Until a few years ago, I didn't take anything very seriously. I had graduated
from a Yeshiva high school, and, unlike most of my class, I didn't feel I had
what it took to be a learner. I didn't want to go to college right away, and I
thought I would get a job and have a good time before I settled down. My
parents were not very pleased with these decisions, but, at that point in my
life, what my parents wanted was not terribly important to me.
Regrettably, during this time I fell in with a group of friends who were not
Orthodox. At first, I told myself that I would not be influenced by them; but
this turned out to be very far from the truth. In a very short period of time,
I became exactly like them, and maybe worse, as I should have known better.
Shabbos meant nothing, Kashrus meant nothing, and my life was spent in a haze
which even today I have trouble remembering. My parents were devastated. Maybe
they didn't expect me to be the best of the best, but they certainly didn't
expect this.
As well as having destroyed my own life, I was on my way to destroying my
family as well. Because of the bad influence I was having on my younger
brothers, my father asked me to leave the house. When I moved out, I said some
really cruel and spiteful things to him. I can remember him standing silently
at the door, with my mother crying at his side.
I realize now that what I had seen in them as a weakness was actually enormous
strength. I had no contact with anyone in my family for almost a year. Deep
inside me, I missed them very much, but foolishly thought that I could be seen
as weak, if I contacted them.
One morning, I was shocked to find my father waiting for me outside of the
apartment building I lived in. He looked at me with tired, worn eyes and asked
if we could talk.
Stubborn to the core, I only nodded, and we walked to a corner coffee shop
where we sat down. He told me how much everyone missed me and how I had been in
their minds and hearts every second that I had been gone. He told me how my
mother agonized over what had happened, blaming herself for not having been
there far me. While he was talking, tears began rushing from his eyes. He told
me that he wasn't here to lecture me. He just had one request. He wanted me to
drive with him that afternoon to Monsey, NY, and say one chapter of Tehillim at
the grave of a certain Tzaddik.
As far removed as I was from Yiddishkeit, I was still moved by his request. I
told him that I couldn't go that day, but that I would go with him any other
time. In truth, I had plans to go with same friends to Atlantic City that
evening, and I didn't want to break them. When I told him that I couldn't go
that day, he reached across the table and took my hand in his and just looked
at me with his tear streaked sad face. I felt my own eyes begin to water, and,
rather than have him see me cry I just agreed to meet him later that day.
I made the necessary apologies to my friends, and later that day, I met my
father. We didn't talk much during the trip up. I remember getting out of the
car with him, and walking over to one of the graves. He put some rocks on top
of the grave and gave me a Tehillim. We must have looked quite strange. My
father in his long black coat, a black hat perched on his head, and me, with my
leather bomber jacket and jeans. We didn't stay long. Ten minutes after we had
arrived, we were on our way back. The return trip was as quiet as the trip
there. My father let me off in front of my apartment building. I still recall
the words he said to me as I got out of the car. He told me that no matter what
may have happened between us, and no matter what may happen, I was always going
to be his son and he would always love me. I was emotionally moved by his
words, but I was not experiencing the spiritual inspiration he may have been hoping
for. I shook my head at his words and we parted company.
The next morning I woke up to some shocking news. On the way back from Atlantic
City, my friends were involved in a head-on collision with a tractor trailer.
There were no survivors.
As I write this letter, I am overcome with emotion, I made a bris today for my
first child. My father was sandik and, as he held my son on his lap, his eyes
met mine and we smiled. It was as if we had finally reached the end of a long
journey. We had never talked to each other about that trip to Monsey, nor had I
ever told him about the death of my friends. I just walked back into their home
that evening, and was taken back with open arms and no questions asked. L don't
think I will ever understand what happened that day.
I just know, sitting here late at night, with my son in my arms that I will try
and be the father to him that my father was to me.
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