"22 years ago today, an unimaginable tragedy struck, and shook our nation, and my city, It feels like it was yesterday, and at the same time, like forever ago. I was 16 years old at the time and I remember sitting in Spanish class in a new school I just transferred into from another borough in NYC, 2 days prior, and the dean of the school walks into my class and says 'a plane hit world trade center' and 'they thought it was accident at first but things are getting really bad. They believe its a terror attack,' and 'we have to evacuate the school and go home.' I remember some of my class- mates were crying and some were saying 'my mom works there,' or 'my dad works there.' I remember running to the office to call my dad because I did not have a cell phone at the time and all lines were down. I could barely reach Him, but after several attempts I finally did. It was scary. I think everyone was in utter shock. No one could believe what we saw on TV, and we lived only 9 miles away from Downtown Manhattan. My heart still aches thinking about all the victims and families that lost loved ones that day. It is unimaginable. Officially around 3000 people died that day but many believe it is much more. Thinking every person was valuable, every person had a name and an Identity, every person mattered, every person was important to God and to their families. And in one moment everything changed. It makes me think, once again, how valuable and fragile life is. How I should cherish my family, friends, and those around me. How I should draw closer to the Lord and love Him even more, and not waste time or life on things that don't matter or have eternal value."
Monday, September 11, 2023
A Firsthand Account of 911
Sunday, September 10, 2023
911: A Universal Remembrance. A Personal Irony
911
I think every American immediately
conjures up two interpretations of these three digits.
#1. The phone number one calls in an
emergency situation.
(and)
#2. September 11th, 2001 (911) - You
know this date well; (unless you have been hiding under a rock somewhere).
However, speaking of the title of this
blog, given the length of time which has transpired since 911, it occurs to me
that there is a universal remembrance.
It has been 22 years since the
terrorist attack on the two World Trade Centers in New York City, the Pentagon,
and the ill-fated airplane which never reached its intended target.
A young person might have easily
procured a job position, and retired since those massive towers came tumbling
down, the Pentagon was left with an unsightly hole in its side, and the 40
passengers and crew of Flight 93 died in that field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
There is not only a universal remembrance,
but also a personal irony, again involving the subject of retirement, and it
has much to do with this same ghastly attack.
For you see, in 1974 I was offered a
position as a civilian personnel clerk by the Air Force Finance Office which
was located in that five-sided building outside of Washington, D.C. However,
after I walked one of the extraordinarily long hallways in that massive place,
and interviewed for the job, was officially offered the position, and was about
to accept,... I decided against it. At the time I lived in rural Virginia, a
full hour from the Pentagon, and I didn't want to devote ten hours a week
driving back and forth to a job location.
Speaking of my personal irony, it
occurs to me that had I accepted the job position in the Pentagon, I might
easily have still been working towards my retirement when the aircraft left
that gaping hole in the building, and that I might have conceivably died in the
carnage.
911. Such a universal remembrance and
such a personal irony.
by William McDonald, PhD
Saturday, September 9, 2023
YOUNG & BEAUTIFUL
4122
JUDY TYLER - A Life Cut Short
Monday, September 4, 2023
THE WRITTEN WORD
4121
The spoken word races away as quickly as the next can be sent
in pursuit, and so each word flees into oblivion. The sounds which we call
‘words’ are momentary, and passing things, for once articulated, they have
their demise.
Not so with the written word. It lasts as long as the paper,
or the stone on which it is inscribed. It has the availability to be called up
as often as the reader desires. Black marks on white paper. But such strokes of
the pen have preserved intact the memoirs of a thousand mighty men, the prose
of a parcel of poets, and the leanings of limitless leaders. The men have
passed away, but their words remain. And these words, thoughts and grand
illusions live a second time, and a twenty-second time.
Lincoln’s “Four score and seven years ago” reverberates anew
off well-worn headstones which were new and polished a hundred years hence. For
though a century of deterioration now ‘decorates’ the stones, and the orator’s
voice is muted, the word lives, and lives and lives again with each new issue
of the printed page.
Common men, royalty, masons, parsons, prophets and slaves.
Though gone a thousand years; they live. For their words remain; words of
frustration, hope, warning and expectation.
Oh, the blessing of the written word. Not sparrows falling to
the ground, as the spoken word. No, but the written word takes wings and soars
into the future to lite afresh beneath a student’s eye.
With each written offering we pour a little of our mortal
wine into a more permanent cup. Future generations will drink from this
fountain.
And what of today? The written word provokes the unlearned,
inspires the faint-hearted, strengthens the weak, and enables the ignorant.
Best of all the written word is a traveler’s garden. A place to visit when a
few stray minutes are strung together like pearls. A place to rest when the
world has been unusually cruel. A place to relax at the end of an unseasonably
rainy day.
Whether tis Eugene Field’s “Little Boy Blue,” Hemingway’s
“The Old Man and the Sea,” or Shakespeare’s “MacBeth,” our world is richer for
the written word.
How many of our written words will live on, and what insight,
admonition, or encouragement will they minister to those who drink from its
fountain?
by William McDonald, PhD
Sunday, September 3, 2023
THE KINDLY PRIEST AND THE ESCAPED CONVICT
4120
Pt. 1
There is a scene
in both the book and every version of the movie, “Les Miserables” (by Victor
Hugo and set in early 1800’s France) in which an escaped convict knocks on a
priest’s door, and explains that he is hungry and needing a place to lay his
head for the night. Father Myriel invites Jean (pronounced John) Val Jean into
his humble abode, much to the consternation of the kindly priest’s housekeeper.
As the unlikely trio sit down for supper, we notice the convict’s eyes widen as
a set of ornate silverware is laid out before him, and a contrastingly small,
but evil smile appears on his lips.
The supper over,
Bishop Myriel and Jean Val Jean sit before the fire awhile, before eventually
retiring for the evening. As the stars navigate their evening circuit across
the sky, and the fireflies flit here and there throughout the nearby pastures,
the criminal opens his eyes, and looks around his borrowed room. Jean silently
dresses, and steals into the kitchen. Emptying his own knapsack of a few
worthless odds and ends, he helps himself to the sterling silver plates and
utensils.
It is a full
moon, and as Jean Val Jean walks across the open threshold of Father Myriel’s
room, the old priest opens his eyes and immediately understands the import of
the scene that is playing itself out in his presence. But after an almost
imperceptible shake of his head, and a knowing smile, the parson closes his
eyes, and is soon overtaken by slumber.
The morning dawns
bright and fair, and there is a shriek as the housekeeper opens the silver
cabinet for the breakfast meal, and becomes all too aware of what has taken
place in the night.
“Bishop, dear
Bishop, that man you allowed into your home has robbed you of your silver!
Quickly Sir. We must contact the magistrate.”
The kindly priest
walks into the kitchen, and merely says,
“Well now, good
woman. He must have needed the stuff more than we.”
and
“After all, the
silver is not ours, but God’s. It is
best used for the poor. And was our dear brother not poor in both goods, and
spirit? It is well. It is well.”
Pt. 2
Shortly
afterwards there is a loud banging on the door, and the harried housekeeper
hastens to open it. Before her stands a middle aged man adorned in the clothing
of the city magistrate. He holds a dirty knapsack in his hands. Behind him
stands, well, you guessed it, Jean Val Jean; iron shackles adorning his hands
and feet. A slightly built police sergeant holds him by the arm.
“Excuse me,
Bishop Myriel. A moment of your time, please. This wicked fellow here, well, we
caught him with a sack full of silver, and when we asked him where he got it,
he claimed, well, he claimed you gave it to him.”
The kindly priest
smiled and responded,
“Well, yes, I
gave him the silver. Please release him. You were only doing your duty, sir,
but he did nothing wrong.”
The magistrate
was incredulous. “You mean he was telling us the truth?” And he couldn’t quit
shaking his head in disbelief.
There was nothing
else to do but release the poor shackled soul. And the magistrate gave his
assistant instructions to do so.
As the chains
fells off Jean Val Jean’s hands and feet, the kindly bishop whispered to his
housekeeper. She hurried off into the house, and quickly returned with
something in her hands.
The priest
accepted two similar items from her, and thrust them into the hands of the
escaped convict.
“And my dear sir,
you forgot these silver candlesticks. Didn’t I remind you to pack them before
you left this morning?”
The magistrate
was aghast, and could only shake his head, and say,
“Well, Bishop
Myriel. We will take our leave now. Thank you very much for clearing this up
for us, Sir.”
And then they
were left alone. Without a word, the kindly bishop motioned Jean Val Jean to
step into his humble home.
Pt. 3
As they entered
the small living area, neither man sat down. The bishop starred unblinking into
Jean Val Jean’s eyes for what seemed the longest time, and Jean could not help
but returning his gaze.
The priest knew
the convict’s story. The big brute had unraveled the tale for him the night
before. His sister and her little son, and he were without work, and
desperately hungry. And in a moment of desperation Jean Val Jean had gone
looking for,… for bread. Oh, he’d found it, he’d found it behind a bakery
display window. The hungry man had picked up a rock and smashed what lay
between him and his prize. A single loaf of bread, and as a result of that
momentary decision, he’d spent 19 years in prison.
The bishop
finally spoke,
“Jean Val Jean.
You have been tried and convicted for a crime of passion. A passion that is
common to all of us. Your stomach ached for food, and your relatives suffered
from the same temptation. You have suffered a great wrong perpetrated by a
callous judge who stole a third of your life from you, and understandably your
soul is dark with vengeance.”
It was at then
that the kindly bishop grasped Jean’s two hands with his own. The hapless
convict still clung to the silver candlesticks in those over-sized hands.
“Jean Val Jean.
You are no longer the man who knocked on my door yesterday. A sinner and a
stranger stepped across my threshold yesterday. Before me now stands my brother
in Christ. You are changed, you are
purified. With these candlesticks
I buy back your soul. And as often as you look at them, you must remember
this day. You must spend the rest of your life doing good, as Christ our Lord
also did good.”
Pt. 4
And the kindly
priest’s words seemed at the same time a weight and a grace to the rough-hewn
Val Jean. And the years of pain and bitterness escaped him in a torrent of
tears. Suddenly, the convict dropped to his knees, and a wail escaped his lips
that might have easily been heard outside the house.
Bishop Myriel
stooped down, and took the repentant man by his burly arms, lifted him to his
feet, and lovingly embraced him.
“Jean Val Jean,
my brother. Go now. Go in peace.”
And Jean stepped
out of that old cottage door; a changed man.
by William McDonald, PhD
FRACTIONS
MARRIAGE IS NOT 50/50. MARRIAGE MUST BE 100/100.
At the same time COMPROMISE may be a combination of two different fractions.
Saturday, September 2, 2023
LOOKING FOR THAT ONE
“LOOKING FOR THAT ONE”
"Think about it. If a man
owns a hundred sheep, and one goes his own way so that he becomes lost, won't
the shepherd leave the ninety-nine on the hillside, and diligently look for the
one who has wandered away from the fold? I tell you, he will!
“And if he happens to find the
sheep, there is little doubt he will be more elated over that individual lamb,
than he is over the ninety-nine which remain on the hillside.” (Matthew
18:12-13)
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’ve 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
McDonald, PhD)