Little Pink Houses

Just when I think things can't get any stranger ...

"HERE KITTY,  KITTY, KITTY!" she screeches from the deck of the pink house next door.

Yes ... it's true ... Little Pink Houses surround us.

I do not mind the pink but the collection of feral cats she tends drive us nuts.

They love sleeping on top of the car leaving fur plastered everywhere.

A blue towel's wrapped around her head ... she wears a yellow bath robe and pink bunny slippers.

She looks like Marge Simpson on meth.

"HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

Hundreds of feral cats climb out of Palm Trees, jump fences, crawl out of trash cans, leave the gutters they're laying in and rush to the Cat Lady who feeds them.

Imagine a hoard of very fat Locusts converging in one spot at the same time.

"AW, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" she coos stooping to caress them.

"AW JESUS CHRIST," I mutter sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, both of which are covering their heads with their paws.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, runs and hides under the bed.

In every life there are moments that force you to make a choice.

This is one.

Wish my neighbor a good morning?

Or sneak inside the house?

Winston, TLGD, makes the decision for us when the little Son-of-a-bitch ... and I mean that literally ... wearing a fluffy orange cardigan with white letters reading "Gay! It's in my designer genes!" ...  jumps up and starts barking at a hundred feral cats.

Thankfully the cats are making so much noise moaning and meowing they don't notice so Goddess and I make our move ... darting inside with Gypsy and locking Winston, TLGD, outside with the Cat Lady and her Cats.

Everything's fine until Sarah strolls into the kitchen asking, "Where's my precious little boy?"

Goddess looks at me ... I look at Goddess ... the entire house is a giant pregnant pause.

"KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" she screeches again.

Winston, TLGD, is shivering in fear outside.

Goddess decides it's the perfect time to take me for a walk ... just in the nick of time.

Closets are for clothes

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, sashays in the Living Room wearing a black wife beater with white letters reading "Closets are for clothes."

He snares and snaps at Goddess who's laying under my bare feet dangling from the dining room table where I'm working and our beautiful Golden Retriever with a bit of Boarder Collie in her lineage is snoring.

Goddess pays Winston, TLGD, no attention whatsoever continuing to sleep.

Gypsy, the formerly Gender-confused Cat, lay beside Goddess watching Winston, TLGD, carry a bone in his mouth to spot on the sofa where Sarah sits.

Winston, TLGD, adores Sarah ... though he doesn't care about the rest of us at all.

It's all about Winston, TLGD, and Sarah as far as Winston, TLGD, is concerned.

Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, retaliated by barring Winston, TLGD, from her room.

Maddie, Sarah's 13 year, isn't even aware that Winston, TLGD, is here at all ... but then again she's hardly aware the rest of us are either ... in fact, the only time I ever hear from her is when storms into the room asking, "WHER'S MY MOMMY?"

I take great glee in shrugging my shoulders and saying, "I have no idea."

Laurel, Sarah's 10 year old, does pay Winston, TLGD, attention because she loves everybody.

Laurel's never encountered anything or anybody she doesn't love ... including Winston, TLGD, who does not respond in kind.

"Laurel," I told her the other day as she tried to love Winston, TLGD.

"What?" she screeched.

"Never mind," I say.

Regardless, Sarah and the girls are not home at the moment and Winston, TLGD, is an awful DIVA, Demagogue and ... I mean this literally ... a little Son-of-a-Bitch.

But it's Friday and everybody's excited.

The weekends here ... Sarah will be off soon ... her girls are coming home ... UGA plays ... Bar Church happens ... we'll play Spades ... steaks are already marinating ... CAN'T WAIT!

"OKAY KIDS!" I yell at Goddess and Gypsy ... pointing at Winston, TLGD, who pops his head up, bone still in mouth, with a frightened look in his eyes.

"LET'S GET HIM!"

Ten legs hit the ground running.

Winston, TLGD, cries like a baby hiding under the bed.

 

Some kind of Ecstasy

Sun's up, mm uh, looks okay ...

My world survives into another day.

My world's a little cooler than I prefer at the moment though I'm wearing the black running shorts and am bare foot.

Goddess keeps my feet warm as I sit on the Beloved Back Deck writing so I stick my toes under her golden fur while she snores under the table.

The sun blazes through the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt.

A brisk breeze blows off the ocean so I wear a long sleeve tee with a UGA logo.

Bruce Cockburn and I are wondering where the Lions are?

I've been on the phone all morning taking about possibilities and plans.

I've got my sunglasses on.

Bob Dylan bumps Bruce to ask ... How does it feel to be on your own? ... with no direction home ... a complete unknown ... like a Rolling Stone?

"Well," I say out loud ... "I'm not on my own because I live with my wife who doubles as my best friend ... her 3 little girls who love me a lot ... my kids who're scattered to and fro on the face of the earth ... a Carnival of friends ... and a Church in a Bar."

Goddess turns over as I say this so I adjust my toes to stay warm under her fur.

"Home is a relative concept," I continue telling our dog. "It's where you want and where you're wanted ... more or less."

Goddess sighs heavily.

"It's true," I say directly to her, "that a lot of people have forgotten me ... BUT ... I am not completely unknown."

Our lovely Golden Retriever with a bit of Boarder Collie in her lineage can't stand my interruptions to her nap stands ... shakes her head ... and meanders out into the back yard ... and pees.

"THANKS FOR UNDERSTANDING!" I yell.

"Ah well," I say to myself because there's no one else to say it to, "I've survived into another day."

Goddess meanders back upstairs and resumes covering my toes under the table where I'm writing on the Beloved Back Deck.

"One of these days," I tell her rubbing her head, "we're gonna sail away ... sail into eternity ... some kind of ecstasy's got a hold on me."

YUP.

It's my and Sarah's code word that we understand each other.

Most people don't have that ... either a code word or an understanding.

The sun burst out from the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt.

Goddess barks.

Some kind of ecstasy's got a hold of me.

God and Santa Claus

When I meet the Lord so kind
I'm gonna give Him a piece of my mind
And I'll tell Him I wanna know why oh why when He's so damn forgiving
My Daddy won't look in my eyes
And Momma knows the lies I'm living

Jeremy and Chelsea introduced me to the music from "Songs of Anarchy" from the television show "Sons of Anarchy" which Sarah and I don't watch.

BUT ... the songs are damn good!

Audra Mae is one who's songs sprinkle the collections.

She tells is like it is!

She's already figured out the first thing she's got to say to God when they finally meet face-to-face.

Listening to her sing reminds of the French Catholic Priest Michel Quoist who wrote incredible prayers about ... the first things he had to say to God when they met face-to-face.

"How dare you?" is how one prayer begins ... as he holds a baby born deformed clinging onto death more than life.

The same prayer ends with the words, "Who dares ask? I do. And you dare answer."

Now that's a prayer seldom heard.

But isn't that the point of prayer?

It's not climbing on Santa Claus' knee to ask for whatever we want ... it's engaging in a dialogue with the person we believe in most ... certainly about the good stuff when that happens ... but more importantly about the shitty stuff!

If we can't talk to God about the shitty things then ... why talk to God at all?

It's a bleak, rainy, quiet morning and I'm alone with lots of things in front of me I really don't want to do.

There's lots I don't understand these days.

Mostly it's all the things I want from Santa that haven't arrived yet that so frustrate us ... winning the Lottery, inheriting the money, getting the settlement, healing the sick, restoring the soul, raising the dead ... finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Santa listens and ... occasionally delivers.

God listens and ... drives us crazy with silence.

Father Michel died in 1997, long after I met him through his magnificent "Prayers", and I believe he's still giving God Hell with very legitimate questions.

In the meantime, Audra Mae's got hers teed up.

I've got mine too.

You?

Staying in July

I prefer every single month be July.

It's summer, the beach is perfect, Congress is out of session and can't screw us, there's fireworks, bands play outdoors and nothing's happening in the world because half-the-work-force just got back from Vacation and the other half is getting ready to go.

Alas ... it's October and people are excited about leaves changing colors, Meteorologists gleefully forecast Tornado Warnings, Congress is back in session, half-the-country's working while the other half look for work and there's mid-term elections which absolutely no one cares about because two losers are in a run off.

On the up side ... College football is pretty exciting right now.

In my heart ... and in my head ... it's always July.

Sarah and I were talking and ... we only have so much time together left ... primarily because I'm so much older than she is ... and though neither of us have calculated who has the better odds of being struck by lightning, run over by a truck, or hit by one of the daily misfired bullets shot in Savannah ... the fact is ... we only have so much time left together.

"What we gonna do when Mike dies?" Cassidy the 7 year old asks the other day.

"How do you know I'm going first?" I ask putting down the tender ribs I've spend 7 hours cooking that they doused in Ketchup.

All four girls stop in mid-whatever-they-are-doing and just stare at me.

The only sound is that of crickets chirping.

"Okay so I'm probably going to go first," I admit.

Nodding ... they pour more Ketchup on the ribs.

I prefer to not think about my Autumn years ... and I sure as Hell want nothing to do with Winter, no matter how it comes ... figuratively or literally.

I'd rather constantly live in July ... where it's always warm, Sarah's in a bikini, the beach is perfect, outdoor music is everywhere and every night there's one Hell of a light show put on by the Milky Way.

I know ... I'm the exception and not the rule.

I wish the very best to you color leaf loving people ... Tornado lovers ... Congressional intimates (meaning you like being screwed) ... stew stirrers ... clothe worshippers ... indoor people!

I really do.

Not me.

It's mind over reality.

As long as I can get Sarah to wear her bikini all winter ... I'll stay warm. 

Divine Intervention ... for a Pirate and his Wenches

Everything was perfectly planned.

Whitely Reynolds has a big Golf Cart he's willing to lend us.

It's Pirate Fest and we want to represent Bar Church in the Parade.

The day arrives, I pick up the Golf Cart from Whitley and drive it back to our house where Sarah and Laurel, the 10 year old, decorate it.

Everyone gets ready, we pile in the beautifully decorated cart and take off to pick up Judy O'Neill who gets in the cart successfully.

Three blocks later ... the Golf Cart dies.

I'm the lone Pirate in a Cart full of well dressed Wenches ... meaning I have to push the Cart back to Whitley's house ... (honestly ... my Gypsy Wife ... who's also the Pastor's Wife ... helps. Pastor's wives get no respect!)

A few blocks and several gallons of sweat later, Whitley who's obviously indisposed, grabs a wrench ... NOT A WENCH ... and fixes the Golf Cart.

The Wenches piles back in as Whitely hands me the wrench and we're off again.

One block away from the staging area, the Golf Cart dies again.

Grabbing the wrench ... NOT THE WENCH ... I turn the same nut Whitley did ... and the whole thing pops off in my hand.

So ... the Wenches stroll to the Parade staging area ... as I call the still indisposed Whitley ... who immediately comes to get his Golf Cart ... he toes me driving it to where it's going to be fixed ... then takes me back to the staging area ... where the Pirate Fest Parade is just staring.

The Bar Church Wenches are all waiting ... having decided we're going to make the best of it by walking the route.

Other Bar Church wenches and Pirates are looking for us.

THEN A MIRACLE OCCURS!

The Island Hopper "Ghost Tours" Golf Cart is instructed by the Parade Manager to stop in front of the Bar Church people.

There is no one in it save the driver who's dressed like a Wench.

"Hey!" I say, "Do you know Rocky Moore?"

She does.

"Our float broke," I explain.

"Oh get in," she cheerfully says, so we do hoisting the Bar Church Pirate Flag and goodies for the kids.

So the Church people get in with the Ghost people and ... we have the most marvelous Pirate Fest Parade!

Which has left me wondering ever since.

What are the freaking odds?

We lose Whitley's big Golf Cart right before the Parade we plan on marching in to honor God and ... another is delivered to us just as the Parade steps off.

How do you explain that?

It's right up there with Moses and the Burning Bush ... David slaying Goliath ... the walls of Jericho tumbling down ... walking on the water ... Jesus being raised from the dead.

I believe God loves Bar Church!

How else can it be explained?

Playing Dress Up

It's been a long time since I've played "Dress Up."

Growing up in Port Wentworth I wore costumes for Halloween and donned robes in the First Baptist Church choir but ... that was about it.

Later, I'd go to Washington, D.C. and the Georgia State Capitol dressed up in a coat and tie just like everyone there dressed up as "Leaders" when they're not.

For the most part, I am remarkably consistent in my aversion to "Dressing Up."

If clothing of any kind is required, it's a pair of black running shots and a tee shirt.

I still cling to this lifestyle commitment though it is incredibly hard!

I live with Sarah and three little girls who LOVE Dress Up!

"What are you going to be for Halloween?" Cassidy the 7 year old asks.

"A Georgia fan," I reply already dressed in black running shorts and grey tee shirt with the University logo.

"That's what you were last year!" she says.

I shrug my shoulders and ask, "What's your point?"

Give Sarah and the girls ... and our friend Judy O'Neill ... and HER husband John O'Neill for that matter ... any excuse to "Dress Up" and life suddenly takes a very serious turn!

I do my best to encourage their obsession to wear the right thing at the right time without actually participating.

Yesterday we marched in the Pirate Fest Parade representing Bar Church ... yep it's Church in a Bar ... and they're getting ready while I watch the UGA football game.

My wife the Gypsy strolls out looking extremely hot and plugs a gold hoop in my ear.

Then she puts a bandana on my head.

I thought I was already dressed wearing my black Bar Church tee shirt and red University of Georgia running shorts.

Everyone's ready so we pick up Judy O'Neill who's equally dressed, break a float, sweat in bright sunshine and then hijack the Island Hopper Ghost Tour float.

It was just another day on an island where everybody loves to play "Dress Up."

Island Living

It's a summer's day in October.

Giant yellow beams illuminate the green Palm Trees giving them a golden glow against a bright blue sky.

There is no breeze from the ocean so the only noises are the occasional hums of air conditioners, squirrels darting through tree branches, birds singing and constant Hymns of the cicada.

Orange, purple and pink blooms rest atop of the green foliage in pots on the Beloved Back Deck where the railing has been overtaken by Confederate Jasmine.

Inside our house, ceiling fans swirl and the only light is from the smart phones the girls lay in bed staring at, quietly playing games.

My computer softly streams Bob Marley as I write in my bare feet, utterly distracted by the beauty of the morning and the love bubbling inside this home.

It's Pirate Fest on island so there's a constant parade of bands on the Strand, a Carnival's happening and everyone's dressed as Pirates and Wenches including babies in strollers and old men pushing walkers.

There's a parade later and we're in it representing Bar Church ... yep on Tybee Island it's church in a Bar ... Hymns by the House Band ... prayers by struggling souls and the dress code's pretty lax ... smokers are welcome ... but a sweet Spirit blows into every service.

So in the quiet before the party explodes, rum flows and music erupts from every part of this clump of sand ... I'm taking this silent moment to say thanks.

There really is nothing quite like Island Living.

Unanswerable Questions

I spend a great deal of time pondering.

Maybe it's because I live at the beach with the most wonderful wife ever ... and her 3 little girls who set the bar asking questions.

"Question," Laurel the 10 year announces before saying anything.

"What?" I reply asking a question when she didn't.

Or Maddie the 13 year old who knows everything asking, "Mike can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," I clarify.

"What?" she asks.

"I can't answer that question until I answer the first one," I say as she grows frustrated.

"Where's my Mom?" is how these conversations normally end.

So it's questions all of the time at our house which ... leaves me with bigger questions ... in no particular order.

1. John Barrow, do you know how stupid you are in the commercials to reelect yourself to Congress by arguing you're not "one of them" ... though you have been for years ... and you're going to clean everything up by showing up at your Congressional office at 11:00 ... before your colleagues show up ... so you can film a commercial to be re-elected to the Congress you're running against?  
2. When did local cops become Paramilitary Military Police forces declaring war on the very people they're hired "to serve and protect" ... purchasing surplus military weapons to do so ... now wearing cameras to film arrests to be used as court evidence ... so Judges levy the fines to keep the cash flowing to ... buy more weapons?
3. Which leads to the next logical question ... when Lawyers put on black robes ... what in the Hell happens ... because a Demagogue is born on the spot?
4. Is Mitch McConnell the world's first living abortion?
5. Our friend Holly Howard Durrence reminds me of a perianal question ... why do people litter? It's an ultimate act of selfishness and pissing on the beauty of the earth.
6. How is it that we pay for and receive 1000 television stations and hardly anything's ever on?
7. What's Al Sharpton really?
8. RAP music glorifies violence ... which leads to black on black crime ... leading to outrage over a lack of outrage ... leading to increased sales of RAP music. Is this explainable?
9. Who does Joel Osteen's hair?
10. And, of course, where exactly does the Tide go when it goes out?

Oh my God my head hurts and the girls are coming home today bringing their own questions so I got get ready.

Happy Friday everyone!

And if you can answer any of these things, please do!

I think they're all unanswerable.

When there's nothing else to say

"My Dearest Mike," the letter begins,

Standing at one of the long tables in the Landrum Hall Post Office, it's the first letter I've received.

Everything else has been junk from the school, banks and Churches recruiting lonely first year college students.

But this is a real letter!

Ripping it open, I read the one page completely covered in blue ink ... front and back ... with only 9 words.

"My Dearest Mike ... I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, love you, I love you ... Your precious Grandma."

All these decades later, I still remember holding her letter ... feeling her love ... salt water welling in my eyes ... completely understanding how precious she is ... carefully folding it back in the same creases she'd folded ... sticking in the right pocket of my blue jeans ... and reading it a hundred times over the next few weeks.

Those first weeks of college were a drunken, party mess!

My best friend in High School ... Gene Prevatt ... and I'd decided to take college by storm and room together.

We had fun.

The only thing I can recall today is introducing "Broom Hockey" to the 3rd floor of the dorm who's name I can't remember.

The Resident Assistant storms out screaming ... but 20 or of us are having a really good time using our brooms to knock the shit out of a tennis ball.

We're freshmen.

He's a Junior ... and a nerd.

We tie him up, put a pillow case over his head and hang him upside down from the water pipes running just below the ceiling in the dorm.

Ah ... good times.

BUT ... lonely times too ... the first time away from home ... so when my precious Grandma Carver sent me that letter ... I knew no matter what ... I'm loved somewhere.

When I went home on weekends, I stopped at my Grandparent's first ... so the next time we sat at the tiny table in the kitchen and I pull out the letter ... and my Grandma starts to laugh.

I start to cry.

"I couldn't think of anything else to say," she explains.

"You said it all Grandma," and I cry like a baby as I hug her.

She's been gone a long time but ... her love remains.

Love never dies the Bible says ... and I've got a Grandmother's love still running through my veins on a sunny day, sitting on the Beloved Back Deck listening to a choir of cicada sing her favorite Hymns.

Kermit Lord

Absent mindedly wandering into Landrum Commons in college, it was time to eat and get the mail.

The building consisted of a bookstore, large dining room and the post office and going to Landrum was a highlight of the day.

At least it was until I got so sick of the food ... same damn thing day in and day out ... that I wished I had the money to go to a real restaurant but I didn't so ... same damn thing every day.

A clique of us gathered daily for lunch and dinner, making it bearable... mostly because we were funny as Hell ... though all these years later the only funny thing I still vividly recall is ... KERMIT LORD.

GOD HE WAS FUNNY ... in the most unfunny ways.

He was always dead serious, wore suits a lot, spoke in a slow deliberate manner, had never kissed a girl and loved the Lord Jesus Christ with everything in him.

He helped coach the Baptist Student Union Intramural Football team wearing a plaid shirt, kaki pants, tennis shoes, a baseball cap and carried a clip board.

When we showed up for games against the Pagan Frat boys they burst out laughing at Kermit ... which royally pissed off us Baptists ... so we kicked their ass ... winning the division one year ... thoroughly pissing off the Pagan Frat boys.

At dinner in Landrum Hall, Kermit would say, "Oh my Lord," in response to whatever we said.

"You can't say Oh My Lord," I told. "Your name is Lord. That's just not right."

"Oh My Lord," he replied covering his eyes with one hand.

When the rest of us graduated or ... in my case was thrown out of college ... we gathered for one last meal in Landrum.

We were happy and ready to go ... but afraid of how we were going to survive without each other.

"For Christ's sake," I slap the table. "This is hard! Who's going to take care of Kermit?"

Lowering his hands from his eyes, wearing a plaid shirt and Brylcreem in his hair, he spoke in his broken little voice saying, "I'll be okay Mike."

In front of my mates, fellow Baptists, girls I wanted to touch, and two hundred other students ... I burst into tears.

A few years ago, several of us made our way back to the college seeing each other for the first time in decades.

Standing there in the Baptist Student Union we looked at old pictures of us from back then ... and there's one of Kermit Lord ... whom I haven't thought of in years.

Mitch, Mark, Dedra, Ed Hinley and a Holy Host of others are standing with me ... laughing at how we looked back then ... and I cry again.

Later that night, all my friends went to church or something, while I hosted a glass of wine to a full moon in a pitch black sky.

"Hey Kermit Lord," I say out loud.

"Thank you. I hope you're doing good. I hope you kissed lots of girls. I hope you lost the plaid. But God I loved you. Here's to you buddy."

Today there are lots of things that aren't going the way I want them to.

It's frustrating ... I'm frustrated ... and I don't understand.

Sitting here full of frustration, Kermit Lord appears out of nowhere ... wearing a plaid shirt ... Bryllcreem in his hair ... looking like an idiot ... and in that broken voice of his ... says, "It's going to be alright Mike."

And somehow I know it is.

Thank you Kermit Lord.

I hope you're doing fine.

Damn fleeting moments!

Music floats on the sea.

The crashing of the waves ... the Seagull's song ... the splashing cymbals of Pelicans hitting the water ... the Dolphins dance ... they are all constant reminders of the beauty of the earth.

As night blankets the island the music moves indoors ... under bright Florissant lights, crowded bars with laughing and happy people.

Most every day there is live music on Tybee Island.

It happens every day of course with God conducting the orchestra ... but it happens at night too when Players play ... Singers sing ... Drunks drink ... Dancers dance... Lovers love and ... the lonely go home alone.

Last night Sarah and I did something we haven't done in a long time ... on a Monday night we went out ... 'cause Sean was playing and we love Sean ... and Wen was gonna be there ... and it's been way too long since we've all been together.

For the first time in forever we were all together again for a little while.

Sean makes magic for a living.

Wen does too.

Sarah and I took a little while last night to enjoy Sean and Wen's magic and just ... appreciate our friends.

There was a minute or two where the love we all share was apparent.

Damn fleeting moments!

But ... Sean was great as he always is ... Wen is wonderful as she is too ... Sarah smiled ... we laughed ...it just doesn't get any better on a Monday night ... good friends who love each other ... good times ... good music.

Sitting here this morning ... every single one of those damn fleeting moments have returned.

Thank God for the people we love in our lives.

Here's to you Sean and Wen!

We love you!


 

Friday on a Monday

"Are you going to cry when Goddess dies?" Laurel, Sarah's 10 year old asks.

"Of course," I say hugging Laurel and staring at our Golden Retriever with a bit of Boarder Collie and the sad honey eyes that makes her so special.

"I love Goddess most after you," she proclaims.

"I know you do," I answer ... though the truth is Sarah does.

And Goddess sure as Hell loves Sarah.

They have their own relationship.

Before we were all us ... Sarah and Goddess had a conversation about blending our families so we could get married and make a wonderful life.

Each gave the other their blessing and here we are!

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, came next when Sarah brought him home and Goddess loves him passionately ... almost as much as much she loves my wife.

Then Sarah decided we need a cat so she brought Gypsy home and ... I was shocked to learn that Goddess loves a cat ... now they have a magic relationship with each other.

In both instances she asked what I thought and I made the mistake of telling her ... "HELL NO!" ... but she did it anyway ... and she was right and I was wrong ... but now I can't imagine life without the little bastards.

Goddess rules the roost though Winston, TLGD, is such a Diva trying to insert himself as the center of the Universe ... and Gypsy the cat just is.

Religiously, I believe Goddess is an apathetic Pagan ... Gypsy's an uncaring Buddhist and Winston, TLGD ... worships Winston, TLGD, and Sarah.

Mondays are a sad day at our house.

Sarah's girls spend weekdays with their Dad and Sarah takes them to school as she takes herself to work.

The girls hug me and kiss me, tell me how they're going to miss me, how often they're going to call, and POOF! ... they're gone.

And Sarah's gone too.

I'm left alone with Goddess, Winston, TLGD, and Gypsy who are as shocked as I am at the silence.

I've taken to cleaning the girls rooms first thing on Monday morning and the dogs and the cat do it with me.

We take our time.

It was a great weekend ... though we create our own trauma like most families do ... but when push is shoving ... I wish they were all still home.

Gypsy continuously runs between my legs as I think these things.

Winston, TLGD, stands on his hind legs begging.

Goddess licks my leg and sits under my feet.

They follow me to the Beloved Back Deck so I can start work ... leaving a pissed off cat on the other side of the sliding screen door.

"Alright kids," I say to them. "Mom will be home later today."

Goddess cocks her head one side listening ... Winston, TLGD, eyes me suspiciously ... and Gypsy claws the screen desperately trying to break out.

"And the girls will be home on Friday."

And we all wish it was Friday.

Special and Holy

I've moved into the ranks of being a "Semi-Professional Christian."

I not getting paid but I'm doing the work.

Actually Sarah's doing most of the work and will likely achieve the title of "Preacher's Wife" ... which is a lot like being taken for granted the rest of your life ... which is what Church's do to Preacher's Wives.

Nevertheless, we're pretty excited about it.

It's not the traditional "GOD IN A BOX" stuff that mostly happens.

It's God in a Bar.

The first miracle Jesus performed was turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana ... which just goes to prove the more wine there is at a wedding the better the ceremony.

Bar Church started 5 years ago and Sarah and I were both drawn in during the early days and we brought other friends too.

Like Churches everywhere, it's gone through it's ups and downs but it has constantly let people know there's a place where they can be accepted as they are.

Dressing up is discouraged.

Flip-flops, smokers, hungry and hung over people ... the widow, the orphan, the Sojourner ... are all welcome.

Sometimes its a Zoo without cages.

But every single time, there's something special and Holy that happens.

So we're investing what we got in special and Holy.

We got a feeling  ... a feeling deep inside ... all Hell's getting ready to break loose!

Changing Weather

"The weather will be cooler and drier," the Weather Lady says.

"DAMN!" I curse with my head laying in Sarah's lap. "I don't want that!"

"I think it's great," Sarah coos.

I can't hit "Off" on the remote fast enough to make the Weather Bitch go away and stop her bad prophesies of cooler days ... which naturally lead to COLD DAYS ... which I hate more than anything.

We go to bed to the sounds of birds chirping and cicada singing.

Every window in the house is open and I. LOVE. IT.

The outdoors is synonymous with the indoors.

At some point during the night, warmly snuggled with Sarah, a beeping sound erupts distributing the beauty of the night.

"Car Alarm," Sarah proclaims.

"Birds chirping," I sleepily mumble.

Apparently the car alarm went off a second time and I continued to insist it was birds chirping.

I don't know.

I was having nice dreams, warmly snuggled beside the love of my life.

It could have been an atomic bomb blasting the island to smithereens and I would have argued it was a choir of Angels singing the "Hallelujah Chorus."

Sarah reminds me of these things this morning as she lingers in bed on her phone ... her girls make their way to the Cinnamon Rolls I've made them ... while I sit shivering on the Beloved Back wearing a damn tee shirt!

The Weather Lady got it right.

Damn Her!

They never get it right.

That's why I'm going back to watching Pat Prokop forecast the weather.

A Perfect Way to Live

Every day I marvel at the rich gifts in my life.

Rolling over in bed, yawning and stretching, withdrawing my arms from around my wife ... because we sleep like a jigsaw puzzle ... all interconnecting pieces ... I thank God for Sarah to start every day.

Tiptoeing through the darkness, she slumbers with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, who is the spark plug of our house ... a divine Diva ... who worships Goddess, plays with Gypsy the cat, ... Winston, TLGD endures the rest of us but absolutely adores Sarah.

Goddess and Gypsy follow me in the dark as I make my way downstairs to the outdoor shower.

Quickly shutting the door so Gypsy can't get out, Goddess and I stumble out into a dark morning with a billion blazing stars. I turn on the hot water, say the second prayer of the day ... "Thank you for letting me be here again" ... stick my toothbrush in my mouth and pee outside.

Goddess pees outside too.

Gypsy is madder than hell and is howling because I didn't let her outside.

"SHUT UP!" I yell so he doesn't wake Sarah up.

Standing under the streaming water under a perfect Heaven, I'm suddenly focused on Maddie ... Sarah's oldest ... who's been asking me for love advice as she chases the lust of her life.

She's 13.

"Stick a tongue through his heart," is the last thing I told her.

Sarah doesn't know I told her that yet.

I probably need to refine that before my wife finds out.

Wide awake now, Goddess and I leap the stairs over the pissed off cat, and in the darkness I brush my hair, stick on French deodorant from St. Martin, the collogue Sarah likes most and black running shorts and a tee shirt.

In the dark I kiss my wife ... sometimes on the cheek ... a shoulder ... her back ... the top of her head ... occasionally her lips ... and once her foot when was slept upside down.

Throwing Goddess treats I head outside as a very angry Gypsy the cat tries to take my head off with his claws.

"Bastard," I mumble.

He hisses.

Later, I return from the Breakfast Club, kiss Sarah who's asleep in the shower, let the dogs out, give Gypsy the bastard cat treats, and prepare my wife's juice, coffee and breakfast.

Then I turn around, take a deep breath and admire her girls latest masterpieces hanging above the table.

Two are clearly for me ... a UGA football finger painting ... a hand cut "Pre-Father's Day" card ... and two for their Mom.

Every single day they make me smile.

"Man I couldn't do it," people tell me. "You've already raised children. Why in the world would you volunteer to do it again? That's crazy!"

Well, first it's Sarah and it all revolves around her.

She brings three little girls ... so I figure she's a lovely Sun with three planets revolving around her ... and they're funny globes bringing laugher, love, the most interesting dinner conversations and when their Mother doesn't want to kill them ... I do.

Honestly, they keep me young just like Winston, TLGD, keeps Goddess young.

Wandering into the kitchen for breakfast, Sarah's already got her game face on and is all business.

She is also ravishingly beautiful so I'm thinking about ravishing her while she's telling something or the other about what she has to do today.

"Are you listening to me?" she asks with a furrowed brow.

"About what?" I answer looking at the way her hair falls over her left eye.

My phone pings and it's Laurel ... her second child ... who has created a virtual game of a couple named Mike and Sarah ... sending me cartoon's of us kissing and in bubble wrap because it's X-rated.

"You and my Mom," is the caption.

"I love you," Sarah snaps all business like. "If you have time will you mop the floor ... especially the girl's bathroom?"

She's taking the stairs looking like a million bucks with her briefcase and Wonder Woman water bottle.

"Be careful," I say.

"You too," she says in a way that conveys she's way more worried about me than I am of her.

Then she's gone as I stand there with Goddess, Winston, TLGD, and Gypsy the Cat.

"Alright kids," I say, "let's go to work."

The phone rings and it's my son Jeremy.

Goddess, Winston, TLGD, and Gypsy all sense it's him somehow and go nuts barking, making strange sounds and licking themselves.

"Shut Up!" I yell.

I cannot imagine a more perfect way to live.

Things I love

Listening to Christmas music on a warm sunny morning with a choir of cicada blasting out the bass notes, I stare through the Palm Tree at miles and miles of deep blue sky.

There are no clouds.

Heaven is deep blue and green.

A lawn mower coughs in the distance.

It is not ... nor was it ... a Silent Holy Night as Michael Buble is now telling me.

I went to a meeting last night that went to crazy places.

After getting home I tell Sarah about it and she's very protective of me and we talked long and hard into the night which makes for ... restless nights.

We both had one.

Then we both talk about it at breakfast this morning.

My entire morning's being cannibalized by last night.

I think it's mostly stupid stuff.

Everyone else believes it the end of the world.

I've been through the end of the world several times.

It's not all that and I don't want to do it again.

So I'm not.

I love my wife.

I love my life.

I love my children.

I love her children (especially Maddie at the moment who got the boy!).

I love warm weather, blue skies, Palm Trees, salty air, choirs of cicada, my Mom, Aunt Diane, the Breakfast Club, the Carnival of Friends, Tuesday Night Jams, Georgia football and Bar Church.

I love Darlene Love singling "Nobody ought to be alone on Christmas."

I love far more than I don't.

And I'm not going to give much to things I don't love.

I don't think you should either.

Have a lovely day!

I'm going to.

Slow, smoldering time

Walking the halls of Congress I'm arrogant, politely rude and ruthlessly determined.

"I have an appointment with Congressman Thomas," I lie the first time I did it.

"I'm sorry sir," I don't see your name scheduled the fresh face intern with pimples confirms.

"No, No," I explain, "He just told me in the hall that he needs five minutes with me before his next meeting. We go to the same church back home."

"OH!" she squeals ... taking a pencil and inserting my name into a calendar with no room for anything else.

The Chamber of Commerce group in three piece suits bearing gifts of hats, local produce and tee shirts for Lindsay Thomas give me the death stare.

"Right this way Rev. Elliott," a prettier intern with less pimples says, guiding me into his office in the Cannon Office Building.

"Who in the Hell let you in?" Lindsay exclaims.

The pretty intern with less pimples almost pees her pants.

"I just need a second," I smile.

He sighs as I throw my arm around him and start talking ... funding for people with AIDS, housing for the homeless, money for preventive heath care ... I really don't remember but it was one of those.

Decades later, I'm riding the escalator in Regan International ... tired, lonely, burned out and sad but still doing it ... somehow ... when an arm's slung around my shoulder and I see a grin only elected officials in high places have.

No longer a Congressman, Lindsay's with the U.S. Chamber of Commerce and, as always his smile looks like several million dollars.

"You look terrible," he says with the whitest teeth ever.

"Thanks," I sigh.

"Remember the time you got passed all my spies ..." he giggles.

I laugh and for a moment the sadness breaks and ... I love Lindsay Thomas.

He gives me his card saying, "Call me if I can help. I don't know what I can do but I'll try."

Salt water fills my eyes and he hugs me as he rushes to his cab and I rush to mine.

That was a long time ago.

I don't rush much anywhere anymore.

I rush to make Sarah's coffee or to see whatever she's wearing but ... that's about it.

I rush to the beach as often as I get around to it ... normally Sarah's second Laurel's involved these days.

But I know I have it in me to do these things.

"I can't wait for you to find your passion again," Sarah tells me sometimes. "You're incredible to watch when you're on fire."

I'm on fire I think to myself ... it's just the slow, smoldering kind ... intensely burning for her, my kids, the girls, a church in a Bar, a Spirit trying to soar above an island and a quiet commune full of dogs, a cat, a Palm Tree with a face, choirs of cicada, salt in the air and an incredible collection of people who love us.

It's all going to blow up again.

I know this and am doing the best I can to get ready.

It's time.

Though I do love this slow, smoldering time we've been blessed with.

The Closest Things

For a week now ... I've been writing about God.

I need a break.

I need comic relief.

Constant God is WAY too intense.

That's why nobody ever invites Monks ... or most preachers ... to dinner more than once.

ALL. GOD. ALL. THE. TIME. MAKES. FOR. WAY. TOO. SERIOUS.

I want to laugh.

I want to feel good ... hear great music ... dance around as I work ... laugh ... anticipate tonight ... lust my wife in the most sinful ways ... act out on every single one of those sinful ways ... not feel obligated, contrite or in need of forgiveness ... not worry ... and I really don't want to pray for anything.

I want to enjoy the life I've been given and I want to ... DO. IT. NOW.

Then a friend of mine posts on Facebook his wife has cancer and surgery's involved but they are hopeful and could we please pray.

"Hey God," I pray. "I need some time off. Three deaths in the last two weeks? I think I've met my quota. Cut us some slack. New cancer diagnosis is not helpful right now! And you know how screwed up the American Health Care system is and that just makes the cancer worse."

I look for happy songs on Pandora to lighten my mood.

"I think it's time we stop ... children what's that sound ... everybody look what's going down."

"Really? I say out loud looking at the sky.

Strolling into our bedroom there are provocative photos of Sarah on my bedside table which always make me feel better.

I bring them outside with me to wash myself in lust.

The thing about posting on Facebook is ... after you do ... your computer "pings" when somebody you don't know posts on the same page.

I'd sent my friends a post of "Prayers, "Good Karma and Love" after learning about her cancer because those are the nicest things I can think of to share.

My computer is suddenly a constant PING of sympathy to my friends with people exhibiting God-like behavior.

Holding my pictures of Sarah in the blue dress to my chest I say, "Hey God! We really could use a break. If deaths come in threes ... you've passed the quota."

"Because the night belongs to lovers," Pandora streams. "Because the night belongs to us."

"Now you talking," I pray holding the things dearest to me the closest to me.

Church Beer

The best tasting beer is the one after preaching on a Sunday morning.

Many years ago as the "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky, Ken Sehested head of the Baptist Peace Fellowship of North America was the "special preacher".

He did a great job that morning.

I don't recall anything he said.

But I didn't have to preach ... which is not the same as a day off ... but close.

Afterwards we took our visiting dignitary out for Sunday lunch at the inner city Howard Johnson's Restaurant ... which was quite excellent given the other inner city options ... White Castle and Oscartag's (believe me you do not want to know about Oscartag's!)

"What'll y'all have to drink?" the waitress asks.

"I'll have a beer ," I say.

Ken grins.

"Me too," he nods.

When the frosty mugs arrive, we toast as horrified Deacons look on and Ken says ... "Ah! The best beers are the ones after you preach!"

A couple of Deacons order beer.

Damn visiting dignitaries!

How come people listen to them and not the day-in/day-out guy?

I'm going to let you in on a religious secret.

The only reason revivals exists in America is so preachers can help other preachers supplement their incomes.

"You invite me and I'll invite you," is the how the game is played.

It's a lot like, you show me yours and I'll show you mine.

"Friends! We're doing a love offering now for Brother Bert who came all this way to deliver God's word to us today."

Brother Bert lives 5 miles away.

I must confess as the one who invited Brother Bert to preach revival in the first place ... and as the one who initiated the love offering for Brother Bert ... and had conducted a magnificent marketing campaign of putting posters of "Bert and Ernie" in homeless shelters, porn shops and the projects with the tag ..."Want to meet the real Bert?" ... that Bert invited me to preach revival at his church too.

It's a game.

But Bert's was a most spectacular revival!

Meaning lots of homeless guys and prostitutes wanted to meet Bert!

He was horrified!

But we had a good crowd.

The Deacons and I took Bert to the inner city Howard Johnson's after his great revival sermon ... that none of us remember ... and order beer.

"You're drinking beer on Sunday?" Bert asks.

"You ever had one after you preach?"

"No," he confesses.

"It's time," the Deacons and I affirm.

So he did.

I haven't heard from him since.

Though Ken and I've kept up.

So anyway ... after Bar Church yesterday ... the beer was good.

But Bar Church was much better.