Tuesday, December 30, 2008



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“Al Ha Nissim”

For better or worse, Ben, my first-born son, had always been like his father, as was I like mine. As a kid I fondly recall my father’s homiletic teachings about which he remarked “aren’t worth a hill of beans” if not attached to good deeds. “Words are cheap son. Actions speak louder. Remember that!” We had just left his office and were on the way home when a bedraggled, shivering, gaunt man with the butt of a cigarette hanging from his lips approached us. His thin, dirty jacket reeked of tobacco and alcohol. “Here, my man. Take this,” my father reassuringly said while removing his long coat and draping it around the shoulders of this fellow. “Be well,” he added with a faint smile. He took me by the hand and headed to the underground garage where he had parked his car. “Daddy, aren’t you cold?”“A bit son, but I would have frozen had we walked past that man without responding. Giving is more blessed than receiving, sonny boy.”

A Generation Later

It was that time of year, the month of Adar, when we are bidden to be joyful. Purim lay just around the corner, affording us an opportunity to help needy Jewish families enjoy a “chag sameach” by performing the mitzvah of “matanot l’evyonim”.

I ran across an easy hamantschen recipe while flipping through the pages of the Purim edition of the JUF news magazine. “That’s it!” I declared. After Ben and I picked up a few items at the market, we set out immediately to mix and knead enough dough for five dozen hamantaschen, each filled with a half teaspoon of jam. Though I could have easily bought them ready-made, choosing the easier path was not the lesson I wanted Ben to learn. Besides, isn’t homemade always better? We divided up the hamentaschen into twelve plastic bags, tied them off with those “twisty” ties you get with the trash bags and drove to The Ark, a Jewish social service agency in Chicago, that had organized the delivery of holiday food baskets to the Jewish needy. By the early afternoon, Ben and I had brightened the prospects of a chag Purim sameach for twelve families.

Six Years Later

That year I volunteered once again to deliver Purim food baskets. Ben agreed to accompany me on one condition- that we not bake hamantaschen as we had done six years before. He asserted that at eighteen years of age, he was way too old for that “kid stuff” We had had a great morning albeit without homemade hamentaschen and were on our way back to The Ark when an alarming pause abruptly ended our conversation. Not having answered my previous question, I turned to Ben and saw something unlike anything I had ever seen before. Ben’s body had stiffened and begun jerking spasmodically like a steam pump grinding to a halt for lack of oil. Looking bewildered and trapped in a body from which he could not escape, he turned to me in desperation, bewildered yet hopeful as if to say: “Dad, I sure hope you know how to deal with this!” Truth be told, I didn’t. I had to always remain on alert with Ben, diagnosed with juvenile diabetes when ten and a half years old, because he often suffered from hypoglycemic shock unexpectedly in the course of conversation. You could be chatting with him one moment and, in the next, he might be writhing in the chaos of low blood sugar. That’s how frightfully unpredictable it was, but what I had seen that morning was unlike any hypoglycemic episode of Ben’s I had ever witnessed. I had seen enough of them to know. What’s more? He had eaten lunch not more than an hour before the attack.

They say the first time is the worst. Terrorized by this unfamiliar demon, I responded to it the only way I knew. I rushed into a nearby restaurant panic-stricken. “I need a regular cola now,” I shouted to the counter person. “Please hurry. It’s an emergency!” I ran back to Ben. Forcing the straw between his lips, I hoped, probably unrealistically, that if it were diabetes related, the cola would at least spike his blood sugar. He instinctively began to suck on the straw although, I feared, it wasn’t doing him any good. The nightmare ended after five minutes. We drove home exhausted, bewildered and scared. The attack kept on recurring so often that I lost count. Whenever it started up, I’d hold on to Ben with a gentle bear hug to restrain his arms so that he not hurt himself and to let him know I was there. I whispered in his ear quite a lot that terrible day. Ben’s mom and I agonized for several interminable hours. “What was happening to him?” we wondered while awaiting the one call from Ben’s doctor that would have authorized our son’s referral to the hospital. It never came. When our patience had nearly exhausted itself, we left for the emergency room. We’d deal with the insurance company later. As for Ben, not one complaint! He never became despondent or depressed though, as strong as he was, I am sure the tireless presence of chronic illness wore him out at times. Ben lived without self-pity. Embodying the virtues of self-reliance and courage, he was the sort of person to remount his bicycle quickly after he had fallen off, always ready for the next patch of rough road. After some six hours in the treatment room while Ben, his mother and I awaited the results of a battery of tests, the doctors diagnosed him with Epilepsy. Epilepsy! As if Ben were not burdened enough by diabetes. We were, naturally, devastated. The seizures continued inexorably for several days. Not until after a series of trial and error, did Ben’s neurologist, an arrogant man whom I disliked, find the right dosage to treat Ben’s seizures.

In the spirit of the joy and miracles of Purim, I’ve looked for the silver lining of that day twelve years ago when Ben experienced his first epileptic seizure. It may seem paradoxical, but what I do know is that Ben’s epilepsy strengthened his spirit even more than had the juvenile diabetes with which he had been diagnosed when only ten and a half years old. He was a young man who showed us how to endure chronic illness with dignity and grace in the too few years that were ours to be with him. Perhaps there was some hidden significance that his mom and I had named him “Benjamin”. Like Mordechai Ha Yehudi, of the tribe of Benjamin, my son taught us-by his refusal to bow down to a false god, whether it be chronic illness or Haman Ha Rasha-to discover therein the paradigm of our spiritual strength.

Glossary

Al Ha Nissim

Adar-Hebrew month of Purim

Purim-Jewish holiday based on biblical Book of Esther

chag sameach-happy holiday

chag Purim sameach-happy Purim

matanot l'evyonim-gifts to the poor

hamantaschen-traditional Purim cookies

Mordechai Ha Yehudi-Morcdechai the Jew, hero of the story of Purim

Haman Ha Rasha-Haman the Evil One, who sought to destroy the Jews of Persia.

Sunday, December 21, 2008



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Dear Friends,

PLease click on http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewshortstory.asp?id=38992 , read the short introduction, then click on http://www.aish.com/family/ to read Alan latest publication at Aish.com.

Thank you,

Alan D. Busch

Tuesday, December 16, 2008


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CONGREGATION KESSER MAARIV
PRESENTS

MICHAEL MEDVED
Author of The 10 Big Lies About America

NATIONALLY ACCLAIMED RADIO HOST
JANUARY 17, 2009
at CONGREGATION KESSER MAARIV
4341 GOLF RD. SKOKIE, IL. 60076
PHONE (847) 679-9800 FAX (847) 679-5041


SATURDAY NIGHT at 7:30 P.M., JANUARY 17, 2009 WITH MICHAEL MEDVED

Members = $25.00/ Person, Non-Members = $50.00/ Person
SPONSORSHIP = $100.00 ADDITIONAL PER PERSON
Light Refreshments Served and book signing of Michael’s new book
CALL THE SYNAGOGUE OFFICE AT (847) 679-9800 WITH YOUR RESERVATIONS OR ALAN D. BUSCH AT (847) 894-1001. YOU MAY EMAIL ME AT
alandbusch@aol.com.

Saturday, December 13, 2008



Where authors and readers come together

Upcoming Publications by Alan D Busch here.

Here is a summary of my upcoming publications ...

"These Lights We Kindle" to be published by Aish.com this Hanukkah.

"A Father Muses As His Son's Eighth Yahrzeit Nears" (prose and poetry) to be published by Living With Loss Magazine.

"Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me" (chapter 11, short version) to be published by the Jewish Press (newspaper) NY, January of 2009.

"Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me" (chapter 11, LONG version) to be published by Poetica.com magazine.

"Shacharis Musings" (poetry) to be published by Poetica.com Magazine.

Thank you for your readership.

Alan D. Busch

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Wednesday, December 03, 2008



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Who Bestows Good Things …

Do you have one of those special photos? You know … the one of you and your five-year old daughter doing the dishes together, from long ago when her mom braided her hair and Strawberry Shortcake was her favorite doll. I do.

As parents, we recognize that when our children leave the nest, we rely on our faith in Ha Melech Malchei Ham'lachim Hakadosh Baruch Hu to sustain us through the trials of this world. We acknowledge that He alone governs it.

I was at work when the call came in.

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired in a tone that made me tremble.
“Please God. No! This can’t be happening,” I silently pled, recalling a similar call from several years before, when my son Ben died in a traffic accident.
“Yes, this is Mr. Busch,” I acknowledged reluctantly.
“My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,” she said calmly.
“Kimberly! Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I nearly panicked.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about an hour south of Chicago at mile marker “80”. Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she is unhurt, not a scratch."
“Kimmy, in an accident! Unhurt! Thank God!”
“Yes, that’s right. She’s fine. I’ve already left the scene, but I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police arrived.”

Only two hours earlier Ann pulled off the interstate to help out after she had witnessed a collision on her way to Chicago. That is how she ran across my daughter Kimberly whom, we later learned, had lost control of her steering wheel while trying to pass a truck when its driver unexpectedly shifted into the passing lane. She was forced onto the shoulder and across the grassy median into oncoming traffic whereupon she struck a van.

“Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much your news means to me.”

I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to get her phone number. I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I could feign, I cut to the end of the story.

“Jan, hi. It’s Alan. Sorry to call at work but it’s urgent,” I stressed.
“What is it?” she asked haltingly.
“Jan, Kimmy’s been in an accident, but she’s fine, completely unhurt,” I hastened to emphasize.
“Kimmy, what? An accident? No, not Kimmy!” she cried out, her voice choked with emotion.
“Listen Hon,” I interrupted, addressing her with an old term of endearment. “Kimberly is safe and unhurt. She’ll tell you everything later. Listen I’m leaving to get her right now. Talk later,” I said, gathering my things, ready to run out. I looked at the clock. Already after 3:00 and with barely the time and breath to inform my co-workers about what had happened, I sped away. Although I knew Kimmy had not been injured, I couldn’t help but call the Illinois state trooper’s cell phone Ann had given me. I guess I could not be reassured enough.

I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed her car. She was anxious to leave immediately, but I needed a few minutes to wrap my head around this. I walked over to Kimmy’s car. Would you believe me if I told you that the entire front end looked like an accordion? The collision crushed the front end of the car within several inches of the dashboard. I grasped hold of the driver’s side door. To my amazement, it opened cleanly. I sat in the driver’s seat and put both hands on the steering wheel. I slumped down, nearly in tears, gapping incredulously at what could well have been the place where my daughter might have died that day. “Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked with the slightest bit of impatience. The moment was for her one from which she wanted to flee. For me it was the scene of the reenactment of my son Ben’s fatal injuries in a traffic mishap several years before.

I “saw” Ben’s unresponsive body lying atop the surgical table.

“Yes Sweety,” I replied, struggling as best I could to avoid an emotional breakdown in front of my daughter. I was quite simply overwhelmed. We drove home mostly in silence. Understandably, Kimmy was skittish. She gasped every time I braked or switched lanes. Who knows how many times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our way home?

“Kimushkele?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered.I dropped her off at her mom’s house. Our time together was over for theday. I wanted to have more time with her, but I knew her mom anxiously awaited her arrival. My heart sank but here she was … safe and sound.

Why was Kimberly saved? I can’t answer that question any better now than I could before when I wondered why Ben had not been. The following Friday, I invited Kimmy over for dinner on Erev Shabbat. My younger son Zac was there too as was my fiancĂ©. A beautifully set table awaited us, its candles aglow for each of my three children. We gathered around the table.
“Kimushkele,” I turned to my daughter, my voice cracking as I tried to articulate the words of a short speech. “Yes Dad,” she responded laughingly while drying a few tears.

“This Shabbat is extra special. We say ‘Hodu la HaShem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’-Praise Hashem because He is good, His kindness is eternal.On this night especially, I am thankful to have you by my side.” I lifted the kiddush cup. A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a moment pass during which not a peep was uttered. Ben’s candles seemed to flicker more brightly at that instant, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my hand.

“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker …” I sanctified the wine.

Next morning in shul for parashat Vayigash, Rabbi Louis spoke admiringly of Yaakov Avinu who recited Shema upon being reunited with his long lost, beloved son Joseph. At that very moment, I felt a special bond to Yaakov Avinu as a fellow Jewish father thankful for the life of his child.

Alan D. Busch
Revised 12/2/08

Monday, December 01, 2008



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"Who Bestows Kindnesses ..."

Do you have one of those special photos? You know … the one of you and your five-year old daughter doing the dishes together,when her mom braided her hair in pigtails and Strawberry Shortcake was her favorite doll . I do.

As parents, we recognize that when our children leave the nest, we rely on our faith in Ha Melech Malchei Ham'lachim Hakadosh Baruch Hu* to sustain us through the trials of this world. We acknowledge that He alone governs it.

I was at work when the call came in.

“Mr. Busch?” a stranger’s voice inquired in a tone that made me tremble.“Please God. No! This can’t be happening,” I silently pled, recalling a similar call from several years before, when my son Ben died in atraffic accident. “Yes, this is Mr. Busch,” I acknowledged reluctantly.“My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,” she said calmly.

“Kimberly! Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I nearly panicked.

“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about an hour south of Chicago at mile marker “80”. Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she is unhurt, not a scratch."

“Kimmy, in an accident! Unhurt! Thank God!”

“Yes, that’s right. She’s fine. I’ve already left the scene, but I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police arrived.”

Only two hours earlier Ann pulled off the interstate to help out after she had witnessed a collision on her way to Chicago. That is how she ran across my daughter Kimberly whom, we later learned, had lost control of her steering wheel while trying to pass a truck when its driver unexpectedly shifted into the passing lane. She was forced onto the shoulder and across the grassy median into oncoming traffic whereupon she struck a van.

“Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine how much your news means to me.”

I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to get her phone number. I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I could feign, I cut to the end of the story.“Jan, hi. It’s Alan. Sorry to call at work but it’s urgent,” I stressed.

“What is it?” she asked haltingly.

“Jan, Kimmy’s been in an accident, but she’s fine, completely unhurt,”
I hastened to emphasize.

“Kimmy, what? An accident? No, not Kimmy!” she cried out, her voice choked with emotion.

“Listen Hon,” I interrupted, addressing her with an old term of endearment. “Kimberly is safe and unhurt. She’ll tell you everything later. Listen I’m leaving to get her right now. Talk later,” I said, gathering my things, ready to run out. I looked at the clock. Already after 3:00 and with barely the time and breath to inform my co-workers about what had happened, I sped away. Although I knew Kimmy had not been injured, I couldn’t help but call the Illinois state trooper’s cell phone Ann had given me. I guess I could not be reassured enough.

I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed her car. She was anxious to leave immediately, but I needed a few minutes to wrap my head around this. I walked over to Kimmy’s car. Would you believe me if I told you that the entire front end looked like an accordion? The collision crushed the front end of the car within several inches of the dashboard. I grasped hold of the driver’s side door. To my amazement, it opened cleanly. I sat down, putting both hands on the steering wheel. I slumped down in the driver’s seat dumbfounded, nearly in tears, gapping incredulously at what could well have been the place where my daughter mighthave died that day. “Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked with the slightest bit of impatience. The moment was for her one from which she wanted to flee. For me it was the scene of the reenactment of my son Ben’s fatal injuries in a traffic mishap several years before.

I “saw” Ben’s unresponsive body lying atop the surgical table.

“Yes Love,” I replied, struggling as best I could to avoid an emotional breakdown in front of my daughter. I was quite simply overwhelmed. We drove home mostly in silence. Understandably, Kimmy was skittish. She gasped every time I braked or switched lanes. Who knows how many times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our way home?

“Kimushkele?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered. I dropped her off at her mom’s house. Our time together was over for the day. I wanted to have more time with her, but I knew her mom anxiously awaited her arrival. My heart sank but here she was … safe and sound.

Why was Kimberly saved? I have no more of an answer now than before when I wondered why Ben had not been. The following Friday, I invited Kimmy over for dinner on Erev Shabbat. My younger son Zac was there too as was my fiancé. A beautifully set table awaited us, its candles aglow for each of my three children. We gathered around the table.

“Kimuschkele,” I turned to my daughter, my voice cracking as I tried to articulate the words of a short speech.

“Yes Dad,” she responded laughingly while drying a few tears.

“This Shabbat is extra special. We say ‘Hodu la HaShem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’-Praise Hashem because He is good, His kindness is eternal.On this night especially, I am thankful to have you by my side." I lifted the kiddush cup. A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a moment pass during which not a peep was uttered. Ben’s candles seemed to flicker more brightly at that instant, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my hand.

“Vayahe erev vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.* Next morning … I “bentched” Gomel.**

Alan D. Busch

*Ha Melech Malchei Ham'lachim Hakadosh BaruchHu (Hebrew) The King, King of Kings, The Holy One, Blessed Be He

* "Vayahe erev, Vayahe voker" (Hebrew): And there was evening and there was morning. Part of the Sabbath Eve Kiddush, chanted on Friday night.

** "bentched" (Yiddish) prayed; Gomel (Hebrew) prayer recited upon surviving a dangerous situation.

Thursday, November 27, 2008



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Dear Friends,

Click on this link to listen to my interview on Israel National Radio by Tamar Yonah of the Tamar Yonah Show....

http://www.israelnationalnews.com/Radio/News.aspx/317


Thank you,

Alan Busch

Tuesday, November 18, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

I am pleased to announce that I received notice from the editor of Bereavement Publications, Living With Loss that my article "Musings of A Father ..." will be published in either the 2009 Summer or Fall edition of Living With Loss Magazine.

They say "timing is everything." Today, 11/22/08 and on the Hebrew calender the 24th of Heshvan-which this year fell out on the Jewish Sabbath-marked Ben's eighth yahrzeit, the anniversary of his death .... I learned after coming home from synagogue that my article had been accepted-an appropriate tribute to my son Benjamin whom I miss emormously ...

A father muses as the eighth anniversary of his son's death nears ...

For Ben’s sake whose life I love, may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism. May you Son dwell on high, enough to look down from above the clouds and see us searching the heavens for your shadow.

I became misty in synagogue today while attending morning services. Rabbi had taken hold of the Torah scroll and chanted the “Kel Mole Rachamim”, a prayer that pleads for divine watchfulness over the souls of our loved ones in the “olam haba”, the world to come. While listening, I remembered that the twenty-fourth day of Heshvan, the Hebrew date of Ben’s death, is only two weeks away, and this year will mark the eighth anniversary of his passing.

When a Jew dies, his soul ascends. It makes “aliyah”, we say, to the higher plane of the world to come, floating like a feather caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation. A Jew of faith quietly utters “Baruch Dayan Ha Emes”-Blessed is the True Judge-upon learning of a death. It reflects his acceptance that God “runs the world”. For him it is an unalterable reality.

The “living” remain behind, struggling with our faith which, if heretofore untested, is likely not to be as strong as we think. Untested faith is like a first layer of clothing which, by itself, is inadequate to shield one against the cold wind of loss. We add layers of “protective insulation” to faith by prayer, the reading of psalms and the recitation of Kaddish. It’s not a panacea, however. The struggle to cope, to “make sense out of it all”, continues. The pain remains. By reinforcing our faith, we hope to manage the pain of grief more effectively.

The approach along the winding path to Ben’s grave fills me with dread.
I stand before his parcel of earth numbed by the irreversible reality of his death. It is a curiosity of human behavior that the bereaved speak to their departed ones while standing before their graves. I do it too although Ben remains silent. Even if the comfort we experience lasts but a moment, our nature compels us to reconnect through imagination.

“Ben, it’s been a while. I apologize, Son.”

“Oh, that’s okay, Dad. No problem,” he said, generously letting me off the hook.

“You know Ben … while standing here, I think back to some of my favorite moments and picture you as you were, as we used to be.”

“Like what? Oh, wait! I bet you’re thinking of the Radio Flyer red wagon when it was just me and Kimmy, right? Remember how she sat in front and I held on to her from behind,” he asked.

“Yea, I do ‘Member’ how I used to fix her hair like Pebbles on The Flintstones?” I reminisced.

“Yea, that was funny. You really liked dragging us around a lot, especially to the
library, didn’t you?”

“I sure did. I would seek out clumps of people on the way there who would tell me how beautiful my kids were. Then we’d read stories for an hour or so.”

Ben blushed.

“Listen Ben, I ‘gotta’ go. Talk again?”

“Sure, Dad.”

Sometimes you come away feeling better …

Leaving the cemetery, especially the first time, is a difficult step. After all, we
brought so much but leave with so little, nothing more than memories. Although we may “feel” the presence of our loved one, it is somehow never enough.

A Poem in Memory of Benjamin Eight Years Ago
Since we bid thee farewell eight years ago,
that bleak morning many tears did shed.
Into cavernous depths we lowered thee …
to souls long before art thou wed.

I want you to know I’ve lived as well …
as best I could … I have tried.
Nary a morn, noon or night has passed
couldn’t ever help myself but cried.

I've felt so bad all these years,
when your days of youth deprived
with sickness that stole so much of your strength
from our well that might otherwise have thrived.

Much like you, what could we do
when alone we left you to lie ...
Living our lives lest we stray
from our faith well worn and tried.

It is hard to explain these feelings I have
without you eight years I live.
As each day passes, I can’t but think
My life for yours I wouldst give.

Alan D. Busch
11/17/08

Sunday, November 16, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




stories from shul ...

the day had been mediocre at best. i felt cold all day-no matter the heat was on, had taken my meds on schedule but still felt poorly. all in all, not a 5-star day.

i was to meet my wife at our favorite starbucks after minyan. had to drag myself, really could have convinced myself to stay home but i went and you know what?

I am exceedingly glad i did. yes, the weather was undesirable, i still felt cold, stiff. a tad off balance (pretty much par for the course for a middle-aged man with PD (oh! sorry ... parkinson's disease)

happily, we had a big crowd for minyan. rabbi louis taught from medrash tanchuma between mincha and maariv; a nice d'var Torah sprinkled with a few light-hearted remarks, pretty much par for the course for Reb Louis. this man has kept me going for nearly fifteen years with his friendship, his Torah and good humor.

we finished maariv; the guys were getting ready to leave. the customary handshakes, yasher koachs, you know the usual stuff. i was chatting with walter when comes up to me this man ...

"excuse me sir, are you alan busch?"

not to worry, my interlocutor was a yid from new york. we were in an orthodox shul in its beis medrash.what? i should worry?

"yes, i am."

" i just wanted to let you know i read your book. haven't been here for a year or so, but last time i picked up a copy, cried all the while i was reading. thank you for sharing these stories of your beloved son!"

"thank you, thank you very much, your kind words, i ..."

"as a parent, well i can't imagine it but your sensitivity, the way you wrote it, your language, rabbi was there too, " he said, pointing to Reb Louis.

"yes, my dearest friend."

well, i must tell you, this gentleman went on for another three minutes. i took his hand.

"i wasn't sure you'd be here, but i was hopeful. i'm in town for a few days. will you be here?"

"yom yom, " (every day) i responded genuinely touched by this kind man's generosity of praise.

and then ...

"my name is Benjamin."

my heart nearly flew out of my chest!

"well, thank you Ben," i couldn't restrain this enormous smile i felt overtaking my face. it had been such a crummy day.

"hey ... Ben, that right," he realized. "that was your son's name. i forgot and was trying to remember it."

"thank you Ben," i did not want the moment to end. i let go of his hand reluctantly. Ben turned to leave.

The "Aibishter" sends messengers. He really does, believe me. one of mine has been called "Benjamin" twice ...

"walter, you need a ride home?"

"sure," he responded. walter walks with a cane. i left shul with that same smile.

"see you tomorrow walter after minyan?" i asked."

"i'll try to make it," he said closing the car door. "oh," he said, reopening the door, "coffee tomorrow after shul?"

"it's a date," i gladly accepted. you see? i almost did not go to shul tonight, feeling poorly as i had been, but the "Aibishter" sent me a "refuah". Baruch Ha Shem! so who am i to complain?

Thursday, November 13, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




Revision of my poem "For Zac", my son more precious than rubies ...

For Zac, My Younger Son and Youngest Child

“May He Become A Teacher"


I see him back then, as a boy I did teach,
I pray Son a human being I helped you become.
Remind us to reflect the divine spark in each
when the miscreance of others leaves us benumb.

Teary-eyed respite sighs, when on cloudy days I recall,
a boy whose freckled face I see crestfallen became ...
for plucking orange lilies off sun craning stems,
who boyishly felt neither remorse nor shame.

A lesson he learned from that day hence …
until forever arrives, may his days be long last.
What good endureth, what measure this hath,
if allowed to fade silently into our past?

Respect life all, from greatness to small,
guard this lesson's value pristine,
Tend your garden until like a school it becomes
when tomorrow’s children, of lilies they have seen.

Alan D. Busch
11/13/08

Wednesday, October 29, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




A Chapter of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me to be published.

10/29/2008 12:10:00 PM

by
Alan D Busch

The Jewish Press (NY), America's largest Jewish independent weekly, will publish this
abbreviated revision of Chapter 11 of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me in January of 2009. See below.

__________________________


Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me

Struggling To Do The Right Thing


It wasn’t so much my father’s problem as it was mine.

The commandment to honor one’s parents had always been for me simply …
the right thing to do. Jewish tradition characterizes it, however, as the most
challenging of the Taryag Mitzvos. Anyone who has ever cared for a
terminally ill parent appreciates the difficulty of performing this mitzvah well.

With the approaching Aseres Y’mai Teshuva, I found myself struggling with
how best to honor my father who had been battling colon cancer for two years.
Hospitalized twice since July of 2008, we moved him to a skilled nursing
facility. He lived there for fifteen days before he died on Shabbos. I was at his
bedside.

My father’s condition made it impossible for him to attend high
holy day services this year as he had in years past. I was unsure whether to
attend services or be at his hospital bedside. I wanted to do the right thing, to
decide upon the right path and soon. “I’ll be staying here with Dad for Rosh Ha
Shana,” I told my older brother Ron who had already postponed his flight
several times. However, after two weeks with Dad, he had to return home.
“I cannot in good conscience go to shul,” I added. Ron’s face brightened as
if to say ‘You’ve made the right decision little brother’.

“Well,” he observed pithily, “if you can’t take care of your father at a time like this,
religion isn't worth much, is it?"

“I couldn’t agree more Ron,” I replied, smiling at my brother’s roughly hewn
pshat of the Fifth Commandment. I had never seen my older brother weep
before. I guess there is a first time for everything. I turned aside. “Hey,” he said,
gently draping his forearm on the back of my neck and shoulders. “Thank you.”

If my father could not come to Rosh Ha Shana, I’d bring Rosh Ha Shana to him. Hoping to elevate my family’s mitzvah of bikkur cholim to a Kiddush Ha Shem, I brought a holiday meal to the hospital for my family. My daughter Kimberly cried. Perhaps the festive food would help to strengthen our emunah that The Aibishter might still inscribe and seal my father in the
Book of Life.

The eve of Yom Ha Din approached. Who would live? Who would die? Who
would be sealed in the Sefer Ha Chaim? I found myself wrestling with a more
intense moral dilemma than the one I had faced several days earlier. The
awesome finality of Yom Kippur filled me with greater uncertainty and
dread. My father continued to decline. How would I live with myself tomorrow
if I were not at my father’s bedside today? Would I have to plead for my father’s
life before the Aron Kodesh? I needed guidance.

I called Rabbi Louis. We chatted for an hour. I learned how he had cared for his dying father years before but could not bring myself to ask him what he would have done had his father been dying on the eve of Yom Kippur.

I went early next morning to visit my father. Time was running out just hours
before Kol Nidre. While my father slept, I called my friend Ephraim, a halachic
Jew, who hosts an on-line yeshiva where I have read some of my poetry and
prose. Preoccupied with his eighty-six year old mother who, like my father, was
terminally ill with stage four cancer, he told me he'd be staying at home with
her for yontif. I was thunderstruck. His timely story of hashgacha pratis
resolved my dilemma.

Rabbi Louis called me motzai yontif. I relayed Ephraim’s story. “Baruch Ha
Shem!” he responded, once more validating his belief that “Got firt da velt.”
“The Aibishter sends messengers to help us make the right decision,” Rabbi counseled.
My right decision enabled my dad and me to reach closer to The One Above than either of us could have done separately.

I was called to his bedside late Shabbos morning, My father’s neshuma was readying itself to
depart. A sound came from his throat as he drew his last breaths. A final calm blanketed him.
He was warm and at ease.

A part of my father had gone missing eight years before when his twenty-two year old grandson, my son Ben, departed this world. It's hard to pin down, but I suspect it left at the same time as
Ben's neshuma. Like Jacob who had clung to Esau's heel, it attached itself to Ben's ha akev shel
ha nefesh, the heel of his soul, taking a little bit of my father with him.

Now on this Shabbos Kodesh, my father would at long last be whole again.

Revised 10/27/08

Thursday, October 09, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




dear friends, please see my newly published story in the Jewish Press of New York

http://www.jewishpress.com/pageroute.do/36604/Lamentations.html

Tuesday, September 16, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!



Tka B' Shofar

Express Mail to Ben on the first day of Elul ...

Letter to Ben and Related Thoughts (resent express mail) this first day of Chodesh Elul in anticipation of the New Year 5769.

(with an addition to the original "Letter to Ben" written Thursday night and early Friday morning just a few days before Erev Rosh Ha Shana 5766) ...

There are many greetings for the Yomin Noraim, the Jewish high holidays: A Gut Yontif, A Gut Yor, Chag Sameach, Shana Tova, among several others, but regardless of whichever one we choose, their common feature is they can be effectively answered by responding "Amen!"
Such a wonderful word this "amen"! It's short, clean and efficient and, in effect, says: "Yes! I subscribe to everything you have said!"Beyond this, we pray that each of us will be inscribed in the "Sefer Ha Chaim"-the Book of Life-for the coming year-that we may be worthy enough to enjoy the mazel, brocho and hatzlacha, luck, blessing and success that the New Year affords!

As a boy, I remember hearing that without good health, all the riches in the world ... well, you know the rest ...We are all "basar v' dam"-flesh and blood-mortal beings for whom death-however untimely and premature as it so often seems-is as integral to life as is birth itself; dialectical opposites each requiring the other lest what we euphemistically call "nature" gives way to chaos.

None of this however soothes the bereaved parent! That much I know very well. As a matter of fact, I have often found myself examining my own deeds-both present and past-in an attempt to uncover what may be a possible linkage between the absolute calamity of losing Ben and my own considerable failings and flaws. Then I "awaken" because I know in my heart that He does not rule over the universe in such a fashion that a child is sacrificed for the misdeeds of a parent! For as immeasureably much as I miss Ben, I blame no one and certainly not God Himself or ... for that matter the driver of the truck whose failure to signal a right turn led to ...I even know his name and where he lives, but for the sake of Ben whose life I love(d), may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism, and may you Ben dwell on high, high enough to look down through the clouds and see us.

On this the first day of Chodesh Elul, on the "almost eve" of the New Year, 5769 I send you these few reflections ...

Dear Ben,

It's now approaching eight years ago that you left us son. That Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, November 22, 2000, our last morning together, those few minutes we spent chatting while I drove you to the train ... how grateful I am the vivid memory of that brief moment is mine.Life without you has been and continues to be difficult. There isn't a day when I don't think of you while pondering the many "what might have beens". I smile recalling how close you and I were! Sure we had our many differences and struggles, but what father and son don't?

We've all had to get on with our lives. We grow older while you remain forever as young as the day you were taken from us. Believe it or not ... today, September 1, 2008 is Zac's 21st birthday.Over these several years, I have spoken to many parents who have lost a child, and learned each copes in his own way. I don't know how your mom has managed, but I imagine she has in her own way-not unlike your sister and brother and all who love you. While searching for the right words, Ben, my hope is they'll not only have particular meaning for you but a more universal message as well for others who grieve as do we.

First off ... know that I love(d) you and will always unconditionally. As the older of my two sons and the eldest of my three children-though I take much pleasure in watching your sister and brother take their places in the world, I feel great anguish when I see the grownup sons of other men. We were all deprived of you Ben. It is just somehow so unfair! I recall one night when you, your sister, brother and I were together; it might even have been a Shabbat or yom tov-maybe one of our Passover seders. When the three of you were about to leave on your way back to mom's house, I kissed you on your cheek and felt the stubble of your whiskers on my lips. Funny what each of us remembers.

Be well,

Dad :)

9/1/08

Tuesday, September 09, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

Here is chapter 1 of Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, a memoir about my father who is telling me his story. I question him, he answers, I listen, he grows weary, I run home to write it all down. It is his way of fashioning a "cheshbon ha nefesh", an accounting of his life. My father suffers from stage 4 cancer ... may he merit length of days.

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me …”


Part 1



I feared for my father’s life.


"Alan, it’s Bobbie,” my dad’s wife called me early one morning."
“Yes, Bobbie, Good morning.”
"I’m taking your father to the hospital. Please come down.”
“Okay, okay. I’m leaving right now.” I had told Bobbie she should call me if ever she needed any assistance with my father-no matter what time or day it was. You were right,” I admitted.
“About what …?”
“About me picking up the phone.” It was Shabbat morning when I do
not make or accept any phone calls. I make one exception, however. I
will answer calls from my parents and my children.“Well, I had a feeling,” she responded while ably making her way through traffic.
“Well, thank you for that feeling.”

We arrived at Northwestern University’s Prentice Women’s Hospital about forty minutes later. I entered through the emergency room while my wife parked our car in the lot.
“Good morning,” I greeted the receptionist.
"Good morning,” she replied.
“My father is here, Dr. Albert Busch.” She typed quickly.
“Yes, Dr. Busch. Exam room four. Right around the corner,” she turned around in her chair. “There. Right down the hall.” I hurried away. I met Bobbie standing outside exam room four.
“Bobbie.”
“Hi. Your dad is inside,” she said, gesturing toward the door. Her expression looked foreboding. I did not know what to expect, but it couldn't be anything good. I went in. I saw my father, already changed into a hospital gown, lying down atop a gurney, several nurses attending him. He was dehydrated. Fighting unrelenting diarrehia and fever from a urinary tract infection, my father’s skin was yellowish. I had seen that skin tone before when, as a volunteer for
the Jewish Sacred Society, I used to help wash and dress bodies before
burial. I had never seen my dad like this. I feared for his life.“Good morning. Dr. Busch?” a young ER resident entered the room. “Yes, I’m Alan Busch. Dr. Busch is my father.” He was “thirtyish something” unshaved, short in stature and sporting a black suede
Kippah. One bobby pin.
“Good Shabbes. Sholem Aleichem,” I greeted him.
“Good Shabbes to you. Aleichem Sholem, he responded. “How is your Shabbos going?” he asked me tongue in cheek. I liked him. He understood.
“I’ve had better,” half-smilingly.
“We’ll be admitting your father shortly as soon as the paperwork is processed.
“Thanks, doc,”
“You’re welcome. Be well.”

I am here in Room 1616, Prentice Women’s Hospital. It has been a rough first few hours. I’m doing as much as I can. I don’t want to let him down. He’s mostly asleep except when the diarehia makes its presence felt. It comes so fast that there is no chance of making it to the bathroom. I help the nurses clean up. After all, this is my father we’re talking about here. He falls back asleep within seconds.

I look at his face. It’s drawn, his skin sagging under his chin. His neck
is wrinkled. He’s lost so much weight. It’s as if he’s extra skin. I can’t
help it but it reminds me of a turkey’s neck. You know what I mean.
‘This is how he’ll look, I suppose.’ I try to block these thoughts out. I
can’t. There he lies and I can’t help but think. God and my dad should
forgive me. Watching his life come to an ignominious end, ravaged by cancer
attacking his bowel. His intestines are at war against us. He’s lost
control of them. They control him now and are making his life miserable.
"Call the nurses Alan. Please, please don’t do any more.”
"Dad, let me. I'll clean this up myself.” Determined to care of my
father, I lost count of the number of times I changed his gown and
bed sheets. The nurses are giving, wonderful people, but I was frankly
embarrassed for them and my father. “I understand son but the nurses are faster.
Let them do their job.” He was adamant. I stayed over the first two nights.
We must have called the nurses four or five times during the early morning hours to help
us clean up. The unrelenting nature of the diarrhea was demoralizing us.

I watched my father fade away. He had become frightfully thin. After
more than forty-eight hours at the hospital, I reached my limit. I had
to go home. My wife, Heather, came down to pick me up. I was
exhausted physically and emotionally. Bobbie had arrived earlier so I
did not feel guilty about leaving.
“Dad, I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“No problem, son. Go home and rest." Even had I protested, my
father would have kicked me out. He seldom if ever thinks of himself.
“Heather, let’s go for a drink.” I felt ready to collapse not so much
from physical fatigue as from emotional exhaustion.
“I saw a nice little place at the corner. What do you say?” She was
agreeable.“This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do,” I said
while sipping a martini. My wife ordered a diet pop.
“Come on. Finish up and let’s go home. I’ll fix something for dinner,”
she said. Now that was really welcome news because for two days, I
had eaten nothing but cereal with milk, pudding, chips and fresh fruit.
Mind you, I was not going to starve but the hospital’s “food market”
had a limited supply of kosher items.

We arrived home. I collapsed on the couch. My wife lit some candles,
closed the blinds and put on some James Taylor “cds”. She knows how
much I like him. I cannot really account for it, but there is something
about his music that affects me emotionally. I felt I was just about
ready to burst. By the end of his song “Mean Old Man” (which, by the
way,, my father is not!) I broke down sobbing, my shoulders heaving.
I covered my head with the towel my wife had put on the back of my
neck for extra comfort and simply … wept.

I woke up next morning feeling sluggish, still worn out.
"I'll be down there tomorrow. It's too darn hot. The expressway is a
parking lot,” I tried to assuage my guilty conscience. I spent the better
part of the day trying to fool myself, looking for and finding every
excuse not to visit my father that day. I called my brother Ron
around 7:30 p.m. He had flown in from St. Louis that morning and
been with our father all day.
"Hi, Ron, so how was today?"
"Not so good," he sounded worn out.
"Oh ...?" I wanted him to continue.
"Can you come on down now?" he asked, barely masking an order to
do so. Frankly, I was glad he did. Even though my father had been
having a bad day, Ron's request relieved me of my self-inflicted guilt.
I drove down.
"It's just that I've not seen him cry before except when he thinks
about Ben (my dad’s first grandson, my first-born son who died
almost eight years ago).
"It's so darn pitiful," my brother remarked.
Tears. My father was crying while sitting on the commode.
Disappointment. Let down. Ten days in the hospital and the diarrhea
is still unabated. No warning, no bodily signals. It just comes when it
pleases. I kept silent. What response is there? Here is a man who does
not care about his cancer. He can deal with that.

"It's not the cancer. I accept that. It's this diarrhea that is taking me
downhill," he said to his nephew Robert, my first cousin who is a soon
retiring professor of medicine in Michigan. Do you remember what
General MacArthur said about old soldiers not dying but fading away?
As a matter of fact, my father is an old soldier, United States Army,
brigadier general, retired. And as with old soldiers, especially those
who wear stars on their epaulets, there is no crying. Reminds me of
that Tom Hanks line in A League of Their Own. “There is no crying in
baseball!”

Think about what my father said about the diarrhea taking him
downhill, and ask yourself this question: When we are just babies,
what do our parents train us to do which is our first really great
accomplishment? No, it's not "Da-da, ma-ma" or our first step
without holding on. The answer is ‘toilet training”-achieving mastery
over our bodies, controlling one of its most basic functions which
first defined us as kids and no longer babies. One of two lead doctors
treating my father told me tonight he has tried everything he knows,
but he DOES NOT know how to stop the diarrehia. "There is nothing more
we can do for your dad in the hospital," admitted my Dad's oncologist.
My father was scheduled to be sent home. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, he came out
"swinging", as I described him to several friends. It appears the
"Aibishter" has other plans for my father. He summed it up rather
nicely when he told his brother: “Don''t worry Hirshy, I'm not ready
to die yet."

If you're looking to measure a man''s mettle, witness how he copes
with physical affliction. It is ultimately a test of the substance and
depth of his dignity. My father is the paradigm of a man who survived
a plethora of indignities not only with his dignity intact but admired
by the many family members and friends to whom he provided a
remarkable example of stubborn courage. Now that he is home, we spend
much of our time talking and playing gin rummy. He tells his story and I listen.
"So Dad I''ve a few questions to ask you."
"Okay, go ahead. Ask away."
"I wanna know the stuff you won't tell me."

(end part 1)

Friday, September 05, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




Dear Friends,

Please click on Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me ... Part 4 (short story) by Alan D Busch on AuthorsDen

posted and revised 9/5/08

Alan D. Busch

Wednesday, September 03, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!





“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me …”

Part 1 Revised 9/3/08

I feared for my father's life.

“Alan, it’s Bobbie,” my dad’s wife called me early one morning.

“Yes, Bobbie, good morning.”

"I’m taking your father to the hospital. Please come down.”

“Okay, okay. I’m leaving right now.”

I had told Bobbie she should call me if ever she needed any assistance with my father. It wouldn’t matter what time or day it was. My wife and I arrived at the hospital about forty minutes later. I entered through the emergency room while my wife parked our car in the lot.

“Good morning,” I greeted the receptionist.

"Good morning,” she replied.

“My father is here, Dr. Albert Busch.” She typed quickly.

“Yes, Dr. Busch. Exam room four. Right around the corner,” she turned around in her

chair. “There. Right down the hall.” I hurried away. I met Bobbie standing outside exam room four.

“Bobbie.”

“Hi. Your dad is inside,” she said, gesturing toward the door. Her expression looked foreboding. I did not know quite what to expect, but it couldn't be anything good. I entered. I saw my father, already changed into a hospital gown, lying down atop a gurney, several nurses attending him. He was dehydrated. Fighting unrelenting diarrehia and fever from a urinary tract infection, my father’s skin was yellowish. I had seen that skin tone before when, as a volunteer for the Jewish Sacred Society, I used to help wash and dress bodies before burial. I had never before seen my dad like this. I feared for his life.

I am here. Room 1616. Prentice Women’s Hospital. Watching his life come to an ignominious end, ravaged by cancer attacking his bowel. His intestines are at war against us. He’s lost control of them. They control him now and are making his life miserable.

"Call the nurses Alan. Please, please don’t do any more.”

"Dad, let me. I'll clean this up myself.” Determined to care for my father, I lost count of the number of times I had changed his gown and bed sheets. The nurses are giving, wonderful people, but I was frankly embarrassed for them and my father.

“I understand son but the nurses are faster. Let them do their job.” He was adamant. I stayed over the first two nights. We must have called the nurses four or five times during the early morning hours to help us clean up. The unrelenting nature of the diarrehia was demoralizing us.

I watched my father fade away. He had become frightfully thin. After more than forty-eight hours at the hospital, I reached my limit. I had to go home. My wife, Heather, came down to pick me up. I was exhausted physically and emotionally. Bobbie had arrived earlier so I did not feel guilty about leaving.

“Dad, I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“No problem, son. Go home and rest." Even had I protested, my father would have kicked me out. He seldom if ever thinks of himself.

“Heather, let’s go for a drink.” I felt ready to collapse not so much from physical fatigue as from emotional exhaustion.

“I saw a nice little place at the corner. What do you say?” She was agreeable.“This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do,” I said while sipping a martini. My wife ordered a diet pop.

“Come on. Finish up and let’s go home. I’ll fix something for dinner,” she said. Now that was really welcome news because for two days, I had grown tired of cereal and milk, pudding, chips and fresh fruit. Mind you, I was not going to starve but the hospital’s “food market” had a limited supply of kosher items.

We arrived home. I collapsed on the couch. My wife lit some candles, closed the blinds and put on some James Taylor “cds”. She knows how much I like him. I cannot really account for it, but there is something about his music that affects me emotionally. I felt I was just about ready to burst. By the end of his “Mean Old Man” (which by the way, my father is not!) I broke down sobbing, my shoulders heaving. I covered my head with the towel my wife had put on the back of my neck for extra comfort and simply … wept.

I woke up next morning feeling sluggish, still worn out.

"I'll be down there tomorrow. It's too darn hot. The expressway is a parking lot,” I tried to assuage my guilty conscience. I spent the better part of the day trying to fool myself, looking for and finding every excuse not to visit my father that day. I called my brother Ron around 7:30 p.m. He had flown in from St.Louis that morning and been with our father all day.

"Hi, Ron, so how was today?"

"Not so good," he sounded worn out.

"Oh ...?" I wanted him to continue.

"Can you come on down now?" he asked, barely masking an order to do so. Frankly, I was glad he did. Even though my father had been having a bad day, Ron's request relieved me of my self-inflicted guilt. I drove down.

"It's just that I've not seen him cry before except when he thinks about Ben (my dad's first grandson, my first-born son who died almost eight years ago).

"It's so darn pitiful," my brother remarked.

Tears. My father was crying while sitting on the commode. Disappointment. Let down. Ten days in the hospital and the diarrhea is still unabated. No warning, no bodily signals. It just comes when it pleases. I kept silent. What response is there? Here is a man who does not care about his cancer. He can deal with that.

"It's not the cancer. I accept that. It's this diarrhea that is taking me downhill," he said to his nephew Robert, my first cousin who is a soon retiring professor of medicine in Michigan.

Do you remember what General MacArthur said about old soldiers not dying but fading away? As a matter of fact, my father is an old soldier, United States Army, brigadier general, retired. And as with old soldiers, especially those who wear stars on their epaulets, there is no crying. Reminds me of that Tom Hanks line in A League of Their Own. “There is no crying in baseball!”

Think about what my father said about the diarrhea taking him downhill, and ask yourself this question: When we are just babies, what do our parents train us to do which is regarded as our first really great accomplishment? No, it's not "Da-da, ma-ma" or our first step without holding on. It's "toilet training”-achieving mastery over our bodies, controlling one of its most basic functions. My father has lost that! And to lose control over that which first defined us as kids and no longer babies, is emotionally devastating.

One of two lead doctors told me tonight that he has tried everything he knows, but he DOES NOT know how to stop the diarrehia. "There is nothing more we can do for your father
in the hospital," admitted my Dad's oncologist. My father was scheduled to be sent home. After nearly two weeks later, he came out "swinging", as I described him to several friends. It appears the Aibishter has other plans for my father. He summed it up rather nicely when he told his brother: “Don't worry Hirshy, I'm not ready to die yet."

If you're looking to measure a man's mettle, witness how he copes with physical affliction. It is ultimately a test of the substance and depth of his dignity. My father is the paradigm of a man who survived a plethora of indignities not only with his dignity intact but admired by the many family members and friends to whom he provided a remarkable example of stubborn courage.

Now that he is home, we spend much of our time talking and playing gin rummy. He tells his story and I listen.

"So Dad I've a few questions to ask you."

"Okay, go ahead. Ask away."

"I wanna know the stuff you won't tell me."

(to be continued ...)

Monday, September 01, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!




Letter to Ben and Related Thoughts (resent express mail) this first day of Chodesh Elul in anticipation of the New Year 5769.
(with an addition to the original "Letter to Ben" written Thursday night and early Friday morning just a few days before Erev Rosh Ha Shana 5766) ...

There are many greetings for the Yomin Noraim, the Jewish high holidays: A Gut Yontif, A Gut Yor, Chag Sameach, Shana Tova, among several others, but regardless of whichever one we choose, their common feature is they can be effectively answered by responding "Amen!"

Such a wonderful word this "amen"! It's short, clean and efficient and, in effect, says: "Yes! I subscribe to everything you have said!"Beyond this, we pray that each of us will be inscribed in the "Sefer Ha Chaim"-the Book of Life-for the coming year-that we may be worthy enough to enjoy the mazel, brocho and hatzlacha, luck, blessing and success that the New Year affords!

As a boy, I remember hearing that without good health, all the riches in the world ... well, you know the rest ...We are all "basar v' dam"-flesh and blood-mortal beings for whom death-however untimely and premature as it so often seems-is as integral to life as birth itself; dialectical opposites each requiring the other lest what we euphemistically call "nature" gives way to chaos.

None of this however soothes the bereaved parent! That much I know very well. As a matter of fact, I have often found myself examining my own deeds-both present and past-in an attempt to uncover what may be a possible linkage between the absolute calamity of losing Ben and my own considerable failings and flaws. Then I "awaken" because I know in my heart that He does not rule over the universe in such a fashion that a child is sacrificed for the misdeeds of a parent! For as immeasureably much as I miss Ben, I blame no one and certainly not God Himself or ... for that matter the driver of the truck whose failure to signal a right turn led to ...

I even know his name and where he lives, but for the sake of Ben whose life I love(d), may I merit the strength to live life free from bitterness, anger and cynicism, and may you Ben dwell on high, high enough to look down through the clouds and see us. On this the first day of Chodesh Elul, on the "almost eve" of the New Year, 5769 I send you these few reflections:

Dear Ben,

It's now approaching eight years ago that you left us son. That Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, November 22, 2000, our last morning together, those few minutes we spent chatting while I drove you to the train ... how grateful I am the vivid memory of that brief moment is mine. Life without you has been and continues to be difficult. There isn't a day when I don't think of you while pondering the many "what might have beens". I smile recalling how close you and I were! Sure we had our many differences and struggles, but what father and son don't?

We've all had to get on with our lives. We grow older while you remain forever as young as the day you were taken from us. Believe it or not ... today, September 1, 2008 is Zac's 21st birthday. He was only thirteen when you left. Over these several years, I have spoken to many parents who have lost a child, and learned each copes in his own way. I don't know how your mom has managed, but I imagine she has in her own way-not unlike your sister and brother and all who love you. While I search for the right words, Ben, my hope is they'll not only have particular meaning for you but for others who grieve as we do.

Please know that I love(d) you and will always unconditionally. As the older of my two sons and the eldest of my three children-though I take much pleasure in watching your sister and brother take their places in the world, I feel great anguish when I see the grownup sons of other men. We were all deprived of you Ben. It is just somehow so unfair! I recall one night when you, your sister, brother and I were together; it might even have been a Shabbat or yom tov-maybe one of our Passover seders. When the three of you were about to leave on your way back to Mom's house, I kissed you on your cheek and felt the stubble of your whiskers on my lips. Funny what each of us remembers.

Be well,

Dad :)
9/1/08

Sunday, August 31, 2008



Where authors and readers come together!



Dear Friends,
It would be helpful to you if you first read the second installment of my series "Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me, A Continuation", which you'll find by scrolling down a bit. My intent and hope is to write and hopefully publish a five part series. More to come ...

“Stuff My Father Won’t Tell Me” Part 3

“Hello,” I picked up the phone.

“Hi Albert. It’s Marge.”

“No. This is Alan.”

“Alan? You sound just like your dad.”

“Well, I guess it’s in the genes. One moment, please. Dad, it’s for you.”

Not too surprisingly, I look like my father, dress like him, emote like him and, as you just learned, sound like him. In other words, I am my father’s son. Then again, so is my brother Ron with whom I have reconnected after a long hiatus these past two months due entirely to our father’s illness. Ron flew in on Sunday afternoon. He called me when he got to my dad’s apartment.

“Ron, can you fill in for me tomorrow? I can’t make it down.”

“Sure. How’s Tuesday for you?”

“Nope, I can’t make it then either. I’ve got some other stuff to do.”

Ron is anxious for the three of us to spend time together before he has to return to St. Louis.

“I’ll be down tomorrow, Ron. See you around noon?

“Hey, that sounds good. See you then.”

There is nothing more “nachasdik” for my Dad than to be with his sons. Personifying an amazing juxtaposition of “opposites”, my dad is a “tough guy” who has never stopped chaffing my cheeks when he kisses me. As a matter of fact, I attribute much if not all of my emotional make up to my father whose example taught me to kiss my children. In public, in private, it doesn’t matter. He’s always enjoyed showing us off- kind of like what I used to do when I would drag my kids around in a red Radio Flyer wagon on our way to the public library. We spent the better part of Wednesday afternoon together with my father at his office. He’s closing it down after more than a half century of business. Though my father has recovered remarkably well since leaving the hospital, he knows he can no longer treat patients. My father has been practicing dentistry in Chicago since 1953.

“One of these days, I’ll get it right,” he often quips with an irrepressible smile. Around 5 o’clock or so, I was getting ready to head back home. Ron walked me to the front door, opposite the kitchen. I could see our father sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. His wife, Bobbie, sat across from him.

“So, Alan, any words?” Ron asked.

“None at the moment,” I responded, hoping to preclude an emotional scene.

“God, I feel so … so guilty about leaving, but I’ve got to get home,” Ron confessed in an undertone.

“I understand,” I reassured him. My brother Ron feels bad. He’s got it tougher than I do. I can see Dad anytime I wish and do. I visit with him three days a week, and I think he’d agree this has been the best time we’ve ever spent together. Ron, however, lives in St. Louis. Not far away, to be sure. A one hour flight. Still, it worries him.

“What if … what if this is the last time?” Ron wonders.

“No, no. Not going to happen. Not now,” I assuredly insisted. “Dad is a pugilist, Ron, remember? He’s a boxer, a fighter, you know.” (As a matter of fact, my father was a “golden gloves” boxer in his youth).

Though Ron is only eighteen months older, it has always defined our relationship. It was an odd moment. I sensed a shift between us. For the first time, I was “taking care” of Ron-a good, big brother much like my son Ben had been to his younger siblings, Kimberly and Zac.

“Hey listen, call me if you want to get together tonight,” I clumsily changed the topic.

“I’d like to but I’d better not.”

“Listen, we’ll talk,” I reassured him. I picked up my computer bag. “Dad and Bobbie, I’ll talk to ya.”

My father’s grief and “atheism” revisited …

My father is not an atheist-no matter what he says. He’s a grieving grandpa whose concept of God-as a beneficent and indulgent parent-not only failed to shield him but shattered when he desperately needed the “bitachon”, faith, that personal tragedy demands and “emunah”, belief, affords.

“I just don’t understand how you’ve done it,” my father has said to me on more than one occasion. “Ron and I were talking about you the other day,” he added, “and we both agree that neither of us could have done what you did.”

My father is referring to the fact I chose life after the death of my son Ben. I don’t mean to dismiss his praise of me, but a grieving parent has a very restricted range of choice in these matters: either he consciously and decidedly determines to choose life-albeit having to accept the presence of grief as a constant in his life from then on, or he becomes busy with dying. Contrary to my father’s generous appraisal, my decision to choose life was not a heroic one-simply necessary.

Losing a grandson … well, I just don’t know how that feels. Is it any different from losing a son? Like me, my father hasn’t been the same since November 22, 2000 when we stood almost within arm’s reach of Ben during his waning moments while a trauma team fought desperately to save his life. Something that day went missing in both of us. I don’t know what to call it or how to define it, but I suspect it left simultaneously with Ben’s neshuma-attaching itself as it were to Ben’s “ha'akev shel hanefesh”, the "heel of his soul", taking a little bit of us with him. And, as I can speak for my father in this matter, that is okay with us.

“Hirshy, I understand that,” my dad said to my Uncle Hirsh, his slightly younger brother with whom he has partnered their dental practice for fifty-five years. I stood by. Couldn’t help but hear the conviction of my father’s voice. “I’ve my grandchildren to live for, Hirsh. The ‘chemo’ can go straight to the infernal regions. My oncologist says continuing the chemo is a ’50-50’ proposition, so I’m choosing to live without it.”

There you have it. Despite his assertions to the contrary (that he could not have survived and lived his life well had either of his sons died) my father has proven himself wrong. He has not only survived the death of his grandson, but very unequivocally “chosen life”. Just prior to his most recent hospitalization for fever, a urinary tract infection and severe diarrehia due to chemotherapy, he had continued to practice dentistry for an additional eight years. Hardly a casualty of tragedy, he has been an inspiring presence and example for his grandchildren, my daughter Kimberly and younger son, Zac.

You see … Ben was my father’s “son”-as much a “father” to all of my children as he is to me and my brother Ron.

That is, I suppose, how my father’s spirituality works. By choosing “ … life, so that you will live, you and your offspring, …” he has shown there are really no atheists in foxholes.

Alan D. Busch
8/31/08

Saturday, August 23, 2008



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Stuff My Father Won't Tell Me ... A Continuation


"Sooooo .... Dad, tell me this ... you ready for some questions and answers?" I'm still trying to have him give up the stories of his life I know he's holding back on.

My father has stage four cancer. He is home. I spend the afternoons with him three days a week. It's good for him, me and his wife, Bobbie, gives her a chance to get out and do stuff.

This is hardly the first time my dad and I have prepared for a lengthy disputation. As a matter of fact, we rather enjoy the experience of give and take, trying to better the other with the force of his argumentation. My father gets such nachas (enjoyment) from the experience. He thinks I'm so smart. Fatherly prejudice. As for me, I've always enjoyed bonding with my dad.

"Sure, go ahead." He gears up. I can see it. It's almost as if my father is testing my "sticktoitiveness" before he'll tell me the stuff that I really want to hear. And even then, it's just a "maybe". I may get closer but there will remain, a core of stuff that he'll continue to withhold from me. My goal is to have him tell me as much about himself as possible, before it is too late.

Perhaps, you find this sort of thing hard to read because it may stir up your own comparable memories. It's powerful stuff. Hits close to home, doesn't it?

I did not live with my father for very long at all. I grew up in St. Louis with my mother and grandmother after my folks' divorce. That is why I do this. It's a mutually beneficial sort of thing: I get to ask questions and listen while my father tells his story to his son, the writer. It's really quite dramatic when you think about it.

"Dad, what was your best day?" I asked, hoping to unleash a flow of words.

"Oh, that's easy," he said smilingly. The day you were born."

"No Dad, hmm, not what I want. I knew you were going to say that. Here now, excluding all those easy answers, births, weddings bla bla bla, excluding all of that, tell me about your best day."

Ah, now that seems to have struck a note. His mien changed remarkably. I know that face. I could see he was going back to the war, WW2, digging deep, exactly where I wanted him to go. I had tried before to elicit these memories, but he always stopped short. This time I think I had him.

"My best day was when I realized I was going to survive the war. You see ... that was my primary concern, for me Albert, I was intent on coming home alive! You know the old expression about there being no atheists in the foxholes?

"Sure. I've heard that."

"Well,, I assure you. It's the absolute truth. There were a couple of guys in my company, avowed atheists. We were gearing up for the Battle of the Bulge. Eveyybody and I mean everybody had a role in that. Well, me and these two guys found ourselves in the same foxhole with our heads in the mud. I dont know what it was, a grenade, a shell whatever. In my life, I had never seen so much praying. 'Dear Lord, please get me out of this. I'll be good. I'll never do that again.' You know the usual stuff that comes out under deep stress. So I says to these guys, I says: 'Whistling a different tune now, huh?' (My father has this peculiar grammatical habit of saying "I says". Really annoying but I keep my mouth shut.)

"How about you, Dad?

"What about me?"

"You know ... your belief?" (Finally, I had him right where I wanted him.)

"Me? Naw, I don't believe in God."

I was thunderstruck.

"Huh? What about the 'whistling a different tune' stuff, the foxhole?"

"Oh, I was just trying to 'raz' them."

"But, but ..."

There was definately something wrong with this picture. My father looked tired so I dropped it. He excused himself to take a nap. I thought about this whole thing for a while. His revelation bothered me. It really did.

A day or two later, I think I may have cracked the case, but it's only a theory at this time. Something had happened in his life that not only transformed him but shattered him and his belief as well. I think my father believed in God for the longest time-not religiously because my father is not a religious man, but a man who is (was?) spiritually inclined-just not in some grandly philosophical, ethereal way. In fact, I caught a snapshot of his theology the other day. He argued, as so many do, for the "proof" of the correctness of atheism that 'were there a God-a caring, loving, parent-like God (and it's important to recognize that that is their image of a God which for them pardoxically either does not or no longer exists)-He would not allow the terrible things in life to happen. It is a child's conception of God, an outlook stunted in its growth at an early age but adhered to for years of adult life. But then something happens that just shatters it, like so much glass. It's not a resilient belief so it shouldn't surprise us to discover it cannot weather the storms of life.

What happened?

When my father's first grandson died, my son Ben, nearly eight years ago on November 22, 2000, my father's fragile belief, his glass-like spirituality shattered just outside the operating room in the ER of Cook County Hospital in Chicago. I stood right next to him as he pled with The Almighty. I was there, saw it all ... heard every word.

"Standing by my father, together we witnessed a fiercely desperate scene unfolding no more than ten feet from us. I turned my head momentarily to check on my dad and beheld a
“stranger” praying fervently for the life of my son. While holding his arms overhead with the
palms of his hands flattened against the glass partition, his body slightly angled outward and
feet spread apart, appearing as if he were about to be searched by the police, he pled with The
Almighty for His immediate intervention.

“Hold on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!” my father, a sensitive though doggedly determined man, called out once, twice, thrice during Ben’s waning seconds, while there was yet a spark of life aglow."*

(to be continued)

*Excerpted from Snapshots In Memory of Ben.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008





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"Lamentations"

(to be published by Jewish Press (NY) October 11, 2008)

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled slacks with barely a crease, a faded yellow, perspiration-stained shirt and a dirty beige, worn out cap, he bore the appearance of neglect.

“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him. Smiling broadly, I chatted with him for several minutes. It was the right thing to do and besides, it made me feel better too. The previous several months had been turbulent. Not only had I ridden an emotional roller coaster, but I was stuck at the peak of the ride.

The summer’s heat was unrelenting and we were in the “nine days” before Tisha b' Av. "Good evening," he responded, an elderly man sitting alone in the shul’s social hall, looking sadly troubled. “I was worried. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv,” he said. "Oh, we'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.”

“Your name is, Sir?”

"Irving Talisman.”

He seemed to be reading my lips. He stopped short of answering Yitzhak. I don’t know why he didn’t, but I gave him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, for whom are you saying Kaddish?”

He twisted his left arm with his right hand to reveal six subcutaneous numerals. The dark shadows of his bloodshot eyes seemed as indelible as his tattoo. "My parents,” he whispered, drying his tears with a soiled handkerchief. That instant, I felt closer to the Shoah than ever before. Sure, I had seen the tattoos but never close up enough to become part of a survivor’s life. That was about to change.

I was determined to comfort this grief-stricken Jew. Was it not my obligation? "This way, Reb Talisman,” directing him to the Beis Medrash. We grasped the door handle. He hesitated.

"Should we enter?" he wondered. "Looks like the rebbe is busy with a bar mitzvah boy."

The shul was hectic. Not only was the sisterhood hosting a speaker from the Park District, but the junior minyan was learning mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. I had never seen the Rabbi look so exhausted. Reb Talisman and I entered. Rabbi rose from his chair, out of kavod for Reb Talisman.

“Shalom Aleichem, Reb Yitzchak,” Rabbi greeted him warmly.

“Aleichem sholem, Rebbe. Another year, eh?"

“Baruch Ha Shem,” Rabbi respectfully responded.

"Abba, it is 8:05. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four talmidim followed behind him.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a well-cushioned chair, the only one of its kind in the Beis Medrash. It had been the favorite of the Rebbitzen’s father. When I turned to check on Reb Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of the regular seats by the omed.

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned.

I looked over again to see how Reb Talisman was doing. He seemed more at ease now that we had begun on time. The usual several minutes for Mincha flew by.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba …”.

Rabbi learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan before the evening prayer.

“Al Yisroel v’al rabbonan …”.

He designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv. I should have felt good about how smoothly everything was proceeding for Reb Talisman. After all, minyan began on time. I had helped him in my own small way, but somehow … it just wasn’t enough. I closed my siddur.

“V’hu rachum …”. I arose for Borchu, but I was already a world away. I couldn’t help it, but I turned my thoughts to my Kallah. She had left me two months before after only fifteen months of marriage. I struggled to reconcile our differences, but she was adamant.

“I need to find myself,” she was fond of saying. I understood what she meant because I felt lost without her. "Maybe she'll drive by and come in to see me," I mused, staring out the window. I turned around thinking I had heard a feminine voice. “Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered. “Still, she just might be there when I get home.”

Then I heard Reb Talisman’s voice. It brought me back. I had to finish what I had started.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”. The beis medrash emptied. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning gentlemen,” Rabbi announced while his younger son replaced siddurim and Gemaras on the shelves. A few lingered to schmooze followed by the customary handshakes and yasher koach(s).
I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I could say to this man, but then realized our love of a fellow Jew had already spoken to Reb Talisman's heart.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he drove off. I fumbled for my keys. From the alley by my house, I could see she hadn't returned, but I expected as much. I sat for several moments.

“Maybe I’ll see her tomorrow," I thought. And I felt okay with that because I realized The Aibishter had taught me an invaluable lesson– one which, as a matter of fact, I had already learned but was prone to forget occasionally when I became self-absorbed.

He sent Reb Talisman to shul not only to say Kaddish but to remind me of the many Jews who grieve for losses far greater than mine. If I could but step away from my own tsorris, I could do so much good for so many. An act of chesed had brought comfort, friendship and a smile to an elderly Jew.

Chazal teach us we do not know what rewards await us in the next world for the performance of mitzvos in this world. I like to think though some reward may trickle down to us now. Four months after meeting Reb Talisman, my Kallah called me. We made plans to meet for coffee.

My prayers had been answered. “I'm ready to come home,” she said.

Maybe my reward had trickled down, but of one thing I was certain. Meeting Reb Talisman inspired me.

That day had indeed been a yom tov.

Alan D. Busch
author of Snapshots In Memory Of Ben
August 19, 2008


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Dear Friends,

I am pleased to announce that my short story "Lamentations" (scroll down to the previous posting to see a near version of the story though I had to edit it down a bit to 1000 words) will be published in the Lessons In Emunah feature of the Jewish Press (NY) www.JewishPress.com in the coming days. I do not know the exact date, but I'll post it when I find out.

Special thanks to a special friend, writer and editor whose editorial suggestions were invaluble.

Alan D. Busch

Monday, August 18, 2008



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Dear Friends,

Sorry to drag this out, but a fellow writer and editor pointed out a variety of flaws with the previous iteration, causing me to essentially rewrite the whole piece. It really is much better.

"Lamentations"
by Alan D. Busch
(revised: August 18, 2008)

His clothing caught my attention. Wearing wrinkled casual slacks with only the faintest hint of a crease, a faded yellow, perspiration-stained knit golf shirt, and a dirty beige, well-worn cap, he bore the appearance of neglect.

“Good evening, Sir,” I greeted him cheerfully.

Smiling as broadly as I could, I sat down and chatted with him for several minutes. It was simply the right thing to do and besides, I reasoned, it might even make me feel better too.

It had been a turbulent several months for me. Not only had I ridden an emotional roller coaster, but I was stuck at the highest peak of the ride. The summer’s heat was unrelenting and-to top it all off, we were in the “nine days” before Tisha b’ Av.

"Good evening," he responded, his mood perking up a bit, a faint smile overtaking his noticeably drawn face and chapped lips. An elderly man, he had been sitting alone in the shul’s social hall before I arrived, looking troubled and a great deal sadder than I felt.

“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 quickly reassured him. "We'll have a minyan. Please don’t worry about that.” I paused for a moment. “Your name is, Sir?” He seemed to focus on my mouth when I spoke as if lip reading.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman.”

He had begun to say "Yitzhak” instead of “Irving” but stopped short. Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t understand him or felt uncomfortable referring to himself by his Hebrew name. I really don’t know, but I resolved to give him my undivided attention.

“Reb Talisman, for whom are you saying Kaddish?” I asked.

He twisted his left arm a quarter turn with his right hand, revealing six subcutaneous green numerals. He looked up at me from bloodshot eyes. Their dark shadows seemed as indelible as his tattoo.

"My parents.” he tearfully whispered, removing a soiled handkerchief from his pants pocket. At that very instant, I felt tangibly closer to the Shoah than I had ever before. Sure, I had seen the tattoos but never close up enough to become part of a survivor’s life. That was about to change.
I was determined to take care of this man. If I could help to comfort one grief-stricken Jew, was I not obligated to do so?

"This way, Reb Talisman,” I invited him to accompany me down the hallway to our shul’s newly dedicated Beis Medrash. We both grasped hold of the door handle. He hesitated.

"Should we enter? It looks like the rebbe is busy with a bar mitzvah boy."

It was an unusually hectic evening at shul. Not only was the sisterhood hosting a speaker from the Park District who spoke about local conservation efforts, but the junior minyan was learning mishnayos with the Rabbi’s son. The Rabbi, a physically vigorous man, looked utterly exhausted. I had never seen him looking so worn out.

Reb Talisman and I quietly entered. Never too tired to do the right thing, Rabbi rose from his chair in an act of "kavod" to Reb Talisman.

“Shalom Aleichem, Reb Yitzchak,” Rabbi greeted him with a welcoming hand and bright smile.

“Aleichem sholem, Rebbe. Another year, eh?"

“Baruch Ha Shem,” Rabbi respectfully responded.

"Abba, it is 8:05. We have a minyan," announced Rabbi’s older son whose four mishnayos talmidim followed in behind him like so many goslings.

I escorted Reb Talisman to a special chair I thought he’d like. Unlike the several hundreds of stackable chairs we have in shul, this chair was more comfortably cushioned, peculiarly but uniquely pink in color, and always placed adjacent to the book shelves. It had been the favorite of the Rebbitzen’s father. When I turned to check on Reb Talisman, I saw he had chosen one of
the regular seats by the “omed”.

"Ashrei yoshvei v'secha,” the minyan intoned, marking the start of the afternoon service. I looked over again to see how Reb Talisman was doing. He seemed more at ease now that we had begun on time. The usual several minutes for Mincha flew by.

“Yisgadal veyiskadash shmey raba …”

Rabbi learned the halachos of the “nine days” with the minyan during the brief interval before the evening prayer.

“Al Yisroel v’al rabbonan …”

Rabbi designated one of the younger fellows to daven Ma’ariv. I should have felt good about how smoothly everything was proceeding for Reb Talisman. After all, he made it to minyan on time. I had helped him in my own small way, but somehow … it just wasn’t enough.I closed my siddur.

“V’hu rachum …”

I arose for “Borchu”, but I was already a world away.

I couldn’t help it, but I turned all of my thoughts to my “Kallah”. She had left
me two months before after only fifteen months of marriage. All that summer,
I struggled desperately to reconcile our differences, but she was adamant.

“I need to find myself,” she was fond of saying. I understood what she meant because I felt lost without her.

"Maybe she'll drive by and come in to see me," I mused while staring out the back window in the corner of the beis medrash where I customarily sit. I turned to the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I dejectedly muttered to myself. “Well,” I persisted in deluding myself, “She just might be there when I get home.”

Then I heard Reb Talisman’s voice. It brought me back. I had to finish what I had started.

"Oseh shalom bimromav …”

The beis medrash slowly emptied. “Six o’clock tomorrow morning gentlemen,” Rabbi announced while his younger son replaced siddurim and several volumes of Gemara back on the shelves. A few lingered to “schmooze” followed by the customary handshakes and “yasher koach(s)”.

I escorted Reb Talisman to his car. I wondered what I could possibly say to
this man on our way out, but then realized our concern for and love of a fellow Jew had already spoken to Reb Talisman's heart.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said.

I touched his arm comfortingly and watched as he got in his car and drove off. I fumbled for my keys and drove home. Her car wasn't parked in the driveway, but I expected as much. I sat for several moments.

“Maybe I’ll get to tell her tomorrow.” And I felt okay with that because I realized “The Aibishter” had taught me an invaluable lesson– one which, as a matter of fact, I had already learned but was prone to forget on occasion when I became too self-absorbed.

He sent Reb Talisman to shul not only to say Kaddish but to remind me how many other countless Jews grieve for losses far greater than mine. If I could but step away from my own "tsorris”, I could do so much good for so many.

An act of chesed had brought some comfort of friendship and the faintest of smiles to an elderly Jew. Our rabbis teach us that we do not know what degrees of reward await us in the next world for the faithful performance of mitzvos in this world. I like to think though that some reward may trickle down to this world.

Although it didn’t happen right away, some four months after meeting Reb Talisman, my Kallah called me. We made plans to meet for coffee, an occasion for which I had faithfully waited and prayed.

“I’m ready to come home,” she said. Maybe my reward had trickled down, but of one thing I was certain.

That day I met Reb Talisman inspired me, and it had indeed been a “yom tov".

Alan D. Busch
August 18, 2008