LOOKING FOR THAT ONE

I was watching a movie today about a military doctor who was assigned a patient with severe dental and lip injuries, as the result of an automobile accident.

This surgeon took extraordinary measures to assist his patient, and spent multiplied hours planning the initial and subsequent operations. Never in his surgical career had he felt such empathy for a patient. Never in his life had he devoted such caring effort, or taken his responsibility so much to heart.

And though the young woman was gruesome to behold, and though her injuries were the worst he’d ever witnessed, he painstakingly went about his task. And throughout the months and years to come he assumed a duel role; that of physician and prophet. For he could virtually see the finished work before him. He could see the invisible, as though it were visible. And this energized him during periods of his own disappointment, and his patient’s disbelief.

The young woman often lashed out at him, wavering between despondency, anxiety, discouragement and rage. Sometimes his patient’s immaturity surprised the doctor, and he could only shake his head. But nothing deterred him from his task, and over many months and years, he performed surgery after surgery, and with each operation his dream became increasingly tangible. And with each operation his young client seemed increasingly confident about the ultimate result.

The surgeon was doing the kind of breakthrough, innovative work that had never been attempted, and his associates and friends were often skeptical of the final outcome. More than once someone accused the doctor of ‘playing God.’ And though their remarks were critical by implication, the physician chose to regard them as complimentary.

And what of the young lady, the recipient of all his skill and labor? Her facial deformities became less obvious, less hideous to those who beheld her. And with time the results of her unfortunate accident were almost imperceptible; until all that remained was a slight scar on one edge of her recreated lips.

And her joy, and the corresponding joy of her surgeon overflowed, and seemed to fill up the world around them. She was whole again. Her shame was vanquished. She no longer hid her face from approaching strangers, and her newfound smile seemed to light up the world around her.

It occurs to me that the young lady’s surgeon had so thoroughly grasped the fictional ‘Jane Eyre’s’ message in the novel by the same title, and rendered it prophetic.

“Your wounds are sad to behold, but you are not your wounds.”

Ultimately, the woman determined to give back something of what she had received, and she began to impact one here, and bless one there. And, readers, I may have neglected to tell you, before her injury our little heroine had been a nurse. Thus she returned to her duties with more vigor and more enthusiasm than she’d ever felt. For having once been a patient, she could empathize far beyond anything theoretical. Dream had taken on reality. Fog had taken on flesh.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that ‘playing God’ allusion, and at first glance, it’s a repugnant characterization, since there’s One God, (and I’m not Him). But that old adage, “Some people have to have a God with flesh on” rings true. Why, just today, I received a call from an anxious client, an individual who has left her childhood faith behind, and who disavows any further use for God. Nevertheless, I ministered to her. And I like to think that she was comforted, and sensed a bit of God in me.

We have been given a rare opportunity; an opportunity to, as it were, play both prophet and God, and I say this will all due respect, and submission to the only One and True God.

There are those in our midst who will never excel, nor attempt to do so. There are those in our company who will be content to squander their God-given hopes and dreams. There are those who will make the cemetery richer; for the local cemetery is among the richest pieces of ground on earth. Since it is filled with all the unexplored, un-attempted and unfulfilled dreams of thousands of God’s creations; lying dormant. Never to find fruition.

My message to you is to look for that one; that one person among many who displays the kind of unexplored, just under the surface potential to be singular, to be great, to be used of our Lord. Look for that man or woman who can be shaped, molded, impacted. Look for that one who, though sick, or sad or selfish has a pliable and contrite spirit, and who is marginally, and increasingly ready to assume their God-given place on the earth.

Inscribed on the Statue of Liberty is a verse:

“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teaming short. Send these, the homeless tempest tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.” (Emma Lazarus)

Our mission is to people like this. The tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless. And we have a lamp to light their pathways. And we offer them a golden door; a door which leads to freedom.

But many will refuse our comfort, and many will drift away. But if we can touch just one at a time. If we can make a difference in one life at a time. We may not be able to change the world, but we may be able to change the world of one person.

Pour your efforts into all; everyone who seeks help, who pleads for deliverance. Do this. Do this.

But look for that one; that one who seems to provoke you to do a little more. That one who not only needs a bit more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands, and bids you mold them into something lovely. Look for that one. Give your best efforts to that one.

For you are both a physician and a prophet. So reminiscent of that doctor who bestowed his best labor on the little lady; to whom I have previously alluded. God bids you pour healing suave in their wounds. He will give you dreams in the night on their behalf, and provoke you to see the invisible and impossible. You are truly both a physician and a prophet.

Someone, a very dear someone, once looked intently at me and said, “You must have seen something in me.” To which I responded, “Indeed, I did!” Another precious someone once mused, “You almost sent me away,” and I responded, “I’m so glad I didn’t.”

Who can know how God may choose to multiply our efforts through these precious souls who wait for us to touch, impact, impress and invest in them?

Look for that One, that One who seems to provoke you to do a little more. That One who not only needs a little more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands and begs you to mold them into something beautiful.

Look for that One.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 62. Copyright Pending.

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THE CORPSE BY THE BAY

Jean and I drive past the corner of Bayshore Boulevard and Gandy Boulevard in Tampa every couple of months on our way to the base commissary. And I can’t pass that particular intersection without thinking about what was, and what has ceased to be.

At the time I was a proud member of the United States Air Force, and my first wife and I lived in a large two story wooden house which sat on that site. “Sally” and I lived upstairs, and just outside stood a couple of massive oak trees. Underneath the shade of those trees, I parked my car.

That old house is gone now, and in its place is a modern apartment complex. Interestingly enough, at least to me, those old trees are still there.

Back in the early ‘70’s I drove to the base on a daily basis, and sat behind an electric typewriter; where I punched out multiple military discharge, retirement and reenlistment documents. After a few weeks on the job, I could have “done it in the dark.”

Bayshore Boulevard runs along Tampa Bay and connects the City of Tampa and MacDill Air Force Base; a distance of perhaps 7 miles. Sometimes in the late afternoon, or early evening I would walk or jog along the seawall, and for the most part, things remained very much the same. After walking a couple of miles, I would pass a Jewish synagogue. Another half mile and I would pass a multi-story apartment building. Another mile and I walked past an older part of the city referred to as Hyde Park. And a few hundred yards later, I reached the outskirts of the business district of Tampa.

But this evening was far from mundane, and altogether different than all the rest.

For you see, as I approached the skyscrapers of downtown Tampa, I looked over the rail of the seawall, and witnessed something I’d never before seen.

A corpse lay at the bottom of the seawall; wrapped in clear neoprene plastic!

My thoughts flowed quickly and freely. What to do? What to do?

I stopped, and stepped down a set of stairs; a duplicate of other stairways installed every hundred yards along the length of the seawall. There, on a small landing, at the bottom of the short flight of steps, lay the body. It was positioned in such a way that now and then the small waves of the bay lapped up against it.

I steeled myself, stepped a little closer, and lightly kicked the plastic covered body with my right foot.

It was then that the corpses

… moved!

And sat up, and proceeded to pull the neoprene from around its face.

And then the “dead man” spoke.

“Uh, wah, what are you do, doing? What do you want?”

Of course, to say I was shocked would be a gross understatement. When one happens to be under the false assumption that something is dead, and then that something sits up and speaks; well now, perhaps you can imagine.

About then, I recall making some kind of excuse that sounded something like,

“Sorry mister. I thought you were,… well, dead.”

And without any further adieu, I took my leave.

As I retraced my journey home that evening I surmised that the “corpse” was, no doubt, a homeless man of perhaps 50 or 60. Why he was wrapped up in that fashion, (for as I recall it was anything but cold outside) and why he had placed himself where the ocean waves cascaded upon him, I have no earthly idea.

Funny, I have thought about this episode several times in the past couple of weeks.

I can only wonder if that poor fella, whom I believed at the time was a corpse,

… has after all these years assumed that rather permanent status.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 35. Copyright Pending.

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PAYING IT FORWARD

*A remembrance of a former university student of mine in which she alludes to a video on social media in which a man buys a birthday cake for a little boy whose grandmother cannot afford to pay for it and a similar story from her own life.

"It (the video) reminded me of a story I had happen to me when I was 6. When we first moved to Israel we didn't have much. One day I was walking with my dad by my favorite toy store. It was a very expensive one that I would usually would not even afford to walk into and I looked at a display window and I saw this Barbie doll I really wanted, but my dad did not have the money to buy it for me. Suddenly this man appeared; probably in his mid or late 60s wearing cowboy boots and hat. (We somehow knew He was from America). He asked me to pick any one toy I wanted from the display window and of course I picked the Barbie I so wanted. It was a new Barbie that just came out with her hair that came to her ankles and he went to the store with me and my dad and bought it for me. It was around 90 Shekiles ($30 ) at the time which was a lot of money for us (1991). I would never forget that man and the kindness He showed me. This video really made me think of Him and how one simple act of kindness can stay with you and inspire you to be a blessing to others too." (Jane Shlefer)

SOMETIMES THERE'S JUST NOT ENOUGH ROCKS. Pts. 1-2

There are several iconic movies out there in which the primary actor portrays a diametrically different person than who they really are.

I love “Rain Man,” with Dustin Hoffman portraying an autistic savant. And who can forget, “Tootsie,” as characterized by the same brilliant actor? But perhaps my favorite of all time among this genre is, “Forrest Gump,” starring Tom Hanks.

In one scene Forrest’ wife, ‘Jenny’ is seen throwing rocks at the old wooden frame house in which she, as a child, was repeatedly molested by her father. Ultimately, Jenny manages to break out a couple of windows, and slumps to the dirt in abject anger and frustration.

And with this, Forrest is heard to say,

“I guess sometimes there’s just not enough rocks.”

Well, my friends, I think,

“Sometimes there’s just not enough…answers.”

There’s a poignant scripture in the sixth book of the New Testament which speaks to this very notion.

“For I reckon the suffering of this present world isn’t worthy to be compared to the glory that will be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

Though the Savior, Himself, promised we would suffer persecution, it is too easy to think of ourselves as the exception to the rule. We read about the suffering saints of Hebrews Chapter 11. You know, the ones who lived in caves and dens, who went without sufficient food, who were sawn asunder and who were devoured by lions and tigers.

And though the writer of Hebrews neglects to mention it here, we know that many Christians were nailed to Roman crosses, and others were doused with oil and used as torches to light Nero’s banquets.

Pt. 2

Of course, the Apostle Peter witnessed Christ’ substitutionary death on the cross, and before his own similar martyrdom, he wrote a poignant admonishment to Christians of his day, and those of us who would follow.

“My brothers, don’t be surprised at the fiery trials you’re suffering, as though something strange were happening to you.” (1^st Peter 4:12)

And my fellow believers, (as that old fisherman turned Apostle might have said) is it necessary to admonish you? If it was good enough for the “giants upon whose shoulders we stand,” it is good enough for us.

I mean, there’s any number of things I don’t understand.

The premature deaths of many of my former classmates, and relatives. The dissolution of my first marriage. My wife and my respective bouts with cancer. Those whom I have known and loved, but who, subsequently, walked out of my life without so much as an explanation. My daughter’s quarter of a century struggle with retardation and mental illness.

And yet I know I’m not in competition with my readers, and that you have your own long and sorry lists of pain-inducing circumstances.

The Reverend David Jeremiah has often urged us that God doesn’t waste a circumstance or a tear, and that what we don’t understand now, we will understand after a little while. And this same good man was bold enough to muse whether a “vanilla-flavored existence” would be all that exciting, or all that profitable for our Christian growth and maturity.

I think you are bound to agree with Forrest that there’s never enough rocks, and with me that there’s never enough answers.

But I think we may as well lay our rocks down now, and wait for those long-awaited answers that are sure to come, though now they linger.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 62. Copyright Pending.

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HERITAGE, DESTINY, LEGACY. Pts. 1-3

My son, Gary and his family from Georgia visited with us this weekend.

And I think, perhaps, I surprised him with one thing, one sentence, which I shared with him. At least, I managed to elicit a momentary, uncomfortable laugh, and wry smile from him when I said,

“I think about death every day.”

And before our short conversation reached its conclusion, I think I convinced him that such a seeming strange mental pursuit can be as healthy, as it is, admittedly, morose.

I often tell my young clients and interns that,

“You’re staring into a sunrise. I’m staring into a sunset.”

(And indeed, I am).

Not a day goes by that I don’t pray,

“Lord, please don’t let me miss out on whatever still remains of my destiny.”

For you see, if a stranger walked up to me on the street, and asked,

“What are your three favorite words in all the earth?”,

I would have an instant response.

“Heritage, Destiny, Legacy.”

We receive a Heritage

We fulfill a Destiny

We leave a Legacy

And as a result, I think about “the end of all things” on a daily basis.

Pt. 2

I have committed numerous scriptures to memory which have to do with God’s providential plans for us.

“My times are in Your hands.” Psalm 30:15

(and)

“The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me.” Psalm 138:8

(and)

“Before I ever took my first breath, You planned every day of my life.” Psalm 139:16

(and)

“Faithful is He who has called you, and He will also do it.” 1^st Thess. 5:24

(and)

“For it is the Father’s good purpose both to will and act in you according to His providential plans.” Philippians 2:13

Dear readers, I am convinced that God thought about you and me, as individuals, (and every individual who would ever draw breath) …before He made the worlds. Now, I’m not sure how He managed to spend a few seconds reflecting on each and every one of the 100 billion lives who would ever inhabit this planet, but I am sure that He did. But, of course, His very name infers such a capability, (and, by now, He certainly has had sufficient time to do so).

Speaking of our Lord’s mindfulness of every one of His human creations, I love a quotation which I discovered in the little volume titled, “Captivating.”

“You’ve heard that in the heart of every man, woman and child is a space that only God can fill. But did you realize that in the heart of God, Himself is a space that only (insert your own name) can fill.”

(Go ahead, insert your name, and read the foregoing paragraph out loud. I’ll wait).

Pt. 3

There’s a phrase in the movie, “Shawshank Redemption” which admonishes us to,

“Get busy living or get busy dying.”

Well, I tend to believe this is a pretty good idea, though I might change the phraseology a wee bit to read,

“Get busy living, but keep the certainty of death ever before you.”

For you see, I think as believers there is something healthy about this notion. Life passes in a blink, and for some less than a blink. I mean, my 35 year old nephew unexpectedly passed away last month. But even if we manage to reach 100, when our individual hearts have thumped out their respective number of pulsations, my friends, it’s over.

I suppose such a blog as this would mean little or nothing to those who are not taken up with the notion of Destiny, but as a man of impact I live every day with the sure consideration of my end in mind.

God help every one of us to get past the lethargic declination of that which must surely come to pass, and help each of us to break out of the monotonous pattern of waking and sleeping; with little or no substance in between.

And may we be taken up with the notion of receiving a Heritage, Fulfilling a Destiny, and leaving a Legacy. For it has been given to us to cooperate with God to the saving and blessing of those whom He has set in our respective pathways.

For there is nothing more crucial, nothing more integral except our relationship with the Creator, itself.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 62. Copyright Pending.

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RETURNING THE FAVOR

I was on my way home from getting engaged to Zhenya in March, 2005. My first Aeroflot flight landed in Moscow. "Oops, bad news...the onward flight to New York has been cancelled." I'd just learned that my kids were being sent to "visit" me in Colorado a week before they were supposed to, a week before their spring break was actually going to happen. Plus my leave was about to expire.

I asked the women at the gate if hey could simply put me on he Delta Flight that was also going to New York. "Nyet," they all said. I begged them. "Nyet." Finally I asked them if I could speak to their manager. Hermann Herman came. I explained the situation to him. He seized on one phrase. "Did you say leave? Are you military?" "Yes, I'm military." "Do you have your military ID card?" "Here." "Give me your passport and your tickets, and wait here" I waited about 45 minutes.

Hermann came back and gave me the new tickets I needed. "I don't understand; why did you help me," I asked. "Well, I was military, too. Only I was on the other side. I was a soldier in the USSR, stationed in East Germany. But hey, we both share the brotherhood of arms, right?" He moved from Moscow in few months and was posted all over the world. Just a month ago he was going through some old papers and ran across my business card, and managed to find me. 

Colonel David Bennett

WILL YOU HUG ME?

It was during the mid-90’s that my daughter, Mary, 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 Mary had been exhibiting some bizarre symptoms and behavior, 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 Mary ...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; hanging crooked on the restaurant wall.

One weekend as we drove up Mary 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, 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 Mary and “Bob,” (as in “What About Bob?”) You would have to know the movie.

Mary 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 of time I think that Bob must have experienced the smallest measure of peace and contentment.

William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 25. Copyright Pending.

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BB KING & A PERSONAL ALLUSION

As I sit here watching a television documentary on the life and music of B.B. King, the late great R&B singer said something with which, as a child of southern segregation, I can, at some level, relate.

“When I was a boy I worked in the fields from ‘can to can’t;’ (from the time we can see to the time we can’t see.”)

(and)

“Way back when, when they were lynching black folks, there was a saying among white folks.

‘If you can kill a mule, you can buy another one. If you kill a n _ _ _ _ _, you can hire another one.”

Tonight’s documentary reminds me of something I previously wrote on the topic:

I was just listening to an old radio broadcast from 1996 on National Public Radio. Terri Gross was involved in an interview with the famous blues singer and guitarist, B.B. (“Blues Boy”) King. The occasion for the re-broadcast was yesterday’s death of the great musician.

Since I have an especial interest in sharecropping, and since BB grew up in this environment, I thought I would attempt to paraphrase one particular segment of the interview, related to Mr. King’s childhood years; minus Ms. Gross’ questions.

To provide a small disclaimer it is important for me to say that my father and mother grew up around sharecroppers, and as I recall my grandfather not only owned his own farm, but sharecropped at one time, himself.

To make the subject of sharecropping even more “there there” for me, I am in possession of a photograph taken in the early 20th century which depicts my great grandparents, John & Carolyn McDonald standing in front of their Georgia homestead, along with several of their adolescent children, including my own grandfather, Webster McDonald. 

Well over to the right we immediately notice a small black man standing under a tree. It has been thought by the family that the anonymous Negro was a former slave of William McDonald, John’s father, and my great great grandfather. And since the photo was snapped a good fifty years after the end of the institution of slavery, it has been conjectured that the black man chose to remain on the property as a sharecropper.

But to return to our interview with BB King...

“I grew up on the Mississippi Delta in the town of Indianola. By the age of 7, I was planting and harvesting cotton. It wasn’t unusual for children of that age who lived on the plantation to do adult work. We all had to pitch in, and do our part.

My parents were sharecroppers. I had a lot of experience with cotton, and went on to work peanuts, and eventually soybeans. You ask what sharecropping is. Well, it is what it sounds like it is. Share Cropping. We shared the crops we worked. Mr. ________, the owner, was the CPA. He did all the paperwork. Around December of each year, we ‘settled up,’ as we called it.

The property owner would sit down with my daddy, and he might say something like, 'Well, Mr. King, you managed to make 25 bales of cotton this year. Each bale brought $200. That’s $5,000. I advanced you $3,200 this year for rent and groceries, and other miscellaneous stuff. I owe you $1,800.'

And at this point, Mr. _________ would hand my father the money. And so the cycle would begin all over again.

(In regard to a question about whether BB wanted to get off the plantation as quickly as possible), "No, it wasn't like that at all. The plantation was home; with a capital H. It was what we knew and loved. It was all we knew. It was our life.

However, one day it began to change for me. You see, I was driving the plantation owner’s tractor one day, and suddenly the tailpipe backfired, and fell off. Well, you can imagine my consternation! You have to understand, the trouble with the tractor was like cutting a slice out of your mother’s newly baked chocolate cake, only to have it fall on the floor, and finding yourself in the dreadful position to try to explain it to her.

Well, I wasn’t all that keen about explaining the broken tailpipe to my parent’s benefactor, so I cut outta there. Headed off to Memphis. It was a 'whole nother country.' A different place. I ran into my cousin in the big city, and he told me I needed to go back to Indianola, and explain myself to Mr. __________; that I’d never be able to go forward ‘til I took care of the past. So I went back home, and 'paid the piper.'

As stern as I had remembered the man, he was actually very decent about it all; actually very kind, and all that was soon put behind us.”

BB King lived an interesting, and rather amorous life, it seems, since he admits having fathered 15 children by 15 women! His unsavory morals aside, he was an icon of the Blues music industry, and no one would ever deny it.

My father was an amateur genealogist, and a few decades before his death he decided to visit what remained of his great Grandfather William’s goldmine in Dahlonega, Georgia. The defunct mine is on the present site of a carpet mill. The manager of the mill agreed to walk my dad back to what was left of it.

While my father was in the area, he met some black men who happened to possess the “McDonald” surname. Comparing notes, my dad discovered that they were descendants of the slaves once “owned” by William, and who worked in the very gold mine my dad visited earlier that day. (Freed slaves often took the last name of their former owners as their own.)

And so it comes “full circle,” for you see, these present day African-American men are, without doubt, the grandchildren of that shy little black sharecropper in that old black & white picture; standing by himself under a tree.

Yes, and now it’s plain why I’m a bit keen on the topic of sharecropping.

It’s more than a random radio interview featuring BB King.

                                                Much more than that


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

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MASTER MENTOR

Among my favorite attributes are those of Humbleness, Encouragement and Servant-Leadership.

The latter of the three speaks to the quality of setting aside the time and care to mentor another human being; the wherewithal to add something valuable to a life representing a third, and altogether crucial variable in the mix, of course.

The other day I was scrolling through a social media site, and ran across a video which was posted by a friend in the Atlanta area. The film footage ran all of 12 or 15 seconds, and depicted Lynn’s conductorial work among the youth of that area. For over many years, she has mentored literally thousands of adolescents and adults in the inestimably wonderful genre referred to as “Song.”

Following is a response I left beneath the segment: 

“Lynn, when I played this short video, tears sprang to my eyes, and an involuntary sob sprang up in my throat. I have served as a formal mentor to numerous young people over the years, and therefore I can relate to what I viewed here in an especial way. You have learned well from one of your early mentors. As I have inferred in the past, Miss Clark would be inestimably proud of you, my friend.”

Miss Clark was, in the terminology of our era, an “old maid.” She graduated from the same school in which she, ultimately, taught. I was blessed to “sit under” her tutelage, as was Lynn, a full half century after she walked across that familiar stage, and received her “sheepskin.” (As a matter of fact, her faded diploma still graces the school trophy case).

As I finished my 11^th year, and began my 12^th, Miss Clark was forced to retire from teaching, as the result of a terminal illness, and was replaced by a much younger choral director. Though Mrs. F. was personable and adept in her chosen field, the students who had known and loved Miss Clark were left with a proverbial hole in their hearts, and it apparently showed in the music they generated.

For while Miss Clark’s Summerlin choral group had consistently rated “Superior” in the annual state contest, the first year we were without her, we received an “Excellent” rating.

And reminiscent of that scene in the movie, “October Sky,” in which Homer Hickam visits his teacher, Miss Riley, in her hospital room, and shows her his prestigious science award, it is said that in the closing weeks of Miss Clark’s life a similar thing occurred. 

It seems one of our aged conductor’s students was visiting her at home, or in a hospital room, and Miss Clark asked the inevitable question; which begged to be answered.

“So, how did ‘we’ do at state contest this year?”

Whether that student had prepared herself in advance for that proverbial “elephant in the living room,” or whether she merely possessed the insight to answer in the way she did, I cannot say.

However, it has been reported that “Grace,” (at least this is the name I have chosen for her) responded with,

“Well, Miss Clark, of course we rated all “Superior’s.”

And with that, I like to think our beloved musical mentor smiled, and that the little white lie momentarily assuaged her pain, and helped usher her from this sphere to the next.

I have recently been exposed to a couple of wonderful adages; (which I have made my own).

“I am planting seedlings under whose boughs I never expect to sit.”

(and)

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

The inestimable privilege and power of mentoring. The indescribable wonderment of wrapping one’s mantle around the shoulders of a younger someone, and entrusting him or her with all the future years which have not been afforded to you. 

One of my interns once gave me a gift, among the greatest treasures I have ever received on this side of heaven, when she said:

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go when you can no longer go. I’ll share your message when you are no longer able to share it. I’ll speak for you when all your speaking is done. I’ll continue to impact lives, and teach others to do the same, long after you have gone on to your reward.”

For there will come a time, (as it once came to Miss Clark) when they who refer to me, and people like me, will do so in the past tense,

“He was.”

But until then the privilege and power of impacting those who come after us 

… continues.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Copyright 2005.

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MY COUSIN MOLLY'S SACRIFICE

As I sit here tonight preparing to create a daily blog for the first day of the week, my mind drifts back to a person and event from almost eight years ago.

The date was January 12, 2010.

The place was the island of Hispaniola; comprised of the countries of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

The person was a young lady by the name of Molly Mackenzie Hightower.

I never knew Molly, but she was a distant cousin of mine. She had recently graduated with a double major, spoke French, and volunteered as a physical therapist in a Catholic disabled children’s orphanage in Haiti.

Although I never knew Molly, the world has been given some entre into her life as the result of an internet blog she maintained. I have also been privileged to interact with her uncle, a Catholic priest, and her father and brother. The photos of my dear cousin and those precious orphans are compelling. She was one of those people you meet a few times in a lifetime; who literally seem to shine from within. Even in the photographs an ethereal glow lights up her face.

Molly happened to be in her dormitory when the earthquake did its worst work on that impoverished island. While her family and friends hoped against hope that she would be rescued, it was not to be. She was found several days later midst the rubble of the dormitory. It can be said that she gave the last full measure of devotion for the children whom she had grown to love.

Sometimes we find ourselves taking people like Molly for granted. They sense a “call” to a work overseas which 99.9 percent of people would shun; in favor of some well-paying professional position in the states. They toil for little or no pay. They work long hours; often without praise or affirmation. On their occasional sabbaticals home, they attempt to explain to anyone who might listen what they have done, what they have seen; their triumphs and their defeats. And more often, than not they are met with a smile, or a nod, or a quizzical look; rather than a few empathetic words based on any real understanding of the work and their challenge the mission.

I would loved to have been granted a few brief moments with my cousin, Molly.

Time to assure her of the importance of her work, time to commensurate with her about the joy which distills from the opportunity to touch lives, time to talk about our mutual ancestors, and the possibility that they, too, were at one time given the privilege of impacting this or that person, whom God set in their pathway.

As strange as it may seem, I miss Molly; a dear relative whom I never had the privilege of meeting. And yet, I feel I know her. And I’m all too aware that the staff and patients of her beloved orphanage miss her in such an inestimable and profound way.

I think we will never understand why such lights among us are seemingly taken before their time; when they are in the midst of accomplishing such a life-changing work, or rather, lives-changing work, since this dear saint, and so many like her have impacted a myriad of the unfortunate and underprivileged; whose only recompense for services rendered was a bright smile, a hug or a few unaided steps.

They look very much like you or I, and shun the limelight. Yet I think these are the saints among us; (though any allusion to sainthood would, no doubt, be greeted by them with revelry and blushing).

People like Molly, though their lives were shortened, and though they have so often done their best work in the worst places this planet affords, managed to cut some indelible marks into the fabric of life and time.

And their love and works remain.

And they are not forgotten.

And the power and momentum of all they ever did, and hoped to do continues, and has not abated.

For lives were irrevocably touched

…and changed.

And there are those among us who have, because of them, stepped forward to fill the vacant space which they have left behind.

The world is better for people like Molly, who having walked and moved and served among us

…remain as unseen witnesses to a continuing need, and the power of one life to change the world as we know it;

…at least the world as they knew it.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 20. Copyright Pending.

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FOLLOW ME. Pts. 1-3

The year was 1968 and I was a new Christian; having accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my Savior the previous year, (and the summer after my high school graduation). Not one to waste a great deal of time, I had enrolled at a nearby Bible college; (which in the intervening decades metamorphosed into a Christian liberal arts university in which I was subsequently privileged to teach).

As the student body sat in chapel one morning, whomever happened to be charge of the service stepped forward and instructed the sound person to play a pre-recorded song.

Suddenly, the strains of an unfamiliar hymn filled the auditorium, and a baritone voice began to sing the most poignant words,

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me
And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

There was just something so compelling about the words of the old song; which went beyond the rhyme, content and meter. The expressiveness and experiential tenor of the words lent such an eloquence to the theme which he attempted to express to his audience.

It seems to me the student body sat spellbound, as the three verses to the hymn played themselves out. As I reflect on it now, an almost ‘holy hush’ permeated the building that morning.

As the closing notes of our unseen guest and accompanying piano echoed across the chapel, and silence permeated the room, our college president walked to the podium, and provided the students a bit of information to which they had not been privy, ‘til now.

“The voice you just heard was owned by a missionary named J.W. Tucker. He is no longer with us, but died at the hands of Maoist rebels in Africa just four years ago.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. There was just something so personally poignant having just been exposed to the song, and having just connected with the man who sang it; and to be informed that he had lain down his life for the Gospel of the Lord whom he had so dearly loved.

Almost half a century has come and gone since that day, and I have often reflected on the words of that old hymn by Ira Stanphill, and its relevance to every Christian who ever lived and moved and breathed upon this planet. And over the course of the past few decades I have often sung it as a solo, and never fail to relate the story behind my personal association with it.

Pt. 2

A HERO OF THE FAITH

It was November, 1964. J.W. and Angeline Tucker had returned to Paulis, Belgian Congo for their fifth term as Assemblies of God missionaries. Not long after their arrival, Simba rebels overran the area, slaughtering hundreds of people.

J. W., along with about sixty other Europeans and Americans, was taken hostage to the Catholic mission in Paulis (later named Isiro). (Angeline and the three children were rescued by Belgian paratroopers and flown to safety). While being held at the mission, J. W. and several others, with hands tied behind their backs, were mercilessly beaten to death. Their bodies were loaded on a truck and taken about forty miles to the Bomokande River. There they were fed to the hungry crocodiles. Truly a Prince and a great missionary had perished, and it all seemed such a waste. But there is more to the story.

For many years J. W. had tried, with little success, to reach the Mangbeto tribe with the gospel. But the tribal king refused to allow him to preach to the people, saying, “We have our own gods.”
During the Simba rebel uprising, fighting spilled into Mangbeto territory. In desperation, the king requested help from the central government in Kinshasa. The government responded by sending them a man of powerful influence from the Isiro area. They called him “the Brigadier.” Just two months before J. W. was killed he won this man to the Lord.

When the Brigadier arrived in Mangbeto country he quickly realized they were pagans. So he determined to win them to the Lord. Being a new Christian, he shared the gospel with them as best he could, but with very little success. Being somewhat discouraged, he began to pray, and the Lord gave him an idea. So he sent word to the king to bring his tribal elders and meet with him.

When the tribal delegation arrived, the Brigadier said, “From time immemorial you have had a saying: ‘If the blood of any man flows in our river, the Bomokande River, we must listen to his message.’ A man’s blood has flowed in your river. He tried to give you a message about his God Who sent His Son to die for your sins, so that all who believe on Him will have eternal life. And I am bringing his message to you. This man’s blood has flowed in your river, so you must hear his message.” As the Brigadier spoke, the Spirit of the Lord began to move in their hearts, and many received the Savior that day.

Today there are thousands of Christians in the Mangbeto tribe, and between forty and fifty Assemblies of God churches. How true the saying: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”
My wife and I stood on the bridge over the Bomokande River, only a few feet from where the rebels threw Brother Tucker’s body. We were both gripped by a great sense of awe as we stood on that sacred ground. Our hearts were challenged by the memory of a great, but humble, man of God who believed that being in God’s will is more precious than life itself. And though dead, his message is still bearing fruit.

Harold Walls
(Manna for the Journey Devotions)

Pt. 3

FOLLOW ME

I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care,
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me,
And then I heard Him say so tenderly, 

"My feet were also weary upon the Calv'ry road,
The cross became so heavy I fell beneath the load,
Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see,
Just lift your cross and follow close to me."

"I work so hard for Jesus" I often boast and say,
"I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,
I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to thee,"
And then I heard Him gently say to me, 

"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss,
My hands were nailed in anger upon a cruel cross,
But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine,
So lift your cross and follow close to me."

Oh Jesus if I die upon a foreign field someday
'Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay,
"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,"
These are the words he gently spoke to me, 

"If just a cup of water I place within your hand
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand,"
But if by death to living they can thy glory see,
I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.

(Ira Stanphill)

William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 47. Copyright Pending.

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THE COMMUNITY BOOMBOX CLUB

Mr. Pickens, a nurseryman for whom I worked part-time as an adolescent, had moved his field hands to, well, another field a couple miles north of my house. I vividly recall bending at the waist, and dropping handfuls of weeds into my empty bushel basket.

Of course, I’d been listening to Walter Cronkite, or Huntley and Brinkley each night, and I had my trusty transistor radio nearby, and as I dragged that basket along in the heat of the Florida sunshine, the natural peace which accompanied my work was broken only by a myriad of troubled thoughts which permeated my mind.

With the advent of the Cuban Missile Crisis, I could imagine the end of the world as I knew it. I would be slaving in the fields, and as I stood to stretch my back a bit, and I gazed towards the West,

… A Mushroom Cloud

would appear, and intuitively I would understand a city of several hundred thousand people had simply vanished. The City of Tampa, with all of its inhabitants, was only a memory now.

And almost immediately thereafter, as I turned to face the Northeast, a greater explosion now, and I felt the earth rock beneath me, and though the sun was low on the horizon, the light which sprang from this ghastly thing renewed the day, and the awful reds and violets and yellows of that massive cloud almost threatened to envelope me.

It was the age of fallout shelters. Americans were building them at an unprecedented rate. One young lady, whom I fancied as my girlfriend, once gave me a tour of her family’s fallout shelter. (Funny, fifty years hence, her former home is a lawyer’s office, and that relic of yesteryear is still standing nearby; a host of weeds and small seedlings growing out of the roof).

There’s a phrase, attributed to President Kennedy, which was used at the time to describe the end of the crisis.

“We were standing there staring at one another, face to face, and I think the other guy just blinked.”

And so he did, and I thank God for it. My life returned to normal, and I continued my work in those filthy caladium fields. An unsettled peace had descended upon the land, but it was enough, and my thoughts were redirected towards the former things; skateboards and comic books and bowling and girls, and a dozen other small preoccupations.

William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 44. Copyright Pending.

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PROFILES IN COURAGE. Pts. 1-4

I am relieved.

Yes, I am relieved.

I don’t mind telling you.

…I am relieved.

The United States Senate voted tonight on the so-called ‘skinny’ bill to repeal (some of the stipulations of) Obamacare; (given they haven’t been able to repeal and replace ‘the whole ball of wax’).

Of course, the United States House of Representatives previously voted for, and passed their own version of a bill to rework this nation’s healthcare system.

It was all on the line tonight. And the majority party, the party which had promised it would ‘step up to the plate,’ and replace what they view as a failed system, failed in their attempt to do so.

The final vote?

49 ‘Aye.’

51 ‘No.’

49 members of the majority party voted ‘Aye.’

48 members of the minority party voted ‘No.’

And

(drum roll)

3 members of the majority party voted ‘No.’

(And the bill was rejected by one vote).

It might be helpful for you to know that during the course of the vote, I found myself on my proverbial knees in prayer.

Pt. 2

Did I say that I am relieved?

(I thought I did).

According to the Congressional Budget Office, the current plan, had it been passed as written, would have hiked the cost of personal insurance premiums by 20 percent, and would have deprived 16 million people of their medical coverage.

The tenor of the majority party plan to replace Obamacare included a significant overhaul of the system which dispenses Medicaid benefits to the poor, disabled, and residents of this country’s nursing homes. Rather than an ongoing expansion in the cooperative Federal/State program known as Medicaid, the fifty states would ultimately be required to supplement a greater percentage of the funding; something it was expected they would be increasingly unable to do.

I can imagine a large number of the majority party cast their votes based on party allegiance. And I expect many of these 49 senators might tell you or me,

“Well, it’s not personal.”

And in such a case, I would hypothetically respond,

“Well, it’s personal to me!”

For though I am registered with the majority party, my allegiance goes far beyond something so mundane.

For you see, as my mother entered her waning years, and incurred numerous serious diagnoses, she spent two years in a skilled nursing facility, and during that season depended heavily on Medicaid benefits to cover the overwhelming costs of her medical care.

And if that were not enough, I have a 45 year old mentally-ill, borderline retarded daughter whose name is ‘Mary.’ She has endured these maladies for a quarter of a century, and has lived in a group home for almost as long.

Mary is the recipient of both federal disability funding and Medicaid, and 99.9 percent of her room, board and medical costs have been covered to the tune of, by now, well over a million dollars. As her father, had I been required to entirely cover her expenses the past quarter century, by now, no doubt…I would be living in a tent under a tree.

Pt. 3

Before he was elected President of the United States, John F. Kennedy wrote a little volume entitled, “Profiles in Courage.”

Tonight, three senators of the majority party voted their conscience; (and in so doing dashed the expectations of their constituents to overturn Obamacare). I suppose, depending on one’s personal convictions of what is right for this country, these three individuals might be classified heretics or heroes.

Well, my friends, they’re heroes to me.

Senator Susan Collins of Maine

Senator Lisa Murkowski of Alaska

(and)

Senator John McCain of Arizona

And while I am exceedingly thankful for each one, allow me to make an example of the latter of the three; (and, in so doing, characterize the heroism of the entire group).

Senator John McCain is, in the colloquial connotation of the word, just plain ‘bad.’

As a Navy pilot during the Vietnam Conflict, he was shot down over North Vietnam, and, as a result, spent five years as a Prisoner of War. He was mercilessly beaten on a repetitive basis. Given his father was a Navy admiral, and for purposes of propaganda, McCain was offered the opportunity go home early. He refused. He personally identified with his fellow P.O.W.’s, and would not accept special treatment.

Elected as a congressman from Arizona in 1982, he went on to serve as a senator, and is one of the longest serving members of the U.S. Senate. Of course, we all recall his 2000 and 2008 bids for the presidency, and the time and efforts he expended to gain the White House.

And we also know ‘the rest of the story.’

Pt. 4

Speaking of “Profiles in Courage,” John McCain III is currently battling a highly aggressive form of brain cancer; one which is expected to take his life in the 12-15 months. Less than two weeks ago, he endured a major operation, and against the recommendations of his physicians, he ‘showed up’ for the up or down vote to send the Senate bill to the House of Representatives for reconciliation and final approval.

Wearing a long, jagged scar above his left eye, and a bruise beneath it, in the past couple of days Senator McCain made a rousing speech to the assembled Senate of the United States. In it, he decried partisanism and urged both parties to put aside their differences, and come together for the good of this great nation.

Tonight, he and his two female colleagues decimated any possibility that members of the majority party would overturn the healthcare plan created by our current president’s predecessor and the majority party at the time, and, in so doing, allowed a potential 16 million Americans to keep their present insurance coverage. More importantly to me, or at least more relevantly to me, the senators from Arizona, Maine and Alaska have assured my daughter, Mary, will maintain her much needed medical coverage.

McCain, Collins and Murkowski refused to approve a bill which was, literally, drafted on a napkin by the Senate Majority Leader, and on the day of the vote. These three will pay a price for their seeming disloyalty to their political party, but each and every one of them counted the cost, and considered their conscience and constituents more dear than party allegiance.

They will be cajoled and derided by the majority members of their party, and the President of the United States, but ‘after the dust has settled,’ I believe history will treat them well.

Profiles in Courage, indeed.


William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 62. Copyright Pending.

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