Angels in the Architecture

Karen is still with me, around me, accompanying me, watching me. I know it sounds strange, maybe a little too mystical, but I’m convinced of it. I’m not necessarily talking in the Whoppie Goldberg and Patrick Swayze type of presence, but she’s with me. Let me try to explain by just telling you of the things I’ve experienced since she died…

Karen’s funeral was on November 19. The outpouring of love for Karen and support for me, my family, and Karen’s family was evident by the number of people who can to remember her. The best estimate was around 700 people in attendance, a truly amazing image.

After the funeral we went to the cemetery. The burial was a blur of cold, Kaddish, tears, shovels, grass, and more tears. Toward the end, as Jeffery, Karen’s brother, and others completed filling in the grave, I wandered away from the crowd, the first moment in three days that I was awake and without a friend or family member in immediate contact with me. Where Karen is buried there are no headstones, only plaques in the ground, giving the area a feeling of a park rather than a cemetery. If such a place where a loved one is buried far, far too early could ever have a positive feeling, it comes as close as I can imagine.

About 50 yards from her grave (she is buried with her maternal grandparents), I was moved to sit on the ground. In a half lotus I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing and began thinking. My thoughts turned to words and I found myself speaking to her out loud. It was cold, indeed I was only moments earlier shivering, but as I sat there thinking and talking to her I felt a warmness wash over me. I removed my winter cap and nearly took off my jacket – I was actually that warm – until something, someone reminded me that it was still borderline-hypothermic temperatures.

After some time I stood with my palms at heart center, and felt more and more calm. The only sounds around me was the hum of the traffic in the distance and the faint scraping of shovels filling the last of the earth into her grave, there wasn’t a single animal or other sound of nature the entire time we were there or during the whole day up until then. I said that this place was beautiful, that is was serene, that she would be at peace her and asked if she was. At that very moment, from out of no where, an enormous flock of geese flew directly over me, honking as they flew south. As quickly as they appeared, they disappeared over the trees and the area once more returned to silence broken only by the sounds of man in the distance, not another single bird or other sign of nature. I had the answer to my question.

That was one event, but there would be more.

Two days later, Friday, I went for a walk in Prospect Park with my brother and sister-in-law. We wandered for some time talking about all aspects of what had happened. The conversation turned to what my plans might be for the future. I was explaining how I thought it was now time for me to reevaluate and reconsider what I was doing, and how part of that process might need me to be away from my current job for a little while. I was saying how I needed to do this not just for me but for Karen’s memory because it was something we had spoken about on occasion, and was about to say that this decision couldn’t be dependant on money since I was convinced that would find a way to take care of itself. At that moment, I looked down on the ground and directly at my feel was a twenty dollar bill. The only person we had seen anywhere near the area was a bicyclist who was riding on the opposite side of the road. Literally there was no one around.

I bent down and picked up the bill and looked to both my brother and sister-in-law. Before either of us could say anything, I noticed another twenty several feet past the first. As I picked that one up I saw another bill, then another, then another, then another. In all there were six twenties in a line laid out before me on the Prospect Park drive. We all had chills, and not because of the weather. When I got back to my mother’s house I mentioned the money to my mother’s friend who immediately said “120 is a good number in Judaism.” I had not idea why so she explained to me that Moses lived for 120 years and it is widely said as a wish for one’s good luck that someone should “live to the age of 120.” The chills returned.

Finally, that night we all went to Shabbat services. As we walked in the ushers were handing out prayer books from the several stacks at the front door. I took the one handed to me and headed for the pew. I sat and opened the book, many of which have a dedication sticker affixed to the inside cover. On this book I read the sticker, re-read it, and read it once more. The sticker said…

“This book is dedicated in honor of Jonathan Fried and Andrew Fried by their mother Janice Cimberg.’

I froze. There must be 700 or 800 prayer books at Congregation Beth Elohim and, on the first Shabbat after burying my wife, my true love, and my soul mate, I’m handed the one dedicated by my mother to me? In stunned silence I showed it to all my family and friends with me. We all looked at each other with the same look. Karen was with me.

Three examples, there have been more, but these three were the ones I keep coming back to again and again. Sure there are some who will say people going through what I am look for and often find the proverbial Angels in the architecture. If it was just a single event I would likely agree. But these were just too poignant for me to ignore as that. No, these events portend something else to me. They say that Karen is indeed with me, she is following me, and she is watching out for me. And her presence gives me some comfort.