My mother in law was, to say the least, a real character.
She once received a call from Arthur Murray Studios, and
the representative said,
"Mrs. Vaughn, we are pleased to tell you that we have
a one time promotion. If you sign up for ten dance lessons, the first two will
be absolutely free!"
To which she responded,
"I'm sorry, honey. I only have one leg!"
The caller quickly apologized and hung up. She didn't hear from that company again.
by Bill McDonald, PhD
There was a custom among 18th century Scottish immigrants in which a mother or father, brother or sister on the beach would hold a ball of twine, while their immigrant relative would be given the loose end of it to hold. As the ship sailed out of the harbor the twine would play out over the water. And as the ship sailed further from the beach, the ball of twine would get smaller and smaller, until the entire string had played out, and it lay floating on the ocean. It was the last tangible connection to their homeland for those who would never return.
by William McDonald, PhD
There’s a mythological story which
speaks to the reality of, and certainty of death.
Years before Gabriel spoke to the
Virgin Mary, or Moses rolled back the Red Sea, a powerful king named Zaidan
ruled and reigned in a faraway land. The king was proud of his country and his
people, and though he fiercely rendered justice to whom justice was due, he was
also known as a man of rich compassion.
And as you might expect, the good
king’s palace and its adjoining grounds were populated by a multitude of loyal
servants. And as you might also well imagine, the ruler of this great land
enjoyed the services of a few selected stewards whom had proved their loyalty,
and who had ministered to his daily needs over the course of decades.
One servant, in particular, a man
named Abdul, had from time immemorial fulfilled a brief, but (at least from the
king’s point of view) necessary task. Outside of that singular, daily task, he
was “given the run” of the palace, and little else was expected of him.
Oddly enough, when the waning shadows
on the sun dial registered the 6th hour of the afternoon, all
activity in the inner sanctum of the palace ceased, the king mounted his
throne, and a nearby eunuch slammed a mallet on a great silver cymbal. Three
times. And as the last echoes of the great gong ceased to reverberate, a great
door in the back of the massive room opened, and Abdul appeared, attired in
blue and crimson, and marched down the long aisle which separated him from the
ornate throne.
The king’s servants, male and female,
lined each side of the aisle; soldiers on his right. Handmaids on his left; as
Abdul navigated the fifty feet which separated him from the monarch whom he had
grown to love and respect.
Pt. 2
Having reached the foot of the great
throne, Abdul stopped, slammed his arms against his side, drew his left foot
against his right, silently cleared his throat, and shouted the words,
“Remember, oh king…one day you must
die!”
Having uttered those eight fateful
words, he executed a military about face movement, and retraced his steps down
the aisle, and out the main door of the inner sanctum.
And with this, the king stood and made
his way out a side door, and into his adjoining study. As the door closed
behind him, the assembled soldiers and handmaidens drifted back from whence
they’d come; Abdul’s poignant message having impacted not only their beneficent
ruler, but they, themselves.
“Remember, oh king…one day you must
die!”
Abdul might as well have shouted,
“Remember, Hakeem, Remember
Ayishah…one day you must die.”
The message simply never got old. It
was simply too ‘there there.’ And if the king was hyper-sensitive to the
message, Abdul the more so. It seemed to keep him and them focused on the
gravity of life, and the priorities, good, better and best, which surrounded
life.
And, dear readers, as I previously inferred,
having completed his dreary daily task, Abdul marched himself out of the ornate
throne room, and retreated to the servant’s quarters.
Having fulfilled his appointed daily
task for several years, the time came when Abdul began to feel a bit unfulfilled.
And one morning, after breakfast, he approached the king’s viceroy, and
requested an audience with his beloved master.
Pt. 3
Abdul lost no time in explaining
himself, and the viceroy lost no time in approving his request to meet with the
king.
And as quickly as his wish was
granted, Abdul was escorted into the king’s bedroom; (for he often had
breakfast in bed). His monarch smiled, and greeted his favorite servant with,
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of
your company so early in the day, my dear friend?”
Abdul cleared his throat, and spoke.
“Oh king, as important as I count my
daily task, I sense the need of something more, an additional role to take my
mind away from this dread, and dreary subject with which you have invested me;
(but which both you and I believe is so crucial to your life and kingdom”).
To which the king replied,
“Abdul, you have been a faithful
servant and a true friend to me. But if you feel you need some added task, I
will allow it. You know my aged servant, Mohammed, just recently stepped down
as my Steward of Royal Food Stuffs. I had been planning to procure a younger
man to assume his place. But since this role only requires two days each week
in which he mounted his camel, visited the local market, and ordered the
necessary foods and wines, I will allow you to assume this additional role.”
And though any outward change in a
solemn countenance in the king’s presence was considered disrespectful, Abdul
could not contain himself, and a great smile lit up his face.
But since the king sometimes dispensed
with formalities, and since he was alone with his dear friend, he could not
help but emit a resounding laugh; which seemed to rise up from the depths of
his belly.
Pt. 4
And while, Abdul continued to march down the
aisle of the throne room, and shouted the words he’d shouted so many times
before, he assumed the secondary role as the Steward of Royal Food Stuffs, and
made his way to the market on a bi-weekly basis.
A few weeks had passed since the
faithful Abdul had assumed his added duty, and as he was leisurely strolling
through the marketplace, and as he had begun to dicker with a local merchant
for three bushels of dates, and ten kilos of olives, he happened to cast his
eyes to the left, and what he saw caused an involuntary shudder to run up his
spine.
Death Incarnate
What, (or perhaps the word is ‘Who’)
greeted his eyes was none other than the Death Angel; (whom, as it fell
together, was, apparently invisible to everyone, but Abdul).
The hideous creature was robed in
black, (but contrary to our modern caricature, he held no scythe or sickle in
his hand). As Abdul looked up at the magnificent being, (for he stood head and
shoulders taller than the steward, and he was built like a proverbial bull) his
black and threatening eyes caused the hair to rise on his arms.
For all his daily proclamations, Adul
had never encountered the subject of his exclamations. Death. He immediately
forgot about the dates and olives, and for that matter gave no thought to his
mode of transportation; the camel which stood three paces away. But rather, he
turned and ran as quickly as his feet could carry him away from the market, and
into the desert. A full hour elapsed before he slowed, and began to walk.
Another hour passed before he noticed the spire of the king’s palace, and he
strode wearily through its main gate.
Pt. 5
Abdul lost no time in approaching the
king, nor did he seek permission to do so; another breach in royal etiquette.
But there was simply no time for etiquette.
He found the king just outside his
royal harem; as he stood interviewing another potential concubine.
Falling down before him, Abdul
exclaimed,
“Oh king, forgive my insolence; just
this once. But allow me to make my plea. As I was in the marketplace today, and
busy with the culinary affairs of my master, I saw something almost
unspeakable. I saw the darkest, most evil creature you can possibly imagine. I
saw the Death Angel. And dear friend (may I call you, ‘friend’) his gaze was
absolutely penetrating, and great fear permeated the recesses of my soul!”
(and)
“Oh king, I gave no thought to the
royal camel, but found my way out of the dark Angel’s presence, and crossed the
desert on foot. Dear king, if I have pleased you, if I have done those things,
and more that has been expected of me, loan me your best camel, and allow me to
flee to the City of Samarra!”
As Abdul looked up from his place on
the floor, he noticed something he had never seen throughout the multiplied
years he’d served the king. A tear ran down the royal cheek, and anger suddenly
registered on his countenance.
“My friend, of course you may borrow
my prize camel. Lose no time! Make haste! Do not delay!”
And with this, Abdul kissed the king’s
feet, rose from the floor, and made good his escape.
Afterward
Needless to say, the king was
incensed, and immediately ordered a garrison of soldiers to accompany him to
the city in search of the interloper.
Arriving at the marketplace, the king
cast his eyes among the hundred or so booths and stands which greeted him.
Suddenly, he spotted the horrible creature; lingering near the place where his
faithful servant encountered him.
Accompanied by his soldiers, he
approached the dark gruesome beast, and exclaimed,
“Oh Death, my faithful servant, Abdul,
was here just six hours hence, and he told me he saw you, as I see you with my
own eyes now. And my faithful steward and friend, Abdul, claimed you glared at
him, and threatened him with your gruesome countenance! Please give an account
of yourself.”
To which the dark Angel of Death bared
his yellow fangs, but spoke, it seemed, rather softly.
“Oh good king, I did not threaten your
servant. I was only surprised to see him. For you see, I have an appointment
with him tonight
…in the City of Samarra.”
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending
“Yesterday, during one of
my daily crying spells, I asked my recently deceased son to send me a sign that
he was ok and happy. Just anything that would unmistakably assure me that he is
still with me "in spirit". Today, I got that sign. This is "Spirit"
who strangely enough, my brother had already named him before he came to me
because he found him on Spirit Lake Rd. For me, his name took on a whole new
meaning. My son, also being a rescuer, heard my plea and sent me that sign I
prayed for. Please read it and you'll know the rest of this story.”♡
I have
previously written of having come across several helpless animals during the
course of my ‘wee hours of the morning’ bike and walking treks.
There was
the emaciated pooch, a mini-Doberman, tied to a light post which, as I rode my
bike on a nearby sidewalk, I retrieved, brought home, and ‘farmed out’ to a
no-kill shelter. There was the pitiful little cat, injured and lying next to a
local two lane road. All I could do was call the dog pound and ask an animal
control person to pick it up. And there was the time I ‘happened up’ on another
feral cat, as I walked a two miler during a holiday at Cedar Key. I recall
pausing and stroking his fur, and scratching under his chin, and musing aloud,
“Sorry, little fella. About all I can do is spend a moment with you and offer
you a little comfort.” And with that, I went on my way.
This
morning, as I was about halfway through my walking circuit, I noticed a man who
was about to transect my path. And as is my custom, rather than walk past
someone at ‘O Dark Thirty,’ (and thus ‘take my life in my own hands’) I crossed
the highway which bordered the sidewalk.
And having
crossed this particular thoroughfare, and then another, in order to begin my
trek home, I passed another light pole, (re. my earlier allusion) and lo and
behold I noticed a small kitten sitting on the concrete base of the pole; about
two feet above ground level.
You remember
that old adage about the turtle on the fencepost? Well, (as with the kitten) we
can assume he didn’t get there by himself.
But having
arrived at this juncture, it may be helpful for you to understand that I ALWAYS
include helpless, homeless, hungry feral animals in my daily prayers. Of
course, many of these animals were previously abused, and while some have
gotten loose, many have been dumped along our highways and byways.
Pt. 2
But to
return to my story.
It
immediately occurred to me that, as with the other instances, I was being
called to ‘put feet to my prayers.’
Prayer or no
prayer, I simply could not leave the kitten ‘to its own devices.’ (Though
honestly, I prefer dogs to cats any day). But having scanned the general area,
and assured myself that there wasn’t a mama cat in the vicinity, I picked up
the bony creature, and gently holding it by my side, I quickly walked the
remaining half mile home.
And while I
had no plan, whatsoever, to keep the kitten, I did something which I have so
often done. I mentally assigned a name to the pitiful creature, and I claimed
him for the kingdom.
(Yes, I
did).
His name?
Well, since I discovered the poor little thing on Spirit Lake Road, I decided
to call him, ‘Spirit;’ (a name which will have significant import by the time
this story reaches its certain conclusion).
And, no
doubt, dear readers, by now you are ‘biting at the bit’ for some clarity re. my
having claimed the tiny fur ball for the kingdom.
In Psalm
36:6, we read,
“You preserve both men and animals, alike.”
And it is
upon this particular implication I base my premise.
Are you
familiar with The Rainbow Bridge? The notion that our animals have gone on
before us, and will be waiting for us at the pearly gates? Well, I’m convinced
that as believers can rest assured that we will see our pet pooches and felines
again.
Pt. 3
Having
arrived home, I poured some milk into a paper plate, and set it before little
Spirit. He ignored it. At this point, I dipped a teaspoon into the milk, and
lifted it to his mouth. And with that, Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Spirit had, by
this time, crawled under my dining room table, and refused to move from his
solitary place.
Having
assured myself that ‘Queenie,’ my 15 pound Shih Tzu, was under the supervision
of my wife, Jean, I sat down at my computer, and I.M.’ed my sister.
It may be
helpful to understand that Linda is a night nurse, and that she sits with
chronically ill youngsters in the wee hours of the evening. It might also be
helpful to know that my sister is a cat person, par excellence.
As I
described the scenario by which I had stumbled upon the cat, (and subsequently,
rescued it) she offered something which I had not, ‘til this point,’
considered.
“I think
Tony had something to do with it. I think he led you to the cat.”
And while I
am characterizing things which may be helpful for you to understand, sadly,
Linda’s 35 year old son, Tony, passed away last month.
Tony was,
(as is his mother) a cat rescue person. And speaking of my newly named cat, it
seems more than fitting that, in respect for Tony, I coincidentally chose the
moniker, ‘Spirit’ for the precious little creature. (For it goes without saying
that Tony has gone on to his reward).
And as you
might imagine, as my sister and I interacted, I was on the threshold of asking
Linda if she could ‘see her way clear’ to adopt the furry tyke.
As it fell
together, I didn’t have to ask.
Pt. 4
“Would you
like me to pick up the precious thing on my way home?”
(Dear Readers,
she didn’t have to ask twice).
In a flash,
my nimble fingers typed out that oft-used three letter word.
(Yes)
“Why, Yes.
Yes, I would. I would like that a great deal.”
And to quote
the most bless-ed promise in the Bible,
“And it came
to pass.”
After my
sister arrived home, she and I exchanged several texts. In the couple of hours
which had transpired since she pulled into my driveway, she had visited the
vet, had the kitten wormed, and antibiotics were administered.
And as my
little text tone chimed again (and again), I opened each subsequent message and
initially saw a photo. (Spirit was eating)! And then a brief video. (Spirit was
exploring)!
Sullivan
Ballou, that late great Union officer, once penned the most eloquent letter
ever written in the context of the Civil War. And in it, he alluded to the
proposition that those who have gone on before might have some import, input
and impact into our daily lives here.
“But,
O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those
they loved, I shall always be near you; in the brightest day and darkest night;
always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my
breath; or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing
by.”
Perhaps, as my sister implied, her
dearly departed son had something to do with the circumstances of last night,
the stranger crossing the road, and my need to find a different pathway home.
Need I say, I think maybe Tony is
still in the cat rescue business!
by William McDonald, PhD
A soft breeze stirs
the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of
Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight
of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended
grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.
Viewed from above, the rolling green
grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes
do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread
and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our
sons will yet defy the enemy.”
We gaze into their eyes, their portraits
fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so
vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A
million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.
And like gladiators of old, they steel
their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his
sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I
don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat
betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming
out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”
The waves are large, and the gale is
brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every
description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.
And we see them as they make their way
to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and
Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf.
Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the
turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep
waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help,
they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they
are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish
anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.
A landing craft finds the sandy bottom,
and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow
water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their
ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For
these thirty, mission complete, mission over.
Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full
of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds
and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against
cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art
of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted
ankle there.
The Rangers. There can be none like
them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties.
They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down
upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.
And some reach the summit. And some win
the prize.
And some come again to walk the beaches.
To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live
that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the
same.
We have come to an anniversary of that
day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the
survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To
remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall,
and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the
waning sands of his own hourglass.
To remember the commitment of such a one
as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet
grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell
again, never more to rise.
The soft breeze stirs the waters of
Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood,
and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water,
their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the
field of their labor.
They gave their tomorrows for our today.
My wife and I visited
the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often
visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.
And it so happened
that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of
my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And
among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my
interest, like few photographic images have ever done.
A small, brown mule
hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)
“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay.
The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was
approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29
years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or
lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins,
Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”
“Old Tom” remains an
amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous
sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since
domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so
like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.
In my mind’s eye I
see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly
man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the
four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the
reins a loud crack, and they’re off.
And having rolled
along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of
white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic
earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is
already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he
waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to
snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.
A quarter hour
passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to
splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat,
snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive
at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly
paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.
Spade after spade of
chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the
expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils,
and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and
sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in
the distance, and multiply their progress.
And as the clock
hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay
pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back;
while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every
joint, and weariness in every step.
… And they hope for
the night.
There exists in
modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and
his faithful mule.
“And So It Goes”
For you see that
formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing
they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour
glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his
belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his
back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.
I like to believe
that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than
the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that
Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were
tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than
his first;
… as the harness was
removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush,
green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending
I can’t really account for it, but lately I have been thinking about chairs. Oh, not just inanimate chairs, but the connection they have to the animate beings which have sat in them.
The other day I was feeling a bit
tired (given my consistently distorted sleep schedule) and headed to my room to
take a nap. As I prepared to lay down in my bed, I gazed towards the far wall
and saw the same thing I have seen there for several years.
Two chairs. One was for lack of a
better characterization a stage chair. The other was, well, I will get back
with you on that one. As you might imagine, given the term I have used for it,
the afore-mentioned chair came off a stage. I was the staff counselor at a
local church, and since there were three matching chairs on the platform, and
only two were ever used during the services, I made a decision to “borrow” one
of them for my office; which I summarily did.
Having absconded with the stage chair,
it became a counselor’s chair in the space of the 53 seconds it took for me to
walk from the front of the church auditorium, into the lobby, up two flights of
stairs, and through the door of my second floor counseling office.
The chair was (and continues to be)
constructed of heavy blue cloth seat and back cushions, and lightly lacquered
wooden arms and legs. While it is fairly non-descript, it is at the same time
sturdily built and comfortable.
I cannot begin to tell you how many
stories I have heard while seated in that chair. Based on my average work load,
I have counseled thousands of men, women, boys and girls as I sat in that
chair. Amazing stories. Traumatic stories. Heart-rending stories. Women
molested as children. Financial losses. Vocational issues. Mental illness.
Abortion. Adultery. Failed marriages. Guilt. Unforgiveness. Child neglect.
Imprisonment.
I like to think as I deliberated in
and gave guidance from that chair that I have made a difference in countless
lives; lives that I believed (and continue to believe) that God dreamed I would
impact before He flung the worlds into space.
When I left my position with that
particular church, the chair was the only thing which came with me. I could not
bear to part with it. I have continued to offer counsel from its confines.
Pt. 2
Pt. 3
But allow me to reflect on a couple of
chairs much more near and dear to me than those I have previously described.
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.
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 my dad in the midst of an ethereal sleep.
Which, as with us all, is strangely prophetic of that slumber which one day
must overtake each of us.
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 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 the
inevitable, and to enter a skilled care facility.
My mother
sat in her chair 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 in
these chairs that 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, and expressed hope for their children’s and
grandchildren’s futures.
It was from
these chairs that they laughed and lived and loved, and prepared to divest
themselves of the mortal and to put on immortality.
by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending
