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.

ON THE EVE OF THE "NEXT"

4542

I have been thinking a lot about one particular topic lately. 

I simply can't get it off my mind; (nor do I especially want to). It is a subject that every helper will at one time, or another consider; if he or she lives long enough on this good earth.

But to back up a wee bit

I have served in the capacity of pastoral counselor for 30 plus years, and I find myself near "the jumping off" point. To tell you I began my ministry at the relatively young age of 45 will immediately clue you in to both my current age, if you do the simple math, and the dilemma of what comes next for me.

In the course of those 30 plus years, at 10 locations, God has invested thousands of men, women and children into my care. And I have not only been generally happy with the results of my time and efforts, but it has been a personally gratifying endeavor. 

They say, "Whatever you give, you get" and "Whatever good thing you do always comes back to you." And I have proven this concept to be true. (And we are not necessarily talking about green paper with dead president's pictures).

In the course of my time on earth, most especially the past several years, when I have been much more aware of it, I have witnessed people in various professions linger a bit too long, (at least from my estimation), and I am determined not to emulate that circumstance in my own life.

And I think people with the kind of realization and determination I have expressed ought to be quantifying whatever remains of their current status. And as a result, I have thought in terms of 2-3 more years, lest I "overstay my welcome."

Back in 1993 I met with my first client, a young lady with the initials J.U. There is someone out there with different initials, still unknown to me, but known to God, who will serve as my final client. 

I think it's an awesome thing to consider when you are starring into your own professional sunset, and the proverbial night is slowly darkening around you.

Almost every day I pray,

"Lord, don't allow me to miss whatever remains of my destiny."

Thankfully, when I step away from my current ministry and profession, He still has something else for me to do, and someone else for me to impact. 

And I find myself eagerly looking forward to what comes next.

By Bill McDonald, PhD

THE GOVERNOR'S WIFE

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Sometime in the mid to late 80’s, I pulled my UPS truck up to the back door of a sports shop at the Winter Haven Mall in order to make a delivery there. As I exited, and pushed my hand cart up to that rear portal, a late model sedan pulled up beside me, and a middle-aged lady exited the vehicle.

At this point, I don’t recall our conversation, but to be sure the woman informed me that she was none other than Cornelia Ellis Wallace, the ex-wife of the former governor, and presidential candidate, Alabama’s George Wallace. It seems she was well-acquainted with the owner of the store, and had stopped by to see him.

Cornelia attracted national attention on May 15, 1972 when she threw herself over her husband, George, after his having been shot four times during an assassination attempt in Maryland. At that time, Governor Wallace was promoting his bid for his party’s presidential nomination. Who can forget that poignant video segment which was highlighted on all the national news broadcasts?

Mrs. Wallace ran for governor of the State of Alabama in 1978, but did little active campaigning and finished last among thirteen candidates for the Democratic nomination.

As it fell together, one of my counseling clients attended the same church Ms. Wallace attended, and several years after I first met her, my client procured Ms. Wallace’ autograph for me. She succumbed to cancer in 2009.

My chance meeting and brief conversation with the illustrious Cornelia Wallace, at the back door of a mall sports shop, is among the most memorable of my life.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

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In the movie, “Bagger Vance,” Will Smith, (Bagger) plays what amounts to a Golf Angel. For you see, he has been sent to assist a character played by Matt Damon, (Ranolph Junah) with his golf game.

But it is not just any game, it is THE game of his life, for this former amateur golfer finds himself in a match with perhaps the most notable and adept golfers of his time.

Captain Junah has just come back from “The War to end all wars,” (WWI) and he has come back a changed man. For during one especially ferocious battle, every man in his unit has been killed or severely wounded, and only he has been left unscathed. And as the result of his heroic actions during the battle, the captain has been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Ranolph’s emotions are raw, and he lacks confidence, and he suffers from what we refer to today as PTSD, but what was referred to in that day and time as “shell shock.” And it was only the result of the pleas of the town’s people, and his former sweetheart, (who is attempting to save the family fortune, and the golf course on which he finds himself) that he has consented to play the game.

Bagger, who has agreed to caddy for the captain, had been giving him pointers throughout the game, but to no avail. But the young man finds himself falling further and further behind the leader.

As Ranolph steps up to take his next shot, Bagger interrupts his swing, and says, “Mr. Junah, there’s only one authentic shot, one that is truly yours, and you can’t choose it.”

The captain is miffed to have had his swing interrupted, and angrily replies, “What do you mean? Of course I can choose my shot. I must choose my shot!”

Bagger smiles a whimsical smile, and responds, “Oh no suh, the shot must choose you.”

Now, in terms of the movie, Bagger’s implication was that for any given hole, on any given course, there is one best club, one best swing, one best solution.

And I think we can learn a valuable lesson from our golf angel’s admonition. The first time I ever viewed the movie, and listened to Bagger’s words, well, it just came to me. There is a valuable spiritual lesson to be gleaned here.

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

You see, I am convinced, and scriptures assures us, “My times are in His hands,” (Psalms 31:15) and “The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me,” (Psalms 138:8) and “Before I ever took my first breath, You planned every day of my life.” (Psalms 139:16)

If we believe and embrace the truth of scripture, it is apparent that God knew us by name, and planned all our days, before we were a twinkle, and even before He made the twinkling stars. (And we can be sure that He loves us so much more than those magnificent, astronomical creations.)

Indeed, the shot must choose us. For any given decision, among any set of options which we encounter throughout the course of our lives, there is one best choice, one best action, which has the ultimate capacity to help complete our destiny, and which agrees with our Lord’s perfect plan for us as individuals.

Now, I’m not talking about what loaf of bread we decide to purchase, or whether we check our mail at 1PM or 5AM. No, I’m referring to those crucial, “have to get it right” type of decisions which have the wherewithal to complete our Heavenly Father’s plans for our lives, (or if we are oblivious to the best shot, bring us to ruin.)

Indeed, I believe the shot must choose us, and it is paramount that we get it right. Our very destiny is at stake. I believe it would be pleasing to God that every one of His children pray the following simple prayer, and pray it on a daily basis.

“Oh Father, great Ruler of the universe. You Who knew me before I was formed or ever took my first breath,… let the shot choose me.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD 

 

 

 

THE GENERAL'S ROCKING CHAIR. Pts. 1-3

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Pt. 1

General James Van Fleet wasn't always, (which almost goes without saying), a general. 

He was born in New Jersey. However, his parents moved him to central Florida as an infant. He attended, and graduated from Summerlin Institute in Bartow, Florida; my own high school alma mater. Ultimately, he earned his undergraduate degree at West Point Military Academy. He was a member of the Class of 1915, the class "which the stars fell on." (Dwight Eisenhower and Omar Bradley were his fellow classmates). 

Time and space would fail me to recount General Van Fleet's promotions, placements, achievements and awards. Suffice it to say he served admirably during, (drum roll), WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam! (Now, that's a whole lotta time and a whole lotta wars). President Truman referred to him as "the greatest general this nation ever produced." 

Curiously enough, I have a personal connection to the general; well, two connections, in particular.

You see, during the 1980's I was employed by United Parcel Service, and I delivered packages to his sister Medora, a psychologist. Our interaction was limited to, "Please sign here" and "Thank you." And while I was familiar with the general, I don't recall "making the connection" at the time.

Fast forward a couple of decades.

As I previously mentioned, I have been aware of General Van Fleet's contributions to this country for as long as I remember, most especially his military contribution during the Korean War. There is a street in my hometown, and the city from which he graduated, which is named for him. The is a thirty mile long walking trail, also named for him, near his hometown of Polk City, Florida. 

Long before the general pinned on those prestigious four stars, and while he was a lowly lieutenant or captain, and stationed in California, (sometime during the second decade of the 20th century), he "took a liking" to a particular rocking chair in his rental apartment. As a result, when he received orders to PCS, (change of station), he purchased this chair from the apartment house owner. Over the next seventy years, where ever Van Fleet went, the chair went.

Born in 1892 he lived to be the longest lived American general of all time. General Van Fleet went on to his reward in 1992. 

I am retired Army, and have collected various relics from the history and wars of our country. An 1823 militia promotion certificate, an 1840 cavalry sword, an 1863 soldier's letter, an 1880 Queen Anne chair, a WWII German Army dagger, a dollar bill autographed by the crew of the Enola Gay, the airplane which dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan, the home photos of Frances Langford, a Hollywood star, (and my father's second cousin). However, I could have never imagined the possibility that, one day, I might own what I now consider the best of all my relics.

Pt. 2

Twelve or fourteen years ago, a friend of mine, who happens to be an estate dealer, called me over to his garage, opened the door, beckoned me in, and encouraged me to... have a seat; (both positionally and literally). 

As I took a seat in that old cane and barley rocking chair, Calvin made me aware that a very prestigious backside had once adorned that chair, General James Alward Van Fleet, and that he had been contracted to conduct an estate auction for his daughter.

Well, as you might imagine, I asked my friend what it would take to, well, take the chair home with me.

This far along I don't recall how much I paid for the century plus year old rocking chair, but it was in the neighborhood of the price I might have paid for a similar chair; without the history of this one.

A few years after I purchased the chair, I corresponded with the general's granddaughter, Catherine, in North Carolina. I made her aware that I had contacted the University of Florida, and offered this historic relic to the ROTC department. I would maintain ownership, and the university would display the chair in perpetuity. You see, a century ago, her grandfather had been the commandant of the ROTC department there.

Suffice it to say that the current commandant was interested. However, (as I recall), he could not agree with my stipulations; primarily that the chair be placed on permanent display. As a result, I continued to maintain the rocking chair in my home. 

In the past five years, I learned that our county's historical center, located in the old Polk County Courthouse, intended to display a host of WWII relics and documents for a limited time period. I immediately contacted the curator, and offered to loan the rocking chair, which seemed like a good idea at the time; (but which I questioned later).

Pt. 3

On such and such a day, I put the general's chair in the back of my car, and drove to county historical center. I parked, retrieved the chair, walked through the side door, and presented the precious relic to the curator. At the time they were still setting up, and I decided to wander around the half-completed display hall. Suddenly, I noticed an 8x11 picture frame on the wall, and I did a "double-take." 

I found myself looking at a Xerox copy of a newspaper article related to our multi-war hero. I had never seen a photo of the general seated in his rocking chair. In the center of the article was an all but indistinguishable picture of General Van Fleet sitting in his beloved chair. 

I dropped by the historical center a week later, and admired what they had done with my precious relic. It had been placed next to a WWII era record player, and a chest-high podium-style sign described the display. I was pleased that others would have the opportunity to admire one of the general's all-time favorite possessions.

A couple days later, I received a call.

"Hello, Dr. McDonald. This is Maria at the county historical center. I have some bad news. The item you loaned us, General Van Fleet's rocking chair,... has been damaged."

It was one of those "say what" moments!

I responded.

"What do you mean? How was it damaged?"

Maria went on to tell me that an overhead water pipe, located above the ceiling panels, had sprung a leak, and that water had poured down on the chair throughout the night. While the wicker hadn't been damaged badly, and had only faded a bit, the varnish on the wooden structure, arms, back, and rockers, had been badly impacted. 

As you might imagine, I was not impressed. 

The curator went on to assure me that the county would have their best and brightest restoration specialist begin work on the chair. I drove up to the historical center the next day and looked at the aftermath of the liquid disaster. Now, I was even less impressed! What a mess!

However, both Maria, and "Mr. Mathis" continued to assure me that all would, ultimately, be well. Of course, I hoped that their assurances weren't just wishful thinking.

Six or eight days later, the curator contacted me and invited me to pick up the chair; which I proceeded to do. Walking into the historical center, I met Mr. Mathis in a small room in which he had done his best work. (And, indeed, it was exceptionally good work)! The chair looked virtually the same as when I first walked it into the building!

Post-script

As you might imagine, while the military display had a few more days to run, I retrieved the chair that very day, and brought it home for safe-keeping. 

That very night, as I lay down for a well-deserved rest, I had a dream.

Whereas, I had laid down in the sanctity of my own bedroom, now I found myself waking up in an old WWII Army barracks. Twenty other soldiers were stretched out on bunks surrounding me.

Suddenly, a four star general walked through the door, stepped quickly over to my bunk, and grabbed me by the collar! Looking up, his face was very familiar.

"Staff Sergeant McDonald. What have you done with my rocking chair! You ruined it. You knew it was my favorite chair. I entrusted you with it. This will never do!"

(and)

"Privates Johnson, Johnston, and Jones get a rope! This low-down, n'er do well will have to pay for his malfeasance!"

Now, I found myself jerked out of my bunk, and drug over to a nearby ceiling rafter. And now, one of my fellow soldiers threw the rope over the wooden beam, and quickly tied a hangman's noose on the end. Another tied the opposite end to the rafter. Another grabbed a chair, and instructed me to stand on it. 

And now, General Van Fleet, himself, placed the noose around my neck.

Suddenly, I woke up. I found myself in my own bed. Beads of sweat rolled off my forehead. Jumping out of my bed, I ran into our spare bedroom. 

General Van Fleet's rocking chair... safe and sound!

As I turned to resume my nightly sojourn, I said aloud,

"I'm sure glad I didn't disappoint him!"

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

OLD TOM

 4538

My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

 

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

 

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

 

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay.

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

 

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

 

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

 

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

 

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

 

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

 

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

 

“And So It Goes”

 

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

 

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

 

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.  

by Bill McDonald, PhD

MEETING RUTH

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Several years ago my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such guests as the Christian singer, Damaris Carbaugh, and, of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.

Well, for anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.

Apparently, one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the, well, schedule.

It can safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the auditorium I found myself completely

… alone.

And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 3^rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank. Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).

At any rate, as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you guessed it)

… Ruth Graham.

Ruth, (if I may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,

“I’ll be right back!”

As I recall, I sheepishly responded with,

“Uh, Okay.”

The well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known, except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.

Interacting at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if we were acquainted.

I refer to such scenarios as

“creating memories.”

And though, if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,

… I never will.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD