JIMMY, FRANCES & ABE

I have little or no time for the TCM (Turner Classic Movies) Channel. I mean, I’m just “not into” the old 30’s, 40’s & 50’s black & white movies. With very few exceptions, I believe the movies of today are so much better produced, directed and portrayed in virtually every sense of the word.

However, I consider, the 1939 production, “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” with Jimmy Stewart, one of those exceptions. As I flipped to the TCM Channel today, I happened upon that very movie. And about 20 minutes into the movie, I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before.

We see “Mr. Smith” climbing the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, and standing below the statue of Old Abe, he looks intently into his oversized eyes.

My father’s second cousin, the WWII actress and vocalist, Frances Langford, appeared in a couple of movies with Jimmy Stewart; among which was, “The Glenn Miller Story.” In it, Stewart “plays” the trombone at a military dance, and my cousin, Frances, portrays herself, and sings, “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”

And you know, it occurs to me that Abraham Lincoln, Jimmy Stewart, and Frances Langford are, for different reasons, among my most favorite famous, (with the emphasis on “famous”) people of all time.

 

But you know, there will come a day and time when Jimmy, and his co-star Frances will stand on equal footing with the billions who have preceded them, and the former of the two will no longer have to raise his eyes towards ole Abe, but will see him face to face.

And in that day, they and the myriad of men and women, and boys and girls, who have sometimes strutted and fretted out their lives upon the stage, will lift their eyes towards a different throne, and will not be able to turn their gaze from the One who took on flesh and dwelt among us, who willingly sacrificed Himself to satisfy the demands of a righteous God, and who rules and reigns forevermore. 

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

MOTIVATION

Over the past thirty years I have been privileged to serve as a pastoral counselor.

But in order to offer anyone one’s “sage advice”, you have to get them into your office, and that hasn’t always been the easiest thing to do.

Kinda like the Texas Rangers and that movie classic, “Field of Dreams.” The Rangers just built a new one and a half billion dollar stadium. But unfortunately, the best known line in the movie, “If you build it, they will come” doesn’t apply to them. (At least not during the age of the Corona Virus when the team owners have made the decision not to sell tickets to this season’s games).

But to be fair, over the past three decades as a pastoral counselor, it hasn’t been so much a lack of the multitudes sitting on my counseling couch, but, rather, two populations in particular, the male, and the paying variety of clients; both of which are integral to the wherewithal and success of the average therapist.

But I see I have begun my little diatribe off the beaten track, and need to get back on it.

Pt. 2

For those seekers of wisdom, who have chosen to step across the threshold of my office, I do something that most counselors don’t…

I teach

Matter of fact, I honestly have never heard of any other counselor, dead or alive, who instructed their clients to “bring a notebook,” and “write this stuff down.”

And one of the concepts I teach is:

“Motivation is highly overrated.”

And almost, without fail, when I have spoken those well-worn words, my client has looked up from their notebook with a look of virtual amazement on their face, as if this was the most novel, (or most ridiculous) statement he or she ever heard in his or her natural life.

And with this, I continue.

“Yes, motivation is highly overrated. For you see, when someone says, ‘I just need to get motivated,’ what they are really saying is, ‘I just need to work myself up into some sort of frenzy before I will be capable of achieving whatever it is that I want to achieve.’”

(and)

“(Allow me to say it again), motivation is highly overrated. For you see, motivation is little more than an emotion. And if you wait ‘til you feel motivated, you may be 103!”

End of diatribe.

(At least for now).

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

SCAMS and SCAMMERS

I have been contacted by several folks in Africa over the years, those guys who sit in internet cafes and pretend to be people who they are not, and tell you stuff like "Hi, my name is Josie Makooma. My father was a wealthy businessman. He just died and my seven brothers won't share the inheritance with me. My share is over $250,000. A famous psychic told me yesterday that someone with the last name 'McDonald' would be willing to help me. That is the reason I am reaching out to you. If you would be willing to send me $5,000 for my legal defense, I would be happy to give you 1/2 of my very significant inheritance when I win this battle in the South African court system." I merely responded, "Thank you, I wasn't born yesterday, and I never respond favorably to scams on a Thursday. Please go bother someone who was born yesterday. As I previously mentioned, I wasn't. And, oh, my condolences on the passing of your fictional father."

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

SOME THINGS DO CHANGE

It occurs to me that if and when Joe Biden becomes the 46th president of the United States, the roles of the three major cable channels, and their anchors will change.

People like Anderson Cooper and Brian Williams will be narrating world news again, since their 24 hour a day "I Hate Trump" job will be over. The broadcasters on the FOX News Channel will take their turn hating Joe Biden 24 hours a day.

A FALLEN SPARROW

Yesterday, we drove over to our daughter’s house to celebrate our grandson’s 17^th birthday. When we arrived, Kristy told us that she had found a bird in her yard with a broken wing. And with this, she proceeded to walk me to the perimeter of her yard, and pointed at the unfortunate creature.

It was quite obviously a “just out of the nest” little dove. And I surmised that it may have flown into a tree on its first solo flight, as his right wing was broken. And since I am animal lover of the first degree, I immediately bent over, and scooped the poor thing up off the ground. Having done this, I suggested Kristy take the bird into the house. However, she wasn’t keen on this idea since she has four dogs, and a cat. As a result, I put the bird back on the ground, and we walked inside to eat dinner, and have some birthday cake.

The festivities over, we departed the premises, and walking back into the yard I could not help myself. I retraced my steps towards the tiny bird, picked him up, and opened the passenger door of our 2015 Nissan Altima.

Having arrived home, Jean and I dismounted the car, went into the house, and debated what to do with the feathery critter. My wife suggested we put him in a dog cage on the back porch. And for lack of a better idea, this is what I did; laying a towel on the floor of the metal cage prior to laying the unfortunate creature in it.

I debated how best to help the tiny fowl, and I finally decided the best I could do was to put a shallow saucer of water, and a few scraps of bread near him on the floor of the cage. But as the hours rolled by, there was no sign that he was remotely interested in the fare, though once I noticed the feathery creature lying in the water, as if he was attempting to cool down a bit.

Pt. 2

Throughout the day and into the evening hours, I checked on the bird, and noticed that he was lying on one side of the cage, that his right broken wing was poking through the thin steel bars, and that he rarely moved.

The next morning the little dove’s condition had deteriorated. I had previously dropped some bread crumbs in the corner of the cage, and now I added a few blueberries, and even a small bug I found under a dead limb. To no avail. The pitiful creature was dying.

I opened the door of the cage, lifted the little bird in my hands, stroked his tiny head, told him it was okay to go, and said I would see him on the other side. (And I have no doubt that I will).

Having laid the precious thing on the floor of the cage, I opened the sliding door which separates my back porch from my office, and looking back I noticed my charge was preening a couple of stray feathers on its bad wing; as if to be presentable for that place to which he would shortly go.

Now, I sat down in my recliner, and watched a little news, as unwelcome as it always seems to be these days. And then, suddenly, I knew. I just knew. Don’t ask me how I knew, but I had the strangest inclination that the little dove was no longer with us.

Getting up from my chair, I opened the glass door, unlatched the cage, retrieved the bird, and my suspicions were realized. The tiny critter “had left the building.” His eyes were still partially open, though his body was beginning to display the symptoms of rigor mortis.

And it was then I noticed that the precious creature had folded his wings about himself, as now they covered his underside, and his tiny feet were hidden beneath the feathery adornment.

All that was left to do was to provide the precious thing a final resting place. Walking to the cabinet, I took a baggie out of the box, placed the little bird in it, sealed it, retrieved a shovel, walked into my back yard, dug a shallow hole, laid the tiny creature in it, and proceeded to cover it over.

And it was then that I thought about the scripture which assures us of the Almighty’s amazing love and care for “the least of these.”

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father knowing all about it.” (Matthew 10:29)

And it occurred to me that Jesus might well have had this very bird in mind when He uttered those words to His disciples.

It is comforting in these difficult times in which we live to remember the words our Savior spoke, just after He reminisced about His love for the smallest of God’s creatures.

“Don’t be afraid. You are more valuable to me than a multitude of sparrows.” (Matthew 10:31)

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

FOLLOW ME

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

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

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

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

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me

And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending


Pt. 2


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Harold Walls

(Manna for the Journey Devotions)



Pt. 3                       

                                             FOLLOW ME

                                                                               Ira Stanphill

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

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


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

THE SACRIFICIAL DEATH OF A WIFE AND MOTHER DURING THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION

My quadruple Great Grandparents Thomas and Susannah (Harrington) Hightower were living on the Tygar River near Spartanburg, South Carolina in 1780. Having heard the plea for additional manpower, Thomas joined Colonel Benjamin Roebuck’s Colonial Regiment. While he was away on military duty, a militia group referred to as Tories, those American colonists loyal to the King of England, stormed the Hightower homestead and burst into my ancient grandmother’s house.

Following is an account I have written based on the events of that evening:

Susannah had been helping her son, John, with a particularly long word from his reader, and content that he had mastered one page and moved on to the next, she sat down in her rocking chair by the fire.

Suddenly the front wooden door flew open. Even in the midst of this terrible war, custom won out and she had forgotten to lock the door. Standing before her were eight heavily armed men, wearing an all-too familiar, but hated uniform. Susannah screamed for the children to run to the cellar. She realized that this rude intrusion was certainly no courtesy call.

Grandmother Hightower immediately recognized the leader of this band of traitors to the cause of independence. Bill Cunningham was an unusually handsome man, but known far and wide for his viciousness and unyielding retribution. It was not for no reason he had been nicknamed “Bloody Bill,” a name he apparently relished.

When the major addressed her by name, Susannah felt a shiver creep slowly up her spine, and she felt faint.

“Mrs. Hightower. You needn’t be afraid. We’re not here to hurt you. Answer a question, and we’ll be on our way, and leave you and your children alone.”

Somehow Susannah doubted the sincerity of his words.

“I know your husband has joined that vagabond band of misfits who are determined to put an end to everything we hold dear in these colonies. Well, Ma’am, we’re not going to let that happen.”

My grandmother started to speak,

“Sir, I protest…”

Bloody Bill cut her off.

“You’re not in the position to protest anything. Sit back down… NOW!”

My brave, but equally wise grandmother dropped into the rocking chair, suddenly feeling as weak as water.

“There now. That’s good. May I call you, Susannah?”

And without waiting for a reply, he continued.

“Susannah, I need you to answer me one question. Where’s your husband?”

And contrary to his earlier promise, he asked another question.

“Cat got your tongue? Where’s your husband, and who is his commanding officer?”

Susannah cleared her throat and fear registered in her voice.

“Sir, I know who you are. And I know you’re up to no good. I have no intention whatsoever, in telling you where my husband is.”

Bloody Bill’s contemptuous smile now turned downwards in a frown, and then a scowl. He would not be manipulated by the likes of a frail, little woman.

“One more chance, ma dear… if you want to live.”

Susannah realized the stakes of this not so pleasant game, and she steeled herself for the inevitable.

In a voice just above a whisper, and with tears stinging her eyes now, she sealed her fate.

“I cannot… I cannot bring myself to tell you. I have been true to my husband these twenty years. I am not about to betray him now. Do what you want, but you’ll get no answer from me.”

Well, my friends. I would like to tell you that Bloody Bill Cunningham marched right out of there, and took his band of “n’er do wells” with him… He didn’t. Turning to his chief lieutenant, he screamed,

“I’ll have none of this. No Sir, I will not. Lieutenant Morrison, kill her! Do it now!”

A look of utter amazement possessed the officer. He reached for his sword, but his hand seemed frozen in mid-air. Bloody Bill was not used to having his orders delayed, and he jerked Morrison’s sword out of the scabbard, and raised it high above his head.

My ancient grandmother had only enough time to utter the few last words she would ever speak on this side of eternity. With arms wrapped tightly about herself, she closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

“God forgive you, Bloody Bill. Dear Lord receive my spirit.”

…And the deed was done.

And I hasten to remind you that this is but one story among multiplied thousands of similar stories, which include the ancestors of those assembled here today, and which have followed us throughout all our nation’s wars.

*Another version of this story recounts that my ancient grandmother was stood on a stump, and riddled with bullets.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THE BOOK OF HEBREWS, Chapter 1 - McDonald Paraphrase

Throughout the course of human history God revealed Himself to our forebears, by the prophets, and in different other ways. However, in these last days He has spoken to us by His only begotten Son, by Whom He created the entire universe and everything in it, and to Whom He awarded ownership of all that exists.

The Son is the very essence of the Father’s glory, and the exact representation and expression of His person, and He sustains all things by His Word. After He provided Himself to be the sacrificial offering for sin, He sat down at the right hand of the only God and Potentate in heaven. Thus, proving He is as superior to the angels, as His Name is superior to their names.

For to which of his holy angels did God ever utter the Words,

“You are My Son. This day I have become Your Father.”

Or again,

“I will be His Father. And He will be My Son.”

And again, when God sent His only Son into the world, and clothed Him with flesh, He says,

“Let all the hosts of heaven worship Him.”

In regard to these angels, He says,

“He has made His angels spirits, and His servants flames of fire.”

However, He says the following about His beloved Son:

“Your throne, oh God is everlasting in the heavens, a scepter of holiness is the scepter of Your Kingdom.

“You have loved holiness, and You have hated wickedness. Therefore, Your dear Abba Father has appointed You above Your peers, and anointed You with the oil of gladness more than them.”

He also says,

“In the beginning, Lord, You installed the foundations of the earth, and You formed the heavens out of nothing. They will disintegrate in a hot white heat, but You remain. They will wear out as a piece of clothing. You will roll them up as You would a garment. You are the I AM of all eternity and remain the same. You will never grow old.”

Did God ever look at one of His angels, and say,

“Sit here next to me, ‘til I make Your enemies a footstool for Your feet.”

Haven’t the angels been created to serve the children of God?

A CAT NAMED SPIRIT

“Yesterday, during one of my daily crying spells, I asked my recently deceased son to send me a sign that he was ok and happy. Just anything that would unmistakably assure me that he is still with me "in spirit". Today, I got that sign. This is "Spirit" who strangely enough, my brother had already named him before he came to me because he found him on Spirit Lake Rd. For me, his name took on a whole new meaning. My son, also being a rescuer, heard my plea and sent me that sign I prayed for. Please read it and you'll know the rest of this story.”♡

(Linda McDonald Osteen)

Simply put, I am an animal lover.

I have previously written of having come across several helpless animals during the course of my ‘wee hours of the morning’ bike and walking treks.

There was the emaciated pooch, a mini-Doberman, tied to a light post which, as I rode my bike on a nearby sidewalk, I retrieved, brought home, and ‘farmed out’ to a no-kill shelter. There was the pitiful little cat, injured and lying next to a local two lane road. All I could do was call the dog pound and ask an animal control person to pick it up. And there was the time I ‘happened up’ on another feral cat, as I walked a two miler during a holiday at Cedar Key. I recall pausing and stroking his fur, and scratching under his chin, and musing aloud, “Sorry, little fella. About all I can do is spend a moment with you and offer you a little comfort.” And with that, I went on my way.

This morning, as I was about halfway through my walking circuit, I noticed a man who was about to transect my path. And as is my custom, rather than walk past someone at ‘O Dark Thirty,’ (and thus ‘take my life in my own hands’) I crossed the highway which bordered the sidewalk.

And having crossed this particular thoroughfare, and then another, in order to begin my trek home, I passed another light pole, (re. my earlier allusion) and lo and behold I noticed a small kitten sitting on the concrete base of the pole; about two feet above ground level.

You remember that old adage about the turtle on the fencepost? Well, (as with the kitten) we can assume he didn’t get there by himself.

But having arrived at this juncture, it may be helpful for you to understand that I ALWAYS include helpless, homeless, hungry feral animals in my daily prayers. Of course, many of these animals were previously abused, and while some have gotten loose, many have been dumped along our highways and byways.

Pt. 2

But to return to my story.

It immediately occurred to me that, as with the other instances, I was being called to ‘put feet to my prayers.’

Prayer or no prayer, I simply could not leave the kitten ‘to its own devices.’ (Though honestly, I prefer dogs to cats any day). But having scanned the general area, and assured myself that there wasn’t a mama cat in the vicinity, I picked up the bony creature, and gently holding it by my side, I quickly walked the remaining half mile home.

And while I had no plan, whatsoever, to keep the kitten, I did something which I have so often done. I mentally assigned a name to the pitiful creature, and I claimed him for the kingdom.

(Yes, I did).

His name? Well, since I discovered the poor little thing on Spirit Lake Road, I decided to call him, ‘Spirit;’ (a name which will have significant import by the time this story reaches its certain conclusion).

And, no doubt, dear readers, by now you are ‘biting at the bit’ for some clarity re. my having claimed the tiny fur ball for the kingdom.

In Psalm 36:6, we read,

“You preserve both men and animals, alike.”

And it is upon this particular implication I base my premise.

Are you familiar with The Rainbow Bridge? The notion that our animals have gone on before us, and will be waiting for us at the pearly gates? Well, I’m convinced that as believers can rest assured that we will see our pet pooches and felines again.

Pt. 3

Having arrived home, I poured some milk into a paper plate, and set it before little Spirit. He ignored it. At this point, I dipped a teaspoon into the milk, and lifted it to his mouth. And with that, Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Spirit had, by this time, crawled under my dining room table, and refused to move from his solitary place.

Having assured myself that ‘Queenie,’ my 15 pound Shih Tzu, was under the supervision of my wife, Jean, I sat down at my computer, and I.M.’ed my sister.

It may be helpful to understand that Linda is a night nurse, and that she sits with chronically ill youngsters in the wee hours of the evening. It might also be helpful to know that my sister is a cat person, par excellence.

As I described the scenario by which I had stumbled upon the cat, (and subsequently, rescued it) she offered something which I had not, ‘til this point,’ considered.

“I think Tony had something to do with it. I think he led you to the cat.”

And while I am characterizing things which may be helpful for you to understand, sadly, Linda’s 35 year old son, Tony, passed away last month.

Tony was, (as is his mother) a cat rescue person. And speaking of my newly named cat, it seems more than fitting that, in respect for Tony, I coincidentally chose the moniker, ‘Spirit’ for the precious little creature. (For it goes without saying that Tony has gone on to his reward).

And as you might imagine, as my sister and I interacted, I was on the threshold of asking Linda if she could ‘see her way clear’ to adopt the furry tyke.

As it fell together, I didn’t have to ask.

Pt. 4

“Would you like me to pick up the precious thing on my way home?”

(Dear Readers, she didn’t have to ask twice).

In a flash, my nimble fingers typed out that oft-used three letter word.

(Yes)

“Why, Yes. Yes, I would. I would like that a great deal.”

And to quote the most bless-ed promise in the Bible,

“And it came to pass.”

After my sister arrived home, she and I exchanged several texts. In the couple of hours which had transpired since she pulled into my driveway, she had visited the vet, had the kitten wormed, and antibiotics were administered.

And as my little text tone chimed again (and again), I opened each subsequent message and initially saw a photo. (Spirit was eating)! And then a brief video. (Spirit was exploring)!

Sullivan Ballou, that late great Union officer, once penned the most eloquent letter ever written in the context of the Civil War. And in it, he alluded to the proposition that those who have gone on before might have some import, input and impact into our daily lives here.

“But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the brightest day and darkest night; always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.”



Perhaps, as my sister implied, her dearly departed son had something to do with the circumstances of last night, the stranger crossing the road, and my need to find a different pathway home.

Need I say, I think maybe Tony is still in the cat rescue business!

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending