A MOMENTARY MEETING ON AN ELEVATOR IN GLASGOW, SCOTLAND

 4570

My wife and I took the vacation of a lifetime eight years ago. 

We joined a tour group and traveled to Ireland, N. Ireland, and Scotland. During the course of our journey, we found ourselves in a hotel in Glasgow, Scotland; next to a beautiful bridge which spans the River Clyde, and a hundred yards from the theater in which Susan Boyle sang, "I Dreamed a Dream."

Sometime during our brief visit in Glasgow, I took the elevator from our third floor room to the lobby. At this stage I forget the nature of my mission. After a few minutes, I retraced my steps, and re-entered the elevator. A non-descript, middle-aged man stepped in behind me.

Now, my newfound friend spoke.

"Aren't you an American?"

(I could tell from his accent that he was a native-born Scotsman).

I responded.

"Why, yes. Yes, I am."

He continued. And referring to World War II, he exclaimed,

"Ah. We are so very grateful that your dear lads willingly helped us during that great conflict. So many of your wonderful countrymen died for that worthy cause. We can never thank them enough!"

At this stage I cannot remember how I answered him, but I provided him what I thought was a fitting response.

Now, the elevator stopped at my third floor landing, the doors opened, I bid the man "goodbye," and I stepped out.

I suppose our interaction that evening consumed less than a minute, but I have never forgotten it. And, no doubt, I will continue to reflect on our conversation the remainder of the days which God has allotted to me. 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

JESUS IN A BASEBALL CAP

 4569 

(A Song Created by Chat GPT Using Only the Title of the Song)

Verse 1

He was standin’ by the interstate,

With a cardboard sign held high,

A faded pair of workin’ boots,

And kindness in his eyes.

I almost kept on drivin’,

Like a hundred times before,

Then something in my heart said,

“Son, what are you hurryin’ for?”

Chorus

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Ridin’ in the seat beside you,

A little down on his luck,

Just seein’ what your love might do.

He may not look like the pictures,

With a halo ’round his head—

He might be hungry at the corner,

Hoping you’ll share your bread.

You never know who Heaven sends,

Or how an angel might be dressed—

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Putting your faith to the test.

Verse 2

He said he had a family

About twenty miles away,

His old truck quit that morning,

And he’d been walkin’ half the day.

We talked about our children,

About forgiveness, fear, and grace,

And every time he smiled at me,

I swear I knew that face.

Chorus

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Ridin’ in the seat beside you,

A little down on his luck,

Just seein’ what your love might do.

He may not look like the pictures,

With a halo ’round his head—

He might be hungry at the corner,

Hoping you’ll share your bread.

You never know who Heaven sends,

Or how an angel might be dressed—

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Putting your faith to the test.

Verse 3

I pulled into the station,

Bought some supper and some gas,

He thanked me like I’d saved his life—

I said, “Brother, don’t mention that.”

But when I turned to leave him,

There was no one standing there,

Just an old cap on the front seat

And a feeling God was near.

Bridge

“Whatever you do for the least of these,”

The preacher used to say—

Maybe miracles still happen,

They just don’t look that way.

Final Chorus

It might be Jesus in a baseball cap,

Sittin’ in the pew behind you,

The neighbor that you never greet,

Or the stranger passing by you.

He may not look like the pictures,

With a halo ’round his head—

He might be lonely at the table,

Waiting for a friend.

So keep your eyes and your heart open,

And give the world your best—

For Jesus in a baseball cap

May be putting love to the test.

Yeah, Jesus in a baseball cap—

Sometimes Heaven looks like that.

 

THAT'S THE WAY IT IS

 4567

Father Mychal Judge, (Catholic) chaplain of the New York City Fire Department, shared the following words with members of that department the day before the September 11, 2001 attack on the World Trader Centers. He died on that fateful day when debris fell upon him from one of the buildings. What he had to say seems so metaphoric of the lives of any and all of us who wish to make a difference in lives.

"That's the way it is. Good days, bad days, up days, down days, sad days, happy days. But never a boring day on this job. You do what God has called you to do.

"You show up, and put one foot ahead of the other. You get on the rig, and go, but the job is a mystery and a surprise. You have no idea when you get on that rig. No matter how big the call, no matter how small, you have no idea what God is calling you to do.

"But He needs you. He needs me. He needs all of us. He needs our prayers. He needs you stopping by on occasion to give strength and support. To tell the story of the old days, (and how He has brought you through)!

"Keep going. Keep supporting each other. Be kind to each other. Love each other. Work together in the months and years ahead. From this house God's blessings go forth to this community.

"What great people you are! You love the job. We all do. What a blessing that is. What a blessing that is. It's a different job to which you have been called, and He calls you to do that different job well.

"Isn't He a wonderful God? Isn't He good to you? Each one of you, and to me. Turn to Him each day with your faith, and trust, and your life in His hands, and He will take care of you. And you will have a good life, and you will be a great blessing to those who He sets in your pathway."

AMBIDEXTROUS ME

 4566

I have been hard at it for thirty-five years. (Yeah, I have).

I think anyone who devotes thirty-five years to anything enjoys what he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Either that, or he must be a glutton for punishment, (or someone is holding him captive).

I confess. I love making a difference in lives. I have literally “sat with” multiplied thousands of people. (Odd, I suddenly realize I haven’t told you what I have been doing the past thirty-five years).

I am a marriage and family counselor

But to digress a bit

In my day and time, every elementary age child was taught to write in cursive. Of course, the children of the late 20^th and current 21^st centuries learn to write their names in cursive, but that’s the jest of it.

Beyond that, well there is no “beyond that,” they learn to write only their names in that archaic style of applying words to paper. Speaking of the new “beyond that,” they simply print what they wish to relay to an interested eye, or they sit down at a computer keyboard. (I wouldn’t want you to think I am incapable of having mastered that particular genre, as I learned to type in the Air Force, and can still knock out 80-100 words per minute).

Pt. 2

However, as you might imagine, I don’t bring my laptop computer into the counseling office with me. Honestly, I never have even thought about doing so ‘til just now. But somehow, I think sitting there talking with a client about their personal history and issues, and pecking out words on a computer wouldn’t mix that well, i.e. “Tell me about the day your Aunt Marilla died” (I look down. Peck, peck, peck). “Okay. How did you respond when your husband ran off with another woman?” (I look down again. Peck, peck, peck). Rather impersonal, I think.

But as I have implied, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes. During that first session in particular. And since I am a question asker, I am liable to get an answer for virtually every question. And since I ask 101 questions in that first session, and receive a minimum of 100 answers, I fill up lots of unlined paper with my almost indecipherable handwriting. (Sometimes indecipherable to even me).

I suppose it happened about a third of the way through my current tenure of three decades behind the counseling desk. (Well, honestly, I don’t sit at a desk. Just two chairs facing one another).

I began to think about giving my dominant writing hand a break. I would learn to use my non-dominant (left) hand. And thus, I began to practice writing with a hand with which I had only pulled a trigger in the past. (I can’t explain why, but I have always fired a rifle left-handed).

At any rate, the more I used my non-dominant hand, the better I became with it. However, the more I used my left hand, the poorer my right-handed brand of cursive became, until it was almost illegible.

I can’t account for it, but it was almost like I had rewired my brain. The hand that never had any particular acuity was suddenly the legible hand, and the hand with which I first learned to write was becoming increasingly unstable. Unless I bore down on the paper, my dominant hand shook, (and the resulting “hen scratches” were vivid proof of it).

Pt. 3

But even more “strange and wonderful,” the difference between my dominant and non-dominant brand of cursive was incredible. I was used to looking at my right-handed style of writing. I had been stuck with it for just short of half a century. It was to say the least pretty “plain Jane” in appearance. However, I didn’t recognize my left-handed brand of committing words to paper. It was almost feminine in appearance, and it reminded me somewhat of calligraphy. Granted, I have never been as fast with my left hand, but then I had never experienced any ineptness with my right hand, (as I did now).

Some of my clients have been confused as they have watched me put words to paper. As they have joined me on Day One, and before I did “the old switcheroo” in the middle of the session, he or she has quipped, “You don’t turn your hand inward like other left-handed writers.” To which, barely looking up, I have always responded, “That’s because I’m not left-handed.” Of course, that has always elicited a “hmmm” or “I see.” (When they really didn’t).

It was only after a few minutes, and I have moved the pen to my dominant hand that they have really “gotten it.” And at that point I would announce, “I taught myself to write with both hands.” (and) “It makes writing the answers to 101 questions a bit easier.”

I prefer my “fancy-dancy” style of cursive to that uninformed, archaic, grade school brand of writing. And though my wife thinks me a bit eccentric for having changed hands, she grudgingly admits the fancy-dancy cursive is so much easier to decipher.

 

But if the truth be told, I think my (relatively) new found ambidexterity makes the first counseling session a bit more interesting to counselor and client alike.

by William McDonald, PhD

I REMEMBER GRANDDAD

 4565

I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal absolutely nothing. And I have often mused, "Why didn't you leave something behind?" 

Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves- Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected.) 

I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, "before you were even a twinkle."

 You deserve it. And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing„. We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time, Leave something of yourself behind. And so much more crucial than my previous admonition, I earnestly pray, (and I have prayed for you when you were not, and when only God knew you by name) that you will give your life to the Lord Jesus Christ, and faithfully serve Him, as believe that I have done. 

For as a wise and equally well-known man of my time, Dr. James Dobson, (whom I once met, and conversed with) has encouraged his own children, and grandchildren... "Be There!" "Be There!" I hope to meet you in heaven. I'll be waiting just inside the gate. Granddaddy (William) Royce McDonald 8-22-12.

 May 5, 2170 

I remember Granddad. Well, I honestly don't remember him in the traditional way. You see, I never met him. But I am happy to say he made arrangements during his lifetime for me to know him; at least from a distance. The distance we call 'time.' His name was William (McDonald). He went by the nickname Bill. He was quick to tell you that his first name meant 'Protector.' And if nothing else, he was the Protector of our family tree and a myriad of old stories and photographs connected with it; carefully labeled with the appropriate names of an assortment of otherwise unidentified individuals. 

My 4x Great Grandfather passed away in the year 2051. He lived to a ripe old age, dying peacefully in his sleep; less than 24 hours after his 102nd birthday. He always claimed he'd make it to the century mark, and he was good at his word. Granddaddy William sometimes spoke of his own 4x Great Grandfather Rev. Isom (Peacock), my 8x Great Grandfather, and who having lived to be 107 ...died falling off a horse! Well, Granddaddy William gave Granddaddy Isom a good run for his money. 

I think I must be guilty here of inferring I knew the old boy better than I possibly could without having met him, except ...he left something behind. That was my ancient grandfather's way of putting it. He often used that phrase in his writings, for he was a prolific writer, indeed; having left behind an autobiography, doctoral dissertation, a multi-volume diary, numerous unpublished volumes, and thousands of pages dedicated to miscellaneous topics of his day. Granddaddy William claimed his own father was his inspiration, as Granddaddy Henry was a collector of names and histories before him, and left behind an illustrated binder which included a myriad of old pictures and genealogical history. 

A great uncle and distant cousin, before him, wrote accounts of their Victorian era experiences. My beloved ancestor seemed especially keen to leave his descendants a message which it was impossible for him to bequeath in person. His was the first generation in which information could be relegated to permanent e-storage, and in his writings, he admonished us to go right on 'passing the baton' to the next generation; (given the necessity to convert the drives and disks to whatever type of storage anteceded the former. 

Before he 'stepped across the great divide' Granddaddy William left me, (and his then unseen progeny which would follow him) a personal note. It reads as follows I stare into the eyes of that yellowing, fading portrait of my great Grandparents now, and their dull, unblinking eyes reveal absolutely nothing. And I have often mused, "Why didn't you leave something behind?" Oh, how I would have enjoyed knowing you. How wonderful it would have been if you had left some word, some reflection, something of yourselves. 

Well, my dear descendants, I have decided NOT to repeat their mistake; (and yes, I consider it an irrevocable mistake; which once the party has passed from this earth can never be corrected.) I think the following daily journal entries, (as well as my previously written autobiography, counseling memoirs, and other volumes) will not only elicit a few laughs, but provide you some insight into the life of your ancestor; someone not unlike yourself, who lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed, and made his way about this earth, and even impacted a few for good, "before you were even a twinkle." You deserve it. 

And this writer, who by the time you read these words may have long since ceased to live, and love, and breathe, and move, and enjoy the beauty which God has visited upon our planet, can only wish you well, and exhort you to do as I am currently doing... We are all too close to having eyes which do not see, ears which do not hear, and mouths which do not speak. While there is still time, Leave something of yourself behind. 

And so much more crucial than my previous admonition, I earnestly pray, (and I have prayed for you when you were not, and when only God knew you by name) that you will give your life to the Lord Jesus Christ, faithfully serve Him, and make a profound difference among those whom God has chosen to set in your pathway; as I believe that I have done. 

For as a wise and equally well-known man of my time, Dr. James Dobson, (whom I once met, and conversed with) has encouraged his own children, and "Be There!" "Be There!" I hope to meet you in heaven. I'll be waiting just inside the gate. 

Granddaddy William 

Is it any wonder I write as if I knew him? How can one read such stuff as this and not develop some ethereal bond with a man who prayed for me and mine decades before we were a passing thought or proverbial theory? How can I deny him his richly deserved Legacy by failing to give my life to the God whom he served? How can I squander the days of my life and avoid making it count for something and someone, as he made his life count before me? 

I am inestimably glad and eternally humbled that before his passing my ancient grandfather took measures to assure he would avoid the fate of the majority of his own ancestors who pre-dated him. For you see, to me my Grandfather William is so much more than a yellowing, fading bit of celluloid. He has become as real and vibrant as anyone whom I can presently see with my eyes and touch with my hands. And has he has done before me, so shall I do. 

I remember Granddad

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

IF YOUR DOG WROTE YOUR BIOGRAPHY

 4564

He probably wouldn’t mention your job, your achievements, or how successful you became.

He would tell a very different story.

CHAPTER ONE: THE PERSON WHO ALWAYS CAME BACK.

You left the house countless times.

I never really understood where you went.

But I learned something about you very quickly:

No matter where life took you…

you always came back to me.

And that was enough for me to trust you with my whole heart.

CHAPTER TWO: THE PERSON WHO THOUGHT I DIDN’T NOTICE.

I noticed when your voice sounded different.

I noticed when your smile wasn’t quite real.

I noticed the nights you were quieter than usual.

You never had to explain anything to me.

I just stayed a little closer.

That was my way of saying,

“I’m here.”

CHAPTER THREE: THE PERSON WHO MADE ORDINARY DAYS FEEL IMPORTANT.

You probably don’t remember every walk we took.

Every morning we spent together.

Every time you scratched behind my ears without even thinking about it.

But I do.

Because my favorite memories were never the extraordinary ones.

They were the ones where nothing happened…

except that I was with you.

CHAPTER FOUR: THE PERSON EVERYONE ELSE SAW DIFFERENTLY.

The world knew your name.

Your responsibilities.

Your mistakes.

Your strengths.

I knew none of those things.

To me, you were simply the person whose footsteps I could recognize anywhere.

The person I would choose in a room full of people.

Every single time.

CHAPTER FIVE: THE PERSON WHO GAVE ME A PLACE IN THIS WORLD.

You might say you gave me a home.

But I would write it differently.

A home is just walls and a roof.

You gave me somewhere I belonged.

Somewhere my bowl had a place.

My paws had a path.

And I never had to wonder where I was meant to be.

CHAPTER SIX: THE PERSON WHO NEVER REALIZED HOW MUCH THEY MEANT TO ME.

You probably thought you were simply taking care of a dog.

Feeding me. Walking me. Keeping me safe.

But from where I stood…

you were the center of everything.

My mornings started with you.

My best moments included you.

And wherever you were…

that was where I wanted life to happen.

FINAL CHAPTER

And if I had to write the final line of your biography…

I wouldn’t write about what you owned.

Or what you accomplished.

Or whether the world remembered your name.

I would simply write:

“I got to spend my life loving this person.

And I would choose them all over again.”

(from a social media post)

A DOG NAMED ANGEL

 4563

Pt. 1

Buddy, our white and auburn female Shih Tzu, was about eleven years old when she began walking the well-worn pathway leading to the Rainbow Bridge.

As my wife and I prepared to take a well-deserved vacation to Hilton Head, South Carolina, Buddy began exhibiting some troublesome medical symptoms. A couple of days before we left, I shared my concerns with Shirlene, one of my sister-in-law’s, and mused that it might be wise to take my precious pooch on a one way trip to the vet; before we left for vacation. Shirlene disagreed, and said,

“Royce, if Buddy is fairly stable at the moment, you should wait ‘til you get back to do the deed” (and) “You don’t want to be overwhelmed with grief while you are on vacation.”

She convinced  me in short order.

As a result, we left our dear little Shih Tzu with Sue, my other sister-in-law, and Jean and I headed out for South Carolina. As it fell together, Buddy hadn’t eaten much while we were gone, and she simply hadn’t been a real “happy camper.”

Six or eight days later, we returned, and stopped by to pick up our little pooch. Initially, Buddy gave us “the cold shoulder.” She was not impressed that we had gone off, and left her. Now, I don’t know if she intuitively knew that we had been to the beach, but we had once taken her to the east coast of Florida, and she had enjoyed running up, and down on the white sand, and frolicking along the edge of the waves.

However, in short order Buddy seemed to forgive us, and she “warmed up” to our loving words, and kisses. But, as much as we tried, she refused to eat anything that day; with the exception of a small piece of chocolate. (I confess, I have always given my dogs a modest amount of this delicacy, in spite of the fact, or myth, that it wasn’t good for them).

Pt. 2

And as the day of our return wore away, it was obvious that Buddy wasn’t long for this world.

She was used to sleeping with me, and she had her own pillow at the end of the bed. We laid down earlier than usual, as my precious pooch had begun hyperventilating, and alternatively, her respiration would slow to five or six breaths a minute. As the evening progressed, Buddy’s tongue took on a pasty white color. Neither our little white and auburn Shih Tzu, nor I got any sleep. I knew it was just a matter of hours. (My wife made the comment later that, “there’s no way I could have put Buddy in bed with me that night”).

Morning dawned, and I may have slept two hours. I’m doubtful Buddy slept at all. Scooping her up, I noticed her breathing was on the low ebb, and continued to be shallow. Now, I retrieved her doggie bed, and laid it, and her in the living room, walked into the dining room, and dialed the number of one of my counseling clients from the Dominican Republic, whose given name was “Angel,” and took care of some quick business. (Speaking of Angel, our daughter had given Buddy the alternative name of Angel).

Finishing my call, I walked back into the living room, and discovered our little pooch was no longer laboring to breathe. She had crossed the proverbial Rainbow Bridge. It soon dawned on me that our precious pooch had been denied several years of life due to the steroidal medication we had given her on a regular basis. However, without it, she would have scratched her eyes out, as like so many of her breed, she had significant allergies.

In retrospect, it seemed our little Angel had mustered up whatever was required to linger on this good earth ‘til we returned from vacation, and, subsequently, she was gone in the course of one night.

Ironically enough, while I was on the phone with a client named Angel, our little Angel had been visited by her Death Angel.

by Bill McDonald, PhD