MY BUDDY'S OLD PILLOW

 

4024

Our dearly beloved pooch, Buddy, left us not long after the advent of the current century. Buddy was a she; (in spite of her name). “Buddy” just seemed to fit. She was our precious little Buddy.

She was so dearly loved by my wife and I, and it was heart rending to see her go. (Thankfully, she went the natural way, and as a result the vet didn’t have to help her along).

After Buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge, I left her pillow at the foot of my bed; the same pillow she sought out on a nightly basis. Her pillow (or one very much like it) is still there 17 years later. Since then, two more of our precious pooches, Lucy and Queenie, have gone on to their reward, and I consider it a communal pillow; which now rests there in memory of all three, in addition to Princess who crossed the Rainbow Bridge six and a half decades ago.

As I walked into my room today an interesting scene unfolded before me. A new addition to our family, Milo the Cat, was laying contentedly on Buddy’s pillow. At first, I wasn’t all that impressed, and I thought,

“You need to get your little rear end off Buddy’s pillow” (and) “That pillow is a dog pillow, not a cat pillow.”

But I felt something check me, and I merely said, “Hey Milo, you know that’s Buddy’s pillow” (and) “But, you know, I don’t think she’d mind sharing it with you.”

I could just imagine Milo and Buddy lying side by side on that old pillow. And I take comfort in an obscure verse of scripture found in Psalm 36:6.

“You, oh Lord, preserve both humans and animals alike.”

I believe I will see my little Buddy again. In the meantime, I can imagine a hearty grin on the face of my Savior, as He scoops Buddy into His arms, and nods His approval, as Milo once again prostrates himself on that old pillow, and catches a much needed cat nap.

 by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

THE GOOD SERGEANT AND THE LITTLE MONK

 4023

*The following story is based on limited information, but is, given the absence of complete details, generally factual in nature. Some incidentals in the story line are included to provide dramatic effect. The characters in the story, except for Sergeant Otis Vaughn, have been assigned fictional names, since the actual names of these characters are unknown.

During the early 60’s, Le Duc Nguyen, a nine year old apprentice monk was walking through a thicket of bamboo on his way to fetch a bucket of water from a nearby stream. It was mid-morning and the air had begun to heat up a bit, and now and then he felt a vine or small branch brush against his sandaled feet.

However, what he felt next was anything but a vine or branch. For suddenly, he sensed a piercing wound to his right ankle. Looking down Le found himself looking at the largest snake he had ever seen in the short decade he had lived in this Vietnamese hamlet. His parents had often warned him about the multitude of poison snakes which inhabited their little corner of the world.

Le immediately recognized it. He had been bitten by a Chinese Cobra, one of the most venomous snakes on the planet. The little monk watched as the Cobra slithered away into the bamboo thicket, dropped his bucket, and immediately turned, and retraced his steps back to the Buddhist monastery. The compound was about two hundred yards distant, and by the time he arrived there, he was struggling to catch his breath.

Phen Doc Toe, one of the older monks, saw Le limp up to the compound, and knew something was very wrong. He had sent the boy for water, but he noticed there was no bucket in his hands now, and that Le’s cheeks were red, and that one of his ankles was badly swollen.

Phen asked Le an almost rhetorical question.

“What has happened to you, Le?”

Le struggled to speak.

“I was walking through the bamboo thicket near the river, and I was bitten by a Cobra.”

Pt. 2

Phen Doc was absolutely mortified. He knew that such a bite was almost certain death. He was also all too aware that the monastery was poorly equipped to treat anything, but the most minor of maladies and injuries.

Phen grabbed the boy up in his arms, and rushed him to the small Buddhist temple. As he walked into the sanctuary, he noticed that the chief priest and a few of his fellow monks were chanting their morning prayers.

As Phen barged through the door, six or eight priests turned from their prayers; with a momentary look of consternation on their faces. However, their consternation quickly disappeared in favor of shock and empathy.

The priest who held the suffering little apprentice shouted.

“Le went to get water and stepped on a Cobra. He is certain to die.”

The priests attending the altar turned from their prayers, and ran to the duo. Do Van Tien, the chief priest, took Le from Phen’s arms, and set him down on a bamboo mat. By now, Le’s breathing was shallow, and his neck and face were red and swollen.

The chief priest laid hands on the boy, and began praying. There was simply nothing else to be done. The priest’s subordinates hovered around the little boy, and did much the same thing.

Hundreds of South Vietnamese men, women and children were bitten by the thirty-seven varieties of venomous snakes which frequented the area on a yearly basis. And since much of the countryside lacked proper medical facilities, the snake bites were almost always fatal.

Pt. 3

Sergeant Otis Vaughn was a member of an Army surveying team in South Vietnam during the Vietnam War. He and his team members were tasked with the preliminary work which went into laying in roads for the American forces to travel from one hamlet to another.

As they were “going about their business” one day, and had pulled their jeeps off the road for a smoke or water break, as the case may be, the young sergeant heard voices on a nearby hillside. While the survey team’s primary mission was surveying, they were equipped with M-16 rifles, and knew how to use them. They were, after all, soldiers first, and surveyors second. He knew the entirety of South Vietnam was rife with Viet Cong, and North Vietnamese regulars, and that they would just as soon shoot your head off, as look at you.

Otis yelled to the six privates who accompanied him.

“Get down!”

Everyone hit the dirt, and lay there pondering their next move.

It was then that Sergeant Vaughn realized what the sound was that permeated the jungle foliage surrounding them.

Prayers

As someone who knew him, I can tell you no one ever accused Otis of what might be referred to as a “depleted sense of curiosity.” He was going to  discover what the commotion was all about.

“Okay men, false alarm. Get up. Stay here, and keep your eyes open. I’m going to climb that hill, and have a little peek.”

With this, Sergeant Vaughn walked to the base of the hill, about fifty yards distant, and trudged up the five hundred feet which separated him from his quest.

Pt. 4

As the winded military man arrived at the summit of the hill, he lay on his stomach, and peered into the Buddhist compound. The voices were louder now, and they were obviously coming from a small bamboo temple a couple hundred feet away.

And while the young sergeant’s courage had waned a bit, and he felt a sense of dread rising in his chest, he stood, and began to walk slowly towards the temple. Of course, Otis still cradled his M-16 in his arms, and was wary of any sound or movement from the small huts on his left and right.

Now, Sergeant Vaughn strode through the door of the little sanctuary, and witnessed several Buddhist priests surrounding what appeared to be a prostrate boy. At this juncture, the priests stopped their chanting, and greeted the foreigner with wary eyes.

Otis did his best to put the priests at ease. He smiled the friendliest smile he knew how to conjure up, and raised his arms in somewhat of a quasi-surrender.

Now, looking down at the man whom he surmised was in charge of this motley crew, and speaking slowly, he asked,

“I heard your voices. Can I help you?”

The American looked innocent enough to the chief priest, and it just so happened that Do Van Tien knew some rudimentary English. He responded,

“The boy. He been bitten by, by Cobra. He dying.”

Pt. 5

The good sergeant’s mind raced, and he thought,

“Well, not if I have anything to do with it. Not on my watch.”

And he said much the same thing to the chief priest.

Indicating he was a whole lot more than words, and intended to take action, Sergeant Vaughn nearly shouted at Do Van Tien.

“Trust me. Let me have the boy. I’ll take him to an Army field hospital.”

By now, Le was drifting in and out of consciousness, and the chief priest realized that there was absolutely nothing to lose. He slowly nodded his head, and the would-be savior stooped down, picked up the little monk, and gently placed him over his left shoulder.

“There now. It’s going to be okay.”

And all the while he must have been thinking,

“At least, I hope it’s going to be okay.”

Now, retracing his steps, Le’s rescuer hurried down the hill to where his six team members and two jeeps were waiting. Sergeant Vaughn laid the almost comatose little monk in the back of the nearest vehicle, and informed his crew that their mission had been temporarily suspended.

“The boy has been bitten by a Cobra. There’s a field hospital a few miles from here. Let’s go!”

Pt. 6

I will allow my niece to finish this wonderful story for you.

“After my dad carried the little monk down the mountain, and managed to get him to a field hospital, the Army doctors administered an antidote for the Cobra bite, and the young man began showing signs that the chief priest’ prognosis was a little hasty.

 “After he told me this story, I exclaimed,

‘Dad, you saved that boy’s life!’”

Suddenly, my dad’s eyes misted up a little, and he replied,

“No. No, I just got into a jeep with him and took him to a hospital.”

“My dad could have chosen not to help. He could have made a decision to do his military duty, and continue the mundane task of surveying a forlorn little jungle road in Vietnam. But he got involved. My father carried a 50 pound little boy, plus his own gear down a jungled mountain, and drove him to a field hospital.

But, instead of doing his good deed, and leaving the little guy, he remained by his side. He knew the boy didn’t know English, and that he would be scared when he woke up, and would need someone to look after him.

“You would have to know my dad. His mission was simply not over ‘til it was over. Daddy sat next to that little monk ‘til he recovered, and then drove him back home.”

I am happy to tell you that the little monk made a full recovery. I am equally happy to inform you that Sergeant Otis Vaughn was my brother in law, and that finished his tour in Vietnam, and returned home to the United States where he went on to live out the remainder of his life.

Otis impacted hundreds of family, friends and co-workers with a sense of humor and empathetic spirit as big as all outdoors. He was a man’s man, and one of those characters who when they are gone, it is as if they should have always been with us. The vacuum he left behind can almost be touched.

We were all born to fulfill a task bigger than ourselves. Sergeant Otis Vaughn was no exception. An old Vietnamese monk lives and moves and breathes today because a good man momentarily set aside his military duties, and took time to express love, and compassion towards a hurting little boy in a hamlet far off the beaten trail.

 by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

IT WASN'T HIS DAY, WELL, HIS TWO DAYS

 4022

Xaxier Thomas-Jones was having a bad day, well, actually two bad days in January of this year.

He buzzed the door of a private apartment complex gym posing as someone who lived there. The one and only woman inside, Nashali Alma, who was using the equipment at the time, thought she recognized him, and opened the door. (Bad idea. Residents are given a door code).

Having gained entrance, Xaxier proceeded to assault Nashali. In the much publicized video, the two struggle with one another, sometimes going down on the floor. The guy in a headlock, the girl in a headlock, the girl pulling his beard, the guy slapping her about, kicking and scratching, rolling all over the carpet.

The attack lasts eight minutes with neither giving an inch. Ultimately, the victim manages to put a weight machine between herself and the attacker, and speaks into her phone. "Siri, call 911." Ultimately, the perpetrator flees.

In an interview Nashali said, "I fight. I am a born fighter. I am strong, even stronger than I realized. He picked the wrong woman to assault. My mama raised me to never give up. That's the kind of lady I am."

The next day, Xaxier strikes again. Seeing a woman on her balcony, he breaks into her apartment. He could not have known that her fiance was also inside the apartment. As a result, he had a second bad day. He was summarily arrested.

Me thinks this loser picked the wrong victim... twice.

by William McDonald, PhD

GOOSEBUMPS

 

4021

Steve Hartman, of the "CBS Sunday Morning" program, brings us the following story.

"Some of the saddest tombstones are the incompletes, the couples where one has passed, but the other is still present; covered up in a mound of loneliness.

Such was the case of Blossom, the goose. 

Last August she lost her mate, Bud. They'd lived on the pond at Riverside Cemetery in Marshalltown, Iowa, and according to cemetery staff, after Bud died Blossom's grief was evident as any human. 

Blossom's behavior changed that day. General Manager Dorrie Tammen tells us that after Bud died, Blossom began hanging out at the front office. She was always staring at herself in the window, or standing by the marble headstones. She wanted company, if only a reflection of herself. And that's when Dorrie got a crazy idea, a hysterically, lovely idea. 

She posted a personal ad in the newspaper that read,

'Lonely, widowed female goose seeks life partner for companionship, and occasional shenanigans. I am youthful, adventurous, and lively.'

And what are the odds you're gonna find some female goose a male goose in Iowa? Well, Iowa is lousy with bachelor geese. And before too long, Randy and Dab Hoyt, owners of a widower goose, made the call. Frankie needed a mate. He was so lonely. 

And so, they set up a blind date at the cemetery. And Blossom welcomed Frankie with open wings. Frankie stepped out of his travel carrier, and the two love birds walked off together towards the pond. They haven't left each other's side since that day.

A loving reminder that until your name and date is etched into stone, don't ever give up on finding goosebumps."

(CBS Sunday Morning, 3-5-23)

YA'LL DON'T PEE?

We had company one weekend, and we had taped up the toilet in one bathroom, since it wasn't working properly. Their little girl walked into the bathroom to answer the call of nature, and saw the toilet taped up. She walked back into the living room with a puzzled look on her face, and exclaimed...

"Ya'll don't pee?"

UPS MEMORIES

4019

Pt. 1

I used to write two or three blogs a day, and have been doing so for eight or ten years. As a result, my internet blog (which, by the way, can be located at https://macblogphd.blogspot.com) has amassed a whooping 4,000 entries.

Nowadays, the grand total is accumulating much more slowly; with perhaps two or three entries a month. Following is one of those sporadic blogs which I find myself writing now; in the wee hours of the morning.

I have previously written a number of blogs relating to my two decades as a UPS driver; one memory consigned to each blog. However, it occurs to me to share a number of random memories with you tonight; in the context of one blog.

UPS simply wasn’t “fun and games.” Hot and barely endurable days (and during the Christmas season) driving into the building at midnight, and starting all over eight hours later. Even a “run of the mill” day in March or June consisted of 150 delivery stops, 20 pickup stops, and 80 miles on the odometer. (Though I had earned my public school teaching certificate, I stayed because “the price was right”).

But in the midst of it all, (especially in retrospect), I experienced some “strange and wonderful” experiences which broke up the monotony of that strenuous job.

I drove up to a house across the lake from the world famous Cypress Gardens, parked my truck (well, package car) on the side of the road, opened the bulkhead door, grabbed a package, bounced down the three steps on the passenger side of the vehicle, briskly walked twenty steps across the front yard, and as I rounded the carport wall, which obscured the front door, saw

… a man standing in his “altogether.” You know his “birthday suit.” Of course, this wasn’t something you exactly see every day.

Apparently, the middle aged fellow had been swimming in his pool, or possibly the lake, and he was toweling off before going into his house. Of course, the “victim” was more surprised than I was.

“Please don’t tell anybody you saw me like this!”

(I lied)

I have long since forgotten his name and address, and I’m sure that’s alright with him.

Pt. 2

Then, there was the pesky pooch which insisted on chasing my UPS vehicle every time I drove down a particular residential street in Winter Haven, Florida. I was especially sensitive about this recurring development since my pet cocker spaniel had been run over by a dump truck when I was seven or eight.

I didn’t want to hurt the dog, (though I have always believed the truck driver purposely veered towards my Princess and ran her down that day). But at the same time, I wanted to teach “Rover” that this sort of behavior was unacceptable.

As a result, I “hatched” a plan of action. One day, just before I was scheduled to drive down Rover’s street, I pulled into a 7-11, walked in, grabbed a large fountain drink cup, filled it to the brim with Coke, (no ice, thank you), paid, walked back out, got in my vehicle, started it up, and set my sights on 5^th Street, Southeast.

I had driven all of a block when Rover came dashing out of the yard, and began to run alongside my front tire. Screeching to a stop, I grabbed the fountain drink, hopped down the metal steps, chased old Rover down, and… poured the syrupy sweet slosh all over him!!!

(He never chased my UPS truck again)!!!

 

Speaking of dogs, a few years before I “hung it all up,” one July day I pulled over in a mobile home park to do my final tallies; before driving into the building. I was parked there for ten or twelve minutes. When I finished, I turned my ignition key, and pulled away from the curb. Suddenly, there was a “bump, bump” behind me. My duel back tires on the back passenger side of the truck lifted slightly off the road, and came back down hard.

I shut the vehicle off, bounded down the steps, and saw him.

A large German Shepherd

He was in the throes of leaving this world. Of course, I felt terribly about the situation. But after gasping a few times, he succumbed to his fate. Apparently, the homeless pooch, (I presume he was a wanderer), decided to rest in the shade of what he thought was a large, brown stationary object. I have often thought of that experience, and the dear pooch.

When I reminisce about him, I call him “Shadow.”

Pt. 3

One of the strangest experiences I, well, experienced, involved a nationwide UPS strike. Drivers throughout the country were protesting the decision of United Parcel Service to pick up heavier packages; (which obviously made it difficult for the average driver).

Twelve or fifteen local UPS drivers at a time, for a period of six or eight hours, before trading off with a new crew, stood at the entrance of the road leading into the local United Parcel center.

As I was standing there holding an “Unfair Shipping Practices” sign, one of our female drivers took a seat in a nearby lawn chair. I noticed she was holding a 4-6 month old baby in her arms. Suddenly, she lifted her old UPS T-shirt, and affixed the child to her right breast. A UPS driver suckling an infant.

Another “something you don’t see every day.”

 

Once, when I drove up to a shop which made canvas awnings, I pulled open my bulkhead door and retrieved a package for the business; something I had done 150 times a day for many years. But they say, “there’s always an exception to the rule,” and today was the day.

As I closed the bulkhead door, I closed the pinkie finger of my left hand between the aluminum door and steel frame which encased it. I was trapped.

Noticing the “woman of the house,” just inside the open side door, I screamed, “Help Me!” Mrs. Parker (her real name) came running.

“What can I do?” “What can I do?”

With my free hand, I pointed towards the key in my stationary left hand.

“Take the key. Put it in the lock. Turn it. I’ll pull open the door!”

Carol took the key, put it in the lock, and attempted to turn it while I grabbed the chain above me and pulled.

Somehow, we couldn’t manage to coordinate our joint efforts, and my level of pain was steadily increasing from a 6 towards a 9 ½. I knew I had to do something. Status quo simply wasn’t acceptable.

“Miss Parker, move out of the way a second.”

And with this, with this, I slowly pulled the offending digit out of the door frame! It was implausible, but, somehow, I managed to pull that finger out of a space which wasn’t designed to accommodate a finger. And surprisingly enough, the bones of my left pinkie were still intact, and the flesh was still firmly attached to them.

Pt. 4

“All good things come to an end.” Did I say “good things?” (Uhmmm, maybe not).

At any rate, after twenty years I had made a decision to retire from “the Tightest Ship in the Shipping Business.” I had enjoyed it as long as I possibly could.

On the 23^rd of October, 1997, I reported to the UPS center in Lakeland, Florida for the very last time. My lady supervisor called the drivers to attention, (well, it was the closest thing I’ve ever known to my service in the military), and made an announcement.

“Bill is retiring after twenty years with UPS. We’ll miss him. We’ll take a few minutes before “you start your engines” to honor him. We have cake and punch for you guys.”

(and)

“Bill, do you want to say something?”

As you might imagine, I had already premeditated how I would respond to a question like that.

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

(and)

“Thanks, Angie.”

(and)

“After twenty years doing this excruciating work, which we do every day, I can still dance a jig!”

(And I proceeded to do a poor imitation of “The Lord of the Dance”).

“And after twenty years of doing what I have faithfully done what I have done, I can still drop down, and do a few one handed pushups.”

(And without so much as a pause, I prostrated myself on the cold concrete, and knocked out five or six one handers).

“And, you know, after delivering multiplied hundreds of thousands of packages, I can still kiss my supervisor!”

To be sure, I added this element to my repertoire only because she was a she, (and not a he).

And now, I turned towards Angie, and kissed her on the cheek.

(It seemed like a good way to say “goodbye” to a job I hated, but, ultimately, for my own mental health, decided to merely dislike).

Pt. 5

After twenty-five years of doing something which I would much rather be doing, UPS still has it’s invisible claws firmly embedded in my flesh. (Well, the foregoing statement may, admittedly, be a bit over the top).

At any rate, ever since that infamous day on which I danced a jig, knocked out several one handed pushups, and kissed my supervisor, I have dreamed UPS dreams. (Yeah, I have).

Perhaps once a month, I have experienced virtually the same dream.

I am out in the boondocks delivering packages, and the clock has just about tick tocked itself within minutes of the second when I simply have to make my way back to the UPS center.

I look on the final shelf, and there are three undelivered packages. Looking at the address labels, I realize that I have never heard of the streets, much less the street numbers.

Well, if you know anything about UPS, you know that “Mama Brown Bear” frowns on undelivered packages. I am completely immobilized. I have no idea what to do. Two options, and neither works.

I have often told anyone who would listen that I still work for United Parcel Service; (if only in my dreams).

(I’ve been wondering where I can pick up my W-2).

 by William McDonald, PhD

 

ENDURING PATIENCE, HUMBLENESS & LOVE

 4018

The enemy wants to kill ... before it's even birthed!

1 Cor. 3:3-4 for you are still fleshly. For insofar as there is jealousy, strife, and factions among you, aren't you fleshly, and don't you walk in the ways of men? For when one says, "I follow Paul," and another, "I follow Apollos," aren't you fleshly?

During the Catholic inquisitions, as millions of Christians were being killed by the Jesuit Priests for apostasy, throughout Europe, Christians were fleeing. In Bohemia alone, there were an estimated 4,000,000 Christians before the Jesuit inquisition, and ten years later, only 800,000 people remained in Bohemia – all of whom were Catholic. These terrible events prepared the ground for one of the greatest moves of God that have ever been recorded, the Moravian Revival, which lasted for over 100 years. Gustav Warneck, the German Historian of Protestant Missions, testified, "This small church in twenty years called into being more missions than the whole Evangelical Church has done in two centuries."

It began with a young man, Count Zinzendorf, who was 27 years old when he opened his estate to welcome believers escaping persecution and inviting them to settle there. There were different groups, Bohemian Brethren, Moravian Christians, Reformed Christians, and unsatisfied Catholics. After a few years, this fragmented community of some 300 individuals with differing spiritual convictions and loyalties was so rife with conflict and disunity it seemed destined to fail.

One of the village founders, Christian David, got so caught up in apocalyptic fanaticism that he referred to Zinzendorf as the “Beast of the Apocalypse,” while the estate manager of the village, Johan Andreas Rothe was termed the “False Prophet." In this impossible environment, Count Zinzendorf devoted himself full-time to reconciliation and conflict resolution, visiting each home for prayer and exemplifying the persevering love of Christ.

Amazingly, this personal attention and devotion to unity and reconciliation opened the way for an awakening that would come in just a few weeks. Yet what would have happened if Count Zinzendorf had lost patience and, in justified frustration, thrown everyone off his estate? Instead of a 100-year spiritual awakening...NOTHING of spiritual significance would have happened. The enemy, working through the carnal attitudes of believers [1 Corinthians 3:3-4], continually slandered this young man and one another, but his response was to disarm those persecuting him with the love of Christ. The result was a genuine revival.

Disunity, and slander are deadly to spiritual life and will absolutely kill any hope of enjoying God's presence. This is true in the smallest company of two or three, or in a local church community, or in any size gathering at all. When the Lord is moving, He will bring humility and love as Zinzindorf did. Let this humble Count be your example in any sphere of responsibility God places you. God is always desiring to birth something supernatural!

Your family in the Lord with much agape love,

George, Baht Rivka, Obadiah and Elianna

(Daily spiritual blog)