I was sure I would get a lecture about the holiness of Yiddish and the fact that my father had stood by the sefer Torah and named me after two wonderful women who had Yiddish names. But the Rebbe never raised those issues. He understood how strongly I felt about wanting to be part of Medinat Yisrael. He put a twist on my English name, Cecilia, to name me Tzilia – in the shade of Hashem (where I have always yearned to be).
He understood, and gave me what I needed.
During our last few visits, the Rebbe was upset that he no longer had the energy to serve the people as he once had. His heart attacks had taken their toll. He wanted so much to give time to everyone who asked, to take part in every simcha of the people he cared for, and he was disappointed that he was no longer strong enough to do so.
I remember a conversation I once had in his shul in Brookline with a college student who had squeezed in to see the Simchat Torah celebration. The shul was packed with every type of Jew imaginable.
The young lady observed the tremendous warmth between the Rebbe and each person there. She said to me, “It is amazing how many people love the Bostoner Rebbe.” “That is not so amazing,” I replied. “What is amazing is how many people the Rebbe loves.”
And now the Rebbe has left us. My heart aches for my loss, for my children’s loss, for his followers’ loss and for Klal Yisrael’s loss. I pray that the Rebbe has peace. May he escort Mashiach to us very, very soon.