TRASHING A LIFE. Pts. 1-4

I recently wrote a reminiscence relating to the time period in which I held the position of Staff Counselor at a nearby church.

Upon entering the Copy Room one day, I happened to look down at the trashcan, and noticed a brown accordion folder lying on top of the outgoing waste paper.

Picking it up I immediately saw what appeared to be the title of a book, and the name of our former visitation pastor; who had passed away a couple of years prior. Opening the folder I realized that the draft manuscript of what I recognized as, “One Step at a Time,” (by Frank Pacheco) was enclosed. And my emotions immediately responded with the sense that the disposal of this relic, by a fellow staff member, had been a virtual sacrilege; since something precious and irreplaceable was so close to disappearing from the earth.

Well, my readers, rather than ‘leaving you hanging,’ suffice it to say that I retrieved the manuscript, with the intention of one day discovering a family member in whom I might entrust its fate. The draft volume, (which I am happy to say was published during my friend’s lifetime) lay in the darkness of my closet storage bin for a decade and a half, until I came across Frank’s son, and passed it on to him.

You might be surprised how often I have thought of the stuff which my forebears might have left behind, but which, whether by they or a descendent, was relegated to the trash bin or scrap heap.

Manuscripts, diaries, photographs, letters, paintings, jewelry, spectacles, handkerchiefs.

Speaking of handkerchiefs, some time ago a cousin forwarded a photo to me of one of my great grandmother Mary’s handkerchiefs; which this relative still has in her possession. Interestingly enough, (and surprising to me) ‘Jenny’ is considering bequeathing the handkerchief to me; perhaps because she considers yours truly to be the unofficial family historian.

It occurs to me that in our own lifetimes we have all been prone to dispose of old, broken or unused stuff which has outlived its usefulness, but which, had it been valued as such, might have been passed down to future generations; like my great grandmother’s handkerchief.

What an absolute treasure it is this long after my ancestor went on to her reward.

Pt. 2

I think most of those who have gone on before us, most especially our relatives who lived in the 19^th and first half of the 20^th centuries, were too busy living to worry too much about whether their great grandchildren ended up with a few of their ink and paper scratchings, or for that matter, a pair of spectacles or worn out handkerchief.

My father was an exception to the rule, as he created hundreds of landscapes in oil during the fifth and sixth decades of his life, he compiled a vast family genealogy, and he left several audio hours of his distinctive voice behind; detailing his childhood, and young adulthood in which he served in the military during WWII.

And I think I must have picked up the proverbial mantle which fell from his shoulders, since I am easily as dedicated as he was to ‘leaving something behind.’ You see, like my father, I yearn to remain here. Oh, not physically, for as scripture promises us, “It is appointed unto man once to die…” But, I simply cannot contemplate leaving this old world without leaving an inestimable, lasting impact in the wake of my certain departure.

The focus of my time and efforts have been twofold.

I am a counselor, educator and mentor, and over the course of the past two and a half decades I have touched the lives of countless people. I have often made a statement to the young, and not so young people to whom I have ministered.

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

What an inestimable privilege it has been to feed into these lives. I love the pertinent adage, “I am planting seedlings under whose shade I may never rest.”  But I think many of my students will offer shade, succor and sustenance to those who haven’t yet made their appearance on the earth.

Another way in which I have chosen to reach out to unborn generations is by the written word. God has graced me with an extraordinary literary gift. And I think I can brag on Him, since I realize the gift He has given me is not of my own creation, and there is no room for pride in that I did nothing to attain or merit this ability.

Pt. 3

We have all been privy to the statement,

“He is so heavenly minded, he’s no earthly good.”

Well, I for one am convinced that real ‘heavenly mindedness’ includes the realization that we simply ‘cannot stay here’ and that what we do, we must do now. And I think this includes not only the tangible objects of life which we choose to bequeath to our children, and our children’s children, but the present impact we are given to exercise over the next generation, and whatever God has inspired us to leave behind through the agency of the written word.

Perhaps there’s no particular manner in which we, as individuals, ought to bequeath something of ourselves to the generations which will follow us. But I think a gauge of their inherent value to us is whether we choose to do anything at all of this nature.

As I sit typing out one alphabetic character after another to my left are ten or twelve attachable drives containing multiplied thousands of genealogical, ministerial and literary files and photos. Behind me is a bookcase, and the four shelves of it are lined with binders representing printed copies of the vast majority of my works.

I think the priority, the focus, should be to leave something behind. Whatever it is that is good and true about us, and with which we wish to touch our descendants, that is where we should devote our energies.

Pt. 4

At the beginning of each volume of my daily diary is a persuasion I wrote several years ago, and which I wish to communicate to the yet unborn generations of my family whom I will never, in this life, have the opportunity to meet.

I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal

… absolutely nothing.

And I have often mused, “Why didn’t you leave something behind?”

Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been if you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves.

Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, I consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected). I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, “before you were even a twinkle.”

You deserve it.

And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing…

We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time,

… Leave something of yourself behind.

Afterward:

Where after all, has time gone? Why, only yesterday I captured fly flies in a bottle, retrieved mulberries off a feral tree by the railroad track, and (inadvisably) ran with the neighborhood rag-a-muffins behind the mosquito spray truck; which covered our neighborhood with that dense, white toxic fog.

Now, at the grand old age 2/3 of a century, my classmates and I are about to celebrate the passing of half a century since we walked the infield median of the circular track where I ran with the best of them. My once strong, youthful body has rearranged itself a bit, and in spite of the years, and the increased girth of my trunk and extremities, I fancy myself stronger than multiplied decades hence.

But so like my fathers before me, I must certainly shed the proverbial shackles which presently constrain me, and separate me from the face of a loving Savior, and my certain reward.

It occurs to me that this ‘yearning to remain’ and the potential for me to do so, is dependent on the choices I make and the actions I take today; since once I have passed from the good earth my wherewithal to leave something, anything of myself behind will be

…as intangible and insubstantial as I have suddenly become.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 33. Copyright Pending.

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