911: MY PERSONAL "WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN"

 4560

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

FORGIVENESS VS. RECONCILIATION

 4559

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

A MOMENTARY MEETING ON AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

 4558

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

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

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

"Are you an American?"

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

I responded.

"Yes, yes I am."

My newfound friend continued.

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

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

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

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

UNFINISHED DREAMS

 4557

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

 

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

 

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

 

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

 

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

 

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

 

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

 

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

 

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

 

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

 

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

 

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

 

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

 

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

 

They gave their tomorrows for our todays.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

A DANGEROUS KINDA GUY

 4556

(Those perilous 8 steps)

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

(But, I did).

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE HAND ON MY SHOULDER

 4555

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

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

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

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

However…

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

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

…there was no one there!

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

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

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

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

THE WEAVER'S TAPESTRY

The tapestry He weaves in me is twined in many hues

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

The tapestry He weaves in me is rich and very pure

 

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

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

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

Tis then His image shall appear, His tapestry is done

 by Bill McDonald, PhD. Copyright 2007