Lowering Your Elevator

Long before “911,” a very similar occurrence happened in the same city, but whereas the second circumstance was vengeful and purposeful, the original was nothing less than an accident.

For during WWII, an Army Air Corps pilot was flying over Manhattan in a dense fog. He was hopelessly lost, and his aircraft was far too low. Suddenly, The Empire State Building loomed ahead, and the unfortunate pilot crashed his large warplane into an upper floor of the building. Of course, he and his co-pilot died instantly, and several other office workers were also victims of the disaster.

And then there was the elevator operator. As she had for so many years before, she was going about her normal duties when the airplane smashed into the building. The cables to the elevator snapped, and the machine plummeted to the basement, dozens of floors below.

Thankfully, the elevator was equipped with an automatic braking system. As it fell to ground level, it began to slow down, but since it had already reached such a high speed, the braking system was just not enough to prevent the elevator operator from sustaining severe injuries.

“Marjorie” sustained several broken bones, and internal injuries, and I cannot speak to whether her injuries healed sufficiently for her to resume a normal, functional life, but… she lived.

I believe this story has something to teach us, beyond simply avoiding riding elevators in tall buildings. (No, I’m not serious). I have climbed the stairs which lead to the top of The Washington Monument, as well as those leading to the crown of The Statue of Liberty, and I can affirm that an elevator is faster, and requires so much less effort. As a matter of fact, I have ridden an elevator to the 86th floor of The Empire State Building, on my senior trip in the late 60's; the same building which experienced the foregoing tragedy a quarter of a century prior to my own visit.

Sometimes we invest too much faith, too much trust, too great an expectation in those with whom we have to do, and sometimes, as a result, we get hurt. People let us down. We set our proverbial elevator too high, and we find ourselves plummeting to the basement, below.

I think we would do ourselves a favor if we set our expectations of another person at lower level, so that if they disappoint us, we don’t find ourselves emotionally devastated. And if that person, or persons exceed our expectations, well, we can rejoice, and can be glad for it.

That almost forgotten event from such a long time ago has a valuable lesson to teach us; one which is difficult to learn, and one which some people never learn, but which has everything to do with our health and happiness.

By William McDonald, PhD. A true account of an actual event

 

 

 

Toby's Tears

My daughter and her son own a little black and white Chihuahua named Toby.

As the result of Kristy and Noah having traveled out of state recently, my daughter made the decision to place Toby in a doggie daycare for a week. (In my time nothing like this existed).

This particular canine babysitting service offers some pretty innovative features; group P.E., rest periods, and the transmission of daily photos and videos to the proud owners of the four-footed residents.

Ultimately my daughter and grandson completed their vacation, and returned to retrieve their dear pooch.

As Kristy walked into the doggie daycare, the owner/attendant commented on Toby’s socialization skills. Now this is a dog which spends hours alone in a bathroom during my daughter’s workday, thus, no doubt, she was surprised to understand how well Toby had interacted with the other animals.

As the two footed and four footed duo walked out the gate together, suddenly the residents of the second variety began barking in unison, as if to say, “So soon? Please don’t go. We’re gonna miss you!”

And oddly enough, Toby’s eyes began to well with tears, and several slipped down his doggie cheeks, as if to respond, “Golly, gee whiz, I had so much fun, and I’d love to hang with you guys awhile longer. But I guess I gotta go.”

While I am a therapist of the human, (rather than the canine) kind, and can make no claim to dog whisperer fame, and though this little pooch’s environs are once again limited to two people and a house, I like to think that, at least in his dreams, Toby will, again and again, be afforded the opportunity to romp and play with his fury, four-footed companions.

By William McDonald, PhD.  Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary," Vol. 4

The Sobs and Cheers Are Muted Now

History is full of strange coincidences, and the Civil War is no exception. In the 1950s, Stefan Lorant was researching a book on Abraham Lincoln when he came across an image of the President’s funeral procession as it moved down Broadway in New York City. The photo was dated April 25, 1865.

At first it appeared like one of any number of photographs of Lincoln’s funeral procession, until he identified the house on the corner as that of Cornelius van Schaack Roosevelt; the grandfather of future President Teddy Roosevelt and his brother Elliot.

The coincidence might have ended there, but Lorant took a closer look. In the second story window of the Roosevelt mansion he noticed the heads of two boys are peering out onto Lincoln’s funeral procession.

Lorant had the rare opportunity to ask Teddy Roosevelt’s wife about the image, and when she saw it, she confirmed what he had suspected. The faces in the window were those of a young future President and his brother. “Yes, I think that is my husband, and next to him his brother.”

Just one of numerous examples of people coming together, the rich, the famous, or simply commoners to mourn, acknowledge or celebrate one happening or another.

The crowds that greeted “Lucky Lindy” as he brought his weary aircraft down at Le Bourget Aerodrome.

The masses which gathered in London’s Trafalgar Square to celebrate VE Day, and the multiplied thousands who congregated in New York’s Times Square to celebrate VJ Day; finally bringing WWII to a close.

The festive tickertape parade which welcome General Douglas MacArthur back from Korea; after having been sacked by President Truman.

The live, virtual audience of literally billions, (of whom I was one) who watched Neil Armstrong climb down the ladder, and take his first tentative step upon the surface of the moon.

I have often mused about the aftermath of such events as these, and the crowds which came together to celebrate the end of a war or a military career, or those historic, watershed accomplishments; (which when, subsequently, repeated would gradually be considered nominal and mundane).

We view the photographs. We watch the films. We look into their vibrant eyes, we note their smiling lips, we hear their muted sobs or raucous cheers.

But the assembled throng, (including a future president) which, unwittingly, posed for Lincoln’s funeral procession on one of the most celebrated avenues of this dear country

…are all gone now. Every single one of them. Gone. Only we, their descendants, remain.

And how many who greeted Mr. Lindbergh at Le Bourget in 1927 are still with us? Were we to invite those waving, cheering masses, who lined the streets of London and New York in 1945, or who celebrated MacArthur’s return, to recreate their pilgrimage, how many would appear? Paradoxically, would a reunion photo be more poignant for the lack of people, and the empty streets which they once filled up? What fraction of the billion who starred wide-eyed into their black and white television sets in July, 1969, as Colonel Armstrong left his dusty footprints on the lunar surface, still live, and breathe and move among us?

Scripture assures us that “It is appointed unto man once to die…” (Hebrews 9:27) We simply cannot stay here. It is crucial that we work out whatever calling, that we use whatever talent, that we complete any goal which God has instilled within us; while there is still time to do so.

I have often reflected on one particular scene in the movie, “Dead Poet’s Society;” (a good movie and an extraordinary scene).

“Mr. Keating,” (portrayed by Robin Williams) a teacher at a private boy’s school, leads his boys down the stairs from the classroom, and into the lobby of the institution.

The young professor walks towards a couple of trophy cases, and instructs his pupils to gather about him.

“Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them. They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you.”

Mr. Keating’s boys are “all ears” by this point in his monologue. They know something of some value is coming.

And with the assurance of someone wiser than his years, the teacher continues.

“Did these young men in the photographs wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen closely, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it? (whispering in a gruff voice) Carpe. Hear it? (whispering) Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

And I think we have the privilege, opportunity and obligation to do this.

…To make our own lives extraordinary.

To discover the best within us. To find out that one thing which separates us from the rest. To develop that talent, that gift, that interest, which almost begs for a forum; to a razor’s edge. To, as Mr. Keating admonishes us, make our lives extraordinary. And I think we have the innate wherewithal to do this.

… (Though I think too few tend to do so).

The sobs and the cheers of those long lost crowds are muted now; and cannot be revisited. The season has passed. The crowds and throngs have long past lived out their lives and gone on to their reward. It is left for us, the living, to complete the task which God has instilled within our hearts

It is left to us to take time to listen, and to go about fulfilling whatever plans God has designed for us, as individuals, to complete.

In the words of Mr. Keating,

“Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it?

Carpe. Carpe Diem.

Seize the day boys and girls. Make your lives extraordinary.”

…While there is still time.

 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary," Vol. 4

 

 

The Sentry & the Sniper

     Ira Sankey was a rich singer of Christian songs and was widely known and loved throughout all of America. He was the George Beverly Shea of his day.

     Ira had served the Union during the Civil War. During that horrible war, he often found himself on picket duty, and he would wile away the hours with tunes he’d learned at home and in church. Even then his music was nothing short of marvelous to hear. Restless troops slumbered peacefully beneath it’s spell.

     It was a fine night. A cloudless sky offered Ira a better view of the stars than usual. His songs were more copious and more beautiful than ever this evening. It was then that a Confederate soldier “drew a bead” on the sentry across the river; the sentry with the short name of… Ira.

    The Civil War ended, and years turned into decades.

    A riverboat rounds the bend, and we hear music. Suddenly, on the night air, we make out the rich baritone of a gifted singer. We board that boat, and go into the dining hall.

    The fine singer has just concluded his program, and sits down. Applause fills the air, and the crowd begins to converse, and eat meals that have grown cold, as they sat in rapt attention.

    One particular man steps up to Ira, and introduces himself. There is a bit of small talk, and Mr. Sankey recognizes a Southern accent. The stranger begins to ask some mind-stirring questions; questions that revive the war years again.

    “Mr. Sankey, were you at such and such a river, on such and such a day during the war?” Ira’s face registered curiosity and interest. “Yes, I was there. How could you know?”

     The stranger smiled a whimsical smile, and asked another question. “Were you on sentry duty during the few days your unit was camped out on that river?”

 

     Again, the answer… “Yes, I remember it well.” Finally, the last question, “Did you sing aloud as you sat sentry?” Ira blinked. “Yes, Yes, I always sang on sentry duty.”

    Well, you could have knocked the stranger over with a feather. He looked at Ira with an expression that registered such love, and wonderment that Sankey could not draw his eyes away from him.

     “Mr. Sankey, I was just across the river from you that night. I was also doing sentry for my unit. Upon hearing your songs, I scanned the banks, and noticed you there, all alone. I thoroughly enjoyed your music, and lingered there for what seemed like hours. And then I realized that I had a job to do. I raised my rifle to my shoulder, and “drew a bead” on your chest. I put my finger to the trigger, and exerted a bit of pressure. Again, and again, I paused, and lowered the weapon, only to bring it back up to my shoulder. In the end, I could not shoot you. Your Christian songs were too beautiful, and beckoned me towards home. Had I shot you, it would have been like killing Christ Himself.”

     We cannot know what hand “Fate” will deal us. We do know Who holds our hand. We can rest assured that “all things work together for good to those who love God.” (Romans 8:28, KJV) We can be sure that He will use us ‘til He is through, and will ultimately give us a home in heaven.

     Paul speaks of this concept in the wonderful book of Philippians. “I cannot know whether God will leave me here, or whether He will take me on to my reward. Perhaps for your sake, He will give me favor to remain for awhile.” (Chapter One, MPV)

“But this life, and the lust of it is passing away, but he that does the will of the Lord endures forever.” (1^st John 2:17, KJV)

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 1 

 

 

 

The Body of Christ

It was 1968, or possibly 1969, and I was enrolled at Southeastern Bible College; (later to be referred to as Southeastern University where I was fortunate to serve as an adjunct professor almost 4 decades later).

I was seated near the front of a New Testament or Missions course, and a “Sister” Ruth Breush was the teacher.

She proceeded to share a recent dream with her students.

“I stood before the throne of Christ, and gazed into His amazing brown eyes. Every hair was in place. His cheeks were rosy and full. I marveled at His handsome countenance.

But then my gaze dropped below His neck. His shoulders were slumped. His chest was emaciated. His ribs were skeletal in appearance. His arms were thin and withered.

Of course, I was shocked!

The body of Christ. The body of Christ! His head was beautiful, and healthy. But His body was sick and worthy of pity.

And then it occurred to me. The head, which is Christ, is glorious in heaven. The body, which are the people of God, is ill, dysfunctional and ineffective.”

I have wondered whether among all her students, I may be the only one who still remembers, and shares her dream.

May we, as the body of Christ, prove worthy of His expectations. May we make a difference. May we be people of excellence. May we be fortunate, no blessed, to one day hear that “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.”

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 1

The Yield Signs in Our Lives

I was listening to “Night Sounds,” a wonderful internet broadcast, this morning. The topic of the program was simply titled,

…“Yield”

One facet of the broadcast was the inference that we ought always be ready to “play second fiddle in the orchestra” of life. So much like Jesus’ admonition that “if you wish to be first, you will become last.”

During the approx. 27 minutes in which I listened to his baritone voice this morning, the late Bill Pearce, the host of the previously referred to program, eloquently spoke of the “yield signs of life.”

One important yield sign in our lives on earth includes our willingness to allow someone else to go first, or have the notoriety. Interestingly enough, Mr. Pearce made the statement,

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been chosen for this role. I honestly don’t think I’m qualified to stand on stage, and vocalize the songs of the faith before thousands, nor sit behind this microphone and touch the lives of literally millions. No, sometimes I wish I could just fade into obscurity.” (But I think this good man’s preparation for notoriety was forwarded, and enhanced by his having once known obscurity, and some pretty significant seasons of doubt and despair).

Speaking of fading into obscurity, and yielding to what, sometimes, seems to be the whims of the Savior, I have run up against my share of yield signs in life. And more often than not, they have humbled me to the core.

For I have not always been content to, as Bill Pearce implied, “fade into obscurity.”

Yes, there have been plenty of yield signs along the way:

Those whom I have mentored who have “gone on about their business;” though they promised they’d never forget me.

Those who derived benefit from my ministry, and had the ability to contribute to my work, but who seemingly took advantage of my time and efforts.

Those who have misconstrued my intentions, or spoken badly about my agenda, (causing me to remember the words of the sweet old Gospel song, “When I do the best I can, and my friends misunderstand…”)

Those on the periphery of my efforts who were more than willing to take credit for the fruit of my labors.

Those who possessed the wherewithal to add momentum to my ministry, but who left me by the proverbial wayside.

Those who, time and time again, passed me by; while I waited by the obligatory yield sign.

(and)

Those seasons when trial, turmoil and testing filled up my plate with bitter herbs.

But the longer I live, the better I know, and the surer I become that our Lord never wastes a yield sign, and that He has placed them at all the strategic avenues and boulevards of my life.

For the longer I live, the surer I become that these little seasons of “humbling down” and waiting at yield signs

… have been good for me.

In some inexplicable way, these proverbial yield signs are good for us. For without Preparation, there can be no Mission; since Mission depends on Preparation. And so often the yield signs of life are part and parcel of our preparation for the next step which God has planned for us to take.

Hasn’t He promised that “my times are in His hands.” (Psalms 31:15,) and hasn’t He reminded us that “the Lord will accomplish that which concerns me.” (Psalms 138:8)

No, God never wastes a yield sign. Just as on a literal highway or byway, they have been put there for a reason. And the longer I live, the better I know, and the surer I become that the yield signs of life serve a similar purpose.

Scripture assures us that “I will give you riches in darkness, and treasures in secret places.” (Isaiah 45:3)

In the light of the foregoing passage, I believe the prophet might have advised us to

… “dig an oasis next to your yield sign, and rest awhile.”

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 4

 

Dying to Self

“Then He spoke to them all. ‘If anyone wants to follow in my footsteps, he must give up all right to himself, carry his cross every day, and remain close behind me. For the man who wants to save his life will lose it, but the man who loses his life for my sake will save it.’” Luke 9:23

 

Dying to self is a mindset, an attitude, a series of choices that culminate in purposeful actions. Dying to self is the living equivalent of Christ’ sacrifice on the cross.

 

We identify with Christ death and resurrection to life when we purposefully and progressively die to self.

 

“I am crucified with Christ. Nevertheless, I live. Yet not I, but Christ lives in me. The life that I now live in the flesh, I live by the faith of the Son of Man, Who loved me and gave Himself for me.” (Galatians 2:20)

 

Dying to self is depicted in several of the Christian sacraments and traditions.

 

*In Baptism we die and are raised to new life with Christ

*In Communion we celebrate Christ’ sacrifice; His literal dying to Self

*In Foot Washing we commemorate our willingness to serve; to put away self in favor

 of others

*In the ordination of a Christian minister we set aside someone devoted to do God’s will,

 ... rather than his own

 

Dying to self is the innate recognition that this isn’t all there is. The act of dying to self is based on the realization that the unseen and invisible is more real and enduring, than that which we refer to as real, but which passes away.

 

I think that dying to self becomes possible as a result of what are sometimes excruciating, even debilitating experiences, since dying to self requires a process rather like the purification of gold, or the creation of a diamond. The stressors involved in the creation of a diamond are: Heat, Stress and Time; the same variables that are prone to inflict us, and shape us into something beautiful, and a vessel fit for the Lord’s table.

 

Dying to self has an end in mind. It is not for nothing that we are called to this rather difficult process.

 

“I say to you unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies it produces much fruit. Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.” (John 12:24-25)

 

Jim Elliot was one of five missionaries who were inspired to reach out to a tribe of savage Indians in Ecuador. The Auca’s were, up until that point, unreached by Western Civilization. Over a period of time, Jim and his compatriots flew a light airplane over the Auca villages, and dropped gifts. These gifts seemed to be warmly received, as the natives seemed excited and grateful each time the missionaries flew over.

 

Finally the missionaries decided to make physical contact with the Auca tribe. On a given day, Nate Saint, one of the five and a pilot, landed his little aircraft on a sandbar in the river next to the village. We know that within a short period of time three Indians, two men and a woman, approached the missionaries. And the rest is history.

 

Jim Elliot and the other four were massacred on that sandbar. Their bodies were recovered later. A camera was found which contained pictures of the natives and the missionaries; just prior to their deaths.

 

Elizabeth Elliot, Jim’s very courageous widow, made the decision to renew contact with the Auca tribe, and later visited the same village, located on the river where her husband sacrificed his life. Elizabeth was successful in presenting the Gospel to this group of Indians.

 

Today the Auca’s are a peaceful tribe. Today the majority of these once savage Indians have experienced the saving knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ. The chieftain who participated in the killing of the five missionaries is a Christian minister. And amazingly, he has ceremonially adopted the son of Nate Saint, one of the original five, Jim Elliot said, “He is no fool who gives up that which he cannot keep to gain that which he cannot lose.”

 

Dying to self is about deliberate service. It involves a spirit of humility, and in such an environment pride must die. Dying to self is about embracing Mission, and neglecting what this world calls fair, or what we supposedly deserve. Dying to self is an attitude that hardly notices if someone else is given the credit.

 

Dying to self involves the realization that we are just passing through, that this is not our real and final home, that we owe much to the giants on whose shoulders we stand, that a heavenly agenda, not an earthly one, is everything.

 

Dying to self is reflected in the lives of teachers who might have made more money in another profession, but who have made the decision to nurture young lives. We see this quality in the life of the volunteer fireman who guards over our safety while we sleep. There are the countless parents and grandparents who dedicate their lives to raising good and productive children. And there is that man or woman who labors in obscurity, perhaps in a foreign land, with no other intention than to impact lives for the kingdom; to make a difference that may only be apparent on the other side.

 

St. Francis’ prayer says it well, “For it is in giving we receive. It is in pardoning that we are pardoned. It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.”

“I think that it is the process of dying that is so hard; not being dead. After all, in human terms, when a man dies, there is pain and suffering. When death overtakes him, his physical suffering on this earth is over.

 

A dead man has no apparent needs, a dead man does not question God’s fairness, a dead man isn’t taken up with heaping riches upon himself, a dead man doesn’t express bitterness, or question why, a dead man has no qualms about anything.”

 

I just finished reading a biography of a Catholic chaplain who died during the Vietnam War. It is an inspiring volume of one man’s love for his fellow man, and well worth reading.

Following are several excerpts from the book surrounding the closing minutes of Father Vincent Capodanno’s life. To provide some understanding of the setting, the Marine unit which the priest served was involved in an intense fire fight with North Vietnamese soldiers and the Viet Cong when the military minister sprang into action.

“Corporal Brooks saw Father Vincent move to the exposed area where Sergeant Peters was lying. Suddenly, he was hit by shrapnel from a mortar round. Spots of blood could be seen on his right shoulder, and he held his arms stiffly by his side.

He was determined to do what he was there to do. He wasn’t going to let the enemy interfere with his business. He would not get down because he wanted to look the wounded in their eyes.”

“Sergeant Howard Manfra was wounded five times and lay in severe pain on an exposed slope between the crossfire of two NVA automatic weapons… Father Vincent managed to reach the sergeant, calm him and drag him into a depression.”

“Father Capodanno was wounded again in the late afternoon. He received shrapnel in his arms, hand and legs, but refused medical attention. Though the priest could have left the battlefield at any time, he wanted to stay with his men.”

“The chaplain was crouched down under cover, but when he noticed a wounded medic, he jumped up and ran over twenty feet to the soldier. I heard enemy machine gun fire and the chaplain fell by the corpsman’s side. He actually jumped out in front of the North Vietnamese machine gun which lay about 15 yards from the wounded. He had begun to give medical attention to the medic and three or four other wounded Marines when the machine gunner opened up and killed him. He received 27 bullet wounds in the spine, neck and head.”

“Thirty two years after his death, his brother James Capodanno officially accepted the Congressional Medal of Honor on behalf of his brother, Vincent, for his heroic conduct on the battlefield.”

“Greater love has no man than this that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13)

I have shared two stories of men who, like Paul, not only figuratively died to self, but who gave the last measure of devotion, and literally laid down their lives for a greater cause than themselves. And though I have alluded to two men who died on behalf of the Gospel, our task is to live on behalf of the Gospel. And in order to be the most use to the Master, we must progressively die to self.

In closing, when I think of Dying to Self, my first thought is that of my favorite of all Christian attributes; Selflessness. Christ must increase. I must decrease. Dying to Self is a purposeful activity. (Only wrecks happen by accident.) If we are to be of any use to the Master, we must allow Him to “act upon” us, which may involve the direst of circumstances, some very negative and lengthy in nature. While this is not a popular teaching, it is in dying to self that we are given the greatest opportunity to fulfill God’s plan for our lives, and impact those whom God sets in our pathway.

 By William McDonald, PhD. "Wednesday Night Teachings" Vol. 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Friendly Fire

I have visited Virginia Military Institute in Lexington, Virginia. This fine school has a more notable history than most schools in our great nation. For you see, Stonewall Jackson was a professor there before being called into Confederate service.

    There’s a small museum on the premises of VMI. Perhaps the most interesting, and most poignant area of the museum houses a few momentos that commemorate the life of General Jackson. We see his horse; (yes, his horse has been stuffed, or to be more precise, the hide of the original horse has been stretched over an approximate life form.)

    But, by far the most interesting relic, to me, is Stonewall’s coat. Oh, it’s a bit tattered and worn, but is in generally good shape; with one exception. There is a gaping hole in the sleeve of one arm.

    Jackson was a spiritual man, and had trusted the Lord Jesus Christ for his salvation. He was celebrated among his troops, and was known to be fair, and trustworthy. He did have his quirks, it seems. One famous quirk was his tendency to ride with one arm high in the air. He told inquisitive parties that this practice kept his metabolism in balance!

    One night General Jackson decided to scout out the enemy’s defenses. He took an aide with him, and galloped off into the woods. Having spied out the Union perimeter, he began his journey back to his own lines. Just as he attempted to cross his own picket line, shots rang out, and he fell from his horse. Too late, his loyal troops realized their mistake. Too late.

    Stonewall was taken by field ambulance to a nearby residence, for immediate treatment. His arm was badly shattered, and had to be amputated shortly thereafter. Bullets of that era were extremely large, and their velocity was relatively slow. Such characteristics cause tremendous damage to flesh and bone. This was not a pretty war, nor were the devices of war easy on the human body. Cannons were loaded with canister (similar to ball bearings,) and fired directly into masses of charging enemy soldiers. History tells us that little more than red mist remained.

     Stonewall Jackson had lost a limb, and General Lee romanticized him this way: “General Jackson has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right;” (speaking of the sacrifice his dear friend had made that day.)

     General Jackson seemed to improve after the amputation, and his troops grew hopeful for his health. But then Pneumonia set in, and he relapsed. Just before he breathed his last, Stonewall was heard to say, “Let us sit down under yonder trees and rest awhile.” These were his final words.

     We have a term for what happened to our dear Southern general. The designation has been used in every war since the Civil War. “Friendly Fire.” Of course in the long run, there’s nothing friendly about any bullet that “has your name written on it.”

      I often carry a “Minnie Ball” in my pocket. Bullets like this one have been dug up by the millions on land adjacent to Civil War battlefields. Thousands are turned up every year as farmers till their soil, on farms bordering famous battle sites. Millions were expended, and most never hit anything.

      I’ve been known to pull that old bullet out of my pocket during a counseling session. I begin to tell the tale I’ve spun here, and clients sit with silent interest, as I draw a moral from this ancient event.

     We are guilty, every one of us, of Friendly Fire. We have all “cut down” our friends and family with verbal bullets. We have all blown figurative canister shot in their face with the cannons that are our mouths; smoking hot with wrath, or disrespect.

     Sometimes I give my clients Minnie Balls to carry around with them, especially if they are prone towards anger, and marital contention. It’s a healthy reminder of the damage they have done with their words.

     The Bible tells us that our Words are Spirit and Life. Words can also be Spirit and Death. Friendly Fire isn’t really friendly. We ought to learn a lesson from General Jackson, and the sad plight that was his mortal end.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions," Copyright 2005

 

 

 

 

 

Listen in Decibels. Speak in Whispers

I have previously written a couple of “Dear Diary” entries which were more specific, in terms of the scenario which I am about to once again embark, at least in terms of the causation of my singular experience; thus I will avoid that specificity this time around. It is enough that I generalize reasons, and, for the sake of my reader’s potential quandaries, (and not my own) focus on a different aspect of the mix.

At any rate, in the past year I experienced something which left me absolutely horrified, mystified, and which has never yet been clarified. (You didn’t know there were so many words which ended with that suffix, did you)?

And in relation to the previous scenario, the emotions it instilled in me, and my only partial success in “laying it all down,” it seems good to me to invoke one common factor which, I believe, caused everything to fall into place like the proverbial puzzle.

...People’s opinions,

and their copious, “fall all over themselves” willingness to provide what they construed as guidance.

As a counselor I have seen how vulnerable, impressionable people orient towards others for guidance, and I’m all too aware how some will “doctor shop” until they stumble on an opinion which sounds the most like their own, (or) who will go with the majority opinion, and will “chalk that up” to sound guidance.

But even counselors struggle with the affairs of life, and, like everyone else who lives and breathes and moves, they sometimes find themselves caught up in a web of events and emotions; not of their own making.

There is an old adage which reflects on a bit of sage advice. The implication is that we should listen in decibels, and speak in whispers. (My paraphrase). And even as a counselor, I think that’s good advice.

How then are we to navigate this circuitous situation; for at one time or another we will all encounter relatives, friends and acquaintances who seek out our advice.

My guidance to you, (oops, it seems I’m doing it myself) is to:

1.     As that old adage implies, always be ready with a listening ear. One of the hallmarks of a true friend is a willingness to listen

 

2.     Assume you are only hearing one side of the matter; for in many, and perhaps most cases you can’t begin to understand the other person’s side of the story

 

3.     Because of, (and not in spite of) your biased and edited knowledge, and though you may be “joined at the hip” with that individual to whom you are providing guidance, attempt to assume an unbiased attitude towards the scenario which he or she presents to you

 

4.     Don’t be too quick to respond. Withhold your opinion until you have time to mull it over in your mind, and even, (God forbid) “pray about it.” (Yes, I’m an advocate of prayer). And when possible, attempt to glean more information about the matter which “knocked on your door.”

 

5.     When the lives of people hang in the balance, and you find yourself “sitting in the seat of judgment,” remind yourself of the responsibility which rests on your shoulders. In all likelihood a weighty scenario, and the presence of two or more persons in the mix will contribute to some significant and long lasting results and recurring emotions.

 

6.     Be ready to say, “I honestly don’t know,” (and/or) “Have you enlisted the aid of a wise and trusted counselor, (who has a good track record)?”

Now, in all of this I’m not referring to something so insignificant as what type of wine goes best with lasagna, or whether one should take up hang gliding instead of rock climbing, (granted, both are dangerous sports). But my persuasion is, whether formal or informal counselors, structured or spontaneous, ongoing or momentary, we have an obligation to ourselves, and to those whom we give guidance, to call into account the seriousness of giving guidance to another human being, and take into account the foregoing recommendations.

What we may consider a paltry bit of guidance can bear some pretty consequential fruit, and have a significant impact on the lives, and emotions of those whom we hold dear, and some whom we may never meet.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary," Vol. 4

 

Trading in Names

True confessions. My wife and I watch too much television.

And in the midst of “Dr. Phil” and “America’s Ninja Warrior” and “ WWII in Color,” we have been exposed to one too many commercials.

It seems a significant percentage of tv ads involve medications of one sort or another. Oddly enough, the majority of medicines seem to have some pretty messed up names; names such as

…Incivek, Adcetris, Yervoy, Viibryd, Zytiga, Xgeva and Harvoni

And as I roll my chair 18” from the computer screen, and examine the foregoing list, I find myself laughing aloud! I have mused that only a committee of total imbeciles could have possibly developed such a ludicrous list of medicinal titles.

From my perspective these drug companies would do well to make the same choice my own nephew once made when he decided to change his surname. Not having grown up with his natural father, and only knowing him from a distance, and having been raised by his good mother, (and my sister) and cherished by his grandparents, (my parents) he legally relinquished his former name for the same surname which I proudly bear.

Speaking of ill-advised terms for medications, as well as my dear nephew’s decision to change his name, in my time I’ve heard some pretty bizarre appellations hung on people; names such as,

,,,Percival and Stanley and Hortense and Civility

And lest I weary you with my oft-repeated allusion to Tony’s decision (for my nephew’s name is Tony) to embrace a new surname, give me the latitude to do so one more time; (for I wish to make a point).

As a Christian I’m convinced that that which we call “real” now is passing away, and that which we have never yet seen will eventually be the only “real” we ever care to know or enjoy.

And scripture seems to promise the redeemed of the Lord will surrender their familiar name, by which they have always been called, in favor of a better one.

“The one who is victorious…I will write on him a new name.” (Rev. 3:12)

I tend to think Percival and Stanley and Hortense and Civility will be quite pleased.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 4

You Weren't Meant to Waddle

Once there was a pleasant little town, much like many other pleasant little towns, but this one was populated by ducks. There were white ducks, yellow ducks, green ducks, multi-colored ducks; ducks of every size and age. And everywhere they went… they waddled. They waddled here. They waddled there. They waddled everywhere. And when Sunday came, they waddled to the duck church, and sat in the duck pews, and listened to the duck preacher, as he preached his duck sermon.

On this one particular Sunday, all the ducks had waddled in and were anxious to listen to their favorite duck preacher preach his duck sermon behind the duck pulpit. But this Sunday would be different from all the rest.

For as the duck preacher got up to preach they caught a glimpse of fire in his eyes, and there was a whole different demeanor about him. The ducks of Duckville could tell… he was inspired. And so the duck preacher began:

“Fellow ducks. You weren’t mean to… waddle! You were meant to… fly! Over hill, over dale, over forests, over lakes. You were never meant to waddle. You were meant to fly!

And the ducks of the Duckville Church thought, “Well now, that’s a novel concept. And they continued to listen as the duck preacher waxed eloquent. And the longer the preacher preached, the louder and more inspired he became. And the louder he preached, the more enthused, and outrageous the ducks in the duck pews became.  And they began to shout, and clap their… well, wings. And some even flapped those wings a bit, as if they were practicing for the real thing.

And as the sermon wound down, the duck preacher said, “And so my fellow ducks, I leave you with this admonition, and please remember this bit of important information. “You were never meant to waddle. You were meant to fly!”

And finally, the duck preacher said the benediction, and offered a final prayer, and the hundreds of ducks in the duck pews realized that they had heard, possibly the most singular and most important sermon their duck preacher would ever preach. And his final admonition rang in their heads as they prepared to leave the church.

And when the closing prayer had been said, all the ducks arose from their pews, and… waddled out the door.

 Paraphrase of anonymous story by William McDonald, PhD

When You Fall Down... Get Back Up!

I suppose I have watched the movie, “The Help” ten times. It’s one of those movies which never grows old, and always captures my interest.

There are several well-known, and accomplished actors in the movie, but among them Viola Davis has to be my favorite, (and one of my favorites of all time). While this African-American actress hasn’t yet seen her 50^th birthday, she tends to play parts which depict her as a woman of a half century or more. (And for all of her innate beauty, and in spite of her dazzling smile, she wears “an old beyond her years” look in her eyes).

In the movie, Viola characterizes a black maid in segregated Mississippi who, among her other duties, supervises the pre-kindergarten daughter of her employer. In a couple of poignant scenes, and again when she is discharged as a matter of spite, and for something she didn’t do, “Aibileen” bends down to stare her little charge in the eyes, and assures her, “You is smart. You is kind. You is important.”

Life has a way of knocking us down. And too many of us have been knocked down too many times.

Reminds me of a piece I once saw on live television.

Former Attorney General Janet Reno was being interviewed on one of the morning shows, and was given the opportunity to share some of the trials and triumphs of her job in the Clinton administration.

Perhaps the most profound, unique (and God-awful) experience Miss Reno endured in her role as Attorney General was related to the Branch Davidian cult, subsequent fire, and the loss of dozens of lives. As the result of an investigation into the tragedy, she was roundly criticized by members of congress, and called to task by members of the media.

Having discussed this particular topic and others, the newsperson transcended rote topical matter and brought it down to the raw emotional level.

“And so, Miss Reno, considering Waco, and other difficult events during your tenure, what was going on in your heart and mind?”

The former Attorney General didn’t miss a beat.

“Well, honestly, it seemed I was always caught in between serving the President, (and being the best I could be in the role he nominated me to do) and pleasing 535 senators and congressmen.”

The anchor lady nodded, and asked a follow up question.

“And so, help me understand how it made you feel.”

Miss Reno smiled a whimsical smile, and responded,

“Well, it’s ‘damned if you do. And damned if you don’t!’”

Not letting up, the interviewer offered one more remark.

“But tell us how you really feel.”

At this point, an involuntary grimace appeared on the lady lawyer’s face.

“To tell you the truth, I’m getting tired of being damned!!!”

We’ve all been there. When we’ve “been damned” enough times, it becomes exceptionally difficult to keep getting back up.

A year ago I experienced something so utterly profound, so dismally overwhelming, so abjectly depressive in nature that it rocked me to the core. And that something involved the loss of a valued relationship. (Honestly, I’m not altogether over it yet). And I can so well relate to the words of our former Attorney General.

I think very little has the wherewithal to shake up your own personal little world than the loss of a relationship. And I believe very little diminishes one’s self-worth, and causes one to question the reasonableness of hanging out on this planet than the loss of a relationship; especially when such a loss offers no apparent understanding.

But no matter the cause or the source of the thing which has knocked us off our feet, we MUST get back up. To do otherwise is unacceptable, no, unimaginable. And if we’ve been hurt, or feel misunderstood, it’s important to factor in Time and Truth.

Overcoming and accepting loss WILL take Time. And arriving at a proper understanding of the Truth, i.e., properly understanding the cause, or the potential benefit of a loss, often requires the perspective of time; (and possibly, the aid of a trusted friend or counselor).

Marilyn Monroe, (of all people) bequeathed you and me a wonderful legacy; one which transcends diamonds, or green paper with dead presidents pictures.

…Her words.

“I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.”

WHEN YOU FALL DOWN... GET BACK UP!!!

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 4