UNFINISHED DREAMS

 4390

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.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

4389

Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son, Steve, had seen his sisters, and with Jean's concurrence, I invited him to accompany me.

 

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

 

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table, and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

 

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

 

"I'm three!"

 

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

 

"I'm sixty-eight!"

 

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

 

"You will live a very long life."

 

(and)

 

"You will do wonderful things!"

 

I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

 

Of this, however, I am sure. Before He breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

 

Yes, I am sure of it.

 

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE TREE I COULDN'T SAVE

 4388

For multiplied years I have driven past several acres of pasture land on my way to this or that business or restaurant in my hometown; about eight miles from my current residence.

And for years, I have noticed a large sign in that grassy field which claimed a nearby church would soon be relocating to that particular intersection. (Funny, how many times I have seen similar signs which made the same claim, but which, ultimately, faded out and were removed, or simply fell into disrepair).

And for years, as I made my way past that intersection, I admired a beautiful little oak tree growing about thirty feet from the barbed wire fence which bordered the two roads.

In recent years, I noticed an unusual amount of Spanish Moss hanging from this oak tree, and seemingly more every time I drove by the pasture. It is rare to see a Florida oak tree without moss hanging from its branches, but it is equally rare to see one absolutely overwhelmed with this parasitic growth.

As a result of the ‘assault’ of the Spanish Moss on the pretty little oak tree, I finally decided to do something about it.

As I drove by the spot one day, I jotted down the phone number listed on the sign, and, subsequently, I called the church office, and asked to speak to the pastor.

“Hi, I’m Bill McDonald. This may sound a little strange, but I noticed that lone oak tree in the pasture where you hope to relocate your church is covered up with moss. It’s just such a beautiful tree. I’d like to do something about it. Would you mind if I attempt to get the moss out of it?”

To which “Pastor Franklin” responded,

“Hmmm, I suppose that would be alright.”

And having had a moment to digest my request, he added,

“But I don’t want you to climb up into the tree. You know, there would be a liability issue for the church if you fell.”

I acquiesced, and assured the pastor that I would keep my feet on solid ground.

Pt. 2

A couple days later, I bought one of those extendable poles with a claw on the end, and which was specifically designed to pull moss out of trees. The following Saturday I loaded myself, the pole and very little else into my car, and set a course for the little moss-covered oak tree in the pasture.

Having arrived I parked my car next to the fence, got out, retrieved my claw pole, (for lack of a better moniker), tossed it in the direction of the tree, gingerly lifted the barbed wire, and navigated my way between the offending barbs.

With this, I extended the pole, tightened the locking mechanism, and set to work pulling moss out of the little oak tree. I found myself frustrated with how much moss hung in the branches, and how little of it I was able to pull down with each attempt. Even more frustrating my realization that as long as the pole was, I could only reach halfway up the twenty foot tall tree.

The pile of moss increased, and occasionally I stopped to put the parasitic stuff in plastic bags. As the sun rose higher in the sky, I felt increasingly thirsty. And since I hadn’t brought a thermos, I made my way back towards the fence, reversed my course through the barbed wire fence, walked across the street, and entered a corner convenience store where I bought a fountain drink.

I hadn’t accounted for the lack of hydration which a soft drink affords, and as I set back to work fatigue and thirst overwhelmed me. Ignoring these troublesome symptoms, I continued to drag down moss from the little oak tree.

By the time I finished what I was capable of finishing, I had managed to decrease the overall bulk of Spanish Moss by perhaps a third, perhaps a bit more. As I stacked the twelve or fourteen huge plastic bags by the road, I found myself wishing I had brought a ladder; in spite of the pastor’s admonition, and my promise not to do so.

Pt. 3

Driving home, I felt like I was going to pass out, and when I arrived home all I could do was plop down on the sofa. I felt like I was about 3 minutes from death, when my wife began to pour water down my gullet. I think it would be fair to characterize my condition that day as suffering from a sun stroke. I vowed I would never ever take on a task like this one again without bringing an ample supply of cold water with me.

As the days and weeks and months tick toked along, as they always do, and as I continued to drive past that beautiful little oak tree, it began displaying increasing signs of distress. Not only was the moss regenerating itself in the places I managed to strip it from the limbs, but the leaves of the tree, what leaves you could see, took on a sickly brown hue; until all that was left was a skeleton of its former self.

And with the advance of years, this sad shadow of that beautiful little oak tree continued to stand alone with wisps of Spanish Moss hanging from its skinny branches. And I can barely look at it as I pass by.

It may seem a bit strange, but more than once, as I drove past the tree, I have glanced at it, and said,

“I did what I could. It was simply not enough.”

(and)

“I (literally) almost gave my life for your life.”

Perhaps I’m too sensitive about the welfare of trees and animals in my sphere of influence. Perhaps I’m not always sensitive enough about the welfare of my fellow human beings.

And yet, I have often thought that flora and fauna have very little wherewithal to choose right from wrong, or to protect themselves from anything, whereas people do, and as a result of their bad choices, they sometimes find themselves in a world of hurt.

 

When it is all said and done, I’m glad I did what I could to save that lovely little oak tree in the pasture.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A MOMENTARY MEETING IN AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

 4387

My wife and I enjoyed the vacation of a lifetime last year. We had often wanted to visit Scotland and Ireland, and were determined to do so by our 70th birthdays. And true to our intentions, we just managed to do so 'by a whisker.'

 

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it 'over there'). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

 

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." And recognizing my accent he said, "Are you an American?" And I evidently responded in the affirmative. (I could not be sure, and I did not ask, but based on the stranger's own peculiar accent, I surmised he was probably a native of this country).

 

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the First and Second World Wars, my short-term acquaintance mused,

 

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

 

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

 

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

 

by William McDonald, PhD

AMBIDEXTROUS ME

 4386

I have been hard at it for over thirty years. (Yeah, I have).

I think anyone who devotes thirty years to anything enjoys what he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Either that, or he must be a glutton for punishment, (or someone is holding him captive).

I confess. I love making a difference in lives. I have literally “sat with” multiplied thousands of people. (Odd, I suddenly realize I haven’t told you what I have been doing the past thirty years).

I am a marriage and family counselor

But to digress a bit

In my day and time, every elementary age child was taught to write in cursive. Of course, the children of the late 20^th and current 21^st centuries learn to write their names in cursive, but that’s the jest of it.

Beyond that, well there is no “beyond that,” they learn to write only their names in that archaic style of applying words to paper. Speaking of the new “beyond that,” they simply print what they wish to relay to an interested eye, or they sit down at a computer keyboard. (I wouldn’t want you to think I am incapable of having mastered that particular genre, as I learned to type in the Air Force, and can still knock out 80-100 words per minute).

Pt. 2

However, as you might imagine, I don’t bring my laptop computer into the counseling office with me. Honestly, I never have even thought about doing so ‘til just now. But somehow, I think sitting there talking with a client about their personal history and issues, and pecking out words on a computer wouldn’t mix that well, i.e. “Tell me about the day your Aunt Marilla died” (I look down. Peck, peck, peck). “Okay. How did you respond when your husband ran off with another woman?” (I look down again. Peck, peck, peck). Rather impersonal, I think.

But as I have implied, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes. During that first session in particular. And since I am a question asker, I am liable to get an answer for virtually every question. And since I ask 101 questions in that first session, and receive a minimum of 100 answers, I fill up lots of unlined paper with my almost indecipherable handwriting. (Sometimes indecipherable to even me).

I suppose it happened about a third of the way through my current tenure of three decades behind the counseling desk. (Well, honestly, I don’t sit at a desk. Just two chairs facing one another).

I began to think about giving my dominant writing hand a break. I would learn to use my non-dominant (left) hand. And thus, I began to practice writing with a hand with which I had only pulled a trigger in the past. (I can’t explain why, but I have always fired a rifle left-handed).

At any rate, the more I used my non-dominant hand, the better I became with it. However, the more I used my left hand, the poorer my right-handed brand of cursive became, until it was almost illegible.

I can’t account for it, but it was almost like I had rewired my brain. The hand that never had any particular acuity was suddenly the legible hand, and the hand with which I first learned to write was becoming increasingly unstable. Unless I bore down on the paper, my dominant hand shook, (and the resulting “hen scratches” were vivid proof of it).

Pt. 3

But even more “strange and wonderful,” the difference between my dominant and non-dominant brand of cursive was incredible. I was used to looking at my right-handed style of writing. I had been stuck with it for just short of half a century. It was to say the least pretty “plain Jane” in appearance. However, I didn’t recognize my left-handed brand of committing words to paper. It was almost feminine in appearance, and it reminded me somewhat of calligraphy. Granted, I have never been as fast with my left hand, but then I had never experienced any ineptness with my right hand, (as I did now).

Some of my clients have been confused as they have watched me put words to paper. As they have joined me on Day One, and before I did “the old switcheroo” in the middle of the session, he or she has quipped, “You don’t turn your hand inward like other left-handed writers.” To which, barely looking up, I have always responded, “That’s because I’m not left-handed.” Of course, that has always elicited a “hmmm” or “I see.” (When they really didn’t).

It was only after a few minutes, and I have moved the pen to my dominant hand that they have really “gotten it.” And at that point I would announce, “I taught myself to write with both hands.” (and) “It makes writing the answers to 101 questions a bit easier.”

I prefer my “fancy-dancy” style of cursive to that uninformed, archaic, grade school brand of writing. And though my wife thinks me a bit eccentric for having changed hands, she grudgingly admits the fancy-dancy cursive is so much easier to decipher.

 

But if the truth be told, I think my (relatively) new found ambidexterity makes the first counseling session a bit more interesting to counselor and client alike.

by William McDonald, PhD

THE FIRST & THE LAST

 4385

Pt. 1

I attended a funeral for one of our parishioners today; at a church where I served as pastoral counselor.

Janice was a precious, (I won’t say “elderly”), lady; given the fact that I am just 5 years behind her. She was a faithful member of our church, and, in spite of a significant physical infirmity, she was with us virtually every time “the door opened.”

I had previously agreed to serve as one of the six pallbearers, and felt privileged to do so. Janice was simply worth it.

A curious, (at least to me), personal train of events fell together at the funeral.

For you see, I arrived a bit early, and after having been at the church for 15 minutes, I walked back out to the lobby to sign the guestbook. Interestingly enough, I noticed that the first page was still in pristine condition, and thus, my signature became the first name in the book.

Having signed the guestbook, I walked back into the sanctuary, and it was then that the funeral director informed me that, as a pallbearer, I would be wearing a boutonniere. As a result, he proceeded to pin a white carnation onto my shirt, the sharp end of the straight pin visible; (and which tended to drive itself into my chest a few times throughout the events of this day).

Once the funeral service was underway, a visiting minister spoke glowingly of Janice, whom he knew, and sang a solo, our worship team led the audience in a couple of songs, and our pastor delivered a sermon. (I have often thought of those unbelievers among a given funeral staff, and how they are exposed to hundreds of sermons in the course of their careers, and how little excuse they will have when they stand in the judgement). 

The sermon having ended, a final prayer was rendered, and all but the family were dismissed. With this, they spent a few minutes with their deceased loved one; prior to the casket being closed.

Pt. 2

It was not by design that I found myself first again. For you see, as the casket was wheeled into the lobby, I found myself among two pallbearers, one on each side, closest to the door, and the awaiting hearse.

Having lifted the casket, we proceeded out the double doors, and pushed it into the bed of the vehicle. Once the casket was secured, and the back door of the funereal vehicle was closed, we found our respective cars, and lined up for the twenty minute drive to the cemetery.

Once we arrived at the cemetery, the six pallbearers reversed our previous movements. Inadvertently, now I found myself last. I, and my opposite pallbearer followed up in the rear, as the casket was retrieved from the hearse, and walked the twelve or fifteen steps to the casket lowering device.

The graveside ceremony was fairly brief; the pallbearers standing at attention just outside the funeral tent. With this, the funeral director uttered his final command; (something I had never seen in the dozens of funerals I have attended).

“Pallbearers, please remove your flowers, and place them in the funeral arrangement on top of the casket.”

As we lined up to submit to his instructions, I found myself last in line. One by one, each of us walked past the casket, and placed our carnations amongst the colorful foliage.

Post-script

I had just experienced a couple of firsts, and a couple of lasts.

Curiously enough, I saw something on social media today which had everything to do with the first and last days of our lives on earth…

“The only two days in our lives which are shorter than the multiplied thousands of others are the first and last days of our lives.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 assures us that,

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.

“A time to be born. And a time to die…”

The numerous firsts and lasts which I personally experienced today, (most especially at a funeral ceremony), put a proverbial exclamation mark on the implication of the foregoing scripture.

 

We are finite creatures of firsts and lasts. Whereas, our personal firsts and lasts must soon give way to an eternal, infinite, and abiding first, and which will never include a last. Thanks be to God for the personal intervention of the God-man, He who loved us, and gave Himself for us; the Alpha and Omega… the First and the Last.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

THE LITTLE PROFESSOR GOT PROMOTED

 4384

You may be interested in knowing that although I was raised Methodist, I came to a saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ at Southeastern Bible College.

You see, just after high school in June of 1967, a fellow high school graduate invited me to accompany him to a revival being held on the campus of SEBC. At the conclusion of the service, the speaker, the National Sunday School Superintendent of the Assemblies of God, William Kirschke, invited anyone who would to respond to the message of the Gospel. As I kneeled at the altar, and bowed my head there, an old Dutch missionary named, Jerry Triemstra, kneeled down beside me, and led me in the “sinner’s prayer.”

It so happens that a year later I transferred from a local community college, and enrolled at SEBC. During my first year on campus I worked as a part-time janitor there; in order to pay a portion of my tuition. (I returned in the late 70’s to graduate).

A full 40 years passed by, and I found myself on the same campus; once again employed at the same school, bearing the new moniker Southeastern University. I have often smiled, and quipped, “The Little Janitor Got Promoted.” For you see, in this subsequent century I was given the opportunity to assume the role of adjunct professor.

During one semester there, I actually taught in a portable classroom which was set immediately next to an old gymnasium that had previously served as the school chapel; that same chapel in which I initially met Jesus Christ as Savior so many years before.