The Discipline of Darkness

''That walketh in darkness, and hath no light?''  (Isa. 50:10)

   There is profound and practical truth in the statement, ''Never doubt in the dark what God told you in the light.'' This statement implies that it is possible for the child of God to ''be filled with the knowledge of his will in all wisdom and spiritual understanding'' (Col. 1:9), and ''understanding what the will of the Lord is'' (Eph. 5:17). We are admonished in Romans 12:1, 2, to be living sacrifices, not conformed to this world, ''transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.'' It is entirely possible for the child of God in the light of the Word, by the gracious guidance of the Holy Spirit, by obedience to the light given by God, to be persuaded of the will of God, much as the Apostle Paul was told, ''Be of good cheer, Paul: for as thou hast testified of me in Jerusalem, so must thou bear witness also at Rome'' (Acts 23:11). After such revelation of the will of God, there seems to come with eternal inevitability ''the trial of your faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth'' (I Pet. 1:7). Paul was a prisoner, suffered shipwreck, and was given up for dead before he reached Rome, but he arrived, according to the promise of God. This trial of faith provides the discipline of darkness for God's child, that he may learn to trust his Father in the shadow as well as in the sunshine.

   Joseph learned that discipline in his life. In the quiet and shelter of his childhood home he had come to know by dreams and visions that he was to have a place of pre-eminence among his older brothers. His pathway led through hatred, envy, and rejection by his own, who sold him into slavery in Egypt. Menial service and murderous misrepresentation were his lot in Potiphar's house, and in the prison he was forgotten of men, but not of God. He endured the discipline of darkness because, ''Until the time that his word came to pass, the word of the Lord tried him'' (Ps. 105:19, R.V.). That discipline sweetened him so that, at the summit of his success, when all Egypt was subject to his word, he could say to his brethren, ''But as for you, ye thought evil against me: but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive'' (Gen. 50:20). The dreams of youth, disciplined by darkness, made it possible for him to perform magnanimously the prerogatives of power.

   Jeremiah came to know this discipline. When misunderstood and misrepresented by others, he received the assurance of His Lord, ''Verily it shall be well with thy remnant; verily I will cause the enemy to entreat thee well in the time of evil and in the time of affliction. . . . They shall fight against thee, but they shall not prevail against thee: for I am with thee to save thee and to deliver thee, saith the Lord'' (Jer. 15:11,20). After he had received that gracious promise, he went deeper into distress and difficulty, into the dungeon, and into danger of death both from the citizens of the city and from the enemy outside the walls. When the city was taken, however, Jeremiah heard anew, ''But I will deliver thee in that day, saith the Lord: and thou shalt not be given into the hand of the men of whom thou art afraid. For I will surely deliver thee, and thou shalt not fall by the sword, but thy life shall be for a prey unto thee: because thou hast put thy trust in me, saith the Lord'' (39:17,18). The dungeon was no place in which to doubt that deliverance was at hand.

   John the Baptist knew this discipline in another way. John was ''a burning and a shining light'' (John 5:35), and great multitudes were attracted by his fiery preaching. In the days of his popularity and power he said of the Lord Jesus, ''He must increase, but I must decrease'' (John 3:30). Very possibly he did not know that ''decrease'' would lead to the hatred of implacable Herodias, to the dungeon, and finally to ignominious death. His perplexity in the darkness is expressed by his question sent by way of his disciples to the Lord, ''Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another?'' (Matt. 11:3). In response to such deep travail of soul, the Lord Jesus replied, ''Blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me'' (vs.6). The discipline of darkness would cause us to be offended (''to stumble''); but there is a gracious possibility that we can be so established in the will of God that we will not doubt in the dark what was told us in the light.

   Above many, Job came to know this discipline. He had walked in the light, upright before men and approved by God (Job 1:1,8), a man of deep personal piety (vs. 5) and of great earthly prosperity (vs. 3). Twice it was said of him by the Most High, ''Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him in the earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil?'' (1:8; 2:3). Suddenly he was plunged into dismay, desolation, disease, and despair.

   There is the ''dark night of the soul'' for some of God's true children; a prolonged and painful period when God seems to be altogether absent, when health is gone, when friends forsake or aggravate, when days are dark and nights are long, when tomorrow holds no promise of light or alleviation from hopelessness, when the rest of the grave is preferred to the wearisome round of suffering and sorrow. Was a human heart ever more disconsolate than that of Job, who complained constantly: ''Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in?'' (3:23). ''Oh, that I might have my request . . . . even that it would be please God to destroy me'' (6:8,9). ''If I wash myself with snow water, and make my hands never so clean; Yet shalt thou plunge me in the ditch, and mine own clothes shall abhor me'' (9:30,31). ''Wherefore hidest thou thy face, and holdest me for thine enemy? Wilt thou break a leaf driven to and fro? and wilt thou pursue the dry stubble?'' (13:24,25).

   The darkness brings to us haunting shadows that insinuate, ''God has forgotten to be gracious,'' ''God concerns not Himself with you,'' ''God's will would not bring you into the shadow,'' ''God has forsaken you because you have disobeyed Him,'' and a thousand similar subtle snares of Satan. On the contrary, the discipline of darkness can show us the wonderful truth of Isaiah 50:10, ''Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of His servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God.'' Trust Him and Him alone; stay upon Him when all else fails. Our temptation is to give up all hope in the dark or else to kindle a fire of our own (Isa. 50:11) which will prove to be loss and sorrow. Rather, we find as heart and mind are stayed upon the Lord, that ''Unto the upright there ariseth light in the darkness: he is gracious, and full of compassion, and righteous'' (Ps. 112:4).

   This is the discipline of darkness: Never doubt in the dark what God told you in the light.

O Jesus, I Have Promised

O Jesus, I have promised

To serve Thee to the end;

Be Thou forever near me,

My Master and my Friend:

I shall not fear the battle

If Thou art by my side,

Nor wander from the pathway

If Thou wilt be my guide.

Oh, let me feel Thee near me;

The world is ever near.

I see the sights that dazzle,

The tempting sounds I hear.

My foes are ever near me,

Around me and within;

But, Jesus, draw Thou nearer,

And shield my soul from sin.

O Jesus, Thou hast promised

To all who follow Thee,

That where Thou art in glory

There shall Thy servant be;

And, Jesus, I have promised

To serve Thee to the end.

Oh! give me grace to follow,

My Master and my Friend.

                                   —John E. Bode

 

Excerpt from "The Disciplines of Life" by G. Raymond Edman, The Billy Graham Association, Copyright 1948

 

 

 

Here I Stand. I Can Do No Other

I have previously written about the culturally popular topic of Political Correctness.

Almost without fail, in recent years, when a politician or well-known figure has made a statement which has brought on politically correct condemnation, he or she who made the statement has apologized.

Enough!

Grow some __________ or quit voicing the things which, under mounting pressure, you are suddenly so eager to recant.

Today as I was watching the news a report came on about something Chris Christie, the Republican presidential candidate, said relating to hiring the director of Federal Express for three months to set up a system to keep track of foreign citizens coming here on temporary visas. When the “flack” began coming in from, among others, a significant number of illegal aliens, he backtracked, and attempted to put his words in more politically acceptable form. (After all, his nay sayers exclaimed, “We’re people. We shouldn’t be tracked like packages.”)

I watched an interview between a CNN television anchor and Rick Warren a year or so ago. And during the interview the female host, (whose name and face I have forgotten) brought up the topic of homosexuality.

“Rev. Warren, can you give us your view of homosexuality, and the right of homosexual men and women to marry?” (or something similar).

To which the popular minister responded,

“Well, while I will always respect the individual who practices this lifestyle, I cannot support his or her behavior. I don’t agree with it, it is morally corrupt, and it flies in the face of the one man-one woman Biblical teaching concerning marriage. I absolutely condemn gay marriage.” (or a similarly specific answer).

With this, the television journalist provided an angry response.

“Well sir, I find this to be a narrow minded and bankrupt viewpoint in our modern culture. Why would you deny anyone the same rights you have been given?”

The preacher never backed down. His was an “in your face” answer.

“Look. I didn’t say it. The Bible says it. God set the standard. Not me. And who am I to disagree with the Almighty? And who would I be as a minister of the Gospel if I attempted to edit the wording of inspired scripture? It is what it is!”

Similarly, there has been a politically correct response to the recent shooting of numerous unarmed black Christians in a South Carolina church. And because a photo of the shooter was discovered displaying a Confederate Battle Flag, the South Carolina legislature voted to remove this symbol of their southern heritage from their capitol building square. Immediately thereafter, many other organizations, including the Southern Baptist Convention, condemned the display of the Battle Flag under which their ancestors proudly fought. And in some cases statues of Confederate notables have been removed from places of esteem. (While the Battle Flag has been misused, and misconstrued by some, as a tool of racism, it should be noted that the flag under which southern troops fought was, to the common soldier, simply a symbol of his religious faith, his love of family, and what he thought of as his country. Removing this symbol from public display, while politically correct, is to the average southerner, an attempt to rewrite history).

Just a few examples of political correctness in American culture. While I realize there are instances when any one of us, having spoken, will find it necessary to step back, rethink his or her words, and apologize for a hastily spoken perspective, political correctness is an entirely different animal.

In the face of the religious and political persecution of his time, Martin Luther, the former Catholic monk, and father of the Lutheran Church once uttered the words,

“Here I stand. I can do no other.”

I, for one, admire Luther’s unwillingness to sacrifice his words and values to the god of political correctness. In modern terms, he might just as well have said,

“No regrets.”

From my vantage point, the modern tendency to “walk the fence” and “skirt the issues” is nothing less than deplorable. Are not my opinions and values worthy of a fair hearing? Why, if I disagree with the majority, (or minority) do I necessarily have to align my views with the popular, (often liberal) persuasion?

The very term itself, “Political Correctness” infers the act of surrendering one’s beliefs and values to another party; simply for the sake of “getting along,” and “not making waves.”

Well, call me “old fashioned,” but I prefer “the road less traveled,” and along with that courageous cleric of old, I will continue to say,

“Here I stand. I can do no other.”

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

Mr. Holland's Surprise

      There's a wonderful scene in the movie, "Mr. Holland's Opus."

    

      Mr. Holland’s wife reveals a secret to her husband; hoping against hope that the information will be well-received. The two words might easily have filled volumes.

     “I’m pregnant.”

     Well friends, our hero didn’t respond as a hero should.

     “Whoa!” (Glenn shook his head, and seemed to sink deep into his easy chair.)

     Iris was mortified with her husband’s response; an answer that was all too expected. They had planned to wait to have children. The money was just too “tight” at the time. The salary of a high school music teacher left them with more month than money.

     Well, at this point Iris sensed the early throes of depression covering her like a blanket. Rejected and Dejected, she hid her face from her husband.

     Glenn realized his mistake, and tried to make it up to her. His thoughts raced, and he urged himself to “think quickly.” What could he say?

     He began with a word picture. “Iris, let me try to explain it to you. When I was younger, I came across the music of Cole Porter. Well, I put the record on, and I listened to it, and it didn’t make any sense to me. But something drew me in, and I played it… again, and again. ‘Til I was not only comfortable with it; I liked it!”

     His next phrase turned night into day. “I think that’s how it is with this baby.”

     Iris beamed! Her voice was as radiant as her face.

    “If that’s a lie, it’s the most beautiful lie you ever told!”

     I think that’s how it must be with God’s calling in our lives. “It” can come at any time, and often requires a sudden turn, or change in direction. So much like Jonah. “And the word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time.” (Jonah 3:1, KJV)

     Evidently Jonah took the initial news a lot like Glenn Holland did, or perhaps vice versa. “It hit like a ton of bricks.” And the weight of those bricks was almost tangible.

     Most of us have been there; (at least those of us who strive for the perfect will of God in our lives.) God never promised the Mission would be easy. “If it were easy, everyone would be doing it.”

     Like Jonah (or Glenn) we may initially assign the wrong title to The Will of God. The Father may be saying, “Maranatha,” but all we’re hearing is “Anathema.” And it may take some time to acclimate to The Will of God in our lives.

     May the Source of Our Call and The Creator of Mission make us ever mindful of our tasks. And may we, like Jonah, distinguish His Voice from our own.

     Glenn and Iris named their son… Cole.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

      

     

Trail of Tears

       During the “reign” of our seventh president, Andrew Jackson, Native American people were persecuted, and faced being driven off their lands.

      Jackson decided that there was no place, east of the Mississippi, for people of Indian origin.

      It so happens that my ancestors, on my father’s side, fought against bands of Native Americans. My triple-great and double-great grandfathers, “good Scotch-Irishmen” were members of the Georgia Militia; a forerunner of the National Guard, from which I, myself, retired.

     Five tribes, including the Creek, Cherokee and Seminole nations were in imminent danger of losing their ancestral lands. But rather than fight a regional war, these “noble savages” took their case to The Supreme Court. They won… and lost. For you see, Pres. Andrew Jackson refused to recognize the decision of the court.

     And from this sprang what has been referred to as “The Trail of Tears.”

     Except for a few renegade Indians, (Cherokees who fled to the mountains of North Carolina,) thousands of Native Americans were rounded up, and forced to march towards the western territories. A full one-quarter of these unfortunate souls died during the expedition. It’s both interesting, and sad that some of my mother’s people, of Creek or Cherokee origin, were participants on that grueling march. For I am a descendent of mixed ethnicity.

     Sometimes I find myself almost struggling within myself, as I consider that era. For I find myself trying to understand the perspectives of both these ancient cultures. And I regret that they couldn’t “just get along.” My very facial features speak of that blending of two seemingly contradictory races of people, and I wonder what old Isham Mc Donald would think of me.

      But very much like The Trail of Tears, and those unfortunate Native Americans; as Christians we are also “pilgrims on the earth.” Suffering is often our lot, and we cannot stay here. Though eternal joy, peace and rest await us, very few of us are in any particular hurry to leave the life we know behind.

     But I am glad for the promises of scripture, and I am fascinated with what I am given to understand about the Eternal City. How beautiful it must be. How wonderful it must be to live there.

      And I am thankful that, at the moment of my repentance, my eternal life began. Jesus has gone to prepare a place for me, and I know that I shall receive a mansion that has no equal on this earth.     

     There are those among us whose life has overwhelmingly been a “Trail of Tears.” But we serve a God who stores up our tears in a bottle. He is mindful of our confusion, disillusionment and pain.

     And that trail of tears must very soon yield to the glories of heaven itself.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

 

 

 

He Still Speaks

My wife and I began listening to “Night Sounds” on a local radio station a couple of decades ago, and we either got busy, and forgot about it, or the broadcast was dropped from the station schedule. In the meantime, years passed and the host of the program, Bill Pearce, passed away, (in 2010).

About a year ago, I discovered that archival segments of this wonderful radio broadcast are available on the internet. Of course, I was elated.

Night Sounds is a Christian radio production, and consists of a half hour format, with Bill Pearce monologuing a particular topic interspersed with Christian musical selections.

I know I sound somewhat like an advertisement, but as I previously implied, I absolutely LOVE this broadcast, so much so that I have “saved” over a hundred of the (especially interesting) daily segments on an attachable hard drive.

Bill Pearce was an accomplished trombonist and an extraordinary bass vocalist. He occasionally played his own music on the Night Sounds broadcast. He produced and narrated the Bible on cassette tapes, and regularly introduced his music at various venues throughout the United States. Mr. Pearce was also a member of The 16 Singing Men group which often appeared live, and made numerous video and audio recordings.

While at a high school graduation exercise I noticed a poignant phrase on the screen.

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

As a former university professor, and current counselor and formal mentor, I can relate. We simply cannot stay here, but we have been given the inestimable privilege, while we still live and move and breathe, to impact those who will “pick up our mantle” and carry on in our place.

Bill Pearce was like that. Even as he neared the end of his days, he was thinking about his impact on future generations.

It seems that one of the producers of Night Sounds once stopped by the nursing home where Mr. Pearce resided. And in the course of his conversation with Bill, and knowing how important humor is to good emotional health, especially to someone in a skilled nursing environment, he decided to tease him a bit.

“You know, Bill, some of our accomplishments, some of what we gleaned while we were here, and what we meant to leave behind for future generations just aren’t meant to outlive us.”

With this, the former radio host frowned, and the furrows in his brow seemed suddenly deeper.

“You mean, you mean…”

“Mr. Smith” immediately set Mr. Pearce at ease and relieved his anxiety.

“Now, now Bill. I’m just teasing ya. You needn’t be concerned. Those hundreds upon hundreds of radio broadcasts which you narrated over the course of half a century are meant to outlive you. And we have made arrangements for those broadcasts to live in perpetuity through means of recording, radio and internet. Never fear. What you have painstakingly created and given your best efforts to will go right on impacting the next generation, and countless generations to come.”

With this, the little man managed a broad smile, and it seemed the weight of the world dropped from his shoulders.

We all want to leave a legacy. Bill Pearce left a legacy extraordinaire.

I would encourage you to tune in to his daily broadcast. As I implied, it is available on the internet 24/7/365,

at nightsoundsradio.org

Bill’s students are living messages to a time that he will never see.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lincoln's Little Boy

     Abraham Lincoln was an old father, as fathers go; since his youngest son was born when he was in his late forties.

 

     Tadd would often march around The White House wearing his boy-size soldier outfit. The Civil War was raging, and not even young children could escape the reality of it. Lincoln’s drawn, and often sad featured always lightened whenever he spent time with his young son. Such times caused him to reflect on his own childhood; playing in the brook, chasing squirrels, climbing hills.

     Lincoln had a special relationship with this child of his old age. And Tadd enjoyed spending time with his Dad. They had a unique and enduring bond. Until… The little boy developed a wasting illness, and try as the doctors could, they could not save the tiny tyke. This light of Lincoln's life grew progressively sicker, and eventually died.

     It goes without saying that the President was devastated, as was his wife. I think their grief knew no consolation during those innumerable days that followed Tadd’s passing.

     And if the truth were known, I suppose “Old Abe” found himself weeping at the most unexpected times; lunch with a senator, a trip to the theater, walking alone at sunset.

     But unlike the thousands of other parents whose male children were dying, during this dark night of our nation’s soul, Lincoln developed a curious obsession. He insisted on visiting his little lost son. (But not in the traditional sense.)

     Lincoln would visit his son’s crypt, open the little casket, and spend time gazing upon the declining features of his little boy. (I kid you not.) History tells us that the president did this at least four times in the months following Tadd’s death.

     Who can understand the deep-seated emotions of a parent who has lost a child to the grim reaper? Only another parent with the same experience. I can only imagine that sort of pain.

     I have counseled parents of terminally-ill children, parents who have seen a child die as a result of a chronic disease or accident, women who have opted for abortions, only to regret it later. And there are no easy or pat answers.

     I encourage clients that they should take time to grieve, to “cut themselves some slack,” to avoid major decisions during such a time as this, to, as much as possible, stay busy with mundane tasks, and to allow others “to come along side” them.

    For time offers some comfort, and at least, partial closure.

 

    By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

I Think I'll Wait for the Next Boat

      I heard a story once that is both illustrative and practical. It is an excellent word picture, though I’m doubtful it ever happened. Although it happens on a daily basis. You’ll see what I mean.

     A fisherman went out on one of the great lakes recently, in his small motor boat. Well, the motor quit on him, and suddenly the hull sprang a leak. He tried to bail for a while, to no avail. It was only a matter of time before his little boat sank beneath the waves.  

     Now James was floundering in the dark waters of the lake, thirty miles from the nearest shore. He’d learned to swim “a little,” when he was young, but had confined his beach excursions to wading in shallow water.

     Thrashing wildly, the man went under a couple of times, only to rise again. Then, miracle of miracles, a Coast Guard cutter came by. A sailor spotted James, and it wasn’t long before the cutter pulled up beside him. An authoritative voice shouted, “Hold on, partner. We’re going to get you!” And just as one of the crew prepared to jump in, life preserver in hand, the drowning man responded, “No, blub, blub, that’s okay. Blub,

     “I’ll wait for the next boat!”

     It’s a humorous story, and it probably never happened, at least the way I’ve written it.

     But there’s far too many who live this way. They come in for counseling, and they may even “put on a good front.” But they bring more with them than a good front. They bring a hidden agenda.

     And try as I may, all my suggestions, and all of God’s insight (for only He is capable of insight) falls flat. There’s that realization that I’m providing them Truth, but it’s like, “Well, that’s all very nice, but I’ll wait for the next boat.”

     I have to be thankful for those who climb on board immediately.

 

     By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

 

 

Guns (and Knives and Bats and Rocks)

I have previously written about the recent shooting of the reporter and her cameraman.

And of course, dozens of these horrific events have occurred in the past 10-20 years.

And who can deny it. It is just so inestimably sad, and unacceptable.

This country has more guns per capita than any other country on earth, and the remedy to this dilemma has been, and will continue to be debated for years to come.

Some politicians, so-called experts and laymen, alike, have suggested that every handgun and semi-automatic firearm in America be collected. Others, such as members of the NRA, have taken a much firmer stance, and recoiled at the very thought of gun control; citing our Right to Bear Arms.

While I am appalled every time I learn of a shooting in a school or theater, or the ambush of a policeman, the notion that we can collect, or simply register every gun in America is asinine.

And while I am all for registration, and to say I am in favor of reputable background checks to deny emotionally-troubled individuals access to firearms would be an understatement, the option of mass-collection is simply a non-starter. Not only does it fly in the face of the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, but the logistics of such an undertaking would be impossible.

I’m not a member of the National Rifle Association, nor do I own a gun, but I am savvy enough to realize that,

If it were possible to register or collect every known firearm in America, millions of unknown, unregistered handguns and “military assault weapons” would remain in the hands of lunatics and criminals. It is, after all, not the conscientious citizen who purchases a handgun for protection, or the avid hunter whom we have any reason to fear.

And if by some unknown means it were possible to rid America, (or the entire world) of every handgun and assault weapon, (which it is not) the lunatics and criminals among us would use knives, and if they were magically denied access to knives, they would use baseball bats, and when, after much use the baseball bats broke into splinters, they would use rocks.

For this entire issue is, I think, being misconstrued.

It is not, as too many politicians, and well-meaning citizens believe, about guns.

No, my friends. It is, in essence, about the demented, ego-centric, unredeemed mindset of those among us who mean us harm, and who will use any means available to visit their wicked agenda upon us.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Appointment in Symara

There is a story concerning a king and his trusted servant. It seems that the servant’s only role was to visit the marketplace and purchase daily provisions for the king’s household.

One day as the servant was in the marketplace he found himself starring into the face of Death, Himself. Death’s countenance was uglier than sin, itself, and it seemed to Diego that the specter threatened him.

Fearing for his life, the servant ran back to the palace, and immediately reported to the king.

“Oh, King. I was in the market purchasing provisions and I came face to face with Death. And his countenance was threatening. I have no doubt he has plans to take my life. Please lend me your horse so that I may escape to the city of Symara.”

With this, the king’s empathy was aroused, for his affection was great towards his trusted servant, and he granted Diego’s request.

“Go. Go quickly, my friend. Procure my fastest horse. Quick! Escape to the city of Symara.”

And with this the king mounted his own steed, and set off for the marketplace. And finding Death, he challenged him.

“Oh Death. Thou fearsome beast. My servant, Diego, was here only an hour ago, and he claims you threatened him. Speak up. What do you have to say for yourself?”

To which Death responded,

“Oh King, I did not threaten your good servant, Diego. I was only surprised to see him here. For you see, I have an appointment with him tonight

… in the city of Symara.”

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5
(my paraphrase of an ancient story)

 

 

When a Million Years Has Passed, (We Will Have Only Just Begun)

They say lightning never strikes twice in one place.

Well, I don’t know about lightning, but Shih Tzu’s do. Long story short (because both stories would take longer to tell), but my wife and I inherited our Buddy and Queenie during the course of almost twenty years; in very much the same unique manner.

Buddy wandered up in our front yard in 1996. Queenie wandered up in someone else’s front yard in 2013, and, ultimately, my wife and I became the proud benefactors of the little pooch. So inestimably unlikely, since we’re talking about two instances in which an expensive breed of dog “made their debut” in the exact same manner, and ended up in one domicile.

Buddy went on to her, (yes, her) reward in 2006. Queenie is still with us, and very much alive.

Though to look at photos of the two little ladies side by side, they might have been twin sisters, they could not have been any more different; at least in terms of their personality and behavior.

Buddy was more aloof, and tended to “camp out” six or eight feet away, whereas Queenie is a bit more personable, and occasionally lies next to one or the other of us as we watch television. Queenie enjoys our morning and afternoon strolls, whereas Buddy strained at the leash every time I attempted to walk her down the block. (I, eventually, wound up carrying that precious pooch one way, after which she was content to walk the return half of the journey). Buddy gladly “did her business” in the yard, whereas Queenie rejects that option every time. Buddy, as previously implied, was a homebody, and we allowed her to sit unsupervised in the back yard, whereas Queenie is strictly a leash dog. (Once or twice we accidently left Buddy outside, and she scratched on the door ‘til we let her in, while the one time Queenie managed to steal out the door, unobserved, she ended up a hundred yards down the street. Thankfully, a neighbor girl retrieved her, and brought her home).

Speaking of lightning striking twice, (well, once in this case) did I mention that Queenie wandered up in a thunder storm? (Well, she did). And, of course, ever since that time she becomes deathly afraid when the Florida rain, lightning and thunder make their daily rounds each summer, and she begs to be picked up.

And though the personalities and behavior patterns of these two lookalikes have been remarkably different, a common variable is the love they have invested in us, and we in them. They are and will always be… family. Anyone who has ever known and loved a dog will immediately understand. Anyone who hasn’t will continue to treat that notion as a theory.

Did I mention I’ve owned two additional pooches in my lifetime? (Well, I have). Princess was my childhood b&w Cocker Spaniel. Lucy was our slightly overweight Corgi.

There’s a cartoon out there which never ceases to bring tears to my eyes. In it we see St. Peter sitting on a cloud at the entrance of the pearly gates. Next to him is an obviously excited little pooch. In the foreground is an elderly man; just arriving at heaven’s portals.

The caption?

“Hi Henry. Rex, here, has been ‘going on’ about you for the last 50 years!”

I have a hope, no, an expectation that not only will I see my Princess, and Buddy, and Lucy, and Queenie again one day, but that we will renew and resume an all too brief friendship that we once enjoyed, and when a million years has passed, we will have only just begun.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

Waiting In the Other Room

    (This story was written in 2005)

     It seems I write about death, as much as any other subject. But then death is just a continuation. It is an opportunity to move through one familiar room into another not so unfamiliar room; one that we have never seen with mortal eyes, but for which our eternal spirits strain.

     It’s happening all over again. My mother-in-law died just ten months ago. Ruby and Dock were married for over seventy years! Though Dock was “pushing thirty,” and had several children, he enlisted in the navy near the end of World War II. Ruby did her best to raise the children in his absence. I’ve been told that their first house had a dirt floor.

     But now it’s happening all over again.
 

     Dock had a massive stroke last week. Though he was sent to the rehabilitation floor, he seems to be deteriorating. His pulse is erratic, and he is totally non-communicative. His face is molted with a red tinge, and his breathing is labored. From time to time his eyes focus on one, or the other of his family, and for a few seconds he seems to know who they are, and where he is.
 

     We were called to the hospital this morning. There’s a possibility that Dock won’t make it through the day. And I found myself singing to my father-in-law, as I also sang to my mother-in-law, prior to her death. I knew I had to do it. That old awareness came over me, and today, (as before) I sang a few hymns and choruses to the old man.

     Amazing Grace, In The Garden, I’d Rather Have Jesus, and several others. My wife, and in-laws sang with me. And Dock’s eyes filled with tears, and we knew he comprehended what we were doing there.

 

    God's Word tells us that "it is appointed unto man once to die." (Hebrews 9:27). We cannot escape it. I think sometimes we try to make an exception of ourselves. Living just gets familiar. All too familiar.

     I see death in the eyes of an old man. It’s coming on hard now. But there’s a not so unfamiliar room beyond this one; beyond this little room we’ve grown to know, but have not always loved.

    And the One we have known, and loved from a distance

 

    … is waiting there for us.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Musings"

 

 

Falling Into the Lap of a Gorilla

      Hundreds of people were visiting the zoo that day. It was a day like many others, but what happened next caused it to be “a day apart.”

      The family prefers to remain anonymous, but Dad and Mom took Junior to the zoo that day. The little tyke was a year old, and the family figured he’d really like this exhibit. Pop hoisted his son up on the rock wall of the gorilla exhibit. It was an open air viewing facility, and the gorilla environment was twenty-five feet below them.

     Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. The little boy fell off the wall, but fortunately landed on his rump. However, he landed with a horrible thud, and lay unconscious on the rocky floor of the enclosure.

     Several big male gorillas scampered around, and a couple moved in for a closer look. But not before a big mother ape managed to reach the little boy. The crowd gasped. Everyone expected the worst. And the worst, in this case, probably doesn’t need much explaining. Junior might easily have become monkey food that day.

     But this was both a curious and sympathetic old ape. A man with a movie camera happened to record the sight. “Carla,” the gorilla, picked up the limp child, and at the same time stared down the other gorillas. Now she walked a few steps with the boy. Then she seemed to rock the little fella, as if to say, “wake up, baby.” The crowd could only shake their heads, and gasp in awe.

    Within a scant few minutes, “the monkey handlers” moved in with a large hose, and turned the water on all the gorillas, including the sympathetic old ape. This was their signal to move into a holding pen. So, they ran quickly out of the enclosure, leaving the little boy alone; on the rocky floor of the exhibit. He was easily rescued, and made a full recovery. "Mike" is in grade school now, and lives “somewhere in the mid-west.” The unexpected had occurred that day. The empathetic old gorilla passed that momentary test called “Compassion.” She was lauded by the nation, and The Chicago Zoo took advantage of the media blitz to print literature, and shirts emblazoned with Carla’s photograph.

     As Christians we are commanded to practice empathy. Oh, we recognize the opportunities, but we sometimes let them pass us by.

    We may be “going about our business,” when someone, not unlike that little boy, “falls” into our sphere of influence.

    Sadly, we often find ourselves showing far less compassion than “Carla “ did that day.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Musings"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some Degree of Solace

I heard the most poignant story on the radio today.

It seems this fella, we’ll call him “Bill Robinson” worked as a librarian and English teacher in a particular co-ed prison. And while the men and women were denied the opportunity to spend time together, nevertheless, they found ways to interact, and to even foster platonic relationships.

The males and females of the prison were provided a different library schedule, and since the inside wall was glass, and the women sometimes had access to the immediate area outside the glass, it wasn’t unusual when the guys and gals developed a form of sign language.

While any verbal or written contact between the two genders was forbidden, the prisoners discovered an additional way in which to communicate. The prisoners routinely wrote letters, and placed them in pre-selected books for “the next shift” to find. And sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t; since among Mr. Robinson’s duties was the expectation that he retrieve as many letters as possible, read them, turn in any especially suspect letters to the warden, and destroy the rest. And since his responsibilities at the prison included additional roles as a teacher and mentor, Bill admitted that each time he read and destroyed letters that were meant for someone else’s eyes, he felt like a Judas.

The women’s cells were located in the 11^th story of the massive prison, and their classrooms, as well. Among the female students whom Bill taught American Literature was a lady named “Jessica.” Day after day the teacher noticed how little attention Jessica seemed to give to his lecture, and how that she constantly starred out a nearby window. After a week of this inattention, Mr. Robinson dismissed his inattentive student from the class, and told her not to come back.

After a couple days, “Sally,” a lady who was known as the Prison Snitch, provided her teacher what passed for “the rest of the story.” Jessica’s son was also imprisoned at “Cartwright,” and while the rest of the class participated in the lecture, her eyes were glued on “Chris,” as he participated in his “yard time;” 11 stories below the classroom.

Mr. Robinson immediately sought out Jessica, and made her aware that he was clued into her little secret. Initially, she feared Bill was “up to no good.” But it was soon apparent that he wanted to help her, when he whispered, “Would you like to rejoin the class?”

She did, and while this time around Jessica “went through the motions,” most of her time was devoted to that barred window.

As the class wound down to its eventual conclusion, one day Jessica lingered after the rest of the students had filed out.

“Mr. Robinson, I need a favor.”

Immediately Bill’s “guard went up.” There were no favors at Cartwright. “Doing favors” was immediate grounds for termination. However, the sensitive teacher took time to listen.

“Go on.”

Jessica paused, and then said,

“Uh, well, I’m being transferred to a different prison in a couple weeks, and I want you to give a letter to my son, Chris, and I also want him to have a gift.”

Mr. Robinson responded,

“Well, I’m listening.”

“I’m working on the letter. The gift? Well, I want somebody to paint my likeness. I still have some time to serve, and I don’t know when I’ll see my son on the outside. Would you do this for me?”

Bill could not resist asking Jessica about the situation which existed prior to mother and son being incarcerated in the same prison.

Jessica hesitated, and tears gathered in her eyes.

“I was an addict. I was no good for Chris. One day I took him to the nice part of town. I went into a large cathedral, and left him there with a note in his pocket which read, ‘I can’t take care of him. Please give my son a good home.’”

Mr. Robinson was filled with compassion, and he promised to give the finished letter to Chris, as well as contact someone about doing a portrait of Jessica.

Whether the painting was done by a fellow prisoner, or outside party, I’m unable to say, but on the day Jessica arrived for her portrait, Bill hardly recognized her. Someone has fixed her hair, and she wore a bit of rouge and bright lipstick.

And though Mr. Robinson urged Jessica to finish the letter, as the days ticked off leading up to the prisoner’s transfer, it wasn’t getting done. After Jessica’s transfer the Prison Snitch told the teacher that Jessica had torn it up, and thrown it in the trash.

Initially, Chris refused to accept the portrait of his mother, but eventually relented.

Later, Bill was informed that after Jessica’s release from prison, she returned to the drug scene, and regrettably, she overdosed and died.

A poignant story, and one which I will never forget.

I hope that after Chris’ release life fell together better for him, than that of his mother, and that he became a productive member of society.

I’m hopeful, too, that the portrait of his mother offered him some degree of solace.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

 

Sun, Solitude and Sanctification

In spite of the freedoms our founding fathers won for us, their descendants, some at the cost of their own lives, in recent years that which we considered sacred and virtually “cut in stone” seems to have eroded a bit. One only has to consider the NSA, and their obtrusive monitoring of all cellphone, email and social media communications.

Now there’s a whole new way to intrude into our private lives.

Recently a Benedictine monk, Brother Joseph Byron, by name, who works at a Rhode Island school, was sunbathing, and a pesky drone managed to film him in pursuit of those lovely rays. (Did I mention that Brother Joseph frequently climbs a two hundred foot high wind turbine, pops out the trap door, spreads a blanket and lays down on the un-bordered roof of that massive structure)?

Some media reports claimed that, upon noticing the drone hovering in his personal space, the good priest sat up and “flipped off” that robotic camera in the sky. (Not literally, as it was obviously beyond his reach. We’re talking a one-fingered salute here).

However, I’ve seen the video, and there was none of that. As his Irish compatriots might have mused, “None of that a’tall.” But when I first heard the report of his supposed sacrilege, I was ready to look him up, and give him a dose of Protestant sanctification. But apparently that won’t be necessary. No, it seems my good brother is better than all that.

As the drone makes its pilgrimage to what for a few recurring minutes, at least, becomes an ad-lib chapel in the sky, and a place of sun and serenity, the priest ceases from examining his navel, or whatever religious pursuit he is about, sits up, studies the identified flying object a moment, and… waves. And as the air robot draws closer, the non-descript little man throws both hands out in a “so what is all this all about” gesture, and ultimately goes back to his pursuit of sun and solace.

While I have never thought of the average workaday priest as a bastion of courage, this guy must possess a massive escroto to regularly whip out a blanket, lie down on an unfenced platform in the sky, and risk the possibility of

… falling asleep.

I hope he doesn’t sleep walk.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5