MY GIG AS AN AIRPLANE CONTORTIONIST

 3924

Things proceeded quite normally on yesterday’s almost 4,000 mile flight from Edinburgh, Scotland to Chicago, Illinois, until the guy in front of me decided to “do a 45” (degree angle) with the back of his seat; completely oblivious (or completely uncaring) about the comfort of the fella (yours truly) immediately behind him. Talk about personal space, by this point the man was almost lying in my lap. (In any other circumstance the nearness of his physiology to my own would have seemed almost obscene).

By this time my legs were tucked almost under my chin, and I was close to becoming eligible for my Contortionist’s Permit. Try as I might, I could not lay my seat tray out flat against my waist in order to compile an outline for this particular blog, and the results of my writing looked more like Swahili than English.

Bad enough that today’s airlines jam two pounds of human flesh into every conceivable one pound space on the seating floor of their aircraft. But to make things worse, members of the flying public are allowed to, at will, infringe on the personal space of their fellow flying passengers surrounding them.

Since I was on the inside of three seats and next to the aisle, I leaned my head to the right and peered over my abuser’s shoulder. From my vantage point, the little fella had just about as much leg room as the president is afforded on Air Force One.

Now I considered a bit of “pay back” and briefly reflected on the best way to exercise some well-deserved retribution; which led to some interesting options.

1.    I could throw my right leg up on his arm rest, and inform him that if he was going to deny me leg room, I would deny him arm room. 2. I could jam my knees hard against the back of his seat, and bore a hole in his spinal column. 3. I could “do a Henry” (my father would have never tolerated this) 4. I could throw my seat back into the lap of the lady behind me, and provide myself some sweet relief, (or) 5. I could suffer in silence for the next seven hours.

Suddenly, my abuser shifted his seat a quarter foot closer, I could no longer see my feet, and I thought I heard my left knee pop. The movie screen was so close now, I could just make out the manufacturer of Queen Victoria’s costume in her neck label.

Dear readers, I neglected to tell you. I chose the most charitable of my options.

I don’t believe in reincarnation, but if by chance the adherents of that religion happen to be right, I want to come back as the president of United Airlines. My first order would ring the death knell of adjustable aircraft seats.

But with my luck I would come back as a low paid contortionist.

by William McDonald, PhD

DYING TO SELF

 3923

When you are forgotten, neglected, or purposely set at naught, and you don't sting or hurt with the oversight, but your heart is happy being counted worthy to suffer for Christ;

That is dying to self.

 

When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your advice disregarded, your opinion ridiculed, and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart or even defend yourself, but take it all in patient, loving silence;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, any annoyance; when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility, and endure it as Jesus did;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you are content with any food, and offering, any raiment, any climate, any society, any solitude, any interruption by the will of God;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation or record your own good works or itch after commendation, when you can truly love to be unknown;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you can see your brother prosper and have his needs met, and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy, nor question God, while your own needs are far greater and you are in desperate circumstances;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself and can humbly submit, inwardly as well as outwardly, finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart;

 

That is dying to self.

 

 (Author Unknown)

MY MONKEY & ME

 3922

I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

 

 

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed thousand piece puzzle. 

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.

by William McDonald, PhD

*Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage, I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. ( not sure the time of year), but when we came home we never saw him again. I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(And in regard to my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey love and care…)

“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too

THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH

There is a story of Martin Luther, the founder of the Lutheran Church, who had been a lowly monk in the Catholic Church before he became enlightened to the abuses of that church during the middle ages. One abuse including "doing penance" for one's sins, and in certain cases the abuse of the church was significant in this regard. For you see, one day Martin Luther was climbing up the steps of a church in Germany, on his knees... across rocks and broken glass!!! As he climbed he suddenly heard a voice. "Rise Martin Luther! The just shall live by faith!" The little monk stood up and never did penance again realizing that Christ had paid it all, and there was nothing a man could do to make up for his sins or to be justified by God. Sometimes people attempt to bring us back into bondage by requiring us to do certain things, or say certain things or live a certain way which pleases them. Anything which contributes to our bondage is like doing penance, and hoping and expecting that something we can do will make us right before God and man.'

LOOKING FOR THAT ONE

 3920

I was watching a movie today about a military doctor who was assigned a patient with severe dental and lip deformities, as a result of an automobile accident.

This surgeon took extraordinary measures to assist his patient, and spent multiplied hours planning the initial, and subsequent operations.  Never in his surgical career had he felt such empathy for a patient.  Never in his life had he devoted such caring effort or taken his responsibility so much to heart.

And though the young woman was gruesome to behold, and though her injuries were the worst he’d ever witnessed, he painstakingly went about his task.  And for those several months and years he assumed a duel role; that of a physician and prophet.  For he could virtually see the finished work before him.  He could see the invisible, as though it was visible.  And this energized him during periods of his own disappointment, and his patient’s disbelief.

The young woman often lashed out at him, wavering between despondency, anxiety, discouragement and outright rage.  Sometimes his patient’s immaturity surprised the doctor, and he could only shake his head.  But nothing deterred him from his task, and over many months, and years he performed surgery after surgery, and with each operation his dream took shape.  And with each operation his young client seemed more confident about the ultimate result.

The surgeon was doing the kind of breakthrough, innovative work that had never been attempted, and his associates and friends were often skeptical of the final outcome.  More than once someone accused the doctor of playing God.  And though their remarks were critical in tone, the physician chose to regard them as compliments.

And what of the young lady, the recipient of all his skill and labor.  Her facial deformities became less obvious, less hideous to those who beheld her.  And with time, the results of her unfortunate accident were almost imperceptible, until all that was left was a slight scar on the edge of her recreated lips.

And her joy and the corresponding joy of her surgeon overflowed and seemed to fill up the world around them.  She was whole again.  Her shame was vanquished.  She no longer hid her face from approaching strangers, and her new-found smile seemed to light up the whole world.

And our young patient determined to give back something of what she had received, and she began to impact one here, and bless one there.  And I think I forgot to tell you.  Before her injury, our little heroine had been a nurse.  And she returned to her duties with more vigor and more enthusiasm than she had ever felt before.  For having once been a patient, she could empathize far beyond theoretical.  Dream had taken on reality.  Fog had taken on flesh. And as Paul Harvey used to say, there was a “rest of the story,” because the doctor ultimately proposed to the patient, and they were married!

I have been thinking a lot about that “playing God” analogy, and at first glance it’s a repugnant characterization, since there’s One God and we’re not Him.  But that old adage, “Some people have to have a God with flesh on” rings true.  Why, just today, I received a call from an anxious client, a client who has left her childhood faith behind, and who disavows any further use for God.  But I ministered to her, nevertheless.  And I like to think that she was comforted and sensed a bit of God in me.

We have been given a rare opportunity; an opportunity to play both prophet and God; (and I say this with all respect and submission to the only One and True God).

There are those in our midst who will never excel nor attempt to do so.  There are those in our company who will make the cemetery richer; for the local cemetery is among the richest pieces of ground on earth.  It is filled with all the unexplored and unfulfilled dreams of thousands of God’s creations; lying dormant, never to find fruition.

My message to you today is to look for that one; that one person among many who displays the kind of unexplored, just under the surface potential to be singular, to be great, to be used of Our Lord.  Look for that man or woman who can be shaped, molded, impacted; for that one who, though sick, or sad, or even selfish has a pliable and contrite spirit, and who is marginally, and increasingly ready to assume their God-given place on the earth.

Inscribed on the Statue of Liberty is a verse: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teaming shore.  Send these, the homeless tempest tossed to me.  I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”  (Emma Lazarus)

Our mission is to people like that.  The tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless.  And we have a lamp to light their pathway.  And we offer them a golden door; a door that leads to freedom. 

But many will refuse our comfort, and many will drift away.  But if we can touch just one at a time.  If we can make a difference in one life at a time.  We may not be able to change the world, but we may be able to change the world of one person.

Pour your efforts into all; everyone who seeks ministry, who seeks help, who pleads for deliverance.  Do this.  Do this.

But look for that one; that one who seems to provoke you to do a little more.  That one who not only needs a little more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands, and bids you mold them into something lovely.  Look for that one.  Give your best efforts to that one.

For you are both a physician and a prophet.  So reminiscent of that doctor who bestowed his best labor on the little patient.  God bids you pour healing salve into their wounds.  He gives you dreams in the night on their behalf, and provokes you to see the invisible and impossible. 

Someone, a Very Dear Someone, once looked intently at me and said, “You must have seen something in me.”  And I responded, “Indeed I did.”  Another Precious Someone once mused, “You almost sent me away.” And I replied, “I’m so glad I didn’t.”

Who can know how God may choose to multiply our efforts through these precious souls who wait for us to touch, impact and mentor them?

Look for that One, that One who seems to provoke you to do a little more.  That One who not only needs a little more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands and bids you mold them into Something lovely.

Look for that One.

William Mc Donald, PhD

 

SEIZE THE DAY

 3919

I have often reflected on one particular scene in the movie, “Dead Poet’s Society;” (a good movie and an extraordinary scene).

“Mr. Keating,” a teacher at a private boy’s school, (who seems to have a knack for offering his students insightful tidbits, while using everyday objects and themes) leads his boys down the stairs from the classroom, and into the lobby of the institution.

The young professor walks towards a couple of trophy cases, and instructs his pupils to gather about him.

“Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them. They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you.”

Mr. Keating’s boys are “all ears” by this point in his monologue. They know something of some value is coming.

And with the assurance of someone wiser than his years, the teacher continues.

“Did these young men in the photographs wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen closely, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it? (whispering in a gruff voice) Carpe. Hear it? (whispering) Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

And I think we have the privilege, opportunity and obligation to do this.

…To make our own lives extraordinary.

To discover the best within us. To find out that one thing which separates us from the rest. To develop that talent, that gift, that interest, which almost begs for a forum, to a razor’s edge. To, as Mr. Keating admonishes us, make our lives extraordinary. And I think we have the innate wherewithal to do this. (Though I think too few tend to do so).

There is an illusion in Homer’s “The Iliad and the Odyssey” in which the hero of the story, Odysseus, the captain of the ship, has himself tied to the mast, while he instructs the remainder of his crew to pack wax in their ears. For you see, their ship was scheduled to sail past a particular island populated by beautiful half-clothed women, men-haters, who sang the most melodious of songs. And it was on the shores of this island that dozens of ships had crashed upon the rough-hewn rocks which surrounded it; crew after crew lured to their deaths by the ethereal songs of the maidens. But due to the foresight of Odysseus, he is among the first to hear the Siren Song, and live to tell the tale; as the ship sails harmlessly past the island, and on to their port of call.

And while the foregoing myth has a rather negative connotation, as a counselor I have “put a spin” on an old story, and assigned it a more positive meaning. For as I have so often taught my clients, God also sings a Siren Song. (Yes, He does). And amazingly,

…He sings it to you and me!

In Christian circles we have labeled that song, “God’s Calling.” And I am convinced that our Lord calls you and me to pursue a goal, to complete a task, to fulfill a destiny, and to leave a legacy. And I am equally convinced that the Creator planned our individual destinies

…before He made the worlds!

For in Psalms 139:16 we read, “Before I ever took my first breath, you planned every day of my life” and scripture assures you and me that “My times are in Your hands.” (Psalms 31:15)

Granted, the foregoing information makes good theory until we discover whatever it is that God has for us to do with our lives. But, I think, the same One who sings the song is more than capable of lighting the pathway. For He has assured us that “if with all your heart you will seek the Lord, Your God,

…you will find Him.” (Jeremiah 29:13)

And so much like the maidens of Homer’s odyssey, the Master of the Universe humbles Himself to sing us His song. It is left to us to take time to listen, and to go about fulfilling whatever plans He has designed for us, as individuals, to complete.

In the words of “Mr. Keating,”

“Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it?

Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys and girls. Make your lives extraordinary.”

 by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

MY PERSONAL DOORWAY TO IMPACT

 3918

I have served as the pastoral counselor at a local church the past three months, and at other locations for the thirty years which preceded my tenure there.

 

When I began counseling here, Pastor P. gave me a key to the front door and a security code for the code box. Apparently, my weekly visitation with that little plastic piece of equipment on the lobby wall has made quite an impression on me.

 

For you see, as I was napping tonight, (my nightly sojourns are confined to a couple of two hour naps, rather than the standard method of sleeping), I dreamed a dream.

 

I found myself taking the church key out of my pocket, inserting it into the lock, turning the key, walking across the threshold into the lobby, making my way to the code box, and punching in the four digit code.

 

Suddenly, I found myself in an entirely different location. The room where security codes live. (I kid you not). I found myself seated on, for lack of a more suitable moniker, a wheel less air bicycle lazily floating around what seemed to be a huge tent; buoyed up by swirling jets of air beneath me. And then I realized the steel framework of the air cycle was shaped exactly like my four digit security code!

 

And is it any wonder I enjoyed the ride. For those four little numbers literally serve as my personal gateway to making a difference in the lives of some mighty precious people.

 

I will never think of the mundane task of punching in my security code quite the same way again.

 by William McDonald, PhD

SO THIS IS COVID

 3917

Hello I'm Dr. Bill McDonald. I tested positive for Covid. So this is Covid. Hmmm. My symptoms have ranged from the Mount Saint Helens eruption to the vicinity of Armageddon. Well, I've taken some poetic license. I admit I'm exaggerating a bit. My cough, fever and sore throat have fallen about a third of the way between a common cold and bronchial pneumonia. To be sure closer to the former than the latter of the two choices.

I looked out the window yesterday and noticed my grass looked more like wheat that needed to be harvested than a typical front yard. And in spite of this virus, I told my wife I was going to mow. I figured the only creatures great and small I was going to expose was a few grasshoppers and a random squirrel. My wife told me I shouldn't do it, but my latest government stimulus didn't include a coupon for a once per year Covid grass mowing service.

And I've done something that the experts don't advise or condone. I have continued to walk an hour a day before the sun lights the horizon. I mean that's my devotional time and besides I need to keep this 5 foot 8 inch  220 pound frame intact. I wouldn't want to lose those glorious abs or see my finely chiseled legs turn to mush.

But seriously I for one am glad I took the shots, though some believe the science isn't proven. Disagree if you wish but I credit the inoculations and God for keeping me out of the hospital. Well, I gotta go. Let me get past this nasty little bug and I'll do my best to continue adding a bit of flavor to your lives.

UPS STILL OWES ME

 

3916

I drove one of those big brown trucks for twenty years. (Yeah, I did).

And while I can’t speak for the other half million or so active and retired “Buster Brown’s,” I, for one, found the job emotionally unrewarding and grueling; in terms of abject fatigue and extremely long hours. The one and only thing I derived from the job, and from whence I experienced satisfaction, was financial remuneration.

Honestly, I hated the job and was a grasshopper’s knee away from quitting every day of the approximately 7,300 days I worked for “the tightest ship in the shipping business.” And I would make my wife aware of my disdain for my job; virtually every night after I returned home. About halfway through my inglorious, seemingly everlasting tenure, I made the decision to quit hating the job, and purposely changed my verbiage to “I dislike this job.” (I can tell you it made a difference in my demeanor).

 I have previously written about various and sundry experiences at UPS.

The dog which insisted on chasing my truck every day I drove down the street where he lived. And when my tolerance level sunk to about 3 on a scale of 100, I bought a large fountain Coke at a nearby 7-11, drove down that street, stopped on a dime when the pooch neared my right front tire, jumped out, and poured the sugary liquid all over the little guy. (He never chased me again).

Another unfortunate pooch, a homeless German Shepherd had, unbeknownst to me, crawled under my stopped truck while I was completing that day’s paperwork.

In retrospect, I figured he was seeking a little shade from the Summer’s sun. When I started the engine, and began to pull away, the back tires went “bump bump.” Dismounting my vehicle, I found the precious pooch shuttering out the last throes of his life on this mortal coil. Of course, I felt absolutely horrible. Since then, I have referred to the big fella as “Shadow.”

Pt. 2

Then there was this residential delivery near Cypress Gardens. As I pulled to a stop in front of a beautiful home on the lake, I selected the package from the bottom shelf, grabbed my clipboard, navigated the three steps to ground level, and walked towards the house. As I rounded the carport wall which faced the street, I was “greeted” by (drum roll) an elderly man (drum roll) in his birthday suit! I surmised he had been changing clothes after having swam in his little piece of the lake. My newfound acquaintance stuttered and could hardly talk

. “Please don’t tell anyone you saw me like this!” I assured him I wouldn’t. (I lied). I suppose I have told upwards of a hundred people by now. (LOL)

Then there was the day I pulled my “Brown Betsy” into the parking lot of a 50 unit apartment complex, threw open the bulkhead door, selected a package, bounded down the steps of the truck, and walked up to Apartment 1C. At that time, we were required to get a signature on our paper pad. And for some reason, rather than ringing the doorbell, I threw open the screen door, turned the doorknob on the outside wooden door, and stepped across the threshold!

A young woman stopped in mid-stride, and I very clumsily attempted to explain myself. “I am SO sorry! I have never done this before. And I have no idea why I did it today.” The little lady was very gracious, and told me not to think anything of it. (It’s a very good thing I didn’t catch her in “Commando Mode,” as I had the man who lived on the lake)!

Pt. 3

All “good things” (not) come to an end, they say. On that fateful day in October 1997, I prepared to get on with the rest of the life which God had so graciously bestowed on me. The management team afforded me a brief party prior to the entire crew disembarking for what would be my final delivery day. A chocolate cake, punch, napkins, paper plates and forks had been laid out on a foldup table.

Now my female supervisor (who would ride with me that day) began with, “Well, Bill has completed 20 years of service and he is leaving us today. Bill, would you like to greet us a final time?”

And not to be unprepared, (as I had premeditated what I would say and do) I responded with, “Yes, I would” (and) “I can still dance a jig,” and I did a little two step (and) “I can still do a few one handed pushups,” and I dropped down and knocked out five or six of those bad boys (and) “I can still kiss my supervisor!” And I puckered up, and planted a loud one on her right cheek.

Almost 25 years have flowed under that proverbial bridge since that momentous day, and UPS refuses to go quietly.

For you see, for the first fifteen or eighteen years after my retirement, I experienced monthly dreams about the tightest ship in the shipping business. They were virtually always the same. It was about 5PM, and I was finishing up my delivery route.

However, I had three or four packages which were either illegible or bearing labels with streets I had never heard of. If you know anything about UPS, you know that they aren’t keen, swell and cool about any packages coming back to the building in the evening. Of course, in the dream I was frantic because it was time to drive back to the local center.

The dreams subsided for several years after this, though so much like toe fungus or shower mildew, they never completely went away.

Last night the dream changed. I found myself walking down a city sidewalk, and there to my right was a UPS man seated on a bench. I continued walking, and now I noticed an empty United Parcel truck. Walking further, I found myself looking at the back of another UPS vehicle. However, the back door was open. Suddenly, someone cranked the engine, and the truck began to pull away. Several packages came barreling out the back door, and bounced across the asphalt.

And then I woke up.

I suppose I will continue to enjoy or endure, (as the case may be), UPS dreams for the remainder of my natural life. And it occurs to me. If I am forced to dream these uninvited, unwelcome, unsavory dreams ‘til I lay it all down… somebody needs to come up with some substantial back pay; since it seems to me I'm still on the payroll!

by William McDonald, PhD

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

3915

In the movie, “Bagger Vance,” Will Smith, (Bagger) plays what amounts to a Golf Angel. For you see, he has been sent to assist a character played by Matt Damon, (Ranolph Junah) with his golf game.

But it is not just any game, it is THE game of his life, for this former amateur golfer finds himself in a match with perhaps the most notable and adept golfers of his time.

Captain Junah has just come back from “The War to end all wars,” (WWI) and he has come back a changed man. For during one especially ferocious battle, every man in his unit has been killed or severely wounded, and only he has been left unscathed. And as the result of his heroic actions during the battle, the captain has been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Ranolph’s emotions are raw, and he lacks confidence, and he suffers from what we refer to today as PTSD, but what was referred to in that day and time as “shell shock.” And it was only the result of the pleas of the town’s people, and his former sweetheart, (who is attempting to save the family fortune, and the golf course on which he finds himself) that he has consented to play the game.

Bagger, who has agreed to caddy for the captain, had been giving him pointers throughout the game, but to no avail. But the young man finds himself falling further and further behind the leader.

As Ranolph steps up to take his next shot, Bagger interrupts his swing, and says, “Mr. Junah, there’s only one authentic shot, one that is truly yours, and you can’t choose it.”

The captain is miffed to have had his swing interrupted, and angrily replies, “What do you mean? Of course I can choose my shot. I must choose my shot!”

Bagger smiles a whimsical smile, and responds, “Oh no suh, the shot must choose you.”

Now, in terms of the movie, Bagger’s implication was that for any given hole, on any given course, there is one best club, one best swing, one best solution.

And I think we can learn a valuable lesson from our golf angel’s admonition. The first time I ever viewed the movie, and listened to Bagger’s words, well, it just came to me. There is a valuable spiritual lesson to be gleaned here.

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

You see, I am convinced, and scriptures assures us, “My times are in His hands,” (Psalms 31:15) and “The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me,” (Psalms 138:8) and “Before I ever took my first breath, You planned every day of my life.” (Psalms 139:16)

If we believe and embrace the truth of scripture, it is apparent that God knew us by name, and planned all our days, before we were a twinkle, and even before He made the twinkling stars. (And we can be sure that He loves us so much more than those magnificent, astronomical creations.)

Indeed, the shot must choose us. For any given decision, among any set of options which we encounter throughout the course of our lives, there is one best choice, one best action, which has the ultimate capacity to help complete our destiny, and which agrees with our Lord’s perfect plan for us as individuals.

Now, I’m not talking about what loaf of bread we decide to purchase, or whether we check our mail at 1PM or 5AM. No, I’m referring to those crucial, “have to get it right” type of decisions which have the wherewithal to complete our Heavenly Father’s plans for our lives, (or if we are oblivious to the best shot, bring us to ruin.)

Indeed, I believe the shot must choose us, and it is paramount that we get it right. Our very destiny is at stake. I believe it would be pleasing to God that every one of His children pray the following simple prayer, and pray it on a daily basis.

“Oh Father, great Ruler of the universe. You Who knew me before I was formed or ever took my first breath,… let the shot choose me.”

 by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

PRAYING FOR MY UNBORN, UNNAMED, UNSEEN DESCENDANTS

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I do something that I honestly have never heard anyone else tell me they have ever done, nor have I ever read about anyone else doing.

I pray for my unborn, unnamed, unseen descendants.

Every day before the sun lights the horizon, I pray for them. I ask God to bless, help, guide, encourage and save them, and allow them to have great impact on those who He sets in their pathway. And I am convinced He will honor my prayer.

For you see, I am just as convinced that my unknown, unseen ancestors from perhaps fifty generations in the past prayed for me when I was still unborn, unnamed and unseen to them.

Perhaps they prayed in an archaic language which no longer exists in the 21st century. Or perhaps they prayed in a language which still exists somewhere on the earth. For I am, as are you, the offspring of multiplied billions of great great grandparents who lived, and moved and breathed in various and sundry nations throughout the world.

Sometime in the near future, I expect to meet those dearly departed souls who once prayed for me, as well as my yet unborn, unnamed, unseen descendants who have yet to put on flesh and have their being, after I have gone on to my reward.

Until then, I will go right on praying for them with the absolute expectation that God will bless, help, guide, encourage and save them, and give them great impact on those who He sets in their pathway.

by William McDonald, PhD