Benjamin Anthony Larson - by Max
Much is revealed in a man’s death. Stories are told, pictures are shared, and those who knew the deceased pay their respects. A crowded funeral shows even those without acquaintance that they are attendant to a great loss. On the other hand, a poorly attended funeral is the worst fate a man can suffer, but such will not be the case for Ben. An overflowing funeral is fitting for a man who was larger than life; a funeral that cannot contain all the souls he affected fits a soul that could not be contained. Indeed, Ben’s sudden and tragic death has proven what many of us knew well: he was unique, undeniable, and unforgettable.
The first time I met Ben was almost a decade ago at a Binetti Fest, our large family reunions thrown annually by my uncle John (JB; Lefty). There I learned that my wondrously talented cousin Sarah was dating a man who was a gifted musician in his own right. We quickly formed a bond over hip-hop, especially the old stuff. Because Ben was brilliant, he was able to easily weave together jokes, topical rants, and philosophic insight, all peppered with his hearty, infectious laugh. In this way, Ben was truly one of a kind. He demonstrated this well in our first conversation; I think he compared the misunderstood genre-bending of a new rapper named Young Thug to the German idealist Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, whose magnum opus was poorly received even by his closest contemporaries. You better believe I was nodding along, saying yep, that’s so true… through it all. This was just another day at the office for Ben. Conversation was his dialectical sandbox, he just allowed us to play in it.
Among the many things I learned from Ben is that he loved Sarah deeply. As Ben’s love overflowed for Sarah, their love overflowed into the generation of their precious Luella. And though Ben came late to fatherhood, he was a natural. He brought a passion to the raising of Luella that not ten young men could collectively challenge. I sent Ben a text not long after she was born, and he responded with an address I often recall: “My brother-in-baby, Max!” At the time, I had been a father for about nine months. We were just a couple of baffled dads, constantly realizing how little we know; yet we loved every minute of it because we so greatly cherished these girls entrusted to us.
Indeed, the last time I saw Ben, he was gushing over his love of raising Luella. We had been talking a bit about the Catholic worker movement; implicit in his words were his ever-present longing for justice—perhaps the paramount concern of his whole temperament—and he rhetorically asked a liberal, um, hello, ever heard of realizing the kingdom of God, here and now? But the day was more practical, more immediate; it was about Luella. Never mind the critique of all things, the kingdom begins in the smallest thing of all; it is only through the local change that the globe is altered; realizing the kingdom originates in Luella. As Ben did, he used another phrase I will never forget. He said in his utterly earnest voice that raising her is “the least alienated labor I have ever experienced.” Some of you may be chuckling, thinking of course he said that, while others might think it a strange line. However, I have had, unfortunately, four months to ponder this thought since we last saw one another and I think I can interpret it for us.
Every and all action we take points ultimately to our quest for happiness; even labor, such as gardening, baking, or reading dense German philosophy is involved in our desire to be happy. We are happy-hungry souls. Present society abounds in alienated labor, work separated to some degree from the fruit it produces. Raising Ben’s precious Luella was not that. He found in his adorable newborn kin small cries for big needs; milk, burping, fresh diapers, clean neck and thigh rolls, and sleep. Labor indeed were needed to give these to his Luella. However, daily he was repaid hundredfold as he watched every ounce of effort shine through her smile, contentment, and that state best of all: the total peace of infant sleep. Is it not all for this—to watch these fresh souls fall into that state of bliss in which all surrounding voices hush, the outside world slows to a crawl, and the earth, if only for a moment, ceases its movement? Do our hearts not pump to the rhythm of this tiny one’s flourishing? Is the cradle not the center of the universe, that incalculable little weight around which all else orbits? Happiness is not merely an emotion, a swell of positive feeling; it is not pleasure nor the absence of pain; it is certainly not some great flood of neurotransmitters in the brain; nor is it great honors or wealth. Happiness is an action; it is found in being at work to well-ordered activity. Ben found this in diving headlong into fatherhood, loving Sarah and Luella for their own sake, because they were his and deserved everything he had. And, if only for a short time, everything they got.
Through days so long and years too fast,
it’s all gone in but a flash.
Quickly we come and faster we go,
despite our wishes, this we all know.
For some the gift leaves as it came,
a whirling ball of unknown flame.
For others, a whisper in the night,
as it was for Luella’s dearest knight.
When this loss makes our knees buckle,
let us recall Ben’s lively chuckle.
For this is why he was here,
to lend us all his great cheer.
Please consider supporting Sarah and Luella as they navigate this tragedy.
Old interview with Crew Jones.
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