Opinion: Consoling mourners

The power of the written word

By Naomi Sternberg

Issue of January 15, 2010/ 29 Tevet 5770

Baruch Dayan Ha’emes. I’ve made that bracha [blessing], Blessed is the True Judge, upon hearing of a death, many times before. But this time it was different. This time it was my father.

To me he was Abba, but known to thousands of other Jews as Zvi Reich z”l. Soon after shiva, life resumed at breakneck speed, with the deluge of Yomim Tovim [holidays] coming fast and furious. Now that time has permitted me an opportunity to reflect on the experience, there are some insights that I feel are important to share.

First, shiva is an indescribably powerful experience and a remarkable therapeutic tool. So much so that I sympathize with aveilim [mourners] who are denied the opportunity due to Yom Tov, or non-Jews who return to business as usual shortly after the loss of a loved one.  The support expressed by the community, friends and people with whom I haven’t been in contact for decades was overwhelming and moving. There was a tremendous sense of warmth, compassion and truly, “Imo anochi ba’tzarah” [we share your pain].

My father is best remembered as the founding director of Camp Morasha, which he ran with my mother, she should live and be well, for 26 years. It was an innovative concept in its time, combining quality camping, a professional educational staff and Kollel, with emphasis on learning, Torah values and love of Eretz Yisroel, in a fun environment. Today this is taken for granted, but at the time it was the first camp of its kind. He was involved in klal [communal] work for years before Morasha was born, but this was his signature accomplishment, as my brother put it.

During the shiva, people whose lives were touched by their Morasha experiences came and called to share in our loss, which they felt was their loss as well. They told stories — some humorous, some profound — about my father and about camp. We were not just mourning our loss but we were also celebrating his life, a life of vision and the achievement of bringing that vision to a successful and enduring fruition.

As a child I was used to looking at my father from that one dimension. It was fascinating for me to see him through the prism of other people’s eyes, people who appreciated him for the multifaceted person that he was. In order to run the quality program that he did, he required knowledge and expertise in so many different areas. Hearing of this from people who worked with him and under him gave me a new appreciation for the man my father was. When I was growing up, I remember breathing a sigh of relief when my father accepted a position at Yeshiva University to teach one class a week in Group Dynamics. Then, when people would ask me what my father did during the year, I could say that he teaches at Y.U., because no one who was not involved could comprehend how running a camp of that magnitude was a full time job. At one point while my father was directing camp, the Department of Health required him to receive certification in “water management,” i.e. sewage. My father had earned an MSW from the Wurzweiler School of Social Work, but we kibitzed him that now he had two MSWs — the second was a Masters in Sewage Works. My father quipped back that the latter was far more critical to running the camp.

After the shiva my mother received many cards and letters from people expressing their condolences, and often hakarat hatov [thanks]. Although we so appreciated everyone who came and called, there is something particularly special and personal about the written word. We live in an age where everything is so instantaneous that we barely have time to think. E-Mails are usually brief and impersonal, and text messaging — we won’t even go there. The art of expressing our feelings with paper and ink is all but lost; but oh, so poignant! When I studied in Israel (a hundred years ago) who made phone calls? Remember aerogrammes, the lightweight, one-piece airmail stationary that folded into its own envelope? Those were times when words were measured and therefore had measurable value.

My mother made a scrapbook of all the cards and letters that she received. It is a deep comfort to her. She can read and re-read them whenever she wants a lift. Former campers and staff members sent beautiful letters via the Morasha website (campmorasha.com). As I read them with my mother, we laughed and we cried. It was a nechama [consolation] to us that people took the time out of their busy schedules to share stories about camp and about my father with us.

Each episode in our lives has a unique lesson. What I’ve learned from this aspect of mourning my father is that even after his petira [death], he continues to teach. The lesson is one of hakaras hatov [gratitude], and of concretizing emotion. My mother has been my father’s loyal ezer [partner] throughout their lives. The accomplishments of his life are the result of their joint efforts. So many opened their hearts and penned their thoughts and sentiments, and gave nachas to her and our family. These letters will become precious family heirlooms, treasured for their worth.

So often, events happen in our lives that inspire us to share our thoughts in writing but life gets in the way, we procrastinate, lose the motivation and the opportunity is gone. I share this insight in order to encourage others: even if you are not a “writer,” those letters and notes can give much pleasure to someone in pain, as I’ve seen with my mother, may she live and be well. “Devarim hayotzim min halev nichnosim el halev,” “Words that come from the heart, enter the heart.”

As Rabbi Mordechai Willig said at the funeral, my father was a man of few words — Emor m’at v’aseh harbeh — say little and do a lot. He kept a low profile, but the indelible impact that he left on so many lives is such a tribute to his memory. He may not have said much, but much has been said about him. It is inspirational to know and to be able to read and reread, how his legacy lives on through generations of campers and staff whose lives were enriched by Zvi Reich z”l and the Morasha experience. Yehi zichro Baruch — his memory should be a blessing.

If you have a memory or a story to share about camp or my father, please e-mail ZRMemories@campmorasha.com.