HELLO AGAIN

I have previously written about my Buddy, a precious, little pooch that we loved more than life. And though she has been gone almost a decade and a half, something occurred in the past few days which “brought it all flooding back” to me again.

But to return for a moment to the day she made her first appearance in our lives.

It was the winter of 1996, and as I drew open the front curtains in our living room, I immediately noticed two puppies frolicking in our front yard. But these weren’t just the ‘garden variety’ of canines. They were Shih Tzu’s; an expensive breed, indeed. One was white and auburn. The other was white with black trim. And as you might imagine, I stepped out my front door, and picked up the little things; one in each hand.

I can’t account for it now, but it never occurred to me to call the pound, or take the precious things to a vet to check for chips; (if indeed they implanted chips a quarter century ago). But, rather, I lifted my garage door, and placed them there for safekeeping. (At that time, I was especially sensitive about parasites, and didn’t want them bringing fleas into my house).

However, I had neglected one crucial ingredient. The rear door of our garage needed repair, and I discovered it could be easily pushed open. (As you might imagine, I realized this after two little canine toddlers managed to push it open).

They were gone, and there was little or nothing I could do about it.



Pt. 2

Or at least I thought.

A couple of days came, and went, and our doorbell chimed about 8pm one evening. Opening the door, I was greeted by our daughter in law; whom we knew was scheduled to drop by that night.

She was holding the white and auburn little Shih Tzu which had escaped from my garage. The poor thing was shivering like it had been dipped in freezing water.

Walking in, Renae told us that as she rounded the curve into our cul de sac, she noticed the tiny pooch next to our neighbor’s mailbox. And lying at her feet was her little Bro. He had obviously been hit by a car, and was well beyond help.

Our (yet unnamed) Buddy could not be consoled. I am convinced she was in shock. The only friend she possessed on earth had “gently stepped away;” (But, sadly, not all that gently).

I immediately noticed something different about the precious pooch which lay in our daughter in law’s hands. Whereas, just days ago the puppies were dirty and matted, by now the small creature had been washed and groomed. It was apparent that Buddy and her little Bro had been rescued by another party, washed and groomed, but had once again made good their escape.

Buddy remained with us a full ten years, and, subsequently, prepared to make her journey home; her eternal home. I have written a small volume about Buddy, and my other dog, Lucy. Suffice it to say, Buddy loved, and was loved, and will never be forgotten.

(As a matter of fact, she did a more than adequate job to assure that would never happen; which will soon become apparent).

Pt. 3

Perhaps a week before Buddy “crossed the Rainbow Bridge” I was holding her, and, for no apparent reason, she began to tremble. The momentary manifestation lasted all of a couple of minutes. However, as I reflected on the event later, I was convinced she had been afforded a glimpse of what awaited her within a few short days.

She left us in the course of a night, and I was thankful that I didn’t have to have her,… well, you know.

And as I have inferred, I have written exhaustively about her life, (and her afterlife). But allow me to reminisce, reflect, remember and repeat myself a bit here.

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.

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.

Pt. 4

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.

And then, 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. 

Pt. 5

Over the years, I have often thought of my dearly departed pooch, and the supernatural grace with which I was gifted; after she resigned her mortal body to the elements. As a result, I have often referred to her as “my posthumous pooch.”

And though I was gifted to both sense and see my little Buddy within days of her passing, I had little or no reason to believe she would ever return.

As King David once said of his dearly departed son,

“He cannot come to me. I must go to him.”

However…

Nearly a decade and a half after my Buddy’s ethereal trip across the Rainbow Bridge, she (or God, Himself) apparently made the decision to expend a bit more grace upon me.

I was lying in my easy chair on a recent Sunday afternoon, and doing my best to take in a nap when…

I heard something in our back room…

Like a dog shaking water off her back after a summer swim.

And I knew. I just knew.

My dear little Buddy had returned; if only for a moment. And yet, for the brevity of her appearance, I was both excited and encouraged by her unexpected visit.

And I cannot help but remember when she came to us a second time, and in so doing her little Bro succumbed to an accident. She trembled violently then.

And I can’t help but recall the premonition she evidently experienced just prior to her demise; when she shivered, as if she’d been dipped in cold water.

However, based on the strange and wonderful opportunities I have been afforded over the years, I am convinced that Buddy has relinquished any and all of her early grief, and latter anxiety, and has acclimated well to her heavenly environment.

And I know the little siblings are together again, and I am sure they are making up for the years which they were so unexpectedly denied this side of heaven.

Afterward

There is a wonderful verse in Psalm 36:6.

“You, Lord, preserve both men and animals, alike.”

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.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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PLENTY OF TIME FOR SLEEPING

Pt. 1

I dreamed a dream last night

In my dream it seemed I was some sort of heavenly conductor, (or perhaps ‘dispatcher’ is a better word).

But it seemed to me that I stood behind a counter, or in a booth, and as I conducted my affairs, I looked over towards a corner of the room. And I noticed what appeared to be an eighty something year old man with white receding hair, and a five day old beard, and wearing a bedraggled pair of jeans, and a dirty t-shirt. And he was lying on the floor asleep.

And it occurred to me. This was none other than my father. I had seen him in these clothes before, (though perhaps not quite as threadbare), and the situation, in general, was familiar. For you see, ‘til he left us about a decade ago, I used to visit him often. And nine times out of ten, I found him in his living room by the lake, and “taking in a siesta” in his favorite easy chair.

And as I walked in, I would always exclaim,

“Wake up daddy! They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”

(And by this, I meant the “long sleep” which has been promised to all of earth’s creatures).

Well, with this bit of recurring guidance, he would stir a bit, open his groggy eyes, smile, and say something like,

“Now, why did you want to wake me out of the best sleep I ever had!”

Of course, I knew what I was hearing was less of a complaint, and more of a tease, and I could not help but laugh out loud.

Pt. 2

Speaking of the bedraggled clothing my father was wearing, as he lay in the corner of the heavenly depot…

A couple years ago, my sister forwarded a photo of my dad to me; one which I hadn’t seen before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And if I could select one scripture to accompany the photo, I think I might affix the following caption:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)



Afterward

And now, my dream continued…

And not unlike the recurring scenario which I have previously described for you, (but now replacing his personal title with his given name) I shouted,

“Henry, wake up! You’re next!”

And with this, my father stirred a bit from his slumber, opened his eyes, and looked expectedly towards me.

And now, I resumed my instructions.

“Get up from there. You see that door?” (And I pointed towards a closed door on the other side of the depot). It’s your time. And that’s your door.”

And with this, my father stood up, nodded, and made his way to the designated door. I watched him as he ambled over to the non-descript, white door, turned a final time, offered me that big ole toothy grin, grasped the handle, walked through the door, and closed it behind him.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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NEW EXPERIENCES

Pt. 1


I am not, as a rule, a fan of new experiences since new experiences are so often… bad experiences, (and there is nothing especially redeeming about them).


I mean, I recall sitting in the 20^th something pew in a large church when I was all of 20 years old, and suddenly Rev. Matheny stepped to the pulpit, and said,


“Bro. McDonald, will you come now and lead us in prayer.”


Well, as you might imagine, I was humbled that he had chosen a novice like me to lead his three hundred something parishioners in prayer. As I stood to my feet, my (former) wife’s right hand touched my left forearm. But I was, by this time, oblivious to anything but the mission which had been appointed me. 


Walking down the middle aisle, I reached the front of the church,… as an aged man took the pastor’s place behind the pulpit. I had been so unobservant that I hadn’t noticed the old man, as he made his way from one of the stage chairs to the podium.

Having reached the end of the aisle, Bro. Matheny stepped down from the stage, and asked,

“Yes, do you need prayer?”

Excusing myself, I sheepishly made my way back to the 20^th something pew from whence I came,… as the elderly Rev. McDonald entoned his sanctimonious prayer.

And speaking of new experiences which began much better than they ended, my wife and I traveled to Scotland last year. And prior to boarding the tour bus one day, I asked our guide, Deanne, if she would mind me singing an acapella version of, “Danny Boy” to our group.

She acquiesced, and as the bus traveled down the narrow two lane roadway, I mused that I was doing a fairly presentable job of it until… I reached the third line of the second stanza.

“Tis I’ll be here…”

Suffice it to say I failed to hit the high note, and I sounded more like a screech owl than an accomplished baritone.

Too often, new experiences… end in disaster.

Pt. 2

Why, even today I had a new experience.

(Believe me. I did).

I was scheduled to sing a solo in this morning’s worship service in our church. I had chosen, “I’d Rather Have Jesus.”

I should have known things were about to go from bad to worse when the pastor walked to the podium, and introduced me, as “Dr. Joyce,” (as in Dr. Joyce Brothers), but immediately corrected himself, and said, “Uhmmm, sorry, Dr. Royce.”

I smiled, and replied,

“You can call me Dr. Joyce. You can call me Dr. Royce. Just don’t call me late for dinner!” And since it is my habit to introduce my songs with some “background color,” I continued.

“About a hundred years ago, a certain young man’s mother laid a poem on a piano in their living room, knowing that he would soon sit down on the piano bench, see the poem, and (quite possibly) feel inclined to write some music to accompany the words. That young man was George Beverly Shea. And as a matter of fact, he did see the poem lying there, and he did feel inclined to write some music to accompany the poem. Years later, this same young man, slightly older now, joined the Billy Graham Association, was the featured soloist at most of his crusades, and often sang that very song.”

(So far, so good).

Now, I nodded at the pianist and organist, and they provided me the lead in.

“Dum de dum, dum dum dum dum.”

And with this, I began to sing…

“I'd rather have Jesus than silver or gold.
I'd rather be His than have riches untold.
I'd rather have Jesus than houses or land.
I'd rather be led by His nail-pierced hand.”

(And now the chorus)


“Than to be the king of a vast domain or…”

Pt. 3

Or what?

Perhaps it was because I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses, but for the life of me there were more words on this line than were there when I printed the lyrics earlier this morning.

“be held in something something something,” and a couple more ‘somethings.’ (I honestly don’t recall the words which I thought I was seeing now).

I found myself singing words which I knew weren’t there, and the combination of words made absolutely no sense at all. I waved the musicians down, and said,

“Sorry everyone. I need to begin again.”

(Which I summarily proceeded to do).

I got through the first verse for the second time, and began the chorus again.

“Than to be the king of a vast domain or…”

Once more, I found myself fumbling the words. I absolutely can’t explain it twelve hours later, but I was singing words that weren’t there… again.

(My wife was home sick, but she told me later that, as a nurse, she would have rushed up on the stage presuming I was experiencing a medical event).

But I was absolutely humiliated, and had to flag the musicians down… again.

At this point, I was SO close to calling it quits, apologizing to my audience, walking out the side door, taking my seat in my 2015 Nissan Altima, and setting a course for home.

Pt. 4

In the past couple of weeks, I came up with an adage that has become one of several of my mission statements.

“It ‘don’t’ have to be fun. It just has to be done.”

I can tell you my two previous attempts to sing this song was anything but fun.

I think by now not only was my listening audience surprised, but, if possible, I was even more so. For you see, I had sung this same song, in this same church, behind this same pulpit, multiplied times over the past decade.

And as Mrs. Fairfax of “Jane Eyre” fame was prone to ask,

“What to do? What to do?”

I made a momentary decision to try one more time.

“Third verse, same as the first.” But this time when I got to the chorus,

“Than to be the king of a vast domain or…”

At this juncture I turned towards the musicians, raised my arms and waved them like a conductor, and allowed them to sing the next line. Vera and Gary complied.

“…be held in sin’s dread sway.”

I turned back to my audience, and finished the chorus…

“I’d rather have Jesus than anything

this world affords today.”

And thus, it went until I finished singing the three stanzas of the song. However, in spite of the seeming fool I had been making of myself, the pastor wouldn’t allow me to sit down!

Bro. Kern stepped up beside me, and said,

“Sing the chorus again!”

And I thought, you have to be kidding me!”

But I complied, and every time I thought I was done, the pastor urged me to continue. And suddenly, he called the congregation forward.

“I want everyone to come to the front. C’mon now.”

And as the thirty or forty in attendance made their way forward, he continued to instruct them.

“Everyone join in! Let me hear you!”

And by now, we were all singing the chorus together. And once, when I walked towards the right side of the stage, the preacher called me back with,

“You’re not done yet!”

And by the time we were done, I had sung that chorus a minimum of 15, perhaps 20 times!

Several people told me later that the singing was anointed, and that they “got a real blessing” from it.

It was a new experience for me, and perhaps the most “successful failure” I have ever experienced in my 70 years on this planet!

Pt. 5

Speaking of new experiences, you might find it surprising, if I were to tell you that it is also possible for God to have a new experience. The Creator of the universe, the King of kings and Lord of lords, the Supreme Ruler, the “I AM,” the Bright and Morning Star, the Everlasting God once participated in an experience which He’d never before known…

when Christ, the Son of God submitted Himself to the will of His Father, allowed the most dramatic limitation of His Person and power of all time, was in some inexplicable way reduced to the microscopic size of a fertilized human egg, matured as a fetus in a human womb, was born of a virgin named ‘Mary,’ suckled at his mother’s breasts, and lived in obscurity for three decades; prior to His advent and introduction to public ministry.

Jesus Christ, who along with His Father, and the Holy Spirit participated in the very creation of the universe, voluntarily limited Himself, and embraced a new experience, unlike anything He’d ever known in the eons, and ultimately gave Himself over to a sacrificial death on a wooden cross.

The Eternal God, Jesus Christ, the spirit being who, prior to His advent on the earth, possessed the power to manifest Himself anywhere, and everywhere, limited Himself, and dwelt among us, and experienced something unique to Himself; becoming the God-man. As much God as man. As much man as God. And He has seen fit to retain His earthly, nail-pierced body forevermore, (and despite His power) has forevermore limited Himself to occupying one human-sized bit of space at any given time.

Pt. 6

I love the passage of scripture which assures us of Christ’ humanness,  and His empathy for His creation.

“We have not a high priest who cannot be touched by the feelings of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin.” (Hebrews 4:15)

It was because He purposely limited Himself, and experienced something He’d never before taken the opportunity to experience that He has the unique wherewithal to put Himself in our place, and to say, “Stay encouraged. I’ve been there” (and) “I will give you rest.”

If you happen to be walking along the street one day, and someone approaches you with the question, “Is it possible for God to have a new experience?”

Tell them, “Yes. Yes, it is. The God I serve purposely emptied Himself of all His prerogatives, limited Himself, took on human flesh, and dwelt among us.”

And speaking of new experiences which end in failure, our natural enemy had every reason to think that what he meant for evil… would end very much the same way.

However, the rest is, as they say, history.

What Satan meant for evil, God meant for good. And this was one new experience which might well have resulted in abject calamity.

Christ, our Savior, was led by sinful men to the brow of Mt. Calvary, he voluntarily laid His body on the cross, rusty spikes were driven into His hands and feet, and He died a hideous death.


But whereas many new experiences end in failure, our Lord’s new experience was to be the most unlikely success of all time. In rising from the dead, He completed His Father’s plan which resulted in the most gracious offer of all time; a plan which is described in John 3:16.


After I finished my song this morning, and walked in my front door, I received a text from our pastor’s wife.

“Your song was wonderful! Wow!”

To which I responded,

“Well, it didn’t feel very wonderful when it was happening!”


No doubt, our Lord felt very much the same way.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

THE FOUR MUSKETEERS

They linger in the back of my mind, and more times than not, they make their way to the front. And I am reminded of the poem, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.”

And they will neither go quietly, nor will they go gently.

And I never tire of their recurring ‘visits’ and I never protest their presence. For they were such a larger presence in my life than the three dozen days a year which we spent together.

For you see, CWO Samuel Simpson, SFC Bob Hoehne, and SFC Bob Bass, and I served together in the reserve forces of this great nation. We were more than soldiers. We were more than associates. We were true friends.

Sam and Bob #1 were members of my section. The former was my “big boss.” The latter was my “little boss.” But in spite of rank, (I was a Staff Sergeant, and the lowest man on the proverbial totem pole), we treated one another as peers, and we made no distinction between us.

And then, there was Bob #2 (Bob Bass). While he was a member of a different section, he “showed up” in our office, (or, if we were doing field maneuvers, in our tent) a couple of times each weekend, and we all thoroughly enjoyed “shooting the bull” with him.

Sam and Bob #1 were all business when there was business to be done, but they knew how to have fun when there was fun to be had; more so the latter of the two, than the former, I think.

Bob was a Yankee, and hailed from New Jersey. He sometimes spoke of “going down the shore” as a young man. And as I have inferred, previously, he possessed (or was possessed by) a sense of humor. Once, when going through the morning chow line, he told the server, “I’d like a grit. Give me one grit.”

And I remember someone once asked Sam where he was from, and he said, “South America.” (and) “You know. Alabama. It’s in the South, and it’s in America.”


Pt. 2

On one particular “road march” the rain began. And “we’re not talking” some average little Florida downpour; (which starts and ends almost before it begins). No, this was a real “frog choker.” This drencher to end all drenchers began shortly after our guard unit left the armory, and continued as our twenty or more jeeps, blazers, and deuce and a halves pulled into the main gate at the Avon Park Bombing Range.

As we rolled into our field area, it was somewhat like the first paragraph from that old volume, “Jane Eyre.”

“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning. The cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.”

And similarly, like Jane Eyre, “I was glad of it.”

Once we pulled into the camp, six of us, including Sam, Bob#1, Bob# 2 and I, retreated to the driest available location; a cargo trailer. Apparently, there was very little cargo in it, or if so, only a small tent and poles lay on the floor.

And so, we found ourselves “snug as a bug in a rug,” and quite filling up the drop-down benches which lined each side of the trailer; while the rain continued its unmerciful deluge round about us. Thankfully, the green canvass which lined the wooden structure was “high and dry,” and no leak intruded on our revelry.

My military friends and I spent the next couple of hours talking about a myriad of miscellaneous and sundry things; none of which I recall now. But strangely enough, (to me, at least) as I write these words, it is with tears I remember that day.

It was a personally singular day that came and went, and will never return. But, for whatever reason, it is indelibly etched into my memory.

And I can only wonder if anyone else who sat in that little cargo trailer recalls that little interlude which served to postpone our Uncle Sam’s agenda; if only for a little while.

Pt. 3

CWO Simpson and SFC Hoehne retired from the guard in the early 90’s, and were transferred to the inactive reserve. I soon followed. To my knowledge, SFC Bass served a bit longer, and did the same. But since “The Four Musketeers” lived within ten miles of one another, we maintained contact; unfortunately, more sporadic, than regular in nature, and more so by phone and email, than “tete a tete.”

However, I recall once doing lunch with the guys at a local seafood restaurant. Another time Sam and I shared a meal in his adopted hometown of L.A., as he referred to it. (To be sure, Lake Alfred, not the larger, better known city in California). And sometime during the next several years, I remember speaking to Bob #1 about an upcoming physical exam for UPS. Could he loan me one of his blood pressure pills? Yes, indeed, he could, and he did. As a result, I passed my physical with “flying colors.”

Strange, as I write the foregoing lines, it occurs to me. SFC Hoehne experienced a fatal heart attack in 2002. As I recall, I read his obituary in the newspaper. By that time, he was already in repose in the Florida National Cemetery.

Sergeant First Class Bass, and I shared a common interest. We were both writers. But whereas, he wrote and published a book about the steamboats of early Florida, I wrote books about religious topics, and had, at that time, not managed to publish anything. I spoke to Bob a couple of times about his book, and the process whereby he managed to publish it.

Shortly after the first Bob went on to his reward, the second Bob and I happened to “bump into each other” at a gun show at the “Orange Dome” in the city which hosted Cypress Gardens. Of course, we greeted one another, and reminisced a bit about our dearly departed friend.

And while he moved, and lived and breathed among us for another decade, I never stood in the presence of this good man again. And I regret it.

Sam left us a couple years later, and has been gone over half a decade. And I, alone, am left to tell the tale.



I miss my friends, and I am poorer for their absence.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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STAND BY ME

When the storms of life are raging
Stand by me
When the storms of life are raging
Stand by me
When the world is tossing me
Like a ship upon the sea
Thou who rulest wind and water
Stand by me

In the midst of tribulation
Stand by me
In the midst of tribulation
Stand by me
When the hosts of hell assail
And my strength begins to fail
Thou who never lost a battle
Stand by me

In the midst of faults and failures
Stand by me
In the midst of faults and failures
Stand by me
When I do the best I can
And my friends misunderstand
Thou who knowest all about me
Stand by me
In the midst of persecution
Stand by me
In the midst of persecution
Stand by me
When my foes in battle array
Undertake to stop my way
Thou who saved Paul and Silas
Stand by me

When I’m growing old and feeble
Stand by me
When I’m growing old and feeble
Stand by me
When my life becomes a burden
And I’m nearing chilly Jordan
O Thou “Lily of the Valley”
Stand by me (Albert Tindley)

WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE?

As believers, I think we have all struggled with the question,

“Why do bad things happen to good people?”

At least, I know I have.

I have experienced any number of scenarios over the years which have, at best, seemed unfair. When, where and what are not important here. We “have all been there.”

In one of the movie classics to end all movie classics, Jenny can be seen pummeling her broken down old house with rocks; the hated environment in which she had once been abused by someone she should have been able to love and trust. Suddenly, she slumps to the ground, and someone, (you know who) speaks to his audience.

“Sometimes I guess there’s just not enough rocks!”

Well, sometimes I guess there’s just not enough answers!

I was speaking to someone this week about this particular ‘quotient,’ and suddenly I thought of the most exemplary example of unfairness of all time.

The God of the universe took on flesh and became a man and walked on the earth, (two thousand years before a man from earth walked on the moon), the one and only creation of His kind who ever lived, and moved and breathed among us, whose motives were altogether unselfish and empathetic, and who, we are assured, knew no sin.

Scripture tells us that our Lord walked, and talked, and moved among us for the brief span of 33 years, and that, ultimately, sinful man took the sinless Jesus and put Him on trial, (the roles will surely be reversed one day) and had him flogged, and hung Him on a wooden cross to die.

Utter unfairness and inequity

The most singular example of a bad thing happening to a good person in the history of this or any other planet. And whereas, in the unfairness and inequities of our own lives, we may never get enough answers, in scripture after scripture God has provided us sufficient reasons that what our natural enemy meant for evil, our heavenly Father meant for good.

For you see, eons before Eve, and subsequently, Adam took a big ole wet juicy bite out of the forbidden fruit, Father, Son and Holy Spirit sat around a heavenly conference table, and developed an admittedly gruesome plan to save the world from the consequences of sin, and to satisfy the requirements of a righteous God.

Jesus raised His hand and offered to assume the guise of mortal man, and submit Himself to the whims of Satan and unrighteous mankind; so that all the world might be afforded the opportunity to escape the consequences of sin.

Why do bad things happen to good people?

Too many times answers have eluded us. However, in this most singular example of all time, God has provided us more than enough answers to the question.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

A LONE OAK TREE IN A PASTURE

Less than a year ago I wrote a blog about what for the course of a few hours was my favorite tree on earth; (if one can be properly said to have a favorite anything of this nature).

At least the tree in question has to be singular in terms of the time and effort I expended on it. Never in the course of my 2/3 of a century on this planet have I ever done anything quite like it; in order to salvage what seemed too close to dying.

But to properly understand I have to step back a bit and tell the tale again.

In order to travel between our home and the town in which my wife and I grew up, a distance of perhaps 8 miles, we must drive down a two lane thoroughfare referred to as “Spirit Lake Road.” And as we pass the intersection of Spirit Lake Road and Thornhill Road, I never fail to glance towards a pasture to my right.

For you see, near the front of that cow pasture stands a lone oak tree; that tree upon which I expended my copious time and effort. I once contacted the pastor of the church which owns the five acre lot, and made what must have seemed an unusual request.

“Pastor, in my comings and goings, I have noticed that one lone oak tree in the pasture, and you may or may not be aware, it is covered with Spanish moss. I mean, it is overwhelmed by it. And you may think what I’m about to ask is rather strange, but I’d like to clean some of the moss out of its branches to give it an opportunity to overcome that parasitic. It’s just such a beautiful tree.”

Not surprisingly, Pastor F. expressed some reservations. He and I were strangers, and of course, anytime anyone gets involved with ladders and trees, there is the matter of liability.

The minister responded.

“Well, that lot is for sale, Dr. McDonald, as we’ve decided not to build there, and honestly we have no interest in spending any money on the tree. But if you want to spend your free time on the thing, that wouldn’t be a problem. Just one stipulation. I don’t want you using a ladder, or climbing up into the tree. Does that work for you?”

I agreed to his stipulations, (though a ladder would have been preferable for such a large task as this).

The next Saturday I dressed in blue jeans, and a t-shirt and set about the task. I grabbed a couple of boxes of large leaf bags out of my garage, and a branch trimmer mounted on the end of an extension handle. I had discovered from experience that by lifting the thin pole above my head, and wrapping moss around the small hand saw, I had the wherewithal to yank gobs of moss out of my own backyard trees.

I parked my vehicle at a nearby convenience store, notified the owner of my presence, walked across Thornhill Road, lifted the top and second strand of a barbed wire fence in opposite directions, and carefully made my way through the wire. I could see the task which I had formerly envisioned would require a dedicated effort. Setting about my task, I replicated my familiar approach to de-mossing trees, and in the space of 3-4 hours I managed to fill 15-20 50 gallon plastic bags with the nasty gray stuff.

I admit it. I was quite pleased with myself, … until I examined what I’d actually accomplished. As I prepared to leave, and walked half-way back to the fence, I turned and studied my finished work. It was then I realized the word “finished” didn’t begin to characterize the task I’d just completed.

I concluded that I had gotten all of 20 percent of the moss out of the lone oak tree. (And 20 percent was, to be fair, a rather liberal guesstimate). But I’d done what I could do, and as I piled the heavy plastic bags by the road, and got in my car, I looked towards the tree and said,

“Well, tree, I did what I could for you. And I won’t return again. It’s up to you now.”

Returning home from my somewhat unusual task, I mounted the long-handled tree trimmer back on the wall of my garage, filled my belly with large quantities of liquid, and proceeded to “hang loose” in my easy chair. I was not only “worn slap out,” but I was sun-burned and dehydrated. Nonetheless, I felt good about what I’d attempted to do for this entirely different species of life.

I suppose I drive south on Spirit Lake Road a couple of times a week, and as I have previously implied, I have studied the progress, (or lack thereof) of the lone oak tree in the pasture. For the longest time I have found myself disappointed. For you see, with time the lone tree has appeared more moss-infested than when I first expended such loving care upon it.

“Oh well,” I’ve often thought.

“I did what I could.”

(and)

“No one can fault me for not trying.”

Fall has given way to Winter, and Winter has given way to Spring. And it was only yesterday, it seemed my time and efforts had finally been rewarded.

For as I drove past the lone oak tree in the pasture, and made my visual pilgrimage, I realized how utterly green it was, and covered up with new leaves! Granted, moss still hangs from the large branches, and its tributary limbs. But then again, every tree of its kind in the southeast boasts plenty of the stuff.

To say I was elated is an understatement. I was just short of ecstatic that my momentary contribution seems to have paid such rich dividends.

I guess you can’t keep a good tree down.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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FIELD OF DREAMS

I was just watching the movie, “Field of Dreams,” and near the end of the film the main character asks what amounts to his ghost father, “Is there a heaven?” To which the father responds, “Oh yes, there is a heaven! It’s where dreams are made!” So poignant. I have so often shared with my interns, “You know, you’re young. And you are looking into a proverbial sunrise. I have lived out most of my allotted days, and I’m looking into a deepening sunset. But you know, in the time remaining to me I intend to be about my destiny, and fulfill whatever plans God still has in mind for me to complete.” So like the words of our brother, Paul, “I follow after the mark of my high calling in Christ Jesus.”

But I have so often thought of what still lies ahead for you and me, and all of those who have experienced the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. And I am thankful that our Lord assures us that He has created a place for us, and that ultimately we will have the privilege of joining Him in that place where all tears have been dried, where ceaseless days stretch out before us in eternal succession, and where His glory bids all darkness flee away . And, as a result, another scripture so easily comes to mind. “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor has entered into the heart of man, the things that God has prepared for those who love Him."

by William McDonald, PhD

OLD TOM

My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

 

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

 

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay. 

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

 

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

 

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

 

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

 

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

 

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

 

“And So It Goes”

 

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.


(Old Tom was just as surely a founder and builder of the City of Bartow, Florida as any human being, and it might be said that we 'owe' him).

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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