Providence. Pt. 1. (Or #42 Meets #35)

I was watching one of those short bio’s on the Turner Classic Movie Channel. And this series of photos, film clips and monologue featured one of the movie icons of the 20^th century. Cary Grant. Tony Curtis narrated this particular segment. He spoke of sitting in his boyhood home at the age of 16, and watching the movie, “Destination Tokyo;” released in 1943. In one scene Cary Grant peers through a periscope, as he prepares to launch a torpedo against a Japanese ship. Of course, Tony was fascinated with the movie, and even more fascinated with Archibald Leach; (for this was Grant’s rather unfortunate birth name). 

Little could Tony Curtis have imagined where fate would take him, and to whom it would introduce him. For you see, a scant decade and a half later Tony Curtis was provided the inestimable privilege of co-starring alongside (you guessed it)… Cary Grant in another war movie, “Operation Petticoat,” and in which the famous actor recreated that earlier scene of which Tony was so familiar.

Of course, over the course of time there have been any number of such scenarios involving historical figures. I’m reminded of a ‘chance meeting’ between the best known and most revered president of the last century, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and an adolescent boy who would, ultimately, assume the presidency at the end of the same century, and serve into the emerging one. Bill Clinton. 

A black & white video exists of the meeting, in which Bill Clinton, as a member of a group of American Legion boys, referred to as “Boys Nation,” shakes hands with Kennedy at the White House. #42 meets #35. The group president has said that immediately after Clinton shook hands with his hero, he turned to his compatriots and said, “One day I’m going to have that man’s job!” (Well, the rest is, as they say, history). Interestingly enough, after President Clinton assumed office he invited that same bunch of boys, now aging men, to the White House to pose for a group photo; similar to one they posed for a full three decades before.

(to be continued)



   By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

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Peeing on the Stockroom Floor

The year was 1975 and I worked as a manager for a nationally known shoe corporation. The State was Alabama and I managed a lease unit in a large department store.

     My shoe department happened to be in the back of the store, and I usually found myself either waiting on customers or putting out stock. One day a middle-aged man, and his almost grown son walked up as I was walking towards the front of the store. And the father asked where he could find a bathroom. I motioned towards the back wall, and said something innocuous, and went about my business.

     If I had conjured up a thousand possibilities, I would have never dreamed up what happened next. I finished my chore, whatever it was, and headed back to my shoe department. I remembered something I had to do in the stockroom, and entered through an open doorway.

     Suddenly before me, in all his glory, was that same retarded young man…urinating on the floor of my stock room. Well, it didn’t take me long to scream at him

… “Stop, what are you doing? This isn’t the bathroom!”

    Apparently, the boy’s father had directed his son towards the back of the store, and the young fella headed towards a door he thought was the bathroom.

     I scared the young lad badly. Of that I’m quite sure. He lost no time “zipping up,” and getting out of there. And I was left to clean up the yellow, liquid mess.

     I’ve thought of that incident many times since then. I’m afraid I wasn’t very charitable to the boy. And I’m a little ashamed of my words, and actions that day.

      That young man is bound to be pushing fifty now, and I think of him sometimes. If I could speak to him again, I’d apologize for my sharp admonition. He was just “doing what comes naturally,” and, considering his mental challenges, he had made an honest mistake.

     In an age in which a controversy exists about where one should properly "do their business" this particular story adds an historic personal twist to the matter. At least this young fella didn't know any better.

     There are those among us who don’t function, who don’t operate as we do. It pays to be charitable. We have so much of which to be thankful.







   By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 22. Copyright pending

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Lost in Time

There’s a new series on television which I’m looking forward to seeing. It deals with time travel, and an attempt by the main characters to, (I assume) change the course of history. (As I implied I haven’t seen the first segment yet). Of course, I have watched similar stuff in the past. 

There was one starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour which included the far-fetched concept of thinking one’s self into the past. Then there was H.G. Wells, “The Time Machine.” Now that was a movie, (and given Rod Taylor had the convenience of an actual time conveyance, it was so much more believable than the former movie to which I alluded. And who can forget, “Back to the Future” featuring Michael J. Fox and his souped-up DeLorean. 

Albert Einstein theorized that if mankind ever found a way to travel at or near the speed of light, (186,000 miles per second) it might be possible to travel back in time. However, I’m convinced that the only Master of time is God, Himself. After all, who else has ever made, (and substantiated) the claim to be the ‘I AM’ of all generations? The omnipresent One. The Creator of the Universe. King of kings and Lord of lords. The Savior of the world. 

There’s a popular adage which assures us that “You can never go home.” And I think the implication is similar to the subject to which I am referring tonight. (Yes, as I write these words it is very much ‘tonight,’ for as I glance at my lower right screen for verification, it is 1:54am). But to be sure I don’t agree with that well-worn phrase at the beginning of this paragraph. For you see, I’m convinced that “going home” is the only manner in which God has afforded us to travel in time. 

I mean, there are any number of ways to “go home.” For any number of movies have featured segments in which one of the characters rings the bell of their childhood home, and when the current occupant opens the door, he or she asks whether they might take an unguided tour of the domicile. And, of course, unless we have lost our cognition to age or infirmity, we have our memories. And then there are the dreams which come in the night seasons.

Speaking of traveling in time, and one of the very few practical, (though admittedly insufficient) ways which we have been given to do so, over the years a precious young Jewish lady has invaded my thoughts on a recurring basis. Her name was Jane. (Well, to be sure, her birth name is a bit more complicated and more difficult to pronounce). As I recall she had Russian roots and had lived in Israel before immigrating to Manhattan, USA. 

At any rate, Jane was a student in the first course I had the privilege of teaching at a nearby university. Among all of my pupils in my first class, I recall names like Ashley, and Joanna and… Jane. There was this one particular episode when I asked Jane to open in prayer. Well, I can tell you that God showed up, and that dear girl manifested one of the spiritual gifts, and I assure you her message had quite an impact on this professor and her fellow students.

Speaking of time, it occurs to me that a full decade has come and gone since I last stood in that expansive classroom, and a full half century since I attended that same prestigious school whereof I speak. And it is interesting to consider that in the three years I was privileged to be a member of the faculty, more students sat in my classrooms, than were members of the student body at that time I attended there. It is poignant to consider that neither the classroom, nor the building that housed it is still in existence. They say you can’t stop progress, as in the past several months a new five story educational edifice has assumed its place. 

But for all that has transpired in the seven years since I have been away from the university, I have never forgotten this very singular young lady.

Over the years, I made a couple attempts to contact Jane. I had an old email address for her, which included a ‘V’ word, (which I won’t divulge here) but as I recall, the message came back undeliverable. Tonight I was looking over my professional portfolio, and discovered samples of some student papers which I’d saved, and (you guessed it) one of the papers bore my young friend’s first and last name.

Did I mention I had forgotten the spelling (and pronunciation) of Jane’s surname? (Well, I did). Having suddenly been armed with this additional information, it seemed reasonable to investigate the possibility Jane S. might be found on a particular social media site which I have been known to frequent. 

I am happy to report that I had no sooner typed the young lady’s name in the search feature, than her moniker (and the face that goes with it) appeared out of the morass of one billion subscribers to this website. And not only that, but it appears Jane is one of a kind; as she was the only party which bore a similar name. 

And oddly enough, I discovered that three of my eight hundred plus social media friends share a common friendship with both Jane and me. Jane had been ‘hiding in plain sight’ the entire time!

And indeed, she was the same old Jane I remember, since the byline on her page read as follows:

“A Jewish girl who's heart has been forever captured, and set free by God.”

Leaving her page I returned to my writing, but curiosity got the better of me, and it was not long before I ‘traveled’ to her page again, and much to my satisfaction I found that my friend, Jane, has already accepted my friend request. (I left a small note that I would contact her after the sun comes up. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance). 

Time travel? Well, not exactly. But if anyone tells you that you “can’t go home again,” 

…don’t believe them!

   By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

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Personal Paralysis

I have previously reflected on the following experience, but not having ready access to that story among far too many files, and far too little time, I feel inclined to reflect on it again.

A few years ago I decided to trim my neighbor’s tree. Generally, I would not have been quite so altruistic, but the limbs of the tree hung over my driveway, and as spring approached each year a healthy supply of oak pollen showered my car, and the pavement upon which it was parked.
And since there was a basketball post just beneath the offending tree, it seemed good to me to prop my straight ladder against it, and having done so, I set about the task at hand.
Did I mention round posts and straight ladders are altogether incompatible? (Well, they are).
Suddenly, the ladder accomplished a task for which it was never intended. It became mobile. And I became its unintended pilot. Given the choice to ride the thing to the ground, or jump, I chose the latter.
And as I “winged my way to worlds unknown” I chose to land upright, (or something approximating it) and twisted my body just enough in my failed flight to the concrete to land on my right foot.
I knew. I just knew
My ankle was broken
After lying there a moment, and using my car for leverage, I stood upon my left foot, hop-scotched to my front door, opened it, and made my wife aware of my injury.
Fast forward several weeks, and I found myself in a prep room at Tampa General Hospital preparing to have my ankle reconstructed; since it was not only broken, but it was badly shattered.
Just prior to being wheeled into the operating room a nurse administered an injection to my right thigh, and explained that shortly thereafter my leg would develop a state of paralysis, and that when I awoke I would experience this condition for several hours prior to the restoration of feeling.
As she predicted, when I came to I was provided an entre into a state of being to which I had never before been privy.
For a full 65 years I had enjoyed complete use of all four limbs. Suddenly, I was short one. Initially, my paralytic experience was nothing more, nothing less than interesting. The natural scheme of things in which we move, and live and have our being had been interrupted. Perhaps if I expended a little more thought, a little more will power I could lift my leg an inch off the bed. (Well,… no). Perhaps if I focused all my energies on my little toe, I could wiggle that tiny digit. (Nice try).
Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch
By this time I had gone from being an interested observer to a concerned participant.
I imagined the worst. I mean, I could just see myself being discharged in this condition, and having to use a cane the last third of my life; while all the while dragging a useless limb behind me.
Alarmed, I spoke,
“Nurse, uh, you’re probably aware that my leg is paralyzed. Uhmm, does this sorta thing ever go wrong? Is there any chance I’m stuck with this dead leg for the duration?”
“Nurse Simms” assured me that the paralysis would abate, and that I’d regain complete sensation and mobility in the limb within a few hours.”
And true to her word, that is exactly how things fell together.
My nephew, his name was “Wade,” was born with a malady referred to as “Spina Bifida.” While he had some use of his arms and hands, his legs and feet were paralyzed from birth, and he was dependent on a wheelchair throughout his all too brief life. And though Wade endured countless surgeries, and a significant amount of pain and humiliation, he never seemed to complain, and it was if the angels had loaned him a permanent smile.
During the two decades Providence allowed Wade to grace this planet, I sympathized for and with him. However, it was only after his death, and my subsequent injury, surgery and (temporary) paralysis that I could truly empathize; since it was only after my own experience that I had any real hope of understanding what ‘til then was beyond my understanding.
I think this is a major reason Jesus came to the earth. In the eons which preceded God assuming human form, and adding the three letter suffix, “man” to His title, He had never been subject to flesh, frailty, fatigue or the limits of time and space. Suddenly, having purposely limited Himself, He was given personal access to the human condition; in a manner not heretofore possible.
Having experienced momentary paralysis I can empathize with the disabled in a way that I could have never hoped to do before the event.
Having taken on flesh and having lived among us, I am confident that our Lord Jesus Christ was afforded the wherewithal to empathize with mankind in a manner in which He had never before been able.
My favorite passage of scripture speaks to this concept, and my personal experience which I have just recounted causes it to be that much more precious to me.

“We have not a High Priest who cannot be touched with the feelings of our infirmities, but He was in all points tempted as we are; yet without sin.

Let us come boldly to the throne of grace that we may receive mercy for our failures, and grace to help in the time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16)


  By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 30. Copyright pending

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Will You Hug Me?

It was during the mid-90’s that my daughter, 'Martha,' 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 Martha 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 Martha 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 Martha 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 Martha and “Bob,” (as in “What About Bob?”) You would have to know the movie.

Martha 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. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 43. Copyright pending

If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above
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 If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015, do the following:  

Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin.