Weeping For Loves Lost ...
She said I had never grieved for Ben. Now what I think she may have meant is my
grief for my late son Ben hasn't come to an end, and to the extent that that is true I cannot get
on with the rest of my life. Now there is a problem or two with that point of view: first, let me
state unequivocally there is no end to grief; it is on-going and-as much a part of a bereaved
parent's eveyday life as heading off to work or tidying up the house. Grief becomes, in effect, a
constant in the equation of one's routine.
Closer to the truth of this matter is that I first mourned for our loss of Ben-bound by the
framework of Jewish law and custom- moved onto grief and have never stopped grieving for
him. Grieving for a lost child in not at all like thumbing through old photos that you put away
when you have had enough. No, it is an interminable process-actually over variable stretches of
time it becomes a presence, a part of oneself, a companion.
Memorializing that "presence" is entirely individualized. Each parent finds an appropriate
expression. I chose to write a book. It was something I needed to do.Now unless you don't
already know, this business of book writing is a protracted process; as a matter of fact, writing
mostly consists of rewriting and-as once defined by noted historian William Appleman Williams-
it is the art of applying the seat of one's pants to the seat of one's chair and remaining there until
you have something on paper. Searching for that precise word, that ever so elusive turn of
phrase that will clinch it for the reader-such strivings for that illusive "perfection" take time and
unfathomable amounts of patience.'
The stakes were and remain so high; at risk: my happiness, future, life itself. There were
times when I drove myself hard to finish a chapter, tweek a sentence, give voice to an
amorphous thought. And I know now that regretably too often I was driving myself too hard. It
is almost as if I had been promised a reunification of his body and soul were I to realize that my
son's story needed to be told and that I could do it- everything and more depended on it.
We each choose a "derech," a road, a way, a path. Yes, and one can reasonably expect there
will be detours, rough pavement and traffic snarls along the way. While livng with
loss, one mustn't forsake the living to memorialize the dead. There is, in fact, a time and
place for everything. My most difficult challenge has been to find the balance between my life
and remembering my son's life because we all know what happens when we lose our balance.
That's right ... and the getting up-you can be sure-is indeed painful.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Dear Readers,
This story is a revision of a chapter from my unpublished manuscript. It symbolizes a "moving on" of sorts even though it's a look into the past. I dedicate it to all my dear friends and relatives and to my daughter "Kimushkele" (an endearment) in particular who have sheparded me through some very rough times of late, and I am thankful they have chosen to stick by me in good times and bad, especially in the latter when love's mettle is cast into the fiery furnace. If it truly is love as its claimant says it is, then it'll be steeled, strengthened by trial, as it were, but if it had never been the real thing, not only would it never survive the fiery furnace but will in fact run away from such a challenge, revealing that at best it was never more than a mere chimera.
Ben’s Cough: Story of An Act of Trust and Kindness
We seldom hear of the many acts of decency
and loving-kindness that make this world a better
place. In a world ever tending toward chaos, knowledge
of such acts of human decency would renew our flagging
hope in hope itself if we heard about them more frequently.
Ben's mom booked a weekend stay for our family in
Wisconsin. It would be just right, far away sufficiently to make
it seem like a vacation but conveniently only two hours from
home.
Our kids were young then and, as with any family outing,
its anticipation was at least as much fun as all the good stuff
you do after you get there. However, the ride up turned out a
bit bumpy. We had set out in one of two family cars, the one
we thought might afford us the more comfortable ride.
And it was going well until after we had gone about ten
miles from home. An old mechanical problem that hadn’t
arisen in a while arose. We pulled over. Oh, not to worry, my
wife and I knew what the problem was and that it couldn’t be
repaired anytime too soon.
“Okay let’s do this,” she began. “Wait here with the kids at
Dunkin Donuts, and I’ll get the other car.”
“How are you gonna do that?”
“We’ll call the auto club. They’ll tow the car back home and
give me a ride at the same time, right?”
“Yep. Sounds like a plan.”
And it was a good one at that. Two hours later, she
was back driving our other car, we packed the trunk, and off
we went uneventfully to the hotel.
Arriving about 2:00 or so, we checked in while the kids ran
off to our room, put on their suits and hurried over to the pool.
We spent the rest of the day relaxing and having fun.
Hours later while we were asleep at 2:30 a.m., Ben began
coughing and coughing and coughing. Believe me when I tell
you it wasn’t a merely ticklish, sore throat, but an unrelenting
deep hacking. Always a sound sleeper, Ben’s mom … slept. So
did Kimmy, but Ben and I were up.
“Give him some cough syrup, right?’
“Well, we forgot it!”
‘Should be a quick fix anyway, right?’
“Wrong!
Ben was diabetic and could not take other than
sugar-free cough medicine, a product not available
everywhere. I checked the phone book and learned
the nearest 24-hour pharmacy was an hour away in
Milwaukee. There just had to be something closer.
Meanwhile, Ben continued coughing uninterruptedly.
Unless I took action quickly, I feared, it might precipitate
an episode of hypoglycemia –a consequence I wished to
avoid at all costs.
So I decided to leave on what became a frenzied mission to
buy sugar-free cough medicine somehow, somewhere at about
3:00 in the wee hours of the morning. I assure you it is not an
easy order to fill.
Grabbing my keys, I got in my car and raced up and down
the local highway until I found a mini-mart at 3:30 a.m.
Although the store was closed at that hour, one could
purchase gas from the attendant seated in a glass
booth. Worried he might sense the transparency of my
smile or even worse call the police, I approached him
reluctantly, feigning normalcy as well I could. Sensing
my presence, the attendant diverted his eyes from his
magazine and looked up-a mien of supreme indifference
etched on his face.
“Uh, excuse me, sir. I know your store is closed, but I have a
sick child at home and am in search of a special medicine.
Might I come in for a moment?" I pled.
“Well,” he paused, looking around and me over, “uh, … okay,
come on in.”
He buzzed me in which he needn’t have done. Under no
obligation to risk his job or put himself in harm’s way, he
would have been perfectly justified had he not done so but
he did! His choice, I prefer to think, was an act of
trust! He took a risk although it is probably true he wasn’t
thinking about any of this at the time. Even more amazing was
the one single bottle of the cough medicine I sought sitting on
the shelf. Snatching it as if there were someone else in the
store looking for the same thing, I paid the clerk, thanked him
profusely, and sped away anxiously hoping my successful
efforts may not have come too late.
Several minutes later, I was greatly relieved to find
everyone exactly as I had left them.
“I got it,” I shouted in a hushed tone.
“Open. Say ‘ahhhh.’”
“But Dad I hate cough syrup,” he protested, hoping I’d
back down.
“Ben, at this point, I don’t really care. Now open,” I insisted.
Notwithstanding his dislike of cough medicine, I
would not tolerate anything less than a fully cooperative
and silent mouth! Ben would swallow it regardless of its taste
which, by the way, he did. Within minutes his coughing
stopped. There was still time left. Together we dozed off.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 7/26/07
Copyright 2007
This story is a revision of a chapter from my unpublished manuscript. It symbolizes a "moving on" of sorts even though it's a look into the past. I dedicate it to all my dear friends and relatives and to my daughter "Kimushkele" (an endearment) in particular who have sheparded me through some very rough times of late, and I am thankful they have chosen to stick by me in good times and bad, especially in the latter when love's mettle is cast into the fiery furnace. If it truly is love as its claimant says it is, then it'll be steeled, strengthened by trial, as it were, but if it had never been the real thing, not only would it never survive the fiery furnace but will in fact run away from such a challenge, revealing that at best it was never more than a mere chimera.
Ben’s Cough: Story of An Act of Trust and Kindness
We seldom hear of the many acts of decency
and loving-kindness that make this world a better
place. In a world ever tending toward chaos, knowledge
of such acts of human decency would renew our flagging
hope in hope itself if we heard about them more frequently.
Ben's mom booked a weekend stay for our family in
Wisconsin. It would be just right, far away sufficiently to make
it seem like a vacation but conveniently only two hours from
home.
Our kids were young then and, as with any family outing,
its anticipation was at least as much fun as all the good stuff
you do after you get there. However, the ride up turned out a
bit bumpy. We had set out in one of two family cars, the one
we thought might afford us the more comfortable ride.
And it was going well until after we had gone about ten
miles from home. An old mechanical problem that hadn’t
arisen in a while arose. We pulled over. Oh, not to worry, my
wife and I knew what the problem was and that it couldn’t be
repaired anytime too soon.
“Okay let’s do this,” she began. “Wait here with the kids at
Dunkin Donuts, and I’ll get the other car.”
“How are you gonna do that?”
“We’ll call the auto club. They’ll tow the car back home and
give me a ride at the same time, right?”
“Yep. Sounds like a plan.”
And it was a good one at that. Two hours later, she
was back driving our other car, we packed the trunk, and off
we went uneventfully to the hotel.
Arriving about 2:00 or so, we checked in while the kids ran
off to our room, put on their suits and hurried over to the pool.
We spent the rest of the day relaxing and having fun.
Hours later while we were asleep at 2:30 a.m., Ben began
coughing and coughing and coughing. Believe me when I tell
you it wasn’t a merely ticklish, sore throat, but an unrelenting
deep hacking. Always a sound sleeper, Ben’s mom … slept. So
did Kimmy, but Ben and I were up.
“Give him some cough syrup, right?’
“Well, we forgot it!”
‘Should be a quick fix anyway, right?’
“Wrong!
Ben was diabetic and could not take other than
sugar-free cough medicine, a product not available
everywhere. I checked the phone book and learned
the nearest 24-hour pharmacy was an hour away in
Milwaukee. There just had to be something closer.
Meanwhile, Ben continued coughing uninterruptedly.
Unless I took action quickly, I feared, it might precipitate
an episode of hypoglycemia –a consequence I wished to
avoid at all costs.
So I decided to leave on what became a frenzied mission to
buy sugar-free cough medicine somehow, somewhere at about
3:00 in the wee hours of the morning. I assure you it is not an
easy order to fill.
Grabbing my keys, I got in my car and raced up and down
the local highway until I found a mini-mart at 3:30 a.m.
Although the store was closed at that hour, one could
purchase gas from the attendant seated in a glass
booth. Worried he might sense the transparency of my
smile or even worse call the police, I approached him
reluctantly, feigning normalcy as well I could. Sensing
my presence, the attendant diverted his eyes from his
magazine and looked up-a mien of supreme indifference
etched on his face.
“Uh, excuse me, sir. I know your store is closed, but I have a
sick child at home and am in search of a special medicine.
Might I come in for a moment?" I pled.
“Well,” he paused, looking around and me over, “uh, … okay,
come on in.”
He buzzed me in which he needn’t have done. Under no
obligation to risk his job or put himself in harm’s way, he
would have been perfectly justified had he not done so but
he did! His choice, I prefer to think, was an act of
trust! He took a risk although it is probably true he wasn’t
thinking about any of this at the time. Even more amazing was
the one single bottle of the cough medicine I sought sitting on
the shelf. Snatching it as if there were someone else in the
store looking for the same thing, I paid the clerk, thanked him
profusely, and sped away anxiously hoping my successful
efforts may not have come too late.
Several minutes later, I was greatly relieved to find
everyone exactly as I had left them.
“I got it,” I shouted in a hushed tone.
“Open. Say ‘ahhhh.’”
“But Dad I hate cough syrup,” he protested, hoping I’d
back down.
“Ben, at this point, I don’t really care. Now open,” I insisted.
Notwithstanding his dislike of cough medicine, I
would not tolerate anything less than a fully cooperative
and silent mouth! Ben would swallow it regardless of its taste
which, by the way, he did. Within minutes his coughing
stopped. There was still time left. Together we dozed off.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 7/26/07
Copyright 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
“Lamentations”
(Special thanks to my teacher Ruchama King Feuerman and my fellow students.)
I mourn our "death" as kallah and chossen. Our marriage ended after only fifteen
months. I won't remark how sadly apropos its timing may seem, but the fact
remains that its coincidence with the Ninth of Av seems to call out for attention.
The Jewish people mourns its many national calamities on this day, Tisha B' Av, starting with
the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash through the Churban of the Second World War right up
to the contemporary threat of "Islamofascism" to destroy the Jewish state. It is said that
whomever does not mourn the ancient destruction of Jerusalem, "Ir Ha Kodesh," will not merit
to celebrate its messianic restoration.
I too am practiced in the ways of mourning. The effects of personal calamity have
accompanied me since the death of my son Benjamin in November of 2000. As profoundly
devastating as is our national past, so too are the beats of a broken heart and the tangibly
nagging pain in my gut. To my beloved I turn whose love I have lost.
On the day when Jews worldwide will publicly mourn a plethora of tragedies that have
befallen them on this joyless day, my own sense of national mourning is diminished. I struggle
to accept the absence of my kallah whose genuine return I should no longer expect.
I remain in isolation for several days. Grief darkens my days and nights. I turn to my shul
community for comfort and companionship. There I met an elderly man patiently awaiting
Mincha.
"Good evening, Sir."
"Good Evening," he responded with the slightest hint of a smile. “I was worried
we would not have a minyan. It's nearly time, and I've yahrzeit for Ma'ariv.
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan, guaranteed. Please
don't worry about that. Your name, Sir?” I asked.
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.
I saw he had chosen to almost say"Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but did not.
A slight man with rounded back, he seemed a tiny bit hard of hearing, a little nervous and quite
sad.
"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents, you have
yahrzeit?” Twisting his left arm over with the assistance of his right hand, he
showed me six numbers. Looking up at me with his glistening eyes, they
bespoke the truth, but his lips uttered "my parents" whisperingly. Only
moments before had I looked at his arms for that same sign but did not see it.
Just a slight rotation of his forearm revealed the green subcutaneous numerals.
I was moved.
Though I had seen such tattoos before, in Reb Talisman's case, he presented his
almost as if it were a badge, of honor or shame, I am not sure. Sunken and sallow, his eyes
looked to me as if he had been crying and were underscored by dark rings-a sign almost as
indelibly permanent as the horror of his tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," pointing to the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella
Soloveitchik Beis Medrash, some twenty paces down the hallway from where
we stood. Together we opened the door. Reb Dalisman paused.
"Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed
there was. Rabbi Louis, looking perturbed, was just finishing up as the bar mitzvah boy chimed
his way through Kaddish Shalem. Rabbi- seeing that I was escorting an elderly gentleman to
minyan-saved his upset for the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut
the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it's 8:05. Time,"said Benzie, emphatically pointing repeatedly to the face of his watch.
Reb Talisman slowly approached the one chair unlike any other in the beis
medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the stackable variety, well-
cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly pink in color. It had been the favorite
of Reb Helman, the late father of Rabbi Louis's wife Sara Etta. Rabbi gave a klop on
his shtender.
"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha ... ," we davened Mincha, but when came time for Ma'ariv, I had lost all
my kevana, my focus. I began thinking of her, she filled my head, and I knew she'd not be
home when I opened the door. Now I am aware one should look toward the
heavens should he feel his devotion waning, but I just couldn't. I closed my
siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to meet me." I turned to
the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice! Oh … just one of the
younger guys.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said appreciatively. I touched his arm hoping to comfort him. He nodded a
"thank you" as he got into his car.
I watched as he drove away while I fumbled for my keys.
Living close to the shul does have its advantages, but proximity does not allow for much
reflection. I'm good at tiny acts of self-deception and within the time space of one minute, I
convinced myself that her car might be in the driveway. My heart felt lighter though it pounded
desperately.
"How nachesdik would it be to share this story with her!" I turned on the ignition.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected.
Others grieve too as do I for love lost. Bringing a smile to a thin, worn face and lightening the
burden of an elderly Jew made this one of the nine days just a little less grievous. For my
Kallah's return, I remain helplessly hopeful.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 7/23/07
7/17/07
(Special thanks to my teacher Ruchama King Feuerman and my fellow students.)
I mourn our "death" as kallah and chossen. Our marriage ended after only fifteen
months. I won't remark how sadly apropos its timing may seem, but the fact
remains that its coincidence with the Ninth of Av seems to call out for attention.
The Jewish people mourns its many national calamities on this day, Tisha B' Av, starting with
the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash through the Churban of the Second World War right up
to the contemporary threat of "Islamofascism" to destroy the Jewish state. It is said that
whomever does not mourn the ancient destruction of Jerusalem, "Ir Ha Kodesh," will not merit
to celebrate its messianic restoration.
I too am practiced in the ways of mourning. The effects of personal calamity have
accompanied me since the death of my son Benjamin in November of 2000. As profoundly
devastating as is our national past, so too are the beats of a broken heart and the tangibly
nagging pain in my gut. To my beloved I turn whose love I have lost.
On the day when Jews worldwide will publicly mourn a plethora of tragedies that have
befallen them on this joyless day, my own sense of national mourning is diminished. I struggle
to accept the absence of my kallah whose genuine return I should no longer expect.
I remain in isolation for several days. Grief darkens my days and nights. I turn to my shul
community for comfort and companionship. There I met an elderly man patiently awaiting
Mincha.
"Good evening, Sir."
"Good Evening," he responded with the slightest hint of a smile. “I was worried
we would not have a minyan. It's nearly time, and I've yahrzeit for Ma'ariv.
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan, guaranteed. Please
don't worry about that. Your name, Sir?” I asked.
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.
I saw he had chosen to almost say"Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but did not.
A slight man with rounded back, he seemed a tiny bit hard of hearing, a little nervous and quite
sad.
"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents, you have
yahrzeit?” Twisting his left arm over with the assistance of his right hand, he
showed me six numbers. Looking up at me with his glistening eyes, they
bespoke the truth, but his lips uttered "my parents" whisperingly. Only
moments before had I looked at his arms for that same sign but did not see it.
Just a slight rotation of his forearm revealed the green subcutaneous numerals.
I was moved.
Though I had seen such tattoos before, in Reb Talisman's case, he presented his
almost as if it were a badge, of honor or shame, I am not sure. Sunken and sallow, his eyes
looked to me as if he had been crying and were underscored by dark rings-a sign almost as
indelibly permanent as the horror of his tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," pointing to the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella
Soloveitchik Beis Medrash, some twenty paces down the hallway from where
we stood. Together we opened the door. Reb Dalisman paused.
"Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed
there was. Rabbi Louis, looking perturbed, was just finishing up as the bar mitzvah boy chimed
his way through Kaddish Shalem. Rabbi- seeing that I was escorting an elderly gentleman to
minyan-saved his upset for the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut
the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it's 8:05. Time,"said Benzie, emphatically pointing repeatedly to the face of his watch.
Reb Talisman slowly approached the one chair unlike any other in the beis
medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the stackable variety, well-
cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly pink in color. It had been the favorite
of Reb Helman, the late father of Rabbi Louis's wife Sara Etta. Rabbi gave a klop on
his shtender.
"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha ... ," we davened Mincha, but when came time for Ma'ariv, I had lost all
my kevana, my focus. I began thinking of her, she filled my head, and I knew she'd not be
home when I opened the door. Now I am aware one should look toward the
heavens should he feel his devotion waning, but I just couldn't. I closed my
siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to meet me." I turned to
the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice! Oh … just one of the
younger guys.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said appreciatively. I touched his arm hoping to comfort him. He nodded a
"thank you" as he got into his car.
I watched as he drove away while I fumbled for my keys.
Living close to the shul does have its advantages, but proximity does not allow for much
reflection. I'm good at tiny acts of self-deception and within the time space of one minute, I
convinced myself that her car might be in the driveway. My heart felt lighter though it pounded
desperately.
"How nachesdik would it be to share this story with her!" I turned on the ignition.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected.
Others grieve too as do I for love lost. Bringing a smile to a thin, worn face and lightening the
burden of an elderly Jew made this one of the nine days just a little less grievous. For my
Kallah's return, I remain helplessly hopeful.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 7/23/07
7/17/07
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Dear Readers,
Special thanks to my friend Renee for one of the key ideas in this post!
All these words I dedicate to my Kallah. May she be safe!
In the previous post, I told you the number of persons with whom I bond makes up a mere handful of souls. I suppose that is not so entirely unusual, but it does certainly acknowledge the veracity of the adage that Quality-not Quantity-is the measure by which friendship becomes love.
While seeking to avoid the truly "schmaltzdik," we see love exists between two persons when both are willing, able and ready to give of themselves to the other. In that case, we have what I'll call "reciprocal love." There is also for lack of a better name "potentially reciprocal love." In this instance, one of the two cannot yet and/or is not ready to give of him/herself to the point of willingly making excruciating sacrifices. That ability will come, let us hope, in time but at present it's not quite there. This particular issue has no necessary linkage to the ability to make proper moral choices.
So what happens? Here, I'll tell it like this ... I will let go of my Kallah because at this point in time, there is an existential void in her experience that can be filled only by her leaving and my letting go. Do I like it? No, of course not, but I demonstrate my love for her by not standing in her way so that she will be able to fill the void she truly believes needs filling. If she cannot, happiness will elude her. And if she is not happy, then neither can I be. In this way, she leaves knowing who loves her. It is not unlike the unconditional nature of the love we have for our children.
Mind you, I am no hero or anyone seeking the martyr of the year award. I would rather she not need to go and i've got the tear-saturated tissues to prove it, but my choices are limited. By not standing in her way, she witnesses indisputable proof of my love for her. Of course, I do not like it but there are such times in life when letting go is the only right choice. Difficult? May you never have to find out! Though it is equally true that anything less would constitute selfish, stifling greed.
This is why the song "Time to Say Goodbye" is so gut wrenchingly painful because it speaks to one of life's several great truths ... that to love another genuinely requires that, as in this instance, I let go. And it isn't that my fingertips were not doing their "darndest" to hold her close! But the fact remains, and this you could not have known. She always beat me in thumb wrestling! Were life not so complex, such problems would not arise, but they do.
So, I am entirely confident my Kallah knows I love her enough to say goodbye. One more point ... I do not believe in changing locks. That would render the new copy of the housekey I'm going to have made and give her rather moot, wouldn't it?
You ask ... what if she does not come back? To which I respond ... I am thankful for the time we did have together rather than bemoaning the time we didn't. I have written elsewhere that I will never say-once upon a time-I HAD a son named Ben. He is and will always remain in my present tense. So it is with my Kallah. Though she has left, she is not in my past but will remain in my present tense. In this way, the door not only remains open but unlocked! Should I forget, well ... you'll have your key, right?
Special thanks to my friend Renee for one of the key ideas in this post!
All these words I dedicate to my Kallah. May she be safe!
In the previous post, I told you the number of persons with whom I bond makes up a mere handful of souls. I suppose that is not so entirely unusual, but it does certainly acknowledge the veracity of the adage that Quality-not Quantity-is the measure by which friendship becomes love.
While seeking to avoid the truly "schmaltzdik," we see love exists between two persons when both are willing, able and ready to give of themselves to the other. In that case, we have what I'll call "reciprocal love." There is also for lack of a better name "potentially reciprocal love." In this instance, one of the two cannot yet and/or is not ready to give of him/herself to the point of willingly making excruciating sacrifices. That ability will come, let us hope, in time but at present it's not quite there. This particular issue has no necessary linkage to the ability to make proper moral choices.
So what happens? Here, I'll tell it like this ... I will let go of my Kallah because at this point in time, there is an existential void in her experience that can be filled only by her leaving and my letting go. Do I like it? No, of course not, but I demonstrate my love for her by not standing in her way so that she will be able to fill the void she truly believes needs filling. If she cannot, happiness will elude her. And if she is not happy, then neither can I be. In this way, she leaves knowing who loves her. It is not unlike the unconditional nature of the love we have for our children.
Mind you, I am no hero or anyone seeking the martyr of the year award. I would rather she not need to go and i've got the tear-saturated tissues to prove it, but my choices are limited. By not standing in her way, she witnesses indisputable proof of my love for her. Of course, I do not like it but there are such times in life when letting go is the only right choice. Difficult? May you never have to find out! Though it is equally true that anything less would constitute selfish, stifling greed.
This is why the song "Time to Say Goodbye" is so gut wrenchingly painful because it speaks to one of life's several great truths ... that to love another genuinely requires that, as in this instance, I let go. And it isn't that my fingertips were not doing their "darndest" to hold her close! But the fact remains, and this you could not have known. She always beat me in thumb wrestling! Were life not so complex, such problems would not arise, but they do.
So, I am entirely confident my Kallah knows I love her enough to say goodbye. One more point ... I do not believe in changing locks. That would render the new copy of the housekey I'm going to have made and give her rather moot, wouldn't it?
You ask ... what if she does not come back? To which I respond ... I am thankful for the time we did have together rather than bemoaning the time we didn't. I have written elsewhere that I will never say-once upon a time-I HAD a son named Ben. He is and will always remain in my present tense. So it is with my Kallah. Though she has left, she is not in my past but will remain in my present tense. In this way, the door not only remains open but unlocked! Should I forget, well ... you'll have your key, right?
See you at Starbucks.
Alan
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Dear Readers,
This post is a revision of the previous one. I apologize if I'm driving you crazy with revisions and more revisions, but it's what I do. Writing is best defined as "rewriting."
Those who know me closely know how few are the persons to whom I bond closely. And that bond is so extraordinarily strong that there is nothing I wouldn't do for them. They know who they are. I make no secret about my love for them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I mourn the "death" of "us", of my kallah[1] and me whose marriage lasted but
fifteen months. Sadly, I became all too familiar with the pain of mourning
following the death of my son Benjamin in November of 2000. And as maudlin
as it may sound, I can tell you there is something frighteningly tangible about a
broken heart and the nagging pain in my gut.
Soon Tisha b’Av, the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av, will be upon us
when Jews worldwide will publicly mourn the destruction of the Beis Ha
Mikdash[2] along with a plethora of innumerable tragedies that befell
us on this joyless day throughout the centuries.
My own sense of mourning for the innumerable tragedies of Jewish history-
which is supposed to heighten as we near that dark day-is diminished while my
thoughts and hopes turn to my beloved whose love I have lost, but whose caring attitude and
friendship I thankfully retain.
At such times when grief monopolizes my days and nights, I turn to my shul
community for comfort and companionship. But something happened there earlier this evening
when I met an elderly man who was patiently awaiting Mincha that was scheduled to begin at
8:15.
"Good evening, Sir."
"Good Evening," he responded with the slightest hint of a smile. "I was worried
we would not have a minyan. It's nearly time, and I've yahrzeit for Ma'ariv.
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan guaranteed. Please
don't worry about that. Your name, Sir?" I asked.
"Dalisman, Irving Dalisman," he said.
I could see he almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but did not.
He seemed a tiny bit hard of hearing, a little nervous and quite sad.
"Reb Dalisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents, you have
yahrzeit?" Twisting his left arm over with the assistance of his right hand, he
showed me six numbers. He looked up at me. His glistening eyes bespoke the truth, but his lips
uttered "my parents" whisperingly. Only moments before I looked at his arms for
that same sign but did not see it. Just a small rotation of his forearm
revealed the green subcutaneous numerals. I was speechless. Not that I hadn't
ever seen such a tattoo before, but in Reb Dalisman's case, he presented it as
I had never experienced-almost as if it were a badge, of honor or shame, I am not sure.
His eyes were sunken and sallow as if he had been crying and were underscored by dark rings-a
sign almost as indelibly permanent as the horror of his tattoo. I just wanted to take care of
this man.
"This way, Reb Dalisman," pointing to the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis
Medrash, some twenty paces down the hallway from where we stood. Together we opened the
door. He paused.
"Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed
there was. Rabbi Louis was just finishing up as the "bocher" chimed his
way through Kaddish Shalem. Rabbi looked disturbed. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, he saved his upset for the next two
hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it's 8:05. Time for mincha. We have a minyan," said Benzie who, as it
happened, was one of the two who came in after us. Reb Dalisman slowly approached the one
chair unlike any other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the stackable
variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly pink in color. It had been the favorite
chair of Reb Helman, the late father of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his
shtender.
"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha ... ," we davened Mincha, but when came time for Ma'ariv, I had lost all
my kevana, my focus, and began thinking of her, and how she'd not be there when I arrived
home. Now I am aware that one should look toward the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I just couldn't. I closed my siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to meet me here."
I turned my head to the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice! Oh … just one of the
younger guys.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I followed Reb Dalisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said appreciatively. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as he got in his car and drove away.
I fumbled for my keys.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I ruminated.
And it was, I concluded, "The One Above" had sent Reb Dalisman to remind me how
others are grieving too and afford me the opportunity to perform the tiniest act of
gemilus chasadim that brought a smile to a thin, worn face and relieve an elderly Jew of his
burden if for but a moment.
I turned on the ignition. How I hoped she’d be home. I would have liked to share this story
with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
[1] Hebrew:bride
[2] The ancient Holy Temple in Jerusalem
This post is a revision of the previous one. I apologize if I'm driving you crazy with revisions and more revisions, but it's what I do. Writing is best defined as "rewriting."
Those who know me closely know how few are the persons to whom I bond closely. And that bond is so extraordinarily strong that there is nothing I wouldn't do for them. They know who they are. I make no secret about my love for them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I mourn the "death" of "us", of my kallah[1] and me whose marriage lasted but
fifteen months. Sadly, I became all too familiar with the pain of mourning
following the death of my son Benjamin in November of 2000. And as maudlin
as it may sound, I can tell you there is something frighteningly tangible about a
broken heart and the nagging pain in my gut.
Soon Tisha b’Av, the ninth day of the Hebrew month of Av, will be upon us
when Jews worldwide will publicly mourn the destruction of the Beis Ha
Mikdash[2] along with a plethora of innumerable tragedies that befell
us on this joyless day throughout the centuries.
My own sense of mourning for the innumerable tragedies of Jewish history-
which is supposed to heighten as we near that dark day-is diminished while my
thoughts and hopes turn to my beloved whose love I have lost, but whose caring attitude and
friendship I thankfully retain.
At such times when grief monopolizes my days and nights, I turn to my shul
community for comfort and companionship. But something happened there earlier this evening
when I met an elderly man who was patiently awaiting Mincha that was scheduled to begin at
8:15.
"Good evening, Sir."
"Good Evening," he responded with the slightest hint of a smile. "I was worried
we would not have a minyan. It's nearly time, and I've yahrzeit for Ma'ariv.
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan guaranteed. Please
don't worry about that. Your name, Sir?" I asked.
"Dalisman, Irving Dalisman," he said.
I could see he almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but did not.
He seemed a tiny bit hard of hearing, a little nervous and quite sad.
"Reb Dalisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents, you have
yahrzeit?" Twisting his left arm over with the assistance of his right hand, he
showed me six numbers. He looked up at me. His glistening eyes bespoke the truth, but his lips
uttered "my parents" whisperingly. Only moments before I looked at his arms for
that same sign but did not see it. Just a small rotation of his forearm
revealed the green subcutaneous numerals. I was speechless. Not that I hadn't
ever seen such a tattoo before, but in Reb Dalisman's case, he presented it as
I had never experienced-almost as if it were a badge, of honor or shame, I am not sure.
His eyes were sunken and sallow as if he had been crying and were underscored by dark rings-a
sign almost as indelibly permanent as the horror of his tattoo. I just wanted to take care of
this man.
"This way, Reb Dalisman," pointing to the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis
Medrash, some twenty paces down the hallway from where we stood. Together we opened the
door. He paused.
"Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed
there was. Rabbi Louis was just finishing up as the "bocher" chimed his
way through Kaddish Shalem. Rabbi looked disturbed. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, he saved his upset for the next two
hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it's 8:05. Time for mincha. We have a minyan," said Benzie who, as it
happened, was one of the two who came in after us. Reb Dalisman slowly approached the one
chair unlike any other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the stackable
variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly pink in color. It had been the favorite
chair of Reb Helman, the late father of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his
shtender.
"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha ... ," we davened Mincha, but when came time for Ma'ariv, I had lost all
my kevana, my focus, and began thinking of her, and how she'd not be there when I arrived
home. Now I am aware that one should look toward the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I just couldn't. I closed my siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to meet me here."
I turned my head to the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice! Oh … just one of the
younger guys.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."
The beis medrash emptied. I followed Reb Dalisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said appreciatively. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as he got in his car and drove away.
I fumbled for my keys.
"There surely has to be a lesson here," I ruminated.
And it was, I concluded, "The One Above" had sent Reb Dalisman to remind me how
others are grieving too and afford me the opportunity to perform the tiniest act of
gemilus chasadim that brought a smile to a thin, worn face and relieve an elderly Jew of his
burden if for but a moment.
I turned on the ignition. How I hoped she’d be home. I would have liked to share this story
with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
[1] Hebrew:bride
[2] The ancient Holy Temple in Jerusalem
Monday, July 16, 2007
Dear Readers,
Please read this short piece in conjunction with the previous post in which I declare my love for my kallah. It replaces the previous post.
Tonight, I went to shul as I do on most nights. Today was the first day of the Hebrew month
of Av during which on its ninth day we publicly mourn the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash as
well as a plethora of other dark days throughout the centuries of Jewish history.
This year, as we experience the "nine days" preceding Tisha B' Av, I feel the pangs of
mourning as never before- not as much, I confess, for the myriad of catastrophes that have
befallen the Jewish people on the ninth of Av, as for the "death" of "us" that was
just days before the marriage of my kallah and me. Mind you I know well the pain of mourning
and-as maudlin as it may sound- I can tell you there is something quite tangible about this
nagging pain in my gut and a broken heart.
But something happened at shul tonight. I met an elderly man who was patiently
awaiting mincha that was scheduled to begin at 8:05.
"Good evening, Sir."
"Good Evening," he responded with the slightest hint of a smile. "I was worried we would not
have a minyan. It's nearly time, and I've yahrzeit for Ma'ariv.
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan, guarenteed. Please don't worry
about that. Your name Sir," I asked.
"Dalisman, Irving Dalisman," he said. I could see he almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name,
but did not. He seemed a tiny bit hard of hearing, a little nervous and quite sad.
"Reb Dalisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents, you have yahrzeit?"
Twisting his left arm over with the assistance of his right hand, he showed me six numbers.
He looked up at me. His glistening eyes bespoke the truth, but his lips uttered "My
parents" whisperingly. Only moments before had I looked at his arms for that same sign but did
not see it. Just a small rotation of his forearm revealed the green subcutaneous numerals. I was
speechless. Not that I had never seen such numbers before, but in Reb Dalisman's case he
presented it as I had never before experienced-almost as if it were a badge, of honor or shame,
I am not sure. His eyes were sunken and sallow as if he had been crying and were underscored
by dark rings-a sign almost as indelibly permanent as the horror of his tattoo. I just wanted
to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Dalisman," pointing to the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitsin Ella Soloveitchik Beis
Medrash, some twenty paces down the hallway from where we stood. Together we opened the
door. Reb Dalisman paused.
"Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson taking place." Indeed there was.
Rabbi Louis was just finishing his lesson as the bocher chimed his way through Kaddish Shalem.
Looking somwhat perturbed, but seeing that I was escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan,
Rabbi Louis saved his upset for the next two hapless fellows who followed us in but only after we
had shut the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it's 8:05. Time for mincha. We have a minyan," said Benzie who, as it happened, was one
of the two who came in after me and Reb Dalisman.
Reb Dalisman slowly approached the one chair unlike any other in the beis medrish, a
comfortable seat though not of the stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but
peculiarly pink in color. Butted up too closely against another chair, I pulled it back. He sat down
in what had been the favorite chair of Reb Helman, the late father of Rabbi
Louis's wife, Sara Etta.
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender.
"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha ... ," we davened Mincha. But when came time for Ma'ariv, I had lost all
of my kevana, focus, and began thinking of my kallah , and how it would be that she'd not
be there when I arrived home. Now I am aware that one should look toward the heavens should
he feel his devotion waning, but I just couldn't. I closed my siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'd pass by," I mused. "Even drop in to meet me here as she had done on several
occasions." I turned my head to the doorway hearing what I had thought to be a feminine voice!
Turns out just one of the younger guys.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..." the minyan declared.
I followed Reb Dalisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said appreciatively. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as Reb Dalisman got in his car and drove away.
"There surely has to be a lesson in all of this," I ruminated, turning the ignition on.
The One Above reminded me that others are suffering too. It was as if He had sent Reb
Dalisman to remind me of this and afford me the opportunity to perform the tiniest act of
gemilus chasadim that brought a smile to a thin, worn face and relief to an elderly Jew
whose burden was lightened if for but a moment.
How I hoped she'd be home. I would have liked to share this story with her ... perhaps
tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
7/17/07
Please read this short piece in conjunction with the previous post in which I declare my love for my kallah. It replaces the previous post.
Tonight, I went to shul as I do on most nights. Today was the first day of the Hebrew month
of Av during which on its ninth day we publicly mourn the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash as
well as a plethora of other dark days throughout the centuries of Jewish history.
This year, as we experience the "nine days" preceding Tisha B' Av, I feel the pangs of
mourning as never before- not as much, I confess, for the myriad of catastrophes that have
befallen the Jewish people on the ninth of Av, as for the "death" of "us" that was
just days before the marriage of my kallah and me. Mind you I know well the pain of mourning
and-as maudlin as it may sound- I can tell you there is something quite tangible about this
nagging pain in my gut and a broken heart.
But something happened at shul tonight. I met an elderly man who was patiently
awaiting mincha that was scheduled to begin at 8:05.
"Good evening, Sir."
"Good Evening," he responded with the slightest hint of a smile. "I was worried we would not
have a minyan. It's nearly time, and I've yahrzeit for Ma'ariv.
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan, guarenteed. Please don't worry
about that. Your name Sir," I asked.
"Dalisman, Irving Dalisman," he said. I could see he almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name,
but did not. He seemed a tiny bit hard of hearing, a little nervous and quite sad.
"Reb Dalisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents, you have yahrzeit?"
Twisting his left arm over with the assistance of his right hand, he showed me six numbers.
He looked up at me. His glistening eyes bespoke the truth, but his lips uttered "My
parents" whisperingly. Only moments before had I looked at his arms for that same sign but did
not see it. Just a small rotation of his forearm revealed the green subcutaneous numerals. I was
speechless. Not that I had never seen such numbers before, but in Reb Dalisman's case he
presented it as I had never before experienced-almost as if it were a badge, of honor or shame,
I am not sure. His eyes were sunken and sallow as if he had been crying and were underscored
by dark rings-a sign almost as indelibly permanent as the horror of his tattoo. I just wanted
to take care of this man.
"This way, Reb Dalisman," pointing to the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitsin Ella Soloveitchik Beis
Medrash, some twenty paces down the hallway from where we stood. Together we opened the
door. Reb Dalisman paused.
"Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson taking place." Indeed there was.
Rabbi Louis was just finishing his lesson as the bocher chimed his way through Kaddish Shalem.
Looking somwhat perturbed, but seeing that I was escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan,
Rabbi Louis saved his upset for the next two hapless fellows who followed us in but only after we
had shut the door.
"Close it!" Rabbi barked.
"Abba, it's 8:05. Time for mincha. We have a minyan," said Benzie who, as it happened, was one
of the two who came in after me and Reb Dalisman.
Reb Dalisman slowly approached the one chair unlike any other in the beis medrish, a
comfortable seat though not of the stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but
peculiarly pink in color. Butted up too closely against another chair, I pulled it back. He sat down
in what had been the favorite chair of Reb Helman, the late father of Rabbi
Louis's wife, Sara Etta.
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender.
"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha ... ," we davened Mincha. But when came time for Ma'ariv, I had lost all
of my kevana, focus, and began thinking of my kallah , and how it would be that she'd not
be there when I arrived home. Now I am aware that one should look toward the heavens should
he feel his devotion waning, but I just couldn't. I closed my siddur and stared out the window.
"Maybe she'd pass by," I mused. "Even drop in to meet me here as she had done on several
occasions." I turned my head to the doorway hearing what I had thought to be a feminine voice!
Turns out just one of the younger guys.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..." the minyan declared.
I followed Reb Dalisman to his car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said appreciatively. I touched his arm comfortingly.
I watched as Reb Dalisman got in his car and drove away.
"There surely has to be a lesson in all of this," I ruminated, turning the ignition on.
The One Above reminded me that others are suffering too. It was as if He had sent Reb
Dalisman to remind me of this and afford me the opportunity to perform the tiniest act of
gemilus chasadim that brought a smile to a thin, worn face and relief to an elderly Jew
whose burden was lightened if for but a moment.
How I hoped she'd be home. I would have liked to share this story with her ... perhaps
tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
7/17/07
Friday, July 13, 2007
Time to Say ... I Love You
You say you needed to hear me say it before I could ...
but I wasn't ready.
I felt it though.
You and I had just begun ...
to be an "us."
It seemed so simple then,
before us nary a challenge,
except one: what to say, how to react
when folks mistook us for father and daughter.
Did we ever figure that out?
You know what?
As upsetting at times as it may have seemed ...
I think we revelled in it.
Bold but not unprecedented ...
an older man loves a much younger woman,
but perplexing was how a much younger woman
could love me?
That confounded me, even troubled me at times.
So when you said "I love you" it made me feel special.
It really did!
But I knew something then you may not have known yet.
No fault of your own.
Just a matter of time.
to show you "I love you."
I held those words back because I feared they
might be cheapened if I could not back them up with deeds.
And I wanted to give you only the very best I could because it was
for you, and that meant everything to me and ...
still does.
Because you were ready, but
I was not ...
my words for you I wanted to not utter before it was right,
but like all things for which there comes a time ....
now it is ...
I
love
you.
Alan
You say you needed to hear me say it before I could ...
but I wasn't ready.
I felt it though.
You and I had just begun ...
to be an "us."
It seemed so simple then,
before us nary a challenge,
except one: what to say, how to react
when folks mistook us for father and daughter.
Did we ever figure that out?
You know what?
As upsetting at times as it may have seemed ...
I think we revelled in it.
Bold but not unprecedented ...
an older man loves a much younger woman,
but perplexing was how a much younger woman
could love me?
That confounded me, even troubled me at times.
So when you said "I love you" it made me feel special.
It really did!
But I knew something then you may not have known yet.
No fault of your own.
Just a matter of time.
to show you "I love you."
I held those words back because I feared they
might be cheapened if I could not back them up with deeds.
And I wanted to give you only the very best I could because it was
for you, and that meant everything to me and ...
still does.
Because you were ready, but
I was not ...
my words for you I wanted to not utter before it was right,
but like all things for which there comes a time ....
now it is ...
I
love
you.
Alan
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Ben Z'L*Dear Friends,
Today, 7/11/07, is Ben's 29th birthday.
"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."*
*Z'L, Hebrew: Zichron L'vrocho (May his memory be a blessing.)
*excerpted from In Memory of Ben by Alan D. Busch
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Name: Alan D. Busch
Location: TheBookofBen.Blogspot.com
My first book, In Memory of Ben, a compendium of vignettes about the life of my late son Benjamin, Z'L, is available for sale ON CD. The cost is $15.00 plus $3.95 shipping. Personal checks are accepted with drivers' license identification It is newly revised and expanded. I am certain you will enjoy the experience of reading it although there is a great deal of sensitive material. Please scroll to the bottom of this page and click on the fourth link to read newly revised Chapter 1.
Samplings from the book and other writings are available here at www.thebookofben.blogspot.com. Click on first link below.
One chapter of my book, "Mourning's Reflections" is published in a poetry anthology Passing, a link to which is below. Click on the fifth link to read "Mourning's Reflections"
Two additional pieces, one poem "From Your Room" and an article "Musings of A Bereft Father Six Years Later" will appear in the 2007 summer edition of the magazine Living With Loss.
Please click on third link below. To read From Your Room, please click on the sixth link below.
I am pleased to announce the News Magazine of the Jewish Federation/JUF of Chicago will publish the first chapter of In Memory of Ben, I am told by its editor, in its September 2007 edition. To read the revision of Chapter 1 as it will appear in the September 2007 edition of the News Magazine of the Jewish Federation/ JUF of Chicago, click below on the link http://www.thebookofben.blogspot.com/
NEW as of 4/18/07! The online journal The Jewish Magazine has published in its May 2007 edition my article entitled "Escorting the Dead." Click Closing the Grave
Please click on the last link below New Jersey Faith Forum which features a guest posting about Ben's story.
News as of 6/21/07, the editor of Living With Loss e-mailed me: "Good news! I received a request for your article, "Musings of a Bereft Father" from the Executive Director of The Jewish Funeral Directors of America ! They would like to publish it in their annual magazine that will go out to 200 members, to the mortuary college libraries, to all of the state funeral associations, and to various national professional funeral associations."
Links:
www.TheBookofBen.blogspot.com
Passing Authors
Bereavement Publications, Inc - Your source for support on issues related to grief, bereavement and death
Newly posted, Chapter 1 (scroll down a bit ... you'll see it.)
mourning's
From Your Room http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page20.html
Musings of A Bereaved Father http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page21.html
New Jersey Faith Forum: A Father's Tribute to His Late Son
New Jersey Faith Forum: It Happened Again
Jewish Magazine Closing the Grave
http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page22.html
Location: TheBookofBen.Blogspot.com
My first book, In Memory of Ben, a compendium of vignettes about the life of my late son Benjamin, Z'L, is available for sale ON CD. The cost is $15.00 plus $3.95 shipping. Personal checks are accepted with drivers' license identification It is newly revised and expanded. I am certain you will enjoy the experience of reading it although there is a great deal of sensitive material. Please scroll to the bottom of this page and click on the fourth link to read newly revised Chapter 1.
Samplings from the book and other writings are available here at www.thebookofben.blogspot.com. Click on first link below.
One chapter of my book, "Mourning's Reflections" is published in a poetry anthology Passing, a link to which is below. Click on the fifth link to read "Mourning's Reflections"
Two additional pieces, one poem "From Your Room" and an article "Musings of A Bereft Father Six Years Later" will appear in the 2007 summer edition of the magazine Living With Loss.
Please click on third link below. To read From Your Room, please click on the sixth link below.
I am pleased to announce the News Magazine of the Jewish Federation/JUF of Chicago will publish the first chapter of In Memory of Ben, I am told by its editor, in its September 2007 edition. To read the revision of Chapter 1 as it will appear in the September 2007 edition of the News Magazine of the Jewish Federation/ JUF of Chicago, click below on the link http://www.thebookofben.blogspot.com/
NEW as of 4/18/07! The online journal The Jewish Magazine has published in its May 2007 edition my article entitled "Escorting the Dead." Click Closing the Grave
Please click on the last link below New Jersey Faith Forum which features a guest posting about Ben's story.
News as of 6/21/07, the editor of Living With Loss e-mailed me: "Good news! I received a request for your article, "Musings of a Bereft Father" from the Executive Director of The Jewish Funeral Directors of America ! They would like to publish it in their annual magazine that will go out to 200 members, to the mortuary college libraries, to all of the state funeral associations, and to various national professional funeral associations."
Links:
www.TheBookofBen.blogspot.com
Passing Authors
Bereavement Publications, Inc - Your source for support on issues related to grief, bereavement and death
Newly posted, Chapter 1 (scroll down a bit ... you'll see it.)
mourning's
From Your Room http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page20.html
Musings of A Bereaved Father http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page21.html
New Jersey Faith Forum: A Father's Tribute to His Late Son
New Jersey Faith Forum: It Happened Again
Jewish Magazine Closing the Grave
http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page22.html
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Debbie Schlussel click on this to acquaint yourself with the basics of the wrongful death of Joseph Applebaum. Any questions, email Alan at fitterthanudad@aol.com
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