100+ YEARS OF TOIL AND TROUBLE

 4035

Over the past 100+ years, or so I have involved myself in almost half that many jobs, vocations, advocations, and professions.

 

(Yeah. I have)

 

By this time, you are, no doubt, “doing the math.”

 

I can almost read your thoughts.

 

“While you might convince me that someone is capable of floating from one menial job to another, and during that time might “rack up” several dozen entries on his rather dismal resume, I’m sorry, I’m not believing anyone other than Methuselah or a mythological vampire would be capable of putting over a century into his career; once he or she had reached the age in which people normally fill out their first application.”

 

I expect my 4x great grandfather came as close any anyone I know, (other than yours truly) to making it happen. His is, to say the least, a compelling tale.

 

Old Isom Peacock was an anti-temperance Independent Baptist minister. He founded the first Protestant church in the State of Florida; which still boasts an active congregation today. It has been said that as Isom stood behind the pulpit, he sometimes pulled out a bottle of whiskey, would “chug a lug,” and sermonize about his freedom in Christ.

 

Well, my friends, I don’t know if the whiskey finally got him, or his mode of transportation. For you see, Rev. Peacock died at the grand old age of 108; falling off a horse! It might be rightly supposed that he died “drinking and riding.”

 

Although I can’t account for my great grandfather’s career choices before this event, be they many or be they few, at least the old boy was blessed with a very long life in which to fulfill the plans God dreamed for him; before He made the worlds.

 

Pt. 2

 

100+ years of toil and trouble.

 

And while I know there’s one God (and I’m not Him) by now perhaps a scripture comes to mind.

 

“Then the Jews said to Jesus,

 

‘You are not yet 50 years old, and yet you have seen Abraham?’”

 

(or)

 

“Here we have someone who can’t possibly have experienced all he claims to have experienced, and seen all that he claims to have seen, but in spite of his youth, this dude maintains he’s been around a very long time.”

 

100+ years of toil and trouble.

 

Yep. I’m as old as dirt. But I often tell my clients, (friends, relatives, grocery store cashiers, and anyone else who will listen), “I’m 30, as long as I avoid mirrors.”

 

To be sure, I’m not yet 70, and lest you’re close to bailing out on me, I suppose I ought to clear up the obvious discrepancy.

 

Yesterday, I was thinking about the long list of jobs, vocations, advocations and professions I have accumulated in a lifetime.

 

I was, apparently, quite an entrepreneur, as my initial undertaking was as a self-styled florist. The month was December and the year was among the first two or three of the sixth decade of the 20^th century. I had been walking down an old two lane road near my country home, and as I passed a cemetery, I glanced up into an ancient oak tree, and noticed several large sprigs of mistletoe. I saw green. You know, the kind of green which includes the portraits of several dead presidents.

 

Making my way up the truck of the tree, and into its boughs, I broke three or four of the massive growths off a couple of the larger limbs, and set my course for home. Having arrived, I proceeded to break the mistletoe up into more manageable pieces, begged, borrowed or stole a ride to the nearest town, and peddled my wares in fifteen or twenty nearby businesses.

 

So far removed from the scene as I am now, I can’t give you a true accounting of my profits, but I definitely wasn’t tempted to change my name to ‘Donald Trump.’

 

Pt. 3

 

I have worked since I was in Junior High School. And speaking of flora and fauna, well, flora my first ‘real’ job was (drum roll) pulling weeds in “old man Pickens” humungous caladium field.

 

I would drag a bushel basket through the nasty muck in which the colorful leafy plants grew, and bending my back for hours at a time, I would jerk up handfuls of miscellaneous weeds, and drop them into the oversized receptacle. During the summer of my junior year, I worked as a laborer at one of the plentiful phosphate mines which ‘graced’ my local area.

 

And with the passing of years, I added pages to my dubious resume; that is, if I had bothered to compile a resume. (Which I assure you, I did not).

 

College janitor. Mine laborer x4. Coca-Cola bottle stacker. Vending machine attendant. Insulation blower. Utility hole digger. Asphalt laborer. Construction clerk. Irrigation pipe layer. Fruit picker. Newspaper subscription vendor. Short order fry cook. (Need I go on)?

 

Ultimately, I was nominated for the prestigious,

 

“Most Menial Nothing Burger of So-Called Jobs in the History of this or any Other Planet Award.”

 

(While I definitely made the short list, I’m still waiting to be notified of the date and place of the ceremony).

 

Immaturity Incarnate

 

Drifting from one menial position to another. To be fair, I managed to procure a few worthier, more professional “there there” vocations along the way.

 

Personnel clerk - U.S. Air Force. Personnel specialist - U.S. Army Civil Service. Shoe store manager. Associate pastor. University professor. Personnel Assistance Team supervisor - Army National Guard. United Parcel Service driver. Pastoral counselor.

 

Pt. 4

 

And speaking of the last three positions on the previous list, allow me to inform you that these vocations account for the nucleus of the 100+ years I referred to at the beginning of my account, and positions from whence I received (drum roll) two retirements.

 

35 years with the military; primarily reserve. 20 years at UPS. 30 years (and counting) as a pastoral counselor.

 

And by now you may realize that the foregoing vocations have overlapped, and that at one time or another, I was simultaneously involved in the pursuit of all these professions; to include the completion of two graduate degrees.

 

And while the accumulation of almost fifty jobs and professions, and over a century of sundry vocational experiences is, in the scheme of things, fairly singular, the wisdom of the same is, I think, rather questionable.

 

However, I’m glad to report that while I missed God, too many times and in too many places, “in the fullness of time” Providence allowed me to make a few “mid-course corrections,” set my feet on a firm place, and a loving Lord made the pathway clear before me.

 

Odd, but as I bring this reminiscence to a close, I am reminded of what I might characterize as my initial, though admittedly momentary advocation.

 

For you see, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Samson, nominated me to portray a particular incarnation of the Wizard of Oz; in the play by the same title.

 

I made my entre onto the elementary school stage ‘decked out’ in flames. (Well, rouge). I mean the gaudy red stuff covered every millimeter of my face; ‘from stem to stern.’

 

And, as you might imagine, my personification of that old pretender received a great deal of acclaim. (Well, giggles, laughter and joviality).

 

Apparently, my teacher had rehearsed me well since I never faltered, and my brief monologue echoed across the far recesses of the vast auditorium.

 

“I am Oz the great and the terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?”

 

While I can’t speak quite so unflinchingly about the caliber of many of my failed endeavors, I was, if for only a moment, a consummate actor.

 

If I’m ever called upon to do an encore presentation, I’ll be ready.

 

(Oh, I’ll keep you informed on the status of my afore-mentioned M.M.N.B.S.C.J.H.O.P. Award).

 by William McDonald, PhD

CONVENIENCE STORE PSYCHOLOGIST

4034

I experienced one of those cravings for a Coke tonight on my way home from church. My wife and I have been trying to cut back on sugary, carbonated drinks. And rather than keep a “private stock” in the frig, I have been stopping by a convenience store when I “just gotta have it.”

And thus, I stopped at one of these very convenient stores about a mile from my house. Finishing a text to one of my former university students, I stepped out of my car, walked in the door, made my way back to the beverage cooler, and selected three sixteen ounce cans; two Cokes and one Pepsi.

Retracing my steps, I stopped by the candy rack, and picked out a Snickers bar. Finally, I stepped up to the counter, pulled out a ten dollar bill, and prepared to pay for my bounty. Within seconds, a late sixty or early seventy something year old lady strode quickly from the back room, and up to yours truly.

As the clerk “rang me up,” I remarked,

“You are a brave lady.”

(and)

“The Lord must be riding with you.”

Without so much as a smile or nod of the head, or quizzical look denoting a lack of understanding, she replied,

“Yes, He is. I love and serve Him.”

(and)

“I have been held up five times; with a gun, a knife, a hammer, and I didn’t stop to see what the other two were holding in their hands.”

(and)

“Years ago, I studied psychology and sociology.”

With this, I mentioned that I had studied the same curriculum, and that I was a counselor.

Pt. 2

The lady behind the counter continued.

“Well, I planned to become a psychologist, but I had three children to raise.”

(It is important to understand that a Doctor of Psychology must complete 8-10 years of undergrad and graduate studies).

The clerk finished her brief monologue.

“I’ve done this work for 50 years.”

(And it occurred to me that this dear woman had begun her present line of work the year before I enlisted in the Air Force during the Vietnam War)!

I was almost speechless when the aging lady behind the convenience store counter told me that she had once been in the process of preparing herself to be a psychologist. But I was equally flabbergasted when she said she had stood behind a convenience store counter for fifty years!

Having regained my composure, I spoke again.

“Well, what matters is whether you are making a difference in lives. And I have to think you have done that for a very long time.”

Now it was my momentary friend’s turn to be speechless. It was like she was reflecting on what she might have been, and how her life had fallen together.

(and)

It was like in those few seconds which transpired between bagging my soft drinks, and me walking out the door, she found herself thinking of those fifty years standing behind a convenience store counter, and wondering whether she had really made any difference in the lives with which she had to do.

In one case, it made me sad that this dear convenience store clerk had never fulfilled her dream to become a psychologist. But in another case, I like to think I encouraged and affirmed her for the gifts with which God has endowed her, and the words and actions wherewith He has given her to make a difference in the lives He has set in her pathway for such a long time.

by William McDonald, PhD

PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

 4033

Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son, Steve, had seen his sisters, and with Jean's concurrence, I invited him to accompany me.

 

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

 

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table , and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

 

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

 

"I'm three!"

 

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

 

"I'm sixty-eight!"

 

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

 

"You will live a very long life."

 

(and)

 

"You will do wonderful things!"

 

I cannot tell you where my words came from. I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

 

Of this, however, I am sure. Before God breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

 

Yes, I am sure of it.

 

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.

 by William McDonald, PhD

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4032

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

MOTIVATION IS HIGHLY OVERRATED

 4031

As a counselor I have often told my clients that "Motivation is highly overrated." For you see, motivation depends on feelings. I know this teaching wouldn't be popular among motivational speakers who attempt to "whip the crowd up" to induce them to do one thing or another. 

But motivation is, in essence, only a feeling. And if you wait 'til you feel motivated, you may be 103. And, my friends, you simply can't wait for a particular feeling.

Forget motivation. Forget feelings. Make a (good) decision and follow through with it. 

by William McDonald, PhD

ADOLF HITLER - RENOWNED ARTIST

4030

Recently, I attended a lecture by a survivor of the Holocaust who, as a child, experienced the most horrific of circumstances. My uncle also experienced the monstrosity visited upon the Jewish race, firsthand, as near the end of WWII his Army unit marched into one of Germany’s concentration camps. Having witnessed the most unspeakable horrors, he never spoke about what he saw there.

Of course, one man was, ultimately, responsible for the advent of the Second World War, the deaths of countless soldiers, sailors and marines, untold civilians, and the murder of six million Jews.

Adolf Hitler

However, before issuing the executive order which led to the deaths of millions of innocent men, women and children, almost single-handedly destroying the Western world as we know it, Adolf Hitler was an “up and coming,” (albeit unsuccessful) artist.

Subsequent to his service in the German Army during WWI, “the little corporal” completed numerous murals which had as their subject buildings, monuments, and landscapes. And while some amateur and professional art critics have, well, criticized his artistic ability, from my perspective some of his paintings were quite good.

Between the two World Wars, and before the artist wannabe gave a moment’s thought to ruling one of the major nations of the world, and subjecting others to his domination, Adolph Hitler had dreamed a different dream.

Pt. 2

And to his credit, the non-descript little man was not only a dreamer, but a doer; since he not only managed to transfer his colorful visions to canvas, but he made application for acceptance to The Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna.

Twice

And was turned down as many times as he applied.

It is ironic that as the unrelenting, demonic dictator of the Third Reich the great architecture and pastoral villages he painted were, ultimately, destroyed by his actions.

Among Adolph’s artworks are some paintings which provide an almost prophetic look into the as yet to be fulfilled future of the most evil and dictatorial individual in the history of the world. For among the colorful landscapes are also images of WWI tanks; littering a barren landscape, and smoke rising from their turrets.

I have often reflected on that momentous decision which denied Adolf Hitler the opportunity to undertake a course of action which might have, literally, changed the course of human history, and whomever was responsible for that singular decision.

I have wondered whether the man who denied the future dictator, and warlord the opportunity to fulfill his artistic dream, having experienced the abject awfulness which the little despot visited on this planet, regretted having rejected his prospective student. A man who unknowingly, unwittingly exercised more power than Hitler ever realized in his lifetime; who with one stroke of a pen, a few words on a rejection letter, doomed millions of hapless victims to certain death.

Adolf Hitler. Renowned artist.

The saddest words in any language.

…What might have been

by William McDonald, PhD

PLAYING IN QUICKSAND

 4029

I don't recall if I heard the following story or made it up, but I often share it with my counseling clients. "Several men are on a lion safari on the dark continent. Suddenly, the point man on the trail falls into quicksand. Of course, his teammates are beside themselves, and one and then another throw a rope to him. Strangely enough, 'Joe' grabs the ropes and throws them back! Now he's up to his knees. Now he's up to his waist. Of course, the other men are still scrambling to help him. And now his friend, 'Jim' picks up a vine and tosses it to Joe. Once again, Joe throws it back. Eventually, the men realize there's nothing they can do. Now Joe is up to his chest, and, strangely enough, he's wearing a huge grin on his face. Now Joe is up to his neck and now he sinks beneath the quicksand, and only bubbles remain on top." Sadly, some believers live their lives this way.

William McDonald, PhD

GOD'S NEW EXPERIENCE

4028

You might find it surprising if I were to tell you that it is possible for God to have a new experience. At least, the Creator of the universe, the King of kings and Lord of lords, the Supreme Ruler, the “I AM,” the Bright and Morning Star, the Everlasting God once participated in an experience which He’d never before known…

when Christ, the Son of God submitted to the will of His Father, allowed the most dramatic limitation of His Person and power of all time, was in some inexplicable way reduced to the microscopic size of a fertilized human egg, matured as a fetus in a human womb, was born of a virgin named ‘Mary,’ suckled at his mother’s breasts, and lived in obscurity for three decades; prior to His advent and introduction to public ministry.

Jesus Christ, who along with His Father and the Holy Spirit participated in the very creation of the universe, voluntarily limited Himself, and embraced a new experience unlike anything He’d ever known in the eons, and ultimately gave Himself over to the sacrificial death of the cross.

The Eternal God, Jesus Christ, the spirit being who, prior to His advent on the earth, possessed the power to manifest Himself anywhere and everywhere, limited Himself and dwelt among us, and experienced something unique to Himself; becoming the God-man. As much God as man. As much man as God. And He has seen fit to retain His earthly, nail-pierced body forevermore, (and despite His power) has forevermore limited Himself to occupying one human-sized bit of space at any given time.

And while God, the Father and God, the Holy Spirit continue to possess the three qualities of Omnipotence, Omniscience and Omnipresence when God, the Son took on flesh He surrendered the third quality. He can no longer be everywhere at one time since He lives in a body forevermore. If he appeared next to me, this is the only place He would be at that particular time.

I love the passage of scripture which assures us of Christ’ humanness and empathy for His creation.

“We have not a high priest who cannot be touched by the feelings of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin.” (Hebrews 4:15)

It was because He purposely limited Himself and experienced something He’d never before taken the opportunity to experience that He has the unique wherewithal to put Himself in our place, and to say, “Stay encouraged. I’ve been there (and) I will give you rest.”
There is that old riddle which cannot be answered except in both the positive and the negative. Yes and No.

“Can God make a rock so big that He can’t lift?”

Neither answer is altogether correct. Neither answer is altogether incorrect.

However, if you happen to be walking along the street one day, and someone approaches you with the question, “Is it possible for God to have a new experience?”

Tell them, “Yes. Yes, it is. The God I serve purposely emptied Himself of all His prerogatives, limited Himself, took on human flesh, dwelt among us, died in my place, and is alive forevermore.”
(and)

“Because He lives, I shall also live with Him.”

by William McDonald, PhD

ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

 4027

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

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

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

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

Pt. 2

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

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

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

 

Pt. 3

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

 

Pt. 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

by William McDonald, PhD