Post Traumatic Stress Machine

No doubt the following story occurred in the Spring or Fall, considering our geographical environment at the time, but I can’t speak authoritatively about this. But as my father might easily have testified in a court of law, Miami’s weather wasn’t for the faint at heart, (especially since he spent his days mopping hot tar on flat roofs, and carrying heavy buckets of the same stuff up tall ladders.)

(And by way of footnote, there was a time when daddy was climbing a straight ladder up the side of a commercial building, when his foot slipped. He and a five gallon bucket of scalding tar rode the ladder all the way to ground level. Unfortunately for him, his left leg landed in similar bucket of the fiery material, and immersed itself up to the knee. I cannot begin to imagine pain such as this. My father spent several weeks in the hospital. During that time the tar had to be stripped in layers off his lower leg. Reminiscent of the tattoo on his forearm, he wore some grisly scars on that limb ‘til the day he took his last breath.)

I think after my parents’ failed attempt to see a movie, only to discover I was safe and secure, (thank you very much) my mother’s anxiety about leaving me with Mrs. Hisey abated, and she was able to enjoy herself during their occasional attempts at marital recreation.

But not to be deterred, like a political candidate on television, I was “given equal time” and we also did things together as a family.

 As I reflect on the story I’m about to share with you, however, I stepped away from the experience with a decidedly negative connotation.

…“if this is all there is to family fun, I need to avoid it at all costs!”

For on a given day, month and year, my dad and mom packed me into the family automobile, (I can’t tell you the make or model this far along) and off we went. Had I any inkling what “lay in wait” for me, I would have definitely avoided the excursion at all costs.

My mother might best comment on my first words, and when those first words were spoken, but I can imagine asking her,

“Mommie, where we be goin? Daddy plomised me a I-creme cone, if I be good.”

To which she may have replied.

“Yes, he told me. We’ll pick it up on our way home, Royce… if you’re good. But if you’re not, then…”

Well, I guess we drove 5-6 miles, and pulled into a busy parking lot. I looked around, and then upward. We were surrounded by tall buildings, and I could smell the salt air. It turns out daddy had laid a roof on one of these massive structures, and had discovered a little known attraction; at least little known in our little corner of the world.

“Royce,” daddy spoke. “We’re gonna do something super fun today. Look up at the top of that building,” (and I followed his finger to the sky.)

“Son, watch this.”

I strained to see what my dad was referring to. Suddenly I saw it. A flash of orange and green color moving like a swift caterpillar along the edge of the roof. And then it was gone, but the noisy clatter continued and cut the surrounding air like a razor. Daddy told me to keep watching, and again a speeding flash of color, and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished again.

My father’s voice was tinged with expectation and a bit of humor.

“Well, my boy. Do I have a surprise for you today!”

Judging from the speed of the whatchamacallit and its proximity to the edge of the roof, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be surprised.

I’m sure I looked at my mother, and no doubt, her face wore an anxious, “I don’t know how smart this is, but I guess we’ll give it a whirl” sort of expression.

As we closed in on the building, I could no longer see IT, but the sound of the machine grew louder with each step. Now we found ourselves in what I later learned was a revolving door, which brought us face to face with the ground floor of a vast department store, filled with everything from blue jeans to light bulbs to pogo sticks. While my attention was diverted, (I may well have been looking at the latter of the three afore mentioned items) my dad navigated his small family up to a set of two massive double doors.

Suddenly, I heard a thump that seemed to shake the floor beneath my feet. I think I felt it more than I heard it, and the vibration startled me. Then the large metal doors parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

I was so transfixed by it all that my mom almost dragged me into the elevator. This was a first for me, but considering my tender age, almost everything was a first for me. And as I soon discovered, the “firsts” for that day were far from over.

I recall a feeling of being suspended in mid-air as the elevator lifted off, and I found myself holding onto my mother’s left knee for dear life. As I glanced up at my dad, it seemed he was a veteran of this little floating room with no furniture. As a matter of fact, a mischievous smile played about his lips, and somehow this comforted me. I turned loose of my mom’s knee, and as much as a four year old can manage it, I tried to act nonchalant. But I could only wonder what terrible surprise awaited me on the roof top.

The buttons on the control panel were labeled 1-14, and when we drew to a stop, I noticed there was a circular pattern of green light around button #14. Mama had been teaching me to count, and I realized there was no #13. I vowed to ask her about the absence of this number later.

The elevator “stopped with a start” and the doors parted again. My parents and I stepped out, and I was surprised to find we seemed to be in the midst of a garden center. Rakes, and sprinklers and work gloves filled bins of all shapes and sizes. And then I noticed the sound, the same sound I’d heard outside the building, but now it was almost overpowering. And if sound can be perceived as a circular motion, these acoustic vibrations had such an impact on me.

Mama allowed daddy to lead the way, since he had first told her about this place. It seems my dad had come home all excited talking about this cool ride on the roof of the Webb City Building. It was only years later that I learned the details.

Daddy led us to an open doorway, and as I stood directly in front of it, I noticed a short flight of stairs. It was about this time that mama leaned over, and considering the decibel level, almost shouted in my ear, (in a tone of voice that was anything but reassuring.)

…”Honey, I think you’re really gonna like this.”

I was led like a lamb to the slaughter up that short flight of stairs which seemed to grow progressively longer with each successive step.

And then… we were there.

As I stared in awe at the colorful, but foreboding piece of machinery, I almost mused aloud,

…“You want me to do what?”

Though my childish mind was immature and incapable of formulating such a phrase, with the passing of years I think those six words are as close as any to describing my perception of what greeted me that day.

“Royce, you’ll absolutely love it.”

“What daddy?”

I had been so transfixed with the scene before me that I hadn’t grasped what he said to me.

“Your mother and I will wait. Go ahead and get in line behind those other boys and girls.”

“You mean… all by myself, daddy?”

“Yes son. Of course.”

I hesitated a moment to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. And so I dutifully obeyed.

Even at this age I could do the math. There were seven children in front of me, and I noticed that the metal ogre was slowing to a stop. It wasn’t enough that the machine emitted creaks and groans and whistles, as it sailed along the circular track, but the boys and girls who rode that iron horse of a thing were even louder. I watched them as they stepped out of their respective cars. Smiles lit up the faces of a couple of eight or ten year olds. But without exception, the younger kids seemed as pale as ghosts, and a little girl, (she might have been 5 or 6) first stumbled, and then “lost her cookies” on the boarding platform.

The attendant could only shake his head and groan. I felt something welling up inside of me, and I was close to emulating the behavior of the little girl. The seven of us, who had previously formed a perfectly straight line, had by now backed into a cluster. Had Mr. Nielsen been there that day, his rating would, no doubt, have revealed an utter contempt for this mechanical beast, and a very strong desire in all our hearts to simply… go home.

Now the attendant was mopping up the mess with a mop and bucket. I turned around so I didn’t have to watch the least favorite part of his less than professional vocation.  And I noticed my daddy and mama were watching me from the sidelines.

Henry McDonald’s son wasn’t about to chicken out at such a God-awful moment. No way, Jose. I didn’t have to ask. I knew what the answer would be. And as much as everything inside of me screamed for a way out,

… I knew it didn’t exist.

Then I did something that I would soon live to regret. As the young fella was putting away his mop and bucket, I stepped up into the number one boarding position, (but only three of the original seven children stepped up behind me.) I turned to look, and it was then I noticed two girls and one boy walking towards the staircase; hand in hand with their mothers and fathers.

But I had made my choice, if indeed a choice existed, and as the frustrated attendant opened the door of a brightly painted car… I stepped in and sat down. The young man buckled my seat belt and pulled it tight around my waist. I was committed, come hell or high water.

…(At least it was a good theory.)

The metal monster picked up some momentum now, and my parents’ faces whizzed past at dizzying speed. I felt that old familiar queasyness in my belly and rising up in my throat. Someone nearby was screaming loudly!

And then I realized that someone

… was me!

I was on the back of a raging tiger. I was riding the crest of a hurricane-driven wave. I was a hapless bowling pin in the hands of a giant juggler.

Somehow I caught the eye of my mother, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed over to the little booth where the attendant sat with his hands on the controls. And as my vehicle completed yet another circle, I added words to my previously unintelligible tirade,

“Mommy. Mommy. Help me. I want off. Now!”

Suddenly, the forward motion of my vehicle slowed, and I dared to believe that I had been granted a reprieve from certain death. My agony abated and it seemed my salvation drew near.

As the car slowed to a stop I remember looking over at my dad. He was still standing in his original spot near the staircase; looking slightly embarrassed. How could a son of his, no matter how young, sacrifice an opportunity to prove his fearlessness, and wrest victory from defeat?

(Well, perhaps the foregoing implication is reading a bit too much into the scenario. But nonetheless, daddy didn’t appear to be a “happy camper.”)

No one had to beg me to get off the THING. I found myself helping the guy as he fumbled with my seat beat. I couldn’t get back on terra firma fast enough. I must have felt rather like the military veteran returning from combat duty, (though I wasn’t savvy enough at the time to bend over and kiss the ground.)

For the moment no one was in line to ride, and the hideous sound of metal against metal had been stilled. Suffice it to say, I made a quick departure from “the scene of the crime.”

I think my dad was smart enough not to verbalize what he might have considered cowardice. After all, I had my mother to defend me. And she had cooperated in my unexpected pardon from the throes of a fate worse than death; (or so it seemed at the time.)

I never returned to that place, with or without my parents. At this juncture in life, the attendant would be my parents’ age, and my fellow patrons would, like me, be living out their early golden years. Amazing, how quickly six decades can fall through the sandy hourglass of time.

But I can assure you those two minutes that I “rode the whirlwind” impacted me far beyond their comparative brevity in terms of the expenditure of time.

For as a rule, I simply do not

… ride ROLLERCOASTERS.

Don’t, Won’t, Can’t, Shan’t, Nada

I am altogether cognizant that the rollercoaster on the rooftop was a pitifully small affair, and in the scheme of things no more than a kiddy ride. But they say everything is relative, and at least to me, I would have sooner climbed Mount Everest than finish the ride that day. And to be fair, that tiny piece of equipment could not have climbed much higher than a man’s head, nor shadowed a piece of ground much larger than half a tennis court.

And I have stood below some rather substantial coasters, and marveled at their width and height and length and breath. And I have wondered whether I could strap myself into one of those contraptions again; if my very life depended on it. (And it is amazing for me to consider how ten and twelve year old children find the wherewithal to ride such awesomely larger versions of the tiny machine I rode so long ago. It is beyond my comprehension.)

Well, I am pleased to report that on such and such a day, perhaps six or eight years ago, I summoned up whatever one finds to summon up, and for at least the space of a few moments, I conquered those old, enduring fears which had limited me, and held me back in ways too numerous to count.

My wife and I live near the now defunct Cypress Gardens. There on the grounds of this famous tourist attraction sat two ancient torture devices, (or so it has ALWAYS seemed to me.) Jean suggested I conquer my age-old fears, and step into a line of perhaps twenty people waiting to board the smaller of the two “torture chambers.”

But there was nothing remotely small about this one. Oh, of course it was a “David” compared to the “Goliaths” I have seen in some theme parks, but it was still plenty big; easily thirty feet from ground to crest, and covering the space of almost half a football field.

I admit standing there, waiting to board, I sensed a sure and abiding kinship with that small, familiar boy who once stood in a line, not unlike this one, so many years hence. And as my wife, in essence, assumed the role of my parents, it was all so fresh, and new, and present again.

And perhaps in some not so explainable way, that little tyke, from a bygone era, stood with me, and once again abject terror filled his tear-filled eyes. And in some mysterious, but not so impossible manner he placed his hand in mine, and we steeled ourselves for a mission that neither of us had the wherewithal to complete

… alone.

Hand in hand we sat down together, and allowed a young attendant, (who looked remarkably like the one who had long since grown old) to buckle us in. And as our personal little “time machine” gained momentum, and we approached the steep incline of its first loop, I think that tiny, mirror-image of myself envisioned an opportunity where he might complete that which he had once begun.

And I think the older, heavier, balder version of that little man cast his thoughts

backwards to a time and place when he had summoned up all that was good, and true, and brave about himself, when he took his place at the front of the line.

And as our colorful, little vehicle mounted the first, yet highest crest of that small-gauged track, and proceeded to drop into oblivion, I thought I felt the tender grasp of a tiny hand in mine, and somehow the boy compelled me to join him, and so we lifted our arms in unison.

And as my wife looked on, and as the coaster navigated first one loop and yet another ebb, I closed my eyes and contained a silent scream. And when I thought I heard a muted sound beside me, I turned… and he rewarded me with a smile.

Time elapsing. Slowing now.

… Mission completed.

The friendly, young attendant unbuckles our seatbelt, and allows us to step out. My wife waves, and doubles her hands above her head, as if to say,

“It certainly took you long enough,

… but you did it!”

And for the briefest moment I think I see him again, and his little hand slips from my grasp, and he steps away. And with his fading presence, I think I hear a voice, a familiar voice, but young and vibrant once again.

“See. I told you that you could do it.

… Now, let’s go home.”

 

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well Lived" Vol. 1)

All the Way My Savior Leads Me

I have been grieving the death of a relationship for almost a year; a relationship which lacks any capacity whatsoever to be restored.

So much like the poignant illustration of Henry and Clara, a once devoted married couple who have, over time, found themselves increasingly estranged.

Henry is driving down the road, and Clara is up against the passenger door staring out the window.

Clara speaks.

“Henry I remember when you and I would sit right up against each other in the car. I imagine people traveling behind us wondered if we were some sort of two headed creature.”

Henry smiled, but doesn’t say anything, and Clara finally remarks,

“What?”

As her middle-aged husband of thirty years grips the steering wheel, he finally looks over at her, and responds,

… “I’m not the one who moved.”

As a counselor it has been easy for me to, in so many words, tell my clients struggling with a long-term relational loss to “snap out of it!”

However, a recent personal loss of a relationship has “brought it all home to me,” and allowed me to empathize with my clients in a way that I never could before.

You see, a couple years ago I began to develop a significant paternal, platonic fondness (with an emphasis on those two “P” words) for an individual from another faith, who as the result of counseling, evangelizing, and mentoring became all but a daughter to me.

And then it all changed. So much like the previous illustration of Henry and Clara.

I feel that way.

…I’m not the one who moved.

I can identify with Jesus when a number of his outer circle drifted away from Him, and He asks His disciples,

…”Will you also go away?”

I was listening to an old archival radio/internet broadcast today, “Night Sounds,” and the host of the show aired the song, “All The Way My Savior Leads Me.” And I found myself doing something I haven’t done in a while.

… I wept.

And I immediately realized why I was weeping.

I am continuing to grieve what I have continued to grieve the past year. And there seems to be no recourse, of “getting over it.” And intuitively I recognize that there is a

_________ (insert name here) shaped-hole in my spirit which can never be filled by another human being.

And I am at a loss to know exactly what to do.

At the same time, the loss of this relationship has made me a more empathetic human being. What was once a theory has taken on substance. And that poignant scripture rings truer than ever before.

“I will give you riches in darkness, and treasures in secret places.” (Isaiah 45:3)

And I think I will continue to sense this inestimable loss until I give my breath back to my Creator. And I think that there is little remedy for such a profound loss. But as God sits on His throne and so well rules the universe, I intend to “keep on keeping on,” and refuse to be altogether bowed down by the impact of this loss.

Though that “itch which refuses to be scratched” retains a sensitivity, unlike the figurative skin which surrounds it, I will continue to go about doing good, and I will, as Christ gives me power, continue to embrace a healthy and empathetic mindset.

For there are those among us with issues and needs that far outweigh any I have ever known, and God gracefully continues to place such desperate souls in my pathway to love, encourage and impact.

And I have and (no doubt) will continue to be comforted by the lines of that old Gospel melody,

…“When I do the best I can, and my friends misunderstand. Thou who knowest all about me,

… stand by me.”

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

The Closest Thing to a Time Machine. The Closest Thing to Understanding and Reconciliation

Speaking of Isham McDonald, my immigrant Scottish 3x great grandfather, my dad and I once took a trip together, in the late 90’s, or early 2000’s, to the old Orangeburgh District of South Carolina. Isham had settled in this area prior to the time of the American Revolution on, (as I recall) the Little Pee Dee Creek. Daddy and I hoped to find the approximate location of our Scottish grandfather’s original homestead.

Having arrived in that part of South Carolina, since my dad was an exterminator, he looked up a local man who was involved with the same vocation, and we sat down with him. My Father explained our purpose for being in the area, and Mr. Carter informed us that he knew an old man who he felt sure could assist us.

The local exterminator led the way, and after about fifteen minutes, we rolled up in the old fella’s yard. Mr. Brown was 90 years of age, (and no doubt he has passed from the scene by now.)

He was a lively old guy, and obviously enjoyed having company. My dad, Mr. Carter and I sat in the living room with the kindly old man, and his wife for thirty minutes or more, as we discussed Isham McDonald, his Revolutionary War service, and his South Carolina homestead.

Daddy had long known that he would never find the exact site of Isham’s property, since Gen. Sherman had burned nearby Southern courthouses during the Civil War, and records such as land deeds, and last wills and testaments had been lost forever.

However, Mr. Brown proceeded to tell us that when he was a young man, he hunted raccoon along the Pee Dee Creek, and at one time it was easily 40 feet wide. His eyes twinkled, as he reminisced that on one particular hunt, he and his dogs were tracking a coon, when he stumbled and fell into that creek. Of course, we all laughed with him as he shared that poignant memory.

As he approached the end of his story, the old fella mused, “You know, I can tell you where that creek is, the one your Granddaddy Isham lived on. It’s not the fast moving river it used to be though. It’s nothing more than a culvert under the road today.”

 

And so Mr. Brown told us how to find our way to what remained of the creek, and thanking him, we took our leave. As we walked into the front yard, Mr. Carter “left us to our own devices” as he, no doubt, realized that this was a father and son moment. Daddy also thanked this fine man, and so we boarded our separate vehicles and went our way.

 (If I recalled the name of his business and the city where it was located, I’d enjoy chatting with Mr. Carter again. I would update him on our visit to what was left of that creek, and share with him the details of my dad’s passing.)

Well, my readers, as I alluded above, we found the creek, or as Mr. Brown and I have previously implied, what was left of it. And indeed, it was no more than a culvert which ran under that old country road; perhaps three feet wide and only a trickle of brown water. Daddy and I got out, and walked down the embankment. I suppose we took a few pictures, but if so, ten or twelve years later, I have no idea where they’re located, and I regret it.

We may have lingered there all of six or eight minutes, and my dad mused that Isham’s homestead would have been within a mile or two from where we stood. The trees and undergrowth in this area prevented us from following the path of the creek, and I doubt we would have discovered anything of further significance, had we been able to do so.

Nevertheless, the bond between my dad and I was strengthened that day, and the time we spent together that week allowed us to reconcile any unspoken differences which may have existed between us.

I will be eternally grateful that my Father and I were given the opportunity to say some things to one another we’d never said before, to spend the quality time together that we’d never spent before, and to go where we’d never gone in pursuit of those whose very flesh and blood we shared.

(By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well-Lived" Vol. 3)

Victim Mentality

This may possibly be the most controversial and response-generating blog I’ve ever written, but I feel compelled to “put my two cents in,” since everyone else seems to be doing so.

I like to think I am as non-prejudicial as anyone else, and I believe in fair opportunities, and equal treatment under the law for every Tom, Dick & Harry, (or Thomasina, Doris & Hazel) out there.

Having said the foregoing, recent occurrences involving the police and the minority community has me scratching my head, and pondering whether to “literaturize” (root word, literature) my particular view on the matter.

A recent video has Chris Rock spouting what seems to be the minority view among the minority community, a video which I have been tempted to post on my social media page. I have only refrained from doing so due to the over-abundance of four letter words mixed throughout it.

Nonetheless, I tend to agree with Mr. Rock’s general persuasion, and that is when you do the wrong thing you put yourself in a precarious position, and create a situation in which the powers that be have to “think on their feet,” (and can easily make mistakes in judgment, sometimes leading to an unfortunate conclusion).

The liberal media seems to be “eat up” with covering recent events, and (I believe) inflaming the sensibilities of demonstrators, rioters and looters with their one-sided coverage. (And I might quickly add that there is absolutely no justification for burning and looting. Such people use so-called police-victim scenarios simply as an excuse to commit mayhem, and burn and loot someone else’s property).

But to return to, and identify with the remarks of Chris Rock, and to cite three examples of that which he was alluding to:

*A young man who had the same day robbed a convenience store, and who, subsequently, resisted an attempt by a policeman to question him about said activity.

*A middle-aged man who was involved with the illegal sale of taxable cigarettes.

*A 12 year old boy standing on a street corner waving what appeared to be a handgun.

And I think it is important to reiterate, it is a crying shame that three lives were snuffed out, and who will never have an opportunity to live, and move and breathe again.

And I think it is equally important to decry the recent situation in Charleston in which nine precious human being lost their lives to a demented, racist gunman. (This blog is not addressed to, and has absolutely nothing to do with these circumstances. That young man should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law).

However, “when you play with fire you (are very likely to) get burned.” In the case of the three real-life scenarios I previously cited, I don’t care if you are white, black, yellow, brown, red or polka-dotted, when you are involved in illegal activity, law-enforcement officers have a duty to stop, question and subsequently arrest you. And sadly in such situations, unforeseen and unfortunate things can occur.

(All this being said, if a policeman, who while in pursuit of his duties responds in a totally unwarranted and illegal manner, I say prosecute him).

In such cases as these which I previously cited, however, I simply don’t “get” the mentality of peaceful or non-peaceful demonstrators, or the liberal “news” organizations.

Law Breakers deserve no respect or pity. Law Breakers are not and never will be “victims.” Law Breakers must be held accountable. Law Breakers should be arrested. Law Breakers who resist arrest place themselves in jeopardy of life and limb.

That’s my “take” on recent developments.

If I live to be 100 no one will ever alter my viewpoint on the circumstances with which America has contended in recent months.

 

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

Molly Hightower - The Last Full Measure of Devotion

**Molly Hightower was a distant cousin of mine, though I never had the privilege of meeting her. She served as a volunteer in a Catholic orphanage in Haiti, and died in the 2010 earthquake there. Molly seemed to exude a radiance which is captured in photos of her. I have posted a notice which speaks of her death, and commemorates her sacrifice for her precious children. Below this notice is the final daily blog she wrote just two weeks before her death.

You can find her entire daily blog, "525,600 Minutes" at the following weblink: mollyinhaiti.blogspot.com

Molly is no longer able to add to her blog, her body was recovered from the wreckage of the Fr. Wasson Center in Petion-Ville, Haiti following the January 12th earthquake.

Molly's family is very proud of what she has done in her 22 years on this earth and hope that you will learn from Molly's writings what drove her to leave a life full of family, friends, hot water, clean water, plentiful food and peppermint frappuccinos, to a life of cold showers, bug bites, rice and beans every day, and hot muggy days. It’s very simple, THE CHILDREN. In Haiti she found unconditional love, simple pleasures, smiles all day and a second family. And it made her smile.

If you would like to help continue Molly's dream and journey, please follow the listed link to the Friends of the Orphans web site set up in Molly's name.

http://www.friendsoftheorphans.org/molly

Posted by her loving and extremely sad family, both of them

Posted by Molly Mackenzie Hightower at 10:39 PM 269 comments:

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Christmas and the Embassy

Christmas came and went, and was filled with mixed emotions. On one hand, I was devastated to be away from my family for the first time for the holidays. On the other, I was so happy to be with the children for the eventful week. You wouldn’t know it was Christmas in Haiti except for a few random inflatable Santas on the roofs of some of the buildings in Petionville. The weather, or course, is not wintery at all! We had a fake tree upstairs which mysteriously disappeared the week of Christmas. It really seemed to come out of nowhere, without the decorations, shopping and constant Christmas music!

On the 23rd, there was the St. Germaine staff party, including a gift exchange. I drew Dominique, and bought him a couple shirts at Target when I was home for vacation. Everyone was so excited to find out who their marraine or parraine was, and it became quite a game. A person started, and went to grab their gift. They came back into the room and approached several people and offered them the gift and a kiss on the cheek, before whipping it away to give it to the actual person. You were never sure if you should reach out and return the kiss, or refuse because you were being played! Anyway, I received 2 beautiful shirts from Juna, one of my favorite people here, and they were exactly my style! Dominique also seemed to really like his shirts, especially because they were from the US.

The 24th, there was a mass and piñata party at the orphanage. The volunteers had a dinner afterwards of potatoes, hot dogs without the bun and wine. Caterina gave me a candle, Maeve gave me a funny Christmas hat, and Lucrezia gave me a beautiful beaded necklace. We made our wishes for each other for the coming year, and I think everyone’s for me started with “Molly, you’re so young…” I was sad that my American volunteers weren’t there, but it was fun all the same! I then escaped the adult conversation to watch Christmas Eve on Sesame Street.

Christmas itself was spent in Kay Christine with their party. There was tons of food, and gifts for all the kids and staff. Everyone was enormously excited to receive their presents! Yvonne showed all 75 people her new purse and necklace, and Kenzie would not stop racing his toy car around the crowded room! It was very fun to see the kids so worked up and receiving so much attention. I then took the staff bus back down to Petionville to sleep in my own bed (which is now Robin’s queen size!) and see Johny and Renand.

The day after, some American visitors came and cooked a big dinner for the volunteers in Petionville. We had turkey and mashed potatoes and all that good stuff. At the end, they gave us little treat bags with all the food we've been missing from the US!

We had a very difficult situation on the 28th. Father Rick received a call from the American Embassy that a boy had been abandoned there by his mother and they needed a place for him for a day or 2. He was in the states with his family, and called and asked me to handle it. Renand drove me to the Embassy, where we picked up Jacques Christo and took him to the hospital. He’s 7 years old, and very, very smart. He calmly told me his mother left him and wouldn’t be coming back, and that he thinks his dad is in Miami. Jacques was born in Brooklyn, so he’s an American citizen, but neither of his parents are. He speaks English and Creole fluently. He was born with a cleft palette and has already had several surgeries, but needs another soon. Maybe his mother didn’t receive a visa to go to the US with him for the surgery, or maybe she couldn’t afford to send him on her own. I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt- but what kind of mother just leaves her child, especially when he’s old enough to know he’s being left? We spent the evening eating M&Ms and Doritos in the guest house, and then I put him to bed. At first he was having a good time, but after awhile he realized he wasn’t going home and was upset and scared. He kept asking if he could call his mother and ask her to come back. I spend almost everyday with the abandoned babies in the hospital, and it’s difficult to comprehend why and who would ever give them up. I’ve never encountered an abandoned child who is so aware of his situation, or one who feels the pain so freshly. It broke my heart. We played with the babies in the hospital the next day, and Jacques was excited to meet Moise, who also had a cleft palette. I took him back to Petionville for the night, and am taking him to the embassy later today. They say his mother will be there, but she has to meet with a lot of social services.

7 year olds do keep the energy up, and Jacques has me on my toes. From coming over to my bed and screaming “WAKE UP!” in my ear at 4:30 AM to telling me he doesn’t go to sleep until 100 o’clock, he is definitely an interesting kid. He fell in love with Renand and has been following him around all morning. We will see what happens with him, but he is definitely better off than the other abandoned children, because if anything, he will fall into the American foster care network instead of an overcrowded orphanage in Haiti.

We Win... but at a Terrible Cost

A few years ago, I was watching an interview between an anchorman and a priest on FOX news, and the topic happened to be the late Pope, John Paul, who had only just passed away.

The priest began to speak about the sufferings of the pope, how that after the assassination attempt he suffered pain the rest of his life, and as John Paul aged he developed Parkinson's Disease which proved to be extremely debilitating, as well. And yet for all his suffering, this priest continued to travel, and minister to his people.

Near the end of the interview the Catholic cleric quoted Colossians 1:24, "Filling up in my own body the unfinished sufferings of Christ."

And the newsman responded, "I don't understand. What is unfinished about Christ' sufferings?"

To which the kindly priest, with a sad twinkle in his eye, responded...

"…Our Participation.”

None of us are immune to suffering. As the title of the song goes, “No, not one. No, not one.”

As I sat in church today the pastor used a particularly poignant phrase.

“We win, but we win at a terrible cost.”

It occurs to me that the foregoing phrase implies a scene not unlike the aftermath of a fight between two fine, and well-paired boxers. One must surely win, but having gone 15 rounds, the winner, like the loser, comes away bruised and battered.

Suffering is neither pleasant, nor convenient, but the Apostle Peter admonished us that we shouldn’t be surprised at the fiery trials with which we contend. They will come, they will go, and they will come again.

Yes, we win, but winning comes at a terrible price.

That which we can touch, which we see with our eyes, which we refer to as “real,” will pass away like a fog in the morning, and that which is for now untouchable, unknowable, and invisible, will become tangible, and touchable, and ever so knowable, and will take on a permanence that is beyond our frail comprehension.

Thankfully this isn’t all there is, and the end of our journey will find us in a place where all tears have been wiped away, and we will bask in the perpetual smile of Him Who loved us and laid down His life on our behalf.

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this world are worthy to be compared to the glory that will be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

 

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

 

 

What Goes Around Comes Around. Part 2. - A Father's Day Reminiscence

(Cont. - Read Part 1 first)

And as Paul Harvey was prone to say,

…”And now the rest of the story.”

For you see, dear reader, the rehab facility, or nursing home, or whatever we choose to call it, to which I admitted my father, is one and the same location in which one of those meetings I alluded to occurred so very long ago.

Oddly enough, though my dear pastor’s wife has long since gone on to her reward, the same office, first door on the right, still boasts the same sign on its door. “Director of Nurses.”

And strangely enough, just ten paces across the hall, I sat down with the admitting clerk and enrolled my father in the facility.

4 meetings. 50 years.

Daddy – 2

Yours Truly – 2

But in life of a family no scores really exist.

Not among those who love and care and exercise good will.

Funny how roles change over the course of a few short years.

The father fathers the son

The son fathers the father

(I wonder if this trend with continue in the lives of my own son and I).

My father’s stay in that all too familiar building was all too brief. Three weeks after having been admitted, and having walked further down those meandering hallways that day, than he had since he’d been admitted, he sustained a fall, and

“slipped the surly bonds of earth, and touched the face of God.”

You may recall I had previously labeled my dad an agnostic; one who believes that if, in fact, a Creator exists, He has washed His hands of mankind, and gone on a proverbial vacation.

But as my pastor has been prone to say, “It doesn’t take all that much for a man to make his heart right with God” (and) “I believe your dad was ready to meet his Creator.”

For you see, virtually every time my pastor prayed with my father, my dad would respond with, “Pastor Kern, you’re the best pray-er (noun) I ever knew!”

That of which my father had once been so suspicious, and just short of cynical, he

…now loved and respected.

Did I mention that my mother now finds herself living in that same facility where my father spent his last days, and that our own dear Pastor Kern sometimes visits with and prays with her?

Mama has been known to speak well of my pastor, and that little Bible college, (now a university) where the keel of my spiritual foundation was laid. And where, ultimately, decades later, I was given the inestimable privilege of

…serving on the faculty.

And if there is a rest of the rest of the story, it is that my dear daddy’s memorial service was conducted in that same church in which he and I met with his own pastor so many decades ago.

I was given the privilege of telling a poignant story of how his and my relationship metamorphosed with the passing years, and how that near the end we had fostered and nurtured something we had lacked at the beginning. And having honored my father with a few fitting words, I closed my allotted time with the national anthem of the Christian faith,

“Amazing Grace”

I think our Lord has a sense of humor. At least, in this case it seems so to me.

Both Poignant and Ironic.

Truly, “What goes around comes around.”

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