It's so hard to say goodbye, Part Two

Sabba's funeral was today. And, as expected, there was drama. But I'll keep that story for tomorrow. For now, since I am exhausted beyond belief, I post the eulogy I gave this morning. (Some of it may be repetitious from the previous post.)

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I’ve known for quite some time that I would need to write something for this day. But every time I would sit down to collect my thoughts during the last week, I’d come up empty. Not because there’s nothing to say. In fact, just the opposite. How do you summarize a life of 85 years in a five minute speech? How is it possible to illustrate to all of you the vibrant life my Sabba lived?

For 18 years of my life, Sabba was the force behind our family, physically and spiritually. In his prime, he was a hefty man, with the strength, body, and energy of an ox. He loved to use his hands- no project was too simple or too complex for him. After he retired, he split his time between helping Miri and David in the hardware store, which he had opened with Savta years ago, and lending a hand at my father’s shop in the city. His helping hand also extended to his grandchildren. Ronnie, Mikey, and Leore can share plenty of stories- they lived much closer to him than we did, and saw him multiple times a week, while us in Staten Island saw him every Shabbat. But on those occasions when we’d get together on Sundays to celebrate Father’s Day or Mother’s Day or the other myriad of holidays that would bring our family together, he would not shy away from asking us about our school work and offer his help with projects. I have a picture of him from years ago- based on my haircut in that picture, I must have been in the 7^th grade- sitting in the dining room of our old house, helping me put together posters for a social studies project. Sabba’s world revolved around his family- he was so proud to have us all so close. Yes, there were ups and downs- and with every family, we had our fair share of drama. But every time something happened between us that seemed to be too much, he would come around and remember- and remind all of us- how important family was and how devastating it would be for something to come between us. Nothing was more important, absolutely nothing.

But his sense of charity didn’t end with his family. Our Sabba was a true baal chesed, a true man of loving-kindness. As far back as I can remember, Sabba would bring back countless number of sets of tefillin from Israel to give to boys of bar-mitzvah age in his shul who couldn’t afford their own. Every evening, right before closing time, he would go to the bakery down the block and buy up all the leftover muffins and cakes and cookies to bring to the shul’s yeshiva the next morning. He cared for them so deeply and sacrificed so much for his shul to thrive and grow. There was no prize or reward or special recognition at the end for all that he gave; he just gave from his heart, and his heart was big.

The last 10 years were completely and utterly different. Unless you’ve experienced it yourself, you can’t even imagine what it’s like to care for a loved one with Alzheimer’s. But little did he know, Sabba made sure we were prepared for what was to come. If not for his immense focus on love and importance of family, we would not have emerged from this closer to each other and to him than we ever were before. For the last 10 years, we were blessed with the opportunity to give back to him in ways no one would have ever imagined. No, the wretched disease was not a blessing and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But out of every misfortune comes adversity, and with adversity comes an opportunity to rise above. And together, we all rose above. My mom, my aunt Miri, and Savta came together to care for Sabba and make him as comfortable as they could from the first chapter right up until his last journey on this earth. They worked so hard, so tirelessly, gave up so much of themselves, to make sure he received the best while constantly being surrounded by those who loved him. If all parents were so lucky… The grandchildren also banded together- taking turns to watch over him when Savta needed a break, making him laugh and teaching him to chant “Lets Go Mets” when the games were on, and simply reducing the stress and pressure whenever we could. Through this experience, what was once a love based on respect and fear of the father of the family turned into pure, unadulterated love and devotion.

We learn that the greatest act of chesed one can do is chesed shel emet- the truest act of kindness is giving to someone who has absolutely no ability to return the kindness. This act is pure, genuine, because there’s no doubt in its intention. We learn about chesed shel emet when we read about the acts of the chevra kadishah, casket pallbearers, and anyone who does something for a person who has passed on. But I believe that it’s possible to do chesed shel emet even with the living. And that’s what Sabba taught us- everything that he gave to others- to his shul, to his community- was pure and innocent, with only the best of intentions, without waiting for anything in return. And the love we freely gave to our Sabba, our beloved Bobosh, was a love we knew we couldn’t get back.

But it turns out he still had a little more to give. This past Saturday night, when we all thought the end was near, Andrew and I were driving up furiously from Washington, to hopefully get the chance to see him one last time. On the phone with my mom, I asked her to ask Sabba to wait for me, even though we were still 4 hours away and death seemed imminent. Miraculously, when we pulled up to the hospice at 1am, he was there, sleeping peacefully. Indeed, he had waited. As I walked into his room, I slid next to his bedside, gently bent over to kiss his forehead, and thanked him for waiting and that it was ok to go. There was no need for him to suffer any longer.

Life and death are so difficult to explain, to justify, to come to terms with. But if I'm positive about one thing, I'm positive about this: our Sabba has a one-way ticket to a seat near the Almighty. I'm no expert on these things, but he's suffered far too long and far too much for anything less. He lived a good life, with his family always around him. He was a man of chesed, loving-kindness and charity, always thinking about helping others, and always had family in the forefront. And I'm positive he will be rewarded for all of that in the World to Come.