ALLOWING & DISALLOWING (A Commentary On Our Current Dilemma)

Pt. 1

1 On another day the angels came to present themselves before the LORD, and Satan also came with them to present himself before him.

2 And the LORD said to Satan, “Where have you come from?” Satan answered the LORD, “From roaming throughout the earth, going back and forth on it.”

3 Then the LORD said to Satan, “Have you considered my servant Job? There is no one on earth like him; he is blameless and upright, a man who fears God and shuns evil. And he still maintains his integrity, though you incited me against him to ruin him without any reason.”

4 “Skin for skin!” Satan replied. “A man will give all he has for his own life.

5 But now stretch out your hand and strike his flesh and bones, and he will surely curse you to your face.”

6 The LORD said to Satan, “Very well, then, he is in your hands; but you must spare his life.”

7 So Satan went out from the presence of the LORD and afflicted Job with painful sores from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head.

8 Then Job took a piece of broken pottery and scraped himself with it as he sat among the ashes.

9 His wife said to him, “Are you still maintaining your integrity? Curse God and die!”

10 He replied, “You are talking like a foolish woman. Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” In all this, Job did not sin in what he said. (Job Chapter 2, NIV)

Pt. 2

I was reading Job Chapter 2 today, and the similarity of the content to what we are experiencing today is simply compelling.

America, and indeed, the world has been struck, and struck hard by a viral pandemic which threatens to rival every pandemic in modern times; except, perhaps, the 1918 Spanish Influenza attack. (My wife’s maternal grandfather died during that pandemic).

I think we can only guess why bad things happen to good people; (and to be sure there will be many good people who succumb to this virus). As believers, we have been informed that when our ancient parents disobeyed God, and tasted the forbidden fruit, sin was introduced into the spiritual dynamic, and mankind’s decision to, well, make his own decisions, has resulted in death and disease and dissolution to all the children of men.

There are some who teach that God is presently in the process of judging the earth on account of the ungodly elements present among us, (none of which I will name here) and that this judgement will result in the Rapture of the Church, The Great Tribulation, The Thousand Year Reign of Christ, and The New Heavens and The New Earth. I am neither in a position to, nor do I wish to refute this perspective.

However, for any student of the Bible, (or perhaps the most ardent agnostic) we cannot be help but acknowledge and confess that God “allows” in our day and age, as surely as He allowed when Job endured what he simply did not merit or deserve.

I think this latest pandemic finds us all rather anxious and fearful. We are, without doubt, witnessing a season in which God has, at least for the moment, removed His hand, and allowed a most threatening and expansive pandemic to overwhelm the nations and people of this planet.

Pt. 3

However, the God who allows also has the wherewithal to disallow.

I think one passage of scripture, in particular, applies to our present dilemma.

“If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.” (2^nd Chronicles 7:14)

It is not my purpose to debate anyone about their personal shortcomings, nor the collective shortcomings of this great nation, and the world. However, be that as it may, we have been called to pray. And that old adage, “Just pray about it” is more than an adage. The Creator has called us to pray for this nation and the world.

Another important passage of scripture can be found in the obscure Book of Habakkuk.

“For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.” (Habakkuk 2:3)

“It will certainly come and will not delay.”

Or in what has been referred to as the greatest promise of all time…

“And it came to pass.”

What we are enduring now will come to pass. The God who allows is also perfectly capable of disallowing.

Stay encouraged, my friends. That which we are currently experiencing will surely come to pass. God give us the grace to patiently endure that which has come upon us.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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MY RADIOACTIVE WIFE

My wife is radioactive.

She is the most radioactive human being I’ve ever met …who continues to live and move and breathe.

It all began as World War II was nearing its conclusion, and her father Dock V., the proud father of five and husband of a young wife, enlisted in the U.S. Navy, and was posted to the U.S.S. Topeka.

During the last couple of months in which the war raged the task force, of which the Topeka was a part, bombed Tokyo, and its planes had been launched for a second run, but were recalled when the Japanese Empire capitulated; a direct result of the two atomic bombs which devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Prior to the culmination of its service in the Far East, the Topeka saw duty in Tokyo Bay.

Dock always blamed a couple of bouts with cancer on his service off the Japanese islands, and subsequently applied for a VA disability. There was always an implication, stated or otherwise, that his military service took him closer to one of the ‘atomic cities’ than can be properly substantiated, or at least that he and his shipmates were exposed to the radioactive fallout which saturated land, sea and air after the deadly blasts.

His daughter, Jean, was born less than four years after the surrender of Japan, and given my father-in-law’s suspected exposure to radiation, and its wherewithal to impact the body’s chromosomal blueprint, might be referred to as an ‘atomic baby.’

My wife and I both grew up in the small, but unique city of Bartow, and attended school together. As a matter of fact, we were both students in Mrs. Waters’ 4^th grade class. And speaking of babies I taught her everything she knew at the time about “the birds and the bees;” (which was precious little, as Jean had just informed me that women were responsible for making babies when I made her aware that men had a little something to do with it. But that is a whole different story than the one we are pursuing here).

Pt. 2

Bartow, the third largest city in Polk County, happens to be its county seat. When looking at a state map, you can’t miss it. Larger than Rhode Island, at 2000 square miles the third largest of Florida’s 67 counties, Polk sets smack dab in the center of the state like a gigantic belly button.

Things are changing now, but there was a time when the major industry in our county was phosphate production. And for anyone ‘in the know’ there is the understanding that our county has a Radon problem; made more problematic by the quantity of upturned phosphatic earth with which we contend.

The City of Bartow was built on and around reclaimed phosphate pits. Not only this, but great radioactive gypsum stacks, containing huge quantities of industrial waste water, surround the city. Recently, one of these earthen monstrosities ‘sprung a leak’ when a gigantic sinkhole opened up beneath it; allowing millions of gallons of radioactive water and a myriad of chemicals to reach the Florida aquafer. (And did I mention that at one time a uranium recovery plant was located within ten miles of our ‘fair city?’ Well, it was).

Bartow ‘boasts’ (if that is an appropriate word) more incidences of cancer per hundred residents than the state or national average. One portion of the city is a ‘hot bed’ for the malady, and scores of people in the area have succumbed to the disease. (I think Erin Brockovich would ‘have a field day’ here).

My wife not only grew up with the threat of Radon, and the invisible gamma rays which it produces, but throughout her young and middle-aged years she was employed in, among other places, a hospital, nursing home and school; all within the geographical boundaries of the county seat.

With each passing year her exposure to radiation was growing exponentially.

Pt. 3

During the decade of the 90’s, my wife and daughter were afforded the opportunity to travel on a Christian missions trip to the countries of Belarus and Russia. It was the chance of a lifetime and they were not going to miss out on both the potential for inestimable impact upon the citizens of these countries, and the inherent beauty of the region.

I suppose neither my wife nor I gave it a second thought prior to her departure, but having arrived in Gomel, Belarus Jean became acquainted with ‘Svetlana,’ the group’s English translator.

The young lady was a lovely individual both inside and out; with the exception of …a noticeable tumor on her forehead. Of course, such a condition could not go unnoticed nor unspoken, and Svetlana offered that the cyst was a direct result of the 1986 Chernobyl disaster, and the gradual and prolonged effects of the radiation on the populace of that region. The City of Gomel lies just 70 miles from that infamous place.

"The worst scars have settled in the mind. And no place has been punished more than the Gomel region of Belarus, where the Soviet authorities denied the accident for several days, allowing people to linger in the radiation, then lied about its severity.

"An area of nearly 2 million people -- 20 percent of the country's population -- Gomel once had the most fertile farmland in all Belarus. Today it is as if somebody had sown the land with salt: 20 of 21 agricultural districts produce nothing. People have become paralyzed with fear. They are afraid to move, afraid to stay, afraid to marry and afraid to have families. All normal life stopped here simply because there was a strong northerly wind on April 26, 1986." (Michael Specter)

Jean and I have often looked at the photograph of Svetlana which she keeps in her missions album, and wondered whether she is still with us, or whether by now she has succumbed to the awful malady.

Obviously, while my wife and her team resided in Belarus they were exposed to low levels of radiation which is, at some level, still being emitted by the defunct Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant.

Pt. 4

“The Big C” is no respecter of persons. There isn’t a country, state, metropolis or village in the world upon which it hasn’t laid its vile hand. Bartow, Florida. Gomel, Belarus. Paris, France. Podunk, West Virginia.

Our beloved Shih Tzu, Buddy, had been acting strangely the past few days. (He was actually a she, since the moniker seemed to fit and we’d given her a male name). Buddy wouldn’t let my wife out of her sight. Where Jean went, well, she went. If she walked into the living room, Buddy was right behind her. If she needed something out of the refrigerator, the little pooch was underfoot. If she decided to take a nap, the little Shih Tzu curled up at the end of the bed, and followed her lead.

Jean hadn’t felt well, physically or emotionally, and one day as she chose the latter activity, above, she had the sense that some invisible weight was pressing her into the bedstead. Oppressive and suffocating, it seemed like Death, itself.

My wife’s physical and emotional symptoms were indicative of a problem which could not be ignored, and I knew dogs possessed an acute sense of smell, and were able to detect the presence of any number of organic maladies and substances. I encouraged Jean to make an appointment with her physician, and as the result of a mammogram a lump was discovered in one breast.  At this point, ‘Dr. Scott’ referred her to a surgical oncologist, and a biopsy was performed.

When the tests ‘came back’ the lump was found to be malignant. Thankfully, the malignancy was still contained within the duct, and a lumpectomy was scheduled.

When Jean awoke from the scheduled lumpectomy she learned the lead wire had dislodged, and the surgery could not be completed. ‘Dr. Andrews,’ a renowned female surgeon, was not a ‘happy camper.’ Ultimately, the surgical technician was released for not having properly positioned the wire. Later in the week the lumpectomy was successfully performed.

As it fell together, the three surgical procedures which had thus far transpired proved to be the least of it.

Jean was scheduled for a consult, and Dr. Andrews recommended she submit to a follow up regimen. And thus, over the course of the next several weeks my wife submitted to (drum roll)

…33 installments of radiation.

(Readers, that final word in the previous sentence should ‘ring a bell’ for you).

At this writing we are thankful that Jean has been cancer free for well over a decade, and she can rightly be called a ‘Survivor.’

An unusual series of coincidences which when taken together are among the most unusual circumstances to which I have ever personally been privy.

A father exposed to the radioactive cloud generated by the atomic blasts of WWII.

A hometown which exudes gamma rays from the ground upon which it was constructed.

A short term missions trip located right ‘next door’ to the site of the infamous Chernobyl disaster.

‘The Big C’ and its aftermath. Almost three dozen episodes involving the administration of radiation.

Almost seven (count ‘em 7) decades of exposure to radiation of one kind or another.

As a nurse my wife’s patients always remarked that her hands were ‘as soft as a baby’s butt’ and ‘as warm as a summer breeze.’

I can only guess why.


My Radioactive Wife


by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.

We have traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.

One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest.


Pt. 2

Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.

As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 3

I, as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.

My 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American Revolution.

My 3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland in the 17^th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a hundred kisses on their cheeks.

My 9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade; during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and adopted, and was adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.

When they closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 4

I brought up the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.

While we were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.

I left a tribute to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill; which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy; along with my name and relationship to them.

And with this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers were most and best acquainted.

And whereas, I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they sustained cannot be calculated.

And whereas, these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

A NEW TAKE ON AN OLD STORY

Now, many tax-collectors, prostitutes, and other “unsavory types” of people congregated around the Savior; in order to listen to His teaching. As a result, the Pharisees, and scribes whispered among themselves, and said,

"This man associates with sinners, and even enjoys dinner with them."

Knowing their thoughts, Jesus shared a parable with them.

"Let me pose a question to you. Wouldn't any man here who owns a hundred sheep, and one of them wanders away, leave the ninety-nine grazing in the pasture, and hunt for the one which is lost, ‘til he is able to locate it? And when he finally locates the beast, he will lay it across his shoulders, and will shout for joy. And as soon as he arrives at his house the shepherd will summon his relatives and neighbors, and shout, yet again.

'Come and feast with me for I have found my little lost lamb.'

“In terms of the heavenly dispensation, I assure you that it is much the same way. There is more joy over one sinner whose heart, mind and soul have been cleansed, than over ninety-nine virtuous people who have long since repented.

“Or reflect on the lady who owns ten silver coins. If she happens to lose one, won’t she take a torch, and search the corners and recesses of her home until it turns up? And when she finally runs across it, she will contact her friends and neighbors, and say,

‘Come celebrate with me for the tenth coin has been found.'

“I can assure you, it is much the same in heaven. The angels celebrate even one sinner who has come to a saving knowledge of the Truth."

With this, Jesus continued speaking.

"A man had two sons. One day, the younger son said to his father,

'Father, bequeath my share of the property to me before you die.'

“As a result, his father willingly split his property between his two sons. However, and in very short order, the younger son collected everything he owned, and went off to an foreign land; where he wasted his share of the estate on whores and foolish expenditures.

“And when he had spent everything in his bank account, the land was struck with an awful famine, and he was thoroughly famished. As a result, the boy became a servant of one of the pig farmers in that region; who sent him out into his barnyard to feed the swine. (And, it goes without saying, Jews want nothing to do with pigs).

“Sadly, the boy became so hungry that he was tempted to eat the scraps which he fed the pigs, but no one gave him a morsel. Finally, the young man experienced an insightful moment, and he said to himself,

‘My father's servants never lack for food, and I am starving to death! I will climb out of this hog pen and travel back to my father’s house. And I will say to him,

‘Father, I have failed both you, and more importantly God. I don't merit the relationship we once enjoyed. Please hire me to be your servant.’

“As a result, he climbed out of the pig pen, and walked back to his father’s house. But, while he was just visible on the horizon, his father saw him and he was overwhelmed with emotion. And, with this, he hurried to the boy, and proceeded to hug and kiss him. But, his son said,

'I have embarrassed both my earthly father, (and my Heavenly Father). I don't deserve the relationship with you which I once enjoyed. Please allow me be your servant.’

'Hurry up!' his father shouted to his servants. ‘Retrieve the finest clothes in the house, and clothe my son with them! Put a gold ring on his finger, and sandals on his feet. And kill the calf which I have been fattening for just such an occasion. We will have a great feast! For this is my son. I was sure he was dead. But, it is though he has returned from the grave. I was sure he was lost, but he has been found!'

“As a result, the servants began to make preparations for the feast.

“In the meantime, the man’s oldest son was out in the pasture, and as he approached the house he heard music, and he noticed his father and his friends dancing. Of course, he asked one of the servants what was happening, and he replied,

'Your younger brother has come back home, and your father has slaughtered the fattened calf because he is back, healthy and happy.’

“As the result of this revelation, the older brother was incensed, and he would not go into the house. Thus, his father came outside to speak to him. And, as might be expected, the boy exclaimed,

'How many years have I served you faithfully and well, and never contradicted a single command you gave me? And during all that time, you have never given me so much as a little goat; so that I could party with my friends!

‘But when that wayward son of yours shows up, who has wasted all your money on whores, you have killed the fatted calf to celebrate his return!'

However, his father replied,

'My dear son, you have always been here with me, and during this whole time you have been denied nothing. It is imperative that I celebrate today.

‘For this is your only brother. While I was sure he was no longer with us, it is though he has risen from the dead. I was convinced he was lost, but he has been found!'"

(Luke Chapter 15, McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament)

Pt. 2

Perhaps among all of Jesus’ parables, the one most often referred to, as well as the most preached sermon of all time, is that of The Prodigal Son. Anyone who has filled the pew of a local church, for any length of time, has heard multiple messages on this topic. And, almost without fail, the meaning which is assigned to the parable is very much like that of the parables of the wayward sheep, or the lost coin.

However, as a counselor, I began thinking about the parable of The Prodigal Son, and realized that the story which plays itself out has such a correlation to a whole ‘nother kind of relational dynamic.

But allow me to begin at the beginning. Twelve or fifteen years ago my co-counselor, and I led a recovery group and a family group. Whereas, Sherri was primarily responsible for the former, I was primarily involved with the latter.

We referred to the latter group as “Family & Friends,” and had we used an additional suffix we might have added, “of Addicted Persons.” And anyone privy to this type of support group is well aware that the overriding focus of such an organization is that of Codependent Behavior.

While there are plenty of definitions to go around for this relational pattern, I have described it as,

“Two or more adults who have formed a symbiotic relationship in which one of the adults might be classified as the Giver, and one (or more) of the adults might be referred to as the Receiver. Within the context of this relationship, the Codependent (Giver) provides for the needs and wants of one (or more) people (Dependent) who are perfectly capable of providing for their own needs and wants, but simply don’t and won’t do so. Such a dysfunctional pattern of behavior enhances the self-concept of the Codependent person, though he or she often complains about their role. At the same time this behavior pattern exaggerates the tendency of the Dependent person to exhibit immaturity, and instability, and an inability to fulfill the normal and reasonable expectations of an adult person.”

Pt. 3

To be sure, my personal interpretation of The Prodigal Son is simply that. A personal interpretation; a new ‘take’ on an old story. However, there is little or no doubt that our Lord never meant His parable “to be taken” this way. Obviously, in Jesus’ version of the story, the father figure represents none other than our heavenly Father. But what if we assign the parable a relationship devoid of a supernatural being? If so, I think “all bets are off.”

A man has two sons. One day the younger son approaches him and asks for his inheritance; (perhaps 30-50 years prematurely). As a result, it seems the father “falls all over himself” to meet his demands. Not so much as a word or a whimper. And yet, based on what we will soon discover about the boy, he should have “been thinking twice” about his willingness to do so.

If I have ever seen a Codependent person, I have seen one now!

The father immediately obliges his younger son, as he reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a bulging wallet, and shoves a huge wad of sweaty green bills into his hand. And I dare say, I expect the father has role-modeled this kind of behavior to his sons for quite some time. By now, “Jasper,” the favorite, is quite comfortable with being “taken care of,” though “Judson” has never fit the mold, and is a self-sufficient type.

Having gotten what he has come for, Jasper turns, and as a huge grin appears on his face, he whispers to himself,

“When is that old man going to learn? What a fool he is. Why, he’s like my personal Genie. ‘Your wish is my command!’ I’ve never had it so good!”

And with a smile on his face, and a brief “too de loo,” Jasper waves at his father, mounts his horse, and clip clops down the dusty lane which separates him from parts unknown.

Pt. 4

Jasper has ridden for the good part of a day before he brings his trusty steed to a halt in front of an inn which has an adjoining stable. Summoning the stable boy, he gives him instructions to feed and water his horse, and bed him in a hay-strewn stall.

And with this, the young man steps into the lobby of the inn, inquires about a room, pays the required fee, and retires for the night. However, I neglected to tell you, Jasper is not alone this evening. He has enlisted the company of one of the most provocative, albeit expensive women in the city. And over the next few weeks, Esmeralda’s purse becomes progressively heavier; while Jasper’s wallet becomes progressively lighter. Not only does the wayward son waste his inheritance on a woman of the streets, but he gambles a significant amount of it away, and downs an amazing amount of intoxicating spirits.

And now, having lived in the inn for several weeks, Jasper hears a knock on the door. And stepping to the door, he throws it open, and comes fact to face with the manager of the inn.

“Young man. You haven’t paid your bill for this week. As a matter of fact, you only gave me a partial payment for last week. I want you out of here by 1pm!”

Jasper picks up his few belongings, shoves them in a knapsack, steps out the door, and walks the thirty feet which separates him from the stable.

“Hey there, boy. I need to fetch my horse.”

To which the stable boy responds,

“Mister. You ain’t got no horse. The manager done sold him for enough money to cover what you owe him.”

Pt. 5

Disgusted and disillusioned, Jasper turns and walks down the road which leads out of town. And having walked a couple of hours, he finds himself at a farmhouse. Knocking on the front door, it swings open seconds later, and an old man stands looking him in the eyes.

“Yes? What can I do for you, son?”

To which Jasper replies,

“Sir, I was wondering if you need a field hand?”

To which Zacharias, (for this is his name) responds,

“I don’t have a field. I raise pigs. Do you have any experience?”

And though he is a Jew, and though he is all too aware that a good Jewish boy doesn’t dirty his hands, or pollute his soul with pigs, Jasper realizes that he is not in a position to be choosey. He hasn’t been eating well, and he is suddenly homeless.

“Uh, no sir. I have never raised pigs. But I’m a quick learner. Give me a try and I’ll show you.”

And with this, the pig farmer hires him on the spot.

Well, as Jasper soon discovers, it wasn’t “all that it is cracked up to be.” While he is provided a small room in the barn, his meager pay check will barely cover one meal a day.

In the meantime, Jasper’s father has often wondered how he has been “making out,” and yet, in all the time which has transpired, he has not so much as made inquiries, or sent a servant to check on him.

Pt. 6

Apparently, by now, the highly codependent father has made some significant inroads into overcoming his dysfunctional behavioral patterns. And he has often mused,

“I need to allow my son to ‘make it or break it.’ If I need to step aside and let him fail, so be it.”

(and)

“I have enabled that boy for far too long. And now, I regret giving him his inheritance.”

Meanwhile, Jasper has lost even more weight, and his stomach is giving him fits. He must find something to eat. And wading into the pig pen, he retrieves a few handfuls of grain at the bottom of the trough. And as he shoves the filthy stuff into his mouth, he thinks,

“Have I sunk this far? I’m eating after those filthy, God-forsaken swine!”

And Jasper finds himself gagging that wretched pig food out of his mouth. And now, he speaks out loud.

“I can’t stay here. I will starve to death. I will return to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have shamed you. I have spent all your money on prostitutes and gambling. And I became so hungry, and I ate what the pigs left behind. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as a servant, and allow me to earn my keep.”

Jasper has finally “come to himself.” He has fallen and he has failed, but he has learned a hard and valuable lesson; one which he won’t forget. And, by now, it is readily apparent that he has embraced a mindset very much like that of his older brother.

Pt. 7

And thus, Jasper steps out of that pigsty a changed man, and makes his way home. And as the formerly wayward son appears on the horizon, his father sees him coming. He can hardly contain his emotions.

“My boy! My boy! I would know him anywhere.”

Zacharias had often thought about what he would do, if his son ever returned. On a good day, he would muse,

“Well, of course if he returns broke, and in the condition which I believe he will, I will forgive him. But it will take a very long time before I invest trust in him, and it certainly “won’t be business as usual. He’s going to have to prove himself to me!”

However, this wasn’t one of those days. As a matter of fact, those days are past tense now, and the father’s previous resolution has dried up “like spit in the wind.”

Grabbing up one of Judson’s robes, and pulling the ring off his own finger, he runs towards Jasper, and meeting him fifty feet from the house, he wraps him in his arms, and sobs.

“My son. You were dead. And now you are alive.”

And Zacharias hardly noticed Jasper’s filthy clothing, and the powerful ‘fragrance’ of sweaty pigs.

Now Jasper spoke.

“Father, father, I am not worthy to…”

Zacharias would not hear it.

“Stop! Don’t say another word. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

And with this, Jasper’s father wraps the older brother’s robe around him, and places his own ring on his finger.

Pt. 8

Zacharias has succumbed to his previous dysfunctional mindset. Whereas, Jasper had learned a very difficult lesson, and is determined to adopt a new and better way of living, sadly his father has relapsed.

He cuts his son off in mid-sentence, fails to ask about his shabby clothing, or the stench which he has brought back from parts unknown, and has surrendered his good intentions about investing trust, or the lack thereof. He seems fully prepared to return to “status quo.”

“My dear boy. I am nothing less than ecstatic. We will kill the fatted calf, and throw a party for you.”

An hour later, Judson approaches the house; tired and dirty from his work in his father’s field. And the look on his face, and his clenched hands, and the speed which he navigates the distance speaks volumes.

A servant has told him that his brother has reappeared, the condition in which he has returned, and his father’s plans for that evening. And now, he stomps into the house, and confronts his father.

“Father, I have never ceased to live up to your expectations of me. I have given you the best years of my life. I have always obeyed you, and done my duty as a son. And in all that time, you never wrapped me in a robe, nor took the ring off your finger, and gave it to me. And you certainly never killed a fatted calf, and threw a party for me!”

And while Jasper lingers in another room, and continues to scrub the inground dirt off his arms and legs, the elderly man responds,

“My dear son, your brother has returned. Let bygones be bygones. Whereas he was dead, he is alive!”

And whereas the Prodigal son has adopted a new, and better, and functional mindset, the old man is irrevocably stuck, and he is no better off than he was before his son left the premises.

It seems only one person has learned his lesson.


A new take on an old story.

Admittedly, not the story of the redeeming love of our heavenly Father, but the dysfunctional ‘love’ of an all too human earthly one.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

TINNITUS - RINGING IN THE EARS

For any of you who experience Tinnitus (ringing in the ears) I have found a home 'remedy' of sorts. Generally, I have ringing in one ear at a time. I put a foam earplug in that ear, and the perceived sound level tends to drop by about a third. So this has made the condition somewhat more manageable. Also, something I have never done, but there are hearing aid shops which do testing and 'fit' the Tinnitus sufferer with a device that looks like a hearing aid, but which emits a tone that is meant to override the ringing in the ears.

AFTER A WHILE IT STINGS A LITTLE BIT

Rocky Balboa is feeling a bit weary, and perhaps a little depressed. He is ready to step away from the fight game. As a result, he walks into an employment office, and steps up to the next available counselor.

“Uh, hey there. Uhmmm, I’m kinda interested in finding a different job.”

To which the employment counselor responds,

“I know you. You’re Rocky Balboa!”

(and)

“What sort of positions have you worked before you became a fighter? And did you graduate from high school? How about college?”

Rocky looks down at his feet a moment, and replies,

“I, well, I don’t want to brag or anything, but I finished the 10^th grade. And work? Well, I worked down on the docks, and I admit I have broken a few thumbs of guys who got behind on their payments to an Italian guy whose name I won’t divulge in your presence.”

The middle-aged man can barely stifle a smile, as he says,

“Mr. Balboa, I’m sorry, but I can only offer you a menial job. But I’ve seen you fight. Why don’t you keep doing what you’re good at?”

With this, Rocky shakes his head, and exclaims,

“Well, uh, after a while it stings a little bit!” 

I think as believers we sometimes become weary of the fight, and are prone to just give up. Not unlike Rocky, we think about taking the easy way out, and we begin "looking for work elsewhere." However, ultimately, all we can hope for elsewhere is menial, and unsatisfying. As Peter once said to Jesus, when the Lord asked if His disciples had plans to "just go away"... 

"Lord to whom shall we go. You have the words of everlasting life!"

My fellow believers, don't give up, and don't give in. You will never really be happy, or satisfied, unless you stay in the fight. Sure, after a while "it kinda stings a little bit," but He has called us, not for a round, nor for two, but to stay the course and go the distance. And He has promised to be with us always "even 'til the end of the world."

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

TOOTING MY OWN HORN

I'm not one to "toot my own horn." Matter of fact, tooting my own horn repels me, as I think we all ought to have a servant's heart, and live humbly before our God. But I will make one exception. LOL... As the result of some significant effort over the past several years, I passed the 12,625 mile mark (halfway around the world) on my trusty, (but not very fast) Schwinn bicycle. Yay me!!! (Don't tell anyone, but after having done 5 "Peter Pans" over my front handlebars during that period of time, and 5 subsequent spread eagles on the pavement, I retired my bike permanently, and decided to walk).

EMPTY CHAIRS

Empty chairs       

Two empty chairs

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

But this time is different.

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

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

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

Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below.

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

And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,

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

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

…well, you guessed it.

And my mother.

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

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

And now. Now the chairs are empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empty Chairs.

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


by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

A MOMENT OF GRACE

I have previously written about my beloved, dearly departed pooch, but feel inclined to write about her again; not just because today is the 14^th anniversary of her passing, but because some mighty peculiar things have been happening the past few days.

It all began eight or ten days ago. (Well, to be sure it all began shortly after Buddy’s homegoing, but I won’t “cover that ground” again here).

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

I was lying in my easy chair in the wee hours of the morning, and sleeping well 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 it was then that I glanced at the time on my TV box, and noticed it indicated 3:16am. And for anyone who is versed in scripture, those numbers are especially meaningful.

And I thought, Grace. And indeed, I could not help but think of this “strange and wonderful” occurrence as anything but Grace.

The same thing happened again a few days later. And I thought,

“If any creature God ever made deserved an opportunity to make herself known, after he or she had left this earthly sphere, it was my little Buddy.”

But to return to my account.

A couple of days ago I was seated at a table, the location is unimportant, when suddenly something touched my right leg, as if an unseen creature had thrown its front paws against me. And I knew. I just knew.

Buddy was at it again.

14 years since the lovely little creature crossed the Rainbow Bridge. 14. 7x2. Seven being the perfect number. 7x2 = 14.

Without question, or contradiction, Buddy was doubly perfect.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending