The Annunciation

     What an awesome responsibility. To be chosen from billions of women who would fill up the earth. To be chosen to be the mother of The Christ. How consistent must have been her life. How devoted to a life of relationship and service.

     And she continued to “ponder those things in her heart” throughout Christ’ childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. How entirely overwhelmed with grief, as she stood at the foot of His Destiny. The Cross.

     But she was not, and is not, and never shall be “The Mother of God.” (And I love my Catholic friends). She was not with Christ from the beginning. She was not present during the creation of the worlds. While she was truly the mother of that flesh and blood human being named “Jesus,” she had nothing whatever to do with the presence of that Divine Spirit within Him.

     Mary was a sinner that needed a Saviour. She was, no doubt, such a willing handmaiden of The Lord. But she was, and is, and ever will be as human as you or I.

     And though she is depicted as The Eternal Virgin, we know that she participated in a conjugal relationship with Joseph, her husband; of which several children were born, half-siblings of The Lord.

     And we know that Mary, Christ’ mother, was in attendance with all those others who gathered together on the day of Pentecost. And though this is the last known reference to her being alive in the scriptures, we can easily surmise that she died a natural death, and was buried.

     Now there’s nothing essentially Divine about a human being who needed a Saviour, as badly as you and I do, who lived out a conjugal life with a husband, who tarried on the day of Pentecost in order to receive the Holy Spirit, and who died a death common to any other human being.

 

    Mary was all so human, though all so faithful.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

The Children, the Angel and the Rickety Old Bridge

    There’s an old picture, hanging on the wall, to my right.

    I’ve seen the painting, again and again, but this copy is the oldest print of the scene I’ve ever come across. The painting was passed down from my wife's grandmother. Of course, you can easily tell from the title of this daily devotion, that I’m speaking of the famous picture of a beautiful angel, a sister and a brother.

    The angel has brought the little siblings safely across the old, wooden bridge, a waterfall in the background, a chasm beneath. The children seem a bit oblivious to the danger, but the angel’s smile reflects her understanding, and protective nature.

     I’ve been wondering about the multitude of child abductions, rapes and murders lately. They are rampant throughout the country. Children have “gone missing” in greater numbers than I’ve ever been aware. Child molesters seem to have set up residence on virtually every corner.

     At least forty percent of my female clients have a history of childhood sexual abuse. It effects them in various ways. Some slight. Some intense.

More often, than not it was a family member, or step-parent.

     It has been beyond my ability to understand The Creator’s care for children. So many grow up in miserable homes, and have been abused by a host of individuals.

     I find in such cases that I simply don’t have answers, and nothing I’ve done has conjured them up, or has allowed me to understand. I only know, and I have only said that Our Lord weeps with those little ones who have been harmed, by what they considered to be trusted adults in their lives.

     In this regard, my understanding is like a fading portrait or darkened mirror.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

Hippocratic Oath or Hypocrisy?

Ten more hapless, helpless victims of gun violence succumbed today in a mass murder perpetrated by some fool at an Oregon community college.

And I mourn for them.

And yet, when I see the President of the United States stand behind a podium and say the same old tired things about the need for more expansive background checks, and the need to take guns out of the hands of criminals and the mentally ill…

Well, every time I see the man “do the monkey dance,” only one word occurs to me;

… Hypocrisy

To be sure I am all for enhanced background checks. But the tone and tenor of this administration goes far beyond background checks. I earnestly believe the man wants to delete the Second Amendment from The Constitution of the United States.

The Right to Bear Arms.

And if this so-called president’s agenda (sorry, I simply have very little use for the man) was limited to depriving law-abiding citizens of guns, it would be bad enough. But every time I see him stand behind that podium and deplore the most recent case of gun violence, all I can think of is his support for a cause which deprives America of more of our children in a day, than mass homicide takes from us in a year.

… Abortion

5,000 a day. 1 ½ million helpless, hapless little lives in the space of a calendar year.

And the latest series of hidden videos accents the apathy of, and financial agenda of Planned Parenthood; the largest provider of abortion “services” in America.

We see one of Planned Parenthood’s so-called “physicians” eating lunch, and talking about the dismemberment of aborted fetuses, and the sale of their tissue to research facilities. And travesty of travesties, she laughs, and rattles on about buying a fancy sports car with the proceeds of her heinous expertise.

Hippocratic Oath or Hypocrisy?

Who can honestly say the former, and how can anyone deny the latter?

Mr. President, when will you stand behind your podium and decry your own hypocrisy, and that of those who rob us of the promise, presence and personality of those 50 million of our citizens who were never afforded the opportunity to live, and breathe and move on this earth?

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

 

 

 

 

 

What We Leave Behind

Funny the things we leave behind.

My dad was a landscape artist. About the time he reached 50, and during the course of the next twenty years, he painted hundreds of full sized oil canvases, sold many, and gave some to friends and relatives. I own five, and they grace my living room and dining room walls. Daddy was also an amateur genealogist and spent countless hours in historical libraries throughout the southeast; doing genealogy the hard way. (Now one can just sit down at a computer and pull together scads of census, military and biographical records).

Sculptors have left us amazingly detailed works of art. Michelangelo’s “David” is a classic.

We can walk through war museums and view the remnants of lives cut short. When my wife and I visited Virginia Military Institute, we saw the bloodied battle jacket of Stonewall Jackson; the blouse he had been wearing when “friendly fire” cut him down, and robbed him of a promising life.

I’m a collector of autographs. I definitely have some good ones. The pilot, copilot and navigator of the Enola Gay; the aircraft which dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan. The signature of Neil Armstrong affixed to a photo of “the great one” standing next to an ancient bi-plane. John Glenn and Ted Kennedy.

An antique hand-fashioned Victorian chair from about the time of the Civil War, and a cavalry sword which predates it. But I suppose the relic which I hold most dear was owned by General James Van Fleet, commander of allied forces during one phase of the Korean War, and the oldest lived general in American history.

But these are just passing things. In the light of eternity; altogether temporal.

There’s a poignant verse in 1^st John 2:17

“But this world, and the lust thereof is passing away, but he that does the will of God endureth forever.”

I am a mentor, and believe strongly in a concept the Apostle Paul passed on to us in the Book of Philippians.

Two very small, but very powerful words,

“Copy me.”

For among anything and everything anyone ever “left behind,” our impact on the lives of our fellow human beings is the most precious and potent.

Our leave a legacy. Our legacy becomes someone else’s heritage. We fulfill a destiny.

Our impact on another human being is, to be sure, the only thing we are allowed to take with us to the next life. As the old adage goes, “no one ever pulled a U-Haul behind their hearse.” Not one of our human possessions will grace the desks and curio cabinets of our heavenly mansions.

When our heavenly Father hands out rewards I want to hear his “well done, my good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.” For anything of any value we receive on the other side will be based on the time and efforts we expended on those whom He has set in our pathway.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

 

 

 

Trophy or Urn?

In the news article a radiant Sylvia Hitchcock stands next to a trophy almost as tall as her own small frame. The former Miss Alabama and Miss America had just been awarded the prestigious title of Miss Universe, 1967.

Fast forward 48 years.

Another news article depicts Sylvia’s adult son standing next to the same trophy. And inside the trophy are Sylvia’s

… cremains.

Such a poignant thought, and consideration that, almost without doubt, Sylvia would have never considered during the intervening half a century.

For Sylvia Hitchcock Carson, a local resident, passed away this year at the comparatively young age of 69.

And while, at first light, the inurnment of her cremains in that now, slightly tarnished Miss Universe trophy seems a bit eccentric, almost bizarre, upon reflection somehow this final act of devotion on the part of her loved ones seems almost fitting.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

 

Footprints

      It seems Americans have two particular fears; one the fear of public speaking, and the other… the fear of death. There’s an adage that says the one in the casket has no wish to trade places with their eulogizer in the pulpit!

      But death is the last unknown. I’ve often thought about this subject. Call me morbid, call me weird, but death is a fascinating subject to me.

      It’s kind of a paradox. I have found myself shying away from nursing homes, hospitals and funerals over the years, as family and friends approached their demise. It wasn’t right. It’s just a fact.

      Maybe I’m more interested in the theory than the reality.

      A particular American soldier wrote a prophetic poem during World War I… “I have a rendezvous with death at some disputed barricade, when Spring comes back with rustling shade, and apple blossoms fill the air. I shall not fail that rendezvous.”

     Job’s wife asked, “If a man die, shall he live again?” (Job 14:14, KJV) Well, we find the answer in the Book of Hebrews, “It is appointed unto man once to die.” (Heb. 9:27, KJV)

     Chuck Swindoll tells of walking into his home church one day, ready to assume his duties for the day, when he became aware of solemn music drifting out of the sanctuary. Looking in, he was taken aback. For there before him were numerous bouquets of flowers, a closed casket, and… a large photograph of none other than he, himself on the stage!

     He momentarily wondered if someone had forgotten to notify him that he had joined the ranks of “The Dearly Departed,” and he looked at his watch to see if it was still running.

     It seems someone on his staff had decided to play the ultimate joke on him.

    In his sermon he draws a somber conclusion, “Though I had some conflicting emotions about ‘this little ha ha,’ it reminded me that one day someone else would fill my pulpit, and someone else would use my office.

      How will we be remembered? How long will the echo’s of our lives reverberate? How many will be able to say, “_________ influenced my life like no one ever did,” or “If it weren’t for _______, I don’t know what I’d be doing today.”

     Not long after my Uncle’s death my Grandmother awoke to hear footsteps in the house. Of course, she thought someone had broken in on her. But suddenly she felt comforted. For she recognized a familiar gait, the particular shuffle of her (deceased) brother. Now, I don’t know what I believe about ghosts, and that’s not the issue here, but shall we leave an sweet afterglow? Will we leave footprints behind?

     Colonel Gould Shaw of the 54^th Massachusetts Colored Regiment once wrote home to his mother… “I fear that when it’s all said and done, my life won’t be of much account.” But his fear was for naught. Colonel Shaw died attacking a Confederate fort, along with half his men.

    The majority of us are given about 25,000 days; some less, some more. Think of it! Life seems so much shorter when measured in days. But you figure it up. That’s about the sum of our lives.

    I want my life to count. More than fame, more than riches. More than anything else I want my life to impact the less fortunate, the unlearned, the languishing soul.

 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9

 

 

 

 

Little Mary Garcia

Shortly after I completed my twenty year retirement from United Parcel Service in 1997, I went “full time” as a self-employed, contractor-type pastoral counselor. And as I have implied with the quotation marks, full-time wasn’t enough time, and I also signed up as a substitute teacher; (a position I held for the next 15 years. Don’t ask me how I managed to last that long).

There were some highlights, both good and not so good, that remain engraved in my memory, as surely as Moses’ (actually God’s) 10 Commandments; in the stone of Mt. Moriah.

Among the first of the highlights, in this case a good one, was an experience I had at Westwood Middle School. I was teaching an ad-lib segment about bats to a 7^th grade science class.

(And middle schoolers can be deplorable. They just can).

At any rate, as the class wound to a finish, a young lady named Mary Garcia smiled and said,

“Mr. McDonald, you sure do know a lot about bats! I really enjoyed your class!”

I have never forgotten Mary, though she would be about 30 now. I’ve wondered where she is and how she is.

But not all of the remembrances in my tenure as a substitute teacher were all that good, (and as a matter of fact, most weren’t).

There was the outrageously outrageous classroom at Bartow Middle School. Such disrespect and noise. Well, you don’t want to know. Ditto a class I “taught” at Bartow Sr. High School; my alma mater. Note to self: Avoid orchestra. I’m not sure any of my students managed to string together two musical notes that day.

And to “put the icing on the cake” how can I forget a couple of experiences I “enjoyed” at Kathleen Sr. High School? During the course of my having “subbed” there I was referred to as a “Bas_ _ _d” and a “B_t_h.”

(Needless to say, after that second “lovely” experience, I refused to return to that school).

Thankfully, I eventually found a way to continue my counseling career, and at the same time phasing out the other one; (Thanks to my having taken a different part-time position).

I think little Mary’s compliment almost made the whole thing worth it.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 9