ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

 4276

Pt. 1

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. 19th 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 19th 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 17th, 18th and 19th 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 17th 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 Bill McDonald, PhD

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

 4275

In the movie, “Bagger Vance,” Will Smith, (Bagger) plays what amounts to a Golf Angel. For you see, he has been sent to assist a character played by Matt Damon, (Ranolph Junah) with his golf game.

But it is not just any game, it is THE game of his life, for this former amateur golfer finds himself in a match with perhaps the most notable and adept golfers of his time.

Captain Junah has just come back from “The War to end all wars,” (WWI) and he has come back a changed man. For during one especially ferocious battle, every man in his unit has been killed or severely wounded, and only he has been left unscathed. And as the result of his heroic actions during the battle, the captain has been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Ranolph’s emotions are raw, and he lacks confidence, and he suffers from what we refer to today as PTSD, but what was referred to in that day and time as “shell shock.” And it was only the result of the pleas of the town’s people, and his former sweetheart, (who is attempting to save the family fortune, and the golf course on which he finds himself) that he has consented to play the game.

Bagger, who has agreed to caddy for the captain, had been giving him pointers throughout the game, but to no avail. But the young man finds himself falling further and further behind the leader.

As Ranolph steps up to take his next shot, Bagger interrupts his swing, and says, “Mr. Junah, there’s only one authentic shot, one that is truly yours, and you can’t choose it.”

The captain is miffed to have had his swing interrupted, and angrily replies, “What do you mean? Of course I can choose my shot. I must choose my shot!”

Bagger smiles a whimsical smile, and responds, “Oh no suh, the shot must choose you.”

Now, in terms of the movie, Bagger’s implication was that for any given hole, on any given course, there is one best club, one best swing, one best solution.

And I think we can learn a valuable lesson from our golf angel’s admonition. The first time I ever viewed the movie, and listened to Bagger’s words, well, it just came to me. There is a valuable spiritual lesson to be gleaned here.

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

You see, I am convinced, and scriptures assures us, “My times are in His hands,” (Psalms 31:15) and “The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me,” (Psalms 138:8) and “Before I ever took my first breath, You planned every day of my life.” (Psalms 139:16)

If we believe and embrace the truth of scripture, it is apparent that God knew us by name, and planned all our days, before we were a twinkle, and even before He made the twinkling stars. (And we can be sure that He loves us so much more than those magnificent, astronomical creations.)

Indeed, the shot must choose us. For any given decision, among any set of options which we encounter throughout the course of our lives, there is one best choice, one best action, which has the ultimate capacity to help complete our destiny, and which agrees with our Lord’s perfect plan for us as individuals.

Now, I’m not talking about what loaf of bread we decide to purchase, or whether we check our mail at 1PM or 5AM. No, I’m referring to those crucial, “have to get it right” type of decisions which have the wherewithal to complete our Heavenly Father’s plans for our lives, (or if we are oblivious to the best shot, bring us to ruin.)

Indeed, I believe the shot must choose us, and it is paramount that we get it right. Our very destiny is at stake. I believe it would be pleasing to God that every one of His children pray the following simple prayer, and pray it on a daily basis.

“Oh Father, great Ruler of the universe. You Who knew me before I was formed or ever took my first breath,… let the shot choose me.”

 

 

 

I WILL BE THERE

 4274

I was listening to a segment of Night Sounds Radio recently, and the topic happened to be Abandonment, a subject with which I can easily identify; since a number of my students, clients and interns with whom I developed a comradery, after a little season, and without so much as a word, chose to go their own way.

 

And it is no 'stretch' to assure you, at such times as these, that I have felt a great deal of companionship with Jesus, and the scenario in which many of His outer circle "kicked Him to the curb."

 

And as a result of the devastation He experienced, our Lord looked at the Twelve, and asked,

 

"Will you also go away?"

 

And I think the human side of the God-man exemplified itself more so here, than at any other time in the New Testament Gospels.

 

As the radio program to which I referred continued, the late Bill Pearce "set up" the next song with the following disclaimer:

 

"A few years ago, I was at a particular religious gathering, and a young man took the stage, and sang, perhaps, the most poignant song I have ever heard.

 

As I spoke to him later, he shared how that just before he performed, he had received a call from his wife. She informed him that she was leaving, and was taking their two small daughters with her. 

 

After receiving news like this, I cannot tell you how this young man summoned up the wherewithal to perform for the audience. It's obvious that he leaned hard on the Lord at that moment; since there is no other way he could have navigated that very worst moment of his life, and expressed such vulnerability with his audience.

 

Later, this young vocalist sent me an audio tape of the song, and I'd like to share it with you now."

(My note: Try as I might, I could not find the lyrics of this song on the internet or YouTube. But since it so greatly impacted me, I sat down with a 'saved' version of the broadcast, and played the hymn again, and again, 'til I was able to transcribe the entire rendition).

I WILL BE THERE

(Author Unknown)

Where can you go that I can’t see?

On the highest of mountains

In the heat of the desert

In the life-consuming deep

and lonely heart of life’s seas

 

Where can you hurt that I can’t feel?

When you feel like you’re dying

Need a shoulder for crying

Come to me. I’m waiting here

with open arms that can heal

 

I’ll be a Father to the fatherless

A faithful Friend

when none are there

My heart of love is fathomless

and it reaches anywhere

 

I will be there through

the long lonely nights

never letting you go

I will hold. I will love you

with all my might

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

I will be there, and I want you to know

I will never leave you alone

I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

What can you feel that I can’t bear?

Any burden you’re bearing

Any sorrow you carry

Any heartache, any loneliness

or despair

 

What can you see that I can’t see?

Even death was defeated

all the work was completed

I’ve prepared a special place

here in my heart just for you

 

I’ll be a husband to the husbandless

A faithful Friend

when none are there

Inside my heart of love is faithfulness

and it reaches anywhere

 

I will be there through

the long lonely nights

never letting you go

I will hold. I will love you

with all my might

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

I will be there, and I want you to know

I will never leave you alone

I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go

I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

 

GEORGE JONES, HIS RIDING LAWNMOWER & THE DIXIE PIG

 4273

 During the 1950's, we moved from a perfectly good concrete block home in the Miami area to a wooden frame house in the quaint little town of Highland City, Florida. 

My grandfather was already living in central Florida, and was the owner-operator of an establishment he named, "The Dixie Pig." As I reflect on it now, I don't recall ever walking through the front door. However, I do recall the cartoon-like caricature of a pig on the sign which graced its entrance.

Over the next sixty something years, (Yeah, I'm an old guy), I was under the assumption that "The Dixie Pig" was a barbeque place. I mean, there was the pig and the title. What else could it have possibly been? However, to be fair, I don't remember asking my dad or mom about the place; (but then they never volunteered anything either).

In the past couple of days everything I knew and believed about that "barbeque place" (at least figuratively) "went up in smoke."

For you see, there is a group page on Facebook which is dedicated to that little unincorporated town in central Florida, and I happened to post a paragraph or two about my granddad and his "Dixie Pig." And, as you might imagine, I mentioned my perception of the type of cuisine which this particular establishment served; (a faulty belief which I had embraced for the past six plus decades).

And this is when the floodgates opened, and all my illusions, (or should I say delusions), were (almost literally) washed away.

For you see, with this, one person after another offered me some enlightening comments about the nature of my grandfather's business.

"Hmmm, if The Dixie Pig was a barbeque place, those pigs must have been raised on a diet of pure grain alcohol 'cause my dad was a regular customer, and he came home plastered every night of the week!"

(and)

"I filled my tank there more times than I can count."

(and)

"They even had go go girls there!"

(Dear readers, can you imagine go go girls in Highland City)?

But to top it all off, the most surprising comment of them all.

"George Jones would ride up to The Dixie Pig on his riding lawnmower!" 

(And a couple more people dittoed this remark).

But, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, there is, obviously, a "rest of the story."

George Jones and Tammy Wynette had built a home, (well, a mansion) a mile or two down the road. (The mansion is still there, though old George and sweet Tammy have long since "left the building").

George had been ticketed numerous times for DUI. (There's even a Youtube video of the old boy resisting arrest). And there's plenty of internet articles which inform us that Tammy always hid his keys when he "got the urge" for liquid refreshment. It is said that the country singer's first wife had resorted to the same course of action, and that when he lived in Nashville, he had driven his... riding lawnmower to a liquor store an hour and a half away. (All of which is "new and different" to me since my wife made me aware of these stories, after I read the foregoing social media comments about old George to her).

In my day and time, children were "meant to be seen and not heard," (which pretty well sums up the relationship I had with both my grandfathers). But "had I known then what I know now" I would have quizzed old Webster about his memories of old George, the lawnmower, and "The Dixie Pig."

The humble little "Dixie Pig" and its Highland City version of "Porky Pig" out front has been gone more than sixty years now, and has been replaced by a modern office building. (When I sit in a current Highland City establishment called "Catfish Country," and have lunch with several of my friends, and look across the street, I can still envision it there).

To be sure, I don't drink, and I have little or no use for people who get out on our highways in an inebriated state, and put other peoples' lives in danger. (And it goes without saying, I wasn't thrilled to learn that my recollections of "The Dixie Pig" and its raison d'etre were woefully wrong).

But it is what it is, and it was what it was, and to be honest, I would love to hear the stories my grandfather might have told me about old George and the nights he drove his riding lawnmower to "The Dixie Pig."

Did the bar patrons gather in the parking lot to welcome him when the familiar roar of his lawnmower broke the silence of a moonlit night? Did a drunken old country singer do an acapella version of "A Girl I Used to Know" or "I Can't Get There From Here" halfway through his nightly tenure at "The Dixie Pig?" Did my granddad and old George strike up a lop-sided relationship?

Did a guy named, Wilbur hear the roar of the lawnmower, shake his head, and remark, "There ole George goes again." Did his wife, Winnie sit up in bed and exclaim, "Run out there and stop him, and give him a couple of dollars to mow the yard. You haven't bothered mowing it for three months!" 

No doubt, when it "was all said and done" the sand man sprinkled a little more fairy dust into their eyes, and sleep overcame George's elderly neighbors once again.

My memory has been irreparably changed.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

OPEN DOORS

 4272

Earlier this week I stopped at CVS to buy something which I needed. After placing a couple of Christian tracts on the shelving which I walked past, (something I often do), and purchasing the item I came for, I was walking out of the store when I noticed a small black man, perhaps a bit younger than me, standing in front of the building. He was shabbily dressed, and I knew what was about to happen.

"Could you spare a few dollars, so I can get something to eat?"

Normally, I am very skeptical of this ploy, and I am aware that far too many street people have no intention of returning to the lifestyle they once knew, and that they use 90 percent of the money they collect for alcohol.

However, before I could reply in the negatory, he continued.

"I burned my hand and forearm, and I can't work."

I looked down at his left hand and arm, and noticed he was holding a tennis ball. I surmised he continued to work that hand to keep it flexible. Studying his hand and forearm, it was apparent the poor man was telling the truth. The palm of his hand bore a shiny, whitish finish, and the skin on his wrist had the striated, crinkly look of having been burned in a fire. I reached in my pocket, and pulled out a twenty dollar bill, and placed it in his good hand.

And then, I did something that was uncharacteristic of me. I placed my right hand on his left arm, and said,

"My our Lord Jesus give you a healing touch."

Now, I turned towards my car, got in, started the ignition and aimed it towards a convenience store across the road. I had been craving a soft drink; namely, Coca Cola. As I walked in the door, I greeted the East Indian owner, and headed towards the drink machine.

Now, a middle aged man walked in behind me, and the man behind the counter posed a question to him.

"Are you feeling better?"

To which the man provided him a somewhat nebulous answer,

"Oh, I'll be here 'til I'm not."

I grabbed a Coke out of the cooler. In the meantime, I noticed that "Joe" had retrieved a six pack of Budweiser beer. And given what he had just said, I looked at him, and exclaimed,

"I tell people, 'We can't stay here.'"

Joe nodded, and said,

"You are absolutely right, my friend."

Determined to follow up on my attempt to take advantage of the moment with these two men, and my allusion to the certainty we will all depart this world, I began to sing the first stanza of the most well known song which has ever been written.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now I'm found, was blind but now I see."

Now, as he laid his six pack on the counter, I asked him,

"Do you know that hymn?"

Joe nodded,

"Yes, I know that song."

I smiled, paid for my drink, and walked out. I was content that I had "walked through" every open door our Lord had given me on this particular day.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

MY GIG AS A SHORT TERM CONTORTIONIST

 4271

Things proceeded quite normally on yesterday’s almost 4,000 mile flight from Edinburgh, Scotland to Chicago, Illinois, until the guy in front of me decided to “do a 45” (degree angle) with the back of his seat; completely oblivious (or completely uncaring) about the comfort of the fella (yours truly) immediately behind him. Talk about personal space, by this point the man was almost lying in my lap. (In any other circumstance the nearness of his physiology to my own would have seemed almost obscene).

By this time my legs were tucked almost under my chin, and I was close to becoming eligible for my Contortionist’s Permit. Try as I might, I could not lay my seat tray out flat against my waist in order to compile an outline for this particular blog, and the results of my writing looked more like Swahili than English.

Bad enough that today’s airlines jam two pounds of human flesh into every conceivable one pound space on the seating floor of their aircraft. But to make things worse, members of the flying public are allowed to, at will, infringe on the personal space of their fellow flying passengers surrounding them.

Since I was on the inside of three seats and next to the aisle, I leaned my head to the right and peered over my abuser’s shoulder. From my vantage point, the little fella had just about as much leg room as the president is afforded on Air Force One.

Now I considered a bit of “pay back” and briefly reflected on the best way to exercise some well-deserved retribution; which led to some interesting options.

1. I could throw my right leg up on his arm rest, and inform him that if he was going to deny me leg room, I would deny him arm room. 2. I could jam my knees hard against the back of his seat, and bore a hole in his spinal column. 3. I could “do a Henry” (my father would have never tolerated this) 4. I could throw my seat back into the lap of the lady behind me, and provide myself some sweet relief, (or) 5. I could suffer in silence for the next seven hours.

Suddenly, my abuser shifted his seat a quarter foot closer, I could no longer see my feet, and I thought I heard my left knee pop. The movie screen was so close now, I could just make out the manufacturer of Queen Victoria’s costume in her neck label.

Dear readers, I neglected to tell you. I chose the most charitable of my options.

I don’t believe in reincarnation, but if by chance the adherents of that religion happen to be right, I want to come back as the president of United Airlines. My first order would ring the death knell of adjustable aircraft seats.

But with my luck I would come back as a low paid contortionist.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

OH, SO CLOSE TO FALLING ON MY BACKSIDE

 4270

As our overseas tour was coming to a conclusion, we checked into the Highlander Hotel near Newtonmore, Scotland, got settled in our room, headed to the hotel restaurant, were seated at a nearby table, and feasted on a spread of sliced beef and broiled salmon.

As I stood up to leave the restaurant, I stepped backwards from the table, and realizing there was a ceiling to wall curtain behind me leaned slightly into it; expecting there to be a supporting wall behind it. (I was sadly mistaken). I found myself falling backwards into thin air. Realizing my calamitous predicament, my wife emitted a loud scream.

You’ve seen one of those commercials in which the guy is walking through a bunch of folks who are unmoving, and seem to be frozen in place? I picture the scene in the restaurant very much the same way. Well over a hundred men and women frozen in place, and looking in our direction.

Thankfully, I righted myself. (Perhaps the result of plenty of practice while working at UPS, as well as falling off bicycles). At any rate, the curtain bore the brunt of it, and I managed to tear the hem a bit at the ceiling. The near accident averted, I smiled sheepishly, looked over at a nearby table, at which was seated several of our group members, and I …snapped out a military salute!

Counting the two songs I was privileged to sing to our group during this overseas tour, I suppose I will be referring to this mishap as my “Third Presentation” a.k.a. “Oh So Close to Falling on my Backside Presentation.” And whereas, my wife made videos of the first two renditions, I would rather have had one of my momentary mishap. I think it would be a hoot.

When it is “all said and done,” I hope no one thought I had partaken of a wee bit too much of the Guinness or Scottish whisky that night; (which I had not drank a drop).

 At any rate, it isn’t the first time I’ve made a fool of myself in public.

by Bill McDonald, PhD