Son of My Right Hand

 

Son of My Right Hand

by his grateful to have him father David L Lewis

The name I gave him is Benjamin William Lewis. The name Benjamin is in honor of his mother, Benjamin coming from Hebrew word meaning “son of my right hand”. His middle name is in honor of the man I called my step-father, William Maddox, as good and noble a Christian man as any would wish to know. Lewis, of course, comes through my father, the greatest single influence on who I am. In short, I gave him names to live up to.

About the second grade Benjamin went through a period of deciding what he wanted to be called. He really didn’t like “Ben”, and Benjamin was too long for a second-grader. For a few weeks it was “Benster”, which really didn’t take. Next, for a very short time, it was going to be “Babe”. He finally settled on “Benji”, which is how everybody knows him. I remain the only person on earth allowed to call him “Babe”.

Benji is the youngest of our five children (i.e., baby of family). In keeping with family tradition he was not at all like any of the other four. As such his childhood may have had the most ‘uncertainty-factor’. His mother just called him “my little thundercloud’”. Once or twice I’d run into a former teacher who rememberrd him (he’s hard to forget), they usually are both glad for me and surprised about how well he turned out.

We moved to Indiana the year he began high school, 1996. He may not know it, but he owes his life to someone who came into his life at that captious moment. This person was Terry Wilson, then Youth Pastor at Christ Community Church. Terry gave Benji friends, direction. and, most importantly, took him on a ‘mission’ trip to Mexico – where he learned first-hand what real struggles are.

During high school years he became something of a leader of entourage of local skate-boarders. Turns out that in any group of people the natural leader will arise; perhaps learning how to lead in the process. Won’t bother reader with that skating on roof of Page’s thing, or of his calling his brother Nathan to rescue him, or how I came to know about Juvenile Court.

After a few false starts Benji found himself at Ball State University; something for which his father will be eternally grateful to Chris Newgent (the Newg). At Ball State he also found one Lisa Marie Mills, a true daughter of Proverbs 31.10-31. Meeting Lisa being the best thing that ever happened to Benjamin William Lewis. They have two sons whom even Hollywood Central Casting could not find better examples of how to rear kids.

Since graduating from Ball State Benji has been a grade-school Teacher, first in North Carolina and now in Noblesville Indiana. He has been named Teacher of the Year a couple of times; been requested for their child by parents who’d learned about him; did a year in an administrative role; and been PE teacher since moving back to Indiana. In this father’s observation the latter position being a calling for which his whole life prepared him, for now.

It was, however, events of the past December and those following which made me (finally) realize how much a ‘Rock’ of a man, how mature of a person, he has become. As it is with life, Babe grew up while I was ‘making other plans’. When I most needed someone to stand in the gap and be the man, Benjamin was there. He was there when his mother needed someone to help her navigate the enigmatic medical world. He was there when she (okay, I) needed someone to be with her when I was the patient.

Benjamin William Lewis is officially my favorite nearest-to-parental-home son, the son of my right hand who lives up to his names.

Rearing Matthew

 

Rearing Matthew

by David L Lewis, proud father

Remember a grade school teacher, instructing on proper usage of the English language, saying the proper word was “rearing” children: “You raise goats, you rear kids.” She was right. We had five children. A more diverse group of kids to rear one would be hard put to find on a big city jury.

My father often said he loved all of his children “equal”. That’s not quite the whole story. I say that I love each of our children ‘individually’. And, I could write a separate narrative on each child to explain why each is such an individual. This, however, is about our middle child, Matthew. He wants to be called Matt, which I take as license to call him Matt the Brat [yes, there’s a daddy story behind that].

It has been reliably conveyed to this father that (when a few years younger) our child of the female persuasion said: “Everybody knows Matt is daddy’s favorite. But, nobody minds, because Matt is everybody's favorite.” At that point she probably didn’t know the whole story. Matthew was loved because he was Matthew. He got to be ‘favorite’ because he was the one who was there at one of many chaotic times in which Matthew was de facto ‘acting eldest at home’. It was at the time my health began its decline into old age. He was the one I came to count on, the one who was always ‘just there’. One time I told his two younger siblings Matthew was in charge whenever parental-units were absent; not because he was the oldest, but because he’d proven he could accept and live up to the responsibility.

In the summer between his Junior and Senior year of high school we somehow agreed of have an Exchange Student. In preparation for this there was an in-home interview. The question which stands out in my memory was “what are the house rules for Matthew?” I assumed interviewer was thinking of social interactions, chores, curfews, that kind of stuff. There weren’t any such rules for Mattew, he just didn’t need any. My response probably threw the questioner off balance: The only rules were ‘Don’t Hit Girls, Don’t Throw Rocks, and Don’t Play With Doors’.

Matthew entered the Army along with a bunch of other raw recruits. He served over ten years, rising to rank of Warrant Officer 2. As someone said: There is a difference between water and cream. Water seeks its own level, cream always rises to the top. Put my son in any given situation and he will rise to the top, just ask the men with whom he served (if they are not available, ask his little sister).

As it is with men, separating water and cream comes obligatory with birth of their first child. Will he ‘rear’ his children, or raise them? Matthew (as, in this observation of all our children) has been better parent than I for my children, and rearing children who were better children than I was for my father.

All of this writing “to find out what I think” was generated by news of Matthew’s third grandchild (and our eighth great-grandchild). Sable Dean Lewis was born Wednesday (4/19/2023) diagnosed with Congenital Heart Disease. Shortly after birth he had to be intubated and underwent his first of many surgeries he’s going to endure in the short future. This may be a new situation for our son and our grandson, but his mother and I know just how it feels.

All fathers undertaking the rearing of a child must reserve for their self the absolute right to worry about any of their children at any time with our without reason. Matthew’s job now is to worry about his son and new grandson. My job is to worry about my son.

I should not worry about Matthew, though, he long ago showed me he will do what father’s are called upon to do, rise to the top. If this proud father may be permitted to paraphrase Shakespeare’s Marc Anthony, “His life is gentle; and the elements so mixed in him that his loving father might stand up and say to all the world, ‘This Is My Son Matthew!’”

I Hate Doctors!

 

I HATE DOCTORS!!!

by very patient David L Lewis

Have you ever noticed you feel bad when any of those medical-type persons are around? It’s their fault! How many times does a fellow have to explain how good he was feeling just before a couple of strangers scooped him up and dumped him off at one of those doctor places? Then they ask you what is wrong. How would we know? Do doctors ever think it might just have been a bumpy ambulance ride, or those noisy sirens that caused all this?

One of the many things my father taught me is that if a man has earned the right to be called “doctor’ he has earned the right to be called ‘doctor”. [Yeah, okay, dad died never having met a woman doctor.] I’ve always attempted to treat doctors with the respect my father taught. However, I have been unceremoniously detained no less than fifty times in various hospitals. seen by so many medical-types even God has lost track, and now see doctors younger than my grandson. After a while an old man has made some observations worth sharing, with grievances justly elaborated on...

Did you know that doctors don’t even know everything? Imagine that! Remember when we were kids and our parents assured us doctors would know what was wrong and what to do? Maybe that was true in olden days. In the world we actually live-in there is more new stuff coming out every day than existed when I was young. My father died in 1966 of problems quickly and almost routinely dealt with in my lifetime. There’s just too much to know about the human body, too many variables as to what some drug, test, procedure which worked on others will work on this patient. Really liked it better when they knew everything – or we at least had parents who told us that.

They think we know what they’re talking about when they tell us what they know, as of now, about why we got there. Hey, a lot of us are just not all that bright. In writing it is called ‘the curse of knowledge’. That is, forgetting the hearer does not know what you know. Hate when any medical-type assumes we patients know what they know, more often than not we do not.

They always ask what do you “want” to do? I don’t want any of this stuff! As I used to tell clients, “If you knew what to do you wouldn’t be here.” Finding out what to do is why we trust you, doctor. Just tell me what you recommend and why. I’ll pretend to understand what you’re talking about and do it. And, if you ain’t worried, neither am I.

Doctors never remember every detail of what we’ve gone through. Remembering all that individual stuff we have to do ourselves. And, sometimes the doctor whom we see changes, and the new guy don’t know nothing about the trouble we’ve seen. Best they can do is to be familiar enough with our case to know we’ve gone though a lot of stuff. [BTW: Beware of doctor you’ve never seen before who hasn’t read your file. If he walks in the door not even knowing I was a heart patient, as has happened, we are both in trouble.]

All we are allowed to even ask of doctors is to believe they care what happens to me. Care enough to be familiar with our history, care enough to make us believe you care about the outcome. When they do those two things we will talk about what great doctors they are, and how much we love them. Come to think about it, that’s the kind of doctors I’ve [mostly] had. As Gilda Radner used to say on SNL, “Never mind”.

Happy Easter thingee

 

Happy Easter thingee!

As explained to me by Philip H Lewis, Easter always comes on

"The first Sunday after the first full moon after the sun crosses the equator”

SPOILER ALERT! Easter Bunny ain’t real. Easter comes to this generation via verbal traditions from ancient worship related to coming of springtime. Colored eggs and candy are conspiracies to sell stuff to kids and their sugar addicted parents -- who probably once were kids. Also, Easter is not a holiday, just the indispensable Holy Day of the religion known as Christianity.

The only true constant about Easter is that the date varies each year. The month and day of Easter Sunday varies because it comes right after the Jewish celebration of Passover, meaning month and day is based on Lunar Cycles. Thus Easter comes “the first Sunday after the first full moon after the sun crosses the equator” (also known as first day of Spring). Everything else about the day – including eggs, candy, and bunny -- is a matter of what the previous generation brought down to your own.

Because traditions of Easter have been handed down by word of mouth, multiple observances of the day have arisen in families and cultures wherever Christianity has gone. And, as it is with most families, ours had its own traditions...

Easter Sunday was a very special day in the home in which my sister Diane, brother Terry, and I were reared. Of course there was a basket of candy and decorated eggs as long as we lived at home. Our mother, the wisest woman to ever walk the earth, “allowed” us the treat of actually eating an Easter egg for breakfast – candy had to wait until after church. Don’t remember hearing much about the Easter bunny growing up, though. If memory serves, and it rarely does, the bunny thingee probably didn’t get much play after, say, starting Kindergarten.

The highlight of Easter in the Lewis home was going to church. Easter Sunday service was always good for some kind of treat being handed out by the deacons. Most importantly, every Easter Sunday involved preaching of the death, burial and resurrection of the Messiah, Jesus Christ. According to overarching, traditional, historical, conservative interpretation of Scriptures, Jesus was raised from death the Sunday after Passover. This, we came to understand, was the reason for observing the day as Resurrection Sunday! That bunny thingee just happened to come on the same weekend.

As told to me by one with more study and understanding than most, the message of Resurrection Sunday is the indispensable belief separating Christianity from all other religious truth-claims. Christianity stands or falls on the belief in Christ’s resurrection from death and return to heaven:

But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, our preaching is useless and so is your faith.  More than that, we are then found to be false witnesses about God, for we have testified about God that he raised Christ from the dead. But he did not raise him if in fact the dead are not raised.  For if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised either.  And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost.  If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied. (I Corinthians 15.12-15 NIV)

As it is with children of devout parents, a child’s worldview encompasses what is taught by those parents and sources the parents trust. Understanding this common childhood experience is important to someone in their 80^th year. Important because truth is important. It was therefore imperative for this observer to look to traditional, historical, conservative interpretation of Scriptures as they have come down to us. As was said of the Bereans so it should be said of those who would celebrate Easter:

Now the Berean Jews were of more noble character than those in Thessalonica, for they received the message with great eagerness and examined the Scriptures every day to see if what Paul said was true. (Acts 17.11 NIV)

So, children of this generation, what’s important to you about that Easter thingee? Is Easter the celebration of a new springtime? Or, is Easter the message of resurrection to new life? Just asking for some future generation.

Happy Easter thingee!

theDaddy!

DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY

 

DEATH TAKES A HOLIDAY

the sojourn of David L Lewis

He had been to touch the great death, and found that, after all, it was but the great death.

(from Red Badge of Courage)

There is an ancient fable of a slave sent to the marketplace by his master. While at the market the slave is startled when he sees the Angel of Death. The slave fears Death is looking for him. He runs back to his master begging to be sent to Madagascar to escape Death. The master agrees, and then goes down to the market to directly confront Death. “Why did you scare my slave?” the master demands. “I’m sorry,” Death replies, “it is just that I was surprised to see him here in the market. I have an appointment with him tonight in Madagascar.”

It was 1961. I was eighteen. Had myself a brand-new, fresh off the showroom floor Buick convertible with V-8 engine. It had an indescribably beautiful green-blueish color never seen again. In those days the speed limit was 70-mph. I was doing at least that. Suddenly I knew, knew without doubt, that Death was in the back seat. All I had to do was look back, even into the mirror, and he would take me. It was real. So real that I moved my foot from the gas to the brake pedal. As I did ‘we’ reached the top of a hill. Just over that hill was an old black pickup truck without lights stalled on the highway. Having started to slow down, I was prepared to and able to stop. From that moment to this I have always believed for those few seconds Death took a Holiday -- or maybe missed an appointment.

Death Takes A Holiday comes from a story of Angel of Death taking human form to find out why humans fear him so. The story has been used in several movies and its plot appears in various venues. In version I remember when Death takes his holiday there is no death anywhere on earth for his holiday period. Not sure how that would work. As my mother once said, ‘nothing lives if nothing dies.’

If you’ve lived long enough, and have an honest perspective on the life you lived, most likely there have been one or more times when death took a holiday regarding you; or at least missed an appointment, for the moment. Know there were a few times in my long life when appointments were missed unawares. John Lennon was only half right, both death and life "is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans". As my sister Diane says, “Death is not the scary part. It is the steps we take that scare us, not death itself.”

Death may take a holiday, or we may have simply missed an appointment. But, the overwhelming weight of statistical evidence leads inevitably to incontrovertible conclusion all that lives must die.

Death does have a reasonable question to ask, though: If death is inevitable, why, throughout the history of man on earth, have people always feared death? More to the point, why do Christians, who profess to long for and expect eternal award, fear death? Why do ardent Christians not readily identify with what the apostle Paul wrote: For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain (Philippians 1:21)?

There is a debate in Theology/Philosophy as to whether death is Predestined or Random? Is the day you will die “written’ and certain? Or, is it really just random, an appointment which can be changed as circumstances change? Don’t have final answer to the question, but do think the great fear is not the certainty of death. The great fear is that death comes to man at such random, unpredictable intervals. When all is said and done, everyone knows they must certainly die, but nobody really believes it.

And so, being of a certain age, and having missed my share of appointments, find myself wondering what people might say of this life I’ve lived. A life which must inevitably end on some date either certain or yet to be appointed. Won’t be there to find out what tales may be told, but these are the things I would want said:

Faithful to his one wife without waver

Cared more for his children than himself

Did what he honestly believed God gave him to do

Sojourned on this earth as it is appointed to mankind