POST TRAUMATIC STRESS MACHINE

 4437

In my previous chapter I alluded to (what was apparently) my first memory.  Subsequent to the foregoing memory is another; diametrically opposite, dreadful, one which took up residence in my soul, and has lingered there my entire life.

Well, perhaps the foregoing paragraph is a bit dramatic, (but, as a child, you couldn’t have convinced me otherwise.)

No doubt the following story occurred in the Spring or Fall, considering our geographical environment at the time, but I can’t speak authoritatively about this. But as my father might easily have testified in a court of law, Miami’s weather wasn’t for the faint at heart, (especially since he spent his days mopping hot tar on flat roofs, and carrying heavy buckets of the same stuff up tall ladders.)

(And by way of footnote, there was a time when daddy was climbing a straight ladder up the side of a commercial building, when his foot slipped. He and a five gallon bucket of scalding tar rode the ladder all the way to ground level. Unfortunately for him, his left leg landed in similar bucket of the fiery material, and immersed itself up to the knee. I cannot begin to imagine pain such as this. My father spent several weeks in the hospital. During that time the tar had to be stripped in layers off his lower leg. Reminiscent of the tattoo on his forearm, he wore some grisly scars on that limb ‘til the day he took his last breath.)

I think after my parents’ failed attempt to see a movie, only to discover I was safe and secure, (thank you very much) my mother’s anxiety about leaving me with Mrs. Hisey abated, and she was able to enjoy herself during their occasional attempts at marital recreation.

But not to be deterred, like a political candidate on television, I was “given equal time” and we also did things together as a family. Now I thought,

…“if this is all there is to family fun, I need to avoid it at all costs!”

For on a given day, month and year, my dad and mom packed me into the family automobile, (I can’t tell you the make or model this far along) and off we went. Had I any inkling what “lay in wait” for me, I would have definitely avoided the excursion at all costs.

My mother might best comment on my first words, and when those first words were spoken, but I can imagine asking her,

“Mommie, where we be goin? Daddy plomised me a I-creme cone, if I be good.”

To which she may have replied.

“Yes, he told me. We’ll pick it up on our way home, Royce… if you’re good. But if you’re not, then…”

Well, I guess we drove 5-6 miles, and pulled into a busy parking lot. I looked around, and then upward. We were surrounded by tall buildings, and I could smell the salt air. It turns out daddy had laid a roof on one of these massive structures, and had discovered a little known attraction; at least little known in our little corner of the world.

“Royce,” daddy spoke. “We’re gonna do something super fun today. Look up at the top of that building,” (and I followed his finger to the sky.)

“Son, watch this.”

I strained to see what my dad was referring to. Suddenly I saw it. A flash of orange and green color moving like a swift caterpillar along the edge of the roof. And then it was gone, but the noisy clatter continued and cut the surrounding air like a razor. Daddy told me to keep watching, and again a speeding flash of color, and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished again.

My father’s voice was tinged with expectation and a bit of humor.

“Well, my boy. Do I have a surprise for you today!”

Judging from the speed of the whatchamacallit and its proximity to the edge of the roof, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be surprised.

I’m sure I looked at my mother, and no doubt, her face wore an anxious, “I don’t know how smart this is, but I guess we’ll give it a whirl” sort of expression.

As we closed in on the building, I could no longer see IT, but the sound of the machine grew louder with each step. Now we found ourselves in what I later learned was a revolving door, which brought us face to face with the ground floor of a vast department store, filled with everything from blue jeans to light bulbs to pogo sticks. While my attention was diverted, (I may well have been looking at the latter of the three afore mentioned items) my dad navigated his small family up to a set of two massive double doors.

Suddenly, I heard a thump that seemed to shake the floor beneath my feet. I think I felt it more than I heard it, and the vibration startled me. Then the large metal doors parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

I was so transfixed by it all that my mom almost dragged me into the elevator. This was a first for me, but considering my tender age, almost everything was a first for me. And as I soon discovered, the “firsts” for that day were far from over.

I recall a feeling of being suspended in mid-air as the elevator lifted off, and I found myself holding onto my mother’s left knee for dear life. As I glanced up at my dad, it seemed he was a veteran of this little floating room with no furniture. As a matter of fact, a mischievous smile played about his lips, and somehow this comforted me. I turned loose of my mom’s knee, and as much as a four year old can manage it, I tried to act nonchalant. But I could only wonder what terrible surprise awaited me on the roof top.

The buttons on the control panel were labeled 1-14, and when we drew to a stop, I noticed there was a circular pattern of green light around button #14. Mama had been teaching me to count, and I realized there was no #13. I vowed to ask her about the absence of this number later.

The elevator “stopped with a start” and the doors parted again. My parents and I stepped out, and I was surprised to find we seemed to be in the midst of a garden center. Rakes, and sprinklers and work gloves filled bins of all shapes and sizes. And then I noticed the sound, the same sound I’d heard outside the building, but now it was almost overpowering. And if sound can be perceived as a circular motion, these acoustic vibrations had such an impact on me.

Mama allowed daddy to lead the way, since he had first told her about this place. It seems my dad had come home all excited talking about this cool ride on the roof of the Webb City Building. It was only years later that I learned the details.

Daddy led us to an open doorway, and as I stood directly in front of it, I noticed a short flight of stairs. It was about this time that mama leaned over, and considering the decibel level, almost shouted in my ear, (in a tone of voice that was anything but reassuring.)

…”Honey, I think you’re really gonna like this.”

I was led like a lamb to the slaughter up that short flight of stairs which seemed to grow progressively longer with each successive step.

And then… we were there.

As I stared in awe at the colorful, but foreboding piece of machinery, I almost mused aloud,

…“You want me to do what?”

Though my childish mind was immature and incapable of formulating such a phrase, with the passing of years I think those six words are as close as any to describing my perception of what greeted me that day.

“Royce, you’ll absolutely love it.”

“What daddy?”

I had been so transfixed with the scene before me that I hadn’t grasped what he said to me.

“Your mother and I will wait. Go ahead and get in line behind those other boys and girls.”

“You mean… all by myself, daddy?”

“Yes son. Of course.”

I hesitated a moment to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. And so I dutifully obeyed.

Even at this age I could do the math. There were seven children in front of me, and I noticed that the metal ogre was slowing to a stop. It wasn’t enough that the machine emitted creaks and groans and whistles, as it sailed along the circular track, but the boys and girls who rode that iron horse of a thing were even louder. I watched them as they stepped out of their respective cars. Smiles lit up the faces of a couple of eight or ten year olds. But without exception, the younger kids seemed as pale as ghosts, and a little girl, (she might have been 5 or 6) first stumbled, and then “lost her cookies” on the boarding platform.

The attendant could only shake his head and groan. I felt something welling up inside of me, and I was close to emulating the behavior of the little girl. The seven of us, who had previously formed a perfectly straight line, had by now backed into a cluster. Had Mr. Nielsen been there that day, his rating would, no doubt, have revealed an utter contempt for this mechanical beast, and a very strong desire in all our hearts to simply… go home.

Now the attendant was mopping up the mess with a mop and bucket. I turned around so I didn’t have to watch the least favorite part of his less than professional vocation.  And I noticed my daddy and mama were watching me from the sidelines.

Henry McDonald’s son wasn’t about to chicken out at such a God-awful moment. No way, Jose. I didn’t have to ask. I knew what the answer would be. And as much as everything inside of me screamed for a way out,

… I knew it didn’t exist.

Then I did something that I would soon live to regret. As the young fella was putting away his mop and bucket, I stepped up into the number one boarding position, (but only three of the original seven children stepped up behind me.) I turned to look, and it was then I noticed two girls and one boy walking towards the staircase; hand in hand with their mothers and fathers.

But I had made my choice, if indeed a choice existed, and as the frustrated attendant opened the door of a brightly painted car… I stepped in and sat down. The young man buckled my seat belt and pulled it tight around my waist. I was committed, come hell or high water.

…(At least it was a good theory.)

The metal monster picked up some momentum now, and my parents’ faces whizzed past at dizzying speed. I felt that old familiar queasyness in my belly and rising up in my throat. Someone nearby was screaming loudly!

And then I realized that someone

… was me!

I was on the back of a raging tiger. I was riding the crest of a hurricane-driven wave. I was a hapless bowling pin in the hands of a giant juggler.

Somehow I caught the eye of my mother, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed over to the little booth where the attendant sat with his hands on the controls. And as my vehicle completed yet another circle, I added words to my previously unintelligible tirade,

“Mommy. Mommy. Help me. I want off. Now!”

Suddenly, the forward motion of my vehicle slowed, and I dared to believe that I had been granted a reprieve from certain death. My agony abated and it seemed my salvation drew near.

As the car slowed to a stop I remember looking over at my dad. He was still standing in his original spot near the staircase; looking slightly embarrassed. How could a son of his, no matter how young, sacrifice an opportunity to prove his fearlessness, and wrest victory from defeat?

(Well, perhaps the foregoing implication is reading a bit too much into the scenario. But nonetheless, daddy didn’t appear to be a “happy camper.”)

No one had to beg me to get off the THING. I found myself helping the guy as he fumbled with my seat beat. I couldn’t get back on terra firma fast enough. I must have felt rather like the military veteran returning from combat duty, (though I wasn’t savvy enough at the time to bend over and kiss the ground.)

For the moment no one was in line to ride, and the hideous sound of metal against metal had been stilled. Suffice it to say, I made a quick departure from “the scene of the crime.”

I think my dad was smart enough not to verbalize what he might have considered cowardice. After all, I had my mother to defend me. And she had cooperated in my unexpected pardon from the throes of a fate worse than death; (or so it seemed at the time.)

I never returned to that place, with or without my parents. At this juncture in life, the attendant would be my parents’ age, and my fellow patrons would, like me, be living out their early golden years. Amazing, how quickly six decades can fall through the sandy hourglass of time.

But I can assure you those two minutes that I “rode the whirlwind” impacted me far beyond their comparative brevity in terms of the expenditure of time.

For as a rule, I simply do not

… ride ROLLERCOASTERS.

Don’t, Won’t, Can’t, Shan’t, Nada

I am altogether cognizant that the rollercoaster on the rooftop was a pitifully small affair, and in the scheme of things no more than a kiddy ride. But they say everything is relative, and at least to me, I would have sooner climbed Mount Everest than finish the ride that day. And to be fair, that tiny piece of equipment could not have climbed much higher than a man’s head, nor shadowed a piece of ground much larger than half a tennis court.

And I have stood below some rather substantial coasters, and marveled at their width and height and length and breath. And I have wondered whether I could strap myself into one of those contraptions again; if my very life depended on it. (And it is amazing for me to consider how ten and twelve year old children find the wherewithal to ride such awesomely larger versions of the tiny machine I rode so long ago. It is beyond my comprehension.)

Well, I am pleased to report that on such and such a day, perhaps six or eight years ago, I summoned up whatever one finds to summon up, and for at least the space of a few moments, I conquered those old, enduring fears which had limited me, and held me back in ways too numerous to count.

My wife and I live near the now defunct Cypress Gardens. There on the grounds of this famous tourist attraction sat two ancient torture devices, (or so it has ALWAYS seemed to me.) Jean suggested I conquer my age-old fears, and step into a line of perhaps twenty people waiting to board the smaller of the two “torture chambers.”

But there was nothing remotely small about this one. Oh, of course it was a “David” compared to the “Goliaths” I have seen in some theme parks, but it was still plenty big; easily thirty feet from ground to crest, and covering the space of almost half a football field.

I admit standing there, waiting to board, I sensed a sure and abiding kinship with that small, familiar boy who once stood in a line, not unlike this one, so many years hence. And as my wife, in essence, assumed the role of my parents, it was all so fresh, and new, and present again.

And perhaps in some not so explainable way, that little tyke, from a bygone era, stood with me, and once again abject terror filled his tear-filled eyes. And in some mysterious, but not so impossible manner he placed his hand in mine, and we steeled ourselves for a mission that neither of us had the wherewithal to complete

… alone.

Hand in hand we sat down together, and allowed a young attendant, (who looked remarkably like the one who had long since grown old) to buckle us in. And as our personal little “time machine” gained momentum, and we approached the steep incline of its first loop, I think that tiny, mirror-image of myself envisioned an opportunity where he might complete that which he had once begun.

And I think the older, heavier, balder version of that little man cast his thoughts backwards to a time and place when he had summoned up all that was good, and true, and brave about himself, when he took his place at the front of the line.

And as our colorful, little vehicle mounted the first, yet highest crest of that small-gauged track, and proceeded to drop into oblivion, I thought I felt the tender grasp of a tiny hand in mine, and somehow the boy compelled me to join him, and so we lifted our arms in unison.

And as my wife looked on, and as the coaster navigated first one loop and yet another ebb, I closed my eyes and contained a silent scream. And when I thought I heard a muted sound beside me, I turned… and he rewarded me with a smile.

Time elapsing. Slowing now.

… Mission completed.

The friendly, young attendant unbuckles our seatbelt, and allows us to step out. My wife waves, and doubles her hands above her head, as if to say,

“It certainly took you long enough,

… but you did it!”

And for the briefest moment I think I see him again, and his little hand slips from my grasp, and he steps away. And with his fading presence, I think I hear a voice, a familiar voice, but young and vibrant once again.

“See. I told you that you could do it.

… Now, let’s go home.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

OLD TOM

 4436

My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

 

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

 

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

 

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay.

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

 

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

 

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

 

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

 

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

 

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

 

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

 

“And So It Goes”

 

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

 

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

 

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

SINGING WITH THE CIRCUIT RIDER

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 adoptive 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

WE'LL NOT FORGET THE STORM'S OTHER SIDE

 4434

The call was not totally unexpected, and yet it took him back a little. The voice on the unseen end of the line said, “Prepare to be here about five days.”

In a bit of a daze the guardsman began to pack his duffle bag, first rather slowly and then with increasing speed as the import of the message slapped him squarely in the face.

The guardsman reached out for the last time to take his wife in his arms and to reassure her of his affection. The last kiss would be remembered for a long while to come. He knew in his heart that the separation would be long and difficult.

“Gentlemen,” the captain shouted above the noise of the ceiling fans, “We’re going to be there until power is restored and until civil authorities deem our mission accomplished.”

There was a murmur among the troops which seemed to build to a crescendo. Most of us were thinking, “But I only packed for five days.”

Thousands converged upon the city. Men from every military service, and civilians from a myriad of state and federal agencies. This was the biggest of the big. Never before in our history had so many military members been called to assist civilians in need.

The sight was overwhelming. Miles from the scene the devastation was apparent. Pines and mangroves were broken like proverbial toothpicks. Sugarcane fields lay smashed against the mulch of mother Earth. And yet, this was just the faint outskirts of Ground Zero.

Tears flowed freely down the guardsman’s face. This was nothing less than America’s own Hiroshima. Utter devastation on a full arc. Where ever his gaze fell, destruction greeted his anguished spirit. For long minutes, only darkness spoke. All other voices were shut off, as if by a common valve.

The guardsman glanced up into the surreal and advancing blackness of the midnight sky. What he saw there was like nothing he ever beheld. A lone meteor imposed itself against the barrenness of all else in the city. He understood the message. Even in the complete annihilation surrounding him, his was a mission of hope, of mercy, and of future reconstruction.

The days were innumerable and duplicates of themselves, and yet subtle differences made each day its own day.

The guardsman was new at all this, as were the unfortunate inhabitants of the city. Everything was experienced on a grand scale. Eight days without a shower, 40 days in a tent; rain flowing easily across the dirt floor. Up at 5am, to bed at 9am, arms and face burned by an unrelenting sun; lips cracked and bleeding.

Devastation greeted him as he attended his daily mission. Giant splinters where mansions once elegantly graced the landscape, staircases leading to nowhere but to an open sky. Small ships tossed unto beaches, thousands of stray animals wondering what might have happened to their Johnny or Susie. Acre after acre of avocados, lemons, limes and nursery stock flattened as if by some unseen ogre’s giant hand. Concrete buildings knocked over like so many dominoes.

The stories were the sort you only dream about. Families saved by a single garage wall. A couple whispering their last goodbyes as they lay together in their bathtub. The house shaking as if on the back of a runaway locomotive. Fathers searching for grown children days after the storm. The guardsman experienced a magnification of reality in a microcosm of existence.

He guarded darkened streets. He distributed food stuffs. He drove the little lanes of once elegant subdivisions. He cleaned the littered yards of the storm’s hapless victims. His rifle over his back. He staunched the flow of gangs and looters.

He met those who now called an automobile their home. There was the lady who apologized for accepting emergency food stamps. “I’ve never needed these in my entire life before,” she said. The guardsman spoke kind words. “Then you are the one who most deserves it.”

There was the woman who shook his hand, and then unexpectedly embraced him, and kissed him on the cheek. . “You don’t know how much we needed you here, and how we appreciate your having answered the call.” She walked away in tears; unable to say more.

The last day arrived and we were all ready to bid ‘adieu’ to the city. Our task was complete, and yet there were tasks and missions plenty for countless volunteers in the months which lie ahead.

As we walked across the parking lot chatting and reminiscing, a bald eagle drifted over our heads, flew the length of our compound, and disappeared on the horizon. Tears again filled our eyes. The tour was done, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

We were back, but we would never be the same. We could only be the better for that which we had seen, that which we had experienced, and for those brave citizens we had met.

We had returned to our natural environment. The air seemed fresher. The flowers more colorful. The sky a bit bluer. Oh, how thankful we were on the other side of the storm.

And what of those we left behind? Their lives were budding again. Just as surely as the trees of their city began to bud anew after being so rudely stripped of their leaves.

 

SSG William R. McDonald was a member of HQ, 2^nd Bn, 116^th Field Artillery, Lakeland, Florida, and a resident of Winter Haven, Florida.

This article appeared in The Lakeland Ledger and The Winter Haven News Chief shortly after his mission to south Florida concluded.

FOLLOW ME

 4433

Pt. 1

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 Simba 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.

William McDonald, PhD

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.”

SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

 4432

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 

PERSONAL PARALYSIS

 4431

I have previously reflected on the following experience, but not having ready access to that story among far too many files, and far too little time, I feel inclined to reflect on it again.

A few years ago I decided to trim my neighbor’s tree. Generally, I would not have been quite so altruistic, but the limbs of the tree hung over my driveway, and as spring approached each year a healthy supply of oak pollen showered my car, and the pavement upon which it was parked.

And since there was a basketball post just beneath the offending tree, it seemed good to me to prop my straight ladder against it, and having done so, I set about the task at hand.

Did I mention round posts and straight ladders are altogether incompatible? (Well, they are).

Suddenly, the ladder accomplished a task for which it was never intended. It became mobile. And I became its unintended pilot. Given the choice to ride the thing to the ground, or jump, I chose the latter.

And as I “winged my way to worlds unknown” I chose to land upright, (or something approximating it) and twisted my body just enough in my failed flight to the concrete to land on my right foot.

I knew. I just knew

My ankle was broken

After lying there a moment, and using my car for leverage, I stood upon my left foot, hop-scotched to my front door, opened it, and made my wife aware of my injury.

Fast forward several weeks, and I found myself in a prep room at Tampa General Hospital preparing to have my ankle reconstructed; since it was not only broken, but it was badly shattered.

Just prior to being wheeled into the operating room a nurse administered an injection to my right thigh, and explained that shortly thereafter my leg would develop a state of paralysis, and that when I awoke I would experience this condition for several hours prior to the restoration of feeling.

As she predicted, when I came to I was provided an entre into a state of being to which I had never before been privy.

For a full 65 years I had enjoyed complete use of all four limbs. Suddenly, I was short one. Initially, my paralytic experience was nothing more, nothing less than interesting. The natural scheme of things in which we move, and live and have our being had been interrupted. Perhaps if I expended a little more thought, a little more will power I could lift my leg an inch off the bed. (Well,… no). Perhaps if I focused all my energies on my little toe, I could wiggle that tiny digit. (Nice try).

Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch

By this time I had gone from being an interested observer to a concerned participant.

I imagined the worst. I mean, I could just see myself being discharged in this condition, and having to use a cane the last third of my life; while all the while dragging a useless limb behind me.

Alarmed, I spoke,

“Nurse, uh, you’re probably aware that my leg is paralyzed. Uhmm, does this sorta thing ever go wrong? Is there any chance I’m stuck with this dead leg for the duration?”

“Nurse Simms” assured me that the paralysis would abate, and that I’d regain complete sensation and mobility in the limb within a few hours.”

And true to her word, that is exactly how things fell together.

My nephew, his name was “Wade,” was born with a malady referred to as “Spina Bifida.” While he had some use of his arms and hands, his legs and feet were paralyzed from birth, and he was dependent on a wheelchair throughout his all too brief life. And though Wade endured countless surgeries, and a significant amount of pain and humiliation, he never seemed to complain, and it was if the angels had loaned him a permanent smile.

During the two decades Providence allowed Wade to grace this planet, I sympathized for and with him. However, it was only after his death, and my subsequent injury, surgery and (temporary) paralysis that I could truly empathize; since it was only after my own experience that I had any real hope of understanding what ‘til then was beyond my understanding.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MAKING A FINAL MEMORY TOGETHER

 4430

Whether well thought out, (or as Forrest Gump might say) “more accidental like” my daddy left stuff behind. I have several of his paintings on my walls. He loved to paint barns, and swamps, and trees and such things on large canvasses. And once he completed a work, he would either frame it with a two-tone, store bought frame of natural wood, and gold trim, or he’d envelope the painting with his own hand made frame of pecky cypress. To my knowledge, he never painted from “real life,” but copied existing paintings, with his own alterations, from art magazines.

 

In his 50’s, my Father got involved in genealogy. At the time there was no internet, or ancestry.com, since Al Gore hadn’t yet thought of the idea. (The last sentence should merit a smile.) Everything daddy did in the area of genealogy was done using actual source documents. Over the course of several years, Henry Jr. compiled an exquisite volume which contained data on all the descendants of Isham McDonald, his great great Grandfather, through John McDonald, his grandson. That volume has been distributed to numerous extended family members.

 

Speaking of Isham McDonald, my dad and I once took a trip together, in the late 90’s, or early 2000’s, to the old Orangeburgh District of South Carolina. Isham had settled in this area prior to the time of the American Revolution on, (as I recall) the Little Pee Dee Creek. Daddy and I hoped to find the approximate location of our Scottish grandfather’s original homestead.

 

Having arrived in that part of South Carolina, since my dad was an exterminator, he looked up a local man who was involved with the same vocation, and we sat down with him. My Father explained our purpose for being in the area, and Mr. Carter informed us that he knew an old man who he felt sure could assist us.

 

The local exterminator led the way, and after about fifteen minutes, we rolled up in the old fella’s yard. Mr. Brown was 90 years of age, (and no doubt he has passed from the scene by now).

 

He was a lively old guy, and obviously enjoyed having company. My dad, Mr. Carter and I sat in the living room with the kindly old man, and his wife for thirty minutes or more, as we discussed Isham McDonald, his Revolutionary War service, and his South Carolina homestead.

 

   

Daddy had long known that he would never find the exact site of Isham’s property, since Gen. Sherman had burned nearby Southern courthouses during the Civil War, and records such as land deeds, and last wills and testaments had been lost forever.

 

However, Mr. Brown proceeded to tell us that when he was a young man, he hunted raccoon along the Pee Dee Creek, and at one time it was easily 40 feet wide. His eyes twinkled, as he reminisced that on one particular hunt, he and his dogs were tracking a coon, when he stumbled and fell into that creek. Of course, we all laughed with him as he shared that poignant memory.

 

As he approached the end of his story, the old fella mused, “You know, I can tell you where that creek is, the one your Granddaddy Isham lived on. It’s not the fast moving river it used to be though. It’s nothing more than a culvert under the road today.”

 

And so Mr. Brown told us how to find our way to what remained of the creek, and thanking him, we took our leave. As we walked into the front yard, Mr. Carter “left us to our own devices” as he, no doubt, realized that this was a father and son moment. Daddy also thanked this fine man, and so we boarded our separate vehicles and went our way.

 

 (If I recalled the name of his business and the city where it was located, I’d enjoy chatting with Mr. Carter again. I would update him on our visit to what was left of that creek, and share with him the details of my dad’s passing).

 

Well, my readers, as I alluded above, we found the creek, or as Mr. Brown and I have previously implied, what was left of it. And indeed, it was no more than a culvert which ran under that old country road; perhaps three feet wide and only a trickle of brown water. Daddy and I got out, and walked down the embankment. I suppose we took a few pictures, but if so, ten or twelve years later, I have no idea where they’re located, and I regret it.

 

We may have lingered there all of six or eight minutes, and my dad mused that Isham’s homestead would have been within a mile or two from where we stood. The trees and undergrowth in this area prevented us from following the path of the creek, and I doubt we would have discovered anything of further significance, had we been able to do so.

 

Nevertheless, the bond between my dad and I was strengthened that day, and the time we spent together that week allowed us to reconcile any unspoken differences which may have existed between us.

 

I will be eternally grateful that my Father and I were given the opportunity to say some things to one another we’d never said before, to spend the quality time together that we’d never spent before, and to go where we’d never gone before in pursuit of those whose very flesh and blood we shared.

by Bill McDonald, PhD