I can’t write about Purim without Koby because even though Koby is dead, I don’t celebrate Purim, or anything else, without Koby.

Steven Flatow said in a New York Times article that even after his daughter Aliza was killed by terrorists, he was still her parent. I am still Koby’s mother. I will never not be his mother. Trying to explain my relationship with Koby is like trying to translate blindness to a sighted person. I speak a different language now.

It’s like being a haunted house, or a hallowed one. At times I feel horrible pain, I feel that I will always be haunted. I see how people look at me and remember the haunted house I used to pass on my way into town when I was a kid. Unlike our modern, shingled house, it was old, dark brick with spires and round windows. Now perhaps, I would look at the house as curious and interesting, maybe even beautiful. For what is haunted can also be hallowed, sanctified by loss into something grander, more attached to G-d. It all depends on how you translate your experience.

Purim tells us that our world definitely has purpose and meaning, but it is hidden. The name Esther, the Purim heroine, is related to the Hebrew word “hidden.” In the Purim Megillah, G-d, too, is hidden, never mentioned directly by name, though He is so central to the story.
To truly encounter G-d, we have to move from our position of pride to humility, enhancing our own hiddenness. Then can we emulate Esther, who could have remained safely in the palace in great luxury, massaged, oiled and groomed, but chose instead to feel her people’s pain and suffering. Esther did not let her special status go to her head.

We must connect more with others, to be sensitive and feel their pain and problems. Perhaps that is what we should celebrate: our ability to help each other move toward healing; to move from our limited self to feeling one with the people around us. Such unity helps healing.

After our son was killed by terrorists, my husband and I marked our wedding anniversary by going out to dinner. I can’t say we celebrated, because we were too sad. As we walked into the restaurant, the smiling waitress with her shiny, black hair had a spirited effervescence I could only admire. I thought to myself: ”She has no idea of my pain, the weight of what I carry.”

As my husband and I ate, we realized that the restaurant was a perfect place to commemorate what would have been Koby’s fifteenth birthday. We wanted to take fifteen poor or disadvantaged people out to dinner to mark Koby’s birthday. Let’s remember the dead by bringing joy to the living.

We discussed our plan with the manager. He said that he volunteered at a nearby teen center for youth from poor, broken families, and thought that the teenagers would appreciate going out with us. The idea began to develop. We hadn’t thought about taking teenagers out for a meal, but it made sense. Koby was a teen when he was killed.

Thanking the manager for his suggestion, my husband asked him: “Do you know the Goodmans? They live around here. They lost their 16-year-old son Tani in an accident—we went to the shiva—and I’d like to know how they’re doing.”

“Ask them yourself. Your waitress is their daughter.”

I looked at her, at her beauty and her spirit, and I thought, “You never know what’s going on inside a person.” I had misjudged her. When she came by our table, we told her of our loss, and she shared hers.

As we spoke, I realized how much of life is hidden. We don’t see what’s inside people.

As we shared our feelings, my husband and I felt less isolated. The pain lifted for a moment. Healing may occur when we reveal what’s hidden inside. Then the pain doesn’t haunt us, but brings us closer to others.

If we can’t even see what’s inside other people, imagine how difficult it is to see G-d in the world. But Purim teaches us that G-d is with us even when we can’t see Him. Even when it seems otherwise, G-d knows our pain.

Courtesy of Kosher Spirit