Remembering Ben

(This note is not about my Ben. It is about a family friend, whose name also happened to be Ben.)

I met Ben when he was just a toddler, the second of three little boys. A sister would come soon, then another brother before their family was complete. Our family and theirs seemed to be in lock-step, producing children at roughly the same times—their five and our five.

The children played together, the girls usually complaining about the boys being mean. The girls remember playing in the yard where there was an old fiberglass shower stall and the boys turning it over on them, trapping them inside. The boys remember being mighty warriors, ruling the territory with sticks and war-whoops. Childhood is so simple.

Then we moved away and all the children continued to grow. In no time, it seemed, our families lived near each other again, now with eight teenagers among us and two not far behind. We actually lived in their basement for six months while we were building a house. Can you imagine the mealtimes with 14 people—or usually more—and all those teenagers? They were chaotic and loud and absolutely precious times. Hormones ran thick, crushes were had, a marriage was made. Our families were eternally connected.

During the crush phase, Ben knew one of my girls loved the then-popular candy Runts, especially the banana ones. He bought many bags, ate all the other fruits, and presented her with a full bag of just banana Runts. He could charm the socks off the grumpiest grouch.

Ben was a worker and strong as an ox. When it was time for our family to move away (again), he was among the small group that loaded all our earthly goods in the moving van. I remember warning the four guys who were about to pick up my piano that it was extremely heavy. Ben looked at me and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Do you know who you’re talking to?” There might have been a little showing off for the girls.

Whenever I think of Ben, this is how I picture him. The winning smile, the infectious laugh. Always having fun even in the middle of hard work.

After we lived a few states away, he came to visit with his foot and ankle in a walking boot. Even with that hindrance, he went up in our attic to help with some construction project we had going on. Nothing stopped him. He was a helper.

He loved lifting weights and was one of the young men who started Sarge’s Gym: Home of the Big Guns in his family’s basement.

The first year we lived in Virginia, his whole family and many others from that community came for Thanksgiving and we spent Black Friday touring Washington, DC. and learning how to navigate the Metro and all the guys dumping their pocket knives in my brother’s hands while they went in one of the buildings unarmed.

I had a dream last night about Ben. I dreamed I was looking him square in the face and said, “Ben, you know we love you, right? We love you very much.”

I am 100% sure I never actually said that to Ben. We lived in a culture where emotion was not openly shared, especially between a grown woman and someone else’s teenage son.

I wish I had broken all those stupid rules. I wish I had torn down every barrier and told Ben how much I loved him, how important he was to our family. I wish I could throw my arms around him today and tell him everything was going to be all right.

Don’t wait. Don’t be held back by whatever cultural “norms” are keeping you from expressing love. Cultural norms never helped anyone, and people desperately need to know they are loved. They need to know they matter, that their place in the world can never be filled by anyone else. That their absence will leave a gaping hole. They can’t know unless we tell them.

We always feel this way after someone is gone. We wonder if we could have said something that would have made a difference. I wish I had tried.

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