MY MONKEY & ME

 4549

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 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.

 By Bill McDonald, PhD

*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, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

 

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. ( not sure the time of year), but when we came home we never saw him again. I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(And in regard to my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey love and care…)

“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too.”

(Kim Frye)

“I and two other guys, all around 15 in approx. 1970 out of Bartow hired on for the Summer at that Caladium Farm w/ Mr. Frye, pulling weeds and cutting bulbs. There was a mischievous Spider Monkey (actually a squirrel monkey) there and if I recollect correctly, a sort of tropical forest or the sorts, back behind the Main Shed. Also if correct, there was a fairly old Lady who dipped snuff and had worked there for many years who could out do us youngsters. I think her son was there too.

(Stephen McWhorter)

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHOLENESS

 4548

At the beginning of this year, I wrote down my yearly word: wholeness.

Ironically(and also on brand for me), I forgot about it.

But God never did(also on brand for Him).

This year, I've learned that wholeness isn't one more thing to achieve. It's something God forms in us through surrender.

Before He builds up, He often strips away.

The need to perform.

The things we've built our identity on.

The habits that keep us comfortable.

The lies we've believed.

The places we've settled for less than His best.

It's rarely comfortable. Sometimes debilitatingly messy.

But God never strips away something good just to leave us empty. He strips away what was never meant to define us so He can make room for something better.

More freedom.

More peace.

More integrity.

More trust.

More of Him.

True wholeness isn't having every area of life perfectly together. In fact, I've learned that having an expectation self-focused on perfection is actually a refusal to receive God's grace built on an altar of pride and ego.

Instead, wholeness is a faithful surrender. It's allowing Jesus to have access to every one of those imperfect areas. Mind, body, spirit.

By His grace, as we surrender, we stop striving to become someone in our own strength and begin living from the identity He has been forming in us all along.

That's the place where true freedom, joy and authenticity are found. With a heart fully surrendered at the foot of the Cross.

Krista Frantz

A VERY GOOD NUMBER

 4547

33 years. The time in which Mr. Rogers made a difference in lives is so symmetrical with my own ministry. I just completed 33 years as a pastoral counselor, and retired in the past month. Of course, Jesus only began his earthly ministry at 33. (Sounds like a very good number).

A PILGRIMAGE TO SALEM

 4546

Pt. 1

 

I have always wanted to visit Salem, Massachusetts.

 

It is a sad and convoluted story, but I have family ties there; undesired, undenied, but undisputable ties there.

 

As any serious student of history knows, between 1692 and 1693 dozens of Salem's citizens were accused of being witches, and approximately thirty were not only judged, but found guilty. As a result, most were hung by the neck 'til dead, at least one was pressed to death by heavy stones, and several died in prison.

 

I regret to say that two of my ancient uncles, Joseph and Jarvis Ring, were involved in that nasty business.

 

Fast forward exactly three and one third centuries.

 

Recently my wife and I were in Massachusetts. Our daughter had undergone surgery in Boston, remained in the hospital several days, and was released to return home. Having been released, Kristy insisted on driving the two hours which lay ahead of us.

 

However, we had hardly left the hospital when our plans abruptly changed.

 

Our daughter spoke.

 

"How about we take a slight detour? Haven't you always wanted to see Salem?"

 

To which I replied,

 

"Well, you have just completed a serious operation. Wouldn't you rather head on home?"

 

Not to be deterred, Kristy was determined to follow through with her plan.

 

Pt. 2

 

 

Not knowing Massachusetts, I had no idea I might have almost walked the 15 miles between Boston and Salem. We were there before a half hour had elapsed.

 

I had read the testimonies of my maternal 9th great uncles, Joseph and Jarvis. I knew they had accused, and testified against a particular woman.

 

While we were in Salem, my daughter and I took a trolley tour; a tour which focused on the sites where the accused citizens were interned, and, ultimately, executed. We drove by the site of the old prison, and the location of the hangings. Having been hung, their bodies were thrown off the brow of a hill. (It is said that their relatives retrieved their bodies at night, and provided them a primitive burial).

 

I had seen photos of the Salem memorial stones; each one bearing the name of one of the accused so-called "witches."

One of the stones was inscribed with the name, Susannah Martin; the lady against whom my ancient relatives gave false testimony.

 

I stood there for the longest time. And I found myself doing penance, as it were; on the part of mouths long since stilled, and which no longer had the wherewithal to utter an accusing word.

 

"I am so, so sorry, Susannah. You were wrongfully deprived of a long, good life. I ask your forgiveness. My family asks your forgiveness."

 

It seemed a weight, almost as heavy as that memorial stone, fell off my shoulders.

 

Old Testament scripture speaks of generational blessings and curses. I think if the dynamic of curses applies in the New Testament, it is largely due to bad role modeling, and a conscious willingness to emulate one's forebears' behavior patterns. Those who have placed their faith in a merciful Savior, who have been forgiven of their sins, and have been saved by grace have, I believe, been removed from the curse.

However, I not only did what I had to do that day. I did what I had desperately wanted to do.

 

As a counselor I have often told my clients,

 

"There are no time machines."      

 

And yet, I like to think I fulfilled a personal mission that day which will serve, as best just one man can, to reconcile a severe injustice inflicted upon someone who in no way deserved it.

 

Rest in peace, Susannah. Rest in peace.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

ROY & DALE ROGERS - Trials & Triumphs

 4545

Five-year-old Dusty Rogers watched through a window as Roy Rogers and Dale Evans held each other outside their home for nearly eleven hours. Their daughter Robin had died just before her second birthday. The two people America expected to smile and sing were simply parents who could barely stand. Dusty remembered, “We looked out the window, and they would just be sobbing, holding each other. I couldn’t understand why we couldn’t see Robin.”

Dusty had entered the family through loss. Born in 1946, he was only days old when his biological mother, Arline, died after a blood clot from childbirth reached her heart. Roy suddenly had three young children during the busiest stretch of his career. Dale married him in 1947 and became Dusty’s mother when he was about eighteen months old. “Dale was my mother. She came in when I was a year and a half old, and all of us kids loved her. I never knew any other mother, so I couldn’t ask for a better one.”

For years, Dusty thought his father simply made movies. He spent birthdays between ages two and five on sets, then discovered Roy and Dale belonged partly to thousands of children who surrounded them on tour and watched “The Roy Rogers Show” (1951). “You want your mom and dad yourself. You don’t want to share them with anybody when you’re young like that,” he said. Fame first felt like strangers borrowing his parents.

Robin’s birth in 1950 changed the house. She had Down syndrome, and doctors urged Roy and Dale to place her in an institution. Roy refused. “We can never give a gift up. You never throw her away. A gift is a gift no matter who gives it to you, you keep it.” He brought Robin home and built a protected area because she was fragile. Dusty crawled beneath her crib, touched her arm, and waited for her giggle as she searched for him through the bars.

Robin’s health could turn without warning. Dusty saw his parents crying after difficult days, then preparing to face cameras while part of them remained beside their sick child. After her death, they walked back inside and reassured the frightened children that death was not about to carry everyone away. Dale later sat on a New York park bench, struggling to shape Robin’s story, until she decided to let Robin narrate “Angel Unaware” herself.

Grief did not make their home smaller. When Roy and Dale returned from a trip carrying Sandy and baby Dodie, Dusty was furious that another boy had taken his place. He soon became Sandy’s defender when other children picked on him. Roy gathered the growing household and said, “You’re all the same in God’s eyes. You’re the same in your mother’s and my eyes, and you are all going to be treated equally.”

Dusty also watched Roy visit children inside iron lungs during the polio years. Roy moved beside each machine so a child could see his face without using the overhead mirror. He hung a cowboy gun belt nearby and promised it could be worn after the child fought hard enough to leave. Decades later, adults approached Dusty after concerts carrying those worn belts and saying his father had given them a reason to keep fighting.

The family endured more empty bedrooms. Debbie, their adopted Korean daughter, died in a 1964 bus crash while Roy was hospitalized after neck surgery. Passing her room became unbearable. Roy finally said, “We’ve got to move. We’ve got to get out of here. It just isn’t the same place that I remember.” They moved to Apple Valley, then lost Sandy during Army service in Germany in 1965. Still, children needed comfort, and Roy and Dale kept choosing one another.

At home, their greatest roles were simply Mom and Dad.

MERA - Social Media Page

ALMOSTS A.K.A. WHEN YOUR GUARDIAN ANGEL WORKS OVERTIME

 4544

I have previously written about most, or all of my "almosts." 

However, I am inclined to revisit the topic.

As I remember the year was 1968, and I was working as a laborer in the phosphate industry. I had offered two fellow laborers a ride home, and as we rounded a curve in the driving rain, on an old mine road, I managed to do a very realistic imitation of an action movie. My 1964 Ford Fairlane rolled three times before coming to a stop; wheels pointed skyward.

And then there was the time I was working at the same, (or perhaps a different phosphate mine), a year or two later. For lack of a better term, I was a Pit Car Man. I, and another fellow, (whose identity has long escaped me), would sit in, for lack of a better term, hydraulic trailer, and aim steel water nozzles at the phosphate feed, (or ore), which a nearby dragline deposited twenty feet in front of us. The water from our hydraulic guns washed the phosphate into a large pipe leading to the processing facility. From time to time, I would take a break, and walk over to the dragline to "shoot the bull" with the operator. However, on this particular evening, I was a bit careless, as I found myself walking across the sweep of the ten ton dragline bucket, and, unbeknownst to me, the "bigger digger" was on its way to "taking me out." Suddenly, the dragline operator noticed me in the darkness of the night, and went into emergency mode. Mr. Jenkins slammed his hand against a lever, and the bucket bumped against the curvature of the deep pit from which he had been digging. I was just seconds from "past tense." Needless to say, the operator gave me "what for."

I suppose it was about 1990, and we were driving home from church one Sunday in our 1980 something big green Oldsmobile. As we approached a stop sign on our right, a small blue car failed to yield. I could make out a man and his wife in the front seat. Peering at my wife and me from the back seat were a young boy and girl. My wife slammed on brakes! 50 feet. 40 feet. We were skidding towards oblivion for all that old Oldsmobile was worth! Six people were well on their way to the Promised Land! (Did I mention we weren't wearing seatbelts? We weren't). And it seemed that time slowed down, as if I had been granted the grace to ponder the best decision under the briefest of time constraints. Without so much as a thought, I knew, I just knew what to do. Reaching over with my left hand, I took the steering wheel away from my wife, and began to steer our vehicle to the right. And although the brakes were locking up now, our automobile had the slightest mobility of lateral movement. Now, we found ourselves passing behind the little blue vehicle, and the precious family therein, by all of 12 or 14 inches! However, what happened next might have rivaled the best carnival ride. For now, the front of our old car began doing a mind-boggling 180! By now, the offending vehicle had continued on its journey. (And given our juxtaposition, it was plainly visible out the front windshield)! We were skidding backwards at perhaps 40 mph, and couldn't do a thing about it. However, slowly, but ever so surely, we lost momentum, and came to rest in a grassy area next to the panel fence of a private home. The Lord had surely been riding with us!

About 15 years ago, I decided to cut back a tree which was hanging over my driveway. My neighbor's oak tree insisted on shedding pollen all over the concrete each Fall. Retrieving a long, aluminum straight ladder from my backyard, I walked it through my garage, and laid it down in the grass under the tree. After surveying the limbs that I planned to cut, I lifted the ladder, and propped it against an old, unused, wooden basketball post. Well, my friends, whoever said that "hindsight is always 20/20" was "onto something!" Although the square edges of the ladder, and the round lack of edges of the post were anything but symmetrical, I figured I would make it work. Whoever said, "almost is only close enough in hand grenades, and nuclear war" was also "onto something." I proceeded to climb the ladder, a handsaw in my right hand. I had climbed up five steps, and was at the height of about six feet when the ladder wobbled, and shifted to the left! I was falling; (and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it)! My body was in the process of doing the Isaac Newton thing! Speaking of time slowing down, I once again experienced the same sensation. I had a choice to make, and the results of my choice would seal my fate; be it mild, moderate, or downright miserable. I could land in the face plant position, land on one foot, or land on two feet. I chose the latter of the three options. Having landed on both feet, I sensed an excruciating pain in my right ankle. Sitting down on the concrete, and not unlike Mrs. Fairfax in the Victorian novel, "Jane Eyre," I thought, "What to do? What to do?" Having arrived at a conclusion, I managed to crawl to the basketball post, and stand up on my left leg. Now, I hop-scotched to the front door; a space of perhaps 30 feet. Ultimately, after having the damage evaluated, and discovering I had powered the bones in my ankle, I submitted to surgery, a significant amount of plates and screws were embedded, and a fluorescent yellow cast was installed. I will spare you most of the details here, but a couple weeks later I was hobbling around the house on crutches, and my wife suddenly said, "What is that on the back of your calf; just above the cast?" Sitting down, I turned my calf so I could look at it. An almost black, valentine-shaped mole. (Well, my friends, it was definitely no valentine)! The color contrast between the cast and the mole had made the latter much more apparent. After a biopsy, I learned it was a deadly melanoma. Another surgery was the order of the day. Later, it occurred to me that had I not broken my ankle, and the subsequent fluorescent yellow cast not been installed, my melanoma might have never been discovered, it would have, no doubt, metastasized, and by now, I would not be among the land of the living!

Speaking of automobile accidents which almost, but not quite, happened, my wife was driving (again), and we were pulling out of a service station. A couple of cars were coming up from the left. Had it been me, I would have scooted on out, and gone about our business. However, my wife made the decision to let them go by; before pulling out behind them. Now, Jean and I made our way across a railroad track, and now about thirty feet in front of us, a utility truck stopped at a stop sign; perhaps rather too quickly, because now, a 20 foot long aluminum ladder sailed off the top of the vehicle, and across our line of sight! Grace, Grace, God's Grace! It occurred to both of us. Had my wife not stopped to allow traffic to go by, (or had I been driving), that ladder, and two aging travelers would have intersected, and the former would have entered the passenger window, and exited the driver's window, in turn decapitating each of us!

About seven years ago, I was serving as staff counselor at a residential center for women who had been newly released from prison. Our resident bedrooms were upstairs, and it was not unusual for me to assist our ladies with their personal possessions. A new house mother was moving in, and I grabbed her duffle bag, (the kind with strings, not straps), and I proceeded to climb the staircase. Unfortunately, I threw it over my right shoulder which left me holding the bag, and not the banister. Steps one through four. Check. Ninety degree angle at the landing. Check. Steps five through eight. Check. Now, however, it all (literally) began to fall apart! Either the bag was heavier than I expected, or my legs were weaker, but I began to lose my balance. The duffle bag went first. Off it went, and fell to the floor, below. I took a somewhat different route. I found myself falling backwards! Step Eight, Step Seven, Step Six, Step Five. Check. And whereas, I should have crashed, and come to a painful rest on the landing, I didn't! By now, I had gained too much momentum, and I found myself completing a reverse 90 degree angle. Check. I was only half done! Step four. Step three. Step two. Step one. Check. And now, and only now, I landed with a sickening thud on the ground floor. (Check)! Whereas, I should have been paralyzed, or dead, I was neither! Now, having heard my impressive 220 pounds "hit the deck," the house administrator appeared. "Don't get up! Don't get up!" But I did! Only the new house mother saw my calamitous fall. She told me later that it was the most violent thing she had ever witnessed. 

What I have described to you here represents some, but not nearly all of my "almosts;" which God saw fit to grant to me during the course of my life. I cannot account for having experienced more "almosts" than some people might have experienced in five lifetimes. However, as I review the stories which I have previously shared with you, I notice that out of six accounts, four of the events can be attributed to abject carelessness. And the other two were simply circumstantial in nature, my wife was the primary party, and I was "just along for the ride." (Do we see a trend here)? 

I plead guilty. I'm just a dangerous kinda guy! Always have been. (Hope, I won't always be). However, where does this leave us in terms of those among us who have not been blessed with even one "almost?" I simply can't account for it. 

I think of my high school classmates who were deprived of long, satisfying, meaningful lives. One young lady, a minister's daughter, a person of potential. She was 60 seconds from home. A rainy night. Coming back from a date, her boyfriend turned into what he thought was the entrance to her subdivision; only to bottom out in a deep, rain-swollen ditch. The young man lived. My dear classmate didn't. "Julie" was only 17. She was not granted even one "almost." 

The closest I have ever come to a possible "heads or tails" to it all is something I once read about the subject. Short of the person who knowingly takes unnecessary risks, or chooses to take their own life, I think one scripture, in particular, rings true. 

"My times are in His hands." (Psalm 31:15)

In regard to the previous paragraph, given the disclaimers I mentioned, and import of this scripture, whomever philosophized about the topic said,

"When a young person dies, it was foreknown, and approved by the Creator, and it was simply their time. They had simply lived out their appointed days on the earth."

Somehow, it seems God has provided me, and many others far too many "almosts," and not nearly enough "almosts" to many others. There is something which rings so unfair about it. However, I think as long as we live here, we must be grateful for each new day which He has granted to us, and wait patiently for a better explanation; which may only be available on the other side of eternity.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

REACHING THE AUCA PEOPLE - Jim & Elisabeth Elliot

 4543

How Elisabeth Elliot Reached the Auca (Huaorani) People

Elisabeth Elliot’s ability to reach the Auca people was the result of a combination of language learning, cultural understanding, and a radical act of forgiveness.

After her husband Jim Elliot and four other missionaries were killed in January 1956 during Operation Auca, Elisabeth could have left Ecuador. Instead, she chose to continue her mission work. She had already spent two years among the Quichua people, where she met two Auca women — including Dayuma — who taught her and fellow missionary Rachel Saint the Auca language Wikipedia+1. This linguistic foundation was essential, as it allowed her to communicate the Gospel without relying on interpreters.

In October 1958, Elisabeth, her daughter Valerie, and Rachel went to meet the Auca tribe. Dayuma, the woman who had taught them the language, introduced them to the tribe, and they were welcomed to live among them Wikipedia+1. Elisabeth began teaching the Bible, using the language she had learned and the cultural context she had studied. She approached the people with compassion and forgiveness, even toward those who had killed her husband, which helped break down barriers and build trust East-West+1.

Her ministry was not just about preaching; it also involved education, cultural engagement, and showing love. She worked alongside the tribe, helping them see the Gospel as a message of peace and freedom, not as a threat to their way of life East-West. This approach, combined with the fact that many Auca had already begun to believe through the work of Nate Saint’s sister Rachel, created an environment where the Gospel could take root.

By the end of her two years among them, many Auca had embraced Christianity, and the tribe renamed themselves Waorani, rejecting the derogatory term “Auca” East-West. Elisabeth’s ability to reach them was thus rooted in faith, preparation, cultural sensitivity, and a willingness to forgive, which together made it possible for her to minister to the very people who had killed her husband.