FOLLOW ME

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

As the student body sat in chapel one morning, whomever happened to be charge of the service stepped forward and instructed the sound person to play a pre-recorded song. Suddenly, the strains of an unfamiliar hymn filled the auditorium, and a baritone voice began to sing the most poignant words,

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care

The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me

And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

by William McDonald, PhD

 

FEET IN THE IVY. EYES IN THE CLOUDS

‘Til recently, my neighbor, Frank, fed a feral cat which “had taken up” at his house several years before. “Buddy” was a beautiful yellow ‘tabby’ type cat which, Frank once informed me, had been the ward of a family whose house was just down the block. At some point, however, the afore-mentioned family had either moved away, or allowed Frank to adopt him.

To be sure, while Buddy lived outside, his demeanor was that of an indoor cat. While he came and went as he liked, he was altogether docile and allowed anyone and everyone to stroke his fur or pat his head. More than once I have seen the friendly feline standing on the edge of my garden wishing well, and bending over the shallow pool to take a drink. I inherited the little ceramic pond from my late neighbor, and absolutely love the stained-glass mosaic in the bottom. While I had considered leaving the little pool empty, my concern for Buddy and the other feral cats of my neighborhood have caused me to regularly fill it with water, and frequently change it out.

It goes without saying. Frank and everyone else in the neighborhood “thought a lot” of Buddy the Cat, and when he strayed into this or that person’s yard, he or she would take time out of his or her day to pet the precious critter, and humor him with baby talk.

Simply put, Buddy became a fixture of our little community. He loved to sit on a nearby utility box, and wile away the daylight hours. And sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, as I closed the door behind me, and began my twilight trek, he’d be lounging on the hood of Frank’s old truck.

And so it goes. And so it went for the longest time.

And then, a couple of months ago, I had stepped outside to engage my little pooch, Queenie, in her daily sabbatical, and had walked a couple hundred yards down Shadow Wood Lane, when a car pulled up alongside, and slowed to a stop.

Pt. 2

A thirty-something year old brunette sat behind the wheel.

She spoke.

“Hi. I’m Marta. Have you seen a big gray and white cat in this neighborhood?”

(and)

“His name is “Gabby” and he’s blind.”

And it immediately occurred to me that if I’d seen a big gray and white blind cat recently, I would have little or no trouble remembering the experience.

I responded.

“Uh, no ma’am. I haven’t seen a cat fitting that description. I’m very sorry you lost him.”

(and)

“I hope you find Gabby.”

(and)

“I love animals too. I’ll certainly be on the look out.”

With this, the stranger thanked me, and drove away.

And as I watched her go, I thought,

“I doubt I’ll ever see Marta again, much less her cat, Gabby.”

Sensitive as I am, I could not help but reflect on how difficult it would be for a blind cat in the wild, and the rudimentary emotions it must be feeling all alone in a foreign environment.

Did I mention how dubious I was that I’d ever see the lady again, and how I thought there was a miniscule chance of running up with her cat?

(Yep. I thought so).

Well, my dear readers, I was only half right.

Pt. 3

For as it fell together, I did indeed see that young lady again; and all of eight or ten minutes later.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

As I was walking my little Queenie that day, (and subsequent to my conversation with “Marta”) a fellow jogged past, and exclaimed,

“Do you have a baggie for that pooch?”

(and)

“I see you don’t have a pooper scooper.”

(and)

 “Don’t you know you’re supposed to pick up after your dog?”

And I responded with,

“Listen here, fella. This is the neighborhood dog walk.”

(and)

“We’re in the county out here, and there’s no rules about retrieving dog scat in our neighborhood.”

(and)

“Nobody picks up after their dogs on this pathway.”

(and)

“Don’t bother me with crap like that.” (Play on words).

All of which is superfluous to my story, but I thought you might enjoy the proverbial color.

At any rate, as Queenie and I neared the house, I was met with one of the strangest scenarios to which I have ever been exposed.

Pt. 4

As I gazed towards Frank’s house, I noticed my newfound friend’s car parked in the street adjacent to his house. And it was about this time I noticed Marta sitting under my neighbor’s water oak tree, in the center of his ivy garden, holding Buddy, the cat in her lap; while stroking his back and singing a rather ethereal tune.

And I thought, “Well, ain’t that a sight?”

(and)

“Exactly what kinda nut do we have here?”

I mean, I knew “from the get go” that the lady loved cats, but to pull up next to a stranger’s yard, get out, step into the middle of his ivy garden, detain his cat, and sit down and begin to sing to him, well now…

all I can say is, that’s ‘rich.’

I suppose Marta sat under the expansive oak tree holding Frank’s little Buddy for all of fifteen minutes, and finally set the cat down next to the bird feeder, stood up and retraced her steps to her car. And as she made her way to her vehicle, I noticed she looked over her right shoulder, and exchanged a final aloha with the cat. (Well, to be sure I never heard so much as a ‘meow’ from the cat, but I have to believe that he enjoyed every moment of their rural interlude).

I can only wonder whether Frank or his wife, Linda happened to look out their bay window while all this tender compassion was “going on” and how they may have processed what was happening in the middle of their ivy garden.

Pt. 5

Fast forward six weeks, and as I stepped out of my front door and walked the fifty feet to my mailbox, I noticed Frank in his front yard. (To say that my neighbor enjoys doing lawn and shrub care would be like saying Jesse Owens liked jogging).

As I reached my mailbox, and offered my well-worn greeting, (“Hey Frank”)! he looked up from raking in some mulch along the margins of his driveway, and said,

“Hi Bill. Did you know we lost Buddy last night?”

(and)

“I came out to get the newspaper, and found him lying dead next to my old truck.”

Well, I was shocked since I’d grown to like that personable old feline, and he seemed so much healthier than an ancient black cat which had limped around the neighborhood for time immemorial; and though wounded and arthritic has continued to keep on keeping on.

Of course, I offered my sincere regrets, and expressed how sorry I was that Buddy had gone on to his natural reward.

And as I retrieved my mail, and began the short trek back to my house, I my gaze fell onto that huge water oak tree in Frank’s front yard, and the ivy which grew beneath it.

And it was then that I recalled a recent day when a young lady named Marta sat beneath that tree, her feet in the ivy, her eyes in the clouds, and while her nimble hands played along the back of a docile tabby feline.

And, in retrospect, I think Marta’s impromptu little commune with Buddy the Cat was almost prophetic, as though some ethereal siren call had bidden she stop, and offer some final tribute to the furry critter.

They say we ought to give our flowers to those who are still able to smell them, and offer our parting words to those who still abide in the land of the living.

 

I think that’s what Marta was about that day.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

EMPTY CHAIRS

 

Empty chairs       

Two empty chairs

Oh, they have been empty in the past. Anytime someone happened not to be sitting in them.

But this time is different.

For you see, they will never be occupied again; at least not by the original two who once filled them up.

I can still see my parents, Henry and Erma, seated in those matching recliners. Reading newspapers, or perhaps a National Geographic, or simply starring out onto their mobile home-side pond.

My dad loved that chair, or better put he loved what that chair afforded him.

Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below.

More than once, many times more than once, I showed up, unannounced, and  invaded his “inner sanctum;” only to discover him in the midst of an ethereal sleep. Which, as with us all, is prophetic of that slumber which must overtake each of us one day.

And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,

“Wake up, Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”

And he would rouse himself; if only long enough to acknowledge my presence, and e’er too many moments elapsed

…well, you guessed it.

And my mother.

I think she occupied her matching recliner, more often than not, for the sake of a selfish agenda.

To simply dwell in the presence of the one to whom she had pledged herself; some six decades hence. For it was here that she experienced and enjoyed the presence of the man who had, long since, relinquished activity in favor of the sedentary. Oh, mama put up a good show of doing one thing or another, as she occupied her matching chair. But I think, I think, it was all about my dad. And the singleness of what took two to complete.

And now. Now the chairs are empty.

My wife has a photograph of her parents. It was taken at the lake home of their son. And in that poignant picture Doc and Ruby may be seen seated on the lakeside porch, facing one another, and engaged in a private conversation; known and meant only for themselves.

I can picture my own parents engaged in a similar exchange. But that one set of chairs have been exchanged for another. What the years stole from them has been restored, and in good measure.

Empty chairs. Not some cheap montage of wood and metal and fabric. But an almost spiritual place.

My father occupied his chair when, after his stroke and my mother’s subsequent inability to care for him, I made him aware it was time to submit himself to a nursing facility.

My mother sat in hers the last time we took her home for lunch, and the final occasion on which she saw her sisters; having been placed in that same facility.

It was in this room, and in these chairs my parents lived the most and best of their waning years. It was here that they did the things people do as they scratched out what joy still remained to them in their declining years. It was here from which they entertained family and friends, complained about the weather, boasted of a new great grandchild, worried for the fate of the nation, laughed about a childhood picture, remembered something from their youth, memorialized a lost comrade; expressed some hope for our futures.

It was from these chairs they spoke and laughed and lived and loved, and gleaned from the gradually shrinking world around them.

Empty Chairs.

Strange, how rich and full and almost complete an empty chair may seem.

by William McDonald, PhD

SOMEBODY HELP THE BOY

 In the mid-90's, I attended a counseling conference co-sponsored by a Christian counseling association and "Focus on the Family." While I was there, I met Dr. James Dobson, the President of FotF, and perhaps the best known Christian psychologist in America. 

Dr. Dobson tells the story of a family reunion which occurred years before I met him. The adults were inside the house, and the children were playing in the yard and street. At the time, Dr. Dobson's son, Ryan, was five or six. 

Now, the former of the two happened to peer out the front window, and he noticed the latter standing behind an old pickup truck. Suddenly, Ryan grabbed hold of the tailgate and pulled himself up on it. However, he found he didn't have the strength to lift himself up and over, and his little legs no longer touched the ground.

With this his father hurried out the front door, and without so much as a word, he quickly walked up behind his son. Now Ryan spoke...

"Somebody help the boy!"

Dr. Dobson reached out, and Ryan found two strong hands around his waist. No doubt, the little tyke breathed a sign of relief.

I cannot think of this story without the illusion, metaphor, principle, or whatever you choose to call it virtually slapping me in the proverbial face.

Every one of us needs a little help some time, and possibly many 'some times' during the course of a year. And I think the same person who does the helping at one time or another finds themselves needing help. As we prepare for a brand new year which contains 365 as of yet unwritten pages, I think we should be ready to avail ourselves of assistance, as well as to prepare ourselves to offer assistance.

"Somebody help the boy!"

by William McDonald, PhD

ANGELS AMONG US

Several months ago I found myself doing what I do almost every night, well, every morning if you call “dark city” morning. I jump on my slow, but trusty bike and head off on a 10 mile trek.

 

On this particular morning I happened to stop at an intersection, preparing to cross a 4 lane highway, and looked to my right. And strangely enough for 4am, I could just make out the form of a fella walking towards me on the sidewalk; perhaps 50 feet away.

 

Well, not being overly concerned about the man walking in my direction, I glanced one more time to my left, and prepared to “high tail it” across the highway. Mind you, no more than 2 seconds had elapsed since I had noticed the guy walking towards me on the sidewalk, and as I began peddling, I glanced back to my right.

 

And where a moment before there was what appeared to be a six foot, 170 pound man,

 

… only thin air greeted my gaze.

 

And since I peddle this same route every day it’s a familiar environment for me,

 

… (and this is the “wild card,”)

 

I’m aware of a 6-8 foot high wall that runs along that sidewalk, and which borders a gated community. There had been absolutely nowhere for “my friend” to go. He certainly didn’t vault the wall in record time, and since there are plenty of street lights along that stretch of highway, I would have seen him had he walked across the street.

 

Over the past year I have experienced a rather difficult season; something relating to rejection, and which kicked me in the figurative rear end. And as I reflect on it now, I think it was after this angelic visitation that the dark emotions with which I had contended began to lift.

 

I believe in angels, seen and unseen, and I’m thankful for their ministry to God’s people.

by William McDonald, PhD

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 

I didn’t grow up watching “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” but then again, its inception was in 1968, a year after I graduated from high school; (so the likelihood that I would have devoted much time to the program was almost nil).

In the last few moments I did a Google search, and discovered that the television show aired for a grand total of (drum roll) 33 years, and only went off the air in 2001; a fateful year for this country, and two years before his passing.

It occurs to me that “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was on television for the same amount of time that Jesus lived, and moved and breathed on the earth. I have never heard anyone expound on this bit of information. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. But then, I don’t believe in coincidences.

Oh, I remember seeing snippets of Fred Rogers’ program, and honestly, it did little or nothing for me at the time. Obviously, the show was geared towards little children; the humor, the skits, the puppets, the guests. And “Bro. Fred’s” voice and mannerisms always struck me as a bit effeminate.

Speaking of the foregoing prefix before his name, many people were unaware that Mr. Rogers was actually Rev. Rogers. For you see, Fred was an ordained Presbyterian minister, and to my knowledge, he possessed a calling unlike any other; before or since. Interestingly enough, he had been specially commissioned by his church to host “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” for the little boys and girls of America.

I have written about Mr. Rogers in the past, having previously read a poignant story of which he was the subject. And come to think about it, I only have “given him the time of day” the past couple of years; (a full decade and a half after his death).

Pt. 2

As I have inferred, I love a particular story I read about Mr. Rogers. I am including that story here.

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.

(Allison Carter, USA Today)

Pt. 3

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. 4

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. 5

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. 6

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. 7

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

DYING TO SELF

 

When you are forgotten, neglected, or purposely set at naught, and you don't sting or hurt with the oversight, but your heart is happy being counted worthy to suffer for Christ;

That is dying to self.

 

When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your advice disregarded, your opinion ridiculed, and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart or even defend yourself, but take it all in patient, loving silence;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, any annoyance; when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility, and endure it as Jesus did;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you are content with any food, and offering, any raiment, any climate, any society, any solitude, any interruption by the will of God;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation or record your own good works or itch after commendation, when you can truly love to be unknown;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you can see your brother prosper and have his needs met, and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy, nor question God, while your own needs are far greater and you are in desperate circumstances;

 

That is dying to self.

 

When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself and can humbly submit, inwardly as well as outwardly, finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart;

 

That is dying to self.

 Anonymous

 

TWO PEOPLE DRIVING ONE CAR

It was mid-afternoon, and Jean and I were on our way home from church, (or some other place long since forgotten.) She was driving our old green 1980 something Oldsmobile; a somewhat larger and heavier vehicle than one generally sees on the road today. We were traveling at 50 MPH, or more, and as we neared an intersecting road on our right, which was marked with a stop sign, a small blue car pulled into our pathway.

I could plainly see a man and woman in the front seat, and a little boy and girl in the back seat. I will never forget those precious little human beings as they sat there, eyes wide open, peering helplessly out the window, as our car swiftly approached them.  Less than 50 feet separated our two vehicles, and Jean proceeded to lock up the brakes. An accident was inevitable. As with so many traumatic events, time seemed to slow down. (Interestingly enough, I have read that this syndrome occurs because the brain is processing more information than usual in a miniscule amount of time.)

It was obvious that my wife had every intention of plowing headlong into the smaller car, (and no doubt, all the occupants of that vehicle would have been seriously injured or killed.) And though we were driving a much larger automobile, we also would not have been spared, since foolishly we weren’t wearing our seatbelts.

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

I reached over with my left hand, took the steering wheel from Jean, and began steering it in a direction that would take us around the rear of the small vehicle. Amazingly, we cleared the back bumper of the little car by a foot. Both my wife and I found ourselves leaning hard in the direction of our passenger window. (As a result of that event, I can easily relate to the G-forces astronauts endure as they reach maximum acceleration.)

But our wild ride was only beginning. Our ungainly old car began a 180 degree slide. Suddenly, the back end was where the front end was just seconds before. Now we were sliding backwards. As the car lost momentum, we neared a wooden fence to our left which paralleled the side of a house. We finally slid to a stop in a grassy area, a few feet from the fence, very shaken, but not a scratch on either of us. 

As we ended our unexpected journey, I saw the little car as it turned left into the opposite lane of the four lane highway. The man didn’t even have the courtesy to stop and inquire about our well-being. The decent thing to have done, the only thing to have done, would have been to stop, especially since he had pulled in front of us, and caused a near fatal accident.

However, while this traumatic event was in the process of happening to us, another car pulled up to the stop sign. Having seen the spectacle falling together around him, I have no doubt that the driver watched in awe. The motorist asked if we were okay, and after we assured him we were, he drove away.

Only God. Only God. Nothing less than an abject miracle. The two occupants of our car and the four occupants of the other car might easily have died that day. And the spot which Jean fills in the audience tonight would be vacant, or filled by another, and I would be just as invisible now, and you would not be listening to the sound of my voice, nor been exposed to my obvious charm, or handsome face.

And I have no doubt He gave His angels charge over us that day, and when we needed a miracle, well, He gave us one. And I have no doubt, any one of you could step behind this podium and share something equally wonderful and amazing that our Lord has done in your own lives.

by William McDonald, PhD

OUR PARTICIPATION

 

A few years ago, I was watching an interview between an anchorman and a priest on Fox News. It seems Pope John Paul II had just died, and the kindly minister described the things with which he contended.

 

“Of course, an assassination attempt was perpetrated on Pope John Paul from which he never fully recovered, and from which he suffered much. And in the past few years, he struggled with Parkinson’s Disease. However, in spite of his physical challenges, he continued to travel the world and minister to his people.”

 

And with this, the priest concluded his statement with,

“So much like the verse,

 

‘Filling up in my own body the unfinished sufferings of Christ.’” (Col. 1:24)

 

At this juncture, the anchorman responded.

 

“I don’t understand. What is unfinished about Christ’ sufferings?”

 

To which the priest replied,

 

“Our participation.”

by William McDonald, PhD

HERE, HE'S DROWNED

It was about 1980 or slightly thereafter, and my wife and I drove a  couple hundred miles one weekend a month to visit my son and two daughters in Jacksonville; where I would play the part of “recreational dad” once a month.

Sometimes we stayed in Jacksonville, sometimes we stayed on the Navy base at Mayport (as I was in the Army National Guard at the time, and have since retired from the military), and sometimes we spent time in St. Augustine.

We were staying at a Motel 8 or Howard Johnson’s on the outskirts of Jacksonville that weekend, and decided to spend time in and around the poolside with the children on that particular evening.

There happened to be an older couple by the pool (I suppose they have long since gone on to their reward now) along with their grandson. Grandma was seated in a poolside chair, while Granddad sat on the edge with his feet dangling in the water. Their grandson looked to be about five or six. While the elderly man urged “Jacob” to remain in the shallow end of the pool, he continued to dog paddle into deeper water; which frustrated his Grandfather no end.

As a result, the old fella would get up, grab hold of the boy’s hand, and pull him back into shallow water. This scenario occurred several times over the course of a few minutes, and it was obvious that the little boy’s tenure in the pool was quickly coming to an end.

Finally, after the fourth or fifth time the little tyke piddle-paddled into the deep end of the pool, Granddad scooped up the little boy, shoved him into Grandma’s arms, and raising his voice about 50 decibels exclaimed,

“Here,… he’s drowned!!!”

Well, of course, he wasn’t. And of course, my wife and I (almost) laughed out loud!

We still remind each other of that day, and never fail to laugh out loud when we do so.

Pt. 2

I think that experience from almost half a century ago serves as a good metaphor for the lives of believers and unbelievers, alike. There is a great verse in the Book of Jonah which accents this principle.

“And the Word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time.” (Jonah 3:1)

There is a secular adage which is reminiscent of the foregoing biblical passage.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

And then, there is another phrase which I have heard throughout my lifetime.

“It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.”

And hearkening back to that experience from so long ago, when things don’t go the way I expect them to, I sometimes have to remind myself,

“No, it isn’t drowned. I may have to return to the shallow end of the pool, and rethink my ability to ‘swim in deep water,’ but it isn’t drowned.”

I may have experienced a setback. Things may not have fallen together as I had hoped. But I am still alive, and moving and breathing, and God isn’t done with me yet. There will be more opportunities for life, ministry and impact. There will be additional people whom God will set in my pathway. I will be afforded further circumstances in which to make better decisions than I have previously made.

Like Sampson of the Old Testament, you and I may have to ‘shake ourselves,’ and expend a little more time and effort and wisdom the next time around, but I think we should stay encouraged because…

It simply isn’t drowned!

by William McDonald, PhD

LIFE LIMITING BEHAVIORAL PATTERNS

Several men went out on a game hunting safari in Africa.

As they were walking down the trail, suddenly the lead man steps into quicksand. Of course, the others are absolutely horrified, and begin shouting and “running around in circles.”

As Joe sinks up to his knees, and then his thighs, Bill throws him a rope. Strangely enough, Joe smiles broadly, and throws the rope back to Bill. Of course, his friends are totally mystified by his behavior, but Bill throws it to Joe again, and exclaims,

“Joe, grab hold. I’ll pull you in!”

However, now Joe not only smiles, but he giggles, grabs the rope, and throws it back again. Now he is up to his waist, and now he is up to his chest.

And as Joe sinks beneath the quicksand, his friends see that wonderful smile on his face. And now there are only bubbles on the surface, and Joe languishes beneath the quicksand, and succumbs to the nasty stuff.

It behooves us if and when we find ourselves ‘stuck’ functionally or emotionally to take advantage of the ropes people attempt to throw to us.

by William McDonald, PhD

A SIGNATURE SPACE

I have struggled with various dental issues during the course of my 72 years on earth, as the majority of people have. However, in spite of cavities, misaligned teeth, and gum issues, I still have 31 of my original 32 teeth.

Speaking of misaligned teeth, one of those familiar little porcelains on the lower left side of my jaw is crooked, so much so that it leans against my tongue, and unless one looks closely it appears I am missing a tooth there.

When I was at my dentist office recently, Dr. Wheeler told me something which she had never mentioned to me before.

“Dr. McDonald, when I think about you, I think about your ‘signature space.’ I would know it anywhere.”

“Well,” I thought, “I had no idea my crooked tooth, and the space which was created by the pressure of the two adjoining teeth made any impression on my dentist whatsoever.”

My Signature Space

I thought about that characterization a great deal over the next few hours. A curious combination of words for what I thought of as a pretty mundane misalignment of my teeth.

Pt. 2

As I continued to think about Dr. Wheeler’s statement, it occurred to me that my so-called “signature space” (or at least the phraseology) characterizes the second most important calling any believer can fulfill.

It almost goes without saying that our best and highest calling is our relationship with and love for God. However, our second most important calling is our relationship with our fellow man. And this is where our so-called signature space become relevant.

I am convinced that God has such a signature space for each and every believer. I believe He has called each and every one of us to a specific role, or series of roles throughout our lifetime on this planet.

Let’s looks at a few scriptures which express my theory well.

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

“He which has begun a good work in you will also perform it until the day of the Lord.” (Phil. 1:6)

“But it is the Lord’s plan both to will and act in you according to His purpose.” (Phil. 2:13)

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

“I, therefore, the prisoner of the Lord beseech you that you walk worthy of the vocation to which you are called.” (Eph. 5:1)

We are all called to a place and a space, a time and a location, as unique as our signature, in which we can impact those whom God sets in our pathway.

A Signature Space

by William McDonald, PhD