AN ENCOURAGING PASSAGE FROM 2nd Corinthians, Chapter Six

We commend ourselves to you in every way; in great endurance; in troubles, hardships and distresses, in beatings, imprisonments, and riots, in hard work, sleepless nights and hunger, in purity, understanding, patience and kindness, in the Holy Spirit and in sincere love, in truthful speech and in the power of God, with weapons of righteousness in the right hand and in the left, through glory and dishonor, bad report and good report, genuine, yet regarded as impostors, known, yet regarded as unknown, dying, and yet we live, beaten, and yet not killed, sorrowful, yet always rejoicing, poor, yet making many rich, having nothing, and yet possessing all things.

(Paul, the Apostle)

MEANDERINGS

What do you think?

If you take an oriental person and spin him around several times, does he become disoriented?
If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren’t people from Holland called Holes?

If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?
Why is the man who invests all your money called a broker?
When cheese gets its picture taken, what does it say?
Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist, but a person who drives a racing car not called a racist?
Why do overlook and oversee mean opposite things?
Why isn’t the number 11 pronounced onety one?
“I am” is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that “I do” is the longest sentence?
If lawyers are disbarred and clergymen are defrocked, doesn’t it follow that electricians can be delighted, musicians denoted, cowboys deranged, models deposed, tree surgeons debarked, and dry cleaners depressed?
What hair color do they put on the driver’s license of bald men?
I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks so I wondered what do Chinese mothers use? Toothpicks?
Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post office? What are we supposed to do, write to them? Why don’t they put their pictures on the postage stamps so the postmen can look for them while they deliver the mail?
Why is it that you never really learn to swear until you learn to drive.
Why is it that no one ever says, ”It’s only a game” when their team is winning.
Every wonder about those people who spend $1.50 apiece on those little bottle of Evian water?
Try spelling Evian backwards: Naive.
If 4 out of 5 people suffer from diarrhea, does that mean that one enjoys it?

Just thought you might like these.

A PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

Having first attended a small bible-based college in the 60's, I was afforded the opportunity of serving as an adjunct professor there a full four decades later; it having metamorphosed by this time into a university offering over fifty majors, including graduate level degrees.

Regretfully, virtually all of the part-time faculty were 'dispatched' in the next five years, and replaced by fulltime staff. I will, however, always be grateful for having been granted the privilege which was made available to me of impacting hundreds of promising students preparing for life and ministry. During that time period I met several of whom I sensed a special affinity, and as a result I have remained in touch through social media and email. One such young lady was named 'Sue.'

Over the past couple of years, (and for as long as I have maintained this blog) I have shared selected writings with her. As a result, a few days ago I shared a reminiscence with Sue about a conference I attended in which Ruth Graham, Billy Graham's daughter, presented a series of lectures. I happened to be the first person to walk into the auditorium for one particular presentation, and took a seat on the third row, center.

Suddenly, Ruth walked across the stage and seeing me stopped, and smiled and said,

"I'll be right back."

Well, dear readers, she may have long since forgotten that little innuendo,

...but I never will.

As I previously inferred, I shared this particular story with my former student, and reminiscent of the last scene in the movie, "Mr. Holland's Opus" Sue responded with,

"Well, that dear lady is the well-known daughter of an even more famous father, but you may well remain unknown, except in your little town.”

Pt. 2

Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son, Steve, had seen his sisters, and with Jean's concurrence, I invited him to accompany me.

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table , and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

"I'm three!"

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

"I'm sixty-eight!"

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

"You will live a very long life."

(and)

"You will do wonderful things!"

I cannot tell you where my words came from, nor whether they were particularly inspired; any more than whether my former student's words (See Pt. 1) were "for such a time as this," (though, thus far, it would seem so). And I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

Of this, however, I am sure. Before He breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

Yes, I am sure of it.

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.



by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 44. Copyright Pending.

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MY COUSIN FRANKLIN'S LEGACY

I applied for my Social Security benefits when I was 62, and have received a monthly check for the past five years, (and am thankful to have it). Along with my Medicare benefits, I am fortunate to have earned a military retirement and subscribe to Tricare, a military health insurance program.

Speaking of my previous application for Social Security benefits, I recall making the initial application by phone with a Civil Service worker who worked in a government phone bank in Alabama. During our interaction, I made her aware that the Social Security program came into being during the administration of President Franklin Roosevelt; my 6^th cousin. We bantered this bit of trivia about, and she seemed to think it rather novel.

I just read a byline on a social media site which claimed President Trump’s proposed 2018 budget would include cuts to Social Security and Medicaid, and what was described as the extreme “fat cat” benefits which some federal employees and Civil Service retirees are receiving.

Following is an original response I left below the post, and a subsequent exchange with someone who responded to my initial response.

William McDonald

Cuts to Medicaid and Social Security benefits for the disabled? Shame on anyone who contemplates such a travesty.

(Kris _____)

Social Security was never meant to be the only means of retirement and was a Ponzi scheme from the beginning. The tax paid is a general payroll tax like any other tax and not an insurance premium. Medicaid is an unearned benefit and transfer of wealth program.

William McDonald

If you say so, Kris. I happen to be glad my 6th cousin, Pres. Franklin Roosevelt, had the foresight to bring the Social Security program into fruition. It's easy to philosophize about unearned benefits until you need such benefits. I, for one, paid into Social Security for multiplied decades.

And speaking of needing it, I have a grown disabled daughter who receives Medicaid and S.S. benefits, and I'm darn glad she does. If not, by now her medical and monetary benefits would have exceeded my ability to supplement, and I would be living under a tree in a tent.

Oh, and speaking of needing it, prior to her passing my very ill mother spent 2 years in a nursing home, to the tune of $100,000 a year; the vast majority of which Medicaid paid.

And, I expect, that if you are not already receiving your S.S. check and Medicare benefits, as I am, there will come a day when you're glad these benefits are available for you; rather than the possibility of having to work, if only to keep medical benefits, until the day you die.

And to return to an earlier theme, unless your mother was in need of extraordinarily expensive specialized care for an extended period of time, and unless you have witnessed your daughter in the throes of psychosis, contended with her monetary, housing and health care needs for a quarter of a century, and enjoyed the benefits of socialized medicine in this regard, I'm not sure you're properly qualified to comment on such an issue.

Oh, and if you really feel the way you claim to feel, please save us all the financial burden which we share with you, and avoid applying for Social Security and old age medical benefits. We wouldn't want to jeopardize the philosophy you claim to embrace.


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 32. Copyright Pending.

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JIM THORPE - NATIVE AMERICAN AND OLYMPIC ATHLETE

I am in possession of a photo of Jim Thorpe; an early 20th century American Indian and athlete. You can see that he's wearing different socks and shoes. This wasn't a fashion statement. It was the 1912 Olympics, and it seems someone had stolen his shoes. He just happened to find a miss matched pair in a dumpster. One was bigger than the other one, but he made up for the discrepancy by wearing two socks on one foot.

As Paul Harvey was prone to say, there was a rest of the story. The rest of Jim Thorpe’s story is he won gold medals in the 1912 Stockholm Olympics in the decathlon and pentathlon.

We can always discover excuses which keep us from achieving God’s best and brightest for our lives. We can find reasons, or we can have results. It’s one or the other. Jim Thorpe chose results.s, and Jim, an American Indian from Oklahoma represented the U.S. in track and field. On the morning of his competitions, his shoes were stolen. Luckily, Jim ended up finding two shoes in a garbage can. That's the pair that he's wearing in the photo. But one of the shoes was too big, so he had to wear an extra sock. Wearing these shoes, Jim won two gold medals that day.

CIRCUMSTANCES & COINCIDENCES. Pts. 1-2

Twenty years ago on this date, (October 23, 1997) at the age of 48, I retired from my driving career at United Parcel Service.

At 65, my own father retired from his career as a self-employed owner of an exterminating company. Strange, however, the date stamp on the home video of the event is December 30, 1991. And on the 20^th anniversary of his retirement date, he sustained a major stroke; which culminated in his death three months later. (Speaking of the video taken on that day, my father’s retirement cake set on a table in the space on which my desktop computer now sits, and on which I am now typing this story).

I was talking to a neighbor in the wee hours of the morning, this morning. He was heading to work, and I was heading off on my hour walk around the extended neighborhood. Louis had just visited Norfolk, Virginia to attend the decommissioning ceremony of his old Navy ship. He told me how he was actually born 1 day before, (or after) the ship’s hull was first laid down; (though not necessarily the same year).

I have literally been exposed to miraculous things.

The weight of an unseen hand on my shoulder. The instantaneous healing of my son’s congenital eye condition. An angel walking down the sidewalk in the wee hours of the morning. My dearly departed pooch resting, and respiring against my shoulder; after having retired for the night in the bed we so often shared. Multiple near death experiences; all so potentially traumatic that I should not now be among the land of the living.

But I think my favorite, and most conclusive experiences have been circumstantial in nature.

Pt. 2

I mean, while I am reciting experiences, one in particular stands out for me.

My wife and I first met in the fourth grade, and dated after high school; only to marry other people. After our respective divorces, a decade later, we met and dated again, and subsequently married. Thirty years passed, and we discovered that (drum roll) we are 5^th cousins, and thus we inherited the same 4x great grandparents.

The circumstances of our lives. The coincidences of our lives; that aren’t really coincidences. For you see, God knew all about it,

…before He made the worlds.

Today I experienced a thought which I have never before considered. As a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, I have always been convinced that Father, Son and Holy Spirit had this pow-wow in heaven way back when, and decided that fallen man would ultimately need to be rescued, and Jesus immediate reaction was,

“Well, it will be pretty painful and disgusting, but I can do that.”

Scripture assures us that, “Before you ever took your first breath, God planned every day of your life.” (Psalm 139:16)

But, as I inferred, it was only today that it came to me. Before God made giraffes, and baboons, and earthworms, for that matter, He also knew every day, and every circumstance of His Son’s own impending life. And He realized that He was the only human, albeit the God-human, who would ever PERFECTLY fulfill the Father’s hopes and dreams for EVERY single day of His life.

Afterward

It is reassuring to me that, “My times are in His hands.” (Psalm 31:15). It is wonderful to realize that, “We are God’s special possessions.” (1^st Peter 2:9). It is encouraging that, “God has loved us with an everlasting love.” (Jeremiah 31:3).

And it is hardly fathomable that, “ For God so loved the world, (among whom I am a member of that illustrious population) that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” (John 3:16). It has been said that if I happened to be the only human being on earth who had ever sinned, and needed saving, He would have gladly died on my behalf. Well, my friends, I’m absolutely convinced of it.

There are a myriad of marvelous promises in scripture. Speaking of circumstances, scripture assures us that all the “comings and goings” of a believer’s life are nothing less than providential, and that we can trust our fate to a God who keeps His promises.

“What then shall we say to these things? If God be for us, who can be against us? He, who spared not His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things.” (Romans 8:31-32).


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 72. Copyright Pending.

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OUR SOUTHERN HERITAGE

One weekend my buddy and I made a trip to Richmond to see the dedication of the 41st Virginia battle flag that a mutual friend had saved and collected donations to put behind museum glass for display. After the dedication ceremony, the museum offered the three of us a complementary tour of the White House of the Confederacy next door. When our tour guide appeared, he was an old black gentleman. 

With all the compromise of Southern Heritage by the Museum, my first thought was…

‘Oh, Boy, how are they going to spin this one?’

We started the tour and after our first stop, our tour guide turned to the only young black man it the group and with a smile on his face said, “I bet you are not here because you want to be.”

The young man chuckled uncomfortably and replied, “I am doing this for extra credit in a college course I’m taking.”

The old black gentleman knowingly smiled and said

“Pretty soon I’ll tell you why I am here.”

After several stops we stood in the study of Jefferson Davis. Then our tour guide pointed towards the young black man and said, 

“Now I am going to tell you why I’m here, young man. I was just a little boy when the museum next door was being built. I lived nearby and every day I would walk by it wondering what it was all about. Then one day it was finally finished and I decided I was going to save up money to buy a ticket to go inside and see for myself.

“When I told folks I was saving my money for a tour of the Museum of the Confederacy, they thought I was crazy. But, I really wanted to see for myself. One day I finally had saved enough. So with my money in my hand, I walked through the front doors and met a very old white lady sitting behind the desk. 

She asked me,

‘What are you doing here?’

“I told her I had watched this museum being built and I wanted to see for myself what it was all about. She smiled at me and when I handed her the money; she told me to put my money back in my pocket. Then she said to me,

‘Come on. I am going to take you on a tour myself.’

“After we left the newly built museum, she gave me a tour of the building you’re in now. When we stopped right here… where we’re standing… she said to me, ‘around this very table sat three of the greatest men of the Confederacy: Jefferson Davis, JEB Stuart and Robert E. Lee.’ 

And then she reached down and touched this chair.” The old black man laid a hand on the back of the chair in front of him and continued with his story. “Then this old lady said to me, ‘This is the very chair Robert E. Lee sat in. And he was my granddaddy.’

“Then every weekend I would come to the museum and volunteer. Well, I got to know that lady very well and I will never forget what she said to me before I went off to college. 

She said, ‘You are going to run into a lot of people that won’t be kind to you for no good reason, but do the right thing anyway.’ And I always keep what she told me in the back of my mine and applied it to my life.”

Then the old man continued, “I went off to school and didn’t see her as much. But, finally graduation day arrived. And guess who was sitting in a front row seat at my graduation? That right… You guess it. The grand daughter of Robert E Lee.”

The room was silent. I discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of my eye so no one would see. Well, you can imagine how I was feeling by then. Yep… very inspired and very ashamed of my initial thought. . I don’t think any other tour guide could have provided a better tour of the White House of the Confederacy than that old, black gentleman.

59299 & TRUE CONFESSIONS. Pts. 1-4

*On this day twenty years ago, October 23, 1997, I retired from United Parcel Service. I post this blog in celebration of that event.

Our Catholic brethren have instituted the tradition of Confession in which faithful members of that sect regularly step into something akin to a double telephone booth and confess their sins to a priest; at which point said priest admonishes the supplicant to say 10 or 20 ‘Our Father’s’ and ‘Hail Mary’s’ as penance for their spiritual transgressions; (and possibly crimes).

They say confession is good for the soul.

Well, there may be something to it since I’m inclined to confess a few things I’ve kept hidden for, well, as long as I remember.

And it so happens that all of my transgressions, at least all I care to share with you, occurred in and about my 20 year tenure at UPS, and more specifically in and about truck numbers 59299 and 59358. (I can only wonder whether said trucks have, by now, been transformed into stethoscopes, doorknobs and car tags).

At any rate, there were several circumstances in which I was involved, at the time, that seemed anything but humorous, but which, in retrospect, now elicit a smile, and perhaps even a hearty chuckle.

The chronology of the follow events are, by now, out of mind and memory; though not a myriad of details surrounding them.

There was the time I found myself delivering packages to vendors at our local Orange Festival. Somehow I got wedged between two rows of cars, and found myself with very little room to maneuver ‘Big Brown Bessie.’ Backing up one too many times, and an inch too much, I heard a crunch. Dismounting my vehicle I realized I’d backed into someone’s private vehicle.

Given the almost insignificant results of my vehicular shenanigans, and considering the hopelessness of locating the owner of the automobile amongst the vast crowd, I made the momentary decision to …depart the premises. I can only wonder if Jim or Jane noticed his or her front bumper the next morning, noted the unusual paint residue, and exclaimed,

“That potty brown color looks a lot like the Big Bessie my UPS man drives.”

If so, the powers that be remained uninformed and I kept on keeping on.

Speaking of accidents, UPS drivers were allowed one a year; ‘whether we needed it or not.’ And when our mileage and number of starts and stops were taken into consideration, it was a minor grace, indeed.

There was the time that I drove a bit too close to an offending tree branch, and heard the all too familiar sound of paint being scraped from Old Bessie. Pulling my aluminum friend over to the curb, I unsnapped my seat belt, negotiated the three steps on the passenger side of the vehicle, and ‘took a gander’ at my handiwork. “Yep,” I thought. “I did a job on it.” (And indeed, I had). It goes without saying that given a scenario such as this, our drivers were expected to report the infraction. And it goes without saying that such a report, no matter how minor, was ‘added to the tab.’ (Needless to say, a second infraction was grounds for termination).

At that time, (and perhaps thirty years later) it was usual for our mechanic to ‘brush stroke’ the offended area with UPS custom tint, and send it on its way; with a permanent shot of spray paint later in the week. And given this variable I made the precarious decision to drive my injured metal friend in the direction of the nearest car and truck hospital. Pulling up to paint shop, I jumped out, walked briskly to the window, and (minus any specifics) asked whether they had any paint of the desirable shade. They did. And before I left the paint shop, I did; with a brush to go with it. That evening I chose a little traveled route towards my local UPS center, pulled onto the shoulder of the road, and applied a modest bit of potty brown paint to the wounded area. Did I mention I kept a few ounces of the stuff in my stash at home should history repeat itself? (Well, I did).

Pt. 2

Christmas at UPSwas the ‘funnest’ time of the year. (Not).

Our workload doubled. And it wasn’t unusual to find one’s self with a couple dozen remaining delivery packages as midnight approached. Did I mention that midnight was our curfew? Did I mention our boss took a dim view of a driver bringing back more than one or two undelivered parcels? (Well, he did).

One evening in December, as ‘the bewitching hour’ approached, I pulled up to my next delivery stop, slung open the bulkhead door and cast my eyes upon a couple dozen undelivered packages on the 4^th shelf, bottom. As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ of the volume and movie, “Jane Eyre” was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?”

Since my home was situated on my delivery route, I often dropped by for lunch. This time around I dropped by for a different reason. Backing my UPS truck up to my garage, I lifted the heavy door and unloaded my remaining packages onto the concrete floor. I summarily entered the number and affiliated address of each of the packages on my delivery pad with the notation each had been left at the front or side door. Did I mention what I’d just accomplished was contrary to everything holy? Well, it was. (At least, when it came to the UPS bible).

Having returned home that evening my wife and I loaded the offending packages into the back seat and trunk of our car, and (you guessed it) navigated the remaining several streets of a nearby mobile home park; tip-toeing my inanimate darlings to 4537 Redwood and 4657 Oakwood, etc. etc. etc., until every last package had been delivered.

And then there were the dogs.

Closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city. And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5^th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5^th Street, SE was very much like any other street in “Winter Haven,” (the location of the famous, “Cypress Gardens,”) with one exception,

… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.

There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.

Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been

… Destination Dog

As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and

… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!

And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”

Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.

And I think I know why!

(To be continued)

Pt. 3

As the sun set on the western horizon, I generally found myself on Thornhill Road, and when my last package was recent history I pulled over into a grassy area of a mobile home park to complete my paperwork.

One August day I repeated the same closing ceremony which I had repeated many times before. With one unique difference. As I pulled away and prepared to turn right in pursuit of the local UPS center, my back tandem tires rolled over …something. There was no mistaking it. Bump! Bump! Unbuckling my seatbelt I negotiated the three steps to the street,

…and saw him lying in the grass where he had crawled; after I’d so rudely rolled over him with my 3.5 ton Brown Bessie.

The German Shepherd lay dying, and there was little or nothing I could do about it. After a few remaining spasms his ribcage relaxed, and with a soft gasp, he breathed his last. To say I felt badly would have been a gross understatement. The dog had apparently crawled up under my truck to escape the heat, and when I cranked the engine he’d had very little time to rouse himself before…

I attempted to locate his owner to report the situation, but to no avail. No one seemed to know anything about the unfortunate canine, but having notified my supervisor, I was forced to leave the beast lying in the spot where he’d crawled; after having been so rudely dispatched. Funny, it is only in the last few minutes that I have reflected on the notion that, after the mishap took place, the poor beast crawled out from under the vehicle.

Ever since that fateful day I have mentally branded the animal with the name, “Shadow;” since he’d found his way under my delivery vehicle, and into the shadows, to escape the heat of the day. As a spiritual person I tend to believe all pets go to heaven; at least those which we claim for heaven. And would it surprise you to know, I expect to see Shadow there? (Well, I do). One of the first things I plan to do, one of the first actions I plan to take when I arrive there is

…to apologize to Shadow for having dispatched him before his time, and so rudely robbing him of a long and happy life.

Pt. 4

George Baird, my supervisor, was riding with me that day. From time to time, and only a couple minutes before I pulled out of the building, (and much to my chagrin) he’d surprise me with a,

“Hey Bill, I’ll be riding with you today.”

And with that, he’d slip a portable jump seat into the passenger frame of the cab, and off we’d go.

The day had been somewhat uneventful, as George and I rolled up and down the streets and boulevards of Winter Haven until… I discovered a package I’d neglected to deliver. Well, I can tell you I wasn’t real impressed, and I knew my supervisor would be even less impressed than me to have to retrace the path from whence we’d come. And thus, I transgressed another verse in the UPS bible. Not unlike Aiken of old, I hid my little treasure amongst a multitude of pickup packages in the back of my truck. And before the day was over, I did it a second time. And it seemed that old George was none the wiser for it;

…with the emphasis on ‘seemed.’

For you see, when we pulled into the UPS center, and I opened the back bulkhead so the truck could be unloaded, George B. joined me on the dock, and pulled out one, and then the second of my hidden treasures.

“Bill, can you tell me what this is all about?”

He’d known all the time, but decided to wait ‘til we returned to address my little transgression.

I suppose I ‘hemmed and hauled around’ a moment, and finally countered with the most common lie of all time.

“Uh, I really don’t know.”

(and)

“I had no idea they were there.”

Well, suffice it to say Old George had pity on poor deceitful little me for, as I recall, he merely shook his head, and walked away. After he left, I retrieved the parcels and stuck them on the first shelf so that they could be delivered the next day. (“Grace and Mercy there was free.” At least on that particular day).

And did I tell you about the nudist?

(I can tell you, I LOL when I recall the event).

I was well on my way to the conclusion of my work day when I turned right on Lake Eloise Drive. And since I had a delivery package for #769, (a fictional number, but a very real happening) I pulled off the road, retrieved the parcel and walked down the driveway to the house. A wall minus a garage door separated me from the domicile now. And as I walked around the wall, and into the carport, I found myself face to face with

…a very naked man!

“Mr. Smith” had apparently been swimming in the adjoining creek, and upon returning to his garage had divested himself of his bathing suit; with the intent of opening his front door and retrieving his street clothes.

You would have thought I caught him robbing a bank!

“Oh my! Oh no! I’m sorry! Please don’t tell anybody you saw me like this!”

Well, he couldn’t have been any more surprised than me, and no doubt I promised to keep his little secret.

I just caught myself in another lie.

Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.

I’ve considered sending a bill to UPS for my ongoing services.

**As I may have implied, while I make no excuse for several instances of deceit during the course of my service to UPS, the intensive and sometimes unfair expectations of this delivery service prompted me, (and others) to sometimes stretch the truth or tell the untruth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 22. Copyright Pending.

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SPIRITUAL NEUROPATHY. Pts. 1-4

While I cannot account for it, I have been experiencing a general loss of sensitivity throughout virtually my entire body. While I don’t believe ‘neuropathy’ is the exact term to describe it, I suppose it’s close enough.

It seemed to begin about the time I sustained a fall from a ladder onto concrete about five years ago, and broke my ankle; which ultimately required surgery, and an ankle to knee cast. I initially went to a local doctor, and she did the requisite x-rays, and discovering proof of a severe fracture manipulated my leg to determine, well, whatever she thought she needed to determine.

As “Dr. Benson” twisted my lower leg, and ankle this way and that, she seemed to analyze my response to the supposed pain elicited from the manipulation. And during the exercise, she asked,

“How does this feel?”

(and)

“How badly does this hurt?”

To which I responded,

“Uh, I don’t feel any pain.”

(and)

“Sorry, what you’re doing doesn’t hurt a bit.”

The doctor was absolutely flabbergasted, and exclaimed,

“You’re freaking me out!”

Pt. 2

Sometime over the next couple months, I visited the eye doctor, and he wanted to do a glaucoma test; which requires an ocular device to be pressed against the eyeball, and a tiny blast of air to be directed against it.

As the device was set in place, and the test was completed, the doctor said,

“You didn’t even flinch. I’ve had strapping football players cry when I performed this test.”

I love instant butter grits, and over the past few years I’ve discovered from repeated trial, (but no error) that after I do the two minute heat up thing in the microwave that I can easily take the bowl out with my bare hands, and for the life of me, the surface of the ceramic bowl is warm to my touch, but certainly not hot, and not at all uncomfortable.

And it occurs to me that there is a spiritual lesson here.

One symptom which accompanies Leprosy, (which doesn’t happen to be my issue, thank you) is a complete failure of the pain receptors; (not unlike the similar symptom of which I am so familiar).

As a result, lepers are prone to bump their feet against rocks and other hard objects, and are totally unaware when they come into contact with items which emit extreme heat. As a result, many people with this condition are subject to sub-dermal skin damage; resulting in the eventual amputation of fingers and toes.

Pt. 3

All that to say this. I think my body is a lesson unto itself.

I know of no scripture which describes the spiritual implication of my physiological neuropathy any better:

“Being darkened in their understanding, excluded from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them, because of the hardness of their heart; and they, having become callous, have given themselves over to sensuality for the practice of every kind of impurity with greediness.

Having lost all sensitivity, they have given themselves over to sensuality so as to indulge in every kind of impurity, and they are full of greed.” (Ephesians 4:18-19)

We are too close to losing touch with the Spirit of the Living God, and the sensitivity we may have once possessed. And, as a result, we subject ourselves to great harm. We not only endanger our relationship with the Creator, but we are in jeopardy of missing out on God’s plans for our lives, and our very salvation is called into question.

“Now the Spirit speaks expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils;

 Speaking lies in hypocrisy; having their conscience seared with a hot iron.” (1^st Timothy 4:1-2)

However, to continue my metaphor…

There is one portion of my anatomy which remains very sensitive to pain. The soles of my feet; especially my heels.

I head out in the wee hours of the morning and walk a couple of miles, and as a result, my heels tend to develop hairline cracks which, when I walk, “hurt like the very devil.”

Pt. 4

Did I mention my body is a spiritual lesson unto itself? (Well, it is).

Scripture exhorts us to be sensitive to the touch and leading of the Holy Spirit.

 ^“For all who are led by the Spirit of God are the children  of God.

So, you have not received a spirit that makes you fearful slaves. Instead, you received God’s Spirit when he adopted you as his own children. Now we call him, “Abba, Father.” For his Spirit joins with our spirit to affirm that we are God’s children.” (Romans 8:14-16)

As I have inferred, my feet are hyper-sensitive to the damage which my daily walk continue to inflict upon them, and they are almost literally crying out,

“Stop. Cease. Desist.”

(and)

“Hey Bub, whatever you’re doing, it just ain’t working.”

My physiological body is virtually at war with itself. The most of it is insensitive to pain, whereas my feet are hypersensitive to it. Again, a spiritual lesson comes to mind.

As believers, some of us are prone to follow the path of least resistance, and stray off the beaten path. Having begun on the “straight and narrow” we, ultimately, find ourselves walking the “crooked and wide.” Our potential for excellence fades with each bad decision, and action which follows it.

However, when we have sullied our lives and testimony for an extended period of time, and our natural enemy slams us around long and hard enough, we may become re-sensitized, and we enter into a renewed state of repentance and restoration.

Afterward

Whereas, I have no idea how or why I initially developed physiological neuropathy, nor whether I will ever recover from its effects, after having been provided the insight to write this devotional, and put it into print, I am even more determined to avoid the spiritual version of this ailment.


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 72. Copyright Pending.

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TAKING A SEAT ON THE FLOOR

As I was watching the David Jeremiah “Turning Point” broadcast today, the good minister presented the most poignant illustration.

It seems a very large, rather formal church hoped to put together a ministry designed to reach the students of a nearby university. However, not having ever undertaken such a project, the pastor and board were a bit perplexed about how to approach the task.

On one particular Sunday, a student of that university attended the morning worship service. It so happened that David was, like so many other young adults who attended this school, a bit eccentric, or at least wanted to ‘fit in,’ and was dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans, old t-shirt, and sandals. His hair was cut into a mohawk, and was tie-dyed in several colors.

However, David arrived a few minutes late, and as he entered the sanctuary, he realized that every pew was full to capacity. As a result, the teenaged student walked the entire length of the center carpet, and plopped himself down in the aisle. You could have heard a pin drop. Though the pastor had stepped up to the pulpit to deliver his morning message, he seemed unable to proceed.

Suddenly, from the back of the sanctuary an aged, white-haired deacon appeared, and began to make his way down the aisle towards the hapless university student. His relatively short journey was hampered by his lack of mobility, and his cane ‘clicked,’ ‘clicked’ with each step her took.

A holy hush permeated the building as the board member made his way closer, closer to his quest. All eyes were directed towards the deacon, then the student, then the deacon.

Finally, having arrived next to the boy, and pausing for a moment, the old gent dropped his cane, and struggled to… lower himself to the floor beside David. And there they sat. One very young, and unconventional student. One very old, and conventional deacon. Side by side, and ready for a Gospel message.

And at this juncture, the pastor regained a bit of his composure, and exclaimed,

“What I am about to preach you will never remember. What you have just witnessed take place before you, you will never forget.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 72. Copyright Pending.

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FINALLY HOME. Pts. 1-4

My wife and I ‘took in’ a movie this afternoon. The title, “Same Kind of Different as Me.” It was, I think, a better than average flick. Not on the order of “Gone With the Wind” or “The Ten Commandments” to be sure, but a very good movie.

There were a couple of rather poignant scenes in the movie which spoke to me personally.

In the film, Deborah, one of the three main characters, dreams about sitting next to a hospital bed whose occupant looks very much like herself, and afterwards walking down a woodsy trail, and coming up on a homeless black man. Shortly thereafter, she sees her husband.  Ron is standing in a shallow, casket-shaped hole with a shovel, while digging it, yet deeper. And with this, her dream comes to an end.

Odd, this scene in the movie triggered a long lost memory from my childhood.

It was about 1960, and I was eleven or twelve, and just barely old enough to ‘know better’ when, for whatever reason, my dad made an off-hand remark in the presence of his little family.

“When I die, I wouldn’t mind if the grave digger found a nice cool spot under an oak tree, and planted me under it.”

Dear readers, I can tell you this prompted me to do something which you might consider a bit ‘strange and wonderful.’ For you see, sometime in the next couple of days I grabbed a shovel out of my dad’s chemical warehouse, (he was an exterminator) and (you guessed it)… began digging a hole. There was, after all, a couple of old oak trees on our ‘back 40,’ and it seemed like a good place to me to honor my father’s final wishes.

And as you might surmise, I lost little or no time telling him about my morbid accomplishment. No doubt, the conversation sounded pretty much as follows.

Pt. 2

(Me)

“Daddy, you know how you said you would like to be buried under an old oak tree?”

(Daddy)

Looking up, and a bit more compelled by his newspaper, than my monologue,

“Yes son. I remember saying that.”

(Me)

“Well, I dug you a grave under that big ole oak tree out back. Let me show it to you.”

(Daddy)

Suddenly a bit more interested in our conversation,

“You did what? You march yourself out there right now, and cover it up!”

I was confused, perplexed and disillusioned, to say the least. I mean, he said he wanted to be buried under an old oak tree. I just wanted to honor his wishes.

However, without further adieu, I marched myself out to that 6x6 foot hole, and began to return a few hundred pounds of dirt; a shovel full at a time.

Fast forward a full half century, and, well given the subject matter, and the obvious age of my father at this juncture, you might imagine he had long since entered the winter of his life, and, ultimately, succumbed to the effects of a stroke. (Strangely enough, on the same date as his retirement party; two decades earlier).

And though, my parents had made some preliminary arrangements with a cremation service, it was left to me to finalize the details.

Pt. 3

However, having spent the requisite amount of time with the funeral director, and when I felt the cost of the crematory’s least expensive urn was exorbitant, I decided to do something some family and friends might have regarded as a bit quirky; (but which would have brought a toothy grin to my father’s face).

I stopped by a high-end furniture and home décor store, and inquired about a (drum roll)… condiments container. I have long since forgotten whether I revealed the true nature of my need, but I settled on a nice burgundy colored ceramic jar for all of about $25. And after an artistically-inclined cousin decorated it with colorful roses, buttercups, daisies, and the like, I delivered my dad’s make-shift urn to the crematory.

A couple of days later, I retrieved the container, and hosted what remained of my father’s mortal remains in my home office; ‘til the memorial service, and subsequent internment.

Bright and early on the day of the service, I grabbed my father’s urn, jumped in my car and drove to the cemetery. I summarily proceeded to my parent’s gravesite, stopped the vehicle, hopped out, opened the trunk, pulled out a shovel, and dug a shallow hole in front of the headstone.

Having accomplished my task, I hopped back in my automobile, and my dad and I ‘set sail’ for the nearby Methodist church where I was privileged to sing “Amazing Grace” on his behalf, and celebrate his life with a large number of family and friends.

The service and following luncheon having concluded, my brothers, sister, and a few friends found our way back to the cemetery, and my father’s final resting place. I had prepared a few fitting remarks, and invited anyone else who wished to speak to also do so. And as each individual memorialized my father, (and as I had determined in advance) he or she placed a memento of their association with my dad in a large plastic bag; which also contained my father’s mortal remains.

Pt. 4

Having finished the informal ceremony, I set the urn in the hole, and began to shovel soil on and around it. And it suddenly occurred to me. The virtual fulfillment of prophecy. For hadn’t I dug a ‘practice pit’ on the apparent prompting of my father some 50 years earlier, and hadn’t I returned the soil from whence it came? Check.

Having completed my task, I looked around. Oak trees. The grounds of Wildwood Cemetery were absolutely replete with a myriad of stately old oak trees. Check.

When speaking about the death of a father or mother, it is not unusual to use a phrase like, “I buried my dad last week” (or) “I just buried my mom recently.” Well, as it fell together, there was nothing metaphoric or euphemistic about it. I literally buried my father, and a scant four years later, I buried my mother. (And who can say, perhaps my son will, one day, do the same favor for me).

But to reflect again on the biographically-inspired movie to which I alluded at the beginning of my story.

The aged homeless man had a name. He was Mr. Denver Moore. And as he stands behind a pulpit, and eulogizes his dear friend, Deborah, who before she ever knew him, met him in a dream, (and, sadly, preceded him in death) he poignantly reflects,

“Whether we are rich, or poor, or in between,… we’re not home yet. For you see, we’re all on a journey. One day we won’t be homeless ever again. We’ll be home.”

Both my father and mother are at rest now, and I was privileged to return them to the dust from whence they sprang. It is a lovely place filled with old oak trees and lovely azaleas. But this is not their final home. Not by a long shot.

No, my friends. They are happy and healthy, and young again. And they are (as the movie character so wisely alluded) no longer homeless.

They are finally home.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 71. 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. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 47. Copyright Pending.
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