ELVIS, YOU NEED TO GO BACK TO DRIVIN' THAT TRUCK!

Elvis was booked to play “The Grand Ole Opry” once or twice during the early 50’s, and, as a result, was forced to contend with a rather difficult stage manager there.

After “The King” finished playing one night, and he was alone with Jim Denny he asked,

“Well, whatdoyathink?”

To which Mr. Denny responded,

“Elvis, you need to go back to driving that truck.”

(Or basically, “Don’t quit your day job”).

Of course, the twenty-something year old Elvis was devastated, and George Klein, current host of the Sirius Radio Elvis Channel, and Presley’s life-long friend, said that the rock n’ roll legend was quiet all the way back to wherever they happened to be going that night.

They say what goes down must come back up, and it was definitely true in Elvis’ case. For you see, the next night he performed at some nearby venue, and the local teens went smack dab crazy over his music. As quickly as he fell down, he got right back up. (Of course, the applause and adulation of a few hundred young people didn’t hurt).

Though years had passed, and Elvis gained stratospheric popularity, based on the following incident, it was all too obvious that Elvis never forgot the promoter’s stinging critique.

Pt. 2

Elvis was engaged at some large concert in some large city, and after finishing up one night, and he’d returned to his dressing room, he received a call from Faron Young, a popular country singer.

“Hi Elvis, this is Faron. I just saw your show. Would you mind if I stop by and ‘shoot the bull’ for a couple minutes?”

To which Elvis gladly acquiesced, as he had always liked the man.

However, when Elvis answered the knock on the dressing room door, not only was Faron Young standing there, but another man whose face he could not forget, but whose name he was unable to remember.

But based on the context of this story, you might easily surmise that the familiar stranger was none other than Jim Denny.

As Faron Young and Elvis dialogued, the old stage manager and record promoter was unusually quiet. However, as they were about to depart the premises, Young voiced a request.

“Hey Elvis, Jim D. here is looking for work at the moment. Maybe you could put in a good word for him with Colonel Parker, (Elvis’ road manager).

To which the savvy entertainer responded,

“Yeah, sure Chief. Sure, I will.”

As it fell together, however, no sooner had the two men departed the premises than Elvis began “cursing a blue streak.”

Pt. 3

It so happened that his friend, George Klein, was in the dressing room at the time, and he immediately realized something was happening which he’d never seen happen before. Granted, Elvis knew how to dish out some choice 4 letter words, …but not like this.

“Elvis, Elvis what’s going on?”

To which the angry young man responded,

“Do you know who that guy was? He’s the S.O.B. from The Grand Ole Opry who told me that I should go back to driving a truck!”

And while Elvis was a benevolent soul, and never forgot where he came from, and lavished gifts and favors on his friends, and enjoyed doing for those who couldn’t do for themselves…

He exclaimed,

“It will be a cold day in h_ _ _ before I do anything for that loser!”

I suppose the moral of the foregoing story is,

Be kind to those whom God sets in your pathway. You never know when you may be speaking to the next Elvis.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2017

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DYING TO SELF

When you are forgotten, neglected, or purposely set at naught, and you don't sting or hurt with the oversight, but your heart is happy being counted worthy to suffer for Christ;

That is dying to self.

When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your advice disregarded, your opinion ridiculed, and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart or even defend yourself, but take it all in patient, loving silence;

That is dying to self.

When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, any annoyance; when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility, and endure it as Jesus did;

That is dying to self.

When you are content with any food, and offering, any raiment, any climate, any society, any solitude, any interruption by the will of God;

That is dying to self.

When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation or record your own good works or itch after commendation, when you can truly love to be unknown;

That is dying to self.

When you can see your brother prosper and have his needs met, and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy, nor question God, while your own needs are far greater and you are in desperate circumstances;

That is dying to self.

When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself and can humbly submit, inwardly as well as outwardly, finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart;

That is dying to self.

(Author Unknown)

PEEING ON THE STOCKROOM FLOOR

    The year was 1975 and I worked as a manager for a nationally known shoe corporation. The State was Alabama and I managed a lease unit in a large department store.

     

     My shoe department happened to be in the back of the store, and I usually found myself either waiting on customers or putting out stock. One day a middle-aged man, and his almost grown son walked up as I was walking towards the front of the store. And the father asked where he could find a bathroom. I motioned towards the back wall, and said something innocuous, and went about my business.

     If I had conjured up a thousand possibilities, I would have never dreamed up what happened next. I finished my chore, whatever it was, and headed back to my shoe department. I remembered something I had to do in the stockroom, and entered through an open doorway.

     Suddenly before me, in all his glory, was that same retarded young man…urinating on the floor of my stock room. Well, it didn’t take me long to scream at him… “Stop, what are you doing? This isn’t the bathroom!”

    Apparently, the boy’s father had directed his son towards the back of the store, and the young fella headed towards a door he thought was the bathroom.

     I scared the young lad badly. Of that I’m quite sure. He lost no time “zipping up,” and getting out of there. And I was left to clean up the yellow, liquid mess.

     I’ve thought of that incident many times since then. I’m afraid I wasn’t very charitable to the boy. And I’m a little ashamed of my words, and actions that day.

      That young man is bound to be pushing fifty now, and I think of him sometimes. If I could speak to him again, I’d apologize for my sharp admonition. He was just “doing what comes naturally,” and, considering his mental challenges, he had made an honest mistake.

     In an age in which a controversy exists about where one should properly "do their business" this particular story adds an historic personal twist to the matter. At least this young fella didn't know any better.

     There are those among us who don’t function, who don’t operate as we do. It pays to be charitable. We have so much of which to be thankful.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2015

THE SINKING OF THE HMS BOUNTY

I was 13 at the time, “Mutiny on the Bounty” (1962) was released; that classic old story of the HMS Bounty starring Marlon Brando, (Fletcher Christian) and Trevor Howard, (Captain Bligh). I recall having accompanied a friend of mine and his mother to our local drive-in theater; one of the few occasions when I opted for an outdoor vs. an indoor movie.

Since then, the age of drive-in theaters has passed with a scant few remaining among our 50 states. (On a symmetrical note, I’m glad my 13 year old grandson has been afforded the opportunity to see what the experience is like, as he often attends the only drive-in theater within a hundred miles of our location).

As “Mutiny on the Bounty” was in the process of being made, it came to Marlon Brando’s attention that the production company planned to set the ship ablaze once filming was completed. Well, if you know anything about Marlon Brando, and his propensity for having had it his own way, that just wouldn’t do. As the result of his newfound knowledge, Brando refused to continue, unless assured that after completion of the movie, the ship would be spared the torch. As you might imagine, he got his way, and the tall-masted, wooden ship was not only spared, but was featured in two additional movies.

I recall visiting the HMS Bounty at its winter home in St. Petersburg, Florida during the period of time when I was in the Air Force, and stationed in Tampa. 180 feet, and wooden in construction, it was not particularly impressive when compared with the 1000+ foot naval aircraft carrier of today. But no one ever denied, it was distinctive, and a relic of a bygone era.

As time progressed, the Bounty was used as a masted training vessel, and a large number of young and not so young people metamorphosed from ‘land lubbers’ to veteran sailors on the ship. Captain Robin Walbridge was justifiably proud of his vessel, and conscientious about the training he provided his initially rather ‘green’ crew. (I expect there were times when this color more aptly described their response to the thrashing sea, than their tenure aboard the vessel).

During the 2012 hurricane season, and as the minimal Hurricane Sandy approached the northeast coastline of the United States,  it was decided that the HMS Bounty would depart its current port in Connecticut and set sail for Florida.

Initially, Captain Walbridge determined to sail east of the hybrid storm; not only a hurricane, but a nor’easter. However, as the ship’s commander made his way towards Florida, he decided to lay in a new course to take advantage of the speed and momentum of the hurricane, and provide for a faster voyage. His decision was nothing less than fateful for the sixteen crewmen aboard; most especially for the captain, and the beautiful Claudene Christian; a 42 year old member of the crew, and a direct descendant of the historical Fletcher Christian, the British mutineer of the original HMS Bounty.

As you might well suppose, based on my previous implication, rather than avoiding the storm, while at the same time harvesting the inestimable power of it, the Bounty crossed directly into the path of Hurricane Sandy. And while the ship had weathered fiercer winds and waves in the past, it was as if the fifty year old vessel was simply ready to ‘give up the ghost,’ and it began to take on water.

Of course, this facsimile of the original HMS Bounty had instrumentation and life saving measures onboard which did not exist during Revolutionary times; including GPS equipment, a radio set, durable life rafts and water survival suits. These innovations ultimately led to the salvation of the majority of the crew. For having been located, one by one they were hoisted onto Coast Guard helicopters.

The captain was last seen on the sub-deck of the Bounty. Members of his crew have suggested that in his attempt to get them off the floundering vessel, he became entangled in the ropes and lines which controlled the great masts, and he went down with his ship; (a sometimes literary and sometimes literal fate which has so often been assigned a captain of the world’s great ships).

Claudene Christian, the great great (etc.) granddaughter of the First Mate of the original HMS Bounty, was discovered wrapped up in her orange survival suit; 8 miles from the scene of the sinking. It is not clear whether rescuers discovered any waning signs of life, though she was unresponsive to resuscitation.

It is curious to me that, as a direct result of the ancient ultimatum of one of the original occupants of the ship, that at the completion of filming the Bounty be spared, that two later inhabitants of the ship…weren’t.

Granted, the entire saga was geometrically more complicated than all that, and Marlon Brando’s worthy agenda cannot be condemned. A Coast Guard investigation levied much of the blame on Captain Walbridge, first for his decision to sail too close to the storm, and secondly for the time which elapsed between the Bounty taking on water, and his decision to abandon ship.

Thousands, no millions of historical incidents in which the unrehearsed, momentary decisions of human beings impact the lives of countless more of their species.

And one cannot help but ask,

“Where was God in all this?”

I am reminded of the fictional Forrest Gump, and his considered musing on the topic; (which, by the way, is as studied an observation as I have ever heard).

I don’t know if Momma was right or if, if it’s Lieutenant Dan. I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it’s both. Maybe both is happening at the same time.

And who can forget the closing scene of that infamous classic?

The background music and that feather caught up by a gust of wind, and wafted into the atmosphere; until the last note of the instrumental reaches its crescendo, and the approaching feather blots out what remains of the light in the theater.

Almost until his dying day, my father remained cynical about the seemingly unfair circumstances of life. (Almost, but I will save that revelation for another time).

The starving children in Ethiopia. Wars in Syria and Afghanistan, and the masses so horribly effected. The loss of the World Trade Towers, the downing of Flight 93, and the subsequent terrorist attack on the Pentagon.

The seemingly happenstantial.

And yet, for one who loves and is altogether taken up with God; the altogether Providential. While I cannot begin to explain those awful, random and sometimes callous acts which so hideously impact mankind, I am persuaded that God can, and perhaps one day

…will.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending, 2018

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KNOCKING THE DOORS DOWN

(Note: written several months ago with a current post-script)

My daughter Kristy has been pursuing a Master’s degree in Human Services with Argosy University, and until the past week everything has fallen together like clockwork. She is currently engaged in her last class and final semester. (Or perhaps the correct verb and tense is not ‘is’ but ‘was’).

A well-known church in California purchased Argosy and its sister universities late last year in hopes that a significant amount of revenue could be raised from this operation, and dove-tailed into the ministry.

However, after having been in the possession of three universities for only a few months, the church finds itself millions of dollars in debt. Not only has their investment “gone to the dogs,” but Argosy University, its premier acquisition, has had its accreditation revoked by the Department of Education due to some unethical monetary transfers, and will be closing in the next few days.

Someone involved in administering federal moneys redirected funds to cover the existing debts of Argosy University. Not the brightest matches in the box, nor the smartest decision in the history of the world, since within days multiplied hundreds of students reported not having received their quarterly stipends, and, as a result, they experienced an inability to cover their mortgages, car payments, and a myriad of other bills.

Pt. 2

As it fell together, it was left to the individual campuses to sort things out, and each location scheduled a series of student meetings. (It goes without saying that not only were the students being left “high and dry,” but the resident staff, professors and online adjuncts are, as of this writing, looking for jobs).

During an initial meeting which my daughter attended in Tampa the campus representative made the students aware that the closure of Argosy University, and its affiliated campuses was imminent, and that the administration would assist them in their attempt to transfer some of their credits to another university; the implication being that there was little or no reason to believe any school would accept more than a few semester hours in transfer.

You would have to know my daughter. There’s a passage in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 18 which describes her well. As a matter of fact, you could just about glue her picture next to the following parable.

"In a certain country there was a justice who not only disrespected the people with whom he was associated, but God, Himself. And there was a widow in that place who petitioned him on a recurring basis, saying,

'Please protect me from this individual who has been attempting to harm my reputation and my finances.’

“And for an extended time, the magistrate refused to help her. Later, however, he mused,

'This woman has not ceased to fill up my days with her everlasting harangue. And though I have absolutely no respect for God or men, I will grant her request, (or she will continue to show up at my door).’” (McDonald Paraphrase of the New Testament)

Pt. 3

Kristy just wasn’t going to take ‘No’ for an answer; (as you shall soon see).

At the end of the initial meeting, she walked up to an Argosy representative, and chatted with her for a moment. “Ms. Jamison” soon excused herself, and told Kristy she had a meeting with the campus president. I think the majority of students would have acquiesced, and gone their merry way. (But as I have inferred, Kristy marches to a slightly different drummer).

Rather than turn on her heel, and head out the door, she asked,

“Uhmmm, do you mind if I go with you?”

I can just about see the quizzical look on the lady's face, and the half smile which must have followed. (It may help you to understand that Kristen is a social worker, and deals with a variety of professionals and clients on a daily basis).

The university representative responded.

“I suppose you can. At this juncture it can’t hurt. Follow me.”

Arriving in “President Keller’s” office, the administrative member introduced Kristy, and she explained that she was an online student, that she was halfway through her final class, and was there anything he could do to help her transfer ALL of her credits to another university.

President Keller listened patiently, and when Kristy finished her tale of woe, and subsequent request, he expressed significant empathy, and told her that if worst came to worst he would speak to the registrar at South University, one of the afore-mentioned church's previous holdings, about assuming all of her academic credits.

Pt. 4

A couple of days went by, and my daughter attended a second meeting at the Tampa campus. President Keller made the participants aware that the majority of students faced the prospect of only transferring a semester’s worth of credits to another university, but those who were in their final semester would be granted their degrees as soon as the diplomas could be printed.

Of course, Kristy was nothing short of overjoyed, and called her mother, and me prior to leaving the campus.

“I feel like a large weight has dropped off my back. I’m going to sleep for three days!”

However, by the next day the story had changed again. The registrar informed anyone who cared to ask that,

“Well, no. You haven’t finished the final semester, the remainder of the current course has been canceled, and you WILL NOT be granted your degree.”

As a result, my daughter contacted another administrative representative, and presented the latest version of her dilemma to him. It so happened that he had once been employed as a professor at National Louis University in Chicago, and he agreed to contact the president of this school. Having done so, he was pleased to inform Kristy that this not for profit, fully-accredited university would accept all her credits, and that she would be eligible to retake the final course of her final semester beginning next month.

With this, my daughter contacted “President Johnson,” of NLU, and asked for particulars. He already had her name, and student information in front of him which helped alleviate her natural skepticism.

Pt. 5

Not only had Kristy interacted with a host of  university representatives and presidents along the way, but early on she called a local aide for U.S. Congressman Soto, made him aware of the closure of Argosy University, and enlisted his assistance. (Oddly enough, the congressman’s office had been unaware of the situation, and she was the first to contact him).

By now, I was nothing short of amazed with my daughter’s “in your face” interaction with such a prestigious group of scholars, and governmental officials.

But she was not done yet.

Most of the fifteen members of Kristen’s online class were registered with other campuses of Argosy University, and were not part and parcel of the deal which President Keller of the Tampa campus had made with President Johnson of National Louis University. My daughter realized that unless someone pressed the issue, ten or twelve of her classmates would lose the majority of their credits in their pursuit of a degree.

Do you recall the parable of the unjust judge? (Yeah, I figured you would).

In our day and time, we have an adage, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.” Kristy decided to be the squeaky wheel.

“President Johnson, I’m a member of a class of fifteen, most of whom do not live in Florida, and are not registered with the Tampa campus. Would you accept them as students, and allow us to finish as a class?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, but after a moment, the university president replied.

“I think we can do that. Yes, I will have to contact the Department of Education, but I believe we can make it happen.”

Pt. 6

I am admittedly biased, but when “push comes to shove” I think not one in a hundred would have behaved, and would have “behaved upon” others in the foregoing manner.

There’s an old movie in which the main character throws open the window of his apartment, and screams at the top of his lungs,

“I’m mad as h_ _ _, and I’m not gonna take it anymore!”

Anger can express itself in any number of ways. When anger is used as a catalyst for courage, and the potential change which arises from it, then that intense, sometimes vilified emotion can bear rich fruit. And it should be recalled that the best and brightest among us not only manage to salvage their own uncertain fates, but count others better than themselves, and invite others to walk with them.

I think this is what happened here.

Who can know whether the heroine of this story managed to protect not only her own God-given destiny, but the destinies of her peers, (and those whom she, and these others would in turn impact), and did so with a few well-directed words and actions.

The unjust judge. The squeaky wheel. Marching to a different drummer. Turning lemons into lemonade.

Sometimes we have to petition the just and unjust judges among us. Sometimes we have to squeak as we roll down the proverbial road which stretches out before us. Sometimes we have to strut our stuff, and catch the unique rhythm of our own personal drummer. Sometimes we have to squeeze those lemons ‘til they beg for mercy. Sometimes we have to break down doors!

Post-script –

 Yesterday we attended Kristy's graduation ceremony. Several of her classmates were there. And there were eight or ten others who will graduate after they finish the next semester. 

I can only imagine the inestimable impact these graduates will have on the those whom God has set in their pathway. I can only imagine the subsequent impact of that generation on the next; not unlike ripples on a pond.

I think my daughter deserves much of the credit for knocking down a few doors.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2019

ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

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. 19^th 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 19^th 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 17^th, 18^th and 19^th 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 17^th 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 William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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AFTER THE RAINBOW BRIDGE

“You preserve both men and animals alike.” (Psalm 36:6)

Some people are under the illusion that our pets will be waiting for us when we get to heaven.

…I’m one of them

Yep. Guilty as charged.

I believe that the Redeemed will see their pets (and any number and manner of other animals) again. A proverbial Noah’s Ark.

In our day and time, there has been a couple of rather bizarre interventions, by well-intended people, to give their pets eternal life.

Alan Alda wrote a book titled, “Never Stuff a Dead Dog.” It seems that after old Rover crossed the Rainbow Bridge, his dad had him taxidermied.

However, the finished product bore little or no resemblance to the original, and their house guests were often unnerved as they walked through the front door, and saw the non-descript, snarling, (but admittedly silent) beast standing next to the fireplace. Ultimately, Rover was consigned to the front porch, and was used to scare away solicitors! I forget what Alda said about his final disposition. For all I know, he may still be standing guard at the front door of that humble old house.

And if you happen to find yourself among the owners of one of the Forbes 500, you can clone little Buddy, and do a ‘re-run.’ (The closest thing to bringing him or her back from the dead).

Speaking of ‘Buddy,’ after the death of my little Buddy, a beautiful Shih Tzu, she (yes, she)

…came back for a visit.

Well, a couple of visits. (I kid you not). I wrote about her unexpected appearances in my book, “A Man’s Tribute to His Devoted Dogs.”

Pt. 2

A week, perhaps two, had passed, and I found myself in the throes of grief. And as I laid down that night, and prepared to sleep, and without the slightest warning

…something snuggled up against my right shoulder.

I felt, rather than heard, something breathing. In and out. In and out. And you might naturally ask, why would a spirit being, man or beast, need to breathe? Honestly, I haven’t the foggiest, except, perhaps, to make me aware of, and reassure me of her presence.

After a few minutes, it seems Buddy decided to reposition herself. Even after her death I kept, (and still maintain) her pillow at the foot of the bed. Suddenly, I felt my dearly departed pooch lay down on that fluffy piece of rectangular comfort. Her welcome presence lay hard against my feet. There was no mistaking the weight of that sixteen or seventeen pound creature, as she took her rightful place on the left edge of her full-sized pillow.

The experience was so real and so welcome that I hesitated to move the slightest inch. Ultimately, however, I drifted off to sleep.

And I suppose if that had been the end of it, a decade later I might still be questioning the reality of what transpired that night.

However, as I was walking in my neighborhood one evening, perhaps a month after the loss of my beloved Buddy, and I found myself reminiscing about the old girl,

…I saw it,

(or should I use a different pronoun)?

…I saw her.

Pt. 3

Suddenly, not thirty feet ahead of me, what seemed to be a little white pooch appeared out of nothingness, slowly walked across my path way, and entered my neighbor’s front yard.

And as quickly as she appeared, she immediately relinquished her physicality.

I can’t account for why I was blessed to realize such momentary manifestations of my precious pooch. But at least for me there remains that quiet reassurance that our pets are alive and well, and reside in a land where the roses never fade, and no tear dims the eye.

There’s a poignant cartoon which depicts St. Peter standing at the pearly gates. Next to him is a dog thoroughly overcome with excitement. In the foreground we see an old man approaching the duo.

St. Peter bends his head towards ‘Rover’ and exclaims,

“So this is your friend, Bobby, who you’ve been “going on about” for the past 50 years!”

And in much the same manner, I like to believe my own little Buddy, and a couple of my other dearly departed pooches, eagerly await my arrival.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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