Met More for Us … December 11, 2013

Jonathots Daily Blog

(2091)

A caterpillar is just a maggot who has purchased a really nice coat.

Both of ’em are larvae–larvae being that phase in which something that’s come out of an egg is trying to resemble what it eventually needs to be.

Human beings are no different.

One of the reasons I believe in a Creator is that there is so much of birds, amphibians, cattle and monkeys in the human being, that you can see that God reached the end of His evolutionary fit, and just threw everything in the pot and made human goulash.

And this is why we love babies. It’s the egg phase. They’re cute, we can pretend they’re going to grow up and become great people, and we even distinguish their drool from the spittle of our next door neighbor’s offspring.

Then … they become maggots.

Somewhere between the age of thirteen and thirty, these little wunderkinds transform into ugly, creeping, crawling, cheating guppies.

We lament.

We decry.

We complain to our neighbors, seeking comfort because this “glob of goo” couldn’t possibly have come from our loins.

Time passes. They have children, cocooning themselves within a house, a mortgage, credit card bills and elongated PTA meetings.

Here’s the problem: nobody ever makes it out of the pupae to become a damn butterfly. Human beings seem to stop in the cocoon phase, encased.

So we’re cute as babies, ugly as adolescents and young adults, and trapped as grown-ups.

Where are the butterflies? Where is the beauty, flight and excitement that explains why the whole process was initiated in the first place?

In nature we refer to it as metamorphoses–but what I want you to understand is this: in our species, it’s met more for us.

God never expected our lives to end when we birthed our first child. We are inteded to take the new generation and teach by example how to fly off in the direction of our dreams.

Last night I sat at a table with my twenty-four-year-old son, celebrating his birthday. I suppose, to some people, it would look like he was in his larval phase. He is.

Perhaps in a couple of years he may even be embarrassed by some of his current choices, and cocoon in a relationship and a family. But if he’s going to be truly spiritual and whole, he will emerge from that cocoon in a wave of repentance–and soar.

• I was an egg.
• I was a really despicable maggot.
• I cocooned in my soul to regenerate my hopes.

And now, by the grace of God and the beauty of determination … I am a Monarch.

 

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A Barn Yarn… August 18, 2013

Jonathots Daily Blog

(1979)

Many years ago a music group of which I was a member in fair standing was invited to a rustic resort in Western Minnesota to put on a concert. The brochure provided to explain the services of this facility were very enticing.

• Gorgeous cabins.
• Swimming pools.
• Hiking for those inclined.
• And buffet lines, stacked with freshly grilled hamburgers, and sweet corn— steaming, salted and buttered.

Needless to say, this music group of which I was a part was very excited to go to the facility, which was offered to believers who had grown tired of worldly toil, and who wanted to escape the rigors of a demented society and spend three days listening to Christian music, with public speakers brought in from all over the country to fill them with spirit.

The joint was aptly named Christian Retreat.

unfortunately, upon arrival we discovered that the cabins had been booked up and all they had available was one small compartment, which would not be acceptable for three–especially since I was a male intruder. So the girls skipped off to their living quarters and I was escorted … to a barn.

Now, when they told me I would be staying in a barn, I assumed it was a euphemism for a rustic facility, but one still worthy of human habitation. Climbing the crest of a hill, what I beheld was actually a barn–an Amish cathedral–complete with hay, stalls, John Deere tractors and cattle with their south ends pointed to my north.

I did not complain. I found an area they had set aside for human occupation which included straw beds and a shower they had rigged with a spigot protruding from a pipe and a wooden frame to stand upon and a hole dug to drain the excess watery parts from people like me.

I was sitting on a bale of hay when I was interrupted by the arrival of another gent. He started talking. I point this out because from the point that he commenced speech, he never stopped. He explained that he was a farm hand. He told me how difficult his day had been. Within three minutes, I had the full description of his mother’s nasty divorce from her abusive husband which left him with a single mom, working very hard, but still on food stamps.

All during the discourse he was disrobing in front of me, preparing to take his nightly shower, with no embarrassment whatsoever, and was eventually standing buck naked from the curly top of his head and simultaneously beneath.

I am not comfortable around naked people. Matter of fact, I prefer “lights off romance.” If I were a nudist, I would constantly be apologizing, making excuses and informing everyone that I planned on starting a weight loss regimen next week.

Not this fellow. He turned on the spigot, climbed up on the boards and proceeded to suds himself repeatedly.

I did not know where to look, so I stared down at my shoes. When he asked me what I was doing, I explained that I was an amateur cobbler and that I was considering taking the steps to repair my own footwear.

At this point he climbed down from the boards, fully foamy, and walked over to eyeball my shoes, to see if he might be able to assist in the cobbling

I made eye contact–not because someone in a seminar told me to, but more or less for emotional survival. He made some suggestions which I cannot remember, turned the other cheek, climbed back up on the boards and resumed his bubbly process.

I finally had enough and excused myself, explaining that I needed to go set up for the concert–and I instinctively grabbed my gym bag on the way out, knowing that unlike Douglas MacArthur, I had no intention of returning.

After the program that evening, I headed towards our beat-up van, climbed into the back, put together a make-shift pillow and stretched out to go to sleep. My partners in music were concerned, and asked me why I wasn’t going back to my accommodations.

I thought about telling them about my encounter with “the farmer’s son,” but instead replied, “I discovered I really DO have hay fever and don’t get along well with barn animals–especially when they talk.”

 

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Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about personal appearances or scheduling an event