ELVIS: The Anxious Introvert

After my wife and I bought our new 2015 Nissan Altima a couple of years ago, we received an initial complimentary subscription to Sirius Radio. At this writing, I forget whether it ran a few months, (the offer, not the car) or as much as a year. Of course, we realized ‘day one’ that the initial subscription was little more than a ‘teaser;’ in order to interest prospective subscribers. 

Ultimately, I received an email offer to extend our access to Sirius Radio. And while, at approximately $250.00 per year, the fee was steep, it was, and continues to be worth it; at least, to me. (Don’t ask my wife). Oddly enough, though Sirius offers upwards of 150 channels, I ‘was in it’ for one reason. Literally one station. Elvis Radio.

Granted, I spend a limited amount of time in my car, but I have derived so much pleasure from the Elvis Channel during trips to the post office, church, and other local destinations that I just can’t bear to ‘kick it to the curb.’

To be fair, I don’t enjoy every song which Elvis sang. I mean, he sang selections from virtually every genre of music. My preferences are the slow ones, such as, “Can’t Help Falling in Love” and “Maybe I Didn’t Love You,” and Gospel selections, such as, “How Great Thou Art,” and “Amazing Grace.”

However, even more than Elvis’ songs, I love the stories George Klein, the King’s childhood friend, and aged Elvis Channel DJ, as well as former band members share about his all too short life.

Wink Martindale, whose wife, Sandy, once dated Elvis Presley, has appeared on Elvis Radio a couple of times, and he shared the following story.

Pt. 2

Elvis recorded his first song at Sam Phillip’s Sun Studio in 1954.

On the evening of July 5, 1954, Presley, Scotty Moore, and Bill Black were hard at it, but couldn’t seem to find just the right song. In between their failed recordings, Presley began fooling around with Arthur Crudup's song, "That's All Right, Mama.” Black joined him on his upright bass, and they were soon joined by Moore on guitar. Producer Sam Phillips was surprised at the change in tempo, and asked the three of them to begin again so he could run a tape.

The following evening, Elvis and his compatriots recorded, “Blue Moon of Kentucky," and it was selected as the B-side to, "That's All Right;” (a shortened version of the original title).

The foregoing recording session had been Presley's fifth visit to Sun Studio. (His first four visits had, apparently, been private recordings).

Sam Phillips sent copies of the acetate to local disc jockeys, Dewey Phillips of WHBQ, Uncle Richard of WMPS, and John Lepley of WHHM. On July 7, 1954, the former of the three played "That's All Right" on his popular radio show, "Red, Hot & Blue.” When Elvis got the news that Dewey Phillips planned to play his song, he headed to the local movie theater to calm his nerves. He just couldn’t bear to listen, and wonder how it ‘was going over’ with the station’s listeners.

However, the song was so well received that the DJ reportedly played the recording 14 times, and answered over 40 telephone calls. In his interview with Elvis Radio, Wink Martindale reported that, upon hearing the song, Vernon and Gladys, Elvis parents, (perhaps as the result of a phone call from Phillips) hopped in their pickup truck and set sail for the ‘picture show.’

They found Elvis sitting alone in a far corner of the darkened theater, and managed to persuade him to drive to the station for an on-air interview.

Completely unaware that he was on live radio, Presley responded to Dewey's questions, including one about his local high school; a roundabout way of making the audience aware of Presley's ethnicity.

The original release of "That's All Right" came out on July 19, 1954, and sold about 20,000 copies. Not a platinum record, to be sure, but a respectable, and some might say incredible initial effort.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

If Elvis was, at one time, an anxious, self-reflective, introvert, I guess there’s hope for the rest of us.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE QUIET CRUCIBLE OF YOUR PERSONAL SUFFERING

It is in the crucible of your personal, private suffering that your noblest dreams are born and God's greatest gifts are given; in compensation for what you have endured.

Rev. Wintley Phipps

WHO WAS JOSEPH RING AND WHY WAS HE KILLED?

Telegram & Gazette
Monday, March 27, 2006


By Wilson Ring THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

ELIOT, Maine— An L-shaped cellar hole still marks the site of the Neale Garrison, built in the mid-1600s a quarter-mile uphill from the Piscataqua River. Somewhere near here 302 years ago, an ancestor of mine was burned at the stake.

I visited the garrison’s remains as part of a quest to learn as much as I could about the final hours of Joseph Ring — my six-times-great-grandfather.

Along the way, I’ve confirmed quite a bit about his life: that he fought in some of America’s earliest Indian wars, that he gave some curious testimony at the Salem witch trials which helped hang a woman, and that, yes, he, too, came to an untimely end.

Unfortunately, he seems to have left no letters or diaries behind. But my quest put me in closer touch with a cousin, and together we shed light on stories passed down over the years and made some new discoveries about our distant relative.

It was in 1638 that Joseph Ring’s father, Robert, emigrated from England to the new world as a 24-year-old indentured servant.

A barrel maker, Robert eventually became a solid middle-class member of Massachusetts society, and the area of land he owned, near where the Merrimack River empties into the Atlantic Ocean, is still known as Ring’s Island.

Joseph Ring was born Aug. 3, 1664, in Salisbury, Mass., to Robert and his wife, Elizabeth Jarvis.

The boy, whose life would become a series of entanglements with history, was 11 when King Philip’s War broke out. This was the first of a series of on-again, off-again wars between the English settlers on the one side and the Indians and their French allies on the other, that would last almost 100 years.

Today we can reinterpret the Indian wars as a clash of competing cultures which the Europeans were destined to win. But 17th-century settlers living at the edge of English civilization didn’t know if they would survive.

“Northern New Englanders faced an unknown enemy that seemingly appeared from nowhere, struck with devastating force and just as quickly disappeared,” said Cornell University history professor Mary Beth Norton, one of many academics who helped me trace my ancestor.

She said some readers of her 2002 book, “In the Devil’s Snare,” which linked the witch trials to the Indian wars on the frontier, compared the fear of Indians then to the terror following the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks on the United States.

In Joseph Ring’s time, all able-bodied men served in local militias; volunteers were recruited for expeditions, or garrison duty on the frontier.

“The recruits tended to be younger, unattached types, who could use a few dollars and enjoyed an adventure,” said Emerson “Tad” Baker, chairman of the history Department at Salem (Mass.) State College.

Ring fit the profile. He was part of an expedition in 1690 as New Hampshire Capt. Shadrach Walton tried to relieve Fort Loyal, a stockade in Casco, now Portland, where about 200 inhabitants had been besieged by 500 Indians and French soldiers.

The four-vessel expedition arrived too late.

Ring and the others found the town burning after the Indians killed most of the settlers who had surrendered and been promised safe passage by the French commander.

The Indians “wreaked their vengeance unchecked,” reported the 1897 “Border Wars of New England” by Samuel Drake. “After plundering the fort the invaders set it on fire, and it was soon burned to the ground, leaving Casco untenanted, save by the unburied bodies of the slain.”

Most of what we know about Ring came from two affidavits he gave in 1692. They describe Ring’s role in the ill-fated expedition to Fort Loyal and provide other glimpses into his activities and possibly his state of mind.

In the statements, Ring describes a meeting that appears to have changed his life. In a tavern in Great Island, N.H., on the way to relieve Casco he met a man named Thomas Hardy, who invited Ring to play shuffleboard. Ring didn’t have any money, but Hardy lent him two shillings. Ring lost.

Over the next year, Ring was terrorized by Hardy, who kept demanding his money. Ring described a series of bizarre, dreamlike encounters with his nemesis and others. In one, Ring “was scared out of his wits by a fireball and ‘the dreadfull noyse & hideous shapes of these creaturs,’ ” Baker wrote, quoting words attributed to my ancestor.

Joseph Ring was possessed by demons, the Puritan minister Cotton Mather would write in a 1693 account justifying the witch trials. The young militiaman, he claimed, was struck dumb by a woman who was present when he met Hardy, a widow named Susannah Martin.

In 1692, Ring gave testimony during Martin’s trial in Salem that he had been drinking cider with Martin, another woman and Hardy before a roaring fire. Martin, he said, transformed herself into a pig.

She was hanged on July 19, 1692.

It took a while for me to come to terms with the reality that my ancestor contributed to the Salem witch trials, an event in American history that still horrifies and fascinates many.

How could he, like others, turn against his neighbors?

It may be that a modern concept — post-traumatic stress — helps explain Ring’s strange and fateful claims. He surely absorbed a terror of Indian attacks, not just because of his militia experience, but family experience, as well.

His wife, Mary Brackett, came from a family that was one of the first to settle the area now known as Portland. As a 12-year-old girl, she and some relatives had been taken captive by a party of Indian raiders and marched into the wilderness before they escaped in a canoe. Later, in separate incidents, her grandparents, father and brother were killed.

The so-called Brackett Lane Massacre in Rye, N.H., in which several of Mary Brackett’s relatives died at the hands of an Indian raiding party, came close to the time of one bizarre encounter between Ring and Hardy — and Norton thinks that’s significant.

Norton believes Ring’s experiences along the frontier contributed to his testimony against Susannah Martin.

“Joseph Ring is a great example of a frontier resident who was terrified by the threat posed by the Indian war ...,” said Norton. “Although he appeared as a witness against Susannah Martin, he seemed far more concerned about the Indians and the demons he saw aligned with them than with Goody Martin.”

Norton turns out to be an indirect descendant of Susannah Martin. And I’ve learned, ironically, so is my cousin, Franz Martin.

He lives in Los Angeles and spends much of his free time in the genealogy section of the public library, going through old town and family histories or rolling through microfilm records of Colonial New England.

He has mined a number of tidbits. In the fall of 1703, Massachusetts placed a bounty on Indian scalps and sent out three raiding parties on snowshoes to keep their adversaries off balance. Joseph Ring is not on a list of Massachusetts soldiers from what was called Queen Anne’s War. But it’s possible he was an off-the-books soldier, perhaps a bounty hunter, seeking to avenge his family’s losses.

In any event, on Jan. 28, 1704, Indians attacked the Neale Garrison, and settlers fought them off with help from soldiers stationed nearby. A 1726 history of the early Indian wars by Samuel Penhallow said nine attackers were killed.

The losses so enraged the Indians, Penhallow wrote, “that at their return they executed their revenge on Joseph Ring, who was then a Captive among them, whom they fastened to a Stake and burnt alive; barbarously shouting and rejoicing at his cries.”

We still don’t know when, why or how Ring was made captive.

Three hundred years later, many people are surprised when I tell them the story of my ancestor who was burned at the stake after testifying in the Salem witch trials.

Some see his end as a fitting comeuppance. I don’t think so. I’ve come to believe that Ring was a victim of the times he lived in.

Still, the fragments we have on Joseph Ring might be compared to the jawbone a paleontologist hopes to use to build a complete skeleton. My cousin Franz and I continue to dig.

(Joseph Ring was my 8x great Uncle)

MAYBE TWOUBLE LOOKIN' FOR YOU

I pedal

I pedal a lot

I pedal in the wee hours of the morning

And during the course of almost 4 years, and over 12,000 miles of pedaling the same 10 mile course, I’ve “run into” some pretty strange scenarios; (in addition to several calamitous falls).

A woman standing next to the highway, in the shrubbery of a bank, holding a small terrier, and singing the most eerie tune that’s ever been sung. (Needless to say, I kept pedaling).

Speaking of four-footed beasts of the canine variety, a miniature, emaciated Doberman tied to a lamppost next to the highway. It goes without saying, I cannot leave her there, but take her home, feed her, and quickly dispatch the precious pooch to a no-kill shelter.

A young man, perhaps 6’ tall, 170 lbs., walking along the sidewalk towards me, as I am preparing to cross a four lane thoroughfare. I look to my right. I see him. I look to the left. No traffic. I look to the right, and he has vanished from my sight. Did I mention there is an 8’ wall on his left, and a well-lit highway on his right?

A young man with a cane standing at a busy intersection. Approaching him he asks if I can direct him to a particular part of town. Johnny (for that is his name) tells me that he has been walking for five (5) hours; having been released earlier that evening from the county jail. Making a calculated decision I suggest he keep walking. I will finish pedaling home, retrieve my car, and drive him the remaining couple of miles to his home. (That I am writing this story and have suffered no harm or alarm speaks for itself).

And then tonight''

Perhaps the most bizarre scenario of all

I have just crossed over one of several four lane highways which exist on my measured pathway, and mounted the next sidewalk; for I only pedal on sidewalks. Safer, don’t ya know? (Ironic, I suppose, given this strange series of stories).

I hear it before I see it. Some muted, unidentified protestations. I turn my gaze in a diagonal direction. And oddly enough, as it seems now, on the exact same corner where I encountered ‘Jailhouse Johnny’ are a large black SUV, and a late model semi-truck cab. Parked at a traffic light, I notice the driver of the SUV is standing just behind his vehicle, while the driver of the larger truck is engaged in a struggle with what appears to be an adult female.

I think none of us know exactly how we will respond to a seeming emergency until it “drops from the sky” and figuratively exclaims, “Here I am.” Oh, we can imagine what we’d do, but “the proof is (definitely) in the pudding.”

I do not hesitate

It occurred to me at that moment that I was willing to do whatever I had to do to rescue the apparent “damsel in distress.” At the moment, at least, I had no consideration whatever of the presence of firearms, or taking on two ‘bad boys’ at a time, (or the fact that I am approaching 70 years of age).

I immediately begin peddling my speedy (well, not so much) bike towards what appears to be the scene of a crime. As I pedal I attempt to “get the mark” of the situation unraveling before me. It seems a woman is being dragged into the driver’s side of the cab, as if the offender intends to take her against her will.

Twenty feet from the truck now, and the young (or not so much) lady is being pulled (or clamoring) over the legs of the driver and into a jump or bench seat to his right.

Ten feet from my goal now, and the driver’s door slams shut. I peer into the poorly lit cab and it seems the driver and potential detainee are still, and awaiting the decision of the other vehicle. The man walks to the driver’s side of his car, gets in, makes a 90 degree turn, and the semi-cab follows suite. I watch the two vehicles as they accelerate, and eventually disappear out of sight.

As ‘Mrs. Fairfax’ (re. the novel, ‘Jane Eyre’) was heard to say,

“What to do? What to do?"

I reach into my pocket and consider the possibility of dialing 911. And yet. Wasn’t the woman ‘cool, calm and collected’ as the door slammed shut in my face? And didn’t the driver of the other vehicle casually stroll to his car, as though nothing was amiss?

I consider an alternative possibility

Perhaps the three individuals knew one another. Perhaps the driver of the first vehicle stopped at the light to allow the woman to ride in the second. Perhaps she and the pilot of the second were a bit ‘tanked’ and simply engaging in some raucous revelry. And rather than using the passenger door, she chose to enroll herself in the cab the hard way.

I delay. I debate. I deliberate. (All those ‘D’ words).

I desist

Approximately three minutes elapse and I hear it before I see it.

(Rather familiar, don’t you think)?

A sheriff’s department cruiser comes sailing down the highway at break-neck speed, its red and blue lights flashing, and its siren screaming.

I can only surmise, having witnessed the unusual scenario unfolding before him or her, a witness retrieved his or her phone and made the call.

My brother is, himself, a long haul truck driver, and I often give him a ring as he is on his way to Miami and I am completing my ‘O-dark-thirty’ trek. This morning my routine was the same, though the story I shared with him was anything but routine.

Wayne, being a man of few words, generally allows me to do most of the talking. However, having heard my fateful tale, he responded with,

“Maybe you should ride in the daylight, rather than the dark!”

I responded with,

“Very wise advice. Maybe you’re right!”

There’s a scene in the movie, “The Karate Kid” in which ‘Daniel-son’ interacts with an Okinawan bully.

Our hero speaks.

“Hey man. I’m not looking for trouble!”

To which the local thug responds,

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

I can relate

As a freshman in high school I learned an old Irish prayer. It seems rather fitting here:

"From ghoulies, and ghosties and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us."

And “one more for the road.”

Since I wrote the foregoing description of several scenarios to which I have been exposed during my morning bike treks over the years, I have been forced to relinquish my recurring ‘spin’ in favor of putting one foot in front of the other. (But that is a whole ‘nother story).

At any rate, as I was putting in my ‘morning 2’ (as in two miles) today, and had turned off Highway 540 onto Spirit Lake Road, (an apt name) and was walking down the parallel sidewalk, I happened on a rather bewildering sight.

And while the entire situation fell together in the space of eight or ten seconds, and due to the darkness I was not able to discern what the individual was initially ‘up to,’ a tall, slender male (or female) suddenly bounded across the front yard, and ran in a serpentine pattern towards a nearby bush.

Arriving at the moderately tall bush, my ‘momentary friend’ crouched down behind it, and while squatting there continued to hold my gaze. And very much like a recent Progressive Insurance commercial, he (or she) continued to squat “right there in front of God and everybody,” as I passed within twenty paces or him (or her).

And while at 225 pounds I “cut a mean figure,” and while the metal cane which I held was capable of inflicting significant damage, I admit to looking over my right shoulder ‘til I’d left the ethereal him (or her) far behind.

Given the abject wierdness of the moment, I was tempted to utter a few words; in hopes of staving off the possibility of an unlikely attack. In retrospect I might have done well to shout, “Ready or not, here I come” (or) “Dost thou think that yonder bush covereth thee sufficiently? No, yon phantom. It does not” (or) “Do you realize how utterly stupid you look squatting behind that bush?”

At this stage, I cannot be sure why I held my peace. But I think I may have done so to forestall the most likely possible response…

“Maybe twouble lookin’ for you!”

 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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THE DISCIPLINE OF SUFFERING

An elderly man bends over a few scraps of parchment, and we see how earnestly he writes, almost oblivious to the encroaching darkness of night, and the claustrophobia of his tiny cell. We gaze on a man prematurely aged by a life of intense hardship having been tossed at sea, stoned by his countrymen, hungry as often as filled and misunderstood in his own time.

We are the recipient of his words, words that have been passed down to us over two millenia:

 I would have you understand, my brothers, that all my glories and all my sufferings have allowed the gospel to be shed forth in a mortal life Philippians 1:12 (McDonald paraphrase)

This same old man had written similar words years earlier, when his back wasn’t so bowed down, his hands not nearly so knarwled and his eyes so much brighter:

For I reckon that the sufferings of this present world aren’t worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be revealed in us Romans 8:18 (KJV)

Paul’s entire being characterized the mark that Christ etched into his very soul; a mark just as deep and just as defined as an image that is stamped into a coin.

If you’re waiting for life to be fair, you’ll be waiting a long time. Why do good things happen to bad people and why do bad things happen to good people?  We don’t always have a clue.

We live life a moment at a time, without the knowledge that the next moment can provide us. Sometimes we eventually understand how God used a particular event in our lives to further His agenda. Sometimes we never do. But God is like that airplane pilot who can see behind, below and ahead, all at the same time. He is not limited by geography or time. He tells us:

The light and the darkness are both alike to me Psalms 139:12 (KJV). He is so like one who wears night vision goggles. The darkness does not reduce his vision in the slightest.

The Discipline of Darkness is probably the keenest and most poignant discipline we learn. The discipline of darkness requires but one thing to be complete in us, and without this one thing it is bitterly incomplete. And Paul is not remiss to keep this secret from us:

Therefore my chains in Christ are seen by the servants and those who are served in Caesar’s Palace, and many of those who once feared are boldened by these chains and witness without the slightest anxiety Philippians 1:13,14 (McDonald paraphrase)

 For you see the Discipline of Darkness requires the addition of a Vision. God’s Vision is a thing to be embraced by those who suffer, by those who don’t understand, by those who are stung by the circumstances of life. Paul, and Peter and Job and Joseph and all those martyrs of Hebrews Chapter 11 were encouraged by the Vision that Christ loaned to them.

 

I can’t comprehend all God’s purposes in our sufferings. Why did God allow a nephew of mine to be born with Spina Bifida? He sat in a wheelchair for twenty years and survived countless operations. But he embraced the same Vision that Paul had previously held so sacred. Why did God allow my own precious daughter to develop Schizophrenia and retardation; a daughter who now lives in a group home? One day I’ll surely be asking God about that but til then I must believe there’s a good reason, a reason that will ultimately glorify our Creator.

Paul continues to usher us into the theater of this life with the words: And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God Romans 8:28 (KJV)

What is ultimately required is both the Discipline of Darkness and the Vision that assures us that God doesn’t waste our hurts, our tears, the very agony of our hearts. He has a Plan, and bids us cooperate with his plan.

Some are called to literally lay down their lives. Others know periods of darkness to rise again, healthier, happier and holier. Our lives are so temporary. They are like wisps of fog; here today, only to vanish when the sun arises. We find ourselves selfishly clinging to what we cannot keep.

While none of us should foolishly welcome suffering, we must count it as a timely discipline when it comes, for it comes for a purpose. 

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 

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THE PATHWAY WE CHOOSE. THE PATHWAY WHICH CHOOSES US

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference

Pt. 2

Something I saw on my social media page today made me think about God’s providential care, and His hand in the lives of believers. And it occurred to me that I could have easily taken a completely different pathway.

For you see, when I was about 15, I would often skateboard down to a roadside bowling alley, a transistor radio in my hand, (always tuned to the Beach Boys channel), and I would bowl alone.

Dear readers, I was good. I mean, I was very good. It was not unusual for me to bowl 180 or 190, and once (drum roll) I bowled… a 280! My only regret was I didn’t bowl a perfect game. (They say ‘close’ only counts in hand grenades and nuclear war). At any rate, as the result of my amazing score the manager of the bowling alley, a guy named Ron, treated me to a lemonade.

I mean, I could have ‘been somebody.’ Had I continued practicing, I could have easily joined the pro circuit, and might possibly have won a whole lotta green paper with dead presidents’ pictures. (Perhaps I would have been a multi-millionaire by now).

But, so much like “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost, I chose a different pathway in life. To be sure, I got a pretty rocky start, and I often brag about the plaque I have hanging on my office wall.

                                  The American Chamber of Commerce

                                      Recognizing William McDonald

                                    The Recipient of the Prestigious

                         “The Most Menial Jobs Ever Worked in This 
                                      or Any Other Universe Award"

 Pt. 3

Well, not really. To be sure, if I had been presented with such an award, I would probably have dropped it off the pier at Daytona Beach. But, no doubt, (as I have previously inferred), had I continued on the track many people may have thought I was predestined to walk, I might have settled into a rather lucrative profession early on in life.

However, had I chosen the pro bowling circuit, it goes without saying that I would have never been afforded the opportunity to teach at a local university, nor become a pastoral counselor, nor assume the role of a formal mentor.

I love the movie, “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” I think its message is so impactful that I have referred to it in several of my blogs.

Following are the closing lines of the movie. Mr. Holland, a high school band director, is on the eve of his retirement, and we join the governor of his state, as she speaks to an auditorium full of adults and students.

“Mr. Holland had a profound influence on my life; on a lot of lives I know. And yet, I get the feeling that he considers a great part of his own life misspent. Rumor has it he was always working on his symphony, and this was gonna make him rich, and possibly famous. But Mr. Holland isn't rich, and he isn't famous. At least, not outside of our little town. So, it might be easy for him to think himself a failure.

“And he would be wrong. Because I think he's achieved a success far beyond riches and fame. Look around you, Mr. Holland. There is not a life in this room that you have not touched. And each one of us is a better person because of you. We are your symphony, Mr. Holland. We are the melodies and the notes of your opus, and we are the music of your life.”

Over the past quarter century, I have, like Mr. Holland, exercised a significant impact on many lives. I am not embarrassed to say that I have counseled thousands, taught hundreds, and mentored dozens.

Granted, like Mr. Holland, I am not famous, and I am certainly not rich, and I am unknown outside of my little town.

I could have made a name for myself. I could have made a comfortable life for myself. But in all honesty, I can tell you I am glad the impact I have chosen to exert has been on people, and not on a wooden bowling lane.

That old bowling alley where I used to practice closed up shop a very long time ago, and another business now occupies the building. But the impact I have ‘practiced’ on human beings has been inestimable, and the fruit of my fulfilled destiny will live on long after I have gone on to my reward, and will, no doubt, keep on giving through those whom I have touched with my words and actions.

(Funny, almost sixty years after I dropped my sixteen-pounder back in the rack, I can barely bowl 100).

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending. 2019

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THE MOMENTARY CONTRIBUTION OF A SELFLESS YOUNG MAN

Laura Hillenbrand, the author of “Seabiscuit,” gave an interview sometime after her book was written, and had sailed to the top of the New York Times Best Seller List. I will never forget the book, or the interview. I have long since misplaced my copy of the book, and I haven’t been able to locate the portion of the interview which contains the following account. As a result, it has been necessary for me to rewrite a summary of her words from memory in order to share the following with you tonight.

It seems that when Laura Hillenbrand was a little girl she happened to be at the neighborhood pool one day, the same activity I also used to enjoy. Well, after she had swam awhile, a thunderstorm arose, and the majority of the children ran for cover into a screened-in porch; adjacent to the pool. As the kids sat bare-legged on the floor, a well-meaning young man, a lifeguard, offered to read the children a poem; not just any poem, but one of the longest, and most poignant poems of all time, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” You can imagine that many of the children opted to collect their things, and head off for home, in spite of the light rain and thunder. But Laura, and a few of her young companions remained, and were soon engrossed in the young man’s grisly tale.

The lifeguard read stanza after stanza of the poem, and the more he read, the more horrendous and awe-inspiring were the words. The rain fell in droves now, and it seemed to Laura that the crack of lightning, and the boom of thunder, served to accent the dark adjectives which so easily rolled off the young man’s lips.

You see, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” recounts the fictional voyage of a couple hundred unfortunate sailors on an old sailing ship. Not so different from Paul’s account in the Book of Acts, the ancient vessel is overcome by an intense storm, but in this case, there is a significant loss of life.

As the young fellow finished reading the poem, and put down the book, the children seemed to sit silently for a brief moment, as if to transcend the hundred, or so stanzas which had so transfixed them. And then it was time to head home.

Laura picked up her towel, and began the short walk to her house. In spite of the depth and darkness of the subject matter, this young girl who left shallow footprints on that old dirt road which took her home, was suddenly very unlike the child who had sat down cross-legged on that cold tile floor. Her very soul thrilled within her to realize, even at this young age, what she wished to do with her life; what she had to do with her life. As surely as the account of lightning in the old poem mirrored the actual lightning which enveloped the afternoon sky, Laura was filled to overflowing with insight. She would become an author.

And the world renown author commented at the end of this particular segment of the interview, “I never knew the name of that young man who selflessly offered to read to a few young children on a little porch by a neighborhood pool, but what he did for me that day, though of course he had no way of knowing, the time and topic he shared with me that day, well, it made all the difference in my life. I would not, could not, have been the same person I am today. My life would not have turned out as it has, without the momentary contribution of that selfless young man.”

 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

A MR. ROGERS STORY

By Allison Carter, USA Today

In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

THE LITTLE SPACECRAFT THAT COULD

If you’re inclined, you can turn with me to Hebrews Chapter 1

10“In the beginning, Lord, you laid the foundations of the earth,
    and the heavens are the work of your hands.
¹¹ They will perish, but you remain;
    they will all wear out like a garment.
¹² You will roll them up like a robe;
    like a garment they will be changed.
But you remain the same,
    and your years will never end.”

Tonight I want to spend some time with what has been commonly known as “The Space Race,” and more specifically with one particular spacecraft which was launched almost twenty years after the advent of the Space Race.

And I might say that by the time I conclude my message tonight, you should be able to grasp why I would talk about such a seemingly secular topic behind this church pulpit.

But let’s step back in time a few decades, and allow me to share some personal and national details which are relevant to our discussion.

I recall sitting in Mr. Ball’s 6^th grade class at Bartow Elementary School. The year was 1961. (Interestingly enough, the famous evangelist, Billy Sunday, preached a sermon on what is now the playground of this school; half a century before I attended there). At any rate, on one particular day, Mr. Ball turned on the black & white television in the classroom, pulled up the rabbit ears, and turned the knob to one of the only four channels we had at the time. It was inauguration day. President John F. Kennedy raised his right hand and took the oath of office. Of course, we all remember that fateful day in November of 1963 when an assassin’s bullet took him from us. But some of you may recall something he said during those 1000 days in which he served as the chief executive of the United States.

“During this decade is out, I propose that the United States build a rocket capable to taking man to the moon and bringing him safely back to the earth.”

I can assure you that such stuff fascinated me, and held my attention. No doubt you remember “The Mercury 7” astronauts. The movie, “The Right Stuff” details the competition surrounding and appointment of seven men who would be launched, one by one, into orbit around the earth. My own distant cousin, Alan Shepard, was the first American in space, and John Glenn followed closely behind him.

During my late elementary years and throughout my teen and young adults years, I followed the Space Race very carefully; throughout the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs.

As an adolescent, I visited Cape Canaveral a couple of times, and watched from a nearby beach, as an unmanned version of the Saturn moon rocket lifted off, and disappeared into the clouds. Just a couple of years ago I toured the space center again. As a twenty year old, I sat in front of my television set, and like many of you, watched that grainy black and white live video footage, as Neil Armstrong dropped off the lunar landing module ladder onto the dusty gray soil of our nearest neighbor, the moon.

But as I previously inferred, I am more concerned this evening about one spacecraft, in particular, referred to as Voyager 1, which lifted off from the east coast of Florida in 1977. And as you might imagine, the purpose of this unmanned spacecraft was the exploration of the universe, or at least our little portion of the universe which we refer to as the “Milky Way.”

And also, as you might well imagine, the Voyager 1 spacecraft was outfitted with a myriad of instrumentation designed to not only take photographs of the planets in our solar system, but to measure the composition of the rings of Saturn and atmosphere of Jupiter, and to analyze the solar plasma of the sun, and the fading intensity of its light, as its journey took it further from our nearest star, the sun.

And of course, our scientists would have been left completely unawares without the capability to retrieve the information which Voyager 1 generated. As a result, this spacecraft was outfitted with a radio transmitter, and over the next 40 years it has faithfully continued to transmit data to a team of full time researchers who have faithfully analyzed the information they have received. At this stage, the Voyager is 12 billion miles from earth, and its radio signal takes 17 hours to reach our planet. And surprisingly, since the distance is so great, and the signal so tiny, NASA currently uses dozens of radio telescopes to concentrate the signal enough to make it intelligible, and to be able to interpret it.

The “little spacecraft that could” reached an important milestone five years ago. After a 35 year journey, Voyager 1 left our solar system, and journeyed into what is referred to as interstellar space. Take a moment to consider it. Our solar system, though vast, is just a speck in the Milky Way galaxy; one of billions of similar galaxies in our continually expanding universe. Consider it, if our little spacecraft had the capability to move at the speed of light, 186,000 miles per second, (and it doesn’t) it would take four years to travel to the nearest star, Alpha Centauri.

It is estimated that in three years our little Voyager will be too distant for scientists to receive its signal, but its mission will have only begun.

 For you see, on board the one ton robot is a gold record containing sounds and images selected to portray the diversity of life and culture on Earth, and which are intended for any intelligent extraterrestrial life form, who may find them. Interestingly enough, given the vacuum of space, this record is expected to outlast the estimated two million years left in the lifespan of our solar system, and will still be able to be deciphered a billion years from today.

Please turn to John Chapter 1, Verse 1-9

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. ² He was with God in the beginning. ³ Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. ⁴ In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. ⁵ The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome^[a] it.

⁶ There was a man sent from God whose name was John. ⁷ He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe. ⁸ He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light.

⁹ The true light that gives light to everyone coming into the world.

He lights every man, woman, boy and girl who has lives on the earth, or who has ever lived on the earth.

I think the implications of this verse are enormous. And while I have never heard this verse preached, at least not in this manner, it occurs to me that this sentence is all about Christ’ entire ministry towards the population of Planet Earth; including his death on the cross, and His resurrection from the grave.

However, the gold record designed to notify someone out there that billions of intelligent individuals exist, or once existed on a little blue marble called Earth will never be retrieved, nor viewed by someone in a distant civilization in this universe. For you see, there’s simply no one else out there. We are it. There are no other intelligent beings in the universe.

For you see, if there were we can be sure that the angelic being referred to as Satan would have tempted them, as he did Adam and Eve. And it would have been necessary for Christ to have also died a substitutionary death for that civilization, as He did for our own. But 1^st Peter 3:18 tells us that “Christ suffered once for all sin.”

And if He suffered once, we can be sure that He did not suffer twice or three times, and thus He never visited another intelligent civilization for the purpose of dying for them. You see, Voyager 1 is the single most intelligent creation in interstellar space. It is out there “all by its lonely.” Since the spacecraft was created by man, and man was created by God, that little metal flying robot might, in essence, be referred to as, “God’s Grandchild.”

At least the lack of another intelligent civilization in this universe is my theory. And I believe I just finished adequately supporting it. Christ suffered once, and only once for the only populated planet in this universe.

Sometime ago, it was decided that the Voyager 1 spacecraft would turn its camera towards Planet Earth, and take the longest distance ‘selfie’ ever taken; for the elements of which it was formed originated on this planet. As a matter of fact, each of our eight or nine planets, depending on how you count them, ‘posed’ for a photograph that day.

Recently, I was watching a documentary about Voyager 1, and an image of that photo was flashed onto the screen. There in a band of light and debris, you can just make out a tiny speck of light. And as that photo appeared, the narrator spoke.

“From such a vast distance, you can just make it out. A small, blue marble containing earth and seas, and eight billion souls, and the only home that every man, woman, boy and girl ever given the privilege of life would inhabit.”

And my friends, with this, an involuntary sob rose up on my throat, and tears sprang to my eyes. Perhaps you would have had to have been there. But the tiny point of light that is our earth, and the insightful descriptiveness of the narrator just overwhelmed me at that moment.

My friends, we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and the innate abilities which God gave us to do the most magnificent things is nothing short of remarkable. We have been created by an awesome Creator, and have been made in His likeness. And He has bestowed the most remarkable intelligence and abilities upon us, and will to create within us. The Voyager 1 spacecraft is a prime example.

In Psalm 8, we read,

3When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, The moon and the stars, which You have ordained; 4What is man that You take thought of him, And the son of man that You care for him? 5Yet You have made him a little lower than God (or the angels,), and You crown him with glory and majesty!

In conclusion, let us say, for the sake of argument, that a billion years from now, when our sun and planetary system no longer exist, as we know it, that some alien scientist manages to retrieve that ‘little spacecraft that could,’ and manages to decipher that golden record on board the craft.

And as he or she or it, as the case may be, views photographs depicting the high surf of Hawaii’s Sunset Beach, and the glorious mountain peaks of Scotland’s Isle of Skye, and the ancient Redwood trees of California, and he goes on to listen to the musical strains of Glenn Miller’s orchestra, and the contralto voice of Frances Langford, and he marvels at the architectural wonder which is the new World Trade Center, and he acknowledges the Omnipotence which produced passages such as Genesis 1 and Psalm 23 and John 3:16, perhaps that golden record will serve as a sort of a witness to the glory of the unseen God, and His love for the work of His hands.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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