What do we know?

At the beginning of parshat Balak (Bamidbar 22:2 and forward) Balak tries to recruit Bilam. He does this motivated by having seen what “Israel had done to the Emori” two verses earlier. But when he sends messengers to make his case he references (22:5) just that “a nation exited from Egypt.” This is a reference to an event which took place over 38 years earlier! With all their exploits in the desert, wouldn’t their renown be clear based on something beyond the Exodus? Even from that time, the miracle at the Reed Sea would be worthy of note. The battles, the miracles over 38 years would be a useful way to refer to this people. And yet, he references their leaving Egypt. This might have been a political move (Moab was reliant on Emor but maybe Bil’am wasn’t a fan so he would not have been moved by any recent downfall suffered by Emor, but it doesn’t explain the choice of the Exodus) or this might have been motivated by other concerns.

The Ohr Hachayim justifies the reference to the nation’s leaving Egypt by reminding Bilam that he had (when he was an advisor to Paroh, all those years ago) uttered a curse which should have prevented Israel’s departure, and yet they departed. This reference is a reminder of Bilam’s failure to push him to action now. This would explain why no other event would be noted, but would still root any fear or response in a thirty-eight year old grudge.

Other commentators look at the choice of historical reference differently. The Kli Yakar focuses on the verb form of “yatza” (which the Stone chumash renders as “has come out of”) but this doesn’t address why Bilam should be afraid of the people. The Malbim says that it was subterfuge – if Bilam knew that the nation that he was to go against was the same one that, 38 years earlier, had left Egypt, he would have instantly demurred, so the verb made it seem that he was talking about another nation that had more recently left Egypt (which is why he didn’t name the nation).

It appears to me that the choice of the Exodus had to be an intentional and pointed choice, but not just because it was a personal dig at Bilam’s failure – it has to do with crafting a reputation. How people know us now is often, and unexpectedly, based on what ancient history others have decided defines us. The Children of Israel had suffered plagues, fought battles against the Amalekites and received the Torah but who were they in the minds of others? The nation that left Egypt in its relative youth. But like a game of telephone, the details become muddy over time and the conclusions people draw from some other version of the events remain.

Soon after the Exodus, word had spread of the events. In the beginning of parshat Yitro (Ex. 18:1), Yitro hears about the same events but what he heard was “all that God did” and “that God had taken Israel out of Egypt.” Note the difference – Thirty-eight years later, people who talk about the event mention just “the nation that left Egypt.” No mention of God. Balak and Bilam can be frightened because a nation made its way out of Egypt with no help so they must be a formidable enemy, but one that can be countered with any measure of the supernatural because they did everything on their own. Over time and retelling, God was lost. Over time and retelling, a new sense of who Israel was developed, one probably bolstered by their misdeeds in the desert and one which was not complimentary and which exposed them to attack.

The good is oft interred with the bones, but the evil lives on and no one can escape calumny. We must be ever vigilant to protect our good name and know that it is easy, especially over time, to lose that good name, and people often remember bits and pieces, and from this, if we have not worked to remind others of our positive qualities, they decide who we are for us.

What have I learned over the last 3 plus weeks, listening to stories people have told me about my father? I found out that my father knew that a good name was more valuable than anything. He worked at being a professional, a vital member of a community and a mensch. And years after the fact, people remembered not some bare bones version, stripped of its details and best attributes, but involved stories which described, even 38 years after the fact, all the best parts of him. No one decided that he was open to attack because of misinformation, and no one assumed his character was vulnerable because they had to assume things about him.

The rest is silence

So it has been over a week. My dad passed away a week and a half ago and I am processing it. That still isn't much time and maybe, I don't have the kind of chronological distance to allow be the right to hindsight and retrospection. In longer time, maybe I will be able to craft something witty and insightful informed by the wisdom of years and not days. But right now I am starting the healing process and trying to be as aware of every moment so that later I won't say that everything was such a blur. Because everything has been such a blur.

I still find myself choked up at odd moments, with blips of memory seeping through and connecting with random phrases, ideas and images. I do my best not to break down and maybe, as the days go by, that will become easier, whether or not I want it to. Right now, I'm just not sure. Do I want to hurt? Do I want to man up and accept and try to move on (for literature nerds, who was right, Hamlet or his mother and step-father as it relates to dealing with the loss of a father?) I just don't know what is expected, right, proper or normal. Strangely, no one has written the definitive book telling me how to feel and what to do. It is almost like the grieving process is unique to each individual. That's not very helpful.

Yesterday something struck me. While I "miss" so much, there are certain things that I miss more than others. I have pictures of my dad, so I don't have to worry about his appearance's disappearing from my mind. I can picture him but I don't have to -- the internet, the photo albums and the cameras we have are well stocked with his face from his younger years until recently. I can show people what he looked like. I can remind myself of his face with and without a beard (and even with hair). I can find pictures of him singing, sitting with his grandchildren (and great grandchildren), or praying. So that's taken care of.

I don't yet miss his ideas. Not only do I feel that his thought process impressed itself on me so I have adopted ways of approaching the world that mirror his, but he left behind concrete examples of how he thought through substantial amounts of writing. His cookbook, his book of short stories, his Judaica catalog and his letters and professional contributions are always there for me. He also has his blog which is full of bad puns, political musings and more personal reflections on himself as a Jew, an American and as someone with cancer. Side note -- I recommend his blog to people so that they can get a sense of who he was, but I warn them: he set up a delay on the publishing of his writing so you might still see new posts dated after his death. It is weird, but this is very comforting to me. There is more to come, and more for me to learn about him.

In a horrible way, I can't even say that I miss his being around. The fact is, and I'm being brutally honest here, while we were close in one sense, we didn't hang around together much. He had his life and I have mine so while there were weekly phone conversations (plus occasional others, as the calendar deemed appropriate) and emails, and we did see each other when it was mutually convenient, I, on a day-to-day basis, took his presence for granted and didn't go out of my way to refresh my connection with any responsible frequency. That wasn't because I was an especially bad son, or because of any tension or animosity -- it was a result of how I was brought up and who I am. That might be "not as good as I should have been" and that's a guilt that I have to wrestle with, and I do, but at the time, it made sense.

But here's what I realized that I really miss: his voice. I'm a voice guy so this hits me hard. We have recordings from 40 or more years ago but they don't sound like he sounded during most of my life -- the quality of the recordings, their age, and the changes in people make it clear that what I have isn't his voice -- I can compare what is recorded from 1967 with how my mother sounds now and they aren't even close. I can picture him and if I can't, I can look up images. I can quote him, and if I can't I can find his writings. But I can't hear him, the "him" I remember from my teen age years, my young adulthood and into my middle age. Sure, I can hear a choir he is in, but I don't hear HIM. I can imagine what he would say, or laugh with friends about how he answered questions (when asked, "How are you" he answered "Faaaan-tastic!" or something like that), but I will never hear his voice again. And that hurts me a lot. To call the home phone and hear "Rosen, here" just one more time would be wonderful. To hear him yell my name at dinner time, and not to come down promptly just so that he would yell it again and I could savor it. To hear him sing the kiddush, or warble (intentionally off key) a bit of "Melancholy Baby" just once more. But it won't happen. I can imagine his voice saying "I don't know" or "ask your mother" but that memorial fiction, even if it does not fade, is unverifiable. I am no professional mimic so all I have is the way I remember it, and who knows how accurate that is. So I fear losing that one aspect which I cannot get back, ever. I tear up. I have a pit in my stomach when I realize that I can't ever remind myself of the exact pitch and timbre, the essence of who he was.

We can read speeches. We can look at pictures. But life is in the delivery and his was unmatched. I miss what made him into a person, his voice.