An Unexpected Visit

"Want a pint of Guinness?"

"Two," she says holding up dirty fingers.

"What are you doing here?" I ask handing her a pint of the dark foamy brew.

"Why are you here?" she asks downing a pint in a single gulp then burping in my face.

"Right?" I say taking a sip of my Guinness. "In a million years I never thought I'm come to Ireland but here I am! It was Sarah's idea. You know me I'd much rather head south but it's my wife's birthday and she's always wanted to come."

"I don't care," she snaps taking a drag from a cigarette that magically appears.

After another sip I ask, "I thought you were spending all of your time with Jimmy Cochran."

Rolling her eyes, my Guardian Angel orders a shot of Jammisen and I see she's not as dirty as she usually is, her broken wing if colorfully duct taped in place and she seems to have put on some weight as the blue robe is not sliding down her right shoulder.

"I had to get away from him," she spits. "He spent all of his time chastising me for cussing and drinking, wants me to attend a friggen Baptist Church him and was always preaching at me."

"He tried to reform an Angel?"

"Right?" she says sipping the second pint.

"Can't you report him or something to St. Peter?"

"I did", she sighs, "but he just told me to handle it."

"What are you going to do?"

Leaning forward and poking the cigarette in my face she says, "I thought I'd hang out with you. You're let me be the Angel I need to be to keep your ass straight."

"No, no,  no, no," I say holding up my hand. "This is Sarah's birthday trip! You are not going to screw it up!"

"You sound just like Jimmy Cochran," she sighs.

"Tell you what," I say. "Leave Sarah and I alone until next week when we're home and you and I'll have cocktails on the Beloved Back Deck and you can tell me all about it."

"I suppose," she sighs.

"Good," I say slapping my hands together. "Now get the Hell out of here! Sarah's waiting on me so we can hear the band."

My Guardian Angel's lip quivers.

"No, no, no, no," I say holding up my hand again. "You're not going to cry!"

A lone tear rolls down her dirty face.

"Oh fine," I say, "Come on and join us but I'm not telling Sarah. You have to tell her."

She smiles. "Sarah's a saint. She won't care."

"Fine. Let's roll!"

"Let's go to O'Conners," she says. "It's a better Pub."

"How would you know?" I ask.

"We have quarterly meetings there."

"Great," I sigh looking for Sarah in the crowd.

Ireland in the Stream

The greens of Ireland are beyond anything I could ever imagine.

The entire country is a blanket of green beginning on the highest mountains descending to lonely beaches in empty bays.

Everything is in bloom ... flowers of every color ... Palm Trees grow here ... Monkey Trees ... every possible color taints the island.

It's cold here ... much further north of New York City on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean ... so I can't help but wonder how Tropical vegetation dots the island in abundance.

Ireland sits in the middle of the Gulf Stream.

There's nothing more magical in the world than it to me.

An current of warm water flows like a river from the tip Florida off the east coast up to Canada then across the ocean to Europe. Ireland is an island in the middle of the Gulf Stream.

The island's as enchanted as everyone claims but it's not because of Leprechauns ... it's because of the Gulf Stream.

It's the Key West or Havana of the northern Atlantic.

For the past two days we traveled the coasts of Ireland, the Ring of Kerry and the Dingle Peninsula, sparsely populated with quaint fishing villages and majestic views of the Atlantic. This is the land of the ancient Druids and I feel a spiritual connection to the land.

Ruins dot green mountain landscapes and I marvel at the people who spent generations building stone homes, beehives, farms and monuments.

It was the Gulf Stream that drew them here and it is what sustains this land.

We've taken to looking for Monkey Trees and Palms, tropical vegetation in the most unlikely of places.

Today we continue along the coast, ferrying to out islands, where today I plan on tipping my toes in the Gulf Stream, a piece of home ... half way around the world.

Sarah's Laugh

His mouth moved a beat or two behind the music but the joy erupting from it beat anybody's in the Pub singing in time.

Stephen has Downs Syndrome with ears bent slightly forward and eyes set slightly back and he screams to his Uncle Patrick who he obviously adores, "I know she's tempting but she's married."

Sarah's been adopted into an Irish family and Uncle Patrick is hitting on her.

I'm lost in the music not paying them any attention at all.

Wandering into Dunloe Lodge, a Pub in Kilaraney Ireland filled with families finishing up Sunday, Soccer teams done playing and lonely men looking for lonely women as they sit waiting for another drink before deciding.

Sarah's laughter is a magical thing and draws me away from the music to them.

Laughing with Stephen's mother arm draped over her shoulder Sarah delights being the center of attention.

In addition to being adored by the Irish, Mike and his Canadian tourist friends are also hitting on Sarah.

"If her husband has to take you outside," Stephen laughs, "I don't have your back!"

"What about that French lady?" Uncle Patrick points to a woman sitting at the bar.

Stephen looks at her then back to Sarah and Patrick, "NO! She's just nice."

The woman looks away annoyed at the pronouncement.

The band has the crowd in a frenzy playing old Irish songs everyone knows and sings. A guitar, accordion and bass are ministers of ancient things and couples twirl madly to the music in the crowd. Pints of Guinness are everywhere. It is a wild ending to Sunday and I wonder how everyone goes to work tomorrow.

When they break the bass player makes straight to me, robustly shakes my hand asking, "You're a player aren't ye? Why don't ye come on up and sing us one?"

Suddenly filled with pride, I break into a grin while shaking my head from side to side.

"No, you are owning the place! We're honored just to be here."

The old man grins and hugs me before disappearing in the crowd.

Sarah's laughter joins the choir of Patrick, Stephen and his mother.

Irish Pubs are like attending family reunions where long lost cousins delight in finding one another again in joyous celebration. We're the only Americans in the room though it seems we're Irish tonight, embraced by a people who easily laugh infecting us with a joy rarely seen back home.

Mizen Head

I couldn't keep my eyes open though I was trying with everything to keep watching giant waves crash fifty feet high hitting the jagged cliffs half a mile below.

Standing on the lookout stand of the last Lighthouse on the southern most tip of Ireland is one of the most incredible things I've done in life!

And I've been fortunate enough to have done some pretty cool things.

Mizen Head is a lookout point once used to guide ships from around the world to Europe.

In a blustery cold wind after a long days ride through the barren side of the island and lunch at O'Sullivan's in a harbor town of 40 year round residents.

Toasted cheese sandwiches, sweet potato soup with chili and seafood chowder in a tiny seaside Pub fortified us for the mile long hike to the Lighthouse standing teetering on the edge of the mountain with majestic views of the Atlantic Ocean meeting the Irish Sea before slamming into mountains exploding from the sea.

Walking through the Light keeper's House we wondered how men survived the loneliness of the post with the singular job of tending the light, forever repairing the buildings from the ravages of the wind and writing in the journal everything that happened when mostly nothing did.

Around the Lighthouse itself is a gangplank stretching out over the sea where we could walk into the 60 mile-an-hour wind holding onto the railing ... one with nature,

It's as exhilarating as anything I've every done!

"What a birthday present!" Sarah exclaims after she returns from the gangplank, her long brown hair blowing in every direction as though she's stuck her finger in the light socket.

Afterwards were glasses of Jamison to warm our bodies and toast the experience.

Ireland is as beautiful a land as ever imagined with it's lush green landscapes, beautiful harbors, colorful villages and ragged mountains.

But it is the people who make this journey special. Warm, friendly, funny and inviting they are quick to start conversation.

Stumbling into a thousand year old church, we're immediately confronted by Lilly, an 85 year old woman who lives with her son the Church Keeper. He forced her to move in with her so he could "take care of her" in her older years.

"That's nice," Sarah says as Lilly has hold of her arm.

"Naw, the boy couldn't mind a kettle of tea."

Strolling into any Pub is akin to attending a family reunion.

This is our routine. Experience the island's beauty in the morning ... find a quaint Pub for lunch ... enjoy the company of others while exploring the towns and villages ... before finding another Pub in the evening.

Kissing the Blarney Stone was magical but Mizen Head was holy!

Today I'm joining others for Mass before diving into the joys of Ireland again.

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!"