I had joined Club1040 for a missions trip to Lebanon in 2016 and almost two full years later, I would be getting on another plane to return. This time sharing the beauty and wonder with my father and older sister whom I had encouraged to sign up many months before.
This trip was structured much like my first one with a visit to the Syrian refugee camps and hosting of a women’s conference (both near and dear to my heart). These experiences I was prepared for, not so much the other glaring similarity.
the recent (and sudden) loss of a brother.
When I first stepped foot into the progressive and mostly westernized Middle Eastern country, we had only just lost my husband’s brother Justin one month prior. It was devastating to our family. I inquired and prodded for one confirmation after the next to make sure my leaving for ten days would not cause more pain so soon after a loss. But my husband was kind and understanding despite his own grief and pushed aside any further affect on himself knowing the decades I had been dreaming of visiting the same place my great grandparents had called home.
This time around, in June of 2018, our family was one month out from my own brother’s passing after a horrific motorcycle accident and week long roller coaster in the Trauma Neuro ICU. Still again I looked over my flight itinerary and made numerous calls back and forth with my father, sister, and other family to finally find some reassurance that it was ok to continue with our plans. To leave the country and my mother and younger sister behind after such world-changing news.
The decision was a difficult one but we were reminded over and over again that John (our brother) would have been very upset if we had let his death stop us. If there was one thing that stood out about that one horrific week living in the hospital, and praying for God to intervene, it was John’s resolve for our lives to continue on. He never wanted to be a burden (even though we reassured him that he never was).
After the head spinning debates were done we had made our decision and we made our long journey overseas clutching to each other for comfort and to curb the ever-looming feeling of death that followed us along.
Seeing the familiar faces and hugging necks that I wasn’t sure I would get the chance to hug again, both from the states and afar, made for a brief moment of exhale. These faces, these were the ones who had ventured through dark waters with me before and here we were again.
This time however, I brought two more souls who needed the same kind of care that I had received as we were desperately broken.
And wouldn’t you know it, we were given the warmest of welcomes and the most beautiful array of experiences. Right down to the Missions Team planning a special bread making class and outing for my father to visit the villages his ancestors came from. The embrace of the Lebanese people as family, immediate comradery from our “Armenian brother” taxi driver, and kindness shown to us time and time again from Club1040 was the stuff of fairytales. Every detail seemed perfectly fit together by God Himself with us in mind. For our healing.
But underneath the loud laughing and excited happy dances to be having true Arabic food, were soft whispers of how we just wanted to be home. Not because what God had put together wasn’t good enough, but because we didn’t feel good enough. Not whole enough. Not happy enough. Not hopeful enough. We were just mirages of our former selves, duct taped together like broken vessels, attempting as best we could do take it all in. That’s exactly what it felt like really. Being a freshly broken vessel while God poured the best the land had to offer into our lives while we just prayed that we could keep even the smallest of remnants despite most of it spilling out through the mountainous cracks.
But we did keep some. In fact, what we were left with - what we are still left with - is more than I can put in words. But for your sake, I will try.
As I think back on our times spent listening to a Syrian family’s plight, dancing with children under the tent that they called a school, laughing with new and old friends who shared of their lives, and praying over women who felt alone and depleted in ministry – I can’t help but smile. We were gifted these opportunities in our brokenness.
We were given the chance to look the woman who had just lost a son and whom had attended our very first meeting in the eyes and say, “me too”. We’ve lost someone that we loved too. We were able to love on a toddler who had my brother’s name as if we had carried him with us on our journey somehow. And we had all of the room in the world for other people’s messiness as we had little expectation for ourselves or others to “have it all together”.
And these were just the icing on the cake.
The real gift was the one message we received toward the end of our stay from the missionary who had taken our father to the villages that his grandparents were from.
While the women gathered for prayer before the conference, we began receiving pictures of my father talking with a local baker. His eyes were bright, his smile the biggest we had seen in months, and judging by the file of paperwork he clutched in his hand, my father was sharing about his family history and all that he had found via some very extensive internet research.
Research that had thankfully taken his focus from our tragedy to offer even short moments of reprieve before the crushing reality came surging back in like a tidal wave the weeks leading up to our leaving.
It turns out that this baker and his wife were of more significance than originally thought.
In all of the searching and working and putting pieces together, so much of our history was still lost. So much of the story had escaped being known. But in God’s goodness, He orchestrated the most remarkable day for my dad.
Within a few hours of exploring Hamat and Tegreene, the small group of men found the mayor of the town and were introduced to this man whose family had lived there for centuries. This man that owned a bakery and was knee deep in orders for the day. But this man who took time out of his busy workload to have a conversation, tying up more loose ends than 80 hours of intense research ever could.
This man was my father’s second cousin.
and this was The moment that God wrote the most incredible story of reconnection and restoration of an identity that we had only spoken of before.
This is our God.
The one who can fit together perfectly outrageous “circumstances” that we could never work together in a lifetime of our own attempts. And the one who knows heartbreak is coming but instead of pushing away from the ugliness of broken people, leans into it offering comfort from the most unexpected places.
When God says that He is near to the brokenhearted, I often wonder why He would choose such close proximity to most oftentimes unstable and volatile people. Ones who are capable of thrashing around in their hurt, disappointment, and confusion with no regard to those close by causing hurt upon hurt without a second thought. And yet, this is where He resides. Close by.
Close enough to see our unraveling. Close enough to be in the path of destruction from our broken pieces. And still choosing to be close enough to offer comfort.
Our family tree gained another branch that day.
Where one had been ripped from our family, a mysterious and previously presumed lost one reappeared. It would never and could never replace the life of John Paul Benbow the second, but this new branch would give us more family than we had ever known before. A family full of faces that looked like my brother as his Middle Eastern complexion and posture (not to mention killer hair) made him the most beautiful of the bunch.
Lebanon was a dream. One I wished to plow through and get over, but one God intended to use for our healing and comfort.
Not that we are there yet, but day by day we are closer than we were before.