THOSE WEARY DAYS AND DREARY NIGHTS

 4577

I am an advocate of both the spoken, and the written word, and attempt to use them often, and fluently; in order to make a difference in the lives God sets in my pathway.

Among my foreign social media friends, I somehow met and messaged a twenty something Ukrainian woman several times.

Anna lived in the capital city of Kiev; a location which, though not in the very thick of the land battles which plagued Ukraine, it has, at times, suffered air assaults by cruise and ballistic missiles, and drones. 

And during the weary days and dreary nights the city was under attack, Anna and I continued to correspond, (though I have, admittedly, forgotten the topics of our exchanges). However, I am by nature an encourager, and I presume we discussed any number of things, including the war, and the fear which permeated her life.

Ultimately, Anna managed to migrate to Poland, and from there to Great Britain.

At some point she messaged me again from London, (or some other city in England), and began to reminisce about those deadly encounters with missiles and drones, as she sat cowering in the local subway, or municipal building basement on a recurring basis.

"Dr. Bill, you have no idea how much your words encouraged me during those long and lonely nights when missiles were falling all around us, and when my neighbors and I might have died at any moment. You were there with me when fear and anxiety threatened to overwhelm me!"

(and)

"Thank you, my friend."

If my entire life had been mundane and uneventful, if I had somehow failed to make a difference in a solitary life 'til then, it would be enough to have "merely" encouraged my friend, Anna, and helped bring her safely through that awful war which raged around her.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

STAY ENCOURAGED

 4576

I was a member of the U.S. Air Force at the time, and my wife and I were attending a large church in Tampa.

And as is the case with many evangelical churches, Pastor Matheny occasionally brought in guest speakers. However, this time around the guest evangelist was, to say the least, different than all the rest who proceeded him.

Other than his Mississippi accent, Rev. Brown possessed one particular trait which separated him from every other evangelist with whom I’d been acquainted in my (at that time) 20+ years of life on this planet. (And to be sure, I’ve never seen that trait recreated in the almost half century since).

Now and then, as the good preacher reached a point in his sermon which he thought worthy of a figurative exclamation mark, he would throw out his right leg at a 45 degree angle. I suppose this occurred all of six or eight times during the course of every 45 minute message, and which he faithfully performed throughout the one week series of revival meetings.

The last night of his meetings finally arrived, and as his final sermon concluded, the audience was invited to ‘q up’ and wish the evangelist ‘God speed;’ as he prepared to travel to his next engagement. And although I have stood behind numerous pulpits and counseled thousands, I still possess a bit of introvertism I seem to bring to certain situations. However, this was obviously not one of them, since I had especially enjoyed the evangelist’ messages, and his strange little mannerism struck me both humorous and unique.

As the line ebbed, and I brought up the rear, I reached out to shake the good preacher’s hand, and he reciprocated. And looking me directly in the eye, Rev. Brown said something no one had said to me before, (nor since).

…“Stay Encouraged.”

And over the next almost 60 years I have been faithful to pass those same two life-giving words on to hundreds of friends, acquaintances, strangers, and clients. And some have reminded me later how much those 14 letters have meant to them, and impacted their thoughts and emotions when they needed it most. And for this I am humbled, and I am grateful.

Stay Encouraged!

"But day by day, and as long as today shall last continue to encourage one another." (Hebrews 3:13)

by Bill McDonald, PhD

STORM CLOUDS, GOONEY BIRDS, AND CUBAN COFFEE

 4575

Pt. 1

Today marks 34 years since we received the call. My National Guard unit had been mobilized to report to south Florida, as the result of the devastation visited by Hurricane Andrew upon the City of Homestead.

 

As our convoy rushed past pine trees, and palmetto bushes, and  entered “the zone of influence,” it seemed we transcended a fine line of demarcation between intact civilization, and what might well have passed for a war zone.

 

Whereas, the flora which surrounded us showed little or no sign of having been impacted by the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew, and I had begun to wonder why we had been called away from the lives to which we were generally accustomed, the devastation which suddenly greeted us was nothing less than incomprehensible.

 

Palm trees broken like matchsticks, and haphazardly scattered across acres of countryside which bordered our asphalt entre into a real-life Neverland. A automobile dealership with its doors and windows blown out, and its stock in trade heaped in colorful metallic piles around it. An ocean going vessel, a hundred feet in length, lying on its side beneath a highway overpass. Multiplied thousands of businesses and expensive homes annihilated by the mindless, unmitigated force of nature.

 

And what struck me strange was how much like this little piece of south Florida resembled Maine in Wintertime, as every plant, bush and tree had been rudely stripped of their leaves; (a condition which was summarily reversed when, so uncharacteristic of Florida, and as we neared the end of our mission, a multitude of buds graced every stem and branch).

 

It was August and it was hot, and the lack of air conditioning, or even a fan in the green canvas Army tents which served as our homes away from home was just short of unbearable. Rain water washed easily across the floor of our transient tabernacle, and the buzz and subsequent bite of a thousand bloodsuckers provided scant little respite, as we slipped, still deeper, into our heavy, woolen sleeping bags.

 

Pt. 2

 

The 2^nd Battalion, 116^th Field Artillery was stationed at the Metro Zoo; or at least what was left of it. Most of the animals had been evacuated to other locations, outside the projected perimeter of Ground Zero. However, a nearby research facility had been abandoned in place and left unattended. And as a result, some unintended results were in the offing.

 

Dozens of monkeys were on the prowl. But not just your garden variety monkeys. Did I mention the facility which they called home was an AIDS research complex? (Well, it was). And as you might imagine, we were admonished to shoot the little fellas on sight. To my knowledge none of our troops chanced upon any of the little boogers. Word is that many of the hapless simians migrated to the nearby everglades, (and there is every reason to believe that their contaminated descendants continue to populate the area).

 

My section wound up with a couple of assignments during the course of our 40 day tenure in the most God forsaken two hundred square mile piece of ground on Planet Earth.

 

“Country Walk” was (and perhaps, by now, is again) an exclusive subdivision made up of half million dollar homes. But I regret to say Hurricane Andrew made short work of the place. And in retrospect, it was discovered that the building codes were insufficient for winds half as strong as this storm visited on the place.

 

Large heaps of plywood and orange tile bearing little semblance to the magnificent homes which once lined the idyllic streets upon which we navigated our camouflaged Humvees. Manicured yards covered with fallen oak trees, and a neighbor’s kitchen garbage.

 

And from my guard post, near the entrance of the formerly elite community, one of the most peculiar sights to which I have ever been exposed.

 

A 1930’s era C-47 prop airplane sitting “all by its lonely” in a nearby field; with little or no visible damage. I asked my section chief about it, and Sergeant Hoehne informed me that unlike the proverbial turtle on a fence post, this plane definitely got there by itself. For you see, before the recent storm collapsed the hanger in which it had been on permanent display, the aged “Gooney Bird” had been part and parcel of a WWII collection of vintage airplanes.

 

Almost inexplicably, it had been lifted into the air by a small, embedded twister, done its own solitary ‘Dorothy in Kansas’ act, and managed to take its last flight… without a pilot. Ultimately, as though resting in the hand of Providence, the plane experienced the shortest flight, and the strangest landing of its long and storied career.

 

Pt. 3

 

Day gave way to night, and night gave way to day, and as Sergeant Bob and I relieved the night shift one morning, and took our place near the guard shack, a thirty something year old man stepped out of a nearby house, (or what was left of it) ambled over to us, and proceeded to share a story which easily gave my previous tale of the Gooney Bird “a run for its money.”

 

For it seems Robert and his wife made the fateful decision to remain in their home and weather the hurricane. Given the now obvious state of their little corner of paradise, it almost cost them their lives.

 

August 24, 1992. A day that will live in infamy; at least a day the citizens of the Miami suburb which was Homestead, Florida will remember for as long as they draw breath. And for those such as Robert and Trisha, who chose to “ride it out” in their homes, the experience was not only memorable, but the most traumatic circumstance of their entire lives.

 

But I’ll allow Robert to tell the tale.

 

“Trish and I have experienced other hurricanes, and we figured this one couldn’t be much worse. I mean, our house has weathered several of ‘em, and the worst of it was always a few missing shingles.

 

It began very much like the other storms. The clouds grew dark, and the wind picked up a bit, and of course we’d tuned our television to the Weather Channel.

 

I guess we had been lulled into complacency. I mean the weatherman can ‘cry wolf’ so many times, and so many times the storm’s bark is so much worse that its bite.

 

Pt. 4

 

But we found out the hard way. 30 or 40 minutes into the thing, it got bad. I mean, it got really bad, and we began to question our sanity for staying put in our house. We could hear shingles flying off the roof, and then a few hairline cracks appeared in the ceiling. Suddenly, something smashed into our front bay window, and the wind came roaring into our living room.

 

I grabbed Trisha’s hand and we ran for the hall bathroom. It was all I could do to push the door shut behind us. The sounds around us were just monstrous; like nothing I’d ever heard before. At this point, we got into the bathtub, clothes and all, and just sat there in each other’s arms.

 

Sergeant, I’m not ashamed to tell you I was more afraid than I have ever been before, or ever hope to be again. We just held one another, affirmed our love for each other, and said our ‘goodbyes.’ I honestly expected a first responder or insurance agent would discover our bodies. Of course, I didn’t share my thoughts with Trish.”

 

Robert continued.

 

“Thank God for that small bathroom. It was the only room which came through the storm intact. We simply could not have survived in any other room in our house. The ceilings collapsed, and every window had been blown out. Glass and debris was everywhere.”

 

Before Robert returned to what was left of his former home he made us aware that he’d just been interviewed for a feature segment on the popular news show, “20/20.” (And though I have attempted to locate that particular segment, I’ve never run across it).

 

Pt. 5

 

Of course, I previously inferred my section performed another role during the 40 days we served in aftermath of Hurricane Andrew. (And I have never been able to refer to that season without thinking of Noah, and the 40 day aftermath of the Great Flood; when the Ark waited to rest on dry land).

 

About halfway into that little season, (although it seemed interminable) our duties at Country Walk culminated, and we were diverted to the flea market in Homestead. And admittedly, under such circumstances one might wonder what eight or ten reservists would be doing at a flea market, after what at the time was the worst storm in U.S. history. And I can only respond, “Well, I’m glad you asked.”

 

The federal government was, as the result of the storm, in the process of dispensing emergency food stamps to the citizens of that extended community, and since the value of this commodity was in the multiplied millions of dollars, our unit provided armed security. (And my dear readers, armed we were). Whereas, the 25,000 active duty troops in the area walked around with unloaded M-16’s, (as Martial Law had not been declared) each and every one of the 10,000 members of the Florida Army National Guard carried a full clip of live rounds. (None of that Barney Fife and the one bullet in his pocket thing for us).

 

I recall a couple of unforgettable experiences during our tour of duty at the flea market.

 

A young Haitian woman approached my section chief with a question, but it was readily apparent she didn’t speak English. Having had a year of French in college, I immediately recognized her need, and I responded with, “Voila la toilette,” and pointed towards a distant Port-a-Potty. (Had she wanted a rundown of the latest stock market report I’m afraid my fluency in the French language, or lack thereof, would have failed me).

Pt. 6

 

I will always remember the kindness of an elderly Cuban woman who offered me a cup of that rich dark coffee for which her little island is so widely known. And while I was not then, nor am I now a fan of coffee, I absolutely loved it. As it fell together a quarter of a century would ensue before I would taste it again. Just the other day my wife and I walked into a local Cuban restaurant and ordered a cup of the lovely stuff. (Somewhat of a distant echo of a mission completed, and a job well done).

 

A few minutes later the sky grew dark, and a common, run of the mill Florida thunderstorm approached from the east; (the same direction from whence Hurricane Andrew and its devastating 180 mph winds had come). As the wind freshened, and it began to sprinkle, a little dark-haired girl in the crowd, perhaps all of five years of age, began crying, and could not be comforted. I immediately recognized the symptoms, and surmised that like Robert and Trisha, her family had, just three weeks before, chosen to remain in their home, rather than flee the impending storm. (No doubt, the now thirty-something year old woman is still triggered when the sky grows dark, the winds begin to blow, and a little H2O descends from the sky).

 

We must have been quite a sight walking in and out of stores and eating establishments wearing camo clothing, and with our M-16’s slung over our shoulders. (Somewhat reminiscent of Uganda and Idi Amin). On one especially memorable day, perhaps a month into our tenure in that storm-stricken city, SFC Hoehne and I walked out of a local McDonald’s; having just purchased our own respective “to go” meals. And without warning, a lovely young woman walked up, wrapped her arms around me, and exclaimed,

 

“You guys just don’t know how much we appreciate you” (and) “Thank you for helping us.”

 

And as quickly as she appeared, she was gone. I never cease to think of her, and though her name eludes me, I hope she is well, and I often mention her in my prayers.

 

Pt. 7

 

The last day finally arrived and several hundred guardsmen were more than ready to bid ‘adieu’ to their adopted city. Our task was complete, and yet, there were tasks and missions plenty for countless volunteers in the months which lay ahead.

As we walked across the parking lot reminiscing about our singular experiences, a bald eagle drifted over our heads, flew the length of our compound, and disappeared on the horizon. Tears filled my eyes. The tour was done, but would never be forgotten.

We were back, but we would never be the same. We could only be the better for that which we had seen, that which we had experienced, and for those brave citizens whom we had met.

We had returned to our natural environment. The air seemed fresher. The flowers more colorful. The sky a bit bluer. Oh, how thankful we were on the other side of the storm.

Odd, it took two weeks before I overcame the unexpected fatigue which overwhelmed me, and it became apparent that I had too long been exposed to the whites and blacks and browns and grays of that hurricane-stricken city. And I realized how that awful place had somehow impacted my visual sensibilities, and resulted in a physical weariness.

 

But what of those we left behind?

Their lives were budding again. Just as surely as the trees of their city began to bud anew, after being so rudely stripped of their leaves.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

THE STRANGE CASE OF PHAROAH'S DAUGHTER

 4574

Pt. 1

I like to think I am well-versed in Judeo-Christian scripture. However, I “ran across” a bit of biblical history this week with which I was totally unfamiliar.

But allow me to begin at the beginning.

I attended a church Sunday in which I will be serving as a pastoral counselor, and I was provided the opportunity to share my ministry with the congregation. Having shared my mission with the parishioners, I sat down, and prepared to listen as the Pastor waxed eloquent. I was not disappointed.

Following is his initial scripture text from the Book of Exodus, Chapter 2:1-10

“Now a man of the tribe of Levi married a Levite woman, and she became pregnant and gave birth to a son. When she saw that he was a fine child, she hid him for three months. But when she could hide him no longer, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with tar and pitch. Then she placed the child in it and put it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile. His sister stood at a distance to see what would happen to him.

“Then Pharaoh’s daughter went down to the Nile to bathe, and her attendants were walking along the riverbank. She saw the basket among the reeds and sent her female slave to get it. She opened it and saw the baby. He was crying, and she felt sorry for him. ‘This is one of the Hebrew babies,’ she said.

“Then his sister asked Pharaoh’s daughter, ‘Shall I go and get one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby for you?’

“‘Yes, go,’ she answered. So, the girl went and got the baby’s mother. Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, ‘Take this baby and nurse him for me, and I will pay you.’ So, the woman took the baby and nursed him. When the child grew older, she took him to Pharaoh’s daughter and he became her son. She named him Moses, saying, ‘I drew him out of the water.’”

Pt. 2

I find it interesting that in the preceding passage of scripture, four of five 0f the primary characters go unnamed. The baby in the basket is none other than Moses. His father is Amram. His mother is Jochebed. His sister is Miriam. We learn the identity of Pharaoh’s daughter a bit later.

One of the best known persons in ancient Egypt has gone down to the Jordan River to bathe, when she notices a basket floating in the reeds. With this, she sends one of her attendants to fetch it.

And it is here that the providence of Almighty God begins to play itself out. Of course, Pharaoh has pronounced an edict that the newborn sons of the Hebrews should be killed; (and, no doubt, some were, though many were spared by midwives who feared God, and disobeyed the king’s order).

However, Pharaoh’s daughter, (we shall get to her given name soon), is compelled to ignore her father’s edict. (A tendency she will embrace and emulate the remainder of her natural life).

Moses’ sister Miriam ‘just happens’ to be standing nearby, and she asks Bithiah, (for this is her name), if she’d like her to locate a Hebrew woman to nurse the little fella for her. Of course, unbeknownst to Princess Bithiah, Miriam is Moses’ sister, and the chosen wet nurse is none other than Moses’ and Miriam’s mother.

It occurs to me that in our day and time had Jochebed put Moses in a basket and sent him floating down a nearby river, well, she would, no doubt, be arrested for child endangerment. However, the authorities in our day and time could not have factored in the foreknowledge and wisdom of God in this perilous time when every male child of Israel was a cat’s whisker away from death.

Pt. 3

The scripture is not clear about the length of time which transpires during which Jochebed nurses baby Moses, nor the additional years he may have spent with his natural mother prior to being returned to Princess Bithiah, the daughter of Pharaoh.

Talk about providence! Bithiah has unknowingly, unintentionally returned the little river waft to his biological parents for a season. And during this season, the Hebrew toddler is, as it were, stamped with the official seal of the ruler of all Egypt, and is, as a result, immune to the awful fate which befalls thousands of other little Jewish boys.

However, (and it’s a very big ‘however’), I am convinced that during this time frame, Jochebed and Amram are diligent in obeying the command in the Book of Deuteronomy, Chapter 11:18-21

^“ Fix these Words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates, so that your days and the days of your children may be many in the land the Lord swore to give your ancestors, as many as the days that the heavens are above the earth.”

And not only am I convinced that Moses’ parents are diligent to share the life-changing Words of the Creator with their little boy, I am equally convinced that when the son of Jochebed and Amram is returned to Bithiah, God uses him to desperately impact his Egyptian step-mother; by his words, mindsets, attitude and behavior.

Pt. 4

Of course, it will be decades before the “I AM” of both our earthly and heavenly existence begins to ‘show out’ in the life of Moses. But ‘show out’ He will. And ‘show out’ He does!

Who can forget the burning bush? Who can forget God’s command to Moses? Who can forget Moses’ ultimatum to Pharaoh?

We cannot be sure who serves as Pharaoh during the time of the Exodus. However, it seems very likely that he is related to Bithiah, Moses’ step mother, and that he is related by adoption to Moses, himself!

Of course, it is only natural to wonder what has become of Bithiah, the Egyptian princess, during the long years of Moses’ obscurity. Has she been lost to history, or does scripture provide us any further information about her fate? Perhaps the previous question is a bit rhetorical in nature since after half a lifetime, Bithiah “shows up” again.

It goes without saying that the pressure on this Egyptian princess to conform to royal expectations and accepted values must be extreme. But yet, tradition tells us that (drum roll) Bithiah’s biological son is the one and only Egyptian firstborn male who escapes the Death Angel; when he passes by in the dark of the night. Where ever the princess and young prince happen to be at that moment, it seems obvious that Moses has forewarned them of the impending doom of the firstborn sons of Egypt, and has pleaded with his stepmother to observe the life-saving ritual of the lamb’s blood. So reminiscent of Pharaoh’s order that the newborn sons of Israel should be killed, and the grace which befell many of them when they were spared by conscientious midwives. And, oh, the irony. Whereas, the princess spared Moses the awful edict of the Egyptian king, her own son was spared the ultimate edit of THE KING of the universe.

Pt. 5

There is an interesting passage of scripture in the Book of Hebrews Chapter 11:24-26

^“ By faith Moses, when he had grown up, refused to be known as the son of Pharaoh’s daughter. He chose to be mistreated along with the people of God rather than to enjoy the fleeting pleasures of sin. He regarded disgrace for the sake of Christ as of greater value than the treasures of Egypt, because he was looking ahead to his reward.”

Yes, Moses has long since made a decision to renounce the trappings of royalty, and it seems he sets a very high standard for his stepmother Princess Bithiah, and his unnamed Egyptian stepbrother.

For we have this curious little passage in 1^st Chronicles Chapter 4:18 which, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, clarifies “the rest of the story,” and settles it once and for all for us. Speaking of those people who walked across the temporary pathway which appeared beneath the turbulent waves of the Red Sea; (and which when Pharaoh and his soldiers attempted to do were drowned)…

“And these are the sons of Bithiah, the daughter of Pharaoh, which Mered, (the Hebrew) took for himself.”

For you see, this former Princess of Egypt had renounced the riches and titles of Egypt, had embraced God and the people of God, and walked away from those whom she knew and loved.

We know so little about Princess Bithiah, as comparatively little has been written about her. But I think, I think this unsung hero deserves a place in the Old Testament Hall of Honor alongside other Gentile saints such as Ruth and Rahab.

I can think of no one who exemplifies Hebrews Chapter 11 Verse 1 any better than this dear saint of God.

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”

For faith compelled her to renounce that which was tangible, though temporary, in favor of that which she could not see, but which she was assured was eternal in the heavens.

William McDonald, PhD

(Email response from a former student to whom I sent this blog)

Hey Dr. Bill, 

 

Well, you were right again. I thought this was very interesting. I had never really thought about Princess Bithiah (except for on the Ten Commandments movie) either or her husband Mered, who was apparently from the tribe of Judah. In all my years in church I have never heard anyone talk about her leaving her Daddy's throne/kingdom/pagan religion for a Godly man and living with him and his people. 

 

Here are some of the descriptive terms used to identify her on the web. "The adoptive mother of the prophet Moses. She saved Moses from certain death from both the Nile river and from the Pharaoh. She played an essential role in lifting the Hebrew slaves out of bondage in Egypt, their journey to the Promised Land, and the establishment of the Ten Commandments." What? In just a very brief search about her this is what it stated about her under "Religion: Ancient Egyptian Religion (formerly) Yahwism (convert)." How cool is that? I found that "her birth name was Thermouthis and the Hebrews renamed her Bit-Yah (transliterated Bithiah), and it is written that she is given the name for her adoption of Moses, that because she had made Moses her son, Yahweh would make her his daughter." Is that awesome? Also, "she is called in Hebrew the Jewess to indicate that Pharaoh's daughter was no longer a pagan."

 

Apparently, "Mered was the son of Ezrah and Bithia and Mered had Miriam, Shammai, and Ishbah, the father of Eshtemoa ( a man of Judah) and it is also a major city set apart with the surrounding area for the priests. Talk about legacy :) Mered's dad (Bithia's father-in-law) was Ezrah.

 

Ok, I've gotta stop for now. This could go on for days! I love when you share biblical nuggets with me and spiritual insights you discover along your paths. Thank you! Have a great night my dear friend.

 

 

 

BATHROOM HUMOR

 4573

Years ago, some friends were staying overnight with us in our present home. Tony and Faye had a four year old daughter, and she walked into our hall bathroom that first night, and noticed the toilet lid was taped down since it was temporarily out of order. (Of course, we have another bathroom in our home). Well, little Janie was utterly confused when she saw the toilet lid taped down, and walked up to Jean. With a quizzical look in her eyes, she asked, "Ya'll don't pee?"

In another instance, my wife was on a missions trip to Moscow, Russia in the 1990's. Walking into the lobby of the hotel, she asked the lady behind the desk, "Where is your bathroom?" The woman responded with, "Why, do you need to take a bath?" It was obvious their terminology was different. Jean tried again. "Uhmmm, where is your restroom?" With that the lady replied, "Why, do you need to rest?" My wife finally said, "Where is the toilet?" The young woman finally understood what she wanted.

And then there was the time I was serving with the National Guard in Homestead, Florida after Hurricane Andrew. We were doing a food giveaway at the local flea market that day. Suddenly, a young Haitian mother walked up to me, and asked, "Ou est les toilets?" I had retained enough French from my college French class two decades earlier, and pointing to the porta potty's on the perimeter of the complex, I replied, "Voila les toilets!" Speaking of bathrooms, and that particular period of time, my fellow soldiers and I waited 8 days after arriving in Homestead to get our first shower. I'm sure our ambiance was known to one and all to those we met along the way!

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A PILGRIMAGE TO SALEM

 4572

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

 

A DEATH IN SALEM

 4571

Telegram & Gazette
Monday, March 27, 2006
Who was Joseph Ring and why was he killed?

By Wilson Ring THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

ELIOT, Maine— An L-shaped cellar hole still marks the site of the Neale Garrison, built in the mid-1600s a quarter-mile uphill from the Piscataqua River. Somewhere near here 302 years ago, an ancestor of mine was burned at the stake.

I visited the garrison’s remains as part of a quest to learn as much as I could about the final hours of Joseph Ring — my six-times-great-grandfather.

Along the way, I’ve confirmed quite a bit about his life: that he fought in some of America’s earliest Indian wars, that he gave some curious testimony at the Salem witch trials which helped hang a woman, and that, yes, he, too, came to an untimely end.

Unfortunately, he seems to have left no letters or diaries behind. But my quest put me in closer touch with a cousin, and together we shed light on stories passed down over the years and made some new discoveries about our distant relative.

It was in 1638 that Joseph Ring’s father, Robert, emigrated from England to the new world as a 24-year-old indentured servant.

A barrel maker, Robert eventually became a solid middle-class member of Massachusetts society, and the area of land he owned, near where the Merrimack River empties into the Atlantic Ocean, is still known as Ring’s Island.

Joseph Ring was born Aug. 3, 1664, in Salisbury, Mass., to Robert and his wife, Elizabeth Jarvis.

The boy, whose life would become a series of entanglements with history, was 11 when King Philip’s War broke out. This was the first of a series of on-again, off-again wars between the English settlers on the one side and the Indians and their French allies on the other, that would last almost 100 years.

Today we can reinterpret the Indian wars as a clash of competing cultures which the Europeans were destined to win. But 17th-century settlers living at the edge of English civilization didn’t know if they would survive.

“Northern New Englanders faced an unknown enemy that seemingly appeared from nowhere, struck with devastating force and just as quickly disappeared,” said Cornell University history professor Mary Beth Norton, one of many academics who helped me trace my ancestor.

She said some readers of her 2002 book, “In the Devil’s Snare,” which linked the witch trials to the Indian wars on the frontier, compared the fear of Indians then to the terror following the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks on the United States.

In Joseph Ring’s time, all able-bodied men served in local militias; volunteers were recruited for expeditions, or garrison duty on the frontier.

“The recruits tended to be younger, unattached types, who could use a few dollars and enjoyed an adventure,” said Emerson “Tad” Baker, chairman of the history Department at Salem (Mass.) State College.

Ring fit the profile. He was part of an expedition in 1690 as New Hampshire Capt. Shadrach Walton tried to relieve Fort Loyal, a stockade in Casco, now Portland, where about 200 inhabitants had been besieged by 500 Indians and French soldiers.

The four-vessel expedition arrived too late.

Ring and the others found the town burning after the Indians killed most of the settlers who had surrendered and been promised safe passage by the French commander.

The Indians “wreaked their vengeance unchecked,” reported the 1897 “Border Wars of New England” by Samuel Drake. “After plundering the fort the invaders set it on fire, and it was soon burned to the ground, leaving Casco untenanted, save by the unburied bodies of the slain.”

Most of what we know about Ring came from two affidavits he gave in 1692. They describe Ring’s role in the ill-fated expedition to Fort Loyal and provide other glimpses into his activities and possibly his state of mind.

In the statements, Ring describes a meeting that appears to have changed his life. In a tavern in Great Island, N.H., on the way to relieve Casco he met a man named Thomas Hardy, who invited Ring to play shuffleboard. Ring didn’t have any money, but Hardy lent him two shillings. Ring lost.

Over the next year, Ring was terrorized by Hardy, who kept demanding his money. Ring described a series of bizarre, dreamlike encounters with his nemesis and others. In one, Ring “was scared out of his wits by a fireball and ‘the dreadfull noyse & hideous shapes of these creaturs,’ ” Baker wrote, quoting words attributed to my ancestor.

Joseph Ring was possessed by demons, the Puritan minister Cotton Mather would write in a 1693 account justifying the witch trials. The young militiaman, he claimed, was struck dumb by a woman who was present when he met Hardy, a widow named Susannah Martin.

In 1692, Ring gave testimony during Martin’s trial in Salem that he had been drinking cider with Martin, another woman and Hardy before a roaring fire. Martin, he said, transformed herself into a pig.

She was hanged on July 19, 1692.

It took a while for me to come to terms with the reality that my ancestor contributed to the Salem witch trials, an event in American history that still horrifies and fascinates many.

How could he, like others, turn against his neighbors?

It may be that a modern concept — post-traumatic stress — helps explain Ring’s strange and fateful claims. He surely absorbed a terror of Indian attacks, not just because of his militia experience, but family experience, as well.

His wife, Mary Brackett, came from a family that was one of the first to settle the area now known as Portland. As a 12-year-old girl, she and some relatives had been taken captive by a party of Indian raiders and marched into the wilderness before they escaped in a canoe. Later, in separate incidents, her grandparents, father and brother were killed.

The so-called Brackett Lane Massacre in Rye, N.H., in which several of Mary Brackett’s relatives died at the hands of an Indian raiding party, came close to the time of one bizarre encounter between Ring and Hardy — and Norton thinks that’s significant.

Norton believes Ring’s experiences along the frontier contributed to his testimony against Susannah Martin.

“Joseph Ring is a great example of a frontier resident who was terrified by the threat posed by the Indian war ...,” said Norton. “Although he appeared as a witness against Susannah Martin, he seemed far more concerned about the Indians and the demons he saw aligned with them than with Goody Martin.”

Norton turns out to be an indirect descendant of Susannah Martin. And I’ve learned, ironically, so is my cousin, Franz Martin.

He lives in Los Angeles and spends much of his free time in the genealogy section of the public library, going through old town and family histories or rolling through microfilm records of Colonial New England.

He has mined a number of tidbits. In the fall of 1703, Massachusetts placed a bounty on Indian scalps and sent out three raiding parties on snowshoes to keep their adversaries off balance. Joseph Ring is not on a list of Massachusetts soldiers from what was called Queen Anne’s War. But it’s possible he was an off-the-books soldier, perhaps a bounty hunter, seeking to avenge his family’s losses.

In any event, on Jan. 28, 1704, Indians attacked the Neale Garrison, and settlers fought them off with help from soldiers stationed nearby. A 1726 history of the early Indian wars by Samuel Penhallow said nine attackers were killed.

The losses so enraged the Indians, Penhallow wrote, “that at their return they executed their revenge on Joseph Ring, who was then a Captive among them, whom they fastened to a Stake and burnt alive; barbarously shouting and rejoicing at his cries.”

We still don’t know when, why or how Ring was made captive.

Three hundred years later, many people are surprised when I tell them the story of my ancestor who was burned at the stake after testifying in the Salem witch trials.

Some see his end as a fitting comeuppance. I don’t think so. I’ve come to believe that Ring was a victim of the times he lived in.

Still, the fragments we have on Joseph Ring might be compared to the jawbone a paleontologist hopes to use to build a complete skeleton. My cousin Franz and I continue to dig.

 

**Joseph & Jarvis Ring were my 9^th great Uncles, and were brothers.

They both testified at the Salem Witch Trials. As a result, a woman named Susannah Martin was put to death.

(William Royce McDonald, PhD)