Lezecher

It's 6:10 am on Erev Shabbos and I was jolted awake at 5:30 this morning. At first, I assumed that a car with loud music must have passed by my window and woken me up, so I lay in bed and waited for the sleep to come. But then I remembered what I was dreaming about, and I knew that loud music wasn't responsible for waking me.

I had been dreaming about my Abba's funeral. Abba was what we all called my Grandfather, who passed away on Friday night of this past Memorial Day weekend. I had gone down to Baltimore to spend the long weekend with my sisters and the kids, we had made plans to spend opening weekend that Sunday at the pool in Silver Spring, and then I was to return to Manhattan on Sunday afternoon. Shabbos had been really nice, so when we went to call our parents to check in after the weekend the possibility of my Grandfather passing was the furthest from my mind. It was sudden and unexpected.

Apparently, Abba went to sleep on Friday night at the nursing home and just never woke up that Shabbos morning. A few weeks later, when I returned to Ulpan after spending the week in Queens to help with shiva, I retold the story of Abba's passing to my Ulpan class. My Ulpan teacher's only comments were that "he was a Tzaddik" for only Tzaddikim pass away on the Shabbat.

It was Rosh Chodesh when we buried my Grandfather and, given the holiness of the day, there was no levaya (eulogy). I was devastated. How could this be honoring him? How could we bury my Grandfather without eulogizing his existence here on earth? Did he not deserve to hear his own praise before finally departing? Did we not deserve to be comforted by that praise?

And so, follows is my attempt at a eulogy for my Grandfather. My words are severely insufficient and could never capture the essence of the man that was, but if this should provide some nechama to those who mourn his loss (myself included) then it is worthwhile.

There are merely a handful of memories of my childhood that do not include Abba. He was a permanent fixture of my life, as my Grandparents lived a few blocks away and played an extremely supportive role in our upbringing. Abba used to tell a particular story over and over again that, even towards the end of his life and with his Alzheimer and Dementia riddled mind, was a story that fought its way through the sickness. When I was in nursery school at the Young Israel, he once took me by one hand and a toddler friend of mine by the other hand, and walked the two of us up to shul to school. When he used to retell that story (to the chagrin of the toddler friend who has since grown up to be a Rabbi and Father), he always started it with “do you remember when”? and because I didn’t remember the story but didn’t want to hurt his feelings, I would just smile and nod and placate him with a kiss. Ever since he passed away, I tried to focus really hard on that story. I tried to fill in the details, like what my hair looked like that morning, if I was wearing a jacket because it could have been the fall or if I was just wearing a t-shirt because it was spring, did I have sneakers on or was I wearing sandals, was Abba wearing his blue windbreaker with the tissues in one pocket and his glasses case tucked into the front pocket of his blue button down shirt, was he wearing a white or blue pageboy cap, were we carrying lunchboxes, did we chatter with him as he walked us up the block to shul, what did he talk to us about, did I cry when he left us at nursery school, did he leave us and then go home to learn or did he go to Main Street to run errands, was I holding his right of his left hand? And each time I think about this memory, I add another element to it and change a different detail so that, for a moment it becomes alive in my mind.

What’s most important about this story is that, while most other Alzheimer/Dementia sufferers go through bouts of severe emotional distress, many who lash out violently, this was what my Grandfather’s memories were like. Even at his worst days, he was never violent. He would sit in the nursing home and sing to himself, always the same tune, sometimes humming way too loud, but always singing. I still think that it was the tune his Rebbe used to teach them Torah back in Cheder. I don’t know why I think that, but the image of Him learning at Cheder and singing along with the other children and the Rebbe brings me tremendous comfort.

Abba was a Talmid Chacham, a man who spent majority of my lifetime learning Torah. In the morning, he would have Chevrutoth in shul with the Rabbi and other friends and then he would spend the afternoons and evenings at home with his seforim. Abba was a night owl, and would spend many late nights at the kitchen table with his Gemara or whatever sefer he was in the midst of learning. I too am a night owl, working my best late at night, and always attributed my hankering for the evening to a gene that must have been passed down from Abba’s side of the family. When I was in middle school, I used to go over to my Grandparents home and Abba and I would learn together at that table. He had a lot of patience and would help me through Rashi. I was never a great student and found a lot of my Jewish studies difficult, but Abba had such a wonderful way of teaching that I always left feeling prepared for a test or confident that I understood the material better. That didn’t always translate into better marks, but Abba was never disappointed in the numbers. He would pat me on the back and say reassuringly that I would just do better next time. He never scolded, always encouraged.

And that encouragement is something that lasted through nearly my entire life. As I entered college, the encouragement continued and became a laser focus on one aspect. Abba believed that I should be a writer. When I was editor-in-chief of the Queens College newspaper, I would walk home extra copies and stop by their house to drop some off. When Abba answered the door, he was always so excited to see the new issues, and I know that he always read my stories regardless of the topics. When I interned for The Jewish Week, Abba and Ema would both first make sure that my name appeared in the masthead before reading any of the articles I had written for the issue. Abba was very proud of my accomplishments and, each Shabbos morning after we left services and went to wish him a Good Shabbos, he would take my hand and ask me how my week had been and how my writing was going. And then he would tell me I looked beautiful. Always complimentary, no matter what I was wearing or how I looked, Abba was always complimentary.

That was my Grandfather. He was a man of few words but the words he used always managed to make me feel like I could do anything, that I could fulfill any dream, that I could score big on any test, that I was the best person in the world, that I mattered and that I was loved.

As we approach the Yom Tovim, it gets more and more difficult imagining the holidays without Abba. Just last Yom Kippur, I looked over the Michitza in shul and marveled at the fact that Abba had stood the entire Neilah. And, up until a few years ago, Abba had the honor of being Chosson Breishit and held one of the three Torahs up on the bima. This is an honor that is bestode upon the true Tzaddik in the community, and I was always so proud to see him up on that bima.

This year, I’m going to miss the feeling of Abba’s hand on my hair when he used to bless me before Rosh Hashanah, and I’m going to miss standing next to him when we said Tashlich overlooking the river in Queens, I’m going to miss sharing the piece of rye bread with him that we would rip into pieces and throw into the water along with our sins, I’m going to miss glancing over the mechitza and seeing his talit wrapped figure standing strong next to my Father during Yom Kippur services, I’m going to miss watching him make a layshev before sitting down in the succah, and I’m going to miss serving him the bowl of my Mother’s hot chicken soup with kneidels on Succot night that he looked forward to all year round, I’m going to miss him lavishing praise upon my Mother for her wonderful cooking after each Yom Tov meal, I’m going to miss his laugh around the succah which was occasional but joyous and almost always in response to something the dude had said, I’m going to miss responding to his Mezumin, and I’m going to miss watching from the front door as my Grandparents walked home together late at night, with my Grandmother’s hand held tightly and lovingly in the crook of his arm for support.

Abba was a hero. In my mind, he led an absolutely heroic life. I attribute a large part of my strong Zionist streak to him. Abba fought with the Jewish Brigade during World War II. He fought Rommel in Africa, as majority of his family were being murdered during the Holocaust, and he sustained a war injury that resulted in hearing loss that affected the rest of his life. Abba fought in Israel’s War for Independence, he was one of the first Chayalim that ever existed in the State of Israel. Abba cared about Israel, spoke loving about Her, championed for Her, and supported Her and all the inhabitants with Tzedakah. Abba’s eternal love for this country, for what he considered his home, was unwavering until the day he passed away.

And that’s how I got here. I was accepted into the Bar Ilan program the day of Abba’s funeral. That night, after I returned from the first day of shiva at Abba and Ema’s home, I received the acceptance letter electronically. I couldn’t believe the timing, it seemed almost impossible that the timing could be coincidental. Abba had spent the past few years telling me to become a writer, and of all days to get the acceptance letter but the day of his funeral? Towards the end of his life, it was harder and harder to get Abba to speak to me. My Father was still able to understand him and they somehow managed to communicate, but when I went to visit him, I would barely get more than a squeezing of the hand.

Perhaps I’m too much of a dreamer, but I thought this acceptance letter was Abba’s way of telling me it was something I needed to do. In my head, and in my heart, this letter was Abba’s way of telling me it was time to pursue my dream, to have faith, to move to the Country that I love, and to know that everything was going to work out.

So no matter how hard things may get here, and G-d knows I hope that the worst has already come and gone, I just keeping thinking about Abba. And I take some comfort in knowing that I really should be here, that I really should run after my dream, that I really cam be a writer, and that it really will all work out in the end.

There is so much more I could write about Abba, but I’m going to end this post here, try to get back to sleep and wish everyone reading a Shabbat Shalom.