Morning thoughts

Golden morning sunlight paints
tummies of tiny oak leaves from under
its canopy

new day rises still
early
every green holds its breath
still in deep sleeping blanketed humidity

silent flash of summer lightning in the west
carries off the rest
of night

Tribute to Aunt Dot (Crisp) Ballard July 21, 1931 - August 6, 2015

I was privileged to give the scripture reading for my Aunt Dot's memorial service in Columbia, SC, August 9, 2015, in Boyce Chapel at the First Baptist Church of Columbia.  The theme that ran through the Rev. Humphries' introduction, comments made by Dot's grandchild Angela Ballard Adams, by me and by friends Diana and Jon Dando had such a fabulous singular core: Dot had a way of making you feel like you were her favorite and most prized person in her life. 

The comments I made in the service were far more brief in tapping on the three reasons for choosing the passage, but in writing, i wanted to develop it a little more....

Scripture Reading Mark 5:21-43

The scripture reading today is from Mark 5:21 and following.  I have chosen this passage for two reasons.  Aunt Dot and Jesus are so much alike.  As everyone has said in the service and anyone you talk to, Dot Ballard had a special gift for connecting with you in a way that convinced you—not just that she loved you and cared for you, which was definitely and sincerely true—but that you were her favorite.  Favorite child, favorite grandchild, favorite niece, favorite four-year-old, favorite friend, favorite person in the world.  Even if it was in the space of a five minute encounter in the line at the post office and you never learned her name, you became central to her attention and her love and her force of deep acceptance with that easy, infectious chuckle.  Just being in the room with her was uplifting, and dare I say “healing.”  There were always people gathered in her home on Sundays and holidays and birthdays and whatever day something might be celebrated with feast and family. She was always feeding people.  Jesus seemed to do a lot of that, too.  Notice the company he kept, his reference to “these are my brothers and mother” which were the crowds that gathered around him. 

You will hear people joke about how one might know or be related to Dot—and everyone wanted to be related.  Everyone is related.  But each of us knows secretly, deep down, I was her favorite.  People followed and gathered around Jesus and even without clamoring for his attention (wasn't necessary) you were caught up in that infectious love and force of belonging.  Jesus made it his business to connect, to heal, to engage, to embrace, to love.  Dot had that gift because she had Jesus.

The second reason for choosing this passage is harder to put into words—or maybe not, just that it’s painful.  It’s painful to suffer the loss of a loved one.  Especially such a one as Aunt Dot.  I can’t imagine life without her—and I hope to find that the magic and power of her love, just like Jesus’ love, remains in me, in each of us, giving and receiving, healing and holding, continuing to take care of each of us in the depths of our longing for her presence.  She did not fear death.  I kinda do.  Only because it is elusive and mysterious.  Only because my longing to be is so strong.  My longing to be conscious and aware and connected.  My longing to be reunited with family and friends—family I don’t even know because they left this earth before my time.  

This passage in Mark chapter 5 is among many of those that reassure me that death isn’t all that powerful or scary in the hands of Jesus.  I read these stories—in the Old and New Testaments—because they give me comfort and reassurance that death does not have the final word.  We are on this side of it so the stories address things on this side of death—people who are brought back to life are brought back on this side of it.  The metaphor they were just sleeping is proven by how they wake, are still here with us.  When Jesus died, he came back to us from the other side and so that was the only time we see that we will see.  We will recognize those we love by virtue of how we personally are connected to them, it seems to me.  This is ageless and timeless.  There will be the feel of her spirit, the appearance, if you will, of the one we saw.  To some at age 20, to others age 50 and so on.  But that’s beside the point, my point is that I read these stories for comfort, the reassurance of the hope that in Jesus’ hands, death is not the end, will not separate, is not so powerful.

I read these stories when I feel the pain of loss and fear I might not see my beloved Aunt Dot again and it gives me hope that I might not understand, but in Jesus’ hands, all things are possible. Not an easy choice to believe, but it is a choice.  I choose to believe it because Dot believed it.  First hand I was born and raised in her vicinity to watch the miracle of a life fully dedicated to embodying Christ.  If that is difficult to believe, that knowing Jesus makes a difference, then she is one of the rare ones to show how a life can be lived with faithful prayer and hope to be Jesus among all of us; her life shows this miracle is possible.  

The last letter I received from her was on July first of this year.  She was encouraging me and happened to mention her struggle sometimes with relationships and accepting people...  What?  Dot struggled to love and accept people?  Of course she did. She could be impatient. She could roll her eyes and say someone was driving her crazy. She was fully human. Yet her humility acknowledged the struggle.  In her letter she writes, “So much harder to live peacefully when working on relationships—I don’t always do well it seems.”  What? Even Dot!?!? ...But look at how we remember her!  Look at our favorite memories.  Our sincere gratitude for her is specifically rooted in this one characteristic that is spoken of by each person who knew her—she loved fiercely, personally, intimately, with great favor and great joy.  So in her struggle, she handed that over to Jesus as well in prayer that it would be healed, changed, reconciled.  We are the testament to her success in that prayer.  This gives me hope as well, that prayer can be and will be answered as we seek to embody Christ in namaste—honoring the holy, the “created in the image of God”ness in everyone we meet.  Everyone.  Even the one who is difficult for us personally to accept perhaps.  While on earth even Jesus himself struggled with relationships, and chose a few to do something specific here, sent others away who were disrupting the flow of life there, spoke to one person one way and to the other another way.  Always connecting, embracing, accepting where we are and loving us into the change we might need, no matter what other people might say or think about us...

Actually there’s a third bit to this passage that I find makes me chuckle—Jesus and Dot are so much alike—this last image has been mentioned time and time again as well.  The two of them are so much alike—related like brother and sister. I won’t give it away, but you can’t miss it. It comes in the last sentence.  

Mark 5:21-43 (NASB)

21 When Jesus had crossed over again in the boat to the other side, a large crowd gathered around Him; and so He [a]stayed by the seashore. 22 One of the synagogue [b]officials named Jairus *came up, and on seeing Him, *fell at His feet 23 and *implored Him earnestly, saying, “My little daughter is at the point of death; please come and lay Your hands on her, so that she will [c]get well and live.” 24 And He went off with him; and a large crowd was following Him and pressing in on Him.

25 A woman who had had a hemorrhage for twelve years, 26 and had endured much at the hands of many physicians, and had spent all that she had and was not helped at all, but rather had grown worse— 27 after hearing about Jesus, she came up in the crowd behind Him and touched His [d]cloak. 28 For she [e]thought, “If I just touch His garments, I will [f]get well.” 29 Immediately the flow of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. 30 Immediately Jesus, perceiving in Himself that the power proceeding from Him had gone forth, turned around in the crowd and said, “Who touched My garments?” 31 And His disciples said to Him, “You see the crowd pressing in on You, and You say, ‘Who touched Me?’” 32 And He looked around to see the woman who had done this. 33 But the woman fearing and trembling, aware of what had happened to her, came and fell down before Him and told Him the whole truth. 34 And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has [g]made you well; go in peace and be healed of your affliction.”

35 While He was still speaking, they *came from the house of the synagogue official, saying, “Your daughter has died; why trouble the Teacher anymore?” 36 But Jesus, overhearing what was being spoken, *said to the synagogue official, “Do not be afraid any longer, only [h]believe.” 37 And He allowed no one to accompany Him, except Peter and [i]James and John the brother of [j]James. 38 They *came to the house of the synagogue official; and He *saw a commotion, and people loudly weeping and wailing. 39 And entering in, He *said to them, “Why make a commotion and weep? The child has not died, but is asleep.” 40 They began laughing at Him. But putting them all out, He *took along the child’s father and mother and His own companions, and *entered the room where the child was. 41 Taking the child by the hand, He *said to her, “Talitha kum!” (which translated means, “Little girl, I say to you, get up!”). 42 Immediately the girl got up and began to walk, for she was twelve years old. And immediately they were completely astounded. 43 And He gave them strict orders that no one should know about this, and He said that something should be given her to eat.

obituary The State newspaper Columbia SC

sign guest book Dunbar Funeral Home Dignity Memorial

unending tribute to Dad through cycles of grief, joy, gratitude...and hope

I remember the feel of the bark on the tree against my palms and against my cheek, the tricky slickness of the bottoms of my mary janes against the skirting of the trunk and roots.  I was five.  I could feel wisps of hair from the loose bun falling around my face and lilting across  my eyes as I blew kisses toward the camera at Dad’s beckoning. It was a pretty day and I felt pretty in my dress with the white top and dark blue skirt (were there polka dots?) And lacy socks and mary jane’s.  I felt pretty being photographed like a model and hanging out with my dad.  He was thin and his hair was still black, waved back with a beautiful hairline I see now when I look at photos.  He was cool.  He could sing beautifully.  He could take beautiful photographs.  He could tell wonderful stories.  He could write words to move you to tears or laughter.  He could take the big rabbit out of its cage behind Granny’s house and let me pet it.  He could drive fast through the mountains.  He could make up really good stories about people in restaurants eating at nearby tables. He could work all night. He could win writing, advertising and marketing awards. He could sell anything. He could only write when he had a deadline and a paycheck.  He could be gone for long stretches of time.  He could hurt my feelings faster than anyone.  He could make things that didn’t make sense make sense.  He could explain why people were the way they were.  He could pray with his eyes open. He could help millions of people get through national disasters or a political crisis.  He could negotiate the release of prisoners or a change in policy.  He could get splinters out of my finger.  He could pick out the best puppies.  He could bake a chicken that had cinnamon as a main seasoning ingredient.  He could order the best steaks.  He could help me map out a better plot sequence.  He could decorate a house—perfect compositions of wall hangings and furniture.  He could make things sound better.  Or worse.  He could move and uproot his family every two to three years.  He could make up the best words like disgustipating. He could make me feel like the most special and important person in the universe.  He could make me feel suffocated.  He could make me angry.  He could make me laugh.  He could make me cry.  He could NOT beat me at racquet ball once I turned 12.  Otherwise, he could do anything.  Except prevent vascular disease from taking over his life. He can still make me miss him and love him and forgive him for being human like the rest of us.  He can still be the best dad ever.  He can still speak to me.  He can still make me laugh and cry.  He can still make me feel special and loved.  He can still make me wish he were here to eat Calabash shrimp at the beach, or drink cherry ibc colas, or watch tennis.  He can still be here with me, for me, in my memory and in my ways.  I hope he can forgive me for not knowing a lot of things I wish I’d known...about how and how much he loved me...about misunderstandings that seem to linger...about how really really far death can separate you...about how impossible it is to know the story when it wasn’t told...  I put all of this into a pretty box of joy without sides, wrapped in paper of unlimited gratitude, and ribboned in swirls of grieving that will hopefully one day be untied...to find us all there—all the family for generations—together inside (and out) once again...

how weird was that? just streamed it all of a sudden...  and i might post it but I’d have to name it something like unending tribute to dad through cycles of grief and joy and gratitude...and hope...

i hope you have a great father's day and will celebrate your dad in a special way.  i'm grabbing moon pies and cherry ibc colas and going to the beach...

 

Insidious Subtle Paradise Mis*Taken

What if they’re right
Oedipus had no choice—I mean,
he had choices and made them (not knowing)
knowing full well the warning of the Oracle
not knowing well the implications, correlations beyond his imagination

that’s how they get you (whoever you are)
those who know but do not tell
and wait for you to learn as well
Experience can be the cruelest teacher
ready with bamboo stick to strike the unconscious one

and strike she does in traumatic swings
the unrelenting force of the blind spot revealed in hindsight (maybe)

the Oracle backs up, hands in the air
I tried to warn you, she says
but the grin flashes pointed opportunistic teeth of steel

but what if Oedipus had it easy

what if worse the boy were girl
who somehow in primordial mist mistook her emotional alignment
for providence (called her “my mother”)
and role as protector somehow not so maybe rightly friendship
(“mother?”)
wrongly understood and denied—no sexual predilection
but emotional gender somehow exchanged
beyond her imagination
(like a weed in a sidewalk crack
I will find a place to belong)
how could she have known one
defied the other
invited and accused
allured and rejected
told one thing seeing another
given life and death
a choice
beyond imagination
beyond control
flashing teeth and bamboo rattle
snakes around my memory

Oedipus had it easy

Eighteen Freedom flash non fiction practice under 100 word stories

Eighteen Freedom

Our cousin Pam was 18. I was 11, my sister 7. Two other cousins 12 and 10. Pam owned a mustard colored British MG.  Summer visit she put the top down and we flew along country roads, hair knot-twisting in the wind.
She bought us ice cream cones! We sat in a row across the back, bare feet in the leather seats. Don’t drip any of that on my car! she threatened.
She had streaked blond hair and an easy laugh.  Cold ice cream melted on my tongue in long hot sun.  Eighteen couldn’t come fast enough.

march 20 thoughts of the coming 24th and fred's eulogy

my email to fred this morning:  it's just brilliant.  last month or so when we chatted you sent it and it was exceedingly timely then and timely now once again.  tuesday marks the one year since dad died and i still feel kinda lost on the ocean of my world without much of a sail and the rudder is rather broken off....  it still feels decidedly wrong that he isn't here.  it still feels fresh that he was sick for so long---longer than i can even remember so the more of the real him i can find---like in your eulogy---the better.  time collapses.  just yesterday i was 14 and you and he were talking in the den before dinner...  time collapses.

i want to believe that all the pain of loss we feel for those we love like this is a sign that it will not always be like this i fear sometimes it seems as plausible that it is a sign that it will never be more than this again...  so there it is, my great lack of faith laced with rage a little...  that things have to be this way.  (okay, i'll add "for now" just to sprinkle a little powder sugar of hope on it all).

may i post your eulogy on my blog?  it's very private there...nobody reads the stuff...but i hope maybe someday i'll write something worth reading... (okay THERE it is, the spoonful of self pity to stir into the coffee of grieving...just for a bit of flavoring)...

i will add this---it is a GLORIOUS friday morning of my spring break and i am outside on the patio loving the relative peace and quiet...with nothing more to do today than ignore and deny the impulse to work in the yard or clean the house while i indulge in the work of the novel about my father's family.  got back last night from spending a week (well, since saturday) with the Ballard Bunch in Columbia!!!  it was fabulous.  all day with aunt dot telling stories and pouring over (is that the right "pouring"? or is there another spelling?  bly me) the rough draft...  so now i will move on into all of that and work the story...i suddenly saw the metaphor of kneading bread dough...man is it a workout!!! hopefully it will leaven properly, bake well, and feed everyone...

so is that a yes on posting your eulogy?

he responded "post away" so here is his eulogy...cut and pasted from his email...

2014 04 16 Jerry Ballard eulogy—Fred Alexander

            Last month I spoke to a college class.  In my hour and fifteen minutes, I covered only 5 of my 20 points, plus 3 things I thought of just before my talk began.  And all this got lots of laughs, a few ah-sos, 2 ovations, and a professor who said she took some helpful notes.  Good thing I gave everyone a detailed handout afterwards!

            Driving home, I realized, if I believed it possible, I had been channeling Jerry Ballard.  I was privileged to work with Jerry, frequently daily for about four years ending in 1977.   I began working for him part-time, as a grad student at Columbia Bible College.  That’s now Columbia International University.  He was quite old when I met him, maybe 37 or 38.

            When Jerry was on a creative roll—and he frequently was--he had amazing insights, great humor, a barely audible voice, illegible handwriting, and absolutely no sense of time.           

            I had never met anyone like him.  Nearly forty years later, I still haven’t met anyone else like him. 

            With my background as a young Marine officer, Jerry thought I could help him meet deadlines.  After creating a management system and working with him several months, I had to tell him our system wasn’t working very well.

            “Why not?” he asked.

            “Because you are not a Marine and do not follow your own orders or my suggestions.”

            Very quietly, he said, “I was afraid of that.”

            I heard him deliver the message at a daily CBC chapel one time.  Guess what his topic was?  Time management.  I know he struggled with it as a stewardship issue in our culture.  But I don’t think he was ever quite convinced that our North American ways were always God’s ways.  

            He was the first person I’d met in full-time Christian work who was not a pastor, musician, or missionary.  He was my model for how to be a committed Christian in a secular world.  The Jerry I knew enjoyed the world that God created, but kept his heavenly loyalties.  At work and as a family man at home, I saw him live with freedom and responsibility.

            Professionally, he was my mentor.  He would give me my own one-student seminar on how to write a letter, the graphics of communication, type selection, and communicating with senior leaders. 

            When he left CBC to found a Christian advertising agency in Atlanta, I succeed him as department head.  With the president’s permission, I hired Jerry to do the creative work we needed.  He was simply great and in his element—deciding what to do and say to reach a target audience.  He could create the concept, words, and art—and I could get it produced on time.

            Within a year, he hired me to join him in Atlanta.  In the sovereignty of God, which often leaves us a bit humanly confused, Jerry was offered . . . and accepted . . . another job between the time I gave my notice and arrived with my very pregnant wife! 

            Frankly, years later I understood that the new ad agency owner was terrific and hired him twice for projects in WNC.  But at this time, we didn’t understand each other well.  I saw that my labor needed to be in another part of the vineyard and left.  I certainly needed a job to support my wife and our one-month old son!

            It seemed likely that I’d be working for a non-Christian organization.  Now I wasn’t sure how to think about that and it made me uncomfortable.  Jerry listened carefully and observed that “God doesn’t call most Christians to work in Christian organizations.  I think He wants most of us to work where the people who need Him are--in the world.”

            With Jerry, came Winnie—for whom many of us truly did thank God!  I think Winnie consoled my new bride about living with a communicator.  Diane was wondering why I could write all this stuff to reach hundreds or thousands, but couldn’t remember to tell her basic things, like when I was coming home or going out of town.  “It’s the curse of the communicators,” I think Winnie said.  “They can reach the masses, but they have trouble with individuals.” 

            Jerry was a world Christian.  He told of sitting with a brother on the dirt floor of a hut in Africa or South America.  Though they did not share a common language, they enjoyed each other’s company.  Jerry said that was because they had the joy of having the most important thing in common, faith in Christ.

            I saw Jerry as an insightful expert on parenting—at least one day, for a few minutes.  While we talked before supper in his Atlanta den, fourteen year old Kim walked in with a request.  There was a communications gap and some mutual frustration, which was fortunately shaded by an umbrella of love. 

            In the end, Jerry admitted communications defeat.  And Kim was still a bit frustrated.  To her, and perhaps to himself, he said, “You know Kim, the problem is I just became competent in being the father of a 13 year old girl and now you’ve turned 14 and changed some more.  Now I need to start all over again!  So bear with me.” 

            Finally, my mentor and friend taught me that genius does not think in ways I’ll ever understand; it is good that God made us different; and that friendship and love can transcend decades and debilitation. 

            I think the world is a dimmer place without Jerry Ballard and look forward to seeing him again someday through the hope we have in Our Lord Jesus Christ.  

Walmart * 118 * Mama Ruth

030715

Rolled over at 3:30 this morning and decided to give it a nap...got up at 4:45...!!!  Hate that.  I like 4:00!!!  Even a little before but...I guess it’s okay...it’s Saturday...and then realized I really have this horrible list of supplies I need to get from Walmart so no time like the present...(and “no present like the time”—a great line from “The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”)  But it’s the downside of the pay weeks so I’m lowwww on cash and besides that went out with friends to dinner and a movie and I bought a cheap drink—twice that turned out to be $9 each!!!!  Some lessons are real expensive.  So I had to dip into the little collection pot for the road trip and took out two fifties.  I thought I still had about 30 dollars left in my pocket so I just added the hundred and calculated from the list that I would spend, oh, probably about $75 (now that’s very subtle foreshadowing, that is). Left out of here about 5:20.

To say it was redeeming might be a little strong but it was nice.  NO MUSIC in the store!!!  Only workers putting things on shelves—maybe two other customers.  In fact I was in the kitchen cleaner aisle looking for my beloved choreboys that nobody carries any more so was trying to make a choice from the 4000 other distant second choices when I heard a guy in the aisle one over ask about rubber gloves and the shelver said he didn’t know but he would look and so I couldn’t stand it, I said, “The rubber gloves are over here!” pause “oh!  Okay!  Thanks!” “Not to eaves drop or anything,” I added for the chuckle, and the little guy came around the corner—we had passed each other in other aisles so we were really good friends.  He said, “oh!  And you don’t even work here!” and I said, “Nope, but I happened to notice the gloves about the same time I heard you ask...” He said, “Oh here’s a box of 40 pair!”  I said, “You think that’ll do for, what, an hour’s work, maybe?”  Still reading the box, he said straight up, “Naw, I can stretch’em maybe  two days—I work slow.”  We laughed and went on our separate ways.  Matching a goofy sense of humor with a stranger is a wonderful thing.

Got my cart loaded up with all those things you can’t really buy anywhere else...toilet paper, 5 billion kitchen garbage bags, sandwich bags, freezer bags, tea (almost $2 less than what I pay elsewhere!!), shampoo/conditioner, butter (almost $2 less...) chocolate (the exact same price), kleenex, and probably other items...did I mention toilet paper? I have an irrational fear of giving out of toilet paper.

ANYWAY another thing I hate about Walmart even early early in the morning is that there is never any cashiers only the automated do it yourself thing and of the four usually at least two are broken and one has a guy at it like me who only comes once a year to stock up so checking out is a nightmare.  Well this morning the only register open was the 14 items or less (FEWER!  FEWER! I always want to scream) and the lady who should be at it was two aisles over rearranging point-of-purchase bags of chips.  So I asked her if that was indeed the only aisle open she said yes and made her way to the register...   Oh and a rake.  The main thing on the list initially.  And popcorn.  Resolve carpet cleaner!  Glad I saw that!!

So I checked out.  Loading the cart from the rounder of half filled bags and she says, “That’s a total of $118.37.”  Wow.  So I pull out the two fifties and say, “There’s the hundred.”  And thinking I had at least another twenty, I pull out the rest of the budget cash and...there’s a ten, a five and three ones!  No wait, FOUR ones!  Whew!  I laughed and said, “Oh my goodness!  It’s everything in my pocket!” I hand her the $19 and say, “So much for the drive-through for breakfast on the way home,” which I hadn’t planned to do anyway.  The floor manager a few feet away says, “You can always eat that popcorn.  It’s lookin’ pretty good right about now, I’m sayin’.”  “Yeah, and I’ve got the little cokes in there to wash it down and some butter, too, if I’m still hungry.”

As I thanked them and left, rounded the corner with the cart, out the automatic sliding doors and the world only a shade lighter than when I went in, I noticed a very dark, very worn, penny on the sidewalk, heads up!!!  Mama Ruth*!  I picked it up and plunked her in my pocket!   JUST LOVE that kind of punctuation to an episode like that.  How can you not smile and feel like the whole world is coming along nicely after all....

That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m in a hurry to go back before, like, August.



*For years now, Mama Ruth has been hanging around and making her presence known by the showing of a penny.  The first story was published some years back so anyone who knows me really well will catch this familiar, intimate, inside joke-like truth...always adding a special connection and presence for me.  Oh, and Mama Ruth is my Mama’s Mama.  Her birthday is March 24...the same day my Dad died in 2014.  She died in May something like 1996?  The year Emily was born...and Mama this morning mentioned “19 years ago”...

I miss everyone so severely...but tangible connections, the symbols that remain vibrant in my life, keep the connection strong and the hope of seeing them again pulsing with the longing beat of my heart.