David H. Levy

Torah study, a meeting among friends and members, takes place on most Saturday mornings. It is the only time that I try to awake before noon. It is a program of Beth Shalom Temple Center, our synagogue. During each two-hour session we continue our discussion of the Torah, which is composed of the first five books of the Bible. I am a bit uncertain as to my role there. I do begin each session with a poem from my collection of night sky-related poetry. But once when it was my turn to read from Genesis, a passage described how a group of people stayed on the someone’s land one night: “Then Jacob offered sacrifice upon the mount, and called his brethren to eat bread: and they did eat bread, and tarried all night in the mount.”(Genesis 31.54) Without really thinking about it, I added, “And while they were there, they set up their telescopes and enjoyed a lovely evening of stargazing.” Most laughed, some were stunned, and possibly one just left.

I love the relationship that the Torah points out that developed between God and Moses. I had the feeling that they became friends. It appeared that God’s anger was kindled frequently, with good reason. and that, as our Rabbi pointed out, Moses tried to calm him down. Even though I consider myself agnostic—we cannot know if God even exists—I do take my faith quite seriously. I find it appropriate to think that God has a temper, and even a sense of humor.

As our discussion went on week after week, I suggested the idea that other people might have a similar, personal relationship with God. I suspect that my late wife Wendee did. But before I get to the story I want to tell, it is time to relate just how special Wendee was. Except for eclipses of the Sun and the Moon, Wendee did not come into our marriage with a passion for the night sky, but she built it as time passed. She never tired of urging me to continue and expand my early morning comet hunting sessions. On occasion, as I looked eastward in anticipation of closing the observatory roof, I would see her smiling face. She did not like to climb out of bed before dawn, but when I asked her if she would like to arise early the morning after I discovered my most recent comet in 2006, Wendee replied that she wouldn’t miss that opportunity for the world.

Wendee’s passion was not at all limited to looking outward, to the sky. She also encouraged me to look inward. Joining the Torah study was her idea. It began my weekly Saturday early rising. Right from the start I did considerable reading of the Genesis and Exodus chapters, and I began a tradition of reading a poem at the start of each session which I still do. The Torah study is an activity that remains close to my soul, and I look forward to it always.

Wendee’s role in Torah study did not affect just me. “She always had profound words to say,” relates Dr. Martin Cohen, the leader of our Torah study group. “I will always remember her insights intro scripture and what she felt when she looked up into the heavens, and the potentials she saw in all of humanity.”

Now for my purpose in writing this article. I like to think that she used that friendship to her advantage on April 8, 2024, during the total eclipse of the Sun. On April 8, we did catch portions of the incoming partial eclipse. But as the dark umbral shadow of the Moon rushed towards us, the clouds thickened and we could not see the Sun. The sky was darkening quickly, and the temperature was plunging so fast that I could feel it plummet. It seemed obvious to me that we were not going to see the total phase of this eclipse. Then I imagined that in Heaven, Wendee turned to God:

“God,” she said, “Why won’t you let Doveed see the eclipse?”

“Well,” God smiled as he replied, “Doveed hasn’t been that good a boy lately. For example, he still doesn’t have a handle on my third commandment. He may be trying, but he hasn’t got it yet.”

“So what?” snapped Wendee. Let him see the damned eclipse!”

“OK. You’re the boss.”

In the next minute I saw by far the most dramatic total eclipse I have ever witnessed. The clouds parted magically. There was a spectacular corona, and a lovely prominence at the lower limb of the Sun.

After the total phase of the eclipse was over, I witnessed a spectacular display of sunlight glimpsing its way through valleys on the edge of the Moon, an effect called Bailey’s Beads. Wendee approached God again and said, “Actually, God, you’re the boss.”

The smile vanished as God replied, “Yes, I am the boss. But I have tasked you with taking care of Doveed.”

I cannot forget that incident. And in a sense, it doesn’t matter if it really happened that way or not. It will always live in my memory. I miss Wendee terribly, and wonderfully. She gave me a significantly richer sky, and a much happier life.