Cupcake

You never forget your first time.

My first Sunday as the Pastor ... and I use the term loosely ... of Bar Church at Benny's Tybee Tavern, it was Cupcake who let me inside.

Gospel music's blasting from the computer generated Jukebox and she's dancing with a mop in the cleaning up the beer stained Bar. Spying me, she runs over, gives me a hug, orders me to sit down and listen ... to something that's incredibly meaningful to her ... but not so much to me.

When the song was over, she hugs me, crying wetly in my ear, "This is gonna be great!"

That's all I remember about the first time I was the minister-of-the-day.

In the coming weeks, it's the same.

I burst in lugging equipment to set up the stage, Cupcake's mopping, dancing and singing to some Gospel song blasting from everywhere.

A cigarette dangles from her mouth.

"Listen to this," she admonishes, and I do though I'm not a Gospel song sort of minister, and the she hugs me and tells me it's gonna be great.

I'm not so sure how great it was.

The band's me on an acoustic guitar and Davy pounding away on a full drum kit.

A month or so later, Davy's work takes him to Florida for weeks on end and some Sunday's it's just me.

Lona Crask feels sorry for me so grabs her guitar to join me.

John Iacovini follows suit and for the better part of a year, it's the three of us ... four when Davy's on island.

Somewhere in these early days, I'm summoned to meet with the owner of the Benny's to work out the arrangement for Church to be in his Bar.

It's intense, because Benny's all business and he and Sam Adams, the founder of Bar Church had worked everything else, but Sam's gone and I'm sitting there as he lets me know what's what.

But here's what happened.

As Benny tells me he's ready for me to come in, Cupcake leaves her broom at the bar, rushes over asking if she can come too.

Surprised, Benny says it's okay.

Throughout the meeting, Benny's giving it to me ... and I'm intense back ... Cupcake sits beside me, praying with her hands held to her chin ... whimpering and silently talking to God ... and making grunts and sounds.

Occasionally we can hear her call Jesus by name.

Benny's telling me how things are going to be, or I challenge some point and Cupcake, still praying with hands held, makes guttural noises ... "Ummmph!" ... "Ooohhh!"

As we get louder, she uses words ... "Jesus!" ... Lord Almighty!"

She completes one sentence ... "Dear God please don't strike us with lightning."

As Benny and I struggle, it's impossible to not stop whatever it is we're saying  to watch Cupcake.

She's all prayer ... sweating ... crying ... moaning ... with an occasional cuss word thrown in.

We continue to play point/counter point.

Finally, Cupcake explodes.

"JESUS!" she exclaims standing up with tears streaming down her face, "I love you Benny and I love you Micheal and I love Bar Church and this is all going to work out!"

Benny stammers, "I love you too."

I remain silent.

"Can we pray?" Debbie says, standing from her chair to kneel on the floor between Benny and me.

Placing one hand on his knee and the other on mine, she prays.

"Lord Jesus, make this work out. Thank you. Amen."

And she leaves.

Benny looks at me.

I look at Benny.

"Well, there you go," he says.

And it works out.

One year later, Cupcake dies and Bar Church hosts it's first funeral and it was one Hell of an affair!

Sam Adams returns ... Benny throws a party ...  we throw rose pedals in the Ocean off the 17th Street Crosswalk ... while everyone acknowledges, while God may have blessed Bar Church ... it was through Cupcake that he did so ... every bit as solid as the Angel Gabriel telling Mary she's pregnant.

Afterwards musicians came from everywhere and Bar Church began the evolution to what it is today.

Without Cupcake, the strange mixture of Church and Benny's eventually comes to an end.

I still see her there, crying, dancing, singing and smoking while dancing with a mop, cleaning away the stains and sins of the night before so the new day starts clean and fresh.

And now Bar Church is off to a clean and fresh new start, I can hear Cupcake praying on our behalf, "Lord Jesus, make this all work out. Amen."

Thanks Cupcake!

Happy New Year Everyone!

Enjoy your New Beginning!

My Christmas Relic

The oldest relic I have of my past is a Christmas ornament.

It is a piece of cut out wood, painted white, black with a bit of green on a bow tie wreath of Snoopy wearing a Cheshire smile sitting on top of a snow man.

I recall sitting at the kitchen table with my brother David and sister Angie while my Mom emptied a box of woodcuts, brushes and tiny plastic tins of paints.

"Choose one," she instructs.

There are only four but I spy Snoopy and snatch him before they have a chance.

I have no idea how old I was but remember being a huge Charlie Brown fan ... well, not really Charlie Brown ... but a Snoopy fan!

That dog was crazy ... kissing Lucy on the lips then getting sick as she complained she'd kissed a dog ... fighting the Red Baron in the bloody red skies over Germany ... entering his dog house in the Christmas decorating contest and winning!

Snoopy was "Joe Cool" as far as I was concerned and somehow through the decades, through each move, marriage, countless trees, storage boxes and caretakers, he's somehow stayed with me.

The other night Sarah pulls out our downsized boxes of decorations and there's Snoopy welcoming me back to my childhood.

We were not a family that painted, assembled puzzles or played together so I have no idea what possessed my Mom to buy the woodcut ornaments but I'm glad she did.

We were a family that got by somehow ... the lights were never cut off as far as I remember ... we ate every night ... I had a bicycle, baseball glove and Basketball.

Every day after school we played outside until 6:00 when my Dad had supper ready and we ate together, then we were strongly encouraged to go back outside until dark ... when we had to be home.

To this day I absolutely hate it when the Government forces us to spring forward and forsake Daylight Savings Time.

There was a tree every year though I have absolutely no recollection of how it got there, who decorated or what happened to it after Christmas.

On Christmas Day we opened presents then went to my Grandparents house where my Mom's eight brothers and sisters and their children and friends gathered.

"Eat Uncle Larry's turkey," my Dad ordered my brother and me "so we can take our's back home."

Nearly a hundred were gathered so it didn't matter as everything got eaten and there was never anything left.

I can remember a smattering of presents ... a snare drum ... a guitar ... and a bean bag chair ... but whatever else was given out of love or obligation has been long forgotten.

There was one Christmas when some folks visited Mom and Dad when David and I entered the kitchen where they sat wearing our pajamas.

"It's only 4:30," whoever it was exclaimed and you boys are already going to bed?"

Forcing a yawn, I tell him we were tired.

They bellow with laughter but David and I went on to bed and try with everything in us to go to sleep so we could wake up on Christmas.

You every try to go to sleep?

It's impossible!

Church services with cantatas instead of sermons, holiday gatherings at other people's houses and Santa Claus holding court in the middle of the Mall round out my childhood recollections.

Snoopy brings these back to me every year.

I'd be remiss too if I didn't explain Snoopy stayed with me when I became the "Professional Christian" of an inner city Church comprised of 5 little old ladies, homeless people, kids from the project and the radical fringe of three different Seminaries in Louisville, KY.

Each year when Christmas rolled around we gathered around the television in the social hall to watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas" figuring it got the message of the birth of the Savior across far better than anything I could have said.

We ate Dolly Madison Cakes and if you know why then you watched a Charlie Brown Christmas every year too.

We were a funny little congregation.

On the Sunday after "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was on television we had a special worship service where the "Prelude" was the dance music from the show.

You remember ... Dadada Dadada Dudududum!

The thing is every one who could dance, and 3 of the 5 little old ladies certainly couldn't, had to do a step identical to one of the Peanut characters.

Remember?

There was the kid who danced like a walking Zombie!

The other who turned his head from side-to-side, shrugging his shoulders up and down while kicking both legs out at the same time!

One of the twin girls did the happy dance while her sister shook hips, kept both arms straight and down and looked like she was moving heavy pots.

Schroeder tickles the ivories, Pigpen slaps the bass, Snoopy picks the guitar and, I dunno but figure, Linus and Sally snap a mean blanket sounding like drums.

As fun as the start of Church was, and believe me it was fun ... especially if visitors where there ... the climax of the sermon was one of the project kids dressed as a Linus who's dressed like a Shepherd, explaining what Christmas is all about.

"A little more light please," is how he begins.

Then "And there were in the same country Shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone about them, and they were sore afraid ... and the angel said unto them, 'Fear not; for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people ... for unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord ...'"

And Linus shuffles off the stage dragging his blanket ... or in our case a kid from the Projects steals the blanket we'd lent him for the part.

Then ... I got busy being successful ... getting married ... making money ... traveling ... getting divorced ... writing books ... giving speeches ... getting married ... winning awards ... being on national television ... getting divorced ... winning awards for books I'd written ... hobnobbing with rich and famous people ... forever being in hot demand.

Snoopy faded from my life.

The Lord Baby Jesus did too.

So did a lot of other things.

But, every so often, this miracle occurs.

It could be an Angel singing ... I don't know.

But an ornament I painted beside my brother and sister as my Mom did something she never did comes out of the box Sarah's unpacking and ... Snoopy's raised from the dead and childhood memories of Christmas are too.

Or for some reason, I say "Sweet Jesus" and whatever it is that makes me pause to say it doesn't matter because I realize the Lord Baby Jesus has never left my side ... I left his.

Or, I catch the sun bubbling out of the Ocean against a dark purple, blue, yellow sky and it takes my breath away ...

In the dark, lonely night I'm having a bad dream and while still asleep Sarah rolls over and throws her leg on mine and everything's suddenly better ...

or one of my kids whom I haven't spoken with in months calls out of nowhere and it's good ...

Sam Sahr brings Eggnog for everybody for no apparent reason ...

or I come to Bar Church and all of you are here wanting and finding the same things.

Suddenly it's Christmas!

For no apparent reason, other than God loves us and for whatever reason we're lucid enough to recognize it's God giving us love, we rise above our arrogance, stupidity and anger to realize it's Christmas!

Not just now.

Not just tomorrow.

But every day.

Losing Guardian Angel Status

"You gotta stop all this Bar Church shit."

"What?"

"Seriously! You gotta stop! You are killing me!"

"What in God's name are you talking about?"

"Don't you even think about getting cute with me!" she spits.

"Listen," I reply holding up my hand, "isn't Bar Church precisely what Jesus had in mind when he commanded the Disciples go out and ..."

"Just because you went to Seminary," she angrily interrupts, "doesn't mean you know shit!"

Not knowing what else to say, I say, "True."

Taking a long draw from a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon, she chases it with a shot of bourbon with one hand while using the other to cover a pasty white breast with her robe that has fallen off her shoulder.

The pregnant moment of silence that follows is broken by unholiest belch from bowels I've ever heard.

It lasts a good 17 seconds.

"Jesus Christ!" I say, gagging at the smell.

"Don't bring him up," she hisses.

"Okay," I say, holding up my hand. "Why are you here?"

Taking a long draw from her cigarette before pointing the lit end at my chest, she hisses, "You're killing me."

"You're an Angel," I laugh. "I can't kill you."

Another tall boy PBR appears out of nowhere and she drains it, takes two shots of bourbon and completely smokes another cigarette in one angry draw before sighing.

"You know," she thoughtfully explains, "when I became your Guardian Angel, Peter told me it would be tough. He said you'd be a challenge. He even felt sorry for me sometimes and when you almost broke me ... he graciously gave me Jimmy Cochran so I'd feel better about being a Guardian Angel ... but ... you! ... you never stop!"

"What did I do?"

"What haven't you done?"

"What does that mean?"

A joint magically appears out of nowhere and rolling it, she says, "Everything was fine cause Sarah and the girls occupy all your time ... we even give you Che ... how much love does someone need in his life? ... but you can't stand it! ... just when I'm about to receive accommodations for being the first Angel to survive YOU ... you decide to become minister of Bar Church!"

"I didn't want to do it," I say.

"SHUT UP!" my Guardian Angel snaps, downing another tall boy.

We both take a moment.

She downs three more shots and two more joints.

I kiss Sarah who's reading a book on the sofa and check on Che who's asleep in her crib.

Maddie, Laurel and Cass all clamor to ask me something, but over their shoulders I spy my Guardian Angel taping her wrist watch while looking at me, as if to say, "I could fucking kill you right now!"

"What?" I ask after giving each daughter wise council before sitting beside her on the front porch.

"Bar Church is getting too big," she snaps.

"What?"

"You've far exceeded the 'when two or three gather in his name' quota. It's making me look as if I'm no longer needed."

"Really?"

She wipes her eyes before taking the next toke.

"Okay," I say hugging her ... she smells really bad ... "I'll stop giving it so much attention."

"I appreciate it," she cries in my chest, staining my shirt with a brown, leafy substance.

"Great!" I say, "now I have to hide this in the laundry with Che's stuff so Sarah doesn't find it."

"I don't want to loose Guardian Angel status," she smiles. "The perks are to die for."

"That's funny," I laugh.

"Shut up," she snaps.

Tybee Christmas

I don't know who stuck the dead Christmas tree in the sand between the 14th Street crosswalk and the Ocean but it remained up for days as the tides rolled in an out.

Brown with only a few needles it was naked and bare, resembling a wooden tomb on the Beach with Seagulls standing information against the wind.

The day after it was planted, someone took empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, stuck them on the end of a couple of branches and ... something happened.

The following morning the tree was adored with gold garland.

Blue, red and green ornaments mysteriously.

A large white star fell from Heaven landing on the brown dead top stem.

Silver tinsel blew in from somewhere and the suddenly regally clothed branches caught each strand and wore them proudly.

By Christmas Eve it was impossible to tell the tree was dead as it sparkled in the bright sunshine and danced in the Ocean breezes and colorful wrapped boxes spread under it's branches in the sand.

On Christmas morning a solitary figure wearing a kilt played "Amazing Grace" to the tree as others left their homes, vacation rentals, cottages and hotel rooms to watch.

It was the most wonderful island way to remind ourselves of peace on earth and goodwill to men and women.

And no one know who did what to make the miracle happen.

Who lost their mind, taking a dead Christmas Tree to the Beach and planting it in the sand?

Who took their empties and used them to inspire real decorations?

How many contributed to bringing the tree back to life with decorations?

What was in the boxes and why place them there?

Why Bagpipes and how were they heard through the wind to beckon a collection of strangers from far and near to gather on the Beach as in worship?

Christmas on Tybee is quiet, quirky and generous.

The City kicks it off with Chamber of Commerce decorations and a street party, parade, institutional decorations and a real tree bolted to the concrete at the end of Tybrissa Street so the wind doesn't blow it away or it's not stolen. The only thing not decorated are the Stop Signs.

The Island Churches take it from there with formal services, choir cantatas, caroling and a reminder that it's all supposed to be about the birth of a child.

The Bars take over planning celebrations, parties and feasts that culminate on Christmas morning when special Potluck dinners are sponsored for everyone who has nowhere or no one. All the things the Churches talk about take flesh and the body of Christ shows up in multiple places at the same time.

Year round residents remaining on Tybee end the day in clusters of afterglow in the Churches, Bars, hotel rooms, on the Pier or the Beach.

Christmas on Tybee is a crazy tapestry of planned, unplanned, family, singles, religious and not-so-much under a blazing canopy of stars with channel markers underneath floating on the Sea, roaring waves sloppily kissing the shore, Seagulls standing sentry on the Beach all mixed together in a magic gumbo of acceptance in a world increasingly intolerant of most everything.

If you've been on Tybee long enough you may remember that virtually all of the sand dunes between 14th and 6th Streets are built upon discarded Christmas trees.

In days of old, twenty years ago, everyone on Tybee threw their discarded Christmas Trees on the Beach to catch the sand and make dunes. It worked magnificently well and without any Government assistance, the Dunes are now four deep in some places where there once were none.

And every few years, one of them magically appears between the Beach and the 14th Street crosswalk to remind us what Christmas really is on this island.

Dear Lord Baby Jesus

"Do not be afraid ... that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit ..." (Matthew 1:20).

Joseph's having a dream where an Angel's telling him to get married in spite of his doubts.

I've had those kind of dreams before, woke up and figured God wanted me to marry the girl ... so I did ... but it didn't work out.

Three children later ... one boy and two girls ... the marriage ended because the same Angel shows up to tell me about this other girl.

It's the same dream again ... the Angel tells me to marry the girl ... and even though, freshly divorced,  I had doubts ... I did ... and it didn't work out.

She left me to follow a star in the west ... meaning inland ... away from the Ocean ... where mountain people live ... and city dwellers.

I stopped listening to Angels after that.

Like me that first time though, Joseph listened to the Angel and married the girl.

His wife claimed the baby had to be his because she hadn't slept with anyone else.

He had his doubts.

What they both seemed to agree on is the baby came from God.

I know exactly how they felt.

While Sarah clearly claimed the baby's mine, I was in no less shock than Joseph learning I'm gonna be a Dad ... at 60 years of age.

Nevertheless, Joe has a son and I had a baby girl.

Let me tell you something right now!

The most significant part of the Christmas story, for me anyways ... for Joseph too ... and I suspect for a great many others ... are these words:

"That which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit ..."

There is no doubt that every baby born in some form or fashion is conceived by the Holy Spirit.

I sure know our little girl was.

So was Robby and Becky's grandson William.

Our friend Tommy Holland's daughter "Katie"  came out of nowhere too and ... Jesus what a blessing she turned out to be."

"For unto us a child is born," Linus explains to Charlie Brown and everyone who's ever watched knows what's coming next ... from out of nowhere ... in a nowhere land ... in a nowhere place ... salvation is born.

It's funny what we do when confronted with salvation.

Whenever Sarah and I take our two year old out to a restaurant for dinner, it's always fascinating.

You can immediately tell the baby haters from the baby lovers.

The baby haters froth at the mouth should a baby cry in public, as they eat and pay good money to do so, especially if there's ambiance ... because the innocent child is ruining everything.

The poor parents feel awful, ruining everyone else's meal, and take their child out of the room so everyone else can "enjoy" theirs.

Hey ... I've always thought it funny that Church's have special rooms for when a baby cries.

In those Churches where you don't have to check your baby in first ... to the Nursery ... there are these "Preacher first/Baby proof sound rooms" ... and if your baby cries in the middle of a service ... Mom ... maybe Dad but most likely Mom's ... asked to take the infant to a sound proof room with a speaker to hear the sermon and a one way mirror to watch the Preacher.

I always wondered what it would be like if the Lord Baby Jesus listened to one of these pitiful excuses for the word of God and burst out crying ... was taken to the "Preacher first/Baby proof sound room" ... and excluded from the service worshiping ... the Lord Baby Jesus!!

I think that's what happens in most Churches ... and most restaurants ... when it comes to babies ... and Jesus too.

That's why I love the Baby Lord Jesus.

Did you ever see the movie "Talladega Nights"?

Ricky Bobby prays to the "Lord Baby Jesus."

Interrupting the prayer, his wife says, "Hey, you know sweetie, Jesus did grow up. You don't always have to call him baby. It's a bit off and a bit off-putting to pray to a baby".

"Well," Ricky Bobby replies, "I like Christmas Jesus best and I'm saying Grace. When you say grace you can say it to grownup Jesus or teenage Jesus or bearded Jesus or whoever you want.

Ricky Bobby's wife tells him to "do the grace good so that God will let us win ..."

I gotta say I'm with Ricky Bobby on this one.

I like Baby Jesus best.

Grown up Jesus is so messy, demanding and says impossible things for us to live up to.

As far as we know, Baby Jesus never said a word.

It's hard to not love Baby Jesus most.

And, it's hard not to love babies most too.

Unless you're not a Baby lover ... preferring quiet dinners ... uninterrupted living ... never receiving unconditional love with tons of demands and intangible returns on your monetary investments ... but unconditional love nonetheless.

I was almost to the point where I was like Ricky Bobby's wife who continued her interruption of his prayer by saying, "You know what? I want you to say a good Grace so that God will let us win tomorrow."

But God interrupted my universe and gave us Che.

May as well be Baby Jesus as far as I'm concerned.

Saved my ass anyway.

Why did God send his only begotten son so that whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have life everlasting?

To honestly answer the question, you have to start with the Baby ... who never says a word ... while giving unlimited unconditional love ... without ever saying a word ... letting you know the answer is completely on you.

A Very Fine Time

Making our way from the fire pit in the back yard into our living room, the guitars came out and we made music.

Che, our two year old, immediately grabbed her purple instrument taking a seat beside Eric on the sofa.

Our home was full of food and friends.

Laughter and conversation float in the night.

The music begins.

People meander in and out to listen.

Requests are made for favorite songs.

The tipsy talk loudly with fast paced words.

Our girls disappear with their boyfriends.

Che wraps herself in her blanket and drains a bottle listening to the songs.

It's a fine way to start the Thanksgiving celebration.

Of course it was Sarah's idea to make this rental house ours and after the paint, we built a fire pit in the backyard for occasions like this.

A very diverse and eclectic gathering have one thing in common ... each is someone we enjoy. Without us, it's doubtful they would have ever met and I find myself humbled and appreciative it's a night of joy.

Drinks are downed, food is consumed in small clusters of conversation, the fire glows yellow and orange in the darkness and the music blesses everyone.

For the first time in a long time, Sarah and I and the girls are traveling away to celebrate ourselves, our survival, our blessings, the excitement of new beginnings as Maddie soon leaves for College and we enjoy the change that is life.

There is no better way to express thankfulness than to make it with those who bring you joy ... eating, drinking, laughing and making music.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Enjoy everything about it!

Even the tipsy ones who talk about the craziest things ... give thanks for them too ... because everyone needs a little more craziness in this life.

Sunday on a Thursday

Practicing songs for Church on Sunday, my left wrist hurts like Hell, I can't find the right key and the chord changes are beyond my ability.

Cussing, a diminished chord proves too much for my fingers and my voice cracks singing about Angels and second chances.

I could use a visit from my Guardian Angel right now but the house is silent.

Leaning on the guitar, I sigh rubbing my hand.

Tossing two Ibuprofen down my throat, I try again but the wrist aches.

My mind's full of Sunday on this Thursday but my body isn't letting me fully go there.

It's a cold, grey day with a biting wind.

Leaves are violently blown from trees.

Looking through the windows, birds are absent, cars exhaust white smoke and under dressed people rush down the street.

A plastic bag takes flight.

"How could I ever have lost you ... when I loved you?" I sing again but the wrist screams in agony and my voice is hallow and tired.

"Alexis," I command, hanging my guitar on the wall, "play" ... and from a cloud somewhere the music I can't make fills the house with hope of the joy Sunday will bring.
_____________

THIS SUNDAY AT BAR CHURCH ... The Rev's actually ready from the Bible, talking about each verse as he goes and will manage to not preach in the process. There's also be valet attempts at good songs, a Hell of a spread on the Potluck on the Pool Table and the promise of earlier alcohol sales.
_____________

You can help Bar Church keep going with a gift through Go Fund Me at  https://www.gofundme.com/barchurch  through Palpay at tybeebarchurch@gmail.com or by tossing something in the bucket on Sunday morning.

Fake News and Real Faith

Sarah and I are on a rare lunch date, dining outside because the day's so nice, waiting for our food while talking about the girls.

From the corner of my eye, I spy Jim and Cathy wander up, request an outside table and take a seat nearby.

Sarah and I have an abundance of subject material as Maddie, the 17 year old who knows everything ... if you need to know something, it doesn't matter what, and you don't know, just ask Maddie, she knows ... has a boyfriend she loves, has narrowed her college choice down from 110 to 13 and is pretty certain her major is going to be "Reckless spending."

Our vivacious social butterfly Laurel, the 14 year old, is so busy and popular she has a difficult time focusing working things like homework into her schedule. Laurel's always up to something and has already been banned from after school activities for the rest of the year unless accompanied by a parent.

Cassidy, the 12 year old, only comes out of her room to eat, by which I mean wreck the kitchen as she prepares food to take to her room where she will conduct science experiments in dirty empty glasses we'll find weeks later. The only time we dare go in Cassidy's room is to drag her out of bed to go to school ... that's when we find the plates and glasses.

Throughout their lives, all three believed they were only children ... until Che was born.

Now each claim they have one sister while acknowledging the existence of the others through an intense competition to determine who is Che's favorite.

"Who's your favorite sister?" each asks the baby in her own way.

Of course Che has three different answers depending on what she's up to but her most common reply is ... "Daddy."

Sarah's burger and my Flounder sandwich arrive so we dig in continuing our conversation.

Afterwards, we pay the tab and make our way out when Jim smiles broadly and says, "Micheal! We thought that was you."

It's been forever since we've seen one another so I introduce them to Sarah.

"We go way way back," I say and it's true 30 years ago our lives intersected often through work, kids, Church and life on the island that Tybee use to be.

"Let's see," I explain, "Jim's in real estate and ... let's see, what was it? ... Cathy just had surgery but's doing fine ... I just can't remember what she had done."

"Both knees were replaced," she tells Sarah pointing to her legs. "I'm fine now."

"How did you know that?" Jim wonders out loud.

"Facebook," I laugh.

"He keeps up," Sarah explains.

It's true.

"You know all our news," Cathy laughs.

"I know the important stuff," I smile putting my arm around my wife and strolling away.

Growing up we watched Walter Cronkite every night at 6:30 ... my Dad was suspicious of Huntley and Brinkley ... he never said they were gay but in hindsight I believe it's what he thought.

When President Kennedy was assassinated and Cronkite cried on television reporting the News, my Father ... the ex-Marine, twice Prisoner of war and survivor of being shot through the mouth while escaping ... cried right along with him.

After Walter retired and I moved away, I continued getting my news through television at 6:30 becoming a Tom Brokaw man.

Then I fell in love with Jane Pauley.

I was an avid reader of newspapers too and loved spending Sunday afternoons reading "The New York Times," "The Atlanta Journal-Constitution" and "The Savannah Morning News."

When on the road, I loved reading the local newspapers!

For most of my life, I was a news junkie.

Of course when the Internet happened, television news watered down to partisanship and newspapers dwindled into a relic only used by old people who can't adapt to instant everything.

These days we're overwhelmed with what passes for news.

A group of people who may, or may not, be making their way from Central America are a caravan of terrorist sponsored invading hordes ... the latest mass shooting keeping the unbroken string of white male shooters intact ... Democrats regained control of the House of Representatives but Republicans have checkmate retaining the Senate ... as of right now there are no Hurricanes forming.

Honestly, I no longer care about these things ... except the Hurricanes ... I keep up with those.

The rest of it is same as it ever was.

I'm fond of saying, "The news is the same every single day ... only the names, time and date change."

This is the news I care about and follow these days.

How's Chip doing managing his Mom's onset of Alzheimer's? ... what are Jim and Sam Sahr's test results? ... Is Clark doing okay since his Mom died after spending the last five years as her primary caregiver? ... Did Victor do okay with heart surgery? ... Where's John Iacovini going to end up? ... what's Benny going to do now that the Bar can open at 11:00 if he serves food?

What's going on in our girls lives?

Are my kids okay?

Is my wife happy?

That's the real news I'm looking for. the meaningful events that shape my world.

The stuff on television and Internet these days has a fakeness to it and none of it's as true as it's made out to be.

But ... how's my friend Chip? ... is Jim and Jam holding up okay? ... is Clark moving on? ... Is Victor recovering? ... is John ready for the changes? ... will Benny understand Bar Church will help business should he chose to open at 11 on Sunday mornings?

That's real news there!

It's the kind of News God cares about most.

Remembering the Band

"Good Morning!" a jovial Eric Johnson bellows entering the Bar a little after 8:30 on Sunday morning.

He's all smiles lugging his guitar and microphone stands inside Benny's where I'm moving Bar stools and tables to clear the stage to set up the sound system.

"What can I do to help? Eric asks though he already knows I've got the routine down to a science so he busies himself setting up his space.

The door opens as David pulls a speaker on wheels for his bass guitar.

"Good morning," he says with an Impish smile, plugging in at the back of the stage.

Gordo strolls in without speaking, lays a suitcase of harmonicas on the bar, hands over a wireless to connect to the sound system and begins to make ready.

I ask Eric to run through his songs and as he does, I meander around the Bar making sure the sound system's doing it's job.

Monty stumbles in wearing sunglasses, looking like he just woke up, immediately plugs his guitar into the board and plays.

Mary shuffles around the bar making coffee, decorating the Pool tables, arranging food for the Pot Luck, lighting candles before taking her stool at the end of the bar.

Tommy and Margaret rush in carrying a Stratocaster guitar, fiddle, harmonica, Dobro and a speaker which he plus in taking a seat in front of the stage. 

For the next 10 minutes we follows Monty through a Jam until everyone's fully awake, can move our fingers with ease and sing without cracking voices.

Chip opens the door and I instantly start unplugging things because he's bringing a better sound system so, as everyone stands in place, he adds a monitor, replaces the board and plugs everyone back in, including himself as our lead guitarist.

Davy appears out of nowhere playing the drums.

A person or two meander in early for worship, take a seat and listen to practice.

This is my favorite part of Bar Church.

The coming together of musicians and others, each bearing the gift of themselves and their talents to become part of something bigger than who they are individually ... becoming a band ... but more than that, transforming each other into creators of joy.

"Do this in remembrance of me," Jesus asked at the Last Supper, and at Bar Church we do a bit more than remember ... Band members mold themselves into something new ... re-membering themselves into the body of Christ ... with guitars, harmonicas and drums.

There's always a moment when we're starting to come together and part of it's captured in this video.

It's what Holiness looks like being born.

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THIS SUNDAY AT BAR CHURCH!

Are you seriously wondering? It's only Monday.

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My Bookends!

Magic moments that take your breath away.

This is one.

I'm sitting at the dinning room table beside sliding glass doors with an expansive view of a giant yard of fine full trees.

On the other side of the room are two large windows with terrific views of large front yards, again of fine full trees.

Living here gives the impression of almost being being in a cabin in a forest ... though it's not ... but it often seems it.

It's actually a subdivision where the girls walk to school, work's easily accessible, Grocery stores are an option and every conceivable manner of fast food is near.

Salt water marshes, rivers and Palm Trees abound as the end of the mainland is only a couple of miles away. The Beach is minutes away and I'm there often enough. My dress code remains unchanged.

Catching the corner of my eye my wife and my baby kiss on the sofa and I believe it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

They're on the sofa that sits under the two large windows showcasing the front of our home.

Che's sneaking peeks of what's happening outside as she kisses Sarah.

Gypsy the old cat plays with Ollie the young cat while Winston, the Little Gay Dog (LGD) barks on the porch everyone likes to sit on when it rains.

Che loves the outdoors like her ol' man!

Our child's kisses are rare so I stop to really appreciate the wonderfulness of living ... Sarah's so busy working, raising kids and taking care of everyone and the almost two-year-old is taking in everything at once.

It's rarer still I'm on the outside looking in ... like I am now.

Grabbing my phone I snap the picture.

It's one I'll relish the rest of my days.

Maddie, the 17 year old who knows everything (if you need to know something ... doesn't matter what it is ... just ask her) blows in ranting about which college she's applying to next.

Laurel, the 14 year old social butterfly who loves challenging boundaries wants to know what's for dinner?

Cassidy, the 12 year old recluse, thinks we don't see her sneaking more Tupperware to her room for whatever art project she's working on at the moment.

Sarah jumps up to solve their problems.

Che returns to watching her phone ... how does a not quite 2 year old already know how to masterfully navigate an I-phone?

It's all craziness!

And in the midst of it, I completely understand how incredibly blessed I am.

I'm 62 years old and already have wonderful children changing the world like I once did, blessing me with a new son and a new daughter who are giving us grandchildren.

Lot's has gone wrong in my life ... and in spite of a divorce or two ... family is not one of them.

Sarah and Che are my bookends.

Just the two of them are enough!

But I've got so much more in between!

Bar Church Bible Study

1. In the beginning the earth was void and without form. It was dark and wet and thus saith the Lord, "It sucks."

2. And God said, "It needs sun!" and a big yellow ball bubbled out of the Ocean and the water was blue. And God put on sunglasses and said, "Looks good. Nice day!" And where the sun did not shine God called "Night" so that people would have a place to park and make out.

3. And God said, "It needs sky" and since blue is God's favorite color, the sky was blue. And it was dry and the water was wet. And this was the first day and night.

4. And God said, "Needs a beach!" so the water was gathered into the sea and behold, there was sand. And God saw that it was good.

5. And God said, "Need Palm Trees! Mangoes and fruits with seeds!" And it was so. The Palm trees produced coconuts and the other trees produced oranges, lemons, bananas and other fruits to make tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas. And God saw that it was good. And there was a cool evening and  warm sunny morning and that was the third day.

6. And God said, "Needs stars!" And behold, little twinkling lights, appeared at night to make it more romantic. And God said, "Needs a moon so couples can see what they did with their clothes." And it was so. And so the forth day God said, "Looking good."

7. And God said, "Needs fish." And there were fish, dolphins, sharks and for a laugh, jellyfish. And on the beach there were lizards, sand crabs for kids to chase and boiled peanuts. And in the sky there were pelicans and seagulls, And God saw that it was starting to look really cool.

8. And God said, "Needs people" so God created a dude and a babe placing them on the beach. And they strolled hand-in-hand in the surf, enjoying the water, the dolphins, the seagulls, the fruit drinks with tiny umbrellas and the geckos. And when the couple started making out God said, "It is good."

9. And God gave thumbs up and commanded unto them, "Have fun kids! Enjoy! And try not to screw it up."

10. And God saw all that was made and it was very good. So he opened a beer and sat in a beach chair and God said, "I need a day off."

Genesis 1: 1-10

Not a Normal Day

Everything's fine until she realizes I'm leaving her at the Mother's Day Out program.

One tiny hand grabs my shirt ... the other starts hitting my shoulder as she cries, "Daddy! Daddy!"

Handing her to the Teacher, I turn only to stop dead in my tracks as my baby wails, then repeatedly cries, "My Daddy! My Daddy!"

A young Mother dropping off her child, looks at Che and says, "Poor Baby."

Spying me watching from the hall, she frowns and says, "Poor Daddy."

Salt water pours from my eyes as I rush to the car and home to Sarah.

"How was it?" she asks, head down, fingers dancing across the keyboard, behind a pile of books with papers spread across the table.

I tell her.

"You need a hug?" she asks without getting up.

"I'm okay," I say sitting across from her.

And I am in that I know it's time for our almost two year old to broaden her Universe, meet kids her age and slide down bigger slides!

I did it with my kids when I was younger, in a hurry and demanding my own space.

"It's what's best for her," Sarah says.

It is.

But, I'm no longer in a hurry.

Every single day for almost two years, I've spent with Che ... most as her primary care giver while Sarah works to keep me from working anymore ... and I have loved every single second.

Throughout her life, she's in the stroller I constantly pushed around Tybee Island ... hanging out with the Breakfast Club crew before it opens ... chasing seagulls on the beach ... riding my hip as we meander into Benny's for Bar Church business ... watching her sisters paint her toenails ... her mother sing her lullabies before bed.

The four hours she's held captive at Mother's Morning Out is ... excruciating!

"It's so quiet," Sarah sighs.

On a normal day ... like yesterday ... Che and I are on the Beach, playing in the water ... climbing the rocks on the Jetty ... chasing seagulls ... waving at planes flying overhead ... rolling in the sand ... eating the sand ... ducking under rolling waves in my arms.

Che's growing up way too fast for her ol' man.

If it were up to me, I'd live every damn second all over again.

Finishing work, Sarah busies herself with household chores as I wipe my eyes with one hand and type with the other.

We're both counting the minutes until we can get her and celebrate the most unlikeliest of blessings ... in a most unusual blending of family ... in the most compelling love story ... during the most wonderful of times.

The Last Grand Daughter's Dance

My Dad loved being outside ... in the sun ... the smell of the Marsh ... the sounds of the Sea.

When they moved into their dream home, Mom built Dad his own beach ... with truckloads full of sand hauled into the backyard until ... between the St. Augustine grass and the Marsh ... there's a beach.

Billy's Beach.

William Frederick Elliott, aka Billy, was my Dad.

I'm the kid who inherited his love of Ocean ... the pungent aroma of the Marsh ... losing laundry to sit in the Sun ... spying smiling Dolphins ... Beach music ... Beers ... knowing the difference between dirt and sand.

It's difficult coming to terms with the fact Dad's been gone almost a decade now.

We had a crazy relationship as most Fathers and Sons do.

I drove him crazy and he wanted to kill me ... but our love got us through it all ... and at the end of it all ... I was the one he asks, "What do you think I should do Mike?"

"I dunno Dad," I answer, placing my hand on his knee in the dark hospital room with my brother and Mom looking on.

He stares at his hands a long time before replying. "I think I'm ready."

So he moves to Hospice and sure enough he was ready.

Last night ... somehow ... we don't know how ... Sarah, Che and I made it to Mom's house for a party she's having for our friend Bill.

All our teenage girls have different things to do so it's a logistic nightmare NASA would have a hard time solving.

But we make it.

And Che, the only grandchild my Dad never met, can't wait to get outside.

There's a party going on and I'd promised Sarah to not leave her stuck babysitting while I talked about old things from the past, so I take our almost two-year-old daughter outside.

Heading straight to the floating dock, we sit and I hold her as she splashes naked feet in the tidal creek my ol' man loved.

I have to drag her back to the yard.

"Ohh Nooo," she repeats as I force her in the right direction.

Until we hit "Billy's Beach" and she stops.

There's a Life Guard stand Mom had built because ... well it's funny ... and apparently Dad required Life Guards ... and Che runs straight to it ... climbs in a way I've never seen ... and on top ... dances, clapping her hands and laughing.

I'm not sure but I think ... I believe ... Dad met his last granddaughter.

Little Pillars of Faith

It's quite daunting to stand up on Sunday morning, with a crowd gathered and everyone's enjoyed themselves up to now, and it's up to you ... to speak ... on behalf of God.

I mean it's daunting if you take it serious.

Who in their right mind presumes to speak for God?

Okay ... I admit ... politicians, preachers, Newscasters, bankers, masters of business and most everyone involved in the academic community speak for God every day ... telling us there's one way ... theirs.

Crazy zealots, racists, bigots, the mentally ill, the over medicated, the under medicated and all those in search of the right medication tell us they know what God wants from us too ... and they're all crazy!

Just like those who listen to them all are crazy!

There's way too much crazy in the world already without crazy people adding to it.

The truth of the matter is every single day we're overwhelmed by those speaking on God's behalf, shoving their interpretation of truth down our throats.

After six decades, I've finally stopped listening to all of them.

I no longer seek the news ... I let it find me.

What I get comes from Sarah ... the girls ... the kids ... Facebook ... Twitter ... and occasional friends reaching out in old fashion ways for something or another.

Unless a Hurricane's bearing down on me, I don't pay much attention to the headlines any more.

I used to live in headlines but it's like getting high ... you can only stay front page news for a little while ... then you crash ... and have to figure out how to do it again.

It's been a long struggle coming to terms with the fact that I'm not the center of the Universe and the world doesn't revolve around me.

It did for a while.

It cost a great deal more than I got to spend.

And I'm not willing to pay those prices anymore.

There was a time though, I paid it all.

I read everything ... did everything ... picked the righteous battles and fought 'em all ... won more than I lost ... beat everyone, including people I really liked ... some whom I really love ... and stayed on, or near, the front page as a result.

I had the Midas touch.

Everything turned to gold ... the rusty girls I slept with ... the shady successful business people who cut deals ... the politician's promises which are only good the moment they're spoken ... the pontificates of the Preacher which are mostly made up ... and the crazy people who drew me in as one of their own.

It was one Hell of a ride.

I guess you had to be there.

Yet, here I am standing  on a Sunday morning and everyone's waiting  ... on Holiness to hit ... lightning to strike ... Angels to sing (sorry boys) ... the sick to heal ... the lame to walk ... the dead be raised ... for the Kingdom to come on Earth as it is in Heaven.

I don't believe I do that.

In fact, I know I can't.

I know others who believe they can ... but they're not here ... they're out convincing the world they know what God wants everyone to do to make it all perfect ... like it's perfect in Heaven.

In the meantime, it's just me and I'm speaking on behalf of God.

Just like my sources for News is tiny, my faith rest upon little pillars.

The first tiny little pillar is family ... even if you don'e have them anymore ... you remember them ... Parents, Grandparents, Brothers and sisters, and those closer than blood relatives never really go away ... and not a day that passes we don't feel the void they left.

And Sarah and the girls ... and the kids and the craziness of living life with a house full of girls ... AT MY AGE! ... but they're the things I care about most every day.

They bring me the important news of the day ... Maddie and her boyfriend Parks continue to grow closer ... Laurel's so excited about this weeks Homecoming Dance and date with Conner ... Cassidy's going to babysit her sister for the first time tomorrow ... Che speaks new words every day.

This is the news I can use.

It's by far the most important news in my life.

The second tiny pillar is life itself ... I'm still here ... I'm not sure how but I am ... though I'm increasingly mindful that I don't have as many days before me as I do behind ... so they're more precious. Waking up like a kid on Christmas morning, I say to myself, "I have another day! It's all mine!! YEAH!!!!"

So I try my best to enjoy the Hell out of the gift of still being alive ... HERE! ... NOW!! ... WITH MY FAMILY!!! ... and WITH YOU!!!!

The third little part of my foundation is love.

I've done my my very best to love as I've lived and, sure enough, I loved lots of the wrong people ... the wrong things ... the wrong hopes ... and the wrong dreams.

But I loved enough of the right ones too ... which is why I'm so happy to be here now ... because it's the things I love ... and that love me back ... that make living worthwhile.

Last, my geography continues to shrink.

I no longer have to go and conquer the world.

It can come to me if it wants.

Don't get me wrong, I love to travel and have been fortunate enough to see lots of it and can't wait for all the places Sarah and I are discovering but ... it's far more important who I'm traveling with than where I'm going anymore.

So those are the legs that the stool of my life stand on.

Take away one and the stool falls.

Leave them together and I've got something to stand upon.

But the ground that legs of the stool stand upon ... I believe that's God.

I believe ... I know ... God is somehow responsible ... for me being here at all ... for the people I love the people who love me ... the time I have ... the survival of mistakes ... the forgiveness of my sins which were all self inflicted ... and the chance to stand here in front of you to not speak on God's behalf.

I have nothing to say on God's behalf though I do have something to say to God.

"Thank you Lord for thinking about me ... I'm alive and doing fine."

Taking the Call from the Beach

The Beach called today so I took it.

Yesterday too for that matter.

Che, our 20 month old daughter, and I sail through the marsh in the car, stop at the Breakfast Club for hugs and juice, then ... because the Beach neglected to tell us about the cold front moving through, dragging the temperature all the way down to the mid-80's ... we go to Ally 3 to get out of the wind.

Ally 3 is where Kayaks put in, islanders go to get away from the crowds, sunsets are glorious on the Beach and City Council members walk their dogs.

Che and I enter the warm 84 degree Sea water with a spectacular view of Little Tybee, the mouth of the Ocean, Wilmington Island, abandoned boats run aground and boaters having a good time.

An African-American lady wading in waste deep water is the only other person.

"I'm conducting a Spiritual ceremony," she smiles. "There may be fish and such."

"Cool," I reply.

Ally 3 is a deep drop into the Sea.

Take five steps into the water and you're in over your head.

Che and I spend an hour with her wading into the Ocean as I kneel five baby steps in, so she can fall in my arms before potentially drowning.

We have great fun and laughter erupts consistently.

The Lady pauses her ceremony, holding a red rose she pulls petals off throwing them in the Sea between prayers.

"The joy and laughter you two are casting into these waters," she solemnly proclaims, "is going to infiltrate the entire city of Savannah and there will be peace for the next few days."

Che could care less, rushing out of my arms to the shore so she can do it again.

But I am touched.

"Thank you," I say, salt water welling in my eyes.

"No," she smiles. "Thank you," as she plucks another petal, tossing it into the Ocean while saying another prayer.

You never know when God sends you a blessing.

Today I'm fortunate enough to catch it.
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BAR CHURCH IS SUNDAY! Eric Johnson is singing some sick songs and we're talking about "Healing Thyself!"
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Date Night

Our beloved friend Joey Finch starts it when he suggests, "You should do 'Drag Queen Bingo' on Sunday. It's fun and it's for a good cause."

So Sarah and I head to "Drag Queen Bingo' on a Sunday afternoon and fall in love.

It's exactly what it sounds like ... Drag Queens playing Bingo and everyone else is invited too.

The money goes to charity.

All the prizes are "Gay Porn" related.

It's priceless watching a little old lady scream "BINGO!" sitting at a table full of friends and winning a DVD called, "Packing Meat III."

Next time you're in Key West, do yourself a favor, help out a good cause and enjoy 'Drag Queen Bingo'."

(I'm talking to you Jenny and Santa John Dreggors!)

We haven't been to Key West in a while and my beloved wife's obviously missing it, needing an infusion of Gaiety in our lives ... there's been lots of changes ... so Sarah plans "Date Night" at Club One Jefferson to see the "Bathhouse to Broadway" show.

Tim and Jess get wind it so it becomes "Double Date Night."

Nanci hears about it, invites herself, drives in from Rincon and suddenly we're a "Five-some" ... (Google it).

Club One is Savannah's famous Gay Night Club.

It's quite the late night scene but we're there for a Sunday 7 PM show so the crowd's light.

Receiving two complimentary drinks each with our tickets ... $20/each ... it's a real deal.

Strolling down the staircase into the Bar, a lady in a white tank top ... no bra ... waves, bouncing up and down and smiling over.

"Do you know her" Sarah asks?

"Maybe," I answer as we take our table.

Greasy, cheap food's available ... obviously for the drinking crowd needing sobering up before going home ... so we split burgers.

"You mean there's no avocado salad," an incredulous Nanci asks.

The tables fill and 32 people clap as the show starts.

"Electra" does terrific and funny impersonations of Bette Midler ... and Barry Manilow and Cher ... and works the crowd for all we're worth ... so we tip $1 bills, laughing and singing along.

Throughout his show, our Fivesome's cracks jokes and, for a little while anyway, the pressures and problems of the world are gone as we're baptized in merriment.

Afterwards we hang around until until the Club One staff strips the table tops,  signifying this part of the evening's over.

Jess rushes to take "Selfies" with Electra, now dressed like Elton John.

Climbing the dank staircase to a warm breeze on a Savannah night, no one's ready for the date to end so we meander over to City Market for snacks and afterglow.

We hang out talking, extending the night, people watching, telling stories and enjoying warm Southern breezes under a canopy of stars between buildings built hundreds of years ago.

After walking Nanci back to her car, we make our way home, exchange hugs goodnight and Sarah and I stumble inside.

Che's asleep under babysitter Laurel's watchful eye.

Cassidy's nowhere to be found.

Maddie hasn't even begun to think about coming home on her last free night before school starts.

It was a good date night with good friends, each of us transitioning in life but calling time out, to celebrate where we are at the moment ... and who we're with ... cause none of it last.

That's really what date night is all about.

Who you're with ... and celebrating the now of it while you can.

Not doing Date Nights means wasting damn good time.

Our next one is tomorrow for cheap Cheeseburgers near the water.

Eliminating Homeless Camps

"Homeless camps are on the rise. 50% of encampments have 11-50 residents while 17% have 100+ people" (National Health Care for the Homeless Council).

You can't help but see them and once you do, it's like a bad wreck, you keep looking whenever you drive pass.

The one under the Truman Parkway receives the most attention because it's the most visible ... and it's wretched.

Religious banners and Port-a-lets?

Really?

City officials, the Georgia Department of Transportation, Chamber of Commerce, Business Community, Developers and the Faith Community express outrage, mobilize resources and fail to address the problems of public human squalor in a tourist town.

Religious zealots romanticize it while asking for funds!

Talk about a lovely lady with a dirty face!

Why are there homeless camps when shelters exists for people in need of a roof over their head?

The awful answer is homeless shelters are not designed to end homelessness. They are designed to manage it and for a couple of centuries they did that quite well.

Then homelessness changed but the shelter system didn't.

Shelters are predicated on rules, expectations of self-help, sobriety and mandatory religious expression.

The Salvation Army is a church before it's a shelter and if this point is pressed ... "Do you exist to help the homeless or to convert them" ... the answer is "save their souls."

The same is true for today's Union Mission.

"You never expect it to happen to you until it does," homeless people explain, for the thousandth time, most recently in the Savannah Morning News.

As tragic as it is, the last thing a homeless needs or wants is judgement, cookie-cut rules not applicable to reality, mandated morality and that the one answer is "Jesus."

They've already asked for Jesus' help and they're still homeless.

In response, they've developed a working viable alternative ... shelters without walls ... communities with few rules ... no judgement ... self medication is allowed ... and religion is what a person needs it to be without strict admonishment for lack of adherence.

The new approach is obviously working for the homeless.

Camps are growing like crazy.

The antiquated shelter system continues to demonstrate failure justifying itself with successful exceptions rather than the rule.

There is a solution though it's not an easy one.

It's not rocket science either.

The reason people are homeless is there is a lack of significant social relationships in their lives.

No family, church, best friend, AA Group, support system or, most importantly, health care network to prevent the fall into nothingness.

Current societal structures no longer weave a comprehensive tapestry of anything resembling a safety net.

What's the answer to the growing alternative developed by homeless people themselves, an obvious preferable alternative to Government and Religious responses?

Homeless camps exist because people are building significant social relationships where none exists.

They're helping themselves ... pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps ... and weaving together a tapestry where viable ones don't exist.

The obvious solution to the camps is to help them accomplish what they're doing without us.

The answer starts with health care going to where the sick live rather than demanding they come to the sterile environment Doctors, Nurses, Psychiatrists, Mental Health professionals mandate.

Health care has to move into the camps, becoming a permanent foundation and part of the community building already taking place.

Treatment of health care comes first so better decision making takes place as the community is built.

Physical, mental, domestic and societal health must be met first and the only way to do it is to become part of the community.

The Health Care Profession must reinvent itself by becoming part of, and no separate from, the community it serves.

It's not as radical as it sounds.

Doctors make house calls again ... only this time where in shelters without walls ... "house-less calls" with consistency and discipline the profession requires.

Street Medicine is already an international movement but, sadly one Savannah ... more importantly Chatham County who manages health for the community ... ignores.

Health care must become part of the community building, elevating it to a higher level, which is the ultimate purpose of the discipline in the first place.

The helping professions ... Social Work, Clergy, Teachers, Lawyers ... follow suit.

Jesus himself healed the sick first before other things follow and the community grows stronger as individuals grow healthier.

With the infusion of health, community building's foundation grows into a stronger base as the most basic of ills are addressed enabling stronger decision making and purpose.

Social work, clergy, teachers, lawyers expand the base of personal freedom through decision making empowerment.

The community continues to elevate.

In the ultimate of ironies, housing options come last.

It's only after the homeless person is strong enough in recovery of whatever the ails, has a strong enough support system in place, is capable of contemplating the management of housing, a most arduous task under the best of circumstances as things break, fall apart, neighborhood tensions mount, societal norms are enforced and Governmental regulation overwhelm.

The healthiest of persons has difficulty managing multiple systems simultaneously but one recovering from homelessness ... scared and failed by each helping discipline ... demand the appropriate supports to retain housing once established.

It is a long road to recover but ... not an impossible one.

Making what is real to a homeless person our reality, beginning with health care, followed by the other helping professions, last of which is housing ... is the road map to eliminating homeless camps.

Look At Me

Look at me.

I'm pastoring a Church ... in a Bar ... on an Island ... as part of a band ... without shoes ... pants ... pretense.

It's pretty much me.

"I yam what I yam," Popeye says.

"I am who I am," God explains to Moses (Exodus 3:14).

I should be more dignified at 62 years of age but God Damn I'm having a good time.

And there's nothing wrong with saying "God Damn."

"Thou Shalt Not Take the Lord's Name in vain" ... means don't call yourself a "Believer" ... a "Christian" if that's not who you really are.

God doesn't give a shit about cussing.

God does care who you are ... what you are ... how you are ... if you're happy ... and if you're taking full advantage of the gift of life you're given.

Mine's been a crazy gift but there's little question I'm still taking advantage of it ... with lots more plans for what's left.

Most pictures, we don't like ... 'cause we don't think we look good ... they're bad photos ... or we're a little shocked at ourselves.

But I like this one.

Tommy Hall's singing a song about shaking the dust off the Bible ... I'm playing with David and John on Dave Cahill's Cajon ... cause he's getting coffee in the middle of the service ... which is perfectly acceptable behavior in Bar Church ... and I'm trying to get out of the way so Tommy can sing ... Chip falls in with a lead guitar ... Gordo adds some Harp ... David slaps the bass strings ... John makes love to the skins on the Congas ... so I start to play drum.

Dave spies me as he sips coffee .. whips out his phone ... takes this picture ... sends me a text.

Church goes on and I'm caught up in it, as are several others, as Davy resumes playing drums and the music's elevated into a jam induced by the Holy Spirit so that even the tourists pause passing the open doors to Benny's to see what's happening.

Monty and I end up dancing as we play at the end ... Eric smiles and sings new verses to an old song ... people clap ... smile ... eat ... enjoy and celebrate.

I wish Sarah were here.

She enjoys me being me every bit as much as God does.

And at the Church in the Bar on Sunday, I'm certainly enjoying myself ... caught up in the Holy Spirt ... and Tommy Hall's song ... David bass ... Chip's lead guitar ... Gordo's Harmonicas ... John's skins.

Sometimes ... nowhere near enough ... but every now and then ... the Kingdom comes on Earth as it is in Heaven ... and you just can't get enough of that shit.

That's really what this picture is about.

It's worth way more than a thousand words.

A Morning Gift

On my birthday, I planned to take Che, an even earlier riser than her old man, to the Ocean for a swim as the sun rises.

Alas, the weather does not cooperate.

So this morning, after Breakfast Club coffee because they're up prepping to open and kind enough to let me in, my 20 month old daughter and I make our way to the Beach.

I want to let my wife, who is sweeter and kinder to me than anything I've ever known, sleep late without the squeals of a child or constant "pitter-patter" of tiny feet.

We arrive to God finger painting the sky glorious reds, pinks, purples, blues, blacks and whites ... soon whitewashed away by a fiery red sun bubbling out of the Sea.

Che grabs a gardening shovel from the stroller and writes her own note of thanks to God in some foreign language I do not understand.

Sipping coffee, warm waves break on my feet as I watch the Sun turn yellow, then bright white, casting millions of diamonds on the Ocean.

Che holds up both hands and I lift our baby wading into shoulder deep water.

Tapping the top of my head, she wants me to take off Sarah Elliott's baseball cap I'm wearing and sun glasses to hold her up while I go under.

Submerging, her laughter sinks to my ears. I hold her under the armpit with one hand and my cap and glasses in the other.

Coming up I spit salt water in her face and she laughs before cupping her lips on my chest and blowing air, which makes me laugh.

The Sun continues casting off the blankets of clouds it slept in, as we build a sand castle together.

She mimics my every move, occasionally interrupting construction to stare me directly in the eyes and intensely speak in tongues I do not understand.

Finished, she laughs, hysterically knocking the castle down, just before a wave washes it over.

Latching onto my finger she pulls me down to the sand ... just as her mother once did ... to sit in the surf.

Side by side, we watch people pass, walking or jogging, before she crawls in lap, tells me more things I don't comprehend, then covers my chest in wet sand.

Returning to the Ocean, we watch as an enormous school of Manheden splash atop the surface chased by other fish or plucked by Pelicans circling overhead.

It's a majestic and glorious thing to witness ... standing mere feet away from Dolphins slicing the Sea eating breakfast.

Lapsing into God's time, it could have been a minute or it may have been a thousand years, we are one with the world.

Pointing to the Beach signifying Che's ready for her Mommy so we make our way towards the crosswalk where she puts on her favorite shoes ... clogs that light when she walks, gifted by Marci Reiber ... she walks the entire seven short blocks to our house, taking her sweet time to appreciate and enjoy everything we pass.

Rocks in driveways, Palm fronds, discarded cigarette packs, American Flags planted to prevent parking in someone's yard capture her attention.

She plays hide-and-seek with me behind parked cars, street signs and bushes.

Jim Simmons rolls pass us on his bicycle but circles around to stop for a visit.

Che hides behind the Palm frond she's determined to carry home.

Forty-five minutes after beginning the journey, we arrive home.

"Did you enjoy that?" I ask, carrying her sandy wet body up the stairs.

"Yea, tea," she nods and smiles, pacifier in mouth.

Upstairs I change her, change me, turn on the coffee for Sarah, pour the Orange Juice and wait for the love of my life to meander up and join us.