COOPERATING WITH GOD

My former co-counselor, Sherri N., with whom I was privileged to minister for a decade of my life on earth, once purchased some ceiling border paper for our office. The image on the paper was taken directly from the Sistine Chapel in Rome. God and Adam reaching out to one another, and almost touching fingertips. Of course, Adam is wearing little more than his birthday suit, and thus the illustration on the border paper had been slightly ‘amended’ to guarantee our ancestor a bit of privacy.

And as the years dropped like sand in an hour glass, and as literally thousands of our counseling clients would file in and out of the door with a myriad of issues and needs, I would often look up at that ceiling border which depicted God and ole Adam multiplied a couple dozen times over, and I’d muse,

“If I were to characterize that painting, I’d call it, “Cooperating With God.”

And sometime afterwards, I recognized the same concept in the pages of scripture.

I have never heard a sermon on the subject; (except the one I have preached a couple of times). But you’ll definitely find it there “in all its glory.”

For you see, in virtually every chapter of the Bible, the concept is replicated. For again and again, we find God and man mentioned in the exact same verse.

Pt. 2

For example,

“And there went with Saul a band of men whose heart God had touched.” (1^st Samuel 10:26)

(or)

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believes in Him might not perish, but have everlasting life.” (John 3:16)

(or)

“I beseech you therefore brethren by the mercies of God that you present your bodies a living sacrifice.” (Romans 12:1)

(or)

“Faithful is He who has called you, and He will also do it.” (1^st Thess. 5:24)

Sherri and I have long since gone on to other ministries and other geographical locations. (She is an associate pastor now, and I serve as a pastoral counselor in a different church). I understand the current pastor at “Calvary Church” uses the room as his office, and I have often wondered whether that ceiling border still graces the place. (Interestingly enough, I ran across a three foot remnant of that paper when I was rearranging my home office a couple years ago).

I think that ancient painting by Michelangelo has a great deal to teach us about God’s relationship with man, and even more crucially, I believe the recurring presence of God and mankind in a myriad of scriptural verses speaks volumes about His love for you and me, and His earnest desire that we cooperate with Him in our pursuit of excellence, and the fulfillment of His plans on the earth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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.  

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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BRIEF. BRIEF. (a.k.a. The Only Reason Your Ancestors Ever Lived)

“It is appointed unto man once to die, and after this, the judgement.”

Ten years ago, I planned and conducted a gravemarking ceremony for my 3x great Grandfather Isham, a Scotsman who arrived in the port of Charleston, SC sometime after 1750, and who fought in the Revolutionary War.

Well, if I say so myself, it was one well-planned, well-attended ceremony. Representatives from the Sons of the American Revolution were there in colonial military uniforms. I had contracted with bagpipers for the obligatory “Amazing Grace.” I had commissioned a bugler to play “Taps.” A couple of family members laid a wretch next to old Isham’s headstone. And there were songs, poems and speeches.

I was “all decked out” in my Dress Blues uniform, as I am a U.S. Army retiree, and I was one of the two or three main speakers of the day. And as the commanding officer of the local chapter of the Sons of the American Revolution finished speaking, he introduced me with the words,

“Dr. Royce McDonald is coming now, and he will share a brief, brief biography of his ancestor, Isham McDonald, with you.”

And, as you might imagine, I thought, “brief, brief?” What in the world does that mean? I wasn’t sure if he was tired and bored and just wanted to go home, or whether his words were simply a Freudian Slip. (I tend to think it was the second of the two possibilities.

At any rate, I immediately said to myself,

“You ain’t seen ‘brief, brief’ ‘til you see my ‘brief, brief,” and I proceeded to take my sweet time, since I knew it was very likely the one and only gravemarking ceremony my dear ancestor would ever experience; (or at least the only one in his honor his descendants would ever experience).

Pt. 2

Ever since that day anytime my wife or I hear the word, “brief” we “cast a knowing eye” at one another, and can hardly contain a smile, and if one or the other of us uses that word in a sentence, our spouse will respond with the words, “brief, brief.”

I expect the elderly gentleman wearing the Revolutionary War uniform, and who originally admonished me with those words has, by now, “passed from the scene.”

However, (as I have implied) I have often thought of the phrase which he used that day, and those two words have not only invoked laughter, but a sense of somber reflection. For you see, our very lives are ever so “brief, brief.” (And perhaps it is fitting that this two word combination was uttered…in a cemetery).

Why, just yesterday I was a strapping 18 year old boy just out of high school and preparing for all that life had to offer. Now, as I write these words, I am a 70 year old man looking back over more than half a century of living life as an adult. And I can only wonder where all those years have gone; truly like “water under the bridge.”

Speaking of “water under the bridge,” my sister forwarded a photo of my dad to me recently; one which I don’t recall seeing before.

The picture depicts my dad at the age of perhaps 65 or 70; 15 to 20 years before our Lord called him home to Glory. When I asked her, Linda informed me that the photograph was snapped in Robbinsville, NC; along a river where my parents had purchased a cabin. It seems my dad was in the process of building a dock, though no structure, whatsoever, can be seen.

In the picture Daddy is wearing the most bedraggled clothes I have ever seen him wear. His jeans are replete with holes, and stains, and his upper body is clothed in a dirty t-shirt. In spite of the condition of his clothing, my father appears to be staring directly into the camera lens, wearing a smile which might easily compete with the sun, and with one hand raised in greeting, (or farewell).

Interestingly enough, as recently as I came into possession of this unique picture, it has become my all-time favorite of my dad.

And I think I like it so much because it so well characterizes the journey we know as life and death.

I think the river represents the threshold between this life and the next. That both literal and proverbial river we call Jordan.

My father’s torn and dirty clothing speaks to the trials, troubles and turmoil of life, and the manner in which it inflicts pain and suffering on all of us.

Whereas, the exuberant smile, and raised hand is all about the conclusion of such momentary symptoms, the joy which awaits the redeemed, and that one final opportunity to bid a fond “fare thee well,” but not goodbye.

Afterward

Earlier this year I saw a poignant caption beneath a photo of some early American pioneers seated at the dinner table, or plowing in a field.

“You are the only reason your ancestors ever lived.”

And since our ancestors have long since gone on to their reward, and since they now live, and move and breathe through us, and count on us to make a difference in our world, (since they no longer can) at this stage we truly are the only reason they ever lived.

Life truly is “brief, brief” and it is paramount that we make the most of it.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.

We have traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.

One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest.

Pt. 2

Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.

As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 3

I, as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.

My 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American Revolution.

My 3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland in the 17^th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a hundred kisses on their cheeks.

My 9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade; during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and adopted, and was adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.

When they closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 4

I brought up the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.

While we were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.

I left a tribute to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill; which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy; along with my name and relationship to them.

And with this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers were most and best acquainted.

And whereas, I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they sustained cannot be calculated.

And whereas, these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THROUGH THE BLOOD & SUFFERING OF THE REVOLUTION

My quadruple Great Grandparents Thomas and Susannah (Harrington) Hightower were living on the Tygar River near Spartanburg, South Carolina in 1780. Having heard the plea for additional manpower, Thomas joined Colonel Benjamin Roebuck’s Colonial Regiment. While he was away on military duty, a militia group referred to as Tories, those American colonists loyal to the King of England, stormed the Hightower homestead and burst into my ancient grandmother’s house.

Following is an account I have written based on the events of that evening:

Susannah had been helping her son, John, with a particularly long word from his reader, and content that he had mastered one page and moved on to the next, she sat down in her rocking chair by the fire.

Suddenly the front wooden door flew open. Even in the midst of this terrible war, custom won out and she had forgotten to lock the door. Standing before her were eight heavily armed men, wearing an all-too familiar, but hated uniform. Susannah screamed for the children to run to the cellar. She realized that this rude intrusion was certainly no courtesy call.

Grandmother Hightower immediately recognized the leader of this band of traitors to the cause of independence. Bill Cunningham was an unusually handsome man, but known far and wide for his viciousness and unyielding retribution. It was not for no reason he had been nicknamed “Bloody Bill,” a name he apparently relished.

When the major addressed her by name, Susannah felt a shiver creep slowly up her spine, and she felt faint.

“Mrs. Hightower. You needn’t be afraid. We’re not here to hurt you. Answer a question, and we’ll be on our way, and leave you and your children alone.”

Somehow Susannah doubted the sincerity of his words.

“I know your husband has joined that vagabond band of misfits who are determined to put an end to everything we hold dear in these colonies. Well, Ma’am, we’re not going to let that happen.”

My grandmother started to speak,

“Sir, I protest…”

Bloody Bill cut her off.

“You’re not in the position to protest anything. Sit back down… NOW!”

My brave, but equally wise grandmother dropped into the rocking chair, suddenly feeling as weak as water.

“There now. That’s good. May I call you, Susannah?”

And without waiting for a reply, he continued.

“Susannah, I need you to answer me one question. Where’s your husband?”

And contrary to his earlier promise, he asked another question.

“Cat got your tongue? Where’s your husband, and who is his commanding officer?”

Susannah cleared her throat and fear registered in her voice.

“Sir, I know who you are. And I know you’re up to no good. I have no intention whatsoever, in telling you where my husband is.”

Bloody Bill’s contemptuous smile now turned downwards in a frown, and then a scowl. He would not be manipulated by the likes of a frail, little woman.

“One more chance, ma dear… if you want to live.”

Susannah realized the stakes of this not so pleasant game, and she steeled herself for the inevitable.

In a voice just above a whisper, and with tears stinging her eyes now, she sealed her fate.

“I cannot… I cannot bring myself to tell you. I have been true to my husband these twenty years. I am not about to betray him now. Do what you want, but you’ll get no answer from me.”

Well, my friends. I would like to tell you that Bloody Bill Cunningham marched right out of there, and took his band of “n’er do wells” with him… He didn’t. Turning to his chief lieutenant, he screamed,

“I’ll have none of this. No Sir, I will not. Lieutenant Morrison, kill her! Do it now!”

A look of utter amazement possessed the officer. He reached for his sword, but his hand seemed frozen in mid-air. Bloody Bill was not used to having his orders delayed, and he jerked Morrison’s sword out of the scabbard, and raised it high above his head.

My ancient grandmother had only enough time to utter the few last words she would ever speak on this side of eternity. With arms wrapped tightly about herself, she closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

“God forgive you, Bloody Bill. Dear Lord receive my spirit.”

…And the deed was done.

And I hasten to remind you that this is but one story among multiplied thousands of similar stories, which include the ancestors of those assembled here today, and which have followed us throughout all our nation’s wars.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

DO THE NEXT THING

by Elisabeth Elliot

Edited by William McDonald, PhD

*Elisabeth Elliot was the wife of missionary Jim Elliot who, along with four other missionaries, was killed by the Auca Indians of Ecuador in the mid-20th Century. After the massacre Ms. Elliot managed to go into the Auca village, take up residence there, and win virtually all the Indians to the Lord Jesus Christ!

This article was written about her experiences shortly after her husband's murder, and before she and her little daughter began living with the tribe which killed her husband.

When I went back to my jungle station after the death of my first husband, Jim Elliot, I was faced with many confusions and uncertainties. I had a good many new roles, besides that of being a single parent and a widow. I was alone on a jungle station that Jim and I had manned together. I had to learn to do all kinds of things, which I was not trained or prepared in any way to do. It was a great help to me simply to do the next thing.

Have you had the experience of feeling as if you’ve got far too many burdens to bear, far too many people to take care of, far too many things on your list to do? You just can’t possibly do it, and you get in a panic and you just want to sit down and collapse in a pile and feel sorry for yourself.

Well, I’ve felt that way a good many times in my life, and I go back over and over again to an old Saxon legend, which I’m told is carved in an old English parsonage somewhere by the sea. I don’t know where this is. But this is a poem which was written about that legend. The legend is “Do the Next Thing.” And it’s spelled in what I suppose is Saxon spelling. “D-O-E” for “do,” “the,” and then next - “N-E-X-T,” “Thing”-“T-H-Y-N-G-E.”

The poem says, “Do it immediately, do it with prayer, do it reliantly, casting all care. Do it with reverence, tracing His hand who placed it before thee with earnest command. Stayed on omnipotence, safe ‘neath His wing, leave all resultings, do the next thing.” That is a wonderfully saving truth. Just do the next thing.

So, I went back to my station, took my ten-month-old baby, tried to take each duty quietly as the will of God for the moment. One of the very first duties that faced me was what in the world I was going to do about the church. We had 50 newly baptized believers, Christians, who a year before had not been Christians. Jim Elliot had been teaching them daily and preaching on Sundays. Jim Elliot was not there anymore. There was no other male missionary.

Now, I happen to be a very firm believer in men taking the leadership in church. I believe that God has clearly defined the positions of authority in both the home and the church as belonging to men. So, whether you agree with me on that or not, let me just say that I get my ideas from the Scriptures and that’s where I had to start when I got back to my little jungle station. I was not going to run that church. But, I was literally the only person around who had the Scriptures. There was nobody else that could teach those believers. So, what was I to do?

One of the last things that Jim had said to me when I said to him before he left, “What will I do if you don’t come back?” was “You must teach the believers.” So, I took two of the young men that Jim had picked out as potential leaders in the church. I explained to them that it was not my job to be the head of the church. It was their job to take responsibility. I said, “I’m here to help you.”

So, on Saturday afternoon, each week after that time, I would call one or the other of these men to my house. We would sit down together, translate a few simple verses from Spanish and Greek and English, and whatever else I could draw on into Quichua. Then, these men would get up and preach the sermon, which I had helped them make an outline for. I would draw out of them their own understanding of the Scriptures and try to get them to give me some illustrations from their jungle experience.

They would get up and preach a not very good sermon. I could have done a better job. But I felt that it was not my job to take over the church simply because I was competent to do it. It was my job to encourage these men, so that they would become competent.

Then there was the question of a diesel motor. What did I know about diesel generators? We had one for electricity, which we used sometimes in the evenings for a couple of hours. So, I had to figure out how to run the diesel motor. I had to figure out how to keep the airstrip clean. I had to pay about 40 Indians swinging machetes to do that, which made me their foreman. I’d never been anybody’s foreman before.

I was teaching a women’s literacy class. We had a boy’s school taught by an Ecuadorian teacher that I had to sort of supervise, and encourage, and pay, and do various things that I was not used to doing. I had the medical work. I had the translation of the Book of Luke, which Jim and I had finished only in rough draft when he was killed. I was going to carry on with that, because, as I said, there were no Scriptures in Quichua. If the church was to grow, they had to have spiritual food. So, I went ahead with the translation of Luke.

The grass in the jungle grows unbelievably fast, so I was always having to hire people to cut the grass, to clean out the pineapple bed, to cut the branches away from the trail between my house and the airstrip. And I tried to decide what to do about a hydro-electric system that Jim had just begun to put in. I didn’t know whether I should try to finish that or forget it.

You can imagine how tempted I was to just plunk myself down and say, “There is no way I can do this.” I wanted to sink into despair and helplessness. Then I remembered that old Saxon legend, “Doe the Next Thynge.” (Do the next thing).

I remembered a verse that God had given to me before I went to Ecuador in Isaiah 50:7: “The Lord God will help me. Therefore, shall I not be confounded. Therefore, have I set my face like a flint and I know that I shall not be ashamed.”

What is the next thing for you to do? Small duties, perhaps? Jobs that nobody will notice as long as you do them? A dirty job that you would get out of, if you could have your own preferences? Are you asked to take some great responsibility, which you really don’t feel qualified to do? You don’t have to do the whole thing right this minute, do you? I can tell you one thing that you do have to do right this minute. It’s the one thing that is required of all of us every minute of every day. Trust in the living God.

Now, what is the next thing? Well, perhaps it’s to get yourself organized. Maybe you need to clean off your desk, if you have a desk job that needs to be done. Maybe you need to clean out your kitchen drawers, if you’re going to do your kitchen work more efficiently. Maybe you need to organize the children’s clothes.

I know what an enormous job that is for Valerie, my daughter. All of a sudden, the children are coming out saying, “I can’t wear this. This is too short, or this is too long, or this doesn’t fit me anymore.” What do you do with those things? If you’re going to save them for the next child, you’ve got to put them somewhere where you can find them. So, you just do that one thing. Somehow or other, the peace of God descends upon us when we take things calmly, peacefully and humbly, as the next thing that God has assigned us to do.

About three years ago, I think it was, my daughter and her husband were going away for a weekend and taking with them the nursing baby. The baby was just a few weeks or months old. Val and Walt decided to go off for a weekend. They asked me if I could stay with the other children. I was delighted. I live on the other side of the continent from my children and grandchildren, and I was delighted for the opportunity.

So, I stayed with them. In the first day, I don’t remember ever being so busy in my life. I mean, it was “Granny this” and “Granny that” and “Granny, will you read us a story?” and “Granny, can we have some more juice?” and “Granny, would you pull my pants up?” “Granny, would you pull my pants down?” “Granny, can we have some juice?” “Granny, can we go outside?” “Granny, what time is supper?” Until I really thought I would go mad.

Well, my dear sweet daughter had the good sense to call me that evening. She said, “Well, Mama, how are you doing?” I said, “Wonderfully, Val.” And then I said, “But I’m not sure I can make it through the next three days.” Then I assured her that her children were wonderful children. They’re not disobedient. They’re not unruly. Everything was going along really very well, when you think of the way some households are run. But I said, “I keep thinking, ‘Valerie’s got a baby to nurse. That takes about six hours a day. How does she do it?’ So, tell me, Val, how do you do it?”

She laughed and she said, “Well, Mama, I’ll tell you how. I do what you told me years ago to do. Do the next thing. Don’t sit down and think of all the things you have to do. That will kill you. It’s overwhelming. It’s daunting if you think of all the things that are involved in a task. Just pick up the next thing.”

I find this even in the Scriptures. Tucked in the back of the Book of Mark, following the story of the Crucifixion, we read this lovely little story. Mark 15:42: “By this time, evening had come. And as it was preparation day (that is, the day before the Sabbath), Joseph of Arimathea, a respected member of the Council, a man who looked forward to the kingdom of God, bravely went into Pilate, and asked for the body of Jesus. Pilate was surprised to hear that He was already dead, so he sent for the centurion and asked him whether it was long since He died. When he heard the centurion’s report, he gave Joseph leave to take the dead body. So, Joseph bought a linen sheet, took Him down from the cross, wrapped Him in the sheet and laid Him in a tomb cut out of the rock, and rolled a stone against the entrance.”

Can’t you imagine the disciples and Mary and Martha, and the other bewildered women, sitting in absolute dejection and perplexity when their Lord and Master and King had just died?

They couldn’t think of one single thing to do. Here came this godly man, who looked forward to the Kingdom of God, who bravely went in and asked for the body of Jesus. He could think of one thing to do. He did the next thing.

That must have been a tremendous cheer and encouragement to those discouraged people.”

My friends, do the next thing.

A LITTLE BOY & A BIG ROLLER COASTER

Having been a participant in the story I’m about to share with you, and having come away from it alive, at that time in my life I might have admonished anyone who would listen,

…“if this is all there is to family fun, you need to avoid it at all costs!”

For on a given day, month and year, my dad and mom packed me into the family automobile, (I can’t tell you the make or model this far along) and off we went. Had I any inkling what “lay in wait” for me, I would have definitely avoided that excursion in favor of something a bit more mundane.

I can imagine my response when my mother made me aware of the “golden opportunity” which lay ahead of me that day.

“Mommie, where we be goin? Daddy plomised me a I-creme cone, if I be good.”

To which she may have replied.

“Yes, he told me. We’ll pick it up on our way home, Royce… if you’re good. But if you’re not, then…”

Well, I guess we drove 5-6 miles, and pulled into a busy parking lot. I looked around, and then upward. We were surrounded by tall buildings, and I could smell the salt air. It turns out daddy had laid a roof on one of these massive structures, and had discovered a little known attraction; at least little known in our little corner of the world.

“Royce,” daddy spoke. “We’re gonna do something super fun today. Look up at the top of that building,” (and I followed his finger to the sky.)

“Son, watch this.”

I strained to see what my dad was referring to. Suddenly I saw it. A flash of orange and green color moving like a swift caterpillar along the edge of the roof. And then it was gone, but the noisy clatter continued and cut the surrounding air like a razor. Daddy told me to keep watching, and again a speeding flash of color, and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished again.

My father’s voice was tinged with expectation and a bit of humor.

“Well, my boy. Do I have a surprise for you today!”

Judging from the speed of the whatchamacallit and its proximity to the edge of the roof, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be surprised.

I’m sure I looked at my mother, and no doubt, her face wore an anxious, “I don’t know how smart this is, but I guess we’ll give it a whirl” sort of expression.

As we closed in on the building, I could no longer see IT, but the sound of the machine grew louder with each step. Now we found ourselves in what I later learned was a revolving door, which brought us face to face with the ground floor of a vast department store, filled with everything from blue jeans to light bulbs to pogo sticks. While my attention was diverted, (I may well have been looking at the latter of the three afore mentioned items) my dad navigated his small family up to a set of two massive double doors.

Suddenly, I heard a thump that seemed to shake the floor beneath my feet. I think I felt it more than I heard it, and the vibration startled me. Then the large metal doors parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

I was so transfixed by it all that my mom almost dragged me into the elevator. This was a first for me, but considering my tender age, almost everything was a first for me. And as I soon discovered, the “firsts” for that day were far from over.

I recall a feeling of being suspended in mid-air as the elevator lifted off, and I found myself holding onto my mother’s left knee for dear life. As I glanced up at my dad, it seemed he was a veteran of this little floating room with no furniture. As a matter of fact, a mischievous smile played about his lips, and somehow this comforted me. I turned loose of my mom’s knee, and as much as a four year old can manage it, I tried to act nonchalant. But I could only wonder what terrible surprise awaited me on the roof top.

The buttons on the control panel were labeled 1-14, and when we drew to a stop, I noticed there was a circular pattern of green light around button #14. Mama had been teaching me to count, and I realized there was no #13. I vowed to ask her about the absence of this number later.

The elevator “stopped with a start” and the doors parted again. My parents and I stepped out, and I was surprised to find we seemed to be in the midst of a garden center. Rakes, and sprinklers and work gloves filled bins of all shapes and sizes. And then I noticed the sound, the same sound I’d heard outside the building, but now it was almost overpowering. And if sound can be perceived as a circular motion, these acoustic vibrations had such an impact on me.

Mama allowed daddy to lead the way, since he had first told her about this place. It seems my dad had come home all excited talking about this cool ride on the roof of the Webb City Building. It was only years later that I learned the details.

Daddy led us to an open doorway, and as I stood directly in front of it, I noticed a short flight of stairs. It was about this time that mama leaned over, and considering the decibel level, almost shouted in my ear, (in a tone of voice that was anything but reassuring.)

…”Honey, I think you’re really gonna like this.”

I was led like a lamb to the slaughter up that short flight of stairs which seemed to grow progressively longer with each successive step.

And then… we were there.

As I stared in awe at the colorful, but foreboding piece of machinery, I almost mused aloud,

…“You want me to do what?”

Though my childish mind was immature and incapable of formulating such a phrase, with the passing of years I think those six words are as close as any to describing my perception of what greeted me that day.

“Royce, you’ll absolutely love it.”

“What daddy?”

I had been so transfixed with the scene before me that I hadn’t grasped what he said to me.

“Your mother and I will wait. Go ahead and get in line behind those other boys and girls.”

“You mean… all by myself, daddy?”

“Yes son. Of course.”

I hesitated a moment to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. And so I dutifully obeyed.

Even at this age I could do the math. There were seven children in front of me, and I noticed that the metal ogre was slowing to a stop. It wasn’t enough that the machine emitted creaks and groans and whistles, as it sailed along the circular track, but the boys and girls who rode that iron horse of a thing were even louder. I watched them as they stepped out of their respective cars. Smiles lit up the faces of a couple of eight or ten year olds. But without exception, the younger kids seemed as pale as ghosts, and a little girl, (she might have been 5 or 6) first stumbled, and then “lost her cookies” on the boarding platform.

The attendant could only shake his head and groan. I felt something welling up inside of me, and I was close to emulating the behavior of the little girl. The seven of us, who had previously formed a perfectly straight line, had by now backed into a cluster. Had Mr. Nielsen been there that day, his rating would, no doubt, have revealed an utter contempt for this mechanical beast, and a very strong desire in all our hearts to simply… go home.

Now the attendant was mopping up the mess with a mop and bucket. I turned around so I didn’t have to watch the least favorite part of his less than professional vocation.  And I noticed my daddy and mama were watching me from the sidelines.

Henry McDonald’s son wasn’t about to chicken out at such a God-awful moment. No way, Jose. I didn’t have to ask. I knew what the answer would be. And as much as everything inside of me screamed for a way out,

… I knew it didn’t exist.

Then I did something that I would soon live to regret. As the young fella was putting away his mop and bucket, I stepped up into the number one boarding position, (but only three of the original seven children stepped up behind me.) I turned to look, and it was then I noticed two girls and one boy walking towards the staircase; hand in hand with their mothers and fathers.

But I had made my choice, if indeed a choice existed, and as the frustrated attendant opened the door of a brightly painted car… I stepped in and sat down. The young man buckled my seat belt and pulled it tight around my waist. I was committed, come hell or high water.

…(At least it was a good theory.)

The metal monster picked up some momentum now, and my parents’ faces whizzed past at dizzying speed. I felt that old familiar queasyness in my belly and rising up in my throat. Someone nearby was screaming loudly!

And then I realized that someone

… was me!

I was on the back of a raging tiger. I was riding the crest of a hurricane-driven wave. I was a hapless bowling pin in the hands of a giant juggler.

Somehow I caught the eye of my mother, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed over to the little booth where the attendant sat with his hands on the controls. And as my vehicle completed yet another circle, I added words to my previously unintelligible tirade,

“Mommy. Mommy. Help me. I want off. Now!”

Suddenly, the forward motion of my vehicle slowed, and I dared to believe that I had been granted a reprieve from certain death. My agony abated and it seemed my salvation drew near.

As the car slowed to a stop I remember looking over at my dad. He was still standing in his original spot near the staircase; looking slightly embarrassed. How could a son of his, no matter how young, sacrifice an opportunity to prove his fearlessness, and wrest victory from defeat?

(Well, perhaps the foregoing implication is reading a bit too much into the scenario. But nonetheless, daddy didn’t appear to be a “happy camper.”)

No one had to beg me to get off the THING. I found myself helping the guy as he fumbled with my seat beat. I couldn’t get back on terra firma fast enough. I must have felt rather like the military veteran returning from combat duty, (though I wasn’t savvy enough at the time to bend over and kiss the ground.)

For the moment no one was in line to ride, and the hideous sound of metal against metal had been stilled. Suffice it to say, I made a quick departure from “the scene of the crime.”

I think my dad was smart enough not to verbalize what he might have considered cowardice. After all, I had my mother to defend me. And she had cooperated in my unexpected pardon from the throes of a fate worse than death; (or so it seemed at the time.)

I never returned to that place, with or without my parents. At this juncture in life, the attendant would be my parents’ age, and my fellow patrons would, like me, be living out their early golden years. Amazing, how quickly six decades can fall through the sandy hourglass of time.

But I can assure you those two minutes that I “rode the whirlwind” impacted me far beyond their comparative brevity in terms of the expenditure of time.

For as a rule, I simply do not

… ride ROLLERCOASTERS.

Don’t, Won’t, Can’t, Shan’t, Nada

I am altogether cognizant that the rollercoaster on the rooftop was a pitifully small affair, and in the scheme of things no more than a kiddy ride. But they say everything is relative, and at least to me, I would have sooner climbed Mount Everest than finish the ride that day. And to be fair, that tiny piece of equipment could not have climbed much higher than a man’s head, nor shadowed a piece of ground much larger than half a tennis court.

And I have stood below some rather substantial coasters, and marveled at their width and height and length and breath. And I have wondered whether I could strap myself into one of those contraptions again; if my very life depended on it. (And it is amazing for me to consider how ten and twelve year old children find the wherewithal to ride such awesomely larger versions of the tiny machine I rode so long ago. It is beyond my comprehension.)

Well, I am pleased to report that on such and such a day, perhaps six or eight years ago, I summoned up whatever one finds to summon up, and for at least the space of a few moments, I conquered those old, enduring fears which had limited me, and held me back in ways too numerous to count.

My wife and I live near the now defunct Cypress Gardens. There on the grounds of this famous tourist attraction sat two ancient torture devices, (or so it has ALWAYS seemed to me.) Jean suggested I conquer my age-old fears, and step into a line of perhaps twenty people waiting to board the smaller of the two “torture chambers.”

But there was nothing remotely small about this one. Oh, of course it was a “David” compared to the “Goliaths” I have seen in some theme parks, but it was still plenty big; easily thirty feet from ground to crest, and covering the space of almost half a football field.

I admit standing there, waiting to board, I sensed a sure and abiding kinship with that small, familiar boy who once stood in a line, not unlike this one, so many years hence. And as my wife, in essence, assumed the role of my parents, it was all so fresh, and new, and present again.

And perhaps in some not so explainable way, that little tyke, from a bygone era, stood with me, and once again abject terror filled his tear-filled eyes. And in some mysterious, but not so impossible manner he placed his hand in mine, and we steeled ourselves for a mission that neither of us had the wherewithal to complete

… alone.

Hand in hand we sat down together, and allowed a young attendant, (who looked remarkably like the one who had long since grown old) to buckle us in. And as our personal little “time machine” gained momentum, and we approached the steep incline of its first loop, I think that tiny, mirror-image of myself envisioned an opportunity where he might complete that which he had once begun.

And I think the older, heavier, balder version of that little man cast his thoughts backwards to a time and place when he had summoned up all that was good, and true, and brave about himself, when he took his place at the front of the line.

And as our colorful, little vehicle mounted the first, yet highest crest of that small-gauged track, and proceeded to drop into oblivion, I thought I felt the tender grasp of a tiny hand in mine, and somehow the boy compelled me to join him, and so we lifted our arms in unison.

And as my wife looked on, and as the coaster navigated first one loop and yet another ebb, I closed my eyes and contained a silent scream. And when I thought I heard a muted sound beside me, I turned… and he rewarded me with a smile.

Time elapsing. Slowing now.

… Mission completed.

The friendly, young attendant unbuckles our seatbelt, and allows us to step out. My wife waves, and doubles her hands above her head, as if to say,

“It certainly took you long enough,

… but you did it!”

And for the briefest moment I think I see him again, and his little hand slips from my grasp, and he steps away. And with his fading presence, I think I hear a voice, a familiar voice, but young and vibrant once again.

“See. I told you that you could do it.

… Now, let’s go home.”

By William McDonald, PhD. From "A Life (Not So) Well Lived." Copyright pending

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MY WIFE IS RADIOACTIVE

My wife is radioactive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pt. 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pt. 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pt. 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…33 installments of radiation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can only guess why.

My Radioactive Wife

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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