A DANGEROUS KINDA GUY

 4493

A DANGEROUS KINDA GUY

 

I served as a counselor in a local ministry called House of Hope, a residential ministry to women newly released from prison, for about three years.

 

One day a new House Mother reported for duty, and I volunteered to take her duffle bag to her second floor bedroom. However, in doing so, I made a crucial mistake. I threw the bag over my RIGHT shoulder, and began climbing the first flight of stairs; (leaving me without a free hand to hold onto the banister). Step 1, Step 2, Step 3, Step 4.

 

Now, I reached the landing, turned and began to mount the longer flight of stairs. Step 5, Step 6, Step 7, Step 8... And now... I suddenly lost my balance, and dropped the duffle bag; in a futile attempt to grab the banister to arrest my all but certain fall.

 

And now, I felt myself falling backwards. Like a vehicle in reverse. Step 7, Step 6, Step 5. Shoulders, arms, legs, and rumpus bouncing down the unforgiving wooden stairs.

 

My momentum was, by this time, so dynamic that, when I hit the landing, I navigated the 90 degree angle with ease, and continued my short, but unforgettable journey down the staircase.

 

Step 4, Step 3, Step 2, Step 1. And now, I bounced onto the hard wooden floor from whence I came.

 

As I lay there attempting to regain my focus, and ascertain the damage to my body, I heard footsteps. Jana, the House Administrator, ran up to me, and screamed,

 

"Don't get up! Don't get up!"

 

(But, I did).

 

As far as I could tell, no broken bones, and, at least for the moment, no significant pain. (The bruises and somewhat less than moderate pain would become apparent in the next few days). I realized how blessed I was to have avoided paralysis, or death.

 

The new House Mother told me later that she had seen the whole grizzly thing. She said it was the most violent fall she had ever witnessed in her entire life.

 

I learned a very difficult, I mean HARD lesson that day.

 

Throughout my life, I have been prone to accidents, most, sadly, of my own making. (However, as I reflect on it now, at least I have rarely made the same stupid mistake more than once. It seems I find new, more innovative, and more dangerous ways to get myself in trouble)!

 

Somehow, I have reached the grand old age of the lucky double digits (77). God has been gracious... (in spite of my knack for falling down stairs, sailing head first off my bike, running through a glass door, falling off a ladder, finding myself in the middle of a crime scene, nearly being wiped out by a ten ton dragline bucket, flipping my car, etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

AN OLD MAN. A NEW EXPERIENCE

 4492

AN OLD MAN. A NEW EXPERIENCE 

I was thinking about a suitable title for the following story, and then it came to me. As fitting a title, I think, as I have given to any of my stories.

For you see, at this writing I am quickly approaching another double digit. And I can only wonder how it is possible that I am on the eve of the big “77”. (I mean, I was just 12 yesterday).

But allow me to provide you some preliminary information.

Recently, my wife and I were visiting with our daughter, “Melanie” in Massachusetts during the Christmas holidays. And it just so happened that one of our sons, “John”, and his wife, “Janet”, a husband-wife cargo delivery truck team, were driving through the area, and they stopped by for a few days.

One morning while John and Janet were with us, (and unbeknownst to me), the latter of the two asked my wife a question, (but did not elaborate at the time).

“Has Bill ever sleep walked?”

To which my wife replied,

“No, not that I am aware of.”

However, the story began to unravel during a late breakfast the same day.

Janet began to tell us a story that I could hardly believe.

Looking at me, she said,

“Last night, well, actually just after daylight, you opened our bedroom door, and walked into the room. Then, you proceeded to walk over to the dresser. After this, you turned back towards the open door. However, as you passed the end of our bed, you stopped and…”

(It is important to understand that this point I had been chewing on half a small blueberry pancake, and I was in the process of swallowing the same).

Janet continued.

“You reached down and grabbed both of my feet; one in each hand!”

Now, I found myself choking on the pancake I had just begun to swallow, and I felt it go down the wrong way!

Grabbing my glass of orange juice, I downed a third of it before attempting to respond.

(Cough, cough) “Say what?”

Now, John spoke.

“I didn’t see you, but I heard you.”

(And I thought, “You certainly had a profound lack of curiosity at a time like that”)!

I looked at Janet again, and shook my head.

“Surely, you jest!”

And my daughter in law assured me she was not joking.

She continued.

“After you held my feet a few seconds, you turned, and walked through the door; leaving it open.”

As you might imagine, I immediately assured Janet that I had never done anything remotely like that in the past.

Now, I reflected on the night before. It is important to note that I had been sleeping in a recliner in the living room, as I do at home. (It all began when I broke my ankle years ago, and could not get comfortable in my bed, as I had worn a heavy plaster cast for six or eight weeks after the surgery).

Be that as it may, I recalled waking up in the same chair in which I laid down a few hours before my new experience, and with absolutely no memory of having wandered into their bedroom. (And suddenly, it occurred to me that had I chosen the door next to the bedroom door, I would have tumbled down a long flight of stairs to the basement)!

Now, I laughed, and asked my daughter in law,

“When I was playing with your feet, did I quote the nursery rhyme,

‘This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed home…’”

Janet assured me that I was silent the entire time.

Now, my son laughed, and spoke again.

“If you had tried to get in bed with us, I would have ‘drawn the line’ right there!”

Now, we all laughed out loud!

As you might imagine, I thought about my new experience the remainder of that day, and, for that matter, for days afterward. The story was both humorous and humiliating at the same time!

 

Post-script

Remind me not to buy a summer home on the side of a cliff, or set up a tent next to a four lane highway!

by Bill McDonald, PhD

REQUIEM FOR A UPS TRUCK

 4491

Pt. 1

I drove a package car (delivery truck) for UPS for 20 years. It was the most excruciating, emotionally unrewarding, (but financially rewarding), job I ever worked in my 77 years on this good earth.

I still dream UPS, (and the dream is ALWAYS the same). I find myself driving ole 59299, and the sun is low on the horizon; beaming its last golden rays across the streets, and houses, and trees, and hedges which surround me.

And I am running late

I have three packages which still need to be delivered, and I'm out of time. However, UPS takes a dim view of returning with packages which we left with that morning, and we drivers knew that we knew that we better do our darndest to come back "empty handed" at the end of the day.

I find myself looking at my watch now, and I have to get back to the center with my pickup packages in the next half hour. And so much like the phrase from the English novel and movie "Jane Eyre," I find myself saying to myself, "What to do? What to do?" (or) "Man oh man, am I in a fix! I gotta get myself movin!" (And since when I dream this dream, it seems SO real, and I wake up exhausted, I think UPS owes me almost 30 years back pay)!

Pt. 2

I was pedaling my bike today, and I notice one of those Big Brown Bessies ahead of me. I see the driver get out of his passenger side with a package, and walk to the door of a home. I decide I will chat with him when he returns.

"Hello. This was my route almost 30 years ago!"

The driver smiles, and speaks.

"Oh yeah?"

(and)

"Cool."

We exchange some small talk which includes my perspectives about a driver's pay having doubled since I was with UPS, and I ask a question related to the condition of today's delivery vehicles.

"Do you guys EVER wash your package cars?"

The driver assures me the trucks are NEVER washed now, (whereas we were required to wash our package car every night after the delivery day was over).

I remember sailing along these neighborhood streets while sitting in the driver's seat of ole 59299. I recall jumping up and down the three steps of my truck, and running a myriad of non-descript brown packages to a myriad of non-descript doors. And at that time, I must have thought my excruciating, seemingly non-ending tenure with UPS would last forever. However now, I am an aging former driver not all that far from my eternal "jumping off place."

Bidding my newfound friend in brown "adieu," I walk back around the delivery truck to where I parked my trusty bicycle, and suddenly a stray thought drifts through my mind.

I pause, and began to trace some familiar numbers into the dust which coats the side wall of that UPS vehicle. And I think of the oh so similar Big Brown Bessie I used to drive along these same streets; a delivery truck that has long since been crushed, recycled, and turned into door knobs, soft drink cans, license plates, (and perhaps embedded into the fabric of this very package car, and many of its compatriots).

And now, the man in brown starts his engine, and off he sails down the street. And I smile as I realize those familiar numbers which I have scribbled into the dust which coats this vehicle will grace it for months and months to come.

59299

Requiem for a UPS truck.

Bill McDonald, PhD

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD Pts. 1-5

 4490

Pt. 1

There is a new movie out with Tom Hanks called, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” And since I had previously written about Mister Rogers, (a blog that is not included here) I had more than a passing interest in seeing the movie.

Admittedly, I feel a little guilty going to a movie alone these days, as my wife is staying with our grandson, while our daughter is spending a month in Nepal, (yes, Nepal) engaged in doing social work with an NGO there. (But, admittedly, the guilt wasn’t potent enough to preclude me from following through with my plan last night).

Well, so I got dressed, and drove the ten or twelve minutes which separated me from the local theater in time for the first Friday evening premier showing. However, when I arrived, I discovered that the parking lot was full to overflowing, and I surmised that I didn’t want any part of sitting “bunched up” against a person on my left and one on my right, and a theater packed out like sardines in a can. As a result, I had no sooner drove into the “asphalt jungle” that I turned around and drove out of it.

Having arrived home, and put on my jogging shorts and muscle shirt, I debated whether I would “take in” the 10:30pm showing of the movie. I was tired, and I knew my ambition would, no doubt, progressively wane in the two hours which separated me from the process of redressing, getting in the car, and heading back to the theater.

However, as a counselor I tell my clients that there’s a great substitute for ambition, since ambition is little more than an emotion. The substitute? A decision. After all, anything good must be done “on purpose.” Only wrecks happen by accident. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that little teaching).

Pt. 2

Thus, I made a premeditated decision to take in the late movie. I realized that the theater would be “blown out” on Saturday, and I would find myself in exactly “the same boat” as I experienced the first time that I drove up to the theater.

Throwing my street clothes back on, I walked out the door at 9:55pm, and retraced my route of two hours earlier. Ten minutes later I drove into… an almost empty parking lot, and, as you might expect, I wasn’t complaining.

Exiting the car, I walked the twenty yards which separated me from my quest; the box office window. And as I stepped up to the young lady in the booth, and she looked expectantly at me, waiting for me to announce the movie of my choice, I almost involuntarily began to sing.

(Yeah, I did).

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood…”

And then, the slightest bit self-conscious, I mused,

“I bet lots of folks have walked up to you tonight singing that song.”

To which “Anna” replied,

“Ummm. Nope, you’re the first one!”

(Now, I really did feel like a fool. LOL).

Having purchased my ticket, I walked through the front door and into the lobby, had my ticket punched by the attendant, walked to the candy counter, asked for a senior popcorn and coke, paid for my goodies, and proceeded to theater number three; down the hallway, second door on the right.

Pt. 3

Walking into the theater, I found it to be very dark, very quiet, and …very empty.

As a matter of fact, I was the only human being in the whole place! And, as I always do, I climbed the steps of the amphitheater to the top, walked to the middle of the row of seats, and plopped down, dead center; setting my drink in the right holder, and my wallet, and cell phone in the left one. (I am one of those guys who doesn’t like to carry stuff in my pockets. Even when I go to a restaurant, I immediately set the obtrusive items on the table).

Be that as it may, I sat “all by my lonely” on the top row of the theater, as the commercials for upcoming movies ran for 15 plus minutes. However, finally, finally the opening credits of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” flickered onto the screen.

And as you might imagine, the first scene had a fairly believable Tom Hanks, portraying Mr. Rogers, walking through the door of his “play room,” opening a nearby closet, exchanging his suit coat for a red sweater, and taking off his street shoes, and replacing them with sneakers.

To be fair, I thought the well-known actor’s attempt to replicate Mr. Rogers’ voice was slightly contrived, (but perhaps only slightly). At the same time, he looked enough like “the real McCoy” for this audience of one to settle in, and absorb the plot and implications of the movie.

And without absolutely spoiling it for you, suffice it to say that the plot centered around a fella named Tom Junod, (though he assumes a different name in the film), an Esquire magazine journalist, and his relationship with Mr. Rogers; (which all began when the former contacted the latter for an interview).

Ultimately, this interview was titled, “Can You Say…Hero?” and became the feature story for the November 1998 issue of Esquire magazine, and featured (there’s that word again) the beaming image of Mr. Rogers on the cover.

Pt. 4

And again, without giving away anything, Mr. Rogers made a profound difference in Tom Junod’s life, and for that matter, the life of his entire family. He made a difference in many lives that God set in his pathway.

There was an exchange in the movie in which our “hero” is speaking on the phone with the foregoing journalist, and he says,

“Do you know who the most important person in my life is, Tom?”

And perhaps Junod merely responded with, “Who?”

And with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight catch in his characteristic voice, Mr. Rogers replies,

“Well, at this very moment, Tom, you are the most important person in my life!”

I think that’s how he made you feel. Yes, I think that’s how he made you feel. As if for that moment in time, you were the only person who really mattered to him.

I felt very much this way when I paraphrased the Book of Philippians; (years before I paraphrased the entire New Testament). It was as if I was given the wherewithal to walk into Paul’s Roman cell, and sit down beside him, and talk with him about his life, and impact and suffering, to know him as my friend and brother, and to realize his compassion and joy in spite of the circumstances which surrounded him.

Following is a poignant reminiscence from an article about Mr. Rogers.

“Every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,

‘the number 143 means I love you. It takes one letter to say I, and four letters to say love, and three letters to say you. One hundred and forty-three. I love you. Isn't that wonderful?’”

Pt. 5

And now, the movie finally drew to a close, and I hesitated to leave. After stuffing my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, I ambled down the long flight of steps, and paused to see if any actual footage of the “real” Mister Rogers would appear on the screen. And, in fact, it did.

There he was standing in his element, in his little “play room” with his puppets, and lighting up his little world with that memorable smile.

Now, I walked down the long hallway which led out of the very dark, very quiet and… very empty theater. And as I walked out the door, and into the lobby of the place, I could still hear the closing song as it trailed off behind me.Top of Form

 

Bottom of Form

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.

 

So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during those few moments which he granted me, I was, indeed, the most important person in his life.

 

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

 

By William McDonald, PhD

SAYING GOODBYE TO COOPER

4489 

The veterinary assistant was apparently running late, as Queenie and I were the only living occupants of the parking lot, my automobile the only inanimate vehicle, (aren’t they all) and the ‘Closed’ sign still hung inside the glass door.

 

 

 

Suddenly, a car slowed, turned into the parking lot, and pulled into an adjoining space. Obviously, not a clinic employee. I found myself looking into the troubled eyes of a middle-aged woman. She smiled a thin smile, and I returned the gesture. Normally, I would not have attempted a conversation, but since I happened to be ‘constitutionalizing’ my precious pooch, and in the proximity of the other vehicle, I said,

 

 

 

“Hi there. I guess the employees are running late. My little Queenie is having a tooth pulled and her teeth cleaned today.”

 

 

 

My momentary friend seemed pre-occupied with her thoughts, but the teary-eyed lady responded with,

 

 

 

“My little ‘Cooper’ is being put to sleep this morning.”

 

 

 

Having lost three previous pooches, her words struck me to the core. And having involuntarily paused for effect, she continued.

 

 

 

 “I’ve only had him a few months, and he was due to be vaccinated for a couple of common diseases. Unfortunately, before I could get him to the clinic, he came down with Parvo. It turns out five other dogs on our street have gotten it, and have since died of it.”

 

 

 

(and)

 

 

 

“Cooper weighed 55 pounds before he came down with the virus. He’s down to 28 pounds, and the vet hasn’t been able to do anything to help him.”

 

 

 

Pt. 2

 

 

 

With this, I peered into the half-opened back window of the automobile. I found myself looking into the mournful eyes of what appeared to be a chocolate lab.

 

 

 

I recently published a little volume entitled, “A Man’s Tribute to His Beloved Dogs,” and one primary implication in the book is the innate intelligence of canines, and their ability to “understand what’s going on.” Perhaps they comprehend much more about the import of human speech than we possibly imagine. I believe the precious pooch in the back seat knew what was about to befall him. He just knew.

 

 

 

I turned my gaze away from the hopeless animal in the back of the old sedan, and without a word, I placed my hand on her left shoulder. (Strange, I almost placed my hand on her forehead, as a sort of blessing, and have done so in the past, but this inclination seemed a bit too forward).

 

 

 

The milk of human compassion. There is just something about touch which conveys an underlying emotion, and cognitive affirmation, like nothing else can do; whether a handshake, a hug, or an arm around the shoulder.

 

 

 

I had ‘been there’ and nothing conjures up the requisite understanding and subsequent response, more so than having been there. And before each of us withdrew our hands to our own persons, I verbally expressed my understanding.

 

 

 

“I can feel your pain. My first pooch crossed the Rainbow Bridge almost 70 years ago.”

 

 

 

My newfound friend seemed surprised. I like to think I look younger than my years. (I guess staying away from mirrors helps perpetuate this myth).

 

 

 

Having done what I could, and since about this time the clinic door was opened to me, I strode through the portal with my twelve pound Shih Tzu in hand.

 

 

 

It has been several years since that experience, but I will always remember those few fleeting moments, and will be thankful I had the opportunity to comfort another human being; who was facing one of the most difficult experiences any of us ever will.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

TWO PEOPLE DRIVING ONE CAR

 4488

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

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

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

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

JUST HELPING OUT

 4487

On a crisp October evening in 1994, John F. Kennedy Jr. walked into a small Italian restaurant in lower Manhattan and did something that the owner, Giovanni Russo, said he'd never forget—when he saw that every table was full and a young waitress was clearly overwhelmed and on the verge of tears during her first night on the job, John quietly asked if he could help bus tables until things calmed down. Giovanni later told the New York Times that he tried to politely refuse, saying 'Mr. Kennedy, you're a guest here, please sit and I'll find you a table,' but John just smiled, rolled up his sleeves, and said, 'I worked in a restaurant during law school and I remember how terrifying the first night is—let me help.' What makes this story so achingly beautiful is that John spent the next forty-five minutes clearing dishes, refilling water glasses, and cracking jokes with the flustered waitress named Maria Sanchez to help calm her nerves, and when the dinner rush finally died down, he refused Giovanni's offer of a free meal and instead left a hundred-dollar tip with a note that read, 'For Maria—you're doing great, and it gets easier, I promise.' Maria, who went on to become a restaurant manager herself, kept that note framed in every restaurant she worked in for the next twenty-five years, and she told a reporter in 2004 that 'Mr. Kennedy taught me that night that real class isn't about where you sit—it's about who you're willing to stand beside when things get hard.' What Giovanni remembered most was John saying as he left, 'My mom always told me that how you treat people when nobody important is watching tells you everything about who you really are.' He reminds us that true character shows up in the small, unseen moments when we choose service over status.

Author Unknown

SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

 4486

The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint. 

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

by Bill McDonald, PhD