“Lucy Hannah Bohrer…. Layah Honnah!”
Holding the infant aloft, (not unlike a football player displaying a recovered fumble), Rabbi Skoff continued the Hebrew, rattling a myriad of names. I listened distinctly for mine—more to see if my daughter’d gotten it right than anything else. (The kid, by the way, nailed it).
“…bot Binyameen…”
It was a special moment this morning, and my vantage was priceless. Indeed, from the rear of the temple I watched it all…them all.
On the far away “bima” sat Torah, our Tree Of Life. Aside it, exalting in “simcha” were Stacy, Jason, and child. Beaming. Closer in, (right before me, in fact), was Meredith. With Michael aside her she held Max–the now-talking Max.
There I stood— in my field of dreams.
“In every conceivable manner,” wrote Alex Haley, “family is the link to our past and bridge to our future.“ That explains (does it not?) why for so many this day was so dear…why the brother of a granddad drove in from Chicago and the brother of a grandmom rode in from the coast….and why a GREATgrandmom schlepped up from Columbus.
Four hours passed. Surrounded by family, the Bohrers spoke. Lucy Hannah, they shared, was for Lilyan (her grandma) and Harold (his grandpa). It was a loving tribute.
First Jason recounted his father’s father: a mentsch, an incredibly decent man. (I’d heard this before—from Char—and often it occurred that Jason was like his father Bruce, and that Bruce Bohrer was his father. Apples don’t fall far, do they?). Then Stacy, my Little One, waxed poetic…of Grandma Lil’s strength, and love of family… and Judaism.
I watched it all, smiling contently. It was afternoon and my angle had widened. From the back of a much smaller room I saw Helen, Margie, and Harold… and I thought of my parents, and if they were there. My mother, no doubt, would be urging we repeat what was being said and my father (make book on it) would be questioning the wisdom of the sole entrée being salmon.,
And I thought of those who, by their own volition, were absent….
Four more hours passed. Stacy and Jason (I knew) were with Michael and Meredith when Ed’s text came in.
“At Red,” it said. “Your kids are here. Come up.”
“I know,” I typed, “Sitting Max.”
I remembered vividly how thrilled our Dad was whenever “his boys” played together— how nothing made him happier—
And I turned to look again at the monitor, at the sleeping Max Parker Bogart.
It was nighttime now, and my vantage was still perfect.