BUT WE CAN STILL LOVE THEM

 4042

(A short sermon excerpt from the script of "A River Runs Through It")

                   

Each one of us here today will,

at one time in our lives...



   

                   

look upon a loved one who is in need

and ask the same question.



   

                   

"We are willing to help, Lord...



   

                   

but what, if anything, is needed?"



   

                   

It is true we can seldom help

those closest to us.



   

                   

Either we don't know what part

of ourselves to give...



   

                   

or more often than not,

the part we have to give...



   

                   

is not wanted.



   

                   

And so it is those we live with

and should know who elude us...



   

                   

but we can still love them.



   

                   

We can love completely...



   

                   

without complete understanding.

SEEING THE WORLD IN BLACK & WHITE

 4041

It was August of 1992, and our local National Guard unit had been mobilized to assist the citizens of Dade County. As a result of Andrew, a Category five level hurricane, thousands of dwellings and businesses were savagely demolished.

 

In a newspaper article I wrote later, I refer to the utter lack of color which met my eye wherever I turned. Every building, and I mean every building, for twenty miles in any direction displayed some degree of damage, and a majority were reduced to little more than rubble. And oddly enough, something that is foreign to us in Florida, every tree and every bush was completely stripped of their leaves and flowers.

 

During the forty days I served in Miami, I began to experience an unusual amount of fatigue, and after our unit was deactivated, three weeks elapsed before I felt like my old self.

 

It was only later that it occurred to me that much of the apparent tiredness and lack of energy was the result of sensory deprivation, since during those dawn to dusk days in Homestead, Florida my vision was limited to white, black and gray, and an almost total lack of the color green.

 

As human beings, we are meant to see in color. Having ever viewed the world in color, our brains are not equipped to experience life in black and white.

 by William McDonald, PhD

STEPPING OFF THE STAGE a.k.a. AL ROKER'S SHADOW

 4,040

The other day I was watching the evening news and Lester Holt brought Al Roker on to speak briefly about some inclement weather in the Midwest. Of course, Al pointed at his handy dandy map of the U.S., and warned of things to come. Two minutes later, the heir apparent to Walter Cronkite and Dan Rather thanked Mr. Roker, and he existed the stage to his right. As he disappeared off the screen, I noticed his shadow on the floor, and which quickly disappeared behind him.

And I was reminded of an event from a decade and a half ago. 

I had planned, organized and conducted a memorial tribute to my 3x great grandfather who was a Scottish immigrant and who fought in the American Revolution. One highlight I'd included in the gravemarking ceremony in south Georgia was a biographical sketch about my ancestor, and presented by yours truly. I was arrayed in my Army dress blue uniform; fitting I thought given my ancient grandfather's military service.

Now, the local president of The Sons of the American Revolution stood up and introduced me and the nature of my tribute.

"At this time, Staff Sergeant William McDonald, Isham's great great great grandson is coming now to share a brief, brief message concerning his ancestor's life."

As you might imagine, I thought,

"Brief, brief? Hmmm, if you haven't noticed I'm the one who organized this ceremony. And as you so aptly alluded, Isham was my beloved ancestor. I can tell you what I'm about to share with his descendants will be anything but 'brief, brief.'"

My wife and I have often laughed when we have reminisced about that day.

But you know, that life I was preparing to honor in my speech that day, (as well as my own) was (and will be) very "brief brief;" almost as brief as the famous weather man's shadow as he disappeared off the stage.

Scripture tells us that "it is appointed unto man once to die." I have often told people "We just can't stay here." There is a life to live and a heaven to gain. In the meantime, we need to be about living our lives, but preparing for eternity.

by William McDonald, PhD

MEETING MR. ROGERS

 4039

A Mr. Rogers Story

By Allison Carter, USA Today

In the wake of the horrific terrorist attack in Manchester, England many people shared a quote by everyone’s favorite neighbor.

His mother had said, “Whenever you are scared. Always look for the helpers. They’ll be there. No matter how bad things are, there are always people willing to help.”

Anthony Breznican, a senior writer at Entertainment Weekly once experienced a lifetime encounter with Fred Rogers that will restore your faith in humanity. Breznican, like Rogers, hails from Pittsburgh. And like most of us, he grew up watching Mr. Rogers. And then he outgrew him. Until he needed his kindness again, when he was in college.

“As I got older, I lost touch with the show, (which ran until 2001). But one day in college, I rediscovered it. I was having a hard time. The future seemed dark. I was struggling. Lonely. Dealing with a lot of broken pieces, and not adjusting well. I went to Pitt and devoted everything I had to a school paper; hoping it would propel me into some kind of worthwhile future.

It was easy to feel hopeless. During one season of my life it was especially bad. Walking out of my dorm, I heard familiar music.

‘Won’t you be my neighbor?’

The TV was playing in the common room. Mr. Rogers was asking me what I do with the mad I feel. I had lots of ‘mad’ stored up. Still do. It feels so silly to say, but I stood mesmerized. His program felt like a cool hand on my head. I left feeling better.”

Then, days later something amazing happened. Breznican went to step into an elevator. The doors opened, and he found himself looking into the face of Mr. Rogers. Breznican kept it together at first. The two just nodded at each other. But when Mr. Rogers began to walk away, he couldn’t miss the opportunity to say something.

“The doors open. He lets me go out first. I step out, but turn around.

‘Mr. Rogers, I don’t mean to bother you. But I just want to say, Thanks.’

He smiles, but this probably happens to him every ten feet all day long.

‘Did you grow up as one of my neighbors?’

I felt like crying.

‘Yeah. I did.’

With this, Mr. Rogers opened his arms, lifting his satchel, for a hug.

‘It’s good to see you again, neighbor.’

I got to hug Mr. Rogers! This is about the time we both began crying.”

But this story is about to get even better.

“We chatted a few minutes. Then Mr. Rogers started to walk away. After he had taken a couple of steps, I said in a kind of rambling rush that I’d stumbled on the show recently when I really needed it. So, I said, ‘Thanks’ for that. Mr. Rogers paused, and motioned towards the window, and sat down on the ledge.

This is what set Mr. Rogers apart. No one else would have done this. He says,

“Do you want to tell me what is upsetting you?”

So, I sat down. I told him my grandfather had just died. He was one of the good things I had. I felt lost. Brokenhearted. I like to think I didn’t go on and on, but pretty soon he was talking to me about his granddad, and a boat the old man had given to him as a kid.

Mr. Rogers asked how long ago my Pap had died. It had been a couple of months. His grandfather was obviously gone for decades. He still wished the old man was here, and wished he still had the boat.

‘You never really stop missing the people you love,’ Mr. Rogers said.

That boat had been a gift from his grandfather for something. Maybe good grades; something important. Rogers didn’t have the boat anymore, but he had given him his ethic for work.

‘Things, really important things that people leave with us are with us always.’

By this time, I’m sure my eyes looked like stewed tomatoes. Finally, I said, ‘thank you,’ and I apologized if I had made him late for an appointment.

‘Sometimes you’re right where you need to be,’ he said.

Mr. Rogers was there for me. So, here’s my story on the 50^th anniversary of his program for anyone who needs him now. I never saw him again. But that quote about people who are there for you when you’re scared? That’s authentic. That’s who he was. For real.”

Mr. Rogers died in 2003. When Breznican heard the news, he sat down at his computer, and cried. Not over the loss of a celebrity, but a neighbor.

Thank you for being one of those helpers, Mr. Rogers. We hope that somewhere, you’re in a boat with your grandpa again.

 

 

 

ISLE OF HOPE. ISLE OF TEARS

 4038

My wife and I just completed the most glorious vacation of our entire lives.

We have traveled the highways and byways of Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We have gazed in wonder at the snow-capped mountains, we have marveled at the singular color of the lush grassy pastures; upon which sheep and cattle feed, we have listened to the mournful sound of the bagpipes, and watched Scottish and Irish dancers strut their stuff, we have sampled foods which baffle the taste buds, we have interacted with the loveliest people to grace the planet, we have walked the quaint lanes and admired the most colorful and interesting of flora and fauna.

Dublin and its massive cathedrals and ancient pubs. The stone ruins of a monastic village. Forty shades of green. 19^th century remnants of the “Famine Houses.” Sea gulls and ocean waves. A Depression-era farm house. Dingle Bay. Massive castles. The Massacre of the MacDonald Clan. The English Occupation of Ireland, and the cruelty they exercised. The Potato Famine. The “Trouble” of Northern Ireland. Sharing “Danny Boy” and “Amazing Grace” with our amazing group of fellow travelers. The Titanic Museum. Drunken and aimless young adults. Street Beggars. Waterford Crystal. A mythical, but very real island. Greyfriar’s Bobby. Sheep shearing. Edinburgh’s pipers. Family roots.

One of the most poignant, and almost magical moments which I experienced during our trip to the Old Country occurred at a dinner theater in Dublin referred to as “Taylor’s Three Rock.” During the course of the evening my daughter and I were afforded some wonderful food, singing, dancing and comedy. However, as I have previously implied, one moment stood out from all the rest. 

Pt. 2

Almost without warning, a video appeared on the overhead screen which featured numerous ancient photographs of 19^th century men, women and children, immigrants all, ships, mountains, rivers, ocean waves, the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island, the proverbial (and literal) gateway to the golden door which was and continues to be America.

But “what got me,” what really grabbed me and would not let me go, what struck a spine-tingling cord within me, and inspired my innate sensibilities was the music which accompanied the video.

Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears

On the first day of January 1892
They opened Ellis Island and they let the people through
And the first to cross the threshold of that isle of hope and tears
Was Annie Moore from Ireland who was all of 15 years

 

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

 

I’d never heard the song before, but I can so identify with it. While most or all of my immediate ancestors immigrated to the United States in the 17^th, 18^th and 19^th centuries, before there was an Ellis Island, they came nonetheless; in most cases, leaving all they ever knew and held so dear. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, homes and land. And in most cases, those who boarded those old triple-masted ships were left with mental images of what was, and would never be again, and they never returned to the lands from whence they sprang.

As the video and its accompanying melody continued, tears sprang to my eyes, and, subsequently, rolled down my cheeks.

In a little bag, she carried all her past and history
And her dreams for the future in the land of liberty
And courage is the passport when your old world disappears
But there’s no future in the past when you’re 15 years

 

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again
But the isle of home is always on your mind

 

Pt. 3

 

I, as was my father before me, am an amateur genealogist, and I love and care deeply for those who have gone on before; though all they left to us were a few sundry bits of information, and fading celluloid photographs. There was a time when they lived, and moved and breathed and loved. They were here, and we were not. And we owe them our very existence, and our own ability to live and breathe and move, as they did before us. And having dared fate, braved the elements, and stared down fear, every man, woman and child among them grasped their providential destinies, and endured ‘til the end.

 

My 3x great Grandfather Isham McDonald, born in Ireland of Scottish parents, who left it all behind, including his dear papa and mama, “set up shop” in South Carolina, and served in the fledgling Continental Army throughout the American Revolution.

 

My 3x great Grandmother Mary Elizabeth Stewart, born on the Isle of Skye, Scotland in the 17^th century, who as a young lass dared journey to a place she knew little or nothing about, and which lay across four thousand miles of turbulent ocean. Never to return to the island of her birth, nor to friends and family whom she held so dear. And on those rough-hewn wooden docks, she left a hundred kisses on their cheeks.

 

My 9x great Grandfather Daniel Mackhoe, of Edinburgh, a Jacobite; one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s men. Old Dan fought at the Battle of Dunbar, and having been taken prisoner by the British was led on a forced march to a distant stockade; during which time thousands of his compatriots died. Ultimately, my ancient Grandfather was involuntary consigned to the ship, “John and Sara” and adopted, and was adopted by the most bless-ed country which ever graced this planet.

 

 

When they closed down Ellis Island in 1943
17 million people had come there for sanctuary
And in springtime when I came here and I stepped onto its piers
I thought of how it must have been when you’re 15 years

 

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

 

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

 

Pt. 4

I brought up the “Celtic Woman” version of, “Isle of Hope. Isle of Tears” today, and without notice tears sprang to my eyes, and I could not contain the sobs which rose in my throat! My wife was standing nearby and uttered an “ahhhh,” and bent down to hug me. And before she was close enough to extend her sympathetic arms, my little pooch drew near, and gazed at me like she’d lost her dearest friend. She just knew I was experiencing one of the most singular moments of my life.

While we were in Ireland, and Northern Ireland and Scotland my mind was taken up with my known and unknown grandfathers and grandmothers, as it never was before.

I left a tribute to each of them in the form of a simple note on the face of a dollar bill; which recounted their names and lives, and whatever else to which I was privy; along with my name and relationship to them.

And with this, I secreted the bill beneath a desk, or bureau, or bedstead in the room to which we were assigned, and in the applicable country with which my forefathers were most and best acquainted.

And whereas, I left a piece of my heart, and a paltry bit of cash behind, my dear grandfathers and grandmothers surrendered all their heart, and the losses they sustained cannot be calculated.

And whereas, these never returned to the peoples and homes and lands they knew and loved so well, I think, in essence, I have returned in their place.

Isle of hope, isle of tears
Isle of freedom, isle of fears
But it’s not the isle you left behind
That isle of hunger, isle of pain
Isle you’ll never see again

 

But the isle of home is always on your mind

But the isle of home is always on your mind

 by William McDonald, PhD

COOPERATING WITH GOD

4037

My former co-counselor and friend, Sherri Nicely, once purchased some border paper for our office ceiling which depicted Michaelangelo's God & Adam painting. You know the painting; God and Adam lying on their sides, and touching fingertips. (To be sure, this particular border paper was altered to assure Adam's modesty). But as I would sit in my counseling chair, day after day, and looked at the numerous duplicate depictions of the painting, I could not help but be reminded of our part and God's part in the scheme of our lives, and I titled the painting, "Cooperating with God."

Adam and God touching fingertips. We work together on the destiny He planned for us before He made the worlds. In the same way I have often noticed that there are literally thousands of verses of scripture which mention man and God in the same sentence. I have referred to this trend in the same way - Cooperating with God. This is our ultimate calling.

Bill McDonald, PhD

THE BEST JOB EVER

4036

During the course of my long life I have worked in 40-50 different job environments, (yeah, I have), the vast majority of which occurred between the ages of 15 and 30. (When I reached 30, I decided to grow up).

But upon much reflection I have decided to apply for what has to be the best job in the world, (drum roll)...

naming medications

I kid you not. What could be any better than that? I mean, some guy or gal, or multiple thereof, sit behind a computer screen or at a conference table and conjure up the most ridiculous brand names for new medications.

A few "for instances" are Skyrizi, and Rinvoq and Metformin. I mean, have you ever?

I'm thinking that the folks who sit around with their feet kicked back on their desks, "smokin and jokin" and stringing ludicrous syllables together know they have it made, and realize the next best thing to their severely inflated paycheck on Friday is the amazing opportunity to clock in again on Monday.

And, you can imagine, I don't want to come across as arrogant, but I'm simply a natural for the position of naming new medications. Those syllables roll off my tongue like "nobody's business."

Jincusi. Micsona. Cambeza. Ronbosi. Limholsa. Ranbica. Heclosa

I can't wait to put in my application. I'm definitely a "shoe in" for the job.

APRIL FOOL'S (but it does sound like a great job)

by William McDonald, PhD