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June 28, 2009

2009 Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture

Ariel Chaim ZT'L flies like an angel, 1981.

The Sixth Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture is up and live.

The title of Rabbi Steven Pruzansky’s lecture is: Conformity in Jewish Life: Virtue, Vice or Affectation?

Is conformity a Torah ideal, and should we encourage it in our children and communities ? Or does conformity restrict our creative impulses, diminish our simchat hachaim—joy of life—and potentially impair our service of Hashem ? Is there a value in pretending to conform externally ? This lecture will explore the Torah's balance between conformity and individuality.

To view the video of the lecture, or just listen to the audio, go to the sidebar, right below Ariel's picture and click the appropriate link.

Also: Hot and Humid Haveil Havalim at Simply Jews.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:03 AM | Comments (16)

June 19, 2009

Sixth Annual Ariel Avrech, ZT'L Memorial Lecture

The Sixth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture takes place this weekend Sunday June 21, 2009, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Rabbi Steven Pruzansky to present this year’s lecture.

Rabbi Pruzansky is the spiritual leader of Congregation Bnai Yeshurun, a synagogue consisting of nearly 600 families located in Teaneck, New Jersey, and one of the most vibrant centers of Orthodox Jewish life today. He has served since August 1994.

Rabbi Pruzansky graduated from Columbia University in 1978 with a B.A. in history, and received a Juris Doctor degree from the Benjamin Cardozo School of Law in 1981. He practiced law for 13 years as a general practitioner and litigator in New York City until assuming his current pulpit. Rabbi Pruzansky studied in yeshivot in Israel and the United States, and was ordained at Yeshiva Bnei Torah of Far Rockaway, New York under the guidance of Rabbi Yisrael Chait, shlit”a.

He recently served as President of the Rabbinical Board of Bergen County, and currently serves as the Treasurer of the Rabbinical Council of America. He is a trustee of the RCA on the Board of the Beth Din of America, as well as a dayyan on the Beth Din itself. He also served as the American co-spokesman for the International Rabbinic Coalition for Israel. Rabbi Pruzansky served on the Board of Directors of the Jerusalem Reclamation Project, and received their Rabbinic Leadership Award at their 1995 Jerusalem Day banquet.

Rabbi Pruzansky is the author of A Prophet for Today: Contemporary Lessons of the Book of Yehoshua, and Judges for our Time: Contemporary Lessons of the Book of Shoftim.

Rabbi Pruzansky recently entered into the blogosphere with a fine blog appropriately titled: Rabbi Pruzansky's Blog.

The title of Rabbi Pruzansky’s lecture is: Conformity in Jewish Life: Virtue, Vice or Affectation?

Is conformity a Torah ideal, and should we encourage it in our children and communities ? Or does conformity restrict our creative impulses, diminish our simchat hachaim—joy of life—and potentially impair our service of Hashem ? Is there a value in pretending to conform externally ? This lecture will explore the Torah's balance between conformity and individuality.

We look forward to seeing all our friends and relatives at the lecture.

Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

You do not have to RSVP to attend. The lecture and brunch are courtesy of the Avrech Family and Friends.

The lecture will be videotaped and posted on Seraphic Secret for the benefit of those who cannot attend in person.

Karen and I wish all our friends and relatives a restful and meaningful Shabbat.

Important Note: Trader Joe's, all across the United States, are due to be raided by Jew-hating rabble who seek to prevent Israeli products from being sold by removing them from shelves.

This is much like the Nazi boycotts of Jewish businesses during the 30's.

So, those of you who can, please head on over to your local Trader Joe's and purchase as many Israeli products as you can. If you're Jewish do this on Friday—today—so as no violate the Sabbath.

Make sure to let Trader Joe's know that you appreciate the fact that they carry Israeli products.

Stand up to the thugs who seek to destroy Israel and the Jewish people. They are just old fashioned Jew-haters hiding behind the fashionable mask of anti-Zionism.

These creatures already struck a supermarket in Paris. Naturally, no one called the police or confronted the jihadists. Roll the tape.

H/T Israel Matzav

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:24 AM | Comments (15)

June 01, 2009

Sixth Annual Ariel Avrech, ZT'L Memorial Lecture

The Sixth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture will take place Sunday June 21, 2009, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Rabbi Steven Pruzansky to present this year’s lecture.

Rabbi Pruzansky is the spiritual leader of Congregation Bnai Yeshurun, a synagogue consisting of nearly 600 families located in Teaneck, New Jersey, and one of the most vibrant centers of Orthodox Jewish life today. He has served since August 1994.

Rabbi Pruzansky graduated from Columbia University in 1978 with a B.A. in history, and received a Juris Doctor degree from the Benjamin Cardozo School of Law in 1981. He practiced law for 13 years as a general practitioner and litigator in New York City until assuming his current pulpit. Rabbi Pruzansky studied in yeshivot in Israel and the United States, and was ordained at Yeshiva Bnei Torah of Far Rockaway, New York under the guidance of Rabbi Yisrael Chait, shlit”a.

He recently served as President of the Rabbinical Board of Bergen County, and currently serves as the Treasurer of the Rabbinical Council of America. He is a trustee of the RCA on the Board of the Beth Din of America, as well as a dayyan on the Beth Din itself. He also served as the American co-spokesman for the International Rabbinic Coalition for Israel. Rabbi Pruzansky served on the Board of Directors of the Jerusalem Reclamation Project, and received their Rabbinic Leadership Award at their 1995 Jerusalem Day banquet.

Rabbi Pruzansky is the author of A Prophet for Today: Contemporary Lessons of the Book of Yehoshua, and Judges for our Time: Contemporary Lessons of the Book of Shoftim.

Rabbi Pruzansky recently entered into the blogosphere with a fine blog appropriately titled: Rabbi Pruzansky's Blog.

The title of Rabbi Pruzansky’s lecture is: Conformity in Jewish Life: Virtue, Vice or Affectation?

Is conformity a Torah ideal, and should we encourage it in our children and communities ? Or does conformity restrict our creative impulses, diminish our simchat hachaim—joy of life—and potentially impair our service of Hashem ? Is there a value in pretending to conform externally ? This lecture will explore the Torah's balance between conformity and individuality.

We look forward to seeing all our friends and relatives at the lecture.

Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

You do not have to RSVP to attend. The lecture and brunch are courtesy of the Avrech Family and Friends.

The lecture will be videotaped and posted on Seraphic Secret for the benefit of those who cannot attend in person.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:09 AM | Comments (6)

October 08, 2008

The Last Kaddish, Redux

Ariel ZT'L, on his Bar Mitzvah, 1994

On Yom Kippur, Karen, the girls and I will be reciting Yizkor, "Remember" the memorial prayer, for Ariel ZT'L. I am taking this opportunity to publish, once again, with minor editing, a short piece I wrote, back in 2004, when the period of official mourning was over and I recited my last Kaddish. This piece is particularly appropriate because Yizkor on Yom Kippur is, for me, an abrupt and almost unbearable plunge into the abyss—the physical loss of our beloved son.

The Kaddish has been called an echo of The Book of Job:

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust in him.”

The Kaddish is an expression of faith on the part of the mourner that although he is grief-stricken, he still believes in God, still trusts in the meaning of life. It is the ultimate anti-existentialist statement. Karen and I will mourn forever. We are riven, from now until the end of our lives. Our son will always be dead, and a central portion of our lives died with him.

This Shabbos I recite the last Kaddish of the eleven months of mourning for Ariel.

I stand in shul, eyes closed, swaying back and forth, chanting the words with—I hope—perfect diction and true feeling. I want the b'racha, the prayer, to go on forever. I want to stretch the words like a giant rubber band and make them reach from earth to heaven.

There are at least another dozen mourners in shul, all with much louder voices than mine, but I hear only one sound.

Is this my voice?

I see Ariel as he once was: beside me in shul where I study the delicate architecture of his face. I melt as Ariel's lips move, savoring each syllable, whispering the sacred Hebrew text.

Is this me?

I study his long tapering fingers as they turn the pages of the siddur. I lean over and bury my lips in the plush groove of his neck.

It is my voice.

Close to the end of the prayer now...

It is my son.

I take three measured steps back and three reluctant steps forward. I finish the Kaddish, open my eyes and discover a dozen men in shul gazing at me. Some have tears in their eyes. Several nod, tacitly acknowledging the finality of the moment.

I open my eyes and I see light. I open my eyes and I am swimming through layers of memory. I open my eyes and I see splendor. I open my eyes and I see my son, my son, Ariel.

**********

And here is the standard translation of the Kaddish from Aramaic to English.

Glorified and sanctified be God's great name throughout the world which He has created according to His will. May He establish His kingdom in your lifetime and during your days, and within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon; and say, Amen.

May His great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.

Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One, blessed be He, beyond all the blessings and hymns, praises and consolations that are ever spoken in the world; and say, Amen.

May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.

He who creates peace in His celestial heights, may He create peace for us and for all Israel; and say, Amen.

Karen and I wish our friends and family a meaningful fast, and a G'mar Chatima Tova, May You be Inscribed for the Book of Life.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:14 AM | Comments (18)

July 04, 2008

Ariel and Daf Yomi

Today, 1 Tammuz, is Ariel Chaim's ZT'L fifth Yahrtzeit.

In honor of our son's memory we're publishing an excerpt from The Book of Ariel that recounts the period when Ariel taught Daf Yomi—the daily page of Talmud.

In the summer of 2001, Rabbi Yosef Furman asked Ariel to substitute for him at the Daf Yomi class the good Rabbi taught at Yeshiva University Los Angeles on Shabbos afternoon.

Initially, Ariel hesitated, modest to the core, he did not believe that he was learned enough to teach Gemarah to a group of highly learned and dedicated adults. But Karen and I gently reminded Ariel that if he was thinking of going into Jewish education this would be a perfect opportunity to hone his skills as a teacher. Besides, we told him, you are an incredible Torah scholar, definitely up to the task.

And so, in addition to his already heavy learning schedule, Ariel prepared for the upcoming Shabbos and his first Daf Yomi class. After he went over the page of Talmud, he studied the commentary of the primary Torah and Talmud medieval exegete Rashi, and the lengthy, complex glosses of the Tosafot.

I reminded Ariel that in Daf Yomi we usually don’t delve into the commentaries, but perfectionist that he was, Ariel said:

“Yes, but I have to understand the Gemarah if I’m to teach it and do a good job.”

Here is the first page of the Babylonian Talmud, as it appears in the standard Vilna edition. The standardized pagination follows that of the third Bomberg edition, Venice, 1548. Pages are numbered by folio. This page is Berakhoth 2a—that is, the first side of folio 2 in the tractate Berakhoth, "Blessings".

Several times that week before the first class, Ariel called Karen's father, Rabbi Pinchas Singer ZT'L , to ask his beloved grandfather to clarify a difficult passage in the Talmud. Sometimes they would spend hours on the phone, Ariel carefully taking copious notes with his favorite fountain pen.

Ariel was more than prepared; he was hyper-prepared.

As we walked to the the class—at the time it was in a back room in the Washington Bank on Pico Boulevard—Ariel fretted that maybe he really wasn’t the right man for the job.

“Who do I talk to?” he asked.

“Try and maintain eye contact with everyone, do a slow scan around the table and then do it again.”

“What happens if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the class?”

Go right before class begins and then if you have to again, just excuse yourself. They won’t hold it against you.”

“What happens if someone asks me a question and I don’t know the answer?”

“Admit that you don’t know, but that you’ll look it up and have the answer at the next class.”

“What happens if I faint?”

“What do you mean, are you feeling—?”

“Just kidding.” Ariel grinned.

The men who attended the Daf Yomi class were familiar; an assortment of friends and neighbors, all with warm and inviting smiles. Also in the class were several strangers whom Ariel recognized from the Beis Midrash. Ariel whispered to me that they were acknowledged Torah scholars, a good deal more learned than he.

Relax,” I told him, “you’ll do fine.”

My stomach was churning; the massive anxieties of a loving and doting father.

Ariel opened the massive Gemarah, scanned the page, looked up at the dozen expectant men at the table and smiled. He thanked them for giving him the opportunity to learn with them. And then Ariel dived right into the Gemarah.

He chanted the text in a lovely sing-song and translated from the Aramaic to English. His words and explanations flowed like water. I really didn’t hear what he was saying for I was relieved, happy—and so insanely proud that my cognitive abilities just shut down.

Is there a greater happiness for a Jewish father than to witness his son transmitting the Torah, our eternal traditions, with such love and exactitude?

A difficult section absorbed everyone’s attention. But Ariel managed to make sense of it.

Abruptly, a particularly learned man—everyone called him Rabbi—asked a particularly complex question. Clearly, a difficult point needed to be clarified. Ariel frowned, hunched over his Gemarah. He appeared baffled and I waited for Ariel to admit that he did not know. Better to admit ignorance than to try and fake it. The class would see through any pretense. The seconds slipped by and several men shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

And then Ariel nodded his head, just once but with perfect certainty. I recognized that nod and smiled inwardly.

Ariel answered in soft, measured terms, weighing each word. His explanation was crystal clear and the man who asked the question smiled, satisfied, and all around the table the men of the Daf Yomi looked at me and smiled, tacitly letting me know that my son, Ariel, was the real thing, a true scholar and teacher of Torah.

Walking home, Ariel said, “How’d I do, Daddy?”

I did not answer.

“Daddy, are you crying?”

“No, I’ve just got something in my eye.”

We walked home without speaking another word. There are times when silence is far more eloquent than language.

How to Navigate a Page of Talmud

Karen and I wish all our friends a magnificent Fourth of July and a lovely and peaceful Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:27 AM | Comments (23)

June 23, 2008

Listen to the 2008 Memorial Lecture

The Fifth Annual Ariel Avrech Z'TL Memorial Lecture by Rabbi Dr. Gil S. Perl is now available.

Look at the sidebar to the right of this blog, and click the graphic directly below Ariel's picture, the video will download and play.

Karen and I are happy that we can share this special presentation with all our Seraphic Friends. We look forward to your comments.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:12 PM | Comments (8)

June 16, 2008

First Time in Shul

Ariel Avrech ZT'L studying Torah during a visit to
Camp Morasha, Summer 1998.

Our dear friend and blogmother Jackie—check out Qik, Jackie is head of marketing for this amazing service—attended the Ariel Avrech ZT'L Memorial Lecture yesterday. It was her very first time in shul and here's her lovely and generous report.

Bonus footage: A picture of yours truly with Jackie.

*******

Oh, almost forgot, here's Haveil Havalim #169, Part I presented by the cleverly titled, Writes Like She Talks.

Here's Part II.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:09 PM | Comments (10)

After the Lecture

The Fifth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Memorial Lecture was well attended, and a resounding sucess. Rabbi Dr. Gil S. Perl's lecture was informative, compelling and beautifully organized. The audience was held in rapt attention throughout as Rabbi Dr. Perl delivered a thought provoking analysis of a little known corner of vital 19th Century Jewish intellectual and spiritual history.

The lecture was video taped and we will be posting this fine presentation here at Seraphic Secret as soon as possible.

Yosef Abrahamson, 16, right, with his mother, Dinah, and his sister, Sarah,
near their home in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.

In the meantime, here's a story Ariel ZT'L would have adored, a portrait of an amazing young Jewish man and his family.

Moments before Yosef Abrahamson, 16, accepted an award for the essay he’d written in a competition sponsored by the Police Athletic League, an officer approached him to complain about his fedora. The hat, an essential wardrobe item for Hasidic men, was gaudy, the policeman told him, and what’s with all these kids today and their nose rings and their attitudes. A second police officer, overhearing the conversation, came over to steer away the first one, who reappeared a few minutes later to apologize. He’d never seen a Hasidic Jew, he told Yosef.

A policeman working in New York who’d never seen a Hasidic Jew? What he probably meant, Yosef theorized, was “that he’d never seen a Hasidic Jew of color. I think he was probably making some assumptions there.”

Thanks to his Egyptian father, who left the family when Yosef was young, and his maternal grandfather, who was of African descent by way of Panama, Yosef looks African-American (though his family prefers to describe themselves as Jews of color, believing their culture to be exclusively Jewish). Yosef moved to Crown Heights only a year ago, until then having lived in Omaha, where his mother’s maternal family, German Jewish merchants, had settled several generations earlier.

To read the entire article, please click here.

*******

And from Debbie Schlussel an important report on who's raising money for Barack Obama. What a shock. But I know, if you're a Kool-Aid Democrat, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except Obama's soaring and empty rhetoric.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:23 AM | Comments (0)

June 13, 2008

Ariel Avrech ZT'L Memorial Lecture, 2008

Ariel Chaim Avrech ZT'L

The Fifth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture will take place this Sunday June 15, 2008, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Rabbi Dr. Gil S. Perl to present this year’s lecture.

Gil Perl is the Dean of the Margolin Hebrew Academy / Feinstone Yeshiva of the South, a Prek-12 day school serving the Jewish community of Memphis. Before arriving in Memphis, Dr. Perl served as an instructor of Modern Jewish History in Yeshiva University and as the Associate Head of School in Yeshiva University's High School for Boys. He earned his Bachelor's Degree from the University of Pennsylvania, his Masters and Doctorate in Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations from Harvard University, and rabbinical ordination from Yeshiva University. As a Teaching Fellow at Harvard, Rabbi Perl was twice awarded Harvard's prestigious Certificate of Distinction in Teaching and in the Spring of 2006 he was named Yeshiva University's Lillian F. and William L. Silber Professor of the Year.

The title of Rabbi Perl’s lecture is: “What Was the Rosh Yeshiva Reading? Intellectual Openness in 19th Century Lithuania.”

We look forward to seeing all our Seraphic Friends and relatives at the lecture.

Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

You do not have to RSVP to attend. The lecture and brunch are courtesy of the Avrech Family and Friends.

The lecture will be videotaped and posted on Seraphic Secret for the benefit of those who cannot attend in person.

Karen and I wish all our friends a wonderful miracle in Shabbat .

*******

And I must link to Joshua Pundit who explains why the Supreme Court decision on Habeus Corpus for non-citizen, non-combatants is a disaster for the American people and the war against terror.

I have a question: are our soldiers on foreign shores now required to read the Miranda rights to Islamo Nazi scum?

Here's my suggestion to our troops: Take no prisoners.

*******

And here's an article about my friend Donald Etra, a member of my shul and a close—very close—personal friend of President and Mrs. Bush.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:41 AM | Comments (15)

May 05, 2008

The Fifth Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture 2008

Ariel Chaim Avrech ZT'L

The Fifth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture will take place on Sunday June 15, 2008, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Rabbi Dr. Gil S. Perl to present this year’s lecture.

Gil Perl is the Dean of the Margolin Hebrew Academy / Feinstone Yeshiva of the South, a Prek-12 day school serving the Jewish community of Memphis. Before arriving in Memphis, Dr. Perl served as an instructor of Modern Jewish History in Yeshiva University and as the Associate Head of School in Yeshiva University's High School for Boys. He earned his Bachelor's Degree from the University of Pennsylvania, his Masters and Doctorate in Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations from Harvard University, and rabbinical ordination from Yeshiva University. As a Teaching Fellow at Harvard, Rabbi Perl was twice awarded Harvard's prestigious Certificate of Distinction in Teaching and in the Spring of 2006 he was named Yeshiva University's Lillian F. and William L. Silber Professor of the Year.

The title of Rabbi Perl’s lecture is: “What Was the Rosh Yeshiva Reading? Intellectual Openness in 19th Century Lithuania.”

We look forward to seeing all our Seraphic Friends and relatives at the lecture.

Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

You do not have to RSVP to attend. The lecture and brunch are courtesy of the Avrech Family and Friends.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:04 AM | Comments (32)

January 27, 2008

Learning From Ariel

Karen writes: The fifth anniversary of Ariel’s (A”H) petirah, is coming upon us. The word “anniversary” seems inappropriate, since it connotes celebration, a kind of renewal. The measure of time is irrelevant for me in any case.

As I’ve written countless times before, the more time passes, the deeper my pain, the more I ache for my son. There is a concept in psychology called “habituation.” It relates to the diminishment over time of the power of a stimulus to evoke a response. There is no habituation occurring in my case.

In fact, the opposite is true. Pictures and mementos have become more evocative, more upsetting, more capable of unleashing the memory of the reality that was Ariel.

An example: Ariel’s pictures are all over our house. One favorite rests on my kitchen counter. I pass it innumerable times each day. In the picture I am embracing him at the end of a visit to Ner Yisroel, his yeshiva in Baltimore.

Recently, this picture triggers a sharp pain each time I see it. I am starting to avert my eyes.

Even the habitual sight of Ariel’s image on Seraphic Secret, an image I have seen hundreds of times with immunity, now sends my stomach into somersaults. When I meet Ariel’s eyes, they are looking right at me, they are more familiar. I wonder, how could I have been so cold?

The searing emptiness is more tangible as time peels off the protective layers of my psyche. I find myself crying more, mouthing the words, “Ariel, speak to me,” “Ariel, I miss you.”

Seraphic Secret was established as a platform for memorializing Ariel, and for that reason was named after the Seraphim (angels, like the angel Ariel) who proclaim the glory of G-d as they surround the Merkavah—the heavenly chariot.

The passage is a play on words from the liturgy of the Musaf Kedusha of Shabbos, “K'sod (secret) Siach Sarfai Kodesh.” In the prayer we are imitating the angels who praise god with a chorus of sanctified secret names.

Our hope was that we could convey the essence of who Ariel was, and that he too, through some secret, hidden manner, could send messages to us that his neshama lives on, whispers that would echo his voice and subtle lights that would illumine his soul to others.

As if to answer my prayers, I was granted a new glimpse of Ariel through the eyes of a friend who just entered our lives. Each time an acquaintance relates his experience of knowing Ariel it is a reaffirmation of his life.

The story confirms that yes, Ariel did exist, yes, my perceptions of him were accurate, yes, he was so special. Hearing another person’s point of view also extends Ariel’s life for me. I can imagine these interactions, and Ariel is alive again, a fresh chapter added to my memories.

Yosef Saltzman, a former student at Ner Yisroel, is engaged to a wonderful young lady in our community. She is a family friend, and a true Baalas Chesed, charitable young woman, who has, thank G-d, met her Bashert. Yosef spontaneously composed an essay recounting his impressions of Ariel, offering his thoughts to us in his sensitivity to our yearning for news of our son.

*******

All of the rabbinic fast days have something to do with the destruction of the Bais Hamikdosh in particular, but in a general sense, they all revolve around the connection to the meaning and purpose of life that is service of Hashem. When we reflect on the loss of the Temple and the special Divine presence, the Shechina, that left us upon its destruction, this realization is meant to propel us forward in our day-to-day efforts to become better people and come closer to Hashem. So on the day of introspection I try to find inspiration. I try to address the questions, “Who are you?” and “Where are you going?” Thoughts like these compel me to take out time to write about Ariel Avrech, zichrono livracha.

Through the grace of G-d, I recently became engaged to Deborah Abraham. She lives, with her family, in the same area the Avrechs live, and both families daven at the Young Israel of Century City. Deborah told me that her family became close to the Avrechs through the families' shared experiences. So since I feel, on some level, that I am already part of the Abraham family, by extension I also feel more deeply connected to the Avrech family. This has also driven me to think more about Ariel.

The third factor that rekindled the glowing image of Ariel within me was meeting Ariel's father at our engagement party. After having spent time in Pico for Shabbosos, I had already learned a lot about the playing field where Ariel grew up as a young boy. But in the few minutes I spoke to Ariel's father, I could already get a better appreciation of where his gentle, sensitive soul came from, as I saw the resemblance between father and son.

The fourth thing to arouse memories of Ariel in my heart was reading about him. I remember reading A Father, a Son, a Tzadik, written by Ariel's father nearly a year after Ariel's passing. I had seen this article posted on the wall in the hallway of Ner Yisroel, and I was so moved that I took it down and made a couple copies for myself before I taped it back on the wall. A few years have passed since reading that first article, and I recently noticed The Book of Ariel, a collection of moving pieces written about Ariel, in the Abraham's living room. Reading the pieces in this memorial book, like the article by Ariel's father, nearly led me to cry. So although I didn't write anything about Ariel when this holy book was put together a few years ago, I figure it's never too late to write about my own appreciation of this precious person.

Ariel left this world more than four years ago, in July 2003. At the time, I was learning in the Mir Yeshiva in Jerusalem. I had left Ner Yisroel a year earlier, in July 2002, so I didn't see Ariel's gradual decline. The last time I saw him was in yeshiva in Baltimore, and he looked and sounded the same way he always did to me.

I didn't really have any contact with Ariel since I saw him in Ner Yisroel. The last time I really felt connected to him was when I went on a special trip to the Kotel, The Western Wall, with a group of eleven other Ner Yisroel students, to daven and say Tehillim, Psalms, on behalf of our dear friend. We were all learning then at different yehsivos in Jerusalem, and we went specially, at an unusual time, because we had been told that Ariel needed our prayers so badly.

Ariel and I were never chavrusas ( study partners) or roommates. We were not in the same shiur, nor were we the same age, and we didn't even play ball together. But I still felt a special bond with Ariel. We both loved learning Torah and loved other people. We both grew up going to Modern Orthodox schools and then convinced our parents to allow us to go to yeshiva. We both learned in Ner Yisroel for four years. Ner Yisroel has boys from many different types of religious, social, and economic backgrounds, and I always liked to meet all the different types of "bochurim" in the yeshiva, so if I didn't get to know them in any other context, I would meet them in the dining room forum.

I always liked talking to Ariel, and the dining room was where we used to talk. I remember he told me how his father was involved in making movies in Hollywood, and I thought this was the coolest thing ever. I had never before met such a serious yeshiva bochur whose father worked in the movie industry. I had never met someone who on the one hand was of the highest caliber in terms of dedication, seriousness, and commitment to Torah learning and growth, but on the other hand was worldly (in a Hollywood sense), and deeply interested in literature, science, and things like cartoons.

I had heard that Ariel had some sort of illness, but I had no idea of its severity. Ariel was a regular, perfectly integrated guy. He learned, davened, and ate with everyone else. He even went to college, and I remember discussing with him the different "career paths" that he was considering. It's to his parents' credit that they treated him like everyone else and encouraged him to be completely integrated with the yeshiva's program.

Ariel was adele, (Yiddish: refined) and sensitive, but he was also assertive and had his opinions about things. He may have been slow in expressing himself, but he was quick in his thinking. Although he sometimes came across as being "slow" in his speech and general demeanor, he was truly a very smart boy. He wasn't the type who had an interest in being "cool;" he was just too mature for that. Ariel was happy with himself and with the lot that Hashem had given him.

Ariel grew up in a city in which many people are steeped in the pursuit of fame, fortune, and fantasy, probably more so than any American city, yet Ariel only wanted to be a true Torah scholar. Always serious and focused on the Torah that he loved learning, although he knew he was suffering, it didn't seem to deter him.

In his hesped, Ariel's father quoted his son as saying, “The years of illness have taught me the value of time—how precious it is. How foolish to waste even a moment.” These words have been ringing in my ears ever since I read the hesped. Ariel taught us this on a daily basis. He taught us, by example, that life has deep meaning, G-d is real, Torah is real and deserves our full effort, and every minute can be used in some way to proclaim the glory of G-d.

In her hesped, Ariel's mother made mentions of “complexities” in Ariel's personality. In a similar vein, in his hesped, Ariel's father contrasts Ariel's Torah interest with his secular interests. I think Ariel believed everything in the world is part of G-d's oneness. Hashem is One, and there are a million things in life that could distract us from our recognition of His Oneness. Ariel's emuna was such that he saw everything in the world could, and should, be used to uncover the presence of Hashem that is concealed in our world.

On the rabbinic fast days, we think about uncovering and revealing the hidden presence of Hashem. We stop to think how we can make Him a more essential part of our lives and how we can connect to the deeper meaning of life. We try to look beyond the superficialities that the society surrounding us teaches us to value.

Ariel was a person who had strong emuna in Hashem, who walked with Hashem, and yearned for His closeness. Ariel saw beyond the transient pleasures of this world. Through his serious pursuit of Torah knowledge and his diligent observance of mitzvos, he was connected to the eternal world.

There are different ways someone can teach you something. Normally, we think of a teacher as one who speaks to us and communicates verbally. Sometimes a person can teach by way of example, assuming the observer has a real interest to learn. But perhaps the deepest, most sublime way of teaching is when the memory of the person teaches. Our Rabbis say that Yosef saw the image of his father's face, and this kept him from sinning. I still have the image of Ariel etched in my mind.

When I think of Ariel and his passion for Torah life, a chord is struck in my heart. Every time I ponder the way Ariel lived his life, I am inspired to reach higher. I am inspired to focus on what's real and what's most important in life. When I stop to remember who Ariel was and the kind of life he lived, I hear his voice gently telling all of us to use every second of our short lives in a way that will enable us to live life to the fullest.

— Yosef Saltzman

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:00 PM | Comments (16)

November 03, 2007

The Impossible Dream

Karen writes:

It's a three minute drive from the gym to my house. I usually hear a sound byte of Larry Elder or Hugh Hewitt at the end of the day. On this day, the rich baritone of Robert Goulet fills the car. Despite myself, I feel goose bumps hearing the song, "To Dream the Impossible Dream" from the musical, The Man of La Mancha. It brings back memories of the innocence of my teen years. The song captivated and enchanted all my friends. I wonder, why is Hugh Hewitt playing this song?

Although I pull up to the house, I linger in the car. I wait until the end of the song. Somehow, I feel it's irreverent to switch off the radio when I suspect this is a memorial. Also, despite its sappiness, I'm enjoying the music. Hugh comes on after the last note. His words shock me, pierce my heart. He says, "Robert Goulet died today in a Los Angeles hospital. He was waiting for a lung transplant due to pulmonary fibrosis."

This was Ariel's fate. First come the tears. Then many irrational thoughts flood my mind. The irony of the song, the impossible dream ultimately was for a lung that never came. The fact that celebrity does not get you anywhere in the competition for organs.

I come into the house and rush to tell Robert the coincidence. I could have missed the tag line, but something made me stay in the car and finish the song, to hear that coda. Robert tells me that the same thing happened to him. When he heard the news he also cried.

Ariel ZT'L was a believer even when things looked impossible. He trusted that G-d would provide a lung for him. He never doubted. His determination to overcome barriers was displayed when he left home for Baltimore's Ner Yisroel Rabbinical Academy even when he still was anemic and needed close monitoring.

He never considered himself "sickly," never wanted to receive special treatment. Our son was the bravest person I ever knew. He did not charge windmills. His quests were real and worthwhile; his visions considered and mature. Ariel wanted to make the possible real.

May his memory be a blessing.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:31 PM | Comments (13)

September 21, 2007

The Shofar Weeps

Karen and I are in the car, driving to the cemetery to visit Ariel's grave. There we will recite Tehillim, Psalms, pray, and contemplate this annihilating abyss in our lives.

Karen puts Rabbi Shlomo Riskin's Shabbat Shuva Drasha CD into the deck.

The title of Rabbi Riskin's lecture is: The Message of the Shofar as it Weeps on Rosh Hashanah Shouts Exceedingly on Yom Kippur, Confounds Satan and Vanquishes Iran

Rabbi Riskin was my counselor in Camp Massad when I was 7 years-old. He inspired me as a child and he inspires me still as an adult. The lecture is filled with riveting and luminous Torah insights.

Rabbi Riskin points out that one of the sounds of the shofar, the Teruah, is a broken sound signaling that G-d has created an imperfect world, a world that is a veil of tears. As we pull into the gates of the cemetery Rabbi Riskin says: “...a world where even some people die too young.”

Karen shivers and says: “No one will believe this.”

I can only shake my head. There are worlds within worlds.

We park. We walk to Ariel's grave. Karen gets down on her hands and knees and polishes our son's headstone. Lemon sunlight bounces off the black granite and blinds me for a moment. Seeing only dazzling white light, I try and and try and try to convince myself that our son is not under this earth.

But he is.

His physical body.

In the lecture Rabbi Riskin reminds us that prayer should be more than asking for a good year, for a good living, for good health; authentic prayer is not a tit-for-tat affair. He considers this small-minded. As the great Hasidic master Reb Nachman of Breslov taught we are really asking for spirituality, to be close to G-d, to make us resilient and strong. We're asking that redemption should soon arrive. And we're celebrating His Kingship. We are also joining with G-d in a partnership to complete and refine this imperfect world.

Karen and I wish all our friends a G'mar Chatima Tova, a lovely Shabbat, a meaningful Yom Kippur and fast.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:36 PM | Comments (10)

September 11, 2007

9-11 Zachor, Remember

“Do you know what's happening in New York?”
“No, what?”
“Better turn on the TV, ” says Ariel ZT'L.

I click on the remote. It takes us a few seconds to get oriented. Soon, the pixels cohere into a dreamlike, violent vertical image. Ariel sits on the couch with us. In the master bedroom, we watch as the one of the Twin Towers belches smoke.

Is this an accident?

How is this possible?

I'm supposed to be working on a screenplay. As always I'm on deadline, but movies, entertainment, Hollywood magic seem, well, obscene as I watch my fellow Americans being incinerated, turned to blood and bone, blasted into ash and nothingness.

It's difficult making sense of the reports coming in. My gut tells me that this can't be an accident. No commercial jet would ever fly at such a low altitude, especially over densely populated Manhattan.

My stomach clenches.

When I lived in Israel my stomach did the same thing when I spotted an unattended suitcase in the central bus station in Jerusalem.

The second plane slices into the second tower.

“There are people trapped in the upper floors,” I say to myself as much as to Karen and Ariel.

A canopy of billowing black and gray smoke is spreading over the island of Manhattan. Never has this mighty strip of land appeared so vulnerable.

Thick tears cut silvery channels down my face.

“How many people work in the Twin Towers?” Ariel asks.
“At this time of day, could be fifty thousand people,” I answer.

Ariel reaches to my night table for a siddur, the prayer book, recites Tehillim, Psalms.

1. Avenge me, O God, and champion my cause against an impious nation; rescue me from the man of deceit and iniquity. 2. For You are the God of my strength; why have You abandoned me? Why must I walk in gloom under the oppression of the enemy? 3. Send Your light and Your truth, they will guide me; they will bring me to Your holy mountain and to your sanctuaries. 4. Then I will come to the altar of God to God, the joy of my delight and praise You on the lyre, O God, my God. 5. Why are you downcast, my soul, and why do you wail within me? Hope to God, for I will yet thank Him; He is my deliverance, the light of my countenance, and my God.

—Psalm 43

Soon it becomes clear that this is a terrorist attack. Soon it becomes clear that America has been targeted by terrorists. Soon it becomes clear that thousands of Americans have been murdered.

The Towers buckle, collapse. It feels like the end of the world. A voice inside my head whispers: Nothing will ever be the same. This country will never be the same.

The talking head on television says: “This is a great tragedy.”

Ariel sits up and says: “It's not a tragedy, it's an atrocity.” Ariel's voice is braced by steel, unusual for our son who is such a mild and gentle soul.

I should have realized that a society that does not know the difference between a tragedy and an atrocity will be a culture that has little idea how to recognize and make war on evil.

Six years ago our beloved son Ariel was still alive. We think about him every day, every hour. To forget him would be unnatural, unbearable, a tragedy.

Six years ago over three thousand Americans were slaughtered by Islamic terrorists. We should think about them every day, every hour. To forget them would also be unnatural, a sin—another atrocity.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:53 AM | Comments (39)

June 25, 2007

Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture Summary '07

Here are Karen's opening remarks, delivered on June 17, 2007, at the Young Israel of Century City.

Last year I spoke of the bittersweet joy of hearing new anecdotes about Ariel. A recounting of the briefest of interactions, gaining the perspective of someone Ariel knew but was unknown to me, seeing a photo I had never seen before, are all heaven sent gifts.

For a few seconds I can stop pressing rewind. I can defy memory.

It is important for our family that as we gather to memorialize Ariel, we describe his character in detail. In The Book of Ariel many have spoken of his piety, his courage in the face of illness, his determination, and his kindness. Recently I heard a story from his friend that shed some light on an area of his life that was new to me.

I always knew that Ariel did not have the concept of being “cool.” He had many friends and was well liked, but he seemed to have been born with a sense of self, of knowing who he was without a need to be like anyone else. He was his own person. What I didn’t know was how he could influence others.

In the doldrums of summer the yeshiva boys were restless after a long hot Shabbos. They were letting their tzizzit down so to speak, the closest to a yeshiva bocher, Saturday night " break out party". A few games of poker, using chips instead of money, sending out for pizza. Really wild. .

After the game some of the boys lit up cigarettes. Without the slightest hint of condemnation, but with real sincerity, Ariel asked his friend, “ I don’t understand why you guys do that.” From that day on, Ariel’s friend told us, he never picked up another cigarette.

Ariel was not cowed by peer pressure. He did not condemn his friends, or fall into their disfavor by being a “goody goody.” Instead of submitting to peer pressure — he became a Peer Treasure. He gained their respect, and became a positive role model. They looked up to him and marveled at his patience and perseverance. He never said a bad word about any of his peers, never told us of any one giving him a bad time, although that must have happened at some point.

When Ariel got sick he knew how to deal with evil. He confronted it head on, with equanimity, courage, and when he didn’t understand it, he asked the right questions.

Today we are honoring his memory with a lecture that addresses the perennial struggle of reconciling a merciful god with the reality of evil in this world.

Dr. David Shatz, our featured speaker, is Professor of Philosophy at Yeshiva University and Adjunct Professor of Religion at Columbia University. He received semikhah, rabbinical ordination, from the Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and his Ph.D. with distinction from Columbia University.

The following is Karen's summary of Dr. Shatz's lecture. In the interests of fairness and accuracy, we asked Dr. Shatz to check and correct the summary before publication—which Dr. Shatz kindly agreed to do. Dr. Shatz found no major or minor errors and has endorsed Karen's summary for publication. Once again, the Avrech family would like to express our deep appreciation to Rabbi, Dr. David Shatz for a thought-provoking lecture that was truly a fitting way to memorialize our beloved son, Ariel Chaim, may his name forever be a blessing.

Dr. Shatz chose to speak about Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik’s approach to how a religious Jew should understand suffering in this world. The readings he presented were predominantly from Rabbi Soloveitchik’s work, Out of the Whirlwind.

In the course of his lecture, Dr. Shatz mentioned that some talmudic sources reject the idea that all suffering is punishment for sin. Besides citing such passages, he referenced the prototypical biblical case of the suffering man, Job. The latter was advised by his friends that he must have sinned, for there could be no other explanation for his suffering. Dr. Shatz pointed out that the conclusion of the book of Job contradicts the friends’ position, as G-d chastises those who blamed Job for his fate.

Indeed, Talmudic and Midrashic sources present other ways to resolve the eternal question of why good people suffer in this world. Rabbi Shatz reviewed some of these schemas, for example the idea that some righteous people suffer more in this world in order to increase their reward in the next, and the idea that the suffering of the righteous atones for sin.

Rabbi Soloveitchik discusses the concept of evil from two perspectives.

The first is the perspective of what he calls "Thematic Halakhah." Thematic Halakhah refers to the philosophical and metaphysical motifs of Judaism. (Dr. Shatz suggested it is in effect Aggadah, the theological dimension of Judaism.) When evil is viewed from this perspective, it is held to be justified and explicable by reference to a larger picture. The subjective experience of evil disappears and there is no contradiction in the statement that a perfectly good G-d created all things, including evil. From the perspective of Thematic Halakhah, the concept of evil is in the realm of metaphysical ideas that we might understand in the idealized future. Evil makes sense even if we cannot understand why it exists.

The second approach to evil is not metaphysical, but ethical. It is the approach of “Topical Halakhah”—that is, Halakhah conceived as a set of directives that human decisionmakers must follow. For the Topical Halakhah, the question is not “why does evil happen?” but rather “How do we handle evil, how do we confront it?” Here the Halakhah is very clear. We fight evil and bring all the resources and creative energies of man to banish it. Rabbi Soloveitchik calls this approach an “ethic of suffering” as opposed to a “metaphysic of suffering”.

Dr. Shatz suggested that in contrast to many issues where Rabbi Soloveitchik maintained that two opposing approaches remain in an unresolvable dialectic, here the Rav appears to favor Topical Halakhah. He believes that having a “thematic” explanation detracts from the urgency of the fight against evil, and therefore he stresses the demands of Topical Halakhah.

Professor Shatz cited the tangible passion of the Rav’s words. Here is one quote from Out of the Whirlwind:

Halakhah always preached active opposition to evil. That is why the Halakhah could not understand — and not only Halakhah but we Jews cannot understand — a philosophy of passive resistance to evil.

Certainly this topic addressed serious issues that might weigh heavily for those not enrolled in a university philosophy class. The wonder was that Professor Shatz infused his delivery with humor and enlivened what would seem to be abstract concepts with a freshness and accessibility that was inclusive but not patronizing. He simultaneously stimulated and challenged the intellectuals and rabbis in the audience as well.

Professor Shatz is truly a master conductor. Every tone was correct and well balanced, the lecture’s themes were interwoven seamlessly, and brought to a resounding conclusion. The lecture was an appropriate tribute to Ariel A’H who certainly undertook the battle against evil, but also maintained his faith, Emunah, that there would ultimately be a metaphysical revelation.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:55 AM | Comments (7)

June 18, 2007

Scenes from the Weekend: One

The lecture is over.

Everyone is enjoying the brunch.

In the community room, I'm weak from hunger; haven't had a chance to eat for hours and hours because I've been so keyed up about the lecture, the whole weekend.

Now, I'm sitting at a table and shoveling a cheese blintze into my mouth. A shadow, like a sword, falls over me. I look up, it's my Persian buddy.

He extends his hand.

“I am sorry,” he says, “I could not make it to the lecture but I wanted to come and make a b'racha on Ariel's holy neshama.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

My Persian buddy looks absolutely frazzled.

“Is everything okay?”

He frowns.

“I come from the hospital. My son, his lung collapsed. That is why I could not come to Ariel's lecture.”

I jump to my feet.

”Oh my gosh, is your son okay?”

“Baruch HaShem, he is doing fine. I will make a b'racha for Ariel's holy neshama and go back to Cedars-Sinai.”

My Persian buddy turns around, walks off, disappears.

For a long moment I sit and catch my breath.

Finally, I rise, and on a hunch, head into the main sanctuary of the shul. It is cool and the shadows are deep. When I was a child I was told that shaydim, ghosts, haunt empty shuls. I have always been absolutely terrified of vacant sanctuaries. And even now I hesitate to step into my shul.

But it is not deserted.

There stands my Persian buddy, at the ark, shuckling, swaying back and forth, davening, praying, eyes tightly clenched; he says Ariel's name, then kisses the parochet, the curtain that covers the ark that contain the Torah scrolls.

I choke back a sob because I don't want my friend to know that I'm spying on him. This dialogue with HaShem that I have witnessed deserves the dignity of solitude.

*******

b'racha = blessing
neshama = soul
Baruch HaShem = Thank G-d

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:15 PM | Comments (18)

June 15, 2007

Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture 2007

This weekend:

The Fourth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture will take place, AY”H, on Sunday June 17, 2007, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, to be followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035
(310) 273 - 6954

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Professor David Shatz to present this year’s lecture.

David Shatz is Professor of Philosophy at Yeshiva University, Adjunct Professor of Religion at Columbia University, editor of the Torah u-Madda Journal and series editor of MeOtzar HoRav; Selected Essays of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik. He has published eleven books and over fifty articles and reviews dealing with both general and Jewish philosophy.

Dr. Shatz received semicha, rabbinic ordination, from Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and his Ph.D with distinction from Columbia University. He is a member of the Orthodox Forum Steering Committee, a board member of the Orthodox Caucus, a member of the Editorial Board of Tradition, and a Fellow of the Academy for Jewish Philosophy.

The title of Dr. Shatz’s lecture is: Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik on the Problem of Evil.

We look forward to seeing all our Seraphic Friends and relatives at the lecture. Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series. We thank you all in advance.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

You do not have to RSVP to attend. The lecture and brunch are courtesy of the Avrech Family and Friends.

Karen and I would like to welcome all our relatives and friends who are in Los Angeles to attend the lecture. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's blessed memory.

Karen and I wish you all a lovely and meaningful Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:20 PM | Comments (18)

June 08, 2007

Ariel Avrech ZT'L Memorial Lecture 2007

The Fourth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture will take place, AY”H, on Sunday June 17, 2007, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, to be followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035
(310) 273 - 6954

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Professor David Shatz to present this year’s lecture.

David Shatz is Professor of Philosophy at Yeshiva University, Adjunct Professor of Religion at Columbia University, editor of the Torah u-Madda Journal and series editor of MeOtzar HoRav; Selected Essays of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik. He has published eleven books and over fifty articles and reviews dealing with both general and Jewish philosophy.

Dr. Shatz received semicha, rabbinic ordination, from Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and his Ph.D with distinction from Columbia University. He is a member of the Orthodox Forum Steering Committee, a board member of the Orthodox Caucus, a member of the Editorial Board of Tradition, and a Fellow of the Academy for Jewish Philosophy.

The title of Dr. Shatz’s lecture is: Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik on the Problem of Evil.

We look forward to seeing all our Seraphic Friends and relatives at the lecture. Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series. We thank you all in advance.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

RSVP in the comments section of Seraphic Secret.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:09 AM | Comments (10)

May 22, 2007

What is the Seraphic Secret?

Karen writes: I want to thank all those who acknowledged the strength that our blog has given them, and those who appreciate that we have transmitted Ariel's A"H spirit through this medium, however diminished, and infinitesimal in comparison to knowing him in life.

We called this blog Seraphic Secret for several reasons, but mainly because we felt that Ariel was angelic even in life, and once he departed this earth, we hoped he would still inform us, inspire us, love us, if not overtly, physically, audibly, then secretly, through a discreet, spiritual form. We are always listening. I hope the communication goes both ways.

I love you Ariel. Chag Sameach. Learn well tonight.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:14 PM | Comments (10)

May 21, 2007

Secret Anniversary

Today is Seraphic Secret's third anniversary. This was our first post:

Thinking of Ariel...

Several months ago, my beloved son Ariel Chaim passed away. I am forever changed. I will write about him, about loss and memory for as long as I can.

Seraphic Secret has changed our lives. We have made scores of precious new friends, numerous acquaintances, and through your kindness and generosity we have been able to share our memories, grief, and joy. You who read and touch our lives have given us a measure of comfort we never imagined, and for this Karen and I owe you all a great debt of gratitude.

A special thanks to our good friend and blogmother Jackie Danicki who first suggested this blog and put us on-line. Without Jackie, we would not be here.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:45 PM | Comments (26)

April 30, 2007

Karen Does Not Gamble

“Remember that Chinese Auction I told you about?”
“Um, vaguely.”
“I bid on a vacuum cleaner.”
“Right, I wanted to bid on the Sony Camcorder.”
“Yeah, but I knew that we'd win if we bid on the vacuum cleaner.”

Karen is standing in the doorway of my office. A few weeks ago we received a mailing from Ariel's ZT'L post-high school, Yeshiva Ner Yisroel Rabbinic Academy, for their annual Chinese Auction. Always anxious to support this fine institution where Ariel spent three happy years, Karen leafed through the catalogue and laser-like zeroed in on a Miele vacuum cleaner. The color of a jelly bean, it has the look of some cool, Star Trek beam-me-up-prop. Hard to believe it's purpose is to, um, suck up schmutz.

“I like the Sony Camcorder,” I said. Hint. Hint. Hint.
“I'll win the vacuum cleaner,” said Karen with Vegas surety.

Now Karen steps into my office and says:
“We won.”
“Huh?”
“The vacuum cleaner. I told you we'd win—and we won. Ner Yisroel just called.”
“Oh man, we could have won the camcorder.”
“No, it had to be the vacuum cleaner. Because that's what I knew we'd win. It's like the best vacuum cleaner in the world.”
“What about in the universe?”

I look at Karen's face. She's got that little frown at the edges of her eyes. I know that look. I know it well.

“There's a but, I can feel it coming.”
“But, it's Ariel's yeshiva, right?”
“Right.”
“So I told them to see if they can return the vacuum cleaner—it costs $700.00—that way the Yeshiva can keep the money.”
“Naturally.”
“Was I wrong?”
“Of course not.”

Ten minutes later Ner Yisroel calls and informs us that they cannot return the vacuum cleaner; we have to take it.

Karen and I decide to send them another donation.

Karen says: “Ariel made sure that I'd win. I knew it right from the start.”

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:09 AM | Comments (12)

Ariel Avrech ZT'L Memorial Lecture 2007

The Fourth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture will take place, AY”H, on Sunday June 17, 2007, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, to be followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035
(310) 273 - 6954

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Professor David Shatz to present this year’s lecture.

David Shatz is Professor of Philosophy at Yeshiva University, Adjunct Professor of Religion at Columbia University, editor of the Torah u-Madda Journal and series editor of MeOtzar HoRav; Selected Essays of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik. He has published eleven books and over fifty articles and reviews dealing with both general and Jewish philosophy.

Dr. Shatz received semicha, rabbinic ordination, from Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and his Ph.D with distinction from Columbia University. He is a member of the Orthodox Forum Steering Committee, a board member of the Orthodox Caucus, a member of the Editorial Board of Tradition, and a Fellow of the Academy for Jewish Philosophy.

The title of Dr. Shatz’s lecture is: Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik on the Problem of Evil.

We look forward to seeing all our Seraphic Friends and relatives at the lecture. Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series. We thank you all in advance.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

RSVP in the comments section of Seraphic Secret.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:20 AM | Comments (0)

April 18, 2007

Ariel Avrech ZT'L Memorial Lecture 2007

The Fourth Annual Ariel Avrech ZT'L Yahrtzeit Lecture will take place, AY”H, on Sunday June 17, 2007, at 10 AM at the Young Israel of Century City, to be followed by a brunch.

Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035
(310) 273 - 6954

We are pleased to announce that we have engaged Professor David Shatz to present this year’s lecture.

David Shatz is Professor of Philosophy at Yeshiva University, Adjunct Professor of Religion at Columbia University, editor of the Torah u-Madda Journal and series editor of MeOtzar HoRav; Selected Essays of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik. He has published eleven books and over fifty articles and reviews dealing with both general and Jewish philosophy.

Dr. Shatz received semicha, rabbinic ordination, from Rabbi Isaac Elchanan Theological Seminary and his Ph.D with distinction from Columbia University. He is a member of the Orthodox Forum Steering Committee, a board member of the Orthodox Caucus, a member of the Editorial Board of Tradition, and a Fellow of the Academy for Jewish Philosophy.

The title of Dr. Shatz’s lecture is: Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik on the Problem of Evil.

We look forward to seeing all our Seraphic Friends and relatives at the lecture. Learning Torah was Ariel's greatest joy. There is no better way of honoring Ariel's memory than by participating in this lecture series. We thank you all in advance.

May Ariel's neshama have an aliyah.

RSVP in the comments section of Seraphic Secret.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:07 PM | Comments (29)

April 17, 2007

The Terrible Truth

For a parent, the most unnatural feeling is outliving your child. One is doomed to a spectral existence.

Now we are witness to an atrocity that thrusts far too many into this cruel state, and leaves so many parents asking the ultimate questions: why this, why my child, how did G-d allow this to happen?

It is impossible for us to view this atrocity dispassionately. Our son, our beloved Ariel Z'TL is forever a memory.

Debates about gun control are, we must admit, simply beyond the point.

We apologize for indulging in side issues.

Karen and I were and are good parents. We shower all our children with love and affection. We raise our children with strong Jewish values. We teach them right from wrong, good from evil, to fear and love G-d.

Yet there are no guarantees.

Ariel Z'TL was struck with cancer. He fought with incredible courage and refused to surrender to self-pity or lazy anger. Karen and I explored every medical avenue; we became expert in chemotherapy, radiation, and diet. Yet in the end we were defeated. Ariel's courage, and his will to live sustained him through many crises, but we ran out of miracles; G-d had a different plan.

We did the best we could, but sometimes we have to face our helplessness. Despite our research, our loving care and devotion, supervising the endless minutae of his medical care, ultimately, we were not in control.

We take comfort in knowing that courage counts, that our son's goodness lives on even after he is physically gone.

There is a very human impulse to fix, well, everything.

An evil man plans mass murder, and people rush forward with instant recipes to fix the problem: less guns, more guns, stricter campus security, and of course, the ultimate panacea: self-esteem classes.

Here's the terrible truth: bad things happen; evil crouches at the door. We cannot make a perfect world. Those who forge utopian societies end up mass murderers: witness communist Russia and the other socialist tyrannies who have engineered genocide on their own citizens.

We are meant to be imperfect.

We are terribly frail men and women.

We live , we rejoice, we suffer — and we endure.

Faced with the death of a child, of all children, we must admit: there are no easy answers.

These verses from Ariel's annotated copy of the Book of Isaiah, Chapter 45:

7. I form light and create darkness,
I make peace and create evil,
I am G-d, I do all these things.

9. Woe to the man who strives with his maker,
Let the potsherd strive with the potsherds of the earth.
Shall the clay say to him that fashions it,
“What are you making?”
Or shall it say
“Your work has no place?”

10. Woe to the man who says to his father,
“Why have you conceived me?”
or to his mother
“Why did you bear me?”

15. Surely, You are a G-d who hides,
the G-d of Israel,
the One who saves.

May G-d comfort the families of those who were slain at Virginia Tech.

May G-d blot out the name and memory of the evil killer.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:02 PM | Comments (14)

March 18, 2007

All These Things

This Shabbat, Shabbat HaChodesh, with the double Parsha of Vayakhel/Pekudei, was the Bar Mitzvah parsha of our son Ariel Chaim ZT'L. It is exactly thirteen years since his Bar Mitzvah.

Every day, every hour, our son's cruel absence gnaws away at me. I avoid philosophical discussions of why bad things happen to good people, or why G-d allows such things to happen.

This is a world of good and evil, joy and tragedy.

There are no easy answers.

When a child dies, there are no answers at all.

I have no patience for the clever explanations—invariably shot-through with flawed theological and halachic holes—that Rebbeim and amateur theologians offer. At best they come off as well-intentioned. Often, I'm sorry to say, they are aggressively self-righteous and pitifully clueless.

After coming home from shul, I stepped into Ariel's room and just took one breath after another. I looked at his books. In the last year of his life, Ariel studied Sefer Yeshayahu, Isaiah, by himself. Our very best yeshivas emphasize advance Talmud study, and the Nevi'im, the Prophets, are tragically neglected. But Ariel loved the sublime poetry of our Prophets, felt the power of their warnings for the children of Israel to return to Torah. And so Ariel learned Isaiah with the same dedication and scholarly diligence that he brought to the study of Talmud.

I pulled down Ariel's copy of sefer Yeshayahu, opened it at random, and found myself reading from Chapter 45. Here are the verses that jumped out at me as I sat on the edge of Ariel's childhood bed.

7. I form light and create darkness,
I make peace and create evil,
I am G-d, I do all these things.

9. Woe to the man who strives with his maker,
Let the potsherd strive with the potsherds of the earth.
Shall the clay say to him that fashions it,
“What are you making?”
Or shall it say
“Your work has no place?”

10. Woe to the man who says to his father,
“Why have you conceived me?”
or to his mother
“Why did you bear me?”

15. Surely, You are a G-d who hides,
the G-d of Israel,
the One who saves.

And so: with the image, the memory—almost an hallucination now—of Ariel in his room, blithely ignoring his illness, patiently learning Sefer Yeshayahu, and deeply imbibing verses like these—

—I endure.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:10 AM | Comments (35)

February 23, 2007

Setting the Shabbos Table

“Dad, you know it's a real mitzvah to set the Shabbos table.”
“Really?”
Ariel ZT'L nodded his head

Ariel had a way of making little suggestions that spurred me to make small changes in my routine that inevitably made huge changes in my life.

“By setting the Shabbos table you help usher in the holiness of Shabbos, you bring kedusha to Am Yisroel — and you help Mommy out.” Ariel's eyes twinkled.

Ariel was just 14-years old when he said this to me. That's when I took on the seemingly minor obligation of setting the Shabbos table.

Friday Morning, Casa Avrech, Los Angeles, California, Planet Earth.

5:00 AM: My eyes pop open. There is absolutely no chance of going back to sleep. There is vital work to be done and yours truly is the man to accomplish said work.

5:10 Dressed, I step outside and plant the flag of my country on the front lawn of Casa Avrech. Sheesh, it's still the only flag on the block. After so many years you'd think someone would be shamed into hoisting a flag too. But no. Ours is the only flag on the block.

5:11 I have to crawl under my SUV to get the NY Times. I vow to murder the delivery kid. Every single morning he deliberately flings the paper under the car. I know, I'll rat him out to immigration.

5:14 My blood pressure rises to dangerous heights as I skim the front page of the NY Times. These people should be arrested for sedition, treason, sheer stupidity. Heck, I should be arrested for paying for a subscription to this rag. But Karen just has to do the puzzle, and I have to know what the enemy is saying.

5:17 Glance at the Op-Ed pge. Migraine creeps up. Close the Op-Ed page. Migraine retreats. That was easy.

5:19 Time for coffee. Karen makes this incredible cold brew toddy for me.

5:20 Ahh... ddiction.

5:33 I've got a system worked out, and it goes like this: Clear dining room table of loose change, keys, baseball cap, scattered mail. Take damp washcloth and scrub table clean, then take dry towel and wipe dry. Unfurl Shabbos tablecloth, and SNAP! lay it on dining room table — in one smooth movement. It has to be in one smooth movement or —

— or nothing. Or I shrug my shoulders and feel like a monumental failure. Such are the goals I set for myself when I set the Shabbos table.

Go figure.

5:35 Now for the complicated part. I have to decide how to fold the napkins. Oh boy. Do you know how many variations there are for napkin folding? Too many. You know what I do? I fold a nice simple rectangle. Every single Shabbos. Maybe once in a blue moon I'll haul out the napkin rings and shove the linens through and try and make some kind of decent-looking arrangement, but oh gosh, it ends up looking so hopelessly heterosexual, so pathetic, that I wonder why I even bothered.

5:37 Silverware. I love this part. Start with the two forks. Put them on the left, on the napkin, the big fork on the left and then the small fork. Then on the other side of the plate, the knife, the soup spoon and the dessert spoon. This is the fun part because I just whip around the dining room table like an orbiting astronout, distributing the silverware automatically. Really, I can do this in my sleep.

5:40 We bought two dozen heavy glasses just for Shabbos. They fit perfectly in my hand. They're just the right size and weight. When one breaks, we order a replacement immediately. Yup, we're that obsessive.

5:44 Place the challe tray at the head of the table. I use a pretty unconventional challe knife. I figure if it's good enough for combat, it's good enough for cutting challe. When we have guests for Shabbos and they glimpse this knife they don't know whether to flee, hide or laugh. But it does the job. Cuts through challe like butter.

5:45 Last things: Place salt near the head of the table. At the center of the table I arrange two little flags side-by-side: the stars and stripes, and the Israeli flag. I choose the Kiddush cup I'm going to use. Usually I favor my grandfather's cup. Rav Shmuel Avrech ZT'L was a student of the Brisker Rav, an amazingly self-sufficient and intensely private man, my grandfather adored Karen and it was through Karen that I was finally able to know my grandfather in the last years of his life.

5:50 The Shabbos table is set. I stand for a long moment and remember Ariel. It was he who set me on the path to do this small mitzvah. The house is quiet. Birds outside have just begun to wake and chirp. Shards of sunlight break through the windows. Ariel is gone, but I keep him alive through these small mitzvahs, these small gestures.

6:00 I daven. Between each and every bracha I sense my son's presence.

7:00 I step into my office, sit down and write a Shabbos note to Karen. I have been writing these notes to Karen for over 15 years. They are short little missives in which I tell her that: 1. I appreciate all the hard work she's done during the week, 2. Let her know some of the things I've been up to in Hollywood, 3. Bring up various issues with the girlses, 4. Tell her that I love her now and forever, 5. Wish her a good Shabbos.

7:10 I sit back and look forward to Shabbos when Karen's Shabbos note will be sitting by my plate waiting for me when I get back from shul. I look forward to this note the entire week.

*******

Jason Maoz, the extremely able Senior Editor of the Jewish Press, asked Karen to expand on her The Solace of Lost Siddurim article. Rising brilliantly to the challenge, Karen rewrote her piece and you can find it at this week's Jewish Press.

Karen and I wish all our Seraphic friends a lovely and meaningful Shabbat.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:55 AM | Comments (47)

February 13, 2007

The Solace of Lost Siddurim

by Karen Avrech

Since Ariel ZT'L, died much of my waking and sleeping life, since I dream of him often, is taken up with assembling images of my son. I have said many times that the piercing sense of loss is mounting as time passes. Paradoxically, as the years go by, I am increasingly feeling the immediacy of Ariel's presence, something I blocked out in the early years, perhaps as a defensive measure.

I have flashbacks now to his early years. The other day I saw him vividly as a two year old, in a red fleece jacket, rosy-cheeked in the New York cold, head covered in his navy wool hat. Images are returning, and tears are falling from my eyes at the oddest moments,

Along with the grieving, one seeks messages. There must be some meaning, some ongoing connection. A small miracle that gives solace. I like to tell myself that I was granted one such "message" recently.

My older daughter gave me a siddur (prayer book) with an inscription at the close of her year in Israel. It was the same year that Ariel died. She wrote that she was grateful for the experience, grateful to us for allowing her to be in Israel at that time, knowing how hard that year was for us all.

This past November, five years later, we were visiting her younger sister at the same seminary. I lost the siddur on that trip. I know I dropped it in the taxi on our way from the hotel to the school. I called the taxi company three times and each time they angrily told me that they didn't find any siddur. I gave up.

I loved that siddur with the special inscription.

Two months later, on a trip to my newly married daughter's home in Teaneck, I asked her for a siddur for the morning prayer since I no longer had my own travelling siddur. She gave me one that felt very comfortable in my hand. I said, "Oh, this feels so familiar." I looked for an inscription to see where it came from, to whom it belonged.

What a surprise -- it was originally mine. It was a siddur that was given to me by my father ZT'L upon the birth of my youngest daughter. I had forgotten all about it. It was inscribed by my father with a Hebrew poem he had composed for the occasion. My father died this past year, so I was thrilled to rediscover this siddur.

I prayed.

As I turned the pages, I noticed that some of the prayers had penciled annotations in the margins. For example, the different paragraphs of the Sh'ma were given names: Chesed, Din, Tiferet.

But the handwriting was Ariel's!

I began to cry. He had written comments on some of the prayers. I don't know if he had used the siddur in a class, or just needed to make his own insertions.

Now the lost siddur had led me to the siddur that I was meant to find. A new gift from the same daughter from the two people in my life who were no longer alive to speak to me: my father and my son. A small miracle that brings some solace where comfort is rare.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:59 PM | Comments (18)

December 15, 2006

Chanukah 2006

Tonight is the first night of Chanukah.

Holidays without Ariel are particularly difficult. Before each holiday, our son, always the scholar, would pull down from his bookshelves his many seforim, and diligently study the halachos of each particular Yom Tov. Ariel was interested in exactitute for in getting the details of our rituals just right, the correct spiritual feelings will flow like a river.

Talmud Torah was first and foremost, Ariel's joy.

Karen has unearthed our menorahs and I have to set them up in the living room. Yet I hesitate because I see Ariel when I step into that room. I see him, so proper and handsome, in his dark suit and black Borsalino hat; I see him lighting the Chanukah candles, saying the b'rachos, with such kavanah. I hear him singing the songs, and I still, three years later, have trouble believing that he will not be here to celebrate with us.

How did that happen?

Karen and I wish you all a Happy Chanukah and a lovely and meaningful Shabbos.

Here's a nice simple recipe for classic potato latkes. Plus: Four Tips to Successful Latkes.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:48 PM | Comments (15)

December 11, 2006

Etta Israel Shabbos

"Are you going to be okay?"
"Uh-huh."
The mother hesitates.
"Do you want me to stay?"
"No."

Karen blanches, turns and flees the room.

It is Friday, an hour before Shabbos. Etta Israel are hosting a special Shabbaton at my shul the Young Israel of Century City.

Karen and I have been asked to host one young man and his counselor for Shabbos. The counselor has not yet arrived. The young man's mother has brought her son to our home and she is hesitant, so hesitant to leave her child in the hands of strangers.

Will we be patient with him? Will we be understanding? Can we be trusted?

Karen and I assure the mother that her son is welcome in our home. She pastes an awkward smile to her face. A central portion of me feels like telling her that we had a son who was sick for years and years, that we know what it is to take care of a child; we know heartache, and we really are responsible people -- especially Karen, she is the proverbial rock. But of course, I can say none of these things.

Our son is gone, and her son has special needs -- and there are worlds spinning within worlds.

"It will be fine," I say. "We have done this before."
"Really?"
"Don't worry, your son is very welcome in our home. We have your phone number and if anything happens we will call you, even if it's Shabbos."

She sighs with relief, hands me a sheet that explains her son's various physical needs and what medications he has to take. In fact, her son is is a lovely young man with a sense of irony, an easy laugh, a great vocabulary, and I wish that all our guests were as polite, thoughtful and as much fun.

Later, Karen tells me: "I thought my heart would explode in a million pieces. The scene looked just like so many replays of our partings with Ariel ZT'L, in the hospital, or even Ner Yisroel. The helplessness of leaving your son with strangers, the ambivalence of leaving them on their own, even knowing it's for their own good. I just wanted to melt and had to go into the kitchen and cry in disbelief at our loss."

Yes, I saw it too.

So many times we had to leave Ariel in the hospital, and so many times we said to him: "Are you okay? Is it okay for us to leave?"

Ariel always said, "yes."

Ariel's expression, like this young man's, betrayed his words, for it revealed anxiety, and dismay -- painted by huge reserves of unbelievable courage.

But really, deep in our gut we always felt that it was never okay to leave him.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:12 AM | Comments (17)

October 01, 2006

Yizkor

Karen writes: The ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are days of inner reflection, when indivduals examine their souls, their goals, and try to repair past misdeeds. It's the time to stop and ask, "Is this where I want to be in my life?" " Where should I be going?"

It seems appropriate to remind our readers that Seraphic Secret was established as a way to express and channel our grief of losing our precious son, Ariel Chaim, of blessed memory. I know that at least initially, some of the readers were parents who were experiencing the same unspeakable pain. I have gone through various stages of mourning since Ariel died, most involving surprising vagaries of memory.

I wrote about Ariel in the "Book of Ariel" knowing that each year would bring new feelings. Now after three years, I see I was right. Time has not healed the pain. It has done the opposite. Time has finally allowed me to feel the pain.

Initially there is a period of shock. I believe that the body actually preserves itself from too much pain by blocking memories. For the first year I was numb. For the second year, I had difficulty evoking integrated memories of Ariel. It sounds bizarre, but I had to struggle to actually imagine him in his vitality and conjure up the life we had together.

Now after three years, I am finally able to integrate the various parts of him and feel his presence. Now, after three long years I can finally evoke his laughter, his voice, his movements, his stance, his tears. I can imagine the continuum from his babyhood through his illness, his recovery until the final year. It is more painful. It is unbearable but I am no longer blocked.

So as we prepare to say Yizkor, the prayer of remembrance, I am coming closer to real memory and subsequently the real sadness. The deep grieving has only just begun.

I was searching for some way to come closer to my pious Ariel this Yom Kippur. The ideal way came to me Erev Shabbos when I remembered the ad I saw for the new Machzor published by Khal publishing with the commentary by Rav Joseph B. Soloveitchik.

Ariel Z"L would have been thrilled to add this book to his library. I read the introduction over Shabbos and it is wonderful. It will surely enhance my memory of my reverant, intense son during the Yom Kippur davening and add meaning to my own prayers.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 05:09 PM | Comments (12)

September 22, 2006

Rosh Hashanah - 5767

The Yom Tovim, the High Holidays, are the most difficult times for us.

Ariel's absence, always a profound presence, sprouts anew; it grows with alarming speed, it widens, it mutates into an emotional wall that feels thoroughly physical, separating us from, well -- everyone but each other.

I can still hear my lone voice reciting the Kaddish on the Rosh Hashanah after Ariel was niftar. How was it that in such a large shul I was the only person saying Kaddish? Yet, there I stood, chanting in a broken and weak voice, alone in a room of over two hundred men and women, barely able to make it through the prayer. Each time I said the Kaddish, I could feel the tension in the room as people strained with me, willing me to somehow chant the words, somehow pull myself together and fulfill this wrenching obligation.

There were moments when I could not believe that it was my voice saying the Kaddish.

There were moments when I could not believe that I was me.

*****

Unlike the other major Jewish holidays--the Yamim Noraim, The Days of Awe--do not mark national/agricultural events in the Jewish calendar.

Rosh Hashanah commemorates a universal event.

The world was created on Rosh Hashanah.

These days are purely religious, time set aside and dedicated to ponder and reaffirm G-d's role as Master of the Universe. We are affirming G-d's annointment as the sole Creator -- King of the Universe.

Our prayer emphasizes our short days on His earth.

Our prayer delves into self-examination.

Spirituality and holiness are pondered.

On Rosh Hashanah the Jew, through admission of sin, prayer, and acts of Teshuva, (good deeds) the Jew beseeches G-d to grant forgiveness. We believe that in His mercy, He will receive the truly penitent. We ask to be inscribed into the Book of Life.

We ask G-d to make his decisions based on his attributes of mercy, rather than inflexible din (law) as he forgave the Jews after the sin of the Golden Calf.

The Gates of Repentance are open until Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. At this time, G-d's final decree is established:

"Who will live and who will die; who will be serene and who will be disturbed; who will be poor and who will be rich; who will be humbled and who will be exalted."

Karen and I wish you all a lovely and meaningful Shabbos and Shanah Tova Umituka.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:06 PM | Comments (6)

September 11, 2006

Ariel: "I Am not a Tragedy"

Karen writes: Since Ariel is not able to speak through the internet, and I feel I know my son pretty well, I feel obligated to modify the somewhat dismal portrait presented in his father's previous post. Ariel vehemently rejected the role of the tragic soul. He bore his illness as just something that happened, he didn't want special treatment, and he surely abhored pity.

I remember the morning of September 11, 2001, as a crisp (for Los Angeles) autumn day, falling in the Jewish Holiday calendar when Ariel was home, not because of illness, but because of vacation. He had been free of cancer for over three years, and his illness was, especially for him, a distant memory. It was no longer a factor in his life. Even when he was sick, he denied that it was a factor in his life!

Ariel, as you would expect for most teenagers, did not want to be singled out as different. His means of coping, was "healthy denial" and so he didn't dwell on his prognosis. He never asked the horrible questions that reverberated constantly in his parents' minds. What would be the point? He worked on living, on being productive, even when he could barely breathe.

And so, he was not a tragic figure. He represented all that was hopeful in life. His will to live and conquer obstacles surely was instrumental in overcoming medical crises. We tend to forget the aggressive, serious initial onslaught of the cancer, and the numerous battles he fought and won. So, I like to think of Ariel as a hero, a fighter, whose courage and resilience overshadows tragedy. That's what he would want.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:15 PM | Comments (4)

Not a Tragedy

Ariel ZT'L, steps into our bedroom and says, "Do you know what's going on in New York?"

Karen and I shrug.

"Better turn on the TV," says Ariel.

Black smoke is rising from one of the Twin Towers. A newscaster tells us that a passenger jet airliner has hit the World Trade Center.

"How many people work there?" Ariel asks.
"Thousands, tens of thousands, it's a whole world down there," I say.

Ariel is home from Ner Israel Rabbinical Academy. He's recovered from his brain cancer, from years of massive chemotherapy and radiation. It's so good to have him home. Karen and I are thankful for every moment with our son, for every smile, for every single breath he takes.

Arab terror has hit the American mainland. I remember thinking: now maybe Americans will understand what Israel endures on a daily basis.

And then the second plane hits and we are blown into a horrific new age. There is a terrible bloom of fire and I realize that jet fuel has just incinerated hundreds of human beings. I grip Ariel's hand.

"Too tight, Dad."
"Sorry."

After a while Ariel retreats to his room. He says Tehillim. He learns Talmud. He crawls into his mind. I remain locked to the box.

The Twin Towers look like a modern Vesuvias, and then abruptly, they collapse -- flatten like toys.

I call Ariel up to watch the instant replays.

And then it happens, the very first signs that some America and Americans cannot, do not, will not understand. The newscasters refer to the Twin Towers attack as a "tragedy."

Ariel says: "Daddy, this isn't a tragedy, it's an atrocity."
I nod my head.
"Why do they call it a tragedy?"
"They don't understand evil."

Ariel died two years later at the tender age of twenty-two.

That was a tragedy. We could not control it. Fighting the cancer, the effects of the chemotherapy and the radiation, was fighting a force of nature. But Ariel was quite right; 9/11 was no tragedy, it was an atrocity, and if you cannot even recognize evil, well how can you fight it?

Unfortunately, there are many Americans who are clueless about evil--and so they have no idea how to properly memorialize those who were slaughtered on 9/11. For the true memorial for those who were so cruelly murdered in the air and on the ground, is never to forget, and to relentlessly strike back at our jihadist enemies wherever they are -- until they are but dust and ashes.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:07 AM | Comments (32)

June 12, 2006

The Day After

Here are Karen's opening remark's for the Third Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture. Afterwards Mrs. Rachel Friedman lectured brilliantly, and then Cantor Avshalom Katz lovingly chanted the "Kayl Malei Rachamim." There was a lovely brunch where Seraphic friends met face to face for the first time. Karen and I want to thank everyone who attended, but especially Seraphic Secret friends who made such an effort and traveled, in some cases, so far, to attend and honor Ariel's memory. Karen and I are deeply grateful for your generosity.

********************************************************************************************************************************************
Karen's Opening Remarks

On Shavuous the Jews received the gift of the Torah, but I also received a private gift two weeks ago.
When you hear a new story about a loved one, it is almost like cheating death. You feel like time is moving forward for just an instant, because you have a fresh glimpse of this person. The new revelation, a snapshot of the person allows you to steal some extra time from the past, a life story you thought was sealed, now has a new chapter.

I received such a gift Erev Shavuous from one of Ariel’s oldest and dearest friends, Ari Miller. He told us a Shavuous story that is emblematic of Ariel. The boys of Yeshiva Gedolah had all stayed up all night for Tikun Lel Shavuot, The small group from this side of town decided it was worth it to walk back in the early morning craving the comfort of their own beds rather than crashing at friends for the entire holiday.

After walking four miles, as the boys neared the home stretch Ari recalls, “I was walking on auto pilot most of the way but the excitement of crawling into bed in a few minutes must have given me a second wind. As I neared the park bordering my house I became more awake. At that point I remember that Ariel was still giving divrei Torah and he probably had not stopped the entire way home.”

This was Ariel, always focused on Torah, never one to compartmentalize his life into the “fun” parts and the “Torah” parts. Everything was integrated and he never wasted a moment. When he left the house he tucked a sefer, under his arm, even for a five minute car trip.

One of Ariel’s friends told us that a la Charlie Brown, Ariel told him his definition of happiness. Here goes: Happiness, according to Ariel, was sitting in Bais Midrash struggling through a torturous sugyah, portion, of Gemara, Talmud, solving it, and then going out for a cool, tall, glass of water.

Ariel’s Kever, his grave, includes the phrase, Yagah V”amal B”Torah. He worked assiduously and with great effort at the study of Torah. We recently saw a movie where people envisioned Heaven. Jokingly one person said- It’s like when you want a Mountain Dew, you don’t even have to do anything to get it. You just think of it and you’re quenched.

Well, I don’t think that’s Ariel’s version of Gan Eden. I think he is still working and struggling at Torah. As to whether he is immediately quenched or he actually drinks that tall glass of cold water – I will have to see for myself. I do know that the best way we can honor him is to devote this day to learning Torah in his memory, and to walk that extra mile every day still talking Torah.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:31 AM | Comments (21)

June 09, 2006

Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture

Karen and I remind all our Seraphic friends that the the Third Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture takes place this coming:

Sunday, June 11, 2006.

The Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035
(310)273-6954

Time: 10:00 AM

The lecture is free.

The Avrech Family & Friends are honored to present as our guest lecturer:

Rachel Friedman

Mrs. Friedman is a world renowned scholar on The Five Books of Moses, and The Prophets.

The title of her lecture is: How Can We Come to Know G-d?

What does "knowledge" mean in the Bible? How do our ancestors come to "know" G-d in biblical times? In an age devoid of prophecy and open Divine revelation, how can each of us come to "know" G-d today?

Through an exploration of selected Torah texts as well as Midrashic and medieval commentaries, we will explore how the Torah defines and guides the relationship between G-d and human beings.

Mrs. Friedman was inspired to explore this topic by some of Ariel's comments ZT'L in his article Bringing Purim Into Pesach on p. 113 of The Book of Ariel.

Rachel Friedman is Director of the Yesodot Foundations Program at the Drisha Institute for Jewish Education in New York City.

Rachel is lead author of Joshua of the Tanach Yomi , Daily Torah Study series published by AMIT. She also contributes to each of the Tanach Yomi volumes on the Five Books of Moses.

Rachel has taught Bible at the Frisch School and at the Ma'ayanot Women's Adult Education Program in Northern New Jersey. She has also practiced law at major law firms including Weil Gotshal & Manges in New York City.

Rachel has an MA in Bible from the Bernard Revel Graduate School of Yeshiva University and a JD from Columbia University School of Law. She also did graduate work at the Columbia University School of International and Public Affairs.

A delicious brunch will follow the lecture.

We look forward to seeing many Seraphic friends at the lecture.

Karen and I wish everyone a lovely and meaningful Shabbos.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:44 AM | Comments (22)

June 01, 2006

Learning & Remembering

Tonight begins the holiday of Shavuos. We celebrate G-d's giving of the Torah to the Jewish people. It is Jewish tradition to sit up all night, usually in the synagogue, and study Torah until dawn.

To learn Torah in this way is to put yourself in the frame of mind of those Jews who waited and prepared themselves all night at the foot of Mt. Sinai to receive the Torah.

Ariel ZT'L took Shavuos learning with his customary piety and joy.

Tonight, I will learn Torah as a Jew whose soul was at Sinai, for the Sages us teach that all Jewish souls, past present and future, were gathered at Sinai to accept the Torah. Tonight, I will learn Torah as a Jew whose soul was at Sinai; and my soul will be gathered together with Ariel's at the foot of Sinai as the heavens opened and the holy Torah was delivered.

Seraphic Secret will be off-line until the end of Shabbos. Karen and I wish all our Seraphic friends a lovely and meaningful Shavuos and Shabbos.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:33 PM | Comments (5)

April 05, 2006

Seraphic Invitation

Karen and I would like to invite all our Seraphic Friends to the Third Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture.

Sunday, June 11, 2006.

The Young Israel of Century City
9317 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90035
(310)273-6954

Time: 10:00 AM

The lecture is free.

The Avrech Family & Friends are honored to present as our guest lecturer:

Rachel Friedman

Mrs. Friedman is a world renowned scholar on The Five Books of Moses, and The Prophets.

The title of her lecture is: How Can We Come to Know G-d?

What does "knowledge" mean in the Bible? How do our ancestors come to "know" G-d in biblical times? In an age devoid of prophecy and open Divine revelation, how can each of us come to "know" G-d today?

Through an exploration of selected Torah texts as well as Midrashic and medieval commentaries, we will explore how the Torah defines and guides the relationship between G-d and human beings.

Mrs. Friedman was inspired to explore this topic by some of Ariel's comments ZT'L in his article Bringing Purim Into Pesach on p. 113 of The Book of Ariel.

Rachel Friedman is Director of the Yesodot Foundations Program at the Drisha Institute for Jewish Education in New York City. She also coordinates the Tanach program for the Drisha Scholar's Circle. Rachel is an instructor of Bible and exegesis and has taught in Drisha's Continuing Education, Beit Midrash, Talmud/Tanach and Scholar's Circle Program.

Rachel is lead author of Joshua of the Tanach Yomi , Daily Torah Study series published by AMIT. She also contributes to each of the Tanach Yomi volumes on the Five Books of Moses.

Rachel has taught Bible at the Frisch School and at the Ma'ayanot Women's Adult Education Program in Northern New Jersey. She has also practiced law at major law firms including Weil Gotshal & Manges in New York City.

Rachel has an MA in Bible from the Bernard Revel Graduate School of Yeshiva University and a JD from Columbia University School of Law. She also did graduate work at the Columbia University School of International and Public Affairs.

A delicious brunch follows the lecture. If you want a taste of Offspring #2's wedding, well, we're using the very same caterer.

Interpolation: a short tale of food, medicine and Shabbos.

When Ariel was in the hospital waiting for a lung transplant, a transplant that never happened, there was a fine young physician, J., who cared for Ariel on a daily basis, and who's relationship with Ariel expanded well beyond the normal doctor/patient boundaries.

This young doctor was and is Shomer Shabbos, a Sabbath observer, but naturally he does not keep the Sabbath in the hospital for his duties as a physician, the commandment to preserve life comes first--as prescribed by Halacha, Jewish law.

Shabbos in the hospital: after the sun fell, after Ariel and I davened, prayed, I poured grape juice for Ariel, and as if by magic, J., the young physician appeared in Ariel's room, and Ariel chanted the Kiddush, the blessing over the grape juice.
J. sank heavily into a visitor's chair.
"Ahhh, Shabbos," he sighed.

We sang Shabbos z'miros, songs, together, and then Ariel gave a short d'var Torah, a Torah thought, without preparation, just off the top of his head.

J. never failed to be astonished at Ariel's iron fortitude. You see, our son was hooked up to, gosh, so many machines. He was not even breathing on his own. And yet, and yet, Ariel insisted on living his life as prescribed by the Torah and the Mesorah--without one complaint, without conceding any of the holy parts because the whole was so damaged. Ariel ignored the broken parts. Karen called it, "healthy denial."

Once, in all seriousness, J. confided to me: "Ariel, your son, he might be, have you ever considered that he's one of the Lamed Vovniks?"

This is not something we Orthodox Jews suggest to one another very often, or lightly. In fact, pious Jews almost never seriously consider this notion. And yet J. is a deeply serious man and there was not a flicker of irony in his eyes nor a hint of self consciouness.

And since then, several people, all G-d fearing and learned, have proposed the very same thought to me.

Which makes me tremble. For the more time that passes the more vividy does our son come into focus and yes, there was something otherworldly about our Ariel Chaim.

And if you'd like a peek into how a writer loots material, read my book The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, where you will discover a whole storyline about the Lamed Vovniks.

When Ariel was niftar, when Ariel's soul left his body, and J. found out, it's the only time I ever saw one of my son's doctors weep. J. was at Ariel's funeral. J paid a shiva call.

And J.'s father catered Offspring #2's wedding and will be catering the Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture.

End Interpolation.

Attention Seraphic Secret University Students!

1. You will get extra credit for attending the lecture.
2. There will be a Seraphic Secret table reserved.
3. Bring your computers so you can communicate with one another if talking face-to-face proves too challenging.
4. No food fights.
5. Memo to Randi: No need to bring babake or coffee. Consider this your day off.

Karen and I can think of no more appropriate venue for meeting our Seraphic Friends. To us, you have extended great measures of comfort and generosity. We'd like to give something tangible back in return. The Third Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture would be a fine way indeed. And do keep in mind that by attending this lecture, you will be participating in the Mesorah. Yahrzeits have been observed since Talmudic times. It is a sign of reverance for the deceased. And yahrtzeit lectures, memorial lectures, are just as ancient.

Karen and I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:41 AM | Comments (35)

April 03, 2006

Notebooks, Unbearable -- Karen

The thing that made this particular reading so difficult and yet so magnetic was that this book was different from all the others.

Most of Ariel's notebooks consist of copious pages of Talmudic lectures, fine points of law, intellectual webs that are impossible to follow if you don't know the original disagreement. But this notebook is different. These are his own in-depth notes for a talk he was planning to give in the Young Israel of Century City over spring break.

This particular d'var Torah that Ariel was working on is about Jewish philosophy, using traditional commentaries of course, but it spins off into the connections of the relationship between memory and practice and the constant dialectic between Zachor, the spark of memory, and Shamor, the actualization of practice.

Ariel makes the analogies of male and female. He compares Moses with Mordechai, Esther and Mordechai, the central characters from the story of Purim. I don't know how Ariel does it, but in the end it all coheres and makes perfect sense and I was astonished by the sophistication of his references.

Here, Ariel pulls in ideas about modesty and the origin of the world; the notions are cosmic. I never imagined that my son was taking on such bold themes. But the more I read, the more painful it became because I was remembering and seeing Ariel more fully. With each word he was being pulled more sharply into focus. All the dimensions of his personality were emerging in bold relief and I felt I would collapse from the pain -- I had to close the notebook.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:02 PM | Comments (11)

Notebooks, Unbearable -- Robert

Yesterday was Ariel's secular birthday. He would have been 25-years old.

Karen spent the day furiously cleaning for Passover.

My office, in back of the house, is where I decided to make my stand. I printed out pictures from Offspring #2's wedding, and worked on one of my elaborate scrapbook pages--a combination cubist collage, Talmudic page, and a father's sentimental love song.

A few days ago, Karen forced herself to step into Ariel's room, a space she almost never enters. She took one of his Torah notebooks, opened it at random, and found herself swimming in one of Ariel's elaborate exegesis on Pesach, Passover.

His handwriting is meticulous, every page written using his beloved fountain pens.

"I don't have to press very hard," he used to say "and so my hand doesn't cramp." Ariel was practical. Never would he admit that he loved the elegance of the fountain pens that I lavished on him.

Ariel favored rich blue inks. Every once in a while he throws in a deep green or a pitch black. But mostly the notebooks are a sea of serene blue.

Karen took it as a sign, what could be more clear? that Ariel wanted her to recite this d'var Torah, this Torah thought, at our Passover table.

But last night, Karen studied Ariel's notebook. She hunched over and her body shook.

"I'll never be able to summarize it," Karen sobbed, "it's too complicated."

"Maybe just read it."

Peering into Ariel's notebooks, there are about two-dozen of them, is the closest we can get to our son. It is his essence. They contain his love of Torah, his attempts to unify specific Talmudic ideas; there is his perfect belief in G-d, and here is his love of Israel. The march of ideas comes at you one after the other--boom, boom, boom--intellectual howitzers that simply knock you flat. Ariel was so young when these thoughts stormed his mind; how was it possible?

The notebooks are almost unbearable to open. But someone has to for they belong to the Jewish people and the Mesorah, the tradition that reaches back to Sinai.

"What did we do to deserve such a child?" Karen asked me.

I had no answer.
I have no answers.
There are no answers.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:34 AM | Comments (29)

February 28, 2006

White Stone

"I visited Ariel's grave."

It takes me a moment to absorb what my guest is saying. It takes me a moment to catch my breath. Have I heard right? We have just had dinner at my favorite restaurant, Pico Kosher Deli, and as we step outside, I am trying to explain loss and memory.

"The thing that Karen and I fear most, I suppose, is silence. When people don't say anything about Ariel for fear of upsetting us. What they don't understand is that we love to hear about him. Even the smallest story, it just makes us so happy. You see we don't want him to be forgotten."

My guest is in town because it's his father's yahrtzeit, the anniversary of his father's death. He is here to visit his father's grave, and to pray with an established minyan, quorum.

I've arranged for my guest to lead the prayers in my synagogue, an honor usually reserved for shul members, but because he is my friend, the shul readily allows him to lead the prayers. My shul is a welcoming place, a warm environment.

It's the first time I've met my friend for he is another Seraphic friend. Commenting in Seraphic Secret for close to two years, I feel like I've known him my whole life.

Before my friend arrives, Offspring #3 wonders: "What happens if he's weird, afterall, you just know him on-line."

But I have learned that Seraphic commenters reveal themselves very quickly on-line. Those I've met in person--Pearl, Jake, Randi, Esther K--have been just who they present in cyberspace. Good and fine and smart people.

And so, hours after we've met, after lengthy conversations, my guest confesses:

"I visited Ariel's grave."
"You what?"
"I didn't know whether I should mention it or not, but I felt it was a way of honoring our friendship, and honoring Ariel."
"How did you find it?"
"You told me that Ariel's grave was in Simi Valley. I'm pretty good at finding things on the internet, it wasn't hard to locate. I drove there this morning, said Tehillim, Psalms, spoke to Ariel, and left a stone."

He shrugs as if it's no big deal. He seems embarrassed. I think he's sorry he told me.

On Pico Boulevard, Los Angeles, here in America, I am absolutely riven.

My night table is piled high with books about war: Eritrea, Sudan, The Battle of Algiers, Chad, Sierra Leone, Congo, Columbia, endless evil, endless butchery, I forget that there is still goodness.

I embrace my friend and thank him. And later that night, when I tell Karen, she breaks down and weeps.

A few days later, Karen and I visit Ariel's grave, and there we see a fresh white stone.

Lance Fogel's stone.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:38 AM | Comments (57)

January 10, 2006

Endless Moment

I am dizzy.

Karen and I are attending a simcha, a celebration. I have been dancing with the men, going round and round like a top. My joy for the young couple who are celebrating their engagement knows no bounds. I am determined that nothing will dilute the happiness that seems to burst from every corner of the room.

I take a break, mop the sweat from my face and wander over to watch the women dance. Ah, what a contrast. We men stomp like mad elephants, our limbs lash out spasmodically, move without rhythm or rhyme. But the women, they dance like angels. Watch as they slip and slide and ululate. I shiver at the ancient sound.

Ariel should be here.

I have to put a stop this thought for I have vowed that I would build a firewall -- experience only joy.

To be in the present only, is the promise I have made.

And yet... and yet what is the present if not the sum total of the past up through this moment?

And now I notice that Karen is dancing with Offsprings Number Two and Three; they are like three sleek young colts let loose in a vast meadow.

Mesmerized, I gaze at the women who are my life. They giggle like school girls, their eyes flash as their limbs snake this way and that. Oh, how the body loves freedom. Joy and happiness are what we Jews are built for. Karen is as beautiful as when I first saw her when I was ten-years old.

Honestly, I still have trouble believing that this good, beautiful and fearsomely intelligent woman has married me, loves me, has built a life with me.

The music rises to a crescendo. Karen and the girls are a lovely blur.

I would like to stay like this for the rest of my life. Experience this feeling eternally. For this endless moment is what we live for.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:19 AM | Comments (44)

October 17, 2005

Succos Present, Succos Past

Building the Succah is supposed to be a joyous labor, but I have to confess that for me it's simply an emotional minefield. The year before Ariel died, his best friends from his high school, Yeshiva Gedolah of Los Angeles, came over to our house.

They brought soda and pizza and they all sat in our Succah and sang, told divrei Torah, and traded school stories. Ariel sat bundled in his LL Bean coat, tethered to his oxygen cannister. He was so happy. I remember sitting inside the house and just listening to the boys singing and wondering if Ariel would be around for another Succos.

Now, our Succah seems, well, haunted.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:02 AM | Comments (11)

October 12, 2005

Forgiveness

When I was seven years old my parents sent me to Camp Massad, a sleep-a-way camp. I was incredibly homesick. I was lucky though, I had the world's most wonderful counselor: Shlomo Riskin. He was about 17 years old then, and he comforted me and took me under his wing. We have been friends ever since.

A few weeks ago, Rabbi Riskin was in Los Angeles to give a series of lectures. Here's one bit of Torah he said that was incredibly powerful. He asked: Why is Yom HaKippurim in the plural? His answer, and he quoted from the Talmud, but I'm afraid I forget the daf, the page, is that forgiveness goes in two directions. We ask G-d to forgive our sins, but we also have to decide if we are going to forgive G-d for what he's done to us. Thus the plural language.

And so, I go into Yom Hakippurim asking G-d to forgive me for my sins. And yet I wonder if I'm going to forgive G-d for taking Ariel from this life.

Not everything is forgivable.

Karen and I and offsprings #2 & 3 are off to the cemetery now, to Ariel's grave, to ask him to pray for us. We wish you all a meaningful fast.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:52 AM | Comments (11)

September 01, 2005

Tethered

Of all the horrendous scenes from Hurricane Katrina that Karen and I have watched, the single image that has sent us reeling is of a middle aged daughter dragging the corpse of her father on an inflatable mattress; he is tightly, lovingly wrapped in white sheets.

The dutiful daughter, eyes downcast, explains to the newscaster: "Daddy, he wuz on the oxygen in order to breathe, but then the oxygen, it plum ran out, and..." The daughter shrugs and shakes her head in despair. Trembling from either cold or emotion, it's hard to tell which, she moves on with incredible dignity, drags her father away from the pitiless gaze of the camera, a tiny figure in an immense watery landscape that looks, my gosh, like Bangladesh.

For the last year of Ariel's ZT"L life, he was a tethered to oxygen cannisters in one form or another. Severel times a night, Karen and I would take turns, climb out of bed, pad downstairs, slip into Ariel's room and check the level and flow of the oxygen.

"He's still breathing," we'd assure one another and go back to a troubled sleep.

Now, two years after Ariel's death, I still wake in the middle of the night and tell myself that I have to check his oxygen, and then abruptly I realize that no, I don't have to, for he is no longer breathing. And I feel, in the words of a friend who also lost a child "like this dead thing."

Sometimes, I just lie back in bed, hold my breath as long as I can, until my lungs are searing and feel like they are going to explode, but of course they won't and of course I need the oxygen so I gulp air, gulp oxygen, gulp life, and miss Ariel so very much that I have no idea how I'm going to get through another day.

I wonder if that dutiful daughter is still pulling her father's corpse through the water; in a way, I guess she'll always be hauling him along, for we are all carrying someone, aren't we?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:30 AM | Comments (31)

August 15, 2005

Wake. Breathe. Repeat.

I've never been a strong faster. I get migraines and lack of food is a sure way of getting a heinous headache.

Yesterday, T'sha B'av, was no exception. But with Ariel gone, I tend to obsess on the past. Some days I can close the various drawers in my chest. On holidays, they spring open and stay that way. No amount of pressure can close them. I remember how Ariel fasted, with the only intent being to fulfill all halachic obligations, and therefore reach the spiritual heights halacha points towards. It was an awesome sight to behold.

I am left to my own meager devices now, which is to say that I concentrate on hunger, on discomfort, on the dozens of signals my body sends out telling me that it is not happy and the flesh will have its awful revenge. In other words: I whine about my discomfort and do very little thinking about the various Jewish calamities that have befallen our people through the ages on this day.

On the whole, my religious life has been diminished since Ariel's death. He was my role model, and no rabbi, no sage, no study partner can take his place. Ariel was... special. Now, all I can do is go from day to night and just remember to breathe; one breath after another. And repeat.

And then somewhere along the way in my fast, when the hunger and the migraine fuse -- I start thinking about, Auschwitz and how long I would have lasted in the death camps. Answer: not very long, maybe four minutes, tops. Conclusion: I'm a weak and useless Jew. Ariel was strong and righteous and, yes, heroic, and yet it is he who is gone.

I don't understand anything anymore.

Tomorrow, I'll return to "How I Married Karen", but I just had to get this down. You see, my life really isn't a screwball comedy.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:10 AM | Comments (24)

August 04, 2005

Seraphic Loyalty

After our post yesterday, Karen and I talk.

Karen: Didn't you sense my possessiveness?
Robert: No, I never understood it that way. I saw you as someone rightly asking for loyalty. And that's what marriage is about: loyalty.
Karen: Oh.
Robert: Without loyalty we're no better than animals.

I tell Karen that I love her, that I hope I make her happy. Karen says that it's beyond happiness. Now, after Ariel's death it's about... survival. We embrace each other and weep.

We endure.

Karen adds: Ironically, I am not the great animal lover in the family, but in their defense, I do know that animals show loyalty to each other, at least some do, elephants I think mourn their mates, and I do recall reading about other species as well. So loyalty goes beyond the human species.

As far as making me happy, that is a phrase that can mean so many different things. I can still find happiness in my life in many, many ways, but there is always a shadow, a piece that is out of joint. I forget for hours at a time, it is true.

I should have answered, "Yes," to Robert, he does make me happy. But there is never absolute happiness, and especially now, the picture is always incomplete, somebody is missing, and there is no one who can "make it better."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 05:34 PM | Comments (10)

July 08, 2005

Second Yartzeit

I stand in shul reciting the Kaddish. I praise and sanctify the name of G-d. My voice is one among many mourners. Am I really saying Kaddish for my son? Is Ariel really dead? The moment is so difficult to process. Maybe if I just stop mourning and go home I'll find Ariel in his room, sitting at his desk, hard at work on one of his notebooks. Ariel will look up and smile: "Hi Dad." I will throw my arms around him and everything will be a all right.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:25 AM | Comments (15)

July 01, 2005

The Book of Ariel

Because so many requests have come in asking how to get hold of The Book of Ariel, Karen and I have decided to sell a limited number through Seraphic Secret. We only printed 500 books and so we don't have many copies to sell. The book is printed on heavy gloss paper, interspersed with vellum scrapbook pages that feature lovely pictures of Ariel growing up as well as pictures of all the contributors. The book is 135 pages long and comes with a CD of Eitan Katz's Song for Ariel. The Book of Ariel features essays by friends, relatives, and teachers. There are excerpts from Ariel's diaries and several of his Torah essays that are models of Torah scholarship. The Book of Ariel is a memorial to a young man whose life was tragically short, but in those twenty-two years Ariel managed to have a profound effect on almost everyone he ever met. Karen and I labored for two years on this book and it represents much of what we feel as proud but grieving parents.

It is significant that The Book of Ariel appears on Seraphic Secret today. It is exactly two years (secular time) since Ariel was niftar.

We are charging $23.95. All proceeds will go to the Ariel Avrech Memorial Fund. We hope that The Book of Ariel will allow you to know our son Ariel, ZT"L.

Cost includes shipping and handling. Online payment accepted via PayPal to robert.avrech@gmail.com, or send checks to:

Seraphic Press
1531 Cardiff Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90035

Posted by Jackie at 04:27 AM | Comments (6)

June 29, 2005

Ariel's Seraphic School Friends

Posted by Ari Z. Miller:

"You can go in."
With these four words I traveled back two years in time. I was visiting the home of Ariel's parents, Robert and Karen Avrech, with my friend Yehudah Kaplan and his brother Mordechai. I had not been in the house since the shiva and found myself looking at the art pieces on the wall, the striking photographs, the modern leather couches that were the temporary shul for the Yamim Noraim, the High Holy Days, and of course Robert's Emmy sitting on the mantle.

Yehuda and I explored the house. And then, Robert walked by as we passed Ariel's room.
"You can go in," he said.
Yehudah and I looked at each other trying to guage what the other wanted to do. Finally, we both shrugged our shoulders and stepped into our friend Ariel's bedroom.

I saw the familiar bar mitzvah invitation that hung from his wall, Ariel's drawing of a super hero, a poem by Ariel, his beloved Transformers, our class picture from Yeshiva Gedolah, more seforim than I could ever imagine fitting into one room, and finally I saw Ariel's wrist watch.

I have a thing for watches and I am usually able to remember who wears what time piece. Ariel's watch is something that has always stayed vividly in my memory. It has a black leather band, a white face and a gold bezel. I looked at the watch, wanting to touch it, yet at the same time not wanting to.

The room looks much as it did when Ariel was alive, and I realized that time was standing still on Ariel's wrist watch. I suppose over the last two years the battery has drained and aside for the watch being accurate twice a day, it just sits there.

I jump back two years and remember spending time in this room with my friend Ariel. I remember learning Torah with him on Shabbos afternoons, watching movies with him in the living room, eating a small snack in the kitchen, and schmoozing in the den. I remember the Sukkah party our classmates gave for Ariel in the front patio; we ate pizza, guzzled coke, told stories of our high school years. Memories are everywhere. The smells in the house trigger vivid memories, the doorbell chimes and even more memories come flooding into my consciousness.

One Shabbos afternoon Ariel, Robert and I were looking through a guns and ammo magazine. I did not know that Robert owned a gun and that he is something of a marksman. I never spoke about politics with Robert and I suppose I simply assumed that he was probably just another Hollywood Liberal. Those who know Robert will tell you that he is anything but. That Shabbos afternoon, we talked about the right to bear arms. Robert promised to take us all shooting one day--when Ariel was well enough..

Today, two years later, Robert took us shooting, just as he said he would.

Ariel ZT"L was a good friend to me and I love him very much. His picture sits on my desk and his memory will be with me forever
--

Ari Miller and Yehuda Kaplan attended Yeshiva Gedolah high school with Ariel. They remain beloved friends.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:14 AM | Comments (7)

June 28, 2005

Song for Ariel

One of Ariel's favorite CD's was "Biglal Avos", by brothers Eitan and
Shlomo Katz. During Ariel's last year of life, Eitan paid a visit to
our home and gave Ariel a private concert. Ariel sang alone and smiled
the entire time. A few weeks after Ariel passed away, Eitan sent me a
CD with a song he wrote in Ariel's memory. Karen and I want to share
this lovely tune with you. Thank you, Eitan. We will always be grateful for your kindness, your artistry and the joy you brought to Ariel ZT"L.

The song is Haneshama Lach, from The Selichos Service, Prayers Beseeching Forgiveness, chanted during the High Holy Days.

The soul is Yours, please have mercy on Your handiwork, take pity on Your labor...

Click here to download and listen to Song for Ariel by Eitan Katz.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:50 AM | Comments (3)

June 19, 2005

Seraphic Lecture

Today was the Second Annual Ariel Avrech Memorial Lecture. Rabbi David Fohrman used the story of Joseph and his brothers to explore the notion of forgiveness; The question he posed was whether forgiveness is possible when someone has done something absolutely horrible to you. How can you forgive an egregious injustice? He essentially proved that that by acknowledging the very imbalance in a relationship head on, you can repair the damage but by denying the hurt you caused, or denying the pain you feel, the relationship never can recover. Rabbi Fohrman engaged the audience in a real Socratic give and take. As soon as I can I will set up a link so you can purchase this amazing talk directly from Rabbi Fohrman.

It was a bittersweet day for Karen and me. We distributed the Book of Ariel at the lecture. We met old friends, made new friends and silently celebrated our 28th anniversary.

I leave for Oakland tomorrow morning where I've been asked to deliver a talk about "The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden" to the American Association of Jewish Librarians. When I return I will blog more about the lecture and post some pictures.

Karen adds: Ariel hand picked Rabbi Fohrman for us. He had attended his lectures and knowing our taste, passed on several of his tapes to us. He was right. I loved Rabbi Fohrman's analysis of the Ten Commandmants and The Story of Adam and Eve. Years passed. When the time came to choose a lecturer for this year I racked my brain to remember the name of the lecturer that Ariel told me about who also was a professor at Johns Hopkins. I went through his hundreds of tapes. This was a task I had avoided since his death. None of the tapes rang a bell. I used an old trick of going through the alphabet before I went to sleep, sort of counting sheep, hoping to toggle some circuit in the old memory bank. Nothing worked. Finally, one night I beseeched Ariel, saying, "Please, do your old mother a favor, tell me the name of the rabbi you liked so much, you know, the one with the sophisticated, but frum world view." Then it came to me. Coincidentally, that week, the name was confirmed. Rabbi Fohrman was writing a column in the Jewish Press, and his e-mail and all his contact information was now available to us. Such was providence. The lecture was a success and a wonderful tribute to Ariel. As we dropped Rabbi Fohrman off for his return flight I broke into tears thinking how much Ariel would have enjoyed getting closer to Rabbi Fohrman as we did today. Nothing makes sense in the face of Ariel's absence.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:40 PM | Comments (15)

June 07, 2005

Seraphic Courage

I often wonder how it is that Ariel was able to endure so much pain and discomfort, for so many years with such--there is no other word--courage.

Yesterday, I spent several hours in the Cedars Sinai Cancer Center visiting a friend who is undergoing chemotherapy. It was hard sitting there. Everywhere I turned was a vivid reminder of Ariel's presence. Ariel was in that room, also in that room, and there's the spot he was overcome with anaphylactic shock.

In the Cancer Center, I ran into Ariel's doctor, a fine woman who treated Ariel from day one until the end. She told me that she often thought about Ariel, about his "amazing courage." She wondered if his "faith" made it possible for him to endure so much. I allowed that it probably did, but there is also the simple issue of character. That is how Ariel was made. And as if to prove the point, Ariel's doctor and I witnessed an orthodox man kicking up a huge fuss: crying, moaning, yelping. It turns out that the nurse was having trouble finding a vein. I felt embarrassed. Here was a man wearing a velvet yarmulke, like a giant soup bowl on his head, a Talmud on his lap, tzitzis down to his knees, obviously "religious", but making such a racket, over what? a pin prick. I felt like melting into a puddle. Ariel's doctor smiled tolerantly, all too aware of the huge gulf between one religious person and another. She touched my arm and said: "Ariel was truly special. I will never forget him."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:44 AM | Comments (1)

June 06, 2005

Seraphic Grave

Yesterday, Karen and I visited Ariel's kever. We go about once a month. Karen spritzes the matzevah with liquid soap; she meticulously wipes the headstone clean of dirt and grime. We pray and cry and hold one another. A voice inside my head reminds me that we are forever without Ariel. Forever is a long time. Or maybe it's not as long as I think. But this is our life and nothing can change it.

"If I die before you," I say to Karen, "bury me next to Ariel. Don't let anybody ship me to Israel."
Karen nods, she knows.

Sometimes I feel like lying down next to Ariel's grave and...well, just staying there.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:00 AM | Comments (4)

May 29, 2005

Seraphic Shabbos

Every Shabbos, Karen and I take a walk after lunch. We walk and talk, talk and walk. It's a chance for a mini-date for busy people with busy lives. This past Shabbos, we went over to visit friends visiting from Efrat. The wife is in LA to donate a kidney to her brother. Karen embraces the woman and tears pucker in Karen's eyes. Ariel ZT"L needed a lung and it was never found; how can she not cry?

A few minutes later, one of Ariel's oldest and best friends, also visiting from Israel, comes to the table with his wife and five-month-old baby. I had taken Ariel to his wedding. It was one of the last times Ariel was able to attend a simcha and he had a wonderfult time, even though he was tethered to the portable oxygen machine I carried for him.

I am suddenly overcome with a feeling of such sadness, such loss, that I can barely speak. I don't even take part in a heated discussion about Gaza. I make myself busy by helping to clean dirty plates off the table.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:58 AM | Comments (4)

May 26, 2005

The Book of Ariel

For the past year-and-a-half Karen and I have been writing and editing a book of memories and tributes about Ariel. This week we finally delivered the galleys to our printer. We will be distributing The Book of Ariel on Sunday, June 19 at the "Ariel Avrech Yahrzeit Lecture", being delivered by Rabbi David Fohrman at the Young Israel of Century City.

On handing in the galleys, I thought I would feel relieved, experience a sense of accomplishment. Instead I feel sad, emptied out. I worry that the book does not really capture who Ariel was.

I ask myself: Can we ever accurately draw a portrait of Ariel's soul, of his brief life? Is it ever possible to get across who Ariel was? Or is every act of remembrance compromised by layers of wishful thinking and deeply flawed by the very fact that it takes place in the subjective mind? I fear that the tools we use, language and memory, are so faulty that the true Ariel ZT"L, is forever lost. I lie in bed in the middle of the night and desperately try to conjure up his presence. Why is it so hard? Why does his life, and our life with him, sometimes feel like an out-of-focus dream?

Karen adds: I wrestle with this problem daily, and have written about it many times. Capturing Ariel's presence is difficult because G-d or our psyche protects us. Contrasting his absence and his presence would wrench my heart so badly that it would stop. I have also thought that evoking the sense of his being here, to return to the normality we took for granted, is like the frustration experienced when you are in pain. When pain hits you, as hard as you try, you cannot remember what it feels like to be pain free. Thus it is with Ariel, now that the pain is unremittingly here, I can't conjure up the feeling of our old reality. It is also like breathing, when you are healthy who thinks about your lungs? Who counts their heartbeats? When you are ill, you are a prisoner of each breath.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:37 AM | Comments (4)

May 20, 2005

Seraphic Anniversary

Last night I was hit with one of my periodic migraines. This was a particularly bad one that literally brought me to my knees. When I'm in this state, something happens to my brain. I'm no longer a rational human being, but a collection of nerve endings just firing off one after the other. I heard myself calling out Ariel's name. And before I knew it, I was crying. Karen tried to comfort me, but I can't bear to be touched when I'm in this state. I said: "I can't imagine spending the rest of my life without Ariel. I just can't see it." I might have said more, I just don't remember.

Today marks the year one anniversary of Seraphic Secret. Ariel's death is not any easier to live with. In a way, it's become even more unbearable. Yet Karen and I have found a way to live from day to day. We keep the girls primary in our lives, and constantly remind ourselves that it would be a terrible sin to wallow in endless grief. Seraphic Secret is a conduit to the rational world. It allows me to be brutally honest in a world turned upside down by moral relatavism. It allows us to build a portrait of Ariel so his memory will not be erased. I thank all of you who have read our words and who have written to us on so many occassions.

Have a meaningful Shabbos.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:12 PM | Comments (9)

May 08, 2005

Seraphic Quote

Karen writes: A few months ago, the New York Times printed an article on the Op/Ed page written by the Israeli novelist, Aharon Appelfeld. Although the quote below refers to survivors of the Holocaust, it summarizes the pull and tug, the dialectic, the inner battles and ensuing guilt that occurs in every moment of mindfulness. Of course, I can never presume to comprehend what survivors feel. However, now I understand, for the first time, why survivors' children often say that their parents never speak of the horrors of their youth; why they can only speak of their losses and grief when they are established with families, and in their twilight years. Appelfeld describes the way in which the warring impulses of remembering vs repression weakens the spirit. How can we not keep Ariel constantly in mind? How on the other hand can we function if the pain is so palpable? I intended to find the orignial source of the quote, sure that the Hebrew would be even richer and precise, but I never found it. By chance, yesterday, Appelfeld's original article, "Always, Darkness Visible" was reprinted in Chicago's World Jewish Digest, in a timely issue devoted to Yom HaShoah. Here are his words describing the war between remembrance and denial.

For the sake of sanity, the survivors built barriers between themselves and the horrors they had experienced. But every barrier, every distance, inevitably separates you from the most meaningful experience of your life, and without that experience, hard as it may be, you are doubly defective: a defect imposed on you by the murderers and a defect you perpetrated with your own hands.

Robert adds: This same issue of The World Jewish Digest (sorry, we could not find a link) has a deeply moving article by Sheryl Robbin, "Stepping Forward: World War II American Soldier." The story is an amazing portrait of Robbin's GI father and his experiences first in combat, and then as a German POW. Most moving is the moment when Robbins learns that her father discarded his GI dogtags for fear that the Germans woulds see the H for "Hebrew" inscribed on them and turn him over to the SS. And yet, at the same time, this brave man chose to hold on to his his Tefillin, keeping them hidden under his shirt. Another courageous moment is when the local SS order the Americans to turn over all the Jewish POW's. The Americans flatly refuse. The Americans are ordered to line up, and for "the Jews to step forward." Instead, every single American soldier takes one step forward. The Germans try it again. This time with even more threats. Repeatedly, all the American troops step forward, thereby protecting Robbin and any other Jewish GI's. To my mind this is a form of Kiddush Ha Shem by ordinary American soldiers. Would this ever happen in any other army on the face of this earth? I fear not. Such devotion and courage are beyond imagination. A fine and loving portrait of an "ordinary hero."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:17 AM | Comments (0)

May 04, 2005

Prairie Fire

It happens in the middle of the night. It is abrupt and startling. I feel it moving through me like a prairie fire whipped by northern winds. My skin is cold and clammy and I realize that my pajamas are thoroughly soaked in sweat. I sit up; my hands shake uncontrollably.
"What's wrong?" says Karen.
My wife and I are so finely tuned that though it's three in the morning and though she was fast asleep a second ago, Karen immediately senses the emotional shift in me, in the very atmosphere.
"Anxiety," I respond lamely.
"About what?"
"Ariel. I feel so far removed from him."
"In what way?"
"I'm coming to accept the fact that his absence is normal. It can never be normal. It should always be completely wrong, completely unacceptable."
Karen groans. It's a sound akin to brute animal pain. Karen, who is normally so controlled in public, becomes defenseless when we are alone. She lets herself cry. She allows her vulnerabilities full voice. There is no pain as great as a mother's pain. Not even a father's pain. Karen reaches over and touches my back -- a touch light as a feather.
"Can Ariel hear us, can he hear what we're saying right now?" she queries the universe.
I shake my head from side to side. I hunch over, hold my head in my hands as if it might implode.

I spend the rest of the night on the couch in our bedroom trying to reimagine how special it was to be Ariel's father. It is a life's work.

For the observant Jew there is no loneliness like going alone to shul, sitting alone in shul, walking home alone. It is mild torture watching other fathers with their sons. The way they smile as they kibbitz, as they discuss what's going on in school, as they ponder some particularly difficult section of Talmud; they walk along, not truly realizing how blessed they are.

For the past few days we've had a visitor from New York, a fine young man who graduates from Yeshiva University this June. He went to shul (early minyan) with me, davened by my side, walked home with me. For those brief moments, I was reminded of what's been lost, but it also occurred to me that there is still much to gain.

Karen adds: It would not be my choice to reveal my nocturnal keening, but the deed is done. I have a penchant for finding comfort in mysterious connections that are both obvious and hidden at the same time. This afternoon I was brought to tears while driving listening to Rabbi Fohrman's tape, "Paradise Lost, from Eden to the Great Flood." He offers an elegant inisight that crystallizes the magnificance and economy of Lashon HaKodesh. The word for a mourner is Avel, and has the same shoresh, or root as the word Aval, which means never the less. The connection epitimizes my predicament. I mourn, but NEVER THE LESS, although I have no explanation, no reason for Ariel's death, I have to go on with life. How could I not see this linguisitic connection before? Now it seems so obvious, so pure in its simplicity. Nevertheless...

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:19 AM | Comments (2)

April 26, 2005

Seraphic Name

How to describe our Passovers seders? Lovely but incomplete. Joyous, but tinged with melancholy. Karen gave a moving d'var Torah about the origin of Ariel's name. The Ariel was the altar in the Temple where sacrifices were offered. Ariel also means Lion of God, or Great Lion. When we first named Ariel, some members of our family made it known that they thought the name was, well, odd. But we never wavered, and the name fit our son perfectly. Now the name lives in a place between my heartbeats. I hear it, feel it twenty-four hours a day. Ariel Ariel Ariel Ariel... an eternal echo.

Karen adds: The reference was actually more specific and mystical. Ariel refers specifically to the part of the altar (mizbeach) where sacrifices were consumed by fire. The Haggadah uses the word "Seraph" in emphasizing that G-d acted directly in redeeming the Jews, not through an angel, a messenger or a seraph. Hence, the omission of Moshe's name in the retelling of the Exodus. The word Seraph -- a type of angel, comes from the Hebrew word for Fire. It is an allusion to a fiery angel. The concordance of Ariel's name -- the site of fire, and the name Serpahic Press is astounding to us, since we considered Ariel an angel, but never knew that both names alluded to fire, spiritual burning, power, and light.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:57 PM | Comments (0)

April 22, 2005

Not So Seraphic Passover

Performing the B'dekat Chametz, seeking out the last of the unleavened bread, we turn out all the lights and conduct our search by candle light. The guttering flame creates a wonderful and mysterious atmosphere. We step into Ariel's ZT"L, room, unchanged since he died, and sweep up a piece of bread that sits on his desk.

Something happens.

I feel a gust of hot air on my neck. I look up and catch a glimpse of something in the corner of the room. I freeze for a brief moment, and then move on and complete the search.

I cannot sleep. In the middle of the night, I slip on my moccasins, pad down the stairs, and step into Ariel's room. I wait for something to happen.

"Ariel?"

I sit on his bed, bury my face in his pillow and breathe in his scent. I stay like this for a several hours. I know that Karen is upstairs, moaning in her sleep.

Last year, we joined my father and mother in Florida for Pesach. This is our first Pesach at home without Ariel.

This year, offspring number two and three are home, so are Karen's parents. The house is full, but incomplete.

I know that we are commanded to enjoy the seder. Halacha states that if, God forbid, you bury a close relative right before Pesach, you do not sit shiva, and you must, must enjoy the Pesach seder--it's that important. But I have to admit, I cannot imagine a seder in this house without Ariel. He used to come to the table with a pile of Haggadas and his hand-written notes -- marvelous divrei Torah. He prepared his comments so meticulously. There's no one who loved Pesach (for that matter any holiday) as much as our son.

Karen says to me: "I feel like we're just going through the motions for Pesach. It's just not right. And it's not fair to the rest of the family."

The Torah commands us to enjoy Passover, but I have to confess that the overriding emotion is... coming face to face with the nothingness at my core.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:21 AM | Comments (1)

April 19, 2005

Seraphic Presence

There are moments in life that at the time do not seem all that important. But as you look back on them, even years later, these simple moments take on an importance out of all proportion to their real-life signifigance.

A few years ago, Ariel was home from Ner Yisroel for Pesach. From my office, I came into the house where I found Ariel in the kitchen. He was standing by the window with a piece of lettuce in his hand; he was intently examining the leaf with a magnifying glass. He looked a bit like the Jewish version of Sherlock Holmes.
"What are you doing, Ariel?"
"Checking for bugs."
"Bugs. Right."
"We don't want to eat bugs on Pesach."
"Actually, I don't ever want to eat bugs."
Ariel smiled, turned his gaze back to the lettuce.
"Find any?"
"Not yet, Baruch HaShem."
On the kitchen counter there was a plate of lettuce--a great deal of lettuce.
"You plan on checking all that?"
"Of course."
"Big job, Ariel."
He looked at me with one of his most serious expressions. He frowned, nodded his head in thought.
"It's a mitzvah, Dad. I like doing it."
Hours later, the job was done. Ariel's neck was stiff, sorely aching and I gave him an inexpert massage.
"Aaahhhh," he sighed, "that feels good, thanks dad."

With Passover drawing near, I step into the the kitchen fully expecting to find Ariel standing by the window checking the lettuce. Even now, two years after his death, it's almost impossible to believe that he's not here. I wonder: will his absence ever seem normal? Or--and this seems a real possibility--will his absence become a greater and more powerful presence with each passing day.

Karen adds: Pesach is very difficult. Ariel was diagnosed with cancer exactly ten years ago, a week before Pesach. I remember it like yesterday. We tried to normalize everything. Biopsy and diagnosis, before Pesach, reprieve for Pesach, chemo begun right after the chag. Ariel bore it all with stoic optimism. The last Pesach of his life was full of chesed. We had so much food delivered to the ICU that I had to beg for spare fridges to store it all. I spent eight days shuffling tupperware, squirreling away food in every spare space in the tiny room, giving Ariel tastes of chocolate soufle, cole slaw, kugels, nut and sponge cake, and of course, the tray table seder. Now, I am immersing myself in preparations, but nothing seems right, I create a frenzy of activity that fills the void during the day, but at night, when it's quiet, and the distractions are gone, the reality sinks in and the only remedy is sleep.

I heard a wonderful Torah thought from Shira Smiles this past Sunday that will help me get through the seder. The human condition is symbolized by Korech--the matzo sandwich of maror and matzoh. The matzoh sybolizes our unconditional belief in G-d. We believe totally, shedding our puffed up ego, bread. The maror represents our pain, our losses, our tragedies. We combine our humble belief with our bitterness and somehow they coexist. We believe, even though G-d's ultimate plan remains hidden. I will go throught the seder with this image in mind, the pain is recognized, but somehow incorporated into our lives, sandwiched, so to speak, with humility and faith.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:25 AM | Comments (1)

April 12, 2005

Seraphic Sleep(less)

It is 2:30 AM, and I cannot sleep because Karen is dreaming of Ariel; she moans in her sleep from wounds that will never heal. Three times before we went to bed, Karen, with tears slipping from her eyes, said to me: "Where is he? Where is Ariel?" Of course I had no answer and Karen does not expect one, but still, I feel that I should have something to say besides, "I don't know, I just don't know."

It is 2:35 AM, and I cannot sleep because Offspring Number Three has just learned that a close friend from NY is extremely ill and -- for God's sake, my child has already lost her brother. Must she endure it all over again? Every so often a well-meaning idiot will tell me that "God never gives us more than we can bear." When I hear this outrageous cliche I really feel like punching the person who says it. Where did they get such a stupid idea? In fact, HaShem gives us more than we can bear on a daily basis. Yes, we manage to live through these terrible experiences, we manage to endure, to survive, but we are never the same, and we are often diminished by the suffering, irrevocably harmed. I do not believe that suffering is noble or holy; it is just awful.

It is 2:40 AM, and I cannot sleep because Karen is preparing for Pesach and every shelf cleaned, every corner mopped, every book opened and dusted for crumbs only brings home the fact that Ariel will not be sitting at the Passover seder with us. He will not be reliving the Exodus from Egypt with us. He will not be giving us his sharp and penetrating insights into the Haggadah. He will not be smiling at the Passover table, enjoying this wonderful holiday. Ariel's last Pesach was in the hospital, in the ICU where he was forced to celebrate the seder behind an oxygen mask. Our Passover table was a little slab of formica on wheels that was hardly big enough for two matzos. We recited the whole Hagaddah, but it was an effort for him and at the end, he fell back into an exhausted sleep.

It is 2:45 AM, and I cannot sleep because David, Karen's brother was just here in LA with his lovely daughter Jennifer. Living in Israel, they are deeply concerned about the plan to withdraw from Gaza. David knows what anyone with half a brain knows, which is that no good can come from this withdrawal. The Arabs will see it as a capitulation to their violence, just the first in a series of retreats designed to destroy the state of Israel. Does no one realize that when the Arabs speak of so-called occupied territories they are not talking about Judea and Samaria, they are, in fact, talking about the entire state of Israel? I read the Arab press. They don't even bother to disguise their genoicidal plans.

It is 2:50 AM, and I cannot sleep because numerous sleazy professors at Columbia University, once dubbed The Jewish Ivy League, have built a Middle Eastern Studies department on a foundation of lies, anti-Semitism, anti-Zionism, and anti-Americanism. And there are still people in my community who are enthusiastically paying over fifty-thousand-dollars a year for the priveledge of sending their children to this corrupt institution. Are Jews so starved for status that they actually see nothing wrong with paying the salaries of the very people who want to destroy you?

It is 2:55 AM, and I cannot sleep because I am writing two scripts under intense deadline pressure and I have not been spending as much time as I should writing the next volume of The Hebrew Kid. I'm also afraid that I will never be able to make the second book as good as the first. I wrote The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden while Ariel was still alive. He helped me. He inspired me. He made me a better writer with his criticism and insights. But now he is gone and I suspect that I'm not as good a writer anymore. Without him, the imagination stalls.

It is 3:00 AM, and I cannot sleep becasue I am sitting in the dark in my bedroom with my computer on my lap typing this blog. I am afraid to go to sleep because I dream of Ariel most every night and when I wake up my face is wet with tears.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:24 AM | Comments (3)

April 03, 2005

Karen: Reality Surrenders

Karen Comments: Robert speaks of a new level of consciousness, an awareness. I think of the opposite, a loss of awareness, a need to keep thoughts quashed, away from consciousness. This is the only way, I, a person who has always prided herself on assessing, looking at the big picture, being lucid and clear of thought, can continue to live. There is a continual dilemma. I want to see clearly, but to see the reality is so painful, so heart wrenching that I have to filter it. It's a continual struggle, part of me driving toward assimilating the reality of Ariel's death, and part of me fighting it, resisting the pain. How else can I keep going? I told Robert the other day that I finally realized why my psyche, or perhaps HaShem, prevents me from feeling the entire impact. It is because my heart would stop.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:26 PM | Comments (3)

Ordinary Days

It was a grim Shabbos.

Saturday April 2, was Ariel's English birthday. He was born in 1981. All day long, Karen and I glanced at one another, sharing this knowledge, this intimate moment in time that no one else appeared to recall. And if they did remember, they felt too awkward to saying anything to us -- which I can well understand.
"How can this be," Karen said to me, "that it's Ariel's birthday and he's not here for us to hug him?"

I tell myself that it's just another day, a day of loss like any other, but something deep and dark grips me and there is simply no convincing myself that it really is just another day. In fact, there are no ordinary days anymore. How can they be? Life is now lived at a different level of consciousness. Even in moments of great joy, there is an awareness that all is not right, that all can never be right; life is now perpetually out of balance.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:08 AM | Comments (1)

March 31, 2005

School

Today I was invited Maimonides Academy, here in Los Angeles, to visit one of their classes and talk about The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. It was a sixth grade class, boys and girls, and every one of the children had read, no devoured, the book. I was nervous, not knowing how a group of sixth graders would respond to a boring, middle aged writer. But the kids were excited and curious and just bursting with questions about story-telling. One of the children asked me why I wrote the book. For one brief second I hesitated. I wanted to say something about Ariel, about his love of fine literature, about his love for America, but I looked at the fresh, expectant faces of these children, so alive with wonder and possibility, and I decided not to tell them about my son who died. It just did not seem like the right thing to do to them. Instead, I talked about my desire to write a new Jewish American narrative, one in which the love of Torah is a central element of my characters' lives and not something to be discarded in favor of a seductive American culture. The kids got it, they understood that I was talking about the creation of a new kind of Jewish hero. At the end of the class, I signed copies of my book for the children and promised to come back when the next Hebrew Kid book is published.

Leaving the school, I passed children in the school yard; they were running, tumbling and shouting like little puppies. I remembered the very first day I took Ariel to school. After leaving him with his class, I stood outside the school grounds and spied on him in the yard. I stood there and I cried because I felt like I was abandoning him to the larger world. I cried because I realized that no longer would I be with him every moment of every day.
"We all have to grow up," Karen said to me.
"Yes," I allowed, "but does it have to happen so darn quickly?"

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 12:14 AM | Comments (4)

March 22, 2005

Seraphic Sharers

I received several e-mails, concerning my last post, Seraphic Snapshots. One of Ariel's best friends pointed out that in fact there are three young men from Ariel's high school graduating class who are not married. Not just one, as I wrote. "I hope this makes you feel better," he added. I did not mean to give the impression that the marriages of Ariel's friends makes me sad. What makes me sad is that Ariel cannot dance at their weddings, that Ariel will never be married. In fact, I would be terribly sad if even one of Ariel's friends were not married.

Another Seraphic Secret reader wonders if my phrase, Boro Park Royalty, is somehow derogatory. I never imagined nor intended a negative. For me, Boro Park Royalty conjures visions of intelligence, beauty, and modesty. I suppose that the phrase brings to mind those three unfortunate capital letters: JAP. I assure you, I intended the exact opposite.

A mother who lost her college-age daughter tells me that her means of coping is through the written word. It is the only way she has to order her existence, to make sense of the senseless. I greatly look forward to this woman's e-mails because they invariably echo everything Karen and I are feeling. "You and I are so different," she says, "you are male and orthodox and I am not, yet we are secret shareres." Yes, the death of a childs bonds strangers in ways that can never be imagined.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:24 PM | Comments (3)

March 21, 2005

Seraphic Snapshots

After Shabbos, Karen and I go to the L'chaim for one of Ariel's best friends. As we are driving, Karen says to me, "What do you think the kallah will look like?"
"Um, well, she'll definitely be of the female variety."
"I think she'll be tall, blond and very pretty."
Karen has radar for this sort of thing. She has also noticed that married couples frequently look like brother and sister. I think that some men marry women who look like their mothers. In any case, some powerful, mysterious force is hard at work when we decide to love, when we choose our mates.
Karen and I arrive at the L'chaim and sure enough, Karen got it right: Ariel's high school friend is standing beside a lovely, statuesque young woman: tall, blond, thin as a sheaf of wheat, and very pretty. She's got the look of Boro Park royalty. How does Karen predict these things with such accuracy? With apologies to the Women's Studies Departments at our universities, I think it's female intuition. Ask a guy what a girl will look like and he'll grope for a coherent thought and then usually blurt out: "Like Pam Anderson... I hope."
Anyway, as we are introduced, I search her eyes, I'm looking for that special spark of goodness that this young man needs. And yes, there it is; I glimpse a level of generosity; perhaps it's the way she meets my gaze head-on; she does not look past my shoulder to see what's going on in the rest of the room. I'm able to relax. Ariel was incredibly fond of this friend. They had a special relationship during and after school. When Ariel was home for the last year of his life, this friend spent many long afternoons with Ariel, talking, learning, laughing. This particular young man loves movies. Often he'd pick up my Emmy and ask me to take his picture. I have several snapshots of this young man, clutching the Emmy and acknowledging an invisible audience with a huge, appreciative smile.
"How do you write a movie?" he asked me on more than one ocassion.
"Slowly and tortuously," I would respond with a smile and he would let loose with that booming, generous laugh; the laugh that never failed to cheer Ariel up.
Karen and I only stay at he L'chiam for about three minutes. Make no mistake about it, there is an emotional toll being paid. Except for one young man, every single bochur from Ariel's high school class at Yeshiva Gedolah of Los Angeles is married. Sadly, one of them is even divorced. Several infants have been given Ariel as a middle name. I keep pictures of these children on my computer and look at them every few days.
Karen and I drive home shrouded in a heavy silence. In the middle of the night, unable to sleep, I roll out of bed and go downstairs. I slip into Ariel's room. I open his closet, caress his favorite blue suit. I slip my foot into his Shabbos shoe. It's eerie, but I imagine that his shoe still feels warm, as if he has only just pried them off. I sink to the edge of his bed and hold my head in my hands. I wonder: did it really happen. Did I once have a son, an amazing child who rebuilt my universe? Did I have a son who lived and then died? Is this really my life?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:17 PM | Comments (0)

March 17, 2005

Time, Time, Time

Ariel's best friend has stayed in touch, remained close with us. He let us know when he was engaged. And then he brought his fiance to meet us. Karen and I attended his sheva b'rachos. Last week he and his wife had a baby girl. I think that he knows that he's become an important presence in my life. No, not a substitute son to me. Nothing pathological here. My joy in their life together is real.

But something odd happened yesterday. I got a call from another one of Ariel's friends. He told me that he was engaged and invited us to his L'chaim. After hanging up, I got depressed. I walked into Ariel's room and looked at the high school graduation photo that sits on his desk. I searched the faces of the boys, Ariel's classmates, and it hit me: almost every one of them is now married. Many already have children. Ariel used to tell me: "I want to have lots of children, Daddy."
"How many, Ariel?"
He would smile bashfully and say: "Well, at least a minyan."
Ariel would have been such a wonderful father: patient, loving, a generous teacher. His wife would have adored his easy-going manner. His quiet brilliance. But there will be no wife, no children. Ariel will always remain 22-years-old. And I will forever mark the passage of time. When I think about the last moments of my life, I assume, well, I hope, that my last conscious thought will be of Ariel. I'll see him as he was, young and radiant--that smile, that glorious smile that withheld nothing--and I will be calm because at last I will be reunited with with him. Is it any wonder that I'm no longer frightened by the idea of my own death?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:24 AM | Comments (4)

March 07, 2005

Shrinking Tide

Yesterday, I heard from a mother who lost her only son under incredibly tragic circumstances. Sudden death is an entirely different experience than the slow wasting away that Karen and I endured with Ariel ZT"L. This woman, lovely and literate, told me that faith and belief in HaShem does not sustain her. She no longer believes in a loving and a just G-d. I wrote back by quoting something that Elie Wiesel said about the Shoah. I'm quoting from memory here, so forgive me if I don't get it exactly right. Wiesel said that there are two responses to the Shoah, a cleaving to God, and a total rejection of God. Both, concluded Wiesel, are entirely comprehensible.

The bereaved mother said to me: "Time does not heal all wounds. The best you can do is learn to live with them. I take comfort in dreams and memories and I hope you do too."

She was kind enough to send me a few lines of poetry written by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

"They have all lied who told me time would ease me of my pain. I miss him in the shrinking of the tide. I want him in the weeping of the rain."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:39 AM | Comments (1)

February 14, 2005

Something Happens

It hits us without any warning. Karen and I are sitting on the couch in our bedroom watching a DVD together. We are enjoying ourselves. The house is alive with the more sounds than is usual. Karen's parents are visiting from Brooklyn and are staying in one of the downstairs bedrooms Offspring #3 is on her cell phone planning the evening with her friends. She sounds like she's plannng the invasion of Normandy. How complicated is it to gather a few friends and go to the movies?

So, one minute we are fine, relaxed, and then something happens. We look at each other and one of us says: "Where is Ariel?" There is a long silence. We do not ask the question expecting a coherent answer. No, we ask because our son has died and we live in a constant state of confusion, and we feel obliged to voice this puzzlement. How is it possible to be separated from someone you were once so close to? We used to be aware of every single breath that Ariel took. We heard his every footstep as he moved from his bedroom to the kitchen. I can still hear the sing-song of his voice as he learned Talmud.

Where is Ariel?

My vision is childish. I see him in a Beis Midrash, a House of Study, sitting over a Talmud, swaying back and forth, mind racing. As he learns he also has the ability to see us; to look down on his mother and father and siblings, and in his own way, make contact with us.

I realize how childish this is. It's one step away from seeng my son with wings, white and glowing. But I am, after all, only a man of clay and my imagination is severely limited.

And so, one minute Karen and I are fine and then abruptly it hits us like a hammerblow and we are quite simply crushed; we are left sobbing, holding one another as if we are the last people left on earth.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:34 AM | Comments (4)

January 20, 2005

Ariel's Rainbow

When I was growing up in Brooklyn, attending the Yeshiva of Flatbush, my best friend in grade school was David. Our friendship unusual. Where David was widely accepted as The Smartest Kid in School, I was perceived, as one of the Dumb Kids. What is now recognized as a crippling math disability was, at the time, considered sheer stupidity. In any case, David and I were inseparable. On Shabbos, we played together, either at his house or mine. We read books together, we put on plays in the basement of his home, we sat for hours discussing the big, philosophical questions of life, such as: Who would win in a fight: Batman or Superman? Who is smarter, The Vilna Gaon or Einstein? David is a direct descendent of the Vilna Gaon, so his answer was a forgone conclusion.

As often happens, we drifted apart when we ended up going to different high schools. David attended Yeshiva Flatbush HS and I went to Brooklyn Talmudic Academy. We saw each other rarely and when we did, we were both uncomfortable and a little sad.

David went on to a powerhouse Ivy League university where he majored in Middle Eastern studies; he now has a career in government. My friend David sits in meetings with The President of the United States; he writes memos that help guide our foreign policy.

Recently, David and his wife Judy came to Los Angeles and visited with us. In spite of all the years that have gone by, our conversation flowed as if it had never been interrupted. I admitted to Judy that, "I was always grateful that David was my friend. He was soooo smart. I was kind of honored and surprised that he actually wanted to play with me."
Judy, patient and ferociously bright, responded: "And David was thrilled that you were his friend. He said that you were so real, a regular guy, and he was always thankful that you wanted to play with him." David laughed and said: "That's the definition of friendship, two friends who are grateful for one another."

A few weeks after their visit, Karen and I received a package and this note in the mail:

Dear Karen and Robert: I tend to express myself much better in my art than in words. I was profoundly moved by the writing on your website,Seraphic Secret--most specifically by your entry, Rain. I confess that for several days it was all I could think of. Having never met Ariel, and really not knowing you except through the eyes of my husband, it is hard to explain how much your writing affected me. Enclosed you will find a piece that I have called Ariel's Rainbow. For me, sewing is a type of meditation. While I was sewing this I spent hours thinking of what it means to lose a child, of how it profoundly changes everything forever--even simple elements like rain and rainbows. Thank you both for sharing your innermost feelings on your site. While I doubt that I will ever respond in words--enclosed you will find my response in sewn form.

I gaze long and hard at Ariel's Rainbow. I allow myself to be drawn into the space that Judy has invented. I move into the tiny dashes of color that lead the eye around. Look at the right side, staccatto bursts of color skip up and down, happy little children; yet on the left side there are mournful stretches of black and gray. It's usually not wise to be too literal when looking at abstract art, but Ariel's Rainbow seems to be a study of Ariel's soul. There are the vibrant burts of color--life, yet opposing is grief-stricken darkness--death. The intricate lines of sewing that bisect the fabric from top to bottom and from side to side, speak to the complexity of Ariel's life, of roads taken and those not taken. It is hypnotic; it pulls you in and holds you; it is a glimpse into our son's soul for which Karen and I are eternally grateful.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:43 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

January 17, 2005

Long Shabbos

It was a long and difficult Shabbos. Because I'm not feeling well, I'm in bed most of Shabbos drifting in and out of consciousness. I keep seeing Ariel. I hear his voice right in my ear. I remember how little he complained when he was suffering so horribly; and so I am filled with guilt when I lie in bed and moan. I try and find within myself that inner core of strength that allowed Ariel to go on and on and on when his whole body was simply breaking down, rebelling against the gift of life. I wake up in the middle of the night. I'm feverish and I say his name. I wonder if he's watching me. Literally hovering over me and looking down and saying... what? Sometimes I think I am only made of tears.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 06:38 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

January 12, 2005

Ariel Goes to College...Or Not

Oxygen canister slung over my shoulder, Ariel and I wandered the UCLA campus. Home from Ner Yisroel because of the fibrosis in his lungs, Ariel had decided to take a few courses at UCLA in subjects that he couldn’t get at yeshiva. He signed up for Physics and American History: The Revolutionary Period. It was a strange experience for Ariel to be on a campus where girls were more undressed than dressed, where young men scooted about on skateboards; where so many students sported neon colored hair, pagan tattoos and gut-churning body piercings. It was a universe far removed from the devout yeshiva world Ariel had been steeped in all his life. I admired Ariel’s courage. Not a socially outgoing personality, I knew how hard it was for him to step into new and unfamiliar situations.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I said to him. “We can go home, don’t worry about the deposit.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Ariel.
“You haven’t been in class with girls since you were in grade school at Hillel Hebrew Academy.”
“I’ll manage, Dad, don’t worry.” He gave me his most patient smile.
It was a hot day. Frequently, Ariel had to stop to catch his breath, I carried the oxygen tank for him; he was too weak to schlep it himself.
I escorted Ariel into the physics classroom and arranged the oxygen tank under his desk. As the students trooped in, I noticed that Ariel was the only one wearing a yarmulke. In fact, almost all the students were Asian. So much for cultural stereotypes. Outside, I sat and read and, naturally, worried. What if his oxygen malfunctions? Will he be able to signal me? I peeked into the classroom. Ariel was paying close attention to the lecturer. But he wasn’t taking notes with his fountain pen. How odd. Ariel always took notes. Oh, well, he was breathing all right, and I continued my solitary vigil outside.
Forty-five minutes later, Ariel exited.
“How was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I couldn’t understand a word the professor said. He’s Chinese and his English is just awful. I did not understand one word he said.”
“I guess you’ll have to drop the course, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, maybe two courses are too much for you anyway. I’m sure the American history course will be better.”
An hour later, Ariel came out of the history course with an expression on his face that immediately told me that something was seriously wrong.
“How was it?”
“The professor cursed.”
“Cursed whom?”
“He used obscene language in his lecture.”
“To make a point?”
“No, it’s just the way he talked. He has a filthy mouth. I couldn’t believe it. Is this normal for college?”
"Welcome to the culture of higher education."
"I've never heard such shmutz, daddy."
“Can’t go back, right?”
“I’m afraid not.”
And so Ariel’s brief career as a student at UCLA began and ended on the same day. I did not write any scolding letters to UCLA. I didn’t see the point. Ariel is not your average student, not your typical American male and for this, we have always been thankful.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:03 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

January 10, 2005

The Last Video

A few days ago, Karen unearthed a video that was taken at Ariel's bar mitzvah. I did not even remember that it existed. The video is dark and grainy, certainly not one of those slick jobs that are churned out by a whole industry of bar mitzvah auteurs. It seems that someone, a friend or a relative, grabbed a video camera, pressed the ON button and just kept shooting away at clumps of people, with absolutely no aesthetic sense whatsoever.

Ariel does not make an appearance until the last half-hour of the two hour tape. No surprise. Ariel was naturally shy and at this get- together at our house in Los Angeles, he knew only a small fraction of friends and relatives who had flown in from all points for the simcha. As I remember it, most of the time, Ariel was in his room: talking with his favorite grade school Rebbe, Rabbi Dovid Sternberg, playing chess with whomever was brave or foolish enough to think that a mild mannered bar mitzvah would not demolish them in ten moves, or just sitting at his desk reading or making entries into his diary.

When Ariel finally does make his one and only appearnce in the tape, it is when still photographs are being taken. Ariel is asked to pose with one guest after another. His lips are set and a bit tight. He looks tired and in truth, impatient. His expression seems to be saying: Okay, I know I have to do this, but don't expect me to enjoy it.

What strikes me more than anything, as Karen and I watch the scene unfolding, is how normal it all is. Karen and I are smiling hugely. We are so proud of Ariel. Our daughters are beautiful and oh so little. By this time, Ariel has already shifted direction in life. He has asked for a black hat. He has already told us that he is bored to tears in grade school and wishes to skip eighth grade and go right to high school. And not to Yeshiva University High School of Los Angeles, the modern orthodox yeshiva we assumed he would attend; but to Yeshiva Gedolah, the high school "on the other side of town." Understand, that phrase does not refer to physical distance -- the fifteen minutes it takes to drive from Pico-Robertson to Hancock Park. No, it defines the various levels of observance and ritual that define the two communities.

Yes, the bar mitzvah video is so painfully normal. I stare at the screen. It's hard, almost impossible, to put myself back to a time when we were not consumed with the question of Ariel's mortality. What was life like when the future, his future, seemed unlimited? I took it, everything, for granted. I would die before my son. I never imagined otherwise.

I move closer to the TV. I fix on Ariel, on Ariel's face. There, he's finally smiling. Karen's best friend Audrey Adler was always able to make him laugh. And as he laughs I can't help but wonder: was the tumor already growing? Was our son already doomed?

In the video, the still photos have almost all been taken. I turn to whoever is holding the video camera and I say: "Cut."

The screen bursts into a billion snowy pixels. Ariel's smiling face abruptly disappears. I feel like a knife has gone through me; the pain is deep and real. Maybe the image will come back. Perhaps the camera will run again. But no, I have seen the last of Ariel. Without speaking, Karen and I stare at the flickering rectangle for a long moment. Finally, Karen says: "We have to get this transferred to a disk, the tape will degrade before we know it."

I have not been able to look at the tape again. I don't know if I ever will.

Karen adds: The title is the last video, but it seems, like most wives, I have to have the last word. No, I tell Robert, it was not the last video. Memory plays tricks on us, and sometimes we discover forgotten treasures. I tell Robert, "No, there is a more recent video." It was filmed exactly five years ago at our youngest daughter's bat mitzvah. I recall that Ariel was even interviewed on the video, and he felt uncomfortable then as well, making his "greeting" as short as possible. As luck would have it, I scour the house, looking in all the possible pile-ups of the detrius of our media collection, and I cannot find the video! Frantically, I seem to recall that for "safekeeping" I had sent a copy to my in-laws. I call them. They think they have it. Meanwhile I ask my daughters if they know where it is.

Today my daughter calls from New York with the location of her bat-mitzvah video. I feel guilty, I don't think we even made a video for my older daughter. But here they are, both girls had videos and I had no memory of the first. How can the mind fool me like this? Yes, both girls got their bat mitzvahs documented with music, dancing and speeches. I steel myself and put the video in the machine. Yes! It is the one from 2000. We watch enough to catch Ariel mingling with the guests. With my first glimpse I catch my breath, the tears spring, I feel shocked. But then I ease into the atmosphere of the event, everyone is happy. I look ecstatic, Robert is glowing. My daughter, a princess. I rewind to look again. Yes, I have a moving picture of Ariel! He is post cancer, he recovered from the onslaught of the recurrence. Sickness was behind us. We all look radiant. The last video comforts, gives me one more image to hold on to. I guess there is no "last."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:32 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

January 06, 2005

Ariel and Daf Yomi

In the summer of 2001, Rabbi Yosef Furman asked Ariel to take over his Shabbos Daf Yomi, Daily Talmud class, here in Los Angeles. Rabbi Furman was on vacation for a few weeks. Initially, Ariel hesitated; modest to the core, he did not believe that he was learned enough to teach Gemara to a group of scholarly and dedicated adults. Karen and I gently reminded Ariel that if he was thinking of going into Jewish education, this would be a perfect opportunity to start honing his skills as a teacher. Besides, we told him, you are an incredible talmid chacham, scholar, definitely up to the task.
And so, in addition to his already heavy learning schedule, Ariel began to prepare for the upcoming Shabbos and his first Daf Yomi class. After he went over the daf, he studied Rashi and Tosafos. I reminded Ariel that in Daf Yomi we don’t really delve into the commentaries, but perfectionist that he was, Ariel said, “Yes, but I have to understand the Gemara if I’m to teach it and do a good job.” Ariel was more than prepared; he was hyper- prepared.
Shabbos: As we walked to the Beis Midrash-–at the time it was in the Washington Mutual Bank on Pico Boulevard–-Ariel fretted that maybe he wasn’t really the right man for the job.
“Who do I talk to?” he asked.
“Try and maintain eye contact with everyone, just do a slow scan around the table, and then do it again.”
“What happens if I have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the shiur?”
“Go right before class begins, and then if you have to again, just excuse yourself. They won’t hold it against you.”
“What happens if someone asks me a question and I don’t know the answer?”
“Admit that you don’t know, but you’ll look it up and have the answer at the next class.”
“What happens if I faint?”
“What’s wrong, are you okay?”
“Just kidding, Dad.”
The men at the table were familiar: friends and neighbors, all with warm and inviting expressions. Several men were strangers, but Ariel knew them from the Beis Midrash and whispered to me that they were Torah scholars and knew so much more than he did. "Relax," I told him, "you’ll do fine."
My stomach was churning with the anxieties of a loving and doting father.
Ariel opened the Gemara, scanned the page, looked up at the dozen or so men at the table and smiled. He thanked them for giving him the opportunity to learn with them. And then Ariel plunged right into the Gemara. He chanted the text in the traditional sing-song used for countless generations. Ariel translated the simple meaning of the passage; his words and explanations flowed like water over smooth stones. I really didn’t hear what he was saying, for I was so relieved, so happy. I was so proud that my senses seemed to shut down. Is there a greater nachas for a Jewish father than to witness his son transmitting the mesorah so beautifully, with such love and exactitude? Is there anything more disorienting than for a father to realize that he is no longer his son’s teacher, for his son has far surpassed him?
A difficult sugya absorbed everyone’s attention. But Ariel managed to make sense of it. Abruptly, a respected man asked an intricate question. Clearly, a difficult point needed to be clarified. Ariel hunched over his Gemara; Ariel pondered; Ariel furrowed his brow in a most familiar way. He was perplexed. I waited for Ariel to admit that he did not know. Better to acknowledge ignorance than to try to fake it. These men would see through any pretense. The seconds slipped by, and several men shifted uncomfortably in their seats. And then Ariel spoke. His answer was a model of Talmudic erudition, and the man who asked the question smiled, thoroughly satisfied. All around the table, the men looked in my direction and nodded their heads, smiling genially, tacitly letting me know that my son, Ariel, was the real thing, a true teacher of Torah.
Walking home, Ariel said, “How’d I do, Daddy?”
I did not answer.
“Daddy, are you crying?”
“No, no, I’ve just got something in my eye.”
We walked home without speaking another word. There are times when silence is far more eloquent than any language.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:47 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

December 31, 2004

Ariel Buys a Hat

Visiting Karen’s parents in Brooklyn was always a joy for Ariel. He loved sitting with his Saba, grandfather, and learning Torah. Being fed one delicious meal after another by his Savta, grandmother, invariably brought a smile to his lips. Ariel also enjoyed exploring Brooklyn, where Karen and I spent our youth. Bensonhurst, where Karen’s parents live, is adjacent to Boro Park, perhaps the most densely populated Jewish neighborhood in the world. And where there are Jews, there will be hat shops. Many hat shops.
“That’s the problem with Los Angeles,” Ariel once said, “not one store where you can get a good black hat.”
On this trip, Ariel was determined to buy the perfect Shabbos hat.
I drove with Ariel to Boro Park, with a list of hat shops in hand. Ariel did some serious research into hat shops. We shlepped from store to store. Living in sunny and laid-back California all his life, Ariel was unprepared for the congested streets, the manic hustle and bustle, and the incredibly surly salesmen we ran into.
I quickly learned that not all black hats are created equal. There are wide brimmed-hats, and wider brimmed hats; there are countless shades of black, and the subtlety of brim shapes could easily test the aesthetic eye of the greatest art critic. Each model is associated with a particular "hashkofah" and the sectarian implications are worthy of the pioneering sociologist, Emil Durkheim. I admit I was thoroughly bewildered. I was also intimidated by the condescending salesmen, who had all the arrogance of snooty Bergdorf’s “sales associates.”
As always, Ariel was shy and exquisitely polite. But even Ariel became frustrated by the shabby treatment we were receiving from these jaded and jagged New Yorkers. And so, in the third store on Ariel’s exhaustive list, Ariel tried on a hat, examined his reflection in the mirror and asked me what I thought.
“Very handsome,” I said.
“Does it look Yeshivish?”
“Definitely.”
“Nice enough for Shabbos?”
“I think so, but then I’m not really a hat maven.”
Ariel approached the salesman and asked him if this model was the best hat for Shabbos and holidays. The salesman shrugged and brusquely told Ariel that he was busy with other customers and didn’t have time to answer every little question. I was about to jump in and tell the salesman to start acting like a mensch. Watching your child being treated so curtly can provoke feelings of homicidal rage in any parent. But there was steel in Ariel’s calm demeanor. To the rude salesman he said, “Are you interested in making a sale?”
“Well, yes,” stammered the salesman.
“Good, good,” said Ariel, “then would you please tell me if this hat is the most suitable for Shabbos? As you know, it’s a halacha to look your best on Shabbos. So think of this sale as part of a mitzvah.”
Ten minutes later we left the store, hat in hand. Ariel was smiling happily, proud of his new black hat. And I was smiling, proud of my son.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 10:55 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

December 29, 2004

Rain

It has been raining here in Los Angeles for two days. Sometimes, it turns into a torrential downpour. Houses are leaking all over the city. Cars are plowing into one another on the freeway. In the canyons, there are mudslides. There is flooding all over the Los Angeles basin. This is not a city that copes well with anything but sunshine. And on the news, grim images of the terrible tsunami that killed thousands upon thousands of people. Karen and I force ourselves to look at footage of parents wailing over the bodies of their dead children. Whole generations have all but disappeared in the blink of an eye. Is this what The Flood was like?

I lurk on Jewish websites for grieving parents and everyone seems to ask the same question about this massive tragedy: what did God have in mind? And anyone who is foolish enough to answer looks, well, foolish. All answers are simplistic and reductive and leave only larger questions that are all but unanswerable. I have no patience for the pat answers that some people propose: It's a test, it's an accounting, ultimately it's all for the good... These truly dumb answers bring out a kind of maniacal fury in me.

When Ariel was sick, I stopped looking for answers because, I quickly discovered, it was a waste of energy. As Job (42:3) says to HaShem: I can understand nothing. It is beyond me. I shall never know.

The endless platitudes can drive you crazy. Karen and I just plunged into the work of trying to get getting Ariel healed. And now that Ariel is dead, the same strategy applies. We keep as busy as we can; this time in the effort to memorialize him. All questions are set aside in favor of a dignified silence. This is, I believe, The Rav's paradigm of The Lonely Man of Faith.

But when the rain comes, Karen and I look at one another and we shudder. For the rain reminds us that our son's body is under the ground. He's getting wet. We want to keep him warm and dry. That's what a parent is supposed to do, protect his children.
Karen says: "We have to remind ourselves that it's not Ariel who is under the ground. It's not him."
I nod in agreement. "No, it's not Ariel."
So why do I still feel the urge to run to the cemetery and cover his grave with a water-proof tarp?

Karen adds: Robert asked me to read his latest entry to elicit my comments, "See if you want to add anything" he always says. Reading through my tears I think, there is nothing to say, he has captured the deluge perfectly. Then I remember what happened today. I was coming out of work, the rain had been going on and off all day, literally a temperamental spigot. Yes, it was raining again, but this time the sun was out too. I looked to the sky, and there it was, a full rainbow cresting above the yeshiva across the street. My thought: How wondrous, if only Ariel could see it. All things, rainbows too, are reflected through my memories of his delight, his sensitivity, his brilliance.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:38 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

December 22, 2004

Four in the Morning

It is four in the morning and I cannot sleep. Four in the morning is the most terrible of times. It is no longer night, not yet morning. At four in the morning you are in a kind of limbo, still within sleep, yet groping towards consciousness. When I wake at four I sense the angel of death sitting by my bed, watching me, taunting me.
Apprehensive about the MRI I'm having this morning because of lower back pain, I slip out of bed, go into my office. I answer e-mail. I work on a scene I've been struggling with. I try to keep myself busy--anything as long as I don't have to think about the MRI.
It was the MRI, so many years ago, that revealed the tumor in Ariel's brain.
Ariel must have endured at least fifty MRI's from the time he first became ill at the age of fourteen, until his death at age twenty-two. Often, he had to stay in the MRI for over an hour. Sometime two hours. We learned that a small dose of Ativan would calm him down so that he would not be seized with claustrophobia.
I remember one MRI, when the Ativan was not working and Ariel was anxious even before he went in. The MRI seemed to go on forever and after about an hour, I heard Ariel whimpering, weeping.
"Take him out." I told the technician.
"We're almost finished, sir."
I separated my words like bricks: "Take. Him. Out."
Ariel's eyes leaked tears as he slipped out of the the capsule.
"Daddy, please, I can't stand it in here!" I motioned to the technician and he helped pull Ariel off the table. He collapsed in my arms. He cried and apologized. I told him not to worry.
Even after that dreadful episode, Ariel went to his MRI sessions with little complaint; it just became another medical routine in a life of medical procedures that never seemed to end. It was just something to be endured so that ultimately he could live a long life, study Torah, get married and have, as he often said, "Many, many children."
And so Karen drives me to the MRI. I fill out the paperwork, don the awful gown that leaves your butt on display, and lie on the MRI shelf.
My technician, Sean, wants to know if I'm afraid of tight spaces. Not really. He wants to know if I have any metal in my body. None that I know of. He wants to know if I want to listen to music over earphones. What kind of music, I ask. He puts the earphhone to my ear so I can get a sample. I thought Lawrence Welk was dead, gone, finished. No, apparently he's risen again in the MRI room. He's very popular with our patients, Sean explains. I shove earplugs in.
Sean gives me a panic button.
"It's kinda tight in there, so if you feel like closerphobia, hit the button and I'll get you out."
"You mean claustrophobic."
"That's what I said man, closerphobia. Okay, ready dude."
I slide into the tube. There is barely an inch of space surrounding my head. I close my eyes. I have to keep them closed or I might very well panic. What happens if there's an earthquake? I'll be buried alive in this metal tube, slotted like a cigar in a tight sheath. No air, no light... I'm starting to paaaanic...
The MRI starts up with an abrupt thunk. The sounds are hideous, inhuman: electronic buzzes mixed with rhythmic clanks. It's like being trapped in a never-ending loop of electro-techno European experimental music.
I once asked Ariel what he thought about when he was in the MRI for such great lengths of time.
"Sometimes I think about a kasha, a problem, in Gemara. And I try to work it out. Other times I recite parts of the Torah that I know by heart. And other times..." He hesitated.
"What?"
"No, it's nothing.
"Obviously it's something. Come on, Ariel, don't do this to me. Spill."
"Sometimes I just think about you and Mommy and the girls, how lucky I am to have such a wonderful family."

And so now I am in the place where Ariel used to be. But I do not work out a complex problem of exegesis from the Talmud. I do not recite a portion of Torah. No, I think about Karen and the girls, how lucky I am to have them. And then I think about Ariel and how my life has been immeasurably enriched by his goodness, by his courage, by his quiet but firm belief in Torah and HaShem. I see his face, his eyes, that glorious smile that I miss more than anything and--
--and before I know it, the MRI is over.
"You did real good, dude."
"I had help."
"Well sure, I do all I can."
I start to tell Sean that it was Ariel who helped me; but no, that would be wrong. I know exactly what Ariel would want me to say.
"Thank you, Sean. I couldn't have done it without you."
Sean smiles.

I'm home again. It's late at night and I wonder if I'll be able to sleep. I have a feeling that at four in the morning my eyes will pop open and I will say to myself: It is real. Ariel is dead. And you have another day of his absence that will empty out your heart. And then I realize that even if I do sleep through the night, for a parent who has lost a child, it is always four in the morning.

Karen remembers: I used to sit in the MRI room with Ariel. I thought it was only fair that the least I could do is stay as close as possible to him, enduring the clangs and "bop bopitty bops" of the humongous machine. I acted as an intermediary, making sure Ariel was not cold, that he had the correct pillow, that the nurse who came in was instructed which vein Ariel preferred for the dye injection. But Ariel made it easy for me. He did not complain, what he really wanted was to luck out, and have his favorite technician. This man, a slight, handsome Asian, remembered Ariel from his very first MRI, when Ariel was in terrible pain, and we were in New York. Ariel and this man, (only Ariel could remember the name of every person he ever encountered) used to joke about his fractured Yiddish. Each time he saw Ariel he would say, "Shorem Alekim" or "vas Mach's du." The funny thing was that Ariel's knowledge of Yiddish was minimal, yet he established a bond with this man, playing this language game. I used to play another game. Each time Ariel went for his six-month check up they would ask, "Do you want to wait for the pictures?" I never wanted to wait, thinking, how would I know what to look for?" Why would I want to torture myself by taking the films to a light and searching for a bean sized foreign body? Ariel never even asked after the MRI if it was fine or not. Each time, after the interminable wait (acutally only two days), I would casually say, "Oh, by the way, the MRI was clear." Ariel's equally casual response--"Baruch Hashem."

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:29 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

December 20, 2004

Screenwriter Without a Screen

It's odd, but I'm a screenwriter who no longer enjoys going to the movies. Once, it was the passion of my life. I cannot count the times I've seen The Seven Samuari. I cannot remember how often I've sat down and inhaled The Searchers. For the past few years, I can hardly bear to sit in a movie theatre. Most of the movies I see just plain bore me. I can tell what is going to happen twenty minutes before it happens. There's also a little matter of the audiences. People talk to the screen. They shout out comments. Cell phones trill, sing and shriek. Other people, slobs really, loudly chew popcorn, repeatedly crack their gum. I have no patience. I have to hold myself back from saying rude things to these rude people. I get fidgety. I feel like the walls are closing in on me. In the last movie Karen and I attended there was a scene where a child is having his arm amputated. Karen and I looked at each other, panic in our eyes, and we fled.

Are movies worse now than when I was a kid, or am I just older and no longer part of the target demographic: sixteen to twenty-two? It's a bit of both, I believe. I saw Spider Man Two on a flight to NY. What did I feel? In all honesty, all the special effects of Spider Man flying from building to building only induced extreme nausea.

There is one movie Karen and I have watched recently and adored. It is, get this, a German film: Gloomy Sunday. Karen saw it in a movie theatre with one of her closest friends; she loved it and urged me to go, but I just couldn't bring myself to chance it. But I trust Karen's judgement and so I managed to get a DVD on e-Bay. It is a wonderful film about love, about art, about friendship and loyalty, and about Jews trapped in the Final Solution. It is beautfully acted and the script is a study in classic dramatic construction. If you get a chance to see this film--do so. You will not regret it.

I have a feeling that I could renew my love of the big screen by viewing the kind of movies that Ariel would almost certainly enjoy: Pixar films like Shrek II and The Incredibles. But somehow, I can't bring myself to see these films without my Ariel. I wonder if I ever will? The truth is, I feel flattened; as if I've encountered some massive animal who has been galloping along at a great speed for many miles, and finally the animal has crashed right into me. I am caught in a paradox, I want to renew my love for movies, but the very movies that would do the trick cause excrutiating pain.

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December 17, 2004

The Dream, The Walk, The Echo

As Ariel's lungs worsened and breathing became more difficult, even with oxygen, Ariel developed a particular kind of walk, a shuffling gait that broke my heart. When I saw him from behind, he looked like an old man moving along at a snail's pace. Occasionally, I dream about Ariel and this most distinctive walk. I see him slowly making his way down an endless corridor, a dark, oppressive space filled with massive machines whose purpose I cannot fathom.

For several days now, I've been hobbling around like an old man. Attacks of lower back pain have been a constant in my life for the past few years. It happens when I pick up something heavy and forget to bend my knees, or when I open our heavy garage door, again not using proper leverage. Because I'm male and genetically incapable of making an appointment with a doctor, Karen sticks a post-it on the refrigerator letting me know that she has arranged for me to see an orthopedist this morning. Karen is a most capable woman and I always follow in the direction she points.

But I hesitate to keep this appointment. I hesitate because the doctor's office is in the same building where Ariel had his pulmonary therapy three times a week. I realize, however, that there is no way out of this. I owe it to Karen, to the girls, to watch after my health. Besides, if I were to spend my life avoiding all the places I associate with Ariel, well, I would have no place to go in this world.

And so, I drive to the medical building on San Vicente Boulevard. I park in the oh-so-familiar parking garage. Slowly climbing out of my car, I make my way to the elevator.
I shuffle along, slowly, and in pain. I have to adjust my normally brisk walk to compensate for the fire radiating from my lower spine.

And as I move along it hits me: my gait is achingly familiar.
Yes, my walk is now an unconscious echo of Ariel's. Even my breathing is much like his: short shallow breaths that help control the pain.
Abruptly, I realize that I am inhabiting my dream. I am shuffling along the dark corridor; the massive machines are cars parked on either side of me.

I can see my son Ariel, slowly, painfully walking along.
But it is also me that I see.
Ariel and I--for one brief moment--are one.
I halt. I look all around me. A nurse breezily walks by and asks:
"Are you alright?"
I want to tell her that my son died. That I loved him more than I love my life. I want to tell her that I am paralyzed between present and past, that my life is no longer recognizable. I want to tell her that if she has children she should run to them and hug them and cherish every single moment she has with them. There is so much I want to say.
"I'm fine, thanks."
She smiles brightly, and moves on, her high heels clicking on the asphalt.
I stand there a moment longer and I say:
"Ariel?"
My voice echoes.
Ariel. Ariel. Ariel...

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December 15, 2004

Not Shattering

Several days ago, Karen and I went to The Grove, a lovely outdoor shopping mall here in Los Angeles. We needed some dairy dishes and Crate and Barrel had what we were looking for. What sets The Grove apart from all other shopping malls is its quintessential art direction. Hollywood would be proud of this village-like set. The stores are set on a curving cobblestoned Main Street. There is an old fashioned trolley that choo-choos along, a central pond, and the whole area has a Frank Capra, It's A Wonderful Life kind of feel. It also does not hurt that there is a beautiful Apple store in the Grove where I can browse happily for hours at a time, or stand in line at the Genius bar waiting for my Powerbook -- a most tempermental beauty -- to be diagnosed and fixed.

In any hour of any day, the death of my son Ariel is first and foremost on my mind. No matter what I'm doing, no matter who I'm with, the memorywhispers of Ariel, my beautiful and pious son, are echoing.

Karen carries a backpack wherever she goes. It is a magical pack. Need a tissue, a Band Aid, some Neosporin, my wife has only to reach inside and wham, she produces whatever is needed. I kid you not, if we were to get a flat tire on the LA Freeway, I am sure that Karen would just reach inside her pack and pull out a healthy new Firestone. The backpack is not a small, diminutive female carrying case. Although fashionable (Tumi), it is a piece of gear that would serve well in the Hundu Kush. Which is why, in Crate and Barrel, I found myself nervously following behind Karen, certain that her pack was going to topple one of the elegant and painfully constructed towers of kitchenware displays that were strategically placed all over the store: champagne glasses in the form of a pyramid, crystal goblets that towered to the ceiling. All of these lovingly complex but fragile structures seemed like the perfect target for Karen's backpack. I asked a friendly saleperson if it ever happened, that a customer knocked over one of these glass towers. He nodded grimly and told me that whoever destroys owns the shattered fragments. As the old saying goes, "You break it, you bought it."
I broke into a slick sweat.
Then he laughed. "Be cool, dude, we just make you sweep it up."
"Really!?"
"No, that's my job," he winked.

After about half an hour, Karen and I settled on some milk white dishes that looked vaguely Japanese. We laughed at how hard it was for us to make a simple decision about a few plates and soup bowls. And as we exited the store, we both realized at the same moment that we had not gone shopping together since, well, since Ariel died.

I also realized that I had not thought about Ariel for the time we were in the store. For a brief moment I felt guilty. I felt sad. I was not sure what I was feeling.

I told Karen how nice it was to spend time with her doing something normal. How lovely it was to shop with her like any ordinary couple. I also admitted to my conflicted feelings about "forgetting" Ariel for those brief moments.

Karen responded thus: "All is distraction, and the less activity has any affinity to Ariel the easier it is to do. Unfortunately, most of these activities are tied in with hedonism or "bitul z'man," a waste of time, and by definition are guilty pleasures. But I guess that is part of life and we can't be spiritual or altruistic all the time. I think people who shop perpetually are probably escaping something in their lives. Are we escaping? Where do you draw the line between spending your life grieving and remembering and honoring Ariel's memory, and business as usual?"

There are no easy answers. All I know is that for the rest of my life I will treasure the image, the comical image, of trailing Karen between rows of sparkling glass columns, anticipating some great shattering, but coming away whole and unbroken, a silly grin on my face.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:30 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

December 13, 2004

Latkes Regained

Several years ago, when Ariel was healthy and home for Chanukah, he asked me to make latkes. We pulled a bunch of cookbooks off the shelves and looked through them. In truth, all the recipes were pretty much the same, but Ariel was details oriented and he studied the recipes with the same intensity that he reserved for Talmud. Finally, we settled on one recipe. It called for hand-grating the potatos. I had no idea what I was in for. I am typically male and unrelentingly concrete when it comes to cooking and following recipes. I follow every instruction with the rigidity of a school child. Karen, on the other hand, has never met a recipe that she could not improve upon with some creative improvisation. I'm always amazed when she actually substitutes one ingredient for another. Who knew this was permitted?

Two hours later, the potatoes were shredded and so were my knuckles. We fried up the latkes and soon they were whispering in the oil and turning a lovely golden brown.
I made about thirty latkes and Ariel set the table. After the latkes drained, we sat down, said the b'racha and dug in.
"These are delicious, Daddy," he said. I smiled proudly.
We did not carry on much of a conversation, I recall. But it was a companionable silence and I remember being supremely happy.

Yesterday, the fifth day of Chanukah, I told Karen that I wanted to make latkes.
"Okay," she warned, "but I don't feel like cooking."
"No problem, I'll do it."
Karen did help me gather the ingredients, I never know where to find anything, then she went upstairs to her office to do some work.

I started grating the potatoes, but within a few minutes, my back was aching unbearably. Our garage door weighs about seven thousand tons and I pulled a back muscle opening it this morning. After a few minutes of grating, it felt like a stream of pulsing fire was traveling up and down my spine.
"Karen!"
Down she came.
"I need that machine you have, it chops food automatically."
"The food processor?"
"Right."
Karen insisted on setting it up for me or else she feared I would cut my hands to pieces on the razor sharp medieval looking blades. And so, Karen ended up grating the potatos.
"Thanks, I know you didn't want to do this."
"This is the easy part."
Back upstairs went Karen.
I added the egg and the matzo meal, then heated up the oil. Soon, I formed the latkes between my fingers into neat little patties and slipped them into the boiling oil. Ouch! That smarts when the oil hops from the pan and hits your wrists.

I stood there, spatula in hand, feeling confident and oh-so-capable.
But something was wrong. The latkes were falling apart and not turning brown.
"Karen!"
Down she came.
After a few seconds observing, Karen diagnosed the problem.
"Try another pan. I don't think this one is distributing the heat properly."
As usual, Karen was right, and in no time at all I had a pile of golden latkes draining on paper towels--a nightmare for any cardiologist.

Sitting down at the same table where Ariel and I ate so many years ago, I bit into the latkes and the memory of our Chanukah meal came flooding back. The latkes were my madeleine; an exquisite pleasure invaded me, isolated me, and for a brief moment, I was sitting across from my son, my son Ariel, enjoying Chanukah, reveling in a most comfortable silence.

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December 09, 2004

Speak, Memory

It is time for my annual physical, but because I am typically male I delay it for as long as possible. But Karen is on to my game and using her most insistent, yet soothing, Montessori-like tones, she gently calls and reminds me to go to the lab and get my blood drawn. Surrendering to the inevitable, I schlep over to Cedars Sinai Hospital. Parking in the lot, I get hit with a wave of memories. For it is here that Karen and I spent -- on and off -- years of our lives with Ariel. This is where we sat in the Doctor's office when she told us that, "There is a mass in the brain." It is here that Ariel endured massive doses of chemotherapy and radiation. It is here that Ariel finally lapsed into unconsciousness. I am determined to do this without crumbling, and so, I gird myself with a deep breath and step into the lobby and --

--and run right into Susan, Ariel's pulmonary therapist...

"Robert," she cries, and before I know what's happened, she propels herself into my arms and hugs me. I stand there, still as a pilaster, returning her genuine affection with an awkward pat on the shoulder. Abruptly, she breaks the clinch.
"I'm so sorry," she pleads. "I forgot. Ariel taught me about negiya, but I was just..." Tears pool in her eyes.
"That's okay, Susan, don't worry about it."
Susan is a no-nonsense, middle-aged black woman, a regular church-goer, her tough, drill-sargeant manner turned to vapor when she was around Ariel. The very first time they met, she moved to shake his hand.
"I don't mean to offend you," Ariel said, "but because of religious reasons I don't shake hands with women." I helped Ariel compose and rehearse this little speech at age fourteen when he became more observant and the women who were offering to shake his hand presented a thorny yet classical problem: the conflict between proper social conduct and deeply felt religious values.

It was in the last chapter of Ariel's life that his relationship with Susan developed. Three times a week I took him to pulmonary therapy. Susan knew what she was doing. At our very first meeting, I broke down and wept in her office. Sobbing, I said, "I can't believe this has happened to my son. I can't believe you have to teach Ariel how to breathe."
Susan got angry with me. "Listen," she growled, "it will not help for Ariel to see you in this condition. You have to be strong for him. You have to be optimistic. Now, I'm going to do my part. I'm going to make him strong. Can I count on you to do the same?"

After a few sessions at pulmonary therapy, Ariel was clearly the favorite in the group. Jews, gentiles, Asians, blacks, rich and poor, they all loved his gentle manner; they plied him with endless questions about Judaism, basic and complex queries regarding history, belief and ritual. Ariel's fellow patients asked questions they had always wanted to ask, but were never able to, because unlike most of us, Ariel had the correct answers at the tip of his tongue, yet was never glib, never condescending. He offered explanations without making the person feel diminished because of their ignorance.

Now Susan says to me,"I have to tell you that we still talk about Ariel up in the unit. A whole chunk of me got lost when he died."
I thank Susan, thank her for everything. Ariel loved her; he knew that she was determined to give him life. And he smiled hugely when, at the end of his long three-hour sessions, Susan would hug the air between them and say, "See, I'm shomer negiya."

It is painful, running into this reminder of the past, but I move on strangely elated. I am happy because Ariel is remembered by this ferociously good woman. Our son is not forgotten. And in the end, that is what all parents of children who have died so urgently desire. We want memory to speak; we want to hear of the lives of our children; we need these memorywhispers to echo and to nourish so that we can say: My child lived, my child was here, my child mattered.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:15 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

December 07, 2004

Cartographer

Carefully, I tear off lengths of aluminum foil to line the mantle place. I try and do a neat job; preparing to perform a mitzvah–a commandment–is serious business. I trim corners and make sure edges align just so. There is a touch of the obsessive compulsive in how I go about this task–a bit like a cartographer mapping out new territory. Next, I take out the Menorahs, dust the year's worth of grime away and then place them over the fireplace. There are just three. Karen and I, and offspring number three. Offspring number two is away in college. And Ariel... For a moment I consider putting out Ariel's Menorah, I consider lighting it, without a b'racha, a blessing. Quickly, I discard this thought. Surely that's not an appropriate gesture, and Halachically, I'm fairly certain that it's forbidden for a host of reasons. Or at least it is frowned upon with all the considerable weight of generation upon generation of tradition.

After sundown, we light the first light of Chanukah. As Karen lights and recites her b'racha, her voice cracks and thick tears pucker in her eyes. I sing the Maoz Tzur with Karen buried in the crook of my arm. She cries for Ariel, cries for this wounded family.
"Chag Sameach," I say. I kiss my beloved family. But the joy of Chanukah is a distant shore.

Recovering, Karen places the central Menorah by the window thereby fulfilling the Mitzvah of a public celebration. And then a surprise, Karen hands out Barton's Almond Kisses, a nostalgic taste of Brooklyn, our traditional family gift.

Sitting alone in the darkened living room for a few minutes, I ponder the silence, the guttering flame, and for a moment I feel a measure of peace.

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Drama on Pico

Walking along Pico Boulevard, a main thoroughfare here in Los Angeles, I recall the many times that Ariel and I used to walk this stretch together. It was not unusual for us to stop every two minutes to schmooze with friends. There were the people from shul, The Young Israel of Century City, students from Ariel's high school, Yeshiva Gedolah, old classmates from Hillel Hebrew Academy, Ariel's grade school.
About our neighborhood, Pico Robertson, Ariel once astutely observed, "It's like living in a shtetl surrounded by mini malls." There is no place in this world I can walk where Ariel's presence is not felt at my very core.

Now, I hear my name being called. Turning around, I spot a Yeshiva bochur approaching. He looks so much like Ariel. Oh, no, I'm starting to hallucinate. I'm really losing it. Next stop: Lithium. I squint, trying to make out the details but all I see is a black hat, white shirt, dark slacks, the lovely flying tzitzis--Jewish plumage.
Closer, closer, of course it's not Ariel. But who is it?
"Mr. Avrech?"
"Yes?"
"My name is Yossie."
"Nice to meet you Yossie, do I know you?"
"No, not really, but I recognize you from your picture in The Jewish Journal. I just bought your book, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden."
I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Oh, how nice, thank you."
"And I'm very, very upset."
My stomach lurches a bit. Here it comes, a mussar (ethics) speech about all the things that are morally objectionable about The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. I gird myself.
"I'm sorry you're upset. What's the problem?"
"Why did X have to die? That was my very favorite character?"
I relax and I smile hugely, which is not really appropriate under the circumstances. I thank the Yeshiva bochur again and then explain why this specific character has to die. I talk about character development; I discuss how drama builds and then pays off in specific ways with different characters. I explain that various characters serve different dramatic needs. But his eyes are glazing over. And I realize that this is not the time for a lecture on theories of drama, but the time for human empathy. Yossie was so fond of this character and by killing this character I have wounded something in him. It occurs to me that the power of our stories is greater than we imagine.
"Is there any way you can bring X back to life, Mr. Avrech?"
"Maybe when the Moshiach (The Messiah) comes," I reply.
Yossie smiles. He likes this answer.
"By the way, I hear about your son, about Ariel, all the time in Beis Midrash (study hall). He is a true role model for all of us."
I want to hug Yossie. But of course I don't. It would not be appropriate, not here on Pico.
Yossie walks off, on his way to Beis Midrash to study Talmud.
I am happy.

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December 06, 2004

Download The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden

We have decided to post my novel on Seraphic Secret for those of who would like to read it online. You can download the entire novel if you want to. No filters. I'm doing this because I want to share The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden with as many of my readers as possible, secure in the knowledge that once you read the book, or just a few chapters, you will want to own it. It's a beautifully made volume with heavy non-acidic paper, a sewn binding, and twenty-two exquisite chapter drawings -- an old fashioned book. I'm also doing this for those of you who might be short of funds and simply can't afford it at the moment. I hope you all enjoy my novel. I wrote it with my heart and I sincerely hope that it speaks to yours. You could all help me out by posting positive reviews (I hope) on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com.

Click here to download the book. The file is about 3.5 megabytes, so please be patient as, depending on your internet connection, it may take a few minutes to download.

Right now, we have a PDF version of the book available -- soon we will get an HTML version uploaded, too. In order to read the book, you will need Adobe Reader. Most computers have this program already installed, but if yours does not, click here to download Adobe Reader for free.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:25 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

December 01, 2004

Bethia Reviews The Hebrew Kid

My good friend Alan Gindi gave The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden to his nine year old daughter, Bethia. She's a bright, fourth grader from Maimonides yeshiva who loves to read. Alan asked Bethia to write a report, specifically what she likes about the book and what she doesn't like. Here's Beth's book review:

"The thing that I liked about this book is that when I read the book I could picture the whole thing happening. The book had a lot of funny things like when Doc Holliday and Victorio had to sit next to each other because they refused to sit in the back of one another. I also liked the scary parts like when Rebecca got kidnapped by the Scalphunters. The best thing about the book is that it had so much adventure.
The thing I don't like about the book is that in the beginning nothing exciting happened. Another thing I don't like about the book is that the guests that came all liked the same thing, the kugal. The worst part is when a character I like dies. The last thing I don't like about the book is... wait there are no more!"

Reading this review brought a smile to my face. To watch a child react to my book with such unadorned honesty brings incalculable joy.

I wish Ariel was here to share the experience.

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November 30, 2004

Banned in Boro Park

I just heard that a bookstore in Boro Park received complaints from three customers about our book. It seems that they object to the cover of The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. What is there to object to? Well, apparently the cover drawing is considered by these three men (no women, what a shock!) to be immodest because a girl is shown on horseback. The owner of the store has been forced to remove the book from its display table. This is sad on many levels: the book has been selling briskly and now inevitably sales will be affected, livelihoods are hurt, and of course I wrote the book for the frum community. I have to admit that though it's only one bookstore and though many frum Jews have already read the book and adored it, and found nothing wrong with it, I feel hurt. I know I shouldn't. Somehow it seems like an attack on Seraphic Press. I know this is completely irrational. But I also know that there are degrees of frumkeit, of modesty, but to pounce on this book because of the cover seems unfair to its content. As a result, if you go into a Jewish bookstore and don't see The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden on display, speak to the proprieter and he will gladly lead you to it.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:06 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

November 28, 2004

Chai Lifeline Retreat Part III

All through Shabbos, men from the group I fled from Friday night come over to offer words of comfort. Said one man: "Your tears said everything we wanted to say but couldn't." Fearing another emotional meltdown, I skip the next group meeting. Instead I stay in my room, read and nap. Karen and I take a walk around the lovely grounds. We feel peaceful and removed from the real world. It is Shabbos and some wonder if it's proper to take part in these grief meetings, after all, on Shabbos we are commanded to rejoice.

But there is happiness in Camp Simcha. On Friday night the men sit around two large tables and fervently sing Shabbos z'miros until late at night. Even I, a loner by nature, sit nearby and allow myself to be swept along by the soaring melodies. If a stranger were to step into this room, he would have no idea that every man and woman in the room has lost a child. He would have no inkling that the men who sing with such love and devotion have had their worlds annihilated. Here are men and women who exist in a separate plane from all others. To lose a child is to live in a world that forces you to recognize a betrayal in your life and there will be no armistice.

On the last day of the retreat, I choose to attend the final group session.

The men nod at me as I take my seat. I ask the psychologist if I can say a few words. He gives me a single nod of the head.

"I'm here out of respect for this group, for all of you who sought me out during Shabbos, who offered chizuk and nechama."

Men offer closing thoughts and before too long I am cringing. The men take refuge behind p'sukim. They wield chapter and verse like weapons. Each one trying to top the other with a more clever, a more sophisticated quote from Talmud or better yet, form some obscure work of halacha. Unlike the women who, Karen reports, speak from the gut, from the heart, who attempt to confront and analyze their innermost feelings, the men cloak themselves in the armor of chapter and verse. Schooled in the mental discipline of the Beis Midrash, the men have nothing left to fall back on.

"God has a plan, we cannot know what it is."

"She is in a better place."

"It's a test."

I stare at the floor. I don't feel like crying.

I feel like screaming.

The death of our children deserves more than over ripe clichés. Yet I understand the impulse. In the face of the unspeakable, what is there left to say?

The man who was away from home when his son died rambles on endlessly, repeating the phrase "Gam zu L'tova." - "This too is ultimately for the good."

My heart beats in my chest like a trapped bird. No one objects. They all just sit here and nod. Yes, yes, they are affirming with their silence, the death of my child is tragic, but on a higher level it is acceptable.

"I'm sorry, nothing good has come from Ariel's death!" My voice is unnaturally loud.

Gam zu L'tova stares at me; he hears the anger in my voice, he locks eyes with me and he flinches because he sees that I could easily strike him.

"Ariel suffered horribly for years and years. There was nothing good about that. Ariel wanted to live. He fought every inch of the way. He did not give up; he did not surrender. He wanted to live. He did not want to die. So there is no way you can convince me that his death, or the death of any of our children is ultimately for the good. The death of these good and holy children is horrible. I resent what you are saying. It's an insult to me, and also an insult to my son!"

The man answers, he rambles on incoherently about God's will, and if he says one more word I really might put a fist through his face.

Thankfully, the psychologist intervenes. He calls a halt to the conversation and he wisely ends the session. My hands are shaking so badly that I've spilled half the cup of hot tea on my hand. My skin is pink from the burn. I didn't even feel it happen.

Gam zu L'tova approaches me. He offers his hand. I stare at it for a second. Then I take his hand and shake it. He has lost a son. I have lost a son. The right thing to do is reclaim some measure of kindness, find the safe harbor of dignity. If not for ourselves, at least for our children.

I tell Karen about my latest group meltdown. She offers some not-so-practical advice: "Next time you'll just have to dress in drag and come to the women's group. You just don't have the typically male mentality."

"Yes, I'm a failure in that department."

"And thank God for that." says Karen.

Karen adds: I have spoken to women who have attended secular therapy groups, and the contrast between male and female is universal. It is not restricted to Torah Jews. The secular men don't have the Torah phrases to quote, but they do cling to facts, or simply do not speak at all. How many women complain that their husbands don't share their feelings? How many women despair when they want to talk about issues, not for the sake of solving a problem, but simply for the release, the sharing, the acknowledgement? Is there a solution? Will men ever be able to reveal their fears, their weaknesses, their neediness? I don't know, but I do think the first step is in giving them the security, the acceptance and support that they do not know how to ask for.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:43 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

November 17, 2004

From Dusk to Dust Cover

When the organizers of the Los Angeles Children's Bookfest found out, three days before the festival, that The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden was available, they were so anxious to have the book present that they graciously shuffled schedules and made room for me to attend and sign my book. As I spoke with the organizers over the phone, it suddenly occurred to me that the address of the Bookfest was eerily familiar: 6150 Mount Sinai Drive, Simi Valley.

"Excuse me," I say, "but isn't that the Mt. Sinai cemetery?"

"Yes, it is. But no one can see the cemetery. The fair takes place down below, in tents. Does it bother you?"

"No, no," I mutter, barely able to contain myself, "it's fine."

And so, Karen and I drive to the Jewish Children's Bookfest where The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden will make its very first public appearance.

We drive past the Bookfest tents and follow the winding road into the cemetery. We get out of the car and approach Ariel's grave. We say Tehillim. We cry. We look down at the bookfair, one hundred yards from Ariel's resting place.

I sign and sell about thirty copies of my book. Karen laughs and says: "I've never sold anything before in my life. Now look at me. I'm like this insane Willy Loman." We decide that some long dormant "hawking gene" has abruptly risen to life. Anyone who gets within ten feet of our table is fair game. I find myself talking up a meek seven-year-old girl before I get hold of myself and gently tell her to get her mommy.

After the fair, Karen and I climb once again to Ariel's grave. The sun sets and long shadows fall across the valley. It is no accident that the The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden has made its debut here. As Karen said a few days ago, Ariel is looking out for us, watching over the creation of this book -- a book written for him in his last days. Ariel's physical presence is gone, but his essence, his intelligence, wit and kindness are as tangible as ever. Absence has become presence, and this day brings him closer to our wounded hearts. And for this we are eternally grateful.

Karen adds: The day at the fair turned out to be a day with Ariel. We have always gone to the cemetery in the early morning when the sun is just coming up over the eastward hills. I have seen the terrain of the Simi Valley with specific shadows, the land accepting the sun's light on landmarked peaks. Having spent an entire day at the site, I returned in the late afternoon. It struck me: I have spent every moment of the day with Ariel when he was alive, but since he died, time with Ariel has been relegated to a certain slice of the day. The light is different now, the hills are darkening. I feel neglectful, I should be here all day with my son, every day, every moment. But I have to leave. I tell Robert it reminds me of the times in the hospital when I literally put Ariel to bed, making sure he had all his night time needs in place, and almost stealthily snuck out of the room when he finally fell asleep so I could grab some hours of rest. I feel guilty, but I leave the cemetery.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:43 PM | Comments (0)

November 09, 2004

The Sadness of Seraphic Press

This morning a package arrives by UPS. Without looking at the return address I open it. In the box are ten copies of The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden. I was not expecting this shipment until later in the week. Phoenix Color, the printing company used by Seraphic Press has been incredibly cooperative. When I asked them if they could move up the printing date so I could have the books in the stores before Chanukah, they graciously obliged me. Copies can be ordered online by the weekend of Nov. 13 at Amazon.com or Barnes & Noble.com or purchased at your local bookstore. If they don't have it on their shelves, they can order it. The ISBN # is: 0-9754382-1-2. Karen and I insisted on producing a handsome and durable volume. The pages are Smythe sewn, not glued, and so the book lies flat when read. We used gold foil on the actual cover, as did all fine books in the olden days. The paper we printed on is non acidic and has a lovely antique sheen. Every chapter has a lovely illustration. When I was a child I loved books that were illustrated. Before I looked at the pictures, I visualized images in my mind, and delighted in comparing what I imagined with what was drawn by the artist. I can still vividly remember several illustrations from books I treasured as a child.

The question is: why am I so sad?

We have worked so hard to publish this book. We have poured our hearts and souls into Seraphic Press. I should feel like celebrating.

The questions is: Why do I feel hollow?

Karen steps into my office. She sees the look on my face and she understands. Her comprehension reaches out and caresses me like a soft hand. "It's because Ariel isn't here to enjoy it with us, right?"

I nod and add: "It's also because The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden would not exist if Ariel had not become ill. Seraphic Press would not exist if he had not died. This is the quandary. How can I be happy?"

"I believe that Ariel had a hand in creating this book," Karen says. "Look how beautiful it has turned out. Ariel was helping us. He's been looking out for us and this company. After all, we're first time publishers, we had no idea what we were doing when we started out. Stop being so hard on yourself, Robert. This book is a wonderful memorial for our son."

Tears leak from Karen's eyes. We stay like this for a long moment, holding each other, holding the book.

Karen adds: Last night, which I imagine as the book's birthday, I felt Ariel's presence more intensely than ever. I felt like I had entered a new stage, which was both piercing with its sadness, but wonderful, because I felt close to Ariel. I could imagine looking directly into his eyes, sharing a feeling, a smile. It was if the intimacy we had was finally returning. I don't know why this happened. Was it a spiritual manifestation? I don't know, but I do know that I welcomed those tears. They were sweet, copious and liberating.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:14 PM | Comments (0)

November 01, 2004

Chai Lifeline Retreat Part II

Karen and I did not arrive at the decision to attend the Healing Hearts program at Camp Simcha easily. It is a year and four months since Ariel ZT"L was niftar, and we have arrived at a place where daily life has become, more or less manageable. I know how to get through the day without curling up into a ball and hiding in a dark closet. The triggers that are sure to set me emotionally reeling are well known and I know how to avoid them. Would going to Camp Simcha help, or make things worse? But in the end, the argument was settled as Karen and I asked one simple question: If we don't go, won't we always wonder if we should have gone? Won't we wonder if perhaps we missed a once in a life time opportunity? If there is one lesson I learned over the years of Ariel's illness it is that ignorance is no virtue - knowledge is power. In Ariel's case the knowledge we constantly sought was medical. We never made a decision until we had sought "coast to coast" second and third opinions. Thus, we were able to add years to our son's life.

And so, we accepted Camp Simcha's kind invitation.

Landing in Newark, Karen and I were picked up by a trim, middle aged Hassid, Mr. W, who wore a stylish bowler tipped rakishly on his head. He also wore a smile and had a delightful twinkle in his eye that immediately set us both at ease. Going up with us to Camp Simcha was another out-of-towner, a man of fierce intelligence and commanding presence. He lost his 17 year-old daughter about a year ago. She was a saintly young woman who was loved by friends and teachers with the kind of genuine affection that is immediately recognized as existing on a high madrega. Karen and I learned that this man's daughter had a very special connection with our Ariel. When she learned that Ariel loved Disney movies, she raised funds and brought a portable DVD player to the hospital, so that he could watch "Shrek", or "Toy Story", or "Fantasia" even in bed. Whenever I am around this young woman's father I find myself tongue-tied. I have said thank you. I have expressed my admiration for his daughter, my grief at her death. But no words seem adequate and so I usually lapse into a uncomfortable silence.

But my silence is not a problem on the drive up to Camp Simcha. You see our good natured river Mr. W and the young woman's father, let's call him Mr. Blue discover that they have a "kesher," a connection. In fact, they have several connections. It is vital to understand the central role that Jewish Geography plays in Jewish life. As soon as two Jews, strangers, get together and after hello and how are you? have been dispensed with, Jewish Geography kicks in. At it's most basic, it starts with a name. Oh, your name is Ploni ben Ploni, are you related to the Plonis in my hometown? If so, then the first kesher is made. It's a way of feeling out social situations; on a deeper level it's about status, acquiring it, and most often, simply retaining it. In any given JG conversation the more "keshers" there are, the better. This kesher conversation up front between Mr.W and Mr. Blue is perhaps the most intricate Karen and I have ever witnessed. In fact, if the great French anthropologist Claude Levi Strauss had been present, he would have rewritten his classic work: Structural Anthropology. There are no degrees of separation.

Once Mr. W and Mr. Blue have dispensed with the relatives, friends and simple acquaintances they have in common--a silent agreement is reached that they are both heavily endowed with yichus. Now it was time to bring out the big guns: Rebbeim. Mr. Blue draws an intricate relationship to a great Rebbe from Boro Park. Mr. W counters with his kesher to the very same Rebbe. Not to be outdone Mr. Blue parries with a kesher on "both sides of his family" to a great Rav in Monsey. Mr. W seems flustered for a moment but then jabs with his own double connection to the very same Rebbe! Mr. Blue is down for a second, but he gets right up, the sign of a masterful JG player, and proceeds to claim a kesher to a Tzaddik in Jerusalem not only through his family, his wife's family, but also through a cousin's marriage to a girl who is his best friend's sister. Game. Set. Match. Karen and I look at one another wide-eyed awe. We have just witnessed one of the great JG plays of all time. It is a humbling experience. Mr. W sighs, admitted defeat by pointing out the beautiful colors of the landscape, declaring, Ma gadlu ma'asecha Hashem. How beautiful are the works of Hashem.

We arrive in Camp Simcha a few hours before Shabbos. Stunned by the beauty of the grounds, I wander around for half an hour taking pictures. The lake is framed by the leaves of autumn. I step into the Camp Simcha garden. Trees are planted for the children. There are poems etched in stone. A tiny chair makes my throat tighten. Karen is back in the room napping. One of the Camp Simcha counselors offers to walk with me. I learn that he is a student at Ner Yisroel. I stop in my tracks and say:

"Did you know my son?"

"Ariel? Yes, of course."

I look at his name tag. It is not familiar. But then there are over seven hundred students at Ner Yisroel and Ariel must have known a few dozen, at least casually. I want to ask him about Ariel. I want him to tell me everything; I want details of all encounters, all conversations. I want a fifty page memo.

"Ariel was... well, everyone knew that Ariel was special, Mr. Avrech. He was just such a special bochur."

I have to get a hold of myself. I must use all my self-control to keep from crushing this earnest young man in my embrace. He searches my eyes. I can tell that he's nervous. He must have been briefed by the fine people who run this program on how to deal with bereaved parents. We are not ordinary people and care must be taken. He's frowning now, worried that perhaps, somehow, he's said the wrong thing.

"Thank you," I say. "Thank you."

He smiles.

Right before Shabbos, before we all go to shul, I sit in the kitchen area outside our room and work on my computer. A young kollel couple, Mr. Green and his wife enter and introduce themselves. They are so very young, what brings them to the retreat? Here there is no need for long overtures I have discovered. When you meet another parent it's not unusual to exchange histories almost immediately. There is a comfort level that is simply not in existence in the real world. As Karen and I listen to Mr. & Mrs. Green tell the story of the death of their eight month old son, I feel myself going light-headed. Is this really happening? Are my ears hearing what I think they are hearing. The words come out of these two young people's mouths in simple measured tones. But the meaning, the awful accident is simply, well, beyond my imagination. Mr. Green reminds me of Ariel. He's not much older, yet his innocent manner, his sweet smile, his eidelket is like a template of Ariel. I want to comfort this young couple. I want to say something useful, the words that came out were something like, "It must be so hard for you, your marriage must be so strong." When they leave the room, Karen and look at one another. We are both wondering if this Shabbos will be painful beyond measure.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:58 PM | Comments (0)

October 27, 2004

Chai Lifeline Retreat Part I

The compassionate psychologist looks around the circle of men, wishes us a good Shabbos and suggests that we introduce ourselves and then say whatever it is we want to say. He nods to the man on his right to begin. I sit directly to the left of the psychologist, which means that I will be last to speak.

Mr. White says: "Gam zu L'tova." Which means that in the end God has a plan and it is for the best. We cannot know this plan, we cannot understand it, but we must have emunah, faith. He continues, "My son died when I was in Israel. I feel guilty about this. Could I have done something if I was with him? No, of course not. But still I feel guilty."

Mr. White, in his mid-sixties, a Boro Park businessman, rambles for a good five minutes. He quotes one verse after another. He lectures the one conservative Jew in our group, as if we who are observant have this absolute right. It is condescending and I am embarrassed by this utterly inappropriate behavior. Yet I say nothing because this man's son died and we all go a bit crazy as we live out our lives as orphan fathers. To his credit, the young conservative man, next to speak, is exquisitely polite.

"My name is Mr. Black. My son died in my arms when he was four years old. I respect your religious beliefs. But your way of coping is not mine."

Mr. White rudely interrupts with another pasuk, another Talmudic quote, but the psychologist wisely and gently cuts him off.

Mr. Black finishes: "I don't know why I'm here. I was here last year. My wife wanted to come. We'll see."

I feel a lump forming; it's like a walnut in my throat.

Next to speak is Mr. Brown. He's a young man who wears a black hat; he's not in yeshiva anymore, but out in the world, earning a living, supporting a wife and child.

He says: "I lost my daughter after a long illness. She had a big heart. I mean that figuratively and literally. Her heart was too big. The doctors looked at the X-rays and they couldn't believe their eyes. She died from cardiac hypertension. Basically, her heart exploded in her chest..." Thick tears are running down his face. I realize that my eyes are misting over. He continues: "I have this basic conflict. I know she's in Gan Eden, heaven--a perfect place. But I ask myself: if I could, would I take her back if it was possible?"

To myself I say: I would move heaven and earth to get Ariel back. Ariel is in Gan Eden too, but I know that he wanted to live. He battled for life every inch of the way. Never for a moment did we discuss death. The possibility never arose. I trust you, Ariel repeatedly told us. For me there is no conflict. Am I selfish? Do I lack faith? It doesn't matter. I want my son back.

I like Mr. Brown. I admire his ability to come face to face with this basic theological conflict. I also like his tears. He is not afraid to cry in front of other men. This takes courage.

Mr. Gray is a Satmar Chassid. His caftan shines like sealskin. Yiddish is his first language and he has difficulty expressing his feelings in English. The words emerge haltingly. "My tochter, my daughter, I lost her several years ago. When she was in a coma I asked her doctor, a very nice colored woman, if it was possible for her to come out of it. Basically, I was asking for a miracle. The doctor, she told me that anything is possible, that I should have faith and pray. But the Eibeshte needed her more than my wife and me."
The Satmar Chassid's face is gaunt, like a face painted by Goya. He strokes his beard, shrugs his shoulders.

By now, tears are dripping from my eyes.

Next up is Dr. Green. "I lost my sixteen year old daughter two years ago to cancer. I'm here because I have not had a chance to mourn properly. My wife is divorcing me and I've been so involved in the divorce that my daughter... I wanted to talk about our daughter. My wife didn't. I need to talk, to grieve."

Another physician speaks: "My daughter had a rare form of cancer, melanoma in the eye, so rare that it only appears once every ten years. So there is no research into the disease and the treatment is basic and brutal. First they took out here eye -- and then it got worse and worse. She loved Camp Simcha. Right before she died she wanted to come, but the doctors said she was too sick. My wife and I spoke with Camp Simcha. We wanted to know if it would be okay for her to come to camp, and perhaps die here..."

I have to blow my nose. The walnut in my throat is the size of a melon and hot tears are cutting thick channels down my face.

"These wonderful people at Camp Simcha met among themselves and their doctors and decided to grant our request. They even had a helicopter on call, just in case. But she died before she could come."

The physician is weeping. He hunches over and holds his head in his hands as if to keep it from exploding.

A young Monsey kollel student says: "My wife and I lost two children... babies. We still don't know what happened. It wasn't SIDS. We have two more children now, but one of them, we're very, very worried about." He looks down into his lap. His hands are clenched tight. Fingers white as snowflakes.

This man has lost two children; and yet he still walks, still breathes. From where does he draw such strength?

The psychologist looks at me. It is my turn to speak. It is not just Ariel swimming before my eyes, filling my consciousness, now all these other children move into my heart.

It is Shabbos, the holiest time in the Jewish calendar and the pure souls of these children seem to hover over this group of broken men.

"My name is Robert Avrech..." I manage to whisper. "My son, Ariel..." My voice breaks. Tears explode from my eyes. I am sobbing loudly, my chest is heaving. I cannot breathe much less speak. I rise, flee to the bathroom where I cry and shudder and heave for I don't know how long.

The moment I heard that the men and women would be in separate groups I felt vulnerable and fragile. Without Karen, I am lost.

It is Shabbos in Camp Simcha. Karen and I have flown three thousand miles to take part in a Shabbos for bereaved parents. I am not normally interested in group therapy, usually I mock support groups, putting them in the same category as crystals and red threads around the wrist. But everything is different now that my son Ariel is dead. Karen and I agreed that if we didn't come we would always wonder if we had made a mistake.

I am in the bathroom in Camp Simcha. I am crying uncontrollably. I have said just eight words and already I have slipped over the edge into a state of bottomless grief. How will I get through this Shabbos?

Karen adds: Yes, the women and men were separated. I guessed (correctly) that this is done for both religious reasons and to facilitate sharing. Previous experience has found that men are extremely hesitant to bare their souls when their wives are present. The professionals have found that men, (even in same sex groups) try to solve, explain, rationalize, and ultimately theologize in the bereavement discussions. The women's discussions are dynamic, spiralling from one topic to another, spinning webs of all types of feelings, associations, with tears, laughter and compassion. So it was Friday night too. When theological explanations were offered they were accepted, but alternate opinions were voiced, and there was not an ounce of condescension or preaching. We accepted our differences and embraced our common bonds. Yes, sisterhood is powerful.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:48 PM | Comments (0)

October 18, 2004

Words and Pictures

I apologize for not posting for so long. To all of you who have written asking if I'm okay, I thank you for your concern.

The interval of silence has nothing to do with my state of mind, it's just that there are a finite numbers of hours in a day. With the Chagim, the holidays, and my involvement in so many projects, I'm operating on hyper-speed. Currently, I'm writing two screenplays for cable TV. Normally, these two projects would keep me occupied 24/7.

But Karen and I are also getting The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden ready for its January '05 publication date. We are mailing out review copies to Jewish newspapers, magazines and book clubs. We are also arranging through our distributor, Jonathan David Publishers, for showcasing in the big chain bookstores. However, Borders, Barnes & Noble and all the huge chains are reluctant to take a chance on ordering more than one or two copies from a new independent publisher with a book by an unknown author--no matter how well written it is. And they all agree that The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden is a delightful read. They are interested in the BIG promotions, and narrow their focus to the publishers who will spend a fortune on advertising and publicity. So our strategy is to concentrate our efforts in the Jewish community, our primary market.

Still, it would be fantastic if the readers of Seraphic Secret would drop by their local bookstore, independent or chain, and ask for The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden (ISBN: 0-9754382-1-2). If enough people order the book, they will start to pay attention. If any of my readers is a professional publisher, I would appreciate hearing from you with any advice you might have.

I'm also busy working with other authors on the next several Seraphic Press titles. Here's a quick run-down:

The Shidduch Diaries is a funny and touching look at the current shidduch dating scene. Our intrepid heroine, Rachel Ginzburg, asks the central question: "Is it against halacha for Jewish men to be normal?" This novel is affectionate and romantic, Frum-Chick-lit, if you will.

Many of you have written to me asking if I will be publishing the entries of my blog as a book. Karen and I have discussed this at length. We agreed that we did not want to publish a bereavement self-help book. We want to do something... different. We want our feelings about Ariel to be conveyed in a unique form.

I am a big fan of graphic novels. Seraphic Secret will be our first graphic novel. What is a graphic novel? These are books that use the conventions of comic books to tell their stories. But the art work and stories involve serious, mature themes. Some graphic novels I have read are as powerful, and in certain cases even more powerful than conventional novels. Art Spiegel's Maus won the Pulitzer Prize several years ago. In this groundbreaking book, Spiegel tells the story of his father, a Shoah survivor, using highly stylized drawings that depict Jews as mice and the Nazis as cats. It's a powerful two-volume work.

For the art work of my book, I have asked Judith Margolis to collaborate with me. Karen and I met Judith and her writer husband David, when we first moved to Los Angeles 20 years ago. Judith is a brilliant artist who has had shows all over the world. Besides being supremely talented, Judith knew Ariel. Her daughter Hodya used to play with Ariel when they were children. Judith was also one of Ariel's most loyal and frequent visitors. Though she lives in Israel now, whenever Judith came to LA, she would make time to visit Ariel. A few months before Ariel died, Judith gave him a drawing. It's a beautiful rendering of a moment in creation -- the separation of the waters, and Ariel treasured this exquisite work, keeping it on his night table till the end. We realize that telling the Seraphic Secret story as a graphic novel is highly unusual, but Karen and I believe that a synthesis of our words and Judith's artwork is the most powerful and appropriate way of remembering our son. Words alone simply cannot convey all we feel.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:03 PM | Comments (2)

October 03, 2004

Shelter

Every Succos, Ariel and I went together to the Young Israel of Century City to pick up our arba minim, the four species. For Ariel, I always ordered, Mehudar, the most expensive, for myself the moderately priced lulav and esrog sufficed. This year, I drove to shul, and stood in line. Ahead of me was a father and his son. The boy, maybe eight years old, was excited that his father was buying him his very own lulav and esrog. "Daddy, Daddy, can I shake the lulav?" cried the little boy. Smiling inwardly at the child's enthusiasm, I tried not to feel the emptiness of being without Ariel. I wanted to concentrate on the happiness that others were experiencing. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are over and now is the season of happiness. Rabbi Muskin even reminded us that it's a mitzvah to be happy. To fulfill a mitzvah you must do something: sing, dance, sit in the Succah and talk with your guests; there must be an effort. Faith and feeling are simply not enough. Judaism is a religion of behavior.

And so, all through Succos I tried my best to act happy. But in all honesty, I failed. Decorating the Succah is usually a family affair filled with laughter and good natured jokes.

We all worked hard at decorating the Succah.

Karen's eye for hanging the fruit this year was better than ever. I put up the logo for Seraphic Press, a drawing of The Hebrew Kid that is based on a photo of Ariel.

But always in the back of my mind was the awful fact of Ariel's absence. The Succah is a symbol of our faith in HaShem, our way of emonstrating that even in this flimsy structure God protects and watches over us.

But God did not protect Ariel.

And so, sitting and eating in the Succah did not provide me with the comfortable metaphor that has existed for years past. I know I'm supposed to put all that aside. I know that I am obligated to see beyond death, but I miss Ariel too much.

A few days ago, I told Ariel's Rebbe, Rabbi Gruman, that when Ariel died, a holiness that had permeated our lives simply vanished. Rabbi Gruman responded: "Maybe there's even more holiness in your life now." I considered this, wanting it to be true. Perhaps I'm just a weak vessel unable to see, hear, feel, sense this holiness that Rabbi Gruman is so certain of.

Several years ago, when Ariel was recovering from cancer and chemotherapy, he dragged his sleeping bag into the Succah.

"Ariel, you can't sleep in there," I said.

"Why not?"

"You're still sick. You're too weak."

"Dad, I'll feel even worse if I can't perform this mitzvah."

Of course, I relented. But all through the night I woke up every hour on the hour, trudged downstairs, and peeked into the Succah to make sure that Ariel was okay. For a few hours, Ariel learned. Then he nodded off to sleep, his Talmud still open on his chest.

I remember standing in the doorway, watching him and wondering: How can he endure so much suffering and yet subject himself to even more discomfort by sleeping in the Succah? The answer, of course, is that sleeping in the Succah was a comfort for Ariel. His belief was total.

In spite of the cancer, in spite of all the pain and a life lived so frequently under the shadow of illness, the walls of the Succah stood between Ariel and despair. For Ariel, observance of mitzvahs was the only rational response to an unjust world. For me, Ariel's devotion to performing the mitzvahs was the only true heroism I have ever witnessed. And I know that if ever I articulated this thought to Ariel, he would have rejected this as romantic nonsense. Which I would have interpreted as even more heroic.

I want to be comforted by the thin walls of the Succah. I want to feel and take joy in the sheltering shadows of the Succah and s'chach. But in this season where the death of our son resonates more powerfully than anything else, the words of Koheles (Ecclesiastes) echo with an awesome power: A generation goes and a generation comes, but the earth endures forever... Sometimes a righteous man perishes for all his righteousness... Sometimes there are righteous men who are treated as if they had done according to the deeds of the wicked...Once more I saw under the sun that the race is not won by the swift.

For the first time in my life, the reading of Koheles is the central experience of my holiday. In years past, I would silently endure this long and perplexing text. But this time, I listened to every word and understood King Solomon's rage at the indifference of the world. I too rage at indifference. Ariel was here and now inexplicably he is gone.

I sit in our Succah and remember September 2002, Ariel's last Succos, when Ariel's friends came to visit, bringing pizza and soda. They sang and told stories until Ariel was too tired to continue. He was cold and and had to bundle up in his down jacket. His body was bloated from the medication he was taking. I helped him inside with his oxygen cannister.

"I'm lucky," he said.

"How's that?"

"To have such good friends."

"Yes, Ariel, you're very lucky," I managed to agree.

I know that I have to stanch this helpless anger. To mourn excessively is a sin and Ariel would not approve. I sit in the Succah, I remember his face, his smile. A breeze blows and the walls shiver.

Karen comments: Succos was very hard, each holiday that goes by only increases my longing for Ariel. As time passes the realization that I will not see Ariel ever again become more palpable, the ache sharpens. We were blessed this year by invitations from dear friends. Their warmth, bountiful food and stimulating conversation made us feel privileged. I actually asked Robert, "What did we do to merit such sterling friends?" They welcomed us to share the joy of the holiday, and I don't think we let them down. But the emptiness felt even more bottomless once we returned home. The convivial joy, sharing of ideas and good food was a welcome respite, but also increased the contrast of what our lives used to be like--and the irrefutable truth that our relief was only a temporary distraction. The loss deepens. But I do conjure up some comfort. I like to think that Ariel embellished our "noi succah" the beautification of the succah. For indeed, the hanging fruit, the leaf garlands, the light fixture, even the table cloth seemed sharper and more glistening this year. Ariel's spirit was hovering there, I tell myself. I glanced at his picture on the wall of the succah and his smile reassured me that this was so. This was my joy, my Simchat Chag.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:52 AM | Comments (3)

September 23, 2004

Links to the Past

On Erev Rosh Hashanah, Ariel's rebbe from Yeshiva Gedolah of Los Angeles, Rabbi Dovid Gruman, visited with me. Rabbi Gruman was Ariel's 10th grade rebbe, but their relationship transcended that of student and teacher. Not a week went by when Rabbi Gruman did not visit Ariel here at home or in the hospital. I vividly remember that at the very hour Ariel was being prepped for surgery a few years ago, Rabbi Gruman's infant son was undergoing an extremely complex and dangerous surgery on his tiny heart. Right before Ariel was wheeled into the operating room he assured Rabbi Gruman that his son was going to be fine. Ariel had davened for him and he was sure that HaShem would listen to his prayers. The recovery room nurse told me that when Ariel's surgery was over and he regained consciousness, he groggily asked how it went. You're okay," the nurse told him. "No, no, not me," he muttered, "How is Rabbi Gruman's son?" The baby was fine, Thank G-d, and continues to thrive.

Ariel's concern for others was deep and genuine. Ariel had no pretenses; there was not a dishonest bone in his body. This absolute goodness is why people loved and respected Ariel. I was not the first person to call Ariel a Tzaddik Gamur, an Authentic Saint. No, I left that to others. Karen and I knew that it was true, but Ariel's deep sense of modesty prevented us from ever saying it out loud.

Rabbi Gruman and I talked about Ariel. We talked about Rabbi Gruman's children, the recent birth of his grandchild, his daughter's engagement. Then as Rabbi Gruman was leaving, he turned to me and hesitantly said: "Is it okay for me to go into Ariel's room?"

Ariel's room is, for the most part, the same as it was when he was alive. Karen organized his tapes and notebooks, I dust his books; his childhood toys. Sometimes I put my face into his clothing, his old Shabbos suits and take a deep breath. I can still detect his scent. It makes my head spin. I borrow his ties. Once, I tried on his black hat. He was so handsome, especially when he dressed so carefully for Shabbos and Yom Tovim.

A few years ago, Ariel struggled to put on a pair of cuff links. "Dad, can you lend me a hand?" I love helping my children with anything. It makes me feel, well, like a father from the early days of television, Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver, My Three Sons. I'm just the Jewish version. Ariel could not figure out how to get the cuff link through the holes. Never terribly coordinated, Ariel was positively defeated by this maneuver. "Take off your shirt," I said. Ariel did it. "Now, sit down on the bed, and put the cuff links through the holes." Ariel did it with ease. He smiled hugely and said, "Dad, that's brilliant." We laughed. Ariel could decipher the most difficult passage of Talmud, but he was often confounded by the most ordinary of tasks.

Rabbi Gruman touched the spines of a few books and nodded to himself, perhaps thinking, Yes, yes, this is the space, these are the objects that I will fix in my mind forever and ever.

Rabbi Gruman bid me a Gut Yuntif. I stood outside my home and watched him drive away. Back in the house, I returned to Ariel's room, sat down on his bed and got ready for this second Rosh Hashanah without my son. I took off my shirt and put on my cufflinks, just the way I taught Ariel -- just the way my father taught me.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:56 PM | Comments (0)

September 14, 2004

Self-Help

After Ariel died, several books were given to me by well meaning friends. These books, about Judaism and bereavement, are I was assured, deeply comforting and helpful. Over the past few months I have read some of these books, and put many down after just a few chapters. I'm sorry to say that I do not find them useful or comforting. In truth, I find them depressing in their reliance on New Age cliches.
Their main arguments seem to be that Judaism is "profoundly knowledgeable about human psychology." The learned men who write these books portray our sages as pipe smoking psychiatrists who just happened to put on tefillin. My wife Karen, the finest psychologist I know, has always held that the best psychologists are men and women who are able to genuinely empathize with their clients; psychologists who form deep bonds with their patients and are willing to discard any and all rigid schools of thought. In other words, the ability to listen and to care is paramount in successful therapy. Theories inevitably shudder and fracture under the weight of reality.
The authors of these Jewish self-help volumes proudly boast that our rituals of death and mourning are psychologically astute. This seems shallow praise to heap on a religion that brought monotheism to the earth. I care nothing for sophisticated psychology in this life of loss that I will never exit. The consolation I seek should and must transcend popular psychology. So I ask these learned and well intentioned writers: what happens if Judaism were not psychologically astute? Would that make it any less true? The answer is obvious. We are bound to Torah with love and duty and the chain of mesorah. In fact, the highest praise I could imagine for Judaism is not that we recognize its psychological integrity, but that we are able to see beyond it. Where a psychologist will see grief as the unresolved fear of abandonment, a Torah Jew will view grief as a necessary part of life, something to be confronted head-on, and struggled with, first among family and community and then inevitably alone. The Rav's Lonely Man of Faith is the paradigm that I turn to and find most heroic, and at the same time, realistic. I prefer Rebbeim who are Rebbeim, not Rebbeim who have turned into smooth talking pop psychologists.
As for the books, they sit on my shelves, comfortable beside the Whole Earth Catalog, The Big Book of Hula Hoops, and books about alternative medicine and holistic healing. I am alone with Karen, we are in a place only grieving parents inhabit; we are beyond self-help manuals, beyond ordinary words.
But your words have been extraordinary.
To all who read this blog, I thank you for your patience, and generosity. I am well aware that these pages are often difficult to reaqd, but for some reason you keep coming back. And your presence provides a measure of comfort. I feel that I have actually met you, even though I only know you in cyberspace. For this, Karen and I thank you. We wish you a Shana Tova Umituka.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:33 PM | Comments (0)

September 08, 2004

Digging Through Garbage

Right before Shabbos, we receive a brochure from Ariel's Yeshiva. The pictures of the young men in the Beis Midrash are hypnotic: the boys in their dark pants and crisp white shirts, and their posture so familiar. I lean in and squint. Is that Ariel in the background? No, no, of course not. I turn pages, read each article. How come, I irrationally wonder, there's nothing about Ariel in the brochure? There should be a headline that reads: Ariel Avrech Is Sorely Missed. Is he already forgotten? I am hurt and angry. Ariel spent four years in the yeshiva and it's as if he was never there. He loved his yeshiva with the kind of love that Shlomo describes in Shir HaShirim. How can they go on without him as if nothing has happened?
Am I crazy?
What am I doing?
Do I expect everyone to grieve the way I do? Do I really expect his yeshiva, his Rebbeim, and his friends, to dwell on Ariel's absence with the same intensity that I do? Hadn't they supported, revered, prayed for him, and reached out to us, calling, flooding us with letters and tributes?
I exist in a world somewhere between supremely rational thought and utter looniness. When people ask me how I'm doing, I resent it. When people neglect to ask how I'm doing, I resent it. Some days I think it would be better for me to stay in my house, avoid all human interaction. It's too draining. A friend called and asked how I was.
"Some days I'm okay, some days I'm not so okay." I respond. "If your read my blog, you'll get a better idea of what's going on in my life."
"I don't want to read your blog," my friend responds testily. "I'm your friend, your blog is for strangers."
"Okay, sorry."
That's the end of that conversation. Gosh, I feel like I've committed a sin, suggesting that my friend actually read Seraphic Secret. One of the reasons I write Seraphic Secret is because it's simply too draining to explain how I feel. And besides,I don't know how I feel or what I feel until I write it down. This journal is not just for strangers. It's for me and Karen, foremost, and then everybody else.
Several times this past week friends have been offended by my suggestion that they read this page. But the truth is, the strangers who read and write to me probably know me better than the friends who refuse to be readers. My friend Surie Lazar intimately knows the convulsions of my heart. My Hasidic friend W, dutifully reminds me to maintain strict standards of tznius in my writing; I'm afraid I disappoint all too often. Yes, a whole new circle of friends, many grieving parents, have stepped into our lives and filled the awful vacuum that Ariel's death has created.
The other day, Karen cleaned up and organized Ariel's room. There are hundreds of Torah tapes in Ariel's library. There are boxes of micro-cassettes: Ariel taped his gemara shiurim so he could review them. There are dozens of tapes made by his friends of classes that Ariel was too sick to attend. Karen and I have decided to donate some of the tapes to a library in Lakewood dedicated to the memory of his friend Shia Twersky z"l who died tragically in a car accident. We know that Ariel would like to share his Torah with others. After organizing his drawers and dropping off the tapes, Karen broke down and cried. Between sobs she explained, "I just realized why I could do it; it was a maternal act, and that was the basis of our relationship, it was a way that I could do the caretaking that I would do normally. I felt that by letting his belongings accumulate dust and just pile up on his desk, I was neglecting my son."
Karen has a gift for organization. I have a gift for flight. While Karen was busy in Ariel's room I was locked away in my office making believe that I was not aware of what Karen was doing.
"Do you really want his room to stay exactly the same as the day he died, wouldn't that be disrespectful?" she asked me.
"No," I lied.
When I dumped the garbage from my office into the big garbage can at the curb, I noticed several micro tapes in the can. Karen has thrown away some of the tapes from Ariel's room. I reach in and grab them. I stuff them into my pockets, look around to make sure that no neighbors are watching,then scurry back to my office and hide the tapes in the bottom drawer of my desk. All the time, a little voice in my head is saying: Robert, this is really not normal.Karen has disappeared some of Ariel's tapes, but she has not told me because she knows how hurt I would be. But a few minutes later, I feel like a fool. I take the tapes and gently put them back in the garbage. Karen must have thrown them away for a reason. I have learned to trust my wife's instincts. If she believes that there's no reason to keep these tapes, well, I'll trust her. My wife is rarely wrong about the important things in our life.
And besides, I do not want to dig through garbage cans for the rest of my life.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:56 AM | Comments (0)

August 29, 2004

Tales of Prayers, Repairs and i-Pods

We devote an enormous amount of time to simple maintenance. The house we live in always has something that needs fixing. If it's not the plumbing,it's the electricity. The shower door in the master bathroom needs rubber seals.I have ordered various sizes from an outfit in San Diego, each time with reassurance that this was finally the right size. Well, it never was and we finally hired The Shower Door Doctor to solve the problem. Dr. Jose sports two silver earrings and a gory Christian tattoo on his forearm. I paid Jose way too much money to slam thin strips of plastic on our shower door. But I did it because Karen and I cannot bear to live in the midst of broken things. We both come from homes where a broken air conditioner was not really broken. It was just... resting. We both come from homes where changing a burnt out light bulb was cause for a solemn family council. We both come from homes where the complexities of the Talmud pale when compared to a flat tire--a disaster beyond imagination. And so, when something goes wrong in our house, Karen and I spring into action the way Superman does when Lois Lane is threatened. There's no time to waste, for if we let these problems go, if we let them slide, they will multiply and we will drown in chaos.
The other day, the i-Pod that was a birthday gift for Karen, froze. Karen and I exchanged looks of pure terror for there is nothing as frighteningas a machine that seems to have a mind of its own. We are children of the 50's and as such we are reasonably literate about computers and bits and bytes, but technology is not second nature to us. Karen and I still vividly remember college and pounding away on manual typewriters to get our papers done. I wrote my first screenplays on legal pads and then spent weeks hunting and pecking on an ancient manual that I inherited from my mother. Karen wrote her dissertation on a more advanced machine: an electric typewriter.
Karen has a series of lectures on psychology that she listens to when she exercises. I downloaded the lectures to my Powerbook and from there to her i-Pod. Karen was relieved that we finally found a way for her to listen to the lectures in a way that enhanced her exercise time. And now the i-Pod was frozen.
After work, Karen came home with that determined expression on her face that I have come to recognize. It's the look that Olympic athletes have when they dig deep to achieve their goals; it's a look that I admire for when Karen makes up her mind to do something, it gets done.
Karen told me that she was going to The Grove, to the Apple Store, to have the i-Pod fixed. I was tired after a full day of working on a script for an animated film about the Baal Shem Tov for Rabbi Berel Wein's Destiny Foundation. This script has exhausted me; it has sucked the energy out ofmy brain in a way that no script has ever done before. How do you write about the Baal Shem Tov? How did he talk to his wife? How did he talk to his brother-in-law,Reb Gershon, who at first had contempt for the great founder of Chasidus? A thousand problems on each page. I was only able to crack the story when I imagined Ariel as the Baal Shem Tov. Once I saw my son Ariel in the role, everything fell into place. But as I said, I was exhausted and all I wanted to surf the blogs I like to read every day, and unwind. I told Karen that I was too tired to go with her. Karen was disappointed, I could tell by the way her shoulders sagged for a fraction of a moment. As she dressed to go, I realized that I was making a mistake. Here I had the chance to spend more time with my wife, even if it is just running an errand, Karen and I have a way of making the ordinary a bit extraordinary. And so, I told her that I was coming with her. You don't have to, she said. But I could tell, she was happy, relieved.
At the Apple store in the The Grove, you sign in at the Genius Bar. We had to wait for over an hour. Karen sat down and worked on a few of her psych reports. I attended the lecture given by a perky Apple girl about the i-Photo program. And then it was our turn. The Genius pressed two buttons on the i-Pod and zzzip! It was fixed. A simple reset problem. Karen and I laughed.
"That's all it takes?" we said.
"Yup."
Karen and I were seized with the same thought at that moment: why couldn't Ariel be fixed in the same way? Wouldn't it have been just and good if some gentle geek could have reset Ariel and poof, the brain tumor would have just disappeared?
How is it that we can fix our i-Pod, but not our child?
We drove home and talked about Ariel. Karen is only now beginning to feel his absence. She maintained faith in his ability to cheat the angel of death until the very last moments of his life. I was prepared for his death months before it happened. Something in me did not permit a belief in further miracles. Somehow, I sensed that Ariel had used up his allotment of miracle. At a certain point, the statistics outweigh even the most stubborn and righteous beings.
Back home, I wondered if Ariel's soul is hovering in his room, in our house. And if I know for certain that it is, that his soul is here, why don't I feel it on a deeper physical level? Is it because I lack faith in Hashem, or is it because a soul without a body does not have the authority that the soul with a body commands?
In our house, where Torah is the primary authority, the rational and the irrational bump into each other on a daily basis. But ultimately, the religious, the irrational, is the only comfort that endures.
That night, I was unable able to sleep. I padded downstairs and crept into Ariel's room. I clamped the i-Pod to my ears and listened to the MiamiBoys Choir, some of Ariel's favorite music. I stretched out on his bed andsoon I crossed over into a heavy twilight. I recalled a Chasidic tale I heard as a child.
Once upon a time, The Baal Shem Tov and his disciples met at shul to say the morning prayers. Just as the Baal Shem Tov was about to enter the shul, he hesitated. He refused to cross the threshhold.
"What's wrong, Rebbe?" asked his disciples.
"It's too crowded," answered the Baal Shem Tov.
"But Rebbe," said his perplexed followers, "the shul is empty."
"No," exclaimed the Baal Shem Tov. "The shul is crowded with stale prayers."
Perhaps that's my problem. My life is crowded with a lifetime of stale prayers. Maybe it's my stale prayers that need to be repaired. But I cannot fix them because Ariel is no longer here. I was the father, but Ariel was the teacher.
Karen Comments. Robert, you neglected to mention that just two days before, I went with you to the Apple Store to fix your i-Pod,and we spent two hours there. I also felt somewhat entitled (childishly)that I should get some company fixing the i-Pod, since after all, it was a present from you. But I also felt frustration that even when it seems so complex, when the computer genius was showing us how he cleaned up all yourprograms, and gave the computer a clean bill of health, we couldn't do the same for Ariel. We could not find the replacement part, the lung he needed,and we were helpless. The flip side, however, is somewhat reassuring. We are not machines, there is something beyond circuitry and electronics. We have an eternal neshama. Even when we are alive you know you feel your soul apart from your body, it is that internal voice that makes you, you. I know that scientists are working on artificial intelligence prototypes, but I don't think they will ever succeed. I know that despite current brain research,no matter how specific brain functions are located, they will never find the locus of the human soul.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:01 PM | Comments (0)

August 24, 2004

The Name

Even now a year after Ariel's death, I wake up every morning with a sense of disbelief. Is this my life? Did it really happen? My stomach clenches like a fist, and I have the urge to pull the covers over my head and just stay in bed--forever. I move through my morning rituals like a sleepwalker. Daven. Eat breakfast while reading the newspaper; wonder why I'm reading the newspaper when the stories seem written by a committee of fools, men and women who have not the least understanding of the evil that now crouches at the door of civilization.
Being a screenwriter is not steady work, but it gives me the freedom I cherish. I walk into my office, fifteen paces from my house, sit down at my desk and wrestle with whatever script I'm working on at the moment. But the words that use to flow like water come harder now. I measure each word with the precision of a finicky chef. I write and rewrite and rewrite some more. I am no longer able to lose myself in the plots and make believe lives that I am creating. My reality has become so powerful, so overwhelmingly real that each foray into imagination seems like a flight from my true memories. And I don't want that to happen. I want Ariel's memory to remain more real than anything else. For anything else feels like a betrayal.
I sit before my computer, study the dialogue I'm writing and sometimes just say his name. Ariel. I say it again. Ariel. I chant it over and over again like a medieval Kabbalist repeating the sefirot. Ariel. Ariel. Ariel. Karen steps into the office to say hello. She takes one look at my face and she knows.
"Are you okay, Robert?"
I shrug.
"I was just thinking about him too," she says.
We look at each other.
"I have to get back to work," she says. "Will you be okay?"
I nod.
She turns to go. I reach out and hold her. I have been in love with this woman since I was ten years old. We have gone through so much together. If anything happened to her I would stop breathing.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:03 AM | Comments (0)

August 17, 2004

Transformed

Karen and I enjoy the coziness of our home. We keep odd hours, idiosyncratic schedules that invariably finds one of us wandering around the house at three, or four in the morning. So, it's not easy for us to have guests, especially sleep-over guests on Shabbos. But when Yachad, an important Jewish organization which organizes tours and social groups including both disabled and abled youth, called and asked if two counselors and two campers could stay with us for Shabbos, we had to overcome our habitual impulse towards privacy. Clearly, this was a special situation, and our answer was clear.

When Ariel was sick, people took the time to visit him day after day, month after month. Karen and I recognized that visiting the sick, helping those who need it, is a mitzvah of paramount importance. And so, when our guests finally did show up, imagine our delight when we fell into easy conversation with each of them. David has a huge smile and a wicked sense of humor. Kobe knows movies backwards and forwards. Counselor Aaron, an audiologist when not volunteering his time to Yachad, smiled happily when he learned that I wrote and produced A Stranger Among Us. It was, he said, one of his favorite films. Jason, Director of Community Affairs for Yachad, is active in national politics and opened my eyes to a whole range of halachic questions that have arisen because of the new activism of Orthodox Jews in American politics.

Kobe and David shyly asked if it would be okay if I took their picture with the Emmy I won a few years ago for The Devil's Arithmetic. They grinned and chuckled as I took the picture and instructed them to thank the academy. Right before Shabbos, David asked who owned the Transformers. "They belong to our son, Ariel, " we answered. David told us that he absolutely loves Transformers. We did not tell David that Ariel died. That our son is no longer here to reminisce about his childhood toys. But for one brief moment I was tempted to give David one of them. Would Ariel have wanted me to? I just couldn't decide. Ariel never threw away any of his toys. And the truth is, I need them. I cannot imagine the space in Ariel's room without them. Right before Shabbos, David and Kobe presented themselves in their Shabbos clothing. Without thinking, I shot forward and fussed over the boys: I meticulously buttoned David's collar, straightened Kobe's waistband. I complimented them on how handsome they looked and I remembered how I used to take such pleasure in helping Ariel knot his beautiful silk ties.

After the Yachad group left for their Shabbos program, Karen and I felt hollowed out. Ariel's absence was more pronounced than ever before. We actually sat up on Friday night, and waited for the boys to return. At the end of the weekend, after our guests went home, we experienced the emptiness of the house in a new and raw way. I am father to two wonderful girls and I relish each and every moment with them, but I miss, oh how I miss, being father to a son. I am still Ariel's father. I will always be Ariel's father. But the small, intimate male rituals are gone, and life without them is a pale shadow of what it once was.

Karen Comments: I had the same thought, I contemplated whether we should offer one of Ariel's transformers to David. I did not raise the idea because I sensed that I would be putting Robert in an awkward dilemma. But there was another reason. I feel attached to Ariel's favorite belongings. Ariel was a generous person, but these objects were precious to him, he loved to talk about the process of acquiring his favorite, humongous Transformers. I kept quiet because of my own need as a conservor, a guardian of the few material objects that Ariel loved. Sometimes love causes me to be selfish. Guilt ensues.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:20 PM | Comments (0)

August 12, 2004

Cardiac Event

Karen and I have learned to keep busy. Work, projects, errands, anything to keep the mind busy, to keep our thoughts racing along so we don't have time to obsess over Ariel's absence. I write my scripts in the morning. The afternoon is devoted to Seraphic Press, our new publishing company, established as a memorial to Ariel and his desire for fine literature appropriate for observant Jewish teens. Memories of Ariel are inevitable whenever I'm in a medical setting. A few months ago, I was in for a routine cardiac evaluation. A dozen wires were hooked up to my body. I thought about Ariel. In the last weeks of his life there were so many wires and tubes running in and out of his poor body that just turning over in bed was a major move that required the assistance of two nurses. I would help Ariel shift positions and marvel at his patience. I'm sorry this is such a pain, I said to him as we tried to maneuver through the chaos of wires. Ariel merely smiled his adorable half smile and said, No problem, it's a challenge. As the cardiac nurse ran tests on me, the tears started sliding down my face. I tried to hold them back, but once you start crying for a dead child, well, it's almost impossible to stop. The nurse looked at me and asked if I was in pain. No, I sobbed. She bolted out of the examination room, certain I was having a cardiac episode. The doctor entered. My doctor is also my friend and goes to synagogue with me. He and his wife visited Ariel a few times a week. They are close friends. The most decent and fine people I have ever known. And so as I lay there crying, he tried to comfort me, but soon he too was weeping. Ariel was a tzaddik, he sobbed, he was a tzaddik. The machines beeped. My heart pumped. The odor of disinfectant, that sickly hospital smell, made me vaguely nauseated. My friend, my doctor, gently removed the connections and sent me home. Why was I crying? I asked Karen when I got home. Was I crying over all that Ariel endured? Yes, but I was also crying because we did not save him. He suffered so much and our job as parents is to protect our children. We tried. We did everything humanly possible to save our son. We got second opinions, third opinions; Karen is probably the world's leading expert on germinoma tumors. The rational part of my brain understands all this. I know that ultimately we can only do so much. But don't you think that after a child suffers so much, endures so much agony that his life will be spared? I keep seeing Ariel's face. Looking at us, I knew that he trusted us. When a decision had to be made, a difficult medical decision--and there were dozens and dozens, Ariel would look at the doctor with his effortless smile and say, I trust my parents. They know what's best for me. I hear his voice a hundred times a day. And I worry that somewhere along the way we made the wrong decision. Karen says that we did all we could. She reminds me that just the other night I assured her that Ariel wouldn't have lived as long as he did, eight years post tumor, if we hadn't done our research, investigated all the options and consulted with multiple specialists. We always opted for the cutting edge treatment, the one that would give him a better chance, even when it meant more cycles of chemo, more radiation. She says she still feels defeated, but does not doubt our efforts. I think she is able to say this because, whenever she felt that Ariel was vulnerable, that the nurses not up to speed, she chose to sleep at the hospital, keeping her vigil. She tells me that Ariel appreciated us, he did trust us, and with good reason. It's just that G-d had a different plan.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 01:52 PM | Comments (0)

August 09, 2004

Seraphic AA

Karen writes in her Shabbos note: I feel like I've been in a protective bubble all year. More recently, perhaps because I'm less distracted by work, or perhaps I've been protected because I needed to be gradually eased into the pain. But I am actually beginning to miss Ariel. Before, I felt his presence as an abstraction, now I miss every physical part of him, his voice, his look, his steps. Will the shudder that overtakes my body diminish when I make contact with the pain? Will the physical manifestation of grief fade as the barrier dissolves? I don't know. I just feel that Ariel's death is finally being incorporated into my reality, a bridge is being formed between my old life and my new life. I guess that's what's called "working through" or "integration." Again, the real feeling approaches. Our Shabbos table is very quiet. Karen and I are alone. Our girls are both away. Karen and I chat. Karen shows me the latest kashrus guide from Trader Joes. We analyze the various kashrus logos. I'm fixated on the graphic element; what works and what doesn't? Karen wonders which hechsher our community accepts. The politics of kosher certification is Byzantine. Sometimes, downright ugly. We clear off the table. In the living room, Karen and I sit in our chairs and read. I'm in the middle of eight or nine different books. I read a chapter in one book, put it down, move on to the next. ADD, anyone? Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a restless intellect. My high school rebbeim had another word for it: undisciplined. My reading on Shabbos night is never productive. My body is set to go to sleep as quickly as possible. So I sit in the chair and read the same sentences over and over again. My head droops like a flower after the sun goes down. Shabbos is hard. It is Shabbos without my son, Ariel. The quiet penetrates. I feel Ariel's absence as a physical ache that never lets up. The reality of his non-being becomes more real with each passing day. I keep asking: Where has all his learning gone? All that Torah, all that knowledge? I know, I know, he's in yeshiva shel ma'alah; he's learning with the gedolim. But I'm sorry. That does not make me feel much better. I want him here. I want his flesh, warm against me as I hug him. I want him, not the idea of him, not the memory of him, not his spirit. No words of consolation can fill the void. No abstract angelic images convince. Perhaps I'm not religious enough. One of my best friends in the community is an alcoholic. He's observant, with wife and children, but if he did not go to AA, he would sink into a life of alcoholic debauchery. A few weeks ago I told him that if I could I think I'd like to become an alcoholic, just to drown myself and forget everything. What's stopping you? he said with a smile. I'm allergic to alcohol, I explained sheepishly. I get migraines just smelling liquor. My friend laughed and told me that a real alcoholic drinks no matter what. Maybe a drug addict, I suggested. Anything to get away from this awful reality. My friend, let's call him, Gabriel, took me with him to an AA meeting. It was an astonishing cross section of men: no women at this meeting; this was a AA shteibl. There were business executives, blue collar workers, one genuine rock star, a famous actor. I sat and listened as one after the other they described all the awful things they did because of their addictions. The tales were harrowing. Lies to spouses. Adulteries. Theft. One man, a Russian Jew with the delivery of Henny Youngman, spoke of taking his infant child to a crack house. Buying drugs instead of formula. These men all rely on the support of their fellow AA members. It is touching to see the genuine care and love extended to the most fallen of the group. Several men introduce themselves to me. They assume that I'm another alcoholic. I feel like saying: I'm actually the father of a dead child. But can I stay anyway? IN AA they keep referring to a Higher Power. Higher Power? It's like something from a science fiction movie: Higher Power Battles Godzilla. What the heck is that? Soon, I realized that they were talking about HaShem. I thought to myself, why don't they say, God? That is His name. And after the meeting is over, the men rise, join hands and intone a prayer. Some have tears in their eyes. Others smile with the release of a burden too heavy to bear. Gabriel explained that calling HaShem the Higher Power is AA's way of including everybody, even atheists. Okay, I get it. And I realized that these men have are just another break-a-way minyan. The shul they were going to failed them. The medical establishment, the psychologists, clergy, all failed to understand them. And so, they built their shul. But certain truths follow; and it becomes increasingly clear to me that no matter where you go, no matter what the society, it always comes back to HaShem. Man eventually has to come to grips with his finitude. The world, it is too large. The world, it is too dangerous. The world, it is too overwhelming for us to cope with no other reference outside of ourselves. So, my plans for addiction (never serious, merely the ravings of a bereaved father who has never even tasted beer) are dashed, and I'm back where I started. The AA people speak of a Higher Power. Karen and I believe in HaShem and so we must extend that belief into the final realm. The place where Ariel's spirit now resides. I must go on without him. I can't. I will go on. I don't want to. I write one word after another. Take one breath and then another. I see him. I can touch him. But he is not what he was. And somehow I have to live with that.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:03 AM | Comments (1)

August 04, 2004

Breathing More Efficiently

It is the middle of the night. I don't know why, but suddenly I'm awake. Something has pulled me out of a deep slumber. I hear someone crying. Am I dreaming? No, no, it's in my right ear. Sobbing. "Karen?" "Yes?" "What are you remembering about Ariel?" "I can't remember what his running shoes looked like," she sniffles. "The blue ones?" I ask. "No, they are black," she says. Ariel went to pulmonary therapy a few times a week in the last months of his life, when he was still strong enough. The idea was that he had to be in the best shape possible to endure the lung transplant. "He has to learn how to breathe in a more efficient way," his nurse explained to me. Karen bought him running shoes. For several sessions he was on the treadmill and the rowing machine in his yeshivish black shoes. Susan Clark, his loving pulmonary therapist insisted that Ariel had to have proper shoes. Karen went out and bought the right shoes for him. I can still see Ariel's face when he finished his exercises: flushed with a healthy pink and a thin sheen of sweat he would smile hugely and say, "I did forty-five minutes today, Dad." Ariel loved going to the pulmonary therapy sessions. It did not take too long for the nurses, deeply religious Christians, to cleave to Ariel. Susan Clark, the director of the unit took me aside and said,"That boy of yours, Ariel, he's special." It is not going too far to say that Ariel loved Susan. He spoke of her with a profound tenderness and respect. It was hard, so hard for Susan to hold herself back from hugging Ariel. He explained the halachas to her, and she was perfectly appropriate, but she told me, "I really want to hug Ariel. It's just killing me that I can't even shake his hand." The other patients peppered Ariel with questions about Torah and belief. Ariel, in his patient and gentle manner, educated these people in a way that was entirely new to them. Here was a whole new universe that Ariel had entered and reshaped through sheer force of goodness. Karen holds me and sobs."I can't believe that it's taken me this long to feel his absence," she says. "I 've gone for so long not letting myself face the truth. How could I have done that?" We stay locked together for the rest of the night. In the morning, I go down and daven, then enter Ariel's room, open his closet and take out his sneakers. They are black. I got it wrong. How could I have forgotten what color they are? What else have I forgotten? What else will I forget? The shoes still hold the imprint of his foot. It is a poignant indentation. More personal than any other article of clothing. I press a shoe to my chest, and I hold my breath. I hold it for as long as I can. My head swims, my heart races, my face aches. Is this what he was feeling? Is this what the fibrosis did to him? I explode and gasp for breathe. I hold Ariel's running shoe to my chest. I gasp for breath and just sit there trying to remember everything.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:15 AM | Comments (0)

July 30, 2004

Friends Regained

About forty years ago, Karen went to a little Jewish summer camp near Rhinebeck New York, called Camp Eton. Her father was the camp Rabbi. A group of friends from Karen's bunk called themselves The Three Musketeers. For several summers this little group of girls were the best of friends. At night, they would sit in their bunks and talk until sunrise. As little girls do, they talked of their dreams and their hopes and they solemnly vowed to be the best and most loyal friends forever. Camp Eton folded. And as it invariably happens, Karen and her little group of Jewish Musketeers lost contact with one another as they went their separate ways. Over the years, Karen often spoke of her idyllic summers and the wonderful girlfriends she made. "I wonder what happened to them?" she has mused out loud on more than one occasion. A few weeks ago, I received an e-mail from a Seraphic Secret reader. The author wondered if my wife was the former Karen Singer and if she once attended Camp Eton. Yes, I wrote back, that is my wife. I showed Karen the e-mail and when she saw the name of the person who wrote it, Joyce Motechin, Karen gasped, for this woman was one of the Musketeers back in Camp Eton. And why, we wondered, was Joyce (nee Siegel) reading Seraphic Secret? Our worst fears were confirmed when Karen learned that Joyce's daughter Deena died five years ago. In Joyce's descriptions of her beloved daughter Deena, we feel that we are hearing a description of Ariel. For Deena was a pious, spiritual young woman with a talent for imparting Torah; humbly and steadfastly she inspired and uplifted friends and students. She literally danced into everyone's hearts. She loved life, yet suffered horribly. Deena suffered without feeling the need to complain; she did not rage at Hashem, did not surrender to despair or hopelessness. In our cultural life, the word courage has been used so often that its true meaning has been lost and devalued. But for Deena, the word eloquently fits.
Ariel never married and this carries its own distinct sorrow. But Deena was married, for just a few short months, and though we can say: Oh, she knew the joys of marriage, there is an unbearable poignancy in losing one's life in the first blush of married life. As Joyce so eloquently writes: I've been reading your journal at Seraphic Secret and am in awe of the many incidents you tell regarding Ariel z"l and the way he faced his horrendous ordeal. Yes, I do see parallels in our children. This is where emunah, the belief and faith that we were steeped in throughout our lives, kicks in. I truly believe that Ariel and Deena are doing HaShem's work--who knows maybe even together.
Karen reads and rereads Joyce's e-mails, and we too marvel at the similarities Joyce brings to our attention.
"I can still remember Joyce's birthday," says Karen, "we were that close." It is eerie that Joyce and Karen have found each other after so many years. It is strange, and of course unbearably sad that these two childhood friends have reestablished contact, not to remember summers past, of camp and color war, and the icy chill of the lake, but to speak of beloved children who have entered the world of timelessness, the world of remembrance. What they have now binds them tighter than the warp of a carpet. Karen and Joyce were the best of childhood friends. Now, when Karen writes to Joyce, her feelings come in a flood; it seems to be the continuation of one long conversation; a narrative that was never interrupted; a loving dialogue that has been flourishing for over forty years. Karen and Joyce speak of children who are no longer flesh but spirit; these two beautiful women are once again Musketeers, best friends sitting up in their bunks, talking until the rising of the sun. The loyalty and love they vowed to each other so long ago has been honored.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:56 PM | Comments (11)

July 25, 2004

Burning Granite

We wait all week for Shabbos. For the observant Jew, the Sabbath is a taste of heaven. When Ariel was alive, we would walk together to shul. There we would pray and say, "Good Shabbos, Good Shabbos" to all the others in the Young Israel of Century City. Then, at the Shabbos table, we would eat and sing and talk. Lila and Chloe would make Ariel laugh with their hysterical tales of life in their yeshiva high schools. Stories of wacky teachers, and dress codes that seemed to change from week to week. When Ariel laughed, he held his stomach because he was laughing so hard. Shabbos is different now. Karen and I look forward to Shabbos, but it's tinged with uneasiness. I walk to shul alone. Fathers and sons sit together, the way Ariel and I used to.  I try not to watch them because each loving interaction is like a blow to the heart.  In a shul filled with dozens of people, I am more alone than ever before. Often, I walk home with my friend Benny. His son Moshe is one of Ariel's best friends.  Benny recognizes the commotion in my heart.  I think he knows that when he walks home with me, he's walking in Ariel's place.  Last Shabbos, I explained to Benny and Moshe that Ariel and I once counted the steps from our front door to shul. "There were exactly 613," I said. Benny and Moshe grinned, and Benny asked: Full steps, baby steps, any adjustments? "Weeell," I admitted, "Ariel and I did hop and skip a bit to make it fit, but not too much." We all laughed.  We are observant, but try not to induldge in too much mysticism. There are six hundred and thirteen positive and negative commandments in the Torah.  And so, if Ariel and I take 613 steps to shul it must mean...what? It means that Ariel and I had fun.  And now, I only want to share that lightness of being with others.  It's a way of sharing our remarkable relationship.  But here's what I want to know: Will I be telling of the 613 steps in twenty years?  Will people whisper that Robert Avrech is a sad eccentric, repeating the same anecdotes day after day to anyone who will listen?  Now that I think about it, there's a pretty good possibility.  But for now, Benny and Moshe chuckle and fondly remember Ariel.  When Ariel was first admitted to the hospital for the fibrosis that was devouring his lungs, Benny and his wife Audrey were the first of our friends to visit.  I said to them: "I just don't want him to keep suffering."  They said very little.  These are people who know the value of silence.  I was fixated on Ariel's suffering. There is nothing more painful for a parent than to be helpless in the face of a child's pain. I used to make deals with God: Give me the pain, anything, just don't let Ariel suffer anymore. But of course, these deals with God are no deals at all. They are merely exercises in a futile and childish theology.  A kind of magical thinking that we are supposed to leave behind as we grow up.  This Shabbos, after an unusually quiet meal, I brought my dishes into the kitchen.  There, I found Karen putting away the silverware and weeping.  I did not have to ask, What's wrong, what are you thinking about?  Our days are filled with sudden bursts of tears.  But as I held Karen in my arms, she murmured something that she never before said.  "I can bear not seeing him," she said, "what I can't bear is what happened to him." Yes, yes, I thought, the memory of how many years he spent in pain is what rips us apart.  There are children who die suddenly: car accident, heart attack, aneurysm, murder by terror.  The shock parents suffer is unimaginable. There is no preparation.  There is no warning.  Abruptly, the perfection of their lives (they did not know that their lives were perfect, did they?) is exploded; it is like the death of a star, leaving behind only a black hole.  Some would argue that in the calculus of grief, Karen and I are lucky; we should have been prepared. After all, Ariel had his first brain tumor when he was fourteen years old.  There were years of illness, recovery, illness.  Hospital procedures, and the icy language of medicine had become second nature to us.  The Angel of Death took up residence in our home.  Every morning, I nodded to the dark angel and told him: We will defy you.  Ariel is different.  Ariel is special.  This is one battle you will lose. When I think of Ariel now, I try and remember him when he was healthy.  I try and imagine him as the smiling and glowing yeshiva student who looked forward to a full life.  But something in me keeps my memory fixed on how gaunt he was because of the massive doses of chemotherapy.  I can still see his skin turned yellow from jaundice.  I can still hear the rasping oxygen machine, heaving in and out of his lungs.  Ariel never complained.  But I wish he had.  I wish he would have said, "Daddy, I'm in so much pain, help me." But he didn't.  And because he was so strong, I also had to be.  It is the parents' job to support the child.  But I think that it was Ariel who supported me.  Maybe Ariel sensed that I wasn't very strong.  Maybe he knew that if he fell apart, I would dissolve into an ocean of atoms.  Once in a while, I would say to Ariel, "I'm sorry that things are so hard for you." Ariel would casually shrug, as if we were talking about a pimple or a hang nail. "It's okay, Dad.  It's not so bad," he replied.  But it was bad.  It was awful.  It was cruel.  And now, standing in our kitchen, Karen and I hold on to one another; we miss him, but more than anything, we want to go back in time and take away his pain.  But there is no remedy, and we are left with a family that is no longer the same family.  We are left with lives that have forever mutated into an endless series of wishes that can never be fulfilled.  And finally, and perhaps saddest of all,  we are left with a Shabbos that is no longer a real Shabbos.  Right after Shabbos, Karen turned to me and said: "It's time to go to Ariel's kever." I nodded in agreement. I was just about to say the same thing. 
On Sunday, Karen and I drive to the cemetery. We recite Psalms at Ariel's grave.  Karen kneels and touches the granite headstone. Shocked, she yanks her hand away: "It's so hot." she sobs. For some reason this makes me cry too. I think to myself, Ariel needs shade. He's not a strong boy, the sun is too strong. Karen says: "I want to see him. I want to dig away and see him--no matter what."  I shake my head and tell her, "No, no you don't."  But Karen is his mother and mothers will always want to embrace their children. Right before we tear ourselves away, I say: "I can't believe our lives have come to this. It's as if everything leads up to this place, this point in time." We drive back to Los Angeles and work on The Book of Ariel.  Karen once asked me what we would do when we finished the book. There was real anxiety in her voice, a genuine fear that once finished, we would be left adrift.  I tell Karen: It's just Volume One.
As I go to sleep, my fingers throb.  Right before we left Ariel, I placed my hand on his headstone, the burning granite, and kept it there for as long as I could bear it.  The pain is good; it reminds me that I am still alive.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:13 AM | Comments (0)

July 20, 2004

Do Not Ask Why

When Ariel was in the Intensive Care Unit, in the last few weeks of his life, his Rebbe from Ner Yisroel flew in from Baltimore to be by his side. The relationship between a Rebbe and his pupil is special. In some ways Rebbe (teacher) and talmid( student) forge bonds of love and friendship that rival the intensity between father and son. If a father and rebbe are drowning, proposes the Talmud, who does the son save if he can save only one? Some opinions hold that the son saves the Rebbe because the Rebbe imparts Torah. But what happens if the father is also a scholar and teaches Torah to his son? Well, some opinions hold that the son saves the father.
I have always been proud of the love that Ariel and his Rebbeim have felt for one another. When Ariel was in Yeshiva Gedolah High School, he always spent the holiday of Shavuos with Rabbi Gross, the Rosh Yeshiva, and his family. Rebbitzen Gross would smile hugely when I delivered Ariel to their front door. "I'm sorry to steal Ariel," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "but you know we just love him so much." And these were not just words. In the hospital, Mrs. Gross would send Ariel meal after meal. She sat by his bedside and recited Tehillim, Psalms. At Ariel's unveiling, Mrs. Gross was there, once again reciting Tehillim. I tried to talk to her, but she could not talk. She was too overcome with emotion.
Ariel was also beloved by Rabbi Dovid Gruman. Every Friday, no matter how crowded his schedule, Rabbi Gruman, Ariel's 10th grade Rebbe, would come to the house and visit with Ariel. Ariel told me, "I love my Rebbe, Dad. I'm so lucky." I agreed, Ariel was lucky to be loved by such fine people. But in the back of my mind, always, was one simple word: why?
Why is Ariel sick?
Why is Ariel suffering?
And now, why did Ariel die.
And so, Ariel's Rebbe from Baltimore sat by Ariel's side. He held Ariel's hand. Real conversation, the give and take which is the human lifeblood, was impossible because Ariel was trapped in that hideous oxygen mask. We could talk to Ariel, but in response, all he could do, was make gestures with his head or hands. However, Ariel was weak as a kitten and even simple gestures were beyond his physical abilities. Rabbi Eisemann held Ariel's hand and spoke to him. He gave d'var Torah's, commentaries on Torah and Talmud. I sat in a chair and listened. But at a certain point I had to leave the room. I needed a break. An ICU should be quiet and soothing. But modern ICU's are a travesty, an assault in every physical sense. The rise and fall of TV laugh tracks comes in like a never ending tide. The beep of machines drills into the brain. The squeak of rubber soled shoes makes their way into your dreams. There is a condition called, ICU psychosis. It afflicts patients. I think I was suffering from it for several weeks. In any case, I left Ariel with Rabbi Eisemann. I think I went into the lobby and had a cup of coffee. Coming back to Ariel's room, just as I was about to enter, I heard Ariel talking. He must have removed the mask for a moment, just to speak. His voice was weak, hesitant.
"Rebbe, why is this happening to me?"
I hung back. I continued to listen.
There was a long pause, finally, Rabbi Eisemann answered:
"Ariel, my son, this is the ultimate question. I can only answer like this: We Jews, we do not ask why, rather we ask, how. In other words, there is no way we can know why HaShem does what he does. If we did, we would be HaShem. So, what do we do? We ask, how should we respond? How do we act under such circumstances? What actions do we take when we are afflicted with illness? And the answer is to act as a Torah Jew; to be dignified, to continue to trust and believe in HaShem. To increase our Torah learning, to multiply our davening..."
I walked away. I was sobbing so hard that I knew that they would hear me and realize that I was eavesdropping.
Years and years ago, when I was a confused and unhappy high school student, I told one of my Rebbeim that I wasn't sure if I believed in God anymore. Typical teenage problems were overwhelming me. I was caught in a vortex of sadness and rebellion, typical adolescent drama that spilled over into my Judaism. My Rebbe, a kindly if unsophisticated, (I thought) Holocaust survivor, smiled. He seemed amused by my crisis of faith.
"What should I do?" I demanded.
"Put on your tefillin in the morning," he said. "Continue to daven three times a day. Continue to observe the Shabbos. Make an added effort to observe the mitzvahs."
"But Rebbe," I protested with typical teenage fervor, "that's sooooo hypocritical. I just told you, I'm not sure I even believe in HaShem anymore."
"Don't you worry about that," he said. "You just keep the mitzvahs and belief will come."
At the time, I thought my Rebbe was, well, loony. Now, it's clear that he was a wise and extremely sophisticated man. He understood that what goes on in the heart and mind is almost impossible to make sense of. Doubts, fears and theological uncertainties are notoriously difficult to reconcile. But what we do, our behavior, we can master. My Rebbe was so right.
Ariel never spoke to me of his conversation with Rabbi Eisemann. But that night, Ariel davened with even more fervor--which is hard to imagine since Ariel already prayed like a tzaddik. Never did Ariel express a single note of despair over his condition. Right up to the end he maintained an optimistic belief that he would recover.
One of the last things he said to me was:
"I'm lucky, Daddy."
"Why is that Ariel?"
"I have met so many wonderful people because of my illness. I have seen the best, the most generous impulses that people have to offer."
The day after Ariel died, Rabbi Eisemann wrote a letter to me and Karen. He told us of his conversation with Ariel.
"I think that in a way Ariel accepted my answer and perhaps it gave him some measure of comfort in his suffering. I will tell you what, in different circumstances, I might have told him. It is my experience that occasionally individuals show up whose destiny is different from that of most other people. It is clear from everything that happens to them that HaShem has something special in mind for them. They are the embodiment of the lesson which Chazal, the Sages, draw from the pasuk in Shir HaShirim, "Dodi yorad ligano lilkat shoshanim." Ocassionally, HaShem will go down into His garden of roses to pick one which is particularly beautiful. Perhaps Ariel needed to come here for his short life in order to teach us some profound lessons about decency, honesty, kindness and caring. Perhaps we needed an example of how to act in the face of suffering. Certainly all who were ever touched by Ariel will never forget the experience."
After Rabbi Eisemann left, Ariel said to me: "I'm blessed to have Rebbe visit me."
Yes, I agreed. Blessed.
But what I didn't say was: Why should Rabbi Eisemann have to visit you?
You see, Ariel found comfort in not asking why but how. But I do not. I still ask why. And I am still met with a solid wall of indifferent silence.

Karen reads Robert's blog and adds: I do not ask why, for then I would question everything. Why was Ariel chosen to become a Talmid Chochem? Why was he endowed with voracious curiosity and far-reaching intelligence? Why could he remember the name of every person he met, every medication he ever received? Why was I blessed with a son who honored me and thanked me for every meal (good or bad) that I ever prepared?
But, here are the questions that I do ask: How do I keep Ariel close? What is Ariel thinking? How is he feeling? Does he miss us?
And finally, the ultimate question: When will I experience his presence once again?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:07 AM | Comments (2)

July 15, 2004

Camellia

Two years ago, with Ariel, Karen and I went to Seattle to consult with a specialist about the fibrosis that had crept like a thief into Ariel's lungs. Because of his condition, Ariel was not allowed to fly. We traveled by train. It was not easy. We had to schlep oxygen cylinders in addition to our regular baggage. By rail, the trip is over twenty-four hours long. There were far too many marginal people on this trip. Ariel, always with his nose in one book or another, was able to tune out the general weirdness.

But I do not have this gift.

There was a large and loud woman who, with frightening regularity, announced her trips to the washroom. There was a broken down cowboy who told his tale of bad women and good liquor to anyone foolish enough to listen. There was the speed freak who said to me: "Oh man I really really really think that beanie you're wearing is just awesome and like I think my dad was Jewish but I can't be sure cause he split when I was like seven years old and I once had this Jewish girlfriend man she was screwed up but hothothot and like you folks don't believe in Jesus do you which means dude like wow you are gonna burn in hell forever!" Imagine listening to this for more than five minutes. Now imagine twenty-four hours of it.

See what I mean?

After the consultation, we went back to our hotel room so Ariel could nap. Karen and I took a walk. In a tiny park I broke down and wept. "Our son is dying," I said. Karen held me and soothed me and spoke optimistically of all that could and would happen to save Ariel's life. I have always counted on Karen's good sense, her ability to analyze the battlefield of life with startling clarity. I told myself to believe Karen. I told myself that to surrender to despair would be a greivous sin. And worse, Ariel would pick it up. Ariel's antenna for my moods was so finely tuned that he knew what I felt even before I did. And so, I dried my tears and went back to the room. That evening, we went out to dinner and we had a wonderful time. Ariel tried a new dish in a funky kosher Seattle restaurant, Panini. We took pictures. We smiled. We laughed. We even joked about the train trip that still faced us, back to Los Angeles. But that night, before going to bed, I sat by the window, looked out at the swollen moon, white as a Camellia, and I have to confess that I knew that Ariel would die. I knew it in my gut.

Now, Karen and I are back in Seattle. We are here because the graphics team who are working for Seraphic Press all live in Seattle and we are here to finalize details of our first book, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden.

The cover of the book is paramount. Contrary to what you have been told, most people do judge a book by its cover. There are several designs and we have to decide which one best reflects the content of the book and which one will sell best. I hope one design will fulfiull both requirements. What font should we use for the text? Goudy, Baskerville, Minion, Janson? Which paper is most appropriate for this novel? Should we use italics to indicate prayers that are said in Hebrew?

There are dozens upon dozens of details that must be addressed. Putting together a book is much like making a movie. God, as they say, is in the details. And my design team are an extraordinary group of people.

Obadinah Heavner, our chief illustrator, radiates calm and goodness. The beauty of her illustrations absolutely overwhelmed me the first time I saw them several months ago. And now, as Karen and I step into her stuidio, I have to catch my breath for the first thing I see is Ariel. In lovely shades of blue and teal is a sketch of The Hebrew Kid, the main character in my novel. Several weeks ago, Obadinah and I discussed what this young boy should look like. I completely forgot that I sent her pictures of Ariel. Seeing him now, on the mock cover of the book, well, I am simply not prepared. I stand in the light drenched studio and gaze at the drawing of Ariel. Obadinah has captured his intelligence, his profound curiosity about the world and the cosmos, but what's most surprising and wonderful is how she's managed to capture his sly sense of humor. I tell myself that it is not appropriate for a publisher to weep the first time he meets his design team. I must be a professional. And so I make believe that I am wiping perspiration from my forehead as I take out my handkerchief and dab at my face. But I am fooling no one. These people are artists; they are acutely attuned to the emotional temperature of their surroundings. That is the curse of the artist. The normal filters are not in place. An artist feels things on a different level; it is a deeper more textured experience; it can be a blessing, it can be a curse. The trick is learning to live without these filters and not be overwhelmed.

Robert Lanphear is the book designer. An eleventh generation American, Robert's ancestors were French Heugonots who fled the shores of the most vile country on earth, France, for the wild freedoms of the New World, America. From the beginning, Robert has thrown himself into the work of Seraphic Press with startling generosity and the kind of obsessive perfectionism that book design, great book design, demands. His greatest fear, he told me in our very first conversation, was that "the parts would not fit together as a unified whole." Robert's job is to make sure that The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden comes together as an organic unit. The text should reflect the content; the binding should feel the way a book that takes place in 1870 should feel. The spaces between the words should help the reader experience the story as the writer intends. It is a daunting task, and most of us take for granted the books that we read. We are not aware of all the work it takes to produce a fine book. In a sense, that is the best design; the design that is invisible.

Iskra is a calligrapher. Words and individual letters are her canvas. The title, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden, is long. It takes up a good deal of real estate on the cover. Therefore, I am acutely aware that the letters must have a life of their own. As a Jewish sofer, scribe, works on the holy letters of the Torah, Iskra devotes herself to the artistry of making words come alive with the precise gestures of a pen through her wrist. She has worked for movie studios and Fortune 500 companies, and of course, the big New York publishers.

My design team are all accomplished artists, well known in their individual fields, much sought after. How is it that they have agreed to work for this impoverished, start-up publishing company. I have spoken with all of them privately and the answer is always the same: they love the book, they admire the idea of a press devoted to fine fiction for observant Jews, but most of all, they have learned about Ariel and they are doing it to honor his memory. These talented people have been touched by Ariel's too short life, and in their own ways, they are helping us perpetuate his memory. Being with these fine and generous people is a humbling experience. Their work is so sophisticated, so on-target, that Karen and I are only making choices among great and beautiful ideas. Not one single notion is wrong. Though they are not Jewish, they are all deeply religious in their own ways, and they have the ability to comprehend the lives of the observant characters in the novel and translate this understanding into fully realized art. A friend, not too long ago, suggested that I should probably only hire observant Jews to design the book. Only an observant Jew would, as he put it, "get it." I beg to differ with my friend. Great art and great artists have the ability to transcend ordinary cultural and religious boundaries. I am grateful that Obadinah, Robert and Iskra, creative and beneficient people, have agreed to work with Seraphic Press.

Karen and I return to our hotel room. It is the same hotel we stayed in two years ago with Ariel. It has been a long and wonderful day. Obadinah took us for a walk after we finished work. In a clearing in the forest we told her about Ariel. Not for one moment did we feel as if we were talking to a stranger. Her empathy reached across space and caressed our wounded hearts.

At last, Karen and I are able to cry. We are alone in our room. We have accomplished one more step in our mission to keep Ariel's memory alive.

Ask any parent. All they want for the lives of their children is a perfect story. Three acts that end in happiness. But that is not possible. Somewhere in act one something goes wrong. Act two brings tragedy. And for some children, there is no third act.

Perhaps all this is nothing but sound and fury, a pathetic diversion, a way of denying the solidity of Ariel's death.

I am so deep in denial that I am even denying denial.

But it is all I have. And for now, it will just have to do.

Karen goes to sleep.

I sit by the window and look out at the night and there it is, once again, the moon is white as a Camellia.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:03 AM | Comments (1)

July 08, 2004

Words of Fire

It happens now when I least expect it. Before, it was a chord of music, the page of a book, a prayer chanted in shul that would bring Ariel before my eyes. No, not an hallucination. But something more tangible. His presence would suddenly fill my body, and I would be frozen. My heart would thump in my head and everything solid would fade away, as if an engineer had gradually turned down the volume on reality. But now it happens at moments when I am simply not prepared. These are moments when I am defenseless, totally vulnerable.
This afternoon, Karen and I meet with a financial advisor. He is a lovely, soft spoken man, an Israeli who proudly tells us that his daughter-in-law is a Rabbi, and the mother of a new-born baby. Mazal Tov, we say to him. As he leans over his yellow pad and scrawls out the figures that represent our net worth, our taxable income, the expenses we pay out for the yeshiva education our children are receiving, as he drones on about retirement, as he projects the eventual marriages of our daughters Lila and Chloe, as he spins financial tales of the future -- I freeze. Everything stops. His voice disappears and all I can hear is the blood churning in my body. My heart slaps away, goes boom, boom, boom. And abruptly my eyes are filled with the image of Ariel. My son, who has no future, fills my vision. I cannot plan anything beyond Ariel's next Yahrtzeit, and the Yahrtzeit after that one. And suddenly, I am between my heart beats. I am saying to myself: this is not right. It is not the way it should be. Karen and I should be talking about Ariel as chassan. He should be telling me, with a sly smile, that I have to buy his bride a fine and elegant shaitel, wig, for that is the way things are done, and he knows that I am, in all probability, entirely ignorant of these finer points. Ariel loved to catch me in my numerous gaps of the proper etiquette within the yeshivish world. For I was brought up in the vanilla universe of modern orthodoxy, which, as some like to point out, is not quite modern and perhaps not really orthodox. But that's subject matter for someone else. Perhaps my friend Levi would like to enter into this mine field of Jewish debate.
I hear Karen's voice: Robert, are you all right? I snap out of my reverie, look at Karen and nod my head. She knows exactly what has happened, and her concern for me, her love, is deeply set in her Elizabeth Taylor--of National Velvet--eyes; and it is comforting. I am, in spite of everything, a lucky man to be loved by this beautiful and level-headed woman. I give her a little nod, letting her know that I really am fine, I'm not about to fall apart.
A few hours later, I receive a phone call from an old friend who is going through a terrible time in his life. He has read Seraphic Secret for the first time and he asks me:
"Why are you doing this?"
"What do you mean?"
"It's so...so...intimate, Robert. It's just not like you." I can hear it in my friend's voice; he dissapproves of this blog; he is intensely uncomfortable.
"Well, I'm not me, anymore."
"It's so, so, so horribly revealing; and painful."
"Yup."
"Do you find that it's healing for you?"
I turn this over in my mind. I wince at the new-age terminology. I have to admit: I hate it. Yet, I know that he is a good and fine man who is going through the gates of hell at this very moment. And he means well. Healing? Well, I am not drinking Kabbalah water from some loony Hollywood cult populated by brain dead actors. I am not "sharing" with a group of pony-tailed hipsters. I am not knee deep in the "Grief" book shelves at Barnes & Noble. That is not who I am. Not who I ever was. I pour words into a computer, I dump the contents of my heart into cybersphere. Or, as my friend Jackie patiently explains to me: I am having a non-hierarchical conversation. In plain English: I am speaking to anyone and everyone. You can be a plumber or a poet, a Rabbi or an engineer, Jew or Christian, and my words go out to you with no intermediary, no social filter. As Martin Buber would say, it is Ich un Du, the I and Thou relationship. But judging by the mail I receive, the unexpected long distance phone calls, I am crying out to and with, other grief-stricken parents. I am in dialogue with exceptionally fine and authentic people who also experience Ariel's loss though they never met him. They sense that the world has been irrevocably damaged. They too are sorely confused by the heavenly calculas of life and death.
But the question remains: What am I doing?I think I know. I think I understand. I think it is this simple: writing this blog, this website, this diary of love and grief, I am...
I am trying to bring Ariel back to life.
HaShem created the universe with words; Hebrew letters written in black fire on sheets of white fire. Judiasm believes in the power of words. It is what I have left. My only weapon. My only shield. Words. One after the other. Floating out to you and you and you...

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:18 PM | Comments (2)

July 04, 2004

Rochelly's Kitchen

From the death of my son Ariel, these pages are born. I write amost exclusively about Ariel, of who he was, of how much we miss him. But there are other children who have made their way into my consciousness. As I once wrote, parents of children who have died belong to an exclusive club; a dreadful club that no one wants to join. Nevertheless, here we are.
A few days after my very first posting, Surie Lazar, of Brooklyn, New York, wrote me a detailed and moving letter about her seventeen year-old daughter, Rochelly, niftar eleven years ago. Over the weeks, Surie and I continued our correspondence, trading stories, sharing memories. And so, I was delighted when the phone rang this past Thursday afternoon and on the other end was Surie. "I am here in Los Angeles," she informed me, "I'd love to come over and visit." "That's wonderful," I replied. "Let me tell you how to get here." Surie called out to her husband: "Joe, come here and get the directions." Dimly, I heard Joe respond: "I don't want to visit, I want to go into the jacuzzi!"
Twenty minutes later, Surie and Joe cruised into a parking spot in front of our house, cruised into our lives. They are a handsome couple who have just celebrated their thirty-third anniversary. They have a married daughter who lives around the corner from them in Brooklyn, and twin sons. One son is soon to be married. Mazel Tov.
We sat and talked about our families, our lives. Surie explained, tears puckering in her beautiful blue eyes, that more than anything in the world, she wants to make sure that her beloved Rochelly is never forgotten. She admits that she feels the need to talk about Rochelly. "It's my way of keeping her memory alive," she said dabbing at her eyes. Joe said, "I'm different. I keep it all in. I don't feel the need to talk and talk." And then, naturally, Joe talked and talked about Rochelly. He recalled when the twins were having their bar mitzvah, two years after Rochelly died. It was Parshas Yitro and Joe was searching for a d'var Torah to deliver. He wanted to talk about Aseret Ha-dibrot, the Ten Commandments. In the middle of the night, Joe got up and opened one of his Torah files. He found a d'var Torah on the revelation at Sinai. "I read it and it was so beautiful, so vivid, you felt as if you were standing at Sinai. But I had not written it. It was far too beautiful. All of a sudden, I remembered that Rochelly's class was given an assignment to do a major Torah project. She was assigned Parshas Yitro. In effect, she wrote my speech for me. I read her speech at the bar mitzvah on Friday night. There wasn't a dry eye in the audience. Everyone was mesmerized." Joe could say no more.
Surie went on to explain that for the past eleven years they have operated a foundation called Rochelly's Kitchen. Twice a week, Surie cooks gallons of chicken soup. Volunteers deliver it to patients in Brooklyn hospitals. All the cooking is done by Surie in her kitchen. I have it on good authority that Surie's chicken soup is like a little taste of heaven. Why am I not surprised when Surie tells me that she does all this, in addition to working at a full-time job outside the home?
We sit and talk companionably for about two hours. We compare notes on the truly dumb things people say to you when you are sitting shiva. Things like: Well, at least you have other children, and He/she is in a better place, and Ha-Shem is testing you. We confess that we are angry when people do not mention our child who has died. At the same time, we are angry when they do mention them. We agree that no one else knows how we feel, and thank God, that is exactly how it should be.
As Joe and Surie leave, Joe grabs my hand. I apologize for taking him from the jacuzzi. Joe smiles and chuckles. It is the self-effacing laugh of a man who knows himself well. "Don't you worry," he confides, "I can go to the jacuzzi anytime, but coming here, well..." His voice fades. No more needs to be said.
It is ironic. Karen and I have lived intensely private lives. We do not thrive in social situations.
In life, Ariel gently led us, by example, into a more observant existence; in death he leads us into relationships that never would have been possible before.
There is a Kabbalistic notion that out of every evil action, some measure of good can emerge. I never really believed this. It was too abstract; it left room for too much bad behavior. And though I am not a mystic, I do recognize the possibilities in this notion. Now, I detect a subtle shift in our lives, a willingness to open up to people in a way that I never considered.
Perhaps, I am becoming a kinder, more generous person.
And perhaps, as Karen and I sat with Surie and Joe and traded sweet memories of our children, perhaps, in heaven, these two pure souls observed us in all their perfect radiance.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:54 PM | Comments (0)

June 30, 2004

Is/Was

The phone rings. Karen and I pick it up at the same time. Normally, we let the phone ring until Chloe or Lila gets it. We do this because: a) most phone calls are for the girlses, and b)Karen and I hate the phone, we hate talking on it, we hate spending time on it, and when we are on the phone, we are desperately searching for an exit strategy, the lull in conversation in which to insert: "I have to get off now." It's a complete mystery to Karen that when people call, it is clear that they would like nothing better than to linger and talk and talk and talk. Karen, ever practical, ever aware that most talk is a waste of time, just wants to get the necessary information and hang up. So, we pick up the phone at the exact same moment. The voice on the other end identifies herself as from the Yeshiva of Flatbush Alumni Association. She is calling to confirm our information for the upcoming guide. We verify the spelling of our name. Avrech has been mangled in so many ways that I keep a list of all the alternate spellings. Birthdays are correct, our address and professions are also right. I am holding my breath, and then it comes:
"How many children do you have?"
Karen and I hesitate. We exchange glances. Though we are in separate rooms, I can actually feel Karen's eyes boring into mine.
"Three," we reply in unison.
"What are their names?"
"Ariel, Lila, Chloe."
"And their ages?"
"Twenty-two, nineteen, sixteen."
Karen and I are both thinking the same thing: Should we mention that our twenty-two year old is dead? Do we give her the date he passed away? No. We remain silent as she efficiently clicks away at her keyboard.
It often happens that people ask us how many children we have. Always we always reply, three. Sometimes, depending on the circumstances, we will add, "But we lost one." But this time we want Ariel's name to go into the alumni guide. It is one way of keeping Ariel alive. Preserving the present tense affords us a thin sheet of comfort.
It is an intensely human way of keeping our child alive. It is also a traditional Jewish strategy.
During the last year of Ariel's life, when he and I learned together, we once fell into a discussion about a point that Rashi, the greatest of all biblical commentators, was making. Ariel said: "Rashi says, and Rashi means, and Rashi and the Malbim are not in agreement." I pointed out to Ariel that we discuss Rashi as if he were still alive, as if he and the other medieval commentators are not separated from us by centuries, much less by death. Isn't it wonderful how the mesorah, the transmission of Torah knowledge from generation to generation, ignores incovenient facts like death? The holy commentators are always discussed in the present tense, as if they are here in Pico Robertson, or maybe far away, in the holy city of Monsey, NY.
Ariel frowned. "Well, of course," he said, "it goes without saying. Rashi is alive, the Ralbag is alive, they are all alive. Only their bodies are gone."
And so it is for us. In central ways, Ariel is still alive. I open his Torah notebooks, study his commentary, and my breath is knocked from my body. Ariel's notebooks, dating from his first year in high school, to his last year at Ner Yisroel, are a spiritual diary. These are no ordinary teenage musings, for Ariel was never a typical American teenager. Always, he was a little man, innocent in the ways of the world, but wise in his Torah learning. By the way, the source of our name is the Torah. Parshat Mikeitz, Genesis: 41, 41-43.
Then Pharaoh said to Joseph, See I have placed you in charge of all the land of Egypt. And Pharaoh removed his ring from his hand and put it on Joseph's hand. He then had him dressed in garments of fine linen and he placed a gold chain upon his neck. He also had him ride in his second royal chariot and they proclaimed before him: Avrech. Thus, he appointed him over all the land of Egypt.
Rashi comments: Avrech: Av b'chachma v'rach b'shanim. A father in wisdom, but tender in years.
This terse commentary is engraved on Ariel's headstone. Naturally, it is written in the present tense. And for as long as Karen and I are alive we will speak of Ariel using this comforting grammatical form. It seems a small matter, but for grieving parents it embraces a universe of implications.
We are the parents of a child who has died. Partially, we express and endure our loss through a grammatical structure. The choice of present tense has an integrity that lavishes love, respect and dignity, on the soul of our beloved child.
Ariel is.
Ariel was.
Ariel will be.
Until the day Karen and I die.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:06 AM | Comments (0)

June 29, 2004

True Emotion

Here is what Karen did not say at Ariel's unveiling:

A year has passed. This has been a year of reflection and yearning, but most signifigantly, of dissolving defenses. The protective layers are wearing away. The very impulse that propelled me to speak at Ariel's funeral is now countered by an opposing force. For when I eulogize, I tend to objectify and distance Ariel, and I do not want to lose the immediacy and intimacy that are finally returning. Yes, the dissolution of my armor increases the pain. But at least I feel the restoration of the integrity of my relationship to Ariel as a mother, rather than a eulogist.
The realization of the horror of Ariel's death has taken a visceral form. I know that I have touched the target synapse, the final feeling, when my body literally convulses with shock. When I shudder, I know I have reached the true emotion. I do not want to cushion that connection because as painful as it is, at least I know it is real. I do not want to relate to Ariel by talking about his values, his incredible knowledge and humility. I want to remain in my central role as his mother. I do not want to express a mother's love through memorials and tributes. Now that I have finally connected with what feels "true" I will not speak, for the tremors of pain are wordless. The primal sighs of keening defy language. The loss is ineffable.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:00 AM | Comments (1)

June 27, 2004

Shadow Anniversary

June nineteenth was our twenty-seventh wedding anniversary. Ariel's Yahrzeit was the next day. To wake up in the morning, gaze across the bed and say, "Happy anniversary," is not our first impulse. In fact, more than anything, Karen and I wanted to quietly acknowledge our years together, and then quickly move on. You cannot be happy when your child is dead.
Quick digression: several wonderful parents who read these pages and write touching letters to me, have said that in their house, there is a single word that is never used: dead. They do not ever say that their child has died. They say, My child is gone, my child is with Hashem, my child is away. They tell me to use this tactic. They insist that it is not a word game. They suggest that death does not exist.
I wish I could get with their program. These parents seem to have achieved some measure of peace that, I am quite certain, will never be part of my life.
If I say that death is not real, then I must also say that birth is not real, and, well, you see the problem.
So: It is our anniversary, and by all measures we are a happy couple. I have loved Karen since the fourth grade. Essentially I have loved a child, a girl, a teenager, and finally loved a woman -- loved one person for most of my life. (A friend suggested that I am the world's most patient and successful stalker.)
We cannot exchange gifts. To do this would be to make Ariel's death a side show, an unfortunate occurence in an otherwise happy life. In fact, Ariel's death has ruptured our world. From the moment we wake in the morning and hope that it is all a dream, that maybe he's downstairs, safely in his bed, in his room, safe, safe, alive and breathing. From that twilight moment until the night, when we desperately try to sleep without crying sheer floods, every moment of our lives is in variance with what has come before. A veil of distortion has been drawn over every action we engage in. The most simple task is invested with Ariel's presence, with his absence. It takes a great deal of energy to remember how happy we used to be. Even when Ariel was sick, tortured by cancer and cruel theapies, we felt chosen for a unique kind of joy. Ariel may be sick, we told ourselves, but, he will recover. He will lead the life he desires. He will continue to study Torah. And we were grateful. We are Jews who have studied Torah. Thus, we do not take happiness for granted, for Torah teaches you, right from the beginning, that life is unfair; there is much cruelty in this world, and man has to work hard to achieve goodness.
But we are prisoners of ritual, Karen and I. Our lives are defined by one religious observance after another. And so, we improvise an appropriate way of marking these years together. Karen gives me a wonderful new book about grammar. It is something of a joke in this house that I, a professional writer, have only a passing notion of where a comma belongs. My passion for the semicolon is unnatural; my ignorance of the mysterious hyphen is sad - my misplaced apostrophe's are a scandal. Tucked inside the pages of the book is a note. In truth, the book is merely a prop to convey the real gift: Karen's words.
Karen writes a letter to me before every Shabbos. After I recite the kiddush, the blessing over the wine, I reach under the challah tray for The Note. As the girls wash their hands, I read Karen's note. It is the highlight of my week. Each letter is a gem, a clear and ardent precis of whatever we have been through that week. I have several thick volumes of these notes; they examine the emotional architecture of our lives. And so this note, this anniversary jotting, is about Ariel; it is about us; it is about our core.
To Karen I give a shadow box. In it are Ariel's glasses and two pictures. In the first photo, Ariel looks at us and smiles. It is a glorious and open smile. It is how we like best to remember him. The other picture was taken on the day we delivered Ariel to Ner Israel Rabbinic College, in Baltimore. To leave him there was one of the hardest things we have ever done. You can see the tension in Karen's body as she hugs Ariel, saying goodbye. She does not want to let go. She wants to hold on to him... forever. But she cannot.
But here in the shadow box, Karen's wish is finally achieved. Here, mother and son embrace for all time. In the shadow box, Karen does not have to let go. They are melded together for eternity.
Our anniversary is not a happy one, but it is ours, and it is what we have left, and it has a light that does not seem to be unnaturally luminous.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:57 AM | Comments (0)

June 24, 2004

A Grave Problem

Besides Ariel's unveiling this past weekend, we also hosted the first Ariel Avrech Yahrtzeit Lecture. With money that has been donated by generous friends and relatives, we brought Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky from Jerusalem to Los Angeles. After the speech, there was a brunch. Ariel always enjoyed a hearty meal. The caterer who did the brunch also catered Ariel's bar mitzvah. Karen and I did not have a moment to sit and eat. We went round the room, thanking all those who attended. I was deeply moved that two readers of these pages, Evy and John Nelson, attended the lecture and introduced themselves to me. Evy wrote the very first letter to this blog.
Relatives and friends flew in from all points. Karen and I thought that this Shabbos would make a deep impression on everybody. Unfortunately, when there is a death in the family, especially a death as tragic as Ariel's, other issues invariably come into play. I have discovered that no matter what we do for our child, it's never quite enought, never quite right in the eyes of others.
We decided to bury Ariel in Simi Valley so we could be close to him; so we could have a place to visit. Others in the family insisted that Israel was the right place for Ariel's kever. Karen and I agonized. We know that there is a certain z'chus in being buried in Eretz Yisroel, but Ariel never asked for it and we have no idea if this is what he would have wanted. I suspect that Ariel would want us to be able to visit his grave as often as possible. But I will not play that game, that awful strategy of assigning a particular desire to the dead, simply as a means of fulfilling what you want. This is a horrible tactic and when I stumble into it -- "Ariel would have wanted..." I catch myself, and quickly short-circuit that awful conductor of selfishness.
Karen and I have visited Ariel's grave often, and I am grateful that it is near. Each time I visit, I know that I have made the right decision. I even consulted with several Rebbeim, and each one told me that our decision was correct, and they added, we should not feel bullied by others who claim the religious high ground.
And yet, this past weekend, after the deeply moving unveiling, after the passionate lecture, after the brunch that brought us close to so many who loved Ariel, and yet after all that, there they were, scolding me once again for denying Ariel burial in Eretz Yisroel. My first reaction was shock. Was this still an issue almost a year later? I thought they understood... And then I realized that this will always be an issue for them. I am naive. I thought that the weekend would show how desperately I need to be near Ariel. Even if it is only a place. Even if he is not really there. Even if hallowed ground is more idea than form. It is still where I can go with Karen and feel his presence. I need this ground. I need it as much as oxygen.
Alive, I clung to him.
Dead, I cannot let go.
I thought they would see that moving Ariel to Israel would be a sure way of crushing my spirit. But I was foolish. I miscalculated their desire for the grave they want Ariel to have.
Ariel never had the opportunity to visit Israel. The one time we actually planned a trip, got him a passport, rented an apartment, bought plane tickets... he developed a second tumor.
Should I send Ariel to Israel now?
Does his soul require the holy soil of Israel?
Or is it my soul that needs it?
Who will be judged for this decision?
Me?
The others?
Karen tells me to ignore them; that they are simply bent on exerting control. They also, she adds, lack empathy.
There are things in this world that are just too big for me.
I know that Karen is right. But more important than who is selfish and who is not, is this: I must be able to get in the car and drive to Ariel's grave. For without this drive, I am too small for this world.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:53 PM | Comments (5)

June 21, 2004

Silence

The unveiling for my son Ariel took place on Friday, June eighteen. Karen and I drove with the girls to the cemetery in Simi Valley. In the back seat, the girls shared the i-Pod earphones and sang along with Avril Lavigne. Karen and I looked at one another and smiled. If it were not for the girls Karen and I would be plunged into a permanent gloom.
There were about forty-five to fifty people attending. I was amazed that so many were able to show up when you consider that it was a morning work day. But Ariel was loved by his community and people continue to do everything they can to show their feelings for Ariel.
Rabbi Muskin spoke of his loving relationship with Ariel. My father, Rabbi Avrech, spoke movingly of all the meanings of Ariel's name. Karen's father, Rabbi Singer spoke of the wrenching pain that we all feel. I have to confess that I have not paid enough attention to the pain that my parents and Karen's parents are experiencing. I realize that the serenity of their old age has been shattered by the death of this favorite grandson. But I have been too caught up in my own grief to feel their pain. Grief is a selfish thing. It refers only to itself and excludes all others. That is why it is a sin to grieve excessively. A rav I know worries that I might visit Ariel's grave too often. Do not make it a shrine, he warns me. That is why the mountain where Moshe Rabbeinu is buried remains a mystery. Yes, the older generation has lost its future. Ariel was the one who would carry on the traditions of the family. He was the chosen; everyone knew it.
Finally, I spoke:

What is the proper response to the death of a child? This has been the question that haunts us. Aside from the rituals that halacha dictates we yearn for more. As parents we want to do as much for our child who is gone as we did when Ariel was alive. Karen and I have instituted an annual lecture in Ariel's memory. We will be publishing The Book of Ariel in several months. I learn with study partners in Ariel's memory and Karen goes to Tehillim. And yet, no matter what we do, it does not seem to be enough. Perhaps it's the fear that if we don't carry out as many memorials as possible his memory will fade. And so we conceive commemorative gestures, anything that will keep his beloved spirit alive.
But perhaps the most fitting response is the most difficult of all.
Perhaps the most fitting response is silence.
Why silence? How can this be an appropriate expression of love?
In the story of the Akedah, Avraham's sacrifice of Isaac, Isaac says to Avraham: Here are the fire and the wood, but where is the lamb for the offering?
Avraham replies: God will see the lamb for Himself for the offering, my son.
The Torah gently narrates: The two of them walked on together.
In other words, father and son walked on in silence; perhaps the most poignant silence in all history.
Why the silence? Don't father and son want to discuss what is about to happen? Don't they want to articulate some final thoughts, perhaps a last goodbye?
In truth, there are times when words are superfluous; there are times when words become a prison, locking people into specific utterances that are far too concrete, miserably restricted in meaning and emotional depth.
The reason words are superfluous in the Akedah is because father and son love one another.
This is love that is so profound, a love that is so pure that to verbalize it would only corrupt the integrity of the feeling.
In the most subtle manner, the Torah is illustrating that under the most profound circumstances words can only convey a poverty of expression.
It is necessary to recognize that the Torah's first use of the verb to love occurs in the story of the Akedah, in God's command that Avraham offer: Your son, your only son, whom you love. When the Torah uses a word for the first time it does so with the purpose of defining that word in all its purity. Thus, the essence of true love is captured in the relationship between Avraham and Isaac. The Torah demonstrates that the ultimate expression of love transcends spoken language; in fact love finds its greatest fulfillment in silence.
We are not on this lofty spiritual level. We lack the ability, maybe even the courage to rely on silence to convey our love for Ariel. But in the absence of that faculty, the least we can do is take note of it and hope that sometime in the future this endless love we feel for Ariel will find its proper expression.

After I spoke, we recited Tehillim. I said the Kaddish. People lined up to place small stones on the headstone. Karen and I waited for everyone to leave and then we lingered at the grave. We touched the granite. We wept and embraced. On the way back to the car Karen and I halted in our tracks and went back to Ariel's grave because we felt that we did not say a proper goodbye. Again we touched the granite, again we lingered and wept. Again, for the hundreth time we said, this can't be real. How did this happen? Is this really our life? We exist within the embrace of cruel questions: Why, how, what if? Endless permuations of what could have been, what should have been. But in the end we are left with this awful reality and I wonder: how much longer can I go on without surrendering to nothingness?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:10 AM | Comments (0)

June 17, 2004

A Stubborn Grief

The first time Karen and I visited Ariel's grave was right after shloshim. I was so filled with dread that I asked Karen's best friend, Audrey, to drive us to the cemetery. Little was said during the forty-five minute drive. Most vividly, I remember exchanging a long glance with Karen and in that split second we were both thinking the same thing: this cannot be happening.
Ariel is buried in Simi Valley. The views are lovely and pastoral, with blurry, distant mountains burned ochre. There is always a brisk wind whipping down the passes. We chanted the prayers, and we sobbed; we were all struck with a sense of unreality. Was Ariel really here? Was his body under our feet? I kneeled and touched the ground, his eternal blanket. Karen said, "Maybe he's cold, maybe he needs a sweater." I said nothing. Karen is his mother and she wants to shield her child from all harm. The wind picked up and Audrey, a loyal friend, moved to Karen's side, she seemed to float in a motion that was part wind, part liquid, and in an instant they were joined together at the foot of Ariel's grave. They stood like this for a long moment, staring out at the mountains, weeping and sobbing and shivering.
I remembered Rav's warning from the Talmud: He who mourns for his dead too stubbornly weeps for some other dead.
I recognize Rav's peerless wisdom. The temptation to bury yourself in the garb of endless grief is powerful. But with all due respect to Rav, I have lost others that I have loved: my mother who nurtured me, my mother's mother who heroically loved me, Jamie, my college friend who was gunned down by an evil junkie, two close friends from Israel who were killed in the Yom Kippur War. I grieved for them too. It was a grief that rose and fell. But the death of a son, the death of a child, this is a grief that cannot be confused with others. Which is what Rav was afraid of. Don't mix griefs. Like milk and meat, it is to be avoided. For Judaism loves order. Halacha is attached to the exacting particulars of our lives. But Ariel's death is singular. It maintains a steady pitch. The needle is always in the red zone. Nothing in life has prepared me for this hammer-blow. No one has written a manual explaining how to keep breathing after the heart has been unhinged from its cavity.
A friend from the film business calls to tell me that she can't come to the unveiling, but that she will be with me in spirit.
A friend from shul calls to tell me that he cannot come to the unveiling, but that he will give charity in Ariel's memory.
My friend from the film business asks how I'm doing on the eve of the unveiling. "It's hard." I reply. This has become my standard response. Not terribly poetic, but honest and utilitarian and true, like a piece of Shaker furniture.
When my friend from shul asks me the same question and I give the same answer he shoots back, "It's supposed to be hard."
My Hollywood friend suggests that the unveiling will provide "some closure." She is well meaning, but deeply schooled in the superficial language that infects the business that I have chosen as my profession. Film people want reality to ape the paradigm of the movies they manufacture. They yearn for clean cut resolutions. Happy endings. There is no pain that cannot be rewritten. There is no hurt than cannot be overcome by a third act rescue, preferably at the hands of a love that neatly balances the loss. Hollywood people, though ruthless in the extreme, are, in fact, incurable romantics. They want me to join support groups, attend grief counseling sessions run by aging hippies with ponytails. They want to believe that anything, everything, no matter how terrible, can be washed away in the shallow waters of New Age therapies. They want to believe in something -- just as long as it does not involve God.
My friend from shul will give charity and daven. He knows that it is hard, that it will always be be hard, and he understands this is the way it is supposed to be.
He recognizes the ultimate truth that all parents of children who have died live with: all we can do is endure.
Tomorrow is Ariel's unveiling.
I'm trying to hold back time.
But it will come.
Tomorrow will come.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:55 AM | Comments (0)

June 16, 2004

City of Angels

No one ever warned me that a central part of mourning is the mundane task of making endless arrangements. Ariel's unveiling takes place this coming Friday, and we have family and friends flying into Los Angeles. They must all have places to sleep, and they must all be fed. We are Jews and so cucumber sandwiches and Martinis will not suffice. The Jewish people require heaps and heaps of politically incorrect food in this land of sculpted bodies. And so, Karen has been on the phone with a caterer arranging for Shabbos meals, and asking friends from shul to lend a bedroom for our out-of-town visitors. On Sunday, we will also be presenting the first Ariel Avrech Yahrtzeit Lecture. For this, Karen and I and the girls composed tributes to Ariel. Lila designed a beautiful cover using photos of Ariel and then created a lovely collage in Photoshop. A close friend, also a grieving mother and an accomplished graphic artist, polished Lila's work. Years ago, this same woman did the graphics for Ariel's Bar Mitzvah. Karen and I went to Kinkos to have the program printed and that's when our arrangements, so finely tuned, started to go awry. Our order was lost. Finally, when it was located, the print used was too small, the font all but invisible. Once again, the order was lost.
"We don't lose orders," barked a huge Kinko's employee, "we just displace 'em."
"You mean misplace?"
"Whatever, man."
We have paid countless visits to Kinkos in the past three days. They all end in the same way for me: a huge migraine. Finally, late last night, I appealed to a young woman with a startling Kinkos name-tag, ie: Jewish.
"Look, my son died. My wife and I are having a memorial in his memory. I need to get this right. Can you help me?"
I know that this is unfair, appealing so nakedly, using Ariel's death as an emotional hammer. Call me crass, call me vulgar, but I saw no other way.
The young woman, Ilana, looked at the program and asked how Ariel died.
"Cancer," I said for the sake of simplicity.
"My best friend died of a brain tumor a year ago," she said, voice cracking. "Let me handle it." And she did.

Last night, I was invited to present the Ariel Avrech Scholarship at Yeshiva Gedolah, his high school. His friends, Ari Miller, Avi Stewart and Avrami Gross founded and raised the funds for the scholarship.
Ari told me that, "I approached every guy from our class for a donation and every single one of them agreed. Not one turned us down. As soon as they heard that it was for Ariel, they chipped in. Even two boys who were asked to leave the Yeshiva in our sophomore year wrote checks. We have enough money for the next four years."
"I didn't know that boys were asked to leave," I said. "Ariel never told me."
"No," said Ari, "Ariel wouldn't talk about something like that."
I sat in the graduation and gazed at the wonderful boys and their proud, beaming families. I remembered Ariel's graduation. At the time, he was healthy. He had recovered from two bouts of cancer, massive doses of chemotherapy and radiation. And though he spent a majority of his high school career in the hospital, Ariel was still the valedictorian. It was not awarded out of pity. Ariel worked hard, never made excuses, never said that he couldn't keep up. Ariel endured, and he did his schoolwork with a sense of purpose that I have never witnessed in anyone.
As I made the presentation, I had to choke back a sob.
I said, "You who have attended Yeshiva Gedolah are lucky people. You have made friendships that will flourish for the rest of your lives. This memorial is proof of it. I want you all to look around and realize that this momemt is sacred and should never be forgotten."
My speech was halting. It is hard to speak your heart when it is broken. As Ari and I walked back to our cars, I struggled to express my appreciation for all that he and the other boys had done.
Ari said, "Mr. Avrech, we all miss Ariel too, you know."
And I realized at that moment that I was not the only one grappling with a proper way to remember Ariel. I was not the only one who missed him so ferociously that it is a permanent ache in the pit of your gut. There on the street, in Los Angeles, this City of Angels, among street traffic of hasidim and hipsters, I hugged Ari the way I used to hug Ariel. I went home and told Karen about the ceremony. And when we went to bed and her tears hit my chest as they do most every night, for one brief moment I was able to break away from my fury, let go of the dread. I was able to lean on my wife. I was able to be comforted by the kindness of Ariel's friends. For the first time in a long time, I was able to break away from the pain of burying the one I love and -- accept the love of those who are still alive. The living and the dead: my duty is to both of them.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:54 AM | Comments (0)

June 14, 2004

The Last Kaddish

The Kaddish has been called an echo of The Book of Job. Job said: "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in him." The Kaddish is an expression of faith on the part of the mourner that although he is grief-stricken, he still believes in God, still trusts in the meaning of life. It is the ultimate anti-existentialist statement. Karen and I will mourn forever. We are riven as day follows night. Our son will always be dead, and a central portion of our lives died with him.

This Shabbos I recite the last Kaddish of the eleven months for Ariel.

I stand in shul, eyes closed, swaying back and forth, chanting the words with (I hope) perfect diction and true feeling. I want the b'racha to go on forever. I want to stretch the words like a giant rubber band and make them reach from earth to heaven. There are at least another dozen mourners in shul, all with much louder voices than mine, but I hear only one sound. Is this my voice? I see Ariel as he used to be: sitting in shul beside me. Is this my voice? I study the delicate architecture of his face. I melt as Ariel's lips move, savoring each syllable, whispering the sacred Hebrew text. Is this me? I study his long tapering fingers as they turn the pages of the siddur. I lean over and bury my lips in the plush groove of his neck. It is my voice. I am close to the end. It is my son. I take three steps back and three steps forward. I finish the Kaddish. I open my eyes and discover a dozen men in shul gazing at me. Some have tears in their eyes. Several nod, tacitly acknowledging the finality of the moment. I open my eyes and I see light. I open my eyes and I am swimming through layers of memory. I open my eyes and I see splendor. I open my eyes and I see my son, my son, Ariel.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:20 AM | Comments (0)

June 11, 2004

The Only Club I Have Ever Joined

Seven years ago, a young child in our community died. Karen and I did not know the parents well, but we paid a shiva call to their home. As we sat in the house, I talked with the parents at length. At the time, Ariel was in the midst of his first round of chemotherapy and the parents were incredibly generous in their concern for Ariel. I remember looking at the grief-stricken mother and father, thinking to myself: Thank God that's not me. I knew in my gut that if my child ever died I would never be able to handle it. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would simply curl up and died. I also knew that Ariel would never die. That could not, would not happen. Not to him. Not to us.
But it has happened.
And that father who I paid a shiva call to is now one of my closest friends. We daven in shul together. We learn together as a Chavrusah in memory of our dead sons. When we learn we often digress and talk about our sons. It is a sad truth that he and I belong to a small club, an exclusive club. The only club I have ever joined. We speak the same language. Often, we don't even need to speak; silence has an alphabet all its own. It's a mysterious communication that contains volumes. This man and I are so different that our friendship is almost like a pairing from a Neil Simon play, Felix and Oscar. I write Hollywood movies, he's in math, a subject that has given me grief my whole life. He always wears a suit and tie. I wear the same LL Bean khakis and pink shirt every day (not the same ones, I'm clean, obsessively so, no, I have a dozen of each.) When we learn Torah, my friend is precise and organized. My so-called mind flies off in so many directions at once that I can see the impatience in his eyes. But our sons have died and so we have more in common than I have with most members of my own family.
There's also something else. Guilt. Big shock, right? I have always hated myself for thinking: Thank God it didn't happen to me, when Karen and I attended his son's funeral.
But now I see that thought in the eyes of my friends when they approach. I used to think that they were merely uncomfortable in my presence. Afterall, I'm not exactly a fun man to be with. (Was I ever?) Now I know why they are uncomfortable, so utterly embarrassed that they gaze down at the ground, averting their eyes from mine. It is because they are saying to themselves: Thank God that it didn't happen to me. And so when I see this expression wash over the faces of my friends in shul, I understand. And there is no anger in me, no resentment at all. I say to myself: Please don't let it happen to them.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 11:55 AM | Comments (0)

June 10, 2004

Ariel in Love

She first came to our house for a Shabbos meal, a lovely young girl and her mother. They are not particularly observant, but the daughter is interested in learning as much as she can about Judaism. Brought up in a proudly Jewish household and affiliated with the Reform movement, the daughter, incredibly bright, ferociously independent in her conservative political opinions, and hungry for spiritual knowledge, feels the tug of ritual, hears the voice of the shtetl that her grandparents fled; she yearns for the warm embrace of tradition, hungers for an authentic religious experience. Ariel is typically quiet and shy. The only women he has had anything to do with are his lively and funny sisters, Lila and Chloe, and of course Karen, the mother he cherishes. He is not ignorant of what women are, of their inner voices and cycles, for his grounding in Talmud has made him conversant with the most intimate details of femalehood. But he is, by nature shy, and flirting is as far off his radar as, well, the furthest galaxy. Charmingly, the girl gradually draws Ariel out. She has read him well. She poses provocative questions and Ariel is never more in his element than when expounding on Torah. He dazzles with his thoughtful, precise answers, with his utter sincerity. I can see it in the girl's eyes: she has never met anyone like my son. The boys she knows are crude and think nothing of drawing explicit graffiti on her notebook. They are not bad kids, just typical products of a secular culture that has taught its children that men and women are no different and so the normal etiquette between the sexes has all but disappeared. And naturally, it is the women who suffer the consequences. In contrast to their crudeness Ariel seems like an awkward, but adorable prince, a young man who knows who he is and cares nothing for the currents of popular culture. She wants Ariel to teach her Torah. But Ariel tells her that it wouldn't be proper. That she should have a female teacher. She pouts, sullen. What could be improper? Maybe Ariel just doesn't like her. But Karen takes her aside and explains the concepts of tznius, modesty, of the protective gates the observant construct on order to avoid placing themselves in compromising situations. "You mean, Ariel won't ever just sit and talk to me, alone?" She asks in dismay. "Not unless you're going out on a shidduch date," my wife explains. The girl is baffled. She lives in a world where boys and girls interact "normally." This separation seems so... medieval. She shrugs and goes her way. Perhaps this is just too weird. But she signs up for classes at a Jewish outreach program. As she does everything else in her life, she immerses herself in study, flings herself into the sea of Torah and oh my, but aren't the currents powerful. There are more Shabbos meals at our home. Her pants give way to long skirts. Her t-shirts surrender to long sleeved blouses. Her sentences are peppered with phrases like: "Baruch Ha-shem," and "Epes," and "Yeshivish." She speaks like a native.
Ariel comes to speak to us one night. He stutters as he tells us that he's ready. "Ready for what?" Karen and I ask. Ariel smiles: "Shidduch date, I'm ready."
Ariel and the girl, a genuine Baal Teshuva now, go to Starbucks. They sit in hotel lobbies. They talk for hours and hours. And before I know it, Karen and I are purchasing a sheitl for Ariel's bride and we are dancing at his chuppah. I dance with Ariel. Karen dances with the girl and her mother. Ariel is hoisted on a chair at the same time as his kallah and they wave to one another over the mechitzah. We all go round and round in the circle, dizzy with joy, cries of "Mazal Tov, Mazal Tov" echoing everywhere.
All this passed through my head the other day when I sat in Farmer's Market with my friend Cathy and her daughter Cecile. More than anything, Ariel wanted to marry and have many, many children. And though he is gone, I can't help but play out fantasies of his marriage in my head. Cecile is a unique young girl: she's smart and funny and curious and her love for Judaism is powerful and aunthentic. Cathy, an amazing woman has raised an amazing girl. Ariel and I used to read Cathy's social and political articles together. We admired her uncompromising chutzpah. And so, as we sit and chat in this unique market that has not changed since the 30's, I build the elaborate fantasy in my head. I give Ariel this gift of love, this remarkable romance with a radiant young girl and for a few seconds Ariel lives the life he yearned for.
Cecile smiles, she crosses my vision like a moon and I have to hold myself back from saying: Thank you, thank you for making Ariel so happy.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:42 AM | Comments (0)

June 08, 2004

A Blockbuster J'accuse!

A few weeks ago I was in a Blockbuster, desperate for a film, something, anything to give me some relief from the unrelenting hollow feeling that is called grieving. A Mom and her son were in the same aisle. He was a hyper little ten year old, grabbing videos off the shelves and chattering away: "This one, Mommy? This one? Mommy, what about this one? Mommy, Mommy, Moooooomy!" Mommy was talking on her cell phone. Her son was the furthest thing from her mind. He wanted a video, he wanted Mommy's attention. Mommy just wanted to talk on the phone. The little boy sat on the floor and made a house out of the videos. Mom wandered down another aisle, deep in conversation. I overheard this: "No, no, please don't say that... hon, that's not what I meant..." I looked at the little boy and he gave me a curious look. Somebody had told him not to talk to strangers. But the temptation was too much. "House, I'm building a house," he told me. "It's beautiful," I said. When Ariel was this age he too loved to build. There were cities of Legos in his room, a universe of red and yellow and blue where Ariel ruled his own kingdom of Transformers and Popples. For hours Ariel would sit on the floor and ferociously concentrate on the task at hand. He always had this ability: the patience to apply himself totally and completely to whatever he cared about. In Yiddish it's called, zitz fleish, sitting flesh. I crouched by the video house and again told the little boy that his house was reallly great and he should be proud of himself. That's when Mom showed up and suspiciously spat out: "Excuse me?" I told Mom. "I was just admiring his building." She squinted at me, not saying a word. "Your lucky to have such a wonderful son," I added. "Uh-huh," she replied, giving me a long, dark suspicious look. Abruptly, I became aware that she might, God forbid, think of me as some kind of a pervert. And so I desperately, stupidly stuttering all the while, added. "I have children. Three children. Two girls and a boy. A son. Actually, I had a son... but he died." She was appalled. I don't blame her. What the heck was I doing? Is this what a nervous breakdown looks like? "Really?" she probed. "Really," I said. "He died a few months ago." "I'm sorry, really really sorry. What happened?" "Cancer," I said. And then she said something that to this day sends a chill up my spine. "Nobody deserves that, no parent, no matter what they've done." And she walked away. I wanted to run after her and ask her what she meant. No matter what they've done? Did she see something in my face, some incriminating evidence that led her to this horrible accusation, that allowed her to conclude that Ariel's death was the result of something I had done? Was there a mark on my forhead that labeled me a man of such twisted DNA that for my sins my son was taken? From what dark theology did this creature emerge?
I felt sick and I still do when I see the words spilling from her mouth. It's an image in slow motion: her words break from the confines of their comic book bubbles, tumble from her frosted lips in a jagged bloody font, red and laquered as a Chinese vase. How could she say such a thing to a perfect stranger? To anyone? And of course, being the guilty Jew that I am I pondered the countless averas of my life and imagined the unimaginable.
Later that night, without telling Karen about the incident in Blockbuster, I asked her:
"Do you ever think that we're being punished?"
"No," she said without a second's hesitation. "Never."
"But maybe, just maybe..."
"Ariel was innocent and Hashem does not punish the innocent for the sins of others. It's just wrong," she said.
Is the thought wrong, I said to myself, or simply unbearable?
I cannot and do no accept the dreadful inference made by that awful woman. But what does torture me is the feeling that I am a failure as a parent. I'm a failure because my son is dead. Ariel trusted me; he believed me when I told him that everything would be all right. Never for a moment did he imagine that I would let him down.
But-
-I did let him down.
-I did not save him.
And no matter how irrational the thought, nothing can shake loose the dreadful notion that as a parent I failed my child.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:15 PM | Comments (0)

June 06, 2004

Crouching Jew, Hidden Tears

Here's my Friday, pre-Shabbos schedule. I get up early and go to shul for minyan where I say Kaddish for Ariel. Most people, including Jews, mistakenly refer to the Kaddish as The Prayer for the Dead. In fact, the Kaddish never mentions death, nor guilt, or memory. Rather it is a declaration of faith in our national purpose, of loyalty to God, of confidence in the ultimate triumph of the ideals for which heaven and earth were created. Adding to it's power, mystery and majesty is that we recite The Kaddish in the original Aramaic, the common everyday language of ancient Judaism. May His great name be exalted and sanctified in the world He created according to His will...
At home, I eat breakfast while reading the newspaper. We live in Los Angeles, but stubbornly subscribe to the excruciatingly Wahabist Liberal New York Times, mostly because Karen likes to do the crossword puzzle. She can even do most of their Friday's brain melter. And may He establish His kingship during your lifetime and during your days and during the lifetime of the entire Family of Israel, swiftly and soon. I take Lila to work at the architectural firm where she is interning, and then ferry Chloe to school. I write five pages of whatever script I'm working on and then take a twenty minute run around the neighborhood. Pico-Robertson is a warm and intimate shtetl surrounded by strip malls. I set the table for Shabbos; white table cloth, individual salt shakers, crisp linen napkins big as a poster when unfolded, good (well, at least not bad) silverware, and a special knife to cut the challah. I do the dishes and clean up the house in honor of the Seraphim who will dwell in our home during the holy Shabbos. But I do not vacuum nor do I do windows. I am afterall heterosexual. May His great name be blessed forever and ever. Blessed, lauded, glorified, extolled, upraised, honored, elevated, and praised be the Name of the Holy One, Blessed be He... I still set Ariel's place at the table. Nobody sits in his chair. He's still a presence as far as we are concerned, and when I give the girls their Shabbos B'rachos I silently whisper Ariel's B'racha. I dash over to the local library to pick up books for our Shabbos reading. The librarians know me well. My best friend there is James, tall, slim, with suffering Renaissance eyes. A very religious Christian, James davens in the AME, Los Angeles' oldest black church. James knew Ariel, always greeted us with a wide and welcoming smile. James remembers my son's delight in checking out books by Avi, Jane Yolen, and Bruce Coville. When Ariel was in serious decline, James prayed for his recovery. Beyond all blessings, songs, praises, and consolations that are uttered on earth. Now respond: Amen.
This Friday at the library, prowling the book shelves, I was slapped by a wave of grief, a surge so mighty that I froze, I simply could not stir. I don't know exactly what brought on this particular convulsion, but it happens so frequently that I'm no longer surprised. Through my tears, I glimpsed a man checking books out at the front desk; he was a bit goofy-looking, wearing ill-fitting shorts, badly furrowed t-shirt and clod-hopper shoes. Unkindly thought to myself: "Oh no, another schizophrenic haunting the library." However, I quickly realized that it was the infamous blogger Luke Ford. I wanted to go over and greet him with: Hello, how are you? Good Shabbos; thank him again for linking me to his website. But my face was bright with tears and mucous was dripping down my nose so I just crouched between the high metal shelves, Fiction: A - D, and waited for the grief to pass. A tiny, doe-eyed Iranian child saw me and pointed, saying: "Mommy, mommy look, why is that man crying?" Mom looked at me in horror, quickly yanked her child away. Obviously she thought I was a mental patient taking refuge in the library. May the prayers and supplications of the entire Family of Israel be accepted by their Father who is in heaven, now respond: Amen. I huddled there and sobbed and thought of all the times Ariel and I had been in the library together. He loved the children's section above all others because so many adult books are, well, too adult and not appropriate for an observant Jew. He loved books and he loved the library and I suppose that here was as good a place as any to dissolve, grieve and remember. May there be abundant peace from heaven, and good life upon ull Israel. Now respond: Amen.
Finally, I managed to collect myself and drive home. Luckily, the Pico- Robertson branch is just two minutes from where I live. I prepared to go to shul. I didn't tell Karen, Lila or Chloe about the emotional onslaught in the library; to what end? After shul, after the Shabbos meal, when we all sat in the living room reading our library books, I gazed at my family -- I affectionately refer to them as The Girlses -- and I said to myself: this is real, this is fact, Ariel is gone, Ariel is gone, and next Shabbos will be exactly the same. He who makes peace in His heights may He in His mercy make peace upon us and upon all Israel. Now respond: Amen.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 09:52 AM | Comments (0)

June 04, 2004

Ariel Recaptured

In the last year of Ariel's life he lived at home. Being a screenwriter, I make my own hours and so arranged my schedule around Ariel's needs. My office is in back of the house and so Ariel was able to call me if he needed something. Still, I spent most of my time in the house, close to my son. I learned to cook a very limited menu just for Ariel. I drove him to medical appointments. And when he was able I took him for short walks down our block. When he couldn't walk, I pushed him in the wheelchair. Karen and I had to find solutions for all sorts of problems that crop up when your child is ill and dying.

Ariel was having trouble sleeping. He told us that he was anxious, that his mind simply would not stop whirring away. Karen suggested that he shouldn't try and sleep, trying only makes things worse. "Get up," she advised, "turn on the light and read something." Ariel tried this several times but he compalined that the books he chose to read, usually some commentary on Torah or Talmud, was so engrossing that it would keep him awake all night. "Try reading something really boring," Karen said. But Ariel could not imagine picking up a book with the purpose of inducing boredom. It went against his every impulse. When it became clear that the lack of sleep was taking a toll on his frail body, I handed him a Walkman and a box of tapes. "When you find yourself tossing and turning," I said, "just put on the headphones and listen to the tape." "What is it, Dad?" "A novel on tape. It should help."

The next morning Ariel smiled hugely as I stepped into his room. "Dad, that's an amazing book," he exclaimed. "You liked it?" I cried, incredulous. "I fell asleep before I knew what I was listening to," he said. "What is it?" "It's a book called In Search of Lost Time. It's written by Marcel Proust, and it's seven volumes, over 3,000 pages, and by the way, the first forty pages are all about a child trying to fall asleep and failing." "Dad, have you actually read this book?" he asked in mild horror. "Um, yes." I confessed. "But Dad, you hate the French, you hate everything French!" "I know, I know," I whimpered. "What can I say, it was a challenge to read, and truth is after a while I kinda liked it. Please don't tell anybody, Ariel. Please. Please. I still hate the French -- well, not French Jews. But, please. Let this be our little secret." "B'le Neder," he said with a sly smile.

Ariel was endlessly amused by my affection for this impossible and plotless and meandering French novel. He chuckled in disbelief when I showed him one sentence that, "I kid you not, Ariel, runs on for three pages, 958 words." But Ariel did continue to use Proust as a sleep aid for several weeks. Now that he's gone, now that he's memory, my respect for Proust and his massive tome has only increased. I now understand what Proust was after because it's a central human urge: to recapture the past, to corral the moments that made us who and what we are. If we can accomplish this, we tell ourselves, then we will find some measure of peace. If I can recall with perfect exactitude the moments I most cherish with Ariel then perhaps his death will not be so final. In this manner Ariel will gain another life, a shadow life perhaps, but anything is preferable to a terrible oblivion.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 04:16 PM | Comments (0)

June 03, 2004

Within a Budding Schoolyard

I was ten-years old when I fell in love with Karen. It happened in fourth grade. The students buzzed with the news that a new kid had transferred from Ohel Moshe, a yeshiva in Bensonhurst. I was playing punchball in the yard when I saw the new girl standing in the schooolyard. Karen was alone, poised by the gate. She was gazing out past the yard, past all the active, tumbling children, past the girls who were skipping rope. Karen was staring off into space in the most splendid isolation. To me she looked like the princess of a lost tribe. I was smitten. What struck me about Karen aside from her devastating beauty was the fierce intelligence that flashed in her eyes. And oh, how desperately did I want to know what this little girl was thinking about? So, in the Yeshiva of Flatbush schoolyard, I stood frozen at home plate gazing fixedly at Karen Singer, knowing deep in my heart that my life had just changed; that I would never ever be the same person. Oh, I continued to be a gawky and awkward and painfully dopey kid with a paralyzing math disability, (in those days we were just called dumb) but I was different for I carried a secret in my heart, a secret that I shared with no one.

The secret was this: some day I would marry Karen Singer.

Karen and I barely spoke in all the years we were together in elementary school. It did not take long for Karen to be recognized as not only the prettiest girl in Yeshiva, but the brightest.

Years passed. Karen and I went to separate high schools. I would see her at basketball games, sometimes in the local pizza shop. But we never spoke; she had no idea who I was. Certainly, she did not know that I was still in love with her.

During college years, every once in a while I would ask my parents if they'd heard anything about Rabbi Singer's daughter. "Oh, she's in Barnard," they would tell me. "Is she married yet?" "Not yet, but that girl won't be single long." I agreed. Some smart Columbia pre-med student was bound to win her heart.

After college, I was living on the upper west side in New York. One day in shul, the Lincoln Square Synagogue, I looked up from my siddur and my heart stopped for there she was. Karen was sitting in the women's section.

And she was not wearing a hat.
Which meant that she was not married.

The very next day I saw her on the street at a Jewish Street Festival. She was alone, standing in almost the exact same posture as when I first saw her in the school yard. I walked over and introduced myself. Baffled she looked at me; she had no idea who I was. No idea that my heart was beating in my chest like a trapped bird.

Less than a year later, we were married.

Ariel was our first born. Karen's labor was difficult and finally a c-section was performed. I was there when Ariel was born. All births are miraculous, but this more so for that little girl I had loved so deeply, so passionately was now mother to our child. I felt blessed by Hashem and I was appropriately grateful.

Twenty-two years later Karen and I were with Ariel when his soul departed his body. As Ariel died, as our son became pure spirit, Karen and I clung to one another and I stood in the schoolyard and watched the new girl in her majestic isolation, and I gazed across the mechitza and saw Karen davening, sans hat, and then I saw Ariel emerge from her belly bright and glistening like a skinned rabbit and now that little girl I have loved almost every minute of my life is a sad and grieving woman. Every once in a while I look up and catch sight of Karen in that identical posture -- it has become my madeleine. Karen gazes off into space, that sense of fine isolation still clings to her. She remains that spellbinding girl I loved with the perfect love of a child. However, now I know exactly what she's thinking for it is all I think about. Ariel, Ariel, our son is dead. Someone, please please please tell us how it is possible that we have moved from the schoolyard to the graveyard in one short lifetime?

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:29 PM | Comments (1)

June 02, 2004

The Whiteness of the Blog

Ariel attended a rigorously orthodox high school here in Los Angeles. The boys studied a vast amount of Talmud, leaving just enough time for the secular subjects. Ariel thrived in this academic envoronment for he loved Talmud and Torah and took great joy in the complex arguments that make up the Oral Law. I, however, worried that he was missing out on some of the great works of literature. And so Karen and I hired a private tutor for Ariel. Once a week, in the evening, after night-seder Ariel would get together with the tutor for a two hour session -- a deep immersion in the great works of the western canon. I worked out the readng list with the tutor and accompanied Ariel to the first class, reasoning that I would stay with him for the first few minutes then slip away once I felt all was under control. But I discovered that I was enjoying the class immensely and asked Ariel if I could take it with him. He smiled, delighted and said: "Welcome to high school, Dad." Initially, Ariel was puzzled by our first choice: Antigone, but soon the central drama clicked in his mind and he found himself admiring the brave, the loyal, the stubborn doomed heroine. He enjoyed Edgar A Poe, especially the spooky, haunted tales. Stephen Crane was a washout. The great revelation was Jane Austen. The frenzied shidduch making among the English gentry amused Ariel no end and from then on I think Ariel read Pride and Prejudice at least once a year. When Ariel was sick we often watched one of the BBC productions, and I even treated him to a viewing of the old MGM adaptration with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier. Ariel laughed at the insistent, chirpy score and the unbelievable hats, some looking like alien plants, worn by the actresses. We were reading out of order and we next found ourselves in the dark and Catholic world of James Joyce and his incomparable Dubliners. Ariel was moved, deeply moved by The Dead, but as we were about to move on to Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Ariel asked if we coul skip more Joyce. Why? "The Catholic imagery, it makes me uncomfortable, Daddy." We moved on. Our next book was, for Ariel, the most baffling and yet the most rewarding: Moby Dick. We read it together, out loud to one another on many evenings. I had never seen Ariel so disturbed, so confused, by well, by anything. On the one hand, he was intrigued by the great white whale and what it meant. Yet a part of him desperately wanted to push the whole thing aside, relegate it to the file that reads: "unnecessary knowledge." But Ariel was, like his mother, a tenacious intellect. No matter how he tried, he could not convince himself that Melville's tale of good and evil was just a huge academic hoax. Deep in his heart Ariel knew that something important was going on; between the pages of Moby Dick vital questions were being debated. In our last discussion of the book Ariel read his final report; he had come up with some compelling notions: "Imagine," he said, "that you are in a large room with Moby Dick. You try to get a look at the beast, but you can't. He's simply too big, too white. No matter how far back you step, you will not be able to see the whale as a whole. You will only see pieces. Some pieces will look beautiful, whereas other views will present as sinister, evil. This is the essence of the whale. No man has the vision, the ability to comprehend the meaning of the whale and its dazzling whiteness. The only point of view that has any chance of making any coherent sense is from on high. From God's perspective. Just as we wrestle with questions of good and evil, we can never understand God's plan. So too are we confounded by Moby Dick. His whiteness suggests benevolence, but the whiteness dazzles; it hurts our eyes with its majesty. And though Moby Dick leaves death and chaos in its wake, we feel deep affection for the great white whale, we love the leviathan for its unique magnificence. We respect its strength. We believe," concluded Ariel, "that the whale can bring justice along with destruction." The tutor gave Ariel an A plus for his essay. Looking back, I don't think Ariel read Moby Dick ever again.

My grief is like the whale. It is so vast, so infused with Hashem's light that I can barely see even one corner of my pain, much less make sense of it. I step back, I try and look at myself, at my limitless mourning but all I see is a tiny smudge, a dot of no great signifigance. No matter how hard I try I cannot view my grief with any clarity. This blog is, perhaps my desperate attempt at making sense of a life that has been plunged into a space that exists beyond the boundaries of language and imagination. I remember. I write. I try and understand the past. I try to recapture my beloved son, but for every word written, a hundred, a thousand, a million are abandoned. And I fear that for every memory unearthed, dozens are lost in the funereal gray folds of my brain. Sometimes I fear that I will not be able to see the most simple elements of who Ariel was, of what our relationship was made of. And last night my fear was realized. Karen sat down and read this blog - for the very first time. She sat in our bedroom and read. I waited, tense and fearing that she would despise what I have written. Karen has always been my harshest and most honest critic. When I give her a completed screenplay, I melt with the terror of a bad review. I was afraid that she would find this blog false and vain and self-absorbed; an insult to Ariel's holy neshama; an exercise in new age narcissism. Karen read and soon she was sobbing. "Oh, Robert" she said, "you need Ariel's love so badly." And it hit me, this simple truth that I had never seen before: Ariel is dead and a central portion of my soul is dying; for each and every day I am withering away for lack of his love.

Several of my readers have manged to get hold of my e-mail; they want to write to me privately, avoiding the too public "comments" section of the blog. I understand perfectly. So, anyone who wishes, please write to me at: seraphicpress@aol.com.

Special thanks to Luke Ford.net for linking me to his compelling site. Luke knew Ariel, even learned Pirkei Avot with him. Ariel was fond of Luke. That said, I must, however, add a warning to my readers that some of Luke's material is simply not appropriate for Torah Jews or for my Christian friends.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:05 PM | Comments (0)

May 28, 2004

Burping Maidels

Ever since the children have been old enough to understand good table manners, I have drilled them on proper etiquette. I have taught them to fold their napkins in half and put them in their laps. I have drilled them in using the correct forks, spoons and knives; I have insisted that they hold their silverware properly. "Remember," I have said over and over again, "bad manners create a terrible impression." The kids, to their credit, have developed wonderful table manners over the years and I'm proud to see them eating in public. Where some of their friends hunch over their food like starving peasants, my children sit upright and wield silverware with a delicate touch. I once overheard Ariel say to one of his friends: "My father is really, really strict about table manners. He's sooooo rigid you wouldn't believe it."

Which brings me to Chloe's burping.

Chloe is offspring number three; she is sixteen, beautiful beyond words, and she has a killer drive and three-point shot. She also burps louder than, well, louder than anyone I have ever heard. At the Shabbos table, when all is mystical light and the holiness of Shabbos spreads her wings over the family, nothing can break the mood like one of Chloe's machine-gun bursts. I used to give her a long, dark look, which would silence her for the rest of the meal. But soon I noticed that Ariel laughed when his baby sister burped. Ariel who was so upright; Ariel who was so formal at the Shabbos table; Ariel who was so proper. Ariel laughed when Chloe burped and the more he laughed the louder did Chloe burp. Karen and I exchanged looks. What was going on here? Ariel laughed and covered his mouth like a Japanese Geisha, embarrassed by his own amusement. But there was no doubt about it, Chloe's fog-horn burps put Ariel into convulsions of laughter. Soon enough, Lila joined in and the girls created a duet of burps. Which made Ariel laugh even harder. I guess there's something incongruous about two lovely, innocent looking eidel-maidel's making our Shabbos table sound like a truck-stop on the 405. The past two days have been difficult. Last Shavuos, Ariel took a turn for the worse. He was so weak, so frail, so starved for air that he was on the oxygen mask all the time. He could barely daven. His best friend Avi, came in from Baltimore to be with him. Avi and I sat by Ariel's bed and talked to him. Avi read letters from all the boys from Yeshiva. He read Megillat Ruth to Ariel. I knew that Ariel was going to die. I knew that he would not live to see another Shavuos. And so, the other night, at the Shavuos table, after I came home from shul, walking past all the fathers with their sons--Robert, that used to be you--I sat down at the table, and we quietly ate. All of us remembering past Shavuot, when this family was whole and complete and truly happy. And then I heard it. Chloe's burp. I looked up at her. Her eyes searched mine. I smiled. I smiled and remembered how Ariel laughed. And Chloe burped again and again and I understood that bad manners are sometimes very good.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:56 AM | Comments (0)

May 25, 2004

The Heart Nailed

When Ariel died, I discovered that I no longer speak the same language as everyone else. When I speak there is a feeling that no matter what I say, the other person cannot possibly understand what I mean. Every word, every thought is infused with a sense of what is not. "Good morning, how're you doing?" Says the nice young girl (with far too many tattoos) in Starbucks. I answer, "Hi, fine, how are you?" But what I mean is: My son is dead. How is that you are still serving coffee? As a matter of fact, how is it the earth has not fallen off its axis? Consider the thick slabs of bullet-proof glass to protect bank tellers. That's how Karen and I live, encased in such a cube. We can see the world, but we can't touch it. We can hear, but everything is muffled. Forever we will remain separate. The only people who speak our language are other parents with dead children. Karen and I recently met the parents of a girl who was murdered by Arab terrorists in Jerusalem. We sat togther at a Sheva B'rachos. Our eyes met and there was a moment of recognition so deep, so thorough that I literally felt dizzy. We did not make small talk; immediately we spoke of loss, of how much we missed our children. To be the parent of a child who has died is to be dropped into an alien landscape; it is a world so foreign that the English language does not even have a word to describe it. Think about it: when your spouse dies you are a widow; parents die and you become an orphan; if your marriage collapes you graduate to a divorcee. But lose a child and you become... unnameable. It is a territory so horrible that language collapses, imagination fails. Interesting to note that Hebrew, a language with far fewer words than English, gives the gift of such a word: shikulim. Is it any wonder that when Karen and I meet someone who has heard about Ariel they hesitate for a moment, then awkwardly say something like: "I ah, heard about your... loss..." Their voices trail off. So many people are afraid to say his name. "Do you have other children?" others ask hopefully, stupidly, as if one child can be replaced by another like interchangable Legos. There are the "friends" who are too scared or too self-absorbed to say anything. I was with a large powerful talent agency for over twelve years. After Ariel died there was not one phone call from them, not one word of consolation, as if their narcisistic silence somehow erased his very existence, thus freeing these people of any moral responsibility. Ponder the blood relatives who in a frenzy told us that "things are crazy" in their lives and so they can't possibly pay a shiva call. And then there are the generous, fine people who flew clear across the country because they could not stay away; they sat by our side and held us and said: "There are no words." And we were so grateful for those are the right words. The only words. Ariel's death made clear who friends are and aren't. Nothing in life clarifies individual values as does visiting the sick and the rituals of death. Finally, and perhaps most moving are strangers who have touched me with their e-mails, nailed my heart with their kindness and understanding: the book editor in Seattle, the young Christian woman in England, the radio executive in Texas, the blogging high school student and her single mother in Silver Lake; all feeling a connection with Ariel and expressing the inexpressible, courageously trying to make themselves speak my language because instinctively they know that what once was understood is no longer comprehensible. How I love and cherish these people who are old fashioned enough to to be acquainted with the habits of mourning, like knowing embroidery or the waltz. In Ariels death I glimpse the world he might have had in the unexpected goodness that comes my way in honor of his soul. Tonight begins the holiday of Shavuos, so there will be no posts until probably after the weekend. Thank you all for making the first week of my blog so rewarding. May God bless you and keep you, may He shine his countenance upon you and bring you peace.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 03:20 PM | Comments (2)

May 24, 2004

With Shuddering Fall

It is the nights that are the most difficult. Our routine is fixed. Karen continues to work until ten or eleven at night. It is her only escape; the only way she can block the pain from colonizing her mind. As a psychologist, she evaluates tests, writes up reports, makes recommendations. She does this with a remarkable attention to detail. Her patients are lucky; she is attentive, compassionate, realistic. She works with children and their parents. She listens to harrowing tales of domestic conflict, helps them cope with all sorts of conflict and anger. Yet it is Karen who endures more pain than any of her patients. But Karen never lets on. She has never even hinted that all she really wants to do is lie down on her son's grave and stay there until her bones mulch with his. And so, Karen works until exhaustion takes over. I read. I learn. I write. Sometimes I'll go into Ariel's room--unchanged since the day he died--lie down on his bed and smell his pillow, the sheets, feel his imprint in the mattress. I gaze at the room: there are the Transformers he loved as a little boy. There are the pictures of his Rebbeim from High School and Rabbinical College. And, oh look at that, there is his huge Snoopy poster. Ariel loved Charlie Brown. He always said that there was a great deal of Torah to learn from Snoopy and his friends. I leaf through his notebooks and marvel at the clarity of his thoughts on particularly difficult tractates in the Talmud. I head upstairs to our bedroom. I sit in the dark and listen to Karen breathing. Invariably, she begins to violently shudder. She cries out in her sleep, makes strangling, yelping noises like a frightened animal. I slip into bed and hold her. "What is it?" I ask. "Ariel, Ariel," she sobs. "Where is he? He must miss us," she says. "We were so close." I have no answer. All I can do is soothe this brilliant and beautiful woman who I fell in love with when we were ten years old, students together in the Yeshiva of Flatbush. Soon, Karen will drift off again, but the terrible moans and shuddering always accompanies sleep. It is a tornado of grief. A woman's body remembering the child that grew inside and is no longer. It is her body reacting to the hatchet-drop of tragedy. Karen's womb is suffering a loss all its own, a phantom limb crying out and insisting on remembrance. The female body is remorseless in its ability ot recall what it has nourished, remembering Ariel's lips the first week of his birth, smooth as boiled candy. It is night and Ariel is dead and he will always be dead. It is night and Karen convulses and all I can do is hold on, for if I let go I will fall off the bed and never stop falling.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:23 PM | Comments (2)

May 23, 2004

Remembrance of a Shabbos Past

The arrival of Shabbos is a time of awe and delight for observant Jews. The Kabbalists in Safed used to dress in white and singing with joy they would greet the Sabbath Bride in the mountains. Here in Pico Robertson, we too greet the Sabbath albeit with a less romantic gesture. The Sabbath is a time when the ordinary burdens of the work week are left behind and time becomes consecrated. Every man becomes a king in his home and every woman a queen. When Ariel was alive he would spend a great deal of time preparing for Shabbos. He put on his best suit and hat saying: Would you meet with a president or a king dressed as a schlump? It was something of a running joke in the house that Ariel, no matter how early he started, was almost always late. By the time I was ready to go to shul, Ariel was still awkwardly struggling with his cuff links, or wrestling with his tie, trying to get the knot just right. Ariel moved slowly. His weakened lungs made it so, but it was also the pace at which he moved through life. Slow, deliberate, thoughtful. Ariel moved like a man from another century. None of the frenzied 21st century movements for Ariel. He was like a man from a slower time; no doubt he would have been entirely comfortable in medieval Europe, in the Yeshivas of Provence, studying in the house of Rashi. That was his temperment. Ariel and I walked to shul together, three short blocks that are as familiar to me as the architecture of my wife's lovely face. We waved to the other men on their way to the various shuls. We said hello to strangers walking their dogs. Sometimes we talked, but often there was a companionable silence. Ariel was preparing to pray, adjusting his state of mind for a holy dialogue. In shul, Ariel was often asked to daven for the minyan. He had a beautiful voice and his pronunciation of the Hebrew was perfect. Often, Ariel was the last to finish davening. Here too, he took his time. He spoke to God: a true I and Thou relationship. Frequently, I had to wait for him to finish davening. Everyone else was already gone, on their way home, but Ariel was still shuckling, eyes closed, totally unaware that we were the only two left in shul. I sat and watched him daven and said to myself: How did this saintly young man spring from my loins? How did this happen for I am less than good, far from pious, never close to God; just another struggling schlemiel. I watched Ariel daven in the empty shul and I remembered when I was a child in Brooklyn, in shul with my father. I gazed in awe as he davened. I felt that here was a man in touch with something I could not even glimpse. And so, I am watching Ariel, I am watching my father, past and present merging and I say to myself: Let this moment never end Let this moment never end Let this moment never end...

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 08:10 AM | Comments (0)

May 21, 2004

Lila Comes Home

Last night, Karen and I drove to the Long Beach Airport. Our daughter Lila was arriving from New York where she is attending Stern College for Women, the female branch of Yeshiva University. As we drove along the LA Freeway, Karen and I talked about Lila's plans for the summer. She is interning at an architectural firm. Like me, she's an art major in college. But unlike me, she has the blessings and support of both her parents. When I told my father that I was majoring in Art History, he looked at me, frowned and said: Is that a serious field of study for an Orthodox Jewish boy? There was no answer, for it was a rhetorical question. When Lila shows me her art work, I have to stop myself from smothering her with hugs and kisses. She has so much talent and yet, she's so casual about it. In any case, as we drove to the airport Karen and I were both thinking about all the times we picked up Ariel when he came home from Ner Yisroel, his Rabbinical College in Baltimore. We were always so excited to see him, for he had a special hold on us. From the very beginning Ariel was a magical child. Endowed with an amazing intellect, he was also gentle and so very kind that we often worried that he was not made for this world. How could he fight through the normal, every day struggles that rule our lives? How could he deal with the truly unethical and vile people who are all around us? And as it turned out, he does not have to. He is spirit now and Karen and I are left to struggle and fight our way through the long days and nights. A few nights ago, in bed, in my arms, Karen said to me: We've become such sad people, Robert. And all I could do was nod and silently cry and hold on to Karen. When Lila came off the plane, Karen ran forward and hugged her. There I stood, watching my wife and my daughter, both so so beautiful that I forgot to breathe for a long second. And in that second I experienced a moment of happiness. It was fleeting, but it was real.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:12 PM | Comments (0)

Crying on the 405

Ever since Ariel died, I find myself crying in the most unexpected of places. I remember the last year of Ariel's life. I drove him to pulmonary therapy three times a week. I drove him to his medical appointments twice a week. If he was strong enough, I would drive him to shul or to a Torah class. Sometimes we would listen to Jewish music--The Miami Boys Choir, Shalsheles, Mordechai Ben Dovid--and Ariel would tap his hand against his thigh. I remember at one point thinking that Ariel might not make it and the song I'm listening to will always be associated with that unbearable thought. And now, in the car, I don't have to put the music on. I hear it in my head. I see Ariel out of the corner of my eye. And I drive on the 405 with tears pouring down my face

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 07:27 AM | Comments (2)

May 20, 2004

What to do?

When Ariel died, I sat shiva. I said Kaddish. I'm still saying Kaddish, just about a month left. Gosh, how I dread not saying the Kaddish for Ariel. It will be a gaping abyss in my davening. I arranged to learn Torah with several Chavrusahs in Ariel's memory. But nothing seems to be enough. Several months before Ariel died, he and I had a long conversation about books. Most of all Ariel loved to learn Torah. But he also liked to read novels. He adored Jane Austen. The mad shidduch making in Pride and Prejudice brought a big smile to his face. Ariel also loved the Harry Potter series. A triumph of good writing, beautiful plotting and traditional values over the cynical, degraded trends of much in children's publishing. On Ariel's bookshelves rest about forty novels written by Avi. The problem, said Ariel, is that there are not enough novels written specifically for observant Jewish kids. Dad, he said, you should start a publishing company. Publish fiction that is of the highest quality, yet is also suitable for kids who hold Torah values. And so, to honor Ariel and his wonderful idea Karen and I have founded Seraphic Press. We have four superb novels in various stages of development and expect to publish our first book, The Hebrew Kid and the Apache Maiden in January 2005. It is the story of an observant Jewish boy in the Old West, his determination to celebrate his Bar Mitzvah, his friendship with the notorious gunfighter Doc Holliday, and his touching relationship with Lozen, a legendary Apache girl warrior. The book is a unique reimagining of the Wild West. To pay tribute to Ariel, The Hebrew Kid's name is... Ariel.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 05:23 PM | Comments (1)

Thinking of Ariel...

Several months ago, my beloved son Ariel Chaim passed away. I am forever changed. I will write about him, about loss and memory for as long as I can.

Posted by Robert J. Avrech at 02:04 PM | Comments (0)

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