November 4,1996
Dear Br. Hope:
Over the last several years, we have lost
contact with you and Rhonda. I am glad to hear that you are both
well and working again at Florence. I hope my information is current.
Since we last communicated, we moved from
Eidson, near Rogersville to Morristown, then, at the call of the
Lord, into the foothills of the Appalachian mountains near Newport
TN. We live five miles from Del Rio, a town so small, you can
shout across it. Our road is nestled between two mountains and,
especially in winter, seldom sees the sun until late in the morning,
which is a disadvantage. There is a mountain creek across the
one lane road from our front porch. The creek is quiet low since
the floods of last January that claimed the life of our son.
Tim and I were never very close. I adopted
him when he was eight years old. For the rest of his life, he
resented me for disrupting the relationship he and Sevilla had
forged for the first eight years of his life. I’m not sure
that he ever regarded me as his father. For many years, we had
virtually lost track of him, although we knew he was living in
the Chattanooga area and having a difficult time with alcohol,
his marriage, and holding a steady job.
It is impossible to understand the working
of the Holy Spirit. As Christ said to Nicodemus, “The wind
bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof,
but canst not tell whence it cometh, and wither it goeth, so is
every one that is born of the Spirit.”
At some point, in the last several years,
Timwas converted. The Bible studies that he and Pat, his wife,
received form an Elder who came to their house from Florence were
helpful. It is impossible to trace all the events or impressions
that lead to our spiritual awakening and it is difficult to trace
them in his life, but the Lord is able to reach even the most
obstinate person, and Timcertainly fit that description.
Last December, Sevilla expressed a desire
that her two children, Sandra and Carl, should return home for
Christmas. I knew that Sandra would not come all the way from
Michigan but maybe Timmight return home, although we had only
seen him once in the last several years.
By now, he was divorced, still drinking
and living in a third rate motel room in a small rural town south
of Chattanooga. The Lord impressed me to send him love letters.
Using a single sheet of paper, I wrote, in large letters with
a black felt pen, “I love you” and sent it to him. For
the next ten or twelve days, I sent a similar letter every day,
even inclosing a map showing his location and our home and marking
the route he should take to come home. Two weeks later, we received
a phone call, “I give up,” he said, “I’m coming
home for Christmas.” Well, he didn’t make it because
of a bad cold, but he and his girlfriend did come after Christmas
and we had a nice visit together.
In mid January, we received an urgent call.
He was in trouble. He had been sexually molested on the job and
needed a place of refuge in which to hide from his molesters who
he feared would hurt him when they learned that he had filed a
law suit against their employer. We welcomed him home.
The next nine days were turbulent. Was anything
with Timless then tempestuous? We laughed together, prayed together,
song together, and talked. There was anger, recriminations, joy,
sadness over lost opportunities, and happiness over the Lord.
We were just beginning to clear away misunderstandings that had
plagued our relationship for many years.
Timwanted to give up alcohol and for those
nine days he did not drink. He continued to smoke, however, and
every time he went out for a cigarette break, he prayed. His stress
level dropped off noticeably during that week and so did his smoking.
Timwas a mess. On parole for several felonies,
an alcoholic, divorced, in fear for his life, terribly confused,
he aptly fit the song “Just as I Am.” He had to do things
his way, but his way had only gotten him into trouble all his
life, but he still had to do it his way. Poor Carl, he would never
learn.
On Wednesday evening, it began to rain and
it rained all day Thursday and Friday. On Friday, Sevilla and
Timdrove to town, and, upon arriving at home, they remained in
his car while he spent an emotional two hours confessing his sins
with sobs and anguish, seeking forgiveness for sins. He thought
he had killed a man, although we both doubt it. But he did cleanse
his soul of defilement and sin through the grace of the Lord that
afternoon. The sins just poured out of his heart and the grace
of the Lord filled him with renewed hope.
Why the Lord allowed Satan to have him that
evening, we will never know. He was in a lot of trouble, and was
tormented by fears and terrible remorse. Perhaps, the Lord was
satisfied with his repentance and confession and knew that he
was not strong enough to resist the temptations that were sure
to assail him. He was weak. The Lord can do all things, His power
is not restricted by anything except our will. Maybe the Lord
knew that Timwould not or could not retain his hold on Him, and
in mercy to him, allowed him to be laid to rest beyond the reach
of Satan. At rest from temptation and fear, from anguish, regrets,
and confusion.
Friday evening was a terrible night. The
creek was a torrent after five to eight inches of rain in the
previous 36 hours. These mountain creeks rise rapidly and fall
just as rapidly. When I went outside that evening in search of
Carl, I was thunderstruck with the ferocity of our six inch deep,
four foot wide creek. It must have been four feet deep and fifty
feet wide and was filled with terrible violence. I have never
seen a more violent display of the power of water.
I found Timin a small pavilion some distance from the house, and urged him to return home, for the night was dark, and he and Sevilla wanted to make chocolate chip cookies. The last thing I said to him was “I love you, son, come home.”
But he didn’t come home. Instead, he
was lured out onto a foot bridge that crosses the creek, and sat
down on a small bench, to smoke and, presumably, to pray. Around
8:30 P.M., above the roar of the creek, I heard his cry for help.
When I reached him, he was in the water, desperately clinging
to the bridge. His shouts led me to his location, for I would
never have found him otherwise. Bending as far out over the water
as I could, I searched for something to grab in order to pull
him in. His head was stuck under the bench when he attempted to
pull himself up on to the bridge. The force of the water had pulled
his pants down around his ankles, therefore, I had nothing to
hang on to.
For some reason, we did not speak to each
other, he knew I was there, for his shouts stopped the moment
he felt my hand on his head and arms which were griped tightly
around the bench support.
If you can imagine a hundred fire hoses
shooting their jets of water horizontally, that is what the creek
looked like. It was exploding from under the bridge.
Although his death certificate says he died
of drowning, he actually died of hypothermia. He must have been
in the cold water for three to five minutes before I reached him.
What must have gone through his mind during those last moments,
I can only conjecture, but, because I know our Lord, I have a
reasonable idea of their conversation. God loved Timwith an infinite
compassion and desire. He left heaven in search of his lost sheep
and died for him on the cross. Christ was drawing Timfor years
and only recently did he respond. I think Timknew he was about
to die, the situation was hopeless. What tender words Christ must
have spoken to him. What terror Timmust have felt. Yet Christ
is compassionate, and he must have comforted Timwith words of
encouragement of a better life. Perhaps he invited Timto make
that final surrender entirely, to give all of himself in unreserved
consecration.
I believe that Tim died in the Lord. All
evidence points in that direction and I believe he will be raised
on the resurrection morning to meet the Lord, his Savior and Redeemer.
What joy Christ will experience when he sees his beloved Timagain
on that morning. What joy his guardian angel will experience who
is even now watching over his grave on that beautiful hill top
where we buried his ashes. Tears fill my eyes as I write these
lines. I did not intend to write about our son in this letter.
I often write to men messages of encouragement for I believe that
men need a lot of reassurance and love showered on them. Satan
desires to have men that he may destroy our influence and leadership.
He fully understands the power of a converted, transformed man
to so live and witness for the Lord that he may, through the example
of his life, lead others to a knowledge of the Lord.
The only time in his life that Timneeded
for my help, I could not save him. I have never seen a person
die, and when he let go his hold on the bridge and was instantly
swept out of sight, I was horrified. Perhaps, as he fell asleep,
in the loving arms of the Lord, Christ sang him a lullaby. Is
this a strange idea? I don’t think so. As he fell asleep,
from the effects of hypothermia, what would have been sweeter
then for the Lord to sing a lullaby. I am sure Christ cries over
His children as they pass under the power of death. He can no
longer speak with them, no longer tell them of His love and mercy.
He, like us, must await the resurrection morning. How he must
yearn for His lost children, sleeping in the prison house of death.
How He must eagerly await the time when they may be called fourth
from their dungeon to newness of life.
Just a post script on Carl’s death. The
water was so high, that night, that the rescue squad was unable
to reach our house. An intensive search was made the following
morning, by the rescue squad and fifty or our neighbors, to locate
his battered and bruised body, which they found about noon. We
had him cremated and buried on a lovely hill. We have some dear
friends who own property there and they agreed to provide a spot
for him. He is buried beneath an azalea bush with a small simple
marker denoting the place where he awaits the resurrection.
I suppose Carl’s epitaph might read something
like this. “No matter how wasted the life or how sin sick
the heart, God’s arm is mighty to save.” If God could
save Carl, then surely He can save any one and there is hope for
all those parents whose children have gone astray.
I have much I desire to say to Carl. I must
confess my failure to be the type of father he needed and deserved.
I desire to confess my unloving disposition, my hardness of heart,
my uncaring attitude when he was young and living with us. Regrettably,
I contributed to his life of misery and unhappiness.
One week after his death, it rained and
the creek was again high. Friday evening, at the very time he
died, I went outside and was drawn to the bridge where he spent
his last moments. I was so filled with remorse, over my failures
as a father, that I wanted to get into that creek with Timand
tell him how sorry I was and how much I truly loved him. Over
the last several years, the Lord has transformed my heart also.
I love Timand desired that he know it.
I have never felt the warning power of the
Lord so strong as I did at that moment. Although I did not hear
an audible voice, I headed the Holy Spirit demanding that I return
home now! Go home, He insisted. I obeyed and thanked the Lord
for preserving my life. It is not time for me to join Carl. How
thankful I am that the Lord taught me about the condition of the
dead, that they sleep in their graves awaiting the resurrection.
If, like many other Christians, I had believed Timwas in heaven
and I could go there and talk with him, I might have ignored the
warnings of the Holy Spirit and died that night. Indeed, we serve
a wonderful God and Savior.
May the Lord bless you, your brother in Christ.
Allen Benson
