FINDING A SEAT ON THE FLOOR

 4395

As I was watching the David Jeremiah “Turning Point” broadcast today, the good minister presented the most poignant illustration.

It seems a very large, rather formal church hoped to put together a ministry designed to reach the students of a nearby university. However, not having ever undertaken such a project, the pastor and board were a bit perplexed about how to approach the task.

On one particular Sunday, a student of that university attended the morning worship service. It so happened that David was, like so many other young adults who attended this school, a bit eccentric, or at least wanted to ‘fit in,’ and was dressed in a pair of faded jeans, dirty t-shirt, and sandals. His hair was cut into a mohawk, and was tie-dyed in several colors.

However, David arrived a few minutes late, and as he entered the sanctuary, he realized that every pew was full to capacity. As a result, the teenaged student walked the entire length of the center carpet, and plopped himself down in the aisle. You could have heard a pin drop. Though the pastor had stepped up to the pulpit to deliver his morning message, he seemed unable to proceed.

Suddenly, from the back of the sanctuary an aged, white-haired deacon appeared, and began to make his way down the aisle towards the hapless university student. His relatively short journey was hampered by his lack of mobility, and his cane ‘clicked,’ ‘clicked’ with each step her took.

A holy hush permeated the building as the board member made his way closer, closer to his quest. All eyes were directed towards the deacon, then the student, then the deacon.

Finally, having arrived next to the boy, and pausing for a moment, the old gent dropped his cane, and struggled to… lower himself to the floor beside David. And there they sat. One very young, and unconventional student. One very old, and conventional deacon. Side by side, and ready for a Gospel message.

And at this juncture, the pastor regained a bit of his composure, and exclaimed,

“What I am about to preach you will never remember. What you have just witnessed take place before you, you will never forget.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

ROLE MODELING LOVE

 4394

A white haired, elderly lady sat in her rocking chair by the fire, and reminisced about the most poignant of experiences. While she possessed an obvious German accent, her English was, nonetheless, impeccable.

While I cannot hope to recount her testimony as well as she expressed herself on the film segment, I will attempt to paraphrase her story here.

“We had endured years of warfare and deprivation. We made do with the most meager of rations. We existed with the barest of earthly essentials. We often went without food, and my mother, more so than her children. As I reflect on it now, she oft times went without meat and bread, so that each of her children would have at least a scrap or two.

“In spite of all we’d endured, we didn’t think of the Americans as our enemies, but rather our opponents. For you see, we knew what we had. We knew what Hitler and his cronies were about. We knew whom we had served for too long. And we were so tired and ready for peace.

“Well, as the American tanks lumbered in, and the sound of their treads echoed in our streets, we ran out of our houses with sticks in our hands, and with white rags knotted about the tops. And while both we and our parents were afraid for what might come next, our sense of apprehension was stilled by the smiles of the men who came flooding out of the turrets of those tanks, and who marched behind them. And oh, how kind they were to us, as they stooped to pick us up, and they brushed the fear from our eyes.

“Of course, in spite of the American troops’ initial behavior, my mother expressed some reservations and warned me to be careful. However, she had often told me that you could always tell what someone was about by looking into their eyes; and I was determined to put her philosophy to the test.

“I remember one man. One very special man. A Negro sergeant.

“Unlike the German soldiers, he let me climb up on his military vehicle. And I will never forget the first day I met him. For as I climbed up on the American Jeep, I immediately looked into his eyes. And oh, such kindness shone out of them! And I remember Sergeant William hung a bag of rations around my neck, and waved for me to take it home with me!

“And I have often thought that he went without some of his daily provisions so that my family and I might have a few morsels of chocolate, and bread and canned meat. And as long as the kindly sergeant was still in the area, I would seek him out, and he would give me chocolate and other goodies to take home with me.

“I will NEVER forget that wonderful American soldier; the first black man I’d ever seen. And I will NEVER forget what an ambassador he was of the occupation his country exercised over us after the war. No doubt, he has gone on to his reward by now, but he will always be my mentor and role model. Always. Always.

“I am old now, but I have never ceased to remember that good man and his kindness to me. And I have ALWAYS vowed to do as he did; to love people and to give my heart and provisions to those in need, and them whom God has set in my pathway.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

LET THEM GO

 4393

“This is what I learned in all of my years on this earth. If somebody wants to walk out of your life… Let them go. Especially if you know you have done everything you can. You’ve been the best man or woman you can be and they still want to go, let ‘em go. Whatever they’re running after, they’ll see what they had in a minute, but by then it will be too late. Half of these people you’re crying about, you’re worrying about, two or three years from now, you won’t even remember their last name. How many times you’ve seen folks say, ‘What the **** was I thinking? What was wrong with me? I must have been lonely as **** to hook up with you.’

Let folks go, son. Some come for a lifetime. Some come for a season. You got to know which is which. And you gonna always mess up when you mix them season of people up with lifetime expectations. You got people who have gotten married to people they were only supposed to be with for a season. They got married to people they were only supposed to be with for a season and they wonder why they have so much hell in their life. That was a person who was supposed to teach you one thing. You didn’t know it so you just fell in love and now you wonder why you don’t have peace nowhere you go.

No, no. Listen. I put everybody that comes into my life in the category of a tree. Some people are like leaves on a tree. The wind blows, they’re over here. It blows the other way, they’re over there. They’re unstable. Seasons change. They wither and die. They’re gone. That’s alright. Most people in the world are like that. They’re just there to take from the tree. They aren’t going to do anything but take and give shade every now and then. That’s all they can do. Don’t get mad at people like that. That’s who they are. They were put on the earth to be a leaf. Some people are like a branch on the tree. You gotta be careful of those branches too. They’ll fool you. They make you think they’re a good friend and they’re real strong, but you step out there on them, and they break and they leave you high and dry.

But if you find you two or three people in your life just like the roots at the bottom of that tree, you are blessed ‘cause them the kind of people that ain’t going nowhere. They ain’t worried about being seen. Don’t nobody have to know they know you. Don’t have to know what they’re doing for you. But if those roots weren’t there, that tree couldn’t live. A tree can have a hundred million branches, but there’s only a few roots down at the bottom. I’m telling you son, when you get some roots, hang onto them. But the rest of them, let it go. Let folks go.

Nobody said it will be easy, but it gets easier when you learn how to love yourself. When you get to the point in your life where you look at people and you go, ‘Okay, wait a minute. You or me. You will make a decision.’ I’ve never in my life told nobody, ‘Don’t bother me. Don’t talk to me.’ But what I do, I say, ‘Look. This thing you’re doing right here. That’s gonna cause a problem. You gotta fix that. Cause if we’re gonna be friends, we gonna be cool, you’re gonna fix that. And if you don’t, we’re gonna have an issue.’ If you see somebody fix it, or even trying to fix it that’s somebody that cares. Keep them people around. That’s a leaf that’s trying to grow up and be something else. You understand?

But if you tell somebody ‘what you doing is hurting me, you need to stop,’ but they keep doing it, they don’t care. Move on. Let them go. No matter how much it hurt, let them go. And it will get easier. Every day it will get easier and easier, you just gotta make it through. You need to learn to be by yourself. People have to learn how to be alone. I don’t understand all these people who pray, ‘Lord, where is my man? Lord, where is my woman?’ That is crazier as ****. If you don’t know how to be by yourself, what you gonna do with somebody else? Stop praying about it. Shut up and wait. Go work on you. ****, that’s what that time is for to get yourself together. I’d rather be in the corner by myself with a puppet and a goldfish, and be happy than to be sitting around with somebody in my house, and I’m wondering ‘what the **** they there for?’

You would be surprised at what people put up with just to have somebody to say they love them. I don’t understand it. I can’t live in dysfunction. I’m sorry. I’ve done come through too much hell and high water to let you come up in my adult life when I’m supposed to be at peace and give me all kind of hell. Only two places on this earth you gonna have peace. The grave and your house. And if you can’t wake up in your house and have peace, something’s wrong. I’m sorry.”

(“Madea” – Tyler Perry)

GRAVE DIGGER

 4392

Pt. 1

My great grandfather was a cemetery caretaker and gravedigger, or sexton.

I expect he dug many graves by hand in his day and time, but I can't speak conclusively about such matters. Perhaps he had the benefit of an early mechanical excavator.

And while during the course of my three quarters of a century I have been involved in almost fifty jobs of every imaginable variety, I have yet to dig a grave... at least one designed for human beings.

Oops, I owe myself a quarter. I actually buried my father and mother. I kid you not. (Well, to be sure, I dug the holes in front of their headstone... into which I committed their mortal cremains).

However, as I have inferred, above, my lack of experience digging six foot deep, five foot wide holes in the ground has in no way deterred me from accomplishing smaller projects of the same variety.

For you see, beginning a couple of decades ago I committed my first pet pooch to the ground. Buddy was a female shih tzu of the exceptional variety. I actually wrote a book about her. She was extraordinary in every way. Time and space prevent me from elaborating, except to say that she fulfilled her mission here; whereas, some people never do. After she crossed the proverbial Rainbow Bridge, I buried her beneath an old oak tree on my "back 40."

Since then, I have buried two more, and memorialized two which are buried elsewhere. For you see, each one has a store-bought, custom-made slate marker bearing their photo, DOB & DOD, and a few fitting words. The most ancient of them all, Princess, a beloved black & white cocker spaniel, made the journey, common to man and beast, alike, a full 70 years ago. Though I was a little tyke when she breathed her last, I still tear up when I think about her.

Pt. 2

Now, you may think my having buried those near and dear to me, be they human or canine, hardly qualifies me as a vocational descendant of my genealogical ancestor. However, you may well be hasty in your judgement.

For you see, in the past couple of years, though I am a long time pastoral counselor "by trade," I have experienced an unexpected opportunity to adopt an unusual advocation.

It is important to understand "right up front" that I possess a deep-seated love for animals of all kinds. (But, you would have already assumed this based on the existence of my pet cemetery).

But speaking of my unexpected opportunity, it began as I was just "minding my own business," and pedaling what I might describe as my "daily 10." As I reached the entrance to a subdivision adjacent to my own, I looked down and saw a very large, very brown, (and very dead) cat. Well, before five seconds elapsed, I made up my mind to finish my 10, retrieve my car, and a shovel, and return to this location. Having done so, I thought of a suitable name (Brownie), dug a hole, said a little prayer (or at least wished him "God Speed"), quoted a scripture, (Psalm 36:6), and consigned him to "Mother Earth." And, you may think it strange, but when I returned home, I created an online memorial page on the largest site of its kind, and which features both humans and animals.

Brownie was the first among many. For he was the first among many cats, and dogs (well, dog, singular) which I ran across during my daily excursion. And I always followed the same schedule of events. Return home. Retrieve my car and a shovel. Give the creature a name. Dig a hole. Say a few words. Cover it up. Return home.

Post-script

Thus far, my ad-lib advocation has allowed me to provide burial services to Brownie the cat, (as in, the color of his fur), Rowdie the Dog, (as in, he just looked like the name I chose), and three additional cats named Spirit, (as in, Spirit Lake Road), Almost, (as in, he almost got across the road), and Oops, (as in, the last word that passed through his little brain, and the only 4 letter word he knew); all which died as the result of vehicles moving faster than they, themselves.

The scripture which I previously alluded to? 

"The Lord preserves both mankind and animals, alike."

I'm convinced believers will see their beloved pets again. I believe I will see Brownie, Rowdie, Spirit, Almost and Oops again. (Perhaps they will thank me for my services).

I think these precious creatures were just plain worth my time and energy. God created them, and afforded them a sense of dignity.

I think my great grandfather would be pleased.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE WEEPING WOMAN

 4391

As a military retiree, my wife and I sometimes stay in base hotels when we travel around the country. Our son-in-law was being commissioned as a 2nd Lieutenant, and we had arranged to stay at Eglin Air Force Base for a couple of nights.

We had been driving for six or eight hours, and were nearing our destination. I have long since forgotten the name of the little town a few miles outside the base gate. But as I sat on the passenger side of our vehicle, I noticed a young lady walking along the sidewalk in our direction.

And as our paths intersected, I realized she was sobbing profusely. 

In the few seconds prior to our car passing her location, I could see the tears coursing down her cheeks, and the resulting movement of her shoulders. Now, we passed the twenty-something year old woman, and continued north towards Eglin AFB.

And while I don't recall my immediate thoughts, I could not have helped thinking,

 "Perhaps we should pull over, and ask if there is anything we can do for her."

At least, in retrospect we should have done so.

Was her husband injured on the job? Did her mother die? Was she terminated from her job?

I often think of "Laura." I often wonder why she was crying. I often pray for her. 

I think we all have regrets which we are apt to "pet like a dog." Our failure to stop, and spend a few minutes with this deserving woman is one of my two or three major regrets in life. However, as a counselor I often tell my clients,

"There are no time machines. You can't go back."

All I can do is continue to pray for this dear lady, and decide in advance not to make a similar mistake in the future.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

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