I Look at You ...

I look at you

Quietly thinking,

Words so many dare I speak.

Return my stare,

Hear you wondering …

Worrisome concerns, burdens linger

Many the questions still unuttered

Hints of solitude do I seek?



None I say but truth be told,

Fears are mine I’ve become too old,

Though age, its distance not yet torn

plagues me, hopelessly forlorn.


Those moments when closeness none more

Beseeching you in words unspoken

Whether you, I, we will be as time before …


It’s not my fault life’s changes did befall

My body shakes, my speech stumbles,

Hard to say and for you to hear,

What hope is there to come this year?

I think back to touches when

In hours abandon,

Gaity, laughter,

Together we spent

Now our posture is so different

My life as is I resent.

Passionate kisses, bodies aflutter,

holding you then as mine alone,

When we were is no longer,

So many questions yet to utter.


Alan D. Busch

10/14/07

Lamentations

“Lamentations”

The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of

bereavement. My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen

months, a mournful experience not unlike the personal grief from which

I have suffered since November of 2000 when my first-born child

Benjamin died.

The three weeks prior to the Tisha b' Av is a period of time when we

purposely deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating

in this solemn fast day characterized by the reading of the

Book of Lamentations, communal mourning for the destruction of the

Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of our Jewish

national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical

tragedies befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.

It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled

for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw

an elderly man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though

patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a smile.

"Good evening, Sir,"

"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had come

by to chat with him.

“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock

now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”

"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.

Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?” I

asked.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.

I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but chose not

to do so. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks, a pale yellow

golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap, his focus on

my words suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing.

"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents,

you have yahrzeit?” Twisting his left forearm over with the

assistance of his right hand, he revealed the six green

numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but the manner in which

he exposed it staggered me. His quiet dignity left me unsure if he bore the tattoo

as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes

and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were

underscored by dark rings-an image almost as indelible as his

horrific tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.

"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron &

Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him

down the hallway. Together we opened the door. Reb Talisman

paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson

going on." Indeed there was.

Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings,

Rabbi Louis was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after

discovering that a ceiling ballast had blown out. It was an especially

busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a program and the

junior minyan was learning with Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was

escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for

the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut

the door.

"Close it!" Rabbi barked.

"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced

Rabbi’s older son who, as it happened, was one of the two who came

in after us.

I directed Reb Talisman slowly toward the one chair unlike any

other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the

stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly

pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman, the late father

of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him

however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.

“As long as he’s comfortable,” I thought.

Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei

v'secha,” we davened Mincha after which Rabbi lectured about

the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes later, we prayed the Maariv

service, but, by which time, I had lost all my concentration. Now I

know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion

waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my

head, and I knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my

siddur and stared out the window.

"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to

the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.

"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."

The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said. I touched his arm comfortingly.

I watched as he got in his car and drove away. I fumbled for my keys.

"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected, turning on the

ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I

fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but realized

The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are

grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.

How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.

Alan D. Busch

Revised 10/12/07

The Essence of Sukkot

Writer's note:

Dear Readers,

Many years ago, I read a story line not unlike the one that follows: that of a poor Jew who learns the lesson of Sukkot through his travails and devotion. Therefore, while I do not claim the story line as mine, the body of the tale, its characters and content, I did author.

Alan D. Busch
The day of Erev Sukkot, 2007

Long ago-when our grandparents' grandparents lived in tiny villages-was there one called "Bissele." Therein lived a certain simple Jew, a "shlepper" by trade, a pious but unlearned man who did as best he could with what little he had.

For the better part of the preceding winter, spring and summer, he had worked doggedly, scrimped and saved enough money with which to purchase a fine lulav and esrog.

His efforts were blessed.

A day or two before the Eve of Sukkot, he, his one and only horse and cart set out for the provincial marketplace in which- among the myriads of general merchandise available-beautiful lulavim and esrogim could be had.

It was while traveling on a treacherously pitted and hazardous dirt road that the simple Jew's horse lost its footing by the edge of a precipice, fell and broke two of its four legs.

Reb Schmeryl, whom bad luck seemed to pursue, was simply beside himself. Overwrought
by the accident that had befallen his faithful, hard-working companion, Reb Schmeryl-having no other choice- acceded to the offer of a passing peasant fellow to put his horse out of its misery.

Once one horse dispatched, another's necessity arose. Reb Schmeryl needed another horse in any event and, as it happened, said peasant, one Stavich, was more than willing and able to supply.

And the price, what of that?

Well, when the painful transaction was concluded, Reb Schmeryl retained but one-quarter of what he had so industriously squirreled away.

Down but not out, he, his newly acquired four-legged companion and cart proceeded forthwith to the provincial seat but-now with so little money left, how would he be able to purchase a beautiful set of the "arba minim," the four species?

Only hours before the eve of the chag, as merchants were closing their shutters, in schlepped Reb Schmeryl looking as worn and shriveled as the esrog he'd soon purchase.

Alas, one such storekeeper, a dealer of religious ritual objects, took pity on Reb Schmeryl and let him in though he had already closed.

"Sholem aleichem, Reb ... Reb ...?" his voice trailing off inquiringly.

"Schmeryl. Aleichem shalom, Reb ... ?"

"Geltmacher," responded the merchant, his chest slightly but certainly immodestly

puffed out.

"Reb Geltmacher, I have but these few coins with which to buy the four species," he

said, hoping perhaps that Reb Geltmacher might be a tzaddik-first impressions

aside.

"Over here Reb Schmeryl,look here," he motioned to his weary customer.

Inside the "discarded" bin Reb Geltmacher had placed some of the sorriest excuses for lulavim and esrogim anyone had ever seen. Reb Schmeryl examined a set carefully with an eye as discriminating as that of a jeweler. The lulav was bent and splintered, its willow leaves-many having already fallen off. Never mind that Hoshana Rabba was a good week away! And the esrog wasn't much prettier either. A snapped off stem was all that remained of its pittum.

"This," thought Reb Schmeryl, "is a pri etz hadar?" overtaken momentarily by his own sarcasm.

Reb Geltmacher, impassive and becoming visibly anxious, began fidgeting lest he be
late for erev yontif.

"This will have to do," intoned Reb Schmeryl choosing the "best" of the
worst.

Too late to head home by horse and cart, Schmeryl looked tired, forlorn and quite
hungry.

"Have you a place for yontif?" asked Reb Geltmacher.

"No ... regrettably not," responded a very beaten down Schmeryl.

"Well, the public inn is around the corner. With what you have left, you can afford

two nights," Geltmacher informed Schmeryl. "Oh, and the shul is just opposite the

inn."

Paying Reb Geltmacher and wishing him a "gut Yontif," off he trod to the inn.

Once signed in, Reb Schmeryl fell asleep, missing erev yontif.

Next morning, he arose and with arba minim in hand, hastened off to shul. Taking a seat as far to the back of the shul as he could, Reb Schmeryl, feeling ashamed, wondered what he would do come time for hakafos.

Then a hush! Every last soul arose when the Rav entered, carrying ... well-you can imagine-the finest arba minim Reb Geltmacher had had to offer. Something though was amiss. The Rav did not know what it was at first. Stepping back from his shtender, his prayerful focus interrupted, he began to search, winding his way through the aisles until finally ... there was but one seat left, the very last one.

"Reb ... Reb ...?

"Schmeryl, Schmeryl, Rebbe," rose Reb Schmeryl, managing to respond, albeit

nervously.

"Reb Schmeryl, may I have the honor of using your arba minim with which to bentch

lulav and carry during hakafos, please?. Here you take mine."

Stunned but agreeable, Reb Schmeryl's lips turned up into a faint smile; the Rav's
wisdom, for which he was particularly renowned, demonstrated itself once again incomparable, and Reb Geltmacher, well ... Reb Geltmacher was nonplussed, his chest deflated, his eyebrows knitted in consternation.

Link to Aish.com

http://www.aish.com/spirituality/odysseys/Stepping_into_the_Sukkah.asp

Dear Readers,

Please copy and paste this link to read my newly published article in Aish.com.

Thank you,

Alan

"What are you doing?" Kallah grogily asked me at 4:35 a.m..

"Getting dressed for minyan at 5:00. Erev Rosh Ha Shanah Slichos begin in a few minutes and are rather lengthy."

She turned over in a moment of sleepy indifference as if to say:

"Given your year, you do have much to be penitential about!"

So ... I gathered my trusty bicycle, tucked my right pants cuff in my sock and raced off to shul just a few minutes before 5:00. My efficiency paid off because I was able to get in a few laps around the shul parking lot before joining the Slichos minyan. Nothing like a little sweat before standing before the Holy One, Blessed be He!

Came back from shul around 7:30 and began pulling all the last minute strings together for tonight, the evening that heralds the beginning of 5768. I've always`liked that term "heralds" but I never have heard those "much heralded" trumpets blow as they're supposed to when one says "heralds". Guess I have to be content with the blowing of the Shofar, 100 "kolos" (blasts) on each of the two days of yontiff.

It's just me and Kallah for dinner tonight though I will enjoy the company of my Dad
and younger son Zac tonight together with me at shul although Zac will drive his Grandpa home afterward and return himself to his new digs but not first without a take-home yontiff meal prepared by yours truly. Sorry but given my family's observance predelictions, it's the best I can do, but I make no apologies as we are who we are.

In these few thoughtful moments before I have to check the progress of the turkey breast yet again, I am reminded of a little speech I gave the morning of Zac's bar mitzvah ocncerning the legendary Rabbi of Nemirov who absented himself from Slichos because he was out performing acts of chesed in the wee hours of the morning, such as preparing some kindling for a widow's fireplace as there was no one else to do it.

Yes, of course, he disguised himself as a peasant woodchopper. In this way, he not only accomplished some much needed work but prepared the way for his own tshuva as well. The common folks of his town speculated as to his whereabouts but one thing was for certain he was not at his shtender in the beis medrash, but off in the heavens, folks eagerly said, chatting as it were with The One Above.

There was a skeptical fellow in town as it happened, a "pisher" one might say, who was determined to expose the Rabbi of Nemirov for the fraud that he, the young fellow, was certain that he was ... so he slipped into his house late one night, crawled under the saint's bed and awaited his awakening. And as you might imagine, the saintly Rav awoke, dressed himself as a woodcutter and off went he to prepare the kindling for the aged widow's fire.

The young skeptic followed him on tippy toes and was flabberghasted that indeed the Rav was performing such seemingly menial tasks but understand he did for the next day in the town square he overheard local shul folks blathering on endlessly, as was their custom, about the absence of the much loved Rav.

"He's in shamayim at the right hand of the Aibishter!" said the most convinced and articulate of the small assembly gathered.

The others nodded in collective accord, but the one-time cynic who had witnessed the good deeds of the Saint, having overheard the accolades of the crowd,
whispered to himself: "And even higher!"

May we ascend to ever greater heights in our journey of life but without forgetting to first smell the coffee and the roses, appreciate a butterfly or, if need be, chop kindling for the widow's fire.

Alan Busch

4:14 pm

erev RH.

Kallah Has Come Home

Kallah Has Come Home ...

I needed some time

while she was gone before

I understood.

Suffering tortuous days, enduring sleepless nights.

That a woman loves her husband

by reconciling her higher sense with ...

a man's baser nature.

I had to discover ...

the key to her love

was to search out her soul.

That when she loves you,

it is first with her mind and ...

only after with her body.

If and when a man

understands this ...

has he finally grown up.

Alan D. Busch

The Miracle of Kimberly

Dear Readers,

This section is excerpted from In Memory of Ben.


Why was Kimberly saved? I don’t have an answer anymore

now than I did before when I asked why Ben was not

saved. It was unanswerable then as it remains now.

The following Friday, I invited Kimmy along with her boyfriend

for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my

fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles

aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben

every Friday night before Shabbos begins … sort of bridging

the distance between us. We sat down.

“Kimuschkele,” my voice cracking as I try to get the words out

of a short speech.

“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)

“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but looking at my daughter.

“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’ because

of all nights, I am especially thankful tonight to have you by

my side.” Lifting the kiddush cup, a slight tremor animated

my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered.

Ben’s lamp seemed to flicker more brightly, illuminating the

serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my

hand.

“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.


Alan D. Busch