By Rabbi Rachel Esserman

He was my little brother, my baby and the light of my family’s life. Oh, he was also my fiancé, although my mother was not happy he chose me over her. (When she asked him why, he looked at her and said, “You Daddy.”) I am speaking of Lawrence “Larry” Esserman, who was born with Down Syndrome. His 15th yahrzeit (anniversary of his death) falls on July 14 (the 18th of Tammuz) this year.
When he was a baby, we called him by his full name, Lawrence. That’s because my mother wanted to avoid the nicknames of her youth. (Her brother Buddy’s real name was Edwin and there were people who knew my mom for decades, but didn’t realize her birth name was Elinor, not Honey.) My older brother Richard and I were always referred to by our full names. But when Larry went into what my mom referred to as “the system,” we knew the staff were going to call him Larry, not Lawrence. Later in life, that was the only name to which he answered because it was the only name he knew. (I confess to teasing him that his name was Charlie Frenchfry, but he would indignantly tell me no.)
Anyone who knew my mother knew she was not politically correct. When she talked about Larry’s birth, she would say that, after two difficult children, she asked for one with a good personality. Then she’d add that she forgot to ask for brains. If it sounds like she didn’t love Larry, you couldn’t be more wrong. She adored him with all her heart. I used to joke that if I won the Nobel Prize, it would be hung under the copy of Larry’s graduation certificate from BOCES. That wasn’t meant as a complaint: he was truly the light of my life.
I’ve written before about his Jewish connection. He loved the late Rabbi Jacob Hurwitz who was the rabbi at Broome Developmental Center for years. (That’s how Larry understood what it meant for me to become a rabbi.) He loved his box of matzah, lighting Hanukkah candles and singing “Ayn Kelohanu,” something we had to do at every holiday celebration. However, he also loved Santa Claus and had a Santa Claus outfit that the staff at his group home bought for him. One year, he wanted Santa Claus on his birthday cake. That was not a problem: we were happy to make him happy because, when Larry was happy, we were happy, too.
Some readers know I am also a chaplain for Broome Developmental Center. For a while, that meant I was Larry’s rabbi, but he was able to understand when I was with him as a rabbi and when I was there as his sister. When the Center ceased being a home to individuals, I began to visit day treatment programs, a job I love. I am the only chaplain on staff so now I am everyone’s chaplain. (That means I’ve learned to sing a mean version of “Jesus Loves Me” because one of the individuals frequently requests that song.) Periodically something else wonderful happens: I meet someone who used to work with Larry. I love hearing their stories and talking about his idiosyncracies, of which he had many. Talking about him and being reminded of how much fun he was fills me with joy.
I would love once again have him hug me and say, “I love my Ahil, I love my Ahil.” (He couldn’t quite pronounce my name.) I would love to celebrate another birthday with him: he would always ask “who’s next” when we finished up a birthday party because he was always ready and eager for the next one. I know that won’t happen, but I cherish the memories I do have. That’s one reason Richard and I dedicated this issue to Larry’s memory. May it always be for a blessing.