Barry, we hardly knew ye.

Yom revi'i, 21 Iyar 5771.

Barry's final resting place looks out over these beautiful hills.

As a friend of mine said today at the levaya:  "It's a bad day when you wake up in the Gush and have to decide which funeral to go to."

Yesterday was a tough day in Israel, and specifically heavy for Gush Etzion.  There were a number of vehicle accidents that resulted in deaths, three of whom were from our communities; and a friend here in Neve Daniel lost his battle with cancer.

Forty-three is just too young.  Especially when there are three little kids left behind with their mother to try to figure out what is going on.  There are so many sad ironies here:  Barry seemed to have won his battle, more-or-less, and was on a pilot trip with his family to determine where they would live when they made aliyah.  He was suddenly stricken ill; and during his long stay in the hospital, much around him changed, as a result of his circumstances.

His dear friend and brother-in-law had summed it up with his usual off-beat humor (that he says he learned from Barry):  "When he wakes up, he's going to have to deal with some pretty big changes.  He and his family are olim [new immigrants to Israel].  He's got a new country, a new language to learn; his kids are all enrolled in Israeli schools...  I think the first thing I'll tell him is that Bin Laden is dead.  He'll be able to handle that."

He never got to put a smile on Barry's face by sharing that news.

This difficult couple of days strangely reminds me again about the good of being a Jew, and the good of living in Israel.

In my personal olden days, I was spared the pain of knowing too deeply the pain of others, or the great joy of being constantly apprised of their moments of joy.  I was unaccustomed to being intertwined at the Jewish level in the lives of others.

But as we got involved with the Jewish experience, we were joyfully and painfully aware of the life cycle events, from birth to death, of our adopted extended family.  And since we moved to Israel, this collective sensation has only deepened.  Clearly, this is bad and good.

In the famous words of fellow blogger, RivkA, a"h, "I choose to focus on the good."

• When you hear about the traffic accidents in Israel, you know that most of the country will be pasted to computers, trying to find out who were the victims, and if they were, in fact, accidents.  (At this writing, that last detail is still being investigated.)
• When you hear the names at last, you know that you know them, or at least something about them, or at least someone who knows them, because we are such a small and intimate country.
• When you need a ride to the levaya, you know that five to ten people will come through with offers.
• Some people at the levaya will be from places across the country, even though they are not related to the family, because the whole country is the size of New Jersey.
•  Because it's Israel, we can all cry together and say Tehillim anywhere, and no one will look at us funny.
• Because we are family, we will visit the mourners for seven days, and listen to whatever they have to share -- even silence, or stories, or tears, or laughter.
• Because we are family, I know those little children and their mother will eat and have shelter, even as they try to figure out what they are going to do with their lives.

As we were leaving the cemetery, one of his daughters said, with the sweetness of a young becoming-aware child:  "Most of these people only met my daddy once or twice.  They don't even know him."

I said to her, "You will tell stories, and then they will know him.  And if you tell them a lot, then you will remember them.  I'm coming to see you later.  Think of a really great story, okay?"

She gave me that shy smile/shrug that she's already picked up from the Israeli kids she goes to school with.

Eliezer Baruch Chaim ben Gedalia, I have to take you off my refua shelaima davening list.  But you will stay in my heart, even though I am one of those people who will have to rely on stories to get to know you.  Like many other people, in our community and beyond, I took on a small mitzvah in your merit.  Each week when I learn that little extra on your behalf, you will be there.

Thank you for making me a better Jew.

May Amy and her children Miri, Eliana, and Binyamin, along with the rest of Barry's family, be comforted among the mourners of Tzion and Yerushalayim.

To learn more about Barry, and to help in any way you can with the care of widow and his orphans, please visit The Barry Shuter Family Trust.

Glossary:

Barry, we hardly knew ye: a play on the title a famous Irish anti-war song.  We are at war with cancer; so it seemed fitting.

Levaya: funeral

Gush Etzion: a "settlement bloc" in the southern foothills of Jerusalem, in the hills of Judea

Refua shelaima davening list: too many names of sick people who need a speedy and total recovery, for whom we pray

"Our lives are filled with choices. I chose to expect the best."

Yom rishon, 24 Cheshvan 5771.

The first time I met RivkA in person was at the First Annual J-Bloggers' Convention.

It was a lovely morning for an engagement party, the last time I saw RivkA bat Yishaya, a"h, alive.

Her sister-in-law's daughter was getting married.  I was so moved by the speeches given by the kallah's sisters in her honor.

Even though I had seen RivkA at this same home only a few months before at her niece's bat mitzvah, it did not occur to me to think about seeing her at the engagement party.  I remember looking around at all the guests, drinking in the simcha.  My eye kept being drawn to a beautiful, graceful woman in the center of the circle of chairs.  She seemed to be sitting by herself -- not just apart from the people, but from the place and time.  I felt as if I ought to know her, but couldn't quite place her.  After a while, I sort of forgot about her, and went on enjoying the gathering.

"Aren't you going to say hello to me, Ruti?"

The question had come from the beautiful woman.  Somehow, seeing her face in the motion of making words, I recognized her.  RivkA!  The last time I had seen her -- indeed, throughout the duration of our brief friendship -- her face had been very round from the side effects of chemotherapy.  She was always jovial, a little argumentative, in the friendliest possible way, full of an almost defiant joie de vivre.  Now she was slim and quiet, a bit tired, otherworldly.

We chatted a bit, about her niece's simcha, about our children, about blogging.  Then we sat together, as we always did, the few times we ran into each other "in real life," without speaking too much.  Companionable silence with RivkA was as special and warm as conversation with her was.  As was said at her levaya, RivkA never let anyone feel unimportant, and she never let anyone make her feel small.

RivkA was a life-impacter to anyone who encountered her.  How did she add to your life?

RivkA ("with an A") has affected my life profoundly, as she has affected the lives of so many others.  I am a better blogger because of her.  I have learned to listen more sympathetically to the genuine struggles a feminist scholar must endure to balance her sense of self with the conventional understandings of a woman's role in Torah.  I have become a better debater on behalf of my views, political and religious.  I do not know if I am any braver in the face of cancer.  I think it still scares me witless.  But I admire that she was able to persevere with such grace under fire nuclear holocaust.

Eleven days ago, I got the first message from a friend that things had moved to a precarious place for RivkA.  A friend in the "blogosphere" began arranging a mishmeret for her, so that all of her friends could have the opportunity to say Tehillim on her behalf, to storm the Heavens to try to change the decree.  Another friend took over her blog, updating concerned readers about her status.  Someone else arranged visits and help for her family while she was in the hospital.

I contacted a friend who I knew would be able to listen, and could give me some psycho-emotional counseling.  "How do I get past this feeling that I am sitting on yet another death watch?"  I asked him.  I have seen a few miracles.  I wanted our Tehillim to change the natural course of events.  I just didn't want to give RivkA up -- and I felt guilty for having doubts that she would make it out of this terrible stage of her battle.  He reminded me that Hashem expects us to ask for His help on behalf of others, but that He also instructs us not to rely on miracles.  At the end of days, we will know exactly how much value each prayer and tear had.  Nothing on behalf of another Jew is wasted.  But we must also trust the True Judge to know what He is doing.

Taking RivkA bat Teirtzel off of my davening list is one of the hardest things I've had to do lately.  Her incredible courage and optimism strengthened my belief in miracles.  I just knew that the only way she was coming off of that list was for the best reason possible.

RivkA participated in bringing the Moshiach nearer.  I know this, as I know that increasing the wattage in the light bulbs in my house brightens the darkest corners.  I will miss her so much.  But the light will continue to shine, from her beautiful family, from her writing that will carry on her message of hope and optimism, and from the countless people whose lives she enhanced.

RivkA and Moshe

Note to fellow bloggers, and RivkA's friends in Israel:  In honor of RivkA bat Yishaya -- let's a bunch of us get together soon and go to a movie. We could laugh and be rowdy. No talking during the movie, and pizza afterwards.

Good friends stay with us forever.

May the family of RivkA bat Yishaya be comforted among the mourners of Tzion and Yerushalayim.

Glossary:
Kallah: bride-to-be
Mishmeret: prayer circle on behalf of someone who is ill, literally from the word meaning "to guard"
Tehillim: Psalms

Happy Birthday, RivkA.

Yom chamishi, 4 Adar 5770.

You really ask so little.  All you asked for as a birthday present was a favorite story involving you.  The problem is that I don't have one.  I only have your smile.

We had been corresponding anonymously for a while, due to your remarkable attitude and writing on your notable blog, Coffee and Chemo.  When we met for the first time at the first J-Bloggers' Convention -- may we meet at many more! -- you smiled that amazing smile.  It said, "Hi, friend.  Good to see you again."  I felt like we had know each other forever -- at least since Har Sinai.

Every time I have seen you since -- at the Second Annual J-Bloggers' Convention; at the J-Bloggers' Picnic in Gan Sachar; and the special surprise of seeing you at my dear friend's daughter's bat mitzvah!  (Who knew you were her auntie???) -- you have bestowed upon me that special RivkA smile.

Connection.

We're all one entity.

We can get through whatever @#%! the world throws at us, as long as we do it together.

That's what that smile says.  (Would that we Jews could ALL give each other that encouraging smile!)

That smile, my dear RivkA, is the only present I want from you for my birthday, for the next 76 years.  Do your best, okay?

Love,

rutimizrachi