Sunday's Dilemma

I start this Sunday in a dilemma.

For some reason neither Sarah nor I bought Cinnamon Rolls.

It's a Sunday tradition at our house that there are hot, sticky sweet, frosted buns waiting on the girls when they wake.

Cassidy, the 9 year old, is typically up first and eats 4 or 5 of the eight rolls before her sisters wake  though, occasionally, Maddie, the 14 year old, surprises everyone by getting up before noon and reaches the Cinnamon Rolls first.

She'll eat several completely disrupting Cass's math and her sense of fairness.

Laurel, the 12 year old, always seems to get the last Cinnamon Roll ... if there is a last one.

On occasions as rare a "Blood Moon" Sarah gets one.

Here's the problem ... Tybee Market opens at 8:30 ... the time I head to Bar Church ... so I need to be in two places at the same time.

Sarah is a master of such things ... masterfully and gracefully cramming multiple activities into a single moment.

I'm not.

So the plan is ... pre-heat the ocean while I run to Tybee Market and pray like Hell it opens on time ... but the Cinnamon Rolls ... drive like a bat out of Hell back home and throw them in the oven without waking the girls ... watch them cook ... pull them out and spread the frosting evenly across the bun ... the girls are sticklers about evenly spread frosting and raise Holy Hell is a roll isn't completely covered in sugar ... write them a love note above the hot buns on the stove ... then drive like a bat out of Hell to Church.

At Church, I'll say ..."What? I'm late? Our clocks must be wrong. I need to check on them when I get home."

So that's the plan.

I think it's God ordained.

We'll see.
I start this Sunday in a dilemma.

For some reason neither Sarah nor I bought Cinnamon Rolls.

It's a Sunday tradition at our house that there are hot, sticky sweet, frosted buns waiting on the girls when they wake.

Cassidy, the 9 year old, is typically up first and eats 4 or 5 of the eight rolls before her sisters wake  though, occasionally, Maddie, the 14 year old, surprises everyone by getting up before noon and reaches the Cinnamon Rolls first.

She'll eat several completely disrupting Cass's math and her sense of fairness.

Laurel, the 12 year old, always seems to get the last Cinnamon Roll ... if there is a last one.

On occasions as rare a "Blood Moon" Sarah gets one.

Here's the problem ... Tybee Market opens at 8:30 ... the time I head to Bar Church ... so I need to be in two places at the same time.

Sarah is a master of such things ... masterfully and gracefully cramming multiple activities into a single moment.

I'm not.

So the plan is ... pre-heat the ocean while I run to Tybee Market and pray like Hell it opens on time ... but the Cinnamon Rolls ... drive like a bat out of Hell back home and throw them in the oven without waking the girls ... watch them cook ... pull them out and spread the frosting evenly across the bun ... the girls are sticklers about evenly spread frosting and raise Holy Hell is a roll isn't completely covered in sugar ... write them a love note above the hot buns on the stove ... then drive like a bat out of Hell to Church.

At Church, I'll say ..."What? I'm late? Our clocks must be wrong. I need to check on them when I get home."

So that's the plan.

I think it's God ordained.

We'll see.

Endless Summers

It is widely known I HATE cold!

 

There’s an old wives' tale that you love the weather you are born into.

 

I was born in July so it makes perfect since I LOVE summer.

 

Old wives and their tails begin to break down afterwards though.

 

Sarah was born in May so you figure she’d love hotter weather but ... to quote John Belushi ... “NOOOOO!” ... she prefers colder stuff.

 

Same with Maddie who was born in September. It’s still hot then but the child begs for air conditioning ... begging for blanket and hot chocolate.

 

Laurel was born in April and is therefore a bit schizophrenic about weather! She loves dressing winter clothes during the summer and goes near naked in the winter.

 

Same with Cassidy who was born during November ... the child believes in dressing for style and doesn’t give a damn about weather consequences ... fur boots in August are fine!

 

Jeremy keeps this train going because, though he was born in July like his Old Man, he prefers cooler temps which makes no sense.

 

Kristen, born in April, loves summer weather just like me.

 

Chelsea who was born on Summer Solstice definitely higher temperatures and little lattitudes.

 

In our house, the girls can’t wait for winter, layers of clothing, ice skating and the dispictable thing Satan ever created ... SNOW.

 

“Cold as Hell,” is said for a reason ... it’s the Devil’s work!

 

“But Mike,” some say, “you love College Football which is played on cool, crisp days!”

 

True ... though I think the entire season should be in September with games played every other night.

 

Regardless, the girls are excited and it’s hard to not enjoy their anticipation though I prefer endless summers.

 

You have to make compromises in life and love ... some are harder than others ... so I take solace in the fact that soon ... TOO DAMN SOON ... we'll all be snuggling under a blanket together ... drinking something HOT ... dreaming of summer. 

One Hell of a Nice Guy

The Pope would like to see you." she says unexpectedly.

"Don't give me that shit," I fire back.

She ... is my Guardian Angel ... a chain smoking, drinker of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Bourbon ... loogy spitting ... skinny ... pasty ... dirty ... Cherubim with a broken wing and a robe that doesn't fit.

"No seriously," she replies ... "I don't know why but the Holy Father wants to see you."

It strikes me for the first time in our relationship that I have no idea what faith my Guardian Angel practices.

"Are you Catholic?" I ask.

She laughs taking a long drag off her cigarette ... "No ... no ... Hell No."

"Well you're not a Baptist!"

She wails in laugher, bending over exposing a breast, limp oily hair hanging over the railing on the Beloved Back Deck ... which tickles me  ... so I'm laughing at her laughing ... then we're both laughing together.

Finally calming down, she asks if I want a beer.

"Not yet," I say holding up my hand in protest ... but a PBR magically appears from ... I don't know where.

Toasting her can with mine, I hear her gravely voice say, "Well the Pope wants an audience."

I stare at her in disbelief for a long time and finally ask ... "Do you know that you sound exactly like Janis Joplin?"

Smiling, she sits up straight, adjusts her robe and says, "Thanks."

"You're welcome. It's pretty cool actually," I say taking a sip. "So what's the Pope want with me?"

"I have no idea," she replies taking her own sip. "He's sinner friendly though."

"Yeah, I like that about him."

"Why is this taking so long?" Pope Francis demands in an epiphany, "I'm on a schedule."

"WOAH!" I mumble.

My Guardian Angel makes another PBR appear, hands it to Francis and he takes a swig.

"This is pretty cool," I eventually say. "Sarah wants to go to Italy and see the Vatican ... can you get us Hall Passes?"

Shaking his head, he flashes that sinner friendly smile, leans forward and explains, "No you have to pay like everyone else ... mea cupa."

"I completely understand," I reply, "business is business."

Laughing he takes another swing and says, "I deal with a lot of assholes ... been in Washington, the Capitol City ... I just needed a break and figured this is safe ... I waited till Sarah left."

"Smart," I tell him.

"She's a Saint," Francis says.

"Yeah," my Guardian Angel and I sigh simultaneously.

"Alright, I've got to get back," he heavily says. "I'm working on getting rid of Boehner."

"Really?" I ask.

"It's a start," he shrugs.

"Want another beer Father?" my Guardian Angel asks.

"I do," he slumps, "but ... Micheal's been to Washington ... he knows what it's like ... it's a lot of work and I gotta get back."

I nod as Pope Francis disappears.

"Damn," I say to my Guardian Angel. "He's a Hell of a nice guy!"

"Yeah," she agrees, "but you know what's great about him?"

"What?"

"He likes people like us," she says lighting another cigarette.

"Hell of a nice guy," I repeat.

Who's rich and who's not?

Sarah points out my social calendar to me.

1. Breakfast Club for coffee every day.

2. Monty's Jam on Tuesday nights.

3. Bar Church gig at the Oceanside Nursing Home on Thursdays.

4. UGA football on Saturday.

5. Bar Church on Sunday.

"That's it," she rightly concludes.

It sounds sort of ... lame.

Well ... I'm a bit defensive ... "I do clean the toilets on Fridays" I think to myself ... but I don't bring it up.

"You need to get out more," she presses.

I love going out with Sarah ... and while I may initially bitch about it, I enjoy taking the girls to wherever it is they have to be and we always have a good time ... and I often drag my ass into the Nursing Home and Bar Church but they always end up being special and Holy.

In truth I spend a lot of time praying, thinking, writing ... and looking for work.

In spite of what elected officials say ... the economy SUCKS!

It reminds me of a truth ... the only time a politician tells the truth is when s/he calls another politician a liar.

That's pretty funny ... and sad ... and often true.

Isn't it a shame you don't get paid to pray ... we'd be rich.

Isn't it a pity you don't get paid to think ... we'd be rich.

Isn't it atrocious you don't get paid to write ... well John Grisham does ... a handful of others ... but most of us do it for the love of writing otherwise ... we'd be rich.

Worst of all, isn't it demonic you don't get paid to love?

Because it would be fascinating to see who's rich ... and who's not?

Fishing

I've gone fishing today.

Why don't you write something in my place?

You can say what you really want to and attribute it all to me.

I don't care.

It's therapeutic and fun.

Or not.

You decide.

Be back tomorrow.

Maybe.

Thank You Doctor

You know when you get the call?

"Hey," they always say, "calling with bad news. You probably already know because you're techno savvy but she's died."

It's always a bit of a kick in the stomach followed by a long, slow exhale.

Sometimes it's followed by instant sobbing and overwhelming emotion.

Often, the most basic prayer ... "Oh God" ... is said before these other things.

She ... is Dr. Diana Garland ... my professor in Seminary ... who I once kidnapped, taking her to a Gay bar during the early days of AIDS ... meeting up with three fellow male students ... and we drank beers, ate good food and introduced her to friends she would have never otherwise met.

I remember she was frightened the people at the Seminary ... the ones who wrote her check each week ... would find out.

"Please never mention this to anyone," she said as I left her out safely on campus.

I drove her crazy and somewhere there's a letter she wrote me saying as much.

"You cannot be a Liberation Theologian in a Baptist Seminary," she scolded.

"Why?" I fire full of righteous indignation.

When my first book, "The Society of Salty Saints" was published she called it "a sweet little testimony."

When I got in trouble with Southern Baptist Corporate Headquarters ... for committing lots of sins while employed as a "Professional Christian" ... she took their side ... which was the right side if you're going to remain a Baptist ... because there was no question I'm committing sins left and right.

And that was it.

I went away ... finding the beach and a roller coaster life.

She went away ... back home to Texas ... and Baylor University ... to raise her family ... teach the things she believed ... and die.

Somewhere in there, we had one final exchange.

"I was always proud of you," she wrote. "You drove us crazy but you ... I don't know ... you were you ... you were special."

That was a long time ago.

Today I receive the call and Diana's left her husband David and her kids and gone to ... Heaven knows where.

But as you're going away I want to say "Thanks."

You drove me crazy too.

You taught me a lot ... mostly about myself ... and I'm doing the best I can with it.

So today ... just like that one in the Gay Bar all those years ago ... during the height of the AIDS epidemic ... you, three other guys and me toasted and laughed.

Today it's just me toasting because you all are gone.

And I know ... I don't know how I know ... but I do ... God's got you ... and them ... and us too ... now.

An unwanted meeting

"Why come you don't write about me anymore," she slurs, spitting a loogy over the deck, takes a drag from her cigarette and chases with a tall boy PBR and a shot of bourbon.

"Why come?" I ask laughingly.

"Yeah ... why come you don't write about me anymore either?"

It's my drunken bicycle who's been pretty upright for the last few years.

"Screw off," my Guardian Angel says flipping him off with one hand while pulling her dirty robe back over her shoulder to cover her exposed right breast.

"Ruff," Winston The Little Gay Dog barks in his high pitched voice ... wearing a black sweater vest with pink letters ... reading ... "3 words to save the American Economy: GAY BRIDAL REGISTRATION!"

"Shut up," I say.

"Here Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!" the Cat Lady screeches from next door. "Dammit Micheal! You don't write about me anymore either."

"Oh for Christ's sake," I mutter.

"I didn't like the way you handled my death," says the neighbor who used to garden in her underwear. "You could have done much better."

"You're dead," I reply. "Why are you here?"

Smiling she answers, "Haunting's in my future."

"You don't get new panties in Heaven?" I ask which pisses her off so she tries to call the Tybee Police on our dogs but hasn't mastered cell phones yet.

"Who in the Hell are all these people?" my Guardian Angel demands crushing out her cigarette on the kitchen table.

"Figments of my imagination," I grin.

"TO HELL WE ARE!" they screech in unison.

My left foot is suddenly warmer than the right one and looking down Winston, TLGD, is peeing on it.

"Listen," my drunken bicycle slurs, "don't you forget that we're the ones who made you what you are today?"

"What's that?" I ask suddenly interested.

They all look at each other searching for an answer.

"GET OUT!" I yell.

Everyone disappears except  my Guardian Angel ... who hands me a beer and smiles, "You can't do that with me."

"Ruff," Winston, TLGD, barks in his pitched voice.

Apparently I can't do it with him either.

Things you're born to do

The other day I pull into the parking lot beside Benny's at 9nish in the morning and Monty Parks stands beside his car, playing guitar and singing to himself.

"Whatup?" I say.

Ignoring me, he finishes his song that nobody's listening to other than Monty.

He then helps me lug in sound equipment he's loaning us for Bar Church because we're too poor to have our stuff ... so like the first Christians we borrow, beg and steal and meet in borrowed places.

Monty leaves after we set up and Church has a righteous bodacious services with lots of Lesbians, people who don't know if they're coming to the Bar or leaving it, a few students, lots of coffee drinkers, lots of hungry people partaking of Potluck on the Pool Table and several families with kids.

I don't feel like writing today.

It sucks when I feel this way.

It was a crazy weekend ... Sarah and I had little time for one another ... because Tybee believes kids actually live here in an obligatory sort of way ... "There's plenty for kids to do here! Take them to the Beach! Or to one of the Bars!" ... so we mostly pass on the Tybee road carting our girls somewhere!

So Monday gets off to a rocky start sapping the creativity right out of me.

Meandering around the Back Deck, I'm restless and fidgety ... the music's not right ... the plants need water ... the dogs won't shut up ... and this one bird squawks instead of sings ... making me believe in the NRA in a momentary lapse of sanity.

Then the image of Monty pops in my head playing "real good for free" to himself on the sidewalk ... doing something nice ... for somebody else.

"I write for myself," I often say ... and it's true ... it's my way of processing, coping, venting, inventing or letting out.

But I also write for others for free.

I'm not sure if anyone heard Monty that day ... save Monty.

Hell I don't know if anyone's going to read this!

But each and every one of us was born to do something ... hopefully several things ... all grounded in love ... or selfishly making as much as you can for yourself ... or just trying to keep your head above water.

I'd rather be sitting here with Sarah, naked on the back deck, feet propped on the railing, holding hands, talking about things we've had no time to discuss.

Instead I'm writing.

Sarah's in town working.

Monty was playing.

Each doing something we were born to do.  

My Blessings

Stumbling out of bed, I kiss my sleeping Sarah somewhere on the side of her face and make my way into the bathroom and fumble in the dark for my toothbrush.

After knocking several things over, quietly cussing each time, I find it and turn to make my way to the outdoor shower.

Tripping over the shoes Maddie left in the floor I quietly cuss again before stopping to pick up the silver sandals.

She was stunningly beautiful last night as she went to her first formal dance and a tenderness comes over me as I place her shoes next to the stairs leading to her room.

In the dark I make my way outside only to discover Cassidy sleeping on the sofa.

I was sleeping on the sofa last night trying to watch the football game when Sarah left to retrieve Maddie from her big night out and vaguely remember Cass kissing my forehead.

Stooping over I return the love.

Making my way outside again I trip over Goddess who's sleeping on the floor beside Cassidy protecting her from whatever may come in the night.

I quietly cuss again.

Finally under the hot water in the outdoor shower, I stare at a billion stars in pitch black sky ... and notice a grey light coming out of Laurel's room.

Stumbling out the shower I peek inside to see her watching Netflix on her smart phone.

The child has boundless energy, doesn't accept criticism when it hits her in the face and is always up to something.

She and I had a lunch date yesterday at Wendy's ... her choice ... and when I order the spicy chicken sandwich with pickles, she did too.

"Man, this is hot," she sweats in the middle of our date.

"Why'd you get it?" I mumble with a mouth full.

"Cause you did," she replies wiping her forehead and ... I just melt.

Returning to the shower, I count my blessings.

Sarah often refers to the girls as her "blessings."

I think they've become mine too.

Afternoon Delights

I was listening to "Afternoon Delight" and was suddenly struck by the fact that ABBA sounds like a Church Choir singing about sex in the middle of the day.

It would strike me as wrong if it wasn't so right!

Let me explain that.

Sarah listens to the radio.

I don't.

I search the World Wide Web for what I want to hear.

Sarah lets the people who talk a lot on 98.7 occasionally play one of several songs.

"Afternoon Delight" is one of those tunes.

I love my wife and endure the station as she has breakfast ... though the moment she leaves I rip the chord out of the wall, smash the radio on the floor, curse that boring woman and two men who won't shut up.

Then I put everything back like it never happened listening to Spotify ... more specifically Brian Wilson's "No Pier Pressure" ... followed by Alice Cooper "Only Women Bleed" ... David Bowie's "All the Young Dudes" from the excellent Live 1974 ... Marvin Gaye's "Sexual Healing" ... Paul Thorn's "Today's a good day to whup somebody's ass" ... and "My Sweet Lord."

But ...

Afternoon Delight should be like worship  in Church.

It never dawned on me until I notice how much ABBA sounds like a choir in the First Baptist Church of somewhere in the South singing about sex.

Having been in a Church choir I am well aware there's a great deal of repressed sexual activity during a terrific version of "Love Lifted Me."

Anyway ...

I'm all afternoon delights.

Hell ... I'm all for love lifting me!

I wonder where Sarah is?

Living and Dying

"Some days you feel you've lived too long ... the days drip slowly on the page," (Bruce Cockburn).

It's one of those days.

I seem to be miss stepping, miss speaking, miss the mark in what I mean when I write, miss planning, miss firing and missing the dreams for today.

Inside of every old person is a young person wondering what happened?

I don't feel old ... too in touch with the little boy inside ... but things aren't quite working out the ways I've imagined.

It's been a large and crazy life so far.

It would make a great mini-series on a cable network where there's plenty of room for intrigue, politics, sex, cussing, betrayal, and incredible achievements leaving everyone scratching their heads wondering ... where did that come from?

That was then.

This is now.

When I wrote "Tour of Homes" ... in retrospect a book where I'm saying goodbye to lots of things and lots of people ... I was very captivated by the "in-between."

People often get caught "in-between" ... jobs ... houses ... destinations ... loves ... life and death ... belief and unbelief ... we never expect to but we do.

I've been fortunate enough in my life to have lots of homeless friends who are the most in-between of all ... and they taught me ... you either wait it out by doing your best ... or you die.

Other's are pretty certain what you should be doing but ... I was always amazed at how my homeless friends knew when it was time to move up or move on ... regardless of what everyone was telling them.

I find myself in that place.

On the one hand I'm more loved than I've been ... frustratingly so for those who love me ... more content and at peace than I've ever known ... happy to simply be.

On the other hand I'm frustrated as Hell ... things that worked before aren't now ... faith and will power used to be my perfect combination but now act like oil and water ... and I WANT MORE than what I've got ... not so much for me  but for those who love me.

Perfectly in between is pure Hell.

It's time to either move up or move on.

I'm not ready to move on yet.

There's too much to live for.

I'm not quite sure how yet ... but that's never bothered me before ... the question's with who?

I've cast my lot and I have no more to cast.

It really does boil down to faith ... and keep doing the things I believe ... because if you believe in love ... which I do ... then it all works out.

Or I die trying.

And if it's death, I'd rather it happen as I try  to do the things I believe ... be who I am ... and love back those who love me.

I have found funny!

It's been a long time since I've laughed so much with Republicans.

As a matter of fact the last time was in Washington DC as a member of the "Leadership Savannah" Class listening to some Republican Congressman from California bitch out federal funding for the "National Endowment for the Arts" because Robert Mapplethorpe got some of the money.

If you don't remember, Robert Mapplethorpe was a very controversial artist who produced a painting of Jesus as a homeless person shooting heroin in his arm laying on a sidewalk.

"LOOK AT THIS!" the Republican Congressman screams ... "this isn't our Jesus!"

Raising my hand I reply, "Actually it is our Jesus. He came to be with the sick and hurting right? An addict's hurts. That's why they shoot heroin ... they self medicate. I think this is a pretty cool representation of that."

The Republican Congressman was speechless ... as were all my Leadership Savannah friends ... and all the staffers in the Congressional hearing room ... though Steve Acuff laughed and gave me a thumbs up sign.

I have no idea what happened to the Republican Congressman.

Steve Acuff retired but Edna Jackson, from our Leadership Savannah Class, is Mayor of the City strictly enforcing sign ordinances of those running against her.

I haven't thought about this in years until last night ... watching the Republican Presidential debate!

God I love these people!

I have found funny!

The Donald is a hoot. Carly Finoria cut his balls off over sexism. Ben Carson, a black guy, makes the most sense! Everyone else is an idiot.

How I laughed.

It's been years since I've cared about the selfish, egotistical, meanness of the members of the Elect ... but ... well ... the Republicans are lighting those fires again ... because they are fucking funny.

The Hat Trick

As a kid sitting in the back seat as Dad pulls into the driveway of Robert Dicky's house off Highway 21 or South Coastal Highway depending on who you believe, a car full waits.

We're picking up David Dicky who's 7 or 8.

I'm a mature 12 or 13 sitting in the back seat beside my incredibly immature brother David who's 11 or 12.

Mom's in the front passenger seat holding our enfant and immature sister Angie who mostly cries demanding all attention be focused squarely on her.

It's a hot day and the windows are rolled down.

To keep us quiet Dad's changed the radio station to WSGA's Jerry Rogers and rock-n-roll, sacrificing his beloved country music, so David and I will shut up.

I'm trying to grow my hair over my ears which Dad absolutely hates so he and I are entering the struggling years.

When little David Dicky comes out to climb in the car with us, his father tells him, "I love you" and kisses him squarely on the lips.

Watching in the hot, airless car I'm appalled ... a father kissing his son on the lips is foreign to me.

Afterwards, I swear Mr. Dicky cries and David throws his arm around his Dad and ... in all my maturity ... I recognize love.

That was a long time ago.

I just finished talking to my 35 year old son who's now living in Huntsville, Alabama with his beautiful wife Terenca and wonderful daughters Ava and Nina.

Jeremy and I always enjoy each other ... and have been together through bad times too.

"I love you Son," I say with moist eyes as we hang up.

"I love you Dad," he rushes to say, "we'll text and talk over the weekend."

Hanging up, the long forgotten memory of Mr. Dicky kissing his son, and the ensuing battle to let him go ... comes back to me.

I know exactly how he felt.

I'm a blessed man.

My kids are doing okay and we're quick to say "I love you."

I have little girls who roll their eyes at me, rub my growing belly, ask me to take them to McDonalds or for advice and tell me they love me.

It reminds me of Mr. Dicky trying with everything in him to let his child go ... and it's a lot harder done than said.

But it's quite the miracle when ... in spite of time and distance ... you still feel it ... and say, "I love you " ... especially when the aftermath is a lingering happiness and appreciation ... and longing.

Sarah and I watched a great movie about a couple losing their children who're moving on to live their own lives.

That's the way life is.

But the Hat Trick is still loving each other once everyone's moved.

In my Dreams

They took me out of homelessn

ess but they didn't take the homelessness out of me.

After 30 years of living in, and off,  the worlds of poverty I needed to stop.

There was nothing left to give and, it wasn't the homeless and poor who took everything, but the politicians and pious who did.

Five years have passed and they still come to me ... in my dreams.

It's funny because throughout my life I've never had vivid dreams ... sleeping like a rock until I woke at 2:30 in the morning thinking about work and tossing and turning until it was time to go.

These days dreams come often and I welcome them.

They're strange ... bizarre and unexplainable ... faithful documentaries of things that actually happened with fictional twists ... erotic craziness ... or visits from Angels and Assholes long dead but alive as ever as I sleep.

At first I'm shocked at their "weirdness" but now treat them like crossword puzzles ... "What was that about?" I ask myself, rolling over and hugging Sarah.

Laying there, I spend half awake moments pondering, "Where did that come from?"

It's becoming a discipline ... and I try very hard to remember the dreams to consider in the morning light ... to ask "Why that?"

My friend Michael Ruffin often reports on Facebook ... "In last night's dream my Father visited me and we had a good time" ... or ... "My childhood friend and I were in the woods when my Good Wife showed up."

Michael takes dreams matter-of-factly whereas I ask, "What The Hell?"

"Indeed God speaks once or twice, yet no one notices. In a dream, a vision of the night, when sound sleep falls on people, while they slumber in their beds, then he opens their ears and seals their instruction …" says the prophet Isaiah in the Bible.

They didn't teach any of this at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary where I paid damn good money to learn such things.

It pisses me off.

I'm having to learn to listen in a whole new way.

And am finding it most fascinating ... compelling ... as interesting as anything I've done ... and am learning lots about myself.

Though I do confess ... Thank God ... Sarah slumbers there beside me ... letting me throw my arms this way and that ... snore or talk ... and whatever it is I do in the night.

It suddenly strikes ... she's the reason I'm finally talking to my dreams ... or made it contextually real that I'm in a place to hear them ... and converse with them ... which may very well be ... dialoguing with God.

Unteachable Moments

I'm babysitting today.

It's because the Savannah-Chatham School System know it's best for the children to follow a 3 day holiday weekend with another ... because the teachers need a work day.

The kids have the day off ... again ... this Monday.

A Teacher's Work Day means they go to work without students ...


Am I wrong or is it the job of teachers to TEACH!

I'm pretty convinced this is an Administrative decision having little to do with teaching because teachers went into the profession to TEACH!

Public School Administrators who created teacher work days went into the business to ... ADMINISTRATE!

This means they establish schedules ...

make trainings mandatory to remind teachers that "Super Hero" costumes like Wonder Woman are not tolerated because they incite violence (seriously this is a policy in our School System) ...

remind teachers that because of budget constraints there's not enough pencils, glue, paper, chalk, erasers, overtime pay or mileage reimbursement because ... WE HAVE PAY TO FOR PUBLIC SCHOOL ADMINISTRATORS!

According to said Administrators WHO DON'T TEACH ... Teacher Days are necessary so Teachers can grade papers, prepare report cards, prepare lesson plans and ... talk with one another about which students are bad or good ... and which ones to stay the Hell away from.

Certainly other important topics are covered like ... "How to look for a gun while your back is turned to the students?" ...

"Effective retorts to student questions regarding your sexual orientation, practices and if you're available for extra-curricular activities?" ...

"Effective tax loops for deductions for your own money spent to purchase pencils, glue, paper, chalk, erasers, overtime pay or mileage" ...

I'll tell you what I think ... not that you asked ... but I'll tell you why in a second.

I think the Public School Administration is now just another form of Government ... no different from Congress, the State Legislatures, County Commissions, City Councils and Police forces throughout the United States.

We believe in Government more than anything else so we keep growing it.

Doesn't matter if you love Regan or Obama ... Government grew equally under both.

God knows that's where the money is so why wouldn't the Savannah Chatham School System follow demonstrative success?

In the meantime, this is what our girls are doing on a day full of teachable moments ... yep ... sleeping.

Finding Funny

Lately I've become increasingly concerned people don't like to be funny anymore.

It's too politically incorrect!

It's against the Law to be too funny.

The religious community is against funny!

So I decided to do some research on where to find funny these days.

Starting with myself, I Google "Funny Micheal Elliott"  and am delighted to find yesterday's Blog pops up first in the search engine.

That's a good start because it means that I, at least, am still funny.

Next I Google "Funny Sarah Elliott" and ... I'm not making this up "Funny Blond Jokes" pops up first.

My wife is not blond but I die laughing so she falls into the funny category too.

It's Sunday so I Google "Funniest Churches in America" and am very disappointed to learn there are none.

The first thing popping up in the search engine is "2013's Top Churches to watch in America" ... not only are Churches not funny ... they're not current either.

Deciding to check out where we live I Google "Funniest things on Tybee Island" and the disappointment continues as "10 Things to do on Tybee" written by www.tybeeisland.com pops up.

It's either a Chamber of Commerce piece or from the Tybee Tourism Council ... neither of which has ever been accused of being funny.

"Funniest things about the Tybee Island Police Department" is my next search and I'm initially hopeful because the background page is a 1930s photograph of a policeman measuring how long the bathing suit is on a woman and I smirk a little ... there's hope!

Scrolling down hope is lost.

 They basically promote themselves as fun loving people ... when they're not making arrests ... I conclude they're perpetrating a fault.

I think John O'Neill is my funniest friend so I search "Funniest things about John O'Neill" ... he doesn't even pop up on the search engine.

Now I'm completely convinced I'm sadly right ... people aren't as funny anymore.

If you don't believe me ... Google it.

Start with yourself.

Quirky Issues

I was asked to set up a meeting between two men who'd never met but are interested in the same thing ... politics.

Having served my political time ... a 30 year sentence ... I care little for the topic but like the guys ... so on a lovely hot summer afternoon ... we have beers under an umbrella ... on a deck surrounded by oak trees and the aroma of Pizza mixed with salt air.

We rarely go to Huck-A-Poos ... at a mile and a half from where we live ... it's too far ... nevertheless here I sit with two friends who passionately care about something I care less about.

"The island's losing it's quirkiness," one says.

I nod.

"I find it humorous," the other later replies, "he says there's a decline in odd individuals, quirky Tybee, when he was meeting with me, a poet who left a good manufacturing job for politics and song.  And you, a minister choosing poverty and a beautiful family.  We sat in the sun, in the afternoon, draft beer, and we are losing quirky?"

I nod.

Is the present as quirky as the past?

That's the question!

Rather than pursue this fascinating topic, they talk politics.

I yawn and order another one.

They're both right on the quirky issue.

There's some great stuff in the past ... outrageous and righteous things that we'd be arrested for now ... so they've become stories to tell ... and things that'll never be done again ... because they're no longer allowed.

Yet here we sit in a funny place ... at a funny time ... casually dressed (meaning barely) ... drinking beers ... envisioning what the future of the island should be ... or recapture what it was.

Having my own quirky issues, I leave it to them.

I am the lone man in a home full of girls ... and a gay dog.

They'll all have their periods at the same time and I'm left to cope!

That's as quirky as it gets!

Top that boys!

Though I have to admit ... the quirkiness of the present far eclipses that of the past.

Almost Dead but ...

What's it like to almost die?

And then not.

It happened to our friend Roy Swindell just several weeks ago. A little pain leads to a lot so Martha takes him to the Hospital and all Hell breaks loose!

Things go from bad to worse when they get to the Emergency Room ... he remembers talking to his doctor at 1 in the morning  on a Thursday ... the next thing he recalls is the following Tuesday.

What happened in-between?

During those five days, the Internet explodes with love for Martha and Roy!

If you believe in prayer, good Karma or the power of positive thinking ... Martha and Roy got a lot!

Almost like the world stopped spinning for a lot of people cause some things merit the world to stop for a second or two.

Roy wakes and realizes at some level that he's still alive.

During those five days Martha's managed the love ... her for him ... us for them ... and from wherever it is that love comes from.

A week later it starts dawning on Roy how many it is who really care that ... he might die ... and he didn't.

He admits its been overwhelming to learn how many of us there are who care ... and are opinionated ... that his time isn't over yet.

Somehow it's grounded in the love he and Martha share ... though he went away for a while ... she never did ...  and while he can't explain it ... they never left each other.

He's learned life is short.

Tell the people you love that you love them.

And he and Martha?

Obviously it changed everything.

They fill in each other's blanks.

They take nothing for granted anymore.

They're grateful for the love of so many.

"What's it like to almost die?" I ask.

"I am still running that one in my head. I don't remember anything so it is something I am still coming to terms with."

But ... Martha was somehow there the whole time.

So was lots of love from lots of others.

And here you are!

Reminding us to not take love for granted.

There's more to this story.

Thankfully, we have Roy ... and Martha ... together at Bar Church on Sunday ... to celebrate LIFE!

That's Sick!

My Dad was a bit of a hypochondriac ... if he saw a disease on television ... he was pretty sure he had the symptoms.

"Mike," he'd say, "have you seen that commercial for PBA ... Pseudobulbar ... it causes uncontrollable laughing and crying for no apparent reason? I think I have it."

It is true that Dad laughed a lot ... and he didn't mind crying ... and on occasion he couldn't control either but ...

"I think you're okay Dad," I replied.

"You think so Son?"

"Yeah, I think so Dad."

He'd be okay until he saw the next commercial.

It's been a week of sickness at our house.

Sarah went down first ... part exhaustion both physical and emotional ... led her to virtually collapse while ... continuing to go ... because the kids need this ... work needs that ... everybody wants something ... so she'd crash then fly ... then do it again.

She continues to amaze me and I'm beginning to believe she really may be Wonder Woman after all.

Then when she gets well, I get sick ... with exploding sinuses, ringing in my ear and a sudden exhaustion ... and like my wife ... I keep going ... working deals ... playing at the Nursing Home ... trying to raise money for things I believe in ... until I collapse last night on the sofa and sleep for almost 12 hours.

This morning I feel like a truck's run over me.

Sipping coffee I turn the television on and it's a Cialis commercial ... for erectile dysfunction.

The side effects are headaches, body aches and pains, upset stomach, mild dizziness, blurry vision, CONJESTION AND A RUNNY NOSE.

"Aw Shit," I say out loud and turn the television off.

Alters of Love

She's been through a lot and looks it today.

Her eyes are crossed.

Her red bathing suit top is showing some wear.

Her grass skirt's been lifted so many times she may as not be wearing anything.

But she's my friend and I love her.

We've spent lots of time alone with me doing most of the talking.

She listens and never stops smiling.

Our friend Art made her face and it's hard to walk the dogs without missing him ... the dogs sure do, tugging and pulling ... wanting the treats he always gave as we pass his house ... and I miss the way he called Sarah "Mrs. Blue Eyes" ... and the way we gave each other shit about College Football ... he was a good friend and her face reminds me of him on a daily basis.

Her coconut bra used to belong to my wife but Sarah gave it to her.

Our girls decide it needs to be red so we paint it and hang it back up and now I can't look at it without being reminded of the joys little girls bring to a tired life.

Sarah bought her dress and has extras downstairs but I like her worn and weathered look so we haven't changed her clothes yet. We will but ... she's given us a lot ... and looks tired ... so I'm respecting her feelings.

When Sarah and Maddie leave every morning ... or when Laurel and Cass sleep in on the weekends ... Goddess and I meander outside on the Beloved Back Deck and wish her a good morning.

She always smiles.

Sometimes she winks.

I love her dearly and she's as much a part of our family as Winston, The Little Gay Dog ... the choir of cicada that sing morning and night ... the wind chimes the girls hung when we became a home and not a house ... the salt hanging in the air and on my skin ... the waves kissing the shore in the distance.

"Every home needs 'Alters of Love'", my friend Dan Sheehan once explained, "the more the better."

Yep.

She's certainly part of ours.