HERE! HE'S DROWNED!!!

About 40 years ago, I was playing the part of a once a month, weekend dad. We had just picked up my children in Jacksonville, and drove a few miles to the Ramada Inn, and “set up shop” for the weekend. While we were there, we took advantage of the pool.

As we sat by the pool, I noticed a grandfather and grandmother, and their five or six year old grandson. The grandparents lounged next to the pool while little “Jimmy” paddled around in it; all the while remaining close to the edge.

From time to time, the young boy would dog paddle into deeper water, and would begin to flounder. Each time his granddad would reach out, grab his hand, and pull him into shallow water. I mused that Jimmy should have learned his lesson by now, but not so.

Finally, when the old man had had just about enough, he reached out, and grabbed little Jimmy, shoved him into grandma’s hands, and exclaimed, “Here. He’s drowned!” Of course, he wasn’t.

And though by now that aged man has long since gone on to his reward, and the little boy must be approaching 50, my wife and I have never forgotten the grandfather’s frustration that day, and laugh each time we think about it.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

AMAZING GRACE - Hymn Story

The Story Behind Amazing Grace

This song isn’t a song of theology—it’s John Newton’s own heartfelt expression of gratitude to God, who helped him turn from his profane and wicked life and eventually fight against the ills he practiced. Later in life, Newton became a supporter and inspiration to William Wilberforce who lead the fight to pass the British Slave Trade Act in 1807, which abolished the slave trade in that empire.

John Netwon's story behind "Amazing Grace"

The Greyhound had been thrashing about in the north Atlantic storm for over a week. Its canvas sails were ripped, and the wood on one side of the ship had been torn away and splintered. The sailors had little hope of survival, but they mechanically worked the pumps, trying to keep the vessel afloat. On the eleventh day of the storm, sailor John Newton was too exhausted to pump, so he was tied to the helm and tried to hold the ship to its course. From one o'clock until midnight he was at the helm.

With the storm raging fiercely, Newton had time to think. His life seemed as ruined and wrecked as the battered ship he was trying to steer through the storm. Since the age of eleven he had lived a life at sea. Sailors were not noted for the refinement of their manners, but Newton had a reputation for profanity, coarseness, and debauchery which even shocked many a sailor.

John Newton had rejected his mother's teachings and had led other sailors into unbelief. Certainly he was beyond hope and beyond saving, even if the Scriptures were true. Yet, Newton's thoughts began to turn to Christ. He found a New Testament and began to read. Luke 11:13 seemed to assure him that God might still hear him: "If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children: how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask him."

That day at the helm, March 21, 1748, was a day Newton remembered ever after, for "On that day the Lord sent from on high and delivered me out of deep waters." Many years later, as an old man, Newton wrote in his diary of March 21, 1805: "Not well able to write; but I endeavor to observe the return of this day with humiliation, prayer, and praise." Only God's amazing grace could and would take a rude, profane, slave-trading sailor and transform him into a child of God. Newton never ceased to stand in awe of God's work in his life.

Used with permission from John Newton Discovered Amazing Grace @Christianity.com

FOLLOW ME

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 Maoist 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.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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.

THE LONE RANGER'S POOR VISION

The Lone Ranger and Tonto went camping in the desert.
After they got their tent all set up, both men fell sound asleep.
Some hours later, Tonto wakes the Lone Ranger and says,
'Kemo Sabe, look towards sky, what you see?'
'The Lone Ranger replies, 'I see millions of stars.'
'What that tell you?' asked Tonto.

The Lone Ranger ponders for a minute then says, 'Astronomically speaking, it tells me there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Time wise, it appears to be approximately a quarter past three in the morning. Theologically, the Lord is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow.

What's it tell you, Tonto?' 

'You dumber than buffalo. It means someone stole the tent'

COMPELLED

“For when I preach the Gospel, I cannot boast, since I am compelled to preach. Woe to me if I do not preach the Gospel!” (1^st Cor. 9:16)

Following is a response to a former counseling client who has texted me with a recurrent ‘thank you’ for all I have done to impact her life. (And to be sure, I never tire of it, and am appreciative of her words).

“I often tell people I don't deserve any credit at all for having impacted lives because it hasn't been a choice I have made. I am constrained by the love of God to impact lives. I simply have no choice. I MUST do it. All glory to the One who has loved us and gave Himself for us.”

Whether ‘constrained’ or voluntary, I am glad that the Gospel is being preached, and that souls are being impacted for God. May our Lord help me, and all believers to fulfill what remains of our destinies.

STANDING IN FOR PATRICIA

I step out my front door about 4am almost every weekday morning, and walk the streets of my neighborhood, or adjacent four lane highway. And while I can’t say I’m losing any weight, at least I’m not gaining any either.

Odd, how one’s sensibilities seem to be heightened in the wee hours of the morning; at least within the ‘confines’ of the great outdoors. For I have had several unexplainable experiences during my nightly treks.

The sense of smell. More than once I have been walking along the sidewalk, and a vehicle has sped by. And suddenly, close behind the passing vehicle, the fragrance of perfume, or the odor of a cigarette. Perhaps my heightened sensitivity to smell during the wee hours has everything to do with the relative quietness of the evening, or the lower temperature, or great humidity.

However, none of the foregoing factors can explain my having seen things which I never expected to see during the course of my life on earth.

The ethereal, momentary appearance of my dearly departed pooch. The equally brief appearance (and disappearance) of what I am convinced was one of God’s heavenly beings.

And then there was a woman (for lack of a more adequate characterization) and her dog, adjacent to the sidewalk. She was standing in the landscaped area of a bank, and singing the most eerie song known (or unknown) to mortal man. (Needless to say, I “kept on keeping on”).

I don’t know why I have been privy to more miracles than you “can shake a stick at.” I only know I have, (and so many more than I could begin to recount here). To be sure, I’m nobody special, and I certainly haven’t done anything deserving of even one sign or wonder.

Pt. 2

But, among the most amazing of miracles which I have experienced is a series of “near misses” which have accompanied me during my young, middle and older adult years.

During the course of my job at a phosphate mine, and while working the evening shift, I walked between a dragline and its massive swinging bucket, as it did what it did best. However, in spite of the darkness which surrounded me, the operator witnessed my predicament and dropped the twenty ton bucket against the slope of the deep pit which he had been digging. I was only moments from certain death.

Then, there was the time when I was driving home from work one day, and managed to flip my car on a rain-soaked road. Having rolled off the road and onto the shoulder, it came to rest on its wheels; resulting in plenty of damage to the automobile, and little or none to me.

Then again, in the past couple of decades my wife and I were nearing our house one day, along that same stretch of road which I walk on a recurring basis, when a car ran a stop sign; perhaps fifty feet ahead of us. My wife immediately locked up the brakes of our 1980 something green Oldsmobile. In the other car, two little children stared out their rear window at us; abject terror registering on their faces.

There was no question. Someone, or multiple someone’s were about to die. However, as I sat on the passenger side of the vehicle I was struck with the strangest possibility of escape. Assuming the position of driver from the unlikeliest of positions, I wrested the steering wheel from my wife with my left hand, and I managed to steer our car behind the offending vehicle. Having missed the automobile by all of a foot, our car immediately went into a 180 degree spin, and finally came to rest next to the border fence of a nearby home; our frontend facing in the direction which our backend had been facing only moments before.

Pt. 3

But allow me to digress a moment.

“Patricia” was a classmate of mine, though a year behind me in school. And while I don’t recall exchanging so much as one word with her, we were both members of our high school chorus.

Patricia was the daughter of a local minister of music, and his wife, was a fine Christian girl, was a member of several high school academic and vocational groups, and was blessed with plenty of friends.

Sadly, at the tender age of 17, and just three months before her high school graduation, Patricia was involved in a one vehicle accident, and succumbed to her injuries.

I mean, who can account for it? The loss of such a person of excellence and rich potential? Not only this, but it seems she surrendered her life to providence “first time out; at such a young and inestimably unfair age.

Yes, I have experienced a significant number of what I often refer to as “near misses,” (or near death experiences) during the course of my life, and I have only recounted a few here.

Did I mention my sensitivity to my environment seems to be heightened in the wee hours of the morning? Then, last night perhaps one of the most amazing, although subtle miracles I have been privileged to experience.

As I was in the process of completing my hour long walk, I heard, (or rather perceived) the voice.

“I want you to stand in for Patricia.”

(Even as I type these words, a shiver runs up my spine).



Afterward

Granted, it was only a perception. But this perception literally “came out of nowhere.” I hadn’t been thinking of Patricia, nor any of several long lost classmates who “left us before their time.”

…“I want you to stand in for Patricia.”

As someone who has been directly associated with various helping ministries over the course of half a century, (including the roles of pastor, professor, youth leader, mentor and counselor) I like to think I have made a difference in multiplied thousands of lives.

Yet, in spite of everything which has already fallen together in my life, hardly a day goes by that I don’t whisper a prayer.

“Lord, please don’t let me miss out on whatever still remains of my destiny. Please don’t allow me to miss out on each and every circumstance and event you have planned for me, and the people whom you have yet to set in my pathway.”

Now, at the grand old age of 70, it is humbling to imagine that God has appointed me as a personal emissary for that dear precious soul who never had the opportunity to live out a long and fulfilling life on the earth.

I don’t intend to disappoint her.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE TRAITOR'S MINDSET

^“Then one of the Twelve, the one called Judas Iscariot, went to the chief priests and asked, ‘What are you willing to give me if I deliver him over to you?’ So, they counted out for him thirty pieces of silver.” (Matthew 26:14-15)

Of course, it all began before Judas “high-tailed” it to the chief priests. For you see, Jesus had entered Jerusalem on the previous Sunday, on the back of a donkey, and crowds lined the roadway waving palm branches, and shouting,

“Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” (Matthew 21:19)

However, within days the same folks who had lined the roadway, and hailed Him as Messiah were “singing an entirely different tune.”

“Which of the two do you want me to release to you?” asked the governor.

‘Barabbas,’ they answered.

“What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate asked.

“They all answered, ‘Crucify him!’” (Matthew 27:21-22)

What, after all, was happening here? Why this apparent flip-flop in the thinking of Judas Iscariot, a man who had witnessed the miracles, and listened to the words of the God-man for three years? And why the duplicity of the crowd who had hailed Christ as King one day, and just days later shouted for His execution?

Pt. 2

I think it’s all about Mindsets. No, I’m convinced that it’s all about Mindsets.

There’s a curious passage of scripture which contrasts the mindsets of mankind, and the mindsets of the Almighty.

 ^“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” saith the Lord.

“For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55:8-9)

It seems apparent to me that the crowd and Judas, the Zealot expected Jesus to execute vengeance on the occupying Romans. Just a word or an outstretched arm, and thousands of armed Italian troops would melt like the Nazi archaeologist in “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

Unfortunately for Judas, this was never God’s plan in the first place. For in the first place, before He ever breathed the worlds into place, our Heavenly Father, the Son of God, and the Holy Spirit came up with a very different plan from the one Judas, and the crowd envisioned.

Whereas, the vast throng of people expected our Lord to rain down fire and brimstone on the occupying Roman hoards, and whereas Judas expected Jesus to execute vengeance on the religious leaders, and soldiers who met Him in the garden, and whereas the former thought he would force the hand of the latter, Jesus did the unthinkable.

Nothing at all

He had come to do a whole different thing, and He would not be denied.

Afterward

Judas and a large segment of Jewish society had gotten it all wrong. And in so doing, it was all about their mindset. In spite of Jesus’ words and actions, and His emphasis on the heart, and not the head, they were convinced He came to bring physical, rather than spiritual freedom. The relief and release He had in mind was much less about deliverance from a natural enemy, and an earthly homeland, and much more about deliverance from our natural enemy, and a heavenly one.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

HOOSIERS, PT. 1

If I have watched the movie, “Hoosiers” once, I’ve watched it a couple dozen times. It’s just one of those flicks that you don’t mind watching once every month or two.

As I slipped the movie into my DVD player today, and settled into my recliner, one scene, in particular, “jumped out” at me.

As Coach Norman Dale, (the real-life Marvin Wood) sits on the sidelines of a particular high school basketball game guiding, encouraging, admonishing and refining his small-town Indiana boys, something occurs which he doesn’t like; not even a little bit.

His best player has just made a three pointer, and, afterwards, Dale yells for him to pass it off to another player. “Jimmy Cheatwood” ignores him, and summarily drops another two- pointer into the basket.

Well, given that quick 5 points on the board, perhaps the majority of basketball coaches in the world would have smiled, and overlooked the young man’s minor act of disobedience.

Not Coach Dale. Not by a long shot.

He stands up and motions Jimmy to meet him on the sidelines, and with a grimace he screams,

“Sit down!”

And with this, he sends his most unlikely player to the floor; a five foot nothing, stubby little guy with absolutely no athletic talent whatsoever.

(Stay tuned for Pt. 2)

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

MY RESURRECTION STONE. MY RESURRECTION LIFE

A friend asked me what she could bring me back from Jesus' burial place when she visited Israel. I asked her to bring me back a rock. 

She did. I call it my resurrection stone. I sometimes carry it in my pocket. It reminds me to live out a resurrection lifestyle; in my thoughts, attitudes, words and actions.

BORN IN CHINA

Following is an excerpt from the script of a recent nature documentary titled, “Born in China;” with editing and additional clarification by yours truly. It may be a sensitive "read" for those who love animals.

Speaking of sensitive, call me ‘sensitive,’ but as a rule I just can’t watch those “Crocodile eats zebra as it swims across an African stream” kind of film productions. However, in the scheme of things “Born in China” goes relatively light on gruesome scenes such as the foregoing description would indicate.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t “pull any punches,” and there are a few scenes in which, for instance, a snow leopard grasps a young calf by the neck, or is seen dragging a newly killed mountain goat back to its den. Speaking of snow leopards, there are only 6,000 of these magnificent felines still in existence, and they are being trophy hunted to the tune of one kill per day.

“Born in China” is a magnificent, full-color production, and spins the true tales of several species of wild animals, including pandas, monkeys, mountain goats, and of course, snow leopards; which live in the highlands of China. I never realized such compassion for a predator species ‘til I watched this documentary.

Under Dawa's nurturing, her cubs are growing into two impressive young cats. And she's just had a successful hunt which comes none too soon. Her cubs are now fully weaned and hungry for some fresh meat. They've been watching and learning the ways of the great hunter, their morn, (but are not yet prepared to hunt on their own).

Suddenly across the valley, the intruder has returned.

(The ‘intruder’ refers to another female snow leopard who vies for the choice animal-rich territory which Dawa calls ‘home’).

This time, she has returned with her three nearly grown sons. Scarcity of prey has brought them into Dawa's territory, and they are more than prepared to take all that is hers. Dawa's old rival is much more emboldened now that she has reinforcements. Her powerful foe, and Dawa both know the latter of the two would never survive a fight against all four of her competitors.

However, Dawa can't bring herself to abandon this precious food. Her cubs must eat, and when it comes to their survival, Dawa would fight almost any foe. The trade-off between life and death is sometimes a very difficult calculation. But then the other leopards move in. (Dawa watches from a distance, and reluctantly decides to “turn tail and run”). Outnumbered and out-fanged, Dawa retreats to guard her cubs. Not satisfied with merely stealing Dawa's kill, the interlopers now pursue her to let her know, they're here to stay. To save her young, Dawa must lead them out of the area. She has experienced overwhelming humiliation. The proud snow leopard and her cubs have been expelled from their own home.

As the temperatures begin to plummet, the once mighty Queen of the Mountain hasn't made a kill in over a week. Now, she's forced to share her unfamiliar new territory with her more successful rivals. She must survey the area constantly to get the lay of the land and reestablish her dominion with scent markings. But now she's been spotted by a male snow leopard. She defends her ground bravely, but is forced to retreat back to her cubs. Suddenly, those playful days of summer are a fading memory.

Dawa's hunting successes have been few and far between. But a flock of sheep, seeking shelter from the weather, have just moved within range. However, now the unexpected occurs. The snow has concealed jagged rocks, and as Dawa leaps from ledge to ledge in pursuit of a choice lamb, she injures her paw. Dawa knows if she and her cubs are to survive, she must be in top physical condition. The ‘hunt’ demands it.

Back up on the high plateau the winter snow lingers well into spring, and Dawa is still fighting to provide for her cubs. The injury to her foot has greatly hampered her hunting ability, and she no longer has the speed to chase down prey, as nimble as these wild sheep. However, an opportunity now arises. In springtime, domesticated yaks are released to graze in the higher elevations. These beasts are ten times as heavy as Dawa, and one blow from their powerful horns could be fatal. Going up against a whole herd is like attacking an army. Yet, her cubs are relying on her. It's now or never.

The limping Dawa pours on her limited speed, and sinks her fangs into the neck of a newborn yak. The calf's mother rallies to save her baby. But Dawa refuses to let go. She understands this is her last chance. However, a yak mother's will to protect her young is just as strong as Dawa's.

The yak strikes Dawa hard with her horns. The desperate feline is injured badly. One mother's brave rescue of her baby is another's tragic failure to feed her own. Dawa stumbles away from “the scene of the crime,” and her last opportunity to save herself and her young cubs from certain death.

(As the documentary reaches its conclusion, a momentary glimpse of the dead Dawa comes into view. Snow is falling hard around her, and we can only surmise that her cubs have also succumbed to hunger and the elements, and lie somewhere nearby.

One can only imagine the waning emotions which filled up Dawa’s dying frame. The pride of having, "push come to shove" stood up to a larger foe, the inherent satisfaction with having given her last full measure of devotion, the inestimable sadness of her best not having been good enough; the overwhelming grief which came with her inability to save her children from the same fate as her own. A string of ‘bad luck.’ The survival of the fittest. Providence has once again won out).

In Chinese mythology, when a life ends, a crane carries that soul to rejoin the cycle of birth and rebirth. From the end to the beginning. Time pushes this cycle ever forward. The young become adults. The adults grow old. Death is not the end. It is merely a waypoint in a circle that continues endlessly. 

Every creature plays its part in this great cyclical symphony. Each life lived is just one beat in the larger beautiful rhythm. This vast land breeds both love and hardship. But in the hardship, there is hope. This is where they live. This is where they die. This is where they grow. This is where they are born.

from “Born in China” documentary with  editing by William McDonald, PhD

CURTAILING HER HABIT

On December 19, 1973, Johnny Carson walked through those memorable multi-colored curtains, and began his comedic routine.

“In a time when we are dealing with a shortage of gasoline, and grocery bags, it has recently come to light that there is an acute shortage of toilet paper.”

Well, as a result of his somewhat exaggerated monologue, the multitudinous viewers of his program flooded America’s grocery stores, and filled their shopping carts with more toilet paper than Noah stashed on the ark. (And, of course, that ole boy was contending with a whole lotta messy animals, and a whole lotta,… well, you know).

Johnny Carson had “put the fear of the Lord” into millions of his committed fans, and the toilet paper section of the nation’s grocery stores quickly became as scarce as watermelons in Antarctica; not unlike the hoarding, and resulting dearth of the white, fluffy stuff that we are facing in our nation today.

I just saw a short video clip of a woman from that time period. Without so much as a faint smile, she quips,

“I’m used to going when I need to go. I guess I’m going to have to curtain my habit!”

And you only thought this was the first time we have dealt with a shortage of such an humble, but contrastingly precious commodity. Recently, I ran across a photo on social media taken one Halloween. The picture depicts several oak trees in front of a home, and yards and yards of toilet paper adorns each tree. Beneath the photograph is a caption.

“The value of your home just went up!”

But to digress a bit.

As you might imagine, Johnny Carson was nothing short of flabbergasted that his comedy routine had sent America into a tizzy of toilet paper hoarding. And a few days after millions of rolls of the stuff, well, rolled out of every supermarket in the country, he issued a humorous apology.

“A woman comes in from the grocery store, and as she steps into the door, she shouts,

‘Honey, I picked up your favorite brand of coffee.’

“To which her husband exclaims,

‘Forget the coffee. Give me the grocery bag!’"

Carson continued speaking.

“Listen folks, seriously, I don’t want to be known as the man who created a toilet paper shortage in this country. Settle down! There’s plenty to go around.”



I think if Johnny was afforded the opportunity to rise from the dead, and spend two minutes on that stage today, he would say very much the same thing.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.

We have traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.


One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest.


Pt. 2


Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.


Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.


As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 3

I, as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.

My 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American Revolution.

My 3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland in the 17^th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a hundred kisses on their cheeks.

My 9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade; during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and was adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.

When they closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 4

I brought up the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.


While we were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.


I left a tribute to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill; which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy; along with my name and relationship to them.

And with this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers were most and best acquainted.


And whereas, I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they sustained cannot be calculated.


And whereas, these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending 

JUST A MOMENT AGO

Unlike a large percentage of son-in-law’s, I liked my mother-in-law.

Ruby wasn’t what I would call a conversationalist. But, as you might imagine, when she said something, she had something to say, and everyone listened. For her family knew that when she opened her mouth to speak, something interesting, insightful or intelligent would come out.

And witty! Ruby was perhaps the wittiest person I ever met. There is the story about a phone call she received when she was a middle-aged housewife. The conversation went very much like the following paraphrase:

“Hello?”

“Hi. This is Arthur Murray Studio.”

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Hello, ma’am. We would like to introduce ourselves, and provide you three free dance lessons.”

(And without so much as a moment’s pause, Ruby responded).

“I’m sorry, honey. I only have one leg!”

I can report that the solicitor quickly bid his apologetic farewells, and hung up.

Pt. 2

Ruby was born in 1916, two years before a dreaded ogre stalked the earth, and did its worst among a significant percentage of the world’s inhabitants.

“The Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918, the deadliest in history, infected an estimated 500 million people worldwide, about one-third of the planet’s population, and killed an estimated 50 to 100 million victims, including some 675,000 Americans. The 1918 flu was first observed in Europe, the United States, and parts of Asia before swiftly spreading around the world.

At the time, there were no effective drugs or vaccines to treat this killer flu strain. Citizens were ordered to wear masks, schools, theaters and businesses were shuttered, and bodies piled up in makeshift morgues before the virus ended its deadly global march.”

Ruby’s father, my grandfather-in-law, John Quincy Weeks, a healthy, vibrant 26 year old man, succumbed to the pandemic; just ten days prior to the end of WWI. He left his wife and family through no fault of his own, and when the little orphan was older, and cognizant enough to recount her childhood memories, her father was not one of them.

Does my previous description of the Spanish Flu Pandemic “ring a bell?” Is there anything about it which sounds remotely familiar?

A full hundred years after that insidious flu pandemic was conquered in 1920, the world is experiencing something very much like it; in fact, the greatest, most wide-spread, most virulent  pandemic in exactly a century.

Even as I type these words, the world has already experienced over a million cases of Coronavirus, 300,000 of which are in the United States, and it has been conjectured that, before it’s over, as many as two million U.S. citizens may succumb to the virus.

Like forty other states, our governor just issued a “Shelter in Place” order. The restaurants, theaters, beaches and parks are closed for business, and other than a few excepted vocations, Florida’s and most of America’s workforce has been mandated to stay home.

Pt. 3

In his briefing yesterday, our president encouraged “the whole lot” of us to wear masks, and you see more, and more people wearing them, as you visit the grocery stores, or take-out restaurants.

I have seen several news reports which feature small business establishments in the process of producing masks. My own sister-in-law, Sue, has been making masks for herself, and other family members; (which is very much appreciated, indeed). I especially like the mask she gave her sister, (my wife) which features images of the Statue of Liberty and our beloved American flag.

In the past couple of days, my wife was going through the contents of Ruby’s antique Singer sewing machine, and came across what I would refer to as a “poignant find;” something my dear mother-in-law left behind.

A bag full of elastic

And it occurred to her that what Ruby left inside that old sewing machine decades ago was for “just such a time as this.” (Esther 4:14)

No sooner had Jean come across this treasure, than she contacted her sister, and offered her the precious commodity. I say “precious” since not only is toilet paper at a premium during this season, but you just can’t find any elastic in the craft shops.

Of course, Sue began to crank out more face masks utilizing the elastic strips from her mother’s ancient stash. And I think she must have felt a great deal of satisfaction, in essence, bringing her mother into a project which not only hearkens back to the past, the century old flu pandemic, and the loss of her own father, but to the present and the deepening season in which her own beloved children and grandchildren find themselves.

John Quincy, and millions of others who lived and moved and breathed at that time walked the shadowy, bending path which stretched before them, and just as it came, it came to pass. 

And given the testing and resiliency of those who have gone on before us, and the common challenges with which we presently contend, somehow it seems hardly more than a moment ago.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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