Son’s Dedication to Life Survives His Irreparable Loss

Two very dear Corona del Mar friends lost a 24-year-old son in a tragic accident last weekend. He was riding his bicycle near the UCLA campus, when he was struck from behind and hurtled into an oncoming car.

His parents, our friends, were in Chicago on the second leg of a much-needed vacation that had taken them first to see the fall colors of New England. They received word of the accident in their hotel from the Chicago police in the middle of the night and made “the longest flight we’ll ever know” back on the morning’s first plane.

They were given hope at first, and moved into a motel near the UCLA hospital where they were joined by their other two grown sons, one an Orange County businessman, the other a student in San Diego.

The vigil was heartbreaking. For a few shining hours for this wonderfully close family, there seemed a chance of improvement. Then the massive head injuries required a second surgery from which the young man emerged with no hope of recovery. Joshua Lapin died the next day, surrounded by his family.

His parents called us when they arrived from Chicago, reaching out as thank God we are able to do at such times. But we weren’t there. My wife and I were attending a meeting in Palm Springs, and by the time we got the news, Joshua was gone.

We rushed to the Lapin home and found the support system already in operation. Their two surviving sons were stout pillars of strength. Fellow worshipers from their temple were lining up at the back door with food and condolences. Their rabbi had been to visit and would be coming again.

But even in the midst of such an outpouring of support, it was clear that dear friends who come without any of the built-in closeness of extended family or business or religious relationships fill a very special need, too. Friends come purely out of love; they carry no other baggage.

But what can even close friends say at such a time? The loss is so profound, the pain so deep. The one thing that none of us ever expect to do is bury our own children. Nothing can prepare us for this, and the loss is inconsolable.

Every human life is special, but this young man was extra special. Joshua was thoughtful and caring and sensitive and funny and smart and intense. Full of curiosity and zest for life. As his younger brother said during a magnificently affirmative funeral service, “He didn’t just touch people; he grabbed them.”

At his father’s 50th birthday party last year, Joshua took over the proceedings with a style so delightful and loving that none of us who were there will ever forget it. His light shone. It will continue to shine, but in the immediate shock of death, only the irreparable loss seems real.

I’m writing this a few hours after the funeral. The service by Rabbi Mark Miller struck an exact--and remarkably elusive--chord that embraced spiritual sustenance, human yearning and grief, warm recollection and commitment to the continuum of life. Mourners gathered at the home afterward for food and drink and talk--and to put into place the first girder in the bridge between the ceremonies of death and the rededication to life--a painful, difficult passage.

There will be quiet in their home soon--as there is in mine now. The guests will go home, the talk will fade and the emptiness of grief will be faced in the first step of the healing process. I ache for my friends, and I know of no means beyond those so beautifully demonstrated today to ease their pain. I once thought I had such answers and offered them up glibly. I have no answers now. Only love. Unconditional love--and whatever healing and solace it can bring.

I’m pondering, too, what this week has said to me--and what use I will make of it. Over and over in the strength of these bereaved people, I saw demonstrated the quite remarkable ability of the human psyche to draw on some deep resource to carry us through such experiences as this. The example is comforting. We will all be called on to tap it, although probably under less shattering circumstances than these.

But the thought that kept recurring is the suddenness with which tragedy can strike. I don’t know that we are ever fully prepared for the death of a loved one, even when age or illness conditions us. But there is no preparation for the sudden death of a loved one with much of life left to experience. And so we are plunged into an overpowering emptiness and a sense of the fragility of life that can be snuffed out at the most unfair and mundane moment.

And also into this void comes the question: Why was this young life taken at this time and in this way?

I had no trouble dealing with the “Why?” because it has become a meaningless question to me. Since I don’t believe that God decreed this boy’s death, the question is unanswerable--and should therefore be dismissed. But the fragility of life gave me pause until I began to realize how dangerous and counterproductive a constant awareness of this can be.

There are two ways to deal with this sense of fragility: to become cautious and careful in everything we do and refuse to go one-on-one with life; or to take life at its fullest, to challenge it head-on, to explore its crevices and recesses and--most of all--to enjoy the process without reservation.

This is the way Joshua Lapin lived; this is his legacy. As Rabbi Miller said during the funeral service: “Joshua is probably debating with God right now--and giving as good as he gets.”

So my deepest thanks to you, Joshua, for teaching me--and so many others--this lesson. And to your family members for the example they have set of the dignity and compassion and strength and love that is possible for humans to achieve. All of us who shared this week with you and your family will live more fully as a result. I think that will please you.