CROSSING JORDAN

My sister forwarded a photo of my dad to me today; one which I don’t recall seeing before.

The picture depicts my dad at the age of perhaps 65 or 70; 15 to 20 years before our Lord called him home to Glory. When I asked her, Linda informed me that the photograph was snapped in Robbinsville, NC; along a river where my parents had purchased a cabin. It seems my dad was in the process of building a dock, though no structure, whatsoever, can be seen.

In the picture Daddy is wearing the most bedraggled clothes I have ever seen him wear. His jeans are replete with holes, and stains, and his upper body is clothed in a dirty t-shirt. In spite of the condition of his clothing, my father appears to be staring directly into the camera lens, wearing a smile which might easily compete with the sun, and with one hand raised in greeting, (or farewell).

Interestingly enough, as recently as I came into possession of this unique picture, it has become my all-time favorite of my dad.
And I think I like it so much because it so well characterizes the journey we know as life and death. 

I think the river represents the threshold between this life and the next. That both literal and proverbial river we call Jordan. 

My father’s torn and dirty clothing speaks to the trials, troubles and turmoil of life, and the manner in which it inflicts pain and suffering on all of us.

Whereas, the exuberant smile, and raised hand is all about the conclusion of such momentary symptoms, the joy which awaits the redeemed, and that one final opportunity to bid a fond “fare thee well,” but not goodbye.

And if I could select one scripture to accompany the photo, I think I might affix the following caption:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 30. Copyright pending

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If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

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Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin

9 LIVES

Something my wife said after my latest mishap captured my attention.

“Just because you think you have 9 lives doesn’t mean you won’t run out one day.”

(Indeed, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that every man, woman, boy and girl has their own individual “date with destiny.”)

And while I don’t consider myself anyone’s anything special, it seems that among my peers God has been especially kind to me, and ever so tolerant of my foibles and inconsistencies. And as I reflect back upon my 2/3 of a century upon this planet, and the myriad of “near misses” in which the sand in my personal hour glass might have filled up the bottom, I can only shake my head in abject wonder.

Near misses, indeed.

*A calamity which occurred in my 9^th year of school

An errant vehicle speeding towards my friend and me. Stepping away and taking my friend with me. Turning to see my classmates rudely tossed into the air, and falling left and right along the roadside. A dozen serious injuries. One death.

*An incident at the phosphate mines

Only moments from being swept into eternity by the sweep of a ten ton dragline bucket.

*A rainy highway

Showing off for my friends. Negotiating a curve. Rolling my ’64 powder blue Ford Fairlane. 3 times.

Unscathed

Beth. A 17 year old classmate. A perfectly lovely Christian girl with all the potential in the world. Succumbing to a one vehicle accident.

*Nearing home

Work truck intersecting our pathway, and braking to a stop. Roof-top ladder propelled towards my passenger window. Decapitation in the momentary offing. Ladder sliding across the pavement and coming to rest just feet before us.

*Six feet in the air

Slipping off my own ladder. Slamming onto unyielding concrete. For all my trouble, a broken ankle, and subsequent surgery.

*A suspicious mole 

Diagnosed with melanoma. Extensive surgery. Disfigurement.

Somewhat the worse for wear

Johnny. My 20 year old cousin. A rookie soldier. Vietnam. A mortar round. A painful death. Yielding up the ghost before he ever had a chance to live.

*Nearing an intersection 

Car failing to stop. Wife locking up brakes. Children peering plaintively at us from the back seat of that tiny, blue vehicle. I on the passenger side reaching over. Commandeering the steering wheel. Navigating my way behind the offending automobile. 180 degree spin. Back where front should be. Slowing, slowing, slowing. A grassy roadside shoulder now securely beneath my ungainly green Oldsmobile.

*My father and a 12 pound bass 

Opening the back porch door. My oblivious enthusiasm. Running through a double glass door. Blood. Lots and lots of blood.

*A short bike ride 

Too short. 2 wheels. 4 legs. A bike, a man, a dog. Flying headlong over handlebars. Slamming onto black asphalt. A broken arm. (A bit pre-occupied to concern myself with the fate of the offending beast).

(And lo, and behold yesterday, as I flew down the sidewalk on my speedy new bike; history repeated itself. Slamming into a curb, I (not so) gracefully sailed over the handlebars, and rudely landed on my knees, and hands, and... head).

Safe, though not necessarily sound

Ronnie. A high school classmate. Old, but not elderly. ALS. Lou Gerhig’s Disease. Death by inches.

What are we to do with the seeming capriciousness of Providence?

Why are some afforded miracle after miracle, chance after chance, whereas others are taken “first time out,” or at least denied the opportunity to live out their natural “four score years?” (I have, at times, referred to this seeming paradoxical unfairness as, “A Providential Lack of Providence.”)

I think a friend of mine, who, not so long ago, endured the unendurable, said it best.

(His or her) “work here was simply done.”

I can only, as I have previously alluded, wonder why God has afforded me the opportunity to live out a full and productive life, affording me grace after grace, chance after chance, near miss after near miss, whereas so many of my friends, classmates and peers have been denied that providential privilege.

There’s a poignant scene in the movie, “Saving Private Ryan” in which the hero of the saga offers up his life for the life of another. And in his waning moments he summons the soldier for whom he has offered up the last full measure of devotion, and with his dying breath is heard to utter,

“Earn it. Earn it.”

Perhaps for those of us who have been granted the grace of a long and potentially productive life, we ought to be ‘earning it’ on a daily basis. I think we owe it to them who went before us, and who, in some vicarious manner depend on you and I to do what they might have done; had they been granted the time and wherewithal to do it.

“Before I ever took my first breath, you planned every day of my life.” (Psalms 139:16)

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 35. Copyright pending

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If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin

Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin

THE HAND ON MY SHOULDER

My wife and I attended a local church several years ago, and I also happened to serve as the staff counselor there.

A few years into my tenure, our pastor contacted an evangelist friend and invited him to conduct a one week series of revival meetings; which he summarily did. On the final night of his series, “Pastor Lynch” invited whomever would to join “Rev. Jensen” at the front of the church for a final prayer; to send him on his way.

With this, Jean and I strolled to the area just below the pulpit, and joined perhaps fifty others as they surrounded the good minister. And as is the case in such evangelistic environments, each person, in turn, placed a hand on the shoulder of the person closest to the next person closest to the “identified individual.”

And since I was among numerous others which comprised one of the concentric rings which surrounded the evangelist, I was not surprised when someone behind me placed his or her hand on my right shoulder.

However…

As the communal prayer ended, and people began filing back to their pews, I realized the hand …was still on my shoulder. The realization that the hand remained unmoved struck me so strange that I found myself reticent to look around. But since it was time to make my exit from the front of the auditorium I had little choice, but to “do a 180” and head back to my seat.

As I turned and cast my eyes on the space from whence the arm and adjoining hand were extended, it was all too apparent that

…there was no one there!

And yet, and yet, the weight of the hand remained on my shoulder.

And it was at this point that I realized I had either transcended the laws of gravity, (as the weight of the atmosphere exerts the same relative pressure on an entire body at sea level) or I had unknowingly sustained nerve damage on or about my deltoid muscle which accounted for the unusual sensation. (By this time I was racking my brain for any rationale for such a one of a kind experience).

And as I walked back down the aisle, and reclaimed my seat, the weight of the hand remained. As the service was dismissed, we made our way out the front door, I slid into the passenger seat, and we drove the 1.5 miles to our home, the extra pound of flesh and blood sat heavy on my shoulder. It was only after I flopped down in my recliner, and a few minutes elapsed that the strange sensation finally dissipated.

Although I can’t be altogether certain why our Lord afforded me this unique affirmation of His love and leading, I have never doubted that His hand has rested upon my life and ministry. As it fell together, the years ahead would be fraught with many trials and troubles, as well as triumphs.

I so often associate the miracle of that night with one of my favorite hymns.

All the way my Savior leads me
Who have I to ask beside
How could I doubt His tender mercy
Who through life has been my guide

All the way my Savior leads me
Cheers each winding path I tread
Gives me grace for every trial
Feeds me with the living Bread

All the way my Savior leads me
O, the fullness of His love
O, the sureness of His promise
In the triumph of His blood

And when my spirit clothed immortal
Wings its flight to realms of day
This my song through endless ages
Jesus led me all the way
Jesus led me all the way 

("All the Way My Savior Leads Me" by Fanny Crosby)

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 33. Copyright pending

If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line.

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If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin

Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin