AS YOU HAVE DONE IT TO THE LEAST OF THESE

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There is a true story about a bedraggled young homeless man who walked into a church. He was late and the church was full. As a result, he walked down the aisle, and sat down square on the floor. Of course, all the parishioners were glaring at him the entire time. Now, a greeter, who also happened to be a church deacon, began walking from the back towards the unfortunate young man. Most everyone figured that the smelly vagrant would be ushered out of the church. However, this is when the most "strange and wonderful" thing occurred. Mr. Jones kneeled next to "Tommy", whispered something in his ear, and... sat down right next to him on the floor! The pastor had been presenting his sermon at the time, and stopped mid sentence. He was transfixed. He could only shake his head, and remind the congregation of the good Master's statement. "As much as you have done it to the least of my brethren, you have done it to Me."

SINGING WITH THE CIRCUIT RIDER

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My wife was with our daughter in Massachusetts, as she was facing surgery at the time. And shortly after my wife flew out, the State of Florida was confronted with another hurricane.

I had planned to "hang loose" in my home in central Florida, as I had done with the previous six hurricanes in the last quarter century. However, when the television weatherman informed his Tampa Bay area audience that the storm had reached CAT 5 status and 180 mph winds while still a couple hundred miles out in the Gulf of Mexico, it seemed to me the Creator of storms was prompting me to "get outta Dodge."

My God-daughter, one of my former university students, and her husband, an Army chaplain, invited me to drive up to L.A. (Lower Alabama) in order to enjoy their company, and to avoid the effects of Hurricane Milton. I didn't need to be asked twice.

It goes without saying that I enjoyed my visit immensely. I love this couple and their precious children dearly.

While I was there it was decided that we would drive over to a pioneer village which, as you have probably presumed, included a General Store, miscellaneous old homes and buildings, various craftswomen weaving cloth, bottling honey, teaching children to make rudimentary dolls from corn husks, etc.

At one point we made our pilgrimage to what appeared to be some semblance of a church. Upon entering the edifice, we discovered a sixty something year old parson dressed in "Johnny Cash" black. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat atop his cranium, and a cross around his neck. A guitar was attached to his neck by way of a wide leather strap.

"Parson Roberts" began to share his extensive knowledge of the Christian circuit riders. What they wore. Where they went. To whom they went to. The sort of sermons they preached. And what they sang.

Having reached the end of his, no doubt, memorized monologue, the good preacher asked,

"Does anyone have a favorite selection? I will try to sing it."

To which I responded,

"How about the Old Rugged Cross."

The good preacher seemed to think this was a good thing. And thus, he immediately began singing. And I could just not help myself.

I began singing the first verse in unison with him.

"On a hill faraway stood an old rugged cross

the emblem of suffering and shame..."

And "to put myself out there" just isn't generally my forte. But it just felt right, and it just felt comfortable. And I was not a bit anxious.

"And I love that old cross where the dearest and best

for a world of lost sinners was slain."

Somewhere between the first couple of lines of the song and the next couple of lines, I realized that my God-daughter Jaci was videoing us. And I was glad for it since I 'save' videos of family life, our travels, etc. on a storage device to be passed down to my children.

We proceeded to sing three verses of that old hymn. And as we sang, I found I missed an occasional word, as I hadn't sung that song in church, or otherwise for multiplied years.

As the circuit riding preacher man and I sang the last line of the hymn, and acknowledged one another, I stood from my pew, and we prepared to walk out of the old church.

And as we stepped out into the sunlight, I smiled, and experienced a quiet satisfaction that the same old Gospel message was going forth here in this little pioneer village in Alabama, as it has done in hundreds of thousands of localities throughout the earth over the course of two thousand years.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE TREE WHICH STOOD THE TEST OF TIME

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I think I have a complicated relationship with trees.

I remember climbing a nearby mulberry tree when I was around 12, and chowing down on its lucious purple fruit, and coming home with the sticky juice smeared all over my shirt.

In recent years, I noticed a lone oak tree in a pasture; perhaps two miles from my home. It was obviously in distress, as there was an abundance of Spanish moss covering its branches. I actually felt sorry for the lovely little tree, and spent hours one morning pulling excess moss down from its branches with a steel rake. To no avail. The poor little tree eventually succumbed, and all that remains now is a skeleton of its former self.

And then there is a nearby tree, I'm not sure what variety, along a busy four lane highway, and which was, through no fault of its own, involved in a one car accident several years ago. A young lady died in the wee hours of the morning. I actually saw the remains of the car, and the ambulance, and the attendants doing their work, as I pedaled my bike along the other side of the highway. I don't know why, perhaps the result of a personal remembrance and memorial, but I retrieved a small piece of bark that had been shattered in the accident, and I keep it in my desk drawer.

Then, there was what I refer to as the "Posing Tree" in Kissimmee State Park. Around 1985 my parents and all of their grandchildren posed on and around it. Most of the grandchildren sat on this horizontal branch about five feet off the ground. My parents stood beneath. I still have that poignant picture. Daddy and Mama have long since gone on to their reward, along with one of the grandchildren. My wife and I visited this same tree a few years ago; a full third of a century after eleven members of my immediate family posed for that beloved photo. It looked so old and so forlorn. The reason was patently obvious.

However, the tree which I remember best, and think of most often was (and is) a tree which stood (and stands) across the street from my childhood church. You see, I used to walk past it on the way to my elementary Sunday School class. At that time, we met in an old wooden frame white house which was owned by the church. And the tree. It was (and is) one of the largest oak trees I had (and have) ever seen on this (or any other) planet.

Six and a half decades have come and gone, and the old wooden frame white house was demolished years ago. And the church no longer owns the property. As a matter of fact, I also have an affiliation with the building which replaced it. You see, a branch of a national bank, in which I do my financial business, covers about thrice the acreage on which the original Sunday School building once stood.

But, as I have already inferred, that big, beautiful old oak tree still graces the premises, and I can't help but admire it, and reminisce about "the good old days" when I walked past it on the way to my Sunday School class. Speaking of reminiscing, I was in this bank the other day, and began to share my story with one of the tellers. She seems fascinated to learn that this 75 year old man had walked past that same immense green tree, and stared up into its amazing canopy when he was just barely a tenth of the age he is today.

I cannot help but hope that this grand old lovely oak tree, which has graced "the City of Oaks and Azaleas" for over a century, continues to stand the test of time, and outlives me, and my personal memories of it.

by Bill McDonald, PhD