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

As we approach the 20^th 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.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 33. Copyright pending.

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SITUATIONAL ETHICS. Pts. 1-3

I was talking to one of my interns today and the conversation somehow drifted towards the topic of situational ethics.

That is,

the concept that values and judgments and decisions are best made according to the time, culture and environment, and which includes the underlying implication that modeling one’s ethics according to the situation is both nominal and understandable. (My definition).

And it occurred to me to provide ‘Doris’ an example of situational ethics.

You are, no doubt, familiar with the sinking of the Titanic in 1912. It so happens that among the myriad of men, women and children who went down with the ship was a ‘Mr. Jones’ and a ‘Mrs. Smith.’ And very much like the movie character, ‘Jack’ portrayed by Leonardo DiCaprio, they found themselves floundering in the icy waters of the Atlantic, and were very close to hypothermia and drowning. And then it happened. An empty lifeboat floated by. The man and woman, who found themselves just feet from one another, saw the vessel at the same time, managed to grab hold, and happily climbed aboard.

Mr. Jones immediately surveyed the situation, and discovered a large wooden box in the middle of the lifeboat. Opening the box he discovered it was full of every conceivable item necessary to the preservation of life. Water, First Aid Kit, Lantern, Matches, Canned Food, and… Blankets.

Dragging a couple of blankets out of the box, he draped one of them around the shoulders of Mrs. Smith. Afterwards, he wrapped himself up in one exactly like it.

When the two were able to talk they ‘compared notes’ and were both surprised, but gratified to understand that though each had been separated from their spouses in the melee, each had seen their respective mates and children being lowered in their respective lifeboats.

Pt. 2

And though Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith lifted the oars, and made a heroic effort to remain in close proximity to the other lifeboats; but to no avail. As the minutes ticked by the lights upon the other vessels seemed to grow smaller, and the hapless duo realized their escape from almost certain death might not be all that certain at all.

As the night wore on, their little boat drifted from one ice field to another, and one wave after another splashed rudely against its sides. With the approaching dawn the air temperature rose a bit, and they broke out some saltine crackers and sardines, and commensurated about what Providence had in store for them.

Day gave way to night and night gave way to day, and Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith allowed their little vessel to drift where it would; as they had no way of determining in what direction or how far removed they were from safety.

And it was then, after nearly a week had passed, and they had by now run out of food, and most of their water,… they saw it. A small island; (one which, as it so happened, was absent from any map which existed in the early 20^th century).

Of course, Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith were heartened, and in the next couple of hours their little boat neared the rocky beach. Realizing that it was now or never, they climbed over the side and swam for it. Fortunately, they were both good swimmers and within minutes they lay gasping on the white sand.

Pt. 3

Well, Doris, I’m happy to report that this small, unchartered island offered Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith plenty of fresh water, and all the seafood they could eat; (though due to its northerly latitude no fruit bearing trees existed there).

And thus they lived for the space of a year.

(It was about this time that I moved my story towards the theme of situational ethics, and the purpose for which I chose to tell it).

And as you might imagine the duo realized that by this time they would have been given up for dead, and began to reminisce about their respective husband and wife, and their children. And as both were believers and were knowledgeable about such things, they often alluded to the Book of Genesis, and the story of Adam and Eve.

Well, given their abject hopelessness of ever leaving the island, the certainty of spending the rest of their natural days there, and the desire with which God has endowed man and beast, Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith finally gave sway to their natural emotions,… and consummated the relationship.

And as one of my favorite songs laments,

“And so it goes.”

(And so it went).

Ultimately, our modern day Eve found herself with child, and bore a son, and subsequently bore another son, and two daughters.

Afterward:

I continued my story.

Years passed and dropped like sand through the proverbial hourglass of time, until one day some modern day Columbus discovered the island… and the people who populated it; many of whom looked surprisingly alike, and possessed similar temperaments.

Well, by now you might question the veracity of my story, and if so, you’re probably right.

Situational Ethics

It never ceases to amaze me how easily some people justify much  more casual liaisons than this, and chalk it up to Situational Ethics.


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 37. Copyright pending.

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I WANT TO BE AN OSCAR

I have previously written about the exploits of Sir Ernest Shackleton; the famous British explorer of Antarctica. It seems in his quest to be the first, he came within 97 miles of the geographical South Pole. However, it has been said that “close is only good enough in grenades and nuclear war.” He was a very disappointed fellow, I think.

     The man was a visionary, but he neglected to do the two major things that would surely have won the day. Rather than dogs, he took ponies. Rather than skis, he decided on “old fashioned shoe leather.” You see, he had never taken the time to adapt himself, and his team to the use of such new measures, and he was irrevocably taken up with the mindset of the nineteenth century, though that century was waning in favor of the twentieth.

     Yes, Sir Ernest was slow to adapt. But he was no fool. For a few short years later, during “the war to end all wars,” he brought dogs with him to his next Antarctic exploit. The South Pole had already been conquered at this point, though not by him, and he was desperate to do something notable.

     Having sent two ships out, one a ship of exploration and one a ship of supply, he determined to complete a Trans-Antarctic expedition. Sadly, he failed when his main vessel was enclosed by ice floes, and crushed by the immense pressure of the stuff.

     Meanwhile, on the other side of the icy continent, a pitiful group of men and dogs were laying out food depots; in expectation of Shackleton’s march towards his destiny.

     They were emaciated, having marched hundreds of miles towards the South Pole, their only aim to leave sporadic rations in the snow for what would be the team of explorers. And like so many before, these poor men were suffering the effects of scurvy; a potentially-fatal result of the lack of Vitamin C.

     The team which deposited food for others had run out of food for themselves. Not deterred, they continued to move towards their original campsite, and all the food they would eat or need. Blizzards raging around them, extreme privation, snow blindness; at times ferrying one of their dying mates on a sledge.

      And the dogs. Oh, the dogs. While the men ate the last shreds of penguin, and seal which they had shot, the dogs were without food for two days. So bitterly cold and so hungry they were.

     Even dogs complain. They yelped pleadingly to be fed, to rest, or to plain give up; even as each tread of their paws brought them closer to food. Some like Con and Towser were such good-natured animals, so desirous to please their masters. But enough was enough, and hope was waning; with every mile they trod.

     But with so many such stories, (and this one is no exception,) salvation came from an unexpected source. 

     For you see, there was one old, bad-natured brute named Oscar. He incessantly bothered and berated the rest of the pack. More often than not, the men regretted having the beast with them, (and may have been prone to “put him out of his misery,” except the mission so desperately required a minimum number of dogs).

     However, the surly old dog finally came into his own. For when the other dogs seemed on the verge of giving up, for the wind and cold and hunger, something magical happened.

    “Oscar just lowered his massive head, and pulled as he never did when things were going well. He even, at times, got a bit of a run on the sledge and tried to bite the heels of the dog ahead to make him work… It seemed to us that Oscar was aware that we were looking for something that would give him a full meal once more.” (Pg. 484, “Shackleton”)

Well my friends, I don't know about you, but stuff like this makes me want to should, "Hallelujah!" I can get excited about tales like this one.

    Oh, you may say, “He was just a dumb animal.” And granted, he was. But if a dumb animal can rise to the task, the way Oscar rose to his task, where does that you and me?

    I am reminded of the brevity of life, and the strong responsibility that is ours, as servants of The Most High God. I will not be content to whine, or to just lay down when the going gets tough.

    I want to be “an Oscar.” I want to pull with all my might; hope against hope that anything can be accomplished. If need be, I plan to “bite the heels of the dogs ahead of me;” to encourage them that there’s a work to be done, and a Christ to be served.

     “Seeing how we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us strip off everything that hinders us, and the sin that so easily entangles us, and let us run with patience the race that God has set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1, KJV)

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 45. Copyright pending.

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BILL P.'S LEGACY. Pts. 1-3

I have previously alluded to the late Bill Pearce; my favorite radio broadcaster of all time. Mr. Pearce hosted the earlier program, ‘Night Watch’ and a subsequent broadcast, ‘Night Sounds’ for over 50 years.

During those five plus decades of ministry, Bill touched the lives of literally millions of listeners with his topical messages, rich baritone solos and trombone renditions; as well as a myriad of ‘hip’ and not so ‘hip’ musical selections by numerous 20^th century Christian artists.

As time wore on, as it is prone to do, Mr. Pearce began experiencing slight, and then progressively major difficulty enunciating his words, so much so that he mentioned it ‘on the air.’ Ultimately, Bill made an appointment with a physician, and was diagnosed with,

Parkinson’s Disease

Sometime after the turn of the 21^st century, the great Christian disk jockey, (if he may be referred to in this manner) singer and trombonist was forced to step away from the control booth for the last time, and to submit himself to the care of a nursing facility; in which he lived out the remainder of his days.

A couple of years prior to Bill’s passing, one of his former producers visited him in that Pennsylvania nursing home. Of course, the great radio personality was thrilled to see him. Mr. Pearce’s ability to speak may have been ‘past tense’ at this point in his life, but there was nothing wrong with hearing or mind.

Before he departed, “Mr. Ames” decided he’d make things a bit more interesting, if for no other reason than to provide Bill a break in the routine of the place in which he found himself.

“Bill, you know many things in life aren’t permanent, and aren’t meant to be. I mean, take the 50 years of Christian radio programs that you hosted. There’s a whole lot of good stuff in the vast broadcast archives which you assembled. Still, you and I both know that material is outdated. I’m sorry, some things are meant for a season, and then fade away.”

Well, I would like to have been a fly on the wall that day. History has it that Mr. Pearce’s eyes widened, and his face turned a bit ashen. However, before the tears found the opportunity to well up in the great man’s eyes, Mr. Ames spoke again.

“Bill, I’m just teasing with you. Your broadcasts are still being aired, night after night, and now they’re available on the internet. (www.nightsoundsradio.org) We have made arrangements for your voice and music to go on reaching millions for decades to come.”

And with that, it seemed the little man with a voice as big as all outdoors, and an equally big heart relaxed, and a broad smile enveloped his face. He was a man altogether ‘taken up’ with Legacy, and his personal legacy is safe for years to come.

As I listen to Bill Pearce’s distinct voice today, it is almost impossible to comprehend that he is no longer with us. He seems so present and his monologue and music so ‘there there,’ it is as if he never left us.

May God increase the impact of ‘Night Sounds’ and hold this bless-ed man in the hollow of His loving arms.

Pt. 2

As I write this blog, I am listening to a segment of the radio/internet broadcast, “Night Sounds” with the late Bill Pearce; my favorite broadcast and broadcaster of all time.

Tonight’s broadcast is entitled, “Vessels of Clay” and deals with human frailty and a tendency among ‘all God’s creatures’ to repeatedly fail in their attempt to mirror the image of the Almighty; (even if they’re ‘trying hard’ to do so).

As Bill opened up the program he observed,

“My father was a minister, and I once asked him, ‘How is it that you preach holiness and righteousness, and all that when none of us are perfect and can’t possibly measure up to God’s expectations?’”

To which Bill’s father so wisely responded,

“Well, we’re all preaching something we’re not. But God uses vessels of clay.”

(Indeed, He does).

And one facet of our clay-like vessels is our subjective-ness to disease.

As I was listening to one of the earlier Night Sounds broadcasts this week, Mr. Pearce reflected,

“I was attempting to pronounce a particular word on a broadcast the other day, aurora borealis, and I found myself struggling to pronounce it correctly. I never did manage it.”

And it occurred to me that Bill was, ultimately, diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease, was admitted to a skilled nursing facility and eventually succumbed to the dread malady. How strange it seems to have been given an ‘on-air’ entre into an early symptom of his condition; which at the time the radio host would have considered a benign happenstance. 

And if only for a moment partaking of, as it were, an attribute invested only in the Godhead. 

Omniscience

As God instructed Moses to approach Pharaoh, and when Moses, subsequently, asked God who he say sent him, Jehovah responded with,

“Tell him that ‘I AM’ hath sent you.”

God, the ‘I AM’ of the universe. Not ‘I was, I am, I will be,’ but ‘I AM.’ The ever present, living Creator who was present in our pasts, present in our, well, present, and present in our futures. He who has already been there, knows the number of hairs on our head, each whirl and line within our fingerprints, each day of our lives, and the very day and nature of our passing.

And hearkening back to ‘Night Sounds’ and its eloquent host, it is apparent from tonight’s program that time had progressed since the earlier broadcast to which I alluded, as Mr. Peace refers to his progressing inability to exercise adequate diction.

“I am experiencing an increasing inability to pronounce my words due to a particular malady, and I cannot know when my situation will prevent me from speaking to you. It’s all in the hands of our wonderful Creator.”

It is comforting to know that God had already been there, and it was enough at that moment that God knew, and that nothing in this good man’s life had taken Him unawares. And so it is with each and every one of us.

God, the ever-present One, the ‘I AM’ of all our ways and all our days.

Pt. 3

In my earlier stories, I alluded to the late Bill Pearce.

During five plus decades of ministry on the radio broadcasts, “Night Watch” and “Night Sounds” Bill touched the lives of literally millions of listeners with his topical messages, rich baritone solos, and trombone renditions; as well as a myriad of ‘hip’ and not so ‘hip’ musical selections by numerous 20^th century Christian artists.

As time wore on, as it is prone to do, Mr. Pearce began experiencing slight, and then progressively major difficulty enunciating his words, so much so that he mentioned it ‘on the air.’ Ultimately, Bill made an appointment with a physician, and was diagnosed with,

Parkinson’s Disease

But to digress a bit, I was just listening to an undated segment from “Night Sounds,” (but for that matter the internet renditions of the broadcast are all undated) and “the little man with a big voice” became very vulnerable and said,

“I have wondered who will take over for me when I am gone. I mean, I can’t stay here forever. I will pass off the scene, as surely as billions of others have before me. Who will assume my mantle and continue this radio broadcast?

I mentioned the subject in a recent meeting with the members of our board, and one and then another said, ‘Oh, no one could ever replace you, Bill.’ But, if this broadcast is to survive, if it is to go on impacting generations, someone will have to step forward. I have thought, perhaps, one of my sons could take over for me. But they don’t sense the calling, and I suppose that is an unlikely possibility. Nevertheless, no one is irreplaceable; least of all yours truly.”

I was always ‘taken up’ with Paul Harvey’s, “The Rest of the Story” and it would appear there was a rest of the story when it came to Bill Pearce’s concern for the broadcast, and who would step forward to assume his position; when he passed from the scene.

After all, he made the emphatic statement that, “No one is irreplaceable.”

It would appear that between the words, to which I alluded, and the last year of his life on earth, Bill’s mindset on the topic metamorphosed. At least you didn’t have to convinced his board members, and millions of his listeners.

For you see, no one ultimately stepped forward. There would be no replacement. For not unlike other audio classics, such as “The War of the Worlds” and “Command Performance” and video classics, such as “The Dick Van Dyke Show” and “The Johnny Carson Show” it was determined that Bill Pearce’s “Night Sounds” could not, and would not be duplicated.

As I inferred in an earlier blog, one of Bill’s board members shared the following assurance with him as he prepared to meet his Maker.

“My friend, your broadcasts are still being aired, night after night, and now they’re available on the internet. We have made arrangements for your voice and music to go on reaching millions for decades to come.”

And with that assurance, it seemed the little man with a voice as big as all outdoors, (and an equally big heart) relaxed, and a broad smile enveloped his face. He was a man altogether ‘taken up’ with Legacy, and his personal legacy is safe for years to come.

I guess some people are, after all, irreplaceable

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 55. Copyright pending.

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A PATCH OF WILD VIOLETS. Pts. 1-2

As I was preparing to write this story, (and as I often do) I went to the internet, and brought up a series of articles related to my topic.

In this case wild violets.

And as I googled the subject of my quest, the first item at the top of the list was,

“How to get rid of wild violets in your yard.”

And I thought,

“Why would I want to get rid of them?”

(and)

“I happen to like them.”

(and)

“I happen to like them a lot.”

I mean, I purposely mow around a 2x2 foot clump of the little things in my back yard.

Of course, as you might expect, there’s more to the story, and for anyone who is a fan of my blogs, you may remember my having written about the topic before.

Yesterday, as I stepped outside to survey my woodsy quarter acre, I glanced to my right and noticed a tiny clump of lovely wild violets were in bloom. Twelve or fifteen of the small purple blossoms greeted my eyes; held up by rich green leafy shoots.

And, as always, I paused to reflect on a precious little Shih Tzu named, ‘Buddy’ which I was privileged to know and love for the space of a decade.

And as I have inferred in the past, when she left us, (Yes, ‘Buddy’ was a her) I installed a circular decorative tile on this spot to commemorate her.

For it was here that our precious pooch so often resorted to “take in the rays.”

Pt. 2

Perhaps I have chosen to “read more into it,” but I am convinced that the proximity of the wild violets to the place Buddy loved the best is no coincidence or mistake. I believe it was an “on purpose” sorta thing which has its roots with Providence, and was (drum roll) planned before the earth was breathed into being.

I know that’s “saying a lot” and I realize it’s a lot to take in, but I’m convinced that Buddy was simply worth it, and that our Lord was thinking of her

…before He made the worlds.

I mean, I’ve written about my little Buddy before, and without going into great detail again suffice it to say that I think my precious pooch fulfilled her mission on this earth; whereas many human beings never do.

There was a time when her incessant barking caused a would-be burglar to flee. There was a time when she refused to leave my daughter’s side when she was grieving the loss of a marriage. There was a time when she followed my wife around the house, ‘til she submitted to a physical exam by which a malignant tumor was detected early, and she has been allowed to live out a long and productive life.

Yes, my Buddy was worth it, and I think our Lord agreed with me before I ever knew the bless-ed creature.

There is a particular verse in the Book of Psalms which provides some evidence of the Creator’s love and affirmation for both his human and animal creations, and His promise that I will see my Buddy again one day.

Your righteousness is like the highest mountains, your justice like the great deep. You, LORD, preserve both people and animals. (Psalm 36:6)

Afterward

No, I don’t believe the presence of those lovely wild violets, next to that circular decorative tile in my backyard, is a coincidence or mistake. I will always think of this place as a Providential tribute to one of His wonderful little creations named Buddy.

I like to think of that wild, uncultivated patch of purple blossoms as God’s own memorial for a life well lived, and for a creature He loved more than I ever could.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 60. Copyright pending.

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DR. BILL MEETS DR. JIM

     I attended a counseling seminar in Denver several years ago. It was an exciting opportunity to meet counselors from across the country, as well as notable Christian psychologists, teachers, and authors.

     Focus on the Family co-hosted this event, and Dr. James Dobson was in attendance. It was a wonderful thing to see him in person, and hear him speak.

     The last day of the seminar was finally upon us, and the last speech and prayer had been offered by our host. Dr. Dobson announced that he would “meet and greet” as many as cared to remain behind.

     Immediately, what seemed liked hundreds of people filed into a long line. I decided not to stay, but to walk back to my hotel room. I had hardly moved towards the door when I changed my mind. “No, I didn’t come all this way not to meet the doctor.” So, I turned back and moved towards the back of the line. Only two or three people filed in behind me, and what seemed like hundreds loomed ahead of me.

    Well, James Dobson is a patient man. He proceeded to sign autographs, and pose for pictures. A few times he actually motioned other family members to come up, and have their picture made. I regret I didn’t have my camera with me.

     A couple of hours went by, and slowly, but surely, I moved towards the imminent Dr. Dobson. Just as I reached him, I noticed his wife, Shirley. She was holding her sandals in her hands, and looked exhausted. “Jim, we’ve got to go home!” Well, I would not be denied. I immediately posed my question.

    “Dr. Dobson, if you could give a Christian counselor, working in a church environment, one piece of advice what would it be?”

    He thought a moment, and offered that one bit of guidance;

    “Always be loyal to your clients, your church, your pastor and your God.”

    I think he could not have given me any better guidance.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

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IF YA DON'T ACT ROYAL, YOU AIN'T ROYAL. Pt. 5

And, of course, my young cousins, Princes William and Harry, have experienced their own share of monkeyshines.

Whatever you may think of cohabitation, (and it is not the purpose of this particular story to judge the practice, and classify it as either moral or immoral) I believe most would agree that it is not generally considered to be a royal prerogative. And yet, Prince William “set up shop” with the so-called ‘commoner’ Catherine, and cohabited with her for years prior to their engagement, and subsequent marriage.

And not to be denied, Prince Harry has publicly entertained numerous young women, and is widely known as a royal playboy. And who can forget the nude photos of the ‘royal’ prince which were snapped in Las Vegas, or the picture of the young fella all dressed up in a Nazi uniform?

Time would fail me to speak of Princess Margaret’s affair with the married Captain Townsend, or those infamous topless photos of Prince Andrew’s wife, Sarah Ferguson.

I can only wonder when enough is enough, and when and where a “Lessons learned mentality” will (finally) rule and reign among the British (so-called) “Royal Family”?

I would love to have been the proverbial fly on the wall and buzzed around the prim and proper Queen Elizabeth over the course of the last several decades. I would have relished the opportunity. I can only wonder how many times she has asked the various and sundry princes and princesses in her charge… “What in the blue blazes were you thinking?”

As a counselor, I often speak to the subject of role modeling. I’m sorry, the so-called “Royal Family” are not role models. (At least, not good ones).

If ya don’t act royal, you ain’t royal.

This week it was announced that Prince Harry has followed his older brother’s lead, and is engaged to the biracial American actress Meghan Markle. Hopefully, the inclusion of this common lineage will begin to dilute the mediocrity and immorality of the royal bloodline.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 73. Copyright pending.

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IF YA DON'T ACT ROYAL, YOU AIN'T ROYAL. Pt. 4

By this point, one would begin to wonder if all this marital and sexual dysfunction among the so-called 'Royal Family' is the result of inbreeding. As the 19th century gave way to the 20th, the kings and czars of England, Germany, and Russia were members of the same extended family.

As Paul Harvey was prone to say, “And now (we) know the rest of the story.”

We are all too aware of the conjugal relationship Prince Charles shared with Mrs. Camilla Parker Bowles during the 8^th and 9^th decades of the 20^th century. And as she freely admitted in that exclusive interview, my sweet cousin Di reciprocated and shared a parallel adulterous relationship with a Captain James Hewitt. (Some have mused that Prince Harry looks a bit too much like this Mr. Hewitt).

And as one might easily predict, a marriage “built on sand” simply could not survive all these adulterous comings and goings. After the divorce, Lady Diana went on to galavant around the world with one or the other rich and notable men, and regrettably, in a failed attempt to escape the paparazzi that fateful evening, died with Dodi Fayed in that infamous French tunnel.

Of course, Charles went on to marry his lifelong love, the commoner, the divorcee, Camilla Parker Bowles. (No doubt, the former King Edward VIII, who chose Wallis Simpson instead of the throne, would turn over his grave).

To the manifold credit of the Church, as part and parcel of the wedding ceremony, Charles and Camilla were required to participate in a prayer of public humiliation, taken from the 17th century Book of Common Prayer, and which culminated their three and a half decade long affair.

"We acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness which we, from time to time, most grievously have committed.”

If ya don't act royal, you ain’t royal.

(to be continued)

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 73. Copyright pending.

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IF YA DON'T ACT ROYAL, YOU AIN'T ROYAL. Pt. 3

And then there was Charles.

To be sure, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Chester, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland. And lately, he has been offered a new title by a mayor in Romania, (drum roll)… Prince of Transylvania.

Of course, Prince Charles’ royal shenanigans are legendary.

The illustrious heir to the throne met Camilla for the first time at a polo match. She joked with him that her great grandmother had enjoyed an affair with King Edward VII, and that, as a result, her great great whatever was the illegitimate offspring of that match made in heaven, and thus, they were, after all, distant cousins. They began dating, but Charles began his service in the Royal Navy. When he returned Camilla was engaged to someone else.

Ultimately, Prince Charles married the supposed (and for all I know) young beautiful virgin, (and my distant relative) Diana Spencer. The contrast between the two women is legendary. And yet the Queen’s first son had already given his heart to Camilla. And he apparently “entertained notions towards her” throughout the course of his marriage.

In 1989 Princess Di approached Camilla at a party.  Diana gave the following account of their interaction.

Diana

“I know what's going on between you and Charles and I just want you to know that.”

Camilla

“You've got everything you ever wanted. You've got all the men in the world fall in love with you and you've got two beautiful children, what more do you want?”

Diana

 “I want my husband. I'm sorry I'm in the way. It must be hell for both of you. But I do know what's going on. Don't treat me like an idiot."

If ya don't act royal, you ain't royal.

(to be continued)

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 73. Copyright pending.

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IF YA DON'T ACT ROYAL, YOU AIN'T ROYAL. Pt. 2

And then there was this ancient great grandmother of mine named Mehitable Spencer who hailed from the ancient Norman ‘Despencer’ line; among whose descendants were Winston Churchill and Princess Diana. (Our first common Despencer forebear of whom I am aware was chief clerk to 11^th Century William the Conqueror).

Princess Diana was my distant cousin, as are Prince William and Prince Harry. In spite of this rather notable and singular connection to British royalty, regrettably, I’ve never been invited to Buckingham Palace for tea. (Perhaps I’ll stop by and see the boys next year when I visit Great Britain).

I readily admit it. I have a somewhat mixed one way relationship with the so-called ‘royal’ members of my illustrious household. For you see, from my way of thinking some of my royal relatives, and other royals to whom they are related haven’t always conducted themselves in an especially royal manner.

Of course, there have been plenty of ‘Royal Shenanigans’ over the years; not the least of which were those of King Henry VIII. I mean ask Anne Boleyn. The least educated among us are aware of her sorry plight. Unable to bear a male heir to the throne, she was accused of adultery, and summarily beheaded on orders of her husband.

Fast forward to another “8^th,” the mid-20^th century King Edward VIII; uncle of the current Queen Elizabeth. When he became involved with a divorced ‘commoner’ Wallis Simpson, and refused to relent from his intention to make her his wife, he was deposed in favor of his brother. As a result, George VI was elevated to the throne, and the Royal Family ostracized Edward from their society the entire remainder of his life; (though he received a special, though temporary dispensation to attend his brother’s funeral).

If ya don't act royal, you ain't royal.

(to be continued)


by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 73. Copyright pending.

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IF YA DON'T ACT ROYAL, YOU AIN'T ROYAL. Pt. 1

Among my most avid interests is genealogy. Given that my undergrad degree was in history, I guess that’s a foregone conclusion.

I have done a great deal of research on my various family surnames, have created my own personal family tree on ancestry.com, and have submitted a sample of my precious saliva, and, subsequently, received an analysis of my DNA.

I think I must have the most diverse genealogy of anyone in the State of Florida. For between my DNA results, my mother’s DNA results, and some pretty reliable family information, I have discovered that my ethnicities include: English, Scottish, Irish, Welsh, German, Austrian, Danish, Spanish, Slovakian, Italian, Jewish, Arab, Native American, and Black African.

Interestingly enough, with each previous generation of our lineage our direct ancestors (grandparents) are multiplied by two, i.e., we have two parents, four grandparents, eight great grandparents, etc. By the time we arrive at the 33^rd ancestral generation, (approx. 1500 years) each and every one of us have (drum roll)… 1 billion great grandparents. And with each additional generation that number is multiplied by two.

All this to say, there are a multitude of family connections between ourselves and the next guy, and the sheer number of our ancestors virtually guarantee that you, and I, and the guy next door, no matter our notoriety, status, national origins, or color, are distant cousins.

Speaking of notoriety, I have discovered a large number of famous people among my distant cousins; living and dead. People such as Ulysses S. Grant, Franklin Roosevelt, Henry Longfellow, and Richard Gere.

(to be continued)

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 73. Copyright pending.

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THE CONVOLUTED LIFE AND DEATH OF AN AMERICAN ACTOR. Pts. 1-2

I was watching an old segment of “Highway to Heaven” on NetFlix last night. The title of this segment was “The Hero.”

The plot behind this particular episode involved a disabled veteran who, as a machine gunner in the Vietnam War, had managed to save several men in his platoon, and had, in so doing, lost an arm and a leg to mortar fire.

When the actor portraying “Joe Mason” first appears on the screen, it is immediately obvious that he has a very real disability. Oh, not one of those “Lieutenant Dan,” kind of disabilities in which the film has been digitally manipulated to replicate an amputation. No, “Highway to Heaven” aired in the mid-80’s when that sort of Hollywood magic was not yet in vogue. I knew as soon as I saw him. This was the “real McCoy.”

James Stacy was born Maurice William Elias; (a much more “highfalutin” name, if I say so myself).

He made his film debut in 1957, and appeared in both “movie movies,” including, “South Pacific,” and various television productions, such as “Gunsmoke,” “Hazel” and “Perry Mason.” He is, however, best remembered for the “Lancer” TV series.

September 27, 1973 proved to be a singular and memorable day for the 37 year old Stacy. He and his girlfriend, Claire Cox were riding a motorcycle in the Hollywood Hills when a drunken driver slammed into their vehicle. The young lady was killed, while James Stacy was severely injured, and it was necessary to amputate his left arm and leg. His ex-wife, the well-known actress Connie Stevens, organized a celebrity fund raiser attended by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Barbra Streisand. Ultimately, James Stacy received a two million dollar settlement for his injuries.

Pt. 2

After this fine performer recovered from the accident, he continued to act in roles which were created to accommodate his disability, including a television movie, “Just a Little Inconvenience,” in which he portrayed a double-amputee Vietnam veteran.

As I watched the “Highway to Heaven” episode in my living room yesterday, I realized it was the only time and place I had ever had the pleasure of seeing Stacy perform. Based on his impressive mobility, it is obvious that the actor had come to grips with navigating his environment, and doing it very well. He moved as quickly on his crutches as anyone I have ever known, and in one scene he folded and tossed his wheelchair into the truck of his car with his one hand.

To say the actor’s life was difficult and convoluted would be an understatement of the first degree.

In November of 1995 he pled guilty to molesting an 11 year old girl in his home; at which time he received a six year sentence. As the sentence was read the girl’s mother was reported to have shouted, “Justice is served!” James Stacy had previously read a statement in which he stated, in part, “I regret what happened in my home that day. I only hope that my actions didn’t affect that young girl’s innocent mind.”

Both interestingly and strangely enough, after the jury pronounced the guilty verdict, but prior to the sentencing hearing, Stacy had fled to Hawaii where he attempted suicide by jumping off Pali Lookout. However, rather than falling into the Pacific Ocean, 1200 feet below, he landed on a soft patch of grass just 50 feet below the precipice, and “lived to tell the tale.”

Apparently, September was not the actor’s best month. Not only had he experienced an excruciating, life-changing accident in the ninth month of the year, but on September 9, 2016 he succumbed to anaphylactic shock in Ventura, California; after having been administered an antibiotic injection in his doctor’s office. He was 79 years old.

Afterward

I don’t why I was so transfixed with finding out all I could about this man; after seeing him perform in a single television segment. Perhaps it was simply the “unusualness” of the actor’s injuries, that he was still acting, and that he had, seemingly, gained such a significant amount of conciliation with those awful injuries.

Some people might say that, in terms of his decisions, James Stacy brought it all on himself. Others would say it was a mixed bag. From my perspective, the two September events in his life were a little bit of both.

While he climbed aboard a motorcycle, and allowed his girlfriend to climb on also, (something I will never do) multiplied millions of people consider it an acceptable mode of transportation. Obviously, he could not have accounted for that drunken driver who would, in his abject stupidity, change three lives forever.

Twenty-two years later, James Stacy purposely and voluntarily molested a minor child, and ‘earned’ himself a six year prison sentence, and the loss of both his character and reputation.

I know nothing of the last decade and a half of this actor’s life. I can only hope the unfortunate man came to terms with his past, that, at some level, he was able to rebuild his character and reputation, and that a significant amount of peace was restored to his life, and with his God.



by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 73. Copyright pending.

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THUMBING A RIDE TO FREDERICKSBURG. Pts. 1-3

Laine, a dear social media friend who hails from Australia encouraged me to write a blog 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.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 25. Copyright pending.

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CARL. Pts. 1-2

      In Greek and Roman times, athletes ran for an earthly crown. These fine men were content to wear a laurel of leaves around their foreheads, and felt  proud to do so.

     Carl Brashear is among the most extraordinary men of our generation, though not one in a thousand has heard his name, or knows anything about him.

     Carl’s father was a black dirt farmer, in the first half of the 20^th century, and struggled throughout his life to just “make ends meet” and feed his children. He was determined that his son would not follow in his footsteps.

     “The Old Man” urged Carl to “push the envelope” in terms of doing whatever it took to work the system, (though segregation stymied so many heroic efforts to break out of the same old way of doing things.) We see the old man with tears in his eyes, as he says: “Carl, don’t end up like me, and don’t you ever look back.” As a result, young Brashear decided to make a career in the U.S. Navy, though he knew the challenges would be extreme.

     At that time, though President Truman had generally outlawed military segregation, most blacks served as cooks, valets and in other menial positions within the uniformed services. True to form, young Carl was assigned as a cook on a particular naval ship.

     If we are to believe the movie version of his life, he decided to go swimming with the white sailors one sunny day. It seems that whites and blacks were given liberty to swim in the waters surrounding their ship, but on different days of the week. While Carl served time in the brig for that “high jinx,” he didn’t escape the notice of his Captain. Ultimately, “Cookie,” as some called him, was assigned as a Navy rescue swimmer. He was on his way!

     It was in that role that he was first exposed to underwater diving, and all that the profession could offer him. Most of us have seen films of sponge divers wearing those bulky diving suits, topped off with the heavy copper helmet. This was exactly the type of diving paraphernalia that so appealed to Carl.

     Underwater repair was a dangerous profession and was heretofore limited to white applicants. That was about to change. Carl was still pressing the envelope.

     Needless to say, he was extremely unpopular, and many white divers refused to “bunk” with him. His senior enlisted trainer was bigoted and did whatever he could to “send him down the proverbial road.” Training was extraordinarily difficult in any case, and many men “washed out” before finishing the course.

     Brashear failed a few written exams, having only completed seventh grade. Many trips to a local black library allowed him access to resources and study time, and he managed to just keep up. But keep up he did.

     The crucial day dawned, and every candidate was required to assemble a valve combination in murky underwater conditions. The “powers that be” were determined to deny Carl his just reward, and our hero was aware of that decision going into that last test. But Brashear was more determined than they to thwart their plans against him.

     Several divers were lowered into the cold muddy waters, as air pumps labored to supply their lungs with life-giving oxygen. As each man reached the sea bottom, tool bags were also lowered; bags containing every essential nut, bolt, valve and tool required to complete the final training task.

    Carl waited several minutes for his bag, and when it came, it came in pieces. His senior trainer had slit Brashear’s bag, which allowed the dozens of parts and tools to drop like rain around him. Obviously, Carl was horrified, and prone to “chuck it all.” But he remembered his father’s admonition, and began work.

    Most of the diver trainees finished in two or three hours, and signaled to be pulled up. One by one they came to the surface, their work preceding them on separate ropes. One by one the valve assemblies were inspected and approved, and the divers were congratulated for their efforts. Carl was still deep beneath the surface tightening bolts, and searching the muddy bottom for his next piece.

    Eight, Nine, Ten Hours ticked by, and Carl continued. The numbing cold of the ocean strained his ability to stay there. His hands shook almost uncontrollably. His words were slurred, as he communicated with those on the barge above. The senior trainer urged him to come up. “You know you’re doomed to fail, Carl. Give it up!” But our hero wouldn’t give it up.

     After an interminable amount of time, the trainee signaled to be pulled up. His work proceeded him. Complete and perfect; not a part missing. Carl had pulled off an almost impossible task. The Navy Diver Trainee was promoted to Navy Diver! Somehow, some way, he had conquered and won! His racist Commander almost “blew a gasket!”

Pt. 2

     Carl Brashear would go on to win many medals, and much acclaim among his peers and superiors. However, on one particular mission, his foot was mangled, and had to be amputated. At this point, things looked very doubtful for The Navy Diver. Though he was determined to advance to the title and rank of Master Diver, and eventually earn a navy retirement, fate seemed to have finally conspired against him.

     But not if Carl had anything to do with it! He applied for a waver to automatic dismissal and medical retirement. While the odds were stacked against him, the still young and strong man pushed the envelope one more time. He was fitted with an artificial leg, and began to jog and do various strength exercises.

     The crucial day dawned, and a military court was assembled to decide Brashear’s fate. Testimony was taken, and reporters strained to capture every word. Our Young Black Patriarch, the first of his kind, was still pressing the system.

     Suddenly the court doors were flung open, and a “new and improved” diving suit was wheeled into the large chamber. Three hundreds pounds of canvass, and brass hung suspended from a diving stand.

     The military judge made himself clear. “Chief Brashear, you will outfit yourself and will demonstrate your capability to walk twelve steps in this diving suit.” While nothing was promised, it was generally understood that this was Carl’s Test of All Tests. Everything depended on this crucial moment in his life.

     The veteran diver outfitted himself, complete with the heavy metal helmet, and stood up. The weight of the suit beckoned him to sit back down. But he would not yield to the temptation. The slick linoleum tiles made his task the more difficult. He pressed on.

     One step, two steps, and three and four. Sweat dripped profusely down his face. His back and upper body began to sag. He found himself bending forward with the massive weight of the diving outfit. One more step, and another. The judge, jury and spectators found themselves silently cheering him on. Carl paused a few times, and felt he could not go on, only to remember again, his father’s admonition.

     The artificial limb hindered him, and Carl began to question the sanity of this almost futile attempt to remain in the service. But just like Sir Edmund Hillary, the conqueror of Mount Everest… “When he had gone as far as he could possibly go, he took one more step!”

     The movie depicted that same racist non-commissioned officer in a new role. For here, in court, he urged Carl forward. Standing at the front of the room, he ordered him to take those last few steps.

     Step Eleven and Step Twelve, and Chief Brashear “toed the line,” and the courtroom cheered it’s encouragement and relief.

     Carl Brashear was retained in the United States Navy, and served his country for several more years, before receiving a full and honorable retirement from his beloved service. He was the pace setter; the first of his kind. Master Diver Brashear was the first black to earn the title of Navy Diver. He was the first of his race to achieve Master Diver status. He was the first amputee approved to remain in the U.S. Navy. Carl was perfectly content to SWIM against the tide.

     We settle for far too little. “Can’t” is too easy to verbalize and achieve. There aren’t enough Carl Brashears in our culture. We don’t press the envelope enough. We are content with the mediocre.

     Master Diver Brashear’s exploits remind me of Paul’s poignant words:

“I beat my body into submission… that I might win Christ. I PRESS

 towards the prize. And while I have not yet attained, and though I’m

 not all that I will be, I push forward, not content to just wile away my

 time or just get by.” (Phil. 3:8, MPV)

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "McDonald's Daily Diary." Vol. 30. Copyright pending.

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