LOOKING FOR THAT ONE

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“LOOKING FOR THAT ONE”

I was watching a movie today about a military doctor who was assigned a patient with severe dental and lip deformities, as a result of an automobile accident.

This surgeon took extraordinary measures to assist his patient, and spent multiplied hours planning the initial, and subsequent operations.  Never in his surgical career had he felt such empathy for a patient.  Never in his life had he devoted such caring effort or taken his responsibility so much to heart.

And though the young woman was gruesome to behold, and though her injuries were the worst he’d ever witnessed, he painstakingly went about his task.  And for those several months and years he assumed a duel role; that of a physician and prophet.  For he could virtually see the finished work before him.  He could see the invisible, as though it was visible.  And this energized him during periods of his own disappointment, and his patient’s disbelief.

The young woman often lashed out at him, wavering between despondency, anxiety, discouragement and outright rage.  Sometimes his patient’s immaturity surprised the doctor, and he could only shake his head.  But nothing deterred him from his task, and over many months, and years he performed surgery after surgery, and with each operation his dream took shape.  And with each operation his young client seemed more confident about the ultimate result.

The surgeon was doing the kind of breakthrough, innovative work that had never been attempted, and his associates and friends were often skeptical of the final outcome.  More than once someone accused the doctor of playing God.  And though their remarks were critical in tone, the physician chose to regard them as compliments.

And what of the young lady, the recipient of all his skill and labor.  Her facial deformities became less obvious, less hideous to those who beheld her.  And with time, the results of her unfortunate accident were almost imperceptible, until all that was left was a slight scar on the edge of her recreated lips.

And her joy and the corresponding joy of her surgeon overflowed and seemed to fill up the world around them.  She was whole again.  Her shame was vanquished.  She no longer hid her face from approaching strangers, and her new-found smile seemed to light up the whole world.

And our young patient determined to give back something of what she had received, and she began to impact one here, and bless one there.  And I think I forgot to tell you.  Before her injury, our little heroine had been a nurse.  And she returned to her duties with more vigor and more enthusiasm than she had ever felt before.  For having once been a patient, she could empathize far beyond theoretical.  Dream had taken on reality.  Fog had taken on flesh. And as Paul Harvey used to say, there was a “rest of the story,” because the doctor ultimately proposed to the patient, and they were married!

I have been thinking a lot about that “playing God” analogy, and at first glance it’s a repugnant characterization, since there’s One God and we’re not Him.  But that old adage, “Some people have to have a God with flesh on” rings true.  Why, just today, I received a call from an anxious client, a client who has left her childhood faith behind, and who disavows any further use for God.  But I ministered to her, nevertheless.  And I like to think that she was comforted and sensed a bit of God in me.

We have been given a rare opportunity; an opportunity to play both prophet and God; (and I say this with all respect and submission to the only One and True God).

There are those in our midst who will never excel nor attempt to do so.  There are those in our company who will make the cemetery richer; for the local cemetery is among the richest pieces of ground on earth.  It is filled with all the unexplored and unfulfilled dreams of thousands of God’s creations; lying dormant, never to find fruition.

My message to you today is to look for that one; that one person among many who displays the kind of unexplored, just under the surface potential to be singular, to be great, to be used of Our Lord.  Look for that man or woman who can be shaped, molded, impacted; for that one who, though sick, or sad, or even selfish has a pliable and contrite spirit, and who is marginally, and increasingly ready to assume their God-given place on the earth.

Inscribed on the Statue of Liberty is a verse: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teaming shore.  Send these, the homeless tempest tossed to me.  I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”  (Emma Lazarus)

Our mission is to people like that.  The tired, the poor, the huddled masses, the wretched refuse, the homeless.  And we have a lamp to light their pathway.  And we offer them a golden door; a door that leads to freedom. 

But many will refuse our comfort, and many will drift away.  But if we can touch just one at a time.  If we can make a difference in one life at a time.  We may not be able to change the world, but we may be able to change the world of one person.

Pour your efforts into all; everyone who seeks ministry, who seeks help, who pleads for deliverance.  Do this.  Do this.

But look for that one; that one who seems to provoke you to do a little more.  That one who not only needs a little more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands, and bids you mold them into something lovely.  Look for that one.  Give your best efforts to that one.

For you are both a physician and a prophet.  So reminiscent of that doctor who bestowed his best labor on the little patient.  God bids you pour healing salve into their wounds.  He gives you dreams in the night on their behalf, and provokes you to see the invisible and impossible. 

Someone, a Very Dear Someone, once looked intently at me and said, “You must have seen something in me.”  And I responded, “Indeed I did.”  Another Precious Someone once mused, “You almost sent me away.” And I replied, “I’m so glad I didn’t.”

Who can know how God may choose to multiply our efforts through these precious souls who wait for us to touch, impact and mentor them?

Look for that One, that One who seems to provoke you to do a little more.  That One who not only needs a little more attention, but who, by words or action, places themselves in your hands and bids you mold them into Something lovely.

 

Look for that One.

 

William Mc Donald, PhD, Copyright pending

 

OLD TOM

 

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My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

 

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

 

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

 

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay.

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

 

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

 

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

 

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

 

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

 

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

 

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

 

“And So It Goes”

 

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

 

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

 

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.

by William McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

OLD FOLKS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS

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We just passed the one year anniversary of my mother’s ‘homegoing,’ and as I watched the “Sunday Morning” program, this morning, a poignant segment reminded me of her (sometimes cynical) wit; (or may well have been the result of her increasing dementia).

Dear readers, following are several examples that I simply must share with you.

In one case, we had taken my mother to the emergency room for one of her many medical episodes, a nurse whom I had once counseled, and who, subsequently, became my intern walked up, and gave me a hug. And I, subsequently, introduced her to my mom. After “Julia” stepped away, my mother exclaimed, “That girl has the hots for you!”

Then there was the time that I visited my mother at the nursing home, and upon entering her room, I said, “Linda (my sister) is coming to see you tomorrow.” To which she exclaimed, “I must be dying!”

Though she lived in an “old folk’s home” the last couple of years of her life, my wife and I took my mother out to lunch on a weekly basis. As we were heading down Highway 17 one day, and with our sights set on “Red Lobster,” Jean mused. “Erma, last night I dreamed you were driving the car, and Royce and I were in the backseat kissing.” To which my mother quipped, “You two must still get it on!”

My mother was very susceptible to morphine, and after having received a bit too much of the golden liquid one day, my wife queried her. “Erma, do you know who I am?” And with this, mama responded, “Yes. You’re married to my son.” Jean countered with, “Which one?” Without so much as a moment’s pause, she answered a question with a question, “Which one do you want?”

Pt. 2

On another occasion, when several of us family members had gathered in my mother’s room, a nurse’s aide walked in, and made a comment about the size of her extended family. To which mama responded, “My children put me in here because I was so mean!”

Once while my mother was in the nursing home, the nutritionist stepped into her room with a plate of steaming food, and with a smile, presented it to her roommate. She received an unexpected response to the lovely meal. “I can’t eat that! My a_ _ is already too big!”

On another occasion, my father had been admitted to the hospital, having sustained a major stroke; and at which time he was involved in daily physical therapy. He was, admittedly, “out of it” during that season of his life, and often flirted with the nurses, and therapists. One day, daddy told one of the female tech’s. “Honey, when I get out of here, I’d like you to come see me. I’d show you a real good time!”

During the last several days of my grandmother’s life, my mother was visiting with her in the hospital. Suddenly my grandmother looked towards the door and exclaimed. “Erma, the doctor and nurses are down the hall. Quick! Get my stuff, and let’s get outta here!”

And no, I haven’t forgotten the implication with which I first began; the “Sunday Morning” segment.

The network reporter had stopped by a local nursing home to interview a very special couple who’d been married for an unbelievable time span of 81 years. Each were 99 at the time.

The reporter turned to “Mr. Brown,” and asked,

“Well, John, how did you propose to your wife?”

John smiled a smile that would light up all out doors, and exclaimed,

“I asked her if she had any money!”

Turning to his wife, the reporter asked,

“And Grace, to what do you owe the longevity of your marriage?”

You could tell Mrs. Brown was about to “come out with one.”

“I was content to let John do whatever I wanted him to do!”

And I simply must conclude this blog with a story related to my dearly departed mother in law.

One day she received a phone call from a dance studio; at which time the phone solicitor put on her most pleasant long distance persona.

"Mrs. Vaughn, this is Arthur Murray Studios. We'd like to offer you a golden opportunity! We would like to award you a coupon for two free dance lessons."

To which my mother in law responded,

"I'm sorry honey. I've only got one leg!"

You can imagine how quickly the solicitor offered her regrets, and got off the line!

 

Yes, old folks say the darndest things!

by William McDonald, PhD

 

MAYBE TWOUBLE LOOKIN FOR YOU 2

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Pt. 1

I previously wrote a blog which I titled, “Maybe Twouble Looking for You,” (after the line in “The Karate Kid II” in which ‘Daniel’ gets into it with a young guy in Okinawa).

Given some things which have occurred during my bike rides in the wee hours of the morning recently, I thought I would write a second edition of the blog.

Six or eight weeks ago, I was pedaling along a sidewalk on Spirit Lake Road, (I only pedal on sidewalks. The road is far too dangerous for bikers). As I ‘be-bopped’ along, minding my own business, a sheriff’s deputy came up behind me, and threw on his blue lights for a few seconds. (I can tell you, that got my attention).

Stopping my bike in the middle of the sidewalk, “Deputy Jensen” got out of his car, and strolled over to me.

I spoke first.

“What can I do for you, deputy? There’s not a curfew in effect is there?” (Dawn was still hours away).

He responded to my question.

“No. Not at all. But the McDonald’s restaurant over here was robbed this morning. I need to ask you a couple of questions.”

To which I said,

“I’m far too old for something like that. But I can tell you, I just saw something a few minutes ago at the business next to the McDonald’s.”

(and)

“There was a car sitting in the parking lot in front of that building, and a couple of people standing next to it. I know that place has been closed for decades. It used to be a ceramic shop.”

(and)

“I had stopped at the bank across the street for a second to swig some water when I saw them. It may have been my light, but they got in their car, and left immediately.”

The deputy asked for my ID, and I informed him I didn’t carry one with me with I rode my bike. Next, he asked for my name and street address, and indicated that he might want to follow up with me in the next day or two.

I never heard from him again.

Strange. My surname is McDonald. I worked at a McDonald’s hamburger branch in my early 30’s, and now I’m a ‘suspect’ in a robbery at my local McDonald’s.

McDonald seems to be a prominent name in my life and future.

Pt. 2

I was peddling on the same sidewalk, which borders the same street, several days ago, and preparing to round the curve on which my sister-in-law and brother-in-law live. Of course, it was “O Dark City,” as it always is when I climb on my bike and do what I have enjoyed doing for so long.

Suddenly, a car came up from behind me, slowed down, and came to a stop in the middle of the road; approximately fifty feet ahead.

Now, the driver opened the door, stepped out, and yelled something in my direction. Two or three indistinquishable words.

As the man stopped and directed his words towards me, I also stopped… and waited. I have long since discovered certain actions (and sometimes the lack thereof) that have served me well in the middle of the night, amongst “the ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties” which seem to inhabit my local darkness.

I will always wonder what he said.

Pt. 3

Last night, (actually this morning), I was pedaling down the same stretch of sidewalk; though I was a bit north of where I was in the two preceding stories.

As I passed my local Publix supermarket, I noticed a middle-aged man, a woman, and a pit bull cross the street. The woman had just reached the sidewalk with the dog, and the man was just about to step from the road to the sidewalk.

The mid-size canine was obviously pulling against its far too long leash, and began to bark at me. I had an immediate decision to make. Would I turn my bike, and cross the same street in the opposite direction from which they had come? Or would I stay on the sidewalk?

Of course, my concern was that the young lady wouldn’t reign in her dog several feet, and he would summarily bite me (many times) about my ankles, legs and mid section.

I stayed the course and continued to pedal. I was ready for that savage beast, as I was about to go into a “kick you as many times as I can when I pass you” mode.

I passed the barking, slubbering pit bull with two feet to spare. I am convinced that had he had the opportunity, he would have made my leg look like hamburger meat.

I mean, what on earth are sane, thinking individuals doing out there in the middle of the night?

(Pretend I didn’t ask that question).

by William McDonald, PhD

BECOMING REAL

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In the last class of the final course, I completed in my master's degree program, our professor shared the closing bit of guidance she would ever share with us.

I don't remember her name at this point, but I will always remember her words from that day.

And she used a quotation from "The Velveteen Rabbit" to illustrate her point. Upon reflection I could not think of anything more fitting or poignant with which to bid her students farewell.

"Once you become real, you can never be not real again."

Her implication was all about the trials and tribulations of life, and how they can wear you down, but how that in spite of it all, God and wisdom and patience and maturity win out.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A STRANGER IN THE DARK

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I have had numerous unusual and unexpected experiences in the dark. (Yeah, I have).

You see, five or six days a week around 4am, I grab my cell phone, fill up my metal tumbler with water, step out the door which opens into my garage, install the tumbler on my bike, open the garage door, and go out into the night.

As I inferred, I have seen some “strange and wonderful” things out there.

A young guy in a front yard, who when I passed him stepped behind a palm tree. A woman with a little pooch standing in a landscaped area of a bank, and singing the most eerie melody I’d ever heard in my life on this planet. A young man limping along the side of the road with a cane; just as I was completing my ride, and nearing my home. Trading my bike for my car, I drove up to where I’d seen him, offered him a ride, and drove him the remaining two miles to his home. He told me he’d just been released from the county jail, and had already walked about eight miles. An incident in which a woman seemed to be involuntarily dragged into a truck that had been stopped at a redlight. A twenty something year old man walking along a sidewalk who disappeared in the time it took for me to look left and then right at an intersection. A kitten sitting on the three foot base of a light pole, a mini-Doberman tied to a telephone pole; (both of which I retrieved and took home with me).

Pt. 2

As I prepared to go out in the wee hours this morning, the first day of the year, stuffed my cell phone in my pocket, fitted my metal tumbler on my bike, and opened the garage door, I saw him. (At least, I suppose it was a ‘him’).

A tall dark figure with long bushy hair. I suppose he was thirty feet away, and coming out of a neighbor’s yard. It is important to understand that I live on a cul-de-sac, the neighbor’s house is at the very end of the street, and their backyard borders the backyard of another family whose front yard borders a two lane highway about a hundred feet from my house. While I am in the middle of a large subdivision, and mostly well away from everything, anybody who “takes a notion” can walk off the highway, through a couple of yards, and arrive on my cul-de-sac. Apparently, this fellow had done just that.

When the phantom saw my bicycle headlight, he took a left, and began to walk towards another neighbor’s yard. As you might well imagine, when I saw this unknown guy with unknown intentions somewhere he should not have been, my early morning pursuits changed dramatically. I wheeled my bike around, walked it back into my garage, and tapped the garage door opener, (well, garage door closer). While I looked out my front window several times in the next few minutes, I never saw him again.

Odd, I thought. The first day of the year, and the first unusual nightly experience of the year; and one which admittedly sent chills up my spine.

And in retrospect, it occurred to me that as a believer, I can take comfort in the promises that,

“God is faithful, and He will not allow you to be tempted above that which you are able, but will, with the temptation also provide you a way to escape.”

(and)

“But I am persuaded that neither life, nor death, not angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus, our Lord.”

We have entered a new year, a year chuck full of 365 unwritten, blank pages. It is comforting to know that the great “I AM” has preceded us there, and can be depended upon to clear the unknown pathway before us.

by William McDonald, PhD

THE MESSAGE BEHIND THE MIRROR

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They say people have found some pretty incredible stuff hiding in almost plain view in old houses.

 

Secret cubby holes wherein lay chests of gold and gemstones, hidden rooms in which Civil War abolitionists hid escaped slaves as they journeyed to freedom on the Underground Railroad, hundred year old notes beneath loose wooden floorboards, messages written beneath several layers of old wall paint.

 

A few years ago, when we installed wood laminate in our living room, my wife and I made a point to write our names, date and a brief message of some sort on the existing tile floor; before it would disappear again for a very long time. Perhaps one day someone will ‘unearth’ what we left behind that day.

 

In the past couple of years, I took my bathroom mirror down. I don’t remember why. Perhaps it had developed a crack, or perhaps I had planned to replace it with something a bit more fashionable. I mean, the mirror was, no doubt, first installed in 1980 when our house was built.

 

Speaking of hidden messages, after I unscrewed the small brackets which held it in place, and set it aside, I noticed some cursive writing on the wall behind it.

 

Oval Mirror

 

20” Wide

 

40” Long

Pt. 2

 

Someone else had the house built, and lived in it for a decade before we purchased it. I have often wondered what became of the man who wrote the words under the mirror, and thought about the lives and outcome of the people who preceded us here.

 

I have often mused that we will be here for “the duration.” I just can’t imagine packing up again and moving into another home. The amount of stuff people accumulate in a lifetime of almost three quarters of a century is, well, almost unimaginable.

 

Speaking of the writing beneath the bathroom mirror, I see it every time I walk in and out of there. I was wondering tonight why I hadn’t replaced the mirror, or at least painted over the writing which was left there almost half a century ago.

 

Funny, when the workman wrote the specifications and hung the mirror, I had just turned 30. Now, (as I have previously inferred) I am approaching the mid point of my seventh decade.

 

I was in the midst of a difficult divorce when those words were written, and that mirror was hung. Later that year, I married a lady I’d known since 4^th grade, and who I’d dated after high school. I had just started working for UPS, and enlisted in the Army National Guard; having served in the Air Force during the waning years of the Vietnam War. I had graduated with my bachelor’s degree in Education the previous year. Things were on a roll now. I had just begun to grow up.

 

Almost a decade and a half later, I would graduate with an advanced degree in counseling and begin a 30 year stint (and counting) in this helping career field. I would minister to thousands of deserving souls in several locations, and I have been privileged to witness a myriad of people embrace hope and change.

Post-script

 

I realize I am much closer to the end than the beginning. I pray every day that I might fulfill whatever still remains of my destiny. The fading words beneath the mirror remind of the brevity of life, and the still unknown, unseen, unnamed, unborn generations which will one day inhabit the space which has momentarily been afforded me.

 

I have often laughed and said,

 

“I can be thirty again if I avoid mirrors.”

 

I don’t know, perhaps this is why I haven’t replaced the one in my bathroom.

by William McDonald, PhD