Dear Readers, this is a revision of "son" 7/1/07
Son
My father calls me “son” more often than he calls me by my
name, and because I am my father’s son, I adopted the
same usage with respect to my boys. Kimberly, my daughter, I
call: Kimuschkele, Kimmy, Kimmy Babe, Sweetheart, Sweety,
Sugar. You get the idea. The list is as saccharine as it is
lengthy.
When Ben was little, people called him by the diminutive
“Benji.” There was always something so grown-up sounding
about “Benjamin” or “Ben.” You know what I mean?
“Ach, such a shayne punim, my baby Sam!’ Sounds funny,
like Morris, Irving, Harry or Ben.
I always enjoyed Ben’s name[1]. As a matter of fact, even as
a young adult of twenty-two years, 6’ 2” in height and around
250 pounds, many still called him “Benji”-as did I on occasion
though he didn’t like it very much. So it became my habit to
call him “son” or “sonny boy.”
One evening before bedtime, he mustn’t have been more than five years old, we
discussed ornithology,[2] of all things.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy."
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked
brilliantly, but not without a partly suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you’re outside, Son?"
“It feels good Dad.” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“What you feel, Son, is God’s breath that He blows, but we call it the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but
Daddy remember the birds?” he dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he smilingly queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up.” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he replied, scratching his head, eyebrows perplexed
but clearly intrigued by the answer.
We were young parents back then-our children tiny-
a time predating Zac, my younger son.
We were abundantly blessed with Ben and his sister Kimmy, a
time in our lives when we never did not smell of talcum
powder. Much too young back then to have wisdom but abundantly poor so that
we could not afford a house, we rented an admittedly
spacious apartment from a nice Greek lady just on the
southern edge of of a progressively northward Jewish
migration. Frankly I forget her name, but I figured it was okay
to rent from her because Lenny Bruce had commented that all
Greeks are Jews anyway! Alright, truth be told, she was more than
just a “bissel” annoying.
The kids’ mom and I naturally knew little of
parenting; after all, we were in its infancy-barely adults ourselves-but we
did know enough to read to our children every night unfailingly. “Baby-
babble" was an unknown tongue to us.
There was a short while when Ben and his sister were young
enough that they could share a bedroom. Actually, the real
reason was we only had one bedroom other than the master
bedroom. Do you know the age when the kids are already
almost too big for their cribs but not quite big enough for
regular beds? We had to lower the height of the mattress level
in the cribs so that it was not too far above the floor itself.
At that time, the kids’ mom worked the evening shift for a
local grocery distributor. I taught the seventh and eighth
grades at Resurrection School, a Chicago Roman Catholic
parish, on the west side of Chicago. Though they did not pay
me much at all, dismissal was at 1:45 p.m, a fact that made it
very possible for me to get home in time to make a seamless
transition between our two jobs. I was certain back
then that I was the inspiration for “Mr. Mom” though not a
single dime in royalties did I ever receive.
“Okay Ben get back in there,” I gently scolded him, almost too big for
the crib-his mattress being so low that he could climb in and out
with ease.
“Kimmy Babe, your turn Sweety, what story you want?” I
asked perfunctorily, as if I didn’t know.
“Cassie, Daddy, Cassie,” she shrieked, much to her brother’s
discontent.
“Dad, we read Cassie last night, “member?” he protested.
“Oops, you’re right, Son,” I acceded. “Okay, okay, I gotta a
deal. You’ll have the next two nights, okay?” I asked him, hoping for
a conciliatory approach.
“Okay, Dad,” he conceded resignedly.
“Kimmy, understand? Ben gets to choose the story for the next
two nights,” I said, seeking her agreement with a nod of my
head.
“Cassie, Daddy, Cassie!” she impatiently exclaimed, and so
Cassie and Her Magic Flowers it was … again! Even at a very
young age, Ben was a ba’al shalom.
Against this idyllic background would soon come the time
in our lives when we’d bid farewell to normalcy. Not too long
after we moved to Skoke from the Jewish enclave of West
Rogers Park, Ben was stricken with diabetes at ten and-a half-years.
~~~~~~~~
It’s almost wholly invariable that melancholia overtakes
me whenever I am there. I don’t think it debilitating, short-
lived as each instance is, but it remains a constant in the
equation of my grief.
Yet, I know this is where a grieving Jew should be
because it is a makom kodesh, a holy place, wherein I feel the
presence of my son Ben in its most intense manifestation.
I’ll even venture a remark that may seem odd to some. As
strong a pull as it is to stand before Ben’s grave, I struggle to
sense his presence. Oh yes. I know his body is beneath my
feet, but that’s just it. Ben’s body remains, but his neshuma,
his soul, is elsewhere Where it is, well … that’s anyone’s
guess; it’s in the Olam Haba, floating-as it were-like a feather
caught up in the draft of God’s exhalation-or somewhere in
shamayim waiting for another aliyah that’ll bring him closer to
God. But such is the paltriness of our conception, as if it were
possible to approach Him, The Infinite Holy One. For that
would imply physicality, finiteness of which He has none. Even
the "He of Him" implies a ring of closure around our conception
of what God is and where. You know what? Never mind the
theological gymnastics. I'm satified with that explanation however
much it might make me an apikoros-just as long as Ben “returns” on a regular basis.
I’ve few if any other choices.
And return he does, a sort of tshuva in reverse in that he
returns to us from God whereas we seek, in doing tshuva, to
near Him, to approach Him. We may even cross each other’s
paths on occasion. A heavenly intersection, a cosmic
crossroads-if you will-where neshamos and the t’filos of those who love(d)
Ben may barely escape collision.I believe his neshuma
hovers in shul when I am there. He spends time with me in
that way, I suppose. It is his way of making up for the time
when I sit in our row by myself.
I felt it recently on Purim- a feeling unlike that
of any other experience, anywhere else, including the time I
spend writing in Ben’s room. Though I fully expect this grief, I
am thankful to take my seat in the row behind my dear friend,
Rabbi Louis and his two sons. It affords me the opportunity to
look over the mechitza[3] to the yahrzeit[4] panels on the south
wall and see Ben’s name, the eleventh one in the first column
on the first panel. We have a tradition in shul life that one’s seat
becomes his makom kavua.[5] His seat is next to mine though I should tell you Ben was not a
regular shul-goer. Nobody else sits there however, except my father on Erev Yontif Rosh
Hashanah.
Whether it be the thanksgiving of Purim, the revelry of Simchas Torah[6]
or the trepidation of Yom Kippur,[7] my son remains by my side. Other fathers
have their sons sitting next to them. I miss that but I possess something they
do not-the certainty my son lived a life abundant in loving-kindness.
Time moves forward inexorably. It pauses for no one. That Purim
morning I lamented how much time has passed without Ben. I am reminded
daily his absence is forever. No matter how many years have gone by
or however many are yet to come, Ben’s death for me will always remain
in the present tense. I will never say: “Once upon a time I had a son named
Ben.” I won't tell you I'm not glad to be alive because I know I
am a better person for having known and loved him. He taught
me so much. Still ... know there are moments when I am filled
with guilt it was he and not I.
Alan D. Busch
@2007
In Hebrew, “ben” means “son."
[2] The scientific study of birds; avian science.
[3] Partition in an orthodox synagogue separating women’s from men’s section.
[4] The anniversary of a death
[5] set place where one sits
[6] holiday celebrating the “joy of Torah”.
[7] Day of Atonement
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Dear Readers,
I am 99% sure that this little piece will conclude the text of In Memory of Ben.
"Son"
My father calls me “son,” more often than he does by my name, and because
I am my father's son, I too adopted the same usage with respect to my boys. Kimberly, my
daughter, I call Kimuschkele, Kimmy, Kimmy Babe, Sweetheart, Sweety, Sugar … you get the
idea. The list is as saccharine as it is lengthy.
I always enjoyed Ben’s name. When he was little, people called him by the
diminutive “Benji.” There was always something so adult about “Benjamin” or
“Ben”. As a matter of fact, even as a young adult of twenty-two years, 6’ 2” in height and around
250 pounds, many still called him “Benji,”-as did I-but it became my habit to call him “son” or
as a variant "sonny boy."
One evening before bedtime, he mustn’t have been more than five years old, we discussed
"ornithology"[1], of all things:
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy,” I quickly responded.
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked brilliantly, but not without a partly
suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you're outside, son? I probed.
“It feels good Dad,” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“The wind, Son, is God’s breath that he blows, but we call it
the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but Daddy, remember the birds?” he
dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up,” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he perplexedly replied, scratching his head
but clearly intrigued by the answer.
Alan D. Busch
[1] The scientific study of birds; avian science.
I am 99% sure that this little piece will conclude the text of In Memory of Ben.
"Son"
My father calls me “son,” more often than he does by my name, and because
I am my father's son, I too adopted the same usage with respect to my boys. Kimberly, my
daughter, I call Kimuschkele, Kimmy, Kimmy Babe, Sweetheart, Sweety, Sugar … you get the
idea. The list is as saccharine as it is lengthy.
I always enjoyed Ben’s name. When he was little, people called him by the
diminutive “Benji.” There was always something so adult about “Benjamin” or
“Ben”. As a matter of fact, even as a young adult of twenty-two years, 6’ 2” in height and around
250 pounds, many still called him “Benji,”-as did I-but it became my habit to call him “son” or
as a variant "sonny boy."
One evening before bedtime, he mustn’t have been more than five years old, we discussed
"ornithology"[1], of all things:
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Sonny Boy,” I quickly responded.
“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked brilliantly, but not without a partly
suppressed yawn.
“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you're outside, son? I probed.
“It feels good Dad,” he answered, cheerfully following along.
“The wind, Son, is God’s breath that he blows, but we call it
the ‘wind.’
“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but Daddy, remember the birds?” he
dutifully reminded me.
“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.
“Like this, Dad?” he queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.
“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up,” I
explained.
“Ooooh,” he perplexedly replied, scratching his head
but clearly intrigued by the answer.
Alan D. Busch
[1] The scientific study of birds; avian science.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Dear Readers,
This piece is newly revised from In Memory of Ben
“Ha gomel l’chayavim tovos …”
" Who has bestowed every goodness ..." taken from the blessing referred to as "Gomel" which one recites upon surviving a perilous situation)
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true we do not know the names of those who will be
inscribed and sealed in the Sefer Chaim[4] when Yom
Kippur is over, the judgement of these existential matters belongs
exclusively to the Dayan Emes,[5] whose province lies beyond
that which Rabbi Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
However, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and tshuva[6] are of
sufficient merit to avert the evil decree and spare us the pain
of personal tragedy.
How should we explain what are “near misses” with death?
Can we explain them rationally or should we define them
as miracles and be done with it? If as miracles, they are
different than the miraculous inversions of nature found in the
Torah or the innumerable miracles we encounter daily:
sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-all of which we
like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about blind luck, the
roll of the dice or random chaos?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world? Perhaps but with this essential caveat: faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but what it does do well is to
strengthen us when we are most in need of assistance,
comfort, and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of
human powerlessness only begins to make sense when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone.
“Mr. Busch?” a woman’s voice asked.
I began to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened.
“My name is Anne and I just left your daughter Kimberly,” she
said calmly.
“Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where you are,” I
demanded.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south
of Chicago by Pontiac . Kimberly was involved in an accident, but
she is unhurt, not a scratch.”
“Kimmy, in an accident. Oy Got! Unhurt! Thank God!”
“No, really. She’s fine. I’ve left the scene, but I promised her I’d
call you as soon as the police arrived and felt confident she
was okay.”
“Well, wha … what happened?”
Anne witnessed a collision on the interstate. Pulling over to
assist its victims, she came across my daughter Kimberly who
had lost control of her steering wheel when an eighteen-
wheeler she was attempting to pass forced her onto the
shoulder from the passing lane. Crossing the grassy median,
Kimberly struck a van headed in the opposite direction.
By this point in the story, my heart was racing so much I
could barely contain myself. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day
rushed into my head.
“Listen Anne, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You don’t
know how much this means to me. Really and truly.”
“Oh, you’re welcome Mr. Busch. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to write
down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. “I’m leaving to get her right now.” I
said, racing away to bring my daughter home. Along the way, I
called the number Kimberly’s angel had given me of the
state trooper who was at the scene. Exceedingly kind, she
reassured me that Kimberly was safe and had emerged
without a scratch. Within an hour, having exceeded the speed
limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared an explanation, I
found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station
that had towed her car. Before heading home, I gaped
incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and only
response was to thank Him for bestowing this great kindness
upon me. We drove home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. The following Friday, I invited her and her boyfriend
over for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbes begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[7] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by
my side.” A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a
moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a
single drop of wine running down my hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker ..."* I sanctified the wine.
(*the beginning of the Friday night erev Shabbat Kiddush; literally
'And there was evening and there was morning')
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the True Judge
[6] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[7] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
copyright @2007
This piece is newly revised from In Memory of Ben
“Ha gomel l’chayavim tovos …”
" Who has bestowed every goodness ..." taken from the blessing referred to as "Gomel" which one recites upon surviving a perilous situation)
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true we do not know the names of those who will be
inscribed and sealed in the Sefer Chaim[4] when Yom
Kippur is over, the judgement of these existential matters belongs
exclusively to the Dayan Emes,[5] whose province lies beyond
that which Rabbi Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
However, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and tshuva[6] are of
sufficient merit to avert the evil decree and spare us the pain
of personal tragedy.
How should we explain what are “near misses” with death?
Can we explain them rationally or should we define them
as miracles and be done with it? If as miracles, they are
different than the miraculous inversions of nature found in the
Torah or the innumerable miracles we encounter daily:
sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-all of which we
like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about blind luck, the
roll of the dice or random chaos?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world? Perhaps but with this essential caveat: faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but what it does do well is to
strengthen us when we are most in need of assistance,
comfort, and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of
human powerlessness only begins to make sense when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone.
“Mr. Busch?” a woman’s voice asked.
I began to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened.
“My name is Anne and I just left your daughter Kimberly,” she
said calmly.
“Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where you are,” I
demanded.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south
of Chicago by Pontiac . Kimberly was involved in an accident, but
she is unhurt, not a scratch.”
“Kimmy, in an accident. Oy Got! Unhurt! Thank God!”
“No, really. She’s fine. I’ve left the scene, but I promised her I’d
call you as soon as the police arrived and felt confident she
was okay.”
“Well, wha … what happened?”
Anne witnessed a collision on the interstate. Pulling over to
assist its victims, she came across my daughter Kimberly who
had lost control of her steering wheel when an eighteen-
wheeler she was attempting to pass forced her onto the
shoulder from the passing lane. Crossing the grassy median,
Kimberly struck a van headed in the opposite direction.
By this point in the story, my heart was racing so much I
could barely contain myself. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day
rushed into my head.
“Listen Anne, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You don’t
know how much this means to me. Really and truly.”
“Oh, you’re welcome Mr. Busch. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
I hung up the telephone so hurriedly that I forgot to write
down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. “I’m leaving to get her right now.” I
said, racing away to bring my daughter home. Along the way, I
called the number Kimberly’s angel had given me of the
state trooper who was at the scene. Exceedingly kind, she
reassured me that Kimberly was safe and had emerged
without a scratch. Within an hour, having exceeded the speed
limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared an explanation, I
found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station
that had towed her car. Before heading home, I gaped
incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and only
response was to thank Him for bestowing this great kindness
upon me. We drove home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. The following Friday, I invited her and her boyfriend
over for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my
fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles
aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben
every Friday night before Shabbes begins … sort of bridging
the distance between us. We sat.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[7] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by
my side.” A slight tremble animated my right hand. I let a
moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a
single drop of wine running down my hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker ..."* I sanctified the wine.
(*the beginning of the Friday night erev Shabbat Kiddush; literally
'And there was evening and there was morning')
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the True Judge
[6] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[7] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
copyright @2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Dear Readers,
Here is my 100th post in Ben's memory. They are two newly revised chapters taken from my
book In Memory of Ben, entitled: The Invitation and Shomer.
L'Chaim!
The Invitation
Bereaved parents find personalized ways to incorporate
the past lives of their children into their own lives. No one
forgets about his child; the difference is in how they
remember. Remember that sappy bumper sticker “Have you
hugged your child today? Well, have you?"
Coping with the permanent absence of death is
prerequisite in order for parents to be able to continue living
their lives. That does not prevent us, however, from wanting our children
to be there with us even though we know they cannot.
I found a way that Ben could be with us on the occasion of
my second marriage. The answer was right there on the
synagogue wall and was as simple as turning on a light bulb.
Dear Ben,
Are you free April 2nd?
If you haven't already heard, we are planning a simcha[1] on
Sunday, April 2 of this year! And I have been spending quite a
lot of time thinking about how I'd forward an invitation to you.
Although tedious, it is easy to draw up the guest list, have the
invitations designed and printed, address them and off they
go. Just wait around for the responses. It’s that simple. What isn’t
so simple is to figure out an appropriate way you
can be with us too. Just last week, I consulted with Rabbi
Louis on this question, and he made quite a few good
suggestions, but I am still looking for a way to materialize
your essence in a way that reflects who you are.
Ar first, it seemed a daunting problem. Then
it struck me. Its simplicity had eluded me. Perhaps you will
remember how I taught you that the lines of life are mostly
colored in with a gray crayon. Most of what exists as truly
black and white is in that crayon box. Darkness is nothing
more than the absence of light and, if therefore we illumine
the darkness, so much of its burdensomeness is lifted
from our shoulders.
No simcha is absolutely free of tearful remembrance.
We Jews always blend our joy into a tincture, an admixture of
joy sobered by sorrowful memories. Our rejoicing is never
whole lest we recall the destruction of the Batei Ha Mikdash[2]
which we do by breaking the glass though it is, as you know,
always followed by a hearty Mazel Tov![3] Jews are people of
historical memory. Always remembering our darker days, we
look to the next sunrise!
Love,
Dad
p.s. Oh right! My idea? I’ll leave your yahrzeit light on.
Shomer[4]
The date was 11/23/00.
Kindness is not necessarily selfless. When performed
without expectation of payment or recognition, it signifies: “I
am doing this because it is the only decent and helpful thing I
know to do.” Best characterized as a Kiddush Ha Shem,[5] it
contains the ultimate component of friendship of both God
and man … selflessness. I have such a friend, selfless and
God-fearing.
It happened on Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2000
when Ben's mom and I-together with several of our closest
friends-met with the funeral director to finalize the awful
arrangements to lay our son in his final resting place. That
morning was indeed awful, but the worst part was the
purchase of the casket.
It is unlike anything else you have ever had to purchase.
We chose the one we thought was characterized by the
dignity of its simplicity. Made from what I think was pine,
lacquered and adorned with a Magen David,[6] it reflected who
Ben himself had been, neither plain nor ostentatious. When I
saw the same casket at a friend’s recent funeral, it brought me
back to the day when the staff at the funeral home walked us
though its casket showroom as delicately as possible. I
wondered then as I still do now how emotionally staggering it
must be to sell a child's casket to bereaved parents. One of the
several caskets on display was nothing more than a
plain box neither stained nor lacquered. One grade lower than
the one we chose, it reminded me of the caskets the town
undertaker crafted in the old westerns we watched as
children. Ben’s mom and I looked at each. Not quite enough
we agreed for our beloved Benjamin!
Thanksgiving 2000 did not happen for my family as it had
in previous years when on Wednesday, the day before the eve
of Thanksgiving, our world, as we had known it, suddenly
ended catastrophically. In its place, a debilitating day, laden
with urgent tasks that I feared we’d not finish in time before
Friday morning. Our many friends lent their helping hands in
the time of our greatest need. Sandy, a lady from my
synagogue, prepared meals lasting several days. Kathy, a close
friend from Toronto, flew in the morning of Thanksgiving
Day. How fortunate was I to have Kathy’s emotional support
for the first ten days following Ben's death!
We were frenzied. My feelings of surreal suspension lasted
until the moment I heard the first shovelful of earth hit the
casket. Thanksgiving was a day during which the community
of our friends experienced an ingathering of souls; when
everyone huddled together in an effort to mend the irreparable
tear in the fabric of our lives and heal the wound we had all
sustained just hours before-a time when the angelic reflections
of our souls shone brilliantly.
A shomer had sat next to Ben through the night reading
from the Sefer Tehilim[7]. This shomer had been a friend to
Ben, who knew where he had lived, having conversed with
him, seen him at my side, in whom one discerned a fierce
loyalty to family and friends. In sum, simply this: my son was
the kind of person for whom one prays his soul has an
aliyah.[8] I found comfort knowing that the utterances of the
shomer reached the divine ear as he sat with Ben the entire
night. I have such a friend.
Thank you, Harv!
Alan D. Busch
[1] a joyous occasion
[2] the two ancient temples of historical Judaism
[3] congratulations; literally ‘good luck’
[4] Watchman, guard
[5] Sanctification of The Name (of God)
[6] Star of David; literally “Shield” of David
[7] The Book of Psalms
[8] literally, an ascent to a higher level.
Here is my 100th post in Ben's memory. They are two newly revised chapters taken from my
book In Memory of Ben, entitled: The Invitation and Shomer.
L'Chaim!
The Invitation
Bereaved parents find personalized ways to incorporate
the past lives of their children into their own lives. No one
forgets about his child; the difference is in how they
remember. Remember that sappy bumper sticker “Have you
hugged your child today? Well, have you?"
Coping with the permanent absence of death is
prerequisite in order for parents to be able to continue living
their lives. That does not prevent us, however, from wanting our children
to be there with us even though we know they cannot.
I found a way that Ben could be with us on the occasion of
my second marriage. The answer was right there on the
synagogue wall and was as simple as turning on a light bulb.
Dear Ben,
Are you free April 2nd?
If you haven't already heard, we are planning a simcha[1] on
Sunday, April 2 of this year! And I have been spending quite a
lot of time thinking about how I'd forward an invitation to you.
Although tedious, it is easy to draw up the guest list, have the
invitations designed and printed, address them and off they
go. Just wait around for the responses. It’s that simple. What isn’t
so simple is to figure out an appropriate way you
can be with us too. Just last week, I consulted with Rabbi
Louis on this question, and he made quite a few good
suggestions, but I am still looking for a way to materialize
your essence in a way that reflects who you are.
Ar first, it seemed a daunting problem. Then
it struck me. Its simplicity had eluded me. Perhaps you will
remember how I taught you that the lines of life are mostly
colored in with a gray crayon. Most of what exists as truly
black and white is in that crayon box. Darkness is nothing
more than the absence of light and, if therefore we illumine
the darkness, so much of its burdensomeness is lifted
from our shoulders.
No simcha is absolutely free of tearful remembrance.
We Jews always blend our joy into a tincture, an admixture of
joy sobered by sorrowful memories. Our rejoicing is never
whole lest we recall the destruction of the Batei Ha Mikdash[2]
which we do by breaking the glass though it is, as you know,
always followed by a hearty Mazel Tov![3] Jews are people of
historical memory. Always remembering our darker days, we
look to the next sunrise!
Love,
Dad
p.s. Oh right! My idea? I’ll leave your yahrzeit light on.
Shomer[4]
The date was 11/23/00.
Kindness is not necessarily selfless. When performed
without expectation of payment or recognition, it signifies: “I
am doing this because it is the only decent and helpful thing I
know to do.” Best characterized as a Kiddush Ha Shem,[5] it
contains the ultimate component of friendship of both God
and man … selflessness. I have such a friend, selfless and
God-fearing.
It happened on Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 2000
when Ben's mom and I-together with several of our closest
friends-met with the funeral director to finalize the awful
arrangements to lay our son in his final resting place. That
morning was indeed awful, but the worst part was the
purchase of the casket.
It is unlike anything else you have ever had to purchase.
We chose the one we thought was characterized by the
dignity of its simplicity. Made from what I think was pine,
lacquered and adorned with a Magen David,[6] it reflected who
Ben himself had been, neither plain nor ostentatious. When I
saw the same casket at a friend’s recent funeral, it brought me
back to the day when the staff at the funeral home walked us
though its casket showroom as delicately as possible. I
wondered then as I still do now how emotionally staggering it
must be to sell a child's casket to bereaved parents. One of the
several caskets on display was nothing more than a
plain box neither stained nor lacquered. One grade lower than
the one we chose, it reminded me of the caskets the town
undertaker crafted in the old westerns we watched as
children. Ben’s mom and I looked at each. Not quite enough
we agreed for our beloved Benjamin!
Thanksgiving 2000 did not happen for my family as it had
in previous years when on Wednesday, the day before the eve
of Thanksgiving, our world, as we had known it, suddenly
ended catastrophically. In its place, a debilitating day, laden
with urgent tasks that I feared we’d not finish in time before
Friday morning. Our many friends lent their helping hands in
the time of our greatest need. Sandy, a lady from my
synagogue, prepared meals lasting several days. Kathy, a close
friend from Toronto, flew in the morning of Thanksgiving
Day. How fortunate was I to have Kathy’s emotional support
for the first ten days following Ben's death!
We were frenzied. My feelings of surreal suspension lasted
until the moment I heard the first shovelful of earth hit the
casket. Thanksgiving was a day during which the community
of our friends experienced an ingathering of souls; when
everyone huddled together in an effort to mend the irreparable
tear in the fabric of our lives and heal the wound we had all
sustained just hours before-a time when the angelic reflections
of our souls shone brilliantly.
A shomer had sat next to Ben through the night reading
from the Sefer Tehilim[7]. This shomer had been a friend to
Ben, who knew where he had lived, having conversed with
him, seen him at my side, in whom one discerned a fierce
loyalty to family and friends. In sum, simply this: my son was
the kind of person for whom one prays his soul has an
aliyah.[8] I found comfort knowing that the utterances of the
shomer reached the divine ear as he sat with Ben the entire
night. I have such a friend.
Thank you, Harv!
Alan D. Busch
[1] a joyous occasion
[2] the two ancient temples of historical Judaism
[3] congratulations; literally ‘good luck’
[4] Watchman, guard
[5] Sanctification of The Name (of God)
[6] Star of David; literally “Shield” of David
[7] The Book of Psalms
[8] literally, an ascent to a higher level.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Dear Readers,
I present several revisions of chapters from In Memory of Ben. Let me know what you think.
Simply … Musings
We acknowledge His role in procreation
together anew with mother and father.
We offer thanks for His blessings.
It is the right thing to do!
When a child is born, we joyously exclaim:
“Baruch Ha Shem!”[1]
When a child dies, we say softly:
“Baruch Dayan Emes!”[2]
Still why? His answer lies in His silence.
Our hope is to draw ourselves closer to Him.
“Shma koli b’yom ekra”[3]
[1] Blessed be The Name.
[2] Blessed is The True Judge
[3] Hear my voice the day I call you.
To Have His Own Place
I have yet to define the parameters of my role in Ben's life
nearly five years since his passing. As his dad, I blurred the
line between my obligation to care for him and his need to
become self-reliant. However much this may describe a
common parental predicament, it became magnified in Ben’s
case. Plaguing me was my worriment that diabetes would not
allow him to live his life well as a self-sustaining adult.
“Hi, Ben. Come on in,” I welcomed my son to my apartment for
our regular Thursday night dinner.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up? He asked with his characteristic broad
smile.
“Eh, you know, same old stuff,” I responded, mixing
conversation with dinner preparation.
“When’s dinner ready?” he hungrily inquired with one of his
favorite questions.
“Pretty soon, son. Why? Got plans?” I continued slicing
chicken breasts. “Ben?” I looked up as I always did when he
didn’t respond right away. Grabbing the plastic honey bear, I
immobilized him with a headlock; yes, just like you see on
professional wrestling. With my right hand, I forced the plastic
tip of the honey container between his lips and clenched teeth.
Honey, saliva and blood splattered all over. After squeezing in
as much as three tablespoons, I let go of the honey and
pinched his mouth open by squeezing his cheeks with my
right thumb and middle finger. Spreading whatever honey he
hadn’t spat out, I coated his gums and the inside of his
cheeks. He quieted after several minutes.
So it was with good reason I was preoccupied for years
with worriment over who'd be there for Ben if he became hypoglycemic?
Could I realistically count on a roommate?
How would he be able to live on his own even with well-regulated blood sugars?
His history of hypoglycemic seizures, especially common in the early
morning hours, led me to wonder if he might ever be able to
live on his own? And, if not, how would I ever be able to convince him of this?
Even with well-regulated blood sugars, all it takes is
one unattended mistake, a break in routine, that can lead to catastrophe.
Ben, who struggled with and against good diabetes management
throughout his eleven years as a diabetic, spoke frequently of his wish to have his own place.
If it could only have been so easy! Based on telephone
conversations she had had with her brother, Kimberly, Ben's sister,
remarked that she felt Ben had become frustrated still living at
home whereas she had already been living on her own since
her junior year in college.
I am sure it bothered him to see his younger sister making greater strides in life
than he. After all, he was her big brother.
All I ever wanted for Ben was that life's bitter side leave Ben
alone, let him be. It never did.
Five Years Ago
May our lives be blessed with good health, family and
livelihood, but our children … won’t they always be happy,
healthy and well? Should calamity happen, it will befall
someone else, won't it? What happens though when this
comfortable assumption fails, when our safe zone is violated?
When the sudden fatality of an accident turns our world
upside down? When we are propelled into an arena of life for
which we have neither the preparation nor the expectation
we'd ever need it.
I grieve for Ben while reshaping my life without
him. Its permanence, the absoluteness of his absence gives me
reason to pause and ponder what the rest of my life will be
like. The most frustrating part is I am no closer to an answer
now than before. It may be there is no answer. Bewildered by
Ben’s absence as if adrift in a small boat tending in no
particular direction, I turn my mind over in the hope it’ll give
up long forgotten memories. Looking back to an earlier time
when Ben was healthy, happier and our lives normal, I
ruminate about whether I ran on “automatic parenting” and, if
so, for how long? I realize the preponderance of my
memories is from the latter half of Ben’s life, a troubled period
of nearly twelve years during which our battle against diabetes
and epilepsy was unrelenting.
Ben was prototypical of people who live “for the
moment” whose wristwatch always reads: “Now!” That is what,
I guess, makes it extraordinarily difficult to be and live without
Ben. He lived only in the present tense. Death took him before
he could examine his roots. He never much bothered to
think about his future though I exhorted him to do so more
than he liked. It’s as if you expect him to crash through the
door on his skateboard. You never stop waiting though
somehow you know it is not going to happen.
As much as we dread the passage of another year without
Ben, reminders invariably start arriving in the mail that
another yahrzeit[1] nears. The yahrzeit notice reflects an act of
chesed[2] “bein adam v’chavero.”[3] It reminds us of our
obligation to say Kaddish[4] in memory of our loved ones.
A grieving parent lives life differently than before. As
difficult to achieve as to maintain, equilibrium treads a fine
line between a tragic past and an uncertain tomorrow. As the
yomin noraim[5] approach, I tend toward reflections of which I
believe the saddest is … though I grow older, Ben does not.
While waiting one evening to say ma’ariv, the evening prayer, Rabbi Louis
commented how we tend to have our loved ones in mind more
so at this time of year than at any other. Turning toward the
memorial plaques, I grew misty as I looked at Ben’s name.
[1] Reminders of the anniversary of a loved one’s death typically sent out by synagogues, funeral homes and the Chevra Kadisha, Jewish Sacred Society
[2] kindness
[3] literally: between a man and his fellow …
[4] sanctification of God’s name; a prayer said in memory of a loved one in the presence of a minyan.
[5] Hebrew: the Days of Awe, the first ten days of Tishrei
Every Day is Thanksgiving
We celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of
November. As a Jew, I observe Jewish “Thanksgiving” upon
awakening each morning by saying: “Modei ani lefanecha …” [1]
What makes Jewish Thanksgiving different from the non-
sectarian American holiday?
We thank Him “yom yom”[2] by praising His name in good
times and bad. We do not welcome bad tidings but our faith in
His rachomim and din[3] teaches us that bad tidings do turn
out for the best especially when it is not readily apparent.
I received an email from a dear friend who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what as best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
Now I admit to being befuddled by the timing of the note, but I
let it go until later that evening. While having coffee tonight,
my fiance asked me how my day had gone. And then it hit me,
the timing of the email. Today marked the fifth secular
anniversary of my son’s passing on November 22, 2000, which
fell out on the day before Thanksgiving. That is how I
remember that day-not by its date so much as by the tragic
irony of a Thanksgiving marked by Ben’s death.
In keeping with my theme there is balance in our lives and
order in our world although they may seem hidden and at the
mercy of random collisions of chance, you may wonder if I
have any demonstrable proof.
Unlike a scientific proof whose reliability depends upon
laboratory duplication, I submit the news my daughter Kimmy
shared with me when she called today, the 22nd day of
November. The excitement and glee in her voice struck a much
needed chord to complete this day, to round it out, to make
the circle whole. “Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown
firm! I’ll have an office with a view from the 39th floor
overlooking downtown. It’s just what I wanted!”
That I feel pretty much sums up what happened today
when divine balance and even-handedness manifested
themselves very dramatically. When the worst day five years
ago became a better day today!
[1] I give thanks to you …
[2] every day
[3] mercy and justice
"Ha gomel l’hayavim tovos …”
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true that we do not know the persons whose names
will be inscribed in the Sefer Chaim,[4] it is no less true we do
not know whose names will be sealed in the same Sefer Chaim when Yom Kippur is over and the Aron Kodesh[5] has been closed for the
last time. Such matters, I understand, belong exclusively to
the Dayan Emes.[6] However, as an added measure of comfort
and hopeful expectation, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and
tshuva[7] will be sufficiently meritorious to avert the evil decree
and spare us the pain of personal tragedy. The din[8] of these
existential issues lies beyond our province or that which Rabbi
Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
How then might we explain what are in fact “near misses”
with death? Can we explain them rationally or should we
simply label them as miracles and be done with it? If as
miracles, they are different than the miraculous inversions of
nature found in the Torah or the innumerable miracles we
encounter daily: sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-
all of which we like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about
blind luck, the roll of the dice or the chaos of randomness?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world?” Perhaps so but with this essential caveat: Faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but it does strengthen us when
we are most vulnerable and in need of additional comfort,
endurance and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of our
human powerlessness makes sense only when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone and almost instantaneously began
to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened. She had witnessed a
collision on the interstate. Pulling over to assist its victims,
she met my daughter Kimberly who had lost control of her
steering wheel when an eighteen-wheeler she was attempting
to pass forced her onto the shoulder from the passing lane.
Crossing the grassy median, Kimberly struck a van headed in
the opposite direction. By this point in the story, my heart was
racing so I could barely contain myself. I was becoming
impatient. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day rushed into my head.
She continued on. Convinced that Kimberly hadn’t sustained
injury, the caller promised she would call me. Meanwhile,
state troopers had arrived on the scene. I thanked her
profusely for her kindness shown my daughter and hung up
the telephone so hurriedly that I realized I had forgotten to
write down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. I raced away to bring my daughter
home. Along the way, I called the number Kimberly’s angel
had given me of the state trooper who was at the scene.
Exceedingly kind, she reassured me that Kimberly was safe
and had emerged without a scratch. Within an hour, having
exceeded the speed limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared
an explanation, I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the
service station that had towed her car. We returned home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. Before heading home, I took several minutes and
gaped incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and
only response was to thank Him for bestowing this great
kindness upon me.
Not long after, I had Kimmy and her boyfriend over for
Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my fiancé. The table,
beautifully set, awaited us; its candles aglow. It is my custom to light a
ner nechuma for my son Ben every Friday night before
Shabbes begins … sort of bridging the distance between us. We sat down.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[9] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by my side.” A slight tremble animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker …” as I sanctified the wine.
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the Holy Ark containing The Torah
[6] the True Judge
[7] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[8] judgement
[9] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
6/5/07
I present several revisions of chapters from In Memory of Ben. Let me know what you think.
Simply … Musings
We acknowledge His role in procreation
together anew with mother and father.
We offer thanks for His blessings.
It is the right thing to do!
When a child is born, we joyously exclaim:
“Baruch Ha Shem!”[1]
When a child dies, we say softly:
“Baruch Dayan Emes!”[2]
Still why? His answer lies in His silence.
Our hope is to draw ourselves closer to Him.
“Shma koli b’yom ekra”[3]
[1] Blessed be The Name.
[2] Blessed is The True Judge
[3] Hear my voice the day I call you.
To Have His Own Place
I have yet to define the parameters of my role in Ben's life
nearly five years since his passing. As his dad, I blurred the
line between my obligation to care for him and his need to
become self-reliant. However much this may describe a
common parental predicament, it became magnified in Ben’s
case. Plaguing me was my worriment that diabetes would not
allow him to live his life well as a self-sustaining adult.
“Hi, Ben. Come on in,” I welcomed my son to my apartment for
our regular Thursday night dinner.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up? He asked with his characteristic broad
smile.
“Eh, you know, same old stuff,” I responded, mixing
conversation with dinner preparation.
“When’s dinner ready?” he hungrily inquired with one of his
favorite questions.
“Pretty soon, son. Why? Got plans?” I continued slicing
chicken breasts. “Ben?” I looked up as I always did when he
didn’t respond right away. Grabbing the plastic honey bear, I
immobilized him with a headlock; yes, just like you see on
professional wrestling. With my right hand, I forced the plastic
tip of the honey container between his lips and clenched teeth.
Honey, saliva and blood splattered all over. After squeezing in
as much as three tablespoons, I let go of the honey and
pinched his mouth open by squeezing his cheeks with my
right thumb and middle finger. Spreading whatever honey he
hadn’t spat out, I coated his gums and the inside of his
cheeks. He quieted after several minutes.
So it was with good reason I was preoccupied for years
with worriment over who'd be there for Ben if he became hypoglycemic?
Could I realistically count on a roommate?
How would he be able to live on his own even with well-regulated blood sugars?
His history of hypoglycemic seizures, especially common in the early
morning hours, led me to wonder if he might ever be able to
live on his own? And, if not, how would I ever be able to convince him of this?
Even with well-regulated blood sugars, all it takes is
one unattended mistake, a break in routine, that can lead to catastrophe.
Ben, who struggled with and against good diabetes management
throughout his eleven years as a diabetic, spoke frequently of his wish to have his own place.
If it could only have been so easy! Based on telephone
conversations she had had with her brother, Kimberly, Ben's sister,
remarked that she felt Ben had become frustrated still living at
home whereas she had already been living on her own since
her junior year in college.
I am sure it bothered him to see his younger sister making greater strides in life
than he. After all, he was her big brother.
All I ever wanted for Ben was that life's bitter side leave Ben
alone, let him be. It never did.
Five Years Ago
May our lives be blessed with good health, family and
livelihood, but our children … won’t they always be happy,
healthy and well? Should calamity happen, it will befall
someone else, won't it? What happens though when this
comfortable assumption fails, when our safe zone is violated?
When the sudden fatality of an accident turns our world
upside down? When we are propelled into an arena of life for
which we have neither the preparation nor the expectation
we'd ever need it.
I grieve for Ben while reshaping my life without
him. Its permanence, the absoluteness of his absence gives me
reason to pause and ponder what the rest of my life will be
like. The most frustrating part is I am no closer to an answer
now than before. It may be there is no answer. Bewildered by
Ben’s absence as if adrift in a small boat tending in no
particular direction, I turn my mind over in the hope it’ll give
up long forgotten memories. Looking back to an earlier time
when Ben was healthy, happier and our lives normal, I
ruminate about whether I ran on “automatic parenting” and, if
so, for how long? I realize the preponderance of my
memories is from the latter half of Ben’s life, a troubled period
of nearly twelve years during which our battle against diabetes
and epilepsy was unrelenting.
Ben was prototypical of people who live “for the
moment” whose wristwatch always reads: “Now!” That is what,
I guess, makes it extraordinarily difficult to be and live without
Ben. He lived only in the present tense. Death took him before
he could examine his roots. He never much bothered to
think about his future though I exhorted him to do so more
than he liked. It’s as if you expect him to crash through the
door on his skateboard. You never stop waiting though
somehow you know it is not going to happen.
As much as we dread the passage of another year without
Ben, reminders invariably start arriving in the mail that
another yahrzeit[1] nears. The yahrzeit notice reflects an act of
chesed[2] “bein adam v’chavero.”[3] It reminds us of our
obligation to say Kaddish[4] in memory of our loved ones.
A grieving parent lives life differently than before. As
difficult to achieve as to maintain, equilibrium treads a fine
line between a tragic past and an uncertain tomorrow. As the
yomin noraim[5] approach, I tend toward reflections of which I
believe the saddest is … though I grow older, Ben does not.
While waiting one evening to say ma’ariv, the evening prayer, Rabbi Louis
commented how we tend to have our loved ones in mind more
so at this time of year than at any other. Turning toward the
memorial plaques, I grew misty as I looked at Ben’s name.
[1] Reminders of the anniversary of a loved one’s death typically sent out by synagogues, funeral homes and the Chevra Kadisha, Jewish Sacred Society
[2] kindness
[3] literally: between a man and his fellow …
[4] sanctification of God’s name; a prayer said in memory of a loved one in the presence of a minyan.
[5] Hebrew: the Days of Awe, the first ten days of Tishrei
Every Day is Thanksgiving
We celebrate Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of
November. As a Jew, I observe Jewish “Thanksgiving” upon
awakening each morning by saying: “Modei ani lefanecha …” [1]
What makes Jewish Thanksgiving different from the non-
sectarian American holiday?
We thank Him “yom yom”[2] by praising His name in good
times and bad. We do not welcome bad tidings but our faith in
His rachomim and din[3] teaches us that bad tidings do turn
out for the best especially when it is not readily apparent.
I received an email from a dear friend who wrote:
Dear Alan...you are in my thoughts and prayers today. I know what you are thinking about, and that you are missing Ben. I remembered that it was five years ago...an eternity, but as if only yesterday, for you. He was a beautiful boy, who wanted so much to be his own man...and he was. How else could he have endured so much, and yet still, was willing to give so much of himself? The true measure of a man is to be able to love unconditionally...and he did...and you did, even though you may feel, in retrospect, that it took awhile for you to finally reach that stage. I said "may feel", and "finally", Alan, because I know that you ALWAYS loved Ben unconditionally. The times that you were embarrassed by some of the ways that Ben chose to express himself, were only that...an embarrassment...not a failure on Ben's part, or yours. You only wanted what as best for Ben...what you thought was best. That kind of love is the greatest gift that anyone can ever give or receive...and you and Ben gave that gift to each other.
Jan
Now I admit to being befuddled by the timing of the note, but I
let it go until later that evening. While having coffee tonight,
my fiance asked me how my day had gone. And then it hit me,
the timing of the email. Today marked the fifth secular
anniversary of my son’s passing on November 22, 2000, which
fell out on the day before Thanksgiving. That is how I
remember that day-not by its date so much as by the tragic
irony of a Thanksgiving marked by Ben’s death.
In keeping with my theme there is balance in our lives and
order in our world although they may seem hidden and at the
mercy of random collisions of chance, you may wonder if I
have any demonstrable proof.
Unlike a scientific proof whose reliability depends upon
laboratory duplication, I submit the news my daughter Kimmy
shared with me when she called today, the 22nd day of
November. The excitement and glee in her voice struck a much
needed chord to complete this day, to round it out, to make
the circle whole. “Daddy, I got a job as a lawyer in a downtown
firm! I’ll have an office with a view from the 39th floor
overlooking downtown. It’s just what I wanted!”
That I feel pretty much sums up what happened today
when divine balance and even-handedness manifested
themselves very dramatically. When the worst day five years
ago became a better day today!
[1] I give thanks to you …
[2] every day
[3] mercy and justice
"Ha gomel l’hayavim tovos …”
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of
the Yomim Noraim.[1] Starting with the renewal of hope that
Rosh Ha Shanah[2] connotes and ending with the trepidation of
Yom Kippur,[3] I cannot but probe this time of year, the special
nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and
prayer.
While true that we do not know the persons whose names
will be inscribed in the Sefer Chaim,[4] it is no less true we do
not know whose names will be sealed in the same Sefer Chaim when Yom Kippur is over and the Aron Kodesh[5] has been closed for the
last time. Such matters, I understand, belong exclusively to
the Dayan Emes.[6] However, as an added measure of comfort
and hopeful expectation, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and
tshuva[7] will be sufficiently meritorious to avert the evil decree
and spare us the pain of personal tragedy. The din[8] of these
existential issues lies beyond our province or that which Rabbi
Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
How then might we explain what are in fact “near misses”
with death? Can we explain them rationally or should we
simply label them as miracles and be done with it? If as
miracles, they are different than the miraculous inversions of
nature found in the Torah or the innumerable miracles we
encounter daily: sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-
all of which we like to call the wonders of “nature”. What about
blind luck, the roll of the dice or the chaos of randomness?
Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the
world?” Perhaps so but with this essential caveat: Faith does
not guarantee against tragedy, but it does strengthen us when
we are most vulnerable and in need of additional comfort,
endurance and protection from apostasy. As frustrating as it
is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of our
human powerlessness makes sense only when we
acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we
neither understand nor like at times.
I picked up the phone and almost instantaneously began
to tremble. A stranger spoke. I listened. She had witnessed a
collision on the interstate. Pulling over to assist its victims,
she met my daughter Kimberly who had lost control of her
steering wheel when an eighteen-wheeler she was attempting
to pass forced her onto the shoulder from the passing lane.
Crossing the grassy median, Kimberly struck a van headed in
the opposite direction. By this point in the story, my heart was
racing so I could barely contain myself. I was becoming
impatient. Flashbacks of Ben’s last day rushed into my head.
She continued on. Convinced that Kimberly hadn’t sustained
injury, the caller promised she would call me. Meanwhile,
state troopers had arrived on the scene. I thanked her
profusely for her kindness shown my daughter and hung up
the telephone so hurriedly that I realized I had forgotten to
write down her name and number.
I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was
able to feign, I cut to the end of the story. “Kimberly is safe
and unhurt,” I assured her. I raced away to bring my daughter
home. Along the way, I called the number Kimberly’s angel
had given me of the state trooper who was at the scene.
Exceedingly kind, she reassured me that Kimberly was safe
and had emerged without a scratch. Within an hour, having
exceeded the speed limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared
an explanation, I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the
service station that had towed her car. We returned home.
Why was Kimberly saved? It remains the unanswerable
question. Before heading home, I took several minutes and
gaped incredulously at her car for a few minutes. My first and
only response was to thank Him for bestowing this great
kindness upon me.
Not long after, I had Kimmy and her boyfriend over for
Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my fiancé. The table,
beautifully set, awaited us; its candles aglow. It is my custom to light a
ner nechuma for my son Ben every Friday night before
Shabbes begins … sort of bridging the distance between us. We sat down.
“Kimuschkele,” my voice crackling as I try to get the words of a
short speech out.
“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)
“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but
looking at my daughter.
“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’[9] because
tonight of all nights, I am especially thankful to have you by my side.” A slight tremble animated
my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered. Ben’s lamp seemed to
flicker more brightly, illuminating the serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my
hand.
“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker …” as I sanctified the wine.
[1] the Days of Awe
[2] the New Year; literally the Head of the Year
[3] the Day of Atonement
[4] the Book of Life
[5] the Holy Ark containing The Torah
[6] the True Judge
[7] prayers, righteousness and repentance
[8] judgement
[9] Give thanks to God because His kindness is eternal.
Alan D. Busch
6/5/07
Monday, May 28, 2007
Dear Readers,
Below please find a revision to my previous post ...
“Untitled Other Than to Say A Sukkos Tale”
An epiphany can arise from the most unlikely of circumstances.
I had never before lived among observant Jews and, for the first time in
my life, almost all of my immediate neighbors were shomer Shabbos, an
experience that helped me to put a new face on Judaism, one which I
had never seen as a boy.
Hoping to gain their trust as both a neighbor and fellow Jew, I used
to read stories to the neighborhood children in front of my apartment
building. Imagine a garden of brightly smiling, hungrily eager children
sitting “Indian style” on the sidewalk religiously awaiting news of the
escapades of Winnee the Pooh or the fanciful prancings of Cassie and
Her Magic Flowers read to them on Shabbos afternoons and warm
summer evenings.
I initiated this modest undertaking, my own tiny gathering of story
lovers and good listeners-“Street School” as it came to be known-to
further the neighborhood’s friendly, familial nature. Emanating
primarily, I think, from the observant families onto whose path I felt
myself being drawn, they colored the neighborhood in shades of tangible
kindness and a purposeful joy of life.
The richness of Jewish life had somehow eluded me in my
childhood leaving me so unschooled that I could not even distinguish
between Shabbos and Shavuos or differentiate a siddur from a
chumash. Mind you, my youth had not been entirely barren of Jewish
experiences, such as they were. We gathered at my Aunt Iris’s house for
our one seder on the eve of Passover, knew enough to eat matzoh, read
the story of our exodus in the “Haggadah shel Maxwell House,” feasted
on the eve of Rosh Ha Shanah, broke the fast of Yom Kippur and my
my mother lit Hanukkah candles by plugging in an electric menorah.
My family did not lack the threads so much as it did the fabric of Jewish
life.
We’ve all experienced defining moments. Much like points on a map,
they serve as markers along the way, charting our progress, as we near
our destination. Although typically brief, such moments leave permanent
impressions on our memories.
When the Goldmeyers invited me to attend the bar mitzvah of their
first-born son, I felt excited but equally intimidated. The occasion would
mark my first time in an orthodox synagogue. Shabbos morning arrived.
I delighted in walking to shul like everybody else and remember distinctly
feeling as if I were part of something really important. That feeling
changed when I became lost in the seeming mayhem of orthodox shul
dynamics. Overhearing others comment that the crowd was larger than
usual due to the many guests, the shul was resultantly agog with
simcha, its atmosphere resounding with a delightful cacophony of
sounds. There was just so much to see, a treasure trove for a people
watcher like me.
Frankly, I did not have a clue what to do or what was going on. So I
took a seat in the back, opened the siddur I had found on my chair,
looked at it for an instant and realized it would do me no good (it was all
in Hebrew.) The seats on either side of me were occupied so I placed the
siddur on the floor under my chair. I think it was the gentleman to my
right who-before I even knew what he had done-reached under my chair
to retrieve the siddur. “This is yours?” he asked rhetorically, waving
it gently but a bit too closely in front of my nose.
“Well, I … uh,” I stumbled inarticulately, sensing I had done something
wrong but not quite sure what.
“This book contains God’s name. We don’t put it on the floor,”
reproaching me pleasantly but, I imagined, incredulously.
“Thank you,” I softly muttered, grateful he had been discreet enough that
nobody’s attention was diverted. It had been a slap on the wrist really,
but an important one nevertheless. I would learn the ropes eventually, I
told myself, in time.
A pattern began to emerge. Every Friday night, I heard Dr. Hirsch, my
next door neighbor who also lived on the second floor, singing the
same melodies. Unknown to me then, I much later realized he was
welcoming the Sabbath Queen with the melodiousness of his erev
Shabbos z’miros. Although not yet incandescent enough to show
me the way, I realized the poignancy of his song had sparked my barely
aglow pintele yid. At the very least, I felt justified in believing I had taken
a tiny step out from darkness.
Not too long thereafter, Dr. Hirsch knocked on my back door one
rainy Shabbos afternoon.
“Larry, you’re soaked,” I said, stating the ridiculously obvious while
puddles formed beneath his feet.
“Is Tal here? I thought she might be playing with your kids,” looking a
tiny bit concerned but well short of frantic.
“Tal? No, she’s not here. Is there a problem?”
“No, no. Boruch Ha Shem! It just occurred to me you might
have moved Street School inside, you know, given the weather,” he said,
turning aside just enough to remind me of the day’s inclemency.
“Larry, I wish I knew, but I …” sputtering my concern.
“Don’t worry. She can’t be too far,” reassuring the both of us.
‘Larry,” I probed, “Where for God’s sake is your umbrella?”
“Precisely!” he retorted, grinning broadly. “It’s Shabbos. I can’t carry.”
“Oh … yea,” sounding dumber than a rock and looking very sheepish,
I’m sure.
“Hey, we’re going to hear Rabbi Kahane speak tonight after Shabbes at
B’nai Rueven. Wanna go?” he announced invitingly.
“Sure. Sounds great!” I leapt back as if I hadn’t misspoken.
We went to hear Rabbi Kahane that night. The Hirschs made aliyah
soon thereafter, and not until many years later did I see him again at a
Jewish arts festival. I understand now that his invitation to hear Rabbi
Kahane speak was a real rachmones.
One afternoon after finishing a story, I chatted with five-year old
Sholem, Rabbi Twersky’s son:
“So, tell me, what does your father do?”
“He learns,” he returned the response as if there could be no other.
“He does what?” my curiosity piqued by the mystery of that deceptively
simple response.
“He learns,” he repeated, as matter of factly as the first time.
“Such an odd expression,” I reflected, muttering words to myself that I
kept from reaching Sholem’s ears. Never had I heard the verb “learns”
used in that fashion, but it intrigued me. Ever an avid student of
language, I entered it into my lexicon of life experiences.
“He learns”- a two-word sentence, barely existing, a subject and verb
having no stated direct object. What I didn’t know was the direct
object needn’t have been articulated. Everyone that is but me seemed to
know what it was, even five-year old Sholem. I would have loved to chat
more with him. Having so many more questions, I determined to find out
more about these Jews who “learned.” However, the constraints of my
family life prevented me from venturing out too far into those waters.
That would come in time, I reasoned to myself, but for the present, I
would have to be content with testing the temperature of the water with
my toes. As it happens, my neighbors: the Goldmeyers, the
Hirschs, the Twerskys and the Eichensteins were pretty much doing the
same thing. We were, in effect, taking the most cautious of steps in the
shallow waters of each others’ lives.
It’s an old and often frustrating truism that the tracks of progress
can be traced not so much in leaps and bounds but in the tiniest of
baby steps. The Shabbos of Chol HaMoed Succos while I sat reading on
my back porch, I happened to divert my eyes from the page momentarily
to espy Rabbi Twersky walking in the alley.
“Where is he headed? Wonder what’s up?” having never seen him before
in the alley. Something, I thought, was clearly amiss. Donning a black
kaftan and streimel, he appeared to me to be deeply troubled by the way
he was fiddling with his peyos. Inching along, his characteristic stride
replaced by a scraping shuffle, he seemed to take two steps back for
every one forward.
“He’s coming over here. He really is!” barely managing to calm myself.
Not one to engage in idle banter and certain Sholem had already brought
him up to speed on “Street School”, I watched as he entered through my
back gate. Frankly nonplussed, but eager to lend a hand, I went down to
greet him.
“Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi,” extending my hand in Shabbos courtesy,
anticipating his reciprocity.
“Good Shabbos. Mr. Busch, I have a problem,” he confided in me,
reaching out his fingers rather placidly in a manner not untypical of
many orthodox men.
“How can I help you, rabbi?” I offered enthusiastically, but unclear how I
could be of any assistance to a scion of a rabbinic dynasty!
“Some sechach has fallen from the roof of my sukkah onto the
floor, and I am forbidden to touch it on Shabbos,” he explained, tilting
his streimel back from his forehead, clearly frustrated.
“Some what?” I asked blankly.
“Sechach, an evergreen branch,” he clarified.
“Oh, no problem rabbi. I’ll pick it up,” thinking I understood his
dilemma.
“No! he exclaimed. “You are a Jew. You may not touch it either.”
“Oh wow! Okay,” I burst out. Backing off somewhat to compose
myself, I couldn’t help but feel enormously flattered he had
acknowledged my Jewish identity.
“But I do know someone who can. I’ll take care of the problem, rabbi,”
I assured him, my voice trailing off as I turned and ran up the stairs.
Pausing momentarily on the first landing, I looked back to see that his
countenance had brightened noticeably. Secure in my promise, he
turned and left for home.
Unbeknownst to him was that working in my apartment was a young
man, a non-Jew, crouched in the bathtub reglazing its surface. Feeling
somewhat foolish, but hoping to sound credible, I summoned what few
diplomatic skills I possessed and went in to talk to him.
“Uh, Tom, d’ya have a minute?” I queried, squatting down to see him eye
to eye.
“Sure. What’s up?” wiping away an errant bead of perspiration with the
back of his hand.
“Well …” scratching my head as if at a total loss of words, “you see I’ve
a neighbor with a problem and of all people you can fix it. Interested?”
“Sure, but …” he quickened to probe, but I preempted him before he
could change his mind.
“It’s this way,” feigning a reliable explanation of this Jewish conundrum
… “and the rules forbid a Jew to touch it on the Sabbath.”
“So you can’t …?” he wondered, just to be sure.
“Nope!”
“Then it’s not a problem,” he reassuringly intoned, raising my spirits
enormously. How fortunate was I to have found Tom so agreeable, but
what a ridiculous irony it was! Here I was, a secular Jew, unlearned in
Yiddishkeit and halacha, employing a gentile on the Sabbath day-an act
which itself violated Jewish law-asking him to perform a kindness, one
forbidden equally to its intended beneficiary and me.
We strode through the alley to Rabbi’s Twersky’s sukkah wherein he
eagerly awaited our arrival. Pushing aside the blue plastic entranceway, I
stepped aside inviting Tom to enter. I followed. The slightest hint of an
esrog’s scent tickled one’s nose. Gourds and dried fruit dangled
overhead. Aged portraits of rabbinic sages aside child-like depictions of
the Kotel graced the four sides of the sukkah while caricatures of the
ushpizin beckoned us to feel at home. Amidst all the festive decorations,
sat Rabbi Twersky, bent slightly forward, his fingers pouring over an
ancient Talmudic folio.
“Rabbi, this is my friend Tom.”
“Boruch Ha Shem,” he exclaimed with a broad smile, his glasses having
slipped down to the tip of his nose.
“Tom,” I said, indicating the mischievous sechach with my finger. “There it is.”
Stepping up cautiously on a folding card table chair lest it collapse, he
reached up and replaced the branch atop the latticework.
“Okay, got it,” Tom announced, a faint smile peeking through as though
this had been a welcome, albeit bizarre respite from the drudgery of
bathtub reglazing.
In one of those much-touted “Kodak moments,” I watched Tom,
trying not to teeter atop the chair, survey the curiosity of this fanciful
tabernacle. Below him two Jews, one bearded, the other not, each
dressed as differently from the other as one could possibly imagine but
ready both to catch him should his balance begin to waver. Although I
don’t know what Tom was thinking, I imagined it very unlikely he’d soon
forget the afternoon he helped me to help Sholem’s father.
And with that tiny tikkun, the world was set aright. Tom had
done a good deed, Rabbi Twersky could resume the joy of the Sabbath
and I … I had peeked into his world and it was good. I realized years later that within Rabbi
Twersky's sukkah had I found my own pri etz hadar.
From that day forward, Rabbi Twersky, when in need of a “tsenter,”
would call me to make a minyan. Though I did not know how to daven or
own a siddur and too embarrassed to tell him, I would take along
a volume of Jewish writings and, while nine davened “Ashrei,” I read
Chaim Nachman Bialik’s “The Fountain”-an incomparable poem.
The next morning, the neighborhood hastened to Hoshana Rabba,
arba minim in hand. Watching from my apartment’s front bay window, I
wondered how many more doors there would be left to open.
Alan D. Busch
5/29/07
Below please find a revision to my previous post ...
“Untitled Other Than to Say A Sukkos Tale”
An epiphany can arise from the most unlikely of circumstances.
I had never before lived among observant Jews and, for the first time in
my life, almost all of my immediate neighbors were shomer Shabbos, an
experience that helped me to put a new face on Judaism, one which I
had never seen as a boy.
Hoping to gain their trust as both a neighbor and fellow Jew, I used
to read stories to the neighborhood children in front of my apartment
building. Imagine a garden of brightly smiling, hungrily eager children
sitting “Indian style” on the sidewalk religiously awaiting news of the
escapades of Winnee the Pooh or the fanciful prancings of Cassie and
Her Magic Flowers read to them on Shabbos afternoons and warm
summer evenings.
I initiated this modest undertaking, my own tiny gathering of story
lovers and good listeners-“Street School” as it came to be known-to
further the neighborhood’s friendly, familial nature. Emanating
primarily, I think, from the observant families onto whose path I felt
myself being drawn, they colored the neighborhood in shades of tangible
kindness and a purposeful joy of life.
The richness of Jewish life had somehow eluded me in my
childhood leaving me so unschooled that I could not even distinguish
between Shabbos and Shavuos or differentiate a siddur from a
chumash. Mind you, my youth had not been entirely barren of Jewish
experiences, such as they were. We gathered at my Aunt Iris’s house for
our one seder on the eve of Passover, knew enough to eat matzoh, read
the story of our exodus in the “Haggadah shel Maxwell House,” feasted
on the eve of Rosh Ha Shanah, broke the fast of Yom Kippur and my
my mother lit Hanukkah candles by plugging in an electric menorah.
My family did not lack the threads so much as it did the fabric of Jewish
life.
We’ve all experienced defining moments. Much like points on a map,
they serve as markers along the way, charting our progress, as we near
our destination. Although typically brief, such moments leave permanent
impressions on our memories.
When the Goldmeyers invited me to attend the bar mitzvah of their
first-born son, I felt excited but equally intimidated. The occasion would
mark my first time in an orthodox synagogue. Shabbos morning arrived.
I delighted in walking to shul like everybody else and remember distinctly
feeling as if I were part of something really important. That feeling
changed when I became lost in the seeming mayhem of orthodox shul
dynamics. Overhearing others comment that the crowd was larger than
usual due to the many guests, the shul was resultantly agog with
simcha, its atmosphere resounding with a delightful cacophony of
sounds. There was just so much to see, a treasure trove for a people
watcher like me.
Frankly, I did not have a clue what to do or what was going on. So I
took a seat in the back, opened the siddur I had found on my chair,
looked at it for an instant and realized it would do me no good (it was all
in Hebrew.) The seats on either side of me were occupied so I placed the
siddur on the floor under my chair. I think it was the gentleman to my
right who-before I even knew what he had done-reached under my chair
to retrieve the siddur. “This is yours?” he asked rhetorically, waving
it gently but a bit too closely in front of my nose.
“Well, I … uh,” I stumbled inarticulately, sensing I had done something
wrong but not quite sure what.
“This book contains God’s name. We don’t put it on the floor,”
reproaching me pleasantly but, I imagined, incredulously.
“Thank you,” I softly muttered, grateful he had been discreet enough that
nobody’s attention was diverted. It had been a slap on the wrist really,
but an important one nevertheless. I would learn the ropes eventually, I
told myself, in time.
A pattern began to emerge. Every Friday night, I heard Dr. Hirsch, my
next door neighbor who also lived on the second floor, singing the
same melodies. Unknown to me then, I much later realized he was
welcoming the Sabbath Queen with the melodiousness of his erev
Shabbos z’miros. Although not yet incandescent enough to show
me the way, I realized the poignancy of his song had sparked my barely
aglow pintele yid. At the very least, I felt justified in believing I had taken
a tiny step out from darkness.
Not too long thereafter, Dr. Hirsch knocked on my back door one
rainy Shabbos afternoon.
“Larry, you’re soaked,” I said, stating the ridiculously obvious while
puddles formed beneath his feet.
“Is Tal here? I thought she might be playing with your kids,” looking a
tiny bit concerned but well short of frantic.
“Tal? No, she’s not here. Is there a problem?”
“No, no. Boruch Ha Shem! It just occurred to me you might
have moved Street School inside, you know, given the weather,” he said,
turning aside just enough to remind me of the day’s inclemency.
“Larry, I wish I knew, but I …” sputtering my concern.
“Don’t worry. She can’t be too far,” reassuring the both of us.
‘Larry,” I probed, “Where for God’s sake is your umbrella?”
“Precisely!” he retorted, grinning broadly. “It’s Shabbos. I can’t carry.”
“Oh … yea,” sounding dumber than a rock and looking very sheepish,
I’m sure.
“Hey, we’re going to hear Rabbi Kahane speak tonight after Shabbes at
B’nai Rueven. Wanna go?” he announced invitingly.
“Sure. Sounds great!” I leapt back as if I hadn’t misspoken.
We went to hear Rabbi Kahane that night. The Hirschs made aliyah
soon thereafter, and not until many years later did I see him again at a
Jewish arts festival. I understand now that his invitation to hear Rabbi
Kahane speak was a real rachmones.
One afternoon after finishing a story, I chatted with five-year old
Sholem, Rabbi Twersky’s son:
“So, tell me, what does your father do?”
“He learns,” he returned the response as if there could be no other.
“He does what?” my curiosity piqued by the mystery of that deceptively
simple response.
“He learns,” he repeated, as matter of factly as the first time.
“Such an odd expression,” I reflected, muttering words to myself that I
kept from reaching Sholem’s ears. Never had I heard the verb “learns”
used in that fashion, but it intrigued me. Ever an avid student of
language, I entered it into my lexicon of life experiences.
“He learns”- a two-word sentence, barely existing, a subject and verb
having no stated direct object. What I didn’t know was the direct
object needn’t have been articulated. Everyone that is but me seemed to
know what it was, even five-year old Sholem. I would have loved to chat
more with him. Having so many more questions, I determined to find out
more about these Jews who “learned.” However, the constraints of my
family life prevented me from venturing out too far into those waters.
That would come in time, I reasoned to myself, but for the present, I
would have to be content with testing the temperature of the water with
my toes. As it happens, my neighbors: the Goldmeyers, the
Hirschs, the Twerskys and the Eichensteins were pretty much doing the
same thing. We were, in effect, taking the most cautious of steps in the
shallow waters of each others’ lives.
It’s an old and often frustrating truism that the tracks of progress
can be traced not so much in leaps and bounds but in the tiniest of
baby steps. The Shabbos of Chol HaMoed Succos while I sat reading on
my back porch, I happened to divert my eyes from the page momentarily
to espy Rabbi Twersky walking in the alley.
“Where is he headed? Wonder what’s up?” having never seen him before
in the alley. Something, I thought, was clearly amiss. Donning a black
kaftan and streimel, he appeared to me to be deeply troubled by the way
he was fiddling with his peyos. Inching along, his characteristic stride
replaced by a scraping shuffle, he seemed to take two steps back for
every one forward.
“He’s coming over here. He really is!” barely managing to calm myself.
Not one to engage in idle banter and certain Sholem had already brought
him up to speed on “Street School”, I watched as he entered through my
back gate. Frankly nonplussed, but eager to lend a hand, I went down to
greet him.
“Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi,” extending my hand in Shabbos courtesy,
anticipating his reciprocity.
“Good Shabbos. Mr. Busch, I have a problem,” he confided in me,
reaching out his fingers rather placidly in a manner not untypical of
many orthodox men.
“How can I help you, rabbi?” I offered enthusiastically, but unclear how I
could be of any assistance to a scion of a rabbinic dynasty!
“Some sechach has fallen from the roof of my sukkah onto the
floor, and I am forbidden to touch it on Shabbos,” he explained, tilting
his streimel back from his forehead, clearly frustrated.
“Some what?” I asked blankly.
“Sechach, an evergreen branch,” he clarified.
“Oh, no problem rabbi. I’ll pick it up,” thinking I understood his
dilemma.
“No! he exclaimed. “You are a Jew. You may not touch it either.”
“Oh wow! Okay,” I burst out. Backing off somewhat to compose
myself, I couldn’t help but feel enormously flattered he had
acknowledged my Jewish identity.
“But I do know someone who can. I’ll take care of the problem, rabbi,”
I assured him, my voice trailing off as I turned and ran up the stairs.
Pausing momentarily on the first landing, I looked back to see that his
countenance had brightened noticeably. Secure in my promise, he
turned and left for home.
Unbeknownst to him was that working in my apartment was a young
man, a non-Jew, crouched in the bathtub reglazing its surface. Feeling
somewhat foolish, but hoping to sound credible, I summoned what few
diplomatic skills I possessed and went in to talk to him.
“Uh, Tom, d’ya have a minute?” I queried, squatting down to see him eye
to eye.
“Sure. What’s up?” wiping away an errant bead of perspiration with the
back of his hand.
“Well …” scratching my head as if at a total loss of words, “you see I’ve
a neighbor with a problem and of all people you can fix it. Interested?”
“Sure, but …” he quickened to probe, but I preempted him before he
could change his mind.
“It’s this way,” feigning a reliable explanation of this Jewish conundrum
… “and the rules forbid a Jew to touch it on the Sabbath.”
“So you can’t …?” he wondered, just to be sure.
“Nope!”
“Then it’s not a problem,” he reassuringly intoned, raising my spirits
enormously. How fortunate was I to have found Tom so agreeable, but
what a ridiculous irony it was! Here I was, a secular Jew, unlearned in
Yiddishkeit and halacha, employing a gentile on the Sabbath day-an act
which itself violated Jewish law-asking him to perform a kindness, one
forbidden equally to its intended beneficiary and me.
We strode through the alley to Rabbi’s Twersky’s sukkah wherein he
eagerly awaited our arrival. Pushing aside the blue plastic entranceway, I
stepped aside inviting Tom to enter. I followed. The slightest hint of an
esrog’s scent tickled one’s nose. Gourds and dried fruit dangled
overhead. Aged portraits of rabbinic sages aside child-like depictions of
the Kotel graced the four sides of the sukkah while caricatures of the
ushpizin beckoned us to feel at home. Amidst all the festive decorations,
sat Rabbi Twersky, bent slightly forward, his fingers pouring over an
ancient Talmudic folio.
“Rabbi, this is my friend Tom.”
“Boruch Ha Shem,” he exclaimed with a broad smile, his glasses having
slipped down to the tip of his nose.
“Tom,” I said, indicating the mischievous sechach with my finger. “There it is.”
Stepping up cautiously on a folding card table chair lest it collapse, he
reached up and replaced the branch atop the latticework.
“Okay, got it,” Tom announced, a faint smile peeking through as though
this had been a welcome, albeit bizarre respite from the drudgery of
bathtub reglazing.
In one of those much-touted “Kodak moments,” I watched Tom,
trying not to teeter atop the chair, survey the curiosity of this fanciful
tabernacle. Below him two Jews, one bearded, the other not, each
dressed as differently from the other as one could possibly imagine but
ready both to catch him should his balance begin to waver. Although I
don’t know what Tom was thinking, I imagined it very unlikely he’d soon
forget the afternoon he helped me to help Sholem’s father.
And with that tiny tikkun, the world was set aright. Tom had
done a good deed, Rabbi Twersky could resume the joy of the Sabbath
and I … I had peeked into his world and it was good. I realized years later that within Rabbi
Twersky's sukkah had I found my own pri etz hadar.
From that day forward, Rabbi Twersky, when in need of a “tsenter,”
would call me to make a minyan. Though I did not know how to daven or
own a siddur and too embarrassed to tell him, I would take along
a volume of Jewish writings and, while nine davened “Ashrei,” I read
Chaim Nachman Bialik’s “The Fountain”-an incomparable poem.
The next morning, the neighborhood hastened to Hoshana Rabba,
arba minim in hand. Watching from my apartment’s front bay window, I
wondered how many more doors there would be left to open.
Alan D. Busch
5/29/07
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Dear Readers,
This is a revised and expanded post from several weeks ago. I would appreciate a few minutes of your time.
Thank you in advance.
“These Are the Precepts … Escorting the Dead”[1]
We stood at the edge inches from the void’s cold depth, a
terrifying finality beyond which there is neither earthly appeal
nor redress. Our eyes dare not glimpse the depth of the void.
Nearby awaits a mound of dirt, a reminder of the temporal
nature of the void. Mourners wait patiently to grasp the
shovel. While some onlookers may think it a morbid custom,
tradition regards it as a mitzvah[2] to bury the dead, an expression
of love to be performed b’ chesed.[3]
We swayed at the edge with our arms linked together in the hope we might strengthen each other. I don’t remember if we provided any chairs for the mourners. Just beyond the innermost arc of mourners, a throng gathered as it had at the funeral home, a measure of the many lives Ben touched.
Turning away to leave is both an end and a beginning. His essence accompanies us in our hearts. Though we may feel his presence, we can neither touch him nor he us. The soulless body occupies the void of the grave into which loving kindness returns the mound of earth.[4]
When a Jew dies, our tradition regards it as a genuine kindness to
assist in his burial and the last act of decency any of us can do for the
deceased. He may have been the simplest of Jews, an ordinary man and
perhaps not the most outwardly pious, but who among us can peer into
the heart of man, of this man, of any man?
When a Jew dies, we have an opportunity to do for him the same
kindness we will want others to do for us when comes our last day.
Examine his deeds and weigh them on the scale of good deeds and
transgressions. If he lived his life like most of us have, there probably will
be an approximate equilibrium between his acts of goodness and
those found wanting. What if-once the scales are still-there is an
exact balance, neither the good deeds nor the bad exceeding the other?
He spoke kind words to comfort the bereaved or he served innumerable
hours as a volunteer at the hospital. How many patients might he have
enabled to feel better by a smile or a few words of encouragement? Or
perhaps he attended prayer services regularly, the much sought after
tenth man to make a minyan.[5] Yet, mortal being he was, for every
positive, a negative cancelled it out-not the effect of the good deed itself,
but its impact on the count. If we could perform but one more
meritorious deed to tip the balance of the scales in his favor, shouldn’t
we do that for him? We should and can, but how?
We escort him to his final resting place.[6] By so doing, we invoke His
abundant mercy. Friends and family gather in an act of remembrance,
putting aside any and all controversies while focusing on the positive. Is
there a Jew about whom there cannot be remembered any good?
We gather at the graveside to say the Mourner’s Kaddish[7] in his
memory just as he enabled others before him to do the same. We recite
psalms so that his soul ascends and from which we too are invariably
reminded that his life, our lives are as blades of grass, fragile and
fleeting. Yes, I suppose it would be better if we could gather for
joyous occasions only, a birth more preferable than a burial, but we
must tend to life at both ends.
The other day, a long-time friend of my synagogue passed away. He
had been very ill for quite a while and his dire physical condition was
exacerbated by a host of family problems. In the time between his
death and burial, there was some reasonable doubt there might not be
enough mourners at the graveside service to say the Mourner’s Kaddish
for which a minyan is required. Thankfully, there were, but he seemed to
be a marginalized individual about whom there was some reasonable
concern.
As a precaution against this unfortunate possibility, I joined with
several members of my synagogue to attend the funeral . I had the
time, I was available, but beyond these simple facts, I believe it
incumbent on the living to provide or assist in the provision of a
decent Jewish burial both as a debt and a true act of kindness we owe
the deceased. No Jew should suffer the tragedy of dying alone or, as
Rabbi Louis says, the indignity of one’s body being treated shabbily.
The funeral procession lined up. We took our place. A modest
gathering of thirty mourners assembled at the graveside service. Once
there, it became quickly apparent that well over half the original number
of mourners who had attended the chapel service left after its conclusion.
It was an inclement day, a slushy mixture of rain and snow. A tent
over the gravesite was erected. Together with Rabbi Louis, his sons, and
two other men-one of whom had been a good friend of the deceased-we
stood at the back of the tent while the family and close friends gathered
closer to the edge to witness the lowering of the casket. Something
though did not seem right.
“Rabbi, where is the dirt?” I wondered aloud but not loudly.
“I don’t know,” he responded, appearing somewhat perplexed.
Typically the mound of dirt sits atop a few sheets of plywood close to the
edge of the grave but opposite where the mourners are seated. Stepping
out from under the tent, Rabbi Louis looked about, but couldn’t spot it.
Though the several rows of mourners obscured our view, we were
certain the dirt, wherever it might be, was not inside the tent.
When the sarcophagus was secured, the funeral director invited the
mourners, should they wish to participate, to sprinkle a few particles of
earth from the Holy Land into the grave. With that it became readily
apparent there would not be a full closure of the grave by the mourners.
In its place, the funeral director had provided two buckets of sand with
garden trowels thrust inside. Before their final goodbyes, some mourners
took hold of a trowel, thrust it into the bucket and tossed the sand atop
the casket. When the last of the mourners finished, the funeral director-
having already earlier informed them about when and where they could
make condolence calls-concluded the service..
Rabbi Louis approached him.
“Would you mind if we filled the grave?
He was a friend of ours,” petitioned Rabbi who, when a situation requires
delicacy, is the consummate diplomat.
“Not at all! Fine. Please,” blurted out the young funeral director who
seemed not to have anticipated any such request.
The mound of dirt? We hadn’t noticed earlier, but there it sat in
the back of a cemetery flatbed about thirty feet from the tent. The funeral
director called the driver who then proceeded to inch the flatbed clumsily
in reverse toward the grave. With the bed elevated, the dirt slid out onto
the plywood into a heap. Grabbing five shovels, one for each of us, we
began the act of kindness we felt we owed the departed.
All in all, it took us about twenty minutes. It just feels so right, an
easy choice to make when you consider the alternative of having the
heap dumped ignominiously onto the casket. The damp, dark finality of
burial is a difficult reality, isn’t it? No longer an issue of the pain and
suffering of the departed, it becomes a reflection of our anguish.
Is it less painful for mourners if they leave after the casket has been
lowered? Is it better to leave the closure of the grave to the cemetery
workers? Like the old saying: “Out of sight. Out of mind!” On the other
hand, it seems so evasive, impersonal and undignified.
What more can we do? What one last gesture can we make that says:
“Thank you” or “We love you”? How does one extend a hand to another
who cannot reciprocate? How do we hug him who cannot hug us back?
The answer is we take it upon ourselves to blanket the casket with earth
until the grave has been entirely refilled. And who better to do this than
those who knew and loved the departed? The effect of that act benefits us
too. We experience genuine closure when we refill the grave.
May all Jewish mourners recognize it as an act of loving-kindness.
After all, do we not owe the departed at least that much?
Alan D. Busch
Copyright @2007
[1] Excerpted from Talmud
[2] Commandment; a good deed
[3] “with kindness.” Jewish tradition regards the burying of the dead as an obligation. It is my view that it be done as gently as if one were carrying a baby.
[4] Excerpted from In Memory of Ben
[5] A minimum of ten Jewish men required for a prayer quorem.
[6] The Talmud, the “Oral Torah” provides for this as an act for which benefit will accrue in the World to Come.
[7] A declaration of faith recited by mourners after burial to offset succumbing to apostasy.
This is a revised and expanded post from several weeks ago. I would appreciate a few minutes of your time.
Thank you in advance.
“These Are the Precepts … Escorting the Dead”[1]
We stood at the edge inches from the void’s cold depth, a
terrifying finality beyond which there is neither earthly appeal
nor redress. Our eyes dare not glimpse the depth of the void.
Nearby awaits a mound of dirt, a reminder of the temporal
nature of the void. Mourners wait patiently to grasp the
shovel. While some onlookers may think it a morbid custom,
tradition regards it as a mitzvah[2] to bury the dead, an expression
of love to be performed b’ chesed.[3]
We swayed at the edge with our arms linked together in the hope we might strengthen each other. I don’t remember if we provided any chairs for the mourners. Just beyond the innermost arc of mourners, a throng gathered as it had at the funeral home, a measure of the many lives Ben touched.
Turning away to leave is both an end and a beginning. His essence accompanies us in our hearts. Though we may feel his presence, we can neither touch him nor he us. The soulless body occupies the void of the grave into which loving kindness returns the mound of earth.[4]
When a Jew dies, our tradition regards it as a genuine kindness to
assist in his burial and the last act of decency any of us can do for the
deceased. He may have been the simplest of Jews, an ordinary man and
perhaps not the most outwardly pious, but who among us can peer into
the heart of man, of this man, of any man?
When a Jew dies, we have an opportunity to do for him the same
kindness we will want others to do for us when comes our last day.
Examine his deeds and weigh them on the scale of good deeds and
transgressions. If he lived his life like most of us have, there probably will
be an approximate equilibrium between his acts of goodness and
those found wanting. What if-once the scales are still-there is an
exact balance, neither the good deeds nor the bad exceeding the other?
He spoke kind words to comfort the bereaved or he served innumerable
hours as a volunteer at the hospital. How many patients might he have
enabled to feel better by a smile or a few words of encouragement? Or
perhaps he attended prayer services regularly, the much sought after
tenth man to make a minyan.[5] Yet, mortal being he was, for every
positive, a negative cancelled it out-not the effect of the good deed itself,
but its impact on the count. If we could perform but one more
meritorious deed to tip the balance of the scales in his favor, shouldn’t
we do that for him? We should and can, but how?
We escort him to his final resting place.[6] By so doing, we invoke His
abundant mercy. Friends and family gather in an act of remembrance,
putting aside any and all controversies while focusing on the positive. Is
there a Jew about whom there cannot be remembered any good?
We gather at the graveside to say the Mourner’s Kaddish[7] in his
memory just as he enabled others before him to do the same. We recite
psalms so that his soul ascends and from which we too are invariably
reminded that his life, our lives are as blades of grass, fragile and
fleeting. Yes, I suppose it would be better if we could gather for
joyous occasions only, a birth more preferable than a burial, but we
must tend to life at both ends.
The other day, a long-time friend of my synagogue passed away. He
had been very ill for quite a while and his dire physical condition was
exacerbated by a host of family problems. In the time between his
death and burial, there was some reasonable doubt there might not be
enough mourners at the graveside service to say the Mourner’s Kaddish
for which a minyan is required. Thankfully, there were, but he seemed to
be a marginalized individual about whom there was some reasonable
concern.
As a precaution against this unfortunate possibility, I joined with
several members of my synagogue to attend the funeral . I had the
time, I was available, but beyond these simple facts, I believe it
incumbent on the living to provide or assist in the provision of a
decent Jewish burial both as a debt and a true act of kindness we owe
the deceased. No Jew should suffer the tragedy of dying alone or, as
Rabbi Louis says, the indignity of one’s body being treated shabbily.
The funeral procession lined up. We took our place. A modest
gathering of thirty mourners assembled at the graveside service. Once
there, it became quickly apparent that well over half the original number
of mourners who had attended the chapel service left after its conclusion.
It was an inclement day, a slushy mixture of rain and snow. A tent
over the gravesite was erected. Together with Rabbi Louis, his sons, and
two other men-one of whom had been a good friend of the deceased-we
stood at the back of the tent while the family and close friends gathered
closer to the edge to witness the lowering of the casket. Something
though did not seem right.
“Rabbi, where is the dirt?” I wondered aloud but not loudly.
“I don’t know,” he responded, appearing somewhat perplexed.
Typically the mound of dirt sits atop a few sheets of plywood close to the
edge of the grave but opposite where the mourners are seated. Stepping
out from under the tent, Rabbi Louis looked about, but couldn’t spot it.
Though the several rows of mourners obscured our view, we were
certain the dirt, wherever it might be, was not inside the tent.
When the sarcophagus was secured, the funeral director invited the
mourners, should they wish to participate, to sprinkle a few particles of
earth from the Holy Land into the grave. With that it became readily
apparent there would not be a full closure of the grave by the mourners.
In its place, the funeral director had provided two buckets of sand with
garden trowels thrust inside. Before their final goodbyes, some mourners
took hold of a trowel, thrust it into the bucket and tossed the sand atop
the casket. When the last of the mourners finished, the funeral director-
having already earlier informed them about when and where they could
make condolence calls-concluded the service..
Rabbi Louis approached him.
“Would you mind if we filled the grave?
He was a friend of ours,” petitioned Rabbi who, when a situation requires
delicacy, is the consummate diplomat.
“Not at all! Fine. Please,” blurted out the young funeral director who
seemed not to have anticipated any such request.
The mound of dirt? We hadn’t noticed earlier, but there it sat in
the back of a cemetery flatbed about thirty feet from the tent. The funeral
director called the driver who then proceeded to inch the flatbed clumsily
in reverse toward the grave. With the bed elevated, the dirt slid out onto
the plywood into a heap. Grabbing five shovels, one for each of us, we
began the act of kindness we felt we owed the departed.
All in all, it took us about twenty minutes. It just feels so right, an
easy choice to make when you consider the alternative of having the
heap dumped ignominiously onto the casket. The damp, dark finality of
burial is a difficult reality, isn’t it? No longer an issue of the pain and
suffering of the departed, it becomes a reflection of our anguish.
Is it less painful for mourners if they leave after the casket has been
lowered? Is it better to leave the closure of the grave to the cemetery
workers? Like the old saying: “Out of sight. Out of mind!” On the other
hand, it seems so evasive, impersonal and undignified.
What more can we do? What one last gesture can we make that says:
“Thank you” or “We love you”? How does one extend a hand to another
who cannot reciprocate? How do we hug him who cannot hug us back?
The answer is we take it upon ourselves to blanket the casket with earth
until the grave has been entirely refilled. And who better to do this than
those who knew and loved the departed? The effect of that act benefits us
too. We experience genuine closure when we refill the grave.
May all Jewish mourners recognize it as an act of loving-kindness.
After all, do we not owe the departed at least that much?
Alan D. Busch
Copyright @2007
[1] Excerpted from Talmud
[2] Commandment; a good deed
[3] “with kindness.” Jewish tradition regards the burying of the dead as an obligation. It is my view that it be done as gently as if one were carrying a baby.
[4] Excerpted from In Memory of Ben
[5] A minimum of ten Jewish men required for a prayer quorem.
[6] The Talmud, the “Oral Torah” provides for this as an act for which benefit will accrue in the World to Come.
[7] A declaration of faith recited by mourners after burial to offset succumbing to apostasy.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Dear Readers,
You will find it helpful for the reading of this essay that you first read the one directly preceding it. If you do not, you may be mystified by the reference here to "Rabbi Skoff."
I was once a teacher.
Like all people who enter that profession-no matter the subject matter or the age of his students-each of us is afforded the enviable opportunity to achieve a species of immortality if we can but change one life for the better. A wise man, I think it was Henry Brooks Adams, historian, who put it rather well though, by its very nature, his aphorism is appealingly, even enticingly open ended: " A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops. "
He was the most generous civics teacher in the 9th period though not the first of several teachers whose person made and left an indelible impression on my personal and working life nor would he be the last, but for reasons almost inexplicable the picture I retain of him occupies one of the finest frames in the panoply of people whose lives have touched mine. At the end of the day, Mr. Salvatore Gallo, my eighth grade civics teacher, was a mechaya. I can only speak for myself naturally when I say that if a student did not look forward to his class, even though tired and worn thin by the day's business, that that alone would constitute serious prima facie evidence of something seriously amiss with that particular individual. Or maybe it was just me, but as far back as I can recall, I have always been attentive to our oft-hidden human faces. In other words, I have an eye for special people. As for the why, it occurs to me that from a very young age I was given more to quiet observation of others than ever having been much of a chatterbox. There was good reason for that, I can assure you! As a boy, when only about five years old, I became a stutterer, for whom speaking could at times be as arduous as clearing the height of the bar newly raised by one's coach.
A man who looked like Rabbi Skoff, whose middle section was shaped uncannily like a boulder, he also exemplied the same simple wisdom and kindness. He was a man driven to punctiliousness and whose severe regimen of assignment protocol was such that, should one not follow it, he would be penalized anywhere from one to five points. For example, each student had to draw with the precision of a budding engineer a one inch square box in the upper left hand corner of his notebook paper into which Mr. Gallo would pen that person’s grade. Mind you it had to be a neat square, with no overlapping lines at the four corners. To counterbalance what an outsider might regard as a mishegoss, Mr. Gallo practiced a unique and rather unorthodox generosity. He once brought a piece of cake to class probably in size no more than six regular servings, and so scientifically cut it up that each child in the classroom received an exact equal portion. Its precision was as if it had been cut by a bakery template, clearly a case of having made much from very little.
As with Rabbi Skoff, get Mr. Gallo mad and look out. Unlike my other classrooms, Mr. Gallo's had an adjacent coat closet that was as deep as the classroom itself. We had a student in our 9th period class, one David, on whom misfortune fell one afternoon after pushing Mr. Gallo's buttons once too many times. A mere twit of a lad whose mouth was bigger than his person, he suffered that day the fright of a one on one, a nose to nose with Mr. Gallo in the coat room. When that door opened after what seemed to the rest of us like an insufferably interminable length of time-but in fact was no more than three minutes - though no one had heard a word between them nor would Mr. Gallo have lain a fingertip on him, David emerged looking more than a wee bit rattled. I doubt he ever forgot that.
Mr. Gallo's face was one of those only a mother could love, a big bald head, with rather unhappy teeth but a smile like none other. His nose, broad and flattened as if it had known the impact of too many fists in his youth, lent a certain rough veneer to his otherwise gentle manner. If you have had a "Mr. Gallo" in your life, step back and count your blessings for not everyone has enjoyed such great fortune.
You will find it helpful for the reading of this essay that you first read the one directly preceding it. If you do not, you may be mystified by the reference here to "Rabbi Skoff."
I was once a teacher.
Like all people who enter that profession-no matter the subject matter or the age of his students-each of us is afforded the enviable opportunity to achieve a species of immortality if we can but change one life for the better. A wise man, I think it was Henry Brooks Adams, historian, who put it rather well though, by its very nature, his aphorism is appealingly, even enticingly open ended: " A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops. "
He was the most generous civics teacher in the 9th period though not the first of several teachers whose person made and left an indelible impression on my personal and working life nor would he be the last, but for reasons almost inexplicable the picture I retain of him occupies one of the finest frames in the panoply of people whose lives have touched mine. At the end of the day, Mr. Salvatore Gallo, my eighth grade civics teacher, was a mechaya. I can only speak for myself naturally when I say that if a student did not look forward to his class, even though tired and worn thin by the day's business, that that alone would constitute serious prima facie evidence of something seriously amiss with that particular individual. Or maybe it was just me, but as far back as I can recall, I have always been attentive to our oft-hidden human faces. In other words, I have an eye for special people. As for the why, it occurs to me that from a very young age I was given more to quiet observation of others than ever having been much of a chatterbox. There was good reason for that, I can assure you! As a boy, when only about five years old, I became a stutterer, for whom speaking could at times be as arduous as clearing the height of the bar newly raised by one's coach.
A man who looked like Rabbi Skoff, whose middle section was shaped uncannily like a boulder, he also exemplied the same simple wisdom and kindness. He was a man driven to punctiliousness and whose severe regimen of assignment protocol was such that, should one not follow it, he would be penalized anywhere from one to five points. For example, each student had to draw with the precision of a budding engineer a one inch square box in the upper left hand corner of his notebook paper into which Mr. Gallo would pen that person’s grade. Mind you it had to be a neat square, with no overlapping lines at the four corners. To counterbalance what an outsider might regard as a mishegoss, Mr. Gallo practiced a unique and rather unorthodox generosity. He once brought a piece of cake to class probably in size no more than six regular servings, and so scientifically cut it up that each child in the classroom received an exact equal portion. Its precision was as if it had been cut by a bakery template, clearly a case of having made much from very little.
As with Rabbi Skoff, get Mr. Gallo mad and look out. Unlike my other classrooms, Mr. Gallo's had an adjacent coat closet that was as deep as the classroom itself. We had a student in our 9th period class, one David, on whom misfortune fell one afternoon after pushing Mr. Gallo's buttons once too many times. A mere twit of a lad whose mouth was bigger than his person, he suffered that day the fright of a one on one, a nose to nose with Mr. Gallo in the coat room. When that door opened after what seemed to the rest of us like an insufferably interminable length of time-but in fact was no more than three minutes - though no one had heard a word between them nor would Mr. Gallo have lain a fingertip on him, David emerged looking more than a wee bit rattled. I doubt he ever forgot that.
Mr. Gallo's face was one of those only a mother could love, a big bald head, with rather unhappy teeth but a smile like none other. His nose, broad and flattened as if it had known the impact of too many fists in his youth, lent a certain rough veneer to his otherwise gentle manner. If you have had a "Mr. Gallo" in your life, step back and count your blessings for not everyone has enjoyed such great fortune.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Dear Readers,
In Pirkei Avos, we are each bidden to acquire for ourselves a teacher. Please follow this link to read of mine. Though a bit lengthy, you will benefit from having learned about Reb Isser ben Avrum, my teacher ... http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page22.html
Thank you,
Alan D. Busch
5/4/07
In Pirkei Avos, we are each bidden to acquire for ourselves a teacher. Please follow this link to read of mine. Though a bit lengthy, you will benefit from having learned about Reb Isser ben Avrum, my teacher ... http://hometown.aol.com/fitterthanudad/page22.html
Thank you,
Alan D. Busch
5/4/07
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
In Memory of the Kedoshim
Wearily trod up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment's time in dark travail
mockingly Goliathan was the fight,
that even David who had stood so well
soon stumbled in the night.
Why was there no known way
to bring them back home?
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus roam.
Marched back and forth thin and wane
their figures stooped and grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage
Ha Shem might have shown
a war He would have waged.
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch
copyright 2007
Wearily trod up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.
Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.
A moment's time in dark travail
mockingly Goliathan was the fight,
that even David who had stood so well
soon stumbled in the night.
Why was there no known way
to bring them back home?
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus roam.
Marched back and forth thin and wane
their figures stooped and grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.
Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?
Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!
Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage
Ha Shem might have shown
a war He would have waged.
Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.
Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.
The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.
Alan D. Busch
copyright 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Dear Readers and for Ashleen in particular,
Thank you in advance for your time. In these times, given the atrocity at Virginia Tech, much piffle has again been circulating about what its proponents regard as this nation's panacea. If only it could be legislated past the opposition of the Second Amendment's most intrepid adherents. Yes, I am talking about "gun control"-a much tauted solution, great and promissory, that only the criminals will be able to effectively negate it. It would in all likelihood disarm law-abiding citizens as they are not likely to break the law even if they disagree with one of its mandates. Criminals, however, have no such civic compunction. I guess the most reassuring thing about "gun control" is that it would be about as effective as this nation's "War on Poverty" and its cousin the "War on Drugs".
During the Shoah, if only the nazi murderers would have lain their guns down! Wouldn't that have been grand?! Oh, by the way, hitler was a "gun control" proponent too who effectively disarmed the whole of German civil society. But arm the politicized criminals, his most ardent followers, now that he did all too well.
A reminder or revelation (whichever better applies) to those cretins who wonder why it was that the Jews did not "fight back", I'll point out three relevant facts: 1) when asked politely the nazis simply would not give up their machine guns, Luger pistols and Mauser rifles. They just wouldn't! Go figure. 2) It is very difficult for unarmed civilians who have been systematically terrorized to fight organized bands of trained killers. 3) When they managed to arm themselves with a few pistols and molotov cocktails, the Jews-as those in the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising-ably demonstrated-and like their forebearers- the Jews of the Hanukkah "al ha nissim" (see any orthodox siddur) they were more than able to redeem their much maligned and misrepresented honor.
I dedicate the following verses to Professor Liviu Librescu, Z'L who chose to die that his students might live.
Remember this tale about which you'll hear
of those fighting Jews who fell without fear,
who chose to die as men rather than cattle,
but fate had determined they first do battle
with the Hun at whom they did courageously fling
all of the might of young David's sling.
Their foe, a Goliath, of a thousand times size
from whom they refused to submit to the lies:
that they were weak and unworthy, unable to rise,
though blinded by hate, they aimed straight for his eyes.
Never before had there been seen such daring
from young women and men all of whom caring
for the dignity of those for whom they fought,
such were the lessons that history had taught
that the Jew stood alone, friendless against foe,
counting his days, tormented by woe.
His task to prove that though troubled by pain,
the odds at Masada had not been in vain.
For three months, the struggle did not cease,
neither side desiring peace.
For that meant 'surrender', an unthinkable word,
from the sewers of Warsaw could there still be heard:
the cries, the anguish, the torture within
ferreting out captives the Nazis whose grin
was evidence they had acted with glee
when stifling the attempt of people to be free.
Cords of log bodies, stacked just the same,
secular and religious none to blame.
For there was NO difference before the Hun,
the Jews for him were decidedly ONE!
whether armed or with prayer,
they met their end,
futile struggle, Kiddush HaShem.
Our duty to those whose fate we survived
is working to keep their memory alive.
I ask ...
Why a people whose destiny has been
to enlighten a world through darkness and din,
whose lives are as many as they have been few,
why so despised has been the Jew?
For what 'good' reason is he chosen to die?
Why gone unnoticed the tear in his eye?
Has he not suffered so while the world stands by,
Why have we not ever heeded his cry?
Is there really a difference that makes him seem strange,
as if the same blood did not course through his veins?
Does he not laugh, cry, and feel just as you?
How such a threat when he numbers so few?
Threatened with death should he adhere to his ways,
terrorized by chimneys above which rose haze,
searchingly hopeful ... in whose starry gaze
reflected faggots whose fires roar ablaze.
Why did none act to stop it once known?
Enough indifference haven't we sown?
Praying to the heavens as they did every day,
that soon they'd see planes flying their way,
so bombardment, please god, might take them
ere the chambers would
but, the Allies, one and all, denied they could
destroy the rails leading straight into Hell,
from which precious few reemerged to tell
of the horrors awaiting them, so hard to believe,
that neither kindness nor life did the arrivals receive.
The children, too, thrust into the pit,
enraged blood lust, its infernal fit
that even the babes whose potential so great
should have felt the steel of this magnificent hate.
Whose cries were heard, but listened to none,
whose heads fell limp with the snap of a gun.
Whose parents, God forbid! They saw as naked as they,
for it was like this they suffered that day.
There are those who challenge what we have to say,
"Does such a retelling remains relevent today?"
"That, somehow, It's past, gone. Let it be!"
"Why do you make us suffer to see:
the killings, the children, the mountains of bone,
the chambers transformed so many to stone!
Who dropped like logs when the doors thrown wide,
there simply had been no place to hide.
Mothers whose skirts offered refuge at least
little ones uncovered thrown to the beast.
"Of what use" it was queried, "could they possibly be
in a stench wherein no one was happy or free?"
Ne'er a glimmer of hope would the murderers give
to those whose sole wish was only to live.
Mothers from children, families asunder,
might others have withstood this fury and thunder?
Slave labor was needed to further the cause,
to build V-2 rockets, to sharpen the claws.
For such, 'noble' men, doctors by fame
were employed to brutalize, murder and maim.
So that science could learn when life was so cheap,
discarded mankind onto the heap.
Great governments had met in order to be
as pious as possible, but deaf to the plea
of the wandering Jew whose torment to see
how unwelcome he was in the Land of the Free.
The ship onto which so many had stormed
could not find refuge for opinion had formed
that the Jew was expendable, a nuisance, a thorn
upon whom fate abandoned its contemptuous scorn.
They made it to America these tired and poor
to discover Liberty's spark shone little more
that, for them, there was not room enough to remain,
what hopes they had cherished were all now in vain!
Dejectedly they limped back to the place
which had expelled them at first for the same lack of space.
Stripped naked and paraded for the world to see,
what sickness had afflicted modern Germany?
Once active and vigorous this citizenry
now wandering about quite aimlessly.
It didn't take the nazis long to see
the world could care less for these Jews to be free.
A 'final solution' would quicken the pace
guarenteed mastery to the Aryan race.
No longer at issue either sufferance or claim,
onto Jewry was placed the burden and blame.
To repair the world, there first must needs be
a point at which we accept responsibility
for right against wrong, fiction from fact,
a basis upon which we can responsibly act.
But why even bother, so distant from then,
what more do we gain, what message we send?
For the sake of' the children, if not then our own
and
for
them
whose
lives
we
might
otherwise
have
known.
Alan D. Busch
copyright 2007
Thank you in advance for your time. In these times, given the atrocity at Virginia Tech, much piffle has again been circulating about what its proponents regard as this nation's panacea. If only it could be legislated past the opposition of the Second Amendment's most intrepid adherents. Yes, I am talking about "gun control"-a much tauted solution, great and promissory, that only the criminals will be able to effectively negate it. It would in all likelihood disarm law-abiding citizens as they are not likely to break the law even if they disagree with one of its mandates. Criminals, however, have no such civic compunction. I guess the most reassuring thing about "gun control" is that it would be about as effective as this nation's "War on Poverty" and its cousin the "War on Drugs".
During the Shoah, if only the nazi murderers would have lain their guns down! Wouldn't that have been grand?! Oh, by the way, hitler was a "gun control" proponent too who effectively disarmed the whole of German civil society. But arm the politicized criminals, his most ardent followers, now that he did all too well.
A reminder or revelation (whichever better applies) to those cretins who wonder why it was that the Jews did not "fight back", I'll point out three relevant facts: 1) when asked politely the nazis simply would not give up their machine guns, Luger pistols and Mauser rifles. They just wouldn't! Go figure. 2) It is very difficult for unarmed civilians who have been systematically terrorized to fight organized bands of trained killers. 3) When they managed to arm themselves with a few pistols and molotov cocktails, the Jews-as those in the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising-ably demonstrated-and like their forebearers- the Jews of the Hanukkah "al ha nissim" (see any orthodox siddur) they were more than able to redeem their much maligned and misrepresented honor.
I dedicate the following verses to Professor Liviu Librescu, Z'L who chose to die that his students might live.
Remember this tale about which you'll hear
of those fighting Jews who fell without fear,
who chose to die as men rather than cattle,
but fate had determined they first do battle
with the Hun at whom they did courageously fling
all of the might of young David's sling.
Their foe, a Goliath, of a thousand times size
from whom they refused to submit to the lies:
that they were weak and unworthy, unable to rise,
though blinded by hate, they aimed straight for his eyes.
Never before had there been seen such daring
from young women and men all of whom caring
for the dignity of those for whom they fought,
such were the lessons that history had taught
that the Jew stood alone, friendless against foe,
counting his days, tormented by woe.
His task to prove that though troubled by pain,
the odds at Masada had not been in vain.
For three months, the struggle did not cease,
neither side desiring peace.
For that meant 'surrender', an unthinkable word,
from the sewers of Warsaw could there still be heard:
the cries, the anguish, the torture within
ferreting out captives the Nazis whose grin
was evidence they had acted with glee
when stifling the attempt of people to be free.
Cords of log bodies, stacked just the same,
secular and religious none to blame.
For there was NO difference before the Hun,
the Jews for him were decidedly ONE!
whether armed or with prayer,
they met their end,
futile struggle, Kiddush HaShem.
Our duty to those whose fate we survived
is working to keep their memory alive.
I ask ...
Why a people whose destiny has been
to enlighten a world through darkness and din,
whose lives are as many as they have been few,
why so despised has been the Jew?
For what 'good' reason is he chosen to die?
Why gone unnoticed the tear in his eye?
Has he not suffered so while the world stands by,
Why have we not ever heeded his cry?
Is there really a difference that makes him seem strange,
as if the same blood did not course through his veins?
Does he not laugh, cry, and feel just as you?
How such a threat when he numbers so few?
Threatened with death should he adhere to his ways,
terrorized by chimneys above which rose haze,
searchingly hopeful ... in whose starry gaze
reflected faggots whose fires roar ablaze.
Why did none act to stop it once known?
Enough indifference haven't we sown?
Praying to the heavens as they did every day,
that soon they'd see planes flying their way,
so bombardment, please god, might take them
ere the chambers would
but, the Allies, one and all, denied they could
destroy the rails leading straight into Hell,
from which precious few reemerged to tell
of the horrors awaiting them, so hard to believe,
that neither kindness nor life did the arrivals receive.
The children, too, thrust into the pit,
enraged blood lust, its infernal fit
that even the babes whose potential so great
should have felt the steel of this magnificent hate.
Whose cries were heard, but listened to none,
whose heads fell limp with the snap of a gun.
Whose parents, God forbid! They saw as naked as they,
for it was like this they suffered that day.
There are those who challenge what we have to say,
"Does such a retelling remains relevent today?"
"That, somehow, It's past, gone. Let it be!"
"Why do you make us suffer to see:
the killings, the children, the mountains of bone,
the chambers transformed so many to stone!
Who dropped like logs when the doors thrown wide,
there simply had been no place to hide.
Mothers whose skirts offered refuge at least
little ones uncovered thrown to the beast.
"Of what use" it was queried, "could they possibly be
in a stench wherein no one was happy or free?"
Ne'er a glimmer of hope would the murderers give
to those whose sole wish was only to live.
Mothers from children, families asunder,
might others have withstood this fury and thunder?
Slave labor was needed to further the cause,
to build V-2 rockets, to sharpen the claws.
For such, 'noble' men, doctors by fame
were employed to brutalize, murder and maim.
So that science could learn when life was so cheap,
discarded mankind onto the heap.
Great governments had met in order to be
as pious as possible, but deaf to the plea
of the wandering Jew whose torment to see
how unwelcome he was in the Land of the Free.
The ship onto which so many had stormed
could not find refuge for opinion had formed
that the Jew was expendable, a nuisance, a thorn
upon whom fate abandoned its contemptuous scorn.
They made it to America these tired and poor
to discover Liberty's spark shone little more
that, for them, there was not room enough to remain,
what hopes they had cherished were all now in vain!
Dejectedly they limped back to the place
which had expelled them at first for the same lack of space.
Stripped naked and paraded for the world to see,
what sickness had afflicted modern Germany?
Once active and vigorous this citizenry
now wandering about quite aimlessly.
It didn't take the nazis long to see
the world could care less for these Jews to be free.
A 'final solution' would quicken the pace
guarenteed mastery to the Aryan race.
No longer at issue either sufferance or claim,
onto Jewry was placed the burden and blame.
To repair the world, there first must needs be
a point at which we accept responsibility
for right against wrong, fiction from fact,
a basis upon which we can responsibly act.
But why even bother, so distant from then,
what more do we gain, what message we send?
For the sake of' the children, if not then our own
and
for
them
whose
lives
we
might
otherwise
have
known.
Alan D. Busch
copyright 2007
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