Eating, Drinking and being Happy

Working late, catching up on lots of things time runs out, I leave unfinished so I can be on time. I don't want to leave but I'm the minister in charge of the evening service downstairs.

I hate Wednesday night Bible study but the five little old ladies who are the "congregation" of the inner city church love it!

I understand their love.

Two live in a senior citizen high rise, one in a run down shotgun house, while the other two share a small home in a slightly better neighborhood. The midweek service breaks them away from the loneliness they call home to be together again at the Church they refuse to let die.

As Pastor, I'm a full time student at the Seminary, part-time as their minister and live in the Church.

The building is a monstrosity, three floors of Sunday School rooms, a social Hall, kitchen, three apartments and a Sanctuary with a baptismal pool that seats 200 but on Wednesday nights perhaps ten gather in a nicely furnished space with sofas and coffee tables.

Making my way from the second floor down to the bottom floor, I hear noises stopping me dead in my tracks.

Located across the street from the projects, surrounded by homeless people sleeping outside, the porno district is only three blocks away and prostitutes are on every corner, the church has bars on the windows to keep people out!

Kids from the projects are forever breaking in because it beats the City park where the basketball rims are missing, the swings have been stolen and gangs gather to fight.

The stairwell is open so I stick my head underneath to find Bruce ... a homeless alcoholic who is my favorite!

From North Carolina, he once worked for Jimmy Swaggart driving a truck, loves country music and tells the story of how third wife tried to kill him with a butcher knife, concluding with, "God, sometimes I sure miss that woman!"

The longest I've ever seen him sober is 72 days.

Quite proud of this accomplishment, he opts to celebrate and has been drunk since.

Under the stairs he sits cross legged cradling a bottle of wine, weeping as he sings, "Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling me home."

When he sings the word "home" he sounds like a wounded wolf far off in the woods ... "Hoooooom."

"Hey Bruce," I say, crawling under the staircase with him. "What you doing?"

He jumps and glazed red eyes look me over before he snickers, "Jesus Christ Rev! You scared the living Hell out of me."

"Apparently not," I laugh.

Bruce starts to cry.

"It's all so fucked up Rev."

"Yeah ..." I agree. "It is."

We're silent for a while before I put my arm around him to say, "Hey listen, Church starts in a minute. The ladies would love to see you. Why don't you come on?"

"Awww," he cries harder, "I can't let them see me like this."

We're silent again.

"Well, we're having Communion tonight," I lie, "but we're out of wine. Can we use yours?

"What?" he asks, clutching the bottle.

"It's for the ladies" I explain.

"Aw, I love the ladies," he sniffles. "Yeah, Hell ... they can have it," and he hands it over.

"Thanks Bruce," I say getting up. "You sure you don't want to come?"

"Naw, I'm just gonna go to sleep," he answers laying down on the floor.

"Alright, I'll check on you later."

Strolling into the Wednesday evening service with the half empty bottle, the ladies are distraught ... "We didn't know it was Communion!"

Now I come from a fine family of drinkers, am one myself and it was simply part of life growing up.

Growing up, if you were pulled over for underage drinking the cops, who knew you and you knew them, would tell you to get your butt home before anything bad happened.

At the same time, I grew up in a Baptist Church that preached if you drank alcohol, you'd go straight to Hell, especially if girls were involved.

There was a creative tension where I grew up.

Drinking was fine as long as you didn't do anything stupid.

In time, I learned what the disease can do to people, spent years helping people enter recovery or opting not to, witnessing incredibly ruthlessness and unfathomable kindness, miraculous resurrections and bittersweet tragedy.

Just last week my friend Jimmie Chambers died.

Some of you may remember Jimmie as he lived on Tybee for a while, often looking like a passed out, white whale washed up under the Pier.

A true miracle of a man, Jimmie outlived himself for decades.

The stories he leaves are many.

An EMS worker tells me he has a delivery so I follow him to the ambulance, the door opens and Jimmie waves from the stretcher.

"Medically, he's dead," I'm told.

"He doesn't look dead," I answer shaking my head.

"Well, he should be," he explains unbuckling Jimmie.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Releasing him to you," he tells me.

"I don't want him" I say.

"We don't either," he responds releasing the patient.

Jimmie stands on wobbly knees, reeking of God knows what, puts his arm around me, burps and asks, "Hey Rev. You got a Bible I can borrow? I could use one about right now."

As the ambulance peels out, Jimmie follows me inside.

Last year, I'm pushing our baby Che in her stroller across the Pier making our way to the bait shop to hang out with Tennessee and Evelyn and watch the sun rise.

"Rev," I hear. "Slow down!"

It's Jimmie, sitting at a picnic table drinking a beer.

"No," I answer, pushing Che faster.

"Fine," he grins, "I'll walk with y'all," and he catches up but, out of breath, puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me to a bench.

"Did you ever find my Bible?" I ask.

"Naw," he laughs. "You should have never lent me your personal Bible. Why'd you do that?"

I shake my head and give Che her bottle.

"Anyway, I just want to say thanks," he says seriously. "You've saved me a thousand times ... wait a minute! ... is that a baby?"

Jimmie was a master carpenter but, like a lot of  not very observant person, unless he needs a drink then he knew where and how to find one.

"Meet my daughter Che," I say.

Jimmie burps in disbelief.

Che giggles.

I could go on. I've been blessed with lots of people in my life who drank too much and some, though by no means all, died too young.

In that respect, I'm also blessed with those who didn't drink at all, or barely at all, who died too early or are still around.

Medically, there may be rhyme or reason to it, but not theologically, which is the point of Ecclesiastes in the Bible.

You can't figure out good and bad in life, Koholeth (the Preacher) argues. Stupid people are rich and the wisest live in poverty ... mean men live forever it seems while good women die young ... and no matter what you do, everybody dies.

So, "as you make your way in life, eat your food with joy, and drink wine with a good heart, for God accepts who you are" (Ecclesiastes 9:7).

That's the Good News of the Gospel!

Your life may be good or it may be so damn bad you can't help but cry, but either way you're going to die but that's not the point!

It's just the reality of living ... it comes to an end.

So, God says, eat ... drink ... and be merry ... or have fun in your life!

Enjoy it as best you can because it's a gift from God ... you life ... and there's going to be good and bad in it ... but do your very best to enjoy everything as best you can!

Don't get too smug when things are going great ... and don't beat yourself up when things are terrible ... it's life ... and it's the most incredible gift from God ... so the key is to enjoy it the very best you can!

Don't go too crazy enjoying things, the Bible goes on to say ... remember to be nice to others while you're being nice to yourself ... and God so loves you he gave his only son that if you remember you won't die while you're living but have this crazy, wonderful life that's celebrated.

So ... I'd like to take a moment to raise a toast.

Here's to you Bruce ... thank you for the wine that night ... the ladies loved it after I told them what had happened ... and I never did see you sober again after those 72 days ... but I heard you were happy walking across the bridge that night you fell into the Ohio River and ... I don't know but I believe ... you're in Heaven working part time as the wine steward every time they have the Lord's Supper.

Here's to you Jimmie Chambers ... thank you for letting me be one of the many witnesses who watched you raise himself from the dead ... again and again AND AGAIN ... if cats do indeed have nine lives you put every one to shame and leave them envious as Hell and, again ... I don't know but I believe ... you're in Heaven fixing things that break when you're sober and singing off key with choirs of Angels when you're not.

And here's to each of you today ... thank you for taking some time to worship with me ... in a way that works for us though it may not for others ... I know lots of your stories, the good and the bad that's happened ... and you know mine too ... and here we are making a congregation in a bar ... and, I don't know but I believe ... we're the kind of church you meant when it began all those years ago and because of it, Heaven comes on earth for a little bit at least on Sunday mornings here.

Finally, here's to you God ... thank you for this gift of life! ... These gifts of life! ... thank you for coming down from Heaven to hang out in the back room during Church and in our hearts during the week ... and, I don't know but I believe ... you're just getting us ready for the next gift after we're done celebrating this one.

The end of it all is this last raising of the glass and to say, in the words of our dear Saint Gordo, SALUTE!

Amen!

Exorcism and me

I know all about Exorcism because in 1973 my girlfriend and I went to the Lucas Theater and saw "The Exorcist."

You can say what you want, "The Exorcist" is the scariest damn movie ever made.

Forget about "The Shining", "Halloween", "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre." "The Silence of the Lambs," and even "Jaws" ... they're not as scary.

If you've never seen it, or don't believe in the Devil (who happens to be the star of the movie though he never makes an appearance) ... it's so easy to watch it on your television or phone tonight ... and I'll do my best to stay up and take your call when you can't sleep and need someone to assure you everything's gonna be alright.

This is what Billy Graham said about "The Exorcist."

"There is a power of evil in the film," the world's greatest televangelist said, "in the fabric of the film itself."

Oh man! If you can scare Billy Graham, you can scare anybody!

It's based on the true story of two Jesuit Priests in St. Louis performing an Exorcism on 12 year old Ronald Hunkeler, who's bed shakes as he yells obscenities in a guttural voice unlike his own, with markings on his body spelling words and urinating on the service.

That's scary enough but the movie takes it to a different level with turning heads, green vomit, the sexual use of a Crucifix and ... the deaths of the two Priests ... one beaten by Satan ... and the other ... well ... may have killed a Demon with himself.

Let me tell you, when I held my girlfriend that night ... thoughts of teenage sex were not involved.

I was a religious kids growing up, a crazy combination of Southern Baptist and rock-n-roll, mini-skirts and Church youth camps, sexual revolution and teenage hormones ... Richard Nixon in the Oval office and a poster of Raquel Welch on my bedroom wall.

I was doomed to be easy pickings for Satan.

"The Exorcist" just let me know how serious it all was.

By the time I got to Seminary I had lots of questions about exorcism.

Unfortunately the Professors weren't interested in answering any of them because they're indoctrinating me with anti-sex, anti-gay, anti-dancing, anti-drinking, anti-tobacco, anti-women ... pretty much they're against everything.

I even learned it's a sin to put amaretto in cake!!

It wasn't long before the only thing I cared about excommunicating myself from was them!

So, I hired a woman to be the Associate Pastor at our Church ... got heavily involved in helping people with AIDS ... was quoted in the paper saying "Homosexual the most Christian person I know" ... chewed tobacco ... drank rum-and-coke in Hebrew class (it greatly helps pronunciation) ... kid-napped a woman professor once ... had a lot of sex and ... put amaretto in the cake.

In no time at all they excommunicated themselves from my life.

I didn't have to do anything except ... be myself.

{Okay, I can't tell that true story without telling this one ... a few years later, the Baptists call to ask if I'll attend one of their conventions and give a speech titled, "A Baptist's Response to AIDS."

"What you asking me?" I ask.

"Well," he hemmed, "you are Baptist and ... you have one."

HAHAHA ... nobody every said Baptists aren't funny!}

Through the years though I've learned about excommunication ... and it's nowhere near as bad as I thought.

The other day, Sarah and I are fighting through conversation like all people in love sometimes do ... when we got married she brought baggage and I brought baggage ... and none of our baggage matches ... and sometimes we have to point that out ... and it's one of those times.

She brings up my past and I bring up hers and I say, "You know, there have been some bad people in my life who did bad things to me ... even when I was trying to love them ... especially when I was doing my best to love them."

She stops and gives me the intense concentration only she does through crazy aqua-blue eyes.

"I can name my Demons," I softly continue and name them."

Sarah nods because she knows.

"Whenever they pop into my head," I continue, "I excommunicate them."

They were friends, co-workers and a wife ... and each hurt me horribly.

If you've seen "The Exorcist", read the book or actually been to an excommunication ... it's not easy to do.

The big scene in "The Exorcist" is the ... exorcism.

Oh man, it is scary stuff!

Demons don't easily leave.

Their mark stays on you.

I can show you their scars ... they're all right here ... on my heart.

Of course if you ever talk to my Demons, they'll likely explain that I'm the evil one.

That's what makes excommunication so damn hard.

Sometimes you're not really certain who the Demon is.

You can never really come to terms with the fact that you did everything you knew how to do, in the best ways you knew at the time, to show them how much you loved them.

Demons, though, are not about love.

They're anti-love ... kinda like the Baptists.

So not matter what ... it's your fault.

But, here's how excommunication works.

If you know in your heart you gave it your very best ... loved as much as you were capable at the time ... carried them when they couldn't, or wouldn't, carry you ... kindness was taken advantage of and your love you gave them was rejected.

You have to let them go.

Keeping them and the memories of failure, hurt and rejection eat away at the time, energy and love needed to live fully in the present.

You cast them out of your life.

If it makes you feel better you can do it with a prayer they'll learn to accept love without manipulating it ... a wish of good luck or the hope good karma replaces the bad.

But that's really for you more than it is for them.

You can also say, "God bless their tiny little black hearts" and give 'em right back to Satan himself.

Whichever works.

The important thing is to get bad people out of your life and replace them with good ones.

And you don't have to be nice about it either. Take off your flip-flops and shake their dust from your being ... is how Jesus put it.

It's not as easy as it seems because you never really get over or forget the hurt they inflicted on you ... and they're good at visiting in night time dreams, day light memories or silly reminders.

Sarah seems to understand when I tell her, "I'm excommunicating them," and Lord knows she's the biggest reason my life has, and is, continuing to move on in new and better directions.

A few moments later, I kiss her cheek.

The movie ends with the once Demon possessed girl is leaving for a new place to live when she passes a Priest and is moved to kiss him on the cheek.

She has no memory of the Demon who'd possessed her but something of the two Priests who gave their lives so that she could live again is now part of who she's become.

The final step of exorcism is showing love for who loves you while deliberately walking away from those who don't ... and never looking back.

White heads and Black heads

I remember the night Martin Luther King was shot.

I was 12.

My Dad flies inside the house like a madman, scared out of his wits, talking about rioting in the streets, tossing a pamphlet on the kitchen table, hugging Mom.

He's so loud I can't concentrate on Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C., the television show I, and a majority of Americans are watching.

Dad's a former Marine, loves Gomer like I do, so I can't figure out why he's not watching.

Walking the eight steps from the television to the kitchen table, I pick up the pamphlet and read about the three greatest men who've ever lived ... Jesus in black and white ... Abraham Lincoln in black and white ... and Martin Luther King in color.

I find that funny now but there's nothing to laugh about on Thursday, April 4, 1968.

I recall not having any particular problems the three greatest men who ever lived but, then, I would have placed John Lennon in Abraham Lincoln's slot.

I was, and am, a tremendous fan of the Beatles.

That's all I remember about that night.

Sometime that year though ... I'm at Mercer Middle School for a dance.

Mom and Dad are chaperons.

There's a record player in the Gym and white kids dance on one side of the room while black kids are on the other.

Occasionally we cross the imaginary line and talk to each other.

Sammy Childs and I cross it.

"Hey man," he smiles ... Sammy has his infectious smile ... on a black face with white heads ... and I'm a white kids with black heads ... "you people can't dance."

"Yes I can," I counter.

"Well you can," he says flashing the infectious smile, "but they can't."

I look at what he sees.

"Yeah, they can't," I agree.

Later I'm the one crossing the imaginary line to ask a girl in a purple saffron dress to dance.

We're surrounded by her friends, all black, Sammy smiling, and to this day, I see her black face flash the whitest of smiles, take my hand and we dance, on the other side of the imaginary line.

The following Monday I'm beaten up for dancing with a black girl.

Years later I remember ... sitting in the office Martin Luther King once called his, staring at his stuff ... meeting his wife alone in a hallway of the Ebeneezer Baptist Church ... hanging out with Will D. Campbell who was there the night Dr. King was shot and wrote the preface of my first book ... conquering the racial divide until resentment erupts and the beloved community collapses on top of a dream.

On this day there are parades, sermons, cookouts, white racism, black-on-black murder and white kids from Kentucky wearing "Make America Great Again" baseball caps and Native Americans called racists by Black Hebrew Israelite's.

I've come to believe that Martin Luther King Day in the United States will soon be like Pearl Harbor Day ... except for those who were there ... no one will care.

The Last Page

"WHAT?" I hear her scream.

"No, NO NOOOOO!!!!" she continues from the apartment next door.

I smile.

"Where is it? Where is it?" she asks, rummaging around the chair I know she's sitting in, picking up the books from her desk and then throwing something against the wall.

Sitting on the sofa in my apartment, I hear everything through walls as thin as toilet paper, on the top floor of the Inner City complex we call home.

Shifting my position on couch, I wait and giggle when she pounds on my door.

"Come in," I sweetly call. "It's unlocked."

It's unlocked because there are three apartments on the third floor of the Church building we live in, and there are three heavy steel locked doors to unlock before reaching our paradise.

Kicking the door open, she rushes in huffing and puffing ... red faced with shoulder length red hair, the angry look of a serial killer ... which is hard with the smattering of freckles on her face ... she's barefoot, wearing a blouse as white as an Angel's robe and skin tight blue jeans that'd make Satan proud.

"What have you done with it?" she demands.

"What?" I innocently ask.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about!" she hisses.

"That's no way for a Seminary student to ..."

"Shut the Hell Up!" she snaps. "Where is it?"

"You can't just storm in here accusing me of something I have no idea about," I calmly offer.

She angrily huffs but finds no words.

In silence I explain, "I'm literally sitting her studying my Sunday School lesson," holding up the monthly pamphlet I've taken from the unused thousands the Baptists send us every month ... except for five ... studied by the five little old ladies who actually attend class.

"Don't give me that shit," she yells knocking the religious indoctrination from my hand.

Standing, I place a hand on her shoulder, saying, "You want to have prayer or something?"

"I was finished!" she stammers, "but the last page of the book I'm reading ... that I have to read ... AND FINISH ... is missing."

"Really?" I ask full of pastoral concern. "I don't know anything about that."

"It was you!" she snaps, sticking a pointed finger in my chest.

"I swear on a Bible," I say with a grin, "I didn't ..."

"I HATE YOU!" she screams leaving and slamming the door behind her.

Tossing the Sunday School book in the trash, I collapse on the sofa laughing.

Of course it was me.

Knowing how important the assignment is to first year Seminarian, it means the Second Coming occurs if she doesn't complete the assignment, I'd sneak into her apartment and ripped the last page out of her book.

Later she tells me it's one of those books where you learn everything on the last page.

Who knew?

A couple of days later, when I can't take the sound of her crying any longer, I stroll inside her apartment, retrieve her Bible, flip through the pages until I find what she's looking for ... where I'd stuck it for safe keeping ... figuring she'd never look for it there ... and hand her the last page.

Tremendous relief flushes her face but she composes herself before hissing, "I will get you back."

Cindy goes on to complete the assignment on time, gets an "A" and moves into another apartment as soon as possible.

Seminary will test you in lots more ways than spiritually.

The last page ...

Over coffee the other morning, I'm scanning the news on my laptop while Che eats a bowl of colored rainbows, hearts, stars and clovers from her Mom's box of "Lucky Charms" and find a story about a man I admire, who's shocked many by suddenly retiring.

He wasn't expecting it.

I like this guy and am surprised by the decision to end his career.

He's younger than me and am surprised at his explanation.

"This isn't how I thought it'd end. I would have another ending but we don't get to write the last page."

My mind races through all the endings I didn't write.

High School threw me out before I was done so I certainly didn't write that ending.

My parents took a cue from my former teachers and followed suit so I went to College where after five years they threw me out too ... along with my wife and son.

That's when God calls me to go to Seminary where it took the far longer for them to write my ending and I got a Masters of Divinity, a Masters of Social Work and a court order to not return.

My marriage ended poorly followed by another that ended worse and when a Judge is the author of the last page it's never a good finale.

I had a killer career until it almost killed me and, though I'd have never written that ending, thank God it's over.

There's more but you get the gist, we're not the authors of the end of much anything.

It's funny really because we're the author of most everything about how we live.

The other day I visited a dying lady and this is what happened.

The sun's setting in her brown eyes as the the green oxygen tank hisses and puffs air through the tube into her nose.

Holding her hand I ask if we can pray.

Light flashes in her eyes from the setting sun as she moves her mouth but no word escapes so, ever so slightly, she nods.

On her behalf, I thank God for the gift of her life, her joys and sorrows, good times and bad, everything that went right and for surviving the things that didn't.

Opening my eyes, the brown setting sun is focused on mine and she nods, cracking a crooked smile as her eyes close.

The green tank hisses pushing air inside her lungs offering the gift of tidying up any unresolved issues as she lets go of this life and embraces God's next gift."

I was the one who said the words of her last prayer uttered as she lay in bed with the Hospice Nurse hovering near and her significant other having a beer in the kitchen with a friend.

I'm pretty sure it's not the way she would have written her end.

I know that's not how I want the last page of my life written.

But here's the thing ... as certainly as life has an end, death marks a new beginning.

None of us know what's next but a lot of us sure as Hell believe there's more.

"For God so loves the world," Sunday School books teach us, 'that if you believe" ... there's more! ... is how I'd translate it.

As the sun was setting in the dying woman's eyes, as I opened mine from saying her prayer, she was laser focused as though I'd said something that didn't need saying or that she couldn't believe I'd said it for her.

Then she closed her eyes and with the hissing help of the green tank she lives on.

Those of you who know me know Frederick Buencher is my favorite author and has written thirty-six books.

I proudly own first editions of each.

Not long ago I was working on something and dug out one the wise old Saint wrote in 1970 and, to my horror, the last page was ripped out and missing.

"WHAT?" I exclaim!

Flipping through it I find an inscription on the inside cover, apparently penned on my 25th birthday.

To Mike

Happy 1/4 of a Century! If the next 25 years enlighten you as much as the past 25 years has, I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you all over again at 50 --- "a grey bearded caring pastor who ... you finish it!"

Love in Christ,

Cindy

"Well, I'll be damned," I laugh holding the book.

The book remains and life goes on way after the next 25 years in Cindy's inscription.

If anything, it's just getting started with Sarah, Che, the girls and the kids and this marvelous collection of crazy people making up Bar Church!

And just as Benny had killed Bar Church a couple of weeks ago, let here we are! ... still worshiping in a Bar ... and one with far more love.

And come to think of it, I really can't tell if the sun was setting, or is rising, in the dying woman's eyes.

Screw 'em! Let's worship!

They tried to kill us you know.

It's the principalities we wrestle against ... the powers that be ... the rulers of darkness in the world ... the spiritual wickedness in high places (Ephesians 6:12).

It wasn't Benny or Rose who tried to shut us down. They were merely making sound business decisions reflecting the culture of the times.

They simply believe more money's made on Sundays if brunch and alcohol are served without Church service when the Bar opens.

You can't fault their logic.

The last thing anybody wants when they're drinking is having religion shoved in their face while they're nursing a cold one.

On Sunday's people look for a good time with others ... a laugh or two ... some good ol' fashion fellowship and, well God knows, you can't have that with Church going on!

And let's be honest ... Church music isn't the kind of sounds joyful gatherings are built around!

Church songs are about "standing in the need of prayer" ... "Jesus softly and tenderly calling us home" ... "Onward Christian Soldiers" ... none of these songs inspire drinking.

They're bad for business because Church doesn't add to the bottom line.

Worship should be confined to stained glass buildings where it belongs, not in bars or where people actually live their lives.

So in a pure business decision, it was decided Bar Church had to go.

Benny's was ready.

Bar Church? ... not so much.

We've just gotten started.

It's fun!

So here we are!

And it brings worship where people are and prefer to be.

Thank you to Jennifer Knox for giving this strange brew of faith a home.

This is how it happened.

After last Sunday's service, we were homeless as the year ended, having packed all our worldly possessions into mine and Davy's cars.

It's the Christmas season and everyone's celebrating and that's a terrible time to look for a place ... though thinking about it ... isn't that what Joseph and Mary were doing at Christmas? ... looking for a place so Jesus would come?

On the day after Christmas, I ride over to Monty's to get the lay of the land. He gives me wise council so I strike out to ... well ... strike out.

The first place I contact to house Bar Church doesn't return my calls.

The second place meets with me but with suspicion. As a matter of fact, I did all the talking. The only words he said were, "I'll get back to you."

I meander to The Sand Bar but the doors are locked and, while Jennifer and I are Facebook friends, I don't have her number so ... I go home.

Driving, I say a prayer ... "Lord, why did you send me to Monty's first? I could already be home by now."

Once home, I message Jennifer and, this is what happened.

I make the very attractive pitch ... "We're a homeless Church. You got any room in the Inn?"

This was the response ...  "Hi! Wow! I'm so glad that you reached out to me! God is very much a part of our life, and we would love to discuss this further."

We set a time and I call Monty to attend the meeting because he made me leave my house for no apparent reason so I figure it's time for pay back.

Monty, Jennifer and Pam are waiting when I stroll in ... giving a clear indication that Bar Church never starts right on time.

Monty's drinking a beer.

That's a good sign.

The four of us collect in front of the bar and I make the pitch again ... "We're a homeless Church at Christmastime. You got any room in the Inn?"

Monty shakes his head, takes a swig, looks at me rolling his eyes, and without using words says, "That's the best you can do?"

Then Jennifer speaks.

She's not feeling well. Her eyes are red and puffy and she's given us the sideways "I'm sick" hug and can't touch you which is often "I don't really want to hug you so I'm pretending I'm sick."

Truth is she is sick and growing more ill.

"I was sitting with a new five year lease spread out in front of my asking God what I should do," she explains, "when your message came."

I lean forward.

Monty puts his beer on the bar.

Jennifer says, "It's like God's saying, 'This is what you should do.'"

Her eyes are moist as she speaks.

Salt water wells in mine.

Monty takes another swig, wipes his mouth with a shirt sleeve and waits for the rest.

So I get all business like and tell Jenn everything Bar Church can does ... they'll be crowd of 20 to 60 each week ... who mostly clean up after themselves ... many of whom will order as soon as the Bar's open ... either because the Bar's open or the preaching sucks ... and there's Live Music ... a Potluck on the Pool table ... and a congregation like you've never seen before."

Monty drains his beer.

Jennifer says, "I think God's answering my question."

A couple of tears make their way down my face and ... I know ... this deal is done.

God has spoken.

And ... here we are in a place every bit as Holy as the stable Joseph found for Mary to give birth ... with Shepherds and Wise guys ... and Angels high enough to sing from up there ... and God smiling down on the gift of his only begotten son.

So that if we just believe ... concludes St. John and as Bob Marley says ... every little thing's gonna be alright.

I'm fond of saying, and believe Eli Wiesel right when he said, "God's greatest gift is the chance to start over."

We are being born again.

I'm sure  powers that be ... the rulers of darkness in the world ... the spiritual wickedness in high places ... aren't happy about!

But you know what?

Screw them!

Let's worship!

Not A Bad Way To Start the New Year

Sipping coffee in the glow of the white lights of the Christmas Tree, the house is quiet and dark as Sarah sleeps in our bed and Che slumbers in her crib.

In the middle of the night, worst fears and bad dreams come to life, so I've wandered in both bedrooms to make certain the loves of my life are breathing.

Maddie, Laurel and Cass are elsewhere on this predawn New Years Day, celebrating the future as only teenagers can.

Sickness has been a constant visitor in our home, touching each member of our family, passing back and forth between the girls and after a month, I suppose it's my turn.

At 2:10 I can no longer sleep because of exploding sinuses and after an hour of positioning myself in every conceivable way, I crawl in the shower for steaming hot water to loosen up my nasal cavities.

"Hello darkness, my old friend," I hum but the lights of the Christmas Tree make it seem Holy somehow and not so bad.

Snippets of the conversation Sarah and I had earlier bounce around my head.

Talking about the changes in our lives that occurred last year, the coming changes as Maddie leaves for College soon, where Che's going to school, the challenges of balancing finances with quality-of-life, we communicate as we rarely can with the hustle and bustle of a full home.

At one point I say, "In spite of everything we don't have, lots of people would kill for what we do have ... mostly a house full of crazy love and non-stop madness."

I got a lot but sometimes I wish for more than I got.

I suppose it's human nature to be selfish.

Sitting here I focus on being thankful.

I'm married to a remarkable woman, a strange brew of toughness, uncompromising standards, laser vision on what she wants, spontaneity and a love for me so deep it defies comprehension.

She keeps me on my toes.

I have no idea what or where or who I would be without her.

Two year old Che is non-stop delight, learning her words ... "Daddy no Mom" she says to Sarah handing her the piece of candy I refuse to open because I'd already opened too many ... and the way she looks back at me, as though to make sure I understand that she understands she has options ... makes us explode in laughter.

When we laugh, Che bends over, puts her tiny hand in front of her mouth and laughs too.

It's pure, unadulterated joy!

Most people live years without having such a moment.

Maddie's away celebrating the New Year with her boyfriend. She's as screwy as any teenager ever born, part brilliant ... part clueless ... but before she leaves, she hugs me with wet hair and says, "I love you" and ... well, lots of people never experience such moments.

Laurel is my kid because she's forever getting herself in trouble like I do and she enjoys every second of it.

Driving her to the sleepover yesterday, she sips Starbucks and asks, "What are you and Mom doing for New Years?"

Taking the turn out of the parking lot, I reply, "Well, tonight I'm tying your Mom to the bed, gonna have my way with her and then she's going to have her way with me."

Focusing on her latte, she asks, "Does Mom know about this?"

"Naw, it's a surprise."

She laughs, spewing whipped cream on the dashboard.

"I love you Mike," she says getting out.

Driving home I ponder all the lonely people.

Cassidy's with her Dad, meaning there's no sink full of dirty dishes, her room's mostly clean, she's not biding her time through supper so she can sneak a gallon of ice cream to her room and spend the night on Instagram.

Her absence exacerbates the silence.

"What are you doing?" Sarah startles me, standing in the soft glow of the Christmas Tree, hair askew from her pillow.

"Go back to sleep. My sinuses exploded."

"It's the alcohol," she mutters crawling back in bed. "It makes it worse."

Pouring another cup of coffee, I suck the steamy aroma up my nose, wonder about our grandson Ethan and the coming granddaughter Chelsea's giving us soon.

I'm grateful my children are healthy, doing well and seem happy.

Returning to my seat, I'm glad it's warm outside.

Yesterday, Sarah and I strung up outside lights for Che so I turn them on and find myself looking forward to the hours I'll spend watching her play under them.

I do have a lot and I know it.

Still, I want more.

Travel ... time with old friends ... making new ones ... seeing and doing things I've never done before ... tying Sarah to a bed and having my way with her.

Then I think, it's God who wanted me to get up when it's dark and quiet, in the soft glow of the Christmas Tree lights, without the hustle and bustle of a house full of moving parts, so I have the time to appreciate everything I've got and to fully consider what else I want.

It's not a bad way to start this New Year.

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.

____________

THIS SUNDAY AT BAR CHURCH!

Are you seriously wondering? It's only Monday.

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If you enjoy receiving these daily glimpses into Bar Church you can help them continue with a gift to https://www.gofundme.com/barchurch or through Palpal at tybeebarchurch@gmail.com

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.