JASON MEANT “HEALER”

It has been 32 years since my son Jason died. It wasn’t until after his death that I learned his name meant “healer.”

Even though he died a long time ago, there is no escaping the indelible influence he continues to have upon my life. Only this past weekend, I had a remarkable healing experience completely related to him.

A few months ago, I received a Bar Mitzvah invitation for a good friend’s grandson. It was held at the same synagogue I attended as a child – where I was a Bat Mitzvah 51 years earlier. I planned to attend, even though it wasn’t something I was looking forward to.

I know it’s probably best not to write about anything related to religion, however, writing has always been so therapeutic for me. Therefore, I will continue sharing my honest feelings.

For most of my life, I felt spiritually confused and empty. I grew up very disconnected from my religion. Throughout my childhood, I was at that temple four days out of seven. There was Hebrew school, Sunday school, and Junior Congregation. I tuned out everything and tried to ditch whenever I could.

My better memories were when I wasn’t in class and exploring hidden corridors of the temple with fellow classmates. (Except for the time one of my male classmates groped me while going up a ladder in the dark.)

My mother was passionate about religious rituals and I went along for the ride. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that I changed gears. I insisted my parents attend a therapy session with me. At the time, I was suffering from depression.

With my therapist’s support, I courageously told them I wouldn’t follow their religious rituals or attend services anymore. I finally had my religious independence and it was a huge relief when the meeting was over. Gradually my depression lifted, although I continued to feel guilty about hurting my mother.

Not long after that, my first child Jason was born. He had a serious congenital heart defect and was very sick. My issue with my mother evaporated. I couldn’t have gotten through his illness without both my parents’ love and support.

But when Jason died at the age of five, the disconnect with my religion further widened. The rabbi that officiated at his funeral was one of my former Hebrew school teachers. He also had performed my wedding.

When the funeral was over, he rushed off and I never heard from him again. I’m not sure what I expected, but the disappointment stayed with me. I felt abandoned.

Many friends were surprised that he hadn’t offered me more spiritual guidance. I excused it because I remembered that he and his wife had lost a baby. Perhaps Jason’s death had triggered difficult emotions for him on that day.

As that Bar Mitzvah grew closer, I felt a lot of anxiety. I delved into my feelings hoping I’d find insight into ways that would help me through it.

And then Jason came into the forefront of my thoughts. It was because of his death that I became friends with Susan. The Bar Mitzvah was for her grandson.

Susan didn’t know me; her daughter was in Jason’s preschool class. She mailed me a very touching card about how deeply his funeral had moved her. I had recorded his eulogy the night before on a tape recorder. It included my reciting song lyrics to several of my songs.

When Susan brought a meal over to my home, we connected beautifully and our friendship began. I wrote an early blog post about us. COMPASSION & FRIENDSHIP

My insight was now clear. I was attending this event because I valued my friendship with Susan. I would still be flooded by memories, but I would manage them all.

I did the calligraphy and painting for this memorial picture that hung for many years in the building where Jason attended preschool. I revised the lyrics for my song “Beside Me Always,” which I never imagined I would ever sing again.

Feeling disconnected to my religion of birth usually led to guilt. I had let my mother down. I knew both my parents loved me and were heartbroken over Jason’s death. So much so, that they had purchased an expensive plaque at their synagogue.

With that memory, tears poured down my cheeks. Those tears were very healing. At that moment, I felt warm inside and accepted that my religious choice was just as valid as my parents. I was deeply grateful I had found spirituality later in my life.

My mother and father continued to remember Jason’s anniversaries of the heart long after his death.

I came to the synagogue as late as I could get away with. Instead of being there 3 hours, I was there for one. I didn’t feel all that great. Only a few days earlier, my allergic reaction that lasted two weeks had finally subsided.

The sanctuary had been remodeled, but so much was exactly the same. I was lost in a haze of memories – of singing in the temple choir and getting married on an orange carpet. I remembered how proud my parents were when I sang at my Bat Mitzvah. I silently chuckled with memories of exploring the hidden corridors in the back of that cavernous room.

Susan saw me and I waved. I beamed back at her.

Even with getting there late, the service still felt interminably long. Finally, it was over and people started to stream toward the exits. And that’s when I saw them – the rabbi and his wife. It was well over thirty years since I’d last seen them.

I recognized his wife immediately. She was also one of my Hebrew school teachers. I warmly greeted her and used my maiden name. I said, “Do you remember me – Judy Goodman?”

Her eyes widened and she told me she certainly did. Her first question was to ask me if I still did art. Both of us reminisced for a few minutes. It was then when I realized the old man hunched over a walker next to her was her husband, the rabbi.

She spoke loudly to introduce me to her husband. Because of that, I wondered if he heard her or understood who I was.

He looked up slowly and looked nothing like the man I remembered.

I smiled and bent over to get closer to his ear when I spoke. I told him that he had performed my marriage, and sadly he had officiated at my son, Jason’s funeral.

Then my eyes watered when I said, “I want you to know that Jason continues to influence my life to this day. I sing songs dedicated to him and help comfort other people in grief. He lives on!”

I squeezed both their hands and he nodded. He understood.

As I walked away, I couldn’t believe that I had seen them again on this day after so many years.

Susan was in the lobby talking to friends and I waited for her. Her appreciation for my being there washed over me. She couldn’t believe I had come after being so ill with hives only a few days before

The luncheon that followed was in another building. I helped Susan carry a few things and told her I could lead the way because I knew this temple so well. As we walked, I mentioned that I wanted to show her something in the hallway.

There were hundreds of bronze plaques on the wall, but I vaguely remembered where to look. I pointed to Jason’s name. She hugged me and I felt incredibly inspired at that moment.

The luncheon was noisy. I couldn’t sit at Susan’s table because it was packed, so I found a seat for myself somewhere else. I chatted with a lovely woman, whose elderly father sat next to her. I found out that she had been a longtime temple member and we both attended the same high school.

Her father asked me who my parents were. When I mentioned their names, he fondly told me he remembered them. Just hearing that uplifted my heart.

When it was time for me to leave, I stopped in the hallway once more to look at Jason’s plaque.

I walked across the parking lot and stopped at my car. I looked up at the sky, which I often did when thinking about Jason. He was my angel in the sky, after all.

This had been a day of profound healing. My heart was glowing with forgiveness. I had already forgiven God. My music was a gift bestowed to help me with that.