WHERE EVER THIS BLOG TAKES ME. Pts. 1-4

When ever I write a blog, I almost always wait ‘til “the spirit moves me.” (My spirit -or- His Spirit). (In this case, I’m making an exception to the rule).

Granted, I know the subject matter whereof I intend to focus. I just don’t have a firm grasp of my raison d’etre; (as our friends in France might characterize it). But I will begin.

I have a more than passing interest in death. My wife and one or more of my children have told me that I’m just short of obsessed with the topic. Well, I don’t know about that. I think I’m just all too aware of the brevity of my years, and the passing of the same. Not a day goes by that I don’t pray, “Lord, help me to fulfill whatever remains of my destiny.”

Following is an except from one of my recent blogs:

“There’s a mythological story which speaks to the reality of, and certainty of death.

Years before Gabriel spoke to the Virgin Mary, or Moses rolled back the Red Sea, a powerful king named Zaidan ruled and reigned in a faraway land. The king was proud of his country and his people, and though he fiercely rendered justice to whom justice was due, he was also known as a man of rich compassion.

And as you might expect, the good king’s palace and its adjoining grounds were populated by a multitude of loyal servants. And as you might also well imagine, the ruler of this great land enjoyed the services of a few selected stewards whom had proved their loyalty, and who had ministered to his daily needs over the course of decades.

One servant, in particular, a man named Abdul, had from time immemorial fulfilled a brief, but (at least from the king’s point of view) necessary task. Outside of that singular, daily task, he was “given the run” of the palace, and little else was expected of him.”

Pt. 2

“Oddly enough, when the waning shadows on the sun dial registered the 6^th hour of the afternoon, all activity in the inner sanctum of the palace ceased, the king mounted his throne, and a nearby eunuch slammed a mallet on a great silver cymbal. Three times. And as the last echoes of the great gong ceased to reverberate, a great door in the back of the massive room opened, and Abdul appeared, attired in blue and crimson, and marched down the long aisle which separated him from the ornate throne.

The king’s servants, male and female, lined each side of the aisle; soldiers on his right. Handmaids on his left; as Abdul navigated the fifty feet which separated him from the monarch whom he had grown to love and respect.

Having reached the foot of the great throne, Abdul stopped, slammed his arms against his side, drew his left foot against his right, silently cleared his throat, and shouted the words,

“Remember, oh king…one day you must die!”

Having uttered those eight fateful words, he executed a military about face movement, and retraced his steps down the aisle, and out the main door of the inner sanctum.

And with this, the king stood and made his way out a side door, and into his adjoining study. As the door closed behind him, the assembled soldiers and handmaidens drifted back from whence they’d come; Abdul’s poignant message having impacted not only their beneficent ruler, but they, themselves.

“Remember, oh king…one day you must die!”

Abdul might as well have shouted,

“Remember, Hakeem, Remember Ayishah…one day you must die.”

The message simply never got old. It was simply too ‘there there.’ And if the king was hyper-sensitive to the message, Abdul the more so. It seemed to keep him and them focused on the gravity of life, and the priorities, good, better and best, which surrounded life.”

Pt. 3

Am I obsessed with death? While perhaps a tenth of my blogs somehow allude to that rather interminable status which is sure to visit every man and woman, (and sadly, sometimes boy or girl) who ever drew breath on this good planet, I am too preoccupied with living to be preoccupied with death. But, I believe it behooves you and me to sometimes remind ourselves, (as Abdul was faithful to remind the king), …“one day you must die.”

I mean, it keeps me focused on getting the things accomplished which I consider crucial, and which I simply must finish before I “leave outta here.”

As a pastoral counselor, and as what some might describe as a ‘lay minister,’ I have participated in several funerals and memorial services over the years. I was privileged to sing “Amazing Grace” at both my father’s and mother’s memorial services.

Some time ago, I conducted a memorial service for a man whom I didn’t know, but as it was such a joy to meet such precious folks, I have since interacted with some of the very dearly departed’s relatives and friends. While I would like to have had a video of the entire memorial, I came away with only a photograph. And oddly enough, it was only after I returned home, several days elapsed, and I received the picture that I saw something which I failed to notice the day of the ceremony.

I am standing behind a podium facing an audience of, perhaps, twenty persons. On the table behind me is a photograph of a smiling young man. Directly below the picture a lovely urn is situated. While I am certain I noticed the former of the two objects, I never saw the latter ‘til that very moment.

Pt. 4

Allow me to refer to one more of my blogs.

“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.

I, for one, want to go to my grave empty. My implication? An innate understanding that I will have fulfilled every plan, hope, dream, and expectation both God and I ever had of myself.”

While some may consider me rather preoccupied with the notion of my ultimate passing, like the monarch to whom I referred earlier, I think the realization of, and frequent reminder that I “can’t stay here” keeps me focused, and tuned into what matters; the personal gratification which I derive from doing the things which have eternal consequences, my service to my fellow man, and my relationship with Him who made it all possible in the first place.


 By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 80. Copyright pending


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