No matter how long a loved one lived, he died too soon. That’s how I feel about Dad, who died Monday.
Except he should have died the previous Wednesday when he stopped breathing. Could he
speak, he would have pleaded with the technicians to respect the form he signed and not stick
tube down his throat.
Except he should not have survived lymphoma 19 years ago, nor should he have survived being
sent back into the football game with an injured neck.
And how did little Teddy survive when Grandpa Max threw him out the car window to avoid a
crash that left Grandma Mae in traction.
The truth is, he should never have been born in the first place. Before you gasp, let me explain.
The doctor did not believe he would have a healthy birth and recommended an abortion. But
Grandma Mae and Grandpa Max rejected their doctor’s advice, and fate proved them right.
Joyous to have a son to go with their two daughters, Mae and Max gave him the Hebrew name
of Tuvya, which means the goodness of God. Tuvya dovetailed nicely with Theodore, which
means God’s gift. Theodore? Theology? You get the idea.
Fast forward about twelve years. Little Teddy attends the community Hebrew school, where old
men from places like Annatevka used a stick to keep the boys in line. Any time you made the
slightest wrong move, you’re hit with a stick. Until Teddy grabbed the stick and struck his
teacher. They never hit Teddy again, and Teddy would never feel an attachment for the Jewish
religion.
As a young family man in Des Moines’s tight-knit Jewish community, Dad tolerated the high
holiday and bar mitzvah services. But after moving to San Diego in 1979, he could freely assert
his true beliefs by joining the Jewish Secular Humanist congregation, where Jewish life is
celebrated with no mention of God.
In a world where many are oppressed because of their refusal to conform to religious belief,
Dad supported the American Civil Liberties Union and Americans United for the Separation of
Church and State. And Dad died the way he lived, skipping the funeral and donating his body to
the UCSD Medical School. And don’t forget, this is a celebration of life, not a memorial
“service.”
I have been observing the seven days of mourning by walking every morning to the
Conservation synagogue to say Kaddish. As I recite the words Yitgadal v’yitkadash, glorifying
God’s greatness, I am proud of my father who stood tall for his true beliefs. By the same token,
Dad always supported me whenever I made a decision about my own life, no matter how
differently I lived it. Even when I participated in the Torah service at our cousin Haley’s Bat
Mitzvah, I could see how proud he was.
For all our differences, one thing Dad and I shared was a love of art. For him, that meant
painting, photography and decorative gourds. For me, that means among other things the art of
chanting from the Torah - and imagining a supreme God to express gratitude for what we have
and wonder for the beauty and vastness of the universe.
We also both liked sports.
And while Dad donated to Bernie, I’m still kind of on the fence between him and Hillary.
And as hard as I try, I’ll never master Dad’s whimsical sense of humor. For example, whenever
he wrote me a letter, he signed off with the words Dear Old Dad.
Dad, you thought you were being funny, but you were very dear to me. And you really did
become very old. And God was very good to let me be your son.
Items on display at the Celebration of Life
Only upon going through his files did I realize the extent of Dad's interest in astronomy.
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