PLANS OR CIRCUMSTANCES

 4473

Pt. 1

Yesterday I was thinking about a verse in the New Testament Book of Philippians.

" For it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purposes." (Phil. 2:13)

The implication seems to be that God has an individual plan for our lives, and that given that plan, He will provide us the time, talent and treasure to fulfill whatever He has set in our hearts to do. I mean, what believer can question the natural progression of His will, and the resulting fruit of our labor?

A Divine plan resulting in the sort of circumstances which fulfill the purposes of God for our lives.

However, it occurs to me that sometimes it is the other way around.

The sort of circumstances which fall together in such a Divine manner, so as to indicate, and result in what is obviously the plan of God for our lives.

Speaking of the second of the two possibilities, I think of my own chosen profession and ministry, the way in which circumstances have contributed to my realization of God's plan, (and two of my own daughters' involvement in the afore mentioned circumstances).

Pt. 2

The story is far too long to tell here, but suffice it to say that Mary was always a bit slow, and subsequent testing in high school indicated that she was borderline retarded with an IQ in the 70 range. Shortly after she graduated from high school, Mary began to display symptoms of psychosis. Ultimately, she was diagnosed with a common, but pervasive mental illness, and committed to a mental facility. She spent an entire year there, (and has resided in an assisted living environment the past thirty-five years).

Mary was 20 when she was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. The same year I enrolled in my Master's Degree in Counseling. I went on to serve as a pastoral counselor, and to pursue my Doctoral Degree.

The sort of circumstances which fall together in such a Divine manner, so as to indicate, and result in what is obviously the plan of God for our lives.

Fast forward 33 years!

Our daughter Kristy applied for an extremely responsible, and well paying position in Massachusetts. Things were going, as our British cousins are prone to say, swimmingly when she began to develop headaches, body aches, and dizziness. Ultimately, she was diagnosed with a genetic disorder of the brainstem. Over the course of the past two years, she has required five surgeries. As the result of her inability to return to work, she forfeited her job position. As the result of her inability to do so many of the common household tasks in the home, without some pretty negative symptoms, her mother, (and my wife), has stepped in to assist her. Over the course of the two years, Jean has been away from home a total of a year and three months. Though I have been left alone during that time period, and she is a thousand miles away, we are in complete accord. It is what it is. You do what you have to do. (And we are glad to do it).

As it stands now, we are making arrangements for me to travel to Massachusetts, and move in with them. As a result, given this dynamic, and the passage of time, (I am three years from 80), it is quite possible I will retire from my pastoral counseling career.

The sort of circumstances which fall together in such a Divine manner, so as to indicate, and result in what is obviously the plan of God for our lives.

Whether the Almighty indicates His plan to us, and the circumstances follow, or whether the circumstances precede the realization and fulfillment of His plan, God's will is done, it is one and the same, and our Lord is glorified.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL

 4473

Spafford – The Story Behind the Hymn “It Is Well with My Soul”

Horatio Gates Spafford was born in New York, on 20th October 1828, but it was in Chicago that he became well-known for his clear Christian testimony. He, and his wife Anna were active in their church, and their home was always open to visitors. They counted the world-famous evangelist, Dwight L. Moody, among their friends. They were blest with five children, and considerable wealth. Horatio was a lawyer, and owned a great deal of property in his home city.

Not unlike Job in the Old Testament of the Bible, tragedy came in great measure to this happy home. When four years old, their son, Horatio Jnr, died suddenly of scarlet fever. Then only a year later, in October 1871, a massive fire swept through downtown Chicago, devastating the city, including many properties owned by Horatio. That day, almost 300 people lost their lives, and around 100,000 were made homeless. Despite their own substantial financial loss, the Spaffords sought to demonstrate the love of Christ, by assisting those who were grief-stricken and in great need.

Two years later, in 1873, Spafford decided his family should take a holiday in England, knowing that his friend, the evangelist D. L. Moody, would be preaching there in the autumn. Horatio was delayed because of business, so he sent his family ahead: his wife and their four remaining children, all daughters, 11 year old Anna, 9 year old Margaret Lee, 5 year old Elizabeth, and 2 year old Tanetta.

On 22nd November 1873, while crossing the Atlantic on the steamship, Ville du Havre, their vessel was struck by an iron sailing ship. Two hundred and twenty six people lost their lives, as the Ville du Havre sank within only twelve minutes.

All four of Horatio Spafford’s daughters perished, but remarkably Anna Spafford survived the tragedy. Those rescued, including Anna, who was found unconscious, floating on a plank of wood, subsequently arrived in Cardiff, South Wales. Upon arrival there, Anna immediately sent a telegram to her husband, which included the words “Saved alone….”

Receiving Anna’s message, he set off at once to be reunited with his wife. One particular day, during the voyage, the captain summoned him to the bridge of the vessel. Pointing to his charts, he explained that they were then passing over the very spot where the Ville du Havre had sunk, and where his daughters had died. It is said that Spafford returned to his cabin and wrote the hymn “It is well with my soul” there and then, the first line of which is, “When peace like a river, attendeth my way..” There are other accounts which say that it was written at a later date, but obviously the voyage was one of deep pathos, and is the clear inspiration of the moving and well-loved hymn. Horatio’s faith in God never faltered. He later wrote to Anna’s half-sister, “On Thursday last, we passed over the spot where she went down, in mid-ocean, the waters three miles deep. But I do not think of our dear ones there. They are safe….. dear lambs”.

After Anna was rescued, Pastor Nathaniel Weiss, one of the ministers travelling with the surviving group, remembered hearing Anna say, “God gave me four daughters. Now they have been taken from me. Someday I will understand why.”

Naturally Anna was utterly devastated, but she testified that in her grief and despair, she had been conscious of a soft voice speaking to her, “You were saved for a purpose!” She remembered something a friend had once said, “It’s easy to be grateful and good when you have so much, but take care that you are not a fair-weather friend to God.”

Following this deep tragedy, Anna gave birth to three more children, but she and Horatio were not spared even more sadness, as on February 11th, 1880, their only son, Horatio (named after the brother who had died, and also after his father), he also died at the age of four.

In August 1881 the Spaffords left America with a number of other like-minded Christians, and settled in Jerusalem. There they served the needy, helped the poor, and cared for the sick, and took in homeless children. Their desire was to show those living about them, the love of Jesus.

The original manuscript of the Spafford’s hymn has only four verses, but later another verse was added. The music, which was written by Philip Bliss, was named after the ship on which Horatio and Anna’s daughters had died – Ville du Havre.

Horatio Spafford died of malaria on 16th October 1888. Anna Spafford continued to work in the surrounding areas of Jerusalem until her own death in 1923. Both Horatio and Anna were laid to rest in Jerusalem. It can truly be said, in the words that Spafford penned that, “It is well with their souls.”

Author Unknown 

NO PLACE TO LAND

 4471

Pt. 1

I ran across a video on social media today. I have never witnessed a video filmed inside a moving aircraft which was quite so violent.

Four flight crew members were in the course of being thrown around the inside of a Hurricane Hunter aircraft. It seemed as if any minute, they might lose control of the plane, and plummet into the waves, below.

This video depicted a recent incursion into Hurricane Melissa as it approached the island nation of Jamaica. The barometric pressure was lower than any October hurricane in recorded history. The highest recorded wind gust of 241 mph was greater than any wind gust ever clocked inside a hurricane.

Before the aircraft was forced to prematurely abandon its mission, the flight crew noticed what was at the same time utterly amazing, and utterly sobering. 

Dozens of birds of various kinds flying inside the eye of Hurricane Melissa... flying to and fro, hither and yon, unable to break out of the relative safety of the eye of the storm due to the extreme winds surrounding the eye wall... sentenced to almost certain death since, ultimately, sheer exhaustion would cause them to fall from the sky; into the thirty foot waves which waited beneath them.

And this particular report by the crew of the Hurricane Hunter aircraft struck me, to be at the same time, both so amazingly interesting, and utterly sad.

Pt. 2

As I reflected on this poignant story, it occurred to me that, as believers, we are very much like these unfortunate birds; with a very different, but delightful difference.

And I think of the lyrics of that old Gospel song.

"Here among the shadows in a lonely land
We're a band of pilgrims on the move
Burdened down with sorrows, shunned on every hand
Looking for a city built above."

Jesus promised that, "In the world, you will have tribulation..."

Trouble, trial, turmoil, temptation

Doubt, despair, depression, discouragement

Not unlike those birds with no place to land, and facing what appears to be a very uncertain future.

Not unlike the martyrs of Hebrews Chapter 11.

"There were others who were tortured, refusing to be released so that they might gain an even better resurrection. Some faced jeers and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were put to death by stoning; they were sawed in two; they were killed by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated; the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, living in caves and in holes in the ground."

However, thankfully there is, as I have inferred, a definite difference between believers, and these unfortunate birds drifting to and fro inside one the most violent hurricanes which ever existed on the earth.

In the midst of the storm on the Sea of Galilee, Jesus assured His fearful disciples,

"Be not afraid. It is I." (John 6:20)

And in another book, also penned by Jesus' beloved disciple, we read,

"But this life... is passing away, but he who does the will of God endures forever." (1st John 2:17)

Post-script

No, dear believer, we are not like those unfortunate birds floating around in a violent hurricane; assured of ultimate, and certain destruction.

For you see, as uncertain and tremulous as life can be, whether we face persecution, hunger, homelessness, disease, betrayal or financial loss... stay encouraged!

This is not all there is!

We are looking for a city built above.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE WEAVER'S TAPESTRY

 4470

 

William Mc Donald, PhD

 

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

Copyright 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THEY CALLED HER BRYNA

 4469

(from an internet article)

His mother couldn't read or write. So he put her name in lights on Times Square. Chavusy, Russian Empire, early 1900s. A young Jewish woman named Bryna accepted a marriage proposal from Herschel Danielovitch, who promised her a better life in America.He left first, as men often did. Sent money for her passage a year later. In those days before visa requirements, reaching American shores meant being welcomed in—at least officially. Bryna crossed the ocean to join him in upstate New York, bringing hope for that better life he'd promised.What she found instead was poverty, hardship, and a cold marriage to a man who would never call her by her name.Just "Hey, you."Herschel had been a horse trader in Russia. In America, he became a ragman—collecting and selling scraps, barely earning enough to survive. What little he made, he often drank away with friends. He was known in the neighborhood as difficult, temperamental, someone to avoid.He showed little interest in caring for his family. Bryna gave him seven children—six daughters and finally, a son. Issur Danielovitch, called Izzy by family.The poverty was crushing. Bryna, illiterate and speaking broken English, would send her children to the Jewish butcher to ask for bones he didn't need. She'd boil them into soup that would feed the family for days."When it was a good day, we would eat omelettes made with water," Izzy later remembered. "When it was a bad day, we wouldn't eat at all."Most children in that situation sink into bitterness or resignation. Most mothers break under that weight.Not Bryna. And not Izzy. Bryna worked tirelessly—taking in laundry, doing whatever she could to keep food on the table. She may not have been able to read, but she understood what mattered: her children needed to survive, to hope, to believe they could be more than their circumstances.Young Izzy absorbed her resilience. Her refusal to give up. Her quiet, unshakable strength.He changed his name to Kirk Douglas. He fought his way out of poverty through acting—working odd jobs, attending drama school, clawing toward an impossible dream.And he made it.By the 1950s, Kirk Douglas was one of Hollywood's biggest stars. "Champion." "Ace in the Hole." "Lust for Life." Major films. Major success. The boy who'd eaten water omelets was now on movie screens around the world.In 1955, he founded his own production company. He could have named it anything—something bold, something marketable, something that sounded powerful.He named it Bryna Productions.After the mother who couldn't write her own name but had written his future with her sacrifice.In 1958, Bryna Productions released "The Vikings"—an epic film starring Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, and Janet Leigh. It was a major production, a big budget spectacle.Kirk had arranged something special for the premiere.He brought his mother—now in her 70s, still speaking broken English, still the same woman who'd boiled bone soup to feed her children—to Times Square.They stood together in the heart of New York City, surrounded by bright lights and massive advertisements.And there, among all those glittering signs, was the announcement for "The Vikings."The poster read: "Bryna Presents The Vikings."Her name. In lights. In Times Square. The name no one had bothered to call her by. The name that belonged to an illiterate immigrant who'd survived poverty and a loveless marriage and raised seven children against impossible odds.That name—BRYNA—shining in the center of the world.Kirk watched his mother's face as she saw it. Bryna burst into tears.Perhaps she was thinking of the young woman who'd crossed an ocean with hope. Of the bone soup. Of the water omelets. Of the husband who never called her by name. Of the seven children she'd kept alive through sheer will.Of her son, whose hand she was holding, who'd somehow become this person—this star—who loved her enough to give her what no one else ever had: recognition. Honor. Her name where everyone could see it.That same year, 1958, Bryna's health began to fail.Kirk was with her at the end. The son she'd kept alive on bone soup, now a Hollywood legend, holding her hand.Her last words to him were simple but profound: "Izzy, son, don't be afraid. This happens to everyone."Even at the end, she was comforting him. Still being the mother. Still being strong. Bryna Danielovitch lived 74 years. She never learned to read or write. She never escaped poverty until her son's success finally gave her comfort. She spent most of her life with a man who wouldn't call her by her name.But she raised Kirk Douglas.She gave him resilience. She showed him that love isn't about words—it's about showing up every day, boiling bones into soup, making water omelets, never giving up even when giving up would have been so much easier.And he never forgot.Every film his production company made carried her name in the credits. Bryna Productions went on to produce "Spartacus," "Lonely Are the Brave," "Seven Days in May"—major films that shaped cinema history.Every single one: "Bryna Presents."Kirk Douglas lived to be 103 years old, dying in 2020. He had a legendary career, three Academy Award nominations, an honorary Oscar, wealth and fame beyond imagination.But perhaps his greatest accomplishment wasn't any role he played. It was making sure the world knew his mother's name.The woman who couldn't write it herself got to see it in lights in Times Square.The woman whose husband never called her by name got to see it on movie posters around the world.The woman who boiled bones into soup got to see her son become a star—and use that stardom to honor her.Some people escape their past and never look back.Kirk Douglas escaped his past and brought his mother with him—in name, in memory, in every success he ever had.Her name was Bryna. And thanks to her son, the world will never forget it.

EMPTY CHAIRS

 4468

Empty chairs       

Two empty chairs

Oh, they have been empty in the past. Anytime someone happened not to be sitting in them.

But this time is different.

For you see, they will never be occupied again; at least not by the original two who once filled them up.

I can still see my parents, Henry and Erma, seated in those matching recliners. Reading newspapers, or perhaps a National Geographic, or simply starring out onto their mobile home-side pond.

My dad loved that chair, or better put he loved what that chair afforded him.

Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below.

More than once, many times more than once, I showed up, unannounced, and  invaded his “inner sanctum;” only to discover him in the midst of an ethereal sleep. Which, as with us all, is prophetic of that slumber which must overtake each of us one day.

And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,

“Wake up, Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”

And he would rouse himself; if only long enough to acknowledge my presence, and e’er too many moments elapsed

…well, you guessed it.

And my mother.

I think she occupied her matching recliner, more often than not, for the sake of a selfish agenda.

To simply dwell in the presence of the one to whom she had pledged herself; some six decades hence. For it was here that she experienced and enjoyed the presence of the man who had, long since, relinquished activity in favor of the sedentary. Oh, mama put up a good show of doing one thing or another, as she occupied her matching chair. But I think, I think, it was all about my dad. And the singleness of what took two to complete.

And now. Now the chairs are empty.

My wife has a photograph of her parents. It was taken at the lake home of their son. And in that poignant picture Doc and Ruby may be seen seated on the lakeside porch, facing one another, and engaged in a private conversation; known and meant only for themselves.

I can picture my own parents engaged in a similar exchange. But that one set of chairs have been exchanged for another. What the years stole from them has been restored, and in good measure.

Empty chairs. Not some cheap montage of wood and metal and fabric. But an almost spiritual place.

My father occupied his chair when, after his stroke and my mother’s subsequent inability to care for him, I made him aware it was time to submit himself to a nursing facility.

My mother sat in hers the last time we took her home for lunch, and the final occasion on which she saw her sisters; having been placed in that same facility.

It was in this room, and in these chairs my parents lived the most and best of their waning years. It was here that they did the things people do as they scratched out what joy still remained to them in their declining years. It was here from which they entertained family and friends, complained about the weather, boasted of a new great grandchild, worried for the fate of the nation, laughed about a childhood picture, remembered something from their youth, memorialized a lost comrade; expressed some hope for our futures.

It was from these chairs they spoke and laughed and lived and loved, and gleaned from the gradually shrinking world around them.

Empty Chairs.

Strange, how rich and full and almost complete an empty chair may seem.

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

GEORGE JONES, HIS RIDING LAWNMOWER & THE DIXIE PIG

 4467

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.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

MEETING CORNELIA

 4466

Sometime in the mid to late 80’s, I pulled my UPS truck up to the back door of a sports shop at the Winter Haven Mall in order to make a delivery there. As I exited, and pushed my hand cart up to that rear portal, a late model sedan pulled up beside me, and a middle-aged lady exited the vehicle.

At this point, I don’t recall our conversation, but to be sure the woman informed me that she was none other than Cornelia Ellis Wallace, the ex-wife of the former governor, and presidential candidate, Alabama’s George Wallace. It seems she was well-acquainted with the owner of the store, and had stopped by to see him.

Cornelia attracted national attention on May 15, 1972 when she threw herself over her husband, George, after his having been shot four times during an assassination attempt in Maryland. At that time, Governor Wallace was promoting his bid for his party’s presidential nomination. Who can forget that poignant video segment which was highlighted on all the national news broadcasts?

Mrs. Wallace ran for governor of the State of Alabama in 1978, but did little active campaigning and finished last among thirteen candidates for the Democratic nomination.

As it fell together, one of my counseling clients attended the same church Ms. Wallace attended, and several years after I first met her, my client procured Ms. Wallace’ autograph for me. She succumbed to cancer in 2009.

My chance meeting and brief conversation with the illustrious Cornelia Wallace, at the back door of a mall sports shop, is among the most memorable of my life.

By Bill McDonald, PhD 

THE SACRED PILLOW

 4465

Pt. 1

Lately, Max, one of our precious pooches, when he takes a notion, or retires for the night, lies down on a pillow at the end of my bed. 

And, without fail, when I see the muscular, little guy lying peacefully on that rectangular bit of comfort, I say,

"You're lying on the Sacred Pillow again."

And in the past few days, our yellow Maine Coon cat has begun to emulate Max's behavior. There are times when I walk into my bedroom, and Milo is lying at the end of the bed, and his head is resting against the Sacred Pillow. 

And, as with Max, I look at Milo, and say,

"You're lying on the Sacred Pillow!"

During the course of the past 70 years, eight precious pooches have lived in my home; five which have now crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Princess, our black & white cocker spaniel, Buddy and Bobby, brother and sister white and tan shih tzu's, Lucy, a Corgi mix, and Queenie, another white shih tzu.

 And then there are three which live in my home 'til this very day; (one which I have previously alluded). 

Max, our wire terrier-shih tzu mix, Lily, his sister, and Toby, our black and white papillon. 

Pt. 2

Each and every one of them loved, and yet, all very different; those I remember with fondness and tears, and the aging three which aren't long from joining their canine friends on the other side of that proverbial Rainbow Bridge.

And yet, there was one, the second in that seven decade long litter of eight which fulfilled her little mission on this side of heaven in a singular manner.

Buddy

Well, Buddy was nothing less than special. 

She, (yes, Buddy was a she), and her brother, Bobby wandered up in our front yard one day. And before yours truly was prepared to bring the precious critters into our home, I (shamefully now, I admit), kept them in our garage.

One night Buddy began barking; (which was not like her). The next day I discovered greasy footprints on the driveway; near the garage door.

Then, there was the day that our daughter was staying with us; having separated from her husband. "Jenny" was lying in bed that day, and Buddy lay next to her. 

I often took the precious pooch with me when I drove to the post office, and as was my practice, I invited Buddy to go. 

The three words never escaped her notice.

"Buddy, wanna go?"

And more often, than not, she bounded towards the kitchen door leading to the garage. However, on that memorable day she glanced up at me, and snuggled closer to Jenny.

However, the memorable day among memorable days involved my wife. Jean was in her bedroom lying on the bed, and Buddy lay next to her. She said she felt like a thousand pound weight was pressing her into the mattress.

Buddy had been following her around the house for several days.

Of course, I insisted that she visit her doctor, and submit to medical tests. As a result,... she was diagnosed with cancer.

Pt. 3

Did I say Buddy fulfilled her mission? She fulfilled her mission here better, I think, than most people ever do.

Buddy slept at the end of my bed. She had her own little pillow. And each night, she piled on top of it, and peacefully slept the night away.

Until...

She crossed the Rainbow Bridge of her own accord. 

Buddy had experienced a horrible night, (I will not attempt to describe it to you), and she was close to leaving us at morning light. Picking her up, I set her in her doggie bed in the living room. When I checked on her just minutes later... she had found her way across the Rainbow Bridge.

If any creature which ever drew breath, man or beast, ever had the wherewithal, or right to linger here, I'm convinced Buddy was afforded that privilege.

For you see, one night after I retired to my bedroom, not long after she left us

... I sensed a weight against my shoulder. And then, what seemed to be the sensation of respiration. And, shortly thereafter, something curled up on that old pillow at the foot of my bed, and lay against my feet.

Post-script

Just tonight, I pulled open my desk drawer, and picked up a small aluminum tin, such as mints come in, opened it, and retrieved a lock of white fur which I had clipped from her side; just after she took her final breath. (Yes, I am convinced I will see her again).

And though almost two decades have come and gone since Buddy went on to her rightful reward, the little pillow rests in that same old place, and will remain there as long as I live, and move on this good earth.

Somehow, I am comforted by that ever present reminder. Somehow, it does me good to see Max and Milo curl up on, or near it.

The Sacred Pillow

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

THOSE PESKY LITTLE GHOSTS

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Pt. 1

My wife has been with our daughter in Massachusetts off and on for quite some time, as she has endured several surgeries over the past couple of years. As a result, we spend a lot of time on the phone. 

I had let our three dogs out into the backyard, and they were in the process of "barking their heads off," and were in the process of competing with a neighbor's dog behind their wood panel fence.

And although our glass sliding door was closed, and although 1,200 miles separates my home in central Florida from our daughter's home in Massachusetts, suddenly I heard one of the resident dogs "go to yapping." 

I laughed, and asked my wife which dog was barking, and Jean informed me that it was Otis; our grandson's pug. Apparently, his hearing was nothing less than acute; since I could just hear Max, Lilly and Toby myself. 

And as the day progressed, I began to consider the foregoing scenario from a counselor's point of reference.

Pt. 2

Disembodied voices

Or as I am prone to characterize them... the ghosts of the past.

Those pesky little ghosts which "come knockin' on our door" at the most unexpected moments. 

The trauma, trouble, trials, temptations, and triggers of the past

And while we are separated by time and distance, and while the former events are but fading memories, we have become sensitized to their "voices." And these disembodied voices can be more tangible, and can be more traumatic than anything we have the wherewithal to actually see and touch.

Post-script

As someone who has been in the counseling ministry for thirty plus years, I know the value of a trained mind, a listening ear, a caring word, and a loving God.

If you are troubled by what I characterize as the ghosts of the past, I would encourage you to enlist the services of a Christian counselor.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

"Counsel in the heart of a man is like deep waters, but the man of understanding will draw it out." (Proverbs 20:5)

THE LITTLE SPACECRAFT THAT COULD

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10“In the beginning, Lord, you laid the foundations of the earth,
    and the heavens are the work of your hands.
¹¹ They will perish, but you remain;
    they will all wear out like a garment.
¹² You will roll them up like a robe;
    like a garment they will be changed.
But you remain the same,
    and your years will never end.”

I want to spend some time with what has been commonly known as “The Space Race,” and more specifically with one particular spacecraft which was launched almost twenty years after the advent of the Space Race.

And I might say that by the time I conclude my message tonight, you should be able to grasp why I would talk about such a seemingly secular topic behind this church pulpit.

But let’s step back in time a few decades, and allow me to share some personal and national details which are relevant to our discussion.

I recall sitting in Mr. Ball’s 6^th grade class at Bartow Elementary School. The year was 1961. (Interestingly enough, the famous evangelist, Billy Sunday, preached a sermon on what is now the playground of this school; half a century before I attended there). At any rate, on one particular day, Mr. Ball turned on the black & white television in the classroom, pulled up the rabbit ears, and turned the knob to one of the only four channels we had at the time. It was inauguration day. President John F. Kennedy raised his right hand and took the oath of office. Of course, we all remember that fateful day in November of 1963 when an assassin’s bullet took him from us. But some of you may recall something he said during those 1000 days in which he served as the chief executive of the United States.

“During this decade is out, I propose that the United States build a rocket capable to taking man to the moon and bringing him safely back to the earth.”

I can assure you that such stuff fascinated me, and held my attention. No doubt you remember “The Mercury 7” astronauts. The movie, “The Right Stuff” details the competition surrounding and appointment of seven men who would be launched, one by one, into orbit around the earth. My own distant cousin, Alan Shepard, was the first American in space, and John Glenn followed closely behind him.

During my late elementary years and throughout my teen and young adults years, I followed the Space Race very carefully; throughout the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs.

As an adolescent, I visited Cape Canaveral a couple of times, and watched from a nearby beach, as an unmanned version of the Saturn moon rocket lifted off, and disappeared into the clouds. Just a couple of years ago I toured the space center again. As a twenty year old, I sat in front of my television set, and like many of you, watched that grainy black and white live video footage, as Neil Armstrong dropped off the lunar landing module ladder onto the dusty gray soil of our nearest neighbor, the moon.

But as I previously inferred, I am more concerned this evening about one spacecraft, in particular, referred to as Voyager 1, which lifted off from the east coast of Florida in 1977. And as you might imagine, the purpose of this unmanned spacecraft was the exploration of the universe, or at least our little portion of the universe which we refer to as the “Milky Way.”

And also, as you might well imagine, the Voyager 1 spacecraft was outfitted with a myriad of instrumentation designed to not only take photographs of the planets in our solar system, but to measure the composition of the rings of Saturn and atmosphere of Jupiter, and to analyze the solar plasma of the sun, and the fading intensity of its light, as its journey took it further from our nearest star, the sun.

And of course, our scientists would have been left completely unawares without the capability to retrieve the information which Voyager 1 generated. As a result, this spacecraft was outfitted with a radio transmitter, and over the next 40 years it has faithfully continued to transmit data to a team of full time researchers who have faithfully analyzed the information they have received. At this stage, the Voyager is 12 billion miles from earth, and its radio signal takes 17 hours to reach our planet. And surprisingly, since the distance is so great, and the signal so tiny, NASA currently uses dozens of radio telescopes to concentrate the signal enough to make it intelligible, and to be able to interpret it.

The “little spacecraft that could” reached an important milestone five years ago. After a 35 year journey, Voyager 1 left our solar system, and journeyed into what is referred to as interstellar space. Take a moment to consider it. Our solar system, though vast, is just a speck in the Milky Way galaxy; one of billions of similar galaxies in our continually expanding universe. Consider it, if our little spacecraft had the capability to move at the speed of light, 186,000 miles per second, (and it doesn’t) it would take four years to travel to the nearest star, Alpha Centauri.

It is estimated that in three years our little Voyager will be too distant for scientists to receive its signal, but its mission will have only begun.

 For you see, on board the one ton robot is a gold record containing sounds and images selected to portray the diversity of life and culture on Earth, and which are intended for any intelligent extraterrestrial life form, who may find them. Interestingly enough, given the vacuum of space, this record is expected to outlast the estimated two million years left in the lifespan of our solar system, and will still be able to be deciphered a billion years from today.

Please turn to John Chapter 1, Verse 1-9

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. ² He was with God in the beginning. ³ Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. ⁴ In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. ⁵ The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome^[a] it.

⁶ There was a man sent from God whose name was John. ⁷ He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe. ⁸ He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light.

⁹ The true light that gives light to everyone coming into the world.

He lights every man, woman, boy and girl who has lives on the earth, or who has ever lived on the earth.

I think the implications of this verse are enormous. And while I have never heard this verse preached, at least not in this manner, it occurs to me that this sentence is all about Christ’ entire ministry towards the population of Planet Earth; including his death on the cross, and His resurrection from the grave.

However, the gold record designed to notify someone out there that billions of intelligent individuals exist, or once existed on a little blue marble called Earth will never be retrieved, nor viewed by someone in a distant civilization in this universe. For you see, there’s simply no one else out there. We are it. There are no other intelligent beings in the universe.

For you see, if there were we can be sure that the angelic being referred to as Satan would have tempted them, as he did Adam and Eve. And it would have been necessary for Christ to have also died a substitutionary death for that civilization, as He did for our own. But 1^st Peter 3:18 tells us that “Christ suffered once for all sin.”

And if He suffered once, we can be sure that He did not suffer twice or three times, and thus He never visited another intelligent civilization for the purpose of dying for them. You see, Voyager 1 is the single most intelligent creation in interstellar space. It is out there “all by its lonely.” Since the spacecraft was created by man, and man was created by God, that little metal flying robot might, in essence, be referred to as, “God’s Grandchild.”

At least the lack of another intelligent civilization in this universe is my theory. And I believe I just finished adequately supporting it. Christ suffered once, and only once for the only populated planet in this universe.

Sometime ago, it was decided that the Voyager 1 spacecraft would turn its camera towards Planet Earth, and take the longest distance ‘selfie’ ever taken; for the elements of which it was formed originated on this planet. As a matter of fact, each of our eight or nine planets, depending on how you count them, ‘posed’ for a photograph that day.

Recently, I was watching a documentary about Voyager 1, and an image of that photo was flashed onto the screen. There in a band of light and debris, you can just make out a tiny speck of light. And as that photo appeared, the narrator spoke.

“From such a vast distance, you can just make it out. A small, blue marble containing earth and seas, and eight billion souls, and the only home that every man, woman, boy and girl ever given the privilege of life would inhabit.”

And my friends, with this, an involuntary sob rose up on my throat, and tears sprang to my eyes. Perhaps you would have had to have been there. But the tiny point of light that is our earth, and the insightful descriptiveness of the narrator just overwhelmed me at that moment.

My friends, we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and the innate abilities which God gave us to do the most magnificent things is nothing short of remarkable. We have been created by an awesome Creator, and have been made in His likeness. And He has bestowed the most remarkable intelligence and abilities upon us, and will to create within us. The Voyager 1 spacecraft is a prime example.

In Psalm 8, we read,

3When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, The moon and the stars, which You have ordained; 4What is man that You take thought of him, And the son of man that You care for him? 5Yet You have made him a little lower than God (or the angels,), and You crown him with glory and majesty!

In conclusion, let us say, for the sake of argument, that a billion years from now, when our sun and planetary system no longer exist, as we know it, that some alien scientist manages to retrieve that ‘little spacecraft that could,’ and manages to decipher that golden record on board the craft.

And as he or she or it, as the case may be, views photographs depicting the high surf of Hawaii’s Sunset Beach, and the glorious mountain peaks of Scotland’s Isle of Skye, and the ancient Redwood trees of California, and he goes on to listen to the musical strains of Glenn Miller’s orchestra, and the contralto voice of Frances Langford, and he marvels at the architectural wonder which is the new World Trade Center, and he acknowledges the Omnipotence which produced passages such as Genesis 1 and Psalm 23 and John 3:16, perhaps that golden record will serve as a sort of a witness to the glory of the unseen God, and His love for the work of His hands.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

LIKE A FLY ON THE WALL

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I often share the following little illustration with my counseling clients to challenge them to avoid the same old tired, negative mindsets which prevent us from fulfilling God's best plans for our lives. 

You walk into a dark room, and you notice a young man flipping the light switch. It's like you're a fly on the wall. He has no idea you are there.

He's furiously flipping the light switch, and is looking expectedly up at the light in the middle of the ceiling, and... it's not coming on.

You watch the young fella for several minutes, and he keeps flipping the light switch while looking up at the light bulb.

He doesn't check to see if the bulb is tight in the socket. He doesn't check the fuse box. He doesn't call an electrician. He simply flips the light switch.

And it's not coming on.

Now, you turn and walk out of the room.

You walk into the same dark room 50 years later, and see an old man with a beard, and holding a cane, and he looks very familiar, and... he's flipping a light switch while looking expectantly up at the light bulb!

This is how some of us lives our lives!

by Bill McDonald, PhD

(Funny, I was watching a re-run of "The Andy Griffith Show" while I was writing this blog, and Andy and Barney are standing in his office talking to a bunch of young boys. Somehow, they got on the subject of "what if the lights go out?" To which Opie replies, "Check the fuse box!" I kid you not).

THE STATE OF STUCKNESS

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A group of men were on a safari.

Suddenly, the point man stepped into quicksand. Of course, his comrades were crazy with fear, and one of them tossed a rope to John.

Strangely enough, as John sank deeper, and the quicksand rose to his knees, he bent down and... tossed the rope back to Bill. And oddly enough, John wore the biggest smile on his face!

Now, noticing John was up to his waist, another member of the party grabbed a vine, and threw it to John. And with this, John grabbed the vine, and threw it back to Jim.

And within seconds John was up to his chest; still wearing that big grin!

And while the other members of the Safari were absolutely besides themselves, John sank deeper and deeper. And now, John's head disappeared beneath the quicksand, and only bubbles remained on the surface!

As a counselor I often share this little story with my clients, as an illustration of what it looks like to be stuck. I go on to say, "Kinda like the State of Florida. The State of Stuckness."

(and)

"It behooves us, if we discover we are stuck, to grab the rope, and pull ourselves out of the proverbial quicksand."

by Bill McDonald, PhD