Yesterday I watched the live stream of the funeral of an eighteen-year old boy named Ezra Schwartz, son of Ari and Ruth Schwartz. Ezra was studying in Israel for the year and was returning from working on beautifying a natural reserve dedicated to three teens kidnapped and killed by terrorists last year, when a terrorist gunned him down. It’s a tragedy that hits very close to home because I too have an eighteen-year old son who spent three months in Israel last spring. Additionally, I was born and raised in a community only twenty minutes from Ezra’s and I have spent time in Ezra’s community which in so many ways is a replica of the community in which I currently live.
During the funeral, some of the eulogists touched on the milestone events that Ezra’s parents will miss, the wedding that Ezra will never have, the family that he will never father. There are no words for how gut wrenching it was to hear those speakers.
Last night my eighteen year old came home from college after being away for three months and today we spent much of the day together and as the day wore on, I found myself thinking, with an ache in my heart, of all the things Ruth Schwartz will miss; not the big things like weddings and births but just the simple delight of being reunited with an eighteen year old son.
She will miss the unique joy of an eighteen-year old boy, as I have for the last three months. I missed the evolution of my son’s facial hair of which he is so proud, brought to us courtesy of No-Shave November, the sort of facial hair, which more closely resembles dirt than it does a beard. I have missed finding empty drinking glasses all over the house because each time an eighteen-year old boy is thirsty, he takes out a fresh glass and leaves it precisely where his thirst has been slaked. I have missed the dirty clothes squirrelled in a corner of the room, oh so close to the hamper, but just NOT in it.
I missed the bald faced statements that epitomize this arrogantly sure, yet fiercely uncertain time of life when one day they know exactly what they are about and the next day they have not a clue. I missed the “on demand” feedings of a young body that needs to be fuelled often and copiously. I missed the daily comings and goings; the breezing in and out of the house with, “I’m meeting X here and Y there.” I missed looking across the table and feeling love wash over me for this creature solidly caught somewhere between a boy and a man.
And because in my son’s temporary and short-term absence, I missed all these things, I know that Ruth Schwartz does as well and from one mother to another- I can only say how deeply sorry I am for her pain. On this Thanksgiving eve I am as grateful as I’ve always been for all the blessings of life, but this year I will count my blessings more carefully and hold them more tightly.
If this tragedy teaches us anything, it is, that all any of us really have is today.