KATHY GOES FREE

 4411

Kathy Bates, the well known Hollywood actress, appeared in a CBS Sunday Morning segment.

Now is her 70’s, she looked fantastic; having lost 100 pounds over the past couple of years.

As the interview progressed, the correspondent asked various questions about her weight loss, a current TV production she is working on, and her favorite movies in which she appeared.

Ultimately, the subject turned to the movie, “Misery” and the Academy Award for best female actor. While they were speaking about the topic, a couple of video segments of the movie were spliced into the interview.

And now, Ms. Bates began to speak about her acceptance speech, and an especially vivid, but negative memory of this speech.

“I have one major regret, and sense of guilt about that speech that I haven’t been able to tunnel over, under, or through throughout the years.”

(and)

“It never ceases to bother me”

(and)

“I thanked everyone… except my mother;” (who has by now, no doubt, gone on to her reward).

“I didn’t thank my mother for her support.”

To which the interviewer replied,

“Oh, but you DID thank your mother.”

With this, Ms. Bates looked incredulous, and responded,

“No, no I did not!”

With this, the reporter brought up the actress’ Oscar acceptance speech on his phone, and played the video for her.

Of course, she proceeded to thank the director, and producer, and her fellow actor, James Caan. And as she concluded her acceptance speech, Ms. Bates says,

“And I want to thank my… mother, and father who sacrificed so much to get me where I am today!”

You could have knocked the actress over with a feather. She was absolutely dumbfounded! (It was immediately apparent that Kathy had not watched the video of her speech in the thirty plus years since she gave it).

When she was able to speak, a sense of relief swept over the actress. And now, she looked at the interviewer, and said,

“I did mention my mother in the speech!”

(and)

“Thank you. Thank you so much!”

I am thrilled that Kathy Bates came to terms with the flawed mindset which fostered guilt, and kept her from enjoying life to the fullest.

Her experience is a poignant reminder that too many people walk around with flawed memories. or false perceptions of a word uttered, or an action performed in the past; by one’s self, or someone else.

Those flawed memories, and false perceptions have the wherewithal to keep us stuck, or, at least, overwhelm us with anxiety, depression, and guilt.

Scripture assures us that,

“You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free.” (John 8:32)

Overcoming false, or dysfunctional mindsets may take a time of reflection, of sorting out the past, of forgiving others, or one’s self, of sharing with a friend, or enrolling in a therapeutic process.

I believe it is imperative that we separate truth from untruth, fact from fable, function from dysfunction. And as quickly as humanly possible; in order to live out a peaceable, balanced, and productive life on the earth.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

GOODNIGHT JAMIE, WHEREEVER YOU ARE

 4410

My wife and I enjoyed a vacation in California a full thirty years ago. (It is suddenly startling to think three decades have come and gone since that trip). We visited Monterey, San Francisco, Muir Woods, Yosemite National Park, and Sonora.

 

We passed through Sonora at lunchtime, and as a result, Jean and I decided we’d try the local Shoney’s buffet restaurant. As we walked in we noticed that the waitresses were outfitted in light blue, long-sleeved blouses, and dark green floor-length dresses; so much like the character in, “Anne of Green Gables.”

 

As we sat down, our waitress stepped up to our table, and it seemed to me that things were getting “curiouser and curioser.” For our twenty-some year old server, whom we quickly learned was named, “Jamie,” (not sure if we ever got a last name) was a close doppelganger for Megan Follows, the actress who portrayed Anne in that popular television series.

 

Of course, we inquired whether anyone had ever called the similarity to her attention. And she responded with a smile and a polite, “Well, not today,” and proceeded to take our orders. Having finished our meals, we left a generous tip for our momentary friend, walked out the door, got in our car and drove away.

 

I suppose we had driven a couple of miles when I looked at Jean and said,

 

“This might seem weird, but I’d like to go back and get a picture of Jamie. She looks so much like that television character, and it would be another nice memory of our trip.”

 

With this, my wife said she had been thinking much the same thing, and so I turned the car around and we went back to Shoney’s. Having arrived there, we went in, and explained to Jamie that we’d love to have a photo of her as a memento of our trip. She quickly acquiesced, suggested we walk out on the unenclosed front porch, and smiled for the picture. And with that, we thanked her, bid her farewell, and we were off.

 

In the intervening decades, I can’t begin to tell you how often we have reminisced about our trip, and more often than not referred to the now, almost 50 year old  Jamie, more than any other person or place.

 

“I wonder how she’s been doing?” (and) “Perhaps she’s married now.” (and) “I wonder how long she worked at that restaurant.” (and) “I wonder if she remembers us the way we remember her?”

 

While it is doubtful we will ever see our momentary acquaintance again in this life, we never cease to think of her, refer to her as a sort of long lost friend, and even pray for her. Oddly enough, she’s just never all that far from our minds.

 

Goodnight Jamie. Where ever you are.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

I'll BE RIGHT BACK!

 4409

Several years ago, my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics by a large number of speakers.

Well, for anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.

Apparently, one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the, well, schedule.

It can safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the auditorium I found myself completely

… alone.

And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 3^rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank. Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).

At any rate, as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you guessed it)

… Ruth Graham.

Ruth, (if I may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,

“I’ll be right back!”

As I recall, I sheepishly responded with,

“Uh, Okay.”

The well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known, except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.

Interacting at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if we were acquainted.

I refer to such scenarios as

“creating memories.”

And though, if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,

… I never will.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

OH, SO CLOSE TO FALLING ON MY REAR END

 4408

As our overseas tour was coming to a conclusion, we checked into the Highlander Hotel near Newtonmore, Scotland, got settled in our room, headed to the hotel restaurant, were seated at a nearby table, and feasted on a spread of sliced beef and broiled salmon.

As I stood up to leave the restaurant, I stepped backwards from the table, and realizing there was a ceiling to wall curtain behind me leaned slightly into it; expecting there to be a supporting wall behind it. (I was sadly mistaken). I found myself falling backwards into thin air. Realizing my calamitous predicament, my wife emitted a loud scream.

You’ve seen one of those commercials in which the guy is walking through a bunch of folks who are unmoving, and seem to be frozen in place? I picture the scene in the restaurant very much the same way. Well over a hundred men and women frozen in place, and looking in our direction.

Thankfully, I righted myself. (Perhaps the result of plenty of practice while working at UPS, and falling off bicycles). At any rate, the curtain bore the brunt of it, and I managed to tear the hem a bit at the ceiling. The near accident averted, I smiled sheepishly, looked over at a nearby table, at which was seated several of our group members, and I …snapped out a military salute!

Counting the two songs I have been privileged to sing to our group during this overseas tour, I suppose I will be referring to this mishap as my “Third Presentation” a.k.a. “Oh So Close to Falling on my Rear End Presentation.” And whereas, my wife made videos of the first two renditions, I would rather have had one of my momentary mishap. I think it would be a hoot.

When it is “all said and done,” I hope no one thought I had partaken of a wee bit too much of the Guinness or Scottish whisky that night; which I had not. At any rate, it isn’t the first time I’ve made a fool of myself in public.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

JILL OF ALL TRADES

 4407

My wife and I recently returned from a trip to West Virginia to see my daughters. As it fell together our credit card mileage club required us to fly from Orlando to Chicago, and catch a plane back to Charleston. On the way home we boarded in Charleston, flew to Chicago, and then back to Orlando.

 

All that being said, as we prepared to fly back to Florida, and was ready to board in Charleston, we stepped up to the United Airlines counter, and a middle aged lady named Anna greeted us. She processed our bags, and issued a boarding pass. My wife thanked her, and we proceeded to the security window where the agent checked our ID’s and boarding passes, put our carry on’s upon the conveyor belt, and we walked through the metal detector.

 

Now we headed towards the gate and having arrived there, we sat down, and I engaged in conversation with a man named Steve who was a licensed marriage and family therapist, and who was also flying to O’Hare International Airport. Interestingly enough, Steve had an internet girlfriend in the Philippines whom he had never met in person, and he was planning to spend three weeks with her.

 

Suddenly, I looked up and saw the afore mentioned Anna again. She was behind the United Airlines gate counter. As the time ticked closer to our departure, Anna circulated among the passengers, tagged some of the heavier bags, and made the customers aware that these items would have to go in the belly of the plane. Now, Anna got on the microphone and summoned us to the gate.

 

Having walked through the moveable boarding hallway, we walked through the airplane doorway, and (you guessed it) Anna greeted us, and subsequently could be seen chatting with the stewardesses and the pilot.

 

With this, my wife and I walked down the aisle, found our seats, and stowed our carry on’s in the overhead storage bins. I was fortunate enough to sit by the window, as I have always enjoyed a window seat. While take off’s and landings cause me a certain amount of anxiety, I love to look at the fluffy cumulus clouds, and the tiny roadways and tinier cars six miles below me.

 

As we were preparing for takeoff, I glanced out over the tarmac, and noticed someone was seated in the cab of the moveable boarding hallway, and who had already moved it away from the aircraft. And then I realized who that someone was. You guessed it again. Anna had just stood up, and turned to assume her place at the United Airlines baggage counter!

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A CIVIL WAR JOURNAL - Chap. 3

 4406

REMINISCENCES OF THE WAR BETWEEN THE STATES BY A BOY IN THE FAR SOUTH AT HOME AND IN THE RANKS OF THE CONFEDERATE MILITIA

By Joshua Hoyet Frier II

Chapter 3 – Lewis Paine

It was in the early part of the year 1862 that by chance I happened to meet the boy Doc Powell, who afterwards became the man of unenviable fame; Lewis Paine, the attempted assassin of Secretary Seward. I was the bearer of a message to his father who lived at this time in Hamilton County Florida. I had become acquainted with all the family, with the exception of him prior to my visit there. I had heard of him as a very indolent, and worthless boy; the black sheep of the flock, I had fancied him as a boy of my own size.

 His brother, Oliver and I walked out to the barn to put away the horse I rode and found him asleep on the barn floor. Oliver aroused him, and when he awakened he leered at us in a manner I shall never forget, and after rubbing his eyes awhile, the boy that was destined to figure so prominently in one of the most remarkable tragedies in this, or any age, looked me square in the face for the first time. I thought him one of the ugliest, and most repulsive looking boys I ever met; great coarse hair and a dull stupid countenance, slow and awkward in movement. Such was my first impression of the boy who as a man became the pliant tool of such a scoundrel as J. Wilkes Booth. Later on in the evening when I got better acquainted I found him remarkable good natured. 

We wandered around a lake that evening and he pointed out his favorite fisherman stories which showed him to be a sportsman of the first-water. Among them was one that was of peculiar interest to me; he told me he had slipped off one Sunday morning with tackle for some sport and caught the devil. He had a terrible fight to land him and when he finally succeeded, he came near biting off one of his fingers and walked right back into the water. I asked him how he farther identified the “Old Man” when he told me Uncle Green, an old Negro on the place had told him the character of his game. From the description he gave of it I have since been able to make and alligator turtle out of it, one of the most vicious reptiles that was ever created. This one accomplished a reform that the fear of the rod never could; breaking a bad boy from fishing on Sunday. 

Before the evening was over Dock and I were great friends; all his repulsiveness had vanished, and it was with regret next morning that I parted with him. I exacted a promise from him to visit me at my home, and gave him a similar one in return, neither one of which was ever fulfilled. I never met him but once afterwards and that was purely accidental as he shortly afterwards joined Capt. Stewart’s Company of the 2 Fla. Regmt.

And I never heard from him but once until his father got a letter from him after Lincoln’s assassination. He father endeavored to go see him in Washington, but lack of funds prevented it. The old man was the soul of honor, no stain rested on any of his family with the single exception of this boy, whose full name was Lewis Thornton Powell. 

The old man died a few years ago in Orange County in this state; full of years and honor. It was circulated some years after Paine was hanged that the Elder Powell said he had yielded up his life in a good cause. This I am satisfied was an untruth; for while the entire family proved loyal to the South, Lewis excepted, (he having joined the United States Army at one time) they were to high toned and honorable to countenance assassination in any form. His brother Oliver before mentioned died or was killed early in the war. While the oldest brother George is still living in this states. 

Such, dear reader, was my acquaintance with the man who for a given price attempted to take the life of Secretary Seward, and thereby coupled his name to one of the most atrocious crimes of modern times. While Paine’s execution was deplored by his family, and their sympathetic friends it was generally acknowledged to be just as such penalties ever is. Of one thing, I and everyone is satisfied, that he knew anything of him; it is this; that he was incapable of conceiving or aiding in the origination of such a fiendish plot as this. 

And in acting his part he was simply clay in the molder’s hands, it was his nature to be easily influenced for either good or evil, and persons who knew him well said, that any move or enterprise that had the element of danger in it, had a fascination for him that he was unable to resist. It was said of his family that the fear of man was something they knew nothing of. Still, they were peaceable in manners, and courteous to all, and a more law abiding citizen, or better neighbor than his father never lived.

(Pgs. 13-18)

WILL THE REAL KOJAK PLEASE STAND UP?

 4405

Valdosta Times

JOHN ERVIN’S LOOK-ALIKE – TELLY SAVALAS

By Becky Vail

Will the real Kojak please stand up?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LOWERING YOUR ELEVATOR

 4404

Long before “911,” a very similar occurrence happened in the same city, but whereas the second circumstance was vengeful and purposeful, the original was nothing less than an accident.

 

For during WWII, an Army Air Corps pilot was flying over Manhattan in a dense fog. He was hopelessly lost, and his aircraft was far too low. Suddenly, The Empire State Building loomed ahead, and the unfortunate pilot crashed his large warplane into an upper floor of the building. Of course, he and his co-pilot died instantly, and several other office workers were also victims of the disaster.

 

And then there was the elevator operator. As she had for so many years before, she was going about her normal duties when the airplane smashed into the building. The cables to the elevator snapped, and the machine plummeted to the basement, dozens of floors below.

 

Thankfully, the elevator was equipped with an automatic braking system. As it fell to ground level, it began to slow down, but since it had already reached such a high speed, the braking system was just not enough to prevent the elevator operator from sustaining severe injuries.

 

“Marjorie” sustained several broken bones, and internal injuries, and I cannot speak to whether her injuries healed sufficiently for her to resume a normal, functional life, but… she lived.

 

I believe this story has something to teach us, beyond simply avoiding riding elevators in tall buildings. (No, I’m not serious.) I have climbed the stairs which lead to the top of The Washington Monument, as well as those leading to the crown of The Statue of Liberty, and I can affirm that an elevator is faster, and requires so much less effort. As a matter of fact, I have ridden an elevator to the 86^th floor of The Empire State Building, on my senior trip in the late 60’s; the same building which experienced the foregoing tragedy a quarter of a century prior to my own visit.

 

Sometimes we invest too much faith, too much trust, too great an expectation in those with whom we have to do, and sometimes, as a result, we get hurt. People let us down. We set our proverbial elevator too high, and we find ourselves plummeting to the basement, below. I think we would do ourselves a favor if we set our expectations of another person at lower level, so that if they disappoint us, we don’t find ourselves emotionally devastated. And if that person, or persons exceed our expectations, well, we can rejoice, and can be glad for it.

 

That almost forgotten event from such a long time ago has a valuable lesson to teach us; one which is difficult to learn, and one which some people never learn, but which has everything to do with our health and happiness. 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

COME OUT OF THE BAG!

 4403

A reservist friend of mine served in the Regular Army during the Vietnam War. He was and is a wonderful man. He emulates his own life motto in every respect, and it is, “Know your stuff, (well that’s not exactly the word he used). Take care of your people. Be a man.”

 

Decades ago, Staff Sergeant ‘Cliff Landon’ (not his real name) served in a very singular and morbidly unpleasant position. He was assigned as an

supervisor with the Army Casualties Team during the Vietnam War. Cliff performed the initial processing which expedited shipment of our deceased soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines, killed in battle, back to the United States.

 

He routinely unzipped body bag after body bag; orange deodorant spray in one hand, and a wooden baton in the other hand.

 

Oft times, military casualties lay on the field of their labor for days at a time, and what I would call, “vermin” would often hitch a ride in the body bags, having been scooped up with the deceased military men; (thus the need for the club).

 

As the months rolled by, one day was very much like another, and Sergeant Cliff became almost immune to the sights and odors of his gruesome profession. And so, it was until that one particular day…

The hardened soldier bent to unzip another bag; among the dozens which covered the hanger floor. It was then he noticed a slight movement, and he raised the club above his head. Zip went the bag, and at that instant something happened which never occurred in all his months in this gruesome vocation.

 

 “Whew. It’s hot in here!”

 

 Well, my dear readers, I assure you Sergeant Landon almost “lost it.”

“We have a live one. We have a live one!!!” my friend screamed. From somewhere in the distance medics came running, and the wounded soldier was rushed to a nearby operating room.

 

And rather than keep you in suspense, I can tell you that young soldier was spared, and is alive and well today. Granted, he came away from the experience with only one arm, and one leg, but he will tell you how fortunate he is to still be among “the land of the living.”

 

A footnote to this story.

 

Sergeant Landon was, ultimately, released from active duty, and later registered at a local community college. It was the first day of the semester, and he reported to a Room 203, and sat down. First course. First semester. First year of college.

 

Suddenly, Cliff heard someone wheel in behind him, and turned to look.

To his amazement he recognized a very familiar face, and the body below it. A man with one arm and one leg. The smiling fellow managed to wheel himself up to our hero, and the reunion was nothing short of outstanding.

 

Interestingly enough, (at least to me) the earlier passage of scripture is eerily similar to the predicament of the poor soldier in the body bag.

Let me refresh it for you.

 

“O, wretched man that I am. who will deliver me from the body of this death?”

 

As I mentioned earlier, I love the hidden implications of various passages of scripture, verses which we are prone to “run right by,” but which spoke volumes to believers of the first century church.

 

Allow me to characterize the meaning of this scripture.

 

During the time of Christ, the Roman government used a primary form of execution; Crucifixion. However, this wasn’t the only method by which a condemned criminal was put to death. (And after I summarize this secondary method, any felon would have begged to be hung on a cross).

 

For you see, the foregoing scripture refers to is this particular method of ancient execution.

 

It seems that under this gruesome method of execution, …a dead body was tied securely to a condemned prisoner. And under penalty of death, no man was permitted to remove it from him. And thus, this condemned man was forced to eat, drink and sleep with that awful burden on his back. And, (as you might easily imagine) as that terrible weight on his back deteriorated, the prisoner grew progressively sicker, and, ultimately, died.

 

“Who, indeed, shall deliver me?”

 

Obviously, the Apostle Paul is using a powerful illusion of an actual practice here.

 

Notice Paul’s metaphor. In the same way that any man would be required to pay the ultimate penalty for the slightest attempt to release the condemned criminal, this (and the following verse of scripture) serve as a witness that you and I were condemned to die a spiritual death, and suffer the eternal penalty, when Christ Jesus volunteered to untie that dead body of sin from our back, and set us free. However, as a result, He took that dead body of sin, as it were, and it was tied to his back. He volunteered to die in our place.

 

I can tell you, I am struck with the similarities between the two stories, one ancient, and one current; which I have just told you.

 

I have often shared the story of Sergeant Cliff and the unfortunate soldier in the body bag. This tale has had an impact on countless people over the years. Of course, it’s not enough to merely tell the story. It is imperative that you understand the spiritual interpretation I have assigned to the story.

 

In my first story, our poor “corpse” was shut off in that dark, airless bag. How long he lay there is still a mystery. Somehow, this singular man existed in a coma-like state; without human contact.

 

But suddenly, he found himself resurrected; not unlike Lazarus of old! And can there be any doubt that the good sergeant represents the figurative Christ figure who unzips the dark enclosure which confined the poor man, and cries out,

 

“Come out of the bag!”

 

I deal with the dregs of humanity, those who suffer from addictions to alcohol and substances, clients who exhibit various psychological maladies, as well as “normal folks” who struggle with unforgiveness, hurtful memories, and failed relationships; those who are figuratively closed up in a body bag, enveloped by darkness, deprived of human affection, and deprived of oxygen.

 

I have often told these two stories, and I have often shared the following admonition after I finished telling the stories.

 

“Come out now! Don’t hesitate another moment. You don’t belong there. There are those among us who will help you find your way out of the bag! But you must cooperate. You must be willing. Only decay and airlessness reside therein. Rise out of that awful place. Come out of the bag!”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

TWO PEOPLE DRIVING ONE CAR

 4403

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

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

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

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

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

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

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

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

Only God. Only God. Nothing less than an abject miracle. The two occupants of our car and the four occupants of the other car might easily have died that day. And the spot which Jean fills in the audience tonight would be vacant, or filled by another, and I would be just as invisible now.

And I have no doubt He gave His angels charge over us that day, and when we needed a miracle, well, He gave us one. 

Bill McDonald, PhD

PERSONAL PARALYSIS

 4402

I have previously reflected on the following experience, but not having ready access to that story among far too many files, and far too little time, I feel inclined to reflect on it again.

A few years ago I decided to trim my neighbor’s tree. Generally, I would not have been quite so altruistic, but the limbs of the tree hung over my driveway, and as spring approached each year a healthy supply of oak pollen showered my car, and the pavement upon which it was parked.

And since there was a basketball post just beneath the offending tree, it seemed good to me to prop my straight ladder against it, and having done so, I set about the task at hand.

Did I mention round posts and straight ladders are altogether incompatible? (Well, they are).

Suddenly, the ladder accomplished a task for which it was never intended. It became mobile. And I became its unintended pilot. Given the choice to ride the thing to the ground, or jump, I chose the latter.

And as I “winged my way to worlds unknown” I chose to land upright, (or something approximating it) and twisted my body just enough in my failed flight to the concrete to land on my right foot.

I knew. I just knew

My ankle was broken

After lying there a moment, and using my car for leverage, I stood upon my left foot, hop-scotched to my front door, opened it, and made my wife aware of my injury.

Fast forward several weeks, and I found myself in a prep room at Tampa General Hospital preparing to have my ankle reconstructed; since it was not only broken, but it was badly shattered.

Just prior to being wheeled into the operating room a nurse administered an injection to my right thigh, and explained that shortly thereafter my leg would develop a state of paralysis, and that when I awoke I would experience this condition for several hours prior to the restoration of feeling.

As she predicted, when I came to I was provided an entre into a state of being to which I had never before been privy.

For a full 65 years I had enjoyed complete use of all four limbs. Suddenly, I was short one. Initially, my paralytic experience was nothing more, nothing less than interesting. The natural scheme of things in which we move, and live and have our being had been interrupted. Perhaps if I expended a little more thought, a little more will power I could lift my leg an inch off the bed. (Well,… no). Perhaps if I focused all my energies on my little toe, I could wiggle that tiny digit. (Nice try).

Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch

By this time I had gone from being an interested observer to a concerned participant.

I imagined the worst. I mean, I could just see myself being discharged in this condition, and having to use a cane the last third of my life; while all the while dragging a useless limb behind me.

Alarmed, I spoke,

“Nurse, uh, you’re probably aware that my leg is paralyzed. Uhmm, does this sorta thing ever go wrong? Is there any chance I’m stuck with this dead leg for the duration?”

“Nurse Simms” assured me that the paralysis would abate, and that I’d regain complete sensation and mobility in the limb within a few hours.”

And true to her word, that is exactly how things fell together.

My nephew, his name was “Wade,” was born with a malady referred to as “Spina Bifida.” While he had some use of his arms and hands, his legs and feet were paralyzed from birth, and he was dependent on a wheelchair throughout his all too brief life. And though Wade endured countless surgeries, and a significant amount of pain and humiliation, he never seemed to complain, and it was if the angels had loaned him a permanent smile.

During the two decades Providence allowed Wade to grace this planet, I sympathized for and with him. However, it was only after his death, and my subsequent injury, surgery and (temporary) paralysis that I could truly empathize; since it was only after my own experience that I had any real hope of understanding what ‘til then was beyond my understanding.

I think this is a major reason Jesus came to the earth. In the eons which preceded God assuming human form, and adding the three letter suffix, “man” to His title, He had never been subject to flesh, frailty, fatigue or the limits of time and space. Suddenly, having purposely limited Himself, He was given personal access to the human condition; in a manner not heretofore possible.

Having experienced momentary paralysis I can empathize with the disabled in a way that I could have never hoped to do before the event.

Having taken on flesh and having lived among us, I am confident that our Lord Jesus Christ was afforded the wherewithal to empathize with mankind in a manner in which He had never before been able.

My favorite passage of scripture speaks to this concept, and my personal experience which I have just recounted causes it to be that much more precious to me.

“We have not a High Priest who cannot be touched with the feelings of our infirmities, but He was in all points tempted as we are; yet without sin.

Let us come boldly to the throne of grace that we may receive mercy for our failures, and grace to help in the time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16)

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AND MEDICAID HITS THE DIRT

 4401

At least it will if our president, senate and house of representatives have anything to do with it.

President Trump's "Big, Beautiful (not) Bill" is on the verge of passage in the U.S. Senate and U.S. House of Representatives. And to be sure, I am a registered Republican, but I deplore what is currently "going on" with congress's "Just get in line and march off a cliff like lemmings mentality."

Millions of Medicaid recipients will lose their coverage on the backs of tax cuts for the mega-rich. It just "ain't" right. (Not only so, but as a result of the passage of this bill, trillions will be added to the national debt).

And I don't approach this travesty from a strictly objective sense. (No, I'm don't.) I have a mentally ill, borderline retarded daughter who has lived in an assisted living environment for 30 plus years. She desperately needs Medicaid to continue as is, and uninterrupted.

I am currently emailing all the Republican members of the Senate, and I have previously emailed members of the House of Representatives; reminding them that the 70 million people in the U.S. who depend on Medicaid, and their families, will remember their vote when the next election cycle comes up.

When you "have a name in the game", (such as my own daughter), this matter takes on a whole different perspective. This administration previously discontinued the USAID program; which has led to thousands of unnecessary deaths overseas. The drastic monetary cuts which are the basis of the Not So Beautiful Big Bill will lead to the closure of numerous nursing homes, hospitals, and assisted living facilities, and the deaths of countless elderly and disabled persons in THIS country.

**Please call, write or email your senators and members of the house of representatives, and do as I have done, and will continue to do. (And please don't tell me it isn't remotely the way I have described it. Medicaid was chosen for drastic budget cuts simply because it was the "handiest dandiest" item to cut; given the size of its annual expenditures).

by Bill McDonald, PhD