UNFINISHED DREAMS

 3913

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

A MOMENTARY MEETING IN AN ELEVATOR IN GLASGOW

 3912

My wife and I enjoyed the vacation of a lifetime last year. We had often wanted to visit Scotland and Ireland, and were determined to do so by our 70th birthdays. And true to our intentions, we just managed to do so 'by a whisker.'

 

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it 'over there'). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

 

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." And recognizing my accent he said, "Are you an American?" And I evidently responded in the affirmative. (I could not be sure, and I did not ask, but based on the stranger's own peculiar accent, I surmised he was probably a native of this country).

 

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the Second World War, my short-term acquaintance mused,

 

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

 

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

 

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

 

by William McDonald, PhD

AND THE SUN STOOD STILL IN THE SKY

 3911

On the day the Lord gave the Amorites over to Israel, Joshua said to the Lord in the presence of Israel:

“Sun, stand still over Gibeon,
    and you, moon, over the Valley of Aijalon.”
 So the sun stood still,
    and the moon stopped,
    till the nation avenged itself on^[] its enemies,

as it is written in the Book of Jashar.

The sun stopped in the middle of the sky and delayed going down about a full day. There has never been a day like it before or since, a day when the Lord listened to a human being. Surely the Lord was fighting for Israel! (Joshua 10:12-14)

I was just telling one of my counseling clients recently that “there’s no substitute for information” (and) “it is imperative when you make an important decision to gather all the facts first.”

Speaking of information and gathering all the facts, it seems our Creator thought of everything concerning our health and happiness.

A couple of years ago I ran across a blurb or blog or article, as the case may be, which has everything to do with the foregoing principle I mentioned in my first paragraph; something I had never thought of in my seven decades on this planet.

For you see, whatever it was I read dealt with the sensation of time apparently slowing down when people are in the midst of a momentary crisis. I mean, have you ever “been there?” (I certainly have. Many times).

I went on to read that during those scant few moments, we often experience a flood of thoughts which seem to center on, for lack of a better characterization, a way out of the mess which presents itself. And as a result of those scant few seconds seeming like minutes, we are able to reach some conclusions which we otherwise would be incapable of reaching.

Not unlike Joshua’s victory over the Ammonites and the additional time God afforded him when the sun stood still in the sky above the battlefield.

Allow me to give you an example from my own life.

Pt. 2

(Pt. 2 was originally written over a decade ago)

It was mid-afternoon, and Jean and I were on our way home from church, (or some other place long since forgotten.) She was driving our old green 1980 something Oldsmobile; a somewhat larger and heavier vehicle than one generally sees on the road today. We were traveling at 50 MPH, or more, and as we neared an intersecting road on our right, which was marked with a stop sign, a small blue car pulled into our pathway.

I could plainly see a man and woman in the front seat, and a little boy and girl in the back seat. I will never forget those precious little human beings as they sat there, eyes wide open, peering helplessly out the window, as our car swiftly approached them.  Less than 50 feet separated our two vehicles, and Jean proceeded to lock up the brakes. An accident was inevitable. As with so many traumatic events, time seemed to slow down. (Interestingly enough, I have read that this syndrome occurs because the brain is processing more information than usual in a miniscule amount of time.)

It was obvious that my wife had every intention of plowing headlong into the smaller car, (and no doubt, all the occupants of that vehicle would have been seriously injured or killed.) And though we were driving a much larger automobile, we also would not have been spared, since foolishly we weren’t wearing our seatbelts.

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

I reached over with my left hand, took the steering wheel from Jean, and began steering it in a direction that would take us around the rear of the small vehicle. Amazingly, we cleared the back bumper of the little car by a foot. Both my wife and I found ourselves leaning hard in the direction of our passenger window. (As a result of that event, I can easily relate to the G-forces astronauts endure as they reach maximum acceleration.)

But our wild ride was only beginning. Our ungainly old car began a 180 degree slide. Suddenly, the back end was where the front end was just seconds before. Now we were sliding backwards. As the car lost momentum, we neared a wooden fence to our left which paralleled the side of a house. We finally slid to a stop in a grassy area, a few feet from the fence, very shaken, but not a scratch on either of us. 

As we ended our unexpected journey, I saw the little car as it turned left into the opposite lane of the four lane highway. The man didn’t even have the courtesy to stop and inquire about our well-being. The decent thing to have done, the only thing to have done, would have been to stop, especially since he had pulled in front of us, and caused a near fatal accident.

However, while this traumatic event was in the process of happening to us, another car pulled up to the stop sign. Having seen the spectacle falling together around him, I have no doubt that the driver watched in awe. The motorist asked if we were okay, and after we assured him we were, he drove away.

Post-script

I can think of no better example than the foregoing example from my own life. I think the syndrome I have described is a God-given one; the wherewithal to process a significant amount of information in the space of a few moments, and the resulting sensation that time has, in essence, slowed down; so that we might find our way out of seemingly impossible circumstances.

Our Creator thought of everything, and considering the initial scripture of the sun standing still in the sky, has truly graced us with some of His own attributes.

by William McDonald, PhD

THE COMPELLING CASE OF PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER

 3910

I like to think I am well-versed in Judeo-Christian scripture. However, I “ran across” a bit of biblical history this week with which I was totally unfamiliar.

But allow me to begin at the beginning.

I attended a church Sunday in which I will be serving as a pastoral counselor, and I was provided the opportunity to share my ministry with the congregation. Having shared my mission with the parishioners, I sat down, and prepared to listen as the Pastor waxed eloquent. I was not disappointed.

Following is his initial scripture text from the Book of Exodus, Chapter 2:1-10

“Now a man of the tribe of Levi married a Levite woman, and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him.

“Then Pharaoh’s daughter went down to the Nile to bathe, and her attendants were walking along the riverbank. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her female slave to get it. She opened it and saw the baby. He was crying, and she felt sorry for him. ‘This is one of the Hebrew babies,’ she said.

“Then his sister asked Pharaoh’s daughter, ‘Shall I go and get one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby for you?’

“‘Yes, go,’ she answered. So, the girl went and got the baby’s mother. Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, ‘Take this baby and nurse him for me, and I will pay you.’ So, the woman took the baby and nursed him. When the child grew older, she took him to Pharaoh’s daughter and he became her son. She named him Moses, saying, ‘I drew him out of the water.’”

Pt. 2

I find it interesting that in the preceding passage of scripture, four of five 0f the primary characters go unnamed. The baby in the basket is none other than Moses. His father is Amram. His mother is Jochebed. His sister is Miriam. We learn the identity of Pharaoh’s daughter a bit later.

One of the best known persons in ancient Egypt has gone down to the Jordan River to bathe, when she notices a basket floating in the reeds. With this, she sends one of her attendants to fetch it.

And it is here that the providence of Almighty God begins to play itself out. Of course, Pharaoh has pronounced an edict that the newborn sons of the Hebrews should be killed; (and, no doubt, some were, though many were spared by midwives who feared God, and disobeyed the king’s order).

However, Pharaoh’s daughter, (we shall get to her given name soon), is compelled to ignore her father’s edict. (A tendency she will embrace and emulate the remainder of her natural life).

Moses’ sister Miriam ‘just happens’ to be standing nearby, and she asks Bithiah, (for this is her name), if she’d like her to locate a Hebrew woman to nurse the little fella for her. Of course, unbeknownst to Princess Bithiah, Miriam is Moses’ sister, and the chosen wet nurse is none other than Moses’ and Miriam’s mother.

It occurs to me that in our day and time had Jochebed put Moses in a basket and sent him floating down a nearby river, well, she would, no doubt, be arrested for child endangerment. However, the authorities in our day and time could not have factored in the foreknowledge and wisdom of God in this perilous time when every male child of Israel was a cat’s whisker away from death.

Pt. 3

The scripture is not clear about the length of time which transpires during which Jochebed nurses baby Moses, nor the additional years he may have spent with his natural mother prior to being returned to Princess Bithiah, the daughter of Pharaoh.

Talk about providence! Bithiah has unknowingly, unintentionally returned the little river waft to his biological parents for a season. And during this season, the Hebrew toddler is, as it were, stamped with the official seal of the ruler of all Egypt, and is, as a result, immune to the awful fate which befalls thousands of other little Jewish boys.

However, (and it’s a very big ‘however’), I am convinced that during this time frame, Jochebed and Amram are diligent in obeying the command in the Book of Deuteronomy, Chapter 11:18-21

^“ Fix these Words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates, so that your days and the days of your children may be many in the land the Lord swore to give your ancestors, as many as the days that the heavens are above the earth.”

And not only am I convinced that Moses’ parents are diligent to share the life-changing Words of the Creator with their little boy, I am equally convinced that when the son of Jochebed and Amram is returned to Bithiah, God uses him to desperately impact his Egyptian step-mother; by his words, mindsets, attitude and behavior.

Pt. 4

Of course, it will be decades before the “I AM” of both our earthly and heavenly existence begins to ‘show out’ in the life of Moses. But ‘show out’ He will. And ‘show out’ He does!

Who can forget the burning bush? Who can forget God’s command to Moses? Who can forget Moses’ ultimatum to Pharaoh?

We cannot be sure who serves as Pharaoh during the time of the Exodus. However, it seems very likely that he is related to Bithiah, Moses’ step mother, and that he is related by adoption to Moses, himself!

Of course, it is only natural to wonder what has become of Bithiah, the Egyptian princess, during the long years of Moses’ obscurity. Has she been lost to history, or does scripture provide us any further information about her fate? Perhaps the previous question is a bit rhetorical in nature since after half a lifetime, Bithiah “shows up” again.

It goes without saying that the pressure on this Egyptian princess to conform to royal expectations and accepted values must be extreme. But yet, tradition tells us that (drum roll) Bithiah’s biological son is the one and only Egyptian firstborn male who escapes the Death Angel; when he passes by in the dark of the night. Where ever the princess and young prince happen to be at that moment, it seems obvious that Moses has forewarned them of the impending doom of the firstborn sons of Egypt, and has pleaded with his stepmother to observe the life-saving ritual of the lamb’s blood. So reminiscent of Pharaoh’s order that the newborn sons of Israel should be killed, and the grace which befell many of them when they were spared by conscientious midwives. And, oh, the irony. Whereas, the princess spared Moses the awful edict of the Egyptian king, her own son was spared the ultimate edit of THE KING of the universe.

Pt. 5

There is an interesting passage of scripture in the Book of Hebrews Chapter 11:24-26

^“ By faith Moses, when he had grown up, refused to be known as the son of Pharaoh’s daughter. He chose to be mistreated along with the people of God rather than to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of sin. He regarded disgrace for the sake of Christ as of greater value than the treasures of Egypt, because he was looking ahead to his reward.”

Yes, Moses has long since made a decision to renounce the trappings of royalty, and it seems he sets a very high standard for his stepmother Princess Bithiah, and his unnamed Egyptian stepbrother.

For we have this curious little passage in 1^st Chronicles Chapter 4:18 which, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, clarifies “the rest of the story,” and settles it once and for all for us. Speaking of those people who walked across the temporary pathway which appeared beneath the turbulent waves of the Red Sea; (and which when Pharaoh and his soldiers attempted to do were drowned)…

“And these are the sons of Bithiah, the daughter of Pharaoh, which Mered, (the Hebrew) took for himself.”

For you see, this former Princess of Egypt had renounced the riches and titles of Egypt, had embraced God and the people of God, and walked away from those whom she knew and loved.

We know so little about Princess Bithiah, as comparatively little has been written about her. But I think, I think this unsung hero deserves a place in the Old Testament Hall of Honor alongside other Gentile saints such as Ruth and Rahab.

I can think of no one who exemplifies Hebrews Chapter 11 Verse 1 any better than this dear saint of God.

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

For faith compelled her to renounce that which was tangible, though temporary, in favor of that which she could not see, but which she was assured was eternal in the heavens.

William McDonald, PhD

THE WRITTEN WORD

3909

The spoken word races away as quickly as the next can be sent in pursuit, and so each word flees into oblivion. The sounds which we call ‘words’ are momentary, and passing things, for once articulated, they have their demise.

 

Not so with the written word. It lasts as long as the paper, or the stone on which it is inscribed. It has the availability to be called up as often as the reader desires. Black marks on white paper. But such strokes of the pen have preserved intact the memoirs of a thousand mighty men, the prose of a parcel of poets, and the leanings of limitless leaders. The men have passed away, but their words remain. And these words, thoughts and grand illusions live a second time, and a twenty-second time.

 

Lincoln’s “Four score and seven years ago” reverberates anew off well-worn headstones which were new and polished a hundred years hence. For though a century of deterioration now ‘decorates’ the stones, and the orator’s voice is muted, the word lives, and lives and lives again with each new issue of the printed page.

 

Common men, royalty, masons, parsons, prophets and slaves. Though gone a thousand years; they live. For their words remain; words of frustration, hope, warning and expectation.

 

Oh, the blessing of the written word. Not sparrows falling to the ground, as the spoken word. No, but the written word takes wings and soars into the future to lite afresh beneath a student’s eye.

With each written offering we pour a little of our mortal wine into a more permanent cup. Future generations will drink from this fountain.

 

And what of today? The written word provokes the unlearned, inspires the faint-hearted, strengthens the weak, and enables the ignorant. Best of all the written word is a traveler’s garden. A place to visit when a few stray minutes are strung together like pearls. A place to rest when the world has been unusually cruel. A place to relax at the end of an unseasonably rainy day.

 

Whether tis Eugene Field’s “Little Boy Blue,” Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea,” or Shakespeare’s “MacBeth,” our world is richer for the written word.

 

How many of our written words will live on, and what insight, admonition, or encouragement will they minister to those who drink from its fountain?

by William McDonald, PhD

THE UNFINISHED SUFFERINGS OF CHRIST

 3908

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)

by William McDonald, PhD

LIZARDS FOR DINNER

3907

There is a true story of a Spanish man who harvested a bunch of Iguanas when a cold front moved through Miami and they fell out of trees onto sidewalks and roads. He put them into coolers and then into his car; thinking he would butcher them for his freezer. As he was driving down the interstate the lizards began to revive in the warmth of the car. They were climbing all over the seats and jumping onto his shoulders, chest and lap. As a result he 'freaked,' slowed down a bit, opened the door and bailed out onto the pavement. The driverless car plowed into a road barrier and turned over. A Highway Patrolman behind him saw the whole thing and pulled over. Running up to the injured man he asked why he would bail out of a perfectly good car. The man explained his situation and told him that the iguanas wanted his car much more than he did.

by William McDonald, PhD

THE MOST RADICAL SEGMENT OF SOCIETY?

 3906

I can't stay silent. We have a president who (paraphrased) made the foregoing statement about the pro-life community, and seemed to tie it in with the MAGA crowd. Well, I am not part or parcel of the MAGA crowd, nor the liberal side of the political house. I am a pro-life Christian who believes what scripture says in Jeremiah 1:5 and Psalm 139:16. I, for one, cannot understand how a Catholic president supports abortion. Yes, I understand there are exceptions to an all or nothing stance, but they are exceptions. Honestly, I am not interested in debating anyone about the dictates of my conscience, and I will delete contentious comments. My page. My belief. My rant. There is nothing radical about a pro-life agenda, Mr. President.

A BUNCH OF REAL CHARACTERS

3905

Unlike some books which purport to be models of spirituality, the Book of all books, the Holy Bible, and He who inspired the Judeo-Christian text had and continues to have little or no interest in “false pretenses” or “putting up a front.”

For you see, the 66 books of holy scripture tell it like it is, and, as a result, the characters described therein are all too human, and their flaws are neither hidden, nor their attributes embellished.

Following are a few very good examples:

Adam was a lawbreaker

Noah was an alcoholic

Joseph was a slave, a suspected rapist, and inmate

Moses was a murderer

Rahab was a Gentile and a prostitute

Ruth was a Gentile and a migrant

David was an adulterer

Amnon had an incestuous relationship with his sister

Solomon was a polygamist

Thomas was a doubter

Peter was a double-minded man and denied the Holy One

Paul was a persecutor

 

I am so glad the Word of God described the foregoing characters with all their flaws, and all their deficits, and never attempted to cover up, nor embellish the traits which they exhibited. (And, interestingly enough, a large number of the characters I have described were direct ancestors of our Lord Jesus Christ).

 

Pt. 2

 

But I think what is most striking, and most relevant about the descriptions of these men and women are the remarkable changes which are revealed to us, as each of their narratives are recounted. And in so doing, God, in essence, says, “Stay tuned. That ain’t all, folks!”

 

Noah built an ark which culminated in the salvation of eight souls; men and women who became the ancestors of every man, woman and child who inhabit the planet Earth.

 

Joseph was appointed to be the prime minister of Egypt, and managed to save the lives of not only his family, but the entire population of that nation.

 

Moses spoke and the ocean parted, and several million people walked across the dry sea bed, and, ultimately, inhabited the promised land we now refer to as “Israel.”

 

Rahab saved the lives of the two spies who had been sent to scout out the land of Canaan, and was, like Ruth, an ancient Grandmother of our Lord Jesus Christ.

 

David killed Goliath, the pride of the Philistines, and became the most loved, and best remembered king of Israel. He wrote much of the Book of Psalms, and was a direct ancestor of our Lord Jesus Christ.

 

Solomon became king of Israel after his father David, is credited with writing three of the books of the Old Testament, was known as the wisest man who ever lived, and was afforded the impressive task of building the first Temple.

 

Thomas, one of the original Twelve, was credited with evangelizing the nation of India, and he, ultimately, laid down his life for the Gospel there.

 

Peter, one of the original Twelve, was the Apostle to the Jewish nation, and he wrote two of the books of the New Testament. Tradition tells us that he died a martyr’s death in Rome, requesting that he be hung upside down on a cross; since he felt unworthy to die the exact same death as his Lord.

 

Paul was the Apostle to the Gentiles, suffered greatly on behalf of our Lord Jesus Christ, wrote half of the books of the New Testament, and after a lengthy imprisonment was beheaded in Rome.

 

I think if the end was so much better than the beginning for such a menagerie of lawbreakers, alcoholics, prisoners, murderers, prostitutes, adulterers, and persecutors, (only a few which I have mentioned here) well, there’s definitely hope for you and me.

by William McDonald, PhD

A COIN IN HIS POCKET

 

3904

George was a stutterer and a stammerer. He would prefer to walk barefoot across hot coals than to speak to a crowd, be it small or large. As it fell together, he quickly found himself in the wrong profession for someone with this impediment.

We will soon return to poor George, and his predicament will become very clear.

Upon the death of King George V in 1936, his son Edward assumed the throne and was known as King Edward VIII. However, he was involved with a twice divorcee, Wallis Simpson. Ultimately, less than a year later, Edward abdicated his title in order to marry Wallis, as he was not allowed to marry a divorcee. As a result, his afore mentioned brother, George, became king.

There is an excellent movie titled “The King’s Speech,” which my wife and I have watched many times. The two primary characters are Colin Firth, who portrays Britain’s King George VI, (the father of Queen Elizabeth) and Geoffrey Rush, who portrays Lionel Lowe, his speech therapist.

As the movie progresses, it appears Lionel provides his services without cost, as a service to his king and country. However, again and again, as the daily session ends, he asks for a token shilling for his trouble. As you might imagine, for all his wealth, George doesn’t carry cash with him, and as often as Lionel asks for a shilling, George can only shake his head, throw up his hands and smile.

However, after several reminders, the king finally remembers to bring the coin with him. And now, Lionel says the same thing he has been saying for days.

“And so, do you have my shilling, Birdie?” (He calls him by a nickname reserved for family).

It would appear Lionel has a hidden agenda for requesting the shilling on a daily basis. For you see, at least according to the movie script, the former king had been very hard on his son, and often berated him for his speech impediment, and had said some pretty demeaning things to him over the years; (which could have only contributed to the boy’s tendency to stammer and stutter).

Now, King George grins from ear to ear and pulls out the shilling.

Lionel accepts the coin, and asks a leading question.

“Who is the man on this coin?”

To which the king responds.

“My father, of course.”

Lionel leans closer to him, looks directly into George’s eyes, and raises his voice slightly.

“You don’t have to carry him around in your pocket anymore!”

 by William McDonald, PhD