AND MEDICAID HITS THE DIRT

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At least it will if our president, senate and house of representatives have anything to do with it.

President Trump's "Big, Beautiful (not) Bill" is on the verge of passage in the U.S. Senate and U.S. House of Representatives. And to be sure, I am a registered Republican, but I deplore what is currently "going on" with congress's "Just get in line and march off a cliff like lemmings mentality."

Millions of Medicaid recipients will lose their coverage on the backs of tax cuts for the mega-rich. It just "ain't" right. (Not only so, but as a result of the passage of this bill, trillions will be added to the national debt).

And I don't approach this travesty from a strictly objective sense. (No, I'm don't.) I have a mentally ill, borderline retarded daughter who has lived in an assisted living environment for 30 plus years. She desperately needs Medicaid to continue as is, and uninterrupted.

I am currently emailing all the Republican members of the Senate, and I have previously emailed members of the House of Representatives; reminding them that the 70 million people in the U.S. who depend on Medicaid, and their families, will remember their vote when the next election cycle comes up.

When you "have a name in the game", (such as my own daughter), this matter takes on a whole different perspective. This administration previously discontinued the USAID program; which has led to thousands of unnecessary deaths overseas. The drastic monetary cuts which are the basis of the Not So Beautiful Big Bill will lead to the closure of numerous nursing homes, hospitals, and assisted living facilities, and the deaths of countless elderly and disabled persons in THIS country.

**Please call, write or email your senators and members of the house of representatives, and do as I have done, and will continue to do. (And please don't tell me it isn't remotely the way I have described it. Medicaid was chosen for drastic budget cuts simply because it was the "handiest dandiest" item to cut; given the size of its annual expenditures).

by Bill McDonald, PhD

GIVING THE MAN A DIFFERENT NAME

4400

Our county sheriff is known throughout this nation for his honesty, outspokenness, toughness towards crime and criminals, and plain endurance. (He joined the Polk County Sheriff's Department over 50 years ago)!

Perhaps his most famous (or infamous) interview took place after one of his deputies and his K9 companion were murdered by an absolutely horrible hombre. After this criminal was tracked down by a horde of deputies, and "rendered lifeless," one reporter asked Sheriff Judd,

"Why did your deputies shoot that fellow 68 times?"

To which our sheriff replied,

"Because we ran outta bullets!"

I first met Sheriff Judd at a retirement party for our Winter Haven Police Chief, whom I know very well. At the time I served as a counselor for a residential ministry for women newly released from prison; a ministry which the sheriff at least informally co-sponsored.

As the sheriff walked up and engaged me in conversation, including his invitation to contact him, if I needed any assistance or guidance, I greeted him using his predecessor's name, Sheriff Crowe. I immediately recognized my verbal typo, and, no doubt, Sheriff Judd did as well, but he didn't bother correcting me. (I later sent him an email, and apologized for my gaff).

Fast forward a couple of years.

Today I had lunch with a local pastor at a local eatery. 

As we stood in the buffet line, I looked behind me, and recognized, (you guessed it), Sheriff Crowe, I mean Judd. I vowed if I ever saw our illustrious law officer again that I would not repeat my memorable mistake. And since the good sheriff was a few paces behind me, and preoccupied with directing the server to give him chicken and mashed potatoes, or steak and turnip greens, as the case may be, I just "went about my business," completed my order, paid my bill, and returned to my seat.

Well, as it fell together, I was blessed with one more opportunity to massacre the good man's name. For you see, as Sheriff Judd walked past our table, he paused momentarily, and said,

"How are you guys today?"

In the space of a micro-second, I thought,

"You better get it right this time!"

And with this, I smiled and simply responded,

"Okay. Thanks."

(It's hard to mess up with such an innocuous response as that one. Now, I breathed a sigh of relief, and returned to my meal). 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

DR. STANLEY'S PRAYER CLOSET

 4398

I was watching a video of the legacy service for Dr. Charles Stanley yesterday. The new pastor, Anthony George, had stepped to the pulpit and was sharing a few stories about his and Dr. Stanley's relationship with one another over the course of several decades.

 

It seems Rev. George had been hired as the associate pastor during the 1980's. There was a wide range in their ages, as he was about 40 at the time, and Dr. Stanley had turned 80. Before much time had elapsed, Anthony realized that he was much more a personal assistant to the lead pastor than his actual title conveyed.

 

There were times when the divorced and evidently lonely Dr. Stanley would ask his associate pastor to come over for pizza, and they would settle down with a movie like, "Patton." (You might surmise correctly that this writer was a bit surprised by that particular choice in movies as "Patton" is replete with some pretty strong language).

 

One story stood out from among the rest for its abject humor. Rev. George was still new on the job when Dr. Stanley said,

 

"Anthony, let me introduce you to my prayer closet."

 

The good understudy promptly followed Rev. Stanley to a 10x10 room in a nondescript hallway. Opening the door, the two men stepped in, and the pastor closed the door, and proceeded to turn out the overhead light. Blackness permeated their surroundings, and the younger man wondered what would happen next.

 

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a bit, enough light permeated the threshold beneath the door to provide the assistant a clue, and now he watched closely.

 

"Dr. Stanley dropped to his knees. I followed his lead and dropped to my knees. Now, he got down on all fours. ('Pretty agile for a man of 80,' I thought). And now, now he prostrated himself on the carpet. I did the same."

 

Several hundred men, women and children seemed captivated by his story. I know I was.

 

"I was new at this 'prayer closet' thing, and I figured I would just do and say what Dr. Stanley did and said. Suddenly, my mentor 'let out' with a 'Yes, Lord!' I echoed his words. 'Yes, Lord!'"

 

By now Rev. George's listeners were laughing.

 

"And then silence permeated the dark prayer room. It seems the good pastor thought of prayer as a conversation between him and God; as if they both had something to say. And then, just as suddenly as before Dr. Stanley seemed to muse,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

"I promptly responded with,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

The laughter grew louder.

 

"And then only silence for several minutes 'til the 'Yes, Lord's' and 'Hmmm's' began again. I can tell you that Dr. Stanley was a prayer warrior, and though my prayer room experience with him wasn't the most comfortable thing I'd ever done, I was blessed to have him as my friend and mentor for several decades."

 

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

A MOTHER'S DAY MIRACLE

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*A couple of years before Rev. Puckett passed away, I had the privilege of meeting him, and sat down with him in his home. Knowing that his wife had written a book about their children, marriage, and their lives in general, I asked if I could borrow a copy. 

Paul hesitated, but writing down my name and address, he loaned me one of only two copies he still had. While I had the book in my possession, I scanned the volume to a CD so that it might remain available for his grandchildren and their grandchildren.

I might mention. I knew Beth. She and I were in high school chorus together. She was a precious young lady, a Christian and a person of great potential.

Following is a poignant excerpt from Martha Puckett's book.

Almost a quarter of a century has transpired since our dear daughter left us, though she remains very much alive in the life of our family. God has used her death to impact many others along the way, and we have used our excruciating experience to help others during their time of grief.

While it was inestimably difficult to pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I am happy to say that our Savior has led us all the way, and that in our most trying times, God never forsook us.

(But following is where I most wanted to bring you this evening).

Beth had hardly been gone three months when I began to dread Mother’s Day. Our daughter had always been so loving and thoughtful on holidays, and I knew that it would be a difficult 24 hours. But I had my duties at the organ, and I realized that it was a day that would just have to be lived, and put behind us.

On Mother’s Day morning, as I was in the process of getting dressed, I reached to get something out of my drawer. The drawer was stuck, and I jerked it open. When I did, it fell out on the floor, and all its contents were scattered across the room. Of course, I was frustrated, and exclaimed, “Lord, I don’t need this. Not today.”

Reaching up under the space from which I pulled the drawer, I felt around …and touched a large envelope. I inhaled deeply. In my hand I held a Mother’s Day card which Beth had given to me the previous year. I opened it, and wept, as I read the familiar handwriting.

RAISED IN A CHICKEN COOP

 4396

This past weekend, my wife and I attended a vocal concert presented by one of my social media friends.

Lisbeth recounted her childhood in Central America, and how that she lived in a house with a dirt floor, no electricity, and no indoor plumbing. And while we have all heard of the existence of such conditions in so-called “third world countries,” when someone you know recounts having experienced an environment such as this, well, it gets your attention.

Here in America we take a lot for granted, I think, but we are not all that far removed from poverty. There are the ghettos which abound in all the big cities of the United States, the folks who live in their automobiles, young and not so young adults who stand in the medians of highways, and hold up “I will work for food” signs, and men, women and children who live in tents in trash-ridden out of the way places along railroad tracks.

For years I was under the impression that I had always been a member of a middle class culture; ‘til one day my mother shared a story with me. While I have the dimmest memory of having lived in the Coral Gables area of South Florida, (I was 0-5 at the time) what my mother told me that day put a whole new perspective on my childhood.

For you see, mama informed me that while my dad eked out a living as a roofer, we lived

…in a chicken coop.

Well, to be fair, a refurbished chicken coop. Apparently, one day my parent’s landlord decided that housing human beings would be more profitable than housing chickens. And thus, on such and such a day, she slaughtered, butchered, and refrigerated the chickens, and converted their former nesting place into a rental apartment; suitable for human occupation.

To be sure, the floor was cement and tile, and we had electricity and running water. But I am told that “when nature called,” or we needed a bath, we had to walk out the front door, into the yard, through an enclosed porch, and into a mutual bathroom attached to the landlord’s home.

While my formative years were spent in a chicken coop, compared to the friend to whom I have previously alluded, I think I had it pretty good.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

FINDING A SEAT ON THE FLOOR

 4395

As I was watching the David Jeremiah “Turning Point” broadcast today, the good minister presented the most poignant illustration.

It seems a very large, rather formal church hoped to put together a ministry designed to reach the students of a nearby university. However, not having ever undertaken such a project, the pastor and board were a bit perplexed about how to approach the task.

On one particular Sunday, a student of that university attended the morning worship service. It so happened that David was, like so many other young adults who attended this school, a bit eccentric, or at least wanted to ‘fit in,’ and was dressed in a pair of faded jeans, dirty t-shirt, and sandals. His hair was cut into a mohawk, and was tie-dyed in several colors.

However, David arrived a few minutes late, and as he entered the sanctuary, he realized that every pew was full to capacity. As a result, the teenaged student walked the entire length of the center carpet, and plopped himself down in the aisle. You could have heard a pin drop. Though the pastor had stepped up to the pulpit to deliver his morning message, he seemed unable to proceed.

Suddenly, from the back of the sanctuary an aged, white-haired deacon appeared, and began to make his way down the aisle towards the hapless university student. His relatively short journey was hampered by his lack of mobility, and his cane ‘clicked,’ ‘clicked’ with each step her took.

A holy hush permeated the building as the board member made his way closer, closer to his quest. All eyes were directed towards the deacon, then the student, then the deacon.

Finally, having arrived next to the boy, and pausing for a moment, the old gent dropped his cane, and struggled to… lower himself to the floor beside David. And there they sat. One very young, and unconventional student. One very old, and conventional deacon. Side by side, and ready for a Gospel message.

And at this juncture, the pastor regained a bit of his composure, and exclaimed,

“What I am about to preach you will never remember. What you have just witnessed take place before you, you will never forget.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

ROLE MODELING LOVE

 4394

A white haired, elderly lady sat in her rocking chair by the fire, and reminisced about the most poignant of experiences. While she possessed an obvious German accent, her English was, nonetheless, impeccable.

While I cannot hope to recount her testimony as well as she expressed herself on the film segment, I will attempt to paraphrase her story here.

“We had endured years of warfare and deprivation. We made do with the most meager of rations. We existed with the barest of earthly essentials. We often went without food, and my mother, more so than her children. As I reflect on it now, she oft times went without meat and bread, so that each of her children would have at least a scrap or two.

“In spite of all we’d endured, we didn’t think of the Americans as our enemies, but rather our opponents. For you see, we knew what we had. We knew what Hitler and his cronies were about. We knew whom we had served for too long. And we were so tired and ready for peace.

“Well, as the American tanks lumbered in, and the sound of their treads echoed in our streets, we ran out of our houses with sticks in our hands, and with white rags knotted about the tops. And while both we and our parents were afraid for what might come next, our sense of apprehension was stilled by the smiles of the men who came flooding out of the turrets of those tanks, and who marched behind them. And oh, how kind they were to us, as they stooped to pick us up, and they brushed the fear from our eyes.

“Of course, in spite of the American troops’ initial behavior, my mother expressed some reservations and warned me to be careful. However, she had often told me that you could always tell what someone was about by looking into their eyes; and I was determined to put her philosophy to the test.

“I remember one man. One very special man. A Negro sergeant.

“Unlike the German soldiers, he let me climb up on his military vehicle. And I will never forget the first day I met him. For as I climbed up on the American Jeep, I immediately looked into his eyes. And oh, such kindness shone out of them! And I remember Sergeant William hung a bag of rations around my neck, and waved for me to take it home with me!

“And I have often thought that he went without some of his daily provisions so that my family and I might have a few morsels of chocolate, and bread and canned meat. And as long as the kindly sergeant was still in the area, I would seek him out, and he would give me chocolate and other goodies to take home with me.

“I will NEVER forget that wonderful American soldier; the first black man I’d ever seen. And I will NEVER forget what an ambassador he was of the occupation his country exercised over us after the war. No doubt, he has gone on to his reward by now, but he will always be my mentor and role model. Always. Always.

“I am old now, but I have never ceased to remember that good man and his kindness to me. And I have ALWAYS vowed to do as he did; to love people and to give my heart and provisions to those in need, and them whom God has set in my pathway.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD