Thursday, August 31, 2017

PLANET OF THE APES. Pt. 1

In the past several days, America ‘celebrated’ the 25th anniversary of the onslaught of Hurricane Andrew; the most horrendous and costly natural disaster to visit the United States ‘til that time. This Category 5 storm set its sights on Homestead, Florida, and made landfall in the early morning hours of Monday, August 24th, 1992.

I recall having attended church the Sunday evening before Andrew worked its awful magic on the landscape of south Florida, and requesting prayer for the people of that region. Oddly enough, I have never forgotten a particular phrase I uttered the fateful evening before the storm.

“We need to pray for those poor people. I cannot imagine going through what they’re about to go through.”

Little did I know, I would have the distinct privilege of sharing the experience with them.

For you see, as I drove my trusty brown UPS truck the next day, I was notified that my Army National Guard battalion had been mobilized, and was about to join 35,000 other active and reserve troops in the hurricane ravaged cities of Homestead and Cutler Ridge.

Interestingly enough, (at least to me) my unit, the 2nd Battalion, 116th Field Artillery,“set up shop” at the Metro Zoo, (or what was left of it). Some of the hundreds of animals there had been moved to other locations before the storm, while others were left behind. And though I never saw any giraffes or elephants wandering the premises, we were informed that a “Noah’s Ark” load of animals, including boa constrictors and pythons, had escaped during the height of the hurricane.

A research facility populated by monkeys infected with HIV was left to its own devices, and as a result, hundreds were thought to be prowling our military headquarters. Our troops were given “shoot on sight” orders to kill any of the little critters which had the misfortune of crossing our pathway.
(to be continued)

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 66. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.
If you wish to copy, save or share, please include the credit line, above

WITH THESE CANDLESTICKS, I BUY BACK YOUR SOUL. Pts. 1-4

There is a scene in both the book and every version of the movie, “Les Miserables” (by Victor Hugo and set in early 1800’s France) in which an escaped convict knocks on a priest’s door, and explains that he is hungry and needing a place to lay his head for the night. Father Myriel invites Jean (pronounced John) Val Jean into his humble abode, much to the consternation of the kindly priest’s housekeeper. As the unlikely trio sit down for supper, we notice the convict’s eyes widen as a set of ornate silverware is laid out before him, and a contrastingly small, but evil smile appears on his lips.
The supper over, Bishop Myriel and Jean Val Jean sit before the fire awhile, before eventually retiring for the evening. As the stars navigate their evening circuit across the sky, and the fireflies flit here and there throughout the nearby pastures, the criminal opens his eyes, and looks around his borrowed room. Jean silently dresses, and steals into the kitchen. Emptying his own knapsack of a few worthless odds and ends, he helps himself to the sterling silver plates and utensils.
It is a full moon, and as Jean Val Jean walks across the open threshold of Father Myriel’s room, the old priest opens his eyes and immediately understands the import of the scene that is playing itself out in his presence. But after an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and a knowing smile, the parson closes his eyes, and is soon overtaken by slumber.
The morning dawns bright and fair, and there is a shriek as the housekeeper opens the silver cabinet for the breakfast meal, and becomes all too aware of what has taken place in the night.
“Bishop, dear Bishop, that man you allowed into your home has robbed you of your silver! Quickly Sir. We must contact the magistrate.”
The kindly priest walks into the kitchen, and merely says,
“Well now, good woman. He must have needed the stuff more than we.”
and
“After all, the silver is not ours, but God’s. It is best used for the poor. And was our dear brother not poor in both goods, and spirit? It is well. It is well.”


Pt. 2

Shortly afterwards there is a loud banging on the door, and the harried housekeeper hastens to open it. Before her stands a middle aged man adorned in the clothing of the city magistrate. He holds a dirty knapsack in his hands. Behind him stands, well, you guessed it, Jean Val Jean; iron shackles adorning his hands and feet. A slightly built police sergeant holds him by the arm.
“Excuse me, Bishop Myriel. A moment of your time, please. This wicked fellow here, well, we caught him with a sack full of silver, and when we asked him where he got it, he claimed, well, he claimed you gave it to him.”
The kindly priest smiled and responded,
“Well, yes, I gave him the silver. Please release him. You were only doing your duty, sir, but he did nothing wrong.”
The magistrate was incredulous. “You mean he was telling us the truth?” And he couldn’t quit shaking his head in disbelief.
There was nothing else to do but release the poor shackled soul. And the magistrate gave his assistant instructions to do so.
As the chains fells off Jean Val Jean’s hands and feet, the kindly bishop whispered to his housekeeper. She hurried off into the house, and quickly returned with something in her hands.
The priest accepted two similar items from her, and thrust them into the hands of the escaped convict.
“And my dear sir, you forgot these silver candlesticks. Didn’t I remind you to pack them before you left this morning?”
The magistrate was aghast, and could only shake his head, and say,
“Well, Bishop Myriel. We will take our leave now. Thank you very much for clearing this up for us, Sir.”
And then they were left alone. Without a word, the kindly bishop motioned Jean Val Jean to step into his humble home.


Pt. 3

As they entered the small living area, neither man sat down. The bishop starred unblinking into Jean Val Jean’s eyes for what seemed the longest time, and Jean could not help but returning his gaze.
The priest knew the convict’s story. The big brute had unraveled the tale for him the night before. His sister and her little son, and he were without work, and desperately hungry. And in a moment of desperation Jean Val Jean had gone looking for,… for bread. Oh, he’d found it, he’d found it behind a bakery display window. The hungry man had picked up a rock and smashed what lay between him and his prize. A single loaf of bread, and as a result of that momentary decision, he’d spent 19 years in prison.
The bishop finally spoke,
“Jean Val Jean. You have been tried and convicted for a crime of passion. A passion that is common to all of us. Your stomach ached for food, and your relatives suffered from the same temptation. You have suffered a great wrong perpetrated by a callous judge who stole a third of your life from you, and understandably your soul is dark with vengeance.”
It was at then that the kindly bishop grasped Jean’s two hands with his own. The hapless convict still clung to the silver candlesticks in those over-sized hands.
“Jean Val Jean. You are no longer the man who knocked on my door yesterday. A sinner and a stranger stepped across my threshold yesterday. Before me now stands my brother in Christ. You are changed, you are purified. With these candlesticks I buy back your soul. And as often as you look at them, you must remember this day. You must spend the rest of your life doing good, as Christ our Lord also did good.”


Pt. 4

And the kindly priest’s words seemed at the same time a weight and a grace to the rough-hewn Val Jean. And the years of pain and bitterness escaped him in a torrent of tears. Suddenly, the convict dropped to his knees, and a wail escaped his lips that might have easily been heard outside the house.

Bishop Myriel stooped down, and took the repentant man by his burly arms, lifted him to his feet, and lovingly embraced him.
“Jean Val Jean, my brother. Go now. Go in peace.”


And Jean stepped out of that old cottage door; a changed man.
(I have always been captivated by this story. I read it in high school English, and this scene from one particular version of the movie impacted me unlike almost nothing ever did. What I have shared with you tonight is my own rendition of the pages of the novel, and the film footage).

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 40. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

If you wish to copy, save or share, please include the credit line, above

CONSIDER HIM




When the soul storm is raging high,
When the tempest rends the sky
When my eyes with tears are dim
Then, my soul consider Him.


When your plans are in the dust,
When your hopes and dreams are crushed
When is passed each foolish whim
Then, O soul, consider Him


When your dearest friends depart,
When deep sorrow fills your heart
When pain racks my weary limbs
Then, my soul consider Him.


When your path is a weary way
When new trials come each day
When your faith and hope grow dim
Then, my soul consider Him.


Rain or sunshine, dark or bright
Evening shadows or morning light
When my cup flows o’er the brim
Then, my soul… consider Him.

*Anonymous and re-edited by Bill McDonald, PhD

EVEN IF YOU DON'T. Pts. 1-2




I have been listening to a song on youtube by “Mercy Me” lately, titled “Even If.”

The lyrics and music are compelling. Following is a portion of one stanza.

I know You're able and I know You can
Save through the fire with Your mighty hand
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone

And I immediately thought of long suffering Job of the Old Testament. For you see, in the midst of his pain and suffering and disillusionment with the Almighty, he uttered one of the most poignant statements ever spoken by man.

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

I mean, we’ve all been there when Disaster, Difficulty, Doubt, Despair, and Disillusionment overwhelm our sensibilities, and challenge our ability to carry on.

Jesus knew the pain of betrayal and loss when many members of His outer circle went away. And I think the human side of our Savior was never more obvious, as He asked the Twelve that heartrending question. “Will you also go away?” (Not to mention His ultimate betrayal and loss, as all but one of the Twelve stepped away from Him during the most crucial season of His life).

Speaking of betrayal and loss, it has taken me a full three years to ‘get over’ an experience very similar to that of our Savior. Granted, that which our Lord endured was so much deeper and darker than anything I have ever endured, but what I experienced was real and personal enough to me, and overwhelmed every fiber of my humanity.


Pt. 2


I think if anyone had a grasp of Disaster, Difficulty, Doubt, Despair and Disillusionment, it was the Apostle Paul.

24Five times I received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. 25Three times I was beaten with rods, once I was stoned, three times I was shipwrecked. I spent a night and a day in the open sea. 26In my frequent journeys, I have been in danger from rivers and from bandits, in danger from my countrymen and from the Gentiles, in danger in the city and in the country, in danger on the sea and among false brothers,… (2nd Corinthians Chapter 11)

I simply cannot imagine.

But my friends, this simply isn’t all there is, and as I have often shared with my clients and church members, “the closer I get, the easier it has become.” This life is like a fog in the morning, and I am convinced that whatever we must endure here will be more than repaid on the other side of this life.

My sister forwarded a photo of my dad to me today; one which I don’t recall seeing before.

The picture depicts my dad at the age of perhaps 65 or 70; 15 to 20 years before God called him home to Glory. When I asked her, Linda informed me that the photograph was snapped in Robbinsville, NC; along a river where my parents had purchased a cabin. It seems my dad was in the process of building a dock, though no structure, whatsoever, can be seen.

In the picture Daddy is wearing the most bedraggled clothes I have ever seen him wear. His jeans are replete with holes, and stains, and his upper body is clothed in a dirty t-shirt. In spite of the condition of his clothing, my father appears to be staring directly into the camera lens, wearing a smile which might easily compete with the sun, and with one hand raised in greeting, (or farewell).

Afterward


Interestingly enough, as recently as I came into possession of this unique picture, it has become my all-time favorite of my dad.

And I think I like it so much because it so well characterizes the journey we know as life and death.

I think the river represents the threshold between this life and the next. That both literal and proverbial river we call Jordan.

My father’s torn and dirty clothing speaks to the trials, troubles and turmoil of life, and the manner in which it inflicts pain and suffering on all of us.

Whereas, the exuberant smile, and raised hand is all about the conclusion of such momentary symptoms, the joy which awaits the redeemed, and that one final opportunity to bid a fond “fare thee well,” but not goodbye.

And if I could select one scripture to accompany the photo, I think I might affix the following caption:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 66, By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.
If you wish to copy, save or share, please include the credit line, above

CONSIDER HIM

When the soul storm is raging high,
When the tempest rends the sky
When my eyes with tears are dim
Then, my soul consider Him.


When your plans are in the dust,
When your hopes and dreams are crushed
When is passed each foolish whim
Then, O soul, consider Him


When your dearest friends depart,
When deep sorrow fills your heart
When pain racks my weary limbs
Then, my soul consider Him.


When your path is a weary way
When new trials come each day
When your faith and hope grow dim
Then, my soul consider Him.


Rain or sunshine, dark or bright
Evening shadows or morning light
When my cup flows o’er the brim
Then, my soul… consider Him.
(Anonymous)

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

FLOWERS FOR MY COUSIN, PRINCESS DIANA. Pts. 1-3


As we approach the 20th anniversary of Princess Diana’s passing, HBO and ABC are airing documentaries in her memory.

And as is the custom, the networks are in the process of providing the viewing public an entre into these documentaries, and recalling Princess Di’s life in general.

There are those random events during the course of our lives when momentous events occur, most often involving the death of a notable person, which none of us have the capacity to forget, nor where we were when we heard the news.

I was 14 when President Kennedy was assassinated. Just by happenstance, it was the only school day I missed all year, and as I was watching TV, Walter Cronkite cut into the regular programing. And subsequently, the murders of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy. Who can ever forget where they were when they became aware of the Challenger and Columbia disasters?

I have never been a great fan of the royal family for at least two reasons. I mean, in the case of all royal families someone, somewhere took it on themselves to declare themselves royal. And I am all too aware that everyone in the bunch puts their pants on the same way I do, and that they “succumb to the contingencies of nature,” (eating, sleeping & bath-rooming) very much like the rest of us.

And while I am certainly not perfect, or “holier than thou” I have been just short of mortified with the behaviors of the so-called royal family members.

Their numerous extra-marital affairs, the topless escapade of another, the almost decade long cohabitive relationship between the second heir to the throne and the woman to whom he finally pledged his trough.

All in all, the lives which the “Royals” have lived, past and present, have been anything but royal in nature, and, needless to say, they have presented themselves to be extremely poor role models to the rest of us.

It just seems as if folks who take on themselves the mantle of his and her highnesses ought to exude the sort of life and mannerisms which befit the bestowal of such titles.

Pt. 2

However, in spite of everything I have previously written, I admit to a certain bias towards Diana.


I mean, there was just something extraordinarily regretful about her seemingly premature passing. And I must say my admitted preference for the lady goes well beyond the obvious. For you see, Diana was, (and Princes William and Harry are) my distant relatives. (Yes, they are).

For you see, I am related not only to them, but also to the late Prime Minister Winston Churchill through the Spencer lineage. (Granted, none of the afore said parties have ever invited me to Buckingham Palace or #10 Downing Street for tea).

Diana “joined the team” as the result of what basically consisted of an arranged marriage accompanied by the strict (and hypocritical) insistence that she be virginal; whereas, her suitor was far from it, and even during their courtship he was entertaining communication with a divorced woman; (who, subsequently, replaced the first).
Who can forget her (supposed) knight in shining armor (or armour) and her Cinderella promotion from nanny to nobility? Who can forget her fairytale wedding; with all that royal pomp and circumstance?

However, to revisit the notion of the upcoming documentaries and the press coverage which precedes them, Princes William and Harry have recently come out with the most candid reminiscences concerning their memories of their mother.

They have both expressed regrets that they hurried their ‘mum’ along when they received her last phone call from France. They had been playing with their friends at the time, and wanted to get back to their fun and games. Will and Harry could not have known it would be their last opportunity to talk to her in this life.

As the preview continued, they went on to speak of Diana’s tendency to encourage them to be a ‘bit naughty;’ whereas, Prince Charles was prone to be curt and rigid in his demeanor.

Who can forget the video segments which portrayed the princess riding a carousel or roller coaster with her wee ones; with all the accompanying smiles and laughter that naturally went with along with it?

She was just plain fun to be with. And they loved her for it.

Pt. 3

Who will ever forget the outpouring of grief which accompanied her premature passing? Such tears as the English rarely, if ever, exhibited in the life of their staid nation. The sole untarnished member of the Britain’s First Family, initially refusing to lower Buckingham’s flag, and a virtual “Johnny Come Lately” in terms of her presence. The slow and stately mourner’s march. Diana’s young sons walking behind her caisson. Flowers and tears. Tears and flowers.

My cousin Diana was no saint. No one ever said she was. I mean, she was involved in an extra-marital affair, as was her husband before her. (At least, I like to think this was the order of things). And she flaunted her moral (or immoral) freedom to do what she jolly well wanted to do with whom she jolly well wanted to do it.

Of course, in terms of her final tryst, we are all too aware of “the rest of the story.”

No one could deny, however, that she was a humanitarian. She visited wounded soldiers in the hospital, (or in hospital, as the English are prone to say). She participated in the clearing of landmines in exotic countries. She rubbed shoulders with AIDS patients, and raised money for countless charities. She was, as one of my army buddies used to say, “A decent person.”

But for all her decency, Princess Di was a flawed individual, and I am convinced that the burdensome trappings of so-called royalty tipped the scale in favor of her rather inconsistent demeanor; resulting in some rather poor decisions.

But in spite of it all, I believe my distant cousin was innately good at heart, that she loved her children, and that she will be remembered, with fondness, for a very long time.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 65, By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

If you wish to copy, save or share, please include the credit line, above

THE LITTLE SPACECRAFT THAT COULD


*Following is the first in a series of Wednesday night messages I presented at my church.
Over the next several weeks I will be sharing a group of studies I refer to as “My Stories. Our Stories.”

My stories - During the course of these studies I will be sharing some extraordinary things which have occurred in my life. You’ve heard the claim that the age of miracles is over. Well, don’t believe it. I plan to share just a few of many miracles to which I have been exposed. Our stories, that is, Mankind’s stories. – During the course of this study I plan to make you aware of some remarkable national and/or international events.

In both cases, my stories and our stories, my purpose is to bolster your faith in God and the hereafter, and take you down the pathway of apologetics, if only a wee bit. Apologetics, by the way, is all about proving the existence of the Supreme Being. For you see, it is not enough to simply have faith. I could have faith in a wooden chair, but a wooden chair has no power to save. I could have faith that the bus I am about to board will take me to Cincinnati, but if the driver forgot to change the placard on the front of the bus, I could end up in Boise, Idaho. My stories. Our stories.

If you’re inclined, you can turn with me to Hebrews Chapter 1

10“In the beginning, Lord, you laid the foundations of the earth,
    and the heavens are the work of your hands.
11 They will perish, but you remain;
    they will all wear out like a garment.
12 You will roll them up like a robe;
    like a garment they will be changed.
But you remain the same,
    and your years will never end.”

Tonight I want to spend some time with what has been commonly known as “The Space Race,” and more specifically with one particular spacecraft which was launched almost twenty years after the advent of the Space Race.

And I might say that by the time I conclude my message tonight, you should be able to grasp why I would talk about such a seemingly secular topic behind this church pulpit.

But let’s step back in time a few decades, and allow me to share some personal and national details which are relevant to our discussion.

I recall sitting in Mr. Ball’s 6th grade class at Bartow Elementary School. The year was 1961. (Interestingly enough, the famous evangelist, Billy Sunday, preached a sermon on what is now the playground of this school; half a century before I attended there). At any rate, on one particular day, Mr. Ball turned on the black & white television in the classroom, pulled up the rabbit ears, and turned the knob to one of the only four channels we had at the time. It was inauguration day. President John F. Kennedy raised his right hand and took the oath of office. Of course, we all remember that fateful day in November of 1963 when an assassin’s bullet took him from us. But some of you may recall something he said during those 1000 days in which he served as the chief executive of the United States.

“During this decade is out, I propose that the United States build a rocket capable to taking man to the moon and bringing him safely back to the earth.”

I can assure you that such stuff fascinated me, and held my attention. No doubt you remember “The Mercury 7” astronauts. The movie, “The Right Stuff” details the competition surrounding and appointment of seven men who would be launched, one by one, into orbit around the earth. My own distant cousin, Alan Shepard, was the first American in space, and John Glenn followed closely behind him.

During my late elementary years and throughout my teen and young adults years, I followed the Space Race very carefully; throughout the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs.

As an adolescent, I visited Cape Canaveral a couple of times, and watched from a nearby beach, as an unmanned version of the Saturn moon rocket lifted off, and disappeared into the clouds. Just a couple of years ago I toured the space center again. As a twenty year old, I sat in front of my television set, and like many of you, watched that grainy black and white live video footage, as Neil Armstrong dropped off the lunar landing module ladder onto the dusty gray soil of our nearest neighbor, the moon.

But as I previously inferred, I am more concerned this evening about one spacecraft, in particular, referred to as Voyager 1, which lifted off from the east coast of Florida in 1977. And as you might imagine, the purpose of this unmanned spacecraft was the exploration of the universe, or at least our little portion of the universe which we refer to as the “Milky Way.”

And also, as you might well imagine, the Voyager 1 spacecraft was outfitted with a myriad of instrumentation designed to not only take photographs of the planets in our solar system, but to measure the composition of the rings of Saturn and atmosphere of Jupiter, and to analyze the solar plasma of the sun, and the fading intensity of its light, as its journey took it further from our nearest star, the sun.

And of course, our scientists would have been left completely unawares without the capability to retrieve the information which Voyager 1 generated. As a result, this spacecraft was outfitted with a radio transmitter, and over the next 40 years it has faithfully continued to transmit data to a team of full time researchers who have faithfully analyzed the information they have received. At this stage, the Voyager is 12 billion miles from earth, and its radio signal takes 17 hours to reach our planet. And surprisingly, since the distance is so great, and the signal so tiny, NASA currently uses dozens of radio telescopes to concentrate the signal enough to make it intelligible, and to be able to interpret it.

The “little spacecraft that could” reached an important milestone five years ago. After a 35 year journey, Voyager 1 left our solar system, and journeyed into what is referred to as interstellar space. Take a moment to consider it. Our solar system, though vast, is just a speck in the Milky Way galaxy; one of billions of similar galaxies in our continually expanding universe. Consider it, if our little spacecraft had the capability to move at the speed of light, 186,000 miles per second, (and it doesn’t) it would take four years to travel to the nearest star, Alpha Centauri.

It is estimated that in three years our little Voyager will be too distant for scientists to receive its signal, but its mission will have only begun.

 For you see, on board the one ton robot is a gold record containing sounds and images selected to portray the diversity of life and culture on Earth, and which are intended for any intelligent extraterrestrial life form, who may find them. Interestingly enough, given the vacuum of space, this record is expected to outlast the estimated two million years left in the lifespan of our solar system, and will still be able to be deciphered a billion years from today.

Please turn to John Chapter 1, Verse 1-9

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome[a] it.

There was a man sent from God whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe. He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light.

The true light that gives light to everyone coming into the world.

He lights every man, woman, boy and girl who has lives on the earth, or who has ever lived on the earth.

I think the implications of this verse are enormous. And while I have never heard this verse preached, at least not in this manner, it occurs to me that this sentence is all about Christ’ entire ministry towards the population of Planet Earth; including his death on the cross, and His resurrection from the grave.

However, the gold record designed to notify someone out there that billions of intelligent individuals exist, or once existed on a little blue marble called Earth will never be retrieved, nor viewed by someone in a distant civilization in this universe. For you see, there’s simply no one else out there. We are it. There are no other intelligent beings in the universe.

For you see, if there were we can be sure that the angelic being referred to as Satan would have tempted them, as he did Adam and Eve. And it would have been necessary for Christ to have also died a substitutionary death for that civilization, as He did for our own. But 1st Peter 3:18 tells us that “Christ suffered once for all sin.”

And if He suffered once, we can be sure that He did not suffer twice or three times, and thus He never visited another intelligent civilization for the purpose of dying for them. You see, Voyager 1 is the single most intelligent creation in interstellar space. It is out there “all by its lonely.” Since the spacecraft was created by man, and man was created by God, that little metal flying robot might, in essence, be referred to as, “God’s Grandchild.”

At least the lack of another intelligent civilization in this universe is my theory. And I believe I just finished adequately supporting it. Christ suffered once, and only once for the only populated planet in this universe.

Sometime ago, it was decided that the Voyager 1 spacecraft would turn its camera towards Planet Earth, and take the longest distance ‘selfie’ ever taken; for the elements of which it was formed originated on this planet. As a matter of fact, each of our eight or nine planets, depending on how you count them, ‘posed’ for a photograph that day.

Recently, I was watching a documentary about Voyager 1, and an image of that photo was flashed onto the screen. There in a band of light and debris, you can just make out a tiny speck of light. And as that photo appeared, the narrator spoke.

“From such a vast distance, you can just make it out. A small, blue marble containing earth and seas, and eight billion souls, and the only home that every man, woman, boy and girl ever given the privilege of life would inhabit.”

And my friends, with this, an involuntary sob rose up on my throat, and tears sprang to my eyes. Perhaps you would have had to have been there. But the tiny point of light that is our earth, and the insightful descriptiveness of the narrator just overwhelmed me at that moment.

My friends, we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and the innate abilities which God gave us to do the most magnificent things is nothing short of remarkable. We have been created by an awesome Creator, and have been made in His likeness. And He has bestowed the most remarkable intelligence and abilities upon us, and will to create within us. The Voyager 1 spacecraft is a prime example.

In Psalm 8, we read,

3When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, The moon and the stars, which You have ordained; 4What is man that You take thought of him, And the son of man that You care for him? 5Yet You have made him a little lower than God (or the angels,), and You crown him with glory and majesty!

In conclusion, let us say, for the sake of argument, that a billion years from now, when our sun and planetary system no longer exist, as we know it, that some alien scientist manages to retrieve that ‘little spacecraft that could,’ and manages to decipher that golden record on board the craft.

And as he or she or it, as the case may be, views photographs depicting the high surf of Hawaii’s Sunset Beach, and the glorious mountain peaks of Scotland’s Isle of Skye, and the ancient Redwood trees of California, and he goes on to listen to the musical strains of Glenn Miller’s orchestra, and the contralto voice of Frances Langford, (a distant cousin of mine), and he marvels at the architectural wonder which is the new World Trade Center, and he acknowledges the Omnipotence which produced passages such as Genesis 1 and Psalm 23 and John 3:16, perhaps that golden record will serve as a sort of a witness to the glory of the unseen God, and His love for the work of His hands.


(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 66. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

If you wish to copy, save or share, please include the credit line, above

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

DROPPING "THE F WORD" ON LIVE TV

    Now I've seen it all. I can lay down and die in peace.
    A CNN reporter was just doing a live interview with a mother in the Houston area, and her four or five year old daughter was standing next to her.

    It was obvious the woman was voluntarily submitting to the interview, as she had begun answering questions about her family's 5 day ordeal without basic necessities, and how that she walked through waist deep water to find food for her children.

    And then, suddenly, the woman exclaims,

    "Why are you sticking that microphone in my f_ _ _ _ _ _ face? And why do you pick the worst time possible to try to interview people who have been through what we have been through? There you go again. Get that microphone out of my face!"

    You can imagine I have never heard 'the F word' on network television before, (and it's obvious that CNN didn't have a time delay on their programming, or they could have prevented the broadcast of the word).

    But it's not so much the use of that word, but the strange behavior of what began as a compliant participant in the interview, only to lash out and lamblast the reporter as the interview progressed. (I thought I was about to see a one sided boxing match).

    Different strokes. Different folks, as they say. (But as a counselor I expect that young lady needs a serious medical evaluation).

Monday, August 28, 2017

THUMBING A RIDE TO FREDERICKSBURG. Pts. 1-3

Laine, a dear social media friend who hails from Australia, (and a connoisseur of my multitudinous blogs) encouraged me to write one relating to the stark contrast between the insignificant things about which we complain vs. the God-awful stuff with which some people contend.

Even as I write these words, I am listening to my favorite 24/7/365 radio/internet broadcast, “Night Sounds” with the late Bill Pearce; a program I began listening to over a quarter century ago. (www.nightsoundsradio.org).
Speaking of my friend’s encouragement, it seems ironic that today’s radio broadcast is entitled, “Gripe Sessions.”
I mean, at various junctures in our lives, we’ve all experienced ‘stuff’ which provided plenty of fodder about which we might have complained, but which given enough “water under the bridge” can only be recounted with a “wink and a grin,” (or perhaps peals of uproarious laughter)!
The following account is an example from my own life.
When my first wife and I lived in Virginia, I was employed as a Civil Service clerk at the U.S. Army Records Center in Alexandria; just outside of Washington, D.C. It was a 30-40 mile drive, and I expended a total of well over an hour per day in my commute. And it may be helpful to you to know that Stafford County was, at least at that time, very rural in nature, and more susceptible to contingences of the weather than the D.C. area.
It was the winter of 1973, possibly 1974, and our television weatherman was predicting 8-10 inches of snow in and about Stafford County. And true to his prediction, we woke up to an impressive blanket of white surrounding our mobile home, and the hundred or so other aging mobile homes which lined the streets of our trailer park.
And I suddenly realized how woefully unprepared I was. Not only did I lack snow tires (and/or chains), but our mobile home park was absolutely snowed in, and no arrangements had been made this winter, (nor any winters preceding it) for a snow plow.

Pt. 2

Well, as you might imagine, as soon as 9am rolled around, I called my supervisor, Miss Elizabeth Brown, and made her aware of my inability to report to work that day. No doubt, she questioned my lack of preparation, but dear reader, I could only report what I just reported to you.
However, since no additional snow was scheduled for the next couple of days, I surmised that the accumulation of white stuff would soon melt, and I would be able to make it to my job the following morning. (Can we say, “Below average temperatures?” Can we say, “No such luck?” Can we say, “Fat chance”)?
Well, my dear friends, not only did the snow fail to melt that day, but when I awoke the following morning, the level of the white stuff against the picket fence which bordered my mobile home seemed not to have decreased one iota. And as I had done the day before, I spun the dial of my rotary phone, (for cell phones were still only a twinkle) and anxiously awaited the subsequent “Army Records Center. Corps of Engineers. This is Miss Betty Brown” greeting of my immediate supervisor.
Her matronly greeting was not long coming.
To say the elderly lady was displeased with my inability to report to work two days in succession would be “next door” to saying she was disappointed with having lost her right foot to gangrene. I mean, she was ‘ticked.’
“What do you mean, Bill? The streets are clear here. I simply don’t understand. I hope you can make it to work tomorrow!”
I realized I was left with only one option. I set off on foot, and soon found myself walking down Route 1, South towards the quaint Civil War town of Fredericksburg; approximately ten miles distant. Having walked a short distance, I stuck out my thumb, and hoped some passerby would take pity on me.

Pt. 3

Sadly, (at least for me) I cannot tell you I received an immediate lift, nor can I report that anyone so much as slowed down to look at me during the course of the first hour. Eventually, however, an old Chevy pickup truck pulled off the road, and I jogged the 15 or 20 yards which separated my person from the vehicle. Arriving alongside the truck I threw open the passenger door, stepped ine, and thanked my earthly savior for the courtesy he had chosen to extend towards me.

No doubt, as the miles accumulated, (much faster than they had done when I was on foot) my momentary friend and I chatted about the historic snow storm just past, and the reason behind my journey. As we passed through Falmouth, and crossed the Potomac River, I asked my ‘chauffeur’ to drop me off at a car parts store. Exiting the vehicle, I thanked the man, and went in and asked the clerk whether his fine establishment carried snow chains; to which I received an affirmative response. Of course, he inquired about the make and model of my vehicle, and before much time elapsed, I walked out of the store with the requisite hardware.
At this point, my journey continued in reverse. For whatever reason the trip forward has proven to be more memorable than the trip backwards, but I surmise I walked an interminable distance, and eventually someone responded to my right thumb. Whatever the case, by the time I walked through the entrance of the (illustrious) “Stafford Mobile Home Park” the sun was low on the horizon.
And it was then I realized, how utterly different the landscape now appeared in contrast to its appearance when I began my southward trek. I was almost disappointed to realize that the lovely blanket of virgin white snow was all but gone now, and the black asphalt of “Virginia Drive” and its muddy parallel shoulders had, by now, risen up to greet my return.
Given the karma which seemed to pursue me on this particular day, I thought it not strange that the hard-won snow chains which I so valiantly labored to retrieve
…were the wrong size!
(I am happy to report I made it to work the next day).

Afterward

Did I mention that at various times and seasons in our lives, we’ve all experienced ‘stuff’ which provided plenty of fodder about which we might have complained, (and probably did) but which, given enough “water under the bridge” can only be recounted with a “wink and a grin,” …(or perhaps peals of uproarious laughter)?

Well, the foregoing illustration from my own life is a good example.

Considering all the hideous things going on in the world today,


…I am blessed. Yes, I am blessed.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 60. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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Sunday, August 27, 2017

STATUES & MANNEQUINS, i.e. My Shortest Blog Ever


There may come a day when the only statues that are left in existence are the ones wearing designer clothing in department stores, commonly called, 'mannequins.'

(And who can say, perhaps some group which "has a beef" with the Preppie look will rise up and get rid of all the mannequins)

Saturday, August 26, 2017

STRIVING VALIANTLY

  1. “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..."

Friday, August 25, 2017

MAKING MEMORIES


I was just reflecting on one of the most precious, yet underrated gifts, or at least possibilities which God has granted us. I refer to that particular gift as

…”making memories.”

Perhaps the best example of which I am personally aware occurred ten, or twelve  years ago, and in the context of my role as a mentor.

Nikki was 16 at the time, and I met with her on a weekly basis. Having set a goal to serve as a missionary to Sudan, she became one of my early volunteers for a self-styled, year-long intern program I developed.

Week after week, Nikki’s mother, Donna, turned into the church parking lot, and momentarily parked at the entrance to the u-shaped driveway; to allow my intern to exit the car. And week after week I stood in the lobby waiting to open one of four glass doors for her. And more often than not, before Nikki stepped out of the car, she turned to embrace her mother.

And week after week the foregoing routine changed very little.

Until…

As usual, I stood in the lobby awaiting my young intern. And, as usual, I noticed Donna’s car pull off the main road, and into the church parking lot. It was about this time the entire routine changed altogether.

“Strange,” (I thought) both Nikki and Donna suddenly exited their respective doors, stood parallel with one another, (gazing furtively at the church doors) and

…began to run!

“Well, now” (I thought) “I’ve never seen anyone do this before!”

It was Donna. Now it was Nikki. Now it was foot by foot, stride for stride.

(I hadn’t witnessed such an exciting race since the previous year’s Kentucky Derby)!

As the duo neared the lobby entrance, it seemed their speed only increased. I was all but certain one or both of the women would find their way into the lobby; without the benefit of an open door!

And BAM!

Mother and daughter arrived at their ad-lib goal line together. Not an inch separated the two, and four hands slapped the glass door in unison.

As I recall, Donna and Nikki fell into each other arms, and stood there like school girls; laughing ‘til they almost cried. (At least, I did).

As someone who is “taken up” with the concept of leaving a legacy, I think one of the foremost ways we do so is by role modeling, and of necessity, role modeling requires a consistent, and ongoing series of actions.


My friend, Donna, did not hesitate to role model, (and have fun doing so) that day. And in the process of doing so, she busied herself with leaving a gift to Nikki. A gift which money cannot buy, and one of inestimable worth.

I have often shared a poignant phrase with loved ones, friends and clients.

“We cannot stay here.” We are all on our way “outta here.”

And so I think it behooves you and I to realize both the responsibility and sheer pleasure of making memories with our loved ones while we still move, and breathe and live; one memory at a time.

Making memories, indeed!

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 25. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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PRAYING FOR A DEAD MAN

My wife and I were awaiting the arrival of our grandson at the Seventh Day Adventist Hospital in Sebring when I retrieved a cell phone message from a former client.
“Dr. Bill, my Uncle Don isn’t doing well. He’s in Winter Haven Hospital. Would you please remember him in prayer?”
Well, of course I immediately began praying for Judy’s uncle, and during the course of the next couple of days I prayed for him every time he came to mind. In the meantime, our daughter experienced a long and contracted labor, but ultimately, as has been common since mankind’s advent upon the earth, her dear little son was born.
After Jean and I arrived home I dialed my friend’s number.
“Hello, this is Judy.”
To which I responded,
“Hi Judy. This is Dr. Bill. We’ve been out of town a couple of days. But I want you to know I got your message, and I’ve been praying for your Uncle Don.”
Judy seemed confused, and several seconds elapsed before she answered.
“Uh, Dr. Bill I don’t know how to tell you this, but my uncle is dead.”
Now it was my turn to be confused.
She continued.
“Uhmmm, I vaguely remember leaving you a message about my uncle
… a year ago.”
Judy’s message had been floating around in ‘the cloud’ for a full year, and I had only now been become aware of its existence.
As a result, I had been praying for a dead man!

(Obviously, his name wasn’t Lazarus).

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 30. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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Thursday, August 24, 2017

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT. Pts. 1-3


My late father told the story of one of his ancient McDonald cousins; though this far along, I have long since forgotten his exact identity. However, having compiled a significant amount of family research, and since I feel reasonably sure of my findings, for the sake of this story I will assign him the name of the relative whom I believe to be the individual in question. Concerning the facts surrounding the story, however, nothing is left to doubt.

Benjamin McDonald was the eldest of Isham’s children, and was born in 1790 when his father was 43 years of age; (and who had only a decade earlier served in the Revolutionary War). Isham, a Scottish immigrant, had migrated to America sometime prior to that infamous war.

Benjamin, a resident of Lowndes County, Georgia, was the father of several children of whom David was the youngest; having been born in 1848. And if my readers know anything about American History, they are familiar with another war which began a little more than a decade after the birth of Benjamin’s son.

During the American Civil War it was common for military companies  of the separate southern states, known as the Home Guard, to deploy soldiers in search of young men who had not answered the call of duty, or who in the midst of war had deserted the cause, and returned home.

As several troops of the Georgia Home Guard were passing through the Cat Creek area during the first half of the war, having ‘gotten wind’ of one ‘strangler’ in particular, they drew their tired horses up next to the McDonald homestead, dismounted, and somehow made their presence known by word or deed.

While I cannot speak to the whereabouts of the 70 year old Benjamin, history records that Jane, his wife, was present, as was David, their youngest son; and who just happened to be the object of the Home Guard’s quest.

By this time the South was experiencing a dearth of goods and manpower, and though David had only just reached the tender age of 15, the Confederate officer was determined to locate him, and immediately enlist him in the service of the great State of Georgia.

Pt. 2

Jane, my 3x great aunt, heard them before she saw them, and peering out the kitchen window she intuitively understood why the Home Guard troops were outside her front door. And she had long since decided that she would have nothing to do with it.

She commanded her young son.

“David, go out the back door! Run to the barn and hide in the hay loft!”

His mother had raised the subject with him several times over the course of the past two years, and had known that they would eventually come looking for him. It scared her to death to think her teenage son would be conscripted into the army, and possibly be deprived of a long and fruitful life.

David ran ‘for all he was worth,’ being careful to hide behind first one tree and then another, as he made his way to the rear door of the barn. He correctly surmised that since he wasn’t able to see the soldiers that they, in turn, wouldn’t be able to see him.

Jane’s son hadn’t been gone more than ten seconds when she swung open the front door and was rudely confronted by Captain Matthews.

“We know who you are, Mrs. McDonald, and we know you have a son by the name of David. We also know that he just turned 15. And by G_ _ that’s plenty old to shoot a rifle, and to catch a bullet for his country.”



Jane sensed a wave of nausea creep upwards from her belly to her throat, but she found a way to control her nerves, and responded.

“My boy ain’t here. He’s been helping my father in Waycross harvest his tobacco the past couple of weeks.”

The captain had heard that sort of rehearsed monologue before. He knew the little lady was trying to protect her son, and that he was almost certainly hiding somewhere on the property.


Pt. 3

Captain Matthews smirked, and spat out a mouthful of the stuff Mrs. McDonald claimed her son had been harvesting.

“Well, Jane. May I call you, ‘Jane?’ I simply don’t believe you. He’s here. We can be sure of that. Let me see now. Where would young David be hiding? We played this game when I was a boy. Private Jensen, Private Smith, search the barn. Now!”

Mrs. McDonald screamed.

“My son is too young for your war! Leave him alone!”

The ‘good’ captain ignored her protestation, and a big grin spread across his face.

A century and a half later it is impossible to piece together the details of the event, but as David’s mother and the captain stood outside her front door a shot rang out, and then another.

Jane let out a blood-curdling shriek and fainted dead away at the Confederate officer’s feet. The surly man summarily grabbed her under both arms and propped her up against the wall of the house.

As her youngest son lay dying on the straw-covered floor, the two soldiers proceeded to toss him out of the second story loft door into the hay wagon below.

Captain Matthews let out a string of expletives the likes of which his troops had never heard in their young lives.

“What the bloody h_ _ _ were you thinking, Jim? I give you a simple task to do, and instead of bringing me back a fresh body, you give me a corpse!”

(and)

“Well, no matter. The boy was a coward, and I expect he would have come running back to mama in the space of a week. Pack up your rifles, and let’s get outta here.”

As the three men mounted their trusty steeds, Jane managed to stand, and tore out towards the hay wagon. Having reached her dear son’s side she could see the bloody holes in his chest and right arm.

And suddenly, the poor boy inhaled sharply, opened one eye, and recognizing his mother attempted to speak. Taking renewed courage that she might somehow extend his life, Jane climbed up in the hay wagon next to him, pulled his upper body into her lap, and stroked his hair.

“Hang on son. I’ll ride into town and get the doctor.”

David shook his head and whispered.

“No, mother. I’m done for. I cannot hope to live long enough for you to saddle Old Tom. Abide with me a while.”

And with that, young David gasped, and ‘gave up the ghost.’

Afterward

Something short of a million men died as the result of gunshot, grapeshot and disease during the Civil War. And this figure fails to take into account young men such as my cousin David. Children of the southern cause who were never properly registered, and whom their parents attempted to preserve from falling prey to a war which could not be won.

When I consider the untold multitude of young fellows such as my ancient cousin, I cannot help but reflect on the brevity of their lives, and the generations who would have sprung up, (some of whom would have been with us today) had they been allowed to go about their business, marry, fulfill whatever plan God planted in their hearts, and rear children.

Perhaps the ‘bean counters’ would respond with some trite excuse about these poor boys not having died under what might be regarded as ‘official circumstances.’ Perhaps they would respond with the worn out old phrase, “You understand, it’s not personal.”

Well, I can tell you it was personal to David’s mother, and a myriad of other mothers like her. And, though we are far removed from the circumstances of that day, I can tell you

… it’s personal to me.                



(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 40. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STORM


The call was not totally unexpected, and yet it took him back a little. The voice on the unseen end of the line said, “Prepare to be here about five days.”

In a bit of a daze the guardsman began to pack his duffle bag, first rather slowly and then with increasing speed as the import of the message slapped him squarely in the face.

The guardsman reached out for the last time to take his wife in his arms and to reassure her of his affection. The last kiss would be remembered for a long while to come. He knew in his heart that the separation would be long and difficult.

“Gentlemen,” the captain shouted above the noise of the ceiling fans, “We’re going to be there until power is restored and until civil authorities deem our mission accomplished.”

There was a murmur among the troops which seemed to build to a crescendo. Most of us were thinking, “But I only packed for five days.”

Thousands converged upon the city. Men from every military service, and civilians from a myriad of state and federal agencies. This was the biggest of the big. Never before in our history had so many military members been called to assist civilians in need.

The sight was overwhelming. Miles from the scene the devastation was apparent. Pines and mangroves were broken like proverbial toothpicks. Sugarcane fields lay smashed against the mulch of mother Earth. And yet, this was just the faint outskirts of Ground Zero.

Tears flowed freely down the guardsman’s face. This was nothing less than America’s own Hiroshima. Utter devastation on a full arc. Where ever his gaze fell, destruction greeted his anguished spirit. For long minutes, only darkness spoke. All other voices were shut off, as if by a common valve.

The guardsman glanced up into the surreal and advancing blackness of the midnight sky. What he saw there was like nothing he ever beheld. A lone meteor imposed itself against the barrenness of all else in the city. He understood the message. Even in the complete annihilation surrounding him, his was a mission of hope, of mercy, and of future reconstruction.

The days were innumerable and duplicates of themselves, and yet subtle differences made each day its own day.

The guardsman was new at all this, as were the unfortunate inhabitants of the city. Everything was experienced on a grand scale. Eight days without a shower, 40 days in a tent; rain flowing easily across the dirt floor. Up at 5am, to bed at 9am, arms and face burned by an unrelenting sun; lips cracked and bleeding.

Devastation greeted him as he attended his daily mission. Giant splinters where mansions once elegantly graced the landscape, staircases leading to nowhere but to an open sky. Small ships tossed unto beaches, thousands of stray animals wondering what might have happened to their Johnny or Susie. Acre after acre of avocados, lemons, limes and nursery stock flattened as if by some unseen ogre’s giant hand. Concrete buildings knocked over like so many dominoes.

The stories were the sort you only dream about. Families saved by a single garage wall. A couple whispering their last goodbyes as they lay together in their bathtub. The house shaking as if on the back of a runaway locomotive. Fathers searching for grown children days after the storm. The guardsman experienced a magnification of reality in a microcosm of existence.

He guarded darkened streets. He distributed food stuffs. He drove the little lanes of once elegant subdivisions. He cleaned the littered yards of the storm’s hapless victims. His rifle over his back. He staunched the flow of gangs and looters.

He met those who now called an automobile their home. There was the lady who apologized for accepting emergency food stamps. “I’ve never needed these in my entire life before,” she said. The guardsman spoke kind words. “Then you are the one who most deserves it.”

There was the woman who shook his hand, and then unexpectedly embraced him, and kissed him on the cheek. . “You don’t know how much we needed you here, and how we appreciate your having answered the call.” She walked away in tears; unable to say more.

The last day arrived and we were all ready to bid ‘adieu’ to the city. Our task was complete, and yet there were tasks and missions plenty for countless volunteers in the months which lie ahead.

As we walked across the parking lot chatting and reminiscing, a bald eagle drifted over our heads, flew the length of our compound, and disappeared on the horizon. Tears again filled our eyes. The tour was done, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

We were back, but we would never be the same. We could only be the better for that which we had seen, that which we had experienced, and for those brave citizens we had met.

We had returned to our natural environment. The air seemed fresher. The flowers more colorful. The sky a bit bluer. Oh, how thankful we were on the other side of the storm.

And what of those we left behind? Their lives were budding again. Just as surely as the trees of their city began to bud anew after being so rudely stripped of their leaves.

SSG William R. McDonald was a member of HQ, 2nd Bn, 116th Field Artillery, Lakeland, Florida, and a resident of Winter Haven, Florida.

This article appeared in The Lakeland Ledger and The Winter Haven News Chief shortly after his mission to south Florida concluded.
Copyright 2010