PEEING ON THE STOCKROOM FLOOR

     The year was 1975 and I worked as a manager for a nationally known shoe corporation. The State was Alabama and I managed a lease unit in a large department store.

     My shoe department happened to be in the back of the store, and I usually found myself either waiting on customers or putting out stock. One day a middle-aged man, and his almost grown son walked up as I was walking towards the front of the store. And the father asked where he could find a bathroom. I motioned towards the back wall, and said something innocuous, and went about my business.

     If I had conjured up a thousand possibilities, I would have never dreamed up what happened next. I finished my chore, whatever it was, and headed back to my shoe department. I remembered something I had to do in the stockroom, and entered through an open doorway.

     Suddenly before me, in all his glory, was that same retarded young man…urinating on the floor of my stock room. Well, it didn’t take me long to scream at him… “Stop, what are you doing? This isn’t the bathroom!”

    Apparently, the boy’s father had directed his son towards the back of the store, and the young fella headed towards a door he thought was the bathroom.

     I scared the young lad badly. Of that I’m quite sure. He lost no time “zipping up,” and getting out of there. And I was left to clean up the yellow, liquid mess.

     I’ve thought of that incident many times since then. I’m afraid I wasn’t very charitable to the boy. And I’m a little ashamed of my words, and actions that day.

      That young man is bound to be pushing fifty now, and I think of him sometimes. If I could speak to him again, I’d apologize for my sharp admonition. He was just “doing what comes naturally,” and, considering his mental challenges, he had made an honest mistake.

     In an age in which a controversy exists about where one should properly "do their business" this particular story adds an historic personal twist to the matter. At least this young fella didn't know any better.

     There are those among us who don’t function, who don’t operate as we do. It pays to be charitable. We have so much of which to be thankful.

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

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WILL YOU HUG ME?

     My mind wanders back to a singular incident in a rather non-descript place.

     The process that brought me to that time and place began in a heretofore unfamiliar setting. I sat at a table with several representatives of the mental health profession: a lawyer, a judge and… my daughter. We hadn’t met to have tea or “shoot the breeze.”  I was there to insist on my Mary’s commitment to the state mental facility at Arcadia.


         She is schizophrenic.

      I was a little amazed that her public defender verbally ignored my daughter’s needs. His entire purpose was to “get her off.” He failed in his task, thanks to her doctors, and my own testimony. When it was all said and done, my Mary cried hot tears, as we were led to a small, empty room, and were given a few moments to say our good byes. I’ll never forget her hopelessness, or my inner turmoil that day.

     I will always be thankful, for though she has experienced a few relapses over the years, this was her first real opportunity to heal, stabilize and exhibit change. Every second or third weekend, my wife and I drove south to visit Mary. It was a long trip, and the scenery consisted of small towns and pasture land.

    We had just driven up to her particular domicile, and as usual, she was there to greet us. However, this time there was someone else with her who I did not know. He was a “big old boy.” This young man must have weighed 300 pounds, and “hovered” at about six foot. I didn’t know how to relate to him, but decided I’d just have to do my best.

     But just when I decided I didn’t much like Mary wasting my time with this guy, the incredible happened. Momentary Ministry. (There’s that phrase again).

     The young fellow looked me directly in the eyes, and uttered a few words:

     “I don’t have anyone to visit me here. My parents never come, and I don't have any friends. WILL YOU HUG ME?"

     Well! You guessed it. Right before God and everybody, I wrapped him in my arms, and held him for several moments. His arms also embraced me, and I felt his head as it drooped onto my left shoulder. If for only one moment, he knew someone loved him. (Tears come to my eyes even now).

     You never forget moments like that.

     My sensitivity to The Vulnerable among us has increased.

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

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BORN IN CHINA

**Following is an excerpt from the script of a recent nature documentary titled, “Born in China;” with editing and additional clarification by yours truly.

Call me ‘sensitive,’ but as a rule I just can’t watch those “Crocodile eats zebra as it swims across an African stream” kind of film productions. However, in the scheme of things “Born in China” goes relatively light on gruesome scenes such as the foregoing description would indicate.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t “pull any punches,” and there are a few scenes in which, for instance, a snow leopard grasps a young calf by the neck, or is seen dragging a newly killed mountain goat back to its den. Speaking of snow leopards, there are only 6,000 of these magnificent felines still in existence, and they are being trophy hunted to the tune of one kill per day.

“Born in China” is a magnificent, full-color production, and spins the true tales of several species of wild animals, including pandas, monkeys, mountain goats, and of course, snow leopards; which live in the highlands of China. I would never had experienced such compassion for a predator species without having watched this documentary.

Under Dawa's nurturing, her cubs are growing into two impressive young cats. And she's just had a successful hunt which comes none too soon. Her cubs are now fully weaned and hungry for some fresh meat. They've been watching and learning the ways of the great hunter, their morn, (but are not yet prepared to hunt on their own).

Suddenly across the valley, the intruder has returned.

(The ‘intruder’ refers to another female snow leopard who vies for the choice animal-rich territory which Dawa calls ‘home’).

This time, she has returned with her three nearly grown sons. Scarcity of prey has brought them into Dawa's territory, and they are more than prepared to take all that is hers. Dawa's old rival is much more emboldened now that she has reinforcements. Her powerful foe, and Dawa both know the latter of the two would never survive a fight against all four of her competitors.

However, Dawa can't bring herself to abandon this precious food. Her cubs must eat, and when it comes to their survival, Dawa would fight almost any foe. The trade-off between life and death is sometimes a very difficult calculation. But then the other leopards move in. (Dawa watches from a distance, and reluctantly decides to “turn tail and run”).

Outnumbered and out-fanged, Dawa retreats to guard her cubs. Not satisfied with merely stealing Dawa's kill, the interlopers now pursue her to let her know, they're here to stay. To save her young, Dawa must lead them out of the area. She has experienced overwhelming humiliation. The proud snow leopard and her cubs have been expelled from their own home.

As the temperatures begin to plummet, the once mighty Queen of the Mountain hasn't made a kill in over a week. Now, she's forced to share her unfamiliar new territory with her more successful rivals. She must survey the area constantly to get the lay of the land and reestablish her dominion with scent markings. But now she's been spotted by a male snow leopard. She defends her ground bravely, but is forced to retreat back to her cubs. Suddenly, those playful days of summer are a fading memory.

Dawa's hunting successes have been few and far between. But a flock of sheep, seeking shelter from the weather, have just moved within range. However, now the unexpected occurs. The snow has concealed jagged rocks, and as Dawa leaps from ledge to ledge in pursuit of a choice lamb, she injures her paw. Dawa knows if she and her cubs are to survive, she must be in top physical condition. The ‘hunt’ demands it.

Back up on the high plateau the winter snow lingers well into spring, and Dawa is still fighting to provide for her cubs. The injury to her foot has greatly hampered her hunting ability, and she no longer has the speed to chase down prey, as nimble as these wild sheep. However, an opportunity now arises. In springtime, domesticated yaks are released to graze in the higher elevations. These beasts are ten times as heavy as Dawa, and one blow from their powerful horns could be fatal. Going up against a whole herd is like attacking an army. Yet, her cubs are relying on her. It's now or never.

The limping Dawa pours on her limited speed, and sinks her fangs into the neck of a newborn yak. The calf's mother rallies to save her baby. But Dawa refuses to let go. She understands this is her last chance. However, a yak mother's will to protect her young is just as strong as Dawa's.

The yak strikes Dawa hard with her horns. The desperate feline is injured badly. One mother's brave rescue of her baby is another's tragic failure to feed her own. Dawa stumbles away from “the scene of the crime,” and her last opportunity to save herself and her young cubs from certain death.

(As the documentary reaches its conclusion, a momentary glimpse of the dead Dawa comes into view. Snow is falling hard around her, and we can only surmise that her cubs have also succumbed to hunger and the elements, and lie somewhere nearby.

One can only imagine the waning emotions which filled up Dawa’s dying frame. The pride of having, "push come to shove" stood up to a larger foe, the inherent satisfaction with having given her last full measure of devotion, the inestimable sadness of her best not having been good enough; the overwhelming grief which came with her inability to save her children from the same fate as her own. A string of ‘bad luck.’ The survival of the fittest. Providence has once again won out).

In Chinese mythology, when a life ends, a crane carries that soul to rejoin the cycle of birth and rebirth. From the end to the beginning. Time pushes this cycle ever forward. The young become adults. The adults grow old. Death is not the end. It is merely a waypoint in a circle that continues endlessly. 

Every creature plays its part in this great cyclical symphony. Each life lived is just one beat in the larger beautiful rhythm. This vast land breeds both love and hardship. But in the hardship, there is hope. This is where they live. This is where they die. This is where they grow. This is where they are born.

from “Born in China” documentary with editing by William McDonald, PhD

JAPANESE GYMNASTICS. Pts. 1-3

My wife, Jean and I ate at a local Japanese steakhouse tonight in celebration of her birthday.

And while I didn’t have to be “dragged there screaming and kicking,” I honestly wasn’t all that keen on the notion. I mean, I’ve done it once before, and I just don’t “go in” for the oriental gymnastics which accompany a meal such as this.

For you see, although I am a former university professor, and a pastoral counselor who has “sat with” thousands of clients over the past quarter century, I am by nature a slight introvert. And my introvertism displays itself the most when it comes to new experiences, (or those which I didn’t especially enjoy the first time around).

And thus, you can imagine I attempted to “worm my way” out of my wife’s concept of fun, and suggested we devote our time, money and efforts to a nearby American steakhouse; to no avail.

As a result, we met our daughter, two granddaughters, and grandson at the Sakura Japanese Steakhouse, and were promptly seated at one of their fry tables. A pastoral counselor, retired LPN, social worker, county detention specialist, university student and middle schooler; (which is “neither here, nor there,” but it gives you a flavor for the composition of our little group).

It didn’t help that the Japanese gymnastics had already begun at the fry tables surrounding us, and I became privy to some “strange and wonderful” goings on among the attending short order cooks.

Click, clack, click, clack. The “presentation” began with the (impressive) Juggling of the Spatulas. Subsequent to this, our neighboring host poured oil on his fry table, and yellow flames leapt three feet in the air; the heat momentarily permeating the atmosphere of the surrounding tables.

Pt. 2

While we waited for the arrival of our personal fry cook, I continued to take in the carnival atmosphere at the nearby table. At this juncture, the “fry guy” began slicing up bits of meat and vegetation, and subsequently flicked bits of it in the direction of his patrons’ open mouths; the succulent delicacies hitting the mark perhaps half of the time, the remainder landing on the floor; and the satisfied customers rewarding their culinary servant with smiles, laughter, and applause.

That was enough for me. I chose to turn my attention back to my wife and relatives, and made small talk while we continued to await our version of the individual who had so recently ‘consumed’ (no pun intended) my attention.

And as we waited, something occurred which I had not, ‘til then, given a moment’s consideration. Two young ladies joined us at our table; seating themselves at my left hand. There were, after all, four or five unoccupied chairs at the fry table, and it was never designed to be an “us 4 and no more” environment.

These African-American ladies appeared to be in their early twenties, and it seemed apparent, (at least to me) that they were friends. However, during the course of the next several minutes, the young girl to my left ordered a margarita, and spent copious amounts of time tapping her fingers on the screen of her smart phone. In the meantime, the young lady to her left ordered water, and sat quietly pondering the sheen of the fry table.

“Odd,” I thought. Two friends out on the town, and the one ‘consumed’ (there’s that word again) by some invisible, geographically distant e-person.

It was about this time that our short order cook arrived, and proceeded to accomplish many of the same oriental gymnastics I had witnessed in the preceding quarter hour.

Pt. 3

And as our fry man set to work, I found myself conversing with the two strangers to my left. I suppose during the course of our impromptu visitation we exchanged upwards of a hundred words, but our laconic, but interesting exchange revealed that my young table mate was, at 38, older than she looked, and that her compatriot, at 15, was no compatriot at all, but rather, her daughter.

Having informed the former of the two that I had initially thought they were friends of the same approximate age, I learned that they resided in Bartow, my nearby hometown, and were alumni of the same high school from whence I also received my diploma.

And with this, our “Johnny on the Spot” oriental attendant, having accomplished the gymnastics I’d witnessed at a nearby table, spread a layer of eggs and rice on the metal palate before him, and subsequently sliced and diced some steak, chicken and vegetables; alternately dishing out copious quantities of the same onto our respective plates.

Suddenly, the young man cast a glance in my direction, and asked a heavily accented question which I was unable to decipher. Thankfully, Jean turned her face towards me and interpreted the words she believed proceeded from his lips.

“You want some Saki?”

Given the presence of my grandchildren, (and the fact that during my seven decades on this planet I had consumed all of half a glass of alcohol), I deferred. However, when asked the same question, one of our party acquiesced.

Suddenly, our oriental host picked up a plastic spray bottle, and sent a three foot stream of the clear alcoholic beverage towards the eager mouth of my relative, and tapping out the seconds with his spatula. Click, click, click. Ten, eleven, twelve. 

Afterward

In retrospect, the whole experience was, (I hesitate to admit) edifying. Well, that may be a stretch. But it was interesting, and I didn’t fall down dead.

I think maybe my wife could convince me to do it again;

...sometime in the next century.

By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 78. Copyright pending

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BREASTFEEDING 101

In recent years there has been a fair bit of controversy related to the subject of breastfeeding.

Whether it should be relegated to a stall in the women’s bathroom. Whether it should be permitted in public. If so, whether the breast should be covered or uncovered. Whether when nursing an infant an uncovered breast should be construed as a breach of public decency, and subject the owner of the offending organ to arrest.

And by extension, whether or not women should have the same rights as men to “strut their stuff” on a public beach. (In recent years, a couple of women who had undergone bilateral mastectomies have “pressed the envelope,” and appeared topless at their neighborhood pools; to mixed reviews).

In my ministry as a Christian therapist, I have had very little personal ‘exposure’ to the controversy; with one possible exception. In this role I have sometimes been forced to meet with my clients alone, as there has not always been another staff member at the church; especially in the evenings when my clients are most available to meet with me. However, one woman, in particular, was reticent to visit me alone. Having explained my limitations, she finally found a way to make it happen.

One evening as she rang the doorbell, and I greeted her at the foyer door, I noticed she’d brought a baby with her. Having navigated the two flights of stairs, stepped into my office, and taken a seat on the proverbial counseling couch, we began with prayer, and I invited her to voice anything new she wished to address.

Pt. 2

Suddenly, “right there in front of God and everybody” this supposedly reticent, reserved young lady unbuttoned her blouse, pulled out her left breast, and positioned her newborn against her, well, you know. Billy Joel sings a song, “And so it goes.” Well, in this case, “and so it went,” (and went and went). Twenty minutes later, after having tucked the one ‘dispenser’ back in, and exchanged it for the other, she finally finished the laborious procedure.

After recovering from the initial shock, and the dynamics of, as it were, her shutting off one tap and opening the other, I got through the session. (To the best of my recollection, “Emma” refrained from bringing her infant son to subsequent meetings with me).

Six or eight years ago, I heard a piece on National Public Radio about a lady zoo keeper; who happened to be a nursing mother. As it fell together, she was tending a couple of orphaned tiger cubs in her home. (Perhaps you can see where this is going). And as you might have already guessed, she took it on herself to share her liquid white bounty with the (drum roll) baby felines.

Later, I saw a picture of the trio on the internet. “Margaret” is seated on the floor of her living room, her back to the wall, shirt unbuttoned to the navel, and with a “tiger on each teat.” (Yes, that’s the proper word for that particular portion of the anatomy).

Speaking of counseling, after I returned from my office today, and sat down to watch a “Believe It or Not” type game show, the contestants entertained a question about a potential scenario involving (you guessed it again) breastfeeding.

It seems that six men and six women were on board an ocean going yacht a few years back, and they encountered a serious issue with the inboard engine. And not being able to repair it, and, (for whatever reason) not having access to a radio, they drifted. (And drifted some more).

And while I can’t speak to all the variables, one of the women was a nursing mother. Speaking of variables, for starters, why her baby wasn’t with her, and how she continued to do what she, ultimately, offered to do. (You’re ahead of me again).

For you see, over the course of the next twelve days she offered her liquid abundance to her five female compatriots, and the six men aboard the vessel. There was no clarification about her own sustenance, or lack thereof, during the almost two weeks prior to their rescue, and during which she so valiantly devoted herself to her friends.

When the game show host announced that the potential scenario had been True in all regards, one of the male contestants mused,

“I suppose the lady castaways were ready for their torment to end, while the male vagabonds would have been happy for it to continue a while longer.”

Pt. 3

Thirty years ago, when my wife and I regularly traveled to Jacksonville once a month to do the recreational dad thing with my children, we often visited St. Augustine for the weekend.

One day, we decided to tour the Flagler Museum. We walked past mummies, and the desk of Napoleon’s uncle, and such stuff as that. But on one wall hung a painting unlike anything I’d ever seen. My young daughter, Mary, stood transfixed with her mouth open, staring at it.

For right there in front of God and everybody, hung the visage of an old man, and a young woman,… her blouse open. While the old man suckled at her bosom, the young lady appeared frightened, and her gaze was transfixed on a dark wooden door a few feet away.

Obviously, we were stunned, and as much as we felt compelled to go, we felt compelled to stay. In spite of this somewhat R-rated exhibit, and the presence of the children, we lingered and began to read the description beneath it.

It seems that in a faraway land during medieval times, whether true or fictional, I know not, and for some unknown crime, an old man was sentenced to death. His manner of execution? He would be denied sustenance of any kind, except for water… and would experience a slow and excruciating death.

The elderly man was allowed but one visitor. And on a daily basis, his daughter dutifully came. Unknown to his jailer, however, and much to the good fortune of her father, his daughter happened to be a nursing mother. And now you know at the least the beginning of the rest of the story.

Though altogether unconventional, “Mina” offered that life-giving supply of nourishment to her father on a daily basis. Not only did the old man not die, but his tired old frame began to fill out, and his cheeks became downright rosy.

Of course, the warden and jailer never learned their secret, and after a substantial amount of time on what they thought was a diet of water, the aged fellow grew healthier, and was finally pardoned to return home.

It was widely believed a miracle had occurred, and the elderly ex-felon was celebrated far and wide.

And though this must be one of the most bizarre stories I have ever heard, who can deny the results were positive. A condemned man, but for the courage of his loving daughter, and doing all that was in her power to do, would have died.

Afterward

It occurs to me that I have never written a blog quite like this one, (nor do I expect to do so again).

In “a day and time” when we contend with so-called “wardrobe malfunctions,” (which calls to mind a couple of incidents at the 2018 Winter Olympics), the controversy surrounding breastfeeding in public continues, and there are a myriad of internet and social media sites devoted to the topic.

And while my opinion of the practice is “neither here nor there,” and the weight which I bring to bear on the subject is almost nil, I suppose I fall somewhere in the middle.

Women should be allowed to breastfeed in public; parks, restaurants, and places of business, included. After all, they have done so for multiplied millennia; eons before the advent of bottles and formula. However, (at least from my humble perspective) in order to maintain the sensibilities of the general public, the use of a discreet scarf or throw is preferable.

It is difficult to rid my self of that image of the lady zookeeper and those tuffs of orange and black at her breasts. Oh, the humanity! (Can we say ‘stiches’)?

By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 78. Copyright pending

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MY COUSIN IS GETTING MARRIED, a.k.a. The Prince Ties the Knot

I was just reading an article, and discovered my cousin is getting married on my birthday.

Now to be sure, I haven’t yet received my wedding invitation, and I’m a bit miffed that I would learn the news from a magazine, but there’s still time, and I expect it will be coming in the mail any day now.

Now, I don’t mean to assume on my cousin’s good name, but he and I both happen to answer to the moniker, “William.” And while I’m moderately well-known and respected among my small circle of family, friends and acquaintances, this guy is nothing less than the “Hoy’s Malloy.”

For you see, my cousin is world renowned, and was born to a couple named (drum roll)… Charles and Diana. Did I mention Diana was my cousin before William ever made his appearance? (Well, she was). I think you would recognize her name. Diana Spencer. Of course, she was easily as renowned as her famous sons; (who have, I might say, been referred to as “The Heir and the Spare”).

Diana and a kinsman named, Winston Churchill, (whose generation preceded my own) were (to be fair) distant relations of yours truly; but relations, nonetheless.

For you see, we have common roots in one Robert Despencer, chief steward of the 11th century William the Conqueror; his surname, ultimately, shortened to Spencer.

And as I previously inferred, I don’t mean to “trade on” his name, but among the man’s most famous descendants is that fellow who recently proposed to a so-called ‘commoner’ named, (drum roll) Meghan Markle.

Did I mention the happy couple are getting married on my birthday? (Yeah. I thought I did). It seems to me that kinda makes it an almost double-royal holiday.

Somehow, I think they’ve overlooked my name on the long list of notables to whom they are presently sending invitations. Hmmm. I’ll drive up to the post office later this morning.

It seems the mail has been running a bit slowly lately.

By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 78. Copyright pending

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THREE PINE CASKETS. Pts. 1-2

Billy Graham left us a few days ago. His song leader, Cliff Barrows preceded him by a couple of years. His vocalist, George Beverly Shea went on to his heavenly reward several years prior to that. They lived to be the grand old age(s) of 99, 93 and 104, respectively. I think God honored this ministry trio with exceptionally long lives.

Billy Graham preached an Easter sunrise service at a local park on the outskirts of Bartow, Florida sometime in the early 60’s; less than 2/3 of a mile from my childhood home. While my mother attended, I, having little or no use for “the things of God” at the time, did not. I regret it now.

Rev. Graham is due to lie in state in that lovely chapel located on the grounds of the Billy Graham Library in Charlotte, North Carolina. And as February gives way to March he is scheduled to lay in state in the Capitol Rotunda in Washington, D.C. Of course, the good reverend ministered to a grand total of 13 of our nation’s presidents; from Truman to Trump.(However, based on the moral mediocrity of some, it is fair to say they were not all impacted at the same level).

Like Graham, Shea came to our area a couple decades ago, and I was privileged to see him sing at a local church. I have watched George Beverly Shea’s funeral video on YouTube several times.

And as the notables, including the Commandant of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and George Beverly's wife and family, filed in they were proceeded by the casket in which he rested. A simple, but beautifully constructed pine casket.

Both Billy Graham and Cliff Barrows were in attendance that day; Barrows on the stage, and a rather frail Graham sitting with his son, left front.

And, lo and behold, when Cliff Barrows went on to be with the Savior, three years later, the container in which he would spend the remainder of his posthumous days on this planet was a virtual duplicate of his friend George Beverly Shea’s casket.

Pt. 2

And as I looking at my social media page a few minutes ago, I happened on a photo of Billy Graham’s casket. Need I tell you that it is a triplicate of his two friends’ pine receptacles? (Well, it is).

Odd, I thought. Very odd, indeed. And then it occurred to me that the whole thing must have been premeditated.

Apparently, the trio agreed, in advance, to procure for themselves caskets of pine; (the most plenteous and least expensive wood in existence). And, interestingly enough, Shea and Barrows are earnestly ‘waiting’ for their dear friend Billy; since the former of the two are buried on the grounds of the Billy Graham Library.

Three men who were given the distinct opportunity and privilege of impacting multiplied millions with the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is estimated that 1 in 30 people living today, perhaps more, either attended, or viewed a Billy Graham Crusade on television. And who can say how many of that quarter of a billion souls came to a saving knowledge of the Savior?

And yet, for all the good they did, and the nobility of their offices before God, and among believers… they chose to rest in pine boxes. Did I mention that Rev. Billy’s casket was made by representatives of the prison population of Angola Prison in Louisiana? (Well, it was). And for all I know, these same prisoners made the previous two caskets before him.

Simple pine boxes built by members of what some might characterize as “the dregs of society.”

All three of these spiritual heroes were humble men. They say if you go around telling people you’re humble, you probably aren’t. Well, neither George Beverly, nor Cliff, nor Billy were prone to do that. They regarded themselves as servants, and they had the hearts of servants.

I think all three of these humble men would be real fine with the simple wooden caskets which were designed for them, and I think they would be just as fine with the kind of folks who so lovingly constructed them. For, after all, like their Master before them, they were sent to save the lost.

By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 78. Copyright pending

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DOING SOMETHING WITH THE DASH

     We get used to status quo, the same old same old. Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, and months turn into years, and so on.

     There is an old, but humorous adage. “Men know they’re getting old when their chests fall into their drawers. Women know they’re getting old when their bra fits better when it’s put on backwards.” Men and woman have only to look in the mirror to see how time has taken its toll. We live in the age of skin creams, face-lifts, and a million exercise regimens. We live in the age of cryogenics. Some well-meaning, scientific fool came up with the idea. A famous ball player’s family fought over the option of “putting him on ice.”

    When we consider the theory of “freezing” closely, we can see a close parallel between the secular notion of cryogenics, and the spiritual reality of life eternal. John 3:16 comes to mind.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” (KJV)

      But in spite of this promise, we are guaranteed a date with destiny; our own individual date with destiny.

      Hebrews 9:27 assures us, “It is appointed unto man once to die.” (KJV) That is the only entrance into eternal life. We must die. And no wrapping of a body in “tin foil” and submerging it in liquid nitrogen can suffice for the atoning blood of Christ.

     There was a king who hired a servant. The servant had only one task, a task deemed so important that it was his singular task. The deed literally required but ten seconds per day. The other twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty seconds were his to do with, as he wished. I told you it was a singular task!

     At a given hour the servant approached the king, and at that instant a hush always fell over the courtiers and hand maidens. The servant bowed in greeting, and with a loud voice uttered the following words; “Remember, Oh King, one day you must die.” This daily visitation kept the king in focus. All the good he had to do had to be done over the course of a few short years.

     We look at a tombstone and notice two dates, and a dash in between. There is the date of birth and the date of death, and the dash in between. Some wise person, name unknown, mused about the layout of a tombstone. There could not have been a more fitting observation… “Two dates and a dash. When it comes down to it, it’s all about what we do with the dash.” That dash represents the life we live before the hour of our “visitation.” 

     Solomon, in his wisdom, mused, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens.” (Eccl. 3:1, KJV) Yes, we get used to status quo, to periods of quiet, calm and peace. But nothing remains the same; it can’t. Death overtakes each one of us. That anonymous person had it right on…

     “It’s all about what we do with the dash.”

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

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