Dear Jonah,

Last night (4/2/11) was the 2nd annual concert presented in your memory. We held it at Westchester Reform Temple in Scarsdale, NY, where Rabbi Rick Jacobs et al graciously and lovingly welcomed us so that we could do our remembering and our music-making. Between the crew over at WRT, our own crew at WCT, and everyone who came out to hear Craig Taubman, you were on a lot of people’s minds.

I was talking to the kids at temple this weekend about what happens to us after we die (I wasn’t thinking. Really. This bubbled up from my subconscious somewhere. It wasn’t until the third discussion that I made the connection with your concert.). Anyway, the kids got me thinking: So were you there last night? Is that great, big, enormous spirit of yours still hovering around somewhere? Or have you moved on? Have you moved into a new life somewhere? I understand that Zi and Carolyn saved a seat for you between them. After the concert, we wondered together if maybe you’d been using that seat. Whatever, we certainly felt your presence all evening long.

You would have loved the concert, Jonah. Those guitarists — Sean Harkness and your buddy Josh Nelson — man, you so would have dug their playing! And that dude on bass — Bob Parr — sometimes it was difficult to believe that was an electric bass and not an electric guitar he was playing. Best of all, of course, was Craig. Not only did he give a great performance, it seemed as if you were never far from his mind. It felt like he was seeking out your spirit, and bringing it right up onto the stage with him. A good egg, that Craig.

Ellen wrote the letter for your program booklet this year. It’s a beautiful note, and while I know you never doubted her love for you, I think you’d enjoy these words.

Dear Friends,

We are so very touched that you have joined us this evening for the Second Annual Jonah Maccabee Dreskin Memorial Concert. We know that tonight will be filled with fantastic music as well as warm smiles and hugs and tears, all in honor of our brother and son.

It’s entirely possible that some of you never knew Jonah Maccabee. And if you did, it’s hard to say which Jonah you knew. Was it the little boy intent on figuring out how things worked, who disassembled an entire VCR with his grandfather just to see if they could put it back together? Was it the kid who sometimes didn’t quite fit in, so insisted on paving his own path through his high school years? Was it the actor/singer/musician who both came alive in front of an audience and spent hours alone, amusing himself with his electric guitar? Was it the young man who was happiest being a worker in the Kutz Camp dining room and helping out on maintenance because he did it well and knew it made a difference? Was it the college freshman who delighted in honing his ukulele and mandolin skills and amazing his friends with his loving heart and his fiery spirit? Whichever part of Jonah we knew, we understand he was an incredible gift to all of us.

Were Jonah physically here tonight, he’d probably be behind the sound board or adjusting the lights. He’d seem nonchalant, but secretly he’d be excited to hear and be near Craig Taubman. Craig created much of the music of Jonah’s childhood and signed CDs for him when Jonah was only 6 or 7 years old.

Please think of Jonah, even if you never knew him. In his memory, give generously of yourselves — hugs, smiles, kind words, enthusiasm. Jonah knew that these simple things went a long, long way.

Thank you so much for being with us this evening. Enjoy the music, smile, dance, sing along and celebrate life.

Aiden, Katie, Ellen and Billy Dreskin

It’s still so difficult to believe that the word “memorial” is used in conjunction with your name. Two years later and I still half expect you to call, or to walk in the door. While I was sitting and listening to last night’s concert, there were moments when I was startled to remember we were doing this because you’ve died. That’s a tall order to assimilate into our lives. But we’re working on it.

Ellen and I started the evening much as we did last year, with Havdalah. I wrote these words, which I hope paid honor to your memory and to the work we’re doing to live our lives with that memory.

About a year ago, just about the same time we gathered for our first concert in Jonah’s memory, Playgroup Theatre, that great incubator of children’s spirits built by the talent and love of Jill and Steven Abusch over in White Plains, took a moment to remember our son and brother, Jonah, and the nine shows he helped to produce over there.

Jeff Downing, who directed Jonah in six of those shows, said at the tribute, “What I will remember most about you, Jonah, is your remarkable journey from a boy to one of the most dependable, engaging, and passionate young men I have ever worked with. […] We will remember you. We will remember those brilliant characters you created, the endless amount of laughter you gave us, and [your] one of a kind personality that will never be forgotten.”

As tragic as Jonah’s death has been, we think he was one of the luckiest kids on earth. Through the people he met — at Playgroup Theatre, at Woodlands, in NFTY, at Eisner Camp, Kutz Camp, the Summit School and the University at Buffalo — Jonah was able to build a life for himself that he adored. Because of the friends who loved him, and because of the adults who looked after him, who assisted in his growth, and who also loved him, Jonah’s nineteen years were great years.

What is Havdalah if not a marker that expresses our appreciation for the gift of a time that’s just left us: Shabbat. And while the weekdays ahead, the days of khol, cannot match the beauty of the day of kodesh, of holiness, that has now come to its end, there is in this brief moment, in this sweet ceremony, a possibility, a promise, that something good is just up ahead.

Those of us who knew and loved Jonah, who miss him even now, especially now, we understand that there is so much beauty that remains, even when such a significant part of that beauty has left us. And while, in some ways, the world ahead can’t ever match the incredible magic of the world behind, it would be even sadder if our tragedies — our hurts, our losses, everyone’s, far beyond the one we remember here this evening — it would be even more unfortunate if they prevented us from seeing and enjoying and loving all that still remains.

And so, with Havdalah, we honor the sacred times we have visited, and we celebrate the beauties that still are to unfold in the times ahead. Raising funds to give other kids some of the things that made Jonah’s life such a good one, this will be one of the ways we build a sacred tomorrow, one filled with sunlight, filled with possibility, filled with love.

With Havdalah, we say thank you for the beauty of what came before, and, regardless of where our journeys have taken us, we resolve to make new ones … that fill our cups, that light our ways, and add invigorating, Jonah-like spice to the road ahead.

Perhaps it would be reasonable for us to confine our emotional nose-dives to this one time of each year, Jonah. Problem is, we loved you a whole lot more than one night a year, boy. Yahrzeit probably won’t do it either. Far more likely, while we’re living and laughing and enjoying our lives, each time we hear the strum of an ukulele, fry up some pastrami, see a Broadway show, catch a bit of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus” or “Whose Line Is It, Anyway?” on TV, or listen to Craig Taubman sing “Mom’s Having a Baby,” we’ll be thinking of you.

Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Love you forever,
Dad

“Billy Elliot” in London
August 2010

With Aiden recently finishing his run of Pippin at the Play Group Theatre (playgroup.org), I am reminded of a couple of things. First, how much Aiden loves musical theater (really loves musical theater) and how that all began with an invitation from Jonah to join him in the spectacular experience that is the Play Group Theatre (read both parts of “The Clown Mensch of White Plains” here at A Thread That Has No End, Feb 2010 and Mar 2010, to understand just how important PGT was in Jonah’s life). And second, that when the four of us saw Billy Elliot in London this past August, I made a note to write about Jonah’s love for musical theater outside of PGT.

Our family’s trip in August to England and Ireland was the first ridiculously big trip we’d taken since Hawaii in 2005 and Cozumel in 2006. Our feeling about England and Ireland was that we needed to begin creating new, big memories for our reconfigured family. We succeeded. But as wonderful as the trip was, it was clear that Jonah was missing from it. Hugely. Not the least because Jonah was a connoisseur of exotic accents, and he would have loved the ones we heard during our trip.

We also felt Jonah’s enormous absence while watching the lead character in Billy Elliot work through the difficult process of living his life in the aftermath of his mom’s death. As you can imagine, this brought more than a few tears to us as the story unfolded. And it moved me to write about Jonah and the stage, this time from his perspective as an audience member.

Billy Elliot was not the first show we’d seen since Jonah died. That moment belongs most auspiciously to Next to Normal, a musical about deep depression in the aftermath of a son-and-brother’s young death. Go figure.

Ellen and I have loved musical theater for most of our lives (excluding only those years when our parents hadn’t yet told us such a thing existed). So when we learned, back in 1996 (Jonah was six), about “Kids Night on Broadway” (one kid gets in free with every adult ticket), we heard the footlights calling. Auspiciously, Cats was our first family musical, a show that is so bad it’s kind of surprising Katie and Jonah ever wanted to see another. But dinner beforehand at Planet Hollywood always piqued their interest, so we were safe (at least, until one of them decided to become a vegetarian).

The records are murky from back then, but I think 1999 was very likely the moment that Jonah fell hard for the theater. In January we saw The Scarlet Pimpernel and in December we saw Les Miserables. That pretty much did it. Jonah’d been snagged. The humor, the exceptionally powerful music and, of course, the abundant violence … it just didn’t get any better than that!

In 2000, we saw Seussical: The Musical which was colorful, well composed, and had every kids’ favorite Dr. Seuss characters in it. Flawed though the show may have been, the kids loved it. And by the way, Seussical was Aiden’s first show (at the age of 6); I’ll never forget the look on his face when the lights went up. That look has yet to go away.

When we saw The Music Man in 2001, its lackluster effect on an 11-year-old boy wasn’t enough to dissuade Jonah from tagging along later that year for a noisy little musical called Rent. Talk about your “I wanna be a Broadway star when I grow up” phase!

2003 saw Jonah meet not Billy Elliot but Billy Joel as Movin’ Out became that year’s “Kids Night on Broadway” experience. Not big on plot, a disappointing lack of violence, and dancing that wasn’t bad but wasn’t a big selling point for Jonah either. Nevertheless, 13-year-old Jonah found Billy Joel’s music irresistible.

Then, in 2004, came Wicked. And Blue Man Group … two stupendous shows that made Jonah’s eyes pop. How he loved both of them! Especially the outrageous musical-rhythmic pyrotechnics (yep, fire … always one of Jonah’s favorites) of Blue Man Group.

In 2005, we all winced our way through Harvey Fierstein as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, where Anatevka looked like a beautiful, rustic little coffee house in Central Park and Harvey’s Tevye in no way fit Shalom Aleichem’s nostalgic model.

Also in 2005, our family took a little side trip to Westchester Community College where we got to see a student production of Personals, Jonah’s old man’s off-Broadway musical (produced at NYC’s Minetta Lane Theater in 1985). It was fun to be a celebrity for a couple of minutes, and I think Jonah kind of dug that.

2005 provided Jonah the opportunity to again see Rent (this time with his Ardsley Middle School acting class) and, with yours truly, Avenue Q. Jonah especially enjoyed the outrageous videos during the show, and he brought home a poster (“What the Fuzz?”) that still adorns his bedroom wall.

Also in 2005, with his Kutz Camp pals, Jonah saw the Elvis Presley musical, All Shook Up. He brought home the CD because of the great guitar work in that show. He also brought home a t-shirt, which he promptly nailed to the ceiling of his room. Who nails t-shirts to their ceiling?

In 2006, we all saw The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee for “Kids Night on Broadway.” More outrageous humor which the kids all loved. Later that year, Jonah joined me and Ellen at Sweeney Todd, the version where the characters play their own musical instruments. We knew someone in the cast so, after the show, not only did we get a backstage tour but every cast member signed a program for Jonah. As he headed into his last two years of high school, this was a moment of real inspiration for him.

2007’s “Kids Night on Broadway” offering was Spamalot. By this time, Katie had aged out of eligibility for a free ticket and, in place of that, had gone off to college (we managed to enjoy things despite her absence). Spamalot, of course, was an instant hit with Jonah as he had loved Monty Python ever since learning his first four-letter words. That summer, Jonah saw Stomp when Kutz Camp took the kids into New York City for a day. And in March, he got to see Spring Awakening which, I think, blew him away. It was intensely dramatic, filled with great music, and teen sex. What’s not to love?

Jonah’s final “Kids Night on Broadway” production, two days before his 18th birthday, was A Chorus Line. Not nearly as good as the original (which Ellen and I had seen “back in the day”) but it’s one of the most important musicals ever created, and Jonah sensed that.

One of the last shows he ever got to see (April 2008) was Buddy (the Buddy Holly story). Somehow, this was perfect. The story of one of rock’s pioneers in the 1950s. More great guitar work. And he got to see it with his chums at Summit High School.

PGT’s “Hair”
June 2008

But the final show for Jonah was Hair in Central Park, only a few days after his own production of Hair had finished with PGT. He and Aiden saw it with a bunch of friends (Aiden had stood in line for hours that morning in order to procure a pair of free tickets for himself and Jonah). Hair was a defining theatrical moment in Jonah’s life. It represented the culmination of so much of his growing up. His peers respected him for it. His directors were flabbergasted by the difference in Jonah’s stage skills between his beginning at PGT in eighth grade and Hair in twelfth grade. But even moreso, they couldn’t miss the stature that Jonah had earned in his PGT community, and how powerfully his absence would be felt after his graduation.

There was quite nearly one more musical, but Jonah missed it only by days. Previews for the 2009 revival of Hair began the day after Jonah died, and we had five tickets to see it on March 10 (both Katie and Jonah were to be home from college for spring break). We sat shiva instead.

At the end of Billy Elliot this summer in London, he and his mom sing to each other, “Love you forever.” Those words are the same ones we’ve used countless times with our own children. Taking them to shows, sharing our own love for music and for theater with them, has always been one of the many ways we’ve given our love to these beautiful kids of ours. As Billy Elliot lowered its curtain, it did so intoning a reminder that however we do it, whatever we do it with, and for however long, our hearts are given to our children. And even if one of them ceases to live, our hearts never cease giving that love. Because when we said, “Love you forever,” we really meant it.

Billy

Try as I might to not count time in terms of how long it’s been since Jonah died, I find it an impossible undertaking. Through acts of determination, I can sometimes turn off that clock – in fact, I can turn off most of my being conscious that Jonah has disappeared – but there are moments when it all comes flying back. As I’m sure you understand, Jonah’s yahrzeit is one of those moments.

It’s been two years.

Incredibly, so much water has flowed beneath that bridge. Gone are the incessant tears that came daytime or night, at home or on the road, during seemingly happy moments and certainly during the dreadful ones. Gone the abject sadness of sitting in his room, the cheerless hours wading through his photographs, the wrenching heartbreak of trying to grab hold of anything that might restore the feeling that he’s still here.

I’m writing less frequently about him too. Not because I want to; I’d like to write more. But mostly because life has resumed its claim on me. After all, my family needs me. And I need them. There’s a job to do, as well. Woodlands Community Temple has never left me looking around for something to keep myself busy. And so life, and all of its attendant parts, has me relinquishing my compulsion to seize everything that’s Jonah, and exchange it for something that resembles, for all intents and purposes, normalcy.

I think what I’m trying to say is that the grieving process has done its job. I am not “healed.” Jonah’s death is not “over with” (I doubt that could ever fully be … though ask me again in another two years). I have not “moved on.” But I think I may be learning how to “carry on.” I think I’ve relearned the way to access life’s blessings. And I’m enjoying that.

When the time is right – when there’s either a little bit of breathing space, or it’s time to force that space – I come back to be with both the fullness of spirit that was my son Jonah Maccabee, and also with the emptiness of spirit that his absence has burnt into my heart. I don’t know if this is how it will always be, but that’s how it is for right now.

I think I’ve learned a lot these past two years about grief. I say “I think” because, while I’ve learned about my own grief, I don’t know that I understand what anyone else is going through. What I do know is that I’m a lot quieter around people who are mourning a loved one’s death; I’ve learned humility in the face of loss. I won’t tell someone else how it will be or what they must do. I’ll extend a hand, lend a shoulder, offer a bit of my heart, and try to let my caring absorb the tiniest bit of their pain. Maybe that can help.

And if I know the person who died, I’ll share a memory about how that person lived. I’ll do this because I remember that when I was immersed in sadness for Jonah, the very sweetest thing anyone could do for me (can still do for me) was to start a sentence with, “I remember when Jonah …” God, I cherish those memories. Maybe others do too.

Two years after Jonah’s death, I’m still learning how not to die myself. These are tough lessons, but I’m getting there. And I’m grateful to all of you who have helped me along the way. It’s kind of funny – through tragedy I have learned how much abundant blessing remains.

But I wish there were easier ways to achieve that understanding.

At one of the services during the week of shiva, our friend Cantor Leon Sher sang a lovely and touching Dan Nichols piece, called “Beyond.” It’s a beautiful homage to God that expresses appreciation for the exquisiteness of the created world. Prior to the service, Leon had asked Ellen if she would write out the words for him. During the service, while listening to Leon’s singing, I noticed the words Ellen had given him, that she had neglected to capitalize “You” and “Your,” as is customary in making reference to God. Suddenly, I heard the piece not as an address to the Creator, but to one of God’s created … my Jonah.

“May your wonder be celebrated. May your name be consecrated. May your brilliance never fade from the magnificent world you made.” As I considered the multitude of ways Jonah had built magnificence during his two decades, I knew this song had become a prayer, and I was praying that I might be able to live my life in the years ahead in a manner that would honor Jonah’s memory — both through recollections of his years among us and through acts that would be done in the spirit of the way he had lived.

The rest of Dan’s words clinched it. “May your name receive the same beauty that you bring, though you are far beyond the sweetest song we could ever sing.” Far beyond, indeed. And we do still sing. Jonah has finished his work. His name is a good one. And now, we who love him and remember him, try to ensure that his name does receive the same beauty he brought to it.

The next time I hear Dan Nichols’ “Beyond,” the capital letters will most likely have returned and God will once again be its subject. Just the same, part of me will always treasure “Beyond” as a thank you to God for having shared Jonah with me, even if only for a brief while. It will be a thank you because, as much as I miss him, I’m even more grateful for the years he walked (sorry, strutted!) among us. And it will be a thank you to Jonah for bringing us closer to God. Because that beautiful soul of his, all gruff and comedic so that it shouldn’t be too easy to detect the angel residing within, has pointed my heart ever moreso toward a sense of what it is we humans can, and ought to, do with these bones and muscles we’ve been lent. Like Levi Yitzhak, who, when he died, people were surprised to learn how much good he had done for so many, I am still experiencing the stunning moments of young people who share with me a cherished memory of theirs in which Jonah (or Mac, it depends on when you met him) brought much-needed light and kindness to their world.

All of it simply humbles me. And still I love. Jonah’s death cannot erect any kind of barrier against that.

Zekher tzadik livrakha … may his memory always be for a blessing. And with the way it’s wrapped itself around my heart, I can’t see it being anything but a blessing.

Billy

This entry is an expansion of a piece I wrote for Woodlands Community Temple’s Makom newsletter (March 2011).

Dear sweet Jonah,

I’ve dreaded the arrival of this day for quite some time now. February 14, 2011. Your birthday. And Valentine’s Day (a convergence we always adored). You’re supposed to be twenty-one.

First legal drink and all that. I was really looking forward to taking you out for your birthday dinner and a drink, not because you’d relish finally being able to look a waiter in the eye and ask for a Rolling Rock rather than sneaking one in the dorm, but because you detested alcohol and wouldn’t really have known how to celebrate this day.

Just like your old man, who also never cared for alcohol but who would very happily (giddily, in fact) have taken you out and even downed a brew (tried to, at least) right along with you. How fun that would have been. A moment for us to remember for all time.

19 years old
February 2009

Instead, here it is, your twenty-first birthday, and you’re not here to celebrate it. Your calendar ceased advancing almost two years ago, so that, twenty-one years after your birth, you’re still nineteen. You always will be.

There’s a beauty to that, of course. I learned this from a gentleman at temple whose brother died when they were both young, and who describes how, even though he’s in his late-70s, the dreams he has of his brother are always of a young man in his 20s. Nowadays, he loves that. Of course, he’s had fifty years to get used to the idea. I’ve only had two.

Frankly, I still wish your calendar was advancing. And I can’t help but wonder: How long would your hair be today? Would you have a beard? Would your clothes still be too big? What necklace would you be wearing? Would black-and-white checkerboard squares still describe your hat?

I don’t know what it means to wish you happy birthday, Jonah. But if you still exist in some other-dimensional form, I hope it’s a happy day to be sure. Around here, it’s only a little bit clearer what today is about. You are very much on your loved ones’ minds, family and friends (who still miss you deeply) alike. And in one way or another, we’re each toasting your name, each raising a glass to the wonder that was you, shedding tears because we can’t give you a great big birthday hug, and heading off into our day, forever enriched by the time that we did get with you.

Loving you forever,
Dad

Billy and Frankie
circa 1973

Dear Jonah,

When I was a kid growing up in Cincinnati, there were nine members of my family living under one roof. This included my parents, five siblings, me … and Frankie, our dog. Originally saddled with the moniker,“Frankie VI,” this “apricot” (really? he always looked brown to me) poodle was the offspring of “Brown Elf of the Studio” and “Bon Bon of Crevelings.” Frankie’s snobbish breeders picked the wrong home if they thought “Frankie VI” would be primped and coddled in the same manner his parents were. Frankie was our pal. We never subjected him to the hair stylings customarily imposed on poodles. And we certainly did not train him for any shows. He was our friend, our buddy, our pooch. Frankie was born in September of 1958, so I was only two-ish when he arrived to 1221 Avon Drive in Cincy. For a long while, he was not my dog. Frankie and I were both puppies in that house. But over time, as my five brothers and sisters headed for new landscapes, abandoning 1221 for their own green pastures, Frankie gradually bonded with me, and I with him so that, by my teen years, we were inseparable. And because of that, I figured I’d be a dog owner my entire life.

Ellen and Sam
1982

Not so. Frankie died, having lived a pretty good, long life, when I was sixteen. My mom and I were alone in the house by then, and bringing home a new pup wasn’t in the cards. She was busy. And I was too self-involved to take on such responsibility. So high school finished up, and I took off for college where I met Ellen. She had a great dog named Sam. A beautiful, blonde, shaggy mutt, who befriended me probably thinking I was an easy mark for extra snacks. He was right. After college, Ellen moved to New York and neither of us could take care of Sam. We were extremely fortunate that Sam’s vet had also fallen in love with him and offered to adopt him. That was 1978, and the last time I’d be sharing digs with a canine until this year.

Charlie meets Aiden
June 2010

You kids and I had actually been talking about getting a dog for a very long time. You and Katie had lobbied for one pretty much from forever. But Mom had her hands full with three kids and “Dad, Mom’s other child,” so she said we could get a dog if she never had to do anything to take care of it. Well, I was still not quick to volunteer for more responsibility, and you and Katie, sweet as you were about asking for a dog, simply couldn’t be relied upon to manage one, so we put it off until some future opportunity.

You wouldn’t get that opportunity, Jonah. But Katie, having returned home for two years of graduate school said, “Dad, it’s now or never.” So Aiden, Katie and I visited a couple of local animal shelters. At the one in Elmsford, NY, we were introduced to a little fella named Drake who had flown up from North Carolina in an airplane that had been retrofitted for animal rescue, dodging the death sentence mandatory for dogs that go unadopted down there. Unlike most of the other dogs in the Elmsford Animal Shelter, this one wasn’t in a crate; the staff liked keeping him behind the counter to hang out with them. An excellent sign. We took the little guy for a walk, liked him right away, and asked them not to do anything with him until we had a chance to convince Ellen it was time. Two days later, Mom returned with us to the shelter and, an hour later, we had a dog in the backseat of our car.

Charlie meets Katie
June 2010

We were encouraged to find him a new name, just in case the old one carried any unfortunate memories. I left that task to Aiden and Katie who immediately named him after the little British kid in the viral YouTube video who bites his brother’s finger, a video all three of my children loved watching over and over. And that’s how, on June 24, 2010, “Charlie” became the newest Dreskin.

Note: Much later I learned they had also named him after Charlie the Magical Unicorn, a peculiar collection of video shorts that Aiden and Katie also love.

The ironic comparison between you and Charlie is not lost on me. In a tragic instant, a single, heartrending moment, our boy of nineteen years is gone. Fifteen months later, in a series of similarly brief moments, Charlie enters a kill-shelter, evades death as he is rescued from that kill-shelter, finds his way to us some 600-700 miles away in New York, and now sleeps with his little body nuzzled up against the warm radiator in our home and the warm love in our hearts.

You (my puppy)
circa 1996

I don’t believe in fate, Jonah, but I do think we give critical meaning to the random events that make up our lives. You were not supposed to die, and yet my mind still struggles to figure out why you did. Charlie was not supposed to come to us, but I love considering him as a gift you sent our way. Because, I have to tell you, there’s more to this pup than his cute face. Charlie’s essential puppiness reminds me so very clearly of your “puppiness.” You were such a playful guy. You loved nothing more than to engage in goofiness that would bring a smile (if not also a gasp or two) to someone’s face. And the smile that would appear on your own face at these moments, we just knew you were getting a bigger kick out of it than we were.

And something else. From time to time, I like to go into your bedroom and curl up on your couch to read a book or just look at the posters and other decor from your high school years. More often than not, Charlie follows me in there and loves nothing more than to curl up on the alpaca rug that still covers part of your floor. I remember the trip to South Carolina where you first discovered that alpaca rug. I remember you curling up on it in almost the same way Charlie does, with the same look of heaven illuminating your face.

I know I’m making more out of this than there really is, but I choose to see a connection between that pooch and my son. Yes, one walked upright and the other on all fours, but these two puppies could have come from the same litter. And I love that!

Six months ago, a little beagle/basset hound mix came into our family. We fell in love with him pretty quickly. It’s clear to me now that we got far more than we’d bargained for. In the film, Pretty Woman?, Richard Gere’s character asks, “So what happened after he climbed up the tower and rescued her?” And Julia Roberts’ character answers, “She rescues him right back.” Our family has carried on in the months (now, nearly “years”) since your death. But unbridled joyfulness was difficult to come by. A little dog we rescued named Charlie has helped us turn that around. And by doing so, he’s made himself a precious part of our family.

You would have adored him.

Jonah’s footstone is up. It only took us nineteen months. It’s not that we haven’t been out to his grave. We have. Plenty of times. We just haven’t been in a hurry to do this part of it. We likely feel there’s something a bit too compliant about setting the stone. It means accepting Jonah’s gone. It means there’s probably no way he’s coming back. My head gets that. It’s my heart that refuses to acquiesce.

But there it is. Jonah’s footstone. In all its stony glory. “Jonah Maccabee Dreskin. Yonah Makabee ben Ze’ev v’Eelana. February 14, 1990 – March 5, 2009.”

I spent some time there recently. With the placing of the footstone, I’d assumed that the tiny dreidl and guitar pick which had been there through winter snows and summer lawn-cuttings would disappear. But thanks to the installation guy, they didn’t. Ellen had left the dreidl. And a friend of mine, the guitar pick. Each represents just a little bit of the love so many of us felt for this kid. And still do.

As much as I wish we’d never had to arrange for any of this, I’m pleased with the stone. It’s got little touches to it that I think Jonah would have liked. His full name is there, of course – he loved being Jonah Maccabee, loved the implication of being some kind of modern-day warrior for peace. And instead of a dash between his birth and death dates, we engraved a ukulele. Can you see him smiling? We also added the words, “We’ll love you forever. We’ll like you for always.” It’s a variation on the lullaby from Robert Munsch’s classic children’s story, “Love You Forever,” a book we’d read to the kids hundreds of times. Not only did we all love the story, one in which a parent’s affection transcended all obstacles brought on by the passing of years, but we got such a kick out of how the mom was always singing the lullaby to her child and we each had our own melody for it. Of course, we also cherished the idea that family love transcends all time and space. More than ever, we still believe that.

There is, in fact, something very wrong with the stone. The birth and death dates are far too close together. Not in the layout – the ukulele between them makes sure of that – but in the living of them. I’m so very, very, very sorry that Jonah didn’t get more years. His was a story that deserved a fuller telling. How we wondered where life would take him. How we thrilled at the directions he was just starting to take. This story too could have become a classic.

At the same time, an awful lot did happen between those two dates. I don’t know too many people who packed as much life into so little time as Jonah did. He really did have a lot of ukulele (and so many other adventures that he loved) between his start and his finish.

As I sit in the grass, staring at this new addition to what remains of Jonah’s existence, I notice how really quiet it is out here. And then I think, it’s not that different from what his room usually sounded like, even when he was in it. Of course, he was always wearing headphones so I assume there was actually quite a racket going on. But whenever I poked my head into Jonah’s room, a silence filled the space. A silence that was bursting with activity. I wonder … any chance the same is true inside this new silence?

Jewish tradition invites us to leave a stone when we visit a grave. It lets the next person know someone has been there. I don’t like picking up stones at the cemetery itself, so on my way there, I pulled off the road, got out of my car and, in less than a minute, had picked one up and secured it inside my pocket. It wasn’t until I had arrived to Jonah’s grave and was again holding the stone in my hand that I understood why this was the one. I set it down next to the engraved image of the ukulele, and I smiled at the stone’s black-and-white speckling. It recalled the black-and-white checkered hat Jonah had loved so much. The perfect choice. I can’t have Jonah in my life, and that brings me unrelenting sadness. But there are so many opportunities for all that kooky sweetness of his to enter powerfully into heart and mind. I’m grateful that he still makes me smile.

Even the Hebrew of his name seems right. He was so proud of being Jewish, and of that uncommon, strapping Jewish name of his. One more ingredient that makes this marker uniquely Jonah’s.

Before I depart the cemetery, I zoom out, taking in the larger picture of Jonah’s grave among so many others, some I know and many I do not. Jonah’s appeared there far too soon. But if it must be, then at least it will continue (as Jonah was so adept at doing in life) to draw love from the friends and family who stop by to visit, and to remember, and to feel gratitude for the times we did get with him.

As I walk away, I’m overtaken by the inescapable feeling that I’m leaving him behind. Once more, I remind myself that while his body is there, he isn’t. As usual, my heart refuses to play along.

At the bottom of the stone are letters which stand in for the words, “T’hee nish-ma-to tzru-rah bitz-ror ha-kha-yim … may his soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life.” Which, I guess, sums up my most fervent wish for Jonah … that he be okay, that he be somewhere that’s right, that he feel loved and cared for, and if possible, that he have the opportunity to use that enormous heart and spirit of his to continue bringing kindness into whatever world he now calls home.

Billy

The Union for Reform Judaism publishes a wonderful educational resource called “Torah at the Center.” In preparing for the Fall 2010 issue on “God and Reform Judaism,” they asked if I would write about how the death of a loved one can change one’s views on God. While I can’t speak for anyone but myself, here is what I sent them.

As a rabbinical student, I was required to defend an intellectual argument for my personal belief in God, a position which my instructor thoroughly annihilated with a few well-placed philosophical thrusts. Theologically traumatized, it was many years before I understood that God is not so much what we can prove via our cerebral prowess as it is about what we can deeply feel inside … about ourselves, about the world we live in, about the people we share it with, and about what we’d like our role in it to be. Since even the soundest intellectual constructs of God are susceptible to being poked, prodded and deconstructed by those who find value in doing that sort of thing, I’ve since chosen to build my relationship with God on admittedly flawed, inconsistent and contradictory feelings (yes, feelings!) about the universe.

For the first fifty-two years of my life, I grew pretty comfortable living in a world I felt to be of God’s making, and expressing gratitude for the gifts bestowed by our Creator day in and day out. The particular gifts which I prayed about (Jewish prayer primarily being time when we show appreciation for what we have, as opposed to petitioning for what we want) are perhaps more familiar in a science lab than in a worship space: laws of gravity, of thermonuclear dynamics, and of quantum mechanics. They may not seem much like the warm and fuzzy birthday presents we receive from people who love us, but they’re the basic building-blocks of life which we humans rely upon to get out of bed each morning and to do constructive things with our days (like bringing warm and fuzzy birthday presents to people we love).

I had never believed in any sort of afterlife. Scientifically, it never made sense to me, and I was more than okay disappearing into the earth upon my physical demise. My theological outlook was that you and I have been granted by our Creator a great gift called life, and we ought to try and do worthwhile things with it while we’re alive because when we die, it’s all over.

What I hadn’t counted on was someone dying whose life was more precious to me than my own, and my comfortable theology being turned on its head. In March 2009, my son, Jonah Maccabee Dreskin, died while he was away from home for his freshman year of college. An amazingly bright, funny, talented and exceedingly kind young man, Jonah’s death left me with a broken heart and more than a handful of questions.

The first question, “Why?” – although it certainly came to mind often – was never the one to which I seriously needed an answer. I respect the laws of nature that manage our physical world, and I’m grateful that God enforces them (i.e., that they remain in effect forever and for all of us). So as much as it hurt when Jonah died, no explanation was asked for, or needed by me, from God.

But the question that dogged me took me by complete surprise: “What happens after we die?” Since I had assumed that the death’s significance with which I needed to grapple was my own, I was comfortable leaving this question alone. Whatever happens, happens; I’ll see it (or not) when I get there. But now it’s my son who has gone “there” and, contrary to every reasonable idea I’ve ever had about where we go when we die, I now find it’s become incredibly important to me that we go on existing in some familiar way after we’ve left our earthly body behind. Simply put, my head may not think an afterlife exists, but my heart pumps a much louder, more emotionally compelling, message: I want to see my boy again.

God may exist at some infinitely great distance from us that precludes our ever knowing or understanding just what God is or does – not at all unlike the distance between the Big Bang and science’s ability to see the universe 10^-43 seconds after the Big Bang (“Planck’s Constant”). For most of us, while the Big Bang is an important challenge to how we understand God, it’s likely that the Big Bump – the scrapes and bruises life hands us as we scurry and stumble from its greatest heights to its most awful lows – will play a leading role in what we find ourselves choosing to believe about God. For me, it’s the distance from my heart to a 19-year old I won’t ever get to hug again, at least not in this lifetime, that, these days, fires my theological quest and my leaps of faith.

Billy

You can view the Union for Reform Judaism’s entire issue of God at the Center at http://urj.org/learning/teacheducate/publications/tatc (click on “Vol 14, No 1, God”).

We Dreskins have simple tastes. There are not a lot of fancy restaurants in our story (although Ruth’s Chris is definitely at the top of the list when it comes to celebrating important stuff like high school graduations). Mostly, we’re about fast-food chains and family dining spots (which could be why we often eat alone). The collection of watering holes we’ve frequented is an always-changing list, but many of them have become backdrops for sustained family memories. I think this may be because my mind’s eye has compiled an album of “brain-matter images” that include Jonah with us in these places. And if for no other reason than to be able to see his face in my memory, it’s worth recalling every junky restaurant where he had a burger and a Coke and we got to spend just one more hour with him.

Makin’ A Motzi!
Kutz Camp, November 2006

Here’s “the list.” Brace yourself. If you’re not a junk-food journeyer, you may cringe. But the criterion was a simple one: Have something on your menu to satisfy each person in our family, and we’re yours (at least until someone decides they hate it and won’t ever eat there again … and we wouldn’t). Subway, Arby’s, Skyline Chili, Bob Evans, Chuck E. Cheese’s, T.G.I. Friday’s, Burger King, Applebee’s, Fuddrucker’s, Outback Steakhouse, Gasho, Planet Pizza, McDonald’s (until Aiden forbade us from eating there ever again … see what I mean?), LaManda’s, Cactus Jack’s and the Cheesecake Factory.

There are stories associated with each one of these restaurants, moments that brought a smile to our faces, or simply things that we did which, while being really very trivial, have become the sacred memories both of our kids’ childhood years and, of course, Jonah’s life. For instance, the McDonald’s we frequented had one of those PlayPlaces to keep little kids busy for more than the 2½ minutes it takes for them to consume their meals. Jonah probably overstayed his place in the PlayPlace beyond the time when most kids age out of it. But he really couldn’t help himself – he was a playful kid (who also didn’t at all mind being the biggest kid on the block when the opportunity presented itself). After dinner, we’d usually walk down the sidewalk to Play It Again Sports, which sold used athletic equipment, and the kids would mess with the loads of stuff that was sold there while watching me befriend yet another stranger (a recurring theme in our lives): the store’s manager who always sat behind a counter in the center of his shop, ruling his tiny kingdom with a watchful eye and a friendly word.

Like McDonald’s, Burger King lasted until the kids aged out of it. When they were little, I took them there a lot, befriending yet another manager, this one giving us free desserts and spending a few minutes chatting with us between customers. He was an immigrant, which provided a curious backdrop for our encounters. Two individuals from different countries and very different upbringings, sharing a really nice acquaintance that was utterly bizarre to my children but (as they can tell you) no longer a surprise to them. Jonah never stopped loving Burger King and neither did I. So right through the end of high school, when we were by ourselves, he and I would often stop there to get burgers and (for him) a Frozen Coke. By the way, Jonah always got a Whopper, asking them to leave off two ingredients (which two, tomatoes or onions or mayonnaise, none of us can accurately remember, emphasizing the seemingly trivial but no less important and emotional act of trying to recall the details of the life of this boy we so dearly loved). Just a few weeks ago, I stopped in for lunch (yep, still haven’t outgrown it) and my friend was there. Telling him about the death of one of the kids he’d watched grow through the years brought great sadness to his face, along with a weary, knowing acceptance of the pain that life can place before us.

In the early 90s, when we lived in Cleveland, Bob Evans was one of our very favorite restaurants (remember the main criterion … something for everyone). In July 1993, when the city got hit by a massive storm that caused a three-day blackout, we were sitting in “Bobby Evvy” (as Katie and Jonah called it). Our family watched through the windows as Cleveland was plunged into a world without electricity, and a pioneering adventure began for us all. Arriving back home, we embarked upon three days of camping out in our living room, sleeping bags on the floor, keeping the night at bay with flashlights and candles, playing board games, reading books, telling stories, going to sleep much earlier than even 3-year-old Jonah was used to doing, and being part of something much simpler, much slower, than we’d previously known. I even wrote two sermons by hand, which was something quite novel for this young rabbi who’d entered the personal computer age with zealous devotion and had no intention of ever looking back. Eventually, the Cleveland Illuminating Company turned the lights back on, but not before we all got the rarest of treats – long hours of lazy, uninterrupted time with the family we loved, a memory we’d not soon forget and that we would cherish far longer.

On Friday evenings whenever Ellen had to leave early for work, Applebee’s became our restaurant of choice. The only time she would allow us to have a Shabbat meal that wasn’t a sit-down at our dining room table was when she was away and everyone understood I’d never excel at preparing a full and proper dinner for my kids. We dubbed it “ShabApplebee’s” and once we even lit two matches to usher in Shabbat at our table. Jonah liked it when we ordered the Sampler, competing with us for scoops of artichoke dip and sticks of fried mozarella. Somewhere around age 16, Jonah stunned us when he became concerned about healthy eating and his meal became, first, a fried chicken salad and, later, a fried chicken salad wrap (but with no tomatoes and no dressing, which I record here simply because I like to remember what he liked). When Jonah and Aiden finished their meals, they would run down to EB Games and check out the latest and greatest possibilities for separating dear old dad from some of his buckets of money (because they knew he enjoyed an exciting videogame almost as much as they did). Oh, and sometimes on a weeknight, the “Shab” part dropped off the Applebee’s name and Ellen got to eat there with us too!

Fuddrucker’s, Feb 2006
See the light-thingie?

There was no Fuddrucker’s anywhere near us. Jonah and I first tried one when he was in the seventh grade, the day he’d been suspended from school for 24 hours (for talking back to one of his teachers) and accompanied me to New Jersey for a graveside funeral service at which I was officiating. He was fascinated by the cemetery, and was so well-behaved that I rewarded him by finding somewhere we could get him a great burger. The fact that Fuddrucker’s also served root beer on tap is probably what completely won him over. After that, it wasn’t often we’d go to Paramus, NJ, for a burger but, when we did (including Jonah’s 16th birthday), it was noteworthy that Jonah always volunteered to hold the light-thingie (can you think of a better term for it?) that let customers know when their meal was ready for pickup. He was always the one to go up and retrieve our food. I was forever impressed by this because it seemed like the kind of thing kids would expect their parents to do for them. I always felt it was so kind of Jonah to get the food, a sign he was growing out of his (sometimes infuriating) self-centeredness and transforming into this gentle, self-assured, generous young man.

Gasho
May 2004

Gasho is a Japanese hibachi restaurant, the kind where you sit around a large flat cooking area, often with other guests you’ve never in your life seen before. Either Ellen or I served as the buffer between our kids and the unknown others at our table, and I admit that I was as reluctant to engage in conversation with them as my kids (they may have known me as the guy who was always talking to strangers, but I like to pick which strangers). Something about having dinner out was a very personal affair for us, and sitting with people we didn’t know was not what enticed us to eat there. As usual, it was key that Gasho had something each member of the family liked to eat (Jonah’s favorite was hibachi shrimp). But we also all got a kick out of the comedy routines the chefs always presented, which seemed ancient (as in “Don’t you guys ever find any new material?”) and universal (as in “Do you think the chefs here in Butte, Montana, apprenticed at Gasho?”). Jonah, long a fan of broccoli, looked forward to catching a piece in his mouth as it was flipped his way across the hibachi grill. The little boy peeing cooking oil onto the stove surface never ceased to bring a smile to the kids’ faces. And the flaming onion volcano, being of pyrotechnic status, was probably Jonah’s favorite. When the chef had completed his routine, cleaned off the grill and set off to find his next audience, Jonah and Aiden liked taking pieces of ice from their water glasses and skimming them one-by-one across the still warm cooking surface. There, the ice would move through all of its physical states: solid ice, to melted water, to steaming bubbles, and then gone. The two brothers were entertained by this game until all of their ice had disappeared and then, if they had no more food to consume, they’d head out to the gardens and goof around out there until we were ready to depart. On the way home, we usually stopped at Carvel Ice Cream where Jonah would most likely order a cookie dough or chocolate milkshake. Because everything melted quickly there, we’d hang out in the parking lot to devour our ice cream before heading back home. All in all, this was always a really nice evening for the five of us – some of our favorite foods, with ample room for some of our favorite characters to be themselves and have some fun with mom and dad who were as pleased as could be to simply watch it all happen.

LaManda’s is a local, family-run Italian restaurant. They’re best-known for their pizza and salad. It wasn’t a restaurant we frequented but, from time to time, we’d get there. The best table in the house was the one beneath a window where the kids could stand on their seats and peer in as the pizzas were prepared. Of course, an argument always preceded that as to who would get the two seats that were actually next to the wall. Afterwards, we’d head over to the Haagen-Dazs Ice Cream Parlor for some scoops, always a welcome dessert in this family. Something about ice cream dampens orneriness, and always made the kids really nice to be around. Until an hour or so later, of course, when their blood sugar took a dive for the worse!

One town over, there used to be a nice little Mexican restaurant called Cactus Jack’s. We loved this one. A live mariachi band, tacos and popcorn chicken and, of course, Carvel always followed. Another Dreskin classic.

When the kids were younger, on Tuesdays (which has always been my day-off and, thus, a perfect time for Ellen to go to work) I always took the kids out for dinner (“helpless” is another good way to describe me in a kitchen). But we’d never eat at a restaurant; that wasn’t my style. Away we’d go to the Galleria in White Plains, where Dad (classy guy that he is) treated the kids to whatever they wanted in the Food Court. Jonah usually grabbed a burger at McDonald’s (although pizza at Sbarro was a contender as well). When Friendly’s was operating there, ice cream followed (what else is new?). But what made this outing an especially tasty treat was the quick after-dinner shopping (before getting home for schoolwork and baths) during which I gave each kid a five dollar credit at K•B Toys. It would take Aiden and Katie only a few minutes to select an action figure or Polly Pocket to bring home with them. But Jonah could never make up his mind. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes later, I’d be pleading with him to decide, and often ended up giving him the five dollars outright. And thus began his tenacious savings habit, earning him thousands of dollars in the bank because he rarely spent any money he earned or received as gifts. Until, that is, he realized he could purchase an acoustic guitar, two electric guitars, an ukulele and a mandolin … because he’d never spent a penny as a child!

Ruth’s Chris
formal photos @ the rock
May 2008

No junk food is available at Ruth’s Chris (except maybe their Tempura Onion Rings). We’ve gone there to celebrate Katie’s high school graduation, Jonah’s high school graduation, Aiden’s middle school graduation and Katie’s 21st birthday. A fancy restaurant with the most amazing steaks in the world, that’s the one the Dreskins loved for our most special moments with the people we love. And of all the bistros mentioned in this writing, I hope Ruth’s Chris will be the one whose inside we see again soon. And Skyline Chili too!

At Eisner Camp in the summer of 2004, the Tzofim Show saw Jonah cast in the role of a Jewish rap artist named Etan G, performing his signature piece, “Makin’ a Motzi.” From that time forward, “Makin’ a Motzi” became Jonah Dreskin’s signature piece, performing it event after event throughout his NFTY years. The Motzi gives thanks for the earth’s ability to bring forth blessings of sustenance and well-being. At each one of these unremarkable yet well-appreciated focus points for our family’s gatherings, we were sustained both in body and in spirit. If wholeness is a goal for which we strive in our lives, these meals brought our family a wholeness which even the distance Jonah’s death has placed between him and us can never diminish.

Billy

Each year, Craig Taubman publishes “Jewels of Elul” online as part of the Jewish community’s preparation for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur during the Hebrew month of Elul, which immediately precedes the High Holy Days. This year, Craig’s theme is “The Art of Beginning … Again,” and he asked if I would contribute a piece that conveys my family’s journey and renewal in the aftermath of Jonah’s death. This is the piece I wrote.

Billy

My daughter Katie and I were trying to navigate our way to a restaurant located one state over. The phone’s GPS had given out and we were lost (typical when I’m driving). I then decided to let my instincts guide me (a very foolish choice) and, to my and my daughter’s endless surprise, somehow found a stunningly direct route to the restaurant. Katie remarked, “In what lifetime could you ever have found this on your own?”

My 19-year-old son Jonah had died only a month earlier. This was actually one of his favorite restaurants. Katie and I had decided to go there in his memory. And we were certainly wondering if he had played some role in guiding us there.

A year and half since Jonah’s death, I’m now beginning to understand my process of grief and recovery. Each and every day, I ache a bit, I cry a bit, and I take a tiny step forward back into my life. Sometimes it’s to look for evidence that Jonah is still with me – either metaphysically by my side, or profoundly resident deep within my heart – and sometimes it’s to live a moment or two without his laying claim to my entire spirit (sometimes I’m actually able to come out from under the shadow of my life without him).

Amidst Adversity, Blessings Abound
Hanukkah 2009

Each of us is the recipient of so many blessings. But being fragile, being breakable, not every moment’s going to be blessed. After the hurt, I think we pick ourselves up, limp if we have to, and (step by step) get back onto our path. We begin again. After all, the blessings haven’t gone away. And no matter how poor our navigational abilities, no matter what route we select, before long we’re bound to bump into a blessing or two.

Billy

You can read all of the “Jewels of Elul” at www.jewelsofelul.com.

Dear Jonah,

What was it with you and your camera? I’m not complaining, mind you; I’m just kind of stunned by it all. In 2006, you asked me if you could have one and I gave you mine (always happy to have an excuse to upgrade my tech). You used it all the time. You took so many pictures. And it’s not at all clear to me why. On the one hand, you snapped photographs of what appears to be everyone who ever attended a NFTY event or a PGT gathering. So maybe you wanted to chronicle the world as it unfolded around you. On the other hand, you sometimes paused to capture something exceptionally beautiful in nature. And I think, “Wow, where did he get the soul that allowed him to step away from the frenzy of his teenage years and catch a moment of infinity?”

First Self-Portrait
May 2005

“Everyone has a photographic memory, but not everyone has film.” I’m guessing that, in the same way you have so many of your friends’ photographs collected on your hard drive, there are lots of pictures of you on your friends’ hard drives. And except for those posted on Facebook, lots of them may never get seen. But you made a point of taking pictures of yourself, or pictures of you with someone else, and those are all on your hard drive too. And I have to ask, “Why?”

It’s a big question too, because you left me way too soon and now I’m starved for evidence that you were here and stuff that I can look at to remember you by. Somehow, you took that into account. You saved so many pictures of yourself that I now have and keep close to me. You couldn’t have known, could you? Or did you, at some much deeper level of consciousness, understand that your life would have a limited run? Perhaps I’m just lucky that you were one of those kids who always had a camera in his hand and enjoyed pointing it at yourself along the way.

Self-Portrait (my favorite)
September 2006

Eudora Welty wrote, “A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.” This is part of how I now live my life, Jonah … endeavoring to keep the moments of your life from disappearing. I collect words that you’ve written. I collect pictures you’ve drawn. I collect music you’ve played. And I collect photographs – those you’ve taken, and those others have taken of you. It’s not a perfect effort; it jogs my memory of you, but it’s not you. So I cry when I look at my collections. I cry because I miss you. I cry because I remember you. I cry because I wish I could touch you. Hold you. Tell you one more time how much I love you. And how grateful I am to have shared my life with you.

Yeah, I know. Mom and I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, we’ve taken more than our share of the photographs that fill our home. Perhaps you just picked up on that and began to carry it to the next generation. Whatever the reason, your pictures are a precious gift to us, and I just want to say thank you. Not only were you a wonderful son, you were a damn good archivist.

Nobody knew it, but that’s one of the most important things you needed to be.

Douglas Adams wrote, “If somebody thinks they’re a hedgehog, presumably you just give ’em a mirror and a few pictures of hedgehogs and tell them to sort it out for themselves.” Not sure what it is you saw when you looked at pictures of yourself, JoJo. But when I look at your photos, I’m reminded how dear and precious a young man you had become. And will remain.

Still loving you forever,
Dad