Susee Mable's Silent Meditations: January 2017

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Pastor M. Benjamin: In Memoriam

Pastor M. Benjamin September 18, 1905 - January 21, 1984
with Mrs. Victoriamma and Susee Mable in 1974

On January 21, 1984, thirty-three years ago to the day, my mother's precious father—my beloved grandfather, Pastor M. Benjamin passed away in Nuzvid, Andhra Pradesh, India. Three decades may have passed, but there has not been one day where his name hasn't been mentioned in our home. He remains the unshakable, unforgettable and revered figure head of our family.

Mrs. Victoriamma and Pastor M. Benjamin
with grandchildren Anil and Suha

Born Mylabathula Benjamin on September 18, 1905* to a loving Lutheran family in the village of Agarthipalem (West Godavari district), my grandfather’s devotion to Christ was a calling he heeded from an early age. Always one to follow his heart and think outside the box, he converted to Adventism in his youth and later became an ordained and venerated pastor within the South Asian Adventist mission for over four decades. Before joining the clergy, my grandfather initially served as an elementary school teacher within the mission. Dedicated also to a lifestyle of health and wellness, he received his “Diploma of Licentiate of Ayurvedic medicine and surgery” on September 4, 1944. He married Victoriamma (Veeramma) née Tanukula on June 26, 1926, a bond that lasted nearly 58 years.

Pastor M. Benjamin and
Susee Mable in 1959

My grandfather (Thathia) was not only a man of great faith but one of principle, integrity and compassion. He offered his time, counsel and literally the food off of his plate to any soul in need. No one was ever turned away from his home nor did he ever turn his back on anyone: including those anguished from leprosy and cast off from their communities—famished for food, companionship and hope. In Pastor Mylabathula Benjamin, congregants and fellow villagers found a friend, a leader, a brother and a surrogate father.

And what a father he was. Bursting with love and slow to anger, my grandfather was a patient, kind and thoughtful man who alongside his devoted wife—raised, educated and established their large brood on a meager mission pastor’s salary in the pre and post WWII era.

My mother adored her parents and they in turn revered and appreciated her. Theirs was a close and loving relationship. They were kindred spirits, soul mates and best friends. Like her father before her, my mother Susee Mable was an avid letter writer. Although separated by continents and oceans, they wrote to each other almost every week for a decade, until he passed away on that awful Saturday in January 1984. And what glorious letters they were: they told stories, shared histories, spoke of hardships, hopes and at times heartbreaking hurt. Whenever those lovely blue aerogrammes—the only paper that my granddad wrote on—arrived in the post, it was akin to Christmas morning for my mother.

My grandfather was a meticulous record keeper who documented family history as diligently as he studied scripture. He lived simply but there was a majesty and elegance to his modest ways.

Pastor M. Benjamin who carried a bible and an umbrella everywhere he went, never sought handouts or became susceptible to the pitfalls of status or influence that venerated community leaders sometimes fall prey to. He was the antithesis of vanity and indulgence and throughout his life remained as strong and courageous as he was wise and humble. In 1952, he lost his beloved first born son Victor at the age of 19. It was a loss he bravely coped with but could never come to terms with.

My mother experienced the same heart-wrenching grief when she heard of her father's passing that January night in 1984. She fell to her knees and wept in our arms. I vividly recall the last time my mother saw her father. It was in October 1981 at Vijayawada Junction railway station (in Andhra Pradesh). My grandfather sobbed inconsolably. It was as if he instinctively knew that it would be the last time he'd see his precious daughter. I remember hearing his heartbreaking wails as our train sped off. My brother and I were only eight and nine years of age but we understood how much my mother and grandparents loved each other. It was a love for the ages, imprinted in their souls. Losing her father, like the loss of her mother two years later was a pain like no other but my grandfather had given her the love and assurance that they would always be united in spirit. It's what my mother did for us. It's how we've been able to cope with her loss.

My family has been blessed to have these lovely beacons of love and light in our journey. So here's to them and the peace and happiness they deserve together in that better place above.