Margaret Ann Ball

This past week of mourning the passing of "Miss Margaret" to so many has been at once a time of great sadness and great joy. As her son, I grieve the loss of my sweet mother. I loved to make her laugh and enjoyed our long phone conversations. The sadness is deep. Even as I grieve, though, I am touched to know that she touched many lives beyond our family.

I have heard from her friends and coworkers of the love and generosity she shared with everyone she met. From co-workers at the Hockley County CPS, employees of the Interim Healthcare Hospice where she volunteered and friends from the Levelland Senior Citizens Center, I heard many wonderful stories about my mother. She offered encouragement to others and never failed to lift up those in her company. She will be missed by so many . Her absence leaves a space in our lives that will be difficult to fill.

Her story in Levelland began following the passing of Don Ball, known to us as Buck. Margaret provided a wonderful counterpoint in her marriage to the larger than life personality that was Buck. No matter how outrageous his opinions or ideas seemed, she would turn, smile and say, "Well, that's Don." Then she'd smile and laugh in her own disarming way..

Family brought her to West Texas as her son, Joe Carr, a professor of bluegrass music at South Plains College, was also battling MS and she wanted to be available to help. Of course, Joe inherited a sense of stubborn independence from his mother. He possessed the same overcoming attitude that Margaret had in later years as she dealt with progressive blindness. I saw both them meet declining physical abilities and work around them as if to say, "Huh? Well, I guess I'm going to have to this a different way...." She was not one to linger in feeling sorry for oneself but rather looked for the next best way to keep moving forward.

I would hear stories about her answering phones and making calls, volunteering and generally setting out to make the world a better place for everyone she chanced to meet. Margaret was a good friend to some, a mother and grandmother to others, a fellow believer in Christ to her church family. We all loved her dearly.

As I have struggled with this loss over the last week, a memory keeps coming to mind and I think I would like to share it with you. I think this clearly illustrated how I think about my mother.

It's around 1967, and. I was probably 7 or 8 years old. The unusual thing about that day was that Mom was out of the house, and my Dad (Tommy Carr) was looking after me. As is often the case for babysitting fathers, my dad was napping in the next room and I was left to my own devices. I was drawn to a fascinating cigarette lighter. It had a cloth wick and had a tiny flap that would drop down and snuff out the flame. What a marvelous thing to a little boy!

What I didn't know was that after I had flicked the lighter several times, the cloth wick would become frayed. The loose threads prevented the cup would not cover the flame completely and would continue to burn. Of course when I realized saw the flame hadn't gone out, I panicked and dropped the still burning lighter onto mother's needlepoint pile.

I froze, horrified as the flames set ablaze all kinds of fabric. The flames even reached the ceiling. Now, at that moment, I knew one of two things for certain: either I was going to be killed by the flames or by my father if I woke him up. Still, I somehow knew my father was the better of the two choices. I hurried into his room and woke him by saying, "Dad?" "Huh," he said sleepily. "There's a fire." "What? WHAT!!!??!?"

Dad of course saved the day, but not before banishing the pyro-curious child from the house. I know now that he was scared and frightened and lashed out in a tone I never heard him use again. But I knew at that moment, I was certain, that my time in the home of my childhood was over.

I dragged a lawn chair to the end of our backyard side-walk and sat staring at the back fence gate. I cried for what seemed like hours. After the tears, I wondered, if I walked out of the back yard, which way would I go ? How would I fend for myself. (Yes, we 7 year olds can be dramatic.)

I heard my Mom arrive home and go into the house and for a long time, I heard nothing. My eyes never left the vision of the gate. I knew my father was telling her in graphic detail the horrors I had committed and that she too would be out to drop the final hammer and formal banishment would begin.

The back door opened and I heard her heels on the sidewalk walking slowly and steadily down the path. It was as though she wasn't sure where I was - her steps were slow and searching. Then a pause and I felt -rather than saw- her kneel down beside the chair.

I expected yelling, stern lectures, the judge's final verdict. What I didn't expect was what I heard in her voice, overwhelming love and compassion. What sight it must have been to see her little boy sitting alone in the back yard with his tear-stained face looking straight ahead at the gate, afraid of even breathing or looking around.

I don't remember the exact words. I talked about Dad banishing me from the house, my fault with the fire and perhaps my future life on the road as a 7 year old. But what I remember most was her tone was gentle, loving and forgiving and that while she stressed I should learn my lesson there was such warmth and acceptance that I knew she had forgiven me completely. And she smiled. She smiled that smile that made all the problems that seemed so enormous suddenly lose their power and strength. It would be okay. She always seemed to recognize that the punishment we deal out on ourselves is worse than any punishment she could inflict.

We turned and started toward the house and I stopped. "What about Dad?" I asked. "Dad's forgiven you too, you just might want to give him a little space, for now." He had of course, forgiven me, but I took Mom's advice none the less.

It is, of course, a child's memory, but I think she carried that heart of love and acceptance with her into every relationship. She may not always agree with you and would tell you if she had the mind to, but different opinions would never stop her loving acceptance of who each person was.

I will miss her smile. I will miss her laugh and her opinions. But I hope to carry on the family legacy of learning to laugh in the face of challenges, to find ways over obstacles, value every friendship and bring light and love into all my relationships.

Wow, that's a legacy worth striving for.

Thanks Mom,

Godspeed.

Mark