There has been much noise lately about the rising cost of living facing frum families. When discussing the pressures parents are confronting, the idea of ‘what is a father’s role?’ often gets obscured. We speak about the financial stress. We bemoan rising food prices, tuition costs, camp, insurance, mortgage, children’s therapies and all the other ‘stuff’ parents must handle. For fathers especially, the conversation can become self-defeating. Men confuse their self-worth with their bank accounts.
I’d like us to ask ourselves this question: What’s a father for?
We have completed Sefer Bereishis, giving us the stories of our Avos. We have met the greatest of men, the patriarchs of our nation. Each had their own difficult journey. Despite their struggles, they imbued us with spiritual direction that became their legacy until today. And none was about their financial success. Though they were blessed with plenty, we do not draw upon our Avos for their mighty herds of sheep and cattle. Instead, it is their zechuyos, their tefillos, their determination to build strong Jewish families, and their resilience as they kept their emunah alive that remains their lifelong legacy.
Fathers must consider that beyond their financial inheritance, there is a spiritual yerusha that is their true inheritance. A life occupied with hours spent in the office or making deals but at the cost of family life is not a yerusha after all.
When your child thinks of you, hears your voice in their head, sees your face in their mind, what is his vision?
This becomes your life legacy. And while you can still create it, it is vital to consider the spiritual wealth you are leaving.
In the last days of my father’s life, his eyes were closed and he was unable to speak. My daughter who was eight at the time, asked to visit her zaydie in the hospital. We called my father ‘Abba Zayda’ because he was way beyond a regular zaydie, he was our dear, gentle ‘Abba Zayda’, both father and grandfather to all.
I wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to have my child come and see her Abba Zayda in this way, but she was insisting, and my mother felt that it would be a good idea.
As my daughter walked into the room, there was silence except for the many machines that were beeping. She looked uncertain, and my mother called to her to come sit by Abba Zayda’s bedside.
As we sat together, my daughter asked if she would be able to sing for my father.
“Sure,” my mother replied. “I’m sure Abba Zayda would be so happy to hear your voice. What would you like to sing?”
My daughter replied that from the time that she was so little, whenever Abba Zayda would put her to sleep, after saying the Shema, he would sing HaMalach HaGoel.
“I want to sing HaMalach HaGoel just like Abba Zayda used to sing to me,” she said.
My daughter began to sing. Low at first, as she gathered her courage.
And then, instead of all the machines beeping, it was the voice of the child that filled the room. She sang with all her heart. It was difficult not to cry. My father’s eyes remained shut. Did he hear his little granddaughter? Did he know she was there?
When my daughter stopped singing, the room once again became filled with the sounds of a hospital.
But my father was struggling to move. I could not understand as he tried with all his might to lift his hands. It took all his energy. Slowly, very slowly, one hand was lifted. And then the other. Two hands raised until my father softly clapped. His hands then fell down in exhaustion.
But we received his message. And this little girl was bequeathed the gift of her lifetime.
Her zaydie took his very last strength to say “I love you. I hear you. I am with you forever.”
This is true wealth.
I write these words on my father’s yahrzeit. May the neshama of HaRav Meshulem HaLevi ben HaRav Asher Anschil have an aliyah. And may we parents, grandparents and future leaders of generations understand what it means to be a father.