Falling Far From The Family Tree

So I was strolling down the beach, a place that I love above most others, and the sun was hot, the waves soothing the breeze just right to make it all comfortable. I waved at friends who had waved at me. I strode with happiness, confidence, a smile on my face, and one eye gazing at the ocean. It was perfect!

Then my Dad slapped me on the head and said, “I’ve been here boy!”

My Dad died last June. Julie and I were here and he respected that so much that he waited on us to get back so that we could say proper good-byes and that we loved each other and that he needed a bit of help deciding that it was the right time to go.

There is this photograph of my Dad and my Mom that someone has blown up and Mom has had framed and it was sitting out on family Christmas celebration. It shows my Dad strolling down a beach in Tortolla. He is strolling in happiness, with confidence, has a smile on his face, and one of his eyes is gazing towards the ocean. My Mom is hamming it up for the camera.

Dad is brown and tanned but he was always brown and tan. The man could spend two seconds in the sun and he bronzed for the next two years. He loved the ocean, the smell of the marsh, and his friends.

Mom is all legs as my niece described it and she was. She is wearing a floppy hat and a one piece that shows off three miles of legs and a campy smile for whoever was taking the picture.

It is a photograph that perfectly captures how they were as a couple and as people. They went through a lot, as all of us do, but did it clinging to one another for all time out of fear that there might be nothing else to cling on to. That is what love is in the end I think. We find someone to cling on to and we do it with everything in us. It can be a spouse, or a collection of friends, and a significant other or some combination of these, but there is something inside of us that tells us to hold onto this no matter what it costs.

So I spoke the words out loud, because Dad had spoken so clearly to me. “Thanks Dad.”

Now lets be honest, I am the one who fell the furthest from the family tree. Dad and Mom struggled for years to explain to their friends why I do what I do or do things the way that I do them. My brother has probably given up on praying for me. My sister shrugs her shoulders and tells me that she loves me anyway.

But let me tell you something. I wouldn’t trade that tree for anything in the world.

Oh! And Mom, happy birthday!!!

Natural Ways

I spend a lot of time walking up and down the beach when I am here. Beach Paatrol is what we have dubbed it! I'm not one for sitting in a chair, so stand most of the time or walk. The beauty of the ocean commands my attention most of the time and I swear that I could stare at the waves breaking on the reef for hours.

But there are mountain behind me and palm trees and other islands in the distance. All of which demand my attention too.

And then there are the friends that I have collected over the years. So as I make my way up and down the beach there are countless conversations. Yesterday my friend Jack fell in beside me as I walked and we reviewed the past year. I've known Jack for several years and he is in sales and told me how rotten things had been for his business. And I told him about the good and the bad of Union Mission over the same time period.

Then he paused and pointed to the beauty of the beach and said, "But we have both been blessed with one more opportunity to be here."

I try to look at my life this way. Each moment is a gift and I don't know how many more I will have so I am going to do my best to enjoy the hell out of the ones that I have right now.

And I am also going to enjoy the hell out of my friends because they are all gifts too and you can never be sure if this happens to be your last experience with them or not so I will treat it like it is!

And these thoughts make me smile as I make my way back down the beach.

Creation Happening Around Me

Sometimes you just have to get away. This is one of those times. After an incredibly busy year, and a pretty intense summer and fall, with a looming winter that will keep me moving at a fast pace, it is good just to stop for a bit.

Not that it ever stops, even while I am here in St. Martin. Yesterday was interrupted by phone calls from people who had issues with loved ones or friends and called for guidance and support. I didn't mind because it is what I do.

But yesterday was also a day of marvel for me in that a storm blew through Orient Beach over Christmas and the waves grew huge over the reef that protects this bay. So the waves made it to the shore, which is rare here, and 30 feel of sand was claimed by the sea. Seaweed was littered across the sand that was left.

It happened very quickly. When I am here, I wake up, climb out of bed, stumble to the ocean and fall face down into the water. It is a great way to start a day. Then I return for a cup of coffee and to read or blog. Perhaps an hour later, I return to the beach.

From the time that I feel into the ocean for my wake up refreshment yesterday until the hour later that I returned to the beach, ten feet of sand had washed away. It is amazing to see creation literally happening all around you. I found myself in awe of it.

There is a line in the Bible that I have always liked. We are participating with God in the completion of creation. One version says that we are groaning for the completion of creation, which I take as God does his part and it is up to me to do mine.

So the part that I want to create is a happy me, who loves the people in my life dearly, enjoys my friends, is useful in this world and appreciates God's creation as it is happening around me.

Trying to Touch a Saint

It happened, of course, when I was with Bill Berry. Not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other guy. There is something about this Bill Berry and I. When we are together it is like spontaneous combustion and stuff happens. He now resides in Virginia and I in Georgia and a great many people like it this way.

So we were at Gethsemane, a Trappist Monastery outside of Bardstown, Kentucky. It is a beautiful place in the hills, with a road lined with majestic trees, and a white wall surrounding the place where the monks live and work. Visitors are greeted by a monk or a volunteer and are told that they may visit certain parts of the monastery, the Chapel, a section of the dining hall, but the rest is off limits.

Gethsemane was also the home of Thomas Merton, before he died, a famous monk and author of many books including The Seven Story Mountain. He was an anti-war activist and a hero to many seekers of faith.

Bill and I found his grave, laid among all the monks who had died, marked with a small white cross that bore his name "Father Louis". Then we decided that we need to find his cottage. Because Merton was a world renown author, he lived in solitude in a small cottage somewhere inside the monastery.

So we climbed this wall, helping one another to the top and jumped over. Our timing could not have been worse as two monks decided to use the same moment to walk underneath where Bill and I had jumped.

While Trappist monks are known for taking vows of silence, we startled them out it, and they shrieked. Bill and I merely looked at one another. I think that I cursed.

Then they happily led us out of the monastery without saying anything more leaving us where we had entered.

At the gate, Bill looked at me and shrugged his shoulder. "Well, at least we tried."

So we drove to the other holy spot that Bardstown is known for, their Tavern where Daniel Boone visited and we drank a pitcher of beer. Or two.

And we toasted how close we had come to touching a saint.

The Sound of God Calling

If you have been following this on Face Book you know that I am in St. Martin. It is a place that I dearly love. Julie and I were happily knocking off visiting Caribbean Islands until we found here.

It is the only island with two different nationalities --- Dutch and French. The story is that a Dutchman and a Frenchman met on the top of Paradises, the mountain on top of the island and they made a wager. They both loaded up the other with wine. Whoever could walk the further without passing out could claim the island for their country. France controls two-thirds. The Netherlands controls one-third. Meaning the French can drink. And those from Holland can’t.

I do not know what this means about health care in France or socialism but the food is to die for and the wine is good and cheap. But if you are a hater of the French, everything is more expensive on this side than the Dutch side but it is also much more laid back. Laissez Faire! I love it!!

Anyway, I was in the grocery store yesterday, which is a trip. The campiest Christmas music that has ever been played was being played, but you can have a beer while grocery shopping in St. Martin so it is not that bad of an experience. The place was packed and the shelves were pretty much cleaned, but you know what? Every kid in there was singing Christmas carols to the tops of their lungs, helping their mothers, and how could I not help but not smile at them? The kids were all brown signifying what we will all look like one day, I guess. It made me thank God for Christmas.

Then on Christmas Eve I danced. With Julie. With people that I met the other day. And with people that I do not know. But we all touched and smiled and twirled and wished one another holiday greetings.

Then I sat with Carlos, my dear friend, and Paul a friend of Carlos who we are growing fond of, and we talked and laughed. Julie disappeared somewhere in here, after giving Carlos kisses, and then it was time to dance so I left them too and danced.

Then it was Christmas morning and I woke early. The kids and I exchanged I-love-you’s and then the rain came, and now we spent Christmas day listening to the rain in 83 degree weather. It is a great way to spend Christmas. Julie has her computer opened and is doing whatever she does and I have my computer opened doing this and if someone walked by in the rain they would think that we are playing battleship.

So I have bounced around the Inter-Net and told people whom I love that I love them on Christmas. And those campy Christmas carols are playing on the radio. And I am thinking about those kids singing to the tops of their lungs. And my wife who lives in Atlanta now and I miss a lot. And my kids whom I dearly love. And all of the friends who I took the time to say that I love you too today, I miss them too.

But you know what? The sound of the rain is the sound of God calling to see if everything is ok. I have to go now and answer. Everything is fine.

Happy Christmas/War is Over

"And so this is Christmas and what have you done?"

Well, a lot actually.

I said goodbye to my Dad this year after he waited on me to return from from being out of the country so that he could see me one last time.

I spent a lot of good times with my children and that means that we laughed a lot. One of the best times was in Fernandina Beach having lunch with them and my Mom while we all helped Julie come up with reasons she loves the South (every year there are Civil War re-enactments for a war that the south lost and they still lose them in the reenactments!)

Julie moved to Atlanta and ours officially became a commuter marriage so everything is brand new again as she explores new paths of her growing as I do mine still based on Tybee Island.

My dear friends at the Breakfast Club continue to nurture me through the beginning of each day with coffee and laughter.

Face Book has allowed me to stay in touch with loved friends across the miles and across the years.

There is new life at work with Keller Deal, Skip Eloge, Lauren Milmine and a new fresh attitude that makes it fun again. And Charles remains a constant with his decorated trash can.

The International Street Medicine Institute, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation Local Funding Partners Program, the Interagency Council for the Homeless, the Step Up Savannah Board of Directors and the other groups that I am honored to serve on keeps me learning new things.

And I am still blessed to live beside the ocean where I touch the miracle of creation most every day.

Happy Christmas Everyone! Thank you all!

A Trashy Christmas

Well, Charles found Christmas after all.

When he comes through the offices to empty the trash, he rolls this huge can down the hall and pours the office cans into that one. The holiday spirit evidently got the best of him because Charles has decorated his trash can. He wrapped the can with Christmas wrapping paper and then tapped candy canes all around it. I must say that it is the most festive trash can that I have ever seen.

I have tried to come up with some profound insight into the significance of Charles's decorated trash can but can't find one. Only that my adopted son and mentally ill friend has found a way to celebrate the season.

What a gift!!

Happy Christmas All!!

Follow Your Bliss

I was returning phone calls and two of the people that I spoke to asked me to call a friend who has seperated from his wife. I hadn't spoken to him in a couple of years and felt that if he needed to talk to me that he would call. After mentioning it to Julie, she told me that I was being silly and should call just in case. So I did.

He anwered and I immediately launched into the story of when I was seperated from my wife many years ago. I walked into the Breakfast Club and was feeling pretty low. Bruce, the waiter and dear friend, came over and sat on the stool beside me. He laid his arm around my shoulder.

"Thank you Micheal," he said.

"For what?" I asked not having any idea.

"For being the subject of everybody's conversation so that I don't have to be anymore."

I burst into laughter and it became another source of the friendship that he and I had.

Anyway I shared it on the phone and said now everybody is talking about you!

We laughed and agreed to get together soon. As we were finishing up the conversation I was asked if I have read Joseph Campbell, which I have, and the talk ended with both of us agreeing with the author, you have to follow your bliss.

Another way of saying this is we have to get our happiness where we can find it. But that means going on a search for it. We make happiness, or love, or bliss. Rarely do these things happen without iniative on our part.

And I do not beleive that we can ever stop. Those who do end up living in the past which is a very unhappy place. Those who are happy are always trying to be happy. Those who are the most loved are forever making love for others. Ands those who touch bliss do so because they never stop trying.

Charles's Christmas

Charles was cleaning the office as always does, talking to himself, wearing his threadbare clothes and flip flops that don't really cover much of anything. For ten years now Charles has emptied the trash cans and mopped the floors and really does a fine job. The only issue is that Charles does these things when he wants to do them regardless of anything else that is going on. So I can be having a meeting and this six foot tall black man, wanders in with his eyes half closed and mumbling to himself, and empties the trash. None of us at Union Mission think much of it and will wish him a good morning, though the visitors may be alarmed when he comes in.

This is my 10th Christmas with him. Over the years we have given him clothes, shoes, gift cards, coffee, and candy. Charles loves coffee and candy. The other things that we give him are stored away in his locker, rarely to be used. I approached him once asking why he refused to wear the brand new coat that Julie and I had bought him. Instead he was wearing a ripped one that had the lining exposed.

"Uh, no sir," he explained, "this one still has good life left in this one."

I didn't know how to respond though over the years I have come to embrace Charles's attitude of holding on to things that I think are dear.

Anyway Joy came into my office and told me that it was time to give Charles his Christmas presents. He was emptying trash cans and we made him stop and laid out the wrapped presents on Jeanette's desk. At first, he began simply picking them up so that he could take them away and open them privately.

We made him stop and open each one in front of us. And received a treasure chest full of instant coffee and candy. We've given up on getting him to change his clothes.

I'm not certain that Charles thinks much about Christmas. I do know that he is aware that it is happening, but I don't think that he dwells much on the spirit of the season. Instead, his routine is only interrupted when we make him stop and receive presents. He mumbles thanks and then resumes emptying the trash while Christmas takes place all around him.

I hope that one day Charles embraces Christmas or that one day Christmas embraces him. And that he can acknowledge the vast amount of love that surrounds him. But in the meantime I hope that he enjoys his coffee and his candy.

Merry Christmas Charles. I love you.

Illegal Christmas's

I was with my mother at our family Christmas dinner. The rest of the family was upstairs and Mom was showing me what she had done to Dad’s room. The former downstairs garage had been taken over by Dad when they moved into this house many years ago. He had cable run, put up a television, opened the garage door and turned it into his man space. He loved the outdoors, the smell of the marsh, the sun on the water … and sports. Any kind of sports but college football most of all! This is where Dad would sit for hours on end enjoying all of the things that he loved at once. There was a phone beside his chair and I would call him or he would call me and we would talk about almost everything, but mostly sports.

Dad died last summer and Mom had lovingly taken Dad’s space and incorporated it into their home. She was showing me old photographs of him that she had framed and placed throughout his space. He was happy in each of them and she was celebrating his life by putting them out.

My blackberry started buzzing on my hip and I glanced at the screen which flashed “Jim Withers.” Jim is the famous Dr. James Withers, founder of Operation Safety Net in Pittsburgh, founder of the International Street Medicine Institute, star of an award winning documentary on his work, winner of the Robert Wood Johnson’s Community Health Leadership Award among others, world evangelist for street medicine, techno-geek, and friend.

Mom rolled her eyes when she saw that I was going to take the call. “I’ll be upstairs,” she laughed and left me in Dad’s space alone with Jim.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“What are you doing?” he replied.

I told him and he immediately apologized before rushing on to why he called.

“Listen,” he said, “in the state of Georgia it is evidently against the law to provide health care to illegal immigrants.”

I told him that I knew this. I also told him that I knew some of the people who sponsored the legislation to make this law.

“Well, on Monday they are going to stop treating 30 of them who are on dialysis in Atlanta. Micheal, they are going to die!”

I could hear the desperation in his voice. I told him that I understood.

“Well, I’m calling because I gave them your name and told them the story of how you sent all of the homeless people to the emergency room complaining of heart attacks so that they could obtain proper treatment.”

Somehow, I felt that Jim was getting me in trouble. “You told who?” I asked.

“The people that are trying to help these 30 people not die,” he responded as if I were stupid.

“I told them that they should call you so that you could guide them on sending the 30 illegal immigrants to the emergency room. I wanted you to know who they are when they call.”

“Oh great!” I told myself. He is going to get me in trouble.

“Sure Jim,” I told him. “I’ll talk to them.”

How could I not? Jesus’ story of the Good Samaritan flashed through my mind. We’re supposed to take care of those who cannot take care of themselves. Right? Even if they are illegal immigrants or Republicans or Democrats or Muslims or Jews or Christians or blacks or whites or green people from Mars. Right?

I mean I understand that their own country should bear the cost and that they are here illegally or that they should have made enough money in the United States building houses or cleaning toilets to pay for their care themselves. I understand all of those things.

But some things are more important than money. Right?

“Merry Christmas, Micheal!” Jim concluded.

“Merry Christmas Jim,” I sighed, climbing the steps to return to my family’s Christmas.

Home

A cold rain is falling across Savannah but I do not think that it will dampen the spirits of the 11 families who are moving into their brand new apartments at Dutchtown today. I was there again yesterday at Tenika invited me to take a look at 302, her apartment.

It was cluttered with the boxes that were filled with her clothes and what possessions she had. She took me through every room, pointing out the ceiling fans, the windows, and the bathroom fixtures. She beamed.

"This is the first time that I have ever lived in a brand new place," she told me as we concluded the tour.

She rushed back out to the truck that was delivering furniture. There was laughter in the air as they worked.

For the past couple of years, the Dutchtown development, a 48 unit apartment complex for homeless people with disabilities has belonged to the Union Mission staff. We have worked to bring it from a risky idea to its completion. There have been delays, frustrations, design flaws, cost over runs, failed inspections, and miscommunication. But we remained persistent, never giving up, and it stands completed. All this time, it has been ours to love and nuture.

Today it becomes something different. Today it becomes a home for people who have never really had one.

What's Next?

I was standing in one corner of the five-and-a-half acres on Middleground Road looking all of the way across the newly completed complex and marveling at its scope and beauty. 48 apartments will house chronic homeless people. The white and blue structures sit upon lavish, landscaped, green space where homeless children will play. Today the first residents begin moving in.

Over the years, Union Mission has done a lot of building or renovations of existing structures. Some of them really stand out to me. Phoenix Place houses people living with AIDS and was almost all volunteer development that made it happen. The J. C. Lewis Health Center remains one of the only stand-alone respite centers for a chronic needs population. The Behavioral Health Center inspires awe because of its sheer scope.

But Dutchtown is Union Mission's master piece. Homeless people will no longer have to live in a shelter, which is nothing more than a ware house for human beings. They will now live in their own brand new homes. Homes that any of us would be fine living in.

For the past several months, every time that I am on the Dutchtown campus, cars pull in and people ask for applications to move in. They are military families, college students, or regular folk looking for a place to live. When we tell them the conditions of residency, you must have a chronic diagnosis of some kind, they don't grasp what we are saying. I am fond of saying that we will work until the homeless have a place to call home. Dutchtown is that place!

As I walked through it yesterday, I could not help but think of all of the changes. Union Mission looks nothing like it did 21 years ago when I first came to work here. It looks nothing like it did 10 years ago. Or 5 years ago. Or even 3 years ago! I am proud that we continue to work to meet the needs that come to us and continue to change in order to be successful.

Letitia Robinson drove up at that moment. She has been the person in charge of the development for us. I asked her to walk with me and shared with her these thoughts. Then we pointed to an undeveloped parcel of the property. That is what is next, we agreed.

Nothing is Finished

A few blocks from my house is a sign that proclaims that Highway 80 ends here. There is the Park of the 7 flags that marks the spot. Highway 80 used to start on the coast of California and end on Tybee Island, Georgia. Before the Interstate system, it was one of the country's grant highways.

"There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning."

I read this line by Louis L'Amour, of all people last night, and could not help but be struck by how simple and true it is. Highway 80 may end but the ocean begins. Or the end of Highway is the beginning if you turn around. Endings are only beginnings.

Even when people die, they linger in the hearts and minds of those of us left behind. The work that they did somehow goes on. They are absorbed into the universe or they go to heaven or hell. Perhaps they come back. Who knows? But they don't simply stop.

When Jesus said "It is finished," hanging there on the cross, he was wrong because that was only the beginning.

When I got to the office yesterday I passed through the Grace House foyer. There is an old church pew that was lined with homeless men waiting to be seen by the case manager. They looked worn and tired and sad. They were there because they had no place else to go. Whatever families they had were finished with them or they were finished with their families.

"Good Morning!" I cheerily announced letting them know that this was the beginning of a new day.

They seemed surprised and each of them looked up and caught my eye and mumbled greetings in response. It was a start.

Later I was making my way down Broughton Street, downtown Savannah's main drag, when I heard someone calling my name. Turning, I saw a familiar face, beaming with a smile, running towards me.

"Hey Mike," he said shaking my hand. "I saw you walking by and just had to say hello." Taking a step back, he asked, "Don't I look good? I'm 5 months clean. I'm working right there and have just been promoted to regional manager."

I smiled and congratulated him. Earlier this year, he had been one of those men who sat on the pew at Grace House, homeless and sad and worn. Now he looks ... reborn.

So that is why the work is important. Because every time that I start believing that everything is finished. I learn again that it is really the beginning.

Going Home Again

Keller Deal and I were sitting at her desk searching through old files when Charles walked up. Charles is my "adopted son" in that I am his representative payee and we have been a constant in one another lives for more than a decade. He is over six feet tall, very thin, black with a shaved head and a deep voice. He is mentally ill and carries on lengthy conversations with himself. He is also our janitor. I love Charles as much as I've loved anyone who has ever come through Union Mission.

Placing one hand on top of his head and closing his eyes, he addresses us. "Sir, I want to ask you this in front of your secretary..."

"She is not my secretary, Charles."

"In front of your Executive Assistant," he continues undeterred.

"She's the Director of Community Affairs," I explain.

"Well whatever she is," Charles pushes on, obviously not one of those who care much about people's titles, "I want to ask you in front of her."

Keller giggles. I shake my head as this is typical of many conversations that Charles and I have.

"Can I go to Augusta in a less expensive manner?"

Augusta, Georgia is two-and-a-half hour trip up the road. It is where Charles grew up and he has vague memories of his father there. I have purchased him bus tickets, booked him a room at the Hyatt on the river, watched the staff pack him food, and have sent him twice now. He dresses in his finest clothes (something that he rarely does as he wears thread bare pants with holes in them, shirts held closed with pins, and flip flops that over handle half a foot) and we all gather to say good bye. Watching him get on the bus leaves me with the same feeling that parents have when they put their 1st grader on the bus for the first time. A lump rises in my throat and I wonder if he will come back to us.

So far, so good. He has returned with an Augusta Chronicle to prove to me that it was actually Augusta that he went to even though we bought the bus ticket for him.

Charles came to us after being paroled from prison. He has been with us ever since. He is a daily presence in my life and as much a part of Union Mission as I am. This is as good of a quality of life as he can likely manage and he is surrounded by a staff who care for him when he doesn't do such a good job of caring for himself.

Still, he wants to go home. Even though there is no home there. No family. He knows no one. There are only vague recollections of these things and Charles wants to get as close as he can to them.

How can I tell him no? Everybody eventually wants to go home again. Home is where they want you. Home is where you want to be wanted. So Charles will go and remember what it was like when he had these things. Then I pray like hell that he will come back to be surrounded by those of us who love him.

Then I think how thankful that I am for my home. And for my family. And for my friends. And for Charles.

Lost and Found

In her new book, "An Alter in the World", Barbara Brown Taylor has a chapter titled "The Practice of Getting Lost" in which she explores the fact that spiritual awakenings often happen when one is off the beaten paths of life. It is only when we are lost that we truly discover who we are and where God resides. Getting lost may be getting sick, losing a job, losing someone close to you, going through a divorce or having an affair. Or it can mean losing your way in the woods or on the streets of a city.

Describing an accident that she was in, Barbra found herself in the hospital. And it was here in her lostness that she began to understand the miracles that were taking place around her.

"The first miracle was that people took care of me when I could not take care of myself." An ambulance had fetched her after the accident, someone stitched her head, a stranger brought food and so on.

"The second miracle was how safe I felt," she continues, "not in nay conventional sense. My head hurt like hell...Yet as badly as I was frightened, I was also held."

When I read this I though of all of the times that I have been lost. In Poland once and in Cuba. When I moved into my own place of years of marriage and then into another when I found Julie (getting lost almost always involved getting found too).

Then I thought of last year at this time when SABHC was destroyed by those who did not want it, Union Mission found itself in major distress over taxes, and we were on the brink of closing. I remember being told in my office and having to sit down because I felt that someone had knocked me in the stomach. My eyes filled with moisture. I could see 21 years of hard word evaporating and hundreds of people who relied on me being let down. I was lost!

The first miracle was Herb McKenzie and Jerry Rainey of the Board of Directors literally moving in assuming control of Union Mission when I was too overwhelmed to make a decision. They ran things and waited until I was in a position to work with them crawling our way to light again.

The second miracle was Julie recognizing that I needed a safe place to recover from the hurt and trauma and she made certain that this happened. Then she endured all of the healing that had to take place inside of me throughout this period.

The third miracle were the hundreds of people in this community who expressed their support and friendship at a time when Union Mission needed more than it could give. For decades it had been the other way around with us doing all of the giving. Now we needed the help.

Now it is exactly one year later. We are no longer lost and we have found a great many things because we were. I can still vivdly remember the feeling inside of me when I first learned that we were lost. It is one of the scars that I carry with me. But overwhelming that are the miracles that were found. There is a holiness in them that I also carry inside of me.

Living to Fight Another Day

I've been sick for most of this week. I only get sick when I start wearing out. I can always tell because my lower back starts to ache first and then there comes the fever. I spent most of Sunday and Monday sleeping until the fever broke. Then it was cautiously back to work because this is the Christmas season and that is a very busy time at Union Mission.

Tuesday I did pretty good throughout the morning attending a Step Up Executive Committee Meeting, attending the ground breaking of America's Second Harvest new community kitchen, and then the final walk through of the Dutchtown development, ending with a lunch meeting with Lavanda Brown and Slip Eloge. Then it was home to bed.

Wednesday I flew to Atlanta for the Interagency Council for the Homeless meeting and spent the late afternoon and evening coughing and hacking in the hotel room with my sick wife who joined me and complimented by coughing and hacking with her own.

After making it back to Savannah yesterday, Keller Deal and I planned the next Union Mission IMPACT television show, plan mass mailings, and a lot of other things that are all happening at once.

This morning is the first day that I have run since last Sunday when I got my first clue that the sickness was coming. As I made by way down the street I noticed the gold leaves that lined the street and the bright red roses that grew in yards that I passed. The white sand was soft as I ran through an opening in the dunes and spilled out onto the grey sand of beach. The ocean was flat and the yellow rising sun was suspended between the sea and a string of purple and red clouds. The wind was lite though the air was cold.

Throughout the run I coughed and spit the mucus which is the last of the sickness working itself out of my body. My chest hurt with each cough and when I finished my frozen hands wiped excess sweat from my forehead.

Through the years I have learned that this work can take its toil on me. Never really off, my body finally tells me when it is time to slow down and rest. Obviously I don't do as good a job telling myself so my body takes over. And that is one of the things that I have come to respect about the work, from time to time you just have to step away from it or it will consume you completely.

Way back a thousand years ago when I started working with homeless people, I got to know Mitch Synder who was also doing the work in Washington, D. C. Mitch always wore an army jacket because he felt that he was at war with the Reagan administration over homelessness. He opened up a massive shelter in D. C. hailed at the time as a national victory in the war on homelessness. It is still operating though I think that it is a mass warehouse for human beings. Those days it was an intense time in an intense profession.

And then one day, Mitch hung himself in the shelter that he opened for homeless people. The work had consumed him totally, I think, with the needs of so many who pin so much of their hope on what you can do for them.

So when my lower back starts to ache, I think of Mitch. I say a prayer that he is better today than on that horrible day when he decided he had to stop once and for all. And then I lay down. Because unlike my friend Mitch, I want to live to fight another day.

So Far To Go

It is cold in Atlanta. I have made the way from my warm bed on the 45th floor of the Marriott, with a panoramic view of the city which is dotted with Christmas trees and the steady flow of traffic on the interstates below. In the dark, the traffic looks like an endless fast paced parade of lights. Looking down on it, the city appears beautiful.

Walking to the subway though I encounter the not-so-lovely aspects of Atlanta. Peachtree and Pine is the warehouse of human beings that is operated by the Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless. Surrounding it are those who could not fit inside and their heads lay on the possessions, laying in the fetal position, shivering in the morning.

The escalator transports me underground and I join the masses who are coming or going to work. We wait on the train and the tracks are lined with trash. I note dirty diapers and wonder why mothers would change their baby and discard the pampers that way rather than use the trash can.

The train arrives and we are welcomed into the mass of comers-and-goers who arrived before we did. Collections of friends talk loudly and laugh. Many just stare straight ahead. And the homeless try not to be seen as they sleep. When we reach the airport, which is the end of the line, they do not exit the train, but sleep until they are told to move. Then they shuffle across the station to wait on the next train so that they can do it all again.

I am here because of these people. I spent yesterday on the 26th floor of 2 Peachtree Street which is filled with the bureaucrats who run this state. We discussed the status of the numerous programs that are in some state of implementation. It is an honor to be a member of such a group though as I made my way through the streets of Atlanta this morning I wondered if we are managing successful battles while we lose a war.

I am glad to be returning to Savannah which is beautiful from the ground level as well as from on high. There are pockets of people who sleep in fetal positions there too but they hide under bridges and there are not as many. Back there, I know that the we are making progress in the battles that we are fighting. The numbers speak for themselves. An entire homeless population has access to health care. Hundreds find meaningful work and buy their way out of homelessness. Those who need supportive environments to end their homelessness do so through our housing programs.

Savannah makes me proud of how far we have come. Atlanta reminds me of how far we have to go.

It's What Do Not What You Say

Today I am off to Atlanta for the quarterly meeting of the Georgia Interagency Council for the Homeless. Every unit of government is represented and there are two at-large members. Kathryn Preston, Executive Director of the Georgia Coalition to End Homelessness is one. I am the other. I missed the last meeting, made the one before that, but missed the one before that. I think that I got a perfect attendance star prior to that.

Georgia Department of Community Affairs Commissioner Mike Beatty, one of the Council’s co-chairs, proclaimed last time that I don’t attend anymore because Union Mission received a $5 and ½ Million dollar allocation to build Dutchtown, a 48 unit apartment complex for those with chronic conditions on Savannah’s south side. After a couple of years of construction due to design issues, it will finally open next month.

Mike is a supporter of our work, and we like one another a good deal. Dutchtown is also Georgia’s most ambitious housing development for this population and they are spending twice as much as the norm on it. “We will be studying it for years,” is how Doug Scott puts it. I think that he was making it known that he prefers me in these meetings.

While Mike was being funny, I am amazed that people often criticize me (if is hard for them to criticize Union Mission) because the Department of Community Affairs awarded Union Mission $5 ½ Million.

Or that DCA funds Union Mission about $500,000 each year for other programs.

Or that the U. S. Health & Human Services Administration gives it $1.2 Million annually for health care for the uninsured.

Or that the U. S. Department of Housing & Urban Development provide over $1 Million annually for Union Mission’s programs for people with AIDS.

Or that the Chatham County Commission awarded Union Mission $2.3 Million last year because of the development of a health care campus for the uninsured and homeless.

I could go on and tick off the $11 Million in funds that Union Mission brings to Chatham County annually but you get the point.

And I am often criticized by other people because over the course of 21 years, we have worked hard to cultivate the relationships, trust, and expertise to be responsible for such resources. "Oh you go and make your millions," one said to me one day when we were comparing notes. I'm uncertain what she meant as there is certainly plenty of need to go around.

None of these grants would have been possible however without the support of people in the Savannah region who support Union Mission with $10 contributions, or $50 donations, or $100, or $1000 or $10,000 or whatever people who care about what we do choose to give.

This is the foundation and Union Mission has been successful over the years of leveraging Millions of dollars that would have been spent somewhere other than here had it not been for these efforts.

Most people appreciate it and understand the significance of the impact on the community. An entire County has a higher quality of live because of the resources that Union Mission brings to it.

Still there are some who are critical. They feel that money should be theirs or that Union Mission has already received more than its fair share. They like the J. C. Lewis Health Center, the Starfish Café, or the Barnes Center but they are critical of Union Mission which made them all possible, along with our partners. They are forever saying that they are going to do something but never really do anything. They just talk about what they would do if...

It is comical as some will call the Health Center by its name or praise the Brassler Dental Clinic but they never choose to associate these programs with Union Mission. And they are critical of me most of all because of …well, I don’t really know.

And I don’t really dwell on it much but I am human and sometimes I just have to shake my head and wonder. Terry Cassidy, Vice-President of Parent & Child of Union Mission, says that we merely have a history of finding a need and meeting it for our community. Over the years, we’ve met a lot of need and have developed a massive multi-million infrastructure for the homeless and the working poor and anybody else who have needs that we have programs for.

So I try to keep it all in perspective. There are those who are critical regardless of what you do. It's important to listen to what they have to say, but in the end it is more important to do what you say you are going to do.

The Blessing of Laughter

I was at lunch with a friend at Johnny Harris’ restaurant, a Savannah institution, and we were deeply engrossed in conversation. When the food arrived, she said, “I’ll say grace,” and she began waving her hand over the plate making the sign of the cross.

“God Bless this food,” she began, picking up a bowl of Brunswick Stew, “and those who made this stew, including those illegal immigrants who picked these vegetables, underpaid though they were by the farmers, but God bless the farmers too, including the mass corporate farms that ran all of the family farms out of business!’

“And bless those Chinese sweet shops that used underage workers to make this China that our food is being served in. Especially those under the age of 14.”

By now I am laughing and she opens her eyes and begins to laugh. Then she spies my fried chicken, makes the sign of the cross and continues the blessing.

“God bless those who operate the chicken farms overseeing the cages that this poor bird lived his life in so that the profit margin could be maximized. God also bless the one that rung this chicken’s neck, ripping its head off, throwing it into a large garbage bag. God bless those that disposed of those garbage bags full of chicken heads whoever they are and however they do their work.”

I stared at her, still giggling, when she pronounced, “I’m becoming a Buddhist.”

“What kind?” I asked screwing my face up as if I had biten into a lemon. This wasn’t a religion that I am particularly interested in.

We both burst out laughing and continued our conversation. The prayer was a parody of something that she had read in Barbara Brown Taylor's new book "An Alter in the World." And the conversation turned serious and it took us in another direction.

She ate her Brunswick Stew. I consumed the headless chicken. And the conversation lasted a couple of hours, exploring the past, confessing the present and throwing wishful thoughts into the future.

You have to laugh, right? And you have to be willing to laugh at most anything, including yourself. Otherwise we would all become overwhelmed by all of the things that are wrong --- with our life, religion, where we work, the government, the world --- that we would all die of depression or from the sheer weight of everything that is wrong.

Of course, you have to laugh in the right places and with the right people. Otherwise you are being politically incorrect and that can get you sued, hated, locked up or crucified.

The job that I have is hard work. It is often joyous work, when people succeed against impossible odds. It is often heart-wrenching work when you’ve giving someone all that you have only to watch them fail. It is sometimes heart breaking work when they die and they shouldn’t have! And I give it my all because there is something very holy about the “least of these” that are easy to love in Church but become a completely different matter in real life. I’ve spent so much of my career publicly proclaiming that it is all right, we are all the same when it comes down to it, let’s all come together now and make one another better merely because we have gotten to know … one another.

Lately though, I have begun to realize that it takes more than a holy cause or good deeds or public successes to get you through. It takes laughter. Lots of it. And I have been fortunate enough to have collected these groups of friends who love to laugh. Gathering with them is every bit as important as prayer or voting or paying the I. R. S. on time. Without them and the spontaneous combustion of laughing with friends, none of us would be able to do what we do for very long.

The Joy of a Hangover Monday

On Friday night we had the annual Union Mission holiday and staff appreciation party. It is quite the event and former employees somehow still wish to attend. Held at the Savannah Italian Club, the food is to die for, the entertainment is hilarious(more on that in a minute)and it thanks a hard working staff that needs to blow it out at least once a year. This is hard work that we do at Union Mission, often heart-breaking work, and sometimes we simply need to celebrate. The annual party is that celebration.

It is also funny. Each staff competes against the other in competitive karaoke and this year's theme was "The King of Rock verses the King of Pop" and yes multiple Michael Jacksons and at least one Elvis was in the house. Each staff really prepares for this (Loosely prepares!)and there is laughing, booing, and mostly awful performances. One or two members of the staff actually have some musical talent but they are far outnumbered by the rest of us.

So we had Jailhouse Rock, Billy Jean and all of the great music of both artists. We also have a Dee-Jay who carries a large spoon around his waist and plays it like a base guitar throughout the night. And just as inexplicably, the Parent & Child staff won this year's compeition with Michael Jackson busting in on Elvis in the middle of a song for a musical show down. A group of mostly unbiased judges who could not be bought off, determined it was so.

Unlike previous years, there was not a great deal of smack talk leading up to the party. The main reason is that Union Mission is slammed in this economy and the staff is working overtime throughout the holiday season trying to manage the needs that keep showing up at our door.

And on this hangover Monday after the party, everyone will show back up today to care for the hundreds of people who will be there waiting for housing, health care, food, couseling, the dentist, and all of the other services that Union Mission provides day in and day out. This is an incredible, dedicated group of people who bleed for what we do and it is great to start another week with them.

What A Difference!

I was seated at the head table of the Chamber of Commerce's annual Eggs and Issues Breakfast for the third consecutive year. I have the R-E-V in front of my name, am pretty active in the Chamber and always attend the kick off to the state legislative season anyway. It must be for convenience that I am asked as there aren't too many ministers who attend the Chamber's political functions.

Anyway, as I was driving to the Westin Harbor Resort, crossing the Talmadge Bridge, I peered at the entire City below me. Church spirals shot above the massive green oak trees proclaiming the holiness of a green city that holds its traditions dear. The Savannah River was making its way to the ocean and the shops of River Street held watch over the massive tankers making their way into the ports. This is a beautiful place to live and work.

Then I was suddenly struck by a time when I did not think things were so beautiful. One year ago, things were bad. A collaborative that I had invested years in had exploded and was front page news. The strain and stress of trying to hold the collaborative together was wearing me out and leaving me exhausted. At the same time I was experiencing the very public betrayal of a partner that I had trusted for more than a decade. I felt as though I was living in a fishbowl and the entire City was watching and commenting on everything that I was doing.

And while all of this was happening, Trip Tollison called and asked me to again deliver the invocation at the Eggs and Issues breakfast. 500 Community leaders again gathered and I was seated at the head table beside the delegation of state representatives. Senator Eric Johnson, now running for Governor, and I quietly talked about everything that was happening at Union Mission while we ate. Then I was introduced and said a prayer and led the assembly in the Pledge of Allegiance.

As I drove across the bridge, seeing the city, and remembering that experience, I realized what a power symbol it was at that time. While I may have stumbled, I had not fallen. I had friends in high places who still believed in what we were doing. The Chamber was expressing that friendship. It was a humbling and powerful realization.

So yesterday I sat next to Senator Lester Jackson and we laughed and cut up throughout breakfast. This was much more of a celebration than the previous experiences. I spoke to many of the hundreds gathered personally and the vibe was one of comrades and friendship.

Then I thought of all of the other friends who had reached out throughout the past year. I expressed gratitude to the Union Mission Board of Directors who stood fast and made miracles happen. The Union Mission staff who kept working throughout the trauma, doing what they do best, which is making the entire City a better place to be. And all of my friends who reached out and expressed their love through small gestures and grand expressions.

Driving to the office after the breakfast, I couldn't but help think what a difference a year makes. Then I realized that it wasn't the year that made the difference. It was the friends.

Fallen Angels

I often go to Fannie’s On-The- Beach which is an ocean front restaurant where my carnival-of-friends congregate on a daily basis. Some people go to Mass. I go to Fannie’s. Both gatherings involve wine, bread, and the passing of the peace, although the later is spelled differently depending on the location. Both have someone holding court saying how things should be while the crowd pretends to pay attention. And both invoke the name of God countless times during the course of the gathering.

There are, of course, differences. One has angels, the other has Roma. One has a cleric who pretends to be above reproach and the other has Johnny O who isn’t above much anything. One has sinners seeking absolution and the other has sinners seeking Absolute (vodka). One has the ringing of bells and the other has bells being rung. One has organ music and the other has organs being exposed. You get my point. They are similar, yet very different.

My friends Jenny Orr and Christy Alan have decorated the place and I love it. A plaque reads “Travel is fatal to bigotry and prejudice,” a quote by Mark Twain. The place is a funky, hip, seaside place where it is always “Time to Eat!”

Above the bar though is a framed poster that I love. It is two angels, portrayed as two cherubs, chubby white cheeks with blond curly hair, naked and sitting at a bar, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. One is looking heavenward as though asking “what have I done?”, while the other seems to be enjoying the moment. The caption on the poster is “Fallen Angels”.

I am there a lot but on Thanksgiving I finally made Fannie’s annual Thanksgiving feast. It was closed to the public but open to the regulars (and anyone else who wandered in). A pot-luck was held but the kitchen was busy pumping it out too. And everyone who had no place else to go or who would have rather been there than anywhere else gathered and the place reeked of holiness.

It is hard not to invoke Billy Joel’s song and quote “I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the Saints” and that is certainly the case when I gather with my friends at Fannie’s. We laugh. We laugh at most anything, including government, religion, Tybee Island Parking services, tourists, locals, and one another. Especially at one another! Last time that I was in Mass, no one laughed.

I hang around a lot of Fallen Angels in my life and I like it. Every day in my work I observe sinners and saints sleeping side by side in the beds of homeless shelters. They extol one another in the respite care rooms of the J. C. Lewis Health Center where they have been discharged from the hospital. They hold hands at Phoenix Place where they have recently discovered their HIV diagnosis. They cry on one another shoulders at Parent & Child where they have been referred by the courts and they are scared to death at what their futures hold. They share their food in the Barnes Center because this is the first real family that they’ve had in years. And they make room for more in the Kole Center because the place that some were staying was closed and the only other choice was back on the streets.

Come to think of it, the only angels that I’ve ever met have been fallen ones. Save perhaps those on Sunday morning television or cable where no one ever sins. In my life, I’ve actually met some of those never-fallen sinners, you know like Jim and Tammy Faye, and in reality they had all fallen just like I have. Just like everyone that I’ve ever met has. I’ve never figured out why so many people try to pretend that they haven’t. We all share that in common just like we all share birth or breathing or lust or sorrow or happiness or death.

So today is another day with my friends the fallen angels. And those who pretend that they have never fallen. I cannot imagine hanging around any other kind.

Remnant Communities

I've come to believe in remnant communities. I suppose that I fell into my first one in college. Guy Sayles, Mitch Wesley, Dr. George Shriver, Dr. Del Presley and this loose collection that hung around the Baptist Student Union were the first to push me towards looking at life differently. I recall that we were often in trouble.

In seminary it was Bill Berry, Claude Drouet, Beth Bell, Diane Reel, Michael Freeman, Cindy Weber, Chester, Sonny, Bruce and a crazy collection of people achieved something very different in Louisville, Kentucky. We kidnapped a church from the Southern Baptist Convention. Sunday School rooms were turned into apartments. The Baptismal Pool became a bathtub. The annual watching of "A Carlie Brown Christmas" somehow became the zenith of worship. Nothing was off limits to us and even Santa Claus was once put on trial for selling out Christmas to commercialism. We were liberal, conservative, gay, straight, black, white, poor...and we always seemed to be in some sort of trouble. For a few years, it was magic.

Then for the past two decades in Savannah there has been Union Mission. Diane Reel (again), Karen Jack, Julie Walsh, Lavanda Brown, Rodger Pack, Joe Bridges, and a thousand other names. Grace House was built. Then the Magdalene Project, Phoenix Place, Potters Place, the Hacienda, the Employment & Training Center, the J. C. Lewis Health Center, the Barnes Center, the Kole Center, the Brassler Dental Clinic, Parent & Child, the Behavioral Health Center and soon, Dutchtown. The volume of what has been accomplished for a small city is mind-boggling and Savannah is a much different place because of it. And we were often in trouble because of it.

So last night, I stood in a parking lot listening to Diane DeVore read the names of those who have died from AIDS. Perhaps a hundred people had gathered. A City Alderman was present. High School students. Lavanda had brought her son. Susan Alt of the Health Department was there with her husband Ron. A lot of Union Mission staff. A lot of homeless people. A few people simply walked up from the community. Candles were lit. Songs were sung.

Then Stephanie Dixon stood and talked. She oversees Union Mission's HIV programs. She spoke with passion and through tears and I was struck by the fact that she is a leader of the next generation of a remnant community. And I found great comfort in knowing that.

The Scriptures say that God will always raise another prophet. Last night I saw some taking shape and that is a gratifying and humbling thing.

Remember (Christmas and AIDS)

I have come to associate World AIDS Day with Christmas. The City's squares and parks are all decorated and for the 19th year, Union Mission is hosting a Memorial Service this afternoon at 5:30. This is the first time that we haven't sponsored or co-sponsored the event when it was held in a city square.

The very first service was in Johnson Square in downtown Savannah. There were perhaps fifty of us gathered and having a candlelight vigil. There were several hundred waiting on us to finish so that the Town Crier would flip the switch and all of the Christmas lights would come on at the same time. Everyone was respectful until we finished. We said "Amen". He screamed "Merry Christmas!" and as we blew out our candles, white lights blazed and illuminated the square.

The next morning, the Savannah Morning News covered both events, but the pictures made it appear that hundreds had attended the first AIDS Memorial Service.

In the following years, it moved to Forsyth Park, Savannah's crown jewel. And every December 1, hundreds really would attend. White bags were illuminated with candles inside and each bag had the name of someone who had died because of AIDS. One year, I read the names of each person who had died from Savannah and was struck by the fact that I had personally known almost every one of them.

One year, Bubba Haupt and a couple of people crashed the service, when they arrived carrying a six foot cross into the middle of the crowd. Bubba was a very conservative evangelist who had taken to calling me a "secular humanist" and a pagan in the Savannah Morning News.

Anyway, Bubba and his friends mostly stood there during the service. At the end there was a moment of silence for all of those who had died from AIDS. Bubba and his friends took this opportunity to begin softly singing "Jesus Loves You."

I remember that Robert Bush had been the last speaker and was still at the microphone. Without missing a beat, Robert softly joined in and led the entire crowd in singing along as though it were part of the service. Bubba and his friends quickly left as soon as the song was over.

So I was saddened to learn that no one else wanted to sponsor or co-sponsor the event this year. There are no longer available resources to secure Forsyth Park. Interest seems to have wained.

But I am proud that Union Mission will continue it anyway on Fahm Street. During Christmas, and throughout the year, I think that we should remember.