Caught In The Tail Lights

By D. Dean Benton

There is something wrong with me. That is one of the assumptions of children of divorce that can accompany the person into adulthood. I was in the second grade when Mom and Dad divorced. I was the only divorced kid in my class and maybe in my school. Kids in single-parent homes and divorced homes are the majority today. Not all of us feel hijacked or agree with the experts who claim that our life trajectory is forever changed. Of the thousands I've talked to in concerts, conferences, counseling and coaching sessions and seminars, most touched by divorce sense something is different about us. Caught in the Tail Lights is a fiction-non-fiction novel about seventeen-year old Timothy Raymond Kendall as he deals with the effect of his parents' divorce upon him. A strange incident takes him fifty years into his future. He returns to take responsibility for building the future he wants. He searches for people, principles and power to respond to the commission to fulfill his purpose. No one is blamed for the divorce. Given his realities, he searches for healing, skills and emotional intelligence. Caught in the Tail Lights is not his destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Dean Benton
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311777744

D. Dean Benton

A native Iowan, husband of one, father of two and grandfather of three. A pastor, seminar leader, author of 27 print books and 15 ebooks, singer, songwriter. After 14 years in the pastorate, Dean and his wife Carole, with family, worked in concerts, seminars and conferences for three decades before returning to the pastorate. The Bentons worked in forty states in about 3000 venues.

Book preview

Introduction

When my parents divorced, I was in the second grade. I was the only divorced kid in my class. I may have been the only divorced kid in my school. It felt as if I was the only divorced kid in the world—except for my younger sister. The statistics are different today.

There were no user-friendly instruction manuals for the newly divorced or their kids. Friends say about this book, Powerful words! Words I wished I had heard as a kid. A man, whose parents divorced when he was three, told me he still doesn’t get it—why they married, why they divorced, why his dad didn’t stick around. He doesn’t understand what he was mad about, but he was angry all the time. Parental divorce does something to some of us. We can figure it out rationally, it is just that our hearts don’t get it. It feels like rejection, sometimes abandonment.

In the decades of living this adult child of divorced parents life, during seminars, concerts, conferences, counseling sessions and coaching, I have talked with thousands of kids and adults about their divorces. I have read the divorce literature. I have studied myself. I have learned that words like all or everyone do not work. In this huge tribe, there are, however, discernible trends, patterns, commonalities and a few predictabilities. This story is not about all of us, but all of us will find recognizable faces and experiences.

One of my mentors said recently, Your identity and your destiny are inseparable. Another mentor asked, What is the future you want to be part of? That is what this story is about—the future you choose and prepare yourself to live in.

Without trying to fix blame; taking total responsibility for who and what I am, and who I am becoming, I am challenged to ask how I got here, what happened to me, how it bent me, how it shaped my best characteristics and how it is affecting my current life. With that clarity, I want to fix the broken spots and allow God to use every tear. I will do what my wife admonishes in her song—Don’t Waste Your Pain.

Welcome to the story of Timothy Randall Kendall—Caught in the Tail Lights.

Chapter One

He couldn’t tell how far he had crawled. He didn’t know where he was, or why he was laying next to a stream. He checked his body parts and none of them hurt. Except the side of his face. He flexed his jaw. It wasn’t broken, but it would be a while before he chewed tough steak.

Nasty incident.

The voice startled him. He scrambled to his feet to defend himself.

Relax, my friend. I’m no threat. You better sit down before you fall down. A gentle bemused chuckle accompanied the suggestion.

The man with the sore jaw took the counsel and sat down, then reached into the stream for a hand of water to splash on his face.

A few abrasions. I looked you over while you were sleeping. You were mumbling, ‘If I only knew now what I’ll know then.’ Do you have a voice now?

Who are you?

He really wasn’t a threat. The real question was why was he here? Bruises he had, and abrasions, but he couldn’t figure out who he was or even the most minor detail. The stranger had not given his own identity. The stranger ran his fingers through his hair and then combed his finely manicured beard with his fingernails.

My name is Van. I live close by. I saw the incident. He began to laugh. I’m laughing at your expense. You might laugh too had you seen the way you bounced off the bottom of that ditch. I didn’t think a human body would bounce like that. You must have rubber in your skin. It really was rather funny. He motioned hitting and bounding like tennis ball. And laughed at the recalled sight.

I didn’t bounce. I jumped. They were not going to have the pleasure of thinking I was hurt. Not going to see me crawling in the mud.

So, you remember.

I’m beginning to.

Can you remember your name? Where you work?

Tim. At least that’s what my boss at Homer’s Texaco calls me. Mom and Dad used to call me Timmy. When I get older, I’m going to be known as T. R. Maybe T. Raymond. That has a rich sound, don’t you think? T. Raymond Kendall. That’ll look good on my resume.

With his smile showing, Van asked, How old do you plan to be when you start signing your checks that way?

Oh, I don’t know. Twenty, twenty-two. When I’m in college.

Well, T. R., why don’t you take a look at yourself in the creek. Van’s tone had gone from an underlying chuckle to somber. Tim picked up the signal that the seriousness sent and wondered if he was bleeding or something was wrong with his nose. His forehead hurt above his eye.

Look at yourself in the creek water.

Who was the old guy in the creek? It looked like his grandfather or an elderly version of his father. He reached up to the forehead cut. Involuntarily, he shrieked, sat back on his haunches and looked at Van in disbelief. He cautiously leaned over and looked again, then traced the wrinkles on his face.

I’m dead, right?

Van shook his head, but offered no explanation, if he had one.

I’m older than my Dad. He fingered the thick heavy mustache. How old am I and how did this happen? I’m a high school senior! How does this happen? Those guys must have given me drugs after they punched me out. I’m trippin’! Only explanation.

See if you still have your wallet. Van watched the man tremble as he reached into his left rear jeans’ pocket. This man/boy was in shock and on the verge of coming unglued.

Timothy Raymond Kendall it says, I signed it ‘Timothy Raymond Kendall.’

Well, there you are. You were right. ‘T. Raymond.’ Van toyed with the name. Does sound rich. He watched from across the creek and finally said, It is remarkable. Your calmness. Most people would be screaming or crying…or…

Does feeling numb count? I don’t think I have a scream or tear in me. He once more studied the face in the stream tracing the deep wrinkles, pulling his thinning hair up from his high forehead. Then he cried. Van remained still and granted his new friend time and room to grieve a lost lifetime and react to a terrifying situation. Just tell me who I am and where I am.

Getting to his feet was much easier when he thought he was seventeen. He never stretched his back like this when he was younger which made him ask How old am I?

Do you remember your conversation with Miss Della on the football field parking lot? That happened fifty years ago. He just laid it out there and waited. He could see Tim doing the math. Let’s go to my house. We’ll be more comfortable there. Van didn’t indicate that was an option among several.

I’m sixty-seven-years old? Tim screamed. What am I doing here? What happened to my life? How did I lose fifty years?

I can only tell you what I saw. Van changed his story to accommodate Timothy’s mental awareness and shift. He continued. You were changing a flat tire and a passing vehicle clipped you, knocking you into the ditch. You bounced back up—you tucked and rolled, very matter-of-factly checked your body, then finished changing your flat. You pulled your car over into a side-road parking area and began to walk. You must have made it to this creek and then passed out. Seemed you needed the rest. I covered you with my coat; you pretty much know the rest.

He shook his head. You would be wrong about that. I don’t know anything other than my name and that I grew up to have more wrinkles than a prune left on the counter. Tim thought for a moment. I suppose going to your house is the only option. I’ve got a headache. I wouldn’t know where to drive even if I felt like driving. So, it’s off to Van’s house we go. Do you cross the creek or do I?

With a quick motion, Van walked toward a wooden foot bridge Tim hadn’t noticed before. Tim thought to himself that in this new world gestures often took the place of many words. That’s the way his grandfather had been. He didn’t say much, he just had a way of nodding or waving his hand to communicate all he needed to say. Maybe it wasn’t a new world at all, just the world of the old.

Impossible! Tim exclaimed. Sixty-seven!

Van’s laughter filled the meadow. It was odd. Voluminous, but warming. Tim wasn’t sure if the arm placed around his shoulder was to comfort a seventeen-year-old or to steady the steps of a senior citizen.

MY GOD! I’m a senior citizen! And I’m a virgin! I’m in hell! I promise all that talk about Mary Ellen was just talk. I probably can’t even get it up anymore and I’ve never had sex. What kind of God would allow that to happen?

Van looked at the face spouting the loud words. He concluded the humor came from Tim the seventeen-year old and not T. Raymond or Timothy.

Alice? We have a guest. Van greeted his wife with a kiss on her check as Tim watched. No, he mostly gawked. The strange new world he was visiting had much. Especially cleavage.

His name is T. Raymond Kendall. We haven’t decided what to call him. Timothy when he’s thinking and… Tim! when he is leering down my wife’s blouse.

Oh, I am sorry. It is nice to meet you, Ma’am. I’ll recover my manners when the cobwebs clear.

And you just found you were wrong about getting it…, the lady teased.

Alice! Stop. Don’t encourage him, Van said in mock shock.

It is good to know, isn’t it? Timothy asked his friends.

Actually, Abraham didn’t have a problem…do you recall how old he was when Isaac was born? And eighty-year-old Caleb was nearly boastful about his ability to…

Okay, Alice. Quit tormenting the boy, uh…man. Just stop it.

Yes, Tim said, Enough is enough. He smiled at her and thought that a geezer can get by with saying things a seventeen year old would never—at least not to certain people. I like your house. He walked to the living room window which opened onto another meadow and then a thick planting of trees.

Would you like some coffee or tea? she asked. The lady was not going to give up on the sexy voice.

Dear, my guess is that he would prefer a soda. Perhaps a Dew.

It is odd, isn’t it? I’m in a sixty-plus body with seventeen-year old tastes. I would prefer a soda. Cola, if you have it. Tim was relaxing in the situation. He felt no apprehension or anxiety. Part of his brain was not completely comfortable, though. Something was out of whack which he could not figure out, but he was adjusting.

How about cranberry juice with seltzer water? She smiled.

Oh, yumm.

Van gestured which saved two or three paragraphs of words. She likes you and is pleased to have you here. She is not senile, but she does have a wicked streak that loves to tease. Just watch it when she stops smiling and becomes quiet and inward.

Tim knew all of that from the gesture.

What can you tell me of your twenty-first year? The host asked.

Nothing. Want to hear about eighth grade? he laughed. Just then, it felt like his head began to buzz or whirl, like the sound of a CD downloading software into a computer.

Tim, you will have recall of your fifty lost years. You will cry over all the pain you will experience in the compressed time. You’ll want to cling to some moments and not allow them to escape. Most of all, you’ll regret not living those moments more fully. You’ll understand why you have the wrinkles you’ve been obsessing about. Don’t be afraid.

Tim liked the man. He nodded to acknowledge his words and concern. Tim observed again Van’s habit of combing his stylish beard with his fingers. He most often did that when he was thinking or expressing compassion. He was mature. No way could he be called an aged man, but he was mature with youthful energy and spirit. Probably over six-foot tall with strength from a life of manual work. Odd. Again, odd. His conversation and knowledge indicated he was from the upper floors of a corporation with years in a university.

Do you know Greek? Tim asked.

Why do you ask?

I’m trying to figure out how smart you are, uh, that is so seventeenish. Let me rephrase.

No need. Let’s just say that I’ll know enough to answer any legitimate question that you need to have answered. Yes, I know Greek. And a little Hebrew—he runs a restaurant in Minneapolis.

Huh? Oh. I get it. Clever.

I think it is very clever. You heard it first when you were twenty-four and then used it in your classes until students began to yell in protest.

I’m a teacher? Tim couldn’t believe it. How do you know so much about me?

It’s just some of that adequate knowing I mentioned. Listen, make yourself at home. Look at Alice’s trinkets and collectibles. Come to think of it, stop looking at Alice’s trinkets! Van tried to be stern, but his smile betrayed him. Survey the house. Nothing is off limits. Finish your drink while I go help Alice prepare your room and supper.

It’s supper time?

You slept by the stream for quite a while. Like Elijah. In fact, much like him.

No matter how long he had slept, he didn’t know what Elijah had to do with him. He unscrunched his eyebrows and decided to let it go. Perhaps he would understand later.

By the way Mr. Kendall, from your view at sixty-seven what was the most formative and defining experience of your life? Van stood in the doorway leading to the kitchen—a doorway with beautiful curved top wood jambs.

I don’t know much about the past fifty years, but I know the absolute answer to that question. The defining event of my life, which stuck with me to this day. The most life forming was my parents’ divorce. It was not a high school senior who spoke those words. It was a man of letters, experience and battle ribbons. My parents’ divorce.

Chapter Two

Timothy woke up needing to find the bathroom. He was disoriented until he remembered he was staying in the home of Van and Alice Peerson. Confused, he recalled they were committee co-chairpersons who had invited him for an event in which he was to speak about families.

He has arrived, Alice announced to her husband. "No seventeen-year-old would get up at 5:00 a.m. to go to the bathroom.

I wonder what it’s like being fifty years older, overnight.

Timothy was sixty-seven that morning, and had no recollection of the day before. He couldn’t remember how he arrived at the bungalow in the meadow, nor did he wonder. He showered and then did wonder why his briefcase was not in his room. It was never far from his reach. He always used the early hours to go over his presentation notes. The well-stocked library in the guest room pulled his attention. He found two books he had anticipated reading. It was not to be wasted time.

Mr. Kendall, come join us for coffee. And bring your book. He had heard coffee beans being ground and the aroma was luring him, but he waited for an invitation. Feeling rested from your trip? Van asked as he poured.

I rested well, thank you. No ill-effects from the trip, although I don’t remember a moment of it. I seem to have gotten an ugly gash over my eyebrow. Any idea about that?

You had that when you arrived. Alice put healing essential oil on it and pulled it together with that small band-aid. Looks as if it is healing quite nicely already.

I think it will leave a scar, Timothy said as he tenderly touched the skin around the bandage.

"You will have a scar. You’ll think of it as a souvenir of your time with