Like a Fog in the Morning

I am blessed to have a number of old family videos on dvd, and from time to time I drop one in the tray of my computer hard drive, and reminisce about days which were, but are now long past revisiting, except by means of memory or media.

There is one video segment, in particular, which for me is more memorable and poignant than the rest.

The date in the lower right of the film is 12-30-91; a date that would, ultimately, seem rather paradoxical in terms of its importance.

We had invited my parents, siblings and children to our house to celebrate my dad’s retirement. He was approaching 66, my age at this writing, and had made the decision to sell his pest control business, “McDonald Exterminators,” to his most trusted employee; (a business, I am happy to say is still alive and well today).

As the video begins family members can be seen milling around my backyard. The grill is decked out with steak and hamburgers, and yours truly is busy “doing the honors.” Jean and I had only lived at our current location for two years, and at that time there was very little ground cover in our “back 40;” save for 27 scrub oak trees, and a privacy fence.

As the video continues my family has assembled in my den, and my father and mother are standing next to a cake which bears the standard, “Happy Retirement” moniker. Interestingly enough, (at least to me) the cake and my parents fill the exact space in the video where, as I type these words, I am seated at my computer keyboard.

Fast forward twenty years

… to the very day.

On December 30, 2011 my dad sustained a life-altering stroke, and as a result fell and hit his head on a table, and required hospitalization. Though subsequent rehabilitation at the hospital, and a nursing facility proved hopeful, it was not to be. Daddy sustained another stroke shortly thereafter, and passed away on March 2, 2012.

In preparation for the inurnment of my father’s cremains, I retrieved the urn from the crematory, and brought it home. And because the presence of my dad’s ashes was a bit unsettling to me, I placed the urn on the floor of that same den in which we hosted his retirement, and under the window which faces my backyard; the venue where I once grilled the food we ate that day, and in which we celebrated the end of a long and prosperous career. By this time my privacy fence had seen better days, and after I removed it, our neighbor’s fern migrated across my previously bare backyard, and surrounded those lovely oak trees; which by this time have doubled in height.

Two memorable dates: December 30, 1991. December 30, 2011

The first, a celebration of a life and career.

The second, the beginning of the end of everything once held so dear.

Like a fog in the morning, what we know and cherish is almost intangible, and too close to slipping from our grasp.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

Loyalty Incarnate

“Lord, who is worthy to find refuge upon your holy hill?…He who practices loyalty, even if it ruins him…” (Psalms 15:1, 4, MPV)

     Captain Robert Scott, the famous Antarctic explorer, attempted the first expedition to the South Pole in 1912. He was beaten by Roald Amundsen.

     By a whisper that may as well have been a mile.

     You see, the two expeditions were on the ice at the same time, so reminiscent of those days many of us remember, as our own space race.

     Both teams drove forward towards the same goal. But Amundsen took dogs, and every modern expert will tell you that that made all the difference. Dogs provided an edge that placed the Scandinavian at the pole first.

     Scott was sorely disillusioned when arriving at the pole, an empty tent, and a Norwegian flag awaited him there. All that was left to be done was pose for pictures, (his own English flag in the foreground,) and head for home.

     But contrary to Scott’s lack of planning, this was no ordinary team of men that accompanied him. The loyalty of these men was nothing short of legendary. For the love of these men for their leader was beyond questioning.

     Oh, the trials and the sheer bravery of these few. And the selflessness.

     For when one of the men deteriorated badly, in temperatures that dropped to –43 degrees F., his feet horribly frostbitten, he made an excuse to walk outside. His last words, “I’m going outside for what might be quite sometime.” This fellow, an Englishman named Oates, was never seen again. His surviving teammates realized he had sacrificed himself, as a matter of loyalty. Since they were in no condition to pull him to safety by sled.

     The last three men continued the long march, also severely frostbitten, with hunger setting in. It is said that it took over an hour for them to put their socks on in the morning, so terribly black and swollen were their feet.

      Finally, after almost super-human efforts, these polar comrades found themselves within 11 miles of a food catche, something that might have made all the difference in their fate. Yet at that very moment, an unexpected blizzard arose, and they were forced into the tent.

     The unfortunate men talked about “making a run for it,” in spite of the raging blizzard, but days multiplied, and they found themselves writing morose letters to their loved ones; letters that would be found next to their frozen bodies.

     Captain Scott, himself, it is known now, was the most desperately ill. It has been strongly conjectured that the other two men might have had the wherewithal to brave the blizzard, and reach the food supply. But they seemed convinced that the Captain could not live long enough for them to reach the food, and return to him. So they remained, to their own detriment. These noble armor-bearers would not allow their leader to die alone. And so they gave up all their tomorrow’s… without so much as a bitter word, or a second guess. For what they wrote in no way reflected that vein of thought.

     Loyalty.

 

     I think the actions of such men virtually SHOUT the word.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Musings"

     

 

 

 

Forgiving the (Not So) Dearly Departed

As I write these words I am listening to a “Night Sounds” radio broadcast titled, “Forgiving the Departed.” It occurs to me that it might just as well be called, “Forgiving the Not So Dearly Departed.”

As a pastoral counselor, I often tell people that “I’ve heard so many ‘strange and wonderful’ stories it would make your hair turn green, if I had any,” (hair).

And so many of the multiplied thousands of stories I’ve heard involved those who had already gone on to their reward, and who are beyond either asking for forgiveness, or hearing that ‘other’ three word sentence. (“I forgive you.”)

I recall one client in particular whose mother developed a chronic illness when “Susan” was 8 or 10, and as a result, her father, for all intents and purposes, made her his surrogate wife. Of course, Susan found a way out of that environment in her mid-teens, and managed to navigate life on her own.

A few years later, my client’s mother passed away, and her father lost his job. By this time Susan had her own apartment, and (amazingly) her dad asked if she could put him up ‘til he “got back on his feet.” And (amazingly) his daughter acquiesced to his request.

Sadly, Susan’s father resumed “where he left off,” and during one attempt to coerce, or force her to do something she didn’t want to do, a gun went off. And her father died. A police investigation cleared my client of all culpability, and characterized the death of the elderly man as self-defense.

A few times during my tenure as a pastoral counselor, I have encouraged a client to visit the gravesite of someone who has wronged him or her, but never made amends for their neglectful or purposeful act, and to utter a few words of forgiveness. If I have gotten to know the client well enough to presume upon our rapport, I will sometimes provide them a half-serious rejoinder.

“Now, the assignment is to forgive them. Don’t come back here and tell me you peed on their grave!”

Of course, I am always prone to remind my clients that as horrible and egregious as someone’s sins against you or me have been, they can never match up with mankind’s, nor our individual sins which separated us from God, and caused Jesus to come to earth, and die in our place.

But more practically, (at least to my client and their stake in the thing) is my admonition that “as long as you withhold forgiveness from the (not so) dearly departed, you keep yourself in bondage to someone who can no longer hurt you, (except as you invite them to.”)

I understand that sometimes people have to work through the bitterness which consumes their spirit, or psyche (or whatever term you care to use), before forgiveness is possible. And, as a result, I have sometimes given my clients a preliminary assignment.

“As often as the mistakes or sins of someone who is no longer here cause  bitterness to rankle your spirit , repeat these words aloud. ‘Bitterness, you’ve lived rent-free in my life for far too long! Now, get out!” (And rather than that initial “B” word in that first sentence, I have often encouraged people to substitute the name of the party who harmed them).

Un-forgiveness will keep us stuck for longer than we want to stay, and make us pay far more than we care to pay. It’s simply not worth it. We have our lives to live, people to impact, and goals to achieve. As long as we allow the rancor of un-forgiveness and bitterness to permeate our lives, we limit ourselves. He or she who wronged us are far beyond caring about the trouble they caused us, or the ongoing pain we continue to endure as a result of their malfeasance.

So often, forgiveness is an “on purpose” activity. It is not a dynamic based on feelings. If we wait ‘til we “feel like it” we may be 103, and the deed may remain undone.

Sometimes we have to begin with that three word sentence,

… and let the feelings catch up.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

Nothing Less Than Idyllic

I was just thinking about a recurring avocation which my friends and I enjoyed during our adolescence.

As spring gave way to summer, and the sun dipped low on the horizon, a mosquito spray truck regularly wound its way down Formosa Avenue. And as that familiar hiss of the poisonous fog permeated the air, the local children took it as their cue to quickly find the front door, and scurry behind the retreating vehicle; their bodies now obscured by a chemical cloud. (How any of us avoided keeling over dead on the road is beyond me).

I was eight, and my second grade teacher, Mrs. Sampson, nominated me to appear in a school play; “The Wizard of Oz.” I was given the role of the Fire Wizard. Walking out onto the stage, my face smeared with rouge, and the audience laughing uproariously, I spilled out the lines I had diligently memorized. “I am Oz, the great and the terrible. Who are you and why do you seek me?” (I have never forgotten my hard-learned lines, and if that play is ever re-staged, I’ll be ready for an encore)!

At that time there were still plenty of lightning bugs, humming birds, and Florida crayfish in “our neck of the woods.” As a child I would venture into a nearby cemetery and chase the lightning bugs. I marveled at the speed and agility of the multi-colored humming birds which so often frequented my backyard, and the orange grove beyond it. I waded in local streams, and allowed the 10 legged crayfish to crawl between my toes.

On weekends we climbed Sand Mountain, a thirty story pile of pure white sand generated by the phosphate industry, and made available for public use. We swam at Crystal Beach, a local fresh-water pond, and we attended the latest movie at “The Ritz.”

I recall the first major storm of my young life, Hurricane Donna. The center of that historic cyclone blew its way directly through my little town of Bartow. My dad suggested that we venture out into the eye of the storm, and I will always remember joining him and my brothers in our front yard, for the few minutes in which calm prevailed, and before the second half of the hurricane renewed its efforts to destroy our little town; (thankfully, a feat which it failed to accomplish).

Time and space would fail me to mention dipping my hand into an ice cold drink machine at Clara's Grocery, and pulling out a bottled coke, which cost all of a nickel, the rotten orange fights between the neighborhood kids, skateboarding to the bowling alley at 15, and bowling an phenomenal all-time best of 280, and setting my mother's washing machine on fire with my chemistry set!

I hardly realized it then, but my childhood was nothing less than idyllic. And in recent years I have often conjured up those sacred ghosts of yesteryear; at least in vistas of my mind.

Precious memories. How they linger.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

Though Dead, They Yet Speak

Yesterday I wrote a blog about the senseless murder of two WDBJ employees, by a former employee, during a live broadcast in Virginia.

As the Roanoke area, and the nation, and more significantly, people who knew them, come to grip with the loss of Alison Parker and Adam Ward, a national news anchor alluded to a poignant story concerning Alison.

It seems Leo Hirsbrunner, the station weatherman, tended to keep a package of gum on his desk, and Miss Parker would often “borrow” a stick or two. Having unwrapped her prize, she would hide the wrapper somewhere on the weatherman’s desk; under a paperweight, or inside a tin of breath mints.

Today, one day after the senseless murders, Mr. Hirsbrunner discovered one of Alison’s gum wrappers secreted in some crevice or corner of his desk.

There is another poignant story which comes to us as the result of this tragedy. Melissa Ott, the morning show producer at WDBJ, and fiancée of Adam Ward, was watching the interview when Alison, and her beloved Adam were so rudely deprived of their lives. Oddly enough, yesterday was to have been her last day with the station, and later on the very day of her fiance’s murder,

… her wedding gown was delivered!

I can relate to these experiences. And though the following story concerns an animal, that animal was near and dear to my heart, and the story expresses a similar persuasion.

On March 1, 2006 my aged Shih Tzu passed from this earth; thankfully, at home, and in that circular little bed she frequented during the day. “Buddy” had been deathly ill the night before, her respiration erratic, and as I had just stepped away to make a phone call, my precious pooch met her doggie angel, and just slipped away.

Having spent a few final moments with my little friend, I reflected on the most likely container for her earthly remains, and I happened to glance across my living room. Just recently, a friend had given me a pair of loafers, and the empty shoebox lay next to a chair. It was easily assessable, and the perfect size, and so I picked up that blessed creature, and gently placed her in the box. Gazing at my Buddy one last time, I snapped the lid on the shoebox, and prepared to locate a suitable resting place in my backyard.

Having dug a hole under an oak tree, I lifted my precious pup’s ad-lib casket, and was struck by

… the lingering warmth which still exuded from her lifeless body, and permeated the cardboard of which her little casket was comprised. So much like the warmth she exuded in life.

Some people may think of such experiences as coincidences; just random, though interesting, and paradoxical occurrences.

Somehow, I think Providence is at work in such moments as these; encouraging and reassuring us that those whom we loved are not all that far from us, and

… this is not all there is.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

 

The Inestimably Sad. The Paradoxically Unacceptable

Today’s date is August 26, 2015.

A date that will live in infamy, perhaps on a microcosmic basis compared to the original date, and macrocosmic occurrence which our beloved president once referred to. But for a small, rural town in Virginia, that which happened today was inestimably sad and thoroughly unacceptable, and forever unforgettable.

Alison Parker, a local television reporter, and Adam Ward, her cameraman, were involved in an out of doors interview today with the local Chamber of Commerce chairwoman when the unimaginable happened.

It seems a disgruntled former employee approached the trio, and proceeded to gun them down on live television. As the camera dropped to the ground, along with its operator, Mr. Ward, Alison struggled to run; only to succumb to the perpetrator. (The third party, though badly wounded, is expected to live).

The gunman, whose name I choose to omit, was later pulled over by police, but died by his own hand before an arrest could be made.

As often as I hear of such violent crimes occurring in our midst, and around the world, and so often to the kindest, most deserving young adults, well, I simply cannot understand what Providence found in me that I have been given the opportunity to live out a long, and (I hope) productive life on the earth. I will never understand the loss of the good and worthy, their potential to remain unrealized; stolen from us at the whim of an individual less worthy than they, themselves.

There’s a poignant scene in the movie, “Saving Private Ryan,” in which a dying captain, who has in effect, sacrificed his life for a young soldier, summons the young man, and in his last throes of life whispers to the young private.

“Earn it. Earn it.”

In a subsequent scene the elderly Private Ryan, along with his family, approaches Captain Miller’s Normandy gravesite, kneels, with tears running down his cheeks, and with trembling lips asks his wife the proverbial question.

“Have I been a good man?” (or, in essence, “Have I earned it?”)

To which his wife offers him gentle affirmation.

When I see precious, young, promising lives like Alison and Adam paradoxically and unnecessarily depart this world prematurely, I never cease to ask myself the same question as the elderly soldier asked that day.

“Have I earned it?”

I think I am too close to the matter to properly answer that question. I like to think the very fact that I am sensitive enough to ask the question will, ultimately, be found to be in my favor.

God bless those two dear souls who went on to their reward today. May He take them up in His strong arms, and may they find rest from their labors.

 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 5

 

 

The Last Victim of WWII?

A San Francisco Bay-area man died after being run over by a World War Two-era tank during a family reunion over the weekend at a property owned by the chairman of Jelly Belly Candy Co, officials and the family said.

The California Highway Patrol said 54-year-old Kevin Wright was riding on the front of the 1944 model M5 tank on Saturday afternoon when he lost his balance and fell in front of the vehicle as it traveled down a hill.

The property in the city of Fairfield, about 50 miles northeast of San Francisco, belongs to Jelly Belly Chairman Herman Rowland, according to family spokeswoman Holly Carter.

Carter said the tank's driver, 62-year-old Dwayne Brasher, is married to Rowland's daughter and the current Jelly Belly chief executive officer, Lisa Rowland Brasher.

"The gentleman involved in this accident was a passionate person, always ready to lend a hand and we shared the same deep rooted love of history," Herman Rowland said in a statement. "There are no words to describe the grief we are experiencing."

Police said neither drugs nor alcohol were believed to have factored into the incident.

The Rowland family said it was assisting officials in the investigation and was seeking to provide "intensive counseling" services to those who witnessed the event.

Carter said about 50 people, including children, were in attendance.

Reuters News, August 24, 2015