STORM CLOUDS, GOONEY BIRDS & CUBAN COFFEE

This Friday will mark 25 years since we received the call. My National Guard unit had been mobilized to report to south Florida, as the result of the devastation visited by Hurricane Andrew upon the City of Homestead.

As our convoy rushed past pine trees, and palmetto bushes, and entered “the zone of influence,” it seemed we transcended a fine line of demarcation between intact civilization, and what might well have passed for a war zone.

Whereas, the flora which surrounded us showed little or no sign of having been impacted by the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew, and I had begun to wonder why we had been called away from the lives to which we were generally accustomed, the devastation which suddenly greeted us was nothing less than incomprehensible.

Palm trees broken like matchsticks, and haphazardly scattered across acres of countryside which bordered our asphalt entre into a real-life Neverland. A automobile dealership with its doors and windows blown out, and its stock in trade heaped in colorful metallic piles around it. An ocean going vessel, a hundred feet in length, lying on its side beneath a highway overpass. Multiplied thousands of businesses and expensive homes annihilated by the mindless, unmitigated force of nature.

And what struck me strange was how much like this little piece of south Florida resembled Maine in Wintertime, as every plant, bush and tree had been rudely stripped of their leaves; (a condition which was summarily reversed when, so uncharacteristic of Florida, and as we neared the end of our mission, a multitude of buds graced every stem and branch).

It was August and it was hot, and the lack of air conditioning, or even a fan in the green canvas Army tents which served as our homes away from home was just short of unbearable. Rain water washed easily across the floor of our transient tabernacle, and the buzz and subsequent bite of a thousand bloodsuckers provided scant little respite, as we slipped, still deeper, into our heavy, woolen sleeping bags.

Pt. 2

The 2nd Battalion, 116th Field Artillery was stationed at the Metro Zoo; or at least what was left of it. Most of the animals had been evacuated to other locations, outside the projected perimeter of Ground Zero. However, a nearby research facility had been abandoned in place and left unattended. And as a result, some unintended results were in the offing.

Dozens of monkeys were on the prowl. But not just your garden variety monkeys. Did I mention the facility which they called home was an AIDS research complex? (Well, it was). And as you might imagine, we were admonished to shoot the little fellas on sight. To my knowledge none of our troops chanced upon any of the little boogers. Word is that many of the hapless simians migrated to the nearby everglades, (and there is every reason to believe that their contaminated descendants continue to populate the area).

My section wound up with a couple of assignments during the course of our 40 day tenure in the most God forsaken two hundred square mile piece of ground on Planet Earth.

“Country Walk” was (and perhaps, by now, is again) an exclusive subdivision made up of half million dollar homes. But I regret to say Hurricane Andrew made short work of the place. And in retrospect, it was discovered that the building codes were insufficient for winds half as strong as this storm visited on the place.

Large heaps of plywood and orange tile bearing little semblance to the magnificent homes which once lined the idyllic streets upon which we navigated our camouflaged Humvees. Manicured yards covered with fallen oak trees, and a neighbor’s kitchen garbage.

And from my guard post, near the entrance of the formerly elite community, one of the most peculiar sights to which I have ever been exposed.

A 1930’s era C-47 prop airplane sitting “all by its lonely” in a nearby field; with little or no visible damage. I asked my section chief about it, and Sergeant Hoehne informed me that unlike the proverbial turtle on a fence post, this plane definitely got there by itself. For you see, before the recent storm collapsed the hanger in which it had been on permanent display, the aged “Gooney Bird” had been part and parcel of a WWII collection of vintage airplanes.

Almost inexplicably, it had been lifted into the air by a small, embedded twister, done its own solitary ‘Dorothy in Kansas’ act, and managed to take its last flight… without a pilot. Ultimately, as though resting in the hand of Providence, the plane experienced the shortest flight, and the strangest landing of its long and storied career.

Pt. 3

Day gave way to night, and night gave way to day, and as Sergeant Bob and I relieved the night shift one morning, and took our place near the guard shack, a thirty something year old man stepped out of a nearby house, (or what was left of it) ambled over to us, and proceeded to share a story which easily gave my previous tale of the Gooney Bird “a run for its money.”

For it seems Robert and his wife made the fateful decision to remain in their home and weather the hurricane. Given the now obvious state of their little corner of paradise, it almost cost them their lives.

August 24, 1992. A day that will live in infamy; at least a day the citizens of the Miami suburb which was Homestead, Florida will remember for as long as they draw breath. And for those such as Robert and Trisha, who chose to “ride it out” in their homes, the experience was not only memorable, but the most traumatic circumstance of their entire lives.

But I’ll allow Robert to tell the tale.

“Trish and I have experienced other hurricanes, and we figured this one couldn’t be much worse. I mean, our house has weathered several of ‘em, and the worst of it was always a few missing shingles.

It began very much like the other storms. The clouds grew dark, and the wind picked up a bit, and of course we’d tuned our television to the Weather Channel.

I guess we had been lulled into complacency. I mean the weatherman can ‘cry wolf’ so many times, and so many times the storm’s bark is so much worse that its bite.

Pt. 4

But we found out the hard way. 30 or 40 minutes into the thing, it got bad. I mean, it got really bad, and we began to question our sanity for staying put in our house. We could hear shingles flying off the roof, and then a few hairline cracks appeared in the ceiling. Suddenly, something smashed into our front bay window, and the wind came roaring into our living room.

I grabbed Trisha’s hand and we ran for the hall bathroom. It was all I could do to push the door shut behind us. The sounds around us were just monstrous; like nothing I’d ever heard before. At this point, we got into the bathtub, clothes and all, and just sat there in each other’s arms.

Sergeant, I’m not ashamed to tell you I was more afraid than I have ever been before, or ever hope to be again. We just held one another, affirmed our love for each other, and said our ‘goodbyes.’ I honestly expected a first responder or insurance agent would discover our bodies. Of course, I didn’t share my thoughts with Trish.”

Robert continued.

“Thank God for that small bathroom. It was the only room which came through the storm intact. We simply could not have survived in any other room in our house. The ceilings collapsed, and every window had been blown out. Glass and debris was everywhere.”

Before Robert returned to what was left of his former home he made us aware that he’d just been interviewed for a feature segment on the popular news show, “20/20.” (And though I have attempted to locate that particular segment, I’ve never run across it).

Pt. 5

Of course, I previously inferred my section performed another role during the 40 days we served in aftermath of Hurricane Andrew. (And I have never been able to refer to that season without thinking of Noah, and the 40 day aftermath of the Great Flood; when the Ark waited to rest on dry land).

About halfway into that little season, (although it seemed interminable) our duties at Country Walk culminated, and we were diverted to the flea market in Homestead. And admittedly, under such circumstances one might wonder what eight or ten reservists would be doing at a flea market, after what at the time was the worst storm in U.S. history. And I can only respond, “Well, I’m glad you asked.”

The federal government was, as the result of the storm, in the process of dispensing emergency food stamps to the citizens of that extended community, and since the value of this commodity was in the multiplied millions of dollars, our unit provided armed security. (And my dear readers, armed we were). Whereas, the 25,000 active duty troops in the area walked around with unloaded M-16’s, (as Martial Law had not been declared) each and every one of the 10,000 members of the Florida Army National Guard carried a full clip of live rounds. (None of that Barney Fife and the one bullet in his pocket thing for us).

I recall a couple of unforgettable experiences during our tour of duty at the flea market.

A young Haitian woman approached my section chief with a question, but it was readily apparent she didn’t speak English. Having had a year of French in college, I immediately recognized her need, and I responded with, “Voila la toilette,” and pointed towards a distant Port-a-Potty. (Had she wanted a rundown of the latest stock market report I’m afraid my fluency in the French language, or lack thereof, would have failed me).

Pt. 6

I will always remember the kindness of an elderly Cuban woman who offered me a cup of that rich dark coffee for which her little island is so widely known. And while I was not then, nor am I now a fan of coffee, I absolutely loved it. As it fell together a quarter of a century would ensue before I would taste it again. Just the other day my wife and I walked into a local Cuban restaurant and ordered a cup of the lovely stuff. (Somewhat of a distant echo of a mission completed, and a job well done).

A few minutes later the sky grew dark, and a common, run of the mill Florida thunderstorm approached from the east; (the same direction from whence Hurricane Andrew and its devastating 180 mph winds had come). As the wind freshened, and it began to sprinkle, a little dark-haired girl in the crowd, perhaps all of five years of age, began crying, and could not be comforted. I immediately recognized the symptoms, and surmised that like Robert and Trisha, her family had, just three weeks before, chosen to remain in their home, rather than flee the impending storm. (No doubt, the now thirty-something year old woman is still triggered when the sky grows dark, the winds begin to blow, and a little H2O descends from the sky).

We must have been quite a sight walking in and out of stores and eating establishments wearing camo clothing, and with our M-16’s slung over our shoulders. (Somewhat reminiscent of Uganda and Idi Amin). On one especially memorable day, perhaps a month into our tenure in that storm-stricken city, SFC Hoehne and I walked out of a local McDonald’s; having just purchased our own respective “to go” meals. And without warning, a lovely young woman walked up, wrapped her arms around me, and exclaimed,

“You guys just don’t know how much we appreciate you” (and) “Thank you for helping us.”

And as quickly as she appeared, she was gone. I never cease to think of her, and though her name eludes me, I hope she is well, and I often mention her in my prayers.

Pt. 7

The last day finally arrived and several hundred guardsmen were more than ready to bid ‘adieu’ to their adopted city. Our task was complete, and yet, there were tasks and missions plenty for countless volunteers in the months which lay ahead.

As we walked across the parking lot reminiscing about our singular experiences, a bald eagle drifted over our heads, flew the length of our compound, and disappeared on the horizon. Tears filled my eyes. The tour was done, but would never be forgotten.

We were back, but we would never be the same. We could only be the better for that which we had seen, that which we had experienced, and for those brave citizens whom we had met.

We had returned to our natural environment. The air seemed fresher. The flowers more colorful. The sky a bit bluer. Oh, how thankful we were on the other side of the storm.

Odd, it took two weeks before I overcame the unexpected fatigue which overwhelmed me, and it became apparent that I had too long been exposed to the whites and blacks and browns and grays of that hurricane-stricken city. And I realized how that awful place had somehow impacted my visual sensibilities, and resulted in a physical weariness.

But what of those we left behind?

Their lives were budding again. Just as surely as the trees of their city began to bud anew, after being so rudely stripped of their leaves.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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EMPTY CHAIRS

Two empty chairs

Oh, they have been empty in the past. Anytime someone happened not to be sitting in them.


But this time is different.


For you see, they will never be occupied again; at least not by the original two who once filled them up.


I can still see my parents, Henry and Erma, seated in those matching recliners. Reading newspapers, or perhaps a National Geographic, or simply starring out onto their mobile home-side pond.


My dad loved that chair, or better put he loved what that chair afforded him. 


Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. 

Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below. 


More than once, many times more than once, I showed up, unannounced, and  invaded his “inner sanctum;” only to discover him in the midst of an ethereal sleep. Which, as with us all, is prophetic of that slumber which must overtake each of us one day.


And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,


“Wake up, Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”


And he would rouse himself; if only long enough to acknowledge my presence, and e’er too many moments elapsed 


…well, you guessed it.


And my mother.


I think she occupied her matching recliner, more often than not, for the sake of a selfish agenda.


To simply dwell in the presence of the one to whom she had pledged herself; some six decades hence. For it was here that she experienced and enjoyed the presence of the man who had, long since, relinquished activity in favor of the sedentary. Oh, mama put up a good show of doing one thing or another, as she occupied her matching chair. But I think, I think, it was all about my dad. And the singleness of what took two to complete. 


And now. Now the chairs are empty.


My wife has a photograph of her parents. It was taken at the lake home of their son. And in that poignant picture Doc and Ruby may be seen seated on the lakeside porch, facing one another, and engaged in a private conversation; known and meant only for themselves.


I can picture my own parents engaged in a similar exchange. But that one set of chairs have been exchanged for another. What the years stole from them has been restored, and in good measure. 


Empty chairs. Not some cheap montage of wood and metal and fabric. But an almost spiritual place.


My father occupied his chair when, after his stroke and my mother’s subsequent inability to care for him, I made him aware it was time to submit himself to a nursing facility.


My mother sat in hers the last time we took her home for lunch, and the final occasion on which she saw her sisters; having been placed in that same facility. 


It was in this room, and in these chairs my parents lived the most and best of their waning years. It was here that they did the things people do as they scratched out what joy still remained to them in their declining years. It was here from which they entertained family and friends, complained about the weather, boasted of a new great grandchild, worried for the fate of the nation, laughed about a childhood picture, remembered something from their youth, memorialized a lost comrade; expressed some hope for our futures.


It was from these chairs they spoke and laughed and lived and loved, and gleaned from the gradually shrinking world around them. 


Empty Chairs.


Strange, how rich and full and almost complete an empty chair may seem.



by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

If you would like to copy, share or save, please include the credit line, above

MY AMAZING POSTHUMOUS POOCH

Buddy, our little 20 lb. female Shih Tzu, (yes, female) always was an impressive dog; if only for her willingness to please. But more than simply please, she was so obviously a dog intent on fulfilling the mission for which she had been created.

Buddy strolled up in our yard one day in early 1996. It was relatively cool at the time, and at the time I wasn’t keen on keeping a dog in my house. As a result, I banished the young dog to my garage; ‘til she ultimately “grew on me” and I relented. 

Sometime during the little season in which she called the garage her home, I happened to be uptown one day, and my wife had laid down for a nap. Suddenly, Jean heard the garage door open, and, subsequently, our newfound furry friend began barking. Just as quickly as the door went up, it went back down. I later found greasy footprints on the driveway.

And there was the time our daughter was experiencing marital problems, and had returned home. One day as “Nancy” lay in bed crying, Buddy ambled in, and laid down next to her on the floor. Although the little canine loved to ride in the car, and I was about to leave, and had posed the age-old question, (“Buddy wanna go,”) she would not relent. The precious pooch refused to walk out on our daughter during her time of need.

Then again, my wife had been feeling poorly, and our empathetic little rug rat had recently made a habit of following her around the house. Partly as a result of Buddy’s recurring pursuit, and partly because my wife’s emotions continued to degenerate, I urged her to make an appointment with her doctor. And after she submitted to all the requisite medical tests, Jean was diagnosed with cancer.

Could there be any question my little Buddy fulfilled her mission? (Well, she did). And she fulfilled it as well, and perhaps better than many human beings ever will.

Pt. 2


Who can deny that Buddy was a special dog? (As it fell together, she was more special than one might otherwise believe).

Thus, the title of this story:

“The Miraculous Posthumous Canine”

Yet, as the biblical prophet assures us,

"All flesh is like grass, and all their faithfulness is like the flowers of the field.” Isaiah 40:6


But perhaps Buddy had never read that particular scripture. (And at this juncture, and for whatever reason, I’m convinced that she was a rare exception to the rule).


There’s an adage out there which purports to explain the relatively short life span of dogs, and the divine reasoning which caused it to be so.


“Dogs don’t live very long because they don’t need much time to learn to be perfect.”


I believe it, and I believe my little Buddy was blessed, (and we with her) to experience some miraculous, and unforgettable posthumous events.


Our precious pooch had only recently “gone the way of all flesh,” and I was grieving her, as I had never grieved man or beast in my almost six decades of life.


One late evening, after I resorted to my bed, and was attempting to sleep, I sensed something; an extraordinary something. For something invisible, but which manifested weight, was suddenly lying against my right shoulder! And there was this uncanny sense of respiration! In and out. In and out. And while I don’t recall actually hearing that recurrent exchange of oxygen, the proximity of the being allowed me to feel it.


Pt. 3


Since my wife is a nurse, and we ‘enjoyed’ different schedules, she and I had long since maintained separate bedrooms. Buddy slept on my bed. And this dear little critter spent her last night on earth on my bed.


I can tell you that while I was surprised at this development, there was absolutely no fear. But rather, there was a sense of comfort, and the identity of my nocturnal visitor was readily apparent to me.


At this juncture, I can’t tell you how long the miraculous visitation lasted, perhaps as little as a minute, perhaps as many as five. And in like manner, I cannot begin to tell you whether the second manifestation occurred on the same, or on a different evening.


But as I was drifting off to sleep on that, or a different evening, I sensed a familiar something at my felt. 


I kept a pillow for Buddy at that end of the bed, and when wakefulness gave way to drowsiness, it was her practice to seek out that small piece of rectangular comfort. And while our dear pooch had ceased to live and breathe and move, the pillow remained in its same old place. (And though a decade has come and gone since she “gave up the ghost,” I have maintained the practice of lying a pillow at the foot of my bed).


But much like the previous episode, an invisible weight lay against my right foot. Invisible, yet tangible. And I felt that same sense of comfort. But I was afraid. Afraid to move. I wanted whatever grace I had been momentarily given to linger.


But as I recall, when I finally dared shift my position, the magic ended, and the weighty sensation with it.


Pt. 4

As I was walking in my neighborhood one evening, perhaps a month after the loss of my beloved Buddy, and I found myself reminiscing about the old girl,

…I saw it,

(or should I use a different pronoun)?

…I saw her.

Suddenly, not thirty feet ahead of me, what seemed to be a little white pooch appeared out of nothingness, slowly walked across my path way, and entered my neighbor’s front yard.

And as quickly as she appeared, she immediately relinquished her physicality.

I can’t account for why I was blessed to realize such momentary manifestations of my precious pooch. But at least for me there remains that quiet reassurance that our pets are alive and well, and reside in a land where the roses never fade, and no tear dims the eye.

There’s a poignant cartoon which depicts St. Peter standing at the pearly gates. Next to him is a dog thoroughly overcome with excitement. In the foreground we see an old man approaching the duo.

St. Peter bends his head towards ‘Rover’ and exclaims,

“So this is your friend, ‘Bobby,’ who you’ve been “going on about” for the past 50 years!”

I think one day my dear pooch and I will be reunited, and so like the cartoon to which I alluded, I like to believe my own little Buddy eagerly awaits my arrival there.

 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

ADOLPH HITLER: World Renowned Artist

Recently, I attended a lecture by a survivor of the Holocaust who, as a child, experienced the most horrific of circumstances. My uncle also experienced the monstrosity visited upon the Jewish race, firsthand, as near the end of WWII his Army unit marched into one of Germany’s concentration camps. Having witnessed the most unspeakable horrors, he never spoke about what he saw there.

Of course, one man was, ultimately, responsible for the advent of the Second World War, the deaths of countless soldiers, sailors and marines, untold civilians, and the murder of six million Jews.

Adolf Hitler

However, before issuing the executive order which led to the deaths of millions of innocent men, women and children, almost single-handedly destroying the Western world as we know it, Adolf Hitler was an “up and coming,” (albeit unsuccessful) artist.

Subsequent to his service in the German Army during WWI, “the little corporal” completed numerous murals which had as their subject buildings, monuments, and landscapes. And while some amateur and professional art critics have, well, criticized his artistic ability, from my perspective some of his paintings were quite good.

Between the two World Wars, and before the artist wannabe gave a moment’s thought to ruling one of the major nations of the world, and subjecting others to his domination, Adolph Hitler had dreamed a different dream.

Pt. 2
And to his credit, the non-descript little man was not only a dreamer, but a doer; since he not only managed to transfer his colorful visions to canvas, but he made application for acceptance to The Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna.

Twice

And was turned down as many times as he applied.
It is ironic that as the unrelenting, demonic dictator of the Third Reich the great architecture and pastoral villages he painted were, ultimately, destroyed by his actions.

Among Adolph’s artworks are some paintings which provide an almost prophetic look into the as yet to be fulfilled future of the most evil and dictatorial individual in the history of the world. For among the colorful landscapes are also images of WWI tanks; littering a barren landscape, and smoke rising from their turrets.

I have often reflected on that momentous decision which denied Adolf Hitler the opportunity to undertake a course of action which might have, literally, changed the course of human history, and whomever was responsible for that singular decision.

I have wondered whether the man who denied the future dictator, and warlord the opportunity to fulfill his artistic dream, having experienced the abject awfulness which the little despot visited on this planet, regretted having rejected his prospective student. A man who unknowingly, unwittingly exercised more power than Hitler ever realized in his lifetime; who with one stroke of a pen, a few words on a rejection letter, doomed millions of hapless victims to certain death.

Adolf Hitler. World Renowned Artist

The saddest words in any language.

…What might have been

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THOUGHT FOR TODAY

Seen on a social media post:

"If your God lets you do anything you want to do, then your god is really YOU!"

THE BODY OF CHRIST

The year was 1968, and I was a student at one of several denominational bible colleges; in central Florida.

I was enrolled in a New Testament class, and my professor was a light-hearted English woman named Ruth Breush; (who interestingly enough was married to a light-hearted Australian man named Percy Breusch).

If I live to be a 103 I will never forget one day in particular. Mrs. Breush began the class with, to say the least, an unusual story.

“Last night I had a dream. In the dream I was somehow transported to heaven. And I stood beneath the throne of none other than our Lord Jesus Christ. 

His brown eyes were piercing to behold. Every strand of His auburn hair was in place. His countenance was radiant. And then,

… then I looked downward.

And what I saw horrified me. For you see, His chest was sunken. His arms were emaciated. Every rib shown through His parchment skin.

And then it occurred to me.

… The Body of Christ.

While the Head is fine and wonderful to behold, thank you, the Body is unhealthy, and in need of attention.”

Christ’ Body. His believers on earth, at least a great many of them, leave much to be desired. 

Fickleness, In-fighting, Temptations, Immaturity, Abject Sin.

As scripture reminds us. “These things ought not to be.”

I have often wondered if I am, by chance, my professor’s last surviving student who has recalled and passed on this story to the generation who will follow after me.

If so, I count it a distinct calling, honor and responsibility to do so.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

REALLY TALENTED (Or Just Plain Tuff)

One of my cousins posted something today about her talent showing up big time 'cause she can choke on air, and fall up a staircase.

If you are impressed with my cousin's capabilities, I must really have some talent in my 5'9", 215 lb. frame.

I was carrying a heavy duffle bag up a stair case recently, lost my balance, and dropped it, tumbled down 4 steps to the landing, failed to stop, somehow managed a 90 degree angle, and rolled down 4 more steps to the bottom floor.

Apparently I had a great deal of momentum going on to manage such a marvelous feat. I could never, nor would I ever want to duplicate such an amazing performance again.

IT'S OKAY. I HAVE TWO WIVES

I had surgery for a broken ankle a few years agp. After I was in recovery, I asked to see my wife, but my daughter, Kristy came in first. As a result, some of the nurses just figured I had a very young wife. Next my actual wife, Jean came in, and I felt the need to "make water." I told the nurse, and she assumed Jean was just a friend. She said, "Wouldn't you like some privacy?" I laughed, realizing what she was thinking, and I said, "It's okay. I have two wives!"

A TALL DARK STRANGER

"After church and on the way home, I stopped at DQ in _________. I spoke to the cashier and a friend I know. Also noticed a tall , dark and handsome man smiling at me. I smiled and spoke .... only to realize he was a cardboard mannequin for an advertisement !! 

Had to laugh at myself and cashier said I wasn’t the first to think “he” is real !!! 😂😂😂 Happy Sunday !!! Should have gotten a pic with him !!!"

(Posted by a relative)

AN APPOINTMENT IN SAMARRA

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pt. 2

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

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

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

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

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

Abdul might as well have shouted,

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

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

And, dear readers, as I previously inferred, having completed his dreary daily task, Abdul marched himself out of the ornate throne room, and retreated to the servant’s quarters.

Having fulfilled his appointed daily task for several years, the time came when Abdul began to feel a bit unfulfilled. And one morning, after breakfast, he approached the king’s viceroy, and requested an audience with his beloved master.

Pt. 3

Abdul lost no time in explaining himself, and the viceroy lost no time in approving his request to meet with the king.

And as quickly as his wish was granted, Abdul was escorted into the king’s bedroom; (for he often had breakfast in bed). His monarch smiled, and greeted his favorite servant with,

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company so early in the day, my dear friend?”

Abdul cleared his throat, and spoke.

“Oh king, as important as I count my daily task, I sense the need of something more, an additional role to take my mind away from this dread, and dreary subject with which you have invested me; (but which both you and I believe is so crucial to your life and kingdom”).

To which the king replied,

“Abdul, you have been a faithful servant and a true friend to me. But if you feel you need some added task, I will allow it. You know my aged servant, Mohammed, just recently stepped down as my Steward of Royal Food Stuffs. I had been planning to procure a younger man to assume his place. But since this role only requires two days each week in which he mounted his camel, visited the local market, and ordered the necessary foods and wines, I will allow you to assume this additional role.”

And though any outward change in a solemn countenance in the king’s presence was considered disrespectful, Abdul could not contain himself, and a great smile lit up his face.

But since the king sometimes dispensed with formalities, and since he was alone with his dear friend, he could not help but emit a resounding laugh; which seemed to rise up from the depths of his belly.

Pt. 4

 And while, Abdul continued to march down the aisle of the throne room, and shouted the words he’d shouted so many times before, he assumed the secondary role as the Steward of Royal Food Stuffs, and made his way to the market on a bi-weekly basis.

A few weeks had passed since the faithful Abdul had assumed his added duty, and as he was leisurely strolling through the marketplace, and as he had begun to dicker with a local merchant for three bushels of dates, and ten kilos of olives, he happened to cast his eyes to the left, and what he saw caused an involuntary shudder to run up his spine.

Death Incarnate

What, (or perhaps the word is ‘Who’) greeted his eyes was none other than the Death Angel; (whom, as it fell together, was, apparently invisible to everyone, but Abdul).

The hideous creature was robed in black, (but contrary to our modern caricature, he held no scythe or sickle in his hand). As Abdul looked up at the magnificent being, (for he stood head and shoulders taller than the steward, and he was built like a proverbial bull) his black and threatening eyes caused the hair to rise on his arms.

For all his daily proclamations, Adul had never encountered the subject of his exclamations. Death. He immediately forgot about the dates and olives, and for that matter gave no thought to his mode of transportation; the camel which stood three paces away. But rather, he turned and ran as quickly as his feet could carry him away from the market, and into the desert. A full hour elapsed before he slowed, and began to walk. Another hour passed before he noticed the spire of the king’s palace, and he strode wearily through its main gate.

Pt. 5

Abdul lost no time in approaching the king, nor did he seek permission to do so; another breach in royal etiquette. But there was simply no time for etiquette.

He found the king just outside his royal harem; as he stood interviewing another potential concubine.

Falling down before him, Abdul exclaimed,

“Oh king, forgive my insolence; just this once. But allow me to make my plea. As I was in the marketplace today, and busy with the culinary affairs of my master, I saw something almost unspeakable. I saw the darkest, most evil creature you can possibly imagine. I saw the Death Angel. And dear friend (may I call you, ‘friend’) his gaze was absolutely penetrating, and great fear permeated the recesses of my soul!”

(and)

“Oh king, I gave no thought to the royal camel, but found my way out of the dark Angel’s presence, and crossed the desert on foot. Dear king, if I have pleased you, if I have done those things, and more that has been expected of me, loan me your best camel, and allow me to flee to the City of Samarra!”

As Abdul looked up from his place on the floor, he noticed something he had never seen throughout the multiplied years he’d served the king. A tear ran down the royal cheek, and anger suddenly registered on his countenance.

“My friend, of course you may borrow my prize camel. Lose no time! Make haste! Do not delay!”

And with this, Abdul kissed the king’s feet, rose from the floor, and made good his escape.

Afterward

Needless to say, the king was incensed, and immediately ordered a garrison of soldiers to accompany him to the city in search of the interloper.

Arriving at the marketplace, the king cast his eyes among the hundred or so booths and stands which greeted him. Suddenly, he spotted the horrible creature; lingering near the place where his faithful servant encountered him.

Accompanied by his soldiers, he approached the dark gruesome beast, and exclaimed,

“Oh Death, my faithful servant, Abdul, was here just six hours hence, and he told me he saw you, as I see you with my own eyes now. And my faithful steward and friend, Abdul, claimed you glared at him, and threatened him with your gruesome countenance! Please give an account of yourself.”

To which the dark Angel of Death bared his yellow fangs, but spoke, it seemed, rather softly.

“Oh good king, I did not threaten your servant. I was only surprised to see him. For you see, I have an appointment with him tonight

…in the City of Samarra.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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COME BEFORE WINTER

It is dungeon talk. The words are not original with me. They merge from a classic chamber of horrors hidden deeply beneath the streets of century One Rome.

Isolated in that grim and grimy hole, surrounded by stone blocks black with age, with a lonely prisoner whose days were numbered. His name was Paul. His friend was Timothy, the one to whom those three words were addressed. As I drop into his dungeon and identify with the old man, a chill makes me shiver.

I am afraid

I feel terribly alone

The rattle of heavy chains only increases my anguish. No gleams of sunlight penetrate the damp and gloom of my Mamertine misery. My needs are several, all of them intense.

I need my cloak. I must have left it at the abode of Carpus in Troas. You’ll have no trouble spotting it, Timothy. It’s an old thing, but it’s been on my back through many a bitter winter. It’s been wet with the brine of the great sea, white with the snows of the rugged peaks of Pamphylia, gritty and brown from the dust of the Egnatian Way, and crimson with my own blood from that awful stoning at Lystra. The cloak is stained and torn, Timothy, but winter is coming and I need the warmth it will bring.

I also need the books. You remember them. The ones I read under candlelight as we rode out the rough waters of the Aegean and endured the rigors of Macedonia together… those scrolls that fed my mind with fresh bursts of hope and stimulating ideas. Bring along those books, my friend.

I especially need the parchments! Those are my most treasured possessions, Timothy. How I need the comfort of King David’s Psalms, the fortitude from the prophets’ pens, the insight and perceptions from Solomon’s proverbs. Yes, the parchments. Surely, they will help keep my heart warm and my hopes high in this desolate place.

But Timothy, I need you. How desperately I need you! Make every effort to come… come before winter. Come before November’s winds strip the leaves from the trees and send them whirling across the fields, and swirling through the busy streets above me. Come, before the snow begins to fall and covers flat carts, and frozen ponds with its icy blankets. 

Come, my friend… the time of my departure has arrived. Soon the blade will drop and time for me will be no more. I cannot bear the thought of mid-winter without the warmth of your companionship… those eyes of understanding, those words only you can bring to get me through this barren and bitter season. Make every effort to come before winter.

(from “Come Before Winter” by Chuck Swindoll. This three word quotation comes from the New Testament, the Book of 2nd Timothy, in which Paul the Apostle requests Timothy bring his cloak and parchments to him as he languishes in the Roman prison).