OK, so just writing about one wouldn’t be fair to the other strange one, and counting about 900 across almost four decades you can imagine that a book could be filled with stories about these life-cycle events that celebrate the coming-of-age of girls and boys.
One of these 13 year-old boys whispered to me, “Rabbi, I feel nauseous.” With that he puked right on the bimah. Then he threw up again…and again. As my Associate ran to get a waste basket, the young man’s mother whispered to him, “Puke on my suit and it’s all over!” with which he puked on her suit. By the time the waste basket arrived he felt sooooo much better!
And then there was the young man who, as he was conducting the service, turned a beautiful shade of white – whiter than snow or a polar bear – while sliding down similar to the way a cobra slithers back into the basket as the swami plays his flute. His father must have noticed as well because at the same time both of us came over and grabbed his elbows. He was fine.
Maybe two pages later the slithering happened again, and again dad and I grabbed his elbows. He was fine…ummm, no, he then fainted. The dummy hadn’t eaten breakfast that morning!
One more story (there’s actually another but I’ll leave that to perhaps another time).
Every boy and girl wear clergy robes when they become Bat/Bar Mitzvah, not for any reason other than no one should feel as if “her dress” or “his suit” is nicer than the other persons’. They can compare at the reception, but we would never use the sanctuary as a runway for the latest styles or the stage for fashionista bullying.
So, we walk onto the bimah and to our seats. Let’s call this young man Jason. He began reading and dropped like a rag doll. He came to when we gave him some water and had him sit for a minute or two. He continued the service and, yes, dropped again. That happened one more time when I told him, “Whatever you’re able to do, Jason, is fine. You’ll just have to do it sitting instead of standing. We’ll bring everything to you.”
The service was over. I asked him for his robe so I could bring it back to the closet. It was wet. No, it was soaking wet. No, it was beyond soaking wet and I brought it into the restroom and literally twisted it so that all the sweat poured from the material. I’ve never seen that before or after.
So why did this happen? Therein lies “the rest of the story.” What he didn’t tell us – neither parents nor I – was that ten minutes before the service began, he was getting something out of the family van. His little brother didn’t know Jason was leaning into the car, and so slid the door shut very hard. Jason’s head was in the way. Jason had suffered a concussion and was taken to the hospital immediately upon sharing this bit of irrelevant information with his parents. The party went on without them.
(Speaking of Bar Mitzvah, when Albert Einstein was ready to leave his home for the synagogue on the day of his Bar Mitzvah, his mother said, “Albert, can’t you do something with your hair?” And, of course, one might define Bar Mitzvah as the day a thirteen year-old realizes he has a far better chance of owning a professional sports team than playing for one.)