WHEN YOUR DREAMS TURN TO DUST

 4524

"For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not sit down first and count the cost, whether he has enough to finish it— lest, after he has laid the foundation, and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish?'"

 (Luke 14:28-30, NKJV)

One of my dreams just turned to dust. I had prayed, I had prepared, I had "jumped through all the hoops," I had cooperated with God in the effort to bring it to fruition. 

That little quoted, little used scripture passage with which I began my blog has a great deal to convey. It reminds me so much of the process which I followed... before my dream turned to dust. As I reflect on it now, I simply did not count the cost before I laid the foundation. And now, I simply don't have the resources and energy with which to finish it.

One major obstacle is my age. I am "a frog's whisker" away from the age of 80. That grand and glorious dream for which I prayed requires a great deal of time, and effort on my part, and I realize now that I am simply not equipped to devote that much time and effort at this stage in my life. 

Oh, the dream for which I had prayed seemed "ripe for the picking" during the past several months, and after having devoted so much time and energy and prayer for such a long time, it just seemed to be "for just such a time as this." It was just so obvious. As a result, I proceeded.

It simply did not count the cost.

Of course, it would be natural to feel sorry for myself. At the very least, I am embarrassed since I have shared the "good news" with dozens of people. (I can only hope that the majority just "go about their business," and don't think any more about it). 

It is a real "poke in the eye" to realize that, "Well, no, you simply are not equipped to move forward with this venture." At first, I tried to ignore that little voice in my head. But it only got louder. Reason was determined to win out. (And it finally did).

It is a dream that I will, for all I know, take to the grave with me. They say the saddest words in the English language are: "What might have been." And given the place I find myself at this  moment, I tend to agree with that conjecture.

I have read that the richest piece of ground on earth is not the rain forests of South America, nor the diamond mines of South Africa, nor the oil wells of Saudi Arabia. No, the richest piece of ground on earth is... your local cemetery. 

For you see lying dormant in the bosoms of a thousand individuals are dreams, dreams which might have changed the world, but which will lie there for a million years; unaccomplished and unachieved.

I'm not so sure my dream would have changed the world, nor even my little nook of the world. But it meant the world to me.

Since I am a believer, I can only surmise that I got ahead of God in this matter. Perhaps there were subtle signs that our Lord was saying "No," while I was drowning Him out with my "Yes." I can only speak to the surety, the reality, the definiteness of the moment in which I find myself. His "No" is quickly becoming all too obvious. 

My dream has turned to dust.

But I will go on. I will continue to dream. Several of my dreams have been "for just such a time as this." God and I have gotten so many things right over the years. I refuse to wallow in this present pile of dust and ashes.

Perhaps one day I may even look back on this dream which has been permanently consigned to theory

... and smile.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

UNCLE BOB

 4523

As I reflect on it now, there has never been anyone quite like "Uncle Bob."

Uncle Bob was also known as Sergeant First Class Robert Hoehne (pronounced Haney). In his reserve career, he served as Section Chief of the attached personnel team, Headquarters, 2nd Battalion, 116th Field Artillery, Lakeland, Florida. He was my immediate supervisor there. We served together for a decade and a half, and it was yours truly who moved into his military position when he retired from the Florida Army National Guard.

Uncle Bob was, (to say the very least), a colorful sorta guy. 

In his civilian role, Bob was an elementary school math teacher. However, I never knew him in that particular capacity. 

One of the first memories I have of Uncle Bob was his humor, and one example in particular. We were making our way through the chow line one day during, (what is referred to as), a "home drill." (We weren't out in the woods). And since we had apparently done an "overnighter" in the armory, and were being served grits, Bob looked at the assistant cook, and said, "I'll have one grit!" (Did I mention Uncle Bob was from New Jersey)? Well, he was.

My old friend, (he was my friend), had a habit of using one phrase, in particular. If he liked and respected you, he would say, "He (or she) is a good person." I'll always remember his tendency to say those five words.

Uncle Bob would, at times, pick me up for weekend drills. He drove a 1970 something Ford Fairlane paneled station wagon. I will always remember that vehicle. For whatever reason, the attached section, a 3-4 soldier detail, were given the wherewithal to drive their own personal vehicles to two week annual training. The entire contingent of our section always rode with Bob. 

One evening as we were approaching Camp Shelby, Mississippi, I happened to be driving that old Ford Fairlane paneled station wagon. As I approached a traffic light in some little non-descript town, the light turned yellow. And as I touched the gas pedal, thinking I could surely get through the light, the yellow became red. And then, a different color of light altogether appeared behind our vehicle, and the sound of a police siren.

The police officer demanded I pay the ticket immediately, or return in a few weeks to contest the ticket. (Needless to say, I paid). I have always been convinced that the cop was hiding behind some nearby trees, and had changed the traffic light with an electronic clicker. And I have always been equally convinced that he put that money in his pocket. 

And speaking of driving to our two week annual training in a civilian vehicle, once when we were drilling at Camp Blanding, Florida, and had a day off, Uncle Bob, the rest of our section members, and I drove into Jacksonville. At least, that was the supposed destination. However, on the way to where ever I thought we were going, my section chief pulled that old Ford Fairlane 500 station wagon into the parking lot of, well, I will spare you the details. I only knew I wasn't going to into that establishment. Ultimately, I sent another fella into get him, and another soldier; who had, I thought, overstayed their welcome there.

No one worked harder than Uncle Bob. In the reserve, a soldier's retirement pay is based on a point system. Each weekend drill day, and each day of the two week active duty tour is worth x number of points. My section chief volunteered for additional days at the unit, lending a hand to the active duty troops, in order to earn additional points. Did I mention that a reservist does not begin collecting their retired pay 'til he reaches age 60? Ironically, Uncle Bob lived to be... 59. He never saw a penny of his hard-earned retirement pay; (though I presume his wife received it).

I have a favorite photo of my friend. He is lying on a cot in an old green canvas Army tent. Our unit had been activated after the 1992 hurricane which devastated Homestead, Florida. Hurricane Andrew "did a work" on thousands of homes and businesses, and irrevocably changed the lives of untold numbers of men, women, and children.

Sergeant Hoehne loved to talk about his home state of New Jersey. He often spoke of "going down to the shore," or more precisely, "going down the shore." 

I like to think Uncle Bob is somewhere enjoying a bowl of grits, (well, cream of wheat), lying prostrate on his beloved shore, and gazing wistfully upon the rolling waves. 

by SSG William McDonald, (U.S. Army, Ret.)

THOUGH DEAD, YET HE SPEAKS

 4522

Pt. 1

It is a poignant season for me. 

I am on the threshold of retirement (again). I have already earned a retirement with the Army Reserve, and another retirement with United Parcel Service. Next week I will finish 35 years as a pastoral counselor, and prepare to publish a series of devotional volumes.

In spite of my long and storied career, and my impact on countless thousands of people whom God has set in my pathway, I tend to wonder if my life has counted for all that much, or if I will be long remembered.

However, those "cards and letters," (written and verbal), have encouraged me along the way.

I was shopping at my local Dollar General recently, and I was checking out. A young man, who looked like he might have been Filipino, was about to step in line ahead of me; when he noticed I had my hands full. As a result, he said, "Sir, why don't you go ahead of me?" I smiled, and acquiesced to his wishes.

As I "accepted the mission," I said,

"Yeah, I'm an old guy."

(and)

"Young people these days often forget their elders."

To which the twenty something year old fella responded,

"I won't forget you. I will remember you, and this day... as long as I live!"

(I feel better already)!

Pt. 2

Today I was driving through my hometown, and decided to pull into a local fast food establishment.

I placed my order with an outside attendant, and circled around the building. Nearing the service window, well, actually an open door, I came to a stop. A pretty young lady stepped through the portal, and walked up to my driver's window. 

"Are you Bill?"

I acknowledged I was. And as "Paula" handed the chicken sandwich to me, I handed a Gideon New Testament to her, and said,

"Let me give you a little goodie."

(and)

"My first grade teacher gave me one of these 70 years ago!"

Paula's smile grew larger, and she replied.

"I will still have this little book 70 years from now!"

And her obvious joy caused me to believe Paula will be sharing the words of that book with others; long after I have stepped into the eternal kingdom. 

(Odd to consider, but between those two little volumes, my dear teacher, and I have been afforded a century and a half of spiritual influence among those who He has set in our pathways).

Pt. 3

A couple of decades ago, I was mentoring a twenty year old girl. The session went pretty much the same as every previous mentoring session. However, as she got up to leave, Rita shared the most beautiful, (and the most spontaneous), gift with me that I had ever been given. (And, by now you realize I am a "word person"). 

"Dr. Bill, I don't want to disappoint you. I will go for you when you can no longer go. I will speak for you when you can no longer speak. I will reach, teach, and keep people in your name; long after you have gone on to your reward!"

Rita is such a person of excellence, and by now is married, and has children. However, I have no doubt she has continued to remember, and honor that pledge.

Post-script

The foregoing stories remind me of a phrase which John Wesley once committed to paper, (and the impact of the promises these dear young people shared with me).

"My heart felt strangely warmed..." 

And I am reminded of a scripture.

"Though dead he continues to speak to us by his example." (Hebrews 11:4)

It is comforting to realize that though I am gazing into a sunset, there are those who are starring into the noonday sun, and who will keep right on keeping on in my stead, and though I am no longer living, and breathing, and moving on the earth, that I will not be forgotten.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

REMEMBERING THAT DAY

 4521

Remembering That Day

William McDonald, PhD

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They gave their tomorrows for our todays.

MY COUSIN FRANCES

4520

 

Frances Langford, the WWII era movie actress and USO performer, was my dad’s second cousin. Their grandparents were half-brother and half-sister. (I have visited my gg Aunt Rhoenia’s gravesite in Mulberry, Florida). My dad once told me that John, Rhoenia’s brother, rode from southern Georgia to central Florida on horseback in the second half of the 19^th century to see his sister.

 

When I was in Valdosta, visiting with my Aunt Olline, my dad’s 1^st cousin, Sonny McDonald, came by her house, and I struck up a conversation with him.

“Sonny, I understand Frances Langford was your second cousin;” (which he affirmed with a nod).

 

And I continued,

 

“My dad told me that he once saw her perform in Hawaii during WWII, but didn’t bother to introduce himself.”

 

Sonny piped up. 

 

“Well, I didn’t exactly meet her either, but I saw her. I was in the same room with her. You see, my dad drove me down to Lakeland once since he got a hankering to see his first cousin, Vasco, Frances’ father.

 

I was maybe five or six, and while I was playing, or simply being bored in the living room, a young lady walked through, and almost immediately out the front door. I learned later that this was cousin Frances. By this time she had already made a few movies, and was a star. Later, during WWII, she did lots of USO shows for the military, and was Bob Hope’s female ‘side kick.’”

 

I had always wanted to talk to a family member who had actually spoken to, or seen Frances. I’m glad I had that unexpected opportunity. It would not present itself again.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD                                                                    

 

THE MARTYRDOM OF FIVE FAITHFUL MISSIONARIES

 4519

Supernatural Accounts from the Waorani After the 1956 Missionary Killings

After the January 8, 1956 killing of the five American missionaries—Jim Elliot, Nate Saint, Ed McCully, Peter Fleming, and Roger Youderian—members of the Waorani (Huaorani) tribe later described unusual and possibly supernatural experiences in the aftermath.

According to accounts from the missionaries’ family and later testimonies from Waorani survivors, the killers—many of whom were teenagers and not experienced in warfare—were involved in an internal tribal dispute and took out their anger on the missionaries thelineoffire.org. The missionaries had made a covenant not to use guns in self-defense, and they did not attempt to flee or fight back thelineoffire.org.

In the stillness after the killings, several Waorani witnesses reported seeing and hearing things they could not explain:

• Sight of “cowodi” (angels): Dawa, one of the three Waorani women who watched the murders, said she saw figures resembling the foreign missionaries standing above the trees, singing robertblincoe.blog.
• Heavenly singing: Mincaye and Kimo confirmed they heard the singing and saw what Dawa described as a bright multitude in the sky, which they felt should have frightened them robertblincoe.blog.
• Recognition of music: Dawa later learned that the singing matched the choir music heard on recordings of Rachel Saint’s hymns, which she had never heard before robertblincoe.blog.
• Spiritual impact: These experiences, combined with later exposure to Christian teachings from the widows of the martyrs, are said to have drawn some Waorani women to Christianity thelineoffire.org+1.

These accounts are part of the Waorani’s own oral history and have been shared by Steve Saint, Nate Saint’s son, and others. They are not part of the official historical record but are significant within the cultural and spiritual memory of the tribe and the missionary families.

In summary, while there is no verifiable external documentation of these events, multiple Waorani survivors have described seeing and hearing what they interpreted as supernatural phenomena—“angels” singing and figures resembling the slain missionaries—immediately after the killings,

Excerpted from an internet article 

OUR ABBA FATHER

 4518

It is comforting to realize that before God flung the worlds into space, He knew each of us by name. He knew the design of our individual fingerprints, and the intricacies of every organ within our bodies. He knew the number of tears we would ever shed. He knew the number of words we would ever speak. He knew the plans He dreamed for each of us, and He gave us the wherewithal to complete those plans. Most of all, and best of all, He has loved us with an everlasting love, and this great God who created the earth, and stars, and all that is therein has given us the privilege of calling Him our Abba Father.

Bill McDonald, PhD