FULL CIRCLE

We are approaching Veteran's Day, and I come from a long line of men who served their country, and in some cases laid down their very lives, to assure the health and very survival of this nation.

Today I have decided to write about a particular veteran, namely my father, and WWII sailor, Henry McDonald. And since I have been musing about a figurative circle which represents the fate of our two lives, I will reveal it here for the first time.

They say that truth is stranger than fiction, and I think in this case that old adage could not be any more true.

You see, I gave my life to the Lord Jesus Christ in 1967; over half a century ago. And since the location of that experience, and my newly chosen pastor and church were Pentecostal, (rather than Methodist) my parents greeted my newfound faith with skepticism, (and my father’s emotions ran more towards abject anger).

Well, the first thing daddy did, after my conversion experience, was to drag me down to his current, and my former minister, Rev. Blitch; pastor “down at” the local Methodist church. I didn’t stutter. That was Rev. Blitch. (I have mused that if that were my name, I would have changed it). At any rate, my dad’s efforts lent themselves more towards changing my mind about my school of choice, Southeastern Bible College, (than any hope of changing my religion, or at least the brand name of my church affiliation). Pastor B. leaned towards compromise, and he suggested I consider registering for my freshman year at a local community college.

Apparently, I wasn’t altogether convinced, so another meeting was scheduled. My current pastor’s wife, “Sis.” Asbury was Director of Nurses at what was known as The Rohr Home. She suggested we also invite the Southeastern Bible College Dean of Students, Rev. Williams, to join us. As a result, on such and such a day we gathered together in Mrs. Asbury’s office on the premises of the nursing home.

My dad aired his grievances, and I aired mine. Sis. Asbury acted as an arbitrator, while Rev. Williams shared some perspectives about college life, and SEBC in particular. When “it was all said and done,” I compromised. I agreed to attend Polk Junior College; at least for my freshman year. After that, all bets were off. (As a matter of fact, in my sophomore year, I transferred to SEBC).

My father continued to cajole and complain about my choice of studies, as I was intent on pursuing a missions major, while he suggested I consider Industrial Food Technology. Well my readers, I still have no idea what that particular animal is, but I didn’t want to know what it was. And I had no intention of devoting the time and effort represented by 40 college level courses towards some profession to which I had not been “called,” nor had the slightest interest.

Well, Henry, (I’ll refer to him as “Henry” here) got bitter before he got better.

As the result of the pursuit of my particular brand of Christianity, choice of college, and career, daddy stepped away from the Methodist church. He never said so, but I’m convinced that he decided to get even with God for what he construed as misdirecting his son. It was about this time that Henry even quit the Masonic Lodge; (a group which I consider to be a pseudo-religious organization).

While my father had attended the local Methodist Church for years, (and as I recall, he had once been an elder there) to my knowledge he had never accepted Christ as his Savior. It is ironic to me these many years later that as a child in this denomination I never witnessed an altar call, nor did I ever hear the subject of salvation mentioned from the pulpit!

As time progressed, Daddy developed a sensitivity about God’s fairness, (or lack thereof). Whenever I introduced the topic of salvation, he “came back at me” with his disillusionment with God, (if there was a God) and His failure to protect all the starving and abused children on the earth. I have little doubt that my dad believed in God, or at least a god, but he viewed the Creator with pessimism, and the best that could be said of his faith was that he was an agnostic.

Decades rolled by, and my parents made the move from our childhood home to a 55+ mobile home park in Bartow. Lo and behold, a retired chaplain, (and Methodist minister) moved in next to him. Mama tells me that the first thing out of his mouth was, “I don’t like preachers. Why did he have to move in next to me?” and “Don’t expect me to give him the time of day.”

Well… not only did my dad “give him the time of day,” but he warmed up to Dick, and they became fast friends.

Though Dick and Jean attended the same local church that my parents had previously attended for years, daddy never returned. But I like to think, no, I know  that “Rev. Richard” had a profound influence on him, and no doubt he sometimes spoke of the Lord.

As time progressed, my dad grew more sedate, and enjoyed sitting by the back window looking at the birds, and watching the fish jump in his pond. He would doze throughout the day, and when I’d come for a visit I’d often remark, “Daddy, wake up! They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping later.” (As in the long sleep which we all will one day enter into). We know now that my dad had experienced a few mini-strokes, and this contributed to his lack of energy, and the “Icouldcareless-ism” he enjoyed.

Ultimately, my father sustained a fall, and hit his head on a table. As a result, he “took to his bed,” and the next day I encouraged him to take a ride with me to the emergency room. He was subsequently admitted to the hospital.

And this is where it got interesting, no, downright ironic, and where the entire scenario began to “come full circle.”

When I asked my pastor, “Bro.” Kern, to pray for my dad, he made me aware he’d like to visit him. And visit him, he did. Now mind you, I am still a Pentecostal Christian, and it goes without saying, so is my pastor. As long as my father was in the hospital, our pastor visited on a routine basis. And after daddy was transferred to a nursing home, the pastor continued to visit.

Did I mention that the name of the nursing facility happens to be The Rohr Home? Well readers, if you’ve been paying attention, you might recognize the name of this facility. It is the self-same building in which my dad and I sat in the administrator’s office, and discussed his contention with me, and my plans for the future; a full four decades before. What goes around comes around.

As each visit came to a close, Bro. Kern always prayed with my father. Daddy loved and appreciated this Pentecostal preacher, and he never failed to bid him goodbye with the words, “Preacher, you’re the best pray-er I ever knew.” (Pray-er - one who prays).

Eventually, my dad passed away on the grounds of this facility, and though by now he had no use for organized religion, nor any church, my mother scheduled a memorial service for him… at the local Methodist Church; not twenty feet from the office where my dad and I once debated our differences with his preacher.

I was blessed to speak at my father’s memorial service. And ironically, a Pentecostal preacher, my dad’s dear friend, and “best pray-er,” Bro. Kern, offered the benediction.

Interestingly enough, my mother was later admitted to the same nursing home, and our dear pastor was good to visit her in her final months. She eventually went on to her reward here as well.

I often reflect on the “then and now” of the thing.



Full circle. 360 degrees. Absolute Irony.

I have no doubt where my father is today.

God really does have a sense of humor, and quite a flair for timing.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending