My Dead Mentors

Outside of Paul, himself, God has given me two mentors who I never knew, but who I feel I know intimately. These men have had a profound impact on my life. They have encouraged me. Both lived and died just before “my time.”

 

     Eric Liddell is best remembered in the land of his birth. He was a Scotsman, and was immortalized in the movie, “Chariots of Fire.” In this portrayal we admire not only his intimate relationship with God, but his wonderful gift of speed. For Eric won a gold medal, during the 1924 Olympics, in a race he wasn’t supposed to win.

 

     He was an Encourager of Men. Men were easily drawn to him. He had something to say with both his words, and his life. In all of Scotland, he was known as a real man.

 

     Many of Eric’s speeches are lost for all time, but one that remains was presented at St. George’s United Free Church in Edinburgh. Liddell’s words are reminiscent of the great heart he had for mankind.

 

    “Are you living up to the standards of Jesus Christ? We are looking for men and women who are willing to answer the challenge Christ is sending out…Have you sought out a leader in everyday life? In Jesus Christ you will find a leader worthy of your devotion and mine.

 

    I looked for one I could admire, and I found Christ. I am a debtor, and no wonder I am a debtor, for He has given me a message which can only be experienced…” (Caughey, Pg. 106)

 

     I don’t know about you, but I can get excited about both the message of this young Scotsman, and the object of his message. He had a message that rang true with literally thousands of men and women, and his encouragement, and the humbleness with which he presented it changed his world!

 

     As I said, Eric was also an athlete. He had a particular style of running. As he neared the end of each race, his arms flailed like a windmill, and his head was thrown back as if he were examining clouds. No one who ever watched him run easily forgot the experience. In the same way, no one who ever heard him speak soon forgot the message, or the messenger.

 

     It was on April 6, 1923 that Eric made his first public speech. “Speaking slowly and quietly, he made the men feel like he was having a personal conversation with each one of them. ‘Do you want to know the God I love? He has given me strength when I thought I had nothing left. And He has given me words when I thought I couldn’t speak. Accept God tonight, and tomorrow you will feel a love you have never known before.’” (Caughey, Pgs. 60-61)

 

     These words seem to lovingly plead, “Look into the tent that is my life. See if there is anything substantial here. See if Christ has done anything in me. I believe He has the same thing to offer you.”

 

      I told you I had two mentor figures. It so happened that they knew one another, and it was only recently that I discovered this.

 

      Peter Marshall sat in one of those packed meetings in which Eric delivered his simple, but eloquent message. Peter, too, was a Scotsman.

 

      I’d like to believe that Liddell’s words were a driving force behind what would ultimately represent Peter’s destiny. Since, not long after their meeting, “A man named Peter” immigrated to America.

 

     Peter was an excellent orator; among most eloquent that God ever set upon the earth. For he was a “word-weaver,” and the words he wove outlive him. Knowing Peter as I do, I’m convinced that he had but one goal in life; to offer his generation a glimpse of the risen Christ.

 

      Following are a few surviving examples of his prayers:

 

     “Take from us the selfishness that is unwilling to bear the burdens of others, while expecting that others shall help us with ours. Make us… disgusted with our big professions and our little deeds…” (Marshall, Pg. 438)

 

      and

 

     “We know that we have offended You by some of the things we have done. We know that You cannot bless all that we undertake and do not approve of all our attitudes. But we would hold on to that love that You have for each one of us-the love that wilt not let us go and wilt not let us off.” (Pg. 452)

 

      Did I mention? My friend, Peter, that Scotch immigrant lad, was serving as Chaplain of the United States Senate when he offered up these and other prayers.

 

     God had a different mission for Eric Liddell. It seemed that his entire native land turned out to bid him farewell. His running shoes were put away in favor of his beloved Bible. He took that Bible to “the ends of the earth.” Eric died of cancer in 1945; an internee of Japanese-controlled China. “All of Scotland mourned his passing.”

 

     Dear Ones, these are two of my heroes. I call them mentors. Though I never knew them, in life, I know them very well, nonetheless. They were “sold out.” They made a decision and cut it into stone.

     They are sorely missed.

 

 

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

 

An Interview With Laura Hillenbrand

An Interview with Laura Hillenbrand, the author of "Seabiscuit," and who suffers a life-altering illness.

*How did the illness affect your ability to write this book? Were there long periods of time when you could neither do research nor write? Did you get discouraged at times? What kept you going?

Writing this book was immensely important to me, but my illness made it hard. I had to accept that there would be a large physical price to pay for undertaking this project, and that I would have to pare away the rest of my life to save my strength  for what I wanted to do. For the four years that I researched and wrote this book, I did virtually nothing else. I devoted everything I had to it. I had my office set up so that there was a refrigerator, cereal boxes, bowls, spoons, and a giant jug of water right by my desk, allowing me to keep on working without wasting energy on fixing meals. I stacked research books in a semicircle on the floor around my chair so I wouldn’t have to get up to get them. I couldn’t travel to my sources, but found ways around this by making maximum use of the Library of Congress’ interlibrary loan service, the Internet, my fax machine, email and, of course, my telephone. For the most part, my body held together. I worked whenever I had strength, sometimes at odd hours, and I often worked until completely exhausted, and dizzy. There were days when it was almost impossible to move, but I usually found something I still had the strength to do. If I was too dizzy to write, I did interviews. If I was too weak to sift through books, I sat still and wrote. Sometimes I worked while in bed, lying on my back and scribbling on a pad with my eyes closed. Though it was hard to do this, there was never a point at which I became discouraged. These subjects were just too captivating for me to ever consider abandoning the project. The price I paid was steep. Within hours of turning in the manuscript, my health collapsed completely. The vertigo returned in force, and I was unable to read or write at all for several months. I also became markedly weaker and was rendered almost entirely homebound again. Well over a year later, I still haven’t completely recovered.

But it was worth it.

As difficult as the illness made the writing and research process, I think I also  have it to thank for spurring me into the project. Being sick has truncated my life dramatically, drastically narrowing the possibilities for me. For fifteen years, I  have had very little contact with the world. The illness has left me very few avenues for achievement, or for connecting with people. Writing is my salvation, the one little area of my life where I can still reach out into the world and create something that will remain after I am gone. It enables me to define myself as a writer instead of a sick person. Because of this, I felt so immensely powerful motivating me to write this book, and writing it as well as I could.

 

 

I Arise Today (St. Patrick's Prayer)

I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through a belief in the Threeness, Through confession of the Oneness Of the Creator of creation. I arise today Through the strength of Christ's birth and His baptism, Through the strength of His crucifixion and His burial, Through the strength of His resurrection and His ascension, Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of doom. I arise today Through the strength of the love of cherubim, In obedience of angels, In service of archangels, In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward, In the prayers of patriarchs, In preachings of the apostles, In faiths of confessors, In innocence of virgins, In deeds of righteous men. I arise today Through the strength of heaven; Light of the sun, Splendor of fire, Speed of lightning, Swiftness of the wind, Depth of the sea, Stability of the earth, Firmness of the rock. I arise today Through God's strength to pilot me; God's might to uphold me, God's wisdom to guide me, God's eye to look before me, God's ear to hear me, God's word to speak for me, God's hand to guard me, God's way to lie before me, God's shield to protect me, God's hosts to save me From snares of the devil, From temptations of vices, From every one who desires me ill, Afar and a near, Alone or in a multitude.

I summon today all these powers between me and evil, Against every cruel merciless power that opposes my body and soul, Against incantations of false prophets, Against black laws of pagandom, Against false laws of heretics, Against craft of idolatry, Against spells of women and smiths and wizards, Against every knowledge that corrupts man's body and soul. Christ shield me today Against poison, against burning, Against drowning, against wounding, So that reward may come to me in abundance. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me, Christ in the eye that sees me, Christ in the ear that hears me. I arise today Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, Through a belief in the Threeness, Through a confession of the Oneness Of the Creator of creation St. Patrick (ca. 377)

 

My Friend, Paul

(Originally posted on Oct. 20, 2015)

I had known Paul Puckett, former Minister of Music for the First Baptist Church of Bartow, from a distance for over the course of half a century. My choral group performed “The Messiah” in his church throughout my high school years.

Paul and Martha Puckett’s daughters, Elaine and Beth, were a couple of years ahead of me, and one behind me; respectively speaking. Sadly, Beth left us prior to graduation; the result of an automobile accident. And Elaine passed away in the last couple of years.

But returning to the object of my story, it was only in the past several months that I took the opportunity to meet Paul face to face, and speak to him about a subject which had occupied my thoughts for quite some time.

For you see, Paul, a wonderful minister of the Gospel, has known more pain than anyone deserves in several lifetimes. Not only did his dear daughters pre-decease him, but his wife, Martha, succumbed to cancer a couple of decades ago.

But not before completing a book about her nuclear family, as well as her adult life with Paul and the children.

As I sat down with the 92 year old Paul, I noticed how fit he seemed for one who had spent over 9 decades on this planet. And how cognitively cognizant and conversational he was.

After we had “shot the breeze” about the weather, his health, my having known his daughters, and his having known my father, I popped the question.

“Uh, Mr. Puckett, would you mind if I borrowed a copy of your wife’s book? I’ve been wanting to read it for quite some time.”

To which my old found/new found friend replied,

“Well, you know I had a couple hundred copies printed a long time ago, and I’m down to two now. A paperback and a loose leaf copy.”

What Paul said next surprised me a bit, (but as I thought about it later, his tactics made a bit more sense than heretofore).

“Uh, Royce I suppose I could loan you the paperback, but would you mind writing your home address and phone number on this piece of paper? You know. Just in case I need to check on how you’re coming along with the book.”

As a result, I willingly obliged my host, and handed the paper back to him.

And with this Paul strolled to his bookcase and pulled out a “dog-eared” copy of Martha Puckett’s, “Prunes, Pride and Vinegar Pie,” and tenderly handed it to me.

With this, I thanked Mr. Puckett and he saw me to the door.

I drove home, and immediately began reading the book, and finished it in “break-neck” time.

However, I hadn’t yet divulged a secondary reason for my visit.

For you see I intended to scan each and every page of the small volume, and transfer it to a cd.

Having finished the book and laid the first page on my scanner it soon became obvious that any attempt to commit the entire work to my Word file, and ultimately to a cd might seriously compromise the integrity of the fragile pages.

Thus, a few days later I retraced my route and knocked on Paul’s front door. He opened it to me, and once again I “pulled up a chair and sat awhile.”

And it was about this time I broached the subject of my second visit.

“Paul, if you’d loan me that loose leaf copy of Martha’s book I’d be happy to scan it, and put the finished work on a cd. This would be a great adjunct to your wife’s efforts, and it would allow you to pass her volume down through the generations of your family.”

Having returned the paperback, and proven my trustworthiness, this time my friend didn’t hesitate.

“Well, of course. That would be very nice of you, Royce.”

And as before, he stepped to his bookcase, refiled the paperback, and retrieved the loose leaf version of his wife’s book.

I can tell you my self-styled project went off without a hitch. Two for him and one for me.

And having completed my task, I “christened” the cassette disk with a circular label bearing the title of the book, its author, and a photograph of the Puckett family.

Of course, Mr. Puckett was thrilled with the outcome, and thanked me for my assistance.

Having just departed the great City of Bartow today, Paul’s hometown, as well as my own, I looked over at my wife and said,

“You know, for no particular reason I was thinking of Paul Puckett today. Given the opportunity I could see myself hanging out with him from time to time. He’s so friendly, and such an interesting man. As healthy as he seems to be, why, he may live to be a hundred!”

Without too many additional words exchanged between us, Jean and I continued our short trek home, dismounted our old Nissan Altima, and walked in the door of our house. Par for the course, I immediately sat down at my computer, and pulled up my social media page.

Only to discover a post from a family member

… announcing the death of his beloved relative, Paul Puckett; having stepped into the presence of His beloved Savior only this morning.

I will miss my friend, Paul.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 15. Vol. 1-15, Copyright 2015 

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2nd Hand Smoke

During my childhood and adolescence my dad was a heavy smoker. And as anyone and everyone in our generation is well aware, inhaling tobacco smoke


…isn’t especially good for a living organism.

Well before the Surgeon General of the United States issued his warning against cigarette smoke, I was already all too aware that wispy white fog which emanated from the end of that nasty brown weed had the wherewithal to kill the person who was stupid enough to suck on the stuff. (Not unlike the infantile habit of sucking a pacifier. At least, that childish habit isn’t hazardous to one’s health).

I mean, all it took for me to understand the foregoing cold hard fact was my father’s daily response to the crap with which he was filling his lungs.

He coughed.

A lot.

As a matter of fact, after having smoked one or two cigarettes first thing in the morning, he would summarily visit the “throne room” and my mother, siblings and I would be entertained with several minutes of the grossest audio of spitting and spewing and gagging emanating from behind that closed door that you can even imagine. And then the sound of a toilet flushing. (And then, God forbid, sometimes the cycle would repeat itself).

I never noticed any particular personal respiratory inhibition, as a teen and young man, but since that time, and as I have reached the grand old age of 2/3 of a century, I have experienced a decidedly unpleasant sensation in my lungs. Granted, I’m still among the land of the living, but a doctor once told me he detected some congestion there, and I have found myself

Coughing and gagging and spitting and spewing, (and generally not having a very good time)

for the space of several moments in order to clear the mucus from my throat and lungs.

Sounds a lot like what my dad used to do; half a century hence.

Second hand smoke.

Thanks Dad, I needed this.


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright pending.


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Bury Me With My Signs (Not)!

Over the past three years I have peddled over 10,000 miles; 10 miles, sometimes 20 miles a day, and generally over the same route as the day before.

And almost without fail, as I am peddling my pre-determined course, I peddle past those little “cheaper by the dozen” wire and cardboard signs advertising anything from seamless gutters to carpet cleaning to yard sales to psychic services.

Well, to say I peddle past would be a misnomer ‘cause I simply don’t keep on doing what I do best at 4am. Nope. I stop, pull up said sign from its temporary resting place, and drop it on the ground. I mean, this is my neighborhood, and call it a pet peeve, or something just short of obsessive, but I hate those “name, number and nonsense” sorta signs which should have never been installed there to begin with. (There are, after all, county and state statutes which forbid the placement of such graphic graffiti on our roadways).

Speaking of psychics, (re. an earlier paragraph) I recently pulled my slow, but trusty bike to a halt next to a Madame X (or fill in the appropriate initial) type sign, and summarily pulled it from its mooring. Funny thing, I thought. If Madame X was all that psychic she would have known not to anchor the sign in the spot she chose to stick it.

My daughter and I were discussing my obsessive little tendency today, and among other things we happened on the issues of old age, death and morbid stuff such as this.

And about this time Kristy laughed, and said,

“When you’re laid out six feet under, I’m gonna collect all of those signs you ripped from the ground, and install them on and about your gravesite.”


Although as a Christian I have prepared myself for heaven, they say one's own personal hell is to be surrounded in the afterlife with that which was repugnant in life, and thus I found my daughter's comment ironic.

I joined her in her hilarity, (but perhaps a little less enthusiastically than she) and responded with,

“God forbid. All those signs, and no way to pull them up!!!”

 By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright pending.

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Every Family Has One

Every family has one.

One of those cornball, bald-headed, slightly rotund old uncles who insists on doing everything possible to spice up the holidays; (and usually only manages to make a fool of himself).

When I was a young boy of ten or twelve, we had one.

Uncle Dock, my maternal grandmother’s brother, fit the description “to a T” (except for the bald head. Even as an older man, he had plenty of dark, wavy hair). But to be fair, his attempt at “making a fool of himself” failed, since he was no fool to us. Granted, he fooled around in the very best sense of the word. My late, great uncle often entertained us “youngin’s” with his best imitation of Donald Duck. (I will always remember his unique ability to mimic the tonal qualities of that staple of cartoon land).

And more often than she realizes, (or I care to hear repeated) my mother has shared the story of an old neighborhood jokester of her era named Dennis; (and who, interestingly enough, a decade later would become her great uncle by marriage). Mama tells how, when the summer sun dipped low on the horizon, Uncle Dennis would “step down” from playing an adult, and resume his preferred, and well-remembered role of adolescent. And though the wiry, white-haired old fella may have had, by then, six or seven decades “under his belt,” (an age during that era which was considered elderly) he managed to play “Pop the Whip” and “Hide and Go Seek” with the best of ‘em.

Yep. Every family has one.

While my dad passed away several years ago, and mother is now in a nursing home, our extended family always gathers at my parent’s home for a Thanksgiving meal. This year was no exception. Last weekend, our family matriarch, the uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews, and miscellaneous cousins of various descriptions gathered at 2055 South Floral, Lot 202, and proceeded to catch up on the news of the past year.

My great nephew, “Randall,” brought along his girlfriend, “Rachel.”

(And speaking of cornball, bald-headed, slightly-rotund old uncles who manage to make fools of themselves, it seems they always excel in their favorite role when a stranger is in the house. Perhaps the presence of strangers throws their tom-foolery into hyper-drive).

At any rate, after we had all done our best to stuff our bellies to the max, someone tuned their smart phone to a jivvy holiday selection, and one of my young relatives invited yours truly to “kick it into high gear.”

… Which I proceeded to do.

(And do well, I might say).

Right there “in front of God and everybody” I presented my best (decidedly clean) impression of Patrick Swayze’s “Dirty Dancing.”  And though I am, as a rule, a slight introvert, family gatherings tend to bring out the best, (or depending who you ask, the worst) in me.

Yep. Every family has one.

(I think we discovered the identity of our McDonald family fool).

Post-script – Today, Thanksgiving Day, our grandchildren are with us, and my grandson, Gary, was sitting at my computer playing video games. And true to form, he invited me to dance to some rather upbeat music. Of course, I obliged his whims, and made the statement,

“I should compete on ‘Dancing With the Stars,’… (but I’m not a star).”

To which my grandson responded,

… “You’re a star in my world.”


(A star, not a fool, mind you).


By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 16. Copyright pending.

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