IT LIVES!

I saw a living Dinosaur the other day.

At the First Baptist Church of Hinesville, Georgia!

In full disclosure, I haven't been to a First Baptist Church ... or a second, third or forth Baptist Church ... in decades having sworn them off..

 I took issue with a logo the Southern Baptist Convention once released ... "A MIND IS A TERRIBLE THING! LET THE PREACHER DO ALL YOUR THINKING!" and quit.

Until this week, I hadn't been back to a First Baptist yet ... there I sat ... cushioned pew ... gold offering plates ... Organ to the right, Baby Grand piano to the left ... men in three piece suits ... ushers ... Baptismal Pool ... an Old Rugged Cross with it's own spotlight ... and teenagers copping feels on the back row.

This is the Baptist Church I grew up in.

I couldn't help but notice the modern differences ... a sound system The Rolling Stones would covet ... two massive screens on either side of the Pulpit that could easily accommodate Donald Trump's ego (there were Trump brochures beside those for the Church Building Fund and upcoming Pastor's Appreciation Anniversary) ... a manicured parking lot equipped to host a thousand cars, trucks and  RVs for the most dedicated Christians.

Late for the funeral, the Preacher was talking when I arrived so I checked Face Book on my phone until he finished.

THEN ... it happened!

A living, breathing, relic slowly made his way to the Pulpit wearing a wrinkled grey three piece suit, asked everyone to open the Hymnal to page 409 as the Piano and Organ wailed and started singing ... "In the Garden."

I couldn't believe it!

A live Minister of Music still roams the earth!

Shaking the cobwebs from my memory, I watched him keep congregational time by raising his left hand straight up and straight down.

I dropped my phone on to the padded pew as my mouth dropped open.

"Holy Baby Jesus," I mutter, "It's alive."

Not quite a Preacher ... not really a layman ... it's a Minister of Music ... some genetically flawed mistake of creation.

God must have looked the other way for a second during creation.

Mistakenly, I'd believed music loving Christians had killed off all the Ministers of Music in the 1970s in Satan's last great attempt to conquer the Church through Polyester suits and sock ties and believer's revolted ... and went Kaki.

"Well," I mutter out loud.

"What?" the Lady wearing a red paisley dress and orange blue hat asks, still singing "In the Garden."

"What's the fastest way out?"

She nods over her left shoulder towards the "Enter Only" door with the sign above it reading, "The Most Powerful Position Is On Your Knees."

I flee like Israel getting out of Egypt ... meaning I went to the wrong door ... twice.

That was on Thursday ... and I still can't shake it.

His hand goes up and down ... up and down ... up and down ... for no apparent reason ... not in any keeping with time ... as he leads us in ALL FIVE VERSES!

The poor woman died twice that day.

My Way (Not the song)

"I AM NOT STUPID! I AM NOT STUPID! I AM NOT STUPID!"

It was the first meaningful thing I ever wrote.

Directed at an audience of one.

In the bedroom of our place in the Red Barn Trailer Park with my new born son sleeping in the bed as I studied at the tiny Formica desk, I didn't understand what I was reading.

My mind refused to recognize the dots ... much less connect them.

I looked at Jeremy sleeping, realizing I hadn't accomplished anything in life other than learning to play some guitar and failing to understand birth control, and I burst into tears.

Then I grabbed my pencil and wrote "I AM NOT STUPID" over and over and over, repeatedly breaking the pencil, sobbing but determined to change ... something.

Later in Dr. Mosley's history class, the assignment was a paper on a Civil War skirmish, "The Battle of Bull Run."

"Wearing wool coats, the Rebels slogged through the mud listening to the Yankee's victory yells, sweating like bullets while wondering if bullets turn to blood."

It came back circled in red.

In the margin, also in red, Dr. Mosley scribbled, "Excellent!"

I brought it to the tiny trailer and showed it my son who gleefully stuffed it in his mouth.

And at that moment ... everything about me changed.

I began to read ... everything!

Book after book after book.

And I wrote ... and I wrote ... and I wrote.

Later still, in Louisville, Kentucky attending Seminary and inexplicably in charge of an inner city Church ... I kept a daily journal on ... life as I saw it.

After four filled notebooks, through Divine accident, Holy intervention or damn good luck ... those journals became my first three books.

Writing became my way of processing everything.

"You know Dad," a newly abandoned and adult Jeremy tells his old abandoned Dad on the beloved back deck, "you have this way of writing everything out of you ... so you don't have to hold on to it."

It reminds me of a Jimmy Buffett lyric, "You put the book, by itself, on the shelf with your heart in it."

All the hurts, joys, things gone right and massive failures ... I write em out.

In  the pool, Sarah floats doing her pregnant laps as I sip wine bobbling in the warm water under the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt.

Goddess pokes her head between the picks of the Beloved Back Deck to check on us and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, whines behind her because he wants to be with Sarah at all times.

Our talk isn't pleasant.

Sarah's protecting me ... LOUDLY ... from things at work that aren't quite right and other people who want me to do things for them that they won't do for themselves.

I'm quietly intense.

"What do you think?" she asks, wet face and intense blue eyes staring an inch away from mine.

I remain quiet.

"Well, I'll read about it with everybody else," she laughs swimming away.

Everybody's got to find their way to, "Let it out and let it in", as the major prophets the Beatles admonished the struggling.

Well ... this is mine.

Killing Yourself

"How thick is your skin?" Mayor Floyd Adams whispers in my ear.

A woman in the audience is screaming at me seated at the head table in the amphitheater at Memorial Health University Medical Center.

She's pretty vicious, pointing yelling things about how I've hurt so many others by not sharing and things are worse because of me ... on and on she goes.

"Tell you what," the Mayor continues. "I'll buy you lunch at Manuel's sometime soon."

Lots of people didn't like Floyd but over decades I grew to love the man.

We had two fights in time ... I won the first ... he creamed me in the second.

After that we figured we'd accomplish more working together and, given both of us were intense competitors, our relationship was predicated on who would outdo the other.

Over time he took to calling me "Stormin' Norman" after the great general and while I called him "Mr. Mayor" in public, he told me he's just Floyd.

"Lunch would be nice," I whisper back to the Mayor as the woman continues berating me.

People in the audience who don't like me are gleeful while those who do check their phones.

"She's just having her moment," he whispers. "It could be her only one. You may as well let her have it."

"Yeah," I sigh.

"Besides you'd look stupid if you tried to say anything."

I stare the hate coming from her eyes.

"Just think about lunch," Floyd says. "Tuesdays are spaghetti day."

It's hard to not laugh.

"Don't you laugh," he whispers wearing the same face Floyd always wore, a strange combination of bemusement, curiosity and defiance.

Of course I laughed which sent the lady and the audience into a frenzy ... those not likely me licked their chops while those who do appear empathetic.

"I told you not to laugh," Floyd whispers staring straight ahead without moving his lips.

No longer able to stand it, I turn away from the woman and audience and look at the Mayor who continues looking straight ahead.

"You're killing me," I say as the room grows quiet.

Slowly turning his head towards mine, he leans forward so that our foreheads almost touch, and there's laughter in his eyes while his face betrays nothing, and whispers "Naw ... you're killing yourself." 

I learned a lot that day.

If people don't like what I write or say and are compelled to say so, it's alright.

They can have their moment.

While they're shooting their was, I've got plenty more moments to come.

Inching Forward

Because I live with little girls, I am forced to endure the horrific culinary cuisine of McDonalds.

I can honestly say there's not a damn thing they serve that I like.

Years ago, I liked Big Mac's when they were ... two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

Who knows what the Hell it's made out now!

I think it's the same material used to make the cardboard box it's served in!

AND ... if your life is cursed and the closest McDonald's is on Whitemarsh Island where the special sauce on a Big Mac is on the side of the cold bun that took twelve-and-a-half minutes to get ... and that's if you didn't go through the drive through ... which starts in Thunderbolt ... and when you finally get to the window for your food ... a punk ass kid on his cell phone looks pass you and says ... "Pull over ... we'll bring it to you."

Finally ... PISSED ... I stroll inside to find over half the employees sitting in booths staring at their phones ... arguing over who's going to mop up the mess from the Frappe machine ... AND ... doing their homework ... or studying English.

Anyway ...

Here I am waiting in the Drive through at the Whitemarsh Island McDonalds because I ... LOVE ... MY ... LITTLE ... GIRLS!

I will get them back later in life.

It's a pleasant morning so the sun roof's open and the windows are down ... Radiohead is blaring from the Boise Sound System ... Maddie, the clueless 14 year old who knows everything, is happy I caved to her demand for McDonalds ... and that brings me joy.

"Hey Micheal," he says, tentatively waiving, carrying his sack of whatever it is to his car.

Older, grayer, sadder ... he's a relic of my past.

Then, we were pinnacles of power ... he at the Hospital ... me as a Change Agent ... and for a while our world's collided ... and we  did lots of good things for lots of people in desperate need of anything good.

"Hey," I smile.

Climbing in his  car, Maddie asks who he is.

I tell her as we inch forward for her Frappe and pancakes.

His car pulls beside mine and he rolls down a window.

"What did you think of the Convention?"

"There was a Convention?" I reply. "I don't do those things anymore. They took everything I gave them and never gave anything back."

Shocked, he grimaces, rolls his window up and slowly makes his way into the past where he lives.

"What was that about?" Maddie asks.

Sighing, I answer, "It's sad. He's forever imprisoned by a past he'll never have again. I think he'd like to move on but ... well, the past is powerful and, in his case, I think it's won."

"Your order is almost ready," an unseen voice says from a speaker.

"Son of a Bitch!" I mutter.

Maddie laughs as we inch forward.

A Thing of Beauty

It's interesting watching people die.

After a while you begin to notice the human body just naturally wears out and starts to shut down.

Sometimes the mind's already gone ... or remains sharp as a tact causing great frustration because the body lags so far behind ... and occasionally the two seem to be in sync.

Watching, I can't help but think.

A deteriorating without much of a mind is pretty bothersome to others.

In a dirty trailer in the woods or an expensive, state-of-the-art assisted living facility ... drooling is drooling ... awkwardly sleeping on a sofa on top of someone else facing a blaring television for entertainment has never been under Doctor's orders or recommended by Emily Post.

As common place as it is, it's painful to see.

Knocking on the bedroom door of dirty home on a farm, I tap on the window per his instructions and watch as it takes a full five minutes for him to collect himself to open the front door.

"Hey Micheal!" he beams. "Why can't you visit more? I love our talks!"

So we talk ... about everything ... he remembers the past clearly ... is current on today's events ... wistful over things he'd wished he'd done ... proud of each accomplishment.

"Awe don't leave," he sighs as I stand and hug a body that may as well be slumped over on a sofa drooling.

"I'll be back soon," I smile.

"Please," he says in desperation as I leave bringing on a sadness as I drive away.

Occasionally there are the blessed who go at the same time ... body and mind just quit ... just after dinner with his of wife 52 years and he sits in the recliner to watch "Wheel of Fortune" while the love of his life fixes desert and when she brings it ... he's gone.

I prefer the last way to die but ... damn I'd hate for Sarah to find me that way just after she made me home made Apple Crisp.

I'm noticing it's taking me longer to do things ... cut the grass ... string my guitar ... find my glasses when I'm cussing too much because I can't make the Goddamn screwdriver fit into the screw ... climb out of the car after a drive ... clearly hear something without asking for it to be repeated to make certain I understand.

These things bother me.

I seem to be slowing down and it reminds me that my body may be wearing out.

Sarah will quickly say I no longer take care of myself as I should ... she's like to be in charge.

But I don't mind the way I am enough to take any drastic action ... it's taken me a long time to get to this point ... even in spite of my new deficiencies.

Watching people die mostly makes me grateful for all of the life I have ... the others in my life who make it interesting, bring joy, challenge me, comfort me and shower me in love.

It's not always going to be this way so I'm sure as Hell enjoying right now.

My Dad's last words were, "It was beautiful," and we had no idea what he was talking about.

We'd been joking and he'd been slurring his words and mumbling but, in crazy moment of clarity, "It was beautiful!"

I believe it's a perfect way to sum things up.

When all's said and done ... what I have ... what you have ... what we're not going to always have ... it really is beautiful.

A Thing of Beauty

It's interesting watching people die.

After a while you begin to notice the human body just naturally wears out and starts to shut down.

Sometimes the mind's already gone ... or remains sharp as a tact causing great frustration because the body lags so far behind ... and occasionally the two seem to be in sync.

Watching, I can't help but think.

A deteriorating without much of a mind is pretty bothersome to others.

In a dirty trailer in the woods or an expensive, state-of-the-art assisted living facility ... drooling is drooling ... awkwardly sleeping on a sofa on top of someone else facing a blaring television for entertainment has never been under Doctor's orders or recommended by Emily Post.

As common place as it is, it's painful to see.

Knocking on the bedroom door of dirty home on a farm, I tap on the window per his instructions and watch as it takes a full five minutes for him to collect himself to open the front door.

"Hey Micheal!" he beams. "Why can't you visit more? I love our talks!"

So we talk ... about everything ... he remembers the past clearly ... is current on today's events ... wistful over things he'd wished he'd done ... proud of each accomplishment.

"Awe don't leave," he sighs as I stand and hug a body that may as well be slumped over on a sofa drooling.

"I'll be back soon," I smile.

"Please," he says in desperation as I leave bringing on a sadness as I drive away.

Occasionally there are the blessed who go at the same time ... body and mind just quit ... just after dinner with his wife 52 years and he sits in the recliner to watch "Wheel of Fortune" while the love of his life fixes desert and when she brings it ... he's gone.

I prefer the last way to die but ... damn I'd hate for Sarah to find me that way just after she made me home made Apple Crisp.

I'm noticing it's taking me longer to do things ... cut the grass ... string my guitar ... find my glasses when I'm cussing too much because I can't make the Goddamn screwdriver fit into the screw ... climb out of the car after a drive ... clearly hear something without asking for it to be repeated to make certain I understand.

These things bother me.

I seem to be slowing down and it reminds me that my body may be wearing out.

Sarah will quickly say I no longer take care of myself as I should ... she's like to be in charge.

But I don't mind the way I am enough to take any drastic action ... it's taken me a long time to get to this point ... even in spite of my new deficiencies.

Watching people die mostly makes me grateful for all of the life I have ... the others in my life who make it interesting, bring joy, challenge me, comfort me and shower me in love.

It's not always going to be this way so I'm sure as Hell enjoying right now.

My Dad's last words were, "It was beautiful," and we had no idea what he was talking about.

We'd been joking and he'd been slurring his words and mumbling but, in crazy moment of clarity, "It was beautiful!"

I believe it's a perfect way to sum things up.

When all's said and done ... what I have ... what you have ... what we're not going to always have ... it really is beautiful.

Checks and Balances

As the sun commences it's descent, the dinner dishes are put away, Sarah props her feet on the sofa and rubs our baby and the girls busy themselves with whatever girls do, I make my way to the Beach for an Ocean swim.

Shuffling my feet through the cool soft sand, I marvel at the giant purple clouds hanging in the sky, stars on the water from distant boats and channel buoys as the Sea settles down for the night.

At the high water mark I place my glass of wine in the sand, lay my I-Pod on top along with my cap and sunglasses and slide into the salt water.

Slumbering waves softly roll in taking me up and tenderly letting me down.

I turn my back to the island and the mainland behind it ... the telephone poles and satellite dishes ... politics and nightly news ... organized religion and reality TV ... criminals and police cars lying in wait for victims ... noise.

The Ocean bubbles and slaps ... ebbs and flows ... rises and falls.

A pod of Dolphins smile as they slice through the water.

A pelican dives into an unsuspecting school of fish grabbing dinner.

Stingray swim by in the same V formation pelicans fly pass overhead.

I am baptized in the same Holiness where God spawned life in the first place.

Remaining in the water, I lose track of time ... it could be an hour ... perhaps just ten minutes ... "with the Lord a day is a thousand years and a thousand years but a day."

Slowly making my way out, I grab the wine, put my hat on and shuffle through the sand to one of the swings on the beach and resume prayers.

I love this time.

So when the old man waves at me with a smile, shuffling his feet quickly towards me, I groan at the interruption.

He is Indian, old with the nicest of smiles without a single tooth in his mouth. A red smudge adorns a dark brown forehead.

"Hi," I mumble being nice pulling the buds from my ears just as Brian Wilson is reminding me "Guess you had to be there."

"How tall you are?" he smiles. Tell me."

"What?"

Holding one hand above my head, he repeats, "How tall you are?"

"Oh! Five feet ten."

"Hand me your phone," he toothlessly grins in an infectious sort of way so I hand him my phone and he calculates standing on the beach.

"You are overweight," he beams. "This is what you should weigh," and he hands me my phone flashing a ridiculously low number.

I scowl.

"But," he smile, "you have all of your teeth. I have none."

"Checks and balances," I think.

"Okay," he smiles and shuffles away in the soft sand.

"Only on Tybee," I mutter, grinning a toothy grin.

Catching Magic

Sometimes in life, you're part of something special and, if you're lucky or blessed, you know it as it's happening.

There's not a single Sunday that passes, when at least for a second or two, I don't remember Jeff Street.

It was the first time I was part of magic and, once something so Holy touches you, well ... you never forget.

Jefferson Street runs through the middle of downtown Louisville, Kentucky where, in those days, housing projects and homeless people lined the road ... the stench of slaughter rose from the Stockyard ... and the banks of Ohio River was a garbage dump.

In a building called a Church, with Bars on the windows to keep people out ... so homeless people slept in the dumpster in the gated parking lot ... or huddled in the doorway on frigid winter mornings ... I was a lost 22 year old Seminary student inexplicably hired by the Baptists to be the minister.

I wasn't much of pastor but I was cocky as Hell, had a heart for people sleeping in dumpsters and little old ladies who still believed in God in spite of the horrors they were living through.

"We can change the world," I said.

I don't know why ... or how ... but others believed too ... Bill Berry ... Claude Drouet ... Beth Bell ... Diane Reel ... Sonny Broughten ... Chester Fawbush ... Pouche ... Mitch Wesley ... and my little boy Jeremy ... my little girl Kristen.

And maybe God believed too because, for a little while anyway, we did change the world.

It's hard to recognize when it's happening, you're too busy living life ... changing diapers, going to class and washing dishes to make money ... but the moment it's over ... you know.

You know because you ... miss it.

But you never forget it.

I've been to lots of Churches since then ... frequent one in a Bar now ... but what I'm really doing is trying to recapture the magic of what happened then ... when for a little while anyway ... the Kingdom came on earth as it is in Heaven ... and we did change the world.

My Salty Life

Growing up, whenever I got a scrap or cut ...

say by slamming on the brakes and flying off my bicycle because Gene Prevatt, Robert Mixon and I sped away from stealing all the fire extinguishers out of the wire factory in Port Wentworth ...

and I saw my Mom driving towards us so I hit the brakes so she's knows it's Gene and Robert and not me ...

my Dad believed the best remedy was to throw me in the Ocean.

"Salt Water cures everything," he'd say driving us to Tybee Island.

He and Mom would have alone time sitting in the car parked down front as Angie, David and I hit the beach.

Dad's gone now but he sure left me things to love and I love salt water.

It swims through my veins ... sticks to my skin ... falls from my eyes when my heart fills or breaks ... soothes my feet when they're sore ... seasons every pot I put on the stove ... kills ants ... heals my wounds faster ... makes things taste better and ... brings me luck when I throw a pinch over my shoulder.

It's impossible to hate salt water.

We were in Key West recently and the pools are all chlorinated salt water which, of course, I prefer over the bland stuff.

It's the time of year when, after the dinner dishes are put away and the girls are busy being girls and Sarah's got her feet up on the sofa rubbing Che in her belly, I make the short trek to the Sea.

Laying the glass of wine on the Beach, placing my I-Pod and hat on it so the Ocean breeze doesn't blow it over, my body slides in the salt water and there's a peace that passes all understanding.

Out of the Sea all life came.

It sure is nice to go back to be reborn on a consistent basis.

"You are the salt of the earth," Jesus says. "Don't hide it."

Monty's Flag

In full disclosure, Gene Prevatt, Robert Mixon and I stole the flag out of every classroom and the auditorium/lunchroom in the Port Wentworth Elementary School.

Bored on a Sunday after Church we're innocently checking to see if any windows are open at the school we'll attend on Monday.

We're suave six graders ... we know everything.

Low and behold, one window's not locked, we shimmy inside and have the whole school to ourselves without Mr. Eiler or one single teacher to tell us "No."

After the initial rush of "HEY MAN! LOOK WHAT WE DID!" we wonder what to do next.

I'm uncertain who had the idea, though I clearly remember it wasn't me, but we take the American Flag from every single classroom and the lunchroom/auditorium so no one can say the "Pledge of Allegiance" after "The Lord's Prayer" thereby suspending school from happening on Monday.

It's the middle 1960s and American Flags are hot commodities because people are burning them in protest of the Vietnam War, wearing them, using them for album covers (a'la Jefferson Airplane) and using them for blankets at rock festivals.

Monday morning at school's a riot when Mr. Eiler lead us through "The Lord's Prayer" and calls for students to face the flag with our hands over our hearts. 

I don't remember if Gene Prevatt or Robert Mixon laughed first but it was one of them as a couple of hundred 1-6 graders turn in circles with hands over their chests looking for something to salute.

It's Wednesday before the cops knock on Robert Mixon's door and find his room decorated with American Flags ... he gave one to his brother and sold the rest for $5 a pop ... big money in the 1960s.

Robert Mixon immediately confesses that Gene Prevatt and I made him do it with wild threats to beat him up if he didn't comply ... he was in fear for his life or otherwise wouldn't have been part of such a blatant disregard of love of country.

Gene Prevatt is questioned in his room with his mother looking on and calmly replies, "I was here the whole time studying my Sunday School lesson and practicing my sword drill ... shaved two seconds off Proverbs."

At my house, Dad says, "Of course he did it."

So when Monty Parks sends a text asking if I'm on island, I immediately respond to my friend asking "Why?"

"I'm in the ditch down from your house," he replies.

Now Monty Parks is both a musician and an elected official ... the man has serious issues ... I figure he's in bad trouble, wrecked his truck in the ditch speeding to a committee meeting and is drowning as the tide's coming in because he has a history of almost drowning ... both on his boat looking for Shark teeth and politically.

Doing what any good friend does I say, "Shit!" and drive half a block because it's too hot to walk.

Monty Parks is fine.

He's surrounded by good looking women sweating and cleaning trash from the ditch cause ... God knows ... good public servants like trashy sweaty women.

"Look at this," he says when I stop in the middle of the street blocking traffic,  roll down the window to stay cool and shake my head because it's a false alarm.

Monty holds up an American Flag still on the pole someone threw in the ditch.

"It was Robert Mixon," I immediately confess.

"What?" he asks.

"Could have been Gene Prevatt," I nod getting out the car, further blocking traffic.

"Can you believe this?" Monty Parks says holding the mud caked American Flag.

"Bastards," I say snapping his picture.

That's it.

Vote for Monty if you're going to vote.

And if you need a flag I bet Robert Mixon still has a couple.

A Dearly Loved Friend

Sometimes your past comes crashing into your present reality and it always goes one of two ways.

(1) "I AM SO SCREWED!"

(2) "Well, isn't this special."

Thankfully it was the later.

At the Acoustic Jam at Doc's Bar I'm pretty mesmerized by Ricky Stokes flying fingers making magic on a guitar ... Chris Desa dripping beauty from his strings ... Clark Byron singing like the Angel he is ... Holly Campbell bringing new life to old rockers and Monty Park's acting as a benevolent jester orchestrating joy.

I love this time.

It's happiness far away from whatever's ailing you and, for a moment anyway in a collection of wonderful support, you are the Rock Star you really are.

It's all just so great but ... strolling in after an 8 hour drive from Richmond, Virginia is Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one).

"HEY EVERYBODY!" I yell as Gregory Bell viciously attacks a Simon and Garfunkel tune, "THIS IS MY MATE BILL BERRY!"

In unison they reply, "You're not the former drummer for REM are you?"

Bill smiles, doesn't say anything while waving and sipping his beer.

Like me, he is older ... bigger ... weathered and worn with more scars than I remember ... but it's my friend.

We go way back and share incredible things no one else will ever touch try as they may to understand.

Ah, the adventures ... jumping a fence to break into Bertesgarden (Hitler's private retreat) ... him throwing me over the wall of Gethsemane with me landing on two Monks who'd taken vows of silence which they immediately break ... hitching a ride on a British tour bus at Auschwitz in Poland and walking out at night with no way back ... busted in Cuba because he forgets to give me letter from the US authorizing our visit.

I could go on.

Later, at home, Sarah wonders how true these stories are.

A staunch vegetarian, one night we're drunk in Berlin and I have to pee. Bill takes the opportunity to order a fish sandwich with cheese in McDonald's of all places ... when I exit the bathroom he's preparing to take a bite ... one hand above his head ... mouth open ... grease and cheese dripping.

"NNNOOOO," I scream rushing across the room, tackling him, ending in a twisted pile on the floor in front of German customers but ... somehow ... the fish sandwich with cheese remains in his hand ... so he looks at me ... and takes a bite.

The German authorities throw us out.

"Yeah," Bill grimaces to Sarah, "haven't had a fish sandwich since."

My wife groans and shakes her head.

Friends are one of God's greatest gifts.

Old friends ... lifelong ones ... those who shared adventures and secrets ... the ones who go for long periods without seeing each other ... even communicating ... but remain closer than brothers or sisters because they are ... well ... a Hell of a gift from God!

Most people don't have one.

I am so blessed.

Bill's here to be with Sarah and the girls, who he desperately wants to know ... he already loves them ... because I do ... and he loves me.

"You think we ever gonna do anything again?" he asks as we swim in the Ocean early in the morning, under massive purple and blue cloud formations over a flat, glassy Sea.

"At least one," I say.

Of course it could be when he does my funeral or I do his ... either way we'd enjoy it at the expense of the other.

But it'll probably be sitting on the Beach ... or around a fire on a farm outside of Richmond ... with our wives and our kids ... expanding the deep love good friends can share.

Bill's gone now but Sarah home and we've just got a weekend full of celebration planned with no real agenda.

Whatever happens happens and we'll enjoy it.

I learned how to do that a long time ago from Bill Berry ... and while he may not be the drummer from REM ... he remains my dearly loved friend.

And when you're blessed in life with a friend such as this, it's good from time to time to stop and say, "Thanks."

The Rolling Stone Interview: Micheal Elliott

In the past, Micheal Elliott had it all! Sex, drugs and rock-and-roll! But he crashed and burned. Today he lives quietly on Tybee Island, his home for 30 years, with his wife Sarah and a steady diet of ... sex, drugs and rock-and-roll ... that all seems wetter now than during, what he refers to, as "The Dry Period."

We caught up with the now reclusive Micheal lying in a Hammock in Key West, Florida for a short but un-insightful conversation.

"First Question: Why are you in Key West when this is an interview about your life on Tybee Island after you crashed and burned?"

Hey man! What's your problem with Key West? Are you homophobic? The only real difference between the two islands is here it's mostly gay guys and on Tybee it's mostly Lesbians but ... if you've a problem with either then this interview's over.

"Uh, no ... actually I'm gay ... er ... so no ... I'm wondering why you live on an island and vacation on another island?"

Oh! Let me ask you this ... you been to Disney World? A vacation mecca right? And they make man made islands full of crap like shipwrecks and castles with overpriced restaurants on them. Why would I want that when I can have the real thing?

"You mean wrecks and overpriced restaurants?"

Well ... yeah ... but no ... not at all ... I'm talking about the real thing man ... staying in touch with reality.

"So what is reality to you these days?"

That's a good question Dude ... I have no idea.

"None?"

Well ... my wife's pregnant and is hotter than Hell's ever been! ... I cut the grass but didn't weed whack in protest of Tybee Island's oppressive policies concerning grass ... I meant to go to the beach yesterday but the girls taught me a new card game ... Hook and Foot ... it's a lot of fun ... oh year! ... we watched "Dirty Grandpa" the other night ... IT SUCKS A BIG ONE but ... it represents the island the way local leaders want it to be.

"Yeah, what a suck ass movie! All the beauty of Tybee Island and ever scene is at the pool of the sleaziest hotel there ... well getting on with the interview ... what are you up to these days?"

Quiet a lot actually! On Tuesday nights I go to Monty Parks Acoustic Jam at Doc's and try to choose things to sing that aren't love songs from the 70's ... on Sunday's I lead Bar Church and try to choose sermons no other minister would ever consider ... I go to work on weekdays to help the living die ... and I kiss Sarah's belly a lot.

"Um ... why do you kiss Sarah's belly a lot?"

We're having a baby man! Clare Hope Elliott ... gonna call her "Che" ... it's like killing two birds with one stone ... I'm kissing my wife and our baby at the same time!

"That is pretty efficient ... harkening back to your days as a famous public figure."

Yeah well, now I'm a pretty famous private figure which is why no one knows what I'm up to.

"Is it true that you write a blog most days ... post something really beautiful and spiritual for Tybee Bar Church ... then something really crass for Benny's?"

Who?

"Benny's"

No man ... that's not me! I've seen his work! The Dude's pretty funny ... the reason is everybody on Tybee is too damn serious these days ... they take themselves so damn serious ... but that Dude is funny.

"But it's not you?"

Never met him.

"Okay last question ... I've never interviewed anyone laying naked in a hammock before ... have you ever been interviewed naked in a hammock before?"

Oh yeah, Sarah's forever walking out to ask me why I did this or didn't do that.

"Alright ... well there you are folks ... Micheal Elliott today ... famous private figure. 

Chasing the Garden of Eden

"You still trying to find the perfect place?" he laughs while breathing deeply into his Nebulizer.

"Isn't that the goal?" I reply.

"Hell son," he laughs, "perfection is wherever we make it.

"Is it now?"

He laughs and nods while sucking the white smoke in and out.

"Hell no!" he coughs, "I'm in this God damned place, sucking on this machine, coping feels from nurses, wondering how much time I got left."

"Which Nurses?"

He laughs sending him into another fit of coughing.

"Your problem," he continues after several deep drags from the machine, "is you live in the freaking Garden of Eden and you vacation in another Garden of Eden."

"What is your point?" I ask.

Coughing out laugher behind a layer of Holy Smoke he shakes his head and says, "You're incorrigible ... and you're selfish too."

"Selfish?"

"Yeah selfish! And you've put on weight."

"Don't go changing subject," I chide.

He laughs continuing to suck from the machine before continuing, "It's gonna cause you heart and back problems."

"Going to the Garden of Eden?"

One hand emerges from the Holy Smoke giving me the finger like Moses parting the Red Sea.

"Okay so I live on an island," I explain, "and love other islands, believing that God got it right the first time with tiny islands and should have stopped then before going on and making continents. So what if I live in the Garden of Eden ... why would I choose to vacation at some lesser place than another Garden?"

"Aren't you bored watching me do a breathing treatment?" he asks as the Holy Smoke dissipates.

"Not really," I grin.

"Oh," he sighs.

"Well you brought my vacation choice up," I reply leaning forward, "not me."

A knock on the door interrupts the conversation and a Nurse smiles as she walks in.

"You can go now," he smiles at me.

"Jesus," I laugh standing up.

"Exactly," he grins as the Nurse touches his arm, "you work for him ... not me. Why don't you go do something useful for your company, which is screwed up by the way, I'm not even sure Jesus himself could fix it."

"Next time," I grin giving him a hug.

"Later," he says. "Get out."

This Dying Night

A faint greyness climbs out of the Ocean against the backdrop of black that is the night.

Stars begin a westward retreat.

There is no Sea breeze and the silhouettes of the Palm Trees stand in quiet attention.

A lone bird sings, "Morning has broken."

All is calm ... the greyness is turning bright.

It's 5 am and I'm sitting naked on the Beloved Back Deck with my feet propped on my writing table underneath a red umbrella in a chair with extra pillows covered by a blue beach towel.

"Hey Goddess," I say to our dog snoring under the table, "Here comes the Sun."

When I can't sleep, stumble outside on the deck and Goddess always follows to make certain I don't do anything stupid.

A car roars down the street and I hear the thud of a newspaper hitting the ground.

Nothing's bothering me ... my eyes just popped open at 5 am and, according to Sarah, I kept her up the other night tossing and turning because ... allegedly ... I had too much wine ... and I don't want to risk the wrath of my beautiful pregnant wife ... so here I sit.

I don't mind.

It's actually quite stunning witnessing the labor pains of a new day's birth ... the quiet is deafening ... tranquility leaves tingles and I rub my bare shoulders.

My thoughts are interrupted as Goddess paws the sliding glass doors telling me it's time to come back inside.

Stumbling back to bed, I hold sleeping Sarah grateful for the last delicious morsels of this dying night.

When the Holy Spirit Breezes through

I don't know ... sometimes the stars really do align ... the sun shines directly upon you in just the right way or the Holy Spirit really does breeze through.

That was yesterday's Bar Church.

After it was over, I showered to wash off the smoke, swam twice in the water but the aroma of God's presence remains.

Honestly, I drug myself to the service, having driven from Fort Lauderdale the day before after a week away and I just wanted Sunday to myself.

But I didn't want to let anyone down.

I'd missed the previous week and, while I know things were great without me, something inside moved me to go.

It wasn't an elaborately planned service.

John the Conga player didn't show ... Bob Fulton's air conditioner broke and that kept him home ... others who wander in to share their gifts were led to other places.

None of it mattered ... I believe things happen the way they're supposed to ... if we're open to it.

Lona was there with her sound system and full of excitement of two weeks of new things to share.

Gordo and the lovely Jamie stumble in with harmonicas and Bloody Mary's.

And I brought my guitar.

Mrs. Bobbie, Mary, Sam Sahr, Steve, and others filled the Pool Table with a feast fit for a Queen.

Then the Spirit blew in a congregation from the four corners of the world, dressed in every imaginable way but sharing a readiness for something special.

"I fell down, down, down in a dark lonely hole," the service begins, "there was no one to care about me any more ..."

And every damn person in the room cares.

From that moment until we knocked on Heaven's Door, it were as if tongues of fire descended from above.

I've been in and out of Bar Church almost from the beginning ... outside of Sam Adams and Gordo who founded it, I was the first outside speaker ... then Sarah and I were in the Band ... then we were kicked out ... before I'm invited back to lead things after Sam Adams left.

In that time I've watched people come and go ... great musicians lead us to the Promised Land ... wonderful speakers ... touching moments ... and shared tears.

I've also seen anger over meaningless things ... hurt feelings when none were intended ... shitty attitudes ... idolatry of a past that's never coming back ... and apathy.

I've never experienced a collection of people so ready to share, give, sing, dance and celebrate. Everything we threw at them, they caught, internalized, loved and shot right back.

We come hoping against hope God would come too.

Yesterday God did.

Holy Shit! Bar Church has never been like that!

It was a Communion of the Saints without a plan.

Maybe God had it planned.

I don't know.

But today, I still tingle from Bar Church yesterday.

Straightening Out The Christians

"Alright, you straighten out the Christians today," Frank says as I stand to leave.

"What?" I ask stopping dead in my tracks leaving the Breakfast Club where I have coffee every morning.

"Yeah," one of the cooks agrees. "They need serious help."

"Well how in the Hell am I supposed to do that?"

They shrug their shoulders and look the other way.

"Novices," I mutter stumbling outside where the rest of the staff enjoy a last cigarette or text before opening for the long line already formed by the front door.

At 6:50 in the morning Butler Ave, Tybee Island's main drag, is already as filled as most American Main Streets on a hopping Saturday night.

Sleepy couples barely clad in clothing carry sandy blankets and "empties" from the Beach where they either watched the sun rise or made love in the Sand Dunes throughout the night.

Cop cars line the street in front of "Sunrise" where crime is fought over breakfast.

Stairs and stoops are occupied with bleary eyed men and women with 3 miles stares, thoughtfully smoking and pouring something in Styrofoam Coffee Cups to make it stronger.

The Baptist Preacher's already parked in front of Chapel by the Sea ... Catholics say rosaries in St. Michaels before Mass ... the Methodists are sleeping in ... well dressed Episcopalians straighten out the manicured pine straw under the Palm Trees ... and the Bar Church crowd are wondering where the night went.

"Straighten out the Christians my ass," I mutter driving home listening to "School's Out" by Alice Cooper loudly playing with one hand hanging out the open window and the other catching the wind through the sun roof.

"Christians can't save Christians! That's why they try to save everybody else."

A lady with a map in spread over the steering wheel of the car she's driving waves me to a stop as I pass her on 12th Street.

I turn Alice down.

"Can you tell me where the Lighthouse is?" she asks as her husband looks embarrassed in the passenger seat.

"Sure," I explain for the thousandth time since I've called Tybee home. "Go straight down Jones till you come to a red light. Take a left. Go to the next red light and take a right. When you come to a dead end, take a left then take your first right. Go around the curve and look up. Look to the left. Don't look to the right or you'll miss it."

"Well that's what we did," she replies confused.

Having done my best, I turn Alice back up and drive home.

After kissing Sarah's sleeping head, the dogs and I meander to the Beloved Back Deck where I can't get the words, "straight is the path and narrow the way" out of my head.

It's from Hank Williams magnificent Bar Church song, "I saw the Light" which we do with regularity.

"Wait a minute!' I say out loud sitting up to Google "straight is the path and narrow the way."

Sure enough! It's in the Bible!

Matthew 7:14 ... "Straight is the path and narrow the way that leads to life ... only a few find it."

"Only a few?" I ask out loud.

The Baptists, Catholics, late starting Methodists and emasculate Episcopalians will have decent size crowds by island standards.

After brunch on the Pool tables, Bar Church takes the "where two or three are gathered in his name" pretty serious.

I'm pretty relieved by the whole "only a few find it" part of the Bible because that means it's not my job to save everybody.

It's theirs. 

The Things that are coming

If sleeping is practice for dying, as it's been said, it makes me wonder.

Sleep "is a rehearsal for the final laying down of arms, of course, when you trust yourself to the same unseen benevolence to see you through the dark and to wake you when the time comes --- with new hope, new strength --- into the return again of light" (Frederick Buechner).

Sarah will be the first to tell you when I first fall asleep I'm "deader than a door nail."

Three little girls watching Netflix, the Tybee Island Weather Warning System or the constant droning of televangelists asking for money can't wake me.

I am gone from this world to ... I don't know ... but even Sarah's sweet caresses and kisses can't raise me from the dead state I'm in but ... eventually ... I come back.

Sometimes I watch people actually die and it really is a lot like falling asleep ... it just takes a lot longer because this time there's no waking up so ... nobody's in a hurry.

Last night, snuggled tightly with my wife, I relentlessly dreamed, one after another as though waves in the Ocean hitting the shore.

They were full of people long deceased and still living, relics of the past and places I've never been, things I've actually done and others I'd never consider, impossible circumstances and improbable realities.

Some were in black and white while others were in color.

Some were silent dreams as if words are unnecessary while one clearly contained the voice of my Grandmother singing "Precious Memories" holding me in her arms.

At one point, I have to pee and don't want to get up ... I'm really enjoying these dreams ... but my body calls me back to the demands of the living so I unwrap myself from Sarah and stumble to the bathroom.

"Well if sleeping is the rehearsal for dying," I think standing their hoping my aim is true, "I wonder if dreams are previews of coming attractions?"

What comes next will not be confined by current realities but will be an inclusive something or another where we easily move between the living and the dead, renew things we've loved and embrace new loves we've never tried with improbable people in impossible ways.

Stumbling back to bed, it strikes me how much I like these thoughts.

Re-entwining myself with Sarah, I try to fall back asleep as soon as I can, ready to dream and to practice for the things that are coming.

Not Yet

For my birthday I got ... more killings.

Police officers shoot people.

People shoot police officers.

"There will be wars and rumors of wars ... these things will happen ... but the end is not yet."

It's pretty shitty news to wake up to on one's birthday.

It all started nicely enough with the sun bubbling out of the Gulf of Mexico, creeping out of bed so Sarah and the girls can sleep, stumbling into the sand in bare feet to get coffee and taking my seat on the tiny deck under the Palm Trees.

Opening my tiny computer, I find the cards Sarah and the girls left and they warm my heart and make me cry joyful tears.

I stream music from a playlist my son Jeremy made for me and am thankful for how much I have in my life.

A giant green and blue Iguana meanders up, nods his head wishing me "Happy Birthday" too.

It's a damn nice start.

Then I see the latest news of "Us" against "Them" and am again saddened of how we have become such a divided nation ... where there is a Party of the "Right" opposed by a Party of the "Wrong" ... and lives of color matter more than the colorless ... and everyone feels justified at the expense of everyone else.

Strolling down to the water, I feel of the cool refreshing salt water and am baptized in the incredible yellow glow of the rising sun.

Looking down, the Iguana has brought friends to my party and they follow as I peak inside to check on my sleeping girls.

"But the end is not yet," the Bible says, "regardless of the wars and the rumors" ...  of the killing of the "Us" and the "Them" ... of senseless deaths regardless of color ... and the mindless dogma of "Right" and "Wrong."

The End is not yet.

And a breeze blows from somewhere out in the Ocean, rippling the water of the Gulf, making the Palm Trees dance and cooling me in a tingly, salty delight.

My friends the Iguana scurry away, leaving me alone with these things on this, my birthday.

Goodbye Micheal

"Well I guess you had to be there ... it was a Hell of a ride!"

Yep, on my last day as a 50 something year old, I have to admit my, "lines were blurry and hurried but it felt like the stars had aligned."

My fiftieth birthday was a massive party thrown by people I worked with and attended by lots claiming to love me but I don't think I'm friends with any of them now.

Tomorrow is a quiet affair riding with the woman I love ... and two of our girls who'll want to listen to really bad music (honestly it's not music at all ... bad poetry about sex layered over computer generated bass and drums loops ... but they're kids ... what do they know?)

In 2006 I was on top of the Corporate world having taken a local non-profit to unheard of heights, I was a nationally recognized leader, relentlessly traveled the world and could do anything I want.

Now I write a blog, lead Church in a Bar and help people live until the moment they die.

Then everyone wanted me and I had to flee to find time alone.

These days, aside from going to work, Bar Church and the Tuesday Night Acoustic jam at Doc's, I rarely make it out of the front yard.

I was the epitome of good shape then but now find my Dad left me his gut in some obscure part of his will (of course it didn't help that, like Forest Gump, one day I just stopped running).

The last thing on my mind were kids and now I have a gazillion with Baby Che on the way!

There were lots of unexpected, and unwanted surprises in ten years but, when all's said and done, the best and most precious is Sarah, bursting out of a past she had no business leaving to shower me in love like I've never known.

Some things I wish hadn't have happened but I wouldn't change anything now.

All those people who loved me left but I learned who're my friends, picked up a couple of new ones and reclaimed a few old ones.

My friend Joey Finch and I commiserated the other morning about turning 60 and we're both sort of shocked it's happening but ... what the Hell! ... Here we are!

And we're sure glad to be here because it's great where we are but we're more excited to where we're going next.

So goodbye 50 year old Micheal!

You pale in comparison to what's happening now and the stuff getting ready to hit the fan!

Right Joey?

Right Sarah?

Vacation Rules

You're not supposed to think about work on vacation yet here I am ... watching a beautiful sunrise on a beautiful Key West morning.

Colorful hammocks lay still as there's only the slightest breeze.

Finches and Hummingbirds dart through Tropical vegetation.

A couple sits on the floating dock holding hands with their toes splashing in the Gulf of Mexico.

Our Lesbian neighbors slide open their doors, wish me a cheerful "Good Morning" before passionately kissing and a hot morning gets hotter.

I'm sitting with my bare feet on a Palm Tree, hair in a pony tail, wearing as close to nothing as I can, wondering how one of my patients is doing.

Inside of my brain I envision Sarah getting on to me. "Stop thinking about that! You're on vacation! You need a break!"

And she's right of course ... but working with the dying keeps things really alive ... and as a Chaplain for Compassionate Care Hospice I'm sending him prayers, good Karma and wishes for the best of luck.

He finds himself "suddenly single" in his 90s'.

His family either died or went home to their own lives and he's alone ... well, except for us ... and I'm on vacation.

I've been "suddenly single" when abandonment and betrayal crashed down, a home became a house and my only companion was Goddess, the dog.

Honestly she would have taken the dog too but didn't have the room.

I've never been so hurt and lost.

But then a group of people who really love me, led by Sarah, came in a raised Lazarus from the dead so here I sit in Key West with tanned feet against a Palm Tree watching the sun rise and full of concern about my "patient."

I mean according to HIPAA he's my "patient".

In reality he's my friend and perilously close to being "family."

I'm tempted to text my zealously compassionate colleagues to see how he's doing but that would breaking the rules of vacation ... besides ... Sarah's typically right on such things.

So as a "man of faith" I have to rely on prayer, good Karma and best wishes this morning.

Plus the excellent team I'm part of back home.

It's hard ass work but I've learned that if I don't take care of myself, I ain't worth a damn taking care of anybody else.

When you see my wife ... tell her I said that.