MRS. OLESON WAS ALIVE AND WELL AND LIVING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

From my perspective, Katherine MacGregor of “Little House on the Prairie” is one of the two or three greatest supporting actors of all time; (including, of course, Don Knotts of “The Andy Griffith Show” fame).

“Mrs. Oleson” is, at different times, endearing and maddening, hilarious and despicable, conniving and manipulative. And Katherine plays the part “to a T.” (One may witness a pale comparison of her singular abilities in the similar role of “Mrs. Godsey,” actor’s name omitted here, on “The Waltons.”)

Little could I have known when the series originally aired in the 70’s, and when I viewed reruns in the first decade of the new century, that I would ultimately experience the privilege of “meeting” the 1880’s television storekeeper. Well, to be fair, I never met her face to face, but rather…

I discovered Katherine MacGregor’s mailing address, her actual residence to be sure, on the webpage of her television daughter, “Nellie.” And on this site Alison Arngrim claimed that Ms. MacGregor enjoyed receiving fan mail, and attempted to answer any and all correspondence which she received. As a result, I decided to write the (now) 90 year old actress, and make her aware that among millions of viewers, past and present, she was finally reading a letter from her biggest fan in this, or any other universe.

I told her what a great actress I considered her to be, I mentioned the existence of a Wikipedia page in her name, and relayed a message from a distant cousin who claimed to have known her, and whom she assisted in a little theater stage play.

And true to “Nellie’s” assurances, two or three weeks later I received a letter with the unfamiliar “Katherine MacGregor” and a California address in the upper left hand corner. And then the unfamiliar became all too familiar.

“Mrs. Oleson,” of course!

I lost no time ripping open the letter, and began reading.

Not only had “Harriet” returned my original letter, but she had responded with a half page of cursive beneath my signature, and also filled up the entire back of the page with her handwriting. She thanked me for my stated appreciation of her acting skills in the old television series, disclaimed knowing anything about Wikipedia, but found my description of one of my edits on the Katherine MacGregor page humorous. And she denied knowing my distant relative.

(Interestingly enough, my cousin is a former Hindu, and it seems Katherine is also a Hindu; in spite of her church attendance on the Little House series. “Ruby” had told me that, at one time, she and “Mrs. Oleson” had been members of the same Hindu sect, and that the great supporting actress had, as I previously alluded, come along side my cousin on some local stage production in the area).

And tucked inside the envelope was, as “Nellie” had inferred there might be, a noticeably aromatic slip of paper with her own hand-drawn cartoonish caricature of herself; along with Katherine’s scribble, “A Touch of Perfume!”

And what began with one letter sent, and one received metamorphosed into a short-lived pen pal relationship. (However, the subsequent interaction between Katherine and I was, at this point, a matter of her own initiative and interest, and not my own). And the content of the two or three follow up letters was all about discovering whom my distant relative, (who had claimed to know her) was, and in the meanwhile denying any acquaintance at all with her.

After several letters promoting this vein of thought, including one addressed to my cousin, the retired actress ultimately wrote,

“Dr. McDonald, I’m too old, and too involved with my other admirers to continue corresponding with you as I have. This will have to be my last letter.”

And of course, I thought,

“Well, my dear, you’re the one who has insisted on writing and mailing these copious and extensive letters, not I.”

I sometimes pull out my old scrapbook and re-read the dear lady’s letters. And based on Ms. MacGregor’s words, tone and apparent personality, I can safely say her portrayal of the prairie storekeeper seems just about right.

“Mrs. Oleson” was alive and well and living in southern California.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THE DIVINE SPARK

My wife and I were watching an animated Disney movie yesterday called, “Soul.” Without going into the far-fetched pseudo-religious plot, suffice it to say when “stacked up” against holy scripture, it was, to say the least, far-fetched.

However, there was a theme which ran throughout the movie which I not only liked, but which is supported by the Old and New Testaments, and that theme was all about what I choose to refer to as, “The Divine Spark.”

Interestingly enough, as a marriage and family counselor and mentor I often speak to my clients about this concept. The implication which is that God has a particular something for each and every one of us to do, and a role for each and every one of us to assume, and the assurance that He will not only provide us the necessary interest, but the talent and the wherewithal, as well.

And yet, I think there are too many people who have, at one time, dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams, but who have just settled for something less than God’s corresponding dream for themselves; whether that be vocational or marital or ministerial.

My wife and I are good examples of fulfilling dreams which God inspired us to pursue, albeit relatively late in life. I was in my mid-40’s by the time I retired from UPS, finished my degree work, and began my marriage and family counseling career. Jean was nearing 50 when she completed her nursing degree and began her work in the medical career field.

Pt. 2

I once heard a story or perhaps a riddle which put it better than most anything I have ever heard.

“The richest piece of ground on earth. If I were to ask you where that is you might say, ‘The oil wells of Saudi Arabia,’ or ‘The gold mines of South Africa’ or ‘The rain forests of South America.’

“However, if you responded with these possibilities, you would be… absolutely wrong. For you see, the richest piece of ground on earth is your… local cemetery! For lying dormant in the bosoms of thousands of people there are unfinished, unrealized dreams. Dreams which might have changed the world. But they will lie dormant there for a quadrillion years.”

I am convinced that sometime in the annals of history well before time existed Father, Son and Holy Spirit sat down together around their heavenly conference table, and they dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for you and me. And I am convinced they spoke each of our names out loud, and decided what they had in mind for us, what we would be good at, what would satisfy us, and how we would be the most useful in the kingdom.

My friends, if God has given you a dream, if He has planted an interest in your heart, if you are not yet content that you are in the right place doing the right thing, I would encourage you to ask Him to clarify what He has in store for you, to put the right people in your life, to open the right doors, and to bring that dream to fruition which He dreamed for you before He flung the world and stars into space.

When speaking to a young client, student or intern, I have often mused “You are looking into a sunrise. I am looking into a sunset.” And though I have entered my seventh decade of life on this planet hardly a day goes by that I don’t remember to pray,

“Lord, don’t let me miss out on the remainder of my destiny.”

It’s a good prayer, and I think we should all be praying it, but not only praying it, but pursuing it.

What does our marvelous Creator have for you to do? What Divine Spark has He instilled within you? What dream did He dream for you to accomplish on this earth? How did He complete the sentence after He spoke your name out loud?

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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 added something to her limited knowledge. 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

 

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 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

THE UNFINISHED SUFFERINGS OF CHRIST

 A few years ago, I was watching an interview between an anchorman and a priest on Fox News. It seems Pope John Paul II had just died, and the kindly minister described the things with which he contended.

“Of course, an assassination attempt was perpetrated on Pope John Paul from which he never fully recovered, and from which he suffered much. And in the past few years, he struggled with Parkinson’s Disease. However, in spite of his physical challenges, he continued to travel the world and minister to his people.”

And with this, the priest concluded his statement with,

“So much like the verse,

‘Filling up in my own body the unfinished sufferings of Christ.’” (Col. 1:24)

At this juncture, the anchorman responded.

“I don’t understand. What is unfinished about Christ’ sufferings?”

To which the priest replied,

“Our participation.”

Such an interesting scripture the context of which, to my knowledge, is only found in a couple of other places in the holy writ.

“Filling up in my own body the unfinished sufferings of Christ.” (1:24)

Pt. 2

I was talking to a friend about this story and associated scripture earlier today, and I remarked,

“I think some believers suffer more than others, and understand this verse better than others.”

And as my friend and I continued to talk, I added,

“You know, it occurs to me that there are two things we should remember when we endure suffering. And I believe if we can grasp these concepts it will not only make our suffering bearable, but in a strange sort of way, almost pleasurable; at least, meaningful.”

1. “It is a privilege to suffer on behalf of our Lord, and the greater the suffering, the greater the privilege.”

2. “Suffering has an end. In the scheme of things, it is temporary in nature.”

Of course, sometimes it doesn’t feel like a privilege, and, in fact, it can feel more like a curse. However, scripture assures us it is a privilege.

“Bless-ed are they who suffer (for righteousness sake”). (Matt. 5:10)

And, of course, it sometimes feels like suffering is interminable, and will never end.

However, the Word of God is clear about the subject.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

Granted, some of us may go the way of the martyrs of Hebrews Chapter 11, but we can be happy to understand that at this moment their suffering is over, and these dear souls are looking directly into the face of Jesus.

Afterward

Stay encouraged, my friend. I think if you and I, as believers, could embrace a new, and better, and different mindset that our suffering is not only a privilege, but is also momentary in nature, it would make all the difference in the way in which we approach it, and endure it.

“Filling up in my own body the unfinished sufferings of Christ.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM

 Numbers 24:17 I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children of Sheth.

Daniel 12:3 And they that be wise shall shine as the brightness of the firmament; and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars for ever and ever.

This past Monday, a celestial event took place visible to most of the world as the 'Great Conjunction' between Jupiter and Saturn took place.  It was the first time since 1226 that such a convergence had taken place. The convergence of the two planets had the appearance of an exceptionally bright star, hence nicknamed the 'Bethlehem' Star.

A few years ago, National Geographic published an article describing a real celestial event that took place at the time of the birth of Jesus.  This reminded me of Risto Santala’s explanation in his book, "The Messiah in the New Testament in the Light of Rabbinical Writings". He wrote about a conjunction of major planets that took place which could have led the wise men from the east, to Israel.

Santala reports that in 1603, Johannes Kepler observed a conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn in the constellation of Pisces; he observed a "new, particularly brilliant and strangely colored star between Jupiter and Saturn, which soon faded." Kepler suggested that the Star of Bethlehem could have been such an event. Later, Alfred Edersheim wrote, "There can be no doubt that the most remarkable conjunction of planets -- that of Jupiter and Saturn in the constellation of Pisces, which occurs only once in 800 years -- did take place no less than three times in the year 747 A.U.C., or two years before the birth of Christ (in May, October, and December). This conjunction is admitted by all astronomers."

Santala writes, "The constellations of the zodiac were generally identified with different nations, Pisces, for example, is considered the patron constellation of Syria and Palestine, and the revealer of the End Times. Saturn was associated with Palestine in Babylonian astrology, whereas Jupiter was the royal planet, foreshadowing a political Golden Age. Thus, when Jupiter conjoined with Saturn in Pisces it was obvious that the Ruler of the End Times had been born in Palestine."

Whether or not this was the "star" the wise men saw is debatable, but it strongly suggests that a real and significant celestial event did take place roughly at the time of the birth of Jesus. As millions around the world are celebrating His birth this week, we ought to remember that one purpose for which God created the stars was, "for signs." [Genesis 1:14]

You, also, are a sign…a sign of His birth and of His life. Whether you realize it or not, you also are a living, breathing, announcement of Messiah and of His light. And this holiday season, with the spiritual darkness so rapidly increasing, your calling and destiny is to SHINE!…to shine like the stars, in a darkening world, exactly in the same way that His coming to Bethlehem was announced, "a star out of Jacob"…What a destiny! Let us pray that as the season closes and the new year turns, we, His people, will be filled with the oil of his Spirit which will fuel this shining…even right up till the moment He comes, blazing back into this world…Hallelujah!

THE MILK OF ANIMAL KINDNESS

Until recently Toby called me “Granddad.” But now, he calls me “Dad.” 

Well, let me back up a bit. It would probably be helpful for you to know that Toby is a black and white Papillon, and he had lived with my daughter, Kristy ever since the beginning, well, his beginning six years ago. However, in the past couple of weeks Kristy bequeathed Toby to my wife, and me primarily because she has three other dogs and one cat in the house. And with the recent addition of a pug puppy, the little mini-spaniel became a recluse in his own house.

Queenie, our little beige and white Shih Tzu, which we have owned since 2013, and is approaching 110 in human years, has tolerated Toby well. And “tolerate” might be a good word for their relationship. They merely co-exist. And while they don’t play together, they are generally not antagonistic towards one another. At least not as a rule. Well, until yesterday.

My wife had just walked into the house, and told me she had groceries in the car, and that she needed help getting them in. I walked through the garage, and began carrying two and three bags at a time into the house. After covering every available space in the kitchen with bags, I laid the remaining bags on the living room sofa, and sat down in my typing chair to finish a blog.

Suddenly, I heard a sound like a rat, well, a big mouse, chewing on a bag of dried potato flakes. (I admit, we have experienced a recent minor infestation of the critters, so I clearly recognized the sound). Getting up, I walked into the living room, and saw my little Queenie, her nose in a plastic grocery bag.

Pt. 2

It was then that Jean said,

“Well, look at that. Queenie has discovered the rubber balls I bought for her and Toby” (and) “I guess she smelled the bacon flavoring on the outside of the balls.”

Shooing my little pooch away, I grabbed the two balls, and cut them from their wrappers, since each was attached to the cardboard with what looked like fishing line. And now, I threw one of the green rubber balls to each dog.

Both Queenie and Toby made a beeline for the balls, and scooped them up in their open mouths. Well, Toby did anyway. Queenie has long since lost every solitary tooth in her mouth, and all she could do was gum the ball.

However, my precious pooch quickly tired of her ball, and decided to abscond with Toby’s. Self-assuredly strolling up to him, Queenie pounced on Toby’s ball, and began mouthing and pawing it, in an attempt to move it away from Toby’s immediate presence.

What followed was, in retrospect, sheer self-defense on Toby’s part. Queenie was all over him now, snarling and gumming and pawing her middle-aged counterpart. Now, Toby joined the battle, and began giving his opponent as good as he was getting. While my wife and I have rarely seen the two creatures fight, what we observed now was a Battle Royale.

I lost no time in grabbing Queenie up in my arms. Her anger was stronger than her ability, and she was about to get hurt. As I lifted her up from the floor, Toby casually walked off with his ball.

Returning to my computer, I finished typing a blog, and got up from my chair. As I rounded my desk, and walked into the living room, I noticed Queenie sitting on the floor; a green ball on her right, and a green ball on her left.

It was apparent to me that in the couple of minutes it took me to finish typing my story, Queenie had managed to retrieve one of the balls from where it had rolled when I scooped her up in my arms, and Toby had… returned his own ball to Queenie.

And I thought,

“The sensitivity and compassion of animals is nothing less than amazing.”

At this point, I walked over, picked up Toby’s ball and laid it next to him. I mean, for all his compassion, Queenie could only play with one ball at a time. With this, I walked into my bedroom to get my coat. I had work to do in the yard.

I could not have been gone for more than two minutes. As I came back up the hall, and walked into the living room, I saw it.

Toby had once again returned his ball, and set it down next to Queenie. Just as before, there was a green ball on her right side, and a green ball on her left side.

They say a dog doesn’t live as long as a human being since it doesn’t take a dog as long to learn to be perfect. I am beginning to believe it.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

NOVEL AMONG NOVELS. AUTHOR AMONG AUTHORS

Pt. 1

Like a majority of Americans, I am descended from inhabitants of England, Scotland and Ireland. And like a sizable number of Americans of the so-called “Baby Boomer” generation, I was introduced to several of the European classics in high school; novels such as, “Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo, “Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austen, and, (of course) “Jane Eyre” by the pride of Haworth, Charlotte Bronte.

Speaking of “Jane Eyre,” I recall being captivated by that wonderful volume before I knew anything but basics about the author, and years transpired before I realized that the book had been captured in movie form.

As a matter of fact, in my research for my writing, I discovered that “Jane Eyre” has been portrayed by a minimum of (8) silent films beginning in 1910, (24) feature films beginning in 1934, (16) television adaptations beginning in 1949, (13) radio interpretations beginning in 1938, and (18) theatrical renditions beginning in 1849, (just two years after the book was published). I can tell you these statistics were nothing less than compelling to me.

At this writing, I have easily seen a minimum of six or eight versions of the movie, and long before my research, it was my considered opinion that “Jane Eyre” had been characterized more times in more forms, and in more languages than any novel in history. I believe the otherwise fluent Charlotte would be rendered virtually speechless were she afforded a minute in the 21^st century, and informed of the universal popularity of her volume. I think the only comparable revelation might apply to John Newton, the writer of “Amazing Grace.”

Of course, during the era when Charlotte Bronte’s novel was written, she and her literary sisters used male pen names. (Charlotte was “Currer Bell.” Anne was “Acton Bell.” Emily was “Ellis Bell”). I love the scene in the movie, “To Walk Invisible” in which Charlotte walks into her publisher’s office, and reveals herself as the writer of “Jane Eyre.” All three sisters were “found out” during their lifetimes, and were, ultimately, loved and celebrated worldwide.

Pt. 2

Will Rogers once said,

“I never met a man I didn’t like.”

Well, I can’t subscribe to ole Will’s persuasion about men (or women), but I can truthfully say,

“I never watched a ‘Jane Eyre’ production of any kind that I didn’t like.”

At least I can make that declaration with two major disclaimers.

1.     I, admittedly, like some versions more than others.

2.   Some renditions vary from the original text, (and the closer to Charlotte Bronte’s script, the better).

And speaking of Miss Bronte’s novels, I readily admit I have attempted to read, “The Professor” and “Villette,” but never managed to get very far. (I am currently beginning the latter of the two volumes again). But be that as it may, I absolutely love “Jane Eyre,” and the myriad of renditions which spring from it.

And like so many before me, the proposal scene is my favorite; (whether book, movie, television, radio or stage play). And my favorite lines from the proposal scene, (and which are virtually always quoted intact in the film and theatrical versions) are:

“Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I have as much soul as you, and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you!”

The novel “Jane Eyre” is a study in contrasts.

Mr. Rochester has toured the world. Jane Eyre has never traveled more than a hundred miles from “Gateshead,” her adoptive home. Edward is known and respected. Jane is an outcast. The master is wealthy, and owns property. The governess is poor and owns the clothes on her back.

Mr. Rochester is brash and self-assured. Jane Eyre is humble and self-demeaning. Edward is amoral. Jane is a woman of faith. The master has known the love of many women. The governess has never known the love of a single man. Mr. Rochester was raised in a biological family. Jane Eyre was raised as an orphan, and was dependent on the good will of a despised in-law.

Pt. 3

Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre” is also a study in what I can only characterize as “reverse contrasts.”

Or if I were to express it in biblical terms,

“How the mighty have fallen” and “How the lowly have been lifted up.”

Mr. Rochester is disabled and disfigured, and secluded from society. Jane Eyre has journeyed far, is surrounded by loved ones, and is living out an impactful life. Edward is forgotten and forlorn. Jane is affirmed and affectionate. The former master has lost possessions and power. The former governess is wealthy, and has become a lady in her own right.

Mr. Rochester has been brought low, and despair overwhelms him. Jane Eyre has been lifted from the depths, and a smile brightens her countenance. Edward has lost his wife, and the woman he loved. Jane has received two marriage proposals in less than a year.

And I think it is only in the writing of this perspective that I have found a way to adequately characterize the contrasts and reverse contrasts inherent in the unfolding lives of Edward Rochester and Jane Eyre.

As the novel concludes, we cannot help but notice how Jane toys with Edward, as he asks her about her recent suitor’s attributes and proposal of marriage, and the playful responses she offers him indicative of her newfound cousin’s desirability as a husband. And I cannot help but recall the symmetry between this scene, and that of the earlier episode beneath the chestnut tree when the master toyed with the governess, and spoke of the inevitability of her departure, and her employment in Ireland; just prior to Rochester proposing marriage.

And now we conclude the convoluted story of Jane Eyre and Edward Rochester, and we finally reach a state of homeostasis in which two very different, and sometimes disagreeable people become one in heart, mind and spirit.

"He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight in one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly; he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him, the earth no longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that he had inherited his own eyes, as they once were, large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgment with mercy."

by William McDonald, PhD

AARP & THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION

I was leafing through the monthly AARP magazine a couple days ago, and came across an advertisement, the likes of which I have NEVER seen in any magazine, much less one which is designed for the elderly population.

For you see, this particular advertisement was a promotion for videos designed to help 55 and over couples in the bedroom. (I kid you not). Without being too graphic, (since I think I have a mostly Christian reading audience), for a nominal fee the ad promises to convey to the recipient ten DVD’s; each one of which visually illustrates a different sexual activity, as demonstrated by unmarried or married couples, young or old, as the case may be. (The status and chronology of the actors are not characterized in the advertisement).

As you might imagine, I was absolutely amazed that AARP would consider promoting such a product. And as you might imagine, the likes of yours truly finds such a promotion nothing short of pornographic, and I wondered if the same actors who regularly appear in X-rated movies star in these “instructional” videos. I immediately conjectured that the magazine will receive more than a few complaints from its readers questioning the wisdom and morality of the ad.

However, leaving all the foregoing musings aside, it occurred to me that the promotion company responsible for these videos might conceivably find itself the subject of a class action suit, if and when the 55 and over population begin to view the DVD’s, and/or emulate the activity therein, and dozens of the viewers, and imitators… succumb to heart attacks.

Perhaps the box will have a disclaimer much like one finds on  cigarette wrappers.

“This product is guaranteed to arouse, titillate and satisfy your sexual sensibilities, and enhance your libido (or) kill you.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

RICHES IN DARKNESS

I was walking along a nearby highway the other night, a habit of mine since I quit biking, and as a particular car went by, I suddenly sensed the fragrance of perfume.

And I was reminded of another evening when I was still riding my bicycle down the same sidewalk. After biking a mile or two, another non-descript automobile passed me, and I suddenly sensed the odor of a burning cigarette.

And each time the respective cars passed by, and I smelled the smells of perfume and cigarettes, I thought,

“I am convinced that fragrances and odors are somehow magnified at night.”

Perhaps it has to do with humidity or barometric pressure or wind, (or fill in the blank). I have no way of knowing.

But at any rate, each time I thought the thought which I have shared with you, a follow up thought filled the gap where the former one had just resided.

“I think the odor (or fragrance) I just smelled serves as a metaphor for the darkness of the soul, and the responses people express towards us when we are at our lowest ebb.”

For you see, trouble, trial, testing and turmoil seem to bring out both the best and the worst among those who surround us. Simply put, when we are experiencing the deepest, darkest moments of our lives, it is not difficult to determine who our friends are.

For it is in those moments that friends and strangers, alike exude figurative sweetness or vinegar. It in the most delicate, dire, desperate seasons of our lives that people come alongside us, or tiptoe away. It is in the darkest moments they offer the fragrance of their words, the odor of their accusations, or the dearth of their presence in our lives.

And while suffering is not pleasant at the time, we know that in some unexplainable manner God uses the deepest, darkest, most desperate of experiences for our good. And we know that He will, ultimately, offer us perfume instead of mildew, and that He will surround us with the fragrance of His lingering presence.

by William McDonald, PhD