AMBIDEXTROUS ME

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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

21 STEPS

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     The tread of the tomb guard is measured, steady, and the only sound on this night, as it reverberates off thousands of headstones. Day in, day out, rain, or shine, storm, or snow.

 

     Those 21 steps ever so closely examined by tourists; while their whispers are hushed, and reverent. And, the soldier treads out the same measured course, as darkness mercifully covers the sadness of this place, and only God lingers now.

 

     The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

 

     I have stood there, and watched these blessed men and women, as they step off their paces; a sense of reverence, and pride about each of them. And I have heard them challenge the irreverent. For when a child carelessly steps across a certain invisible line, or when an adult speaks too loudly, the soldier barks out what has the essence of an order.

 

    “It is requested by the Army, and the United States of America that you maintain decorum in this sacred place!”

 

     Now, the soldier resumes his mournful, but respectful duty. 21 steps.

 

    The Old Guard never deserts his post, and he has walked that walk, without so much as a moment’s pause, for the past century.

 

     There is a phrase imprinted on that famous tomb to which he so faithfully attends .

 

     “Here lies an honored soldier. Known only to God.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

RUDY

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     I wrote a previous devotion entitled Look for That One. I’m taken up with the themes of Dreams, and Discipleship. They just naturally go together like peaches and cream.

 

     No one I know better exemplifies the verse, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,” (Hebrews 11:1, KJV), more than Rudy Ruettiger. You may have seen the depiction of his life in the movie, Rudy.

 

      Rudy was a working class young man with a generational predisposition to work in the steel mills; like his father before him. His family was Catholic, and they had a ardent devotion for the University of Notre Dame, and its wonderful football team. But, that’s as far as it went; looking on from afar, and “knowing your place.”

 

     Even for his average grades in high school, and “five foot nothing” frame, Rudy had a dream; a dream that would not be denied. In the movie we see the young man promising himself, and anyone else who’d listen, that he would not only be accepted into that university, but play footfall for them. Again, and again, he was laughed at, put down, and generally disbelieved.

 

     But, there’s always someone who seems to come along side, and stand with us in the shadows; (At least that’s been my experience). Pete was Rudy’s best friend, just another working class kind of guy; someone destined to work in the mills all his life. But, Pete was that sort of guy who stood with his “little buddy.” In the movie version of Rudy’s life, we see Pete giving him an old Notre Dame jacket. After Rudy dons the jacket, his friend says, “That jacket was made for you!” To which Rudy responds, “Pete, you’re the only one who ever believed in me.”

 

     Rudy surprises everyone, (except Pete of course). He enrolls in Holy Cross Junior College; just across the river from Notre Dame. The little man submits himself to an academic discipline that he’d never attempted. He exercises his body, and tempers his mind on a daily, and unceasing basis.

In the meantime, Rudy applies, again, and again to Notre Dame; only to again, and again be refused admission.

    However, those at the grand old school had no concept of Rudy’s determination. He must have used a ream of enrollment applications. But this time was different.

 

     Rudy sits there, just across the river from that great university. His hands tremble, as they have trembled several times before, and he unseals the envelope. Slowly, the camera turns from a weeping Rudy to the towering fortress called Notre Dame. He has finally been accepted!

 

     Now, that would have been enough for most of us, but Rudy was not most of us. His determination gains a hundred pounds that day! The little man that couldn’t…could!

 

    Time would fail me to properly tell the story, but now the second half of his vision kicks in. Rudy set his sights on an oblong ball, and a stadium “as big as all outdoors.” You would have had to have known Rudy. Nothing seemed to deter him. Oh sure, he’d managed to go to a prestigious school, and make passing grades, but “this little shrimp” of a boy had no possibility of playing on a football team that consisted of giants. However, if you thought this, you would be… wrong.

 

    Rudy tries out, and impresses the coaches with his stamina, “sheer intestines,” and the lack of any natural ability. The coaches quarrel among themselves. before giving Rudy an opportunity to join the practice team. At least, he will have a chance to “mix it up” with the best in college football. However, that still isn’t enough for little Rudy.

 

    Now I can’t tell you that he didn’t make a few enemies, or make the average players look mediocre. He did. Not for his ability, but for his gumption. For on the practice field, though not as often as he might hope, Rudy will manage to tackle a huge offensive linesman, or swift quarterback.

 

    Rudy longs for the opportunity to play in at least one season; if in only one game of that season. (At Notre Dame, a player isn’t listed as an official team member, unless they “dress out” for one game).

 

    It is Rudy’s senior year, and it doesn’t look like he’d have a chance to dress out. The previous coach promised him the opportunity, but he is gone now, and the years have drifted by. The last game of his senior year approaches.

    Suddenly, the biggest, and baddest of his team members find their hearts changed towards the young “whipper snapper,” who tries so hard, but who lacks so much. The roster for the final game is posted… and he isn’t on it. The players talk among themselves, and come up with a plan. One by one, beginning with the team captain, each player walks into the coach’s office, and lay their shirts on his desk.

 

      One by one their words echoed the last… “Coach, Rudy deserves my spot in this game. Let him dress out in my place.” The coach was almost moved to tears. Rudy dresses out!

 

      The game proceeds, and Rudy warms the bench. Notre Dame is leading Georgia Tech by over twenty points, and the coach seems content for his team to hold the ball during the last remaining seconds. However, “the Fighting Irish” have other ideas.

 

      The ball is thrown, and the ball is received, and the great old school have scored another touchdown. When it seems all hope is lost, suddenly “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy” resounds throughout the stadium. The little man will not be denied his small moment in history. The coach gives the nod, and Rudy runs out into the field of battle.

 

      The little fella with the magnificent heart runs two plays this day; the last two plays in the game. In the last play of his last game, he tackles the offensive receiver before the whistle finalizes the game forever. It was decades ago, but to this day Rudy is the last player ever carried off that famous field; on the shoulders of his team members.

 

      Dreams and Discipleship. Rudy had a Dream. He believed when almost no one else did. Rudy is remembered. His friend Pete has been forgotten. But, it was Pete who believed in him, when no one else did. Pete had been Rudy’s first, albeit momentary mentor. He believed in him for a little while, and that set the sails of his entire life.

 

      I love, and choose to emulate the qualities of both Rudy and Pete. Like Pete, I am raising up disciples; those who would submit themselves to discipline, and the encouragement that is mine to give. Like Rudy, I dream Dreams; some known to all, and some which remain unknown to any, except myself.

 

     Like Rudy, my life has been difficult, and things have been slow “coming to me.” But, I follow after, and press towards the mark. Like Pete, I, and many like me, remain unknown. However, that has to be alright, if we are to influence a few, and win some.

 

     Rudy and Pete have some extraordinary, and eternal lessons to teach us, if we will watch and listen.

by Bill McDonald, PhD