BUDDY'S PILLOW

While I am a prolific writer, and have written numerous volumes, I have, thus far, only published one; a book which I titled, “A Man’s Tribute to His Devoted Dogs.”

In this particular book I reminisced about two of my dearly departed pooches; “Lucy” and “Buddy.” The following reminiscence is about the latter of the two.

In spite of the name, Buddy was a female. She came to us early in the Spring of 1996, and went on to her reward in the Winter of 2006. The days, months and years which transpired during this decade were nothing less than a blessing to those who loved her.

I discovered the little white and auburn Shih Tzu in my front yard one day, and very much not to my credit, I didn’t bother checking for a chip, nor did I contact the county animal shelter. I simply “took her in” and made her my own. Dear readers, Shih Tzu’s don’t come cheap, and no doubt someone continues to wonder what happened to, well whatever they called her, to this day.

This dear, precious pooch was simply special. But I suppose the foregoing adjectives are proof enough of our feelings for her. I was, and continue to be convinced that Buddy was sent here to fulfill a mission. For you see, there were at least three times during her all too brief lifetime that she served a purpose greater than herself.

Once, during the brief time I required her to live in my garage, I was uptown, and my wife was home alone. Suddenly, Jean heard the garage door open, and Buddy immediately began barking at whomever intruded on our sanctity. With this, my wife heard the garage door go back down. When I returned home, I discovered some greasy footprints in the driveway.

Pt. 2


Another time, my daughter was experiencing marital issues, and she had returned home for a few days. Of course, “Margaret” was inconsolable, and was spending time in what used to be her bedroom. Buddy would not leave her side, though a couple of times, I invited her to accompany me to the post office, or where ever else I was going at that moment.

Then, over the course of several days Buddy began to follow my wife around the house. They say you need to pay attention if and when a dog suddenly begins to follow you; when he never has in the past. Shortly thereafter, Jean “took to her bed.” She felt an overwhelming oppressiveness, as if death, itself was crushing the life out of her. Of course, I encouraged her to make an appointment with her doctor, which she did. And after running a few tests, he discovered she had contracted breast cancer. Thankfully, the malignant tumor was caught early, she underwent a lumpectomy, and multiplied radiation treatments, and, all thanks to God, she is a survivor.

Did I say that Buddy was special? (Yeah, I thought I did).

My little Buddy slept on a pillow at the foot of my bed every night. And every time I resorted to that 50 square feet of rectangular comfort which was my mattress, I gathered Buddy up, and took her with me.

Of course, all good things come to an end, and I have often thought that the days which the Creator granted to a dog are all too few. I have read someone’s musing that, “the reason a dog doesn’t live as long as a human being is that a dog doesn’t need as long to learn to be perfect.” Well, my friends, I believe it.

Pt. 3


My little Buddy experienced severe allergies, and, as a result, the vet prescribed a steroidal medication for her. Without the medication, she would have literally scratched her eyes out. With the medication, Buddy gained weight, and her liver values began to rise. After she left us, I often thought that it was like giving her poison to keep her alive.

Speaking of leaving us, about a week before, well, you know, I was lying in bed with Buddy, and she began to shiver, though the heater was on, and the house was warm. As I reflect on that day now, I am convinced that she experienced some sort of momentary premonition that she was about to “cross the Rainbow Bridge.”

One evening, as we lay in bed, Buddy’s respiration drastically increased, and a few minutes later, it slowed markedly. This pattern continued throughout the night. Of course, it was excruciating to me to lay there, and watch, and listen to my precious pooch. But I refused to move her to her kennel, or a nearby couch. I would be here for her, as she had been here for me, and the other members of our household. When the morning came, and I woke from my troubled sleep, I examined Buddy. Her breathing was slow, and unsteady, and her tongue was pasty white. I knew she was about to cross that proverbial bridge.

After I dressed, I picked my precious Buddy up, went into the living room, and laid her down in a doggie bed we kept in the living room. Having walked into my office, I called a client, and retraced my steps to where Buddy peacefully lay. Too peacefully. She had pitter-pattered her way across the Rainbow Bridge.

Pt. 4


Did I mention that Buddy slept on a pillow at the end of my bed? (Yeah, I thought I did). And while our dear pooch had ceased to live and breathe and move a few days earlier, the pillow remained in its same old place.

Well, after I retired to my bedroom one evening, I suddenly felt an invisible weight against my right foot; which was lying against Buddy’s pillow. The perception there was something there was at the same time invisible, yet tangible. And there was such a sense of comfort which accompanied that something. And yet, I was afraid. Afraid to move. I wanted whatever grace I had been momentarily given to linger a bit longer. But as I recall, when I finally dared shift my position, the magic ended, and the weighty sensation with it.

It may have been the same night, or perhaps it was a day or two later, but again, I sensed something; an extraordinary something. For something invisible, but which manifested weight, was 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.

I can tell you that while I was surprised at this development, there was absolutely no fear. But again, 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.

Afterwards


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 pathway, 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.


A decade and a half after she crossed the Rainbow Bridge, my little Buddy’s pillow remains at the end of my bed.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE PIECES OF LIFE'S PUZZLE

Pt. 1

As I was scrolling down the homepage on one of my social media sites today, I came across one of those group posts which read,

“If we can trust a puzzle company to include every piece of a thousand piece puzzle in a box, then why can’t we trust God to include every piece of the puzzle which is our life?”

And at first glance, that particular adage sounds pretty good, (and in fact, no one can deny it IS good). However, upon reading the foregoing post, it immediately occurred to me, and I immediately responded with something like,

“I can only agree, but sometimes humans have the tendency to add unnecessary pieces they think belong in their lives, and subtract necessary pieces which they think don’t belong.”

Who among us has been an exemption to this rule? Of course, as a believer, I think it helps a great deal to submit to the plan of salvation, and place one’s self securely beneath the throne of grace. However, even Christians can get it diabolically wrong, and can almost irretrievably mess up their lives.

I believe the following verse says it about as well, as any I have run across in my studies.

“For who among men knows the thoughts of a man, except the spirit of the man which is in him? Even so the thoughts of God no one knows except the Spirit of God. Now we have received, not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit who is from God, so that we may know the things freely given to us by God.”   (1^st Cor. 2:11-12)

Pt. 2

“So that we may know the things freely given to us by God.”

It seems to me that this last phrase in our passage refers to what we include in our lives, or exclude from our lives, and is all about what the scripture has characterized as embracing “the Mind of Christ.”

Sadly, it seems some unbelievers are quicker, and more adept at snapping that thousand piece puzzle of their lives together, than some believers ever will be. Be that as it may, how do we manage to get it wrong, as often as some of us seem to get it wrong?

Now, I’m not a jigsaw puzzle kinda guy. (No, I’m not). I mean, I have neither the time, nor the patience, (nor the interest) in sitting down with a thousand pieces of colorful cardboard, which have been cut into all sorts of shapes and sizes, and snapping them into a seemingly non-sensical design which some anonymous person developed for the sole purpose of enriching their bank account. However, in the six and a half minutes of my seven decades on this planet that I have devoted to this task, I have learned more about the art of putting jigsaw puzzles together, than I ever wanted to know, or ask.

It can be “slow going,” and in the case of a thousand piece puzzle, we immediately discover that 99.9 percent of pieces were not designed to fit in the space where .1 percent of the pieces fit perfectly. Each and every piece has been custom cut to fit in only one place, so that in the end an image of a mountain and stream, or perhaps Jesus and His disciples appears. (Speaking of the latter example, there is a colorful jigsaw puzzle of Jesus seated with His disciples at the Last Supper hanging in our church fellowship hall; which one of our dearly departed parishioners left to us).

Pt. 3

I think the metaphor or parable, if you will, of a jigsaw puzzle is just about perfect when it comes to discovering God’s will for our lives. And I think the Creator knew, when He made us, that each and every one of us would experience difficulty when it came to snapping those non-symmetrical, colorful pieces of the puzzle together.

God knows, I have taken lots of side tracks which led to nowhere. And God knows, I have wasted a lot of time, as it were, backing up onto the main line, and continuing my forward journey.

Three things come to mind when I think about the failure of any given individual in fitting the pieces of their life’s puzzle together at the proper time, and in the proper manner.

Immaturity

When you think about it, we were all born immature, and were dependent on others to find our way. Sadly, there are those among us, both non-believers, and believers, alike, who live out their entire lives making bad decisions, and who, ultimately, never grow up. How can such a person hope to discover their Creator’s ultimate plan for their life? I mean, I am convinced that there are people among us who wouldn’t walk across a room to retrieve the best, next course of action.

Immaturity causes us to subtract necessary pieces of life’s puzzle which, in many cases, cannot be restored to its overall design.

Sin

As a counselor of twenty-five plus years, it seems to me some of my clients were working hard to remain clueless, and staying in trouble. And some people reach the grand old age of 103, and only regrets fill up the “volume” which they have written, and half the pieces of the puzzle are still scattered on the proverbial table or floor which surrounds them. It has occurred to me that had they put as much effort into doing the right things, and avoiding the wrong things, their lives would have fallen together much differently.

Ravi Zacharias, the well-known Christian apologist, put it this way.

“Sin will take you farther than you want to go, keep you longer than you want to stay, and cost you more than you want to pay.”

The not so well-known Christian counselor of our time, (yours truly) has put it this way.

“The ultimate cost of sin is always much greater, than the momentary wages it pays when it is occurring.”

Not only so, but sin inhibits our ability to choose, as it were, the right pieces of the puzzle which God designed for our lives, and results in adding unnecessary pieces to its overall design.

The Impact of Other People’s Behavior

The implications of people’s use and abuse of other people within their sphere of influence, particularly the young, mentally-challenged, and elderly, cannot be stressed enough.

However, it is hardly necessary to spend much time or ink on the topic here. We are all familiar with the horror stories involving child and elderly abuse, or simply the presence of significant dysfunction in the childhood home, which contributes to physical, sexual, social, behavioral, spiritual, and psychological issues among people who deserved so much better in life. 

Another instance in which unnecessary, and absolutely horrendous pieces of the puzzle were added to God’s perfect design.

Pt. 4

One thing, in particular, comes to mind when I think about the success of any given individual in fitting the pieces of life’s puzzle together at the proper time, and in the proper manner.

The Mind of Christ

“So that we may know the things freely given to us by God.”

How much time do we, as believers, give to finding out the will of God for our lives? How much time to we give to the scriptures and prayer? How often do we ask God for wisdom? How often do we ask our Lord for the wherewithal to know the Mind of Christ at a given time in a given matter, or in our lives as a whole?

I believe the foregoing scripture is all about snapping the correct pieces of that puzzle, which represents our lives, together at the correct time, and in the correct manner; assuring that we do not subtract any pieces which do belong, and being very careful that we exclude any pieces which do not belong.

Sometimes, I marvel at how quickly time passes. There is a line in a well-known movie which refers to the passage of time. “It was only a moment ago.”

Well, my friend, it only seems like a moment ago. I think about various people, places and things among us, whom and which I have been associated over the past seventy years, as well as the choices and scenarios which have befallen me in that length of time, and I realize none of it can be relived, restored or recovered.

And almost every day which passes now, I pray a particular prayer.

“Lord, please don’t allow me to miss whatever still remains of my destiny.”

It is imperative that we get it right. It is crucial that we snap the remaining pieces of life’s puzzle together, and do it in the most excellent way possible; avoiding any pieces which don’t belong, and exercising great care that we don’t subtract any pieces which do belong.


by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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CHRISTMAS EVE, 1942

It was Christmas Eve 1942. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas.

We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Daddy wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible. After supper was over, I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Daddy to get down the old Bible.

I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Daddy didn't get the Bible instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though. I was too busy wallowing in self-pity.

Soon he came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now he was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this. But I knew he was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my coat. Mommy gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.

Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load. Daddy was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy. When I was on, Daddy pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed.

"I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high side boards on.

Then Daddy went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood, the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting. What was he doing? Finally, I said something. I asked, "what are you doing?" “You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. Mrs. Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what?

Yeah," I said, "Why?"

"I rode by just today," he said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt." That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it. Finally, he called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smoke house and he took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait. When he returned, he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand.

"What's in the little sack?" I asked. Shoes, they're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."

We rode the two miles to Mrs. Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Daddy was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was he buying them shoes and candy? Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been our concern.

We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible. Then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked. The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?" "Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"

Mrs. Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another, and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Mrs. Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.

"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Daddy said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then he handed her the sack that had the shoes in it. She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children; sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling, and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at my Daddy like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.

"We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," he said. Then turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up." I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat, and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too. In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks; with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak.

My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before filled my soul. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.

I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Daddy handed them each a piece of candy, and Mrs. Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said. "I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."

In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of my Daddy in those exact terms before. But after Widow Jensen mentioned it, I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Daddy had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Mommy and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.

Daddy insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes.

Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. My Daddy took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Daddy, and I was glad that I still had mine.

At the door Daddy turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous, if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters had all married and had moved away.

Mrs. Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, May the Lord bless you, I know for certain that He will."

Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within, and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Daddy turned to me and said, "Matt, I want you to know something. Your Mother and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough.”

“Then, yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back came by to make things square. Your Mom and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that, but on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks, and I knew what I had to do. Son, I spent the money for shoes, and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand."

I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Daddy had done it. Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. He had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Mrs. Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children. For the rest of my life, whenever I saw any of the Jensen’s, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside my Daddy that night. He had given me much more than a rifle that night. He had given me the best Christmas of my life.

(Unknown author)

FOLLOW ME

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

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

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

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

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me

And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pt. 2


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harold Walls

(Manna for the Journey Devotions)



Pt. 3                       

                                             FOLLOW ME

                                                                               Ira Stanphill

I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care,
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me,
And then I heard Him say so tenderly,
"My feet were also weary upon the Calv'ry road,
The cross became so heavy I fell beneath the load,
Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see,
Just lift your cross and follow close to me."

"I work so hard for Jesus" I often boast and say,
"I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,
I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to thee,"
And then I heard Him gently say to me,
"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss,
My hands were nailed in anger upon a cruel cross,
But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine,
So lift your cross and follow close to me."

Oh Jesus if I die upon a foreign field someday
'Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay,
"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,"
These are the words he gently spoke to me,
"If just a cup of water I place within your hand
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand,"
But if by death to living they can thy glory see,
I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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AMAZING GRACE

As I sat in church today, a young lady named “Brooke,” our pastor’s great granddaughter, stepped to the piano, and played a couple of stanzas of “Amazing Grace.” (And it might be said that she played it right well).

And as Brooke’s fingers slid back and forth over the “ivories,” one, by one, almost every member of our congregation stood in solemn respect for the hymn, the writer of the hymn, and last, but certainly not least, the Savior to whom the song was dedicated in the first place.

Our congregation sings the hymn on a recurring basis. Why, as soon as I hear old Brother Martin say, “Let’s turn to page 186 in the green hymnal,” I cannot remain seated. Strange, no other Christian song elicits the immediate, almost subliminal response of standing to one’s feet.

And it occurs to me that the closest illusion I have to compare to the respect the song engenders is when I counseled a young Hindu woman. Each time Damini walked into my office, she would bend at the waist, and respectfully touch my feet. I think my compulsion to stand during the singing of, “Amazing Grace” is very much like it.

“Amazing Grace” is, with little or no contradiction, the most amazing song which has ever been consigned to paper, and is known throughout the world; to saints and sinners, alike.

I have often reflected that John Newton, the former slave ship captain, and, ultimately, minister of the Gospel, vocal opponent of slavery, and the writer of this hymn, would be almost “bowled over” to discover that his hymn is the best-known song of any kind, secular or religious,… in the history of the world. It has been sung in multiplied dozens of languages, and men and women, boys and girls of every religion, or the lack thereof, recognize it after just a few notes fill the air.

And if “Amazing Grace” is the best-known song which has ever been penned, the first verse of the song is the best-known stanza of any song which has ever been set to paper.

“Amazing Grace. How sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me!

I once was lost, but now I’m found,

was blind but now I see!”

I sang, “Amazing Grace” as a solo at both my father’s and mother’s memorial services, and counted it a privilege to do so.  I was privileged to sing this amazing song at a dinner table in Killarney, Ireland last year, and it occurred to me that I wasn’t all that far away from the place where it had been written.



But you know, there was just something eloquent about the earnestness, expressiveness, and endearing quality of that precious song, as Brooke played it on the piano this morning, and I think it spoke to my soul like it never did before.


by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THE 'BILL'S' OF THIS WORLD

His name is Bill. He has wild hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans and flip flops. This was literally his wardrobe for his four years of high school. He is brilliant. Kinda odd in his worldview and perspective, but he is very, very bright. He became a Christian during his junior year of high school when a fellow student shared her faith with him.

Across the street from the high school campus is a modern, conservative and active church. They work hard to develop ministries to the students, but that process is constantly changing and a challenge. One Sunday Bill decides to go visit the church. He walks in with no shoes, jeans, his T-shirt and wild hair. The service has just started so Bill starts down an aisle looking for a seat. The church is pretty full, and Bill doesn't want to invade anyone's territory. As he makes his way up the aisle, people are looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anything. Bill gets closer and closer to the front, and rather than bother anyone he just squats down on the carpet in front of the first row of chairs and makes himself comfortable.

Because this is so out of the norm, people who see Bill sitting up front on the floor are increasingly uncomfortable. About the time Bill gets settled in, the Pastor realizes that one of the Deacons who is sitting toward the back of the auditorium has gotten up from his seat and is making his way toward the front, and specifically toward Bill.

He's a godly man, very dignified and respected, wearing a suit and tie as he walks with his cane, his silver hair neatly combed and his Bible under his arm. You can't blame him for what he is about to do. How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some barefoot teenage kid with long hair, blue jeans and a T-shirt who has walked in and thinks it is somehow acceptable to just sit on the floor in front of everyone?

It takes what seems like a long time for the Deacon to reach the front where Bill is seated. The church is completely silent except for the whispers in the congregation. All eyes are focused on the front. Everyone is glad this one senior adult Deacon has taken matters into his own hands. Even the Pastor is frozen in the moment with mixed emotions and thoughts running through his mind and heart.

Then, suddenly God showed up. When this elderly Deacon gets to where Bill is seated, he every slowly and carefully kneels down beside Bill, then lays his cane and his Bible on the floor and sits down; to worship beside Bill so he won't be sitting alone. Everyone chokes up with emotion. The Deacon doesn't say a word, he just gently reaches out his hand to shake Bill's. In that moment, although nothing is said, much is communicated.

When the Pastor is able to speak, he simply says,

"What I am about to preach, you will never remember. What you have just seen, you will never forget."

Sometimes it takes a Bill to help us focus and prioritize. Thank God for the Bill's who will break the barrier, and a deacon who is filled with the Holy Spirit to respond in obedience.

Oh, that our churches would fall in Love with Jesus Fresh and Anew.

(Anonymous)

A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I didn’t grow up watching “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” but then again, its inception was in 1968, a year after I graduated from high school; (so the likelihood that I would have devoted much time to the program was almost nil).

In the last few moments I did a Google search, and discovered that the television show aired for a grand total of (drum roll) 33 years, and only went off the air in 2001; a fateful year for this country, and two years before his passing.

It occurs to me that “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was on television for the same amount of time that Jesus lived, and moved and breathed on the earth. I have never heard anyone expound on this bit of information. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. But then, I don’t believe in coincidences.

Oh, I remember seeing snippets of Fred Rogers’ program, and honestly, it did little or nothing for me at the time. Obviously, the show was geared towards little children; the humor, the skits, the puppets, the guests. And “Bro. Fred’s” voice and mannerisms always struck me as a bit effeminate.

Speaking of the foregoing prefix before his name, many people were unaware that Mr. Rogers was actually Rev. Rogers. For you see, Fred was an ordained Presbyterian minister, and to my knowledge, he possessed a calling unlike any other; before or since. Interestingly enough, he had been specially commissioned by his church to host “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” for the little boys and girls of America.

I have written about Mr. Rogers in the past, having previously read a poignant story of which he was the subject. And come to think about it, I only have “given him the time of day” the past couple of years; (a full decade and a half after his death).


Pt. 2


As I have inferred, I love a particular story I read about Mr. Rogers. I am including that story here.

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

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

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

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

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

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

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

But this story is about to get even better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Allison Carter, USA Today)


Pt. 3


There is a new movie out with Tom Hanks called, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” And since I had previously written about Mister Rogers, (a blog that is not included here) I had more than a passing interest in seeing the movie.

Admittedly, I feel a little guilty going to a movie alone these days, as my wife is staying with our grandson, while our daughter is spending a month in Nepal, (yes, Nepal) engaged in doing social work with an NGO there. (But, admittedly, the guilt wasn’t potent enough to preclude me from following through with my plan last night).

Well, so I got dressed, and drove the ten or twelve minutes which separated me from the local theater in time for the first Friday evening premier showing. However, when I arrived, I discovered that the parking lot was full to overflowing, and I surmised that I didn’t want any part of sitting “bunched up” against a person on my left and one on my right, and a theater packed out like sardines in a can. As a result, I had no sooner drove into the “asphalt jungle” that I turned around and drove out of it.

Having arrived home, and put on my jogging shorts and muscle shirt, I debated whether I would “take in” the 1030pm showing of the movie. I was tired, and I knew my ambition would, no doubt, progressively wane in the two hours which separated me from the process of redressing, getting in the car, and heading back to the theater.

However, as a counselor I tell my clients that there’s a great substitute for ambition, since ambition is little more than an emotion. The substitute? A decision. After all, anything good must be done “on purpose.” Only wrecks happen by accident. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that little teaching).


Pt. 4


Thus, I made a premeditated decision to take in the late movie. I realized that the theater would be “blown out” on Saturday, and I would find myself in exactly “the same boat” as I experienced the first time that I drove up to the theater.

Throwing my street clothes back on, I walked out the door at 9:55pm, and retraced my route of two hours earlier. Ten minutes later I drove into… an almost empty parking lot, and, as you might expect, I wasn’t complaining.

Exiting the car, I walked the twenty yards which separated me from my quest; the box office window. And as I stepped up to the young lady in the booth, and she looked expectantly at me, waiting for me to announce the movie of my choice, I almost involuntarily began to sing.

(Yeah, I did).

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood…”

And then, the slightest bit self-conscious, I mused,

“I bet lots of folks have walked up to you tonight singing that song.”

To which “Anna” replied,

“Ummm. Nope, you’re the first one!”

(Now, I really did feel like a fool. LOL).

Having purchased my ticket, I walked through the front door and into the lobby, had my ticket punched by the attendant, walked to the candy counter, asked for a senior popcorn and coke, paid for my goodies, and proceeded to theater number three; down the hallway, second door on the right.


Pt. 5


Walking into the theater, I found it to be very dark, very quiet, and …very empty.

As a matter of fact, I was the only human being in the whole place! And, as I always do, I climbed the steps of the amphitheater to the top, walked to the middle of the row of seats, and plopped down, dead center; setting my drink in the right holder, and my wallet, and cell phone in the left one. (I am one of those guys who doesn’t like to carry stuff in my pockets. Even when I go to a restaurant, I immediately set the obtrusive items on the table).

Be that as it may, I sat “all by my lonely” on the top row of the theater, as the commercials for upcoming movies ran for 15 plus minutes. However, finally, finally the opening credits of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” flickered onto the screen.

And as you might imagine, the first scene had a fairly believable Tom Hanks, portraying Mr. Rogers, walking through the door of his “play room,” opening a nearby closet, exchanging his suit coat for a red sweater, and taking off his street shoes, and replacing them with sneakers.

To be fair, I thought the well-known actor’s attempt to replicate Mr. Rogers’ voice was slightly contrived, (but perhaps only slightly). At the same time, he looked enough like “the real McCoy” for this audience of one to settle in, and absorb the plot and implications of the movie.

And without absolutely spoiling it for you, suffice it to say that the plot centered around a fella named Tom Junod, (though he assumes a different name in the film), an Esquire magazine journalist, and his relationship with Mr. Rogers; (which all began when the former contacted the latter for an interview).


Ultimately, this interview was titled, “Can You Say…Hero?” and became the feature story for the November 1998 issue of Esquire magazine, and featured (there’s that word again) the beaming image of Mr. Rogers on the cover.


Pt. 6


And again, without giving away anything, Mr. Rogers made a profound difference in Tom Junod’s life, and for that matter, the life of his entire family. He made a difference in many lives that God set in his pathway.

There was an exchange in the movie in which our “hero” is speaking on the phone with the foregoing journalist, and he says,

“Do you know who the most important person in my life is, Tom?”

And perhaps Junod merely responded with, “Who?”

And with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight catch in his characteristic voice, Mr. Rogers replies,

“Well, at this very moment, Tom, you are the most important person in my life!”

I think that’s how he made you feel. Yes, I think that’s how he made you feel. As if for that moment in time, you were the only person who really mattered to him.


I felt very much this way when I paraphrased the Book of Philippians; (years before I paraphrased the entire New Testament). It was as if I was given the wherewithal to walk into Paul’s Roman cell, and sit down beside him, and talk with him about his life, and impact and suffering, to know him as my friend and brother, and to realize his compassion and joy in spite of the circumstances which surrounded him.
Following is a poignant reminiscence from an article about Mr. Rogers.

“Every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,

‘the number 143 means I love you. It takes one letter to say I, and four letters to say love, and three letters to say you. One hundred and forty-three. I love you. Isn't that wonderful?’”

Pt. 7


And now, the movie finally drew to a close, and I hesitated to leave. After stuffing my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, I ambled down the long flight of steps, and paused to see if any actual footage of the “real” Mister Rogers would appear on the screen. And, in fact, it did.

There he was standing in his element, in his little “play room” with his puppets, and lighting up his little world with that memorable smile.

Now, I walked down the long hallway which led out of the very dark, very quiet and… very empty theater. And as I walked out the door, and into the lobby of the place, I could still hear the closing song as it trailed off behind me.Top of Form

Bottom of Form

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.


So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during the moments which he granted me, I was the most important person in his life.

*(Interestingly enough, some genealogist connected to the movie, or otherwise recently informed Tom Hanks that he and Mister Rogers are 6th cousins. No wonder they look alike).

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

A SLICE OF BREAD

There is a story about several Jewish children who were rescued from one of the Nazi concentration camps, as WWII was winding down. I have long since forgotten exactly what country it was, since the SS ran camps in numerous occupied countries. However, after the children were brought out of these infamous death camps, they were placed in orphanages throughout Europe.

It seems these children had been exposed to abuse and deprivation during their tenure in the camps, and they exhibited the symptoms of PTSD. Their most prominent symptoms were anxiety, including nervousness which resulted in trembling and twitches, and a fear that they would, once again, be deprived of life-giving nourishment.

In one case, the nuns in a Catholic orphanage were almost besides themselves with frustration and a feeling of helplessness that the children continued to exhibit the foregoing symptoms, and they didn’t know how to do a thing about it.

And then, one of the Catholic sisters had an idea.

As the children were getting ready for bed, she walked around their bedroom; holding a loaf of bread. And one by one, “Sister Margaret” placed a single slice of bread in their hands. And strangely enough, almost immediately, she saw a marked change in their countenance. The fear disappeared from their faces, half smiles appeared in its place, and it seemed even the pallor of their skin took on a pinkish glow.

And it immediately occurred to the children’s caregivers that the dear young lady had stumbled upon the simplest of interventions.

A slice of bread

For you see, the fear and nervousness had dissipated, and the boys and girls intuitively understood that they would wake up in the morning with something with which to satisfy their hunger.

And from that time forward, and for as long as the precious boys and girls lived in the orphanage, each and every child was provided a slice of bread to hold in their hands, and, almost without exception, they quietly drifted off to sleep.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

THE END OF THE LINE

*Following is a true story from the first half of the 20^th century

Saul was an accomplished musician and Susannah, his wife, was an acclaimed vocalist. However, as one decade gave way to the next their bookings decreased, and they ‘hit on hard times.’

And as is sometimes the case when emotions are raw, and hopelessness rules and reigns, the couple resorted to alcohol, and illegal substances to numb their feelings. Over time they became so addicted to the stuff, and so thoroughly destitute that Saul urged Susannah to sell her body. And sell her body, she did. On a daily basis.

One night as the couple sat in their little shanty, they began to talk about doing the unspeakable. They would check into a hotel room, take poison and die. Life was no longer worth the living.

As Saul and Susannah each poured themselves a glass of water, and she retrieved a double handful of prescription drugs from her purse, Saul noticed a Bible on the bed stand. Suddenly, the momentum towards oblivion stopped, he picked up the Bible and began reading aloud.

“For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” (Romans 10:13)

Both Saul and Susannah were marvelously converted that evening, and joy of joys surrendered not only their souls, but the entire rest of their lives to the Creator.

Ultimately, the couple devoted their time and efforts to the ministry, went on to pastor numerous churches, and impacted thousands of souls whom God set in their pathway.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending