Kissing the Blarney Stone

Kissing the Blarney Stone is not at all what I thought it would be.

I'd envisioned something akin to a Catholic Priest kissing the Bible after the Gospel reading during Mass ... sacred, righteous, pure and holy.

Instead I'm hanging upside down off the top of a several hundred year old castle with a man almost as old holding my legs so I won't fall 350 feet below.

That's how you kiss it.

This was after making the pilgrimage up the castle stairs which are long, hard, cold, damp and increasingly narrow the higher I go.

Come to think about it ... kissing the Blarney Stone IS A LOT is a lot like religion.

Both require acts of faith.

The Blarney Stone may have been brought to Ireland by the Prophet Jeremiah who left it to bless the generations or ... it could be made up to become the 9 Euro ($14/adult) tourist destination it is today.

Who knows?

Who cares?

Unless it's you ... and where you choose to put your faith.

Kissing the Blarney Stone (for a small price) is supposed to give you the gift of gab ... meaning great eloquence, the gift of flattery or ... you're suddenly masterful at bullshitting.

I choose to believe it because Blarney Castle is a magical place to visit, the walk up the castle stairs requires major investment on my part, an old man being the only thing preventing me from falling to my death requires faith and I look forward to the rewards I'll receive for believing.

Though it really is the same with religion.

I believe in God and the Bible, Church or Synagogue are magical places requiring investment, words spoken by the  person in the pulpit are taken at face value, if I do the right things I'm not supposed to go to Hell and afterwards I'll gain rewards that are Heavenly.

I think it's better to believe than not making my way through life.

It's the ultimate act of faith.

All of those times when God is quiet and doesn't deliver on the things we beg for; when we unexpectedly inflicted with cancer or other illness; friends disappear or let us down when they're needed most; jobs are lost and our securities become threadbare and fragile; the church lets us down ... any of these things can cause us to lose faith.

Each can make us cynical and not longer believe in goodness, magic, miracles, deliverance and the conviction that someone's always got our back even when no one's behind us.

So I kiss the Blarney Stone as a testimony to the things I believe.

Regardless of the fact that I already have the gift of gab, am pretty eloquent, make people feel better and am quite the bullshitter.
_____________________

Today is also Sarah's birthday and we're celebrating the incredible gift of her life in Ireland. She kissed the Blarney Stone too but I still believe it when she says she loves me. Happy Birthday y love!

A fine beginning

The thing about staying awake for the better part of two days is when you do go to bed you sleep really well.

Our harbor view room in the Commodore Hotel has two massive windows, one of which opens so I crawled outside on the balcony to suck in the salt air and admire the views before jumping into the shower.

Somehow before going to bed Sarah and I made our way through the colorful and lovely village of Cobh, a harbor town with a much slower pace than the island of Tybee where we live.

Each of the shops are pastel colors collectively looking like a rainbow floating on the water from the sea.

The Cathedral is a massive assembly of gray stone literally built on the shore.

The Titanic boarded it's last victims here and dark monuments to their lives litter the colorful streets.

Supper was in "The Tradewinds," a lovely bistro with a downstairs bar through upstairs is a very fine European restaurant with delightful harbor views.

My steak smothered in red and yellow peppers and a rick thick gravy was delightfully tender without as being hearty while Sarah enjoyed beef stroganoff.

"I'll have the creamy tart," I order for afters.

"You'll have the what mate?" our gregarious waitress Jackie laughs. "Creamy tarts you say?"

"What?," I deadpan, "are there not creamy tarts in this town?"

Hallowing with laughter Jackie throws an arm over my shoulder and saying, "I'll be using that for the next month deary."

Afterwards we hit the Pub though honestly all I recall is listening an elderly well dressed Irishman tell me about his trip to America.

Crawling across the creaky floor to our tiny European bed where Sarah's skyping her girls, I reach over to give her a kiss but fall asleep before I successfully deliver the love message.

The dreams afterwards were quite powerful through.

'Twas a fine start to this marvelous journey.

What a fine girl!

The first thing I notice is the fragrance of the perfumes from the Duty Free store on the International Concourse.

Immediately the travel molecule within

my DNA sniffs itself to full life and ... I'm gone again!

At this moment I'm sitting in a Pub in Cobh, Ireland singing, "Brandy you're a fine girl! What a good wife you would be."

I never met Brandy but I'm pretty certain this is where she lived and that song was written here.

God what a lovely little harbor town.

"Angela's Ashes" by Frank McCormick was filmed here so if you've read the book or seen the movie you know it's a quaint colorful little European village.

I know ... I know ... I live at the beach and am now halfway around the world in another beach town.

It's not my fault.

It's Sarah's!

It's my wife's birthday and otherwise I would never have come.

But dammit this is a happy little place!

Plus I'm wearing my Sam Adman's Bar Church Band tee shirt, blue jeans and flip flops ... styling like I normally do.

Birthday girl is upstairs sound asleep in bed.

I can't blame her.

It took the better part of two days to get here.

But it's time to get her up.

As much as I hate to leave this view ... and the company ... her eyes could steal a sailor from the sea.

A Birthday Begins

It never occurred to me to travel to Ireland.

Had I been driving past and saw a sign indicating it was a few miles away I would taken the left to see what's there.

I've ended up in lots of funny places noticing I was nearby and telling myself, "Well, you should go."

Standing in Prague, one of the world's most beautiful cities, I told Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) that we were only a nights train ride away from Poland.

I told him we had to go.

He told me to ... INSERT VERB HERE ... you!

But we ended up going and it was a life altering experience.

Now today I'm intentionally going to Ireland.

It's on Sarah's bucket list and I love Sarah ... plus it's her birthday and I didn't have anything picked out.

There are things I already like about Ireland ... John Lennon's song "The Luck of the Irish" ... Van Morrison ... Celtic Christian writer John O'Donohue ... Celtic Christianity in general ... Druids ... the fact that St. Patrick's Day is a holiday in Savannah ... and I'm part of a group of friends who are all Irish Catholic except me.

Mitch Wesley loves Ireland and Celtic Christianity and I love Mitch so ... I don't know what that has to do with anything but I'm certain it fits in somehow.

I do love pubs and good live music though and there are lots of both in Ireland.

Finally Ireland is an island and of course Islands are the only place I really want to go ... I just never imaged visiting one this far north.

Our bed looks like two Dry Cleaning trucks had a collision as Sarah packs and I've been ordered to stay the Hell away until she's done.

Then I can pack.

But what do you do when it's the woman you love ... and who saved your ass ... and it's her birthday ... and I'm a terrible shopper ... and it's Mother's Day and her girls had no idea ... and she's consistently gone with me to Caribbean Islands, Central America and on nude cruises ... and willingly became a member of the Carnival of Friends ... and my Irish Catholic friends would kill me if we didn't go ... and it would kill Sarah not to knock something off her bucket list ... and it would kill me for her not to when we can make it happen.

But most of all ... because I love her.

Oh Honey ... your birthday begins now!

Turning Down God's Gifts

"You're going somewhere again? Didn't you just get back?"

Standing beside him paying the bill at Tybee Animal Care, I shrug my shoulders and reply, "Well I suppose I could put if off but I may die before I ever got to go. It would be a shame to be dead and never have seen Ireland."

Then Sarah's 7 year old Cassidy comes home claiming her teacher wants to know why we travel so much?

"Where do they get all of this money?"

Having no idea Cass answers, "My Mom doesn't do anything. My step dad's a writer."

The poor child really is clueless sometimes.

"Do you think he'll come speak to the 1st grade about what it's like to be a writer?" she asks Cass who asks me.

I have no idea how to respond ... because I have absolutely no idea what I would say to a class room of 1st graders ... I imagine "Children's Time" in Church with all of the precious kids come down front to sit at the feet of the minister ... who really is just trying to manipulate them to say something funny so the service won't be as boring as the sermon.

First off, unless you're John Grisham, writers don't make any money.

We're like musicians ... we do it for the love of creating and sharing.

That's not to say I think anybody should put off experiencing life and there's no better way to enjoy living than travel.

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."

So says Mark Twain and I believe him.

I believe it's best to take whatever you've got and see the world now!

Keep going to the places you love, regardless of the cost.

The worst that can happen is you run out of money in a place you love or die before you ever get a chance to spend it actually visiting your dreams.

I've got lots of memories saved up to savor in the Nursing Home if that ever happens.

In the meantime, to Hell with the money, it's time to experience Ireland.

After all, that's why God made it and it's sinful to turn down gifts from God.

Being the Rev

While the ordination was bestowed upon me by a collection of Southern Baptists, including my Granddaddy, the Rev. Ira V. Carver, the title was given by a bunch of homeless guys.

"Hey Rev," says Sonny Broughton, a tiny little man with a very big mouth.

There were five of them who comprised the inner circle introducing me to the world of homelessness.

Chester Fawbush, Lorenz, Bruce, R.P and Sonny, all homeless, were some of the most funny, conniving, creative and wonderful friends and they're the ones who named me "Rev."

"Hey," I ask strolling into the Church social hall converted into a Day Shelter for people with nowhere to go, "have you been drinking?"

"Naw," the elderly Chester replies, "I've already quit six times today."

The others howl and I have no idea whatsoever how to respond.

It was a magic and wonderful time ... until Chester dies ... Bruce falls off a bridge and drowns ... R.P. disappears and Sonny never wakes up from his bed above the bar.

Senseless deaths made me try harder to save homeless people and for 30 years I gave everything I knew how to not lose anymore.

Somehow the name stuck across time and cities.

"Hey Rev, can you ...?" is how most conversations began.

Of course they gave me every bit as much as I gave them.

Once I wanted to gain entry to a private Republican function with lots of security to keep liberals and other non-believers out and standing on the outside I suddenly see someone I know staring me.

"Hey Rev," she calls wearing clean black pants and a crisp white shirt carrying a case of Scotch, "What in the world are you doing here?"

I explain and smiling she boasts, "I can get you in. Carry this!"

Thrusting the Scotch in my hands she orders, "Follow me."

Leading me to the service elevator we ride to the 3rd floor ballroom and ... I'm in ... standing face to face with Newt Gingrich ... who wants a drink.

"Anytime Rev," she says retrieving the Scotch and walks away.

It pays to be the Rev.

Actually I went from being merely "Rev" to "The Rev" when Chicago Bob so christened me on the Pier at Tybee during a "Bored" meeting.

Johnny O, Trolley Joe, Whitley Reynolds, Dean, Ohio Bob and Chicago Bob and I met on the Pier for cocktails, conversations and lots of lies every chance we had. Judy O, Johnny O's wife, thinks we're boring so she christened us "The Bored Meeting."

"Hey," Chicago Bob says sprinting across the Pier to the bar, "it's the Rev! You look great! Who's your mortician?"

Chicago Bob always thought he was funny and the rest of us play along with it.

So, on island, I'm "The Rev."

I don't have to do much.

There's the occasional wedding or funeral (I did both Chicago Bob's and Trolley Joe's on the same Pier) ... if no one can think of anything to say at a public function they'll call on me (unless a politicians around) ... plus I'm an occasional leader at Bar Church ... and people seek me out privately to counsel, lay on hands and pray or just sit and sip in silence because they need someone.

There's  no money in it but it can be as rewarding as Hell!

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

My wife Sarah ... plays the piano.

My Gay Life

I don't remember in High School.

Integration was happening and, on the football team anyway, blacks and white got along well.

Besides one of my best friends was Paul Walker, a very tall black kid, and we'd crash parties at the Desoto Hilton exchanging dates so we entered the ballroom as interracial couples. The moment we strolled inside everything stopped and you could hear a pin drop.

No one knew what to say in those uncomfortable days so nobody said anything.

Paul and I and our dates ate and drank for free before laughing all the way to the Garden City Methodist Church where we parked ... making out until the girls had to be home.

At Georgia Southern I had friends who were gay, one on our Intramural Football Team "The Smokey Jays" and never really thought much about it.

I was busy working, going to school and my son had been born so there wasn't a lot of free time to wonder about differences.

But in Seminary my world changed!

In the early 80s there was AIDS.

Inexplicably I was the "Professional Christian" in charge of an inner city church where I was intensely focused on Ronald Regan's exploding homeless population.

AIDS scared everyone more and landlords were evicting gay tenants left and right who were sick and had nowhere to go.

Some heard about a hippy preacher who helped people find a place to stay so they came to me.

Young, naïve, with a good heart and high hopes, I believed in Jesus and everything he did so I did my best to help.

And I entered another universe.

People in love ... or desperate for it ... faced discrimination like I had never seen and God forbid if you were both black and gay because churches of all colors were so lovingly hypocritical.

"GOD DID NOT CREATE ADAM AND STEVE," an African-American preacher bellows as I integrated his congregation. GOD MADE ADAM AND EVE AND THAT'S THE WAY IT'S ORDAINED TO BE!"

"What a shit head," I remember thinking.

So in Louisville, Kentucky in the 80s and Savannah, Georgia in the 90s and 00's a big part of my life ... a big part of my heart ...was spent helping the gay community become one with the rest of us.

We opened Glade House in Louisville and Phoenix Place in Savannah so people with AIDS had a home when their own families kicked them out.

As important we helped "out" gay people through the St. Jude's Guild in Louisville and First City Network in Savannah.

I'm very proud to have played a small part in these things.

So this weekend, Sarah and I are celebrating "The Rainbow Festival" on Tybee Island where we live.

We are full of Gay pride!

"Red and yellow, black and white," keeps running through my head, "Lesbian or gay, transgender or any ol' way ... all are precious in his sight ... Heaven's come to us today!"

Amen!

And thank God!

The You Inside of Me

I studied my face in the mirror
And the lines are deeper these days
Cause the world is so full of sharp edges
And it cuts me in so many ways
But I’m hanging in and I hope you're not thinking
it's worse than it might appear
12:15 on New Year's Day
and I haven't shed a tear all year

I love the images of these lines from Jim Morris's song (12:15 on New Year's Eve).


They fit me these days.

Sometimes you can wear a song.

The lines on my face are deep right now.

The world has definitely left its marks.

Though I may look worse for the wear I'm still hanging in there.

I'm older than I used to be ... larger ... with thinner hair ... wounds take longer to heal ... and good friends have disappeared.

At the same time I'm as youthful in the way I approach things as ever ... I like the way I look ... my hair's as long as ever ... my wounds have scars ... and the friends I have are damn good ones.

I'm still regularly accused of being naïve ... romantic ... with incredibly unrealistic hopes.

Honestly, there are times I wonder about God and I ask questions out  loud.

Why the silence?

Where are you when I really need you?

"My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?" you own son says as he dies deader than a doornail.

You can't be any quieter than when you're dead and maybe that's why Jesus went there ... to speak in the idiom of the other ... to communicate without words ... to embrace silence and meet God on Her own terms.

I don't want to take it quite that far ... though I am pretty quiet today ... staring at the lines on my face ... looking at the you inside of me.

No Not One

"You've offended Tony Compolo," Richard tells me on the phone.

Richard is the publisher of my latest book, "A Non-Church Goer's Guide to God" is what it's being called at the moment.

Tony Compolo is the famous "speaker, author, sociologist, pastor, social activist and passionate follower of Jesus."

"What did I do? I ask.

"Well," Richard gravely replies, "When you say 'No Savior will ever sleep in the White House' Dr. Compolo didn't care for it because he's slept in the White House."

"No way," I exclaim like Garth did on "Wayne's World."

"Way," Richard perfectly replies.

"Well," I sigh.

"Yeah we can't get anybody to endorse your book. That's never happened before."

"No way," I say again channeling my inner Garth.

"Way," Richard laughs. "We're putting a positive spin on it. If nobody will endorse your book, it must be good. They're scared of it ... so that's what we going to say."

"You mean none of my Seminary Professors will give me a blurb for the cover?"

"None of them remember you," Richard reports.

"What about Guy Sayles or Bill Berry?" I asks.

"They never returned our calls."

"You know Bill's not the drummer for ..."

"I know," Richard cuts me off. "You've told me."

Tapping my finger tips against my teeth I ponder before asking, "You mean there's not one single person in the world who'll vouch for my book."

"No not one," Richard says laughingly, quoting the old Christian Hymn.

"But you're publishing it anyway?" I say a little determined.

"Yeah, it's the alternative view written by a Baptist Minister about a Baptist Church and how screwed up Baptists are ... and it's funny."

"Alrighty then," I say filled with renewed confidence. "To Hell with Tony Compolo."

"That's the same thing he said about you," Richard says and hangs up.

Then the book was released with my favorite introduction of all my books with an explanation of why nobody in the universe supports anything I have to say.

My Calling

I had vivid dreams about the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel last night.

It was 30 years ago when I was the 20 something year old Pastor/Director of the inner city Baptist mission post primarily because no one else felt God calling them there.

The whole thing was an accident.

I'd done the "special music" one Sunday morning ... a rousing version of "I Saw the Light" by Hank Williams.

When I finished, a woman with a butcher knife stuck in her apron stood up, spit tobacco juice in a Maxwell House coffee can and yelled, "DO IT AGAIN!"

I suppose the Spirit of God moved her.

When a tobacco spitting woman with a butcher knife asks you to do something it's hard to say, "No."

So I did it again.

Later, in the same service, the minister resigned.

After Church, suddenly surrounded by little old ladies, she spit into her can and said, "You go to Seminary! You be our preacher."

"I don't want to be your preacher," I said shutting my guitar case.

"Tough," she spits. "We want you to be."

Hmmm. This is a tough woman. "I'm not called to be your preacher," I answer.

"We calling you," she spits.

"Shit," I think to myself.

She stares at me with venomous eyes.

"I've never preached a sermon in my life," I confess.

"Can't be any worse than a lot of the crap we've already had to listen to," she replies.

There is no arguing with this woman and I can't think of any other way to decline the calling.

Continuing to stare at me I notice her mouth is furiously working the tobacco plug which bothers me immensely.

I think to myself, "She's going to spit on me if I say "No" and a fear of downing in the Baptismal Pool in tobacco juice overwhelms me.

"Okay," I finally say.

Spitting a giant wad in the Maxwell House coffee can, she grins and says, "Good. Let's go eat."

That's how my calling happened.

I'm sure I've told this story before and my critics will say so but ... good stories merit retelling and it's damn good story.

I would never be where I am now had Buna Wynn not "threatened" me into the ministry.

She's long dead though I suppose there was a "Homecoming Service" somewhere last night and Buna ... being Buna ... was determined I attend.

So that's what happened all freaking night long!

Till I woke up and it's Sarah lying next to me.

Thank God!

Amen and Amen.

Gay Tanning

Winston, The Little Gay Dog (TLGD) prances out on the Beloved Back Deck where I'm sitting naked writing a lustful blog about how Sarah starts pulling her shorts down before she gets to the bathroom.

I'm lusting ... I mean ... concentrating intensely of what I'm doing.

Winston, TLGD, doesn't care jumping up on the table wearing dark sunglasses and a white wife-beater tee-shirt with the colorful words, "Wanna taste the rainbow?"

"What do you want?" I ask full of irritation at my thoughts being interrupted.

Brown eyes peer at me over the top of the shades resting on his brown nose.

"Why don't you like me?" he asks through moist eyes.

"You're a pain in the ass," I mumble.

A lone tear rolls down his brown face.

"Alright," I sigh sitting up. "You're not a pain in the ass. You are a DIVA and you're sometimes a pain in the ass but not all of the time. What is this about?"

His little red tongue licks my hand.

"Oh for God's sake," I say pulling my hand back, "stop being such a drama queen! What's up?"

"You know I love you," he says.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah ... I love you too. What do you want?"

Sitting down on the table Winston TLGD collects himself before asking, "Why do you throw me off the bed at night?"

"Duh," I explain ... "because you're in the way."

"I'm part of this family too," he says with indignation.

"Well good!" I snap. "Go sleep with the girls."

He sighs and says, "I love Mom."

"I know," I sigh holding up my hand. "I know."

"Well then why do you grab me in the middle of the night and throw me against the wall?" Winston TLGD implores.

"Oh for Christ's sake," I mutter. "Listen! I roll over, put my arm around my wife and grab hold of a big ol' piece of hair that's breathing! Instincts take over and I throw you against the wall."

"It hurts," he cries. "It really hurts."

Standing up dragging my fingers through my long hair I take a stroll around the deck.

The air is warm with the damp hint of rain and salt hangs in the air.

"I have a suggestion," Winston TLGD timidly suggest. "Why don't you sleep with the girls?
"YOU LITTLE SON OF A BITCH," I explode ... meaning it literally.

"Calm down," he says licking himself. "It was just a suggestion."

"Are we done?" I growl.

 "I believe so," TLGD says standing up and making his way to his little outdoor tanning bed before suddenly turning to say, "will you put some lotion on my back?"

"Oh Jesus Christ," I mutter grabbing the lotion.

"Want to work on your tan too," he asks.

Sarah's still in the bathroom and it's a nice day ... "Yeah, I think so. Put some lotion on my back."

"Ooooohhh," Winston TLGD exclaims, "it's hairy."

"SHUT UP!" I yell.

"BOYS!" we hear Sarah scream from inside.

Forgotten acts of kindness

Most acts of random kindness are quickly forgotten.

Paying it forward doesn't have much life expectancy either.

Neither does doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.

The Jewish concept of "mitzvah" teaches the world is built upon kindness but it seems we keep destroying things.

"Kindness is my religion," says the Dalai Lama as he's in political trouble with China.

Buddha taught kindness creates good Karma though the great teacher himself may have died from food poisoning.

I believe in kindness.

It's the way I try to live.

But I'm not naïve.

Just because I'm kind doesn't mean people take it kindly.

Most of the time, I think, they go through the motions of reciprocating in kind but quickly forget about it and move on with their next need.

"The more that you take ... the less you give back," (Daryl Hall and John Oates) and that's just as true as anything Buddha, the Dalai Lama, Jesus, Rabbis or anybody else has to say about kindness.

There is a story in our house ... we try to keep a vase of fresh flowers on the table all of the time ... it makes for a more appealing house ... in the dead of winter there's the reminder of spring and they constantly celebrate summer ... it's out gift to ourselves ... a permanent reminder of colorful blooms at this stage of our lives ... reminding us of the love and happiness in our lives.

Sarah was at Publix and had flowers to bring home when the cashier gushed over their beauty.

In an impetuous random act, Sarah asked for a moment to run to the back for a forgotten item only to return with another bouquet of flowers for the woman.

"Oh  My God," she exclaims, "you've made my day!"

It made Sarah's.

I doubt the cashier remembers it all ... but we do.

One of religion's biggest problems is, while it's supposed to be a group activity, we've reduced it to a singular sport.

That's the thing though, the kindness we give to others is mostly for ourselves.

Recipients take short term glee and quickly forget.

But every time we author acts of kindness we walk with the Gods.

And every time we don't ... the Gods move on without us.

ATybee Beginning

In the middle of a warm night a lone bird sings solo outside of our bedroom's open windows.

Other than the ceiling fan's swirling hum the universe is still.

The bed has fresh sheets smelling clean and new.

Sarah shifts as I fold my hands behind my head to listen to the bird singing in the darkness.

A choir of frogs unexpectedly burp out their own Hymns quieting the bird and I wonder if anyone else in the world is listening.

Somehow knowing I'm awake, Goddess meanders in from the landing where she's been sleeping and pants beside my side of the bed until I reach over and rub her backside.

The frogs complete their celebration of praise and the night resumes silence.

"You should pray," my long dead Grandmother tells me and I can see her silhouette in the darkness smiling at me.

Though I haven't seen her in years I fiercely love Grandma Carver so I do as I'm told.

"Hey God," I say out loud in my mind, "thank you for Sarah. I don't know what my life would be without her. My kids and her girls too ..." and I clearly see each of their faces.

Sarah rolls over towards Winston who sleeps on her other side.

A parade of people I love march through my prayer as I commend them to God's love and care.

Judy and John, Cheryl and Jodee, Conner and Hania, Terry, Sandy, Bill Berry ...

An hour later I wake because a choir of birds are greeting the rising sun.

Prayer puts me to sleep ... I think to myself ... and can't help but wonder if that's what Grandma Carver wanted to accomplish all along.

I kiss Sarah's cheek, crawl out of bed and Goddess and Gypsy the cat follow me down the dark staircase to the outdoor shower.

Mars brightly shines through Palm trees as hot water rains down on me.

Choruses of birds praise the new day in every direction accompanied by frogs and the sounds of waves crashing on the shore.  

Back fades to grey as I make my way upstairs again, still followed by Goddess and Gypsy, and get dressed.

Kissing my sleeping wife a second time, I give the pets treats and wander downstairs again towards my bicycle for the ride to the "Breakfast Club" for coffee and community.

It's one of the things I love about the island.

There's no better way to start the gift of another day of life.

Joe Buck III and me (and others)

"Now tomorrow," Joe Buck wrote yesterday, "I want you to focus on just as many good things that Tybee Island has that makes you love the place."

Well Hell!

I've got homework for the first time since I was in school a thousand years ago.

Normally I blow off "special requests" and go wherever the Spirit leads me.

But it's freaking Joe Buck III and I can't blow him off.

Currently Joe is the President of the School Board and was a Dean at Armstrong State University and the head of "Leadership Savannah" ... which is where I met him when in an apparent complete lapse of enforcing admission criteria he let me in.

Through the ensuing years he became a mentor and friend.

When he completely lost his mind and decided to run for President of the School Board I was one of the people he explained why.

Patting him on the back I told him, "That's is great Joe!"

Quietly I thought, "He's lost his frigging mind!"

Since then he's been the greatest School Board President since ... well ... ever!

I owe the man ... A LOT! ... so I got to do what he says and list the things I love about Tybee.

But before I get around to the things I love about Tybee, I can't help but remember when we were graduating from "Leadership Savannah" and we'd already put Joe through a lot ...

we are the only class to be banned from an airline when Dr. Stephen Acuff took over the plane's microphone ...

this was after the previous night when several "Leaders" took over the D.J.'s booth at the sheik Washington D.C. night club "Deja Vu"  led by Fran Howard so we could repeatedly dance to the B52's "Love Shack" ...

and I'd utterly offended our guest speaker the Congressman by asking, "What do you mean Jesus can't be painted as a heroin addict? You don't think Jesus doesn't love addicts?"

Anyway ... we wanted to do something nice for Joe for teaching us leadership skills so Patrick O'Conner, Esq. lead us to get tickets, hotel rooms and primo parking for the Auburn homecoming game.

Joe is a huge Auburn fan!

So we did.

It was the first time Auburn lost a homecoming in ... well ... ever.

I love Joe and almost felt his pain that day.

Now to Tybee ...

But then Joe almost died ... a couple of times ... which scared the hell out of lots of us because he is one of Savannah's special gifts.

It's not so much the city he's impacted but thousands and thousands of its people.

Joe Buck has changed lots of lives and made them better and I'm the first to admit I'm one of them.

That's why I've got to write about the things I love about Tybee Island because it's Joe that asked for God's sake!

Oooops!

Sarah's up.

I gotta go.

Things I don't understand on Tybee Island

I have two master's degrees obtained from fine southern academic institutions.

I am a graduate of the doctor's program with black and blue honors from Hard Knocks University.

I've survived near death experiences, divorces and being raised Southern Baptist.

HELL! I even survived working with Jerry Rainey!!

I know things and how to get things done.

Yet, there are things I simply do not understand.

On the island of Tybee ... two men drive a garbage truck with an automated lift to grab the can, hoist it over the truck for empting and set it back on the ground. Neither man has to get out of the truck.

What's the second guy for and how much does he make?

Also on the isle of Tybee ... two miles of road are lined with orange cones reducing traffic from two lanes leaving the island to one ... so one truck can water one plant at a time. The lane remains blocked during the Master Water Man's lunch break and long after he's done!

Why is that?

During Orange Crush ... an annual gathering of college kids from mostly African-American colleges (and my personal favorite island holiday!) the Tybee Island Methodist Church blocked itself off with yellow crime scene tape apparently because of the threat of black people attending!

How pissed off do you think God still is?

I could go on because there are so many unanswerable questions.

• When Animal Control makes a home visit why do they bring police backup?

• How many police officers can eat lunch at the very excellent Sundae Café at the same time every day?

• Who is the incredibly clever graphic artist who takes black duct tape and adds appendices on the black stick man on the yellow crossing signs at every crosswalk?

• How many stop signs are there on this island and how many other small towns don't have any because Tybee has them all?

• Why does one get in serious trouble with the authorities ... be it government, religious, public service ... because they ask questions publically?

I wish I knew these things.

Alas, I don't.

My Guardian Angel's New Assignment

It dawned on me last night ...

while I was studying this weeks Sunday School lesson published by the Broadman Press ...

with Sarah and the girls sitting side-by-side like perfect chaste Baptists ...

wearing white dresses with perfectly brushed hair ...

not saying a word ...

while the man of the house interpreted the Bible ...

because they love the Lord ...

that I haven't heard from my Guardian Angel since she started splitting time between me and Jimmy Cochran.

Suddenly the Holy Spirit conjures up a recollection that Jimmy has quit the church he's attended for 47 years.

Then the Holy Ghost whispers in my ear that Jimmy's said he's no longer going to play piano or organ for churches either.

"No Shit!" I say out loud.

Maddie, the 12 year old, thinks I've challenged them to a Sword Drill and madly starts flipping through her Schofield Reference Bible with all the words of Jesus in red.

"WAY," the Spirit of Truth replies.

Dismissing the girls to their prayer closets so I can pour a glass of wine, I immediately feel bad for my Guardian Angel.

No wonder I haven't seen the dirty, broken winged, chain smoking, beer drinking followed by chasers of bourbon, pasty skin, skinny to the point her robe won't stay on her shoulders so she's flashing her right breast Angel assigned to me.

Jimmy's become a full time assignment!

Strolling outside to the Beloved Back Deck where my Guardian Angel and I used to drink and talk together, I realize how much I miss her.

She used to surprise me all of the time ... making epiphanies at "Spanky's," "Fannies-on-the-Beach" and one time she was drunk out of her mind and woke me up as I snuggled with Sarah because she wanted me to intercede with God on her behalf.

I listen as Sarah and girls prayerfully read the Bible out loud together ... "Kiss me again and again, for your love is sweeter than wine. How fragrant your cologne and how pleasing your name. No wonder all the women love you. Take me with you! Come let's run to your bedroom!" (Song of Solomon 1:2-4).

I raise a toast to the Tybee stars.

"Well, great and wondrous things are happening in the life of Jimmy Cochran ... Bless his little heart! ... Bar Church needs him more anyway ... It hasn't had a real pianist since D-Luv did her one finger magic."

I hear them say, "Amen" inside and like good Christian children the girls disappeared leaving the house spotless.

"Come my King!" Sarah says still reading the Bible, "Take me to your chambers now! (Solomon 1:4)."

I hope Jimmy's treating her right because I'm very fond of my Guardian Angel.

Who knows?

They're obviously keeping each other in Lord's handcuffs.

"I will climb the Palm Tree," Sarah breathlessly reads, "I will take hold of it's fruit!" (Solomon 7:8).

I dash inside leaving Jimmy to my Guardian Angel.

"To hell with them!"

What's wrong with crying?

Roy Orbison sang about "Crying."

I actually do it.

Getting it naturally from my Dad who easily cried after surviving a rough start in life, the horrors of war, watching his best friends die ... it left him ... "tear friendly."

He wept like Jesus wept.

Passing his tear ducts on, salt water flows easily from my eyes.

Here's an example.

We were watching "American Idol" ... often reason enough to cry ... when a commercial came on and the song was familiar so I grabbed my I-phone and found Zach Sobiech's magnificent "Clouds"

Zach was 17 when he was dying of cancer trying to figure out to say goodbye to everyone so he wrote a song that got recorded and took on a life of it's on as he lost his.

As I played it on Youtube, Sarah's 7 year old Cassidy crawls in my lap, lays her head on my shoulder and as we watch together ... my tears flow freely.

"Give Mike a hug," Sarah says from the sofa, "he's crying."

American society holds the value that tears are signs of weakness.

I think a lot of American society is bullshit because if Jesus wept then he's apparently as un-American as they come.

My Dad the Marine Prisoner of War too!

I believe it's healthier to cry ... to let your emotions out and not bottle things up inside.

Dr. Judith Orloff concludes, "Typically, after crying, our breathing, and heart rate decreases, and we enter into a calmer biological and emotional state."

That sounds pretty healthy to me.

It's a shame the world ... American society, John Wayne, the Die-Hard movies, Chris Rock, the modern church (not Jimmy Swaggart but Joel Osteen and T.D. Jakes), and most everybody elected to public office ... frowns on crying.

Tear ducts were given to us by God and are every bit as important as lungs, eyes, hearts, passion, intellect, penises and vaginas!

I try to use all of my gifts from God.

What about you?

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The Palm tree with the oyster shell eyes and coconut bra is wearing a grass skirt again.

Winter winds blew the old one away and she's been standing there bottomless until this morning.

Sarah brought a bunch of them so the next time her skirt's blown off we're prepared!

Last night my dear friend Terry Ball was over for dinner and afterwards we took a stroll around the island to catch up.

Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on the island whenever he gets around to it, was hosting "Open Mike" night at Bernie's.

"That Sam," I point to Terry as we walk.

"Where's Bar Church?"

"There in the Bar," I answer Terry and lead side where the place is happening because Sam's owning it and everyone's having a blast!

"Where's Sarah? Where's your guitar? Y'all doing Bar Church Sunday?" he rapidly fires questions while hugging me on stage and several people in the audience join us.

Bar Church isn't confined to Sundays.

Leaving the madness Terry and I wander down to "Doc's Bar" for Monty Parks and the acoustic jam which is where I spend most Tuesday evenings as part of a family of dysfunctional musicians.

We share our talents or lack thereof, tell stories, sing songs and make a different kind of church together ... a pure one where people simply share what they have without asking for much in return.

Not hanging around, I introduce Terry and we slide back into the darkness making our way to the beach reminding ourselves of 30 years of friendship.

Strolling by "Stingrays", Jason Courtenay has a large crowd in the palms of his guitar playing hands wailing out country blues.

"Is this a normal Tuesday night" Terry asks.

"It's Spring Break somewhere," I answer, "and a lot of them come here."

By now we're making our way passed "Tybee Island Social Club" where an acoustic player is singing while the band sets up.

"You should go there," I say. "It's good. The Bluegrass Brunch on Sunday's is better than church."

When God decided to announce to the world he was having a son ... he sent musicians.

"Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and singing 'Glory to God in the Highest ..." (Luke 2:13).

I believe God has a "preferential option" for musicians.

That's why She send a Heavenly Band to deliver the tidings of comfort and joy to the world.

Alas, preachers have tried to talk this down ever since but if you read the first couple of chapters of the Gospel of Luke ... everybody's singing.

Mary gets knocked up and breaks out in a song with some of the best lyrics ever written.

John the Baptist's Dad did the same thing.

When Jesus was born it was a whole damn band bringing the news.

"Wow!" Terry said as we make our way in the darkness.

"Exactly," I smile throwing my arm over his shoulder.

The Oppression of Divorce

When I returned to Savannah I was asked to conduct the marriage of a High School friend at one of the City's old historic churches.

He was divorced as was his bride.

Standing there in the black robe I bought for $10 from a Preacher going out of business I quoted Holocaust survivor and Nobel Laureate Eli Wiesel.

"God's greatest gift is the chance to start over."

And the Bride and Groom cried because they had the chance ... and they were taking it.

Afterwards they thanked me for pointing out the Elephant in the room by acknowledging their divorces and still believing in love.

I remember walking through the moss draped Square after the service thinking about the oppression of the divorced.

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit," says whoever wrote the Psalms (34:18) and divorce certainly breaks hearts and crushes spirits.

I also wondered why it's the Church orchestrating so much oppression of the brokenhearted and crushed people so near the Lord?

Somehow the Church made it into one of the Ten Commandments ... "Thou shalt not get divorced" though it's not certainly not one!

"But Jesus says," according to the modern day Pharisees (e.g. Fundamentalists and other shallow thinkers) "whoever divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another, commits adultery" ... and adultery is one of the Ten Commandments!

This verse if from the Gospel of Matthew and is the "Jewish" version of Jesus.

Quick lesson on the New Testament ... Paul's letters were written first ... THEN comes Mark ... closely followed by Matthew a couple of years later ... Luke was a decade after that ... and whoever the hell wrote John came out a decade or so later.

Just like Paul's letters were written to certain churches the Gospels were written for certain audiences.

Realizing everyone who knew Jesus personally was dying off Mark assembled his sayings and birthed the first Gospel which Matthew quickly plagiarized giving it a Jewish slant!

Lesson over.

The verse about not divorcing your wife unless SHE has sex with somebody else ... but it's okay if the husband does ... was all about Matthew trying to slowly bring the Jews over to Jesus' way of thinking ... by Jews I mean ancient Pharisees who believed in rules more than anything else.

Fast forward back to now.

It's a shame Pharisees run most Churches!

When I got divorced (X 2) lots of people ... church people! ... said horrible things when I was just trying to survive my broken heart and crushed spirit.

The same thing happened to Sarah and, because she comes from a background even more conservative than the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia, it was worse.

"Whoever does not love does not know God because ... God is love," I John 4:8.

A lot of divorced people know this WAY MORE than Church people.

A Good Day

I didn't have to but I kept the normal schedule today, left "The Breakfast Club" at 7 am and made my way home.

Sarah's girls don't have school today so I could have lingered, enjoying the company and being out with people which is a rare thing working from home.

Strolling into the dark house, Goddess and Gypsy follow me into the kitchen so I can give them treats and let them outside.

Turning, I hear a door open and the 7 year old sleepily stumbles to me ... blond hair askew ... wearing her "Monsters High" bathrobe and carrying the "Ferbie" her mother gave her for Easter ... Cassidy lifts both arms signifying I should pick her up.

I do and she lays her head on my shoulder, wraps her arms tightly around me and I feel her breath on my neck.

This has become our routine.

While the others sleep, Cassidy finds me as soon as she wakes and this is how she starts her day.

It has a profound impact on me.

I am not her father but spend as much time with Cass and her sisters as he does.

I tell the girls to call me "Micheal" their friend and not their "stepfather" and ... except for awkward introductions when it's just them and me ... that's what they do.

They confide in me lots of things they keep from their parents and grandparents primarily because ... I don't act like a stepfather, parental figure or much of an adult.

I cuss around them and occasionally at them, drink wine when we're sitting around, listen to their confessions without much judgment and offer my thoughts at their half-baked ideas.

AND THEY KEEP COMING BACK FOR MORE!

Of course I get in trouble.

Yesterday both Sarah and my daughter Kristen got on to me because of my interaction with the girls and they're right ... there are things I can do better.

But ... they tell me they love me ... fight for time alone like they do with their Mother ... ask unanswerable questions like "Why can't you be my Dad?" ... tell me about girls kissing boys and girls kiss who kiss girls ... share things they share with their friends ... beg me to intervene with Sarah about things.

I love being Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea's Dad and just because my children are adults doesn't mean it gets any easier.

I'm the first to admit I'm out of practice with smaller kids but I do my best to love and encourage them in my perverted ways.

I walk Cassidy to the sofa and as I lay her on it under a blanket she kisses my cheek.

Surprising her with Cinnamon Rolls she asks for uncooked doe and I give her some.

She laughs and winks because she's getting some and her sisters won't.

I never would have guessed at this stage of life I'd be living with 3 small children again and lots of people think I'm nuts because I do.

But they are gifts to me every bit as precious as life itself.

Plus I got all day to mess with them.

It's a good day.