MILO, COME HOME

 4179

Our daughter, "Megan" just accepted a position as the federal grant administrator for a large mental health clinic in Massachusetts. As a result, she put her home up for sale in Florida, and she and my wife transported many of her possessions via SUV, and U-Haul trailer to her rental house there.

My wife and I have been getting her Florida home ready for interested parties whom the realtor will be providing a guided tour in the next several weeks; 'til it is sold.

We contracted with a local moving company to move a few items to our place, and this week they brought Megan's cinema style sofas over. And given we only have so much space in our living room, we decided to donate my late mother's sofa to my wife's sister.

And as the movers walked the sofa through the garage, and across our driveway towards their truck, they set it down, and the younger fella asked, "Do you have a cat?"

And that's when I noticed a couple of orange "Maine Coon" style paws sticking through the thin fabric liner beneath the couch. And no sooner had I seen Milo's paws than he broke through the cloth liner, and ran under our Nissan Altima. 

With this, I hurried over to the car, did a forward arm thrust onto the concrete, and completed the exercise with an extension of my legs behind me. (And not to brag, but I consider this quite an achievement for a guy who turns 75 in a few months. In retrospect, I like to think the two young men were duly impressed). 

I could see Milo next to one of the vehicle's back tires. However, by this time, I have learned not to attempt to pick him up. For you see, he has left bloody claw tracks on my arms several times the past year. Did I mention we also inherited him from our daughter? (Well, we did).

After calling the large cat by name, I sprang back up to my feet to the applause of the moving men, (well, not really), and as "Mrs. Fairfax" in the novel, "Jane Eyre" was prone to say, I thought, "What to do? What to do?"

Well, about this time my wife needed to jump in the car, and lead the movers to her sister's house; just two minutes away. And as you might conclude, I was a bit concerned since we had last seen Milo in the vicinity of our automobile.

Delaying Jean slightly, I attempted to open the hood; to no avail. (I admit it, I'm not the sharpest tack in the box when it comes to simple mechanics). Now, my wife attempted to blow the horn. Not a sound emitted from the vehicle. Frustrated, and needing to leave, Jean touched the ignition switch...

and was greeted by a quadruple "clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk" in quick succession. 

I could "just see" bloody pieces of our poor Milo falling in small bits onto our concrete driveway. A sob involuntarily rose in Jean's throat; just knowing he was a "goner." However, now we witnessed the large orange cat spring from beneath the car, and run towards our neighbor's front yard.

And while my wife backed out of the driveway, I hurriedly chased Milo to the place I presumed he had gone; our neighbor's garage. Peering into the open garage, I saw nothing more than his vehicle, and some garden tools.

Now, I saw Milo disappear into the shrubbery of the home next to Brian's house. And as I made my way through the foliage, I saw absolutely nothing.

When I reached my garage, I jumped on my bicycle, and pedaled up to the busy street towards which Milo had run. And as I made my way along the sidewalk, I looked left, right and forward. 

Failing to see Milo, I returned home.

A half hour later, Jean pulled into the driveway. Greeting her, I made her aware that Milo was still "on the lamb." And as is our custom in dire circumstances, we prayed together.

"Father God, we have no idea where our Milo is. Would you please guide him back to our home? Amen and Amen."

No sooner had I said, "Amen," we heard a "Meow."

Standing at our back screen door we saw our precious Milo. He had made his way home, and had, apparently, climbed over our wooden fence to get here. 

And I immediately thought of the verse, 

“It shall come to pass That before they pray, I will answer; And while they are still speaking, I will hear." (Isaiah 65:24)

The speediest answer to prayer in my entire life. God had begun to answer that prayer before I ever uttered the words.

By Bill McDonald, PhD

I AM MY OWN GRANDPA

 4178

Ray Stevens has a large number of comedic routines on YouTube, including one titled, "I Am My Own Grandpa."

I can relate

Well, at least I can relate now. Not so much during the first seven decades of my life. Of course, I don't expect you to understand. But, by the time I finish my narrative, perhaps it will become clearer.

I first met my wife, Jean, in 4th grade. And if my calculations are accurate, this was about 65 years ago. (To see that number in print, well, it is a bit startling, to say the least). Jean and I attended primary, middle and high school together, and dated briefly after we graduated. However, for whatever reason, we went our separate ways, married other people, produced a total of five children, and met again after our respective divorces in 1980; at which time we began to date again, and married one another a few months later.

And, as with any marriage, especially a blended marriage, we faced our own challenges, and experienced trouble, trial and turmoil, as well as our own fair share of joy, prosperity and happiness.

Billy Joel sings a song, "And So It Goes." And these four words adequately describe the nature of not only our lives, but the lives of everyone on earth; married or not. After all, life is a series of moments and experiences.

And thus, our lives have fallen together over the course of the last forty years, until perhaps three years ago. And it was then that everything changed.

You know that song that Elvis sang, "Kissin' Cousins"?

My wife was sitting in the dining room, and I was seated in the living room. (She was doing some family research on her laptop computer at the time). There is a wall which separates the two rooms with a door-sized entranceway in between. Suddenly, from the dining room I hear her disembodied voice,

"Don't you have some Dowling's in your family tree?"

To which I replied,

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Now, Jean responded with,

"I just discovered some Dowling's in my family tree. Have you heard of Jabez and Rebecca Darling Dowling?"

I paused, and slowly said...

"Uhhh, yes. They are my 4x great Grandparents."

Now Jean responded in kind.

"They are also my 4x great Grandparents!"

I'm not all that good with math, but it wasn't all that hard to compute our relationship.

I spoke.

"Uhmmm, you and I are 5th cousins!"

Since this momentous discovery, my wife and I have come across two other family connections. We are also 6th cousins through a different line, and an unknown degree of kinship through a third line. We are related at least three different ways! (Perhaps if we had had children together, they would have had a third eye in their foreheads, or six fingers on each hand)!

But it gets more complicated.

Whereas, my wife and I are cousins, my children and her children from our first marriages are also cousins to one another. Not only so, but I am my step-children's cousin, and my children are also my wife's cousins. My father and my wife's father were cousins, and my mother and my wife's mother were cousins; (though all four parents passed before we became aware of the fact). Our respective grandchildren are also cousins, and we are cousins to one another's grandchildren. And finally, my brothers in law and sisters in law are my cousins, and my brothers and sister are, well, you know.

The jury is still out, but before it's over, I may discover I am my own Grandpa!

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE BEST CHRISTMAS EVER

 4177

This story about a Christmas Day miracle sounded too good to be true when I heard a minister relate it last Sunday. I Googled it and found that it was written by a woman named Elizabeth English. The story was originally printed in Guideposts magazine sometime in the 1950s and reprinted in the 1989 book New Guideposts Christmas Treasury and the 2000 book, Christmas in My Heart, Volume 9. Given that stamp of authority, I choose to believe it happened. After all, Christmastime is a magical season and, well, believing in stories like this makes it that much more magical!

Herman and I finally locked our store and dragged ourselves home to South Caldwell Street. It was 11:00 p.m., Christmas Eve of 1949. We were dog-tired.

Ours was one of those big, old general appliance stores that sold everything from refrigerators and toasters and record players to bicycles and dollhouses and games. We’d sold almost all our toys; and all the layaways, except one package, had been picked up.

Usually Herman and I kept the store open until everything had been picked up. We knew we wouldn’t have awakened very happy on Christmas morning knowing that some little child’s gift was back on the layaway shelf. But the person who had put a dollar down on that package never appeared.

Early Christmas morning our 12-year-old son, Tom, and Herman and I were out by the tree opening up gifts. But I’ll tell you there was something very humdrum about this Christmas. Tom was growing up; he hadn’t wanted any toys—just clothes and games. I missed his childish exuberance of past years.

As soon as breakfast was over, Tom left to visit his friend next door. And Herman disappeared into the bedroom, mumbling, “I’m going back to sleep. There’s nothing left to stay up for anyway.”

So there I was, alone, doing the dishes and feeling very letdown. It was nearly 9:00, and sleet mixed with snow cut the air outside. The wind rattled our windows, and I felt grateful for the warmth of the apartment. Sure glad I don’t have to go out on a day like today, I thought to myself, picking up the wrappings and ribbons strewn around the living room.

And then it began. Something I’d never experienced before. A strange, persistent urge. “Go to the store,” it seemed to say.

I looked at the icy sidewalk outside. That’s crazy, I said to myself. I tried dismissing the thought, but it wouldn’t leave me alone. Go to the store.

Well, I wasn’t going to go. I’d never gone to the store on Christmas Day in all the 10 years we’d owned it. No one opened shop on that day. There wasn’t any reason to go, I didn’t want to, and I wasn’t going to.

For an hour I fought that strange feeling. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I got dressed.

“Herman,” I said, feeling silly, “I think I’ll walk down to the store.”

Herman woke up with a start. “Whatever for? What are you going to do there?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied lamely. “There’s not much to do here, I just think I’ll wander down.”

He argued against it a little, but I told him that I’d be back soon. “Well, go on,” he grumped, “but I don’t see any reason for it.”

I put on my gray wool coat and a gray tam on my head, then my galoshes and my red scarf and gloves. Once outside, none of these garments seemed to help. The wind cut right through me and the sleet stung my cheeks. I groped my way along the mile down to 117 East Park Avenue, slipping and sliding all the way.

I shivered, and tucked my hands inside the pockets of my coat to keep them from freezing. I felt ridiculous. I had no business being out in that bitter chill.

There was the store just ahead. The sign announced Radio-Electronics Sales and Service, and the big glass windows jutted out onto the sidewalk. But—What in the world? In front of the store stood two little boys, huddled together, one about 9, and the other 6.

“Here she comes!” yelled the older one. He had his arm around the younger. “See, I told you she would come!” he said jubilantly.

The two little children were half frozen. The younger one’s face was wet with tears, but when he saw me, his eyes opened wide and his sobbing stopped.

“What are you two children doing out here in this freezing rain?” I scolded, hurrying them into the store and turning up the heat. “You should be at home on a day like this!” They were poorly dressed. They had no hats or gloves, and their shoes barely held together. I rubbed their small, icy hands and got them up close to the heater.

We’ve been waiting for you,” replied the older. They had been standing outside since 9:00, the time I normally open the store.

“Why were you waiting for me?” I asked, astonished.

“My little brother, Jimmy, didn’t get any Christmas.” He touched Jimmy’s shoulder. “We want to buy some skates. That’s what he wants. We have these $3. See, Miss Lady,” he said, pulling the money from his pocket.

I looked at the dollars in his hand. I looked at their expectant faces. And then I looked around the store. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but we’ve sold almost everything. We have no skates—” Then my eye caught sight of the layaway shelf with its one lone package. I tried to remember what was in it . . .

“Wait a minute,” I told the boys. I walked over, picked up the package, unwrapped it, and, miracles of miracles, there was a pair of skates!

Jimmy reached for them. Lord , I said silently, let them be his size.

And miracle added upon miracle, they were his size.

When the older boy finished tying the laces on Jimmy’s right foot and saw that the skate fit —perfectly —he stood up and presented the dollars to me.

“No, I’m not going to take your money,” I told him. I couldn’t take his money. “I want you to have these skates, and I want you to use your money to get some gloves for your hands.”

The two boys just blinked at first. Then their eyes became like saucers, and their grins stretched wide when they understood I was giving them the skates, and I didn’t want their $3.

What I saw in Jimmy’s eyes was like a blessing. It was pure joy, and it was beautiful. My low spirits rose.

After the children had warmed up, I turned down the heater, and we walked out together. As I locked the door, I turned to the older brother and said, “How lucky that I happened to come along when I did. If you’d stood there much longer, you’d have frozen. But how did you boys know I would come?”

I wasn’t prepared for his reply. His gaze was steady, and he answered me softly. “I knew you would come,” he said. “I asked Jesus to send you.”

The tingles in my spine weren’t from the cold. God had planned this.

As we waved good-bye, I turned home to a brighter Christmas than I had left. Tom brought his friend over to our house. Herman got out of bed, and his father, “Papa” English, and sister, Ella, came by. We had a wonderful dinner and a wonderful time.

But the one thing that made that Christmas really wonderful was the one thing that makes every Christmas wonderful: Jesus was there.

DIARY OF A SNOW SHOVELER

 4176 

We moved to North Dakota this fall. We heard that summers are fun and winter is beautiful. We think there is no more beautiful a place in the whole world!

 

December 8 - 6:00 PM It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses print. So romantic, we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

 

December 9 - We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the whole world? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had! Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life!

 

December 12 - The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment! My neighbor tells me not to worry- we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor.

 

December 14 - Snow, lovely snow! 8 inches last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so.

 

December 15 - 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska, after all.

 

December 16 - Ice storm this morning. Fell on my backside on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like crazy. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

 

December 17 - Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her.  I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room.

 

December 20 - Electricity's back on, but had another 14 inches of the darn stuff last night. More shoveling! Took all day. The snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but. they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.

 

December 22 - Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white crap fell today, and it's so cold, it probably won't melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel. Tried to hire Bob-who has a plow on his truck-for the rest of the winter, but he says he's too busy. I think the bum is lying.

 

December 23 - Only 2 inches of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she, nuts?!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago. She says she did, but I think she's lying.

 

December 24 - 6 inches - Snow packed so hard by snowplow, l broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the guy who drives that snow plow, I'll drag him through the snow by his hair and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling, and then he comes down the street...at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over where I've just been! Tonight, the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents...but I was too busy watching for the darn snowplow.

 

December 25 - Merry Christmas! 20 more inches of the white slop tonight - snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. I hate the snow! Then, the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's an idiot. If I have to watch "It's A Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to feed her through a wood chipper.

 

December 26 - Still snowed in. Why the did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.

 

December 27 - Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze; plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him, he only charged me $4,400 to replace all my pipes.

 

December 28 - Warmed up to above -20. Still snowed in. The wife is driving me crazy!!!

 

December 29 - 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

 

December 30 - Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plow driver, and now he is suing me for a million dollars for the beating I gave him. The wife went home to her mother. Nine more inches predicted.

 

December 31 - I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling.

 

January 8 – I feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed ???

 

-Author Unknown

 

GOD CALLING

 4175

Over the past thirty years, I have served as a pastoral counselor in seven different locations; mainly one location at a time, occasionally two.

Two years ago, I contracted with Willow Oak Assembly near Lakeland, Florida, to provide pastoral counseling to this relatively small congregation. The first year I was there, I met with thirty clients. And while next to my all time high client population, this number was miniscule, during this season of my life, it is more than enough. However, as this, the second year comes to a close, I have met with a grand total of eleven clients; about a third of the number from the first year.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don't do what I do to amass great riches. My fees are among the lowest on this or any other planet. My priority is simply IMPACT. However, (there's that word again), given my client population has fallen by 2/3 in my second year at Willow Oak compared to my first year, it seemed to me that it was time to either contract with another church, or to simply retire.

As a result, I recently sat down with Pastor Pfingston, the Senior Pastor at Willow Oak, and made him aware of my still tentative decision to resign my counseling position there. He expressed regret that I would almost certainly be leaving next month, but he understood. His only suggestion was that should I reconsider resigning from my post, he would add a blurb about the counseling ministry to some glossy handouts he intends to have printed, and that he would "push" my ministry to members of his congregation during morning worship services.

Our meeting concluded, I thanked the pastor, walked out to my car, drove home, entered my house through my garage, found my way to my easy chair, sat down, turned on the TV, and dialed up a news channel.

I cannot tell you exactly how much time transpired, but it couldn't have been more than an hour when...

A voice thundered from the heavens! (Well, not exactly). To be sure, I can't begin to characterize what did exactly happen. Since this experience, I have told the pastor, and a few friends and family members that what I heard was almost, (but not quite) an audible voice. (I am at a loss to properly explain it).

I only know that the voice asked me two rather rhetorical questions.

"Did I send you to Willow Oak?"

To which I could only answer, "Yes."

(and)

"Have I told you to leave Willow Oak?"

To which I could only answer, "No."

I had my answer. I immediately called Pastor Scott, and shared this supernatural experience with him, and that I would staying on in my current capacity.

We serve a God who can be counted upon to provide answers to our questions; often times, when we fail to ask, or have already reached what we regard as the best solution.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE WITCHES AMONG US

 4174

My 8th great Grandfather, Robert Ring, immigrated to America during the 17th century, and settled in Massachusetts. He was an indentured servant, and a barrel maker. Before too many years elapsed, he became one of the most prosperous men in Salisbury.

As it fell together, two sons of Robert named Joseph and Jarvis, my 8th great Uncles, gave testimony at the Salem Witch Trials. And as a result, a woman named Susannah Martin was sentenced to death. Their (ridiculous and misguided) testimonies can be found on the internet. Of course, I cannot begin to tell you how much I regret any familial ties to these men.

I had previously left a post on a social media page titled, "Salem Witch Trials Descendants" in which I wrote,

"I am the 8th great Nephew of Joseph and Jarvis Ring who testified against Susannah Martin, and as a result, she was put to death." 

In the meantime, several days passed, and tonight I returned to the page, and discovered that someone had responded to my post.

"Hi, my name is Linda _______. Susannah Martin was my 10th great Grandmother."

And while I realize there are probably hundreds of direct descendants of this poor, unfortunate lady, and other convicted defendants, Linda's response felt like one of those great steel balls on the end of a cable had slammed into my abdomen.

I counter-responded with,

"Oh my, Linda. Tears in my eyes. While neither of us knew our ancient relatives, I regret so much that my kinsmen gave false testimony against your kinswoman. Just so poignant to hear from you."

With this, Linda assured me that,

"It is not your fault, and you can't be held accountable for the poor choices of your great Uncles."

Of course, I was and am grateful that Linda extended such grace to a relative of the men who were responsible for the death of her ancient grandmother. 

I think Susannah would be glad, not only that she, in essence, lives on in the lives of multiplied hundreds of descendants, but that one of them took time to offer grace to a distant relative of her accusers. 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

I AM OZ, THE GREAT & THE TERRIBLE

 4173

Almost 70 years ago, when I was in second grade, our teacher, Mrs. Samson took it on herself to organize a class play.

And for whatever reason, yours truly was nominated to play the Wizard of Oz. Oh, not just any Wizard of Oz, but his manifestation as, (for lack of a better moniker), the Fire Wizard.

And thus, on a given day, having learned my lines, (all two of them), and our parents sitting in rapt attention in the school auditorium, I "strutted my stuff" on the stage.

Oh, did I mention that given my role as the Wizard of Oz a la flames and smoke, a large quantity of rouge had been smeared on my face. And now, as I made my way to the center of the stage, and began to recite my lines... the absolutely unendurable and unspeakable occurred.

The audience began laughing... at me!

And, no doubt, I thought, "The show must go on, (in spite of the way you guys are treating the star of this production").

Gathering together all the courage I possessed as a six year old, I spoke,

"I am Oz, the Great and the Terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?"

I honestly don't recall anything which transpired before or after I uttered those 17 words, but, if I am ever called upon to do an encore performance, 70 years later I still have my lines down pat!

by Bill McDonald, PhD