THE WRITTEN WORD

The spoken word races away as quickly as the next can be sent in pursuit, and so each word flees into oblivion. The sounds which we call ‘words’ are momentary, and passing things, for once articulated, they have their demise.

Not so with the written word. It lasts as long as the paper, or the stone on which it is inscribed. It has the availability to be called up as often as the reader desires. Black marks on white paper. But such strokes of the pen have preserved intact the memoirs of a thousand mighty men, the prose of a parcel of poets, and the leanings of limitless leaders. The men have passed away, but their words remain. And these words, thoughts and grand illusions live a second time, and a twenty-second time.

Lincoln’s “Four score and seven years ago” reverberates anew off well-worn headstones which were new and polished a hundred years hence. For though a century of deterioration now ‘decorates’ the stones, and the orator’s voice is muted, the word lives, and lives and lives again with each new issue of the printed page.

Common men, royalty, masons, parsons, prophets and slaves. Though gone a thousand years; they live. For their words remain; words of frustration, hope, warning and expectation.

Oh, the blessing of the written word. Not sparrows falling to the ground, as the spoken word. No, but the written word takes wings and soars into the future to lite afresh beneath a student’s eye.

With each written offering we pour a little of our mortal wine into a more permanent cup. Future generations will drink from this fountain.

And what of today? The written word provokes the unlearned, inspires the faint-hearted, strengthens the weak, and enables the ignorant. Best of all the written word is a traveler’s garden. A place to visit when a few stray minutes are strung together like pearls. A place to rest when the world has been unusually cruel. A place to relax at the end of an unseasonably rainy day.

Whether tis Eugene Field’s “Little Boy Blue,” Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea,” or Shakespeare’s “MacBeth,” our world is richer for the written word.

How many of our written words will live on, and what insight, admonition, or encouragement will they minister to those who drink from its fountain?

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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ADVICE TO ENGLISH STUDENTS IN FOREIGN COUNTRIES

My social media response to a woman in Thailand who posted:

“What advice would you give to someone who is trying to learn English, but is becoming frustrated with it?”

"I would tell them they will never regret learning English. It is the major language which people of different nations wish to learn and use. English is the language which people who don't speak each other's languages use to communicate, socialize, establish relationships, buy and sell, share traditions, culture and religion, and attempt to understand, provide insight, and encourage one another."

WINSTON TASTES GOOD LIKE A CIGARETTE SHOULD

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own. You were bought with a price. Therefore, glorify God with your body.” (1^st Cor. 6:19-20)

I ran across an old Winston Cigarette magazine ad on social media yesterday. The advertisement featured a smiling pregnant woman, and the following wording:

“People are always telling me that smoking causes low birth weight. Talk about a win-win-win! An easy labor, a slim baby, and the Full Flavor of Winston’s!”

(and)

“Smoke Winston’s when you’re smoking for two.”

Strangely enough, at the bottom of the ad I noticed one of those surgeon general’s warnings about cigarette smoke, and the danger it presents to unborn fetuses!

Another cigarette layout features a different pregnant model, and the caption,

“The smooth taste that expectant mothers crave!”

(Shame on the creators of these advertisements, and the cigarette companies that commissioned them! I believe God will call them to account for this abject lunancy)!

I remember that TV ad - "Winston tastes good like a cigarette should." I also remember my father getting up every morning for years gagging "his head off" in the bathroom before he began his day.

Though I have enormous lungs and don't sense any particular issue, a doctor has told me I have some congestion in my pulmonary system. I attribute it to my dad's second-hand smoke, as I have never had any use for the things. Two of my own brothers in law died as the result of smoking cigarettes.

Pt. 2

In an age when the use of cigarettes has been conclusively proven to cause lung cancer, and any number of other physical maladies, I will never for the life of me understand why anyone would settle for remaining stuck in this despicable habit.

Yes, I understand you may have been introduced to cigarettes as an adolescent, and that it is so ingrained now that you haven’t yet found a way to break free of the habit.

I also understand that smoking deposits dozens of carcinogens in the lungs of the individual who smokes pack after pack of these “cancer sticks.” I also understand that most adult smokers are fathers and mothers and have children.

I also understand that smoking is, ultimately, very likely to subtract years from the lives of these fathers and mothers. I also understand that family members are very likely to be exposed to second-hand smoke.

I also understand that a series of actions is necessary from the initial craving for a cigarette to the fulfillment of that craving. I also understand that there are any number of products available to assist a smoker in his or her intention of subtracting the cigarette habit from their daily lives.

I also understand that scripture admonishes us that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, that we are not our own, and that we are bought with a price.

Dear friend, for the sake of yourself, your children, your future, and literally all that’s holy, I urge you to do whatever it takes to place this habit on the proverbial altar, and quickly step away from it.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 90. Copyright pending

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ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.

We have traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.

One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest.

Pt. 2

Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.

As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 3

I, as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.

My 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American Revolution.

My 3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland in the 17^th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a hundred kisses on their cheeks.

My 9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade; during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and adopted, and was adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.

When they closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

Pt. 4

I brought up the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.

While we were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.

I left a tribute to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill; which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy; along with my name and relationship to them.

And with this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers were most and best acquainted.

And whereas, I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they sustained cannot be calculated.

And whereas, these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THOSE DEAR PRECIOUS AMERICAN BOYS

*As we observe National Vietnam War Memorial Day, I thought I would post a blog I wrote about a chance encounter I experienced in Glasgow, Scotland last year

My wife and I experienced the vacation of our lives this past May when we journeyed to Ireland and Scotland.

One of my most memorable experiences of the entire trip lasted all of ninety seconds.

We had checked into a hotel in Glasgow, Scotland the day before, and as I getting on the elevator to return to our room, another man joined me for the ride from the first to the third floor.

No sooner had the middle-aged man stepped into the elevator, and the door closed behind him, he spoke to me in English, (but in what seemed be a Polish accent) and asked,

“Where are you from?”

To which I responded,

“I’m from Florida, USA.”

When the foreigner discovered I was from the United States, he uttered the most poignant phrase I may have ever heard.

“Oh, those dear precious American boys who died for us!”

And while the man didn’t elaborate, it was obvious he was referring to our brave American soldiers, airmen, sailors and marines who surrendered their lives for the sake of the freedom of Europe during WWI and WWII.

I merely nodded, and said something like,

“Yes, they were the best America had to offer, and they have not been forgotten.”

No sooner had the stranger and I exchanged these sentiments, than the elevator came to a stop, the door opened, and I stepped off on the third floor.

Though my encounter with the man consumed no more time than an elevator requires to travel three floors, it was one of the most poignant and memorable of all my memories during the course of seventy years of my life on this good earth.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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PREACH CHRIST OR PLOW CORN

My mother once told me a fictional story about an apprentice preacher who never showed all that much potential in the pulpit. One day as he was walking from one place to another he looked up into the clouds, and noticed they had formed into what seemed to be two letters, PC. And the interpretation of these miraculous letters in the sky immediately occurred to him. Preach Christ!

As you can imagine a large smile appeared on his face, and he hurried to share the vision with his mentor, an aged pastor. When he arrived at his house, and was welcomed into the minister’s parlor, he exclaimed,

“Pastor Paul, I was walking down a nearby road, and as I looked up into the clouds, I noticed they had formed into two letters. PC. And the interpretation came to me. Preach Christ.”

Well, Pastor Paul, who had been waiting to break the bad news to his apprentice, shook his head, and sadly responded.

“Son, have you thought that maybe those two letters do not mean what you presume they mean, but rather our Lord has given you the command to… Plow Corn!”

(The foregoing is a reflection on God’s appointed, individual destiny for every man, and the importance of discovering God’s perfect will for each of our lives. And to be sure, no believer is exempt from sharing the Good News of our Lord Jesus Christ. Some, however, are called to a formal, spiritual ministry and some are called to minister during the course of their 'workaday' lives)

REMEMBERING TO UNDERSTAND. REMEMBERING TO CARE

Felicia Marie

Over the past 6 months I have taken care of an increasingly larger number of people suffering from addictive disease-namely addictions to crack, heroine, alcohol, meth, cocaine, vicodin, and varying combinations of all of the above. In addition to their addictions, each one of them also suffers from severe physical (and most definitely emotional) pain. Many of my patients have shared with me the incredibly heartbreaking stories of how their addictions developed, and the dark paths their lives have taken since that time. I have heard stories varying from being forced into prostitution, raped by their parents/family members, tortured, burned, beaten, stabbed, gang raped, unwillingly sodomized with foreign objects, forced to sleep locked in closets, held at gunpoint during childhood and forced to perform acts that no child should have knowledge of, sold into slavery, severely neglected, and in general feeling as if they have been unloved/unlovable their entire lives. One woman told me she missed having someone that cared about her, and cried so hard that her body shook the bed. Another told me that on a daily basis he was "smoking as much crack and shooting as much heroine" as he possibly could. Let that sink in for a minute. "As much heroine and crack as possible." A few have thanked me for treating them like they were "somebody worth listening to." Others have shared that it had been a long time since anyone actually looked at them and saw a human being sitting there. I am frequently reminded by my patients that everyone has a story, and each of us is worthy of compassion, empathy, and lovingkindness. I know from my own experience that one of the best remedies for a judgmental disposition is truly listening to the story of another and trying to see life from their perspective. It doesn't mean we have to agree on another's choices....however it makes it tremendously easier to see past the external facade and gather a glimpse of the heart of another being. In health care we often refer to these people as "Drug Seekers"...which is not meant to be a flattering description. Addicts are people too- who are worthy of dignity and respect. What I have learned is that the drugs are a means to an end. They are not "seeking drugs". They are seeking COMFORT. Comfort from the horrors of their daily lives. Comfort from trauma and hurt that many of us cannot fathom. Comfort because they have not been taught/shown the tools to cope with what they have been through. They are no different from most of us...wanting comfort, peace, and reprieve from suffering. Often in a way that is most familiar and easily accessible to them.

A LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION (on behalf of Leonard Bernstein)

Stockbridge, Mass.

Sept. 3, 1942

Dear Andre

I’m sure you remember Leonard Bernstein. He came with me to your house last Spring. He is in New York now looking about for some kind of musical work.

I’m writing to you with the thought that you may know of something for him. He would be enormously useful to the right spot. In twenty years, I have not met a young musician with more natural ability and real flair. His forte, as you know, is conducting. I hard heard Koussevitzky say the most enthusiastic things on that score. But he is also a whiz at the piano, including jazz style. He can arrange, compose, coach singers, lead choral groups, in fact anything in music is up his alley.

I’m certain you need no further convincing. You know I wouldn’t write this way about anyone if he wasn’t tops. The question is how to get him to connect. Of course, if you could use him that would be marvelous. But in any case, please keep him in mind. With things changing so rapidly around town, there ought to be an opening for such a gifted young fellow.

I’ll be back at the Empire day after Labor Day.

Warmest greetings to you,

Sincerely,

Aaron Copeland

AND DAVID REACHED INTO HIS BAG AND TOOK A STONE

I love the movie, “Hoosiers.”

As an unlikely Indiana high school basketball team prepares to compete for the state title, their chaplain invites them to kneel in the locker room, and selecting a verse from the Bible he indicates the nature of their impeding battle against a stronger foe.

“And David reached into his bag and took out a stone, and he slung it and struck the Philistine on the forehead. The stone sank into his forehead, and Goliah fell face down on the ground.” (1^st Samuel 17:49)

Speaking of ‘unlikely,’ little David was, perhaps, the unlikeliest person in Israel to go up against Goliah, the hero of the Philistines, and a man who stood approximately 9’9” in height!

All that stood between David and Goliath was an emotion called ‘fear’ and the irrevocable decision to do something about the status quo.

My former co-counselor of ten years, Sherri N. is an associate pastor at a nearby church. I viewed a video recently in which she preached a sermon using the foregoing biblical passage, and the topic thereof. To say it was dynamic would be like saying Jesse Owens was a pretty good runner.

Pt. 2

During the course of her sermon, Sherri referred to the stone which David pulled from his bag, and made the comparison between that rock, and the spiritual rock which is Christ.

And while I cannot quote my former co-counselor word for word, allow me to paraphrase what I believe she said.

“My friends, what is keeping you from stepping out? Have you walked out onto the field of battle to face down your Goliath, or are you still standing in the bleachers with the rest of the crowd? Is your own personal Goliath roaring in your ear? Is he threatening to cut you into pieces with his massive sword? 

Have you reached into your bag, and found the stone meant just for him? Can you feel its texture in your hand? Have you tucked that rock into your slingshot? Are you preparing to whip it in circles around your head, and send that stone hurdling on a trajectory which will give Goliath the worst headache he has ever had? Are you prepared to slice that awful giant’s head from his shoulders?”

(and)

“And that stone? That stone is Jesus. The stone of mercy. The stone of grace. The stone of safety. The stone of victory.”

Jesus referred to Himself as a stone.

But Jesus looked at them and said, “What then is this that is written: 'THE STONE WHICH THE BUILDERS REJECTED, THIS BECAME THE CHIEF CORNER STONE?’” (Luke 20:17)

David only needed one stone. Jesus claimed to be the only stone in a proverbial bag full of stones when He said,

“I am the way, the truth and the life. No man comes to the Father, except by me.” (John 14:6)

Allow me to continue to paraphrase my dear friend.

“Step out into the field of battle, my friends. Face up to your personal Goliath. Reach into that bag of stones. Pull out the only one which can do you any good. Tuck that rock into your spiritual sling. Send that stone on its way towards that nasty giant which has taunted you for far too long.”

And Sherri might well have ended her sermon with the words,

“But thanks be to God who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1^st Cor. 15:17)

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE STORY BEHIND THE WRITING OF WINNIE THE POOH

19 Feb 2019

We Are The Mighty | By Eric Milzarski

There is nothing more heart-wrenching to veterans with families than having to explain why daddy hasn't been the same ever since he returned from the war. A reasonable adult can grasp the idea that war is hell and that it can change a person forever, but an innocent kid — one who was sheltered from such grim concepts by that very veteran — cannot.

A. A. Milne, an English author and veteran of both World Wars, was struggling to explain this harsh reality to his own child when he penned the 1926 children's classic, "Winnie-the-Pooh."

As a young man, Alan Alexander Milne stood up for King and Country when it was announced that the United Kingdom had entered World War I. He was commissioned as an officer into the 4th Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, as a member of the Royal Corps of Signals on February 1, 1915. Soon after, he was sent to France to fight in the Battle of the Somme.

The description, "Hell on Earth" is apt, but doesn't come close to fully describing the carnage of what became the bloodiest battle in human history. More than three million men fought and one million men were wounded or killed — many of Milne's closest friends were among the numerous casualties. Bodies were stacked in the flooded-out trenches where other men lived, fought, and died.

On August 10, 1915, Milne and his men were sent to enable communications by laying telephone line dangerously close to an enemy position. He tried warning his command of the foolishness of the action to no avail. Two days later, he and his battalion were attacked, just as he had foreseen. Sixty British men perished in an instant. Milne was one of the hundred or so badly wounded in the ambush. He was sent home for his wounds suffered that day.

Milne returned to his wife, Daphne de Selincourt, and spent many years recovering physically. His light finally came to him on August 21, 1920, when his son, Christopher Robin Milne, was born. He put his writings on hold — it was his therapeutic outlet for handling his shell shock (now known as post-traumatic stress) — so he could be the best possible father to his baby boy.

One fateful day, he took his son to the London Zoo where they bonded over enjoying a new visitor to the park, a little Canadian Black Bear named Winnipeg (or Winnie for short). Alan was drawn to the bear because it had been a mascot used by the Canadian Expeditionary Force in WWI. Despite being one of the most terrifying creatures in the zoo, Winnie was reclusive, often shying away from people.

Alan saw himself in that bear. At the same time, Christopher loved the bear for being cuddly and cute. Understandably, Alan bought his son a teddy — the real-life Winnie the Pooh bear.

The demons of war followed Milne throughout his life. It was noted that when Christopher was little, Alan terrified him when he confused a swarm of buzzing bees with whizzing bullets. The popping of balloons sent him ducking for cover. Milne knew of only one way to explain to his son what was happening — through his writing. A.A. Milne started writing a collection of short stories entitled "Winnie-the-Pooh."

It's been theorized by Dr. Sarah Shea that Milne wrote into each character of "Winnie-the-Pooh" a different psychological disorder. While only A. A. Milne could tell us for certain, Dr. Shea's theory seems pointed in the right direction, but may be a little too impersonal. After all, the book was written specifically for one child, by name, and features the stuffed animals that the boy loved.

It's more likely, in my opinion, that the stories were a way for Milne to explain his own post-traumatic stress to his six-year-old son. Every stuffed friend in the Hundred Acre Woods is a child-friendly representation of a characteristic of post-traumatic stress.

Piglet is paranoia, Eeyore is depression, Tigger is impulsive behaviors, Rabbit is perfectionism-caused aggression, Owl is memory loss, and Kanga & Roo represent over-protection. This leaves Winnie, who Alan wrote in for himself as Christopher Robin's guide through the Hundred Acre Woods — his father's mind.

It all kind of makes you think about that line Winnie's says to Christopher, "If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you." (New York Public Library)

The books were published on October 14, 1926. As a child, Christopher Robin embraced the connection to his father, but as the books grew in popularity, he would resent being mocked for his namesake character.

Christopher Robin Milne eventually followed in his father's footsteps and they both served in the Second World War. His father was a Captain in the British Home Guard and he served as a sapper in the Royal Engineers.

It was only after his service that he grew to accept his father's stories and embraced his legacy, which endures to this day.

In fact, "Christopher Robin," a 2018 film starring Ewan McGregor and directed by Marc Forster (known for "Finding Neverland"), is out now on home video. Be sure to check it out.

STAY ENCOURAGED (A blog related to "The Sound of Music")

My favorite two attributes in all the world are

Humbleness

and

Encouragement;

in that order.

And I like to think that I, (at least attempt to) emulate both traits in the context of my own life.

When I served as an adjunct professor at Southeastern University, my alma mater, I would walk past a wonderful statue on a daily basis.

“Jesus Washing Peter’s Feet”

And speaking of the former traits, I have seldom been exposed to anything which characterized each of them more than this metallic rendering of our Lord and his best known disciple.

But to narrow my literary meanderings to one of these attributes, I love the verse in the Book of Hebrews.

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

Encouragement

Note the root word ‘Courage.’

Thus, we have in this four syllable word, ‘Encouragement’ the notion of instilling courage, by word or deed, in ourselves or another person.

And God knows that in this day and time how important it is to rise above those dark circumstances, and sometimes emotional shadows which accompany our journey on earth.

Pt. 2

I have been reading, “Forever Liesl” by the late Charmian Carr. Charmian, as the title implies, portrayed the real life Liesl von Trapp in the movie, “The Sound of Music.” (Sadly, in the past year, and at the comparatively young age of 73, she died from complications of Alzheimer’s Disease).

It seems as the mid-20^th century gave way to its sixth decade that Twentieth Century Fox found itself on the brink of bankruptcy. And it was no large secret among the actors and crew of this illustrious film that the future of the production company depended upon its success.

Charmian relates one especially poignant episode during her tenure in the making of the movie.

I went with my boyfriend Mickey to see the stage version of The Sound of Music. After the final curtain, I walked out of the theater completely depressed. I thought it was awful! The story seemed sugary and contrived, and even my favorite musical numbers seemed static on that stage. Maybe it was because I was exhausted from work and travel, but seeing the play convinced me that all my hard work had been for naught. Our film was going to be a dismal flop.

I wasn’t the only one feeling low and Bob Wise sensed the need to lift everyone’s spirits. In secret, during our first weeks back in Los Angeles he had William Reynolds put together the montage of “Do-Re-Mi” as a surprise for all of us.

One afternoon he assembled the cast and crew in the screening room and without any fanfare rolled the film.

What an impact those eleven minutes of the film had on us! We sat in the dark, totally enthralled by “Do-Re-Mi.” It was marvelous. Beautiful. Everyone, even cynical Christopher Plummer, was overwhelmed. And proud! This was the boost we all needed to finish the work at hand. And as we walked out of the screening room, we all knew we were involved in something that was going to be extraordinary.

It was spectacular.

Pt. 3

The thoughtful, purposeful action of one person and the eleven minutes of video footage he assembled turned it all around for three adults, (for Charmian was 21 playing 16) six children, and untold members of the production crew. Who can say how desperately this seemingly small, creative act instilled courage in the hearts and souls of many who had, by this time, surrendered that attribute?

I can tell you when I read the foregoing passage in Charmian’s little volume, tears came to my eyes, and her account spoke life to my own soul.

For you see, I am an Encourager; with a capital ‘E.’ 

I think I place that particular attribute on a pedestal for two reasons.

As a pastoral counselor I know the value of encouragement. Over the past two and a half decades, and among thousands of clients, I have attempted to instill courage in multiplied hundreds of hopeless individuals whose courage was nigh on to being lost.

And

As a human being I have oft times found myself bereft of encouragement during seasons of lack, limitations and loss. Either people lacked the wherewithal to come along side and offer a ray of hope, and perhaps a word of admonishment, or they were simply too busy living out their own lives to expend the time and effort.

Speaking of admonishment, God’s word admonishes us with the poignant challenge to the status quo:

“These things ought not to be.”

Pt. 4

At the time I was the same age as Charmian when she portrayed ‘Liesl’ in “The Sound of Music.” At 21 I was married, the father of a young son, and a member of the United States Air Force.

My wife and I attended a relatively large church in Tampa during my tenure as a personnel clerk at MacDill Air Force Base. We had taken advantage of several nightly revival meetings, and as the final service concluded Pastor Matheny invited the congregation to ‘q up’ and say our ‘farewells’ to the visiting evangelist.

While I have long since forgotten the name of the itinerant preacher, I will never forget one especially peculiar trait which he displayed on a recurring basis. For you see, at times he would get ‘so wound up’ that it seemed he needed to release his emotional mainspring. And thus, after this admonition or that bit of spiritual insight he’d kick out his right leg like he was punting a football, and shout, ‘Hallelujah.’

Be that as it may, as I finally neared the somewhat quirky evangelist, and reached out to shake his hand, he looked me in the eyes, and offered me what was perhaps the two most singular words in all of my life.

“Stay Encouraged!”

Though almost half a century has come and gone since that evening, and though this dear man may have, by now, passed from the earth, I have never forgotten his words, and they have buoyed me up, and afforded me courage when I might have, otherwise, simply given up.

And I think there is no more fitting manner in which to conclude what I have begun, nor anything more crucial I could offer than to pass that proverbial baton on to you; the one I received when I shook the preacher’s hand.

“Stay Encouraged!”

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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