I too had the chance to daven a special amidah, a special mediation of the heart, and tefilot for my family. I grasped the cold stone while I thanked Hashem that once again I was standing at the Kotel.
At around 12:30 a.m. we walked up the stairs to the Rovah, the Jewish quarter, in the hope of finding someone at Yeshivat HaKotel so that I could send warm regards from our son Eitan who’d spent a year and a half there. It was may’hashamayim that close to l:00 a.m. we bumped into the most influential rebbe in our son’s life, Rav Yoel Rakovsky.
Whenever Eitan was hurt or despondent, he had turned to Rav Yoel for solace and strength, and now Rav Yoel was here for us, out late at night strolling with his wife. We took a warm picture of him embracing Shlomo and Avshalom and brought that precious gift back to America to present to Eitan.
It is a custom in Israel to visit the cemetery after getting up from shiva. We met the Weiss family at the military cemetery in Raanana, where Ari is buried. For me, it was another thing to thank Hashem for; I had arrived 12 hours too late for the funeral, but at least I was able to be at the hazkarah and stand next to Ari’s fresh kever. There were Tehillim said and then, as per
Stuart’s request, we sang ”Am Yisrael Chai” and Hatikvah before leaving Ari’s side.
We got into our car and drove up that majestic way to Yerushalayim. We reached Har Menuchot and I had the z’chut to place a stone and say Tehillim with Tali at my grandparents’ kever. From there we went to Reb Shlomo Carlebach’s kever, placed a stone and quietly hummed ”Yehi Shalom Becheylech.”
It didn’t end there. Tali was determined to find the kever of Tani Goodman, a close friend of Tali’s best friend, Lisabeth Shrier, who lost his life a year earlier when he was crushed by an electrical fence. We found it, but not before finding, a row earlier, the kever of Shoshana Heyman Greenbaum, who was murdered in the Sbarro bombing. We found her kever while looking for Tani’s, but nothing is a coincidence. It was our z’chut to be able to place a stone at her kever, too.
From there, we went to Moshav Mevo Modiin, for it was the two year yahrzheit of Aish Kodesh Gilmore and a Sefer Torah in his memory was being dedicated to the moshav’s new yeshiva — Yeshivat Aish Kodesh. I glanced over at Avshalom and saw his hands over his eyes, with his head down, overcome by emotion.
Rav Lau, Rav Brovender, and other rebbeim, including the chief rabbi of Modiin, helped write the last otiyot of the Torah. Avshalom was also given the honor. When the sofer, who knows our son Shlomo, realized that Avshalom was Shlomo’s father, he rose to hug and kiss him.
While Avshalom was entering his letter in the Torah, I looked over and saw Rav Brovender near me. I remembered that no so long ago he was dragged from a car, beaten and left for dead, but baruch Hashem it wasn’t his time. Yes, I was in the presence of kedoshim.
That night that we departed Israel to return to Los Angeles. In one short week I had cried with intimate broken friends, day after day, only to find comfort from them rather than vice versa. There was nothing in the world I would rather have done than spend my week at that shiva house.
Of course, what I really wanted more than anything else was for the nightmare never to have happened. I am not one to question Hashem’s ways. But why does it have to hurt so much?
