That’s Life 9-10
I have very fond memories of my grandparents and find myself thinking about them often, but especially around this time of year. My paternal grandfather was rav of a shul in Quincy, Mass., outside Boston, for over 55 years. I spent many a Rosh Hashanah there so that my father could help my grandfather with the sermons, the shofar blowing and leading the davening, though some parts of the service belonged strictly to my grandfather, including the Torah reading and Mussaf. Even very late in life, though his congregants were also very elderly and rarely made it for minyan, my grandfather’s devotion to his shul never waned. It was the only Orthodox shul in the area and he refused to allow it to close. After he was unable to live alone, he moved back to his roots — to Israel — living close to my aunt in an assisted living facility where he was able once again to give shiur and daven for the amud. He died at 95, every bit the rabbi he had enjoyed being for the vast majority of his life.
Every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, when the Ba’al Tefilah begins ‘Hineni He’ani MiMa’as’, my thoughts immediately go to my grandfather. His tefilot seemed as if he was actually having a conversation with G-d. His voice rose and fell, paused, then sped up, often seemingly waiting for Hashem to answer him. It was a dialogue, not a monologue; Grandpa had a direct line and knew Hashem was listening. It was always both an awesome sight and humbling too.
After he passed away six years ago my grandfather’s shul closed and was eventually sold. The Aron Kodesh (holy ark), an enormous and stately piece of Americana, was purchased by a shul in Manhattan, but the rest of the shul’s contents were sold or donated. A street sign and a plaque outside the building were put up by the city of Quincy in my grandfather’s memory, but the shul is now a church and there was nothing that we could do about it.
My brother went to Quincy recently to see the shul. Ironically, he and his family arrived just as Sunday services were letting out. As he took pictures outside, my brother, a hulking 6”3, and my sister-in-law, a blond woman a foot shorter, apparently stood out from the congregation of Kenyan immigrants who now call the building their own. The pastor approached and my brother quickly explained that he was the grandson of the rabbi whose name is on the plaque and in whose honor the corner was renamed. The pastor immediately extended his hand and expressed his long-time desire to connect with our family and dedicate something in honor of my grandfather within the sanctuary.
I looked at the pictures my sister-in-law emailed of my brother outside the shul and realized that I had not been there since my grandfather’s funeral. I have visited my grandfather’s grave a number of times, always remarking, as do the rest of us, on the large number of pebbles placed on his headstone, despite the fact that none of the family lives in Boston. We imagine former congregants visit it as well and ask him to daven on their behalf, in the same way that he was their emissary every Rosh Hashanah.
Looking at the pictures, I sadly thought of the decades my grandfather spent at that shul, only for it to become a church. I wonder what it looks like now on the inside and know that I’ll never get to see it. Are the red velvet seat cushions still there in the upstairs women’s section where my grandmother sat? I plan to go see the shul very soon, despite knowing that my visit will be peripheral and that I will not go inside. I would like to see the bimah; it was given to the Maimonides School in Boston, and I would have liked to visit before the Yomim Nora’im (High Holy Days) but it was not meant to be. The image of my grandfather in his kittel, a humble servant standing before Hashem, representing his flock, will have to remain a vivid memory, but a good memory nevertheless.
My daughter was looking over my shoulder as I started at the pictures on my computer screen. “What is that?” she asked, and I sadly but proudly responded, “That was my grandpa’s shul.” “Have I ever been there?” she asked, and I said that no, she hadn’t. By the time she was born, my grandfather had been gone for a couple of years. “Well, can we go?” she asked again. Taken aback, I promised her that yes, we would go and I intend on keeping that promise. After all, I know that while I am thinking of him down here this Rosh Hashanah, he is davening up above for my family and me, continuing the conversation he has been having with G-d for so many years. Shana Tova to all.
MLW
