The Day My Mother Cried and Other Stories: and Other Stories

The Lady Who Loved God

114 The Lady Who Loved God henever she spoke of God or to God, which she did often enough during the day and undoubtedly into the night, my friend Berdie referred to Him always as Hashem. Hashem is a Hebrew word that translates as “the Name.” Berdie did not invent the word. It’s been in use a long time, largely by Orthodox Jews and some others who call Him Hashem without, in their view, violating that part of the Third Commandment that says, “Thou shall not take the name of the Lord in vain.” In my view, saying the word God, for casual usage, or the Almighty, or the Lord, or the Creator, or Yahweh, as the Christians translate Him, does not constitute a violation of the Third Commandment. I’m not an expert on God, nor is Berdie, nor are most, but if I could read what’s in God’s head, I would be inclined to think that He enjoys the experience of being addressed by any word or name at all. To take my theory further, I think the reason God cautioned us about not using His name too freely was the matter of intimacy. He wants us, His people, to worship Him but not to the point of overdoing it. After all, He did create us in His image, which gives us a special relationship with Him. I believe that God loves humanity even though, in my opinion, He often has an odd way of showing it. I once expressed these thoughts to Berdie, and I don’t think she really understood what I was driving at. Which is okay because sometimes I feel I don’t understand either. Berdie, whose real name Bertha was hardly used by anyone, was a friend, a best friend of my wife. When my wife passed, Berdie felt it was her duty to look in on me from time to time to insure that my clock was still ticking. The Lady Who Loved God | 115 It was a benevolent relationship right from the beginning. She believed, and I was hardly the one to disabuse her, that she could best serve me by keeping my refrigerator overflowing with cakes, pies, soups, meat dishes, and a choice menu of kosher delicacies that hardly any Jewish housewife stews up anymore. Much as I protested, and I swear I did, she kept the bounty flowing . In those days, her husband Irving was alive but failing. It was probably the onset of Alzheimer’s though Berdie denied it rather passionately . I think that denial had something to do with her relationship to God, her beloved Hashem. As if Hashem had let her down by imposing the dreaded disease on her husband. Irving was in his high eighties and Berdie was not far behind. Irving was not able to drive and Berdie never learned. So it was I who took them wherever it was necessary. For me it was not a big deal, but Berdie thought it was and she would muffle my protests by claiming it was Hashem who motivated her forays into the kitchen in my behalf. I remember one Monday morning I received a call from Berdie inquiring whether my choice of blintzes was cheese or blueberries or both. I was about to say blueberries, but I held back. “I don’t think you should make blintzes just for me,” I said sternly. “Who said they’re just for you? We love blintzes too.” “So make them for yourselves,” I protested. “I will make them for me and Irving. But with the same spoon I can make them for you too,” she answered. “So use a smaller spoon and make them for yourselves,” I insisted. “You don’t like blintzes, Bill?” she asked. “I love them,” I answered, “but that’s not the point.” “So what is the point?” “The point is I feel you’re making blintzes because I drove you and Irving to your doctors yesterday. I feel you’re paying me back for my services, which really bothers me,” I said. “How can you say that? I never think that way,” she said, a little flustered. 116 | William D. Kaufman “I certainly hope you don’t,” I said. “Hashem knows what’s in my heart,” Berdie replied. “So, what’s really in your heart?” I asked. “You should know what’s in my heart.” “I really...