Behind the Times

There's a coffee shop just off Chippewa Square right in the very middle of historic Savannah, filled with majestic oaks, gardens and a monumental statue of Georgia founder James Oglethorpe.

The Gallery Expresso is one of my favorite haunts. It's old Savannah with a young, hip vibe with small wooden tables, a wide variety of antique chairs, and giant windows to admire the beauty of the city and to people watch.

Just through the front door, immediately to the right is a table for one, literally in the corner with a perfect view of the square and I love ordering a cup of Java, setting up my laptop and spending a morning writing here.

It's simply a great place to sit, collect myself, allow my thoughts to roam and write and on this bright, crisp December morning, that's what I intend to do.

In no time at all, as steam rises from the mug, my fingers fly across the keyboard as I'm transported to another Universe, following where the words take me.

Occasionally, I stare out the window through Chippawa Square into the world I'm creating, sipping the coffee while wondering what comes next.

Suddenly the light darkens and near vision returns to my eyes.

Sitting back, unfolding the newspaper, he studies it intently with one eye.

Who reads newspapers anymore?

They're passe, a waste of trees, bad for the environment, full of yesterday's happenings and cost too much.

Except for the Pirate dude sitting outside my window.

It's the New York Times he's reading, available for free to Gallery Expresso customers.

Specifically, it's a story on the death of famous photographer Robert Freeman under a good size picture of John Lennon.

I'm a huge Beatle fan so, as frustrated as I am the guys invaded my space, even though he's outside and I'm inside, I read over his shoulder.

We eventually finish, he turns the page and my outrage returns.

Who is this one eyed Jack dressed in black fascinated with yesterday's news?

Pushing my laptop aside, I watch him read.

He takes his time.

Obviously he likes his coffee cold as no steam rises from the cup on the table in front of him.

Grabbing a refill for my own mug, I spend the better part of the next hour watching him read.

He never feels my presence, words aren't shared and we never make eye contact.

Did I just write that?

We never make eye contact?

My phone buzzes reminding me I have to be elsewhere, so I pack up, leave him hiding behind the Times rush on to what's next.

Driving away I find myself hopeful he returns when I do though I'm uncertain as to why other than he's obviously got a story to tell and I'd like to hear it.

Now, what was I writing about?

Searching for Christmas

Long before there was Christmas, there was Winter Solstice.

The most ancient records show people with great reverence for the sun and on the bleakest day of the year, to bring good cheer to the world, they light bonfires, tell stories and drink ale.

The ancient Romans celebrate the rebirth of the year with "Saturnalia." a seven day festival turning all of the rules upside down. Men dress as women, women as men; masters serve as servants who become the head of the house for one week, and there's lots of sex. Houses are decorated with greenery, candles lit, there are parades and gifts exchanged.

The Druids cut mistletoe and burn a yule log to conquer the darkness, ward off evil spirits and bring good luck for the coming year.

Yule means "Holy Night" in ancient Anglo-Saxon.

Long after these traditions comes the birth of Jesus and it's just not a big deal.

Two of the four Gospels don't even mention his birth because the death of Jesus was the important thing to remember, not when he was born.

Two-hundred-twenty-one years later, a Monk named Sextust Julius Africianus claims Jesus was born on December 25. Before then most thought his birthday to be in the Spring because of the herding of Sheep in the Christmas stories.

A hundred years later Emperor Constantine makes Christianity the official state religion, choosing December 25 as a holiday as a way to roll the ancient celebrations into one, thereby eliminating other faiths.

Still Christmas simply wasn't as important as Easter until modern times.

Almost all of today's Christmas were made up fairly recently through poems, books, songs and marketing campaigns to take advantage of or exploit the holiday for profit.

Making it more so is Christmas doesn't become a huge celebration in America until 1870 when it's recognized by the Government as a national holiday.

That's right, Christmas as we now know it is only about 150 years old.

It's a funny history lesson isn't it?

The early Church tries very hard to ban Pagan customs and convert everyone to Christianity but fail because everyone loved the Winter Solstice celebrations. When Government takes over Christmas, a new festival honoring the birth of Jesus Christ is implemented absorbing all of the popular aspects of ... yep ... Pagans.

Holly, exchanging pres,ents, the yule tide log, mistletoe, wreaths, caroling, candles and others all are Christmas traditions were kidnapped from older religions.

So that's how we got Christmas.

 Where's the miracle then?

Advent is from the Greek "parousia" meaning "arrival" and was picked up by the Church to mean ... the arrival of Christ.

To the early Church, there are actually three arrivals ... the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem ... his acceptance into the heart of those who believe in him ... and the Second Coming.

It's that last one that's most important but we've screwed up what the Second Coming is supposed to be with scare tactics to convert people to Christianity lest they be left behind.

Just like the Gospel of Matthew later adds the story of the Wise Men searching for the New Born King by following their guts, represented in a Star shinning in the eastern sky, we have to be willing to follow our hearts to where Jesus is to be found.

If you're searching for the Savior in the midst of all of the craziness we've created for Christmas, here's my story.

On a hot August day Buena finally went to the doctor. There she discovered that the great stomach she carried around was not a stomach at all. It was cancer.

"We're sorry," said the doctor, "but it appears that because the cancer has progressed to the point that it has surgery is out of the question. There will be some medication that will help in the short term, but there is little that can be done medically over the long haul.

"What ya be saying?" she asks in her nasally rural Kentucky accent.

The doctor clears his throat and says, "You have about six weeks."

Buena lifts the Maxwell House coffee can toward her mouth and spits ... THE-WIT, POWEE ... and the sound echos down clean, antiseptic halls.

"We'll see," she tells him.

As with most everything else, she proves whatever people say about her wrong.

A few weeks after seeing the doctor that day, she becomes bed ridden, but lives well into March --- one last act of defiance against the medical establishment.

When people visit, the find her in good humor with Bible and Maxwell House coffee can near the bed. Sometimes we have to wait until she can past the blond curly hair wig to her bald head. Nevertheless she loves visitors and always asks about Church.

The Chapel, where I'm the excuse for a minister, consists of five little old ladies, some Seminarians, kids from the projects and about twenty prisoners who arrive under guard from the jail. It is a missionary outpost in the inner city for the mostly suburban Southern Baptists.

She often asks visitors to act as a carrier for her and, after making certain none of her family's watching, she opens the desk by the bed and takes out two twenty dollar bills.

"This be my offerin'," she explains. "be sure to tell Rev tat I'mma tithing my Bingo winnings."

Buena loves Bingo and long ago arrived at the conclusion that tithing the winnings helps the Lord help her win more.

"Buena," the Rev sometimes said, "you're not supposed to play Bingo. It's gambling."

"Naw, it's alright, she spit, "so long as you remember to tithe."

When the Christmas Season descends upon the Church, the congregation gathers for the celebration of the birth of the baby Jesus, after sponsoring a toy sale, two hundred Christmas baskets for the hungry and a special holiday meal for homeless people. Now it's time to celebrate.

After a potluck meal, they gather around a piano to sing Christmas carols. Homeless men sing beside students and the five old women. Whites drape arms around blacks, the wealthy hug the destitute and the dividing walls of hostility crumble on this special day.

After much singing, it's suggested everyone walk to Buena's house to sing her some carols. Everyone thinks it an excellent idea so the entire Church leave the building, marching down the block, around the corner to the tiny shotgun house with red shingles crafted to resemble bricks are tacked to the exterior.

We wait and wait for Buena to put the wig on before entering the bedroom.

Maybe twenty of us crowd around the bed and Buena's obviously pleased so many have come though she tries, of course, to not show it.

We sing some songs and she sings along in the nasally, rural Kentucky annunciation.

"What's your favorite?" we ask.

"Silent Night," she spits without hesitation.

We sing, "Silent Night, Holy night ..." and it is, with a clear, cold star studded night and we feel good about how we are spending it.

Suddenly though, with us crowded around her bed, tears begin to roll down Buena's face.

The Church, which most consider to be dying, sings carols to a departing woman and when we sing, "Sleep in heavenly peace ... sleep in heavenly peace" ... salt water erupts from every eye.

After we sing, a'll is quiet too as no one knows what to say.

After these holy moments, the fellowship of believers file out one at a time, pausing to hug her goodbye or kiss the tobacco stained mouth.

Down the frozen sidewalk that leads back to a building, no one in the Church says a word.

In those days when I was at a tiny, broken down Church in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky there was the tradition of bringing Dolly Madison cakes on the night "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was broadcast because I never could figure out a better way to explain what Christmas is all about.

Munching on Raspberry Zingers, Chocolate Cupcakes and Donut Gems, we'd listen to Linus begin his explanation be saying, "Lights please."

He goes on to retell the Gospel of Luke's version of Jesus being born.

It's the "Lights please" that always gets me.

Please God, shine some light on what you mean ... how I'm supposed to know you ... what I'm supposed to do?

I found the meaning of Christmas that night in Buena's dusty, tobacco stained bedroom.

And I've found Jesus in the craziest of other places too, forever shocking me that he's been here all along, waiting on me and that's the point of Advent.

Jesus already came.

Long ago he grew up and left the manger and the point is not celebrating that he showed up all those years ago, or how we observe his coming, but to find him now.

Christmas isn't celebrated in the past because that's not where Jesus is any more but he's in dark, remote, funny places as obscure as Bethlehem and the best way to commemorate the Season is to join him.

The point of it is he came to join us.

But the question has always been whether or not we going to join him.

Christmas in the Dark

It began simply enough with an impromptu ride around the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights, though it's much too early for that, with most folks yet to drag the decorations out of the attic or garage, though some lovers of the Season, like us, already have illuminations galore on our house.

The girls cram into the back seat, Che sitting in Laurel's lap and 13 year old Cassidy stuffed into the car seat for reasons unknown.

Sarah's driving because she always drives, finding it difficult to relinquish control lest she sit in the passenger seat where she's transformed into a very opinionated road Marshall, so I occupy the right side of the car, holding a drink in one hand while fiddling with the radio with the other.

A few minutes into the ride it's obvious most decorations are still in boxes resting in attics or garages.

Laurel begins making promises to take Che for a ride around the neighborhood in two weeks after everyone's had ample chance to decorate their homes, though it's a joke because at 15 she can't drive yet, though she's forever asking to practice.

Sarah opts to leave the mostly dark neighborhood and drive an even darker stretch of Bryan Wood Road with forests on both sides of the street.

"Needs lights," I quip.

"That'd be cool," Laurel, always ready to engage in a prank, agrees.

"That is so cool," Sarah exclaims. "There'd be great lights for the runners on the trail and you could write inspirational sayings and ... wait! Where would we hook up to electricity?"

We drive into the pitch black darkness broken only by the promise of a red light at the Johnny Mercer intersection.

"That's what the first Christmas was like," I tell myself.

Complete darkness.

We've corrupted the miracle with illuminated plastic manger scenes, hundreds of outdoor lights, inflatable Santa's and glowing Reindeer yard art.

That's modern Christmas but the first one was ... in the dark.

There's no electricity in ancient Bethlehem, which isn't much of a crowded town the way we imagine it today, but a tiny village without hotels, restaurants or bars.

There's no night life.

In those days when the sun comes up and you can see, it's time for work. When the sun sets, work's over because it's too dark to see, so before night completely falls, you eat as quickly as possible, do whatever you can by candle light (if you have them) and sleep until the sun comes up again and you start over.

Everyone works to get by, everyone's poor, everyone has little to share so when family comes to town, as Joseph and Mary do, they crowd inside the house of relatives.

Remember the Government's conducting a census forcing everyone to return to their ancestral home to be "counted."

Bethlehem homes then are mostly two story dwellings with bedrooms upstairs and a lower level with a kitchen, living quarters and where the animals are kept.

The lower levels have a built in manger because livestock are kept inside protecting them from the elements and theft. Inside they provide body heat for warmth, milk for nourishment and dung to dry out and burn in the fireplace.

Livestock of any kind is precious commodity.

So when Joseph and Mary show up because the Government says so, there's no stable out back though there is a manger inside the house where the animals eat and drink.

And in the crowded, smelly, uncomfortable darkness, "she gave birth to her firstborn, a son, wrapping him in cloths and laying him in a manger ..." (Luke 2:7).

Who knows what else, if anything, happened that night?

Luke goes on to say there are Shepherds nearby who possibly mistake a Baby crying as a choir of Angels singing while Matthew reports three Wise Men arrive from the East bearing gifts.

Neither matter very much to the story.

What does matter is what happens in the dark.

There's something God likes about the dark.

In the very beginning of Genesis, the Lord hovers over the water in the dark and creates ... LIGHT!

Can you imagine the crazy shock of it all?

All the world's ever known is the black night until God snaps her fingers and POOF! in a second everything is crystal clear.

Fast forward in the Biblical story to the crucifixion of Jesus. He's lifted on the cross at nine in the morning and the world immediately falls dark until around three in the afternoon as though God's re-booting everything but as the body's taken down, the sun comes out.

Then there's my favorite, with Peter and some others fishing in the dark after Jesus is buried, not catching a damn thing, making them further question their existence, because though they may not have been the best Disciples they know how to fish ... at least they always did, until this day.

But across the dark water, they suddenly spy the soft dim glow of a small charcoal fire on the Beach with a shadowy figure beside it yelling, "Caught anything?" adding insult to injury.

"No," they grimly reply.

"Try again," the shadow instructs and when they do fish literally jump into the boat.

And out of the tiny glow on a dark Beach it's more than nets that are filled but people full of hope as they row as fast as humanly possible, dragging more fish than they know what to do with, to find Jesus ready to eat.

And on the first Christmas, there's even less light to see the baby laying in a dirty manger, the pungent aroma of donkey shit rising from the floor, other guests sleeping during delivery ... perhaps there a candle or torch but it wouldn't surprise me if Jesus wasn't born in complete darkness, just the way God liked it before light burst into the world for the first time.

"I am the light of the world," Jesus later says, "whoever follows me shall not walk in darkness but will have the light of life" (John 8:12).

As we enter this Christmas Season, if you're having a hard time finding the lights because the world's so full of darkness, filling the Newspapers and online chat groups, occupying the great Halls of Government, Justice and Religion, and taking root in our own hearts too, filling us with doubt, insecurity and fear to be loved and accepted as we really are, remember that everything God ever does begins in the darkness.

"You can't have a light without a darkness to stick it in," we're fond of saying, so grab hold of the darkness in your life and know that's where God's likely been waiting on you this whole time, so that NOW you can finally find your light!

Were Jesus Born Here

Had Jesus been born on Tybee Island, it would have been under the Pier.

On the island it one of the only places people can find refuge from the elements, especially when there's "no room" in the short term vacation rentals or families can't afford the steep overnight prices of a few hotels.

Naturally the police are called the moment poor Joe lights a fire for his pregnant wife because a local strolling pass fears arson by radical left wing Democrats.

The family's arrested but the Chef's a nice guy trying to combat previous charges of racism from Orange Crush and the poor family has dark skin and they might be Muslim.

An emergency Council meeting's called to appoint a special public task force to get community buy in before policy is made.

Meanwhile, the poor woman's water breaks and she screams bloody murder.

Several officers reach for tasers but the Chef shakes his head from side to side.

The Community Task Force unanimously recommends the County Department of Family and Family Children Services be called as the municipality isn't equipped to deal with refugees of any kind.

The baby's delivered in a new Jail cell funded by a Special Local Option Sales Tax meaning 60% of the construction costs was born by tourists which inexplicably makes locals happy.

The social worker from Family and Children Services gets stuck on the Tybee Road because of an accident on the Bull River Bridge.

The child is given toys to play with donated by the community for children of incarcerated adults.

The Vicar at All Saints Episcopal Church hears that unto us a child's been born, calls the Chief offering to put the family up at the Royal Palm for a couple of nights using funds from the social services fund.

The Chef readily agrees.

The planet Mercury appears as a yellow orange star in the sky directly over the Royal Palm parking lot.

A small crowd of Effingham County wet day trippers gather wrapped in sandy blankets and with a Styrofoam cooler from which they offer Joe a beer.

The baby's cold and is wrapped in a swaddling cloths torn from the blankets.

"The kid's not mine," Joe explains.

The day trippers don't seem to care.

He introduces Mary who hugs him warmly as blue lights of three police cars fill the hotel entrance though they remain in the vehicles.

"You can't stay here," a day tripper explains.

Joe nods, tenderly wiping a tear from his teenage bride's face.

The baby cries.

Pam from The Sand Bar arrives with boxes of food collected from the Bars and $213 in cash raised after an auction with music by local musicians. She also gives them a bottle of Patron which they share with the day trippers toasting the Baby's birth.

The Police Department is flooded with alleged reports of rogue Choirs violating the City's noise ordinance and the officers rush to investigate.

"It's a good time to get out of here," the Day Tripper's snap, throwing their stuff in the beds of pick up trucks.

"Y'all want a lift?"

Mary nods so Joe grabs the boy and they leave.

All is calm on Tybee again.

All is bright under the billions of blazing stars dancing over the Ocean.

The Sun bubbles out of the Sea as a small crowd gathers for the Men's Prayer Breakfast at the Trinity Methodist Church.

Sand in my heart

The most nautical thing about this coffee shop I'm sitting in is a painting of a Blue Crab someone has for sale displayed on the wall between colorful paintings of birds in flight.

Other art ranges from impressionist colors I have no idea what they represent to an obvious love of chickens hanging helter skelter around though the center piece of the place is a very defined stage equipped with everything except musicians.

A piano, guitar, banjo lay silently in wait for whoever left them, the sound system's on with green, blue and red lights, a microphone is front and center and a white fedora hat lay on a stool waiting to be worn.

It's the Blue Crab I focus on.

My heart pumps sandy blood in my veins.

Jerry Jeff Walker's "Cowboy Boots and Bathin' Suits" streams in my eyes as I people dressed in "casual business", every woman wears spandex as a fashion statement and not because of working out, a few are in work clothes and I'm wearing a tattered "Sex Wax" tee shirt, black running shorts, a string of leather around my right ankle and flip flops.

Actually the flops are on the floor as my bare feet dangle from the chair at a high top table.

I miss the Beach.

We've been to spectacular ones in Belize, Costa Rica, Key West and a hundred others.

I may leave the Ocean but it never seems to leave me and it's got a grip on me staring at the lone Blue Crab hanging on the wall.

"You must seek the place the Lord your God will choose for you from all the tribes to establish a a dwelling place for Her name, and there you must go" (Deuteronomy 12:5).

I hear you Lord, I hear you.

I know the place you have chosen for me and we understand that's where we're destined in spite of where we're at.
______________

Turtles in Church

Most Churches have large screens on the stage to show Hymn lyrics, Bible verses or sermon illustrations that are used to visually enhance the worship experience.

At Bar Church The Sand Bar has a large flat screen television most used to broadcast football games for the patrons. During worship, it displays a running montage of nature scenes, mostly nautical in nature, because we're on a island.

This passed Sunday, I'm preaching away and can't help but notice that every eye in the Bar is focused directly at me.

"I am really rocking these Bible verses," I tell myself, picking up the intensity.

Just as I kick it up a notch, everyone's eyes divert to other things ... the beer or coffee they're drinking ... their phones ... people strolling by through the large glass windows.

Finishing, the band launches into the final Hymn ... "Knocking on Heaven's Door" ... and everyone sings along as worship comes to an end.

Greeting people while packing up the sound system and instruments, Jaime Lawrimore says, "Rev, I couldn't get my camera out fast enough to get a picture of the two Loggerhead Turtles making love on the screen above your head during the sermon. That was great!"

"What?"

"Sure enough," her husband and Bar Church founder Gordon Hill agrees, "Two Turtles doing it right above your head."

"It was a good sermon though," Jamie quickly adds.

"Oh well," I mutter.

You don't get this kind of stuff in most worship services but you do at Bar Church.

Happy Veterans Day (Whatever that means)!

Honestly Dad didn't join the Marines out of some great sense of patriotism but to get the Hell out of his parents house.

The Marines happened to be the branch of military that would accommodate 17 year old's with such a problem.

In the blink of an eye, Dad was marching with Dog Company and off to Korea where he was captured twice, escaping both times until he was shot but found by another group of GI's, taken to a Hospital, processed and shipped back home.

While he was there he was assigned, after volunteering for it, as the only white guy in a group tasked with gathering the wounded and dead after a battle.

It helped him later land a job at Fountain's Funeral Home back in Port Wentworth Georgia where he again lived with the folks he was desperate to get away from.

Throughout the rest of his life he had a Love/Hate relationship with the military.

He was proud of the Marines but loathed war.

He'd watch war movies wiping tears from his eyes during the killing yet cheer when the good guys one.

A Marine tattoo adorned his right arm though he never showed it off or called attention to it.

He shied away from gatherings with his fellow Veterans but when I drug him kicking and screaming to the dedication of the Savannah Korean War monument he hugged his fellow Vets and they cried together touching the engraved names of their friends who didn't make it back.

That's my last memory of him as a Veteran.

He was ready to go on to the next assignment soon afterwards.

Watching the pomp and circumstance of Veterans Day, I remember how his service changed him and I'm exceedingly thankful he took the turns he did.

I lean much more to the pacifist, peacemaker side of foreign policy decisions but also have the grit to dig in and fight back when justice is greedily provoked.

So Happy Veterans Day Dad, if that's such a thing. You never cared much for it but I find myself grateful for what you gave, and the others too, how the experience changed you and the lessons you left, not so much through words but through the ways you lived with it all afterwards.

Bless you and the rest of them too.

A Thanksgiving Toast

This is my latest article in Tybee Beachcomber magazine.

Tybee Island is different from the rest of the world and everyone who's ever lived here, or visited, knows it.

It's the beauty of the River meeting the Sea, an abundance of Marshes, the Back River, rolling Sand Dunes, incredible wildlife, glorious sunrises AND sunsets.

The island's dotted with an imposing Lighthouse, remnants of a Fort, Palm Trees, lush sub-Tropical foliage, a terrific Pier, beautiful restored Theater with live entertainment, active American Legion, parks and quaint streets to explore.

If all that wasn't enough, there's uninhabited islands easily accessible and the majestic city of Savannah a mere twenty minute drive away.

There's a great deal to be thankful for on Tybee Island but perhaps the most forgotten and under appreciated are it's bars.

More than any other group, it's the Bars that define the Tybee Island community!

Sure there's Churches, active civic organizations, outstanding volunteer efforts and even a Bacon Club, but none define the loving spirit of Tybee Island more than the bars.

There's an abundance of them, each eclectic, eccentric and electric when they're hopping.

Tybee's bars are drenched in salt, blessed with great staffs, creators of delightful food and an abundance of live music!

More than anything else, it's the Tybee's Bars that create it's giving spirit!

The bars of Tybee create who we are as as islanders, more than anything else.

There's 24 bars on the island and, more than any other entity, they define the giving spirit of this gorgeous clump of sand floating in the Sea.

Individually and collectively, they raise more money, sponsor more causes, help more people, celebrate more life, generate more fellowship and help navigate life's tragedies and difficulties than any other institution on Tybee Island.

Because of the Bars, raising money for people or disasters are almost daily occurrences on Tybee and you can't say that about most any other small community.

There's even a church in a bar on Tybee Island on Sunday mornings, which is something hard to find in most places.

And on Thanksgiving, most every one of the Bar is hosting a giant, family spread for most anyone wanting friends, fellowship and food.

Sure, there's alcohol and the occasional craziness that comes along when it's abused, but you travel the world and you'll struggle to find a town with a bigger heart that the one birthed by the Bars on Tybee Island!

And for each of them, we are most thankful!

So raise a glass to the bars.

Tybee Island wouldn't be the special community it is without them.

A Book Review: All Hallows' Eve

I first read J. R. R. Tolkien, then became engrossed in the writings of C. S. Lewis who introduced me to a third friend of theirs, a member of "The Inklings", a literally group meeting weekly to share each others works.

Tolkien first read "The Lord of the Rings" to this gathering over beer. C. S. Lewis read "The Chronicles of Narnia", among other things, and Williams, an editor at Oxford Press, read "All Hallows' Eve."

The editor of Oxford Press, Williams was a mostly self-educated genius fascinated with the Occult and Christianity. His novels combine the two in awe inspiring fashion.

Two ghosts, Lester and Evelyn, discover they're both dead, hit by a falling airplane as peace descends on post WWII London. An angry Lester's waiting to meet her husband Richard, who's late, on a bridge. Her friend Evelyn is nearby and the two are left to wonder what's happened, slowly coming to the realization that they are dead.

Longing to return to the way they lived in the world, both reach through the supernatural veil separating the living from the dead. Simultaneously, a renown minister uses the occult to reach, and manipulate, the spiritual world for his own purposes.

The result is an intriguing story of a man and woman who discover how much they love one another through death through examination of their shortcomings when they were together. Theirs is woven with that of a bitter woman who believes she never got the support needed for a happy life, demanding to bring the living and the dead into her own universe of bitterness. The overarching structure of religion, and lack thereof, demonstrate how the living will go to any lengths to use faith to achieve what they desire.

Williams forces readers to inquire how they themselves are living. Are we kind or unkind? Do we try to right wrongs or merely move on? Is redemption important and how far are we willing to go to achieve it? Can we become so self-absorbed to become demonic as anything that's already gone to the grave? What is life after death?

Many times I found myself so engrossed in a particular character I lost myself on the page pondering these questions waking long minutes later searching for where I'd left off. Williams genius is drawing the reader into another world forcing us to grapple with the same issues the characters are wrestling.

In the 1945 context of University academics, Williams writing is more literate than today's modern, fast-pace prose. Taking great care to lovingly craft each sentence, it may take some a while to get accustom to the reading. Even the dialogue that takes place is lavishly constructed appropriating the vernacular of mid-20th century England.

I highly recommend All Hallows' Eve as a fascinating entry into a world you already wonder about. As for myself, I've already started another one of his books.

Life's Recovery

After spending yesterday almost entirely asleep, fighting sickness and being cared for by Sarah, I'm nearer normal today.

Two year old Che is glad.

"She missed you yesterday," Sarah explains, "but she knew you weren't feeling well."

She's making up for it today.

This is me having coffee.

She's not letting me go.

So far today we've played in her room dressing up like royalty, taken old bread to feed the turtles in the Lagoon, danced to Richie Haven's "Freedom", pretend to sky dive jumping off the sofa onto the pillows, sing nursery rhymes together, tickle each other relentlessly and she's eaten four Reese's Peanut Butter Cups ... my stomach can't ha ndle it yet.

She's also lays quietly with her head in my lap, tells me she's "Clare Elliott Che", her mother's "Sarah Wonder Woman" as we watch "scary monsters" on television.

When I get up to leave the room, she whimpers but follows me to the fridge, pantry and bathroom.

If I sit at the table and stare at my laptop, she strolls over, grabs my hand and leads me back to the sofa.

"Wuv you Daddy," she says, laying her head in my lap again to resume our show.

Fading in and out of consciousness yesterday, sweating as I slept, my life plays like an old video in my head.

People and events I haven't thought of in years come back to life and, tossing and turning, I find them irritable, choosing instead during my more lucid moments, to focus my thoughts on Sarah, the girls and wishing I was in the other room with them.

Life is now and I'm not enjoying this disruption.

"HELP!" Che cries as I write this.

Laying in the floor she purposely fell on, my daughter holds her arms in the air for me to pick her up.

"OH NO!" I exclaim.

She laughs as I pull her up high into the air and throw her on the couch.

"Do it again," she says falling on the floor.

I can't think of anything else I'd rather do.

Goodbye Again

She's stoic, like her mother, when it comes to emotions though she has a fiery temper and passions are expressed loudly.

So I was unprepared as her voice breaks when she tells me she loves me, hugging me tight and we both cry.

A master of words, I can't think of a single one.

We share tears instead.

Turning quickly to leave, wiping away the tears, she rushes to the car her Mom's decorated in white "UGA 2023" letters on the windows.

Sarah's in our loaded vehicle.

Maddie's driving her car loaded with her sisters Laurel and Cassidy.

The three couldn't be more different yet here they are in an incredible showing of "family" as one moves away for good.

Che, the two year old, occupies Maddie's room as soon as the house is empty, knowing somehow her "best friend" won't be around in quite the same way.

Che lays in her bed.

Plays with a porcelain doll Maddie leaves behind.

And some blocks the two of them shared.

Much later, she and I meander out into the drive way to stand in the spot where Maddie parked her car and we feel the emptiness.

"Maddie coming home," Che asks.

"Thanksgiving, I think."

"Yay!" Che claps.

I thank God for the lack of understanding of time.

Reflecting back to my older kids, Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea leaving home,  it never dawned on me I'd have to let go again.

Mad drove me crazy.

I drove her crazy.

But we agree on politics, women's rights, acceptance of people regardless of sexual orientation, race, Trump, the Tybee Island Police Department and College football.

We do not agree on music, fashion, humor, food, entertainment or who's fault it is that pop corn spilled on the floor before the latest installment of  "The Lord of the Rings" or "Star Wars" even began.

I covered her ass on occasion.

And she covered mine.

God Damn I already miss her and it's not even one day yet.

It's alright.

She's smart.

And beautiful.

Lord knows she's full of her mother's stoic passion and the last person you ever want to pick a fight.

But you're right here Maddie, at the beginning of everything.

Just like Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea, you'll find your way and it will be incredible!

And you'll rarely look back.

Maybe, on those rare occasions when you do, you'll smile at things we did.

And when things you don't understand come your way ... and God knows you hate to admit it ... you'll remember you can always call or text.

I'm here.

Like your Mom, we're always here.

Kick ass Mad!

And you can laugh at me now as I keep wiping the tears away.

Leaving it at that

Where's Chip?

He's not in this picture because he has a wireless connection on his guitar.

He's probably meandering around The Sand Bar during service while playing lead solos and sampling from the Potluck on the Pool Table, sipping a Bloody Mary during the sermon, or watching girls in bikinis walk outside the large windows.

The rest of the Band are playing Hymns and call out for a guitar solo ... "TAKE IT CHIP!" ... and sure enough there's a priceless, pristine, glorious lead guitar solo.

We just have no idea where it's coming from.

Eye contact is am important part of a band seamlessly playing multiple instruments orchestrated for the glory of God.

"WHERE'S CHIP?" Eric Johnson bellows before taking the next verse.

Davy the drummer's suddenly worries the rapture occurred and he missed it.

Monty Parks and David could care less 'cause they're really into the music and are sort of oblivious it's Church taking place.

The Rev's wondering if it's an epiphany.

Somehow it all comes together.

We have no idea how it comes together but ... it sort of comes together.

God probably knows.

We leave it at that.
__________________

Free to go

"We're free to go where we wish and to be what we are," Jonathan Livingston Seagull explained.

It's true.

It's also amazing how so many aren't where they wish and are nothing like they really are.

Instead they're carried wherever the currents of popular persuasion carries them and try to live up to the expectations of others.

When all's said and done, that's Hell on earth.

Finding Heaven, on the other hand, requires forgetting what others think or want to follow the dreams planted inside by a Holiness we can't explain.

We know, regardless of what everyone else says,  what're supposed to be.

But you have to go looking if you're going to get there.

There's no better time than to start now.

Take stock of where you are now and remind yourself there's a better place for you.

Look at who you're with and ask yourself, "Are they helping me become who I wish?"

And grab hold of the promise you've let go ... that God willed you here for reasons that only you know ... and it's time to fulfill them.
_____________

Parental Purgatory

Maddie graduated from High School the other day and is set to enroll in College in a few weeks. She's 17, knows everything so if there's something you don't know but really need to know ... just ask Maddie, she knows.

At graduation, Sarah and Maddie's sisters take pictures posting them on Instagram.

Cassidy, our 12 year old, writes under the photos, "Congratulations on graduating. I am so proud of you and know you're going to do great in life! I love you. You're the best!"

Underneath the same images on our 15 year old's Instagram, Laurel writes, "I'm oldest now."

Of course Maddie didn't know it was coming and's mad as Hell!

Aw man it still cracks me up!

I know ... I know ... as a parental figure  you have to stay neutral with the kids which is difficult enough whenever there's more than one ... crazy complicated if your's is a blended family ... stupid if you happen to be 62 and your kids range from 41 to 2 ... and outright insane when you're the only male at home ... surrounded by five girls and a gay dog.

I know being a parent is the hardest thing in the world but I've come to believe being a Stepfather is harder!

Who came up with the lame word "Stepfather" or "Stepmother"?

What's it mean?

We've stepped into something like dog shit and now we can't get it off our shoe ... or in my case from between my toes?

I've done research and the term originated in 8th Century and means "orphan" ... and in those days a man or a woman took in children without fathers or mothers.

I don't know what the word mean today because I try with everything in me to be a real, 100% Dad, to our girls if they want.

Most of the time they don't so I'm in some sort of parental purgatory ... where my opinion and help is not necessary ... unless their Mother won't give em what they want.

Luckily two of the four girls living at home with Sarah and me have boyfriends so when they're around, we can give knowing glances at each other and ask, without using words, only glances and facial expressions ... "Can you believe this shit?"

I love Parks and Cooper and thank God for them every night.

Anyway, yesterday Laurel and Cooper find this chair, obviously part of a larger ensemble, in someone's front yard and drag it home as a gift for Maddie.

Sarah and Maddie are doing all the shopping and furnishing  of a first year college student's dorm room.

"We got you a present," Laurel explains to Maddie, who's just showered after a long day of work at the Breakfast Club and is wrapped in a blue towel with wet hair.

"Wha is it?" Che, our 2 year hold, asks leaping from the sofa wearing a yellow Princess Elena dress complete with gold crown and wand.

"It's for Maddie's room when she goes to College," Laurel explains.

"What?" Maddie asks following Che to inspect.

As soon as they're outside, Laurel strolls across the living room and locks the door ... all three locks.

Cooper shoots me a wordless question ... "Do you believe this shit?"

I'm still laughing.

Recently, Eamon Sheehan, friend of our older kids Jeremy and Kristen ... and son of my dear friend Dan ... was visiting from California introducing me to his son ... and we fall into conversation about his Dad and my friend ... who's gone now.

Dan and I still have lots in common.

He was a Dad in blender like me, older when he and Carolyn had Eamon and would sneak off with me to talk about how crazy life is but how thankful we are to have it.

"You know Mike," Eamon says on the sidewalk in front of the Sand Bar before Bar Church, "Dad just loved being a Dad. That's why I was born. He couldn't get enough of it."

That night before I went to bed, I say a prayer.

"Hey Dan. Met you grandson today. Man! I know you're proud. Eamon talks just like you ... hopefully your grandson will talk more like Leila's side of the family ... anyway ... I want to say thanks for all those times we rode around just talking ... about life and kids ... and what makes a family."

"You probably already know Dan, being in Heaven and all ... but you're in Catholic Heaven and there's probably lots of rules and all your information may not be the latest ... but I seem to have followed in your footsteps ... which is the not the same as a mis-step ... which has nothing to do with being a Stepfather."

I could hear Dan laugh in the darkness ... a crazy eruption of delightful Irish elation.

"You gonna let her back in?" Cooper finally asks out loud.

I wasn't going to ask.

I'm enjoying this.

Laurel unlocks the door and all Hell breaks loose.

It just doesn't get any better.

I love being a Dad!

Just like my buddy Dan.

And neither one of us stepped in anything God didn't lead us to.

Everything Inside of us

"And they said, 'Isn't Jesus the son of Joseph? We know his father and mother! How can he say he was sent from Heaven?'" (John 6:42).

It's a most fascinating Bible verse.

You never hear it talked about in Church.

People are saying they know who Jesus is!

They're friends with his Dad and Mom ... known him his whole life!

They watched him grow up!

How in God's name can Jesus claim to not belong to Joseph and Mary?

And how in God's name can he claim to be God's son?

The unspoken sentiment behind the question is, "this boy's out of his mind!"

It's in the Gospel of John, the last one written, long after Jesus had lived, died, came back to life somehow and ascended to Heaven in front of witnesses.

Most of the witnesses have died by the time John was written.

Unlike the other Gospels, which come across as eye witness accounts of the life Jesus lived, John is all about the son of God.

Matthew, Mark and Luke are about the things Jesus did.

John is all about who Jesus was.

Whoever wrote John ... it wasn't an Apostle ... believes in Jesus though they've never met.

"In the beginning was the word," John starts, "and the word was with God and the word was God" (1:1)  ... and the word is Jesus.

Jesus is the word ... of God.

It helps to understand a bit of Hebrew.

"D'bar" ... Hebrew for word ... has life ... once spoken it can never be taken back or killed ... words live forever once your mouth births them ... it's a principal reason we forget so little ... remember so much!

As living things, words are actions ... deeds ... lives.

So if in the beginning was the word ... and that word was Jesus ... and Jesus was with God ... and Jesus was God ... then it has a life of it's own.

The Gospel of John is classic Greek storytelling ... meaning it couldn't have been the Disciple who wrote the Gospel or it would have been in Hebrew or Aramaic ... but it's really good Greek ... with an introduction of the biography.

Though it's funny too the concepts are Hebraic ... whoever wrote John wasn't writing to the Jews but is introducing Jesus to a bigger world.

"This is the story of Jesus," is how it'd be put today, "the word of God in action."

In Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus is human ... he gets mad ... has a soft spot for children and loose women ... hates seeing sick people so he healed them ... even raises the dead because he's not ready for them to go yet ... and takes naps in boats.

But in John, "there's nothing Jesus doesn't know, nothing he can't do, and when they take him in the end, you feel he could blow them right off the map if he felt like it. Majestic, mystical, aloof, the Jesus of the fourth Gospel walks three feet off the ground, you fell, and you can't help wishing that once in a while he'd come down to earth" (Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures).

John believes in a Jesus he's never seen ... didn't meet ... hadn't heard ... but knows with everything inside that it's the Son-of-God ... word become flesh ... he's talking about.

Which what makes this particular verse ... this part of the story ... so awkward and funny.

"We know who you are!" they accuse.

"We know your shit head parents!"

"Your Dad's an out of work carpenter who died young."

"Your Mom was a hot teenager who was forever pregnant ... and you were the first kid ... but she was always knocked up ... your parents obviously liked to do it.

"And now here you are ... claiming they're not your parents ... but you come directly from God."

It's funny if you put this in the context whoever wrote John wrote it.

Jesus stuns the world feeding 5,000 with fish and bread ... his Disciples can't take the crowds and leave him behind when they take a boat to get away ... later Jesus walks up ... on water ... asking, "Where'd y'all go?" and climbs inside.

The next day the 5,000 or so realize Jesus is on Little Tybee so they boat, paddle board, surf and float over ... and when they arrive they ask, "How'd you get over here?"

"Jet Ski?"

And Jesus gives a lecture ... "I've fed you once! You want more?" ... and he talks about how he's the Bread that comes down from Heaven" ... and whoever wrote John does a funky version of "The Last Supper"  ... he'd obviously heard about it and does a re-imagining ... the "you can do it even if you weren't there" version ... the beginning of "Do this in remembrance of me."

This is when the crowd ... the same crowd that ate the first ever fish sandwich for $1 from McDonald's ... with fries! ... ask, "Wait a minute! You're no better than us! We know your folks! They weren't shit! How can you say you're God's boy and not theirs?"

And that's the Gospel of John in a nutshell.

Do you believe you're more than you are?

Are there bigger things in the Universe than you?

Have you seen things you can't explain?

Do you wonder why?

How can a carpenter knock up a teenager and have a son of God?

A daughter of God?

God knows I don't know.

Just like whoever wrote the Gospel of John didn't know.

But somehow God knows.

Whoever wrote the Gospel of John believed that with everything inside.

And we're gathered here today because we want to believe it with everything inside of us too.

Jesus' Mom

Well, it's Mother's Day so ... I suppose I have to start talking about mine.

She's great!

And, if I didn't say so, she'd kick my ass.

I'n blessed she's still here ... at my age I'm blessed with lots of things ... but my Mother runs circles around me ... and honestly can kick my ass any time she chooses ... without lifting a finger ... cause she's got the look.

You remember the "Look."

Your Mother has one too.

It freezes you instantly because you know ... you're in deep.

And if you're a Mother, you have the "Look" too but your Mother's "Look" far exceeds your "Look" as you still try to emulate hers.

But My Mom, I have to say, is quite the remarkable woman.

It's hard to know where to begin ... her career began when we were broke and Dad's paycheck wasn't enough so she got a job as a secretary at a Credit Union ... moved to a bank ... learned the trade ... became a loan originator ... broke all the records men held ... made more money than the Bank President one year ... broke glass ceilings for women ... refused to accept the "Originator of the Year" award once because it was a man on the plaque so they had it redone ... with a woman ... in a mini-skirt ... which Mom thought fair ... so she brought it home.

I could go on and on about my Mom.

She did a lot.

Won lots of plaques.

My Dad sold them all one day when she was gone.

He made a lot of money off them.

She still hasn't forgiven him ... though he died a decade ago.

"What would you've done with them?" I asked her.

"I dunno," she laughs. "Who needs a bunch of plaques from the past?"

This is what I remember most about "me Mum" ... as I say ... is once when I was a kid ... little ... though I don't recall how little ... she picked me up and slammed my butt on the kitchen table ... and cupping her hands around my chin ... intense blues eyes looking in blues ... she snaps!

"Let me tell you something Micheal" and her voice is stern and hard and full of conviction, "you ... are ... going ... to ... be ... great! ... that's your life! ... GREAT!"

And she kisses me, leaving my feet dangling towards the floor they couldn't reach.

Over the remaining "formative years" she tells me this a lot ... grabbing me by the shoulders ... slamming my ass on the kitchen table ... cupping my chin in the palms of her hands ... blues staring into blues .., and her clam, steady voice says, "You're great! You're gonna be great!"

I dunno how great I've been but ... I've done a lot of cool stuff.

The best though is I'm Sarah's husband.

I've seen and done lots of great things in my life ... but the greatest is being Sarah's husband.

She's a mother.

Six daughters and a boy ... five grand kids ... our love is mostly moving parts ... it's hard to keep up ... mostly with each other.

I marvel at her mothering.

She's great!

As liberal as I am ... and I'm very liberal ... I'm far more conservative with the girls than she.

I don't trust them.

They'll get in trouble like I did when Mom wasn't slamming my ass on the kitchen table to tell me how great I'm going to become.

Sarah trusts them.

She lets them make their own mistakes where I try to save them from happening.

That take far more strength than I've got.

Sarah lets 'em fall flat on their faces if they're stupid enough to not listen to her in the first place, then she'll ask, "Well are going to do that again?"

And they don't!

How does she do that?

It makes no sense whatsoever.

Though her parental philosophy has obviously had an impact on me too.

They come to me sometimes, "Mike, if I tell you something, will you not tell Mom?"

"Are you out of your frigging mind?" I answer. "No way in Hell I'm hiding anything you say from her. I'll tell you what ... why don't you go ahead and tell me and I'll let you know how fast you need to tell her."

Sometimes they tell me anyway.

I always tell Sarah.

It's a train wreck but we keep on keeping on and like most Mother/Son and Mother/Daughter relationships ... it's complicated.

Which brings me to Jesus and his Mom.

Mary drove her boy crazy.

He ran away from home when he was twelve.

I ran away when I was 3 or 4 ... Mom says I packed some diapers and a six-shooter ... tied them in a kerchief at the end of the broom and walked away from it all.

Three houses later she asks, "Where you going Mike?"

"Running away," I tell her.

"Want to go to the store with Mom?"

I got in.

When Mary found her son Jesus in hiding out in the Temple, she was angry, let him know it and he dismisses her immediately.

Mary even gave Jesus "the Look" and he obviously didn't care.

"Why'd you bother looking for me?" he asks, "You should have known I'd be here."

My Mother would have slapped me a new one!

Years later they're at a wedding and they run out of wine.

Like many of us, Mary obviously attended weddings for the wine.

When they ran out, she asks her son to get more.

"I don't have my ID with me," he answers, which is very feasible translation of the original Greek.

She "guilt's" him into it and, like a lot of sons with their mothers, Jesus overcompensates making way more than is needed ... everyone gets drunk, including Mary, and Jesus sneaks out.

The next time Mary approaches her son, Jesus is riding high, drawing big crowds ... making it on his own.

Mary says, "Tell him his Mamma's here and wants to see him."

"Who?" Jesus asks.

Mary insists ... "I'm his Mother. He wants to see me."

"Every woman here is my Mother," Jesus says to everyone except his Mom.

He keeps on working and Mary has no choice but to leave and go home alone.

The last time Mary sees her boy, he's hanging on the cross dying.

Through the pain, Jesus sees her and says, "Behold your son."

Then he sees a friend of his standing beside Mary and says to him, "Behold your Mother" ... and he gives his Mom away to a new family ... and he dies ... and Mary goes home with the friend.

She's mentioned one last time in the Bible ... in Acts, after Jesus is raised from the dead ... she's with her family and the Disciples ... devoted in prayer.

Whatever it was the Apostles believed, Mary did too.

That's all we get out of the Biblical accounts.

But here's what I think.

When his feet couldn't reach the floor after Mary sat him on the kitchen table to look in his eyes and say, "You ... are ... great!"

And even when Jesus blew off his Mother, she trusted him, let him go his own way, get in trouble she couldn't save him from and become what God intended all along.

There were things she did well ... others she could have done a lot better ... but, to this say, she the reason behind one of my favorite prayers ... "Holy Mary, Mother of God!"

Because in spite of how many issues she and the boy had ... and they obviously had several ... there was a love shared ... and love saves the world ... and if we're lucky we let it save us too.