The Grief Bandit

Posted on December 11, 2014 by edcol52

I follow a blog called Grieving Dads. It is a forum for men to share their grief and experiences of grief. I commented on a post about the Grief Bandit, lurking in the rocks, waiting to strike. One of the dads wrote this poem about the bandit. Thank you Leif for expressing the feelings so eloquently.

The Grief Bandit

Beware!!

He lurks in the darkest corners of your mind
Seeking unguarded moments,
Moments that bring joy to your heart
He seeks to steal.

He seeks to remind you of pain,
To rob you of any moments of happiness.
To hijack your memories.

No cage can hold him, no chains can bind.
He will fool you in thinking he has gone

He will lay in wait biding his time,

…. Waiting till you are unprepared.

Beware the Grief Bandit.!

Leif Kelly (2014)

Posted in Blog, Grief, Poetry, Sadness, Support | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Message from Manila

Posted on December 8, 2014 by edcol52

Detroit_JewelIn August, we sold our 100 year-old Detroit Jewel gas cooking stove. My dad bought it at a swap meet in 1972 and not quite knowing what to do with it, gave it to me. When I got it, it was little more than a rusted out hulk and a box full of parts. I gave it a new coat of high heat black paint, cleaned the rust off the cast iron burners, polished the brass valves, bolted it together, and brought it back to life. I have used it as my kitchen stove ever since. I moved it to New Hampshire and back to LA in the mid 70’s, and for the past 30 years it has been a stalwart companion in our home in Venice. Thousands of wonderful meals have come from its 4 star-shaped burners and its temperamental oven. Jake learned how to cook on it as a very young boy, we used to cook together on it, Terry and Jake would bake together in its cranky little oven; there are many stories of his adventures with the Jewel. He posed in front of it for his 6th grade Jake_jewel_webgraduation picture, happily flambéing strawberries. In some odd way, that stove was part of our family.

The past couple of years, it finally started to truly show its age. The interior of the oven began rusting through, and even though it still worked, it was time for a new range. I didn’t just want to cast the Jewel out, and put it up for auction on eBay as a “Local Pick Up Only” item; after all it weighed close to 100 pounds and I couldn’t imagine shipping it anywhere. Once the auction ended and the stove sold, I got an email from Karen, the buyer, asking about shipping the stove to Manila. Yes, Manila in the Philippines. She had seen it online, had fallen in love with it, and wanted it as a centerpiece for her new bakery shop. We corresponded back and forth and she arranged a shipper to come and crate the stove for its long journey. We carefully packed it in bubble wrap and cardboard and strapped it up securely. I bid farewell and watched somewhat wistfully as the van drove down the street and turned the corner.

Today I got three emails from Karen. One letting me know it had arrived safely, one with some photos of the stove in restoration, IMG_9459and one with a very moving story about her business, a tiny glimpse into her life and a passage from the prophet Isaiah that brought me to tears. She knew about Jake, and in fact sent us a very lovely book, One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp, in August immediately after finding out about him through this blog. Here’s the thing. I don’t really know Karen, have never met her, most probably never will, but she is one of those extraordinary, compassionate people we have encountered while on this journey. I am reprinting her message as it speaks so eloquently about loss and renewal.

In 2011, God allowed my business to be removed from my hand.
I struggled with pain, loss, and grief. I lost my interest to work and was barely treading water.

 
A lady I met in 2012 suggested that I improve my shop. It didn’t really touch me as I felt removed from my business. In mid 2014, she gave me the idea of a vintage kitchen so I scouted the Internet for an old stove. I saw your Detroit Jewel. When I was able to buy it, it started getting my mind rolling about how I would make everything else go with it. When I went to the US and Canada in August to take my kids to university, I started looking for accessories to match.

When I came home, I realized that what I bought was too much for the tiny shop I have. I was motivated to look for my long overdue bigger shop north of central makati. I found an old house I could rent much cheaper in a location that I like. And that old house looks like my company logo.  I finally signed the lease just last week and THAT will be the home of your family’s Detroit Jewel.

By the end of this week we will start fixing up the place. The ceiling and floors and many things are broken that need to be fixed. I can’t wait to open up the new Karen’s Kitchen shop, Lord willing, in February.

The sight of the Detroit Jewel reminds me of how what is broken can be restored.

I would like to share with you one of my favorite passages of blessing for restoration and healing:

Isaiah 61

1. The Spirit of Adonai Elohim is upon me,
because Adonai has anointed me
to announce good news to the poor.
He has sent me to heal the brokenhearted;
to proclaim freedom to the captives,
to let out into light those bound in the dark;
2. to proclaim the year of the favor of Adonai
and the day of vengeance of our God;
to comfort all who mourn,
3. yes, provide for those in Zion who mourn,
giving them garlands instead of ashes,
the oil of gladness instead of mourning,
a cloak of praise instead of a heavy spirit,
so that they will be called oaks of righteousness
planted by Adonai, in which he takes pride.
4. They will rebuild the ancient ruins,
restore sites long destroyed;
they will renew the ruined cities,
destroyed many generations ago.

 
Just wanted to share with you my thanksgiving for sharing a part of your family with me through your Detroit Jewel.

Kinda out of the blue, but so amazingly appropriate. We have truly been “bound in the dark”, have been given ashes instead of garlands, and still have a “heavy spirit”. We can only hope for the “oil of gladness” and to be “let out into the light”. I feel like an ancient ruin in need of rebuilding.

They are out there in the world. Utter strangers who can uplift you with a word, a glance, simple kindness, a touching gesture from their heart.

That is the real message from Manila.

These are the people who help carry you along this perilous, heartbreaking journey. Friends who stand by you without judgement, without telling you how you should act or when you should do this or that. People who will help you rebuild your life. People who will comfort you in mourning. There are people I have met through this blog, fellow travelers who are becoming friends too. There are people with whom I have forged friendships through other virtual means. People I have never seen or spoken too, who lend their unwavering support to us from afar. We are so fortunate to have these people in our life. Friends who have been there from before the beginning, many have been there from the start of this frightful voyage, some we have just met. I am sure there are people yet unmet, that we will find along the way.  Seek out those people; what is amazing is they will often find you, somehow. Surround yourself with people who support you. Run away from people who don’t.

Many have found us, and we are grateful for that; we are grateful for them. We cherish them, each and every one. Here’s our message to all of you: We can’t do this without you.

 

Posted in Coping, Food, Friends and Family, Healing, Jake Colman, Kindness, Support, Tragedy | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

It’s Gonna Be a Tough Few Weeks

Posted on December 5, 2014 by edcol52

Well, here we go. Careening into the ‘holiday season’. For many people, this is a very difficult time of year under the best of circumstance; for someone who is grieving the loss of a child, it can be excruciating. That loss throws everything into razor-sharp focus, and the sadness and longing juxtaposed with the expected cheeriness of the holidays amplifies the hole left by their absence a thousandfold. How difficult is it to sit at a holiday table with friends and family, all in good spirits, supposedly, and look to the empty chair where your beloved child should be sitting? For many, it is an impossible task.

We managed Thanksgiving alright. Chinese dinner with friends, and then, because we didn’t have any leftovers for turkey sandwiches, I made a mini-Thanksgiving for Shabbat dinner. Stuffed turkey breast, gravy, some orange yam casserole, some steamed veggies, and three kinds of cranberry sauce. Just Terry and me. Seemed harmless enough. But when I went to make the blessing over the wine, I couldn’t do it. It took me several minutes to collect myself enough to whisper the words, tears streaming down my face, dripping into the silver kiddish cup that once belonged to Terry’s father. It should have been passed down to my son, his namesake. I cradle it in my hand every Friday night and think of both of them. What was and what should have been. Now all we have is the ‘what is’. I never met Jack, Terry’s dad, but she tells me there was a lot of him in Jake. They would have loved each other, of that I am sure.

This year Hanukkah, The Festival of Lights, starts the 17th and ends on Christmas Eve. Now those lights are dimmed, and one is missing. We won’t be hosting a party as we did every year with endless potato latkes, home made applesauce, laughter and light. We won’t be going to my Mom’s traditional Hanukkah party this year either. I am not quite sure what we are going to do. Maybe try to leave town. Maybe just lay low. Oh, we’ll fry up a few potatoes, kindle the menorah that Jake made one year as a child, and look for his spirit in the gleaming lights, but as every holiday is these days, it will be diminished. Something missing, the day incomplete. This was one of Jake’s favorites too. He used to do a candle making activity at our shul for the kids every year. He would help them make their own candles, patiently dipping the braided cotton wick into a pot of melted wax. Helping to bring more light into this world. They loved it, and so did he. Watching him with the kids, so patient and careful, was a joy for all of us. In fact, he did it last year at the shul’s holiday party, resurrecting a tradition for the first time in many years. For the last time.

Before Hanukkah gets here, however we will have the unveiling of his headstone next Sunday, the 14th. Family and friends will gather from near and far to honor his spirit once again. We’ll read tehilim (psalms), say one more Kaddish, and have a good cry. We’ll uncover the polished black granite stone, engraved with his name, so final, so immutable. The unspeakable truth finally set in stone. It will be yet one more heartbreaking day in an unbroken string of heartbreaks. Then comes the New Year. How will we ever celebrate New Year’s Eve with the same hopeful optimism that every New Year’s Eve brings? “Next year will be great”, we always said. We buried our beautiful boy on New Year’s Eve. Our ‘party’ was the first night of shiva. No hopeful optimism there, no champagne, no fireworks. Just a house full of silent, shattered people trying to make sense of the senseless. How do we ever forget that? How do we move beyond that to laugh and sing, bang on pots and toast to the new year? Not this year, that’s for sure. Maybe next year will be better. This one sure sucked.

So, as I say, it is going to be a tough few weeks. Buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

Posted in Ceremony, Coping, Friends and Family, Grief, Jake Colman, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

what to say when someone loses a child

Posted on November 29, 2014 by edcol52

This from another on grief’s lonely journey. All good things to keep in mind when talking to someone who has experienced the most dreadful thing that can ever happen to a parent.

Posted in Blog, Coping, Jake Colman, Other Media, Support | Leave a comment

Thanksgiving

Posted on November 27, 2014 by edcol52

Well, here it is. Thursday. Thanksgiving. One day before another 28th. Wouldn’t it have been ironic if … well, anyway.

This year it feels like someone else’s holiday.

Oh yes, I have much to be grateful for. I have a house to live in. I have food to eat. When I turn on the tap, fresh clean water runs out in unlimited quantities. I have a box on the wall on which, when I get cold, I flip a switch and heat comes out to warm our home. I have some work that I do that is meaningful to me. I have a wife who loves me, friends and family who care for us. I have a car that runs, and money to buy gas for it. I have clothes to wear. I have my health, mostly, and the wherewithal to get medical care when I need it. I can see. I can hear. I can speak. I can walk. I have all my arms and legs, both eyes and ears. There are millions of people on this planet that can’t make these statements, so for myself, I am thankful that I can. So is it ungrateful that eleven months later, I still want, no, crave … no, there isn’t a word strong enough for what I feel; maybe yearn for, pine for, weep for (some days), the one thing I cannot have? Am I the spoiled child who wanted a new Playstation 3, but only gets a 20-year-old Game Boy? Or a lump of coal, or a bag of ashes? I just don’t have the energy left to throw a tantrum.

Last year, due to the vagaries of the Jewish calendar, Thanksgiving and Hanukkah Last Thanksgivingcoincided, Thanksgivukkah. Jake came home for the holidays. We cooked together the last time on Thursday night, making platters full of latkes and fixin’s for the turkey. On Sunday, my mom had her traditional Hanukkah party, and Jake did kitchen duty as always, frying up the delectable potato pancakes with his usual concentration and care. It was a wonderful weekend. We laughed together, had so very much to be thankful for. Jake was doing better, had a new job prospect, settling into his new place, his new life, was just doing … better. A month later he would be dead, but how were we to know that?

This is the first year in a very, very long time we aren’t having a dinner gathering with friends and family. I cannot remember the last time we didn’t. Twenty-five years at least. What I hadn’t realized is, that decision, to forgo our usual gut-busting repast, has repercussions that resonate beyond our own lives. We have some dear friends with whom we have spent Thanksgiving together for many years. They have two adult daughters, one just a couple of years older than Jake, with whom he became friends. As the Thanksgivings passed by, one after the other, we watched our children grow up a little more each year. This year, when we told everyone we wouldn’t be hosting dinner, we pretty much left it at that. When Terry asked our friends what they were doing, they said since their Thanksgiving tradition was to come to our house for dinner, they weren’t sure. They decided to go out for Chinese food. This is when we realized, once again, that our actions affect others in so many unknown ways. Originally T and I thought we would just cook something and stay home, but I re-thought that and it wouldn’t be a good thing to do. So since, as I said above, this feels like someone else’s holiday, we are going to do what any good Jewish family does on someone else’s holiday: we’ll join our friends for Chinese food. Perhaps we are starting a new tradition.

We won’t be going to my mom’s party this year either. It is still too difficult to sit at a table jakelolawith happy, joyous people and look at the “empty chair” in which my son should be sitting. Or at the permanent dent in the couch where he used to sit in the throes of the food coma that follows. In spite of all that we have to be grateful for this year, there is still that huge hollow place in our hearts and lives where Jake used to live. Now it is inhabited by his ‘spirit’. But dammit, I want him. His solid, physical presence, that is what I miss so much today. His wicked sense of humor, his sly wisecracks, his depth of caring, his love for his friends and family. We’ll just have to carry that on in his stead. Perhaps next year we’ll roast a turkey, bake up some stuffing, whip up a vat of gravy and toast his memory with clear eyes and lighter hearts. This year, that is all but impossible.

Kung Pao Chicken, here we come.

Posted in Ceremony, Food, Friends and Family, Jake Colman, Memory | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Golfing With(out) Jake

Posted on November 23, 2014 by edcol52

Jake and I played golf throughout his life. We got him his first set of toy clubs when he was three or four. He would hockey the oversized ball around the yard until he had coaxed it into the big plastic “hole” that came with the putter, “iron”, and “driver”. We would chase each other laughing and screaming with delight. We still have the faded yellow plastic putter rattling around in our back yard. When he was a little older, I got some real junior clubs and had them cut down to his size. We would go to the driving range and he would smack golf balls off the green astroturf  mats with abandon. He graduated to a full-sized junior set when he was about nine or ten. We got him certified to play on public courses and we would go to a little par three at Rancho Park and actually play golf together. It was something we did on “boy’s days”. By the time he was twelve or thirteen, He could hit the ball pretty well.

Birdie!! Westin Mission Hills Pete Dye course.

Birdie!! Westin Mission Hills Pete Dye course. –                 Photo by Jake Colman

When he was about fourteen, he could handle a full-sized set, and in fact, he could hit farther than I could. He was a natural. As soon as he could reach the pedals, he began driving the cart. He loved driving the cart. We played wherever we went. When we took family vacations, there was often a golf course nearby. We played in Florida. We played up and down California, at some really nice courses: Aviara, Torrey Pines, Sterling Hills, Rancho Park. We played in Baja California at a beautiful track at Bajamar by the ocean. Seagulls would steal our sandwiches right out of the cart when we weren’t looking. We even played a round in England when we visited Terry’s sister and brother-in-law. But the best times were in Hawaii.

I started playing late in life, only a few years before Jake was born, so I never got really good at it. But I enjoyed playing with Jake. During our annual family vacations to Kauai, we played nearly every course on the Garden Isle. Gleefully hitting golf balls into the jungle that lined the fairways, weathering out torrential cloud bursts huddled in our carts with the roll-down plastic windows snapped to the fenders. Marveling in the magnificent rainbows that followed. Hitting the ball only 50 yards into the fierce trade winds, then 300 yards downwind. It was something we always did together and planned to always do. I often joked that as long as he could wheel me up to the ball and I could hit it, we would keep playing.

One year when he was about 8 or 9, he decided to give me a spectacular Father’s Day present. He researched limousine companies and managed to reserve a limo for the day over the phone. His intention was to give us a limo ride to a nearby golf course and pay for a round of golf with the money he made from his lemonade business. His aunt got wind of this and notified a local news station. They jumped on it and sent out a reporter and a cameraman to cover this ‘heart warming human interest story;. We made the six o’clock news. But that was what Jake was like. Always wanting to do something special for someone he loved in a way that was his and only his.

There are so many golf stories about Jake. When I worked in the film business, one of the camera rental houses had annual ‘tournaments’. They were wild affairs whose purpose was to have as much fun as possible and to raise money for a worthy cause. We played a scramble format with each foursome acting as a  team sharing the best shots. During one of these tournaments, toward the end of the day, Jake made a legitimate hole-in-one, to the utter amazement of everyone. I guess he was about 15 or 16. He became the darling of the company, their unofficial mascot. He won a computer and a new driver for the feat. He even got a little bag tag from Titleist for making the Ace. Every time thereafter I spoke with the owner of the company or any of the people who worked there, they would always, always ask about Jake. He was unforgettable.

Real men see the sunrise - At the Desert Princess

Real men see the sunrise – At the Desert Princess

We played our final rounds of golf in Palm Springs last year. We would go to visit him every couple of weeks, and the visits always involved a round of golf. We played in the 90 degree September heat, and the frigid November pre-dawn. He would post pictures up on Facebook as we played, and one morning, as the sun was just peering over the horizon and flooding the fairway with clear golden light, he put up a photo with the caption, “Real men see the sunrise.” The very last round we would play was on a magnificent Pete Dye course in the afternoon. Grey clouds gathered in the sky as the day wore on, and the massif of Mount San Jacinto that dominates the skyline in Palm Springs loomed over us. As the day drew to a close, the clouds broke and a spectacular sunset flamed alive in the western sky. We played until we couldn’t see the ball anymore. Yet one more thing left unfinished.

For the past 11 months, I haven’t been able to bring myself to pick up a club. When I passed a golf course I would start to cry. I look at his golf bag and my eyes fill with tears. My golfing buddy for life – gone. How do I play again? How do I not play? Last week I ran into a friend of mine with whom I used to play regularly more than five years ago. We chatted and he convinced me to join him for a round on Friday. I reluctantly agreed, but knew I had to start playing again, if only to have Jake come visit me on the links. So I did. We played at Brookside in Pasadena, in the shadow of the Rose Bowl. It was a glorious day, clear, warm, calm, perfect. After not touching a club for a year, I was a little apprehensive, but oddly, I played better than I thought I would. And more importantly, I enjoyed it. No tears. I even talked with my friend about playing with Jake with clear eyes. So I guess I have made more progress than I give myself credit for. At least on Friday with the memory of my beloved son riding in the cart with us, standing beside me on the tee, slamming a long straight drive, hitting a perfect three wood off the fairway onto the green, making a putt for par, he was there. I just wish he was still driving the cart for us, mumbling under his breath as he sliced a ball into the weeds, laughing as we bounced down the fairway together. So many rounds left unplayed. So many balls left un-lost. So much fun left un-had. He will always be there with me when I play from now on, just as he was with me when we played together. I may enjoy playing once again, but there will always be something missing, as there is in every aspect of life. But for now, I’ll just have to take what I can get.

The Last Sunset

The Last Sunset

Posted in Golf, Healing, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Jake's Spirit, Memory, Progress | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Terry’s Treats

Posted on November 22, 2014 by edcol52

This gallery contains 11 photos.

Originally posted on Hot Eddie's:
Due to overwhelming popular demand, Terry is now baking cookies for you! She makes delicious wheat-free and non-dairy almond macaroons in a variety of flavors: Citrus, Citrus Raspberry Center, Chocolate Dipped, Citrus Cardamom, Chocolate Bomb and…

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Eleven Months

Posted on November 17, 2014 by edcol52

It is the orthodox custom to recite Kaddish, the prayer said by mourners on behalf of the departed, for eleven months following the death of a parent. Why eleven months? The belief is that the departed sits under Divine judgement for a year. The full year is the amount needed to judge a wicked person, and since our parents are certainly not wicked, we only say kaddish for eleven months minus one day. In the case of a son, one is obligated to recite the kaddish for 30 days only, but for me, I needed the whole eleven months. If, in the custom, the son brings merit to the father by reciting Kaddish, in this topsy-turvy world, this father brings merit to the son. So for the first several months I made it to shul every day to say it. As the time wore on, it became more and more difficult to be there. The realization of why I was there and for whom I was reciting began to truly sink in, so I stopped going every morning. I still said it during the weekend Shabbat services and whenever I was in shul with a minyan, and contrary to custom and Jewish law, sometimes I just recited it by myself.

Eleven months. The time has at once oozed by and rocketed by. Just like the 24 years of Jake’s life. Gone in the blink of an eye. Time is such a relative, subjective, plastic, thing. At once long and short. How the days grind by so slowly, and yet, nearly a year of those grinding days is past. It is these milestones of time, the ticks on a calendar that prompt stock-taking, examining how far or how little we have come, never mind how far we still have to go. That eleven months is up tonight, and I have been in an emotional daze since Friday, the last Shabbat of the eleven months. After tonight, I won’t say Kaddish any more save for on the anniversary of Jake’s death and during the Yizkor memorial service, said a few times a year. So how far have we come? Not very.

Everyone who grieves has a different timeline and a different way of traveling this lost highway. I follow several blogs of fellow travelers, and each has a unique way of seeing and experiencing their journey. For me, there is still that aura of disbelief that it is all happening. Even after all this time. I know that Jake will never show up on my doorstep again, but emotionally, I just can’t believe it. Acceptance? Well, not really. I will never accept that this had to happen, at least that is where I am now. Perhaps in another eleven months or eleven years that will change, but deep down, I don’t think anyone who experiences this magnitude of loss ever truly ‘accepts’ it. We just learn how to deal with it. I guess that is the true goal of the grief process, a full and final acceptance of the situation, and the discovery of how to move forward with one’s life.

And we are moving forward. Baby steps. I am teaching and writing. Other than my two blogs, I just got accepted as a freelance writer for a popular website, and have contributed on occasion, to a prestigious political publication. I recently had a promising job interview for something I could do and would be good at. I have been unemployed for two years, so the possibility of income is very attractive. However, these two years ‘off’ has been a double-edged sword. On one hand, I haven’t had to ‘suck it up’ and get back to work. I have been free to break down and rebuild myself day by day. I was so distracted during those first horrible months, I can’t imagine having to be organized and productive. On the other hand, I didn’t have the necessity of having to suck it up and get back to work. The luxury of immersing myself in something to take my mind off the despair. As if.

Returning from the gathering tonight, a gathering with our very best friends from our community, I had a chance to reflect on where we are and where we are going. We toasted to Jake, ate some of his favorite goodies, cried a bit and laughed a bit. But nothing really changes. It is still so surreal. He is still gone. No longer here with us. Nothing will change that. This isn’t some movie where a shift in the time-space continuum on page nineteen effects a cosmic reunion. We can’t blink three times and go back to December 27, 2013, the day ‘before’. No DeLorean Time Machine. No ruby slippers; that isn’t in the script. So what is next?

Living our lives as best we can. Learning to walk on one leg, to see with one eye, to live with half a heart. And we do it. Tonight someone said something about what Jake would want us to do. How I had to be strong and carry on. Well, I will carry on, but strong? I don’t know. For me, it takes great strength simply to get out of bed each day. To put on my big boy pants and face the world. How does anyone know what Jake would want us to do? It is so easy to mouth such platitudes, as if that is meant to bring comfort. Frankly, there is no comfort to be had. Every day is filled with longing. The mask fits better and better as time goes by, but behind the façade, there is still emptiness and pain and bewilderment and sorrow and …

I follow a blog called Grief and Gratitude. The latest post is about Mounting Loss. It is worth reading. Yes, the losses mount higher and higher every day. I have plenty of grief, and while my gratitude is difficult to realize, I am grateful for some of the things I have in my life. I have a roof over my head, food to eat, people who love me. I have my health, mostly, and do find some satisfaction in the work I do. But that deeper “gratitude” still eludes me. That unquestioning gratefulness for just being alive in this world. It is a beautiful world on some levels. But for me, that beauty is tempered with such sadness as to make it unrecognizable at times. Not all the times, but when that Grief Bandit jumps out of the rocks and attacks, everything goes all dark and grey. It happens less and less as time goes by, thankfully, but when it does strike, it is no less powerful.

So we mark the eleventh month. On the 14th of December we will have the unveiling of Jake’s headstone which marks another ‘milestone’ on grief’s journey. People will come and gather at his grave. We will say another Kaddish. We will cry together and perhaps share a story that will make us laugh together. And another eleven months will pass, and another, and another. But there will never be a new ‘normal’. Life from now on will never be normal. We will just have to learn to deal with this horrible abnormality, as one learns to live with one arm, or a missing lung. But we are human, we’ll deal with it. Maybe not so elegantly as some, maybe not as graciously as some, but we will deal with it. What other choice do we have?

 

Posted in Ceremony, Friends and Family, Grief, Honoring Jake, Jake Colman, Progress, Sadness | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments

How to Help A Grieving Friend

Posted on November 16, 2014 by edcol52

Here is another excellent article from Megan Devine on how to help a grieving friend. It speaks for itself, and if you know someone who has recently lost a loved one, you can help in meaningful, concrete ways. You can’t fix anything, you can’t change anything, but you can stand by your friend, support them, and help them with the daily tasks that can be overwhelming to someone who is grieving.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/megan-devine/death-and-dying_b_4329830.html

Posted in Blog, Coping, Friends and Family, Grief, Jake Colman, Support | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

The Akeidah

Posted on November 8, 2014 by edcol52

God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son”
Abe says, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on”
God say, “No”, Abe say, “What?”
God say, “You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin’ you better run”
Well, Abe says, “Where do you want this killin’ done?”
God says, “Out on Highway 61”.                           -Bob Dylan, ‘Highway 61 Revisited’

chagall-akedah

The Akeidah – The Binding of Isaac by Marc Chagall

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every week we read a portion of the Torah. This week’s portion is Vayeira, Hebrew for ‘and he appeared’ (referring to God before Abraham). There is a lot going on in this portion, as there is in most of the book of Genesis. Sarah is promised a son, Sodom and Gomorrah are destroyed, Lot’s wife is turned into a pillar of salt, Lot escapes, sleeps with his daughters, and fathers two sons. Sarah is abducted by Abimelech, a Philistine king, and rescued, Isaac is born, Hagar and Ishmael are thrown out of Abraham’s house and rescued by an Angel, and in the most chilling episode in the entire Torah, God sets Abraham’s tenth trial: The Akeidah, The Binding of Isaac on the Altar. Sounds like an episode of “All My Children.”

Before Jake was born, I didn’t really read the Torah much. In fact, I didn’t read it at all. I knew about Abraham’s trial abstractly, knew Dylan’s song, Highway 61, but there wasn’t any emotional connection. The story didn’t mean much, nor have any effect on me. Until I became a father. Once Jake came along and I heard this read for the first time, when he was about 12 years old, my blood ran cold at the telling of the story. What father could calmly bind his child, sharpen up the knife and prepare to offer him up as a sacrifice? God or no God.

By this point in the story, God has promised Abraham that his descendants will be as numerous as the stars, will inherit the Land, and as long as Abe follows God’s instructions, all will be well. And then He asks, no, tells him to ‘offer up his son, his only son, the one he loves, Isaac’, to prove his faith. Wait, to prove his faith? Hasn’t God put Abraham through enough? This is, after all, the Tenth Trial. Didn’t Abraham pick up everything and leave home at the drop of a hat for an unknown destination? Didn’t he go down to Egypt where Sarah was abducted for the first time by Pharaoh? Didn’t Abimelech abduct her again and try to make her his wife just a few verses ago? Didn’t Abe have to deal with famine? Wasn’t he forced into war with the five kings to rescue his nephew, Lot? Didn’t he circumcise himself?? Who circumcises himself? God certainly needed a lot of convincing. Why wasn’t nine enough? There are so many discourses about this by a legion of sages and commentators; it is a topic of endless discussion even until today.

I sat in shul today, and let the Hebrew of the reading of the Akedah roll over me, eyes closed and brimming with tears; I couldn’t bear to follow along with the English translation. I already know the story. To make matters worse, the Haftorah, the weekly companion section of the Prophets, tells a story of a boy who dies, and the prophet Elisha brings him back to life. Where was Elisha when I needed him to breathe life back into my son, my only son, the one I loved, Jacob. On what altar was Jake sacrificed? For what purpose? What good did it do, whom did it serve? What demonic  plan includes the heart wrenching sorrow of a mother and father deprived of their only son in the blossom of his life? Who needed Jake more than we did? There will never be answers to these and the ten million questions I ask daily. Of course the key difference between the Akedah and Jake’s story, is that an Angel stays Abraham’s hand at the final second and spares Isaac’s life. Where was Jake’s angel at the crucial moment?

Jake taught me that as a father, my job was to protect him and my family. From all comers. To nurture him and tend him as he grew. Not being as righteous as Abraham, or more accurately, possessing that kind of faith, I could never put him in harm’s way even for God. Never. In fact, for his 24½ years, I did everything in my power to keep him out of danger, both from external and internal dangers. The tricky part is that we can see the external dangers, usually. Can take measures to avoid them, can defend against them when we see them coming. It is the internal dangers, hidden in the dim reaches of the mind and spirit that are more difficult to detect, and impossible to defend against. I did my best to protect my son from whatever dangers I could see, I just couldn’t protect him from himself.

I still think maybe there was something more I could have done. Something I shouldn’t have done; I may think that forever. Not the most productive train of thought, but I can’t help it. No one who has gone through such a tragedy can help but question themselves. More questions for which there are no answers. People tell me that I did the best I could at the time, at each time I had to make a choice. In hindsight, which is perfect, I might have made different choices that might have led to different outcomes. Who can know?

So for now, I am walking down Highway 61, thumb out, looking for a ride to a better place. It’s hot out here. And dusty. Not much traffic, and those cars that do come along whiz past without a second glance. I’ll just keep walking. Maybe I’ll find Abraham’s tent and he will welcome me in for a cool drink and something to eat. Maybe that oasis ahead is just a mirage. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Only time and distance will tell; I have so much farther to travel.

 

Posted in Ceremony, Daily Ramblings, Jake Colman, Observations | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments