Name Calling

I've been called lots of names in my life.

It doesn't bother me.

Once I was in the City Manger's office of a small island community arguing over being charged double for our water bill for three years.

The issue was the City believed the girls rooms downstairs doubled as an apartment Sarah and I rented out for extra income.

If you have girls ... especially three of them ... there is no such thing as extra income ... girls suck it out of the air before you ever make it out of work.

Regardless, aforementioned City Manager pressed my credibility as a sayer of truth by shaking her head and signing, "And you're a Baptist Minister."

"I been called worse," I fired back.

The City Councilman sitting to my left, spun his head towards me and busted out laughing.

The Mayor, sitting to his left, shook his head and suppressed his grin.

Water bills are a big ass deal on this small island community with a Government near the size of Atlanta.

The matter was resolved out of court and we're co-existing happily ever after.

So being called names doesn't bother me.

Sticks and stones and such.

But this morning Cassidy, the 9 year old, stumbles into the kitchen, blond hair askew from her pillow, dragging her blankie, and says, "Daddy ... I mean Micheal."

It gives me pause.

I'm not or ever will be the girls "Daddy" but there are days I'm pretty damn close.

In spite of the names the girls call me ... and they call me many ... they mostly call me "Micheal" ... though sometimes it is so filled with love and appreciation ... it leaves me without words.

Only feelings.

Give me a break

In Jimmy Buffett's wonderful Christmas song "HO HO HO and a bottle of Rum," Santa's done with Christmas, run off to the Caribbean, drinks rum while working on his tan with his toes in the surf.

As the song fades we hear, "Don't worry kiddies. Santa needs a break. We all need a break. He'll be back in time for Christmas."

I couldn't agree more.

We all need a break.

My breaks of choice are in the Caribbean or Bahamas though Sarah has the ability to talk me into a break most anywhere!

For the first time in more than half a decade I'm taking from writing every day.

Oh I still write or think about things to write but life's busy in other areas these days.

Writing requires time alone and giving your heart and mind the freedom to go wherever they will and having the guts to share it.

I've got everything except the time right now.

Besides I'm a bit over obligated ... Parental advisor in love with the girls, keeping up with the kids, Bar Church, writer for "The Beachcomber", content creator for customers on Social Media, player at the Monty Parks Tuesday Night Jam, caretaker of two dogs, a cat and a Guardian Angel and loving husband of Sarah seems to have zapped all my time.

Oh yeah, and I'm working full time again.

Sarah and I need a break.

It's started with the writing and is building itself in to a plan to get the Hell out of here for a while.

You know why?

Because we all need a break.

Everybody does. 

A Typical Friday Night

"Can I lay with you?" she asks.

Patting my legs, nine year old Cassidy heavily plops 70 pounds of skin, bones and flowing blond hair on my aging knees covering us with her blanket.

Her frustrated mother is on Cass's phone undoing whatever it is the child has done to it.

Needing assurance that every little thing's gonna be alright, she lays on top of me to watch our Friday night movie.

Laurel, the 11 year old, has already knocked over my full glass of red wine, on the rug in front of the television, throwing some rags on it I could use to clean up the mess.

It's my fault, of course, for having wine with the movie.

Because it was an accident ... her code word for "I assume no responsibility for whatever it is I've done" ... Laurel immediately pretends to fall asleep on the sofa so she doesn't have to help me clean up the wine spill.

Maddie, the clueless 14 year old who knows everything,  is in her room downstairs.

One day soon, Sarah and I plan to send an excavation team to look for her ... once we can afford it.

"What I love about you," a broker buying my lunch in a Longhorn's Steakhouse said once upon a time, "is how you keep re-inventing yourself."

Boy have I!

Sarah meanders back to her spot on the sofa beside Winston, the Little Gay dog, assuring Cass everything is fixed and ordering her to never do it again.

I'm no longer necessary so the 9 year old snuggles with her Mom.

Taking pity on me Goddess, the mostly golden retriever, wanders out to take Cass's place.

"I have to get more wine tomorrow," I tell myself.

"You haven't rubbed my feet since Monday," Sarah says.

I love rubbing my wife's feet with lotion at night as we mindlessly watch whatever we watch so I throw Goddess off to grab the lotion and pour love between her toes.

"Do mine," Cass demands.

"Hell No!" I reply.

It's time for your Mom.

It's a typical Friday night at our house.

I love what I've become ... and am becoming ... looking forward to the girls going to College ... but already missing like Hell when they're gone.

An Unreturned Call

Once upon a time .. when I was a "Professional Christian" ... paid good money to do what I asked others to do for free ... I got all pissed off about something and decided to call Baptist Corporate Headquarters in Nashville.

"Hello," a secretary righteously answers.

"May I speak to Dr. Criswell please?"

"Silly," she replies, "he's the past President of the Convention. Dr. Baily Smith is the current President."

"Doesn't Dr. Criswell still run things?"

"Of course," she coos, "just as God ordained."

I giggle remembering being in Chapel service at THE Southern Baptist Theological Seminary ... singing, "My hope is built on nothing less than Scofield notes and Broadman Press ... I was part of the radical fringe."

Ah ... good times!

"Who's the highest person there I can speak to?" I prod.

"Um, Dr. Rogers is on the 5th floor."

The thing about Southern Baptist is they are "literalists."

"No honey, I don't mean how high up they are ... who has the most power I can speak to?"

"I'd have to ask Dr. Criswell," she quickly answers.

"Can I have his number?"

She laughs. "Do you know Dr. Criswell?"

"We've met," I answer. "It was in the bathroom of the Southern Baptist Convention in Dallas. He was at the urinal next to me. We spoke but he didn't want to shake hands."

"I see," she says, suddenly serious. "I can take a message."

"Fine. Have him call me."

She takes my number and gives me hers.

He never did return the call.

To this day it bothers me.

And I wonder why.

The February Strategy

No football on today.

But it's not as cold as it has been and the high supposed to be 70 and the sun is bright ... the skies are blue.

It's almost time to take down the Christmas Tree.

Cold January days are better with football and Christmas Tree lights.

Who cares if the Tree's turning brown?

They make January bearable.

It is my next to last favorite month.

February is the worst.

Football's over, the Christmas Tree comes down, the weather typically sucks and I'm ready to expatriate to littler Latitudes.

Sure there's Valentine's Day but Cupid would shoot himself rather than brave the cold.

What do you do except learn to cope?

Especially since I'm not in the position to expatriate yet?

This morning I just crawled back in bed with Sarah which seemed to work pretty good.

I think this may be the February strategy.

See you in March!

Can you Dig it?

"Who's the black private dick whose a sex machine to all the chicks?"

"Shaft?"

"You're damn right!'

I love "Love Songs" and this one is a "Bad Mother!"

I've wanted to use that line to start a blog forever!!

It's one of the few songs where I can play drums.

It's all two hands on a cymbal and a foot on a pedal.

It took me forever to learn but I did and played it at the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia once where ... things didn't go too well.

Pastor "Fireball" Johnson simply could not "dig it" and kicked us out of the Sanctuary.

But Pastor Johnson was "a complicated man and no one understands him but his woman."

But I could dig it.

The First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia certainly was NOT into "black private dicks" ... or black people in general at the time.

A few weeks later Pastor "Fireball" Johnson felt bad and invited us back to play again in the Sanctuary and this time I played guitar and sang ... with John Brewton on drums ... Jimmy Buffet's "Pencil Thin Moustache."

Pastor "Fireball" Johnson was not amused.

I remember him ripping out the sound system while quoting lots of Scripture.

God "called" him to another Church soon afterwards.

Making it funnier is ... I left soon afterwards and ended up in Seminary.

Yep ... I was willing to "risk my neck for brother man."

A lot's happened since then but ... when the drum solo to "Shaft" starts ... anywhere ... anytime ... my feet start to move and you can "Shut yo' mouth."

Perhaps it's because I'm a complicated man too.

You know ... the cat who won't cop out.

Can you dig it?

Finding the Time

The thing about writing is you have to give it time.

I seem to find myself without much of that precious commodity right now.

In the biggest sense it's running out, running short or slowing down and in the shortest sense I find myself in a hurry to leave, to clean, to cook and to rest.

You can't do it all of course but we sure lie to ourselves and say we can.

For six years now I've poured my truths out virtually ever day and people took it or left it ... I learned to notice but not care too much.

Before that I told stories and said things in books which no one reads anymore but they exist to prove I was alive for anyone caring enough to know.

My greatest stories have yet to be written.

Luke Danger ... Che ... are real lives waiting to be created.

They already exists to me ... to Sarah ... they just haven't been born yet.

I've got to write them out, as our son Jeremy puts it.

Stories come in their time ... not in mine.

I've learned that through all this writing I've done.

In the meantime you find the time to wait until it's their time.

My Interview with the Grim Reeper

I'm here with Death, also known as the Grim Reaper, The Destroyer, The Hooded One, The Angel of Death, & The "God" of Death.

Knowing he's been around, I fSHE's agreed to answer a few questions.
inally tracked him down personally and after much persuasion

The first thing to know about the Grim Reaper is she's a woman.

Honestly I'm a bit surprised and I don't know why I presumed Death is exclusively man work so I want to begin by apologizing.

"Oh that's all right. If I think people are too sexist I just take them ... you know what I'm saying?"

"You're still here so I'm alright with you."

"Besides I don't know why everybody's so shocked to find out I'm female. Like all women I'm into fashion and set the trend to dress in black ages ago! That's why so many women dress in black today and I'm happy to see it crossing over sexual lines and men dressing in black too ... especially in large urban areas and across Europe."

Thanks again. I've got several questions everybody's always wanted to ask you so do you mind if we get right to it?

"Not at all."

Good! Okay first question ... Beatles or Stones?

"Well ... obviously The Rolling Stones."

Because of "Sympathy for the Devil"?

"No! Because I'm so sick of the opening riff of 'Satisfaction' it inspires my work. That's why I haven't taken Keith Richards ... I think it hurts him more to listen to that damn opening riff every single day he's alive."

I see.

Next question ... you seem to work in 3's ... meaning people seem to die in 3's ... one ... two ... three ... why is that?

"Honestly it's because I like Sudoku. I can't get enough of it. So three at a time is all I can manage before I take a break and play some more."

Sudoku? Really?

"It's better than wasting time on Facebook."

Right. So ... why are you so white? I'm wearing sunglasses just to conduct this interview. Don't you ever get out in the sun? Have a little Beach time?

"Well I do own a time share in Myrtle Beach which I'm always using to comp customers ..."

Wait! Comp Customers? Who's your customer?

"Funeral Homes, elected officials and televangelists."

Of course ... um ... what can we expect from you in the future?

"More of the same. It's a pretty boring job but ... it's a living."

No Stopping

"You're writing about dying a lot," my friend Clark says in Doc's Bar during Monty Parks "Tybee Night Acoustic Tuesday Jam."

"It's only because so many people keep dying," I answer.

Looking at me with a suspicious eye he asks, "Are you okay?"

"Well," I reply, sipping wine from my Styrofoam cup because it's not cold to touch, "dying's part of living ... it just happens when you least expect it."

"I've been worried about you," he says taking a drawl from his long neck beer.

"I'm good," I answer.

"Okay," he says standing. "It's my turn to play. I gotta go."

It makes me smile.

Playing is the most important part of living.

Clark used to be famous, playing his music on national television, at Dr. Robert Schuler's Crystal Cathedral and God knows where else.

Now he ... and I ... and a crazy cast of others ... play in Bars.

It's Monty Parks fault!

Monty is a musician who thinks he's a politician or ... a politician with a musician's soul ... meaning he's confused as Hell ... just like everybody else elected to Public office ... which is why the Country's so screwed up ... and Tybee has too many Stop Signs, arrogant Police officers and Ministers.

"Hey Clark," I yell as he strolls towards the music, "I ain't going anywhere."

He gives me a thumbs up rushing towards his guitar.

"You good," Monty Parks himself asks? "You going anywhere?"

"Yeah," I answer draining my wine. "I couldn't if I wanted to ... there's too many Stop Signs preventing me from doing so."

"It's for your own good," he says with authority.

"Well thanks then," I reply putting my guitar in its case to get home to Sarah and the girls.

"Do you want ...?" he asks as I rush.

Too late.

I'm already gone.

Running Stop Signs to get home.

When it's Over

I've written two things recently that have blown up. 

Susan Bartoletti was "a billion stars packed inside a diminutive body with a blazing smile that lights dark places, she's riding her Moped home and ... a car doesn't see her ... and the world changes in an instant."

Elmo Weeks was "an unassuming hero who was always there when nobody else wanted to be ... when fathers abandoned their sons ... and death was a way of life."

Both were special people who touched thousands and when I wrote about them ... thousands read, reacted, responded and realized loss is real.

Guardian Angels, Little Gay Dogs, Cat Ladies and Carnivals of Friends don't match the interest in the loss of loved ones.

Neither do living with little girls, Beloved Back Decks, the pungent smell of the Marsh or the sloppy kisses of the Ocean to the Shore.

Or the way I dress, stories from way back when, "Clothing Optional" movements and, definitely, anything political.

Loss of life, be it tragic or anticipated, is a different matter.

It makes me wonder.

When we go to sleep at night, my favorite author Frederick Buechner says, we surrender control of everything believing we'll wake again.

Even when dreams, either good or bad, interrupt, sleep wins until it too, surrenders control.

Sleeping then is sort of practicing for death.

Most believe we'll wake again though the world may be entirely different when we do.

Some sad folks "know" that when you go to sleep ... it's over.

I'm not certain anything's over.

Ever!

  

Story Time is Over

It has been brought to my attention ... on Facebook ... by Wen McNally ... and not refuted by Joey Finch ... that I never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.

I paid good money to learn this truth at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary ... in and of itself ... not a particularly great bastion of truth ... though it's "marketing" of having the truth cornered is excellent ... that telling stories is the best way to convey the truth.

Does that sound confusing?

Well it is.

I spent ungodly amounts of money going to the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary to finally understand ... from Dr. Allan Graves ... is ... if you're sitting in the chair in the pulpit keep your socks pulled up ... lest woman parishioners be tempted by the flesh ... or male parishioners too though the Baptists condemn such temptation as an abomination.

The way you get around such abominations is to tell a good story and not let the truth stand in the way!

The greatest example of this are televangelists.

It doesn't matter which one ... pick one ... Oral Roberts to Benny Hinn ... they make up tons of stuff to tell a good story!

If these guys really told the truth there wouldn't be any hospitals, Nursing Homes or Obama Care.

Hell! Benny Hinn alone can heal the entire nation's sickness on a Tuesday afternoon before flying his private jet to his Golf game with the front runners of the Republican Party!

I could have been one of these guys but ... alas ... I opted for "Faith Healing" classes instead of televangelism.

I figured there was more money in it.

Everything was going fine until the final when the Professor gave me a guy with hemorrhoids to heal.

"I ain't laying my hands on that!" I shriek.

I got close enough to earn a "C" in the class and the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary "threw me out."

So I don't know where Wen McNally gets off claiming I bend the truth for the sake of a good story.

And Joey and I go so far back that we have no idea how far back we go BUT ... if you go to our High School Annual ... there we are ... handsome and side-by-side ... just like we are now.

Oh yeah ... and The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary got it all wrong about Gay people!

That is the truth.

I have to go now.

Sarah's telling me story time is over.

Under the Truman

Every time I ride under the Truman Parkway in my hometown of Savannah, Georgia I think ... "I know how to fix that."

What needs fixing is the "community" of homeless people living in tents under a bridge.

Yep!

Thank God for the Government for building bridges so Americans have a place to call home!

A few years ago the City tried to wipe out the "community" with policemen, Bulldozers and police dogs and the area under the Truman was clean ... for a while.

Now it's a much more sanitized homeless "community" living under the bridge.

Worse the "community" has been accepted by the City.

Missionaries deliver food, water and God's love once a week or so.

The police patrol the "community" regularly to ensure the safety of people living under a bridge.

People post pictures on their Facebook page of being brave enough to visit the "community" and pass out Bibles, bottles of water and take group selfies.

It's such a shame.

The fix is pretty easy in concept ... a bit more challenging in practice.

People who wish to help need to move in and change the culture of the "community."

"You know," I imagine someone saying after their acceptance as a member of the community, "it's pretty stupid that we live outside when we can live in a house ... with electricity and running water."

"Not those religious concentration camp homeless shelters but ... home."

If enough people become one with the "community" and change the culture there wouldn't be any tents under the Truman.

Everyone would have agreed with Dorothy ... "There's no place like home" ... and they'd be nothing to look at when I drive pass ... unless the Government run train has me unnecessarily stopped for fifteen minutes.

Scheduling a Prayer on Tybee Island

I was asked to deliver the prayer before a Tybee Island City Council meeting.

Sort of.

A Councilman asked and then told me to call the Government complex and ask for Nadine to get myself scheduled to pray.

The process struck me as ludicrous so ... I ignored it.

Then the City Manager asked me to deliver the prayer before a Tybee Island City Council meeting instructing me to call the Government complex and ask for Nadine to get myself scheduled to pray.

I'm curious as to why Nadine doesn't know how to use a phone to follow through on aforementioned requests to pray.

Regardless, the prayer's ready!

It goes like this:

Our father … our Mother … the one who loves us more than we’re capable of loving each other or ourselves … or everything in the world you gave us without our asking … and everything in it too

Who art in Heaven … the tangible reality of everything we wish for … work for … desire for … lust after … lie for … kill for … because it’s everything we want but not everything we have

Thy Kingdom come … because God knows we  know what we’re working for and your timeline is unacceptable … we can do better … we can make it happen now … so we’re not waiting on you

On earth as it is in Heaven … … even though you haven’t specified exactly everything your Kingdom requires … everything it demands … we’ve got a pretty good idea … there are no plastic bags littering the beaches … lots of Stop signs … heavily patrolled … ticketed whenever possible and tased when necessary … to keep things Heavenly

Give us this day our daily bread … and we really appreciate the fact you’ve already delivered on this one … we’ve got great food on this island … fresh fish to catch in the Sea … the best Shrimp anywhere … damn Blue Crabs for Jesus sake … lots of restaurants … terrific bars … excellent music … we’ll soon pass a resolution commending you on this one

And forgive us our trespasses … Lord we’ve referred this one to the City Attorney for clarification and once Bubba gets back to us a new study committee will be formed to make certain we clearly understand whatever trespasses you seem to believe we’ve committed

As we forgive those who trespass against us … Lord we have a clear and concise understanding of each and every person who has trespassed against us so we know who is who … the forgiving part needs further study though so we are again referring this to Bubba for clarification before being forwarded to another new study committee

And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil … we’ve got this one covered Lord … we’ve hired the best consultants, lawyers and management and we are squeaky clean … above ethics charges, Open records violations, particularly from the Police Department when elected officials run stop signs or absolutely anything not literally in compliance with the Core beliefs of Forever Tybee

For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory … and we appreciate you delegating this to our oversight … a full and detailed report on our successful accomplishments is forthcoming

Forever and forever … we really like this set up and see no need to make any changes at this time.

Amen

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.