http://www.aish.com/spirituality/odysseys/Stepping_into_the_Sukkah.asp
Dear Readers,
Please go to the above site at aish.com, read my article and don't forget to leave a message in the bottom window of the article.
Many thanks,
Alan
p.s. there are seven comments there already. We can do better than that, can't we? :)
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
“Portrait of a Righteous Man”
In memory of my late friend and teacher Mr. Irwin Parker, Isser ben Avrum, Z'L whom I believe was one of the Lamed Vuvniks of this generation.
He stooped forward. The kapos at Mauthausen beat
him severely. The same perpetrators broke his nose
repeatedly. Never reset properly, his nose became
permanently misshapen, its tip out of alignment
with the bridge. Other beatings caused his left eye to
appear as if he were looking at someone else when, in
fact, he was looking at you, but for which one had to
look at his right eye.
Do we ever consider where the other person was
yesterday? What may have happened, what amalgam
of circumstances congealed to bring that person into
our lives today and tomorrow?
I did not meet him the first day I attended, but
within the minyan sat Isser ben Avrum whose
acquaintance I would soon make and friendship
I would cherish forever. Outside the tiny, picturesque
refuge of the minyan, he was called Mr. Irwin Parker,
but he allowed me to call him Reb Isser. Though small
of stature and slight of frame, he was a lion of a man.
Like others of his generation, his life changed
irreversibly when the German blitzkrieg overwhelmed
the Polish defense forces in the weeks following
September 1, 1939. Although Reb Isser survived
Mauthausen, his wife and children did not, but a
handful of souls among the incalculable kedoshim.
He immigrated to America in the early 1950s and
began life anew, remarrying and raising a second
family.
Our friendship may have seemed odd to some, I
suppose, but as a boy, I had learned to rise up before
the hoary head. I brought Reb Isser home one day to
meet my family as if he were a new school chum.
While we sipped tea in the kitchen, I showed him a
photo of my Grandpa Austin to whom he bore an
uncanny likeness. Like my grandfather, he too placed
a sugar cube or two between his lower lip and gum
where it functioned as a filter through which the tea
passed on its way down. More than simply amused by
this quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less
than a sweet fragment of an old world.
Reb Isser, who had been trained as a
pharmacist in Poland in the years before WW2,
was not, I suppose, an untypical Jew of his day.
Neither a yeshiva bocher by education nor a great
chochem of Gemara, he did attend cheder and
graduated … a mensch. A prototype of chesed, there
were a few in the congregation who did not like him,
many who loved him, but I dare say not a single soul
who did not respect him. Had you known him as I did
and seen how he interacted with other members of the
shul, how he commanded their respect-not by the
arrogance of scholarship or the external, often
superficial signs of piety-but by the kavod they
accorded him and which he characteristically
rejected, you would have concurred that his was a
yiddishe kop but never a swollen head.
His middot were such that he naturally greeted
everyone with a smile and an extended hand. I
gravitated toward him like an iron filing in search of a
magnet. He became my teacher in the ways of
Yiddishkeit when I was forty years old and he in his
late seventies or early eighties. For reasons he never
explained, he took me under his wing and taught me
siddur, tallis and t’filin. Though I would have preferred
to learn in private, what he may have lacked in
delicacy he more than made up in generosity.
One summer evening before Mincha, Reb Isser
reached into the cabinet below the reading table and
pulled out a small blue velvet bag containing an aged
pair of t’filin.
“Roll up your sleeve,” he nodded toward my left arm.
“Slip your arm through this loop and slide it up to your bicep.”
“Like this?’ I wondered, my legs shaking.
“No, no. You see this knot? It has to be on the inside facing your heart.”
“Oh, okay. I got it.”
We tightened the slip knot to my bicep, wound the
black leather strap seven times around my forearm
and recited the brocho. In comparison, donning the
rosh was much easier.
How does one dispute such a man or turn down his
invitation to impart treasures from the old world?
I was being shown the ways of our fathers by a
righteous man who had survived their worst travails.
How did I merit this gift? Perhaps Reb Isser saw in me
a fledgling fallen from the nest or a reminder of
someone he had lost in his first life. Frankly, I do not
know, but I remain grateful to this man and his
memory.
Even the most cursory of examinations would
demonstrate that Reb Isser bore the weight of moral
authority-in whose person resided indisputable proof
that a new pharaoh arises to destroy us in each
generation. He was the handiwork of The One Above
whose unfathomable ways are revealed in individuals,
such as Reb Isser. His amazing life of courage and
survival would be otherwise inexplicable. A tough,
gentle soul, he was, I believe, one of His original
prototypes of which there have been few copies.
“ukshartam l'os al yadecha v'hayu letotafos bane einecha.”
So reads the memorial leaf I dedicated to his memory
on the Etz Chaim in my shul. Isser ben Avrum, Z’L
passed away on erev Rosh Ha Shanah, 2000.
In memory of my late friend and teacher Mr. Irwin Parker, Isser ben Avrum, Z'L whom I believe was one of the Lamed Vuvniks of this generation.
He stooped forward. The kapos at Mauthausen beat
him severely. The same perpetrators broke his nose
repeatedly. Never reset properly, his nose became
permanently misshapen, its tip out of alignment
with the bridge. Other beatings caused his left eye to
appear as if he were looking at someone else when, in
fact, he was looking at you, but for which one had to
look at his right eye.
Do we ever consider where the other person was
yesterday? What may have happened, what amalgam
of circumstances congealed to bring that person into
our lives today and tomorrow?
I did not meet him the first day I attended, but
within the minyan sat Isser ben Avrum whose
acquaintance I would soon make and friendship
I would cherish forever. Outside the tiny, picturesque
refuge of the minyan, he was called Mr. Irwin Parker,
but he allowed me to call him Reb Isser. Though small
of stature and slight of frame, he was a lion of a man.
Like others of his generation, his life changed
irreversibly when the German blitzkrieg overwhelmed
the Polish defense forces in the weeks following
September 1, 1939. Although Reb Isser survived
Mauthausen, his wife and children did not, but a
handful of souls among the incalculable kedoshim.
He immigrated to America in the early 1950s and
began life anew, remarrying and raising a second
family.
Our friendship may have seemed odd to some, I
suppose, but as a boy, I had learned to rise up before
the hoary head. I brought Reb Isser home one day to
meet my family as if he were a new school chum.
While we sipped tea in the kitchen, I showed him a
photo of my Grandpa Austin to whom he bore an
uncanny likeness. Like my grandfather, he too placed
a sugar cube or two between his lower lip and gum
where it functioned as a filter through which the tea
passed on its way down. More than simply amused by
this quaint custom, I knew it represented nothing less
than a sweet fragment of an old world.
Reb Isser, who had been trained as a
pharmacist in Poland in the years before WW2,
was not, I suppose, an untypical Jew of his day.
Neither a yeshiva bocher by education nor a great
chochem of Gemara, he did attend cheder and
graduated … a mensch. A prototype of chesed, there
were a few in the congregation who did not like him,
many who loved him, but I dare say not a single soul
who did not respect him. Had you known him as I did
and seen how he interacted with other members of the
shul, how he commanded their respect-not by the
arrogance of scholarship or the external, often
superficial signs of piety-but by the kavod they
accorded him and which he characteristically
rejected, you would have concurred that his was a
yiddishe kop but never a swollen head.
His middot were such that he naturally greeted
everyone with a smile and an extended hand. I
gravitated toward him like an iron filing in search of a
magnet. He became my teacher in the ways of
Yiddishkeit when I was forty years old and he in his
late seventies or early eighties. For reasons he never
explained, he took me under his wing and taught me
siddur, tallis and t’filin. Though I would have preferred
to learn in private, what he may have lacked in
delicacy he more than made up in generosity.
One summer evening before Mincha, Reb Isser
reached into the cabinet below the reading table and
pulled out a small blue velvet bag containing an aged
pair of t’filin.
“Roll up your sleeve,” he nodded toward my left arm.
“Slip your arm through this loop and slide it up to your bicep.”
“Like this?’ I wondered, my legs shaking.
“No, no. You see this knot? It has to be on the inside facing your heart.”
“Oh, okay. I got it.”
We tightened the slip knot to my bicep, wound the
black leather strap seven times around my forearm
and recited the brocho. In comparison, donning the
rosh was much easier.
How does one dispute such a man or turn down his
invitation to impart treasures from the old world?
I was being shown the ways of our fathers by a
righteous man who had survived their worst travails.
How did I merit this gift? Perhaps Reb Isser saw in me
a fledgling fallen from the nest or a reminder of
someone he had lost in his first life. Frankly, I do not
know, but I remain grateful to this man and his
memory.
Even the most cursory of examinations would
demonstrate that Reb Isser bore the weight of moral
authority-in whose person resided indisputable proof
that a new pharaoh arises to destroy us in each
generation. He was the handiwork of The One Above
whose unfathomable ways are revealed in individuals,
such as Reb Isser. His amazing life of courage and
survival would be otherwise inexplicable. A tough,
gentle soul, he was, I believe, one of His original
prototypes of which there have been few copies.
“ukshartam l'os al yadecha v'hayu letotafos bane einecha.”
So reads the memorial leaf I dedicated to his memory
on the Etz Chaim in my shul. Isser ben Avrum, Z’L
passed away on erev Rosh Ha Shanah, 2000.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
The Casket ...
Dear Friends ... I am currently revising the entire text of In Memory of Ben. I am thinking of renaming the book Snapshots of My Son, In Memory of Ben. We are just 13 days from the 7th yahrzeit of Ben's passing. The other day, I was looking for a pair of shoes in my closet. The shoes I did not find, but I did find a picture of Ben I had not seen in a while. He was probably around 20 years old when the photo was taken, and it was an especially good one of Ben. It may sound saccharine, but I sure do miss him.
It is unlike anything else you have ever purchased. When I
saw the same casket at the recent funeral of a friend, I was
reminded of the morning at Weinstein Family Services when its staff
accompanied me and my wife through its casket showroom. I
wondered what it must be like to have to sell a casket to
bereaved parents.
We chose one characterized by the dignity of its simplicity.
Beautifully lacquered and adorned with a Magen David, it
seemed to reflect the kind of person Ben himself had been-
neither too plain nor ostentatious. There was a variety of more
expensive choices but only one other casket caught my
attention. It was nothing more than a plain unfinished box.
One grade lower than the one we chose, it looked like the
caskets the town undertaker crafted in the old westerns we
watched as children. Ben’s mom and I looked at each other. Not
quite enough we agreed for our beloved Benjamin.
Thanksgiving Day was unlike any other my family had
ever experienced, surreal, frenzied though with an inexplicable calm
that enabled us to complete the many urgent tasks I feared we would not finish
before the funeral on Friday morning. Our many
friends lent their helping hands in the time of our greatest need and
experienced an ingathering of souls. 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.
The angelic reflections of our souls shone brilliantly.
We sat opposite the funeral director and, together with
several of our closest friends, made the awful arrangements
to lay our son in his final resting place. Our world had ended
catastrophically the day before on the eve of Thanksgiving
when Ben was fatally struck by a truck. He died two hours
later in the emergency room at Cook County Hospital.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Dear Readers,
I am currently in process of revising all of the chapters of In Memory of
Ben. My goal as always is to say things better with fewer words but more cleverly so that at the end you'll be nodding your head in agreement and muttering how right I am ... or, at least I hope that is what is going to happen.
There are those who say they are in a "Better Place …”
It is not easy to console a mourner. Consolers mean well. It’s
just this figure of speech-you know the one about being in a better place-is trite
and hackneyed however sincerely it may be uttered. If ever consolers have any doubt
about what to say or how to say it, I recommend they hug more and speak less. Never
fails. We could provide genuine comfort if only we remembered silence is
a better communicator of our sympathy than are poorly chosen words.
Though he had not suffered the loss of a child, I tried to comfort
my friend who had just lost his father.
“I knew your dad as a fine gentleman," I said softly, trying to
to sit comfortably on the floor.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“We shared many meals together over the course of ten years at the
Rabbi’s Shabbos tish,” I added, “but he used to say one thing that
distinguished him from everyone else in the congregation,” I related,
hoping to elicit a tiny smile.
“Oh … what was it?”
“Your father was the only one to call me by my Hebrew name Avrum
ben Avrum.” His son smiled appreciatively.
Time does not heal all wounds as many consolers claim. It is for
this reason Jewish law wisely restricts time spent in mourning.
Unlike its public nature, grief is a private matter and quite capable
of overwhelming parents who fail to fashion a cheshbon between
themselves and God.
Author and bereaved father John Gunther in his chronicle
Death Be Not Proud documents the heroic but futile struggle of his son against brain
cancer. In a provocative postscript, Frances, the author’s
estranged wife, expresses doubt about whether she loved her
son Johnny as much as she could have. Naturally, this led me
to wonder if I could have loved Ben more. The trust she had
placed in God strengthened her to resist the temptation to cast
blame for her son’s death at anyone’s doorstep. Instead,
Francis ponders two alternative approaches that might have saved
her son. She argues Johnny should not have been sent to boarding school
but kept at home where he would have been more comfortable.
Secondly, he might not have died from brain cancer had she and
her husband saved their marriage.
While it is understandable bereaved parents may feel guilty
about mistakes they may have made, is Johnny’s brain tumor
attributable to his parents’ failure to save their marriage? Is he his
parents’ victim? While we can sympathize with her mea culpa we
cannot truthfully attribute Johnny’s death to the poor choices she
and her husband may have made.
Although the Ribon shel Olam governs the occurrence of
human tragedy, we would commit spiritual suicide if we
believe that He denies life to children.
Whether our affliction is sickness, misfortune in business
or the premature death of a loved one, we can avoid the abyss of apostasy by
trusting in God’s attribute of rachomim . There is a limit to what we can do to
avoid bad tidings. Notwithstanding the precautions we take, tragedy may befall us.
Should I believe God chose Ben? Had that happened, how could I
believe in a vengeful and capricious god? Sure it's reasonable to look back and
say "I should have done this differently. If only I had been less concerned with 'a'
as opposed to ‘b’, things might have turned out more to my liking.”
However truthful this supposition, it does not follow that had
conditions been different, their outcomes would have been
better. I acknowledge Ben might have suffered a fatal injury
that day had he never suffered any chronic illness.
The heart of this matter is life will always be precious,
exceedingly delicate and precarious by its very nature! That when
we proclaim: “L'Chaim” we are not making a banal toast as some
may think. Rather do we remain obligated to be always
mindful of the sanctity of our lives and to live them b'simcha.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/14/07
I am currently in process of revising all of the chapters of In Memory of
Ben. My goal as always is to say things better with fewer words but more cleverly so that at the end you'll be nodding your head in agreement and muttering how right I am ... or, at least I hope that is what is going to happen.
There are those who say they are in a "Better Place …”
It is not easy to console a mourner. Consolers mean well. It’s
just this figure of speech-you know the one about being in a better place-is trite
and hackneyed however sincerely it may be uttered. If ever consolers have any doubt
about what to say or how to say it, I recommend they hug more and speak less. Never
fails. We could provide genuine comfort if only we remembered silence is
a better communicator of our sympathy than are poorly chosen words.
Though he had not suffered the loss of a child, I tried to comfort
my friend who had just lost his father.
“I knew your dad as a fine gentleman," I said softly, trying to
to sit comfortably on the floor.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“We shared many meals together over the course of ten years at the
Rabbi’s Shabbos tish,” I added, “but he used to say one thing that
distinguished him from everyone else in the congregation,” I related,
hoping to elicit a tiny smile.
“Oh … what was it?”
“Your father was the only one to call me by my Hebrew name Avrum
ben Avrum.” His son smiled appreciatively.
Time does not heal all wounds as many consolers claim. It is for
this reason Jewish law wisely restricts time spent in mourning.
Unlike its public nature, grief is a private matter and quite capable
of overwhelming parents who fail to fashion a cheshbon between
themselves and God.
Author and bereaved father John Gunther in his chronicle
Death Be Not Proud documents the heroic but futile struggle of his son against brain
cancer. In a provocative postscript, Frances, the author’s
estranged wife, expresses doubt about whether she loved her
son Johnny as much as she could have. Naturally, this led me
to wonder if I could have loved Ben more. The trust she had
placed in God strengthened her to resist the temptation to cast
blame for her son’s death at anyone’s doorstep. Instead,
Francis ponders two alternative approaches that might have saved
her son. She argues Johnny should not have been sent to boarding school
but kept at home where he would have been more comfortable.
Secondly, he might not have died from brain cancer had she and
her husband saved their marriage.
While it is understandable bereaved parents may feel guilty
about mistakes they may have made, is Johnny’s brain tumor
attributable to his parents’ failure to save their marriage? Is he his
parents’ victim? While we can sympathize with her mea culpa we
cannot truthfully attribute Johnny’s death to the poor choices she
and her husband may have made.
Although the Ribon shel Olam governs the occurrence of
human tragedy, we would commit spiritual suicide if we
believe that He denies life to children.
Whether our affliction is sickness, misfortune in business
or the premature death of a loved one, we can avoid the abyss of apostasy by
trusting in God’s attribute of rachomim . There is a limit to what we can do to
avoid bad tidings. Notwithstanding the precautions we take, tragedy may befall us.
Should I believe God chose Ben? Had that happened, how could I
believe in a vengeful and capricious god? Sure it's reasonable to look back and
say "I should have done this differently. If only I had been less concerned with 'a'
as opposed to ‘b’, things might have turned out more to my liking.”
However truthful this supposition, it does not follow that had
conditions been different, their outcomes would have been
better. I acknowledge Ben might have suffered a fatal injury
that day had he never suffered any chronic illness.
The heart of this matter is life will always be precious,
exceedingly delicate and precarious by its very nature! That when
we proclaim: “L'Chaim” we are not making a banal toast as some
may think. Rather do we remain obligated to be always
mindful of the sanctity of our lives and to live them b'simcha.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/14/07
Friday, October 12, 2007
Dear Readers,
The following is a revision of "Bais Shel Emes" excerpted from In Memory of Ben. I would ask my readers whom I appreciate and thank for their on-going readership to be aware today and tomorrow are Rosh Chodesh Marcheshvan during which we will commemorate the seventh Yahrzeit of Benjamin Z'L on Cheshvan 24 corresponding to the 5th of November.
Bais Shel Emes
I had been feeling down for several days, and I did not know why.
“Maybe I’ll feel better,” I muttered to myself. “After all, he’s not too
far away.” So, I decided to gather up a few cleaning supplies with
which to wipe down the headstone and set out to visit Ben.
Man does not know when the morning of his final awakening will
be. His days are finite. This he understands. Before November 22,
2000, I was aware my son’s days were numbered. I somehow knew this,
that his mazal would run out. Over the course of these seven years,
I have learned to live without him. Despite the unfairness of losing a child, I
believe He governs the universe with rachomim and din.
The approach to the grave along the winding path fills me with a
mixture of dread, anticipation and slight physical symptoms. I stand
before his parcel of earth both assured and numbed by the irreversible
reality of his death. It is a curiosity of human behavior that people talk
to their loved ones when standing before their graves. I do it too. I
mean there is only so much one can do. What else is there that can be done?
If only I could come closer.
You can’t “listen” because the other does not actually speak to you.
So, try listening to your imagination ...
“Ah, Ben. It’s been a while. I apologize,” I begin.
“Oh, that’s okay, Dad. No problem,” characteristically generous
in letting me off the hook.
“You know Ben … while standing here, I think of some of my favorite
moments to tell you and picture you as you, as we, were.
“Like what? Oh, wait! I bet you’re thinking of the Radio Flyer red
wagon, right?” thinking he had gotten the best of me. “Yea, I
remember that too. Kimmy sat in front of me and I held on to her
from behind,” he recalls appreciatively.
“Yea, that was good. ‘Member’ how I used to fix Kimmy’s hair like
Pebbles on The Flintstones?” I relished that reminiscence particularly.
“Yea, that was funny. You really liked
"dragging" us around a lot, didn’t ya?”
“I sure did. I would purposely seek out clumps of people who would
tell me how beautiful my kids were.” Ben blushed quietly.
“Listen Ben, I gotta go. Talk again?”
“Sure, Dad,” he replied agreeably.
It feels like you’ve hung up the phone. I do not linger much
longer. I tidy up the area around the headstone and read three
chapters from Sefer Tehilim.
It may seem macabre, but it comforts me to know where
Ben is and has gone. 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 at times 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.
His body lies under the headstone: "Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit, Benjamin, son
of Alan and Janine.”
Therein lies the essence of the bais shel emes. For as long
as the body is alive-though temporal in time and being-the soul
dwells therein. When the body dies, the soul departs, and with that,
the spark of life flickers out. The body itself becomes cold. We then
return it to the dust from which God fashioned Adom Ha Rishon.
His death has diminished us. Bridging the chasm between us has
become my futile challenge.I leave the cemetery feeling empty, desolate …
diminished.
October 12, 2007
The following is a revision of "Bais Shel Emes" excerpted from In Memory of Ben. I would ask my readers whom I appreciate and thank for their on-going readership to be aware today and tomorrow are Rosh Chodesh Marcheshvan during which we will commemorate the seventh Yahrzeit of Benjamin Z'L on Cheshvan 24 corresponding to the 5th of November.
Bais Shel Emes
I had been feeling down for several days, and I did not know why.
“Maybe I’ll feel better,” I muttered to myself. “After all, he’s not too
far away.” So, I decided to gather up a few cleaning supplies with
which to wipe down the headstone and set out to visit Ben.
Man does not know when the morning of his final awakening will
be. His days are finite. This he understands. Before November 22,
2000, I was aware my son’s days were numbered. I somehow knew this,
that his mazal would run out. Over the course of these seven years,
I have learned to live without him. Despite the unfairness of losing a child, I
believe He governs the universe with rachomim and din.
The approach to the grave along the winding path fills me with a
mixture of dread, anticipation and slight physical symptoms. I stand
before his parcel of earth both assured and numbed by the irreversible
reality of his death. It is a curiosity of human behavior that people talk
to their loved ones when standing before their graves. I do it too. I
mean there is only so much one can do. What else is there that can be done?
If only I could come closer.
You can’t “listen” because the other does not actually speak to you.
So, try listening to your imagination ...
“Ah, Ben. It’s been a while. I apologize,” I begin.
“Oh, that’s okay, Dad. No problem,” characteristically generous
in letting me off the hook.
“You know Ben … while standing here, I think of some of my favorite
moments to tell you and picture you as you, as we, were.
“Like what? Oh, wait! I bet you’re thinking of the Radio Flyer red
wagon, right?” thinking he had gotten the best of me. “Yea, I
remember that too. Kimmy sat in front of me and I held on to her
from behind,” he recalls appreciatively.
“Yea, that was good. ‘Member’ how I used to fix Kimmy’s hair like
Pebbles on The Flintstones?” I relished that reminiscence particularly.
“Yea, that was funny. You really liked
"dragging" us around a lot, didn’t ya?”
“I sure did. I would purposely seek out clumps of people who would
tell me how beautiful my kids were.” Ben blushed quietly.
“Listen Ben, I gotta go. Talk again?”
“Sure, Dad,” he replied agreeably.
It feels like you’ve hung up the phone. I do not linger much
longer. I tidy up the area around the headstone and read three
chapters from Sefer Tehilim.
It may seem macabre, but it comforts me to know where
Ben is and has gone. 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 at times 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.
His body lies under the headstone: "Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit, Benjamin, son
of Alan and Janine.”
Therein lies the essence of the bais shel emes. For as long
as the body is alive-though temporal in time and being-the soul
dwells therein. When the body dies, the soul departs, and with that,
the spark of life flickers out. The body itself becomes cold. We then
return it to the dust from which God fashioned Adom Ha Rishon.
His death has diminished us. Bridging the chasm between us has
become my futile challenge.I leave the cemetery feeling empty, desolate …
diminished.
October 12, 2007
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Dear Readers,
This is a revision of a chapter excerpted from In Memory of Ben
Lessons Learned Late
I announced I would not eat the matzoh ball soup.
My wife had been preparing the seder meal in the
same manner she had always done. The tension
between us had been simmering for some time when
the pot boiled over the afternoon of Erev Pesach. I
could not have chosen a worse time to make such an
announcement had I tried.
At issue was a can of treif chicken broth, but that
alone was only the tip of the iceberg. Given the state of
our marital affairs, the last thing we needed was to be
arguing about kashrus.
“Must you use that particular broth?” I asked her,
wishing I had kept my mouth shut, but I kept on.
“Folks should be able to reasonably expect they will
enjoy a kosher meal on Passover at the very least.”
“What are you talking about?” she shot back. “It
makes no difference because our kitchen is not
kosher,” she reminded me-a fact that my daughter
would echo in several minutes.
*******
I had been brought up in a Reform environment. My
wife and I chose it within which to raise our children.
My contentment with Reform, however, began to wane
when I began pursuing my religious agenda. I joined a
traditional minyan and began learning with the rabbi
as part of a Federation program to broaden Jewish
literacy. For the first time ever, I felt excited about
Jewish learning. Missing though was any guidance
about how to bring this new knowledge home without
disrupting my family.
Choosing to become observant requires changes
that reach to the deepest roots of family life.
It is a team undertaking and no one parent can impose it on his family.
Even under the most optimal ofcircumstances, additions to
home ritual observance are best approached gradually. Family members can
then learn the content of the new practice and enjoy
time enough to assimilate it into their routines. The
bottom line is family members can deepen their
observance only by taking manageable steps together.
******
My wife was opposed to kashering our kitchen
because she knew it would lead to a more observant
Jewish lifestyle she wanted neither for herself nor for
our family. I was so busy pursuing my personal
religious odyssey I failed to recognize the danger it
posed to my marriage. None of us was ready for a
religious makeover.
The worst part of this Erev Pesach arrived
when my daughter Kimberly confronted me on the
steps leading to her room.
“Dad!” I could see steam coming out of her ears!
“Uh, oh!” I knew that look on her face.
“You have ruined Passover for me and the family,” she
vehemently asserted. Her voice became louder but
then cracked a bit.
“Sweetheart, I am trying …” proclaiming my
innocence.
“Oh, I know what you are `trying’ to do. I see the
groceries you bring home. All kosher. I see it.” I stood
in silence and listened to her rebuke. No one had ever
been so passionately angry with me. Always ready,
willing and able to express herself, Kimberly attacked
my insistence that only kosher food be served at seder-
labeling it “an absurd contradiction.” I could say
nothing in my defense. She and her mom were correct.
What was the point of pursuing a kosher agenda if not
done properly and without the assent of my family?
While true my family did not know the halachos of
Pesach, we had always enjoyed its spirit at our seders.
I poisoned that spirit. This regrettable incident should
have been a wake-up call for me. The truth is I
remained “asleep” on a path strewn with stumbling
blocks.
Older eyes often need assistance to see things more
clearly. Mine certainly did. I sat with Kimberly one
afternoon in my mother’s kitchen not long after
her mother and I had divorced. I continued to struggle
with observance and my family’s exasperation with
me.
“Alan,” my mother advised, “Please listen to your
daughter. She loves you and wants only the best for
you.”
“Dad, your clothes: that suit, that black hat: they
make you look like an old man! And shave your
scraggly beard! Your beliefs are your own. Your
observance may work for you, but it doesn’t for me.”
”Alan,” my mother chimed in. “Young girls want to be
proud of their dads, not embarrassed by their
appearance. You’re so nice-looking. Why do you have
to dress like an old man?” echoing a sentiment
Kimberly’s mom used to say all too often. I sat there in
silence as I had done on Erev Pesach. A few tears fell
from my daughter’s eyes.
This was such a confusing set of issues. There were
so many things I wanted. Kimberly showed me that I
could not have them all without making some
accommodations when my level of observance
was at odds with my family and children.
I would find a way to live observantly without jeopardizing their
love.
Alan D. Busch
10/9/07
Figure 1. Alan Dear,
Please remember family first. Nothing else is as important. Love you, Mom. Be well.
This is a revision of a chapter excerpted from In Memory of Ben
Lessons Learned Late
I announced I would not eat the matzoh ball soup.
My wife had been preparing the seder meal in the
same manner she had always done. The tension
between us had been simmering for some time when
the pot boiled over the afternoon of Erev Pesach. I
could not have chosen a worse time to make such an
announcement had I tried.
At issue was a can of treif chicken broth, but that
alone was only the tip of the iceberg. Given the state of
our marital affairs, the last thing we needed was to be
arguing about kashrus.
“Must you use that particular broth?” I asked her,
wishing I had kept my mouth shut, but I kept on.
“Folks should be able to reasonably expect they will
enjoy a kosher meal on Passover at the very least.”
“What are you talking about?” she shot back. “It
makes no difference because our kitchen is not
kosher,” she reminded me-a fact that my daughter
would echo in several minutes.
*******
I had been brought up in a Reform environment. My
wife and I chose it within which to raise our children.
My contentment with Reform, however, began to wane
when I began pursuing my religious agenda. I joined a
traditional minyan and began learning with the rabbi
as part of a Federation program to broaden Jewish
literacy. For the first time ever, I felt excited about
Jewish learning. Missing though was any guidance
about how to bring this new knowledge home without
disrupting my family.
Choosing to become observant requires changes
that reach to the deepest roots of family life.
It is a team undertaking and no one parent can impose it on his family.
Even under the most optimal ofcircumstances, additions to
home ritual observance are best approached gradually. Family members can
then learn the content of the new practice and enjoy
time enough to assimilate it into their routines. The
bottom line is family members can deepen their
observance only by taking manageable steps together.
******
My wife was opposed to kashering our kitchen
because she knew it would lead to a more observant
Jewish lifestyle she wanted neither for herself nor for
our family. I was so busy pursuing my personal
religious odyssey I failed to recognize the danger it
posed to my marriage. None of us was ready for a
religious makeover.
The worst part of this Erev Pesach arrived
when my daughter Kimberly confronted me on the
steps leading to her room.
“Dad!” I could see steam coming out of her ears!
“Uh, oh!” I knew that look on her face.
“You have ruined Passover for me and the family,” she
vehemently asserted. Her voice became louder but
then cracked a bit.
“Sweetheart, I am trying …” proclaiming my
innocence.
“Oh, I know what you are `trying’ to do. I see the
groceries you bring home. All kosher. I see it.” I stood
in silence and listened to her rebuke. No one had ever
been so passionately angry with me. Always ready,
willing and able to express herself, Kimberly attacked
my insistence that only kosher food be served at seder-
labeling it “an absurd contradiction.” I could say
nothing in my defense. She and her mom were correct.
What was the point of pursuing a kosher agenda if not
done properly and without the assent of my family?
While true my family did not know the halachos of
Pesach, we had always enjoyed its spirit at our seders.
I poisoned that spirit. This regrettable incident should
have been a wake-up call for me. The truth is I
remained “asleep” on a path strewn with stumbling
blocks.
Older eyes often need assistance to see things more
clearly. Mine certainly did. I sat with Kimberly one
afternoon in my mother’s kitchen not long after
her mother and I had divorced. I continued to struggle
with observance and my family’s exasperation with
me.
“Alan,” my mother advised, “Please listen to your
daughter. She loves you and wants only the best for
you.”
“Dad, your clothes: that suit, that black hat: they
make you look like an old man! And shave your
scraggly beard! Your beliefs are your own. Your
observance may work for you, but it doesn’t for me.”
”Alan,” my mother chimed in. “Young girls want to be
proud of their dads, not embarrassed by their
appearance. You’re so nice-looking. Why do you have
to dress like an old man?” echoing a sentiment
Kimberly’s mom used to say all too often. I sat there in
silence as I had done on Erev Pesach. A few tears fell
from my daughter’s eyes.
This was such a confusing set of issues. There were
so many things I wanted. Kimberly showed me that I
could not have them all without making some
accommodations when my level of observance
was at odds with my family and children.
I would find a way to live observantly without jeopardizing their
love.
Alan D. Busch
10/9/07
Figure 1. Alan Dear,
Please remember family first. Nothing else is as important. Love you, Mom. Be well.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
“Lamentations”
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of bereavement.
My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen months, a mournful
experience not unlike the personal grief from which I have suffered since
November of 2000 when my first-born child Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to Tisha B' Av is a period of time when we deny
ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating in this solemn
fast day characterized by the reading of the Book of Lamentations, a communal
mourning for the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of
our Jewish national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies also befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw an elderly
man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a
smile.
"Good evening, Sir.”
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had stopped
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?”
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said. I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his
Hebrew name, but did not. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks,
a pale yellow golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap. His focus on my words
suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing. "Reb Talisman, for your wife, your
parents you have yahrzeit?”
He twisted his left forearm over with the assistance of his right hand
revealing six green numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but
the manner in which he exposed it staggered me. His quiet, dignity left me unsure
if he bore it as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were underscored by dark
rings, an image almost as indelible as his horrific tattoo. I wanted to take
care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella
Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him down the hallway. Together we
opened the door. Reb Talisman paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar
mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings, Rabbi Louis
was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after learning that a ceiling ballast
had blown out. It was an especially busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a
program and the junior minyan was learning with the Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi 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," announced Rabbi’s older son
who, as it happened, was one of the two who came in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman toward 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 Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“No problem,” I thought, "as long as he’s comfortable.”
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” we davened
Mincha after which he lectured about the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes
later, we prayed the Maariv service, but, by which time, I had lost all my
concentration. Now I know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my head, and I
knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my siddur and stared out
the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to the doorway
thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba …” The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his
car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said.
I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove
away. I fumbled for my keys. "There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected,
turning on the ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but then realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/03/07
The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of bereavement.
My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen months, a mournful
experience not unlike the personal grief from which I have suffered since
November of 2000 when my first-born child Benjamin died.
The three weeks prior to Tisha B' Av is a period of time when we deny
ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating in this solemn
fast day characterized by the reading of the Book of Lamentations, a communal
mourning for the destruction of the Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of
our Jewish national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical
tragedies also befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.
It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled
for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw an elderly
man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though
patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a
smile.
"Good evening, Sir.”
"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had stopped
by to chat with him.
“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock
now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”
"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.
Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?”
"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said. I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his
Hebrew name, but did not. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks,
a pale yellow golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap. His focus on my words
suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing. "Reb Talisman, for your wife, your
parents you have yahrzeit?”
He twisted his left forearm over with the assistance of his right hand
revealing six green numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but
the manner in which he exposed it staggered me. His quiet, dignity left me unsure
if he bore it as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes
and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were underscored by dark
rings, an image almost as indelible as his horrific tattoo. I wanted to take
care of this man.
"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron & Rebbitzen Ella
Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him down the hallway. Together we
opened the door. Reb Talisman paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar
mitzvah lesson going on." Indeed there was.
Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings, Rabbi Louis
was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after learning that a ceiling ballast
had blown out. It was an especially busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a
program and the junior minyan was learning with the Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was
escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi 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," announced Rabbi’s older son
who, as it happened, was one of the two who came in after us.
I directed Reb Talisman toward 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 Saretta. When I turned to check on him
however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.
“No problem,” I thought, "as long as he’s comfortable.”
Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” we davened
Mincha after which he lectured about the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes
later, we prayed the Maariv service, but, by which time, I had lost all my
concentration. Now I know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion
waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my head, and I
knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my siddur and stared out
the window.
"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to the doorway
thinking I had heard a feminine voice.
“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.
"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba …” The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his
car.
"Good night, Sir," I smiled.
"Good night," he said.
I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove
away. I fumbled for my keys. "There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected,
turning on the ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I
fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but then realized
The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are
grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.
How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.
Alan D. Busch
Revised 10/03/07
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