SERGEANT MC/GENERAL MAC

 4371

Pt. 1

The year was 1971, or possibly 1972. I was stationed at MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida, and served as a Personnel Clerk in the Separations/Reenlistments, and Retirements office in the Consolidated Base Personnel Office (CBPO).

And although I was a member of the United States military, other than reporting each day in my 1505's, (khaki uniform), and finding myself surrounded by six or eight other men wearing the same uniform, my job was little different than that of any civilian who manned a typewriter in a local business office on a daily basis.

Only Providence knows how many DD Form 214's I typed on that old electric typewriter; certainly in the course of three years, it must have numbered in the thousands. As a matter of fact, when I separated from my active duty enlistment in 1973, I typed my own separation packet, including the infamous DD Form 214. (Funny, I actually tolerated an error, as when I entered my academic record, I accidentally typed 72 semese hours. Such mistakes normally required one to start over; since at that time the DD Form 214 consisted of a multi-page packet separated by carbon paper).

But to pick up where I first began. 

One day, while I was madly pecking away at a DD Form 214, my direct supervisor, Staff Sergeant Chip Lalone, stepped up to my desk, and handed me a letter which had been routed to our office.

Looking at the address block, I spied a seemingly errant, extra letter.

William MacDonald

Well, anyone who knows me knows my name is

William McDonald

Pt. 2

This far along, I don't recall if there was a military rank preceding the name on the envelope, though it was a military letter. (Apparently not, or Chip would have spotted the discrepancy immediately).

As a result, I presume I opened the letter, and discovered it was meant for (drum roll)

Major General William MacDonald, U.S. Strike Command, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida 

                                                       

(The general and I even shared a similar middle name. Rees vs. Royce).

There was nothing to do, but to tape the letter up, and forward it to the building in which the "two star" worked; which I assure you, I did in short order.

A couple of days later, I received a phone call, and began with my usual salutation.

"Hello, this is Sergeant William McDonald."

A lady spoke.                                                       

"Well, now that's interesting because I am married to someone with a name very much like yours... but you aren't my husband!"

For a moment I was caught off guard. 

Now, the unseen, cheerful woman giggled.

"This is Marion MacDonald. I am Major General William MacDonald's wife."

I immediately recalled the errant letter, and I replied.

"Oh, hello Mrs. MacDonald. Evidently, your husband received the rerouted envelope."

She confirmed that he had, indeed, received the letter.

Pt. 3

After I hung up, I thought,

"Well, I've never spoken to a general's wife, but she seems unusually friendly for someone in her rarified status."

(Well, I didn't think or speak in such lofty terms at that time, but something along those lines).

And then, one afternoon, after I had returned home from work, there was a knock on our upstairs apartment door.

Opening the door, I were greeted by an unfamiliar face. However, as soon as the lady opened her mouth to speak, I knew it was her.

"Are you Sergeant McDonald?"

I smiled, and responded.

"Yes, and I recognize your voice, Mrs. MacDonald."

Now, she corrected me.

"Just call me Marion."

And, with this, I introduced my wife, and young son to her.

Mrs. MacDonald appeared to be around fifty, wore dark shoulder length hair, and was, as I remember, rather tall. We invited the good lady to sit down at our dining room table, and my wife brought her a glass of tea. As I recall, Marion spent a couple of hours in our humble apartment that day, and we talked about so many things. 

The next few weeks verified my perceptions of the lady. 

A devout believer, she visited our church once, or twice, and sat with my family. She also called my office, and chatted with me two or three times. (Obviously, at that time of the 20th century, there were no cell phones).

Pt. 4

And then, one day, the general's wife invited me to stop by their on-base white, two story, orange-tiled home.

                                                         

As I drove up, the garage door was open, and I noticed Marion, and General MacDonald; standing next to their late model automobile. Pulling into the driveway, I existed my car, and walked up to the couple.

Marion introduced me to her husband.

"William, this is my husband, uhmm, William, General MacDonald."

And turning to her husband,

"William, this is Sergeant McDonald."

I had already driven home, and changed into civilian clothing. However, the general was wearing his blue dress uniform; a multitude of colorful ribbons above his left pocket. As a result of my having changed clothes, I did not salute. And I don't recall the general extending his hand. Of course, as a young, immature, airman of barely twenty, I felt a bit intimidated.

Whatever conversation ensued was short and cursory. The general was, at that time, in his early 50's, was graying around the temples, was tall, and stood straight as a ramrod. His obvious aloofness was 180 degrees removed from that of his wife.

As I remember, the one and only occasion that I was ever in the general's presence, it seemed he was ready for me to take my leave, almost as soon as I made his acquaintance.

Pt. 5

I honestly don't recall how things fell together after the first few weeks, or months of my having met the general's wife. She had become slightly more than a "hi-bye" friend, but less than a close one. (The six or eight minutes we generally interacted each week prevented me from thinking of her as a second mother). 

I am, however, certain that we lost touch sometime during the course of my second or third year at MacDill Air Force Base. (It is possible the general was reassigned during that time period; whereas, I "stayed by the stuff").

Fast forward half a century.

I had thought of the general, and his wife many times over the course of multiplied decades. And typing Marion's name in on a web search several years ago, I learned that she was alive and well, and lived in Delray Beach, Florida. At the time, she was in her 90's.

About the same time, I did a web search on General MacDonald, only to discover he had passed away in 1998, at the age of 78; just two years older than I am now. Checking Findagrave.com, the largest online memorial site of its kind, I found someone had created a memorial page for the general. He had retired from the United States Air Force, and was buried in Arlington National Cemetery. Ultimately, I convinced the person who had installed the memorial page to allow me to assume responsibility for it; (as I am also a contributor to this site).

                                                             

I considered contacting Marion, but for some reason I didn't follow through with my good intentions. Checking Findagrave again in the past five years, I discovered that she had passed away, and was interred next to the general.

Post-script

As a retired reservist living in central Florida, my wife and I buy groceries at MacDill Air Force Base several times a year. 

I cannot visit the base without driving past my old workplace, the CBPO; a two story building which is still being used for the same purpose. One day when my wife and I were renewing our ID cards, I snuck up the old staircase, (though a sergeant said I couldn't), and peeked into my old office. By now, I noticed that it had been converted into a conference room.

                                                   

And, of course, I never fail to drive past the general's two story, ornate home; (still being used to house high ranking officers, and their families).

And in my mind's eye, I find myself pulling into their driveway once again, a twenty year old, immature airman whose life, and unknown future still stretch before him; and who is now much closer to his proverbial sunset, than his sunrise. 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHAT KIND OF PROBLEMS DOES SHE HAVE?

 4370

About twenty years ago Sherri N., and I ministered together in a counseling ministry at a local church.

Sherri was meeting with a woman named "Doris," and one day she suggested her client bring her six year old daughter in the following week.

As a result, after dinner one night, and while Debbie was still at the table, Doris looked at her, and said,

"Debbie, I've been talking with a woman named Sherri at the church. I wonder if you would go with me next week, and speak to her?"

Doris' daughter looked a bit mystified, as she responded,

"I don't know, Mama. What kind of problems does she have?"

MISSING THE DOOR. Pts. 1-3

 4369

Pt. 1

As a counselor and mentor, I have often urged my clients and students to exercise sensitivity to the Holy Spirit; most especially when it comes to what I refer to as "open doors."

To be sure, more often than not, I have not only willingly, but gladly, walked right through those proverbial doorways.

However, much to my chagrin, in relation to finding my way through those open doors, I have occasionally found myself in the throes of hypocrisy.

As a matter of fact, it occurred just the other day.

About 5pm one day, I drove up to the local post office to retrieve my mail. When I arrived, I noticed my car was the only one in the parking lot. Stepping out, I made my way to the front door, and to my mailbox. 

Retrieving my mail, I turned to go, and noticed an elderly black woman, as she passed me in the post office hallway. She was obviously disabled, as she limped, and walked with a cane.

And then, and then, I sensed what I refer to as "the unction of the Spirit."

"Turn around. Walk back towards her. Ask her if she would mind if you pray for her."

I continued walking towards the door.

Whereas, I had recently struck up a conversation with a man about my age wearing a cap, (which indicated he was a Vietnam veteran), in this same post office, and even prayed for him, this time around I "missed the boat."

As I stepped out the front door of the post office, I thought to myself,

"You're imagining things."

(and)

"That wasn't God."

(and)

"You would have only scared the poor soul."

However, every time I thought of the encounter, I experienced a sense of guilt. God had spoken to me, and I had been oblivious to the leading of His Spirit.

I think the best I can do in a case such as this is re-commit to sensitizing myself to open doors, and the unction of the Holy Spirit, and to pray for the one whom I neglected to pray for in person.

Pt. 2

Today, two weeks after the circumstances I described above, I pulled into the parking lot of the post office for the hundred twenty seven thousandth two hundred twenty sixth time, noticed one vehicle in a handicapped space, got out of the car, walked through the front door, left a tract on a customer work area, and walked towards my Post Office box.The aluminum partition between the lobby and customer counter had been pulled shut, as it was after five pm.

And now, and now I saw her in the exact same spot in the hallway as before, and limping towards the front door. The same elderly disabled black woman who I had previously failed to pray for. And in very much the same way as two weeks earlier, we were the only people in the post office.

And as before, we had the entire post office to ourselves, and I was determined not to let the opportunity pass again.

"Hello ma'am. I saw you here a couple of weeks ago, and felt compelled to pray for you, and I didn't do it."

(and)

"Could I pray for you now?"

The older woman seemed a bit confused, and replied,

"Uhmmm, I am a member of a ladies prayer group, and we meet for prayer regularly."

I tried again.

"Yes, but would you mind if I pray for you right here and now?"

She acquiesced, and shook her head. As I prepared to pray, I asked her name. As I recall now, she said her name was "Marsa;" (a name I'd never heard before).

Pt. 3

I nodded, and reached out to touch Marsa on the shoulder. While the elderly lady was slow on her feet, she wasn't slow with her words.

"No, don't touch me."

Her response caught me off guard, and I withdrew my hand.

And with that, I began to pray.

"Dear Father, I pray for Marsa that you would bless, help, and encourage her. Use her, Lord to impact those You place in her pathway. Provide for her daily needs, and those of her family. Guide and direct her all the days of her life. In Jesus Name. Amen."

As I said, "Amen," Marsa replied in kind.

"And may God bless you with the same things you prayed about, and may the words apply to you also."

I thanked Marsa, and we parted ways. I had fulfilled my duty to God and the little lady who He had set (and reset) in my pathway.

As I exited the front door, she was getting into her automobile. I waved, and she did the same.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

DESCRIBING JESUS

 4368

(Borrowed from a social media post. Author Unknown. Scriptures and historical letter included)

Bible Thoughts and Questions:

“Does the Bible describe anywhere what the Lord Jesus Christ looked like?” Yes, it does and it is not in the New Testament, but in the Old Testament. The description of how He looked is described in detail in the greatest love story ever told, the love Christ has for His Church; the Song of Solomon.

((Song of Solomon 5:10-16 KJV; “My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand. 11 His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven. 12 His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set. 13 His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh. 14 His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires. 15 His legs are as pillars of marble, set upon sockets of fine gold: his countenance is as Lebanon, excellent as the cedars. 16 His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem.”))

Now, while this is the only description of His physical appearance that is found in the Bible there is another description from history that has been dismissed by many “higher critics” as being a fake and not written by the recorded author, however, it is somewhat close to the description found in the Song of Solomon. I will include it here so you may read it and judge for yourself.

This is a reprinting of a translation of a letter from Pontius Pilate to Tiberius Caesar describing the physical appearance of Jesus.

To Tiberius Caesar,

A young man appeared in Galilee preaching with humble unction, a new law in the Name of the God that had sent Him. At first I was apprehensive that His design was to stir up the people against the Romans, but my fears were soon dispelled. Jesus of Nazareth spoke rather as a friend of the Romans than of the Jews. One day I observed in the midst of a group of people a young man who was leaning against a tree, calmly addressing the multitude. I was told it was Jesus. This I could easily have suspected so great was the difference between Him and those who were listening to Him. His golden colored hair and beard gave to his appearance a celestial aspect. He appeared to be about 30 years of age. Never have I seen a sweeter or more serene countenance. What a contrast between Him and His bearers with their black beards and tawny complexions! Unwilling to interrupt Him by my presence, I continued my walk but signified to my secretary to join the group and listen. Later, my secretary reported that never had he seen in the works of all the philosophers anything that compared to the teachings of Jesus. He told me that Jesus was neither seditious nor rebellious, so we extended to Him our protection. He was at liberty to act, to speak, to assemble and to address the people. This unlimited freedom provoked the Jews -- not the poor but the rich and powerful.

Later, I wrote to Jesus requesting an interview with Him at the Praetorium. He came. When the Nazarene made His appearance I was having my morning walk and as I faced Him my feet seemed fastened with an iron hand to the marble pavement and I trembled in every limb as a guilty culprit, though he was calm. For some time I stood admiring this extraordinary Man. There was nothing in Him that was repelling, nor in His character, yet I felt awed in His presence. I told Him that there was a magnetic simplicity about Him and His personality that elevated Him far above the philosophers and teachers of His day.

Now, Noble Sovereign, these are the facts concerning Jesus of Nazareth and I have taken the time to write you in detail concerning these matters. I say that such a man who could convert water into wine, change death into life, disease into health; calm the stormy seas, is not guilty of any criminal offense and as others have said, we must agree -- truly this is the Son of God!

Your most obedient servant,

Pontius Pilate

It is really not unusual that the description of the Lord Jesus Christ is found in the Old Testament, for the entire book is about Him.

((Hebrews 10:-5-7 KJV; “Wherefore when he cometh into the world, he saith, Sacrifice and offering thou wouldest not, but a body hast thou prepared me: 6 In burnt offerings and sacrifices for sin thou hast had no pleasure. 7 Then said I, Lo, I come (in the volume of the book it is written of me,) to do thy will, O God.”)) and ((Psalms 40:6-8 KJV; Sacrifice and offering thou didst not desire; mine ears hast thou opened: burnt offering and sin offering hast thou not required. 7 Then said I, Lo, I come: in the volume of the book it is written of me, 8 I delight to do thy will, O my God: yea, thy law is within my heart.”))

And in closing; the scripture that really sums it all up!

((John 1:1-5 KJV; “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2 The same was in the beginning with God. 3 All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. 4 In him was life; and the life was the light of men. 5 And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.”))

GOT JUNK?

 4367

Lately, I have been noticing temporary signage along the nearby four laned highways advertising what I might refer to as an interstate business. 

The name of the company is part and parcel of the phone number

                                      1-800-Got Junk

Their one and only raison d'etre to pick up unwanted trash, rubbish, and junk from homes and businesses.

As I was pedaling my daily 10 miles yesterday, I turned down a little seldom-used lane which runs behind the local Dollar General store, and which connects with a nearby street. And, I have often noticed how deplorable the property is. Old sofas, toilet bowls, aluminum cans, circulars and newspapers, etc.

Reaching the end of the lane, and the intersection of the connecting street, I did a 180, and pedaled back towards Dollar General, and the sidewalk beyond. Suddenly, a truck with a very familiar moniker on its side came up behind me. (1-800-Got Junk)

And just before reaching the posterior wall of Dollar General, the truck stopped, and backed in. Suddenly, two men jumped out of the vehicle, and proceeded towards its rear door.

And it occurred to me that the Got Junk men were about to deposit their junk on, in, and about the existing rubbish in the area. And while I am not the boldest, nor most outspoken person in central Florida, I could not help but ask one of the men,

"Are you planning to dump your junk out here?"

And I followed up with a statement.

"Because if you do, I know someone who is going to report you."

The worker merely shook his head, and immediately denied this was their plan.

As you might expect, I was skeptical of his assurance, and made a decision to drive back to the spot, after I pedaled the final five miles of my daily trek.

Arriving home, I went inside, made and devoured a sandwich, downed half a Pepsi, watched my favorite news channel for ten or fifteen minutes, jumped into my car, and headed back from whence I had come.

As I drove in front of the store, and turned the corner, I noticed the Got Junk vehicle was still there. And with this, all my presuppositions vanished.

One man was on top of the open roof of the cargo truck, and another stood on the metal lift behind the back door, a bedraggled red couch between them, as they man-handled it into place.

They were loading the truck, not unloading it!

I immediately felt ashamed for accusing them of being commercial litter bugs. 

I felt an obligation to make things right, and I slowed to a stop. Directing my attention to the youngest man, I spoke.

"I'm the guy who pedaled past you guys earlier, and asked if you were dumping your junk in this field."

(and)

"But, I see you are picking up the junk. 

(and)

Please forgive me."

The man nodded slightly, and I turned my automobile towards home.

I promised myself that if, and when possible, I would surrender my useless presuppositions, and believe the best about friends and strangers, alike, 'til I had a valid reason to do otherwise.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. WHAT MIGHT NOT HAVE BEEN

 4366

Pt. 1

Recently, I attended a lecture by a survivor of the Holocaust who, as a child, experienced the most horrific of circumstances. My uncle also experienced the monstrosity visited upon the Jewish race, firsthand, as near the end of WWII his Army unit marched into one of Germany’s concentration camps. Having witnessed the most unspeakable horrors, he never spoke about what he saw there.

Of course, one man was, ultimately, responsible for the advent of the Second World War, the deaths of countless soldiers, sailors and marines, untold civilians, and the murder of six million Jews.

Adolf Hitler

However, before issuing the executive order which led to the deaths of millions of innocent men, women and children, almost single-handedly destroying the Western world as we know it, Adolf Hitler was an “up and coming,” (albeit unsuccessful) artist.

Subsequent to his service in the German Army during WWI, “the little corporal” completed numerous murals which had as their subject buildings, monuments, and landscapes. And while some amateur and professional art critics have, well, criticized his artistic ability, from my perspective some of his paintings were quite good.

Between the two World Wars, and before the artist wannabe gave a moment’s thought to ruling one of the major nations of the world, and subjecting others to his domination, Adolph Hitler had dreamed a different dream.

Pt. 2

And to his credit, the non-descript little man was not only a dreamer, but a doer; since he not only managed to transfer his colorful visions to canvas, but he made application for acceptance to The Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna.

Twice

And was turned down as many times as he applied.

It is ironic that as the unrelenting, demonic dictator of the Third Reich the great architecture and pastoral villages he painted were, ultimately, destroyed by his actions.

Among Adolph’s artworks are some paintings which provide an almost prophetic look into the as yet to be fulfilled future of the most evil and dictatorial individual in the history of the world. For among the colorful landscapes are also images of WWI tanks; littering a barren landscape, and smoke rising from their turrets.

I have often reflected on that momentous decision which denied Adolf Hitler the opportunity to undertake a course of action which might have, literally, changed the course of human history, and whomever was responsible for that singular decision.

I have wondered whether the man who denied the future dictator, and warlord the opportunity to fulfill his artistic dream, having experienced the abject awfulness which the little despot visited on this planet, regretted having rejected his prospective student. A man who unknowingly, unwittingly exercised more power than Hitler ever realized in his lifetime; who with one stroke of a pen, a few words on a rejection letter, doomed millions of hapless victims to certain death.

Adolf Hitler. Renowned artist.

The saddest words in any language.

…What might have been. What might not have been.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

A MOMENTARY MEETING ON AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

 4365

My wife and I enjoyed the vacation of a lifetime last year. We had often wanted to visit Scotland and Ireland, and were determined to do so by our 70th birthdays. And true to our intentions, we just managed to do so 'by a whisker.'

 

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it 'over there'). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

 

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." And recognizing my accent he said, "Are you an American?" And I evidently responded in the affirmative. (I could not be sure, and I did not ask, but based on the stranger's own peculiar accent, I surmised he was probably a native of this country).

 

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the First and Second World Wars, my short-term acquaintance mused,

 

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

 

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

 

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

 

by William McDonald, PhD