IMPACT

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IMPACT

What an amazing opportunity every believer has been afforded. To be given the wherewithal to be a link in that unbroken chain, and to impact those whom God has set in our individual pathway.

Every day I pray, and I would encourage you to pray, (whether you happen to be young or old or in between),

"Lord, don't let me miss whatever remains of my destiny.”

Impact should be our second greatest priority in life. For you see, as believers our two greatest priorities are our relationship with God, and our relationship with and impact on mankind. And after all, the only thing we will take with us to heaven are the souls we have impacted on earth.

Let’s get real practical about Impact, and the methods by which we may practice this spiritual opportunity and obligation.

Our first responsibility is to our family members. Father, mother, brother, sister, son, daughter. We should take every opportunity to share the Gospel with unsaved family members.

And then we have something which I call “Momentary Ministry.” This brand of Impact is simply taking advantage of what I refer to as “Open Doors.” It’s the 1^st Peter Chapter 3 thing. “Be ready always to give an answer to every man who asks a reason for the hope that is within you…” It’s bringing Jesus into conversations when you, for instance, have the opportunity to share your testimony.

One of my favorite ways in which to impact people is the tract ministry. Someone once left a Christian tract on the customer service desk at the post office, and I liked it a great deal, and brought it home and have been xeroxing it. Every time I go to the grocery store or Dollar General, I leave three or four on shelves throughout the store.

Then, we have the volunteer ministry. The local church has any number of opportunities. Sunday School teacher, Royal Ranger leader, Girl’s Ministry, Bus Ministry. Food Bank.

Of course, there is the formal ministry for those among us whofeel the call to full time service. Pastor, Church Administrator, Worship Leader, Counselor, etc.

Another form of Impact which you may not have considered is what I refer to as “Leaving Something Behind.” Our time on earth is finite. We can’t stay here. We were never meant to. My father left 10 or 12 hours of audio tapes behind; which I have transferred to a hard drive. He spoke about his growing up years and military service. I have compiled hundreds of photos, a great deal of family research, my unpublished volumes, and ministry materials on attachable drives which I plan to leave with my children, and I hope they will bequeath to their children. These storage devices include a letter I have written to my descendants in which I share my aspirations for them, and share my faith in Jesus Christ.

And finally, at least for the purpose of my message tonight. I would encourage you to impact your biological and spiritual descendants by means of prayer. I do something which I think only a few believers are prone to do. I pray the following prayer on a chronic basis.

“Dear Father, I pray you will bless, help, encourage and save my unborn, unseen, unnamed, and unknown biological and spiritual offspring, and use them to impact those you set in their pathway.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

(from a teaching I shared at Willow Oak Assembly on Nov. 5, 2024)

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 Bill McDonald, PhD

SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To which my wife responded,

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

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

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

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

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

by Bill McDonald, PhD

MY MONKEY & ME

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I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed thousand piece puzzle. 

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 *Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage, I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. ( not sure the time of year), but when we came home we never saw him again. I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(And in regard to my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey love and care…)

“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too.”

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

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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 50^th 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)

OH YES, I WAS THE GUARD

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I wrote a poem in memory of Tracey Brogdon, a National Guardswoman from the Lake Wales, Florida unit, who died in a vehicle accident in Saudi Arabia during the Persian Gulf War. I was a member of the Army National Guard in Lakeland, Florida at the time. After I wrote the poem, I felt strangely compelled to have it inscribed on a plaque. Having had a trophy shop create the plaque, I presented it to the assembled soldiers of the unit she had faithfully served with in Lake Wales. 

OH YES, I WAS THE GUARD

 

A Poem dedicated to the memory

of SGT Tracey Darlene Brogdon. National Guardswoman. K.I.A., Saudi Arabia, 1^st Gulf War

 

               SSG William Royce McDonald (Ret.)

 

He trod the snow with Washington,

his feet were numb with pain

He fired the shot heard round the world,

the prize he sought, he gained

 

My brother wore the Union blue,

as he climbed Henry Hill

My comrade wore the Rebel gray,

as his heart lay cold and still

 

The Guardsman packed his duffel bag

at Uncle Sam’s request

Through years to come the Fuhrer’s men

would give him little rest

 

In the skies of Vietnam,

his wings were swept with fog

A missile arced, a pilot died,

and touched the face of God

 

Someone tapped her shoulder

and said, “It is your turn,”

In his hand a worn baton,

“The race is not quite won.”

 

And though she would lose family,

and though she would lose friends

And though she would lose life itself,

her hand she did extend

 

Her teammate was still struggling

to match her faster gait

And as he passed baton to her,

he fell to seal his fate

 

And as she clutched that hallowed prize,

the wood was red and scarred

He whispers as he ends his watch,

“Oh yes, I was the Guard”

 

It was her turn to run the race,

beneath a foreign sun

Her ship had weathered every rack,

the prize she sought, she won

 

It was her turn to set the pace

across the burning sand

What Guard will dare to take her place,

which one extends his hand?

MR. MCFEELEY

 Pt. 1

I was scrolling through the Facebook "Reels" today and came across a short segment from an old "Andy Griffith Show" that I remember, (and which is very relevant for the people of several states at this time, as you will see).

It seems that Opie happened on a man in his trek through the local woods one day. The fellow introduced himself as "Mr. McFeeley." He was dressed in blue jeans, long sleeved pale blue shirt, a belt with a large ornate buckle and brown work boots.

Striking up a conversation with Opie, Mr. McFeeley explained that he was a lineman, and had been doing maintenance on the telephone lines outside of Mayberry. Apparently, Mr. McFeeley had some time on his hands, as he proceeded to perform a trick for the Sheriff's son.

Pulling a cigarette out of a pack he had in his shirt pocket, and lighting it up, he took a big draw, puffed some smoke into his fist, put his hand up to his ear, and released the white vapor in short bursts. Opie laughed, and thought it looked like his ear was on fire.

Now, Mr. McFeeley began to sing a little jingle that Opie had never heard. And speaking of "jingle," the middle-aged man began to do a two step while he was singing, and the little boy noticed the change in his pockets kept time with the chorus.

Finally, Mr. McFeeley decided it was time to go back to work, and he told Opie so.

"Little man, I guess I better earn my keep. I need to keep doing what I do best."

Bidding one another "goodbye," Opie headed towards home.

Pt. 2

Opie arrived at his home on Maple Street fifteen minutes later.

Walking in the door, he ran into Aunt Bee, and immediately told her about his new friend, Mr. McFeeley.

"Aunt Bee, I met a man in the woods who could blow smoke out of his ears, sang a swell song to me, and jingled when he danced!"

Of course, the aging housekeeper assumed Opie had created an imaginary friend "out of whole cloth." However, she humored the seven year old, and figured she'd mention it to Andy when he arrived home that evening.

And true to form, when the sheriff arrived home, Opie immediately began to tell him about his newfound friend, Mr. McFeeley.

"Pa, Pa I met the neatest old fella in the woods today. He did a magic trick for me. He blew smoke out of his ear, he sang me a swell song, and he jingled when he danced!"

Sheriff Taylor just wasn't "buying it."

"Now Opie, it's alright to have imaginary friends, at least it was, but maybe you're getting too old for that sorta thing."

Opie wouldn't be denied.

"No, Pa. Mr. McFeeley is real!"

Andy decided to address the issue further after supper. And supper being over, he told his son to get ready for bed.

Twenty minutes later, Andy climbed the staircase, walked into Opie's room, and raised the topic again.

"Now you know, son, there isn't a Mr. McFeeley. I know it's fun to talk about, but he simply isn't real."

Opie shook his head.

"But you gotta believe me, Pa. You just gotta!"

Post-script

Having tucked Opie in, and kissed him on the forehead, Andy headed down the stairs. Now, Aunt Bee approached him, and asked,

"Andy, did you tell Opie that you didn't believe in Mr. McFeeley?"

The sheriff smiled, and responded,

"No. No, I didn't tell him I didn't believe in Mr. McFeeley. But, you know Aunt Bee,... I believe in Opie."

(Interestingly enough, as this segment of The Andy Griffith Show concludes, Andy discovers Mr. McFeeley climbing a telephone pole; just fifteen minutes from home).

by Bill McDonald, PhD