Religious Abuse Survivor

"I come at religion from the dark sides," I say to Joey Finch on a hot, sunny Key West afternoon.

Bill had wandered to the finish line waiting on Sarah to finish the 5K race so Joey and I had time to talk alone as good friends do.

"I know you do," he answers very quickly.

As a survivor of religious abuse he can say any damn thing he wants on the matter ... but he's sincere wondering how I believe after living through so many ... dark things.

Faith takes hold in the dark places is how Celtic Christianity puts it ... roots grow in the wet dirt and blooms above ground ... but you can't have a resurrection without a death.

I've seen lots of deaths.

The first I personally touched was Florence Bryson, an old mean ass, not-quite-homeless woman who wore several coats even in the summer and had a son named Elvis, who looked nothing like the King.

Elvis made money taking cigarette packages and elaborately folding them into picture frames he sold on the street.

Florence smoked all the cigarettes.

They lived together in a one room walk-up around the corner of the church I was inexplicably the 24 year old "Professional Christian" in charge of.

I didn't know anything, except we're all supposed to love each other ... and that's hard as Hell with so many unlovely people in the world ... like Florence and Elvis.

Florence would see me on the street, start cussing, throw cans at me, kick and punch ... all because I was the nice Christian guy ... like the ones who'd lied to her before.

Homeless guys seeing her attack me, rushed to my defense, pulling her away as she viciously bit them, always leaving her mark, before snarling, cussing and walking away.

Then one day she grabs me on the street, sobbing, pulling me towards their walk-up room where Elvis lay crumped on the floor.

Tears flood down Florence's leather face as I face a dead person for the first time.

Homeless men watch it unfold and fly into the room asking, "Rev! What is it?"

Florence buries her head in my chest, sobbing like I've never heard before.

After that, she was different as any Mother would be having lost her son.

"Hey Mr. Mike," she said in a little girl voice and we hugged.

She never allowed anyone to touch her before but now ... Florence taught me the power of hugs.

A few months later, on an early Sunday morning as I cooked breakfast for homeless people, I was summoned to the one room walk-up because something was wrong.

Storming the stairs three at a time, I found Florence laying on the bed, dressed in three overcoats and a skull cap on a hot summer day ... her feet still on the floor and both arms reaching towards Heaven.

Bursting into tears, I laid her head in my lap and asking God "Why?"

There's nothing just, right or Holy about a mentally ill, poverty stricken woman who'd lost her only begotten son ... dying alone in a rat infested one room walk-up on a hot summer day.

I remember God didn't have anything to say in response.

All these years later, I still haven't stopped asking.

And Florence was the first of many who taught me that love can happen anywhere ... in any circumstance ... and with the unlikeliest of people.

And if God is love ... well maybe that's the answer.

Santa in Key West

{He}, for most I think, is an odd mix of big tender heart, & giant ego striving for humility.

I love that line!

So I'm blatantly stealing it from Santa himself.

Santa John Driggers is in Key West right now and if you don't know him you should. 

Let me confess that I've never actually seen Santa but ... I believe in him.

I know others who claim to have actually seen him and I believe them too.

I write Santa letters ... well ... instant messages really ... and he responds to every one.

Santa and his wife Jenny are into Kayaking during the summer and she's pretty tan in a bikini but he's white as snow.

Santa's also more religious than I thought, shoots guns, vigorously defends Veterans, and can do flips off of Pontoon Boats.

He's hard to not like.

Of course everyone likes Santa anyway.

He wanders into a Waffle House and everybody stops eating because ... it's freaking Santa!  

Santa believes that Jesus rides shot gun with him in his pickup truck and who am I to argue?

I sip wine with my Guardian Angel on the Beloved Back Deck.

Maybe one day Santa will let me sit between him and Jesus in the cab ... that'll be fun.

Anyway ... I really love this present of a line.

A big ol' tender heart and giant ego striving for humility.

That's me too Santa!

And I'm really glad I fall down on your side ... though I don't shoot guns, go to the Waffle House, or do flips off Pontoon Boats.

Plus both of us have HOT wives!

Well I don't mean to bother you when you're on vacation but I want to say how much I appreciate you all year long and not just in December.

Let me be honest again!

I hate freaking winter!

But I do love Christmas.

And I love you too Santa.

I hope you and Mrs. Jenny have as much fun there as Sarah and I did last weekend.

Ho Ho Ho!

... it probably means something else in Key West.

Tybee's Passed the tipping point

There are no parking meters in Key West.

At least none that I saw.

Tybee Island must have bought them all.

You can't pee on Tybee without being forced to stop.

Or the police pulling you over.

In Key West, where there's an "open container law" ... you can wander around with an open container and the police won't bother you unless you're a nuisance ... then they'll pull you aside and tell you to go home ... and unless you're really crazy they'll let you ... and only as a last resort will they arrest you.

On Tybee there's no "open container law" but ... the police ticket first ... handcuff second ... Taser when given the opportunity ... and pretty much function as a Militia overthrowing a small country of beer drinking tourists and locals with dogs.

Customer service is a foreign concept on Tybee.

In Key West, cops politely answered questions, smilingly and laugh as part of the crowd.

On Tybee ... it seems cops only smile when they meet quotas ... or laugh when they make arrests.

In this economy, the only people making money are already rich ... or work for the Government.

The Government is the fastest growing industry in the United States and somebody's got to fund it and ... that's mostly us.

Government ... like business, institutions and churches ... exist to perpetuate itself.

Government accomplishes this with ... fees, parking tickets, citations of every kind imaginable, stop signs and a Paramilitary Police force with the endorsement of a Banana Republic administration and as much money as it wants.

For 30 years, Tybee's been a cool place to live and during this time people said it's how Key West used to be.

Having just got back from Key West, I can tell you Tybee Island's nothing like it.

It's more like Israel attacking the Gaza Strip on a nice sunny day.

Aruging with an Angel

"HEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I NEED YOU NOW!"

The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles but says nothing. A billion stars twinkle overhead and a symphony of waves crash in the distance. Salt sticks to my skin in the hot summer night. It's a silent night ... holy night.

"HEY!" I yell again. "NOW WOULD BE GOOD!"

"I'm busy," an Angelic voice sings out of nowhere.

"I DON"T CARE!" I snap.  "I NEED A MOMENT."

"What?" my Guardian Angel asks, appearing out of nowhere looking like a Prostitute on a good night.

"Oh good you're here," I sigh sitting down at the table on the Beloved Back Deck. "We need to talk."

"I'm busy," she says thrusting a lit cigarette tip toward my face.

"I don't give a shit," I snap. "You're my Guardian Angel and I frigging need you."

"Hold on," she sighs and disappears.

Drumming my fingers on the table, a habit I have when I'm anxious, I wait.

"What?" she asks, appearing in front of me with a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon and shot of bourbon in a glass. One wing is broken, her white robe is dirty and her black hair hangs limply around her pasty white shoulders.

 "What took you so long," I snarl impatiently.

"I was busy," she sarcastically sings then takes the shot.

"Well don't be so bitchy," I shoot. "I need to know something."

"What?" she asks rolling her eyes, taking a drawl from the beer and then from the cigarette.

Moisture fills my eyes as I stare at the heavens and my voice cracks as I speak. "So listen ... I think I'm praying more than I ever have ... I mean really praying ... not in public ... but in bed ... all frigging night ... laying there tossing and turning ... and nothing happens ... it's just quiet."

"DUH," she says adjusting her robe so it doesn't fall over her shoulder too far.

"I could really use a little help here."

She stares at me for a long time through a halo of cigarette smoke before coughing, hacking up a logy and spitting it over the side.

"Yes?" she hisses.

"I mean I got lots of stuff," I rush explaining. "How we gonna keep going? I got a wife with kids and I have to take care of them."

After a long moment of silence she lights another cigarette and asks, "Yes?"

"What do you mean 'Yes'?" I snap.

"Do you love them?" she asks as though she's helping me fill out a Driver's License application.

"Well yeah," I answer.

"Do they love you?" she asks as though she's bored out of her mind.

"Yes," I snap.

"What the Hell do you want from me?" she says standing.

"I need some assurance that every little thing's gonna be alright?" I snap getting in her face.

"Did you just quote Bob Marley?" she laughs.

Embarrassed, I admit I did.

"It is," she says placing a dirty hand on my shoulder.

"Well," I say needing to justify a 911 call to my Guardian Angel, "What about Guy Sayles? That's just not right!"

"Yeah," she says crushing the beer can on the table, "I really do need to get back to him."

"So ..." I begin.

"I told you I'm busy," she smiles flashing yellow teeth. "Go back to bed and feel the love."

A billion stars blaze on a hot summer night with a symphony of waves crashing against the shore. Salt layers my skin and the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt is smiling.

"Well then," I say facing her.

And I swear to God, the Palm Tree winks.

No Beer Today

Jim Morris wrote a song about sailing to the island of Antigua with a buddy and, upon arrival, want to celebrate with beer.

Unfortunately it's "Election Day" and all the bars are closed so everyone can vote more soberly.

A wonderful day in the islands suddenly becomes a sad affair.

Most Election days are.

Like today's "runoff" election in Georgia.

None of the candidates could muster enough votes to win on the real Election Day so "We The People" are forced to pay for another opportunity to support people who've already proven they can't win.

It's hard to get excited about the lesser of two evils.

Besides everybody knows regardless of who's elected they're going to run off with something ... or someone ... which is why it's called a "Runoff Election."

It's not to say I'm not patriotic, don't vote or have a lifetime of political experiences ... because I am, I do and I have!

Later today I'll ride my bike to the Old School so I can say hello to my neighbor Art who will ensure that I'm a citizen of the United States with a valid Government issued Identification card and verify I actually live here.

I'll stroll over to the voting machine, insert the yellow card, hit the screen and stare at the names of people I don't believe in anymore.

Maybe I'll follow Johnny O's example and vote for Roma as a write in candidate.

She couldn't do any worse than the candidates lurking behind Door #1 and Door #2 and she'd sure as Hell be more entertaining!

Then I'll coast back home and, having fulfilled my civic responsibility, grab a beer, plop down on the Beloved Back Deck and listen to Jim Morris songs.

On Antigua that day, a bartender took pity on Jim's plight, snuck them in the back door of the bar and sold them a case of beer for "only $55 bucks."

Regardless of who gets elected today, they're going to cost us a lot more.

My Stained Life

"He wears that on a plane?" she asks in a thick New York accent.

Sitting in the lobby of the vacation rental in Key West, I'm staring out of the window not paying attention and assume she's talking to Sarah.

"He dresses like that all of the time," I hear my wife explain.

Looking down,  I'm wearing a stained, white, "Full Moon Party" tee shirt from "Latitude 32", black running shorts and flip flops.

"And they let him on the plane?"

She has dyed flaming red hair, an orange and black Safari outfit and lots of jewelry that rattles when she talks.

Sarah nods, admitting her disbelief and says, "They do."

Shaking her head, the woman shifts her focus to the clerk explaining they'll need assistance unpacking all of the things packed for her dog.

Having my sense of fashion accosted doesn't phase me.

Men wearing bathing suits that fall past their knees are obviously projecting they've overcome other ... deficiencies.

Women wearing outlandish designs or tons of gaudy jewelry are too.

I'm okay projecting stains.

It's not like my life hasn't had them so I may as well wear them well.

Divorce ... getting mad in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person ... occasional lies that always make things worse ... failing to do what I'd said I would ...

Yeah, I got stains.

But ... my "Full Moon Party Latitude 32 tee shirt" remains mostly white.

Like me.

I do far more good than bad ... have pretty good timing saying the right things ... am almost always honest ... and carry through on whatever I say I'm going to do.

I've got to live with it all so I may as well wear my life with as much dignity and pride as possible.

It's better than pretending everything's perfect, great or awesome when the next person has as many stains as I do.

"Even the righteous of God," wrote the crusty old Saint, they got stains too, "for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

We may as well be honest about it with each other.

Then we get another shot at the glory of God. 

A Key West Night

Stumbling into our room, thunder booms in the distance and just as we collapse on the bed we hear a loud POP and everything is dark and silent.

Meaning the air conditioner stops and it's 91 degrees at midnight.

An emergency light blinks so I crawl out of bed and wander outside to the tiny deck we share with three older ladies on a "Girl's Weekend."

Key West is covered in blackness as the rain began to fall though I can make out the silhouettes of the Palm and Banyan Trees.

The weekend girls are still on their Pub Crawl.

The world is silent as I return to Sarah in the bed.

"Imagine the crowd at Irish Kevin's," I laugh, "hundreds of people plunged into darkness."

"Or trying to get down the steps from 'The Garden of Eden,'" she giggles.

Duval is crazy tonight, proving to be much too crowded for us ... besides we'd already enjoyed it earlier in the day, took naps, met up with friends and celebrated life.

The air conditioner roars to life and Sarah's asleep in a nanosecond.

Crawling out of bed, I wander outside again and Key West is covered in a blanket of starry lights and I hear "crazy crowds boogie to the sounds and the lights."

"Thank you," I say out loud before returning inside for the second time, slipping beside my wife.

Now Sarah sleeps late, still recovering from the race she ran cheered on by Bill, Joey and me, while I chat over coffee with the ladies on their "Girl's Weekend."

We return home tonight where decisions loom, work waits, school starts and fears are faced.

But we have today and one last visit with Joey and Bill, a walk around together holding hands ... perhaps a swim in the Gulf ... a last toast at Irish Kevin's.

Then it's to the hard stuff!

Well ... except for the secret plan we have with Johnny and Judy O for tomorrow night.

That comes first.

Then it's on to the hard stuff!

Key West Futures

"Irish Kevin's Bar" is one of our favorite Key West experiences.

When Sarah and I can't decide what to do we wander inside, grab a high top table and become part of the show.

Musicians have lots of interaction with the crowd and laughter floods the bar between really good songs.

After checking into our quaint little room, we make a quick run to Fausto's for groceries then head straight to Irish Kevin's where we spend two hours laughing.

Climbing the stairs to "The Garden of Eden" we have a cocktail and people watch before heading back to the room to cool off before our friends Joey Finch and Bill Bray pick us up for dinner.

There's a tiny back deck we share with three ladies here for a Girl's weekend. It's completely enclosed, has a table and chairs under an umbrella, Palm Trees, a massive girl and a hot tub.

I have no idea why we have a hot tub in Key West where the air's hotter than the water but it's one of the quirks of the island.

Of all the places Sarah and I've been we find ourselves happier here.

We laugh more, love more, communicate at deeper levels and enjoy everything in richer ways.

Later sitting on the curb waiting we laugh as Joey and Bill slowly drive down Petronia Street for the drive to Stock Island and Hogfish's Restaurant where we have ... Hogfish!

Between feeding leftover fish to a cat, we share deeply as friends do on warm nights in a marina restaurant with live music and lit by the Milky Way and stars on the water.

Joey drives us to their place and Bill shows me Shiva and his guitars and we continue to talk into the night as good friends do.

Now I sit on this tiny patio with a hot tub and three older ladies in nightgowns on a "Girl's Weekend" as Sarah lay in bed sending text to Martha who's also here.

We've been in Key West less than 24 hours and it already feels like a lifetime of wonderful things though we've learned a lot about ourselves ...

from the palm reader on Duval ...

where I learned I'm going to be fertile until my late 70s, will never drown or come to an unnatural death ...

and Sarah learned that she is stubborn, stubborn, stubborn (seriously he told her three times as soon as she turned over her palms).

"That guy's full of shit," Bill told us later. "It's a sham. I can do a better job."

"I don't know,' Sarah and I both say in wonderment, "he seemed to be spot on."

Sure enough today Sarah's been stubborn and won't get out of bed and I'm feeling particularly fertile.

I guess we'll have to compromise.

Then we'll do it all again.

Key Wasted

Had I found Key West earlier in life, I'd still be there.

Living next door to Joey Finch.

But then I never would have met Sarah.

It makes one stop and ponder ...

Regardless, today Sarah and I are heading to Key West today to see Joey Finch and Bill and it just doesn't get any frigging better.

It all works out in the end.

I should be writing but I'm rubbing Sarah's firm tan leg, having just spent the free drink tickets John Branigin gave us, watching the water get lighter and lighter out of the plane's window.

Burning the last of our miles, this flight costs us $10 each.

Savannah to Atlanta to Key West.

No wonder the airline industry is messed up!

Fly north to fly south?

I have to ask Angela Barras Brackett about this.

She runs the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron if there ever was one!).

It doesn't matter, Angie's doing the best she can.

Actually I had little to do with the purpose or planning of this trip.

Well, except I told Joey we'd be back soon.

This is Sarah's trip

She signed up to run races ... knows I love Key West, Ernest Hemingway and Joey Finch so she signed up and we're on our way.

There's no real point to this story, other than what I've already said.

So ... in conclusion ... have a really good weekend!

And if Angela gets the international part of the Savannah/Hilton Head Airport actually meaningful ... come join us!

Bad Wedding Story

Charlie Sherrill and I are performing a wedding ceremony together at a farm in the country.

Charlie is an extremely talented saxophone player and entertainer who blows magic. He's a soft soul, incredibly charismatic and generates love even in the seediest of bars ... or churches.

Dressed cool and beach like, he wears purple floral shirt, white cargo shorts and sandals.

I wear the black minister's robe I bought for $10 from a Preacher going out of business.

We're conducting a service together at a farm off a dirt road in Bulloch County, Georgia ... far from the beach both of us call home.

It's also our first "Butterfly" service.

The assembly has been given small boxes, each containing a yellow Butterfly which is to be released when I pronounce them husband and wife.

Do you know that Butterflies don't like to be confined to boxes?

Charlie and I didn't.

Neither do the gathering of family and friends.

When Charlie softly blows his sax ... we can't hear a damn thing for the sound of a hundred Butterflies wildly ramming themselves against the tiny cardboard boxes.

He plays louder which seem to infuriate the already pissed off Butterflies so they try harder to escape drowning him out.

With his sweet countenance, Charlie looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

I scream wedding vows to the top of my lungs.

"WHAT?" the Bride asks.

I scream louder.

Charlie shrugs his shoulders sympathetically and pretends to clean his Sax.

I scream louder and the couple say they "do".

Holding my hands up, I yell with everything in me "I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU HUSBAND AND WIFE!"

Over a hundred people cheer ... open up the little white containers ... and over a hundred Butterflies drop dead on the ground.

There's dead silence.

Two yellow Butterflies survive the horrific ordeal, floating together to get the Hell away from the wedding as quickly as possible.

Everyone looks at me to bring an end to the service.

I look at Charlie ... who shrugs his shoulders.

"You may kiss your Bride," I say ... not knowing what else to say.

Dead yellow Butterflies are everywhere as he kisses her.

Charlie sweetly blows his Sax as I rip off the robe and rush to my car.

He looks at me as he plays with eyes asking ... "Where the Hell are you going?"

I shrug my shoulders, get behind the wheel and leave a cloud of dust on that country dirt road.

A few days later Charlie and I are in Doc's Bar where he's the main draw and we burst out laughing when we see each other.

"Think they're gonna make it," I ask?

Charlie shrugs his shoulders and I laugh.

Grabbing me, he says, "Those poor Butterflies."

"Damn poor couple," I say as we hug.

I wish I spoke "Frog"

I'm listening to a choir of frogs.

It's an overcast morning, hinting of rain with a breezy blast of salty air from the ocean.

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, who desperately wants me to let him inside so he can snuggle with the sleeping Sarah ... the chorus of frogs are deafening ... harmoniously so.

I've got lots to do but I'm not doing any of it.

It's been a crazy week ... the exhausting kind ... and I'm determine Sarah sleeps as long as she damn well pleases ... which is why Winston, TLGD, sits in exile with me.

Plus the frogs have obviously put a lot of practice into this performance.

I'm not overthinking things but sit here appreciating the moment ... and the choir's performance.

"Stress makes you believe everything has to happen right now," is something our friend Chuck Courtenay posted on Facebook, "Faith reassures you that everything will happen in God's time."

I'm not one of those who believe that God sits in the sky pulling strings to make things happen according to some plan but ... I believe Chuck's quote is right.

Sarah and I have been struggling with God's timing.

We get the stress part ... things need to be happening now! ... and we know what they are ... how can God not know what they are and when they need to happen?

But they're not.

So what do you do?

We have faith things are going to happen ... we just wish it was now.

But it's not.

This choir of frogs have me wondering if God's trying to me something.

Why else would they be bursting in song this morning as I sit here pondering things, protecting my wife and trying to figure out Divine Plans that obviously conflict with ours?

Oh well ... what do you do?

I let Winston, TLGD, inside and he darts to snuggle with the sleeping Sarah while I tiptoe back to the choir of frogs.

I wish I spoke frog.

I'm pretty sure they're telling me something.

I hope it's ... when.

My wife and the cop

What do you do when the police are called on your wife?

There I stand, wondering about the whole "serve and obey" concept in wedding vows as I help clean up crap left behind by HER tenant in HER house.

Actually I'm trying to remember what exactly Samuel Adams, who plays damn good music on Tybee Island with some regularity, said when he performed our ceremony.

I wasn't listening.

Sarah wore a white dress, luminous in the moonlight on the beach, and she may as well have been doing water aerobics with the way things stood out.

Sam may have had me promise to make chocolate chip pancakes every Saturday morning or to return all her library books for her (which really is full time employment).

I don't know ... my thoughts were bouncing like my eyes as she stood before me.

Unlike now as she stands before a cop.

She looks good ... wearing shorts and a tank top ... sweat glistening on her tan firm body ... beautiful blue eyes flashing laser brilliance ... buttocks tightly clinched ... intensely focused on getting her points across ... which she obviously is from my vantage point.

Sweat pouring from my body as I'm witness, I have to stop working and get a grip on myself.

The other person talking to the cop is the lady whose furniture we're moving out.

She showed up wanting her stuff but sat on the staircase rather than help which, of course, drew the attention of my wife.

I've never seen a volcano explode but ... certainly it's very similar to what Sarah did.

"Get off your lazy ass and help us get your stuff out of my house," is how she politely began.

The poor woman couldn't take it, wanders outside and calls the cops.

"Hey," my beautiful daughter Kristen, who is helping us, exclaims, "I know that cop. He used to live with us. I wish Sarah would shut up! I can handle this."

Nodding my head in understanding, I hug Kristen and say, "Aw baby there's no shutting Sarah up once she's making points. Let's just watch? You ever seen a nuclear explosion?"

From the upstairs window, we watch the woman slither away.

The cop remains intensely focused on Sarah's points.

My wife turns around with a wicked grin ... as though she just scored the winning goal of the World Cup.

"Oh Shit," I yell, shoving my daughter to the stairs and picking up a broom.

Sarah storms the stairs like Sherman taking Atlanta.

"Oh hey honey," I sing. "How did it go?"

She has a beatific smile ... that says it all.

The rest of the day was pretty damn good.

 

Today's Miracle

Well!

Thank God that weekend's over!

It started out poorly on Friday ... grew progressively worse on Saturday ... Sunday landed with a splat ... and the whole affair ended with thud.

Everyone was in a bad mood and try as we collectively did to improve things ... nothing worked.

To radically alter everything I proposed ... er, I  mean mandated ... that we go out to dinner at a favorite restaurant. 

Everyone dressed up ... looked great ... and we drove into town ... to celebrate each other surviving the weekend ...  only to have the worst waiter every hired.

To say "he sucked" doesn't begin to describe his demeanor, pushiness, avoidance of detail and complete lack of understanding of the concept of time.

He was handsome though.

Drinks and dinner eventually came and the setting was right for everyone to enjoy each other ... except we didn't.

Everyone took turns being mad about something ... there was a little yelling ... and at least one punch was thrown.

In the hour we were there, one went to the bathroom three times ... and though I didn't keep track ... she was likely in there longer than she sat at the table.

When dinner mercifully ended, we dropped the girls off at their Dad's house.

"Well that was terrible," Sarah sighs.

"Yep," I concur. "Thank God it's over."

We drive home in silence individually contemplating the existence of God.

Then a miracle happens!

Home alone, Sarah and I grab hold of each other and call upon the name of the Lord.

When we woke up ... everything's better.

A Birthday Blessing

It's my son's birthday.

He's 36 which throws me for a bit of a loop because there's no way I'm old enough to have a son that old but ... I do.

He's had quite a year ... full of transitions, tragedy, accomplishments, frustrations and surprises but seems to have landed in a pretty sweet spot.

He was the recipient of a divorce, lost his best friend in a tragic accident, moved from his dream apartment to student housing, won scholarships, is perilously close to graduating with his Ph.D. and was surprised to find love.

That's a lot in a year.

Jeremy handled them with a grace and determination that leaves me proud though most likely view him as unconventional.

Three things left a big impression on me.

For a man who hasn't made his mind up on God he maintained a devote grace Priests and Preachers would kill for ... never turning to anger or hate but instead accepting and relying on those who love him ... which is one of the hardest things to do in life.

When his best friend Matthew Wilkerson was tragically killed driving home from work ... Jeremy exploded in grief and then pulled it all together to do the things Matt would have needed and wanted ... focusing on Jen and the kids ... helping with all of the details death brings ... and then delivering a eulogy Priests and Preachers would kill for ... and I know drew love and laughter from Matt.

And when Terenca showed up from the past in the wake of Matt's death, Jeremy embracing love, two little girls and making plans for a whole new life.

This year Jeremy will graduate from the University of Georgia, already his alma mater, and I'm looking forward to watching whatever that means.

Sarah's much bigger on birthday celebrations than I am ... to me it's just another day ... but I try to listen to her and understand what a blessing my son is to the world ... just like her little blessings ... so I'm  mustering up all of my clerical best to wish you Happy Birthday Son.

You are loved beyond description.

Terenca and the rest of us will let you know that.

I love you.

Lots of people do.

Why do good people do bad things?

"It isn't my fault," she pleads.

Standing in the rental house from which she's being evicted, she cries and mascara runs down a pasty white face.

It's not her rental house ... she was just staying there with her boyfriend who'd signed the lease but they didn't get along so he left ... and she stayed.

In frustration, anger and tunnel vision focus only on herself ... she trashed the place.

There's no way she's going to be out by the deadline ... forcing the owner whose already losing money with every second she remains in the house to make an ethical/moral/religious decision on the spot.

Call the Police and confiscate her belongings (all scattered on the floor ... including the pictures of her two small children) or ... give her one more day?

And it's raining.

The owner has done nothing wrong yet feels God's punishing her for past sins.

Most blame belongs to the boyfriend who signed the lease, realized he's in a shitty relationship and ... rather than deal with it ... flees. (I don't know why the story of the Prodigal Son flashes through my head at this point.)

Wearing running shorts that don't cover her ass, dirty hair piled on top of her head, standing over the photographs of her children on the floor ... she cries explaining the boyfriend said he'd paid the rent and she has time to figure out what to do ... and where to go.

"It isn't my fault," she sobs ... using the only weapon she has left ... manipulation.

"This is my kids stuff."

The air is sucked out of the room.

Sitting on the banister of the staircase, bare feet dangling in the air, Styrofoam cup in hand, staring at the trashed house ... I watch and listen ... and think.

Why do good people do bad things?

I don't know how good they are ... most are better than others ... some seem Angelic ... but whatever amount of good is in this mother of two ... and her relocated boyfriend ... has crashed on the shoulders of the owner of the house like a heavy cross ... with Roman shoulders slashing with whips ... in front of a snarling crowd.

It just ain't right," as Grandma Carver used to say.

Why do people ... regardless of how much good they have in them ... do bad things?

Why do tornadoes swoop down blowing up homes and killing people? ... How do tsunamis roll out the sea flooding homes and drowning families? ...  Lighting strikes from nowhere killing a father watching the sun set as his family plays in the sand ...

Can it be that bad things are simply part of the way life is?

Let's be honest ... we all got bad in our lives ... some more than others ... and bad always arrives at the worst possible time.

But ... it is what it is ... as my Mother says.

What do you do when it comes?

That's the real question.

What do you do?

Snorting Holy Water

I had a friend who snorted BC Headache Powder.

"What in the Hell are you doing?" I demand the first time I witness him empty the wax paper onto the desk, straighten the white powder into a thin line, roll up a dollar bill and snort it up his nose.

"I think you're suppose to swallow the stuff," I offer.

"Why?" he asks wiping his nose with his sleeve, "I don't have a stomach ache."

I don't know how to respond.

"I got a headache," he continues. "This is the fastest way to get rid of it."

I found it hard to not love Rodger Pack.

It made such an impression I included the whole scene in my book "Tour of Homes" though, honestly, I haven't thought about it in years.

Until last night.

Sarah's oldest, Maddie's been on a four week trip with her grandmother, the Virgin Mary.

The Virgin Mary is a very devote, opinionated and dictatorial Catholic and as she and her husband drove Maddie across the country they stopped for Church a lot.

The Virgin Mary and her husband prayed and genuflected while 12 year old Maddie checked out the boys.

Anyway ... Maddie returned home last night bearing presents for Sarah, her sisters and me!

I got a bottle of Holy Water.

A white cap carved into a rose adorns the top of a glass vial with an elaborate metal engraving of Jesus touching his scared heart and a Celtic Cross behind his head.

For some reason ... the number "69" is on the bottom.

"Is this from you or the Virgin Mary?" I ask as she laughs when handing it to me though it quickly turns to horror when I unscrew the top and take swig.

"Oh My God," Maddie exclaims covering her mouth as her sisters burst out laughing.

"What?" I ask before taking a snort up both nostrils, "I want to be filled with Jesus."

"I'm going to tell my Grandmother," Maddie threatens.

"Go for it," I reply.

Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, asks, "Can I have some?"

"No precious child," I explain, "this is all mine."

Laurel, the 10 year old and by far the most religious of the girls, tells us she's going to her room.

"It's only eight o'clock," Sarah says. "It's too early to go to bed."

"I'm not going to bed," Laurel explains walking down the stair. "I'm going to pray for Mike."

"Aw thanks Laurel," I beam. "That can only help."

Our Journey Begins

"The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet."

That's what Lao Tzu said, though we've changed it to the journey beginning with a the first step.

There are two different meanings.

Taking the first step of a journey involves will power, determination, action, putting one foot in front of another and moving towards ... or away ... from something ... or someone.

A journey getting started under one's feet means action arises from stillness ... it's contemplation ... praying ... wondering ... coming to terms with what's next.

I understand why the sayings been changed ... we find it hard to sit still.

It's better to take control ... be in charge ... ask for forgiveness rather than permission ... kick ass and take names!

It's harder to wait ... be quiet ... listen ... feel what's right ... be grounded ... imagine what's coming before it happens ... know what's next.

Some days I just don't know how to start.

Getting up, I stumble to the outdoor shower, baptize myself as the sun begins to bubble from the sea and begin to come to life.

With more vigor I walk up the stairs, kiss my sleeping wife, dress, throw the dogs a treat and head for coffee with friends.

Half-an-hour later I'm home, sitting on the Beloved Back Deck, ready to start.

Some days, it's easy ... like the other night my Guardian Angel came in a dream to show me how "Purple Jesus" is made.

Other days ... I have no idea.

I sit and wait.

Then something happens ... a saying I haven't thought of in years pops into my head ... it strikes me as apropos to where Sarah and I are in life so I look it up and ... it's exactly the right thing to think about at exactly the right time.

The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet.

It's our quiet time as ... we wait ... we're silent ... we're listening ... we're feeling for what's right ... grounding ourselves in one another ... imagining together ... coming to know what's next ... falling deeper in love.

Soon we'll be taking control ... in charge of whatever it is ... needing nobody's permission ... kicking some royal ass and ticking off their names.

But it's not that time yet.

It's still the marvelous moments when the ground shakes beneath our feet ... quivering with anticipation ... the same Holy ground Moses stood upon before the Journey to the Promised Land.
_____________________________

To signify the coming Promised Land, a prophet visited our house the other day. Jonah affirms we're doing the right things at the right time. That's him standing between us.

Post Biirthday Blues

Staring at all of the birthday wishes on my computer screen ... I'm incredibly thankful.

Sarah got an early jump posting a sweet love note to me on Facebook and a slew of friends jumped on it with their own birthday wishes.

Other friends took time to send wishes and comments on my Facebook page and it was great to hear from many I haven't talked with in a long time.

There were several messages on LinkedIn and my friend Rick Smith actually send on an old fashion e-mail.

Going completely over the top, Sarah also presented me with an actual birthday card with a message SHE HAD WRITTEN with a pen!

Judy O burst into The Breakfast Club and gave me a birthday hug which led the team that works there to scream "HAPPY BIRTHDAY" repeatedly at the top of their lungs.

Sarah gave me more than a hug later in the morning.

Each of my kids called and we shared great conversations.

Two of Sarah's girls called to sing me "Happy Birthday" and the other messaged a bunch of happy faces then quickly moved on to lobbying me to take them to Florida.

I worked part of the day ... meaning I looked for work because things are slow right now.

We have renters who relocated to another state without telling us and that cannibalized part of my special day.

I did get a birthday nap, snuggled beside Sarah, which is a wonderful gift.

We went out for dinner and afterwards sat in "our" swing on the beach but it was too windy so we left to listen to Sam Adams play damn good live music on the island.

As soon as we entered, God told Sam to stop playing in the middle of a song to hug us and talk for a while which was nice and we enjoyed each other as friends do, though God told Sam to tell me it's time for me do something in Bar Church again.

Back home again, Sarah and I watched a movie while birthday wishes buzzed on my phone then it was time for bed.

Now I've reread each and every wish, watched the cute videos people linked, listened to the voice mails, replied to the personal messages while touching the card Sarah gave me.

I find myself with the post Birthday blues.

It's not centered on being older ... I'm a kid at heart!

And it's not that I lack in much, because I don't, though I fret about how to keep it all.

But there's a restlessness ... a boredom that's crept inside ... that's leaving me melancholy on a lovely sun drenched morning kissed with a delightful ocean breeze.

It happens after most birthdays ... and with some regularity throughout the year ... a question haunts ... the fire in my belly burns ... in spite of everything I've done and I've done a lot ... the only thing matters is what's next?

Thank you everyone.

My Birthday Wish

The scratching of finger nails on glass wakes me from a wonderful slumber with my body completely intertwined with my wife.

"Hell," I mutter, disentangling myself from Sarah without waking her.

Stumbling through the living room to the kitchen, Goddess' tail wags and I sigh loudly.

Spying through the sliding glass doors into a dark night because the moon's already set, I see her glow ... red cigarette tip, smoky halo, dirty white robe almost sliding off her shoulder and exposing her right breast, oily black hair ... it's my Guardian Angel.

I haven't seen her in months.

Assuming Jimmy Cochran was keeping her busy, I'd been careful to not ask God for anything lest she show up ... but here she is.

Opening the doors, she stands to greet me ... something she never does ... and sure enough her robe slips further and her right breast pops out.

"Hey Birthday Boy," she says with a grin.

"Aren't you going to cover that?" I ask taking a seat at the table on the Beloved Back Deck.

"Why should I?" she snaps. "You're naked!"

"Whatevs," I sigh glazing at a billion stars overhead.

"I'm just here to wish you a Happy Birthday," she grins and two Styrofoam cups magically appear out of nowhere.

"Wait a minute," I say leaning forward. "Where's your tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon and bourbon chaser?"

"It's your birthday stupid," she snaps. "We're having a birthday toast."

"Oh," I reply with uncertainty ... because she's never this nice.

She slides one of the cups toward me.

"Hey!" I exclaim. "Just where in the Hell have you been."

"Upstate New York," she says.

"What for?" I begin but she angrily cuts me off.

"Listen you stupid ass, I'm here for your frigging birthday! Shut up and let me talk."

I remain nakedly quiet.

"To you on your birthday," she smiles holding up a Styrofoam cup with her right breast still exposed.

Taking a sip of the drink, I almost throw up while swallowing it.

"What the Hell is this?" I cough and choke.

"Purple Jesus," she answers.

"Seriously?" I ask, examining the liquid in the dark cup.

"Yeah," she explains, "we have to wring out the white cloth Catholic Priests use to clean out the chalice and save all of the leftover grapefruit juice Baptists and Methodists use ... because that's the Body of Christ. We mix it together and ... WA-LA ... Purple Jesus!"

"That's disgusting," I snort.

"Well, God started recycling way before anybody else ever thought of it."

I can't think of anything to say.

"Happy Birthday," she says fading away. "I got more important shit to do."

"Hmmm," I sigh still holding onto the empty Styrofoam cup. "Thank you Lord for thinking about me," I say out loud.

Turning towards the sliding glass door, I suddenly stop and look towards the billon blazing stars in the dark sky.

"Hey God! When I get up, I'm going to write down the things I want for my birthday. It's not a lot! A winning Lottery Ticket ... that's all!"

It thunders in the distance.

"Thank you Lord," I say returning to the wonderfulness of my sleeping wife.

A burst of life!

"Aren't you going to have breakfast Hun?" the older woman in the white shirt with the "Fairfield Inn and Suites" logo asks as I sip coffee from a Styrofoam cup staring intensely at my Netbook.

"Jaynce" is printed on her nametag.

"No," I reply smiling at her smile, "I'm waiting on my wife and the girls."

"Awe, that's sweet," she says floating to the next table of overnight stayers asking, "Are you enjoying your breakfast?"

It's hotel food ... pans of scrambled eggs, pork sausage, gravy and biscuits, tiny pastries, boiled eggs and a self-service waffle maker.

I've been at a thousand of them, and you probably have too, but Jaynce made this one feel like my grandmother is hovering over making certain everyone's happy, pleased and full.

She magically transforms a bland, pseudo-meal into a breakfast and almost pulls of making a room full of strangers a ... family.

Darting around speaking to everyone, she refills the coffee urns, restocks the pastries and cleans up the spills from the waffle make ... all the while dripping delightfulness.

"She's so nice," I think to myself, "in all my travels I've never seen a server at a hotel work such magic."

She's older ... has a husband she mentions ... my guess is they retired to Florida and the money ran out and she takes "Speed" to dart around like this.

"No, I got it baby," she tells her supervisor who's come to check on the woefully overcrowded room.

Ignoring my Netbook, I'm completely mesmerized.

Shifting my attention to my fellow overnight stayers, they look like sleepy hotel guests sipping coffee, eating pastries and making a mess at the waffle station ... EXCEPT ... when Jaynce asks them if they're enjoying themselves ... what they're doing today ... and if they need anything?

Suddenly bursting into life ... they're all smiles, full of vigor and ready to tell their story.

It's almost like church.

I wonder why more aren't like her?

She truly seems to be enjoying the moment.

No doubt her feet will hurt when she gets home to her husband and she'll be tired of talking.

I image them fixing drinks and sitting there until they're ready to talk about the day they had, the money made, the crazy or wonderful things that happened or look for other jobs.

I am inspired by her and will lobby that Fairfield Inn and Suites give her a huge ass raise.

The hotel was nice.

She was incredible.