momâs lead, and the two poured their hearts into the movement. They organized conferences and helped launch the areaâs first hospice. My dad began a long correspondence with Holocaust survivor and author Elie Wiesel.
From my vantage point, the D&D (a phrase I later equated with the role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons) crowd resembled the same kind of people Iâd seen around my house for years: long-haired men and women in faded jeans and silver jewelry. And they seemed just as passionate and full of life, surrounded by music and food and laughter. But then Iâd notice something else occasionally pass across their faces: expressions of seriousness and gravity that I had become accustomed to seeing when people approached my parents or Andy and me.
At one point, my parents introduced me to an older man with a long gray ponytail and kind eyes. His name was John Brantner, and he had become a close friend of theirs. A psychologist from Minnesota, Brantner spoke of such things as âpositive approaches to dying,â the title of one lecture. âCould we start at the end of a relationship instead of the beginning and work our way backwardâsee what the ending means to it?â He said in that presentation, âCould we use grief in a positive way to inform our other relationships, our ongoing relationships, and relationships that are yet to come?â
The pain of loss had another side, he said, speaking of how suffering could make a person âsplendidââmore able to appreciate the range of human existence and emotions. He said that if he could wish one thing for a child, it would be that the child live through a death or a divorce so as to gain the wisdom that came with such experiences. But, he went on, the child must go through these experiences with at least one supportive person. More than anything, Brantner empathized with my family. When my parents met with him, my mother told him, âI canât drive behind a car and see a trunk without thinking of Jonathan in the trunk.â
âNow Iâll think about that too,â he replied.
âThat was to me one of the most profound therapeutic things at the time: empathy,â my mother later recalled. âAnother thing he said to me that was really scary was you canât be assured this wonât happen again,â she said, âI thought, Oh God, how can I go through that again ? He said, âItâs the people, itâs the support, itâs the community.âââ
This growing sense of community became manifest on May 16, 1975. An Israeli artist and family friend, Kopel Gurwin, had been commissioned to create two banners that would hang in our synagogue in Jonâs memory. There was one on either side of the entrance lobby. On the right hung a banner in blues and greens, showing a cluster of animals around a child, inside a mosaic of shapes. On the border were Hebrew words, the last clause from a biblical passage â[A] child shall lead them.â It translated to: âAnd the wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; And the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; And a little child shall lead them.â A plaque alongside the banner noted that in this banner, âGurwin seeks to capture Isaiahâs messianic vision of a world at harmony, enjoying peace, relationship and love . . . The figure of a child, secure and unafraid, leads the world to better understanding of harmony.â
On the left hung a banner called Jonathanâs Covenant . It showed two cubist figures, in purples and reds, with faces pressed side by side, and was taken from a biblical passage about two characters who happened to share my and Jonathanâs names. âThe banner depicts the strong filial love shared between Jonathan and David,â the plaque to the banners read, and âsuggests the loving relationship shared by Jonathan Kushner and his
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