Dear Readers, this is a revision of "son" 7/1/07
Son
My father calls me “son” more often than he calls me by my
name, and because I am my father’s son, I adopted the
same usage with respect to my boys. Kimberly, my daughter, I
call: Kimuschkele, Kimmy, Kimmy Babe, Sweetheart, Sweety,
Sugar. You get the idea. The list is as saccharine as it is
lengthy.
When Ben was little, people called him by the diminutive
“Benji.” There was always something so grown-up sounding
about “Benjamin” or “Ben.” You know what I mean?
“Ach, such a shayne punim, my baby Sam!’ Sounds funny,
like Morris, Irving, Harry or Ben.
I always enjoyed Ben’s name[1]. As a matter of fact, even as
a young adult of twenty-two years, 6’ 2” in height and around
250 pounds, many still called him “Benji”-as did I on occasion
though he didn’t like it very much. So it became my habit to
call him “son” or “sonny boy.”
One evening before bedtime, he mustn’t have been more than five years old, we
discussed ornithology,[2] of all things.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy."
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked
brilliantly, but not without a partly suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you’re outside, Son?"
“It feels good Dad.” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“What you feel, Son, is God’s breath that He blows, but we call it the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but
Daddy remember the birds?” he dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he smilingly queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up.” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he replied, scratching his head, eyebrows perplexed
but clearly intrigued by the answer.
We were young parents back then-our children tiny-
a time predating Zac, my younger son.
We were abundantly blessed with Ben and his sister Kimmy, a
time in our lives when we never did not smell of talcum
powder. Much too young back then to have wisdom but abundantly poor so that
we could not afford a house, we rented an admittedly
spacious apartment from a nice Greek lady just on the
southern edge of of a progressively northward Jewish
migration. Frankly I forget her name, but I figured it was okay
to rent from her because Lenny Bruce had commented that all
Greeks are Jews anyway! Alright, truth be told, she was more than
just a “bissel” annoying.
The kids’ mom and I naturally knew little of
parenting; after all, we were in its infancy-barely adults ourselves-but we
did know enough to read to our children every night unfailingly. “Baby-
babble" was an unknown tongue to us.
There was a short while when Ben and his sister were young
enough that they could share a bedroom. Actually, the real
reason was we only had one bedroom other than the master
bedroom. Do you know the age when the kids are already
almost too big for their cribs but not quite big enough for
regular beds? We had to lower the height of the mattress level
in the cribs so that it was not too far above the floor itself.
At that time, the kids’ mom worked the evening shift for a
local grocery distributor. I taught the seventh and eighth
grades at Resurrection School, a Chicago Roman Catholic
parish, on the west side of Chicago. Though they did not pay
me much at all, dismissal was at 1:45 p.m, a fact that made it
very possible for me to get home in time to make a seamless
transition between our two jobs. I was certain back
then that I was the inspiration for “Mr. Mom” though not a
single dime in royalties did I ever receive.
“Okay Ben get back in there,” I gently scolded him, almost too big for
the crib-his mattress being so low that he could climb in and out
with ease.
“Kimmy Babe, your turn Sweety, what story you want?” I
asked perfunctorily, as if I didn’t know.
“Cassie, Daddy, Cassie,” she shrieked, much to her brother’s
discontent.
“Dad, we read Cassie last night, “member?” he protested.
“Oops, you’re right, Son,” I acceded. “Okay, okay, I gotta a
deal. You’ll have the next two nights, okay?” I asked him, hoping for
a conciliatory approach.
“Okay, Dad,” he conceded resignedly.
“Kimmy, understand? Ben gets to choose the story for the next
two nights,” I said, seeking her agreement with a nod of my
head.
“Cassie, Daddy, Cassie!” she impatiently exclaimed, and so
Cassie and Her Magic Flowers it was … again! Even at a very
young age, Ben was a ba’al shalom.
Against this idyllic background would soon come the time
in our lives when we’d bid farewell to normalcy. Not too long
after we moved to Skoke from the Jewish enclave of West
Rogers Park, Ben was stricken with diabetes at ten and-a half-years.
~~~~~~~~
It’s almost wholly invariable that melancholia overtakes
me whenever I am there. I don’t think it debilitating, short-
lived as each instance is, but it remains a constant in the
equation of my grief.
Yet, I know this is where a grieving Jew should be
because it is a makom kodesh, a holy place, wherein I feel the
presence of my son Ben in its most intense manifestation.
I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some. As
strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle to
sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my
feet, but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma,
his soul, is elsewhere Where it is, well … that’s anyone’s
guess; it’s in the Olam Haba, floating-as it were-like a feather
caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation-or somewhere in
shamayim waiting for another aliyah that’ll bring him closer to
God. But such is the paltriness of our conception, as if it were
possible to approach Him, The Infinite Holy One. For that
would imply physicality, finiteness of which He has none. Even
the "He of Him" implies a ring of closure around our conception
of what God is and where. You know what? Never mind the
theological gymnastics. I'm satified with that explanation however
much it might make me an apikoros-just as long as Ben “returns” on a regular basis.
I’ve few if any other choices.
And return he does, a sort of tshuva in reverse in that he
returns to us from God whereas we seek, in doing tshuva, to
near Him, to approach Him. We may even cross each other’s
paths on occasion. A heavenly intersection, a cosmic
crossroads-if you will-where neshamos and the t’filos of those who love(d)
Ben may barely escape collision.I believe his neshuma
hovers in shul when I am there. He spends time with me in
that way, I suppose. It is his way of making up for the time
when I sit in our row by myself.
I felt it recently on Purim- a feeling unlike that
of any other experience, anywhere else, including the time I
spend writing in Ben’s room. Though I fully expect this grief, I
am thankful to take my seat in the row behind my dear friend,
Rabbi Louis and his two sons. It affords me the opportunity to
look over the mechitza[3] to the yahrzeit[4] panels on the south
wall and see Ben’s name, the eleventh one in the first column
on the first panel. We have a tradition in shul life that one’s seat
becomes his makom kavua.[5] His seat is next to mine though I should tell you Ben was not a
regular shul-goer. Nobody else sits there however, except my father on Erev Yontif Rosh
Hashanah.
Whether it be the thanksgiving of Purim, the revelry of Simchas Torah[6]
or the trepidation of Yom Kippur,[7] my son remains by my side. Other fathers
have their sons sitting next to them. I miss that but I possess something they
do not-the certainty my son lived a life abundant in loving-kindness.
Time moves forward inexorably. It pauses for no one. That Purim
morning I lamented how much time has passed without Ben. I am reminded
daily his absence is forever. No matter how many years have gone by
or however many are yet to come, Ben’s death for me will always remain
in the present tense. I will never say: “Once upon a time I had a son named
Ben.” I won't tell you I'm not glad to be alive because I know I
am a better person for having known and loved him. He taught
me so much. Still ... know there are moments when I am filled
with guilt it was he and not I.
Alan D. Busch
@2007
In Hebrew, “ben” means “son."
[2] The scientific study of birds; avian science.
[3] Partition in an orthodox synagogue separating women’s from men’s section.
[4] The anniversary of a death
[5] set place where one sits
[6] holiday celebrating the “joy of Torah”.
[7] Day of Atonement
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Dear Readers,
I am 99% sure that this little piece will conclude the text of In Memory of Ben.
"Son"
My father calls me “son,” more often than he does by my name, and because
I am my father's son, I too adopted the same usage with respect to my boys. Kimberly, my
daughter, I call Kimuschkele, Kimmy, Kimmy Babe, Sweetheart, Sweety, Sugar … you get the
idea. The list is as saccharine as it is lengthy.
I always enjoyed Ben’s name. When he was little, people called him by the
diminutive “Benji.” There was always something so adult about “Benjamin” or
“Ben”. As a matter of fact, even as a young adult of twenty-two years, 6’ 2” in height and around
250 pounds, many still called him “Benji,”-as did I-but it became my habit to call him “son” or
as a variant "sonny boy."
One evening before bedtime, he mustn’t have been more than five years old, we discussed
"ornithology"[1], of all things:
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy,” I quickly responded.
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked brilliantly, but not without a partly
suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you're outside, son? I probed.
“It feels good Dad,” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“The wind, Son, is God’s breath that he blows, but we call it
the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but Daddy, remember the birds?” he
dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up,” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he perplexedly replied, scratching his head
but clearly intrigued by the answer.
Alan D. Busch
[1] The scientific study of birds; avian science.
I am 99% sure that this little piece will conclude the text of In Memory of Ben.
"Son"
My father calls me “son,” more often than he does by my name, and because
I am my father's son, I too adopted the same usage with respect to my boys. Kimberly, my
daughter, I call Kimuschkele, Kimmy, Kimmy Babe, Sweetheart, Sweety, Sugar … you get the
idea. The list is as saccharine as it is lengthy.
I always enjoyed Ben’s name. When he was little, people called him by the
diminutive “Benji.” There was always something so adult about “Benjamin” or
“Ben”. As a matter of fact, even as a young adult of twenty-two years, 6’ 2” in height and around
250 pounds, many still called him “Benji,”-as did I-but it became my habit to call him “son” or
as a variant "sonny boy."
One evening before bedtime, he mustn’t have been more than five years old, we discussed
"ornithology"[1], of all things:
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy,” I quickly responded.
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked brilliantly, but not without a partly
suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you're outside, son? I probed.
“It feels good Dad,” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“The wind, Son, is God’s breath that he blows, but we call it
the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but Daddy, remember the birds?” he
dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up,” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he perplexedly replied, scratching his head
but clearly intrigued by the answer.
Alan D. Busch
[1] The scientific study of birds; avian science.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Dear Readers,
This piece is newly revised from In Memory of Ben
“Ha gomel l’chayavim tovos …”
" Who has bestowed every goodness ..." taken from the blessing referred to as "Gomel" which one recites upon surviving a perilous situation)
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true we do not know the names of those who will be
inscribed and sealed in the Sefer Chaim[4] when Yom
Kippur is over, the judgement of these existential matters belongs
exclusively to the Dayan Emes,[5] whose province lies beyond
that which Rabbi Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
However, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and tshuva[6] are of
sufficient merit to avert the evil decree and spare us the pain
of personal tragedy.
How should we explain what are “near misses” with death?
Can we explain them rationally or should we define them
as miracles and be done with it? If as miracles, they are
different than the miraculous inversions of nature found in the
Torah or the innumerable miracles we encounter daily:
sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-all of which we
like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about blind luck, the
roll of the dice or random chaos?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world? Perhaps but with this essential caveat: faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but what it does do well is to
strengthen us when we are most in need of assistance,
comfort, and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of
human powerlessness only begins to make sense when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone.
“Mr. Busch?” a woman’s voice asked.
I began to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened.
“My name is Anne and I just left your daughter Kimberly,” she
said calmly.
“Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where you are,” I
demanded.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south
of Chicago by Pontiac . Kimberly was involved in an accident, but
she is unhurt, not a scratch.”
“Kimmy, in an accident. Oy Got! Unhurt! Thank God!”
“No, really. She’s fine. I’ve left the scene, but I promised her I’d
call you as soon as the police arrived and felt confident she
was okay.”
“Well, wha … what happened?”
Anne witnessed a collision on the interstate. Pulling over to
assist its victims, she came across my daughter Kimberly who
had lost control of her steering wheel when an eighteen-
wheeler she was attempting to pass forced her onto the
shoulder from the passing lane. Crossing the grassy median,
Kimberly struck a van headed in the opposite direction.
By this point in the story, my heart was racing so much I
could barely contain myself. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day
rushed into my head.
“Listen Anne, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You don’t
know how much this means to me. Really and truly.”
“Oh, you’re welcome Mr. Busch. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to write
down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. “I’m leaving to get her right now.” I
said, racing away to bring my daughter home. Along the way, I
called the number Kimberly’s angel had given me of the
state trooper who was at the scene. Exceedingly kind, she
reassured me that Kimberly was safe and had emerged
without a scratch. Within an hour, having exceeded the speed
limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared an explanation, I
found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station
that had towed her car. Before heading home, I gaped
incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and only
response was to thank Him for bestowing this great kindness
upon me. We drove home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. The following Friday, I invited her and her boyfriend
over for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbes begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[7] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by
my side.” A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a
moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a
single drop of wine running down my hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker ..."* I sanctified the wine.
(*the beginning of the Friday night erev Shabbat Kiddush; literally
'And there was evening and there was morning')
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the True Judge
[6] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[7] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
copyright @2007
This piece is newly revised from In Memory of Ben
“Ha gomel l’chayavim tovos …”
" Who has bestowed every goodness ..." taken from the blessing referred to as "Gomel" which one recites upon surviving a perilous situation)
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true we do not know the names of those who will be
inscribed and sealed in the Sefer Chaim[4] when Yom
Kippur is over, the judgement of these existential matters belongs
exclusively to the Dayan Emes,[5] whose province lies beyond
that which Rabbi Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
However, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and tshuva[6] are of
sufficient merit to avert the evil decree and spare us the pain
of personal tragedy.
How should we explain what are “near misses” with death?
Can we explain them rationally or should we define them
as miracles and be done with it? If as miracles, they are
different than the miraculous inversions of nature found in the
Torah or the innumerable miracles we encounter daily:
sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-all of which we
like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about blind luck, the
roll of the dice or random chaos?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world? Perhaps but with this essential caveat: faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but what it does do well is to
strengthen us when we are most in need of assistance,
comfort, and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of
human powerlessness only begins to make sense when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone.
“Mr. Busch?” a woman’s voice asked.
I began to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened.
“My name is Anne and I just left your daughter Kimberly,” she
said calmly.
“Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where you are,” I
demanded.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south
of Chicago by Pontiac . Kimberly was involved in an accident, but
she is unhurt, not a scratch.”
“Kimmy, in an accident. Oy Got! Unhurt! Thank God!”
“No, really. She’s fine. I’ve left the scene, but I promised her I’d
call you as soon as the police arrived and felt confident she
was okay.”
“Well, wha … what happened?”
Anne witnessed a collision on the interstate. Pulling over to
assist its victims, she came across my daughter Kimberly who
had lost control of her steering wheel when an eighteen-
wheeler she was attempting to pass forced her onto the
shoulder from the passing lane. Crossing the grassy median,
Kimberly struck a van headed in the opposite direction.
By this point in the story, my heart was racing so much I
could barely contain myself. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day
rushed into my head.
“Listen Anne, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You don’t
know how much this means to me. Really and truly.”
“Oh, you’re welcome Mr. Busch. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to write
down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. “I’m leaving to get her right now.” I
said, racing away to bring my daughter home. Along the way, I
called the number Kimberly’s angel had given me of the
state trooper who was at the scene. Exceedingly kind, she
reassured me that Kimberly was safe and had emerged
without a scratch. Within an hour, having exceeded the speed
limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared an explanation, I
found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station
that had towed her car. Before heading home, I gaped
incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and only
response was to thank Him for bestowing this great kindness
upon me. We drove home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. The following Friday, I invited her and her boyfriend
over for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbes begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[7] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by
my side.” A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a
moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a
single drop of wine running down my hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker ..."* I sanctified the wine.
(*the beginning of the Friday night erev Shabbat Kiddush; literally
'And there was evening and there was morning')
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the True Judge
[6] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[7] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
copyright @2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Dear Readers,
Here is my 100th post in Ben's memory. They are two newly revised chapters taken from my
book In Memory of Ben, entitled: The Invitation and Shomer.
L'Chaim!
The Invitation
Bereaved parents find personalized ways to incorporate
the past lives of their children into their own lives. No one
forgets about his child; the difference is in how they
remember. Remember that sappy bumper sticker “Have you
hugged your child today? Well, have you?"
Coping with the permanent absence of death is
prerequisite in order for parents to be able to continue living
their lives. That does not prevent us, however, from wanting our children
to be there with us even though we know they cannot.
I found a way that Ben could be with us on the occasion of
my second marriage. The answer was right there on the
synagogue wall and was as simple as turning on a light bulb.
Dear Ben,
Are you free April 2nd?
If you haven't already heard, we are planning a simcha[1] on
Sunday, April 2 of this year! And I have been spending quite a
lot of time thinking about how I'd forward an invitation to you.
Although tedious, it is easy to draw up the guest list, have the
invitations designed and printed, address them and off they
go. Just wait around for the responses. It’s that simple. What isn’t
so simple is to figure out an appropriate way you
can be with us too. Just last week, I consulted with Rabbi
Louis on this question, and he made quite a few good
suggestions, but I am still looking for a way to materialize
your essence in a way that reflects who you are.
Ar first, it seemed a daunting problem. Then
it struck me. Its simplicity had eluded me. Perhaps you will
remember how I taught you that the lines of life are mostly
colored in with a gray crayon. Most of what exists as truly
black and white is in that crayon box. Darkness is nothing
more than the absence of light and, if therefore we illumine
the darkness, so much of its burdensomeness is lifted
from our shoulders.
No simcha is absolutely free of tearful remembrance.
We Jews always blend our joy into a tincture, an admixture of
joy sobered by sorrowful memories. Our rejoicing is never
whole lest we recall the destruction of the Batei Ha Mikdash[2]
which we do by breaking the glass though it is, as you know,
always followed by a hearty Mazel Tov![3] Jews are people of
historical memory. Always remembering our darker days, we
look to the next sunrise!
Love,
Dad
p.s. Oh right! My idea? I’ll leave your yahrzeit light on.
Shomer[4]
The date was 11/23/00.
Kindness is not necessarily selfless. When performed
without expectation of payment or recognition, it signifies: “I
am doing this because it is the only decent and helpful thing I
know to do.” Best characterized as a Kiddush Ha Shem,[5] it
contains the ultimate component of friendship of both God
and man … selflessness. I have such a friend, selfless and
God-fearing.
It happened on Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2000
when Ben's mom and I-together with several of our closest
friends-met with the funeral director to finalize the awful
arrangements to lay our son in his final resting place. That
morning was indeed awful, but the worst part was the
purchase of the casket.
It is unlike anything else you have ever had to purchase.
We chose the one we thought was characterized by the
dignity of its simplicity. Made from what I think was pine,
lacquered and adorned with a Magen David,[6] it reflected who
Ben himself had been, neither plain nor ostentatious. When I
saw the same casket at a friend’s recent funeral, it brought me
back to the day when the staff at the funeral home walked us
though its casket showroom as delicately as possible. I
wondered then as I still do now how emotionally staggering it
must be to sell a child's casket to bereaved parents. One of the
several caskets on display was nothing more than a
plain box neither stained nor lacquered. One grade lower than
the one we chose, it reminded me of the caskets the town
undertaker crafted in the old westerns we watched as
children. Ben’s mom and I looked at each. Not quite enough
we agreed for our beloved Benjamin!
Thanksgiving 2000 did not happen for my family as it had
in previous years when on Wednesday, the day before the eve
of Thanksgiving, our world, as we had known it, suddenly
ended catastrophically. In its place, a debilitating day, laden
with urgent tasks that I feared we’d not finish in time before
Friday morning. Our many friends lent their helping hands in
the time of our greatest need. Sandy, a lady from my
synagogue, prepared meals lasting several days. Kathy, a close
friend from Toronto, flew in the morning of Thanksgiving
Day. How fortunate was I to have Kathy’s emotional support
for the first ten days following Ben's death!
We were frenzied. My feelings of surreal suspension lasted
until the moment I heard the first shovelful of earth hit the
casket. Thanksgiving was a day during which the community
of our friends experienced an ingathering of souls; when
everyone huddled together in an effort to mend the irreparable
tear in the fabric of our lives and heal the wound we had all
sustained just hours before-a time when the angelic reflections
of our souls shone brilliantly.
A shomer had sat next to Ben through the night reading
from the Sefer Tehilim[7]. This shomer had been a friend to
Ben, who knew where he had lived, having conversed with
him, seen him at my side, in whom one discerned a fierce
loyalty to family and friends. In sum, simply this: my son was
the kind of person for whom one prays his soul has an
aliyah.[8] I found comfort knowing that the utterances of the
shomer reached the divine ear as he sat with Ben the entire
night. I have such a friend.
Thank you, Harv!
Alan D. Busch
[1] a joyous occasion
[2] the two ancient temples of historical Judaism
[3] congratulations; literally ‘good luck’
[4] Watchman, guard
[5] Sanctification of The Name (of God)
[6] Star of David; literally “Shield” of David
[7] The Book of Psalms
[8] literally, an ascent to a higher level.
Here is my 100th post in Ben's memory. They are two newly revised chapters taken from my
book In Memory of Ben, entitled: The Invitation and Shomer.
L'Chaim!
The Invitation
Bereaved parents find personalized ways to incorporate
the past lives of their children into their own lives. No one
forgets about his child; the difference is in how they
remember. Remember that sappy bumper sticker “Have you
hugged your child today? Well, have you?"
Coping with the permanent absence of death is
prerequisite in order for parents to be able to continue living
their lives. That does not prevent us, however, from wanting our children
to be there with us even though we know they cannot.
I found a way that Ben could be with us on the occasion of
my second marriage. The answer was right there on the
synagogue wall and was as simple as turning on a light bulb.
Dear Ben,
Are you free April 2nd?
If you haven't already heard, we are planning a simcha[1] on
Sunday, April 2 of this year! And I have been spending quite a
lot of time thinking about how I'd forward an invitation to you.
Although tedious, it is easy to draw up the guest list, have the
invitations designed and printed, address them and off they
go. Just wait around for the responses. It’s that simple. What isn’t
so simple is to figure out an appropriate way you
can be with us too. Just last week, I consulted with Rabbi
Louis on this question, and he made quite a few good
suggestions, but I am still looking for a way to materialize
your essence in a way that reflects who you are.
Ar first, it seemed a daunting problem. Then
it struck me. Its simplicity had eluded me. Perhaps you will
remember how I taught you that the lines of life are mostly
colored in with a gray crayon. Most of what exists as truly
black and white is in that crayon box. Darkness is nothing
more than the absence of light and, if therefore we illumine
the darkness, so much of its burdensomeness is lifted
from our shoulders.
No simcha is absolutely free of tearful remembrance.
We Jews always blend our joy into a tincture, an admixture of
joy sobered by sorrowful memories. Our rejoicing is never
whole lest we recall the destruction of the Batei Ha Mikdash[2]
which we do by breaking the glass though it is, as you know,
always followed by a hearty Mazel Tov![3] Jews are people of
historical memory. Always remembering our darker days, we
look to the next sunrise!
Love,
Dad
p.s. Oh right! My idea? I’ll leave your yahrzeit light on.
Shomer[4]
The date was 11/23/00.
Kindness is not necessarily selfless. When performed
without expectation of payment or recognition, it signifies: “I
am doing this because it is the only decent and helpful thing I
know to do.” Best characterized as a Kiddush Ha Shem,[5] it
contains the ultimate component of friendship of both God
and man … selflessness. I have such a friend, selfless and
God-fearing.
It happened on Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2000
when Ben's mom and I-together with several of our closest
friends-met with the funeral director to finalize the awful
arrangements to lay our son in his final resting place. That
morning was indeed awful, but the worst part was the
purchase of the casket.
It is unlike anything else you have ever had to purchase.
We chose the one we thought was characterized by the
dignity of its simplicity. Made from what I think was pine,
lacquered and adorned with a Magen David,[6] it reflected who
Ben himself had been, neither plain nor ostentatious. When I
saw the same casket at a friend’s recent funeral, it brought me
back to the day when the staff at the funeral home walked us
though its casket showroom as delicately as possible. I
wondered then as I still do now how emotionally staggering it
must be to sell a child's casket to bereaved parents. One of the
several caskets on display was nothing more than a
plain box neither stained nor lacquered. One grade lower than
the one we chose, it reminded me of the caskets the town
undertaker crafted in the old westerns we watched as
children. Ben’s mom and I looked at each. Not quite enough
we agreed for our beloved Benjamin!
Thanksgiving 2000 did not happen for my family as it had
in previous years when on Wednesday, the day before the eve
of Thanksgiving, our world, as we had known it, suddenly
ended catastrophically. In its place, a debilitating day, laden
with urgent tasks that I feared we’d not finish in time before
Friday morning. Our many friends lent their helping hands in
the time of our greatest need. Sandy, a lady from my
synagogue, prepared meals lasting several days. Kathy, a close
friend from Toronto, flew in the morning of Thanksgiving
Day. How fortunate was I to have Kathy’s emotional support
for the first ten days following Ben's death!
We were frenzied. My feelings of surreal suspension lasted
until the moment I heard the first shovelful of earth hit the
casket. Thanksgiving was a day during which the community
of our friends experienced an ingathering of souls; when
everyone huddled together in an effort to mend the irreparable
tear in the fabric of our lives and heal the wound we had all
sustained just hours before-a time when the angelic reflections
of our souls shone brilliantly.
A shomer had sat next to Ben through the night reading
from the Sefer Tehilim[7]. This shomer had been a friend to
Ben, who knew where he had lived, having conversed with
him, seen him at my side, in whom one discerned a fierce
loyalty to family and friends. In sum, simply this: my son was
the kind of person for whom one prays his soul has an
aliyah.[8] I found comfort knowing that the utterances of the
shomer reached the divine ear as he sat with Ben the entire
night. I have such a friend.
Thank you, Harv!
Alan D. Busch
[1] a joyous occasion
[2] the two ancient temples of historical Judaism
[3] congratulations; literally ‘good luck’
[4] Watchman, guard
[5] Sanctification of The Name (of God)
[6] Star of David; literally “Shield” of David
[7] The Book of Psalms
[8] literally, an ascent to a higher level.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Dear Readers,
I present several revisions of chapters from In Memory of Ben. Let me know what you think.
Simply … Musings
We acknowledge His role in procreation
together anew with mother and father.
We offer thanks for His blessings.
It is the right thing to do!
When a child is born, we joyously exclaim:
“Baruch Ha Shem!”[1]
When a child dies, we say softly:
“Baruch Dayan Emes!”[2]
Still why? His answer lies in His silence.
Our hope is to draw ourselves closer to Him.
“Shma koli b’yom ekra”[3]
[1] Blessed be The Name.
[2] Blessed is The True Judge
[3] Hear my voice the day I call you.
To Have His Own Place
I have yet to define the parameters of my role in Ben's life
nearly five years since his passing. As his dad, I blurred the
line between my obligation to care for him and his need to
become self-reliant. However much this may describe a
common parental predicament, it became magnified in Ben’s
case. Plaguing me was my worriment that diabetes would not
allow him to live his life well as a self-sustaining adult.
“Hi, Ben. Come on in,” I welcomed my son to my apartment for
our regular Thursday night dinner.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up? He asked with his characteristic broad
smile.
“Eh, you know, same old stuff,” I responded, mixing
conversation with dinner preparation.
“When’s dinner ready?” he hungrily inquired with one of his
favorite questions.
“Pretty soon, son. Why? Got plans?” I continued slicing
chicken breasts. “Ben?” I looked up as I always did when he
didn’t respond right away. Grabbing the plastic honey bear, I
immobilized him with a headlock; yes, just like you see on
professional wrestling. With my right hand, I forced the plastic
tip of the honey container between his lips and clenched teeth.
Honey, saliva and blood splattered all over. After squeezing in
as much as three tablespoons, I let go of the honey and
pinched his mouth open by squeezing his cheeks with my
right thumb and middle finger. Spreading whatever honey he
hadn’t spat out, I coated his gums and the inside of his
cheeks. He quieted after several minutes.
So it was with good reason I was preoccupied for years
with worriment over who'd be there for Ben if he became hypoglycemic?
Could I realistically count on a roommate?
How would he be able to live on his own even with well-regulated blood sugars?
His history of hypoglycemic seizures, especially common in the early
morning hours, led me to wonder if he might ever be able to
live on his own? And, if not, how would I ever be able to convince him of this?
Even with well-regulated blood sugars, all it takes is
one unattended mistake, a break in routine, that can lead to catastrophe.
Ben, who struggled with and against good diabetes management
throughout his eleven years as a diabetic, spoke frequently of his wish to have his own place.
If it could only have been so easy! Based on telephone
conversations she had had with her brother, Kimberly, Ben's sister,
remarked that she felt Ben had become frustrated still living at
home whereas she had already been living on her own since
her junior year in college.
I am sure it bothered him to see his younger sister making greater strides in life
than he. After all, he was her big brother.
All I ever wanted for Ben was that life's bitter side leave Ben
alone, let him be. It never did.
Five Years Ago
May our lives be blessed with good health, family and
livelihood, but our children … won’t they always be happy,
healthy and well? Should calamity happen, it will befall
someone else, won't it? What happens though when this
comfortable assumption fails, when our safe zone is violated?
When the sudden fatality of an accident turns our world
upside down? When we are propelled into an arena of life for
which we have neither the preparation nor the expectation
we'd ever need it.
I grieve for Ben while reshaping my life without
him. Its permanence, the absoluteness of his absence gives me
reason to pause and ponder what the rest of my life will be
like. The most frustrating part is I am no closer to an answer
now than before. It may be there is no answer. Bewildered by
Ben’s absence as if adrift in a small boat tending in no
particular direction, I turn my mind over in the hope it’ll give
up long forgotten memories. Looking back to an earlier time
when Ben was healthy, happier and our lives normal, I
ruminate about whether I ran on “automatic parenting” and, if
so, for how long? I realize the preponderance of my
memories is from the latter half of Ben’s life, a troubled period
of nearly twelve years during which our battle against diabetes
and epilepsy was unrelenting.
Ben was prototypical of people who live “for the
moment” whose wristwatch always reads: “Now!” That is what,
I guess, makes it extraordinarily difficult to be and live without
Ben. He lived only in the present tense. Death took him before
he could examine his roots. He never much bothered to
think about his future though I exhorted him to do so more
than he liked. It’s as if you expect him to crash through the
door on his skateboard. You never stop waiting though
somehow you know it is not going to happen.
As much as we dread the passage of another year without
Ben, reminders invariably start arriving in the mail that
another yahrzeit[1] nears. The yahrzeit notice reflects an act of
chesed[2] “bein adam v’chavero.”[3] It reminds us of our
obligation to say Kaddish[4] in memory of our loved ones.
A grieving parent lives life differently than before. As
difficult to achieve as to maintain, equilibrium treads a fine
line between a tragic past and an uncertain tomorrow. As the
yomin noraim[5] approach, I tend toward reflections of which I
believe the saddest is … though I grow older, Ben does not.
While waiting one evening to say ma’ariv, the evening prayer, Rabbi Louis
commented how we tend to have our loved ones in mind more
so at this time of year than at any other. Turning toward the
memorial plaques, I grew misty as I looked at Ben’s name.
[1] Reminders of the anniversary of a loved one’s death typically sent out by synagogues, funeral homes and the Chevra Kadisha, Jewish Sacred Society
[2] kindness
[3] literally: between a man and his fellow …
[4] sanctification of God’s name; a prayer said in memory of a loved one in the presence of a minyan.
[5] Hebrew: the Days of Awe, the first ten days of Tishrei
Every Day is Thanksgiving
We celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of
November. As a Jew, I observe Jewish “Thanksgiving” upon
awakening each morning by saying: “Modei ani lefanecha …” [1]
What makes Jewish Thanksgiving different from the non-
sectarian American holiday?
We thank Him “yom yom”[2] by praising His name in good
times and bad. We do not welcome bad tidings but our faith in
His rachomim and din[3] teaches us that bad tidings do turn
out for the best especially when it is not readily apparent.
I received an email from a dear friend who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what as best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
Now I admit to being befuddled by the timing of the note, but I
let it go until later that evening. While having coffee tonight,
my fiance asked me how my day had gone. And then it hit me,
the timing of the email. Today marked the fifth secular
anniversary of my son’s passing on November 22, 2000, which
fell out on the day before Thanksgiving. That is how I
remember that day-not by its date so much as by the tragic
irony of a Thanksgiving marked by Ben’s death.
In keeping with my theme there is balance in our lives and
order in our world although they may seem hidden and at the
mercy of random collisions of chance, you may wonder if I
have any demonstrable proof.
Unlike a scientific proof whose reliability depends upon
laboratory duplication, I submit the news my daughter Kimmy
shared with me when she called today, the 22nd day of
November. The excitement and glee in her voice struck a much
needed chord to complete this day, to round it out, to make
the circle whole. “Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown
firm! I’ll have an office with a view from the 39th floor
overlooking downtown. It’s just what I wanted!”
That I feel pretty much sums up what happened today
when divine balance and even-handedness manifested
themselves very dramatically. When the worst day five years
ago became a better day today!
[1] I give thanks to you …
[2] every day
[3] mercy and justice
"Ha gomel l’hayavim tovos …”
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true that we do not know the persons whose names
will be inscribed in the Sefer Chaim,[4] it is no less true we do
not know whose names will be sealed in the same Sefer Chaim when Yom Kippur is over and the Aron Kodesh[5] has been closed for the
last time. Such matters, I understand, belong exclusively to
the Dayan Emes.[6] However, as an added measure of comfort
and hopeful expectation, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and
tshuva[7] will be sufficiently meritorious to avert the evil decree
and spare us the pain of personal tragedy. The din[8] of these
existential issues lies beyond our province or that which Rabbi
Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
How then might we explain what are in fact “near misses”
with death? Can we explain them rationally or should we
simply label them as miracles and be done with it? If as
miracles, they are different than the miraculous inversions of
nature found in the Torah or the innumerable miracles we
encounter daily: sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-
all of which we like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about
blind luck, the roll of the dice or the chaos of randomness?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world?” Perhaps so but with this essential caveat: Faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but it does strengthen us when
we are most vulnerable and in need of additional comfort,
endurance and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of our
human powerlessness makes sense only when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone and almost instantaneously began
to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened. She had witnessed a
collision on the interstate. Pulling over to assist its victims,
she met my daughter Kimberly who had lost control of her
steering wheel when an eighteen-wheeler she was attempting
to pass forced her onto the shoulder from the passing lane.
Crossing the grassy median, Kimberly struck a van headed in
the opposite direction. By this point in the story, my heart was
racing so I could barely contain myself. I was becoming
impatient. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day rushed into my head.
She continued on. Convinced that Kimberly hadn’t sustained
injury, the caller promised she would call me. Meanwhile,
state troopers had arrived on the scene. I thanked her
profusely for her kindness shown my daughter and hung up
the telephone so hurriedly that I realized I had forgotten to
write down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. I raced away to bring my daughter
home. Along the way, I called the number Kimberly’s angel
had given me of the state trooper who was at the scene.
Exceedingly kind, she reassured me that Kimberly was safe
and had emerged without a scratch. Within an hour, having
exceeded the speed limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared
an explanation, I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the
service station that had towed her car. We returned home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. Before heading home, I took several minutes and
gaped incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and
only response was to thank Him for bestowing this great
kindness upon me.
Not long after, I had Kimmy and her boyfriend over for
Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my fiancé. The table,
beautifully set, awaited us; its candles aglow. It is my custom to light a
ner nechuma for my son Ben every Friday night before
Shabbes begins … sort of bridging the distance between us. We sat down.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[9] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by my side.” A slight tremble animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker …” as I sanctified the wine.
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the Holy Ark containing The Torah
[6] the True Judge
[7] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[8] judgement
[9] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
6/5/07
I present several revisions of chapters from In Memory of Ben. Let me know what you think.
Simply … Musings
We acknowledge His role in procreation
together anew with mother and father.
We offer thanks for His blessings.
It is the right thing to do!
When a child is born, we joyously exclaim:
“Baruch Ha Shem!”[1]
When a child dies, we say softly:
“Baruch Dayan Emes!”[2]
Still why? His answer lies in His silence.
Our hope is to draw ourselves closer to Him.
“Shma koli b’yom ekra”[3]
[1] Blessed be The Name.
[2] Blessed is The True Judge
[3] Hear my voice the day I call you.
To Have His Own Place
I have yet to define the parameters of my role in Ben's life
nearly five years since his passing. As his dad, I blurred the
line between my obligation to care for him and his need to
become self-reliant. However much this may describe a
common parental predicament, it became magnified in Ben’s
case. Plaguing me was my worriment that diabetes would not
allow him to live his life well as a self-sustaining adult.
“Hi, Ben. Come on in,” I welcomed my son to my apartment for
our regular Thursday night dinner.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up? He asked with his characteristic broad
smile.
“Eh, you know, same old stuff,” I responded, mixing
conversation with dinner preparation.
“When’s dinner ready?” he hungrily inquired with one of his
favorite questions.
“Pretty soon, son. Why? Got plans?” I continued slicing
chicken breasts. “Ben?” I looked up as I always did when he
didn’t respond right away. Grabbing the plastic honey bear, I
immobilized him with a headlock; yes, just like you see on
professional wrestling. With my right hand, I forced the plastic
tip of the honey container between his lips and clenched teeth.
Honey, saliva and blood splattered all over. After squeezing in
as much as three tablespoons, I let go of the honey and
pinched his mouth open by squeezing his cheeks with my
right thumb and middle finger. Spreading whatever honey he
hadn’t spat out, I coated his gums and the inside of his
cheeks. He quieted after several minutes.
So it was with good reason I was preoccupied for years
with worriment over who'd be there for Ben if he became hypoglycemic?
Could I realistically count on a roommate?
How would he be able to live on his own even with well-regulated blood sugars?
His history of hypoglycemic seizures, especially common in the early
morning hours, led me to wonder if he might ever be able to
live on his own? And, if not, how would I ever be able to convince him of this?
Even with well-regulated blood sugars, all it takes is
one unattended mistake, a break in routine, that can lead to catastrophe.
Ben, who struggled with and against good diabetes management
throughout his eleven years as a diabetic, spoke frequently of his wish to have his own place.
If it could only have been so easy! Based on telephone
conversations she had had with her brother, Kimberly, Ben's sister,
remarked that she felt Ben had become frustrated still living at
home whereas she had already been living on her own since
her junior year in college.
I am sure it bothered him to see his younger sister making greater strides in life
than he. After all, he was her big brother.
All I ever wanted for Ben was that life's bitter side leave Ben
alone, let him be. It never did.
Five Years Ago
May our lives be blessed with good health, family and
livelihood, but our children … won’t they always be happy,
healthy and well? Should calamity happen, it will befall
someone else, won't it? What happens though when this
comfortable assumption fails, when our safe zone is violated?
When the sudden fatality of an accident turns our world
upside down? When we are propelled into an arena of life for
which we have neither the preparation nor the expectation
we'd ever need it.
I grieve for Ben while reshaping my life without
him. Its permanence, the absoluteness of his absence gives me
reason to pause and ponder what the rest of my life will be
like. The most frustrating part is I am no closer to an answer
now than before. It may be there is no answer. Bewildered by
Ben’s absence as if adrift in a small boat tending in no
particular direction, I turn my mind over in the hope it’ll give
up long forgotten memories. Looking back to an earlier time
when Ben was healthy, happier and our lives normal, I
ruminate about whether I ran on “automatic parenting” and, if
so, for how long? I realize the preponderance of my
memories is from the latter half of Ben’s life, a troubled period
of nearly twelve years during which our battle against diabetes
and epilepsy was unrelenting.
Ben was prototypical of people who live “for the
moment” whose wristwatch always reads: “Now!” That is what,
I guess, makes it extraordinarily difficult to be and live without
Ben. He lived only in the present tense. Death took him before
he could examine his roots. He never much bothered to
think about his future though I exhorted him to do so more
than he liked. It’s as if you expect him to crash through the
door on his skateboard. You never stop waiting though
somehow you know it is not going to happen.
As much as we dread the passage of another year without
Ben, reminders invariably start arriving in the mail that
another yahrzeit[1] nears. The yahrzeit notice reflects an act of
chesed[2] “bein adam v’chavero.”[3] It reminds us of our
obligation to say Kaddish[4] in memory of our loved ones.
A grieving parent lives life differently than before. As
difficult to achieve as to maintain, equilibrium treads a fine
line between a tragic past and an uncertain tomorrow. As the
yomin noraim[5] approach, I tend toward reflections of which I
believe the saddest is … though I grow older, Ben does not.
While waiting one evening to say ma’ariv, the evening prayer, Rabbi Louis
commented how we tend to have our loved ones in mind more
so at this time of year than at any other. Turning toward the
memorial plaques, I grew misty as I looked at Ben’s name.
[1] Reminders of the anniversary of a loved one’s death typically sent out by synagogues, funeral homes and the Chevra Kadisha, Jewish Sacred Society
[2] kindness
[3] literally: between a man and his fellow …
[4] sanctification of God’s name; a prayer said in memory of a loved one in the presence of a minyan.
[5] Hebrew: the Days of Awe, the first ten days of Tishrei
Every Day is Thanksgiving
We celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of
November. As a Jew, I observe Jewish “Thanksgiving” upon
awakening each morning by saying: “Modei ani lefanecha …” [1]
What makes Jewish Thanksgiving different from the non-
sectarian American holiday?
We thank Him “yom yom”[2] by praising His name in good
times and bad. We do not welcome bad tidings but our faith in
His rachomim and din[3] teaches us that bad tidings do turn
out for the best especially when it is not readily apparent.
I received an email from a dear friend who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what as best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
Now I admit to being befuddled by the timing of the note, but I
let it go until later that evening. While having coffee tonight,
my fiance asked me how my day had gone. And then it hit me,
the timing of the email. Today marked the fifth secular
anniversary of my son’s passing on November 22, 2000, which
fell out on the day before Thanksgiving. That is how I
remember that day-not by its date so much as by the tragic
irony of a Thanksgiving marked by Ben’s death.
In keeping with my theme there is balance in our lives and
order in our world although they may seem hidden and at the
mercy of random collisions of chance, you may wonder if I
have any demonstrable proof.
Unlike a scientific proof whose reliability depends upon
laboratory duplication, I submit the news my daughter Kimmy
shared with me when she called today, the 22nd day of
November. The excitement and glee in her voice struck a much
needed chord to complete this day, to round it out, to make
the circle whole. “Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown
firm! I’ll have an office with a view from the 39th floor
overlooking downtown. It’s just what I wanted!”
That I feel pretty much sums up what happened today
when divine balance and even-handedness manifested
themselves very dramatically. When the worst day five years
ago became a better day today!
[1] I give thanks to you …
[2] every day
[3] mercy and justice
"Ha gomel l’hayavim tovos …”
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true that we do not know the persons whose names
will be inscribed in the Sefer Chaim,[4] it is no less true we do
not know whose names will be sealed in the same Sefer Chaim when Yom Kippur is over and the Aron Kodesh[5] has been closed for the
last time. Such matters, I understand, belong exclusively to
the Dayan Emes.[6] However, as an added measure of comfort
and hopeful expectation, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and
tshuva[7] will be sufficiently meritorious to avert the evil decree
and spare us the pain of personal tragedy. The din[8] of these
existential issues lies beyond our province or that which Rabbi
Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
How then might we explain what are in fact “near misses”
with death? Can we explain them rationally or should we
simply label them as miracles and be done with it? If as
miracles, they are different than the miraculous inversions of
nature found in the Torah or the innumerable miracles we
encounter daily: sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-
all of which we like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about
blind luck, the roll of the dice or the chaos of randomness?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world?” Perhaps so but with this essential caveat: Faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but it does strengthen us when
we are most vulnerable and in need of additional comfort,
endurance and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of our
human powerlessness makes sense only when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone and almost instantaneously began
to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened. She had witnessed a
collision on the interstate. Pulling over to assist its victims,
she met my daughter Kimberly who had lost control of her
steering wheel when an eighteen-wheeler she was attempting
to pass forced her onto the shoulder from the passing lane.
Crossing the grassy median, Kimberly struck a van headed in
the opposite direction. By this point in the story, my heart was
racing so I could barely contain myself. I was becoming
impatient. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day rushed into my head.
She continued on. Convinced that Kimberly hadn’t sustained
injury, the caller promised she would call me. Meanwhile,
state troopers had arrived on the scene. I thanked her
profusely for her kindness shown my daughter and hung up
the telephone so hurriedly that I realized I had forgotten to
write down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. I raced away to bring my daughter
home. Along the way, I called the number Kimberly’s angel
had given me of the state trooper who was at the scene.
Exceedingly kind, she reassured me that Kimberly was safe
and had emerged without a scratch. Within an hour, having
exceeded the speed limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared
an explanation, I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the
service station that had towed her car. We returned home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. Before heading home, I took several minutes and
gaped incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and
only response was to thank Him for bestowing this great
kindness upon me.
Not long after, I had Kimmy and her boyfriend over for
Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my fiancé. The table,
beautifully set, awaited us; its candles aglow. It is my custom to light a
ner nechuma for my son Ben every Friday night before
Shabbes begins … sort of bridging the distance between us. We sat down.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[9] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by my side.” A slight tremble animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker …” as I sanctified the wine.
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the Holy Ark containing The Torah
[6] the True Judge
[7] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[8] judgement
[9] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
6/5/07
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