OLD JACK

 3942

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

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

 

“And So It Goes”

 

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

 

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

 

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

by William McDonald, PhD

MEETING MY ALTER EGO

 3941

I met my alter-ego today. (Yeah, I did).

I was at a funeral for a dear lady who attended my church over half a century ago, and who in recent years attended another church where I was a member.

Well, her daughter told me her mother had requested I sing, “I’d Rather Have Jesus,” the music of which was written by George Beverly Shea; which I was glad to do.

The funeral progressed, it was my turn to sing, I sang, sat down, the pastor preached a short message, and the congregation, (the exact combination of souls who would never be in the same place at the same time again on this side of Glory) began to disperse.

As I walked towards the back of the church a man of approximately my own age stopped me, and said,

“Hi, I’m (also) Royce” (and) “I heard you introduced as ‘Royce’ before you sang today.”

Of course, this peaked my interest.

And with this, we began to converse. And the more we conversed the more “strange and wonderful” his story got since his background so closely mirrored my own in various ways.

“I attended this church when another congregation met here half a century ago.”

To which I responded,

“Well, so did I, but I don’t remember you.”

And “comparing notes” we determined that Royce #2 “came on board” around two years after I left. And with this, my newfound namesake revealed “The ace up his sleeve.”

Pt. 2

“Oh, I know about you.”

Of course, I thought, “He knows about me?”

As our conversation continued, I learned that it was only in the past hour that Royce Nadler, (not his actual last name), began to make complete sense of some congregational interactions from over 50 years ago.

“Back in the early 70’s, when I attended here, people would call me by name, and, subsequently, refer to a person or memory which was totally foreign to me. And I began to realize they thought I was a different Royce, who I didn’t know, and who must have attended here a few years earlier.”

Talk about ironic. But there was more to come.

I went on to tell Royce #2 that I and another man had founded a boy’s group at Bartow Assembly. He responded that he had once been a leader of the same “outpost.”

As we continued to “compare notes” I learned that my newfound friend had once lived in Highland City and currently lived in Bartow; both places in which I had also lived at one time or the other.

“Somewhere along the line” I referred to the pastor who had been at the church when I was there so long ago. My alter-ego assured me that he also knew Bro. Anderson, (not his actual name).

“Oh yes, I spent time with him after he was homebound” (and) “Of course, he had developed dementia by then, and he would often say things like, ‘Who are you?’ and ‘Well, whoever you are, it’s time to begin the church service’ and ‘Please pass out the songbooks and be ready to take up the offering in a few minutes.’”

Our conversation was getting “curioser” and “curiouser.”

No doubt, I gave Royce #2 a crooked smile, and replied,

“Well, it seems we have a lot in common, my friend. We’re both named ‘Royce,’ we were both active in the boy’s group here half a century ago, we have both lived in the same two cities in central Florida, and we both knew and spent time with Bro. Anderson after he was homebound, and had developed dementia. Why, I had the exact same experience as you. I remember the dear man telling his wife to lead singing and would I mind taking up the offering.”

I continued.

“How strange that half a century later, you and I would be in the same place at the same time, and be afforded the opportunity to have this conversation!”

I believe the foregoing opportunity to converse with my alter-ego, and multiplied millions of other momentary circumstances with which you and I are confronted were orchestrated by the Almighty; before He breathed the worlds into place. It definitely makes life richer and more interesting, and I believe our Father enjoys such irony as much as we do.

by William McDonald, PhD

DOING WHAT I COULD

 

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For multiplied years I have driven past several acres of pasture land on my way to this or that business or restaurant in my hometown; about eight miles from my current residence.

And for years, I have noticed a large sign in that grassy field which claimed a nearby church would soon be relocating to that particular intersection. (Funny, how many times I have seen similar signs which made the same claim, but which, ultimately, faded out and were removed, or simply fell into disrepair).

And for years, as I made my way past that intersection, I admired a beautiful little oak tree growing about thirty feet from the barbed wire fence which bordered the two roads.

In recent years, I noticed an unusual amount of Spanish Moss hanging from this oak tree, and seemingly more every time I drove by the pasture. It is rare to see a Florida oak tree without moss hanging from its branches, but it is equally rare to see one absolutely overwhelmed with this parasitic growth.

As a result of the ‘assault’ of the Spanish Moss on the pretty little oak tree, I finally decided to do something about it.

As I drove by the spot one day, I jotted down the phone number listed on the sign, and, subsequently, I called the church office, and asked to speak to the pastor.

“Hi, I’m Bill McDonald. This may sound a little strange, but I noticed that lone oak tree in the pasture where you hope to relocate your church is covered up with moss. It’s just such a beautiful tree. I’d like to do something about it. Would you mind if I attempt to get the moss out of it?”

To which “Pastor Franklin” responded,

“Hmmm, I suppose that would be alright.”

And having had a moment to digest my request, he added,

“But I don’t want you to climb up into the tree. You know, there would be a liability issue for the church if you fell.”

I acquiesced, and assured the pastor that I would keep my feet on solid ground.

Pt. 2

A couple days later, I bought one of those extendable poles with a claw on the end, and which was specifically designed to pull moss out of trees. The following Saturday I loaded myself, the pole and very little else into my car, and set a course for the little moss-covered oak tree in the pasture.

Having arrived I parked my car next to the fence, got out, retrieved my claw pole, (for lack of a better moniker), tossed it in the direction of the tree, gingerly lifted the barbed wire, and navigated my way between the offending barbs.

With this, I extended the pole, tightened the locking mechanism, and set to work pulling moss out of the little oak tree. I found myself frustrated with how much moss hung in the branches, and how little of it I was able to pull down with each attempt. Even more frustrating my realization that as long as the pole was, I could only reach halfway up the twenty foot tall tree.

The pile of moss increased, and occasionally I stopped to put the parasitic stuff in plastic bags. As the sun rose higher in the sky, I felt increasingly thirsty. And since I hadn’t brought a thermos, I made my way back towards the fence, reversed my course through the barbed wire fence, walked across the street, and entered a corner convenience store where I bought a fountain drink.

I hadn’t accounted for the lack of hydration which a soft drink affords, and as I set back to work fatigue and thirst overwhelmed me. Ignoring these troublesome symptoms, I continued to drag down moss from the little oak tree.

By the time I finished what I was capable of finishing, I had managed to decrease the overall bulk of Spanish Moss by perhaps a third, perhaps a bit more. As I stacked the twelve or fourteen huge plastic bags by the road, I found myself wishing I had brought a ladder; in spite of the pastor’s admonition, and my promise not to do so.

Pt. 3

Driving home, I felt like I was going to pass out, and when I arrived home all I could do was plop down on the sofa. I felt like I was about 3 minutes from death, when my wife began to pour water down my gullet. I think it would be fair to characterize my condition that day as suffering from a sun stroke. I vowed I would never ever take on a task like this one again without bringing an ample supply of cold water with me.

As the days and weeks and months tick toked along, as they always do, and as I continued to drive past that beautiful little oak tree, it began displaying increasing signs of distress. Not only was the moss regenerating itself in the places I managed to strip it from the limbs, but the leaves of the tree, what leaves you could see, took on a sickly brown hue; until all that was left was a skeleton of its former self.

And with the advance of years, this sad shadow of that beautiful little oak tree continued to stand alone with wisps of Spanish Moss hanging from its skinny branches. And I can barely look at it as I pass by.

It may seem a bit strange, but more than once, as I drove past the tree, I have glanced at it, and said,

“I did what I could. It was simply not enough.”

(and)

“I (literally) almost gave my life for your life.”

Perhaps I’m too sensitive about the welfare of trees and animals in my sphere of influence. Perhaps I’m not always sensitive enough about the welfare of my fellow human beings.

And yet, I have often thought that flora and fauna have very little wherewithal to choose right from wrong, or to protect themselves from anything, whereas people do, and as a result of their bad choices, they sometimes find themselves in a world of hurt.

 

When it is all said and done, I’m glad I did what I could to save that lovely little oak tree in the pasture.

by William McDonald, PhD

PEACE LIKE A RIVER

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James 1:12 Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.

A few days ago I received a very detailed call from a friend dealing with trials that seem nearly impossible to bear. Often the best thing a friend can do is simply listen, and while doing just that I was reminded of Horatio Spafford.

Horatio Gates Spafford was a 43-year-old Chicago Businessman who suffered financial disaster in the great Chicago fire of 1871. He and his wife, still grieving the death of their son who had died shortly before the fire, were in great need of a retreat, and decided to take their remaining children to England for a vacation. Their friend Dwight L. Moody would be preaching in evangelistic campaigns there that fall, and so Spafford arranged to send his wife and four daughters ahead of him on the SS Ville du Havre. He planned to follow in a few days.

During the voyage on the Atlantic Ocean, the Ville du Havre was struck by an iron sailing vessel and sank within 12 minutes. Two hundred twenty-six lives were lost – including the Spafford’s four daughters. When the survivors were brought to shore at Cardiff, Wales, Mrs. Spafford cabled her husband two words: "Saved alone."

Spafford booked passage on the next ship. As they were crossing the Atlantic the captain pointed out the place where he thought the Ville du Havre had gone down. That night, Spafford penned the following words:

When peace like a river attendeth my way
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.

Spafford lost his business and his children but found comfort in His savior.

This world has been called a "veil of tears", not without reason. The weight of anguish and sorrow is incalculable and may feel utterly unbearable at times. Who can understand how Horatio and his wife bore up under their excruciating losses? Yeshua (Jesus) can, because He himself bore far greater agony and sorrow, and because He rescued us from an eternity of it. If you truly know Him you also can sing, "It Is Well With My Soul."

(from a ministry email)

A LITTLE BOX AND A BIT OF GOLD FOIL

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There is a story of a five year old girl who lived during the Great Depression.

It was Christmas Eve and little Annie noticed a roll of gold foil lying near the tree. Finding her toy scissors and an old box she went to work. 

A few minutes later her father walked through the front door. He had had a hard day at work, and wasn't in the mood for any shenanigans. As he entered the living room, he noticed Annie cutting the gold foil and wrapping the box.

Well, Sam and Julie weren't rich, and every penny counted during this critical period in our nation's history. And as a result of Annie's apparent waste of good wrapping paper, he was livid.

"Annie, what do you think you're doing?" he screamed.

And without waiting for an answer, he swatted her bottom, and sent her to her room, but not before she retrieved the little box.

The next morning Annie joined the rest of the family in the living room, and her father distributed the very few gifts which lay under the tree. Now Annie placed the gold wrapped box in her father's hands.

"This one is for you, Daddy."

Of course, her father recognized the box. As he took it from her, it seemed extremely light, and he couldn't imagine what might be in it. As he stripped off the expensive gold foil, and opened the box, he became angry again. 

"Annie! There's nothing in this box! It's bad enough you used the gold wrapping paper, but there's nothing in the box!"

Annie teared up again, but managed to respond.

"No, Daddy. The box isn't empty. I blew kisses in it 'til it was full, and then I shut the lid, and wrapped it up."

Now Annie's father felt hot tears well up in his own eyes, and he scooped his little girl up in his arms, and pleaded for her to forgive him.

A few years later, Annie experienced a life threatening illness, and after lingering a few days, the angels took her to heaven.

From that day forward Annie's father kept that little gold wrapped box next to his bed, and when he felt sad or lonely, he would open the box, reach in, and pull out one of his daughter's invisible kisses.

Transcribed from an old story by William McDonald, PhD