My father is not an atheist-no matter what he may tell you. He is,

instead, a grieving grandpa whose understanding of God never

evolved beyond the common childhood model which regards The

One Above as a beneficent, indulgent parent who steps into crisis

and invariably saves the day. When “that God” failed to save his

grandson, my father’s faith shattered into so many shards that there

was no putting it back together again. “I just don’t understand how

you’ve done it,” my father would often say. “Your brother and I were

talking about you the other day,” he added, “and we both agree that

neither of us could have done what you did.”

 
What I did was to continue living my life after the death of my son

Ben. I had a responsibility to my family to survive our sudden loss

and live my life as well as I could for the sake of my other

children, my daughter Kimberly and younger son Zac. I don’t mean

to dismiss my father’s praise, but a parent whose child predeceases him

does not have a wide range of choices.

He can either choose life-accompanied however by the permanent

presence of grief-or he becomes busy with dying. Contrary to my

father’s generous appraisal, my decision to choose life was not

anything worthy of admiration, simply necessary.

Losing a grandson … well, I don’t know how that feels. I regret

never having asked my father about that-how he coped with Ben’s

death. Believe me. I wanted to but feared that he’d break down

emotionally. In a letter I found after his passing, he wrote that he

experienced a period of depression after Ben died. He said nothing

more which was disappointing to me although I suspect he was never

quite the same again.

“Have you heard it said, Son, that there are no atheists in foxholes?”

 "Sure. I've heard that."

"Well, I assure you. It's the absolute truth. There were a couple of

guys in my company during the war, avowed atheists, or so they

claimed. We were gearing up for the Battle of the Bulge. Everybody

and I mean everybody had a role in that. Well, after we had engaged

the enemy, I found myself in the same foxhole with these two guys,

our heads in the mud. I don’t know what it was, a grenade, a shell

whatever. In my life, I had never heard so much praying. ‘Dear Lord,

please get me out of this. I'll be good. I'll never do that again.’ You

know the usual stuff that comes out under deep stress.”  ‘Here’s my

chance,’ I thought, “the time was right, opportunity, as it were, was

knocking.’

"What is your belief, Dad?”

"Me?  I don't believe in God,” he asserted confidently. I was

thunderstruck. It didn’t make any sense after hearing the story he had

just told me or had it been the unimaginable “stress” of watching his

grandson die that caused him to spontaneously pray? I had tried

before to get him to open up. My father had been a closed book for

so long- always stopping short just when I thought he was getting to

the good stuff. This time, I had hoped, would be different. I certainly

hadn’t expected such an answer. I dropped it. Dad looked tired.

He excused himself to take a nap, but his revelation remained behind.

It bothered me.


At some point in his past, my father believed in God although he

had never been a religious man. Then we lost Ben, our son and

grandson, a cataclysm which, I believe, not only transformed my

father but shattered his belief in God as well. 'Were there a God-a

caring, loving, parent-like God, He would not allow the terrible

things in life to happen,” he argued.

I had heard it before. I think everyone has. It is a child's conception

of God, which, by its very nature, does not and cannot enable an

adult to weather the storms of life. When Ben, his first grandson, died

nearly eight years before on November 22, 2000 my father had been

praying just outside the operating room in the emergency department

of the Cook County Hospital of Chicago. I was right there next to him

as he pled for Ben’s life before The Almighty. As a matter of fact, it was

the first time I had ever seen my father pray.

“Hirsh, I understand that,” my dad said to his younger brother and

partner in their dental practice for fifty-five years. I stood by, couldn’t

help but hear the conviction in my father’s voice, “but I’ve my other

grandchildren to live for. The chemo? It can go straight to the infernal

regions. My oncologist told me I’ve an even chance with or without

it.” Do those sound like the words of someone who’s thrown in the

towel?


There you have it. Despite his assertion that he could not have

gone on living had either of his sons died, my father’s own actions

have disproven his claim. He not only survived Ben’s death but very

successfully continued practicing dentistry for eight years until just

recently when he was hospitalized for a urinary tract infection, high

fever and incessant diarrhea.

You see … Ben was my father’s “son”-as much as I and my brothers

Ron and Rich are. He would often address Ben by the endearment

“Benji Son”. Hardly a hapless casualty of tragedy, he has set an

inspiring example for his family and many friends. That is, I

suppose, how my father’s spirituality works. Whether it was  

 his (grand)son for whose life he sought divine intervention or his

own after Ben died, he has shown there are really no atheists in

foxholes.

Alan D. Busch

4/6/09