A LITTLE MONK & A GOOD SERGEANT

*The following story is based on limited information, but is, given the absence of complete details, generally factual in nature. Some incidentals in the story line are included to provide dramatic effect. The characters in the story, except for Sergeant Otis Vaughn, have been assigned fictional names, since the actual names of these characters are unknown.

During the early 60’s, Le Duc Nguyen, a nine year old apprentice monk was walking through a thicket of bamboo on his way to fetch a bucket of water from a nearby stream. It was mid-morning and the air had begun to heat up a bit, and now and then he felt a vine or small branch brush against his sandaled feet.

However, what he felt next was anything but a vine or branch. For suddenly, he sensed a piercing wound to his right ankle. Looking down Le found himself looking at the largest snake he had ever seen in the short decade he had lived in this Vietnamese hamlet. His parents had often warned him about the multitude of poison snakes which inhabited their little corner of the world.

Le immediately recognized it. He had been bitten by a Chinese Cobra, one of the most venomous snakes on the planet. The little monk watched as the Cobra slithered away into the bamboo thicket, dropped his bucket, and immediately turned, and retraced his steps back to the Buddhist monastery. The compound was about two hundred yards distant, and by the time he arrived there, he was struggling to catch his breath.

Phen Doc Toe, one of the older monks, saw Le limp up to the compound, and knew something was very wrong. He had sent the boy for water, but he noticed there was no bucket in his hands now, and that Le’s cheeks were red, and that one of his ankles was badly swollen.

Phen asked Le an almost rhetorical question.

“What has happened to you, Le?”

Le struggled to speak.

“I was walking through the bamboo thicket near the river, and I was bitten by a Cobra.”

Pt. 2

Phen Doc was absolutely mortified. He knew that such a bite was almost certain death. He was also all too aware that the monastery was poorly equipped to treat anything, but the most minor of maladies and injuries.

Phen grabbed the boy up in his arms, and rushed him to the small Buddhist temple. As he walked into the sanctuary, he noticed that the chief priest and a few of his fellow monks were chanting their morning prayers.

As Phen barged through the door, six or eight priests turned from their prayers; with a momentary look of consternation on their faces. However, their consternation quickly disappeared in favor of shock and empathy.

The priest who held the suffering little apprentice shouted.

“Le went to get water and stepped on a Cobra. He is certain to die.”

The priests attending the altar turned from their prayers, and ran to the duo. Do Van Tien, the chief priest, took Le from Phen’s arms, and set him down on a bamboo mat. By now, Le’s breathing was shallow, and his neck and face were red and swollen.

The chief priest laid hands on the boy, and began praying. There was simply nothing else to be done. The priest’s subordinates hovered around the little boy, and did much the same thing.

Hundreds of South Vietnamese men, women and children were bitten by the thirty-seven varieties of venomous snakes which frequented the area on a yearly basis. And since much of the countryside lacked proper medical facilities, the snake bites were almost always fatal.

Pt. 3

Sergeant Otis Vaughn was a member of an Army surveying team in South Vietnam during the Vietnam War. He and his team members were tasked with the preliminary work which went into laying in roads for the American forces to travel from one hamlet to another.

As they were “going about their business” one day, and had pulled their jeeps off the road for a smoke or water break, as the case may be, the young sergeant heard voices on a nearby hillside. While the survey team’s primary mission was surveying, they were equipped with M-16 rifles, and knew how to use them. They were, after all, soldiers first, and surveyors second. He knew the entirety of South Vietnam was rife with Viet Cong, and North Vietnamese regulars, and that they would just as soon shoot your head off, as look at you.

Otis yelled to the six privates who accompanied him.

“Get down!”

Everyone hit the dirt, and lay there pondering their next move.

It was then that Sergeant Vaughn realized what the sound was that permeated the jungle foliage surrounding them.

Prayers

As someone who knew him, I can tell you no one ever accused Otis of what might be referred to as a “depleted sense of curiosity.” He was going to find discover what the commotion was all about.

“Okay men, false alarm. Get up. Stay here, and keep your eyes open. I’m going to climb that hill, and have a little peek.”

With this, Sergeant Vaughn walked to the base of the hill, about fifty yards distant, and trudged up the five hundred feet which separated him from his quest.

Pt. 4

As the winded military man arrived at the summit of the hill, he lay on his stomach, and peered into the Buddhist compound. The voices were louder now, and they were obviously coming from a small bamboo temple a couple hundred feet away.

And while the young sergeant’s courage had waned a bit, and he felt a sense of dread rising in his chest, he stood, and began to walk slowly towards the temple. Of course, Otis still cradled his M-16 in his arms, and was wary of any sound or movement from the small huts on his left and right.

Now, Sergeant Vaughn strode through the door of the little sanctuary, and witnessed several Buddhist priests surrounding what appeared to be a prostrate boy. At this juncture, the priests stopped their chanting, and greeted the foreigner with wary eyes.

Otis did his best to put the priests at ease. He smiled the friendliest smile he knew how to conjure up, and raised his arms in somewhat of a quasi-surrender.

Now, looking down at the man whom he surmised was in charge of this motley crew, and speaking slowly, he asked,

“I heard your voices. Can I help you?”

The American looked innocent enough to the chief priest, and it just so happened that Do Van Tien knew some rudimentary English. He responded,

“The boy. He been bitten by, by Cobra. He dying.”

Pt. 5

The good sergeant’s mind raced, and he thought,

“Well, not if I have anything to do with it. Not on my watch.”

And he said much the same thing to the chief priest.

Indicating he was a whole lot more than words, and intended to take action, Sergeant Vaughn nearly shouted at Do Van Tien.

“Trust me. Let me have the boy. I’ll take him to an Army field hospital.”

By now, Le was drifting in and out of consciousness, and the chief priest realized that there was absolutely nothing to lose. He slowly nodded his head, and the would-be savior stooped down, picked up the little monk, and gently placed him over his left shoulder.

“There now. It’s going to be okay.”

And all the while he must have been thinking,

“At least, I hope it’s going to be okay.”

Now, retracing his steps, Le’s rescuer hurried down the hill to where his six team members and two jeeps were waiting. Sergeant Vaughn laid the almost comatose little monk in the back of the nearest vehicle, and informed his crew that their mission had been temporarily suspended.

“The boy has been bitten by a Cobra. There’s a field hospital a few miles from here. Let’s go!”

Pt. 6

I will allow my niece to finish this wonderful story for you.

“After my dad carried the little monk down the mountain, and managed to get him to a field hospital, the Army doctors administered an antidote for the Cobra bite, and the young man began showing signs that the chief priest’ prognosis was a little hasty.

 “After he told me this story, I exclaimed,

‘Dad, you saved that boy’s life!’”

Suddenly, my dad’s eyes misted up a little, and he replied,

“No. No, I just got into a jeep with him and took him to a hospital.”

“My dad could have chosen not to help. He could have made a decision to do his military duty, and continue the mundane task of surveying a forlorn little jungle road in Vietnam. But he got involved. My father carried a 50 pound little boy, plus his own gear down a jungled mountain, and drove him to a field hospital.

But, instead of doing his good deed, and leaving the little guy, he remained by his side. He knew the boy didn’t know English, and that he would be scared when he woke up, and would need someone to look after him.

“You would have to know my dad. His mission was simply not over ‘til it was over. Daddy sat next to that little monk ‘til he recovered, and then drove him back home.”

I am happy to tell you that the little monk made a full recovery. I am equally happy to inform you that Sergeant Otis Vaughn was my brother in law, and that finished his tour in Vietnam, and returned home to the United States where he went on to live out the remainder of his life.

Otis impacted hundreds of family, friends and co-workers with a sense of humor and empathetic spirit as big as all outdoors. He was a man’s man, and one of those characters who when they are gone, it is as if they should have always been with us. The vacuum he left behind can almost be touched.

We were all born to fulfill a task bigger than ourselves. Sergeant Otis Vaughn was no exception. An old Vietnamese monk lives and moves and breathes today because a good man momentarily set aside his military duties, and took time to express love, and compassion towards a hurting little boy in a hamlet far off the beaten trail.

 by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

 

 

 

MICHAEL MYERS AT THE DOOR

I walk. I walk a lot. 

(Yeah, I do)

I walk twice a day, an hour each "go around," six days a week. At least, I have just added a second hour in a quest to knock twenty pounds off my 220 pound, 5'8" frame. 

And as I was completing my evening walk yesterday, and the sun was just dipping below the horizon, I looked to my left and saw it. Well, to be specific I saw them. 

Two Amazon packages sitting (or would it be setting) by the front door of an upper middle-class home. 

And it occurred to me

I thought, 

"I'll notify the homeowner that he (or she) has packages at the front door, since if it was me, I wouldn't want my merchandise sitting by the door all night; given the latest snatch and grab craze among unscrupulous neighbors."

I mean, I can relate both personally and professionally

While to my knowledge no one has ever stolen my Amazon or UPS packages, I once had a large envelope taken out of my mailbox, and two or three greeting cards which I have sent out have mysteriously disappeared in the mail system.

And in terms of my professional experience, I drove a UPS truck for twenty years. While we used to procure a signature at each home, during the last few years that I worked for "the tightest ship in the shipping business" we began leaving packages at the front door; (which I always thought was perfectly asinine). But you do what you are instructed to do by the powers that be that write your paycheck. 

However, to United Parcel's credit, it was the policy then, (and I presume even now) to attempt to hide a customer's packages behind a porch column, or under a doormat; purposely moved away from the threshold, so that the homeowner didn't step on it, fall on their proverbial arses, and break not only the contents of the package, but several of the 208 bones in their physiology. I can only imagine how many people have (literally) fallen victim to those one pound packages which have been so casually deposited at the front foot falls of the world by Amazon and Fed-X, and their ilk. 

But as I have previously inferred, the driver who left the boxes at the front door of the previously-alluded to home did not have any compulsion about hiding his packages. As a result, I decided to do my neighborly duty, and notify the homeowner that he or she ought to retrieve his or her packages before they were enveloped by the darkness of the night.

Now, I found myself walking across my unknown neighbor's yard. And now, I rang his doorbell. And now, I knocked on his door. And now, I found myself standing there. And now, I thought I saw the figure of a man (or woman) behind the curtains which bordered both sides of the front door. And now, ...nothing happened. 

And now, I turned on my heel and walked away from the front door, the packages, and the suspicious homeowner. 

But now it occurred to me...

In spite of my altruistic agenda, I failed to take one thing into account. Did I mention I carry a 2 1/2 foot long aluminum pipe with me when I walk the highways and byways of my neighborhood? (Well, I do). While I primarily carry it to pummel the heads and shoulders of German Shepherds and Rottweilers should they decide to invade my personal space, I have thought it might also be an adequate defense against the two-legged form of such malevolent animals.

In spite of my innocent demeanor, I realized I was holding that aluminum pipe in my left hand. And what man or woman in their right minds would open a door to friend or foe, saint or sinner, if he or she peaked out their window, and observed a potential weapon of that sort in the hand of such an unexpected, uninvited visitor?

I recall having felt almost naked standing in front of the door without a mask, as society puts such a premium on wearing one these days, and I personally believe in the practice. (Whereas, the likes of Jamie Lee Curtis has been battling one notorious fella who wears a mask most of her natural life).

However, mask or no mask, and in spite of my charitable agenda, I suppose that well-intentioned little baton in my left hand did the speaking for me, and for a brief few moments, I apparently passed as an unintended...

Michael Myers at the door.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

 

THE NEWEST VIRUS VARIANT

I think most of us are extremely tired of the virus which has overwhelmed the way we move and live and breathe on the earth, and wish it were gone. And then, when it seemed apparent our vaccinations and masks and social distancing and handwashing and 'herd immunity' were close to conquering this dread foe, along comes the Omicron variant which threatens to prolong the pandemic with which we have contended so long. Someone wisely rearranged the letters of the newest strain of the virus, and Omicron became... Moronic. The whole sorry episode certainly seems extraordinarily moronic.

William McDonald, PhD

DONUT DOLLIES

It took half a century to get a chance to say the words. Just “thank you.” That’s all.

For Jim Roberts, this desire had become a fixation, part of a years-long process of coming to terms with the darkness he’d seen as an Army lieutenant in the Vietnam War.

The women he wanted to thank were “Donut Dollies,” two among 600 women working with the American Red Cross who traveled to Vietnam to give a few hours of respite to troops longing for home, to play word games or just sit and chat. A forced landing by a helicopter with mechanical problems brought the Dollies to the remote village where Roberts was a lonely and forlorn adviser to Vietnamese troops, along with two other soldiers.

The handful of hours he spent with the Dollies — a short walk, lunch, some small talk — had mostly faded from his memories. Even their names were lost to time. But that feeling they gave him lingered. A few moments of joy.

As the years have gone by, Roberts didn’t have much to go on in his quest to find those young women — only two photos he’d snapped in the remote village dozens of miles from Saigon in 1971. One young woman wore a ribbon in her hair. The other parted her hair in the middle and had a dimpled chin.

Their identities were the mystery of his life. Finding them and expressing his gratitude meant more him to him as time passed — not less.

A few days ago, he finally got to say the words. His eyes welling with tears, Roberts saw for the first time in 50 years the faces of the women he’d met so long ago: Gwen Hejl Roussel and Karen Jankowski.

“What I’ve wanted to do all this time was just to say, ‘Thank you,’” Roberts, now a 75-year-old retired computer sciences professor who lives in a Pittsburgh suburb, told the Dollies via Zoom the other day.

He might have said more, but he couldn’t. He was too overcome with emotion to continue. He dabbed tears with a tissue.

What he learned over the next half-hour of conversation was that he wasn’t the only one with a need to express appreciation.

“Oh, Jim, thank you, thank you,” Hejl Roussel told him. “Fifty years later to hear you say, Thank you,” with such emotion — it’s so meaningful. I just feel like, ‘Wow. Wow. We made a difference.’ ”

Moments later it was Jankowski who spoke: “It’s very humbling to have someone have a place in their heart for 50 years for someone that they don’t really know. It’s overwhelming. I really and truly am not a speechless person. But I’m speechless.”

The reunion was the culmination of years of searching. Roberts had shown the photos at a get-together of the Veterans Breakfast Club, a group that links former troops to talk about their experiences. He showed them to a well-connected Donut Dolly. He put them on the Internet. He got nowhere.

Roberts and the two former Donut Dollies were finally brought together after an article was published in The Washington Post on Veterans Day detailing his quest to find them. The piece prompted hundreds of comments, emails and phone calls. Former soldiers talked about their own special moments with Donut Dollies.

Within minutes of publication, Roberts’s obsession became the obsession of readers all around the country. Dozens of tips flowed in.

In Lincoln, Neb., a woman named Reesa Eisler got a phone call from a colleague in a church group that offers moral support to people going through difficult times. Months earlier, during a training session, each volunteer had been asked to tell the group something unique about themselves. Eisler told them she’d been a Donut Dolly in Vietnam.

“I look like the typical white-haired grandmother,” Eisler later said in an interview. “You wouldn’t think this is someone who would go halfway around the world to a war.”

Eisler pulled up the Post article her friend had called to alert her about, and recognized her long-lost friend Gwen in an instant. Her tip set The Post on a trail that led to Augusta, Ga., where Hejl Roussel, now 74 and retired, lives in an interdenominational faith community

On the phone, she confirmed it. She was the Dolly with the ribbon in her hair.

Hejl Roussel then shared with The Post a letter welcoming her to Vietnam that she’d kept all these years. It was from a young woman named Karen Reeder. In it, Reeder had written she was from Lubbock, Tex. A final clue was provided by the American Red Cross, which dug up an old ID with a crucial new detail: Reeder’s middle initial, “K.”

The Post found a woman in Peachtree City, Ga., named Karen K. Jankowski. She confirmed it: She was the Dolly with the dimpled chin.

In interviews, both Hejl Roussel and Jankowski talked about coming from military families — Hejl Roussel’s father was in the Army Air Corps in World War II. Both her parents worked at a military base in Georgia.

Jankowski’s father was in the Air Force and had served two years in Vietnam. She’d grown up on military bases around the world.

In the early 1970s, both wanted an adventure. Hejl Roussel, then 24 years old, hadn’t even traveled outside the United States. Both young women went to Vietnam over their fathers’ objections. They were joining an American Red Cross group that took its name from the Donut Dollies of World War II — a name given to them because they made doughnuts for the troops. The Vietnam War-era Dollies didn’t make doughnuts, but the old name had stuck.

Hejl Roussel had recently graduated from the University of Georgia with a degree in psychotherapy but hadn’t settled on a career path. She remembers having a bit of a “savior complex” in those days.

“I needed to go out and do something,” she said.

Jankowski remembers how the “hippies and everybody were against the war. I wanted to see for myself what it was.”

They arrived in Vietnam at what Jankowski calls a “fragile time.” The war was dragging on with no clear victory in sight. Frustrations were boiling over. She witnessed anger and despair. They were meeting young men — some of them might better have been described as boys — with wounds not just to their bodies, but to their psyches.

Their jobs were to make some of that disappear for a few hours. Jankowski, then 22, got there first. She was based to Da Nang in central Vietnam, with periodic stays to the north to Quang Tri. Hejl Roussel arrived in 1971, and was sent south to a base in the Mekong Delta.

Nearly every day, they jumped on helicopters. The choppers often touched down in firebases, where the soldiers were isolated and weary. Once, Hejl Roussel remembers, a fellow Dolly dangling her legs from the side of a helicopter for a while before settling inside. When they landed, there were bullet holes where her colleague’s legs had been moments earlier. (Three Dollies died in Vietnam.)

They traveled in pairs, wearing blue uniforms, and hauling games and other materials in big black bags. They’d meet with dozens of soldiers at a time. Hejl Roussel remembers many of the soldiers being “shy” at first, unsure what to make of these young women who descended from the sky.

Soldiers later would send letters to Jankowski. Some asked for dates. One said he considered her a “sister” in his family.

She would read about their broken lives: “My wife and I are no longer together, it’s what she wanted. She found another fellow and loves him and is having child.”

As it had with Roberts, a few hours with the Dollies had whittled into them. It had been more than a casual conversation — it was a lifeline.

And yet talk to former Dollies and eventually they’ll tell you something like what Hejl Roussel said to The Post in an interview: “I was the one that was grateful. I received so much more than I could have been given.”

After returning to the United States, Jankowski married a helicopter pilot she’d met in Vietnam. She later divorced and is now remarried, and works as an independent court reporter.

Hejl Roussel, the Macon, Ga., girl who never spent a day abroad until the war, went traveling. She and a few fellow Dollies took the Trans-Siberian railroad across the then-Soviet Union to Moscow. When she came back to the States she eventually rejoined the American Red Cross, working in the Northeastern United States and in South Korea as a liaison between the military and families. She later married and was a homemaker in New Orleans. After divorcing she moved back to Georgia and worked 14 years administering workers’ compensation claims for the state.

They’d gone on with their lives. Then Jim Roberts came along.

When Hejl Roussel and Jankowski were contacted by The Post they were puzzled at first. But once they heard more about Roberts’s years-long search, they were eager to meet him.

On the Zoom meeting arranged by The Post, Roberts — with his wife of five decades, Linda, by his side in a book-lined room — wanted to know if the former Dollies could fill in some of the blanks in his memory. Their recall of the visit was even more scant than his. Jankowski remembers once riding in a helicopter that experienced mechanical problems and “fell out of the sky.” Maybe that was it. She can’t be sure. But it fit Roberts’s recollection that the women were left at his base while the helicopter returned to base to address a mechanical issue.

In such a small group, Jankowski cracked, “we were probably a little flirty.”

Hejl Roussel has a vague recollection of that day, because it was unusual to meet with only a few soldiers. Over the years, Jankowski, now 73, told Roberts, she’d sometimes felt guilty about her time in Vietnam. The Dollies were almost like “celebrities,” she said in the Zoom meeting, “because there are so many people who want to be in your life for that moment.”

She tried to give all the soldiers the attention they craved. But she’s often felt it wasn’t enough. “So after 50 years to have someone say to me that they touched them,” Jankowski told Roberts, “it makes you feel less guilty.”

For Hejl Roussel, meeting this man she affected so much so long ago, felt like a “God moment — that moment in time that was unexpected for all of us.”

The Zoom meeting was about to expire, but each of them — the Dollies and the soldier — wanted one last thing: each other’s contact information. They had so much more to say to each other.

 

GREYFRIAR'S BOBBY - A Faithful Dog

 In 1850 a gardener called John Gray, together with his wife Jess and son John, arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland. Unable to find work as a gardener, he obtained employment in the Edinburgh Police Force as a night watchman.

To keep him company through the long winter nights John took on a partner, a diminutive Skye Terrier, his ‘watchdog’ called Bobby. Together John and Bobby became a familiar sight walking through the old cobbled streets of Edinburgh. Through the years, winter and summer, John and his faithful little friend were inseparable.

The years on the streets took its toll on John, and he contracted tuberculosis. Eventually he died of the disease on the 15th February 1858 and was buried in Greyfriars Kirkyard, Scottish for churchyard. Bobby, the little pooch, as faithful as can be, followed his master to the grave site and there he remained, refusing to leave his master’s grave, even in the worst wintry conditions. He was as close as he could get, guarding his master’s grave, come rain or shine, or the cold blast of freezing winters. He could have stayed in his family home with all the comforts a loving family would provide, but he chose his best friend’s place of rest. The local residents were touched by Bobby’s devotion and would offer him food. He would follow William Dow, a local joiner and cabinet maker to the same coffee house that he had frequented with his master, where he was given a meal.

The gardener and keeper of Greyfriars tried on many occasions to evict Bobby from the Kirkyard. In the end he gave up and provided a shelter for Bobby by placing sacking beneath two tablestones at the side of John Gray’s grave.

Bobby’s fame spread throughout Edinburgh. It is reported that almost on a daily basis the crowds would gather at the entrance of the Kirkyard waiting for the one o’clock gun that would signal the appearance of Bobby leaving the grave for his midday meal.

In 1867 a new bylaw was passed that required all dogs to be licensed in the city or they would be destroyed. Sir William Chambers (the Lord Provost of Edinburgh) decided to pay Bobby’s license and presented him with a collar with a brass inscription “Greyfriars Bobby from the Lord Provost 1867 licensed.” This can be seen at the Museum of Edinburgh.

The kind folk of Edinburgh took good care of Bobby, but still he remained loyal to his master. For fourteen years, Bobby kept constant watch and guard over the grave until his own death in 1872.

Baroness Angelia Georgina Burdett-Coutts, President of the Ladies Committee of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA), was so deeply moved by his story that she asked the City Council for permission to erect a granite fountain with a statue of Bobby placed on top.

William Brody sculptured the statue from life, and it was unveiled without ceremony in November 1873, opposite Greyfriars Kirkyard. Scotland’s capital city will always remember its most famous and faithful dog.

Dear friends, what a beautiful story of faithfulness. The Bible says that “There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother” (Proverbs 18:24). We know who that friend is: He gave up everything for us, including His life. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). Are we making efforts daily to get close to Him? Do we pray, witness, study and truly live for Him?

Bobby’s headstone reads “Greyfriars Bobby – died 14th January 1872 – aged 16 years – Let his loyalty and devotion be a lesson to us all”.

Yes friends, let us be loyal and devoted to our Master, to the very end.

(Anonymous)

DANCING A JIG. KNOCKING OUT ONE-HANDED PUSHUPS. KISSING MY BOSS LADY

I had worked as a driver for UPS for over fifteen years and was nearing fifty. And while I was far short of the twenty-five years of service which qualified me for a full retirement, I was tired of the ten plus hour days, and the 150-175 deliveries and pickups which were typical on a daily basis. As a result, I decided to take a vested retirement, though my monthly pension would be one fourth of the amount I would have gleaned had I continued working for another decade. But I just could not even contemplate the thought.

The date was October 23, 1997. When I reported to work that day, I noticed a chocolate cake and a punch bowl on a nearby table; along with a stack of small paper plates, napkins, plastic forks, and cups. Suddenly, my decision to leave United Parcel in favor of pastoral counseling was all too real. Ten hours from now I would walk out of the local UPS center a free man. (Only a UPS driver or their spouse can properly grasp the implication of the last three words of the previous sentence).

Now Angie Cox, one of two driver supervisors, stepped forward, and raising her voice to 110 decibels, she shouted, “Okay. It’s time. Gather up. Don’t be shy.” Now, eighteen or twenty drivers created a semi-circle in front of her, including yours truly.

Angie continued. “Bill, step up here and stand next to me.” Of course, I and my compatriots knew what was about to transpire. The guys and gals in brown shirts and shorts grew quiet. “Bill McDonald is leaving us today. He’s decided there’s greener grass on the other side of the proverbial fence. We have cake and punch for you in a few moments, but I’d like to give our guest of honor an opportunity to bid you ‘adieu.’”

Pt. 2

As you might imagine I had thought about what I would say to my fellow drivers for several days. And since I wanted to maintain my reputation as “Master of the Unexpected,” I had pre-meditated a plan of action. No one, much less my supervisor, could have had a clue about what would come next.

“Well, today’s the day, my friends. It’s time for me to move on. It has been great to know and work with all of you.”

It was time to put my plan into action.

“I’m older than many of you here today. And my age is one reason I believe it’s time to move on. But, you know, in spite of my advancing age, I can still dance a jig.”

And with this, I proceeded to do a sorry imitation of “The Lord of the Dance.”

And now, I said, “And I can still drop down and do a few one-handed pushups.”

And with this, I lay prostrate on the cold grey concrete beneath my feet, “took the position” and demonstrated six or eight of the bad boys.

Now, I jumped up from the floor, and finished my little presentation.

“And you know, not only can I still do a little jig, and a few one-handed pushups, but I can… kiss my supervisor!”

(Of course, it helped that she was a she). Putting my left arm around Angie’s back, and resting my hand on her shoulder, I planted a substantial kiss on her right cheek. I made sure that first and last kiss expressed some “pucker value.” You could have heard it twenty feet away.

I was so taken up with the execution of my plan that I didn’t notice how my attentive audience responded to my foregoing words and actions. However, I expect they were “all eyes and ears.”

Afterward

A quarter century has come and gone since that memorable day in October which I have just recounted for you.

My attempt to replicate “The Lord of the Dance” began and ended that day. My wherewithal to do one-handed pushups concluded a few years later. And I have withheld my kisses from all but the most precious little lady in my life.

And while I like to think my “strange and wonderful” presentation which preceded my retirement inscribed an indelible memory in the minds of eighteen or twenty of my fellow delivery drivers that day, I expect if even one or two have the slightest cognition of it, someone would have to jar their memories with a hint or a question.

However, I have never forgotten that day and my attempt to bring a bit of humor, and perhaps a little drama into what would have otherwise been a rather mundane, run of the mill day, except to me.

Those five fleeting minutes it took for me to “play the fool” in the presence of my fellow drivers is indelibly engraved in my mind. And given the hours, and weeks, and months and years of toil and trouble which I experienced during the preceding decade and a half, those scant few minutes still bring a smile to my lips, and an involuntary chuckle. And had I to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

I WILL BE THERE

 

I WILL BE THERE

Unknown Author

Where can you go that I can’t see

On the highest of mountains, in the heat of the desert

In the life-consuming deep, and lonely heart of life’s sea

Where can you hurt that I can’t feel

When you feel like you’re dying, need a shoulder for crying

Come to Me I’m waiting here with open arms that can heal

 

I’ll be a Father to the fatherless, a faithful Friend when none are there

My heart of love is fathomless, and it reaches anywhere

I will be there through the long lonely nights never letting you go, I will hold you, I will love you with all my might

I will be there, I will be there, I will be there

I will be there, and I want you to know, I will never leave you alone, I’ll never let you go

I will be there, I will be there, I will be there

 

 

What can you feel that I can’t stand

Any burden you’re bearing, any sorrow you carry

Any heartache, any loneliness, or despair

What do you see that I can’t see

Even death was defeated, all the work was completed

I’ve prepared a special place in my heart just for you

 

I’ll be a husband to the husbandless, a faithful Friend when none are there

My heart of love is fathomless, and it reaches anywhere

I will be there through the long lonely nights never letting you go, I will hold you, I will love you with all my might

I will be there, I will be there, I will be there

I will be there, and I want you to know, I will never leave you alone, I’ll never let you go

I will be there, I will be there, I will be there

 

I will be there, and I want you to know, I will never leave you alone, I’ll never let you go

I will be there, I will be there, I will be there

 

FORGIVER AND FORGETTER MECHANISMS

As a counselor, I have developed a teaching, well several teachings, over the years, but oddly enough, I have never heard many of these concepts taught behind a pulpit; (or for that matter, read in a book, or shared over lunch somewhere.)

The teaching I have in mind, in terms of this journal entry, relates to the topic of Forgiveness.

The Lord’s Prayer includes the passage, “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” The implication is that unless we forgive those who have offended us, we have little or no hope of being forgiven. There is what I will refer to here as a “proximate correlation.”  Forgive the other guy’s sins, and your sins are also eligible to be forgiven. In another place Jesus says, “If you do not forgive your brother his sin, neither will your Father forgive you.”

(and)

“If we confess our sins He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and will cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” (1^st John 1:9)

It seems to me that there is an inherent contradiction between God’s style of forgiveness, and the style He expects us to adopt and exercise.

For you see, the implication seems to be that we are to forgive anyone and everyone their sins whether or not the offender asks us for forgiveness.

And yet in the case of the Almighty, the implication seems to be that we are required to ask for forgiveness before He will exercise His forgiveness.

Considering this contradiction I have only been able to glean one apparent rationale for it.

God knows our frame that we are dust, and He understands that forgiveness is simply good for us. While God has no need for some special unction that requires forgiving those who refuse to ask, (and indeed, sin cannot enter heaven) He understands that our heart, our spirit, our mind always and continually stands in need of cleansing and sanctification, and that the best way to usher bitterness and resentment out the front door is to first divest one’s self of those things which we have harbored in the secret recesses of our souls, and subsequently to offer forgiveness to those who has ravaged our lives, as the result of words or deeds; whether or not they ask

Another contradiction or difference between God’s style of forgiveness and the one which he vested in us is His ability to forget once He has forgiven. In Psalm 103:12, we read, “As far as the east is from the west so far has God removed our sins from us, (and remembers them no more.)”

While we, as human beings, have the inherent ability to forgive, we cannot forget the other person’s transgressions; (short of developing Amnesia or Alzheimer’s Disease.)

It appears, then, that while God granted us what I refer to as a “Forgiver Mechanism,” He withheld a trait, (which He possesses) from us; and that is a “Forgetter Mechanism.” We forgive. God both forgives and forgets. As a result, we are commanded to forgive, and, by our words and behavior, “act like” we have forgotten.

Well, just some of the variables surrounding the dynamic of forgiveness.

“Father God, give me the wherewithal to adopt your plan of forgiveness in my life; a plan you set in motion before you made the worlds. For I know that it is only in the spirit of forgiveness that I can possibly hope to walk in the pathway which you have laid out before me, and impact those whom you came to save. In Christ’ name, Amen.”

There is another facet of Forgiveness I have never heard preached from the pulpit.

“As far as the east is from the west, so far has God removed our sins from us, (and remembers them no more.”) Psalms 103:12

Based on this and other scriptures we can be assured that God has both a “Forgiver Mechanism,” and a “Forgetter Mechanism.” (How’s that for a concept?)

“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and will cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” 1^st John 1:9

However, as human beings we don’t need to read any particular passage of scripture to understand that whereas God has two forgiveness mechanisms, He only presented us with one of the two mechanisms; a Forgiver Mechanism. Short of a diagnosis of dementia, or amnesia, (or death) we simply don’t have the wherewithal to forget the insults, hurts and sins perpetrated against us by others. And of course, the lack of a Forgetter Mechanism often jeopardizes our ability to exercise the Forgiver Mechanism.

Quite a dilemma.

As children of God we are left with only one recourse. If we are committed to living as Jesus lived, and wish to emulate His empathy and personality, we are called upon to forgive by words and action, (or sometimes the lack of action.) We are called upon to practice “on purpose” forgiveness.

“Commit your works unto the Lord, and your thoughts will be established.” (Proverbs 16:3)

Forgiveness begins with words, (or as the previous scripture implies with works.) The thoughts, emotions or mindset of forgiveness may have to (and hopefully will) follow. And if the emotions that “feel” like forgiveness never catch up, that may have to be okay.

I cannot tell you why God failed to give us both Forgiver and Forgetter Mechanisms; the same attributes of forgiveness which are inherent within Himself.

I can tell you that our Lord calls upon us to emulate His own Forgetter Mechanism by “behaving as if” we have forgotten, and practicing “on purpose” forgiveness on a daily basis.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

 

 

 

TWO BILLION DEARLY DEPARTED FACEBOOKERS

I have often thought about the stuff of daily living which we use on a daily basis, the stuff with which we surround ourselves; the modest little possessions which we take for granted. A rocking chair, a pair of reading glasses, a handkerchief, a set of car keys, a leather wallet, a class ring.

And no, it is not for the sake of the items themselves that I consistently conjure up this recurring thought; since there is little or nothing, in itself, which is fascinating about these inanimate objects.

My musing is, rather, confined to a question which “tickles my fancy” and “knocks on my door” at the most unexpected moments; when I have just finished counseling one client and I am waiting for another to walk across my threshold, as I am walking out my door to retrieve the mail, after I have retired for the night, and I am meandering through the ethereal twilight which separates wakefulness from restful sleep.

That question?

“Where, after all, are all the small, mundane personal possessions of my grandparents, and their parents, and grandparents before them?”

And, a natural follow up question might well be,

“And what will, ultimately, happen to some of those same, or similar objects which we use today; after we have gone on to our reward?”

Granted, I have garnered a few miscellaneous objects which belonged to those who went before me; (and which I intend to pass down to my own children).

An eight piece carnival glass setting originally owned by my great grandmother, (my cousin has her handkerchief), a century year old Victrola player, a prized possession of my grandfather, who once, no doubt, enjoyed listening to it before retiring for bed, several landscapes which my father painted, and numerous audio tapes on which he recounted his childhood memories, and his military exploits.

Pt. 2

But where, oh where have the vast bulk of those ancient items owned by our ancient ‘great great’s’ gone?

Were they carted out to the trash heap, and, subsequently, dematerialized in a great bonfire? Were they used ‘til they were unusable, and left behind on a bedstead in some old crumbling house? Or does some of that ancient jewelry still grace the hands and necks of those who will only be raised to live again at the resurrection of the dead?

And while I expect a few people have thought the thought, I have never met or spoken to anyone, thus far, who has admitted to doing so.

Whatever will become of the social media pages of the two plus billion men, women, boys and girls who are presently subscribers to sites like Facebook and Myspace; after they make their final departure from the land of the living?

After all, the time will come when every living soul who ever subscribed to these, and other social media sites will cease to live and breathe and move. (Yeah, they will).

I mean, several of my Facebook friends have recently taken that long journey, and all but one of them still exists in Facebook land. A military friend who left us far too early. A Frenchman whom I never met in person, but whom I liked from afar. An internationally acclaimed Flamenco dancer who literally danced ‘til he dropped; (and wouldn’t have had it any other way). A transplanted Scotsman who lived in Brazil, and who chose to pursue that “permanent solution for a temporary problem;” his three daughters having preceded him, two having chosen the same pathway, as their father after them.

There are moments when I am inclined to type in their names, and, on special occasions, I still bring up their pages. And I still find myself wishing this one or that one a “Happy Birthday in Heaven,” or “I sure do miss our conversations.”

Perhaps, I overthink stuff like this, but I have wondered whether the various social media sites will, one day, half a century hence, “clear the books” of names like… yours and mine.

And I have mused how they might identify the dearly departed subscribers who have long since typed out a message, or posted a photo. Perhaps, they will create a program to distinguish the living from the dead, based on the subscriber pages which have remained dormant for decades. (Or perhaps they will hire a myriad of temporary employees to search for those “Happy Heavenly Birthday” greetings on a couple billion all too quiescent pages).

But so much like those old rocking chairs, and handkerchiefs, and wallets, and rings of our ancient ancestors, there is little doubt that the final vestiges of a couple billion dearly departed lives, (those now reading these words included) will be subtracted from the World Wide Web, and the social media sites to which they once subscribed, and on which they interacted on a daily basis. (And interestingly enough, the folks who will ultimately subtract us have not, in all likelihood, even been born yet).

Ultimately, I think the only way you and I will continue to live, and move, and breathe on this earth, (and which needs little elaboration), the only way future generations can “take us with them” is to, by our impactful words, and actions, replicate ourselves in the lives of those whom God sets in our pathway.

by William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending