I have previously reflected on the following experience, but not
having ready access to that story among far too many files, and far too
little time, I feel inclined to reflect on it again.
A few years ago
I decided to trim my neighbor’s tree. Generally, I would not have been
quite so altruistic, but the limbs of the tree hung over my driveway,
and as spring approached each year a healthy supply of oak pollen
showered my car, and the pavement upon which it was parked.
And
since there was a basketball post just beneath the offending tree, it
seemed good to me to prop my straight ladder against it, and having done
so, I set about the task at hand.
Did I mention round posts and straight ladders are altogether incompatible? (Well, they are).
Suddenly, the ladder accomplished a task for which it was never
intended. It became mobile. And I became its unintended pilot. Given the
choice to ride the thing to the ground, or jump, I chose the latter.
And as I “winged my way to worlds unknown” I chose to land upright, (or
something approximating it) and twisted my body just enough in my
failed flight to the concrete to land on my right foot.
I knew. I just knew
My ankle was broken
After lying there a moment, and using my car for leverage, I stood upon
my left foot, hop-scotched to my front door, opened it, and made my
wife aware of my injury.
Fast forward several weeks, and I found
myself in a prep room at Tampa General Hospital preparing to have my
ankle reconstructed; since it was not only broken, but it was badly
shattered.
Just prior to being wheeled into the operating room a
nurse administered an injection to my right thigh, and explained that
shortly thereafter my leg would develop a state of paralysis, and that
when I awoke I would experience this condition for several hours prior
to the restoration of feeling.
As she predicted, when I came to I was provided an entre into a state of being to which I had never before been privy.
For a full 65 years I had enjoyed complete use of all four limbs.
Suddenly, I was short one. Initially, my paralytic experience was
nothing more, nothing less than interesting. The natural scheme of
things in which we move, and live and have our being had been
interrupted. Perhaps if I expended a little more thought, a little more
will power I could lift my leg an inch off the bed. (Well,… no). Perhaps
if I focused all my energies on my little toe, I could wiggle that tiny
digit. (Nice try).
Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch
By this time I had gone from being an interested observer to a concerned participant.
I imagined the worst. I mean, I could just see myself being discharged
in this condition, and having to use a cane the last third of my life;
while all the while dragging a useless limb behind me.
Alarmed, I spoke,
“Nurse, uh, you’re probably aware that my leg is paralyzed. Uhmm, does
this sorta thing ever go wrong? Is there any chance I’m stuck with this
dead leg for the duration?”
“Nurse Simms” assured me that the
paralysis would abate, and that I’d regain complete sensation and
mobility in the limb within a few hours.”
And true to her word, that is exactly how things fell together.
My nephew, his name was “Wade,” was born with a malady referred to as
“Spina Bifida.” While he had some use of his arms and hands, his legs
and feet were paralyzed from birth, and he was dependent on a wheelchair
throughout his all too brief life. And though Wade endured countless
surgeries, and a significant amount of pain and humiliation, he never
seemed to complain, and it was if the angels had loaned him a permanent
smile.
During the two decades Providence allowed Wade to grace this
planet, I sympathized for and with him. However, it was only after his
death, and my subsequent injury, surgery and (temporary) paralysis that I
could truly empathize; since it was only after my own experience that I
had any real hope of understanding what ‘til then was beyond my
understanding.
I think this is a major reason Jesus came to the
earth. In the eons which preceded God assuming human form, and adding
the three letter suffix, “man” to His title, He had never been subject
to flesh, frailty, fatigue or the limits of time and space. Suddenly,
having purposely limited Himself, He was given personal access to the
human condition; in a manner not heretofore possible.
Having
experienced momentary paralysis I can empathize with the disabled in a
way that I could have never hoped to do before the event.
Having
taken on flesh and having lived among us, I am confident that our Lord
Jesus Christ was afforded the wherewithal to empathize with mankind in a
manner in which He had never before been able.
My favorite passage
of scripture speaks to this concept, and my personal experience which I
have just recounted causes it to be that much more precious to me.
“We have not a High Priest who cannot be touched with the feelings of
our infirmities, but He was in all points tempted as we are; yet without
sin.
Let us come boldly to the throne of grace that we may receive
mercy for our failures, and grace to help in the time of need.” (Hebrews
4:15-16)
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 23. Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
**************
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click
on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st
blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my
2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Wearing My Father's Clothes
After my dad passed away, my mother offered me his dress boots.
While I was tempted to take them home with me, I couldn’t quite get over
the notion of wearing the shoes of a dead man. I did, however, load a
couple of his shirts and pants into the back seat of my car.
A few days later, as I was preparing to leave the house, I slid open my double closet doors,
… and saw it.
The “it” was a short-sleeved, button-up purple shirt which looked far too much like the one my dad was wearing when he died. And I should know, since my mother and I spent some time with him in the ER cubicle; as he lay unresponsive on the hospital bed.
After this, my mother claimed a hospital representative gave her that particular shirt. However, I’m certain that never happened, since I contacted the funeral home the evening of his passing, and a mortician came out immediately to retrieve my father’s mortal remains.
Nevertheless, the shirt in my closet continues to hang in its self-same place, and I don’t care to wear it.
All the foregoing to say that this afternoon, as I was napping, I had a dream.
I found myself standing in a large room in my underwear. As I glanced around, I noticed a pair of pants, and something rather like a tunic. Both articles of clothing were beige in appearance, and upon closer examination I discovered the rough shirt included a clerical collar.
Someone suggested I get dressed. And since my rather tenuous status, and subsequent entrance into the world depended on the unfamiliar costume at hand, I complied.
As I picked up the two articles of clothing, I noticed. Stitched along the belt, and hem of the chest pocket were words. And though I couldn’t read the words, since they were in some archaic script, I knew. I just knew. The words indicated the mission to which God had assigned me.
It was then I was informed that my father, my spiritual father, would arrive shortly, and that I should be prepared to meet him.
And it is important, at this juncture, for my readers to understand that I came to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ under the momentary tutelage of a Rev. William Kirschke. He had been preaching a revival on the campus of a local Bible college that week, and as he finished the sermon to which I had been privy, I stood from my seat, walked a couple dozen paces to the altar, bent my knee, confessed my sins, and encouraged the Messiah to take up residence in my heart. Which I believe He did.
As I finished zipping the pants, buttoning the shirt, and straightening the collar, (the likes of which I’d never worn in my life) my spiritual father strode in the door. And it was then I realized, we were
…. both dressed exactly alike!
Both my biological and my spiritual fathers are gone now, and as I have implied I have previously worn some, (if not all) of the clothing the former of the two left behind. And to be sure, as my recent dream indicates, I have been blessed to also wear the proverbial clothing of my spiritual father. You see, he was a national figure in an evangelical, Christian organization, and his heart beat for ministry, and the impact which naturally results from it;
… as does my own.
The collar and words need little or no explanation. The hue of the cloth represents humble service. The same color with which monks are clothed; the humblest clerics of their particular persuasion.
God grant that I wear my father’s clothing well.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
A few days later, as I was preparing to leave the house, I slid open my double closet doors,
… and saw it.
The “it” was a short-sleeved, button-up purple shirt which looked far too much like the one my dad was wearing when he died. And I should know, since my mother and I spent some time with him in the ER cubicle; as he lay unresponsive on the hospital bed.
After this, my mother claimed a hospital representative gave her that particular shirt. However, I’m certain that never happened, since I contacted the funeral home the evening of his passing, and a mortician came out immediately to retrieve my father’s mortal remains.
Nevertheless, the shirt in my closet continues to hang in its self-same place, and I don’t care to wear it.
All the foregoing to say that this afternoon, as I was napping, I had a dream.
I found myself standing in a large room in my underwear. As I glanced around, I noticed a pair of pants, and something rather like a tunic. Both articles of clothing were beige in appearance, and upon closer examination I discovered the rough shirt included a clerical collar.
Someone suggested I get dressed. And since my rather tenuous status, and subsequent entrance into the world depended on the unfamiliar costume at hand, I complied.
As I picked up the two articles of clothing, I noticed. Stitched along the belt, and hem of the chest pocket were words. And though I couldn’t read the words, since they were in some archaic script, I knew. I just knew. The words indicated the mission to which God had assigned me.
It was then I was informed that my father, my spiritual father, would arrive shortly, and that I should be prepared to meet him.
And it is important, at this juncture, for my readers to understand that I came to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ under the momentary tutelage of a Rev. William Kirschke. He had been preaching a revival on the campus of a local Bible college that week, and as he finished the sermon to which I had been privy, I stood from my seat, walked a couple dozen paces to the altar, bent my knee, confessed my sins, and encouraged the Messiah to take up residence in my heart. Which I believe He did.
As I finished zipping the pants, buttoning the shirt, and straightening the collar, (the likes of which I’d never worn in my life) my spiritual father strode in the door. And it was then I realized, we were
…. both dressed exactly alike!
Both my biological and my spiritual fathers are gone now, and as I have implied I have previously worn some, (if not all) of the clothing the former of the two left behind. And to be sure, as my recent dream indicates, I have been blessed to also wear the proverbial clothing of my spiritual father. You see, he was a national figure in an evangelical, Christian organization, and his heart beat for ministry, and the impact which naturally results from it;
… as does my own.
The collar and words need little or no explanation. The hue of the cloth represents humble service. The same color with which monks are clothed; the humblest clerics of their particular persuasion.
God grant that I wear my father’s clothing well.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Cedars of Lebanon
The righteous will flourish like a palm tree, they will grow like a Cedar of Lebanon. (Psalm 92:12)
So give orders that Cedars of Lebanon be cut for me. My men will work with yours, and I will pay you for your men whatever wages you set. (1st Kings 5:6)
Last night was our Wednesday night mid-week service, and one of our lay ministers spoke on the topic of The Cedars of Lebanon. Of course, Bro. Martin referred to a couple of scriptures in the Old Testament, and the building of Solomon’s Temple, but his sermon had little to do with the literal Cedars of Lebanon, but rather, the proverbial or figurative trees of that variety.
Given the implication of the first paragraph, you may have picked up on his metaphor. You see, the allusion here is to those people who have exercised a positive influence on our lives. And the good man went on to enumerate various people who, throughout the course of his life, helped, blessed, admonished, encouraged and/or guided him.
I can so well relate since such ‘Cedars of Lebanon’ have made a profound difference in my own life. Now to be sure I readily admit, (to my disadvantage) I have never had what I might describe as a mentor; except perhaps dead ones. (People like Peter Marshall, Amy Carmichael, Eric Liddell, and Jim Elliot; those heroes of the faith who have left not only their writings behind, but their spiritual legacies).
As I have inferred, there have been those people whom God set in my pathway who “stepped up to the plate” and fulfilled God’s momentary will; at least momentary in terms of their influence on yours truly. And in so doing, each and every one of these who cooperated with His leading enhanced my Christian preparation, function and maturity.
There are two particular individuals upon whose shoulders I stand. Men of faith. Men who, in turn, stood upon the shoulders of my spiritual grandparents. For you see, these two of whom I speak were my spiritual fathers, and who, for lack of time and space I will limit the remainder of my story.
I graduated from high school in 1967 from the oldest high school in Florida’s Polk County; ‘Summerlin Institute.’ And I had only just graduated the previous month when another Summerlin graduate, and friend of mine invited me to join him at a revival meeting hosted by a local Bible College. I have long since forgotten whether I attended more than one of the weekly services, but I will never forget the particular meeting which impacted the entire rest of my natural life.
A ‘Bro. William Kirschke,’ the then Assemblies of God National Sunday School Superintendent, stepped to the pulpit and proceeded to share a Gospel message with the assembled throng. As he closed his message, and as you might expect, he offered anyone who would the opportunity to “walk the old sawdust trail” to the front of the college chapel, and kneel at the altar. As John Wesley once phrased it, “my heart was strangely warmed.” And before I realized it, I stood up and walked in the direction of the stage.
Although I was raised in the Methodist Church, and was greatly impacted by its music, I had never, ‘til now, “bent the knee” at what has been referred to as an “old fashioned altar.” Thus, everything about this experience was a bit alien to me.
I had no sooner kneeled, and perhaps momentarily wondered, “what comes next” than an older gentleman knelt down beside me, introduced himself as ‘Jerry Triemstra’ and invited me to repeat “The Sinner’s Prayer.” As I recall, he encouraged me to say the words aloud, and in so doing I ‘picked up’ on his foreign accent. As I later learned, Jerry was a Dutch immigrant, and a former missionary to South America.
I never saw either of these two men again, though as I approached the grand old age of 2/3 of a century I set out to discover what I could about each of them. My quest was not in vain.
Having contacted the National Headquarters of the Assemblies of God organization I procured an article about the late Rev. Kirschke; which included a poor newspaper photo; but a photo, nonetheless. A couple of years later I managed to speak to the secretary of Rev. Triemstra’s church. While he had long since gone on to his heavenly reward, ‘Ms. Langley’ was able to procure a nice picture of Jerry and his family, and a bit of background information. And interestingly enough, one of my ‘Facebook cousins’ made me aware that her grandparents had been friends with the Triemstra’s.
Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
Ironically enough, the next year after my conversion experience, I enrolled at the same college where I came to know the Savior, and four decades later I was blessed to serve as an adjunct professor there; now a Christian-based, liberal arts university boasting 10x the original student body.
God has given thousands of men, women, boys and girls to my oversight, as over the past 25 years I have ministered as a pastoral counselor.
And though I never had a mentor, and perhaps as a response to this oversight, I have given a significant amount of time and effort to exercising a mentor role in the lives of dozens of young and not so young persons.
There’s a scene in the movie, “Dances With Wolves” in which an old mule skinner, and the military character are seen conversing about the former’s family, and their desire to see him at the end of his journey. Given the dangers posed by Indians and the thousand miles which lay between, he exclaims,
“I hope I don’t disappoint them!”
In the same way, I hope I don’t disappoint my spiritual fathers, as the result of the inherent dangers of the Christian journey, or simply the result of getting my eyes off the prize, or falling by the proverbial wayside. I can see them standing in the bleachers of heaven cheering me on. How I look forward to meeting them and spending a bit of quality time with both of them.
And like Rev.’s Kirschke and Triemstra, I honor my heritage by building a legacy. I am committed to becoming one of those giants upon whose shoulders someone else stands. One of those Cedars of Lebanon who stands straight, and strong and tall and beckons others to do the same.
And though I love William and Jerry and owe them a debt I can never repay, I think they and all whom God ever set in my pathway can wait.
My allegiance is to the lowly Nazarene; the God-man and Creator of the universe. He who spilt His last drop of blood for you and me, and who rules and reigns forevermore.
My greatest hope, my most ardent wish, my fondest expectation is to hear those blessed words,
“Well done, my good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
So give orders that Cedars of Lebanon be cut for me. My men will work with yours, and I will pay you for your men whatever wages you set. (1st Kings 5:6)
Last night was our Wednesday night mid-week service, and one of our lay ministers spoke on the topic of The Cedars of Lebanon. Of course, Bro. Martin referred to a couple of scriptures in the Old Testament, and the building of Solomon’s Temple, but his sermon had little to do with the literal Cedars of Lebanon, but rather, the proverbial or figurative trees of that variety.
Given the implication of the first paragraph, you may have picked up on his metaphor. You see, the allusion here is to those people who have exercised a positive influence on our lives. And the good man went on to enumerate various people who, throughout the course of his life, helped, blessed, admonished, encouraged and/or guided him.
I can so well relate since such ‘Cedars of Lebanon’ have made a profound difference in my own life. Now to be sure I readily admit, (to my disadvantage) I have never had what I might describe as a mentor; except perhaps dead ones. (People like Peter Marshall, Amy Carmichael, Eric Liddell, and Jim Elliot; those heroes of the faith who have left not only their writings behind, but their spiritual legacies).
As I have inferred, there have been those people whom God set in my pathway who “stepped up to the plate” and fulfilled God’s momentary will; at least momentary in terms of their influence on yours truly. And in so doing, each and every one of these who cooperated with His leading enhanced my Christian preparation, function and maturity.
There are two particular individuals upon whose shoulders I stand. Men of faith. Men who, in turn, stood upon the shoulders of my spiritual grandparents. For you see, these two of whom I speak were my spiritual fathers, and who, for lack of time and space I will limit the remainder of my story.
I graduated from high school in 1967 from the oldest high school in Florida’s Polk County; ‘Summerlin Institute.’ And I had only just graduated the previous month when another Summerlin graduate, and friend of mine invited me to join him at a revival meeting hosted by a local Bible College. I have long since forgotten whether I attended more than one of the weekly services, but I will never forget the particular meeting which impacted the entire rest of my natural life.
A ‘Bro. William Kirschke,’ the then Assemblies of God National Sunday School Superintendent, stepped to the pulpit and proceeded to share a Gospel message with the assembled throng. As he closed his message, and as you might expect, he offered anyone who would the opportunity to “walk the old sawdust trail” to the front of the college chapel, and kneel at the altar. As John Wesley once phrased it, “my heart was strangely warmed.” And before I realized it, I stood up and walked in the direction of the stage.
Although I was raised in the Methodist Church, and was greatly impacted by its music, I had never, ‘til now, “bent the knee” at what has been referred to as an “old fashioned altar.” Thus, everything about this experience was a bit alien to me.
I had no sooner kneeled, and perhaps momentarily wondered, “what comes next” than an older gentleman knelt down beside me, introduced himself as ‘Jerry Triemstra’ and invited me to repeat “The Sinner’s Prayer.” As I recall, he encouraged me to say the words aloud, and in so doing I ‘picked up’ on his foreign accent. As I later learned, Jerry was a Dutch immigrant, and a former missionary to South America.
I never saw either of these two men again, though as I approached the grand old age of 2/3 of a century I set out to discover what I could about each of them. My quest was not in vain.
Having contacted the National Headquarters of the Assemblies of God organization I procured an article about the late Rev. Kirschke; which included a poor newspaper photo; but a photo, nonetheless. A couple of years later I managed to speak to the secretary of Rev. Triemstra’s church. While he had long since gone on to his heavenly reward, ‘Ms. Langley’ was able to procure a nice picture of Jerry and his family, and a bit of background information. And interestingly enough, one of my ‘Facebook cousins’ made me aware that her grandparents had been friends with the Triemstra’s.
Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
Ironically enough, the next year after my conversion experience, I enrolled at the same college where I came to know the Savior, and four decades later I was blessed to serve as an adjunct professor there; now a Christian-based, liberal arts university boasting 10x the original student body.
God has given thousands of men, women, boys and girls to my oversight, as over the past 25 years I have ministered as a pastoral counselor.
And though I never had a mentor, and perhaps as a response to this oversight, I have given a significant amount of time and effort to exercising a mentor role in the lives of dozens of young and not so young persons.
There’s a scene in the movie, “Dances With Wolves” in which an old mule skinner, and the military character are seen conversing about the former’s family, and their desire to see him at the end of his journey. Given the dangers posed by Indians and the thousand miles which lay between, he exclaims,
“I hope I don’t disappoint them!”
In the same way, I hope I don’t disappoint my spiritual fathers, as the result of the inherent dangers of the Christian journey, or simply the result of getting my eyes off the prize, or falling by the proverbial wayside. I can see them standing in the bleachers of heaven cheering me on. How I look forward to meeting them and spending a bit of quality time with both of them.
And like Rev.’s Kirschke and Triemstra, I honor my heritage by building a legacy. I am committed to becoming one of those giants upon whose shoulders someone else stands. One of those Cedars of Lebanon who stands straight, and strong and tall and beckons others to do the same.
And though I love William and Jerry and owe them a debt I can never repay, I think they and all whom God ever set in my pathway can wait.
My allegiance is to the lowly Nazarene; the God-man and Creator of the universe. He who spilt His last drop of blood for you and me, and who rules and reigns forevermore.
My greatest hope, my most ardent wish, my fondest expectation is to hear those blessed words,
“Well done, my good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Generations
I’m not even sure where this particular journal entry is going, but
I’m convinced that so much of communication is about either making a
mutual decision, or providing information. Today’s submission is about
the latter of the two.
Perhaps I’m “singing to the choir” here, or perhaps not, but as an amateur genealogist, (not archaeologist, though there are similarities, since both specialties are into dead things) I have been fascinated to reflect on the multitude of direct ancestors who have proceeded us in this world.
My wife and I were reflecting on this issue today. We’ve been “taken up” with this theme ever since we discovered we are 5th cousins, as we share common 4x great grandparents; (Jabez and Rebecca Dowling).
But to get to my point.
We have two parents, four grandparents, eight great grandparents, sixteen 2x great grandparents, 32 3x great grandparents, 64 4x great grandparents, 128 5x great grandparents, 256 6x great grandparents, 512 7x great grandparents, 1,024 8x great grandparents, 2,048 9x great grandparents, and (drum roll) 4,096 10x great grandparents; (for a grand total of 8,054 grandparents throughout the course of only 11 generations and approximately half a millennium.) I would need a calculator to roughly compute the myriad of grandparents who have contributed their DNA to any one of us in the past 2,000 years since Jesus left His footprints here. Several billion to be sure. (Amazing to consider that every one of us can boast multiplied billions of grandparents)!
Amazing stuff.
With the passage of each more distant generation the number of our great grandparents have doubled, and of course each and every one of them owned a different surname, (last name), with the exception of any duplicates.
But to diverge for a moment, modern technology has allowed me, and millions of others like me, to meet present day relatives whom we might never have otherwise had the opportunity to know. I have interacted with 10th cousins on social media, and have done lunch with 4th and 5th cousins. Interesting, how we share distant great grandparents from the wee beginnings of American civilization, and how our once direct lines have, (there’s that word again) diverged.
And my genealogical research has made me aware that my ancestry is not confined to what some might classify as “commoners,” but “lo and behold” famous personages such as, Richard Warren, a Mayflower passenger, Sir Winston Churchill, President Franklin Roosevelt, and Princes William and Harry are among my distant relatives. (Not that I expect to be invited to have lunch at Buckingham Palace, mind you).
I have wondered if any of my ancestors whispered a prayer for me when I was yet unborn, (as I have for you). I have wondered who they were, what thoughts passed through the gray matter with which we are all blessed, what ambitions, perceptions and motivations they possessed, who they loved, where they traveled, and who among them will greet me when I cross that final threshold.
And if you happen to be reading this manuscript in half a thousand years, my dear descendant, we are prone to think of our father and mother as being the ultimate genesis of who we are as individuals, but consider how multiplied thousands of random and unacquainted individuals, (whom you can rightly refer to as “Grandfather” or “Grandmother”) contributed, and combined their own physical particularities, and mental capabilities to literally make you the person you are today.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 27, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Perhaps I’m “singing to the choir” here, or perhaps not, but as an amateur genealogist, (not archaeologist, though there are similarities, since both specialties are into dead things) I have been fascinated to reflect on the multitude of direct ancestors who have proceeded us in this world.
My wife and I were reflecting on this issue today. We’ve been “taken up” with this theme ever since we discovered we are 5th cousins, as we share common 4x great grandparents; (Jabez and Rebecca Dowling).
But to get to my point.
We have two parents, four grandparents, eight great grandparents, sixteen 2x great grandparents, 32 3x great grandparents, 64 4x great grandparents, 128 5x great grandparents, 256 6x great grandparents, 512 7x great grandparents, 1,024 8x great grandparents, 2,048 9x great grandparents, and (drum roll) 4,096 10x great grandparents; (for a grand total of 8,054 grandparents throughout the course of only 11 generations and approximately half a millennium.) I would need a calculator to roughly compute the myriad of grandparents who have contributed their DNA to any one of us in the past 2,000 years since Jesus left His footprints here. Several billion to be sure. (Amazing to consider that every one of us can boast multiplied billions of grandparents)!
Amazing stuff.
With the passage of each more distant generation the number of our great grandparents have doubled, and of course each and every one of them owned a different surname, (last name), with the exception of any duplicates.
But to diverge for a moment, modern technology has allowed me, and millions of others like me, to meet present day relatives whom we might never have otherwise had the opportunity to know. I have interacted with 10th cousins on social media, and have done lunch with 4th and 5th cousins. Interesting, how we share distant great grandparents from the wee beginnings of American civilization, and how our once direct lines have, (there’s that word again) diverged.
And my genealogical research has made me aware that my ancestry is not confined to what some might classify as “commoners,” but “lo and behold” famous personages such as, Richard Warren, a Mayflower passenger, Sir Winston Churchill, President Franklin Roosevelt, and Princes William and Harry are among my distant relatives. (Not that I expect to be invited to have lunch at Buckingham Palace, mind you).
I have wondered if any of my ancestors whispered a prayer for me when I was yet unborn, (as I have for you). I have wondered who they were, what thoughts passed through the gray matter with which we are all blessed, what ambitions, perceptions and motivations they possessed, who they loved, where they traveled, and who among them will greet me when I cross that final threshold.
And if you happen to be reading this manuscript in half a thousand years, my dear descendant, we are prone to think of our father and mother as being the ultimate genesis of who we are as individuals, but consider how multiplied thousands of random and unacquainted individuals, (whom you can rightly refer to as “Grandfather” or “Grandmother”) contributed, and combined their own physical particularities, and mental capabilities to literally make you the person you are today.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 27, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
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Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
"Mrs. Oleson" - Alive & Well in Southern California
From my perspective, Katherine MacGregor of “Little House on the
Prairie” is one of the two or three greatest supporting actors of all
time; (including, of course, Don Knotts of “The Andy Griffith Show”
fame).
“Mrs. Oleson” is, at different times, endearing and maddening, hilarious and despicable, conniving and manipulative. And Katherine plays the part “to a T.” (One may witness a pale comparison of her singular abilities in the similar role of “Mrs. Godsey,” actor’s name omitted here, on “The Waltons.”)
Little could I have known when the series originally aired in the 70’s, and when I viewed reruns in the first decade of the new century, that I would ultimately experience the privilege of “meeting” the 1880’s television storekeeper. Well, to be fair, I never met her face to face, but rather…
I discovered Katherine MacGregor’s mailing address, her actual residence to be sure, on the webpage of her television daughter, “Nellie.” And on this site Alison Arngrim claimed that Ms. MacGregor enjoyed receiving fan mail, and attempted to answer any and all correspondence which she received. As a result, I decided to write the (now) 90 year old actress, and make her aware that among millions of viewers, past and present, she was finally reading a letter from her biggest fan in this, or any other universe.
I told her what a great actress I considered her to be, I mentioned the existence of a Wikipedia page in her name, and relayed a message from a distant cousin who claimed to have known her, and whom she assisted in a little theater stage play.
And true to “Nellie’s” assurances, two or three weeks later I received a letter with the unfamiliar “Katherine MacGregor” and a California address in the upper left hand corner. And then the unfamiliar became all too familiar.
“Mrs. Oleson,” of course!
I lost no time ripping open the letter, and began reading.
Not only had “Harriet” returned my original letter, but she had responded with a half page of cursive beneath my signature, and also filled up the entire back of the page with her handwriting. She thanked me for my stated appreciation of her acting skills in the old television series, disclaimed knowing anything about Wikipedia, but found my description of one of my edits on the Katherine MacGregor page humorous. And she denied knowing my distant relative.
(Interestingly enough, my cousin is a former Hindu, and it seems Katherine is also a Hindu; in spite of her church attendance on the Little House series. “Ruby” had told me that, at one time, she and “Mrs. Oleson” had been members of the same Hindu sect, and that the great supporting actress had, as I previously alluded, come along side my cousin on some local stage production in the area).
And tucked inside the envelope was, as “Nellie” had inferred there might be, a noticeably aromatic slip of paper with her own hand-drawn cartoonish caricature of herself; along with Katherine’s scribble, “A Touch of Perfume!”
And what began with one letter sent, and one received metamorphosed into a short-lived pen pal relationship. (However, the subsequent interaction between Katherine and I was, at this point, a matter of her own initiative and interest, and not my own). And the content of the three or four follow up letters was all about discovering whom my distant relative, (who had claimed to know her) was, and in the meanwhile denying any acquaintance at all with her.
After several letters promoting this vein of thought, including one addressed to my cousin, the retired actress ultimately wrote,
“Dr. McDonald, I’m too old, and too involved with my other admirers to continue corresponding with you as I have. This will have to be my last letter.”
And of course, I thought,
“Well, my dear, you’re the one who has taken time to write all those extensive follow-up letters, not I.”
I sometimes pull out my old scrapbook and re-read the dear lady’s letters. And based on Ms. MacGregor’s words, tone and apparent personality, I can safely say her portrayal of the prairie storekeeper seems just about right.
“Mrs. Oleson” is still alive and well in southern California
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 35, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
“Mrs. Oleson” is, at different times, endearing and maddening, hilarious and despicable, conniving and manipulative. And Katherine plays the part “to a T.” (One may witness a pale comparison of her singular abilities in the similar role of “Mrs. Godsey,” actor’s name omitted here, on “The Waltons.”)
Little could I have known when the series originally aired in the 70’s, and when I viewed reruns in the first decade of the new century, that I would ultimately experience the privilege of “meeting” the 1880’s television storekeeper. Well, to be fair, I never met her face to face, but rather…
I discovered Katherine MacGregor’s mailing address, her actual residence to be sure, on the webpage of her television daughter, “Nellie.” And on this site Alison Arngrim claimed that Ms. MacGregor enjoyed receiving fan mail, and attempted to answer any and all correspondence which she received. As a result, I decided to write the (now) 90 year old actress, and make her aware that among millions of viewers, past and present, she was finally reading a letter from her biggest fan in this, or any other universe.
I told her what a great actress I considered her to be, I mentioned the existence of a Wikipedia page in her name, and relayed a message from a distant cousin who claimed to have known her, and whom she assisted in a little theater stage play.
And true to “Nellie’s” assurances, two or three weeks later I received a letter with the unfamiliar “Katherine MacGregor” and a California address in the upper left hand corner. And then the unfamiliar became all too familiar.
“Mrs. Oleson,” of course!
I lost no time ripping open the letter, and began reading.
Not only had “Harriet” returned my original letter, but she had responded with a half page of cursive beneath my signature, and also filled up the entire back of the page with her handwriting. She thanked me for my stated appreciation of her acting skills in the old television series, disclaimed knowing anything about Wikipedia, but found my description of one of my edits on the Katherine MacGregor page humorous. And she denied knowing my distant relative.
(Interestingly enough, my cousin is a former Hindu, and it seems Katherine is also a Hindu; in spite of her church attendance on the Little House series. “Ruby” had told me that, at one time, she and “Mrs. Oleson” had been members of the same Hindu sect, and that the great supporting actress had, as I previously alluded, come along side my cousin on some local stage production in the area).
And tucked inside the envelope was, as “Nellie” had inferred there might be, a noticeably aromatic slip of paper with her own hand-drawn cartoonish caricature of herself; along with Katherine’s scribble, “A Touch of Perfume!”
And what began with one letter sent, and one received metamorphosed into a short-lived pen pal relationship. (However, the subsequent interaction between Katherine and I was, at this point, a matter of her own initiative and interest, and not my own). And the content of the three or four follow up letters was all about discovering whom my distant relative, (who had claimed to know her) was, and in the meanwhile denying any acquaintance at all with her.
After several letters promoting this vein of thought, including one addressed to my cousin, the retired actress ultimately wrote,
“Dr. McDonald, I’m too old, and too involved with my other admirers to continue corresponding with you as I have. This will have to be my last letter.”
And of course, I thought,
“Well, my dear, you’re the one who has taken time to write all those extensive follow-up letters, not I.”
I sometimes pull out my old scrapbook and re-read the dear lady’s letters. And based on Ms. MacGregor’s words, tone and apparent personality, I can safely say her portrayal of the prairie storekeeper seems just about right.
“Mrs. Oleson” is still alive and well in southern California
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 35, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Modern Day Prophets
Modern Day
Prophets
I have struggled to reach a personal consensus concerning what I believe in regard to this role in the 21st century church. And thus far I am not ashamed to admit, I have mixed opinions.
Not because
the role of a prophet isn’t documented in New Testament scripture.
(It is).
Years ago,
almost half a century ago, my wife and I were involved in a half-way house
ministry in Tampa, Florida. A large group of recovering adolescent addicts
lived in “The Hallelujah House.” ‘Janice’ and I rented an apartment nearby, and
attended the worship services there on a nightly basis. At the time I was
serving my first (and only) active duty tour in the United States Air Force.
And as my
tour neared its inevitable conclusion, the middle-aged leader of the ministry,
a former Lutheran priest, “Jack Ollander,” decided it was a good thing to speak
a prophecy over me. (Rather convenient that Jack knew my wife and I planned to
live in Virginia, and that I would do my reserve duty in the largest city in
Maryland).
As I
approached the front of the living room, the lively shouts and prayers of
adolescents and older teens were stilled. Jack was about to utter a prophetic
word.
“Bro.
McDonald, Go from here. Go in the might and Spirit of the Lord God. He shall
give you fruit for your labor, and raise up a ministry through you in Baltimore;
a ministry very much like the one we have established here. Fear not. For this
is the Word of the Lord, and it must surely come to pass.”
Did I
mention I had little or no inherent desire to establish and supervise such a
ministry?
(Well, I
didn’t).
And what
became of what Jack might have characterized as a prophetic word; a word which “would
surely come to pass?”
Well, the
closest I same to “setting up shop” in Baltimore was my military presence in
that city once a month. However, surprisingly enough, at least to me, some 40 years
later my pastor dictated I create a recovery ministry in our central Florida church;
(which I summarily did and led for two years).
It seems, at
least in a rather general sense, Bro. Jack got the ministry part right, but the
geographical area was off by a thousand miles.
Modern Day
Prophets
And then
there’s the case of a nationally known ‘prophetess’ who booked a one night
speaking engagement in an American charismatic church a few years ago. (Yours
truly happened to be sitting in the audience that evening). At any rate, “Sister
Gloria” shared the kind of things prophets and prophetesses do, and as her ‘spiritual
spiel’ drew to a close, she uttered her most profound and poignant prophecy of
the night.
“I predict
that before the waning sands of this year drop through the hour glass, the
cities of Cincinnati and Houston will be completely devastated by terrorists…in
a manner that will make 911 look like child’s play.”
While I can’t
speak for the rest of the audience, I can tell you that her prophecies remained
at the forefront of my thoughts; at least throughout the final six months of
that particular year.
Can we say, “False
Prophet?”
And as the
year went out with a whimper, Cincinnati and Houston and their respective
citizens continued to be “fine and dandy.” Thank you.
And without
giving you any context, suffice it to say there was once a young man in dire
need of a job; having been out of work for quite some time. One day, as he sat
with a prospective employer, he made an unusual statement.
“My Christian
grandmother prophesied over me this morning, and assured me that I would be
hired today.”
Well, dear
readers, I can tell you that very day he joined the ranks of the gainfully
employed;
…for 8
hours.
For you see,
as the day progressed his newfound employer discovered there was something
amiss in the young man’s background, …and summarily terminated him.
Now, to be
fair I suppose we could give “Grandma Jones” credit for guessing correctly. (Then
again, I suppose she had a 50/50 chance of getting it right).
However,
(and it’s a big ‘however’) the underlying implication of Grandma’s prophecy was
that “Jim” would not only procure a job, …but would keep it.
(Which he
obviously didn’t).
Whatdoyasay?
Let’s give Bro. Jack a 5 outta 10
Sister
Gloria? Hmmmm. A wee bit closer to Zilch, Nada. Goose Egg
(and)
Grandma
Jones? She wins “by a neck.”
What, by the
way, does scripture tell us about the accuracy of a prophet?
"And if thou say in your heart, ‘How shall we know the
word which the LORD has not spoken?’ When a prophet speaks in the name of the
LORD, if the thing follows not, nor comes to pass, that is the thing
which the LORD has not spoken, but
the prophet has spoken it
presumptuously.” (Deut. 18:21-22)
I think the New Testament Book of 1st Corinthians leaves
little room for discussion, as it enumerates various gifts of the Holy Spirit.
…”To another prophecy.” (12:10)
The theory is good.
The reality?
Not so much.
I think the fault lies not in the SPEAKER, but rather the listeners.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
EMPTY CHAIRS
Two empty chairs
Oh, they have been empty in the past. Anytime someone happened not to be sitting in them.
But this time is different.
For you see, they will never be occupied again; at least not by the original two who once filled them up.
I can still see my parents, Henry and Erma, seated in those matching recliners. Reading newspapers, or perhaps a National Geographic, or simply starring out onto their mobile home-side pond.
My dad loved that chair, or better put he loved what that chair afforded him.
Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below.
More than once, many times more than once, I showed up, unannounced, and invaded his “inner sanctum;” only to discover him in the midst of an ethereal sleep. Which, as with us all, is prophetic of that slumber which must overtake each of us one day.
And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,
“Wake up, Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”
And he would rouse himself; if only long enough to acknowledge my presence, and e’er too many moments elapsed
…well, you guessed it.
And my mother.
I think she occupied her matching recliner, more often than not, for the sake of a selfish agenda.
To simply dwell in the presence of the one to whom she had pledged herself; some six decades hence. For it was here that she experienced and enjoyed the presence of the man who had, long since, relinquished activity in favor of the sedentary. Oh, mama put up a good show of doing one thing or another, as she occupied her matching chair. But I think, I think, it was all about my dad. And the singleness of what took two to complete.
And now. Now the chairs are empty.
My wife has a photograph of her parents. It was taken at the lake home of their son. And in that poignant picture Doc and Ruby may be seen seated on the lakeside porch, facing one another, and engaged in a private conversation; known and meant only for themselves.
I can picture my own parents engaged in a similar exchange. But that one set of chairs have been exchanged for another. What the years stole from them has been restored, and in good measure.
Empty chairs. Not some cheap montage of wood and metal and fabric. But an almost spiritual place.
My father occupied his chair when, after his stroke and my mother’s subsequent inability to care for him, I made him aware it was time to submit himself to a nursing facility.
My mother sat in hers the last time we took her home for lunch, and the final occasion on which she saw her sisters; having been placed in that same facility.
It was in this room, and in these chairs my parents lived the most and best of their waning years. It was here that they did the things people do as they scratched out what joy still remained to them in their declining years. It was here from which they entertained family and friends, complained about the weather, boasted of a new great grandchild, worried for the fate of the nation, laughed about a childhood picture, remembered something from their youth, memorialized a lost comrade; expressed some hope for our futures.
It was from these chairs they spoke and laughed and lived and loved, and gleaned from the gradually shrinking world around them.
Empty Chairs.
Strange, how rich and full and almost complete an empty chair may seem.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Oh, they have been empty in the past. Anytime someone happened not to be sitting in them.
But this time is different.
For you see, they will never be occupied again; at least not by the original two who once filled them up.
I can still see my parents, Henry and Erma, seated in those matching recliners. Reading newspapers, or perhaps a National Geographic, or simply starring out onto their mobile home-side pond.
My dad loved that chair, or better put he loved what that chair afforded him.
Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below.
More than once, many times more than once, I showed up, unannounced, and invaded his “inner sanctum;” only to discover him in the midst of an ethereal sleep. Which, as with us all, is prophetic of that slumber which must overtake each of us one day.
And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,
“Wake up, Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”
And he would rouse himself; if only long enough to acknowledge my presence, and e’er too many moments elapsed
…well, you guessed it.
And my mother.
I think she occupied her matching recliner, more often than not, for the sake of a selfish agenda.
To simply dwell in the presence of the one to whom she had pledged herself; some six decades hence. For it was here that she experienced and enjoyed the presence of the man who had, long since, relinquished activity in favor of the sedentary. Oh, mama put up a good show of doing one thing or another, as she occupied her matching chair. But I think, I think, it was all about my dad. And the singleness of what took two to complete.
And now. Now the chairs are empty.
My wife has a photograph of her parents. It was taken at the lake home of their son. And in that poignant picture Doc and Ruby may be seen seated on the lakeside porch, facing one another, and engaged in a private conversation; known and meant only for themselves.
I can picture my own parents engaged in a similar exchange. But that one set of chairs have been exchanged for another. What the years stole from them has been restored, and in good measure.
Empty chairs. Not some cheap montage of wood and metal and fabric. But an almost spiritual place.
My father occupied his chair when, after his stroke and my mother’s subsequent inability to care for him, I made him aware it was time to submit himself to a nursing facility.
My mother sat in hers the last time we took her home for lunch, and the final occasion on which she saw her sisters; having been placed in that same facility.
It was in this room, and in these chairs my parents lived the most and best of their waning years. It was here that they did the things people do as they scratched out what joy still remained to them in their declining years. It was here from which they entertained family and friends, complained about the weather, boasted of a new great grandchild, worried for the fate of the nation, laughed about a childhood picture, remembered something from their youth, memorialized a lost comrade; expressed some hope for our futures.
It was from these chairs they spoke and laughed and lived and loved, and gleaned from the gradually shrinking world around them.
Empty Chairs.
Strange, how rich and full and almost complete an empty chair may seem.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
Monday, June 27, 2016
My Left Leg
It
seems I have a vendetta against one of my legs.
My
right leg
It
all began back in the ‘60’s. My father and a good friend of his had been
fishing the past few hours, and had just returned. Among the other fish he’d
caught that morning was a 12 pound bass. Well, I was so excited about this
development that I neglected to
…open
the sliding glass door which separated me from my momentary interest.
Readers,
I literally ran through it!
…Leaving
an ugly gash on my right calf.
Fast
Forward
During
my two decades at United Parcel Service I stepped off the bottom step of my UPS
vehicle, well, over a hundred times a day. Left leg up. Right leg down.
…(Left
leg up. Right leg down. Left leg up. Right leg down).
And
it almost goes without saying that this constant abuse had a lasting impact.
And
upon setting my (right) foot on the ground a hundred times a day, I twisted my
(right) ankle a couple of times a year; doing significant damage to my, well,
(right) ankle and (right) knee.
Ultimately,
as I neared the end of my tenure at UPS, I developed a bulging varicose vein on
my right calf; which at this writing still exists.
Fast
Forward
A
few years ago I set a straight ladder against a round basketball pole. My
agenda? To snip a few oak limbs which hung over my (concrete) driveway.
As
I reached the 4th or 5th rung, the ladder began to shift
and I was, unhappily, provided a momentary choice relating to exactly
…how
I would fall.
And
thus, as gravity bore me irresistibly towards my unhappy fate, I positioned
myself so that I would land feet first. At this point need I mention that my
(right) foot touched down a millisecond before my left?
(Well,
it did).
And
thus, as (right) foot discovered it’s rather (un)sure footing on the
unforgiving surface, my (right) ankle was immediately converted into white
powder. The subsequent injury required major surgery; at which time a metal
plate and screws were installed. Can you say, ‘Bionic Man?’
In
the aftermath of the surgery, I was given the gift of an itchy, hot florescent
yellow cast.
A
few days later as I limped on crutches, in and about the four walls of my
house, my wife queried,
“Royce,
what is that dark spot above the top of your cast? I don’t remember seeing that
before.”
And
upon closer examination, lo and behold, half way up my (right) calf she
discovered an irregular, almost black mole shaped …like a valentine. But I can
assure you, it was no valentine. Far from it.
…Melanoma
And
as you might well imagine, I was forced to submit to major surgery (again)
which resulted in
…the
loss of approximately one-fourth of my (right) calf.
I
can tell you that when I finally removed the bandages tears sprang to my eyes.
Did
I mention that over the past four years I have made a habit of pedaling 10-20
miles a day?
(Well,
I have and I do).
All
in all during the course of my 11,270 accumulated miles I have maintained a
rather impressive safety record. For you see, in the midst of over 1000 10 mile
treks, I have sustained only two serious falls. With the emphasis on ‘serious.’
The
first scenario involved a small dog and a collision. You’ve heard of Newton’s 3rd
Law? (“For each action there is an equal and opposite reaction?”) Well, I think
he was on to something! Having slammed into a mass of canine flesh, I sailed
over the handlebars, and landed rudely on the asphalt;
…breaking
my (left) arm. (Left side this time, folks).
Fast
Forward
Eight
or ten weeks ago, having just purchased a (faster) bicycle, I caught the ‘lip’
of a curb, and (you guessed it) Newton’s 3rd Law kicked in again. I sailed over
the handlebars of my newer, faster bike and spread eagled on the sidewalk;
…landing
on my chin, hands and left and (right) knees.
Did
I say (‘right) knee?’
(Yep.
I think I did).
As
a result of this unfortunate accident, I sustained some significant damage
which was not readily apparent for several weeks. As it ‘fell’ together, after
about three weeks my (right) knee began to fill with fluid. So much so that I
reported to a nearby urgent care clinic, and the doctor aspirated the thing;
draining about 5 tablespoons of bloody liquid. A week later I darkened the
clinic’s doors again for a ‘do over.’ At this point, the doctor recommended I
have an MRI.
The
MRI indicated a badly torn meniscus ligament, at which point I was provided an
appointment with an orthopedic doctor. ‘Long story short’ the physician made me
aware that I had not only experienced a torn ligament, but that there was
cartilage missing between the bones of the knee, and arthritis was present; all
three conditions having accumulated over a significant amount of time. A couple
of weeks after my appointment, my (right) knee cap has assumed a different
shape, and I still experience some swelling. At this writing, ‘the jury is
still out’ in regard to the necessity or desirability of surgery.
It
goes without saying that, at this point, my (right) leg is a ‘piece of work.’
My
wife once said something long since forgotten to my mother to which she subsequently
responded,
“It
doesn’t take much to amaze you.”
Well,
were she alive I think my mother could not resist saying the same thing to me,
my friends. The number of incidents and the amount of damage I have sustained
to my (right) knee simply …amazes me!
In
my interaction with my counseling clients, family and friends I have often
conjectured that “everything about everything cannot be found in the holy
scriptures.” I mean, there’s nothing in the 66 books of the Old and New
Testaments related to baking an apple pie, nor is there anything there about
welding the frame of an automobile.
Surprisingly
enough, however, I believe I’ve found a reference to the issue involving my
(right) knee vs. my apparently healthy (left) knee.
…1st
Corinthians 12:22-23 – (right)
…1st
Corinthians 12:24 – (left)
Nope.
They’ll be no cheating here.
Grab
that dusty old Bible on top of your china cabinet, and look it up.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 39, Copyright pending
If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the index
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