Today

The waves sing without ceasing this morning.

One consistent low-key roar of ocean hitting shore.

A thin grey blanket of clouds cover the sun.

There is no breeze and green leaves, purple Wisteria, red, pink and yellow petunias stand still as though in prayer.

Birds sing solos.

Squirrels quietly dart along electrical lines and in the branches of trees.

Sitting silently in the midst of these things, I'm open to the world that's been given to me today.

I had a rough and fitful night plagued with sinuses, restlessness, worrisome thoughts brought on by too much alcohol and not enough food or water.

At 3:17 I sat in the same chair on the Beloved Back Deck that I sit in now.

With my feet propped on the table I watched wisps of clouds gently glide passed a white full moon.

Wide awake, I contemplated unanswerable questions each beginning with the word "Why?"

After a while I returned to bed to snuggle beside Sarah who's sleep was a casualty of my night.

Sleep returned only to be interrupted by unwelcome dreams.

In the predawn darkness I welcome the day stumbling downstairs to the outdoor shower.

I gather with others for communion over coffee as light begins to chase the darkness away.

Afterwards, home again, I tend to the animals and check on Sarah who's now sleeping.

As the sun rises I sit as part of the waking world.

The day holds good and bad, unpleasant tasks mixed with welcomed ones, rendering unto Caesar what is his while working towards redemption from plans gone array.

Just as sand flies appear the slightest of ocean breeze blows them from hovering and leaves begin to dance.

The sun begins to throw off the sheets of clouds.

Sarah rises and the aroma of coffee brewing wafts with the sounds of her making breakfast.

The day is now born.

Now it is time to make the most of it.

Competitive Religion

Multiple choirs of birds are blasting Hymnsof Praise in fierce competition with the other creating one giant cacophony of noise.

It's a like the churches meeting today at the same time where they'll all compete for God's attention at the same time by singing, praying loudly, dropping coins in gold plates and a lot of talking.

Being God and all, everything's heard at the same time and it must come across like a lot of noise without much action.

It's mostly religious competition.

It reminds of the old joke that when the Baptist Church was singing "Will there by any stars in my crown" the Methodist Church next door was singing, "No Not One."

It's funny because it's mostly true ... most churches are businesses competing for customers, investments, publicity and "Yard of the Month" awards.

I know, I know ... your church is different!

Yours is the only one that meets your specific needs and you enjoy it!

At the same time, every other church in the world wants you ... your time, talent, money, voice and help winning "Yard of the Month."

Yesterday Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on the island whenever he gets around to it, and I took a walk on the Pier.

It was a beautiful sunny day with blue skies, lots of people enjoying the beach and Davy the drummer was fishing.

Sam wanted to talk about Church, specifically Bar Church which he founded and I'm an occasional participant.

Bar Church doesn't have a building.

We borrow a bar and there's no chance in Hell we'll ever win "Yard of the Month."

It doesn't proselytize either because nobody really cares who comes!

Whoever does show up hears good rock music glorifying God, eats breakfast if they want, listens to a low key sermon if they want or walk outside to smoke if they don't.

On this Palm Sunday, I'm participating ... meaning I'm preaching and playing in the Band again.

Sarah's not so sure any of this yet and is non-committal.

I hope she comes but everybody will want her to sing and there's always the chance if she took control of the matter Bar Church could win "Yard of the Month."

Regardless, it strikes me that Jesus sent some Disciples to borrow a Donkey so he could ride into Jerusalem all those years ago today to do what God wanted.

Bar Church borrows a building to do what God wants.

There's something magnificently illogical about both!

The sun bursts through the branches of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra sans the grass skirt ... and the imagery makes me lough out loud.

My Sermons

The reputation has always been that I shoot from the hip.

Someone says something, or I have something to say, and I come across as though it instantly came to me as though God Herself sent me a Divine message.

Sometimes it happens that way but most of the time I labor over the things I'm going to say.

I learned both in Seminary.

Let me be clear, there is a great deal I did not learn in Seminary ... and had no interest whatsoever in learning ... like how to dress in the Pulpit!

Give me a freaking break!

Mike Ruffin and I had to sit through a lecture on keeping our socks up while sitting in front of a congregation waiting to preach!

If our socks weren't pulled all the way up then God isn't honored, Jesus remains in the tomb and it's we spray paint graffiti over our Bibles.

That's when God led me to stop wearing socks!

What I did learn in Seminary though is that if I'm going to be arrogant enough to speak for God for 20 minutes or so once a week, I should give it serious thought and prayer.

So I took to writing it all out in advance.

It ended up being good for me because that's how I became a writer (9 books and counting ... number 10 coming soon!)

The "shoot from the hip" delivery of my sermons I learned during Seminary but not at the school.

My congregation was homeless people, drug addicts, prostitutes, inner city kids, the sick and other Seminarians who hated Church.

I had to adapt to a lot of things of things quickly when I preached.

"WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" a homeless guy high on crack holding a baseball bat once inquired in the middle of one of my sermons.

"What would Jesus do?" I thought to myself.

I didn't have to think about it much because a bunch of other homeless guys pounced on him, took the baseball bat and beat the shit out of him in the aisle between the 3rd and 4th pews.

When it was over, I was glad I'd written the sermon out and it was there on paper in front of me.

Picking up right where I'd left off, I took the Southern Baptist approach I'd learned in Seminary that if I pretended something hadn't just happened then ... it really didn't happen.

In spite of the unconscious high homeless man bleeding in the aisle between the 3rd and 4th pews!

All of that to say ... when God told Sam Adams to tell me to preach at Bar Church this week, I went to work immediately ... as soon as Sam called asking what the Scripture verses are going to be so he print them in advance.

That was a few days ago ... but the sermon's mostly done.

I'll keep tinkering with it until it's time to actually give it.

Everything should go fine ... unless someone asks me what the fuck I'm doing in the middle of the sermon.

It's a good question.

I'm glad I've got the answer written down.

The Holy Host

"Do you ever talk out loud anymore," I ask God while we're sitting on the Beloved Back Deck at my house.

We're drinking beers and working on our naked tans.

"As a matter of fact," I press, leaning forward pointing my beer bottle in Her face, "how come you never invite me to your place?"

As usual God remains tight lipped and doesn't answer.

"Well, it's just not right that I'm always the host and you never are," then I giggle out loud before saying, "Well, except at Catholic Mass where you're always the Host ... then they eat you."


God flashes a smile just as She's taking a swig of her St. Pauli Girl and some dribbles down her chin.

"I know," I laugh, "I'm pretty funny."

She flips over to tan the back side Moses once saw and I'm glad Sarah's not home to see her new chase lounge is being used before my wife ever had a chance to open it up.

Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground blast "Femme Fatale" from the speakers and I say, "Nice choice!" tipping my beer towards God.

She flashes that beatific smile that only God has back at me.

It's a beautiful day!

God gave clouds the day off so it's a deep blue sky with a giant yellow ball hanging bathing us in warm sunshine.

Purple Wisteria drips limply in Fran's thousand shades of green as there is no ocean breeze though we can hear waves crashing in the distance.

A chain saw cranks up and a group of brown men start banging the hell out of the house behind where Sarah and I live.

God's head pops up, obviously perturbed and the Tybee cops show up out of nowhere issuing a "STOP WORK" order and arresting three illegal immigrants and two permanent, tax paying, long term residents.

"Nicely played," I say.

A choir of birds appear and sing in perfect harmony with Lou Reed.

"How did you? ..." I begin.

"Shut up and enjoy the day," God finally says. "You always want more! I've given you a perfectly good day, your wife looks hotter than Hell, the girls won't be home for hours, and you're bitching."

As She flips over to tan her front side I say, "You're right. You're always right. You're God. You want another beer?"

She gives me the "okay" sign so I stumble into the kitchen and grab two more bottles.

Drinking her beer in one guzzle I exclaim, "For Christ's sake are you in a hurry or something?"

A car door slams and Sarah's home.

God's gone from the Beloved Back Deck leaving two empties under my wife's perfectly unused chase lounge.

"Hmmm," I ponder as Sarah bounces up the stairs wearing tight little booty shorts and dripping with sweat.

Giving a quick glance over my shoulder I say, "Hey thanks. I don't deserve all this."

Out of nowhere, on a cloudless perfect day, I hear thunder that sounds just like laughter.

"Well played," I say again and then dive into my day ... literally.

My Bible

On May 29, 1979 my Granddad Carver presented me with a Scofield Reference Bible.

It was the day I graduated from college and had made the decision to follow Guy Sayles to Seminary because he'd called one day saying he thought it a good idea I attend while he was there.

Though he's long dead, I still love my Grandfather passionately.

Mr. Scofield ... not so much.

We were in Seminary Chapel one Tuesday morning singing a Hymn and I was sitting with the "Bob Dylan" brigade, a group of Hippy Seminarians who love Dylan as much as Jesus so they sang like him.

"AHHHH ... MAAZZZZ ... ing GRAAAAAACE," they belted out in the nasal, monotone kind-of-singing-but-kind-of-talking sort of way.

On this day the Bob Dylan Brigade sang/spoke a much beloved Hymn but they changed the words.

"My hope is built on nothing less ..than Scofield notes and Broadman Press."

Had I not been sitting with them I would have missed the new lyric because they were completely drowned out by the several hundred pious Seminarians who sang the actual words, "My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus Christ my righteousness."

 I busted out laughing drawing the ire of several Professors sitting nearby.

The Broadman Press is the publishing company for the Southern Baptists and these same Professors had written commentaries on the books of the Bible for it.

Scofield notes appeared in 1909 and is a very fundamentalist interpretation of the Bible.

Cyrus Scofield wanted everyone to read Scriptures just like he did so he put his thoughts on the same page so you don't have to think at all about what you were reading.

Plus everything Jesus ever said is printed in red so you can't miss it.

To this day I'm not a huge fan of Cyrus ... Miley or otherwise.

Though ... had Cyrus Scofield done a naked photograph on his Bible like Miley  has on her wrecking ball ... I wonder what I would believe today?

But I'm working on something for Bar Church this weekend and grabbed my Bible to look up something and my Granddad, whom I still love passionately, was immediately raised from the dead while Sarah's gone to work out and I'm home alone.

Flipping through the Bible he gave me, there are tons of notes written in the margins and lots of Cyrus notes underlined.

My eyes grow moist.

Looking up I can see my Grandfather like I haven't in a long time.

I can hear him too.

"I never would have thought about Bar Church," he laughs because he often laughed at the way I approached faith, "but I'm proud of you and want you to do good this week. That's why I gave you that Bible."

And I baptize myself in love and tears.

Who Cares?

Most people get lost in thought.

I get lost in feelings.

It's easy for me to laugh, cry, joke or slide off into an alternative universe of emotions where there is no time.

It's very Monk-like in that I'll be thinking about something before I realize I'm staring at the sunlight shinning on green leaves dancing in the breeze.

How did 30 minutes just pass?

Where was I?

Did Scotty beam me up and back down again?

Was that prayer?

I'll give you an example.

Several years ago I was invited to the LBJ School of Public Policy at the University of Texas in Austin (a most beautiful college campus) and a really lovely town.

I was to share the stage with the head the Texas head of Public Health, the School's Dean of Public Policy and others ... it was a big deal.

I impressed upon the school that if they were going to pay for me to come all that way and if they anted the whole story, they should also invite Peter Doliber from Memorial Health University Medical Center.

We were doing great stuff at the time.

So they invited Peter too.

The Lyndon Baines Johnson (LBJ) School is a freaking cool place, especially the replica of his office when he was President!

I was mesmerized by the red phone on his desk with one button on it pressed only to use nuclear bombs to destroy the world.

Anyway, Peter and I killed them that day.

"Well," the Dean said after the session, "you certainly were ..." as he struggles to find the right word, "entertaining."

It was a great day!

It was also a long time ago and a lot's happened since.

Peter's back home in the Northeast being in charge of something and I'm a happily married beach bum coping with three little girls.

But I just spent 30 minutes in an alternative universe feeling those things again.

When Scotty beams me back down I'm full of emotion and wonder if Peter ever thinks about these things.

Isn't it funny how you do nice things for people in life and they don't remember?

Or care.

It's funny in a sad sort of way.

The next thing I know I'm staring at the sunlight illuminating the thousand shades of green dancing in the breeze with tear drops of purple Wisteria falling on them.

Suddenly I'm aware that Neil Young is reminding me that "Yes only love can break your heart."

"Hmmm," I mutter out loud and I wish Sarah was home.

Almost Mayor Blind Mike

Blind Mike didn't have a job so he decided to run for Mayor.

"Why are you running for Mayor?" we ask at the counter of The Breakfast Club over coffee.

"I need a job," he daftly replies staring at us like we're idiots through his Coca-Cola bottle cap lenses covered by long greasy hair and rubbing his long salt-and-pepper beard.

Blind Mike's last job was The Oar House peeling shrimp for free beer.

The Oar House was a seafood place on Tybee but everyone called it "The Whore House" because there was a lot of that too in those days.

But it closed and Blind Mike hadn't worked since.

"You got a platform?" Georgia Griesbach snarls after delivering all the newspapers on the island sitting between Mrs. Tommy and me.

Blind Mike strokes his greasy beard lost in thought for several minutes while Lori pours us more coffee.

"Yeah, I'll need a platform," he muses.

"What's your stance on crime?" Jake, who is deaf as a doornail, yells.

"It's here," Blind Mike replies still lost in thought.

Jake looks at Georgia, Mrs. Tommy and me and confesses, "You can't argue with that."

"I know," Blind Mike finally says.

Everybody ... Georgia, Mrs. Tommy, Johnny O, Jesse the racist, Art who's recently diagnosed with cancer and suddenly finds God, Kenny Wade and me ... stop everything we're doing to stare at our candidate.

"The island is not kind to people with disabilities," he says sounding every bit as Presidential as Richard Nixon ever did. "I'm going to change that."

"Really?" Kenny Wade asks. "You still owe me for yesterday's coffee. Give me my damn dollar."

Blind Mike's rubbing his beard again, obviously thinking hard and looking like a very successful politician because he already has other people paying for his coffee.

"I know," Blind Mike says.

"Oh Christ!" Kenny Wade exclaims, "I'm never gonna get my dollar back" but the rest of us stop to stare at the politician we already love most.

Georgia slaps the shit out of Blind Mike because he's taking a long time and screams, "What in the hell is it?"

"HEY, HEY, HEY," Johnny O says taking control. "Everybody just calm down a little bit."

Blind Mike rubs his shoulder and explains, "I'm gonna make the Lighthouse handicap accessible."

If laughter is good for the soul ... we're suddenly very soulful people ... because we're laughing our asses off.

Forgetting about his dollar because Kenny Wade knows everything yells, "Oh for Christ's sake Blind Mike, the ramp would have to start in Hilton Head to meet DNR requirements."

"That's discriminatory," Blind Mike fires back. "As soon as I'm Mayor I'm taking those bastards down!"

"I think it's brilliant," Georgia surprises us by siding with him.

"Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary," Mrs. Tommy says.

"I'll be your campaign manager," I offer.

"I know how to lose an election," Johnny O exclaims. "I'll tell you what not to do."

"I'm never gonna get my damn dollar," Kenny Wade slurs as he storms outside.

So Blind Mike ran for Mayor which is the closest he ever came to actually having a job.

By far the best candidate, his honesty was too much for the electorate to handle.

"I just need a job," he explains at debates.

He lost by only a few votes.

Blind Mike died a long time ago but he leaves a legacy like few others.

He was honest.

"Elect me because I can't do anything else."

And today that's why we elect everybody.

Blind Mike

A long line patiently waited outside of  The Breakfast Club when the old blue Impala coasted to a stop almost inside of the lone parking place in front of the restaurant.

A loud creaking sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard, quieted the line as the door opened and an orange and white walking stick unfolded and began tapping the pavement.

One long leg followed another as a very tall bearded man heaved himself our of the car.

Wearing thick glasses with Coca-Cola lenses he used the cane to tap himself to the door marked "Exit Only" and took his normal stool at the counter beside us.

Of course we're laughing our asses off as the waiting crowd whispers, "They let blind people drive on this Island?"

They used to but they don't anymore.

Tybee Island was different then.

Obama stimulus funding flooded the city with workers, cops, parking service employees and dog catchers.

The funding's gone away so everyone has to generate revenue to maintain their positions so the Island's one big cash cow ... "You come, you pay, we take. ENJOY PARADISE!"

That's the tag.

Or should be.

Back in the day blind eyes were turned to most everything and things were looser, laid back, spontaneous, simpler and pure.

Of course that's most every memory of most every place and time.

The last thing Blind Mike did before he died was get our friend Chela Gutierrez to replicate his baby picture.

From seventy years earlier he had his baby picture.

In black and white he laid on his stomach with his head facing the camera wearing a Gerber Baby smile and a bare ass.

She shows up, Mike drops his pants and lays on his stomach striking the baby pose.

Chela throws up a little but swallows it back down and gets the job done.

Blind Mike brings them to The Breakfast Club to show us and proclaims, "See! You can go back again."

I don't know and while there are lots of funny stories, I really don't want to go back ... in spite of too much Government, terrorist cops, parking services run with Nazi efficiency and dog catchers who bring police backup.

But Blind Mike's ashes are scattered on this clump of sand (we got around to throwing them in the ocean breeze six months after he was cremated ... until then he rode around in the back of Susie's car but he always liked being out).

Unless you're blind to it, things change.

Some things are better while others are worse.

I wouldn't want to go back though because in spite of Government mandated hiccups life is far better.

Though tomorrow I think Johnny O, Whitley and those of us still here from those days should all park in front of the line at The Breakfast Club not quite hitting the parking space, open the door and throw out an orange and white collapsible cane, heave ourselves out of our cars wearing thick glasses and stumble inside the door marked "Exit Only."

A lot of drunken heavenly Angels would rain laughter down upon us and, for a moment anyway, the island would be like it used to be.

Who needs right answers?

A kid's taking a science test and the extra credit question is "What is the strongest force on earth?"

She ponders for a moment, smiles and writes "Love."

The teacher marked it wrong with a slash of red ink.

I've seen a lot of red ink slashes in my life and they are not pretty sights.

Though in this case, like most every thing in life, of course, there's more than one right answer.

Gravity holds planets in place so it's at the top of the list.

Electricity holds atoms together making elements which end up making most everything else which is pretty powerful.

Water mixed with gravity can form tsunamis which is pretty overwhelming stuff too.

Any of these answers would likely have gotten at least partial credit but I'm with the little girl on this one ... love is most powerful thing on earth.

It could be because I am a hopeless romantic but I think it's mostly Sarah's fault who's love holds me in place, is electric and washes over me like a tsunami.

She combines three plausible correct answers into one which is pretty damn impressive.

That's not to say there are moments of doubt, fear, uncertainty, trepidation and frustration because we've mastered those too.

In fact, I wished we sucked much more than we do when it comes to doubt, fear, uncertainty, trepidation and frustration but ... if we were being graded we'd pass with flying colors (not red!).

So this is the funny thing.

Doubts, fears, uncertainly, trepidation and frustration kill most things ... relationships, good public policy, excellent academic thought, pristine theology, excellent nights on the town, sexual ecstasy or even hanging out with your friends.

But, hopeless romantic that I am, l think love really does conquer all.

Last night, long after my bed time, Sarah and I were having a "passionate" conversation.

I'm a terrible conversationalist after bed time but, as she's sitting there on the sofa making her points to me sitting on the floor, I can't help but notice the way a strand of hair falls over her brow and I think she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I'm not quite sure what she was saying but ... damn she looks good!

Damn I love her.

I'm with the little girl on this one.

To hell with right answers!

Peace, Love & Sandy Toes

Sarah and I are contemplating.

A couple of months ago, we made a decision and I applied for a job that would have radically altered the way we live.

A lot was up in the air ... how to spend time in another state, what to do with Sarah's girls, significant travel, spending time apart ... all tempered with excitement, enthusiasm and passion for the work.

Interviews happened, visits were made and ... alas, it didn't come to pass.

So we had the let down that comes when such things happen.

It was a bummer.

We're both ready and this would have been a great match!

But ... life goes on.

What do you do when you don't get what you want?

We went to the beach.

Literally!

For days we grabbed our chairs, cooler and thoughts and set up camp in the sand dunes to protect ourselves from the wind and for privacy.

And we talked.

We shared.

Opening ourselves up to one another, we processed our disappointment, reviewed our options, made short term plans and dug our toes in the sand.

All that to say ... shit happens.

As a result though, we've have 3 days of peace, love and sandy toes.

And it just doesn't get better than that.

Orange Lent

Capping off the Lenten Season on Tybee Island this year is Orange Crush!

Orange Crush consist of several thousand college students descending on the tiny barrier island at the same time in a mostly unorganized fashion.

Meaning it's no different from any other Spring Break/Summer/early fall weekend.

Well, except most of the students are black!

African-American college students are special so ... the streets will be blocked, numerous check points will be established, extra cops have already been secured and a clever plans already been devised to "herd" cars pouring onto the island to the south end and turn them around to head back off the island ... unless they can find parking.

Which they won't be able to because there's not enough parking on the island ANY weekend during this time of year!

And like every weekend during the season, those traveling to the beach will be frustrated and even grow angry because there's no place to park and the cops are friggen everywhere directing you to leave just after you've arrived.

You would think the good Christian people on the island ... Chapel-by-the-Sea Baptists, Trinity Methodist, the All Saints Episcopal Team and the Catholics of St. Michael's ... would open their parking lots to welcome our guests.

No chance in Hell of that happening!

Islanders are already complaining about how the kids trash the beach, pee in people's yards and park illegally ... just like every other weekend!

In fact, 3 times as much beach trash is produced over the 4th of July than Orange Crush.

Let me go on record right now that Orange Crush is my favorite Tybee holiday!

I watch college kids being kids again ... doing outrageous things, throwing caution to the wind, discovering themselves intellectually, socially, sexually and in every other way.

It makes me feel young again!

the great thing is this Orange Crush is the day before Easter so I figure Jesus will be here.

I love Jesus!

And I think he's going to have a really good time!

Then on Sunday morning, Samuel Adams ... who plays damn good live music on the island whenever he gets around to it ... will host the Easter sunrise service on the Pier.

Though I think Jesus may have already left with his black friends by then.

Back in the Good Graces

God told Samuel Adams to tell us we need to join the band again.

Samuel Adams plays damn good live music on Tybee Island whenever he gets around to it and is the founder of Bar Church.

Bar Church is exactly what it sounds like ... a church that meets in a Bar ... has breakfast for Communion ... smokers are welcomed ... flip flops are encouraged ... cussing is allowed ... sinners find an unpretentious community of fellow strugglers ... the pious feel out of place ... and the music beats the shit out of Hymns in most "Steeples".

Sarah and I spent a the better part of a year in Bar Church as members of the Band and we had a righteous and Holy time doing it.

We helped get Sean McNally and the demon possessed guitar player Stephen Groose in the band.

There was a lot of media coverage too.

We got popular so Bar Church had to move a bigger place.

As an ordained Southern Baptist minister, once paid to believe, I'm very distrustful of churches that need bigger places but we relocated from a tiny bar to a vast one with two pool tables!

Everything was going fine until one Sunday morning we all hit the wrong chords at the same time.

Now I can bear witness to many terrible things occurring during worship ... a Maid of Honor faints and falls backwards knocking one Bridesmaid after another down like dominos ... a wedding that caught on fire during a severe thunderstorm ... naked homeless men conducting hostile takeovers of the Baptismal Pool ... a young man called by God to the ministry being ordained with his zipper down while keeling in front of the congregation ... and thousands of really putrid sermons that made you throw up a little and choking it back down.

I seen lots of bad things in church.

But that day in Bar Church God told Sam to play one thing and Sam didn't tell us so we all played something different and let me tell you it sounded like the Devil really did go down to Georgia!

Right there in the middle of the service, Sam just beat his head against the microphone in front of his face.

That afternoon God told Sam to kick us out of the band ... well, Sarah, Sean and I ... but not the satanic guitar player Stephen because God still needed him.

We were cool with it.

It was time to downsize anyway.

Now God is evidently calling again which is almost always inconvenient when you're pretty happy with your Sunday morning routines, ethics, belief system, choices of music and the joys of sex on Sundays.

But it's hard to say no to God.

Or to Sam.

We're back in good graces again.

Dammit!

Love and Money

Love and money.

The truly blessed have both.

Most have one or the other ... though they may question if there's an adequate supply of either.

The cursed have neither.

The vast majority gravitate through times when they're plush with cash and have love but one runs out while the other wanes or disappears altogether.

If you've ever had one of either you quickly acknowledge you want more.

They're like being addicted to crack.

If you have both then you're dually addicted!

Dual addictions are tough to treat though they can be quite ecstatic when you're high on both and you look so damn happy.

Those with empty pockets and no one to hold hands with look every bit as depressed as they actually are!

If God opened up the Master Prayer book so we could examine it, I suspect that prayers for love and money rank 1 and 2.

There's probably a big drop off before 3, which is HEALTH ... closely followed by 4 "PLEASE GOD GET ME OUT OF THIS!"

But it's love and money that consume us, keeping us up at night, forcing us to lose focus, make wishes, pour out our souls to anyone who'll listen, go to Church and buy lottery tickets.

I'm at a place where I've got so much love it's tsunami-like so that parts great!

And I count myself lucky because there's enough money to get through now and I feel guilty asking for more when I know so many who don't have any.

Though honestly, I want more money but not because I want more than what I have.

I'm just exceedingly happy with what I got.

Where God is

During a delightful lunch with my friend Kyle Shriver yesterday, a bit of magic happened.

Sitting outside at Huck-a-Poos, a pizza joint and bar that's decorated with record album covers because it caught on fire once and rather than rebuild everything they just covered it up.

We're on the big deck under massive oak trees on a bright sunny day munching on gyros, salad and the largest slice of pizza ever.

I'm talking about how I'm writing a lot about how silent God is when so many desperately need to hear from the Creator of everything.

As soon as I say it, Kyle, who is a very tall man with very long red hair cascading down a very thin face, neck to broad shoulders becomes a little kid on Christmas morning.

His eyes explode from his face as he leans forward with a happy smile ready to give me the answer.

Before he can, I hold up my hand and said, "Oh I know."

He sat continuing to grin as though completely satisfied with everything he got for Christmas.

Kyle is a musician and a very talented one who's played throughout the country and knows lots of great singers and players.

He's also a spiritual person who started "The SPIRIT CENTER" and administers a Facebook group called "SPIRIT" which is full of encouragement.

Over the past few years I've watched him transform into a storyteller, musical, encouraging minister who's mastered humility mixed in equal proportion with confidence ... no small feat!

"God's inside," I say a Nanosecond before he does.

"Yes," he says in a very holy and ministerial sort of way.

And that was it.

Two ... but no more though it could have been ... had gathered in His name ... shared communion ... passed peace back and forth several times ... and affirmed our belief that God is alive and well inside of us.

And an Oh Happy Day led to an O Holy Night.

God's Silence

She lost her job, can no longer afford the place she lives and is trying with everything in her not to panic.

Already having suffered through tremendous loss ... deaths and divorces ... hope is hard to hold onto.

With little other choice, she's taking everything one day at a time.

There are people who love her but they can do little more than say so.

More than ever, she's appreciative of every act of kindness shown to her.

And more than ever she believes in God.

Each of her prayers being with the word "Why?" or "Please!"

God remains silent during these times which tests her faith but she doesn't know what else to believe in because Karma doesn't seem to be working out, magic's never happened and other religions don't seem right.

It doesn't take long to weigh few options.

"It all works out the way it's supposed to," she says to anyone who asks because it's better than blaming others or, worse, herself.

So she works in her tiny garden, pulling weeds, talking to flowers and desperately tries to grow more hope.

Staring at the dirt on her hands, she feels the sun shine and pauses to notice it hanging in a deep blue, cloudless sky and feels like crying but doesn't.

Birds sing and she looses herself in their songs.

Perhaps a minute later, though it could have been thirty, she's still sitting beside the tiny garden where there's nothing else for her to do.

"I just don't understand," she says out loud. "Please let it work out somehow!"

And the sun shines.

The birds sing.

God remains silent.

And she tastes the salt water rolling down her face.

The opening of the windows

As important as Christmas and Easter ...

Rosh Hashanah or Passover ...

Ramadan ...

is the annual opening of the windows.

After being cooped inside because of cold weather, spring finally overthrew the tyranny of Winter and bitter northeast winds become balmy southern breezes.

The heater is turned off.

Shoes are put away.

Landry is lost.

In complete holy happiness, I dance to each of the 22 windows in  our house and open them in ecstasy.

Hymns from Bob Marley, Jimmy Buffett, the Beach Boys and Jim Morris are sung in the background.

Sunshine baptizes our home and the salt air of a sea breeze kisses everything.

Finally in the kitchen, the glass doors slide open and the Beloved Back Deck becomes one with the house bringing fresh scents of blooming flowers, choirs of birds and the playfulness of squirrels.

 "Righteous" I say out loud.

In the distance the ocean roars in approval.

Grabbing Sarah I kiss her salty bare skin in celebration of this high holy day!

Others are worshipping in other ways today but we've invited the Grand Cathedral that God built inside!

Who needs a musty old building to celebrate God?

They can have their stained glass windows!

We'll take our open ones.

What's wrong with this picture?

The assignment is to make art out of a drawing of a light bulb on a piece of paper.

Students must complete the page within a predetermined period of time because it is one of many skills being tested to gain acceptance into the school's "Gifted" program.

Alas, an artist took too long "creating art."

Instead of quickly drawing a smiley face or a bug inside of the outline ... or even yellow sticks depicting sunbeams, Cassidy took her time creating!

Using the entire page as her canvas to create a hair salon, Cass paints a scene of customer sitting in a chair getting his hair cut by a stylist as another waits her turn.

Colorful bottles line the shelves of the salon establishing a colorful array of "product".

The stylist has a pair of scissors in one hand and "Hair Spray" in the other, wears a necklace, a pink shirt and brown pants.

The customer wears a blue shirt, glasses and, apparently happy with the experience, a broad smile with outstretched arms.

The funniest thing about it are the "institutional"  words on the page encouraging participants to "THINK OUTSIDE OF THE BOX."

Cassidy did that but because she failed to comply with the allotted time constraints, she did not meet the minimum requirements to be accepted into the "Gifted program."

What's wrong with this picture?

I'm not just referring to institutional testing but many of the social, religious, governmental and family "norms" inflicted on people.

Making things great almost always takes longer than anyone ever thinks.

Just like great things are mostly outside of predetermined expectations.

Each of our lives is a blank canvas for us to create the person we wish to become.

Most people ... teachers, preachers, politicians, even those who love us most ... place constraints and their own expectations into the artistic act of "creation."

It's one of the things wrong with the world!

We can never really be ourselves when listening to the demands of others.

I thank God for artists, musicians, renegade preachers, honest politicians (an oxymoron) and family who really do encourage us to be everything we're capable of being!

These are the true heroes in the world!

Not those other leaders ... the teachers, preachers, politicians and family members ... who are all the same.

And to you Cassidy, I say "YOU GO GIRL!"

The beauty of the earth

In the middle of an unstable air system the weather prophets proclaim gloomy days ahead... the sun pops out from a blanket of purple clouds in a blue sky.

Dew drips from blossoms trees while choirs of birds loudly sing hymns of praise.

Half of the plants on the Beloved Back Deck are blooming away, sprinkling purple and red flowers, around the naked sticks that may not have survived.

A Finch hovers over a petunia while Gypsy the cat wistfully stares through the screen door.

Puddles of pollen rest on the outdoor table which I'll clean shortly.

A sense of calm has settled in an unstable world full of gloomy economic forecasts, abdicated political leadership, egotistical religion, missing people and misplaced faith.

I'm feeling blessed.

The last several years saw seismic changes and virtually everything about the way I live has transformed.

A very unstable time is now comforting stable.

I don't worry about much though there's certainly much to worry about.

People I love are fighting cancers, economics, lost loves, dreams, hopes and faith.

Lately I've taken to prayerfully whispering their names at night when I can't sleep and they comfort me somehow because I'm lulled back into unconsciousness.

The unstable darkness becomes stable.

In the midst of a world gone crazy I watch flowers bloom, listen to birds sing, am baptized in sunshine and am kissed by an ocean breeze.

I find myself humming a tune and words raise themselves from the dead in my mind.

For the beauty of the earth
For the spacious of the skies
For the love which from our birth
over and around us lies ...

And this day starts with an Amen.  

Visiting with my Grandma

On a bitterly cold day my Grandma Carver and I are zipping in a Golf cart through the marsh near the sea.

She's bundled so tightly I can only see the water dripping out her eyes beneath her glasses.

We wanted some time alone and there were too many people at my folks house so we just disappeared.

I was in Seminary then, working as a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky and was home for the holidays.

My Grandmother had the incredible of laser focusing love so that you knew without a shadow of a doubt you were the most special person ever born.

She unleashed her focused love on nine children, 37 grandchildren and several thousand great-grandchildren and beyond.

Granddaddy and Grandma took the Bible seriously and then they read "go forth and multiply" ... they did!

If you asked each of us individually we'd all say they loved us the most.

They really knew how to love.

When Jesus said it's more blessed to give than receive, I think what he meant is the more love you give away ... the more you become.

I've always tried to follow my Grandparents example by giving a lot away.

I'm often told I shouldn't, at least for free, and I suppose its true though I fear I might be letting my Granddaddy and Grandma down somehow if I stopped.

Aside from tee shirts, I'm not much of a hoarder though I will stick things in the storage room and forget about them.

I don't know.

Grandma Carver's been talking to me a lot lately and, just like in that Golf cart on a brutal cold day with water streaming out of her eyes, she pats me on the leg and tells me she loves me.

Then she says how proud she and Granddaddy are of me.

"Keep doing what you're doing," I hear her plainly say sitting alone in the kitchen with Goddess fur rubbing my bare feet.

This is after she keep me up last night while I snuggled next to Sarah but Grandma's determined to tell me it's okay to stop being concerned about everybody else for a while.

"Love what you got," and I swear to God I feel her hand on top of mine resting on top of Sarah's.

"Stay focused on what you want," and I can see her eyes looking into mine.

"Give it your all," and then she takes her leave to visit my cousin Debbie, help Sheri clean a Chapel in Heaven, horseback with Ricky, fish with Uncle Fred or cut up with Uncle Bud and my Dad.

"Because that's how you get it all," and Grandma and Jesus and great crowd of others leave Sarah and I sleeping alone in what we got.

The Community of Lost Musicians

Pulling the guitar out of the car I rush because the wind whipping off the ocean is brutal, the sun has set, it's pitch black though good Karma and the secret of acceptance led me to a lone parking place directly in front of Doc's Bar.

Rushing pass the bar and folks playing bumper pool, I give hugs to the players already playing in a church like sort of greeting with the community of lost musicians.

At some point in each of our lives music came first.

Some aggressively pursued it while others just wished or sang in the car with the radio blaring ... perhaps alone in the shower.

At this point in our lives though, we're all players again.

Every Tuesday night in the back room of Doc's Bar the congregation gathers. Some sit on a pew while the rest take bar stools.

And the sharing begins.

Everyone takes a turn taking the lead.

We go round and round, sharing songs and stories, mistakes and marvelous moments of wonder.

Those in the bar or playing bumper pool likely hear our choir of drunken angels.

It's very church like in that the community of believers are never the same and their is no High Priest.

Actually we resemble a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous with guitars, harmonicas, conga drums, an occasional upright bass and an autoharp last night!

There's lots of encouragement though everyone screws up forgetting lyrics or mishitting chords.

It doesn't matter because we're all doing the best we can to share ourselves.

A couple have higher aspirations to get paid to play but its just the joy of the music that keeps us coming.

I wish church was more like this.

Politics too!

Two hours quickly pass so I load up my ax, stumble outside and see Tybrisa Street is completely engulfed in Tybee cops.

They got bad ass faces and guns.

I got a guitar.

I like my chances.