A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4506

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

JUST BEHIND THE CURTAIN

 4505

     I have previously written about the following experience in my Returning in Their Place daily journal; which I kept on our trip to Scotland and Ireland eight years ago. (England would have to wait, though I would love to see it).

 

     My wife and I were on a two week guided tour to the lands of our ancestors, (as well as the ancestors of a large percentage of modern day Americans).

 

     I have long since forgotten the name of the Scottish town in which we stopped for the night, or for that matter the hotel. Suffice it to say that we were somewhere in central Scotland.

 

     Our tour group gathered in the hotel restaurant about 6pm for our evening meal. It was a large room, and other guests, perhaps another tour group, filled every available seat. There were well more than a hundred people in the place.

 

     I have also long since forgotten whether the hotel provided us any entertainment. There may have been a pianist. There may have been a singer. (However, if we lacked anyone to entertain us, I would soon make up for the lack).

 

    My wife, daughter, and grandson sat in the other chairs which surrounded me. We were provided menus and I chose a nice filet of salmon, broccoli, and mashed potatoes. (My mouth is watering just thinking about it)! And while we were offered an alcoholic beverage, (white wine was suggested as an accompaniment for my meal), we all declined.

 

     Everything proceeded nominally during the meal, and there was nothing especially memorable about the discussion at our little table. However, (and it was and continues to be a huge “HOWEVER”).

 

Pt. 2

 

     However, as the meal neared its inevitable conclusion, I looked to my left, and noticed a curtain; perhaps five feet in width and seven feet in height. And given my general state of curiosity which has accompanied me the past seventy years, I was determined to discover what lay behind it. (Can we say “Wiley Coyote and Roadrunner”)?

 

     As Jean, Kristy and Noah finished off the last few remnants of whatever they happened to be eating that evening, I stood up, and grabbed one side of the curtain; with the intention of peeking behind the heavy non-descript cloth. But now, all my well-intentioned plans “went south.” Whereas, I thought the curtain might have hidden absolutely nothing but a bare wall, I found myself falling into an abyss! And given my precarious (lack of) footing, I attempted to right myself by jerking downward on the curtain.

 

     And now, the top edge of the curtain gave way, and the fabric hooks began to bend, and tear away from the cloth. And now, I felt my hand touch something hard behind the curtain, and I just managed to regain my balance.

During the course of my unfortunate, but admittedly laughable experience, someone nearby uttered a one syllable word. (Well, not exactly a word). For you see, as I was in the process of falling into the small cavern, my wife emitted a 150 decibel scream!

 

     Having regained my balance, I sheepishly looked around me, and noticed one hundred plus men, women, and children were looking back at me! For one moment in time, the entire room was so utterly quiet you might have heard a pin drop!

 

     And now, (my wife has often referred to me as “The Master of the Unexpected”) I faced the assembled dinner guests… and rendered a slow military salute!

 

     (It occurred to me later that my fellow diners must have thought I had imbibed a couple of liters of that white wine)!

 

     And now, without so much as another word, Jean, Kristy, and Noah rose to their feet. What little food still remained on our plates was immediately forgotten. With faces focused on the floor, (and alluding to my previous military implication), we made a hasty retreat.

 

     It's easy to laugh about it now, but it certainly wasn’t funny at the time.

I never did find out what was behind that curtain!

 

     When I was in the second grade, my teacher asked me to portray the Wizard of Oz in a class play. I have previously written about that fiasco, and I will always remember the lines I spoke that day. (“I am Oz, the great and the terrible. Who are you and why do you seek me”)?

 

     When it “was all said and done,” the little fella behind the curtain had a self-inflated view of his own importance, but meant no harm.

 

     However, the same cannot be said about life. Life offers us many seasons, and, in essence, many curtains. As often as not, however, what lies just behind the curtain is not only unexpected, but, at best, unpleasant.

 

     Jesus promised we would experience tribulation. (John 14:27). You cannot live in this mortal sphere, be you rich or poor, unknown, famous, or infamous without experiencing suffering.

 

     Even now, as I write these words, I am watching a two year old television special which includes the hosts of The Today Show. At this very moment, Savannah Guthrie is speaking about suffering. Little could she have known at the time that just behind that curtain of life, her mother would be taken from her home, and is still missing.

 

     If this was all there was, the abundance of curtains, and that which lies just behind them could be overwhelming. However, this IS NOT all there is. We have a great Savior who has gone to prepare a place for us, and who has promised to receive us unto Himself.

 

     Speaking of curtains, I am reminded of a verse in scripture related to the crucifixion of Christ.

 

     “At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom.” (Matthew 27:51a, NIV)

 

     The symbolism, as well as the literalness of this verse cannot be overstated.

 

     Hebrews 4:15-16 invites us to walk right through that curtain which separates us from the Holy of Holies, and to commune with our Abba Father there.

 

     And that is not the whole ball of wax. On the other side of this curtain of life, as believers, we are guaranteed a grand entrance into our Father’s House. We will, as it were, walk from this momentary room into the eternal one. We shall see Him as He is. We will live with the One who loved us, and gave Himself for us; our Savior, Messiah and King, the Lord Jesus Christ.

 

      …Just behind the curtain.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

STAYING BY THE STUFF

 4504

 

      “…but as his part is that goes down to the battle, so shall his part be, that tarrieth (stays) by the stuff: they shall part (share) alike.1^st Samuel 30:24, GNV

 

     When I was considering a suitable scripture for this devotion, I immediately thought of David and his men, and their battle with the Amalekites, and those who “stayed by the stuff.” You see, in this particular case, I could be characterized in very much the same way.

 

     I served as a mentor for a young lady named Alyssa, in a church which we both attended. Over the years I have offered a self-styled formal mentoring program to dozens of potential young people of excellence. As memory serves me, I may have served Alyssa in this capacity about 2012.

 

     Ultimately, Alyssa attended Oral Roberts University, and was awarded both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees there. Prior to completing her master’s degree, she was provided the opportunity to represent Christ for all Nations as their crusade representative in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Since Alyssa fulfilled her role well, she went on to serve as this ministry’s International Website Coordinator.

 

     Reinhard Bonnke was the founder of CfaN, and served as president of this organization for years afterwards. It might be helpful here to provide my readers some understanding of the impact of this particular ministry.

 

     Although Christ for all Nations is little known among the majority of believers, it has reached more people than any other ministry in the history of the world! To elaborate, its primary outreach is to the peoples of Africa, and it has not been unusual for 1-2 million native people to attend any given crusade. Of course, given the numbers, such crusades are held outdoors. I have been amazed as I looked at photos of the immense crowds! As you might imagine, multiplied thousands have flooded to the front when Rev. Bonnke has invited people to accept Christ as Savior.

 

     Alyssa went on to serve Rev. Bonnke in the capacity, be it informal or formal, of a personal assistant. After he retired, she served Rev. Kolenda in the same capacity. I have seen photos of Alyssa at one particular crusade in Africa a few years ago.   

 

     All the foregoing to convey the following:

 

     God has granted me the inestimable privilege of touching a solitary life who, ultimately, ministered in an organization which has no par in the history of the world, and which has profoundly impacted millions of souls, and, as a result, unknown multitudes have been brought to a saving knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.

 

     It has been a pleasure and privilege to “Stay by the Stuff.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD 

      

 

 

 

SOMETHING THE LORD MADE

4503 

      I came across a wonderful movie titled, “Something The Lord Made.” During the rental period we must have watched it five times; (not to mention we were late turning it back in.)

 

     It is the true story of two contradictory figures who lived during the 20^th century. As different as they were, they were very much the same. You’ll understand by the time I finish the story.

 

     Alfred Blalock was an eminent white physician who pioneered some pretty impressive breakthroughs in medical science. It so happened he needed a cleanup man for his lab, and a black fella named Vivian (yes, Vivian) Thomas applied for the job.

 

     He’d hardly begun his new job when Dr. Blalock realized he’d hired a prodigy. For although the young black man had only a high school diploma, he displayed the most intense interest in the doctor’s activities, and was often found reading medical journals in his free time. When Alfred quizzed Vivian, he learned the young man had plans for medical school.

 

    Though the two men were from different social, academic and economic strata, they found themselves drawn to one another, and ultimately became fast friends, as well as partners. Blalock depended on Thomas and seemed bound and determined to take him where ever fate beckoned them.

 

     Eventually the physician moved to Baltimore and a position at Johns Hopkins University Hospital. The men left Nashville and the South far behind, in favor of this new challenge.

 

    This new environment agreed with them, and they were quickly inundated with lab work devoted to discovering the secrets of the heart; (organic, not romantic.) It took very little time for Alfred to understand just how talented and proficient Vivian really was.

 

    Oh, there was the normal misunderstandings between the two. It was “The Thirties” and black men were still being hung from trees for the “serious offense” of smiling at a white woman. The relationship was colored by the times, but possibly more by the pride that circulated in the veins of the eminent physician. When Dr. Blalock was featured on the cover of Life Magazine, he never considered including Vivian. When he had the opportunity to speak before an audience of his peers, he never mentioned the contribution of his black partner.

      

     Yet there was something special about Vivian Thomas; something that transcended every purposeful or cultural attempt to “keep him down.” And for all their differences and all their misunderstandings, the two loved and respected one another. And they formed an attachment that superceded the physician’s relationship with his own peers.

 

     Though he was only a lab technician, Vivian attempted some heretofore theoretical techniques in surgery;…with dogs serving as his guinea pigs. And though “The Forties” had arrived, and though American physicians thought of themselves as pioneers, heart surgery was still considered both  impossible, and taboo. Things were about to change.

 

     The two men developed a treatment for “blue baby syndrome,” and decided it was time to make the leap from animals to humans. Half the staff thought they were crazy, and the other half expected them to fail.

 

     The initial operation on a very sick baby proceeded, and hours ticked by. As the surgery concluded and the heart stint was opened wide, the child’s bluish color immediately faded and her skin turned a wonderful pink. At that moment childish smiles lit Alfred’s and Vivian’s features. They had done “the impossible” and put all the nay sayers to shame.

 

    Vivian’s mentors became his students, (which has been known to happen.) For the humble little black man, with a high school diploma, found himself in a position to instruct preeminent physicians. And the fame of that little black man spread quickly throughout the hospital and the world. Respect replaced prejudice.

 

    Dr. Blalock ultimately left Johns Hopkins in favor of a teaching post, while Vivian remained in his lab. Years flew by and the good doctor died, as Thomas aged in his important position.

    The lab technician never realized his dream of medical school. Money was always the issue. He lived and died a high school graduate. But that is not “the rest of the story.”

 

    As Vivian neared the end of his marvelous journey, it occurred to “the powers that be” at Johns Hopkins that the humble man merited a singular honor. And on such and such a day the entire staff gathered to congratulate the man who, along with his mentor, had almost single handedly put their institution on the map.

 

    We have chosen to sit near the back of the auditorium, and we notice Vivian seated on the first row with his family. Suddenly, a female doctor walks to the podium, and calls Mr. Thomas forward, as she begins to read from a large certificate.

 

    Afterwards, a beautiful painting of Vivian is unveiled. The little man’s eyes light up, and well with tears. A lab technician had stepped onto the stage. A doctor now steps off of it. For our wonderful little hero has been awarded an Honorary Doctorate in Medicine!

 

    And did I tell you? The painting of Dr. Vivian Thomas can still be seen in the main lobby of Johns Hopkins University Hospital next to the painting of his partner and friend, Dr. Alfred Blalock. And in death their likenesses still reside there; side by side, as they did in life. Vivian died in 1985, outliving his mentor by two decades.

 

    These two most excellent fellows, Alfred and Vivian, were medical pioneers. They performed the first heart surgeries in the history of the world. All those surgeons who operate on the cardiac muscle today have become the professional grandchildren of these two men. And the millions of patients who ever had their lives extended ought pause a moment, and reflect on the singular lives of Dr. Alfred Blalock and Dr. Vivian Thomas.

 

    Alfred and Vivian were a gift to mankind. They were, indeed, “Something The Lord Made.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

EMBRACING INSIGHT. AVOIDING CATASTROPHE

 4502

      “And what about the eighteen people who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them?” (Luke 13:4, NLT)

 

      I have always loved space flight, and all the rockets, and liftoffs, and  moon suits that go with it.

 

      I remember the three major accidents that have blemished an otherwise wonderful, and courageous effort to not only orbit the earth in near space, but to sail across the unknown void towards the moon.

 

      I graduated from high school in 1967. Three men sat on a launch pad early that year. It was only a training mission, and the immense Saturn rocket was scheduled to go… nowhere. Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee were strapped in, and were performing various tests of the equipment. Then, the unspeakable happened. A flash fire burned quickly through the craft; trapping the men inside. The astronaut’s panicked voices screamed for assistance. The escape hatch was not designed to be opened rapidly. The 100% oxygen environment nurtured the contagious spread of the fire; offering no hope of escape.

 

     It was 1986 and the moon had been long since conquered, and men were once again circumnavigating the earth; in winged craft that looked more like airplanes, than spacecraft. The Space Shuttle was a marvel of technology. Space flight had become so common that a civilian teacher was strapped in, and prepared for numerous circuits of the earth. Christa McCauliff was excited about the opportunity. Then, the unspeakable happened, again. Seven brave astronauts died 73 seconds after liftoff. I was working a hundred miles from the Cape that day, and though I didn’t witness the explosion, I remember the white, wispy smoke that hung in the sky long afterwards. 

 

     It was 2003, and a veteran space shuttle had descended to four hundred thousand feet above the continental United States. Sixteen minutes from landing everything literally began to fall apart. The Columbia burned up in earth’s low atmosphere, and small pieces were scattered over several states.

 

     Gus Grissom and his fine crew died, as a result of faulty wiring, a too rich oxygen atmosphere in the cabin, and a door that was not designed for quick exit.

 

    The Challenger was doomed due to a poorly designed “O-Ring” that allowed hot gases to escape the main rocket; made less durable as a result of cold weather conditions that day.

 

    The Columbia was damaged in the first few seconds after liftoff, as a large piece of insulation bounced off its left wing.

 

     I heard a sermon that sounds just about right. We learn in three ways. Through insight, through crisis, or finally, as a result of catastrophe. If insight is ignored, the next incremental step is crisis. If crisis is somehow taken for granted, the subsequent, and final step becomes catastrophe.

 

     We were in too big a hurry to get to the moon. President Kennedy had promised that we would be there before the new decade began. Designs were hurried up, and too much was overlooked.

 

      The Saturn test vehicle should have never caught fire, and the door should have never been so difficult to open. An oxygen-rich environment, and a poor escape design spelled disaster.

 

      The Challenger should not have exploded on that cold day in 1986. Seven wonderful people did not need to die. The sub-contractor had warned NASA to avoid launching the spacecraft on such a cold day.

 

     The Columbia accident was tragic, and unnecessary. Insulation had fallen off the main fuel tank in the past.

 

      Potentially, a spy satellite might well have been used to identify the wing damage, and another shuttle might well have been prepped, and rushed to the doomed spacecraft, and the unfortunate astronauts.

 

     And, “it is neither here, nor there,” but, ironically, all three of our space-related accidents, though they occurred in two different centuries, and three different decades, occurred within one week of the others in January and February on the calendar!

 

     Time and space would fail me to list the hundreds of famous accidents among ships, and planes, and all manner of vehicles over the past hundred years. And in so many of these instances, insight was tossed aside in favor of crisis, and catastrophe.

 

     And to summon up one further example. There was a bridge which spanned a rather small river in a rather insignificant town in West Virginia. The bridge was built in the mid-twentieth century, and had stood for over thirty years. On one particular day, the metal structure began to sway, and creak, and buckle. Dozens of cars, and multiplied people fell into the river.

 

    The final accident report revealed that one small, and seemingly insignificant bolt had shattered. It was a “time bomb waiting to go off.” For, you see, the flaw was there when the bolt was originally fabricated.

 

     It is imperative that we learn through the insight gleaned from the lessons learned over a significant period of time. There’s just nothing like it. It has the potential to save us from so much harm, and suffering.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THE INESTIMABLE POWER AND PRIVILEGE OF MENTORING

 4501

     Among all the attributes to which I aspire, and wish to nurture in my own life are those of Humbleness, Encouragement, and Servant-Leadership.

The latter of the three attributes speaks to the quality of setting aside the time and care to mentor another human being; the wherewithal to add value to a life representing a third, and altogether crucial variable in the mix, of course.

 

    The other day I was scrolling through a social media site, and ran across a video which was posted by a friend in the Atlanta area. The film footage ran all of 12 or 15 seconds, and depicted Lynn’s conductorial work among the youth of that area. For over many years, she has mentored literally thousands of adolescents and adults in the inestimably wonderful genre referred to as “Song.”

 

     Following is a response I left beneath the segment:

 

    “Lynn, when I played this short video, tears sprang to my eyes, and an involuntary sob sprang up in my throat. I have served as a formal mentor to numerous young people over the years, and therefore I can relate to what I viewed here in an especial way. You have learned well from one of your early mentors. As I have inferred in the past, Miss Clark would be inestimably proud of you, my friend.”

 

     Miss Clark was, in the terminology of our era, an “old maid.” She graduated from the same school in which she, ultimately, taught. I was blessed to “sit under” her tutelage, as was Lynn, a full half century after she walked across that familiar stage, and received her “sheepskin.” (As a matter of fact, her faded high school diploma still graces the school trophy case).

 

    As I finished my 11^th year, and began my 12^th, Miss Clark was forced to retire from teaching, as the result of a terminal illness. She was replaced by a much younger choral director. Though “Mrs. Franklin,” (not her real name), was personable and adept in her chosen field, the students who had known and loved Miss Clark were left with a proverbial hole in their hearts, (and it apparently showed in the music they produced).

 

     For while Miss Clark’s Summerlin choral group had consistently rated “Superior” in the annual state contest, the first year we were without her, we received an “Excellent” rating.

 

     And reminiscent of that scene in the movie, October Sky, in which Homer Hickam visits his teacher, Miss Riley in her hospital room, and shows her his prestigious science award, it is said that in the closing weeks of Miss Clark’s life a similar thing occurred.

 

     It seems one of our aged conductor’s students was visiting her at home, or in a hospital room, and Miss Clark asked the inevitable question; which begged to be answered.

 

     “So, how did “we” do at state contest this year?”

 

     Whether that student had prepared herself in advance for that proverbial “elephant in the living room,” or whether she merely possessed the insight to answer in the way she did, I cannot say.

 

     However, it has been reported that “Grace,” (at least this is the name I have chosen for her), responded with,

 

     “Well, Miss Clark, of course we rated all “Superiors.”

 

     And with that, I like to think our beloved musical mentor smiled, and that the little white lie momentarily assuaged her pain, and helped usher her from this sphere to the next.

 

     I have recently been exposed to a couple of wonderful adages; (which I have made my own).

 

    “I am planting seedlings under whose boughs I never expect to sit.”

 

    (and)

 

    “My students are living messages to a time that I will never see.”

 

    The inestimable privilege and power of mentoring.

 

    The indescribable wonderment of wrapping one’s mantle around the shoulders of a younger someone, and entrusting him or her with all the future years which have not been afforded to you.

 

    One of my interns once gave me a gift, among the greatest treasures I have ever received on this side of heaven, when she spontaneously said:

 

    “Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go when you can no longer go. I’ll share your message when you are no longer able to share it. I’ll speak for you when all your speaking is done. I’ll continue to impact lives, and teach others to do the same, long after you have gone on to your reward.”

 

    For there will come a time, (as it once came to Miss Clark), when they who refer to me will do so in the past tense,

 

     “He was.”

 

    But until then, the privilege and power of impacting those who come after us… continues.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

AMBIDEXTROUS ME

 4500

I have been hard at it for thirty years. (Yeah, I have).

I think anyone who devotes thirty years to anything enjoys what he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Either that, or he must be a glutton for punishment, (or someone is holding him captive).

I confess. I love making a difference in lives. I have literally “sat with” multiplied thousands of people. (Odd, I suddenly realize I haven’t told you what I have been doing the past thirty years).

I am a marriage and family counselor.

But to digress a bit.

In my day and time, every elementary age child was taught to write in cursive. Of course, the children of the late 20^th and current 21^st centuries learn to write their names in cursive, but that’s the jest of it.

Beyond that, well there is no “beyond that,” they learn to write only their names in that archaic style of applying words to paper. Speaking of the new “beyond that,” they simply print what they wish to relay to an interested eye, or they sit down at a computer keyboard. (I wouldn’t want you to think I am incapable of having mastered that particular genre, as I learned to type in the Air Force, and can still knock out 80-100 words per minute).

Pt. 2

However, as you might imagine, I don’t bring my laptop computer into the counseling office with me. Honestly, I never have even thought about doing so ‘til just now. But somehow, I think sitting there talking with a client about their personal history and issues, and pecking out words on a computer wouldn’t mix that well, i.e. “Tell me about the day your Aunt Marilla died” (I look down. Peck, peck, peck). “Okay. How did you respond when your husband ran off with another woman?” (I look down again. Peck, peck, peck). Rather impersonal, I think.

But as I have implied, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes. During that first session in particular. And since I am a question asker, I am liable to get an answer for virtually every question. And since I ask 101 questions in that first session, and receive a minimum of 100 answers, I fill up lots of unlined paper with my almost indecipherable handwriting. (Sometimes indecipherable to even me).

I suppose it happened about a third of the way through my current tenure of three decades behind the counseling desk. (Well, honestly, I don’t sit at a desk. Just two chairs facing one another).

I began to think about giving my dominant writing hand a break. I would learn to use my non-dominant (left) hand. And thus, I began to practice writing with a hand with which I had only pulled a trigger in the past. (I can’t explain why, but I have always fired a rifle left-handed).

At any rate, the more I used my non-dominant hand, the better I became with it. However, the more I used my left hand, the poorer my right-handed brand of cursive became, until it was almost illegible.

I can’t account for it, but it was almost like I had rewired my brain. The hand that never had any particular acuity was suddenly the legible hand, and the hand with which I first learned to write was becoming increasingly unstable. Unless I bore down on the paper, my dominant hand shook, (and the resulting “hen scratches” were vivid proof of it).

Pt. 3

But even more “strange and wonderful,” the difference between my dominant and non-dominant brand of cursive was incredible. I was used to looking at my right-handed style of writing. I had been stuck with it for just short of half a century. It was to say the least pretty “plain Jane” in appearance. However, I didn’t recognize my left-handed brand of committing words to paper. It was almost feminine in appearance, and it reminded me somewhat of calligraphy. Granted, I have never been as fast with my left hand, but then I had never experienced any ineptness with my right hand, (as I did now).

Some of my clients have been confused as they have watched me put words to paper. As they have joined me on Day One, and before I did “the old switcheroo” in the middle of the session, he or she has quipped, “You don’t turn your hand inward like other left-handed writers.” To which, barely looking up, I have always responded, “That’s because I’m not left-handed.” Of course, that has always elicited a “hmmm” or “I see.” (When they really didn’t).

It was only after a few minutes, and I have moved the pen to my dominant hand that they have really “gotten it.” And at that point I would announce, “I taught myself to write with both hands.” (and) “It makes writing the answers to 101 questions a bit easier.”

I prefer my “fancy-dancy” style of cursive to that uninformed, archaic, grade school brand of writing. And though my wife thinks me a bit eccentric for having changed hands, she grudgingly admits the fancy-dancy cursive is so much easier to decipher.

 

But if the truth be told, I think my (relatively) new found ambidexterity makes the first counseling session a bit more interesting to counselor and client alike.

by William McDonald, PhD