Unanswered Prayers

Singing "Will the Circle be Unbroken?", watching the inmates of the Nursing Home sing along, spill coffee or drool as they sleep, an unwanted thought enters my head.

"What am I getting out of this?"

It's not like God's firing blessings out of Heavenly cannons ... at least not the ones I'm waiting at the moment.

It's been a cluster of a morning.

Restringing my guitar before the Nursing Home, I put the strings on wrong, snap one as I'm tuning, replace the broken one, drop my Snark Guitar Tuner breaking it and rush like a Bat out of Hell to get there.

Ten minutes late, I see no one has shown so it's just me playing alone.

Before getting the guitar out of the case a white hair woman kisses me on the lips and tells me she's in love, wants me to perform the ceremony as soon as her beloved can get out of bed.

"Are you sneaking into his bed at night?" I grin.

She grins back. "Yes! Of course."

As soon as I start playing, two residents spill coffee over the table and sit like children mesmerized by the shape the liquid takes as it spreads.

"Dammit I said I want coffee!" an old woman screams!

"Blessed Assurance" isn't going over very well today.

That's when the thought hits ... "This is my story! This is my song!"  ... I'd really prefer to be on a warm beach with Sarah in her bikini, with drinks with Umbrellas, listening to Bob Marley songs.

Of course, given such an option I'm sure the Nursing Home inmates would jump on it too.

Oh well, I'm here ... playing an out-of-tune guitar with new strings and not much more to give ... wishing I was somewhere else.

"See you next week?" one legged Jim asks.

"I hope so," I answer packing things away. "I may have to work."

"Hey man," a surprisingly young man says from his wheelchair. "You the Rev?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Randy," he answers shaking my right hand with his left one. "Can you believe it? I had a stroke and ended up here."

"That sucks," I say placing my hand on his shoulder.

"It does suck!" he agrees before wheeling away with one hand.

An old black man in coveralls patiently waits and shakes my hand without speaking ... he grins ... tears fill his eyes and he lays his head on my shoulder.

The last of the breath goes out of me and I'm completely empty.

"Okay God," I say out loud, finally sitting behind the steering wheel, more than ready to leave, "they're yours. I got nothing."

God doesn't answer as I make my way home.

The Comfort Zone

You never know what others are capable of doing.

Speeding to give a speech my car's blindsided at 37th and Whitaker Streets by a woman attending to her baby in the car seat, knocking my car on the porch of the house on the corner.

Climbing out the tiny red Toyota, I find my finger's broken and as I stand there examining it, Mom and Baby speed away in an old blue Impala.

Sighing I sit on the side walk holding my finger.

"Hey Rev, you okay?"

It's a homeless guy I know appearing from nowhere as homeless guys are prone to do.

"Did you see that?" I ask referring to the wreck.

"Yeah," he replies sitting beside me making certain I'm alright.

"I saw it too Rev," a large black man says parking his stuffed grocery cart on the sidewalk and taking a seat on my other side.

"She ran the Stop sign and plowed right into you."

"Knocked  your cute little car right on this porch ... what are the odds?"

"Surprised you didn't go the front door."

Looking at both, I tell them how glad I am they saw everything.

At that moment the sirens of the Police cars wail in the distance.

"Uh, we gotta go Rev," they say jumping up. "Glad you're okay."

"Hey I need a witness," I remind them.

"Hmmm, we don't do Court Rev." says the Grocery cart pusher.

"Or the police," adds my friend.

When the officers arrive it's just me and my broken finger.

But had it been worse I know they would have remained taking care of me. After all they came out of the shadows to make sure I'm okay in the first place. Out of the shadows is out of their comfort zone.

So last night when I received a message of a familiar painting with no caption, I wasn't certain why.

"Nice," I reply, "Enjoy!" ... "WAIT! DID YOU PAINT THAT?"

He did.

Who knew?

I thought he was a repair man.

Shows you what I know.

That's life though isn't it?

It's much better when we crawl out of our comfort zones and share the gifts of which we're capable.

Queers in College

"I'M NOT LISTENING TO THAT QUEER!!!"

It's my roommate screaming from his bedroom in the tiny trailer we share.

"SHUT UP!" I reply dancing in the Living Room, "IT'S GOOD STUFF!"

The trailer shakes as he slams his feet on the floor and marches into the Hall to see me dancing and singing, "For here am I sitting in my tin can ... far above the world ... Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do ..."

Jerking the needle from the stereo, blowing air out of his nostrils, Bob Courson is a lover of Christ who's easily offended by the British.

"What'd you do that for?" I ask standing in my whitey tidy underwear.

"He's a Queer! I don't listen to Queers."

He does listen to ... The Bill Gather Trio ... over and over and over ... until I want to slit my wrists ... yeah, yeah the King is Coming ... he touched you ... you bowed on your knees.

Bob's calling David Bowie a Queer?

"It's David Bowie man," I say facing him.

He's in his whitey tidy underwear too though he's drug the blanket off his bed and is wearing it like a robe.

"You know Bob," I laugh, "you look pretty Queer right now."

"SHUT UP!" he yells.

"What you got against David Bowie?" I sigh sitting on sofa we recently confiscated outside the dorm we used to live in at Georgia Southern College.

"The Bible!" he screams righteously in his underwear.

"What's the Bible say about David Bowie?"

"I hate it when you do that Elliott!"

"What did I do?" I ask opening the fridge to see what we have to drink. "I had no idea David Bowie's in the Bible."

Bob does what he does whenever he doesn't know what to say ... huffs more air out of his nose ... before attacking me like Pagan Greco-Roman wrestler ... in his whitey tidies ... and we throw each other around the trailer ... shaking it further off it's slab.

Exhausted we sit in green shag carpet, catching out breath and laughing because somehow during our epic battle, the needle jumped back on the record and Bowie's singing again.

"It's not bad," Bob says.

"Told ya," I say shaking my head.

The Unblended People

If you've had the incredible misfortune ... no curse ... of not being part of a "Blended" family ... you've missed out on a lot life has to offer.

From the beginning there are two things to know.

(1) It's hard!!!!

(2) It's wonderful!!!!

I'll start with the wonderful.

Yesterday I rushed from work to pick up Laurel, the 11 year old from her Bus ride to Tybee and as soon as she gets in the car she tells me the grossest jokes that she and her fellow 11 year old students at Stem Academy delivered this week. (To be honest, some 12, 13 and 14 year olds are involved because it's a Public School and some students set their own schedules).

Laurel is funny and happy to be home which is contagious because I've been gone all day too and am ready to enjoy a happy night.

Arriving I say hello to Cassidy, the 9 year old, mindlessly watching a movie on her phone, quietly in her room, but she jumps up and hugs me tight. "Let me tell you what happened ..." she excitedly says ... and does in vivid detail!

A boy at school said something snotty about Cass so another girl, her best friend, beat the boy up!

You have to admit that's an exciting start to the weekend.

The bad part is the "Munchkins" ... as I call them ... live with their Dad Monday through Thursday.

It's good they're with their Father and Sarah and I sure enjoy some down time but ... I miss them when they're gone ... though I can often kill them when they're here.

You "Blended" family fathers and mothers know what I mean.

Mostly I miss them when they're gone.

The other bad part is sometimes they just want they're Mom and I struggle to know when that is.

I understand it ... to this day there are times when I only want my Mom ... but I'm learning when to shut up and give them their space ... or even leave the room when I really have lots to say.

On the flip side, Sarah has Jeremy, Terenca and their girls, Kristen and Chelsea and Sam to do the same things with.

When all's said and done though ... Maddie, the 14 year old who knows EVERYTHING tenderly lays her head on my shoulder and I cry.

It makes me sad for the "Unblended" people.

Our Evidence

If Sarah and I die in bed tonight ... and nobody notices including the girls who grow up without us and go on to have successful independent careers ... and we're left laying there for 50 years or so ... this will likely happen.

Some Archeologists discover the site.

Our bodies are intertwined bones.

Our legs completely wrapped around one another's resemble two twisted Pretzel sticks stuck together.

Our arms may be mistaken for white Candy Cane stripes circling our torsos.

"This is sad," one Archeologists says to the other. "It's apparent a Volcano blue or something and as the Lava came they tried to protect each other in fear ... only to die holding on to one another because there was no other hope.

"Where did you go to School?" the other Archeologists asks.

The truth of the matter is I drive Sarah nuts holding her tight every night ... refusing to let go of what we've found together ... holding on for dear life ... every single ounce of it with this incredible woman!

Continuing the honesty, she doesn't always like to be held at night especially if I'm coughing and hacking with a sinus infection.

She'll wait until breakfast though and reenact my previous night's sleeping patterns in surround sound for Maddie, the 14 year old, and to pay me back for keeping her up.

Nevertheless, regardless of how bad the day's been ... actualized disappointments ... whatever went wrong ... when we drive each other crazy ... when we go to bed ... all is calm ... all is bright ... Jesus the Savior has come.

It's that Holy!

I don't know how much of it we get ... preferring to not dwell on such things ... you take what you get and, in spite of the craziness ... I've been incredibly blessed by my wife!

I believe long after we're dead and gone there'll be evidence of everything we are.

Slurps from the Past

Maddie, the 14 year old, slurps her coffee.

Not to be confused with sipping, slurping involves loud sucking noises which early in the morning ... or at dinner with a glass of sweet tea ... almost break the sound barrier!

Her grandfather does too.

In their New York City apartment, Sarah and I lay on the air mattress in the Living Room as he slurps his coffee in the tiny dining room making noises that make fresh flowers wilt.

At some point during unnatural noises, Maddie and Sarah's Dad raise my Granddaddy Carver from the dead.

Suddenly, I'm a 9 year old standing beside him in the kitchen in the house in Pooler as he pours coffee from his cup into his saucer and slurps it into his mouth.

I haven't thought of it in years.

Honestly it's not worth remembering ... an old man pouring coffee in a saucer and make loud noises as he slurps it up.

Yet ... it suddenly means everything to man just shy of 60.

Maddie brought my Granddaddy to breakfast this morning.

God I still miss him!

It was great to have a moment this morning when he's as alive as he ever was!

As he still is.

I have to think of a way to thank Maddie.

When she's not being so loud.

My Calls

When I left "Professional Christianity" ... or was asked to leave ... depending on who you ask ... I swore I'd never "lead" another Church.

Well ... there were these two.

If either of them ever felt compelled by God to hire ... er, I mean "call" ... me, I'd take it in a heartbeat.

And I'll be damn if both of them didn't call ... er, I mean try to hire ... me a few short months later.

Metro Baptist Church in New York City called first ... meaning they actually call on the phone to tell me that God is telling them to tell me that I'm the one they want to hire as their Pastor.

I love Metro having been several times ... to Church ... serving soup to the homeless in a city park ... delivering the Gospel to Soup Opera stars ... and it's openness to all people of all orientations ... left me wanting them.

But ... I never answered the call ... meaning the phone ... because I was at the Beach ... so they moved on to whoever God told them was next in line.

Then Decatur Baptist Church in Atlanta calls and I don't answer the phone either.

Dr. Glenn Hinson, my beloved Seminary Professor calls next and, of course, I take it, to hear him yell, "Why in the Hell didn't you take their call? They're trying to call you to be their minister! It's impolite to not answer."

So I call them back but by now they've rescinded their call and don't answer.

I hadn't thought of these things until we're riding the buss pass Metro Baptist in New York City and the calls come back so I tell Sarah the stories.

Decades later, I'm technically not in a Church but do attend and occasionally am leader at worship in a Bar on Tybee Island.

Nobody called or anything.

I was sort of talked into it by people with broken hearts who I completely understand because I've got a soft one.

Looking at the majesty of a broken Sanctuary on West 40th Street as our bus bounces us around, I wonder now what it would be like now had I answered the call.

Sarah lays her head on my shoulder and squeezes my arm through the heavy coat.

Answering the Church calls may have been nice but ... it could have never been better than this.

Home Again

In my monthly column for "The Tybee Beachcomber" (www.tybeebeachcomber.com) I wonder "why we long to be close to the Ocean, to stand on the Beach, with our feet in the water, with our backs turned to humanity and everything it's made or unmade."

There's a majestic Holiness to be found beside the Sea.

Arriving home from New York City last night, this is what we found.

Goddess is sick from overeating and has puked her guts out in the Living Room and our bedroom.

The girls dash to their clean rooms and trash them within nanoseconds.

My car won't start.

We have nothing for dinner so Sarah makes a quick run to Tybee Market which has been picked clean by tourists who brought in the New Year with a weekend on the island.

It was warm when we left and cold upon our return so the heat wasn't on and the house is freezing.

Sarah throws open the windows to get the smell of dog puke outside.

A mountain of bills are stuffed in the mailbox.

"It's good to be home," I sarcastically spew.

The girls didn't want to come, preferring their Grandparents apartment across the Hudson from the City where there's ice skating, good Pizza and shopping.

But work demands us so here we are.

Sarah helps me push my car out so we can hook the jumper cables up and pray that's all it is (I still wonder why a sandwich costs $17.95 in New York but I can buy a Rolex on the street for $6) because we let our AAA lapse.

Under a cold, pitch black sky with twinkling stars and, mercifully, no wind I hear the Ocean's roar as it loudly and sloppily kisses the Beach.

My car cranks.

I clean dog puke while Sarah cooks our make shift dinner.

The house slowly warms with heat.

The girls make their way towards the table.

Goddess wags her tail.

We are home.

Happy Thanks

Before diving into the preview of coming attacks, I'd like to take a moment.

I am thankful that I'm still here, which is no small feat, given three near death experiences, multiple abandonment and betrayals, a slew of poor personal decisions and occasionally throwing myself in with the wrong people at the wrong time ... nevertheless I survive.

For Sarah who, against all expectation, logic, common sense or thought of herself, chose me to love and does so with reckless abandon.

As a survivor of three children, I'm grateful each has successfully pursued their dreams and are happily living their lives the way they want and ... find myself doing it again with three girls, which is lunacy because I'm too old and set in my ways but ... when I'm not wanting to kill them ... they teach me a lot (mostly about myself), bring great joy to my life and shower me in unexpected and very tangible expressions of love.

It gives me great pleasure to have a tan. It may not mean anything to you but brown fat looks better than white fat and I simply feel better about myself.

I'm writing this in New York City where we rung in the New Year listening to Jimmy Buffett, Huey Lewis & the News before being equally entertained on the subway before falling asleep on the bus before making it back to Sarah's parents place to really fall asleep ... before the girls drag me into the City again ... for shopping and ice skating ... did I mention I can kill them?

Leaving here we'll return to a screwed up little island with too much Government, a Nazi like police force (currently under investigation) and more Stop Signs than you can shake a stick at! Yet, it is a stunningly beautiful place where salt hangs in the air, Palm Trees dance, the Ocean sloppily kisses the shore and music is everywhere.

When we do get home two dogs and a cat will happily greet us! Goddess, Winston (who really is a little Gay dog) and Gypsy the cat give us great joy ... well, except for Winston the Son-of-a-bitch (I mean this literally) who's a Diva and honestly believes he's the only animal in our house.

And I'm most thankful for the promise of today. I don't know much about tomorrow and nothing at all of the coming year but God has unexpectedly given me today ... which I do not deserve but ... here I am!

I'm going to do my best to enjoy it!

You do your best too!

Happy New Year!

Guess you had to be there

I don’t feel like writing today.

 

So I’m not.

 

Going to New York instead ... or trying to but Delta sucks and we’ll see what happens.

 

But I feel bad so I’m sharing my new favorite song instead.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTWFh86UjvA

 

Enjoy!

 

Later!

 

It’s a Hell of a ride!

Black Sheep

I come by it naturally I suppose.

It starts with My Granddaddy Carver whom I worship just like his other 56 grandchildren ... he has the uncanny gift of making each of us feel the most loved of all ... when he and I are digging underneath my great Aunt Bessie's cabin in the north Georgia mountains.

A small four room wooden structure ... living room with fireplace which is where the bed is to stay warm ... a second bedroom for those who prefer sleeping where it's cold ... an anteroom which mostly collects stuff ... and a kitchen with a porch with a well.

The outhouse is out back.

I'm spending a week with him and Grandma cleaning after Aunt Bessie died and we're on our stomachs in the dirt pulling things out from under the cabin ... bottles, old guns, trunks ... when I put my hands on a Banjo.

"Whoa!" I exclaim holding the hand carved piece of wood with a nails to hold the strings in place,
"Where did this come from?"

Granddad smiles, frowns, laughs again and explains, "Lawdamighty ... it must be Uncle Cicero'."

"Who?"

Not liking to talk about unpleasant subjects, he falls silent.

"He was the black sheep of the family," my Grandmother explains wiping dirt from her face. "But everybody loved him!"

At the time I'm in College so I know everything!

Cicero was ancient Rome's greatest orator, introduced Greek thinking to logical thought and wrote a lot of letters.

"My great Uncle is named after Cicero?"

"Your great great Uncle," Dranddaddy replies.

"He was cool huh?"

"He was something," he laughs with far away eyes.

Years later my Aunt June and Uncle Tommy find an old tin photograph of Cicero, smoking a cigarette, sitting in a horse drawn buggy with a hot Babe under a giant hat flashing an incredible smile.

Cicero looks cocky and happy ... the two appear to have that giddy look after good sex.

I love the picture!

The Banjo hangs proudly in our house!

After Granddaddy died, I'm sitting with Grandma and asked, "Tell me about Uncle Cicero."

Smiling, covering her mouth to laugh with a white handkerchief with blue eyes dancing, she says, "He was the black sheep of the family. Ira didn't like to talk about it."

I nod.

"The two of you would have really gotten along," she laughs before hugging me.

One Holy Hell Of A Present

Facebook has the ability to raise the dead.

It's funny but people long gone to me come back to life through a friend request.

After hitting "accept" ... there they are!

Clicking photos first I inspect their again to conclude, "Damn I look good."

Then I inspect how they've grown or diminished ... religiously, politically, economically  ... number of kids, grandkids, marriages ... and most important ... how funny they are!

If they're funny I make them a "Favorite."

If they're too religiously, politically or economically inclined ... they can go to Cyber Hell and stay there because they add nothing to my life.

If things go well ... after "liking" each other's posts ... commenting on it and then responding to their comments ... dialogue is (re)born ... and plans are made.

Like the other night.

Sarah, Maddie and I are off to Social's musical Holiday extravaganza on a warm Christmas night to eat bread and cheese, enjoy Monty Parks kicking it off and seeing friends.

Among the friends is Mark Stewart who I went to High School with successfully kidnapping an entire page of our Annual before ... going our own ways ... doing our own things ... religiously, politically and economically ... and a thousand other ways.

Then ... one of us hits "Accept."

Mark and I embrace for the first time in decades. He meets Sarah and Maddie who virtually knows but this is flesh and blood!

We catch up before immediately moving on.

"Go get your saxophone," Sarah tells Mark ... and he does.

Later in the night, I grab my guitar and hit the stage to play a few songs ... while Mark blows the roof off the place ... and for a moment ... musically ... we are one ... as decades fade away ... and two old friends reunite.

The word became flesh.

That makes one Holy Hell of a Christmas Present.

Thank you Mark!

Happy New Year!

Can't wait for our next gig! 

Sarah's Christmas

It may have been Christmas too but it was really Sarah's day.

For years she had to do what others demanded, traveling her and there to keep her then family happy and living in perfect harmony.

Of course when you give others everything they take it and then expect you to keep on forever more with little thought of giving back!

But yesterday ...

She cooks a traditional Holiday meal the way she wants ... no one looking over her shoulder saying how they do it ... not a special demand for anything ... just her own desires, recreations from the past and new concoctions.

She does let me wash the dishes as she creates.

She even carves the Turkey ... a most moist and delicious one ... for the first time in her life because she wasn't allowed before.

The girls are home ... Chelsea & Sam and Kristen make their way to our home to join Johnny & Judy O and Tim & Jess ... multiple dogs and a cat for a casual and fun Christmas meal.

After everyone leaves, each girl demand Sarah's attention to do hair, play with toys, make plans for our family trip next week.

We snack throughout the evening on rich desserts and Judy O's fantastic home made cheese ball.

The girls eventually go to bed and we sit on the sofa mindlessly watching television.

I'm ready to go to sleep but Sarah's in no hurry as she allows Christmas to linger.

For the first time ever, I think, Christmas is hers.

Original Christmas Weather

The sun shines brightly through the heavy morning fog as the Ocean sings loudly in the distance on a balmy Christmas Day.

I used to go to St. Martin for perfect Christmas weather but God is indeed good and it's going to be in the 80s on Tybee Island today.

The windows are open, the ceiling fans dance and, in a strange aberration of nature, the girls are sleeping late so all is calm, all is bright!

The aroma of Turkey roasting in the oven, the Holiday sounds of Jimmy Buffett make it perfect for Eggnog in bare feet on the Beloved Back Deck.

Sarah spent the day cooking yesterday so most things are ready for our family and friends arriving later for a feast.

I'm in an incredibly festive and happy mood given these things.

I paid good money to the Seminary to learn that Jesus was likely born in late April and not in December! The date was chosen by the Church as terrorist attacks on Pagans who celebrate Winter Solstice!

I'm pretty certain Jesus would have been against the whole thing given his attitudes towards love and peace.

In fact I believe he's demonstrated the whole thing today which is why we're having late April weather and, as a huge supporter of Jesus anyway, I'm all for Christmas weather as it originally was and not this made up stuff about snow and ice.

Today I'm celebrating the peace and love that I have in my life today ... there's far too many who have neither.

I'm going to celebrate with my family and friends with no real concern, or need, of presents.

Then ... I'm going to work on my tan.

Happy Christmas!

Enjoy Everything!

Broken Promises and all

Sometimes you can't do everything you want to do.

You can't always keep every promise.

So you don't.

I promised the inmates at the Nursing Home I'll be there tomorrow on Christmas Eve and they're pretty excited that I ... and whoever else shows up representing Bar Church ... are coming.

They love the weekly mix of rock-and-roll, Gospel Hymns, story telling which sometimes lead to dancing, laughing, confessions, spilled coffee and other signs of life!

I love being with them ... the drooling or sleeping ... the feisty and freaky ... the lost and the lovely.

Honestly they're a lot more fun crowd than any religious congregation I know and that includes BAR CHURCH itself.

Thrown away people know how to have a good time when given half a chance.

Anyway something's come up and I have to hazard the God forsaken traffic to drive to the other side of the County for some potential work.

So I have to go.

Fellow Bar Church occasional participant and musician Bob Fulton is spotting me at the Nursing Home and I'm sure others will show up too ... there's just never any telling who it may be or how many will come.

Lona's had to miss the past couple of weeks because she's taking care of her Mother up north and the inmates sure miss her.

The ones who remember may ask Bob about me tomorrow ... or they may not ... they'll just be glad someone is actually present bring tidings of comfort and joy.

It'll be the essence of Christmas.

Me too actually ... humping my ass to the other side of the world which to get money to pay taxes ... at least I don't have to find a  place to stay.

There's something especially Christmassy about all of it though.

Broken promises and all.

Not Exactly a Church but ... Hell Yes it is!

I swore I'd never do Church again.

Stained Glass ... nice carpet ... padded pews for the asses who sit ... comprised mostly of homogeneous people disliking others unlike them ... a clothes loving sort ... with immaculate music ... plenty of parking ... and popular preachers.

Radicalism in today's Church means you dress casual ... with creases of course.

What a load of crock!

Yet ... here I am ... in a Church!

For my literal Church friends, I'm not exactly in a Church ... but a Bar ... where we gather to worship bringing mostly our sins because ... it's all we really got.

We bring food too.

We can't afford to give money so it's Deviled Eggs (okay if you don't find that funny you're probably dead but nobody's told you yet) ... biscuits and sausage gravy ... left over wedding cake ... fruit ... and mixers.

I'm not saying people who come to Bar Church don't drink ... or haven't been ... or will soon ... just that it's not publically ... or legally tolerated when we gather.

Though there are numerous requests to turn water into wine because most attendees can't afford a bottle.

And I'm the pastor ... as my wife says ... though I'm nothing of the sort.

I was a "Professional Christian" earlier in life ... getting paid to love while asking others to do it for free ... AND TO PAY DUES to the Church ... but they kicked me out when I wasn't all that great a Christian in the first place.

Not only did I sin a lot but ... as a writer and story teller ... I told everybody!

I never read the Job Description's admonition to "keep your sins to yourself" while "calling out others on theirs."

Regardless ... I'm the sinner in charge of Bar Church ... mostly comprised of other sinners ... a people who redefine dress causal to wrinkled tee shirts, jams and flip flops ... we're so poor we can't afford to pay attention ... so we don't.

Well ... unless you take the part about not judging others seriously ... there's not a lot of judgment at Bar Church ... because we've all been the plaintiff.

We're pretty good at not judging.

So if you've had as much as you can stand and need to leave in the middle of a service ... because you need a smoke, the Deviled Eggs are gone and the music sucks ... it's alright.

Thanks for not pulling a Jesus and turning the Pool Tables Over.

It's a nice enough Church without a building, Hymn books or dress code.

I like enough to keep going.

The sinners like me enough to keep welcoming me as one of their own.

I think when all's said and done ... that's really what Church is after all.
________________

If you care to help, you can find Bar Church at www.gofundme.com/tybeebarchurch

 

Thank you and Happy Christmas!

Dancing in the night

Being on stage in a Bar ... fronting a Band ... with special guest performers ... the best drummer around ... conducting worship on a Sunday morning ... is interesting enough but the things I see make it more fascinating!

The room is L-shaped, dark, filled with booths, round tables and barstools. Neon signs colorfully flash brands of alcohol behind the long classic mahogany bar as sunshine streams in large plate glass windows fronting the island's main drag.

The place reeks of smoke and when I get home Sarah and the girls prohibit me from entering until I strip and shower ... then we can be a family again and have Sunday lunch.

On stage, Davy keeps a vicious beat as Monty plucks lead with flying fingers, John adds Calypso on Congas as I sing a rocking version of "Do you hear what I hear?"

Jars of Eggnog line the stage, a gift from Sam one of our parishioners and I see the dimly lit Christmas Tree through the smoke.

Monty and I grin, pushing each other to play harder during a jam in the middle of the Christmas Carol ... Davy's relentless beating of the drums ... and John's in a trance hitting the skins.

People are clapping and dancing!

Well ... most people.

A Dad and his three kids greedily eat sitting in the booth directly in front of the stage.

People don't have money so they bring food instead. A pool table's converting to a setting of banquet fare and the hungry come for food ... music ... company ... a kind word.

There's no preaching ... the world has far too much of that.

There is simply an unspoken acceptance ... of sad smokers, broken Christmas Spirits and people wanting to find a job under the Tree this year ... or perhaps a smile on a day designed for families ... and nothing's going to happen for them.

The Dad nods to his kids and they flee to the Pool Table for seconds.

My voice cracks as I sing ... "Do you see what I see?"

Monty plays harder, pouring of sweat, giving them everything he's got.

Davy beats the living Hell out of the drums because nobody in this Bar needs any more of that ... having far exceeded their quota.

John kindly delivers solace to the wounds in the room, continuing his love like trance repeating his kind rhythms.

Before it's over, Dad huddles his kids and moves them outside ... embarrassed I think ... because this is all he can give them today ... maybe all they'll get for Christmas.

It doesn't matter.

We're giving everything we can.

They've taken what they need.

As the open the door to leave, brilliant sunshine pours into the darkness.

"A star! A star!" I sing ... "dancing in night."
_____________

If you care to help, you can find Bar Church at www.gofundme.com/tybeebarchurch

Thank you and Happy Christmas!

Winning the Game

He was always waiting when I got home from work, baseball glove on his knee and bat in his hand.

After quickly changing clothes we go to the back yard for "the game."

I pitch and he hits.

He pitches and I hit.

We both do running commentary as we play, often mocking the other.

It is not an idyllic example of a Father and Son playing backyard baseball ... it is cut throat competition ... and we love it.

Later, the competition turned from games to books ... who's read what first ... and whether or not we've exhausted a subject before the other.

Then it was music and to this day we've forever sharing songs and artists we discover before the other.

It got a little crazy.

I got divorced ... he got divorced.

I inherited little girls when I married the love of my life and then ... he did too.

But now he's done something I'm never going to match, much less exceed.

My son was awarded his Ph.D.

It gives me pause.

You want your kids to do better than you did but when it happens it's astounding.

Making it better is, to date there's only one boy in our family ... five girls!

But soon there's going to be two!

The Doctor and his Misses are having a Prodigy.

I can't top that so I won't even try.

Congratulations Jeremy.

Enjoy Everything.

Checking It Out

Deciding to take a bike ride to the beach on an unexpectedly warm day, the tires need air so I eventually find the pump, hook it up and notice a woman walking up the drive way.

"Hi," she says with a nice smile.

"Hello," I reply and we shake hands.

"I'm checking out the house across the street," she explains. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

She looks up and down the street to make certain no one's listening.

"Where does the crazy Cat Lady live?"

Caught off guard, I'm unprepared though I point to the house.

"Next door to you," she laughs.

"She's not that bad," I explain. "She muddles around a lot when she's not calling cats."

"Where are the frogs?" she asks.

A few houses behind our house is one with a frog pond with a trained choir of frogs which are quite spectacular when they croak out the hits.

"Uh, that way," I answer pointing.

I ponder how this lady has certainly done her research as she considers moving into a new neighborhood.

"I read your blog," she says smiling.

Hmmm.

"Thanks," she concludes and makes her way across the street to the house where the woman who gardened in her underwear once lived.

As she does, Santa Claus skateboards passed flashing me the peace sign.

Hmmm.

A Kidnapping

My blog was kidnapped today by a mean spirited person who only cares about himself.

Or a Saint, depending of your point of View and you don't care for my writing but it's like a car wreck and you can't help yourself and read it in spite of hating it ... which makes you pretty messed up.

I was already pushed for time with Sarah getting dressed for work this morning which is always a wonderfully major distraction!

The Bar Church Nursing Home gig was mid-morning and today I was supposed to be the loan representative but ... lo and behold John Iacovini brings his Congas in ... and Julia Pearce strolls in followed by Rachel Perkins and the party is on!

Afterwards there's a clandestine meeting on a porch about secret things which I can't share about thwarting an evil plot to kidnap a Church service on Christmas.

Then it was time for a hot dog with cheese, yellow mustard and chopped red onion.

My phone buzzes and it's a nasty message necessitating a phone call I don't want to make but ... there are things you do in life ... so I made it and everything was fine.

It's supposed to rain so I took Goddess and Winston, TLGD, for a walk and was really enjoying the 80 weather so took the dogs home to ride my bike on the beach.

It starts raining but I don't mind so get soaked coasting home so ... since they were already wet ... tossed my shorts and tee shirt in the laundry and took a hot outdoor shower in the rain.

If you've never taken a hot outdoor shower in the rain you have not yet truly experienced all of the nice things about life.

Inside, Winston, TLGD, has decided to shed on the sofa so, after calling the little son-of-a-bitch a SOB (and I mean it literally), I vacuum.

The rain falls and I remember my car is in the carport and I rush out to move it so Sarah doesn't have to get wet when she gets home.

Finally I sit down to write and ... there's no inspiration.

Maybe tomorrow.