The boy persisted. “Please, Jacob. I won’t laugh at you. I promise. I really want to hear the story.”

The old man finally answered. “No matter, [...]]]> They sat side by side on the hillside, silently gazing into the starry sky. Finally, the boy spoke. “Would you tell me about that night, Jacob?” The old man said nothing.

The boy persisted. “Please, Jacob. I won’t laugh at you. I promise. I really want to hear the story.”

The old man finally answered. “No matter, Peter. The laughing doesn’t bother me anymore. My thoughts just don’t come as quickly as they did 70 years ago.”

“So it’s been that long? Seventy years?”

“More than 70. I was about your age. Just a lad. But I remember clearly… as if it were last night.” He stared nowhere in particular, his mind lost in another time.

“And the others with you, Jacob? Were they older?”

“Yes. I was the youngest—and probably the most afraid.”

Peter paused a moment, then whispered. “Tell me. Please.”

Soft words came at last. “We were alone on the hillside, watching over our sheep. Just as you and I are tonight. Then instantly, like a lightning bolt from heaven, an angel stood among us. His blazing clothing blinded us and lit up the whole hillside….”

The old man paused as the boy interrupted, each thought tumbling over the next. “Did the angel speak to you, Jacob? What did he say? Were you frightened?

Jacob was sober in his recollection, as one who had told the story many times, often to mocking and ridicule.

“Though he told us not to be afraid, his appearance terrified us. Even Eli, who seemed as big as Goliath to me, could barely stand up afterwards. And the angel’s message stunned us. After thousands of years, the Messiah had finally come! But He would not be the king we were expecting. Instead, we would find him lying in manger in a stable in Bethlehem. It didn’t make sense.”

Peter could hardly utter his next question. “Then what happened, Jacob?”

“Then the heavens exploded with countless other angels—all singing and praising God. But like the light from a snuffed candle, they suddenly disappeared, leaving us in darkness again.”

“It was then you went to Bethlehem?”

“Yes. We knew we must seek the Child and see if what the angel had said was true. Eli took off first, and I struggled to keep up as best my short legs could. We ran from stable to stable until we found the Child—exactly as the angel had described.”

“Jacob, the boys in the village say you dreamed all these things.”

“Yes, I’ve heard their foolish talk. But they are mistaken. We all saw the Child… and touched Him. Flesh and blood are no dream.”

“They say you are just an old man who makes up tales about the Child to sound important. All of the other shepherds you claim were with you have been dead for many years, and there is no one left alive to prove your story. They call you ‘The Last Shepherd’ to make fun of you.”

“It is true that I am very old and have outlived all the others who ran to Bethlehem that night. But I am not The Last Shepherd, Peter.”

“What do you mean, Jacob? You said that the others were dead.”

“They are indeed. But there was another shepherd in the stable that night who still lives. He is The Last Shepherd.”

“But how can there be another shepherd, Jacob? I don’t understand.”

“The Child, Peter. The Child. Do you know what He called himself when He grew up?”

“Yes! Now I remember! He once said, ‘I am the Good Shepherd!’”

“He is also the Last Shepherd, for no other shepherd will ever come after Him to guard and protect His flock.”

“But how can He prove your story since he’s not here?”

“Tell me, Peter. How do you get your sheep to come to you?”

“I call them by name, and they come because they know my voice. First one, then another, until all are safely in the fold.”

“Exactly. And everyone who sees them respond to your call knows for certain you must be their shepherd. Is that not so? And so it is today with The Last Shepherd. He calls His sheep one by one, and as they hear their names they go to Him in heaven. But a day is coming when He will call all that remain, and the entire flock will go to Him at once. Then those who disbelieve will begin to understand.”

“I think I see, Jacob, but when will this happen?”

“I don’t know, lad. I don’t know. But with each passing year, I long more and more to hear my name called. I hope it’s on a night much like tonight, here on the hillside, gazing into the heavens and guarding our sheep. Then I will go to Him.”

“Could it be tonight, Jacob?”

“Yes, lad. It could be tonight.” And they lay back on the grass… listening… as if trying to hear a distant voice.

—–
“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

Copyright 2011 James McAlister

Printer friendly version

Bulletin Insert

Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them [...]]]> I saw her for the last time on such a rare and wonderful autumn day as this. With fall crispness charging the air, our long, lingering stroll around the campus let her enjoy the unique texture of October breeze and sun upon her cheeks.

Our visit completed, I offered my goodbyes–without realizing she was hearing them for the last time. But it’s not ordained for us to know the times or epochs of our lives, to read with full comprehension the great plans indelibly etched upon the scroll of eternity.

I returned home that bright October afternoon to mundane duties far less significant than the one just completed. We retired as usual that evening, around 10:00, only to be jolted awake at 3:00 by the telephone call many parents silently fear deep within their souls.

“Jenny is in cardiac arrest,” the voice dutifully reported. “You can meet the ambulance at the emergency room.” We numbly scrambled to pull ourselves together.

We were there when the ambulance arrived, and a group of medical personnel hovered over Jenny, frantic in their attempts to revive her.

“How long has she been this way?” I asked, dreading the answer. The terse reply came: “Twenty-five minutes.”

“There’s no use continuing,” I acknowledged. “Let her go.” They questioned my decision. “Are you sure?” I was.

Then came a few moments alone with her, the formal documents to sign, the sober trip home, the decisions about what to do first, the long wait until daylight before making the requisite calls, the cleaning and the tentative plans.

Mary shopped for a suitable outfit, one of soft, respectful pink for the daughter who would, after all, need to look lovely for friends coming to see her for one last time. And she did. Mary called me from the funeral home. “I’ve just seen the most beautiful girl in the world.” And she had.

Along with Mary and me, her brother spoke at the funeral. Then we three offered our goodbyes–knowing they were for the last time.

On rare and wonderful autumn days such as this, I sometimes wonder: Is there really a heaven? What will it be like? Will we remember our times together? Will we know each other? Will we be able to take long, lingering strolls and feel the October breeze and sun upon our cheeks?

But in those moments of evaluation, Jesus’ assurances from the Bible spring up within me. “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.”

Thus I seldom recall that particular rare and wonderful autumn day — October 2, 1995 — with any residual sadness. For it was, and still remains, one of the few great watersheds of our lives, defining the terrain and landscape in which we will live out our remaining years. And the last times of that unique October confirm the beliefs we truly call our own.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

Printer friendly version

—–

Golden Autumn by name, she heralds inevitable liberation from the restricting bonds of summer heat. [...]]]> Autumn is my favorite season of the year, and the weather I have come to expect and enjoy in October has just arrived in the last few days. Thus I post an older article about the feelings Autumn brings with it.

—–

Golden Autumn by name, she heralds inevitable liberation from the restricting bonds of summer heat. And brushed by the train of her garment, summer’s prickly greens and blues soon transform to longer, softer wavelengths of red and orange and yellow.

At about this time each year, I watchfully await signs of her coming — not on a specific calendar day, but in a particular season of pleasantly distinctive and remarkable quality. This week, Golden Autumn, crouching just outside my door, unexpectedly sprang upon me. And as with her previous annual visitations, she caught me not disappointed.

Surely because our house faces directly west — and no trees shield afternoon’s sun — summer has lain upon us like a blanket, hot and heavy. Stifling, stale air, tempered infinitesimally only by a layer of insulation just added to the door, saturates and permeates our garage.

So when I slightly cracked the front door early Friday morning and felt lightness in the air, I silently rejoiced. “Autumn,” says Gregg Easterbrook, “truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise.”

But for the unforgettable pungent odors of burning leaves wafting through our neighborhood, few autumn memories of my own childhood linger. But decades later, our son would often indulge himself with flying leaps into the copious windrows of fallen leaves snaking about our yard. At least, that is, until he had more intimately associated himself with the work which had created those fluffy brown dunes.

For several years, autumn announced my pilgrimage back to college, a ritual I never warmly embraced. But on the other hand, Golden Autumn still brings balance by also staying tedious and tiring lawn care.

Today, varied enemies have entrenched themselves on several fronts to launch guerrilla warfare at their discretion against my contentment. But enter Golden Autumn — bearing the hopefulness of plunging once again into coolness and color for both respite and renewal. For Golden Autumn speaks of new beginnings.

But why the acute interest in autumn — especially this autumn? Perhaps because my own season of life impels me to carefully count remaining autumns as a miser his gold, to treasure them as a definable and finite resource. And perhaps because physical infirmities have recently barred me from activities I’ve sorely needed — to be out and moving, experiencing the solitude and majesty of God’s creation as man pits himself against the outdoors.

Summer inflicts pain only autumn can salve, puts wrinkles in life only autumn can smooth. And like a mother with her hurting child, Golden Autumn heals the soul by touch and words alone.

Copyright 2003 James McAlister

Printer friendly version

Then one ordinary day a stranger unexpectedly visited these [...]]]> A long time ago, further back than anyone can remember, a kind and wise king ruled a happy, contented people. His subjects loved him greatly, and he met their every need. In return, the king asked only that they obey him. And for a while they did.

Then one ordinary day a stranger unexpectedly visited these people. Grand in appearance but sly in purpose, he spoke beautiful, compelling words to encourage them to disobey their king. And he made deceitful promises he could never keep. The people listened carefully–before doing exactly as the stranger asked.

But as soon as they disobeyed the wise king, a surprising change confronted them. No longer free as they once had been, they suddenly found themselves enslaved by a harsh master–the stranger!

With great sadness the wise king unfolded the consequences of their disobedience: pain and suffering would be their constant companions.

Still, he did not leave them without hope. “In the fullness of time I will send a powerful new king to break the stranger’s grip on you. Watch constantly for your deliverer, for you do not what day or hour he will come. Unlike other kings, he will be lowly and meek and will not be clothed in regal garments. But you will come to know him by his name.”

A cruel taskmaster, the stranger continually encouraged the people to do all the evils the wise king had warned them against. As their suffering intensified, so did their longing for the deliverer who would release them from the stranger’s prison.

But the deliverer did not come in their lifetimes… or their children’s… or their grandchildren’s. Centuries slipped away, but from time to time the wise king would send reminders that he had not forgotten. The deliverer would come… one day.

Then on a night much like any other night, the heavens exploded with myriads of angels giving glory to God. The deliverer had indeed been born in a stable not far away, and shepherds raced to find this promised king. But as they had been told, they saw no king they recognized–just a baby in a humble manger.

But the wise king was proven right. They would come to know the promised one by his name–a Majestic Name that would thoroughly break the stranger’s powerful hold on them… and their children… and their grandchildren.

Of this Majestic Name, the Bible (Philippians 2:9-11) says, “Wherefore God also hath highly exalted him, and given him a name which is above every name: That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; and that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”

And because of the Majestic Name we remember at each Christmas season, hope will always be ours… and our children’s… and our grandchildren’s… forever.

MAJESTIC NAME

When time was full, the world had long been waiting
For God to send the One anticipated.
Of lowly birth, He set aside His glory.
The Son of God fulfilled redemption’s story.

As shepherds watched, the moment unsuspected,
God’s glory shown, and hope was resurrected!
Heavenly choirs poured praise and adorations!
Jesus was born a Savior for the nations!

Though sin had reigned, unchallenged in dominion,
A Babe had come in pow’rful opposition
To rule as King o’er all who would permit Him,
Redeeming souls and making life worth living.

(Refrain)
Majestic Name, above all others towers!
Majestic Name, that’s limitless in power!
At Jesus’ name, all knees will bend in honor
And call Him Lord to glorify the Father.

Copyright 2002 James McAlister

Printer friendly version

—–

There are times [...]]]> I post this 1999 article today in memory of the 15th anniversary of the death of our daughter, Jenny. And though she has drifted away to a far greater extent than mentioned in the article, I have two great assurances: heaven is real, and I will soon be reunited with her–and her mom!

—–

There are times when I really miss our daughter Jenny. In so many ways, our brief time with her, which once seemed so protracted and difficult, is now like a dream. But occasionally something will happen to bring her back to my mind with a remarkable clarity and presence. And in such moments she still lives, and we are together once more in all the pleasantness of childhood.

That happened not long ago when my wife Mary showed me a card that she had made in 1980. With tears in her voice, she handed me the card and said, “See, Jenny really was here; this proves it.” On the card, one large owl and three smaller ones are sitting on a branch. Their bodies are actually our fingerprints embellished with the necessary features to fill out their forms.

The smallest owl is son Barrett’s pinkie at age seven weeks, and Jenny (age eight) is beside him on the branch. No matter how fuzzy her memory becomes, she was with us, and her little owl reverses the clock. Our family unit still faced many years of difficult struggle, but that didn’t matter. Inseparable, we were a happy little band.

But the absence ushered in by Jenny’s death in late 1995 has removed much of the tangible reality of her life. My not being able to physically behold her each day has eroded much of what was once so clear, undeniable, and seemingly unforgettable.

Though she was with us for almost 23 years, there are even some days now in which I actually don’t think of her. In a sense, she, and all the trappings and circumstances of her life, is adrift in my mind. There are those sobering flashbacks, however, when something as simple as the little owl revives her with a voice as fresh as if nothing had ever changed.

In such interludes she is somehow anchored, and time has momentarily paused. Seeing the card was such an occasion, a reminder that death will ultimately affect every human relationship. And no matter how close I have been to family and friends in life, I too will eventually begin a relentless drift away from them. How important it is to let down some “anchors” now — by investing in their lives while I have the chance.

THE SEA OF TIME

What once was near in bygone days,
Relentlessly has slipped away
‘Til what was real (and surely mine)
Is lost upon the sea of time.

Relationships I then held dear
Engaged my heart without the fear
That Death would ever intervene
To plunge the real into a dream.

But, unexpectedly He came
To exercise His prior claim,
Compelling me to loose the line
And launch her on the sea of time.

Occasionally, there’ll be a trace
That brings her fresh before my face –
An anchor in the sea of time –
Reminding me that she was mine.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

Printer friendly version

The owl card

Article about Jenny

—–

My dad had two fears: the nursing home and a long-winded speaker at his funeral. He avoided the first; the jury still debates the second.

The call from his apartment [...]]]> I post this article today in memory of my dad, a World War II veteran who was proud of his service. He died in December 2005.

—–

My dad had two fears: the nursing home and a long-winded speaker at his funeral. He avoided the first; the jury still debates the second.

The call from his apartment building came unexpectedly on Thursday morning. “Your dad has passed out and has no blood pressure.” But when I got there minutes later, he had revived. Flat on his back in the floor, he joked with the paramedics hovering over him.

For a 93-year-old, he did well in the hospital, and we had expected to take him home after a brief stay. But all his systems shut down suddenly on Friday evening, “old and worn out” as he often told us.

Looking back, I realize that he had frequently exhibited a peculiar sense of timing at critical points of life, this one being no exception. Four years ago, for example, he decided that he needed to give up a house for a retirement apartment. Afterward, his health improved enough to extricate himself from all his medications.

Then just a month later he concluded that he needed to quit driving. In picking up the truck keys as he had asked, I was also removing his last grip on independence. But it was time.

He called me the Sunday before his death, worrying that the arrangements for his funeral wouldn’t be handled properly. I assured him otherwise but promised that my sister, Sara, and I would get all loose ends tied up that week. That satisfied him.

Then came the hospital trip on Thursday.

Perfectly alert but seemingly a bit tired, he began asking “Where is Sara?” around noon on Friday. Each time–there were probably a dozen–I explained that she was on her way. When he acknowledged her arrival, I went home to rest. Within a couple of hours, though, he was gone.

Sara, Mary, Barrett and I sat with him in the hospital room for two hours awaiting the arrival of the funeral director. We reminisced and laid plans: I would be the dreaded long-winded speaker.

Beyond that, I wrestled with a peculiar revelation. For from my birth 60 years before until that moment, there had always been someone older in my line of ancestry. But the years had gradually, relentlessly taken all except my dad. And in the instant of his death, I moved to the head of the line.

While he was at the head of the line, Daddy frequently apologized for living so long and for being so much trouble. At such times I assured him, “It’s no trouble. You’re doing the very best that you can.” “Thanks for saying that,” he’d invariably reply.

Don’t those at the head of the line want to be loved and accepted, valued and honored by those lined up behind them? Don’t they want their contributions and sacrifices acknowledged and appreciated? Indeed. I see that more clearly today from my new vantage point.

Though he never spoke to us about World War II for a full 55 years, “The War” was on his mind constantly for the last five. As he lay on his bed, the people, places, difficulties, and distresses of that great struggle marched through his mind with greater intensity than today’s news. He recently confessed, “The War just won’t turn me loose.”

The War finally released him on December 9, 2005. But I wonder this: what will have hold of me until I eventually relinquish my unenviable place at the head of the line? A worthy cause, I pray.

THE HEAD OF THE LINE

The line I’m in that’s been so slow
Moved up one step today;
My turn’s not far away.
On to the front I surely go.
Once far — but now so near –
I see the head from here,
Brought closer with each death, I know.

Copyright 2005 James McAlister

Printer friendly version

Bulletin Insert

That’s the way the phone call began our third week of marriage. But I was newlywed-husband adamant. “Absolutely not! Cats carry germs and suck the breath out of babies. Mother said so. No cats!”

She [...]]]> “I’m so lonely here by myself during the day, and there’s free kitty advertised on the radio. Can I get it? Please?”

That’s the way the phone call began our third week of marriage. But I was newlywed-husband adamant. “Absolutely not! Cats carry germs and suck the breath out of babies. Mother said so. No cats!”

She didn’t seem to hear. “But I’m so lonesome. You’re at work, and I’m here by myself all day. Please!”

“No way! Cats are out!”

“P-l-e-e-e-e-e-a-s-e!”

My family had always been dog people. Like men, dogs are logical, practical. Blundering and clueless perhaps, but stalwart and faithful nevertheless.

Consider Blackie, the bench-legged feist who used to go possum hunting with us. After being sprayed by a skunk one hapless night, he endeavored to solve his problem by jumping in the back seat and rubbing the vile odor onto us boys.

And before human ear could detect an approaching storm, Muff, our gentle Collie mix, would streak around the yard yelping, warning us of danger looming beyond the horizon.

Old Joe, a mutt who showed up after I left for college, developed a penchant for finding misplaced hammers and axes. Then he chewed off their handles to rebuke our carelessness.

Dogs are useful in countless ways.

Not so with cats. They wander about in self-centered oblivion, doing as they please. So we never had a cat, and Mother often cautioned us of their evils.

So when I pronounced, “No cats,” I had an agenda. But when newlywed wife pled, “P-l-e-e-e-e-e-a-s-e,” so did she.

Thus our struggle blossomed from deep, solid roots.

For reasons I’ve yet to comprehend, my resolve unexpectedly weakened, breaking the stalemate. I suddenly, inexplicably relented. “Okay, okay. You can have the cat.”

Exuberance exploded over the telephone wires. “Oh, goodie! She’s under the bed right now!”

And there Punkinhead Julie remained–petrified–for three full days. I eventually accepted the purring kitten, the first in a long line of memorable felines who have rendered themselves indispensable to our well being.

But there were unforeseen complications. Being neophytes, we didn’t realize that our apartment complex forbade pets. So Punkin had to be smuggled behind the building for furtive outings. And having nothing but a bed sheet to use for a leash, we were hardly invisible.

Months later, a painful truth finally dawned: I had been snookered. The outcome of the great cat debate had been determined before negotiations commenced.

Like cats, women apparently fabricate rules that suit them, and somehow the future mysteriously conforms to those constraints.

Though too late to be of much good now, I’ve developed Two Rules for Dealing with Cats and Life:

1. Never pick up a purring kitten unless you intend to keep it.

2. Never give in unless you’re prepared to stay in.

The end may not justify the means, but you still arrive at the end anyway.

Copyright 2004 James McAlister

Printer friendly version

—–

HOW TO GRIEVE

“After the first death, there is no other,” [...]]]> These three items have been an encouragement to me in the grieving process after the loss of loved ones, and I’m hopeful that they will be for others as well. Please feel to pass them on. There’s a link to a printer-friendly version at the end.

—–

HOW TO GRIEVE

“After the first death, there is no other,” wrote Dylan Thomas. That doesn’t mean the ones that come after won’t break your heart, but it’s the first that punches your soul’s passport. Welcome, fellow human, to a different country than the one you woke up to this morning. The air’s different here; so is the scenery. Your knees don’t work so well; in fact, you may want to fall to them.

For a precious little while, you are allowed to be stunned into silence, or to shriek, or to talk—recounting stories of who he was, what she meant to you, and how it all came to an end. Tell those stories. Some people may try to enforce “The Rules,” to wit: Enough of This Drama Is Enough. Ignore them. Besides, if you treat yourself gently and take the time you need, someday soon you’ll hear the faint but steady voice of your own good sense. Play music you love, sit in the sunshine if you can find some, and if anyone offers you a hand, hold it. Let them feed the cat, too, because they want to be useful. If your good sense does not kick in on its own, help it along: scramble some eggs. It will feel strange at first. But if you pretend that scrambling eggs is normal, eventually it will become normal. Soon you can squeeze some orange juice, too.

For some of us the stay in this new country seems endless. But time passes, seasons change, and, truly, would those we grieve for want us to mope? Come with me back into the world. We’ll return to this land someday, all too soon, but in the meantime the garden needs weeding, the bills need paying. Your other loved ones need you. And you, my sweet friend, you could use a shampoo.

—Larkin Warren

GONE FROM MY SIGHT

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.

I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says: “There, she is gone!”

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There, she is gone,” there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout:

“Here she comes!”

…And that is dying.

—Henry Van Dyke

THE ROSE BEYOND THE WALL

Near a shady wall a rose once grew,
Budded and blossomed in God’s free light,
Watered and fed by the morning dew,
Shedding its sweetness day and night.

As it grew and blossomed fair and tall,
Slowly rising to loftier height,
It came to a crevice in the wall
Through which there shone a beam of light.

Onward it crept with added strength
With never a thought of fear or pride,
It followed the light through the crevice’s length
And unfolded itself on the other side.

The light, the dew, the broadening view
Were found the same as they were before,
And it lost itself in beauties new,
Breathing its fragrance more and more.

Shall claim of death cause us to grieve
And make our courage faint and fall?
Nay! Let us faith and hope receive—
The rose still grows beyond the wall,

Scattering fragrance far and wide
Just as it did in days of yore,
Just as it did on the other side,
Just as it will forevermore.

—A. L. Frink

Printer friendly version