YOU PUT MORE IN. YOU GET MORE OUT

 4338

Pastor Bob was hosting a week long revival in his church, and he had contracted with his good friend, Evangelist Bill, to do the preaching.

On the last night of the revival, and after the last sermon was completed, Pastor Bob rose from his chair, and stepped to the pulpit.

“Well, we certainly have appreciated the good preaching of my friend, Rev. Bill, and we want to take up a love offering now, and send him on his way. So, I want everyone to dig deep, and do what they can to bless this wonderful evangelist.”

With this, two deacons stepped forward, and began to pass the offering plates from pew to pew. Interestingly enough, a little lad named, “Markie” and his mother had faithfully attended every meeting, and the young blond-haired tyke had paid special attention to everything the evangelist had said and done. And, as usual, the small boy was intently watching the flaming revivalist, as the offering plate made its way past him.

And while Rev. Bill realized the offering was meant for him, he could not let the plate pass without putting something in; if only a matter of formality, and potential embarrassment if he hadn’t. And holding the offering plate in one hand, he rummaged through his pockets, dug out five quarters, and dropped them in.

Little Markie, who was sitting on the opposite pew, was ‘all eyes.’

After the pastor concluded the service, and most everyone had gone home, it so happened that little Markie’s mother was talking to the preacher’s wife, and the little boy lingered nearby. Suddenly, Bob walked up to his dear friend Bill, and poured the offering in his waiting hands.

Well, my friends, there wasn’t all that much to pour. For as the money exchanged hands, Markie heard the momentary rush of paper, and tinkle of coins.

…2 one dollar bills & 5 quarters

And I can tell you those 5 quarters looked very familiar to not only the young evangelist, but to Markie, as well. Of course, Evangelist Bill was far from impressed, but he tried his best to hide his disappointment.

Suddenly, the good evangelist felt a tug on his pant leg. Looking down, he recognized the little boy who had paid him so much attention during the course of the revival.

Little Markie looked up at Rev. Bill, and with an innocent smile on his face exclaimed,

“Preacher, if you had put more in, you would have got more out!”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

EMPTY CHAIRS

 4337

Empty chairs   

Two empty chairs

Oh, they have been empty in the past; anytime someone happened not to be sitting in them.

But this time is different.

For you see, they will never be occupied again; at least not by the original two who once filled them.

I can still see my parents, Henry and Erma, seated in those matching recliners. Reading newspapers, or perhaps a National Geographic, or simply starring out onto their mobile home-side pond.

My dad loved that chair, or better put he loved what that chair afforded him.

Rest and relaxation. Information. For as I have implied, he gleaned his latest knowledge of the world here, as the result of television, or a favorite magazine. Discovery. For so often he would lift those ever-present binoculars, and gaze upon one or the other of “his” birds. And the gators which lolled their lives away upon the sandy beach below.

More than once, many times more than once, I showed up, unannounced, and invaded his “inner sanctum;” only to discover my dad in the midst of an ethereal sleep. Which, as with us all, is strangely prophetic of that slumber which one day must overtake each of us.

And always, and without fail, I would exclaim,

“Wake up, Daddy. They’ll be plenty of time for sleeping!”

And he would rouse himself, if only long enough to acknowledge my presence, and e’er too many moments elapsed

…well, you guessed it.

And my mother.

I think she occupied her matching recliner, more often than not, for the sake of a selfish agenda.

To simply dwell in the presence of the one to whom she had pledged herself; some six decades hence. For it was here that she experienced and enjoyed the presence of the man who had, long since, relinquished activity in favor of the sedentary. Oh, mama put up a good show of doing one thing or another, as she occupied her matching chair. But I think it was all about my dad, and the singleness of what took two to complete.

And now. Now the chairs are empty.

My wife has a photograph of her parents. It was taken at the lake home of their son. And in that poignant picture Doc and Ruby may be seen seated on the lakeside porch, facing one another, and engaged in a private conversation; known and meant only for themselves.

I can picture my own parents engaged in a similar exchange. But that one set of chairs have been exchanged for another. What the years stole from them has been restored, and in good measure.

Empty chairs. Not some cheap montage of wood and metal and fabric. But an almost spiritual place.

My father occupied his chair when, after his stroke and my mother’s subsequent inability to care for him, I made him aware it was time to submit himself to the inevitable, and to enter a skilled care facility.

My mother sat in her chair the last time we took her home for lunch, and the final occasion on which she saw her sisters; having been placed in that same facility.

It was in this room, and in these chairs my parents lived the most and best of their waning years. It was here that they did the things people do, as they scratched out what joy still remained to them in their declining years.

It was in these chairs that they entertained family and friends, complained about the weather, boasted of a new great grandchild, worried for the fate of the nation, laughed about a childhood picture, remembered something from their youth, memorialized a lost comrade, and expressed hope for their children’s and grandchildren’s futures.

It was from these chairs that they laughed and lived and loved, and prepared to divest themselves of the mortal and to put on immortality.

Empty Chairs.

Strange, how rich and full and almost complete an empty chair may seem.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

SCRATCHING THE DIVINE ITCH

 4336

As I was writing about my waning years in pastoral counseling recently, and what comes next, a particular phrase came to me. And I tend to think it means what it says and says what it means.

"The Divine Itch"

I think God is gracious to provide believers with an indication, a realization, a destination when one vocation gives way to another. And as I have inferred, I choose to refer to this in between stage in time as the Divine Itch.

And as I have mentioned in a previous blog, I have begun, as it were, scratching my personal Divine Itch. And, I believe, to scratch it is to first acknowledge its presence, and to secondly prepare to embrace whatever comes next.

There are any manner of variables which set us up to begin sensing that Divine Itch, and preparing for whatever God still has in store for us.

A time limited job or ministry, a decision by the earthly powers that be who may rule and reign over us, open doors, our own advancing age, etc.

Almost every day I pray,

"Lord, don't let me miss whatever remains of my destiny."

And since I'm convinced our Lord cares about what comes next for us, as individuals, more than we do, I believe He will continue to instill that Divine Itch in the spiritual recesses of my spirit and your spirit; whenever one stage in our lives give way to the next.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

ON THE EVE OF THE NEXT STAGE

 4335

I have been thinking a lot about one particular topic lately 

I simply can't get it off my mind; (nor do I especially want to). It is a subject that every helper will at one time, or another consider; if he or she lives long enough on this good earth.

But to back up a wee bit

I have served in the capacity of pastoral counselor for 30 plus years, and I find myself near "the jumping off" point. To tell you I began my ministry at the relatively young age of 45 will immediately clue you in to both my current age, if you do the simple math, and the dilemma of what comes next for me.

In the course of those 30 plus years, in ten locations, God has invested thousands of men, women and children, into my care. And I have not only been generally happy with the results of my time and efforts, but it has been a personally gratifying endeavor. 

They say, "Whatever you give, you get" and "Whatever good thing you do always comes back to you." And I have proven this concept to be true. (And we are not necessarily talking about green paper with dead president's pictures).

In the course of my time on earth, most especially the past several years, when I have been much more aware of it, I have witnessed people in various professions linger a bit too long, (at least from my estimation), and I am determined not to emulate that circumstance in my own life.

And I think people with the kind of realization and determination I have expressed ought to be quantifying whatever remains of their current status. And as a result, I have thought in terms of 2-3 more years, lest I "overstay my welcome."

Back in 1993 I met with my first client, a young lady with the initials J.U. There is someone out there with different initials, still unknown to me, but known to God, who will serve as my final client. 

I think it's an awesome thing to consider when you are starring into your own professional sunset, and the proverbial night is slowly darkening around you.

Almost every day I pray,

"Lord, don't allow me to miss whatever remains of my destiny."

Thankfully, when I step away from my current ministry and profession, He still has something else for me to do, and someone else for me to impact. 

And I find myself eagerly looking forward to what comes next.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

I'LL BE RIGHT BACK!

 4334

Several years ago my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such guests as the Christian singer, Damaris Carbaugh, and the mother of Ellen Degeneres’ former girlfriend, Ann Hecht, (who was decidedly against the gay agenda), and of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.

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

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

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

… alone.

And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 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

 

 

 

PREACHING TO A STAR

 4333

I will never forget Andy Bos; a 90+ year old man who attended our local church, and who happened to be the grandfather of the well-known television and movie star, Taylor Lautner; (who has just completed the popular Twilight film series).

Time would fail me to provide you an understanding of the quality and quantity of Andy’s life and spirituality. Suffice it to say that he was a wonderful man who was taken up with Jesus Christ, his Savior, and looked forward to his long-awaited home in heaven. (In the last few days of his life, it was my distinct privilege to stand by his bed, and sing a couple of hymns to him. And as I did what I could to make his final journey easier, Andy raised his frail hands and whispered, “Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”)

A year or two prior to my friend’s death, I was provided the opportunity to teach a couple of Wednesday night series at my church, and Andy was faithful to attend. It happens that all our services are taped, and Mr. Bos made me aware that he always made a point to pick up one of my teaching cd’s at the end of each of my presentations.

More than once as I was chatting with him, Andy would smile and say,

“Brother Royce, you know my grandson is the actor Taylor Lautner. I have been sending him copies of your Wednesday night messages.”

To which I, no doubt, responded,

“Well, I hope he takes time to listen to them.”

(And I truly hope he has taken time to both listen, and reflect on his eternal destiny).

On this side of heaven, we will never fully realize the impact which we may, as believers, be afforded.

Only eternity will tell the tale.

By Bill McDonald, PhD

A CHANCE MEETING WITH THE GOVERNOR'S WIFE

 4332

Sometime in the mid to late 80’s, I pulled my UPS truck up to the back door of a sports shop at the Winter Haven Mall in order to make a delivery there. As I exited, and pushed my hand cart up to that rear portal, a late model sedan pulled up beside me, and a middle-aged lady exited the vehicle.

At this point, I don’t recall our conversation, but to be sure the woman informed me that she was none other than Cornelia Ellis Wallace, the ex-wife of the former governor, and presidential candidate, Alabama’s George Wallace. It seems she was well-acquainted with the owner of the store, and had stopped by to see him.

Cornelia attracted national attention on May 15, 1972 when she threw herself over her husband, George, after his having been shot four times during an assassination attempt in Maryland. At that time, Governor Wallace was promoting his bid for his party’s presidential nomination. Who can forget that poignant video segment which was highlighted on all the national news broadcasts?

Mrs. Wallace ran for governor of the State of Alabama in 1978, but did little active campaigning and finished last among thirteen candidates for the Democratic nomination.

As it fell together, one of my counseling clients attended the same church Ms. Wallace attended, and several years after I first met her, my client procured Ms. Wallace’ autograph for me. She succumbed to cancer in 2009.

My chance meeting and brief conversation with the illustrious Cornelia Wallace, at the back door of a mall sports shop, is among the most memorable of my life.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

ENOS & THE GEORGIA CEMETERY

 4331

Back in 2008, when I and another cousin, Kimberly, meticulously planned a grave marking ceremony for our Scottish immigrant, Revolutionary War ancestor, well, I can tell you we “didn’t miss a beat.” Literally, hundreds of hours were poured into the construction of that ceremony. By the time we finished our figurative blueprint, and the invitations had gone out, it was a regular Rembrandt.

However, I can tell you, readers, that there’s can be a huge difference between a blueprint, and a completed building.

A blueprint is only a theory,

… until the building is raised on the site.

But to return to my story…

November 1, 2008 dawned,

and a couple hundred McDonald descendants appeared (Check)

Each and every one of the planned speakers showed up (Check)

Representatives of the Georgia Sons of the American Revolution in period uniform graced us with their presence (Check)

The still and video photographers were right on time (Check)

And Bagpipers “dressed to the hilt” in kilts (Check)

The Boy Scout troop with their pre-selected bugler filed onto the cemetery grounds (Check)

Why, even Sonny Schroyer, (“Enos” of “The Dukes of Hazzard”) graced us with his presence (No Check required, since his appearance was an unexpected treat). He lives in the area, and counts a couple of my relatives, his friends.

But since too many participants, too much geographical distance, and too much required time precluded a dry run, in the few minutes I had available before the ceremony commenced, I provided my participants a few last minute instructions.

And then it began,

… and then it began to “go wrong.”

Well, to say it went wrong would be a gross exaggeration, since to be fair, there were only a couple of obvious mistakes in an otherwise flawless ceremony. And it goes without saying that when you’re involved with turning blueprints into buildings, any conscientious architect is sensitive about millimeters, turning into feet.

And when I say it went wrong, it was, paradoxically, the one ingredient which should NOT have gone wrong, and in which I might have invested the most confidence.

For when our “seasoned” bagpipers proceeded to “strut their stuff,” (who had, I’d been informed, participated in dozens of such commemorative ceremonies) their kilts and pipes figuratively, (if not literally)

… unraveled at the seams.

“Danny Boy”???

(They might just as well be playing, “Jingle Bells”)

and the (not so) amazing,

“Amazing Grace”

(A tone-deaf nuclear bombardier wearing earmuffs might have paused to shake his head in disbelief).

And I, “Mr. Structure,” himself, was absolutely mortified as the pipers piped their way through instrumentations which should have been the most familiar of all selections to folks who play the pipes.

But upon reflection, when I consider the depth and breadth of a ceremony which required an hour, I suppose a scant fraction of the elapsed time having been disrupted by the horrendous interpretation of two songs isn’t all that significant.

I can tell you, I was my own worst critic that day.

And so it is, I think, with all of life.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

MRS. OLESON & ME

 4330

Pt. 1

From my way of thinking the three best television character actors of all time, (not in any particular order), were:

Lucille Ball

Don Knotts

Katherine MacGregor

Katherine MacGregor you ask?

Among the three names I expect 99 out of 100 of my readers recognize the first two, 

...but Katherine MacGregor?

Perhaps only 5 out of 100 would recognize the foregoing moniker, but were I to say Harriet Oleson, well now...

Obviously, her TV name is much more recognizable, (as in "Little House on the Prairie").

All three of my Oscar nominations, (they all appeared in movies also), have gone on to the heavenly hall of fame, and I had no relationship, whatsoever, with the first two on the triune list. 

However, I knew Mrs. Oleson personally... well, at least from a distance.

But to start at the start

For whatever reason, maybe "just a wild hair," around 15 years ago I decided to send a fan letter to Katherine MacGregor. And for lack of any other recourse, I visited her TV daughter's social media site, and asked Alison Arngrim (Nellie Oleson) if she had access to the mailing address of the most hateful woman in 19th century Walnut Grove, Minnesota. (Well, I didn't put it that way).

She did

(Except by this time the elderly actress had moved to 21st century Los Angeles, California).

With a modern aircraft, but without a time machine

But seriously, I wrote my first letter in which I praised Katherine's acting skills, and requested her autograph. (Of course, I was realistic enough to realize that my correspondence might not be reciprocated). 

As it fell together, I could not have guessed how well reciprocated my letter would be.

Pt. 2

Depending on how you look at it, I made one mistake. In my initial letter I referred to a distant cousin who had told me that she had participated in a local California little theater with Katherine MacGregor, and that she knew her well. (To be fair I was only acquainted with this particular cousin through social media, and had never seen her, nor actually spoken to her).

And although Katherine neglected to mention my cousin in her return postcard, she proceeded to do so in subsequent letters.

"Who is this cousin of yours?"

(and)

"I have never met your cousin."

(and)

"We definitely didn't appear on stage together."

Before it was over I had received six letters from the Walnut Grove mom & pop storekeeper; and over the course of two years. Not only so, but she also forwarded an additional letter to my relative. And the vast majority of the verbiage was dedicated to her inability to remember her.

And as you might imagine, sooner, rather than later, I thought,

"Katherine MacGregor has a couple of common traits with her TV alter ego. She is extremely obsessive, and she is vindictive."

(The first trait was, of course, more visible than the second given the nature of the written versus the spoken word).

Did I say, "Depending on how you look at it, I made one mistake?" (I thought I did). But I was speaking hypothetically. I don't look at it that way at all. In spite of the fact that Mrs. MacGregor devoted a great deal of recurring time and effort to the topic of my cousin, I was thrilled to receive so many letters from one of my three favorite television character actors!

They say, "All good things come to an end."

Well, I realized my pen pal relationship with Mrs. Oleson was over when I read the following lines...

"I'm sorry Dr. McDonald. I'm simply too old to continue corresponding with you."

And while I did not respond to her final letter, I thought,

"I'm not the one who kept it going in the first place!"

My illustrious friend lived into her 90's, and has been gone almost a decade. I have retained her letters in my autograph book, and have also scanned them to my e-files. They are among my prized possessions.

Mrs. Oleson was one of a kind. 

For all her flaws, (and don't we all have a few), I miss my friend.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE AMAZING CONTRIBUTION OF A SELFLESS YOUNG MAN

 4329

Laura Hillenbrand, the author of “Seabiscuit,” gave an interview sometime after her book was written, and had sailed to the top of the New York Times Best Seller List. I will never forget the book, or the interview. I have long since misplaced my copy of the book, and I haven’t been able to locate the portion of the interview which contains the following account. As a result, it has been necessary for me to rewrite a summary of her words from memory in order to share the following with you tonight.

It seems that when Laura Hillenbrand was a little girl she happened to be at the neighborhood pool one day, the same activity I also used to enjoy. Well, after she had swam awhile, a thunderstorm arose, and the majority of the children ran for cover into a screened-in porch; adjacent to the pool. As the kids sat bare-legged on the floor, a well-meaning young man, a lifeguard, offered to read the children a poem; not just any poem, but one of the longest, and most poignant poems of all time, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” You can imagine that many of the children opted to collect their things, and head off for home, in spite of the light rain and thunder. But Laura, and a few of her young companions remained, and were soon engrossed in the young man’s grisly tale.

The lifeguard read stanza after stanza of the poem, and the more he read, the more horrendous and awe-inspiring were the words. The rain fell in droves now, and it seemed to Laura that the crack of lightning, and the boom of thunder, served to accent the dark adjectives which so easily rolled off the young man’s lips.

You see, “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” recounts the fictional voyage of a couple hundred unfortunate sailors on an old sailing ship. Not so different from Paul’s account in the Book of Acts, the ancient vessel is overcome by an intense storm, but in this case, there is a significant loss of life.

As the young fellow finished reading the poem, and put down the book, the children seemed to sit silently for a brief moment, as if to transcend the hundred, or so stanzas which had so transfixed them. And then it was time to head home.

Laura picked up her towel, and began the short walk to her house. In spite of the depth and darkness of the subject matter, this young girl who left shallow footprints on that old dirt road which took her home, was suddenly very unlike the child who had sat down cross-legged on that cold tile floor. Her very soul thrilled within her to realize, even at this young age, what she wished to do with her life; what she had to do with her life. As surely as the account of lightning in the old poem mirrored the actual lightning which enveloped the afternoon sky, Laura was filled to overflowing with insight. She would become an author.

And the world renown author commented at the end of this particular segment of the interview, “I never knew the name of that young man who selflessly offered to read to a few young children on a little porch by a neighborhood pool, but what he did for me that day, though of course he had no way of knowing, the time and topic he shared with me that day, well, it made all the difference in my life. I would not, could not, have been the same person I am today. My life would not have turned out as it has, without the momentary contribution of that selfless young man.”

As retold by Bill McDonald, PhD