Monday, December 31, 2018

THE GOD TO WHOM I BELONG & WHOM I SERVE


“After everyone had gone a long time without food, Paul stood before them and said, ‘You should have listened to me and not have sailed from Crete; then we would have avoided all this damage and loss. But now I beg you, take courage! Not one of you will lose your life; only the ship will be lost. For last night an angel of the God to whom I belong and whom I serve came to me and said, Don't be afraid, Paul! You must stand before the Emperor. And God in his goodness to you has spared the lives of all those who are sailing with you.’ So take courage, men! For I trust in God that it will be just as I was told. But we will be driven ashore on some island.” (Acts 27:21-26)

The God to whom I belong and whom I serve

I cannot read this line in the 27th chapter of the Book of Acts without thinking of the cross. I realize the casual reader of the passage might understandably ask, “What are you talking about?” Or he or she might comment, “I don’t see it.”

Well, my friends, notice the shape of the cross.

A vertical beam reaching upwards to the sky which held the trunk of Christ’ body securely in place. And a horizontal beam upon which His left and right arms were extended, and to which His wrists were nailed.

The God to whom I belong and whom I serve

The vertical beam (and the first portion of the verse) speak to our relationship with God. And I think it was no mistake that this wooden standard was shaped this way.

The horizontal beam (and the second portion of the verse) speak to our relationship with other members of the human race. And I think it was no mistake that the cross beam was shaped the way it was.

The God to whom I belong and whom I serve

Both the foregoing biblical passage, and the shape of the cross speak of our relationship with God, and our relationship with mankind.

The God to whom I belong and whom I serve

Our relationship with and our love for our heavenly Father requires that we develop relationships with, and extend our love towards, and serve our fellow human beings.
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 86. Copyright Pending

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100+ Years of Toil & Trouble



Over the past 100+ years, or so I have involved myself in almost half that many jobs, vocations, advocations, and professions.



(Yeah. I have)



By this time, you are, no doubt, “doing the math.”



I can almost read your thoughts.



“While you might convince me that someone is capable of floating from one menial job to another, and during that time might “rack up” several dozen entries on his rather dismal resume, I’m sorry, I’m not believing anyone other than Methuselah or a mythological vampire would be capable of putting over a century into his career; once he or she had reached the age in which people normally fill out their first application.”



I expect my 4x great grandfather came as close any anyone I know, (other than yours truly) to making it happen. His is, to say the least, a compelling tale.



Old Isom Peacock was an anti-temperance Independent Baptist minister. He founded the first Protestant church in the State of Florida; which still boasts an active congregation today. It has been said that as Isom stood behind the pulpit, he sometimes pulled out a bottle of whiskey, would “chug a lug,” and sermonize about his freedom in Christ.



Well, my friends, I don’t know if the whiskey finally got him, or his mode of transportation. For you see, Rev. Peacock died at the grand old age of 107; falling off a horse! It might be rightly supposed that he died “drinking and riding.”



Although I can’t account for my great grandfather’s career choices before this event, be they many or be they few, at least the old boy was blessed with a very long life in which to fulfill the plans God dreamed for him; before He made the worlds.



Pt. 2



100+ years of toil and trouble.



And while I know there’s one God (and I’m not Him) by now perhaps a scripture comes to mind.



“Then the Jews said to Jesus,



‘You are not yet 50 years old, and yet you have seen Abraham?’”



(or)



“Here we have someone who can’t possibly have experienced all he claims to have experienced, and seen all that he claims to have seen, but in spite of his youth, this dude maintains he’s been around a very long time.”



100+ years of toil and trouble.



Yep. I’m as old as dirt. But I often tell my clients, (friends, relatives, grocery store cashiers, and anyone else who will listen), “I’m 30, as long as I avoid mirrors.”



To be sure, I’m not yet 70, and lest you’re close to bailing out on me, I suppose I ought to clear up the obvious discrepancy.



Yesterday, I was thinking about the long list of jobs, vocations, advocations and professions I have accumulated in a lifetime.



I was, apparently, quite an entrepreneur, as my initial undertaking was as a self-styled florist. The month was December and the year was among the first two or three of the sixth decade of the 20th century. I had been walking down an old two lane road near my country home, and as I passed a cemetery, I glanced up into an ancient oak tree, and noticed several large sprigs of mistletoe. I saw green. You know, the kind of green which includes the portraits of several dead presidents.



Making my way up the truck of the tree, and into its boughs, I broke three or four of the massive growths off a couple of the larger limbs, and set my course for home. Having arrived, I proceeded to break the mistletoe up into more manageable pieces, begged, borrowed or stole a ride to the nearest town, and peddled my wares in fifteen or twenty nearby businesses.



So far removed from the scene as I am now, I can’t give you a true accounting of my profits, but I definitely wasn’t tempted to change my name to ‘Donald Trump.’



Pt. 3



I have worked since I was in Junior High School. And speaking of flora and fauna, well, flora my first ‘real’ job was (drum roll) pulling weeds in “old man Pickens” humungous caladium field.



I would drag a bushel basket through the nasty muck in which the colorful leafy plants grew, and bending my back for hours at a time, I would jerk up handfuls of miscellaneous weeds, and drop them into the oversized receptacle. During the summer of my junior year, I worked as a laborer at one of the plentiful phosphate mines which ‘graced’ my local area.



And with the passing of years, I added pages to my dubious resume; that is, if I had bothered to compile a resume. (Which I assure you, I did not).



College janitor. Mine laborer x4. Coca-Cola bottle stacker. Vending machine attendant. Insulation blower. Utility hole digger. Asphalt laborer. Construction clerk. Irrigation pipe layer. Fruit picker. Newspaper subscription vendor. Short order fry cook. (Need I go on)?



Ultimately, I was nominated for the prestigious,



“Most Menial Nothing Burger of So-Called Jobs in the History of this or any Other Planet Award.”



(While I definitely made the short list, I’m still waiting to be notified of the date and place of the ceremony).



Immaturity Incarnate



Drifting from one menial position to another. To be fair, I managed to procure a few worthier, more professional “there there” vocations along the way.



Personnel clerk - U.S. Air Force. Personnel specialist - U.S. Army Civil Service. Shoe store manager. Associate pastor. University professor. Personnel Assistance Team supervisor - Army National Guard. United Parcel Service driver. Pastoral counselor.



Pt. 4



And speaking of the last three positions on the previous list, allow me to inform you that these vocations account for the nucleus of the 100+ years I referred to at the beginning of my account, and positions from whence I received (drum roll) two retirements.



35 years with the military; primarily reserve. 20 years at UPS. 25 years (and counting) as a pastoral counselor.



And by now you may realize that the foregoing vocations have overlapped, and that at one time or another, I was simultaneously involved in the pursuit of all these professions; to include the completion of two graduate degrees.



And while the accumulation of almost fifty jobs and professions, and over a century of sundry vocational experiences is, in the scheme of things, fairly singular, the wisdom of the same is, I think, rather questionable.



However, I’m glad to report that while I missed God, too many times and in too many places, “in the fullness of time” Providence allowed me to make a few “mid-course corrections,” set my feet on a firm place, and a loving Lord made the pathway clear before me.



Odd, but as I bring this reminiscence to a close, I am reminded of what I might characterize as my initial, though admittedly momentary advocation.



For you see, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Samson, nominated me to portray a particular incarnation of the Wizard of Oz; in the play by the same title.



I made my entre onto the elementary school stage ‘decked out’ in flames. (Well, rouge). I mean the gaudy red stuff covered every millimeter of my face; ‘from stem to stern.’



And, as you might imagine, my personification of that old pretender received a great deal of acclaim. (Well, giggles, laughter and joviality).



Apparently, my teacher had rehearsed me well since I never faltered, and my brief monologue echoed across the far recesses of the vast auditorium.



“I am Oz the great and the terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?”



While I can’t speak quite so unflinchingly about the caliber of many of my failed endeavors, I was, if for only a moment, a consummate actor.



If I’m ever called upon to do an encore presentation, I’ll be ready.



(Oh, I’ll keep you informed on the status of my afore-mentioned M.M.N.B.S.C.J.H.O.P. Award).
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending
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Sunday, December 30, 2018

A SPACE THAT ONLY (YOU) CAN FILL


I read the book, “Captivating” by John and Stasi Eldredge several years ago.

And while I remember little or nothing about the details of the book, there is one quotation that has made this volume among the most memorable I have ever read.

As I recall, the quotation comes from page 211.


This quotation is, without question or contradiction, the most self-affirming 39 words I have come across during the course of my 70 years on this planet.

Of course, it is fair for a skeptic to ask,

“Well, this is all very nice. But can you back this sweet platitude up with scripture?”

I’m glad you asked. And yes, I think I can.

In the Old Testament Book of Jeremiah, Chapter 31, Verse 3 we read,

“I (meaning God) have loved you with an everlasting love.”

I dare you to substitute your name for the fourth word in the verse because this is the implication of this passage of scripture. While God often speaks to a nation, the nation is made up of individuals to whom all scripture is addressed.

“I have loved (Bill) with an everlasting love.”

“I have loved (Shirley) with an everlasting love.”

If you flip over to the New Testament, the fourth Gospel, you will find the best-known verse in the entire Bible.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son…” (John 3:16)

Again, substitute your name for the sixth word.

“For God so loved (Bill) that He gave…”

“For God so loved (Suzie) that He gave…”

“For God so loved (Jim) that He gave…”

I have often heard preachers say,

“If (Bill) or (Sandy) or (Bart) was the only person in the world who ever sinned, Jesus would have still come and died on the cross to save him or her.”

You may regard this as a pat phrase, but yes, yes He would have.

“You’ve heard that in the heart of every man, woman and child is a space that only God can fill. But did you realize that in the heart of God, Himself is a space that only (insert your name) can fill.”

Try it out. Put your name in the parenthesis. There’s simply nothing like it for enhancing one’s self-concept. The God of the entire universe

…loves you.
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 86. Copyright Pending

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WALTZING IN THE NEW YEAR WITH THE OLD HOME SINGERS


(I wrote this blog last New Year's Day, 2018)
As you can plainly see from the date of this story, it is New Year’s Day. And it occurred to me in the past several hours to ‘ring in the New Year’ differently than I’d ever rung it in before.

It so happens that I recently purchased a wonderful family heirloom. A cousin made me aware of another relative who owned an Edison Amberola, (similar to a Victrola); which surprisingly enough, my grandfather owned a very long time ago, and which ultimately ‘fell into the hands’ of my great uncle. If that were not enough, the latter of the two played this early version of a record player for my mother and me over half a century ago. (Needless to say, I was still in high school at the time).

Not only was I fortunate enough to purchase the Amberola, but my great uncle’s tailor-made cabinet, and over a 100 audio cylinders came with it.

Not ones to celebrate with alcoholic spirits or by surrounding ourselves with dozens of inebriated celebrants, like so many earlier New Year’s Eves, we…stayed home.

And like so many years prior to the one which we were now ending, I turned on the television, clicked my way through the channels, and thought to myself,

“Well now, let me see. We have Jennifer Lopez from New York City singing and dancing her way into our hearts, and wearing… the most bizarre gold ‘shimmery’ excuse for an outfit; which left little to be imagined.

And I said to myself,

“Self, there has to be something a bit more visually moral upon which to focus this New Year’s Eve.” And I summarily turned to a channel featuring Mariah Carey in Los Angeles.

Right there ‘in front of God and everybody’ Mariah strutted and shimmered and sang her way into some people’s hearts; albeit not my own.

(and)

Speaking aloud to no one in particular, (though my wife was seated just steps away), I exclaimed,

“Old Mariah must have bought her outfit at the same store where Jennifer Lopez shops.” (For I kid you not, their ‘lack of clothing’ was virtually identical, and they might easily have sung a duet; had they not been on opposite sides of the country).

Pt. 2

And with this unwelcome development, I aimed the channel changer at my wide screen T.V. and clicked the scantily dressed, slightly past prime time performer into oblivion.

Did I mention I had a backup plan? (Well, I did). No, I hadn’t changed my mind. Alcoholic spirits and the comradery of wild celebrants still hadn’t worked their way up the list of my priorities for the evening.

You see, in the past few days I came across one of the 4 minute audio wonders which had as its title, “Auld Lang Syne,” (by Robert Burns), and of course, I connected that old ballad with the approaching New Year’s celebration. Never a backup plan at all, for my decision to slip said cylinder on the roller, turn the crank (for what seemed like an eternity), and lower the needle had been premeditated.

As the notes of that old familiar ballad began to waft their way across the room, and as those dearly departed voices of those dearly departed singers rose in unison, I invited my wife to her feet. And taking her in my arms, we waltzed ourselves into the New Year.

By now, I had clicked the television back on to watch the Times Square ball drop, (and drop it did).

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2

and

…1

And it suddenly occurred to me that my wife and I had been accompanied by a musical instrument purchased in 1917; (at Sears & Roebuck). Exactly 100 years prior to the New Year which she and I were at that very moment celebrating with one another. 

Afterward

There was a time when these dearly departed, disembodied voices owned physiologies of their own in which they resided, and lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed; when they were, and we were not. 

I mused it was possible that in the entire world at that moment, no other couple had chosen a century old Blue Amberol audio cylinder with the music of “Old Lang Syne,” as sung by “The Old Home Singers,” to waltz in the New Year.



I like to think that my wife and I were in better company ringing in the New Year with the archaic voices of “The Old Home Singers,” (God rest their souls) than we would have been with Jennifer Lopez, Mariah Carey, or any of those other so-called recording artists of our time and ‘culture.’

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending
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Saturday, December 29, 2018

THE LITTLE SPACECRAFT THAT COULD


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please turn to John Chapter 1, Verse 1-9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Psalm 8, we read,

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

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

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

by William McDonald, PhD. Sermon Collection. Copyright Pending
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THE RICHEST PIECE OF GROUND ON EARTH


Several years ago I transcribed one of the most insightful stories which I’d ever heard.

The title of the story was, “The Richest Piece of Ground on Earth.”

"If I were to ask you to name the richest piece of ground on earth you might say, “the goldmines of South Africa” or “the rain forests of South America” or perhaps “the oil wells of Saudi Arabia” but if you were to guess one of these locations, you would be… absolutely wrong. For you see, the richest piece of ground on earth is your… local cemetery.

"And the reason for this seeming paradox?

"Lying dormant in the bosoms of thousands of the dearly departed are unfulfilled dreams. A miracle medication which might have cured Alzheimer’s Disease. An invention which might have caused trees and flowers to bloom on the Sahara. A missionary endeavor that would have brought millions of unbelievers to a saving knowledge of the Gospel. Dreams which might have changed the world. But these dreams will remain unrealized for a million million years."

Interestingly enough, last night as I was watching the 2017 Academy Awards Ceremony one of my favorite actresses won the ‘Oscar’ for the movie, “Fences.” As Viola Davis stepped up on the stage she began to share the most familiar words.

“You know there’s one place where all of the people with the greatest potential are gathered. And that’s the… graveyard.”

As I reflect on my earlier story, and compare Viola’s words I can only surmise,

“Close, but not the same.”

For you see, while the local cemetery might well be thought of as “the richest piece of ground on earth,” for the myriad of dreams which were never realized, in spite of Ms. Davis’ assurance the dearly departed who lie within it have absolutely no remaining potential to do anything at all.

Pt. 2

I have often reflected on one particular scene in the movie, “Dead Poet’s Society;” (a good movie and an extraordinary scene).

“Mr. Keating,” a teacher at a private boy’s school, (who seems to have a knack for offering his students insightful tidbits, while using everyday objects and themes) leads his boys down the stairs from the classroom, and into the lobby of the institution.

The young professor walks towards a couple of trophy cases, and instructs his pupils to gather about him.

“Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them. They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you.”

Mr. Keating’s boys are “all ears” by this point in his monologue. They know something of some value is coming.

And with the assurance of someone wiser than his years, the teacher continues.

“Did these young men in the photographs wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen closely, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it? (whispering in a gruff voice) Carpe. Hear it? (whispering) Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

And I think we have the privilege, opportunity and obligation to do this.

…To make our own lives extraordinary.

To discover the best within us. To find out that one thing which separates us from the rest. To develop that talent, that gift, that interest, which almost begs for a forum, to a razor’s edge. To, as Mr. Keating admonishes us, make our lives extraordinary. And I think we have the innate wherewithal to do this. (Though I think too few tend to do so).

Pt. 3

There is an illusion in Homer’s “The Iliad and the Odyssey” in which the hero of the story, Odysseus, the captain of the ship, has himself tied to the mast, while he instructs the remainder of his crew to pack wax in their ears. For you see, their ship was scheduled to sail past a particular island populated by beautiful women, men-haters, who sang the most melodious of songs. And it was on the shores of this island that dozens of ships had crashed upon the rough-hewn rocks which surrounded it; crew after crew lured to their deaths by the ethereal songs of the maidens. But due to the foresight of Odysseus, he is among the first to hear the Siren Song, and live to tell the tale; as the ship sails harmlessly past the island, and on to their port of call.

And while the foregoing myth has a rather negative connotation, as a counselor I have “put a spin” on an old story, and assigned it a more positive meaning. For as I have so often taught my clients, God also sings a Siren Song. (Yes, He does). And amazingly,

…He sings it to you and me!

In Christian circles we have labeled that song, “God’s Calling.” And I am convinced that our Lord calls you and me to pursue a goal, to complete a task, to fulfill a destiny, and to leave a legacy. And I am equally convinced that the Creator planned our individual destinies

…before He made the worlds!

For in Psalms 139:16 we read, “Before I ever took my first breath, you planned every day of my life” and scripture assures you and me that “My times are in Your hands.” (Psalms 31:15)
Pt. 4

Granted, the foregoing information makes good theory until we discover whatever it is that God has for us to do with our lives. But, I think, the same One who sings the song is more than capable of lighting the pathway. For He has assured us that “if with all your heart you will seek the Lord, Your God,

…you will find Him.” (Jeremiah 29:13)

And so much like the maidens of Homer’s odyssey, the Master of the Universe humbles Himself to sing us His song. It is left to us to take time to listen, and to go about fulfilling whatever plans He has designed for us, as individuals, to complete.

In the words of “Mr. Keating,”

“Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it?

Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys and girls. Make your lives extraordinary.”

No, my friends, Viola Davis missed the mark when she referred to the dearly departed who fill up our local cemeteries as those with the greatest potential. They have long since had the opportunity to complete the destiny which God dreamed for each of them as individuals; before He made the worlds. What remains for us to do must be done now.

As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work. (John 9:4)

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending
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MY WIFE IS RADIOACTIVE


My wife is radioactive.

She is the most radioactive human being I’ve ever met …who continues to live and move and breathe.

It all began as World War II was nearing its conclusion, and her father Dock V., the proud father of five and husband of a young wife, enlisted in the U.S. Navy, and was posted to the U.S.S. Topeka.

During the last couple of months in which the war raged the task force, of which the Topeka was a part, bombed Tokyo, and its planes had been launched for a second run, but were recalled when the Japanese Empire capitulated; a direct result of the two atomic bombs which devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Prior to the culmination of its service in the Far East, the Topeka saw duty in Tokyo Bay.

Dock always blamed a couple of bouts with cancer on his service off the Japanese islands, and subsequently applied for a VA disability. There was always an implication, stated or otherwise, that his military service took him closer to one of the ‘atomic cities’ than can be properly substantiated, or at least that he and his shipmates were exposed to the radioactive fallout which saturated land, sea and air after the deadly blasts.

His daughter, Jean, was born less than four years after the surrender of Japan, and given my father-in-law’s suspected exposure to radiation, and its wherewithal to impact the body’s chromosomal blueprint, might be referred to as an ‘atomic baby.’

My wife and I both grew up in the small, but unique city of Bartow, and attended school together. As a matter of fact, we were both students in Mrs. Waters’ 4th grade class. And speaking of babies I taught her everything she knew at the time about “the birds and the bees;” (which was precious little, as Jean had just informed me that women were responsible for making babies when I added something to her limited knowledge. But that is a whole different story than the one we are pursuing here).

Pt. 2

Bartow, the third largest city in Polk County, happens to be its county seat. When looking at a state map, you can’t miss it. Larger than Rhode Island, at 2000 square miles the third largest of Florida’s 67 counties, Polk sets smack dab in the center of the state like a gigantic belly button.

Things are changing now, but there was a time when the major industry in our county was phosphate production. And for anyone ‘in the know’ there is the understanding that our county has a Radon problem; made more problematic by the quantity of upturned phosphatic earth with which we contend.

The City of Bartow was built on and around reclaimed phosphate pits. Not only this, but great radioactive gypsum stacks, containing huge quantities of industrial waste water, surround the city. Recently, one of these earthen monstrosities ‘sprung a leak’ when a gigantic sinkhole opened up beneath it; allowing millions of gallons of radioactive water and a myriad of chemicals to reach the Florida aquafer. (And did I mention that at one time a uranium recovery plant was located within ten miles of our ‘fair city?’ Well, it was).

Bartow ‘boasts’ (if that is an appropriate word) more incidences of cancer per hundred residents than the state or national average. One portion of the city is a ‘hot bed’ for the malady, and scores of people in the area have succumbed to the disease. (I think Erin Brockovich would ‘have a field day’ here).

My wife not only grew up with the threat of Radon, and the invisible gamma rays which it produces, but throughout her young and middle-aged years she was employed in, among other places, a hospital, nursing home and school; all within the geographical boundaries of the county seat.

With each passing year her exposure to radiation was growing exponentially.

Pt. 3

During the decade of the 90’s, my wife and daughter were afforded the opportunity to travel on a Christian missions trip to the countries of Belarus and Russia. It was the chance of a lifetime and they were not going to miss out on both the potential for inestimable impact upon the citizens of these countries, and the inherent beauty of the region.

I suppose neither my wife nor I gave it a second thought prior to her departure, but having arrived in Gomel, Belarus Jean became acquainted with ‘Svetlana,’ the group’s English translator.

The young lady was a lovely individual both inside and out; with the exception of …a noticeable tumor on her forehead. Of course, such a condition could not go unnoticed nor unspoken, and Svetlana offered that the cyst was a direct result of the 1986 Chernobyl disaster, and the gradual and prolonged effects of the radiation on the populace of that region. The City of Gomel lies just 70 miles from that infamous place.

"The worst scars have settled in the mind. And no place has been punished more than the Gomel region of Belarus, where the Soviet authorities denied the accident for several days, allowing people to linger in the radiation, then lied about its severity.

"An area of nearly 2 million people -- 20 percent of the country's population -- Gomel once had the most fertile farmland in all Belarus. Today it is as if somebody had sown the land with salt: 20 of 21 agricultural districts produce nothing. People have become paralyzed with fear. They are afraid to move, afraid to stay, afraid to marry and afraid to have families. All normal life stopped here simply because there was a strong northerly wind on April 26, 1986." (Michael Specter)

Jean and I have often looked at the photograph of Svetlana which she keeps in her missions album, and wondered whether she is still with us, or whether by now she has succumbed to the awful malady.

Obviously, while my wife and her team resided in Belarus they were exposed to low levels of radiation which is, at some level, still being emitted by the defunct Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant.

Pt. 4

“The Big C” is no respecter of persons. There isn’t a country, state, metropolis or village in the world upon which it hasn’t laid its vile hand. Bartow, Florida. Gomel, Belarus. Paris, France. Podunk, West Virginia.

Our beloved Shih Tzu, Buddy, had been acting strangely the past few days. (He was actually a she, since the moniker seemed to fit and we’d given her a male name). Buddy wouldn’t let my wife out of her sight. Where Jean went, well, she went. If she walked into the living room, Buddy was right behind her. If she needed something out of the refrigerator, the little pooch was underfoot. If she decided to take a nap, the little Shih Tzu curled up at the end of the bed, and followed her lead.

Jean hadn’t felt well, physically or emotionally, and one day as she chose the latter activity, above, she had the sense that some invisible weight was pressing her into the bedstead. Oppressive and suffocating, it seemed like Death, itself.

My wife’s physical and emotional symptoms were indicative of a problem which could not be ignored, and I knew dogs possessed an acute sense of smell, and were able to detect the presence of any number of organic maladies and substances. I encouraged Jean to make an appointment with her physician, and as the result of a mammogram a lump was discovered in one breast.  At this point, ‘Dr. Scott’ referred her to a surgical oncologist, and a biopsy was performed.

When the tests ‘came back’ the lump was found to be malignant. Thankfully, the malignancy was still contained within the duct, and a lumpectomy was scheduled.

When Jean awoke from the scheduled lumpectomy she learned the lead wire had dislodged, and the surgery could not be completed. ‘Dr. Andrews,’ a renowned female surgeon, was not a ‘happy camper.’ Ultimately, the surgical technician was released for not having properly positioned the wire. Later in the week the lumpectomy was successfully performed.

As it fell together, the three surgical procedures which had thus far transpired proved to be the least of it.

Jean was scheduled for a consult, and Dr. Andrews recommended she submit to a follow up regimen. And thus, over the course of the next several weeks my wife submitted to (drum roll)

33 installments of radiation.

(Readers, that final word in the previous sentence should ‘ring a bell’ for you).

At this writing we are thankful that Jean has been cancer free for well over a decade, and she can rightly be called a ‘Survivor.’

An unusual series of coincidences which when taken together are among the most unusual circumstances to which I have ever personally been privy.

A father exposed to the radioactive cloud generated by the atomic blasts of WWII.

A hometown which exudes gamma rays from the ground upon which it was constructed.

A short term missions trip located right ‘next door’ to the site of the infamous Chernobyl disaster.

‘The Big C’ and its aftermath. Almost three dozen episodes involving the administration of radiation.

Almost seven (count ‘em 7) decades of exposure to radiation of one kind or another.

As a nurse my wife’s patients always remarked that her hands were ‘as soft as a baby’s butt’ and ‘as warm as a summer breeze.’

I can only guess why.


My Radioactive Wife

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 52. Copyright Pending
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Friday, December 28, 2018

SHORTCUTS

I live in what I would describe as a very nice upper middle-class neighborhood in central Florida. 


Every street in the neighborhood, except one, is a Shadow Wood something; (Lane, Trail, Drive, etc.)

Two major thoroughfares border the Shadow Wood Community on the east and north. Spirit Lake Road intersects with Winter Lake Road about half a mile after traffic passes one of the three entrances to Shadow Wood.

The other day I happened to be in my front yard, and lo and behold a complete semi-truck and empty fruit trailer rolled down Shadow Wood Trail, turned left onto Shadow Wood Lane, and continued north to Winter Lake Road; bypassing the normal truck route, and traffic light.

It happened again today. Two more heavy, non-descript trucks rolled down Shadow Wood Trail, and, subsequently, followed the same pathway the driver of the fruit truck had chosen.

It was evident that all three truck drivers decided to save a little time. And rather than driving a half mile past the entrance of Shadow Wood, turning left at the traffic light, and driving along the perimeter of my subdivision, they took a short cut through our quiet little neighborhood.

As scripture puts it,

“These things ought not to be.”

I mean, bad enough that the 6 or 8 hundred residents of Shadow Wood have to watch humongous, noisy trucks invade the settledness of their sanctuary. However, in the scheme of things, this is just a “cosmetic issue.”

The underlying issue is what these gargantuans are doing to the streets of Shadow Wood Trail, Shadow Lane and Shadow Wood Drive; pavement which was never meant to support 80,000 lb. vehicles, not to mention the corresponding poundage on the drainage system which runs beneath these streets.

Shortcut

Pt. 2

I probably should divulge the agenda for my blog.  I don’t mind telling you that Part 1 merely serves as a metaphor for where I want to take you.

Shortcuts

Life is full of them. Everywhere you go they virtually “jump up and say, ‘boo.’”

The woman who has adopted the “bar scene” lifestyle, and leaves with a different guy every night; substituting short-term satisfaction for long term results. Or to flesh the previous phrase out a bit… substituting short-term satisfaction (and potentially sacrificing her personal safety) for what might have been more productive, long term (relational) results.

Shortcut

The man who sits in an internet café in Nigeria (or somewhere else) and poses as a woman whose father has recently died, left his entire fortune to his sons, and has denied her a share of the wealth. And would the recipient of her email please assist her by paying half her lawyer’s fees, and, if so, she would be happy to share the wealth, if and when her share of said wealth is bestowed upon her.

Shortcut

The real-life young immigrant with the initials A.S. who committed himself to be the most powerfully sculpted man on this or any other planet, and who, as a result of his untold time and efforts, (and a significant quantity of steroids) was awarded the title of Mr. Universe. For anyone who is familiar with this body builder, actor and former governor, you are all too aware that at the age of 50 he submitted to aortic surgery, and at the age of 70 he experienced a heart attack and required major surgery. (And it goes without saying, A.S. no longer boasts the most impressive physique in the history of the world).

Shortcut

The honest to goodness evangelist who has “put himself out” as someone great, who has what has been characterized as “a direct line to heaven,” who regularly promotes his miracle water which is capable of curing a host of ailments (for a donation), and who has in the past almost magically called people out of the audience “by their name and their need.” Suffice it to say P.P.’s scheme “went to hell in a handbasket” when a savvy reporter managed to intercept the voice of the evangelist’ wife, as she spoke to him through the auspices of a tiny receiver he wore in his ear.

Shortcut

Or to make the whole thing a bit more practical, the young man or woman who feels compelled to achieve something good, and positive and worthwhile, and something which they believe God has put it in their heart to do, but who in the end “just settles” in favor of something mundane and mediocre, whereby allowing their God-given goal to remain theoretical; simply because he or she doesn’t (for whatever reason) do the things which must be done… to get the job done.

Shortcut

Afterward

As a counselor I urge my clients to strive to become “People of Excellence,” and to refrain from the mindsets, and lack of commitment, and lack of necessary effort which results in mediocrity.

In one of the apostle’s epistles, we read,

“We serve a God who judges men according to their actions.” (1st Peter 1:17, McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament)

It is time for the people of God to assume the rights and responsibilities of the people of God. I think the foregoing passage of scripture speaks volumes, and challenges us to avoid… short cuts.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending
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Thursday, December 27, 2018

'TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS IN THE 850

by Amber Smith
(Commemorating the recovery efforts of Panama City & it's environs after Hurricane Michael)

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the town,
not many trees stood; most were blown down.
The traffic was heavy as we scurried here and there,
driving through a town Hurricane Michael had laid bare.
The storm had blown through and left so much damage;
Abundantly more than we thought we could manage.
But we rallied our friends with chainsaws and tarps;
We steeled our nerves and opened our hearts.
We shared our food, our water and supplies;
We hugged one another and dried crying eyes.
Then in came the linemen to provide us with power,
Crews worked through the nights to restore cell phone towers.
And as news of our despair spread far and spread wide,
support rolled in like the incoming tide.
We started to rebuild our battered little town;
Because not even a Cat-5 can keep the 850 down!
There will be challenges ahead as we clean and restore;
some businesses will reopen while some close their doors.
The days will be tough and we’ll have to roll up our sleeves,
but we’ll come back stronger - we have to believe!
So as Christmas arrives let’s stay strong in our faith,
and give thanks to The Lord for His mercy and grace.
And on days that we find we’re at the end of our rope,
let’s all look to Jesus and in Him find our hope.