ROYAL HYPOCRISY. Pts. 1-2

There has been a big hub-bub lately about Meghan Markle, a.k.a. the Duchess of Sussex.

She just isn’t acting like a member of the British Royal Family.

(No, I dare say, she isn’t)!

I mean, it flies in the face of all royal standards that she is half African-American, (and the first apparent ‘Royal of Color’ in the history of the British Empire). And bad enough when she brought in an all black English choir into St. George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle, and they sang a stylized version of “Stand By Me.” And then, (I shudder to tell it) Meghan introduced the African-American Episcopal bishop, Michael Curry, to the Queen and her entourage, and he summarily preached a rousing Gospel message. 

All of the foregoing designed to celebrate the proud duchess’ “you just can’t get away from it,” (nor would many of us want to) ethnic heritage.

And having (very) formerly “jumped the broom,” and trashed the traditions of a thousand years, Meghan had the audacity to improperly cross her legs at a recent party hosted by Buckingham Palace. 

(God forbid)!

I mean she assumed a full fledge left leg over right leg, knees touching posture which elicited royal whispers, and sent momentary tremors throughout all of the United Kingdom, and indeed, the Commonwealth; (and where ever proud people celebrate the noble institution which has existed for multiplied centuries). 

Thankfully, the newest member of the royal household remembered her royal manners, and quickly divested herself of this immoral display of immodesty; in favor of the “duchess slant.” (Legs uncrossed, full forward, ankles crossed).

(Thank God she “came to herself”)!

And I hesitate to speak it, but our dear Duchess of Sussex has been wearing dresses which look far too much like those which Princess Diana was so prone to wear. I mean not once, or twice, but (drum roll) twelve times! (And of course, we all know how much Queen Elizabeth II liked Prince Harry’s mother).

(Oh, the humanity)!

And if the foregoing breaches of royal etiquette were insufficient, reporters caught our thoroughly uneducated, (dare I say it) commoner Meghan reaching out to take her husband’s hand at the recent Royal Leaders’ Reception at Buckingham Palace, to be rewarded with a stiff and silent rebuff; at which time Harry moved his royal right arm away from her salacious advances.

(I, for one, am personally relieved that British Royal Etiquette was so admirably maintained that day).

Pt. 2

I believe the Royals have, by in large, been a bunch of hypocrites, and the British people are poorer for it (literally); to the tune of multiplied millions of pounds sterling on a yearly basis.

From King Henry VIII's philandering and murdering ways to Queen Elizabeth 1st' murder of Mary Queen of Scots to Queen Victoria's horrendous oversight of Ireland; in which people were driven out of their homes, and thousands of Catholics died of starvation on the street

 (to)

Queen Elizabeth 2nd's alienation from and poor treatment of the former King Edward after he married Wallis Simpson to Prince Edward's adulterous ways to Prince Charles' involvement with Camilla and divorce from Diana to Harry's notoriety when he dressed up in a uniform bearing the Swastika to William's cohabitation with Kate for eight years prior to their wedding to Fergie's infamous topless photos, etc. etc. 

Given my 70% British heritage, it both makes me angry, and it gives me pleasure to write about the topic. So-called 'Royalty'... aren't, and they who are supposed to set an example...don't. 

All in all, the minor breaches of etiquette for which Duchess Meghan is responsible pale in comparison to the appalling behavior of the ancient and modern kings and queens and princes and princesses of the so-called Royal House of Windsor.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 83. Copyright pending

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OLD TOM

My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay. 

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

… And they hope for the night.

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

“And So It Goes”

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.


(Old Tom was just as surely a founder and builder of the City of Bartow, Florida as any human being, and it might be said that we 'owe' him).


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

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WHY DOGS DON'T LIVE AS LONG AS PEOPLE DO

Here's the surprising answer of a 6 year old child.

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish Wolfhound named Belker. The dog’s owners, Ron, his wife Lisa, and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn’t do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.

As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker‘s family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker’s transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker’s Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that dogs' lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, ”I know why.”

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I’d never heard a more comforting explanation. It has changed the way I try and live.

He said, ”People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life — like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right?” The six-year-old continued,

”Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don’t have to stay for as long as we do.”

Live simply.
Love generously.
Care deeply.
Speak kindly.

Remember, if a dog was the teacher you would learn things like:

• When your loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
• Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.
• Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure Ecstasy.
• Take naps.
• Stretch before rising.
• Run, romp, and play daily.
• Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
• Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
• On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
• On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
• When you’re happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
• Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
• Be faithful.
• Never pretend to be something you’re not.
• If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
• When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

That's the secret of happiness that we can learn from a good dog.

*One little fella once said that the reason dogs don't live as long as humans is that they already know how to be perfect.

(Anonymous)

FOR LACK OF A MENTOR. Pts. 1-6

My wife, daughter, grandson, and I returned from our European vacation six weeks ago. Jean and I had talked about doing it for years, and since we are turning the “Big 70” next year, we thought we better make it happen sooner, rather than later.

It is no exaggeration to say it was the trip of a lifetime.

One of the highlights of our vacation was our visit to the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland. This particular location features two eight or ten story stacks of symmetrical, six-sided, flat topped stone pillars. I had seen photographs of this tourist site in the past, but (as Forrest Gump once said) it was “a whole ‘nother country” to actually see the place in person.

Anyone who knows me knows there was no way I was going that far, and not climb those rugged rocky mounds. And much to my wife’s chagrin, I followed through with my intent to conquer them.

For no reason in particular, I first chose the one on my right. As I surveyed the rocky challenge, I noticed a causeway employee standing about a third of the way up. She was a young lady of, perhaps, twenty and wore a pair of jeans, and a florescent yellow construction-style vest.

As I made my way up the hill, and neared the young woman I smiled a half smile, and asked,

“Are we allowed to climb to the top?”

To which the attendant responded in a charming Irish accent,

“Yes, but walk up behind me.”

With this, I once again queried,

“Oh, are you going to lead the way?”

To which she replied,

“Uhmmm, No. I mean walk up the mound directly behind where I’m standing.”

Subsequently, I recall asking the young girl whether anyone had broken an ankle or bruised a knee in their pursuit of fame there, and she acknowledged that,

“Yes, they certainly have.”

Pt. 2

I resumed my trek up the strangest hill I had ever climbed. I chose my steps with some deliberation, as the edges of some of the multiplied, foot tall pillars were covered with mold or algae, and their flat six-sided surfaces were wet with moisture from the ocean surf; which pounded the lower recesses of the mound.

My wife, who was standing at the bottom of the incline, followed my every move, and snapped several photos of my progress; including a couple when I arrived at the summit, and raised my arms like Richard Nixon in that famous piece of film footage.

Ultimately, I also attacked, and conquered the other hill, and found it to be a bit more tenuous, as the pillars seemed somewhat larger, and wetter than heretofore. My feet slipped a bit as I steadily made my way upwards, but having reached the top, and gazed out at the Irish Sea, I made my way down again. And as with the first mound, I found the walk down a bit more difficult, and I was careful to step carefully, and was forced to reduce my pace.

It was only after we returned home that my wife did a Google search of injuries which had been sustained at the Giant’s Causeway. And “lo and behold,” she discovered that a man had fallen and, subsequently, died as the result of a fall there a year almost to the day, before our own visit to the site.

Pt. 3

And while I have written approximately 400 words in which I recounted one stop on our European vacation, and specifically our visit to the Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland, allow me to diverge in favor of my true intent for having detailed my climb up a couple of hundred foot high mounds; composed of thousands of geometrically-shaped pillars.

I take you back to the young employee whom I met a third of the way up the first hill which I summited that day.

You recall that when I asked her whether visitors were allowed to climb to the top, she has responded with,

“Yes, but walk up behind me.”

However, as I soon discovered, the meaning of her words, and my interpretation of her meaning were two entirely different things. She had no intention, whatever, of leading me to the top; (which was, in this case, fine by me).

However, there is a moral to this story.

I think there is a dearth of discipleship, both secular and spiritual, in our society. I think there are just too few people willing to say, “Follow Me.”

In the New Testament book of Philippians, the Apostle Paul admonished those to whom his letter was intended to,

“Join together in following my example, brothers and sisters, and just as you have us as a model, keep your eyes on those who live as we do.” (Phil. 3:17)

He might just as well have said,

“Copy me.”

As a Christian mentor, I have witnessed the power of discipleship, role modeling and setting a standard for those who will ‘carry on’ long after we have gone on to our reward.

The entire dynamic is that much more ‘there there’ for me since no one ever stepped forward in my own life and offered to act as a mentor for me.

Pt. 4

Following is a compilation which includes something which both I, and another individual wrote, and which expresses the foregoing topic well.

The year was 1968 and I was a new Christian; having accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my Savior the previous year, (and the summer after my high school graduation). Not one to waste a great deal of time, I had enrolled at a nearby Bible college; (which in the intervening decades metamorphosed into a Christian liberal arts university in which I was subsequently privileged to teach).

As the student body sat in chapel one morning, whomever happened to be charge of the service stepped forward and instructed the sound person to play a pre-recorded song. Suddenly, the strains of an unfamiliar hymn filled the auditorium, and a baritone voice began to sing the most poignant words,

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care

The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me

And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

There was just something so compelling about the words of the old song; which went beyond the rhyme, content and meter. The expressiveness and experiential tenor of the words lent such an eloquence to the theme which he attempted to express to his audience.

It seems to me the student body sat spellbound, as the three verses to the hymn played themselves out. As I reflect on it now, an almost ‘holy hush’ permeated the building that morning.

As the closing notes of our unseen guest and accompanying piano echoed across the chapel, and silence permeated the room, our college president walked to the podium, and provided the students a bit of information to which they had not been privy, ‘til now.

“The voice you just heard was owned by a missionary named J.W. Tucker. He is no longer with us, but died at the hands of Maoist rebels in Africa just four years ago.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. There was just something so personally poignant having just been exposed to the song, and having just connected with the man who sang it; and to be informed that he had lain down his life for the Gospel of the Lord whom he had so dearly loved.

Almost half a century has come and gone since that day, and I have often reflected on the words of that old hymn by Ira Stanphill, and its relevance to every Christian who ever lived and moved and breathed upon this planet. And over the course of the past few decades I have often sung it as a solo, and never fail to relate the story behind my personal association with it.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol.s 50 & 83

Pt. 5

A HERO OF THE FAITH
Originally Posted on March 11, 2014


It was November, 1964. J.W. and Angeline Tucker had returned to Paulis, Belgian Congo for their fifth term as Assemblies of God missionaries. Not long after their arrival, Simba rebels overran the area, slaughtering hundreds of people.


J. W., along with about sixty other Europeans and Americans, was taken hostage to the Catholic mission in Paulis (later named Isiro). (Angeline and the three children were rescued by Belgian paratroopers and flown to safety). While being held at the mission, J. W. and several others, with hands tied behind their backs, were mercilessly beaten to death. Their bodies were loaded on a truck and taken about forty miles to the Bomokande River. There they were fed to the hungry crocodiles. Truly a Prince and a great missionary had perished, and it all seemed such a waste. But there is more to the story.


For many years J. W. had tried, with little success, to reach the Mangbeto tribe with the gospel. But the tribal king refused to allow him to preach to the people, saying, “We have our own gods.”


During the Simba rebel uprising, fighting spilled into Mangbeto territory. In desperation, the king requested help from the central government in Kinshasa. The government responded by sending them a man of powerful influence from the Isiro area. They called him “the Brigadier.” Just two months before J. W. was killed he won this man to the Lord.


When the Brigadier arrived in Mangbeto country he quickly realized they were pagans. So he determined to win them to the Lord. Being a new Christian, he shared the gospel with them as best he could, but with very little success. Being somewhat discouraged, he began to pray, and the Lord gave him an idea. So he sent word to the king to bring his tribal elders and meet with him.


When the tribal delegation arrived, the Brigadier said, “From time immemorial you have had a saying: ‘If the blood of any man flows in our river, the Bomokande River, we must listen to his message.’ A man’s blood has flowed in your river. He tried to give you a message about his God Who sent His Son to die for your sins, so that all who believe on Him will have eternal life. And I am bringing his message to you. This man’s blood has flowed in your river, so you must hear his message.” As the Brigadier spoke, the Spirit of the Lord began to move in their hearts, and many received the Savior that day.


Today there are thousands of Christians in the Mangbeto tribe, and between forty and fifty Assemblies of God churches. How true the saying: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”


My wife and I stood on the bridge over the Bomokande River, only a few feet from where the rebels threw Brother Tucker’s body. We were both gripped by a great sense of awe as we stood on that sacred ground. Our hearts were challenged by the memory of a great, but humble, man of God who believed that being in God’s will is more precious than life itself. And though dead, his message is still bearing fruit.


Harold Walls

(Manna for the Journey Devotions)



Pt. 6                      

                                             FOLLOW ME

                                                                               Ira Stanphill

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care,
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me,”
And then I heard Him say so tenderly,

"My feet were also weary upon the Calv'ry road,
The cross became so heavy I fell beneath the load,
Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see,
Just lift your cross and follow close to me."

"I work so hard for Jesus" I often boast and say,
"I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,
I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to thee,"
And then I heard Him gently say to me,

"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss,
My hands were nailed in anger upon a cruel cross,
But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine,
So lift your cross and follow close to me."

“Oh Jesus if I die upon a foreign field someday
'Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay,”

"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,"
These are the words he gently spoke to me,

"If just a cup of water I place within your hand
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand,"
But if by death to living they can thy glory see,
I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.