A Little Girl's Room

It's a shitty day and nothing seems to go right.

All the news gets worse so I try to shut my brain off to not get anymore.

As the sun sets I find solitude in a black bean bag chair full of colorful stuffed animals in a little girl's room.

Pink walls are adorned with butterflies, purple curtains, giant posters of cats, several hundred dolls and lots of original art.

Her beds made because I made it and it looks good with it's purple spread and pink sheets.

Cassidy is a master of unmaking a bed but I do not believe she could make one to save her life.

Not that it needs saving.

At 8 ... she knows everything and if you disagree with her she'll simply say, "I don't get it" ... like it's your problem and not hers.

She loves me in the morning ... stumbling out of bed ... blond hair askew ... wrapped in her pink blankie ... she comes to me and I pick her up and I kiss her forehead.

She smiles and breaths a Dragon's breath.

I ask what she wants for breakfast, already knowing the answer ... her Mom's I-Pad ... so I drop her on her bed as she beams herself into another Universe until I demand she actually eat breakfast.

"I love you Micheal," she says in her little girl way and ... all the love I've ever known in my life explodes in that moment.

You can never have enough love in life.

I think about that on a shitty night.

And though Cass is away, I'm falling in love with her room ... her creativity and genius ... reminding me of Chelsea ... my adult daughter who's also an artist.

Sarah says something I don't hear so I jump out of the black bean bag chair into the kitchen that I also love ... because my wife made it so special ... like the rest of our home.

And as we discuss bad news, I find myself so grateful for having gotten to this point in my life.

Later ... in the middle of the night, with an almost full moon illuminating the waves breaking on the shore ... I return to black bean bag chair ... and thank God.

Hurricane Season ... NOT!

I basically go to 3 places on Tybee Island ... The Breakfast Club ... Monty Parks' Tuesday Night Jam ... and Bar Church.

I used to go to lots of other places but ... they're too far ... so I don't go anymore.

Besides you can get a B.U.I. on island ... Bicycling Under the Influence ... Yep ... there's nothing you can't be ticketed for on Tybee.

I do spend most of my time on the Beloved Back Deck where's it's peaceful and quiet  ... except on Wednesday's at noon when the City interrupts everyone's lunch with an emergency warning that a Hurricane might come ... which is like the stupidest waste of money ever!

Islanders can learn for free that a Hurricane's coming by watching The Weather Network ... or if they really want to guess what's going to happen ... Pat Prokop on WTOC ... but that's too efficient so the City of Tybee spends a gazillion dollars interrupting everyone's lunch on Wednesdays.

"WARNING ... WARNING ... THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY ... BUT IF IT WERE ONE ... YOU SHOULD LEAVE ... YOU'LL PROBABLY BE TICKETED ... BUT THAT'S IN OUR BEST INTEREST ... WHEN A REAL EMERGENCY HAPPENS ... WE'LL LET YOU KNOW ... IN THE MEANTIME ... DISREGUARD THIS MESSAGE ... UNTIL NEXT WEDNESDAY ... WHEN YOU WILL BE TICKETED!"

Making it more efficient, we receive a phone call Wednesday mornings informing us that a fake Hurricane announcement is taking place at noon and we shouldn't be alarmed.

I don't know who thought of this but  ... they should be ducted taped in a boat ... shoved out to Sea in a storm ... ticked by the Tybee Island Police Department like everybody else (except elected officials) on the way ... and eaten by sharks.

Though the sharks will probably puke them up on the beach and somebody will get a ticket.

There you go ... I've written about it so ... I'm taking the dogs downstairs and waiting on the police ... for my ticket ... for dog barking ... or avoiding a Hurricane when it's not Hurricane Season ... or whatev's.

Sarah got her hair cut yesterday bringing out her beautiful Gypsy soul ... which is stunningly beautiful for a Southern white boy ... not you Whitley Reynolds ... ME!

Alright ... I can say lots more but like our friend Joanie Woodcock ... I am biting my tongue till it bleeds ... because some things are better left unsaid.

Especially when Government's involved.

Or the Police Department ... which finances Government.

I'm done ... and off to The Breakfast Club for more coffee ... practicing for Monty Park's jam ... and figuring out  Bar Church for next Sunday.

Oh!

Duck!

A Hurricane's not coming!

Singing Birds on Island

"Excuse me ... are those birds singing?"

"Yes," I reply.

"Can I listen for a moment?"

"Sure," I answer holding my phone up to the Palm Trees, blues skies and Wisteria growing everywhere.

After several awkward seconds I ask, "Is that enough?"

"Awe thank you," she says. "That was nice."

"Where are you?" I ask.

"Minneapolis," she sighs.

"Ouch," I say holding the phone back up to the blue sky and the singing birds.

A few seconds later I interrupt whatever she's thinking, "Hey so can I pay this on a monthly basis rather than semi-annually?"

"Of course," she  says, "it'll just cost you a finance charge."

"Fine," I say.

"Where is TEE-BEE Island?" she asks.

"TIE-BEE Island," I explain, "it's an Indian word... Tybee means 'salt' ... it's in the water and it sticks to your skin."

"It sounds Heavenly," she murmurs.

"Yeah, it's nice."

"Where are you that I'm hearing birds?" she suddenly asks.

"On my back deck," I honestly answer ... "I'm working on my tan while I'm working."

"Oh," she sighs.

"You inside?" I press.

"Way," she confesses.

"Well you should come," I suggest. "It's a nice crazy place. If you like crazy you'll like here."

"Nice," she says.

"Yeah," I muse, "everyone who lives here is either running away from something ... or running to something ... it makes for interesting conversations in the Bars."

"Bars?" she asks.

"Oh yeah," I explain, "we got 10.3 bars for every church ... Honestly we even have Church in a Bar."

"Really?" she exclaims.

"Oh yeah," I multitask spraying sunscreen while cradling the phone on my shoulder.

"I'm coming," she announces.

"Can you cut the finance charge?" I pounce recognizing my opportunity.

"I wish," she says.

Hanging up I say to myself, "Oh well" ... as the birds sound nice ... the purple of wisteria is mind numbing ... and waves crash in the distance sound like a Symphony.

Sometimes it's where you are.

And not what you pay that matters.

And being here is enough.

Especially when you're with who you're supposed to be with.

What makes God G.O.D.?

I was falling like the Alamo, drinking fast and talking slow ..."

Isn't that a great line?

Hayes Carll wrote that/

I love great lines!

"Doubt is the Ants in the pants of faith," 

So says Frederick Buechner ... my personal favorite writer.

"It's getting better all the time," says Paul McCartney ... "It couldn't get much worse,"  answers John Lennon.

That's funny and true!

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places."

God I love Hemingway ... in spite of the asshole he often was ... the man could write beautiful truths.

"Beloved if God so loves us then we should love ... each other."

As ... whoever wrote 1 John proclaims... and it wasn't John who was long dead by the time these words were written... pulls off the most incredible slight of hand of them all.

Written in classical Greek ... a very methodically language ... it should be logical ...

"Beloved if God so loves us then we should love ... GOD!"

That's what it should say.

And that's how most people believe.

After all it so damn much easier to love God than it is other people.

To Hell with other people!

They are pains in the ass and I hate lots of them.

BUT ...

well ... if whoever wrote 1 John is right ... and I suspect he ... or probably she is ... then you love God by loving others.

And if you're just loving God ... in your Church ... in your Home ... with your Bible ... in your own way ...without loving others ... I hate to break it to you ... but you're going to Hell.

In fact you're probably already there.

No wonder the author of I John decided to lay low and remain anonymous.

It's way too radical for God to prefer adoration by loving something other than ... GOD!

Holy Shit!

But I think that's what makes God ... GOD.

Easter Basket Clues

As a kid ... my Dad delighted in celebrations.

One Christmas he put on boots, climbed on the roof of the house and stomped the Hell out of the shingles so my brother David and I couldn't sleep at all because Santa was here!

On Easter he didn't hide Easter Baskets ... he left clues for them.

We'd wake up, rush to the Fridge for breakfast and find a note from the Easter Bunny.

We'd have to figure out the strangest things ... "under the pillow on the left side of the smallest room" ... or "There's only one drawer full of panties" ... and we'd rush all over the house and the yard finding more clues ... until finally we found Baskets full of chocolate Bunnies, Marshmallows, colored pencils and plastic grass.

Years later I did the same for Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea and I delighted in their figuring out the clues just as my Dad did.

Now I get to do it again for Maddie, Laurel and Cassidy who laugh and cackle and rush around our house until they finally discover the joys of Easter.

Sarah is horrible at waiting to give gifts ... and I have Bar Church ... so we started celebrating early.

Ten hidden clues leaves them scratching their heads, screeching in comprehension and running off to find the next instruction.

We delight and it's a much better way to celebrate a holiday and make it memorable.

"Are their going to be clues again this year," the girls asks over the past several days.

They joyfully relish each note until reaching the grand prize.

It reminds me of my own childhood ... my Dad who's dead now ... the kids ... and the joy of children celebrating gifts.

It's a celebratory thing for Sarah and me.

It's not about living in the past but still enjoying parts of it to this day.

And passing on my Dad to our girls ... through the kids ... and lots of other things in between.

We celebrate resurrection on Easter and today my Dad is alive as ever in notes with clues for little girls gushing with joy that we've figured out a way for him to be here.

I hope our children do the same so Dad's celebration of Easter lives on.

Just like Jesus does.

Life as a Waiter

Strolling in the back door Mitch Wesley is washing dishes and Audi's prepping dinner at the Gourmet German Delicatessen that transforms itself into a expensive 8 table dining experience every evening.

I'm the waiter.

Guy Sayles got me the job when he stopped being a waiter to become a full-time Professional Christian with a real ... albeit non-Southern Baptist ... Church.

Alas, Mitch and I ... also in Seminary ... are not so blessed.

Strolling into the front part of "Keinlee's" I find Marlene so she can tie my bow-tie and slip on my red vest so I look like a skinny Hansel ... without Gretel.

Marlene offers whatever's left over from lunch to Mitch and me for dinner.

Honestly it was good stuff though we wearied of it after a while and took to creating our own meals with Audi ... Marlene's husband and former German Olympic Gymnastic coach ... now Chef.

"You do know," I say to him frying Spaetzle over the stove, "that your wife is a bitch."

Yah," he shrugs ... looking like a sad Santa Claus wearing a white apron, "love can suck."

Marlene is mean, arrogant and proud of her heritage as a member of the Dienhart Wine family.

Audi is kind, gracious, laughs a lot and he loves Mitch and me.

Mitch's humor is dry and it's several seconds later we recognize how funnily profound he is so that he's washing dishes when we bust out laughing at what he said a full minute earlier.

"What?" he asks ... adding to the delivery.

In perfect contrast my humor's over the top.

Audi asks me to prepare a special dish for Marlene because he's busy ... so I get an old tennis shoe, chop an onion, sprinkle it on the shoe in the frying pan, cover it with Spaetzle, gravy and cheese ... sprinkle with Parsley and show it to him.

Grabbing a knife and fork he tries to cut the tennis shoe, realizes what it is and laughs a Heavenly laugh ... then serves it to his wife.

I think Mitch had already quit by the time my last night rolls around.

Marlene's being a bitch, not only yelling at me but yelling at Audi too.

We're busting our asses but nothing was good enough so she demands more ... she and Audi have a huge fight in German as I deliver food to customers.

Rushing back in the kitchen for the next round of plates ... Audi looks at me and says, "Let's go."

"Um ... it's a packed house out there," I say, drenched in sweat.

"Let's go," he repeats ... looking like an evil Santa.

I figure he's the boss too so I rip off the bow-tie, throw the red vest on the floor and Audi and I leave.

We go to his house, drink Heineken beer and listen to the speeches of Adolph Hitler ... which Marlene has albums of.

An hour later, Marlene storms in and angrily announces I'm fired.

"He is not," Audi says.

They get into a huge fight speaking German.

I leave.

The point being ... I think everyone should be a waiter, waitress or dishwasher in life.

It helps you be a better person.

Right Mitch Wesley?

What's Good about Friday?

It's Good Friday ... the worst day of Jesus' life ... not much better for his Disciples ... his Mom ... Mary Magdalene and anybody else who gave a damn about him.

The last person to kiss Jesus ... Judas Iscariot ... committed suicide on Good Friday.

A lot of people believe that's the way God planned it ... like at 9:32 on Thursday night Judas is going to kiss Jesus ... at 9:34 Jesus is arrested ... 10:02 tried ... 11:08 receives 39 lashes ... and so on.

What a crock!

If you believe in God's Divine plan then no one chose anything ... because God doesn't allows anyone to.

That means God didn't allow Jesus to love so much that he gave his own life ... screaming "My God! My God why have you forsaken me?" ... but Jesus loves God enough to keep giving everything until he says his final words ... "It is finished."

It means God didn't allow Mary Magdalene to believe there was a reason to go the cemetery even though it was under marshal law ... but she went anyway because ... she still wanted to believe when there was nothing to believe in anymore.

It means Judas didn't love Jesus ... and Jesus didn't love Judas ... though it was the last affectionate moment for both.

It means the powers-that-be ... Government rules ... and always wins ... because Government had it's way on Good Friday and God supported it.

Honestly ... there's nothing good about Friday.

And I have a hard time believing in a God who scripted such a brutal, horrific, unjust end to anyone's life.

I do think Government had a lot to do with Jesus's brutal, horrific and unjust ending because ... Government cares about itself more than anything!

I do think Jesus and Judas were two friends who were both doing the best they knew how ... they truly loved each other ... and sometimes friends betray each other.

I do think it's good to keep believing when there's not much to believe in anymore ... miraculous things happen if you do ... in spite of evidence to the contrary.

I do think that when things are bleakest ... God is nearest.

I do think our relationship with God is managed on our schedule because ... God is willing to wait ... when we're not.

Ad I do think there is Good to be found in any day ... even the worst imaginable ones.

The Worst I've Ever Done

No person is defined by the worst they've ever done.

We've all done "worst" we'd just as soon forget.

And the funny thing is we do ... until we're reminded sometimes.

And there are those who do define me by the worst I ever did.

It's very tempting to name names but ... they're not important.

They're right of course ... in one way anyway ... in that I've been at my worst on occasion.

Who's not?

But God people love to judge ... so they do!

I've never met a Judge who didn't become a different person once they slip on the black robe ... immediately cynical ... they deem right from wrong ... for a fee.

They remind me of Clergy who become different people once they slip on their black robes ... or suits with matching ties ... and act like a Judge ... for a fee.

"You have no boundaries," I'm often told, "you say everything. You share everything."

Yeah ... that's true.

I try to live an honest life.

Be transparent about it.

It helps me to get it out rather than hold it in so ... it's sort of selfish.

One day I'll write out the worst things I've ever done and then the best things I did too ... that'll be fascinating ... and hard!

But ...

I've had a slew of messages today from people ... most of whom I don't know ... who gain something out of what I share ... again for purely selfish reasons ... and it leaves me knowing ... with absolute conviction I'm doing the best I know how to do.

I wish I had more time.

I've got a weekly gig at the Nursing Home and ... apparently they missed me last week ... and a Lady in a wheelchair has my guitar tuner on her wheelchair ... and I need it back ... it cost $10  ... and I don't have $10 ... so my guitar's out of tune but her wheelchair is humming ... so I gotta go.

It's a nice day and it would be nicer to sit here and think about my worst and my best ... ah to Hell with it ... I keep trying to do my best ... sometimes it's my worst ... but I keep trying.

What else can you do?

Gripping Heaven

It appears I have come full circle.

I am married with children ... this time little girls who are nuts but ... I adore them and they remind me of the kids when they were little ... and it's a house full of joy.

I'm in charge of a Church no one would go to except something special happens each week ... I don't know how ... but it does ... and when Holiness happens you better get the Hell out of the way.

I'm in a restaurant ... which is exactly where I was last time I was in charge of a Church ... what are the odds?

I'm in trouble because of things I say and write ... get press, lots of reads and lots of reactions ... just like 30 years ago with Louisville Mayor Jerry Abramson called into his office to ask, "Micheal why in the Hell did you say that to the Press?"

It strikes me politicians haven't changed in 30 years.

My hair was long then ... and it's long now ... with a bald spot ... but I like the look and Sarah buys me "product" that ... I don't know what it does but she feels pretty strongly about me using it.

I'm playing guitar again on a regular basis and my voice is strong again and I like that.

"When are you going to write another book?" Jess asks me at the Breakfast Club today.

"I just did," I answer.

"Oh," he says laughing, "sorry."

I hate critics.

But let's be honest ... nobody cares about any of this.

Robin Wheeler got a ring.

I assume it was Mr. Handsome who gave it to her.

I've hugged Mr. Handsome and let me tell you ... it was pretty heavenly.

I know they're in Heaven.

But I'm in Heaven too.

I was reading the other day that when you have dishpan hands it's because your hands wrinkle to grip things better.

I'm just sitting here waiting on Sarah to get home.

So I can get a grip.

Making Tybee Work

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting my paycheck."

"Ah, it's payday!"

"No, it's get the check day."

"What's that mean?"

I get the check ... pay the rent ... child support ... buy some groceries ... fill up the tank ... and I have $6 left."

"Ouch," I say.

"I bought the $6," he says pulling a crumpled fiver and a one from his jeans.

"That's way worse than 'OUCH'," I grimace.

"It's alright," he grins. "I have no idea how I still have $6."

Grabbing his check he rips the envelope open and stares at it for a long time.

Suddenly silence overwhelms the clinking glasses and plates ... the hiss of the dishwasher ... customers laughter ... and the shriek of a lady who can't wait for the women's restroom so she opens the men's only to find it is occupied.

"Alright man," he says making his sad little way, "I'll see you later."

"HEY!" I scream.

Turning he stares.

"Enjoy the Hell out of the child support!"

Flashing a lopsided grin he mumbles, "I will."

And those are the people who make Tybee Island work.

It's not the retirees, home owners, second home owners, commuters to Savannah or wherever, rental property managers, anyone elected to office, vacationers and it's certainly not the Clergy.

It is the small business owner and the bartenders, waitresses, dishwashers, lawn maintenance, musicians, trash collectors who make this island work.

The same ones who make this country work.

It's not the wealthy, elected or self-righteous.

It's Easter and it reminds me ... when Jesus came back ... he didn't draw attention to himself ... no bolts of lightning ... Press Conferences ... front page news or any of that.

He was mistaken for a gardener ... filthy straw hat and dirt under his fingernails.

On Sunday I'm dropping $6 bucks in the bucket to honor those who make this island work.

And to pray for the souls of those who never notice them.

How Many Moments?

If you're taking the enemy out, it's best to start with it's leadership.

Guy Sayles is the Resident Assistant at Cone Hall.

He didn't know me ... couldn't pick me out if we were the only ones crossing the street ... but we were ready for the attack ... and I knew him.

Okay I made that up.

I had no idea who Guy Sayles was.

But I did start at the top, storming straight to the RA's room, pounding on his door which he opened ... ready to attend to the needs of the freshmen ... "Can I help ..." he started to ask.

"EAT THIS!" I screamed spraying the fire extinguisher in his face, laughing loudly and running away.

Our dorm had successfully conducted a hostile takeover of Guy Sayles dorm.

I still didn't know who he was.

He knew who I was.

A few days later I was horrified to learn we share a class ... and Guy surgically butchered me in front of the Professor and all 27 students by drawing me into a debate and ... well ... publically spanking my ass.

"I need to know this Guy," I told myself afterwards.

In no time at all ... we were best friends ... and while we had lots of fun together ... I owe him far more than he does me.

I would have never learned me without him.

I would have never gone to Seminary were it not for Guy ... and the rest is ... what it is.

Last night Sarah, the girls and I watched "The Theory of Everything" and I was finding it hard to not think of my friend.

Yeah ... he is that smart.

And he's had a tough year ... but haven't we all?

In the middle of the night, I kiss the top of Sarah's head, deeply breathing in her aromas ... really happy though often frustrated ... my fingers linger over her smoothness.

I was dreaming about Guy ... we were talking about life now ... the things we've been through ... what we want ... how frustrated we are it's not happening the way we think it should ... and arguing Soren Kierkegaard ... the magnificent critic of idealist thinking.

I no longer recall if Guy introduced him to me or I introduced him to Guy ... but I do remember our wrestling matches over Kierkegaard.

Guy settled with the Idealist.

I took the other path.

At 5:50 I wake ... love my wife ... burst into tears ... kiss the top of her head again ... and am more thankful than I've ever been.

It's been way too long since Guy and I ... and Anita, Mandy and Eliot have been together ... but I sure as Hell appreciated last night's talk.

So this morning as Sarah and the girls were leaving for work and school ... I relished each moment ... because no matter how many moments we have ... they're not enough.

Kierkegaard says that.

Guy did too.

But Sarah and I share it for a moment today.

Cursing for Christ

It was recently revealed I coached the Baptist Student Union Intramural Football Team and primarily taught them how to cuss.

Thank you Jimmy Cochran!

It is true that we were the best group of cussing Christians ever assembled on the gridiron.

What Jimmy Cochran failed to report is we played for the Championship that year against I-Eta-Thigh from the Fraternity League.

"You missed a block," I told Edward Hinely.

"Hell no I didn't," he retorts.

"Hell Yeah you did," I press.

"Hell no I didn't," he continues.

That pretty much sums up my coaching style.

Regardless, we won games that year as though we were predestined.

We were God's team!

As we prepared for the College Championship game against the pagan Fraternity boys, Dr. Nathan Byrd, who oversaw the Baptist Student Union wisely decided to hold a special prayer service for us.

He knew we had become cocky cursers for Christ.

"The Byrd," as he was affectionately called by everyone ... well, except the football team who called him "Damn Good Byrd!" ... led by example and used few words.

A special prayer service where he isn't even present would remind us to be humble and thankful for the position we're in ... playing for the Championship ... with the possibility of the Lamb eating the Lion.

The time and date was set and hundreds of faithful believers arrived.

But the doors of the Baptist Student Union were locked ... because Mark Wood and Mitch Wesley who lived in the building ... and who's sole responsibility was locking and unlocking the doors ... had fallen asleep ... in the tradition of Peter, James and John who wouldn't stay awake for Jesus.

So the service never happened.

We got the shit beat out of us by the pagan Fraternity Boys.

But ... Mark and Mitch looked extremely ... rested.

The Byrd however was quite pleased because ... in spite of cursing for Christ ... we were the first team to play for the Championship ... so he calls me into his office to ask if I'll coach the BSU softball team.

I am humbled by the offer and ... nobody can tell the Byrd "No."

That's how I also became coach of "The Master Batters" ... with jerseys of a naked Cherub with wings ... wearing a baseball cap ... with a really long bat for a penis.

It was the last time I coached.

Ah ... you can't make this stuff up.

To Hell With Lent!

"It looks like no one said this would be easy ... it looks like no one was right ..."

Jim Morris wrote that.

Today I'm feeling it.

I know that Bill Joel was right with the "We didn't start the fire" shit and all that ... but some days are harder than others ... and I struggle with why?

You do your best in life ... to love, help, encourage, contribute to making the world a better place ... things should be easier.

They're not.

My friend Jimmy Cochran writes a Lenten Journal which I'm finding captivating.

The purpose of Lent ... according to mainline and screwed up versions of Christianity ... is to feel bad about your failures ... so you'll feel better about yourself on Easter ... when Jesus rose from the dead after giving himself to everyone ... when nobody gave much back to him.

I don't like Lent.

You do your best and others do you in.

I don't think Jesus cares for the Lenten observance either ... for him the days leading up to Easter were full of betrayal, broken promises, political lies, sanctimonious Sons-of-Bitches who ran religion and protected their trade, crooked Judges, unfair punishments resulting in Crucifixion ... NAKED, exposed for the world to see ... hanging there to die.

Do not believe the pretty painted versions of dying on a cross ... his arms were spread eagle ... nailed into a cross ... his legs were stuffed under his ass ... with no pretty white cloth ... and the mob, preachers and politicians laughed.

That's Lent!

To Hell with it!

But ... the thing I love about Jesus is he didn't take it laying down.

He got up.

That's why I'm following Jesus.

Me too.

I'm going to hang with him.

If you know what I mean.

Job Security ... for now.

"Do you have any housekeeping positions?" she asks ... carrying a tote bag ... wearing shorts and flops ... elderly and refined.

A dyed blond hair, chubby woman with a sad smile sitting behind the front desk ... replies, "Let me check."

She stands there looking like a tourist wearing a funeral home smile.

The woman in white returns and says, "Part time."

"May I have an application please?" she quickly asks.

"Of course you may," the woman in white replies ... with the same sad smile and they exchange papers.

"Would it be all right if I return it in a while," she asks, "I know you're serving breakfast now and do not wish to be a distraction for your guests."

"This afternoon is fine," is the distracted response.

"For ten years I had a successful house cleaning business on the side," she quickly says full of emotion and justification for being there.

"My name is Deb," the front desk manager replies.

"I'm Grace," she replies with a wet voice.

"We've been full for a week and are booked solid for the next two," Deb says.

"That's job security," Grace smiles.

"For now anyway," Deb shrugs.

They do not touch but nod in a way that send the slightest of acknowledgement and affirmation to each other.

Pouring cream in the coffee I'm the only other person in the room and find it every bit as captivating as I imagine the Second Coming will be.

Grace leaves.

Deb slowly makes her way to the coffee urn.

"Nice lady," she says ... not to me though I'm the only one left to talk to ... maybe to herself ... maybe to no one at all.

"Three weeks of full is good," I say.

Without looking at me she mumbles, "It's job security ... for now."

Returning to the front desk she sits, sighs heavily and sips her coffee.

I am humbled to witness holiness happen in the shittiest of circumstances ... in a tiny hotel ... in a beautiful place.

Strolling across the parking lot carrying coffee to our room, I say to no one ... may be to God ... "It's still a world of 'the Haves' and the 'Have-nots' ... the Goddamn Second Coming can't come soon enough."

Things to do

Yesterday I was a radio star representing Bar Church on Georgia Public Radio.

Today I'm a Dish Washer at "The Breakfast Club".

Tonight is Monty Park's Acoustic Jam which is always a hoot and I'm looking forward to it.

Tomorrow night I'm celebrating my Anniversary with my wife because we missed it earlier this month because of obligations with the girls so we've planned a date and night alone.

If all goes to plan I will also be an incredible lover tomorrow night.

I'm washing dishes again on Friday.

On Saturday I spending the day with Sarah and the girls.

Sunday I'm in Bar Church as the Semi-Professional Christian in kind of in charge and a member of the Band.

Somewhere in all of this I also have some clients to manage, social media obligations and several new opportunities to explore.

I've given no thought to next week because this week is pretty eclectic as it is.

My goal is to spent the rest of today working on these things ... but the girls are away ... Sarah has the day off and is looking mighty fine sitting on the sofa reading her book.

Hmmmm ...

I believe I have to remix this salad.

You know what I'm talking about.

And if you don't ... then if love were oil you're couple of quarts low.

The Bar Church Interview

"It's like old times," I say sitting adjusting the headphones while placing the microphone in front of

my mouth.

"What exactly did what you use to do?" Davy, the drummer in the Bar Church Band, asks.

 He also keeps the beat for Monty Parks ... and the Samuel Adams Band ... and who in the Hell know who else?

"Nothing," I reply adjusting our headsets.

Davy's voice immediately comes through my headset, "Why do you get the cushy seat with the big microphone?"

Without turning I reply, "Ummm ... you came in first and chose your seat ... left me this one."

"Okay then," he says.

"Mic check!" a woman's voice says in our ears. "What did you have for dinner last night?"

"Sarah made this great Salisbury Steak that none of her girls would touch so we're having it for dinner tonight," I promptly reply.

"That sounds great," she says ... talking about my voice level more than Sarah's most excellent Salisbury Steak.

"Mr. Cahill?"

"Ah," Davy thinks, "I had a Firebomb ... a shot of Jack ... some Ramen Noodles ... and a Firebomb."

We hear marvelous laughter in our ears.

We're in the studio of Georgia Public Radio doing an interview for Bar Church on Tybee Island.

Yep ... Church in a Bar ... Benny's Tybee Tavern ... on Sunday mornings ... with a rotating Bar Band instead of a Praise Band ... though sometimes people yell "GLORY" ... or pump their hands up in the air.

Halfway through the interview, Celeste Headlee asks Davy a question.

"So to keep you honest, what was the sermon about last Sunday?"

Turning to look at Davy, his long hair is brushed forward over his face ... his sunglasses are in front of his hair and he's wearing his headphones.

"Ummm," he answers, "The Rev will have to answer that. I was taking my wife some fruit."

It is true that people wander in and out of Bar Church ...including our drummer.

"Pastor Elliott," she asks, "Do you remember what you preached about?"

I tell her while snapping a photo of Davy trying not to laugh.

I've never been part of a more joyous Interview ... about God ... Church and the lack thereof ... joy ... happiness ... acceptance ... laughter ... seriousness ... and cracking each other up.

"OH ... MY ... GOD" the Producer says when it's over ... "That was great!"

"How come you don't have any 'Motorhead' in your album collection?" Davy asks.

"We mostly do classical," she explains.

"Like us!" he says as we leave.

I love Bar Church!

Who gets to start a Monday like this!

G.L.O.R.Y.

I can't wait for Sunday!

Filling in the blank

Sarah and I are sitting in Bill Shearouse's office doing our will.

"Let's discuss the final arrangements," Bill suggests dripping in dignity while working but we know better.

"Well," I quickly respond ready to be done, "I'm being cremated."

Sarah's head jerks in my direction.

"What?" she asks. "I'm going to be buried."

"Just throw my ashes in her casket," I say. "It'll be like a two-for-one service ... 50% off ... besides I'll be dead ... so I won't care."

That was a few years ago and Sarah and I haven't revisited the topic ... though as it currently stands ... according to Bill ... if I go first ... I have to be kept somewhere until Sarah dies and someone ... I assume it'll be Laurel the 10 year old ... throws my ashes on top of her casket.

It could be Sarah's casket is still open when I'm thrown in but I don't know if that's wishful thinking or not.

She may be over me and not want me anymore ... especially in eternity.

It could be she's in love with someone after I'm gone and I get bumped in the whole funeral arrangement plan.

I've seen it happen before.

Regardless, my preference is to be with her into eternity.

But that is not the point.

I've been thinking about my obituary.

The Savannah Morning News charges like $350 for a nice one with a color photograph of what I used to look like before I died.

I don't care anything about that.

Nor do I want our children writing my obituary ... that'll just cause angst ... they'll screw it up ... and they've got enough to worry about without having to worry about me ... especially when I'm dead.

So ...

I want a blank box in the  Savannah Morning News with my name at the top ... I don't care about when I was born and when I died ... just my name's fine ... followed by the instructions ... "FILL IN THE BLANK."

I know what I did and didn't do ... it'll be interesting to see what other people write.

If they write anything at all.

My only concern is how much The Savannah Morning News charges for empty space.

Of course I won't be around to read it so ...  oh I don't care ... it'll still be funny.

Unless it costs too much ... then Sarah should save the money and do something nice for herself for putting up with me like se does.

Really ... I Do!

"What if it's the fat one?" Bubba asks sitting on the stool beside me at the counter at The Breakfast Club.

"What if it is?" I counter.

"I need a plan," he says. "If it's the fat one ... I'll say ... "Hey I forgot my cigarettes in the truck!" ... then I'll get the Hell out of there fast!"

"Brilliant!" I say.

"Course if it's the other one I'm staying," he nods.

"Absolutely," I agree.

It all started with a note left on his windshield after work at Tybee Island's favorite restaurant. Reading, "I think you're really cute. I'm here for a few days. Call me."

The problem is there were two of them ... one significantly larger than the other Bubba remembered serving day ... which one left the note?

"How'd it go?" I ask the following morning.

I don't know where it came from but Bubba had a lot of "Saint" in his lineage. He could be quiet and soft, full of humility and joy!

He also drank like a fish, smoked like a bear, laughed like a clown and loved like Jesus.

Putting his arm around me, he smiled like an Angel and says, "I was so relieved."

So for the next few weeks there was a new note on Bubba's windshield from a different admirer, each in a different handwriting, with different phone numbers requesting to meet with him.

Most were written by my daughters Kristen and Chelsea but Bubba didn't know.

It drove him crazy.

"How did I become so hot?" he asks.

"You're not hot," I reassure him. "There's just lots of desperate women in the world."

A few weeks later Bubba brings the "skinny one" to meet me.

"Really?" I whisper in his ear.

"Really," he whispers back ... Now Bubba has a way of saying words that makes them completely and utterly his own ... "Really" is one ... and it comes out slow and long with a hint of disbelief ... REEEAAA ...LEE."

Shrugging my shoulders, I am happy for him.

"Hey Rev," he asks a few months later, "will you do our wedding?"

"REEAAA...LEE?" I answer.

Of course I do.

It was quite spectacular if I say so myself.

When I ask "Who gives this Bride to be married?" ... her children gleefully scream "WE DO!" ... as if they couldn't be happier to be rid of her.

The Homily was about how marriage is like the "Road Runner" and if you want to catch love then you have to keep chasing it like Wile E. Coyote ... even if it means going over a cliff ... which is exactly what Bubba was doing.

And in the years that followed he was happy and I remained a front row participant and partner in crime with him.

I'm not certain why I'm doing an inventory of weddings I've conducted but I'm finding it quite joyous.

And today I'm especially thankful Bubba and I've spent this time together.

Wherever you're at ... whatever you're doing ... and I'm certain that it's something ... I still love you.

RRREEEAAA-LEE ... I do.

It was Beautiful

The last meal we share I don't eat.

I'm feeding him vanilla ice cream digging from a little cup on a tiny wooden spoon.

The only sounds are from the machines beeping, noises in the hallway and the smacking of his lips as he can't get it off the spoon and into his mouth fast enough.

I wonder if he's wondering if this is his last meal.

His eyes are half-way open but they're glazed and it's hard to tell if he's looking at something far, far away or nothing at all.

"That was good," he slurs. "Another one?"

"You can have anything you want Dad."

I buzz the Nurses station and in a few minutes I'm feeding him another small container of ice cream.

The lights and the television are off so the room's dark with muted light creeping through a little window.

"Thank you," he says when the ice cream's gone.

Immediately he falls asleep with me still holding the tiny wooded spoon in one hand and the plastic cup in the other.

Tossing them in the trash can, I kiss his forehead and stand at the foot of his bed.

We're waiting on Hospice so we can take one last ride together and when they arrive Dad mostly sleeps through the trip ... though ... he fidgets and moans and I become convinced he's dealing with other things.

At Hospice he mutters a lot and occasionally things that make sense ... "I love you" ... "Robee you should stop that!" ... "Remember my moustache?" and we all say we do ... and several minutes later he says the last words ... "It was beautiful."

I don't think he was talking about his moustache.

I think he was talking about his life.

He had lots go wrong ... a terrible upbringing, shot in Korea while escaping a POW camp, snake bites and heart surgeries and such.

But he also had a lot go right ... marrying my Mom, being able to retire early, lavish his grandchildren, travel and collect spectacular friends.

Several of his friends surround me yesterday at lunch and we embrace and they tell me how much they miss him ... how much they love him ... and they lose their words in a wet sloppy ending ... as they rush out to get away from the pain of losing part of themselves.

The last thing Dad ever said specifically to me was ... "Thank you."

Well I wouldn't be here without you Dad so I thank you just as much and we had some Hell of some good times together and not a damn day goes by you're not part of it all still ... somehow ... I don't understand how.

The last words spoken to his family were ... "It was beautiful."

Yep.

It was.

IT IS!

It's nice to be reminded sometimes.

Because this really is a beautiful life we're living ... in spite of the things that go wrong.

I almost missed the Wedding

I'm performing a wedding on a boat I almost miss.

Darrell and Judy are about to get married and I'm sound asleep.

Its been a long day on the beach and adult beverages were involved.

Returning to "The Cottage," where I live alone, I pass out.

Fifteen minutes before the ceremony is scheduled to begin, I wake ... yawn .... stretch ... look at the clock ... and scream!

"HOLY SHIT!"

Grabbing my black robe and little black book, I take off for the marina.

One of the things I love about wearing a Preacher's Robe is you immediately look Holy when you put it on and it doesn't really matter what you have on underneath.

I recall wearing black running shorts and a UGA tee shirt that day with flip flops.

The other thing about being the minister at a wedding is ... they can't start without you.

A very worried but always immaculate looking Darrell is almost on the verge of breaking a sweat as I step on the boat.

I don't think Darrell's ever actually sweated ... the man is immaculate.

He hugs me and I'm almost awake.

It's a fun ride out towards the ocean as the boat's filled with great folks and an open bar.

Before I can finish my drink ... it's time.

Darrell takes his place beside me.

Judy beautifully appears as an Angel gliding on the water.

I don't recall what I say ... though I had a book to go by ... but when all was said and done ... they say "I Do" and a family is born.

Fast forward almost two decades later ... and Darrell strolls in the room where Sarah has me volunteering for the Savannah Children's Choir and ... he goes to say something but sees me ... and I jump up and we embrace ... because we have some crazy connection that will never go away.

I'm blessed to be part of the birth a family ... as two became one flesh ... and such things stay with you forever.

They have children so we talk about them, catch up and hug again.

I've done lots of cool weddings and Judy and Darrell's was one of the coolest ... and on the rare occasions we run into one another ... we're all right back there ... when they confess
I Do" ... and the world changes ... because nothings the same anymore.

That's what make wonderful marriages ... when you can go back in an instant ... and live it all again ... almost two decades later.