Clown-Mensch-in-Training
Club Med, April 1993

It’s time to write about The Play Group Theatre. PGT is a youth drama program in White Plains, NY. But it’s much, much more than that. PGT is a place – a safe place – where young people can spend portions of their teenage lives being challenged, being accepted, being respected, and being loved. It is a place – a much-needed place – where kids can safely do the hard work of growing into young adulthood. That PGT happens to produce shows is and is not a coincidence, because it’s run by Jill and Steven Abusch who love the theater. But they love kids even more. We consider Jill and Steven our sons’ second set of parents (which makes Jeff Downing, who directs many of PGT’s shows and much, much more, their favorite uncle). Aviva and Ilana may be Jill’s and Steven’s children by birth, but the hundreds of other young people who are lucky enough to find their way to whatever building PGT happens to occupy at the time, they too benefit from the love and wisdom these remarkably talented and caring people have to offer.

Here’s the rundown on Jonah Maccabee’s years at PGT.

Jonah had already done a bit of theater prior to Play Group. Back in the spring of 2002, he made his 6th grade theatrical debut as a gumshoe in Ardsley Middle School’s production of Teens in Tinseltown. In the spring of 2003, he appeared in Ardsley Middle School’s Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. But in the summer of 2003, he got his big break, playing Danny Zuko in Grease at Eisner Camp. In Jonah’s own words (from an eighth grade English assignment), his favorite memory from Grease:

The play went perfectly until the final scene. Danny was trying to convince Sandy to talk to him. He was just finishing his line as Sandy was supposed to walk onto the stage. But she didn’t. I had said, “You know, you guys mean a lot to me, but Sandy does too. And I’m gonna do whatever I can to get her back.” That’s when Sandy was supposed to walk on. Thinking quickly, I spat out, “I kinda wish she were here right now.” The audience started laughing. That was when Sandy came on and finished the play. That was close.

None of these early performances were among Jonah’s best. No one was knocking on his door asking him to audition (not even PGT), but he must have enjoyed the shows a lot, because when the chance came along to give PGT a try, Jonah didn’t hesitate.

PGT’s “Lucky Stiff”
May 2004

In the spring of 2004, Jonah (who was 14 and in the 8th grade) somehow arrived at PGT (the facts are shrouded in mystery but Ellen and I are pretty sure that Yoni Bronstein had something to do with it). JoJo’s first PGT show was a comic murder-mystery entitled Lucky Stiff. He played a number of small roles in the musical, my favorite being the emcee of a night club in Monte Carlo where he welcomed the evening’s guests by suavely crooning (or attempting to) with a French accent. Once again, it wasn’t an especially peak moment in Jonah’s theater history, but that boy was awfully cute! And the experience must have been sufficiently satisfying to him, because he showed up again at PGT the following fall (of 2004) and got himself cast in a strange little musical called The Hadleyburg Project. I remember sitting in the balcony of the Irvington Town Theater wondering, “What is this?” And, “Well, I guess this is what dads do for their kids.” But despite my ignorant attitude of what PGT was all about, Jonah got it, and he never missed a rehearsal and he immediately asked to sign up for the 2nd half of the year.

PGT’s “The Laramie Project”
May 2005

This time (spring of 2005), Jonah found himself in what would be, believe it or not, a surprisingly recurring role as a violent homophobe, this first time in a production of The Laramie Project. I attended because, after all, this was my boy and I needed to support him. I hadn’t counted on being moved to tears by the show. I hadn’t counted on being blown away by Jonah’s and his fellow actors’ performances. But here’s the thing with PGT. The Laramie Project wasn’t so much about putting on a good show, even though they most certainly did. Throughout the rehearsal process, their directors reminded them again and again that theater exists to teach us about our own lives. Watching Jonah onstage, I had difficulty drawing the line between him and his character, and so I cried for everything I loved about him and everything I didn’t. That’s pretty good theater. PGT was definitely beginning to endear itself to me.

In the fall of 2005, Jonah found himself cast simultaneously in two PGT shows (this wouldn’t be the last time this would happen), Cinderella and A Man of No Importance. The part in Cinderella was a small one; they needed a bigger kid to help move the larger set-pieces and Jonah had become PGT’s “guy who’d never say no.” This, by the way, was the first of two shows in which Jonah would share the stage with his kid brother. In that department, the best was truly yet to come.

PGT’s “A Man of No Importance”
December 2005

In A Man of No Importance, Jonah reprised his Laramie role as a hate-filled homophobe. PGT has never shied away from difficult theater, and this one gave them another opportunity to grow some more teenage souls, Jonah’s included. But then, two weeks before Man of No Importance opened, Jonah dropped out. Or tried to. He’d been feeling the stress of school, of the show (“Maybe,” Jill says, “he just didn’t want to be the bad guy anymore.”), and he’d felt the solution was to walk away. But, Jill asked, would he come by the theater just one more time to talk about it? He did. And then, Jill and Jeff worked their magic. She claims the magic came from the theater itself, but I know these guys now. Jonah could only have walked away from that conversation feeling honored, accepted, respected and loved. And he felt strengthened. Jill writes, “It was the magic of remembering he was part, an important part, of something he cared about, with people he cared about. He was part of making art, and that meant something to him.” For a 15-year-old kid trying to make his way through the turbulent high school years, PGT was too much the right place for him to be. He returned to rehearsals, performed the show, and from that point on, never looked back. PGT was, and always would be, home.

PGT’s “Alice in Wonderland”
April 2006

In the spring of 2006, Jonah appeared in Alice in Wonderland. Talk about type-casting! They made him the Cheshire Cat. You know, the one with the smile. PGT had fallen in love with Jonah’s smile (didn’t we all?) and decided it was in their best interest to put it onstage. Somehow, Jonah also coaxed them into letting him be “the ukulele-playing Cheshire Cat.” Well, I don’t remember that from the original show, but I sure remember it from this production. He’d gotten the ukulele a year earlier on our biggest-family-trip-ever to Hawaii. Jonah had saved up his money, and decided he’d be spending it on an authentic ukulele from Maui. We found the store. We found the instrument. And he found a new voice for himself. Watching him with his ukulele during Alice … well, no wonder he was smiling!

One more important memory from Alice in Wonderland. Not mine, but Rachel Berger’s, who was in six PGT shows with Jonah. She told me about having invited friends of her family to a performance of Alice, and how, after the show, “the youngest was star-struck as all the actors made their way into the lobby.” As this little boy dreamed of meeting what surely appeared to him to be a cast of world-famous professionals greeting their throngs of adoring fans, Rachel’s mom asked Jonah if he would give the seven-year old an autograph. Jonah went right up and spoke with him and made that little boy’s day. Rachel writes, “Jonah was just always so kind and warm, even to people he had never met before.”

PGT’s “The Secret Garden”
January 2007

Then came The Secret Garden. And something magical happened. In this fall of 2007 production, Jonah played the gardener Ben, a wise old man who steadied the show’s lead on her journey to find the center in her life. He spoke with an accent. Jonah loved learning accents. He loved doing impressions of Sean Connery. Kept me rolling on the floor with laughter. When Woodlands celebrated “St. Paddy’s Purim,” he tried to teach me an Irish accent, but I only made it as far as Pakistan. More fuel for Jonah’s humor. But this character, Ben, tugged at something deep inside me. It showed, I think, Jonah’s future. While I was watching him counsel his young charge, I thought, “This is what grown-up Jonah could really be like. I may actually see this guy ten or fifteen years from now.” Of course, that wasn’t to be. But I maybe got a glimpse of the adult version of this kooky kid who I knew had a heart of gold but that it would take time before that heart would come front and center. Little did I know, of course, that this was a side of Jonah Maccabee that many, many of his friends were already coming to treasure. “Ben the gardener” had apparently been residing inside of Jonah all along. Like Jonah’s smile, PGT figured out how to bring this part of Jonah center stage.

PGT’s “Marvin’s Room”
May 2007

The spring of 2007 was the season of Jonah’s other double-header: Marvin’s Room and Once on this Island. Marvin’s Room injected a surprising new challenge into Jonah’s repertoire: comedy. Unbelievably, PGT’s reigning clown offstage had never played one onstage. And comedy’s a whole lot harder than it looks, even for the clown-meister himself. Jonah’s character, Dr. Wally, had the unfortunate responsibility of shepherding one of the play’s female leads through her struggle with leukemia. And getting laughs, without lampooning the horror of disease and recovery, constituted a gigantic test of Jonah Maccabee’s theatrical constitution. Speaking as his dad, I’m not able to offer an unbiased assessment of Jonah’s performance. And I don’t care. I loved watching him. Couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Was stunned by the depth of Dr. Wally’s character. And was blown out of the water by the work Jonah did up there to bring Dr. Wally to life.

PGT’s “Once on this Island”
May 2007

Once on this Island was a very different kind of PGT experience for Jonah. His role was a very small one, appearing only in one scene toward the end of the show. An older boy who could sing was needed for the part but, between the three shows that season, no one could be spared. Since Jonah was PGT’s “guy who’d never say no,” he was invited to sign on while also preparing for Marvin’s Room. Okay, so he probably loved being able to say he was in two PGT shows at the same time. No one enjoyed a good brag as much as my kid. (Did I just brag about that? Does that mean he got it from me?) Jill Abusch writes, “It turned out to be even more important than I thought to have Jonah join my cast, because he ended up completely running backstage for me. The cast had a ton of younger kids and twelve moving platforms – he ended up being in charge of coordinating all the backstage choreography, making sure the platforms were where they needed to be, often rolling them on and off stage himself, and keeping the little kids out of harm’s way as the scenery was moved all around. He stepped into that role as beautifully as he stepped into his onstage role – I grew to rely on him completely to make sure the show ran smoothly and safely.” Jonah received two coveted honors as part of his service to Once on this Island: a clipboard he proudly carried as he kept everyone and everything moving backstage, and an additional credit in the program as the Assistant Stage Manager. Oh, how he loved that!

PGT’s “Grand Hotel”
December 2007

The fall 2007 show was Grand Hotel. Jonah played Doctor Otternschlag. Another doctor, but this was no Dr. Wally. An aging, cynical veteran of the 1st World War, Jonah’s character carried painful shrapnel wounds which now found him addicted to morphine. I think this was probably the first time I cried for Jonah, when I had to watch him inject the opiate into his leg. But much as his character tried to give up on life (at one point, commenting on another guest at the hotel who suffered from a life-threatening illness, saying, “Look at him. He’s dying and he wants to live. I’m living and can’t wait to die.”), the Doctor always showed up for “one more day.” This character was a huge one, and Jonah worked hard to pour himself into his role. During one rehearsal, Jeff Downing and Jill Abusch watched mesmerized as Jonah, whose character used a cane to get around, was seated in a chair and the cane accidentally fell to the floor. As Jonah started to reach for the cane, Jill and Jeff were suddenly treated to what they both consider one of the most fascinating and inspired acting moments in all their years at PGT, as Jonah worked out exactly how his character, with his infirmities and his pain and his personality, would have retrieved that cane. Jonah was so passionate about his work at PGT. He’d never do homework for school, but he was always, in those moments that life happens, more than willing to do whatever was necessary (acting, helping with set production, hurricane relief, friendship) to get the job done.

Jonah and Aiden together!
PGT’s “Hair” (June 2008)

And then came Hair, Jonah’s final show of his PGT years. The “senior show,” Hair’s cast consisted of 14 twelfth-graders and 2 younger actors. What made this production so meaningful for us Dreskins is that not only was it the culminating achievement of Jonah’s four years with PGT, but one of those two younger actors just happened to be Aiden. The result of the devious, loving machinations of director Jill Abusch, Jonah’s younger brother had been cast as Jonah’s character’s younger brother. Don’t bother looking for him in any script. Jill wanted these two real-life brothers on stage together, and she figured out a way to make that happen. In doing so, she gave us all a precious, fleeting gift (perhaps most precious of all, to Aiden himself) – the thrill of seeing Jonah and Aiden share the stage, share their personalities and their charm, and share their love … for acting, and for each other. Hair was an awful lot of fun. But as is the usual case at PGT, the fun is what pulled actor and audience alike into a serious and important consideration of what it means to be alive. This turned out to be far more than some philosophical exercise, and demanded an urgent and immediate answer because one of those Hair hippies, nine months into the future, would no longer be living. He needed his answer now.

Oh, and Hair was when the argument was finally laid to rest as to whether or not there was a third Dreskin sibling. I remember PGT’ers excitedly gathering around Katie in the lobby of the Emelin Theater, exclaiming, “There really is another Dreskin!”

PGT Summer Camp
August 2008

The summer of 2008, before leaving for college, Jonah spent three weeks working at PGT’s summer camp. He served as Assistant Director for The Monsters We Create, a one-act mash-up of songs and other dramatic material that provided high school and middle school actors with the opportunity to reflect on the nightmares we create in the real world. While Jonah was not solely responsible for this production, he took his work very seriously and, I think, was excited to use what he’d learned in his years with PGT in order to help a new generation of actors, a new generation of young people, endeavoring to find their way. I came across some of Jonah’s notes to his young charges, and while the handwriting was unmistakable, the “voices” sounded a lot like Jeff Downing and Jill Abusch. Another smile on this dad’s face, seeing his kid, not quite grown up but most definitely on his way, trying out what “grown up” might actually mean. Steven Abusch reflected a bit on Jonah’s farewell poem to his kids that summer, and seeing that Jonah alluded to coming back to PGT the next summer, wondered, “How could it be possible that I feel my loss is even greater from that one sentence? Your boy. Well, they do say in all good comedy, ‘Leave ‘em wanting more.’ He got that down. That’s for sure.”

As Jonah’s time with PGT came to its rightful conclusion, he penned a note to Jill, saying, “Thank you for all the good times, all the stressful times, and all the birthdays (because school stopped the whole ‘bring cupcakes’ thing around 5th grade). I remember during Man of No Importance tech week, when I sat with you and Jeff, and talked about how stressed I was. Despite all the work you had to get done, you helped me pull through it and made sure I was okay. Thank you again for that, and for convincing me that acting is not more work, but a release from everything life throws at me. I promise that when I am world-famous, PGT won’t just be ‘community theater’ in my interviews. Sincerely, and with a pick-you-up-and-twirl-you-around hug, Jonah.”

Can anyone think of a better way to say goodbye to Jonah than with a pick-you-up-and-twirl-you-around hug? I think not.

Billy

On January 23, 2010, my family and I were privileged to join with 500 very kind and generous folks (plus hundreds of supporters, also kind and generous, who could not make it but sent donations to support the Jonah Maccabee Fund) for the 1st Annual Jonah Maccabee Dreskin Memorial Concert. The evening featured the remarkably beautiful and spirited music of Dan Nichols and Josh Nelson. Among so many wonderful pieces shared throughout the evening, Dan and Josh presented “Turn the World Around,” the piece Jonah had been invited to help play (via ukulele) at Dan’s Kutz Camp concert in June 2005 (see “Pick Pocket,” June 15, 2009, for this story).

Everywhere in the concert, Josh and Dan were incredibly sensitive and moving in their words. Both longtime friends of the Dreskin family, they each had their personal connection to Jonah (Dan’s from Kutz in 2005, and Josh’s from the Maccabi Arts Festival in 2007). So this was much more than an evening of good music; the love and the longing for Jonah thoroughly filled the air. Each member of my family had dear friends in the room that night who held us aloft as we shed our inevitable tears during this memorable and touching evening. By rights, it should have included Jonah who would have had a blast. More than a few have said to us that he did.

At the top of the second set, we welcomed Cliff Mays, Jonah’s guitar teacher from the 9th through 12th grades. As I mentioned in Cliff’s introduction, he may very well have been the only person on the planet for whom Jonah did any homework. This was mostly because Jonah always enjoyed sitting in front of his computer monitor, playing his electric guitar (never amplified) while waiting for game scenarios to load every few minutes. The week following Jonah’s death, Cliff told us he’d written a song. At the concert this week, he told me, “You know, in my faith Jonah is just fine. I wrote this song for you.” [By the way, in my faith Jonah is also just fine. It doesn’t stop me from missing him and from crying for him. But the pain is mine, not his.] At the concert, Cliff also said to me, “I never had a title that felt right for the song. But tonight I heard you refer to Jonah as Jonah Mac. Now I’ve got the title.” So Cliff and his band, Rockmitzvah, presented “Jonah Mac,” a hauntingly poignant rock-ballad that includes the lyrics, “I hear your voice on the wind. I hear you laughing again. I feel you in the rain like it’s never gonna change. I know that time will creep by. Another day, another heavy sigh. Now I know that even God must cry when an angel takes flight.”

There were not many words spoken about Jonah Mac during the concert. After all, it was supposed to be about great music and camp scholarships. So Ellen and I began the evening by sharing in Havdalah, bidding goodbye to Shabbat with all of our gathered friends, Dan and Josh leading the music. Ellen and I spoke a few words to try and set the tone for the evening, which I’ve included here:

“In the midst of winter, I discovered that there was in me an invincible summer.” These words, penned by French author and philosopher Albert Camus, touch upon two of the predominant roads our family has traveled since the death of our son and our brother, Jonah Maccabee.

On the one hand, our journeys have been plunged into a bitter, cold and dark winter as we’ve struggled to learn how to live without our sweet Jonah by our sides. His presence had been such a powerful and joyful one, and we continue to stagger beneath the simply unfathomable prospect of moving on without him.

At the same time, we have never been alone in our anguish. Each one of you has been with us, fearlessly taking our hands and helping us to negotiate the rocky path that leads toward well-being. Like Camus, we have found there is indeed, in the midst of our winter, a precious and invincible summer. We are blessed to have you with us. Tonight. Eleven months ago. And in the times ahead.

Our Havdalah this evening not only marks the end of Shabbat and the beginning of a new week. It is also, we believe, a reminder of all the times we journey between two worlds. None of us escape all sorrow; the light and the dark envelop us all. Yet throughout, there is the choice, always the choice, of how to respond. Through wine and candle and spice, Jewish tradition chooses life.

When the day of rest is ended, choose sweetness, warmth and openness to all of life’s offerings. Do not settle for kodesh, for holiness, on holy days alone. But transform the ordinary, the khol, into holiness as well. Just as the ordinary memories of our beautiful son and brother have now become sacred memories, holy memories, let every page of our lives become sacred text. Let us not squander a single moment. Let us make a Havdalah, a separation, that pushes all of life into the realm of abundant blessing.

While Jonah was not explicitly at the center of the evening, he was most definitely on everybody’s mind and in everyone’s heart. For good and for other, that’s kind of the way things are becoming. More and more, we are living our lives, but not a day (sometimes not an hour) goes by without that sweet, funny guy coming to mind. Ofttimes this brings tears, but other times it’s as it was so often in life, he brings us smiles. Both are exquisitely precious gifts nothing could ever persuade us to trade away. And so, as he did in life, Jonah continues to help us all make that havdalah and push all of life into the realm of abundant blessing.

Billy

P.S. If you’d like to see the program booklet, click here. As always, we are so appreciative of your gifts to The Jonah Maccabee Foundation that help provide summer opportunities and more in the arts, in social activism, and in Jewish life.

This entry is not a Jonah-story. It’s from words I wrote for our January 2010 temple newsletter, reflecting on ten months of life-lived-in-ultimate-reorientation since Jonah’s death. With the concert in his memory soon approaching, I’ve been thinking about what it means to remember my kid rather than grow with him.

Billy

Jonah Maccabee Dreskin
1990-2009

I’m in it now. A place between the horror of loss, and coming to terms with the never-to-ever-change reality that my son is gone. The hour-to-hour numbness which, as in any state of shock, signals the refusal of the body to accept what’s happening to it and so it shuts down some of its systems, that phase of my grief seems mostly to be gone. There are recurrences, to be sure, but for the most part, the disbelief is over. Ten months later, I have very sadly accepted that Jonah won’t ever be coming back.

Jewish tradition speaks of our moving towards peace, and that while we may not traverse the entire distance, we nevertheless strive to keep moving. I am not at peace. I don’t know if I ever will be. But I am less in turmoil than I’ve been, and I do feel like I’m moving forward, stumbling often but moving nonetheless.

This calming is not necessarily a good feeling. As time increases the distance between me and my son, I fear I’ve begun to forget the sound of Jonah’s voice, of his laughter, the feeling of his hand in mine, of his great big bear-hugs squeezing the breath from my body. He slips further and further away from me and, try as I might, with photographs and videos and the like, I cannot slow his retreat, a new phase in my grief that brings its own kind of pain. So when there is a momentary wave of Jonah’s powerful presence, the nearly inevitable tears are welcomed because they signal his restored closeness to me. That, I believe, is the place in between. I am in it now.

What then does it mean to be establishing a Jonah Maccabee Memorial Concert, the first of which will take place on January 23? My family is so pleased to have a vehicle by which we can sustain Jonah’s memory and do some good in his name (some good, by the way, that we think he would have been very pleased to endorse). Jonah loved music and Jonah loved camp. To bring his two Jewish musical heroes, Dan Nichols and Josh Nelson, to his community as his gift, and to help other kids in his synagogue find the dollars that will clear the way for them to experience the kind of summers that Jonah loved so much, this warms our hearts and softens the edges around the hole that now resides there.

All the same, instead of a concert I wish this month of January would find Jonah and me speaking about his summer plans, about where on campus he’d be living next year, and about what he wants for his 20th birthday present.

Instead, many of you will be joining me and my family at the Jonah Maccabee Concert. Together, we will remember his sweet, beautiful, funny, loving life. We’ll celebrate the music he so enjoyed (he would have had a blast at it). And we’ll make sure that every temple kid who wants to go to a URJ summer camp gets to do so.

Nineteen years is far too short a time for anyone’s life. But it turns out it was plenty of time for Jonah Maccabee Dreskin to have made an important difference – a difference he will continue to make through this concert, through the scholarships it will create, and through the sweet, beautiful, funny, loving memories he leaves to us all.

See you there.

Billy

P.S. We hope you will help us build The Jonah Maccabee Foundation into a self-sustaining project that will keep Jonah Mac’s memory alive for generations to come. Your donation of whatever size you can afford is so appreciated. You may do so online at https://www.jonahmac.org. You can visit us on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/JonahMaccabeeFoundation. Thank you.

Hanukkah has always been huge in our home. For a number of excellent reasons. First, who doesn’t need a holiday of light and warmth during winter’s dark and cold? December, both in New York and in our earlier home in Cleveland, were really cold and we particularly took to heart the light/warmth aspect of Hanukkah, physically bringing (as you’ll see) lots of it into the world each year. Our celebrations began quite humbly early on. For Katie’s first two Hanukkah celebrations, we still thought observing the annual candlelightings involved only a single menorah. But by Katie’s third Hanukkah, which was Jonah’s first, our hanukkiyot had begun multiplying. We had three of them that year. And gradually, by 2004, we were lighting eight menorahs each night of Hanukkah. It’s pretty much been that way ever since.

Jonah loved Hanukkah. Probably because it was the holiday of the Maccabees. He really liked his middle name and, of course, by his senior year of high school, he was well on his way to becoming known only as Mac. We’d named him Jonah Maccabee because of an enormous dream we’d had for him. We’d wanted him to become (as the Hebrew of his name suggests) “a warrior for peace.” And go figure, was that not exactly the person we all knew and loved?

Video Gaming
October 2007

He wasn’t a warrior with weapons.  He never physically hurt anyone (not since he bit Dan Roth in first grade, anyway).  He did have a driving passion for violent videogames, however. City of Heroes, World of Warcraft, Morrowind, Tabula Rasa, Halo, and Oblivion were among his favorite shoot ‘em up (blow ‘em up, vaporize ‘em) adventures. Except that Jonah, as much as he liked playing with virtual explosives, he also liked (believe it or not) the online community that would gather together for play. He would don headphone and mic, and spend hours (and hours!) immersing himself in other worlds that were (yes) violent but places where he would find his favorite pastime … other people. During his year in Buffalo, he found his little brother. After fourteen years of treating Aiden like a bratty little kid, Jonah was able to finally share something decidedly more grown-up. So if anyone tells you that videogames are a waste of time, you tell them it ain’t always so. That electronic connection to a separate virtual world was where Aiden got more time with his brother than any of the rest of us did during those last month’s of Jonah’s life.

But back to the “warrior for peace.” Jonah did have a powerful weapon. His words. He loved words. And he used them well. And while sometimes he certainly employed them to go after someone he was angry at, more often than not he used them to bring humor, companionship and comfort into the world. That was how Jonah Maccabee waged his campaigns … cultivating kindness and peacefulness – boisterous and often outrageous, but no less giving and caring – wherever he went. I suspect that Judah Maccabee, Jonah’s predecessor, would have been proud of his 21st century namesake.

When Jonah was in the 4th grade, he (like every other temple kid who’d had Mr. Solomon as his teacher) needed to complete a special project in order to finish out his year of Jewish studies. Jonah’s project was (need you even guess?) about Judah Maccabee. Jonah wrote Judah’s diary. And in so doing, made it very clear (lest anyone should have harbored any doubt) that Judah Maccabee was Jonah Maccabee’s favorite of all Jewish historical figures. Yep, and that included his dear old (Jonah would say, “very old”) dad. Hanukkah would forever after be a shared celebration between these two Maccabees.

Jonah’s 1st candle-in-hand?
circa December 2000

I don’t know if Hanukkah’s flames were part of what attracted Jonah (like a moth?) to the candles, or if that was simply an additional perk to go along with his love for the holiday.  But Jonah did so love flames.  With eight hanukkiyot to be loaded up with tiny Hanukkah candles each night, the Dreskin tradition might have fallen by the wayside had Jonah not willingly volunteered each evening to get things ready. Remember, on the 8th evening of Hanukkah seventy-two candles would have to be carefully and patiently melted into stable positions before the lighting took place. But Jonah always got things ready.

When, each evening, we began lighting those candles, Jonah was certainly always right there. I wouldn’t say he looked pyromaniacal (‘tho I’d not have been surprised if he had). He was actually always quite calm about the whole affair. But he never missed a moment of it. And he always lit as many menorahs as we would collectively deem fair. He’d never sing any of the blessings with us, nor any of the songs that followed. Ellen and I have always led the way on Maoz Tzur and Mee Y’mallel, including harmonies, with Katie and Aiden joining in (Aiden, these days, adding his own harmonies), but never Jonah. It certainly wasn’t that he couldn’t sing. It just wasn’t his thing. Or perhaps better stated, not singing was his thing. And it would happen at the Shabbat dinner table too. He always lit candles, then never uttered a word. From time to time, I’d be watching him and wondering what would become of his non-singing as his own children joined him in these family rituals. Would he be the dad who never sang, or would he ultimately choose to lead the way so that his kids might have a singing role-model for their own participation in Jewish life?

After lighting the candles, we’d open gifts. I always went overboard on these, but I so loved selecting (or trying to select) gifts that each of our kids would love. I remember when Jonah was younger he wasn’t able to hide his feelings of disappointment when he received something he didn’t much care for. But as he grew older, his charm and his grace and his deepening understanding of the important things in life … these kicked in. And I loved watching him give a hug and a thank you for something I knew hadn’t been anywhere near the top of his list. I so admired that in him. Especially knowing how far he’d journeyed to get there.

I’ve written elsewhere (“Fireworks,” July 4, 2009) about Jonah and our “9th Night of Hanukkah” family photographs. These were not always the easiest pictures to shoot. Back before digital cameras, it was largely guesswork as to whether or not we’d actually captured our images in such low light. But the kids were pretty great, and the result was that we’ve now, after 21 years, got a pretty incredible chronologue of everybody’s growth. During these shoots, Jonah didn’t often handle the camera but when he did, he loved to play. If you’ve ever been on the other side of his camera when he’d told you it wasn’t on and then you learned he’d just videotaped you standing still and complaining while he took too long to “set up the picture,” you know what it was like for us. Well, at least for me and Ellen. Katie and Aiden never fell for it, but Ellen and I did every time. I’ve got the videos to prove it. Which you’ll never see.

21 bright, warm and loving years!

The only other important piece of Hanukkah at the Dreskins that needs mentioning is Tzedakah Night.  Again, I’ve already written elsewhere about it (Hands and Smiles), but no Hanukkah in our house was ever complete without taking one evening to count the year’s Friday night tzedakah collections, roll up the thousands of coins, trade them in for bills at the bank, and go do some good with the money somewhere in our community that evening in place of giving gifts to each other.  It reminded us all how lucky we were to have so much, and also how lucky we were to have hearts that cared enough to want to help others.

Writing about our family is risky business. We have never been the perfect family. We have our share of arguments, and independently busy lives that leave little time to spend with each other. So first and foremost, Hanukkah always brought the five of us together for at least some of each of its eight evenings. Even if we had to wait until late at night when everyone finally got home from work/play rehearsals/life, those candles got lit, the songs got sung, gifts were opened, and what truly were holy moments of love and sharing got created anew year after year after year.

This year was, of course, difficult. We missed Jonah every evening. And as the number of candles grew, one or more of us somewhat reluctantly moved to set them up. Jonah wouldn’t have hesitated. For the lighting itself, our crowded little front window had too much space in front of it this year. The hanukkiyot were just as numerous, and there were more for each of us to light. The singing wasn’t any softer, of course, but we missed Jonah’s voice just the same. And when the gifts were opened, we wished so much that he’d be opening his, as well. But there were no gifts for Jonah this year. I did keep his name on my list, though. And beneath it, I simply wrote, “My love.”

That boy was his own Hanukkah menorah, with a flame that burned so brightly and so warmly and brought such spirit into the world. A spirit, by the way, that I don’t think even death can obliterate. Our memories of him may bring tears, but they also bring a lot of inspiration. The way he lived, the way he grew, and the way he affected those who grew to love him – none of that goes away. So while we wish we had him in our house, and in our arms, we certainly have him in our hearts.

Billy

Thanksgiving at the Dreskins is not the same kind of tradition many other families have. While Ellen does spend most of the day preparing a lot of great food, each of us is usually involved in our own individual activities throughout the day, and when we finally gather to gorge ourselves, relatives and friends are only rarely at the table. So a couple of weeks prior to this year’s Thanksgiving, when the words of concern and support began to arrive from around the country, from others who imagined this holiday might be difficult for us, I didn’t pay them much heed. Hard to believe that at my age I can still be so naive.

Grandma Iris and Jonah
Thanksgiving 1992

First, Ellen took off for Houston to spend the holiday with her mom. Leaving a multitude of instructions with a refrigerator full of vittles, I knew that this Thanksgiving would be nothing like any we’d experienced before. Me cook? But Katie and I bravely reassured Ellen that we’d be fine and that she should just enjoy herself with her mom. Good thing that was a phone call, so Ellen couldn’t see the exchange of looks between Katie and me. Foodwise, this Thanksgiving had all the makings of a disaster.

Then there was Jonah. What I hadn’t counted on was that while our Thanksgiving was a very small affair, the “small” always included the five of us. Each year’s observance is a quiet, delightful, loving weekend. Here’s how it typically plays out. On the Wednesday evening of Thanksgiving weekend, I attend the local interfaith Thanksgiving service, some years even managing to drag along a child or two (though not successfully for a long, long time). Then on Thanksgiving morning, one or more of the kids almost always join me either in serving Thanksgiving meals in New York City with the Salvation Army or preparing them at temple for delivery to a shelter near our home. Afternoons, we mostly stay home, each doing our own thing, occasionally responding to Ellen’s call to set the table, help clean the house, etcetera. When dinner is ready, Ellen never allows a morsel to be touched until we all share something for which we are thankful. Dutifully, we quickly oblige so we can dig in. After dinner, the evening typically involves watching a movie, eating pumpkin pie, building a fire, and just being with each other.

Thanksgiving 2008

Since Jonah died at college, these home-for-the-holidays moments seem to intensify our already profound sense of loss. He came home for Thanksgiving last year, during his first semester at Buffalo. He should have come home this year, as a sophomore, but that wouldn’t be happening. Instead, we’ve got this great big photograph in our living room of Jonah with his arms around Aiden and Katie that we took last Thanksgiving. This year’s holiday gathering would produce no great big photographs of my three kids. There’d probably be terrific ones of two of them (remember, Ellen was out of town; she’d want the play-by-play). But only two. Two charming, sweet and very much loved children. But only two. And sure enough, we did take a lot of pictures: of each other, of the permanently cooked-in string that we couldn’t remove from our turkey, and of the burnt marshmallows on top of the sweet potatoes. When Ellen returned home that Friday evening, we took more. Remarkably, Jonah showed up in a few of them. In some of the dinner shots, you can see that great big smile of his in the background as the 8×10 from last Thanksgiving surreptitiously found its way into our snapshots. This was most appropriate, of course, because while we were making a fine go of it, Jonah was definitely on our minds and in our hearts.

Ellen’s annual Thanksgiving ritual of having us each say something for which we’re grateful – this Thanksgiving, it could not be ignored. I knew she’d be counting on me, the rabbi, the leader of ritual, to lead the way. But all I was able to share was what I wasn’t grateful for – I was just missing Jonah too much. Perhaps for the first time, Katie and Aiden did a far better job than “rabbi dad.” The next evening, during the sermon slot at Shabbat worship, I let my congregants know how difficult this weekend was for me and that I’d very much appreciate their sharing what it is that really matters in life for them, that for which they are truly and deeply grateful. What followed was several minutes of the most thoughtful and touching list of blessings, reminding me yet again how grateful I am for the community that continually surrounds me and supports me during this most arduous of journeys. But it got even better. We welcomed and blessed a baby that evening. As I scanned the information card which contained her Hebrew name, I was stunned to see that she had been born just one day after Jonah had died. Here I was, missing my child so deeply that Thanksgiving weekend, and along comes another child who’d been born on the very heels of Jonah’s last breaths.

I am so lucky. In the midst of this terribly risky venture called life, one in which “the worst thing imaginable” can happen and did happen, I am continually blessed with a lifelong partner who patiently tolerates me, with incredible children who endlessly delight me, and with eyes and heart that are frequently wide open during the multitude of extraordinary happenings that unfold in so many of life’s most ordinary moments. It may not have been Thanksgiving as I’d have wanted to celebrate it, but as things turned out, it was still very much a day of thanksgiving.

Billy

Ellen, Aiden and I recently returned from the Union for Reform Judaism’s Biennial Convention in Toronto. As with so much else in my life these days, Jonah’s never far from my thoughts … even in Canada. On various occasions, the five of us had traveled as far as Niagara Falls, and in 2005, Jonah himself got to Montreal during his “Olim Summer” at Eisner Camp. But that was it for family travels to the USA’s northern neighbor. Nonetheless, this Convention, with its 3000 attendees and about 10,000 different things to do, was still unable to shake Jonah from my mind. He was who I was with and what I was doing.

Jonah actually attended three previous Biennials – one as our kid, and two as a NFTY delegate. He probably wouldn’t have gotten to this one, owing to college classes and such, but he was missing from it nonetheless.

Jonah’s first Biennial was in 1999. The Convention that year was held in Orlando, Florida, with everyone staying at The Dolphin Hotel right in the heart of Walt Disney World. I imagine this was when our kids got brainwashed into thinking that Judaism is fun. We certainly weren’t going to disabuse them of that bit of propaganda, so all five of us packed our bags and headed off for the amusement park (er, I mean the Convention Center).

Jonah, Aiden & Katie
Disney World 1999

Jonah was only nine at the time so, needless to say, there wasn’t really much at the Convention that was going to claim his attention. Except for one thing. Krispy Kreme had a donut stand inside the Dolphin Hotel. We ate there at least twice a day. After that, I only remember Aiden and Jonah running (and running!) through the long, meandering corridors of the hotel. I was usually running after them (except when hotel personnel stopped them and wanted to know where their parent was).

Of course, the highlight of that Biennial was our time spent at Disney World. Nothing need really be said about that. Kids + Disneyland = awesome fun and memories. Grandma Ida, Aunt Joan, Uncle David and cousin Abbey spent the day with us. Where Joel Hoffman showed up from, we’ll never know. But as always, we were delighted to have him along.

By the way, my kids have always shared a very special relationship with Joel Hoffman. Jonah, in particular, responded to Joel’s fantastic command of all-things-linguistic. When Joel shared one of his arcane-yet-beguiling tidbits about the English language, Jonah not only loved it but he remembered it, and was always eager to share what he learned from Joel with his own friends. Joel was the first to point out to our kids the odd observation that “we park on driveways and drive on parkways.” And he always left us shaking our heads at this one: “Here’s a sentence that sounds like it makes sense but it doesn’t: More people have been to Europe than I have.” Jonah was never known for his commitment to school; education, however, was a different matter. That boy loved to learn, but you had to have something interesting to teach him. Jonah would tell you straight out that Joel Hoffman always had something fascinating to teach. Joel Hoffman may very well have been Jonah’s favorite teacher.

Jonah would skip a few Biennials before returning in 2005, this time with his ever-widening cadre of friends from NFTY.

Aiden, Gpa Jake, Gma Iris, Katie and Jonah
Houston, Nov 2005

The event took place in Houston, which held its own attraction for our family. Ellen grew up there, and that was always where we’d find her mom and dad. By 2005, Grandma Iris and Grandpa Jake were pretty advanced in their years and our kids understood that these visits were growing in importance. Jonah and his grandfather (who died only a month after Jonah did) always shared a very special bond going back to a visit the same year we’d gone to the Biennial in Orlando. They both loved taking things apart and putting them back together again. Grandpa Jake was always a little bit better at it than Jonah, but we knew Jake’s grandson was catching up fast. These days, we like to think they’re back with each other, taking apart heaven and having a wonderful time trying to figure out how to put it together again.

On the 1999 plane ride to Houston, Jonah borrowed my PDA and typed the following (the spelling is his):

Today I’m fliying to texas on an airplane and my dad is holding my furby. Where going especaly for my birthday! I hope it’s the best birthday I ever have! My grandma and gandpa live there and they’re invited to my birthday party. My grandma is blind so I have to help her get around. otherwize, I like going.

Now I’m at my grandpa and grandmas house. It smells weird but my grandpa is giving us a train set that’s really small! And he’s giving me a broken tape player and it still has buttins!

I have two prominent memories of Jonah at the Houston Biennial. The first involves the struggle of a 15-year old kid to understand just how wonderful a guy he was and how valuable a friend he would become. But that hadn’t happened yet as I learned when, walking through an isolated area of the Convention Center on my way to one of the auditoriums, I came across a very dejected Jonah sitting by himself trying to figure out why he wasn’t having as great a time as everyone else. (By the way, as you’ll see, at the 2007 Biennial there will be no question in anyone’s mind about Jonah’s delight at being part of everything happening everywhere!)

The upside of Jonah’s “down” (and my second prominent Jonah-memory of the Houston Biennial) is that he spent some time with me that, two years later, would be completely unnecessary and even avoided (such are the travails of parenting a happy teenage son). During one of the plenary sessions, Jonah came and sat with me. It happened to be just as the gathered delegates took up the question of whether or not to call upon the Bush Administration to develop a clear exit strategy from the war in Iraq. Jonah sat next to me for the entire discussion and the vote, and I (positively giddy about suddenly having the opportunity to teach something to my teenaged son) quietly explained to him how important it was for people to speak up, regardless of their point of view, and how important it was for him to be witnessing the first time any American Jewish organization was taking a public position on this war. When the vote was called, I very happily placed my plenary credentials into his hands and let him vote on the resolution. I think he was very proud of that. I know I was proud of him.

In 2007 the five of us set out for San Diego. By this time, Jonah and NFTY had become synonymous. He had grown into that big, beautiful spirit of his and never considered for a second that he’d have anything but a wonderful time at this Biennial. It was, according to a friend of his, the time when he began to call himself “Maccabee.” So change was in the air, and the rest of us just sort of watched in awe of the giant he had become.

Kyleigh and Mac
URJ Biennial, Dec 2007
He must’ve loved the badge!

My first memory of Jonah (excuse me, of Maccabee) at the San Diego Biennial was during the opening night’s “Maariv of the Future” service, which featured the debut of very colorful words and pictures projected onto huge screens we call “visual worship.” Aiden ran the computer and made sure everything appeared when it was supposed to. Maccabee, who had operated the computers with Aiden and me when we first experimented with this at Woodlands during Hanukkah 2006, sat (very proudly, I think) at the computer table while the Convention got wow’ed by his 13-year old kid brother.

The next day, I participated in a workshop on the use of technology in worship. NFTY hadn’t yet arrived to the Convention so Maccabee was on his own for the day and he came to his old man’s session. In an email to me shortly after Mac died, Kathy Sebo, a cantorial soloist and longtime friend from Cleveland, described the workshop thus:

Jonah was towards the back of the room and I remember at one point he was helping his dad with something … but he was also mildly heckling his dad. Watching this adorable interaction between Billy and Jonah made me smile and also laugh out loud. I recall thinking “what a cool father-son moment.” They both had the biggest grins on their faces and you could see their love and their friendship. It was really sweet.

Jonah Maccabee had the ability to drive me nuts, but Kathy was right. This time, I was thrilled that he was in the room, and I enjoyed it to the max.

I have one more image of Maccabee from the San Diego Convention. It’s a shifting image, though. At each Biennial, there’s a Shabbat Evening songsession that puts a band and about forty songleaders onstage to lead five thousand people in some very spirited tune-sharing. First, I see Jonah in the front row, singing and dancing his heart out, never more at home than he was with this gang he’d gathered from his Eisner days, his Kutz days, and his NFTY-NAR days. So many of the friends he’d made (and new ones too, of course) having just the greatest time. Until that is, when NFTY was invited onto the stage and the image shifts to him swaying back and forth, singing just as loudly as he could, smiling from ear to ear, his arms straddling any shoulder that came within his reach.

I always have a great time being one of elder songleaders invited to lead from the stage, but those moments were utterly dwarfed by the feeling I got from seeing my son up there too. At this most recent Biennial in Toronto, I was once again invited back to join the throngs of songleaders during the Friday night songsession. And just as before, I had a great time. Until, that is, NFTY took the stage alongside us. At first, I was saddened by it all, arrested by the images of my son once so happily engulfed by that mass of high-spirited youth. I considered leaving the stage, but then my heart filled, indeed it overflowed, when I saw my son there once more. It was Aiden, attending his first Biennial of NFTY age, surrounded by old and new friends, singing just as loudly as he could, and having what looked to be the time of his life. Why the music shifted from Jewish folk songs to the Beatle’s “With a Little Help from My Friends,” I’ll never know. And why Aiden chose to break out of his NFTY group and through the tightly hugging line of aged and decrepit songleaders, to join me at my side for this piece, that too I may never know. But he did. And a fantastic, new memory in my life was suddenly created. From the outside, I know it looked like hundreds of songleaders and NFTYites on stage, and three thousand participants in the auditorium. But for the couple of minutes that song was playing, it was just me and my son, my Aiden, arms around each other on that stage, in that auditorium, in the entire world. There could be no sweeter moment at the 2009 Biennial for me.

I’m hoping someone got a photograph of it but, if not, the image will still remain. It was unforgettable. In Gates of Prayer, the Reform movement’s retired siddur, there’s a beautiful little meditation written by an anonymous Japanese poet:

As the moon sinks on the mountain-edge, the fisherman’s lights flicker far out on the dark wide sea. Just when we think that we alone are steering our ships at midnight, we hear the splash of oars far beyond us.

Just when I thought the waves of grief would once more engulf me, I heard the splash of my youngest son’s joyful bounce. And I was rescued.

In one of Maccabee’s desk drawers are most of the identification badges he’d been issued at NFTY events throughout his high school years. His 2007 Biennial badge is among them. Sure enough, he’d crossed out “Jonah” and replaced it with “Mac.” Over the years, he accumulated a lot of badges with which he identified himself to others. During the kallot and the conventions, he wore them all close to his heart. And for a long time after, he continued to keep them close. Perhaps because even though he’d finally learned to identify himself with his heart and with his soul, these badges reminded him of the journey he’d taken, one he wanted to remember because it had not only brought him amusement and delight, it ultimately helped him figure out just who he was.

Jonah (far left) & NFTY
Friday Night Songsession, URJ Biennial
Houston, Nov 2005

This month, just before heading off to Toronto, I happened to visit the Biennial 2009 webpage. There, at the top of the screen, was a line of NFTYites singing their hearts out at the Friday night songsession in 2005. Mac’s the guy at the far left (tho he was still Jonah then). Turns out, NFTY didn’t just bring good things into Maccabee’s life; he brought pretty good things to NFTY and to everyone lucky enough to meet Jonah and Maccabee along the way.

Billy

Dear Katie and Aiden,

I’ve got a few more of Jonah’s t-shirts I’d like to tell you about.

Jonah @ the URJ Biennial
December 2007

Your brother was a longtime fan of Monty Python. We’d corrupted him at the tender age of 12 when, for Hanukkah, he received and took full advantage of the opportunity to watch every episode of the Flying Circus, as well as The Holy Grail (which he eventually viewed more times than any sane person should). Not long after that, Jonah displayed his taste for Python by sporting the very handsome “It’s only a flesh wound” t-shirt. By age 13, those of us who were paying attention knew pretty much for a certainty what kind of sense of humor we were dealing with: Jonah loved to laugh, and (Aiden, when he wasn’t hitting you) he loved getting others to do the same. The Simpson’s Spider Pig would also find its way to Jonah’s upper-torso, inspiring more than a few choruses of “Spider Pig, Spider Pig, does whatever a spider pig does …” But my favorite of Jonah’s clothing from the humor genre was a sweatshirt he wore as a 12-year old that read, “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!” This, of course, was so funny because, whatever it was, he very likely did do it!

Jonah, Ellen, Aiden & “Cheeseburger”
9th Night of Hanukkah
January 2008

Food. Jonah didn’t have a lot of t-shirts that sported food (or that sported sports, for that matter). It’s not that he didn’t like food (tho I’m pretty sure he didn’t like sports). His appetite for tasty morsels was defined at least in part by Ben and Jerry’s Magic Brownies, Fuddrucker’s burgers, and artichokes with butter, to name but a few. I suppose food rarely struck the right chord when it came to putting it on his clothes. So besides “Eat Shed” (see Shirt Tales – Part One), I only remember Jonah wearing one other food shirt. He’d picked it up in Hawaii which: 1) was Hawaiian (and since his ukulele was Hawaiian, anything from Hawaii was cool); 2) came from a restaurant called “Cheeseburger in Paradise” (see Jonah’s fondness for burgers above); 3) it’s the only burger stand we’ve ever gone to that had a live guitarist on the premises (playing, to boot, on a legendary Parker which Jonah had dreamed of someday owning); and, 4) most importantly, on the backside it read, “Shut up and eat your burger!” and on the sleeve, “Cheeseburger with an attitude” – which made it an apt symbol for Jonah himself. He was no cheeseburger, but he sure had attitude!

Jonah and “Shakespeare”
Civil Rights Journey, Birmingham, AL
December 2005
inset: Jonah and Aiden
Cincinnati, Feb 2006

Then there were the shirts that revealed something Jonah never had the time to get fully comfortable with: Jonah was smart … really, reallysmart. He rarely embraced his inner geek but once again, if you watched the shirts, it was definitely there. He wore this brown t-shirt that had what looked like a hand-drawn piece of pie on it, beneath which were the numbers 3.14 (those of you haven’t yet embraced your own inner geek, google it). In this genre, however, my very favorite was a sweatshirt he wore a great deal during his early teen years. It read, “Me and Shakespeare … we speaketh the same language.” I remember watching how moved he was, standing by the civil rights memorial at the Southern Poverty Law Center in Birmingham, Alabama (we’d gone down there for the temple’s Civil Rights Journey in 2005). Wearing his Shakespeare sweatshirt, it really made a powerful impression on me … here was this silly, joker of a kid, who cared about so many things in the world that he was only just beginning to become aware of. It amazes me how many social justice activities he participated in during his brief life.

Jonah, Aiden & MSIADUJ
June 2008

Then there were the Jewish t-shirts. These mostly expressed how much Jonah enjoyed his time in NFTY and at Kutz Camp. He attended as many regional and national events (along with his summers at Kutz) as he possibly could. Sometimes his PGT shows kept him from getting to a NFTY event (the only thing, I believe, that could keep him from a NFTY event), but he always found his way back there. One of his shirts stated: “MSIADUJ … so we read right to left … like you haven’t tried.” And I always loved the one that pronounced Kutz … “the Jerusalem of NFTY.” But his favorite, I think, was created by NFTY-NAR, and may as well have been custom-designed for your brother: “A Maccababy’s gotta do what a Maccababy’s gotta do!” He loved that this shirt practically had his name on it (how many times have we all sat and watched Rugratstogether across the years?). But it also spoke to Jonah’s spirit – most definitely of the Maccabeean persuasion (relentless, proud, strong) but “a baby” too (playful, hopelessly devoted to cultivating immature chic, and able to capture your heart with a smile pretty much anytime he wanted).

Would Jonah have started a revolution?
L’taken Political Action Seminar
Washington, DC (Dec 2006)

I’ve mentioned Jonah’s blossoming sense of social conscience. That he traveled to Mississippi to rebuild Katrina-ravaged homes, protested in our nation’s capitol the genocide in Darfur and (at the Million Mom March) gun violence here at home, and knocked on doors to get out the vote for Obama, all speak to the kind of person he was, and the kind of person he was becoming. While in DC, he bummed $15 off me to get a shirt on a street corner that shouted: “Stop bitching … start a revolution!” And from somewhere (I have no idea), he wound up with another that read, “Tide … loads of hope.” I guess he didn’t use a lot of his shirts to fix the world … unless you count music and humor as part of what we need to make this world a good place … which I actually do believe … so I guess he did too … and I withdraw the comment.

Bottom-line: Your brother was fun, he was colorful, and he was kind. Jonah Maccabee’s shirts fit him well.

Love,
Dad

The other night, I joined 40,000 people I’d never seen before (along with just a few that I had) to make some noise at Bruce Springsteen’s final Giants Stadium appearance. To be honest, I’ve never been a Bruce fan. His music just isn’t my music. But too many people I call my friends swear that hearing this band live is the greatest, so I figured I had to give them a try.

I was right. Or rather, my friends were right. This concert was, hands down, the most memorable evening of live music I’ve ever experienced. I was, quite simply, blown away by the work these guys did, work which (apparently) they have very willingly done at every concert they’ve given for the past 35 years or so.

Nevertheless, sitting (who am I kidding … standing) still for long periods of time without any responsibility takes me pretty much to one place and one place only. Jonah. Amidst the loudest, most high energy, possibly drunkest crowd I’ve ever found myself in, even while I too enjoyed the electric performance, I kept removing pen and paper from my pocket to jot down thoughts of Jonah which had come to mind. Recorded herewith are a few of them.

November 2006
Think he’d have liked to have been a rock star?

Thought #1: Jonah didn’t really listen to Bruce Springsteen. Oddly enough, the only tracks on his iTunes were from a CD of mine (odd because I never really listened to him either). But I think Jonah would have loved hearing and watching Bruce in concert. They share some qualities, you know. Besides the obvious (both devilishly good-looking), a few others come to mind, chief among them that these two boys really love music, really love rock music, and really love playing guitar. In fact, about the only place they differ (give or take a few million dollars) is that Jonah seemed to mostly enjoy playing on his own. I’ve been told, however, that once he got to Buffalo, that changed. He didn’t have an E Street Band, but he did have a lot of friends he liked jamming with. I suspect that’s how Bruce got his start too.

Thought #2: In three hours, Bruce hardly stopped playing (he wouldn’t even let a song end before starting another). Jonah slept a lot. I know that doesn’t sound like Springsteen, but once he got going, he kept going. When Jonah was 5, his mom and I witnessed the following. It was 8:00 in the morning; the bus hadn’t yet arrived. Ellen and I were looking around for Jonah, to tell him to put his shoes on, but he was nowhere to be found. After searching the entire house (parental panic mode), I happened to pass by the living room window and noticed that Jonah was, in fact, already outside. He’d crossed the street by himself, and was jumping around a lot, waiting for the school bus. Jonah was ready to go to school. That afternoon, 45 minutes after Jonah had walked in the door, he appeared in front of me, jacket on, lunch box in hand, and said, “I’m ready to go back to Kindergarten now.” And that was Jonah Maccabee. If he was interested, his energy knew no limits.

Thought #3: In a most unlikely confluence of events, as Bruce moved along the edge of the stage to bring himself close to his appreciative audience members, the camera (which was projecting onto the giant screen) followed along, panning back-and-forth between the performer and his fans. At one point, just as it was moving away from Bruce, a woman lifted her white shirt to show him (and 40,000 of us) her breasts. Breasts so white that neither camera nor director seemed to realize we were watching flesh and not fabric. Pure Jonah! I’m not sure if he’d have been the woman, the camera operator, the audience, or just the guy sitting next to his dad-the-rabbi getting a kick out of watching this outrageous event unfold. But aside from the great music of the evening, this would have been his moment.

Thought #4: A young girl with braces held up a hand-lettered sign that read, “13th Birthday Dance???” Sure enough, Bruce brought her onto the stage and danced with her. I think what amazes me more than anything else about Bruce Springsteen is that, after 35 years, he still loves doing this. After 35 years, at no moment during the entire three hours did he look like he was finished, like he’d rather be somewhere else. He was having too good a time. For him, there was nowhere else … except here. He was completely in the moment, and looked utterly delighted to be so. A few days after Jonah died, the following appeared on the “Remembering Jonah” Facebook page:

Jonah was the first person to greet me this summer at Kutz [Camp]. It was my second summer, and I couldn’t wait to get there. As I’m stepping out of the car, I hear somebody say, “Oh boy, Benny, I know this one!” I turn around and it’s Jonah, running towards me, only to serve me with a massive hug, picking me up and swinging me around. He set the mood for my entire summer, and I’ll forever be grateful for that.

I think Jonah Maccabee loved being in the moment. When he was where he wanted to be (NFTY, Kutz, Summit, UB), there was nowhere else that even came to mind. He was fully present, and his friends knew that. They were the beneficiaries of his big, open, loving heart. And nothing delighted him more.

Mac ‘n Bruce
“The Lost Tapes”

Thought #5: Bruce Springsteen is America’s songleader. I’m told he used to write more sophisticated music (he performed “Kitty’s Back,” a piece from 1973 and unlike anything else I heard that evening) but settled into simpler (tho still hard-driving) melodies that are immediately accessible to the listener. I was astounded by everyone’s singing along with him, and how he’d made that part of his show (even putting words to a new song on the giant screen, so we could join him). I wasn’t present for a lot of Jonah’s music-making (so you folks out there will have to let me know what music he made in public), but my sense of Jonah is that he loved bringing his public along with him. Not only with his music, but with everything he did. His NFTY region (“NAR”) established a Ruach (spirit) Award in Jonah’s memory because of the role he played there throughout high school. Never much for titles, Jonah shunned the electoral spotlight, preferring instead to do his work from amidst the populace. Throughout his NFTY years, he was loved for his generous, outgoing and unrelenting air of kindness and enthusiasm. So many of his contemporaries have related the difference Jonah Maccabee Dreskin made regarding their time in NFTY and at Kutz. With or without a guitar, Jonah was “the Jewish Springsteen” … the Union for Reform Judaism’s songleader.

Thought #6: As I sat there in a row filled with fifty-somethings, my attention kept being pulled to the row of twenty-somethings directly in front of me. Any one of them could have been Jonah … embarrassed to have his dad sitting behind him at the Springsteen concert … or maybe not. But that was only my imagination. Could only have been my imagination. The stadium contained roughly 40,000 people. Not one of them was my Jonah. Few of them knew my Jonah. All of them were having a great time. As should have happened. Me? I fluctuated between missing my son and also having a great time. As should have happened. More and more, I’m taking the pause button off of my life. I’m learning to live with Jonah as a memory. I carry him with me always. I think about what he would have enjoyed, and what he would have detested. I smile often because of that. And just as often, I cry. I don’t know if things will always be this way, and I imagine I’ll be okay any way this goes. Because just as Bruce gave an unforgettably wonderful performance the other night, Jonah Maccabee gave an unforgettably wonderful performance of his own. I’m lucky to have gotten great seats. And every so often, he even brought me onto his stage and danced with me. 🙂

Billy

Kutz Camp
Summer 2008

Dear Jonah Mac,

When you were born, mom and I named you Jonah Maccabee because we loved the implied mission it conferred upon you. Namely, that we wanted you to value kindness (as embodied in the original Hebrew for Jonah … yonah, dove). But at the same time, we’d hoped you would work hard to bring that value into your life (hence, your second name … maccabee, warrior). In our fantasy for your life, Jonah, you would become a champion and defender of decency and grace in our world.

For those who knew you as a child, of course (or worse, were on the receiving end of your impassioned, retributive acts), “defender of decency and grace” would not have been among the phrases spoken by local moms to describe you. Too many stinging words and well-directed punches, how can I delicately put this, obscured others’ ability to see your better nature.

But what was amazing, exquisite to witness, and a tonic for my faith in humanity, was watching your transformation during high school. You never stopped being playful, either in words or deeds. And I’m so glad for that. But what I’m referring to here is your no longer needing to lash out at, or diminish, others. As a result, you acquired countless friends. People came to know you, and to trust you, as someone who was not only fun to be with but, more importantly, as someone to be counted on, someone from whom others would draw courage and strength. Over time, even the kids here in town to whom you’d become a menace, even they grew to like you. Way to go, kid! And Aiden, who’s brotherly relationship with you across the years so often modeled the classic definition of sibling rivalry, proudly took to calling you “larger Dreskin,” as if to acknowledge how close older and younger brother had grown in recent days.

Yom Kippur features the prophetical Book of Jonah, which became one of the few spiritual access points for me during this year’s services, owing simply to the fact that you and he shared a name. You always loved the biblical Jonah. In your email address and AIM screen name, you called yourself inthewhale. As a songleader, you loved teaching Jeff Klepper’s Jonah and the Whale to the little kids at temple. And your favorite tzedakah box was probably the cast-iron whale that swallowed a quarter along with your scriptural ancestor.

In the department of useless information, a place you were known to visit from time to time, it’s known that, in the 1950s, there were two idiomatic understandings of your name. One referred to someone who was mightily cool. In groups that favored this idiom, to be called a “Jonah” was quite an honor. During the same period, a “Jonah” was also known as someone who ran away from responsibility, someone who couldn’t be counted on. Members of this crowd were not likely to name their kids after the dubious star character of that biblical tale.

In 1990, when you were born, your mom and I weren’t aware that a “Jonah” had once been someone who drew popular admiration. We only knew about the delinquent runaway. But she and I had always looked at the Jonah story differently. Actually, all we did was read to the end of the book. While yes, Jonah had indeed run away from God’s call to prophesy Nineveh’s end, he also ultimately fulfilled the purpose of that calling. After fleeing south to Tarshish, and after spending a few days inside the whale’s belly, Jonah lived up to God’s faith in him. In fact, Jonah saved that entire city!

As your Aunt Joan observed, biblical Jonah’s story seems to end abruptly. Not unlike your own, kiddo. But a person’s story is not nearly complete when it stops partway through. So the question, my son, is can a life be cut short, and yet its impact still be full. Can a story that’s way too brief … somehow be complete? Looking at your life, I’d say, “Yeah, the impact is very full. This story does have a completeness to it.” Even while I continue to cry far too many tears.

By the way, Jonah, those of us who got to know you across this second decade of your life, we know the great efforts you made to reinvent yourself. Efforts at which you very much succeeded. I think each of us receives plenty of opportunities to change the narrative of our life. Jonah (of the whale), reluctant to become God’s prophet, fled … but not forever. He rewrote his narrative. Just like you.

I don’t know whether you spent any time thinking about Jonah of the whale, but I see a parallel in your lives that I wouldn’t mind seeing in my own. You, like every kid, had a lot of growing to do. Incredibly, you did it! When you left for Buffalo, you’d really become the kind of young man a parent prays for. You’d been able to set aside childish immaturities – the more selfish and impatient parts of yourself – and adopt the steadier, more respectable qualities of supportiveness and kindliness, all the while holding onto your child-like playfulness and joy. Jonah Maccabee Dreskin, between your middle school years and high school graduation, you transformed yourself into a truly fine human being. A mentsch. I couldn’t have been prouder, nor could I have loved you more.

Did Jonah of the whale play a role in your evolution? Yeah, I think so. I think you two Jonahs met daily. Not explicitly, but through the words and attempted guidance of a mom and dad who thought the biblical Jonah was a pretty decent, realistic role model. Mom and I have never expected perfection either from ourselves or from our kids, but we’ve continually challenged the five of us to be the best, imperfect human beings we can be.

It was always mom’s and my hope, Jonah, that you – flawed and human like all the rest of us – would be among those who ultimately learned, and chose to do, the right thing. So thank you. Because that’s the Jonah we eventually got. I remember sitting by your bedside one night when you were about twelve, trying to convince you that the Jonah we all knew inside of our home and inside of our family life, that this was a Jonah you could be proud of, a Jonah you didn’t need to hide, a Jonah that others would be grateful to be able to call their friend.

You had to spend a good while inside the belly of your own whale to understand this. But in time, Jonah, in plenty of time – in plenty of time for your adult life, and in plenty of time for your shortened life – you figured it out. You realized you had something to offer the world that would be valued by those who themselves had learned to appreciate menschlichkeit (decency and grace). And when your whale spewed you back out onto dry land, you too went to Nineveh. You went to Nineveh, where you did a whole lot of right and very kind things for a whole lot of us – for your family and your friends, and for a whole bunch of strangers in need – and you redeemed yourself, you built a person who was really good … really good in God’s eyes, in our eyes, but most importantly, in your own eyes.

Two Jonahs. Each faced with the seemingly insurmountable confusion about what to do with their destinies. Each thrown by life’s formidable circumstances into the white-capped waters of indecision. And each emerging again with the beginnings of a wisdom that would teach them to embrace the value (and the reward) of treating God’s creation with respect and with love.

If that’s what being a Jonah is all about, well sign me up! If you ask me, JoJo, it’s time to put away the pejorative references and bring back that old 1950s idiom, “He’s a real cool Jonah!” Because I know at least two examples for whom the shoe fits.

You and I once watched the 1993 movie, Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray played a jaded, rather offensive newscaster who had forced upon him the opportunity to get one day in his life right. For ten years, the character plugged away at making that single 24-hour collection of moments work. And in the process, he learned about the kinds of choices that bring a person multiple rewards – rewards that come in the form of goodness for others and goodness for oneself.

We can’t go back in time and get a do-over, Jo, but life has a way of presenting similar experiences again and again. When we screw up, something a lot like it is going to come along to see if we’re interested in doing better next time ‘round. That, I think, was a lot of what was going on throughout your nineteen years. Groundhog Day is a fantasy, but it has its roots in the stuff of our everyday lives.

For me — for the dad who can’t seem to do much else other than think about and cry for his 19-year old boy, the dad who’s actually caught, for the next little while at least, in his own version of Groundhog Day … playing tapes and memories over and over and over — I’d like to someday emerge from this having learned something about how to live. Not so different from riding in the belly of a whale. Catching glimpses of past, present and future. Being invited to sort through them, to explore their meanings and their challenges. And to come through all of that … different, hopefully better, for having embraced your absence as part of life’s experiences.

So, Jonah Maccabee Dreskin, it would seem that you and Jonah of the whale offer similar wisdoms. Two reluctant prophets, a pair of beautiful, inexact souls, who most honorably bore the name of the dove – yonah. Here’s hoping that more of us can learn how to ride a whale from the inside (our consciences seem to send them around pretty frequently). And if we can manage the trip, then maybe we too — like you, my sweet, noble son — can emerge from the bellies of our toughest choices, and find that, having bravely faced and reshaped ourselves into a truth that is virtuous and good, perhaps more of us can become a Jonah Maccabee – champions and defenders of decency and grace in our world. I imagine that, in return, quietness and peace will be the gifts from you that remain long after.

Love you forever,
Dad

This entry is not a Jonah-story. It’s from words I wrote for Rosh Hashanah, describing a bit of my faith-journey since Jonah’s death. It comes from the place in my heart where Jonah now resides, and where I regularly go to spend time with him.

Billy

August 2007

My dear sweet Jonah,

It’s Rosh Hashanah. A new year, with new beginnings. But March 5th was already the new beginning for this year. The day you died, Mom and Katie and Aiden and I (and a whole lot of other folks who really miss you) … we all had to begin learning a new way of living – without you to brighten our days, without you to make us laugh, without you to help us out, and without your great, big hugs. So for Rosh Hashanah, I’m thinking less about beginning anew and more about continuing what started six months ago.

I know you probably would never sit still to listen to all of this, but you probably would enjoy that it’s all about you. And though you’d never let me know, you would probably also enjoy that I’m trying to help others with these words.

Well, here goes.

I’ve read Psalm 121 about a thousand times in my life. As a folksong, I’ve shared with hundreds of friends in the melody given to it by Shlomo Carlebach. But mostly, I’ve read it at funerals. “Esa eynai el ha’harim … I lift up my eyes to the mountains; what is the source of my help? My help comes from God, creator of heaven and earth. You will not let my foot give way; my Guardian does not slumber. For indeed, the Guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps! You are my guardian, You are the protection at my right hand. By day the sun will not smite me, nor the moon by night. You keep me from all harm; You protect my soul. You will guard my going out and my coming in, from this time forth and forever.”

Psalm 121 is a prayer of comfort. It affirms that God cares for us, and will care for us, always, and forever, because that’s what God does. It’s a statement of faith … that no matter what life may throw at us, God will make sure that all is well.

But JoJo, I don’t know how anything can be well when your child has slipped away from you. How can I possibly find comfort in being told no harm will come my way? Harm has already been here, and it’s left disaster in its wake.

These past months, as I’ve grieved for you, I didn’t find myself blaming God. I don’t live in a micro-managed universe, where God picks and chooses what lives to interrupt. My world is built with molecules and energy. And when things happen – good or bad – it’s because the natural forces of our physical world have aligned in such a way that the outcome was scientifically inevitable. And the only way it might have been avoided is for other physical forces to have exerted their influence. I would give anything to have been in Buffalo that evening of March 4th, to have been with you, to have exerted myself and changed the natural course of that evening’s events.

But I wasn’t there. And ten billion other events that might have altered the sequence of that evening, none of them were there either. We don’t know what happened to you, Jonah, and we may never know. But if there’s one thing in which I have unshakeable faith, it’s that you were not singled out by a judging God. And whether you made good choices or poor choices that evening, you died because of the progression of physical events. No one would have understood better than you. Physical events are always subject to the laws of physics – and the laws of physics cannot be broken, not by human beings nor by divine ones.

I don’t blame God for your death. But I have not found comfort in God either. Still, this is a journey. A long, incredibly difficult one. And already, my emotions are very different from what they were six months ago.

Rabbi Harry Essrig (z”l) once asked what should have been an obvious question to anyone who reads Psalm 121. When the psalmist wrote, “I lift up my eyes to the mountains,” where was he standing when he said that? Was it merely a geographical locator, to tell us that his position was somewhere near sea level and that he was literally gazing upward into the hills above? Or is this the poetry of someone who knows the feeling of stumbling through the valley – of groping, of tripping continuously against the sharp rocks that line that barren path deep, deep within the valley of the shadow of death? When the psalmist looked up and spoke of God, did he do so from that cheerless pit of loss and despair? Did God seem distant, far removed from the events of the psalmist’s life, at that moment? Did he too wonder when he would again feel the comfort of living in God’s universe?

If so, then the psalmist speaks for me as well. You would have skewered me for this, Jonah, but my life has recently become a set of parallel spiritual inconsistencies. I may profess a scientifically-based perspective on life and death, but I have also of recent demanded from God an explanation for your disappearance. And yet, just as you’ve not spoken to me since your death (much as I may wish for it … and I do), neither has God. Except for the fantastic imaginings of film and novel and the occasional snake-oil psychic, I don’t expect that sort of thing to really happen.

I used to live really comfortably in a world where, when our life comes to an end, we return to the earth and that, while our atoms continue on, our individual identity ceases. Rabbi Rami Shapiro (who I think you would one day have really enjoyed reading) explains it in a way I’ve always loved. “You and I are real,” he writes, “worthwhile, and unique. What we are not is eternal, separate, and independent. The relationship between us and that which is responsible for our being here is like that between an ocean and its waves. Each wave is unique and distinct, but no wave is separate from the ocean; without the ocean there would be no wave. You and I, and the myriad details of Creation, are manifestations of the one God; we emerge from the infinite source of everything. But we are not eternal! We are momentary, transient, and relative.”

Rami Shapiro teaches us that, like the wave, we appear above the surface for a brief moment in time, and then we return to the ocean below. We’ve not ceased to exist, but our individual identity has. Waves will continue to rise above the water – we may even be part of those waves – but our particular wave no longer exists; not in this world, nor any other, will it be seen again.

That used to work fine for me, Jonah. I didn’t mind that, when I die, my essence will vanish. But that was about me. That was before your wave disappeared beneath the surface.

Nowadays I want heaven. I want a place where people go when they die. I want to know that my son is still part of something. I want you to be hanging out with your cousin Noah. I want the two of you to be watched over and even reprimanded from time to time by your Grandpa Jake. And one day, whenever the time comes for my own wave to recede beneath the surface, I’d like very much to be reunited with you … my little boy who I miss so much.

That’s my heart speaking, Jo. My head still thinks that’s not believable. In time, I’ll need to reconcile my heart with my brain, to see if I can’t harmonize one with the other.

When all is said and done, Jonah, I think that these are my challenges. You’ll recognize them; I think they were pretty important to you throughout your life.

First, we live in a world filled with such colossal blessing. I want to always be grateful for that. I want my life to be great, but I want to be grateful too. And I want to hold onto that gratefulness.

Second, we live in a world filled with such colossal suffering. I want to always be bothered by that. I want to hold onto that botheredness, and I want to do something with it, help someone make their life a little better.

Life drags us over jagged rocks, JoJo. On March 5th, I learned this in the worst, most heartbreaking, way possible. It happens because we’re human – we’re pretty fragile, and we sometimes break. But I don’t want to live my life thinking we’re just here to get sick or hurt, and die. From the valley in which I’m standing now, six months after your wave gently withdrew into the transcendent deep, I’m still able to see a magnificent and miraculous universe. And I’m still deeply grateful to be here. Wherever my feet may tread, wherever my journey may lead — I hope my eyes will always be lifted up to the mountains … to see that life goes on, and that beauty and wonder and amusement (is that a word you might have chosen?) continue in spite of the hurt that comes our way.

Because we are human, Jo, we all come to know hardship and despair. But because we are human, we will also know delight and love. They’re all part of the deal, and try as we might to make it otherwise, we know we have to take the entire package.

You taught me that life is worth fighting for, that there are always opportunities to make things good for ourselves and for others. That was your blessing, Jonah Maccabee, perhaps the most God-like part of your story. Thank you for telling it to us all.

I love you, boy.

Dad