REMEMBERING ROBERT FROST

 

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My 6th grade teacher, Mr. Ball, turned on black & white TV in our classroom in January,1961, and adjusted the rabbit ear antennas. 

After it warmed up a bit my classmates and I found ourselves watching the John F. Kennedy Presidential Inauguration. As the festivities of that day continued, Robert Frost walked to the microphone. He began to read one of his poems, "The Gift Outright." The old man found himself almost blinded by the sunlight, and not being able to see the page before him, he quoted the remainder of it. 

He passed away two years later.

GENERATIONS. Pt. 2

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Pt. 2

Of course, the kind of role modeling which includes inflections of speech or one’s choice of words is more “caught” than “taught,” and as I have inferred is likely to be diluted with each succeeding generation who have moved to a different part of the world. And, of course, we might consider this kind of role modeling to be innocuous, or not all that significant.

However, there is a brand of role modeling that I am especially “taken up” with, and which is extraordinarily significant. And this brand of role modeling is all about Impact, and is largely about passing our spiritual beliefs, values and legacy to the next generation, and expecting that generation to pass it on to the next.

A good example, I believe, is my 6-8 month mentoring program which I wrote and have offered to numerous young and not so young people over the years. At the end of one of my sessions, Rita, one of my interns, gave me the best gift I have ever received when she spontaneously said,

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go for you when you can’t go. I’ll speak for you when you can’t speak. I’ll reach, teach and keep people in your name long as you have gone on to your reward.”

That’s what I’m talking about!

My favorite three words are Heritage, Destiny and Legacy. We receive a Heritage. We fulfill a Destiny. We leave a Legacy. And our Legacy becomes the next generation’s Heritage. Full circle.

I pray for my unborn, unnamed, unseen biological and spiritual descendants that they might be blessed, helped, encouraged and redeemed, and that they might exercise great impact on the next generation after them. In the same way I have often wondered how many of my ancestors prayed for me when I was still among the unborn, unnamed and unseen.

Ten or twenty generations from now, when I find myself among those who have long since been forgotten, I am hopeful that the role modeling I am doing, and the impact I am having, and the standard I am setting now will be present and vibrant and active among those who are still among my unborn, unnamed and unseen biological and spiritual descendants.

by William McDonald, PhD

GENERATIONS. Pt. 1

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I am blessed to be able to say that in just over a year I will complete thirty years as a marriage and family counselor. During that time period I have counseled literally thousands of men, women, boys and girls. I have not only counseled them, but I have offered a mentoring program to some of them in which they receive a series of weekly lessons related to life skills, counseling issues, fulfilling one’s calling, impacting those whom God sets in our pathway, et cetera.

However, I am happy to say that my teaching skills are not limited to the mentoring program but also include the counseling program. In my teaching I have interacted with various clients, and interns about the beauty of role modeling. (Obviously, there is such a thing as bad role modeling and that ‘ain’t’ all that beautiful).

And I have often shared a personal illustration. 

Sometimes I think I hear something of my Scottish great great great Grandfather’s choice of words, or inflections in my voice. Granted, any verbal inflections in my admittedly southern voice, or choice of words are highly diluted two centuries after his passing. But there are times when I find myself responding to someone’s comment with an “eh?” Or I might absent mindedly respond in the affirmative with an “aye.” And I surprise myself. And I can only wonder if five generations later the faintest afterglow of old Isham McDonald remains.

by William McDonald, PhD

(to be continued)

A PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

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Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son, Steve, had seen his sisters, and with Jean's concurrence, I invited him to accompany me.

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table, and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

"I'm three!"

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

"I'm sixty-eight!"

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

"You will live a very long life."

(and)

"You will do wonderful things!"

I cannot tell you where my words came from, nor whether they were particularly inspired; (though, it would seem so). And I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

Of this, however, I am sure. Before He breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

Yes, I am sure of it.

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.

By William McDonald, PhD.

WHEN YOU CAN'T SEE THE CROSS

                                                            (Not the cow from my blog)

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In the past several weeks I have resumed my counseling ministry, as a residential ministry for previously incarcerated women where I served as staff counselor closed over a year ago.

The church is about a half hour by car from my home, and early on as I drove to that location, I noticed several cows in a small pasture by a house. I didn’t think much about the large bovines, until one day I noticed one of what I presume are Holsteins, a mostly white cow, had a black cross on its side. Granted, it wasn’t as perfectly shaped as your average gold cross someone wears around his or her neck, but it was certainly close enough. I suppose the cross beams, as it were, were about a foot and a half wide, and the vertical portion of the cross was close to two feet in length.

I didn’t think of it at the time or I would have stopped for a picture. However, from that day onward, I was admittedly a little obsessive about snapping a photo.

A few days later my wife and I drove over to the church and noticed the cows weren’t in the pasture. Another day I meant to take my wife’s smart phone with me, (I have an old fashioned flip phone), and I forgot it. Of course, that was the day ‘the cow with the cross on her side’ was front and center.

And just a couple of days ago, Jean and I drove back over. As she pulled the car along side the pasture, I noticed five or six cows doing what cows do best; munching on grass and chewing their cuds. I stepped out of my car, and ambled along the shoulder of the road. However, try as I may, I did not see the cow with the cross on her side.

Pt. 2

As a writer it occurred to me that for all my trouble, there must be a moral of the story. Perhaps God was trying to tell me something much greater and more profound than snapping and posting a picture of a cow with a cross on her side.

And then it struck me. There are times when we can’t see the cross, that is, when the presence of Jesus seems to be missing. And while there is no correlation between good and evil, I think it is very much like Elijah when he poked fun at the prophets of Baal.

“Pray harder! Maybe your God is traveling or asleep. Maybe he’s on vacation. Maybe he’s in the bathroom!”

I think sometimes we feel this way when we can’t see the cross. But you know, God is not dependent on a certain feeling, emotion or sensation. Unlike that cow with the cross on her side, God is there for his children all the time.

Mother Teresa experienced some significant depression in her life, and she spoke and wrote about having rarely experienced the sensation that Jesus was present. However, in spite of the seeming lack of His tangible presence, she believed and trusted He was there with her, and operated accordingly. She trusted God’s Word, and believed the words of the Savior.

“Lo, I am with you always, even until the end of the world.” (Matt. 28:20)

I don’t know if I will ever get a picture of that cow with the cross on her side, but I do know that the cross, and the man who hung on that cross has promised to be with us always, as long as we live, and breathe, and move, and when this life is done, those who love Him will live in His presence forever.

by William McDonald, PhD

YOU CAN'T COME IN!!!

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“But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing wedding clothes. He asked, ‘How did you get in here without wedding clothes, friend?’ The man was speechless.

“Then the king told the attendants, ‘Tie him hand and foot, and throw him outside, into the darkness...’” Matt. 22:11-13

I was talking to someone near and dear to me the other day and she told me that lately she had been troubled by some bad memories.

Having literally met with thousands of counseling clients I can tell you I have been introduced and re-introduced to this scenario hundreds of times over the past thirty years.

But to return to my initial story.

As my relative and I talked and she expressed how certain memories were causing her mental anguish, I decided to share an analogy with her that I have used in the past.

“Madelyn, (not her actual name) let’s say you decide to have a party and you invite ten of your friends, and you are enjoying yourselves, and then suddenly there is a knock on your front door. You go to the door and throw it open, and there before you is the nastiest, meanest, most ferocious creature you have ever seen. Do you invite him in? (An admittedly rhetorical question).

The ghosts of the past often attempt to intrude on our present. However, ghosts can’t hurt you unless you greet them, as it were, and invite them into your life. The longer we ‘entertain them’ the longer they will trouble our thoughts and potentially even our function.

When they come it behooves us to shut the proverbial door in their faces. Granted, it can be more difficult than I have expressed, but I think the more we purposely deny such memories entrance into our daily lives, the more adept we will become in shutting that door in their faces.

By William McDonald, PhD

AS YOU HAVE DONE IT TO THE LEAST OF THESE

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Jim Cymbala preaches at a church in the slums of New York. He tells the following story:

It was Easter Sunday and I was so tired at the end of the day that I just went to the edge of the platform, pulled down my tie and sat down and draped my feet over the edge. It was a wonderful service with many people coming forward. The counselors were talking with these people.

As I was sitting there, I looked up the middle aisle, and there in about the third row was a man who looked about fifty, disheveled, filthy. He looked up at me rather sheepishly, as if saying, “Could I talk to you?” We have homeless people coming in all the time, asking for money or whatever. So as I sat there, I said to myself, though I am ashamed of it, “What a way to end a Sunday. I’ve had such a good time, preaching and ministering, and here’s a fellow probably wanting some money for more wine.”

He walked up. When he got within about five feet of me, I smelled a horrible smell like I’d never smelled in my life. It was so awful that when he got close, I would inhale by looking away, and then I’d talk to him, and then look away to inhale, because I couldn’t inhale facing him.

I asked him, “What’s your name?” “David.” “How long have you been on the street?” “Six years.” “How old are you?” “Thirty-two.” He looked fifty—hair matted, front teeth missing, wino, eyes slightly glazed. “Where did you sleep last night, David?” “Abandoned truck.”

I keep in my back pocket a money clip that also holds some credit cards. I fumbled to pick one out thinking, I’ll give him some money. I won’t even get a volunteer. They are all busy talking with others. Usually we don’t give money to people; we take them to get something to eat. I took the money out. David pushed his finger in front of me. He said, “I don’t want your money. I want this Jesus, the One you were talking about, because I’m not going to make it. I’m going to die on the street.”

I completely forgot about David, and I started to weep for myself. I was going to give a couple of dollars to someone God had sent to me. See how easy it is? I could make the excuse I was tired. There is no excuse. I was not seeing him the way God sees him. I was not feeling what God feels.

But oh, did that change! David just stood there. He didn’t know what was happening. I pleaded with God, “God, forgive me! Forgive me! Please forgive me. I am so sorry to represent You this way. I’m so sorry. Here I am with my message and my points, and You send somebody and I am not ready for it. Oh, God!”

Something came over me. Suddenly I started to weep deeper, and David began to weep. He fell against my chest as I was sitting there. He fell against my white shirt and tie, and I put my arms around him, and there we wept on each other. The smell of His person became a beautiful aroma. Here is what I thought the Lord made real to me: If you don’t love this smell, I can’t use you, because this is why I called you where you are. This is what you are about. You are about this smell.

Christ changed David’s life. He started memorizing portions of Scripture that were incredible. We got him a place to live. We hired him in the church to do maintenance, and we got his teeth fixed. He was a handsome man when he came out of the hospital. They detoxed him in 6 days.

He spent that Thanksgiving at my house. He also spent Christmas at my house. When we were exchanging presents, he pulled out a little thing, and he said, “This is for you.” It was a little white hanky. It was the only thing he could afford.

A year later, David got up and talked about his conversion to Christ. The minute he took the mic and began to speak, I said, “The man is a preacher.” This past Easter, we ordained David. He is an associate minister of a church over in New Jersey.

And I was so close to saying, “Here, take this; I’m a busy preacher.” We can get so full of ourselves.

Lord, thank you for sending others our way. May we never stop seeing them as Your precious children no matter how busy or tired we become. Amen

(from a Facebook post)

BORN IN CHINA

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Following is an excerpt from the script of a recent nature documentary titled, “Born in China;” with editing and additional clarification by yours truly.

Call me ‘sensitive,’ but as a rule I just can’t watch those “Crocodile eats zebra as it swims across an African stream” kind of film productions. However, in the scheme of things “Born in China” goes relatively light on gruesome scenes such as the foregoing description would indicate.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t “pull any punches,” and there are a few scenes in which, for instance, a snow leopard grasps a young calf by the neck, or is seen dragging a newly killed mountain goat back to its den. Speaking of snow leopards, there are only 6,000 of these magnificent felines still in existence, and they are being trophy hunted to the tune of one kill per day.

“Born in China” is a magnificent, full-color production, and spins the true tales of several species of wild animals, including pandas, monkeys, mountain goats, and of course, snow leopards; which live in the highlands of China. I never realized such compassion for a predator species ‘til I watched this documentary.

Under Dawa's nurturing, her cubs are growing into two impressive young cats. And she's just had a successful hunt which comes none too soon. Her cubs are now fully weaned and hungry for some fresh meat. They've been watching and learning the ways of the great hunter, their morn, (but are not yet prepared to hunt on their own).

Suddenly across the valley, the intruder has returned.

(The ‘intruder’ refers to another female snow leopard who vies for the choice animal-rich territory which Dawa calls ‘home’).

This time, she has returned with her three nearly grown sons. Scarcity of prey has brought them into Dawa's territory, and they are more than prepared to take all that is hers. Dawa's old rival is much more emboldened now that she has reinforcements. Her powerful foe, and Dawa both know the latter of the two would never survive a fight against all four of her competitors.

However, Dawa can't bring herself to abandon this precious food. Her cubs must eat, and when it comes to their survival, Dawa would fight almost any foe. The trade-off between life and death is sometimes a very difficult calculation. But then the other leopards move in. (Dawa watches from a distance, and reluctantly decides to “turn tail and run”). Outnumbered and out-fanged, Dawa retreats to guard her cubs. Not satisfied with merely stealing Dawa's kill, the interlopers now pursue her to let her know, they're here to stay. To save her young, Dawa must lead them out of the area. She has experienced overwhelming humiliation. The proud snow leopard and her cubs have been expelled from their own home.

As the temperatures begin to plummet, the once mighty Queen of the Mountain hasn't made a kill in over a week. Now, she's forced to share her unfamiliar new territory with her more successful rivals. She must survey the area constantly to get the lay of the land and reestablish her dominion with scent markings. But now she's been spotted by a male snow leopard. She defends her ground bravely, but is forced to retreat back to her cubs. Suddenly, those playful days of summer are a fading memory.

Dawa's hunting successes have been few and far between. But a flock of sheep, seeking shelter from the weather, have just moved within range. However, now the unexpected occurs. The snow has concealed jagged rocks, and as Dawa leaps from ledge to ledge in pursuit of a choice lamb, she injures her paw. Dawa knows if she and her cubs are to survive, she must be in top physical condition. The ‘hunt’ demands it.

Back up on the high plateau the winter snow lingers well into spring, and Dawa is still fighting to provide for her cubs. The injury to her foot has greatly hampered her hunting ability, and she no longer has the speed to chase down prey, as nimble as these wild sheep. However, an opportunity now arises. In springtime, domesticated yaks are released to graze in the higher elevations. These beasts are ten times as heavy as Dawa, and one blow from their powerful horns could be fatal. Going up against a whole herd is like attacking an army. Yet, her cubs are relying on her. It's now or never.

The limping Dawa pours on her limited speed, and sinks her fangs into the neck of a newborn yak. The calf's mother rallies to save her baby. But Dawa refuses to let go. She understands this is her last chance. However, a yak mother's will to protect her young is just as strong as Dawa's.

The yak strikes Dawa hard with her horns. The desperate feline is injured badly. One mother's brave rescue of her baby is another's tragic failure to feed her own. Dawa stumbles away from “the scene of the crime,” and her last opportunity to save herself and her young cubs from certain death.

(As the documentary reaches its conclusion, a momentary glimpse of the dead Dawa comes into view. Snow is falling hard around her, and we can only surmise that her cubs have also succumbed to hunger and the elements, and lie somewhere nearby.

 

One can only imagine the waning emotions which filled up Dawa’s dying frame. The pride of having, "push come to shove" stood up to a larger foe, the inherent satisfaction with having given her last full measure of devotion, the inestimable sadness of her best not having been good enough; the overwhelming grief which came with her inability to save her children from the same fate as her own. A string of ‘bad luck.’ The survival of the fittest. Providence has once again won out).

 

In Chinese mythology, when a life ends, a crane carries that soul to rejoin the cycle of birth and rebirth. From the end to the beginning. Time pushes this cycle ever forward. The young become adults. The adults grow old. Death is not the end. It is merely a waypoint in a circle that continues endlessly. 

Every creature plays its part in this great cyclical symphony. Each life lived is just one beat in the larger beautiful rhythm. This vast land breeds both love and hardship. But in the hardship, there is hope. This is where they live. This is where they are born. This is where they live. This is where they die.

from “Born in China” documentary with editing and additional commentary by William McDonald, PhD

EMPTY CHAIRS

                          Photo of Gen. James Van Fleet's Rocking Chair

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Empty chairs       

Two empty chairs

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

But this time is different.

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

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

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

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

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

And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,

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

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

…well, you guessed it.

And my mother.

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

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

And now. Now the chairs are empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empty Chairs.

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

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

NEW SUIT - A Reminesence of Billy Graham

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When Billy Graham was 92 years-old, he was struggling with Parkinson's disease. In January a month before his 93rd birthday, leaders in Charlotte, North Carolina, invited their favorite son, Billy Graham to a luncheon in his honor.

Billy initially hesitated to accept the invitation because of his struggles with Parkinson's disease. But the Charlotte leaders said, 'We don't expect a major address. Just come and let us honor you.' So he agreed.

After wonderful things were said about him, Dr. Graham stepped to the rostrum, looked at the crowd, and said:

"I'm reminded today of Albert Einstein, the great physicist who this month has been honored by Time magazine as the Man of the Century. Einstein was once traveling from Princeton on a train, when the conductor came down the aisle, punching the tickets of every passenger. When he came to Einstein, Einstein reached in his vest pocket. He couldn't find his ticket, so he reached in his trouser pockets.

It wasn't there.He looked in his briefcase but couldn't find it. Then he looked in the seat beside him. He still couldn't find it.

"The conductor said, “Dr. Einstein, I know who you are. We all know who you are. I'm sure you bought a ticket. Don't worry about it.” Einstein nodded appreciatively. The conductor continued down the aisle punching tickets. As he was ready to move to the next car,he turned around and saw the great physicist down on his hands and knees looking under his seat for his ticket.

"The conductor rushed back and said, 'Dr. Einstein, Dr. Einstein, don't worry, I know who you are; no problem. You don't need a ticket. I'm sure you bought one.'Einstein looked at him and said, “Young man, I too, know who I am. What I don't know is where I'm going."

Having said that Billy Graham continued, "See the suit I'm wearing? It's a brand new suit. My children, and my grandchildren are telling me I've gotten a little slovenly in my old age. I used to be a bit more fastidious. So I went out and bought a new suit for this luncheon and one more occasion. You know what that occasion is? This is the suit in which I'll be buried. But when you hear I'm dead, I don't want you to immediately remember the suit I'm wearing. I want you to remember this:

"I not only know who I am. I also know where I'm going." May your troubles be less, your blessings more, and may nothing but happiness, come through your door. "Life without God is like an unsharpened pencil - it has no point."

May each of us have lived our lives so that when our ticket is punched we don't have to worry about where we are going.

(from an internet blog)

A TINY LITTLE MAN AND A VERY LARGE COLISEUM

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Isaiah 52:7-8 How beautiful upon the mountains Are the feet of him who brings good news, Who proclaims peace, Who brings glad tidings of good things, Who proclaims salvation, Who says to Zion, "Your God reigns!" Your watchmen shall lift up their voices, With their voices they shall sing together; For they shall see eye to eye When the Lord brings back Zion.

In the 4th century lived a Christian named Telemachus, in a remote village, tending his garden, and spending much time in prayer. One day, he believed he heard the voice of God telling him to go to Rome, so he obeyed, setting out on foot. Some weeks later, weary from his journey, he arrived in Rome about the time of a great festival.The little man followed the crowd surging through the streets into the Colosseum. He saw the gladiators standing before the Emperor and proclaiming, "We who are about to die salute you." Then Telemachus realized that these men were going to fight to the death for the entertainment of the cheering crowd. So he cried out in a loud voice, "In the name of Christ, Stop!" Yet the games began, so he pushed his way through the crowd, climbed over the wall and dropped onto the floor of the arena. The entire Colosseum watched this tiny figure rushing toward the gladiators, crying, "In the name of Christ, STOP !!!" The gladiators thought it was part of the show and began laughing. But in a few moments, they realized it was not part of the show, and then the crowd became angry. Telemachus stood his ground, insistently pleading with the gladiators to stop their bloody show, when one of them plunged a sword into the saint's body. He fell to the sand. As he was dying, his last words were, "In the name of Christ, STOP!!!"

Then a strange thing happened. The gladiators stood there looking at the tiny Christian lying there dead. A hush fell over the Colosseum. Way up in the upper rows, a man stood and made his way to the exit. Others followed. In dead silence, one by one, everyone left the Colosseum. The year was 404; and that day saw the last battle to the death between gladiators in the Roman Colosseum. Telemachus' martyrdom initiated an historic ban on gladiator fights by the Roman Emperor Honorius. Never again in the great stadium did men kill each other for the entertainment of the crowd. One tiny man's bold voice -- one voice -- reshaped Roman history, and saved thousands of lives, by fearlessly proclaiming the truth in God's name!

You may be a little man, or woman, spending time alone with Yeshua (Jesus). And He may be preparing you in the quiet place, for a moment when you will be called to raise your voice in some public square or stadium, to fearlessly stand for His truth, even if it might cost your life. Remember Telemachus, whose voice changed the world because God's word was behind it. Boldness is not bravado, but is rooted in deep conviction based on deep relationship and unswerving obedience. And its effects resound through history. So cultivate that intimate relationship with Him, and be ready to be launched into the arena of death-dealing humanity. Your lack of fear and your love for others will reveal the Yeshua whom you love, to many souls.

(from an internet devotional)

JILL OF ALL TRADES

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My wife and I recently returned from a trip to West Virginia to see my daughters. As it fell together our credit card mileage club required us to fly from Orlando to Chicago, and catch a plane back to Charleston. On the way home we boarded in Charleston, flew to Chicago, and then back to Orlando.

 

All that being said, as we prepared to fly back to Florida, and was ready to board in Charleston, we stepped up to the United Airlines counter, and a middle aged lady named Anna greeted us. She processed our bags, and issued a boarding pass. My wife thanked her, and we proceeded to the security window where the agent checked our ID’s and boarding passes, put our carry on’s upon the conveyor belt, and we walked through the metal detector.

 

Now we headed towards the gate and having arrived there, we sat down, and I engaged in conversation with a man named Steve who was a licensed marriage and family therapist, and who was also flying to O’Hare International Airport. Interestingly enough, Steve had an internet girlfriend in the Philippines whom he had never met in person, and he was planning to spend three weeks with her.

 

Suddenly, I looked up and saw the afore mentioned Anna again. She was behind the United Airlines gate counter. As the time ticked closer to our departure, Anna circulated among the passengers, tagged some of the heavier bags, and made the customers aware that these items would have to go in the belly of the plane. Now, Anna got on the microphone and summoned us to the gate.

 

Having walked through the moveable boarding hallway, we walked through the airplane doorway, and (you guessed it) Anna greeted us, and subsequently could be seen chatting with the stewardesses and the pilot.

 

With this, my wife and I walked down the aisle, found our seats, and stowed our carry on’s in the overhead storage bins. I was fortunate enough to sit by the window, as I have always enjoyed a window seat. While take off’s and landings cause me a certain amount of anxiety, I love to look at the fluffy cumulus clouds, and the tiny roadways and tinier cars six miles below me.

 

As we were preparing for takeoff, I glanced out over the tarmac, and noticed someone was seated in the cab of the moveable boarding hallway, and who had already moved it away from the aircraft. And then I realized who that someone was. You guessed it again. Anna had just stood up, and turned to assume her place at the United Airlines baggage counter!

by William McDonald, PhD