The Holy Life of Naomi Gerber
Congregation Bnai Brith, Santa Barbara CA
Friday March 10, 2011
Some of you may remember a painful moment in this sanctuary, almost exactly one year ago. It was a Friday night service in March, like this one, and as we always do before the Mourner’s Kaddish, we read the names of those who had died during the past week, the past month and the past year. As the list of names was concluded, suddenly an anguished cry came from the back of the room: “Naomi Gerber! She died too! What about her?” It was Louise, Naomi’s mother, and indeed a clerical mistake had caused Naomi’s name to drop off of the kaddish list just one month after she died.
It was a shocking outburst. The pristine decorum of the synagogue was shattered, as a mother’s raw and searing pain erupted in our midst. I have no idea what else happened here that night, but with Louise’s cry, God entered the room.
Part of the context was that Naomi died only a short while before the tragic death of Avi Schaefer, the young man from our community killed by a drunk driver in Providence Rhode Island. Avi’s life and his funeral captured the attention of not only our entire community, but of literally thousands around the country and in Israel. But Naomi’s passing was noted only by the small circle of friends and family who knew and loved her.
No wonder, then, that when we left Naomi’s name off the Kaddish list Louise felt compelled to cry “Naomi Gerber. She died too!” Tonight, a year later, I would like to share just a tiny glimpse into the awesome, mysterious, and holy life of Naomi Gerber.
Louise first mentioned to me years ago that she had a daughter who was severely autistic and living in a group home. I took that piece of information and stored it away, but did not know at the time what to say, or what to ask, or how to think about what Louise had told me. When I became the rabbi here at CBB seven years ago, Louise reminded me of her autistic daughter, and offered to show me some poems that she had written about Naomi. I took them, and read them, and found Louise’s poems to be powerful, brutally honest, painful and beautiful. Here is a portion of one:
When my mother pleaded,
“call the doctor!”
I ignored her,
Afraid to hear the doctor’s ridicule
As I did the day of her birth.
“You’re just a nervous first time mother.
You’ll know what to do.”
But I did not know.
After seven days without nourishment
I surrendered, and
Brought her to his office.
“Your baby’s dehydrated,” the doctor said,
“almost dead.”
And I, her mother,
Did not know.
Louise’s poems were potent, almost too frightening. But deeply true.
About a year and a half ago, Louise told me that she was facing a life and death decision about a procedure which might help Naomi, but which might also kill her. Finally, after sitting with Louise and talking more about Naomi, it occurred to me to ask if she would take me to visit Naomi.
Louise and I drove down to the group home in Ventura, which when we pulled up in front looked like an ordinary residential suburban home. We came in and were greeted by one of the staff who called “Naomi your mama is here!” My first glimpse of Naomi caught me by surprise. She had the body of a thirty-eight year old woman, though her face and body were somewhat contorted. She hurried over to Louise, moving quickly but unsteadily, wearing a helmet to protect her head if and when she fell in a seizure. And in a croaky voice she said “Mama!”
Louise and I sat with Naomi for about an hour or so, reading to her from a Sesame Street book, and singing songs with her. Naomi glanced at us occasionally, and spoke to us, but not directly. Her words came in fragments of sentences, in bits of song, in questions which opened a tiny window into her world, for anyone willing to enter…but only on Naomi’s terms. Louise captured Naomi’s language in her poem “Sharing Love:”
Give me a hug,” Naomi said
And wrapped her arms around Daddy’s neck.
Looking straight into his eyes—which was rare—
“This old man,”
Her way to ask him to sing.
Smiling she listened,
With laughter he sang.
“Witch doctor,” she interrupted.
“There’s Daddy’s mustache,
She interrupted again, as she
Ran her fingers across the bristles.
“What a silly daddy.”
Releasing her arms from around his neck
She approaches me, saying
“Butterfly kisses.”
Putting her face up to mine
We fluttered our lashes.
“You’re a little love,” she said,
Mimicking my often-said words.
After our hour, Louise and I left, and I was full of emotion. What an extraordinary human being. Naomi’s face was twisted, but she had a beautiful smile. She had almost no language, but expressed herself non-verbally with eloquent intensity. She seemed terribly fragile, but at the same time unspeakably powerful.
And I was deeply moved by the limitless patience, the compassion and the deep wisdom of the staff who worked with Naomi and the other clients in that house. Some of them are here tonight; we are deeply honored to have them here.
On the drive home, Louise told me much more about the story of her life with Naomi. She described how for fourteen years she cared for Naomi at home, resisting the advice of those around her to find a residential care facility for Naomi. Until finally, she accepted the fact that she simply had nothing more to give…and that she needed to care for her other daughter, Sharon, who also by the way had a profound and beautiful relationship with her sister.
It was an incredible story going back thirty-nine years, of heartbreak, of hopes born over and over, and dashed, of nights of utter and complete despair. And of blessed moments of peace and acceptance. For those of you who do not know her, I encourage you to get to know Louise, who has a gift for telling the truth, no matter how much it hurts. And ask to read her book. Near the end of that car ride I said to Louise “one day I want to give a sermon about Naomi.”
Several times since then Louise has asked me “why do you want to give that sermon?” Louise says this: I think that the story of my journey is acceptance. First, to accept that Naomi has handicapped. Then to accept that no matter what I did she would always be handicapped. Then to accept that I could not mother her 24 hours a day forever, especially as she began to have more and more seizures. And in the end, to accept her passing out of this life. And in this journey, I learned the beauty of her world as I entered into it. I shared her joys—of singing, touching, and being with each other.
To all of Louise’s wisdom and insight, I would add a comment by our ancient sages on this week’s Torah portion….VaYikra, which begins the Torah’s long description of the ancient sacrifices. In the midrash this week, we read: “The animals brought for sacrifice in the ancient Temple had to be perfect, without blemish. The lambs, the goats, the bulls that were sacrificed had to be without blemish. But the midrash says: “what God rejects in an animal, is what He desires most in human beings.” And the midrash concludes by quoting the psalm: “a broken and crushed heart, O God, you will not despise.”
In some mysterious way, what God loves most in a human being…is our imperfection. Naomi was regarded by most of the world as severely damaged; and yet to those closest to her, Naomi seemed even more than the rest of us complete and whole. And Louise, this mother who fought for her daughter, and fought with her daughter, was broken over and over….and yet “a broken and crushed heart, O God, you will not despise.” Louise expressed this in her poem, “My Daughter, My Wall.”
Over and over
I push and pull you
To learn—
Something, anything.
Blood spattered, I retreat,
Bruised, broken,
Exhausted, defeated.
I crawl back,
Hoping and praying,
For change,
Begging and bargaining
For life with you to be easier.
Until,
I see what you are,
Give you a name.
My daughter, my wall,
Unmoving, unmovable,
I kneel before you,
You are stronger than I.
I give up,
And pray for forgiveness.
We Jews have for thousands of years, been praying at a wall in Jerusalem. From her daughter Naomi, Louise learned and is now teaching us, what it means to be driven to our knees, and to pray before a wall. Shabbat Shalom.