Tapping Tapestry… December 31, 2011

Jonathan in Miami

John Candy died. It rattled my soul to its depths.

It wasn’t just because I enjoyed his work or relished his comedic wit. More importantly, he was just about my size and my age. It made me think about my own mortality–especially when a mere two months later, I fell ill. I had been sick before–you know, where you cough, blow your nose, recover from a sprained ankle or have a headache that goes away with a few aspirin and a good night’s sleep.

This was different. This was a sickness that grabbed onto me and wouldn’t let go. It not only infested my body with pain and discomfort, but sent shock warnings through my mind of the seriousness of the situation. I tried to ignore it; I attempted to medicate it. I even tried to exercise it away. It got worse. There was a sense of ill will throughout every member of my faculties. Finally I relented to go to the doctor. I was immediately placed in the hospital, where I stayed for three days as they tested me, but failing to discover precisely what the problem was.

Meanwhile, one of my sons decided to brighten up my room by bringing in a Christmas tree–even though it was June. He knew how much I enjoyed the holiday. My wife brought in a boom box and a few musical cassettes for me to play. I really didn’t want to hear anything. I just felt … horrible. Half of the medical staff was convinced that some of the problem was in my head, while the remainder of them persisted in their examinations. Meanwhile, I flirted with depression, ready to have a full affair.

It was especially bad at night. During the day, I kept my chin up (both of them) and remained optimistic. But nighttime in a hospital may be the closest thing to solitary confinement that I ever want to  experience. The blinking lights on my Christmas tree, intended to cheer me up, resembled a warning beacon of the doom lying ahead. So one night I reached over, picked up a cassette, and dropped it into the boom box. It was Carole King’s Tapestry.I do not know whether I was just vulnerable, needy or finally open enough to hear the music, but as her album played, I just laid in my bed and cried. When she sang, Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? I wept because I wondered if there would be a tomorrow.  Her song, Far Away, made me yearn for the freedom to be out of the hospital and back to my life again. Too Late, Baby caused me to hope that I wasn’t. Way Over Yonder gave me the promise that no matter what happened through the diagnosis, I still had a future. Even Smackwater Jack put a little feisty fight into my soul. I just kept playing that cassette over and over again, energized every time she sang Beautiful (…“you’ve got to get up every morning, with a smile on your face …”) I even teared up over Natural Woman, although my manliness was completely intact. And of course, You’ve Got a Friend saved my soul from the desperation of giving up on possibility.

Carole King became my ministering angel. I recalled that some people didn’t like her, thinking she was a singer that couldn’t even win an audition for a glee club at a small junior college, but I didn’t care. Her songs were anointed with spirit, hope, humanity and tenderness and in that darkened room, with Christmas lights flashing, I found God through Carole King.

About four days into my ordeal, they discovered I had two large abscesses in my body that needed to be removed. I was so relieved to find out that I was really sick. They told me that the operation was serious and that I could lose the ability to take care of my own bowels–and maybe end up in a wheel chair. But I didn’t care. Because as it turns out, it wasn’t “Too Late, Baby,” and I was going to be “Loved Tomorrow,” and God’s grace was not “Far Away” and life truly, truly was “Beautiful” ,,, and “I Had a Friend.”

I will never forget that experience … when I had the opportunity of Tapping Tapestry.

And I learned that day something I know to this very moment–that prayers have value. Bible reading is intriguing, but until spirituality is released creatively through human talent and made into something tangible–something we can understand–it is merely a promise instead of a reality. Since then I have written songs, plays, symphonies and movies to try to dissolve God into an elixir that can be drunk deeply by humankind. We are not supernatural. But we are fully capable of receiving the natural in a creative, super way.

So thank you to Carole King for allowing herself to be a vessel, taking real emotion and passing it through her talent and delivering it to this pilgrim, who was broken and nearly defeated. Because Carole is right.

 People are gonna treat you better. You’re gonna find out–yes you will–that you’re beautiful … as you feel.


Jonathan wrote the gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, in 1985, in Guaymas, Mexico. Take a listen:


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


Make My Day… December 30, 2011


Jonathan in Miami

It all really boils down to three hours and where you decide to plant that 180 minutes of fertile possibility. Because even though there are twenty-four hours in the day, we all know that those passing moments are not within our grasp and care. Failure to realize this causes us to procrastinate and end up frustrated and fretful.

No, it ends up being about three hours. And I find that people make one of two choices on that matter–they either choose their three hours of sanctified time late at night or early in the morning. If they choose it late at night, kind of following the pattern of a college student, they usually wake up pretty groggy and a bit wasted until mid-day. If they choose it early in the morning, they may lose some of the glittering promise of the nighttime glitz, but wake up fresher and more ready to go.

Here’s how it breaks down for me (and I must caution you that my lifestyle is not yours, nor are my particular preferences perhaps to your liking. The goal of this particular essay is to just get both of us to agree that twenty-four hours do pass by, leaving us only a small window for our own personal use.)

I usually get up about six o’clock in the morning–so six o’clock to nine o’clock becomes what I call MINE. There aren’t a whole lot of people vying for appointments or interfering. I can get up, enjoy myself, write my jonathots, send out some personal emails to friends and family, plan my day, have breakfast and pretty well do what I want to without intrusion. I always start off my day by being silly. I do it on purpose. I sing silly songs, say silly things and even think about silly matters. I believe the brain needs a chance to flush out all of yesterday’s fussiness before it starts trying to take on today’s sufficiency. You may find that childish. (Of course, my morning habits are completely irrelevant to you unless you happen to find yourself hanging around my presence at about six o’clock in the morning.)

I have breakfast–not because I believe it’s the most important meal of the day–but because it’s a chance to eat, which I have never found to be unpleasant. I know that about nine o’clock, humanity will start teeming around me and I will need to be ready to interact with folks. So I refer to the time between nine and twelve o’ clock as OURS. Emerging from MINE, I proceed into OURS. My goal is to have enjoyed myself so much during my previous three hours that I’m ready, decent and welcoming enough to deal with my fellow-human-beings.

From twelve to three o’clock every day I enter a phase I call RESTFUL. I separate myself off, have a meal, talk to a few friends on the phone and even slide in a small nap. I have had six hours of private time and interaction with people and I would like to give my heart, soul, mind and strength a chance to absorb the blessings or survive the ordeal.

From three to six o’clock I RE-ENGAGE. I like that time of day–a second burst of energy, a chance to do a trailing project that didn’t end up making my early-morning list, and just a delicious opportunity to finish the day on a high note instead of a discordant one.

From six to nine o’clock at night, I RELAX. I try not to take on anything that’s too important unless I happen to be doing a gig. And even if I am in front of an audience, I find that the relaxed profile does me–and them–well.

And then about nine o’clock, as I’m moving towards bedtime (always before twelve), I enter a precious position of power I call THANKFUL. Too many people spend the last moments of their day upset over what has happened or worried about what will happen. I become thankful. It’s interesting–thankful always makes me sleepy, because as my heart opens up in generosity to the goodness of God and life, my tension disappears and rest comes easy. And that’s usually what I do–from about twelve to about six in the morning, I rest. Since I’m getting older, that solitude is occasionally interrupted by the need to trot off to a bathroom. Or an inspiration may strike my fancy about a jonathots I could write. But usually it’s a very restful time because I have ended my day with thankfulness.

And that’s how I make my day. I recommend portions of it to you, as you’re able to apply it, because trying to grab your private time late at night can make you nasty in the morning, and trying to squeeze some self-worth into hours after work can be hectic and unfulfilling. For me, six o’clock to nine o’clock in the morning is MINE. Nine o’clock to twelve noon is OURS. Twelve noon to three o’clock P. M. is RESTFUL.  Three  to six o’clock  P. M. is ENGAGED. Six to nine at night is RELAXED. And nine until I go to sleep is THANKFUL.

Time passes quickly, my dear friends, and when you really only have three hours a day to grab for your own, it’s a good idea to invest wisely.


Jonathan wrote the gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, in 1985, in Guaymas, Mexico. Take a listen:


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


The Shovel… December 29, 2011


Jonathan in Miami

A man found himself abandoned in a hole, with no visible means of escape. Terrified questions attacked his brain: “How did I get here? How do I get out?” The two fears collided for some time, causing him to be immobilized in trepidation until finally he came to his senses and realized that the most important thing was to get out and THEN consider what had entombed him. So he grabbed his shovel, the only tool available to him, and started to work. Hours passed. After taking a rest due to near-exhaustion, he looked around and realized he was no better off. Matter of fact, from his seated position on the ground, it seemed he had fallen even deeper into the abyss. What was he going to do?

He was about ready to give up when a thought came to his mind. He looked at the shovel in his hand and realized that rather than being an aid to his salvation, it was just causing him greater harm. He chuckled a bit to himself at the notion that he was trying to escape a hole by digging his way out. The shovel was not his friend–the shovel had become his enemy. He set it aside and tried to devise another plan, but for some mysterious reason, his brain kept floating back to the shovel, wanting to utilize the old implement. Yes, he was drawn to his adversary. It aggravating him that he was such a creature of habit and his repetition was causing him to not only lose all hope, but maybe relinquish his life. It suddenly occurred to him that unless he could get that shovel far away from him, he would never be able to escape. Grabbing it and mustering every bit of energy he possessed, he flung the shovel into the air. It landed high above his head, out of sight. He rested for a few moments and then rose with renewed vigor, and using his own hands, legs and feet, he crawled, wiggled and climbed his way to safety.


Charlie was trying to quit smoking. This was his seventeenth attempt at de-cigaretting himself. Obviously, the previous efforts had failed. Some of his expeditions into becoming smoke-free had lasted as much as four days–down to as little as four minutes. He didn’t understand why he was unable to escape the nastiness and unhealthiness of the practice. In most areas he was a pretty strong fellow, with good resolve, but when it came to those little white sticks, he was as weak as a kitten. But it was Thursday and it was time to try again. Three hours later he lit up. What was wrong with him? He drew a deep breath and with that intake of air, he was granted a revelation–because what he took into his lungs was the fragrance and overwhelming odor of tobacco. He understood in that moment that even though his brain and soul were intent on quitting smoking, his atmosphere, including the air he breathed, was filled with the intoxicant.

So he scrubbed his house, opened up his windows and sprayed all of his surroundings with Febreeze. In the process, he discovered that his abode was littered with memorabilia to the habit–ash trays, match books, cigarette lighters, abandoned packages of cigarettes, cartons hidden in cupboards–all luring him into his addiction. He grabbed a big trashcan and began to throw things away. Before he knew it, he needed an additional trashcan to complete the effort. But finally his house was clean and free of all accoutrements to the deadly intake. He even had to throw away that ashtray he kept in his bathroom for his morning cigarette–the one made by his young son in kindergarten.

He recommitted himself–and this time lasted for five days, until he was sitting in his car and was overwhelmed by the desire for a drag. What was wrong with him? The light bulb went off in his brain. He had not cleansed his vehicle. It smelled like freshly lit-up tobacco, and the ashtrays were full of abandoned butts. He quickly drove to a nearby car wash and paid fifty dollars for the car to be cleaned, detailed and the ashtrays to be absolved of their smelly contents. He drove away and never smoked again. He realized that sometimes it’s not enough to desire to overcome your problem–if you’re still surrounded by the things you want.

It’s a valuable lesson.

The truth of the matter is, if you find yourself in a hole, guilt is useless, questioning is nearly comical and frustration rings a bit of self-righteousness. We, ourselves, dug most of the holes that imprison us.

And the only way to escape is to acknowledge that fact …  and throw the shovel away.


Jonathan wrote the gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, in 1985, in Guaymas, Mexico. Take a listen:


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


Contrary… December 28, 2011

Jonathan in Miami

“Contrary to popular opinion …”

Actually, nobody is particularly interested in that. But there is nothing we enjoy today that was not, at one time, contrary to popular opinion.

  • The I-phone was, at one time, the “what the hell were you thinking?” phone.
  • Civil rights was certainly more, “go back to the colored section, write a letter to the editor and we’ll get back to you.”
  • Computers were deemed to be the fodder for science fiction movies, instead of ways for grandmas to communicate with their grandchildren.

Everything of quality is contrary. I wish I could shout that, but it would make me seem … well, contrary. For after all, shouting is contrary to the standards of today’s thinking (unless you’re a politician).

I have learned one valuable lesson in my journey through the roads and passages of human life. The things that we deem to be difficult, or “sent to harass us,” are actually the seeds sent by God to bless us. It would be impossible for God to be just and fair and sprinkle only well-explained possibilities, joys and emotional marshmallow cream over the earth.

For instance, I certainly didn’t teach my children to be better people by lavishing them with gifts, lightening their loads or telling them that everything they did was perfect.  To help my children grow up, I inconvenienced them. I gave them chores, I set household rules (which they decided were unnecessary) and when they chose to break them, there were punishments that followed. They often considered me a tyrant–an irrelevant relic of former times and an uncaring personage who was more interested in maintaining order than in their personal needs. Isn’t this exactly the way most people feel about God–that He’s a tyrant, a relic of former times and unconcerned about our personal feelings?

As a good Father, once He introduces any type of inconvenience, we use it as a stumbling block for our relationship with Him and walk around baffled over why life has suddenly become so painfully difficult. To understand how this system works, we must agree on three things:

1. The only way to make life fair is to make it equally restrictive for everyone. Without this, we create an atmosphere where easy solutions create lazy, unmotivated and uncreative beings.

2. Everyone has complete free will or the whole thing is a joke. If at any point we believe that God is stepping in to perform His will against our ways, we lose the sense that this planet is evenly balanced with more energy assessed towards those who seek to find, knock to have it opened and ask to receive.

3. Don’t walk away from what you think was sent to harass, but instead, harness any available input. I have become successful by picking up what other people don’t want, fear or deem to be useless–and have gained treasure from it. If you’re going to wait around for everything to come to you fully assembled, polished, well-painted, in a lovely box with a bow–you will spend most of your time doing nothing and the rest of your time complaining about nothing to do.

There is a “harass factor” to life. Opportunity comes with a contrary nature. It is never what we expect, rarely what we want and only occasionally even feasible. It demands that intelligent people of good cheer harness what’s presented without complaining and use it well until better options arrive.

For example, I have used a butter knife as a screwdriver, and in doing so, was completely content–but soon found that someone ran to offer their screwdriver to assist in the project. I will tell you this: no one will even offer you a screwdriver if you’re just lamenting what you screwed up and you’re not actually trying to screw it down. Just as God rewards those who diligently seek him, human beings reward each other by offering assistance to those who are trying to work with what they have instead of rejecting it and stomping away, pouting.

Get this straight–life is contrary. It is that way so that it can actually be fair to everyone. It is a door rather than a house. It is a penny rather than a dollar. It is a smile instead of an open invitation. It is a greeting rather than a banquet.

Life is sent to harass, hoping to find determined souls who will harness the potentials that exist while waiting for reinforcements. And what happens if the reinforcements don’t arrive? You will astound yourself with your own abilities to adapt.

I began exercising two days ago. I thought on the second day it would be easier. It was harder. My muscles seemed to be aware of my devious plan to engage them and became defensive. They ached and my joints creaked. But I persevered through Day Two, and woke up this morning expecting to be rewarded with rejuvenated energy. I’ve never felt so miserable in all my life. It took me years to get out of shape, yet I was looking for a forty-eight hour reclamation. I am hoping it will not take me years to get back in shape, but I CERTAINLY know that I am thirty days or more from having any benefit or feeling any purpose at all. Will I make it? I have a chance if I understand that life is contrary because God is good.  And if I take what was meant to harass and harness its better parts, I can certainly count on people, life and God to more quickly come to my aid.

Brats always lose. The squeaky wheel may get the grease, but eventually people put it in the garage because it’s just too high maintenance.

  • God will harass. I need to harness.
  • Life is contrary. I need to comply.
  • Nothing is simple. I need to simplify it.
  • We are all in search of what is fair. What we get is the next quandary.

So contrary to what people think–contrary is what people get.


Jonathan wrote the gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, in 1985, in Guaymas, Mexico. Take a listen:


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


Except… December 27, 2011


Jonathan in Miami

Yesterday was the first time this year. 

 “Happy New Year!” someone called. It was jubilant, optimistic, caring and filled with good cheer. I liked it.

But it got me thinking. Forgive me for that–I spend a lot of time trying to think because when I don’t, I find myself just reacting, which drudges up memories of childhood disappointments, failures, misgivings and a few grudges I still hold against people who ended up being better than me. Yuk.

Thinking is better than reacting. And the thought that came to my head is this: the word “new,” in reference to the year, is only significant if we’ve actually dealt with our “old” things.  Here’s my contention: nothing is old as long as it still works. I, for instance, have just turned sixty years of age but I am not outdated, irrelevant or without a sense of history and an awareness of the present. So candidly, I don’t feel old, nor do those who meet me attribute any agedness to my persona.

Nothing really becomes old until it doesn’t work anymore. And honestly, calling something “new,” if it’s just warmed-over hash, is equally as useless. In that case, “new” is just the replacement for the old lightbulb in our brain that doesn’t work anymore. Because “old” is the acknowledgment that we are pursuing a way of living, a plan of action or a style of belief that just doesn’t work.

If we continue to cling to it, it becomes “cold.” I do meet some cold folks as I journey across this country! I would characterize them as looking me straight in the eye and saying, “I don’t care if it doesn’t work–I still like it!” I am not so sure what to call this particular mindset. The liberals would attribute it to the conservatives and they would certainly toss the hot potato back the other direction. But it is a chilly way to walk through our lives because we’re never enriched with the sensation of doing something that’s really successful, but rather, repeating traditions that leave us unfulfilled, while we insist that life is meant to be miserable and hard.

But I’ve even seen people change when they turn cold.  It’s all about the word “repent.” We don’t use it much because it sounds Biblical–and God knows, the less we quote the Bible and Shakespeare, the more likely we are to draw friends our way. But “repent” is when you  come across something that IS old and doesn’t work–and even though you stubbornly wish that it did, you soften your heart in a kind moment to consider a better option. Because if you don’t repent, what was old and didn’t work, which turned cold through your determination to do it anyway, can turn into “mold.”

And oh, this is where it gets really nasty. This is when old people who don’t have anything going on that’s working, become really frosty, insisting that they like it anyway, and then become aggressive and defend the failure.  Yes–mold is when you defend the failure and leave it hanging on the ceiling, even though you’ve heard it makes you sick.

It’s WHY we repent–because if we don’t, Jesus says we will perish.

I sat at breakfast yesterday morning with a spread put out by my son and daughter-in-law from Miami. Ham, Quiche, bagels–well, the list goes on. I had a half a ham sitting right in front of me, and being the weak glutton I tend to be, I peeled one slice and another off of that former porker. I have no power to restrain myself from devouring such a product. I walked out to my car–or perhaps, “rolled out” would be a better term–knowing that I had something old in my life.

Overeating. It doesn’t work. It makes my legs want to sue me for cruelty, my heart choke up with cholesterol and my sugar rise in protest.

I also had to admit that this year I had turned cold on the issue. I didn’t really care about my weight. I rather liked the process of enjoying food and hell to pay. Fortunately for me, I did stop short of mold and did not defend my failure at weight loss. So as I drove down the road toward Fort Myers, Florida, I decided to stop being cold and deal with the old year. And what made it old? As far as me getting leaner–it just didn’t work.

I’m not so sure I’m going to be a roaring success, but I do know this–I have identified the old. I am ready to repent, which will make room for the new. Because except we all do, we will begin to perish. And economic problems, bad politics and stagnant religion are merely symptoms of the disease of unwillingness to deal with our inadequacies.

Except you repent … Well, I guess that’s when you can add “Happy” to “New Year.” Because the old that didn’t work and the cold that caused us to insist we liked it, turning into the mold that enabled us to defend our failures, is suddenly exposed by turning a light on in the room. Now the question is–what do we do next?

For me, the first step is trying not to sit so close to ham.


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


Published in: on December 27, 2011 at 1:35 pm  Comments (1)  
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The Proverbial Fork… December 26, 2011


Jonathan in Miami

Yes, stick a fork in it. It’s done.

It is normally a proclamation delivered with a bit of dismay and resignation. But this day after Christmas, I present it to you as an affirmation of accomplishment. Well … we may want to change a few details but sometimes the best thing to do is realize that the fat lady has sung, the opera is over and we’ve completed our portion.

I spent the week with my family and friends in Miami, Florida, for Christmas. My son and daughter-in-law have a home down there and are very successful, having acclimated themselves and nearly doing an adequate impersonation of native Floridians. We decided to land there for the holiday, with people coming from all over the US to enjoy fellowship, present-giving and a jittery jaunt down memory lane.

Now understand, I was there when this little entourage was first conceived. Many of the people in the room with me this week learned through my tutelage to speak and even acquaint themselves with the greater glories of bathroom usage. But they are no longer my children. They are grown, mature people with goals and lives of their own, who still, in their magnanimous generosity, decide to include me in their earth passage.

Somewhere along the line you have to stick a fork in it, folks. If I were to spend ten minutes trying to figure out if I agree with everything my friends and family do, or if I feel that their accomplishments are worthy of my retelling to those souls I meet as I journey, as confirmation of my excellent parenting, or if I even think that my opinion carries the weight of importance instead of the burden of intrusion, I am just basically a tottering, old fool, taking too long on my detour to the graveyard.

I made two things clear to my gathered host: I have a life … and they do, too.

Their emotional lives do not completely parallel mine. Each one of them has come into the storehouse of my personality to pick and choose little treasures that they particularly relish, like careful shoppers working their way down a bargain table at Goodwill. Spiritually, they are all in transitions of revelation, no different from billions of human beings who preceded them and, I assume, will follow them. Mentally, they have selected to progress at whatever level they deem necessary, ranging from a deep interest in animals, politics and artistry to movies, books, zombies and vampires.

They are normal.

I did not raise a supernatural lineage, infilled with the anointing of a batch of Holy Spirit parlor tricks. They are people. I only ask one thing from them–do they like people and do they cut people the same slack they give themselves? (Well, I guess that’s two things…) If they do, I will leave them to their journey. After all, I will not stand at the Judgment Day and answer for any one of them, nor they for me.

I enjoyed it thoroughly. As I travel across this country, though, I find aging parents who are trying to still wean their grown children, feeling some sense of worry and responsibility for these fully aged individuals, whom they are still trying to tutor to success. How ridiculous.

They started leaving one-by-one last night and more will leave today, others later on in the week. They will peel off into their lives, probably becoming just as reflective about the experience. For me, I want them to remember three things about spending time in my presence:

1. I love them dearly but no more or less than I love all my brothers and sisters on planet earth.

2. I’m going to give the greatest gift at Christmas that I can–I will stay out of their personal business.

3. If their personal business gets nasty, they can call me any time, night or day, without fear of condemnation or critique.

Merry Christmas, family. And I’m happy that I can stick a fork in it … because it looks like it’s ready to be served.


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


Published in: on December 26, 2011 at 12:25 pm  Comments (1)  
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Three of Them… December 25, 2011


Jonathan in Miami

I awake on this Christmas morning with the same jiggly, giddy anticipation I had as a young boy of ten years of age–unable to sleep in my bed because I couldn’t wait to run out into the room and see my brand new red Schwinn bicycle. I am unapologetically immature when it comes to the joy of Christmas. I do not like people who disparage her virtues, thinking themselves to be grown-up and beyond the magic. I will never say “hum-bug,” so certainly, “bah!” is out of the question.

 It’s because I have found the power of all three of them. Yes–there are three Christmases. And if you don’t learn them, you just may spend your time lamenting long lines, cursing commercialism or feigning fatigue.

1. Mary Christmas:

I celebrate a season when a woman’s simple faith reestablished Eden into our lives–because God wanted a do-over. He loved the Garden of Eden and fellowshipping with man and woman, and when it fell apart and everybody tried to turn Him into Jehovah, He was always wanting to be reborn in the simplicity and jubilance of the Garden. So after the last prophet spoke in the Old Testament, God decided to try Eden one more time–but on this occasion, He began with a woman instead of a man. For after all, starting out with Adam while partially ignoring Eve led to some dire consequences, so this time God started with a woman named Mary, placed Himself as a baby within her,  let Jehovah pass away and was reborn as Jesus. A man was included, but only if he was willing to believe his dreams–because Joseph was told in a dream to come on along.

I celebrate a Mary Christmas and am grateful for Eden II.

2. Merry Christmas.

There are very few times in our modern world that we allow ourselves to utter the word “merry.” Matter of fact, it has become almost a Charles Dickens type of term. It gets most of its applications only once a year.  Too bad. Because “a merry heart does well for us–like a medicine.” It’s the action of being merry that confirms that emotional, spiritual and mental health are pulsing through our beings.

So every year at Christmas, I take advantage of the permission given by mankind to be merry and I flaunt it and try to extend it as deeply into the year that follows as possible. I meet resistance but it only spurs me on to continue the avalanche of merriment.

How do I know I’m really merry and not just being obnoxious? (A) At the drop of a hat I can tell you the reason for my joy. I keep an arsenal of the weapons of praise in my soul at all times. (B) I don’t need you to confirm my merriment. If you choose to be dull or not participate, it does not dim my vision nor drain my enthusiasm. (C) I am cautiously looking for another reason to make merry instead of acting like I’m eating my last slice of the pizza of life.

I believe every day contains a blessing, an excuse to ignore it and a curse that follows those who do so.

3. Marry Christmas.

And in closing, since I believe that one woman, in union with God, reestablished Eden in our lives if we want it, and I rejoice in the Lord always–and again I say rejoice–over the power of being merry, I choose to UNITE all of my activities, friends, beliefs and projects in the joviality of Christmas.

For instance, find an easier way to do things. Dress for your own pleasure and notice the gifts that accumulate along the way. This is the action of literally marrying your spirit to the spirit of Christmas–til death do you part.

  • Christmas is not the season for giving; it is the initiator of a year filled with finding occasions to give.
  • Christmas is not the celebration of joy–it is the birth of joy, which we spend 365 days commemorating.
  • Christmas is not the decoration of our houses with unusual trinkets, but rather, realizing how important it is, on an ongoing basis, to decorate our lives.

So as you begin this wonderful day, would you join me in celebrating all three Christmases?

Mary Christmas–Jehovah passed away and was reborn through a woman as Jesus, thus ending the reign of a “thou shalt not God” and of subjugating women.

Merry Christmas–let nothing be done through strife and vainglory, but instead, with a child’s heart and a chuckle.

Marry Christmas–don’t allow this sweetheart of a season to slip from your grasp. Grab her, embrace her, kiss her under the mistletoe and take her with you through the next year of your life.

Mary, Merry, Marry Christmas.


To see books written by Jonathan, click the link below! You can peruse and order if you like!


Published in: on December 25, 2011 at 11:36 am  Leave a Comment  
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