Rudy

      I’m taken up with the themes of Dreams and Discipleship. And they just naturally go together like peaches and cream.

      No one I know of exemplifies the verse “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” 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 had a ardent devotion for The University of Notre Dame and it’s 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. And 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.” We see him giving a Notre Dame sweater to Rudy, and we hear him say, “No one ever looked more natural in it.” And Rudy responds, “Pete, you’re only one who ever believed in me.”

     Rudy surprised everyone, (except Pete of course). He enrolled in Holy Cross Junior College, just across the river from Notre Dame. The little man submitted himself to an academic discipline he’d never attempted. He exercised his body and tempered his mind on a daily and unceasing basis.

Rudy applied, again and again to Notre Dame; only to again and again, be refused admission.

     But those at the grand old school had no concept of Rudy’s determination. He must have used a ream of enrollment applications. But one time was different. We see Rudy sitting there, just across the river from that great university. His hands tremble, as they have trembled several times before, and he unseals the envelope.

    And 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 gained a hundred pounds that day! The little man that couldn’t, did and could!

 

    Time would fail me to properly tell the story, but now the second half of the vision kicked in. Rudy set his sights on an oblong ball and a stadium, "as big as all outdoors." You would have 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" had no possibility of playing on a football team which consisted of giants. If you thought this you would be...Wrong.

     He tried out, and impressed the coaches with his stamina and “sheer intestines,” and the lack of any natural ability. The coaches quarreled among themselves before giving Rudy an opportunity to join the scrimmage team. At least he would have a chance to “mix it up” with the best in college football. But that still wasn’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 gumpshun. For on the practice field, though only occasionally, Rudy would manage to tackle a huge offensive linesman or swift quarterback.

     Rudy longed for the opportunity to play in one year, in one season, if in only one game. You just aren’t listed as an official team member unless you “dress out” for one game.

     It was his senior year, and it didn’t look like he’d have a chance to dress out. The previous coach had promised him the opportunity, but he was gone now, and the years had drifted by. Now the last game of his senior year approached.

     Suddenly, the biggest and baddest of his team members found their hearts changed towards the young whipper snapper who tried so hard, but who lacked so much. The list for the final game was posted… and he wasn’t on it. The players talked among themselves and came up with a plan. One by one, beginning with the team captain, each player walked into the coach’s office and laid their shirts on his desk. One by one their words echoed one another… “Coach, Rudy deserves my spot in this game. Let him dress out in my place.” The coach was moved to tears. Rudy dressed out!

      The game proceeded, and Rudy warmed the bench. Notre Dame was ahead of Georgia Tech by over twenty points, and the Catholic coach seemed content for his team to hold the ball during the last remaining seconds. His team had other ideas.

      The ball was thrown and the ball was received, and the great old school had earned another touchdown. Rudy might still get a chance to play, as suddenly “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy” resounded throughout the stadium. The little man would not be denied his small moment in history. The coach gave the nod and Rudy ran out into the field of battle.

      The little fella with the magnificent heart ran two plays that day; the last two plays in the game. In the last play of his last game he tackled the offensive receiver before the whistle finalized the game forever. It was thirty years 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 named Pete is virtually 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 whole 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.

     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, but that’s entirely okay, if we are to influence a few and win some.

     Rudy and Pete have some extraordinary and eternal lessons to teach us.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Musings"

The Shot Must Choose You

In the movie, “Bagger Vance,” Will Smith, (Bagger) plays what amounts to a Golf Angel. For you see, he has been sent to assist a character played by Matt Damon, (Ranolph Junah) with his golf game.

But it is not just any game, it is THE game of his life, for this former amateur golfer finds himself in a match with perhaps the most notable and adept golfers of his time.

Captain Junah has just come back from “The War to end all wars,” (WWI) and he has come back a changed man. For during one especially ferocious battle, every man in his unit has been killed or severely wounded, and only he has been left unscathed. And as the result of his heroic actions during the battle, the captain has been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Ranolph’s emotions are raw, and he lacks confidence, and he suffers from what we refer to today as PTSD, but what was referred to in that day and time as “shell shock.” And it was only the result of the pleas of the town’s people, and his former sweetheart, (who is attempting to save the family fortune, and the golf course on which he finds himself) that he has consented to play the game.

Bagger, who has agreed to catty for the captain, had been giving him pointers throughout the game, but to no avail. But the young man finds himself falling further and further behind the leader.

As Ranolph steps up to take his next shot, Bagger interrupts his swing, and says, “Mr. Junah, there’s only one authentic shot, one that is truly yours, and you can’t choose it.”

The captain is miffed to have had his swing interrupted, and angrily replies, “What do you mean? Of course I can choose my shot. I must choose my shot!”

Bagger smiles a whimsical smile, and responds, “Oh no suh, the shot must choose you.”

Now, in terms of the movie, Bagger’s implication was that for any given hole, on any given course, there is one best club, one best swing, one best solution.

And I think we can learn a valuable lesson from our golf angel’s admonition. The first time I ever viewed the movie, and listened to Bagger’s words, well, it just came to me. There is a valuable spiritual lesson to be gleaned here.

THE SHOT MUST CHOOSE YOU

You see, I am convinced, and scriptures assures us, “My times are in His hands,” (Psalms 31:15) and “The Lord will accomplish that which concerns me,” (Psalms 138:8) and “Before I ever took my first breath, You planned every day of my life.” (Psalms 139:16)

If we believe and embrace the truth of scripture, it is apparent that God knew us by name, and planned all our days, before we were a twinkle, and even before He made the twinkling stars. (And we can be sure that He loves us so much more than those magnificent, astronomical creations.)

Indeed, the shot must choose us. For any given decision, among any set of options which we encounter throughout the course of our lives, there is one best choice, one best action, which has the ultimate capacity to help complete our destiny, and which agrees with our Lord’s perfect plan for us as individuals.

Now, I’m not talking about what loaf of bread we decide to purchase, or whether we check our mail at 1PM or 5AM. No, I’m referring to those crucial, “have to get it right” type of decisions which have the wherewithal to complete our Heavenly Father’s plans for our lives, (or if we are oblivious to the best shot, bring us to ruin.)

Indeed, I believe the shot must choose us, and it is paramount that we get it right. Our very destiny is at stake. I believe it would be pleasing to God that every one of His children pray the following simple prayer, and pray it on a daily basis.

“Oh Father, great Ruler of the universe. You Who knew me before I was formed or ever took my first breath,… let the shot choose me.”

(See also "Seize the Day!" for a related topic - Previous daily blog)

 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Concepts, Teachings, Practicalities & Stories"

 

 

Seize the Day!

I have often reflected on one particular scene in the movie, “Dead Poet’s Society;” (a good movie and an extraordinary scene).

“Mr. Keating,” a teacher at a private boy’s school, (who seems to have a knack for offering his students insightful tidbits, while using everyday objects and themes) leads his boys down the stairs from the classroom, and into the lobby of the institution.

The young professor walks towards a couple of trophy cases, and instructs his pupils to gather about him.

“Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them. They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you.”

Mr. Keating’s boys are “all ears” by this point in his monologue. They know something of some value is coming.

And with the assurance of someone wiser than his years, the teacher continues.

“Did these young men in the photographs wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen closely, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it? (whispering in a gruff voice) Carpe. Hear it? (whispering) Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

And I think we have the privilege, opportunity and obligation to do this.

…To make our own lives extraordinary.

To discover the best within us. To find out that one thing which separates us from the rest. To develop that talent, that gift, that interest, which almost begs for a forum, to a razor’s edge. To, as Mr. Keating admonishes us, make our lives extraordinary. And I think we have the innate wherewithal to do this. (Though I think too few tend to do so).

There is an illusion in Homer’s “The Iliad and the Odyssey” in which the hero of the story, Odysseus, the captain of the ship, has himself tied to the mast, while he instructs the remainder of his crew to pack wax in their ears. For you see, their ship was scheduled to sail past a particular island populated by beautiful bare-breasted women, men-haters, who sang the most melodious of songs. And it was on the shores of this island that dozens of ships had crashed upon the rough-hewn rocks which surrounded it; crew after crew lured to their deaths by the ethereal songs of the maidens. But due to the foresight of Odysseus, he is among the first to hear the Siren Song, and live to tell the tale; as the ship sails harmlessly past the island, and on to their port of call.

And while the foregoing myth has a rather negative connotation, as a counselor I have “put a spin” on an old story, and assigned it a more positive meaning. For as I have so often taught my clients, God also sings a Siren Song. (Yes, He does). And amazingly,

…He sings it to you and me!

In Christian circles we have labeled that song, “God’s Calling.” And I am convinced that our Lord calls you and me to pursue a goal, to complete a task, to fulfill a destiny, and to leave a legacy. And I am equally convinced that the Creator planned our individual destinies

…before He made the worlds!

For in Psalms 139:16 we read, “Before I ever took my first breath, you planned every day of my life” and scripture assures you and me that “My times are in Your hands.” (Psalms 31:15)

Granted, the foregoing information makes good theory until we discover whatever it is that God has for us to do with our lives. But, I think, the same One who sings the song is more than capable of lighting the pathway. For He has assured us that “if with all your heart you will seek the Lord, Your God,

…you will find Him.” (Jeremiah 29:13)

And so much like the maidens of Homer’s odyssey, the Master of the Universe humbles Himself to sing us His song. It is left to us to take time to listen, and to go about fulfilling whatever plans He has designed for us, as individuals, to complete.

In the words of “Mr. Keating,”

“Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it?

Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys and girls. Make your lives extraordinary.”

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Concepts, Teachings, Practicalities & Stories")

 

I Am Oz, The Great and The Terrible

As I “set pen to paper” it’s a stormy night in early July; the day before Independence Day.

I just finished listening to one of my “saved” broadcasts of my favorite radio/internet programs: “Night Sounds”

The main focus of tonight’s topic-oriented broadcast was “The Wonder of It All,” a.k.a., “Souls on Tiptoe.” And as the show began, the host of the program, Bill Pearce, very ably extolled the blessings involved with discovering a vocation or ministry, religious or secular, to which you are “called,” and practicing the wonder of making a difference in lives on a daily basis.

Over the course of twenty plus years I have been doing this very thing, and almost without exception I have enjoyed every minute of it.

I have counseled thousands, (in the context of my pastoral counseling practice,) I have taught hundreds, (as I was privileged to serve on the adjunct faculty of a local university, my alma mater, for several years,) and I have mentored dozens, (within the framework of a formal year-long discipleship and mentoring program which I developed).

The Wonder of It All.

Such an honor and privilege to impact lives, since I know that “my students are living messages to a time that I will never see.” And speaking of the former phraseology, one of my counselees/mentorees/disciplees, (she was all of the above) once assured me,

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll speak for you when you no longer can. I’ll go for you when you are long past going. I’ll continue to make a difference in your name after you’ve gone on to your reward.” (Or something very similar).

The Wonder of It All, Indeed!

At this writing, I am 2/3 of a century in age, (and a great grandfather,) though I still bike 10 miles a day, and am in excellent health. Nonetheless, in spite of the second half of the foregoing sentence, my ministry seems, (with the emphasis on “seems”) to have seen better days. My opportunities for counseling, teaching and mentoring have, at least for the moment, kicked into the “past tense” mode.

And it has been too easy to bemoan what was and may never come again.

For I am a creature of Impact. Without the opportunity to make a difference in lives, why, I think I would just dry up and blow away like a tumbleweed.

But I think those among us who have transitioned into the so-called “golden years” of their lives desperately need the insight which only perspective can bring. The perspective that nothing always remains the same, and that those things which God has for us to do may very well metamorphose into something we (initially) hardly recognize or appreciate.

(Granted, there are exceptions to the rule. My pastor is 80 years old and still going strong; doing what he has done for well over half a century. But this is hardly the norm).

I have struggled to understand, much less validate “The Wonder of It All” in my own life the past few years. I have wrestled to gain an understanding of what I should be doing at this stage of my life; when my public ministry has become much more private in nature.

Not unlike the aged doctor in the movie, “Something the Lord Made” who invites his slightly younger assistant to “pull up stakes” and jump feet first with him into an exciting new opportunity in a distant city.

“C’mon, now. Wouldn’t it be fun to do it just one more time?”

But with the intuitive understanding that that “one more time” was the “one last time” which we just completed, and that the one more time which we have become familiar

…may never come again.

And if I were to close this musing with the last line, well, that would be inestimably sad,

…(So, I won’t).

For you see, in spite of the anxiety of growing older, and seeing the ministries which I once held so dear slip from my grasp, I am convinced, and I am increasingly content that God isn’t done with me yet, that He still has a work for me to do, and that my intrinsic value to Him, and to the people He chooses to set in my pathway is as strong, and tangible as ever it ever was.

Way back in elementary school, (it was the first or second grade) my teacher coxed me to portray The Wizard of Oz in the play of the same name. I will always recall the laughter which greeted me, as I stepped out onto the stage. (It might be helpful to understand that I had been chosen to characterize the fire wizard, and as a result, Mrs. Sampson had applied copious amounts of rouge to my cheeks and the reddest lipstick to my lips).

(And if I’m ever called upon for an encore, I’ll be ready. For I still remember my lines.

“I am Oz, the Great and the Terrible. Who are you and why do you seek me?”)

But if there is a relevant moral here, for at least in the movie The Wizard of Oz chose to operate behind a curtain; for it was behind the curtain that he did what wizards apparently do best.

And in recent years I can so well identify with the movie version of “The Wizard of Oz.” For not unlike my one and only juvenile stage appearance, those ancient days of “strutting my stuff” before an audience, with all the resulting notoriety,

…may well be at its end.

And the future years, which remain to me, of doing what I do “just beyond the curtain” seem to have replaced the billboards and the lights.

But in spite of the metamorphosis in my ministry, it is still a ministry, and God has, in His infinite mercy, decided that I still have something to do, and something to give.

At this stage in my life I have been busy editing devotionals and graduate papers for former interns, students, and relatives. I have continued to provide counsel to my mostly “invisible” friends on various social media sites, and I maintain an internet blog. Beyond this, I have written numerous, (yet unpublished) volumes, and hope, with time, to “get them out there.”

No, God isn’t done with me yet. And while my formal ministry has given way to a more informal brand, it still exists, it’s still ministry, and like me, it’s still healthy.

(Thank you very much).

And if I should operate behind the curtain, as it were, it is not for me that I do what I do, (and will continue to do ‘til I lay it all down).

For so much like the words of that dear young lady, whom I alluded to earlier,

“Lord, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll speak for you. I’ll go for you. I’ll continue to make a difference in your name, as long as you give me breath, and the strength to do so.”

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 4)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Grandmother's Last Full Measure of Devotion

My quadruple Great Grandparents Thomas and Susanna (Harrington) Hightower were living on the Tygar River near Spartanburg, South Carolina in 1780. Having heard the plea for additional manpower, Thomas joined Colonel Benjamin Roebuck’s Colonial Regiment. While he was away on military duty, a militia group referred to as Tories, those American colonists loyal to the King of England, stormed the Hightower homestead and burst into my ancient grandmother’s house.

Following is an account I have written based on the events of that evening:

Susanna had been helping her son, John, with a particularly long word from his reader, and content that he had mastered one page and moved on to the next, she sat down in her rocking chair by the fire.

Suddenly the front wooden door flew open. Even in the midst of this terrible war, custom won out and she had forgotten to lock the door. Standing before her were eight heavily armed men, wearing an all-too familiar, but hated uniform. Susanna screamed for the children to run to the cellar. She realized that this rude intrusion was certainly no courtesy call.

Grandmother Hightower immediately recognized the leader of this band of traitors to the cause of independence. Bill Cunningham was an unusually handsome man, but known far and wide for his viciousness and unyielding retribution. It was not for no reason he had been nicknamed “Bloody Bill,” a name he apparently relished.

When the major addressed her by name, Susanna felt a shiver creep slowly up her spine, and she felt faint.

“Mrs. Hightower. You needn’t be afraid. We’re not here to hurt you. Answer a question, and we’ll be on our way, and leave you and your children alone.”

Somehow Susanna doubted the sincerity of his words.

“I know your husband has joined that vagabond band of misfits who are determined to put an end to everything we hold dear in these colonies. Well, Ma’am, we’re not going to let that happen.”

My grandmother started to speak,

“Sir, I protest…”

Bloody Bill cut her off.

“You’re not in the position to protest anything. Sit back down… NOW!”

My brave, but equally wise grandmother dropped into the rocking chair, suddenly feeling as weak as water.

“There now. That’s good. May I call you, Susanna?”

And without waiting for a reply, he continued.

“Susanna, I need you to answer me one question. Where’s your husband?”

And contrary to his earlier promise, he asked another question.

“Cat got your tongue? Where’s your husband, and who is his commanding officer?”

Susanna cleared her throat and fear registered in her voice.

“Sir, I know who you are. And I know you’re up to no good. I have no intention whatsoever, in telling you where my husband is.”

Bloody Bill’s contemptuous smile now turned downwards in a frown, and then a scowl. He would not be manipulated by the likes of a frail, little woman.

“One more chance, ma dear… if you want to live.”

Susanna realized the stakes of this not so pleasant game, and she steeled herself for the inevitable.

In a voice just above a whisper, and with tears stinging her eyes now, she sealed her fate.

“I cannot… I cannot bring myself to tell you. I have been true to my husband these twenty years. I am not about to betray him now. Do what you want, but you’ll get no answer from me.”

Well, my friends. I would like to tell you that Bloody Bill Cunningham marched right out of there, and took his band of “n’er do wells” with him… He didn’t. Turning to his chief lieutenant, he screamed,

“I’ll have none of this. No Sir, I will not. Lieutenant Morrison, kill her! Do it now!”

A look of utter amazement possessed the officer. He reached for his sword, but his hand seemed frozen in mid-air. Bloody Bill was not used to having his orders delayed, and he jerked Morrison’s sword out of the scabbard, and raised it high above his head.

My ancient grandmother had only enough time to utter the few last words she would ever speak on this side of eternity. With arms wrapped tightly about herself, she closed her eyes, and bowed her head.

“God forgive you, Bloody Bill. Dear Lord receive my spirit.”

…And the deed was done.

And I hasten to remind you that this is but one story among multiplied thousands of similar stories, which include the ancestors of those assembled here today, and which have followed us throughout all our nation’s wars.

My dear brothers and sisters.  As one holiday gives way to another, and the events we celebrate are separated from us by an increasing span of years, and ultimately, no one remains who knew any of these things first hand… it all becomes too casual, we are too prone to take our hard-fought freedoms for granted, we are too close to disregarding the sacrifice of those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution.

Let us commit ourselves to remember our dear patriot fathers and mothers anew this day, and to cherish them, and the nation which they have bequeathed to us, and that which they have won so dearly for us.

 

(By William McDonald, PhD)

Will You Hug Me?

It was during the mid-90’s that my daughter, Mary, was placed in the G. Pierce Woods mental facility in Arcadia, Florida. The background is far too long and tedious to enumerate here, but suffice it to say that Mary had been exhibiting some bizarre symptoms and behavior, and had previously been diagnosed with Schizophrenia.

My wife and I would drive the hundred miles to Arcadia once a month, and spend time with her. We’d sometimes drive off campus, as Mary would get a day pass, and we’d frequent a particular restaurant there. Curiously enough, in this town which “boasted” a large mental facility, every painting was askew; hanging crooked on the restaurant wall.

One weekend as we drove up Mary was standing on the parking lot curb. But she was not alone, as she normally was. No, alongside her was this great hulk of a fellow, obviously another mental patient, well over six feet, and rather overweight.

My first inclination was, “Oh, no. I didn’t come here to entertain, nor spend any time with this guy,” and the anger seethed within me. My wife and I dismounted the car, and walked the few steps towards Mary and “Bob,” (as in “What About Bob?”) You would have to know the movie.

Mary introduced me to Bob and he immediately proceeded to share the most heart-rending little story.

“No one ever comes to see me. Not my daddy, not my mother, not my friends… Would you hug me?”

Uh!!! Never in my life had I heard such a sad plea. And as the result of that poignant plea… everything changed. My entire mindset metamorphosed.

And right there before God and everybody, as the phrase goes,… I wrapped that big lug of a fella in my arms.

And I think for that one moment in time, Bob realized that someone took time to care, to love and empathize with his plight, and for that one moment of time I think that Bob must have experienced the smallest measure of peace and contentment.

 

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Musings")

Dying to Self

Dying to Self

Lately I can identify with this concept:

When you are forgotten, neglected or purposely set at naught, and you don’t sting or hurt with the oversight, but your heart is happy being counted worthy to suffer for Christ,

That is dying to self

When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your advice disregarded, your opinion ridiculed, and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart or even defend yourself, but take it all in patient, loving silence,

That is dying to self

When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, any annoyance, when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility, and endure it as Jesus did,

That is dying to self

When you are content with any food, and offering, any raiment, any climate, any society, any solitude, any interruption by the will of God,

That is dying to self

When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation or record your own good works or itch after commendation, when you truly love to be unknown,

That is dying to self

When you can see your brother prosper and have his needs met, and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy, nor question God, while your own needs are far greater and you find yourself in desperate circumstances,

That is dying to self

When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself and can humbly submit, inwardly as well as outwardly, finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart,

This is dying to self

 

(I can't say I'm "there" yet)

 

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