“I must explain why all of us girls insisted on being here today”
IT was early morning when Dovid Greenstein informed me that his 91-year-old mother, Chaya, had passed away. (All names have been changed.) He asked if I was available to deliver a hesped at the levayah. I agreed and instructed my secretary to cancel my appointments for the day.
As I had never met Dovid’s mother, I asked him for some details of her life. Dovid replied that his mother had been in the nursing home section of her assisted living facility for the last 19 years.
When I asked about her special qualities, Dovid said, “She was very attached to the other residents of the facility, and she went to shul there every Shabbos. But I doubt there will be many people at the levayah. After all, my mother was a resident of the facility for almost twenty years. I can’t imagine there being more than a handful of people at the funeral.”
I nodded, and both Dovid and I agreed that the levayah would be short.
At 11:55, I arrived and was shocked to see almost 50 people, mostly older women, filling every seat in the small chapel.
I asked Dovid, “Who are all these women?”
Dovid shrugged.
At this point, a director from the facility told us that some of the women residents insisted that arrangements be made to transport them to the funeral. I noticed that most of the women in the chapel had walkers, and more than a few were in wheelchairs.
I recited two perakim of Tehillim and spoke about Chaya Greenstein. As I concluded my brief words, I heard a woman’s voice calling out to me as she slowly pushed her walker to the front of the room.
“Rabbi, my name is Sylvia Cohen, and I would like to speak for a few minutes. I must explain why all of us girls insisted on being here today.”
Sylvia made her way to the podium, pulled out a paper, and began to read.
“We are here to say goodbye to our dear friend Chaya. What was special about Chaya? I can sum it up in three words: the written word. All of us here know what I am referring to.
“Chaya performed one mitzvah that impacted all of us. Every time one of us had a grandchild or a great-grandchild and it was announced in shul, the very next morning, we would find a handwritten personal note wishing us a heartfelt mazel tov.
“Every Motzaei Shabbos, when all of us were playing Mah-Jong, Chaya would go to her room, take out her pen, and begin to write mazel tov letters. Those were letters of love for both writer and receiver.
“Chaya did for us what few others did. It’s very lonely living in a nursing home. And even when people come to visit, we often get the feeling that as soon as they arrive, they’re already counting the minutes until they can leave. Too often, we feel that we don’t really matter.
“However, Chaya was different. Chaya made us feel special, that we mattered, that we’re people too, and that we are also children of Hashem.
“Everyone needs to feel that they matter. And Chaya was the one who made us feel that way. And that is the reason all of us insisted that we be brought here today. We insisted on being here to say goodbye and thank you to our beloved Chaya.”
At this point, Sylvia refolded her paper and slowly pushed her walker back down the aisle.
(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1103)