*names and details have been changed
Sheryl Goodman’s two children had much in common as they grew up.
Michael and Rebecca were both very bright, curious, hard-working, extremely determined and idealistic.
Michael studied political science and environmental studies, eventually earning a professorship in a leading university. He didn’t neglect his idealistic streak and became the president of his Reform Temple and a charismatic leader in civil rights causes in the local Democratic Party.
Rebecca’s dedication to helping mankind led her to medical school and she became a family doctor. While still in school she became friendly with Orthodox Jews. The orthodox way seemed more authentic and inviting than the occasional temple services she had attended in her youth. By the time she graduated medical school, she had married a yeshiva student and had already given birth to four of their eleven children. The next step was to come on aliyah.
Mrs. Goodman’s two talented children had chosen very different paths in their lives. Not only were the paths different, but they were diametrically opposed! Because they were separated by the Atlantic Ocean, there was little friction between them.
Rebecca’s profession brought her much satisfaction and also enabled her to support her learned husband and growing brood in Jerusalem. Her brother, too, was successful in his profession and in all his liberal causes. When his only daughter, Sophie, decided to take off a semester from university and travel to Israel to teach English to Palestinian children in refugee camps near Gaza, Michael was elated and proud of her humanitarian act. However, he emphatically warned her not to spend time with his eccentric sister and her immense family. Sophie could visit for one Shabbos, to placate his mother – but no more than that!
A few months passed. How shocking and unexpected was Mrs. Goodman’s urgent phone call to her daughter! Normally an active and healthy woman, Mrs. Goodman’s doctor had diagnosed her with terminal cancer and gave her less than a month to live.
“Rebecca, I know that this may sound irrational, but I want to come to Israel to die. Please arrange for me all the papers I’ll need, medical escorts – all the red tape – and get me over to Israel as soon as humanly possible. This is my decision and wish – please, Rebecca, help me.”
Within less than a week(!) Mrs. Goodman was comfortably lodged in Rebecca’s home. She didn’t complain about the crowded home or about the noise of her eleven grandchildren. On the contrary, she reveled in all the attention and company. Since her husband had passed away a decade ago, she longed for family. And that is what she got in Jerusalem. Plenty of it.
Once the children came home in the afternoon, Mrs. Goodman didn’t have a minute to brood. She helped them with their English homework and they explained to her why they wore modest clothing, the laws honoring the Sabbath, prayers and Tehillim – in other words – a crash course in Orthodox Judaism. In the mornings when Rebecca worked in her clinic, friendly neighbors took turns spoiling their family doctor’s mother. When she had the strength, Mrs. Goodman in turn, entertained her visitors with her roaring sense of humor.
Sophie had not yet visited her eccentric aunt, but when her father told her of his mother’s arrival in Israel and her terminal illness, she rushed over to be at her grandmother’s side. Sophie spent not only one Shabbos there, but moved into Rebecca’s burgeoning household.
Mrs. Goodman asked her daughter to buy her some berets so that she could cover her hair like the rest of the women. She taught Sophie what the children had taught her. Her oncologist’s prediction was, fortunately wrong, and Mrs. Goodman passed the deadline for her demise. But all good things eventually come to an end, and after four months Rebecca saw that her mother was in a steep decline.
Dr. Rebecca was not unacquainted with death. But this was different. Her own mother was dying – in her home. What was required and permitted according to halacha, especially on Shabbos? Her Rav advised her that since her mother’s death was imminent, she should perform any melacha required or requested by her mother. The Rav also told her to explain to her children that this was pikuach nefesh.
The Shabbos before her passing, Mrs. Goodman asked Rebecca to make her a scrambled egg. Rebecca sucked in her breath, and did as her mother asked. She walked into the shabbosdig kitchen, pushed away the cholent and kugels, and proceeded to crack the eggs, whip them up and fry them. The children, all decked out in their Shabbos finery, gaped in amazement as Rebecca cooked on Shabbos. Even Sophie let out a sigh of disbelief as her eyes followed her aunt’s movements.
The dutiful daughter served her mother the freshly scrambled eggs she had requested, and was roundly reprimanded by her mother.
“Rebecca! It’s Shabbos! Why did you make me scrambled eggs?” Mrs. Goodman wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You can’t cook on Shabbos. Ugh. Get rid of the stuff.”
Later that afternoon, three generations of Goodman women relaxed peacefully on the porch watching the Shabbos sun setting; Sophie was perched on a deck chair, Rebecca rested in the lounge chair, and Mrs. Goodman was propped up in her wheelchair. Sophie stood up abruptly to make an announcement.
“Grandma, Rebecca, I have made my decision. After spending time in this house watching the loving interactions between all the kids, your caring friends, Grandma’s respect for halacha, the wonderful and exciting customs, even all the strict but logical rules- I want to get on board. This is the kind of life I want for myself. I’ve signed myself up for classes at the local yeshiva for women. I start tomorrow!”
Rebecca beamed lovingly at her niece, got up from the lounge chair and hugged her with all her might. “Mazal Tov!”
Sophie searched for approval from her grandmother’s eyes. “Grandma, what do you say?”
“What do I say?” Mrs. Goodman winked and continued, “I say that one thing I will not be sorry to miss when I am gone, is seeing your father’s face when he hears your news.”
