Allen: The JMR changed who I am as a man and as a father. The JMR men have taught me over the years how to be a mensch and also gave me permission to be a different kind of man in the world—loving, affectionate, sweet, and open. These JMR weekends really defy the rules that most men choose to live by. But I learned from these JMR weekends that I could make new rules for my own life that would help me be an expressive and open man and a better father to my sons.

Lev: Since high school, the JMR has been an annual ritual in my life. The first few years, I couldn't articulate why I came back. I just knew that I felt an energy that was primal, ancient, connected to something that men have been doing together since the beginning of time. I also felt that it was an environment where my Dad and I could open our hearts to each other, and express our deep love, gratitude, and appreciation for each other's presence in our respective lives. Over the years, this one weekend—being a stable anchor in both my father's and my own life—has rippled out into our relationship in ways that I could not have imagined. During the last few years, as I have been embarking upon the journey of building a business and establishing a home with my life partner, my relationship with my father has been invaluable. I feel that the JMR has created a context for my father and me to communicate and share the most authentic parts of ourselves with each other.

Allen: I needed other men to show my sons what it takes to be a man of principle and wisdom. I couldn't do it alone. Lev and I both grew up in our own ways by attending the JMR. The event gave the two of us a common thread of experience that we could share with each other. It's like we were both on this exciting and challenging journey together and each of us got different things from being on the journey. We were able to hold hands as we made this trek. We knew we were different people because of this journey and we were there to support each other.

Lev: Yes, I distinctly remember one Shabbos morning, sitting next to my Dad in the Shul at Isabella Freedman. Men were sharing about an intimate topic, and as we listened, we did grab hold of each other's hands, feeling the chills in the room from the stories being shared. And then, my Dad shared a story about his father. I felt the power of the lineage of fathers and sons. I felt so blessed sitting and holding my father's rough carpenter's hands, and the love and gratitude in my heart was palpable.

Allen: I've seen Lev grow into this wonderfully creative, fun-loving jokester and life-lover. He knows how to squeeze the most out of relationships and brings a sense of passion into all the work he does. He's allowed himself to struggle with many difficult challenges and knows he has support to help him along the way. I think he learned the true value of friendship and community from attending the JMR and being so accepted and embraced by the men there. I also saw him make a quantum leap after he organized the JMR in 2006 at the ripe old age of 24. This was a real rite of passage for him.

Lev: The JMR taught me what men's work is. It introduced me to Iron John by Robert Bly and Men and the Waters of Life by Michael Meade (books that my Dad gave me, actually). It has been a doorway to my quest as a spiritual seeker, and more and more as a spiritual guide, as well. It gave me a context for my shamanic training with Hawksbrother, my teacher for the last 5 years. It taught me the relevance of being witnessed by other men as I grow into my manhood, which I've come to understand as central to the initiatory process that is so essential for boys to grow into healthy, responsible, integrity-rooted men. Rites of Passage and initiation have become such meaningful focal points in my life that I have been called to pursue this work in my professional life through empowerment coaching and shamanic sound healing.

Monday, January 3, 2011

Of course inconveniences such as these quickly pale in the light of my brother and sister-in-law's daily struggle with his increasing infirmity. His simplest acts have become major undertakings enabled largely by the enduring patience, strength, and determination of Ann Lois. Many of Jeff's abilities have diminished. He either has had some mild strokes or the lesions have affected his ability to move about freely and to communicate clearly. Every action, every utterance is an effort. Often at issue is whether to use a cane, a walker, or a wheelchair for his transport—all viable options under certain circumstances, although increasingly, the wheelchair seems most appropriate. He is most comfortable sitting in a new motor-controlled recliner. Often he lies back in it idly playing with the up and down buttons—seeming to exercise control over the small part of his universe that succumbs to his will.

His understanding of the world about him varies—or at least our understanding of his understanding does. Occasionally his words are sharp and clear—more often not. Sometimes unintelligible. Sometime nonsense. He has been disinhibited for much of his illness—anger, frustration, sadness, joy always on the surface. He is also still amazingly clever and funny at times—knowing when he has broken through the dim translucent wall surrounding him, making the silly grin that we used to see so often.

Thursday night, after dinner, I pulled a chair alongside his recliner and patiently panned for meaning in his intermittent stream of ramblings. He was able to clarify his intent somewhat. He definitely wanted a copy of the twenty-third psalm that I quickly found in a weathered Rabbi's Manual in his office. He seemed to be asking me to study the psalm with Adam Stein, a recently ordained rabbi and young friend of our family since birth.

"What does it mean," he probed, "Adonai ro-ee, lo echsar. (The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.)?"

"...they all say they know this, but none of them [really know] any of it!"

"After I'm gone...in the home, at the house...even once...a little bit of...a lesson—it must be done..."—a clear mandate not only to read the Twenty-third Psalm at his shiva, but to study it as well.

"Lo echsar! Lo echsar! (I shall not want! I shall not want!)" he kept exclaiming.

His lesson seemed to be that people want more and more. If they really felt the protection of the Lord as their shepherd they would want for nothing. Some of his words suggested that he was criticizing young rabbis, but I suspect this was as much a commentary on his own life as much as the next generation. Jeff, throughout his illness has often quoted the Twenty-seventh Psalm as a reflection of his condition. "Though armies be arrayed against me, I will have no fear." Now, as the traditional mourners' psalm seems increasingly imminent, I believe he truly feels the guiding hand of the shepherd and knows what it is to want nothing more.

It was an amazing teaching from a man barely able to make his simplest thoughts understood. Jeff chatted with great animation for about an hour, late into the night, well past his normal bedtime. His words cause me to reflect on my own "wants" and the effects the shepherd's hand may have had on this very trip—flights moved ahead, flight moved back, seemingly what we least wanted becoming what we most needed.

Was it the shepherd's whisper that spoke to me Thursday morning and inspired me to turn the inconvenience of a cancelled flight into an opportunity to share precious moments with my brother? By what divine providence did we come to witness acts of loving kindness such as the extraordinary efforts of Ann Lois who everyday defines the word mitzvah with her unrelenting physical and emotional support of her husband. How did it come to pass that we were present to hear the garbled words of a rabbi and teacher striving to give one more lesson?

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
Now I must study.

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