CONSIDER HIM

When the storm is raging high

When the tempest rends the sky,

When my eyes with tears are dim,

Then, my soul, consider Him.

When my plans are in the dust,

When my dearest hopes are crushed,

When is passed each foolish whim,

Then, my soul, consider Him.

When with dearest friends I part,

When deep sorrow fills my heart,

When pain racks each weary limb,

Then, my soul, consider Him.

When I track my weary way,

When fresh trials come each day,

When my faith and hope are dim,

Then, my soul, consider Him.

Clouds or sunshine, dark or bright,

Evening shades or morning light,

When my cup flows o'er the brim,

Then, my soul, consider Him.

(Anonymous)

COMFORTING HIS OPPONENT

I was watching a few of the Tokyo Olympics Judo matches yesterday, and was interested to see a brother and sister from Japan, Hifumi Abe and Uta Abe, compete in their respective weight divisions on the same day.

I honestly don’t know all that much about Judo, and as the matches progressed, it looked “for all the world” like Greco-Roman wrestling to me. But be that as it may, it was obvious the athletes had spent a great amount of time, and exerted immense amounts of effort training for their event.

As it fell together each of the Abe’ siblings won gold medals in Judo on the same day! Irrespective of this amazing development, (and the significance of it cannot be exaggerated), the conclusion of Hifumi’s gold winning match against Georgia’s Vazha Margvelashvili was, from both a counselor’s, and human being’s point of view, the most singular moment of all the multiplied moments in either match.

For you see, as the Judo finals match between Hifumi and Vazha tick tocked its way to an end, the former had outscored the latter, and was declared not only the winner, but the recipient of the Olympic gold medal.

Of course, Uta, Hifumi’s sister, who had in the preceding hours won her own gold medal, was at that moment seated in the arena, and clapped wildly and was all smiles. Hifumi was equally thrilled with his win and they celebrated together.

However, Vazha’s face registered his abject dismay. He had come so far in his quest for the gold medal in Judo, until the final round, only to come up short of his quest. Granted, second was good enough for the Olympic silver medal, but it was obviously not good enough for Vazha. Now, when Hifumi’s celebration was over, he stepped up to his defeated foe, shook his hand, and embraced him.

It was then that Vazha revealed the deep pain which threatened to overwhelm him. Suddenly, his head drooped on the conqueror’s shoulder, and rested there for what seemed an eternity, but could not have been more than a few seconds.

And then the moment passed

And yet, I cannot begin to describe the empathy I felt for the poor man when his head almost involuntarily fell onto his opponent’s shoulders. I have rarely felt anything like it. The Georgian was devasted that he could not take home the gold medal to his country and countrymen, and I vicariously felt his pain.

 

I think both men, the conqueror and the defeated foe, have much to teach us about love and empathy, comradery and encouragement. For in their respective victory and defeat each served as a unique role model for all who witnessed those fleeting few moments which transpired in the finals Judo match at the 2020 Tokyo Olympics.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

 

 

 

STANDING IN FOR GRACE

Forward

I can’t account for it, but as I was preparing my lunch, (well, my TV dinner), I suddenly experienced the compulsion to breathe a silent prayer for those parents who would lose a child today; (which I proceeded to do).

And strangely enough, not two minutes later my wife said,

“I just saw an obituary for a local three year old boy.” (And with that, she proceeded to show me a picture of the cutest little tyke which you can imagine).

Pt. 1

Among the most amazing of miracles which I have experienced is a series of “near misses” which have accompanied me during my young, middle and older adult years.

During the course of my job at a phosphate mine, and while working the evening shift, I walked between a dragline and its massive swinging bucket, as it did what it did best. However, in spite of the darkness which surrounded me, the operator witnessed my predicament and dropped the twenty ton bucket against the slope of the deep pit which he had been digging. I was only moments from certain death.

Then, there was the time when I was driving home from work one day, and managed to flip my car on a rain-soaked road. Having rolled off the road and onto the shoulder, it came to rest on its wheels; resulting in plenty of damage to the automobile, and little or none to me.

Then again, in the past couple of decades my wife and I were nearing our house one day, along that same stretch of road which I walk on a recurring basis, when a car ran a stop sign; perhaps fifty feet ahead of us. My wife immediately locked up the brakes of our 1980 something green Oldsmobile. In the other car, two little children stared out their rear window at us; abject terror registering on their faces.

There was no question. Someone, or multiple someone’s were about to die. However, as I sat on the passenger side of the vehicle I was struck with the strangest possibility of escape. Assuming the position of driver from the unlikeliest of positions, I wrested the steering wheel from my wife with my left hand, and I managed to steer our car behind the offending vehicle. Having missed the automobile by all of a foot, our car immediately went into a 180 degree spin, and finally came to rest next to the border fence of a nearby home; our frontend facing in the direction which our backend had been facing only moments before.

Pt. 2

But allow me to digress a moment.

"Grace" was a classmate of mine, though a year behind me in school. And while I don’t recall exchanging so much as one word with her, we were both members of our high school chorus.

Grace was the daughter of a local minister of music, and his wife, was a fine Christian girl, was a member of several high school academic and vocational groups, and was blessed with plenty of friends.

Sadly, at the tender age of 17, and just three months before her high school graduation Grace was involved in a one vehicle accident, and succumbed to her injuries.

I mean, who can account for it? The loss of such a person of excellence and rich potential? Not only this, but it seems she surrendered her life to providence “first time out;” at such a young and inestimably unfair age.

Yet, I have experienced a significant number of what I often refer to as “near misses,” (or near death experiences) during the course of my life, and I have only recounted a few here.

Did I mention my sensitivity to my environment seems to be heightened in the wee hours of the morning? Then, last night perhaps one of the most amazing, although subtle miracles I have been privileged to experience.

As I was in the process of completing my hour long walk, I heard, (or rather perceived) the voice.

“I want you to stand in for Grace.”

(Even as I type these words, a shiver runs up my spine).

Afterward

Granted, it was only a perception. But this perception literally “came out of nowhere.” I hadn’t been thinking of Grace, nor any of several long lost classmates who “left us before their time.”

…“I want you to stand in for Grace.”

As someone who has been directly associated with various helping ministries over the course of half a century, (including the roles of pastor, professor, youth leader, mentor and counselor) I like to think I have made a difference in multiplied thousands of lives.

Yet, in spite of everything which has already fallen together in my life, hardly a day goes by that I don’t whisper a prayer.

“Lord, please don’t let me miss out on whatever still remains of my destiny. Please don’t allow me to miss out on each and every circumstance and event you have planned for me, and the people whom you have yet to set in my pathway.”

Now, at the grand old age of 70, it seems God has appointed me to be a personal emissary for that dear precious soul who never had the opportunity to live out a long and fulfilling life on the earth.

And whether my persuasion is just a personal figment, or whether Almighty God has truly chosen me for a mission, I can think of no greater, more worthy, or more fulfilling task than to stand in for that lovely young lady who was deprived of an opportunity to live, and move, and breathe, and to fulfill her God-given potential on the earth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

MESSAGE TO THOSE WHO WILL FOLLOW ME

 I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal

… absolutely nothing.

And I have often mused,

“Why didn’t you leave something behind?”

Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been if you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves.

Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, I consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected.) I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, “before you were even a twinkle.”

You deserve it.

And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing…

We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time,

… Leave something of yourself behind.

And so much more crucial than my previous admonition, I earnestly pray, (and I have prayed for you when you were not, and when only God knew you by name) that you will give your life to the Lord Jesus Christ, and faithfully serve Him, as I believe that I have done.

For as a wise and equally well-known man of my time, Dr. James Dobson, (whom I once met, and conversed with) has encouraged his own children, and grandchildren…

… “Be There!”

… “Be There!”

I hope to meet you in heaven. I’ll be waiting just inside the gate.

Your loving Granddad

PRAYING FOR MY PROGENY

Hardly a day goes by that I don’t pray for those who will follow me, both my biological and spiritual descendants; those whose advent could very well be a thousand years hence.

My words may vary, but generally address the following concerns:

“Father God, would you bless, help, protect and encourage my unborn, yet unseen, and presently unknown progeny; who I will only know in the hereafter. Would you bring them to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ, and would you allow them to exercise great impact over those whom you set in their pathway. Amen.”

Now, I expect very few Christians pray a prayer like this. Those with whom I have shared this concept seem unacquainted with, (though at least momentarily impressed) with the idea.

I have been praying this prayer for many years, longer, I think, than I knew or realized that someone much greater than myself prayed the same prayer before me.

No, I am not referring to my illustrious ancestors, though I cannot begin to count the number of preachers and devote believers who have graced my family tree. And I have often wondered if one of my ancient kinsmen or kinswomen breathed a prayer for their unborn, unseen, unknown biological or spiritual progeny, among whom was me. (Admittedly subjective and biased on my part, but I am sure of it. I have been too blessed, helped, protected, and encouraged, and allowed too much impact for it to have been any other way).

Do you know that the notion of praying for one’s unborn, unseen, unknown biological and spiritual descendants is scriptural? Do you realize that the Son of God, the Savior of the world, the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End prayed for you two thousand years ago? (Yeah, He did)!

Notice these words from John Chapter 17

“My prayer is not for (the twelve) alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you. May they also be in us so that the world may believe that you have sent me.  I have given them the glory that you gave me, that they may be one as we are one, I in them and you in me, so that they may be brought to complete unity. Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.

“Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory, the glory you have given me because you loved me before the creation of the world.

“Righteous Father, though the world does not know you, I know you, and they know that you have sent me.  I have made you known to them, and will continue to make you known in order that the love you have for me may be in them and that I myself may be in them.”

How encouraging it should be to all believers that our Lord Jesus Christ role modeled such a prayer for us, but more profoundly insightful that He prayed for you; that He prayed for you while you were yet unborn, unseen (but certainly not unknown).

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

THE UNLUCKIEST SHIP IN THE NAVY

 

The US Navy's unluckiest ship almost killed a president, and things only got worse from there

Benjamin Brimelow

Tue, July 20, 2021, 9:20 AM

US Navy destroyer USS William D. Porter in Massacre Bay in Attu, part of the Aleutian Islands, June 9, 1944. US Navy

• USS William D. Porter had all the makings of another proud US Navy ship when it arrived during World War II.

• But the Fletcher-class destroyer's service life was marred by a serious of mistakes and errors.

• See more stories on Insider's business page.

The US Navy has a long list of famous fighting ships known for heroic feats and proud service.

But the Navy also has its fair share of unfortunate vessels - chief among them the USS William D. Porter, a Fletcher-class destroyer built during World War II.

Known to its crew as "Willie Dee," the destroyer was, with little doubt, the unluckiest ship in US Navy history.

Accident-prone

Willie Dee had the makings of another US ship with a proud history. It was named after Commodore William D. Porter, a Civil War hero who was so committed to the Navy that he stowed away on a warship at the age of 12 and enlisted at 15.

Porter was launched on September 27, 1942, and commissioned in July 1943. After a shakedown and training period, it was ordered to leave Norfolk and join the battleship USS Iowa for escort duty in November 1943.

Porter left port for its first real mission on November 12. While it was pulling out of line, its anchor got caught on a neighboring destroyer and ripped out some of the other ship's railings, a life boat, and other pieces of the ship.

Undamaged itself, Porter rendezvoused with the Iowa and other destroyers for an important mission: escorting President Franklin Roosevelt to Tehran for meetings with the Allied leaders.

To maximize security, the ships were to maintain radio silence until they reached their destination, communicating only through signal lights.

A day into the journey, a sudden underwater explosion caused the entire formation to take evasive action, believing that they were being attacked by a submarine.

But it turned out that the explosion was actually caused by one of Porter's depth charges, which had been armed and then accidentally rolled off the ship.

Shortly after the depth charge mishap, Porter was hit by a freak wave without warning. One sailor was lost, a boiler room was flooded, and the captain had to break radio silence to tell Iowa why the destroyer was lagging behind.

A mistaken torpedo launch

President Franklin D. Roosevelt aboard a battleship. Bettmann/Getty Images

On November 14, Roosevelt, a naval enthusiast who had served as assistant secretary of the Navy, asked for a demonstration of Iowa's anti-aircraft capabilities.

The battleship sent up multiple target balloons, and gunners on its deck set about shooting them down. A few of the balloons drifted toward Porter, whose crew also shot them down.

The accompanying destroyers then demonstrated mock torpedo attack runs. The torpedoes' primers were supposed to be removed to ensure they wouldn't exit the tubes when fired.

Porter got into position about 6,000 yards from Iowa and commenced its mock attack. As planned, the first two torpedoes did not leave their tubes when fired, but the third torpedo's primer was in place, and it shot out of its tube, heading for Iowa.

Pandemonium erupted on Porter. After being admonished for breaking radio silence earlier, Porter's captain was reluctant to warn Iowa by radio and ordered a warning be sent by signal light.

But in the haste and confusion, Porter sent the wrong message, instead signaling Iowa that the destroyer was reversing at full speed. Realizing the mistake, Porter broke radio silence and warned Iowa of the threat.

Iowa turned to avoid the torpedo, which exploded about 3,000 yards to the rear of the battleship in its wake. All of Iowa's guns were then immediately trained on Porter, as there was fear of an assassination plot.

Porter was ordered to sail to Bermuda, where its crew was arrested. Chief Torpedoman Lawton Dawson admitted to failing to remove the primer and was sentenced to 14 years of hard labor. But Roosevelt personally intervened, requesting that Dawson's sentence and any others given out for the incident be rescinded.

Roosevelt himself had asked his Secret Service detachment to move his wheelchair to the railing of Iowa so he could see the torpedo when he heard of its firing.

An unlucky end

US Navy ships evacuate USS William D. Porter's crew as it sinks after a near-miss by a Japanese Kamikaze off of Okinawa, June 10, 1945. US Navy

Porter was transferred to the Pacific after the incident with Iowa. For a while, its life was relatively normal. Operating out of Alaska, it conducted anti-submarine patrols near the Aleutian Islands and even raided the Japanese-controlled Kuril Islands in June 1944.

In late September, Porter was ordered to the western Pacific, where it escorted ships and provided shore bombardment for American troops during the liberation of Luzon in the Philippines. The destroyer even managed to shoot down four Japanese aircraft and sink a few Japanese barges.

On March 24, 1945, Porter joined the naval force for the Battle of Okinawa, where it conducted shore bombardment, anti-submarine patrols, escorted minesweepers, and provided anti-aircraft support for the task force. It also downed another five enemy planes.

But Porter's bad luck returned; first when it accidentally raked the destroyer USS Luce with gunfire during an air attack early in the battle, and then on June 10, when a Japanese Aichi D3A "Val" dive bomber attempted a kamikaze attack on Porter as it operated off of Okinawa.

Porter managed to dodge the Val, which crashed into the water, but the aircraft's momentum and the ocean's current pushed the plane directly under Porter's hull, where it exploded, momentarily lifting Porter out of the water.

For three hours, the crew fought fires and desperately tried to repair the ship. But the damage was too great, and Porter was abandoned.

In its final moments, Porter appeared to have some luck, as not a single crew member was killed or seriously injured in the attack. All crewmen managed to evacuate before the destroyer slipped beneath the waves, ending the career of the unluckiest ship in US Navy history.

I WOULD IF I COULD, BUT I CAN'T

 

My mother in law was, to say the least, a real character.

She once received a call from Arthur Murray Studios, and the representative said,

"Mrs. Vaughn, we are pleased to tell you that we have a one time promotion. If you sign up for ten dance lessons, the first two will be absolutely free!"

To which she responded,

"I'm sorry, honey. I only have one leg!"

The caller quickly apologized and hung up. She didn't hear from that company again.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

LEAVING

There was a custom among 18^th century Scottish immigrants in which a mother or father, brother or sister on the beach would hold a ball of twine, while their immigrant relative would be given the loose end of it to hold. As the ship sailed out of the harbor the twine would play out over the water. And as the ship sailed further from the beach, the ball of twine would get smaller and smaller, until the entire string had played out, and it lay floating on the ocean. It was the last tangible connection to their homeland for those who would never return.

by William McDonald, PhD

AN APPOINTMENT IN SAMARRA

There’s a mythological story which speaks to the reality of, and certainty of death.

Years before Gabriel spoke to the Virgin Mary, or Moses rolled back the Red Sea, a powerful king named Zaidan ruled and reigned in a faraway land. The king was proud of his country and his people, and though he fiercely rendered justice to whom justice was due, he was also known as a man of rich compassion.

And as you might expect, the good king’s palace and its adjoining grounds were populated by a multitude of loyal servants. And as you might also well imagine, the ruler of this great land enjoyed the services of a few selected stewards whom had proved their loyalty, and who had ministered to his daily needs over the course of decades.

One servant, in particular, a man named Abdul, had from time immemorial fulfilled a brief, but (at least from the king’s point of view) necessary task. Outside of that singular, daily task, he was “given the run” of the palace, and little else was expected of him.

Oddly enough, when the waning shadows on the sun dial registered the 6^th hour of the afternoon, all activity in the inner sanctum of the palace ceased, the king mounted his throne, and a nearby eunuch slammed a mallet on a great silver cymbal. Three times. And as the last echoes of the great gong ceased to reverberate, a great door in the back of the massive room opened, and Abdul appeared, attired in blue and crimson, and marched down the long aisle which separated him from the ornate throne.

The king’s servants, male and female, lined each side of the aisle; soldiers on his right. Handmaids on his left; as Abdul navigated the fifty feet which separated him from the monarch whom he had grown to love and respect.

Pt. 2

Having reached the foot of the great throne, Abdul stopped, slammed his arms against his side, drew his left foot against his right, silently cleared his throat, and shouted the words,

“Remember, oh king…one day you must die!”

Having uttered those eight fateful words, he executed a military about face movement, and retraced his steps down the aisle, and out the main door of the inner sanctum.

And with this, the king stood and made his way out a side door, and into his adjoining study. As the door closed behind him, the assembled soldiers and handmaidens drifted back from whence they’d come; Abdul’s poignant message having impacted not only their beneficent ruler, but they, themselves.

“Remember, oh king…one day you must die!”

Abdul might as well have shouted,

“Remember, Hakeem, Remember Ayishah…one day you must die.”

The message simply never got old. It was simply too ‘there there.’ And if the king was hyper-sensitive to the message, Abdul the more so. It seemed to keep him and them focused on the gravity of life, and the priorities, good, better and best, which surrounded life.

And, dear readers, as I previously inferred, having completed his dreary daily task, Abdul marched himself out of the ornate throne room, and retreated to the servant’s quarters.

Having fulfilled his appointed daily task for several years, the time came when Abdul began to feel a bit unfulfilled. And one morning, after breakfast, he approached the king’s viceroy, and requested an audience with his beloved master.

Pt. 3

Abdul lost no time in explaining himself, and the viceroy lost no time in approving his request to meet with the king.

And as quickly as his wish was granted, Abdul was escorted into the king’s bedroom; (for he often had breakfast in bed). His monarch smiled, and greeted his favorite servant with,

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company so early in the day, my dear friend?”

Abdul cleared his throat, and spoke.

“Oh king, as important as I count my daily task, I sense the need of something more, an additional role to take my mind away from this dread, and dreary subject with which you have invested me; (but which both you and I believe is so crucial to your life and kingdom”).

To which the king replied,

“Abdul, you have been a faithful servant and a true friend to me. But if you feel you need some added task, I will allow it. You know my aged servant, Mohammed, just recently stepped down as my Steward of Royal Food Stuffs. I had been planning to procure a younger man to assume his place. But since this role only requires two days each week in which he mounted his camel, visited the local market, and ordered the necessary foods and wines, I will allow you to assume this additional role.”

And though any outward change in a solemn countenance in the king’s presence was considered disrespectful, Abdul could not contain himself, and a great smile lit up his face.

But since the king sometimes dispensed with formalities, and since he was alone with his dear friend, he could not help but emit a resounding laugh; which seemed to rise up from the depths of his belly.

Pt. 4

 And while, Abdul continued to march down the aisle of the throne room, and shouted the words he’d shouted so many times before, he assumed the secondary role as the Steward of Royal Food Stuffs, and made his way to the market on a bi-weekly basis.

A few weeks had passed since the faithful Abdul had assumed his added duty, and as he was leisurely strolling through the marketplace, and as he had begun to dicker with a local merchant for three bushels of dates, and ten kilos of olives, he happened to cast his eyes to the left, and what he saw caused an involuntary shudder to run up his spine.

Death Incarnate

What, (or perhaps the word is ‘Who’) greeted his eyes was none other than the Death Angel; (whom, as it fell together, was, apparently invisible to everyone, but Abdul).

The hideous creature was robed in black, (but contrary to our modern caricature, he held no scythe or sickle in his hand). As Abdul looked up at the magnificent being, (for he stood head and shoulders taller than the steward, and he was built like a proverbial bull) his black and threatening eyes caused the hair to rise on his arms.

For all his daily proclamations, Adul had never encountered the subject of his exclamations. Death. He immediately forgot about the dates and olives, and for that matter gave no thought to his mode of transportation; the camel which stood three paces away. But rather, he turned and ran as quickly as his feet could carry him away from the market, and into the desert. A full hour elapsed before he slowed, and began to walk. Another hour passed before he noticed the spire of the king’s palace, and he strode wearily through its main gate.

Pt. 5

Abdul lost no time in approaching the king, nor did he seek permission to do so; another breach in royal etiquette. But there was simply no time for etiquette.

He found the king just outside his royal harem; as he stood interviewing another potential concubine.

Falling down before him, Abdul exclaimed,

“Oh king, forgive my insolence; just this once. But allow me to make my plea. As I was in the marketplace today, and busy with the culinary affairs of my master, I saw something almost unspeakable. I saw the darkest, most evil creature you can possibly imagine. I saw the Death Angel. And dear friend (may I call you, ‘friend’) his gaze was absolutely penetrating, and great fear permeated the recesses of my soul!”

(and)

“Oh king, I gave no thought to the royal camel, but found my way out of the dark Angel’s presence, and crossed the desert on foot. Dear king, if I have pleased you, if I have done those things, and more that has been expected of me, loan me your best camel, and allow me to flee to the City of Samarra!”

As Abdul looked up from his place on the floor, he noticed something he had never seen throughout the multiplied years he’d served the king. A tear ran down the royal cheek, and anger suddenly registered on his countenance.

“My friend, of course you may borrow my prize camel. Lose no time! Make haste! Do not delay!”

And with this, Abdul kissed the king’s feet, rose from the floor, and made good his escape.

Afterward

Needless to say, the king was incensed, and immediately ordered a garrison of soldiers to accompany him to the city in search of the interloper.

Arriving at the marketplace, the king cast his eyes among the hundred or so booths and stands which greeted him. Suddenly, he spotted the horrible creature; lingering near the place where his faithful servant encountered him.

Accompanied by his soldiers, he approached the dark gruesome beast, and exclaimed,

“Oh Death, my faithful servant, Abdul, was here just six hours hence, and he told me he saw you, as I see you with my own eyes now. And my faithful steward and friend, Abdul, claimed you glared at him, and threatened him with your gruesome countenance! Please give an account of yourself.”

To which the dark Angel of Death bared his yellow fangs, but spoke, it seemed, rather softly.

“Oh good king, I did not threaten your servant. I was only surprised to see him. For you see, I have an appointment with him tonight

…in the City of Samarra.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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

UNFINISHED DREAMS

 

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

 

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

 

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

 

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

 

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

 

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

 

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

 

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

 

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

 

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

 

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

 

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

 

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

 

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

 

They gave their tomorrows for our today.

 

 by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

OLD TOM, THE FAITHFUL MULE

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

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

 

“And So It Goes”

 

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

 

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

 

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

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending