NEXT

 4529

I retired from my counseling practice two weeks ago.

Over the course of 35 years, I literally met with thousands of men, women, boys and girls; perhaps as many as 4,000 - 5,000 total.

There were any number of variables involved in the significant number of people with whom I have counseled. 

The youngest person I ever "met with" was 11 or 12; (as I never considered myself an elementary age counselor). The oldest person I ever met with was 85. The number of people over 60 I ever counseled with was no more than 8 or 10 max. 99.9 percent of my clients were Caucasian. I counseled approximately 15-20 Spanish people. I counseled a grand total of 2 black, and 2 Jewish clients.

I have encountered every conceivable counseling issue. Marital, financial, sexual, vocational, emotional. (All those issues which end with the suffix "al"). My least favorite counseling topics involved substance abuse, and grief. Speaking of "grief", like many long-time counselors, I "lost" a couple of clients.

Of course, a counselor counsels "whatever walks in his door." We are not in the business of soliciting clients. (They knock on our doors, not vice versa, and we generally counsel whoever does the knocking).

It will be strange not doing extensive session planning on a weekly basis. It will seem odd not "jumping ready" twice a week, and driving to one of my two offices; 7 minutes separating the two locations.

And as I began my little thesis, above, all this has come to a conclusion now, and I am left with the results; be they good, or the lack thereof. (However, I am convinced that I made a significant difference in a myriad of lives).

Post-script

Now, I find myself bereft of a formal ministry, and the wherewithal to impact lives.

Oh, perhaps I just misspoke. I have been placing Christian tracts on random store shelves when I shop, and I often hand out small New Testaments to store clerks, and others I meet along the way. 

And I often encourage people whom I interact with on social media. (I once had the privilege of sharing the written word with a young lady in war-torn Ukraine. Later, she told me how much my words meant to her, and buoyed her spirits, as she sat in a bomb shelter, and munitions rained down around her).

While I don't want to downplay the things with which I am currently involved, I am convinced there will be a "next," something I can do on a regular basis to make a difference among those who God sets in my pathway.

There has always been a "next," and I believe God has a next for all of those who have invested their faith in Him; throughout the times and stages of their lives.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

REQUIEM FOR A SQUIRREL

 4528

We have been visiting our daughter in Massachusetts.

Yesterday her two dogs, Jack and Otis, needed "to go," and I opened the back door for them. As I swung the door open, I noticed him (or her), as the case may be. A furry gray rodent lying on a piece of plywood near the backyard shed.

Initially I was convinced it was a large rat. As you might expect, I walked the ten or twelve steps which separated me from the creature in a bid to find out what particular genus he was.

Looking down at the little fella, I realized it was a squirrel. His eyes were open, and although he appeared dead, I touched him with the side of my shoe. It seemed I saw the slightest movement, but I could not be sure. However, it was obvious he was long past helping at this point.

It had been raining, and the poor creature was wet. There were fresh incision marks on its body, and I conjectured Jack, our daughter's yellow Lab, had attacked him. Now, I turned and left the little guy to his fate, but for the briefest time 'til I could locate a shovel, and something to bury him in.

Walking back into the house, I grabbed one of those small, cloth shopping bags.

As I was about to walk out the door, I noticed another squirrel on top of the shed. He (or she) seemed to be agitated, and stared down towards its compatriot, I surmised this was the husband, (or wife), as the case may be, of the little creature on the ground. I decided to wait a bit, as I think even an animal deserves a bit of closure. Now, I took a picture. Suddenly, I saw a something move. A tiny chipmunk crawled out from under the shed, paused, and appeared to pay its respects to its fellow rodent. Now, he disappeared beneath the shed again.

Walking out the door I retrieved a shovel from the side of the house. I proceeded to dig a hole; about two feet in depth. Now, I opened the top of the bag while moving the squirrel with the tip of the shovel. Now, he lay in the bottom of the bag in a perfect fetal position.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am convinced that believers will see their beloved pets again one day. And I think that includes many of the other creatures which currently inhabit the earth. And I think scripture supports this bit of theology. In Psalm 36:6 we read the following words,

"You, oh Lord, preserve both mankind and animals."

From the time I became familiar with this verse I would look at my aging pooches, and say,

"Buddy, (or Princess, or Lucy, or Queenie), I claim you for heaven. I will see you on the other side."

(And I have no doubt I will)!

At any rate, now as I set the bag containing the small, gray rodent in the hole, I said,

"I will see you again, little fella," and then I quoted Psalm 36:6.

Now, I began to cover the bag with earth. Finishing my task, I patted the soil with the bottom of the shovel. And then, and then the strangest, and most poignant thing occurred.

(No, the little squirrel didn't "do a Lazarus").

However, IMMEDIATELY, just as I was finishing my task, the bells of a nearby Catholic church began to toll. (I kid you not). Not the beautiful hymns which resounded from that location on a daily basis. No, this was as if all of heaven and earth were mourning this precious creature.

Dong, dong, dong.

And the sound of the bells continued for ever so long.

Dong, dong, dong.

And I thought of the verse in Matthew 10:29.

"Aren't two sparrows sold for a penny? And yet, not even a sparrow falls to the ground without your Father's notice."

Somehow, I am convinced that God took note of the passing of that poor little creature, and reaffirmed the reality of His promises, ...as the last echo of those massive bells reverberated in the distance.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

THAT'S ALL SHE WROTE

 4527

As I write these words I just completed 33 years of counseling practice, and have been retired all of 16 hours. 

As the doors locked behind me, and I walked to the car yesterday I said aloud,

"That's all she wrote!"

And as I unlocked my car door, and sat down in the driver's seat, I said,

"The office is closed."

Funny, I previously retired from the Army Reserve, and "The Tightest Ship in the Shipping Business," but somehow this time is different. I will no longer have the wherewithal to make a difference in lives in the exact same way I have done over the past three plus decades of my life.

Nonetheless, I am convinced that God is not through with me yet, and that He will continue to use me in the way which He dreamed for me before He flung the worlds and stars into space.

That is a comforting thought.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WALKING INTO THE FIRE

 4526

There is a moment in every fire rescue account that investigators, firefighters, and first responders describe the same way.

The moment a parent stops calculating and simply moves.

No training. No equipment. No plan beyond the only one that matters: my children are in there.

It happens in seconds. And in those seconds, something takes over that has no clinical name and no rational explanation — only a direction. Back into the fire.

The house is filling with smoke before she is fully awake. The stairs are still passable. She goes up.

She goes into the first room. She carries the child down. She goes back up.

The smoke is thicker now. The heat is building at the ceiling, the way fire always does — dropping lower, inch by inch, closing the window of survival. She goes into the second room.

Down again. Up again.

This is not courage in the way we usually describe it — the resolved, conscious decision to do something brave. This is something older and less complicated. It is the reason human children survive at all. It is the reason the species made it this far.

She goes back in until there is no one left to go back for.

What she carries out of that house are her children. What she leaves in it, in varying degrees across documented cases from Pennsylvania to Coventry to Stockholm, is her skin, her lungs, her months of consciousness, and in some cases very nearly her life.

The recovery is never the story we tell. It is the longest part, and the hardest, and we rarely photograph it.

The surgeries. The skin grafts. The pain management. The slow negotiation with a body that has been to the edge of what bodies can survive. The physical therapy that teaches hands to grip again. The breathing exercises.

And somewhere in those months of recovery, in a hospital bed surrounded by machines, the first clear question:

Are they okay?

Not: what happened to me. Not: will I recover. Not: how long have I been here.

Are they okay.

Documented cases of severe burn survivors who entered fires to save their children share this detail with a consistency that stops being coincidence. The first coherent thought, in case after case, goes outward. Not inward.

Firefighters and burn specialists who work with these patients describe it as one of the most humbling things they witness professionally. The body has just survived something almost unsurvivable. The mind's first movement is toward someone else.

We give these women awards. We name them heroes of the year, give them commendations, invite them to ceremonies. And they accept, graciously, and say the same thing in a hundred different ways:

I only did what any mother would do.

Which is both entirely true and entirely insufficient as a description of what they actually did.

Because not everyone goes back in. Not everyone can. The smoke and the heat and the collapsing structure defeat people every day — people who love their children just as completely and are simply stopped by the physical reality of what fire does to human bodies and human courage.

What these women did was not ordinary. Calling it ordinary is its own kind of erasure.

What they did was walk back through a door that their every survival instinct was screaming to stay away from — and do it again, and again, until the job was finished.

That is not just love.

That is love as the most extreme physical act a human body can perform.

The burns heal, slowly, imperfectly, across years of surgeries and recoveries we don't film.

The children grow up.

And somewhere in the growing up, they learn what happened on the night they were carried out of a burning house by the same hands that had always carried them.

And they understand, for the first time, what it cost.

(from a social media article)

911: A PERSONAL "ALMOST"

 4525

I was living in Stafford County Virginia in 1973-1975, a rural area about 50 miles from Washington, D.C. and 50 miles from Richmond, VA.

 

During that time period I procured a job position with the U.S. Army Civil Service, Army Records Center, Alexandria, VA which was located about 10-12 miles from Washington, D.C. However, a couple months prior to beginning that job, I took a Civil Service exam at the Pentagon, passed it, and was offered a position with the U.S. Air Force Civil Service, Finance Division inside this massive five-sided building; just across the Potomac River from our nation's capital city.

 

The more I thought about driving 50 miles and over an hour to the Pentagon (and back) five days a week, the more I was inclined against it. After wrestling with the idea for a couple of days, I contacted my potential employer, and declined the position.

I was living in central Florida on that fateful day, and saw it all (literally) go down; (courtesy of whatever morning show which was being broadcast on TV)

 

However, it occurred to me at that time that, had I accepted the position at the Pentagon, and liked the job, I might have easily continued to work there for two and a half decades.

 

Had I done so, I could have conceivably been one of the 184, (185 including me), victims of Flight 77 which slammed into the outer ring of the Pentagon at 9:37am on September 11th, 2001. An astonishing 2,977, (2,978 including me), men, women and children who died at four locations during the course of 1 hour and 17 minutes on that terrible day; that, like Pearl Harbor, "will go down in infamy."

Just a reflection of a potential personal "almost” that thankfully did not include me.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

WHEN YOUR DREAMS TURN TO DUST

 4524

"For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not sit down first and count the cost, whether he has enough to finish it— lest, after he has laid the foundation, and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish?'"

 (Luke 14:28-30, NKJV)

One of my dreams just turned to dust. I had prayed, I had prepared, I had "jumped through all the hoops," I had cooperated with God in the effort to bring it to fruition. 

That little quoted, little used scripture passage with which I began my blog has a great deal to convey. It reminds me so much of the process which I followed... before my dream turned to dust. As I reflect on it now, I simply did not count the cost before I laid the foundation. And now, I simply don't have the resources and energy with which to finish it.

One major obstacle is my age. I am "a frog's whisker" away from the age of 80. That grand and glorious dream for which I prayed requires a great deal of time, and effort on my part, and I realize now that I am simply not equipped to devote that much time and effort at this stage in my life. 

Oh, the dream for which I had prayed seemed "ripe for the picking" during the past several months, and after having devoted so much time and energy and prayer for such a long time, it just seemed to be "for just such a time as this." It was just so obvious. As a result, I proceeded.

It simply did not count the cost.

Of course, it would be natural to feel sorry for myself. At the very least, I am embarrassed since I have shared the "good news" with dozens of people. (I can only hope that the majority just "go about their business," and don't think any more about it). 

It is a real "poke in the eye" to realize that, "Well, no, you simply are not equipped to move forward with this venture." At first, I tried to ignore that little voice in my head. But it only got louder. Reason was determined to win out. (And it finally did).

It is a dream that I will, for all I know, take to the grave with me. They say the saddest words in the English language are: "What might have been." And given the place I find myself at this  moment, I tend to agree with that conjecture.

I have read that the richest piece of ground on earth is not the rain forests of South America, nor the diamond mines of South Africa, nor the oil wells of Saudi Arabia. No, the richest piece of ground on earth is... your local cemetery. 

For you see lying dormant in the bosoms of a thousand individuals are dreams, dreams which might have changed the world, but which will lie there for a million years; unaccomplished and unachieved.

I'm not so sure my dream would have changed the world, nor even my little nook of the world. But it meant the world to me.

Since I am a believer, I can only surmise that I got ahead of God in this matter. Perhaps there were subtle signs that our Lord was saying "No," while I was drowning Him out with my "Yes." I can only speak to the surety, the reality, the definiteness of the moment in which I find myself. His "No" is quickly becoming all too obvious. 

My dream has turned to dust.

But I will go on. I will continue to dream. Several of my dreams have been "for just such a time as this." God and I have gotten so many things right over the years. I refuse to wallow in this present pile of dust and ashes.

Perhaps one day I may even look back on this dream which has been permanently consigned to theory

... and smile.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

UNCLE BOB

 4523

As I reflect on it now, there has never been anyone quite like "Uncle Bob."

Uncle Bob was also known as Sergeant First Class Robert Hoehne (pronounced Haney). In his reserve career, he served as Section Chief of the attached personnel team, Headquarters, 2nd Battalion, 116th Field Artillery, Lakeland, Florida. He was my immediate supervisor there. We served together for a decade and a half, and it was yours truly who moved into his military position when he retired from the Florida Army National Guard.

Uncle Bob was, (to say the very least), a colorful sorta guy. 

In his civilian role, Bob was an elementary school math teacher. However, I never knew him in that particular capacity. 

One of the first memories I have of Uncle Bob was his humor, and one example in particular. We were making our way through the chow line one day during, (what is referred to as), a "home drill." (We weren't out in the woods). And since we had apparently done an "overnighter" in the armory, and were being served grits, Bob looked at the assistant cook, and said, "I'll have one grit!" (Did I mention Uncle Bob was from New Jersey)? Well, he was.

My old friend, (he was my friend), had a habit of using one phrase, in particular. If he liked and respected you, he would say, "He (or she) is a good person." I'll always remember his tendency to say those five words.

Uncle Bob would, at times, pick me up for weekend drills. He drove a 1970 something Ford Fairlane paneled station wagon. I will always remember that vehicle. For whatever reason, the attached section, a 3-4 soldier detail, were given the wherewithal to drive their own personal vehicles to two week annual training. The entire contingent of our section always rode with Bob. 

One evening as we were approaching Camp Shelby, Mississippi, I happened to be driving that old Ford Fairlane paneled station wagon. As I approached a traffic light in some little non-descript town, the light turned yellow. And as I touched the gas pedal, thinking I could surely get through the light, the yellow became red. And then, a different color of light altogether appeared behind our vehicle, and the sound of a police siren.

The police officer demanded I pay the ticket immediately, or return in a few weeks to contest the ticket. (Needless to say, I paid). I have always been convinced that the cop was hiding behind some nearby trees, and had changed the traffic light with an electronic clicker. And I have always been equally convinced that he put that money in his pocket. 

And speaking of driving to our two week annual training in a civilian vehicle, once when we were drilling at Camp Blanding, Florida, and had a day off, Uncle Bob, the rest of our section members, and I drove into Jacksonville. At least, that was the supposed destination. However, on the way to where ever I thought we were going, my section chief pulled that old Ford Fairlane 500 station wagon into the parking lot of, well, I will spare you the details. I only knew I wasn't going to into that establishment. Ultimately, I sent another fella into get him, and another soldier; who had, I thought, overstayed their welcome there.

No one worked harder than Uncle Bob. In the reserve, a soldier's retirement pay is based on a point system. Each weekend drill day, and each day of the two week active duty tour is worth x number of points. My section chief volunteered for additional days at the unit, lending a hand to the active duty troops, in order to earn additional points. Did I mention that a reservist does not begin collecting their retired pay 'til he reaches age 60? Ironically, Uncle Bob lived to be... 59. He never saw a penny of his hard-earned retirement pay; (though I presume his wife received it).

I have a favorite photo of my friend. He is lying on a cot in an old green canvas Army tent. Our unit had been activated after the 1992 hurricane which devastated Homestead, Florida. Hurricane Andrew "did a work" on thousands of homes and businesses, and irrevocably changed the lives of untold numbers of men, women, and children.

Sergeant Hoehne loved to talk about his home state of New Jersey. He often spoke of "going down to the shore," or more precisely, "going down the shore." 

I like to think Uncle Bob is somewhere enjoying a bowl of grits, (well, cream of wheat), lying prostrate on his beloved shore, and gazing wistfully upon the rolling waves. 

by SSG William McDonald, (U.S. Army, Ret.)