MJ …

Question 3: Can I keep going if it doesn’t get better?

April 27, 2012

 

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

(1,497) 

I met her quite by accident.

I had finally manipulated my way into getting a guest spot on the Teddy Bart Show in Nashville, Tennessee. It was one of those regional talk shows common in the 1970′s and had quite a following in a three or four state area. At least, that’s my memory. The show had never invited a gospel group onto perform before, so it was quite a victory to be appearing on the venue.

It was great. After the performance, I received a phone call from some unknown gentleman who told me that he was a representative for Marijohn Wilkin. I knew the name because she was a fairly well-known songwriter at the time, having just penned, performed and promoted the songs, One Day at a Time (Sweet Jesus) and I Have Returned.The man on the other end of the line said that he had set up a meeting for me with Ms. Wilkin for that very afternoon. He gave me directions and informed me that I needed to be there promptly at 1:30 P.M.

Well, you can imagine–I was thrilled. I had gone from being a Central Ohio boy whom nobody liked because I wouldn’t “work a job” and persisted in pursuing music, to being a fellow who had a group that won some contests, transforming into a bit older guy who had one of his songs signed by a group called The Rambos–a popular gospel group at the time. And now, having just appeared on the Teddy Bart Show, I was being pursued by a successful artist and writer for further consideration.

So as requested, promptly at 1:30 P.M., I, along with my group, arrived at Buckhorn Publishers on Music Row in Nashville, walking in the door like I kind of owned the place and announcing myself to the secretary. She stared down at her appointment book in bewilderment, disappeared into a nearby office and I realized there must be some problem. After what seemed to be an interminable delay, a slight woman finally appeared from the inner office, wearing a scarf on her head, dangling earrings and greatly resembling a gypsy princess. Her voice was husky–like she had been up for two or three nights straight, screaming at a parcel of kids. She was a bit gruff, so she kind of scared me, but through the hoarse voice and gruff mannerisms, I received an invitation to come into her office with my group.

She proceeded to explain that no appointment had been made for us and that the gentleman who called on the phone was an old alcoholic buddy of hers who occasionally pranked innocent boys and girls from Ohio who came to Nashville looking for fame and success, throwing her name around to make himself look important. I was humiliated–devastated. I was in a strange lady’s office who had the entire garb and persona to cast a spell on me.

She didn’t. Instead, she asked to hear our music. We stayed there for the next four hours and talked, laughed and cried. She became my friend. She was my producer. I spent hours and hours at her lovely home on the outskirts of Nashville, talking about music, playing music, meeting famous people and swimming in her pool–warmed to a perfect 98.6 degrees.

I remember many things about that experience, but one of the things I will always take with me is that Marijohn would occasionally fall apart. She wouldn’t show up at work and they would tell me that she was at home, trying to get over “a spell.” When I inquired further, I was given no information, and the attitude was that I should keep my nose to myself. I don’t do that very well, so I decided to drive out one time during one of those spells, to find out what was actually going on. During the drive, I had all sorts of imaginations–drug addiction, alcoholism, and … well, I was young. My brain went kind of nutzoid.

When I arrived, she was alone in her living room with her legs propped up–reading. She welcomed me in and I knelt down next to her, took her hand and asked, “Marijohn, what’s wrong with you?”

She quietly set her book aside and removed her reading classes, looked me in the eye and said, “Son, I have cardiovascular disease. Every once in a while it just hurts to move, think and breathe, and if I just shut down for a season, I appear to get better.”

I asked her if there was anything they could do. She said they were doing that–and more–but still, there were times where nothing worked as well as general “stoppage.” She also said she used those times to write, think and pray–and to look deeply into her soul. She jokingly told me that without the cardiovascular disease she might avoid all of those things.

I felt like I had stepped on holy ground. The room was so quiet, so preciously charged with spiritual energy, that I was unworthy to be there and was an interruption instead of a blessed presence of visitation. She sensed my awkwardness and said, “I’m glad you came. But you must understand–if it weren’t for this problem I have, I would never have written One Day at a Time (Sweet Jesus). I may have never have written anything at all. I would not call this condition my friend, but it is an enemy that fools me from time to time by providing me with unexpected gifts.”

I excused myself, went out and got into my beat-up Volkswagen Beetle with the dent in the nose and headed back to Nashville. I learned something that day. Here was a woman who had no particular prospects of her situation ever getting better, who ignored bitterness, rejected complacency and eschewed self-pity–to continue to produce the gift that life had provided for her.

Since that day, my youthful frame has gained miles of carriage usage. I, too, have developed pains. I, too, have acquired “spells.” And every time I am accosted with my own mortal aching, I remember that morning in that living room, where I knelt by the side of a brave woman who looked on her affliction as an affection that lured her towards beauty.

I try to do it myself. I try to be brave. I try to put my feet up and let life go by for a few minutes, so that God can come in for just a little while.

Marijohn lived for many years. I suppose the cardiovascular disease finally caught up with her and took her for one eternal “spell”–to a place where she could perpetually be creative. I suppose that will happen to all of us eventually.

Until then, our only job remains to keep going–even if it doesn’t get better.

 

Darrin … April 26, 2012

Question 2: What can I do with what I have to make things better?

(1,496) 

I met Darrin Gantz when I was twelve years old. He was the minister of the local Church of Christ in our small town. He was a bewildering blending of John Birch with John Lennon. What I mean is, he thought that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was a communist, but he allowed us kids to listen to the Beatles on the radio on our way to church camp. Well, after all, it was the 1960’s, when chasing one’s tail was frequently rewarded with a bone of contention.

Darrin did not want to be called “Pastor.” He said that Jesus was the only Good Shepherd. Likewise, you could never call him “Reverend,” because he cited that the word appeared in scriptures only one time, in reference to Almighty God. Being a Church of Christ “minister” was the only word he would tolerate.

He believed the New Testament was the only foundation for building a church, that communion should be served every week to all souls gathered, and that baptism was the only guarantee to escape the fires of hell. (And of course,

Baptism surrounds my memories about this gentleman, because every Sunday he would invite all those at the worship service to make a decision for Christ, and if they did, that was immediately followed by a baptismal service in a tank which had been erected directly above the altar and pulpit. It was about five feet deep, seven feet wide and had all sorts of drawings of angels and doves flitting about in the background.

I was always impressed that on those occasions when somebody actually decided to take the leap, that Darrin would appear in the baptistery, with the converted soul clothed in a robe, but Darrin still wearing a shirt, tie and jacket. It was perplexing. Because after the ceremony he would reappear, completely dry, and I could never figure out how he got into and out of that water without becoming dripping wet.

My curiosity got the better of me, so one Sunday I snuck out during the preparation time for the baptism and took a peek in the room where he was preparing. There he was, standing in front of me, wearing wading boots–all the way up to the middle of his chest. Above them you could see half of a shirt with a tie, and a coat that had been trimmed to be just above the boots. He looked so funny that I couldn’t help myself. I giggled and he heard me. Fortunately for me, he was not angry, but explained that when he first became a minister, he tried going into the water in a bathing suit, but felt it was inappropriate to take off his pants for such an endeavor, and was also not comfortable being clad so scantily in front of female congregation members. So he thought and thought and thought, and finally decided to get a big pair of wading boots so he could get in and out of the water without getting wet and still maintain the integrity of his shirt and tie in the process.

I could see he had spent a whole lot of time thinking this thing through. At first I thought it was silly. After all, who cares if somebody takes his pants off, if he’s wearing a bathing suit, or for that matter, if he gets soaked to the skin? But you see, this was so important to Darrin–this baptism thing–that he found out what he could do with what he had so he could make things better.

Now honestly, as the years pressed on, Minister Darrin and I had many philosophical difference, and soon our friendship, unfortunately, fell by the wayside. But I will never forget that day when I peered at him standing there in his wading boots, getting ready to baptize. It registered with me. Because after all, the only piece of true debilitation to the human soul is when we finally convince ourselves that there’s no way to solve what we need with what we have. As long as we’ve got an inkling that we possess a chance to use existing talents to benefit our situation, we are quite endearing folks, full of hopefulness. But the minute we think we’ve run out of resources and that our problems have accumulated to such an extent that we are already defeated, we’re not only going down for the count, but are usually quite grumpy about it.

What did I learn from Minister Darrin? That the greatest gift we can give to God and ourselves is to take what we can do, using what we have and set out to make things better. Because of a surety, I know that complainers and those who give up too soon are the best friends of hell. Just refusing to give up or complain keeps you in the ranks of the chosen few.

So as I begin my day and I think about Minister Darrin, who refused to be a pastor, repelled the notion of “Reverend,” hated black people, but thought the Beatles’ rendition of Daytripper was really cool, I retain in my memory from him how to put on my own boots and wade into the mess.

**************

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.