LEAVING TOO SOON

 4188

I often think of those I have known in this life who seemingly left this old world before their time; most especially my classmates who passed away just before, or shortly after graduating from high school.

"Janice" was the daughter of a music minister, was in my school choral group, and, whereas, I was a member of the Class of '67', she was a member of the Class of '68'. 

I had graduated just nine months earlier, and was in my second semester of my first year of college when it happened. 

Janice and a friend were involved in a one vehicle accident. "Jim" was taking her home from a date when a thunderstorm arose. It wasn't just any storm, but what we always called a "gully washer." Jim turned into what he thought was the street which led into Janice's subdivision. However, he turned ten or fifteen feet before the entranceway, and ran into a rain swollen ditch.

Now, the car began to sink. Somehow, Jim managed to open the driver's door, or to swim through his open window. Janice was not so fortunate. The car quickly filled with water, and she drowned.

Janice's mother wrote a book about her own life and childhood, as well as her marriage and family. Of course, "Brenda" alluded to Janice, her love for God, and her church, her involvement in high school activities, her great potential, and, sadly, the circumstances surrounding her daughter's death.

I cannot begin to tell you how many times I have thought about Janice over the past half century. Oddly enough, though we were in chorus together, I don't recall saying a word to her, nor she to me. Of course, we were aware of one another's presence. But, as I reflect on it now, it seems strange that we never spoke. Be that as it may, I saw Janice on a daily basis, and, like her mother, I realized her potential. I knew she would make a difference as an adult. She was not granted the opportunity to do so.

And I have wondered, "Why have I been granted seven and a half decades of life when Janice never reached twenty?"

However, the mystery involves more than our respective years of life on earth. For you see, I have been involved in four potentially fatal vehicular accidents,... and come through without so much as a scratch. Beyond this, I have experienced several other situations in which I was a hair's breath from going on to my reward, but lived.

There are simply no easy answers. It seems so inestimably unfair. Why has someone like me been afforded so many 'near misses,' when someone like Janice was taken from us "first thing out?"

Yes, I have often wondered 'why' as I have stood at Janice's gravesite. (And I have stood there several times in recent years). And, as a pastoral counselor, I have had no easy answers to share with those who have asked me this question about a myriad of other young people who have preceded us in death, (and who had done nothing to endanger themselves).

Why do young people, often of such extraordinary potential, leave us before their time?

Until...

Well, the answer was written in the good Book multiplied thousands of years before you, or I, or Janice moved, and lived and breathed.

"My times are in His hands." (Psalm 31:15)

And it occurred to me. 

We are here at God's convenience. We will remain here 'til He calls us Home; whether we have reached age 2 or 102. In relation to this question someone wiser than me once said,

"God was simply done with him (or her) here."

And I know, the foregoing answer to the question seems at the same time both sufficient and insufficient.

But it is the only answer we've got.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

LEAVING SOMETHING BEHIND

 4187

Preface

 

As a person who seeks after excellence, who has been involved in counseling clients, teaching students, and mentoring interns over the past quarter of a century, and who wishes to “leave something behind” to the generation which will secede me, I am taken up with compiling a myriad of written materials which “will stand me in good stead,” long after I have gone on to my reward.

 

Following is an introduction I include as a prelude to each of my series of journals and other works, which I am currently maintaining on hard drive, and which I intend to invest in each of my children; whom I hope will do the same, ad infinitum.

 

Pt. 1

 

I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal

 

… absolutely nothing.

 

And I have often mused, “Why didn’t you leave something behind?”

 

Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been if you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves.

 

Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, I consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected.) I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, “before you were even a twinkle.”

 

You deserve it.

 

And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing…

 

We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time,

 

… Leave something of yourself behind.

 

And so much more crucial than my previous admonition, I earnestly pray, (and I have prayed for you when you were not, and when only God knew you by name) that you will give your life to the Lord Jesus Christ, and faithfully serve Him, as I believe that I have done. For as a wise and equally well-known man of my time, Dr. James Dobson, (whom I once met, and conversed with) has encouraged his own children, and grandchildren…

 

… “Be There!”

 

… “Be There!”

 

I hope to meet you in heaven. I’ll be waiting for you; just inside the gate.

 

Granddaddy McDonald

(by Bill McDonald, PhD)

MELTING POT

 4186

Pt. 1

 

I grew up during the 50's and 60's, in a time that might be referred to as "The Last Gasps of the Age of Segregation." (Funny, while I have never seen that phrase in print, it certainly characterizes that particular era very well, I think).

 

My parents employed a young lady of color whom all of us kids loved and respected. And yet, it wasn't unusual for my peers, and my brothers and I, at times, to use "the N word." Of course, I regret having ever used such language, and if I were to characterize that period in my life now, I would call it "My Personal Age of Ignorance."

 

Thankfully, while I was still an adolescent, segregation gave way to integration. When I was in the 10th grade Union Academy, the formerly Negro high school, began sending their best and brightest to Summerlin Academy. I can tell you that, almost without exception, these students were readily received, and liked by virtually all the teachers and students.

 

Fast forward half a century, and my mother had been rapidly declining, and had been admitted to a local nursing home several months earlier.

 

Well, since I, and my dad before me, were amateur genealogists, and neither my mother, nor I, had ever taken a DNA test, and since the former was in poor health, it seemed good to me to "get on with business."

 

Pt. 2

 

As a result, I ordered DNA tests for my mother and me; hoping "23&Me" would expedite the test kits. Within days, I had the kits in my hands, and arranged to drop by the nursing home the next afternoon.

 

The DNA test required my mother and me to spit into a small tube, which once I explained the process to mama, she began to do. I say, "began to do," since my mother struggled to find enough spittle to contribute. I worried that she would "run dry" before she managed to reach the red line with enough of the bubbly white liquid that had been emanating from her mouth, and that we would waste the cost of the test.

 

As mama went into what was perhaps her third round of spitting, she suddenly said,

 

"You know, when I was a young lady, people used to ask me if I was part black."

 

And it immediately occurred to me,

 

"Mama is prepping me for the possible eventuality that her DNA test results may indicate that an African-American bloodline exists."

 

Granted, my mother was dark complexioned, and her mother, and maternal aunts and uncles even more so; (something the Chaney family always explained away by telling people they were part Native American).

 

Eventually, mama reached the red line, handed the tube to me, and I capped it, slipped it, and my own test kit into the prepaid envelope, told her goodbye, drove up to a nearby post office, and dropped the kits into an inside mail chute.

 

Pt. 3

 

The DNA test kit literature informed me that the results would take approximately six weeks to process and return.

 

...Three weeks into this waiting period, my mother went on to her reward.

 

She would never know the results of her DNA test; at least not on this side of heaven.

 

A few weeks after my mother's passing, I retrieved two official looking envelopes marked "23&Me" from my PO Box. Hurrying back to my car, I drove home, walked through the door, sat down, and tore one, and then the other envelope open, and began to survey the results.

 

What I read on my mother's and my DNA testing results simply amazed me.

 

But to regress a bit, a decade and a half ago, I taught a course in a local university with the impressive title of, "Educational Psychology." One chapter, in particular, referred to the United States as a "Melting Pot" of dozens upon dozens of ethnicities. Even today, we have China Town in San Francisco, Harlem, the predominantly black area of New York City, a large population of Cuban immigrants in Miami, and the descendants of Scottish and Irish immigrants in Appalachia.

 

Little could I have realized when I taught this course that I would qualify as a self-contained melting pot of ethnicities and nationalities.

 

Although 70 percent of my own ancestral bloodlines originated on the two large islands of Ireland and Great Britain, the remainder flowed out of a myriad of other countries.

 

Scotland, Ireland, England, Wales, Sweden, Austria, Italy, Greece, France, Spain, Israel, North Africa, Sub-Saharan Africa, Iran!!!

 

European, Spanish, Jewish, Arab, Black and more

 

Pt. 4

 

I have always been interested in my family origins, as I have previously inferred, and as my father before me, I have researched my ancient ancestors and their stories.

 

My ancient 17th century Grandfather Philippe de Lannoy of the Spanish Netherlands (now Belgium), who was also a direct ancestor of Pres. Ulysses S. Grant, Pres. Calvin Coolidge, Pres. Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Astronaut Alan Shepherd and Actor Robert Redford; (my distant cousins). De Lannoy's Grandfather was Catholic, while Philippe converted to the Protestant faith. It is believed that before all this, the Delano's (eventual spelling) were Jewish; with their roots in Israel.

 

My 9x Great Grandfather Robert Ring of England, an indentured servant, who borrowed money from someone wealthier than himself for passage to the new world, settling in Massachusetts, and, ultimately, becoming one of the wealthiest citizens of Salisbury. Only to be remembered for two of his errant sons, Joseph and Jarvis, who testified at the Salem Witch Trials, and, as a result, an innocent woman was put to death.

 

My 5x Great Grandfather Elias Jeanneret, a Swiss immigrant to Louisiana, a speaker of French, and who may have been thought of as a Cajun. His descendants found their way to North Carolina, and, ultimately, Georgia.

 

My 4x Great Grandfather Captain William Cone, a Scottish descendant, who fought in the Revolutionary War, and was captured by pro-British American forces, and was imprisoned in the Castello de San Marcos in St. Augustine, Florida; from whence he escaped.

 

My 3x Great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart of the Isle of Skye, Scotland who immigrated to Georgia; leaving father and mother behind, never to return.

 

Pt. 5

 

And countless others whose names I don't know, but whose countries of origin and ethnicities have become clearer than they ever would have been without the advent of modern technology.

The likelihood that some ancient Italian soldier, during the time of Christ, fathered a boy or girl child with an English woman when stationed a thousand miles from home, and thus, added his DNA profile to my bloodline.

 

The explanation which alluded my mother's grandfather's family for so long which required two centuries, and the creation of a technology unknown to their forebears. "No, thank you, you aren't Native American. You are African-American." The first half of the 20th Century when my mother was growing up. The One Drop Rule which would have prevented her, and her mother before her from attending a white school; had the powers that be been remotely aware of it.

 

The hideous involuntary confinement of black men, women and children, their below deck transport on sailing ships, sun up to sun down 6-7 days a week, toiling in cotton and tobacco fields, the unwelcome nightly "visits" of plantation owners to their female slaves, the birth of half white babies, children of the "Massa"' who would toil in the fields next to their mothers. The eventual release of slaves who were "too white" and carried the blood lines of succeeding generations of fathers, sons, and grandsons, and who had carried on the hellacious family tradition of "going out back," the explanation for my mother's and grandmother's complexions; (and my personal belief that our percentage of African-American bloodlines are much higher than the DNA tests have revealed). Of course, I am absolutely mortified that any of my ancestors of any color were subjected to such treatment! (And, of course, with the passage of time, consenting relationships between white and black increased leading to the birth of children).

 

And what cannot be explained.

The presence of Spanish, Arab, Greek and Iranian bloodlines in my mother's and my DNA test results. (And what may never be understood 'til the other side of eternity).

 

Melting Pot? Yes! I passed by the U.N. on a tour bus over 50 years ago, and thought about all the peoples and nationalities represented there. Based on my own personal family research, and the results of DNA testing, I am a walking, talking, self-contained 5'9", 220 lb. United Nations!

 

And, you know, I wouldn't change a thing. (Well, perhaps a few things).

 

I am better for the presence of each and every one of my ancestors who have contributed to the richness of my chromosomal tapestry.

 

I hope I make them proud... since the only way they continue to live is through me.

by Dr. Bill McDonald, PhD

SANTA'S GIRLFRIEND

 4185

Someone I know was invited to portray Santa Claus for the children's group at a local church. 

The children's workers at this church are involved in making a huge impact on the migrant children of this small town, and the group has grown, as the result of a bus ministry, and the presence of numerous dedicated believers who have a heart as big as all outdoors.

As "Jim" (not his real name) and his wife "Jane," (and not her real name), walked into the youth room, the former, dressed like the famous old fella, the children "went crazy." The four, and five and six year olds were all over Santa. A couple of the braver ones pulled at his beard.

"Ho, Ho, Ho" Santa bellowed out. 

"Miss Jenny" did her best to control the melee.

"Now children. Back up. Sit on the floor. Let Santa talk."

Santa proceeded to share the Gospel message with the children.

"It's good to be with you tonight, boys and girls"

(and)

"Did you get what you wanted for Christmas?"

(and)

"You know Christmas is a lot more than Santa and gifts"

(and)

"Christmas is really all about Jesus"

(and)

"Do you know Jesus?"

Well, things proceeded very well, and after about seven minutes, Santa handed it back off to Miss Jenny.

"Miss Jenny, do you want to take some photos?"

(She did).

One by one the boys and girls walked up to Santa, took their seat on a stool, the latter placed his hand on their shoulder, and Jenny and Jane snapped the photos.

Did I mention that Jane was NOT dressed as Mrs. Claus? Did I mention she was only there to video the presentation? Did I mention one of the children's workers invited Jane to stand by Santa for a photo? (Well, she did). Did I mention "Jennifer" encouraged Santa to give Jane a kiss? (Well, she did).

To be fair, Jim hesitated a split second, given the presence of the children, and lest they be confused with this development. However, given the compulsion of the moment, he leaned over and kissed his wife.

On the way home Jane laughed out loud, and shared the humor with Jim, as he sat on the passenger side of the vehicle, and he was busy pulling off his curly white hair and beard.

"Jim, after we kissed one of the little Spanish boys asked me,

'Are you Mrs. Claus?'

"And without thinking I replied,

'No, I'm just a friend.'

(and)

"then he said, 'But I saw you kissing!'"

To which Jim responded,

"Oh me. That little fella will be awake all night trying to figure that one out! He probably thought Santa had a girlfriend or was 'doing an Elvis.'"

Jim and Jane hoped that most of the children assumed that Mrs. Claus had left her red and white Christmas dress at home, and had merely chosen to wear more comfortable clothing.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 

4184

Pt. 1

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.

 By William McDonald, PhD

*Tom Hanks was recently informed that he and Mister Rogers are 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

 

LOOK FOR THE HELPERS

 4183

A Mr. Rogers Story

By Allison Carter, USA Today

In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

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

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

A WORLD WAR l TRUCE

 4182

Isaiah 9:6 For unto us a Child is born, Unto us a Son is given; And the government will be upon His shoulder. And His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

During World War I, in the winter of 1914, on the battlefields of Flanders, one of the most unusual events in history took place. The Germans had been in a fierce battle with the British and French. Both sides were dug in, safe in muddy man-made trenches six to eight feet deep that seemed to stretch forever… but it was Christmas, and what happened next was astonishing, writes Stanley Weintraub, author of the book, Silent Night: The Story of the World War I Christmas Truce.

“The Germans set trees on trench parapets and lit the candles. Then, they began singing carols, and though their language was unfamiliar to their enemies, the tunes were not. After a few trees were shot at, the British became more curious than belligerent and crawled forward to watch and listen. And after a while, they began to sing.

By Christmas morning, the "no man's land" between the trenches was filled with fraternizing soldiers, sharing rations and gifts, singing and (more solemnly) burying their dead between the lines. Soon they were even playing soccer, mostly with improvised balls.”

Though the war had to continue, as commanders on both sides ordered their troops to restart hostilities, this interval of peace during war was extraordinary and unprecedented.

(from an email devotional)

THE DOG THAT WON A SPELLING BEE

 4181

Just recently, we took in two of our daughter's pet pooches when she moved to Massachusetts. Max and Lilly are brother and sister, and are half Shih Tzu, and half Wire Terrier. (However, they came out strongly favoring the latter of the two breeds).

Our canine adoptees absolutely love the most expensive treat of all time, Purina Beggin'; a bacon flavored delicacy. My wife brought home a large bag of the stuff yesterday. And when I asked her how much it set her back for, she told me it cost the unheard of, super-inflated, horrendous price of $15.00!!! (A hundred years ago a man wouldn't earn that much in a week)!

At any rate, Jean and I were sitting on our hand me down black theatre style sofa today, (which we also recently adopted from our daughter), when I asked Max and Lilly,

"You wanna treat?"

Well, Kristy had assured me that the two little pooches loved these bacon flavored treats, and that they would immediately respond to the word, "Treat."

...They didn't.

As a result, I said to Jean,

"You know, Toby, (our black & white Papillon, which we also inherited from our daughter), would immediately perk up, if I asked if he wanted a b.o.n.e.; (spelling it for my wife's benefit, and not wanting to alert him).

I kid you not. When I spelled that 4 letter word, Toby jumped off the other theatre style sofa, threw his paws up on my arm, and went into his best rendition of "I haven't eaten for a month" act!

As you might well imagine, visions of "America's Got Talent" sprang to mind. Think of that. A spelling dog!!!

However, when I came to my senses, I got off the sofa, walked over to the fridge, grabbed a well-deserved b.o.n.e. out of the box, and placed it between Toby's salivating jaws.

And now, pulling open the pre-sealed bag of Purina Beggin' strips, I selected one for Max, and one for Lilly, enunciating each syllable of "You wanna treat," determined to reinforce the meaning of that third word.

Speaking of the other little fella, Toby's got the spelling down pat. Now, if I could only teach him to say "bone."

by Bill McDonald, PhD

CALLING IT A DAY

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I enjoy listening to Elvis Radio in my car.

Yesterday, as I was driving, they played a short audio segment of Elvis. He had been asked a question by a disk jockey about Rock 'n Roll music.

"Elvis, do you feel like Rock 'n Roll will be popular for a very long time?"

To which "The King" responded,

"Well, Sir, I like to think it will. I certainly hope that it will. It's what I know and love. If I knew the future, I could plan for it better. But, if the public decides they want something else, I'd be glad to try it out, and give them something else. But, if I failed at that, why, I suppose I would just 'call it a day.'"

And, I thought, "Odd, that Elvis 'left the building' just short of half a century ago, but he was, is, and for all I know will always be the most famous entertainer of all time."

(and)

"Strange, that Elvis spoke about the possibility that his music might pre-date his passing, but Elvis' passing pre-dated his music."

(and)

"Elvis is as fresh and popular as he ever was, and his music still captivates young and old, alike, though the King of Rock 'n Roll rests forever beneath a headstone at Graceland."

I hope Elvis never "calls it a day."

by Bill McDonald, PhD