A Rectangle in the Sky

There’s a very good movie by the title of, “Bagger Vance” in which a character by the name of ‘Rannulph Junuh,’ (played by Matt Damon) departs his hometown of Savannah, Georgia, and goes off to war (WWI). As an army officer he leads his infantry company into a desperate and ill-fated attack against a superior German force, and as it falls together, he alone escapes with his life; winning the Congressional Medal of Honor, but returning home defeated, and a shadow of his former self. 

And it so happens that before the war Junuh was an up and coming golfer and had won a prestigious amateur tournament. After he returns, Savannah civic leaders solicit him to represent the city in a match featuring (the real life) pros Bobby Jones and Walter Hagen. Meanwhile, a member of the angelic host appears in the form of ‘Bagger Vance,’ (portrayed by Will Smith) in what turns out to be his successful attempt to repair the broken morale of a good man.

After the match is well underway, and with Rannulph falling further and further behind, he slams the ball into the rough; at which point he and Bagger track it down. As the duo talk about which club to use to return the ball to its place of origin, and our hero expresses doubt about his possibilities, (not limited to the game of golf) Bagger encourages him that all is not lost. 

During this little interlude Junuh finds himself alone in the same forest in which he fought, and in which hundreds of his men breathed their last. And as he gazes towards the field of play, it is as if he is looking into the same rectangular opening in the trees that he saw on the field of battle; (and by which he secured his escape).

With this, Junuh places the ball on the tee, draws back and drives it with all his might towards the goal; with it landing exactly where he could only have hoped it would. As the pair walk back towards the other two golfers, and the assembled throng surrounding them, the very relieved Rannulph exclaims,

“Bagger, you’re one h_ _ _ of a caddy.”

To which his golf angel responds,

“Well, thank ya, sur.”

And need I mention,

the battle-beaten, insecure (former) shell of a man overcomes all the obstacles set in his pathway, and 

…wins the match; 

and ultimately, (we like to think) the match called ‘Life.’

And all the foregoing to say, I witnessed one of those rectangular doorways today. 

To which you might too casually respond, 

“Well, so what? I not only see them, but walk through them on a daily basis.”

To which I might just as casually respond,

“Good point. But the rectangular doorway to which I am referring is easily as ethereal as the one to which I alluded in my story.”
For you see, as I left the post office this afternoon, and aimed my 2015 silver Nissan Altima in the direction of the grocery store, I noticed one of the most unusual cloud formations I’d ever seen.“Right there in front of God and everybody,” it hovered before me.

A Rectangular Doorway 

…in the sky.

And it seemed to be the exact shape of that entrance, (or exit, depending on your perspective) depicted in the movie. 

A cloud to the left. A cloud to the right. A cloud below. A cloud above. And in between the four nebulous formations of water vapor, 

…a blue, rectangular hole in the sky.

You know, God has always made a door available to those who have chosen Him to be their Saviour. The door among all doors had to be when He opened up the Red Sea, and the Jews of Egypt walked across on dry land. And who can forget Daniel in the Lion’s Den, and his having walked out of that dank, dark fearsome place unscathed? We have Jonah and the great fish, and his deliverance from a very unpleasant digestive process. And Peter (who very much like Bagger Vance) received his own personal angel, and was rescued from almost certain death. 

And as with literal doorways, they may be used to both go out and come in. Just as our Lord provides figurative exits for His children, He oft times provides entrances which represent changes in our personal dispensation, or merely tweaks in the mission He planned for us; before He made the worlds.

A brief investigation into the lives of such biblical stalwarts as Joseph, David and Jesus speaks to this variable. The Joseph of the dungeon and the Joseph of the palace. The David of the pasture and the David of the throne room. The Jesus of the stable, cross and tomb, and the Christ Who has re-assumed His place at the right hand of His Father in heaven.

The Providential leading (and oft times) deliverance, of the Almighty, the God of all creation, Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnipresent, the Lord of lords, and King of kings, the Great ‘I AM.’ The very Saviour of the world. 

It has been true in my life. And, no doubt, it has been true in many of your own. 

For has He not promised,

“Your times are in My hands.” (Psalm 31:15)

(and)

“The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me.” (Psalms 138:8)

(and)

"He who has begun a good work in you will continue to perform it until the day of Christ." (Phil. 1:6)

 (and)

“Faithful is He who has called you, and He will also do it.” (1st Thessalonians 5:24)

I witnessed a most unusual formation in the sky today. And who can say whether anyone else saw it, or whether it was tailor-made for me? Was it as singular and personalized as the rectangular exit (or entrance), as the one characterized on ‘Bagger Vance,’ or as corporate to God’s people, as the salvation which Christ won for mankind on the cross?

I must leave that story for another day.

…To be continued


 By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

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When Storms May Come. Pt. 3

(Cont. from Pt. 2)

As I recall there's a series of movies titled, "Home Alone." Well, that particular phrase adequately describes Queenie's weekly status when we head off for church on Sunday mornings. 

The first time our precious pooch 'did a crazy' was accompanied by the thunderous rhythm of a fierce lightning storm. When we returned home she was no where to be found, but there could be little doubt the little girl had left her mark on her surroundings. 

The floor cabinet under the sink was thrown open. A canister of wasp spray lay on the tile floor in front of it, while a can of Comet and bottle of dish washing liquid were tipped over just inside the door. We were astounded to realize that Queenie had managed to open that door, and had done her best to occupy the space formerly occupied by the previously-mentioned kitchen products. As I walked into my den several CD's were lying on the floor; along with a sack of rubber bands and my magnifying glass. And then I grasped what had happened here. My determined canine had jumped up into my typing chair, and made her way across my desk and onto my waist-high file cabinet; eventually retracing her pathway to the carpeted floor. 

About this time my wife and I heard scratching, and perceived the sound was coming from the hall bathroom. Opening the door we saw her; (as well as the damage she'd left in her wake). The inside door was covered in scratches. We'd apparently left it open. Queenie, finding herself bombarded by the 100+ decibels of thunder, retreated to the only self-contained room in the house, and pushed the door shut. As I walked in, she walked out.

Did I mention my pet pooch was involved in the same shenanigans several times? (Well, she was). And thus for sake of time and copious reading, suffice it to say we began closing all the doors to bedrooms and bathrooms to prevent a re-occurrence of such wanton destruction; when we were gone and Queenie was left alone in the house.

However...

As we prepared to leave for our latest excursion yesterday, the hall bathroom ...was left open. And as you might have guessed, a storm arose, and our private wrecking ball found her way in and closed the door; only to change her mind ten minutes later and began to claw her way out. 

Did I mention the doors in my house are hollow? (Well, they are).

And having arrived home, the hall bathroom reminded me of a demolition derby. The trashcan was turned over, wood chips covered the tile floor, and ...there was a hole in door the size of my fist. Had we not returned home when we did, I'm convinced the industrious little tyke would have created her own little doggie door in short order.

I wonder if Chip & Joanna of 'Fixer Upper' fame need any help with the demolition phase of their business?
 
 By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

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When Storms May Come. Pt. 2

(Cont. from Pt. 1)

We thought we were getting a puppy, or perhaps a young dog of 1 or 2. I mean, Shih Tzu's hold their own very well, and it's difficult to guess their age. But when I took Queenie to the vet the first time, he looked at her teeth and eyes, and said, "You have a ten year old dog here." And given that small dogs accumulate about 6 years for every one of their human compatriots, my little lass was all of 60; (and would soon outpace me). That was three human, (almost 20 dog) years ago.

And I think for the passing of the years, our aging pup has succumbed to any simblance of self-control when it comes to the slightest hint of precipitation. Queenie's demeanor kinda reminds me of an experience I had in south Florida after Hurricane Andrew. 

My National Guard unit, along with 35,000 additional troops, had been called to Homestead to assist the people of that devastated city, and surrounding area. One day as I stood outside a flea market which served as an emergency food stamp center, the slightest breeze wafted past, and a few rain clouds arose. As a result, a little girl, she might have been five or six, began to well up with tears, and cry aloud. I thought, "Well, that's an unusual response." But as I soon learned, 'Gracie'  and her parents had (foolishly) remained in their home during the storm, and came close to losing their lives.

 I don't recall when 'it' began happening. Perhaps this year. I mean, Queenie had always displayed anxiety and could not remain still during a rain storm. But if those kind of symptoms represented a 5 on a scale of 10, having crossed 'a fine line in the sand,' suddenly her rating jumped off the scale.

(to be continued) 


 By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

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When Storms May Come. Pt. 1

Over the course of the past sixty years, four precious pooches have had the inestimable privilege of serving as my pets. (At least, I like to hope each of them have felt this way).

There was Princess, the Cocker Spaniel, and  Buddy, the Shih Tzu and Lucy the mixed breed Corgi, and finally my present pooch, Queenie, the Shih Tzu. (Again)

Funny, how every pet; dog, cat or otherwise seem to possess (or be possessed by) their own personality. I mean, you take Buddy and Queenie, both members of the Shih Tzu clan, and yet their demeanor and attributes, (or lack thereof) were/are diabolically different. 

Buddy hated to walk. Queenie 'won't go' without walking; (to Outer Mongolia). Buddy would 'hang around' in the back yard, and if we forgot her, she'd toddle up to the door and whine 'til we let her in. Queenie goes nowhere without a leash for fear she will 'go AWOL,' as she has in the past. Buddy never had an 'accident' in the house. 

Queenie is almost guaranteed to have an accident; sooner, rather than later. (Due to her age and accidents I almost transported her to the vet, and was prepared to ask him to send her to 'doggie heaven,' but she got a last minute reprieve. My wife and I have surmised that she heard us talking about her despicable bathroom habits, and her potential fate, and she quickly 'wised up' and learned where to make her 'deposits'). 

Strangely enough, Buddy, a quite expensive breed of dog, wandered up in my yard years ago, and stranger still, Queenie, the same breed, wandered up in a friend's yard, and, ultimately, we became the proud recipients of the little fur ball.

Did I mention Queenie wandered up in a storm? 

(Well, she did). 

And I can tell you, as the result of her exposure to the rain, thunder and lightning that day, she is one shell-shocked little canine. 

(To be continued)



 By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

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She's Not Heavy. She's My Mother

It is not uncommon to hear the phrase, “I buried my dad last week” or “I laid my mother to rest this week.”

Well, in my case the phraseology is not exaggerated. 

In March of 2012 I buried my father. Or to be fair, I dug a shallow hole in front of his headstone, and buried his cremains.

As I write this story the end of April is upon us, and I am (literally) preparing to bury my mother. Or to be accurate, my mother’s cremains.

I stopped by the funeral home yesterday, and picked up all that remained of her. 

Odd, that the total sum of the human body is capable of being reduced to the square space available in a 1’x8”x6” laminate box.

And as I lifted what passed for an urn, I remembered the (slightly altered) words of a once popular song.

 “She ain’t heavy. She’s my mother!”

My mother had been bed-bound the last several months of her life, and just prior to “achieving” a state of total helplessness, I recall having helped her from her wheelchair into her bed. In spite of her modest 130 lbs. frame, it was all I could do to not drop her on the floor. Dead weight. (No pun intended).

Odd, at this stage she really is, well, dead, but her weight is so diminished that I can hold her in one hand. 

As I strode out of the funeral home, carrying the last mortal remains of my mother, I set a course for my nearby 2015 silver Altima. Reaching the passenger door, I threw it open, and lovingly placed the urn on the front seat. 

I could not resist.

“Mama, you haven’t ridden in my new car. How ‘bout I just set you here by me.”

At City Hall I was informed that, 

“Well, no, you cannot inter your mother’s cremains today. We will be sending a survey person to the grave site in the next couple days.”

As a result of the mandatory wait, and since my mother had been cooped up for several months, I decided to offer her “the grand tour;” 

(well, at least the “petite tour.”)

“Mama, how would you like to drive by your old house?”

And although, my mother was perfectly incapable of speaking at this point, I aimed my trusty silver “steed” towards 670 Formosa Avenue, Bartow. As we passed my childhood home, I exclaimed,

“Well, mama. There it is. Brings back lots of memories, huh?”

(And indeed, it did).

My mother hadn’t been home in six months, not ‘since her sisters’ October 2015 visit; although she had hoped to summon up a final burst of energy which would allow her to do lunch there one more time.

Well, this kind of “going home” was, without fear of contradiction, not what she had in mind. However, I simply could not contemplate storing her in my house ‘til the appointed day. Thus, having parked my car in her driveway, I unlocked the side door, walked a few steps to her bedroom, and set the urn on the floor next to her nightstand.

On April 29, 2016 my mother will take her place next to the mortal remains of my dear father. During the two years my mom resided in the skilled nursing facility, she was prone to tell anyone who would listen that,

“I’m ready to go.”

(and/or)

“A body shouldn’t have to live like this.”

(and/or)

“I’m be happy when I can join my dear husband in heaven.”

As I conversed with the funeral director yesterday, prior to heading for my car, I alluded to the literalness of having buried my father, and shortly doing the same for my mother. And I finished my train of thought with,

“And perhaps one of my children will return the favor one day.”

The (slightly altered) words of that song echo in my consciousness,

“She ain’t heavy. She’s my mother.”

I can think of no higher privilege.


 By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 32. Copyright pending

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Sacrificial Suicide

The Tampa Bay area has experienced more than its share of wrong way drivers the past few years. And I think it confounds the average driver how such a thing could possibly happen; especially on well-lit, adequately-signed thoroughfares, such as interstates and parkways.

On March 12, 2016 another tragic accident occurred on the parkway in Tampa. John Kotfila, a deputy with the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department, responded to the incident in a virtually unprecedented manner, and his quick thinking and the actions which followed go far beyond charitable. 

The newspaper report conveys it well.

“Deputy Kotfila's final moments were spent trying to help someone else. Sarah Geren and her boyfriend were driving home from Ybor City on the Selmon Expressway Saturday morning, when she spotted the wrong way driver.

'I was flashing my lights crazily at him like a strobe light.--click click click click, because I couldn't think of any other way to say 'Stop driving at me! Please don't hit me!' Geren said.

But before she knew it, Deputy Kotfila, who was driving right behind her, passed her, taking the impact in the crash that ultimately killed him and the wrong way driver.”

What kind of man is this?

It occurs to me that the two word phrase, “Sacrificial Suicide” says it well, and says it all. 

I can only imagine the momentary decision and emotional dynamic it took to purposely pass the would-be victims, and place one’s self “in the line of fire;” realizing that in the space of a few moments he would almost certainly be ushered into eternity. 

In the New Testament, John 15:13, we read,

“Greater love has no man than this that a man lay down his life for a friend.”

Deputy Kotfila did one better. He sacrificed his life for someone with whom he was altogether unacquainted. 

And as a result, two precious young people were provided the wherewithal to continue living, and moving and breathing and loving; whereas, both would have almost certainly lost her lives that day.

His sacrifice of himself and all that lay ahead of him has impacted me in a profound manner.

May God hold this sacrificial law officer in the hollow of His loving arms, and reward him for having given the last full measure of devotion.

  By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 33. Copyright pending

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Reminders

We may add to the honor in which we hold God’s name in our own heart. Some persons live year after year and give little serious thought to the divine character, not studying the Scriptures to discover its glory and its beauty. The more we know about God the more we will revere and honor his name. Every new revealing of him shows us something more that is wonderful in him. In a Russian palace there is a gallery in which are hung several hundred portraits of young maidens. These pictures were painted by Count Rotari, for Catharine II. The striking feature in the collection is that those who were familiar with the empress and her habits and tastes could find in each portrait, half concealed, half revealed, something that reminded them of her. In one it was a jewel that she admired; in another, a flower that was dear to her; in another, some feature of her face; in another, a scene which had some connection or association with her life. The whole gallery was a glorifying of the empress.

Everything in this world has in it, for a devout mind, some suggestion of God. Every flower that blooms, every cloud that flits across the sky, every star that shines, every human face, suggests something about God, the Creator, reveals some feature of his power, his wisdom, his goodness. In the Bible there is not a chapter, scarcely a verse, in which the child of God may not find something which speaks to him of his Father. In every true Christian life and character, also, there are revealings of God, qualities in which something of him is reflected. As we thus learn about God, the honor in which we hold him in our heart becomes greater and greater. Every new glimpse of him makes him appear greater and more glorious to our thought and love.

 
  By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 39. Copyright pending

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Scar on a Tree. Scar on a Heart. Pt. 2

In August of 1992, as the result of a storm referred to as Hurricane Andrew, half of the Florida Army National Guard and thirty thousand of our active duty compatriots were shipped to South Florida to do duty there. Our convoy had just transcended a momentary line between health and dearth. Strength and weakness. Life and death. Never during the course of my four decades on the earth had I experienced anything like it.

Every tree, every bush, every plant rudely stripped of their leaves. A sight reminiscent of the northern areas of our country; when summer gives way to fall. Not a thousand miles south; where the four seasons are too close to being interchangeable.

The devastation visited us on a grand geographical scale, not unlike the devastation which comes as a finite emotional one; an individual, a few family members and friends, as inestimably devastated as the foliage of that city had been so rudely stripped of its leaves.

As a pastoral counselor I have worked with clients who have experienced trauma, trouble and testing on a personal scale, as inestimably awesome as that memorable storm had visited upon a corporate one. And not unlike trees stripped of their covering, their lives were suddenly deprived of homeostasis, and the wherewithal to continue.

As I stood looking at that ugly, raw scar on that small tree, I was reminded of that day in the last decade of the century just ended, in which the storm had done something very much like it, but on a much grander scale. This time I found myself in the presence of a more singular tragedy, but as personally impactful, and  lasting.

The physical scar on that little tree. So utterly like the emotional ones which have suddenly been etched into the fabric of a few not so well chosen lives. Lives which have figuratively been so rudely stripped of their leaves, and who have begun a journey; which ‘til this very moment in time remained an awful theory.

I could never finish a story such as this one without including the aspect and implication of two words which are among the best of words. Encouragement. And hope. And I think there is no better personal illustration than that which occurred in the aftermath of that great storm to which I have previously alluded.

Since during the 40 days in which I served the people to whom we have been sent, my compatriots and I experienced an event common to another part of our country, but unknown to the region in which I reside.

For you see, every tree, every shrub, every bush began to bud again in unison; as if led by some invisible conductor. And the fresh, light green of a million million leaves caressed those stark, empty branches, and covered up the emptiness which the storm had visited upon them.

God grant those dear family members and friends so horribly impacted by the personal tragedy in this account the emotional healing which comes with time and perspective, and  hold their dear loved one in the hollow of His loving arms.


  By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

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