THERE MAY BE SOMEONE WHO HAS NEVER SEEN ME PLAY

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Someone once asked Joe Di Maggio, the 20^th century baseball legend, “Joe, why do you always give it your all. Why do you literally exhaust yourself every time you go out on the field?”

 

     Well, Joe thought a moment, and provided the listener a wonderful reply. “Because there may be someone in the crowd who has never seen me play.”

 

      I served in The United States Air Force, The Air National Guard and The Army National Guard for over twenty years. The later service, and its parent service, The United States Army, have as their motto – “Be all that you can be.” That’s what old Joe was talking about.

 

     Hebrews 12 urges us… “Seeing how we are compassed by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us strip off everything that hinders us, and the sin that so easily besets us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1-2, KJV)

 

     Track and Field was a “biggie” in Grecian times. We see several runners strung out across the lanes of the dusty track. We notice their breathlessness, as they are so intensely focused on the task at hand. But then we notice something a bit more obvious, a bit more startling. For before us they strut and fret and begin to run quickly forward, without a stitch of clothing on their lean, but muscular frames. But before you blanch with embarrassment, the entire audience are men.

 

     The writer of Hebrews had this example in mind when he wrote his 12^th chapter. “Let us strip off everything that hinders us,… and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.”

 

     I see the fulfillment (and the lack thereof) of this scripture day in and day out. For I am administrator of a local addictions group. So many start out well, and seem to “play well,” but their strength soon wanes, and their determination fades quickly. Others however, run the race, not with ease, but with extraordinary effort and commitment to a cause. Their unblinking eyes never lose sight of the track ahead. They run the race well. They not only stay clean, but they get free.

 

    They have stripped off everything that had previously bound them to the past, and all it’s “dysfunction” and negative behaviors. They “draft” off those who run ahead of them. They have learned the “tricks of the trade.” They hear the cheers of the crowd, and are encouraged by these disembodied voices. They focus on the finish line, straining every sinew and every ligament to gain the prize. Their lungs gasp for precious oxygen, and every respiration comes with great effort. But these are those who wear the crown.

 

     I ran such a race numerous times, as I fulfilled the requirements of my part-time reserve career. I remember one particular fellow who literally slowed down to run with me. He was so much faster than I, but he sacrificed a better time to help me run my race. You can imagine my encouragement. He saw me through to the end. He gave me strength to believe I could finish that run. I can envision the Son of God running this race of life with me. For He has assumed a role so much like that man in my story.

 

     I remember the distant whistles and yells of the crowd who had already finished the race. I can still see them standing at the finish line. The last few hundred yards were by far the most challenging. But those voices never ceased, and as the volume grew louder, the closer I got to the finish line. I think it must be that way with this run we run. The longer we run and the closer we come to “the tape,” the better we hear those who have gone before, and who proclaim our victory from the stands.

 

Joe Di Maggio had it about right. “Because there may be someone in the crowd who has never seen me play.” They can see us from the portals of heaven, and their voices grow louder as we round the last curve into home.

by William McDonald, PhD

CUT DOWN THAT OLD TREE

Colossians 3:13-14 Bear with each other, and forgiving each other, if any man has a complaint against anyone: even as Christ forgave you, so you also must do. But above all these things put on love (agape), which is the bond of perfection.

After the Civil War, Robert E. Lee visited a Kentucky lady who took him to the remains of a once beautiful old tree in front of her house. There she bitterly cried that its limbs and trunk had been destroyed by Federal artillery fire. She looked to Lee for a word condemning the North or at least sympathizing with her loss. After a brief silence, Lee said, "Cut it down, my dear Madam, and forget it."

The enemy is constantly attacking the body of Christ. Some of his most effective tactics are anger, bitterness, and unforgiveness, which are often based on real, sometimes deep, wounds we have received from others in the faith. Paul wrote that we should not be ignorant of the enemy's schemes (2 Cor. 2:11), that bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness give him an opportunity to quench the Holy Spirit and destroy our fellowship with God and one another. So the apostle urged forbearance, forgiveness, and above all else, the kind of love which Yeshua (Jesus) showed to us; a love which covered our sins against Him, forgiving and restoring relationship. This is not a love which is natural to us. Our nature is to hold on to offenses, to desire justice, recompense, or even revenge. Do we realize that the love we need to truly forgive is from another Source?

The beautiful old tree in the woman's front yard might symbolize something very dear, beloved and precious in your life....something which was terribly damaged by an enemy you feel justified to hate.

Whatever is left of that "tree" in your life or in your memory is a constant temptation to nurture hate and unforgiveness. Is this how you want to live? Will this "tree" become a memorial unto hatred and revenge, or hardness of heart and a never-ending cry for "justice"? If so, you will find yourself bound to that tree, as if you were chained to it. General Lee's words apply here: "Cut it down, my dear Madam, and forget it." "Vengeance is Mine, says the Lord, I will repay." So, not only can you afford to forgive and leave justice in His hands, but the freedom and joy of loving the way God loves, will also be yours.

Jesus has forgiven us. We should forgive others as we've been forgiven. Let's cut down the battered trees in our lives, choose forgiveness, in the Spirit of Jesus, and put on (agape) love.

(An internet devotional)

MIRACLE ON MOTHER'S DAY

A couple of years before Rev. Puckett passed away, I had the privilege of meeting him, and sat down with him in his home. Knowing that his wife had written a book about their children, marriage, and their lives in general, I asked if I could borrow a copy. 

Paul hesitated, but writing down my name and address, he loaned me one of only two copies he still had. While I had the book in my possession, I scanned the volume to a CD so that it might remain available for his grandchildren and their grandchildren.

I might mention. I knew Beth. She and I were in high school chorus together. She was a precious young lady, a Christian and a person of great potential.

Following is a poignant excerpt from Martha Puckett's book.

Almost a quarter of a century has transpired since our dear daughter left us, though she remains very much alive in the life of our family. God has used her death to impact many others along the way, and we have used our excruciating experience to help others during their time of grief. 

While it was inestimably difficult to pass through the valley of the shadow of death, I am happy to say that our Savior has led us all the way, and that in our most trying times, God never forsook us.

(But following is where I most wanted to bring you this evening).

Beth had hardly been gone three months when I began to dread Mother’s Day. Our daughter had always been so loving and thoughtful on holidays, and I knew that it would be a difficult 24 hours. But I had my duties at the organ, and I realized that it was a day that would just have to be lived, and put behind us.

On Mother’s Day morning, as I was in the process of getting dressed, I reached to get something out of my drawer. The drawer was stuck, and I jerked it open. When I did, it fell out on the floor, and all its contents were scattered across the room. Of course, I was frustrated, and exclaimed, “Lord, I don’t need this. Not today.”

Reaching up under the space from which I pulled the drawer, I felt around …and touched a large envelope. I inhaled deeply. In my hand I held a Mother’s Day card which Beth had given to me the previous year. I opened it, and wept, as I read the familiar handwriting.

It had been God’s way of providing me the courage I had so badly needed. This uncanny, almost miraculous occurrence gave me joy which remained with me throughout that day which I had so dreaded. 

As I reflect on this event, I never cease to be amazed at the peace which overwhelmed me at that moment, with my confidence that Beth now looks into the face of her Savior, and that I will most assuredly see her again one day.

by Martha Puckett

"Prunes, Pride & Vinegar Pie"

TWO PEOPLE DRIVING ONE CAR

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

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

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

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

WHO WAS JOSEPH RING?

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Telegram & Gazette
Monday, March 27, 2006
Who was Joseph Ring and why was he killed?

By Wilson Ring THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

ELIOT, Maine— An L-shaped cellar hole still marks the site of the Neale Garrison, built in the mid-1600s a quarter-mile uphill from the Piscataqua River. Somewhere near here 302 years ago, an ancestor of mine was burned at the stake.

I visited the garrison’s remains as part of a quest to learn as much as I could about the final hours of Joseph Ring — my six-times-great-grandfather.

Along the way, I’ve confirmed quite a bit about his life: that he fought in some of America’s earliest Indian wars, that he gave some curious testimony at the Salem witch trials which helped hang a woman, and that, yes, he, too, came to an untimely end.

Unfortunately, he seems to have left no letters or diaries behind. But my quest put me in closer touch with a cousin, and together we shed light on stories passed down over the years and made some new discoveries about our distant relative.

It was in 1638 that Joseph Ring’s father, Robert, emigrated from England to the new world as a 24-year-old indentured servant.

A barrel maker, Robert eventually became a solid middle-class member of Massachusetts society, and the area of land he owned, near where the Merrimack River empties into the Atlantic Ocean, is still known as Ring’s Island.

Joseph Ring was born Aug. 3, 1664, in Salisbury, Mass., to Robert and his wife, Elizabeth Jarvis.

The boy, whose life would become a series of entanglements with history, was 11 when King Philip’s War broke out. This was the first of a series of on-again, off-again wars between the English settlers on the one side and the Indians and their French allies on the other, that would last almost 100 years.

Today we can reinterpret the Indian wars as a clash of competing cultures which the Europeans were destined to win. But 17th-century settlers living at the edge of English civilization didn’t know if they would survive.

“Northern New Englanders faced an unknown enemy that seemingly appeared from nowhere, struck with devastating force and just as quickly disappeared,” said Cornell University history professor Mary Beth Norton, one of many academics who helped me trace my ancestor.

She said some readers of her 2002 book, “In the Devil’s Snare,” which linked the witch trials to the Indian wars on the frontier, compared the fear of Indians then to the terror following the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks on the United States.

In Joseph Ring’s time, all able-bodied men served in local militias; volunteers were recruited for expeditions, or garrison duty on the frontier.

“The recruits tended to be younger, unattached types, who could use a few dollars and enjoyed an adventure,” said Emerson “Tad” Baker, chairman of the history Department at Salem (Mass.) State College.

Ring fit the profile. He was part of an expedition in 1690 as New Hampshire Capt. Shadrach Walton tried to relieve Fort Loyal, a stockade in Casco, now Portland, where about 200 inhabitants had been besieged by 500 Indians and French soldiers.

The four-vessel expedition arrived too late.

Ring and the others found the town burning after the Indians killed most of the settlers who had surrendered and been promised safe passage by the French commander.

The Indians “wreaked their vengeance unchecked,” reported the 1897 “Border Wars of New England” by Samuel Drake. “After plundering the fort the invaders set it on fire, and it was soon burned to the ground, leaving Casco untenanted, save by the unburied bodies of the slain.”

Most of what we know about Ring came from two affidavits he gave in 1692. They describe Ring’s role in the ill-fated expedition to Fort Loyal and provide other glimpses into his activities and possibly his state of mind.

In the statements, Ring describes a meeting that appears to have changed his life. In a tavern in Great Island, N.H., on the way to relieve Casco he met a man named Thomas Hardy, who invited Ring to play shuffleboard. Ring didn’t have any money, but Hardy lent him two shillings. Ring lost.

Over the next year, Ring was terrorized by Hardy, who kept demanding his money. Ring described a series of bizarre, dreamlike encounters with his nemesis and others. In one, Ring “was scared out of his wits by a fireball and ‘the dreadfull noyse & hideous shapes of these creaturs,’ ” Baker wrote, quoting words attributed to my ancestor.

Joseph Ring was possessed by demons, the Puritan minister Cotton Mather would write in a 1693 account justifying the witch trials. The young militiaman, he claimed, was struck dumb by a woman who was present when he met Hardy, a widow named Susannah Martin.

In 1692, Ring gave testimony during Martin’s trial in Salem that he had been drinking cider with Martin, another woman and Hardy before a roaring fire. Martin, he said, transformed herself into a pig.

She was hanged on July 19, 1692.

It took a while for me to come to terms with the reality that my ancestor contributed to the Salem witch trials, an event in American history that still horrifies and fascinates many.

How could he, like others, turn against his neighbors?

It may be that a modern concept — post-traumatic stress — helps explain Ring’s strange and fateful claims. He surely absorbed a terror of Indian attacks, not just because of his militia experience, but family experience, as well.

His wife, Mary Brackett, came from a family that was one of the first to settle the area now known as Portland. As a 12-year-old girl, she and some relatives had been taken captive by a party of Indian raiders and marched into the wilderness before they escaped in a canoe. Later, in separate incidents, her grandparents, father and brother were killed.

The so-called Brackett Lane Massacre in Rye, N.H., in which several of Mary Brackett’s relatives died at the hands of an Indian raiding party, came close to the time of one bizarre encounter between Ring and Hardy — and Norton thinks that’s significant.

Norton believes Ring’s experiences along the frontier contributed to his testimony against Susannah Martin.

“Joseph Ring is a great example of a frontier resident who was terrified by the threat posed by the Indian war ...,” said Norton. “Although he appeared as a witness against Susannah Martin, he seemed far more concerned about the Indians and the demons he saw aligned with them than with Goody Martin.”

Norton turns out to be an indirect descendant of Susannah Martin. And I’ve learned, ironically, so is my cousin, Franz Martin.

He lives in Los Angeles and spends much of his free time in the genealogy section of the public library, going through old town and family histories or rolling through microfilm records of Colonial New England.

He has mined a number of tidbits. In the fall of 1703, Massachusetts placed a bounty on Indian scalps and sent out three raiding parties on snowshoes to keep their adversaries off balance. Joseph Ring is not on a list of Massachusetts soldiers from what was called Queen Anne’s War. But it’s possible he was an off-the-books soldier, perhaps a bounty hunter, seeking to avenge his family’s losses.

In any event, on Jan. 28, 1704, Indians attacked the Neale Garrison, and settlers fought them off with help from soldiers stationed nearby. A 1726 history of the early Indian wars by Samuel Penhallow said nine attackers were killed.

The losses so enraged the Indians, Penhallow wrote, “that at their return they executed their revenge on Joseph Ring, who was then a Captive among them, whom they fastened to a Stake and burnt alive; barbarously shouting and rejoicing at his cries.”

We still don’t know when, why or how Ring was made captive.

Three hundred years later, many people are surprised when I tell them the story of my ancestor who was burned at the stake after testifying in the Salem witch trials.

Some see his end as a fitting comeuppance. I don’t think so. I’ve come to believe that Ring was a victim of the times he lived in.

Still, the fragments we have on Joseph Ring might be compared to the jawbone a paleontologist hopes to use to build a complete skeleton. My cousin Franz and I continue to dig.

 

**Joseph & Jarvis Ring were my 8^th great Uncles, and were brothers.

They both testified at the Salem Witch Trials. As a result, a woman named Susannah Martin was put to death.

(William McDonald, PhD)

THE COMPASSION OF MR. ROGERS

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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 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

(Allison Carter, USA Today)

IT'S A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

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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

AN IDELIBLE MEMORY

 4128

Our school day ended at 3:15PM; always did throughout my junior and senior high school years. While in recent times our local high schools are released as early as 2PM, the school day begins much earlier now than when I was in school.

As it had for literally dozens and dozens of years, the old school bell rang out its daily blessing, (and believe me the end of the day was considered a blessing to all but the most studious of Summerlin’s students.

My friend, David, and I hurried out of the classroom, stuffed a couple of textbooks and other miscellaneous papers and pencils in our lockers, and hurried down the covered, outside hallway to catch Bus 149. We’d rode that bus for as long as I remember, though I would be hard pressed at this juncture, to tell you the driver’s name, or even his or her gender. But I expect that particular individual has long since gone on to their reward; (or lack thereof.)

Our buses parked adjacent with Broadway, one of Bartow’s major streets. There was a stretch of asphalt, perhaps thirty feet wide and a hundred feet long, which paralleled the street. Every weekday, twelve or fifteen buses rolled up about 3PM and parked in perfect rows, empty for the moment, but ready to receive the teaming masses of loud, and sometimes obnoxious students, eager to get home.

Just as David and I reached the end of the covered walkway

… it happened.

Suddenly, slightly diagonal and to my left, I witnessed a car leaving the road. The front end slammed against the back bumper of a school bus, hitting it a glancing blow. I stood there transfixed, having just stepped onto the bus tarmac. So, like those nightmares in which one feels incapable of moving, I stood there speechless. David stood as immobile as I.

And rather than stopping, the car accelerated and gathered speed. As the late model automobile neared my friend and me, one option presented itself. And while what was occurring around me was far from humorous, I knew I had to “get the heck out of Dodge.”  But I wasn’t going alone. Not by a long shot. When the vehicle was eight or ten feet away, I grabbed David’s right arm and jerked him away from the trajectory of the automobile. The vehicle passed so close, I sensed the change in air pressure, and I might easily have touched it. We might have been its first victims.

I immediately turned to follow the car’s progress. It had transcended the pavement, now, and was rushing headlong through a long strip of grass which bordered the tarmac.  What I saw now both amazed and confounded me. The front end of the vehicle plowed into a fellow student, and he almost seemed suspended in midair a moment, before crashing against its windshield.

 If I live to be 103, I shall NEVER forget the events of that day. I witnessed everything, at least everything I had any intention of witnessing, since in the space of a few seconds, I had reached a momentary, though very conscious decision to avert my eyes from those things which were happening around me.

The entire affair was over in less than a minute, but it may as well have been a year in terms of its cruel impact on countless human beings. As I discovered later, 17 students were struck, or dragged by the wayward vehicle. One young man pushed a couple of girls out of the path of the car, was somehow impaled by a concrete post, subsequently dragged across another stretch of pavement.

 As it the facts played out, an elderly lady had been driving her husband home from a doctor’s visit. He had contracted a terminal illness, and no doubt, "Mrs. Hamilton" was naturally distracted from the task at hand. As she lost control and slammed into the rear of the school bus, one mistake compounded into another, and instead of braking and bringing the vehicle to rest, she engaged the accelerator.

"Johnny" was the only fatality. The other students sustained varying degrees of injuries, including broken arms and legs, but all experienced “full recoveries.” Yet I think the psychological and emotional impact of that event was geometrically greater than any physical trauma my classmates endured, and resides with them a half century later.

My mother has told me that as I walked into the house that day, my normally dark complexion seemed several shades lighter, and without so much as a word, she knew something terrible had occurred.

As a substitute teacher, I have the opportunity to serve in numerous primary and secondary schools in our district, and I occasionally teach at my alma mater. Sometimes I share the events of that long-lost day with my students. Sometimes I don’t. But when I do, I am so often met with the sense that it has been too long, and my pupils are altogether unable to relate to my story, and I think it simply passes over their heads. And I think they’d rather employ their time with cell phones and I-pods and pop magazines, and all that other peripheral stuff that fills up an adolescent life, than consider anything so ancient as a story that has no relevance to them, though it occurred within feet of where they now sit.

But there are those among us who will never forget, and there are those among us who will recite the story again, and I like to think there are still those among us who have taken time to memorialize that day in a genre, (such as the written word) which endures.

Nonetheless, I can only wonder whether this account might be the last surviving, full account of that terrible day, and if by chance it is, I am glad I am given the opportunity to entrust it to you, and leave it to your care.

 by William McDonald, PhD

KOJAK OR KOJAK?

 4127

Will the real Kojak please stand up?

No, it’s not “To Tell the Truth.” Simply the case of the well-known actor, Telly Savalas, meeting his look-alike, John T. Ervin of Valdosta, Georgia.

For years people have been barraging Ervin with pleas for his autograph; believing him to be the highly visible character actor. It’s gotten so that he sometimes signs the name for the ones who are belligerently disbelieving of his look-alike story just to get away.

All this time he has been hoping he could meet the man whom he so closely resembles. The end of it is that it actually came true when Ervin who is stationed in Germany and serves as an Army vet got to meet and talk with Savalas who is on location for a new movie.

Ervin was born in Dasher, Georgia, and his hometown is Valdosta where his mother and step-father also reside. He has seven brothers and sisters.

The resemblance between the two men is striking. They have similar facial characteristics, both have bald heads, and they weigh within three pounds of one another.

It wasn’t until recently, however, when Savalas began getting more choice parts in movies and television that Ervin has reaped some of the rewards of the actor’s acclaim.

While Ervin was in high school at Valdosta, from which he graduated in 1950, he was just one of the crowd.

Even when he came back from his first four year stint in the Navy, and studied at the University of Georgia and worked with Dr. Loyce Turner here until he went back into the military in 1964, Ervin still retained his anonymity.

But now people from all over the world, from Hong Kong to Las Vegas to Berlin, mistake him for Telly Savalas.

The similarity between the two is so real that once in Berlin, while Ervin was waiting in the hotel to meet Savalas, that the latter’s business managers walked up to him and began “talking shop;” according to the story Ervin told his family in Valdosta.

One woman who ran into Ervin on the subway told him that he should be traveling in a limo like a star, instead of traveling on a public transit system.

Most people are very good natured when they find he isn’t the real Telly Savalas, he said. But some people feel like he’s a snob when he claims he isn’t the star.

Once, he thought he was going to be tossed into the water by an irate mother who wanted Savalas’ autograph for her daughter, he reported.

Especially since “Kojak,” Savalas cops and robbers program has been so popular around the world, Ervin has been dodging autograph hounds.

But it all paid off in their final meeting when Ervin got an autographed photo from Savalas for his step-father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. H.B and Lena Barwick, of Rt. 2, Valdosta. Savalas inscribed the photo “To Mom and Dad. From your other son, Telly Savalas.”

Ervin told his family that he had been nervous about meeting the star. But as soon as the men met, they apparently “hit it off.” Of course, they had a lot to talk about just comparing vital statistics. Telly made John feel right at home, the Valdostan said.

“He was friendly and gracious. I felt welcome. As soon as he smiled, and put out his hand, I forgot all about being nervous, and the photographers, and everything else,” Ervin said.

“If I am going to look like an actor, I can’t think of any actor I would rather look alike. He could have posed for a quick picture, but he didn’t. He made me feel real good. I’ll remember this weekend for the rest of my life,” Ervin was quoted after he left the hotel in Berlin.

Savalas was in Berlin shooting a movie about an Army major. Coincidentally, Ervin is also a major in the Army.

Ervin has about five years left in service before he retires. His family hopes he will return to Valdosta.

by Becky Vail

 

A Firsthand Account of 911

 "22 years ago today, an unimaginable tragedy struck, and shook our nation, and my city, It feels like it was yesterday, and at the same time, like forever ago. I was 16 years old at the time and I remember sitting in Spanish class in a new school I just transferred into from another borough in NYC, 2 days prior, and the dean of the school walks into my class and says 'a plane hit world trade center' and 'they thought it was accident at first but things are getting really bad. They believe its a terror attack,' and 'we have to evacuate the school and go home.' I remember some of my class- mates were crying and some were saying 'my mom works there,' or 'my dad works there.' I remember running to the office to call my dad because I did not have a cell phone at the time and all lines were down. I could barely reach Him, but after several attempts I finally did. It was scary. I think everyone was in utter shock. No one could believe what we saw on TV, and we lived only 9 miles away from Downtown Manhattan. My heart still aches thinking about all the victims and families that lost loved ones that day. It is unimaginable. Officially around 3000 people died that day but many believe it is much more. Thinking every person was valuable, every person had a name and an Identity, every person mattered, every person was important to God and to their families. And in one moment everything changed. It makes me think, once again, how valuable and fragile life is. How I should cherish my family, friends, and those around me. How I should draw closer to the Lord and love Him even more, and not waste time or life on things that don't matter or have eternal value."

by my former university student, Zhenya Alexandra

(Shared with permission. The original story was written last

year and it began "21 years ago today...")

911: A Universal Remembrance. A Personal Irony

911

 

I think every American immediately conjures up two interpretations of these three digits.

 

#1. The phone number one calls in an emergency situation.

 

(and)

 

#2. September 11th, 2001 (911) - You know this date well; (unless you have been hiding under a rock somewhere).

 

However, speaking of the title of this blog, given the length of time which has transpired since 911, it occurs to me that there is a universal remembrance.

 

It has been 22 years since the terrorist attack on the two World Trade Centers in New York City, the Pentagon, and the ill-fated airplane which never reached its intended target.

 

A young person might have easily procured a job position, and retired since those massive towers came tumbling down, the Pentagon was left with an unsightly hole in its side, and the 40 passengers and crew of Flight 93 died in that field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

 

There is not only a universal remembrance, but also a personal irony, again involving the subject of retirement, and it has much to do with this same ghastly attack.

 

For you see, in 1974 I was offered a position as a civilian personnel clerk by the Air Force Finance Office which was located in that five-sided building outside of Washington, D.C. However, after I walked one of the extraordinarily long hallways in that massive place, and interviewed for the job, was officially offered the position, and was about to accept,... I decided against it. At the time I lived in rural Virginia, a full hour from the Pentagon, and I didn't want to devote ten hours a week driving back and forth to a job location.

 

Speaking of my personal irony, it occurs to me that had I accepted the job position in the Pentagon, I might easily have still been working towards my retirement when the aircraft left that gaping hole in the building, and that I might have conceivably died in the carnage.

 

911. Such a universal remembrance and such a personal irony.

by William McDonald, PhD

YOUNG & BEAUTIFUL

   4122

    JUDY TYLER - A Life Cut Short

She appeared opposite Elvis Presley, as "Peggy Van Alden, in the movie "Jailhouse Rock." Flipping through the channels, I ended up watching a bit of this 1957 movie today. Judy was 25 at the time. Elvis was 22. And as I often do, I looked her up on IMDB for further information. What I discovered was both inestimably sad and equally shocking. I have posted a short bio of Ms. Tyler's life, below. I think no one can account for such tragedies in a life, especially a life so young as hers.

Her father was a trumpeter with bands such as Paul Whiteman and Benny Goodman, and her mother was a former Ziegfeld Follies dancer. Judy studied ballet, music, and acting, won a "Miss Stardust" beauty contest in 1949, danced with the Copacabana chorus line. and was making bit appearances on television while still in high school. At age 17, she landed the part of Princess Summerfall Winterspring on the The Howdy Doody Show (1947) children's TV show, where she stayed for two years before resigning.

She returned to stage work and was "rediscovered" in a play in 1956, "Pipe Dream", which landed her on the cover of "Life" magazine. She made two films, the last as Elvis Presley's co-star, Jailhouse Rock (1957). Three days after shooting completed, she and her second husband were driving home from Los Angeles to New York when he swerved to avoid hitting a truck and collided with another vehicle; she was dead at the scene. (Of course, Elvis followed her twenty years later).

Ironically, the closing song in the movie "Jailhouse Rock" has Presley singing to Judy Tyler. The song... "Young and Beautiful."

You're so young and beautiful and I love you so

Your lips so red, your eyes that shine

Shame the stars that glow

So fill these lonely arms of mine

And kiss me tenderly

Then you'll be forever young

And beautiful to me

She is forever young and beautiful.

THE WRITTEN WORD

4121

The spoken word races away as quickly as the next can be sent in pursuit, and so each word flees into oblivion. The sounds which we call ‘words’ are momentary, and passing things, for once articulated, they have their demise.

 

Not so with the written word. It lasts as long as the paper, or the stone on which it is inscribed. It has the availability to be called up as often as the reader desires. Black marks on white paper. But such strokes of the pen have preserved intact the memoirs of a thousand mighty men, the prose of a parcel of poets, and the leanings of limitless leaders. The men have passed away, but their words remain. And these words, thoughts and grand illusions live a second time, and a twenty-second time.

 

Lincoln’s “Four score and seven years ago” reverberates anew off well-worn headstones which were new and polished a hundred years hence. For though a century of deterioration now ‘decorates’ the stones, and the orator’s voice is muted, the word lives, and lives and lives again with each new issue of the printed page.

 

Common men, royalty, masons, parsons, prophets and slaves. Though gone a thousand years; they live. For their words remain; words of frustration, hope, warning and expectation.

 

Oh, the blessing of the written word. Not sparrows falling to the ground, as the spoken word. No, but the written word takes wings and soars into the future to lite afresh beneath a student’s eye.

With each written offering we pour a little of our mortal wine into a more permanent cup. Future generations will drink from this fountain.

 

And what of today? The written word provokes the unlearned, inspires the faint-hearted, strengthens the weak, and enables the ignorant. Best of all the written word is a traveler’s garden. A place to visit when a few stray minutes are strung together like pearls. A place to rest when the world has been unusually cruel. A place to relax at the end of an unseasonably rainy day.

 

Whether tis Eugene Field’s “Little Boy Blue,” Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea,” or Shakespeare’s “MacBeth,” our world is richer for the written word.

 

How many of our written words will live on, and what insight, admonition, or encouragement will they minister to those who drink from its fountain?

by William McDonald, PhD

THE KINDLY PRIEST AND THE ESCAPED CONVICT

 4120

Pt. 1

There is a scene in both the book and every version of the movie, “Les Miserables” (by Victor Hugo and set in early 1800’s France) in which an escaped convict knocks on a priest’s door, and explains that he is hungry and needing a place to lay his head for the night. Father Myriel invites Jean (pronounced John) Val Jean into his humble abode, much to the consternation of the kindly priest’s housekeeper. As the unlikely trio sit down for supper, we notice the convict’s eyes widen as a set of ornate silverware is laid out before him, and a contrastingly small, but evil smile appears on his lips.

The supper over, Bishop Myriel and Jean Val Jean sit before the fire awhile, before eventually retiring for the evening. As the stars navigate their evening circuit across the sky, and the fireflies flit here and there throughout the nearby pastures, the criminal opens his eyes, and looks around his borrowed room. Jean silently dresses, and steals into the kitchen. Emptying his own knapsack of a few worthless odds and ends, he helps himself to the sterling silver plates and utensils.

It is a full moon, and as Jean Val Jean walks across the open threshold of Father Myriel’s room, the old priest opens his eyes and immediately understands the import of the scene that is playing itself out in his presence. But after an almost imperceptible shake of his head, and a knowing smile, the parson closes his eyes, and is soon overtaken by slumber.

The morning dawns bright and fair, and there is a shriek as the housekeeper opens the silver cabinet for the breakfast meal, and becomes all too aware of what has taken place in the night.

“Bishop, dear Bishop, that man you allowed into your home has robbed you of your silver! Quickly Sir. We must contact the magistrate.”

The kindly priest walks into the kitchen, and merely says,

“Well now, good woman. He must have needed the stuff more than we.”

and

“After all, the silver is not ours, but God’s.  It is best used for the poor. And was our dear brother not poor in both goods, and spirit? It is well. It is well.”

Pt. 2

Shortly afterwards there is a loud banging on the door, and the harried housekeeper hastens to open it. Before her stands a middle aged man adorned in the clothing of the city magistrate. He holds a dirty knapsack in his hands. Behind him stands, well, you guessed it, Jean Val Jean; iron shackles adorning his hands and feet. A slightly built police sergeant holds him by the arm.

“Excuse me, Bishop Myriel. A moment of your time, please. This wicked fellow here, well, we caught him with a sack full of silver, and when we asked him where he got it, he claimed, well, he claimed you gave it to him.”

The kindly priest smiled and responded,

“Well, yes, I gave him the silver. Please release him. You were only doing your duty, sir, but he did nothing wrong.”

The magistrate was incredulous. “You mean he was telling us the truth?” And he couldn’t quit shaking his head in disbelief.

There was nothing else to do but release the poor shackled soul. And the magistrate gave his assistant instructions to do so.

As the chains fells off Jean Val Jean’s hands and feet, the kindly bishop whispered to his housekeeper. She hurried off into the house, and quickly returned with something in her hands.

The priest accepted two similar items from her, and thrust them into the hands of the escaped convict.

“And my dear sir, you forgot these silver candlesticks. Didn’t I remind you to pack them before you left this morning?”

The magistrate was aghast, and could only shake his head, and say,

“Well, Bishop Myriel. We will take our leave now. Thank you very much for clearing this up for us, Sir.”

And then they were left alone. Without a word, the kindly bishop motioned Jean Val Jean to step into his humble home.

Pt. 3

As they entered the small living area, neither man sat down. The bishop starred unblinking into Jean Val Jean’s eyes for what seemed the longest time, and Jean could not help but returning his gaze.

The priest knew the convict’s story. The big brute had unraveled the tale for him the night before. His sister and her little son, and he were without work, and desperately hungry. And in a moment of desperation Jean Val Jean had gone looking for,… for bread. Oh, he’d found it, he’d found it behind a bakery display window. The hungry man had picked up a rock and smashed what lay between him and his prize. A single loaf of bread, and as a result of that momentary decision, he’d spent 19 years in prison.

The bishop finally spoke,

“Jean Val Jean. You have been tried and convicted for a crime of passion. A passion that is common to all of us. Your stomach ached for food, and your relatives suffered from the same temptation. You have suffered a great wrong perpetrated by a callous judge who stole a third of your life from you, and understandably your soul is dark with vengeance.”

It was at then that the kindly bishop grasped Jean’s two hands with his own. The hapless convict still clung to the silver candlesticks in those over-sized hands.

“Jean Val Jean. You are no longer the man who knocked on my door yesterday. A sinner and a stranger stepped across my threshold yesterday. Before me now stands my brother in Christ. You are changed, you are  purified. With these candlesticks I buy back your soul. And as often as you look at them, you must remember this day. You must spend the rest of your life doing good, as Christ our Lord also did good.”

Pt. 4

And the kindly priest’s words seemed at the same time a weight and a grace to the rough-hewn Val Jean. And the years of pain and bitterness escaped him in a torrent of tears. Suddenly, the convict dropped to his knees, and a wail escaped his lips that might have easily been heard outside the house.

Bishop Myriel stooped down, and took the repentant man by his burly arms, lifted him to his feet, and lovingly embraced him.

“Jean Val Jean, my brother. Go now. Go in peace.”

And Jean stepped out of that old cottage door; a changed man.

by William McDonald, PhD