Why There's a Plaster Jesus in My Basement, or Another Christmas Blogfrom a Jewish Blogger

Unlike many of my fellow Jews, my Christmas custom is NOT eating Chinese food and going to the movies on Christmas day, although there was a time when I  have done that.  (This Christmas Eve is another story!)

Menorah Christmas Tree= Holiday FAIL

For the past, oh, ten? years we have spent Christmas day driving to Maine.  Not a very festive thing to do, but my father-in-law's birthday is December 26th, and we like to be there to celebrate, and it's really a great day to drive.  No one is on the roads!  This backfired exactly twice when we broke down and, as I say, NO ONE was on the roads. But usually it's smooth sailing and we get up to our igloo away from home in record time.

Some years, like this year, and in years past, we leave for Maine on the 26th,  and attend a wonderful Christmas party with family friends.  We have been going to their party since my brother and I were children, and it's a joy to go now that our own kids are grown. 

But there were years before that when I didn't live around my family, and I had to find other things to do on Christmas. Since I had just come home for Thanksgiving, sometimes I would offer to work over Christmas to let the other people get the time off.

When I lived in San Francisco, I was the case manager a group home for teens who could no longer live at home. We only had six beds, and all six were always filled.  I remember those kids so well, each one has a place in my heart.  Some of them were easy to love, and some of them made themselves a little tougher. Some of them had families who wanted them back, and some of them had families that were so dysfunctional that we could not let them go back, not even for an hour on Christmas. For those kids, we would supervise Christmas or Christmas Eve visits in the living room of our house.  A mysterious donor always send a Christmas tree about a week before, and we would decorate it with a few ancient decorations.  (I learned the word "flocking" at this time.) The kids started to behave better, or worse, depending on what emotions were being drummed up inside.  They usually liked that this was my only Christmas.

We had very strict rules about behavior.  No infractions meant you could go to the store and buy some gifts for your housemates, or family members, if you were still in touch.  But if you had broken rules, you had only on-grounds privileges, and someone else had to do your shopping. The state gave us some money to buy the kids gifts, and some of their parents brought presents, if they knew that a visit was not to be.  We did not have an "angel" or a "sugar daddy." No one thought about these kids as a charity worth a "toy drive" or a "drop off."  They weren't adorable, or pitiful, or glamorous. Just kids who had had it really rough. I was just a kid myself, looking back, just 26.

Ted was violent, but only sometimes.  Other times he was smooth and a ladies man.  He was about 6'1" already, very nice looking, and only 16. He lied as easily at telling the truth. My strongest memory about Ted was the night we caught him drinking and he was about to lose his privileges.  "Ted, you made some bad choices and..." and before I knew it, he had smashed the empty vodka bottle found under his bed and was holding it menacingly in my face.  My heart was racing.  Just at that moment another worker arrived behind him and took the bottle away.  Ted was taken to Juvenile Hall.  I don't know what happened to him.

Shelly had it rough. Her mom simply couldn't handle her. "Take her," she said. She was way more into finding drugs and finding alcohol than finding Shelley after school.  Luckily Shelley found Jesus and the church helped Shelley.  But Shelley never let anyone in again.  Except for me.  Shelley and I are still in touch.

Rosanne was 14 when she arrive at Pathways. She had already had an abortion. Rosanne was the only Jewish kid there when I was there, so I invited her to come to my house to celebrate Hanukkah one night. I knew this was against the rules, but since I was, by now, the manager, I bent the rules when I needed to. She shared her story in the car.  Mom's new husband came to her room every night.  When she told mom about this, Mom slapped her and called her a whore and a liar, and kicked her out on the street.  But Rosanne was pregnant, and she dragged herself to a hospital, who called the state.  After the abortion, she came to us, and we were working on emancipating her when she became 16.

Dwayne was Ted's roommate, and was soft spoken.  He became his true self after Ted left, and we saw a glimmer of joy in his eyes, when he was no longer living in fear of Ted.  He became more and more confident.  His issues were many, stemming from learning disabilities, school anxiety and a single mom who simply gave up on him.  Dwayne had a much older brother who came to visit and brought him home for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and gave him a sense of family.

Denise.   Denise was black. I was there the day she was dropped off by her white mom. Her mom was clearly drunk, and Denise was clinging to her. It was a heart wrenching scene.  Her mother loudly announced for all to hear that she was fine with Denise's placement at Pathways.  The court appointed social worker tried to bring us all into my office to finish the paper work, but Denise's mother was anxious to leave.  Her school placement was at an all-girls Catholic school, and it seemed to be a good match for her. 

Her roommate was Kim, our oldest resident, and the big sister to other girls.  Kim had been arrested several times for several different small crimes, each of them just seemed to say "Get me out of my house," and finally she got out.  At 17, she was nearly ready to be on her own.  Her grades were good, she had a part time job, and I had just gotten her a checking account.  Our latest mini-battle with Kim was the amount of time she wanted to spend with her boyfriend. 

So it  was Christmas.  It was my third year at Pathways, so I knew the drill.  We started nice and early working to find places for the kids to go, because with troubled families (and with healthy ones) things can always go wrong.  All the kids were in the group home on Christmas Eve Day, so we did our present exchange that day.

By Christmas Eve, a few of the kids had places to go.  Those who were there were treated to a nice dinner, cooked by me (usually the kids took turns cooking as part of the therapy of becoming independent).  We watched a Christmas movie on TV and drank hot cocoa. (I always offered to take the shifts because I was the only Jewish employee.)

I put a few gifts I had bought for the last few kids under the tree.  The only one who had nowhere to go on Christmas Day was Denise.  Once everyone was gone, I broke the news to her.  She was coming with me, and my husband to spend Christmas with us.

This was, of course, against the rules. She didn't have off-ground privileges, and she wasn't supposed to go in the car with me.  And neither of those minor details was going to stop me.  Denise got all dressed up in her nicest clothes, coat and scarf, and we were off.   

I drove her up to my apartment, picked up my husband and we headed into San Francisco.  Looking into my rear view mirror I could see she was bubbling with excitement.

First stop...Chinatown!   Our Christmas dinner was a Chinese feast of dumplings, wonton soup and spareribs!  It was all a first for her, and she loved it.

Then, off to the movies, to see the new Star Trek movie.  She had been to the movies before, but not for a very long time, and she was thrilled.  

We had a great time, and it was a lot of fun to treat Denise to a special day, even if it was not exactly the most traditional Christmas for her.

Then back to the Pathways by 5:30 or so, when the next shift of staff was to arrive and the other kids were arriving back, with their stories of dysfunction, fighting and complaining.  And Denise smiling ear to ear.

After Christmas, we made sure things get back to normal very quickly because it stirs up so much for the kids. But after school one day, Denise came into my office and said she had a surprise for me.  She handed me a wrapped gift, tissue paper, ribbon, the works.  

"Merry Late Christmas, and Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year too. I made you this in art class.  Thanks for the best Christmas I have ever had."

She stood there while I opened it.  It was this plaster Jesus head.  She was bursting with pride.  

I have treasured it and kept it ever since.  When my kids were little I hid it, so they would not be confused.  How do you explain why a Jewish family has a plaster Jesus in the basement?   But there's nothing confusing about helping someone feel loved and celebrate her holiday.  

So, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and I wish you all the love and joy of the season.

Why I'm Crocheting

I am crocheting a cap. 
I'll finish this project if it kills me.

Oh. Why did I use that phrase? It won't kill me. It may frustrate me, but I'm healthy and strong and I'm crocheting this blue mess of yarn in memory of a boy I didn't even know.

Two things I do know:  I learned how to crochet in eighth grade.  And I don't follow written instructions very well.  I've already torn out eight or nine rows of this thing.  After every few rows I hold it up an say, "this looks nothing like a cap."

So, what's the story behind this?  Like the movie Titanic, you already know the ending.  Tragically, the little boy didn't make it. 

His family's story is not mine to share. 

Here's mine.

Last year I was at a dinner party on a weekend while I was working in Vancouver, Washington.  At the table, we were having great conversations about life, family, work, and the topic came to blogs. Three of the guests, two of whom are rabbis, were discussing the blog of their friend Phyllis.  

"Juliet,  do you know Phyllis?  Do YOU read her blog?
"No, I don't know her, I don't know about her blog."
"She writes a great one, just like you. You should really read it."

Hmm, okay.  With that little compliment thrown in there, how could I not check out Phyllis' blog.  After dinner that night, back in my hotel room, I found it via a link on the rabbi's Facebook page.  

After about one minute, it was clear that Phyllis was not just like me.  She was not blithely blogging about Eric Clapton, or smartwool socks, or posting pictures of her dogs frolicking the snow.  She wasn't even throwing out some good classroom tips or education stories. Phyllis was Rabbi Phyllis Sommer.  And her son, nicknamed Superman Sam, was currently in remission, having gone through treatment for Leukemia.  Her honest, almost poetic, way with words made me want to keep reading, and I read it...learning her story on a backwards timeline.

It was painful.  I closed my laptop.  But I couldn't turn off my mind. That's when I became part of this extended family that Phyllis Sommer lets in with her honesty.

I have finished that job in Washington, and moved on to jobs much closer to home, here in New Jersey.  I remain close to the rabbi there, Rabbi Elizabeth Dunsker, as well as the other rabbi, Rabbi Josh Caruso and his wife, Leah, who were at the dinner party that night.  And I continue to read the blog about Superman Sam.  I read that his cancer came back.  I read that they were frustrated by limited number of treatments left to them.

I read that they decided to take their other children out of school so that Sam could see Israel.  

And I read that he is out of treatment options.

And I cry when I read this.  

I have known many families who have lost children before.  I have cried with them.  I have led shiva minyanim for them.  But where does this emotion come from now?   I can only think that it is because this woman (this incredibly brave and honest woman) has shared her story so openly, that I feel I have been let in.  And it's touched my heart.  And it brings up feelings of loss and heartache that are as real as if I know the Sommer family personally.

On December 3, Rabbi Dunsker, and 35 other Reform rabbis posted that they were shaving their heads.  Shaving their heads?  What? Yes! And asking people to pledge any amount which will go to pediatric cancer research.  Great!  Click, credit card, send. Easy. I donate in memory of a special young girl who lost her battle to cancer.  I feel better.

I read Phyllis' blog.  Sam is dying. He's withdrawing. I read and re-read.  I can't stop thinking about this tragic scene.  I call my three kids and don't mention this at all. I just joke with them and talk about when we will be together over winter vacation.

I need to do more.

My heart is breaking.  Sam represents every family who has gone through this and every family who will. 

Then I see that Leah Caruso has posted a simple question on Facebook... asking if anyone can knit or crochet.  "I can do both," I quickly answer.  (This is true, though she doesn't know that my special learning disability keeps me from following patterns.  I don't do well with recipes either.  Come to think of it, I don't love rules, but that's another story.)  I immediately know what she's up to... caps for bald rabbis, and if we get enough people, extra caps to sell, to raise more money for St. Baldricks, the organization chosen by the rabbis.

I fly into action.  I organize my elective class in Wyckoff, NJ to agree to TRY to learn to crochet as I tell them Sammy's story, and then my friend, Rabbi Elizabeth Dunsker's brave response.  I buy the right yarn and crochet hooks for me and for the class.

"This looks nothing like a cap."

I start crocheting like mad.  I go onto YouTube and make sure I am doing it correctly after all this time (I was, but I hope I can teach it to non-lefties!) and I buy a crochet booklet to learn the abbreviations.

An impending snowstorm may mean that work is cancelled and more time to work on the cap.





And then I see that Superman Sam, age 8, has died.

I find mistakes in my work, and unravel it.  

The yarn feels heavier in my hands.  It looks suddenly different.  Darker.

I'm making this in Sam's memory, not in his honor now.

I'm determined to finish.  But it's just so sad.  At first I was going to ask if we could please pick other colors, but now blue is the only color it could possibly be.

This is the picture that his mother posted.

Following this blog, I'll share links so you can donate, knit, crochet or read more about this tragically short life.  If all you do is click "like," then I just wasted two hours of typing.  Please consider donating.  As we teach our children, even a small donation makes a big difference.  Each of the rabbis has a goal, and I'm positive that none would mind surpassing that goal.

May Samuel Sommer's memory be a blessing and may each of us go forward and make a difference for having known this story. 

Click here to read the blog that started it all : Rabbis Phyllis and Michael Sommer's  Superman Sam

Funeral information and more click here

To make a donation to the St. Baldricks Fund click here. 

To learn about how your can knit or crochet, please message me or reply to this blog.  That is being handled on a smaller scale.

More articles and other blogs to read:
The Times of  Israel: Superman Sam 

Information about the logo

Good-bye Superman Sam from a Pissed off God

How to help the newly bereaved