Falling Into a Trap of My Own Making

   The year was 1962. I had turned just turned thirteen. Though I was in the eighth grade, and working part-time in a plant nursery after school, I maintained more childish notions, as well.

    A friend of mine suggested that we build a fort. It was a magnificent little structure, but only we might have characterized it as such. It was actually little more than a wooden shack. But we were innovative. We decided we needed a trap door in the floor of the hut, and we made it so. The trap door led to an underground tunnel, constructed of 55 gallon drums, with the ends knocked out. We were getting downright fancy! David and I actually spent the night in the tunnel, at times.

     But we were far from being finished with our work of art. Some adolescents are subject to a mild form of Paranoia, and we were no exception. I came up with the idea of setting Vietnam-style traps around the little building. We set twelve or fifteen of the traps, digging foot deep holes, and laying blocks of wood, peppered with nails in the bottom of each. Finally, the holes were covered over with small branches and grass.

     I asked my mother to visit our hut, and she finally found time to walk the two hundred yards from the house, to investigate our work of art. As she walked slowly along the trail, with my three year old sister in her arms, one of her feet disappeared from sight! I had forgotten the large trap we had dug on the main trail! She screamed, immediately dropped to a seated position, and began to wrench the nasty thing from her foot. Just as quickly she began to confront my stupidity. “Royce, what’s wrong with you? What were you thinking? If your sister had been walking ahead of me, these nails would have gone totally through her foot!”

      I can’t imagine why, but my Mother decided not to tour my fort that day. Somehow she regained her footing and composure, and stormed off towards our house. On her way out of our “contonement area” she was heard to say, “Son, you had better cover every one of your traps. This isn’t right. You could hurt someone seriously!”

      Well, you can imagine the shock that registered on my face. What had happened to her wasn’t my purpose or agenda. Our little traps were meant for “our enemies.”

     So, I set to work covering over the traps. Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t diagrammed the locations of these little weapons. I fell into a “woe is me” attitude, and begin to think that I deserved the same fate as my Mother. I remember saying, “I hope I fall in one.” Well, I had covered several traps when, you guessed it… one of my feet disappeared from sight. I had fallen in to my own trap.

     We rationalize and justify our vindictiveness and bitterness towards those we once, or never loved. We store up those emotions ‘til they exude from our very pores. We unleash our retribution both verbally, and non-verbally. Unforgiveness rules the day. So like those traps I set for unsuspecting foes.

      Scientists, medical doctors and researchers have learned much about the effects of negative emotions. We know now, that unforgiveness and bitterness turns inward to inhibit our ability to properly relate to other human beings, and make cognitive judgments. We can develop anxiety and depression. Some experience organic disorders, such as Arthritis, and possibly, various forms of Dementia. So like my experience of falling into my own trap. I was my own worst enemy that day.

     More specifically, in terms of unforgiveness, we suffer “stuckness” that inhibits our ability to mature and move forward. The “unforgiven” may go on with their lives, never realizing the depth of our emotions towards them. While a unforgiven memory or event prevents the “victim” from fulfilling God-given expectations and goals for their life.

     Like falling asleep with our feet in a wet gray mixture, we awake to find it’s concrete.

 

 

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

 

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Burying One. Adopting Another. All In the Space of a Day

We lost a family member today.

Our tried and true decade old Nissan Altima went “the way of all flesh.” Well, that last word may be a misnomer. As I was driving our fire engine red four door sedan this past Friday, it “decided” to do something singularly uncharacteristic. The engine sputtered several times over the course of a couple of miles, and suddenly died right there in front of God and everyone. Of course, I called Triple A, and had “Old Betsy” towed to the dealer for mechanical analysis. And as we were to discover, the radiator had sustained a significant crack in its frame; leading to the imminent destruction of other crucial systems. Since we had recently invested a significant sum in the old car, it was now a foregone conclusion that the expense of repairing our family member was unthinkable. It was time to let go, and let God.

Human beings tend to personalize their vehicles, give them names, and use the pronouns “she” and “her” when speaking of these inanimate objects; not unlike the courtesies extended towards our pets. And with time it is not unusual to think of one’s sedan, or van or SUV as a member of the family.

Funny, when our daughter dropped us off at the car dealer today, and I noticed our old Altima parked just outside the shop walls, a twinge of guilt ran through me, as if somehow we were disconnecting the old girl’s life support, and allowing her to go on to her reward. (Whether by salvage or auction, I know not).

Today was the day to say “goodbye” to an aged grandmother, and today was the day to say “hello” to her replacement; in essence, a proverbial new bride, as young and beautiful as ever the former laid claim.

And we took time to clean out what remained of those sundry items, such as folding chairs and paperback novels and extra sunglasses, so as to leave nothing of ourselves behind. And in so doing, it was almost as if we were severing the final vestiges of what had once been such a visceral connection.

And as I knew I must do, I left her empty and undone, yet not without a parting word. For it was then that I laid my hand on the dashboard, and spoke a few emotion-clad words; not unlike touching the bier of a friend, and offering up a heartfelt eulogy.

“Old Girl, you were a dependable friend. While it’s time to let you go, we will never forget you. Rest in Peace, dear Betsy.”

And in response to my sincerest farewell, only abject silence, and a sense that her soul had departed;

… leaving little more intact than rusting metal, and fading leather.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright Pending.

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Butt Calls

We live in the age of ½ mile high buildings, Skype face to face video, and interplanetary exploration.

I have stood on the 86^th floor of the Empire State Building, a thousand feet above Manhattan, and marveled at the myriad of lights which greeted my eye. I have looked into the eyes of a soldier seated in a tent in Afghanistan, and wiled away an hour in his presence; though several thousand miles separated us one from the other. I have sat in the comfort of my own home and watched as Neil Armstrong took that “One small step for man. One giant leap for mankind;” the first precocious step onto an alien world.

And yet for every incremental advance in technology, we, as human beings, experience a corresponding deficit.

High rise buildings are prone to the demented whims of terrorist madmen. 911 is the classic American example. And interplanetary exploration has been, at best, tenuous; given the Apollo 1, and Shuttle Challenger and Colombia disasters.

Granted, the issue which follows is in no way comparable to my previous examples, involving death and mayhem, and I would NEVER demean the loss of life, or sacrifices endured by brave men and women, nor make any inference to the contrary.

But in terms of adding a bit of humor to an otherwise sad statement on where some attempts at technological excellence have led us, it can be a rather curious thing to receive a call in the middle of a sound sleep from someone who has rolled over on their cell phone, or dropped it in the process of squatting on their “ivory throne.”

… An only slightly unfortunate occurrence which someone in his or her great wisdom has given the moniker, “Butt Call.”

I suppose, given so many shapes and sizes, some butts make more Butt Calls than others.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright Pending.

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Your Wounds Are Sad to Behold, But...

I lived close to Washington D.C. at one time, and actually procured a job at The Pentagon. But since it seemed a bit too far to drive, I reconsidered my decision to take the position. Yet I remember the interior of that historical building, since I interviewed there.

    The building was erected in 1941 in an effort to bring the occupants of numerous War Departments under one roof. Arlington National Cemetery sits just across the interstate from the massive building. I remember it well. The Kennedy grave site, the mast of the U.S.S. Maine, the statue of the heroes of Iwo Jima.

    There were those people who walked those long hallways of The Pentagon every week day, and one day might have blended easily into the next, ‘til a career had gone by. Until the advent of a very singular day.

    We know the day as “911.” It separates one season of our history from another, as surely as “The Challenger Explosion,” or “Pearl Harbor.” Terrorists had their choice of several government buildings that day. Some believe they debated hitting The Capitol Building or The White House, before settling on The Pentagon.

    There’s an eerie film clip of the plane crash; taken from a permanent security camera. The frames move in semi-slow motion, and are not fluid like a normal film. We never see the airplane, but a massive red fireball; a fireball that expands, and diminishes. It’s easy to forget that people were dying in those few, elusive moments that we would like to recall; (re-call, in the sense that we could prevent it from happening.)

    Some were killed in a millisecond, while others stumbled out of the fire, unscathed. Then there was that third group,… those horribly burned individuals; those who lived, but who remain almost unrecognizable, even after extensive medical reconstruction.

    There’s a line in the book, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte. Jane is visiting Edward Rochester, her former lover. In her absence, Mr. Rochester has been terribly burned in a house fire. Jane listens as the poor man pours out his woes to her.

     “I am just a burned-out hulk of a man. A vulcan. Just look at my wounds.”

     To which Jane responds, pitifully.

     “Mr. Rochester, your wounds are sad to behold. But you are not your wounds.”

     I have always been interested in innovative medical treatments that border on the bizarre. One particular treatment, already being experimented with, involves the transfer of a human face… from a cadaver to a living human being.

     Doctors have already managed to transfer faces from one cadaver to another, with unusual results. For most times, after the face is transplanted, even the very mother of the deceased would not recognize the original donor face. Since the bone structure is different from person to person, this tends to effect the final facial features.

     There are those burn victims from places such as The Pentagon, and other industrial and house fires that look forward to the day such treatments are widely available to them. They struggle to live with the results of their wounds, as people stare unmercifully at them.

      But we are not our wounds.

      Our wounds may detract from our overall appearance. They may glaringly broadcast the presence of a past event.

 

      ... But we are not our wounds.

 

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

 

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Oh Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go

“I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving kindness.” (Jeremiah 31:3, KJV)

     I think that there is not a more beautiful song in all the earth than the song represented by the title of this devotion. I have loved it from the time I first heard it sung.

     George Matheson, a well-known Scottish minister of the 19^th century, claimed to have written this song while enduring the tentacles of intense emotional strain.

     I love the incomplete, (but admittedly mysterious) account that Matheson left us.

     “My hymn was composed in the manse of Innelan on the evening of the 6^th of June, 1882, when I was 40 years of age. I was alone in the manse at that time. It was the night of my sister’s marriage, and the rest of the family were staying overnight in Glasgow. Something happened to me, which was known only to myself, and which caused me the most severe mental suffering. The hymn was the fruit of that suffering. It was the quickest bit of work I ever did in my life. I had the impression of having it dictated to me by some inward voice rather than of working it out myself. I am quite sure that the whole work was completed in five minutes, and equally sure that it never received at my hands any retouching or correction. I have no natural gift of rhythm. All the other verses I have ever written are manufactured articles; this came like a dayspring from on high.”

    While no one currently living can provide an adequate account of his emotional pain, it is known that Matheson faced impending blindness, and having discovered it, his fiancee called off their engagement. “Oh love that will not let me go” may have been the resulting fruit of this desperate incident in the life of a blind pastor.

     The words of this melody are as poignant as anything ever written:

      “O Love that will not let me go,

      I rest my weary soul on Thee;

      I give Thee back the life I owe,

      that in Thine ocean depths its flow

      may richer, fuller be.”

     Who can say? Perhaps Matheson’s loss of his fiancee caused him to reflect on mortality giving way to immortality. Corruption giving way to incorruption. Losing an earthly lover. Gaining a heavenly One.

     We can be sure that Our Lord loved us before we were a twinkle in our Daddy’s eyes, or before light shone on the face of the waters. His love, that “love that will not let me go” is Past, Present and Future. His love lives in all life’s tenses.

     Christ’ atoning death on that cruel cross served and still serves as The Earnest of our inheritance, and assures us of that sort of Love the Scottish preacher wrote about in this glorious hymn of the church.

     “O Joy that seekest me thru pain, I cannot close my heart to Thee; I trace the rainbow thru the rain, and feel the promise is not vain that morn shall tearless be.”

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

 

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Crossing a Large Bridge in the Early Evening

My cousin's wife, Clara, posted the following blurb on a social media site today.

 

“Today going over the once dreaded Dames Point Bridge, I looked at my grandson and said, "You know it doesn't seem as big as it once did." He said, "That's because you've gone over so many times and it doesn't seem that big anymore." I remember the first time I went over that bad boy. Kelsey and I were driving down, traveling along, and I saw those lights on the water. I said, "Kels, what is that?" She answered, "A bridge Nanny." I just about froze. That thing seemed huge. I had gone through Orange Park, had made the loop, and was headed back to Alma. I called my daughter, Susan and found out I had to go back over that thing. And I realized every time I went from that time on, I had to go over it. Well, having driven over it many now, it just isn’t that big anymore. I thought about the obstacles we sometimes meet up with. Once we learn to deal with them, they just aren’t that big anymore.” (Clara Ring)h to me. I had gone through Orange Park, had made the loop, was headed back to Alma. Called Susan and found out I had to go back over that thing. Also realized every time I went from that time on, I'd have to go over it. Well many times later it just isn't that big now. I thought about the obstacles we sometimes meet up with. Once we learn to deal with them.. they just aren't that big anymore.

 

As a Christian, I think the cares of this life are a lot like that old bridge.

 

I once said something similar in a sermon.

 

“Life has a way of beating you down, and God knows, I have endured some sickness, suffering, poverty and pain. But you know, when some significant trials have befallen me over the past several years; somehow it’s gotten easier. And I think it has a lot to do with my expectation of heaven, and life eternal.

 

… The closer it gets, the easier it becomes.”

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright Pending.

 

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Joy in a Jail Cell

“And it is only right for me to remember you with such rejoicing because you reside in my heart. For you remembered me when I walked among you and when I resided in the darkness of this prison”                                           

(Philippians 1:7, MPV)

     The Book of Philippians is one of my two favorite books of scripture. It is such a poignant rendering of a man’s very soul. I personally regard Philippians as the most personable of all the books in either Old or New Testaments.

     As I paraphrased the entire book of Philippians, I found myself weeping and identifying with the Apostle at a more intense level than ever before. I see him seated in darkness, chained to a Roman guard. Perhaps Timothy sits across from him, as the aging man dictates his words. No doubt rodents scurry across the dirt floor, and the air is foul with sweat, and other unmistakable odors.

     I have always liked Paul and his wonderful epistles. Since he “introduced himself” I have loved the man and his writings. I sadly reflect on his extreme

Sufferings. Stoned, beaten, hungry, shipwrecked.

     His humble, but strong spirit rings across the ages:

“I do not imply that I have arrived. I am still learning, changing

and maturing. But I reflect on the day when I will finally reach

the prize, the goal, the finish line.” (Philippians 3, MPV)

     If we could only catch a slight glimmer of his rich spirit. If we could only pause for a moment in his prison cell. If we could touch his weary brow, and in doing so, encourage him.

     My love and understanding of the Apostle Paul is increased. He has become my hero.

     Such a rich and selfless life was his.

 

 

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

 

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I'm Going Outside. I May Be Quite Some Time

“Lord, who is worthy to find refuge upon your holy hill?…He who practices loyalty, even if it ruins him…” (Psalms 15:1, 4, MPV)

     Captain Robert Scott, the famous Antarctic explorer, attempted the first expedition to the South Pole in 1912. He was beaten by Roald Amundsen.

    ...By a whisper that may as well have been a mile.

     You see, the two expeditions were on the ice at the same time, so reminiscent of those days many of us remember, as our own space race.

     Both teams drove forward towards the same goal. But Amundsen took dogs, and every modern expert will tell you that that made all the difference. Dogs provided an edge that placed the Scandinavian at the pole first.

     Scott was sorely disillusioned when, arriving at the pole, an empty tent, and a Norwegian flag awaited him there. All that was left to be done was pose for pictures, (his own English flag in the foreground,) and head for home.

     But contrary to Scott’s lack of planning, this was no ordinary team of men that accompanied him. The loyalty of these men was nothing short of legendary. For the love of these men for their leader was beyond questioning.

     Oh, the trials and the sheer bravery of these few. And the selflessness.

     For when one of the men deteriorated badly, in temperatures that dropped to –43 degrees F., his feet horribly frostbitten, he made an excuse to walk outside. His last words, “I’m going outside for what might be quite sometime.” This fellow, an Englishman named Oates, was never seen again. His surviving teammates realized he had sacrificed himself, as a matter of loyalty. Since they were in no condition to pull him to safety by sled.

     The last three men continued the long march, also severely frostbitten, with hunger setting in. It is said that it took over an hour for them to put their socks on in the morning, so terribly black and swollen were their feet.

      Finally, after almost super-human efforts, these polar comrades found themselves within 11 miles of a food catche, something that might have made all the difference in their fate. Yet at that very moment, an unexpected blizzard arose, and they were forced into the tent.

     The unfortunate men talked about “making a run for it,” in spite of the raging blizzard, but days multiplied, and they found themselves writing morose letters to their loved ones; letters that would be found next to their frozen bodies.

     Captain Scott, himself, it is known now, was the most desperately ill. It has been strongly conjectured that the other two men might have had the wherewithal to brave the blizzard, and reach the food supply. But they seemed convinced that the Captain could not live long enough for them to reach the food, and return to him. So they remained, to their own detriment. These noble armor-bearers would not allow their leader to die alone. And so they gave up all their tomorrow’s… without so much as a bitter word, or a second guess. For what they wrote in no way reflected that vein of thought.

     Loyalty.

     I think the actions of such men virtually SHOUT the word.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005
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A Good Man in Rwanda

A real-life Cool Hand Luke…" "The bravest of the brave…" "...the greatest man I have ever known..."
	These are the words of those who knew Capt. Mbaye Diagne, a young Senegalese army officer who served in Rwanda as an unarmed U.N. military observer. I have never heard another human being described in the way that those who knew Mbaye describe him: he was, as one of his colleagues told me, "the kind of guy you meet once in a lifetime." He was a hero. From literally the first hours of the genocide, Capt. Mbaye simply ignored the U.N.'s standing orders not to intervene, and single-handedly began saving lives. He rescued the children of the moderate Prime Minster Agathe Uwilingiyimana, after 25 well-armed Belgian and Ghanaian U.N. peacekeepers surrendered their weapons to Rwandan troops. The Rwandan troops killed Madame Agathe (and, later, ten Belgian peacekeepers), while the unarmed Capt. Mbaye -- acting on his own initiative -- hid the Prime Minister's children in a closet.
	In the days and weeks that followed, Capt. Mbaye became a legend among U.N. forces in Kigali. He continued his solo rescue missions, and had an uncanny ability to charm his way past checkpoints full of killers. On one occasion he found a group of 25 Tutsis hiding in a house in Nyamirambo, a Kigali neighborhood that was particularly dangerous. Capt. Mbaye ferried the Tutsis to the U.N. headquarters in groups of five -- on each trip passing through 23 militia checkpoints with a Jeep-load of Tutsis. Somehow, he convinced the killers to let these Tutsis live. On May 31st, Capt. Mbaye was driving alone back to U.N. headquarters in Kigali when a random mortar shell, fired by the Rwandan Patriotic Front towards an extremist checkpoint, mistakenly landed next to his Jeep. He was killed instantly. Capt. Mbaye, a devout Muslim, was one of nine children from a poor family on the outskirts of Dakar, Senegal's capital. He was the first in his family to go to college. After graduating from the University of Dakar, he joined the army and worked his way up through the ranks. After his death, he was buried in Senegal with full military honors. He was survived by a wife and two young children. In mid-May 1994, about a month into the genocide, someone gave Capt. Diagne a video camera, and he started filming U.N. peacekeepers and aid workers in Kigali. His tape is a rare glimpse inside the U.N.'s force in Rwanda -- humorous, poignant and very human. But there are no clues as to how Capt. Mbaye managed to save so many lives. He never took his camera on his rescue missions, and so the true source of his heroism remains a mystery. After Capt. Mbaye died, one of his closest friends -- Lt. Col. Babacar Faye, another Senegalese officer in Kigali -- found his videotape and later gave it to Capt. Mbaye's family in Dakar. Lt. Col. Faye and Capt. Mbaye's widow kindly made the tape available to FRONTLINE so that the memory of this remarkable soldier and hero can live on. Excerpt from Frontline

Geriatric Pushups

I saw a video the other day which called to mind something from the past.

The short news clip follows a female volunteer EMT during the course of her duties. At one point she challenges the interviewer to a duel. Well, not exactly a duel.

You see both women drop down, and proceed to “knock out” pushups. Now I’m not talking about what is popularly referring to as “the sissy kind.” The younger woman manages three, while the “more mature” lady does, (drum roll)

… 10

(and in perfect form).

Did I mention the female EMT is

… 87!

(Yes, she is).

But as I previously inferred, this bit of film reminds me of something which occurred in my own life. As a former substitute teacher I “subbed” six or eight times a month in the local high schools. Once, when I was doing my thing at my own alma mater, and was seated at the teacher’s desk, I overheard a conversation between two male students as they came in the door.

“Uhhh! We have a baldheaded old man for a sub today.”

Needless to say, I was unimpressed with his demeaning comment. Nonetheless, I allowed the entire class period to expire before I attempted a response.

“I heard a couple of you guys talking as you came in the door. And the subject was yours truly. Let me attempt to quote whomever did the talking. ‘We have a baldheaded old man for a sub today.’ Well, I’m going to show you what a baldheaded elderly man can do.”

And with that, I dropped down, right in front of God and everybody, and proceeded to do six or eight

… one handed pushups.

You could have heard a pin drop.

And with that several macho (or they thought they were) boys spontaneously strutted up to the front, and dropped down to the floor. Each of them “assumed the position” and proceeded to

… fall flat on the floor.

Needless to say, I lmbo!!!

Never judge a book by its cover.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 7. Vol. 1-15, Copyright 2015.

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Walking the Green Mile

Several years ago, my wife and I were watching “The Green Mile,” when suddenly my cell phone rang.

“Hello. Is this Dr. McDonald?”

(to which I responded in the affirmative).

“This is “Ms. Casey” at the nursing home. Your dad just experienced a fall. It’s not good. We are transporting him to the hospital. He still has life signs, but…

(and)

just stay where you are, and I’ll call you back when we know something conclusive.”

Well, it goes without saying, I was real conducive to her suggestion.

“Uh. No ma’am. That doesn’t work for me. I’m leaving right now for the hospital.”

(Which I summarily proceeded to do; stopping by my mother’s house to retrieve her on the way).

Having arrived at our destination, my wife, mother and I walked into the hospital lobby, and I made the triage nurse aware of our presence. “Ms. Miller” immediately summoned the charge nurse, and as she walked out of the inside ER doors, she glanced at us across the waiting room, and I heard her quietly ask an orderly,

“Is that the family?”

(And I thought, “Well now, that sounds ominous.”)

It was then I knew. I just knew, (though my wife and mother would say later that even given the nurse’s words, at this point they didn’t suspect anything).

“Miss Marsh” led us to a small room, invited us to sit down, and informed us that the doctor would be right with us.

A couple of minutes later the Belle of the Ball made her entrance.

Well, to be fair she dressed the part of a physician, but that was as close as she came to the stereotypical image of a doctor. You would have thought she was the guest of honor at a presidential inauguration. Her hair fell around her shoulders in loose curls, she wore bright red lipstick, her lashes were long and coated with mascara, and a copious amount of makeup lined her nose and cheeks. (I could have sworn I was viewing the reincarnation of a ticket taker who sat in the booth at the local Ritz when I was a boy).

The doctor’s bedside manner was as false as the image she seemed determined to portray.

No sooner had this cartoonish composite of physician and showgirl stepped through the doorway of the small room, she announced,

“Hello, I’m Dr. Dinkins.”

(and)

“I’m sorry, … He didn’t make it.”

While I was totally prepared for the news, my mother jerked backwards in her chair like someone had slapped her.

The doctor had not only omitted my father’s name, but she had stated the case so matter of factly that she might just as well have been talking about her preference in pizza.

And then she was outta there.

As quickly as “Lady Dinkins” departed the premises, Miss Marsh reappeared in the hallway. The demeanor of our doctor and nurse were as polar opposites as the literal poles of our planet.

“Mrs. McDonald, I am SO sorry for your loss. We did all we could, but we just couldn’t sustain a heartbeat” (and) “Please come with me and I will take you to his room.”

And as my mother attempted to stand, the kind nurse helped her to her feet, embraced her, took her hand, and led her to the next room. Jean and I followed closely behind.

As we entered the room, my father lay on the gurney with the endotracheal intubation tube still in his mouth. His only apparent injury, a large bump on his forehead. My mother bent over and kissed my dad on the cheek. And as long as I have the opportunity to breathe in and out, I will never forget her next words.

“Henry, I was supposed to go first.”

(and)

“Now you’ll be able to meet your mother.” (The young mother who had passed away when her son was still a toddler).

We had been watching “The Green Mile” when we received the news. My Dad had been walking his own Green Mile.
 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 17. Copyright Pending.

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Riches in Darkness

The most eloquent sermon I ever heard was delivered by perhaps one of the seemingly least likely of deliverers; (only because of his relative youth, since he was) a barely thirty year old youth pastor with his entire ministry ahead of him. The name “Scott” means traveler, and aptly enough this particular Scott, even at this juncture in his life, had traveled the world; (and continues to do so.)

 

Isaiah 45:3 encourages us that, “I will give you riches in darkness, and treasures in secret places.”

 

And to be fair, on the surface it is almost impossible to understand how the dark and deep places in our journey, the literal pauses and potholes in life’s pathway, can be good for us.

 

And yet, as Dr. David Jeremiah so adequately put it, (paraphrased) “Without those difficult elements of our journey, those valleys where the sun barely filters through the foliage, our lives would amount to such a vanilla-flavored existence.”

 

Sometimes I have been prone to desire “a little more vanilla in the cake mix,” as I’m sure we have all sometimes wished.

 

One of the hidden tidbits of scripture can be found in Hebrews 3:13:

 

“By day by day, and as long as today shall last continue to encourage one another.”

 

Granted, the traditional meaning of the word, “encouragement” is woven into the implication of this scripture. But there is also an inference which includes the smaller word which lies between the prefix and suffix.

 

Courage

 

We live in one of the most complicated periods of history. For all its technology, and benefits, I think that never before in history have so many wars, and rumors of war existed, and I’m convinced that our natural enemy is working overtime; not just in the macrocosm of the geo-political world, but in the microcosm of our lives.

 

Christ assured us that the servant is not above his Master. And for all the apparent misunderstanding which is naturally joined with suffering, as Christians we could never hope to properly come alongside the insidious infidel, or staggering servant if we had, ourselves, not first “been there.”

 

In Colossians 1:24 the Apostle Paul expounds on one of the lesser doctrines of scripture; at least one of the lesser preached doctrines.

 

“Filling up in my own body the unfinished sufferings of Christ.”

 

As if we had something to add to Christ’ sufferings

 

And in a larger sense, as we consider that word, “unfinished” the larger body of scripture is very plain that we have nothing whatsoever to add to the finished work of Christ.

 

And yet, there is an implication in this verse that something remains…

 

Unfinished

 

And it occurs to me that there is, indeed, something unfinished, and which will go on remaining unfinished in the lives of every suffering saint of God; until we each, individually “lay it all down.”

 

Our Participation

 

We have been granted the gift of participating in that inestimable suffering which Christ knew, and whereby He was made perfect, and without which none of us can hope to also be made perfect.

 

God grant us the wherewithal to wear the cloak of suffering well, as our Master first wore it well; that we might discover those “riches in darkness and treasures in secret places” which you promised were available to those who bear well with difficulties. And though none of us would naturally welcome the troubles and trials which life is so prone to bestow, give us the courage to bear up well to them; that in dying to self we are granted the wherewithal to live to others. In Christ name. Amen.

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

 

Heritage, Destiny, Legacy

(Following is a blog I recently wrote. As I have not been able to contact the party involved, I have changed all identifying data here)

Today was the last Sunday morning worship service in which my former intern would be with us; prior to assuming her first fulltime ministry position.

"Bridgette," had previously finished her undergrad degree in religious studies at Fullmeyer University, and completed her graduate degree at the same institution in the past several months. And in the last several days, this young lady has been contracted to serve as a field representative in a well-known, international ministry.

It so happened that Bridgette and I were scheduled to participant in this morning’s worship service; I as a vocal soloist, and she as a solo pianist. And it so happened, (considering this is the last Sunday before Thanksgiving) that each of us had independently chosen, _____________ as our musical selection.

As I recall, Bridgette played, (and played quite well) during the offertory, and I “took the stage” just before the pastor was scheduled to speak.

As yours truly stepped behind the pulpit, as I sometimes do I prefixed my song with a few topical words.

“Well, we’re going to miss Bridgette. This young lady first came to me several years ago, prior to attending university, and submitted herself to a year-long program of mentoring and discipleship. And sometime along the way, I shared my favorite three words with her.

Heritage

Destiny

Legacy

We receive a Heritage.

We fulfill a Destiny.

We leave a Legacy.

And the Legacy we leave behind becomes someone else’s Heritage, and so the circle continues.”

(And then I looked directly at Bridgette, and said)

“Bridgette, you’re staring into a sunrise. Most of us here today are staring into a sunset. I wish I could be here to see all the wonderful things you will accomplish throughout the course of your lifetime.”

(And though I didn’t say it at that moment, one of my favorite phrases, and my own somewhat abbreviated mission statement is:

“I will busy myself with planting seedlings under whose shade I may never sit.”)

Funny, the pastor never did get around to preaching a sermon today. After I finished my song, and while I was still standing behind the pulpit, he asked me to sing the chorus again, and having done so, “Bro. Brown” dispensed with his prepared notes, and called the ushers forward to pass out the communion elements.

And somewhat to my surprise and slight consternation, (since by this time my throat was dry and a bit hoarse) when the sacrament was completed, our minister asked me to repeat my musical number.

Upon which, Bridgette's mother, Jennifer, was asked to close in prayer.

Well, I could not let my former intern begin her ministry; without sending her off with this or that word of admonition. And thus, I walked over to Bridgette, and said whatever one says when a dear understudy and friend is preparing to assume their role in life.

And having done so, I stretched out my hand and laid it on her head, and spoke the following words:

“Bridgette, go out and fulfill your Destiny!”

(and)

“This is the charge I give you.”

And as I prepare to conclude this particular reminiscence, a story from the The Gospel of Luke comes to me.

The twelve year old Jesus had somehow slipped away from Mary and Joseph during the Feast of the Passover, and it was only after his parents had traveled a while that they realized he was not with their party. Returning to Jerusalem they found the spiritually precocious adolescent teaching, as it were, the temple religious leaders. When admonished by Mary for causing her, and Joseph a great deal of anxiety, Jesus replied,

“Know you know that I must be about my Father’s business?”

How marvelous, how inestimably exciting to witness another in a long line of young people, stretching across two millenia, emulating their first and best role model.

I believe, no, I am sure that my young intern will be heard from, and will be found doing the Father’s business.
 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright pending.


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