CANDLES IN THE WIND

Two young people in my little community have left us in recent years.

“Dennis” was in his mid-20’s and was riding a motorcycle on a highway adjacent to my neighborhood. He may have been in a hurry, and was possibly exceeding the 60 mph speed limit, as it was his birthday, and he was due to meet his parents, relatives and friends at the parental home.

Suddenly, Dennis failed to negotiate a slight curve, ran off the highway, over a sidewalk, and into the front of a steel fence which bordered a gated community. He was pronounced dead at the scene. It was broad daylight, and neither darkness, nor drugs or alcohol contributed to the accident.

A few years later, “Gail,” the only passenger in her automobile, was driving down the same highway, and, like Dennis, failed to negotiate the same curve, ran over the same sidewalk, side-swiped an oak tree, and slammed into that same steel fence. The time was about 3am and she was apparently coming home from work at the time. I was peddling 10 miles a day during this season of my life, and I just happened to peddle my bicycle past the accident scene just minutes after Gail was med flighted to a trauma hospital. Of course, there was a myriad of emergency vehicles at site of the one car collision. Sadly, Gail, passed away shortly after the helicopter reached the hospital.

Oddly enough, though several years had transpired between the two accidents, Dennis and Gail had crashed their vehicles a mere twenty feet apart, and apparently for much the same reason, (or lack of a reason).

Pt. 2

An oval state highway accident plaque marks the place of Dennis’ passing. It is a simple memorial to his having lost his life at this particular location. Just a name and a date, but it is stark for its simplicity and message.

A large cross, made up of colorful artificial flowers, adorns the scarred little oak tree which Gail’s automobile side-swiped that night; before crashing into the fence. Just below the cross a cardboard and tissue paper sign has been tacked up. It is inscribed with one word, “Gail.”

As someone who has experienced eight or ten “near misses” during the course of my relatively long seventy years on this planet, it grieves my soul to see young lives snuffed out on our highways, and the countless other places young men and women, boys and girls have succumbed to premature deaths. There’s just no accounting why some, like me, have been given chance after chance to continue living out their destinies, while too many other lives are snuffed out “first time out.”

In the case of all these unfortunate young people, it almost seems like a “providential lack of providence,” as I like to put it.

Where ever you happen to be when you are reading this story wouId you pause a moment to remember and memorialize Dennis and Gail, and all the young men and women in the world like them?

One of my distant relatives, a very famous individual, also died in a traffic accident at a relatively young age. And at her funeral a song was sung titled, “Candle in the Wind;” originally written for another famous woman who died years earlier.

Dennis, and Gail, and Diana, and Marilyn, and all the other young people who left us before their time don’t deserve to be forgotten. And those of us who have been left behind should devote our best efforts to living out our lives in a fashion which honors the potential which was so rudely stripped away from them.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL

     In what is perhaps the most fast-paced and troubled age of all the ages, men seem to struggle for inner peace. And again and again, it eludes them.

     We too easily pass over Christ’ admonition and promise…

     “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled. Neither let it be afraid.” (John 14:27, KJV) Some might even be bold (or ignorant) enough to say, “Oh, that kind of philosophy isn’t relevant to our time.”

     That opinion has been proven incorrect, time and time again.

     Horatio Spafford was a successful nineteenth-century Chicago lawyer, and friend of D.L Moody.

     In November of 1873, he put his wife and four daughters on the S.S. Ville du Harve, planning to join them for a much needed vacation in Europe later in that month. As the ship reached it’s halfway point, it was struck by another vessel, and sank within a few minutes. All four of the Spafford children drowned. Their mother survived.

     Horatio mourned as another ship ferried him to his grieving wife in Cardiff, Wales. As the ship sailed past the area where his precious daughters died, he found himself writing the haunting strains of the following hymn.

     “When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll-Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul.”

     I think that only a discipline tested in the crucibles of human trauma is capable of providing us such poignant words. I think it is a “though I do not welcome personal tragedy, I am determined to be made better by it” mentality.

      It is that kind of discipline that I refer to as “The Simon of Cyrene” principle. That is, “the take up your cross and follow me”

concept. For sometimes Our Lord calls us to experience suffering. Sometimes He gives us the opportunity to participate in, and identify with the suffering that He, Himself endured.

     “It is well with my soul” is a personally-precious hymn to me. For I had the rich opportunity to sing it at both my Mother-in-Law’s and Father-in-Law’s funerals. (See later devotionals.)

     I think Our Lord is constantly and consistently equipping us for whatever lies beyond the next turn in the road. While we may find ourselves dreading the unknown future, it never takes Our Lord unawares.

    

     “Tho Satan should buffet, tho trials should come, let this blest assurance control, that Christ hath regarded my helpless estate…”

     Yes, my friend. We can be sure that the seeming unendurable… is not!

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

PRAYING FOR A DEAD MAN

My wife and I were awaiting the arrival of our grandson at the Seventh Day Adventist Hospital in Sebring when I retrieved a cell phone message from a former client.

“Dr. Bill, my Uncle Don isn’t doing well. He’s in Winter Haven Hospital. Would you please remember him in prayer?”

Well, of course I immediately began praying for Judy’s uncle, and during the course of the next couple of days I prayed for him every time he came to mind. In the meantime, our daughter experienced a long and contracted labor, but ultimately, as has been common since mankind’s advent upon the earth, her dear little son was born.

After Jean and I arrived home I dialed my friend’s number.

“Hello, this is Judy.”

To which I responded,

“Hi Judy. This is Dr. Bill. We’ve been out of town a couple of days. But I want you to know I got your message, and I’ve been praying for your Uncle Don.”

Judy seemed confused, and several seconds elapsed before she answered.

“Uh, Dr. Bill I don’t know how to tell you this, but my uncle is dead.”

Now it was my turn to be confused.

She continued.

“Uhmmm, I vaguely remember leaving you a message about my uncle

… a year ago.”

Judy’s message had been floating around in ‘the cloud’ for a full year, and I had only now been become aware of its existence.

As a result, I had been praying for a dead man!

(Obviously, his name wasn’t Lazarus).

THE SOLDIER WORE GREEN (The City Did Not)

     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 there 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. He 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 time. 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 ‘til civil authorities deem our mission accomplished.” There was a murmur among the troops that seemed to build to a crescendo. Most of us were thinking, “But I only came prepared to stay five days.”

     Thousands converged on the city of Miami. 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 been called to assist citizens in need. The sights were overwhelming. Miles from the scene the devastation began to be apparent. Pine trees and Mangroves were broken like proverbial toothpicks. Sugarcane fields lay smashed against the muck of mother earth. But this was only the faint outskirts of ground zero. 

      Tears flowed freely down the guardsman’s face. This was America’s own Hiroshima. Utter devastation was in evidence in a full arc. Wherever 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 happened to glance up into the surreal and advancing blackness of the midnight sky. What he saw there was like nothing he had ever beheld. A lone meteor imposed itself against the barrenness of everything else in the city. He understood the message. Even in the midst of complete annihilation, 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, it’s own day. He was new at all of this, as were the unfortunate inhabitants of the city.

 

      Everything was experienced on a grand scale. Eight days without a shower, forty days in a tent, (rain flowing easily across the dirt floor,) up at five A.M., to bed at nine P.M., arms and face burned by an unrelenting sun, lips cracked and bleeding.

    Devastation greeted him as he attended to his daily mission – giant splinters where mansions once elegantly graced the landscape, staircases leading to nowhere, but to an open sky. Ships tossed high on 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 hand. Concrete buildings knocked over like so many dominos.

    The stories were the sort you only read or dream about – families saved by a single garage wall, a couple whispering their last good byes, as they lay together in their bathtub; their 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 sub-divisions. He cleaned the littered yards of the storm’s hapless victims. His rifle over his back, he stuanched 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 whole life,” she said. The guardsman spoke kind words, “Then you are the one who deserves them most.”  

     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 appreciate you being here with us.” 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 aplenty for volunteers in the months and years to come.

     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. Our tour was done, but would never be forgotten – Never.

 

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

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

     And what of those we had 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.

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

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A MR. ROGERS STORY

By Allison Carter, USA Today

In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

SHARING MY BIG GULP WITH ROVER

I drove a big brown UPS delivery truck for twenty years, and was never happier than when I pulled into the local hub for the last time on October 23, 1997. As I coasted into that same old space where I always parked # 59299, along with the great captain of our souls, I might well have uttered,

“It is finished.”

Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.

Years earlier, as a matter of fact closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city, And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5th Street, SE was very much like any other street in "Winter Haven," (the location of the famous "Cypress Gardens,") with one exception.

… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.

There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.

Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been

… Destination Dog

As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and

… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!

And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”

Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.

(And I think I know why)!

Post-Script - Speaking of dreaming UPS dreams...

Last night after I finished writing the previous article, I walked into my dark bedroom, reached into a laundry basket which contains several dozen pair of socks of various types and colors, blindly grabbed a pair, and slipped them on. Only to wake up a few minutes ago and discover I was wearing the one remaining pair of UPS monogrammed socks which remain from that era so long ago.

by William McDonald, PhD. "Animal Stores." Copyright pending. If you wish to copy, share or save, please include the credit line, above