A Cross and Apple Blossoms

I traveled to the bottom of the state of Illinois today to the town of Anna. I met with a group of pastors and we dialogued about evangelism. I decided to take a scenic route home. I drove on west about 5 miles and then headed north on IL Route 127. The next 25 miles is one of the most scenic in our state, especially this time of year when the apple trees are in full bloom. As my truck groaned up the hills I marveled at the freshness and newness of life.  I smiled at the potential of fruitfulness that danced upon the landscape. I glanced to the west and saw the large white cross perched atop a hill known as Bald Knob near Alto Pass, IL. I exited the highway and drove a winding road five miles through the timber and then walked to the foot of the cross. The wind was brisk so I did not stay long. But I tarried long enough to reflect upon how a cross, a cruel instrument of death, became God’s tool to bring life and salvation to the world. Since that time, while the cross may remind of us death, it has become a symbol of life and hope.

I have been weepy all day. In fact, I have been weepy for a week or so. I needed to see the apple blossoms. I needed to see the cross. I am not sure why I have been weepy as of late but I think it is because I have been feeling, or at least trying to feel, some of the pain that exist in the hearts of my brother Bryan, my sister in-law Renee, and my nephew Andrew. April 16, 2014 marks the 7^th anniversary of my niece Austin Cloyd’s death. She was killed along with 31 others at the shooting on the campus of Virginia Tech University in 2007. Though I make a feeble attempt to feel their pain I cannot imagine the depth of their hurt. But through my weepiness I found hope today. The apple blossoms prove that winter has been overtaken by spring and summers warmth will bring a harvest. Life can be good even though it has been bad. And that cross on top of Bald Knob shouts to my soul. Death may have its sting, but Christ has the victory.

November 22, 1963

I was six years old. I was in my first grade class room in the basement of the East Bernstadt School in East Bernstadt, KY. My teacher, Mrs. Wilma Griffith got our attention and told us the news. President John F. Kennedy had been shot and killed. I do not remember much about how the class responded. Nor am I able to get in touch with the thoughts I myself would have had. I just knew that a bad thing had happened. I knew that my folks had not voted for Mr. Kennedy, though I think at least my mother would have liked to. But we were Baptist and in 1960 voting for a Catholic was a gulf that many, maybe most, Baptist could not span. Knowing what I know about the electoral preference of our county the president certainly would not have won the majority among the folks I lived around. Yet even as a six year old I sensed that people liked the president. At least they were intrigued with him. There was something fascinating about a young president with a winning smile and impressive family. It was a beautiful picture. Though people did not understand his background or his faith they enjoyed the glamour that accompanied him. Now he was gone. In one day he was gone, just gone.

This was before the days of the 24 hour news cycle but it would not have mattered anyway. We did not have a television. We got our news from the radio and the telephone and who ever might drop by to talk with us. Everybody was talking about it. The news sank in.

School was dismissed the day of the president’s funeral. My mother out of her own curiosity and probably because she wanted her children to have the educational experience made arrangements for us to watch the funeral. Our pastor, Rev. E. P. Whitt had a television. Pastor Whitt and his wife Sylvia lived in a house trailer in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church. Mother piled all four of us in the car and took us to pastor Whitt’s home. There sitting on the floor in the living room of a house trailer parked in the back yard of the New Salem Baptist Church we watched the proceedings of President Kennedy’s funeral. Now isn’t that something. A group of Baptist huddled around a television on church property watching a Catholic president’s funeral. Maybe that great gulf between Baptists and Catholics could be spanned.

Experiencing a Tornado

Today I experienced a tornado. The air was warm and it grew still. I heard the warning siren. I watched the weather station reports. I tried to track the storm on my iphone. Indeed the storm was in the area. I put my shoes on and grabbed my wallet and keys. We considered going down the street to a neighbor who had a basement. But it seemed the skies were clearing around us. The dark sky had moved to the north of us. Then the wind picked up and I heard the roar. Hurriedly we got into the bathroom. The lights went out. The moment was scary but did not last long. When we emerged from our cover the skies were clear. But trees were down and the yard was filled with shingles and other debris. Neighbors soon filled the streets to inspect the damage. There were no bodily injuries to report, just frayed nerves. We all seemed to quickly realize that we had dodged the bullet, or rather that the bullet had dodged us. As best I can tell the tornado cut a path that followed the street in front of my house. It did not touch the earth but snapped the trees off about 12 to 15 foot above the ground. Everything that could be loosened was scattered by its breath. Every tree in the church yard and my yard was damaged and will need to be taken down. The fence around my yard is partially destroyed. The windshield on my truck is cracked and there is dent on the front fender. We had a moment of fear. We have been inconvenienced. But we are alive and we are well. The same cannot be said for other communities scattered across Illinois. Six people lost their lives due to tornados in Illinois today. Hundreds have suffered injuries, some have been seriously hurt. Whole neighborhoods have been wiped out. Many people had a house they called home this morning. This afternoon all they had was a pile of bricks. Their belongings and memorabilia are blown away or ruined beneath the heap. So tonight as a lay my head down to sleep I will say a prayer for my fellowmen who have been stricken by great loss this day. I will ask God to comfort and walk with them as they grieve and as they recover. And I will be quick to say a prayer of thanks that the folks in my house are safe and sound.

A Tribute to Donald Ray Bledsoe

There is a small cemetery located in the church yard of the New Salem Baptist Church on the east side of U.S. Highway 25 near London, KY. With a quick search you will find the tombstone for Donald Ray Bledsoe. The first date on the stone is June 29, 1947. On that day he was born into a family of common, ordinary, working class folk.  His father was a big hulk of a man who made his living as a construction worker. His mother stayed home and tended to their large and growing family. They were faithful in the New Salem Baptist Church, the same congregation my family was a part of. Donald Ray Bledsoe was 10 years older than me so I am remembering him as one of the “big boys” at church. I was just a child. But I remember the day he was baptized. The church did not have an indoor baptismal pool. So often we would baptize outdoors in a little pond that was located across U.S. Highway 25 and probably about the distance of two city blocks beyond. After church was over one Sunday morning we all made the trek across the highway and down to the pond and Donald Ray Bledsoe and some others were baptized. The folks who were baptized had to walk barefoot and wet back to the church where I suppose they changed clothes in the basement. It is funny the images that linger in our mind. For me the sight of him walking barefoot and wet back to the church is the lingering image I have of him

It was not to long after that baptism that his number came up. He was drafted into the United States Army. Upon completion of his training he was assigned to C CO, 1^st BN, 8^th CAV RGT, 1 CAV DIV. He was given ID No 51949865 and sent to Vietnam. His tour began Wednesday, Feb. 5, 1969. It ended 38 days later on Saturday, March 15, 1969. That is the second date on the tombstone. Somewhere near Hua Nghia, South Vietnam Private First Class Donald Ray Bledsoe suffered multiple fragmentation wounds and died. He was 21 years of age. Three or four weeks later his body was returned and he was buried in the church yard.

At the time of his death my family had moved to a different city. I am sure my parents let their condolences be known but other than that we would have had little contact with the family. He was however a topic of conversation. I was 12 years old at the time. I knew a war was going on but did not know much about it and frankly did not worry much about it. But I now knew someone who had died in Vietnam. The Vietnam War had become real. It was sad. To this day Donald Ray Bledsoe is the only person I personally knew who died in Vietnam. I have often wondered how his family got along afterwards.

I believe the year was 1996. My family and I were on vacation in Washington D. C. We visited the Vietnam War Memorial. I told my wife and children that I personally knew one person who had died in Vietnam and that I wanted to find his name on the memorial. I found it on Panel 29W Line 043. I ran my finger across his name. I read his name out loud – Donald Ray Bledsoe. Then something happened that I had not expected and that I was not prepared for and that I could not prevent. I began to cry. My voice broke. I shed tears. My children looked at me anxiously. I did not cry long but I cried until I was ready to stop.

It has been nearly 44 years since Donald Ray Bledsoe became a casualty of hostile forces in a distant land. He was serving dutifully at the summons of his government. He yielded to the situation of his times for a cause he could scarcely understand.  His personal dreams and ambitions became secondary and were never given the chance to come to fruition.  But let us not forget that for his country and for the family and friends who loved him his life mattered.  As for me, I am grateful that in some small way he helped to shape my life.