Seduced by a warming sun, G-Pop drifts into the arms of a gentle sleep. He dreams–a vision of a scantily clad, ragged man, racing from a burning woodlands–frantic, screaming as he nears.
Follow the angry man
He seems to have a plan
“Who is he?” demanded G-Pop.
Like a burning star
He’ll take you very far
“What’s the plan?”
The frenetic announcer arrives, stopping short of overtaking G-Pop. He nervously bounces from one foot to another, continuing his proclamation.
Listen to his voice
Make the raging choice
She is a liar
Send her to the fire
“Who is she?” inquired G-Pop.
Trust his common way
Listen to what they say
What the hell
He lets us yell
Oh heavenly elation
He can save our nation
But boys need toys
To get their joys
“Who are the boys?”
The man grows weaker, slumping to his knees, but continues his speech.
He isn’t the son of meek
He is what you seek
“Where does he come from?” pleaded G-Pop.
He laughs at the truth
Offering no lasting proof
“I need truth.”
You are his child
Needy and so mild
“I am not a child,” objected G-Pop.
Counting your vote
Not the sheep, choose the goat
The stranger collapsed into a heap of exhaustion. G-Pop knelt by his side and said, “I am so confused.”
Breathlessly the depleted soul answered.
He is more exciting
He is ready for fighting
“I hate war.”
You need his power
For such an hour
Come join him in his tower
Suddenly the intruder melted into a puddle of oily slime. G-Pop lurched back in horror and said:
“I have to go.
This scares me.
I want to feel good.
I want to do good.
I want to love again.”
All at once, G-Pop was released from his dream … to awaken to the nightmare.
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Two doors down from our home were some neighbors who were quite friendly, but we only saw about six times a year and talked to maybe twice.
So imagine our surprise when they showed up at the door the day before Christmas and brought gifts. My mother was frantic, trying to figure out how to reciprocate with some sort of generosity to this surprise burst of holiday cheer.
But the most amazing thing was when I opened my present on Christmas morning from these little-known neighbors and it was a sweater.
It was beautiful for two reasons. First of all, it was a swirl of blue in a cardigan style and had brown leather buttons that looked like chocolate covered cherries.
But the greatest blessing was that it fit. I was a big fat boy, and in that era, no one made provision for such creatures. I don’t know where our neighbors found it, but it was made of Angora–that material that looks like it should be on a goat or a really pretty rabbit.
I loved it. I wore it every day. I pretended it was my winter coat. Maybe because of that, I picked up a cold.
I hate colds.
I guess everybody does, but the main reason I despise getting the common flu bug is that I had no intention in my young teen years of doing anything about it except enduring it with much complaint.
So I was sitting in the study hall while wearing my beautiful blue Angora sweater with the chocolate buttons. It was a very cold day and they had turned up the heat, and the mixture of the other students in the room with the air of the furnace blowing started my nose running.
Now, I was a young man who had little care for anything that looked frilly, so I certainly did not carry Kleenex. (I don’t know what kind of fellow you would have to be in 1966 to have a Kleenex on you.) And I was also too macho to ask a nearby girl if I could use one of her tissues. That was forbidden territory.
So at first I just tried to sniff it back into my nose. Of course, this was loud, sounded gross and caused a cheerleader next to me to crinkle her nose and turn away.
I did not know what to do. I had already used up all my bathroom privileges with the study hall monitor, and was quite sure I would not be allowed to leave the premises. And sure enough, when I raised my hand, he just looked at me and shook his head.
Meanwhile, my nose was reaching avalanche proportions. I don’t know what it looked like, but it felt like Niagara Falls was running down my lip. It had to be gross. I tried to duck my head down, but that made the gravity of the situation worse.
I thought about running my hand under my nose, but then I would have it on my hand.
Suddenly, without thinking, fearing that I was about to embarrass myself in front of the entire class with my river of snot, I reached up with the sleeve of my sweater and ran it across my face two or three times.
Fortunately, at that point my nose loosened up and I was able to have one huge sniff and the running went away.
But my beautiful Angora sweater had been slimed by my drippy nose dropping.
I took off the sweater, folded it up, and when I got home that night tried to wipe the goop out of the fur–but it wouldn’t go away.
I wore the sweater a couple more times, but people kept asking me why the sleeve was matted.
I loved that sweater so much.
But about four days later, I quietly went out into the back yard, dug a hole, and buried it.
I realized there would be no way to ever fix it. My family knew nothing about dry cleaning, and I was in no mood to try to explain why it was rumpled and stiff.
I know it sounds strange, but I cried. Actually, I cried more at the grave of my sweater than I did for a couple of aunts who passed away.
Of course, they never looked nearly as good or kept me nearly as warm.
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After an appearance earlier this year in Surprise, Arizona, Janet and I were blessed to receive a “surprise” ourselves. Click on the beautiful Arizona picture above to share it with us!
Click here to get info on the “Gospel According to Common Sense” Tour
Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.
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