DOG ON A MISSION

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A little shih tzu, hardly more than a puppy, wandered up in our yard in 1996. I readily admit we didn't "go out of our way" to discover where she came from, (and she wasn't telling). We adopted her in short order, and, in spite of her gender, named her "Buddy."

Buddy remained with us 'til her untimely passing in 2006. Thankfully, she didn't go the way the majority of pet pooches go, (with a bit of "assistance" from a vet). But, she died peacefully at home. 

Be that as it may Buddy was an exceptional little canine. (I know, any pet owner would say much the same thing about their dog or cat). However, there are several reasons I am more convinced than ever that God led this precious white and auburn shih tzu to our door when He did. (Can it be thirty years ago)?

I initially kept Buddy in the garage; a decision I regret now, (well, I do, and I don't). For you see, the first night she was consigned to the garage, the little pooch began barking. The next day I found greasy boot prints in front of the garage door. (I didn't own any boots, and I didn't work anywhere sneakers, shoes, or boots would pick up grease). Whomever he was, when Buddy began barking, he obviously rethought his intentions.

And then, there was the time our daughter was estranged from her husband. On this particular day, Buddy was lying in bed with "Janet." I had always made a point to take the precious little creature with me when I drove up to the post office, and today was no exception. Walking to the threshold of the bedroom door, I asked, "Does Buddy wanna go?" As you might imagine, I never had to ask twice. Well, almost never. The bless-ed canine only snuggled up closer to Janet's side.

Perhaps the most poignant example of all related to my wife. Buddy had begun doing something unusual. She began following Jean around the house. Where my wife went, Buddy went. We both commented several times on her strange behavior. Ultimately, Jean began feeling poorly, and I urged her to visit her physician. A mammogram indicated breast cancer. She required a lumpectomy, and dozens of radiation treatments. As a result of Buddy's strange behavior pattern, my admonition, and the intervention of medical technology, my wife is still with us.

Dog on a Mission.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

NO WINGS

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I have often seen dearly departed believers portrayed in illustrations and paintings with a set of wings on their backs.

I subscribe to several social media photoshop pages, and I often come across requests for photo-shoppers to add wings to their dearly departed loved ones photos.

It may be "neither here, nor there," but ONLY birds and angels have been afforded wings. Jesus was the "first fruits" of those who will be resurrected, and He was the model. He didn't have wings when He ascended into heaven, and neither will believers have wings attached to their resurrected bodies.

Bill McDonald, PhD

99.75

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Over the past 33 years I have been privileged to provide counseling to untold thousands of clients. 

I have often said, "There are no Cookie Cutter Cases." Each and every one has been different. Oh, there have been similarities. However, when you think you've heard it all... you haven't! There are as many stories, tame or terrible, as there are people who inhabit this planet. And there have been times when I thought, "That fella (or gal) has to be trying hard to get in (and stay in) trouble!"

But I can truthfully say, I have enjoyed every, (well, almost every), minute of it.

And if you do the math, I have been involved in the counseling ministry for approximately 400 months. And continuing to do the math, (given I have only one month remaining), I have completed 99.75 percent of my counseling ministry.

I have so many memories: (Names omitted. Information altered or decades old)

The young lady who was pregnant out of wedlock, and HIV positive. She is gone now, but her little one was born HIV negative, and adopted by the man she married a few years later.

A young man who claimed to be the illegitimate son of Charles Lingbergh.

A woman who attempted suicide three times during the counseling process, (but lived). Two others who overdosed.

A pastor and his wife who were simultaneously involved with other parties.

A young lady who took her father's life, and due to extenuating circumstances was released, and declared "not guilty" as the result of self-defense. 

A middle-aged man who came to me virtually non-verbal, and walked out with the wherewithal to successfully interact with his wife.

An attractive lady who made me aware she would like to "spend more time" with me, (though both she and I were married). I politely declined her invitation.

A teenager who claimed she would, (her words), "go for you when you can no longer go, speak for you when you can no longer speak, and reach, teach, and keep people in your name; long after you have gone on to your reward." (No one ever gave me a better gift).

A precious lady who came to me with various issues, and who, ultimately, served as my associate counselor for the space of 15 years.

And as I have inferred, thousands of additional stories, issues, and needs.

99.75 percent done. The finish line is just ahead of me.

The additional 1/4 of 1 percent of my ministry to these worthy clients remains. I am determined to give them the same time, care, and effort I have afforded the thousands who came before them.

Bill McDonald, PhD

A TELL 'EM "GOODBYE" KINDA GUY

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About five years ago, our aged pastor made the decision to retire. He had been experiencing some medical issues, and it was just time. No sooner had “Brother Kasey” submitted his resignation, and stepped away from the pulpit, than “Robert Tripplet,” one of our parishioners, passed away. As a result, our pastor agreed to preach Robert’s funeral; which he subsequently did. However, given his challenged mobility, and his inability to navigate a cemetery environment, Rev. Kasey asked me to do the graveside ceremony; which I proceeded to do. I counted it a privilege to serve as, in essence, our pastor’s liaison between his, and the next pastor’s ministries.

Fast forward half a decade, and I have been serving as a pastoral counselor in a church in central Florida. Having faithfully fulfilled his role for twenty years, our pastor “Dr. Fred” made a decision to accept a new position with a very large church; which had just merged with our much smaller church. The day after our congregation voted to approve the merger, yours truly walked into the sanctuary, and began to sing “Great is Thy Faithfulness;” the first song sung in the church since the merger. Again, I felt like a melodic intermediary between past and present; the old and new eras of the church.

And then just yesterday, as the worship service came to an end, I was offered the opportunity to pay tribute to this pastor and his wife on what was his last Sunday with us, invite the parishioners into the fellowship hall for snacks and desert, and pray over the food.

What a privilege to serve in this capacity.

It seems I am a “tell em goodbye kinda guy.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

 

 

 

 

YOU KNOW YOU'RE GETTING OLD WHEN...

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YOU KNOW YOU'RE GETTING OLD WHEN...

1. You pay for your groceries at Publix in the self checkout, and before you walk out of the store two bag girls ask if you need help getting your buggy out to your car.

2. You are driving your late mother's car, and her disabled tag is still in the side pocket, and you think about parking in a disabled space.

3. Your former clients, friends, and acquaintances begin their sentences with "He was..." and suddenly realize you haven't died yet.

4. The worship leader asks everyone to stand for the song service, and the chair you are seated in seems like a better option.

5. You grow a goatee to cover up the wrinkles on the south side of your face.

6. You use outdated words like "swell," "keen," and "cool."

7. You criticize the "holey" jeans and pants "hanging off the arse" fads, but you appear at Walmart in your pajamas.

8. You were born in the first half of the 20th Century, you knew people who were born in the 19th Century, and the child of a soldier who fought in the Civil War.

9. You learned to type on a manual typewriter.

10. The great grandchildren of adolescents who once attended the boy's group of which you were a leader are now attending the same group.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

I WILL BE RIGHT BACK

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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 speakers as Damaris Carbaugh, and, of course, 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

DR. JIM & SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

 4510

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint. 

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD