anyone else!

Life's better outside of the box.
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Hanging Out

Back when I was a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, I mostly tried to figure out how to keep drunken homeless people from falling asleep during my Sunday morning sermon.

We did lots of crazy stuff and we must have been blessed because it worked more often than not.

Once on Easter morning we covered the stained glass windows with thick brown rolling paper so the Sanctuary was pitch black. Everyone had to reach out in darkness to find a pew to sit on and of course everyone fought to sit on the back row so there were lots of giggles and curses as people plopped down on one another.

A guitar was plucked as a lone voice sang, "Anybody here seen my good friend Martin?"

A lone candle was lit in the front of the Chapel and the entire earth was silent for a second.

"HE LIVES!" Cindy Weber screamed at the top of her lungs as the paper was ripped from the windows. Light exploded in the room as though Jesus himself were sashaying down the aisle.

"Hallelujah!"

"Shit!"

"Glory!"

"Stop hitting me!"

Those are the reactions I remember being said all at the same time.

We were a crazy Church doing crazy stuff.

But the most popular service of the year was my son's Jeremy's birthday.

Everyone loved Jeremy. He was the six year old who turned the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub! Homeless guys would lounge in it with him, candles lit, a Boom Box playing Jimmy Buffett as they all achieved a peace that passeth all understanding.

On the Sunday closest to his birthday, instead of preaching a sermon ... cause enough for a major celebration ... I read a letter I'd written to Jeremy.

Homeless men would cry in joy because (a) I wasn't preaching and (b) they all loved Jeremy and his sister Kristen. She blatantly took advantage of this by getting them to panhandle enough change so they would buy her a Happy Meal from McDonalds. Once, I found her with 5 at the same time surrounded by happy men.

Jeremy was never that way. He liked to just hang out with the guys.

Now, decades later, he still likes to simply hang out. We do it pretty naturally together. He's here now, grading papers for his students at the University of Georgia as we listen to Bob Dylan wonder "what's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?"

Sarah wanders in and out. Her girls wanted to skip school today so they could hang out with him too. They're excited he's here and stayed up late to talk with him. He rode with me to take them to school and now we're just hanging out.

He flipped through my new book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts and said, "It's nice to read a book I've already read."

We have no real plans. There's a birthday party to attend tomorrow, some football to watch over the weekend, see his Mom and a few friends and drink some beers. We're just hanging out and I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend.
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The World's Dog

"She's just the best dog ever," Chris says petting Goddess. "She's a community dog. She just loves everybody."

Chris is on his knees and Goddess is on her back. He's rubbing her belly. She's wagging her tail.

"Hell," he exclaims laughing, "she's the world's dog."

Chris works for Yates Astro Pest Control. A canister of bug poison rest on the floor while he returns Goddess' love.

"Now this one," he says turning his attention to Winston, the Little Gay Dog, "he's a little more high strung."

"He's a Diva," I fire. "Little son-of-a-bitch!"

"He doesn't bother Goddess."

"Nothing bothers Goddess."

Chris nods and stands.

"Let me tell you what the little bastard did last night," I say while writing him a check. "He loves Sarah and she lets him sleep next to her."

"NO," Chris gasps.

"I know," I say holding my hand in front of his face so he doesn't even go there.

"Well get this. The little son-of-a-bitch crawled under the covers with her last night. I put my arm around her in the middle of the night and grabbed where his balls used to be and woke up screaming in terror."

"Ouch," Chris winches leaning forward to cup himself in protection from Winston, the Little Gay Dog, wagging his tail wearing a black sweater reading "Christian Fundamentalists! The original bigots of the Anti-Gay movement."

"It didn't bother Goddess," I conclude.

We both stand in awkward silence.

There's nothing else to say.

"OK, I gotta go," he says quickly fetching the canister of poison. "I'm gonna spray outside so keep Goddess in for a couple of hours."

"What about Winston?" I ask.

"Your call," he yells sprinting down the stairs.
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Family Love

"So how is it?" Aunt Becky asked with bemusement on her face.

"What?" I reply uncertain of the question.

"Living with three little girls," she explains. "What are their ages?"

My Mom rolls her eyes as she flips through Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts that I'd just given her.

"Maddie's 12, Laurel is 9 and Cass is 6," I say.

"Oooh boy," she says looking at the ocean outside of the window, as I roll my eyes at Mom.

"Becky," I continue plowing ahead. "I love being a Daddy. I'm a Kristen survivor. Nobody can throw more at a parent than my oldest daughter did and now she's the sweetest thing. She takes care of me."

"A Kristen survivor," she laughs.

"So I love the girls. I mean I could shoot every one of them at least once a day. Sometimes I'd shoot them a lot. They make me believe in the National Rifle Association and stupid things like that. But they make me laugh and they say things to me they'd never say to their parents ... including things about their parents."

"Will you tell my Mom this if I tell you?" Maddie asks the other day.

"You can always tell me anything," I answer. "Same way it is with my kids. If I think it's something your Mom needs to know, I'll tell you so you can tell her ... that way I steer clear of bad reactions."

"Hmmmm," Maddie mumbles never taking her eyes off the multiple texts she's sending from her phone.

"Listen," I explain. "I get in enough trouble your Mom. I'm sure as hell not getting into more because of you."

"Alright then ..." and she tells me.

"Yeah ... " I sigh, "you should tell your Mom."

"Alright then," she sighs as she continues to text.

The thing about being a parent is you never stop being one. My kids are adults going through all the good times and bad times that young adults go through. I do my best to love them through whatever it is and to let them know that home is always an option.

But ... they're still my babies. I don't care how old they are or what they're going through. And I'm still their Dad. It's a universal truth ordained by God Herself!

We're a fractured Brady Bunch with Sarah's little ones and my adult ones but it works somehow ... more times than not.

When we don't want to shoot each other ... family love is the best love.
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Working out love

"Do not be anxious about anything," St. Paul writes in his jail cell, "but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your request to God."

I suspect the old Apostle's request to God was "Get me the hell out of here! I'll thank you later!"

And in time, he eventually did get out, though it's unclear how much, if anything, God had to do with it. He'd done his time and they needed the space because it's always brisk in the jail business.

I've known and visited lots of people in jail. I offered housing to many released from prison who had no home to go to so they came to me.

Over time it was easy to see virtually all of them were very religious people.

Faith is easier to find when you're locked up and lonely. With no one else to talk to, they talked to God.

"Please get me out of here," they beg, "and I promise I'll do better next time."

Like the old Saint, they were eventually released too with a chance to start over albeit with the albatross of a criminal record that greatly reduced the opportunities facing them.

Because I have the "REV" in front of my name, they shared their stories with me, made confessions or asked my forgiveness for things I knew nothing about. There was a desperateness to their faith which I've rarely seen in religious institutions of any kind.

At the same time, I've never met anyone who isn't imprisoned by anxieties.  Everyone expects the worst even when they're praying for the best. We worry about most everything, sometimes to the point of becoming completely overwhelmed. The older we grow, the worse it seems to get.

Like the prisoner sitting in his cell, we long to be free too. Free to go somewhere else, be with somebody else, do something else and do these things completely free of fear.

"What's it like?" a friend asked. "I mean you get up every day and do what you want. You live where you wish and with Sarah who works with you. I want to do what you're doing. How do you do it? Aren't you anxious?"

"Sure," I reply. "Of course I am but so far so good. We're not certain how sustainable it is but we're giving it our best and we believe with everything in us that it'll work out in the end."

"There are two basic motivating forces," said the Major Prophet John Lennon, "fear and love. When we're afraid we pull back from life. When we are in love we are open to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement and acceptance."

So I'm doing the things I love and doing them now! I'm afraid to put it off like lots of people do. So I'm going to keep working on the things I love with a belief that love works everything out so I don't have to worry.
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He's got the whole wide world in his hands ...

I'm literally holding a sliver of my whole wide world. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts is my 9th book and it's a funny thing to hold it like a baby, making certain it has all the fingers and toes, is breathing right and has life.

In some ways its like flipping through a photo album, seeing images of good times or bad ones, remembering things that were.

"What's it about?" people ask.

"Me," is the honest response though it's a terrible answer.

Specifically, its about the death of who I used to be and the rebirth of who I am now.

Sarah came up with the title and there really is a Sandy Bottoms though she's not in the cast of characters living in the pages.

What Sarah had in mind after reading the thing is that we all scrape bottom in life and get through somehow with Duct Tape, prayers and dreams holding it together as best as we know how. I think my wife is brilliant so that was the title without discussion.

And that's what the book is about from my point of view, experiences and stories.

It's funny to hold your life in your hands but that's what I'm doing ... at least several years of it.

There are Angels and Assholes in the pages, friends who showed me love when I was unlovely, and Sarah whose the real heroine of the whole thing. I laugh as I read names of people I love and the things we did. I pay homage to Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, people raised from the dead, and God who wakes me up in the middle of the night to talk.

It's about survival, resurrection, finding inspiration in the weirdest of places and love.

There are parts of it that make me bust out laughing or burst into tears.

It's my life.

I'm sharing it is all.

Lots of folks keep walls around their lives, hoarding secrets and pretending everything's great when it's not. Professing faith when they've lost it, acting life's wonderful when its crumbling or hiding from people and things they detest.

I think it's better to let it all hang out.

So I do.

You can see the scars on my ass and the duct tape around my heart.

I'm doing great and love this life!

I hope you are too!
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The best thing in life

I remember watching Liberace, the flamboyant incredibly talented pianist and showman, when I was a kid sitting on the floor in the Den with my family. Wearing a fur cape and brightly colored tuxedo, he'd stare straight into the camera, directly at us in TV land, never looking at the piano keys while playing beautifully.

The man was magic!

And he was gay.

No one in America seemed to care he was gay and Liberace himself shied away from the topic whenever it was brought up. For more than two decades he was the highest paid entertainer IN THE WORLD!

Sarah and I were watching the magnificent movie "Behind the Candelabra" when I'm reminded of Liberace's incredible talent, opulent lifestyle, incredible showmanship, life in the closet and ... for a second ... I was transported to another time ... another place.

Eight of us were gathered in the very opulent home of Jack Kersy, with flowing fountains, chandeliers, long dining room tables and statues of naked men. Four of us were clergy and four others gay ... some in the closet and some not.

We were the St. Jude's Guild.

St. Jude is the patron Saint of desperate cases and lost causes.

It was 1984 and AIDS was exploding across America. I was the 28 year old pastor of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky and HIV infected people were begging me to give them a place to live. Their landlords were evicting them out of fear of catching the disease.

So the eight of us joined forces to do something because we didn't know what to do. Fred Schloemer and I were the babies of the bunch, the others being older, established, reputable and wealthy.

The result was Glade House, the nation's second housing program for people with AIDS (the first was in L.A.).

It was the first time I comprehended what it's like to live as a gay person. In those days, there was fear, hate, condemnation and prejudice. And AIDS made it all worse as a Holocaust was launched by the good and faithful folk of America.

Since then AIDS left its exclusive hold on one segment of people jumping to women and children as its favored mode of transmission.

I shared these things with Sarah as I rubbed her feet, sitting in the floor watching a movie on television.

"The best thing in life," Liberace explains, "is to just be yourself."

"Yep," we both say out loud at the same time.

Because why in hell would you want to be anything else?
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Another Tybee Update

I suppose it began when the sad, little holy dock became a private gated community but that was merely the beginning of strange things happening on Tybee Island.

Against a backdrop of wailing police sirens, a now extremely common occurrence on the island, I ponder the single biggest question being asked.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO HODAD??

Hodad, affectionately known as HO to his friends, unexpectedly resigned from the Police Department. By far the island's nicest officer everyone is aghast and asking, "What happened?"

The answer is evidently personal terrorism initiated by one of the numerous cells on the island, this one operating on the corner of 13th and Butler Avenue.

If this isn't enough, our neighbor Art has suddenly turned into a Bible scholar which is very scary shit!

"What's Lot's wife name?"

He quizzes me as Sarah and I walk the dogs.

"Beats me," I reply.

"You are correct," he says.

"Now let me ask you a more difficult question," he presses.  "When God sent Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden and they had Cain, then Cain got married ... where did his wife come from?"

"Beats me," I answer.

"Me too," he says.

Sarah pulls me away before Art can ask another question.

This is weird!

Vandalism is a regular method of paying it forward on the island and I understand Johnny O and Judy O's porch chairs were recently accosted by a giant fly swatter. Every afternoon they have "Whine and Cheese" on the porch though I hear Judy O now refuses to sit in her chair and whines about having to stand to sip her wine.

People are being ticketed for driving on Lewis Avenue which has a speed bump every ten feet. I can't figure out how you can break the 25 MPH speed limit in 10 feet but it's apparently happening and the Hodad-less Police Department is all over it!

Plus it's election season and there's nothing stranger than politicians.

SpongeBob Squarepants is back on the island filming a movie, transforming the parking lot down front into a garden and planting Palm Trees on the Pier.

There's a full moon but no Full Moon Party at Marlin Monroe's which is how Sarah and I celebrate our anniversary every month so we're confused on what exactly we're supposed to do.

I already miss tourists season.

As long as tourists are here we feast on them.

But they're gone and the only thing we have to feast on is each other.
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Cicada Hymns

It's simply a spectacular day!

The sun blazes white light in a deep blue sky. Only a few whips of white clouds dot the heavens. Fran's thousand shades of green hang gloriously above waving every so slightly in the ocean breeze. The pungent aroma of the marsh is intoxicating. Birds sing solos as yellow butterflies make love to purple blossoms of the petunia.

It's quite the contrast from things going on in the world.

Government employees return to work because the bastards we've elected orchestrated yet another crisis so they could again save the day.

If the Bible were still being written, prophets would rise against the Pharisees and Sadducees governing by lavishing riches upon themselves while overseeing famine throughout the land proclaiming to do it in the name of God.

I believe in Hell because of every damn one of them.

And I pray every damn one of them goes to Hell.

That's a harsh beginning to a spectacular day.

The birds form themselves in a choir forcing me to pause from dark thoughts and enjoy their Hallelujah Chorus.

I stand applauding and they bow before flying away into the glorious day.

Returning to the darkness, people I love are hurting flash across my brain and heart. Their lives are fragile as the spider web I stare at running from the gutter to the Hibiscus plant on the back deck.

Glancing away I realize I've stared at it for 20 minutes completely engulfed in prayer for those I love with no cognition whatsoever of the fact I'd been transported to another universe. I think that's what prayer really is ... losing ourselves in God ... completely leaving our bodies only to snap awake and wonder what happened to the last 20 minutes.

The choir of cicada begin their Hymns and I listen.

My friend Kyle Shiver recently sent me a recording of Cicada singing on two tracks. The first in real time but the second is slowed sounding like Angels chanting. It's incredible! I always though Cicada sound holy when they sing. Now I'm convinced.

I come out of another prayer trance. Fifteen minutes has passed.

"Dammit Scotty," I say out loud. "Stop beaming me up!"

Then I wonder if it's Scotty at all.

It may be God.

"Do not worry about tomorrow," inexpiably runs through my head. "for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."

I have no doubt about the second part of that. Every day's got troubles.

It's the first part I struggle with. Don't worry about tomorrow. Let it worry about itself.

What I've got is today.

Don't worry about it.

Enjoy it.
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The no longer sad little holy dock

It good be a good economic sign or a bad one.

I don't know yet.

But the sad little holy dock is now a gated community for no one.

Goddess was taking me on a stroll down our street to the marsh where we take a left. Half-a-block later we turn to the left again and there is the dock jutting out into the marsh.

It is not a fine dock by any stretch of the imagination with its warped boards that have pulled the nails out of the beams. The "T" at the end is shaky and sits low in the marsh. The planks are weatherworn and old. There is nothing ornate about it other than seagull droppings. You feel the whole thing will topple over at any moment.

There was a while when it suited me perfectly! Goddess and I would meander aimlessly around the island and end up sitting on the sad little holy dock for hours on end. We were lost in the marsh.

But things changed.

Sarah and I began taking walks and held hands on the sad little holy dock. Sitting with our feet dangling above the green grass and black mud, we shared dreams, kisses and more.

Now when Sarah's girls and I walk the dogs they love to sit on the dock and tell me about school, boyfriends, problems or what's for dinner.

The truth is I no longer visit the dock like I used to because I'm in a hurry to get back home.

Yet it's with interest that I see the gate with a chain blocking entrance to the sad little holy dock.

Personally, I hope Shirley is turning it into a tourist attraction!

God knows I've written enough about it! People want to see it when they visit us.

"Is that the sad little holy dock," they ask?

"Well it was," I answer, "but its not anymore."

It's just an old relic of a past that's no more.
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Writing my dream!

"You always wanted to be a writer," Mom says as I pick dead leafs out of flower pots on the Back Deck where the laptop is open on the picnic table and my notes are scattered. My I-Phone and pens serve as paperweights as a light ocean breeze occasionally rearrange the papers.

I'd called her needing a break from writing.

I have no recollection when I wanted to become a writer though I do recall the first time I said it publically. I'd resigned my job as my first book was released. It was time to become a full time writer so I explained this was the reason I was leaving.

The Society of Salty Saints got great reviews and had multiple printings. The publisher was interested in what else I had though I had nothing.  It was time for me get intense and give it my all. I relocated to a small barrier island perfect for inspiration and new stories and dove in the deep end of the pool.

A short time later I was broke.

While Salty Saints sold a lot of copies, I didn't make much money from it.

So I got a job to finance my writing habit. What I believed would be a short term position turned into a 23 year career. I'd been hired as a leader and both the company and my stature rose significantly, in no small part because I continued to write.

Seven more books were published during this time and one received a "Book of the Year" award. I penned numerous articles, diversified into grant writing, cultivated vignette story telling for the company newsletter and wrote countless speeches I gave.

"You could make math problems interesting," someone once quipped about me.

Though the job still paid the bills and not the writing.

The books, articles, newsletters and speeches actually marketed the company and my reputation. The company received millions of dollars and I achieved notoriety. The first skill I looked for when hiring was the ability to write.

"I'd like to see a sample of your writing," I asked one applicant. She got a pen and paper and wrote exactly what I'd said then proudly showed it to me.

"I write pretty well," she beamed.

Though her penmanship was terrific, she wasn't hired.

Over the decades I learned writing is a passion that consumes completely. A lucky few make a living at it but most keep at it for other reasons.

Every day for the past five years, I've written. Technology advancements allow me to publish it immediately which I find invigorating. Daily blogs lead to dialogue and discussion in real time. Feedback is instant. Thousands of pages are mined for potential and cultivation and Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts, my first book written just for me, is now available.

Through these years, writing was my major coping mechanism. Navigating a complete life change, the daily musings and their immediate release, were my therapy. Anger, loss, kindness, faith, surprises, friendship, self-discovery, joy in little things and discovering new capacities to love are the constant themes. I would never have survived without writing.

I'm finally a full time writer ... at least for now. Every day, it is the core of my work. The pays not as good as the job had been but I'm living my dream. I try to help others live theirs too. It's as exhilarating as it is scary! As rebellious as it is rewarding! A fulfilling sacrifice!

"Alright Mom," I excitedly say, "I've got to get back to work."

"It'll be great," she says as she always has.

I know it will be for me ... just like it has been for so long.
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