DOING SOMETHING WITH THE DASH

     We get used to status quo, the same old same old. Days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, and months turn into years, and so on.

     There is an old, but humorous adage. “Men know they’re getting old when their chests fall into their drawers. Women know they’re getting old when their bra fits better when it’s put on backwards.” Men and woman have only to look in the mirror to see how time has taken its toll. We live in the age of skin creams, face-lifts, and a million exercise regimens. We live in the age of cryogenics. Some well-meaning, scientific fool came up with the idea. A famous ball player’s family fought over the option of “putting him on ice.”

    When we consider the theory of “freezing” closely, we can see a close parallel between the secular notion of cryogenics, and the spiritual reality of life eternal. John 3:16 comes to mind.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” (KJV)

      But in spite of this promise, we are guaranteed a date with destiny; our own individual date with destiny.

      Hebrews 9:27 assures us, “It is appointed unto man once to die.” (KJV) That is the only entrance into eternal life. We must die. And no wrapping of a body in “tin foil” and submerging it in liquid nitrogen can suffice for the atoning blood of Christ.

     There was a king who hired a servant. The servant had only one task, a task deemed so important that it was his singular task. The deed literally required but ten seconds per day. The other twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes and fifty seconds were his to do with, as he wished. I told you it was a singular task!

     At a given hour the servant approached the king, and at that instant a hush always fell over the courtiers and hand maidens. The servant bowed in greeting, and with a loud voice uttered the following words; “Remember, Oh King, one day you must die.” This daily visitation kept the king in focus. All the good he had to do had to be done over the course of a few short years.

     We look at a tombstone and notice two dates, and a dash in between. There is the date of birth and the date of death, and the dash in between. Some wise person, name unknown, mused about the layout of a tombstone. There could not have been a more fitting observation… “Two dates and a dash. When it comes down to it, it’s all about what we do with the dash.” That dash represents the life we live before the hour of our “visitation.” 

     Solomon, in his wisdom, mused, “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens.” (Eccl. 3:1, KJV) Yes, we get used to status quo, to periods of quiet, calm and peace. But nothing remains the same; it can’t. Death overtakes each one of us. That anonymous person had it right on…

   “It’s all about what we do with the dash.”

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

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ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.

We have traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.

One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest. 

Pt. 2

Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.

As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 3

I, as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.

My 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American Revolution.

My 3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland in the 17^th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a hundred kisses on their cheeks.

My 9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade; during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and adopted, and was adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.

When they closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 4

I brought up the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.

While we were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.

I left a tribute to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill; which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy; along with my name and relationship to them.

And with this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers were most and best acquainted.

And whereas, I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they sustained cannot be calculated.

And whereas, these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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1ST CORINTHIANS 13 - Excerpt from The McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament

If I speak in the languages of men and of angels, but do not express love by my words, and actions, I am little more than a resounding gong or a clanking cymbal. If I have been given the gift of foretelling the future, and comprehend all mysteries and have access to all knowledge, and if I possess the kind of faith which can move mountains from one location to another, but am bereft of love, I am absolutely nothing. If I give all my possessions to the poor and sacrifice my living body to the fire, but have no love, it benefits no one.

Love is always patient, love is always kind, it does not envy its friends or enemies, it does not boast about its wealth or abilities; it is not proud. It does not disrespect others. It is does not make itself the first priority. It does not yield itself to anger. It does not keep a record of wrongs perpetrated against it. Love does not take great delight in evil, but always rejoices in the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres.

Love has no wherewithal to fail. But where there are prophecies, they will fail, where there are tongues, they will no longer be heard. Where there is knowledge, it will pass from the earth. For we only know a little, and we only prophesy a little, but when that which is complete and comprehensive appears the “little” will be cast aside.

When I was a child, I spoke as a child speaks, I thought like a child thinks, and I reasoned like a child reasons. However, when I became a man, I packed my childish things away. For now, we see a reflection, as if we were gazing into a mirror. But then, but then we will look into His marvelous face. Now I know only a little. However, then my knowledge will be perfected. Then, I will know, as others know me.

And now, three things remain to us. Faith, hope and love.

But the greatest of these is love.

Excerpt from the McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament. Copyright 2018

1ST CORINTHIANS CHAPTER NINE - from the McDonald Paraphrase

Aren’t I a free man? Aren’t I one of the Lord’s apostles? Haven’t I come face to face with Jesus our Lord? Aren’t you, my dear Corinthian believers, the end of my efforts on behalf of our Savior? Though others may not affirm my divine calling, certainly you recognize my heavenly nomination. After all, you are the living, breathing, moving reward of my work among the Gentiles.

This is my defense to those who sit in judgment of me. Don’t I possess the inherent right to eat and quench my thirst? Don’t I retain the privilege of selecting a wife, and taking her with me on my travels, very much like the other apostles, including the Lord’s brothers and Cephas? And is it only I, and Barnabas who somehow lack the right to be supported by a spiritual ministry?

Consider it. What soldier depends on his own bank account? What vineyard keeper refrains from eating his own grapes? What shepherd leads a flock, but refuses to drink the milk? Am I just making up words here? Doesn’t the Law infer the exact same thing?

For we find the following words in the Law of Moses:

 “You should not prevent an ox from eating some of the grain upon which he treads.”

Is this verse all about the nutritional needs of a beast of burden, or is there another meaning here? Surely, this was written on our account. Wasn’t it? (There is little doubt about it). For you see, every man who plows the fields, and every man who harvests the grain should have his own share of that which is stored in the barns at the end of the season. If we have sown spiritual seed among you, is it too much to ask that our financial needs are met by this ministry? If others are supported in this way, don’t we deserve the same kind of support, and more?

But we did not take advantage of this right. On the contrary, we endure anything, and everything rather than inhibit the Gospel of Christ.

Don’t you realize that those who serve in the temple receive their provisions from the temple, and that those who minister at the altar partake in what is offered on the altar? In the same way, the Lord has ordered that those who preach the Gospel message should receive their food, and raiment and housing from those to whom the Gospel is preached.

 But I have not taken advantage of this privilege. And I am not writing to you now to suggest that you afford me such things, for I would rather go on to my reward than allow anyone to deprive me of my role. For when I preach the Gospel, there is no place for boasting, since I am compelled to preach, and the wherewithal to share this Gospel message was given to me as a gift.

How absolutely horrendous if I do not preach the Gospel! I am absolutely compelled to impact those whom God has set in my pathway. If I preached this message simply because I wanted to, I would be entitled to a reward. However, since I preach out of compulsion, and not voluntarily, I am simply fulfilling the charge I have been given, and I deserve no reward.

What then is my reward? That in preaching this wonderful Gospel, I may offer it without cost, and, as a result, avoid taking advantage of my natural rights as a minister of Christ’ message.

Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone; so I might impact as many as possible, and win as many as possible for our Lord. To the Jews I am a member of the Jewish race; so that I might win some of God’s chosen people. To those under the Law, I glory in my circumcision, (though I myself am not under the Law), so as to win those who serve the Law.

To the heathen, I am a man without the Law, (though I will never be free from Christ’ law), to win those who do not observe the Law. To the weak, I am weak; in order to save the weak. I will be all things to all people so that by every means possible, I might save some of them. What I do, I do on behalf of Christ and his everlasting message; that I might not be ashamed when I stand before him.

Consider the illusion of runners on a track. In any given race all the runners compete, but the prize is awarded to one. My friends, don’t settle for second place. Everyone who competes in the games follows a strict regimen of exercise. They do this to win a laurel of leaves which will quickly fade. But we undergo the rigors of intense preparation, and exercise intensive effort for a crown which will never fade.

Therefore, I do not run like someone who jogs for the sheer fun of it. I do not fight like a boxer just flailing my arms. No, I submit to the most powerful blows, and make this frail body a slave to the Gospel; lest having shared the Good News with others, I find myself disqualified.

1st Corinthians Chapter 9, McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament. Copyright 2018

(I am preparing to submit my New Testament paraphrase to a publisher, and am posting selected chapters to my blog)

THE NOTES & MELODIES OF MY LIFE

There are certain movies that I watch again and again. They simply never grow old.

“A Beautiful Mind”

“Jane Eyre”

“Driving Miss Daisy”

“Mr. Holland’s Opus”

Speaking of “Mr. Holland’s Opus,” I love the closing scene. But to back up a bit.

Mr. Holland has served as a music teacher in an Oregon high school for thirty years; having begun what he described as a temporary “gig,” but at this stage passionately loving every minute the job has afforded him. However, one day he is notified that, for lack of funding, not only is his job being cut, but more importantly the entire music program in his beloved school is being discontinued.

Of course, he experiences depression and disillusionment, and we are witnesses as our hero, on his final day, trudges into his classroom for the last time, and begins to pack a small box of meager possessions.

As he finishes that solemn job, his wife and adult son walk into the classroom, and they subsequently walk out together. And as sad as this scene is, it would be sadder still if that was all there was to it.

However, as the trio approach the front door of the school, Mr. Holland pauses. He hears music wafting from the closed double doors of the auditorium; that same auditorium in which he has previously conducted numerous musicals and benefits over the years.

Mr. Holland poses a question; almost to himself.

“What is that?”

And with this, he turns to investigate the dilemma; leaving his wife and son a few steps behind.

As the aged music teacher opens the door, he seems momentarily confused. The auditorium is full of teachers, students, community leaders and friends, and a large and colorful sign hangs above the stage.

“Goodbye Mr. Holland!”

The frumpy little man catches his breath, and seemingly in an instant the morose emotions which had recently overwhelmed him flee away, and are replaced with a spirit of reflection and gratitude.

An energetic dynamic and joyfulness prevails in this place, and there can be little doubt that Glenn Holland has impacted countless lives represented here. He has been not only a teacher, but a leader; a mentor and a role model. He has contributed mightily to the destinies of countless students, and bequeathed a rich legacy to those who would follow in his footsteps.

Suddenly, the doors swing open again, and in walks a vibrant red-headed woman, accompanied by a couple of highway patrolmen. And Mr. Holland immediately recognizes “Gertrude Lang.”

Gertrude was a former student, and during her tenure here had struggled to master the clarinet. Her devoted teacher suggested she come in before school and allow him to tutor her.

As the young lady places the reed into her mouth and blows, the most horrendous excuse for music invades the air about her. Mr. Holland displays the seeming patience of Job, and continues to work with Gertrude, offering her a bit of guidance here, a story or metaphor there; until she gets it right.

Even as this obviously adept and confident woman strides towards the podium, she reflects on that day from so long ago.

“What do you like most about yourself, Miss Lang?”

To which she responds, “My hair.”

“Why is that Gertrude?”

The pale young redhead smiles, and says, “My father says it reminds him of the sunset.”

Mr. Holland’s response is both poignant and inspiring,

…“Play the sunset.”

And with that, a spark of insight seems to envelope the teenage girl’s countenance, and with that Miss Lang’s clarinet emits the most melodious notes which have ever escaped from it.

As the middle-aged woman mounts the stage, the announcer’s voice booms across the auditorium.

“Teachers and students of Kennedy High School, the honorable Gertrude Lang, Governor of the State of Oregon.”

The governor stations herself behind the microphone, smiles broadly towards her former teacher, and begins her monologue,

“Mr. Holland had a great influence on my life. On a lot of lives at Kennedy High School, I know. And I have the feeling that he considers a great deal of his life misspent. He wrote this symphony of his to be performed, possibly to make him rich or famous; probably both. Well, he isn’t rich or famous; except in this little town.

He might even consider his life a failure… but I think he has achieved a success which goes beyond mere riches or fame. Look around you, Mr. Holland. For there is not a life in this room that you have not touched. And each of us is a better person for meeting you, or for being your student. This is your symphony, Mr. Holland. We are the notes and melodies of your opus.

…We are the music of your life.”

Over the past few decades, God has graciously provided me the opportunity to counsel thousands, (in a pastoral counseling environment), teach hundreds, (at a local university), and mentor dozens, (in the context of a formal discipleship program). And I acknowledge not only that providential plan which allowed all of this to fall into place, but the gracious wherewithal He has bestowed upon me to make a difference in the lives of them whom He has set in my pathway.

And like Mr. Holland, I am neither rich nor famous; not even in my little town. But I like to think that with all my time and effort, I have irrevocably touched the lives which He has committed to my care; in a profound and inestimable way.

And if this is the case, well, that will be more than enough for me.

I may not be the most humble person who ever walked the planet. I am too close to the thing to judge properly. But I have often reminded my students that “it is okay to forget the messenger. Just don’t forget the message.”

(and)

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

Those whom I have had the marvelous opportunity to teach, counsel, mentor and impact represent the notes and melodies of my own opus.

…They are the music of my life.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

FORGIVENESS

And what too many people struggle to understand is: Forgiveness is not dependent on feeling a certain feeling. If we wait 'til we 'feel like it' we may be 103. Forgiveness begins with a decision and words. Feelings so often have to catch up later.

(A short consideration for today, by William McDonald, PhD)

RETURNING IN THEIR PLACE. Day 5

An additional note related to yesterday’s visit to Blarney Castle. On my way back from having visited the same, I stopped at an outdoor vendor, (as I mentioned previously), purchased a sandwich, and stood in a light and cold sprinkle while I devoured my lunch. Suddenly, a couple of ravens appeared and landed a few feet from me. As I began throwing them bits of bread, several more joined the party. By now ten or twelve of the little critters flapped at my feet. At times they snatched the bread out of midair.

Another facet of yesterday’s daily pilgrimage which I neglected to mention was our stop at Carrauntoohil. At 3406 feet it is Ireland’s tallest mountain. We could see it across a fiord in the distance, and clouds slithered down its side; very much like the effect we once witnessed in San Francisco. Our tour bus made a stop here for a group photo. 

As we continued to make our way through the County Kerry, the amazing vista of the mountain and fiord were visible at various points along our route. This was one of the most amazingly beautiful places I have ever visited in spite of the fifty degree temperatures, and ongoing rain with which we contended. The grass is greener here than virtually anywhere on earth due to the terrific amount of rain which falls on an annual basis.

Our travel guide is a lovely blonde haired Irish lady of perhaps forty named Deanne. She was raised in Australia, but her roots are Irish and she admittedly possesses a somewhat muddled accent, though I believe she sounds Australian. Deanne is extremely cheerful, and she takes pains to describe everything we will be up to on a given day as we find our way down the road. Our seat assignments change daily to facilitate meeting one another, an equal opportunity to view our environment, and to take photos.

Today we drove what is referred to as The Ring of Kerry. This is a loop along the coast of Killarney and up the west coast of Ireland. As we drove, Deanne mentioned a local drink, and encouraged us to “go get yourselves a Galway Hooker.” Of course, everyone got a good laugh out of her remark. 

We navigated the road along Dingle Bay, and our guide spoke about a local dolphin named, “Fungie” which has performed colorful antics in the bay for three decades, and has displayed an affinity for the most vulnerable of children, as they swim. There are videos of the creature flipping and flopping behind fishing and tour boats, and it is something to behold. A statue of the dolphin has been erected nearby.

Each year a town named Killorglin hosts a “Puck Fair” in which a designated goat is celebrated as king for three days; which commemorates a goat which is said to have warned the local populace of the advance of Oliver Cromwell’s soldiers, and allowed them to escape.

Now, we passed through an area covered in peat bogs, and a chunk of the stuff was passed through the bus. It almost had the texture and color of coal, and indeed is a preliminary form of this mineral.

In Watertown we stopped along Dingle Bay, and later at a fiord created by glaciers. There was one stop, in particular, which I found to be just about the prettiest spot in my memory. We looked down on a lush, green valley which boasts a river down its middle, houses in the mid ground, and a range of green hills in the background. We stopped for lunch at a restaurant which featured Shepherd’s Pie. The tableside view of Dingle Bay was nothing less than magnificent. I could make out a couple of small boats in the distance.

As we neared our hotel in Killarney, our guide pointed out a couple of famine houses; the stone ruins of which remained from the mid-19^th century. During this era the English invaded Ireland and took thousands of farmer's houses and land by force, and began charging them rent for homes they had lived in for decades. When the Irish weren't able to pay, they pushed them out on the street, and tore the thatching off the rooves. Many Irish men, women and children died as the result of the elements and starvation. 

Strangely enough, the narrow mountain road is marked 100 KPH, (just over 60 miles per hour), an impossible speed here. We finally arrived back at our hotel, and prepared for a horse cart ride. The cart seated eight, including our driver, John Cronin. His draft horse is named “Polly.” We drove through a national park in Killarney which is limited to foot travel, bicycle and horse cart traffic. 

The Irish driver was extremely animated, and joked throughout our ride. He is the brother of fourteen siblings. I joked that his parents must not have owned a television. He responded with, “And they didn’t have a heater either which just made it more fun for them!” When I asked if Irish people understand American accents better than we understand them, he said he thought they did, and “I can’t even understand some Irish folks when they talk!”

As we continued down the picturesque road, we saw a broken down 15^th century castle which was situated on an island on a lake. Other than the cold conditions which permeated our bones, it was a pleasant ride, indeed.

Afterwards, my daughter, Kristy and I visited a local restaurant and ran into an elderly American couple situated at a table next to us. Lo and behold they were from Davenport, Florida; just thirty miles from our hometown of Winter Haven. 

Excerpt from "Returning in Their Place", Day 5, A Scotland-Ireland Journal, by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending