“Ha gomel l’hayavim tovos …”
(Who bestows kindnesses ...)
My mood swings pendulously as we approach the season of the Yomim Noraim. Starting with the renewal of hope that Rosh Ha Shanah connotes and ending with the trepidation of Yom Kippur, I cannot but probe this time of year, the special nature of which we devote to personal reflection, fasting and prayer.
While true we do not know the names of those who will be inscribed and sealed in the Sefer Chaim when Yom Kippur is over, the din of these existential matters belongs exclusively to the Dayan Emes, whose province lies beyond that which Rabbi Louis calls “the inquisitive grasp of man.”
However, we pray our tefilos, tzedaka and tshuva are of sufficient merit to avert the evil decree and spare us the pain of personal tragedy.
How should we explain “near misses” with death, when it could have very conceivably gone the other way? Can we explain them rationally or should we define them as miracles and be done with it? If as miracles, they are different than the miraculous inversions of nature found in the Torah or the innumerable miracles we encounter daily: sunrise, the birth of a child, night from day-all of which we like to call the wonders of “nature”.
What about blind luck, the roll of the dice or random chaos? Should everyone believe that The One Above governs the world? Would it not be better were every knee to bend and every tongue give homage? Perhaps but with this essential caveat: faith does not guarantee against tragedy, but what it does do is strengthen us when we are most in need of assistance, comfort, and protection from apostasy.
As frustrating a reality as it is, bad things befall all kinds of people. The nature of human powerlessness only begins to make sense when we acknowledge that He alone governs the world in ways we neither understand nor like at times.
The day at work was much like the one before: a busy morning, phones ringing steadily, a brisk pace. I took the next call.
“Mr. Busch?” a woman’s voice asked. A stranger spoke. I listened. Something about her tone, her almost official, business-like approach, all too familiar-I began to tremble.
“No! This can’t be happening, Please God …,” I prayed.
“Yes, this is Mr. Busch,” I replied, wishing I were not.
“My name is Ann and I have just left your daughter Kimberly,” she said calmly.
“Is she alright, is she hurt, tell me where she is,” I demanded.
“Mr. Busch, she is fine. Really! We’re about eighty miles south of Chicago by Pontiac. Kimberly was involved in an accident, but she is unhurt, not a scratch.”
“Kimmy, in an accident.Oy Got! Unhurt! Thank God!”
“Yes, that’s right. She’s fine. I’ve already left the scene, but I promised her I’d call you as soon as the police arrived and felt confident she was okay.”
“Well, wha … what happened?”
While on her way to Chicago, Ann witnessed a collision on the interstate. Pulling over to help out however she could, she
came across my daughter Kimberly who-we later learned- had lost control of her steering wheel when an eighteen-wheeler she was attempting to pass forced her onto the shoulder of the passing lane. Crossing the grassy median, Kimberly struck a van headed in the opposite direction.
By this point in Anne’s narration, my heart was racing so much, my head pounding so violently, I could barely contain myself. Even though Anne emphatically stressed and reiterated that Kimmy was unhurt, I couldn’t prevent flashbacks of Ben’s last day rushing into my head.
“Listen Ann, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You can’t imagine what your good news means to me. Really and truly.”
“Oh, you’re welcome Mr. Busch. I’m just glad she’s okay.”
I hung up the telephone hurriedly and only then realized I had forgotten to write down her name and number. I called Kimberly’s mother. With as much calm as I was able to feign, I cut to the end of the story.
“Jan, hi. It’s Alan. Sorry to call at work but it’s urgent,” I stressed.
“What is it?” she asked with trepidation.
Whenever I think about my kids in dire and dangerous situations, my voice begins to falter.
“Jan, Kimmy was in an accident, but she’s fine, completely unhurt,” I hastened to emphasize.
“Kimmy, what? An accident!? No, not Kimmy … she cried out, her voice choked with emotion.
Listen to me, hon, “I reassured her,” calling her by an old term of endearment.
“Kimberly is safe and unhurt,” I reassured her. “She’ll tell ya everything later. Listen I’m leaving to get her right now. Talk later,” I said, gathering my things, ready to run out. I looked at the digital clock atop my old desk radio. It was already after 3:00. With barely the time and breath to inform my co-workers about what had happened, I raced away.
Although Anne had assured me Kimmy was okay, I called the cell number she had given me of the state trooper who was at the scene. Exceedingly kind and understanding of a father’s worriment, she patiently humored me while I asked after Kimmy’s status unabatedly.
Within an hour, having exceeded the speed limit for which, if stopped, I had prepared an explanation.
I found Kimberly waiting for me in front of the service station that had towed her car. Kimmy was anxious to leave immediately, but I needed a few minutes. So before heading home, I tried the driver’s side door. Amazingly it opened cleanly. I sat down.
Never having seen an airbag deployed, I slumped there dumbfounded, gapping incredulously at what just hours before had been a sporty red convertible Toyota. The front end of the car was accordioned within several inches of the dashboard.
“Dad, are you ready?” Kimmy asked impatiently.
“Yes Babe,” I replied, struggling to not break down in front of my daughter. “Let’s go Sweetypie.” I had so many syrupy names for her.
We drove home mostly in silence.
Understandably, Kimmy was skittish, jumpy, every time I applied the brake or switched lanes. Who knows how many times she must have rerun the whole thing in her mind on our way home together.
“Kimmy Babe?” I asked, calling her by one of my favorites.
“Ya okay?”
“Yes, Dad, just beat,” she exhaustively uttered.
“Yea, I know,” I added with just the right amount “Daddy” sympathy. I dropped her off at her mom’s house, my heart sinking, but here she was … safe and sound.
Why was Kimberly saved?
I don’t have an answer anymore now than I did before when I asked why Ben was not.
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 Shabbes begins … a sort of bridging the distance between us.
We sat.
“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 tremble 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.
