A HEARTFELT (AND UNEXPECTED) CRITIQUE OF MY NEW BOOK

Wow. I just finished reading your book in one sitting. I simply could not put it down, and dare I convey, I’m in tears. And not just any tears, but Niagara Falls type tears pouring down my cheeks and flowing from my soul.

Your book touched me so profoundly and seemed to penetrate to the inner recesses of my being. Your beautifully constructed words provoke me to love both humans and animals much more deeply, and to rejoice in ...the gift of every precious moment. Thank you so much for sharing this part of your life with the world…with us. We are so thankful for you. It’s a privilege to know you…truly.


This book encapsulates the deep God-given desire in each of us for true connection and unconditional love and displays the longing of man to love and be loved, to accept and to be accepted, to give and to receive. I was engulfed in and reminded of the beauty of the goodness in God’s amazing creation called ‘humanity.’ No wonder God looked and said, “It is good.”

Thank you for helping me have such a beautiful day. You have once again challenged me to engage in every aspect of life more deeply, to live more fully, and I really needed that admonition today. You always seem to speak into me when I need it the most, and today you did it through your book.

You inspire me so much by how you live, and I can feel God using you to challenge me to do the same and be all in. And for that and more, thank you. May God richly bless you for your kindness, thoughtfulness, dedication and commitment to Him and others. It does not go unnoticed.

Suetta Coello
(A former university student of mine and graduate level counseling curriculum student at Liberty University)

*If you are interested in purchasing a copy of "A Man's Tribute to His Devoted Dogs" ($11.97 plus postage), please forward your name and mailing address to williamteomi@gmail.com. I will respond with further details.

KFC CHICKEN OR LIBERACE? Pt. 1 of 4

I saw (and heard) something last night I never expected to see (or hear).

One of my favorite shows, in spite of, (and not because of) the general apparel (if it can be called, ‘apparel’) of the two female judges, is “America’s Got Talent.”

But to return to my entre.

Last night I witnessed one of the most amazing things to which I have ever been exposed throughout the course of my almost 70 years on earth.

I saw (and heard) a barnyard chicken play “America The Beautiful” on a toy piano. (Yes, I did).

I kid you not. As someone backstage flipped a switch, and the background music to the second best known American patriotic song began to play, this brown, very average looking chicken began to peck out the notes of “America, The Beautiful.”

My friends, I am both happy (and surprised) to report, he (or she) didn’t miss a one.

Nada. Zilch. Zero. Goose Egg.

Need I inform you that all 4 judges dropped their jaws in disbelief?

Need I inform you that all 4 judges awarded the (otherwise KFC quality) chicken 4 ‘yes’ votes?

(Well, they did).

*to be continued


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 56. Copyright pending

If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line. 

***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin

Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All of my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin

MY ENEMY. MY FRIEND

The war had raged on for four years, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

German forces were dug into the area of Belleau Wood, France, and their American counterparts dug shallow foxholes, and attempted to prevent the enemy from crossing the Marne River.

During the course of the battle, the Americans managed to make inroads against the German front, and thousands were killed and wounded during what proved to be the final months of WWI.

Sergeant Scott and his American company of troops fired off round after round, and launched dozens of mortars in an easterly direction, as days turned into weeks; giving and losing ground.

As the darkness gave way to light in June of 1918, Scott stepped gingerly from tree to tree, in an especially dark forest.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of what seemed to be an injured animal. It was no animal, but rather, a badly wounded German officer. His right arm was mangled, and as he sat next to a small tree, blood flowed easily down his side, and dripped to the ground; forming a large red puddle.

Sergeant Scott spoke,

“Sir, do you speak English?”

Even in the midst of war, and though he was speaking to an enemy soldier, courtesy prevailed.

Lieutenant Lister managed a weak smile, and responded.

“Yes. I attended the University of Heidelberg. I speak English quite well.”

(and)

“I’m afraid I’m done for, Sergeant. Will you sit with me awhile?”

Not noticing any small arms on or about his newfound friend, nor any sign of malice, Jim took a seat next to the bloody form, and they proceeded to exchange what passed for pleasantries.

“Sergeant, do you believe there’s something or someone waiting for us on the other side of this darkness we call life?”

The American non-commissioned officer was silent for a moment, as if searching for words.

“Well, yes, yes I do, Lieutenant. While I’m not especially outspoken about it, I came to a saving knowledge of the Savior when I was a child.”

Lister nodded his head, and recalled a time when his mother read to him from the “good book” each evening before he retired to his little bed, and set something in motion within him which culminated in a profound and abiding faith.

With each drop of blood, Erick felt his energy waning away proportionately.

“Will you, could you… pray for me, Sergeant?”

Scott’s head jerked backwards slightly, as if he’d been slapped. Such an unusual request from an enemy officer; a man whom he was, at least indirectly, responsible for killing. Fraternization with the enemy? And for a moment, his military demeanor won out.

… But only for a moment.

“Well, yes, Lieutenant. I will pray for you, as I would hope you would pray for me if the shoe was on the other foot.”

And with this, the hardened sergeant’s voice broke with emotion.

“Father, I pray for my brother, Erick. Will you send your holy angels now, and usher him safely into your kingdom? And will you give him light for darkness, and steal away all fear during his transition? Amen.”

A tear rolled down Lt. Lister’s bruised and bloody face, and with this he spoke the last words he would ever speak on this side of the veil.

“Thank you, my friend. We were enemies, but now I call you ‘friend.’”

And with this, Erick’s chest heaved, and he drew a long, deep breath,

… and slowly exhaled.

And then it was over.

My enemy,

… my friend.

William McDonald, PhD. Copyright Pending.

If you wish to copy, share, or 'save', please include the credit line, above.

UNFINISHED DREAMS

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of more than half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short, tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

Viewed from above, the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of white stone crosses stand where the jackboot tread and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will yet defy the enemy.”

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The older man responds, “Many, most… I don’t know.” A tear forms in the young man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m going home when this is over.”

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats and landing craft of every description, bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others, having escaped certain death, flounder in deep waters now, their ammo and packs weighing them down. Calling, crying for help, they beg crewmen in other craft to pick them up. But more often than not, they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. As they begin to perish anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch, those who cannot respond.

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And before the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete, mission over.

Oh, the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and winds and terrain offer these men different fates. For some crash violently against cities and trees and earth, and all on board are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least, a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

The Rangers. There can be none like them. For they begin to climb, treacherous enough without added difficulties. They are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.
And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

And some come again to walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

We have come to an anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day that is still living in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiny-eyed trooper who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands of his own hourglass.

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have stayed down after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again, never more to rise.

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. Though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming flood of water, their stone crosses stand sentinel, just above the cliffs, just beyond the field of their labor.

They gave their tomorrows for our today.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright 1998

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SWIMMING WITH MY COUSIN, THE PRESIDENT

I have a couple of relatives who spent ‘a fair bit of time’ in the Manchester-Warm Springs area of Georgia.

My GG Uncle “Gen.” Henry Dowling once lived in Manchester, and he was, ultimately, brought back for interment in the Manchester Cemetery. “Old Henry,” as I am prone to call him, was one of the last surviving Confederate veterans of the Civil War, one of the final National Commanders of the United Confederate Veterans organization, and the last resident of the Confederate Soldiers Home in Atlanta.

The other relative to whom I refer was my 6^th cousin, and as well-known as Elvis or George Washington.

…Pres. Franklin Roosevelt

My wife and I once visited Warm Springs and toured Roosevelt’s “Little White House.” While we were in the area, we also toured the Pools Museum and Treatment Pools. I regret to say that at the time I was altogether unaware of my relationship to FDR; since I think my visit would have been that much more meaningful to me. (Funny, I possess a dark, pigmented spot woven into my left eyebrow; just as he did).

I was watching Ken Burns, “The Roosevelts” series today, and a segment relating to Franklin Roosevelt’s involvement at Warm Springs was featured. Of course, FDR struggled with the after effects of Polio, and was forced to wear heavy braces on his legs in order to walk; (with significant assistance, I might say). It seems he was so impressed with the therapeutic benefits of swimming and physical therapy in the pools at Warm Springs that he purchased the springs and surrounding property.

I have never reflected on Franklin Roosevelt or my kinship to him with any particular emotion

…until today.

FDR enjoyed his time in Warm Springs, and not only took advantage of the healing waters, but on his visits there, served as a sort of camp counselor to children from across the nation who had contracted Polio, and who, like himself, sought relief from the impact of that paralytic malady.

Burns makes us aware that Roosevelt was a terrific encourager, and shed any self-consciousness about his withered limbs, as he frolicked with the children in the treatment pools. Throughout the video, there are film clips of Roosevelt smiling and easily interacting with the 8, 10 and 12 year olds who surrounded him. “Suzie,” an elderly woman now, and former summer resident of Warm Springs, shares a story about a set of therapy stairs which she detested, and did her best to avoid. Roosevelt, who asked the children to refer to him as, “Rosie,” challenged Suzie to give it her best shot. And she was determined not to let him down. A former ‘Push Boy,’ who helped dressed the patients, and pushed them everywhere they went, laughs about the time the president manhandled him, and managed to drag him underwater.

I can tell you I was mesmerized, and was surprised to feel tears spring to my eyes.  No doubt, I had at some time seen footage of Roosevelt in the pools at Warm Springs. But for whatever reason, this time was different. It occurred to me that my distant cousin, and President of the United States, for all his faults, embraced the role of a mentor, and performed his role well.

I am a mentor, and if you are to believe my former clients, students and interns, a pretty good one. I have often shared a practical reminiscence with those with whom I have to do.

“I have counseled thousands. I have taught hundreds. I have mentored dozens.”

At the present time I am mentoring five individuals in the context of a year-long discipleship program which I developed. And thus, is it any wonder how impressed and ‘taken up’ I was as I viewed FDR and the little children? I can tell you, as I watched the video, my kinship with FDR metamorphosed from a relational one into one more abiding; an emotional one.

I will never think of my cousin quite the same way again.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 40. Copyright pending

If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line. 

***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin

Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All of my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin

THE DEATH OF A GREAT WHITE HUNTER. Pts. 1-2

It was not for nothing that Ponce de Leon referred to my home state as “Florida;” the land of flora and flowers. And it is not for nothing that the state in which I currently reside is not simply known for its flora, but its fauna, as well.

Without question or contradiction, Florida is the most diverse of the 50 states, in terms of its flora and its fauna. And speaking of the latter, in what has become the most popular vacation state in the union, our Everglades National Park, in particular, is absolutely replete with every conceivable native and non-native animal; including alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, pythons, panthers, bears, armadillos, opossums, raccoons and monkeys.

During the 40 days after Hurricane Andrew, in which my National Guard unit served the people of Homestead, we were stationed on the property of the Metro Zoo. Prior to the storm there was an AIDs research facility on the site, and it seems the major victims of the research which occurred there were various types of monkeys.

As the hurricane blew in, the windows and doors of the facility were breached, and the research animals escaped. Interestingly enough, the reservists in my unit were instructed to shoot these monkeys on sight. To my knowledge, none were ever sighted. However, it is thought that dozens of the infected little primates escaped into the Everglades; and their descendants may well be there today.

And while I am telling animal stories, in the past couple of days, a black bear was sighted in a tree in the central Florida town in which I currently live. ‘Til now, I had thought the nearest bevy of bears was a full thirty miles from whence I now sit.

Pt. 2

Speaking of flora and fauna, I am a great advocate of conservation, and the protection of all the species of the former and latter, and it concerns me, no end, what some people have done, and continue to do in the name of big business as well as sport.

Recently, a big game hunter and guide, who specialized in the hunting of big cats in Africa, died during the course of his ‘duties.’ The man, who will remain nameless here, was widely known for his use of hounds to chase the great felines in the direction of his “band of brothers;” providing them the opportunity to easily ‘dispatch’ the animals.

In the past few days, Mr. X and three other men were tracking game on the plains of Zimbabwe when four massive elephants charged the group. In spite of the men’s attempts to defend themselves, and the hail of bullets which they poured into the charging mammoths, one bull elephant managed to reach the guide, and lifted him into the air with his trunk. The rain of bullets was relentless, however, and the grey giant fell to the ground.

Regrettably, as he fell Mr. X was pinned under him, and was crushed beneath the body of the largest land animal on our planet. And while the big game hunter specialized in the hunting of and subsequent killing of African cats, there are photos on the internet which depict him standing next to a dead elephant.

As a result, I can only surmise he specialized in more than just tigers and lions. The story goes that Mr. X has been in the business of “trophy hunting” since his college days, and actually paid his tuition in this manner.

One article I managed to pull up reports that in recent weeks a friend of this “great white hunter,” (who happened to pursue the same profession) disappeared during a one-man safari. A couple of weeks later what was left of the man was discovered inside the body of an African crocodile.

Afterward

Newspaper and television coverage has reported a significant amount of ‘blow-back’ on the part of animal rights activists; especially by means of social media.

Many have heaped scorn, laced with four letter adjectives, on Mr. X, and have surmised that he got as good as he gave, and that so-called karma finally caught up with him, and with his friend. Of course, the families of these men have suffered greatly for the verbal abuse which has been heaped upon their loved ones.

To be sure, I believe this sort of vindictiveness is “beyond the pale” and, even given the circumstances, has no place in polite society. I am utterly sympathetic towards the family and friends of the two trophy hunters in the loss of their loved ones.

At the same time I, for one, am thrilled that the two men’s efforts to diminish the numbers of several already threatened species , and deprive us of their splendor, has come to a conclusion.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 56. Copyright pending

If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line. 

***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin

Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All of my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin

THE DAY AFTER THE NIGHT I KILLED MYSELF

Last night was too much. I couldn't bare another night of crying myself to sleep, of screaming into my pillow and praying for the pain to stop. I was tired. Tired of being sad. Tired of not being able to get out of bed. Tired of nobody caring. I was tired of being alone, but also hated being with others, because they couldn't understand the constant pain I was in.

So I killed myself.

The next morning, the sun rose, the birds sang, and the frost melted. My loved ones woke up, and with a good night's sleep my best friend forgot about the stupid argument we'd had the night before, the kids that teased me in the hallway had other things to worry about, and my mom, after having time to think about it, decided to hear my side of things before making the decision that I felt was so unfair. The boy that broke my heart was just another face in the crowd, because I'd had time to heal. My therapist had a great session planned for us to make another breakthrough with my depression, and my psychiatrist had a new medicine in mind for me to try.

A new kid moved in down the street who was also in need of friends, and we had so much in common. She could be my best friend. But I would never know, because I killed myself last night.
My loved ones worlds' were ripped apart--my mother felt like her entire Earth was shattered, my brother decided once and for all that the world was against him, and my Grandparents (who have always had a deep faith) felt that God had forsaken them.

My friends went through every interaction we'd had for the last week, analyzing it, thinking how they should've known, how they could've stopped me, how if only they would've done something.

They will never be the same.

My teammates were shocked and confused. They thought our bond was deep, how could I have been struggling and not let a single one of them know it?

The teachers at my school and the mentors/coaches in my community were in a state of shock. How could this have happened? How could a child they spent their entire day investing in have gone to such a place without them knowing? Some thought back to my vacant expression over the last few days and thought

"I could've been there for her."

All the people who I had thought forgot I existed banded together. There was a candlelit vigil at my school and a celebration of life on my campus. So many people came out and shared stories of how I had touched their lives. I will never know the positive impact I had on others, because I took that chance away from myself.

My community rallied around my memory and vowed not to let another child go down the same path. They posted Facebook statuses with suicide hotline numbers and promised to talk to their kids about their feelings. I could've talked to my loved ones about my feelings, but that felt too impossible, so instead, I killed myself.

But I wasn't there - not for the vigils, the remembrance of life, the funeral. I wasn't there for the day my brother got married. I will never graduate college and change lives like I'd always dreamed. I'm not going to be a wife and mother to the most incredible family I could ever imagine. My life ended before these people were able to show me how much they loved me. I never got to experience life on the right medications with consistent therapy. I never saw the sun come up and the storm clouds drift away.

And I never will.....

Because I killed myself.

"Suicide does not end the pain you're in, it only guarantees that it will never get better."

Those words resonated with me when I was at my worst because they are so true. Sometimes suicide feels like the only way out, but it's not. The only true way to beat the pain is to go to therapy, to take your meds, and to never give up. Because one day, I promise you, it will all be worth it.

From one survivor to another, YOU CAN DO THIS!

Victoria Kroll

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
1-800-273-8255

THE LEGACY OF MY 6th COUSIN, (President Franklin Roosevelt)

I applied for my Social Security benefits when I was 62, and have received a monthly check for the past five years, (and am thankful to have it). Along with my Medicare benefits, I am fortunate to have earned a military retirement and subscribe to Tricare, a military health insurance program.

Speaking of my previous application for Social Security benefits, I recall making the initial application by phone with a Civil Service worker who worked in a government phone bank in Alabama. During our interaction, I made her aware that the Social Security program came into being during the administration of President Franklin Roosevelt; my 6^th cousin. We bantered this bit of trivia about, and she seemed to think it rather novel.

I just read a byline on a social media site which claimed President Trump’s proposed 2018 budget would include cuts to Social Security and Medicaid, and what was described as the extreme “fat cat” benefits which some federal employees and Civil Service retirees are receiving.

Following is an original response I left below the post, and a subsequent exchange with someone who responded to my initial response.

William McDonald

Cuts to Medicaid and Social Security benefits for the disabled? Shame on anyone who contemplates such a travesty.

(Kris _____)

Social Security was never meant to be the only means of retirement and was a Ponzi scheme from the beginning. The tax paid is a general payroll tax like any other tax and not an insurance premium. Medicaid is an unearned benefit and transfer of wealth program.

William McDonald

If you say so, Kris. I happen to be glad my 6th cousin, Pres. Franklin Roosevelt, had the foresight to bring the Social Security program into fruition. It's easy to philosophize about unearned benefits until you need such benefits. I, for one, paid into Social Security for multiplied decades.

And speaking of needing it, I have a grown disabled daughter who receives Medicaid and S.S. benefits, and I'm darn glad she does. If not, by now her medical and monetary benefits would have exceeded my ability to supplement, and I would be living under a tree in a tent.

Oh, and speaking of needing it, prior to her passing my very ill mother spent 2 years in a nursing home, to the tune of $100,000 a year; the vast majority of which Medicaid paid.

And, I expect, that if you are not already receiving your S.S. check and Medicare benefits, as I am, there will come a day when you're glad these benefits are available for you; rather than the possibility of having to work, if only to keep medical benefits, until the day you die.

And to return to an earlier theme, unless your mother was in need of extraordinarily expensive specialized care for an extended period of time, and unless you have witnessed your daughter in the throes of psychosis, contended with her monetary, housing and health care needs for a quarter of a century, and enjoyed the benefits of socialized medicine in this regard, I'm not sure you're properly qualified to comment on such an issue.

Oh, and if you really feel the way you claim to feel, please save us all the financial burden which we share with you, and avoid applying for Social Security and old age medical benefits. We wouldn't want to jeopardize the philosophy you claim to embrace.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 55. Copyright pending

If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line. 

***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin

Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All of my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin

AS LONG AS TODAY SHALL LAST (Continue to encourage one another)

“But day by day and as long as today shall last, continue to encourage one another.” (Hebrews 3:13)

As I write this blog, I am listening to my favorite 24/7/365 radio/internet broadcast, “Night Sounds,” with the late Bill Pearce. Tonight’s segment is titled, “The Encouragers.”

Back in the early 70’s, while I was a member of the United States Air Force, I attended a week long revival service hosted by my church in Tampa. During his nightly sermons, the young evangelist displayed a peculiar trait which was distinctly his. For you see, when he “hit on” a point which personally impressed him and which he wished to emphasize, he would kick out his right leg like he was kicking a football. (During my 68 years on this planet, I have never seen anyone do such a thing before or since). On the last night of the revival meetings, Pastor Matheny invited anyone who would to line up and extend their thanks and farewells to the rather unique evangelist.

When it finally came my turn, and I extended my hand towards the preacher, he uttered two words.

“Stay encouraged!”

God only knows how many times I have thought of his parting words, nor how many times I have needed them. As a counselor, professor and mentor I have often parted with my clients, students and mentorees with the phrase,

“Forget me. Forget my name. But please don’t forget my message.”

Though I have long since forgotten the name of that young evangelist, I have never forgotten, nor failed to rely on the words he shared with me that evening.

Pt. 2

Encouragement

There’s simply nothing like it. And God knows, we all need it, and we would be hard-pressed to misuse such a wondrous gift, or to use it more often than it is necessary.

In tonight’s “Night Sounds” broadcast, Mr. Pearce spoke to the variables which allow encouragement to be the most effective. He made his audience aware that encouragement or praise should be immediate, it should be specific, and it should be genuine.

The “Night Sounds” radio host went on to speak about Dr. William Mayo, the founder of the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, New York. It seems this great man was an encourager, par excellence. It has been said that he took every opportunity to encourage young doctors. As he happened to step onto a clinic elevator with one of his interns, more often than not, he would lay his hand on his or her shoulder, and say something like,

“I have been so impressed with your demeanor and expertise. I want you to know that,”

or

“I noticed the way you handled that unexpected issue in that patient’s room the other day. Why, I had never thought of doing it that way. I want you to know how impressed I was with the way you approached that problem.”

I mean, how great is that? Do you think perhaps those young doctors went away from that spontaneous moment, with the founder of the prestigious Mayo Clinic, renewed and refreshed?

(A rhetorical question, indeed).

Pt. 3

“But day by day and as long as today shall last, continue to encourage one another.” (Hebrews 3:13)

Scripture is replete with words of encouragement. I recently came across a passage of scripture which encouraged me more so than any words which I have read in a very long time.

But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s special possession, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light. (1^st Peter 2:9)

God’s special possession.

Now, if this doesn’t make you feel good, and if that doesn’t inspire a feeling of self-worth within you, perhaps you should check your pulse!

Like Dr. Mayo, I believe in encouragement and practice it often. I mean, I have been known to lavish compliments on my clients, students, interns and fellow parishioners. And perhaps I’m a bit different than most folks, but there are times when I will place my hand on a man’s or woman’s forehead as a blessing of sorts, and may, (or may not) include words, such as, “May God intervene for you,” or “The Lord bless you and keep you, my friend.”

I guarantee you such a gesture will be remembered by the recipient long after I have gone on to my reward. And it is my intention that my words and actions be remembered; just as surely as I remember the two word blessing of that evangelist from so long ago; (and have so often relied upon it).

Pt. 4

“Stay encouraged.”

Encouragement inspires hope, and as the movie, “Shawshank Redemption” put it,

“Hope is among the best of things.”

I just came in from my 4am walk, and as I was prowling the streets of my local sidewalks something happened which reminded of a small event which occurred on a similar walk in the past.

As I walked the highways and byways of the community in which I live, a car passed, perhaps a couple dozen yards from me, and I caught a whiff of the most marvelous perfume which wafted from the window of the vehicle. And I immediately realized that, at least it seemed to me, my sense of smell was heightened in the still of the darkness.

And that something which happened in the wee hours of this morning?

As I strode along that sidewalk which borders a major highway, suddenly an automobile rolled to a stop from a side street, facing me, and across the four lanes of traffic. I was like a deer in its headlights, as the utter blackness of the night was suddenly pierced. And, oddly enough, I sensed a momentary, but distinguishable rise in the temperature of the air which surrounded me.

My friends, Encouragement is very much like the rich perfume which permeated the darkness to which I previously alluded, and the light which momentarily warmed the night which is just now concluding.

As someone near and dear to me, but whose name I have long since forgotten, once said,

“Stay encouraged.”


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 55. Copyright pending

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GIVING AND RECEIVING - POEM

GIVING AND RECEIVING

   By Wallace H. Holmes

IF FROM TWO KINDS OF PLEASURE I WOULD CHOOSE

THE ONE BY WHICH I’D WIN, THE OTHER LOSE

THE HAPPINESS I FIND ON THIS OLD EARTH,

THRU DEEDS OF KINDNESS AND OF VIRTUOUS WORTH,

OR PASSING, GIVING JOY TO THOSE I KNOW,

AND TO THE HELPLESS, QUIET ALMS BESTOW,

I KNOW I’D RELISH NOT TEMPORARY GAIN

OR THE MULTITUDE’S APPLAUSE, BUT LIVING AIM

MY WORK BY ACTING IN THOSE PARTS

THAT WOULD ENGRAVE MY NAME IN HUMAN HEARTS

OF VARIOUS FORMS OF INDIGNATION YOU AND I

WILL FIND IN EVERY SOUL THAT PASSES BY,

THERE’S ONE, A LOWLY JEW OF GALILEE

USED, WHEN HE TOOK A WHIP TO FREE

THE TEMPLE FROM THE MONEY CHANGERS THERE.

THAT I LIKE BEST, FOR IT LAYS NAKED, BARE,

THE FRUITLESSNESS OF SELFISH, SORDID AIM,

AND DISAPPOINTMENT FOUND IN WORLDLY GAIN,

AND MAGNIFIES A THOUSAND FOLD

THE RIGHTEOUS WAY TO WORK FOR YOUNG AND OLD.

EACH HOUR, EACH DAY, EACH YEAR WE WIN OR LOSE

HAPPINESS AND PEACE OF MIND THE WAY WE CHOOSE;

EACH FLOWER AND BIRD, ALL CREATURES ON THIS EARTH

THAT HAVE IN THEM THE PRECIOUS JEWEL OF WORTH,

TELL US THAT, FINALLY, OUR REWARD

IS WORTH SO MUCH WE CAN’T AFFORD

WHEN YOUNG, NOT TO TRAIN THE WILL,

SO THAT THRU LIFE WE’LL CHOOSE THE RIGHT THING STILL

AND HAPPINESS THROUGHOUT THE PASSING HOURS

WILL BE WITH THEE AND THINE AND ALL THAT’S OURS

CURSE THE WOODCHUCK!!!

If you often have trouble sleeping try reading Psalms 3 and 4. David, running for his life and surrounded by his son, Absalom’s rebellious army, wrote in Psalm 3:5, “I sleep and wake up refreshed because You, Lord protect me.” Psalm 4:8 indicates the promises of God make good pillows for those who rest in Him. “I can lie down and sleep soundly because You, Lord will keep me safe”

But not during the preacher’s sermons. At least not in the early American church.

The Puritans of Colonial New England appointed what were known as “tithing men” to stroll among the pews on Sunday Mornings; alert for anyone who was prone to nod off during the long, sometimes ponderous and boring sermons. They carried long poles with feathers on one end, and thorns embedded on the other end. As a result, worshippers napped at their own peril. It seemed the results were a bit unpredictable.

Obadiah Turner of Lynn, Massachusetts wrote the following story in his journal:

“Allen Bridges has been chosen to wake sleepers in the meetings. And being much proud of his position, must needs have a fox tail fixed to the end of a long staff wherewith he may brush the faces of them who will have naps during the preaching. Likewise, a sharp thorn whereby he may prick such as be the most sound asleep.

On his last Lord’s Day to serve in his position, he strutted about the meeting house, and spying Mr. Tomlins sleeping with much comfort, Allen did swiftly thrust his staff and give him a grievous prick on the hand. With this, Mr. Tomlins did spring up from his pew, and landed hard on the floor. Waking from a deep sleep and shouted, “Curse the woodchuck!”

It seems that in the dream he dreamed a woodchuck had seized and bit his hand! But on getting a clear mind he realized it was a dream and he embarrassed himself and created quite a stir. He was so ashamed that he did not speak. And I think he will not soon again go to sleep during the meeting!”

(From a church bulletin)

I WOULD BE TRUE

A young man named Howard Walker graduated from Princeton University in 1905. Because of his sunny smile he was wanted where there was fun. Because of his keen mind he was sought when wise counsel was needed. Because of his consecration to God he was a blessing to all. Through college and seminary he went and then chose the foreign missions field as his life service.

One Christmas, while stationed in Japan, he wrote his mother the first three verses of this poem as his seasonal greeting to her. And she recognizing the beauty of the message sent it to Harper’s Magazine. In 1919 the influenza was raging in India. He was one of its victims. The last three verses of the poem were written by Ralph Harlow. It is said that he dreamed a dream in which Howard Walker told him he wished him to include the additional wording. The poem was set to music by Joseph Peak.

(from a church bulletin)

                                           I WOULD BE TRUE

I would be true, for there are those who trust me;
I would be pure, for there are those who care;
I would be strong, for there is much to suffer;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare;
I would be brave, for there is much to dare.


I would be friend of all—the foe, the friendless;
I would be giving, and forget the gift;
I would be humble, for I know my weakness;
I would look up, and laugh, and love and lift.
I would look up, and laugh, and love and lift.



I would be faithful through each passing moment;
I would be constantly in touch with God;
I would be strong to follow where He leads me;
I would have faith to keep the path Christ trod;
I would have faith to keep the path Christ trod.


Who is so low that I am not his brother?
Who is so high that I’ve no path to him?
Who is so poor, that I may not feel his hunger?
Who is so rich I may not pity him?
Who is so rich I may not pity him?


Who is so hurt I may not know his heartache?
Who sings for joy my heart may never share?
Who in God’s heaven has passed beyond my vision?
Who to Hell’s depths where I may never fare?
Who to Hell’s depths where I may never fare?


May none, then, call on me for understanding,
May none, then, turn to me for help in pain,
And drain alone his bitter cup of sorrow,
Or find he knocks upon my heart in vain.
Or find he knocks upon my heart in vain.

RESURRECTING A MOCKINGBIRD. Pts. 1-2

One of my favorite Hollywood stories revolves around the movie, “To Kill a Mockingbird.” The famous leading actor told an almost equally famous story.

During the making of the movie, it seems Gregory Peck (“Atticus”) and Mary Badham (“Scout”) were engaged in the filming of one of their memorable scenes when Peck caught Harper Lee, (the author of the famous novel they were replicating) in his peripheral vision. He thought he noticed a bit of moisture on her cheeks, and mentally congratulated himself for the quality of his work.

When the director yelled, “Cut,” the talented actor strode over to Ms. Lee to greet her, and, no doubt, was expecting an exhaustive compliment.

But as he neared the writer, she exclaimed,

“Oh Gregory! You have a little pot belly just like my daddy!”

No doubt, the author’s “left-handed compliment” helped bring Peck back to a sense of reality.

(Interestingly enough, the now 65 year old “Scout” remained in touch with Gregory Peck the remainder of his life, and insisted on calling him, “Atticus”).

The imminent actor sometimes spoke of his inability and/or unwillingness to “get off” on fame and fortune, and I think, as a result, he exhibited a decided humility and empathy for others.

In 1963, Gregory Peck and Jack Lemmon were being considered for the Academy Award for Best Actor. The former for, “To Kill a Mockingbird” and the latter for, “Days of Wine and Roses.”

As it fell together the hostess, Audrey Hepburn, announced that the Mr. Peck had won the award. Jack Lemmon related that as Gregory Peck passed by him, on the way to receive the trophy, he paused and reaching down squeezed his left shoulder, as if to say,

“Don’t let them tell you otherwise, Jack. You and I both know who really deserved the Oscar.”

Pt. 2

Speaking of the wonderful example and attitude to which I just alluded, I am just SO totally taken up with two traits, in particular. And it occurs to me that neither of the attributes can or ever shall operate independently of the other.

Humbleness

(and)

Empathy

Among all the experiences to which I have been privileged to participate in my own life, and which alludes to this theme, one stands out among the rest.

It was during the mid-90’s that my daughter, “Margaret,” was placed in the G. Pierce Woods mental facility in Arcadia, Florida. The background is far too long and tedious to enumerate here, but suffice it to say that Margaret had been exhibiting some bizarre symptoms, and had previously been diagnosed with Schizophrenia.

My wife and I would drive the hundred miles to Arcadia once a month, and spend time with her. We’d sometimes drive off campus, as Margaret would get a day pass, and we’d frequent a particular restaurant there. Curiously enough, in this town which “boasted” a large mental facility, every painting was askew and hanging crooked on the restaurant wall.

One weekend, as we drove up, Margaret was standing on the parking lot curb. But she was not alone, as she normally was. No, alongside her was this great hulk of a fellow, obviously another mental patient; well over six feet in height, and rather overweight.

My first inclination was, “Oh, no. I didn’t come here to entertain, nor spend any time with this guy,” and the anger seethed within me. My wife and I dismounted the car, and walked the few steps towards Margaret and “Bob,” as in “What About Bob?” (You would have to know the movie).

Margaret introduced me to Bob, and he immediately proceeded to share the most heart-rending little story.

“No one ever comes to see me. Not my daddy, not my mother, not my friends.

…Would you hug me?”

Uh!!! Never in my life had I heard such a sad plea. And as the result of that poignant plea… everything changed. My entire mindset metamorphosed.

And right there before God and everybody, as the phrase goes,… I wrapped that big lug of a fella in my arms.

And I think for that one moment in time, Bob realized that someone took time to care, to love and empathize with his plight, and for that one moment in time, I think my momentary friend must have experienced the smallest measure of peace and contentment.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 55. Copyright pending

If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line. 

***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin

Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All of my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin