Baruch and Miriam looked at each other, each in a state of shock.
The Levaya had concluded, and all that remained was the Kel Moleh.
Yet, before the Kel Moleh, Mr. Yosef Greenberg* attempted to stand up from his wheelchair.
Baruch and Miriam rushed to their elderly father’s side.
They were unsure what their father’s intentions were.
I, too, approached the frail Mr. Greenberg as I glanced at his children.
The children filled me in, “Our father wants to speak. He wants to say a hesped over our mother. Rabbi, please help us. He is in no condition to speak.”
Yosef Greenberg looked at me, and I saw the tracks of wrinkles that lined his face.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was only 79, and I am ten years older.
However, Hashem is the ultimate judge, and I accept His judgment.”
As Mr. Greenberg struggled to lift himself, I asked, “Perhaps this will be too much for you?”
“No,” he insisted. “I must say goodbye.”
His children pleaded with me that their father was neither physically nor cognitively in any condition to say a Hesped.
However, Yosef Greenberg, who overheard the entire discussion, brushed aside their concerns as he assertively stated, “I know you all think I am too old and feeble; however, I must be one to properly give honor to my wife and your mother!”
I helped Yosef steer his walker toward the microphone as he removed some crumbled papers from his jacket pocket.
“I know all of you, especially my family, are surprised by my speaking. I know I now forget more than I remember. However, there is one Middah Tovah (quality) I must say about my wife which no one except myself can mention.”
Yosef glanced at the folded pages in his hand. Dramatically, he allowed them to fall from his hand.
When I went to pick them up, he said, “Leave them; I will speak from my heart.
When I was nine years old, my grandfather passed away. I remember that funeral from eighty years ago. And I remember the rabbi stated that the purpose of the hesped (eulogy) is to learn life lessons from the loved one who has left us.”
I must fulfill the Rav’s instructions from eighty years ago!
I know I have become forgetful and may even forget today’s date. Yet, I have not forgotten what I am about to say.
We all can learn an important lesson from my wife (and looking towards his children and grandchildren), your mother and grandmother.”
Everyone wondered what character trait their mother had exhibited, which had been omitted from all the previous hespeding (eulogies).
Yosef cleared his throat and dramatically said, “My wife excelled in the Middah of listening.”
Yosef’s family looked up as they were not sure what Yosef was referring to.
“I know I can repeat things many times over and over. I know I can tell you the same story in the evening that I already told you in the morning.
And I notice how impatient you get when that happens as you tell me, “Dad (or) Zaidy, you have told us this story one hundred times already. Please don’t tell it again. And often, you finish my stories before me, interrupting me in the middle of my telling them and preempting me by filling in the ending.
And I know you are right. I do tell the same stories time and time again.
However, your mother’s greatness was that it never mattered to her if I told her the same story repeatedly. She listened to me with rapt attention each time I said it, as if this was the first time she had heard it.
Her face retained the same excited glow. It made no difference if this was the 100th time hearing my masselach.
It made me feel special. Especially as I aged, she made me feel that listening to me was the highlight of her day; it certainly was the highlight of my day!
This is the lesson we can learn from her. I ask of everyone here, when you hear someone like me tell a story you have already heard, don’t roll your eyes in exasperation. Take a lesson from your mother and my wife, and listen again and again. You have no idea how good your mother made me feel every day of my life!
I even once asked her, “How do you repeatedly listen to my stories and keep smiling?
You know them by heart already.”
“Yosef,” she answered, “Each story I am privileged to hear from you is a gift from Hashem. It allows me to spend more time with you. How can I not smile?”
With that, Yosef shuffled back on his walker to his wheelchair.
The room was utterly silent except for the sounds of sobbing heard from those closest to Yosef.
