My father-in-law passed away a few months ago. His death was not a tragedy in
the usual sense of the word; he had lived a full and active life for more than
eighty years, leaving behind a large family of children, grandchildren and even
great-grandchildren. But a death is always an unanticipated tragedy. Though he
had been weak for the last few years, his sudden death was unexpected.
My children returned home from school just moments after I had learned the
news. My older children were very saddened, flooded with memories of an active,
kindly grandfather who had visited us many times in Toronto. My oldest son and
daughter remembered how he had bought them their first real bicycles, a smaller
red one and a larger pink one. They remembered his patience in sharing from his
seemingly limitless store of stories about life in a different era, his interest
in their studies and, of course, his trail of wonderful presents.
My younger children, on the other hand, only had memories of our visits to my
in-laws, seeing their Zaidy for just a few moments, in his weakened state,
before he became too exhausted and needed to retire.
So I was a little taken aback by my youngest daughter's response to the news.
A flood of tears trickled down her soft cheeks. For a long time now she had been
reciting his chapter of Tehillim (Psalms), and the finality of him being
gone was a tragedy for her young mind. It was hard for her to come to terms with
never seeing her Zaidy again. Even a weakened Zaidy whose memory was fading was
nevertheless a real Zaidy.
The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of rushed activity -- making
arrangements to travel to Lakewood, New Jersey where my husband had already
arrived and where the funeral and shivah would take place.
Over the next few days, we would hear many stories about my husband's father
-- from people whom he had helped in numerous ways, favors he had done and
projects that he had been instrumental in launching. Many prominent rabbis and
communal leaders spoke about his lifelong devotion to building the famous
Lakewood yeshivah, of his activism in starting an organization devoted to providing
children in Israel with a Jewish education, and of his personal self-sacrifice
any time any project -- big or small -- was needed for Jewish continuity. Many
spoke of his idealism, his supreme honesty, or his forgoing materialistic
pursuits for the sake of spiritual goals.
The stories, comments and perspectives were encouraging for all of us to
hear. I was especially gratified that my children learned of their Zaidy's
monumental and lasting contributions.
But one individual spoke of my father-in-law in a way that touched me more
than any of the others.
As my husband stood up before the large crowd, he began emotionally: "I am
trying to recall some of my earliest childhood memories of my father. But my
mind is blank. I have none. I have no memories, because you, dear father, were
never there." He paused before the astonished crowd.
"You were never there, like so many other fathers, to take us on trips to the
zoo, or on family outings to the park. There were no family games or short walks
to get ice cream." Again he paused, with the audience giving him their full
attention.
"There were never these outings or trips because you were too busy. You left
in the early hours of the morning before I awoke, and often returned late at
night, long after I had gone to asleep. You were always busy. Busy running to a
Torah class... Busy running to help begin a new organization concerned
with the plight of fellow Jews… Busy working non-stop to strengthen the values
of Torah. When Shabbat finally came, you were so exhausted from your long,
strenuous hours throughout the week...
"But though you may have been physically absent much of the time in those
early years, you taught us -- me and all your children -- a powerful message.
You taught us to value what was really important in life. You were willing to
forego the normal pleasures of fatherhood -- what could be a greater pleasure
for a father than taking his children to the zoo? -- in order to help another
Jew, in order to strengthen Torah in this country. And by doing so, you taught
me so much more than any 'heart-to-heart' talk could ever convey.
"You taught me values. You taught me priorities. You taught me the need to
reach out to other Jews and work tirelessly for a better tomorrow."
My husband concluded by saying, "I know that now, too, you will ignore your
discomforts and push yourself. You will push yourself up on High to beg, plead
and demand from G-d to end our exile, our suffering and hardships."
As my husband spoke, I realized that his message was one that my youngest
daughter seemed to have intuitively picked up on. Earlier I had wondered why she
grieved over the passing of a man she barely knew. But there are times when even
in our absence and our silence -- and sometimes, through our absence and
silence -- we send a message that is stronger than any words can possibly
convey.
My daughter did not experience the hours of contact and conversation with her
grandfather that her older siblings had been privileged to enjoy. Yet she had
sensed, in our short, ten minute visits, her Zaidy's message of love. Her Zaidy
was her Zaidy and he loved her -- and it was over this tragic loss that she
cried genuine tears.
My husband's message would also bring comfort to us and to the whole family
in the ensuing days, months and years. His father's life was continuing even in
his absence. As the yahrtzeit candle burns perpetually on our kitchen
counter, it isn't only his father's memory that we are keeping alive.
More importantly, the continuing message of his life -- the principles and
values that he cherished and imparted to his children -- continue to live on.
