This same friend popped in again during Chol HaMoed in a shaken state, to confide a recurring dream she’d had, the first following the levayah. In her dream, Josh had appeared in a doorway and instructed the friend to assure his mom that he was OK. Asked for some sign to enable her to validate the authenticity of her dream, Josh obliged.
The friend had slept fitfully, what with the turmoil and anxiety of recent events, and was thus reluctant to relay the message. When the dream replayed itself verbatim the next night, she knew she had no choice.
Josh’s parents smiled through their tears. No one could have possibly known of the sign their beloved son had passed on to their friend as proof of her dream’s credibility. It is my humble opinion that Josh’s neshamah had perceived his parents’ distress (especially his mom’s) when his lifeless form was found and obtained divine approval to ease her torment – in merit of his show of compassion for others in his fleeting sojourn on earth.
Nissan, as its name denotes, is the month of miracles. This day was, moreover, Pesach and Shabbos, a holy time when malachim assigned various tasks are off duty and the heavenly court is closed. The only portal open is the one leading to Gan Eden – a haven of pure light, goodness, and unadulterated joy.
* * * * *
My dearest Yehoshua, while the rest of us still have much to do, to learn, to perfect, you have fulfilled your divine purpose in this world. My memory takes me back to when you were a mere child of eight. You’d arise early on many a Shabbos morning, dress quickly, and quietly take your leave of a sleeping household to make it to the vasikin minyan at Rabbi Spiegel’s shul across the street.
You’d later describe to me in detail how you’d stand at the bimah, dwarfed by the rav, and watch the elegant silver pointer glide across the Torah scroll parchment at leining.
What secrets had the Torah whispered in your little ears at the time?
Fast forward ten years. At eighteen you journeyed to yeshiva in Eretz Yisrael, only to return shortly thereafter when your homesickness would not abate. In a phone conversation we had at the time, I asked if there was nothing enticing about your brief stay that might have motivated you to stay put. You sheepishly confessed there was… you’d spent your last Shabbos prior to coming home in Tzfat and had enjoyed it immensely – specifically Motzaei Shabbos (the night before your already-booked flight home). You and your yeshiva mates had spent the night visiting the kevarim of holy tzaddikim and had passionately sung your hearts out.
As the recording of your melodious voice stirringly sings “Mayayin yavo ezri, ezri mei’im Hashem…” in tune with the melancholia in the house of shiva, Rabbi Spiegel is heard to suggest that yours was likely the holy neshamah of a tzaddik from Tzfat who had returned to fulfill his tikkun.
In our bereavement we try to soothe our anguish with reminiscences that defined your essence. Your emotive singing voice continues to reverberate in the stillness – our surroundings now devoid of your joie de vivre – and tugs at the very fiber of our being.
Fresh tears spring anew as our hearts long for yesterday. Our souls afire, we yearn to rise to a place we are not yet prepared to reach, to where your pure neshamah has soared.
We cry not because we doubt that Hashem’s plan is anything but perfect; we cry because we miss you like crazy. We miss your inimitable brand of humor and your humility, your captivating smile and your shyness, that playful sparkle in your sky blue eyes and your tenderheartedness.
