Jonathots Daily Blog
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Noteworthy
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art by smarrttie pants
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Sit Down Comedy … December 21st, 2018
Jonathots Daily Blog
(3898)
Two Christmas Live
I sat down with my partner in music and played some Christmas tunes. Thought you might enjoy them.
Merry Christmas!
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We are delighted to announce that every afternoon from now until Christmas we will be posting sittings from the story, “Jubilators,” for your enjoyment. Good reading and Merry Christmas!
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Click the elephant to see what he’s reading!
******
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Catchy (Sitting 67) Just When You Realized the Donkey’s Ears Were Not As Long As You Originally Thought… September 23rd, 2018
Jonathots Daily Blog
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The name of the restaurant was Vous L’Appelez, which was French for “You Name It.”
It was one of nine restaurants at the Haven on the Mount which offered all sorts of fine cuisine at very reasonable prices since money was not an issue.
The frustration of cash had been removed from the compound by using credits and bartering as a way of distributing goods and services instead of passing around American currency, which really had no relevance. Each family maintained their own personal accounts in other parts of the world, depending on whether they wanted to be “missing in action,” or “presumed dead.”
But Vous L’Appelez had a wonderful advertising scheme of offering anything you wanted to eat–as long as you phoned ahead. Matthew had rented the entire facility for the evening, for what he hoped would be a very special night.
It was the six-month anniversary of his arrival in the mountains, and he felt it was time to sit down with Leonora, offer a ring and a proposal he hoped she would not refuse. Their relationship was sweet. It was well-thought-out. It was without contention–for after all, everything in the region was minus strife and the pursuit of vanity. Their romance was clean, free of obstruction.
But there were moments when Matthew felt that the energetic young woman, who had a tendency to lose interest very quickly, was absent and that her mind was floating to other concerns, even during their times of intimacy.
He had no way of proving it. Every time he brought up some problem with their connection, she cited a hundred examples of bliss and joy. So pushing past his own foolish insecurity and overbearing need to throw a wrench into all great works, he set up this dinner–this meeting, this moment–to once and for all enter a relationship with a woman that would last for more than a night.
It had been an amazing six months. Although he had seen Michael Hinston for some meetings and luncheons, and made sure to connect with Jo-Jay, and even had a coffee a time or two with the billionaire king himself, most of his daytime hours were spent being mentored and emotionally healed by Joshua Jackson.
Joshua was a large man–formidable. Almost frightening. Had it not been for his gentle eyes and warm embraces, Matthew would have been intimidated.
Joshua knew everything.
He knew all the stories of what led up to Matthew’s arrival at the Haven on the Mount and he seemed to have a unique way of taking the cumbersome Bible scriptures and bringing them down to common sense and simplicity for the often-cynical former marketer.
They developed such a deep friendship that several of the residents mistook Joshua and Matthew for lovers. So Matthew was careful to spend his days with Joshua and his nights with Leonora. He wanted to at least appear bi-sexual.
Joshua filled in many of the blanks. He explained a phenomenon that Matthew had never considered–that in every organization there always existed a subversive core of individuals who wanted to use the power of their authority to gain wealth, even if they had to hurt other people.
It made no difference if the organization was a library, a country or a bank–tucked deep into the underbelly of every business or corporation were the radicals who desired to manipulate.
Joshua had been hired to find those under-bellies. It was his job to join them, fellowship with them, drink their favorite booze and learn how to prevent their nasty plans from destroying the movement.
Therefore he often appeared to be the enemy, when he was actually the stopgap who kept tragedy from befalling the lives of those who were trying to bring a little peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.
Joshua had planned the abduction of Jo-Jay, rescuing her through that kidnapping from being murdered by a car bomb. He had carefully placed her in the Amazon forest, knowing full well that another member of the team, Reverend Paulson, would be nearby for the recovery when the time was right.
(Matter of fact, the Paulson family, with both children, were currently dwelling in the Haven on the Mount–a blessed retirement for years of bringing the Gospel to the ignored.)
Joshua had also quietly saved Jubal’s life several times, and had even set in motion a plan to foil the plot in Salisbury, North Carolina, killing believers, by joining up with the three assassins. Joshua’s plan was to murder the trio right before the attack. Unfortunately, his fellow-assassins got nervous and antsy, and decided to instigate the job before Joshua arrived.
When Joshua came to Salisbury and saw the death and destruction around him, he was overcome with grief and took his pistol and aimed it at his head to take his own life, feeling he had failed.
It was Carlin Canaby who stopped him; otherwise he would have been marked by all eternity as one of the deceased murderers.
This was before Carlin became known by the group, standing on the sidelines to make sure “the edges didn’t curl up.”
Joshua told story after story of his work among the more sinister, rebellious elements around the country–how each secret counter-culture had manufactured an America in their minds that was run either by Satan or greed.
Time and time again he stepped in to fill the need–a space which was fortunately unknown to most people because of his effectiveness.
Notably, the Christian Liberty Operation (the CLO) used him as an operative and because of his work there, he was able to expose an errant terrorist group within their own ranks, preventing disaster–thereby legitimizing what turned out to be a worthwhile organization.
Matthew fell in love with Joshua–a brotherly love he had never experienced before. He had never known anyone like Joshua. Joshua was candid. Joshua was self-effacing, without being frightened or imbalanced.
Joshua loved people.
After he was convinced that Matthew could be trusted, Joshua shared the story of Prophet Morgan. He did so quietly but defiantly. Joshua still questioned what happened to the young preacher. He believed that Arthur Harts had made a hasty decision because of his dislike of the Southern boy.
Joshua explained that there was no doubt that Morgan was a drug addict. He had started as a boy–to try to keep up with his father’s tent revivals, to stay alert and energetic, but then he was never able to get out from under the monkey on his back, which gradually turned into a gorilla, smashing him into the ground.
Joshua worked with him. Because Prophet Morgan did not know who Joshua was or why he was there, Joshua was able to take him on like a little brother. But the Prophet was determined to fulfill his own dark self-prophesy.
When it became obvious to Joshua that the boy needed help and rehabilitation–perhaps to be brought to the Haven on the Mount to heal–Harts refused.
He explained to Joshua, “To everything there’s a season. This is not a season for the young Prophet.”
Three days later, Morgan took his car out into the middle of the desert and found a way to kill himself. Even though many people in Vegas thought it was a murder, it was, in fact, a horrible suicide.
Joshua closed the story by saying to Matthew, “I do understand. And I do appreciate the importance of the decision. I just don’t agree.”
Matthew had six months of rich conversations and revelations in his mind as he sat down to dinner with Leonora.
He had requested all forms of baked and broiled seafood along with tropical fruits. She loved that mixture and so did he. They dined, they giggled a bit, and they both chilled with joy over being together in such a safe utopia.
Dinner came to an end and Leonora was growing a bit impatient from hanging around the restaurant. Matthew knew he needed to make his move.
What was stopping him? Why didn’t he just reach into his pocket and pull out the ring–a family heirloom provided by Billionaire Harts for the occasion–and place it on her finger?
There was one question–an unanswered, festering notion–that he needed her to explain. It was so awkward, perhaps petty. But still–he wanted to know.
Matthew geared up his courage, guzzled some mineral water, took her hands, looked into her eyes, and said, “I have a question.”
She nodded her head, maintaining her eye contact.
“When I was so sick,” he began, “and it was obvious I needed a liver transplant–but more importantly, I needed you–why did you choose that moment to go away?”
She surprised him. She bristled, stiffened and pulled her hands back.
“Why are we going into this now?” she asked. “I thought…”
Then she stopped.
“You thought what?” asked Matthew.
She shook her head. He leaned forward, drawing closer to her face.
“No, Leonora. Tell me. You thought what?”
Leonora stood to her feet, stepped behind her chair, pivoted and spoke. “I thought you were going to propose to me tonight.”
Matthew leaned back. “What gave you that idea?”
Leonora stepped a couple of feet away, and then turned and replied. “You know what gave me that idea. My grandfather said he gave you the family heirloom ring, and also permission to ask. I thought that’s what this dinner was about. Why are we talking about old silliness when we have our lives ahead of us?”
Matthew craned his neck to stare up at her.
“So which part of this is silly? Me being sick? Me being weak? Me needing you? Or you disappearing?”
“It’s all silly,” she said, moving back into her chair. She took his hands again. “Come on. The past is the past. Why are we ruining this moment, worrying about what’s already happened?”
Matthew took a deep breath and spoke words he had only whispered in his heart in the middle of the night.
“Because, Leonora…I don’t think you love me.”
He shocked himself when he heard the words. They were so lonesome as they hung in the air, without any support; abandoned, needing a place to find rest, but orphaned in the silence.
“You don’t think I love you?” Leonora said. “Haven’t I shown you I love you? I’ve never loved a man the way I love you.”
Matthew interrupted. “I believe that. I do. I just don’t know…Well, I just don’t know if that’s enough for me.”
Leonora stood to her feet again, repeating her pivot around her chair.
“Matthew Ransley, what is it you want? What do you want from me? Am I to be your devotee? Am I supposed to cheer your every move? Should I lessen myself so you feel better?”
Matthew jumped in. “So you think you have to lessen yourself to be my equal? Is that what you’re saying?”
Leonora walked across the room with all the appearances of departing, but stopped a few paces from the exit.
“What I’m saying,” she spit, “is that I don’t like complications. You see what I have to offer. You see who I am. You see how I function. You know my height, you know my depth–and if it isn’t enough, then fine. But don’t ask me to pretend to be your dream girl. I’m nobody’s girl. I am Leonora. I don’t plan on changing that. I am just like my instrument–the oboe. Yes. I’m just like the oboe. You put the right reed in me and you finger me correctly, and add the breath, and I will play you a beautiful tune. It may sound like a silly analogy and it probably is. But not nearly as ridiculous as this conversation. So do you love me? Are you going to give me the ring? Or are we going to sit and talk about this all night?”
Matthew sat and stared at the self-aware but also self-serving lady before him. She was perfect. That’s why he couldn’t be with her.
“Yes,” he said. “I will give you the ring so you can return it to your grandfather. You deserve better than me. Privately you know that. It’s just that sometimes your private thoughts get in my head.”
Leonora walked back to the table, took the ring, thought about speaking, but decided to just walk away.
Matthew sat and stared for a long time at the space once occupied by the woman he desired. He realized that desire is just not enough.
He took his phone out of his pocket, dialed a number and spoke.
“Plan Z.”
The owner of the restaurant, realizing that things had not turned out the way Matthew had anticipated, came over and gave him a tender, Christian hug, and said the meal was free. Matthew patted him on the shoulder, stepped out into the night air, climbed onto the golf cart which had been provided for his needs, and drove the one mile to the airport.
His jet was waiting for him.
Matthew realized that he could stand to live in the Haven if he and Leonora could have had a life together. But a sanctuary of safety was never what Matthew wanted in his life. He would much rather be in the chaos, and try to find a way to tie two ends together, to create some wholeness.
He did not belong at the Haven in the Mount. He was more of a Jubal, a Jasper, a Rolinda. He was going home.
But he was going home with a change in his heart–a belief that Jesus was not only popular, but brought a message and a lifestyle which was essential for Planet Earth.
Matthew was returning to his life–but this time as a believer.
Arriving at the airport, the pilot loaded his bags into the plane, and as he was about to climb up the steps and leave Paradise forever, he heard a voice.
“What’s your hurry?”
He turned around. It was Jo-Jay.
“You didn’t think you were gonna leave without me, did you? I want to tell you, Matthew. This place is so good it makes me feel bad.”
Matthew laughed and gave her a big hug.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Am I sure what?” inquired Jo-Jay.
“Are you sure about going back?”
“Well,” said Jo-Jay, “when I was coming here to the airport, thinking I was going to leave by myself, I felt pretty good about it. But now that I know I’m leaving with you–well–I still feel pretty good about it.”
She burst into laughter. He joined her.
They climbed into the airplane, and taxied down the runway, taking one final look at the Eden of the Hills.
“Maybe we’ll visit sometime,” said Matthew, looking over at Jo-Jay.
Jo-Jay chuckled. “Hell, Matthew. There’s no maybes in our world.”
The two leaned their heads back, feeling completely at peace.
It was time for them to go into the world and live the Gospel.
THE END
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Catchy (Sitting 56) The Quintets…. July 8th, 2018
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Jip, Cho, Bo, Jack and Sam were five young men from all over the world who got together, tried to learn each other’s full names, failed miserably, and so settled for shorter handles.
They shared two things in common.
Each member of the quintet was a trusted intern for an Ambassador to the United Nations.
Jip was from Japan; Cho, China; Bo, Russia; Jack, England, and Sam, the United States.
Their other commonality was a deep-rooted faith in Jesus, especially fresh since the recent awakening sweeping the world. Realizing they were just interns, they focused on what they could do to make a difference.
So every morning, a half-hour before going to work with their Ambassadors, they met in the pantry of the kitchen of the Bruxbury Hotel in Midtown Manhattan, where they lodged while in the Big Apple.
The purpose for the meeting was simple: the five young men chatted and conversed–calling it prayer and hoping their heavenly Father would give them insights on how to impact the more traditional and often vicious side of the United Nations.
They decided on kindness. Rituals were begun:
Jip walked into his boss every morning with fresh flowers.
Cho brought in an array of new teas from China to allure his superior.
Bo slipped a little vodka into the coffee, with a wink.
Jack ordered very expensive marmalade from England.
And Sam always stopped off to pick up a Nathan’s hot dog from down the street, which made his boss beam.
At the end of every session in the pantry, the gentlemen closed with a single thought:
“In kindness, beget kindness.”
They believed their purpose was to create a comfortable, gentle and merciful environment for their employer which just might cause him or her to go into the United Nations with a warmer heart.
It is difficult to know whether it was the vodka in the coffee or the ever-changing climate in the world, but matters of statehood were becoming more civil and less sectarian.
The quintet of interns took no credit for it. They just gave the glory to the Father.
*****
Matthew was dismissed from the hospital feeling a decade older and looking two. He sensed that he was becoming an old man before he had ever been an adequate young man. He felt sick. He looked sick. His skin was yellow from the liver infection and his eyes drooped, as if they were desperately preparing to leap from the perch on his face.
Matthew finally came to the conclusion that alcohol was a problem. In his crude way, he had decided that it was coming down to a choice between Jack Daniels or Jane Pussy. Knowing that he was not going to leave the latter alone, he chose to break his covenant of life-long affection for Mr. Daniels.
He sought some counseling and joined a couple of programs, and after a few weeks, he was a shaky non-drunk.
Refinement.
Yes, Matthew decided he needed some refinement to escape the smear of liquor, and also the goodness of the infernal revival.
So he went to a grand opening of an art display in one of the larger casinos. He was unaccustomed to attending such gala events and always felt lonely because it was required that he step forward and introduce himself, and he would rather frequent the darker corner.
So he found himself strolling around behind the displays when he heard a horrific sound–like a wounded animal. He followed it, turned and discovered a young woman with dark-brown hair adorned in a cocktail dress. She had her back to him and was holding some sort of horn. She was blowing into a reed.
“That was you?” he asked.
Without turning around, she responded, “I suppose you’re referring to the sound.”
Matthew stepped around so he could see her face. It was a sturdy, but beautiful one. “Are you calling ducks?”
She blew her reed again and replied, “No. Just any barnyard animal. And considering the pile of food on your plate, looks like I got me a hog.”
She looked up, her eyes twinkling. Matthew was instantly in love. He had forgotten he was carrying a plate full of food, favoring the shrimp puffs. But here was a woman with a biting sense of humor, unafraid of his advances.
She continued, “What I’m blowing is my reed, because I play the oboe. I play the oboe with a string quartet, which makes us a quintet. And you might think to yourself that being the only reed instrument in a quintet of strings, there would be a measure of alienation. And if by alienation, you mean incrimination, jealousy, anger, disdain and misery–well then, you would be right.”
Matthew eyed her for a moment, and then inquired, “You don’t like to play the oboe?”
“Uh, no,” she replied flatly. “No one likes to play the oboe. The oboe is like William the Conqueror going out to find a few innocent serfs who have not yet signed up for the clarinet. He captures them and imprisons them in double-reed bars.”
Matthew squinted. “Do you always talk this way?”
She paused as if in deep thought. “Yes, come to think of it. I do. Do you enjoy it? Or were you intending to be mean?”
Matthew held out his hand and said, “My name is Matthew Ransley.”
She reached across the short distance and shook only his fingers. “My name is Leonora Fenzi. But just go ahead and call me Leonora Fenzi.”
Matthew smirked. “But that’s your whole name.”
“No, there’s a middle one. Juniper. As a courtesy to you, I left that one out.”
“Fenzi,” said Matthew. “Is that… Well, I don’t know what to ask. What nationality is that?”
Leonora laughed. “Well, presently I’m attending a conservatory in Paris, but my nationality is Uncle Sam’s House. I grew up in Kewanee, Illinois.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” said Matthew.
“Oh, Paris? it’s right there in the middle of France,” mugged Leonora.
Matthew laughed out loud. “Paris I knew. It was the Illinois city that threw me.”
Leonora stood to her feet, blew a couple of notes on the oboe, and then said, “Do you know that I was the best oboe player in Kewanee, Illinois?”
“I know this one,” responded Matthew quickly. “You were the only player in Kewanee, Illinois, right?”
“No. There were two,” replied Leonora seriously.
“Really?” said Matthew.
“Yes,” Leonora responded. “The second player was a young girl with Down Syndrome, whose mother bought her a horn because the girl thought the keys were much shinier than on other instruments.”
“So…was she a close second?” asked Matthew, with a wry smile.
Leonora walked across the room to Matthew. “What brings you to this opening? You don’t look the type.”
“Is there a type that comes here?” asked Matthew.
“Yes,” said Leonora, reaching over and taking one of the shrimp puffs off his plate and popping it into her mouth. “Gay and rich. You’re not either one, are you?”
“Well, I’m not gay,” said Matthew. “I applied for years, but never got accepted to the club.”
He waited for her to laugh but she didn’t. “Anyway,” he continued, “I am fairly rich. Well… let me put it this way. I have money at my disposal.”
“Disposal?” questioned Leonora. “An interesting term for money.”
Matthew changed the subject. “What are you doing after you get done playing here?”
“Let me see,” she mused. “I’ll be going off with the string quartet to complain that the patrons didn’t listen to the music, and discuss how the shrimp puffs tasted like they were swimming on the bottom of the creek. And we’ll probably have a long discussion about how Wilhelm’s violin needs a new bridge. Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”
“Any of that you could avoid?” Matthew pursued.
“Only if I can get away.”
He steadied himself. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”
Leonora looked him up and down, glanced to her right and left, and posed. “Honestly, if you look at it from my perspective, you could be a serial killer. Many of them are quite charming, at least I hear. But you know, I’m going to say yes to the invitation–mainly because you’re so goofy, I don’t think you would know how to dispose of a body.”
Matthew furrowed his brow. “That was the most unusual yes I’ve ever heard, but I’m gonna take it. I thought we would go to an actual restaurant in Vegas instead of a buffet. What do you think?”
She suddenly turned and marched across the room quickly, speaking over her shoulder. “I think that would be fine because I don’t really care right now. I have to go play more Mozart.”
“I like Mozart,” shouted Matthew to her retreating frame.
Without turning, Leonora replied, “Oh, shut up. It’s the only name you know.”
Matthew stood and laughed. He threw aside his plate in a nearby trash can and thought to himself, “This could be good. This could be really good…”
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Clazzy… April 21, 2012
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She bounced back into my life about seventeen years ago in the midst of a nasty divorce and custody battle over her three children. Even though she had spent the majority of her time growing up learning to play the oboe and performing in orchestras, she was working a regular job and was a bit shell-shocked by the whole experience of exploding matrimonial promises.
We invited her to come and live in Nashville, Tennessee, and she settled in, prepared to be normal. The process was interrupted. I was finishing up a novel entitled I’M … the legend of the son of man, so she decided to pitch in and assist in the editing process. She continued her involvement by helping me find someone who was willing to publish the volume, and then when I got the crazy notion to go out and tour across the country, reading from the book and showcasing music, she volunteered to help schedule the events and accompany me on the tours, playing her oboe.
Somewhere along the line we got the idea of starting a symphony in Hendersonville, Tennessee. Even though she had never conducted an orchestra, she was excited about the notion of multiplying her talents–standing before the orchestra instead of existing within it. In the process, we kind of stumbled on a new style of music which we dubbed Clazzy—“the spirit of classical with the soul of jazz–pop-minded.” She liked the name so well (and was looking for an excuse to abandon her former surname) so she became Janet Clazzy, conductor of the Sumner County Symphony.
Ten symphonies later, with many concerts and countless adventures into the school system, she joined me on a new endeavor. I was prodded by one of my sons to start writing screenplays for independent films. She leaped in, found the Final Draft program necessary for such an occupation and became the typist for all seventeen of the motion pictures I have penned. When we discovered that a musical soundtrack was needed for movies, she began writing tunes for the films, creating beautiful melodies to enhance the stories.
All the while, she continued to be mother to three children, tour the country and dazzle audiences with her oboe, which had now taken on a new companion, as she also mastered the WX-5 Wind Machine, a horn sporting the sounds of 250 different instruments.
When I decided to start writing this jonathots column four years ago, she was there on the first day and remains here on day 1,491–typing away and assisting in my cursory edits. She tours America, having criss-crossed with me at least nine times, in front of tens of thousands of people, often exhausted, never complaining, and always looking for a way to make it better.
You may want to know what her secret is. Somewhere along the line, seventeen years ago–my creative partner, Janet Clazzy, decided that the most important thing in life was to find out what matters. Lots of people worry about what’s in their face or what has inconvenienced them. Some people become overly concerned with obligations or traditions. But Janet has found a key–she asks herself, “Does it matter?” And if it does, she buckles down and finds a way to do it.
And because she knows she is doing what matters, it brings joy to her heart and good cheer to her soul.
Last night as we prepared to head off to Long Beach, California, for a concert, she opened the back door of the van and our amplifier fell out and crashed down on the concrete. She felt really stupid. Matter of fact, it bothered her so much that she became preoccupied with her mistake (even though, as it turned out, the instrument survived the mishap). But the professional she is–and the human being she’s become–she shook it off and gave those lovely folks a tremendous performance from her heart. Why? Because it matters.
It’s not a very deep thought, but Janet has taught me–and is available to teach others–that at the beginning of the day, if you find out what really matters, by the end of the day you discover that you’ve accomplished valuable things … and your importance is assured.
Today is her birthday. She is on the road. She is getting ready to perform in Whittier, California. She hasn’t asked for any special presents. She hasn’t demanded an elaborate cake with trimmings. She’s just happy because she’s doing what matters. And you know the beauty of it? Because she’s found what matters, the gift that God, nature and those who love her bestow upon her soul is to let her know, on this her birthday … that she matters.
**************
Below is the first chapter of Jonathan Richard Cring’s stunning novel entitled Preparing a Place for Myself—the story of a journey after death. It is a delicious blend of theology and science fiction that will inspire and entertain. I thought you might enjoy reading it. After you do, if you would like to read the book in its entirety, please click on the link below and go to our tour store. The book is being offered at the special price of $4.99 plus $3.99 shipping–a total of $8.98. Enjoy.
http://www.janethan.com/tour_store.htm
Sitting One
I died today.
I didn’t expect it to happen. Then again, I did—well, not really.
No, I certainly didn’t expect it.
I’ve had moments of clarity in my life. Amazingly enough, many of them were in the midst of a dream. For a brief second I would know the meaning of life or the missing treatment to cure cancer. And then as quickly as it popped into my mind it was gone. I really don’t recollect dying. Just this unbelievable sense of clear headedness—like walking into a room newly painted and knowing by the odor and brightness that the color on the wall is so splattering new that you should be careful not to touch it for fear of smearing the design. The greatest revelation of all?
Twenty-five miles in the sky time ceases to exist.
The planet Pluto takes two hundred and forty-eight years to circle the sun. It doesn’t give a damn.
The day of my death was the day I became free of the only burden I really ever had. TIME.
Useless.
Time is fussy. Time is worry.
Time is fear. Time is the culprit causing human-types to recoil from pending generosity.
There just was never enough time.
Time would not allow it. Remember—“if time permits …”
Why if time permits? Why not if I permit? Why not if I dream? Why not if I want? Why does time get to dictate to me my passage?
It was time that robbed me of my soulful nature. It was time that convinced me that my selfishness was needed.
I didn’t die. The clock in me died, leaving spirit to tick on.
So why don’t we see the farce of time? Why do we allow ourselves to fall under the power of the cruel despot? Yes, time is a relentless master—very little wage for much demand.
I died today.
Actually … a piece of time named after me was cast away.
Here You Add–November 13, 2011
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She was sad, having absolutely no idea how to rise from the ashes of a devastating relationship which had produced three young whelps who had plans of their own which certainly did not include her well-earned Master’s Degree in Music and virtuoso ability on the oboe. She sat in a room with me, having fresh tears on her cheeks, the veteran of an abusive situation with the man who was the father of her children, but certainly not the husband of her dreams, leaving her financially destitute, with no recourse but to find the best job possible in the quickest way possible. She said, “I guess I’ll never play oboe again.”
I was saddened, alarmed, infuriated, passionate and bewildered–all in the same moment. “Why?” I inquired.
“Because I have messed up so badly and I need to be a mother to these children and make money as quickly as possible, and that just doesn’t have anything to do with blowing through a horn.”
She was speaking conventional wisdom, which is great if you’re going to a convention, but usually doesn’t do much for the personal welfare of an individual human being. It made me think about my situation–not because I was trying to be selfish, but because I realized that the purpose of having a clean emotional slate is to make you able to evaluate what you’ve really got and muster a thankful thinking that allows you to take your mustard seed of ability and faith and plant it in the right direction.
I had been successful doing things that were musical and had achieved some prowess with writing. Now I wondered if I could compose music for the oboe and take this dear woman’s abilities and keep them moving forward, generating some finance for her family and also producing some new possibilities for my own career. I prepared myself for the multiplication of talents.
The reason most people never multiply their talents is because they’re unwilling to admit they have talent. Why? Because the admission of talent brings forth two crazy “r’s” in our lives. The first one if responsibility. If I have a talent, it’s safe to assume I’m responsible to do something with it instead of burying it in the ground or hiding it under a bushel. Yes, most people “bushel their talent” because the responsibility of using it is so frightening that they would rather pretend they weren’t granted such agility.
Because the second “r” is rejection. What happens if you share your talent and people tell you you’re not very good? What if you decide to live off your talent and the daily wage necessary to sustain life doesn’t come trickling in? Yes, responsibility and rejection often keep us from admitting we have the talent–and the lack of confessing our gift eliminates the possibility of expanding it and multiplying it, to foster new areas.
I had written gospel music; I had written plays. I had written a few books and I was working on a novel. Could I have the faith, with my little mustard seed, to believe that I could write music for oboe with a symphonic bend, that would allow this dear woman to continue her work in a craft that brought her joy, so that raising her children would be a pleasant experience instead of an adult burden?
The power of discovering your mustard seed of talent is that you no longer have to convince yourself that God has blessed you. The only challenge that remains is how far you can stretch that blessing before it breaks.
I asked her if she wanted to work with me. That was fifteen years ago–two novels, seven books, fourteen CD’s, eleven symphonies and seventeen screenplays completed.
Once you free your spirit of the burden of unrequited emotions, your brain becomes thankful and a mind of gratitude develops the faith to use the mustard seed of talent, to launch out in trust with what you have and in the process, avenues appear for potential multiplication.
I do not know what I would have done that day if Janet Clazzy had shared her burden about her life and I had been emotionally bound up, unaware of what capacity was within me, distrustful of being grateful about my life, and had not already learned to plant my mustard seed into the ground to let it grow. But because I had gone through the “here you go,” the “here you got,” the “here you adopt” and the “here you adapt” phases, by the grace of God, I was ready for “here you add.”
I sat down at a keyboard and started writing music that we will be sharing in front of a congregation even this very day.
Fresh things don’t happen if we allow our beliefs to become stale. Joy is not spawned from trepidation. And talent does not overtake us–but is taken over by our desire to believe that we can actually contribute something of quality to human life around us.
I am so glad she didn’t quit playing the oboe. Aren’t you? I am so glad she learned how to conduct a symphony orchestra, and began one that reached tens of thousands of people in Tennessee. And I am so glad that she is sitting right here with me now, typing this document as my friend and co-producer of all sorts of new ideas.
If you want to have good spiritual and mental health, you need to stop being afraid of the responsibility and rejection that often accompany talent–because burying your talent in the ground only makes it invisible to the masses.
You still know it’s there.
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Here comes Christmas! For your listening pleasure, below is Manger Medley, Jonathan’s arrangement of Away in the Manger, which closes with him singing his gorgeous song, Messiah. Looking forward to the holidays with you!
Jonathan sings “Let”
Jonathan Sings “Spent This Time”
Jonathan and his partner, Janet Clazzy, play “The Call”
Jonathots Daily Blog 