THE ROSE MOST FRAGRANT WHEN IT'S CRUSHED

 4533

My times are in Your hands, and I

Would hardly hope to choose

This walk You walk with me, Oh God

My tender heart, now soft and bruised

 

And Thou dost know my way, Oh Lord

And follow You, I must

And with the breeze, still, comes Thy Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 

“Tis through thy pain I add my grace,

And though thy flower is crushed,

With tender Hand, I’ll dry thy face,

And comfort you, I must”

 

“For even in this barren place

My blessings do not fail,

The manna of My peace will fall,

At turns along your trail”

 

“And I won’t leave you comfortless,

and I will come to you

to smooth the petals back again,

and ointment for thy bruise”

“When twilight falls, and darkness hides

your grief from all on earth, but Me

Remember child, I linger close

Your silent tears, my angels see”

 

“For even this, your troubled place

will surely come, to pass

And surely I will walk with you

If you will but ask”

 

“Your rose will bloom, aye, yet again

your tender bruise will fade

For I will surely carry you

From out this lonely shade”

 

“So cling to Me, Oh little one

‘til flowers bloom again

Oh walk with Me, come talk with Me

Sweet showers I will send”

 

“For I best know your way, Oh child

and follow Me, you must”

And with the breeze, still comes His Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD, Copyright 2005

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOLLOW ME

 4532

Pt. 1

The year was 1968 and I was a new Christian; having accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my Savior the previous year, (and the summer after my high school graduation). Not one to waste a great deal of time, I had enrolled at a nearby Bible college; (which in the intervening decades metamorphosed into a Christian liberal arts university in which I was subsequently privileged to teach).

As the student body sat in chapel one morning, whomever happened to be charge of the service stepped forward and instructed the sound person to play a pre-recorded song. Suddenly, the strains of an unfamiliar hymn filled the auditorium, and a baritone voice began to sing the most poignant words,

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care

The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me

And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

There was just something so compelling about the words of the old song; which went beyond the rhyme, content and meter. The expressiveness and experiential tenor of the words lent such an eloquence to the theme which he attempted to express to his audience.

It seems to me the student body sat spellbound, as the three verses to the hymn played themselves out. As I reflect on it now, an almost ‘holy hush’ permeated the building that morning.

As the closing notes of our unseen guest and accompanying piano echoed across the chapel, and silence permeated the room, our college president walked to the podium, and provided the students a bit of information to which they had not been privy, ‘til now.

“The voice you just heard was owned by a missionary named J.W. Tucker. He is no longer with us, but died at the hands of Simba rebels in Africa just four years ago.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. There was just something so personally poignant having just been exposed to the song, and having just connected with the man who sang it; and to be informed that he had lain down his life for the Gospel of the Lord whom he had so dearly loved.

Almost half a century has come and gone since that day, and I have often reflected on the words of that old hymn by Ira Stanphill, and its relevance to every Christian who ever lived and moved and breathed upon this planet. And over the course of the past few decades I have often sung it as a solo, and never fail to relate the story behind my personal association with it.

William McDonald, PhD

Pt. 2

A HERO OF THE FAITH
Originally Posted on March 11, 2014

It was November, 1964. J.W. and Angeline Tucker had returned to Paulis, Belgian Congo for their fifth term as Assemblies of God missionaries. Not long after their arrival, Simba rebels overran the area, slaughtering hundreds of people.

J. W., along with about sixty other Europeans and Americans, was taken hostage to the Catholic mission in Paulis (later named Isiro). (Angeline and the three children were rescued by Belgian paratroopers and flown to safety). While being held at the mission, J. W. and several others, with hands tied behind their backs, were mercilessly beaten to death. Their bodies were loaded on a truck and taken about forty miles to the Bomokande River. There they were fed to the hungry crocodiles. Truly a Prince and a great missionary had perished, and it all seemed such a waste. But there is more to the story.

For many years J. W. had tried, with little success, to reach the Mangbeto tribe with the gospel. But the tribal king refused to allow him to preach to the people, saying, “We have our own gods.”

During the Simba rebel uprising, fighting spilled into Mangbeto territory. In desperation, the king requested help from the central government in Kinshasa. The government responded by sending them a man of powerful influence from the Isiro area. They called him “the Brigadier.” Just two months before J. W. was killed he won this man to the Lord.

When the Brigadier arrived in Mangbeto country he quickly realized they were pagans. So he determined to win them to the Lord. Being a new Christian, he shared the gospel with them as best he could, but with very little success. Being somewhat discouraged, he began to pray, and the Lord gave him an idea. So he sent word to the king to bring his tribal elders and meet with him.

When the tribal delegation arrived, the Brigadier said, “From time immemorial you have had a saying: ‘If the blood of any man flows in our river, the Bomokande River, we must listen to his message.’ A man’s blood has flowed in your river. He tried to give you a message about his God Who sent His Son to die for your sins, so that all who believe on Him will have eternal life. And I am bringing his message to you. This man’s blood has flowed in your river, so you must hear his message.” As the Brigadier spoke, the Spirit of the Lord began to move in their hearts, and many received the Savior that day.

Today there are thousands of Christians in the Mangbeto tribe, and between forty and fifty Assemblies of God churches. How true the saying: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”

My wife and I stood on the bridge over the Bomokande River, only a few feet from where the rebels threw Brother Tucker’s body. We were both gripped by a great sense of awe as we stood on that sacred ground. Our hearts were challenged by the memory of a great, but humble, man of God who believed that being in God’s will is more precious than life itself. And though dead, his message is still bearing fruit.

Harold Walls

(Manna for the Journey Devotions)

Pt. 3                       

                                             FOLLOW ME

                                                                               Ira Stanphill

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care,
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me,”
And then I heard Him say so tenderly,

"My feet were also weary upon the Calv'ry road,
The cross became so heavy I fell beneath the load,
Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see,
Just lift your cross and follow close to me."

"I work so hard for Jesus" I often boast and say,
"I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,
I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to thee,"
And then I heard Him gently say to me,

"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss,
My hands were nailed in anger upon a cruel cross,
But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine,
So lift your cross and follow close to me."

“Oh Jesus if I die upon a foreign field someday
'Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay,”

"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,"
These are the words he gently spoke to me,

"If just a cup of water I place within your hand
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand,"
“But if by death to living they can thy glory see,
I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.”

EXECUTIONER OR SAVIOR

 4531

As a lover of dogs, and having owned, (or been owned by, as the case may be), eight dogs in the past seven decades, I consider it deplorable that multiplied hundreds of precious pooches are euthanized in America on a daily basis.

This is the story of one of them.

After retiring from the army, Colonel Ervin, a former Army veterinarian, (and my mother’s first cousin), worked part-time for a local animal shelter. Admittedly, his least favorite duty involved euthanizing dogs, and cats which had ‘run out of days;’ (since as you may know, the countdown begins as soon as an animal is picked up, or surrendered to a given shelter).

I suppose the good retired Colonel had worked at the pound a year or two, and had, by then, ‘dispatched’ multiplied dozens of animals. He expected today would be very much like the multiplied days which had come before. As usual, he readied his equipment. Hypodermic needles, and a combination of lethal chemicals.

Having consulted with the on-duty attendant, the vet walked over to Cage #7, opened the door, and lifted his next ‘candidate’ out of her 3x3x4 cell.

‘Roxie’ was a blonde cocker spaniel of perhaps 8 or 9. She had been surrendered to the shelter by an elderly widow who was preparing to move into an assisted living facility. More often than not old dogs, big or small, mutt or pure bred, are the least preferred, and last to be adopted, and the majority succumb to the executioner’s syringe.

Colonel E. lifted Roxie in his arms, and as he walked to ‘the execution chamber,’ he scratched her ears. Suddenly, the twenty pound pooch... laid her head on his shoulder, and looked directly into his eyes. Needless to say, this wasn’t ‘the usual m.o.’ and he found himself temporarily unnerved with this turn of events.

Nevertheless, the retired military man knew he had a job to do, and he was prone to render the proverbial salute, and follow through on a daily basis.

As he reached Room 101, the vet opened the door, walked over to the ‘exam table’ and laid the pooch on her back. He placed his right hand on the little creature’s chest, and retrieved the lethal syringe with the other hand. As he bent over, and prepared to inject the toxic agent into Roxie’s left front paw, the Colonel lifted his head. And this is when he noticed the little tyke was staring at him intently, as if to say,

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

(and)

“Do you really want to do this?”

The slightly bewildered vet thought, “Well, this is a new experience,” and he laid the needle on the table.

As ‘Mrs. Faixfax’ of the novel, “Jane Eyre” mused, “What to do? What to do?” Having reflected on his dilemma a moment, he picked up his ‘weapon’ again, and lightly touched Roxie’s paw with the tip of it.

And then…

he shook his head, touched the foot pedal of the bio-waste container, and dropped the full syringe into the receptacle.

Not this time. Not today.

It was then that it occurred to him. In the amount of time it took to retrieve Roxie from her cage, walk the twenty steps to Room 101, open and shut the door, and retrieve the tool of his trade, he’d sensed something different about the dog, and something different about himself.

Colonel E. felt a tear spring to his eye, as he bent to scoop the fortunate animal up in his arms. Retracing his steps to Cage #7, he opened the door, set Roxie in the momentarily unoccupied cell, rubbed her head, and whispered,

“Hang in there you lucky little girl. My shift is over in an hour, and

…you’re going home with me!”

While I am pursuing the previous pathway upon which I originally set my azimuth, as a military man, (which I am), is prone to say, it is important, I think, to reveal ‘the rest of the story.’

Before Colonel E. left the premises that afternoon, he did something he’d never done there, (or needed to do there), before. He sat down with the on-duty attendant, filled out adoption papers, paid the $45 fee, quickly strode to Cage #7, opened the door, tenderly lifted Roxie out of what had been ‘the dead dog walking’ cell, and headed out the door with her.

Suffice it to say that Colonel E. and Roxie, (as much as is possible on this side of heaven), ‘lived happily ever after.’ The precious pooch filled his life with joy, and they spent several contented years together; (‘til the little canine went the way that all animals and people on earth must assuredly go).

I like to think Roxie somehow realized the fate from which she was spared, and the decision Colonel E. made that afternoon; whether to pursue the role of executioner …or savior. 

He chose the second of the two options.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

NOW FAITH IS THE SUBSTANCE OF THINGS

 4530

I have often thought about the "quality" of suffering, and how some people contend with so much of it during the course of their lives here.

And if you were to ask someone who has contended with so much for so long, I expect he or she would, in so many words, say, (to encapsulate the implication of Psalm 13),

"How long, O Lord, How Long?"

And dear friends, lest you wonder how much I know about the topic, I would immediately respond,

"Far too much."

And I am admittedly biased, but sometimes it seems I have experienced enough of this variable, and resulting emotion for ten lifetimes.

But at times like these, it helps me to consider Hebrews Chapter 11 verse 1. 

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not (yet) seen."

My friends, just as surely as this life, though visible, and tangible, is momentary, the next life, though invisible, is equally tangible, but everlasting. 

I love the encouragement which Hebrews 8:18 affords us:

"For I reckon the suffering of this present time is not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us."

This is simply not all there is! 

I attended a series of meetings at a large church over half a century ago. The young evangelist had a tendency, when he got "wound up" to kick his right leg, as if he were punting a football.

At the end of the week long series of meetings, those in attendance were encouraged to line up, and greet "Brother Brown."

As I stepped up to the evangelist, he smiled, stretched out his hand, took mine, looked directly in my eyes, and said,

"Stay encouraged."

I have no way of knowing if this particular preacher is still with us, but I have never forgotten his words, and I have passed them on to countless others who God has set in my pathway; sometimes placing my hand on their heads as I did so. 

No, my friend, this is not all there is. 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 

THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION: MY GRANDMOTHER'S SACRIFICE

 4529

My quadruple Great Grandparents Thomas and Susannah (Harrington) Hightower were living on the Tygar River near Spartanburg, South Carolina in 1780. Having heard the plea for additional manpower, Thomas joined Colonel Benjamin Roebuck’s Colonial Regiment. While he was away on military duty, a militia group referred to as Tories, those American colonists loyal to the King of England, stormed the Hightower homestead and burst into my ancient grandmother’s house.

Following is an account I have written based on the events of that evening:

Susannah had been helping her son, John, with a particularly long word from his reader, and content that he had mastered one page and moved on to the next, she sat down in her rocking chair by the fire.

Suddenly the front wooden door flew open. Even in the midst of this terrible war, custom won out and she had forgotten to lock the door. Standing before her were eight heavily armed men, wearing an all-too familiar, but hated uniform. Susannah screamed for the children to run to the cellar. She realized that this rude intrusion was certainly no courtesy call.

Grandmother Hightower immediately recognized the leader of this band of traitors to the cause of independence. Bill Cunningham was an unusually handsome man, but known far and wide for his viciousness and unyielding retribution. It was not for no reason he had been nicknamed “Bloody Bill,” a name he apparently relished.

When the major addressed her by name, Susannah felt a shiver creep slowly up her spine, and she felt faint.

“Mrs. Hightower. You needn’t be afraid. We’re not here to hurt you. Answer a question, and we’ll be on our way, and leave you and your children alone.”

Somehow Susannah doubted the sincerity of his words.

“I know your husband has joined that vagabond band of misfits who are determined to put an end to everything we hold dear in these colonies. Well, Ma’am, we’re not going to let that happen.”

My grandmother started to speak,

“Sir, I protest…”

Bloody Bill cut her off.

“You’re not in the position to protest anything. Sit back down! NOW!”

My brave, but equally wise grandmother dropped into the rocking chair, suddenly feeling as weak as water.

“There now. That’s good. May I call you, Susannah?”

And without waiting for a reply, he continued.

“Susannah, I need you to answer me one question. Where’s your husband?”

And contrary to his earlier promise, he asked another question.

“Cat got your tongue? Where’s your husband, and who is his commanding officer?”

Susannah cleared her throat and fear registered in her voice.

“Sir, I know who you are. And I know you’re up to no good. I have no intention whatsoever, in telling you where my husband is.”

Bloody Bill’s contemptuous smile now turned downwards in a frown, and then a scowl. He would not be manipulated by the likes of a frail, little woman.

“One more chance, ma dear… if you want to live.”

Susannah realized the stakes of this not so pleasant game, and she steeled herself for the inevitable.

In a voice just above a whisper, and with tears stinging her eyes now, she sealed her fate.

“I cannot… I cannot bring myself to tell you. I have been true to my husband these twenty years. I am not about to betray him now. Do what you want, but you’ll get no answer from me.”

Well, my friends. I would like to tell you that Bloody Bill

Cunningham marched right out of there, and took his band of “n’er do wells” with him… He didn’t. Turning to his chief lieutenant, he screamed,

“I’ll have none of this. No Sir, I will not. Lieutenant Morrison, kill her! Do it now!”

A look of utter amazement possessed the officer. He reached for his sword, but his hand seemed frozen in mid-air. Bloody Bill was not used to having his orders delayed, and he jerked Morrison’s sword out of the scabbard, and raised it high above his head.

My ancient grandmother had only enough time to utter the few last words she would ever speak on this side of eternity. With arms wrapped tightly about herself, she closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

“God forgive you, Bloody Bill. Dear Lord receive my spirit.”

…And the deed was done.

And I hasten to remind you that this is but one story among multiplied thousands of similar stories, which include the ancestors of those assembled here today, and which have followed us throughout all our nation’s wars.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

**Another version of this story indicates my 4x great Grandmother was ordered to stand on a stump, and she was riddled with bullets.

NEXT

 4528

I retired from my counseling practice two weeks ago.

Over the course of 35 years, I literally met with thousands of men, women, boys and girls; perhaps as many as 4,000 - 5,000 total.

There were any number of variables involved in the significant number of people with whom I have counseled. 

The youngest person I ever "met with" was 11 or 12; (as I never considered myself an elementary age counselor). The oldest person I ever met with was 85. The number of people over 60 I ever counseled with was no more than 8 or 10 max. 99.9 percent of my clients were Caucasian. I counseled approximately 15-20 Spanish people. I counseled a grand total of 2 black, and 2 Jewish clients.

I have encountered every conceivable counseling issue. Marital, financial, sexual, vocational, emotional. (All those issues which end with the suffix "al"). My least favorite counseling topics involved substance abuse, and grief. Speaking of "grief", like many long-time counselors, I "lost" a couple of clients.

Of course, a counselor counsels "whatever walks in his door." We are not in the business of soliciting clients. (They knock on our doors, not vice versa, and we generally counsel whoever does the knocking).

It will be strange not doing extensive session planning on a weekly basis. It will seem odd not "jumping ready" twice a week, and driving to one of my two offices; 7 minutes separating the two locations.

And as I began my little thesis, above, all this has come to a conclusion now, and I am left with the results; be they good, or the lack thereof. (However, I am convinced that I made a significant difference in a myriad of lives).

Post-script

Now, I find myself bereft of a formal ministry, and the wherewithal to impact lives.

Oh, perhaps I just misspoke. I have been placing Christian tracts on random store shelves when I shop, and I often hand out small New Testaments to store clerks, and others I meet along the way. 

And I often encourage people whom I interact with on social media. (I once had the privilege of sharing the written word with a young lady in war-torn Ukraine. Later, she told me how much my words meant to her, and buoyed her spirits, as she sat in a bomb shelter, and munitions rained down around her).

While I don't want to downplay the things with which I am currently involved, I am convinced there will be a "next," something I can do on a regular basis to make a difference among those who God sets in my pathway.

There has always been a "next," and I believe God has a next for all of those who have invested their faith in Him; throughout the times and stages of their lives.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

THAT'S ALL SHE WROTE

 4527

As I write these words I just completed 33 years of counseling practice, and have been retired all of 16 hours. 

As the doors locked behind me, and I walked to the car yesterday I said aloud,

"That's all she wrote!"

And as I unlocked my car door, and sat down in the driver's seat, I said,

"The office is closed."

Funny, I previously retired from the Army Reserve, and "The Tightest Ship in the Shipping Business," but somehow this time is different. I will no longer have the wherewithal to make a difference in lives in the exact same way I have done over the past three plus decades of my life.

Nonetheless, I am convinced that God is not through with me yet, and that He will continue to use me in the way which He dreamed for me before He flung the worlds and stars into space.

That is a comforting thought.

by Bill McDonald, PhD