A YOUNG SOLDIER & A LITTLE MONK

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

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

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

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

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

Phen asked Le an almost rhetorical question.

“What has happened to you, Le?”

Le struggled to speak.

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

Pt. 2

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

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

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

The priest who held the suffering little apprentice shouted.

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

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

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

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

Pt. 3

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

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

Otis yelled to the six privates who accompanied him.

“Get down!”

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

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

Prayers

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

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

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

Pt. 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pt. 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There now. It’s going to be okay.”

And all the while he must have been thinking,

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

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

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

Pt. 6

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

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

 “After he told me this story, I exclaimed,

‘Dad, you saved that boy’s life!’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

MASTOR MENTOR

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Among my favorite attributes are those of Humbleness, Encouragement and Servant-Leadership.

 

The latter of the three speaks to the quality of setting aside the time and care to mentor another human being; the wherewithal to add something valuable to a life representing a third, and altogether crucial variable in the mix, of course.

 

The other day I was scrolling through a social media site, and ran across a video which was posted by a friend in the Atlanta area. The film footage ran all of 12 or 15 seconds, and depicted Lynn’s conductorial work among the youth of that area. For over many years, she has mentored literally thousands of adolescents and adults in the inestimably wonderful genre referred to as “Song.”

 

Following is a response I left beneath the segment: 

 

“Lynn, when I played this short video, tears sprang to my eyes, and an involuntary sob sprang up in my throat. I have served as a formal mentor to numerous young people over the years, and therefore I can relate to what I viewed here in an especial way. You have learned well from one of your early mentors. As I have inferred in the past, Miss Clark would be inestimably proud of you, my friend.”

 

Miss Clark was, in the terminology of our era, an “old maid.” She graduated from the same school in which she, ultimately, taught. I was blessed to “sit under” her tutelage, as was Lynn, a full half century after she walked across that familiar stage, and received her “sheepskin.” (As a matter of fact, her faded diploma still graces the school trophy case).

 

As I finished my 11^th year, and began my 12^th, Miss Clark was forced to retire from teaching, as the result of a terminal illness, and was replaced by a much younger choral director. Though Mrs. F. was personable and adept in her chosen field, the students who had known and loved Miss Clark were left with a proverbial hole in their hearts, and it apparently showed in the music they generated.

 

For while Miss Clark’s Summerlin choral group had consistently rated “Superior” in the annual state contest, the first year we were without her, we received an “Excellent” rating.

 

And reminiscent of that scene in the movie, “October Sky,” in which Homer Hickam visits his teacher, Miss Riley, in her hospital room, and shows her his prestigious science award, it is said that in the closing weeks of Miss Clark’s life a similar thing occurred. 

 

It seems one of our aged conductor’s students was visiting her at home, or in a hospital room, and Miss Clark asked the inevitable question; which begged to be answered.

“So, how did ‘we’ do at state contest this year?”

 

Whether that student had prepared herself in advance for that proverbial “elephant in the living room,” or whether she merely possessed the insight to answer in the way she did, I cannot say.

 

However, it has been reported that “Grace,” (at least this is the name I have chosen for her) responded with,

 

“Well, Miss Clark, of course we rated all “Superior’s.”

 

And with that, I like to think our beloved musical mentor smiled, and that the little white lie momentarily assuaged her pain, and helped usher her from this sphere to the next.

 

I have recently been exposed to a couple of wonderful adages; (which I have made my own).

 

“I am planting seedlings under whose boughs I never expect to sit.”

 

(and)

 

“My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

 

The inestimable privilege and power of mentoring. The indescribable wonderment of wrapping one’s mantle around the shoulders of a younger someone, and entrusting him or her with all the future years which have not been afforded to you. 

 

One of my interns once gave me a gift, among the greatest treasures I have ever received on this side of heaven, when she said:

 

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go when you can no longer go. I’ll share your message when you are no longer able to share it. I’ll speak for you when all your speaking is done. I’ll continue to impact lives, and teach others to do the same, long after you have gone on to your reward.”

 

For there will come a time, (as it once came to Miss Clark) when they who refer to me, and people like me, will do so in the past tense,

 

“He was.”

 

But until then the privilege and power of impacting those who come after us 

 

… continues.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

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In the movie, “Bagger Vance,” Will Smith, (Bagger) plays what amounts to a Golf Angel. For you see, he has been sent to assist a character played by Matt Damon, (Ranolph Junah) with his golf game.

But it is not just any game, it is THE game of his life, for this former amateur golfer finds himself in a match with perhaps the most notable and adept golfers of his time.

Captain Junah has just come back from “The War to end all wars,” (WWI) and he has come back a changed man. For during one especially ferocious battle, every man in his unit has been killed or severely wounded, and only he has been left unscathed. And as the result of his heroic actions during the battle, the captain has been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Ranolph’s emotions are raw, and he lacks confidence, and he suffers from what we refer to today as PTSD, but what was referred to in that day and time as “shell shock.” And it was only the result of the pleas of the town’s people, and his former sweetheart, (who is attempting to save the family fortune, and the golf course on which he finds himself) that he has consented to play the game.

Bagger, who has agreed to caddy for the captain, had been giving him pointers throughout the game, but to no avail. But the young man finds himself falling further and further behind the leader.

As Ranolph steps up to take his next shot, Bagger interrupts his swing, and says, “Mr. Junah, there’s only one authentic shot, one that is truly yours, and you can’t choose it.”

The captain is miffed to have had his swing interrupted, and angrily replies, “What do you mean? Of course I can choose my shot. I must choose my shot!”

Bagger smiles a whimsical smile, and responds, “Oh no suh, the shot must choose you.”

Now, in terms of the movie, Bagger’s implication was that for any given hole, on any given course, there is one best club, one best swing, one best solution.

And I think we can learn a valuable lesson from our golf angel’s admonition. The first time I ever viewed the movie, and listened to Bagger’s words, well, it just came to me. There is a valuable spiritual lesson to be gleaned here.

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

You see, I am convinced, and scriptures assures us, “My times are in His hands,” (Psalms 31:15) and “The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me,” (Psalms 138:8) and “Before I ever took my first breath, You planned every day of my life.” (Psalms 139:16)

If we believe and embrace the truth of scripture, it is apparent that God knew us by name, and planned all our days, before we were a twinkle, and even before He made the twinkling stars. (And we can be sure that He loves us so much more than those magnificent, astronomical creations.)

Indeed, the shot must choose us. For any given decision, among any set of options which we encounter throughout the course of our lives, there is one best choice, one best action, which has the ultimate capacity to help complete our destiny, and which agrees with our Lord’s perfect plan for us as individuals.

Now, I’m not talking about what loaf of bread we decide to purchase, or whether we check our mail at 1PM or 5AM. No, I’m referring to those crucial, “have to get it right” type of decisions which have the wherewithal to complete our Heavenly Father’s plans for our lives, (or if we are oblivious to the best shot, bring us to ruin.)

Indeed, I believe the shot must choose us, and it is paramount that we get it right. Our very destiny is at stake. I believe it would be pleasing to God that every one of His children pray the following simple prayer, and pray it on a daily basis.

“Oh Father, great Ruler of the universe. You Who knew me before I was formed or ever took my first breath,… let the shot choose me.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

HUMAN NATURE

 4304

(Little known facts about 1960's-1970's TV characters)

*Both Grandpa & Grandma Walton were gay in real life

*Andy Griffith & his TV girlfriend were involved in an affair during the production of the show

*Aneta Corsaut (Helen Crump) Andy's TV girlfriend of "The Andy Griffith Show" never married or had children

*The actress who portrayed Carolyn Ingalls on "Little House on the Prairie" once asked Michael Landon for a raise. She didn't get it

*Mr. Rogers was an ordained Presbyterian minister

*Mr. Rogers was not, contrary to one popular myth, a Navy Seal

*Barney Fife (Don Knotts) often went into his bedroom, locked the door, and practiced his comedic faces in the mirror

The outside street set of The Andy Griffith Show was used in a Star Trek segment

*Ralph Waite (John Walton) was an ordained Presbyterian minister prior to his acting career

*Mrs. Oleson (Katherine MacGregor) of "Little House on the Prairie" was actually a Hindu, and made a pilgrimage to India about 1980

*Mrs. Oleson (Katherine MacGregor) and yours truly enjoyed a pen pal relationship about 2009-2010

*Charles Ingalls (Michael Landon) and Isaiah Edwards (Victor French) of "Little House on the Prairie" were close personal friends

*Michael Landon and Victor French both died in their 50's within two years of one another; having just completed the "Highway to Heaven" TV series

*The characters who portrayed Laura Ingalls and Willie Oleson on "Little House on the Prairie" are actually brother and sister

*Floyd the Barber on the "Andy Griffith Show" sustained a stroke during filming, and from that point forward appeared sitting in his barber's chair

*Contrary to the persona of her TV character, the woman who portrayed Aunt Bee on "The Andy Griffith Show" was often contentious and difficult to get along with

*Barney Fife's TV girlfriend, Betty Lynn, moved to Mt. Airy, NC decades after filming and lived there 'til her death. She was once mugged while living there, but it didn't diminish her love for her chosen hometown

*Betty Lynn never married, nor had children

(Compiled by Bill McDonald, PhD)

A PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

 4303

Several years ago my son and I traveled to West Virginia to visit my daughter. We stayed at a Holiday Inn or Mariott, or something of that sort in the little town of Oak Hill.

Since there was a free breakfast downstairs, I decided to take advantage of it; given the slightly inflated cost of the room. Steve decided not to go down, and with this, I made my way to the elevator.

Arriving downstairs, I made my way to the breakfast room, and proceeded to fill up a plate with scrambled eggs, sausage and a biscuit. Now, grabbing a glass of orange juice, I chose a table next to an inside wall.

I suppose I had been devouring my breakfast faire for three or four minutes when a blond-haired, blue-eyed little fella appeared next to my right arm. I smiled at him, and he proceeded to say,

"I'm four," while holding up the requisite fingers using his left hand.

And with this, he smiled a smile as big as all outdoors.

Anyone who knows me would presume (and presume rightly) that I did not let the moment pass without a rejoinder.

Looking into those sparkling blue eyes, I smiled, and said,

"I'm 68." And I dutifully used my two hands to indicate a six, and then an eight.

Now, I noticed a young couple noticing us about fifteen feet away. They were obviously the little tot's parents.

What happened next surprised even me, although it was I who spoke.

Almost involuntarily, I found myself pointing at the little guy. Almost involuntarily I found myself verbalizing a very brief, but very poignant five words.

"You will do wonderful things!"

Yes, I surprised myself. I don't recall looking over at the young boy's parents, though they could not have missed my prophetic utterance. And with this, "Jason" turned and tootled back from whence he had come.

Now, while I am no prophet, I have never entertained any doubts about the source of my words. And in the years which have followed, not a month has passed that I have not reflected on that day, and I have sometimes shared this story with a friend, or client.

Post-script

Last night our pastor met with the department heads and others involved in ministry in our church, and spoke about his particular vision for our local congregation, and the roles and responsibilities of the Church in general.

Having completed his message, he said,

"Is there anyone here who would like to share something of a similar nature?"

No one rose from their seat, and no one spoke. And I found myself feeling a little, for lack of a more suitable moniker, spiritual nudge. I stood up, walked the ten or twelve steps which separated us, took the microphone, and spoke.

The topic of my unexpected opportunity to address my fellow church members?

A prophecy in West Virginia

Having shared my little story about my experience with that little boy, I finished with the admonition,

"And you know, I'm convinced that as believers, we should be doing some pretty wonderful things to make a difference in the lives that God sets in our pathway."

Before I left the church, I spoke to various members of the congregation; first one, and then another. And now, I walked up to one of my favorite people, a woman named Janice of about my own age, and she said something I had never honestly thought about.

"Do you think that little fella remembers what you said to him that day?"

While I had often thought about the words I had directed towards the young boy, I had never considered whether he remembered the old guy who spoke those words to him.

Not knowing his name or whereabouts, I am unlikely to cross paths with that little lad again, (and even if I did, I would have no way of knowing it).

And yet, I am assured, I am certain, I am convinced that...

he will do wonderful things!

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4302

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).

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.

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.

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?’”

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

FINDING A SEAT ON THE FLOOR

 4301

As I was watching the David Jeremiah “Turning Point” broadcast today, the good minister presented the most poignant illustration.

It seems a very large, rather formal church hoped to put together a ministry designed to reach the students of a nearby university. However, not having ever undertaken such a project, the pastor and board were a bit perplexed about how to approach the task.

On one particular Sunday, a student of that university attended the morning worship service. It so happened that David was, like so many other young adults who attended this school, a bit eccentric, or at least wanted to ‘fit in,’ and was dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans, old t-shirt, and sandals. His hair was cut into a mohawk, and was tie-dyed in several colors.

However, David arrived a few minutes late, and as he entered the sanctuary, he realized that every pew was full to capacity. As a result, the teenaged student walked the entire length of the center carpet, and plopped himself down in the aisle. You could have heard a pin drop. Though the pastor had stepped up to the pulpit to deliver his morning message, he seemed unable to proceed.

Suddenly, from the back of the sanctuary an aged, white-haired deacon appeared, and began to make his way down the aisle towards the hapless university student. His relatively short journey was hampered by his lack of mobility, and his cane ‘clicked,’ ‘clicked’ with each step her took.

A holy hush permeated the building as the board member made his way closer, closer to his quest. All eyes were directed towards the deacon, then the student, then the deacon.

Finally, having arrived next to the boy, and pausing for a moment, the old gent dropped his cane, and struggled to… lower himself to the floor beside David. And there they sat. One very young, and unconventional student. One very old, and conventional deacon. Side by side, and ready for a Gospel message.

And at this juncture, the pastor regained a bit of his composure, and exclaimed,

“What I am about to preach you will never remember. What you have just witnessed take place before you, you will never forget.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

SEIZE THE DAY

 4300

I have often reflected on one particular scene in the movie, “Dead Poet’s Society;” (a good movie and an extraordinary scene).

“Mr. Keating,” a teacher at a private boy’s school, (who seems to have a knack for offering his students insightful tidbits, while using everyday objects and themes) leads his boys down the stairs from the classroom, and into the lobby of the institution.

The young professor walks towards a couple of trophy cases, and instructs his pupils to gather about him.

“Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them. They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you.”

Mr. Keating’s boys are “all ears” by this point in his monologue. They know something of some value is coming.

And with the assurance of someone wiser than his years, the teacher continues.

“Did these young men in the photographs wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen closely, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it? (whispering in a gruff voice) Carpe. Hear it? (whispering) Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

And I think we have the privilege, opportunity and obligation to do this.

…To make our own lives extraordinary.

To discover the best within us. To find out that one thing which separates us from the rest. To develop that talent, that gift, that interest, which almost begs for a forum, to a razor’s edge. To, as Mr. Keating admonishes us, make our lives extraordinary. And I think we have the innate wherewithal to do this. (Though I think too few tend to do so).

There is an illusion in Homer’s “The Iliad and the Odyssey” in which the hero of the story, Odysseus, the captain of the ship, has himself tied to the mast, while he instructs the remainder of his crew to pack wax in their ears. For you see, their ship was scheduled to sail past a particular island populated by beautiful half-clothed women, men-haters, who sang the most melodious of songs. And it was on the shores of this island that dozens of ships had crashed upon the rough-hewn rocks which surrounded it; crew after crew lured to their deaths by the ethereal songs of the maidens. But due to the foresight of Odysseus, he is among the first to hear the Siren Song, and live to tell the tale; as the ship sails harmlessly past the island, and on to their port of call.

And while the foregoing myth has a rather negative connotation, as a counselor I have “put a spin” on an old story, and assigned it a more positive meaning. For as I have so often taught my clients, God also sings a Siren Song. (Yes, He does). And amazingly,

…He sings it to you and me!

In Christian circles we have labeled that song, “God’s Calling.” And I am convinced that our Lord calls you and me to pursue a goal, to complete a task, to fulfill a destiny, and to leave a legacy. And I am equally convinced that the Creator planned our individual destinies

…before He made the worlds!

For in Psalms 139:16 we read, “Before I ever took my first breath, you planned every day of my life” and scripture assures you and me that “My times are in Your hands.” (Psalms 31:15)

Granted, the foregoing information makes good theory until we discover whatever it is that God has for us to do with our lives. But, I think, the same One who sings the song is more than capable of lighting the pathway. For He has assured us that “if with all your heart you will seek the Lord, Your God,

…you will find Him.” (Jeremiah 29:13)

And so much like the maidens of Homer’s odyssey, the Master of the Universe humbles Himself to sing us His song. It is left to us to take time to listen, and to go about fulfilling whatever plans He has designed for us, as individuals, to complete.

In the words of “Mr. Keating,”

“Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it?

Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys and girls. Make your lives extraordinary.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

HERE

 4299

I have often told my counseling clients,

"There aren't any time machines."

(and)

"You can't go back and give your younger self guidance, or fix something you once broke."

(and)

"As much as you regret something you chose to do in the past, all you can do is learn from it, and move forward."

And the failure to heed this trivial bit of advice continues to "bite" every one of us.

It "came back home" to me again tonight.

I decided I would step into my 2015 silver Nissan Altima and drive the 15 minutes which separated me from the Lakeland Cinema 18, and buy a ticket to the movie, "Here."

(Did I say, "As much as you regret something you chose to do in the past...?" Yeah, I thought I did).

"Here" was a great example of this principle.

Having bought my ticket, and walked into Theater 4, I climbed the carpet-covered staircase to the top row of seats, and took my place dead center.

Til right up to 7:59pm, I was convinced that for the second time in my life, I would be the only one in the theater. However, just as the commercials began at 8:00pm, a young man and woman walked in, and found two seats directly ahead, but about five rows below me.

Twenty minutes later, the initial seconds of the movie, "Here" flashed on the screen. In retrospect, the only thing worse than the plot, (or lack thereof), of the movie was the regrettable admixture of several GD's; (something I have never learned to tolerate very well).

I mean, the premise, plot, (and apparent outcome), of the movie becomes apparent in the first 43 seconds. For you see, as "Here" begins we see an ancient landscape of mountains, and volcanoes, and rocks and rivers. The scene metamorphoses and now we see dinosaurs scurrying across the landscape. No sooner than these prehistoric giants appear, fire begins to rain down from the sky; (presumably a depiction of the great meteorite which fell into the Gulf of Mexico and hampers their wherewithal to breathe). Now, we see grass and flowers and trees and hummingbirds and deer. And now, an Indian unleashes an arrow towards the afore mentioned animal.

Now, we see a red brick mansion in what appears to be a wilderness area, and we fast forward through the next couple of centuries, and additional homes and roads appear. And now, we are looking through a living room window, and that red brick mansion looms large across the street. And now, we see a Model T rush by the window. And now, a man and wife, and a 1940's realtor in the midst of introducing the house to them.

Billy Joel sung what became a very popular song,

"And So It Goes"

Well, "And So It Goes" characterizes the movie, "Here" as well as any four words could possibly characterize it. Because, for the next forty minutes, one 2-5 minute scene after another, populated by a host of different people, over the course of several decades, occurs in that 20x20 rectangle; commonly known as a living room. 

Of course, while the stars of the movie are A.I. age regressed Tom Hanks and Robin Wright, their screen time is shared with numerous other Hollywood "wannabees" who frequent the myriad of scenes which take place in that living room, and which speak to everything from a man who invents a 360 degree lounge chair to a returning WWII soldier who takes up residence there with his wife to a boy artist who is, ultimately, more suited to a different vocation. 

An hour later I still find myself in that same boring little living room with all those boring actors dressed in the motif of whatever time period they hope to portray and continuing to strut and fret their stuff. An hour I can never hope to retrieve. But rather than make it two hours, I stand to my feet, and find my way to the carpet-covered staircase.

An hour I would never retrieve. 

But before the final minute of approximately one - six hundred fifty fifth thousandth of my life elapsed, and I crossed the threshold towards the red lit exit sign, I glanced to my left, and waved at the young couple. 

Two people whom I did not know, and who I will, in all likelihood, never see again. And yet, I consider the scant few seconds which it took to offer them a closing salute were inestimably more valuable than the hour I devoted to that convoluted movie; which I am equally unlikely to ever see again.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

*The math in the second to last paragraph is based on the fractional amount of time one hour is to the 655,000 hours the average American male experiences in the course of 75 years.

A VERY SMALL BOY ON A VERY LARGE ELEVATOR

 4298

What follows is a small excerpt from my autobiography. It’s a sometimes humorous account of an incident which occurred in my young life, and a corresponding and parallel incident which occurred a full sixty years later.

And while what I am about to share with you is, as I have implied autobiographical in nature, for our purposes tonight I want to encourage you to think of it as an allegory of life, itself.

Having been a participant in the story, I’m about to share with you, and having come away from it alive, at that time in my life I might have admonished anyone who would listen,

…“if this is all there is to family fun, you need to avoid it at all costs!”

For on a given day, month and year, my dad and mom packed me into the family automobile, (I can’t tell you the make or model this far along) and off we went. Had I any inkling what “lay in wait” for me, I would have definitely avoided that excursion in favor of something a bit more mundane.

I can imagine my response when my mother made me aware of the “golden opportunity” which lay ahead of me that day.

“Mommie, where we be goin? Daddy plomised me a I-creme cone, if I be good.”

To which she may have replied.

“Yes, he told me. We’ll pick it up on our way home, Royce… if you’re good. But if you’re not, then…”

Well, I guess we drove 5-6 miles, and pulled into a busy parking lot. I looked around, and then upward. We were surrounded by tall buildings, and I could smell the salt air. It turns out daddy had laid a roof on one of these massive structures, and had discovered a little known attraction; at least little known in our little corner of the world.

“Royce,” daddy spoke. “We’re gonna do something super fun today. Look up at the top of that building,” (and I followed his finger to the sky.)

“Son, watch this.”

I strained to see what my dad was referring to. Suddenly I saw it. A flash of orange and green color moving like a swift caterpillar along the edge of the roof. And then it was gone, but the noisy clatter continued and cut the surrounding air like a razor. Daddy told me to keep watching, and again a speeding flash of color, and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished again.

My father’s voice was tinged with expectation and a bit of humor.

“Well, my boy. Do I have a surprise for you today!”

Judging from the speed of the whatchamacallit and its proximity to the edge of the roof, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be surprised.

I’m sure I looked at my mother, and no doubt, her face wore an anxious, “I don’t know how smart this is, but I guess we’ll give it a whirl” sort of expression.

As we closed in on the building, I could no longer see IT, but the sound of the machine grew louder with each step. Now we found ourselves in what I later learned was a revolving door, which brought us face to face with the ground floor of a vast department store, filled with everything from blue jeans to light bulbs to pogo sticks. While my attention was diverted, (I may well have been looking at the latter of the three afore mentioned items) my dad navigated his small family up to a set of two massive double doors.

Suddenly, I heard a thump that seemed to shake the floor beneath my feet. I think I felt it more than I heard it, and the vibration startled me. Then the large metal doors parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

I was so transfixed by it all that my mom almost dragged me into the elevator. This was a first for me, but considering my tender age, almost everything was a first for me. And as I soon discovered, the “firsts” for that day were far from over.

I recall a feeling of being suspended in mid-air as the elevator lifted off, and I found myself holding onto my mother’s left knee for dear life. As I glanced up at my dad, it seemed he was a veteran of this little floating room with no furniture. As a matter of fact, a mischievous smile played about his lips, and somehow this comforted me. I turned loose of my mom’s knee, and as much as a four year old can manage it, I tried to act nonchalant. But I could only wonder what terrible surprise awaited me on the roof top.

The buttons on the control panel were labeled 1-14, and when we drew to a stop, I noticed there was a circular pattern of green light around button #14. Mama had been teaching me to count, and I realized there was no #13. I vowed to ask her about the absence of this number later.

The elevator “stopped with a start” and the doors parted again. My parents and I stepped out, and I was surprised to find we seemed to be in the midst of a garden center. Rakes, and sprinklers and work gloves filled bins of all shapes and sizes. And then I noticed the sound, the same sound I’d heard outside the building, but now it was almost overpowering. And if sound can be perceived as a circular motion, these acoustic vibrations had such an impact on me.

Mama allowed daddy to lead the way, since he had first told her about this place. It seems my dad had come home all excited talking about this cool ride. It was only years later that I learned the details.

Daddy led us to an open doorway, and as I stood directly in front of it, I noticed a short flight of stairs. It was about this time that mama leaned over, and considering the decibel level, almost shouted in my ear, (in a tone of voice that was anything but reassuring.)

…”Honey, I think you’re really gonna like this.”

I was led like a lamb to the slaughter up that short flight of stairs which seemed to grow progressively longer with each successive step.

And then… we were there.

As I stared in awe at the colorful, but foreboding piece of machinery, I almost mused aloud,

…“You want me to do what?”

Though my childish mind was immature and incapable of formulating such a phrase, with the passing of years I think those six words are as close as any to describing my perception of what greeted me that day.

“Royce, you’ll absolutely love it.”

“What daddy?”

I had been so transfixed with the scene before me that I hadn’t grasped what he said to me.

“Your mother and I will wait. Go ahead and get in line behind those other boys and girls.” 

“You mean… all by myself, daddy?”

“Yes son. Of course.”

I hesitated a moment to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. And so I dutifully obeyed.

Even at this age I could do the math. There were seven children in front of me, and I noticed that the metal ogre was slowing to a stop. It wasn’t enough that the machine emitted creaks and groans and whistles, as it sailed along the circular track, but the boys and girls who rode that iron horse of a thing were even louder. I watched them as they stepped out of their respective cars. Smiles lit up the faces of a couple of eight or ten year olds. But without exception, the younger kids seemed as pale as ghosts, and a little girl, (she might have been 5 or 6) first stumbled, and then “lost her cookies” on the boarding platform.

The attendant could only shake his head and groan. I felt something welling up inside of me, and I was close to emulating the behavior of the little girl. The seven of us, who had previously formed a perfectly straight line, had by now backed into a cluster. Had Mr. Nielsen been there that day, his rating would, no doubt, have revealed an utter contempt for this mechanical beast, and a very strong desire in all our hearts to simply… go home.

Now the attendant was mopping up the mess with a mop and bucket. I turned around so I didn’t have to watch the least favorite part of his less than professional vocation.  And I noticed my daddy and mama were watching me from the sidelines.

Henry McDonald’s son wasn’t about to chicken out at such a God-awful moment. No way, Jose. I didn’t have to ask. I knew what the answer would be. And as much as everything inside of me screamed for a way out,

… I knew it didn’t exist.

Then I did something that I would soon live to regret. As the young fella was putting away his mop and bucket, I stepped up into the number one boarding position, (but only three of the original seven children stepped up behind me.) I turned to look, and it was then I noticed two girls and one boy walking towards the staircase; hand in hand with their mothers and fathers.

But I had made my choice, if indeed a choice existed, and as the frustrated attendant opened the door of a brightly painted car… I stepped in and sat down.

The young man buckled my seat belt and pulled it tight around my waist. I was committed, come hell or high water.

…(At least it was a good theory.)

The metal monster picked up some momentum now, and my parents’ faces whizzed past at dizzying speed. I felt that old familiar queasiness in my belly and rising up in my throat. Someone nearby was screaming loudly!

And then I realized that someone

… was me!

I was on the back of a raging tiger. I was riding the crest of a hurricane-driven wave. I was a hapless bowling pin in the hands of a giant juggler.

Somehow I caught the eye of my mother, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed over to the little booth where the attendant sat with his hands on the controls. And as my vehicle completed yet another circle, I added words to my previously unintelligible tirade,

“Mommy. Mommy. Help me. I want off. Now!”

Suddenly, the forward motion of my vehicle slowed, and I dared to believe that I had been granted a reprieve from certain death. My agony abated and it seemed my salvation drew near.

As the car slowed to a stop I remember looking over at my dad.

He was still standing in his original spot near the staircase;

looking slightly embarrassed. How could a son of his, no matter how young, sacrifice an opportunity to prove his fearlessness, and wrest victory from defeat?

(Well, perhaps the foregoing implication is reading a bit too much into the scenario. But nonetheless, daddy didn’t appear to be a “happy camper.”)

No one had to beg me to get off the THING. I found myself helping the guy as he fumbled with my seat beat. I couldn’t get back on terra firma fast enough. I must have felt rather like the military veteran returning from combat duty, (though I wasn’t savvy enough at the time to bend over and kiss the ground.)

For the moment no one was in line to ride, and the hideous sound of metal against metal had been stilled. Suffice it to say, I made a quick departure from “the scene of the crime.”

I think my dad was smart enough not to verbalize what he might have considered cowardice. After all, I had my mother to defend me. And she had cooperated in my unexpected pardon from the throes of a fate worse than death; (or so it seemed at the time.)

I never returned to that place, with or without my parents. In just the past week, having done a Google search, I learned that this roller coaster, and several other rides, such as a Ferris Wheel, and a carousel sat atop Burdines in Miami. It was called Funland in the Sky. (But if you had asked that little boy, he would have assured you there was nothing fun about it).

At this juncture in life, the attendant would be my parents’ age, and my fellow patrons would, like me, be living out their early golden years. Amazing, how quickly six decades can fall through the sandy hourglass of time.

But I can assure you those two minutes that I “rode the whirlwind” impacted me far beyond their comparative brevity in terms of the expenditure of time.

For as a rule, I simply do not

… ride ROLLERCOASTERS.

Don’t, Won’t, Can’t, Shan’t, Nada

I am altogether cognizant that the rollercoaster on the rooftop was a pitifully small affair, and in the scheme of things no more than a kiddy ride. But they say everything is relative, and at least to me, I would have sooner climbed Mount Everest than finish the ride that day. And to be fair, that tiny piece of equipment could not have climbed much higher than a man’s head, nor shadowed a piece of ground much larger than half a tennis court.

And I have stood below some rather substantial coasters, and marveled at their width and height and length and breath. And I have wondered whether I could strap myself into one of those contraptions again; if my very life depended on it. (And it is amazing for me to consider how ten and twelve year old children find the wherewithal to ride such awesomely larger versions of the tiny machine I rode so long ago. It is beyond my comprehension.)

Well, I am pleased to report that on such and such a day, perhaps six or eight years ago, I summoned up whatever one finds to summon up, and for at least the space of a few moments, I conquered those old, enduring fears which had limited me, and held me back in ways too numerous to count.

My wife and I live near the now defunct Cypress Gardens. There on the grounds of this famous tourist attraction sat two ancient torture devices, (or so it has ALWAYS seemed to me.) Jean suggested I conquer my age-old fears, and step into a line of perhaps twenty people waiting to board the smaller of the two “torture chambers.”

But there was nothing remotely small about this one. Oh, of course it was a “David” compared to the “Goliaths” I have seen in some theme parks, but it was still plenty big; easily thirty feet from ground to crest, and covering the space of almost half a football field.

I admit standing there, waiting to board, I sensed a sure and abiding kinship with that small, familiar boy who once stood in a line, not unlike this one, so many years hence. And as my wife, in essence, assumed the role of my parents, it was all so fresh, and new, and present again.

And perhaps in some not so explainable way, that little tyke, from a bygone era, stood with me, and once again abject terror filled his tear-filled eyes. And in some mysterious, but not so impossible manner he placed his hand in mine, and we steeled ourselves for a mission that neither of us had the wherewithal to complete

… alone.

Hand in hand we sat down together, and allowed a young attendant, (who looked remarkably like the one who had long since grown old) to buckle us in. And as our personal little “time machine” gained momentum, and we approached the steep incline of its first loop, I think that tiny, mirror-image of myself envisioned an opportunity where he might complete that which he had once begun.

And I think the older, heavier, balder version of that little man cast his thoughts backwards to a time and place when he had summoned up all that was good, and true, and brave about himself, when he took his place at the front of the line.

And as our colorful, little vehicle mounted the first, yet highest crest of that small-gauged track, and proceeded to drop into oblivion, I thought I felt the tender grasp of a tiny hand in mine, and somehow the boy compelled me to join him, and so we lifted our arms in unison.

And as my wife looked on, and as the coaster navigated first one loop and yet another ebb, I closed my eyes and contained a silent scream. And when I thought I heard a muted sound beside me, I turned… and he rewarded me with a smile.

Time elapsing. Slowing now.

… Mission completed.

The friendly, young attendant unbuckles our seatbelt, and allows us to step out. My wife waves, and doubles her hands above her head, as if to say,

“It certainly took you long enough,

… but you did it!”

And for the briefest moment I think I see him again, and his little hand slips from my grasp, and he steps away. And with his fading presence, I think I hear a voice, a familiar voice, but young and vibrant once again.

 “See. I told you that you could do it.

… Now, let’s go home.”

 As you might imagine, I haven’t shared this story with you, only to omit a spiritual implication or interpretation or connotation.

For you see, the account of Matthew Chapter 14 tells us that Simon Peter was tested in very much the same way when the wind began to blow, and the waves came crashing down into that small boat drifting haphazardly on a large lake.

But very much like the little version of myself, after he had enough of his unexpected adventure on the Sea of Galilee, having walked on the waves, as His Master had before him, he began to sink beneath the waves, and very much like that tyke from so long ago, he cried out for help.

In Matthew 14 verse 30, Peter pleads, “Lord, help me, I’m sinking” very much like the little me, as I pleaded with my mother to get me off of that fearsome mechanical conveyance on top of a skyscraper in Miami.

We have all been there in various times and various ways. I have sat with literally thousands of people over the course of 30 years, and heard some pretty convoluted stories.

And not unlike the little me who accompanied the older me on that second roller coaster, we have one who sticketh closer than a brother, our Lord Jesus Christ, who has promised to be with us always, and who will bring us safely through the worst circumstances life has to offer.

There will be plenty of proverbial roller coasters and plenty of proverbial Sea of Galilee’s, and plenty of do-over’s throughout the course of our lives here, but He continues to reassure us, as He did with Peter so very long ago,

“Be not afraid. It is I.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD