The Finest of Lines

It occurs to me that the finest possible line exists between life and death.

Over the past 67 years I have wandered up to, but refrained from crossing, that line several times. (Or does the phrase “been hindered from” express the dynamic a bit more accurately)? For you see, I am convinced that “my times are in His hands.” (Psalm 31:15)

Why, only yesterday I strayed a bit too close to that proverbial line again.

My friend, Dennis and I were enjoying our monthly lunch at a Spanish restaurant; (which, when I delivered UPS packages, housed a bowling alley). As my friend and I cued up to select our food, I let him order first; since the food, and the descriptions thereof were unfamiliar to me. However, as I am a quick learner, I echoed the exact same selection as my culinary mentor.

It is a longer story, though shorter still to tell, but Dennis is a direct descendant of General Robert E. Lee. And I happen to be a distant cousin of his nemesis, General Ulysses S. Grant; a circumstance we discovered long after our friendship developed. Interestingly enough, Dennis and I have been known to call one another by our ancestor’s surnames, and quip how our sporadic encounters are rather like recreating the surrender ceremony; (though I doubt my kinsman offered his any food or drink).

Having sat down, we prayed, (a noble pursuit, indeed) and proceeded to ‘dig in.’

If I were honest, I would confess my tendency to coat every cubic centimeter of my taste buds belied the actual desirability of the food. (Sorry, General Lee. It wasn’t my favorite of the eight or ten locations we’ve visited over the years). I mean, I was really enamored with that other Spanish restaurant; (until you shared the rather unhappy news that the health department had discovered the presence of a certain breed of insect on the premises).

At any rate, as I stuffed the second (or twenty-second) mouthful of food into my, well, mouth, ground the shredded beef into a thick mush and swallowed, I was reminded how well a couple of ounces of animal protein may fit the circular mold of one’s epiglottal physiology. 

And with this rather unhappy fork-full of recently deceased bovine, I realized I had once again wandered up to that rather fine line separating this world from the next.

I was in trouble.

As ‘Mrs. Faixfax’ of Charlotte Bronte’s novel, ‘Jane Eyre’ was prone to say,

“What to do? What to do?”

As a counselor I teach a concept I refer to as, ‘Incrementals.’ That is, you take the simplest, most easily available course of action, and if this approach doesn’t work, you kick it up a notch; until you’ve exhausted every possible remedy to your problem.

Thus, I summarily lifted the sixteen ounce can of sugary sweet liquid before me, and filled what little space still existed in and about the few ounces of what had once been a rather impressive animal. But for all that mattered at this point in time, I might just as well have stuffed the entire beast in my mouth.

And when my preliminary course of action failed to offer the desired results, I “kicked it up a notch” and chose the final option available to me.

For the briefest moment I was mute; (something of which very few have ever accused me). And as my alarm grew in leaps and bounds, I caught Dennis’ eyes, and patted the left upper quadrant of my back with my right hand. (They say if too few people pat you on the back, you may as well pat your own). Of course, during those all too calamitous moments, I was experiencing a slightly more significant need.

With this my friend rose from his seat, took a couple of strides around the table, and lightly pummeled my back. And throughout the course of this unexpected encounter, I recall thinking my unhappy predicament merited a more substantial display of force. Had I been able to verbalize the smallest of phrases, I think I might have exclaimed,

“Dennis, if that’s the best you can do, get out of my way ‘cause my dead body will need exactly 5’8” of floor space!”

However, it soon became apparent that the maneuver, and degree of force which my friend had chosen was much better than his choice of restaurants. For quicker than I could say, “Dear Jesus, receive my spirit” a non-descript mass of “I’ll spare you the details” found its way back into the plate from whence it had sprung.

But to return to my earlier premise.

How often I have addled up to that fine line which separates living from dying, but as the edge of my proverbial shoe brushed against it, the hand of Providence yanked me back, and whispered two of the most powerfully poignant words ever conceived in this, or any other universe,

…“Not yet!”

And whereas, far too many of my youthful peers succumbed to whatever fate the hand of Providence dealt them, (and the first time out) I remain, and

…I cannot account for it.

And it seems the ethereal tongue which so recently uttered those two redeeming words, (‘Not yet’) now fills up the silence which so briefly elapsed.

“’General Grant,’ their work was done. I was simply through with them. What is it to you that I spoke the words, and dispatched the angels which summoned them home? There’s battles still to be fought. There’s victories yet to be won. Stay the course.

…Your time will come.”

And I, turning from such an auspicious encounter, find myself addressing a matter of more momentary consequence.

…”General Lee, next time let me choose the location of our ceremony!”

By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol.41. Copyright pending

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