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

21 STEPS

 4499

     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

 4498

     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

COME OUT OF THE BAG

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    A reservist friend of mine served in the Regular Army during the Vietnam years. He was and is a wonderful man. He emulates his own motto in every respect; “Know your stuff, (well that’s not exactly the word he used).Take care of your people. Be a Man.”

 

    Staff Sergeant Clifford Morton served in a very singular and very gruesome position. He was assigned as an intake supervisor with the Army casualties team. Cliff performed the initial processing that ultimately, led to a military body being transferred back to the States.

 

     He routinely unzipped bag after bag, orange deodorant spray in one hand, and a club in the other hand.

 

     Oft times military casualties lay on the field of their labor for days at a time. “Vermin” would often hitch a ride in the body bags, having been scooped up with the unfortunate soldier, (thus the need for the club).

 

     Very little changed, as the months rolled by, and Sergeant Cliff became almost immune to the sights and smells of his gruesome profession. And so it was until that one particular day…

 

    The hardened soldier bent to unzip another bag, of the literally hundreds that covered the hanger floor. He noticed a slight movement, and steadied his club. Zip went the bag, and it was at that instant that something happened which had never occurred in all his months at the Army Mortuary Service.

 

    “Whew. It’s hot in here”! Well, Sergeant Morton almost “lost it.”

 

    “We have a live one. We have a live one!!!” he called out. From somewhere in the distance medics were summoned, and the “living corpse” was rushed to a nearby operating room.

 

     Well, my readers, that young soldier was spared, and lives today. Granted, he lost an arm, and a leg, but he will tell you how fortunate he is to be alive. A footnote to this story, that doesn’t particularly serve the moral, occurred several years later. Sergeant Morton was released from active duty, and began attending a local community college. It was the first day of the semester, and he reported to a particular classroom, and sat down.

 

     Cliff heard someone come in behind him, and turned to look. To his amazement he saw a very familiar man… a man with one arm and one leg. Somehow, he managed to wheel himself up to our hero, and the reunion was nothing short of Outstanding.

 

     I tell this true story often. It has had an impact on countless people over the years. Of course, it’s not enough to merely tell the story. The interpretation of the story is all that really matters here.

 

    Our poor “corpse” was shut off in that dark, airless bag. How long he lay there is still a mystery. Somehow this one pitiful soul existed in a coma-like state, devoid of human contact. But then, he found himself being resurrected, so much like Lazarus of old! Our hero might have said, (had he thought about it,) “Come out of the bag!”

 

     I deal with the dregs of humanity; those who suffer from alcohol and substance addictions, those who are figuratively closed up in a body bag, deprived of human affection, and comatose from the effects of virtual airlessness. “Come out of the bag!” You don’t belong there. There are those who will help you out! But you must comply. You must be willing. Only rottenness resides therein. It wasn’t made for you. Rise to newness of life!

 

     Jesus is bending over you. The great warrior King unzips your bag. His voice ripples with a thousand reverberations, deep and commanding, “Come out of that bag!!!”

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

BE STILL MY SOUL

1. Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
   Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
   Leave to thy God to order and provide;
   In every change, He faithful will remain.
   Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heav’nly Friend
   Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
2. Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
   To guide the future, as He has the past.
   Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
   All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
   Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
   His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.
3. Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
   And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
   Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
   Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
   Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
   From His own fullness all He takes away.
4. Be still, my soul: the hour is hast’ning on
   When we shall be forever with the Lord.
   When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
   Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
   Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
   All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.
5. Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise
   On earth, believing, to Thy Lord on high;
   Acknowledge Him in all thy words and ways,
   So shall He view thee with a well-pleased eye.
   Be still, my soul: the Sun of life divine
   Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

6. by Katharina A. von Schlegel