AMBIDEXTROUS ME

 4566

I have been hard at it for thirty-five years. (Yeah, I have).

I think anyone who devotes thirty-five years to anything enjoys what he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Either that, or he must be a glutton for punishment, (or someone is holding him captive).

I confess. I love making a difference in lives. I have literally “sat with” multiplied thousands of people. (Odd, I suddenly realize I haven’t told you what I have been doing the past thirty-five years).

I am a marriage and family counselor

But to digress a bit

In my day and time, every elementary age child was taught to write in cursive. Of course, the children of the late 20^th and current 21^st centuries learn to write their names in cursive, but that’s the jest of it.

Beyond that, well there is no “beyond that,” they learn to write only their names in that archaic style of applying words to paper. Speaking of the new “beyond that,” they simply print what they wish to relay to an interested eye, or they sit down at a computer keyboard. (I wouldn’t want you to think I am incapable of having mastered that particular genre, as I learned to type in the Air Force, and can still knock out 80-100 words per minute).

Pt. 2

However, as you might imagine, I don’t bring my laptop computer into the counseling office with me. Honestly, I never have even thought about doing so ‘til just now. But somehow, I think sitting there talking with a client about their personal history and issues, and pecking out words on a computer wouldn’t mix that well, i.e. “Tell me about the day your Aunt Marilla died” (I look down. Peck, peck, peck). “Okay. How did you respond when your husband ran off with another woman?” (I look down again. Peck, peck, peck). Rather impersonal, I think.

But as I have implied, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes. During that first session in particular. And since I am a question asker, I am liable to get an answer for virtually every question. And since I ask 101 questions in that first session, and receive a minimum of 100 answers, I fill up lots of unlined paper with my almost indecipherable handwriting. (Sometimes indecipherable to even me).

I suppose it happened about a third of the way through my current tenure of three decades behind the counseling desk. (Well, honestly, I don’t sit at a desk. Just two chairs facing one another).

I began to think about giving my dominant writing hand a break. I would learn to use my non-dominant (left) hand. And thus, I began to practice writing with a hand with which I had only pulled a trigger in the past. (I can’t explain why, but I have always fired a rifle left-handed).

At any rate, the more I used my non-dominant hand, the better I became with it. However, the more I used my left hand, the poorer my right-handed brand of cursive became, until it was almost illegible.

I can’t account for it, but it was almost like I had rewired my brain. The hand that never had any particular acuity was suddenly the legible hand, and the hand with which I first learned to write was becoming increasingly unstable. Unless I bore down on the paper, my dominant hand shook, (and the resulting “hen scratches” were vivid proof of it).

Pt. 3

But even more “strange and wonderful,” the difference between my dominant and non-dominant brand of cursive was incredible. I was used to looking at my right-handed style of writing. I had been stuck with it for just short of half a century. It was to say the least pretty “plain Jane” in appearance. However, I didn’t recognize my left-handed brand of committing words to paper. It was almost feminine in appearance, and it reminded me somewhat of calligraphy. Granted, I have never been as fast with my left hand, but then I had never experienced any ineptness with my right hand, (as I did now).

Some of my clients have been confused as they have watched me put words to paper. As they have joined me on Day One, and before I did “the old switcheroo” in the middle of the session, he or she has quipped, “You don’t turn your hand inward like other left-handed writers.” To which, barely looking up, I have always responded, “That’s because I’m not left-handed.” Of course, that has always elicited a “hmmm” or “I see.” (When they really didn’t).

It was only after a few minutes, and I have moved the pen to my dominant hand that they have really “gotten it.” And at that point I would announce, “I taught myself to write with both hands.” (and) “It makes writing the answers to 101 questions a bit easier.”

I prefer my “fancy-dancy” style of cursive to that uninformed, archaic, grade school brand of writing. And though my wife thinks me a bit eccentric for having changed hands, she grudgingly admits the fancy-dancy cursive is so much easier to decipher.

 

But if the truth be told, I think my (relatively) new found ambidexterity makes the first counseling session a bit more interesting to counselor and client alike.

by William McDonald, PhD

I REMEMBER GRANDDAD

 4565

I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal absolutely nothing. And I have often mused, "Why didn't you leave something behind?" 

Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves- Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected.) 

I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, "before you were even a twinkle."

 You deserve it. And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing„. We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time, Leave something of yourself behind. And so much more crucial than my previous admonition, I earnestly pray, (and I have prayed for you when you were not, and when only God knew you by name) that you will give your life to the Lord Jesus Christ, and faithfully serve Him, as believe that I have done. 

For as a wise and equally well-known man of my time, Dr. James Dobson, (whom I once met, and conversed with) has encouraged his own children, and grandchildren... "Be There!" "Be There!" I hope to meet you in heaven. I'll be waiting just inside the gate. Granddaddy (William) Royce McDonald 8-22-12.

 May 5, 2170 

I remember Granddad. Well, I honestly don't remember him in the traditional way. You see, I never met him. But I am happy to say he made arrangements during his lifetime for me to know him; at least from a distance. The distance we call 'time.' His name was William (McDonald). He went by the nickname Bill. He was quick to tell you that his first name meant 'Protector.' And if nothing else, he was the Protector of our family tree and a myriad of old stories and photographs connected with it; carefully labeled with the appropriate names of an assortment of otherwise unidentified individuals. 

My 4x Great Grandfather passed away in the year 2051. He lived to a ripe old age, dying peacefully in his sleep; less than 24 hours after his 102nd birthday. He always claimed he'd make it to the century mark, and he was good at his word. Granddaddy William sometimes spoke of his own 4x Great Grandfather Rev. Isom (Peacock), my 8x Great Grandfather, and who having lived to be 107 ...died falling off a horse! Well, Granddaddy William gave Granddaddy Isom a good run for his money. 

I think I must be guilty here of inferring I knew the old boy better than I possibly could without having met him, except ...he left something behind. That was my ancient grandfather's way of putting it. He often used that phrase in his writings, for he was a prolific writer, indeed; having left behind an autobiography, doctoral dissertation, a multi-volume diary, numerous unpublished volumes, and thousands of pages dedicated to miscellaneous topics of his day. Granddaddy William claimed his own father was his inspiration, as Granddaddy Henry was a collector of names and histories before him, and left behind an illustrated binder which included a myriad of old pictures and genealogical history. 

A great uncle and distant cousin, before him, wrote accounts of their Victorian era experiences. My beloved ancestor seemed especially keen to leave his descendants a message which it was impossible for him to bequeath in person. His was the first generation in which information could be relegated to permanent e-storage, and in his writings, he admonished us to go right on 'passing the baton' to the next generation; (given the necessity to convert the drives and disks to whatever type of storage anteceded the former. 

Before he 'stepped across the great divide' Granddaddy William left me, (and his then unseen progeny which would follow him) a personal note. It reads as follows I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal absolutely nothing. And I have often mused, "Why didn't you leave something behind?" Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been if you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves. 

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

And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing... We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time, Leave something of yourself behind. 

And so much more crucial than my previous admonition, I earnestly pray, (and I have prayed for you when you were not, and when only God knew you by name) that you will give your life to the Lord Jesus Christ, faithfully serve Him, and make a profound difference among those whom God has chosen to set in your pathway; as I believe that I have done. 

For as a wise and equally well-known man of my time, Dr. James Dobson, (whom I once met, and conversed with) has encouraged his own children, and "Be There!" "Be There!" I hope to meet you in heaven. I'll be waiting just inside the gate. 

Granddaddy William 

Is it any wonder I write as if I knew him? How can one read such stuff as this and not develop some ethereal bond with a man who prayed for me and mine decades before we were a passing thought or proverbial theory? How can I deny him his richly deserved Legacy by failing to give my life to the God whom he served? How can I squander the days of my life and avoid making it count for something and someone, as he made his life count before me? 

I am inestimably glad and eternally humbled that before his passing my ancient grandfather took measures to assure he would avoid the fate of the majority of his own ancestors who pre-dated him. For you see, to me my Grandfather William is so much more than a yellowing, fading bit of celluloid. He has become as real and vibrant as anyone whom I can presently see with my eyes and touch with my hands. And has he has done before me, so shall I do. 

I remember Granddad

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

IF YOUR DOG WROTE YOUR BIOGRAPHY

 4564

He probably wouldn’t mention your job, your achievements, or how successful you became.

He would tell a very different story.

CHAPTER ONE: THE PERSON WHO ALWAYS CAME BACK.

You left the house countless times.

I never really understood where you went.

But I learned something about you very quickly:

No matter where life took you…

you always came back to me.

And that was enough for me to trust you with my whole heart.

CHAPTER TWO: THE PERSON WHO THOUGHT I DIDN’T NOTICE.

I noticed when your voice sounded different.

I noticed when your smile wasn’t quite real.

I noticed the nights you were quieter than usual.

You never had to explain anything to me.

I just stayed a little closer.

That was my way of saying,

“I’m here.”

CHAPTER THREE: THE PERSON WHO MADE ORDINARY DAYS FEEL IMPORTANT.

You probably don’t remember every walk we took.

Every morning we spent together.

Every time you scratched behind my ears without even thinking about it.

But I do.

Because my favorite memories were never the extraordinary ones.

They were the ones where nothing happened…

except that I was with you.

CHAPTER FOUR: THE PERSON EVERYONE ELSE SAW DIFFERENTLY.

The world knew your name.

Your responsibilities.

Your mistakes.

Your strengths.

I knew none of those things.

To me, you were simply the person whose footsteps I could recognize anywhere.

The person I would choose in a room full of people.

Every single time.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE PERSON WHO GAVE ME A PLACE IN THIS WORLD.

You might say you gave me a home.

But I would write it differently.

A home is just walls and a roof.

You gave me somewhere I belonged.

Somewhere my bowl had a place.

My paws had a path.

And I never had to wonder where I was meant to be.

CHAPTER SIX: THE PERSON WHO NEVER REALIZED HOW MUCH THEY MEANT TO ME.

You probably thought you were simply taking care of a dog.

Feeding me. Walking me. Keeping me safe.

But from where I stood…

you were the center of everything.

My mornings started with you.

My best moments included you.

And wherever you were…

that was where I wanted life to happen.

FINAL CHAPTER

And if I had to write the final line of your biography…

I wouldn’t write about what you owned.

Or what you accomplished.

Or whether the world remembered your name.

I would simply write:

“I got to spend my life loving this person.

And I would choose them all over again.”

(from a social media post)

A DOG NAMED ANGEL

 4563

Pt. 1

Buddy, our white and auburn female Shih Tzu, was about eleven years old when she began walking the well-worn pathway leading to the Rainbow Bridge.

As my wife and I prepared to take a well-deserved vacation to Hilton Head, South Carolina, Buddy began exhibiting some troublesome medical symptoms. A couple of days before we left, I shared my concerns with Shirlene, one of my sister-in-law’s, and mused that it might be wise to take my precious pooch on a one way trip to the vet; before we left for vacation. Shirlene disagreed, and said,

“Royce, if Buddy is fairly stable at the moment, you should wait ‘til you get back to do the deed” (and) “You don’t want to be overwhelmed with grief while you are on vacation.”

She convinced  me in short order.

As a result, we left our dear little Shih Tzu with Sue, my other sister-in-law, and Jean and I headed out for South Carolina. As it fell together, Buddy hadn’t eaten much while we were gone, and she simply hadn’t been a real “happy camper.”

Six or eight days later, we returned, and stopped by to pick up our little pooch. Initially, Buddy gave us “the cold shoulder.” She was not impressed that we had gone off, and left her. Now, I don’t know if she intuitively knew that we had been to the beach, but we had once taken her to the east coast of Florida, and she had enjoyed running up, and down on the white sand, and frolicking along the edge of the waves.

However, in short order Buddy seemed to forgive us, and she “warmed up” to our loving words, and kisses. But, as much as we tried, she refused to eat anything that day; with the exception of a small piece of chocolate. (I confess, I have always given my dogs a modest amount of this delicacy, in spite of the fact, or myth, that it wasn’t good for them).

Pt. 2

And as the day of our return wore away, it was obvious that Buddy wasn’t long for this world.

She was used to sleeping with me, and she had her own pillow at the end of the bed. We laid down earlier than usual, as my precious pooch had begun hyperventilating, and alternatively, her respiration would slow to five or six breaths a minute. As the evening progressed, Buddy’s tongue took on a pasty white color. Neither our little white and auburn Shih Tzu, nor I got any sleep. I knew it was just a matter of hours. (My wife made the comment later that, “there’s no way I could have put Buddy in bed with me that night”).

Morning dawned, and I may have slept two hours. I’m doubtful Buddy slept at all. Scooping her up, I noticed her breathing was on the low ebb, and continued to be shallow. Now, I retrieved her doggie bed, and laid it, and her in the living room, walked into the dining room, and dialed the number of one of my counseling clients from the Dominican Republic, whose given name was “Angel,” and took care of some quick business. (Speaking of Angel, our daughter had given Buddy the alternative name of Angel).

Finishing my call, I walked back into the living room, and discovered our little pooch was no longer laboring to breathe. She had crossed the proverbial Rainbow Bridge. It soon dawned on me that our precious pooch had been denied several years of life due to the steroidal medication we had given her on a regular basis. However, without it, she would have scratched her eyes out, as like so many of her breed, she had significant allergies.

In retrospect, it seemed our little Angel had mustered up whatever was required to linger on this good earth ‘til we returned from vacation, and, subsequently, she was gone in the course of one night.

Ironically enough, while I was on the phone with a client named Angel, our little Angel had been visited by her Death Angel.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A MOTHER'S DAY MIRACLE

4562

PRUNES, PRIDE & VINEGAR PIE

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.

It had been God’s way of providing me the courage I had so badly needed. This uncanny, almost miraculous occurrence gave me joy which remained with me throughout that day which I had so dreaded. 

As I reflect on this event, I never cease to be amazed at the peace which overwhelmed me at that moment, with my confidence that Beth now looks into the face of her Savior, and that I will most assuredly see her again one day.

Martha Puckett

WHEN A DOOR ISN'T A DOOR. Pts. 1&2

 4561

Pt. 1

A couple of weeks ago, I opened the sliding glass door, and let our little black and white Papillon pooch go out, along with our two other wire terriers. After the three animals had made their way through the door, I stepped out behind them, and closed it behind me; since there are plenty of mosquitos in Florida this time of year. While my precious pooches answered nature's call, I sat down in a lawn chair on the screened porch.

Toby was the first one done. In the past I had left the sliding door open wide enough for the dogs to get back into the house. But, as I have implied, I paid for it with a host of flying blood suckers. As Toby came through the porch door, he lost no time finding his way into the house. (Well, it was a noble attempt anyway). For as I have also alluded, I had pulled the door shut. A short run, a shorter hop, and... BAM!

To be fair, it was dark, and the little 12 year old pooch has developed cataracts. (I have wondered how much longer Toby will be with us since I just "don't do" blind dogs). 

As the result of the little fella's misfortune with that unyielding surface, I chuckled involuntarily, and said,

"Toby, can't you see that door!"

Pt. 2

And I suddenly felt ashamed of myself because an unpleasant memory came flooding back.

I had done very much the same thing 60 years hence. 

You see, I was 14 or 15 at the time, and my father had just come in from fishing. He had parked his truck in the back yard, and was in the process of walking into the back porch with a 12 pound bass. As you might imagine, I just had to see that monster close up. I was about 8 feet from the sliding glass door, and wasted no time in shortening the distance between me and he. 

And then, and then...

BAM! 

I hit the closed sliding glass door at full speed... and literally ran right through it!

(Not the way I wanted to "meet and greet" that scaly creature)!

I sustained a serious cut on my leg, and a large scar is still there to prove it.

Post-script

I regret to say that Toby had not yet learned his lesson since a few days ago the little guy made the same mistake! A short run, a shorter hop, and... BAM! 

This time I didn't laugh. And this time I didn't ask him the obvious question. Again, the memory of that day from so long ago came flooding back, and I picked up my startled little Papillon, cuddled him in my arms, and said, 

"Oh, Toby, I'm so sorry."

He seemed none the worse for wear. 

Tonight was altogether different. Of course, I was prepared to pull the sliding door open when Toby came prancing in. However, he walked in at a much slower speed, paused, and... pressed his nose up against the glass. 

We had both learned a HARD lesson. I was so much more empathetic given that memory from my personal yesteryear, and Toby was determined to avoid that unforgiving, almost invisible surface which had so rudely halted his forward progress.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

911: MY PERSONAL "WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"

 4560

Who among us can forget what we were doing on that fateful morning of September 11, 2001. Much like the Kennedy Assassination, or the Challenger Disaster. Such events are seared into the fabric of our very souls.

My wife and I were home, and I was doing something which I had never done before. I was helping her dye her hair. (Don't tell her I told you). At any rate, suddenly there was a news break during whatever morning program we were watching. An aircraft had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers. I don't recall any particular conjecture at that moment that it might have been related to terrorism. Of course, when the second airplane hit the other tower, there was NO doubt whatsoever. Terrorists had managed to pull off a dastardly deed unlike anything, (other than perhaps Pearl Harbor), that had ever been perpetrated on America before.

Before the morning was over, of course, another aircraft was hijacked and crashed in Pennsylvania, and a fourth airplane slammed into the Pentagon. Speaking of the Pentagon, I have a personal connection, albeit it rather brief, related to that massive building. 

You see, back in 1973, after my tour in the Air Force was finished, we moved to Virginia. Shortly thereafter, I procured a job with a contractor which was putting in underground utilities for the upcoming Washington D.C. subway system. Our pipe shop, in which I worked at times, was located a hundred yards from the Pentagon. I often marveled at its size, and couldn't imagine working there. However, the following year, I took the Civil Service test at the Pentagon. As it fell together, I scored well, and I was offered a Civil Service position in the U.S. Air Force Finance and Payments Office; in that very building.

Of course, I was excited about my new opportunity, and was given an appointment to "meet and greet" my future supervisor, and tour the office; which I subsequently did. I recall walking down one of those long hallways, and marveled at the immense size of the building. I cannot begin to tell you the name of my prospective supervisor at this point. (Did I say "prospective?" That particular word gives you some idea of how temporary the position was). You see, after I got home, and began to think about it, I realized that I faced a 100 mile round trip drive on a daily basis. And I just couldn't "see my way clear" to follow through with what had seemed like a marvelous plan. As a result, I called, apologized, and made them aware that whereas someone would, no doubt, be working for them, it wouldn't be me. I can truthfully say, "I was employed by the Pentagon," (but I never worked there).

However, I have surmised that had I accepted this prestigious position, and worked in that position from that moment 'til the turn of the new century, I might have been working in that great five-sided military complex when that aircraft slammed into it. And continuing to pursue hypotheticals, in this case the total K.I.A. from that horrendous attack would have been 2, 997, (rather than 2,996).

Just one personal consideration each year, as we approach the anniversary of that fateful day.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

FORGIVENESS VS. RECONCILIATION

 4559

As a former, (and now retired), pastoral counselor, I tended to do something that most counselors don't do. I taught. I required my clients to bring a notebook to their counseling sessions. And I would often say, "Okay, let's stop for a moment. I want to share a teaching with you."

And one teaching I provided my clients, especially those who came alone, and whose spouses had recently committed adultery, sounded like this:

"Reconciliation ALWAYS includes Forgiveness. However, Forgiveness DOES NOT ALWAYS include Reconciliation."

I can only remember virtually insisting one client, among thousands of clients, divorce their spouse. And that particular client's wife was a serial adulterer. The foregoing to say, I respected my clients' right to both forgive and reconcile, as I didn't have anything at stake. However, I felt it was my duty to share the two presenting factors, one which our Lord mentioned, and one which the Apostle Paul mentioned, in which forgiveness was the order of the day, but not necessarily reconciliation.

In Matthew Chapter 5 Jesus speaks about God's allowance for divorce in the case of adultery. In 1st Corinthians Chapter 7 Paul speaks about God's allowance for divorce in the case of desertion. In both cases, adultery and desertion, these passages speak of conditions and not commands; based on the innate grace the innocent party is still willing, and able to invest in the marriage.

But in a larger sense the dynamics of forgiveness and reconciliation applies to ANY relationship and ANY offense committed by one person against another person.

Reconciliation ALWAYS includes Forgiveness. However, Forgiveness DOES NOT ALWAYS include Reconciliation.

And perhaps the overriding variable by which the innocent person decides to both forgive and reconcile is frequency. That is, has the offending party CHOSEN to say, or do something which emotionally, verbally, or physically harms the innocent party on a recurring basis.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

A MOMENTARY MEETING ON AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

 4558

My wife and I experienced the vacation of a lifetime almost a decade ago. We visited Ireland, N. Ireland and Scotland.

While we were staying in a hotel in Glasgow, Scotland, I had taken the elevator from our third floor room to the lobby for one reason or the other. As I stepped into the elevator to go back to our room, a middle-aged man stepped in with me.

As the elevator ascended, we engaged in a brief conversation. 

"Are you an American?"

His accent betrayed him, and I knew he was a Scotsman.

I responded.

"Yes, yes I am."

My newfound friend continued.

"Ah, we owe so much to those brave lads who left your country, and came over during the last world war, and helped us fight."

His words caught me off guard. However, I know there are many in Europe, especially the older ones, who haven't forgotten our sacrifice there.

I nodded, and said something appropriate. And now the elevator door opened, and I bid the fellow a good evening.

As brief as my experience was, I think I will never forget my conversation with that stranger in a small elevator in Scotland.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

UNFINISHED DREAMS

 4557

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 todays.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

A DANGEROUS KINDA GUY

 4556

(Those perilous 8 steps)

I served as a counselor in a local ministry called House of Hope, a residential ministry to women, for about three years.

 

One day a new House Mother reported for duty, and I volunteered to take her duffle bag to her second floor bedroom. However, in doing so, I made a crucial mistake. I threw the bag over my RIGHT shoulder, and began climbing the first flight of stairs; (leaving me without a free hand to hold onto the banister). Step 1, Step 2, Step 3, Step 4.

 

Now, I reached the landing, turned and began to mount the longer flight of stairs. Step 5, Step 6, Step 7, Step 8... And now... I suddenly lost my balance, and dropped the duffle bag; in a futile attempt to grab the banister to arrest my all but certain fall.

 

And now, I felt myself falling backwards. Like a vehicle in reverse. Step 7, Step 6, Step 5. Shoulders, arms, legs, and rumpus bouncing down the unforgiving wooden stairs.

 

My momentum was, by this time, so dynamic that, when I hit the landing, I navigated the 90 degree angle with ease, and continued my short, but unforgettable journey down the staircase.

 

Step 4, Step 3, Step 2, Step 1. And now, I bounced onto the hard wooden floor from whence I came.

 

As I lay there attempting to regain my focus, and ascertain the damage to my body, I heard footsteps. Jana, the House Administrator, ran up to me, and screamed,

 

"Don't get up! Don't get up!"

 

(But, I did).

 

As far as I could tell, no broken bones, and, at least for the moment, no significant pain. (The bruises and somewhat less than moderate pain would become apparent in the next few days). I realized how blessed I was to have avoided paralysis, or death.

 

The new House Mother told me later that she had seen the whole grizzly thing. She said it was the most violent fall she had ever witnessed in her entire life.

 

I learned a very difficult, I mean HARD lesson that day.

 

Throughout my life, I have been prone to accidents, most, sadly, of my own making. (However, as I reflect on it now, at least I have rarely made the same stupid mistake more than once. It seems I find new, more innovative, and more dangerous ways to get myself in trouble)!

 

Somehow, I have reached the grand old age of the lucky double digits (77). God has been gracious... (in spite of my knack for falling down stairs, sailing head first off my bike, running through a glass door, falling off a ladder, finding myself in the middle of a crime scene, nearly being wiped out by a ten ton dragline bucket, flipping my car, etc. etc.) 

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE HAND ON MY SHOULDER

 4555

My wife and I attended a local church several years ago, and I also happened to serve as the staff counselor there.

A few years into my tenure, our pastor contacted an evangelist friend and invited him to conduct a one week series of revival meetings; which he summarily did. On the final night of his series, “Pastor Lynch” invited whomever would to join “Rev. Jensen” at the front of the church for a final prayer; to send him on his way.

With this, Jean and I strolled to the area just below the pulpit, and joined perhaps fifty others as they surrounded the good minister. And as is the case in such evangelistic environments, each person, in turn, placed a hand on the shoulder of the person closest to the next person closest to the “identified individual.”

And since I was among numerous others which comprised one of the concentric rings which surrounded the evangelist, I was not surprised when someone behind me placed his or her hand on my right shoulder.

However…

As the communal prayer ended, and people began filing back to their pews, I realized the hand …was still on my shoulder. The realization that the hand remained unmoved struck me so strange that I found myself reticent to look around. But since it was time to make my exit from the front of the auditorium I had little choice, but to “do a 180” and head back to my seat.

As I turned and cast my eyes on the space from whence the arm and adjoining hand were extended, it was all too apparent that

…there was no one there!

And yet, and yet, the weight of the hand remained on my shoulder.

And it was at this point that I realized I had either transcended the laws of gravity, (as the weight of the atmosphere exerts the same relative pressure on an entire body at sea level) or I had unknowingly sustained nerve damage on or about my deltoid muscle which accounted for the unusual sensation. (By this time I was racking my brain for any rationale for such a one of a kind experience).

And as I walked back down the aisle, and reclaimed my seat, the weight of the hand remained. As the service was dismissed, we made our way out the front door, I slid into the passenger seat, and we drove the 1.5 miles to our home, the extra pound of flesh and blood sat heavy on my shoulder. It was only after I flopped down in my recliner, and a few minutes elapsed that the strange sensation finally dissipated.

Although I can’t be altogether certain why our Lord afforded me this unique affirmation of His love and leading, I have never doubted that His hand has rested upon my life and ministry. As it fell together, the years ahead would be fraught with many trials and troubles, as well as triumphs.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

THE WEAVER'S TAPESTRY

The tapestry He weaves in me is twined in many hues

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

The tapestry He weaves in me is rich and very pure

 

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

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

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

Tis then His image shall appear, His tapestry is done

 by Bill McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ROSE MOST FRAGRANT WHEN ITS CRUSHED

My times are in Your hands, and I

Would hardly hope to choose

This walk You walk with me, Oh God

My tender heart, now soft and bruised

 

And Thou dost know my way, Oh Lord

And follow You, I must

And with the breeze, still, comes Thy Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 

“Tis through thy pain I add my grace,

And though thy flower is crushed,

With tender Hand, I’ll dry thy face,

And comfort you, I must”

 

“For even in this barren place

My blessings do not fail,

The manna of My peace will fall,

At turns along your trail”

 

“And I won’t leave you comfortless,

and I will come to you

to smooth the petals back again,

and ointment for thy bruise”

“When twilight falls, and darkness hides

your grief from all on earth, but Me

Remember child, I linger close

Your silent tears, my angels see”

 

“For even this, your troubled place

will surely come, to pass

And surely I will walk with you

If you will but ask”

 

“Your rose will bloom, aye, yet again

your tender bruise will fade

For I will surely carry you

From out this lonely shade”

 

“So cling to Me, Oh little one

‘til flowers bloom again

Oh walk with Me, come talk with Me

Sweet showers I will send”

 

“For I best know your way, Oh child

and follow Me, you must”

And with the breeze, still comes His Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2005