11.1 // All Saints Day

There has always been a connection between where we live today and my great grandparents, the Benson’s.

In fact, I was writing at my desk in Ferndale (four years and three states and a couple kids ago), when I had a miraculously strong impression that the baby in my belly would be named “Benson.”

I had never met anyone with this first name, and I was not even sure of the baby’s sex. But I believe that God was telling me about my son months before I knew him or held him.

In so many ways, he is just like them.

Claude Benson, my great grandfather, used to pick up kids for church in his pick-up truck (or tractor— I can’t quite remember). And I don’t find it any coincidence that their namesake, our son, Benson, loves trucks and tractors more than any other child I know. It is as if my grandparents are intertwined with him in some mystical way I’ll never understand. But I know it nonetheless.

Benson is intuitive and kind and funny. And in the spirit of his great, great grandparents, we pray he will continue to be faithful and steady, and overflowing with humble yet powerful prayer.
After all, it was Gigi and Claude Benson who prayed for the salvation of my extended family. Family lore has it that Claude, when settling into bed for the night, would dismiss himself by saying,

“Goodnight, all. I better go to bed now and pray for the grandkids.”

And sure enough, here we are today, their great grandchildren, living in a parsonage beside a white, country church that looks so much like their own in Maine.
A community with fields and potlucks and tractors that we now call home, too.

I’ve been thinking about the Benson’s when I looked at my little Benson today: when he ran in the first snow this morning; when he rolled around the kitchen with his dinosaurs; when he curled up in bed to read a book.

And so I thought of them tonight also when, unprompted, Benson told me that he loved me “very, very much”— something he has never said to me before (at least, unprompted). His sweet, genuine words moved my mama heart, especially in this time of postpartum. But his words also reminded me of the affection of the saints on this All Saints Day— saints as humble and kind as my own great grandparents.

Mom-life in the parsonage has its challenges. It can be isolating and tiring. There are no set boundaries for when ministry begins and ends. And there are also no boundaries for when people can stop in. And yet, paradoxically, there are also days and weeks when my heart longs for a friend to just knock on the door unannounced and simply sit with me. In this season there is a need for endless grace:
Grace at 3AM to nurse a baby;
Grace at 7AM to start breakfast;
Grace at 4PM to satisfy another need for snacks or games or affection;
Grace at 8PM for bedtime stories and sleep;
Grace at midnight to finally concede that it will start all over again tomorrow.

And yet something changes when we realize that we are loved “very, very much” by those within our homes and also those who can no longer tell us themselves:
those who have gone before us and we never knew— like Jackson’s dad, Marselle, whom I’ve never met, and the early mothers and fathers of the faith.
those who have died whome we once loved— like the Benson’s and Grandfather Moore and Poppy.
those who we read about and desire to be like— like Nouwen and Mother Teresa and Lewis and Merton.

And all those saints, they rally for us.
And they remind us of their companionship through those in our lives now— even three year old boys who are still donning face paint from last night’s trick-or-treating escapade and refuse to wear pants.

So the Examen has been meaningful today for me as a reminder of this truth:

We are not alone or without love or left to our own will and abilities and devices.
There are many who surround us, both in body and in spirit, who advocate for us alongside Christ Himself.

And it brings me great joy and gratitude to rest in the love of God present in His saints.
And little boys named Benson, too.