ANGELS AMONG US

Several months ago I found myself doing what I do almost every night, well, every morning if you call “dark city” morning. I jump on my slow, but trusty bike and head off on a 10 mile trek.

On this particular morning I happened to stop at an intersection, preparing to cross a 4 lane highway, and looked to my right. And strangely enough for 4am, I could just make out the form of a fella walking towards me on the sidewalk; perhaps 50 feet away.

Well, not being overly concerned about the man walking in my direction, I glanced one more time to my left, and prepared to “high tail it” across the highway. Mind you, no more than 2 seconds had elapsed since I had noticed the guy walking towards me on the sidewalk, and as I began peddling, I glanced back to my right.

And where a moment before there was what appeared to be a six foot, 170 pound man,

… only thin air greeted my gaze.

And since I peddle this same route every day it’s a familiar environment for me,

… (and this is the “wild card,”)

I’m aware of a 6-8 foot high wall that runs along that sidewalk, and which borders a gated community. There had been absolutely nowhere for “my friend” to go. He certainly didn’t vault the wall in record time, and since there are plenty of street lights along that stretch of highway, I would have seen him had he walked across the street.

Over the past year I have experienced a rather difficult season; something relating to rejection, and which kicked me in the figurative rear end. And as I reflect on it now, I think it was after this angelic visitation that the dark emotions with which I had contended began to lift.

I believe in angels, seen and unseen, and I’m thankful for their ministry to God’s people.

by William McDonald, PhD, Copyright Pending

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TWO PEOPLE DRIVING ONE CAR

My wife and I were on our way home from church; (on the same street as my previous illustration). Jean was driving our old green 1980 something Oldsmobile; a somewhat longer vehicle than one generally sees on the road today. We were traveling at 50 MPH, or greater, and as we neared an intersecting road on our right, which was marked with a stop sign, hardly stopping, a small blue car pulled into our pathway.

We could plainly see a man and woman in the front of the car, and a little boy and girl in the back seat. Less than 50 feet separated the two vehicles, as Jean locked up the brakes. An accident seemed inevitable. As with so many traumatic events, time seemed to slow down. (Interestingly enough, I have read that this syndrome is possible because the brain is processing more information than  usual in a brief amount of time).

It was obvious that my wife had every intention of plowing headlong into the smaller car, (and no doubt, all the occupants of that vehicle would have been seriously injured or killed.) Though we were driving a much larger automobile, we also would not have been spared. You see, we weren’t wearing our seatbelts.

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

I reached over with my left hand, took the steering wheel from Jean, and began steering it in a direction that would take us around the rear of the small vehicle. Amazingly, we cleared the back bumper of the little car by a foot. Both my wife and I found ourselves leaning hard in the direction of the driver’s window. (As a result of that event, I can relate to the G-forces the astronauts endure, as they reach maximum acceleration).

But the ride was far from over. Our ungainly old car began a 180 degree slide. Suddenly, the back end was where the front end was just seconds before. Now we were sliding backwards. As the car lost momentum, we neared a wooden fence to our left which bordered a house. We finally slid to a stop in a grassy area, a few feet from the fence, very shaken, but not a scratch on either of us.  

As for the small blue car, it was nowhere to be found. As we had continued our surrealistic journey, I noticed it as it turned left into the opposite lanes of the four lane highway. However, I would have NEVER expected the driver to “keep on keeping on.” The decent thing to have done, the only thing to have done, would have been to stop and check on our status. But that is not what happened.

However, just about this time another car pulled up to the stop sign from whence the former vehicle had come. Having seen the spectacle falling together around him, I have no doubt that he had watched the proceedings with awe. The motorist asked if we were okay, and after we assured him we were, he drove away.

There's an old story Jerry Clower used to tell about the preacher who drove too fast on mountain roads, and ultimately drove his car off a cliff. A friend of his happened to be following, pulled over, and ran down the side of the incline to the wrecked vehicle. As he reached the bottom the preacher was climbing out the shattered window. The friend asked, "Preacher, are you okay?" To which the disheveled minister replied, "Well, yes, thank you, the Lord is riding with me." Billy Bob smiled, and exclaimed, "Well, you better let him ride with me, before you kill Him!"

(Perhaps after our near miss, our angels felt like riding with someone else)! But in all seriousness, I am grateful for God's provision.

Paradoxically Providential. 

Momentarily Miraculous.

As I have previously alluded, both my wife and I have experienced multiple episodes such as the foregoing one, while too many of our classmates left us as the result of the first traumatic incident they had ever encountered.

There is a trite, well-used phrase which occurs to me here, one which every one of us have heard quoted more than once in our lives.

“I guess the Lord was finished with him (or her).”

Well, I don’t know about that.

However, as the result of so many near misses, I am assured that God still has a work for me to do, and for my wife to fulfill.

 I suppose we ought to get about finishing that work.

 by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Miracles in My Life." Copyright Pending

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A PRAYER SOAKED TIE

When I was a sophomore in college, I was challenged to purchase a tie and hang it in my room to remind me to pray for my future husband. For 7 years, it hung on my bed or my dresser mirror and more times than I can count it led me to pray God would encourage, grow, and spiritually develop my someday husband into the man of God I desired. I always meant to give it to my husband as a momento on our wedding day. The night before our wedding, I was with my girls and went to wrap it and we realized it was navy blue, grey, and pink. Our 3 wedding colors! (And it wasn't on purpose, I was originally thinking mint or yellow as the accent color.) I had such a special moment with the Lord; He knew even before I bought that tie 7 years ago that Caleb was the man I was praying for and He orchestrated it in His perfect timing! I didn't tell Caleb to wear it, I just gave it to him like I always meant to. And as I'm walking down the aisle towards him, one of the things I will always remember is seeing Caleb and seeing he is wearing my prayer-soaked tie.

(Author Unknown)

BONE OF MY BONE & FLESH OF MY FLESH

I will never forget the day that one of my relatives revealed to my mother that I was considering placing her in a nursing home, nor her response to this revelation.

“I ain’t going to no d_ _ _ nursing home.”

(And this from a woman who just never said a “wordy dird”).

And while the foregoing little ditty is not the major theme of my reminiscence, it helps set the scene for the following.

After my mother became a resident of the nursing facility, she began thinking about taking a DNA test; a desire to discover what she could about her so-called “roots,” (and inspired by the increasing fragileness of her life, and the realization that her “days were numbered”).

As a result, I ordered a DNA test from one of the nationally known testing companies, and on such and such a day, I administered the “spit in a kit” to my mother.

Odd, as mama sat there doing her best to conjure up enough saliva, she said something I had never heard her say before.

“You know, Royce, when I was a teenager people used to ask me if I was part black.”

And while there was a family tradition that my mother’s mother had a Native American heritage, I admit to always being a bit skeptical. You see, I not only remember my grandmother, but her three sisters and brother. And I can tell you that four of the five of the siblings were exceptionally dark-complexioned, and I wondered how, in the age of segregation, they had managed to enroll in white schools.

Pt. 2

At any rate, on my way home from the nursing home that day, I dropped my mother’s DNA kit in the mail, and we waited for the results.

However, about a month later, and two weeks before I received my mother’s DNA evaluation by email, she passed away; without ever seeing the results of the genetic study. (Of course, I regretted not having ordered the DNA test much earlier than I did).

I have always been convinced that my mother’s seemingly ad-lib revelation that day was anything but spontaneous in nature.

For you see, after I opened the email, and studied the findings, I realized why my mother had “prepped” me with her reminiscence about her classmates’ opinionations that, perhaps, she possessed an African-American heritage.

As I scrolled down the ethnicities and percentages, I “lit” on one of the entries in particular.

“Western Africa – 1.8%”

Interestingly enough, not only my grandmother, and mother lived during the age of segregation, but I also did. All of my elementary and junior high classmates were white. I remember seeing white and black restrooms and water fountains in grocery stores. It was only in the 10^th grade that our high school began to desegregate, when several black students were finally admitted to my alma mater, “Summerlin Institute.”

And I am very happy to report to you that the process of Integration fell together very well, and over the next couple of years larger numbers of black students were introduced to our formerly all-white school.

(As I reflect on that season, I think my parent’s generation were much more concerned about maintaining the color barrier, than my classmates and I ever were).

Pt. 3

However, it goes without saying that this one line entry on the DNA report was extremely interesting and enlightening. (And I admit to wondering, given the complexion of my great uncle and great aunts, why the percentage was not much greater).

There was a time when the southern states enacted laws, relating to the segregation of the races, which have been referred to as, “The One Drop Rule.” These statutes declared that if a man, woman or child had so much as one drop of African blood circulating in his or her veins, he or she would be classified on his or her birth certificate as “Black”. Not only this, but until the late 40’s persons of different races were prevented from marrying one another. It was only then that things began to change. Within twenty years the marital prohibition related to race had been abolished in all 50 states.

In spite of my research, I have been hard pressed to discover when the last vestiges of the “One Drop Rule” disappeared from the books, but these laws and statutes seem to have finally been deleted during the 80’s.

As someone who considers himself to be a thinker (and a doer), and having just read that one line entry on the DNA report, it immediately occurred to me that,

“If DNA testing existed during the third decade of the 20^th century, my mother would have been classified as ‘Black’ on her birth certificate! And if DNA testing had existed in the fourth decade of the 20^th century, I would have been listed as ‘Black’ on my birth certificate! And if DNA testing existed in the seventh decade of the 20^th century, my son and daughters would have also been listed as ‘Black’ on their birth certificates!”

Pt. 4

As I have previously inferred, the knowledge that one strain of my genetic heritage originated in Africa “got me to thinking.” I immediately began to do the math.

If I am approximately 1% African-American, and my mother was 2%, and my grandmother was 4%, and my great grandmother was 8%, and my 2x great grandmother (or grandfather) was 16%, and my 3x great grandmother (or grandfather) was 32%, and my 4x great grandmother (or grandfather) was 64%, then my 5x great grandmother was 100% African-American, and was, it goes without saying, a slave woman, and would have lived (if that was living) during the 18^th century.

And if my 5x great grandmother was an African-American slave, and my mother’s biological line were increasingly identified as “White,” it goes without saying that my 5x great grandfather was the slaveowner of the property on which my 5x great grandmother resided, and contributed involuntary service, and that, in all likelihood, succeeding generations of the slave-owner’s sons “involved themselves” with their own mulatto siblings diluting the African-American bloodline ‘til the resulting offspring, ultimately, passed as “White,” and were freed to live alongside people who looked very much like themselves.

A pretty grim story, but the only story which makes any sense to me.

I cannot think about my ancient African-American grandmother, and the unspeakable horrors to which she may have been subjected without tears in my eyes.

I reflect on the long dawn to dusk hours of turmoil and tears she experienced under a hot summer’s sun, the harsh whip upon her back, the unwanted “visitations” at night, and her realization that only death held any hope for the kind of freedom which you and I so glibly take for granted.

I think of her father and mother who were shanghaied from the home they knew and loved by white men, were shackled hand and feet in irons to the lower decks of sailing ships, who were fed with ladles from dirty slop buckets, who were forced to lie unclothed in their own excrement, and who were doused with sea water in a losing battle to clean the filth from their putrefying skin.

Afterward

Some of my friends and relatives tell me I am making too much of all of this Black heritage thing. I suppose I could simply respond, “Well, just humor me. After all, it’s Black History Month.”

And some remind me of the color of my skin, and the “whiteness” of my features, and say things like, “You don’t have a thing in common with black folks” (and) “Get a grip, man. This DNA testing thing has gone to your head” (and) “Black is not your skin color, and it isn’t your culture. So, get over it.”

Be that as it may, as a historian and amateur genealogist, I can readily identify with each and every one of those who have gone on before me, and in whose proverbial footprints I follow. And each and every one of them have left their genetic fingerprints in not only my DNA, but in my heart, mind and soul. They are bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh.

And since their hearts have been stilled, and their voices have been hushed, and since I bear in my body the essence of who they were, when they were, it can truly be said this far along,

… I am the only reason they lived.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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MY LITTLE BUDDY RETURNS

As a child and as a young and older adult, (well, throughout my natural life, for as long as I remember) I have enjoyed watching “The Twilight Zone.” And though Rod Serling, (like Elvis) has long since “left the building,” millions of people are still fascinated by the syndicated re-runs of this marvelous program.

For anyone who has ever ‘partaken’ of this half-hour broadcast, he or she is all too familiar with the quirky nature of the old series; which might loosely be characterized as belonging to the genre of science fiction. Of course, none of ‘the stuff’ of what was formerly a weekly television offing was based on reality.

Nonetheless, someone once made a statement which goes something like, “There are (strange and wonderful) things in heaven and earth which have yet to be found out; and some are the stuff of fiction.”

(Come to think of it, I kinda like my rendition of the phrase).

Lately, I have come across two examples in scripture, one in the Old Testament, and one in the New Testament, which bear out this perspective.

“You (meaning God) preserve both man and animals, alike.” (Psalm 36:6)

(and)

“Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, saying:

‘To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be praise and honor and glory and power, for ever and ever!’" (Rev. 5:13)

After my pet Shih Tzu passed away, I wrote a small volume in her memory entitled, “My Little Buddy.”

(Yes, her name was ‘Buddy.’)

The dear creature first wandered up to our house with another dog of the same variety; apparently her brother; as they were obviously still puppies. And since Shih Tzu’s are rather expensive, it seemed obvious that these were no ‘throw away’ pets. Sadly, the male pooch died shortly thereafter, and as a result, Buddy displayed some significant anxiety, but it is not my purpose to give much time to that sad occurrence.

However, I will allude to the passing of our dear little Buddy; a full decade later.

Buddy, (as is the case with many Shih Tzu’s) suffered from severe allergies, and the only recourse was the administration of steroidal medication. Otherwise, she at best would have been uncomfortable, and at worst, might have scratched out her eyes.

However, the use of this medication over the course of ten years took its toll, and Buddy’s liver values continued to rise, and ultimately to dangerous levels. I always referred to this seeming medicinal contradiction as, “Taking poison to stay alive.”

I will spare you the worst, (though I was quite specific in my volume by the same title as this story) but suffice it to say our little Buddy left us in the course of a night, though her leaving was not without significant suffering. She lay close against me that night, as she had all of the 3,000 plus days I’d called her mine. And as the dark of night gave way to the light of dawn, Buddy took her leave, and traveled to wherever household pets go …when they go.

On a rather light, or morbid note, (depending on your particular mindset) having considered ‘permatizing’ my pooch, I once looked over at Buddy, and asked,

“Buddy, would you like to be freeze dried when you die?”

And I kid you not, my furry friend responded with the most contentious look I had ever witnessed on her canine countenance. But to be sure, I’m convinced that we will see our pets again. At least, I have asked our heavenly Father for the favor of their eternal presence next to me.

Can it be sixty years since that black & white Cocker Spaniel, Princess, graced my life? And with the passing of decades, Buddy, and Lucy, and Queenie filled the successive emptiness left by the one before.

And of course, as each went “the way of all flesh” I expected the obligatory wait ‘til I would see any, or all of them again.

But, have you heard the old adage,

…“There’s always an exception to the rule.” (?)

I was heartbroken.

I was nearing 60, and I found myself coping with a loss with which I hadn’t contended in half a century. The demise of a beloved pet. The tears came, and continued to come hot and heavy, as they had when my little Princess had gone on to her reward.

I don’t exactly know what I believe about “visitations from the great beyond;” (except the admonition of scripture that we refrain from ‘following after’ such things). I can only bear witness to the unique experiences which were mine, (and mine alone) after my little Buddy left the scene, and the resulting perspective that God can do anything He “jolly well chooses” to do.

It had been, at the most, a few days since Buddy “gave up the ghost” and my emotions were as raw as the day she left us. My furry friend and I had slept in the same bed for years, and there was no one to complain about the arrangement, as my wife had long since “taken up residence” in her own bedroom; due to her work as a shift nurse.

My little Buddy had her own pillow at the foot of the bed. (And I’m not ashamed to admit that after her demise I have kept a token pillow at the end of my bed).

At any rate, after I resorted to my bedroom one night, and the combination of weariness and grief overcame my wakefulness, I experienced something completely unexpected, and unbidden.

…Breathing

Or at least the sensation of something up against my right shoulder, and that something was

…Respiring.

To be sure, no audible sound escaped the lungs of whatever lay next to me. Only the physical sensation of something breathing in and out, in and out as this non-descript thing lay hard against my shoulder.

And as you might well imagine, several seconds transpired before I conjured up the wherewithal to look. I mean, by this time I was all too aware that I, and I, alone should be the only entity filling up the 65 square foot rectangular surface upon which I resided.

Ultimately, I turned to look.

And what greeted my eyes was,

… absolutely nothing.

That same night I sensed the sensation of weight against my right foot, as if this same unseen entity was seeking the comfort of the pillow which was lying there.

I can assure you I was wide awake, and that there was nothing about these unseen manifestations kin to the dreams of which I, (and every other inhabitant of the earth) are all too familiar.

The late Jimmy Stewart, one of my favorite old-time movie stars, once appeared on “The Tonight Show” (with Johnny Carson) and shared one of his ‘home grown’ poems, titled, “My Dog, Beau.”

What he apparently experienced, and upon which he based the following excerpt seems akin to my own experience.

“And there are nights when I think I feel him
Climb upon our bed and lie between us,
And I pat his head.
And there are nights when I think
I feel that stare
And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,
But he's not there.
Oh, how I wish that wasn't so.
I'll always love a dog named Beau.”

And I suppose if that had been the end of it, a decade later I might still be questioning the reality of what transpired that night.

However…

As I was walking in my neighborhood one evening, perhaps a month after the loss of my beloved Buddy, and I found myself reminiscing about the old girl,

…I saw it,

(or should I use a different pronoun)?

…I saw her.

Suddenly, not thirty feet ahead of me, what seemed to be a little white pooch appeared out of nothingness, slowly walked across my path way, and entered my neighbor’s front yard.

And as quickly as she appeared, she immediately relinquished her physicality.

I can’t account for why the great actor and I were blessed to realize such momentary manifestations of our precious pooches. But at least for me there remains that quiet reassurance that our pets are alive and well, and reside in a land where the roses never fade, and no tear dims the eye.

There’s a poignant cartoon which depicts St. Peter standing at the pearly gates. Next to him is a dog thoroughly overcome with excitement. In the foreground we see an old man approaching the duo.

St. Peter bends his head towards ‘Rover’ and exclaims,

“So this is your friend, Bobby, who you’ve been ‘going on about’ for the past 50 years!”

I think by now Jimmy and Beau have been reunited, and I like to believe my own little Buddy eagerly awaits my arrival.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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MY LITTLE BUDDY AT THE DOOR

My little pooch had recently passed away, and it had been her tendency to greet me at the door in the evening. Buddy, (her name was Buddy) was on my mind as I pulled into the driveway that night, and I thought, "My little girl won't be there to greet me anymore, and I'm the poorer for it."

And that thought had barely crossed my mind, and as I was getting out of the car, I looked towards the south, and in the night sky a flaming meteorite came sailing through the heavens in an arc that was positioned above my dear little pooch's gravesite in my backyard. This small event was so encouraging to me that God affirmed my loneliness for Buddy, and that He held her in the hollow of His loving hands.

 It was poignant to realize that our Lord was aware, before He made the worlds, that I would be reflecting on my Buddy at just that moment in time, and that He had set that little chunk of meteor on a path which would transect my little bit of sky for such a time as this.

FLOWERS FOR OUR LITTLE BUDDY

As I was preparing to write this story, (and as I often do) I went to the internet, and brought up a series of articles related to my topic.

In this case wild violets.

And as I googled the subject of my quest, the first item at the top of the list was,

“How to get rid of wild violets in your yard.”

And I thought,

“Why would I want to get rid of them?”

(and)

“I happen to like them.”

(and)

“I happen to like them a lot.”

I mean, I purposely mow around a 2x2 foot clump of the little things in my back yard.

Of course, as you might expect, there’s more to the story, and for anyone who is a fan of my blogs, you may remember my having written about the topic before.

Yesterday, as I stepped outside to survey my woodsy quarter acre, I glanced to my right and noticed a tiny clump of lovely wild violets were in bloom. Twelve or fifteen of the small purple blossoms greeted my eyes; held up by rich green leafy shoots.

And, as always, I paused to reflect on a precious little Shih Tzu named, ‘Buddy’ which I was privileged to know and love for the space of a decade.

And as I have inferred in the past, when she left us, (Yes, ‘Buddy’ was a her) I installed a circular decorative tile on this spot to commemorate her.

For it was here that our precious pooch so often resorted to “take in the rays.

Pt. 2

Perhaps I have chosen to “read more into it,” but I am convinced that the proximity of the wild violets to the place Buddy loved the best is no coincidence or mistake. I believe it was an “on purpose” sorta thing which has its roots with Providence, and was (drum roll) planned before the earth was breathed into being.

I know that’s “saying a lot” and I realize it’s a lot to take in, but I’m convinced that Buddy was simply worth it, and that our Lord was thinking of her

…before He made the worlds.

I mean, I’ve written about my little Buddy before, and without going into great detail again suffice it to say that I think my precious pooch fulfilled her mission on this earth; whereas many human beings never do.

There was a time when her incessant barking caused a would-be burglar to flee. There was a time when she refused to leave my daughter’s side when she was grieving the loss of a marriage. There was a time when she followed my wife around the house, ‘til she submitted to a physical exam by which a malignant tumor was detected early, and she has been allowed to live out a long and productive life.

Yes, my Buddy was worth it, and I think our Lord agreed with me before I ever knew the bless-ed creature.

There is a particular verse in the Book of Psalms which provides some evidence of the Creator’s love and affirmation for both his human and animal creations, and His promise that I will see my Buddy again one day.

Your righteousness is like the highest mountains, your justice like the great deep. You, LORD, preserve both people and animals. (Psalm 36:6)

Afterward

No, I don’t believe the presence of those lovely wild violets, next to that circular decorative tile in my backyard, is a coincidence or mistake. I will always think of this place as a Providential tribute to one of His wonderful little creations named Buddy.

I like to think of that wild, uncultivated patch of purple blossoms as God’s own memorial for a life well lived, and for a creature He loved more than I ever could.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending

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