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About bentonquesthouse

Husband, father, grandfather, singer, songwriter, seminar leader, pastor. A provoker. A reader and writer of books. http://.www.bentonministries.com

Speaking of Men

THE VALUE OF UNCLES

 

One tribe of Native Americans says than an uncle is an un-renewable natural resource.”

My Uncle Francis died at age 95. He was from the Great Generation. He did not finish high school, but graduated from college while in the military. He became a pilot of B-24s. The book Band of Brothers written roughly about George McGovern was Uncle’s story.
Francis was the youngest of five siblings. My mother was third in that line. They all learned a stern work ethic from their father. They learned family and love from their mother. Because of the age disparity, Francis learned to cook, clean, and all that my generation calls “his feminine side” during the time spent in the house with his mother. He was, in spite of that, a man among men. Recalling him, I first thought of his hands.
He was a Christian—serious follower of Jesus—a father, husband, gardener, entrepreneur, pilot, military man, patriot, role model, grandfather, golfer, friend. He was also a mentor using his military connections to empower at least one young man who worked for him to go the Air Force Academy.
He stayed in the military as a reservist-trainer while operating a gas station, rental properties and then as the “king of renters.” He rented U-Haul trucks and trailers, everything for weddings, digging holes and throwing an up-scale, china goblet kind of gathering. My cousin said he once borrowed a stereo from her room to rent.
His hands had grease in all the creases. Lava soap was in the station’s bathroom, but Lava didn’t cut the stain. His fingers became gnarled from the mechanical work.
Francis was affectionately called “Smitty” by many. He was called “Papa” by his biological grandchildren and those who came with his cherished second wife. My sister and I called him “Uncle Francis.” Mom thought we should speak the honorable title. To his death, I expressed my affection with the word “Uncle.” He showed what a good uncle is. I am self-condemned by the fact that I am not a good uncle.
Several of his nephews worked with him. He “adopted” several non-biological boys and men whom he taught. I worked for him off and on depending on school, and other factors. I was not his best employee. I learned several important things from Francis about life and business.

SERVICE

At his life-celebration, all the pictures featured his military uniforms from his induction into the air corps to his retirement as a Lt. Colonel. There are other pictures of another uniform. He is wearing his Cities Service cap, suit and leather bow tie.
He took serious the name Cities Service. It defined his approach to business. He bought the station at age nineteen at a high visibility corner overlooking the Des Moines airport. It was the hottest spot in the summer, the coldest place in the winter and because it was in the primary flight pattern, it was the noisiest. All who worked there learned a voice pattern interrupted by jets on their way up or down. He sold the station when he went to war and bought it back when he came home.
Francis had instinct I tried to define and adapt. When I asked him about it, he looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. I was not yet a teenager when we were with his family on a major holiday. It was unseasonably, extremely warm that day. After dinner, he and I got bored. He asked me, “You want to go pump some gas?” He explained that the warm weather would push people into their cars to ride around. Everyone else would be closed.
He was pleased that we set a record at his Cities Service station for selling more gas that afternoon than any comparable afternoon. At that early age, I knew he possessed innate knowledge I would benefit by learning.

FULL SERVICE

Between Francis and my mother, I learned what full service meant. As convenience stores began to appear, he frequently reminded me what “full service” meant and how we demonstrated that on the driveway with checking oil and cleaning windshields, asking to check tire air pressure. In the car wash bay, it meant cleaning the inside of the windows and wiping down the door frames.
Something you offer. One of the rigid rules was that a waiter or service man never said, “Will that be all?” We always asked, “What else may I get for you?” or “What else may I do for you?” In later days, it would be called “value added,” but at our businesses it was how we did full service.
Something you give. It was not just about business, it was a character trait. Francis would instinctively know what to buy, when to sell. He was an early investor in companies we now consider natural landscape companies. He planned to retire at age 55. He retired at age 57 freeing him to do other work and to travel worldwide.
One summer, he plowed up his backyard to plant cucumbers. He got a contract with a pickle company to provide quality cucumbers which Heinz would make into pickles. They provided free specialized seeds. Then he hired me to pick cucumbers. I’m a city boy. I knew nothing about harvesting cucumbers and his training didn’t help. At the end of the first day, he fired me. I was missing too many cucumbers. I was costing him too much money. In addition to his AAA contract to haul broken cars, his U-Haul business, a full service mechanical garage and a fast-paced gas station, he became a cucumber picker. He hired me back after some extensive training about looking for the hidden cucumbers.
It was an important lesson. I’m still talking about it 60 years later. I learned you give full service to your employer. Uncle was a workaholic. His businesses were his mistress and second wife. He and each of his siblings measured their personal value by how hard they worked and they all did work hard and not without personal cost.
Each of his siblings were serious, independent, fundamental, missionary Baptists. Francis and his family were Methodists. We wondered about their theology and salvation. It was a quandary to me. Francis seemed to express the most joy. When he retired, he came into a different dimension of faith in Jesus Christ. He became fascinated by faith visionaries. I think he regretted not investing in television stations. I know he invested in television ministries just as his mother had invested in early radio preachers and singers.
Francis ministered in his church and in prison ministries.

Before Moses died, he blessed each of the tribes of Israel. He spoke of their characteristics and their special places in God’s plans. Five years ago, friends, family and my cousins gathered in Overland Park to celebrate Uncle’s 90th birthday. He blessed me during that weekend. I cherish his words and desire to grow into them.

We celebrated his life yesterday. He was an unrepeatable natural resource.

©2012 D. Dean Benton

 

The Inner Voice

I’m finishing writing a novel: When Whales Sing. In the section I’m working on, the inner circle of the Southwood Tribe meets to determine curriculum and essentials for healing, restoration, release and self-management. In other words, how to walk in the Spirit with both feet on the ground on which we are living.

Of the hundred plus books I’ve read in the past months, especially non-fiction, the central message has been to recognize the inner voice, monitor it and determine the source of the words. Yesterday’s blog from Lance Walnau talked about 2 Corinthians 10:5 and Ephesians 6:12. The topic is: guard against new negative strongholds that become restrictive and controlling.

“Remember: the battle zone is in your thought life.”

“Paul says one of our primary weapons is the power to inspect and take thoughts captive as they enter our mind.” Walnau goes on to call this an “interrogation process in which we take a thought captive ‘at the point of a sword.’”

That is a working weapon for an adult or person old enough to process thoughts. What if the stronghold(s) was built prior to speech? Or cognitive skills? Like 2nd grade? Like in an atmosphere of abuse or…. The most fortunate kid is the one whose parents read to him/her. That one factor gives that kid a huge life-long head start. Restoration is wonderful as we search for the on-ramp to the super highway God intended for us.

I took a break from writing and went to the waterfront to read. My mind was spinning with the power of negative inner voices, strongholds and monitoring self-talk. I’ve been reading Pat Conroy’s memoir My Losing Season. He traces the reason for the losing season to a jealous coach who was described thirty years later by Conroy’s teammates as “a black hole” who crushed men’s spirits with his brutality, jealousy and negativity.

In a Citadel game against Old Dominion, Conroy heard a voice within that told him never to allow the coach to speak to his core being. The decision to heed the voice changed the basketball-writer’s life. But then the coach beat on his spirit and Conroy caved.

The hour at the riverfront was terrible. I can’t imagine the motivation of a leader treating those he is responsible for as that coach did.

The voice returns. Being sensitive to the source of any inner voice(s) and questioning whether the Holy Spirit or a dark spirit or just a mind on an afternoon jog, I determined that Conroy was hearing a real voice—I have no solid answer, but I wonder if it was the Holy Spirit.

“Hey, pal…let’s go over it again. (Coach) is bad for you. He gets under your skin. He lowers your morale. Got it? Do I make myself clear? One more time. Tune (coach) out. Play the game because you love it. You’re thinking too much. Don’t think. Play. Get into the rhythm of the game and let it flow though you. Be natural. Be loose. Get yourself back. You’ve lost yourself.”

Conroy writes, “It was a voice that would come and go for years until I realized what it was, the truest part of me, the most valiant flowering of my character, a source of pure light and water streaming out of unexplored caverns within me. Unlike me, this voice knew nothing of shyness or reserve or shame or despair.

“Because I was taking a course in abnormal psychology and because my family produced psychotics the way some families pass down freckles, I wondered if that unbidden voice was a sign of paranoid schizophrenia. But the voice offered advice too good to have any connection with mental illness. The voice knew what was good for me.”

My Losing Season, Pat Conroy, Doubleday, 2002. Page 217

The staff at Southwood is counseling, pouring into, walking alongside several broken people—children and adults. Whatever else is in the discipling curriculum and training, they will train how to hear the Voice of the Holy Spirit and discern dark voices injected into mind and soul by events, words, experiences and wrong interpretations—taking every thought captive at the point of a sword. I can think of nothing—NOTHING—more important.

©2016 D. Dean Benton—Benton Books & Blogs—Bentonministries.com

Furnishing the Inner Room

Describing his time sitting on the bench as a second team basketball player, Pat Conroy “explained” why Colossians 3:16 has been important to me lately.  I now have blueprints for “be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2).

“I cheered as I retreated to the country place I keep behind my eyes, the place I return to in times of danger and despair, the hermitage and refuge I kept secret to all but myself. I employed it as summer house, lecture hall, resort and private lair. In the madness of my terrible boyhood, it was the den I fell back on when my father beat me with his fists, when the plebe system tore me apart in the soft places, when the screaming of the coaches grew too loud our hit too close to home. I was the only one with the key to this inn of interior peace that I had built on the other side of the retinas and corneas and the soft tissues of my face. It is a manse of solitude and shade and refuge. It is the place I go to every day to write the books which explain who I am to myself.”

My Losing Season, Pat Conroy,  (Doubleday, 2002) page 163.

A long-term White House employee says that Lady Bird Johnson had a place in her head where she went when President Johnson became loud and obnoxious. There she found privacy and peace.

Dr. Al Andrews asked Jon Acuff, “What do your voices tell you?”

Since most of us have such a room where voices taunt, abuse, encourage or teach us, does it not make sense to decide what the voices should be saying? Since that room occupies space rent free, should we not call the staging person who will decorate the room to benefit us?

“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom…” (Colossians 3:16a).

Where will that “word” dwell? An inner room where you and the Holy Spirit determine content and what tone the voices take when they speak to you.

Furnishing the inner room.

©2016 D. Dean Benton     Benton Books & Blogs     Bentonministries.com

Words at Lunch

Working on my manuscript When Whales Sing which had a different working title for 10-12 years. I couldn’t go back to sleep at 3:45 when I awoke with the thought: I’m going to have to dump most of the writing of the past months. The book is about marriage, recovery from ugly experiences, hearing God’s voice and being problem solvers.

The writing of Pat Conroy has become my best resource. It was not intended to be on the research list. Let me share what I read this morning: Conroy was entering his senior year at The Citadel. At a lunch with his mentor, academic advisor and teacher. The conversation:

“This is your last season as a basketball player, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I stink at that, too.”

“You say that about yourself as a writer. You say that about yourself as a basketball player. May I give you some advice? You are far too young to know this, but your life is precious and your time is short. For reasons I don’t understand, you are deeply unhappy, and it pains me. Know this. I think you could be special if you only thought there was anything special about yourself. Someone has taught you to hate yourself. Mr. Conroy. I value our friendship very much.”

(My Losing Season, Pat Conroy, Doubleday, 2002, Page 144)

Conroy says his father’s fists and his mother’s voice were the bookends of his youth. In between, thankfully, were a few such people and conversations over lunch.

As I have read the research that plays out in When Whales Sing, those who carry bruises and wounds, bad habits and self-depreciation are rescued from the sharks when someone cares enough to speak words such as, “…but your life is precious.” Some of us have friends who are brave and loving with a penchant to encourage. Many of us are limited to the words of Jesus and the people he speaks through in the Bible. They are singing whales.

Blessed to hear. Anointed to speak.

©D. Dean Benton         Benton Books & Blogs       bentonministries.com

I Didn’t Know

 

Pat Conroy writes phrases that capture feelings. Regardless of the book’s subject, the introduction is rich with prose. In his “My Losing Season,” he writes about the last year he played point guard for the Citadel. He claims he was born to be a point guard, but not a very good one. The team was not great and the season was not memorable—no trophies were placed in the school glass case.

“As a basketball player, I always felt like a fraud and that same feeling has followed me into the writing life.” My Losing Season, Pat Conroy, Doubleday, 2002.

While on a book tour—signing his book “Beach Music” in a Dayton, Ohio bookstore, one of his team members stepped to the table. He hadn’t seen the man in thirty years, but that meeting was “…one of those life-changing encounters…that rise up periodically….”

“John DeBrosse…had always looked upon my love of reading as a form of mental illness.”

“I had the capacity to hero-worship all the boys who could play basketball better than I could, and my house of worship was large indeed. John DeBrosse was a player who started every game on every team he had ever played on, and could shoot a basketball as well as the good ones. He was as serious as calculus and played basketball with the same devotion that monks often display at lauds or matins.”

DeBrosse invited Conroy to his home to prove to his family that he really knew the writer and to talk about basketball days.

“Listening to him talk made it clear to me that his true love was coaching because his voice changed timbre when he told me about teams he had coached to championship seasons.” As they drove, they talked of DeBrosse’s career.

“Then he looked at me and said, ‘I was a lot better than you, Conroy.’” It was a statement of fact in the world of athletics, not braggadocio. ‘You couldn’t shoot.’

“The truth of his remark stung me, hurtful as a handful of wasps. ‘Other people noted that. I made very few All-American teams those years.’”

“But you got after it,” John said. “You went all out.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ve always told my players and coaches that something used to happen between us every practice, Conroy. Do you remember?”

“Something stirred, then struck a huge chord of memory, and I got that slight shiver that happens when I catch a glimpse of a part of my past that has slipped out of sight.”

“I brought out the best in you. You brought out the best in me. Man, it was something.”

“You beat me lot more than I beat you,” I said, “if memory serves me correctly.”

“Damn right I did,” he said. …”But you gave it all you had, fought all the way. I think about that team we played on. That shitty season. If we’d just had one more hard-nosed S.O.B. on the team and we needed about three or four more really tough guys.”

“Who was the hard-nosed guy?” I asked.

John DeBrosse looked at me strangely, then said, ‘It was you, Conroy. Who the hell else could it have been?”

“I spent several pleasurable moments, basking in the sunshine of those sweet words and sitting in silence, the first minute in my life I was aware that John DeBrosse thought I was tough-nosed. He couldn’t have made me happier…

“Thanks, Johnny. I didn’t know I was hard-nosed.”

I have hung around those paragraphs and thought about the smell of gyms, locker rooms and the feel of basketballs and the sound of a hard ball slamming into the pocket of a Wilson glove. It always stuns me when a mega-star in any field expresses appreciation for something that once was said that influenced them. “I didn’t know I was hard-nosed.”

On this Memorial Day weekend, what would brighten someone’s self-perception if you were to tell them? Make a memory, shift a memory, correct a memory.

I celebrate Memorial Day with its traditional symbols. I also will remember—memorialize—the words and gestures that make me feel better about myself. I shall repent and be remorseful for the gestures and words that I spoke that diminished someone.

©2016 D. Dean Benton—Writer & Wonderer—Benton Books & Blogs

A Squirrel Tail

 

Maybe you can tell me. What kind of jail time will I get for killing a squirrel? If I kill three squirrels, will the sentences run concurrently?

In studies of the supernatural, squirrels are symbolic of demons. I believe that! Whoever the researcher was, he/she was speaking from experience.

My wife can push me toward the edge by reminding me that the bird feeders are empty. Kill the squirrels! We like birds, but we want to think that after years of maturing us, God will someday trust us with pretty ones. If you visit us, Carole will tell you a sad story that all she really wants in life is a pair of yellow finches. My expectations are a little larger. I would enjoy an oriole, a blue bird and a stray mockingbird. No! We’ve got half of the world’s sparrows, some grackles, a homeless, pregnant robin and squirrels. I’m surprised we don’t have marauding sea gulls—and you know how messy they are. We also have stray cats who come in from the next block to use our lawn as their kitty litter pan. A mangy yellow cat crept across our lawn and I got excited—the cat is going to snatch a squirrel. This has become a blood lust sport! Didn’t happen. The cat nodded good morning to the squirrel and snarled at a beautiful Cardinal.

It is not enough that the lead squirrel empties the bird feeder. Yesterday he ate the top off the bird feeder. This is not plastic like milk comes in. The bird feeder is quarter inch, heavy gauge plastic. Your pit bull would have to go to the vet from eating it, but the squirrel didn’t even burp.

My wife armed herself to scare the squirrel away from our bird feeder. She put pennies in a Dr. Pepper can and shakes it at the rodent and yells at it. Wish she’d stop that! Scares me and the squirrel looks at her and says, “Whatever!”

Early in the spring, I was sitting on our lawn park bench reading and enjoying the sun. I’m aware that I have company. A squirrel is calmly walking toward me and is ready to jump up on the bench and join me. It was not threatening or at all threatened by me. After considering that it may have rabies, I look for but see no frothing. It really acts like he wants to be my friend—just hang together on the bench. I started to talk to it—I don’t know its gender—and the creature just sits there and listens. Doesn’t act like he is plotting an attack or is scared by my questions. But neither does the vermin have any answers.

I don’t know if God likes squirrels or not. Jesus says He has a thing for sparrows. It doesn’t look like He is going to go halves on sparrow food. Maybe God is protecting those yellow finches and sends them to the three-story houses on 5th St. If you have insight on this squirrel—yellow finch thing, please communicate with my wife. She’s the pretty lady waving the Dr. Pepper can. I think she’s starting a new religion.

©2016 D. Dean Benton

Finishing two new novels: Porches and Pillars and When Whales Sing. Visit our ebook site: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DDeanBenton

 

A Rising Tide

 

For several weeks, I have been reading novels and non-fiction about some of my favorite places. They are fantasy places where I go in my imagination and places we visited when on tour. I have never lived in any of those places. I’ve never had to deal with limitations or issues that local folks do. I like the idea of those places where I can erase any historical ugliness or injustice.

Over the same time frame, my wife has been fascinated with the extreme opposite corner of the continent: Alaska. Have you watched “The Bush People?” It is a survival show. The current episode features the family building a raft to transport a truck across a body of water. The show is filled with commercials and “cliff hangers.” Getting their huge raft onto the water is solved by moving it closer to the water’s edge and then waiting for the tide to come in and launch the homemade barge.

I found the commonality: the tides. Just off the coast of South Carolina—where I visited yesterday in my reading—a boat is caught in the fog and is inadvertently driven onto a sandbar. The only solution is to wait for the tide to come in and lift the skiff off the bar.

John Kennedy was referring to economics when he said, “A rising tide raises all boats.” One of Carole’s cousins is in town to talk to a nationally-based group about illiteracy. Learning how to read is one of the rising tides that lifts people off the sandbar.

What is going to happen to and through you this week that will have the effect of a rising tide? A rising tide to lift your soul off the muddy reef and cleanse the beach?

A couple of phrases from Beach Music by Pat Conroy make me aware of how many of us are hung up on the sandbars:

“She had so mastered the strategies of camouflage that her own history had seemed a series of well-placed mirrors that kept her hidden from herself.”

      “I found myself fully in love with my own story all over again.”

(Beach Music, Pat Conroy,1995, 2009 Deal Press.)

Carole and I were talking about an acquaintance who is hung up on a sandbar that may as well be a prison. Life has had some terrible episodes and I don’t want to minimize how difficult. How does that person love “my own story all over again?”

The protagonist of Conroy’s story is describing his relationship to a former girlfriend:

      “Her mother didn’t like you at all,” Leah said.

       “She thought Ledare could do a lot better,” I said. “She had a way of looking at me     when I picked up Ledare (for a date) as though I were a urine sample.”

My acquaintance has enough convincing evidence to believe even God pictures them that way. How is that fixed? Redemption. I don’t mean that person needs to get saved. They are saved—but it doesn’t seem to be enough. Read the New Testament with no filters and it proclaims that Jesus can reach into our guts, memories and bent structure and heal us—redeem what He first had in mind before we ran aground.

Rip off the camouflage and replace it with an accurate holy, Kingdom view of self. My acquaintance cannot easily fall in love with his past, but having been healed that child of God can fall in love with the person God is calling into being.

Is there a lifting tide that powerful?

©D. Dean Benton

The Georgia Coast

 

Stuck. I have been writing about a woman for a while and decided to make her a major character in a book and I don’t know what she looks like. For the reader to decide to like or dislike her, the reader must have an image of her. I have written around her description for several days and I am stuck. I went downtown to see if anyone on the street or at the post office looked like her. Bruce at the post office doesn’t even come close. So I’ve given up for a little while.

While at the post office, I picked up a book about a teacher who was turned down by the Peace Corp and therefore applied for a job teaching at an Island named Yamacraw. Yamacraw is a fictionalized name for a real island between Savannah and Hilton Head. Jimmy Buffet sang a song about the history of the island.

The word is familiar to me because Yamacraw is in the poem “Go Down Death” by James Weldon Johnson. The pigment of the poem colors the word.

The story is not fiction and that disturbed me. The year is 1972. The teacher attempts to connect with and to teach eighteen 11-13 year-old children who are direct descendants to slaves. There is no bridge to the Island and the students have had no real contact with the world beyond their island. The students do not know what country they live in, They do not know what ocean laps on the shores of their home island. When pushed, they believe that John Kennedy was our first president and they had never heard of George Washington. They do know that the Civil War was fought between the Germans and the Japanese.

My stomach is churning because now I can’t picture a woman who I should be able to tell you the color of her eyes. But the heavy sadness is about people who have been neglected—for whatever reason—and may as well be living on another planet. Or may be as far as they know.

I can’t tell you the fictional lady’s eye color, but I do know they are wide open with anticipation and aggressively observant.

I’m feeling great gratitude that I can read and ask questions. Anticipation and alert observation are great qualities and privileges to nurture.

Stephen Mansfield Tweeted a picture of himself walking the beach of Tybee Island and his podcast today was recorded on Tybee Island, Georgia which is just down the coast from Yamacraw. We sang in a church on Tybee Island. It is a galaxy away from Yamacraw.

The other evening, something came on the news that stopped our world. It froze us. Silenced us. Carole said, “We are fortunate to have been born where we were. Nothing of our own doing.”

I am thankful to have been born where I have options.

On this Mother’s Day weekend, I am reminded that I would have been born in Georgia or someplace in the Southeast except I wanted to be close to my mother at the time.

©2016 D. Dean Benton

Writer &Wonderer

 

Your Kind of People

 

“Whenever I want to think hard, I need a river to help me lighten the load.”

South of Broad, Pat Conroy (Doubleday, 2009) Page 216

An hour on the riverfront to read and think. The book is about people who live in and the city of Charleston, itself. I am not relaxing, I’m trying to hone my craft and Pat Conroy is just the writer who can show me how stories should be told and the exact words to use.

I can smell the rivers and the flowers. I can see the streets and awesome houses as I read about a high school boy who does a terrible thing to two of his classmates. One runs back to his house of birth in the mountains just off the Asheville road. We have known for 350 pages that Niles and his sister are orphans whose mother was thirteen when he was born. His grandmother was twenty-seven. The only thing that has kept the sister and brother moving forward and running away from orphanages, it the hope that the mother will find them.

The author takes us along with Nile’s high school friends to that dirt floor cabin to talk him into returning to Charleston. It is there that we learn the thirteen year-old mother hung herself from a tree and her mother found her. She put a bullet in her own head.  All reason to hope has been removed.

Weeks later, the high school boy goes to a home where some of those high school friends are hanging out. Niles is there as is his sister and the second boy harmed by the cruelty. The reason for the visit is to apologize—to attempt to undo some of the damage he has done. The apology is gut-felt confession and repentance—the kind that might lead to convulsive sobbing and vomiting.

“I turn my back on Chad and continue to work on the hemline of Starla’s dress. Sheba did likewise and Trevor resumed his Schubert. Niles walked back to my room, and Chad stood in the middle of the room looking thunderstruck.

“Just a minute,” Mother said. “Niles, come back here! Trevor, knock it off. Leo, you and Starla, look at me. You can choose not to accept Chad’s apology, but tell him so to his face. Your rudeness I will not tolerate. This is not about Chad, really. It’s about the kind of people you are.”

About the kind of people you are.

My favorite two words in the gospel narrative are, “redemption,” and “restoration.” Jesus Christ can change who we are by the power of grace. His restoration is about the process of molding us into the person He originally had in mind. But there are a thousand flashpoints and determining moments in the dark when we cooperate with Him or undermine his most brilliant grace-filled acts.

It’s about the kind of people we want to become—the kind of people we will become.

© Copyright 2016 D. Dean Benton

The Jefferson Family

A new biography of Thomas Jefferson: “Most Blessed of the Patriarchs.” Annette Gordon-Reed and Peter S. Onuf (Liveright).  Gordon-Reed is a Pulitzer Prize winner and Onuf is called the country’s leading Jefferson scholar. The reviewer is Roger Bishop.

“Jefferson came to view the family as the microcosm of the nation.”

That line sets up what follows. I quote Mr. Bishop:

“A particular highlight of the book is a discussion of the critical importance of the years during his diplomatic service in France, when his slaves, James and Sally Hemmings, lived with him. When he returned home, Jefferson’s attitude toward slavery changed. He continued to see it as evil, but not as the main degrading foundations of his country’s way of life. At the same time, Jefferson insisted publically that patriotism began at home. The bonds that sustained family life, he thought, were the only stable and enduring foundation for republican self-government.”

I have read that a few dozen times to make sure it really says what I think it says and how Sally Hemmings—the mother of some of Jefferson’s children—factors into his view of the family. (DNA tests were used a couple of years ago to prove Jefferson’s paternity.) Roger Bishop says, “No one contributed more to the formation of the country or had more sustained influence.” Jefferson should know, then, how to keep the American Experiment on track.

Help me out, here. Am I reading correctly that the family is the most important structural beam of the Republic? If that is so, then which of the presidential candidates is going to help the family? What are three or four essentials that family provides?

There is a chapter in Malcom Gladwell’s book “Outliers” that stimulates me to do something. Speaking of geniuses “from the lowest social and economic class,”

“What did they lack? Not something expensive or impossible to find; not something encoded in DNA or hardwired into the circuits of their brains. They lacked something that could have been given to them if we’d only known they needed it: a community around them that prepared them properly for the world.” (Page 112 Little Brown, 2008)

Opportunity!

If Jefferson, one of the masterminds of the Constitution, says “This is the only way this thing is going to work,” what do we do in response?

A PBS program on Saturday featured music in the 1930’s and 1940’s. One of the featured singers was Billy Holiday. Ms. Holiday had an extremely narrow vocal range and yet she captured the world with her singing. Her father was absent from her life which, the narrator said, drove her to seek out predatory men her entire life. She was working as a prostitute at age 12. As you know, she died at age 44 from damage to her body from drugs and alcohol.

Ms. Holiday captured her times with a capacity to communicate. She said, “It’s been said that no one can sing the words ‘hunger’ or ‘love’ like me.” She said of herself, “I didn’t know anyone and I didn’t belong to no one.”

Belonging.

If I am correctly interpreting Jefferson, and if he is right, then what should be our plan of action for families? A news commentator said last week that “community” is lacking in America. I’ve been hearing that for 40 years. Reading Mansfield’s “The Miracle of the Kurds,” I agree that some of those families have the concept of family working. That news commentator suggested that a new influx of immigrants might teach us something about community/family. I want to listen to that reasoning, but it really makes me nervous.

The bigger barrier and complex issue is what will you change about your family that will help it fit into Jefferson’s model? I’m not sure that his parents fit the model and his chosen family shape isn’t exactly what I think of as family. Given the age of your children and grandchildren, what changes can you insist on? It gets complex, doesn’t it?

Community is not necessarily made of blood relatives. The Book of Acts becomes a model of the Kingdom at work in families, homes and workplaces. A revival like Azusa Street in 1906 that probably was reignited recently which spoke to racism. Establishment of Kingdom outposts with a bold font listing of core values which Malcom Gladwell speaks of in “Outliers.”  Companies who catch a vision that gripped Guinness, Cadbury and Lever Brothers two centuries ago.

How do you keep from listening to and reading the news without concluding, “We are screwed!”

Southwood—the community you’ve always longed for.

My “Upset Meter” is banging on max. So, I’ll go help my wife clean her portion of the garage. I wonder what Thomas Jefferson would think of my family.  I wonder what Jesus thinks.

©2016  D. Dean Benton—writer & wonderer

Bentonministries.com

 

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