4117
I'll be all around in the dark - I'll be everywhere. Wherever you can look - wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad. I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry and they know supper's ready, and when the people are eatin' the stuff they raise and livin' in the houses they build - I'll be there, too.
(From "The Grapes of Wrath" - Henry Fonda)
4116
Pt. 1
I have previously written a blog by this or a similar title, and I suppose this might be thought of as a second installment.
I pedal
I pedal a lot
10 miles "at a whack"
5 days (or nights) a week.
50 miles a week. 2,500 miles a year
And suffice it to say, I have had some pretty "strange and wonderful" experiences out there in the wee hours of the morning. Some strange and wonderful experiences, indeed!
A young lady standing in the landscaped area of a bank, holding a leash attached to her little pooch, and singing the "eeriest" song I ever heard in my 70+ years on this planet.
A young man standing in the front yard of his (or someone else's) home, and darting behind a bush when he realized I had seen him.
A woman walking along the sidewalk who appeared to be abducted by two men in a large truck, and who, as I began to pedal my bicycle in that direction to assist her, was (apparently) pushed into the vehicle, and quickly whisked away.
Another young man limping along the same sidewalk, but on a different evening, plodding along with a cane. Bringing my bicycle to a stop, I asked him where he was going. He explained that he'd been released from the county jail hours earlier, and that he was walking home; a total distance of about 10 miles. Offering to transport him the remaining 2 miles, I pedaled home, retrieved my car, drove back to the area where I'd first met him, retrieved him approximately two hundred yards further down the sidewalk, and five minutes later delivered him safely to his domicile.
And then, and then there was the time when I stopped my trusty two-wheeled conveyance at a stop sign; preparing to cross a major four lane highway. I looked left. I looked right...
And that's when I saw him. What appeared to be a 6 foot something, well built male walking towards me on the sidewalk; approximately 50 feet distance. And although it was about 4am, I had no problem seeing him, as there were streetlights all along the highway.
On his left was a 6-8 foot wall. On his right was a well-lit street. Now, I looked left again; preparing to cross over. And while "left, right, left" was my standard method upon entering an adjacent street, I purposely looked right again due to the approach of this stranger.
And as I glanced towards the east... only an empty sidewalk, and the high wall greeted me.
And as you might imagine, it took me all of three and a half seconds to surmise I was part and parcel of a miracle. There was simply nowhere for the "man" to go. If he had been capable of climbing the wall, he wouldn't have managed it in the time it took me to look left, then right. He hadn't walked across the street. Had he done so, I would have seen him.
A week later, a young woman was involved in a one car accident at this intersection. She succumbed to her injuries. I have understandably wondered if the young fella might have been none other than the Death Angel; scouting the area, and engaged in a dry run.
(Shortly thereafter, I told my grandson about the foregoing experience, and Noah laughed and quipped, "That was just some guy dressed up in an angel suit")!
Pt. 2
Whereas, the previous five years and 10,000 miles which I have described was more on the eerie side, the following two years and 5,000 miles have been more on the scary side.
In the movie, "Karate Kid II" Daniel travels to Okinawa with Mr. Miagi. While they are there, each of them are accosted by their own respective bullies; who insist on challenging them to a fight.
In Daniel's case, he exclaims,
"Hey man. I'm not looking for trouble."
To which the bully responds,
"Maybe twouble lookin' for you!"
I can relate to the way Daniel felt that day
It began as I was pedaling down that same major highway in which I encountered that heavenly messenger. As usual, it was "O dark city" as I was in the process of completing my ride, and as I was preparing to turn down the street where I lived. Suddenly, I was almost blinded by a light from above.
Well, not exactly from above. I struggled to stay upright. It was all I could do not to fall from the sidewalk into the parallel lane of traffic next to me. And then, the light went out, and I glanced across the four lane highway. A sheriff department vehicle had slowed to a crawl, and had nearly put my eyes out with his spotlight. I can tell you, I was not a happy camper.
My next encounter with "the boys in blue" occurred several months ago. As I was approaching the other entrance to my neighborhood, a light of a different color shone around me. I quickly brought my trusty steed to a halt.
Glancing over my shoulder, I was greeted by a white and green cruiser; lights flashing. I dismounted my bike, and waited for the deputy to walk over to me. A minute later, he invaded my "personal space." I spoke first.
"What? Is there a curfew?"
To which he replied,
"Oh, no. (But it is darn early). There's been a robbery at McDonald's," (which I had passed not two minutes earlier).
(and)
"Have you seen anything suspicious on your ride?"
(I had).
"Matter of fact, I did. As I pedaled past the bank, (the same bank where the lady serenaded me), I looked across the street, and saw a couple of guys parked in the lot of that empty building, next to McDonald's. When they saw me, they jumped back in their vehicle, and departed the premises."
Ultimately, the deputy asked me for an ID, (which, I explained, I never carried on my nocturnal excursions). In lieu of an ID, my newfound acquaintance asked my name, and address. And as we went our separate ways, he reminded me,
"I'll come looking for you, if I have any more questions."
I nodded, jumped back on my bike, and made my way home. (Apparently, he, subsequently, declared me "not guilty," as he has yet to make his appearance in my driveway).
Pt. 3
And then, there was the situation this week.
I decided to pedal an alternate route which I take about once a week. As I was nearing the large church parking lot where I tended to do figure 8's, I noticed a sheriff department helicopter overhead. (Thankfully, he didn't beam "the light from the sky" on me). And then I noticed six or eight sheriff department cruisers across the road, "doing a blue light special"). Uniformed officers were milling around a couple of small businesses.
Now, I reached my destination, and began pedaling the perimeter of the parking lot. (While I "moved on" in 2008, every time I find myself in this location, I recall the 15 years and thousands of clients whom I counseled at this particular church).
A few heartbeats after I arrived at "The People's Church," (you guessed it)... a white and green vehicle pulled up next to me. I peered inside, and a twenty something year old female deputy greeted me.
And I thought, (to quote a well known comedian of our time)
"No respect. I get no respect!"
Now, she spoke.
"Hmmm, what are you doing out here on a bicycle at this time of night?"
(I must have blinked, and got this "rhetorical look" in my eyes).
I responded,
"I don't sleep at night."
(and)
"This is the time of night I pedal."
(and)
Well, no, I didn't tell her that I had walked in and out of the doorway to the building behind us several thousand times. (But I thought about it later).
"Do you have an ID on you?" (That age old question again).
To which I replied,
"Uhmmm, actually, no, I don't. My wife has told me I should carry one."
And then, I received the same old momentary inquisition, as before.
"What is your name?" (and) "Where do you live?" (and) "What is your date of birth?" (She asked me this question twice. I think she could hardly believe someone on the brink of 75 purposely pedaled around an empty church parking lot at 1am in the morning.) Perhaps she mused to herself, "How has he lived this long?"
All the while, the pretty lady in the green uniform punched information into the screen on her dashboard.
I spoke again.
"I can assure you I don't have a record." (and) "At least, not unless you put the cuffs on me."
Eventually, the deputy brought my impromptu interview to a conclusion, put the car in gear and rolled away. And I thought I heard her say, as she disappeared into the night,
"Maybe twouble lookin' for you!"
by William McDonald, PhD
4115
I remember when I was in 6th grade. The year was 1961, and one day my teacher, Mr. Ball, walked over to the black & white TV, pulled up the rabbit ears antenna, and our class watched the inauguration of President Kennedy. Before or after he was sworn in, the imminent poet, Robert Frost, stepped to the podium, and began reading a poem he wrote for the event titled "Dedication." However, the strong sunlight would not allow the aged man to continue reading, and he reverted to quoting a different poem called "The Gift Outright." One of the memories seared into my mind from a full 60+ years ago.
4114
It was almost half a century ago, but it could have just as easily been yesterday.
I was a student at the (then) Southeastern Bible College,
(now Southeastern University). As an off-campus, commuting student I was
required to attend chapel services 2-3 times a week.
The guest speaker at one of the morning services was none
other than Colonel Harland Sanders; founder and CEO of the world famous
Kentucky Fried Chicken Corporation.
As might be expected, “The Colonel” was dressed in his
equally world famous white suit, and “Southern plantation” tie. As he was
introduced by the president of our school, he slowly strode to the podium, and
proceeded to share the history of his enterprise, beginning with his adornment
of chicken cadavers with various herbs and spices, in an attempt to determine
just the right combination, for just the right taste. The man in white went on
to detail how a single rural location duplicated itself, and how over the
course of several years his brand of fried chicken became the best known, and
most loved product of its kind in the world.
Three things about the “Kentucky Colonel” impressed me the
most, or at least, have remained with me the longest.
His quiet and peaceful demeanor. (Even with a microphone,
and sitting within a few rows of the front of the auditorium, I had to listen
carefully to his words).
His “I’m really no different than you are” sort of
presentation. He knew his roots, and they were humbler than most any member of
the student body.
But more importantly, this man knew who he was, and to Whom
he belonged. The Colonel acknowledged his faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and
gave Him the glory for how far He had brought him.
And though that old Southern gentleman has long since gone
on to his reward, and while poor facsimiles of the Colonel have
lately appeared on KFC commercials, of all the chapel services I attended
at my beloved school, the one I have recounted here was among my favorites.
by William McDonald, PhD
4113
“This is
what I learned in all of my years on this earth. If somebody wants to walk out
of your life… Let them go. Especially if you know you have done everything you
can. You’ve been the best man or woman you can be and they still want to go,
let ‘em go. Whatever they’re running after, they’ll see what they had in a
minute, but by then it will be too late. Half of these people you’re crying
about, you’re worrying about, two or three years from now, you won’t even
remember their last name. How many times you’ve seen folks say, ‘What the **** was
I thinking? What was wrong with me? I must have been lonely as **** to hook up
with you.’
Let folks
go, son. Some come for a lifetime. Some come for a season. You got to know
which is which. And you gonna always mess up when you mix them season of people
up with lifetime expectations. You got people who have gotten married to people
they were only supposed to be with for a season. They got married to people
they were only supposed to be with for a season and they wonder why they have
so much hell in their life. That was a person who was supposed to teach you one
thing. You didn’t know it so you just fell in love and now you wonder why you
don’t have peace nowhere you go.
No, no. Listen.
I put everybody that comes into my life in the category of a tree. Some people
are like leaves on a tree. The wind blows, they’re over here. It blows the
other way, they’re over there. They’re unstable. Seasons change. They wither
and die. They’re gone. That’s alright. Most people in the world are like that. They’re
just there to take from the tree. They aren’t going to do anything but take and
give shade every now and then. That’s all they can do. Don’t get mad at people
like that. That’s who they are. They were put on the earth to be a leaf. Some
people are like a branch on the tree. You gotta be careful of those branches
too. They’ll fool you. They make you think they’re a good friend and they’re
real strong, but you step out there on them, and they break and they leave you
high and dry.
But if you
find you two or three people in your life just like the roots at the bottom of
that tree, you are blessed ‘cause them the kind of people that ain’t going
nowhere. They ain’t worried about being seen. Don’t nobody have to know they
know you. Don’t have to know what they’re doing for you. But if those roots weren’t
there, that tree couldn’t live. A tree can have a hundred million branches, but
there’s only a few roots down at the bottom. I’m telling you son, when you get
some roots, hang onto them. But the rest of them, let it go. Let folks go.
Nobody said
it will be easy, but it gets easier when you learn how to love yourself. When
you get to the point in your life where you look at people and you go, ‘Okay, wait
a minute. You or me. You will make a decision.’ I’ve never in my life told
nobody, ‘Don’t bother me. Don’t talk to me.’ But what I do, I say, ‘Look. This
thing you’re doing right here. That’s gonna cause a problem. You gotta fix
that. Cause if we’re gonna be friends, we gonna be cool, you’re gonna fix that.
And if you don’t, we’re gonna have an issue.’ If you see somebody fix it, or
even trying to fix it that’s somebody that cares. Keep them people around. That’s
a leaf that’s trying to grow up and be something else. You understand?
But if you
tell somebody ‘what you doing is hurting me, you need to stop,’ but they keep
doing it, they don’t care. Move on. Let them go. No matter how much it hurt,
let them go. And it will get easier. Every day it will get easier and easier,
you just gotta make it through. You need to learn to be by yourself. People
have to learn how to be alone. I don’t understand all these people who pray,
‘Lord, where is my man? Lord, where is my woman?’ That is crazier as ****. If
you don’t know how to be by yourself, what you gonna do with somebody else? Stop
praying about it. Shut up and wait. Go work on you. ****, that’s what that time
is for to get yourself together. I’d rather be in the corner by myself with a
puppet and a goldfish, and be happy than to be sitting around with somebody in
my house, and I’m wondering ‘what the **** they there for?’
You would be
surprised at what people put up with just to have somebody to say they love
them. I don’t understand it. I can’t live in dysfunction. I’m sorry. I’ve done
come through too much hell and high water to let you come up in my adult life
when I’m supposed to be at peace and give me all kind of hell. Only two places
on this earth you gonna have peace. The grave and your house. And if you can’t
wake up in your house and have peace, something’s wrong. I’m sorry.”
(“Madea” –
Tyler Perry)
4112
We lost a family member today.
Our tried
and true decade old Nissan Altima went “the way of all flesh.” Well, that last
word may be a misnomer. As I was driving our fire engine red four door sedan
this past Friday, it “decided” to do something singularly uncharacteristic. The
engine sputtered several times over the course of a couple of miles, and
suddenly died right there in front of God and everyone. Of course, I called
Triple A, and had “Old Betsy” towed to the dealer for mechanical analysis. And
as we were to discover, the radiator had sustained a significant crack in its
frame; leading to the imminent destruction of other crucial systems. Since we
had recently invested a significant sum in the old car, it was now a foregone
conclusion that the expense of repairing our family member was unthinkable. It
was time to let go, and let God.
Human
beings tend to personalize their vehicles, give them names, and use the
pronouns “she” and “her” when speaking of these inanimate objects; not unlike
the courtesies extended towards our pets. And with time it is not unusual to
think of one’s sedan, or van or SUV as a member of the family.
Funny,
when our daughter dropped us off at the car dealer today, and I noticed our old
Altima parked just outside the shop walls, a twinge of guilt ran through me, as
if somehow we were disconnecting the old girl’s life support, and allowing her
to go on to her reward. (Whether by salvage or auction, I know not).
Today was
the day to say “goodbye” to an aged grandmother, and today was the day to say
“hello” to her replacement; in essence, a proverbial new bride, as young and
beautiful as ever the former laid claim.
And we
took time to clean out what remained of those sundry items, such as folding
chairs and paperback novels and extra sunglasses, so as to leave nothing of
ourselves behind. And in so doing, it was almost as if we were severing the
final vestiges of what had once been such a visceral connection.
And as I
knew I must do, I left her empty and undone, yet not without a parting word.
For it was then that I laid my hand on the dashboard, and spoke a few
emotion-clad words; not unlike touching the bier of a friend, and offering up a
heartfelt eulogy.
“Old
Girl, you were a dependable friend. While it’s time to let you go, we will
never forget you. Rest in Peace, dear Betsy.”
And in
response to my sincerest farewell, only abject silence, and a sense that her
soul had departed;
… leaving
little more intact than rusting metal, and fading leather.
by William McDonald, PhD
4111
A pastor asked an older farmer, decked out in bib overalls, to say grace for the morning breakfast.
4110
Pt. 1
Depending on which DNA test I choose to believe, (I have taken two), I am somewhere between 60 to 75 percent English, Scottish, Welch and Irish; (with a whole lotta other nationalities mixed in). I used to teach a university course which included a chapter on "America; The Great Melting Pot."
That's me. That's definitely me. I am a melting pot all by myself.
I mean, I discovered stuff about my ancestral heritage that I never knew before. Other than the nationalities I referred to in the first paragraph, between the two tests (23&Me and Ancestry.com) claim (among other things) that I am German, French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Iranian, Arab, and Sub-Saharan African. (Beyond this, research also indicates I have a bit of Jewish heritage). Be that as it may, (given the overwhelming percentages), I owe much of my loyalty to Great Britain and Ireland.
For the longest time, my wife and I have wanted to visit the UK and Ireland, and we vowed to do so before we turned 70. We just made it "by the skin of our teeth;" (as we were born in 1949, and booked our tour for 2018).
We were not disappointed.
It was a simply glorious trip, and whether God, or fate or coincidence, the pre-planned locations included in our tour aligned perfectly with places my known ancestors lived, and from whence they immigrated to the United States. Dublin, Waterford, what is currently referred to as Northern Ireland, Glencoe, Edinburgh, and the Isle of Skye.
While we were in Killarney, Ireland, I was afforded the privilege of singing, "Amazing Grace" as we partook of dinner in an old farm house. (It was not lost on me how relatively close we were to where John Newton wrote that great hymn of the Christian Church).
Pt. 2
Speaking of Killarney, Ireland, while we were there my daughter and I, (she had also joined us on the trip), "took in" a horse & wagon ride through Killarney National Park. And as we made our way through the park, I struck up a conversation with the driver.
For whatever reason, I asked him how many siblings he had, and replying in a decidedly Irish accent he responded,
"I have eight brothers and sisters."
(and with a bit of Celtic humor thrown in, he continued),
"My dad and mom didn't have a television, and those winter nights were long and cold. They went to bed mighty early, and they were their own entertainment! I suppose you have them to thank for this wee ride you're taking."
I could not help but chuckle.
And now, I asked my host,
"Do you ever have trouble with American accents?"
To which Liam replied,
"Nay. Not so much. It's the Irish accents that throw me."
(As you might imagine, I was surprised).
Our driver continued.
"Some of my countrymen from other areas of Ireland are hard to understand. There are times I have to ask them to repeat what they said."
(I have often hypothesized that an Irishman or Scotsman might much more easily grasp the accent of a typical American, than we would theirs. I had never considered the possibility they might not comprehend one another).
Pt. 3
Our hotel in Glasgow,
Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are
prone to refer to it "over there"). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful
bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in
which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in
"Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane,
for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front
door of the hotel.
On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you."
And recognizing my accent, he said,
"Ah, you're an American."
And I responded in the affirmative. (Based on the stranger's own peculiarly thick accent, I surmised that he was a native of Scotland).
As the
elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the Second World War, Angus continued.
"Ah, we
are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to
help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and
appreciate them even today."
And with this
the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped
off.
It was just a
momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet
I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I
live, and move, and breathe on the earth.
Pt. 4
Some dear friends, a couple I have known for twenty plus years, once traveled to the beautiful city of Inverness, Scotland for a wedding.
Jeff and Ginger wore the standard fare. Each attired themselves in a kilt; (wearing, I suppose, the tartan colors of some ancestral member of their own family).
And I can only surmise that as long as they remained silent, no one "would have been the wiser." (And, I might add, I plead guilty, or guiltier than either of them ever could, as my parents were native to the great state of Georgia, and bequeathed a distinctly southern accent to me).
Having enjoyed the wedding festivities to their hearts' content, including the food, and frolicking, and fun, and all that goes with a Scottish wedding, it was time to make their way back to their hotel.
Bidding their obligatory "goodbyes," my friends exited the building, and got into their rental car. (Thankfully, when we were there, we had the luxury of a tour bus. I cannot imagine driving a "left handed" automobile, and on what we would consider the wrong side of the road).
By now darkness was coming on, and Jeff switched on the lights. However, in so doing, he turned on a non-compulsory set of lights designed for fog; (and which is a tad too bright on normal nights).
Speaking of lights, now Jeff checked his rearview mirror, and noticed a flashing blue light behind him. Finding a safe place to pull over, he slowed, stopped and turned off the ignition.
With this, a Scottish policeman walked up to the driver's window.
Jeff smiled, and asked what he had done wrong.
With this, the patrolman spoke. However, after he said his name, MacTavish or MacPherson or whatever it happened to be, "it was all Greek" to Jeff. The man might as well have been speaking with a mouthful of marbles!
And as the Scotsman finished his monologue about whatever infraction of UK law Jeff had violated, and as the American was growing increasingly frustrated with what seemed, for all the world, like a foreign language, he almost shouted,
"SPEAK ENGLISH!!!"
To which, their uninvited friend replied...
"I Am!!!"
by William McDonald, PhD
4109
Several years ago my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such speakers as Damaris Carbaugh, the mother of Ellen (degenerate) Degeneres’ former girlfriend, (who was decidedly against the gay agenda), and of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.
Well, for
anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I
didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the
daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.
Apparently,
one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife
got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get
a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the,
well, schedule.
It can
safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the
auditorium I found myself completely
… alone.
And since I
had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the
theater, and took a seat in the 3rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit
on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank.
Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in
front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).
At any rate,
as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you
guessed it)
… Ruth
Graham.
Ruth, (if I
may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor
from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw
yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than
me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,
“I’ll be
right back!”
As I recall,
I sheepishly responded with,
“Uh, Okay.”
The
well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known,
except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.
Interacting
at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a
stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if
we were acquainted.
I refer to
such scenarios as
“creating
memories.”
And though,
if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,
… I never
will.
by William McDonald, PhD
4108
I was subbing at my Alma Mater, Bartow High School, and just before the bell rang, and the last students were coming in the door, I heard a couple of boys outside the door say, "We have a bald-headed old sub today." Well, I let the entire hour go by, and just before the exit bell rang I stood up, and said, "Before class began I heard a couple of you guys say, 'we have a bald-headed old sub today.' I've decided I will show you what a bald-headed old sub can do." With this, I dropped down and knocked out six or eight one-handed pushups. Of course, the same boys, and others thought they would show me what they could do. Several of them marched to the front, dropped down, and managed to fall on their faces!
4107
Unlike some books which purport to be models of spirituality, the Book of all books, the Holy Bible, and He who inspired the Judeo-Christian text had and continues to have little or no interest in “false pretenses” or “putting up a front.”
For you see, the 66 books of holy scripture tell it like it
is, and, as a result, the characters described therein are all too human, and
their flaws are neither hidden, nor their attributes embellished.
Following are a few very good examples:
Adam was a lawbreaker
Noah was an alcoholic
Joseph was a slave, a suspected
rapist, and inmate
Moses was a murderer
Rahab was a Gentile and a
prostitute
Ruth was a Gentile and a migrant
David was an adulterer
Amnon had an incestuous
relationship with his sister
Solomon was a polygamist
Thomas was a doubter
Peter was a double-minded man and
denied the Holy One
Paul was a persecutor
I am so glad the Word of God described the foregoing characters with all their flaws, and all their deficits, and never attempted to cover up, nor embellish the traits which they exhibited. (And, interestingly enough, a large number of the characters I have described were direct ancestors of our Lord Jesus Christ).
Pt. 2
But I think what is most
striking, and most relevant about the descriptions of these men and women are
the remarkable changes which are revealed to us, as each of their narratives
are recounted. And in so doing, God, in essence, says, “Stay tuned. That
ain’t all, folks!”
Noah built an ark which
culminated in the salvation of eight souls; men and women who became the
ancestors of every man, woman and child who inhabit the planet Earth.
Joseph was appointed to be the
prime minister of Egypt, and managed to save the lives of not only his family,
but the entire population of that nation.
Moses spoke and the ocean parted,
and several million people walked across the dry sea bed, and, ultimately,
inhabited the promised land we now refer to as “Israel.”
Rahab saved the lives of the two
spies who had been sent to scout out the land of Canaan, and was, like Ruth, an
ancient Grandmother of our Lord Jesus Christ.
David killed Goliath, the pride
of the Philistines, and became the most loved, and best remembered king of
Israel. He wrote much of the Book of Psalms, and was a direct ancestor of our
Lord Jesus Christ.
Solomon became king of Israel
after his father David, is credited with writing three of the books of the Old
Testament, was known as the wisest man who ever lived, and was afforded the
impressive task of building the first Temple.
Thomas, one of the original
Twelve, was credited with evangelizing the nation of India, and he, ultimately,
laid down his life for the Gospel there.
Peter, one of the original
Twelve, was the Apostle to the Jewish nation, and he wrote two of the books of
the New Testament. Tradition tells us that he died a martyr’s death in Rome,
requesting that he be hung upside down on a cross; since he felt unworthy to
die the exact same death as his Lord.
Paul was the Apostle to the
Gentiles, suffered greatly on behalf of our Lord Jesus Christ, wrote half of
the books of the New Testament, and after a lengthy imprisonment was beheaded
in Rome.
I think if the end was so much
better than the beginning for such a menagerie of lawbreakers, alcoholics,
prisoners, murderers, prostitutes, adulterers, and persecutors, (only a few
which I have mentioned here) well, there’s definitely hope for you and me.
4106
Pt. 1
The federal government has released some pretty suspect inflation figures lately.
8 percent?
C'mon now
Lately, every commodity from French fries to Fereri's has risen faster than the mercury in a thermometer on hot day.
Five or six weeks ago, after I came in from my pre-sunrise bike ride, I "gotta hankering" for a "McDonald's Big Breakfast with Flap Jacks."
After I ordered, the order taker announced the price.
"That will be $6.39, Sir."
Of course, I thought,
"That seems a bit high for pancakes, what looks like a filet of scrambled eggs, a piece of sausage the size of a silver dollar, and a rectangular raft of ground potatoes."
Fast forward two weeks, and I decided I would make that same old familiar pilgrimage to my local McDonald's which I have made many times before. As I stopped next to the familiar parking lot stand-up menu, and ordered the "McDonald's Big Breakfast with Flap Jacks" (again), the lady at the first window said,
"That will be $7.59, Sir."
In the space of two weeks, the price had increased by $1.20, (or over 15 percent).
I thought,
"Hmmm, 15 percent is definitely more than the (mythological) U.S. annual inflation rate of 8 percent."
Pt. 2
And the price of houses. Forget it.
Florida is in the midst of a housing boom. Everywhere you look trees are being bulldozed, foundations are being poured, walls are going up, and shingles are being nailed into place. And for each and every new domicile which gets laid in, the Zillow.com and Realtor.com estimate of everything from a fifty year old single wide dilapidated trailer to what has been referred to as a "project home" climbs into the proverbial stratosphere.
I googled the address of my parent's old home the other day; while adding the prerequisite "Zillow" after it.
$224,800
Excuse me?
I mean, this is a seventy five plus year old concrete block, 1,000 square feet house which my parents purchased about 1955, for all of about $3,000, when it was almost new. If my (somewhat rusty) calculations are correct, over the past 70 years we're looking at a 7,500 percent increase in price! (And I expect a third to one half of the total percentage of increase has occurred in the past 5-10 years).
(Of course, I won't deny, inflated prices can also be somewhat of a blessing. We paid $77,000 for our current home in 1989. Today it is valued at $270,000)!
I was driving through a nearby town where I have my post office box the other day, and passed a business I have driven past multiple times in the last thirty years. I can't tell you the name of the business, but they sell storage sheds there.
And as I was driving past this place for the ka-zillioneth time, I noticed a young couple standing next to one of those sturdy, miniature barn-like sheds, and another lady, apparently the business owner, standing in front of them.
The young couple were holding a large "SOLD" sign, and the third person was in the process of taking their picture.
And I could not help but think,
"Hmmm. Given the price of homes these days, you could spend $2,000 on one of those 'jobbies,' install a couple of windows, and a window AC unit, beg, buy or borrow a 20x20 foot plot of land, and viola, the answer to these ridiculous prices."
Perhaps the couple who I described, above, had that exact same idea. They seemed mighty proud of their purchase. (At least, I think the lady who sold them the shed felt mighty good about it)!
by William McDonald, PhD
4105
Pt. 1
‘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 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 on someone’s TV.”
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 50th 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.
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 6th cousins. No wonder they look alike.
By William McDonald, PhD
4104
Mark 14:3 And being in Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, as he sat at meat, there came a woman having an alabaster box of ointment of spikenard very precious; and she brake the box, and poured it on his head.
