I WILL BE THERE

 4274

I was listening to a segment of Night Sounds Radio recently, and the topic happened to be Abandonment, a subject with which I can easily identify; since a number of my students, clients and interns with whom I developed a comradery, after a little season, and without so much as a word, chose to go their own way.

 

And it is no 'stretch' to assure you, at such times as these, that I have felt a great deal of companionship with Jesus, and the scenario in which many of His outer circle "kicked Him to the curb."

 

And as a result of the devastation He experienced, our Lord looked at the Twelve, and asked,

 

"Will you also go away?"

 

And I think the human side of the God-man exemplified itself more so here, than at any other time in the New Testament Gospels.

 

As the radio program to which I referred continued, the late Bill Pearce "set up" the next song with the following disclaimer:

 

"A few years ago, I was at a particular religious gathering, and a young man took the stage, and sang, perhaps, the most poignant song I have ever heard.

 

As I spoke to him later, he shared how that just before he performed, he had received a call from his wife. She informed him that she was leaving, and was taking their two small daughters with her. 

 

After receiving news like this, I cannot tell you how this young man summoned up the wherewithal to perform for the audience. It's obvious that he leaned hard on the Lord at that moment; since there is no other way he could have navigated that very worst moment of his life, and expressed such vulnerability with his audience.

 

Later, this young vocalist sent me an audio tape of the song, and I'd like to share it with you now."

(My note: Try as I might, I could not find the lyrics of this song on the internet or YouTube. But since it so greatly impacted me, I sat down with a 'saved' version of the broadcast, and played the hymn again, and again, 'til I was able to transcribe the entire rendition).

I WILL BE THERE

(Author Unknown)

Where can you go that I can’t see?

On the highest of mountains

In the heat of the desert

In the life-consuming deep

and lonely heart of life’s seas

 

Where can you hurt that I can’t feel?

When you feel like you’re dying

Need a shoulder for crying

Come to me. I’m waiting here

with open arms that can heal

 

I’ll be a Father to the fatherless

A faithful Friend

when none are there

My heart of love is fathomless

and it reaches anywhere

 

I will be there through

the long lonely nights

never letting you go

I will hold. I will love you

with all my might

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

I will be there, and I want you to know

I will never leave you alone

I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

What can you feel that I can’t bear?

Any burden you’re bearing

Any sorrow you carry

Any heartache, any loneliness

or despair

 

What can you see that I can’t see?

Even death was defeated

all the work was completed

I’ve prepared a special place

here in my heart just for you

 

I’ll be a husband to the husbandless

A faithful Friend

when none are there

Inside my heart of love is faithfulness

and it reaches anywhere

 

I will be there through

the long lonely nights

never letting you go

I will hold. I will love you

with all my might

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

I will be there, and I want you to know

I will never leave you alone

I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

GEORGE JONES, HIS RIDING LAWNMOWER & THE DIXIE PIG

 4273

 During the 1950's, we moved from a perfectly good concrete block home in the Miami area to a wooden frame house in the quaint little town of Highland City, Florida. 

My grandfather was already living in central Florida, and was the owner-operator of an establishment he named, "The Dixie Pig." As I reflect on it now, I don't recall ever walking through the front door. However, I do recall the cartoon-like caricature of a pig on the sign which graced its entrance.

Over the next sixty something years, (Yeah, I'm an old guy), I was under the assumption that "The Dixie Pig" was a barbeque place. I mean, there was the pig and the title. What else could it have possibly been? However, to be fair, I don't remember asking my dad or mom about the place; (but then they never volunteered anything either).

In the past couple of days everything I knew and believed about that "barbeque place" (at least figuratively) "went up in smoke."

For you see, there is a group page on Facebook which is dedicated to that little unincorporated town in central Florida, and I happened to post a paragraph or two about my granddad and his "Dixie Pig." And, as you might imagine, I mentioned my perception of the type of cuisine which this particular establishment served; (a faulty belief which I had embraced for the past six plus decades).

And this is when the floodgates opened, and all my illusions, (or should I say delusions), were (almost literally) washed away.

For you see, with this, one person after another offered me some enlightening comments about the nature of my grandfather's business.

"Hmmm, if The Dixie Pig was a barbeque place, those pigs must have been raised on a diet of pure grain alcohol 'cause my dad was a regular customer, and he came home plastered every night of the week!"

(and)

"I filled my tank there more times than I can count."

(and)

"They even had go go girls there!"

(Dear readers, can you imagine go go girls in Highland City)?

But to top it all off, the most surprising comment of them all.

"George Jones would ride up to The Dixie Pig on his riding lawnmower!" 

(And a couple more people dittoed this remark).

But, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, there is, obviously, a "rest of the story."

George Jones and Tammy Wynette had built a home, (well, a mansion) a mile or two down the road. (The mansion is still there, though old George and sweet Tammy have long since "left the building").

George had been ticketed numerous times for DUI. (There's even a Youtube video of the old boy resisting arrest). And there's plenty of internet articles which inform us that Tammy always hid his keys when he "got the urge" for liquid refreshment. It is said that the country singer's first wife had resorted to the same course of action, and that when he lived in Nashville, he had driven his... riding lawnmower to a liquor store an hour and a half away. (All of which is "new and different" to me since my wife made me aware of these stories, after I read the foregoing social media comments about old George to her).

In my day and time, children were "meant to be seen and not heard," (which pretty well sums up the relationship I had with both my grandfathers). But "had I known then what I know now" I would have quizzed old Webster about his memories of old George, the lawnmower, and "The Dixie Pig."

The humble little "Dixie Pig" and its Highland City version of "Porky Pig" out front has been gone more than sixty years now, and has been replaced by a modern office building. (When I sit in a current Highland City establishment called "Catfish Country," and have lunch with several of my friends, and look across the street, I can still envision it there).

To be sure, I don't drink, and I have little or no use for people who get out on our highways in an inebriated state, and put other peoples' lives in danger. (And it goes without saying, I wasn't thrilled to learn that my recollections of "The Dixie Pig" and its raison d'etre were woefully wrong).

But it is what it is, and it was what it was, and to be honest, I would love to hear the stories my grandfather might have told me about old George and the nights he drove his riding lawnmower to "The Dixie Pig."

Did the bar patrons gather in the parking lot to welcome him when the familiar roar of his lawnmower broke the silence of a moonlit night? Did a drunken old country singer do an acapella version of "A Girl I Used to Know" or "I Can't Get There From Here" halfway through his nightly tenure at "The Dixie Pig?" Did my granddad and old George strike up a lop-sided relationship?

Did a guy named, Wilbur hear the roar of the lawnmower, shake his head, and remark, "There ole George goes again." Did his wife, Winnie sit up in bed and exclaim, "Run out there and stop him, and give him a couple of dollars to mow the yard. You haven't bothered mowing it for three months!" 

No doubt, when it "was all said and done" the sand man sprinkled a little more fairy dust into their eyes, and sleep overcame George's elderly neighbors once again.

My memory has been irreparably changed.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

OPEN DOORS

 4272

Earlier this week I stopped at CVS to buy something which I needed. After placing a couple of Christian tracts on the shelving which I walked past, (something I often do), and purchasing the item I came for, I was walking out of the store when I noticed a small black man, perhaps a bit younger than me, standing in front of the building. He was shabbily dressed, and I knew what was about to happen.

"Could you spare a few dollars, so I can get something to eat?"

Normally, I am very skeptical of this ploy, and I am aware that far too many street people have no intention of returning to the lifestyle they once knew, and that they use 90 percent of the money they collect for alcohol.

However, before I could reply in the negatory, he continued.

"I burned my hand and forearm, and I can't work."

I looked down at his left hand and arm, and noticed he was holding a tennis ball. I surmised he continued to work that hand to keep it flexible. Studying his hand and forearm, it was apparent the poor man was telling the truth. The palm of his hand bore a shiny, whitish finish, and the skin on his wrist had the striated, crinkly look of having been burned in a fire. I reached in my pocket, and pulled out a twenty dollar bill, and placed it in his good hand.

And then, I did something that was uncharacteristic of me. I placed my right hand on his left arm, and said,

"My our Lord Jesus give you a healing touch."

Now, I turned towards my car, got in, started the ignition and aimed it towards a convenience store across the road. I had been craving a soft drink; namely, Coca Cola. As I walked in the door, I greeted the East Indian owner, and headed towards the drink machine.

Now, a middle aged man walked in behind me, and the man behind the counter posed a question to him.

"Are you feeling better?"

To which the man provided him a somewhat nebulous answer,

"Oh, I'll be here 'til I'm not."

I grabbed a Coke out of the cooler. In the meantime, I noticed that "Joe" had retrieved a six pack of Budweiser beer. And given what he had just said, I looked at him, and exclaimed,

"I tell people, 'We can't stay here.'"

Joe nodded, and said,

"You are absolutely right, my friend."

Determined to follow up on my attempt to take advantage of the moment with these two men, and my allusion to the certainty we will all depart this world, I began to sing the first stanza of the most well known song which has ever been written.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now I'm found, was blind but now I see."

Now, as he laid his six pack on the counter, I asked him,

"Do you know that hymn?"

Joe nodded,

"Yes, I know that song."

I smiled, paid for my drink, and walked out. I was content that I had "walked through" every open door our Lord had given me on this particular day.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

MY GIG AS A SHORT TERM CONTORTIONIST

 4271

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 Bill McDonald, PhD

OH, SO CLOSE TO FALLING ON MY BACKSIDE

 4270

As our overseas tour was coming to a conclusion, we checked into the Highlander Hotel near Newtonmore, Scotland, got settled in our room, headed to the hotel restaurant, were seated at a nearby table, and feasted on a spread of sliced beef and broiled salmon.

As I stood up to leave the restaurant, I stepped backwards from the table, and realizing there was a ceiling to wall curtain behind me leaned slightly into it; expecting there to be a supporting wall behind it. (I was sadly mistaken). I found myself falling backwards into thin air. Realizing my calamitous predicament, my wife emitted a loud scream.

You’ve seen one of those commercials in which the guy is walking through a bunch of folks who are unmoving, and seem to be frozen in place? I picture the scene in the restaurant very much the same way. Well over a hundred men and women frozen in place, and looking in our direction.

Thankfully, I righted myself. (Perhaps the result of plenty of practice while working at UPS, as well as falling off bicycles). At any rate, the curtain bore the brunt of it, and I managed to tear the hem a bit at the ceiling. The near accident averted, I smiled sheepishly, looked over at a nearby table, at which was seated several of our group members, and I …snapped out a military salute!

Counting the two songs I was privileged to sing to our group during this overseas tour, I suppose I will be referring to this mishap as my “Third Presentation” a.k.a. “Oh So Close to Falling on my Backside Presentation.” And whereas, my wife made videos of the first two renditions, I would rather have had one of my momentary mishap. I think it would be a hoot.

When it is “all said and done,” I hope no one thought I had partaken of a wee bit too much of the Guinness or Scottish whisky that night; (which I had not drank a drop).

 At any rate, it isn’t the first time I’ve made a fool of myself in public.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHAT WE DO WITH THE DASH

 4269

I once heard a sermon with a curious title. Since then, I have heard variations of the same sermon several times, and not always behind the pulpit, but simply as an illustration.

The first and subsequent times I heard it, it has sounded pretty much like,

“You go out to a cemetery, and you see a multitude of headstones. You notice various names, epitaphs, and sometimes photos. And each stone marker is engraved with a date of birth and a date of death. And in between the two dates is a dash. My friends, the dash represents …your life. All that ultimately matters is what we do with the dash!”

Life is fleeting. I am approaching my mid-70’s, yet it seems my childhood and adolescence was just a moment ago.

I heard another illustration which accents the importance of embracing one’s destiny in the few short years represented by the dash.

“If I asked you to name the richest piece of ground on earth, some of you would say ‘it has to be the gold mines of South Africa.’ Others may guess the oil wells Saudi Arabia. Still others might presume it to be the woodlands of South America.

“And if you selected any of these choices, you would… be wrong. For you see, the richest piece of ground on earth is your local cemetery. For lying dormant in the bosoms of thousands of those who went before us are unfinished dreams. Dreams that might have changed the world. But they will lie there unfulfilled for a million million years.”

One of the main characters in the movie, “Shawshank Redemption” said, “Get busy living or get busy dying.”

It’s all about what we do with the dash.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

ROOM 8

 4268

“Room 8” ( 1947–1968 )

Room 8 was a neighborhood cat who wandered into a classroom in 1952 at Elysian Heights Elementary School in Echo Park, California. He lived in the school during the school year and then disappeared for the summer, returning when classes started again. This pattern continued without interruption until the mid-1960s.

News cameras would arrive at the school at the beginning of the year waiting for the cat's return; he became famous and would receive up to 100 letters a day addressed to him at the school. Eventually, he was featured in a documentary called Big Cat, Little Cat and a children's book, A Cat Called Room 8. Look magazine ran a three-page Room 8 feature by photographer Richard Hewett in November 1962, titled "Room 8: The School Cat". Leo Kottke wrote an instrumental called "Room 8" that was included in his 1971 album, Mudlark.

As he got older, Room 8 was injured in a cat fight and suffered from feline pneumonia, so a family near the school volunteered to take him in. The school's janitor would find him at the end of the school day and carry him across the street.

His obituary in the Los Angeles Times rivaled that of major political figures, running three columns with a photograph. The cat was so famous that his obituary ran in papers as far away as Hartford, Connecticut. The students raised the funds for his gravestone. He is buried at the Los Angeles Pet Memorial Park in Calabasas, California.