Jonathots Daily Blog
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Jonathots Daily Blog
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One month passed.
It’s one of those phrases a writer inserts to move the story along. But they don’t really move. Stories must be evicted from the hovel where they huddle to escape progress.
Ten days after the “Old Time Religion Community Church” signed its incorporation papers in the living room of Sammy Collins’ home on a table near the fireplace, he was rushed to the hospital, red lights flashing. He had collapsed at work and everyone was certain it was a heart attack. The town was abuzz with gossip and prayer.
As it turned out, it was a ruptured gall bladder, and while he was having his personal rendition of that organ removed, it was discovered that he also had high blood pressure and bad cholesterol.
It was suggested he slow down.
Also within the month, a crumpled letter arrived in the mail at Matrisse’s house, postmarked Atlantic City, New Jersey. Inside was a note and a ten-dollar bill.
In her own words, Kitty attempted to explain to Matrisse that she was on an odyssey to find herself, which had taken her to the East Coast, and that she had found a job as a bartender at one of the casinos which had managed to escape bankruptcy.
Kitty said she was sorry and happy at the same time–because she missed her little Hapsy, but knew she was well taken care of, and until Kitty could find all her answers, she was probably better off separated from her growing daughter.
Also, about fifteen days into the “month of remember,” an article appeared in the local paper about Patrick Swanson and the church meeting at the Holiday Inn Express, entitled, “A Gathering for the Young Up-and-Coming Conservative.”
It seemed that Patrick had found his target market, as they say in the world of social media. Being interviewed by the local reporter, he explained that the congregation did not believe in gay marriage, government interference, and were certainly strongly against gender blurring. What they were interested in were young families who wanted to see the country return to its original glisten and gleam.
Then, seven days ago, a young boy named Alex Bachman arrived at school early, went into the lower portions of the building to the furnace room, threw a rope over the top of a pipe and hung himself.
He left a suicide proclamation. It read:
They said it would get better. It didn’t.
Reverend Meningsbee was called by the family and asked if he would be willing to conduct a memorial service at the church building, free of godly trappings, since the Bachman family was a non-religious group of people (what the average Nebraskan would call “avowed atheists”).
The family also wanted Meningsbee to be the moderator–yes, that’s the word they used–for the event, and to give a retrospective on the life of young Alex, ending with a positive message of humanity, and everybody departing to walk to the local park to plant three trees.
At first Meningsbee wanted to decline, offering his best wishes and regards, but then, in a moment of clarity, he realized there was no other place in town they could go for such a commemoration–and that opportunity never arrives resembling anything of what we really want.
So on a Saturday afternoon, with memories of a month full of Garsonville life racing through his mind, he drives to the church, on his way to a presentation which denies the importance of everything he believes.
What should he say?
What did he feel?
Maybe he should have studied more.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3047)
Alone.
More than lonely.
The frightening realization of having no one.
Unable to get the personal attention of another human being.
Meningsbee had settled in for his afternoon time of reflection, which usually started with pulling up some news stories on the Internet and reading some articles to sharpen his insight.
But there was a dark side to this ritual. Ever since he had lost his wife, Doris, the lack of intimacy had driven him to a nagging temptation to peruse pornography.
He hated the word.
When he pastored back East, he often counseled people who were completely obsessed with the practice.
He knew all the right answers but the loneliness overtook him–the sense of abandonment caused by losing his love.
For you see, Doris died as she had lived–suddenly.
She had an infectious spirit with a childlike quality that manifested itself in the belief that her whim was the same as God’s will. If bananas were on sale at the grocery store, Doris believed it was ordained to make banana splits.
Although Richard was a bit put off by the theology, he benefitted from the glow of her enthusiasm.
She loved him. She loved him all the way. If she was dissatisfied, Richard never knew it.
She laughed more than she cried; she planned more than she complained, and in the bedroom, she had the steaminess of the Queen of Sheba mingled with the mercy of an angel.
She granted Meningsbee the role of Midas. Everything he touched she called gold.
He never had a chance to doubt himself–until one morning, she sat straight up in bed and said, “My head hurts.”
They were her last words. She crumpled to the side, the victim of a simultaneous massive stroke and heart attack.
No history of disease, just a demise.
So now Richard was without his Doris, yet still needing the comfort and consistency of a gentle love.
He was repulsed by the images he saw on his screen. He was only interested in “peek-a-boo porn”–in other words, pictures of beautiful women yearning to be loved. But every time he pulled up an innocent profile, his inbox was inundated with popups of violent rape and sexual mayhem.
Strangely, he both hated and pitied himself at the same time–hated because he knew he was wrong, but pitied because he was forced into the wrong by an evil twist of fate.
He was more than ashamed.
He was intellectually disgusted by his choice.
He was spiritually bewildered by his weakness.
And he was mentally dissatisfied with the antidote provided to him via the Web.
So at the end of each one of his afternoon sessions, he scrubbed his browser and walked away from his computer feeling a little more decayed each time.
What right did he have to preach the Gospel when such desperation tormented his soul?
Meningsbee was in the midst of a fresh burst of incrimination when there was a knock at the door. He was startled.
He quickly made sure there was no evidence of his iniquity, and went to see who it was.
Matrisse.
He was so glad to see her.
She was like a supernal presence drawing him back into what he wanted his reality to be.
“I need to talk to you about Sassy,” she said solemnly. Meningsbee nodded his head and invited her in.
Once again, Matrisse was the needful distraction to draw him away from his own foolishness.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(2956)
Meningsbee found a note taped to his front door when he returned from a Tuesday morning grocery excursion.
His desire to purchase food stuff had lessened in the two years since his wife, Doris, had died of a heart attack. Throughout their marriage, they had done all of their shopping together, and had even found great fulfillment in meal planning.
Yet a meal for one is not much fun.
So every couple of days the good Reverend pried himself away from duties and went out to consider the quality of a tomato.
Carrying his small bag of groceries to the door, he found the note. It was hand-written and contained a very simple message:
We are too old to change. Why don’t you leave us alone?
Meningsbee removed the note from his door, came into his home and sat down at the kitchen table. He wasn’t sure why this particular message impacted him, but he felt sad.
Was he doing too much?
Is there such a thing as being too old to change?
Was the note from someone who had left the church, or from a parishioner who remained but was frightened to share it with him face-to-face?
The contemplation hung over him all week long. Even as he drove to the church on Sunday morning, he was still wondering about the prudence of his efforts.
As in the previous week, he arrived and things were already buzzing. People had placed the chairs in the front, and were praying for each other, and about eight new souls were visiting.
The atmosphere was completely different from an average church. It more resembled a well-run clinic, or perhaps students in a high school getting ready to head off to home room to begin the day’s activities.
Yet as Meningsbee watched and listened, his uncertainty persisted. Was it possible that he was trying to change something holy into something too common?
He made his way to the front of the church as the congregation gradually fell silent. For a long, almost uncomfortable moment, he stood facing the altar with his back to his friends.
He turned around very slowly and spoke.
“I hope you folks understand that I’m not coming to destroy what you’ve built here at this church, but instead, as Jesus said, trying to bring us life and it more abundantly, and find a way for our joy to be full.”
Meningsbee was surprised because a huge “Amen” was chorused across the room.
He smiled and continued. “It’s really not complicated. It’s what Jesus said in Matthew 5, verse 21. He told us there are things said by ‘men of old,’ but they just don’t work anymore. Maybe they were good once upon a time, when they were fresh, and brought life and joy, but now they are tainted by repetition and squabblings. Our job is to find out what is old, but really gold, instead of what is old and just mold.”
There was an inspiring giggle. He chuckled a little himself as he continued.
“There are many things that have been done in this church for hundreds of years that may still be good. They bring life, they bring joy. We should keep them. They are gold. And then there are things that are just old and covered with an unhealthy mold that are making us sick and bored. They need to go.
So my assignment for next week is to come in here and tell me the things you remember about this church. What is old and gold, and what is old and mold?”
The congregation clapped its hands in agreement. It seemed to be a concept quickly grasped and eagerly accepted. Even the visitors began to chat among themselves about possible choices.
Young and old alike were stirred to rumination. Were the things being done in the Garsonville church uplifting or life-taking?
Meningsbee was rejuvenated.
He realized, you never get too old to change.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
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Discovering that he was heading for Florida to spend Christmas with family, one of his sons asked G-Pop if he was going to miss the snow.
G-Pop: Snow is most beautiful when viewed from the window of a 72-degree, well-insulated house.
Having the full attention of G-Pop, the son continued by asking him what he felt about Santa Claus after all these years.
G-Pop: Santa Claus is the only fat man never laughed at by children. The message? The obese should always arrive with a bag of toys.
“How about winter, G-Pop?”
G-Pop: For old people, it’s the threat of a broken hip. For the middle-aged, the possibility of a heart attack while shoveling snow, for younger adults, it’s sliding off the road in your car because you have bald tires, ending up in a ditch and discovering that your AAA has lapsed. The only payoff is for kids … snow days.
Finally, the son inquired of G-Pop about his feelings concerning Christmas.
G-Pop: Christmas is our next, best chance to birth a great idea, shepherd it to newness and end up looking like wise men.
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*****
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Jonathots Daily Blog
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Although I felt silly, I was a little giddy over the possibility of having a thick slice of raw onion on top of my turkey burger. I had not done that for years. I don’t know why–it isn’t like I’ve been indigent and unable to purchase such a delicacy from the store. But there it was–a huge, yellow onion sitting in front of me, which I sliced and put on top of my turkey burger and began to devour it–perhaps better stated, ravage.
About seven bites in, I noticed that the treat was not treating me very well in the stomach region. But I denied it. After all, sometimes our bellies complain and then later purr with contentment. But hallelujah, praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, about three hours later I was in the middle of one of the worst cases of indigestion I’ve ever had–so much so that I wondered if the Grim Reaper was coming with my own personal rendition of the common heart attack.
Of course, it wasn’t. It was just a foolish, older chap trying to eat like he did when he was fifteen. I was convinced that the raw onion would not affect me.
It is a common POPULIE.
We watch, peruse, consider, indulge in and immerse ourselves in activities and entertainment that are filled with sexual depravity, violence, decapitation and the general mockery of the beauty of humanity–and we proudly say that because we have crossed the age of eighteen and are now adults, we can view without absorbing.
The problem is that even though this is a popular contention, it is a lie. It is a populie.
Just as my stomach was unable to accept the bitter acidity of that raw onion without revolting, our entire beings suffer from the collision of anti-human and unfeeling experiences which rattle us instead of relating to us.
The Good Book says that “the light of the body is the eye. If the eye is evil the whole body is full of darkness.”
I know this isn’t popular, but the truth of the matter is, since we are heart creatures, everything touches our emotions first.
From our emotions, the experience invades our spirit. Now, here’s the tricky part. The spirit of man has been instructed to reject things that are not edifying. So if the spirit is invaded with death and mayhem, it closes the door so that we may stay pure of heart. The information, therefore, goes straight to the brain.
These kinds of depraved images, when they arrive in the brain, reinforce our tendencies instead of challenging us to become renewed. The conclusion? A brain which is not renewed passes ideas on to the body for mediocre response instead of the pursuit of excellence.
Now–my mediocre response and your mediocre response are two different things. For instance, watching the violent rape of a woman in a movie may make me lethargic, uncaring and maybe a bit disrespectful to females. But if had a brain which was turned toward the perverse in the first place, the mediocre response could be domestic violence, infidelity or even my own rendition of what I just saw.
There will be divergent results. But we do know this–the finished product of emotions that are invaded by sinister images is a brain that reinforces its own foolish prejudices, ending up with mediocrity.
Mediocrity can be anything from disobeying your parents to serial killing.
What we see does affect us. If you don’t care and you think your personal mediocre is sufficient for your existence, then don’t seek enlightenment. But if you want your emotions to offer edification to your spirit, which renews your mind so that your body will relish excellence, then you should be a bit more careful in your choices.
Populie: it doesn’t affect us.
Why in the hell would we want to watch anything that doesn’t affect us?
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It was June 1995.
I got really sick. I didn’t know how to “do” sick. I had never been sick. I had the occasional colds, flu and some bad Chinese food that ran through me quicker than Genghis Khan‘s army, but I had never been check-in-the-hospital sick.
Although I never believed in macho, I certainly strove for strong. I needed to be strong. I liked to be the guy who picked up equipment and carried it in the door, sweating profusely and panting to the inspiration of surrounding admirers. I liked playing tennis on a 100-degree day in Shreveport, Louisiana, drenching my clothes with perspiration as people walked by shaking their heads in disbelief that anyone would be outside doing anything but trying to breathe.
It wasn’t an issue of pride–or maybe it WAS an issue of pride, but I was too prideful to see it. I don’t know.
Suddenly I was sick. Not only sick, but the doctor informed me I had diabetes. In the brief time I had known this gentleman–my caregiver–we had struck up a friendship. So when he came in to talk to me about the disease, he looked like he had been sucking on lemons for a week or had just attended a foreign film. He told me that diabetes was serious, that it would be with me all my life–certainly with me when I died.
It was depressing.
So on October 8th of last year, when my legs disappeared overnight, replaced by the lower limbs of a 92-year-old nursing home patient, I was torn between sensations of gratitude that it was just my legs and not a stroke or heart attack, and feeling cheated of the ability to lift heavy burdens and sweat like a pig.
It got me to thinking about the word well. I was always thrilled at the prospect of feeling well–I liked it.
And tonight when I went to the United Methodist Church in Lumberton, Texas, to set up, and I needed to climb into a wheel chair to make it into the building to do my sound check, I temporarily felt robbed of the sensation of wellness. Yes, I wanted to feel sorry for myself.
There was this wonderful gentleman, about my age, who helped us carry in the equipment. He was so strong and capable, and here I was, wheeling my way around from place to place. But as I took a moment in the lobby of the church to reflect before I went up to check out the sound in the room, I considered that there are two ways to be well: you can FEEL well and you can DO well.
And even though physically I am still pretty fit and healthy, the ability to impress with my stride, strength and the sheer sense of muscular prowess is not in my grasp. But God has still given me the blessing of DOING well.
I have not lost my mind (unless you want to include sharing so candidly in an essay openly and publicly on the Internet). I have not lost my talent, such as it is. I have not lost my anointing and the touch of God on my life.
I asked myself in that lobby tonight, can I be happy doing well without feeling well?
I wheeled myself up the ramp onto the stage to practice my latest song. I don’t need an answer–just enough life to give me opportunity.
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 | Maxine Mantooth on Drawing Attention … Dece… |
| Steve on From the Stacks … Octobe… |
| Maxine Mantooth on Scrambles … October 20th… |
| Maxine Mantooth on From the Stacks … Octobe… |
| Maxine Mantooth on Scrambles … October 13th… |
A voice writing in the wilderness
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Jonathots Daily Blog 
