Things I Learned from R. B.

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Episode 25

Sitting in the darkness of my room, I was overwhelmed by the circumstances and terrified by my indifference.

It had been nearly six weeks since I had seen R. B.

Following the concert, he had selected a profile of long phone conversations which were more or less therapy sessions. Not therapy in the sense that I was a qualified physician who knew how to address illnesses of the mind and spirit, but rather, R. B. groping into his surroundings, trying to find someone who gave enough of a damn to listen to his ever-increasing pandemonium.

During one of those exchanges, I was able to talk him into coming over to our house for a July 4^th cookout next to our pool. I wasn’t surprised when the hour arrived, and he was nowhere to be found. But about forty-five minutes into our festivities, I looked atop the long stairway that descended to our deck, and there he was, shirtless, wearing swim trunks, slowly making his way to join the party. I could see under his right arm that he had his traditional bag of Doritos to donate to the food table.

Yet, as he came closer, I was stunned. I wasn’t alone.

Gradually, everyone spying his entrance grew quiet—and only the boom of the music remained. I looked around at my family and friends and noted that they were peering at me, wondering if I had any information or knowledge on the sight before them.

For you see, R.  B. was almost unrecognizable. He was so skinny that it was difficult to look at him. The bones were protruding from his hips and chest—and his legs looked like kindling wood which would certainly break with a passing breeze.

He continued toward us, each step offering a more startling revelation. When he finally arrived, he gave little Isabella a hug (because they were great comrades from making his video). She greeted him warmly. I stood to my feet and headed his way. He held out his arms for a hug and I quickly forced myself to embrace him. I could feel every single portion of his spine. As I pulled away, I noticed that his skin had turned grey, like marble, and had a texture of soft plastic.

Somehow or another, all of us made it through the afternoon without asking questions, challenging or indicating that there was something wrong. R. B. himself seemed oblivious to the changes in his body.

He must have lost at least fifty pounds and he had never been sturdy to begin with.

Now that everyone had departed and I was alone, it was righteous that I be honest with myself and admit that my comrade was sick.

What made it difficult was that I had just rented a large house for R. B. and a lady I knew, who had three children and was constantly struggling to make rent. I had concluded that this one house could take care of both situations. R. B. could have the upstairs and the family could have the downstairs. I would pay the rent and they could take care of the utilities and food stuff.

We were in our third month of the arrangement and everything seemed to be going well. It was expensive, but it was a resolution.

Now, as I considered the ghost who had come to my house as a skeleton, I surmised that he required medical attention.

I balked. R. B. had no medical insurance, and if he was going to get a diagnosis and treatment, someone would have to pay for it.

I felt like a piece of shit to be considering what to do for this human based upon finance. So finally, I didn’t.

I called my doctor and set an appointment. R. B. reluctantly agreed to go. She tested him—but the visit was very quick.

She reported to both of us that R. B. had a disease. She said it appeared to be fourth stage rectal cancer and that immediate treatment was a necessity.

I watched R. B. as he received the news. Rather than breaking down or becoming angry, he questioned the accuracy of her determination. My doctor was not offended. She suggested that he get a second opinion.

At this point, I finally spoke up. I don’t know why it took me so long to find my voice, but it seemed appropriate. “You don’t need a second opinion, R. B.,” I said softly. “You need a second chance. Get the treatment. We’ll provide the prayers.”

My words touched his heart, and he reached over to squeeze my hand. God forgive me, but I recoiled. It was not my proudest moment.

My doctor set up an appointment for R. B. to meet with a specialist. I posed a question. I asked my doctor if the cancer could be removed through an operation.

She quietly shook her head and said, “No. We will need to see what chemotherapy can do.”

I nodded. I was a novice, but astute enough to know that when operating is not possible, it’s just not good.

We left the office together.

R. B. wanted to go out to lunch. I lied and told him I was busy. I slipped him a twenty-dollar bill, and jokingly told him to eat enough for both of us.

I don’t think he knew that I was repulsed.

At least, I hope not.

G-Poppers … March 9th, 2018

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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G-Pop received this significant portrait just a couple of days ago. He looked at it for a long time, greatly moved by the genteel nature, and found it quite evocative. He was curious about what the caption should be for such a thousand-word image.

Is it:

“Science embracing humanity with knowledge and insight”

“Mother Nature nurturing the children of Earth”

“Jesus welcoming the children the disciples had rejected”

“God admiring His handiwork”

“The Physician standing watch over the patient,” or

“The perseverant prayer restfully awaiting the touch of the Heavenly Father”

Actually, it’s a quick snapshot of G-Pop’s son, cradling his newborn child. The boy’s name is Julius.

Like all of us, Julius will need much tender-loving care to become “a caesar.”

 

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Jesonian: Mastering Service … September 21, 2014

Jonathots Daily Blog

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John Marcus was a “householder.”

It was the title granted to the colored slave to afford just enough dignity with a King James flavor, without bestowing elaborate honor for his needful subservient status.

Yes, John Marcus did it all. Cook, clean, repair, blacksmith, minister, caretaker and physician.

And because he took the jobs on–often that no one else wanted, including the white family which became very accustomed to being served–he was granted more and more liberty to work solo in order to achieve his ever-expanding, sophisticated results.

Today he was given a new job. He was to be mentor, and even punisher if necessary, to a belligerent sixteen-year-old runaway named Zachary. The little tyrant was placed in his care to train and also temper into achieving his place as a worker on the plantation.

So John Marcus decided to give the angry lad the job of cleaning the pots and pans. It was done alone in the back room of the kitchen and could be achieved even by a fitful worker without destroying too much private property.

When Zachary got John Marcus alone, far from prying ears, he shouted, “Why do you walk around with a smile on your face playing good house nigger?”

John Marcus smiled and gave no response, wiping the bottom of a dirty pot as any good instructor just might do.

After a good season of pan-scrubbing, Zachary challenged again. “Are you deaf? Why do you give in to the Massa?”

John Marcus paused, ceasing to scrape at the blackened pans. He stepped about five paces away and gently and tenderly stirred a cauldron of delicious stew he was nurturing for the evening’s consumption.

Zachary shook his head.

Suddenly John Marcus spoke. “There’s one Massa. His name is Jesus. He told me that the only way to gain mastery in life is to serve.”

“Weak words,” spit Zachary.

John Marcus chuckled. “And where have your strong words gotten you, boy? Lassoed? Drug through the dirt? Rejected? Listenin’ to some old man chaw at’cha while you’re scrubbin’ pans? And you know what else? You’ll be here scrubbin’ these same pans, cursin’ these same whites two years from now, nary feelin’ any better or makin’ any progress.”

Zachary shook his head again. “I’d rather be an angry man than a happy nigger.”

John Marcus took him by the shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “That’s because you don’t know what happy is because you’re too busy bein’ angry. I don’t like what’s happenin’ around me, but I know one thing. It’s not gonna change tomorrow. It’s gonna be the same next week. Probably even by Christmastime, I’m still gonna have the same color they have decided is less than ‘dem. But I know this–if I believe they’re wrong, then there’s a God in heaven who knows it, too. And He told me there ain’t nothin’ a man sows that he doesn’t eventually have to pull up out of the ground and reap, and eat. So I’m workin’ on what I sow. I’m quietly learnin’ more than they want me to, and there are things around this ‘ole fifty-three acres that nobody knows how to do but me. Because when it came time for doin’ it, I learned it. And they were completely happy with me bein’ the pack mule.”

Zachary interrupted. “So what? So you’re a smart nigger without ever being able to be called smart, and being able to take the smart and use it for yourself.”

“Maybe so. But every time I master something of service and I serve it well, I gain the attention of the master who controls this household and I make myself of great value. Just the other day, young boy, several of the farm hands who own the plantation just south of here had to come to me to find out how to fix their plowshare and what to do for an ailing mule. Did they appreciate it? See, it doesn’t make any difference. In that minute, they had to admit they needed me. Maybe they choked on it; maybe they refused to completely give in. But they needed me. My Master is Jesus, and he told me that the more I serve, the more territory I gain.”

Zachary just shook his head, but he returned to his labor with a bit more respect.

In March of 1861, John Marcus passed away. He was the only slave allowed to be buried in the far corner of the white cemetery. Many of the townsfolk turned out to see the old servant put to rest. He had made more friends than enemies and to the surprise of a young worker who had finally adopted his philosophy…

Yes.

Zachary was set free.

It was the last request made by a servant to a plantation owner … but granted because of the teachings of a greater Master. 

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The Sermon on the Mount in music and story. Click the mountain!

 

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Untotaled: Stepping 23 (June 19th, 1965) Bumps, Clumps, Humps, Lumps…Mumps July 19, 2014

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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(Transcript)

Mackey lived right next door to me. He was still my best friend, even though as we got older we found ourselves in different circles.

He got the mumps.

Since vaccinations have come along and practically eliminated this condition, people don’t realize how frightening it was in 1965, to contract the mumps. Not only was it uncomfortable, painful and extremely ugly, but there was a danger that if you didn’t take care of yourself, the condition could travel down to the lower regions which should only be visited by your soapy washcloth and your future wife.

Being a good friend, I went over to see Mackey and keep him company. To ease his discomfort, Mackey’s mother made a delicious chocolate malt with little marshmallows on top, which Mackey was too miserable to consume, only able to take a couple of swigs. So being a devoted comrade, I stepped in and finished it for him so his mother wouldn’t yell at him.

About ten days after Mackey and I shared this dairy treat, I noticed that my face was swelling up. I looked in the mirror and my whole head region looked like the sludge and silt gathering at the bottom of the Mississippi Delta. I felt like New Orleans on a cloudy day.

The doctor was called, confirmed that I had mumps and said I needed to go to bed–and that I shouldn’t goof off and walk around, tempting the little viruses to traverse to the South Pole. Well, my friend Benny showed up and he was so intent on making me happy that I got up to talk to him, which led to me walking around.

Sure enough, two days later I woke up swollen in my Southern Hemisphere.

It was so ugly–not only because of the discomfort. No, mainly because I had to let my mother and the doctor peer at it. Gross.

The doctor wasn’t much help, sternly saying I shouldn’t have let the condition happen in the first place. Then he said I should pack it in ice.

Now, there are many places ice shouldn’t go. I guarantee you, one of them is “down there.”

So for a whole week I was surrounded in ice like a hapless mackerel ending its journey at Fisherman’s Wharf.

Ringing in my head was the final warning from my small-town physician, saying it was likely that I would be sterile because of my mistake. I didn’t have a problem with the idea of being sterile, as far as not having children, but I was afraid it might affect my future possibilities of attracting a woman of my choice.

Even though I can’t remember how my affliction ended, mumps went away, years passed, and as it turned out, I fathered four sons.

I guess sterility was not a problem.

There should be a lesson here, and I suppose several could be derived by the more astute reader:

• Don’t drink a chocolate malt with your mumps-infested friend.
• Don’t go against the directions of your physician
• Don’t allow your private areas to become public
• Or don’t freak out because your doctor has information, trying to scare you.

Tell you what–I’ll let you take your pick. It’s a multiple choice.

My only take from the situation is to keep everything frozen away from my warm place.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

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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