I REMEMBER MARY. Pts. 1-2

I think most past and present substitute teachers in this country have memories they’d rather forget, more so than remember. The poor remuneration, and total lack of benefits is the least of it. Having served as a substitute teacher for 15 years, I had some amazing experiences, most of these negative in nature, I’m sorry to say; among which were large class sizes, general unruliness, and having been called vile names by students.

As a result, it was always refreshing to experience a good day, and a good group of students who not only wanted to learn, but who expressed their genuine appreciation for my efforts.

I was subbing at Westwood Middle School one day, (not the ‘funnest’ environment in which I ever taught) and had been assigned ‘Mrs. Elbert’s’ Science class. As was the rule, whenever I reported for duty, I would immediately walk to the teacher’s desk, and read the note which he or she (presumably) left for me, and today was no exception.

As I read through my instructions, I noticed that on this particular day we would be taking up the subject of bats, and that Mrs. Elbert expected me to do a 15-20 lecture and class interaction segment. Not only, (as I soon discovered) was there a limited amount of information in the textbook, but it occurred to me that subs weren’t generally expected to do lectures. I would do the best I could. (And, in fact, I did).

Thankfully, the class was well-behaved, and interactive, and as I began my lecture the students seemed genuinely interested in the subject matter. And the longer I lectured, the more I warmed up to it, and a great deal of what I already knew about the nasty-looking little critters “came back” to me.

Pt. 2

Facts such as:

Bat manure is referred to as ‘guano’ and during the Civil War Confederate troops wandered into caves, procured large quantities of the ‘stuff,’ distilled nitrate from it, and with it made gunpowder.

(and)

The mystique of monster movies pales next to the real-life antics of the Vampire Bat. These blood sucking little devils have been known to invade nearby pastures, and sink their fangs into unsuspecting cattle and sheep; thus, fulfilling their nightly blood lust.

(and)

While bats look like birds, and fly, they are mammals, are covered in hair, and suckle their young.

And as I previously inferred, my momentary students were “all ears.” Not only did they seem interested in my ad-lib lecture, but when I completed my remarks, they chimed in with relevant comments, and asked several pertinent questions.

The hour passed quickly, and I was so engaged in my role, and so almost enthralled with the way things fell together that I presumed the same lecture would serve me well the remainder of the day. (And, in fact, it did).

As I completed my initial lecture, and the second period bell rang, I stood by the door to bid farewell to the departing students, and ‘Good Morning’ to my next scholastic candidates.

After five or six pupils filed out the door, one young lady by the name of Mary Garcia halted in front of me, and said,

“Dr. McDonald, I really enjoyed your lecture. You were SO prepared, and I learned so much about bats that I never knew before. Thank you.”

Afterward

I have often thought of, and prayed for little Mary Garcia. She was 13 at the time. By now, she would have entered the third decade of her life, would in all probability be married, and have two or three children.

I have mused whether Mary has ever reminisced about that particular substitute teacher, that particular class hour, and the topic which I attempted to teach that day.

Were I granted the rich, (though unlikely) opportunity to speak to her, I would tell Mary that among all my experiences, and subsequent memories of that mostly unrewarding period in my vocational life, what she may have considered insignificant, and others might have regarded as obscure, those few words she so graciously shared with me, the appreciation she exuded, and the resulting satisfaction I experienced will remain with, and encourage me for the remainder of my natural life; (and made it all worth it).

Thank you, Mary. Among the hundreds of my substitute teaching assignments, and the thousands of students whom I had the pleasure (and oft times, displeasure) of teaching, you are the most memorable.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 75. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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THOUGHT FOR NEW YEAR'S EVE

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 name) can fill.

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believes in Him might not perish but have everlasting life." (John 3:16)

VOICES FROM THE PAST

I wrote an earlier story about having once visited my great Uncle Gordon. I had just turned 13, and my family and I were vacationing at my grandparent’s house in southern Georgia. 

As my mother, brother and I sat in my uncle’s parlor, he stood up, walked over to an unusual wooden box, lifted the lid, and proceeded to turn a crank on the side; (which reminded me of the old timey handle on the front of those Henry Ford Model T’s).

Suddenly, a black cylinder mounted on the inside top of the box began spinning, and the strangest music I’d ever heard filled up the room. I’d seen those old black and white films of Al Jolsen singing, and what I was hearing reminded me of his style of music and vocal characteristics. 

For all I knew my exposure to my great uncle’s Victrola (Amberola) was a one-time experience; at least in terms of ever seeing and hearing his personal music box again. He was in his late 60’s or early 70’s, and I never expected to see him again. (And as it fell together, I never did).

However…

(One can always tell something unexpected is about to be revealed when this word appears on the written page).

However, a full half century later this former adolescent is easily as old as my dearly departed relative was at the time, and (strangely enough) I was recently afforded the opportunity to not only see and hear my uncle’s ancient Victrola again, 

…but to purchase it, and provide it a place of honor in my very own home.

Did I mention my great Uncle’s entire collection of audio cylinders came with that old music box? (Well, they did). It seems these cylinders have a Plaster of Paris base, with the standard black plastic record coating on the outside. And of perhaps a hundred audios, the inner core of perhaps 2/3 of them are beginning to crumble; (which leaves me wondering if there is any hope of repair).

 

But as for the thirty or so cylinders which are still usable, once again I have been given the opportunity to listen to the strains of that ethereal old music coming out of the internal horn; tucked just behind a framework of metal and what I refer to as ‘speaker cloth.’

My uncle evidently enjoyed religious music, as thus far I have discovered more than a ‘handful’ contain this particular genre of hymns and spiritual melodies. 

Yesterday, having pushed the audio cylinder onto the roller, I turned the crank 8 or 10 times, and flipped the switch. Suddenly, the familiar old hymn, “Rock of Ages” wafted through the speaker. At first, several male and female voices blended; ultimately metamorphosing into one female voice finishing the verse.

Strange, the Edison Amberola 30 player was patented in 1903, and according to a notecard which my uncle wrote out by hand, my particular version of the machine was originally purchased in 1917. 

The owners of the surreally poignant voices have easily been dead and gone for three quarters of a century. No more will they walk their native soil, but rather have become part of it.

…However,

(there’s that word again)

they have left something of themselves behind.

And, would you believe it? In spite of the tiny cracks and pops which are part and parcel of such an ancient recording, and in spite of the decidedly English tilt of their repertoire, the tenor of their voices struck something deep inside of me. 

Deep calling out to deep. A rather apt way of putting it, I think. They were here and I was not. I am here and they are not. And yet, they have lent me their voices, and have instilled something grand and lasting within me. 

They have simply left something of themselves behind.

And for this I am grateful, (and intend to do as they have done before me).


Post-script - Since I purchased the ancient record player and the audio cylinders I discovered there was a tool to 'ream out' the inside of the cylinders; which I subsequently purchased. As a result virtually 100 percent of the audios can be played, and provide excellent sound. 


Also, since I purchased the Amberola both my aunts informed me that it was originally owned by my grandfather Ring, my great uncle Gordon's brother. Of course, it was an added bonus for me to discover this information.

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

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THE DAY & THE HOUR. Pts. 1-3

Pt. 1

A few years ago, my wife and I visited a local church we’d once attended. It was a memorable visit to say the least.

For you see, during ‘Pastor Richards’ sermon he suddenly alluded to a certain Christian scholar.

“My friends, a notable religious figure, Dr. __________, (and he named a name) recently predicted that Jesus would return for his saints next month (October). I can tell you he has based this prediction on some pretty intense research.” (And the good minister went on to substantiate Dr. So n’ So’s claim with several facts and figures).

Of course, it could have gone either way at this point, but I expected the preacher to nay say the eminent modern-day prophet.

However, that is not what he did.

Rev. Richards continued.

“My dear parishioners, I am here today to tell you…that I believe him. We need to get ready, and we need to get ready now! Tell your friends and enemies. Based on the data I have seen, and just provided to you, Jesus will split the clouds wide open, and will translate believers into heaven; not a century from now, not even a decade, nor next year, …but next month!”

Well, you could have fooled me.

Of course, as a seasoned believer of half a century, I immediately thought of our Lord’s admonition that,

“…About that day or hour, no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” (Matthew 24:36)

Pt. 2

While I was sure that Pastor Richards’ claim defied everything that Christ and His apostles said to the contrary, I don’t mind telling you that over the next few weeks I was a bit anxious about the preacher’s message, and I examined the scriptures, and my very soul to “see if these things be true,” and whether I was altogether ready to stand before the King of kings, and Lord of lords.

Only minutes ago, I was looking at a video of the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights. I cannot but see film footage of this phenomenon without sensing abject wonder at the awesome power of the Creator of all that was, is, and ever will be.

Which brings me to an interesting experience from the last decade of the last century.

A relative of mine, (actual name withheld) was visiting from out of state, and, for whatever reason, several family members were standing in my front yard in the early evening.

Suddenly, “Michael” looked up into the heavens, and he saw it.

For right there, “in front of God and everybody” we beheld the Aurora Borealis; or at least some semblance of it. A bit of green. A bit of red. Swirling in the sky.

Well, I can tell you Michael’s demeanor immediately changed from “fun, flippancy and frivolity” to “I don’t especially like what’s going on here, and I’d honestly rather be anywhere I’m currently not.”

To be sure, my relative’s sense of unease was understandable. Did I mention I live in central Florida? (Well, I do). And we just don’t experience the Aurora Borealis in this neck of the woods.

I never asked Michael about that night. I didn’t want to embarrass him. And it was, after all, just so obvious.

It had to be a sign. A precursor to the Rapture of the Church. God had decided to issue a warning to anyone, and everyone who happened to be looking up at the Florida sky that night.

Pt. 3

I was watching the news the next day, and Brian Williams, or Katie Kurick, or one of those over-paid “talking heads” reported that NASA had conducted a high altitude test the previous evening. It seems some type of chemical had been released into the upper atmosphere over Virginia. I surmised that the artificial Aurora which we witnessed was a direct result of this experiment.

I admit it. I’m not politically correct, (and neither was the Savior). I mean, He said it, and I believe what He said in John Chapter 14.

“I am The Way, The Truth, and The Life. No man can come to the Father, except through Me.”

I believe that the best of all proofs that Jesus is Lord, God and Messiah is the fulfillment of hundreds of Old Testament scriptures; during and subsequent to the New Testament. Why, I have a chart, (which is widely available on the internet) which lists 365 Old Testament scriptures, (one for each day of the year) and the corresponding scriptures in which they are fulfilled in the New Testament.

But to reflect on my previous account. Our Lord said that,

“No man knows the hour or the day in which the Son of Man will reappear.”

I suppose believers, and unbelievers, alike have been predicting the return of our Lord Jesus Christ since He ascended into heaven two Millenia ago.

Since I have put my faith in the Christ, and His promise to return, I can’t help but believe He will come again. But in spite of that local preacher’s prediction, (and that of his mentor) both he and I are still here, as well as every other believer who heard his words that day; (unless God has taken them home the natural route).

As surely as God saw fit to fulfill multiplied dozens of prophetic scriptures in Christ Jesus, I have every reason to believe He will keep His promise to return for His bride, the Church.

But just not yet.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 75. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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WALTZING IN THE NEW YEAR WITH THE (DECEASED) OLD HOME SINGERS. Pts. 1-2

*Originally written on New Year's Day, 2016

As you can plainly see from the date of this story, it is New Year’s Day. And it occurred to me in the past several hours to ‘ring in the New Year’ differently than I’d ever rung it in before.

It so happens that I recently purchased a wonderful family heirloom. A cousin made me aware of another relative who owned an Edison Amberola, (similar to a Victrola); which surprisingly enough, my grandfather owned a very long time ago, and which ultimately ‘fell into the hands’ of my great uncle. If that were not enough, the latter of the two played this early version of a record player for my mother and me over half a century ago. (Needless to say, I was still in high school at the time).

Not only was I fortunate enough to purchase the Amberola, but my great uncle’s tailor-made cabinet, and over a 100 audio cylinders came with it.

Not ones to celebrate with alcoholic spirits or by surrounding ourselves with dozens of inebriated celebrants, like so many earlier New Year’s Eves, we…stayed home.

And like so many years prior to the one which we were now ending, I turned on the television, clicked my way through the channels, and thought to myself,

“Well now, let me see. We have Jennifer Lopez from New York City singing and dancing her way into our hearts, and wearing… the most bizarre gold ‘shimmery’ excuse for an outfit; which left little to be imagined.

And I said to myself,

“Self, there has to be something a bit more visually moral upon which to focus this New Year’s Eve.” And I summarily turned to a channel featuring Mariah Carey in Los Angeles.

Right there ‘in front of God and everybody’ Mariah strutted and shimmered and sang her way into some people’s hearts; albeit not my own.

(and)

Speaking aloud to no one in particular, (though my wife was seated just steps away), I exclaimed,

“Old Mariah must have bought her outfit at the same store where Jennifer Lopez shops.” (For I kid you not, their ‘lack of clothing’ was virtually identical, and they might easily have sung a duet; had they not been on opposite sides of the country).

Pt. 2

And with this unwelcome development, I aimed the channel changer at my wide screen T.V. and clicked the scantily dressed, slightly past prime time performer into oblivion.

Did I mention I had a backup plan? (Well, I did). No, I hadn’t changed my mind. Alcoholic spirits and the comradery of wild celebrants still hadn’t worked their way up the list of my priorities for the evening.

You see, in the past few days I came across one of the 4 minute audio wonders which had as its title, “Auld Lang Syne,” (by Robert Burns), and of course, I connected that old ballad with the approaching New Year’s celebration. Never a backup plan at all, for my decision to slip said cylinder on the roller, turn the crank (for what seemed like an eternity), and lower the needle had been premeditated.

As the notes of that old familiar ballad began to waft their way across the room, and as those dearly departed voices of those dearly departed singers rose in unison, I invited my wife to her feet. And taking her in my arms, we waltzed ourselves into the New Year.

By now, I had clicked the television back on to watch the Times Square ball drop, (and drop it did).

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2

and

…1

And it suddenly occurred to me that my wife and I had been accompanied by a musical instrument purchased in 1917; (at Sears & Roebuck). Exactly 100 years prior to the New Year which she and I were at that very moment celebrating with one another.

Afterward

There was a time when these dearly departed, disembodied voices owned physiologies of their own in which they resided, and lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed; when they were, and we were not. 

I mused it was possible that in the entire world at that moment, no other couple had chosen a century old Blue Amberol audio cylinder with the music of “Old Lang Syne,” as sung by “The Old Home Singers,” to waltz in the New Year.

I like to think that my wife and I were in better company ringing in the New Year with the archaic voices of “The Old Home Singers,” (God rest their souls) than we would have been with Jennifer Lopez, Mariah Carey, or any of those other so-called recording artists of our time and ‘culture.’

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

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GRIEF POSTPONED

by Paul Puckett

It took me a day to decide whether to share my experience with grief. 

The grief was recent and powerful.  At the end, it was life changing.  The experience was not something I would wish on anyone, even though it helped me become a better person.  But maybe sharing it in an open forum will be helpful to those that may have had similar experiences or to those who have children who need to deal with their grief.  With that in mind, here is my story about grief postponed.

Over the course of my 48 years, people have sometimes commented that I seemed to always be angry about something.  I figured that they misinterpreted passionate discussion for anger and often tried to modify my own behavior to help those around me feel more comfortable.  Fortunately, I was born with a knack for humor, some would say a knack for attempting humor, so I could cover some of my passion with something funny.  In hindsight, I was angry for over forty years, but never really knew it.

A few years ago, I began writing my first book which came out this past April. It deals with fear and in writing it, I began to confront my own fears. In the introduction, I wrote about my fear of flying, which thankfully is no longer an issue for me. As many of you know, writing a book requires an opening and examination of your soul.  I think the book brought me to the point where the grief that was in me decided to make itself known.

In August of this year, I realized that with every passing moment I was getting more and more angry.  I released it on other drivers and anyone who made the mistake of being in my vicinity.  As I became more aware of it taking over me, I decided to ask my counselor, who helped me through a divorce several years ago, why I was angry.  She smiled and asked me if anything was off-limits.  Confused and exhausted, I said "No, you can ask me anything."  She smiled gently and asked, "Paul, tell me about your sister Beth."  After ten or twelve minutes of uncontrollable crying, I was able to respond with "What was that?" and she told me that it was over forty years of blocked grief.  She suggested I take some time off, get some exercise, stay hydrated, and let the grief flow.

It was all consuming for several days.  I forgot to eat and spent a lot of time riding my bike all over town.  Blocked memories of my sister flooded back in vivid color.  She had read me to sleep at night, driven me around in the car, and been like a second mother.  Guilt for not remembering this was, fortunately, short-lived.  After a hurricane of emotion, I found myself walking down to the Chesapeake Bay near my condo and, at two in the morning, I finally said goodbye to a sister that loved me.

Beth had gone on a date, her senior year in February of 1968, and she never made it back.  A Florida thunderstorm made the road disappear and her date turned the car to go down a street in my hometown.  Back in 1968, there were several small bridges that didn’t have guard rails and he turned, not onto a street, but into a thirty foot deep ditch.  There was no way he could have seen it and the street lights made the ditch look like a street in the downpour.  He survived with a broken rib while she died instantly.  I’ve always wanted him to know that I know that it wasn’t his fault.

I’m the son of a Baptist Minister of Music and my mother was the church organist.  Given our belief that heaven was a better place, it never occurred to anyone that we should grieve.  Beth had gone to a better place and she was happy there.  Me, well I was a six year old little boy, with no clue of what had happened or why.

In 1990, when my Mom was in remission from lymphoma, she wrote a book, Prunes, Pride, and Vinegar Pie so that when I had children, they would one day know their grandmother.  In the book, my mom told the story about my sister’s funeral.  After the graveside portion of the service, we all got into the big black limo, which I now remember vividly after years of blocking it.  My grandmother said to my mom, "You know if I could ask God to let Beth come back, I wouldn’t, because I know how happy she is in heaven."  My mom says that my little voice came from the back of the limo and said, "I would!”  Remembering it, as I can now, that moment describes a big part of who I am now.

The anger is gone now, thankfully, and I can meditate.  In the past, it was simply not possible for me to still my mind.  Now, it’s easy. When anger begins at the tender age of six, it becomes a part of who you are. I hope that those that are blocking similar memories will know from my experience that dealing with grief ends well.  The experience is intense, at least it was for me, but when you are done grieving, it is truly gone.  I came out of it, thinner by over thirty pounds and feel better and more relaxed than ever in my adult life.

If you have a child that loses a loved one, help them understand the need to grieve.  If you are a parent who lost a child, let your other children see your grief and help them with theirs.  Death is a part of life, and grief is a part of death.  As difficult as it can be, it is better to go through it than to postpone it.

My parents did what they thought was right.  In 1968, they had no way of knowing all the things that we know now about the impact of blocked grief.  I love my dad and I loved my mom who passed away on my thirty-third birthday and was buried on Beth’s birthday just four days later.  It was in September, maybe that is why it all came back this past August.

*See "Blessed Assurance" (same subject and person to which this article refers)

BLESSED ASSURANCE. Pts. 1-3 (a.k.a. Neither Gone, Nor Forgotten)

She was a year behind me in school, but was in my choral group, and I knew her, as it were, from a distance.

It always seemed to me that her friends lingered, and were reticent to leave her. And it seemed her smile betrayed some hidden secret which begged to be found out. I think she knew how to be a friend.

Sadly, Beth was denied the privilege of years, and passed away in a one vehicle accident; just three months short of her high school graduation.

I only met her father, Paul, a couple years before he left to be with the Lord. It seems he knew my father, and, of course, I made him aware of my having known Beth, and Elaine; another daughter who had “left us before her time.”

I was a “man on a mission,” since I was aware that his late wife, Martha, had written a self-published autobiography, and I was especially keen to read the chapter related to Beth’s passing.

Paul made me aware that of the several hundred volumes which had been printed, only two remained in his personal library. A paperback and a loose-leafed copy. Of course, I begged his indulgence, and asked whether I might borrow one of the volumes. While Paul seemed reticent to loan out one of the remaining copies, he finally relented; (though he was sure to write down my full name, address, and phone number before releasing the book to me).

I think I must have read Martha’s work in record time, and as I expected the chapter concerning Beth’s untimely death was the most poignant of them all.

Just so inestimably sad.

Pt. 2

It might be helpful for you to understand that Beth’s father was the Minister of Music at a local Baptist church, while her mother was the organist. They were people of faith, but the loss of their 17 year old daughter challenged their faith, like nothing to which they’d ever been exposed.

Martha’s small volume characterized the night of the tragedy, and the parent’s experience at the hospital. But I will spare you the details; since this facet of the chapter is not where I wish to take you.

But allow me to digress a bit to help you understand the caliber of this all too brief life, and to paraphrase her mother’s words on the subject.

Beth did everything with fervor. She absolutely loved life, and would share both her joys and small and sundry trials with us. She was a vibrant, caring young lady who would, without reservation, give you her last penny if you asked for it.

She was obedient to her father and me, and was hyper-sensitive about anything hasty she might say, as the result of having a worse than average day, and she was quick to apologize. While Beth was far from perfect, she was a delight to be with.

Beth was a better than average student, and participated in several extra-curricular activities. She was president of the Lionettes Club, and was especially proud of her role; since her father’s Lions Club sponsored it. She loved Summerlin Institute, and especially enjoyed singing in the glee club.

However, her church life was so much more important to her than anything else. She assisted her dad in leading the youth choir, and teaching Sunday School. She was a member of the Girl’s Auxiliary, and after four years of scripture memorization, involvement with missions projects, and the study of Southern Baptist life, she attained the highest possible rank in this youth organization, that of ‘Queen Regent.’

Pt. 3

(To continue her mother’s characterization of this precious, all too brief life).

Almost a quarter of a century has transpired since our dear daughter left us, though she remains very much alive in the life of our family. God has used her death to impact many others along the way, and we have used our excruciating experience to help others during their time of grief.

While it was inestimably difficult to pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I am happy to say that our Savior has led us all the way, and that in our most trying times, God never forsook us.

(But following is where I most wanted to bring you this evening).

Beth had hardly been gone three months when I began to dread Mother’s Day. Our daughter had always been so loving and thoughtful on holidays, and I knew that it would be a difficult 24 hours. But I had my duties at the organ, and I realized that it was a day that would just have to be lived, and put behind us.

On Mother’s Day morning, as I was in the process of getting dressed, I reached to get something out of my drawer. The drawer was stuck, and I jerked it open. When I did, it fell out on the floor, and all its contents were scattered across the room. Of course, I was frustrated, and exclaimed, “Lord, I don’t need this. Not today.”

Reaching up under the space from which I pulled the drawer, I felt around …and touched a large envelope. I inhaled deeply. In my hand I held a Mother’s Day card which Beth had given to me the previous year. I opened it, and wept, as I read the familiar handwriting.

It had been God’s way of providing me the courage I had so badly needed. This uncanny, almost miraculous occurrence gave me joy which remained with me throughout that day which I had so dreaded. As I reflect on this event, I never cease to be amazed at the peace which overwhelmed me at that moment, with my confidence that Beth now looks into the face of her Savior, and that I will most assuredly see her again one day.

*Pts. 2&3, Paraphrase of excerpt, "Prunes, Pride & Vinegar Pie" by Martha Puckett.

Also see "Grief Postponed." Same subject and person to which this blog refers.

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 75. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

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ELVIS IS ALIVE AND WELL IN BENTON, ARKANSAS. Pts. 1-4

Elvis is alive and well in Benton, Arkansas

(Really, he is)!

At least, if you believe a few ‘cheerleaders’ out there, who are leading the effort to inspire his fans to “hope against hope” that he is moving and breathing, and living among us.

It is only in the past couple of months that I came across a website titled, “Evidence Elvis Presley is Alive,” and which purports to show that an (amazing) look-alike, sound-alike guy by the name of Pastor Bob Joyce of the “Household of Faith Church” in Benton, Arkansas is none other than (drum roll) …the King of Rock ‘n Roll.

Well now, hold on there a hip shakin’ moment. I’m just not so sure.

Granted, the body in that 1977 era casket looked mighty suspicious. I mean, the photo I’ve seen of that cadaver looks, for all the world, like a 1950’s era Elvis. (And I guarantee you, when he made his supposed entrance into Rock ‘n Roll heaven, he was neither a young adult, nor did he look like he’d run ten miles a day for the preceding six months prior to his death).

And while I cannot begin to account for the good looking body in the casket, whether it was a mannequin or a look-a-like, I think it is a long walk from Memphis to Benton to believe that Elvis currently rules and reigns, (and manages to retain some measure of anonymity) in a little church in Arkansas.

I have to admit that Pastor Bob is a dead ringer (excuse the pun) for the dearly departed Elvis, not only in relation to his countenance and lovely locks, as I have previously implied, but in terms of his eerily familiar voice.

But I simply can’t ‘buy into’ the persuasion that Elvis is alive and well in Benton, Arkansas.

Pt. 2

My former pastor’s wife has, more than once, accused me of being a dyed in the wool skeptic. Perhaps it’s because as a counselor I’m paid to be skeptical, or to at least pull together sufficient information to make a valued judgment. Perhaps it’s because on experiential level I’ve been exposed to a whole lotta inter-relational baloney.

Speaking of my tendency to gather information, I have interacted several times with the creator of the Evidence Elvis Presley is Alive website, and have left comments on a similar youtube.com page.

My written questions/perspectives on these sites have ranged from,

“Have any members of Elvis’ so-called ‘Memphis Mafia’ met Pastor Joyce?”

(and)

“If so, what have people like the aged George Klein (high school friend and “Elvis Channel” DJ) or Red West (high school friend and actor) said about this claim?”

(and)

“Does Pastor Bob/a.k.a. Elvis II receive any of the financial dividends from ‘Elvis Presley Enterprises?’” (which still markets the King of Rock ‘n Roll to the enth degree).

(and)

“Has it occurred to you to ‘put your money where your mouth is’ and do a comparative voice print using sample Elvis and Pastor Bob audio’s?”

Pt. 3

To which I received the respective answers,

“Yes, so ‘n so has met with Pastor B., but I cannot begin to tell you what they talked about. God bless.” (Very convenient, indeed).

(and)

“That is a private matter between Pastor Bob and the agency which markets his persona. God bless.” (Based on everything I know the good preacher shows no signs of being independently wealthy).

(and)

“He doesn’t have anything to prove. Perhaps you might consider doing your own side by side voice print analysis. God bless.” (As if I had that capability).

(and)

“It isn’t time for Elvis to ‘come out.’ Can you imagine it? In his day and time, he was absolutely mobbed by the crowds who followed him. They tore off his clothes. They scratched his face and arms. Nuff said. God bless.” (Uhmmm, the last time I checked the man made multiplied millions for his trouble).

(and)

“When it’s time, he will know, and the world will know. God bless.” (And I can only wonder what time has to do with it. Whether now, or ten years from now, the result of his ‘second coming’ can only be very much the same).

Pt. 4

The proponents of the ‘Elvis is Alive & Well’ theology have said that he was tired of all the hustle and bustle, and that after two and a half decades, he longed for the kind of anonymity that any one of we ‘commoners’ enjoy on a daily basis. There are internet photos, snapped a few weeks after Elvis passing, which seem to show a white-haired Elvis trimming the Graceland hedges and rose bushes.

Those closest to the ‘king’ always said that if he ever went into a state of seclusion, he would probably turn up somewhere “wearing a backward collar;” since the Gospel was always so near and dear to him.

And to be sure, Elvis cherished his spiritual roots, and the faith of his mother. Perhaps ten or twenty percent of his music was spiritual in nature. Of course, it is no secret that he struggled, (at least emotionally) to overcome the sins of the flesh. Even the most novice among Elvis fans are aware of his recurrent dependence on prescription drugs, and his affinity for beautiful women; (with whom he so often shared his Graceland bedroom).

There are any number of sermons and solo’s on Pastor Joyce’ website, and copies of the latter are available for a fee “to help support the ministry.” (And to be sure, I have no ‘grief’ at all with that notion).

One of Pastor B.’s/the second coming of Elvis’ adherents responded to one of my previous comments. She said,

“The world may not know, but we know who he is, and that’s enough.”

Well, my friend, please don’t lump me in with all those ‘we’s’ since I’m definitely not a member of that prestigious club, (and I don’t think it’s enough; not by a long shot).

At any rate, if by some stretch the sun and moon are on the verge of falling out of the sky, or if I am nigh onto winning second place in the 2017 “Mr. Universe” contest, I wish “Pastor Elvis” well, and I sincerely hope he is happy, and continues to impact those whom God sets in his pathway.

*Note: Only tonight I ran across a video on YouTube featuring Pastor Joyce on which he makes the disclaimer that he is NOT Elvis, wasn't, isn't and never intends to be. That should set the record straight for all his "fall all over themselves, Elvis want him to be" adherents.

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

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