LEAVING SOMETHING BEHIND

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“A good man leaves something behind for his children’s children.” (Proverbs 13:22)

 

I’d like to read you an excerpt from a forward which I have included in an expansive series of volumes I am leaving behind for my children, and their children’s children.

 

“I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal

… absolutely nothing.

And I have often mused, “Why didn’t you leave something behind?”

Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been if you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves.

Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, I consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected.) I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, “before you were even a twinkle.”

You deserve it.

And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing…

We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time,

… Leave something of yourself behind.”

What follows today may be more practical in nature, than spiritual. However, I am convinced that when the earth, worlds, and stars were still a theory, and when God was brooding about the men and women, and boys and girls He was going to create, I think His thoughts were very practical in nature.

 

Even the very shape of the cross itself implies relationship. The vertical beam. Our relationship with God. The horizontal beam. Our relationship with our fellow man.

 

Oh, most of us leave something behind when we depart the premises, when we cash it all in, when we check out, when we cease to live, and breathe, and move. It’s the order of the day. It’s what we do. However, the things we leave behind are so often brick and mortar sorta things.

 

We draw up a Last Will and Testament. My children will inherit our home, and it will be sold, and the moneys will be divided among them. And we have a list of specific possessions which we intend to distribute to our offspring before we go on to our reward. I don’t mean to detract from, or diminish this type of leaving something behind. As a matter of fact, my grandfather left behind the most wonderful old thing. It’s called an Amberola. It’s a Thomas Edison invention from about 1910.

 

However, as cool, keen, and groovy as it is, it won’t have any lasting impact. (I’m not even sure how long our family members will continue to enjoy it. I have had it worked on four times in the last decade).

As I wrote about in my forward to this message, we need to be about leaving something of ourselves behind. Something perhaps less obviously tangible than that device, but something of infinitely more value.

 

As a pastoral counselor I required my clients to bring a notebook to their sessions; since I have always thought of myself as not only a counselor, but a teacher, as well. From time to time, I would say something like,

 

“I have a concept I want to share with you. Write this down.”

 

In the same way, I hope you will take some notes today; on a piece of paper, or on your phone.

 

There’s a two word phrase in Philippians 3:17. At least, I can summarize it with two words.

 

“Copy me.”

 

Allow me to share some examples of “leaving something behind;” which I have discovered over the years. Now, I understand you have to find your own way to impact people, and leave something behind, but I hope the following examples and guidance will be helpful.

 

Now, granted I spent 35 years impacting thousands of people. I had a ready-made audience. However, I am retired now, and I am possibly in the last 10 percent of my life on earth. What can I do with the time I have left? What can we do?

 

Here’s a phrase for you.

 

*Momentary Ministry*

 

That’s my phrase, you can’t have it. No, write it down.

 

Momentary Ministry is simply making a difference in the lives God sets in your pathway on a momentary basis during the course of a day. Circumstantial to us, but God knew a particular opportunity would present itself before He made the worlds.

 

I was at the post office once, and this guy gets off a bus on the main road, and makes his way towards the front door. He may have been younger than me, but he is using a cane, and has a significant limp. It’s obvious that he depends on the bus to go where ever he needs to go. As we both walk out the door of the post office, I feel inclined to offer him a ride home. He accepts.

 

On the way back to his home I talk to him about Jesus and his soul. Now, I’m not suggesting you pick up everyone you see with his thumb out, but this is what I did that day.

 

Momentary Ministry

 

Our time on earth will soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last.

 

*Messaging* Another “M” word. Write it down.

 

The root word is message. Another way to leave something behind. This is THE Message. My first grade teacher gave me one of these 70 years ago. I order 15 or 20 online each month from the website “Friends of Gideons,” and hand them out to store clerks, and whoever I come across.

 

Another way to leave something behind.

 

*Mentoring* Write that word down.

 

I am a formal mentor. I developed a mentoring program which I continue to offer to people. Talking about leaving something behind, at the end of a session, one of my young students by the name of Rita spontaneously said,

 

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I will go for you when you can’t go. I will speak for you when you can’t speak. I will reach, teach, and keep people in your name long after you have gone on to your reward!”

 

Uhhh!!!

 

Well, the majority of you aren’t formal mentors, but you can take someone younger under your wing, perhaps a grandson or granddaughter, and share some valuable practical or spiritual knowledge with them.

 

And since I have introduced you to Momentary Ministry and Messaging and Mentoring, let me coin another “M” word which may or may not be a real word.

 

*Manuscripting*

 

Write that word down.

 

Now, there’s a more recognizable word. Journaling. Oh, how I wish my grandparents, and great grandparents had left a journal behind; something that could be passed down from one generation to another.

 

When you boil it all down, I’ve been talking about the spoken and the written word, and their impact. Momentary Ministry. Messaging. Mentoring. Manuscripting.

 

My father was an amazing artist. He left hundreds of paintings behind, and sold most of them. This is a print of one of them. I have a few. However, he left behind something so much more sacred and special than that. He left behind the verbal version of journaling.

 

Over the last decade of his life, he audio taped ten or twelve hours of stories related to his childhood and WWII military years. I transferred those tapes to a computer hard drive, and transcribed them into a print version.

 

Speaking of leaving something behind, and computer storage devices, I’m leaving five hard drives to each of our children. These storage devices include a host of family stories, photos, videos, audios, my unpublished volumes, teachings, and ministry materials. I am hopeful they will pass these down to their children, and children’s children. I am encouraging them to convert the hard drives to the next generation of storage devices, as they develop.

 

My definition here of manuscripting includes the spoken and written word. Anything you leave behind which can be listened to, looked at, or read.

 

Now, I don’t mean to imply you have to do things as formally, and fastidiously as I have described. This is how I have chosen to leave something behind.

 

Jesus prayed the following prayer:

 

“My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message,” (John 17:20)

 

In this passage he was praying for yet unconceived, unborn, unnamed, unknown generations to come. He was thinking about us. I believe we ought to be thinking about the unborn generations which will follow us; our biological and spiritual descendants.

 

My friends, leave something behind. It may be as elemental and simple as a journal, or audio recording with instructions that it be passed down in the family. What do you want to say to them?

 

In the movie, “Shackelton,” a photographer is taking a picture of the crew of an Antarctic expedition. He says,

 

“Look into the camera, boys. Your grandchildren are inside!”

 

What would you like to convey to your grandchildren, and their grandchildren’s grandchildren?

 

Leave Something Behind.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHY BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE

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"And what about the eighteen people who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them? Were they the worst sinners in Jerusalem?" (Luke 13:4)

Having just penned the title of this reading, it occurs to me that there is an immediate implication that I, (or anyone else) knows the answer. (I don't, and they don't). At least, as human beings we can't begin to fathom the fathomless reasons bad things happen to good people. 

The scripture with which I began this blog immediately came to me when I heard about the recent death of an Ecuadorian Catholic priest. Perhaps most of my contemporary readers are aware of this occurrence, (but there will be those who read my words years from now who may need to be reminded).

On Saturday, October 17, 2026, just 27 minutes into the live broadcast of the church service, a heavy wall crucifix broke away from its moorings, and came crashing down on Father Patricio Alfredo Sanchez Molinari; killing him instantly.

And reminiscent of Jesus' words in Luke 13, it would be easy to think this dear man must have been guilty of some unpardonable sin, and Providence was exercising its judgement upon him. I mean, a priest engaged in his sacred duties, and the most cherished icon of the Catholic Church instantly and independently dislodges itself, and slams down on him from behind, and kills him outright!

Now, to be sure, I cannot know the agenda, or character of Father Molinari. However, I have lived long enough on this good earth to understand that bad things simply happen to good people, and that good things simply happen to bad people, (sometimes, more so the latter, than the former); and that it has little or nothing to do with sin.

Speaking of the seeming randomness of it all, or at least some peoples' misguided notions that just because they are believers God will always act on their behalf, and save them from a multitude of harm. I ran across a book with a title I have long since forgotten, but the implication was (paraphrased), "How to Pray so That God Answers Your Prayers." 

Well, my friends, whether saint or sinner, or somewhere in between God is not somehow indebted to you that He is required to answer your prayers the way you order the outcome. I mean, if you had asked any of the saints of Hebrews Chapter 11, "Would you like to be saved from (name the particular calamity)?" Of course, they would have responded in the affirmative. 

And then, I saw this social media post which posed the proposition, "Write 'Amen' under this post, and God will rescue you from the issue you are currently facing." I'm sorry. That ain't how it works. And I not only responded in that manner, but I went on to make them aware that their post was little more than a spiritual horoscope!

However, before you say, "Well then, what's the use?" Allow me to assure you that God is the author and finisher of our days, and ways, or at least His ways, and that He knew the sum of your circumstances before He made the worlds; (including the untimely death of Father Molinari).

He is a God we can trust, and with Whom we can invest all the yet unwritten words on all the blank pages of all the days of all the years which yet remain to us here.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

ENCOURAGEMENT

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There was a time when I was running the 2 mile segment of the Army PT test. I never was the lightest or the fastest soldier, and I hated that 2 mile run. I was struggling that day, perhaps 2/3 of a mile from the finish line. And, of course, it wasn't just about finishing. We were required to finish in a given time depending on our age.

Suddenly, a faster troop saw me struggling, and he actually slowed down, and jogged with me for 20 or 30 yards; all the time saying words like, "You can do it" and "You got this. Dig down deep!"

His momentary encouragement made all the difference. I came in with just seconds to spare.

"But day by day, and as long as today shall last continue to encourage one another." (Hebrews 3:13)

by Bill McDonald, PhD

FULFILLING MY DESTINY

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With the passage of time, I have realized how precious the moments we have been allotted are. I mean, I was just 20 yesterday; (or so it seems). Now, I am looking back at my immature adult self over a span of an additional 60 years; which have gone by the wayside.

Now, I find myself at a crossroads, as I just retired from a counseling practice of 35 years, and I, admittedly, feel a bit "betwixt and between." I think when one has been so integrally involved with people in a formal setting for multiplied hours per week, and then, well, then suddenly it's the lack thereof. Sometimes there's more of "the lack thereof" than is altogether comfortable; since I have been so transfixed on making a difference in lives.

However, not a day goes by that I don't pray,

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

It's a great prayer, if I do say so myself. 

And I am convinced, in spite of a few anxious moments, that God will answer that prayer, and that He will continue to place people in my pathway who I can bless, encourage, and help.

I love the words of that old song. "If I can help somebody as I travel along then my living shall not be in vain." 

A prayer and a song. 

Lord, don't let me miss whatever still remains of my destiny, and give me the ongoing wherewithal to help somebody as I travel along.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THOSE WEARY DAYS AND DREARY NIGHTS

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I am an advocate of both the spoken, and the written word, and attempt to use them often, and fluently; in order to make a difference in the lives God sets in my pathway.

Among my foreign social media friends, I somehow met and messaged a twenty something Ukrainian woman several times.

Anna lived in the capital city of Kiev; a location which, though not in the very thick of the land battles which plagued Ukraine, it has, at times, suffered air assaults by cruise and ballistic missiles, and drones. 

And during the weary days and dreary nights the city was under attack, Anna and I continued to correspond, (though I have, admittedly, forgotten the topics of our exchanges). However, I am by nature an encourager, and I presume we discussed any number of things, including the war, and the fear which permeated her life.

Ultimately, Anna managed to migrate to Poland, and from there to Great Britain.

At some point she messaged me again from London, (or some other city in England), and began to reminisce about those deadly encounters with missiles and drones, as she sat cowering in the local subway, or municipal building basement on a recurring basis.

"Dr. Bill, you have no idea how much your words encouraged me during those long and lonely nights when missiles were falling all around us, and when my neighbors and I might have died at any moment. You were there with me when fear and anxiety threatened to overwhelm me!"

(and)

"Thank you, my friend."

If my entire life had been mundane and uneventful, if I had somehow failed to make a difference in a solitary life 'til then, it would be enough to have "merely" encouraged my friend, Anna, and helped bring her safely through that awful war which raged around her.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

STAY ENCOURAGED

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I was a member of the U.S. Air Force at the time, and my wife and I were attending a large church in Tampa.

And as is the case with many evangelical churches, Pastor Matheny occasionally brought in guest speakers. However, this time around the guest evangelist was, to say the least, different than all the rest who proceeded him.

Other than his Mississippi accent, Rev. Brown possessed one particular trait which separated him from every other evangelist with whom I’d been acquainted in my (at that time) 20+ years of life on this planet. (And to be sure, I’ve never seen that trait recreated in the almost half century since).

Now and then, as the good preacher reached a point in his sermon which he thought worthy of a figurative exclamation mark, he would throw out his right leg at a 45 degree angle. I suppose this occurred all of six or eight times during the course of every 45 minute message, and which he faithfully performed throughout the one week series of revival meetings.

The last night of his meetings finally arrived, and as his final sermon concluded, the audience was invited to ‘q up’ and wish the evangelist ‘God speed;’ as he prepared to travel to his next engagement. And although I have stood behind numerous pulpits and counseled thousands, I still possess a bit of introvertism I seem to bring to certain situations. However, this was obviously not one of them, since I had especially enjoyed the evangelist’ messages, and his strange little mannerism struck me both humorous and unique.

As the line ebbed, and I brought up the rear, I reached out to shake the good preacher’s hand, and he reciprocated. And looking me directly in the eye, Rev. Brown said something no one had said to me before, (nor since).

…“Stay Encouraged.”

And over the next almost 60 years I have been faithful to pass those same two life-giving words on to hundreds of friends, acquaintances, strangers, and clients. And some have reminded me later how much those 14 letters have meant to them, and impacted their thoughts and emotions when they needed it most. And for this I am humbled, and I am grateful.

Stay Encouraged!

"But day by day, and as long as today shall last continue to encourage one another." (Hebrews 3:13)

by Bill McDonald, PhD

STORM CLOUDS, GOONEY BIRDS, AND CUBAN COFFEE

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Pt. 1

Today marks 34 years since we received the call. My National Guard unit had been mobilized to report to south Florida, as the result of the devastation visited by Hurricane Andrew upon the City of Homestead.

 

As our convoy rushed past pine trees, and palmetto bushes, and  entered “the zone of influence,” it seemed we transcended a fine line of demarcation between intact civilization, and what might well have passed for a war zone.

 

Whereas, the flora which surrounded us showed little or no sign of having been impacted by the Category 5 winds of Hurricane Andrew, and I had begun to wonder why we had been called away from the lives to which we were generally accustomed, the devastation which suddenly greeted us was nothing less than incomprehensible.

 

Palm trees broken like matchsticks, and haphazardly scattered across acres of countryside which bordered our asphalt entre into a real-life Neverland. A automobile dealership with its doors and windows blown out, and its stock in trade heaped in colorful metallic piles around it. An ocean going vessel, a hundred feet in length, lying on its side beneath a highway overpass. Multiplied thousands of businesses and expensive homes annihilated by the mindless, unmitigated force of nature.

 

And what struck me strange was how much like this little piece of south Florida resembled Maine in Wintertime, as every plant, bush and tree had been rudely stripped of their leaves; (a condition which was summarily reversed when, so uncharacteristic of Florida, and as we neared the end of our mission, a multitude of buds graced every stem and branch).

 

It was August and it was hot, and the lack of air conditioning, or even a fan in the green canvas Army tents which served as our homes away from home was just short of unbearable. Rain water washed easily across the floor of our transient tabernacle, and the buzz and subsequent bite of a thousand bloodsuckers provided scant little respite, as we slipped, still deeper, into our heavy, woolen sleeping bags.

 

Pt. 2

 

The 2^nd Battalion, 116^th Field Artillery was stationed at the Metro Zoo; or at least what was left of it. Most of the animals had been evacuated to other locations, outside the projected perimeter of Ground Zero. However, a nearby research facility had been abandoned in place and left unattended. And as a result, some unintended results were in the offing.

 

Dozens of monkeys were on the prowl. But not just your garden variety monkeys. Did I mention the facility which they called home was an AIDS research complex? (Well, it was). And as you might imagine, we were admonished to shoot the little fellas on sight. To my knowledge none of our troops chanced upon any of the little boogers. Word is that many of the hapless simians migrated to the nearby everglades, (and there is every reason to believe that their contaminated descendants continue to populate the area).

 

My section wound up with a couple of assignments during the course of our 40 day tenure in the most God forsaken two hundred square mile piece of ground on Planet Earth.

 

“Country Walk” was (and perhaps, by now, is again) an exclusive subdivision made up of half million dollar homes. But I regret to say Hurricane Andrew made short work of the place. And in retrospect, it was discovered that the building codes were insufficient for winds half as strong as this storm visited on the place.

 

Large heaps of plywood and orange tile bearing little semblance to the magnificent homes which once lined the idyllic streets upon which we navigated our camouflaged Humvees. Manicured yards covered with fallen oak trees, and a neighbor’s kitchen garbage.

 

And from my guard post, near the entrance of the formerly elite community, one of the most peculiar sights to which I have ever been exposed.

 

A 1930’s era C-47 prop airplane sitting “all by its lonely” in a nearby field; with little or no visible damage. I asked my section chief about it, and Sergeant Hoehne informed me that unlike the proverbial turtle on a fence post, this plane definitely got there by itself. For you see, before the recent storm collapsed the hanger in which it had been on permanent display, the aged “Gooney Bird” had been part and parcel of a WWII collection of vintage airplanes.

 

Almost inexplicably, it had been lifted into the air by a small, embedded twister, done its own solitary ‘Dorothy in Kansas’ act, and managed to take its last flight… without a pilot. Ultimately, as though resting in the hand of Providence, the plane experienced the shortest flight, and the strangest landing of its long and storied career.

 

Pt. 3

 

Day gave way to night, and night gave way to day, and as Sergeant Bob and I relieved the night shift one morning, and took our place near the guard shack, a thirty something year old man stepped out of a nearby house, (or what was left of it) ambled over to us, and proceeded to share a story which easily gave my previous tale of the Gooney Bird “a run for its money.”

 

For it seems Robert and his wife made the fateful decision to remain in their home and weather the hurricane. Given the now obvious state of their little corner of paradise, it almost cost them their lives.

 

August 24, 1992. A day that will live in infamy; at least a day the citizens of the Miami suburb which was Homestead, Florida will remember for as long as they draw breath. And for those such as Robert and Trisha, who chose to “ride it out” in their homes, the experience was not only memorable, but the most traumatic circumstance of their entire lives.

 

But I’ll allow Robert to tell the tale.

 

“Trish and I have experienced other hurricanes, and we figured this one couldn’t be much worse. I mean, our house has weathered several of ‘em, and the worst of it was always a few missing shingles.

 

It began very much like the other storms. The clouds grew dark, and the wind picked up a bit, and of course we’d tuned our television to the Weather Channel.

 

I guess we had been lulled into complacency. I mean the weatherman can ‘cry wolf’ so many times, and so many times the storm’s bark is so much worse that its bite.

 

Pt. 4

 

But we found out the hard way. 30 or 40 minutes into the thing, it got bad. I mean, it got really bad, and we began to question our sanity for staying put in our house. We could hear shingles flying off the roof, and then a few hairline cracks appeared in the ceiling. Suddenly, something smashed into our front bay window, and the wind came roaring into our living room.

 

I grabbed Trisha’s hand and we ran for the hall bathroom. It was all I could do to push the door shut behind us. The sounds around us were just monstrous; like nothing I’d ever heard before. At this point, we got into the bathtub, clothes and all, and just sat there in each other’s arms.

 

Sergeant, I’m not ashamed to tell you I was more afraid than I have ever been before, or ever hope to be again. We just held one another, affirmed our love for each other, and said our ‘goodbyes.’ I honestly expected a first responder or insurance agent would discover our bodies. Of course, I didn’t share my thoughts with Trish.”

 

Robert continued.

 

“Thank God for that small bathroom. It was the only room which came through the storm intact. We simply could not have survived in any other room in our house. The ceilings collapsed, and every window had been blown out. Glass and debris was everywhere.”

 

Before Robert returned to what was left of his former home he made us aware that he’d just been interviewed for a feature segment on the popular news show, “20/20.” (And though I have attempted to locate that particular segment, I’ve never run across it).

 

Pt. 5

 

Of course, I previously inferred my section performed another role during the 40 days we served in aftermath of Hurricane Andrew. (And I have never been able to refer to that season without thinking of Noah, and the 40 day aftermath of the Great Flood; when the Ark waited to rest on dry land).

 

About halfway into that little season, (although it seemed interminable) our duties at Country Walk culminated, and we were diverted to the flea market in Homestead. And admittedly, under such circumstances one might wonder what eight or ten reservists would be doing at a flea market, after what at the time was the worst storm in U.S. history. And I can only respond, “Well, I’m glad you asked.”

 

The federal government was, as the result of the storm, in the process of dispensing emergency food stamps to the citizens of that extended community, and since the value of this commodity was in the multiplied millions of dollars, our unit provided armed security. (And my dear readers, armed we were). Whereas, the 25,000 active duty troops in the area walked around with unloaded M-16’s, (as Martial Law had not been declared) each and every one of the 10,000 members of the Florida Army National Guard carried a full clip of live rounds. (None of that Barney Fife and the one bullet in his pocket thing for us).

 

I recall a couple of unforgettable experiences during our tour of duty at the flea market.

 

A young Haitian woman approached my section chief with a question, but it was readily apparent she didn’t speak English. Having had a year of French in college, I immediately recognized her need, and I responded with, “Voila la toilette,” and pointed towards a distant Port-a-Potty. (Had she wanted a rundown of the latest stock market report I’m afraid my fluency in the French language, or lack thereof, would have failed me).

Pt. 6

 

I will always remember the kindness of an elderly Cuban woman who offered me a cup of that rich dark coffee for which her little island is so widely known. And while I was not then, nor am I now a fan of coffee, I absolutely loved it. As it fell together a quarter of a century would ensue before I would taste it again. Just the other day my wife and I walked into a local Cuban restaurant and ordered a cup of the lovely stuff. (Somewhat of a distant echo of a mission completed, and a job well done).

 

A few minutes later the sky grew dark, and a common, run of the mill Florida thunderstorm approached from the east; (the same direction from whence Hurricane Andrew and its devastating 180 mph winds had come). As the wind freshened, and it began to sprinkle, a little dark-haired girl in the crowd, perhaps all of five years of age, began crying, and could not be comforted. I immediately recognized the symptoms, and surmised that like Robert and Trisha, her family had, just three weeks before, chosen to remain in their home, rather than flee the impending storm. (No doubt, the now thirty-something year old woman is still triggered when the sky grows dark, the winds begin to blow, and a little H2O descends from the sky).

 

We must have been quite a sight walking in and out of stores and eating establishments wearing camo clothing, and with our M-16’s slung over our shoulders. (Somewhat reminiscent of Uganda and Idi Amin). On one especially memorable day, perhaps a month into our tenure in that storm-stricken city, SFC Hoehne and I walked out of a local McDonald’s; having just purchased our own respective “to go” meals. And without warning, a lovely young woman walked up, wrapped her arms around me, and exclaimed,

 

“You guys just don’t know how much we appreciate you” (and) “Thank you for helping us.”

 

And as quickly as she appeared, she was gone. I never cease to think of her, and though her name eludes me, I hope she is well, and I often mention her in my prayers.

 

Pt. 7

 

The last day finally arrived and several hundred guardsmen were more than ready to bid ‘adieu’ to their adopted city. Our task was complete, and yet, there were tasks and missions plenty for countless volunteers in the months which lay ahead.

As we walked across the parking lot reminiscing about our singular experiences, a bald eagle drifted over our heads, flew the length of our compound, and disappeared on the horizon. Tears filled my eyes. The tour was done, but would never be forgotten.

We were back, but we would never be the same. We could only be the better for that which we had seen, that which we had experienced, and for those brave citizens whom we had met.

We had returned to our natural environment. The air seemed fresher. The flowers more colorful. The sky a bit bluer. Oh, how thankful we were on the other side of the storm.

Odd, it took two weeks before I overcame the unexpected fatigue which overwhelmed me, and it became apparent that I had too long been exposed to the whites and blacks and browns and grays of that hurricane-stricken city. And I realized how that awful place had somehow impacted my visual sensibilities, and resulted in a physical weariness.

 

But what of those we left behind?

Their lives were budding again. Just as surely as the trees of their city began to bud anew, after being so rudely stripped of their leaves.

by Bill McDonald, PhD