It IS a terrific day. Because we're here to celebrate a man who celebrated life, who valued every moment and every person who came his way. We're here to celebrate a husband, a brother, a father, an uncle a man who put his family first and let them know it. We're here to celebrate a teacher and mentor par excellence. We're here to celebrate a scientist and thinker, a tennis player and skier. We're here to celebrate a dear friend. We're here to celebrate someone who touched and improved the lives of anyone lucky enough to know him. We're here to celebrate Paul Busch, who left us all much too soon.

As a cantor, a member of the clergy, I've written and delivered my share of eulogies. But speaking here today is both one of the greatest honors and one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do. I've known the Busches for as long as I can remember. Our families have been dear friends since I was in kindergarten. Jordan, Jeffrey and Lisa grew up with me and my sisters, Judy and Nancy. We shared holidays together. We went on family vacations together to Camp Abnaki in Vermont. Paul helped me get started on writing my Bat Mitzvah speech. My sisters' weddings were so special in part because of the brunches that Iris and Paul gave at their lovely home prior to the big events. I wondered: How do you say goodbye to someone who is a part of you, woven into the fabric of your life? In preparation for today, I discovered that Paul's special qualities had that impact on almost everyone who was lucky enough to know him.

Paul grew up in a close-knit family who taught him to value his Jewish heritage, learning and hard work. From an early age, he also appreciated people, making childhood friends who stayed in touch for a lifetime. Recently, he was sent a photograph of a grade school class. Be was able to name every child in that picture. It speaks of the phenomenal intelligence that is also an integral part of this very special man.

It was at MIT that Paul made the two commitments that would continue through the rest of his life. One of them was meeting Iris in their freshman year. They were pinned in their sophomore year, engaged in their junior year, and married at the end of their senior year. She was his first and only love.

The other was environmental engineering and Malcolm Pirnie, the first and only company he worked with. When Paul first announced to his father that he wanted to be an environmental engineer, his father, who had a plumbing supply company, shook his head and said, "All right, good luck, but there's no money in it." Paul taught us all that if you care enough about what you do, the money is of lesser importance. He taught us that no matter what we do, we should do it with integrity. Perhaps he also taught us that if you care enough about what you do to do it right, the finances will follow anyway.

Paul had the rare blending of charisma and caring. I can't begin to tell the many stories of his incredible generosity. For everyone who knew him, he would to everything in his power to help. He particularly loved helping people make connections - for new jobs, for new business, for new ideas, or for fun.

When he walked into a room, he could assume center stage. He always had a story to tell, an opinion to share, an appropriate comment. Jeff told me that he was a teenager before he discovered that his dad didn't coin the phrase, "turn the other cheek." And yet, he always took the time to find out what was doing with other people. He would ask how you were. And if there was anything he could do to make your life better, he would do it and make you feel like you were doing him a favor by allowing him to be of service. He made us all feel like family. He made his family feel like jewels. And Iris was the crown jewel, his life partner. It was a family joke, and, like many family jokes, based on the deepest of truths. At Lisa and David's wedding, he gave a toast: "I hope you're as happy in your marriage as Iris says that I am in mine.

Happiness. It's a key part of who Paul was. He was very happy in his marriage. Iris told me that when they first were married, she worked hard at improving her tennis game so that they might have this sport as something that they shared together. But while she learned to love tennis, and he learned to love skiing, they shared something even more important: a sense of humor, and an appreciation for each other's strengths.

He was happy in his job. He woke up every morning with a song literally on his lips and a smile on his face. He couldn't wait to go to work. You heard from those who knew him there just how important he was to everyone there. But to hear him talk, Malcolm Pirnie was one of the best things that ever happened to him. Very few people are so fortunate as to love what they do as much as he did.

He was happy with his family; his own children, and his sister and her children. He took the time to be with his kids in the evenings and in the mornings when they were growing up. He gave them everything he possibly could to help them live a life of meaning. He loved the partners they chose, taking Sue, Stephen and David into his heart with his own children. He spoke to his family every single day, "checking in" with his sister and his kids. He spoke regularly to Mark, Lisa and Jan, far more than most uncles. He adored the grandchildren; his own and his sister's. Even at the end, his face would light up to see them enter the room. The family told me that he insisted that a private office be built into their home. I asked what such a gregarious person did with that private space. But the space was there in part to ensure a chance to spend one-on-one time with each person that he loved.

He loved sports; playing tennis, skiing, watching the Red Sox lose, boating. He loved musical comedies, especially the songs, and movies, especially Bogart. He loved the sound of the ocean. He loved using his mind; philosophy, politics and current events. He loved food, especially junk food: a Pastrami special, lobster roll from Jimmy's, Fenway franks with sauerkraut, stashes of black jelly beans or chocolate licorice, Mallomars. But most of all, he loved people. He loved hearing their stories, helping them succeed, working with them to make themselves and our world a better place.

Like the many others who were part of Paul's circle, I followed the course of the cancer that took him from cautious optimism at the beginning to fear to dread to a deep, deep sorrow. It happened so quickly. How can we help but cry out, "Why? Why did this happen to such a wonderful man, still in the prime of his life?"

We are not given answers. Whether you believe, as our tradition teaches, that God has a plan that is beyond our understanding, or whether you leave God out of the equation, we can come to this conclusion. We all have a finite time on this earth. Life is a terminal condition. The question is what we do with the time that we have. Perhaps because of his brush with mortality when he had his heart attack, Paul's attitude was clear throughout the last months of his life. "Whatever time I have, I'm going to live to the fullest." And indeed, that's exactly what he did, and what he can teach us to do as well.

Paul and Iris' grandchildren, Alex, Molly, and Celia; and his grand-nieces, Naomi and Nina: You were the light of his life, and brought such joy to him. Alex, you sent him a card with something very special written on it; that you would remember to wake up every morning with a smile. Be sure to teach to the other children. Remember how lucky you are to have a grandfather who loved you so very much. Wherever he is right now, he will always smile on you as you grow. Don't ever forget to smile back.

Jan, you and Mark, and later, Mark's wife Lisa, looked to Paul as a rock and support. Never forget to make each person in your lives feel as special as he made you feel. Remember the time he made to take you out to eat, to hear you, to help you and advise you. And remember that you too have the ability to be a rock to those around you, to build on his example and his love.

Hope, you knew him longest, perhaps, of everyone here. There are so many special memories you have. How can I tell a big sister what to learn, when you've already learned and shared, and most of all, laughed, so much together? Perhaps it is, just like a certain stamp-soaking project from your childhood, that part of the solution to life is to think creatively. Perhaps it is in the story you told about Paul, age 5, having his first taste of beer. Even as he made the most awful face, he was protesting, "But I LIKE it!" This death tastes awful. Yet to honor his memory, we must learn to find the good in it. May his memory bring a smile to your lips and love to your heart.

Lisa and Davey: It was such a blessing that you were able to be here from Alaska, in time to bring Ceilie, share and to say goodbye. Davey, you spoke of how impressed you were with Paul's ability to put himself in your shoes, even when the two of you were so different, and offer wise advice to your problems. May you find your own sensitivity heightened, your own wisdom within, as you remember him. Lisa, you learned from your dad so many things, from integrity to generosity to a gift with words. But most of all, you spoke of a commitment to always do better, to keep growing. As you continue to succeed, may you hear his voice always cheering you on.

Jeffrey and Stephen: Yours was a harder path than most. Paul accepted the two of you with love. Stephen, you spoke of the power of Paul's generosity. May it move you to be generous in spirit and in substance with everyone around you. Jeff, at our family get-togethers, your stories would win center stage even from your dad. Your open hand, your flair for drama, your sense of humor, your commitment to your ideals, all these are gifts from him. Remember what he said to you when you came out: that this is one more way to know you and love you for who you are. May you continue to love yourself for who you are, and to open your heart to others, for yourself and in his memory.

Jordan and Susan: You brought him such brightness with his first grandchild, and you were there for him in some of the darkest moments of the last few months. Sue, you care about doing things right. I can see that he loved that quality in you. May the years that lie ahead bring you much joy, and may you see as he did, that joy comes from within, not from what life sends your way. Jordan, you look like your dad, and share his aura of responsibility. You spoke of the hugs that he would give, those big bear hugs that let you know that everything was all right, no matter what. Let me share with you a suspicion I have. In those hugs, your dad probably gave as much as he got. Remember that you too can give and receive in the same motion, that responsibility and celebration can go hand in hand. May his laugh enrich your memories and your own laughter.

Iris, in the sailboat of your marriage, your anchor has gone. It is only natural that you would feel that you have been cut adrift. But you always were the rudder. Your own wisdom and guidance helped make Paul who he was. Those wonderful qualities are there for you now as you face the huge task of living without him. Paul loved you, not for what you do, but for who you are. He told the kids in a discussion about interracial and interreligious dating that he would have married you if you had been colored blue. Now, you are going to be very blue for a while. Remember that you are loved in all your shades. Remember to tell yourself what he would tell you: it's going to be OK Maybe not for a while, but even the most tearing grief can pass, and he's counting on you to live your life to the fullest, to carry on the task of loving, growing, and supporting the family.

For Idrian, all those from Malcolm Pirnie, and the rest of us who called Paul friend: There are three words that Jews say at a time like this: zecher tzaddik liv' racha. It means, "may the memory of the righteous be for a blessing." We were blessed to have known Paul. His qualities will continue to bring on blessing if we can live up to the high ideals and example that he set. I'd like to ask Cantor Debbie Katchko-Zimmerman to share a song that Paul always loved; one that epitomizes his love for life and all those who were a part of it. Listen to the words. Celebrate the man. And remember: because we've been touched by Paul, it's going to be a teRIFfic day.