THE WEAVER'S TAPESTRY

 4097

The tapestry He weaves in me is twined in many hues

The pattern of the thread He works is not mine to choose

And though too close to focus on the weaving that He sees

And too far from His purposes to see His plan for me

 

The constant shuffle of the loom, the heavy threads now fall in place

And in the shadows that they cast, I sometimes fail to see His face

But when the finer thread is laid, and drifts across the airy span

Tis then the light comes gleaming through, tis then I see the Weaver’s Hand

 

His weaving grows with each new joy, each trial adds still more  thread

The colors of the rainbow blend with each new hope and dread

The loom slides on with ceaseless speed, each thread drops in its place

The fringes of this cloth are sewn with silk and pretty lace

 

The Weaver’s Hand is sure and tried, and nail scars grace His palm

And as He works His work in me, my soul knows peace and calm

The cloth He works is precious, and, the loom He works is sure

The tapestry He weaves in me is rich and very pure

 

And though the darker colors shade -the few, but brighter threads beside

I know He works all things for good, His colors true, His pattern tried

And when the Master’s Hand is still, and the cloth of life is spun

Tis then His image shall appear, His tapestry is done

by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

DON'T WANT ONE

4096

I don't want an obituary or a funeral. I'm doing what I can to complete my destiny and make the impact I was supposed to make NOW. 

After I'm gone all the tributes will either be unnecessary, or hypocritical, (depending on how I lived my life). Every day I pray, "Lord, don't let me miss whatever still remains of my destiny." 

HAVE YOU BEEN INTRODUCED TO...

 4095

Pt. 1

Over the past thirty years, I have experienced the distinct privilege of counseling untold thousands of clients in seven different locations. And in spite of the multitude of people whom I have intervened for, I continue to hear new stories, and intervene for new issues.

However, if you have any idea that I am about to share some confidential information about one or more of those clients... you would be sadly mistaken. Not the purpose of this blog. Simply not where I am going with this blog.

I had just driven to what I would describe as a suburb of a city of  100,000 plus; to a church where I offer my counseling services. Walking from my car to the church, I unlocked the door, and unset the alarm system. (It is not unusual for me to see my clients alone, as I have to be available when it is convenient for double income spouses).

No sooner had I done so, than I looked out the door, and I saw a twenty something year old man roll up on a bicycle. He was sweaty, and I hypothesized that he was probably homeless, and perhaps lived under some nearby tree.

Since "Bob" looked pretty innocent, I pushed open the front door, and asked him, 

"What can I do for you?"

The young man smiled, and said,

"Uhh, would you mind if I washed my face and arms off with your water hose?"

I responded with,

"Absolutely, you can. You needn't even ask."

Still smiling Bob replied,

"Well, I didn't want to mess with anything without permission."

Pt. 2

Bob seemed to be a bit more personable, and multi-faceted than the average homeless person I had met. (And I have met bunches of them). 

Now he said,

"Do you know of any work available in this area?"

I shook my head and said,

"No, I wish I could help you. I'm from Winter Haven, and often do counseling when some of the other staff aren't here." (So, there was no one else for me to ask about his inquiry).

(and)

"I didn't bring any money with me." (Which was the truth, but, honestly, I have never been a fan of giving money to the homeless, as I am all too aware many of them spend the money which well-meaning people give them on alcohol and illegal substances).

Bob was quick to say,

"I wasn't asking for money."

I smiled and changed the subject. (My question even surprised me, as I am not the boldest witness for my Lord and Savior who He ever "invented").

"Have you been introduced to Jesus?"

(Funny, I have never asked this question in the exact manner I asked it now).

Bob's gaze had drifted to a flowering plant next to the front door of the church. However, with this question he looked me in the eyes, and responded with,

"Yes, I met Jesus years ago. I used to attend this church. There was a lady youth pastor here then".

From the context of his answer, his apparent age, and his reference to the youth pastor, I guessed Bob had attended this church when he was an adolescent.

Now, my newfound acquaintance shook my hand, (not sure we had formally introduced ourselves, though my name was monogrammed on my shirt), and turned and pushed his bike towards the water hose. Shortly thereafter I saw Bob pedal out of the parking lot towards parts unknown.

Pt. 3

Momentary ministry. (At least, that's what I call it). The seemingly circumstantially-based opportunity to share the reality, and love of our Savior with someone along our daily pathway.

But, you know, I have often thought that whereas we think of such an opportunity as happenstance, and the sort of "luck of the draw" experience we are prone to have on a given day, that's not at all how God thinks about it.

For you see, my "chance meeting" with Bob was no chance meeting at all. (Don't you believe it)! No, my friends, not by a long shot. For, you see, our Savior and Lord, the great "I AM," the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Bright and Morning Star was aware such an opportunity would befall you or I... before He spoke the worlds and stars into place! (And I can tell you, this reality literally sends chills down my arms)!

Granted, my six word question (which I described above) was fleeting in nature; (but might well have opened up a life-giving discussion). As it was, and based on the nature of his answer, it was apparent that my young friend was all too aware of who Jesus is, and the purpose for which He came. However, it may have been several years since Bob had reflected on Jesus' reality and His claims over his life. 

I'm glad I was afforded the opportunity to remind him.

by William McDonald, PhD

THE LEAST OF THESE

4094

Pt. 1

My daughter has struggled with the duel diagnoses of Schizophrenia and Borderline Retardation since she was about twenty. Time would fail me to describe some of the horrendous circumstances which she and I, my wife and our family have endured together. 

I have seen "Megan" in the throes of psychosis, alcohol and drug dependence, and involvement in relationships in which men have used and abused her. And she has twice been committed to long term mental facilities in which she spent a total of two years. 

Upon her release from the second of the two facilities, we placed Megan in an assisted living facility, as it was obvious that she would never be functional enough to live on her own. Thirty years have come and gone since she was originally diagnosed, and since then she has lived in six different care facilities in West Virginia, (while I have remained in Florida).

As you can imagine, my father's heart groans for my daughter, and I am daily filled with regrets with all the normal things my daughter might have experienced and accomplished. College, marriage, children, vocation and so many other things.

I have cried the midnight tears when only angels watched. 

And, as you might imagine, two words, in particular, have crossed my mind; again and again. 

"If only."

Pt. 2

Well, my friends, as we all so well know, in this life there are plenty and enough of "if only's" to go around. And, good, bad or indifferent, as I tell my clients, "There aren't any time machines."

A number of years ago something occurred to me, well, a phrase entered my mind, and which quickly found a hiding place in my heart. And I can only attribute this insightful set of eight words to God.

"Her life is as valuable as your own."

(Not unlike that guy's experience in the movie, "Field of Dreams").

And, subsequently, I heard, as it were,

"Megan's life is different than yours, but just as valuable."

And, as if to validate the foregoing insightful experience, Megan and I were talking on the phone a few years ago, and "out of the blue," she said...

(It is important to note here, while Megan has been diagnosed and has exhibited a significant mental illness, she has only relapsed 4-5 times in the past three decades. A relapse can be characterized by a re-emergence of psychotic and delusional symptoms. In each case, the manager of the group home has admitted Megan to the local hospital psychiatric ward for emotional and medicinal re-evaluation. Ninety-nine percent of the time Megan is lucid and conversational and relatively happy. From my perspective as a parent, the primary reason my daughter resides in an assisted living environment is that she has been prone to make very bad self-prescribed "medicinal" and relational choices).

But, as I was saying, Megan said,

"Dad, we all have a life."

(That we do, Megan. That we do).

However, as insightful as what I regard as God's still small voice was, when He spoke to me in one of those midnight hours, and when only angels watched, I had never shared these conclusions with Megan.

Pt. 3

All that changed last night.

 

As I was saying, all that changed last night.

I might mention, Megan calls me, drum roll, five days a week. Yeah, she does! The two days, well evenings, she doesn't call me are my therapy nights. (I do it. Someone else receives it).

At any rate, my daughter and I were talking about any number of things last night, including, for example, the crime show she was watching at the moment, a new resident of the group home, or the picture she colored that day in the day center she attends. (That seems to be about all they do there).

Speaking of the day center, (which Megan refers to as her "school"), she seemed to be in a bit of a funk, as she began to bemoan her fate in life...

"Dad, I cried at school today."

Of course, I responded with,

"What was there to cry about?"

Pt. 4

Megan responded. 

"I was thinking about how my life ended up."

Of course, no conscientious, loving father of a child like Megan could help but choke up upon hearing words such as these.

Suddenly, I knew it was time! It was time to share my God-experience with my dear daughter.

"Megan, you know how you have told me that sometimes God speaks to your heart?"

(She acknowledged my question in the affirmative).

"Well, He speaks to me too. Oh, not where I can hear Him with my ears. But He speaks to my spirit."

(Once again Megan acknowledged my statement).

"And, one time when I was listening to Him, God told me something about you."

(You can imagine how my latest statement peaked Megan's interest)!

"Yes, indeed. A few years ago, I was thinking about you, and your life, and God said, 'Megan's life is very valuable. It is just as valuable as your own life.'"

And now, only dead silence... for what seemed like a full minute, (but it could not have been longer than three seconds).

And now, my second child responded.

"AWWWH. THANKS, DAD!"

Afterward

Our conversation was far from over.

"Megan, you know the way I have just encouraged you? One way that your life is just as valuable as mine is the place where He has you. You are surrounded by people I may never meet. I am surrounded by people that you may never meet. God tells us that we should encourage each other. One day, one of your friends there might feel kinda blue about their own life, and you can reach out to him or her. You can say something to lift their spirits or give them a little hug. Your life is valuable to God. He told me so. And He has told me that same thing many times over the years."

Once again, Megan seemed touched, as if this amazing realization had never occurred to her.

And, I think, the Creator feels very much the same way about all of us; whatever our lot in life.

God's timing is superlative. Our conversation had been for just such as time as this.

by William McDonald, PhD

SMALL THINGS

 4093

Pt. 1

I have often mused how absolutely beautiful and intricate small things are, and how they "speak to" the glory of the Creator; as well as anything else our Lord ever made.

Granted, there are some pretty amazing mountains, lakes and rivers, and the Aurora Borealis isn't anything "to sneeze at."

But, as I have previously inferred, I have been just as "taken up" with the small things which have been set in my proverbial pathway.

I have previously written about the prettiest little tree which I have ever seen in the course of my seven plus decades on this planet. 

You couldn't miss it. It was the only tree in the middle, (well, actually near the front), of a large pasture. A pretty little Oak tree, perfectly shaped, and perhaps fifteen feet in height. 

I often admired that tree as I drove down Spirit Lake Road on my way to one or the other of a couple of nearby cities. However, each time I passed that tree, it was increasingly obscured by what might be referred to as a parasitic infection. 

You see, here in Florida, and in other southern states we have something called Spanish Moss. Normally, Spanish Moss is a rather benign "infection," as most trees tolerate it well, and it never absolutely takes over their boughs and branches. Cedar and Cypress trees are exceptions to the rule, and sometimes succumb to Spanish Moss; (but certainly not Oak trees).

However, "my" little Oak tree was, apparently, a lone exception to the rule governing this particular species of trees. I realized that this precious little tree was "on the way out," unless something substantial was done right way.

Pt. 2

There was a sign in this pasture which made all passersby aware that this pasture was scheduled to become the future home of "Heritage Baptist Church." And since I had learned to love this little Oak tree, and virtually personified it by now, I made a decision to call the church, and speak to the pastor.

"Pastor Lyman, this is Dr. Bill McDonald. You know that little Oak tree in the pasture where your church intends to build?"

Of course, he did.

"Well, it is covered up with moss, and it will die, unless someone does something to ease its pain." (No, I didn't utter those last four words). But, I expressed sufficient concern with sufficient feeling that the pastor gave me permission to attempt to de-moss the little Oak tree.

"Just don't climb any ladders. Whatever you do, you will have to do from the ground."

I acquiesced, (though I thought it would be a "long shot" without using a ladder in order to clean the upper canopy.

And on such and such a day, (it was a Saturday), I loaded an extendable pole in my car which was designed for just such a task. You see, it had a claw on one end. I also packed a couple of five gallon buckets. The one crucial thing I failed to pack was... water; (and a little common sense).

Pt. 3

Driving the two miles which separated me from my quest, I pulled off the road, retrieved my supplies, tossed them over the barbed wire fence, made my way in between the second and third strands of barbed wire, picked up my extendable claw and buckets, walked up to the beautiful little Oak tree, and set to work.

Did I mention it was a hot summer day? (Well, it was). And for every bucket of moss I managed to claw out of that tree, it seemed I sweated a bucket of perspiration. I was quickly becoming dehydrated. Setting my claw and buckets aside, I retraced my steps to the barbed wire fence, climbed through it again, and walked the thirty steps which separated me from a nearby 7-11. Can we say, "Big Gulp Fountain Drink?" Can we say, "Water is 'where it's at' when you want to avoid dehydration?"

Retracing my steps a final time, I worked another twenty minutes, and felt like I was about to die. I had to stop. I had rid the tree of a quarter, perhaps a third of its parasitic moss. Would it be enough? (I doubted it).

Leaving the tree "to its own devices" and with a "I did the best I could for you, little one" (and) "It's up to you now," I headed to my car, and the shade and coolness of my living room. I was absolutely "whooped." Arriving home, I walked in the front door, croaked out a "I feel like I'm about to pass out" to my wife, and dropped down on the living room sofa. I was just about as close to a heat stroke as I had ever been.

And yet. And yet for all my efforts... the little Oak tree died. 

Not immediately. Perhaps my futile attempt to de-moss the lower limbs afforded the wonderful little tree a little more time. 

It was personally hurtful for me to watch it die, as the Spanish Moss renewed itself, and more, and, ultimately, caused the little Oak tree to be unrecognizable for the wealth of that parasitic gray growth.

A few years later, I began to pedal a bicycle down the street which passes the little Oak tree. I'm a night owl, and the pedaling I do, I do in the wee hours of the morning. 

And as I near the little Oak tree, well, it's just a shell of itself; literally a shell of itself. Those bare skeletonized limbs stretch starkly against the sky; a full moon in the background. And I feel something moist roll down my cheek. I had invested so much to save that tree. I mean, I could have died under the boughs of that little tree.

Pt. 4

Small things. 

I have often mused how absolutely beautiful and intricate small things are, and how they "speak to" the glory of the Creator; as well as anything else our Lord ever made.

I remember a visit to West Virginia a couple of years ago. My wife and I flew there to see my two daughters, and rented a lovely little cabin at a state park near the quaint little town of Pineville.

I can tell you, I'm always "up" for snow; (as long as it remains manageable, and my vehicle remains on all four wheels, and not upside down in the valley beneath the roadway)!

And not to be disappointed, we experienced a late March snow. Waking up the morning after we arrived, we looked out the window, and the evergreen trees were absolutely covered with the white stuff. 

And some random flakes were still falling. And something occurred to me. 

I focused on one flake and watched it fall from a height of, well, as far "up" as I could see, until it found its lazy way to the ground. Such a lovely little snowflake drifting to and fro, left and right; fluffy as a feather.

And I imagined, (I could only imagine), what that amazing little snowflake looked like when viewed through a microscope. After all, God affords EACH individual snowflake its own unique pattern which hardly anyone, (except the Almighty) will ever see... 'til it unceremoniously melts away on the forest floor.

And I vowed to remember that singular little snowflake which I had watched drift from the heights, 'til it added its minute mass to a million million other snowflakes, and which would soon melt away in the warmth of the new day. 

Afterward

A lone little Oak tree. A tiny white snowflake. One animate. One inanimate. Each created by our Heavenly Father. Each afforded an all too brief lifespan of His own choosing. Both silent, but exalting God like only they could in spite of their seeming silence. 

Small things

by William McDonald, PhD

THE COMPELLING CASE OF PHARAOH'S DAUGHTER

 4092

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

LEAVING SOMETHING BEHIND

 4091

I received a notification from Facebook that my account had been suspended for six months, and unless I filed an appeal, it would be deleted forever. But to back up a bit... 

I received a notice a few days ago that Facebook noticed some unusual activity on my account. I changed my password, but then I get the latest message. Apparently, I am guilty until being proven innocent. I mean, there are tons of hackers on social media. And one of those people with little or nothing to do has violated my account. I don't expect to appeal, as I have little or no use for a media company that would #1. Not only not tell the offended party EXACTLY why their account has been deleted, and #2. Immediately assumes their member, rather than a third party, has done something to merit being deleted.

Since the account has been deleted, I have looked at some of my former Facebook friends' pages using my wife's Facebook account. And, interestingly enough, I discovered that everything I ever posted on their pages has disappeared. Just like I never existed!!!

And it occurred to me. What I have described, above, is very much like a believer, (or anyone for that matter), who fails to complete their destiny, and leave their imprint on the world; to fail to impact those whom God sets in their pathway.

Following is the introduction to a series of blogs, now numbering over a hundred one hundred page segments in the series which I intend to leave to my children's children.

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

 

… absolutely nothing.

 

And I have often mused, “Why didn’t you leave something behind?”

 

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

 

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

 

You deserve it.

 

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

 

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

 

… Leave something of yourself behind.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

JILL OF ALL TRADES

4090

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 Bill McDonald, PhD

THE INNATE INTELLIGENCE AND SPIRITUALITY OF DOGS

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Animals are more intelligent, (and is the word, 'spiritual?') than humans give them credit for.

I am thinking of three personal examples, in particular. 

Our little Buddy, a precious white female Shih Tzu, crossed the Rainbow Bridge in 2006. Almost a decade and a half later, I was sitting at a table in a large two story 1890's era house which had been purchased to care for women who had been newly released from prison. At the time, I served as their counselor. As I recall, I was preparing to teach a mentoring class at that moment. It was a large table, and staff and residents sat together for the classes.

Suddenly, "out of the blue" I felt what seemed to be two paws lean against my right leg. And I knew, I just knew. While I didn't say a word to anyone, tears sprang to my eyes. I had experienced several other similar situations which I attributed to Buddy; particularly within days of her 'crossing.' (Interestingly enough, multiplied thousands of former pet owners have reported experiences such as this). 

It was only a few years later that I learned that a dear friend of mine lost her pet pooch approximately the same day that I experienced this sensation. Melodi had been especially empathetic to my loss when Buddy left us. Of course, now I understood "the rest of the story." I believe Buddy was waiting for Angelo when he reached the north end of the Rainbow Bridge, and she wanted us to know that they were happy and healthy, and safe in the arms of Jesus. (Psalm 36:6)

The following incidents happened in the last few days.

Our daughter, Kristy, recently cut our Maine Coon Cat's nails. During the course of the manicure, Milo became uncooperative and began to scratch Kristy. Well, if you know our daughter, she doesn't take "No" for an answer. She continued to wrestle Milo; while all the while getting scratched on the arms and legs. 

Fast forward to today. My wife, Jean, was holding Milo in her lap when she happened to look my way, and told me,

"When Kristy is her for dinner tonight, she plans to cut Milo's one toenail which she didn't get the other day."

Immediately, do not pass go, Milo leaped from my wife's lap, scratching her on one arm in his quest to depart the immediate premises!

We also own a black and white male Papillon pooch. He is used to drinking from a water dish he shares with Milo. A couple of days ago, Toby walked towards the water bowl, and suddenly dropped down on his haunches; looking at it. At first, I couldn't understand his implication. Did he want a bone, or was he soaking in the coolness of the living room tile; as it has been extraordinarily hot in Florida.

And then it dawned on me. 

"Jean, how about changing Toby's water."

My wife walked over and retrieved the dish, took it to the bathroom, cleaned the bowl, filled it with water, and put it back where it had been.

Now, Toby walked over to the water dish and slurped to his heart's content. This same sequence of events has occurred twice more over the next two days.

Some people think dogs and cats are about as smart as they can throw them, and only act on instinct. 

Don't believe them. 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE BLOOD & SUFFERING OF THE REVOLUTION

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My quadruple Great Grandparents Thomas and Susanna (Harrington) Hightower were living on the Tygar River near Spartanburg, South Carolina in 1780. Having heard the plea for additional manpower, Thomas joined Colonel Benjamin Roebuck’s Colonial Regiment. While he was away on military duty, a militia group referred to as Tories, those American colonists loyal to the King of England, stormed the Hightower homestead and burst into my ancient grandmother’s house.

Following is an account I have written based on the events of that evening:

Susanna had been helping her son, John, with a particularly long word from his reader, and content that he had mastered one page and moved on to the next, she sat down in her rocking chair by the fire.

Suddenly the front wooden door flew open. Even in the midst of this terrible war, custom won out and she had forgotten to lock the door. Standing before her were eight heavily armed men, wearing an all-too familiar, but hated uniform. Susanna screamed for the children to run to the cellar. She realized that this rude intrusion was certainly no courtesy call.

Grandmother Hightower immediately recognized the leader of this band of traitors to the cause of independence. Bill Cunningham was an unusually handsome man, but known far and wide for his viciousness and unyielding retribution. It was not for no reason he had been nicknamed “Bloody Bill,” a name he apparently relished.

When the major addressed her by name, Susanna felt a shiver creep slowly up her spine, and she felt faint.

“Mrs. Hightower. You needn’t be afraid. We’re not here to hurt you. Answer a question, and we’ll be on our way, and leave you and your children alone.”

Somehow Susanna doubted the sincerity of his words.

“I know your husband has joined that vagabond band of misfits who are determined to put an end to everything we hold dear in these colonies. Well, Ma’am, we’re not going to let that happen.”

My grandmother started to speak,

“Sir, I protest…”

Bloody Bill cut her off.

“You’re not in the position to protest anything. Sit back down… NOW!”

My brave, but equally wise grandmother dropped into the rocking chair, suddenly feeling as weak as water.

“There now. That’s good. May I call you, Susanna?”

And without waiting for a reply, he continued.

“Susanna, I need you to answer me one question. Where’s your husband?”

And contrary to his earlier promise, he asked another question.

“Cat got your tongue? Where’s your husband, and who is his commanding officer?”

Susanna cleared her throat and fear registered in her voice.

“Sir, I know who you are. And I know you’re up to no good. I have no intention whatsoever, in telling you where my husband is.”

Bloody Bill’s contemptuous smile now turned downwards in a frown, and then a scowl. He would not be manipulated by the likes of a frail, little woman.

“One more chance, ma dear… if you want to live.”

Susanna realized the stakes of this not so pleasant game, and she steeled herself for the inevitable.

In a voice just above a whisper, and with tears stinging her eyes now, she sealed her fate.

“I cannot… I cannot bring myself to tell you. I have been true to my husband these twenty years. I am not about to betray him now. Do what you want, but you’ll get no answer from me.”

Well, my friends. I would like to tell you that Bloody Bill Cunningham marched right out of there, and took his band of “n’er do wells” with him… He didn’t. Turning to his chief lieutenant, he screamed,

“I’ll have none of this. No Sir, I will not. Lieutenant Morrison, kill her! Do it now!”

A look of utter amazement possessed the officer. He reached for his sword, but his hand seemed frozen in mid-air. Bloody Bill was not used to having his orders delayed, and he jerked Morrison’s sword out of the scabbard, and raised it high above his head.

My ancient grandmother had only enough time to utter the few last words she would ever speak on this side of eternity. With arms wrapped tightly about herself, she closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

“God forgive you, Bloody Bill. Dear Lord receive my spirit.”

…And the deed was done.

And I hasten to remind you that this is but one story among multiplied thousands of similar stories, which include the ancestors of those assembled here today, and which have followed us throughout all our nation’s wars.

My dear brothers and sisters.  As one holiday gives way to another, and the events we celebrate are separated from us by an increasing span of years, and ultimately, no one remains who knew any of these things first hand… it all becomes too casual, we are too prone to take our hard-fought freedoms for granted, we are too close to disregarding the sacrifice of those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A REAL LIFE FORREST GUMP

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In the movie Forrest managed to meet any number of famous people, and to interact with them.

I can relate

Years ago, a famous former major league baseball player, who was attending my church, contacted me about counseling. I met with him and his family several times. Since he is still in the local area, and active with his own charity, I am not inclined to mention his name here.

Then, there was the time when I traveled to Denver for a counseling conference which the counseling association of which I was a member, and "Focus on the Family" co-sponsored. While I was there, I had the opportunity to chat with Dr. James Dobson, the well-known President of "Focus on the Family," and radio host of his own program. I asked him a question. "What is the most important advice you would give to a young pastoral counselor?" He responded. "Well, if I had more time to consider your question, perhaps I would come up with something more innovative, but I would encourage you to 'be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.'" (I always thought he gave me some pretty good advice that day).

In the late 80's, I pulled my UPS vehicle up to the back door of an athletic shop at the local mall; as I was prone to do several times a week. As I stepped out of the passenger side of the truck with a few packages, a late model car pulled up next to me. A dark haired, middle aged woman stepped out, and walked up to where I was standing; waiting for the shop owner to open the back door. She spoke, "Hi, I'm Cornelia Wallace." Of course, she was the former wife of the Governor of Alabama and Presidential Candidate George Wallace of Alabama. She was living in central Florida now, and was friends with the owner of the shop; on whose threshold we were standing. I remembered that she had been present when her husband was wounded in an assassination attempt, and had bent down on the ground next to him. (Of course, I had seen the famous photo of the event). Mrs. Wallace and I chatted a minute before the shop owner opened the door. I later asked a friend to get her autograph for me, as she attended the same church as the former First Lady of Alabama.

A couple of decades ago, my wife and I were attending an evangelical conference near Tampa, which included several speakers. We were interested in hearing one rather well-known lady, in particular, Ruth Graham, the daughter of Rev. Billy Graham, the internationally known evangelist. I had walked into the main auditorium that day to hear this female evangelist's 1pm message. It so happened that I arrived a bit early, and I was the only person in the place. Suddenly, Miss Graham walked across the stage, paused when she saw me sitting in the third row, center, and said, "I'll be right back!" I responded with, "Uhhh, okay." She would never remember our brief intersection, but, I assure you, I will always remember it.

Several years prior to her passing, I mailed a letter to Katherine MacGregor, the actress who portrayed "Mrs. Harriet Oleson" of "The Little House on the Prairie" television series. (I had procured her mailing address from the website of Allison Arngrim, her TV daughter, "Nellie," of the same series). Miss MacGregor wasted no time in responding, and sent me a nice postcard in which she answered my questions, and included a hand drawn caricature of herself; (which I discovered was her trademark in all her initial responses to correspondence). If I expected this to be the only reply which I would ever receive, I would be pleasantly mistaken. For you see, I happened to mention a distant cousin of mine who claimed that she knew Katherine, and that she'd appeared in the local California Little Theatre with her. As a result, I would not "'hear the end of it." Not only did Miss MacGregor deny knowing my cousin, "Sandra," but she continued to write several more letters to me which, among other things, alluded to the same topic. Of course, I was courteous enough to respond each time. After several months, the well-known actress wrote a final letter in which she said, "My dear Dr. McDonald, I am getting pretty old, and honestly I don't have time to continue corresponding with you." I laughed when I read that particular line, and I thought, "My dear Miss MacGregor, you, not I, are the one who has continued to send out all those letters!"

A few years ago when I attended a local church here in central Florida, I knew a wonderful elderly man named Andy Bos. At the time, he was in his early 90's. I considered him a friend. I was often fortunate enough to have the opportunity to speak in the Wednesday night services, as the pastor depended on two or three of his parishioners to fill in for him on a recurring basis. One night my friend Andy walked up to me after the service, and said, "My grandson is the Hollywood actor Taylor Lautner. He is one of the main characters in the "Twilight" movie series. I have been sending him your Wednesday night CD's. Of course, I was surprised, and have often thought of Taylor, and prayed that he not only listened to my sermons, but that he had been impacted by them.

The year was 2008 and the extended McDonald family were attending a grave marking ceremony in Valdosta, Georgia for my great great great Grandfather, a Scottish immigrant who fought in the American Revolution. It so happened that Sonny Schroyer, the television and movie actor who portrayed "Enos" on "The Dukes of Hazzard" attended the ceremony. He is probably the best known resident of that area. I have no idea why he was inclined to attend. My second cousin told me that he and Mr. Schroyer had once carpooled to university together.

Sometime before my father passed from this life, he told me that we were related to the World War Two Hollywood actress, vocalist and USO performer Frances Langford. It seems daddy was in the audience when Frances once sang in Hawaii during the war, but he was apparently too self conscious to introduce himself. My grandfather knew her well, and my father's first cousin shared the story with me of having once seen her at her childhood home in central Florida in the mid 30's; during the early days of her movie career. In recent years, I met a third cousin, Frances' niece, who grew up along side her. We once met for lunch and have remained in contact with one another.

I think I must be a real life Forrest Gump.

(Fifty plus years ago, I attended a Gospel crusade of the flamboyant female evangelist Kathryn Kuhlman in Tampa, and a similar one in the same city, in which Rev. Jimmy Swaggart was the main course. Years later, I sat in the audience at a nearby Holiness campground where Dale Evans Rogers was the featured speaker. Still later, it was a privilege to hear George Beverly Shea sing at a local church. However, since I did not interact with any of these particular well- known personages, nor have any vital connection to them, they are not included in my official list of those of whom I have written, above).

by William McDonald, PhD

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