SUCKING IN FUMES

 4004

And as twilight wrapped its all-encompassing arms around our little corner of the world, and the sounds of nightingales and crickets filled the air

… the mosquito truck appeared, and lumbered down our quiet street. Every boy and girl knew the sound. While the thump of its tires on asphalt, and the roar of its engine were evidence enough, we had acclimated to a different frequency, entirely. At this juncture, almost six decades hence, it is difficult to describe the sound. (Rather like what was referred to as the “Rebel Yell” of Civil War fame. It is said that you would have had to have been there).

At any rate, we recognized the sound of the spray, as it forcibly emanated from the tank, and assumed the form of a thick, white mist. Honestly, I don’t know what our parents were thinking, but when “the siren called” eight or ten of us rushed into the street, and ran headlong behind the spray truck.

I think we must have inhaled the majority of what was intended for the neighborhood mosquitoes. (But, somehow we survived this weekly ritual, and seemed none the worse for it).

by Bill McDonald, PhD

SOME THINGS HAVE TO BE DONE TOO MUCH

4003

Pope John Paul II was at the time, and continues to be thought of as the most personable, widely-traveled Papal See in the history of the office; in spite of the lingering impact of an assassination attempt, and the advent of Parkinson’s Disease.

As you might expect, this aging Pope’s aides were concerned for his declining health, and, at one time or another, each and every one of his personal assistants would say,

“Holy Father. You do too much!”

After having heard this phrase one too man times, John Paul admonished the unlucky guy who happened to be the last to use the phrase.

Fastening his eyes on the young aide, he exclaimed,

“Some things…have to be done too much!”

Dear readers, some things have to be done too much, (and some things need to be done, and done well one time).

by William McDonald, PhD

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

 4002

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.”

 by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

 4001

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. 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

SEEING THE WORLD IN BLACK & WHITE

 4000

It was August of 1992, and our local National Guard unit had been mobilized to assist the citizens of Dade County. As a result of Andrew, a Category five level hurricane, thousands of dwellings and businesses were savagely demolished.

 

In a newspaper article I wrote later, I refer to the utter lack of color which met my eye wherever I turned. Every building, and I mean every building, for twenty miles in any direction displayed some degree of damage, and a majority were reduced to little more than rubble. And oddly enough, something that is foreign to us in Florida, every tree and every bush was completely stripped of their leaves and flowers.

 

During the forty days I served in Miami, I began to experience an unusual amount of fatigue, and after our unit was deactivated, three weeks elapsed before I felt like my old self.

 

It was only later that it occurred to me that much of the apparent tiredness and lack of energy was the result of sensory deprivation, since during those dawn to dusk days in Homestead, Florida my vision was limited to white, black and gray, and an almost total lack of the color green.

 

As human beings, we are meant to see in color. Having ever viewed the world in color, our brains are not equipped to experience life in black and white.

by William McDonald, PhD

WILD VIOLETS FOR BUDDY

                                                                                                

3999

Pt. 1

As I was preparing to write this story, (and as I often do) I went to the internet, and brought up a series of articles related to my topic.

In this case wild violets.

And as I googled the subject of my quest, the first item at the top of the list was,

“How to get rid of wild violets in your yard.”

And I thought,

“Why would I want to get rid of them?”

(and)

“I happen to like them.”

(and)

“I happen to like them a lot.”

I mean, I purposely mow around a 2x2 foot clump of the little things in my back yard.

Of course, as you might expect, there’s more to the story, and for anyone who is a fan of my blogs, you may remember my having written about the topic before.

Yesterday, as I stepped outside to survey my woodsy quarter acre, I glanced to my right and noticed a tiny clump of lovely wild violets were in bloom. Twelve or fifteen of the small purple blossoms greeted my eyes; held up by rich green leafy shoots.

And, as always, I paused to reflect on a precious little Shih Tzu named, ‘Buddy’ which I was privileged to know and love for the space of a decade.

And as I have inferred in the past, when she left us, (Yes, ‘Buddy’ was a her) I installed a circular decorative tile on this spot to commemorate her.

For it was here that our precious pooch so often resorted to “take in the rays.”

Pt. 2

Perhaps I have chosen to “read more into it,” but I am convinced that the proximity of the wild violets to the place Buddy loved the best is no coincidence or mistake. I believe it was an “on purpose” sorta thing which has its roots with Providence, and was (drum roll) planned before the earth was breathed into being.

I know that’s “saying a lot” and I realize it’s a lot to take in, but I’m convinced that Buddy was simply worth it, and that our Lord was thinking of her

…before He made the worlds.

I mean, I’ve written about my little Buddy before, and without going into great detail again suffice it to say that I think my precious pooch fulfilled her mission on this earth; whereas many human beings never do.

There was a time when her incessant barking caused a would-be burglar to flee. There was a time when she refused to leave my daughter’s side when she was grieving the loss of a marriage. There was a time when she followed my wife around the house, ‘til she submitted to a physical exam by which a malignant tumor was detected early, and she has been allowed to live out a long and productive life.

Yes, my Buddy was worth it, and I think our Lord agreed with me before I ever knew the bless-ed creature.

There is a particular verse in the Book of Psalms which provides some evidence of the Creator’s love and affirmation for both his human and animal creations, and His promise that I will see my Buddy again one day.

Your righteousness is like the highest mountains, your justice like the great deep. You, LORD, preserve both people and animals. (Psalm 36:6)

Afterward

No, I don’t believe the presence of those lovely wild violets, next to that circular decorative tile in my backyard, is a coincidence or mistake. I will always think of this place as a Providential tribute to one of His wonderful little creations named Buddy.

I like to think of that wild, uncultivated patch of purple blossoms as God’s own memorial for a life well lived, and for a creature He loved more than I ever could.

by William McDonald, PhD

COME OUT OF THE BAG

 3998

Pt. 1

There is an unusual verse of scripture in the New Testament Book of Romans:

“O, wretched man that I am. Who will deliver me from the body of this death?” (Romans 7:24)

But grant me permission to return to this verse, and its little-known meaning a little later.

A reservist friend of mine served in the Regular Army during the Vietnam War. He was and is a wonderful man. He emulates his own motto in every respect; “Know your stuff, (well that’s not exactly the word he used). Take care of your people. Be a Man.”

Staff Sergeant ‘Cliff Landon’ served in a very singular and generally unpleasant position. He was assigned as an intake supervisor with the Army Casualties Team. Cliff performed the initial processing which expedited shipment of our deceased soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines back to the United States.

He routinely unzipped body bag after body bag, orange deodorant spray in one hand, and a wooden baton in the other hand.

Oft times, military casualties lay on the field of their labor for days at a time. And “vermin” (to characterize it politely) would often hitch a ride in the body bags, having been scooped up with the deceased military man; (thus the need for the club).

As the months rolled by, one day was very much like another, and Sergeant Cliff became almost immune to the sights and smells of his gruesome profession. And so, it was until that one particular day…

Pt. 2

The hardened soldier bent to unzip another bag; among the dozens which covered the hanger floor. It was then he noticed a slight movement, and he raised the club above his head. Zip went the bag, and at that instant something happened which never occurred in all his months in this gruesome vocation.

 “Whew. It’s hot in here!”

 Well, my dear readers, I assure you Sergeant Morton almost “lost it.”

“We have a live one. We have a live one!!!” my friend screamed. From somewhere in the distance medics came running, and the “living corpse” was rushed to a nearby operating theatre.

And rather than keep you in suspense, I can tell you that young soldier was spared, and is alive and well today. Granted, he came away from the experience with only one arm, and one leg, but he will tell you how fortunate he is to still be among “the land of the living.”

A footnote to this story.

Sergeant Landon was, ultimately, released from active duty, and immediately registered at a local community college. It was the first day of the semester, and he reported to a Room 203, and sat down. First course. First semester. First year.

Suddenly, Cliff heard someone wheel in behind him, and turned to look.

To his amazement he recognized a very familiar face, and the body below it. A man with one arm and one leg. The smiling fellow managed to wheel himself up to our hero, and the reunion was nothing short of Outstanding.

Pt. 3

Interestingly enough, (at least to me) the earlier passage of scripture is eerily similar to the predicament of the poor soldier in the body bag.

Let me refresh it for you.

“O, wretched man that I am. Who will deliver me from the body of this death?”

I love the hidden implications of various passages of scripture; verses which we are prone to “run right by,” but which spoke volumes to believers of the first century church.

Allow me to characterize the meaning of this scripture.

During the time of Christ, the Roman government used a primary form of execution. Crucifixion. However, this wasn’t the only method by which a condemned criminal was put to death. (And after I summarize this secondary method, I think any one of us would have begged to be hung on a cross).

For you see, the foregoing scripture refers to is this particular method of ancient execution.

It seems that under this gruesome regimen, …a dead body was tied securely to a condemned prisoner. And under penalty of death, no man was permitted to remove it from him. And thus, this condemned criminal was forced to eat, drink and sleep with that awful burden on his back. And, (as you might easily imagine) as that terrible organic weight on his back putrefied, the prisoner grew progressively sicker, and, ultimately, died.

“Who, indeed, shall deliver me?”

Obviously, the Apostle Paul is using a powerful illusion of an actual practice here.

In the same way that any man would be required to pay the ultimate penalty for the slightest attempt to release the condemned criminal, this (and the following verse of scripture) serve as a witness that you and I were condemned to die a spiritual death, and suffer the eternal penalty, when Christ Jesus volunteered to wrest that dead body of sin from our back, and set us free; but as a result was forced to lay down His life in exchange for our own.

Pt. 4

I can tell you, I am struck with the similarities between the two stories, one ancient, and one current; which I have related here.

I have often shared the story of Sergeant Cliff and the unfortunate soldier in the body bag. This tale has had an impact on countless people over the years. Of course, it’s not enough to merely tell the story. It is imperative that my readers understand the spiritual interpretation I have assigned to the story.

Our poor “corpse” was shut off in that dark, airless bag. How long he lay there is still a mystery. Somehow, this singular soul existed in a coma-like state; devoid of human contact.

But suddenly, he found himself resurrected; not unlike Lazarus of old! And can there be any doubt that the good sergeant represents the figurative Christ figure who unzips the dark enclosure which confines the poor man, and cries out,

“Come out of the bag!”

I deal with the dregs of humanity, those who suffer from addictions to alcohol and substances, clients who exhibit various psychological maladies, as well as ‘normal folks’ who struggle with unforgiveness, hurtful memories, and failed relationships; those who are figuratively closed up in a body bag, enveloped by darkness, deprived of human affection, and deprived of oxygen.

 

Come out now! Don’t hesitate another moment. You don’t belong there. There are those among us who will help you find your way out of the bag! But you must cooperate. You must be willing. Only decay and airlessness reside therein. Rise out of that awful place. Come out of the bag!

by William McDonald, PhD