June 27th, 2011: Old Friends

Last night as the Rabbi Rosenbloom led us in Ma'areev services after dinner here at the house, we had a most welcome but unexpected guest.

I got a tap on my shoulder from Jamie who pointed into the dining room. And there, almost hiding behind an archway so that he wouldn't be seen so easily, stood Charles Davidson, my old cantor from Adath Jeshurun, and one of the men I truly loved as a young boy for his talent, his heart and his dedication to Judaism and music. Charles had taken an interest in me when I was a boy as I could sing, I could read Hebrew, I could chant from the Torah and, for a while, because I'd considered becoming a cantor or rabbi myself. He was, in some ways, an unofficial mentor although I doubt he ever knew it then.

And when I turned to see him, I smiled broadly and blew him a kiss. I was, truly, overjoyed. I mean I really love this man and I haven't seen him since he retired as a cantor from our synagogue and teacher at the Jewish Theological Seminary well over ten years ago. I was so happy that he'd come to join us davining that I instinctively turned back to my prayerbook and closed my eyes.  I heard his voice,  that deep and wonderful voice, the same one I remember from my youth, and I was, suddenly, transported through time...

There was time I was invited to lead Friday night Shabbat services in the main sanctuary, something rarely, if ever, allowed for a 16-year-old boy; there were the frequent Shaharit services where I was invited to chant from the Torah for morning minyan; the many additional mornings when, as a Torah teacher, I'd assist as one of my own students to chant from the torah; the singing with Jamie in the synagogue youth chorale, where Charles would accompany us on the piano as we sang traditional and modern Jewish songs, some of which he'd composed himself; the high honor of being asked to read The Ten Commandments in the main sanctuary, one of the only times during the year when the entire congregation must rise as you recite the central laws of the Jewish people.

And then there was the one year, on some special occasion I can't remember, when I was called to read from the Torah in the main sanctuary. On that morning, I was accidentally pointed to the wrong place in the ancient text to begin my chanting. I couldn't find my way and panicked. As a result, I stumbled through my portion disastrously - a very great embarrassment before the assembled congregants - and left the sanctuary barely able to contain my tears, finally breaking down in the foyer, outside. Before even a minute had passed, I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned around, there was Cantor Davidson. He had actually left the services to come out to the foyer to check on me.

"I'm sorry, David," he said. "You were sharing several verses with the reader before you, something we do from time to time, and the Gabbais forgot to reset where your portion was to begin. It wasn't your fault. Don't be upset, it's OK." He hugged me, smiled and walked back into the schul.

When we embraced again — this time for shiva in the living room of my parents' home as Rabbi finished Ma'areev — I looked into his face. He looked older but the same, really. Time is a funny thing sometimes, isn't it? We kissed each other on the cheek.  I told him that I loved him, that I missed him and that it was nice to see him. He spent some time consoling my father. His own wife died of Lewy Body disease, so he was no stranger to Dad's condition.

Old friends are like a healing salve applied to a fresh wound, they ease your pain, lift your spirits and remind you of who you truly are.