MARTYR CHILDREN

I have often read one of the most singular chapters in all of the New Testament, and shook my head in abject wonder.
Hebrews Chapter 11
“They lived in caves and dens of the earth. They died by the sword. They were sawn asunder. They were devoured by lions.”
Of course, the most infamous of all such environments was the Roman Coliseum. And in that place, and on a regular basis, the followers of Jesus Christ gave the last full measure of devotion.
In the last few days I have been possessed with a singular thought; a thought which has never before permeated the wrinkled gray matter inside my cranium.
Mentally I have put myself in the place of an onlooker sitting near the top row of the massive Coliseum. And as I sit there in rapt attention, I notice a sort of cell-like contraption rising out of the earth. And as accustomed as I am to it, for I have been here before, I immediately recognize it as an open-doored, two-sided elevator; which has delivered its human cargo from the bowels of that massive arena.
And with this, the occupants of the elevator file out into the sunshine, midst the cheering of thousands in the grandstands, very much like themselves; save for the predicament with which they contend.
As suddenly as the first elevator appears, another rises and a whirlwind of dust momentarily obscures whomever, or whatever fills up the space within. And no sooner than the ‘dust devil’ spins its way against the far wall than the assembled throng cheers, yet louder. For out of the cage stumbles several emaciated African lions; purposely starved to encourage predation.

Pt. 2

In spite of their hunger, the lions stalk their prey, and take their sweet time in approaching the small band of people with the newly coined title of ‘Christians.’ In the meantime, these six or seven soon to be martyrs kneel together in a close-knit group, left and right arms resting on the shoulders of those immediately beside them.
Near about 70 years of age, and having lived decades longer than the average in my day, my eyes are not what they were, and I strain to see the scenario playing itself out far below me.
And then I see them.
…children!
There are two children among the small clutch of people in the center of the arena. One is a boy of perhaps 12. The other a girl of 9 or 10. And what once seemed like such a lively sport to me has suddenly “come home to roost.” I have several grandchildren this age. A swell of nausea overcomes me, and I have the compulsion to leave, but what is playing out on the field is far too compelling for me to just walk away.
I feel something arising within me, and I realize it is an unspoken audible which I find impossible to verbalize.
“Stop! Quit! Desist! Don’t you see what you are doing?”
(and)
“For God’s sakes, these are children!”
Now, one woman, almost oblivious to the nearness of the fearsome felines, seems to be involved in a heated exchange with a man I presume to be her husband. And though I cannot hear her voice, it occurs to me that she is overwhelmed with the thought of her children dying the most savage deaths to which anyone could possibly succumb.

Pt. 3

And it seems to me that the children’s mother is on the verge of renouncing her Lord for the sake of her offspring; as if Caesar may yet relent, and allow them to go free. I glance in the direction of our emperor, but if he is close to giving a ‘thumbs up,’ the bright sunlight, and my poor eyesight forbid me from detecting it. Of course, at this stage in the scenario, how would anyone step in to deter the savage beasts from their grisly mission?
And with this, the children’s mother draws her son, and daughter, yet closer, kisses the one, and then the other on their foreheads, glances skyward, and slowly lifts her hands to the heavens.
Suddenly, what appears to be a snow white dove floats listlessly down from somewhere above the area, and comes to rest in the woman’s outstretched hands. An almost holy hush rolls like a wave across the grandstands. As the lions creep, nearer, yet nearer to the object of their quest, the dove disappears from sight, and the dear lady seems to steel herself to their certain fate.
And in the course of minutes, the deed is done.
A father and mother who have done the most difficult thing any parent could possibly do. Having been assured, in advance, that they had only to say the word, and not only they, but their children would go free. They had only to renounce their Jesus, and confess Caesar as Lord, and this whole sorry ‘mistake’ would be forgiven.
The words were never spoken, and with hardly a whimper the dear little family fell on the field, and passed from this life to the next.
And so like the man who viewed the event from the upper seats, as the consideration occurred to me this week, I experienced a mental and emotional epiphany. Parents who exercised such a compelling faith in the risen Lord that they invested not only their lives, and the fate of their eternal souls to Him, but that of their children, as well.
All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. (Hebrews 11:13-16)

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 55. Copyright pending

THE BEATITUDES

 “Blessed are the humble in spirit,
 for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven.
 Blessed are they who are experiencing grief,
 for they will receive comfort.
 Blessed are they who do not presume upon others,
 for the earth and its fullness will be there’s.
 Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for goodness,
 for they will have their reward.
 Blessed is he and she who extend mercy,
 for they will receive mercy.
 Blessed are the pure in spirit,
 for they will enjoy God’s eternal presence.
 Blessed are they who restore peace,
 for they will be adopted by God.
 Blessed are those who are treated poorly for goodness sake,

 or they will inherit heaven.”

Matthew 5:1-12. From The McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament

Copyright 2017

THE GOOD SAMARITAN (from the Gospel of Luke)

Then one of the experts in the Law attempted to test him.


 "Lord, what can I do to merit everlasting life?"


 "What does the Law tell us about the topic, and what have you read about the subject?" Jesus asked. 


“The Law tells us that, ‘you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor, as yourself,’” he replied.


"You are absolutely correct" said Jesus. "Do this and you will, no doubt, live."


But the man desiring to justify his life and behavior continued.


"But who, after all, is my neighbor?"


And Jesus presented him the following response. 


"Once a man traveled from Jerusalem to Jericho. He fell into the hands of thugs who stole his garments, slapped him around, and left him by the roadside. Later, a priest was walking down this road. But when he saw the pitiful creature, he moved to the other side of the avenue, and continued on his way.”


“Afterwards, a Levite also happened upon the badly injured man, and when he saw him lying there, he also crossed to the other side of the road, and went about his business.”


“Finally, a Samaritan approached the spot where the man lay, and when he saw the poor fellow, his heart swelled with empathy. As a result, he went over to him, and placed bandages on his injuries; having first poured oil and wine on his awful wounds. Then, the Samaritan placed the injured man upon his own mule, took him to an inn, and looked after him as best he could.”


“As he was about to go his way, he took two silver coins from his wallet, placed them in the hands of the inn-keeper, and said,”


'Please continue to care for him, and when I come back this way, I will reimburse you, if any more is required.’”


The Lord looked intently at the individual to whom he was speaking, and said,


“Which of these three, then, was a neighbor to the injured man?"


"The man who practiced empathy by his words and actions," he responded.


And, having heard his reply, Jesus exclaimed,


 "Then you go and do the same.”

(McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament)

NO SCAR?

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land,
I hear them hail thy bright ascendant star,
Hast thou no scar?

Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers, spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die, and rent
by ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned:
Hast thou no wound?

No wound, no scar?
Yet as the Master shall the servant be,
And, pierced are the feet that follow Me;
But thine are whole: can he have followed far
Who has no wound nor scar?

(Amy Carmichael)

*Amy Carmichael was an Irish missionary to India. She was involved in the rescue of hundreds of girl prostitutes from the Hindu temples there. Amy spent half a century in India and never returned to Ireland.The orphanage she established remains three quarters of a century after her passing. She is buried on the grounds of her beloved orphanage. Amy asked that no headstone be placed on her gravesite. The only marker is a bird bath bearing the word "Amma" (Mother).

CONSIDER HIM

When the storm is raging high When the tempest rends the sky, When my eyes with tears are dim, Then, my soul, consider Him. When my plans are in the dust, When my dearest hopes are crushed, When is passed each foolish whim, Then, my soul, consider Him. When with dearest friends I part, When deep sorrow fills my heart, When pain racks each weary limb, Then, my soul, consider Him. When I track my weary way, When fresh trials come each day, When my faith and hope are dim, Then, my soul, consider Him. Clouds or sunshine, dark or bright, Evening shades or morning light, When my cup flows o'er the brim, Then, my soul, consider Him.  (Anonymous)

THE EMPATHY OF JACQUELINE KENNEDY

The year was 1961 and I was in the 6th grade. Mr. Ball, our teacher, was apparently more civic-minded than most, with the emphasis on the plural, (civics) as he had brought in a b&w television from home and set it on his desk. At the time there was no such thing as cable, and the only channels available were 8 (NBC), 10 (ABC) and 13 (CBS).

Having set the television down, Mr. Ball proceeded to spread the ‘rabbit ears’ antenna, and clicked the knob. After a few seconds of black and white fuzz a live feed from Washington D.C. lit up the screen. Thousands of people filled up the parade route, and a long, black limousine drove slowly past the site of the film camera. A middle-aged man and younger woman who looked surprisingly like the sitcom characters, Rob and Laura Petrie (Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore) sat in the back seat. Of course, this nation had just elected a new president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and he and Jacqueline were passing by on their way to assuming the proverbial seats of the outgoing President Dwight Eisenhower, and his wife, Mamie Eisenhower.

The twenty-five or thirty students in our 6th grade class sat at rapt attention, as the Supreme Court Chief Justice Earl Warren swore in the 35th President of the United States. Either just before or just after the swearing in ceremony, the time element escapes me now, Robert Frost, the aging, white-haired poet, stepped to the podium to read one of his well-known poems.

As Frost stood to recite “The Gift Outright” the wind and the bright reflection of sunlight off the new fallen snow made reading impossible. He was able, however, to recite the poem from memory. For whatever reason, I recall the old man’s valiant rendition of his poem more clearly than the highlight of that momentous occasion; JFK’s inaugural address, and its two most memorable lines,

“Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.”

Fast forward 2 ½ years, and I found myself just short of half way through the 9th grade.

November 22nd, 1963

 ‘a day,’ as my 6th cousin, Pres. Franklin Roosevelt might have said,

…“which will live in infamy.”

I ‘laid out’ sick that day; the only sick day I would take during my entire 9th year of school. I cannot account for it. As I reflect on it now, it seems almost personally prophetic on my part that I’d chosen this day of all days to remain home.

As I lay in our television room watching “As the World Turns,” just prior to the 2 PM (EST) hour, an alert icon of some sort came up on the screen. In those days, those bulky old television cameras had to be warmed up for several minutes; prior to being used. And thus, I heard him before I saw him. Walter Cronkite, the mainstay of the CBS Evening News broadcast.

“News Bulletin. President Kennedy has been shot.”

Eight minutes later, Mr. Cronkite’s image joined his disembodied voice. During those eight minutes, (the amount of time required for a beam of light to travel from the sun to the earth) live television was little more than a radio broadcast. However, CBS had beaten NBC ‘to the punch’ by about 40 seconds, and was credited with the ‘news scoop’ of the century. From that time forward the major networks learned their lesson, and had learned it well. They would always have a couple of live television cameras warmed up and ready to broadcast.

Pt. 2

Clint Hill, Jackie Kennedy’s personal Secret Service agent, was riding in a staff car that day; immediately behind the Presidential Limousine. The president had not only instructed Jackie to remove her sunglasses, but that no Secret Service agents run alongside, or sit on the fender jump seat of ‘White House One.’ Jack was all too aware of the 1964 national election, and he was determined to present an air of openness and availability to the potential voters which surrounded him.

As with his first inauguration, thousands of Texas citizens had turned out in Dallas that day. And in spite of President Kennedy’s instructions, Secret Service Agent Hill ran back and forth between the two cars; at times trotting next to the long, black limo, at times sitting on the back fender; but mostly riding in the follow up vehicle. Strangely enough, (and much to his relief) JFK never objected to the obvious breach of his earlier instructions, but continued to smile and wave at the crowd.

And then that fatal shot.

Clint Hill has always regretted not having been closer to the presidential couple during the course of the three (some say two) shots. Having witnessed Jack Kennedy’s response to the first shot, as his hands shot to his throat, Jackie’s agent hopped to the street, and dashed towards the truck of the limousine. During those fatal few seconds, JFK was struck again.

A fatal head wound. In his book, “Mrs. Kennedy and me” (which I have read cover to cover) and in subsequent interviews, Mr. Hill speaks to the absolute horror of that day. He displays little, if any sensitivity when he relates how that when the subsequent bullet slammed into the president’s head, the sound which echoed throughout Dealey Plaza was much like that of a machete against the surface of a ripe watermelon.

By the time the courageous agent reached the fender of the limo, Mrs. Kennedy had crawled onto the truck; in a misguided effort to retrieve a piece of her husband’s skull. The Zapruder film records the entire sequence of events in all its gory glory. Ultimately, Agent Hill managed to push or drag Jackie Kennedy into the back seat, and covered the president and his wife with his body.

The first (and thus far, the only) president who has been assassinated during the watch of the Secret Service, (and the most profound, and enduring regret of Agent Clint Hill’s life).

Pt. 3

Jackie’s Secret Service agent was all too aware that it was all for naught, for as he jumped up onto the fender of the limo, he noted the right hemisphere of JFK’s cranium, and the empty space which had only seconds before encapsulated a pound and a half of gray matter.

Having only just managed to mount the trunk of the automobile, without falling to the pavement, and possibly being run over by the limousine, Agent Hill covered the couple as best he could. The Lincoln reached speeds upwards of 80 mph in its eight minute quest of Parkland Hospital. The closest our republic ever came to royalty lay dying in the back seat of car named after the first American president taken by an assassin’s bullet.

Dr. Robert McClelland, (a man whose autograph I have in my collection) recounts the scene in the trauma room:

"I was horrified to see him like that. With his head covered in blood, with that light shining down on it."

NBC asked McClelland how large the hole was in the back of Kennedy's head, he made a circle with his hands about the size of an orange.

"It was a hole about like this size. As I said, the whole back half, the right side of his brain was gone.”

Even today's medical advances couldn't have saved the president. Within 10 minutes, a priest came to deliver the last rites.

Most of the doctors cleared the room. But McClelland found himself trapped behind a gurney pressed against the wall and couldn't get out before the priest arrived.

"It was a private moment, and I'm a bit embarrassed that I was there. But I didn't want to have to walk across the room past the priest," McClelland said.

NBC asked McClelland to remember what the priest, Father Oscar L. Huber, said during the ritual.

"Before he said anything he made the sign of the cross on the president's forehead, anointed his forehead. And then he leaned over and said, 'if thou livest,' in a loud, audible voice. Then he completed the rest of the ceremony in a softer voice and I couldn't hear him."

Jackie Kennedy then walked into Trauma Room One, her pink suit covered in her husband's blood. The first lady spent a few, final moments with her husband.

"She stood there for a minute over him. And then she exchanged a ring from her finger to the president's finger," McClelland remembers.

"And she stood there another moment or two, and then walked slowly to the end of the gurney, where the president's right bare foot was protruding out from underneath the sheet that was covering him.

She stood by his foot for a moment, leaned over and kissed his foot, and walked out of the room. And that was the last I saw of the first lady."

(Jeff Smith, NBCdfw.com)

I admit it. I am rather ‘taken up’ with the events of that era; especially the Kennedy Assassination and mankind’s first lunar landing; outside of the two World Wars, the premier events of the 20th century. And, without doubt, I could continue to elaborate on the murder of our 35th president, and its aftermath.

But it is in the following account we pursue the purpose of this story, and reveal the logic of its title.

After President Kennedy’s body was laid in the casket, and literally taken by force by his security team, (as Texas authorities had demanded an autopsy be performed in Dallas) his remains were manhandled up the stairs to Air Force One, and loaded into the cargo hold; prior to the presidential swearing in of Vice President Johnson.

And as Jackie sat next to her husband’s casket, still covered in JFK’s blood, Agent Hill stepped up to her, and took a nearby seat.

“Mrs. Kennedy, my profound regrets. I hardly know what to say. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Jackie was the pampered daughter of socialites, and as America’s First Lady spent untold amounts of money on custom-made French creations. Jack grew up in a wealthy Catholic family, and his father was America’s Ambassador to Great Britain; a father who set the standard for the sort of philandering John Kennedy later emulated.  In spite of their excesses, America’s ‘royal couple’ were loved and respected, and the unfulfilled potential of JFK’s administration is still debated.

As Agent Hill and Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy sat alone together in the cargo hold of Air Force One, she seemed almost oblivious to her body guard’s earlier question, and answered his question with a question.

“Oh, Mr. Hill. Whatever is to become of you?”

As I type these words, tears spring to my eyes.

Sheer Empathy

Absolute nobility

In the midst of her abject despair, and when Mrs. Kennedy might have deservedly exercised the ‘quality’ of selfishness, she expressed concern for a person whom any reasonable person would have branded her inferior.

Agent Clint Hill went on to serve Mrs. Kennedy for another year, and faithfully performed his duty in five presidential administrations.

Reflecting on a previous phrase and resulting occurrence in this story, I find it ‘personally prophetic’ that Jacqueline Kennedy (Onassis) passed away on May 19, 1994; my own 45th birthday.

But I think for all the myriad details of all the myriad accounts of the Kennedy Assassination, and its aftermath to which I have been exposed, for all of their fascination and innuendo, my favorite, the most poignant detail of them all can be none other than the conversation to which I just alluded.

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

THE EMPATHY OF TED WILLIAMS

Ted Williams was one of the greatest baseball players of all time; rivaling athletes such as Babe Ruth and Joe Dimaggio. And, of course, his batting average was consistently ‘second to none.’

Ted was, as you might expect, a ‘big hit’ with his fans. For whatever reason, however, when he would hit a homerun, or achieve some other exploit on the field, he refused to tip his hat to the crowd. Even when he stepped up for his ‘last at bat’ on the final game of his career, managing to drive the ball into the stands, he jogged into the dugout; without acknowledging the cheers of the crowd.

In spite of his Ted’s unwillingness to practice that long-observed tradition, and in spite of other frailties, he had a heart of gold.

Speaking of ‘last to bat,’ and a ‘heart of gold,’ yesterday was the final session for a couple of my interns. During this particular meeting, I happened to give Kavan and Eric the definition for Empathy.

Following are the approximate words I shared with them.

“You know guys, there’s a significant difference between Sympathy and Empathy. And I don’t know about the Webster’s Dictionary definition, but at least to me Sympathy is an expression of regret, as the result of an unfortunate occurrence, loss of a loved one, etc., but is limited to words.”

“However, when it comes to Empathy, that’s a ‘whole ‘nother ballgame.’ I define Empathy as, ‘Sympathy with the ability to come along side.’ Thus, Empathy goes way beyond words, and must, by definition, include action.”

As a counselor, I particularly like my own definition of Empathy, and I attempt to put that definition into practice every chance I get.

Pt. 2

But to return my account of Ted Williams.

I was watching a documentary about this great baseball player last night, and the narrator of the program provided a couple of remembrances regarding this wonderful man.

In one case, Williams was involved in collecting money for some worthy cause, and as he went about contacting retired players and soliciting funds by telephone, occasionally one of his old teammates informed him that they were indigent, and unable to contribute.

To which Williams would say something like,

“C’mon, I know things are pretty bad for you right now, but you can at least give $10.”

No doubt, Ted’s former teammate felt a bit resentful and misunderstood at that moment, but almost without fail the man on the other end of the line would agree to mail a small check on behalf of the charity.

Of course, if this was the end of the story, one might wonder if Williams had been born without a heart. However, as it fell together, when the $10 check arrived in the mail, Ted would write down the bank account number, and deposit $1,000 in the former teammate’s account!

As the television program continued, the narrator told another story which served to accentuate the innate Empathy of this baseball player.

Ted Williams was visiting a children’s hospital, and had spent some time chatting with a few four and five year old’s. Having ‘made the rounds,’ he stepped up to a little fella who grabbed him by the forefinger, and refused to turn loose.

Ultimately, “Bobby” drifted off to sleep. However, Ted’s forefinger was still held captive in the toddler’s tiny hand. As a result, his hero lost no time requesting a cot, and once a nurse obliged him, he gathered the boy in his arms, and lay down next to him.

Empathy - Sympathy with the ability to come along side.

I think Webster’s Dictionary would do well to put Ted William’s photo next to the first word in the previous definition.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 85. Copyright pending

I AM

It was by the second day that I realized that there would be no set time for the teacher's coming. He came in the afternoon.

"Do you know the Name of God?" asked the teacher.

"I don't know that I do."

"It's made up of four Hebrew letters, the yud, the heh, the vav, and the heh: YHVH. It's the most sacred of names, so sacred some refuse to say it. And yet you say it all the time."

"The sacred Name of God?" I replied. "How could I when I never knew it?"

"When you speak of yourself, you say the Name."

"I don't understand."

"When you feel happy, you say, 'I am happy.' And when you're not, you say 'I am sad.' When you tell others who you are, you say, 'I am' followed by your name.

"YHVH means 'I Am.' It's the Name of the Eternal, the Name of God. His Name is I Am.

"Then we all say His Name."

"Yes. And you have always said it. It is woven into the fabric of existence that when you speak of yourself, you must say His Name."

"Why is that?"

"It's because your existence comes from His existence. He is the I Am of all existence ... the I Am of all I ams. Your I am only exists because of His I Am. And as you exist from Him, so it is only from Him that you can find the reason and purpose of your existence. Therefore, when you say your name, you must always speak His Name. And you must always speak His Name first."

"Because..."

"Because His existence is first and your existence flows forth from His. That's the flow of existence. Therefore, you must put Him first and then let everything flow from that. Let everything begin with Him and flow forth from Him. That's the secret of life. To not only live for Him, but to live your life from Him, to live from His living, to move from His moving, to act from His actions, to feel from His heart, to be from His being, and to become who you are from who He is ... I am."

(Anonymous)

PRUNES, PRIDE & VINEGAR PIE

*A couple of years before Rev. Puckett passed away, I had the privilege of meeting him, and sat down with him in his home. Knowing that his wife had written a book about their children, marriage, and their lives in general, I asked if I could borrow a copy. 

Paul hesitated, but writing down my name and address, he loaned me one of only two copies he still had. While I had the book in my possession, I scanned the volume to a CD so that it might remain available for his grandchildren and their grandchildren.

I might mention. I knew Beth. She and I were in high school chorus together. She was a precious young lady, a Christian and a person of great potential. She left us a few months prior to graduating from high school.

Following is a poignant excerpt from Martha Puckett's book.

Almost a quarter of a century has transpired since our dear daughter left us, though she remains very much alive in the life of our family. God has used her death to impact many others along the way, and we have used our excruciating experience to help others during their time of grief.

While it was inestimably difficult to pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I am happy to say that our Savior has led us all the way, and that in our most trying times, God never forsook us.

(But following is where I most wanted to bring you this evening).

Beth had hardly been gone three months when I began to dread Mother’s Day. Our daughter had always been so loving and thoughtful on holidays, and I knew that it would be a difficult 24 hours. But I had my duties at the organ, and I realized that it was a day that would just have to be lived, and put behind us.

On Mother’s Day morning, as I was in the process of getting dressed, I reached to get something out of my drawer. The drawer was stuck, and I jerked it open. When I did, it fell out on the floor, and all its contents were scattered across the room. Of course, I was frustrated, and exclaimed, “Lord, I don’t need this. Not today.”

Reaching up under the space from which I pulled the drawer, I felt around …and touched a large envelope. I inhaled deeply. In my hand I held a Mother’s Day card which Beth had given to me the previous year. I opened it, and wept, as I read the familiar handwriting.

It had been God’s way of providing me the courage I had so badly needed. This uncanny, almost miraculous occurrence gave me joy which remained with me throughout that day which I had so dreaded. 

As I reflect on this event, I never cease to be amazed at the peace which overwhelmed me at that moment, with my confidence that Beth now looks into the face of her Savior, and that I will most assuredly see her again one day.

Excerpt from "Prunes, Pride & Vinegar Pie" by Martha Puckett

A CAT NAMED SPIRIT

“Yesterday, during one of my daily crying spells, I asked my recently deceased son to send me a sign that he was ok and happy. Just anything that would unmistakably assure me that he is still with me "in spirit". Today, I got that sign. This is "Spirit" who strangely enough, my brother had already named him before he came to me because he found him on Spirit Lake Rd. For me, his name took on a whole new meaning. My son, also being a rescuer, heard my plea and sent me that sign I prayed for. Please read it and you'll know the rest of this story.”♡

(Linda McDonald Osteen)

Simply put, I am an animal lover.

I have previously written of having come across several helpless animals during the course of my ‘wee hours of the morning’ bike and walking treks.

There was the emaciated pooch, a mini-Doberman, tied to a light post which, as I rode my bike on a nearby sidewalk, I retrieved, brought home, and ‘farmed out’ to a no-kill shelter. There was the pitiful little cat, injured and lying next to a local two lane road. All I could do was call the dog pound and ask an animal control person to pick it up. And there was the time I ‘happened up’ on another feral cat, as I walked a two miler during a holiday at Cedar Key. I recall pausing and stroking his fur, and scratching under his chin, and musing aloud, “Sorry, little fella. About all I can do is spend a moment with you and offer you a little comfort.” And with that, I went on my way.

This morning, as I was about halfway through my walking circuit, I noticed a man who was about to transect my path. And as is my custom, rather than walk past someone at ‘O Dark Thirty,’ (and thus ‘take my life in my own hands’) I crossed the highway which bordered the sidewalk.

And having crossed this particular thoroughfare, and then another, in order to begin my trek home, I passed another light pole, (re. my earlier allusion) and lo and behold I noticed a small kitten sitting on the concrete base of the pole; about two feet above ground level.

You remember that old adage about the turtle on the fencepost? Well, (as with the kitten) we can assume he didn’t get there by himself.

But having arrived at this juncture, it may be helpful for you to understand that I ALWAYS include helpless, homeless, hungry feral animals in my daily prayers. Of course, many of these animals were previously abused, and while some have gotten loose, many have been dumped along our highways and byways.

Pt. 2

But to return to my story.

It immediately occurred to me that, as with the other instances, I was being called to ‘put feet to my prayers.’

Prayer or no prayer, I simply could not leave the kitten ‘to its own devices.’ (Though honestly, I prefer dogs to cats any day). But having scanned the general area, and assured myself that there wasn’t a mama cat in the vicinity, I picked up the bony creature, and gently holding it by my side, I quickly walked the remaining half mile home.

And while I had no plan, whatsoever, to keep the kitten, I did something which I have so often done. I mentally assigned a name to the pitiful creature, and I claimed him for the kingdom.

(Yes, I did).

His name? Well, since I discovered the poor little thing on Spirit Lake Road, I decided to call him, ‘Spirit;’ (a name which will have significant import by the time this story reaches its certain conclusion).

And, no doubt, dear readers, by now you are ‘biting at the bit’ for some clarity re. my having claimed the tiny fur ball for the kingdom.

In Psalm 36:6, we read,

“You preserve both men and animals, alike.”

And it is upon this particular implication I base my premise.

Are you familiar with The Rainbow Bridge? The notion that our animals have gone on before us, and will be waiting for us at the pearly gates? Well, I’m convinced that as believers can rest assured that we will see our pet pooches and felines again.

Pt. 3

Having arrived home, I poured some milk into a paper plate, and set it before little Spirit. He ignored it. At this point, I dipped a teaspoon into the milk, and lifted it to his mouth. And with that, Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Spirit had, by this time, crawled under my dining room table, and refused to move from his solitary place.

Having assured myself that ‘Queenie,’ my 15 pound Shih Tzu, was under the supervision of my wife, Jean, I sat down at my computer, and I.M.’ed my sister.

It may be helpful to understand that Linda is a night nurse, and that she sits with chronically ill youngsters in the wee hours of the evening. It might also be helpful to know that my sister is a cat person, par excellence.

As I described the scenario by which I had stumbled upon the cat, (and subsequently, rescued it) she offered something which I had not, ‘til this point,’ considered.

“I think Tony had something to do with it. I think he led you to the cat.”

And while I am characterizing things which may be helpful for you to understand, sadly, Linda’s 35 year old son, Tony, passed away last month.

Tony was, (as is his mother) a cat rescue person. And speaking of my newly named cat, it seems more than fitting that, in respect for Tony, I coincidentally chose the moniker, ‘Spirit’ for the precious little creature. (For it goes without saying that Tony has gone on to his reward).

And as you might imagine, as my sister and I interacted, I was on the threshold of asking Linda if she could ‘see her way clear’ to adopt the furry tyke.

As it fell together, I didn’t have to ask.

Pt. 4

“Would you like me to pick up the precious thing on my way home?”

(Dear Readers, she didn’t have to ask twice).

In a flash, my nimble fingers typed out that oft-used three letter word.

(Yes)

“Why, Yes. Yes, I would. I would like that a great deal.”

And to quote the most bless-ed promise in the Bible,

“And it came to pass.”

After my sister arrived home, she and I exchanged several texts. In the couple of hours which had transpired since she pulled into my driveway, she had visited the vet, had the kitten wormed, and antibiotics were administered.

And as my little text tone chimed again (and again), I opened each subsequent message and initially saw a photo. (Spirit was eating)! And then a brief video. (Spirit was exploring)!

Sullivan Ballou, that late great Union officer, once penned the most eloquent letter ever written in the context of the Civil War. And in it, he alluded to the proposition that those who have gone on before might have some import, input and impact into our daily lives here.

“But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the brightest day and darkest night; always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.”

Perhaps, as my sister implied, her dearly departed son had something to do with the circumstances of last night, the stranger crossing the road, and my need to find a different pathway home.

Need I say, I think maybe Tony is still in the cat rescue business!

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 77. Copyright pending

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TONY'S HEAVENLY MOTORCYCLE

A notable poet once wrote, (paraphrased)

“There are stranger things in heaven and earth, than fill up our dreams.”

I believe it

I, myself, have been exposed to more of those ‘stranger things’ than anyone has any right to experience here. But it is not my purpose here to pursue any of those ‘things,’

…except for one

I have previously written about the passing of my young nephew Tony, and an unusual scenario in which I was involved, and which transpired after he left us.

Following is another story with direct implications to Tony, and which occurred in the past few days.

It may be helpful, (though decidedly peripheral) to understand that my sleep schedule is “all over the charts.” I mean, there are nights when I simply don’t sleep, except perhaps an hour or two, and then lie down after the sunrise, and “pick up a few zzzz’s.” Only to resort to my horizontal comfort again in the afternoon.

Having told you more about my sleeping habits than which you inquired, or ever wanted to know, a couple of days ago I laid down for an afternoon nap. It was during that momentary season of my life that I dreamed a dream.

Pt. 2

In my dream, I found myself in a home very similar to one I often pass by in a nearby city. For there is a rather peculiar home there.

In terms of its size, it is neither large nor small. In regard to its appearance, it is gray in color, and rather non-descript. What sets it apart, however, is a wall which surrounds the structure, and several black, steel gates through which the occupants come and go; and which are capable of being swung shut, and locked at night.

In my dream, I found myself doing that exact thing.

Opening my front door, I reached out to pull a couple of huge symmetrical gates to my left and right together; my terminal intention of snapping shut a large padlock between them.

As I was about halfway through my task, my dearly departed nephew suddenly drove up on a large, black vintage motorcycle. Of course, I was surprised to see him. However, there was nothing at all surprising about the smile which graced his countenance, and which was “as big as all outdoors.” His family and friends were all too familiar with that famous smile. (And from my way of thinking, more like an impish grin).

As the dream fell together, my nephew never spoke a word, but turning off the chopper’s engine, (and though still seated) he began to assist me in my intention to pull the security gates together.

It is important to deviate from my story here to tell you that, in the past few years, both my parents have gone on to their reward. Tony was more like a son to them than a grandson. As a matter of fact, their relationship was so valued, so strong and so loving that, a few years before he left us, Tony actually changed his last name to ‘McDonald.’

And it is, I think, plenty and enough to say that Tony would have literally given you the shirt off his back. He loved his family and friends dearly, and that love was reciprocated back to him.

Pt. 3

The foregoing characterization of my dream is its entire sum and total. There is little else to add to it, except perhaps its meaning.

And speaking of dreams, I have an avid interest in the topic. And, it might be said, I fancy myself somewhat of an amateur interpreter of dreams.

And while, in regard to the subject matter of my recent dream, I admit to having a more than passing bias, I deliberated all of thirty-three seconds prior to reaching a conclusion about its meaning.

I think Tony’s smile has everything to do with his contentment with his current status. I have no question but that he is with his grandparents now, and that he is healthy and happy and could never wish to come back.

I think the closing of the gates may have a three-fold interpretation.

It may be possible that our dearly departed relatives and friends, (and very much like the angels) have something to do with our protection; as we live and breathe and move in this mortal sphere.

Having been a counselor for a quarter of a century, I am convinced that those who have gone on before us are concerned that those whom they have left behind gain some semblance of closure; in relation to our memories and our grief.

Tony’s mother, (and my sister) Linda offered a third potential interpretation of the closing of the gates.

She said,

“It's possible that Tony wants us to know that he's let go the things of this world or ‘locked them away,’ and he's moved on, and is happy, and doing exactly what he wants to be doing.”

Afterward

And the motorcycle?

Linda shared something with me which struck me to the core.

Having posted a photo of a large, vintage motorcycle on my social media page, she included a poignant note.

“Brother, is this the motorcycle Tony rode up on in your dream? I just happened to think about this. He had to take a picture of this motorcycle the last time we went to Cracker Barrel for lunch. He just thought it was so beautiful.

It was two days before Tony passed away, and our last day together. Kind of ironic l think; especially since he wasn't a motorcycle rider.”

I admitted that the photo looked exactly like that two-wheeled vehicle in my dreams.

I believe Tony is with his beloved grandparents now, that his days are filled with joy, and that he is enjoying his heavenly motorcycle immensely.

Yes, dear readers, there are stranger things in heaven and earth than fill up our dreams.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 85. Copyright pending

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LOST WORDS FROM OUR CHILDHOOD

Murgatroyd, remember that word?

Would you believe the email spell checker did not recognize the word Murgatroyd?

Heavens to Murgatroyd!

Lost Words from our childhood: Words gone as fast as the buggy whip! Pretty sad.

The other day a not so elderly lady said something to her son about driving a Jalopy and he looked at her quizzically and said "What the heck is a Jalopy?"

He never heard of the word jalopy!! She knew she was old.... but not that old.

Well, I hope you are Hunky Dory after you read this and chuckle.

About a month ago, I illuminated some old expressions that have become obsolete because of the inexorable march of technology.

These phrases included "Don't touch that dial," "Carbon copy," "You sound like a broken record" and "Hung out to dry."

Back in the olden days we had a lot of 'moxie.' We'd put on our best 'bib and tucker' to' straighten up and fly right'.

Heavens to Betsy! Gee whillikers! Jumping Jehoshaphat! Holy moley!

We were 'in like Flynn' and 'living the life of Riley''.

Even a regular guy couldn't accuse us of being a knucklehead, a nincompoop or a pill. Not for all the tea in China!

Back in the olden days, life used to be swell, but when's the last time anything was swell?

Swell has gone the way of beehives, pageboys and the D.A....... of spats, knickers, fedoras, poodle skirts, saddle shoes, penny loafers, and pedal pushers...AND DON'T FORGET... Saddle Stitched Pants.

Oh, my aching back! Kilroy was here, but he isn't anymore.

We wake up from what surely has been just a short nap, and before we can say, Well, I'll be 'a monkey's uncle!'

Or, This is a 'fine kettle of fish'!

We discover that the words we grew up with, the words that seemed omnipresent, as oxygen, have vanished with scarcely a notice from our tongues and our pens and our keyboards.

Poof, go the words of our youth, the words we've left behind.

We blink, and they're gone. Where have all those great phrases gone?

Long gone: Pshaw, The milkman did it. Hey! It's your nickel..

Don't forget to pull the chain. Knee high to a grasshopper. Well, Fiddlesticks! Going like sixty.

I'll see you in the funny papers. Don't take any wooden nickels. Wake up and smell the roses.

It turns out there are more of these lost words and expressions than Carter has liver pills.

This can be disturbing stuff! ("Carter's Little Liver Pills" are gone too)!

We of a certain age have been blessed to live in changeable times. For a child each new word is like a shiny toy, a toy that has no age. We at the other end of the chronological arc have the advantage of remembering there are words that once existed ........and there were words that once strutted their hour upon the earthly stage and now are heard no more, except in our collective memory.

It's one of the greatest advantages of aging.

Leaves us to wonder where Superman will find a phone booth.

See ya later, alligator! After a while - crocodile! “Okidoki”

WE ARE THE CHILDREN OF THE FABULOUS 50'S..

NO ONE WILL EVER HAVE THAT OPPORTUNITY AGAIN.

WE RETAIN ONE OF OUR MOST PRECIOUS GIFTS

OUR MEMORIES

Rev. Bud Carroll

A MR. ROGERS STORY

By Allison Carter, USA Today

In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.