The first notice,
Eddie, the father of a college-aged son, beloved husband, and professor at
Temple law, had died. Most didn’t know he was ill. His synagogue community, who thought of him
as much a constant as the amidah, was shocked. He had just led Shacharit two weeks before, how was this
possible?
I can see
Eddie, one of those rare people who stay in vivid memory, even when you haven’t
seen him for a while, standing on the left side of the sanctuary with his large
black and white tallit draped over his small frame. His tallit moved with his
steps to the bimah, with the rhythm of his davenning, and with his right and
left turn greeting every adult or child who Eddie knew and those he didn’t know --yet.
His tzeet tzeet rose and fell with his reaching out with a hardy “yasher
koach,” to each person who entered this-his prayer space.
“Baruch t’hi yeh, is what you say to someone who has said yasher koach to
you,” Eddie had explained to 50 children and parents. For years, Eddie led Shabbat
family services. The other day, a dad emailed me a poem their family
had written to thank Eddie for inviting them in with joy to a world of prayer.
An excerpt: “You teach us how to put on a tallit. Then Rishon leads Ma tovu and
builds tents, what a feat. You lead us in song with your beautiful voice. Hallelujah, kol Hanishama, done in
rounds is our first choice. Then its Shema,
sung like our friend from Uganada. The melody was strange at first, but of it
we’ve grown fonder. Then we say Yotzer Or
with all those motions with our hands. Sometimes minyan seems like aerobics sit and stand, sit and stand!”
Last Sunday,
the sanctuary of Eddie’s synagogue was filled with people who remembered his
movement, his joy and his wonder.
Fifteen
minutes after the notice of Eddie’s passing came the notice of the death of one
of my dearest friend’s father. Mr. P. as he was affectionately called had died
at the age of 97. Shelly, my friend, said her father had davened mincha maariv, found the right battery for the clock in the
basement, changed the battery, changed his clothes, said Shema and went to bed.
His wife, his angel, as he called her, heard a sound and stood over him as he
took his final breath.
Last Sunday,
since you can’t be at two funerals at once, I drove to Baltimore for Mr. P’s
funeral. Finding a seat in the funeral
home’s sanctuary was difficult. Many people stood to hear the story of the man
who regularly walked to synagogue into his 90’s. We listened to the rabbi
describe how Shelly’s father had led services two weeks before his death.
“He was a
little slow, maybe because of his age. And you know, sometimes when people lead
services slowly, people get antsy and leave. But no one moved.” They knew whom
they were standing with in prayer.
Purim was
coming and it is the custom, I learned, not to give an extended eulogy, the
rabbi said, and “Louis would have wanted us to follow this halacha.” But the rabbi couldn’t help sharing the breath and depth
of a man who was loved by family and friends, was dedicated to Jewish community,
and was respected by all in business and in friendship. This man with a small frame, who lived humbly,
was a man of integrity, grounded in the Judaism that survived his days in
Germany.
The
pallbearers lifted Mr. P's casket. Each man holding the plain pine box had the
responsibility to lower it into the ground with only the help of black canvas
straps. Each person standing on the muddy grass had the responsibility to
shovel some dirt until the casket was fully covered.
Two lives,
and a funeral that remind “To pray means to bring God back into the world, to
establish God’s sovereignty for a second at least." (Abraham Joshua Heschel, I Asked for Wonder)
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