Friday, March 28, 2025

A GOOD SERGEANT & A LITTLE MONK

 4379

*The following story is based on limited information, but is, given the absence of complete details, generally factual in nature. Some incidentals in the story line are included to provide dramatic effect. The characters in the story, except for Sergeant Otis Vaughn, have been assigned fictional names, since the actual names of these characters are unknown.

During the early 60’s, Le Duc Nguyen, a nine year old apprentice monk was walking through a thicket of bamboo on his way to fetch a bucket of water from a nearby stream. It was mid-morning and the air had begun to heat up a bit, and now and then he felt a vine or small branch brush against his sandaled feet.

However, what he felt next was anything but a vine or branch. For suddenly, he sensed a piercing wound to his right ankle. Looking down Le found himself looking at the largest snake he had ever seen in the short decade he had lived in this Vietnamese hamlet. His parents had often warned him about the multitude of poison snakes which inhabited their little corner of the world.

Le immediately recognized it. He had been bitten by a Chinese Cobra, one of the most venomous snakes on the planet. The little monk watched as the Cobra slithered away into the bamboo thicket, dropped his bucket, and immediately turned, and retraced his steps back to the Buddhist monastery. The compound was about two hundred yards distant, and by the time he arrived there, he was struggling to catch his breath.

Phen Doc Toe, one of the older monks, saw Le limp up to the compound, and knew something was very wrong. He had sent the boy for water, but he noticed there was no bucket in his hands now, and that Le’s cheeks were red, and that one of his ankles was badly swollen.

Phen asked Le an almost rhetorical question.

“What has happened to you, Le?”

Le struggled to speak.

“I was walking through the bamboo thicket near the river, and I was bitten by a Cobra.”

Pt. 2

Phen Doc was absolutely mortified. He knew that such a bite was almost certain death. He was also all too aware that the monastery was poorly equipped to treat anything, but the most minor of maladies and injuries.

Phen grabbed the boy up in his arms, and rushed him to the small Buddhist temple. As he walked into the sanctuary, he noticed that the chief priest and a few of his fellow monks were chanting their morning prayers.

As Phen barged through the door, six or eight priests turned from their prayers; with a momentary look of consternation on their faces. However, their consternation quickly disappeared in favor of shock and empathy.

The priest who held the suffering little apprentice shouted.

“Le went to get water and stepped on a Cobra. He is certain to die.”

The priests attending the altar turned from their prayers, and ran to the duo. Do Van Tien, the chief priest, took Le from Phen’s arms, and set him down on a bamboo mat. By now, Le’s breathing was shallow, and his neck and face were red and swollen.

The chief priest laid hands on the boy, and began praying. There was simply nothing else to be done. The priest’s subordinates hovered around the little boy, and did much the same thing.

Hundreds of South Vietnamese men, women and children were bitten by the thirty-seven varieties of venomous snakes which frequented the area on a yearly basis. And since much of the countryside lacked proper medical facilities, the snake bites were almost always fatal.

Pt. 3

Sergeant Otis Vaughn was a member of an Army surveying team in South Vietnam during the Vietnam War. He and his team members were tasked with the preliminary work which went into laying in roads for the American forces to travel from one hamlet to another.

As they were “going about their business” one day, and had pulled their jeeps off the road for a smoke or water break, as the case may be, the young sergeant heard voices on a nearby hillside. While the survey team’s primary mission was surveying, they were equipped with M-16 rifles, and knew how to use them. They were, after all, soldiers first, and surveyors second. He knew the entirety of South Vietnam was rife with Viet Cong, and North Vietnamese regulars, and that they would just as soon shoot your head off, as look at you.

Otis yelled to the six privates who accompanied him.

“Get down!”

Everyone hit the dirt, and lay there pondering their next move.

It was then that Sergeant Vaughn realized what the sound was that permeated the jungle foliage surrounding them.

Prayers

As someone who knew him, I can tell you no one ever accused Otis of what might be referred to as a “depleted sense of curiosity.” He was going to find discover what the commotion was all about.

“Okay men, false alarm. Get up. Stay here, and keep your eyes open. I’m going to climb that hill, and have a little peek.”

With this, Sergeant Vaughn walked to the base of the hill, about fifty yards distant, and trudged up the five hundred feet which separated him from his quest.

Pt. 4

As the winded military man arrived at the summit of the hill, he lay on his stomach, and peered into the Buddhist compound. The voices were louder now, and they were obviously coming from a small bamboo temple a couple hundred feet away.

And while the young sergeant’s courage had waned a bit, and he felt a sense of dread rising in his chest, he stood, and began to walk slowly towards the temple. Of course, Otis still cradled his M-16 in his arms, and was wary of any sound or movement from the small huts on his left and right.

Now, Sergeant Vaughn strode through the door of the little sanctuary, and witnessed several Buddhist priests surrounding what appeared to be a prostrate boy. At this juncture, the priests stopped their chanting, and greeted the foreigner with wary eyes.

Otis did his best to put the priests at ease. He smiled the friendliest smile he knew how to conjure up, and raised his arms in somewhat of a quasi-surrender.

Now, looking down at the man whom he surmised was in charge of this motley crew, and speaking slowly, he asked,

“I heard your voices. Can I help you?”

The American looked innocent enough to the chief priest, and it just so happened that Do Van Tien knew some rudimentary English. He responded,

“The boy. He been bitten by, by Cobra. He dying.”

Pt. 5

The good sergeant’s mind raced, and he thought,

“Well, not if I have anything to do with it. Not on my watch.”

And he said much the same thing to the chief priest.

Indicating he was a whole lot more than words, and intended to take action, Sergeant Vaughn nearly shouted at Do Van Tien.

“Trust me. Let me have the boy. I’ll take him to an Army field hospital.”

By now, Le was drifting in and out of consciousness, and the chief priest realized that there was absolutely nothing to lose. He slowly nodded his head, and the would-be savior stooped down, picked up the little monk, and gently placed him over his left shoulder.

“There now. It’s going to be okay.”

And all the while he must have been thinking,

“At least, I hope it’s going to be okay.”

Now, retracing his steps, Le’s rescuer hurried down the hill to where his six team members and two jeeps were waiting. Sergeant Vaughn laid the almost comatose little monk in the back of the nearest vehicle, and informed his crew that their mission had been temporarily suspended.

“The boy has been bitten by a Cobra. There’s a field hospital a few miles from here. Let’s go!”

Pt. 6

I will allow my niece to finish this wonderful story for you.

“After my dad carried the little monk down the mountain, and managed to get him to a field hospital, the Army doctors administered an antidote for the Cobra bite, and the young man began showing signs that the chief priest’ prognosis was a little hasty.

 “After he told me this story, I exclaimed,

‘Dad, you saved that boy’s life!’”

Suddenly, my dad’s eyes misted up a little, and he replied,

“No. No, I just got into a jeep with him and took him to a hospital.”

“My dad could have chosen not to help. He could have made a decision to do his military duty, and continue the mundane task of surveying a forlorn little jungle road in Vietnam. But he got involved. My father carried a 50 pound little boy, plus his own gear down a jungled mountain, and drove him to a field hospital.

But, instead of doing his good deed, and leaving the little guy, he remained by his side. He knew the boy didn’t know English, and that he would be scared when he woke up, and would need someone to look after him.

“You would have to know my dad. His mission was simply not over ‘til it was over. Daddy sat next to that little monk ‘til he recovered, and then drove him back home.”

I am happy to tell you that the little monk made a full recovery. I am equally happy to inform you that Sergeant Otis Vaughn was my brother in law, and that finished his tour in Vietnam, and returned home to the United States where he went on to live out the remainder of his life.

Otis impacted hundreds of family, friends and co-workers with a sense of humor and empathetic spirit as big as all outdoors. He was a man’s man, and one of those characters who when they are gone, it is as if they should have always been with us. The vacuum he left behind can almost be touched.

We were all born to fulfill a task bigger than ourselves. Sergeant Otis Vaughn was no exception. An old Vietnamese monk lives and moves and breathes today because a good man momentarily set aside his military duties, and took time to express love, and compassion towards a hurting little boy in a hamlet far off the beaten trail.

by Bill McDonald, PhD


Saturday, March 22, 2025

I WILL BE THERE - Song Lyrics

 I WILL BE THERE - Lyrics

(Author Unknown)
Where can you go that I can’t see?
On the highest of mountains
In the heat of the desert
In the life-consuming deep
and lonely heart of life’s seas
Where can you hurt that I can’t feel?
When you feel like you’re dying
Need a shoulder for crying
Come to me. I’m waiting here
with open arms that can heal
I’ll be a Father to the fatherless
A faithful Friend
when none are there
My heart of love is fathomless
and it reaches anywhere
I will be there through
the long lonely nights
never letting you go
I will hold. I will love you
with all my might
I will be there. I will be there. I will be there
I will be there, and I want you to know
I will never leave you alone
I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go
I will be there. I will be there. I will be there
What can you feel that I can’t bear?
Any burden you’re bearing
Any sorrow you carry
Any heartache, any loneliness
or despair
What can you see that I can’t see?
Even death was defeated
all the work was completed
I’ve prepared a special place
here in my heart just for you
I’ll be a husband to the husbandless
A faithful Friend
when none are there
Inside my heart of love is faithfulness
and it reaches anywhere
I will be there through
the long lonely nights
never letting you go
I will hold. I will love you
with all my might
I will be there. I will be there. I will be there
I will be there, and I want you to know
I will never leave you alone
I’ll never go. I’ll never go. I will never let you go
I will be there. I will be there. I will be there

Thursday, March 20, 2025

THE END OF AN ERA

 4377

Pt. 1

The year was 1968. At the age of 18, I was a new believer. Granted, I grew up in the Methodist church with its "high" hymns, standing and kneeling, responsive readings, liturgies, etc. However, in spite of my involvement in Methodist Youth Fellowship, and three summer youth camps, it was not until I was on the verge of young adulthood that I came to a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ.

I had hardly been "saved" when I met a young married man of perhaps 30 named John Westerman. John was married to a lovely lady named Vivien, they had two children, they hailed from Indiana, and they attended the same church as I.

Within months of my decision to attend Bartow First Assembly, John and I colluded together to co-found a local chapter (outpost) of the Assemblies of God boys program referred to as Royal Rangers.

I will always remember the weekly meetings, as, in my service as an outpost commander, I taught 9-16 year olds to tie fancy knots, took them fishing, and we once spent a summer's night on Sanibel Island.

Speaking of Sanibel Island. Having pitched our tents, eaten whatever we cooked on a campfire, and settled in for the night we heard an all too familiar buzzing, and began to feel an even more familiar assault on our collective skins.

Pt. 2

Mosquitoes. Large mosquitos. Florida mosquitoes. 

The six or eight Royal Rangers with me began to murmur.

"Commander McDonald, I'm being eat up by skeeters!"

(and)

"Commander McDonald, twenty of those pesky critters have bitten me in the last five minutes!"

And while the Royal Ranger motto is:

"Ready. Ready for anything...," I had neglected to bring one very essential item...

Mosquito Spray

I made a command decision.

"Okay, guys. Get your swimming trucks back on."

(and)

"Let's do something fun."

(and)

"How 'bout we take a nice little evening swim?"

As it fell together, we spent the majority of that long tropical evening amongst the foamy island waves.

A few years later, after having served a tour of duty in the Air Force, I moved my family to Virginia, we located a church, and I had the distinct privilege of co-founding another Royal Ranger outpost in that "neck of the woods."

Pt. 3

Fast forward just short of six decades...

In recent years I had been in touch with one of my former Royal Rangers, Joseph Smothers, who went on to serve in the capacity of commander in the same outpost which I had co-founded almost sixty years earlier. (Sadly, Joe passed away in the past couple of years).

Everything seemed to be going "swimmingly" for my Bartow, Florida and Woodbridge, Virginia Royal Ranger outposts until...

In the past year the old Bartow church experienced attendance and, (I believe), financial issues, and the decision was made to allow a nearby independent church to establish a satellite work on the property.

In the past week, I decided to message Access Church, and inquire about the status of the Royal Rangers ministry in Bartow; now that it would no longer be an Assemblies of God work. Of course, I made the pastor aware of the history of the boy's program there, including my having been involved in its formation, and the many decades in which it has existed, and impacted the local community.

Following is the response I received from the current pastor:

Dr. McDonald, 

Thank you for reaching out and for your many years of dedicated service in ministry, especially through Royal Rangers. Your impact on young men over the years is truly commendable.

As we continue our transition from Bartow First Assembly to Access Church, we have prayerfully considered our ministry programs. At this time, we will not be continuing the Royal Rangers program. While we greatly appreciate its legacy and the influence it has had on so many lives, our focus will be on other discipleship opportunities for the young people in our church.

We sincerely appreciate your passion for this ministry, and we pray that God continues to bless your work in counseling and mentoring the next generation. Please let us know if we can be of any further assistance.

Pt. 4

I immediately replied.

Pastor S.

As you might imagine, tears sprang to my eyes when I read your response. I am, admittedly, biased, but I hope you will reconsider your decision to discontinue the Royal Rangers program in Bartow.

I have struggled a bit this week as I have digested what I regard as not only bad news, but a mistake. (And who can say, perhaps it will all "turn around" in favor of retaining the Royal Ranger program).

And as I pondered the impact of this ministry, over the course of such a long period of time, I began to think in terms of "theoreticals." 

For you see, given the significant amount of time since John and I were privileged to co-found the Royal Ranger outpost in Bartow, it is altogether possible that four generations of boys have passed through that ministry. Amazingly, one or more great grandchildren of the original boys in our outpost could conceivably be attending the program at this time!

King Solomon, in all his wisdom, assures us that,

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens." 
(Eccl. 3:1)

His father, King David, dittos that sentiment.

"My times are in Your hands." 
(Psalm 31:15)

I think it helps at a time like this to consider not what we've lost, but what we've gained. Long after the tears dry, the smiles will remain.

Today I found myself opening my closet door, and moving several coats and shirts to one side 'til... I found that old khaki commander's shirt. At the top of one sleeve, some blue and gold patches. Pen. Florida 147. A bit small at this point, but looking surprisingly new; almost as if I might throw it on and pick up where I left off.

Yes, long after the tears dry, the smiles will remain.


I cannot help but smile when I reflect on that dark summer's night of 60 years hence when 10,000 skeeters drove a young commander and his six or eight young rangers out of our tents, and into the foaming surf of a small tropical island.

by Bill McDonald, PhD














A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4376

Pt. 1

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like I didn’t grow up watching “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” but then again, its inception was in 1968, a year after I graduated from high school; (so the likelihood that I would have devoted much time to the program was almost nil).

In the last few moments I did a Google search, and discovered that the television show aired for a grand total of (drum roll) 33 years, and only went off the air in 2001; a fateful year for this country, and two years before his passing.

It occurs to me that “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” was on television for the same amount of time that Jesus lived, and moved and breathed on the earth. I have never heard anyone expound on this bit of information. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence. But then, I don’t believe in coincidences.

Oh, I remember seeing snippets of Fred Rogers’ program, and honestly, it did little or nothing for me at the time. Obviously, the show was geared towards little children; the humor, the skits, the puppets, the guests. And “Bro. Fred’s” voice and mannerisms always struck me as a bit effeminate.

Speaking of the foregoing prefix before his name, many people were unaware that Mr. Rogers was actually Rev. Rogers. For you see, Fred was an ordained Presbyterian minister, and to my knowledge, he possessed a calling unlike any other; before or since. Interestingly enough, he had been specially commissioned by his church to host “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” for the little boys and girls of America.

I have written about Mr. Rogers in the past, having previously read a poignant story of which he was the subject. And come to think about it, I only have “given him the time of day” the past couple of years; (a full decade and a half after his death).

 

Pt. 2

As I have inferred, I love a particular story I read about Mr. Rogers. I am including that story here.

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music on someone’s TV.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

(Allison Carter, USA Today)

Pt. 3

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. 4

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. 5

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. 6

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. 7

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 6th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

 

By William McDonald, PhD


Friday, March 14, 2025

A MR. ROGERS STORY

 4375

By Allison Carter, USA Today

In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

 

 

 


Tuesday, March 11, 2025

87 YEARS AND COUNTING

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I have personally never met anyone who has retired three times, nor anyone who has a total of almost 90 years between the three positions... til yours truly.

Three retirements and 87 years to be exact

I can almost read your thoughts.

 “I’m sorry, I’m not believing anyone other than Methuselah or one of those actors on the "Twilight" series would be capable of racking up three retirements and almost 90 years total; once he had reached the age in which people normally fill out their first application.”


(and)


"You don't look 127."

 

I expect my 4x great grandfather came as close any anyone I know to making it happen. His is, to say the least, a compelling tale.

 

Old Isom Peacock was an anti-temperance Primitive Baptist minister. He founded the first Protestant church in the State of Florida; which still boasts an active congregation today. It has been said that as Isom stood behind the pulpit, he sometimes pulled out a bottle of whiskey, would “chug a lug,” and sermonize about his freedom in Christ.

 

Well, my friends, I don’t know if the whiskey finally got him, or his mode of transportation. For you see, Rev. Peacock died at the grand old age of 108; falling off a horse! It might be rightly supposed that he died “drinking and riding.”

 

But to return to my previous claim


You see, I served 35 years in the military, mostly reserve duty, during which time I drove a UPS truck for 20 years during which time I began my pastoral counseling ministry of 32 years; for a grand total of 87 years.

Obviously, my foregoing vocations have generally overlapped, and were mostly concurrent, and more often, than not, I was simultaneously involved in the pursuit of all these professions.

Simple mathematics. But in the scheme of things, anything but simple dynamics.

by Bill McDonald, PhD


 



Saturday, March 8, 2025

THE RICHEST PIECE OF GROUND ON EARTH

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Several years ago I transcribed one of the most insightful stories which I’d ever heard.

The title of the story was, “The Richest Piece of Ground on Earth.”

If I were to ask you to name the richest piece of ground on earth you might say, “the goldmines of South Africa” or “the rain forests of South America” or perhaps “the oil wells of Saudi Arabia” but if you were to guess one of these locations, you would be… absolutely wrong. For you see, the richest piece of ground on earth is your… local cemetery.

And the reason for this seeming paradox?

Lying dormant in the bosoms of thousands of the dearly departed are unfulfilled dreams. A miracle medication which might have cured Alzheimer’s Disease. An invention which might have caused trees and flowers to bloom on the Sahara. A missionary endeavor that would have brought millions of unbelievers to a saving knowledge of the Gospel. Dreams which might have changed the world. But these dreams will remain unrealized for a million million years.