Something Lost. Something Found

There are few exploits of discovery as compelling as the one of Sir Ernest Shackleton, and his failed attempt to traverse the Antarctic in 1914.

During the early stages of his expedition his ship, “The Endurance” was caught up in an ice flow, and was frozen solid. With no hope of being freed from its icy bondage, the ship began to break up, and sink. Black and white footage still exists of the demise of this once proud sea-going vessel.

As the result of the loss of their ship, Shackleton and his crew were forced to set off towards the northern coast of the Antarctic; while the entire time dragging three lifeboats.

As the 27 men reached the coastline, they mounted the boats and sailed for Elephant Island. And having reached the comparative safety of dry land, Shackleton nominated several of the men for an additional one boat voyage to South Georgia Island; the site of a manned whaling station, and hopes of rescue.

Shackleton’s 800 mile, 16 day journey across frigid and storm-tossed seas, (with waves as high as 60 feet) is still remembered as one of the most miraculous feats of navigation in naval history. At that time there were no GPS or satellite capabilities, and all navigation was done with a hand-held sextant, and the use of sun and stars.

Ultimately, the courageous little crew reached South Georgia, and prepared to cross 26 miles of mountains and crevices which separated them from the whaling station, and a ship capable of rescuing those they’d left behind on Elephant Island. It is enough to say here, (since the outcome is not the focus of this blog) that the men on Elephant Island were rescued, and returned home to Great Britain.

And having given away the ending, it is obvious also that Shackleton and the two other men who accompanied him on the trek across the mountains succeeded in reaching the whaling station; though the journey was cold and perilous.

As the famous explorer and his teammates neared the object of their quest, and just prior to mounting the last rise which separated them from the whaling station,

… they heard it.

A whistle signaling shift change.

And at that moment, it occurred to Sir Ernest that this was the first sound generated by the devices of a man, (outside of those who accompanied him on the expedition) in the two full years he’d been marooned in the Antarctic.

*Following is an insightful account of Shackleton’s trek across the mountains of South Georgia.

With provisions for just three days, screws in their boots for traction, threadbare clothing and no sleeping bags, the three malnourished, frostbitten, exhausted explorers set out to cross South Georgia at 2 a.m. on May 19, 1916, hiking by the light of the full moon. The terrain was rough, and the interior of the island had never been charted. The three men were roped together, with Shackleton in the lead and Worsley navigating. After several miscalculations, the three had to retrace their steps, finding themselves back where they had been several hours earlier, fatigued and frostbitten.
They faced a dilemma. Night was falling, they were making little progress descending the slopes, and they would freeze to death at their high altitude. With nothing to lose, and the lives of their 25 companions in their hands, they took a risk: they slid down the steep slope. "We seemed to shoot into space... For a moment my hair fairly stood on end," Worsley later wrote.
They proceeded through the night. In the morning, they heard a whistle sound from Stromness, which confirmed that the whaling station was still manned. By mid-afternoon, after 36 hours of travel, they walked into Stromness. Covered in blubber smoke, with long hair and beards, the three men, who'd spent months at Stromness at the beginning of the Endurance expedition, were not recognized when they arrived. After identifying themselves, they were treated to grand hospitality and hot baths, pleasures they had missed since they had left this island 17 months earlier. 
(Courtesy Nova Online & PBS – Interviews)

(Cont., see previous story)

The year was 1992. The month was August. The date was the 24^th. The day was Monday.

Do the words “Hurricane Andrew” mean anything to you? (Well, my friend, they sure do to me).

Though I spent 35 years among four components of the military, (mostly reserve service) I was fortunate to never see combat. I suppose the closest I ever came to it involved stateside service in Homestead, Florida in the aftermath of the most costly hurricane in American history, up to that time, in terms of the physical destruction of property.

I think the thing which struck me first and most about that 20x20 square mile block of homes, condos, trailer parks and businesses was the lack of color. For you see, every (and I do mean every) building had been somehow impacted by the 200+ mph wind gusts of that Category 5 hurricane, and many had been reduced to rubble. And every (and I do mean every) tree, bush, hedge and shrub had been rudely stripped of their leaves.

Having passed the perimeter which separated the unaffected parts of south Florida from the pathway of the storm, what greeted the eyes of every soldier in the convoy was sheer devastation. And as I have previously inferred, the absence of but four colors:

White, Brown, Black and Gray

And so much like those biblical passages which allude to the significance of the number “40,” I was privileged, (yes, privileged) to spend 40 days amidst that devastation (August 24, 1992 – October 3, 1992). Privileged since I took from this experience the satisfaction of a job well done; having served the unfortunate people in the southern area of my state; alongside 34,999 of my brothers and sisters in green.

And so unlike our northern parts, it is altogether odd in Florida to witness the absence of foliage on every formerly green thing, and equally odd to watch it all come back again; at once, and before we took our leave from that place.

When I returned from my own unique expedition, I realized the most severe fatigue I’d ever realized, and a few days elapsed before I understood why.

That God-awful absence of color

And whereas, Shackleton’s experience was macrocosmic in nature, having been marooned in the Antarctic for two years, my own experience had been relatively microcosmic; having served a scant 40 days, and in a more civilized place. And yet, I think it interesting that a common thread is woven into both our stories.

Shackleton had his whistle

The stimulation of one of five senses which had been denied for far too long.

I had my color

A stimulus upon which we all depend, but which was altogether absent in the place from which I had only just returned.

Something Lost

Something Found

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 23. Copyright pending

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Life Interrupted

Over the past eight or ten years, I have been privy to several unforeseen, (for lack of a better word)

… interruptions.

One particular interruption involved yours truly, a bicycle, and well…

I had just taken up peddling, and began with short circuits of my neighborhood. Since then I have accumulated over 10,000 miles in three years, but my entre into biking almost ended as quickly as it had begun.

I was coasting along a nearby street when a small terrier darted out of the yard of the worst looking house in my neighborhood. And not yet being adept in “all things bicycle,” I attempted to outrun the silly dog. The faster I peddled, the faster he scampered. Ultimately, the pooch circled around the front of my bike, and either purposely, or by chance my front tire slammed into the unsuspecting canine’s ribcage.

You know that theory once espoused by the most intelligent man of our time?

(“For every action, there is an opposite, but equal reaction.”)

Well, I can tell you… there’s something to it!

When I came to I was lying prostrate on the asphalt, and my left arm was twisted in a position it was never meant to assume.

What followed that accident was a long season of healing and recovery.

And then there were the slightly more momentary and innocuous, but meddlesome and downright embarrassing interruptions.

They say time heals all wounds, but I think the emotional ones must heal slower than the others. And I admit the following memories still sting a bit; simply because of my responsibility in the mixture, and my inability to protect those near and dear to me.

As a pastoral counselor I offer a leadership program which I’ve provided to dozens of young and not so young people preparing for formal and informal ministry, and/or college and graduate school. 

One of my interns, Alyssa, had just completed a year-long course of study under my supervision, and I’d set aside an hour after morning worship to laud her for her efforts, and present a completion certificate to her. We met in the church fellowship hall. Ten or twelve family and friends were in attendance. The celebration included a few remarks by none other than me, myself and I, and subsequently, Alyssa rose to summarize the program, and her perspectives thereof.

Things were going “swimmingly,” and as the ceremony drew to a close, I suggested we offer up thanks to God. No sooner had my audience bowed their heads, and I was a microsecond from closing my own eyes, and saying, “Our Father,” when I saw his reflection in the door window.

Bam! Our church clerk, “Mr. J.R. Benson” came charging through said door. Well, almost. Having pushed it open a couple of inches, I slammed that 6x3 in his face, and shouted,

“Hold on! We’re a little busy in here!”

Given the interruption, but considering my reaction, I felt both humiliated and vindicated.

Then there was the time I invited a former intern, Rita, to perform a mime/dance for the first of many classes I once taught at a local university. My students set aside their books, Rita assumed her place, and nodded for me to start the music. The melody began, and one of my two or three most memorable, and beloved interns of all time proceeded to “strut her stuff.” Rita was so much closer to the end, than the beginning of her rendition, when suddenly, Wham!

A female professor from next door came charging through the door. (This time I hadn’t a clue she was preparing to intrude into the “holy of holies” ‘til she stood fuming in the threshold).

“You’re disturbing my class! The music is blasting through the wall like its cardboard! Please turn the volume down!” And with that, she lumbered back out the door.

This time there was only humiliation.

Interruptions

Good, bad or indifferent, they’re part and parcel of life.

There’s an old Coke commercial which extols “The pause which refreshes.” But I can tell you from long and painful experience that more interruptions, (or pauses, if you will) than not, are anything but refreshing.

Amazing, the number of times I have recalled the previous events, and they are apt examples of so many other interruptions I have experienced along the way, and which we will all experience on “this side of the veil.”

Upon reflection, and perhaps more often, than not the interruptions in our lives are more humorous when recounted, than when encountered. And I tend to think that God somehow builds these interruptions into our lives to test our patience, to teach us lessons which we would, otherwise, never learn, or to set the stage for some unexpected change in direction. 

And who can say, perhaps He takes some pleasure in the ironies and idiosyncrasies of our lives, and more often, than not His laughter resounds throughout heaven, and echoes across the endless span of His universe.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 24. Copyright pending

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Two People Driving One Car

My wife and I were on our way home from church; (on the same street as my previous illustration). Jean was driving our old green 1980 something Oldsmobile; a somewhat longer vehicle than one generally sees on the road today. We were traveling at 50 MPH, or greater, and as we neared an intersecting road on our right, which was marked with a stop sign, hardly stopping, a small blue car pulled into our pathway.

We could plainly see a man and woman in the front of the car, and a little boy and girl in the back seat. Less than 50 feet separated the two vehicles, as Jean locked up the brakes. An accident seemed inevitable. As with so many traumatic events, time seemed to slow down. (Interestingly enough, I have read that this syndrome is possible because the brain is processing more information than  usual in a brief amount of time).

It was obvious that my wife had every intention of plowing headlong into the smaller car, (and no doubt, all the occupants of that vehicle would have been seriously injured or killed.) Though we were driving a much larger automobile, we also would not have been spared. You see, we weren’t wearing our seatbelts.

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

I reached over with my left hand, took the steering wheel from Jean, and began steering it in a direction that would take us around the rear of the small vehicle. Amazingly, we cleared the back bumper of the little car by a foot. Both my wife and I found ourselves leaning hard in the direction of the driver’s window. (As a result of that event, I can relate to the G-forces the astronauts endure, as they reach maximum acceleration.)

But the ride was far from over. Our ungainly old car began a 180 degree slide. Suddenly, the back end was where the front end was just seconds before. Now we were sliding backwards. As the car lost momentum, we neared a wooden fence to our left which bordered a house. We finally slid to a stop in a grassy area, a few feet from the fence, very shaken, but not a scratch on either of us.  

As for the small blue car, it was nowhere to be found. As we had continued our surrealistic journey, I noticed it as it turned left into the opposite lanes of the four lane highway. However, I would have NEVER expected the driver to “keep on keeping on.” The decent thing to have done, the only thing to have done, would have been to stop and check on our status. But that is not what happened.

However, just about this time another car pulled up to the stop sign from whence the former vehicle had come. Having seen the spectacle falling together around him, I have no doubt that he had watched the proceedings with awe. The motorist asked if we were okay, and after we assured him we were, he drove away.

Paradoxically Providential. 

Momentarily Miraculous.

As I have previously alluded, both my wife and I have experienced multiple episodes such as the foregoing one, while too many of our classmates left us as the result of the first traumatic incident they had ever encountered.

There is a trite, well-used phrase which occurs to me here, one which every one of us have heard quoted more than once in our lives.

“I guess the Lord was finished with him (or her).”

Well, it would at least seem so.

However, as the result of so many near misses, I am assured that God still has a work for me to do, and for my wife to fulfill.

 I suppose we ought to get about finishing that work.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 19. Copyright pending

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If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:  

 

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