SAYING 'GOODBYE' TO COOPER

The veterinary assistant was apparently running late, as Queenie and I were the only living occupants of the parking lot, my automobile the only inanimate vehicle, (aren’t they all) and the ‘Closed’ sign still hung inside the glass door.

Suddenly, a car slowed, turned into the parking lot, and pulled into an adjoining space. Obviously, not a clinic employee. I found myself looking into the troubled eyes of a middle-aged woman. She smiled a thin smile, and I returned the gesture. Normally, I would not have attempted a conversation, but since I happened to be ‘constitutionalizing’ my precious pooch, and in the proximity of the other vehicle, I said,

“Hi there. I guess the employees are running late. My little Queenie is having a tooth pulled and her teeth cleaned today.”

My momentary friend seemed pre-occupied with her thoughts, but the teary-eyed lady responded with,

“My little ‘Cooper’ is being put to sleep this morning.”

Having lost three previous pooches, her words struck me to the core. And having involuntarily paused for effect, she continued.

 “I’ve only had him a few months, and he was due to be vaccinated for a couple of common diseases. Unfortunately, before I could get him to the clinic, he came down with Parvo. It turns out five other dogs on our street have gotten it, and have since died of it.”

(and)

“Cooper weighed 55 pounds before he came down with the virus. He’s down to 28 pounds, and the vet hasn’t been able to do anything to help him.”

Pt. 2

With this, I peered into the half-opened back window of the automobile. I found myself looking into the mournful eyes of what appeared to be a chocolate lab.

I recently published a little volume entitled, “A Man’s Tribute to His Beloved Dogs,” and one primary implication in the book is the innate intelligence of canines, and their ability to “understand what’s going on.” Perhaps they comprehend much more about the import of human speech than we possibly imagine. I believe the precious pooch in the back seat knew what was about to befall him. He just knew.

I turned my gaze away from the hopeless animal in the back of the old sedan, and without a word, I extended my right hand towards the woman. And without so much as a word, she returned the gesture. (Strange, I almost placed my hand on her forehead, as a sort of blessing, and have done so in the past, but this inclination seemed a bit too forward). At any rate, my anything, but premeditated behavior had little or nothing to do with the usual connotation of a handshake; since we had not ‘til then, (nor did we ever) introduce ourselves to one another.

The milk of human compassion. There is just something about touch which conveys an underlying emotion, and cognitive affirmation, like nothing else can do; whether a handshake, a hug, or an arm around the shoulder.

I had ‘been there’ and nothing conjures up the requisite understanding and subsequent response, more so than having been there. And before each of us withdrew our hands to our own persons, I verbally expressed my understanding.

“I can feel your pain. My first pooch crossed the Rainbow Bridge sixty years ago.”

My newfound friend seemed surprised. I like to think I look younger than my years. (I guess staying away from mirrors helps perpetuate this myth).

Having done what I could, and since about this time the clinic door was opened to me, I strode through the portal with my twelve pound Shih Tzu in hand.

It has been several years since that experience, but I will always remember those few fleeting moments, and will be thankful I had the opportunity to comfort another human being; who was facing one of the most difficult experiences any of us ever will.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

LUCILLE & BUDDY

A few years ago, I was walking my dog in my neighborhood, and had arrived at a strip of grass where everyone takes their pet canines to “do their job.”

As my Queenie proceeded to do what all dogs do, a car stopped next to me, the window on the passenger side of the vehicle lowered, and I found myself looking at a thirty something year old woman.

“Uhmm, I’m looking for my cat. He’s very old, he’s grey and mostly blind. He got away from me this morning, and I wonder if you have seen him?”

To which I responded,

“No ma’am. I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him.”

“Lucille” thanked me, rolled the window back up, and proceeded down Shadow Wood Lane.

Having finished my task, I walked Queenie back to the house, sat down, and took in a bit of news on TV. Afterwards, I made myself a sandwich, and walked into the dining room. It was then I saw it, or rather I saw them.

Lucille was sitting in a patch of ivy in the front yard of the house across from my own home. In her arms she held a cat. However, the cat she was holding was not the one she had described to me an hour earlier. But rather, this particular feline belonged to the man who lives in the house on whose property the ivy flourished.

And as the young lady sat by the lone oak tree, her rear parts in the ivy, and holding “Buddy,” I noticed her mouth was moving. But since a pane of glass separated me from the duo, I wasn’t sure if she was speaking or singing to the tabby-colored cat. (However, I think it was the latter).

Odd, Buddy died just a week after Lucille found a spot in the ivy, held him to her shoulder, and whispered “sweet nothings” in his ear.

I wonder if she ever found her cat.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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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THE BOOK OF PHILIPPIANS - McDonald Paraphrase

THE EPISTLE TO THE PHILIPPIANS

 McDonald Paraphrase

(Quite some time ago, I paraphrased The Book of Philippians. I include it here, since nothing in my Christian life has allowed me to experience, and virtually know Paul, like this particular effort. I’m especially hopeful that the following paraphrase will enhance the spiritual lives of my descendants).



Chapter One



Paul & Timothy, Servants of Christ. To all who name Christ Jesus as Lord, who are at Philippi, with all the Bishops and Deacons.



May Grace be bestowed upon you, along with the peace only God Our Father can provide because Christ cooperated in the finished work.

Every memory of you is blessed and my thanks is continually overflowing before our Father.



Without fail, I always raise my voice to the Father on your behalf, praying with great joy.



For your fellowship in this great gospel from that very first day until now. I am confident of this very thing, that the One who has begun this magnificent work in you will continue it ‘til the day of our deliverance. And it is only right for me to remember you with such rejoicing because you reside in my heart. For you have remembered me whether I walked among you, or whether I continued to reside in the darkness of the prison. For God bears me witness that I have your welfare at heart and all my efforts are on your behalf.



And I pray the more earnestly that your love may increase and that your knowledge may abound to all judgment.



That you may strive for excellence and that you be without offense, even ‘til Christ makes His appearance.



Being filled with the fruits of righteousness which are derived from Christ, unto God’s ultimate praise and glory. For 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.



Therefore, my chains in Christ are seen by the servants and those who have served in Caesar’s palace, and in other places. And many of those who once feared are emboldened by these chains, and speak without the slightest compulsion or anxiety. Some, indeed, preach Christ out of envy and strife, but some out of good will.



Some preach the gospel due to their jealousy of how God is using me. Other exhibit motives which follow a more righteous plane. They preach out of a heart overflowing with love for me. Again, some preach to make me jealous, believing any success will add to my sorrow in this prison.



But I am glad since Christ is preached.



And whatever happens, I will go right on being glad for your prayers, and I am convinced that good will come of this. And I live in eager expectation, and hope that my behavior will always honor God, and that my words will enhance Christ’ message, whether I live, or go on to be with Christ.



For to me, living means opportunities for Christ, and dying, well, that’s fine too.



If remaining here affords me better opportunities to win some of my brethren, then it becomes a hard choice, whether to live or go on to my reward. Sometimes I want to go on living, and at other times I’m content to think of leaving this world behind. How much more content I would be.



But I’m sure staying will benefit you more.



And I’m convinced that I am needed here, and I’m certain that I will remain to help you mature and find joy in your faith. Though I long to be with Christ, my staying will give you cause to glorify Our Saviour when I next see you face to face.



But in spite of what may happen to me, always live as befits a Christian, that I might hear of your unity in standing up for the Gospel, courageously and in spite of fear. To your enemies it will remind them of their ultimate failure, but to you it will be an obvious indicator that God has bestowed eternal life on you.



For you have been presented the inestimable privilege of both trusting in Him and suffering for Him.



We fight this terrible battle together and suffer at every turn. And I wrestle our great enemy even now, as you all so well know.



Chapter Two

If there is anything like Christian encouragement, if we share the same Spirit, if there is any sympathy flowing through your being,

make me happy by cooperating with each other out of a heart of love, united in heart, mind and purpose.



Don’t live to impress others, but consider others better than yourselves. Consider your own affairs secondary to what seems important to others. Your attitude should reflect that of your Master, Jesus Christ, who though being truly God, did not cling to His prerogatives as God, but cast aside His omnipotent power and glory, and assumed the guise of a servant, becoming like men.



And He chose a pathway that ended at the cross, to die a death fit only for a criminal. And because of His obedience, God raised Him to a place of honor and bestowed on Him a Name above all others.



That at the mere expression of His lovely Name every knee shall bow down, both in heaven and on the earth, and every single tongue shall confess the Lordship of Christ, to God be all the glory.



My dearly beloved friends, you were always very careful to follow my guidance, and now that I am no longer with you, you should be even more careful to bring forth good works, obeying the merciful Creator with awesome respect, fearing lest you offend Him in the slightest.



For He continues to work in you, inspiring you to desire to obey Him, and cooperating with you in that effort. Flee the tendency to complain and to argue, so that not one word of blame may be laid at your doorstep. You should live pure and innocent lives as sons of God in a corrupt world full of stubborn and perverse people.



Let your lights shine out among them, holding out to them the Word of Life. So that when Christ returns, my joy will know no limits, and the great worth of my work will be affirmed.



And if my lifeblood must be shed and mixed with your faith, I am willing to make that ultimate sacrifice. If I lay down my life for you, my efforts will surely be confirmed.



You should rejoice with me, even if the ultimate outcome awaits me here.



If the Lord wills it, I will shortly send Timothy to visit you. And when He returns he can cheer me with your greetings and regards. Only Timothy has stood close to me during this dark night of my soul. He will come shortly and perhaps I may follow him at some point.



Meanwhile, I believe I will send Epaphroditus back to you. We have been brothers, working side by side. Now I will send him back to you, as he has been homesick and almost died. But God shed forth mercy on him, and I know how thankful you will be to see him. Welcome him and show your appreciation; for he risked his life to the very point of death.



Chapter Three

Whatever happens, my dear ones, rejoice in the Lord. I am never weary telling you this, and so I say it again, and again. Beware those who call you to observe tradition and stake your salvation on such things. For it isn’t outward symbolism that makes us children of God, but worshipping Him with our spirits.



The True Gospel, the only one we ought glory in, rests on the finished work of Christ, alone.



If anyone ever had reason to think his own works could save him, it would be I. I was circumcised at eight days of age, born of the stock of Benjamin. Thus, I was a real Jew if ever one existed. Beyond this, I was a member of the Pharisees who require the most austere obedience to every Jewish law and tradition.



But more, I was sincere to a fault for I persecuted the church and have obeyed the last jot and tittle of the law.



But all that once seemed so valuable now seems next to worthless, and I cast my lot with Christ, alone.



For I have laid aside what this world considers precious, that I may possess Christ. For my salvation will never be sealed by my own righteousness, or by the deeds of the law, but by trusting Christ to save me. It is by Christ, alone, that we are given an entrée into the eternal kingdom.



And though it may seem paradoxical, the only way we can experience His power and blessings is to suffer and die with Him.



I do not imply that I have arrived. I am still learning, changing and maturing. But I consider the day when I finally reach the prize, the goal, the finish line.



No, my brethren, I am not all that I should be, nor what I will be, but I bring all my energies to bear on this one thing. I forget the past, and gaze with jealous eyes towards the future Christ has for me. I strain to reach the finish line, and receive the reward bestowed on those who are called “Faithful.”



I pray my words ring true with you, and if not, my God make the Truth clear to you.



I invite you to pattern your life after mine, and notice others who live to this standard. For there are many along the way who are really enemies of The Cross. They have no future beyond this life, for their god is their appetite. They are proud of what is, rather, shameful.



But our eternal home is where Christ is, and we expectantly look for His return. When He returns, He will transform our own frail bodies, and energize them to resemble His own, with the same power He will use to conquer death, and Satan’s evil principalities.



Chapter Four

My brethren, I long to see you, for you are my reward, my trophies, for the efforts I’ve expended here. My beloved friends, remain true to Our Lord. Let me plead with Euodias and Syntyche, please set aside your differences and quarrel no more. And my friends, please help these women, for they assisted me in sharing this great Gospel. And they worked with Clement and many others who are written in The Book of Life.



Rejoice in the Lord at all times. Let your selflessness and consideration be evident where ever you go. Do not forget that Christ is coming soon. Don’t be anxious for the future, but speak to God daily, both asking Him for assistance, and thanking Him for the answers to your needs.



If you follow this advice you will know God’s peace which is infinitely more wonderful than we could ever comprehend. And His power will abide in your mind and spirit as you depend on Him.



Fix your thoughts on what is good, and pure, and righteous.



Constantly, consider the praises you owe the Creator. Remember all those things you have heard me teach, and model to you, and God will shed His peace on you.



How grateful I am and how thankful that you are assisting me again in the defense of the Gospel. I realize you have always been anxious to help me monetarily, but it is just now that you have the opportunity.



Not that I am in need, because I have learned to manage with much, or only a little.



I am content whether full or hungry. I do everything that Christ requires through His overwhelming power at work in me. Nevertheless, I thank you for helping me in my present circumstance. As you remember, only you Philippians assisted me in my journey through Macedonia. No one else aided my efforts. Even while in Thessalonica, you helped me twice. And while your help didn’t go unnoticed, what blesses my heart is the reward that Christ is preparing for you in heaven.



At this present moment, I am overflowing with provisions, those gifts you sent by Epathroditus. These provisions are a sweet sacrifice in God’s sight. May God continue to fulfill and supply all your needs and pour out blessings out of His abundance.



Now unto God be glory, now and forever, Amen.



I send my greetings to all the brethren there. The brothers here also greet you. The Christians in Caesar’s palace send you their love.



The grace and blessings of our Savior be with your spirit.


William McDonald. Copyright 2018

KILLING THE OLD LION

In the past week, someone, several someone’s, killed a massive, but gentle, unassuming lion.

That lion has guarded a portion of Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta, a sacred venue, containing the gravesites of hundreds of unknown Confederate dead, for the past 125 years; and ‘til now was never threatened, nor approached with malice.

Everything changed this week

For you see, in the past few days, and in the dark of the night, a few so-called “protestors,” (who claim they want law and order) climbed over the wall, and intruded upon the silence of this sacred piece of ground, (and which is quite obviously private property) and desecrated The Lion of Atlanta; an amazingly beautiful marble sculpture which commemorates the sacrifices of the unknown dead of the Confederate States of America.

These vagabonds, (I would love to use a different word here) scaled that perimeter wall, armed with spray paint, and hammers and chisels, and they proceeded to “kill” the defenseless lion; first drowning him in that blood-red paint, as if he had been slain, and then gouging out his eyes, and breaking off his teeth.

Although I have never visited this gentle giant, I have admired, and grew to love him from afar, and was determined to visit him one day. (Unfortunately, these ne’er do wells got there first).

Seven decades ago, my great Uncle, Henry Dowling, one of the last surviving Civil War veterans, participated in a Confederate Memorial Day ceremony in this section of the cemetery; memorializing the unknown Confederate dead who “reside” here. No doubt, he gazed in awe upon The Lion of Atlanta, and perhaps shivers ran up his aged spine.

The common Confederate soldier never owned a slave, and earnestly believed that the battle he fought was more about home and family, than anything else. And, of course, he had little “say so” in whether or not he participated in the war in the first place.

Speaking of the sanctity of that wonderful old lion, (and beyond anything I have recounted) why I am so taken up with it. (It is not an exaggeration to say that the loss of it has affected me, but more personally, like the loss of that great old cathedral, Notre Dame).

My great great Grandfather, Isaac Ring, was a transplanted Yankee, and while living in Georgia, he was drafted as a private in the Southern Army. And not long after he began his service, he was captured, and interned at the infamous Union prison in Elmira, New York; where he experienced a myriad of injustices, and cruel treatment by his own countrymen.

We live in an age of Political Correctness, and we are in the midst of a season in which what I consider to be radical, uninformed elements are tearing down the vestiges of America’s troubled past, as if they were capable of erasing that regretful history from the books.

The death of that noble, old lion has irrevocably impacted me, much as if I had lost someone near and dear to me.



And come to think of it… I have.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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MRS. OLESON WAS ALIVE AND WELL AND LIVING IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

From my perspective, Katherine MacGregor of “Little House on the Prairie” is one of the two or three greatest supporting actors of all time; (including, of course, Don Knotts of “The Andy Griffith Show” fame).

“Mrs. Oleson” is, at different times, endearing and maddening, hilarious and despicable, conniving and manipulative. And Katherine plays the part “to a T.” (One may witness a pale comparison of her singular abilities in the similar role of “Mrs. Godsey,” actor’s name omitted here, on “The Waltons.”)

Little could I have known when the series originally aired in the 70’s, and when I viewed reruns in the first decade of the new century, that I would ultimately experience the privilege of “meeting” the 1880’s television storekeeper. Well, to be fair, I never met her face to face, but rather…

I discovered Katherine MacGregor’s mailing address, her actual residence to be sure, on the webpage of her television daughter, “Nellie.” And on this site Alison Arngrim claimed that Ms. MacGregor enjoyed receiving fan mail, and attempted to answer any and all correspondence which she received. As a result, I decided to write the (now) 90 year old actress, and make her aware that among millions of viewers, past and present, she was finally reading a letter from her biggest fan in this, or any other universe.

I told her what a great actress I considered her to be, I mentioned the existence of a Wikipedia page in her name, and relayed a message from a distant cousin who claimed to have known her, and whom she assisted in a little theater stage play.

And true to “Nellie’s” assurances, two or three weeks later I received a letter with the unfamiliar “Katherine MacGregor” and a California address in the upper left hand corner. And then the unfamiliar became all too familiar.

“Mrs. Oleson,” of course!

I lost no time ripping open the letter, and began reading.

Not only had “Harriet” returned my original letter, but she had responded with a half page of cursive beneath my signature, and also filled up the entire back of the page with her handwriting. She thanked me for my stated appreciation of her acting skills in the old television series, disclaimed knowing anything about Wikipedia, but found my description of one of my edits on the Katherine MacGregor page humorous. And she denied knowing my distant relative.

(Interestingly enough, my cousin is a former Hindu, and it seems Katherine is also a Hindu; in spite of her church attendance on the Little House series. “Ruby” had told me that, at one time, she and “Mrs. Oleson” had been members of the same Hindu sect, and that the great supporting actress had, as I previously alluded, come along side my cousin on some local stage production in the area).

And tucked inside the envelope was, as “Nellie” had inferred there might be, a noticeably aromatic slip of paper with her own hand-drawn cartoonish caricature of herself; along with Katherine’s scribble, “A Touch of Perfume!”

And what began with one letter sent, and one received metamorphosed into a short-lived pen pal relationship. (However, the subsequent interaction between Katherine and I was, at this point, a matter of her own initiative and interest, and not my own). And the content of the two or three follow up letters was all about discovering whom my distant relative, (who had claimed to know her) was, and in the meanwhile denying any acquaintance at all with her.

After several letters promoting this vein of thought, including one addressed to my cousin, the retired actress ultimately wrote,

“Dr. McDonald, I’m too old, and too involved with my other admirers to continue corresponding with you as I have. This will have to be my last letter.”

And of course, I thought,

“Well, my dear, you’re the one who has insisted on writing and mailing these copious and extensive letters, not I.”

I sometimes pull out my old scrapbook and re-read the dear lady’s letters. And based on Ms. MacGregor’s words, tone and apparent personality, I can safely say her portrayal of the prairie storekeeper seems just about right.

“Mrs. Oleson” is still alive and well in southern California.

(Well, having read my blog, I regret to inform you that it was written a couple years ago, and "Mrs. Oleson" is no longer alive and living in Southern California).

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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FULFILLING THE WILL OF GOD

Recently, it occurred to me that there are three variables by which we, as believers, can ascertain whether a job, or ministry is right for us, and whether, ultimately, we are in the very center of the will of God for our lives. 

#1. Open Doors - We serve a God who has assured us in scripture that “what he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open.” (Isaiah 22:22).

We have all “been there.” Suddenly, and without warning the opportunity of a lifetime just casually “drops in our lap.” This happened to me, just after the turn of the century, when I was offered the position of adjunct professor at a local university; which I had attended a full forty years earlier.

#2. Interests - I believe a job or ministry should align with our interests. I believe God operates this way. In Psalm 37:4 we read, “Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” Not only are we to delight ourselves in the Lord, but because He delights Himself in us, it pleases Him to give us the desires of our heart. If and when we spend an inordinate amount of time in a job or ministry which we dislike, our wherewithal to invest our heart, and subsequent efforts in it will probably be minimal, and we are liable to end up bored and unfulfilled.

#3. Abilities - A door may swing open before us, and we may have a great interest in a given job or ministry, but if our abilities or talents are not aligned with it, it’s probably not for us. Although allow me to add a small disclaimer. If indeed one has the requisite interest in a vocation, advocation or ministry, and if that person is afforded the time and finances to do so, he or she may very well prepare themselves academically to pursue such an opportunity.



From my way of thinking, all three variables, open doors, our interests and our abilities, are leading indicators of God’s will for our lives at any given time, and all three of these variables must be present in our attempt to properly ascertain His will.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?

About three decades ago, there was this African-American guy named Rodney King (who was the recipient of a beating by several policemen) who asked, “Can’t we just all get along?”

That seems to be the question of the moment in the age of this unprecedented month long world-wide protest; (and which has been made geometrically more problematic by the advent of the Corona Virus).

No one can deny that a small percentage of policemen in this nation have used the power they have been given to exercise their prejudice against black Americans in wholly unacceptable ways, including the recent example of George Floyd, and the now infamous “knee in his neck” scenario which brought his life to a premature close. And it goes without saying that in the last few decades there have been numerous situations, such as the one I have just described, which have further inflamed the African-American community.

However, it seems two crucial variables have been overlooked by our liberal news media, (as well as those who protest such treatment); though I once saw a profanity-laced semi-comedy routine by Chris Rock, (quite obviously an African-American man) which highlighted what I am about to allude to here.

In virtually every case in which a black man has been killed by a policeman in America, an apparent crime had been committed by that individual. In this recent episode, police had been summoned because George Floyd had passed a $20 counterfeit bill at a store. (Of course, we cannot be sure he knew it was counterfeit, but I think most people would recognize an illegitimate piece of money).

And speaking of a second variable which almost always seems to accompany the killing of African-American men in America, the accused has resisted arrest. Again, this was true in the recent killing of George Floyd. In one video, we see one of the policemen leaning into the back of the squad car. And though we can’t see Floyd, it is obvious the former is tussling with the latter in an attempt to keep him where he has been placed.

Now to be sure, I am careful to say that there is never any excuse for killing an unarmed person of any color by the police forces of any country. However, (and it is a huge ‘however’) some pretty unfortunate, unexpected things can happen in the heat of the moment, and it goes without saying that people have died as the result of #1, the commission of a crime, and #2, the defendant in the crime resisting arrest.



I think if we are to properly analyze and address the abuse of power by a minority of policemen in this country, the presence of the two variables which I have recounted, above, must be acknowledged by the press and people, alike, and taken into account.

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

LETTING THE ANGEL OUT

Someone once walked in on Leonardo da Vinci as he was hammering and chiseling away on a 1 ton block of marble. The man scratched his head, and asked, "Leonardo, what are you doing?" To which the sculptor replied, 

"There's an angel inside, and I intend to let him out!"

A DAY AND A TIME

We live in a day and time when a man walks into a bank or convenience store wearing a mask, and no one thinks a thing about it

We live in a day and age when looters and arsonists wear masks, not to disguise themselves, but to protect themselves from the virus

We live in a day and time when the mayor of our nation’s capital paints “Black Lives Matter” on a street leading up to the White House to convince people who sadly don’t, and won’t ever believe it… to believe it

We live in a day and age when the NFL, MLB and NBA will play ball “all by their lonesome’s,” and the fans will stay home

We live in a day and time when the National Football League commissioner assures us that Kaepernick was right after all

We live in a day and age when “America’s Finest,” (at least some of them) really aren’t all that fine

We live in a day and time when a cop plants his knee in the neck of a suspect for almost nine minutes, and no one does a darn thing about it

We live in a day and age when a social issue supercedes a viral issue, and the former and latter produce potentially catastrophic results

We live in a day and time when protestors demand law and justice, but unlawfully attempt to rewrite America’s history by spray painting and destroying our nation’s statues and monuments

We live in a day and age when the radical left and radical right join forces to promote mayhem and murder in our nation’s streets

We live in a day and time when the commissioners of a major city vote to defund their own police department

We live in a day and age when the mayor of New York City does the same thing

We live in a day and time when the federal government is the only entity in this nation legally allowed to print counterfeit money


We live in a day and age when thirty students sit in thirty different locations and pretend to be a class

We live in a day and time when friends and relatives in the same city interact by Skype, but haven’t met or touched one another the entire year

We live in a day and age when loved ones pass, and children sit in lawn chairs outside their nursing home windows; while consoling them on cellular phones

We live in a day and time when America needs God more than we ever did in the history of our great republic

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

A (NOT SO) BRAVE NEW WORLD

I think we must have entered an entirely new world.

I mean, whomever in the course of any lifetime, amongst almost 10 billion people of all ages whom exist in this world, ever witnessed anything like this?

The brutal death of a handcuffed black man beneath the knee of one of “America’s Finest,” Protests, demonstrations, looting, arson, 24 hour news coverage, tear gas, rocks, stones and bottles, international outrage, lawlessness, a world pandemic, face masks, a lack of social distancing, “Black Lives Matter” painted along a major boulevard in our nation’s capital, clearing non-violent protestors, so that a president can do a photo op with a Bible, a myriad of mindsets among Americans of different colors and socio-economic status, death and destruction on the part of “protectors” and “protestors,” alike, asinine statements by news organizations, such as, “Riots are simply the voice of the unheard,” (which only serve to encourage more of the same), the outrageous concept of defunding, or abolishing police forces which promotes anarchy and mayhem, a justifiable fear that the two major issues with which we currently contend, one viral and one social, walk hand in hand, (and that the results cannot help but be catastrophic).

We must have entered an entirely new world.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

REMEMBERING THAT DAY - D DAY

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

Viewed from above the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of stark white stone crosses stand, and where once the jackboot tread, and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will defy the enemy.”

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits, and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The elder of the two responds, “Many, most…I don’t know.” A tear forms in the younger man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m coming home when this is over.”

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats, and landing craft of every description; bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like, Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others having escaped certain death flounder in deep water now; their packs and ammo weighing them down. Calling, crying for help they beg the crews of other landing craft for rescue. But more often, than not they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. And as they perish, anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch; those unable to respond.

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And ere the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete.

And the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and the waiting terrain offers them different fates. For some crash violently against cliffs, and trees and earth, and all onboard are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least; a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

And oh, the engineers. There is none like them. For they begin to climb; treacherous enough without added difficulties. And they are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.
And some come again. To walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark, stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

For we are come to the anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day which is still living, and vibrant and new in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiney-eyed troop who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands in his own hourglass.

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have hugged mother Earth, after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again; never more to rise.

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. And though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming floods of water, their crosses stand sentinel, just above the bluffs; just beyond the field of their labor.

They gave their tomorrows for our todays.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

There is a new movie out with Tom Hanks called, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” And since I had previously written about Mister Rogers, (a blog that is not included here) I had more than a passing interest in seeing the movie.

Admittedly, I feel a little guilty going to a movie alone these days, as my wife is staying with our grandson, while our daughter is spending a month in Nepal, (yes, Nepal) engaged in doing social work with an NGO there. (But, admittedly, the guilt wasn’t potent enough to preclude me from following through with my plan last night).

Well, so I got dressed, and drove the ten or twelve minutes which separated me from the local theater in time for the first Friday evening premier showing. However, when I arrived, I discovered that the parking lot was full to overflowing, and I surmised that I didn’t want any part of sitting “bunched up” against a person on my left and one on my right, and a theater packed out like sardines in a can. As a result, I had no sooner drove into the “asphalt jungle” that I turned around and drove out of it.

Having arrived home, and put on my jogging shorts and muscle shirt, I debated whether I would “take in” the 10:30pm showing of the movie. I was tired, and I knew my ambition would, no doubt, progressively wane in the two hours which separated me from the process of redressing, getting in the car, and heading back to the theater.

However, as a counselor I tell my clients that there’s a great substitute for ambition, since ambition is little more than an emotion. The substitute? A decision. After all, anything good must be done “on purpose.” Only wrecks happen by accident. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that little teaching).

Pt. 2

Thus, I made a premeditated decision to take in the late movie. I realized that the theater would be “blown out” on Saturday, and I would find myself in exactly “the same boat” as I experienced the first time that I drove up to the theater.

Throwing my street clothes back on, I walked out the door at 9:55pm, and retraced my route of two hours earlier. Ten minutes later I drove into… an almost empty parking lot, and, as you might expect, I wasn’t complaining.

Exiting the car, I walked the twenty yards which separated me from my quest; the box office window. And as I stepped up to the young lady in the booth, and she looked expectantly at me, waiting for me to announce the movie of my choice, I almost involuntarily began to sing.

(Yeah, I did).

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood…”

And then, the slightest bit self-conscious, I mused,

“I bet lots of folks have walked up to you tonight singing that song.”

To which “Anna” replied,

“Ummm. Nope, you’re the first one!”

(Now, I really did feel like a fool. LOL).

Having purchased my ticket, I walked through the front door and into the lobby, had my ticket punched by the attendant, walked to the candy counter, asked for a senior popcorn and coke, paid for my goodies, and proceeded to theater number three; down the hallway, second door on the right.

Pt. 3

Walking into the theater, I found it to be very dark, very quiet, and …very empty.

As a matter of fact, I was the only human being in the whole place! And, as I always do, I climbed the steps of the amphitheater to the top, walked to the middle of the row of seats, and plopped down, dead center; setting my drink in the right holder, and my wallet, and cell phone in the left one. (I am one of those guys who doesn’t like to carry stuff in my pockets. Even when I go to a restaurant, I immediately set the obtrusive items on the table).

Be that as it may, I sat “all by my lonely” on the top row of the theater, as the commercials for upcoming movies ran for 15 plus minutes. However, finally, finally the opening credits of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” flickered onto the screen.

And as you might imagine, the first scene had a fairly believable Tom Hanks, portraying Mr. Rogers, walking through the door of his “play room,” opening a nearby closet, exchanging his suit coat for a red sweater, and taking off his street shoes, and replacing them with sneakers.

To be fair, I thought the well-known actor’s attempt to replicate Mr. Rogers’ voice was slightly contrived, (but perhaps only slightly). At the same time, he looked enough like “the real McCoy” for this audience of one to settle in, and absorb the plot and implications of the movie.

And without absolutely spoiling it for you, suffice it to say that the plot centered around a fella named Tom Junod, (though he assumes a different name in the film), an Esquire magazine journalist, and his relationship with Mr. Rogers; (which all began when the former contacted the latter for an interview).

Ultimately, this interview was titled, “Can You Say…Hero?” and became the feature story for the November 1998 issue of Esquire magazine, and featured (there’s that word again) the beaming image of Mr. Rogers on the cover.

Pt. 4

And again, without giving away anything, Mr. Rogers made a profound difference in Tom Junod’s life, and for that matter, the life of his entire family. He made a difference in many lives that God set in his pathway.

There was an exchange in the movie in which our “hero” is speaking on the phone with the foregoing journalist, and he says,

“Do you know who the most important person in my life is, Tom?”

And perhaps Junod merely responded with, “Who?”

And with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight catch in his characteristic voice, Mr. Rogers replies,

“Well, at this very moment, Tom, you are the most important person in my life!”

I think that’s how he made you feel. Yes, I think that’s how he made you feel. As if for that moment in time, you were the only person who really mattered to him.

I felt very much this way when I paraphrased the Book of Philippians; (years before I paraphrased the entire New Testament). It was as if I was given the wherewithal to walk into Paul’s Roman cell, and sit down beside him, and talk with him about his life, and impact and suffering, to know him as my friend and brother, and to realize his compassion and joy in spite of the circumstances which surrounded him.

Following is a poignant reminiscence from an article about Mr. Rogers.

“Every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,

‘the number 143 means I love you. It takes one letter to say I, and four letters to say love, and three letters to say you. One hundred and forty-three. I love you. Isn't that wonderful?’”

Pt. 5

And now, the movie finally drew to a close, and I hesitated to leave. After stuffing my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, I ambled down the long flight of steps, and paused to see if any actual footage of the “real” Mister Rogers would appear on the screen. And, in fact, it did.

There he was standing in his element, in his little “play room” with his puppets, and lighting up his little world with that memorable smile.

Now, I walked down the long hallway which led out of the very dark, very quiet and… very empty theater. And as I walked out the door, and into the lobby of the place, I could still hear the closing song as it trailed off behind me.Top of Form

Bottom of Form

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.



So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during those few moments which he granted me, I was, indeed, the most important person in his life.



*Tom Hanks was recently informed that he and Mister Rogers are 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.



By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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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.