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. Copyright pending

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CROSSING JORDAN

My sister forwarded a photo of my dad to me today; one which I don’t recall seeing before.

The picture depicts my dad at the age of perhaps 65 or 70; 15 to 20 years before our Lord called him home to Glory. When I asked her, Linda informed me that the photograph was snapped in Robbinsville, NC; along a river where my parents had purchased a cabin. It seems my dad was in the process of building a dock, though no structure, whatsoever, can be seen.

In the picture Daddy is wearing the most bedraggled clothes I have ever seen him wear. His jeans are replete with holes, and stains, and his upper body is clothed in a dirty t-shirt. In spite of the condition of his clothing, my father appears to be staring directly into the camera lens, wearing a smile which might easily compete with the sun, and with one hand raised in greeting, (or farewell).

Interestingly enough, as recently as I came into possession of this unique picture, it has become my all-time favorite of my dad.

And I think I like it so much because it so well characterizes the journey we know as life and death.

I think the river represents the threshold between this life and the next. That both literal and proverbial river we call Jordan.

My father’s torn and dirty clothing speaks to the trials, troubles and turmoil of life, and the manner in which it inflicts pain and suffering on all of us.

Whereas, the exuberant smile, and raised hand is all about the conclusion of such momentary symptoms, the joy which awaits the redeemed, and that one final opportunity to bid a fond “fare thee well,” but not goodbye.

And if I could select one scripture to accompany the photo, I think I might affix the following caption:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

ANCIENT ADAGES

My wife and I decided to ride out to Kissimmee State Park near Lake Wales, Florida today. It had been several years since we had done a day trip out there, and it was "high time" we did so. As we drove up to the ranger's shack, my wife asked the elderly fella if I was eligible for a military discount. To which he responded,

"Only active duty get a discount" and looking at me, he continued, "and he isn't active duty;" (as if to clue me in that I looked way past the mandatory retirement age of 60). After we drove away, I mused,

"Well, #1 retirees should be eligible for the discount; anywhere, anytime. I mean, I served 35 years, and some active duty troops are on their first tour of duty" (and) "#2 that comment about 'he isn't active duty' was kinda crude and rude."

A few minutes after the insult began to wear off, I began to think about other memories, and other classic comments I have heard over the years.

Ten years ago my cousin and I organized a grave marking ceremony for my 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, a Scottish immigrant to this country, who fought in the American Revolution, and died going on two centuries ago. 

I was scheduled to speak at the ceremony, which was well attended by McDonald descendants, and had worn my Army Dress Blues uniform. As an aged member of The Georgia Sons of the American Revolution introduced me, he said, "And now Staff Sergeant William McDonald is coming to present a 'brief brief' biography of his ancient grandfather, Isham." 

"Brief, brief," huh? Well, no sooner had he uttered the words, I thought, "Nah, I don't think so. My grandfather is simply worth it, and served his adopted country throughout the entire American Revolution. What he did wasn't 'brief brief,' and my eulogy won't be either!"

And then there was the time my wife, and I were visiting my children in Jacksonville. We had picked them up at their mother's house, and taken them to a hotel near St. Augustine; where we would stay the night. Deciding to spend some time in the pool, we all got ready, and went to the poolside. As Jean and I sat in plastic chairs watching the kids, we noticed a granddad and grandmother doing very much the same thing as we were doing. 

As their grandson, little "Roger," a five or six year old boy swam, he continued to swim out to the deep end; (if you can call it "swimming"). Of course, this concerned his grandparents, and granddad kept shouting for him to get back in shallow water. Suddenly, the young boy began sputtering, and started to go under. Totally exasperated, the old man kneeled and stretched himself out over the water, grabbed the little guy, and thrust him into granny's arms, exclaiming, "Here. He's drowned!" (Well, of course, he wasn't).

My wife and I have never ceased to laugh about those old memories, and the words which were spoken. After today, I suppose we will have to add a new memory, and new words to those ancient adages.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2019

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A LITTLE BOY & A BIG ROLLER COASTER

Having been a participant in the story I’m about to share with you, and having come away from it alive, at that time in my life I might have admonished anyone who would listen,

…“if this is all there is to family fun, you need to avoid it at all costs!”

For on a given day, month and year, my dad and mom packed me into the family automobile, (I can’t tell you the make or model this far along) and off we went. Had I any inkling what “lay in wait” for me, I would have definitely avoided that excursion in favor of something a bit more mundane.

I can imagine my response when my mother made me aware of the “golden opportunity” which lay ahead of me that day.

“Mommie, where we be goin? Daddy plomised me a I-creme cone, if I be good.”

To which she may have replied.

“Yes, he told me. We’ll pick it up on our way home, Royce… if you’re good. But if you’re not, then…”

Well, I guess we drove 5-6 miles, and pulled into a busy parking lot. I looked around, and then upward. We were surrounded by tall buildings, and I could smell the salt air. It turns out daddy had laid a roof on one of these massive structures, and had discovered a little known attraction; at least little known in our little corner of the world.

“Royce,” daddy spoke. “We’re gonna do something super fun today. Look up at the top of that building,” (and I followed his finger to the sky.)

“Son, watch this.”

I strained to see what my dad was referring to. Suddenly I saw it. A flash of orange and green color moving like a swift caterpillar along the edge of the roof. And then it was gone, but the noisy clatter continued and cut the surrounding air like a razor. Daddy told me to keep watching, and again a speeding flash of color, and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished again.

My father’s voice was tinged with expectation and a bit of humor.

“Well, my boy. Do I have a surprise for you today!”

Judging from the speed of the whatchamacallit and its proximity to the edge of the roof, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be surprised.

I’m sure I looked at my mother, and no doubt, her face wore an anxious, “I don’t know how smart this is, but I guess we’ll give it a whirl” sort of expression.

As we closed in on the building, I could no longer see IT, but the sound of the machine grew louder with each step. Now we found ourselves in what I later learned was a revolving door, which brought us face to face with the ground floor of a vast department store, filled with everything from blue jeans to light bulbs to pogo sticks. While my attention was diverted, (I may well have been looking at the latter of the three afore mentioned items) my dad navigated his small family up to a set of two massive double doors.

Suddenly, I heard a thump that seemed to shake the floor beneath my feet. I think I felt it more than I heard it, and the vibration startled me. Then the large metal doors parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

I was so transfixed by it all that my mom almost dragged me into the elevator. This was a first for me, but considering my tender age, almost everything was a first for me. And as I soon discovered, the “firsts” for that day were far from over.

I recall a feeling of being suspended in mid-air as the elevator lifted off, and I found myself holding onto my mother’s left knee for dear life. As I glanced up at my dad, it seemed he was a veteran of this little floating room with no furniture. As a matter of fact, a mischievous smile played about his lips, and somehow this comforted me. I turned loose of my mom’s knee, and as much as a four year old can manage it, I tried to act nonchalant. But I could only wonder what terrible surprise awaited me on the roof top.

The buttons on the control panel were labeled 1-14, and when we drew to a stop, I noticed there was a circular pattern of green light around button #14. Mama had been teaching me to count, and I realized there was no #13. I vowed to ask her about the absence of this number later.

The elevator “stopped with a start” and the doors parted again. My parents and I stepped out, and I was surprised to find we seemed to be in the midst of a garden center. Rakes, and sprinklers and work gloves filled bins of all shapes and sizes. And then I noticed the sound, the same sound I’d heard outside the building, but now it was almost overpowering. And if sound can be perceived as a circular motion, these acoustic vibrations had such an impact on me.

Mama allowed daddy to lead the way, since he had first told her about this place. It seems my dad had come home all excited talking about this cool ride on the roof of the Webb City Building. It was only years later that I learned the details.

Daddy led us to an open doorway, and as I stood directly in front of it, I noticed a short flight of stairs. It was about this time that mama leaned over, and considering the decibel level, almost shouted in my ear, (in a tone of voice that was anything but reassuring.)

…”Honey, I think you’re really gonna like this.”

I was led like a lamb to the slaughter up that short flight of stairs which seemed to grow progressively longer with each successive step.

And then… we were there.

As I stared in awe at the colorful, but foreboding piece of machinery, I almost mused aloud,

…“You want me to do what?”

Though my childish mind was immature and incapable of formulating such a phrase, with the passing of years I think those six words are as close as any to describing my perception of what greeted me that day.

“Royce, you’ll absolutely love it.”

“What daddy?”

I had been so transfixed with the scene before me that I hadn’t grasped what he said to me.

“Your mother and I will wait. Go ahead and get in line behind those other boys and girls.”

“You mean… all by myself, daddy?”

“Yes son. Of course.”

I hesitated a moment to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. And so I dutifully obeyed.

Even at this age I could do the math. There were seven children in front of me, and I noticed that the metal ogre was slowing to a stop. It wasn’t enough that the machine emitted creaks and groans and whistles, as it sailed along the circular track, but the boys and girls who rode that iron horse of a thing were even louder. I watched them as they stepped out of their respective cars. Smiles lit up the faces of a couple of eight or ten year olds. But without exception, the younger kids seemed as pale as ghosts, and a little girl, (she might have been 5 or 6) first stumbled, and then “lost her cookies” on the boarding platform.

The attendant could only shake his head and groan. I felt something welling up inside of me, and I was close to emulating the behavior of the little girl. The seven of us, who had previously formed a perfectly straight line, had by now backed into a cluster. Had Mr. Nielsen been there that day, his rating would, no doubt, have revealed an utter contempt for this mechanical beast, and a very strong desire in all our hearts to simply… go home.

Now the attendant was mopping up the mess with a mop and bucket. I turned around so I didn’t have to watch the least favorite part of his less than professional vocation.  And I noticed my daddy and mama were watching me from the sidelines.

Henry McDonald’s son wasn’t about to chicken out at such a God-awful moment. No way, Jose. I didn’t have to ask. I knew what the answer would be. And as much as everything inside of me screamed for a way out,

… I knew it didn’t exist.

Then I did something that I would soon live to regret. As the young fella was putting away his mop and bucket, I stepped up into the number one boarding position, (but only three of the original seven children stepped up behind me.) I turned to look, and it was then I noticed two girls and one boy walking towards the staircase; hand in hand with their mothers and fathers.

But I had made my choice, if indeed a choice existed, and as the frustrated attendant opened the door of a brightly painted car… I stepped in and sat down. The young man buckled my seat belt and pulled it tight around my waist. I was committed, come hell or high water.

…(At least it was a good theory.)

The metal monster picked up some momentum now, and my parents’ faces whizzed past at dizzying speed. I felt that old familiar queasyness in my belly and rising up in my throat. Someone nearby was screaming loudly!

And then I realized that someone

… was me!

I was on the back of a raging tiger. I was riding the crest of a hurricane-driven wave. I was a hapless bowling pin in the hands of a giant juggler.

Somehow I caught the eye of my mother, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed over to the little booth where the attendant sat with his hands on the controls. And as my vehicle completed yet another circle, I added words to my previously unintelligible tirade,

“Mommy. Mommy. Help me. I want off. Now!”

Suddenly, the forward motion of my vehicle slowed, and I dared to believe that I had been granted a reprieve from certain death. My agony abated and it seemed my salvation drew near.

As the car slowed to a stop I remember looking over at my dad. He was still standing in his original spot near the staircase; looking slightly embarrassed. How could a son of his, no matter how young, sacrifice an opportunity to prove his fearlessness, and wrest victory from defeat?

(Well, perhaps the foregoing implication is reading a bit too much into the scenario. But nonetheless, daddy didn’t appear to be a “happy camper.”)

No one had to beg me to get off the THING. I found myself helping the guy as he fumbled with my seat beat. I couldn’t get back on terra firma fast enough. I must have felt rather like the military veteran returning from combat duty, (though I wasn’t savvy enough at the time to bend over and kiss the ground.)

For the moment no one was in line to ride, and the hideous sound of metal against metal had been stilled. Suffice it to say, I made a quick departure from “the scene of the crime.”

I think my dad was smart enough not to verbalize what he might have considered cowardice. After all, I had my mother to defend me. And she had cooperated in my unexpected pardon from the throes of a fate worse than death; (or so it seemed at the time.)

I never returned to that place, with or without my parents. At this juncture in life, the attendant would be my parents’ age, and my fellow patrons would, like me, be living out their early golden years. Amazing, how quickly six decades can fall through the sandy hourglass of time.

But I can assure you those two minutes that I “rode the whirlwind” impacted me far beyond their comparative brevity in terms of the expenditure of time.

For as a rule, I simply do not

… ride ROLLERCOASTERS.

Don’t, Won’t, Can’t, Shan’t, Nada

I am altogether cognizant that the rollercoaster on the rooftop was a pitifully small affair, and in the scheme of things no more than a kiddy ride. But they say everything is relative, and at least to me, I would have sooner climbed Mount Everest than finish the ride that day. And to be fair, that tiny piece of equipment could not have climbed much higher than a man’s head, nor shadowed a piece of ground much larger than half a tennis court.

And I have stood below some rather substantial coasters, and marveled at their width and height and length and breath. And I have wondered whether I could strap myself into one of those contraptions again; if my very life depended on it. (And it is amazing for me to consider how ten and twelve year old children find the wherewithal to ride such awesomely larger versions of the tiny machine I rode so long ago. It is beyond my comprehension.)

Well, I am pleased to report that on such and such a day, perhaps six or eight years ago, I summoned up whatever one finds to summon up, and for at least the space of a few moments, I conquered those old, enduring fears which had limited me, and held me back in ways too numerous to count.

My wife and I live near the now defunct Cypress Gardens. There on the grounds of this famous tourist attraction sat two ancient torture devices, (or so it has ALWAYS seemed to me.) Jean suggested I conquer my age-old fears, and step into a line of perhaps twenty people waiting to board the smaller of the two “torture chambers.”

But there was nothing remotely small about this one. Oh, of course it was a “David” compared to the “Goliaths” I have seen in some theme parks, but it was still plenty big; easily thirty feet from ground to crest, and covering the space of almost half a football field.

I admit standing there, waiting to board, I sensed a sure and abiding kinship with that small, familiar boy who once stood in a line, not unlike this one, so many years hence. And as my wife, in essence, assumed the role of my parents, it was all so fresh, and new, and present again.

And perhaps in some not so explainable way, that little tyke, from a bygone era, stood with me, and once again abject terror filled his tear-filled eyes. And in some mysterious, but not so impossible manner he placed his hand in mine, and we steeled ourselves for a mission that neither of us had the wherewithal to complete

… alone.

Hand in hand we sat down together, and allowed a young attendant, (who looked remarkably like the one who had long since grown old) to buckle us in. And as our personal little “time machine” gained momentum, and we approached the steep incline of its first loop, I think that tiny, mirror-image of myself envisioned an opportunity where he might complete that which he had once begun.

And I think the older, heavier, balder version of that little man cast his thoughts backwards to a time and place when he had summoned up all that was good, and true, and brave about himself, when he took his place at the front of the line.

And as our colorful, little vehicle mounted the first, yet highest crest of that small-gauged track, and proceeded to drop into oblivion, I thought I felt the tender grasp of a tiny hand in mine, and somehow the boy compelled me to join him, and so we lifted our arms in unison.

And as my wife looked on, and as the coaster navigated first one loop and yet another ebb, I closed my eyes and contained a silent scream. And when I thought I heard a muted sound beside me, I turned… and he rewarded me with a smile.

Time elapsing. Slowing now.

… Mission completed.

The friendly, young attendant unbuckles our seatbelt, and allows us to step out. My wife waves, and doubles her hands above her head, as if to say,

“It certainly took you long enough,

… but you did it!”

And for the briefest moment I think I see him again, and his little hand slips from my grasp, and he steps away. And with his fading presence, I think I hear a voice, a familiar voice, but young and vibrant once again.

“See. I told you that you could do it.

… Now, let’s go home.”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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MY MONKEY & ME

I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I may have shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed “thousand piece puzzle.”

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow, I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.

Post Script

Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter.

She responded that a monkey showed up one day, and that her family fed it for quite some time, years I believe. However, at one point when they went on vacation, and returned home their little "Bobo" was gone, and they never saw him again.

It was good to know what became of my dear little monkey, though it took over a century to do so.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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WHEN YOU THINK NO ONE NOTICED

Perhaps the title for this blog is somewhat of a misnomer, but “When You Think Someone Only Noticed for a Little While, and Then Forgot” was a little unwieldy for my taste.

I think what happened yesterday is a case in point for something I might have passed off as temporary and insignificant having a great deal more import than I could ever have imagined.

I had just walked into the main sanctuary for the 11am worship service; having just finished a 10am mentoring session with a wonderful young lady in our church. As I walked in the side door, I noticed a man on one of the back pews of the church who looked somewhat familiar.

Walking up to the visitor I greeted him, and asked him his name. No sooner had he responded with his moniker, he said,

“I know who you are. I was here five years ago, and you sang, ‘I’d Rather Have Jesus.’” (and) “I’ve often thought of you and your song since that day.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I could not resist reassuring myself that I had heard the man correctly.

“You have often thought of my song which I sang five years ago?”

“Herb” smiled, and nodded.

Now he spoke again.

“Yes. Yes, I have. And I would like for you to sing it at my church sometime soon, or perhaps one of your own choosing.”

I responded with,

“Certainly, ‘Mr. Cranston,’ I’d be happy to sing at your church.”

Pt. 2

We just never know how much our words and actions have impacted friends, family and strangers for good and for God. And whereas, as a counselor, I often speak about Heritage, Destiny and Legacy, and that we receive a Heritage, we fulfill a Destiny, and we leave a Legacy, I would never in a million years have thought someone would walk into my church and tell me that he not only remembered a particular song I sang as a special from five years ago, but that he had often thought of my solo over half a decade.

I think one hundred percent of committed Christian believers are concerned about impacting those whom God has set in our pathway. I am also convinced that the majority of the men and women, boys and girls of the church tend to believe that the greater and more notable the word or deed, the greater the impact.

However, I can tell you that Herb’s statement got me to thinking about the significance of the simplest word or action, and its potential impact on people we may never see again during the course of this life. And after I drove up in my driveway, walked in the front door, took my shoes off, and dropped down in my easy chair, I was reminded of an incident from my own life.

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

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

Pt. 3

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

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

"I'm three!"

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

"I'm sixty-eight!"

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

"You will live a very long life."

(and)

"You will do wonderful things!"

I cannot tell you where my words came from, nor whether they were particularly inspired. And I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

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

Yes, I am sure of it.

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

Another example of the smallest word or deed carrying the potential for some pretty wonderful results. After these two occurrences, I will never think of any good thing in which we have been involved, or that we are inclined to do for another person as insignificant or of passing value.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE

If I speak in the languages of men and of angels, but do not express love by my words, and actions, I am little more than a resounding gong or a clanking cymbal. If I have been given the gift of foretelling the future, and comprehend all mysteries, and have access to all knowledge, and if I possess the kind of faith which can move mountains from one location to another, but am bereft of love, I am absolutely nothing. If I give all my possessions to the poor, and sacrifice my living body to the fire, but have no love, it benefits no one.

Love is always patient, love is always kind, it does not envy its friends or enemies, it does not boast about its wealth or abilities, it is not proud. It does not disrespect others. It is does not make itself the first priority. It does not yield itself to anger. It does not keep a record of wrongs perpetrated against it. Love does not take great delight in evil, but always rejoices in the Truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres.

Love has no wherewithal to fail. But where there are prophecies, they will fail. Where there are tongues, they will no longer speak. Where there is knowledge, it will pass from the earth. For we only know a little, and we only prophesy a little, but when that which is complete appears, the “little” will be cast aside.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child speaks, I thought like a child thinks, and I reasoned like a child reasons. However, when I became a man, I packed my childish things away. For now, we see a reflection, as if we were gazing into a mirror. But then, but then we will look into His marvelous face. Now I know only a little. However, then my knowledge will be perfected. Then, I will know as others know me.

And now, three things remain to us. Faith, Hope and Love.

But the greatest of these is Love.

Excerpt from The New Testament, McDonald Paraphrase. Copyright 2018