A PILGRIMAGE TO SALEM

 4474

Pt. 1

 

I have always wanted to visit Salem, Massachusetts.

 

It is a sad and convoluted story, but I have family ties there; undesired, undenied, but undisputable ties there.

 

As any serious student of history knows, between 1692 and 1693 dozens of Salem's citizens were accused of being witches, and approximately thirty were not only judged, but found guilty. As a result, most were hung by the neck 'til dead, at least one was pressed to death by heavy stones, and several died in prison.

 

I regret to say that two of my ancient uncles, Joseph and Jarvis Ring, were involved in that nasty business.

 

Fast forward exactly three and one third centuries.

 

Recently my wife and I were in Massachusetts. Our daughter had undergone surgery in Boston, remained in the hospital several days, and was released to return home. Having been released, Kristy insisted on driving the two hours which lay ahead of us.

 

However, we had hardly left the hospital when our plans abruptly changed.

 

Our daughter spoke.

 

"How about we take a slight detour? Haven't you always wanted to see Salem?"

 

To which I replied,

 

"Well, you have just completed a serious operation. Wouldn't you rather head on home?"

 

Not to be deterred, Kristy was determined to follow through with her plan.

 

Pt. 2

 

 

Not knowing Massachusetts, I had no idea I might have almost walked the 15 miles between Boston and Salem. We were there before a half hour had elapsed.

 

I had read the testimonies of my maternal 9th great uncles, Joseph and Jarvis. I knew they had accused, and testified against a particular woman.

 

While we were in Salem, my daughter and I took a trolley tour; a tour which focused on the sites where the accused citizens were interned, and, ultimately, executed. We drove by the site of the old prison, and the location of the hangings. Having been hung, their bodies were thrown off the brow of a hill. (It is said that their relatives retrieved their bodies at night, and provided them a primitive burial).

 

I had seen photos of the Salem memorial stones; each one bearing the name of one of the accused so-called "witches."

One of the stones was inscribed with the name, Susannah Martin; the lady against whom my ancient relatives gave false testimony.

 

I stood there for the longest time. And I found myself doing penance, as it were; on the part of mouths long since stilled, and which no longer had the wherewithal to utter an accusing word.

 

"I am so, so sorry, Susannah. You were wrongfully deprived of a long, good life. I ask your forgiveness. My family asks your forgiveness."

 

It seemed a weight, almost as heavy as that memorial stone, fell off my shoulders.

 

Old Testament scripture speaks of generational blessings and curses. I think if the dynamic of curses applies in the New Testament, it is largely due to bad role modeling, and a conscious willingness to emulate one's forebears' behavior patterns. Those who have placed their faith in a merciful Savior, who have been forgiven of their sins, and have been saved by grace have, I believe, been removed from the curse.

However, I not only did what I had to do that day. I did what I had desperately wanted to do.

 

As a counselor I have often told my clients,

 

"There are no time machines."      

 

And yet, I like to think I fulfilled a personal mission that day which will serve, as best just one man can, to reconcile a severe injustice inflicted upon someone who in no way deserved it.

 

Rest in peace, Susannah. Rest in peace.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

PLANS OR CIRCUMSTANCES

 4473

Pt. 1

Yesterday I was thinking about a verse in the New Testament Book of Philippians.

" For it is God who works in you to will and to act in order to fulfill his good purposes." (Phil. 2:13)

The implication seems to be that God has an individual plan for our lives, and that given that plan, He will provide us the time, talent and treasure to fulfill whatever He has set in our hearts to do. I mean, what believer can question the natural progression of His will, and the resulting fruit of our labor?

A Divine plan resulting in the sort of circumstances which fulfill the purposes of God for our lives.

However, it occurs to me that sometimes it is the other way around.

The sort of circumstances which fall together in such a Divine manner, so as to indicate, and result in what is obviously the plan of God for our lives.

Speaking of the second of the two possibilities, I think of my own chosen profession and ministry, the way in which circumstances have contributed to my realization of God's plan, (and two of my own daughters' involvement in the afore mentioned circumstances).

Pt. 2

The story is far too long to tell here, but suffice it to say that Mary was always a bit slow, and subsequent testing in high school indicated that she was borderline retarded with an IQ in the 70 range. Shortly after she graduated from high school, Mary began to display symptoms of psychosis. Ultimately, she was diagnosed with a common, but pervasive mental illness, and committed to a mental facility. She spent an entire year there, (and has resided in an assisted living environment the past thirty-five years).

Mary was 20 when she was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. The same year I enrolled in my Master's Degree in Counseling. I went on to serve as a pastoral counselor, and to pursue my Doctoral Degree.

The sort of circumstances which fall together in such a Divine manner, so as to indicate, and result in what is obviously the plan of God for our lives.

Fast forward 33 years!

Our daughter Kristy applied for an extremely responsible, and well paying position in Massachusetts. Things were going, as our British cousins are prone to say, swimmingly when she began to develop headaches, body aches, and dizziness. Ultimately, she was diagnosed with a genetic disorder of the brainstem. Over the course of the past two years, she has required five surgeries. As the result of her inability to return to work, she forfeited her job position. As the result of her inability to do so many of the common household tasks in the home, without some pretty negative symptoms, her mother, (and my wife), has stepped in to assist her. Over the course of the two years, Jean has been away from home a total of a year and three months. Though I have been left alone during that time period, and she is a thousand miles away, we are in complete accord. It is what it is. You do what you have to do. (And we are glad to do it).

As it stands now, we are making arrangements for me to travel to Massachusetts, and move in with them. As a result, given this dynamic, and the passage of time, (I am three years from 80), it is quite possible I will retire from my pastoral counseling career.

The sort of circumstances which fall together in such a Divine manner, so as to indicate, and result in what is obviously the plan of God for our lives.

Whether the Almighty indicates His plan to us, and the circumstances follow, or whether the circumstances precede the realization and fulfillment of His plan, God's will is done, it is one and the same, and our Lord is glorified.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL

 4473

Spafford – The Story Behind the Hymn “It Is Well with My Soul”

Horatio Gates Spafford was born in New York, on 20th October 1828, but it was in Chicago that he became well-known for his clear Christian testimony. He, and his wife Anna were active in their church, and their home was always open to visitors. They counted the world-famous evangelist, Dwight L. Moody, among their friends. They were blest with five children, and considerable wealth. Horatio was a lawyer, and owned a great deal of property in his home city.

Not unlike Job in the Old Testament of the Bible, tragedy came in great measure to this happy home. When four years old, their son, Horatio Jnr, died suddenly of scarlet fever. Then only a year later, in October 1871, a massive fire swept through downtown Chicago, devastating the city, including many properties owned by Horatio. That day, almost 300 people lost their lives, and around 100,000 were made homeless. Despite their own substantial financial loss, the Spaffords sought to demonstrate the love of Christ, by assisting those who were grief-stricken and in great need.

Two years later, in 1873, Spafford decided his family should take a holiday in England, knowing that his friend, the evangelist D. L. Moody, would be preaching there in the autumn. Horatio was delayed because of business, so he sent his family ahead: his wife and their four remaining children, all daughters, 11 year old Anna, 9 year old Margaret Lee, 5 year old Elizabeth, and 2 year old Tanetta.

On 22nd November 1873, while crossing the Atlantic on the steamship, Ville du Havre, their vessel was struck by an iron sailing ship. Two hundred and twenty six people lost their lives, as the Ville du Havre sank within only twelve minutes.

All four of Horatio Spafford’s daughters perished, but remarkably Anna Spafford survived the tragedy. Those rescued, including Anna, who was found unconscious, floating on a plank of wood, subsequently arrived in Cardiff, South Wales. Upon arrival there, Anna immediately sent a telegram to her husband, which included the words “Saved alone….”

Receiving Anna’s message, he set off at once to be reunited with his wife. One particular day, during the voyage, the captain summoned him to the bridge of the vessel. Pointing to his charts, he explained that they were then passing over the very spot where the Ville du Havre had sunk, and where his daughters had died. It is said that Spafford returned to his cabin and wrote the hymn “It is well with my soul” there and then, the first line of which is, “When peace like a river, attendeth my way..” There are other accounts which say that it was written at a later date, but obviously the voyage was one of deep pathos, and is the clear inspiration of the moving and well-loved hymn. Horatio’s faith in God never faltered. He later wrote to Anna’s half-sister, “On Thursday last, we passed over the spot where she went down, in mid-ocean, the waters three miles deep. But I do not think of our dear ones there. They are safe….. dear lambs”.

After Anna was rescued, Pastor Nathaniel Weiss, one of the ministers travelling with the surviving group, remembered hearing Anna say, “God gave me four daughters. Now they have been taken from me. Someday I will understand why.”

Naturally Anna was utterly devastated, but she testified that in her grief and despair, she had been conscious of a soft voice speaking to her, “You were saved for a purpose!” She remembered something a friend had once said, “It’s easy to be grateful and good when you have so much, but take care that you are not a fair-weather friend to God.”

Following this deep tragedy, Anna gave birth to three more children, but she and Horatio were not spared even more sadness, as on February 11th, 1880, their only son, Horatio (named after the brother who had died, and also after his father), he also died at the age of four.

In August 1881 the Spaffords left America with a number of other like-minded Christians, and settled in Jerusalem. There they served the needy, helped the poor, and cared for the sick, and took in homeless children. Their desire was to show those living about them, the love of Jesus.

The original manuscript of the Spafford’s hymn has only four verses, but later another verse was added. The music, which was written by Philip Bliss, was named after the ship on which Horatio and Anna’s daughters had died – Ville du Havre.

Horatio Spafford died of malaria on 16th October 1888. Anna Spafford continued to work in the surrounding areas of Jerusalem until her own death in 1923. Both Horatio and Anna were laid to rest in Jerusalem. It can truly be said, in the words that Spafford penned that, “It is well with their souls.”

Author Unknown 

NO PLACE TO LAND

 4471

Pt. 1

I ran across a video on social media today. I have never witnessed a video filmed inside a moving aircraft which was quite so violent.

Four flight crew members were in the course of being thrown around the inside of a Hurricane Hunter aircraft. It seemed as if any minute, they might lose control of the plane, and plummet into the waves, below.

This video depicted a recent incursion into Hurricane Melissa as it approached the island nation of Jamaica. The barometric pressure was lower than any October hurricane in recorded history. The highest recorded wind gust of 241 mph was greater than any wind gust ever clocked inside a hurricane.

Before the aircraft was forced to prematurely abandon its mission, the flight crew noticed what was at the same time utterly amazing, and utterly sobering. 

Dozens of birds of various kinds flying inside the eye of Hurricane Melissa... flying to and fro, hither and yon, unable to break out of the relative safety of the eye of the storm due to the extreme winds surrounding the eye wall... sentenced to almost certain death since, ultimately, sheer exhaustion would cause them to fall from the sky; into the thirty foot waves which waited beneath them.

And this particular report by the crew of the Hurricane Hunter aircraft struck me, to be at the same time, both so amazingly interesting, and utterly sad.

Pt. 2

As I reflected on this poignant story, it occurred to me that, as believers, we are very much like these unfortunate birds; with a very different, but delightful difference.

And I think of the lyrics of that old Gospel song.

"Here among the shadows in a lonely land
We're a band of pilgrims on the move
Burdened down with sorrows, shunned on every hand
Looking for a city built above."

Jesus promised that, "In the world, you will have tribulation..."

Trouble, trial, turmoil, temptation

Doubt, despair, depression, discouragement

Not unlike those birds with no place to land, and facing what appears to be a very uncertain future.

Not unlike the martyrs of Hebrews Chapter 11.

"There were others who were tortured, refusing to be released so that they might gain an even better resurrection. Some faced jeers and flogging, and even chains and imprisonment. They were put to death by stoning; they were sawed in two; they were killed by the sword. They went about in sheepskins and goatskins, destitute, persecuted and mistreated; the world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and mountains, living in caves and in holes in the ground."

However, thankfully there is, as I have inferred, a definite difference between believers, and these unfortunate birds drifting to and fro inside one the most violent hurricanes which ever existed on the earth.

In the midst of the storm on the Sea of Galilee, Jesus assured His fearful disciples,

"Be not afraid. It is I." (John 6:20)

And in another book, also penned by Jesus' beloved disciple, we read,

"But this life... is passing away, but he who does the will of God endures forever." (1st John 2:17)

Post-script

No, dear believer, we are not like those unfortunate birds floating around in a violent hurricane; assured of ultimate, and certain destruction.

For you see, as uncertain and tremulous as life can be, whether we face persecution, hunger, homelessness, disease, betrayal or financial loss... stay encouraged!

This is not all there is!

We are looking for a city built above.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE WEAVER'S TAPESTRY

 4470

 

William Mc Donald, PhD

 

The tapestry He weaves in me is twined in many hues

The pattern of the thread He works is not mine to choose

And though too close to focus on the weaving that He sees

And too far from His purposes to see His plan for me

 

The constant shuffle of the loom, the heavy threads now fall in place

And in the shadows that they cast, I sometimes fail to see His face

But when the finer thread is laid, and drifts across the airy span

Tis then the light comes gleaming through, tis then I see the Weaver’s Hand

 

His weaving grows with each new joy, each trial adds still more  thread

The colors of the rainbow blend with each new hope and dread

The loom slides on with ceaseless speed, each thread drops in its place

The fringes of this cloth are sewn with silk and pretty lace

 

The Weaver’s Hand is sure and tried, and nail scars grace His palm

And as He works His work in me, my soul knows peace and calm

The cloth He works is precious, and, the loom He works is sure

The tapestry He weaves in me is rich and very pure

 

And though the darker colors shade -the few, but brighter threads beside

I know He works all things for good, His colors true, His pattern tried

And when the Master’s Hand is still, and the cloth of life is spun

Tis then His image shall appear, His tapestry is done

Copyright 2007

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THEY CALLED HER BRYNA

 4469

(from an internet article)

His mother couldn't read or write. So he put her name in lights on Times Square. Chavusy, Russian Empire, early 1900s. A young Jewish woman named Bryna accepted a marriage proposal from Herschel Danielovitch, who promised her a better life in America.He left first, as men often did. Sent money for her passage a year later. In those days before visa requirements, reaching American shores meant being welcomed in—at least officially. Bryna crossed the ocean to join him in upstate New York, bringing hope for that better life he'd promised.What she found instead was poverty, hardship, and a cold marriage to a man who would never call her by her name.Just "Hey, you."Herschel had been a horse trader in Russia. In America, he became a ragman—collecting and selling scraps, barely earning enough to survive. What little he made, he often drank away with friends. He was known in the neighborhood as difficult, temperamental, someone to avoid.He showed little interest in caring for his family. Bryna gave him seven children—six daughters and finally, a son. Issur Danielovitch, called Izzy by family.The poverty was crushing. Bryna, illiterate and speaking broken English, would send her children to the Jewish butcher to ask for bones he didn't need. She'd boil them into soup that would feed the family for days."When it was a good day, we would eat omelettes made with water," Izzy later remembered. "When it was a bad day, we wouldn't eat at all."Most children in that situation sink into bitterness or resignation. Most mothers break under that weight.Not Bryna. And not Izzy. Bryna worked tirelessly—taking in laundry, doing whatever she could to keep food on the table. She may not have been able to read, but she understood what mattered: her children needed to survive, to hope, to believe they could be more than their circumstances.Young Izzy absorbed her resilience. Her refusal to give up. Her quiet, unshakable strength.He changed his name to Kirk Douglas. He fought his way out of poverty through acting—working odd jobs, attending drama school, clawing toward an impossible dream.And he made it.By the 1950s, Kirk Douglas was one of Hollywood's biggest stars. "Champion." "Ace in the Hole." "Lust for Life." Major films. Major success. The boy who'd eaten water omelets was now on movie screens around the world.In 1955, he founded his own production company. He could have named it anything—something bold, something marketable, something that sounded powerful.He named it Bryna Productions.After the mother who couldn't write her own name but had written his future with her sacrifice.In 1958, Bryna Productions released "The Vikings"—an epic film starring Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, and Janet Leigh. It was a major production, a big budget spectacle.Kirk had arranged something special for the premiere.He brought his mother—now in her 70s, still speaking broken English, still the same woman who'd boiled bone soup to feed her children—to Times Square.They stood together in the heart of New York City, surrounded by bright lights and massive advertisements.And there, among all those glittering signs, was the announcement for "The Vikings."The poster read: "Bryna Presents The Vikings."Her name. In lights. In Times Square. The name no one had bothered to call her by. The name that belonged to an illiterate immigrant who'd survived poverty and a loveless marriage and raised seven children against impossible odds.That name—BRYNA—shining in the center of the world.Kirk watched his mother's face as she saw it. Bryna burst into tears.Perhaps she was thinking of the young woman who'd crossed an ocean with hope. Of the bone soup. Of the water omelets. Of the husband who never called her by name. Of the seven children she'd kept alive through sheer will.Of her son, whose hand she was holding, who'd somehow become this person—this star—who loved her enough to give her what no one else ever had: recognition. Honor. Her name where everyone could see it.That same year, 1958, Bryna's health began to fail.Kirk was with her at the end. The son she'd kept alive on bone soup, now a Hollywood legend, holding her hand.Her last words to him were simple but profound: "Izzy, son, don't be afraid. This happens to everyone."Even at the end, she was comforting him. Still being the mother. Still being strong. Bryna Danielovitch lived 74 years. She never learned to read or write. She never escaped poverty until her son's success finally gave her comfort. She spent most of her life with a man who wouldn't call her by her name.But she raised Kirk Douglas.She gave him resilience. She showed him that love isn't about words—it's about showing up every day, boiling bones into soup, making water omelets, never giving up even when giving up would have been so much easier.And he never forgot.Every film his production company made carried her name in the credits. Bryna Productions went on to produce "Spartacus," "Lonely Are the Brave," "Seven Days in May"—major films that shaped cinema history.Every single one: "Bryna Presents."Kirk Douglas lived to be 103 years old, dying in 2020. He had a legendary career, three Academy Award nominations, an honorary Oscar, wealth and fame beyond imagination.But perhaps his greatest accomplishment wasn't any role he played. It was making sure the world knew his mother's name.The woman who couldn't write it herself got to see it in lights in Times Square.The woman whose husband never called her by name got to see it on movie posters around the world.The woman who boiled bones into soup got to see her son become a star—and use that stardom to honor her.Some people escape their past and never look back.Kirk Douglas escaped his past and brought his mother with him—in name, in memory, in every success he ever had.Her name was Bryna. And thanks to her son, the world will never forget it.

EMPTY CHAIRS

 4468

Empty chairs       

Two empty chairs

Oh, they have been empty in the past. Anytime someone happened not to be sitting in them.

But this time is different.

For you see, they will never be occupied again; at least not by the original two who once filled them up.

I can still see my parents, Henry and Erma, seated in those matching recliners. Reading newspapers, or perhaps a National Geographic, or simply starring out onto their mobile home-side pond.

My dad loved that chair, or better put he loved what that chair afforded him.

Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below.

More than once, many times more than once, I showed up, unannounced, and  invaded his “inner sanctum;” only to discover him in the midst of an ethereal sleep. Which, as with us all, is prophetic of that slumber which must overtake each of us one day.

And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,

“Wake up, Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”

And he would rouse himself; if only long enough to acknowledge my presence, and e’er too many moments elapsed

…well, you guessed it.

And my mother.

I think she occupied her matching recliner, more often than not, for the sake of a selfish agenda.

To simply dwell in the presence of the one to whom she had pledged herself; some six decades hence. For it was here that she experienced and enjoyed the presence of the man who had, long since, relinquished activity in favor of the sedentary. Oh, mama put up a good show of doing one thing or another, as she occupied her matching chair. But I think, I think, it was all about my dad. And the singleness of what took two to complete.

And now. Now the chairs are empty.

My wife has a photograph of her parents. It was taken at the lake home of their son. And in that poignant picture Doc and Ruby may be seen seated on the lakeside porch, facing one another, and engaged in a private conversation; known and meant only for themselves.

I can picture my own parents engaged in a similar exchange. But that one set of chairs have been exchanged for another. What the years stole from them has been restored, and in good measure.

Empty chairs. Not some cheap montage of wood and metal and fabric. But an almost spiritual place.

My father occupied his chair when, after his stroke and my mother’s subsequent inability to care for him, I made him aware it was time to submit himself to a nursing facility.

My mother sat in hers the last time we took her home for lunch, and the final occasion on which she saw her sisters; having been placed in that same facility.

It was in this room, and in these chairs my parents lived the most and best of their waning years. It was here that they did the things people do as they scratched out what joy still remained to them in their declining years. It was here from which they entertained family and friends, complained about the weather, boasted of a new great grandchild, worried for the fate of the nation, laughed about a childhood picture, remembered something from their youth, memorialized a lost comrade; expressed some hope for our futures.

It was from these chairs they spoke and laughed and lived and loved, and gleaned from the gradually shrinking world around them.

Empty Chairs.

Strange, how rich and full and almost complete an empty chair may seem.

By William McDonald, PhD