Upside Down Living

Sarah's full of nervous energy, darting around the house, taking care of the kids, offering constructive criticism of things I've written and preparing herself for a potentially big day.

She's got a lot on her mind.

I remember those days.

Every waking moment ... including those that come in the middle of the night ... concentrates on the things at hand.

The day begins and every body demands everything at the same time as I do my best to remain focused on what's being accomplished, who's a distraction and focusing on the new possibilities or opportunities.

I do it well for a long time.

Then it's time for other things though change is never easy and I certainly went through a lot to get from then to now.

Today starts incredibly early because of the school system's transportation schedules so Sarah's up before me taking total responsibility for three other lives while also managing her own and keeping me focused.

I do my best to help or stay out the way when I'm not needed or wanted.

For decades I was the boss ... a mostly benevolent dictator ... profitably taking care of hundreds ... though I've abdicated the position and now my wife is clearly in charge of most everything.

Back in the day people line up asking me for lots of things ... most humbly so but some arrogant as Hell ... with impossible demands or needing easy solutions ... the vast majority immediately disappearing when they got what they want though a small handful linger in my life.

Now I'm the one approaching Sarah with requests ... "Can we do this?" ... "Why don't we go there?"

She lets me know.

Now, I mostly think ... write ... tell stories ... serve as a "parental advisor" to the girls ... occasionally give advice to our kids ... play guitar ... and pray.

I think I do them well.

She lets me know.

In many ways I'm everything I've always been ... smart, capable, fast, direct, articulate, creative and outside of the box ... though I'm no longer in a hurry, understand people don't always do what they say they will, nor remain a part of life but come and go and am far more appreciative of what I have and who's stuck with me.

"Are you sad?" Laurel the 9 year old asks as we lounge in the pool.

"No," I reply.

"You seem sad," she says giving me a kiss floating beside me.

Perhaps I do but it's more of a quiet, contemplative, acceptance of my current realities ... often punctuated by brilliant sarcastic humor.

Occasionally Sarah actually laughs.

I'm very proud of all the things I've done ... sure there are some I would change if given the chance but it is what it is ... and it's been the long, strange trip to NOW ... and I really like NOW ... and don't want to have to get here again.

After being so big, my world is tiny now but whereas before it was filled with demands ... NOW it's mostly love ... with minor distractions.

"Love turns you upside down," according to Grey's Anatomy and the Bible.

Sitting here looking at my life today, it's definitely upside down.

But ... as our daughter Kristen once magnificently demonstrated when we're Scuba Diving 60 feet deep and she floats by upside down ... legs crossed, her arms folded ... seemingly deep in thought.

"Why were you floating upside down?" I ask back on the boat.

"It's more interesting that way," she matter of factly responds.

It's taken me all these years to understand and appreciate what she was saying.

Sunday Morning Delights

The choirs of Cicada have returned and loudly sing their Hymns of Praise.

Purple clouds dot blue skies.

The Ocean sings in the distance ... waves giving sloppy kisses to the shore.

Birds
 chirp in Palm Trees.

Everything is green and lush.

The slightest hint of coolness hangs in the salt air.

The Sea Breeze has gone elsewhere.

Our home is full of sleeping girls and Goddess tip toes behind me as I prepare the Cinnamon Rolls for them.

Winston, The Little Gay Dog, lay curled in a tiny ball beside Sarah.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, lay at the foot of Laurel's bed watching her sleep.

Cassidy taps the sliding glass doors to get my attention as I sit on the Beloved Back Deck experiencing my life.

Sliding the door open she wants me to carry her to the sofa where she'll wait for her Sunday morning delights.

She gets up first so she eat more Cinnamon rolls than her sisters.

I used to try to keep things even but have given up and now believe ... if you're up first ... you win!

Of course to get up at all these days is winning.

It's a day to give thanks and I'm in that moment.

It won't last.

"Why did she get so more Cinnamon rolls than me?" Maddie will demand.

The sun bursts through the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt and I retrieve my sunglasses.

"Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!" the Cat Lady next door screeches.

Cassidy taps the glass door.

"Are they ready?"

"No," I reply and she storms off to cut on the Disney Channel which I immediately turn off because everyone else is sleeping.

"That's not fair," she sulks.

"I know," I say brushing the hair from her face. "It's why we have Sundays ... to try to make things right again ... we got a long way to go."

She lays down and Goddess and I leave her to check on the Cinnamon Rolls.

Our Family On Speed

"Mr. Elliott!," the exasperated teacher yells, "Why are you taking so long to answer the question?"

My Uncle Bobby stands there, shrugs his shoulders, pushes his glasses up his nose and sticks his hands in his pockets.

"Well?" she demands.

 He studies his shoes, shrugs his shoulders again and finally replies, "Well ... it gives me time to think about what I'm going to say before I say it."

The irritated teacher stares at him for as long as it took Bobby to answer before smiling and saying, "That is a good answer Bobby Elliott! We'll move on now to the next question for the next student."

It's a famous family story.

I'm uncertain where Uncle Bobby learned to take his time but he seems to have passed some of it on.

"Why are you walking so slow?" Sarah asks after re-routing herself two blocks because I've fallen behind.

"Are we in a hurry?" I ask.

"Well no," she explains, "you're just slow."

I've decided for Christmas I'm buying Sarah and the girls colorful foot shackles with four links of chain so they have to take little tiny baby steps every time we go anywhere.

That way ... they can slow down and appreciate things instead of always being in a hurry.

Plus the five of us can walk together as a family.

Now what makes this funny is I am a morning person ... they are not.

Leaping out of bed in a single bound into my black running shorts, UGA tee shirt and flip flops, I'm off to "The Breakfast Club" for coffee and back before Sarah rolls over and knows I'm gone.

In that time, I've had an outdoor shower, given the dogs and cat treats, taken out the trash, peered inside the neighbors house to see what's on television and updated everything on Facebook, LinkedIn, Google +, gmail, the Bar Church page and other things I'm working on.

Nevertheless I am the slow one.

Unless I take one of the girls shopping.

Oh I don't know ... say Cassidy, the 9 year old!

She's got $20 burning a hole in her blouse so I take her to Walmart ... having lost my mind because I love her ... and she takes me to the "Make-Up" section.

Holy Shit!

Who knew there was so much Make-Up ... little girls take so damn long looking at it ... Super Walmart's have worse customer service than the original box store ... and I decide ... it's a good thing I walk slow because Cassidy is taking a frigging life time to pick out the right Lip Gloss.

Super Walmart has cut a deal with Visa so the automated check out stands only take that particular credit card!

Cassidy has cash.

We stand in a line as long as the one Moses led out of Egypt.

Taking baby steps towards the cashier it strikes me ... in the South ... women wait until they're presented the bill to look inside their pocketbooks ... for their billfolds ... to find the credit card ... to slide through the machine ... to learn it now has a chip ... that you leave in the machine ... adding 37 minutes to Damn check out process.

"Did you find everything you need?" the cashier asks as Cassidy and I finally arrive at the Promised Land.

"Bitch," I say greeting her.

"Micheal," Cassidy scolds, takes me by the hand leading me to car at lightning speed.

So I don't get this whole speed thing with Sarah and the girls.

It's mandatory one minute and utterly appalling the next.

Either way I seem to be out of step.

I could use some Uncle Bobby words of wisdom right now.

Political Prayers

"We want you to come deliver the opening prayer for Congress," one of Congressman Kingston's staff tells me.

"Absolutely not," I immediately respond already on the defensive. "I hate 'em all!"

A moment of awkward silence follows.

I hear muffled noises through the phone when he says, "Trish wants to talk to you."

Trish DePriest runs the Congressman, his office, services his entire constituency, can get a Passport in a nanosecond and is funny as Hell!

"Micheal," she says in her long Southern drawl, "you can't say no."

"I already did," I reply.

She laughs this delightful musical rain of joy into the phone.

Trish laughs better than anyone I've ever known.

We have a great relationship!

The Congressman makes promises he cannot keep so Trish is employed to see what she can do to clean up his messes.

She calls me to house a mentally ill person with AIDS who just tried to kill his mother because ... he votes Republican.

On the other hand, I call Trish when I'm out of the country and my passport's expiring and I'm not ready to return.

"Micheal," she says in her long Southern drawl, "there's no nice way to say this. Get your ass home now. I'll get you a new passport when you come to see me. It'll cost $75 extra for processing."

"Well," she laughs, "why can't you pray before Congress and what am I supposed to tell Jack."

"You've been to Congress right?"

Laughter rains again before she asks, "What am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know," I fire. "Tell him the Rapture's occurred and y'all are left behind."

A thunderstorm of laughter burst through the phone which makes me laugh because Trish DePriest knows how to make people feel better.

"He's going to be mad at you," she giggles.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I answer.

So I didn't pray standing in front of Congress though God knows they need prayer.

So I tell you that to tell you this.

I've been asked to ask the City of Tybee Island if I can pray before a City Council meeting.

I can hear Trish laughing all the way from wherever she is.

At the same time it could be fun.

"Dear Lord, thank you for another pompous gathering of people who believe they are you ..."

Hmmm ... I need to call Trish.

I might do it this time.

Something to Believe in

"Do not let them win," my wife says sitting on the bed full of emotion and determination.

Indignation of "them" immediately wells up inside and I grind my teeth but don't say anything.

Grinding my teeth is a trick I learned in meetings gone bad and I don't want to jump on a table screaming at the idiot across from me or grab the Olympic Torch hanging on the wall and beat the Hell out of them.

Grinding my teeth slowly lets the rage out and keeps my mouth shut.

I'm mellower than I once was, more accepting of what life throws at me because it's thrown me a lot.

"No man could have survived the things you have," Herb McKenzie tells me one day as we're dealing with the next round of bad things.

He's referring to my trusted CFO misappropriating $1.3 Million on purpose, the wife who decides that's the best time to ask for a divorce and leave, a coalition making a move to take me down after a major effort to reform mental health services very publically fails so my own staff deserts me fearful of losing their jobs and I have a man with a major Napoleon complex as the Chairman of the Board.

Talk about shitty times!

"I couldn't have done it," Herb says.

Then he went away too.

Somehow I survive.

I don't know how.

It makes me believe in God.

It makes me believe in Sarah.

Life's a funny thing ... so many things are perfect right now ... so many things are not ... looming doom awaits with the next phone call ... my wife and little girls make my heart wildly jump over rainbows.

So I say these things and others reply ... "I can't believe you say these things ... it's where I am in my life ... who knew your life is just like mine?"

That's good ... I guess.

I tell you this though ... I still believe in the things I believe in.

Bruce is sitting under the stairs drinking a bottle of cheap wine softly singing Merle Haggard's "Momma Tried."

Bopping down the stairs towards the Sanctuary it stops me dead in my tracks.

Not because I care for Merle but ... it's not a typical Church moment.

The Church is three stories low in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky. The basement's a colorful social hall converted into a hang out for homeless people ... the street level is the Sanctuary and Sunday School rooms ... and the top is apartments and more Sunday School rooms converted into apartments for homeless people.

Two stairwells connect the floors ... one in the front and one in the back of the building.

Sticking my head under the landing, there he sits ... hugging the bottle ... crying ... softly singing, "No would could steer me right but Momma tried."

"What you doing Bruce," I ask squatting next to him.

"About what?" he replies sucking snot up his nose and wiping tears from his face.

Busting into laughter I love his answer and to this day it's how I reply to the question every time it's asked.

Bruce once worked for Jimmy Swaggart but was fired for drinking.

Now he drinks alone and lives with me in the Church converted into apartments because nobody comes to Sunday School anyway.

"Give me a drink," I ask and he hands the bottle.

It's terrible stuff but I like Bruce a lot so we share communion wine.

"You missing your Mom?" I ask as I wipe the purple juice on my Church clothes.

"Yeah," he cries.

"Well, let's call her," I reply grabbing him by the hand.

"What?" he asks.

"It's just a phone call," I explain as he struggles to stand.

Staggering inside the office beside the Sanctuary, he struggles to remember the number but eventually gets it right and she answers on the first ring.

When she does Bruce is horrified thrusting the bottle of wine in my arms and whispers "You can use it for The Lord's Supper."

"Hey Momma," he begins ... "Yes Momma I am in Church" ... "I'm with the Rev" ... "we work together" ... "he's alright but I have to keep him straight" ...

Shaking my head I take the wine, have another swig and make my way inside the Sanctuary to get ready for the service that I believe has already begun.

Riding the Bus ... NOT!

I'm uncertain of when riding the bus to school became so complicated but ... it has.

When I rode the bus we'd walk to Mrs. Dumas' house and get on it as she finished breakfast.

Those were good times!

Listening to transistor radios, dancing down the walkway, telling jokes or slowly waking up it was always fun.

Until Mrs. Dumas got on H.E.R. bus then it was all serious and everyone shut up.

I'm pretty sure Mrs. Dumas was a NAZI in hiding ... a Commandant probably in a Concentration Camp ... at least that's how she ran our bus.

It was as quiet as a cemetery as she climbed the three steps onto H.E.R. bus.

We used the time to do our homework.

She threw me off the bus once as we made our way home from school. I no longer recall the details of the altercation but a girl was involved.

"ELLIOTT GET OFF NOW," Mrs. Dumas pulling H.E.R. bus over to the side of the road several miles away from my stop.

And she threw me off and drove away as all my friends made faces on the large rear window with the biggest seat on H.E.R. bus.

I got home by dinner.

I'll give her this though ... Mrs. Dumas knew how to run H.E.R. bus ... on military precision ... always on time.

Unlike now when Laurel, the 11 year old, wasn't picked up at all today by the bus because ... we have no idea  ... it simply didn't come.

Several hours later the Chatham Savannah Board of Education responds to the situation by telling Laurel to "take the day off. It's on us."

Bus service in Chatham County has gone to hell since Mrs. Dumas was extradited for War Crimes.

In the News we understand the President of the School Board, Jolene Byrne, and the Superintendent, Dr. Thomas Lockamy,  are having public skirmishes over the matter to resolve the matter.

Tell that to Laurel who's missed school today when she really wants to be there ... and the system's response if "take the day off" ... because the people in charge apparently don't know what to do.I'm uncertain of when riding the bus to school became so complicated but ... it has.

When I rode the bus we'd walk to Mrs. Dumas' house and get on it as she finished breakfast.

Those were good times!

Listening to transistor radios, dancing down the walkway, telling jokes or slowly waking up it was always fun.

Until Mrs. Dumas got on H.E.R. bus then it was all serious and everyone shut up.

I'm pretty sure Mrs. Dumas was a NAZI in hiding ... a Commandant probably in a Concentration Camp ... at least that's how she ran our bus.

It was as quiet as a cemetery as she climbed the three steps onto H.E.R. bus.

We used the time to do our homework.

She threw me off the bus once as we made our way home from school. I no longer recall the details of the altercation but a girl was involved.

"ELLIOTT GET OFF NOW," Mrs. Dumas pulling H.E.R. bus over to the side of the road while opening the door at 35 miles/hour several miles away from my stop.

And se threw me off and drove away as all my friends made faces on the large rear window with the biggest seat on H.E.R. bus.

I got home by dinner.

I'll give her this though ... Mrs. Dumas knew how to run H.E.R. bus ... on military precision ... always on time.

Unlike now when Laurel, the 11 year old, wasn't picked up at all today by the bus because ... we have no idea  ... it simply didn't come.

Several hours later the Chatham Savannah Board of Education responds to the situation by telling Laurel to "take the day off. It's on us."

Bus service in Chatham County has gone to hell since Mrs. Dumas was extradited for War Crimes.

In the News we understand the President of the School Board, Jolene Byrne, and the Superintendent, Dr. Thomas Lockamy, are having public skirmishes over the matter to resolve things.

Tell that to Laurel who's missed school today when she really wants to be there ... and the system's response is "take the day off" ... because the people in charge apparently don't know what to do.

That's leadership there folks.

I just hope they aren't left behind.

Like the kids.

The Coming Joy

I actually read the Savannah Morning News  today.

You have to wonder why things work out so magnificently for some people but ... not so much ... for others.

A couple successfully navigates three decades of marriage in spite of difficulties to celebrate while others are wildly happy about their second, third or forth spouse.

Some stay in the same job their entire career safely landing in retirement while others bounce around work ending with no savings and enough social security to keep working well into the later years.

Miraculously a woman bounces back from multiple cancers to live a very fulfilling life while others die the first time around.

Dream homes last forever for many though most become unsustainable burdens constantly in need of repair.

The world is a playground for lots while Disney is the as most most ever see.

"Why did you do this?" my daughter once angrily fires at me.

She's referring to a divorce and starting over again.

"Nobody chooses this baby," I reply.

I mean given our choices everything would always be great.

Marriages made in Heaven remain there ... Jobs become fulfilling careers ... Homes are Castles ... the world is an oyster.

And for those who live life this way ... good for you!

Life's hard enough.

Just don't be haughty, arrogant or boastful that yours is better than ours.

I know you didn't work at it any more than anybody else ... maybe you just had more friends to start with ... or money ... or your Guardian Angel is of a higher caliber than ours.

I don't believe God loves you any more.

In fact, I think God loves us more.

God loves the broken things most and while we have to work harder at it ... we grow stronger at the broken places.

So enjoy your decades of stability, job and financial security, overcoming your bad times, Castles and vacations.

We toast you!

Joyus la vie!

You're having yours now.

But ... and never forget this ... ours is coming.

Preaching and Panhandling

Chester Fawbush and I are in a First Baptist Church somewhere in Mississippi preparing to speak.

The Baptists flew us down after hearing me talk about him at the National Women's Missionary Union Conference in Nashville.

They wanted to see if he really exists or if I'm a liar.

Chester is a street alcoholic who used to live in a garbage dump where he could drink without being bothered.

He lives with me now in the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, makes endless coffee for whoever needs some and babysits my children.

"Hey Rev," he announces early one Sunday morning, "I quit drinking."

"That's great Chester," I reply.

"Yep," he continues, "six times already today."

The man is a master of one liners.

The Baptist lady introduces me and I tell stories about our homeless friends, our crazy little inner city Church and then I introduce Chester.

He's old, wears a suit he picked from the "Clothes Closet", is missing a few teeth, has salt-and-pepper hair and is the epitome of humility.

He proceeds to give a talk that has the whole damn Church in tears.

Finishing he sits beside me on the alter in a big preacher chair and winks.

The entire congregation sits in stunned silence ... wiping their eyes ... thanking Jesus ... until one stands and claps ... followed by every Baptists in the House ... and there's a thunderous standing ovation.

Leaning over I ask, "How did you do that?"

He leans over to me with a bowed head, "Rev ... Preaching ... Panhandling ... they're the same."

All these years later, Chester's still right.

Let's everybody Lighten Up

Let's see.

So far this week I've shared stories and thoughts on hate ... being forced into the past ... how funerals suck ... death ... and my writing in general.

All pretty depressing topics.

I feel the need to lighten things up today!

But I can't.

Sarah made me watch the Republican Presidential Carnival the other night and I'm the first to admit whenever you get 17 Clowns together there will be lots of laughs ... and God knows there were ... until we fell asleep on the couch.

It is obvious though Donald Trump is the best Clown in the Republican Party.

Having said that, the Democratic Penny Anny Circus is no better primarily they're too damn serious.

Honestly speaking Republicans make better Clowns than Democrats.

Democrats make the best ... I have no idea ... funeral directors ... Tybee Island Cops ... whoever it is that bags the fat after Liposuction.

Plus Jon Stewart ended his show which is a bummer.

It's where I got my News.

Though "The Stone Stairs of Death" is emerging as The News Leader (for those of you who don't live in Savannah ... become friends with him and learn what life is really like in The Hostess City).

As depressing as it all is, I'm determined to end on a high note.

Several of us ... Monty Parks, Slo's Bass and me ... decided to make it easy on God and lighten Her work load by condemning ourselves to Hell without due process.

It makes me happy to know I've helped the Lord without even being asked.

Praying for Hate

"Hey Micheal," she asks as I rush inside the Post Office.

"Yep," I say spinning around.

"Did you hear about Mark ...?"

She's someone I once worked with, still does the same job although we both live on island occasionally running into one other.

"No," I say uncaringly.

In every life hate sometimes appears.

Mark certainly hated me and went to incredible lengths to prove it.

I work every hard to develop a relationship with him which is akin to beating my head against a wall because he had no interest in anything other than hating me.

He does his best to get me fired meeting with the President of my Board and making his best case why I should be terminated immediately.

He steals money so we sue him ending up in court where he snarls full of cold indignation.

He uses every opportunity to berate, belittle and build a coalition of people to also hate me.

He leaves me utterly confused and frustrated.

"To hate somebody is to be diminished and drained by it," says Frederick Buechner. "Theirs is the ultimate consuming passion."

"He has cancer," she continues on a hot day in front of the Post Office, "it's the fast kind. He's been moved to his family in Pennsylvania ... his wife moved to another state ... will you pray for him?"

"We didn't get along," I honestly reply.

Startled, she repeats ... "But will you pray for him?"

A long, dreary, sad and exhausting sigh fills my soul.

"Sure," I say before spinning around to get the mail.

In many ways Mark got everything he wanted.

I left the job ... he won the day in court having to pay back what he hadn't spent ... and his coalition grew.

I retreated into a smaller world, finding loving happiness and have been forced to slow down enough to save myself.

In the end, haters simply loose themselves.

Lovers finally finds love and, in doing so, themselves.

But hate's a hard thing to overcome once it's bitten you.

I'm still pumping myself up for that prayer.

Sitting in the Past

There I am sitting in the middle of the past.

Ten men on two pews in an old Church at the funeral of a friend.

They look the same ... professional ... nice suits ... talking about the same things ... behaving in the same old Savannah ways ... performing, posturing and perfecting who they want the world to believe they are.

I'm the only one with long hair, an ear ring and not wearing socks.

My realities are two rows behind me ... Sarah, Maddie and my Mom ... yet here I am without them ... sitting in the past.

Five years ago we were all equal cogs in leadership positions excelling in what we did and collectively working to make the City a better place.

A lot's changed since then.

The economy wacked everybody but they still perform, posture and perfect the image nothing's changed.

"Hey," I say, waiting on the funeral to begin," remember that time you and Curtis Lewis call me because I'd written there are three types of statistics ... lies, damn lies and Salvation Army numbers?"

I'm talking to the past President of The Salvation Army.

Talk about taking the steam out of a funeral!

He claims he can't recall.

Shrugging my shoulders I turn to my former Chairman of the Board, "Hey Archie! What was the name of that guy who helped us co-op both Hospital systems into investing millions in homelessness?"

Smiling, Archie says his name.

No one else wants to participate in the conversation.

"How's your brother-in-law?" I ask the man sitting next to me ... a famous developer, former Board member and current architect of homelessness in Savannah.

"Which one?" he asks indignantly.

"The one in Statesboro," I reply.

I watch him remember ... when he and his wife asks me to help her mentally ill, self-medicating brother-in-law get into treatment.

"He's better," is the reply as the bulletin suddenly becomes the Magna Carter he has to read without interruption.

"Well," loudly whispers another former Board Chair, "Ben's having the last word with you."

Ben's the one who gave his life for us to be here.

"He got us all together again and he got you in a coat and tie."

"Oh, I already got him back," I laugh. "I've blogged about him the last two days."

As Ben's funeral commences, they're suddenly uncomfortable and seem out of place.

"He's still got it," Mom whispers to Sarah.

"He does," my wife whispers back. "He's just figuring out what to do with it."

Ben would have loved it.

Funerals Suck!

There's a lot ... I mean A LOT ... to dislike about funerals.

The best parking spots are reserved.

Funeral directors dress like bankers ... which makes sense I suppose because they're depositing the body.

You have to sit in a room with a dead person and that's pretty uncomfortable.

Ministers typically say the same thing at every funeral only changing the names.

Let's be honest ... nobody likes funerals ... especially if it's yours.

Or someone you dearly love.

I've conducted lots of funeral services in my role as a "Semi-Professional" Christian and they all have one thing in common ... they suck!

The few good ones celebrate a life well lived while the bad ones are sad reminders of never really getting what life could have been.

There are far more bad funerals than good ones.

"Micheal," Betty Barns says, "Ben and I have decided that when it's our turn ... we want you to do our funerals."

"Absolutely not," I fire.

They look at each other.

"Look," I explain leaning forward, "I'd be terrible because I'll get all emotional and cry which is embarrassing in a room full of people ... believe me! ... I've done it and I don't want to do it again ... so get your own Preacher to do your funeral."

Ben erupts in laughter.

Betty is not happy.

That was years ago and in that time our lives slowly became less entwined ... visits rarer ... phone conversations diminish ... our worlds change ... moving on without each other ... as lives do.

In the end, we're all gifts to each other ... just like the toys we cherished getting at Christmas didn't last ... we don't either.

It's best to enjoy them while you got them.

You know what I mean?

Ben's Last Words

"That's where my office was," Ben Barnes points as we stand on the second floor of 2 Peachtree Street.

I've been traveling to Atlanta for years but it's my first time with Ben.

2 Peachtree, once the tallest building in the south east, was built in 1966, has 44 stories and was home to First Atlanta Bank ... where Ben presided.

I am mesmerized because I hate the building.

It's now own by the State of Georgia, purchased to keep people working in downtown Atlanta so Government employees are coerced to remain where everyone's moving out to give the appearance of a thriving metropolis.

Elected Officials do not run Government.

Lifelong bureaucrats do.

2 Peachtree Street is full of them and Ben and I are making the rounds to ensure our work with the homeless, the sick, the addicted and the uninsured have what they need to recover, heal and thrive.

We're quite the Mutt and Jeff team, as Ben calls us.

He's drips professional dignity while I look like the bagboy at Kroger.

He is a God in the world of banking and homeless people, those with AIDS and every addiction known comprise mine.

Nevertheless we are wildly successful bringing millions of dollars to those who would never have received the help necessary to live.

Ben was in his 70s when we making the rounds.

Yesterday he died.

"Well," I sigh to Sarah with a crack in my voice, "he was a good friend and we had one Hell of a ride."

And we did.

In his 90s we'd meet for lunch and reminisce about the "old days" until he couldn't anymore so it's been months since we were last together.

"Do you remember when I had the Triple Malt Scotch in my briefcase?" he asks last time over lunch in Marsh Harbor at The Landings.

I showed up wearing a UGA tee shirt so they gave me an awful gold collared shirt to let me in which makes me look fat.

"I do. Terry Ball met us for dinner that night after a grueling day of begging and we were having sips when he arrives."

"Yep," Ben smiles and for the last time ... I see a twinkle in his eyes.

"We kicked some ass," I laugh placing my hand on top of his.

"We did that," he laughs.

Those are the last words he's left me.

Putting it out there!

"Man you really just put it out there," he says flipping through the newest edition of "The Beach Comber".

"Nobody's ever going to hire you," she says, "because you just say it as you see it for all the world to see."

"Please don't write about this," the elected official asks "we'd like to handle the situation quietly."

"Why don't you write more about Winston, The Little Gay Dog?" he snaps over coffee.

"Why write about the past? It's over!" I'm told when I tell old stories.

"Tell Micheal we loved his Father's Day message to his Dad," my Mom shares an email she receives, " Mentions Billy Herrin and Danny Sims! I printed it out to share with all the guys."

"Don't ever write about me again," Mom warns on another occasion.

Every day I receive emails and private messages either expressing gratitude or telling me how happy they are I'm going to Hell!

I'm pretty immune to it all.

I figure I'd had my say and it's someone else's turn.

It's very rare I comment again on whatever it is I've already had my say about.

Every day the words find me or I find them ... new stories are born or old ones come back to life ... real people become characters and imagined characters become people ... I open up my heart and let you walk right in.

It started when I was a "Professional Christian" ... paid to love when I asked everyone else to do it for free ... and apparently took it far too serious ... trying to authentically be me ... not hiding or changing it.

Like everyone else, I've done good and bad ... been a Sinner and a Saint ... created some Miracles and my fair share of disasters ... told Glorious truths and some really excellent lies ... lost love and thankfully now have the best I've ever known.

I try to not hide from any of it.

Sharing is a great way to not hide.

It's a better way of keeping me honest ... with myself.

Word

It's raining and staring out the windows everything drips Tropical.

Green, lush Palm Trees and purple Wisteria are bathed in God's tears.

Seashells decorate the windows I'm staring through.

Salt floats in the air.

Waves kiss the sand in the distance.

Mermaids sleep in the warm dreariness.

Goddess snores on the cool tile floor and my bare feet rub her golden coat.

Wounded deep in battle my guitar stands like a soldier undaunted in the red room.

Beach music plays softly in the background.

Wind Chimes hang quietly with nothing to sing.

"Is it Sunday?" Cassidy asked yesterday.

"No baby," I reply knowing she's ready for our weekly tradition of Cinnamon Rolls to celebrate the Lord's Day and each other.

"Awe," she sighs.

The memory makes me smile as the oven preheats and I prepare sweet delights for the girls who fill me with delight.

The rain stops.

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

White clouds dot blue skies.

I feel God's love.

I'm too humbled by it all to mumble a word.

"Thanks."

Too much damn fun to leave!

And when I die.

And when I'm gone.

Well ... I'll be dead.

I'll be gone.

I can't imagine not being here but ... it's gonna happen.

Hell it took Sarah and I all this time to finally get together and it scares me it'll end too soon ... which it will ... and that's the greatest bummer of all time!

If Scotty beams me up first my heart will break leaving her behind.

If Sarah's beamed up first ... I'll just die.

Last night we were putting a ladder together and my job's to hold it while she screws a step together.

I get distracted because Laurel's talking ... imagine that ... and one of my hands inexplicably lets a bar of the ladder go ... whacking Sarah in the head.

"Ooops," I say to God.

She is not a happy camper.

Suddenly it's my and Laurel's responsibility to put the ladder together.

We do a good job finishing in record time.

In the meantime Sarah's lost a screw.

We eventually find it because who doesn't like screwing?

Anyway ... we finished what we were doing ... which I can't talk about ... because my wife's instructed me not to ...and even Laurel's keeping her mouth shut.

I want to keep on doing this.

There's no winning in death.

I'm going to avoid it as long as I can.

It's too much damn fun being here.

Channeling Love for Roy

"Oh look!" Roy Swindell exclaims in the middle of his set. "The Elliott's are here and Micheal dressed for the occasion!"

Apparently Roy is underwhelmed by my black running shorts and UGA tee shirt at his concert.

The masterful musician and leader of the grassroots music movement in Savannah laughs, shakes his head and launches into another song.

Every grassroots musician in Savannah has stories about Roy.

After I got involved in Bar Church, Roy's the first musician I invite to participate.

"Call me," he texts.

I do.

"Hey Micheal, I'd love to do it but there's a problem."

"What?" I can't imagine what it is.

"Yeah," he stammers, "I'm not too sure about this whole God thing."

"Are you kidding me?" I yell. "Do you listen to your music? It is full of Spirituality, Hope and Healing. That's pretty God-like."

He laughs and says, "Okay."

A few Sundays later he and Martha arrive for Bar Church and Roy blows the roof off the place letting God descend from Heaven and have a seat.

He is one of the rare ones in life who's impossible to not love.

He and Martha are in the Hospital at the moment.

She's vertical ... he's horizontal.

The Internet and Social Media is transformed into a Prayer Vigil led by God Herself.

I think Prayer has a lot to do with love.

I believe prayer is our attempt to channel love ... slip into its stream ...immerse ourselves in it and go where it takes us.

So Roy and Martha ... there's a lot of us flowing with you on this unwanted journey ... overwhelming the medical world ... and giving you more love than you ever knew you had.

Kicked out of Church

Bar Church was kicked out of the Oceanside Nursing Home today.

Apparently stripping the floors is more important to caring for the inmates than ... oh ... ministry they really enjoy and look forward to ... but it ain't happening today.

Floor wax is more important.

Now to put floor wax down in the Oceanside Nursing Home all the inmates ... who pay to be there ... are vacated the premises.

They are rolled outside in the hot weather with no ocean breeze.

The militant faction refuse to go ... knowing they've paid damn good money to stay cool ... remain inside the Air Conditioner lobby ... looking at us on the other side of the glass doors.

"We want you to play!" we hear their muted voices say from the outside.

I flash the "Peace Sign."

They flash it back and grin.

Being a loving person is hard enough.

Being a ministering loving person, doing it for free is harder.

Love being rejected is hardest of all.

We are one broke Church.

The only thing we have to give is ourselves which is what we do.

Because there's nothing else to give.

But we do it cheerfully and the inmates sing, laugh clap, shake tambourines and ... are crying on the other side of the door as we load up our gear.

"And if any place will not welcome you or listen to you, leave that place and shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them" (Mark 6:11).

We wish it was that easy.

Love never is.

Leaving the Dead

I'm on bus load of Southern Baptist ministers in Washington D.C.

I'm the only one with long hair.

Honestly I normally wouldn't be caught dead with these people but it's a free trip and the first time I'm in the nation's Capitol.

They all wear three piece suits and, as usual, I sport a dark blue blazer, light blue shirt, sock tie, blue jeans and hiking boots.

I'm the lone inner city Southern Baptist minister on the bus.

It's not to say we don't get along ... well it is to mostly say we don't ... but sometimes we do ...just not often.

We're having breakfast hosted by Congress.

There are twenty of us and a bunch of members of the Kentucky delegation ... Mitch McConnell is one.

He says something but I can't get over how runny the scrambled eggs are!

They're not really cooked at all and lots of yellow juice sobs up the toast and the bacon's not really cooked either limply leaning over in my hand when I pick it up.

It dawns on me why Congress is so messed up ... their breakfast sucks!

They're as limo as the bacon.

On the other hand, Mitch McConnell and the other members of the Kentucky delegation spend lots of time kissing our ass ... proclaiming how much they believe in God ... how important we are to the fabric of society ... and asking us to pray for them in such difficult times.

They're as soft as the scrambled eggs.

I throw up a little in my mouth but swallow it back.

Back on the bus, we're off to the White House for a tour.

"Hey," I wave from the back row, "can you pull over and let me off? I'd rather walk and see some other things."

Dr. Russell Bennett grins happily and orders the driver over.

Making my down 14th towards Park, I'm continuously hit on by Hookers as I look for "Sojourners" ... a community and a magazine the few liberal Southern Baptists who exist read.

"Hey Baby," an old Hooker wearing a dirty white Fur coat asks, "want to buy me a cup of coffee?"

She used to be pretty.

It's freezing cold outside so as I'm walking with determined purpose she's jumping up and down on one leg trying to warm herself.

"Sure," I sigh and she leads me inside a grungy McDonalds.

"What did you do today?" Dr. Bennett asks in the lobby of The Willard Hotel before dinner where Mitch McConnell is joining us to talk more.

"Gospel stuff," I answer making my way to the bar.

"You want some wine?" I ask as I order.

Smiling and shaking his head, Russell walks away leaving me alone.