Billy

Dear Jonah,

It’s been a while, I know. Sorry, kid. Life, y’know.

Let me start with this. After you died, lots of people shared with us memories about you. It was incredibly meaningful because, as in most families I imagine, parents don’t really know much about a whole lot of their kids’ experiences. So all those shared memories really filled out the picture of your life. A great picture, mind you, because the memories all spoke of a really nice person. Not that I didn’t think you weren’t a nice person. I just didn’t know that so many others had been let in on the secret.

2001. Fifth grade Jonah. And his old man.

You may recall that when you were in the fifth grade you confided in me that you didn’t think other kids liked you. There was some truth in that because, and this was what I told you then, they didn’t yet know what I knew … that there was a great human being hiding inside of you. And when you grew comfortable enough to let that human being out, people would start to understand you, like you, appreciate you, and become your friend. I don’t know if you took my advice, but eventually you began showing what a kind, funny, caring person you were. And not long after, you began being loved for it.

I knew some of that had been happening. I just hadn’t realized how many lives you had touched. The memories that arrived — by mail, by email, by word of mouth — confirmed and enlarged that.

But over time, those memories all but stopped coming in. One of the hardest parts of you being gone is that you don’t get mentioned anymore. And that makes me feel that you’ve been disappearing. I miss hearing other people talk about you.

Which is why the following encounter was so fun and meaningful. It took place in 2022, only a few years ago. In a most unlikely place. I’d just officiated at a wedding ceremony and was shmoozing with folks I knew there. Imagine my surprise (and delight) when a stranger came up to me and said, “Hi. I knew your son Jonah. I was his chemistry teacher!”

Well, I didn’t even know you took chemistry! So here was something new, in a world that had stopped delivering “new” about you. That made it a rather incredible moment all those years later.

2009. The proud high school graduate. And two old people.

And this teacher of yours — her name was Sally Hammond — she liked you! That wasn’t really too much of a surprise. Lots of people liked you. But you had recently changed schools for speaking VERY unkindly to a teacher, so it was nice that she was able to confirm what a good kid you were and not a domestic terrorist. Whew!

In all fairness, however, she did say that, of the two years she taught you, during the first you were very angry and clearly would have preferred to be pretty much anywhere else than in her classroom.

But during the second you had become delightful!

A few weeks after that wedding, Sally wrote me the following. “As the year progressed, Jonah settled in. He made some friends and became more outgoing, sharing his love of music and his sense of humor. When he announced he had been accepted at college, he was so proud and excited. That was always a significant event in any student’s life, but I think that, for Jonah, the chance to reinvent himself and become the young man he wanted to be and could be was very important. For me, this was the best part of teaching at Summit — to see the progress and growth of such a bright, talented young man.”

At the wedding, she told me, “Not only had Jonah become delightful, but I often saw him looking after other students in the class.”

Yours was not an ordinary school, Jonah. It was for kids who weren’t succeeding in their own schools. So a lot of troubled kids attended, and it would seem that you looked after more than a few of them.

2008. The drive to college. Doesn’t he look like an adult?

Which brings us back to chemistry class. When we expressed surprise that you were in her class, she said that not a lot of kids got to take chemistry. Because if you were really truly angry and running on impulse power, it wasn’t really safe to let you play with volatile chemicals. It was nice to know you qualified to take her class!

I will always regret not being able to watch you grow into your adult life, Jonah. But I’m deeply grateful to have been afforded these sacred glimpses into what that life might have been like.

You were such a special and much-loved person. I will miss you forever but, also, remain forever grateful that I got to have you in my life to begin with, and that I get to remember the nineteen years you were with us.

Love you forever,
Dad

Dear Jonah,

Amazingly, it’s been seventeen years since we lost you. Many people still awkwardly walk on eggshells around me, thinking that I must still be drowning in my grief. To that, I say, good for them. If they don’t yet know that grief fades, that I have very much been able to carry on with a constructive, joyful life, I hope death keeps its distance for as long as possible.

Yes, of course I still miss you. But you are no longer front of mind. Thank God. That really would destroy me. Mostly, however, I’ve been able to tuck you away, in a soft place inside my heart where you continue to reside in love and forever memory.

3rd Grade
June 1999

Every now and then, I like to take you out from that place and spend some time with you – to remember your face, your smile, your quirky sweetness. It’s not sadness that I feel as I write this, but the warmth of familiar, cherished love. Certainly, if I thought I could bargain with God to bring you back, I would do that. But with time, those well-established phases of grief have mostly receded to distant shores. Nowadays, I simply love remembering you, never tiring of looking at your photograph, of reliving time spent together, and of giving thanks that I got nineteen years of you.

Back in 2013, one of my favorite young rabbis, Dan Geffen, was teaching the story of Noah, who was known in Jewish tradition as a tzaddik, a “righteous person,” which is a term that usually refers to the superheros of the Jewish people – like Abraham and Sarah, Joseph, Moses … and Noah.

But Noah gets a lot of pushback in our tradition, mainly because he followed God’s orders in building the Ark and preserving earth’s biodiversity, a super-important action to be sure, but he only did that. Lots of folks wonder if he should have done more. For example, Noah never challenged God’s decision to flood the planet in the first place, never argued for an entirely different scenario. He also never shared with anyone outside of his family that earth’s destruction was imminent and that everyone should get to work building their own arks. He kept to himself, following God’s orders, building the Ark and saving life on earth while allowing millions to die along the way.

In Genesis 6:9 we read, “Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation.”

It’s the “blameless in his generation” that has gotten a lot of attention. Since Jewish tradition ascribes great meaning to each and every word of Torah, we’ve wondered why it was necessary to add the words, “in his generation.” Some say that the people in Noah’s time were so awful, that the bar of acceptable behavior was so low, that Noah’s righteousness was all the more impressive. But others say that had Noah lived in any other time, his actions would have been far less impressive. In any other generation, Noah would never have made the grade, never would have been considered a tzaddik.

I’ve always been unsatisfied with these explanations, Jo, and have continued wondering about this passage … until I heard Dan mention that Noah is referred to as a tzaddik long before he performed his monumental rescue of life on earth. Is it possible then that the Flood wasn’t what earned him the moniker of tzaddik.

And if so, then what had?

Dan’s theory was that perhaps Noah wasn’t destined to be a leader – but a leader wasn’t what God needed from him anyway. God was in need of someone to do all the stuff necessary for future life on earth to survive the Flood. Noah followed God’s orders. And while he may not had the wherewithal to push back against God’s plans – nor did he have the “stuff” that would have been needed to persuade people he wasn’t crazy, that destruction was indeed coming, and that everyone else had better see to their own survival and quickly – he could get the Ark built, gather all the animals, and care for them for the very long year it would take for the waters to receded and place them back on dry ground.

As Dan said, “What was needed was not bravado, or chutzpah, or a commanding presence. What was needed instead was what Noah did best – remaining calm in the face of calamity.”

I remember listening to Dan and thinking about you, Jonah.

There was never any doubt in my mind that you could have been a leader. And in fact, I think you very quietly were one. But you never wanted to step out front and take charge. What you did want was to treat each person you met with kindness, humor and, if needed, a helping hand. You did so quietly. You did so without question. And without standing at any helm, you were loved for how much good you brought into the world.

Were you a tzaddik? Well, you were my tzaddik. It’s part of what I love remembering about you. Every story that was shared by someone whose life you gently touched and made better, those are the testimonials that speak of your greatness. I am in awe of how many there were.

Seventeen years are now passed, Jonah, but your legacy stands strong, beautifully captured in these words (whose author I unfortunately do not know):

Hurricane Katrina relief work in Mississippi (Feb 2007) — there was never any question that this was where your heart was

Few of us ever achieve the acclaim of everyone,
But that is not to say that fame has escaped us.
In the hearts of a handful of people whose lives we have touched intimately,
Our torch will continue to burn without us.

And who is to say this is not a greater achievement,
To grasp fame without doing famous things,
To be loved for what we were instead of what we were able to become,
To be forgiven our faults,
And to be celebrated simply for our spirits,
Our character,
And our willingness to try?

Once upon a time, I carried a deep sadness because you were gone. But nowadays, Jonah, I carry deep gratitude that you were here. Thank you for that gift.

Love you forever,
Dad

Dear Jonah,

Well, here we are again. Me writing you letters. You still refusing to come back from the dead. And damned if I haven’t gotten used to it.

I’m grateful for that, of course. That I didn’t lose my mind (well, permanently anyway) after you died. That I’ve been able to keep on living, even happily doing so.

Even though you’ve been gone. Seventeen years. Almost as long as you were here.

But you’re not forgotten, JoJo. Certainly not. There are digital photo frames around the house that continue flashing images of you, reminding me of the wonderful moments I got to share with you. And that’s mostly the way you remain a vital presence around here. The material evidence of your existence is still all here, physical bits and pieces of the life you once lived, and I notice it. But it no longer draws powerful emotions from my heart. Well, not always. I’ve grown comfortable with you residing somewhere deeper inside me.

But every now and then, I get a hankering to touch something that you’d held in your hands. A few years back I picked up a book called “101 Favorite Poems.” You’d won it during a poetry competition in elementary school. My guess is you never looked at it but, for me, the connection (and the curiosity) was there.

In looking through the book, and sure as night turns to day, I came across a poem that made the tears form once again in my eyes. Written by Eugene Field (a late-19th century American writer of children’s poetry and humorous essays), “Little Boy Blue” recounts the all-too-brief tale of a child’s toys and the loss of their young patron.

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and stanch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue,
Since he kissed them and put them there.

I instantly fell for these verses. Feelings that had long ago quieted down, they came rushing back. If only briefly. How good it was to feel that deep sadness at your being absent.

As for the artifacts of you life that still pepper our home, I may only pause briefly to acknowledge their continued presence, Jonah, but they continue to tap into that place deep within me that preserves my deep and everlasting love for you.

1996. Six years old. George has been with him for 2 years, a precious gift from Fran and Gerry Weingast z”l. Jonah and George share the bed EVERY night until the Fall of 2008 when, at 18 years of age, he goes off to college (Jonah, not George).

This is perhaps best illustrated by the Curious George doll that accompanied you throughout your childhood and that remained with you (and in your bed!) throughout high school. Once you’d left for college, George, like the tiny toys in this poem, stayed at home, faithfully awaiting your return.

As do I. Damn it. Seventeen years later and I still can’t shake that desire. I guess that’s love, eh?

Okay, kid. I think that’s enough. Take care of yourself, whatever that means. I promise to do the same. Thank you for the memories, for sharing your life with me. And for letting me prattle on a bit on this difficult, sacred day.

Love you forever,
Dad