Wednesday, June 27, 2007

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

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.

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

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.

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