Friday, May 31, 2019

A CHANCE MEETING ON AN ELEVATOR IN GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

My wife and I enjoyed the vacation of a lifetime last year. We had often wanted to visit Scotland and Ireland, and were determined to do so by our 70th birthdays. And true to our intentions, we just managed to do so 'by a whisker.'

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it 'over there'). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." And recognizing my accent he said, "Are you an American?" And I evidently responded in the affirmative. (I could not be sure, and I did not ask, but based on the stranger's own peculiar accent, I surmised he was probably a native of this country).

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the Second World War, my short-term acquaintance mused,

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2018

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REMEMBERING THAT DAY - The 75th Anniversary of D-Day


A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

Viewed from above the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of stark white stone crosses stand, and where once the jackboot tread, and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will defy the enemy.”

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits, and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The elder of the two responds, “Many, most…I don’t know.” A tear forms in the younger man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m coming home when this is over.”

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats, and landing craft of every description; bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like, Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others having escaped certain death flounder in deep water now; their packs and ammo weighing them down. Calling, crying for help they beg the crews of other landing craft for rescue. But more often, than not they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. And as they perish, anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch; those unable to respond.

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And ere the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete.

And the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and the waiting terrain offers them different fates. For some crash violently against cliffs, and trees and earth, and all onboard are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least; a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

And oh, the engineers. There is none like them. For they begin to climb; treacherous enough without added difficulties. And they are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

And some come again. To walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark, stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

For we are come to the anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day which is still living, and vibrant and new in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiney-eyed troop who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands in his own hourglass.

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have hugged mother Earth, after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again; never more to rise.

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. And though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming floods of water, their crosses stand sentinel, just above the bluffs; just beyond the field of their labor.

They gave their tomorrows for our todays.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2010

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Thursday, May 30, 2019

PAUL, THE APOSTLE - His Testimony & Works


In the meantime, we boarded the ship and set sail for Assos with the intention of meeting Paul, since this was his expectation of us, and since he planned to take the land route. When our ship sailed into the harbor at Assos, Paul boarded it and we sailed to Mitylene. We left from Mitylene the next day, and reached the port of Chios. 

The following morning, we sailed for Samos, and the day after this we sailed into Miletus. Paul had decided not to visit Ephesus, as he hoped to spend very little time in Asia.  He assumed he would be in Jerusalem to celebrate the Day of Pentecost.

When the apostle reached Miletus, Paul forwarded a message to Ephesus, and asked to meet with the elders of the fledging new church.


And when they met together in Miletus, he spoke to them in this manner:

"No doubt, you know how I have lived, and served among you from the time I first ministered in Asia. You know how I have faithfully and humbly followed the Lord Jesus. And you are well aware of my tears, which resulted from the trials, turmoil and testing which I have experienced, and the vile plots of our Jewish elders. 

You know that I have never withheld any good thing from you, and that I have liberally shared the Gospel message with you, both in public and private. I have pled with Jews and Gentiles, alike to repent, and exercise faith towards God. And as I stand here before you, the Spirit of God has compelled me to ‘set my face like a flint,’ and travel to Jerusalem.


“I have no idea what may occur with me there. However, the blessed Holy Spirit has warned me that incarceration, and physical violence will visit me in every city and province. Honestly, my life is inestimably less valuable than the mission which God has assigned to me. I simply wish to reach the end of the pathway which our Lord has laid out before me, and adequately fulfill my ministry, which is to declare the grace and free gift of God in Jesus Christ.


“And I am sure that none of you who sit in my presence today, and who have heard me preach the Gospel will ever see me again. And I am sincere when I say that my heart and spirit are blameless towards you. For I have always faithfully taught, and admonished you to accomplish the whole will of God.


“Now, be careful that you maintain a blameless conscience, and care for those who the Holy Spirit has set in your pathway, and for whom He has made you responsible. You are the shepherds and stewards of the Church of God, which He purchased with His very blood. 


“I am all too aware that after I go on to my reward that evil beasts will infiltrate the Church, and they will take advantage of the flock. I am convinced that deceitful men will come in among you who tell lies disguised as truth, and they will entice you to become members of their personal flock. As a result, I must encourage you to remain vigilant. Remember that over the course of three years, I admonished you. (And I now speak to you with tears in my eyes).


“I commit you to the Lord, and to His message of grace which has the wherewithal to strengthen you, and provide you your own place among the faithful. You know that I have never been jealous of anyone’s gold or silver or possessions. And you are all too aware that I have worked with my own hands that I would not have to depend on you.” (And perhaps Paul extended his hands towards them at this point in his monologue). 


“At all times I have served as a model to you, and I have shown you by my unselfish efforts that you should always assist the weak and needy among your number, and you should call to mind the Words of our Lord Jesus Christ when He said, 'It is so much better to give, than to receive.’"


With these words, Paul knelt down with the brothers, and they prayed together. Now, all of the brethren were weeping, they embraced the apostle, and they kissed his face. What upset them most, and caused them the most anxiety were his words, 


“You will never see me again.”


 And at this point, they walked with the Apostle Paul to the ship.

Excerpt from The Book of Acts, Chapter 20, 
"The New Testament, McDonald Paraphrase. Copyright 2018
(Please disregard spacing. It is a website issue)


Monday, May 27, 2019

A WIFE AND MOTHER WHO GAVE THE LAST FULL MEASURE DURING THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION


My quadruple Great Grandparents Thomas and Susanna (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:

Susanna 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. Susanna 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, Susanna 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 Susanna 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, Susanna?”

And without waiting for a reply, he continued.

“Susanna, 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?”

Susanna 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.”

Susanna 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.

May God hold my dear ancient grandmother in the hollow of His loving arms.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2017

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AN UNBROKEN CHAIN

As a Christian counselor and mentor I speak about Heritage, Destiny and Legacy. 

We receive a Heritage. We fulfill a Destiny. We leave a Legacy. The Legacy we leave becomes the next person's Heritage. Full circle. We "stand on the shoulders of giants" and are part of an unbroken chain of spiritual fathers and mothers, grandfathers and grandmothers who stretch all the way back to the original disciples, and to Jesus, Himself. 

They are depending on us to bless, help, encourage, and impact the next generation. We have a spiritual obligation to serve as a strong and dependable link in the chain. 

I think about this on a daily basis, and I do not intend to fail in my duties.

Sunday, May 26, 2019

THEIR TOMORROWS. OUR TODAYS


My scriptural text for today is short and sweet. Please turn with me to John Chapter 15, Verse 13.

“Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

Of course, Jesus was referring to Himself when He spoke these words, and His ultimate mission to die for about a hundred billion sinners who had already lived before He came, or who were not yet born, or who are yet to be born on the earth.

And while Jesus was speaking about Himself when He said, “Greater love hath no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends,” this is by far the most-used verse in sermons related to our military men and women, and their sacrifices on behalf of our nation.

Memorial Day has been set aside by this country to commemorate those soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines who gave the last full measure of devotion in America’s wars; wars such as The American Revolution, The War of 1812, The Indian Wars, The Civil War, The Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, The Korean War, The Vietnam Conflict, The Persian Gulf War, and The War on Terrorism.

America does not forget its warriors. There are countless statues and memorials in every one of our fifty states which commemorate the men and women who gave their tomorrows for our todays; they who gave the last full measure of devotion. I personally have two cousins who are inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C.

If you don’t mind me interjecting a personal pet peeve here. The current effort to deface or dismantle the Confederate Civil War statues drives me to distraction! You may have seen the statue which stood in Munn Park in Lakeland. Well, it has just been moved to another less-prominent location. And while I cannot condone everything the Confederate government espoused, the common Southern fighting man lived and died for what he thought of as his country, and they should be honored for their sacrifices.

Be that as it may, today I would like to share a couple of stories with you about two of America’s warriors who willingly surrendered all they knew and held dear, and laid down their lives that we might enjoy life, and love and freedom in the greatest nation on earth, and live to a ripe old age. I don’t know if you ever thought of it this way, but our military men and women who died in our nation’s wars are, in essence, Christ-like figures in that they fulfilled a mission which required them to give up everything that was in them to give for a larger cause.

Allow me to temporarily expand the population for which Memorial Day was designed to memorialize. I am here to tell you that our first responders, including firemen and policemen, are equally worthy of respect, as they have often surrendered their lives for the good of those whom they were appointed to serve.

The Tampa Bay area has experienced more than its share of wrong way drivers the past few years. And I think it confounds the average driver how such a thing could possibly happen; especially on well-lit, adequately-signed thoroughfares, such as interstates and parkways.

On March 12, 2016 another tragic accident occurred on the parkway in Tampa. John Kotfila, a deputy with the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Department, responded to the incident in a virtually unprecedented manner, and his quick thinking and the actions which followed go far beyond charitable. 

The newspaper report conveys it well.

“Deputy Kotfila's final moments were spent trying to help someone else. Sarah Geren and her boyfriend were driving home from Ybor City on the Selmon Expressway Saturday morning, when she spotted the wrong way driver.



"I was flashing my lights crazily at him like a strobe light.--click click click click, because I couldn't think of any other way to say 'Stop driving at me!  Please don't hit me!'" Geren said.



But before she knew it, Deputy Kotfila, who was driving right behind her, passed her, taking the impact in the crash that ultimately killed him and the wrong way driver.”



What kind of man is this?



It occurs to me that the two word phrase, “Sacrificial Suicide” says it well, and says it all.



I can only imagine the momentary decision and emotional dynamic it took to purposely pass the would-be victims, and place one’s self “in the line of fire;” realizing that in the space of a few moments he would almost certainly be ushered into eternity.



Deputy Kotfila sacrificed his life for someone with whom he was altogether unacquainted.



And as a result, two precious young people were provided the wherewithal to continue living, and moving and breathing and loving; whereas, both would have almost certainly lost her lives that day.



His sacrifice of himself and all that lay ahead of him has impacted me in a profound manner.



May God hold this sacrificial law officer in the hollow of His loving arms, and reward him for having given the last full measure of devotion.

The next person I would like to memorialize gave the last full measure of devotion in a well-known, and admittedly controversial conflict during the second half of the 20th century. Let me share his story with you.

*   In the years since his death on a Vietnam battlefield, there have been many tributes in his memory. Sons of Marines have been named after him, so have military chapels, city streets and a Navy frigate, which has since been decommissioned. He was born last in a family of nine, his parents Italian Americans. He attended Curtis High School where he was an avid swimmer and sports enthusiast. He went on to Fordham University and Maryknoll Seminaries in Illinois, Massachusetts and New York. He was ordained a Catholic Priest in June 1957 by Cardinal Spellman, and served as a Maryknoll missionary in Taiwan and Hong Kong from 1958 to 1965.

*    

*   In December 1965, he received his commission as a Lieutenant in the Navy Chaplain Corps. While serving in this capacity with the Third Battalion, Fifth Marines, during combat with enemy forces in Quang Tri Province on September 4, 1967, he lost his life as he provided assistance and comfort to Marine casualties.

*    

*   His citation reads,

*    

*   "For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as Chaplain of the 3rd Battalion, in connection with operations against enemy forces.

*    

*   In response to reports that the 2nd Platoon of M Company was in danger of being overrun by a massed enemy assaulting force, Lt. Vincent Capodanno left the relative safety of the company command post and ran through an open area raked with fire, directly to the beleaguered platoon. Disregarding the intense enemy small-arms, automatic-weapons, and mortar fire, he moved about the battlefield administering last rites to the dying and giving medical aid to the wounded. When an exploding mortar round inflicted painful multiple wounds to his arms and legs, and severed a portion of his right hand, he steadfastly refused all medical aid. Instead, he directed the corpsmen to help their wounded comrades and, with calm vigor, continued to move about the battlefield as he provided encouragement by voice and example to the valiant marines.

*    

*   Upon encountering a wounded corpsman in the direct line of fire of an enemy machine gunner positioned approximately 15 yards away, Lt. Capodanno rushed a daring attempt to aid and assist the mortally wounded medic.

*    

*   At that instant, only inches from his goal, he was struck down by a burst of machine gun fire. By his heroic conduct on the battlefield, and his inspiring example, Lt. Capodanno upheld the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life in the cause of freedom".

*    

*   For his heroism on this occasion, he was post-humously awarded the Medal of Honor by President Richard M. Nixon. His body was recovered and returned to his hometown.



The most unlikely of Medal of Honor recipients. A chaplain. But a military man, nonetheless. You may or may not realize it, but Chaplain Capodanno could have avoided the field of battle. He could have settled in at headquarters, and just let the world go by. But he was a leader, and he would not allow his Marines to go through something he, himself, refused to experience. Chaplain Capodanno is among a small, but notable list of people whom I think of as my mentors.

You may have never thought about it, but like Chaplain Capodanno, Jesus was a military man, and a chaplain to a gang of misfits who would change the world, as they knew it. And like the hero I just described, He was not content to just stand by, and watch the battle rage, and the world to literally go to hell, but left the safety and security of heaven, and became a man, the God-man, and surrendered His life for our sins on the cross.

Never doubt it. Jesus was a soldier. Scripture tells us that Jesus will return as the captain of His Father’s armies.

In the 19th chapter of the Book of Revelation we read,

“Come and gather together for the great supper which the Lamb has prepared for you. You may eat the flesh of kings and generals, horses and their riders, and the flesh of all people, free and slave, great and small.

“I saw the beast and all the kings of the earth, and their armies gathered together to battle against the One who rides on the white horse, along with His armies. And the beast was taken prisoner, as was the false prophet who had done great signs and wonders before him.

“And with great signs and wonders he deluded those who accepted the mark of the beast, and worshiped his idol. And the beast and false prophet were cast into the fiery lake of burning sulfur.

“Now, the armies of the beast were killed with the sword which comes out of the mouth of the rider;” (and that rider is none other than Jesus Christ)!

“Greater love than no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

As believers, I think it is fitting on this Memorial Day weekend to remember the man, the God-man who first spoke these words, and who was not content to just sit back, and watch the world go to hell in a hand basket.

I have watched the Old Guard walk those sacred 21 steps at the Tomb of the Unknowns; a sacred memorial site they have guarded 24 hours a day, without so much as a moment’s pause, in sun, and rain, and snow and storm for almost a century. I have traced my finger along the inscription of a cousin’s name, among the 58,000 other names inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial Wall. I have walked the halls of the most expansive military building in the world, the Pentagon, and reminisced about the myriad of decisions which were made there, and which became life and death to several million obedient, and sacrificial soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines.

As we prepare to play our games, and eat our burgers, or frolic on the beach, let’s be careful to remember, and memorialize those who died on the beaches, and in the jungles, and deserts of the world to assure the freedoms which we too easily take for granted.



They who gave the last full measure of devotion. They gave their tomorrows for our todays.


by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2019


Thursday, May 23, 2019

REACHING THE STARS


I will never forget Andy Bos; a 90+ year old man who attended our local church, and who happened to be the great grandfather of the well-known television and movie star, Taylor Lautner; (who has just completed the popular Twilight film series).

Time would fail me to provide you an understanding of the quality and quantity of Andy’s life and spirituality. Suffice it to say that he was a wonderful man who was taken up with Jesus Christ, his Savior, and looked forward to his long-awaited home in heaven. (In the last few days of his life, it was my distinct privilege to stand by his bed, and sing a couple of hymns to him. And as I did what I could to make his final journey easier, Andy raised his frail hands and whispered, “Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”)

A year or two prior to my friend’s death, I was provided the opportunity to teach a couple of Wednesday night series at my church, and Andy was faithful to attend. It happens that all our services are taped, and Mr. Bos made me aware that he always made a point to pick up one of my teaching cd’s at the end of each of my presentations.

More than once as I was chatting with him, Andy would smile and say,

“Brother Royce, you know my grandson is the actor Taylor Lautner. I have been sending him copies of your Wednesday night messages.”

To which I, no doubt, responded,

“Well, I hope he takes time to listen to them.”

(And I truly hope he has taken time to both listen, and reflect on his eternal destiny).

On this side of heaven we will never fully realize the impact which we may, as believers, be afforded.

Only eternity will tell the tale.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending
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MRS. OLESON IS (WELL, WAS) STILL ALIVE AND WELL IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA


(This blog was written some time ago. Katherine MacGregor passed away last year)
From my perspective, Katherine MacGregor of “Little House on the Prairie” is one of the two or three greatest supporting actors of all time; (including, of course, Don Knotts of “The Andy Griffith Show” fame).

“Mrs. Oleson” is, at different times, endearing and maddening, hilarious and despicable, conniving and manipulative. And Katherine plays the part “to a T.” (One may witness a pale comparison of her singular abilities in the similar role of “Mrs. Godsey,” actor’s name omitted here, on “The Waltons.”)

Little could I have known when the series originally aired in the 70’s, and when I viewed reruns in the first decade of the new century, that I would ultimately experience the privilege of “meeting” the 1880’s television storekeeper. Well, to be fair, I never met her face to face, but rather…

I discovered Katherine MacGregor’s mailing address, her actual residence to be sure, on the webpage of her television daughter, “Nellie.” And on this site Alison Arngrim claimed that Ms. MacGregor enjoyed receiving fan mail, and attempted to answer any and all correspondence which she received. As a result, I decided to write the (now) 90 year old actress, and make her aware that among millions of viewers, past and present, she was finally reading a letter from her biggest fan in this, or any other universe.

I told her what a great actress I considered her to be, I mentioned the existence of a Wikipedia page in her name, and relayed a message from a distant cousin who claimed to have known her, and whom she assisted in a little theater stage play.

And true to “Nellie’s” assurances, two or three weeks later I received a letter with the unfamiliar “Katherine MacGregor” and a California address in the upper left hand corner. And then the unfamiliar became all too familiar.

“Mrs. Oleson,” of course!

I lost no time ripping open the letter, and began reading.

Not only had “Harriet” returned my original letter, but she had responded with a half page of cursive beneath my signature, and also filled up the entire back of the page with her handwriting. She thanked me for my stated appreciation of her acting skills in the old television series, disclaimed knowing anything about Wikipedia, but found my description of one of my edits on the Katherine MacGregor page humorous. And she denied knowing my distant relative.

(Interestingly enough, my cousin is a former Hindu, and it seems Katherine is also a Hindu; in spite of her church attendance on the Little House series. “Ruby” had told me that, at one time, she and “Mrs. Oleson” had been members of the same Hindu sect, and that the great supporting actress had, as I previously alluded, come along side my cousin on some local stage production in the area).

And tucked inside the envelope was, as “Nellie” had inferred there might be, a noticeably aromatic slip of paper with her own hand-drawn cartoonish caricature of herself; along with Katherine’s scribble, “A Touch of Perfume!”

And what began with one letter sent, and one received metamorphosed into a short-lived pen pal relationship. (However, the subsequent interaction between Katherine and I was, at this point, a matter of her own initiative and interest, and not my own). And the content of the two or three follow up letters was all about discovering whom my distant relative, (who had claimed to know her) was, and in the meanwhile denying any acquaintance at all with her.

After several letters promoting this vein of thought, including one addressed to my cousin, the retired actress ultimately wrote,

“Dr. McDonald, I’m too old, and too involved with my other admirers to continue corresponding with you as I have. This will have to be my last letter.”

And of course, I thought,

“Well, my dear, you’re the one who has insisted on writing and mailing these copious and extensive letters, not I.”

I sometimes pull out my old scrapbook and re-read the dear lady’s letters. And based on Ms. MacGregor’s words, tone and apparent personality, I can safely say her portrayal of the prairie storekeeper seems just about right.

“Mrs. Oleson” is still alive and well in southern California.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending
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AN IMPROMPTU CONVERSATION WITH BILLY GRAHAM'S DAUGHTER


Several years ago, my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such speakers as Damaris Carbaugh, and the mother of Ellen Degeneres’ former girlfriend, (who was decidedly against the gay agenda), and of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.
Well, for anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.
Apparently, one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the, well, schedule.
It can safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the auditorium I found myself completely
… alone.
And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 3rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank. Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).
At any rate, as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you guessed it)
… Ruth Graham.
Ruth, (if I may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,
“I’ll be right back!”
As I recall, I sheepishly responded with,
“Uh, Okay.”
The well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known, except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.
Interacting at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if we were acquainted.
I refer to such scenarios as
“creating memories.”
And though, if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,
… I never will.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending
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BELIEVING IN THE MAN IN THE SKY


A very touching excerpt from Red & Pat's book. Hopefully this book will be published soon. But until then, here is a moving excerpt from the Original Memphis Mafia member:


“One day I walked into the living room in the house we were renting. Nobody else was around and Elvis was sitting in there alone, quiet and staring at the floor. I told him he looked like he'd had a rough day and asked if everything was all right.



“He looked up at me and said, 'Red, I reached the top, man. I had it made and suddenly it was snatched away. I was drafted into the Army, then my mother dies while I'm in boot camp and I'm shipped to Germany and my father is involved with a sergeant's wife while the man's away on duty freezing his butt off. I'm sick of this crap. I'm here and my career is finished. It's hard to handle.’



“I knew exactly what he meant. Just months before, my father had died the same day that Gladys Presley died, and Elvis and I mourned together. We didn't know what Colonel Parker's plans were except to keep Elvis from performing during the enlistment. Things looked bleak. I told him, 'Elvis, one of your favorite gospel songs is 'I Believe in the Man in the Sky'. It says, 'I believe with His help that I'll get by'. Think about that song and know that everything's going to work out as long as you believe. This is just a slight detour.’



“Elvis thought about that and then got up and went to the piano and played that song. I sat in the corner of the room, overcome by emotion, and I couldn't say another word. But after Elvis did that song, we both felt, somehow, that things would work out all right.’”

(Red West)

Saturday, May 18, 2019

CROSSING A BUSY HIGHWAY


As my wife and I were nearing home, I looked to my left from my place behind the wheel, and saw the poor, unfortunate thing lying in the median. A large grey dog. Apparently dead.

As I navigated the last couple hundred yards, I had already decided to let my wife off, to retrieve a shovel, and drive back “to the scene of the crime.” I simply would not leave that poor pooch to the ‘elements.’ (I’m sure I needn’t go into detail here).

I was forced to park alongside a small housing development about a hundred yards from where the hapless animal lay, to walk along the sidewalk, and across two of the four lanes of traffic.

As I reached the animal it was obvious that he had managed to get halfway across the busy highway, and had apparently been clipped by a vehicle; just as he reached the median. Close, but not close enough. However, there were absolutely no signs of trauma, or blood on his body. At least not on the one side of his anatomy.

As I proceeded to dig a hole, just feet away from the left lane of traffic, a car pulled over into the median strip, a man stepped from the driver’s side of the vehicle, and walked back to where I was engaged in my labor.

He was a tall black man, and he spoke with a Haitian accent.

“Hello bro! You must have had the same thought I did. I saw the big critter laying there, and thought I would see if he was injured.”

I assured Louis that no, he was, regrettably, very dead, indeed.

Pt. 2

With this, I remarked that the hapless hound looked like he might have possessed a rather genial personality in life. And we both indicated how close we were to our respective homes. After talking for a couple of minutes, I told Louis that I would finish the task, but, “I’m gonna let you bury the next one that dies on this stretch of road.” We both laughed, (though I’m doubtful our furry friend would have found it very funny). And just before the young man took his leave, I said,

“Louis, I’m a Christian, and I have read in scripture about the presence of animals in heaven. I believe I will see this big grey guy in heaven one day.”

With this, the tall fellow shook my hand, and walked back to his car. In the meantime, I continued with the task at hand, and managed to dig down about two and a half feet; before striking much harder soil and some rocks. Not exactly the standard six feet, nor anywhere close, but I supposed it would have to do. Now to get on with moving the body.

As much as I pitied the poor thing, and though he hadn’t been dead for more than half a day, the ‘aroma’ was already strengthening, and I was not about to touch his already decaying flesh. (I was, frankly, surprised that the buzzards had not yet convened to do the work for which they are so well known).

Having done the best I could, I placed the point of the shovel under the rapidly-stiffening body of my furry friend, and attempted to transfer him into his shallow grave. I discovered he was heavier than I thought, and had to “put my back into it.” Now, the ole boy was moving towards his final destination. And now he lay on top of the large black neoprene bag that I had spread in the bottom of his shallow grave.

Pt. 3

At this point I spoke to the furry critter.

“Hey boy. I’m sorry you didn’t have the chance to live out the remainder of your life, but I’m gonna do the next best thing for you. I claim you for God and heaven, and I will plan to see you there one day.”

Bending over, I picked up three white plastic garbage bags, and prepared to spread them over the poor pooch’s body. And now I began to shovel the earth over the large grey beast. I had to be careful digging the grave, and covering it back up since I was so close to the rapidly approaching cars. And I could only wonder what some of these folks thought I was burying on the median of the road, (and whether anyone might conceivably call 911, and report a suspicious old man in the process of shoveling dirt into a hole in the middle of a busy highway).

Be that as it may, I finished my regretful task, and walked around on the newly turned soil to make the surface a bit more substantial. Now, I grabbed my shovel, cast a parting glance at the final resting place of my recently deceased friend, and made my way across two lanes of traffic.

And then it occurred to me. The poor critter deserved a name. At least a name by which I might remember him. Then it came to me. “Roadie.” However, that name quickly metamorphosed into “Rowdy.” But what proper gentleman goes around with only one name? And whispering aloud, I found myself saying, “I’ll call you ‘Rowdy McDonald’ (and) “I certainly don’t mind lending you my surname.”

Reaching my car, I dropped the shovel on the floor below the back seat, sat down behind the wheel, and drove the couple hundred yards which separated me from home. And then it occurred to me. I would create an online memorial page for my unfortunate friend.

Pulling up a website to which I have contributed countless human memorial pages, I entered the precious pooch’s newly acquired name, and the place and date of death. Having scoured the internet for a photo of a canine which most closely matched the dog upon whom I had bequeathed the name of Rowdy, I added a picture to the memorial page.

Pt. 4

At this point I began to type Rowdy’s bio; at least as much as I, or virtually anyone else could possibly know about his bio.

Rowdy McDonald died just outside of Winter Haven, Florida on May 17, 2019. He was someone's beloved dog, and looked very healthy, but had no collar or tag.

Unfortunately, he was at least momentarily lost, and made a bad decision to cross a well-traveled four-lane road. While I did not know "Rowdy," as a Christian I am convinced that there will be animals in the kingdom.

As a result, I gave him a first name, and lent him my last, interred him right where I discovered him, and claimed him for heaven. I expect to see Rowdy there one day.


And because I am convinced I will see Rowdy, and, for that matter, my Princess, and Buddy, and Lucy and Queenie again one day, I added the best-known of all memorial poems.

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

See you again soon, ole boy. Romp, and run for all you’re worth. You’ve finally found your way home.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2019
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A COINCIDENTAL MEETING IN A CEMETERY


A few weeks ago, I drove out to Mt. Olive Cemetery in Bradley Junction, a community about 25 miles from my home. My 2x great Uncle and Aunt, Leroy & Rhoenia Langford, are buried there, and I thought I would check on their gravesite.



Leroy and Rhoenia have been gone about a century, but before I was a twinkle, or drew my first breath, I understand Rhoenia’s brother, John, my great Grandfather, rode a horse from south Georgia to central Florida to see his older sister.



It so happens that Leroy and Rhoenia were the grandparents of the WWII era movie actress and contralto, Frances Langford. My Grandfather often visited with Frances and her father, though I never knew anything about their kinship ‘til a few years ago.



But to return to my theme.



When I pulled up to the gravesite of my relatives, I noticed that their upright marble headstone was broken in half. While the lower half remained upright, the upper half was lying flat on the ground. One end of each piece was broken at a 45 degree angle.



I immediately wondered what had happened to the stone. Of course, while vandals might have done the deed, I surmised that the marble marker had developed a hairline crack, as the result of four hurricanes which have passed through this county since 2004.



As I stood “at the scene of the crime,” I bent over and attempted to lift the horizontal piece from the ground. And while I was dealing with a 2x2 piece of stone, I found I could only lift it a couple of inches. I immediately estimated that this piece weighed upwards of 150 lbs.



Pt. 2



As it fell together, I enlisted the assistance of my best friend, Dennis and he summarily enlisted the assistance of a young man named, Brian. Last Saturday we met at the cemetery, we managed to epoxy the horizontal piece of the headstone, and lift it back into place. Thankfully, once we set it in place it was, once again, basically intact. All that remained was to apply construction clamps to the left and right sides of the formerly broken pieces. Having repaired the headstone, we “took our leave.”



I calculated that I would need to leave the clamps in place for 3-4 days, and the following Tuesday (today) I returned to remove the clamps, and apply putty to the unsightly hairline fracture. Driving up to the headstone, I unloaded the putty, putty gun, a jug of water and a rag.



I was about to fill the crack, (with what turned out to be the wrong filler) when a truck rolled up next to my car. This guy sat there looking at me for a few seconds, and I finally said, "Can I help you?" The man whose name was, I soon discovered, Dave said he had dozens of relatives buried here, and we began to talk.



Dave was 76 years old, had a full beard, and he raises cattle. He went on to say that his mother was in hospice care and was expected to die this week. We talked about a dozen subjects, he continued to sit in the truck with his door open, and told me he was having some mobility issues, himself.



During our conversation he used some expletives, and he was obviously a bit of a colorful character. As the man was leaving, I asked if I could pray for him and his mother. He acquiesced. I began speaking and I was sure to end my prayer, "In Jesus Name." When I finished the prayer, Dave thanked me, and drove away.



One of those so-called 'circumstances' which God knew about… before He made the worlds.



Pt. 3



And upon what spiritual structure do I base the foregoing theory which I so often espouse?



In Jeremiah 1:5 we read,



“Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you, and before you were born, I sanctified you.”



The implication is He knew our ways and our days, knew our individual names, and was concerned for us as individuals… before the worlds were breathed into place.



There are any number of similar, insightful scriptures.



“My times are in His hands.” (Psalm 31:15)



(and)



“The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me.” (Psalm 138:8)



(and)



“Before I ever took my first breath, you, Lord, planned every day of my life.”(Psalm 139:16)



Nothing takes the Lord unawares. Every twist and turn along a believer’s pathway, as God gives him or her the wherewithal and insight to follow the footsteps of Jesus, are ordered of the Lord.



I think this is especially true of what I refer to as “Momentary Ministry.” What some might regard as a coincidence, or random circumstance allows two or more people to be in one place at one time, and in which God gives us the opportunity to speak certain words or take certain actions which glorify Him, and edify another human being.



In 1st Peter 3:15, we read,



“…And be ready always to give an answer to every man who asks a reason for the hope that is within you.”



I believe Momentary Ministry occurred in a little, non-descript cemetery in Bradley Junction, Florida today. And I am grateful God entrusted me with the opportunity to make a small difference in the life of a man named, Dave.



Whereas, I don’t expect to ever meet him again, I like to think for a brief moment in time he knew that someone cared, and took time to share a burden heavier than the weighty stone which had previously concerned me.



(It occurs to me that all the time and effort surrounding the broken headstone was worth it for the sake of the foregoing little intervention into a life. And it is curious to consider that if Leroy and Rhoenia were Christians, they apparently found a way to minister to a needy soul… a full century after they went on to their reward).

 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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