THE LIFE & IMPACT OF MOLLY HIGHTOWER

As I sit here tonight preparing to create a daily blog for the first day of the week, my mind drifts back to a person and event from almost 11 years ago.

The date was January 12, 2010.

The place was the island of Hispaniola; comprised of the countries of the Dominican Republic and Haiti.

The person was a young lady by the name of Molly Mackenzie Hightower.

I never knew Molly, but she was a distant cousin of mine. She had recently graduated with a double major, spoke French, and volunteered as a physical therapist in a Catholic disabled children’s orphanage in Haiti.

Although I never knew Molly, the world has been given some entre into her life as the result of an internet blog she maintained. I have also been privileged to interact with her uncle, a Catholic priest, and her father and brother. The photos of my dear cousin and those precious orphans are compelling. She was one of those people you meet a few times in a lifetime; who literally seem to shine from within.

Even in the photographs an ethereal glow lights up her face.

Molly happened to be in her dormitory when the earthquake did its worst work on that impoverished island. While her family and friends hoped against hope that she would be rescued, it was not to be. She was found several days later midst the rubble of the dormitory. It can be said that she gave the last full measure of devotion for the children whom she had grown to love.

Sometimes we find ourselves taking people like Molly for granted. They sense a “call” to a work overseas which 99.9 percent of people would shun; in favor of some well-paying professional position in the states. They toil for little or no pay. They work long hours; often without praise or affirmation. On their occasional sabbaticals home, they attempt to explain to anyone who might listen what they have done, what they have seen; their triumphs and their defeats. And more often, than not they are met with a smile, or a nod, or a quizzical look; rather than a few empathetic words based on any real understanding of the work and the challenge of the mission.

I would have loved to have been granted a few brief moments with my cousin, Molly.

Time to assure her of the importance of her work, time to commensurate with her about the joy which distills from the opportunity to touch lives, time to talk about our mutual ancestors, and the possibility that they, too, were at one time given the privilege of impacting this or that person, whom God set in their pathway.

As strange as it may seem, I miss Molly; a dear relative whom I never had the privilege of meeting. And yet, I feel I know her. And I’m all too aware that the staff and patients of her beloved orphanage miss her in such an inestimable and profound way.

I think we will never understand why such lights among us are seemingly taken before their time; when they are in the midst of accomplishing such a life-changing work, or rather, lives-changing work, since this dear saint, and so many like her have impacted a myriad of the unfortunate and underprivileged; whose only recompense for services rendered was a bright smile, a hug or a few unaided steps.

They look very much like you or I, and shun the limelight. Yet I think these are the saints among us; (though any allusion to sainthood would, no doubt, be greeted by them with revelry and blushing).

People like Molly, though their lives were shortened, and though they have so often done their best work in the worst places this planet affords, managed to cut some indelible marks into the fabric of life and time.

And their love and works remain.

And they are not forgotten.

And the power and momentum of all they ever did, and hoped to do continues, and has not abated.

For lives were irrevocably touched

…and changed.

And there are those among us who have, because of them, stepped forward to fill the vacant space which they have left behind.

The world is better for people like Molly, who having walked and moved and served among us

…remain as unseen witnesses to a continuing need, and the power of one life to change the world as we know it;

…at least the world as they knew it.

by William McDonald, PhD

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 physician and prophet. For he could virtually see the finished work before him. He could see the invisible, as though it were visible. And that 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 one 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.

 

       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 that with all due 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 be content to squander their God-given hopes and dreams. There are those 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 tonight 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, earlier in this story. God bids you pour healing suave in their wounds. He gives you dreams in the night on their behalf, and provokes you to see the invisible and impossible. You are a both a physician and a prophet.

 

      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, impress 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)

 

CUTTING AND RUNNING - Afghanistan Today

 

I was watching CNN this morning and saw a video of what seemed to be a very familiar sight. A couple of Chinook helicopters flying low over Kabul, Afghanistan while in the process of evacuating members of our embassy there in advance of the entry of the Taliban into the city.

 

It takes me back to half a century when I served in the military, and a very similar scene played out in Saigon, South Vietnam. The same model of helicopter was used to evacuate members of our embassy staff in advance of the entry of North Vietnamese troops into the city.

 

In both cases the United States and the president in particular failed to live up to its/his promises to protect those brave native men and women who assisted us with translation and other services. Too many were left behind in Vietnam. Too many are being left behind in Afghanistan; only to suffer the indignities of whatever the invading hordes find it convenient to do to them.

 

I saw an interview a couple days ago between one of our female reporters and a regional Taliban chieftain. She asked him if the rights of women would be safeguarded as his minions took control of one city after another. Of course, he responded that the women of Afghanistan have certain rights.

 

And while he didn't say it, it occurs to me that they are guaranteed "the right" to be required to cover themselves from head to toe in a stifling burka which not only allows them to "heat to death" but conceals their God-given identities. They also will be given "the right" to be forcibly taken from their current husbands, (who will summarily be shot in their heads) and made the sexual slaves to whichever Taliban fighter breaks down their door first.

 

Little girls will be prevented from attending school, their dreams of a fate different from their grandmothers will be dashed, and many 10 and 12 year olds will be subjugated into sexual slavery like their mothers. There are reports of fathers carrying out suicide pacts to keep their daughters from falling into the hands of pedophilic Taliban troops.

 

A Muslim caliphate will be the order of the day in Afghanistan, and absolute domination and terror will rule and reign in this country again. The penalty for theft, the loss of a hand. The discovery a family photograph, (a graven image), the loss of one's head, The accusation of adultery, stoning at the hands of one's accusers.

 

The Taliban is on the verge of assuring "the rights" of the nation for which our American forces sweat, bled and died to the order of 2,500 dead and 20,000 wounded over the past twenty years, the expenditure of billions of dollars creating a defense force there which will not defend itself, and without so much as an attempt to "tie up loose strings" before we "leave the building." History is repeating itself.

 

Why should the future Vietnams and Afghanistans trust our empty assurances that we will live up to our promises?

 

by William McDonald, PhD

A MOMENTARY CONTRIBUTION

 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.”

(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 20. By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending.

If you wish to copy, save or share, please include the credit line, above

YOU BETTER LET HIM RIDE WITH ME

Jerry Clower once told a joke about a preacher who lived in the Appalachian Mountains, and who drove far too fast. His friends worried a great deal about the old man. One day a young man named Joe who knew the pastor was behind him on a narrow mountain road, and he recognized the minister's beat up old sedan. The preacher was going far to fast, and the narrower the road the faster he drove. Suddenly, much to Joe's horror, Pastor Brown's car went off the side of the mountain, rolled ten times, and came to rest next to a stream a hundred feet below. Joe screeched to a stop, jumped out of his car, and ran down the mountainside. Now the old man's car burst into flames! However, thankfully the pastor climbed out the driver's window just in time, and just before the entire automobile was consumed by fire. Joe screamed, "Preacher, Preacher, are you alright?" To which the preacher replied in a deep sanctimonious kind of voice, "Well, yes, thank you. The Lord is riding with me!" To which Joe responded, "Well, you better let Him ride with me before you kill Him!"

OLD ABE AND THE TIME MACHINE

 Everyone knows that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated during the final year of the Civil War, and subsequently succumbed to a gunshot wound to the head.

We have only known the man by way of historical facts and stories, and unblinking colorized photographs… until now. However, in recent months, I have come across an innovative new technology which is capable of creating ten second animations of ancient celluloid pictures.

As a result, one photo which I have animated is that of a well-known portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It is as if I had the opportunity to sit in the seat of that time machine made famous by the movie of the same name, and journey back in time, and spend a few moments with the 16^th President of the United States.

I suppose if old Abe had had the benefit of a time machine, and the knowledge which such a conveyance would have afforded him, he might well have avoided visiting Ford’s Theater that fateful evening in 1865. For that matter, had he set the dial for a much later date, he would have noticed that his countrymen ultimately commemorated him with a copper coin bearing a representation of his countenance.

Speaking of the Lincoln penny, if “Father Abraham’s” time machine had unexpectedly conked out on August 5^th, 2021 at approximately 1:43 PM on the outskirts of Winter Haven, Florida on a street called “Shadow Wood Lane,” he would have noticed an old guy, (much older than he was when he left us), with a name very similar to my own, bending over the left front tire of a 2015 Nissan Altima, and measuring its tire depth with a… 2019 Lincoln penny.

Lincoln has always, and by all accounts, been thought of as the greatest president who ever graced the expansive White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in our nation’s capital. Perhaps he would be pleased to realize that we are still carrying his image in our pockets, and measuring the tires of a vehicle unknown in his time with his copper caricature. Old Abe is definitely the gift that keeps on giving.

by William McDonald, PhD

LOWERING YOUR ELEVATOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

by William McDonald, PhD