THE GENERAL'S ROCKING CHAIR. Pts. 1-3

 4539

Pt. 1

General James Van Fleet wasn't always, (which almost goes without saying), a general. 

He was born in New Jersey. However, his parents moved him to central Florida as an infant. He attended, and graduated from Summerlin Institute in Bartow, Florida; my own high school alma mater. Ultimately, he earned his undergraduate degree at West Point Military Academy. He was a member of the Class of 1915, the class "which the stars fell on." (Dwight Eisenhower and Omar Bradley were his fellow classmates). 

Time and space would fail me to recount General Van Fleet's promotions, placements, achievements and awards. Suffice it to say he served admirably during, (drum roll), WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam! (Now, that's a whole lotta time and a whole lotta wars). President Truman referred to him as "the greatest general this nation ever produced." 

Curiously enough, I have a personal connection to the general; well, two connections, in particular.

You see, during the 1980's I was employed by United Parcel Service, and I delivered packages to his sister Medora, a psychologist. Our interaction was limited to, "Please sign here" and "Thank you." And while I was familiar with the general, I don't recall "making the connection" at the time.

Fast forward a couple of decades.

As I previously mentioned, I have been aware of General Van Fleet's contributions to this country for as long as I remember, most especially his military contribution during the Korean War. There is a street in my hometown, and the city from which he graduated, which is named for him. The is a thirty mile long walking trail, also named for him, near his hometown of Polk City, Florida. 

Long before the general pinned on those prestigious four stars, and while he was a lowly lieutenant or captain, and stationed in California, (sometime during the second decade of the 20th century), he "took a liking" to a particular rocking chair in his rental apartment. As a result, when he received orders to PCS, (change of station), he purchased this chair from the apartment house owner. Over the next seventy years, where ever Van Fleet went, the chair went.

Born in 1892 he lived to be the longest lived American general of all time. General Van Fleet went on to his reward in 1992. 

I am retired Army, and have collected various relics from the history and wars of our country. An 1823 militia promotion certificate, an 1840 cavalry sword, an 1863 soldier's letter, an 1880 Queen Anne chair, a WWII German Army dagger, a dollar bill autographed by the crew of the Enola Gay, the airplane which dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan, the home photos of Frances Langford, a Hollywood star, (and my father's second cousin). However, I could have never imagined the possibility that, one day, I might own what I now consider the best of all my relics.

Pt. 2

Twelve or fourteen years ago, a friend of mine, who happens to be an estate dealer, called me over to his garage, opened the door, beckoned me in, and encouraged me to... have a seat; (both positionally and literally). 

As I took a seat in that old cane and barley rocking chair, Calvin made me aware that a very prestigious backside had once adorned that chair, General James Alward Van Fleet, and that he had been contracted to conduct an estate auction for his daughter.

Well, as you might imagine, I asked my friend what it would take to, well, take the chair home with me.

This far along I don't recall how much I paid for the century plus year old rocking chair, but it was in the neighborhood of the price I might have paid for a similar chair; without the history of this one.

A few years after I purchased the chair, I corresponded with the general's granddaughter, Catherine, in North Carolina. I made her aware that I had contacted the University of Florida, and offered this historic relic to the ROTC department. I would maintain ownership, and the university would display the chair in perpetuity. You see, a century ago, her grandfather had been the commandant of the ROTC department there.

Suffice it to say that the current commandant was interested. However, (as I recall), he could not agree with my stipulations; primarily that the chair be placed on permanent display. As a result, I continued to maintain the rocking chair in my home. 

In the past five years, I learned that our county's historical center, located in the old Polk County Courthouse, intended to display a host of WWII relics and documents for a limited time period. I immediately contacted the curator, and offered to loan the rocking chair, which seemed like a good idea at the time; (but which I questioned later).

Pt. 3

On such and such a day, I put the general's chair in the back of my car, and drove to county historical center. I parked, retrieved the chair, walked through the side door, and presented the precious relic to the curator. At the time they were still setting up, and I decided to wander around the half-completed display hall. Suddenly, I noticed an 8x11 picture frame on the wall, and I did a "double-take." 

I found myself looking at a Xerox copy of a newspaper article related to our multi-war hero. I had never seen a photo of the general seated in his rocking chair. In the center of the article was an all but indistinguishable picture of General Van Fleet sitting in his beloved chair. 

I dropped by the historical center a week later, and admired what they had done with my precious relic. It had been placed next to a WWII era record player, and a chest-high podium-style sign described the display. I was pleased that others would have the opportunity to admire one of the general's all-time favorite possessions.

A couple days later, I received a call.

"Hello, Dr. McDonald. This is Maria at the county historical center. I have some bad news. The item you loaned us, General Van Fleet's rocking chair,... has been damaged."

It was one of those "say what" moments!

I responded.

"What do you mean? How was it damaged?"

Maria went on to tell me that an overhead water pipe, located above the ceiling panels, had sprung a leak, and that water had poured down on the chair throughout the night. While the wicker hadn't been damaged badly, and had only faded a bit, the varnish on the wooden structure, arms, back, and rockers, had been badly impacted. 

As you might imagine, I was not impressed. 

The curator went on to assure me that the county would have their best and brightest restoration specialist begin work on the chair. I drove up to the historical center the next day and looked at the aftermath of the liquid disaster. Now, I was even less impressed! What a mess!

However, both Maria, and "Mr. Mathis" continued to assure me that all would, ultimately, be well. Of course, I hoped that their assurances weren't just wishful thinking.

Six or eight days later, the curator contacted me and invited me to pick up the chair; which I proceeded to do. Walking into the historical center, I met Mr. Mathis in a small room in which he had done his best work. (And, indeed, it was exceptionally good work)! The chair looked virtually the same as when I first walked it into the building!

Post-script

As you might imagine, while the military display had a few more days to run, I retrieved the chair that very day, and brought it home for safe-keeping. 

That very night, as I lay down for a well-deserved rest, I had a dream.

Whereas, I had laid down in the sanctity of my own bedroom, now I found myself waking up in an old WWII Army barracks. Twenty other soldiers were stretched out on bunks surrounding me.

Suddenly, a four star general walked through the door, stepped quickly over to my bunk, and grabbed me by the collar! Looking up, his face was very familiar.

"Staff Sergeant McDonald. What have you done with my rocking chair! You ruined it. You knew it was my favorite chair. I entrusted you with it. This will never do!"

(and)

"Privates Johnson, Johnston, and Jones get a rope! This low-down, n'er do well will have to pay for his malfeasance!"

Now, I found myself jerked out of my bunk, and drug over to a nearby ceiling rafter. And now, one of my fellow soldiers threw the rope over the wooden beam, and quickly tied a hangman's noose on the end. Another tied the opposite end to the rafter. Another grabbed a chair, and instructed me to stand on it. 

And now, General Van Fleet, himself, placed the noose around my neck.

Suddenly, I woke up. I found myself in my own bed. Beads of sweat rolled off my forehead. Jumping out of my bed, I ran into our spare bedroom. 

General Van Fleet's rocking chair... safe and sound!

As I turned to resume my nightly sojourn, I said aloud,

"I'm sure glad I didn't disappoint him!"

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

OLD TOM

 4538

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

MEETING RUTH

 4537

Several years ago my wife and I attended a Ruth Graham seminar on the west coast of Florida. And as I recall, the multi-hour event included elective segments on any of a number of topics, and with such guests as the Christian singer, Damaris Carbaugh, and, of course, (it goes without saying) Ruth Graham, herself.

Well, for anyone who has known me very long, it should also “go without saying” that I didn’t drive an hour there, and an hour back, not to make Ruth Graham, the daughter of the famous evangelist, Billy Graham, my priority.

Apparently, one segment Jean and I attended finished early, and (also apparently) my wife got involved elsewhere, since I headed over to the main convention hall to get a “good seat.” And (you guessed it) Ruth Graham was scheduled next on the, well, schedule.

It can safely be said that I did, indeed, get a good seat since when I walked into the auditorium I found myself completely

… alone.

And since I had a few hundred seats from which to choose, I walked towards the front of the theater, and took a seat in the 3^rd row, center. (I simply don’t sit on the first row of a theater, church, auditorium, or fill in the blank. Somehow, it seems a bit comforting, if that is the word, to have something in front of me, and not, as it were, to have my legs hanging out in midair).

At any rate, as I sat waiting for Ruth Graham to make her debut, who should appear but, (you guessed it)

… Ruth Graham.

Ruth, (if I may be so bold to call her by her given name) came striding across the floor from right stage towards the left, and had walked perhaps ten feet when she saw yours truly seated in Row 3, Center. Suddenly, the young lady, (younger than me, and definitely younger than she is now) stopped, and said,

“I’ll be right back!”

As I recall, I sheepishly responded with,

“Uh, Okay.”

The well-known daughter of an even better-known father. The never-to-be-well-known, except in his little corner of the world, pastoral counselor.

Interacting at that moment, at least, on the same level. (Well, to be fair she was up on a stage, but you see where I’m going). We momentarily engaged one another as if we were acquainted.

I refer to such scenarios as

“creating memories.”

And though, if you asked her, Ruth may have long since forgotten that momentary exchange,

… I never will.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4536

Pt. 1

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. 2

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. 3

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. 4

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. 5

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 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

By William McDonald, PhD

A GOOD SERGEANT AND A LITTLE MONK

 4535

*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.

Pt. 1

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

 

 

 

HELLO AGAIN. Pts. 1-3

 4534

Pt. 1

I wrote about the following experiences in my book, "A Man's Tribute to His Devoted Dogs."

During the course of my almost 80 years on this planet, I have been blessed to have eight dogs, two cats, and a monkey, (yes, a monkey), in my life; the first, a cocker spaniel named Princess, a full 70 years ago.

I might tell you "right off the bat," I am unashamedly convinced that believers will see their dearly departed pets again. There are various verses in the Old and New Testaments which infer "they are," (present tense), and not "they were," (past tense). Obviously, if this belief is true, like many who have gone before us, they have simply changed locations.

Did I say I am convinced we will see our dearly departed pets again, (with the implication we will have to wait 'til we go on to our reward)? Well, yes that was my implication. However, (and it is a big "however"), I am more convinced than ever at this juncture that we may see some of them again on this side of eternity!

Now to be sure, more often than not, I have not. 

I can't account for it, but among the eight animals which have already gone on to their reward, the two which apparently qualified for post-mortem appearances were both shih tzu's. Allow me to share my experiences related to one of those two precious pooches with you. (I have written about this little gal before, so I won't attempt to summarize her 11 far too brief years here).

Buddy, (yes, we gave her a male name), was nothing short of special. I have often referred to her as, "Dog on a Mission," since again and again, she personified empathy; (and each example was a story in itself).

Pt. 2

Again, "long story short," but Buddy had severe allergies, and would have literally scratched her eyes out had she not been prescribed steroidal medication. Ultimately, the recurring administration of this medication, over the course of a decade, shortened her life. Thankfully, she left us naturally, and during the course of one very difficult night.

It was after she left us that things, (some very strange, but, ultimately, very good things), began to happen.

Shortly after Buddy's passing, I laid down for the night. Suddenly, I sensed a weight against my shoulder, and then the sound of breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out. As a small dog might breathe.

It is important to mention here that Buddy regularly slept on a pillow at the end of my bed. And I can tell you it was the same night, or perhaps the next that, well, the next thing happened. As I was lying there in the darkness of my bedroom, something tangible, something weighty lay against my feet. I saw nothing. I felt something. As with the first manifestation, I didn't want that something to end.

One evening, several weeks after Buddy went on to her reward, I was walking in my neighborhood, and approaching my home. And I found myself thinking about Buddy. Suddenly, a small white dog appeared, and crossed in front of me. Now, she walked into my neighbor's front yard. Three or four steps, and... Nothing. Nada. Zip. She was gone!

Pt. 3

Buddy passed in 2006, and all of the experiences which I have recounted, above, occurred the same year.

Fast forward 14 years.

I was convinced that my little Buddy was enjoying the comforts and beauty of heaven by now, (and, no doubt, she was). However...

This far along I was serving as the staff counselor for a residential program for previously incarcerated women. One day, as I was sitting alone at a table where we did our group work, I sensed...

two little paws resting against my right leg.

As you might imagine, I looked downward, and...

there was nothing there.

Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. I knew. I just knew!

And with this, I uttered three words.

"Hello again, Buddy!"

(I think I would have spoken those words aloud, even if others had been sitting there with me).

Post-script

Mark Lowry, the Gospel singer and comedian, (who once walked past me at a university event at which he was speaking), sometimes wears a t-shirt with a large scripture reference printed on the front.

PSALM 36:6

("You, oh Lord, preserve both mankind and animals, alike").

He believes, (as do I), that our dearly departed pooches, cats, parrots, goldfish, etc. etc. will precede us, and we will meet them again one day. 

Well before I came across Mark Lowry's philosophy, and the shirt which espouses it, I made a practice of looking at my pet pooches, and saying,

"I claim you for heaven!" 

(As if doing so would somehow assure I would see them again).

Now, to be sure, I am not prepared to say whether Buddy's spirit returned to comfort me those multiplied times, or not. However, I am convinced that, at the very least, God exercised His grace, and allowed me to perceive Buddy's presence; (and that is more than sufficient for me).

Allow me to conclude this little thesis with a quotation from the back cover of my little volume, "A Man's Tribute to His Devoted Dogs," which speaks to our wherewithal to enjoy our beloved pets...forevermore.

"But perhaps our Savior will smile, and beckon with His hand, as if to say,

'Well, Bill, there they are! What are you waiting for? There are fields, and flowers, and trees aplenty. Go for it! Romp and run and carry on. Love those wonderful little puppies of yours for all you're worth.' 

"And with this, I'll turn and my most favorite creatures will be looking at me expectantly, eyes shining, ears twitching, and tails wagging. And with this, my heart will skip a few beats, and I will scoop them up into my arms, and they will rest contentedly my shoulders. And best of all we'll remember one another, and the love we knew will be undimmed, and stronger for the years we were apart."

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

THE ROSE MOST FRAGRANT WHEN IT'S CRUSHED

 4533

My times are in Your hands, and I

Would hardly hope to choose

This walk You walk with me, Oh God

My tender heart, now soft and bruised

 

And Thou dost know my way, Oh Lord

And follow You, I must

And with the breeze, still, comes Thy Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 

“Tis through thy pain I add my grace,

And though thy flower is crushed,

With tender Hand, I’ll dry thy face,

And comfort you, I must”

 

“For even in this barren place

My blessings do not fail,

The manna of My peace will fall,

At turns along your trail”

 

“And I won’t leave you comfortless,

and I will come to you

to smooth the petals back again,

and ointment for thy bruise”

“When twilight falls, and darkness hides

your grief from all on earth, but Me

Remember child, I linger close

Your silent tears, my angels see”

 

“For even this, your troubled place

will surely come, to pass

And surely I will walk with you

If you will but ask”

 

“Your rose will bloom, aye, yet again

your tender bruise will fade

For I will surely carry you

From out this lonely shade”

 

“So cling to Me, Oh little one

‘til flowers bloom again

Oh walk with Me, come talk with Me

Sweet showers I will send”

 

“For I best know your way, Oh child

and follow Me, you must”

And with the breeze, still comes His Voice

“The rose most fragrant when it’s crushed”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD, Copyright 2005