THE HAND ON MY SHOULDER

My wife and I attended a local church several years ago, and I also happened to serve as the staff counselor there.

A few years into my tenure, our pastor contacted an evangelist friend and invited him to conduct a one week series of revival meetings; which he summarily did. On the final night of his series, “Pastor Lynch” invited whomever would to join “Rev. Jensen” at the front of the church for a final prayer; to send him on his way.

With this, Jean and I strolled to the area just below the pulpit, and joined perhaps fifty others as they surrounded the good minister. And as is the case in such evangelistic environments, each person, in turn, placed a hand on the shoulder of the person closest to the next person closest to the “identified individual.”

And since I was among numerous others which comprised one of the concentric rings which surrounded the evangelist, I was not surprised when someone behind me placed his or her hand on my right shoulder.

However…

As the communal prayer ended, and people began filing back to their pews, I realized the hand …was still on my shoulder. The realization that the hand remained unmoved struck me so strange that I found myself reticent to look around. But since it was time to make my exit from the front of the auditorium I had little choice, but to “do a 180” and head back to my seat.

As I turned and cast my eyes on the space from whence the arm and adjoining hand were extended, it was all too apparent that

…there was no one there!

And yet, and yet, the weight of the hand remained on my shoulder. 

And it was at this point that I realized I had either transcended the laws of gravity, (as the weight of the atmosphere exerts the same relative pressure on an entire body at sea level) or I had unknowingly sustained nerve damage on or about my deltoid muscle which accounted for the unusual sensation. (By this time I was racking my brain for any rationale for such a one of a kind experience).

And as I walked back down the aisle, and reclaimed my seat, the weight of the hand remained. As the service was dismissed, we made our way out the front door, I slid into the passenger seat, and we drove the 1.5 miles to our home, the extra pound of flesh and blood sat heavy on my shoulder. It was only after I flopped down in my recliner, and a few minutes elapsed that the strange sensation finally dissipated.

Although I can’t be altogether certain why our Lord afforded me this unique affirmation of His love and leading, I have never doubted that His hand has rested upon my life and ministry. As it fell together, the years ahead would be fraught with many trials and troubles, as well as triumphs.

I so often associate the miracle of that night with one of my favorite hymns.

All the way my Savior leads me
Who have I to ask beside
How could I doubt His tender mercy
Who through life has been my guide

All the way my Savior leads me
Cheers each winding path I tread
Gives me grace for every trial
Feeds me with the living Bread

All the way my Savior leads me
O, the fullness of His love
O, the sureness of His promise
In the triumph of His blood

And when my spirit clothed immortal
Wings its flight to realms of day
This my song through endless ages
Jesus led me all the way
Jesus led me all the way 





By William McDonald, PhD. 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 right margin.

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. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 37. 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 right margin.

VOICES FROM THE PAST

I wrote an earlier story about having once visited my great Uncle Gordon. I had just turned 13, and my family and I were vacationing at my grandparent’s house in southern Georgia. 

As my mother, brother and I sat in my uncle’s parlor, he stood up, walked over to an unusual wooden box, lifted the lid, and proceeded to turn a crank on the side; (which reminded me of the old timey handle on the front of those Henry Ford Model T’s).

Suddenly, a black cylinder mounted on the inside top of the box began spinning, and the strangest music I’d ever heard filled up the room. I’d seen those old black and white films of Al Jolsen singing, and what I was hearing reminded me of his style of music and vocal characteristics. 

For all I knew my exposure to my great uncle’s Victrola was a one-time experience; at least in terms of ever seeing and hearing his personal music box again. He was in his late 60’s or early 70’s, and I never expected to see him again. (And as it fell together, I never did).

However…

(One can always tell something unexpected is about to be revealed when this word appears on the written page).

However, a full half century later this former adolescent is easily as old as my dearly departed relative was at the time, and (strangely enough) I was recently afforded the opportunity to not only see and hear my uncle’s ancient Victrola again, 

…but to purchase it, and provide it a place of honor in my very own home.

Did I mention my great Uncle’s entire collection of audio cylinders came with that old music box? (Well, they did). It seems these cylinders have a Plaster of Paris base, with the standard black plastic record coating on the outside. And of perhaps a hundred audios, the inner core of perhaps 2/3 of them are beginning to crumble; (which leaves me wondering if there is any hope of repair).

 

But as for the thirty or so cylinders which are still usable, once again I have been given the opportunity to listen to the strains of that ethereal old music coming out of the internal horn; tucked just behind a framework of metal and what I refer to as ‘speaker cloth.’

My uncle evidently enjoyed religious music, as thus far I have discovered more than a ‘handful’ contain this particular genre of hymns and spiritual melodies. 

Yesterday, having pushed the audio cylinder onto the roller, I turned the crank 8 or 10 times, and flipped the switch. Suddenly, the familiar old hymn, “Rock of Ages” wafted through the speaker. At first, several male and female voices blended; ultimately metamorphosing into one female voice finishing the verse.

Strange, the Edison Amberola 30 player was patented in 1903, and according to a notecard which my uncle wrote out by hand, my particular version of the machine was originally purchased in 1917. 

The owners of the surreally poignant voices have easily been dead and gone for three quarters of a century. No more will they walk their native soil, but rather have become part of it.

…However,

(there’s that word again)

they have left something of themselves behind.

And, would you believe it? In spite of the tiny cracks and pops which are part and parcel of such an ancient recording, and in spite of the decidedly English tilt of their repertoire, the tenor of their voices struck something deep inside of me. 

Deep calling out to deep. A rather apt way of putting it, I think. They were here and I was not. I am here and they are not. And yet, they have lent me their voices, and have instilled something grand and lasting within me. 

They have simply left something of themselves behind.

And for this I am grateful, (and intend to do as they have done before me).


  By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 44. 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 right margin.