AND MEDICAID HITS THE DIRT

 4401

At least it will if our president, senate and house of representatives have anything to do with it.

President Trump's "Big, Beautiful (not) Bill" is on the verge of passage in the U.S. Senate and U.S. House of Representatives. And to be sure, I am a registered Republican, but I deplore what is currently "going on" with congress's "Just get in line and march off a cliff like lemmings mentality."

Millions of Medicaid recipients will lose their coverage on the backs of tax cuts for the mega-rich. It just "ain't" right. (Not only so, but as a result of the passage of this bill, trillions will be added to the national debt).

And I don't approach this travesty from a strictly objective sense. (No, I'm don't.) I have a mentally ill, borderline retarded daughter who has lived in an assisted living environment for 30 plus years. She desperately needs Medicaid to continue as is, and uninterrupted.

I am currently emailing all the Republican members of the Senate, and I have previously emailed members of the House of Representatives; reminding them that the 70 million people in the U.S. who depend on Medicaid, and their families, will remember their vote when the next election cycle comes up.

When you "have a name in the game", (such as my own daughter), this matter takes on a whole different perspective. This administration previously discontinued the USAID program; which has led to thousands of unnecessary deaths overseas. The drastic monetary cuts which are the basis of the Not So Beautiful Big Bill will lead to the closure of numerous nursing homes, hospitals, and assisted living facilities, and the deaths of countless elderly and disabled persons in THIS country.

**Please call, write or email your senators and members of the house of representatives, and do as I have done, and will continue to do. (And please don't tell me it isn't remotely the way I have described it. Medicaid was chosen for drastic budget cuts simply because it was the "handiest dandiest" item to cut; given the size of its annual expenditures).

by Bill McDonald, PhD

GIVING THE MAN A DIFFERENT NAME

4400

Our county sheriff is known throughout this nation for his honesty, outspokenness, toughness towards crime and criminals, and plain endurance. (He joined the Polk County Sheriff's Department over 50 years ago)!

Perhaps his most famous (or infamous) interview took place after one of his deputies and his K9 companion were murdered by an absolutely horrible hombre. After this criminal was tracked down by a horde of deputies, and "rendered lifeless," one reporter asked Sheriff Judd,

"Why did your deputies shoot that fellow 68 times?"

To which our sheriff replied,

"Because we ran outta bullets!"

I first met Sheriff Judd at a retirement party for our Winter Haven Police Chief, whom I know very well. At the time I served as a counselor for a residential ministry for women newly released from prison; a ministry which the sheriff at least informally co-sponsored.

As the sheriff walked up and engaged me in conversation, including his invitation to contact him, if I needed any assistance or guidance, I greeted him using his predecessor's name, Sheriff Crowe. I immediately recognized my verbal typo, and, no doubt, Sheriff Judd did as well, but he didn't bother correcting me. (I later sent him an email, and apologized for my gaff).

Fast forward a couple of years.

Today I had lunch with a local pastor at a local eatery. 

As we stood in the buffet line, I looked behind me, and recognized, (you guessed it), Sheriff Crowe, I mean Judd. I vowed if I ever saw our illustrious law officer again that I would not repeat my memorable mistake. And since the good sheriff was a few paces behind me, and preoccupied with directing the server to give him chicken and mashed potatoes, or steak and turnip greens, as the case may be, I just "went about my business," completed my order, paid my bill, and returned to my seat.

Well, as it fell together, I was blessed with one more opportunity to massacre the good man's name. For you see, as Sheriff Judd walked past our table, he paused momentarily, and said,

"How are you guys today?"

In the space of a micro-second, I thought,

"You better get it right this time!"

And with this, I smiled and simply responded,

"Okay. Thanks."

(It's hard to mess up with such an innocuous response as that one. Now, I breathed a sigh of relief, and returned to my meal). 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

DR. STANLEY'S PRAYER CLOSET

 4398

I was watching a video of the legacy service for Dr. Charles Stanley yesterday. The new pastor, Anthony George, had stepped to the pulpit and was sharing a few stories about his and Dr. Stanley's relationship with one another over the course of several decades.

 

It seems Rev. George had been hired as the associate pastor during the 1980's. There was a wide range in their ages, as he was about 40 at the time, and Dr. Stanley had turned 80. Before much time had elapsed, Anthony realized that he was much more a personal assistant to the lead pastor than his actual title conveyed.

 

There were times when the divorced and evidently lonely Dr. Stanley would ask his associate pastor to come over for pizza, and they would settle down with a movie like, "Patton." (You might surmise correctly that this writer was a bit surprised by that particular choice in movies as "Patton" is replete with some pretty strong language).

 

One story stood out from among the rest for its abject humor. Rev. George was still new on the job when Dr. Stanley said,

 

"Anthony, let me introduce you to my prayer closet."

 

The good understudy promptly followed Rev. Stanley to a 10x10 room in a nondescript hallway. Opening the door, the two men stepped in, and the pastor closed the door, and proceeded to turn out the overhead light. Blackness permeated their surroundings, and the younger man wondered what would happen next.

 

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a bit, enough light permeated the threshold beneath the door to provide the assistant a clue, and now he watched closely.

 

"Dr. Stanley dropped to his knees. I followed his lead and dropped to my knees. Now, he got down on all fours. ('Pretty agile for a man of 80,' I thought). And now, now he prostrated himself on the carpet. I did the same."

 

Several hundred men, women and children seemed captivated by his story. I know I was.

 

"I was new at this 'prayer closet' thing, and I figured I would just do and say what Dr. Stanley did and said. Suddenly, my mentor 'let out' with a 'Yes, Lord!' I echoed his words. 'Yes, Lord!'"

 

By now Rev. George's listeners were laughing.

 

"And then silence permeated the dark prayer room. It seems the good pastor thought of prayer as a conversation between him and God; as if they both had something to say. And then, just as suddenly as before Dr. Stanley seemed to muse,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

"I promptly responded with,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

The laughter grew louder.

 

"And then only silence for several minutes 'til the 'Yes, Lord's' and 'Hmmm's' began again. I can tell you that Dr. Stanley was a prayer warrior, and though my prayer room experience with him wasn't the most comfortable thing I'd ever done, I was blessed to have him as my friend and mentor for several decades."

 

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

A MOTHER'S DAY MIRACLE

 4397

*A couple of years before Rev. Puckett passed away, I had the privilege of meeting him, and sat down with him in his home. Knowing that his wife had written a book about their children, marriage, and their lives in general, I asked if I could borrow a copy. 

Paul hesitated, but writing down my name and address, he loaned me one of only two copies he still had. While I had the book in my possession, I scanned the volume to a CD so that it might remain available for his grandchildren and their grandchildren.

I might mention. I knew Beth. She and I were in high school chorus together. She was a precious young lady, a Christian and a person of great potential.

Following is a poignant excerpt from Martha Puckett's book.

Almost a quarter of a century has transpired since our dear daughter left us, though she remains very much alive in the life of our family. God has used her death to impact many others along the way, and we have used our excruciating experience to help others during their time of grief.

While it was inestimably difficult to pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I am happy to say that our Savior has led us all the way, and that in our most trying times, God never forsook us.

(But following is where I most wanted to bring you this evening).

Beth had hardly been gone three months when I began to dread Mother’s Day. Our daughter had always been so loving and thoughtful on holidays, and I knew that it would be a difficult 24 hours. But I had my duties at the organ, and I realized that it was a day that would just have to be lived, and put behind us.

On Mother’s Day morning, as I was in the process of getting dressed, I reached to get something out of my drawer. The drawer was stuck, and I jerked it open. When I did, it fell out on the floor, and all its contents were scattered across the room. Of course, I was frustrated, and exclaimed, “Lord, I don’t need this. Not today.”

Reaching up under the space from which I pulled the drawer, I felt around …and touched a large envelope. I inhaled deeply. In my hand I held a Mother’s Day card which Beth had given to me the previous year. I opened it, and wept, as I read the familiar handwriting.

RAISED IN A CHICKEN COOP

 4396

This past weekend, my wife and I attended a vocal concert presented by one of my social media friends.

Lisbeth recounted her childhood in Central America, and how that she lived in a house with a dirt floor, no electricity, and no indoor plumbing. And while we have all heard of the existence of such conditions in so-called “third world countries,” when someone you know recounts having experienced an environment such as this, well, it gets your attention.

Here in America we take a lot for granted, I think, but we are not all that far removed from poverty. There are the ghettos which abound in all the big cities of the United States, the folks who live in their automobiles, young and not so young adults who stand in the medians of highways, and hold up “I will work for food” signs, and men, women and children who live in tents in trash-ridden out of the way places along railroad tracks.

For years I was under the impression that I had always been a member of a middle class culture; ‘til one day my mother shared a story with me. While I have the dimmest memory of having lived in the Coral Gables area of South Florida, (I was 0-5 at the time) what my mother told me that day put a whole new perspective on my childhood.

For you see, mama informed me that while my dad eked out a living as a roofer, we lived

…in a chicken coop.

Well, to be fair, a refurbished chicken coop. Apparently, one day my parent’s landlord decided that housing human beings would be more profitable than housing chickens. And thus, on such and such a day, she slaughtered, butchered, and refrigerated the chickens, and converted their former nesting place into a rental apartment; suitable for human occupation.

To be sure, the floor was cement and tile, and we had electricity and running water. But I am told that “when nature called,” or we needed a bath, we had to walk out the front door, into the yard, through an enclosed porch, and into a mutual bathroom attached to the landlord’s home.

While my formative years were spent in a chicken coop, compared to the friend to whom I have previously alluded, I think I had it pretty good.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

FINDING A SEAT ON THE FLOOR

 4395

As I was watching the David Jeremiah “Turning Point” broadcast today, the good minister presented the most poignant illustration.

It seems a very large, rather formal church hoped to put together a ministry designed to reach the students of a nearby university. However, not having ever undertaken such a project, the pastor and board were a bit perplexed about how to approach the task.

On one particular Sunday, a student of that university attended the morning worship service. It so happened that David was, like so many other young adults who attended this school, a bit eccentric, or at least wanted to ‘fit in,’ and was dressed in a pair of faded jeans, dirty t-shirt, and sandals. His hair was cut into a mohawk, and was tie-dyed in several colors.

However, David arrived a few minutes late, and as he entered the sanctuary, he realized that every pew was full to capacity. As a result, the teenaged student walked the entire length of the center carpet, and plopped himself down in the aisle. You could have heard a pin drop. Though the pastor had stepped up to the pulpit to deliver his morning message, he seemed unable to proceed.

Suddenly, from the back of the sanctuary an aged, white-haired deacon appeared, and began to make his way down the aisle towards the hapless university student. His relatively short journey was hampered by his lack of mobility, and his cane ‘clicked,’ ‘clicked’ with each step her took.

A holy hush permeated the building as the board member made his way closer, closer to his quest. All eyes were directed towards the deacon, then the student, then the deacon.

Finally, having arrived next to the boy, and pausing for a moment, the old gent dropped his cane, and struggled to… lower himself to the floor beside David. And there they sat. One very young, and unconventional student. One very old, and conventional deacon. Side by side, and ready for a Gospel message.

And at this juncture, the pastor regained a bit of his composure, and exclaimed,

“What I am about to preach you will never remember. What you have just witnessed take place before you, you will never forget.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

ROLE MODELING LOVE

 4394

A white haired, elderly lady sat in her rocking chair by the fire, and reminisced about the most poignant of experiences. While she possessed an obvious German accent, her English was, nonetheless, impeccable.

While I cannot hope to recount her testimony as well as she expressed herself on the film segment, I will attempt to paraphrase her story here.

“We had endured years of warfare and deprivation. We made do with the most meager of rations. We existed with the barest of earthly essentials. We often went without food, and my mother, more so than her children. As I reflect on it now, she oft times went without meat and bread, so that each of her children would have at least a scrap or two.

“In spite of all we’d endured, we didn’t think of the Americans as our enemies, but rather our opponents. For you see, we knew what we had. We knew what Hitler and his cronies were about. We knew whom we had served for too long. And we were so tired and ready for peace.

“Well, as the American tanks lumbered in, and the sound of their treads echoed in our streets, we ran out of our houses with sticks in our hands, and with white rags knotted about the tops. And while both we and our parents were afraid for what might come next, our sense of apprehension was stilled by the smiles of the men who came flooding out of the turrets of those tanks, and who marched behind them. And oh, how kind they were to us, as they stooped to pick us up, and they brushed the fear from our eyes.

“Of course, in spite of the American troops’ initial behavior, my mother expressed some reservations and warned me to be careful. However, she had often told me that you could always tell what someone was about by looking into their eyes; and I was determined to put her philosophy to the test.

“I remember one man. One very special man. A Negro sergeant.

“Unlike the German soldiers, he let me climb up on his military vehicle. And I will never forget the first day I met him. For as I climbed up on the American Jeep, I immediately looked into his eyes. And oh, such kindness shone out of them! And I remember Sergeant William hung a bag of rations around my neck, and waved for me to take it home with me!

“And I have often thought that he went without some of his daily provisions so that my family and I might have a few morsels of chocolate, and bread and canned meat. And as long as the kindly sergeant was still in the area, I would seek him out, and he would give me chocolate and other goodies to take home with me.

“I will NEVER forget that wonderful American soldier; the first black man I’d ever seen. And I will NEVER forget what an ambassador he was of the occupation his country exercised over us after the war. No doubt, he has gone on to his reward by now, but he will always be my mentor and role model. Always. Always.

“I am old now, but I have never ceased to remember that good man and his kindness to me. And I have ALWAYS vowed to do as he did; to love people and to give my heart and provisions to those in need, and them whom God has set in my pathway.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

LET THEM GO

 4393

“This is what I learned in all of my years on this earth. If somebody wants to walk out of your life… Let them go. Especially if you know you have done everything you can. You’ve been the best man or woman you can be and they still want to go, let ‘em go. Whatever they’re running after, they’ll see what they had in a minute, but by then it will be too late. Half of these people you’re crying about, you’re worrying about, two or three years from now, you won’t even remember their last name. How many times you’ve seen folks say, ‘What the **** was I thinking? What was wrong with me? I must have been lonely as **** to hook up with you.’

Let folks go, son. Some come for a lifetime. Some come for a season. You got to know which is which. And you gonna always mess up when you mix them season of people up with lifetime expectations. You got people who have gotten married to people they were only supposed to be with for a season. They got married to people they were only supposed to be with for a season and they wonder why they have so much hell in their life. That was a person who was supposed to teach you one thing. You didn’t know it so you just fell in love and now you wonder why you don’t have peace nowhere you go.

No, no. Listen. I put everybody that comes into my life in the category of a tree. Some people are like leaves on a tree. The wind blows, they’re over here. It blows the other way, they’re over there. They’re unstable. Seasons change. They wither and die. They’re gone. That’s alright. Most people in the world are like that. They’re just there to take from the tree. They aren’t going to do anything but take and give shade every now and then. That’s all they can do. Don’t get mad at people like that. That’s who they are. They were put on the earth to be a leaf. Some people are like a branch on the tree. You gotta be careful of those branches too. They’ll fool you. They make you think they’re a good friend and they’re real strong, but you step out there on them, and they break and they leave you high and dry.

But if you find you two or three people in your life just like the roots at the bottom of that tree, you are blessed ‘cause them the kind of people that ain’t going nowhere. They ain’t worried about being seen. Don’t nobody have to know they know you. Don’t have to know what they’re doing for you. But if those roots weren’t there, that tree couldn’t live. A tree can have a hundred million branches, but there’s only a few roots down at the bottom. I’m telling you son, when you get some roots, hang onto them. But the rest of them, let it go. Let folks go.

Nobody said it will be easy, but it gets easier when you learn how to love yourself. When you get to the point in your life where you look at people and you go, ‘Okay, wait a minute. You or me. You will make a decision.’ I’ve never in my life told nobody, ‘Don’t bother me. Don’t talk to me.’ But what I do, I say, ‘Look. This thing you’re doing right here. That’s gonna cause a problem. You gotta fix that. Cause if we’re gonna be friends, we gonna be cool, you’re gonna fix that. And if you don’t, we’re gonna have an issue.’ If you see somebody fix it, or even trying to fix it that’s somebody that cares. Keep them people around. That’s a leaf that’s trying to grow up and be something else. You understand?

But if you tell somebody ‘what you doing is hurting me, you need to stop,’ but they keep doing it, they don’t care. Move on. Let them go. No matter how much it hurt, let them go. And it will get easier. Every day it will get easier and easier, you just gotta make it through. You need to learn to be by yourself. People have to learn how to be alone. I don’t understand all these people who pray, ‘Lord, where is my man? Lord, where is my woman?’ That is crazier as ****. If you don’t know how to be by yourself, what you gonna do with somebody else? Stop praying about it. Shut up and wait. Go work on you. ****, that’s what that time is for to get yourself together. I’d rather be in the corner by myself with a puppet and a goldfish, and be happy than to be sitting around with somebody in my house, and I’m wondering ‘what the **** they there for?’

You would be surprised at what people put up with just to have somebody to say they love them. I don’t understand it. I can’t live in dysfunction. I’m sorry. I’ve done come through too much hell and high water to let you come up in my adult life when I’m supposed to be at peace and give me all kind of hell. Only two places on this earth you gonna have peace. The grave and your house. And if you can’t wake up in your house and have peace, something’s wrong. I’m sorry.”

(“Madea” – Tyler Perry)

GRAVE DIGGER

 4392

Pt. 1

My great grandfather was a cemetery caretaker and gravedigger, or sexton.

I expect he dug many graves by hand in his day and time, but I can't speak conclusively about such matters. Perhaps he had the benefit of an early mechanical excavator.

And while during the course of my three quarters of a century I have been involved in almost fifty jobs of every imaginable variety, I have yet to dig a grave... at least one designed for human beings.

Oops, I owe myself a quarter. I actually buried my father and mother. I kid you not. (Well, to be sure, I dug the holes in front of their headstone... into which I committed their mortal cremains).

However, as I have inferred, above, my lack of experience digging six foot deep, five foot wide holes in the ground has in no way deterred me from accomplishing smaller projects of the same variety.

For you see, beginning a couple of decades ago I committed my first pet pooch to the ground. Buddy was a female shih tzu of the exceptional variety. I actually wrote a book about her. She was extraordinary in every way. Time and space prevent me from elaborating, except to say that she fulfilled her mission here; whereas, some people never do. After she crossed the proverbial Rainbow Bridge, I buried her beneath an old oak tree on my "back 40."

Since then, I have buried two more, and memorialized two which are buried elsewhere. For you see, each one has a store-bought, custom-made slate marker bearing their photo, DOB & DOD, and a few fitting words. The most ancient of them all, Princess, a beloved black & white cocker spaniel, made the journey, common to man and beast, alike, a full 70 years ago. Though I was a little tyke when she breathed her last, I still tear up when I think about her.

Pt. 2

Now, you may think my having buried those near and dear to me, be they human or canine, hardly qualifies me as a vocational descendant of my genealogical ancestor. However, you may well be hasty in your judgement.

For you see, in the past couple of years, though I am a long time pastoral counselor "by trade," I have experienced an unexpected opportunity to adopt an unusual advocation.

It is important to understand "right up front" that I possess a deep-seated love for animals of all kinds. (But, you would have already assumed this based on the existence of my pet cemetery).

But speaking of my unexpected opportunity, it began as I was just "minding my own business," and pedaling what I might describe as my "daily 10." As I reached the entrance to a subdivision adjacent to my own, I looked down and saw a very large, very brown, (and very dead) cat. Well, before five seconds elapsed, I made up my mind to finish my 10, retrieve my car, and a shovel, and return to this location. Having done so, I thought of a suitable name (Brownie), dug a hole, said a little prayer (or at least wished him "God Speed"), quoted a scripture, (Psalm 36:6), and consigned him to "Mother Earth." And, you may think it strange, but when I returned home, I created an online memorial page on the largest site of its kind, and which features both humans and animals.

Brownie was the first among many. For he was the first among many cats, and dogs (well, dog, singular) which I ran across during my daily excursion. And I always followed the same schedule of events. Return home. Retrieve my car and a shovel. Give the creature a name. Dig a hole. Say a few words. Cover it up. Return home.

Post-script

Thus far, my ad-lib advocation has allowed me to provide burial services to Brownie the cat, (as in, the color of his fur), Rowdie the Dog, (as in, he just looked like the name I chose), and three additional cats named Spirit, (as in, Spirit Lake Road), Almost, (as in, he almost got across the road), and Oops, (as in, the last word that passed through his little brain, and the only 4 letter word he knew); all which died as the result of vehicles moving faster than they, themselves.

The scripture which I previously alluded to? 

"The Lord preserves both mankind and animals, alike."

I'm convinced believers will see their beloved pets again. I believe I will see Brownie, Rowdie, Spirit, Almost and Oops again. (Perhaps they will thank me for my services).

I think these precious creatures were just plain worth my time and energy. God created them, and afforded them a sense of dignity.

I think my great grandfather would be pleased.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE WEEPING WOMAN

 4391

As a military retiree, my wife and I sometimes stay in base hotels when we travel around the country. Our son-in-law was being commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant, and we had arranged to stay at Eglin Air Force Base for a couple of nights.

We had been driving for six or eight hours, and were nearing our destination. I have long since forgotten the name of the little town a few miles outside the base gate. But as I sat on the passenger side of our vehicle, I noticed a young lady walking along the sidewalk in our direction.

And as our paths intersected, I realized she was sobbing profusely. 

In the few seconds prior to our car passing her location, I could see the tears coursing down her cheeks, and the resulting movement of her shoulders. Now, we passed the twenty-something year old woman, and continued north towards Eglin AFB.

And while I don't recall my immediate thoughts, I could not have helped thinking,

 "Perhaps we should pull over, and ask if there is anything we can do for her."

At least, in retrospect we should have done so.

Was her husband injured on the job? Did her mother die? Was she terminated from her job?

I often think of "Laura." I often wonder why she was crying. I often pray for her. 

I think we all have regrets which we are apt to "pet like a dog." Our failure to stop, and spend a few minutes with this deserving woman is one of my two or three major regrets in life. However, as a counselor I often tell my clients,

"There are no time machines. You can't go back."

All I can do is continue to pray for this dear lady, and decide in advance not to make a similar mistake in the future.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

UNFINISHED DREAMS

 4390

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

 

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

 

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

 

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

 

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

 

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

 

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

 

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

 

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

 

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

 

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

 

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

 

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

 

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

 

They gave their tomorrows for our today.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

4389

Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son, Steve, had seen his sisters, and with Jean's concurrence, I invited him to accompany me.

 

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

 

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table, and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

 

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

 

"I'm three!"

 

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

 

"I'm sixty-eight!"

 

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

 

"You will live a very long life."

 

(and)

 

"You will do wonderful things!"

 

I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

 

Of this, however, I am sure. Before He breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

 

Yes, I am sure of it.

 

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE TREE I COULDN'T SAVE

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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 Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A MOMENTARY MEETING IN AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

by William McDonald, PhD