Looking back 30 years ago

Today a lengthy post, below is an article I've written of an event which powerfully shaped me to be who I am today. May God cause it be a blessing to you in some way.

Discovering Comfort!
by Henry Beun
May 25, 2008

The year was 1978; the day: Thursday, May 25. The phone call at about 3:30 that afternoon jarred me awake from a nap; I cocked my ear to listen, curious as to who was calling and why, but hoping it wasn't for me. The soft voice of my wife Julie said, "Hello" and acknowledged the voice of her mother; we were 500 miles from home working as "community workers" in Freeport, Illinois, for the Mennonite church there. The intensity of the next words is still imprinted on my mind: "No, No, it can't be!" She screamed for me to come to the phone. The "news" I received from my mother-in-law was gently stated, yet in a forced tone, the words sounded harsh and cruel: "Your brother Ben was killed in a car accident after school."

Stunned, I mumbled a few words and hung up. My next call was to my parents. My father answered the phone quietly, not with his usual enthusiastic, "Hello!" Words were few. I told him we would make arrangements to come home as soon as possible.

We made a few calls. The phrase was so final, the words, “My brother Ben was killed!” were so hard to utter, bringing tears to the eyes and stammering speech to the lips. Church people quickly offered to take care of our responsibilities. Our neighbor, elderly Mrs. Williams, brought the first sympathy card - her aged faced reflected knowing the pain, the harshness of death.

The 10-hour trip home was a blur. We got supper at a Burger King drive-thru window; they forgot our fries - it didn't seem to matter. Curling up on the seat behind Julie as she drove the van for awhile, I sobbed quietly. She reached back, her comforting touch brings more tears; she asked, “Are you OK?” No response was needed. We stopped at a truck stop in western Ohio about 3:00 in the morning for some coffee; the song on the juke box: "Take This Job and Shove It." How dare the waitress be so cheerful as she sang along?

It was about 6:00 a.m. and the sun was just coming up when we arrived “home” at the family farm. Stopping on the gravel road where the farm property began, I noticed newly planted corn was barely through the ground. We prayed.

We drove down the gravel lane, parked the van and I slowly walked toward the house. My father and mother came out on the porch, as if they had been waiting for us. My father came down the steps; we walked into each other's arms - no words were spoken - tears flowed freely. In the embrace we shared our pain, confusion, shock - there was comfort in those strong but tired arms, those tears, and that embrace.

Finally we were given some details of the accident. Ben had just finished his second-to-last day of school and offered to take a friend, Millard, home. At about 3:15, filled excitement and adrenalin - the school year was nearly over - he got behind the wheel of a sporty-looking, green Pontiac. Ben headed north; in less than a minute his earthly life would come to a sudden and violent end. Flooring his vehicle, he surely felt the rush and force of the power under the hood as he passed another vehicle, disregarding the double yellow line.

Suddenly, as he crested a little knoll just a half mile north of the school, he lost control, his vehicle sliding sideways on the road. Ben was broadsided on the driver's side by an oncoming car. On impact, Ben was killed; his friend Millard survived. A divot in the asphalt remained and became a reminder to me for years to come of the accident, of a moment when metal, which seemed so secure, turned into ugly wreckage. The car was ripped apart just in front of the dashboard. The driver's seat was a twisted mess; pushed into the passenger's side by the driver's side door which was crumpled into the seat – Ben never had a chance! The "security" of a car now stood vulnerably before us, stating the real truth about the laws of physics and the properties of metal.

Time raced the next several few days, unkind to our need to be able to remember. Calling hours were Friday evening; little more than 24 hours before, Ben was alive, laughing. So many people came by, many I didn't know, but they spoke kind words. Standing in line at the funeral, I could see the pain of his friends. Yet there was comfort in the presence of family and friends.

Frau Hooley, German teacher, recalled how Ben had only recited part of Psalm 23 that Thursday in class. He got as far as verse four, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” I’ve always wondered; did he know what was going to happen? Answering this question with a “yes” was comforting.

After calling hours I stood longing to tell my father something I had never told him and now realized there was no guarantee I could tell him later, so I walked over to him, hugged him and in a quiet, broken and tired voice whispered, "I love you." There was no response from him, his youngest of five sons, with whom he had big dreams, had just been ripped away.

Saturday afternoon, I watched from the back of the church; stunning silence was droned out by organ music. I sensed the finality as the lid came down on the coffin, forever "hiding" my brother from the world, and Mr. Gresser secured the lid in place before rolling it to the front of Oak Grove Mennonite Church. The highlight of the funeral service was a tribute read by a classmate of Ben's. It was powerful, honest and painful. She read bravely amidst crying, sniffling and sobbing.

At the grave site I stood with my father and several others in the family until most everyone else had crossed the road, walking away. My father's final act was a greeting he had often used with this, his fifth son, around the farm. He stood erect, gave a military salute and firmly called out "Sergeant" as he snapped the salute. That act sent a piercing, gut-wrenching stab of pain convulsing through my body.

During the family meal after the funeral, I was stunned when I laughed with my three other brothers. How odd to laugh, at first restrained, now it felt good - how ironic – that act of laughing as we recalled memories was most helpful in starting the life-long reality of grief.

Thirty years later, why does one share a few memories? It is a tremendous "help" to be able to admit the pain that now is a part of who I am. This event, this moment, became a threshold to who I am and what I do. Telling the story is a comfort; I feel purged, cleansed when I tell it. I can go on living; I know pain and disappointment are part of life. This moment reminds me that there is light at the end of the dark tunnels of the pains, the difficulties, which we so often try to avoid.

All of us have stories to tell; all of us have moments in time, unexpected detours, which have a significant influence on who we become. When we don’t understand a person’s actions, there may be things we don’t know. We may never know the unknown about others, but recognizing there are unknowns invites sensitivity and a willingness to accept.

It also becomes important to acknowledge many of the experiences of life over which one has no control. Often these have an incredible potential to alter, sometimes radically, the "goals" of life. The best laid plans are, at times changed; the key to life may be in how we respond to the events over which we have no control.

Finally, there is life beyond the grave for the dead and also for those who remain. Yes, our willingness to accept Jesus’ death and resurrection as the way to eternal life and respond with a desire and life of righteousness are important. Heaven certainly is closer to earth because I have family and friends there. But, I also know that when the difficulties that are part of life come, an attitude of “this too will pass” can be a patient, persevering, way of hope and growth. I have known, like so many others, what it means to be carried on “eagle’s wings.” God desires not only for us to walk with Him, but to carry us when we realize our weaknesses. That’s real life. That’s really living!