“It Happened Again”
Reflections on Purim Past
I am torn.
We are to be joyful during the month of Adar.
After all, isn’t it the month when we celebrate Purim as an observance of national salvation, when good overcame evil and Haman and his sons died on the gallows he had built for Mordecai?
They hanged Haman and his sons al ha etz, on the gallows. Conversely, the Hebrew etz also means a tree, a symbol of the Jewish people itself, as is Etz Chaim, the Tree of Life.
And if you are wondering about God whose name does not appear in the Megilat Ester, the Scroll of Esther, He was there, just hidden but indisputably present, steering the helm of history through His masterfully skillful use of nissim, His vast, miraculous wonders.
The demise of Haman parallels that of Pharoah. The evildoers met their ends, each in a different manner of death, but which, in both cases, had been intended for the descendants of Jacob whom they despised.
It worked out nicely for us. We survived and the would-be slayers were themselves slain.
However, there remains behind a problem for people who grieve insofar as the injunction to be joyful poses an emotional conundrum for them. While each joyous holiday in Judaism forges a link in the mesorah, the heritage, of our collective past, we need to remain mindful of our obligation to share the simchas ha yom with our children.
Veshinantam levanecha v’dibarta bam… but,
What if a child dies? What if tragedy of that magnitude befalls us? What then? How can the presence of grief be reconciled with the joy we are supposed to feel at holiday time? Can happiness be mandated? Are we capable of switching grief on and off and setting it aside until the holiday is over or does it even matter any more after a child dies?
The Fortune of Friendship
I am rich.
We all have, I hope, a quintessentially invaluable friend without whom we would have to redefine our lives. And no, I’m not talking about a spouse or, for that matter, anyone in your family. Though I suppose it possible such a friend can be a family member, I have found the bond to be paradoxically stronger when, in the absence of blood ties, there is no familial obligation.
I have such a friend.
He and his family have been my lifeline and connection to my community.
Connectedness.
It is an absolute prerequisite to be able to grieve healthily. To think we can grieve by ourselves is a mistaken and costly approach to grief management. Life and the pain of death are qualitatively better and more manageably experienced when we share them with caring people in a community. My shul is my community and its rabbi, my dearest friend.
Rabbi Boruch, whose remarkable family, caring attitude and irrepressible good humor have lifted me up on countless occasions, has been there for me through times thick and thin when, during these past ten years, I have faced a crumbling marriage and divorce, my son Benjamin’s struggle with diabetes and epilepsy, his death and the onset of my Parkinson’s Disease.
Certain moments become fixed in our memories, brief interactions yet leaving long trails behind.
It happened one morning after minyan years ago. We were chatting in the fleishig kitchen, just Rabbi Boruch and I, about our children, naturally. We did this sort of thing almost daily but especially on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays when we typically had a few extra minutes before each of us had to run of to work. On Mondays and Thursdays we did not have the extra time due to the morning's Torah reading.
I listened intently while he spoke beamingly of his older son, Moshe, who was studying in Israel when suddenly he stopped talking. It was not a mere pause.
“Rabbi, what? You were saying about Moshe?” hoping to encourage him on.
“No, I can’t,” he responded, determined to remain silent.
“Your son is not here anymore. I don’t want you to feel bad!”
This is the sort of person Rabbi Boruch is.
The Beginning
Two years before I met Rabbi Boruch, I used to daven in a small chapel where gathered the daily traditional minyan of the conservative shul to which I belonged.
Steamily hot one summer Shabbat morning, the heat of the morning’s sunshine pierced the brightly illumined stained glass. The chazzan droned on and on by Musaf. I was sitting in the front row. The stifling heat weighed heavily upon the silence of the room. I looked behind me. Comprised as it was almost entirely of elderly gentlemen, including several Holocaust survivors, every one of them had fallen asleep. The whole minyan except the chazzan and me though I think I was more awake than he. I looked around. There would be enough for a minyan if I left.
And so I did.
Happening by Rabbi Boruch’s Shul
I needed fifteen minutes to arrive at my destination even at a feverish pace, but I knew happily where I was going as much as where I wanted to be.
Having passed through a wooden archway just off to the right of his garage, there was nowhere else to go but down the steps leading to the basement where I hoped to find the shul.
“This has ‘gotta’ be it,” I muttered to myself.
As I soon discovered, I opened a door to a place oozing with haimishness. Peeking inside, I espied a bearded man with an infectious smile, his cape-like tallis afloat in the breeze of his eager gait, tzitsis flying, heading toward me invitingly.
“Come in. Come in. Bruchim Habaim!”
That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Before he undertook to build a synagogue, Rabbi Boruch had opened up his home to the congregation where it met in his converted basement.
Grieving in Shul
It seems invariable.
Melancholia overtakes me whenever I am there.
I don’t think it debilitating, short-lived as each instance is, but it remains a constant in the equation of my grief. Yet, I know this is where a grieving Jew should be because it is a makom kodesh, a holy place, wherein I feel the presence of my son Ben in its most intense manifestation. I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some. As strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle to sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my feet, but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma is elsewhere.
I believe that it hovers in shul when I am there. Ben spends time with me that way, I suppose. It is his way of making up for the time when I sit alone.
I felt it recently on Purim. It is different than any feeling I experience anywhere else including Ben’s room from which I write these words. You see, no sooner than I take my seat in the row behind my dear friend, Rabbi Boruch. I look over the mechitza to the yahrzeit panels on the south wall and see Ben’s name, the eleventh one in the first column on the first panel. Though I fully expect this grief, I am thankful to take my seat each time We have a tradition in shul life that one's seat becomes his set place, a makom kavua. I should tell you Ben was not a regular shul-goer. His seat is next to mine.
Nobody else sits there.
Whether it be the mystery of Purim, the revelry of Simchas Torah or the trepidation of Yom Kippur, my son remains by my side. Other fathers have their sons sitting next to them. I miss that but I possess something they do not-the certainty my son lived a life abundant in loving-kindness.
Time moves forward inexorably. It pauses for no one. That Purim morning I lamented how much time has passed without Ben.
I am reminded daily his absence is forever. No matter though how many years have already gone by or however many are yet to come, Ben's death will always be for me in the present tense.
I will never say:
“Once upon a time I had a son named Ben.”
I won't tell you I'm not glad to be alive because I know I am a better person for having known and loved Ben.
He taught me so much.
Still ... know there are moments when I am filled with guilt that it was he and not I.
Alan D. Busch
3/25/07
Glossary of Italicized Terms
Adar: Hebrew month during which Purim is observed.
Al ha etz: on the gallows
Etz: tree
Etz Chaim: Tree of Life
Megilat Ester: Scroll of Esther
Nissim: miracles
Mesorah: heritage
Simchas ha yom: joy of the day
Veshinantam levanecha v’dibarta bam: Thou shalt teach them to thy children and speak of them
Shul: synagogue
Fleishig: having to do with meat
Daven: pray
Minyan: a prayer quorem of at least ten men
Chazzen: cantor
Musaf: additional service
Haimishness: social atmosphere characterized by warmth, togetherness and hospitality
Tallis: prayer shawl
Tzistis: wound and knotted ritual fringes looped through the four corners of the tallis
Bruchim Habaim: Welcome
Makom kodesh: holy place
Neshuma: soul
Mechitza: partition dividing men’s from women’s section in an orthodox synagogue.
Yahrzeit: anniversary of a death
Makom kavua: a set place
Friday, March 23, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
Dear Readers,
This coming May 31, 2007 will mark the 20th anniversary of the unveiling and subsequent desecration of the Skokie (IL) Holocaust Memorial. The memorial stands between the Skokie Public Library and the Village Hall of Skokie, Ilinois.
I was there that day almost twenty years ago when the veil was lifted, and I saw the despicable desecration of this monument the next day when, just hours before in the anonymity of the night, misanthropes spray painted it with anti-Jewish graffiti and swaztikas.
I returned home seething with anger and wrote the following poem that has been revised many times over the years, but I think I am happy with this revision.
What do you think?
"Dignity Restored"
by Alan D. Busch
Holy martyrs … kedoshim
For whom monument tall
Shouts defiantly: “NEVER AGAIN!”
at last and for all.
Thus hatred's reminder,
its insatiable, implacable aim,
weighing heavily as it should
upon humanity’s unforgivable shame.
Atop the bronze mount
does stand there remain
Remnants of countless savagely slain:
a mother whose babe has cried its last,
an eklerly Jew to whom a boy clings fast.
A partisan fighter whose gestures ignite …
one spark of the hope that flickered by night.
Amidst the rubble of days …
That which had been
through the ages a beacon for men ...
the Torah commanding “Thou Shalt Not Kill ...”
albeit in ruins though applicable still!
to our lives which came after,
relatively free,
of terror's ability to blind us who see.
Now tearful, silently stoic first gaze
while vigilance slept, its fires not ablaze ...
why desecrate this monument
a tribute to those
in whose memory we recall
so few of their woes?
Nary a night did pass ere an evil befell,
and reminded, were we all, of heaven and hell.
Now gone were the tears that had welcomed its sight,
but ready were the many to stand and fight
an ugly reminder whose obscenities told …
of times long since and graves since cold.
Aroused and awakened this community alert,
whose monument remained defiled as such,
to remember one and all
, incredulous and carefree,
that history was not over …
as they had hoped it might be.
A garden became this memorial soon,
And erased were the lies
that had blackened the truth.
Dignity restored its shiny gloss
to words read anew …
of six million lost.
Toward heaven it points
in neither doubt nor shame,
history reminding our memories lame.
That even those departed …
must struggle to hone
the spade that will dig out
this spot as their
own.
Alan D. Busch copyright@2000
This coming May 31, 2007 will mark the 20th anniversary of the unveiling and subsequent desecration of the Skokie (IL) Holocaust Memorial. The memorial stands between the Skokie Public Library and the Village Hall of Skokie, Ilinois.
I was there that day almost twenty years ago when the veil was lifted, and I saw the despicable desecration of this monument the next day when, just hours before in the anonymity of the night, misanthropes spray painted it with anti-Jewish graffiti and swaztikas.
I returned home seething with anger and wrote the following poem that has been revised many times over the years, but I think I am happy with this revision.
What do you think?
"Dignity Restored"
by Alan D. Busch
Holy martyrs … kedoshim
For whom monument tall
Shouts defiantly: “NEVER AGAIN!”
at last and for all.
Thus hatred's reminder,
its insatiable, implacable aim,
weighing heavily as it should
upon humanity’s unforgivable shame.
Atop the bronze mount
does stand there remain
Remnants of countless savagely slain:
a mother whose babe has cried its last,
an eklerly Jew to whom a boy clings fast.
A partisan fighter whose gestures ignite …
one spark of the hope that flickered by night.
Amidst the rubble of days …
That which had been
through the ages a beacon for men ...
the Torah commanding “Thou Shalt Not Kill ...”
albeit in ruins though applicable still!
to our lives which came after,
relatively free,
of terror's ability to blind us who see.
Now tearful, silently stoic first gaze
while vigilance slept, its fires not ablaze ...
why desecrate this monument
a tribute to those
in whose memory we recall
so few of their woes?
Nary a night did pass ere an evil befell,
and reminded, were we all, of heaven and hell.
Now gone were the tears that had welcomed its sight,
but ready were the many to stand and fight
an ugly reminder whose obscenities told …
of times long since and graves since cold.
Aroused and awakened this community alert,
whose monument remained defiled as such,
to remember one and all
, incredulous and carefree,
that history was not over …
as they had hoped it might be.
A garden became this memorial soon,
And erased were the lies
that had blackened the truth.
Dignity restored its shiny gloss
to words read anew …
of six million lost.
Toward heaven it points
in neither doubt nor shame,
history reminding our memories lame.
That even those departed …
must struggle to hone
the spade that will dig out
this spot as their
own.
Alan D. Busch copyright@2000
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Dear Readers ...
I am pleased to announce that the News Magazine of the Jewish Federation/Jewish United Fund of Chicago will publish the first chapter of In Memory of Ben in its May 2007 edition. Please read below the current revision of Chapter 1.
The Last Time
by
Alan D. Busch
An act of divine kindness made it possible for me to spend several minutes with my son Benjamin in what became our last time together.
Forgetting the night before to set his alarm, Ben woke up late for work, hurriedly got dressed and ran to catch the bus. As fortune would have it, he spotted my car parked at the dry cleaners and caught me just in time. Had I not dropped my laundry off that morning, I might not have seen him again.
As I turned to leave, there he was waiting behind me with a broad smile of anticipation.
“Dad, can you give me a lift to the train?”
Always regretful whenever I had not seen Ben for several days, any opportunity to be with him delighted me. After I moved out of my home in July of 1999, there were times when I did not see him as often as I would have liked.
Together we drove to the train. As I recall, our last conversation went something like this:
“How are you, Ben?”
“Fine, Dad. You?”
“Okay. How are you?”
“Good.”
“You feeling good?”
“Yup.”
I turned into a parking lot across the street from the station. Checking to see that the latch on his messenger bag was securely fastened, he opened the passenger door. As always, I asked him:
“Do you have money on you?”
“Yes, Dad.
"‘Seeya’ later!”
“Be safe!”
The day at work would be, I thought, like any other. If only it had been!
The phones rang all morning. Business was brisk!
It was just before noon when I answered the next call.I heard the voice of a stranger. Identifying himself as a trauma surgeon in the emergency department of Cook County Hospital, he told me Ben had survived a nearly fatal traffic accident but with critical injuries which required immediate surgical intervention. He “suggested” I come to the hospital as soon as possible.
“Suggested? I knew what he meant! Suffice to say I knew how this day would end.”
A myriad of frightful thoughts filled my head in a state of controlled desperation as I sped away to the hospital. The grave tone of the doctor’s voice convinced me the dreaded day which I had anticipated for years arrived this day.
After being fortunate enough to find parking two blocks away, I ran to the emergency department whereupon I identified myself to the first nurse I encountered. She escorted me hurriedly to the surgeon to whom I gave parental authorization, when asked, to employ all measures to save Ben. I expressed my wish to witness the efforts of the trauma team while it did everything in its power to save him.
Standing alongside my father who arrived within minutes after I called, we stood witness to a desperate, ultimately futile effort almost within our grasp. During these agonizing moments, I discovered a previously unknown facet of my father.
Next to me stood a desperate man who was praying for the life of my son. Holding his hands overhead with palms flattened against the glass partition while holding back a torrent of tears, he pled with The Almighty for immediate intervention. In Ben’s declining seconds while yet flickered a spark of life, my father, sensitive, but doggedly determined man that he is, called out a desperate plea to his grandson once … twice … thrice …
“Hang on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!”
Open heart massage … failed! Oxygen mask … failed! Electric shock … failed!
A dark cloud smothered the din.
The frenzied pace quieted.
The equipment was turned off.
The surgeon turned around to face me.
His wearied face bespoke what I already knew.
He shook his head.
The embers of life died within Ben.
It seemed as if Ben had come into this world only a short while before. I was there then as I was now.
A nurse asked me if I wished to be with my son. I told her I did. Only I could be with Ben.
Taking hold of him by his arm, she motioned my father away and drew the curtain that Ben and I not be disturbed.
Taking hold of him by his arm, she motioned my father away and drew the curtain that Ben and I not be disturbed.
Standing by Ben’s side, I placed a kippah upon his head and kissed his handsome nose.
“Thank you for being such a good son Ben.”
With but precious few minutes left to be together before the attendants arrived, Ben “slept” while I … I hovered over him and whisperingly sang the 23rd Psalm.
“ … lo ira ra ki Ata imudi …” (I have no fear for Thou art with me.)
Rabbi Louis arrived by taxi.
Frankly relieved he took charge, his timely arrival assured me Ben would be interred in accordance with Jewish tradition.
A noteworthy interlude took place before I had to tell his mom whom, unknown to me at the time, hadn’t yet arrived. A nurse came to inform me that a group of Ben’s friends had arrived moments before and was waiting at the front desk. What I did not know then was that Ben’s friends had picked Zac up, Ben’s younger brother, and brought him along. Rabbi Louis and I went to receive them.
Cook County Hospital is frenetic. All manner of people: ambulatory patients attached to mobile drips, trauma patients being rushed to surgery strapped atop gurnies, doctors, nurses, visitors, paramedics, police officers and sheriff’s deputies jam its hallways.
Hospital policy forbad non-family members from visitation. We had to leave Ben’s buddies behind.
Trudging through the corridors with Rabbi Louis and Zac while returning back to the emergency department, it felt as if we were passing between classes in high school. Almost predictably, we were stopped-not by the assistant principal, but by a burly hospital security guard who asked us for our passes. Having none, he pointed us to the reception area where we had met Zachary minutes before. Rabbi Louis, frustrated at the hapless absurdity of the moment, appealed beseechingly in hope of touching the guard’s better angels.
“My friend’s son has just died!”
The guard refused to budge. Despite Rabbi Louis’s vociferous objections, it became apparent that his protestations had fallen on deaf ears. So back we trod to fetch the passes.
Meanwhile, Ben’s mom had arrived from a much longer distance than I.
Passes in hand, we did make it back minutes later when came time to confront her with the awful news. Rabbi Louis, in his goodness, generously offered to stand in for me, but I felt this was my duty. Accompanying me together with my dad, our arms linked, we reluctantly crossed the hall to a small lounge wherein sat Ben’s mom awaiting news.
I approached her haltingly:
“Ben is gone!” … I cried out, placing my forehead atop her head.
Within the shadow of a moment came forth an utterance of primal pain from Ben’s mom so horrifically terrifying that I suspect only a bereaved mother is capable of making it.
I shall never forget its sound!
What more can one do in a moment like this? Though Zac, my dad and Rabbi Louis were present in the room with me, I recall nothing of their reactions to my grave announcement to Ben’s mom. It was, as if, she and I were alone in this sanitized lounge the small sofa, chairs and lighting of which were unremarkably sterile.
I left the room.
Tending to an important matter for which I had to speak to the surgeon, I found him standing in the hallway close by. Appearing as though something was on his mind, I thanked him for all his efforts to save Ben’s life. While we spoke, I discerned a genuinely heartfelt sympathy for my family; furthermore, he seemed to intuitively understand me when I forbad an autopsy.
Weeks later, in a sworn deposition, part of a wrongful death suit brought by my family against the owner of the truck whose driver struck Ben, he testified to having been worried about my dad’s well-being when, during those several minutes, he bore witness to futility.
There remained nothing more we could do. Ben’s mom had left with Zac and my dad.
Accompanied by Rabbi Louis, I walked to my truck. His companionship warmed me against the icy winds. How thankful I was that I would not have to go home alone!
While the engine warmed, Rabbi Louis contacted a mutual friend, a Chicago police chaplain, to see if he could expedite Ben’s remains from the hospital morgue to the funeral home. After several minutes had passed, I drove Rabbi Louis home.
That Wednesday, the eve of Thanksgiving 2000, ended together with my “world” as I had known it.
I think I fell asleep that night in my apartment.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
It Happened Again ...
I am torn. I want to be there more often, but it happens whenever I am that I am overtaken by melancholy. Both this morning and afternoon, I felt it ... as always, unlike how I feel anywhere else-even his room from which I write these words tonight.
I am grateful each time I take my seat in shul-no matter the occasion: be it the somber yet joyous lessons of Purim, the simcha of Simchas Torah or the trepidation of Yom Kippur, my son is with me.
Now other fathers have their sons sitting next to them, and I do miss that! Woulds't that I had him back, but I've something they do not. My son is ... well, I was going to say "within me" but that somehow just does not ring true.
Seems more like a caricature than a true representation of how I feel. I look over to his yahrzeit plaque on the wall and what I realize every time is, as if it were for the first time, that here am I still-time inexorably moving forward pausing for no one. I remember thinking this afternoon so much time has already passed, and there is nothing I can do about it, but there is one thing of which I am certain. I'll never say that I once had a son named Ben.
I sit down in the same chair in which I've sat many years ... lamenting that another day has passed.
I sit down in the same chair in which I've sat many years ... lamenting that another day has passed.
Yet I won't tell you I'm not glad to be alive.
Still ... know that there are moments when I am filled with guilt that it was he and not I.
Note to readers: Pictured is one of Ben's leaves on the Etz Chaim in my shul-not his yahrzeit plaque to which I made reference above.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Y0u Jew Sure Do Talk Phunni!
"Baruch Ha Shem! Baruch Ha Shem! colloquially meaning "Thank God!" but which can mean anything from "Great!" to "Don't even ask. My enemies should have my troubles!" Often, upon hearing a dubious sounding Baruch Hashem, the questioner will respond with, "Gee, what's wrong?"
Surely you have heard the adage about the dangers of too much of a good thing? You know like eating chocolate and chopped liver everyday. I might even propose that the use of "BH", like chopped liver, be restricted to Shabbat exclusively! I'll tell you why ... because after too many "B'H(s), they start to sound routine, rote, mechanical and, arguably worst of all ... insincere. After all, if you are going to say "May God's name be blessed!" the very least one should do is to be sincere about it and not spout it out in hope that pitiably gullible folks might think you a tzadik.
"Oy! Such a tzadik. Answers "Baruch Ha Shem!" to everything! Now, mind you there is another question here. From whose mouth is the "Baruch Ha Shem" coming?" If from someone who is genuinely shomer mitzvos and has a goodly amount of yiras shamayim, well that's one thing altogether. On the other hand, if it comes from an insincere mouth, well ... you know who that is, and if you don't, pay attention next time you're in shul.
Lend an ear. I'm sure you have heard these or something similar:
1. Sam, uh ... your fly is open."
Baruch Ha Shem!" (Read: 'Oh my gosh!)
2. "The pizza hasn't arrived yet."
"Baruch Ha Shem!" (read: 'Damn delivery guy. I'm gonna kick his a**!" )
3. "Zalman, you look terrible! Are you ill?"
"Baruch Ha Shem!" (read: 'Yea, I am. I feel like sh*t!" )
A quick suggestion ... try saving your next "Baruch Ha Shem" for the next time you receive good news, like when you have become an uncle/aunt for the first time or if and when a close friend walks away from a traffic accident completely unscathed. You just may be pleasantly surprised! :)
Okay. Moving on. What is it with the use of the preposition "by" in place of "with"? I mean what is
going on there? Witness:
1. "Yea. Moshe is staying BY us!"
2. "So, what's new BY you?"
3. "No. I can't. I'm having lunch BY the rabbi."
What if we said ...?
1. "Would you like fries By your hot dog?" (Picture fries lined up parallel to a hot dog.)
2. "Dear, please take the baby BY YOU to the bowling alley. I wanna get my hair done."
A few more thoughts about "by me" as in: "He stayed BY ME." ... which implies that he was "at your side", "alongside of you" which he probably was not. Now see what happens when we switch "by me" to "me by" and change the verb from "stayed" to "passed": "He passed me by." ... which is to say that he neither stayed with you or by you for that matter.
Lastly, just a few remarks about "Be well!" Now I do like this one very much. Has a nice and caring ring about it. Obviously it is very different from "Get well" (soon)!" which implies that the person whom we are addressing is ill to whom we should wish a "refuah shlema". If we say "Be good!" we imply the other is prone to mischief and that he needs be mindful of his ways lest it happen that we have to say "Get well!" the next time we speak to that person.
There you have it. I've said my two cents worth.
Baruch Ha Shem! :)
I guess the current politically correct usage would call this a "rant", but there are a few things some of us say in the observant community with such frequency that you just "wanna" strangle somebodywhile shouting at the top of your lungs:
"YOU JEW SURE DO TALK PHUNNI!"
Okay let's start from the top. Without question of the three expressions I'm going to discuss, regrettably the most abused, and I say " regrettably" because it is easily the most important two word expression I can think of is ... come on! You know which one it is! You abuse it too, don't you? Uh huh! Thought so! Yep, it is ...
"BARUCH HA SHEM" ... stylishy trimmed to "BH" in the Jewish chatrooms. It means simply yet profoundly "Blessed is The Name." and we all know whose name we mean! It's the unutterable name, the ineffable name! No matter that we no longer know how it might have sounded in the days of the first Beis Ha Mikdash! Even if we knew how to say it, we couldn't. So, what do we do? We go overboard in its quasi-enunciation! Here's what one commentator said:
"BARUCH HA SHEM" ... stylishy trimmed to "BH" in the Jewish chatrooms. It means simply yet profoundly "Blessed is The Name." and we all know whose name we mean! It's the unutterable name, the ineffable name! No matter that we no longer know how it might have sounded in the days of the first Beis Ha Mikdash! Even if we knew how to say it, we couldn't. So, what do we do? We go overboard in its quasi-enunciation! Here's what one commentator said:
"Baruch Ha Shem! Baruch Ha Shem! colloquially meaning "Thank God!" but which can mean anything from "Great!" to "Don't even ask. My enemies should have my troubles!" Often, upon hearing a dubious sounding Baruch Hashem, the questioner will respond with, "Gee, what's wrong?"
Surely you have heard the adage about the dangers of too much of a good thing? You know like eating chocolate and chopped liver everyday. I might even propose that the use of "BH", like chopped liver, be restricted to Shabbat exclusively! I'll tell you why ... because after too many "B'H(s), they start to sound routine, rote, mechanical and, arguably worst of all ... insincere. After all, if you are going to say "May God's name be blessed!" the very least one should do is to be sincere about it and not spout it out in hope that pitiably gullible folks might think you a tzadik.
"Oy! Such a tzadik. Answers "Baruch Ha Shem!" to everything! Now, mind you there is another question here. From whose mouth is the "Baruch Ha Shem" coming?" If from someone who is genuinely shomer mitzvos and has a goodly amount of yiras shamayim, well that's one thing altogether. On the other hand, if it comes from an insincere mouth, well ... you know who that is, and if you don't, pay attention next time you're in shul.
Lend an ear. I'm sure you have heard these or something similar:
1. Sam, uh ... your fly is open."
Baruch Ha Shem!" (Read: 'Oh my gosh!)
2. "The pizza hasn't arrived yet."
"Baruch Ha Shem!" (read: 'Damn delivery guy. I'm gonna kick his a**!" )
3. "Zalman, you look terrible! Are you ill?"
"Baruch Ha Shem!" (read: 'Yea, I am. I feel like sh*t!" )
A quick suggestion ... try saving your next "Baruch Ha Shem" for the next time you receive good news, like when you have become an uncle/aunt for the first time or if and when a close friend walks away from a traffic accident completely unscathed. You just may be pleasantly surprised! :)
Okay. Moving on. What is it with the use of the preposition "by" in place of "with"? I mean what is
going on there? Witness:
1. "Yea. Moshe is staying BY us!"
2. "So, what's new BY you?"
3. "No. I can't. I'm having lunch BY the rabbi."
What if we said ...?
1. "Would you like fries By your hot dog?" (Picture fries lined up parallel to a hot dog.)
2. "Dear, please take the baby BY YOU to the bowling alley. I wanna get my hair done."
A few more thoughts about "by me" as in: "He stayed BY ME." ... which implies that he was "at your side", "alongside of you" which he probably was not. Now see what happens when we switch "by me" to "me by" and change the verb from "stayed" to "passed": "He passed me by." ... which is to say that he neither stayed with you or by you for that matter.
Lastly, just a few remarks about "Be well!" Now I do like this one very much. Has a nice and caring ring about it. Obviously it is very different from "Get well" (soon)!" which implies that the person whom we are addressing is ill to whom we should wish a "refuah shlema". If we say "Be good!" we imply the other is prone to mischief and that he needs be mindful of his ways lest it happen that we have to say "Get well!" the next time we speak to that person.
There you have it. I've said my two cents worth.
Baruch Ha Shem! :)
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Dear Readers,
I am pleased to announce that my poem From Your Room will appear in the 2007 summer edition of Living With Loss. Featured in the same edition will be my article Musings of A Bereft Father Six Years Later.
I am pleased to announce that my poem From Your Room will appear in the 2007 summer edition of Living With Loss. Featured in the same edition will be my article Musings of A Bereft Father Six Years Later.
From Your Room
By Alan D. Busch
From your room, Ben,
On this sixth year’s eve
I write these words
alone I grieve.
By Alan D. Busch
From your room, Ben,
On this sixth year’s eve
I write these words
alone I grieve.
From your room, Ben,
never, to let go.
Where we wrestled in morning’s darkness
the merciless diabetic and epileptic foe.
never, to let go.
Where we wrestled in morning’s darkness
the merciless diabetic and epileptic foe.
Where by your bedside
I sat many the night
afraid to leave you
lest return it might.
Be sure Ben to remember,
neither doubt nor need,
our love for you was always agreed.
So, accept these few words,
your blue eyes to see ...
Be sure Ben to remember,
neither doubt nor need,
our love for you was always agreed.
So, accept these few words,
your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years,
mournful without thee.
mournful without thee.
Musings of a Bereft Father Six Years Later
“Why the death of a child?”
How should we respond when all that we have is the language of prose and poetry? Our memory’s perspective narrows as the years pass. Awaiting us is a grave danger …
“Why the death of a child?”
How should we respond when all that we have is the language of prose and poetry? Our memory’s perspective narrows as the years pass. Awaiting us is a grave danger …
Forsakenness
We each grieve differently when a child dies. Citing this truism to a recently bereaved mother, she responded to me angrily as if to ask:
“Is that the very best you can do?”
Now, I disclaim professional expertise in matters of death, dying and grief management. On the contrary, together with other bereft parents, our only common relevant credential is membership in the club to which nobody wishes to belong.
I became bereaved on Wednesday, November 22, 2000 when my son Ben died.
It is a wonder how well most parents hold up in the aftermath of their tragedies and successfully recast their lives into stronger, more productive and creative shapes. By infusing pathos into love and loss, bereaved parents have even authored chronicles of their tragedies
By reading these works, we discern meaning in our children’s lives while healing ourselves.
Still … despite all we did, our unconditional love, our willing sacrifices, we could not save them.
Though we must return their bodies to the dust, we commit ourselves to sustain the lives of their spirits, of their souls if you like.
It’s somehow right and fair, isn’t it?
And it is for this reason that we build shrines to their memories.
Six Years Ago
I wonder if I will glimpse Ben’s face after the passing of 2,190 days?
A memorial leaf appears on the Etz Chaim in my synagogue.
It reads:
“In Memory Of Benjamin Busch
Whose Good Deeds, Kind
Nature & Gentle Manner
Will Forever Be An Inspiration To Us”
Though it may seem paradoxical …
“Why do we affix a memorial leaf to a Tree of Life?”
Though the leaf serves as a poignant reminder of the end of Ben’s life, its purpose is to remind us to celebrate the time of his life-no matter that it ended prematurely, abruptly and painfully!
Eternally optimistic, even in the darkest moments, we say …
“L’Chaim”[1]
each time we lift a glass together whether it be in remembrance or celebration.
Jewish custom holds that a mourner recite the Mourner’s Kaddish[2] when, following the burial of his loved one, he is most vulnerable. Neither a lamentation nor a dirge, the Kaddish is a reaffirmation of life that makes no mention of death whatsoever.
At such time when the immediacy of death is still near enough to be overwhelming, one may choose to renounce his faith. Though perhaps understandable, our tradition regards this as a misguided approach to grief.
Still the very worst part remains the deposition of the attending paramedic that Ben was both conscious and able to speak for a brief while before finally losing consciousness forever, and that he understood what had happened while he suffered horrendous pain and bespoke his fear that he was dying.
As Ben’s dad, the certain knowledge that my son’s last waking moments were consumed by such trauma and fear leaves me cold and quiet, my thoughts inchoate …
As a Jew, I am thankful my faith is one of eternal optimism and teaches us that life is inherently miraculous and, therefore, holy.
We serve as guardians of its sanctity.
This belief sustains me when all that tangibly remains are a dress shirt and suit, a pair of old boots, a bicycle badly in need of repair and the unexpected discovery of his boyish signature while turning the page of a scrapbook.
A memorial leaf appears on the Etz Chaim in my synagogue.
It reads:
“In Memory Of Benjamin Busch
Whose Good Deeds, Kind
Nature & Gentle Manner
Will Forever Be An Inspiration To Us”
Though it may seem paradoxical …
“Why do we affix a memorial leaf to a Tree of Life?”
Though the leaf serves as a poignant reminder of the end of Ben’s life, its purpose is to remind us to celebrate the time of his life-no matter that it ended prematurely, abruptly and painfully!
Eternally optimistic, even in the darkest moments, we say …
“L’Chaim”[1]
each time we lift a glass together whether it be in remembrance or celebration.
Jewish custom holds that a mourner recite the Mourner’s Kaddish[2] when, following the burial of his loved one, he is most vulnerable. Neither a lamentation nor a dirge, the Kaddish is a reaffirmation of life that makes no mention of death whatsoever.
At such time when the immediacy of death is still near enough to be overwhelming, one may choose to renounce his faith. Though perhaps understandable, our tradition regards this as a misguided approach to grief.
Still the very worst part remains the deposition of the attending paramedic that Ben was both conscious and able to speak for a brief while before finally losing consciousness forever, and that he understood what had happened while he suffered horrendous pain and bespoke his fear that he was dying.
As Ben’s dad, the certain knowledge that my son’s last waking moments were consumed by such trauma and fear leaves me cold and quiet, my thoughts inchoate …
As a Jew, I am thankful my faith is one of eternal optimism and teaches us that life is inherently miraculous and, therefore, holy.
We serve as guardians of its sanctity.
This belief sustains me when all that tangibly remains are a dress shirt and suit, a pair of old boots, a bicycle badly in need of repair and the unexpected discovery of his boyish signature while turning the page of a scrapbook.
The loneliness of grief overwhelms the solitude of my Sunday morning.
The absolute eternity of a child’s death leaves one feeling so insignificant, so powerlessly tiny. To have to navigate these treacherous waters daily is no simple task as we are invariably reminded how vast is God’s ocean while we remain adrift in such a small boat.
The only antidote to the pain of our loss lies in the tenacity with which we remember our children. It is incumbent upon us that we refuse to allow their memories to die.
The only antidote to the pain of our loss lies in the tenacity with which we remember our children. It is incumbent upon us that we refuse to allow their memories to die.
Though their bodies are gone, their physicality ended, our linkage to them becomes one of remembrance, dedication and rededication, all of which remind us how fortunate we were to have enjoyed our time with them for as long as we did.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Dear Readers,
This is the title page of my book.
In Memory of Ben is a collection of sixty short stories about the life and death of Benjamin Z'L, his family, our struggles and love for our son, brother, grandson and friend.
I am Ben's dad.
I wrote this book so that Ben's story reach as wide a readership as possible. It is my way to keep
Ben here with us.
Though not yet published, I will provide a hard copy of the book, coil bound with plastic covers front and back, to anyone who would like one.
Please email me at fitterthanudad@aol.com, request a copy and I promise to reply within hours, if not sooner. Between us, we will work out a mutually satisfactory payment and shipping arrangement.
I hope to hear from you.
This is the title page of my book.
In Memory of Ben is a collection of sixty short stories about the life and death of Benjamin Z'L, his family, our struggles and love for our son, brother, grandson and friend.
I am Ben's dad.
I wrote this book so that Ben's story reach as wide a readership as possible. It is my way to keep
Ben here with us.
Though not yet published, I will provide a hard copy of the book, coil bound with plastic covers front and back, to anyone who would like one.
Please email me at fitterthanudad@aol.com, request a copy and I promise to reply within hours, if not sooner. Between us, we will work out a mutually satisfactory payment and shipping arrangement.
I hope to hear from you.
Sincerely,
Alan D. Busch
Friday, January 19, 2007
Around My House
I walked around my house tonight ...
just before dusk.
Awaiting my kallah soon to arrive.
Then those thoughts entered my head!
You know the ones ...
Under the evergreen ...
How it has grown!
Twenty years hence many seeds have sewn!
The old basketball hoop ...
below which there once a time ...
when I could beat Ben, but never did!
Oh how he grew!
Like the evergreen so tall.
Stands there still straight
higher than all.
Years back in memory's flight,
I see only me ...
in this house lived once
my children were three.
Over I walk
below Ben's room
wouldst I not know,
that wherein I now sit,
a few tears did flow.
I stepped back ...
to now and saw I
did come
my kallah
for whose love
my heartbeat did
drum.
I walked around my house tonight ...
just before dusk.
Awaiting my kallah soon to arrive.
Then those thoughts entered my head!
You know the ones ...
Under the evergreen ...
How it has grown!
Twenty years hence many seeds have sewn!
The old basketball hoop ...
below which there once a time ...
when I could beat Ben, but never did!
Oh how he grew!
Like the evergreen so tall.
Stands there still straight
higher than all.
Years back in memory's flight,
I see only me ...
in this house lived once
my children were three.
Over I walk
below Ben's room
wouldst I not know,
that wherein I now sit,
a few tears did flow.
I stepped back ...
to now and saw I
did come
my kallah
for whose love
my heartbeat did
drum.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Preface to a New Book-Untitled
You have heard this before, I'm sure.
You may have heard it from your mother and father. I know I did.
Remember ... ?
"If you have your good health, you have everything!"
Now, if that is true, and I think it is, when you don't have your good health, well ... you may not have "nothing" right away, but you will have less than everything right from the beginning.
There is a ritual custom in Judaism on the days when the Torah is taken from the Aron Kodesh and publically read.
The member of the minyan chosen to lift the Torah upon completion of the reading approaches the bimah, grasps the handles of the etz chaim, unrolls both halves to expose as many columns as he feels comfortable supporting (it becomes more unwieldy the more columns are exposed) slides the scroll down to the edge of the reading table, and depending how experienced he is and bold he may feel, combined with the varying distribution of the two halves of the text scroll, crouches down as if he were about to perform a dead lift, then stands straight up raising the Torah over his head as high as he can, turns around so that all can see the columns of script-and upon one complete turn, sits down on a pre-prepositioned chair whereupon another person rolls the two halves of the scroll together.
That act of ritual is called hagbah.
It requires strength, balance and poise., especially when lifting the larger, heavier sifrei Torah.
There was a time when I could do that quite well-when after my divorce I worked out bicycling and lifting weights so that I was able to achieve a level of fitness unlike any I had experienced since my high school years when my brother Ron and I used to lift weights at the local JCC.
One of my favorite exercises was fly reps.
One can either stretch himself backward on an exercise ball or, as I used to do, suspend myself on a chair, my heals hooked on the top edge of its back, lean toward the floor, grasp the weights evenly spaced on either side of your head, lifting them over the chest and repeat.
That is a fly rep.
One day while working out, focusing my effort on this particular exercise, I heard and felt something snap in my left shoulder.
It's never been the same.
Since that time, I've lost a lot of mobility and strength in that shoulder but gained a great deal of chronic pain and discomfort so much so that I became anxious about and physicaly uncomfortable with lifting the Torah. It wasn't long before I simply told Rabbi Louis that I could no longer lift it lest I falter and drop it!
A weight lifting injury, I supposed at the time. It will heal, I thought.
What I didn't and could not have known at the time was that I had already begun to experience signs of the early onset of Parkinson's Disease.
You have heard this before, I'm sure.
You may have heard it from your mother and father. I know I did.
Remember ... ?
"If you have your good health, you have everything!"
Now, if that is true, and I think it is, when you don't have your good health, well ... you may not have "nothing" right away, but you will have less than everything right from the beginning.
There is a ritual custom in Judaism on the days when the Torah is taken from the Aron Kodesh and publically read.
The member of the minyan chosen to lift the Torah upon completion of the reading approaches the bimah, grasps the handles of the etz chaim, unrolls both halves to expose as many columns as he feels comfortable supporting (it becomes more unwieldy the more columns are exposed) slides the scroll down to the edge of the reading table, and depending how experienced he is and bold he may feel, combined with the varying distribution of the two halves of the text scroll, crouches down as if he were about to perform a dead lift, then stands straight up raising the Torah over his head as high as he can, turns around so that all can see the columns of script-and upon one complete turn, sits down on a pre-prepositioned chair whereupon another person rolls the two halves of the scroll together.
That act of ritual is called hagbah.
It requires strength, balance and poise., especially when lifting the larger, heavier sifrei Torah.
There was a time when I could do that quite well-when after my divorce I worked out bicycling and lifting weights so that I was able to achieve a level of fitness unlike any I had experienced since my high school years when my brother Ron and I used to lift weights at the local JCC.
One of my favorite exercises was fly reps.
One can either stretch himself backward on an exercise ball or, as I used to do, suspend myself on a chair, my heals hooked on the top edge of its back, lean toward the floor, grasp the weights evenly spaced on either side of your head, lifting them over the chest and repeat.
That is a fly rep.
One day while working out, focusing my effort on this particular exercise, I heard and felt something snap in my left shoulder.
It's never been the same.
Since that time, I've lost a lot of mobility and strength in that shoulder but gained a great deal of chronic pain and discomfort so much so that I became anxious about and physicaly uncomfortable with lifting the Torah. It wasn't long before I simply told Rabbi Louis that I could no longer lift it lest I falter and drop it!
A weight lifting injury, I supposed at the time. It will heal, I thought.
What I didn't and could not have known at the time was that I had already begun to experience signs of the early onset of Parkinson's Disease.
Friday, January 05, 2007
“Musings From Down the Road by a Bereaved Father”
There exists no universal answer wise enough to satisfy everyone even though they are asking the same question.
There are only poetry and prose.
As the years pass existential distance lengthens.
A grave danger dwells therein.
The danger of forsakenness.
Individuals grieve differently following the loss of a child. Just recently, I mentioned this in good faith to a parent whom I thought was struggling to cope with the recent loss of her son. She became angry at me as if to ask: “Is that the very best you can do?”
Now I wish to disclaim any professional expertise in matters of death, dying or grief management. Instead, together with countless other parents my only credential is my membership in the club to which, barring no exceptions, nobody wishes to belong.
I became bereaved on Wednesday, November 22, 2000 when my son Ben died.
Unlike the books that clinical professionals write targeting recently bereaved parents who are in need of some assistance with basic coping skills, I found the books bereaved parents have written to be more helpful.
As such, their common thread is that these parents/authors have chosen to cope and survive the loss of a child by chronicling their stories through which readers may achieve a relative catharsis. By infusing universal pathos into love and loss, we glean meaning from our children’s shortened lives, allowing us to discover insights like never before while healing ourselves.
Yet, notwithstanding our unconditional love and sacrifices we made instinctively for our children, we could not save their lives. Though we must return their bodies to the dust, we remain committed to their spirits, their souls if you like.
It’s somehow right and fair, isn’t it?
And it is for this reason and none other that we build shrines to their memories.
Six Years Ago
I wonder if I will glimpse Ben’s countenance after the passage of 2,190 days?
“In Memory Of Benjamin Busch
Whose Good Deeds, Kind
Nature & Gentle Manner
Will Forever Be An Inspiration To Us”
This is the inscription on a memorial leaf that appears on a branch of the Etz Chaim[1] in my synagogue.
Why do we affix a memorial leaf to a “Tree of Life?"
For the same reason that the “Mourner’s Kaddish” is not a dirge and, as a matter of fact, makes no mention of death whatsoever. Jewish custom holds that the mourner recite it when he is most vulnerable, at a time when the immediacy of death is still fresh enough to be so overwhelming that one may choose apostasy as an understandable but ultimately misguided approach to grief.
From your room Ben,
I write these words
on this sixth year’s eve ...
lonely without you.
Eternally optimistic, even in the darkest moments, we say …
“L’Chaim”[2]
each time we lift a glass together whether it be in remembrance or celebration.
Though the leaf serves as a poignant reminder of the end of Ben’s life, its primary purpose obligates us to celebrate the time of his life-no matter that it ended prematurely, abruptly and painfully!
Yes, from your room Ben, never to let go …
where we fought in the wee morning darkness
the implacable diabetic and epileptic foe.
Still the very worst part remains the attending paramedic’s deposition that Ben was both conscious and able to speak for a brief while before finally and permanently losing consciousness, and that he understood what had happened, while he suffered horrendous pain and bespoke his fear that he was dying. As Ben’s dad, the certain knowledge that my son’s last waking moments were consumed by such trauma and fear leaves me cold and quiet, my thoughts inchoate …
Where by your bedside
I sat many a night,
afraid to leave you ...
lest it return
in my absence.
As a Jew, I am thankful my faith is one of eternal optimism and which teaches us that life is inherently miraculous and therefore holy.
We serve as guardians of its sanctity.
Perhaps you wonder...
how ... how Dad can it be so?
Since eight years you moved out ... ago.
It has happened often enough in these six years when I have had to consciously remind myself to rely on this belief. In those moments when the reality of Ben’s death has nearly overwhelmed me, when the solitude of a Sunday morning is replaced by the uneasy quiet of a mourner’s lonely room … when all that remains is nothing more than a few personal belongings: a white shirt, suit, some old boots, a bicycle in need of repair, a child’s signature surprisingly appearing when I turned the page of a scrapbook.
I bought the house back from mom
for my beloved kallah and me ...
The absolute enormity of a child’s death leaves one feeling so insignificant, so powerlessly tiny. To have to navigate these treacherous waters daily is no simple task as we are invariably reminded of how vast is God’s ocean while we remain adrift in such a small boat!
Be sure Ben, please remember…
neither in doubt nor need,
our love for you was always agreed.
The only antidote to the pain of our loss is the tenacity with which we remember our children. It is incumbent upon us that we simply refuse to allow their memories to die.
So accept these sparse words,
for your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years so tearful,
mournful without thee.
Though their bodies are gone, their physicality ended, our linkage to them becomes one of remembrance, of dedication and rededication-all of which remind us of how fortunate we were to have enjoyed our time with them for as long as we did.
[1] The Tree of Life
[2] To Life
There exists no universal answer wise enough to satisfy everyone even though they are asking the same question.
There are only poetry and prose.
As the years pass existential distance lengthens.
A grave danger dwells therein.
The danger of forsakenness.
Individuals grieve differently following the loss of a child. Just recently, I mentioned this in good faith to a parent whom I thought was struggling to cope with the recent loss of her son. She became angry at me as if to ask: “Is that the very best you can do?”
Now I wish to disclaim any professional expertise in matters of death, dying or grief management. Instead, together with countless other parents my only credential is my membership in the club to which, barring no exceptions, nobody wishes to belong.
I became bereaved on Wednesday, November 22, 2000 when my son Ben died.
Unlike the books that clinical professionals write targeting recently bereaved parents who are in need of some assistance with basic coping skills, I found the books bereaved parents have written to be more helpful.
As such, their common thread is that these parents/authors have chosen to cope and survive the loss of a child by chronicling their stories through which readers may achieve a relative catharsis. By infusing universal pathos into love and loss, we glean meaning from our children’s shortened lives, allowing us to discover insights like never before while healing ourselves.
Yet, notwithstanding our unconditional love and sacrifices we made instinctively for our children, we could not save their lives. Though we must return their bodies to the dust, we remain committed to their spirits, their souls if you like.
It’s somehow right and fair, isn’t it?
And it is for this reason and none other that we build shrines to their memories.
Six Years Ago
I wonder if I will glimpse Ben’s countenance after the passage of 2,190 days?
“In Memory Of Benjamin Busch
Whose Good Deeds, Kind
Nature & Gentle Manner
Will Forever Be An Inspiration To Us”
This is the inscription on a memorial leaf that appears on a branch of the Etz Chaim[1] in my synagogue.
Why do we affix a memorial leaf to a “Tree of Life?"
For the same reason that the “Mourner’s Kaddish” is not a dirge and, as a matter of fact, makes no mention of death whatsoever. Jewish custom holds that the mourner recite it when he is most vulnerable, at a time when the immediacy of death is still fresh enough to be so overwhelming that one may choose apostasy as an understandable but ultimately misguided approach to grief.
From your room Ben,
I write these words
on this sixth year’s eve ...
lonely without you.
Eternally optimistic, even in the darkest moments, we say …
“L’Chaim”[2]
each time we lift a glass together whether it be in remembrance or celebration.
Though the leaf serves as a poignant reminder of the end of Ben’s life, its primary purpose obligates us to celebrate the time of his life-no matter that it ended prematurely, abruptly and painfully!
Yes, from your room Ben, never to let go …
where we fought in the wee morning darkness
the implacable diabetic and epileptic foe.
Still the very worst part remains the attending paramedic’s deposition that Ben was both conscious and able to speak for a brief while before finally and permanently losing consciousness, and that he understood what had happened, while he suffered horrendous pain and bespoke his fear that he was dying. As Ben’s dad, the certain knowledge that my son’s last waking moments were consumed by such trauma and fear leaves me cold and quiet, my thoughts inchoate …
Where by your bedside
I sat many a night,
afraid to leave you ...
lest it return
in my absence.
As a Jew, I am thankful my faith is one of eternal optimism and which teaches us that life is inherently miraculous and therefore holy.
We serve as guardians of its sanctity.
Perhaps you wonder...
how ... how Dad can it be so?
Since eight years you moved out ... ago.
It has happened often enough in these six years when I have had to consciously remind myself to rely on this belief. In those moments when the reality of Ben’s death has nearly overwhelmed me, when the solitude of a Sunday morning is replaced by the uneasy quiet of a mourner’s lonely room … when all that remains is nothing more than a few personal belongings: a white shirt, suit, some old boots, a bicycle in need of repair, a child’s signature surprisingly appearing when I turned the page of a scrapbook.
I bought the house back from mom
for my beloved kallah and me ...
The absolute enormity of a child’s death leaves one feeling so insignificant, so powerlessly tiny. To have to navigate these treacherous waters daily is no simple task as we are invariably reminded of how vast is God’s ocean while we remain adrift in such a small boat!
Be sure Ben, please remember…
neither in doubt nor need,
our love for you was always agreed.
The only antidote to the pain of our loss is the tenacity with which we remember our children. It is incumbent upon us that we simply refuse to allow their memories to die.
So accept these sparse words,
for your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years so tearful,
mournful without thee.
Though their bodies are gone, their physicality ended, our linkage to them becomes one of remembrance, of dedication and rededication-all of which remind us of how fortunate we were to have enjoyed our time with them for as long as we did.
[1] The Tree of Life
[2] To Life
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Experiential Semantics
You may have seen it several posts ago in my poem "From Your Room" in which I made mention of the fact that I purchased my marital residence back from my ex-wife, Ben's mom, when it became known to me she was moving out of town.
I am in the process of converting Ben's bedroom into an office where I'll do my writing. That is, dear readers, the subject of this brief essay. More precisely, the issue is better defined as one over the better name to be given the room.
Actually kudos to my kallah for suggesting that I address this question at all when just last night I was bemoaning the fact that I hadn't posted anything new in more than three weeks and that I was suffering from a dearth of ideas.
kallah: "Why not write about how you call it 'Ben's room' and I call it 'the office?' "
chossen: "Hey! Know what? That is a great idea! I'll have it ready for tomorrow!"
Oh, by the way here is some background information in case you were wondering ...
Okay, you know that I purchased my former marital residence from my ex-wife, Ben's mom. Yes, it is the very house in which Ben grew up, and I am writing this post from his bedroom wherein he and I battled diabetes and epilepsy for many years.
Now it is my tendency to dub this particular place "Ben's room" because that's what it is and was for me ... whereas my kallah who, mind you, is quite sympathetic to my use of that name, refers to it differently as "the office" which it is also and will be eventually for both of us to do our work.
Last night, she commented incisively that unlike me who has a long history in this house, she does not. In fact, my kallah never knew Ben so, try as she might ... "Ben's room" has little tangible meaning for her whereas for me though I may at times refer to this room as "the office" primarily in deference to her, it will always remain "Ben's room" for me if you know what I mean.
Any thoughts anyone?
You may have seen it several posts ago in my poem "From Your Room" in which I made mention of the fact that I purchased my marital residence back from my ex-wife, Ben's mom, when it became known to me she was moving out of town.
I am in the process of converting Ben's bedroom into an office where I'll do my writing. That is, dear readers, the subject of this brief essay. More precisely, the issue is better defined as one over the better name to be given the room.
Actually kudos to my kallah for suggesting that I address this question at all when just last night I was bemoaning the fact that I hadn't posted anything new in more than three weeks and that I was suffering from a dearth of ideas.
kallah: "Why not write about how you call it 'Ben's room' and I call it 'the office?' "
chossen: "Hey! Know what? That is a great idea! I'll have it ready for tomorrow!"
Oh, by the way here is some background information in case you were wondering ...
Okay, you know that I purchased my former marital residence from my ex-wife, Ben's mom. Yes, it is the very house in which Ben grew up, and I am writing this post from his bedroom wherein he and I battled diabetes and epilepsy for many years.
Now it is my tendency to dub this particular place "Ben's room" because that's what it is and was for me ... whereas my kallah who, mind you, is quite sympathetic to my use of that name, refers to it differently as "the office" which it is also and will be eventually for both of us to do our work.
Last night, she commented incisively that unlike me who has a long history in this house, she does not. In fact, my kallah never knew Ben so, try as she might ... "Ben's room" has little tangible meaning for her whereas for me though I may at times refer to this room as "the office" primarily in deference to her, it will always remain "Ben's room" for me if you know what I mean.
Any thoughts anyone?
Monday, November 27, 2006
Post Thanksgiving Thanks ...
In these days following Thanksgiving, a time when our better angels have begun to make an appearance ... and just before the schtuss of the "holiday season" overtakes us, everybody else and everything, may there always be a moment or two when a thoughtfully crafted reading opens us up just enough to actualize thoughts which need expression lest their great potential for inspiring good deeds, chesed and gemilus chasadim loses itself in the saddest category of them all ... That Which Might Have Been!
Thank You for the cemetary administrator who let us through the gates though it was past dusk and the cemetary closed!
Thank You for a younger son, Zachary, whose goodness and sweetness, become more manifest each day-and for finding those two stones: one for you, one for me but both for Ben!
Thank You for the gift of speech, especially the capacity to "verbalize" through the keyboard, when the spoken word becomes less intelligible.
Thank You to all those concerned and patient enough to look at my mouth speaking when their ears can't quite make out what I am saying.
Thank You for the insight that lost speech is found prose.
Thank You for a daughter who is never too old to tell me: " I love you!"
Thank You for the insight that those certain people who make cameo appearances in our lives are like God's tzitsis ... they remind us to do good, walk humbly and share acts of kindness.
In these days following Thanksgiving, a time when our better angels have begun to make an appearance ... and just before the schtuss of the "holiday season" overtakes us, everybody else and everything, may there always be a moment or two when a thoughtfully crafted reading opens us up just enough to actualize thoughts which need expression lest their great potential for inspiring good deeds, chesed and gemilus chasadim loses itself in the saddest category of them all ... That Which Might Have Been!
Thank You for the cemetary administrator who let us through the gates though it was past dusk and the cemetary closed!
Thank You for a younger son, Zachary, whose goodness and sweetness, become more manifest each day-and for finding those two stones: one for you, one for me but both for Ben!
Thank You for the gift of speech, especially the capacity to "verbalize" through the keyboard, when the spoken word becomes less intelligible.
Thank You to all those concerned and patient enough to look at my mouth speaking when their ears can't quite make out what I am saying.
Thank You for the insight that lost speech is found prose.
Thank You for a daughter who is never too old to tell me: " I love you!"
Thank You for the insight that those certain people who make cameo appearances in our lives are like God's tzitsis ... they remind us to do good, walk humbly and share acts of kindness.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Every Day is Thanksgiving
Dear Readers ...
I have revisited this earlier post from a year ago and have made a few changes ...
The day before Thanksgiving, the Wednesday just prior .... is the day on which my son Benjamin Mathew passed into the Olam Haba ...
Please take a moment to read about him ... these words however inadequate from a grieving father for whom Thanksgiving is now bittersweet at best ...
As Americans we celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of November. As a Jew, upon my awakening each morning, I remember to observe the Jewish “Thanksgiving” by saying:
Dear Readers ...
I have revisited this earlier post from a year ago and have made a few changes ...
The day before Thanksgiving, the Wednesday just prior .... is the day on which my son Benjamin Mathew passed into the Olam Haba ...
Please take a moment to read about him ... these words however inadequate from a grieving father for whom Thanksgiving is now bittersweet at best ...
As Americans we celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of November. As a Jew, upon my awakening each morning, I remember to observe the Jewish “Thanksgiving” by saying:
“Modei ani lefanecha …” [1]
What makes Jewish Thanksgiving different from the fourth Thursday of November?
We give thanks …
“yom yom”[2] …
by praising His name in good times as well as bad even when and if tragedy befalls us.
However, our intent does not lie in welcoming bad tidings, but in acknowledging that the “bad” so often turns out for the “best” although the result may not be immediately apparent.
“Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo”[3]
I received an email from a dear friend who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what as best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
Now … I admit to having been befuddled by the timing of the note, but as I was busy at work I let it go for later. Well, “later” arrived. While having coffee tonight my fiance asked me:
“So, how was your day?”
And then it hit me, the timing of the email. Today marked in fact the fifth year secular anniversary of my son’s passing on November 22, 2000 which fell out that year on the day before Thanksgiving.
That is how I remember that day … not by its date as much as by the tragic irony of a Thanksgiving marked by Ben’s death.
In keeping with my theme that there is balance in our lives and order in our world although they may quite often seem to be hidden and at the mercy of random collisions of chance, you may wonder about my proof.
Unlike a scientist’s proof whose reliability is dependent upon laboratory duplication, I can only offer up as “proof” what news I learned from my daughter Kimmy who called me today, the 22nd day of November, with an excitement and glee in her voice that struck a much sought after chord to complete this day, to round it out as it were, to make the circle whole.
“Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown firm! I’ll have an office with a view from the 39th floor overlooking downtown. It’s just what I wanted!”
That I feel pretty much sums up what happened today-a day when divine balance and even-handedness manifested themselves very dramatically-when a bad day five years ago became a better day today.
[1] I give thanks to you …
[2] every day
[3] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
What makes Jewish Thanksgiving different from the fourth Thursday of November?
We give thanks …
“yom yom”[2] …
by praising His name in good times as well as bad even when and if tragedy befalls us.
However, our intent does not lie in welcoming bad tidings, but in acknowledging that the “bad” so often turns out for the “best” although the result may not be immediately apparent.
“Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo”[3]
I received an email from a dear friend who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what as best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
Now … I admit to having been befuddled by the timing of the note, but as I was busy at work I let it go for later. Well, “later” arrived. While having coffee tonight my fiance asked me:
“So, how was your day?”
And then it hit me, the timing of the email. Today marked in fact the fifth year secular anniversary of my son’s passing on November 22, 2000 which fell out that year on the day before Thanksgiving.
That is how I remember that day … not by its date as much as by the tragic irony of a Thanksgiving marked by Ben’s death.
In keeping with my theme that there is balance in our lives and order in our world although they may quite often seem to be hidden and at the mercy of random collisions of chance, you may wonder about my proof.
Unlike a scientist’s proof whose reliability is dependent upon laboratory duplication, I can only offer up as “proof” what news I learned from my daughter Kimmy who called me today, the 22nd day of November, with an excitement and glee in her voice that struck a much sought after chord to complete this day, to round it out as it were, to make the circle whole.
“Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown firm! I’ll have an office with a view from the 39th floor overlooking downtown. It’s just what I wanted!”
That I feel pretty much sums up what happened today-a day when divine balance and even-handedness manifested themselves very dramatically-when a bad day five years ago became a better day today.
[1] I give thanks to you …
[2] every day
[3] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
On the somber occasion of the sixth Hebrew Yahrzeit of Ben Z'L, the 24th day of Heshvan, 5767 ...
"From Your Room"
From your room ...
Ben
I write these words ...
on this sixth year’s eve lonely without you ...
yes, from your room never to let go
where we wrestled in wee morning’s darkness
the implacable diabetic foe.
Where by your bedside
I sat many the night
afraid to leave you ...
lest it return.
Perhaps you wonder...
how ... how Dad is it so …
since eight years you moved out ... ago?
I bought the house back from mom
for my beloved kallah and me ...
Be sure Ben, please remember…
neither in doubt nor need,
our love for you was always agreed.
So accept these sparse words
your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years so tearful ... without thee.
"From Your Room"
From your room ...
Ben
I write these words ...
on this sixth year’s eve lonely without you ...
yes, from your room never to let go
where we wrestled in wee morning’s darkness
the implacable diabetic foe.
Where by your bedside
I sat many the night
afraid to leave you ...
lest it return.
Perhaps you wonder...
how ... how Dad is it so …
since eight years you moved out ... ago?
I bought the house back from mom
for my beloved kallah and me ...
Be sure Ben, please remember…
neither in doubt nor need,
our love for you was always agreed.
So accept these sparse words
your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years so tearful ... without thee.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Free Jonathon Pollard!
Free Jonathon Pollard!
Free Jonathon Pollard!
Free Jonathon Pollard!
Free Jonathon Pollard!
groundswell
1.) a broad, deep swell or rolling of the sea, due to a distant storm or gale.
2.) any surge of support, approval, or enthusiasm, esp. among the general public
Dear Readers,
I think we are long overdue in our country for a GROUNDSWELL!
I think we can create such a groundswell that Mr. Bush
would sign a Presidential Pardon before the end of his term!
Starting here and now please respond to this appeal by writing back to this blog.
Let me know that together we can effect this change!
The Groundswell begins here and now!
I am ...
Very Sincerely yours,
Alan D. Busch
Free Jonathon Pollard!
Free Jonathon Pollard!
Free Jonathon Pollard!
Free Jonathon Pollard!
groundswell
1.) a broad, deep swell or rolling of the sea, due to a distant storm or gale.
2.) any surge of support, approval, or enthusiasm, esp. among the general public
Dear Readers,
I think we are long overdue in our country for a GROUNDSWELL!
I think we can create such a groundswell that Mr. Bush
would sign a Presidential Pardon before the end of his term!
Starting here and now please respond to this appeal by writing back to this blog.
Let me know that together we can effect this change!
The Groundswell begins here and now!
I am ...
Very Sincerely yours,
Alan D. Busch
Friday, November 03, 2006
Dear Readers ...
I am pleased to announce that I have finished my book
In Memory of Ben
and all the editing that I am going to do!
Now it's time for the real editor!
Ben's sixth yahrzeit is approaching:
secular: November 22
Hebrew: 23 Heshvan
May my son's neshuma have an aliyah!_
I am ...
Very Sincerely yours,
Alan D. Busch
p.s. I will burn a CD free of charge if you post a comment on the blog The Book of Ben. If after reading you are so inclined, please include a request and I'll be pleased to comply.
I am pleased to announce that I have finished my book
In Memory of Ben
and all the editing that I am going to do!
Now it's time for the real editor!
Ben's sixth yahrzeit is approaching:
secular: November 22
Hebrew: 23 Heshvan
May my son's neshuma have an aliyah!_
I am ...
Very Sincerely yours,
Alan D. Busch
p.s. I will burn a CD free of charge if you post a comment on the blog The Book of Ben. If after reading you are so inclined, please include a request and I'll be pleased to comply.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Comforting ...
Should it happen to befall us to see our children in pain, the frightening dilemma of how best to cope with that horrendous reality challenges and exhausts our parental reserves of common faith and shared strength all too quickly.
Notwithstanding the wellness of their marriages, parents can manage such a burden effectively by remaining exclusively focused on the well-being of their child while permitting the intrusion of no other issues.
Words oftentimes do not convey the depth of our feelings in every instance.
Nothing quite as empathic as a tender hug is as capable of transforming pain and suffering into a shared experience-and thereby making even the most painful of moments a bit more bearable.
The Accident …
Several weeks after nearly suffering a fatal traffic accident, Ben began to suffer severe shortness of breath, walking difficulty and chest pain.
The surgeon diagnosed Ben with pneumonia and advised us that she had no other choice but to recommend immediate lung surgery.
Her recommendation coincided with the time in my marriage to Ben’s mom after we had sunk to our lowest depth ever-having virtually no contact with each other for several months. Though we continued to live together under the same roof, the surgeon’s diagnosis and recommendation served to exascerbate an already dire situation.
Ben's mom used to say she no longer recognized me as the same man whom she had known. Had you seen my appearance at the time, you might have concurred with the reasons for which she felt the way she did.
Thinking it would be possible and appropriate to accelerate the pace of my religious growth by a mere change in my appearance, I dressed myself in the “uniform” of some, but not all, observant men, which included: a dark suit, white shirt, tie, kippah[1] and black fedora.
All this while I was struggling simultaneously to adopt the stringencies of a kosher lifestyle.
I failed in the end.
Mr. Parker, Z’L.
Choosing to ignore an admonition given to me by a dear friend that I was spending too much time in the synagogue rather than at home with my family, I refused to heed his advice-no matter that it had come from an older and wiser man.
In recalling my special friend[2] who among many acts of friendship took the time to teach me the fundamentals of “siddur, tallis and tefillin,”[3] I am most grateful to him for having shown me the path he thought best though I chose not to take it at the time
Mr. Irwin Parker, Issur ben Avrum, emigrated to America after the second world war in the early 1950s. Though he survived Mauthausen,[4] his family did not, but a handful of souls among the incalculable “kedoshim”.[5]
Beginning his life over again once settled here in America, Mr. Parker soon remarried and raised a second family. A tougher yet kinder and gentler soul I don’t think I had ever met.
.
An Unbridgeable Distance
Standing by his bedside where he lay recovering after his surgery, Ben's mom and I bore witness to his wrenching pain. Although he fought back mightily, his cries were heart piercing.
"Ben ... be strong, son! Even stronger!" I implored.
How awkward it felt saying these words to Ben as if he were not already doing precisely that!
How awful it is to see one's child in pain!
Ben’s mom left the room. I found her in the family waiting lounge just steps away. Quietly weeping, she stood by the window just staring out. I wanted very much to comfort her, but I dare not! I did not think she would have wanted me to touch her, to hug her! As she often said back then, I was no longer the same man whom she had once known and loved.
So there we were, the two of us, Ben's mom and dad, not ten feet away from each other, but it might well have been hundreds of miles … tragically unable to offer each other even the slightest comfort for our son’s suffering, our suffering-common but not shared!
[1] skullcap worn by observant Jewish men.
[2] Mr. Parker bore an uncanny resemblance to my maternal grandfather, Harry Austin.
[3] Prayer book, prayer shawl and phylacteries
[4] Nazi concntration camp located in Austria.
[5] Holy martyrs
Should it happen to befall us to see our children in pain, the frightening dilemma of how best to cope with that horrendous reality challenges and exhausts our parental reserves of common faith and shared strength all too quickly.
Notwithstanding the wellness of their marriages, parents can manage such a burden effectively by remaining exclusively focused on the well-being of their child while permitting the intrusion of no other issues.
Words oftentimes do not convey the depth of our feelings in every instance.
Nothing quite as empathic as a tender hug is as capable of transforming pain and suffering into a shared experience-and thereby making even the most painful of moments a bit more bearable.
The Accident …
Several weeks after nearly suffering a fatal traffic accident, Ben began to suffer severe shortness of breath, walking difficulty and chest pain.
The surgeon diagnosed Ben with pneumonia and advised us that she had no other choice but to recommend immediate lung surgery.
Her recommendation coincided with the time in my marriage to Ben’s mom after we had sunk to our lowest depth ever-having virtually no contact with each other for several months. Though we continued to live together under the same roof, the surgeon’s diagnosis and recommendation served to exascerbate an already dire situation.
Ben's mom used to say she no longer recognized me as the same man whom she had known. Had you seen my appearance at the time, you might have concurred with the reasons for which she felt the way she did.
Thinking it would be possible and appropriate to accelerate the pace of my religious growth by a mere change in my appearance, I dressed myself in the “uniform” of some, but not all, observant men, which included: a dark suit, white shirt, tie, kippah[1] and black fedora.
All this while I was struggling simultaneously to adopt the stringencies of a kosher lifestyle.
I failed in the end.
Mr. Parker, Z’L.
Choosing to ignore an admonition given to me by a dear friend that I was spending too much time in the synagogue rather than at home with my family, I refused to heed his advice-no matter that it had come from an older and wiser man.
In recalling my special friend[2] who among many acts of friendship took the time to teach me the fundamentals of “siddur, tallis and tefillin,”[3] I am most grateful to him for having shown me the path he thought best though I chose not to take it at the time
Mr. Irwin Parker, Issur ben Avrum, emigrated to America after the second world war in the early 1950s. Though he survived Mauthausen,[4] his family did not, but a handful of souls among the incalculable “kedoshim”.[5]
Beginning his life over again once settled here in America, Mr. Parker soon remarried and raised a second family. A tougher yet kinder and gentler soul I don’t think I had ever met.
.
An Unbridgeable Distance
Standing by his bedside where he lay recovering after his surgery, Ben's mom and I bore witness to his wrenching pain. Although he fought back mightily, his cries were heart piercing.
"Ben ... be strong, son! Even stronger!" I implored.
How awkward it felt saying these words to Ben as if he were not already doing precisely that!
How awful it is to see one's child in pain!
Ben’s mom left the room. I found her in the family waiting lounge just steps away. Quietly weeping, she stood by the window just staring out. I wanted very much to comfort her, but I dare not! I did not think she would have wanted me to touch her, to hug her! As she often said back then, I was no longer the same man whom she had once known and loved.
So there we were, the two of us, Ben's mom and dad, not ten feet away from each other, but it might well have been hundreds of miles … tragically unable to offer each other even the slightest comfort for our son’s suffering, our suffering-common but not shared!
[1] skullcap worn by observant Jewish men.
[2] Mr. Parker bore an uncanny resemblance to my maternal grandfather, Harry Austin.
[3] Prayer book, prayer shawl and phylacteries
[4] Nazi concntration camp located in Austria.
[5] Holy martyrs
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Chapter 19
Unhealable
I have heard it said:
“Time heals all wounds.”
However, for parents who have lost a child, the great majority, if not all, would respond that the “wound” of losing a child is unhealable.
And that is the way it should be!
“But what if the reality of parental bereavement could simply be forgotten? If we could just put it behind us? You know … like the old expression: ‘Out of site, out of mind.’ "
Would it be better if the wound were healable?
The following story may answer that question …
Loved by those …
I dreamt of Ben one morning. I saw him wearing his knit cap in a style I had shown him.
It was part of the uniform worn by the guys at the car wash where Ben worked too for about a year. Frankly, I never understood why he liked it as much as he did, but of far greater importance than my personal disapproval of the carwash job was that Ben possessed a strong work ethic for which I was thankful.
A dimension of Ben that so defined him was the great enjoyment he took in being with his friends and reciprocally they with him. He was very well liked and, in many cases, loved by friends who had come to know him! Kind and unpretentious, Ben enriched the lives of whomever he met.
Our loss of Ben left an irreparable hole in many people’s hearts! Maybe it is this that is the answer.
Such a person was Stuart whom I had met in synagogue and who knew Ben from the carwash.
Following a long hiatus, Stuart, for the first time in a year, returned to morning prayer minyan. As was his custom, he inquired innocently:
“So, how is Ben doing?”
Upon hearing Stuart’s uninformed but innocent words, David gasped so loudly that the resultant hush which blanketed us seemed to have lasted ten minutes rather than the ten seconds it did!
I glanced furtively at Rabbi Louis.
Appearing shaken and angry, he finally broke the silence:
“Ben passed away two weeks ago!”
Upon his hearing the pronouncement, Stuart, an emotionally passionate man, began weeping so sobbingly that I felt it incumbent upon myself to try to console him.
I had anticipated Stuart’s inquiry but regrettably failed to inform him about what had befallen us-an act of foresight that would have precluded this entire unfortunate incident.
Unhealable
I have heard it said:
“Time heals all wounds.”
However, for parents who have lost a child, the great majority, if not all, would respond that the “wound” of losing a child is unhealable.
And that is the way it should be!
“But what if the reality of parental bereavement could simply be forgotten? If we could just put it behind us? You know … like the old expression: ‘Out of site, out of mind.’ "
Would it be better if the wound were healable?
The following story may answer that question …
Loved by those …
I dreamt of Ben one morning. I saw him wearing his knit cap in a style I had shown him.
It was part of the uniform worn by the guys at the car wash where Ben worked too for about a year. Frankly, I never understood why he liked it as much as he did, but of far greater importance than my personal disapproval of the carwash job was that Ben possessed a strong work ethic for which I was thankful.
A dimension of Ben that so defined him was the great enjoyment he took in being with his friends and reciprocally they with him. He was very well liked and, in many cases, loved by friends who had come to know him! Kind and unpretentious, Ben enriched the lives of whomever he met.
Our loss of Ben left an irreparable hole in many people’s hearts! Maybe it is this that is the answer.
Such a person was Stuart whom I had met in synagogue and who knew Ben from the carwash.
Following a long hiatus, Stuart, for the first time in a year, returned to morning prayer minyan. As was his custom, he inquired innocently:
“So, how is Ben doing?”
Upon hearing Stuart’s uninformed but innocent words, David gasped so loudly that the resultant hush which blanketed us seemed to have lasted ten minutes rather than the ten seconds it did!
I glanced furtively at Rabbi Louis.
Appearing shaken and angry, he finally broke the silence:
“Ben passed away two weeks ago!”
Upon his hearing the pronouncement, Stuart, an emotionally passionate man, began weeping so sobbingly that I felt it incumbent upon myself to try to console him.
I had anticipated Stuart’s inquiry but regrettably failed to inform him about what had befallen us-an act of foresight that would have precluded this entire unfortunate incident.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Kindergarten Chairs
I recall how I used to marvel at the pole-vaulting pit on the athletic field behind my school in St. Louis awestruck by the height of the bar!
“Imagine someone my age possessing the focus, daring and strength to face such a formidable challenge.”
That memory has served me well throughout the years when I sought to inculcate its lesson in my parenting and teaching.
My first student was Ben to whom I often said:
"Raise up the bar, son! Never lower it!"
I was hopeful that that axiom would inspire him to overcome the obstacles life had placed before him. If by working hard and empowering himself to reach in, out and beyond, he would become his own master!
Though I imparted a sense of “derech eretz”[1] by teaching Ben the principles of Jewish ethical behavior, I failed in my efforts to improve his academic performance.
He was an average student and even fell below average in high school where I believe kids like Ben who-for reasons at times inexplicable-just do not fit into the prefabricated mold of a “good” student and, all too commonly, fall between the cracks.
Reaching in ...
His physical strength was awesome. I discovered just how much so one Sunday afternoon.
Standing next to the entranceway to the ice rink, I stood watching as Ben skated toward me at full speed. Increasingly ominous in appearance with every passing moment, he feigned trying to avoid crashing into me by employing his ice-sheering hockey stop that brought him so much joy-being able to stop on a frozen dime, as it were, while shaving the surface of the ice into a snowy burst of frozen flakes.
Even though I was very much aware that he was teasing me, I left soon with a better sense of how it must feel to stand in front of an oncoming train!
A powerful and skilled ice-skater, Ben’s primary rolw as an “ice guard” was to enforce safety rules during hours of open skating. His favorite part consisted mostly of helping tiny skaters who had fallen while on the ice and setting them aright. I remember how much he enjoyed the job.
Ben had always worked so well with children.
HisStrength, His Strength, My Indecision …
Of a much different and greater importance than his impressive physical prowess was the inner-almost spiritual dimension of Ben’s strength, his strength of character.
He demonstrated the degree of its depth when-having to undergo a corrective surgery to repair an infected appendectomy-the surgeon left the second incision deliberately unsutchered as a means by which to insure its complete healing.
And Ben’s role in this …
He was required to reach inside the wound twice daily, packing it fully with gauze and tape it shut. Imagine the reaction of most teenagers if they were to be asked to assume such a grave responsibility for several weeks!
On one occasion while the two of us were talking together in his room, I watched as he performed this self-procedure. Awestruck by the calm of his courage and dumbstruck by the care with which he approached this matter, I did not need much time before becoming so overwhelmed I did not knew if I should laugh or cry. In the end, I compromised by crying tears of joy!
In addition to strength and technique, the pole-vaulter, as Ben, must possess an inner strength, a driving force that will enable him to overcome the most challenging of obstacles with ease and grace.
[1] respect; literally, way of the land
I recall how I used to marvel at the pole-vaulting pit on the athletic field behind my school in St. Louis awestruck by the height of the bar!
“Imagine someone my age possessing the focus, daring and strength to face such a formidable challenge.”
That memory has served me well throughout the years when I sought to inculcate its lesson in my parenting and teaching.
My first student was Ben to whom I often said:
"Raise up the bar, son! Never lower it!"
I was hopeful that that axiom would inspire him to overcome the obstacles life had placed before him. If by working hard and empowering himself to reach in, out and beyond, he would become his own master!
Though I imparted a sense of “derech eretz”[1] by teaching Ben the principles of Jewish ethical behavior, I failed in my efforts to improve his academic performance.
He was an average student and even fell below average in high school where I believe kids like Ben who-for reasons at times inexplicable-just do not fit into the prefabricated mold of a “good” student and, all too commonly, fall between the cracks.
Reaching in ...
His physical strength was awesome. I discovered just how much so one Sunday afternoon.
Standing next to the entranceway to the ice rink, I stood watching as Ben skated toward me at full speed. Increasingly ominous in appearance with every passing moment, he feigned trying to avoid crashing into me by employing his ice-sheering hockey stop that brought him so much joy-being able to stop on a frozen dime, as it were, while shaving the surface of the ice into a snowy burst of frozen flakes.
Even though I was very much aware that he was teasing me, I left soon with a better sense of how it must feel to stand in front of an oncoming train!
A powerful and skilled ice-skater, Ben’s primary rolw as an “ice guard” was to enforce safety rules during hours of open skating. His favorite part consisted mostly of helping tiny skaters who had fallen while on the ice and setting them aright. I remember how much he enjoyed the job.
Ben had always worked so well with children.
HisStrength, His Strength, My Indecision …
Of a much different and greater importance than his impressive physical prowess was the inner-almost spiritual dimension of Ben’s strength, his strength of character.
He demonstrated the degree of its depth when-having to undergo a corrective surgery to repair an infected appendectomy-the surgeon left the second incision deliberately unsutchered as a means by which to insure its complete healing.
And Ben’s role in this …
He was required to reach inside the wound twice daily, packing it fully with gauze and tape it shut. Imagine the reaction of most teenagers if they were to be asked to assume such a grave responsibility for several weeks!
On one occasion while the two of us were talking together in his room, I watched as he performed this self-procedure. Awestruck by the calm of his courage and dumbstruck by the care with which he approached this matter, I did not need much time before becoming so overwhelmed I did not knew if I should laugh or cry. In the end, I compromised by crying tears of joy!
In addition to strength and technique, the pole-vaulter, as Ben, must possess an inner strength, a driving force that will enable him to overcome the most challenging of obstacles with ease and grace.
[1] respect; literally, way of the land
Friday, October 13, 2006
Chapter 6: A Glimpse Forward in Time
Dear Readers ...
This chapter as with the whole of my book about Ben, Z'L I lovingly dedicate to his memory. It is nearly the completion of the sixth year of his absence. Though it may strike you as excessively"schmaltzdik" hug your children each day as if it were the last, God Forbid!
The things we do for our children: some right, others wrong, often ineffectual and misguided, but always done with good intentions, reaffirm the truism that we parents do the “darndest” things at times.
Such "primeval behavior" or, as some call it, "nesting instinct" keeps our children far from harm when still very young and even too after having done some growing up.
So it was when I tried to interest Ben in playing hockey with a group of Jewish men, one of whom I knew from my synagogue. More a social club than a team, it was comprised of a group of young men who just so happened to enjoy the rough and tumble of ice hockey.
“Perfect! Skating at which he had always excelled, hard checking against the boards, slap shots ... what could be better?"
The problem with this group was that it practiced twice a week at 10:00 p.m., but for a short while, we went. Ben played and I watched- occasionally falling asleep in the stands. Unhappily, his interest waned after about two months.
“How was this an example of my nesting instinct?"
Ben had been very athletically oriented ever since the time of his early boyhood. What I was trying to do was to show him ways by which to maximize his strengths and, as a bonus, be able to benefit from a regular exercise regimen necessary for diabetics. Secondly, I was trying to guide him toward a “better” choice of friends whom I thought more wholesome than his!
You may ask:
“What was the outcome of all of this ‘'parental engineering?"
Stated simply, it failed.
Whenever I tried to make choices for Ben or lead him toward my own-no matter how pure my parental motive-he would revert invariably to his choices. Ben's mom had always characterized our son as a very cautious child whose nature it was to survey any new situation, looking it over carefully, scrutinizing it to determine if all seemed right.
All well and good, one might think! Deliberate, cautious in his moves, like ...
"playing chess with life itself."
However much we encourage and applaud self-reliance, it is heartrending when our children make poor choices and we are powerless to prevent them from doing so. Despite the fact
we do know better, life having taught us, our children remain determined to make their choices even those we know to be wrong.
Dear Readers ...
This chapter as with the whole of my book about Ben, Z'L I lovingly dedicate to his memory. It is nearly the completion of the sixth year of his absence. Though it may strike you as excessively"schmaltzdik" hug your children each day as if it were the last, God Forbid!
The things we do for our children: some right, others wrong, often ineffectual and misguided, but always done with good intentions, reaffirm the truism that we parents do the “darndest” things at times.
Such "primeval behavior" or, as some call it, "nesting instinct" keeps our children far from harm when still very young and even too after having done some growing up.
So it was when I tried to interest Ben in playing hockey with a group of Jewish men, one of whom I knew from my synagogue. More a social club than a team, it was comprised of a group of young men who just so happened to enjoy the rough and tumble of ice hockey.
“Perfect! Skating at which he had always excelled, hard checking against the boards, slap shots ... what could be better?"
The problem with this group was that it practiced twice a week at 10:00 p.m., but for a short while, we went. Ben played and I watched- occasionally falling asleep in the stands. Unhappily, his interest waned after about two months.
“How was this an example of my nesting instinct?"
Ben had been very athletically oriented ever since the time of his early boyhood. What I was trying to do was to show him ways by which to maximize his strengths and, as a bonus, be able to benefit from a regular exercise regimen necessary for diabetics. Secondly, I was trying to guide him toward a “better” choice of friends whom I thought more wholesome than his!
You may ask:
“What was the outcome of all of this ‘'parental engineering?"
Stated simply, it failed.
Whenever I tried to make choices for Ben or lead him toward my own-no matter how pure my parental motive-he would revert invariably to his choices. Ben's mom had always characterized our son as a very cautious child whose nature it was to survey any new situation, looking it over carefully, scrutinizing it to determine if all seemed right.
All well and good, one might think! Deliberate, cautious in his moves, like ...
"playing chess with life itself."
However much we encourage and applaud self-reliance, it is heartrending when our children make poor choices and we are powerless to prevent them from doing so. Despite the fact
we do know better, life having taught us, our children remain determined to make their choices even those we know to be wrong.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Chapter 13: Rachomim [1]
When the poor come to you and tell you that they do not have food for Shabbos, and you deign yourself in faith and tell them to trust in G-d-that is true heresy.
(Rebbe Dov of Liaba)
Although The One Above commanded that B’nai Yisrael,[2] dwell in sukkot[3], the very weather conditions He creates at this time of the year occasionally force us to return to the sukkat shlomenu[4] of our homes.
Whereas its roof affords a view of the stars,[5] the sukkah does not measure up very well as an umbrella nor do its flimsy walls insulate us very well against the chilling effects of the autumn breezes.
We dwell in these temporal tabernacles the eight days of Sukkot[6] to approximate the experience of our ancestors’ travail during the forty years of their desert sojourn and to remind ourselves of the on-going miracle of Jewish survival despite the fact a new pharoah rises to power to destroy us in every generation.
The Coat
A homeless man would spend his nights under a heap of blankets tucked away in the corner of a local business entranceway but had left by the time of dawn each day..
It occurred to me while Ben and I were fulfilling the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah[7] that there was no better time than the present to teach him the invaluable lessons of both tzedaka and chesed[8] in a way I hoped he would never forget. To do so, however, would require that we return home for a few minutes.
Taking a coat from my closet I had never worn nor liked, we hurriedly returned to my car, coat in hand and drove a short distance. Along the way, I explained that in the past several weeks I had noticed the plight of a certain homeless man who was living at night, as it were, tucked away in the corner of a local storefront.
“Ben, I know of someone who can use this coat!”
We pulled up in front of the store and placed the coat atop his “dwelling”. Hearing his snoring, we turned and left.
With that we were done!
That day, we learned two vitally important lessons:
Sukkot is indeed a z’man simchasenu.[9] How gratifying it felt to be able to teach my son by example! I know I had always learned better that way too.
Secondly, my mostly unspoken emphasis was that the essence of tzedaka[10] lies in acts of anonymous charity so as to spare its recipient any shame.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[1] mercy
[2] children of Israel
[3] the fragile shelters, booths, tabernacles erected just prior to Sukkot
[4] the shelter of our peace
[5] to remind us of The One Above
[6] Jewish holiday recalling the 40-year desert sojourn
[7] for which we recite the blessing “l’shev b’ sukkah.”
[8] tzedaka: righteousness though commonly translated as ‘chaity’; chesd: kindness
[9] season of our joy
[10] righteousness, often understood to mean ‘charity’
When the poor come to you and tell you that they do not have food for Shabbos, and you deign yourself in faith and tell them to trust in G-d-that is true heresy.
(Rebbe Dov of Liaba)
Although The One Above commanded that B’nai Yisrael,[2] dwell in sukkot[3], the very weather conditions He creates at this time of the year occasionally force us to return to the sukkat shlomenu[4] of our homes.
Whereas its roof affords a view of the stars,[5] the sukkah does not measure up very well as an umbrella nor do its flimsy walls insulate us very well against the chilling effects of the autumn breezes.
We dwell in these temporal tabernacles the eight days of Sukkot[6] to approximate the experience of our ancestors’ travail during the forty years of their desert sojourn and to remind ourselves of the on-going miracle of Jewish survival despite the fact a new pharoah rises to power to destroy us in every generation.
The Coat
A homeless man would spend his nights under a heap of blankets tucked away in the corner of a local business entranceway but had left by the time of dawn each day..
It occurred to me while Ben and I were fulfilling the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah[7] that there was no better time than the present to teach him the invaluable lessons of both tzedaka and chesed[8] in a way I hoped he would never forget. To do so, however, would require that we return home for a few minutes.
Taking a coat from my closet I had never worn nor liked, we hurriedly returned to my car, coat in hand and drove a short distance. Along the way, I explained that in the past several weeks I had noticed the plight of a certain homeless man who was living at night, as it were, tucked away in the corner of a local storefront.
“Ben, I know of someone who can use this coat!”
We pulled up in front of the store and placed the coat atop his “dwelling”. Hearing his snoring, we turned and left.
With that we were done!
That day, we learned two vitally important lessons:
Sukkot is indeed a z’man simchasenu.[9] How gratifying it felt to be able to teach my son by example! I know I had always learned better that way too.
Secondly, my mostly unspoken emphasis was that the essence of tzedaka[10] lies in acts of anonymous charity so as to spare its recipient any shame.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[1] mercy
[2] children of Israel
[3] the fragile shelters, booths, tabernacles erected just prior to Sukkot
[4] the shelter of our peace
[5] to remind us of The One Above
[6] Jewish holiday recalling the 40-year desert sojourn
[7] for which we recite the blessing “l’shev b’ sukkah.”
[8] tzedaka: righteousness though commonly translated as ‘chaity’; chesd: kindness
[9] season of our joy
[10] righteousness, often understood to mean ‘charity’
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Dear Readers, Friends and Fellow Travelers ...
On behalf of my kallah Hadar, my late son Ben Z'L, my daughter Kimmy and my younger son Zac, I wish for you a year of much shalom, brocho, simcha and oneg (peace,blessing, happiness and joy) ... oh! and May He Who dwells on high grant you and yours the best of health!
I've been busy of late editing my book In Memory of Ben in the hopes of publishing it soon! It has reached about 190 book length pages and requires more than a "smidgen" of polish here and there.
I hope that you will spend a few minutes reading my latest revision of the first of sixty chapters, and for those of us who relish the arcane, I write these words from my son Ben's room in whose house I now reside again after a seven year hiatus following my divorce from Ben's mom.
As always, I dedicate these remembrances lovingly to my son Benjamin a.k.a Avrum ben Avrum v' Yehudit ...
Chapter 1: The Last Time
The day was Wednesday, November 22, 2000 when, I believe, an act of “Divine Kindness” made it possible for me to have had the unique opportunity to spend several minutes in the morning together with my son Benjamin for the last time.
Forgetting the night before to have set his alarm, he woke up late for work, hurriedly got dressed and ran to catch the bus. As fortune would have it, he spotted my car parked at the dry cleaners and caught up with me just in time. Had I not dropped my laundry off that morning, I might not have seen him again.
As I turned to leave, there he was waiting behind me with a broad smile of anticipation.
“Dad, can you give me a lift to the train?”
Always regretful whenever I had not seen Ben for several days, any opportunity to be together with him delighted me. After I moved out of my home in July of 1999, there were times when I did not see him as often as I would have liked.
So off we drove together to the train station. As I recall, our last conversation went something like this:
"How are you, Ben?"
"Fine, Dad. You?"
"Okay. How are you?"
"Good."
"You feeling good?"
"Yup."
I turned into a parking lot across the street from the station. Checking to see that the latch on his messenger bag was securely fastened, he opened the passenger door. As always, I asked him:
"Do you have money on you?"
"Yes, Dad. ‘Seeya’ later!"
"Be safe!"
The day would be, I thought, like any other.
If only it had been!
The phones had been ringing all morning. It was a few minutes before noon when I answered this call. A stranger’s voice-belonging to a man who identified himself as an emergency room surgeon at Cook County Hospital in Chicago-told me Ben had sustained life-threatening injuries following a nearly fatal accident necessitating immediate surgical intervention.
He “suggested” that I come down to the hospital as soon as possible.
“Suggested? Well, I knew what he meant! Suffice to say I knew how this day would end.”
A frightful myriad of thoughts filled my head as I sped away toward the hospital in a state of quiet desperation. The grave tone of the doctor’s voice convinced me the dreaded day I had foreseen for many years had indeed arrived.
After parking about two blocks away, I ran to the emergency department whereupon I stopped and identified myself to the first nurse I encountered. Escorting me hurriedly to the surgeon to whom I granted authorization, when asked, to employ all measures to save Ben, I indicated my wish to be present while the trauma team did everything it could to save him.
My father stood with me behind a glass partition as we witnessed a desperate but ultimately futile effort almost within arm’s reach.
During those several minutes, I discovered a previously unknown facet of my father. Next to me stood a desperate man praying for the life of my son. His hands overhead, flattened against the glass partition while holding back a torrent of tears, he petitioned The Almighty for His intervention. In Ben’s declining seconds when still … flickered a spark of life, my father, a sensitive yet determined man, called out his desperate plea once, twice, thrice and again …
“Hang on Ben! Fight back! Please fight back!”
Open heart massage ... failed! Oxygen mask … failed! Electric shock ... failed!
A pall of deafening silence smothered the frenzy of just seconds before when every flicker of hope animated us but then died with Ben. Movements slowed down and the machines switched off. His face wearied, the surgeon turned toward me and shook his head.
Ben was gone!
Only a brief while before had he entered this world! I was there then as I was here now.
A nurse asked me if I wished time alone with my son. I told her I did. Indicating to my dad that I was the only person allowed to remain with Ben, she took a gentle hold of his arm, motioned him aside and drew the curtain closed to insure our privacy.
Standing at his side, I placed a kippah[1] upon his head and kissed his handsome nose.
“Thank you for being such a good son Ben.”
With but precious few minutes left to be together before the attendants arrived, Ben “slept” while I … I hovered over him and whisperingly sang the 23rd Psalm.
“ … lo ira ra ki Ata imudi …”[2]
Rabbi Louis arrived. Taking immediate charge of the situation, his timely arrival assured me that Ben would be interred in strict accordance with Jewish tradition.
A noteworthy interlude took place before I had to inform his mom.
Several of Ben’s closest friends[3] meanwhile had arrived at the hospital front desk. Informed by a nurse my younger son was with them, and that he would not be allowed to enter unless I vouch for the group, I went to the front desk to receive them together with Rabbi Louis.
We arrived only to be informed Ben’s brother Zac could enter whereas hospital policy forbad entry to Ben’s well-meaning buddies.
We were on our way back to the emergency room when a hospital security guard stopped us and asked for our passes. As it happened, we did not have any and would have to return to the front desk. Angered by the guard’s insensitivity, Rabbi Louis appealed to the better angels of his nature, albeit unsuccessfully:
“My friend’s son has just died!”
Despite his vociferous objection, Rabbi Louis’ protestations had fallen upon deaf ears. The guard refused to budge. So back we trod to fetch the passes.
When came time to confront Ben’s mom with the awful news, Rabbi generously offered to stand in for me, but I felt this was my duty. Accompanied by my dad and Rabbi Louis together with our arms linked, we crossed the hall reluctantly into a small lounge where Ben’s mom sat awaiting news. I approached her haltingly:
"Ben is gone!" …
I cried out placing my forehead atop her head. Within the shadow of a moment there followed from Ben’s mom an utterance of primal pain so terrifying only a bereaved mother is capable of making it. I shall never forget its sound!
I left the room. There was something I had to tell the surgeon.
I found him standing just outside the lounge in the hallway. Appearing as if he had been waiting for me, I thanked him for all he had done to try to save Ben’s life. He was genuinely sympathetic and seemed to understand me when I forbad the hospital from performing an autopsy.[4]
In the wrongful death suit brought by my family, the surgeon testified in a deposition how he had worried about my dad’s well being when we bore witness to futility.
There soon remained nothing more that could be done. Although the walk back to the truck was cold, windy and desolate, I felt comforted by the warmth of Rabbi Louis’ friendship at this time of unparalleled extremity.
How thankful and relieved I felt in knowing that I would not have to go home alone!
While we sat waiting for the truck to warm up, Rabbi Louis called Rabbi Moshe[5] to facilitate the speedy transfer of Ben’s remains to the funeral home. After several minutes, I drove Rabbi Louis home.
That Wednesday, the darkest I had ever known, hours before Thanksgiving 2000, came to an end as well as the world as I had known it just hours before but which would never be the same again.
I think I fell asleep that night in my apartment.[6]
[1] skullcap signifying God overhead
[2]I shall not fear because You are with me .”
[3] Ben’s younger brother Zac was among them.
[4] Jewish tradition forbids this practice.
[5] A police department chaplain
[6] I have a partial memory of sleeping on the couch in the front room of Ben’s mom’s house but I am not certain.
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