Yahrtzeit - Part 2
But I wanted to talk about one other event I personally commemorated this week: the Yahrtzeit (anniversary of passing) of my father, Mr. Menachem Wagner of blessed memory.
In Jewish tradition, a yahrtzeit is not a sad occasion. It is an opportunity to reconnect to a loved one’s memory, to focus on the feelings of connection that never go away. It is a day commemorated by leading the services, reciting Kaddish, studying Mishna in memory of the departed, etc.
First of all, the services themselves were a very touching experience. We’re not a very large community of regular “minyan-goers” here at USC. Usually, we struggle quite a bit to gather the necessary quorum of ten men for early morning services on Mondays and Thursdays. Yet, with one brief mention in an email that I needed a Minyan this past Wednesday morning for a Yahrtzeit, more than 15 students showed up at 7:00 am. Some students who’ve never before attended a weekday minyan here at USC, or possibly anywhere. I was very touched by this support, and I’d like to thank all those who participated Tuesday evening, Wednesday morning, and/or again on Wednesday evening.
But I also wanted to share some reflections about my father.
My father was born in 1939 in Tel Aviv, Israel (or Palestine, as his passport states). His parents—from Roumania and Germany—had not liked the developing European climate in the preceding years, and had each decided to make Aliya to the Holy Land, where they met and married. He spent his formative years experiencing the birth of the state of Israel and the War of Independence. (He described to me the “political arguments” that would take place among the young children about the differing approaches of the Haganah, the Irgun, and the Lechi. Together with all of Tel Aviv, he could never forget the experience of gathering in the harbor watching the Altalena burn and slowly sink.)
Ironically, in 1952 his parents felt that they could not provide the type of Jewish education for their children that they wanted in Tel Aviv. They moved to Toronto, where my grandfather started a factory manufacturing chairs and tables.
After attending a Jewish day school, my father spent one year of Yeshiva high school in the Lubavitch Yeshiva in New York. He then returned to Toronto to complete high school, and went on to earn an engineering degree from the University of Toronto before joining his father in the manufacturing business. He was a very active leader for the Bnai Akiva youth group in Toronto. (I always got the sense that he felt a great pride in being able to provide to his children a better Jewish education than he himself had received. Despite the vast scholarship he amassed through his own continued love of learning, he always made us feel that we had a special opportunity to “learn” and encouraged us to make the most of that opportunity.)
The way my parents met—though I only remember hearing the story after I was already here at USC—may have played a part in my career choice. As my mother started her own studies in the University of Toronto, she joined her father for a private audience with the Lubavitcher Rebbe, in order to receive his advice and blessing. Among other things, the Rebbe encouraged her to start a Jewish group on campus (known as Yavneh), suggesting that she gather the involved Jewish students to share their lunch hour together, and to arrange lecturers of interest to speak to them at that time. One of the repeat lecturers she found was my father, who had already graduated, and the rest is history.
My parents went on to raise 11 children, providing each of us with the best and most complete Jewish education possible. It never struck me as unusual at the time, but now that I am myself a father I cannot imagine how he could have found the time to read us stories from the Torah and prophets every single night as we went to bed, providing us with a big headstart in knowledge of Hebrew and Nach. I can’t fathom how he had time to study with each and every one of us as we grew—never being satisfied with just school homework, but rather studying with each of us a wide variety of extra-curricular studies, ranging from Mishna to Talmud to science, etc. How could someone build a successful business, while at the same time being there every day to drive his children to school, pick them up from school, study and talk with each one of them every evening, even just always be home for a family dinner? Now I know it’s just a question of priorities, and an extraordinary commitment to living up to those priorities.
My father was one of the only people in the Jewish community in Toronto at the time to drive a 15 passenger van – something that meant that every time there was a school trip that needed a parent to volunteer he was the one who was asked, and never refused. When my parents built their home, my father wanted to create a way that he could spend yet more time with his children and their friends. So despite avoiding any extravagance in the home at all, they built in an indoor swimming pool, providing a lifetime of shared family memories.
He always wanted his children to excel. He once had a dream of training some of his kids to be the youngest to swim Lake Ontario. My mother suggested to him at the time that he choose a more scholarly goal – so instead he decided that he would study with each of us the entire Mishna as preparation for our Bar Mitzvahs. I probably speak for all seven of my brothers when I remember that as a 10, 11, and 12 year old I was not always blessed to share the patience for that goal. But he managed to make it work, not once but seven times.
At my father’s funeral there was a man visibly sobbing who quite obviously did not fit in with the rest of the community. Nick is a Lebanese Arab who worked as a printer. In the 90’s—adjusting to the changing realities of the Canadian economy—my father moved away from manufacturing chairs and tables and began to import them instead, leaving him space in his factory to rent out to various other businesses. Nick was one of those tenants. When times were hard, my father gave him a break on the rent. When seeing him looking down one day and being told that it was worry over a sick child, my father comforted him and encouraged him to have faith and remain strong for his family. Nick felt our loss, saying his world would never be the same.
It wasn’t just Nick. My father’s business practices exemplified for me the notion of Kiddush Hashem – sanctification of G-d’s Name. In all of his interactions, people walked away with a respect and admiration for the man and for the faith tradition he visibly represented. In the months after his passing, person after person came forward to tell us of stories of secret charity or interest free loans, of support and kindness, of love and respect.
When his father passed away, my father bought the house next door to us for his mother to move into. Throughout the rest of his life, she ate every dinner in our home, every Shabbat meal. A day did not go by without him also making some time in the evening to go and visit her – to help her manage the finances, pay the bills, or just to talk. He acted as a living example to all of us of the Mitzvah of honoring one’s parents.
My father loved public speaking, and – though I can’t say he imparted that love, at least to me – he trained us from an early age to do the same. I gave my first public speech at my Opshernesh, an event in honor of my third birthday. He painstakingly prepared and practiced with me some Torah though of several lines, until I had it just right. For every one of our birthday’s, he would have all of us speak at a nearby synagogue, sharing insights and thoughts from our holy tradition. And there was no prouder moment for him than the first time each of us, instead of the carefully written out prepared speech he would compile, were able to develop our own composition to share.
In the thirty or so year that my parents were raising children together, they never took a private vacation. Every vacation was transformed into a family trip, every family trip into a living lesson. Whether it was repeated trips to Israel—experiencing the length and breadth of the Land, and bringing to life events from our history with every step—to the Redwood forests in California, outings for family occasions in New York, or anywhere else, a trip was just another opportunity to educate and learn.
I cannot forget one specific instance: We were reading the story in the Book of Judges about Gideon – how he split his small band of men into three groups, and in the middle of the night they surrounded the camp of Midian each one with a shofar and a covered light in his hand. As the watch changed, they each revealed their torch, sounded their shofar, and cried out: “Whoever is for G-d with me!”. The unexpected “light and sound” show threw the camp of Midian into turmoil, and they proceeded to confusedly attack each other before retreating in disarray. That night, my father gave us a live demonstration, waking us in the middle of the night with a flashlight and a shofar blowing. It brought the story to life in a way that no amount of lessons could.
This email’s gotten way too long, so I’ll stop rambling here. I share these thoughts in honor of my father’s memory, and in the hope that we may all find some relevant lesson that will spur us to better things—thus creating a blessing and elevation for his soul as well.
In Jewish tradition, a yahrtzeit is not a sad occasion. It is an opportunity to reconnect to a loved one’s memory, to focus on the feelings of connection that never go away. It is a day commemorated by leading the services, reciting Kaddish, studying Mishna in memory of the departed, etc.
First of all, the services themselves were a very touching experience. We’re not a very large community of regular “minyan-goers” here at USC. Usually, we struggle quite a bit to gather the necessary quorum of ten men for early morning services on Mondays and Thursdays. Yet, with one brief mention in an email that I needed a Minyan this past Wednesday morning for a Yahrtzeit, more than 15 students showed up at 7:00 am. Some students who’ve never before attended a weekday minyan here at USC, or possibly anywhere. I was very touched by this support, and I’d like to thank all those who participated Tuesday evening, Wednesday morning, and/or again on Wednesday evening.
But I also wanted to share some reflections about my father.
My father was born in 1939 in Tel Aviv, Israel (or Palestine, as his passport states). His parents—from Roumania and Germany—had not liked the developing European climate in the preceding years, and had each decided to make Aliya to the Holy Land, where they met and married. He spent his formative years experiencing the birth of the state of Israel and the War of Independence. (He described to me the “political arguments” that would take place among the young children about the differing approaches of the Haganah, the Irgun, and the Lechi. Together with all of Tel Aviv, he could never forget the experience of gathering in the harbor watching the Altalena burn and slowly sink.)
Ironically, in 1952 his parents felt that they could not provide the type of Jewish education for their children that they wanted in Tel Aviv. They moved to Toronto, where my grandfather started a factory manufacturing chairs and tables.
After attending a Jewish day school, my father spent one year of Yeshiva high school in the Lubavitch Yeshiva in New York. He then returned to Toronto to complete high school, and went on to earn an engineering degree from the University of Toronto before joining his father in the manufacturing business. He was a very active leader for the Bnai Akiva youth group in Toronto. (I always got the sense that he felt a great pride in being able to provide to his children a better Jewish education than he himself had received. Despite the vast scholarship he amassed through his own continued love of learning, he always made us feel that we had a special opportunity to “learn” and encouraged us to make the most of that opportunity.)
The way my parents met—though I only remember hearing the story after I was already here at USC—may have played a part in my career choice. As my mother started her own studies in the University of Toronto, she joined her father for a private audience with the Lubavitcher Rebbe, in order to receive his advice and blessing. Among other things, the Rebbe encouraged her to start a Jewish group on campus (known as Yavneh), suggesting that she gather the involved Jewish students to share their lunch hour together, and to arrange lecturers of interest to speak to them at that time. One of the repeat lecturers she found was my father, who had already graduated, and the rest is history.
My parents went on to raise 11 children, providing each of us with the best and most complete Jewish education possible. It never struck me as unusual at the time, but now that I am myself a father I cannot imagine how he could have found the time to read us stories from the Torah and prophets every single night as we went to bed, providing us with a big headstart in knowledge of Hebrew and Nach. I can’t fathom how he had time to study with each and every one of us as we grew—never being satisfied with just school homework, but rather studying with each of us a wide variety of extra-curricular studies, ranging from Mishna to Talmud to science, etc. How could someone build a successful business, while at the same time being there every day to drive his children to school, pick them up from school, study and talk with each one of them every evening, even just always be home for a family dinner? Now I know it’s just a question of priorities, and an extraordinary commitment to living up to those priorities.
My father was one of the only people in the Jewish community in Toronto at the time to drive a 15 passenger van – something that meant that every time there was a school trip that needed a parent to volunteer he was the one who was asked, and never refused. When my parents built their home, my father wanted to create a way that he could spend yet more time with his children and their friends. So despite avoiding any extravagance in the home at all, they built in an indoor swimming pool, providing a lifetime of shared family memories.
He always wanted his children to excel. He once had a dream of training some of his kids to be the youngest to swim Lake Ontario. My mother suggested to him at the time that he choose a more scholarly goal – so instead he decided that he would study with each of us the entire Mishna as preparation for our Bar Mitzvahs. I probably speak for all seven of my brothers when I remember that as a 10, 11, and 12 year old I was not always blessed to share the patience for that goal. But he managed to make it work, not once but seven times.
At my father’s funeral there was a man visibly sobbing who quite obviously did not fit in with the rest of the community. Nick is a Lebanese Arab who worked as a printer. In the 90’s—adjusting to the changing realities of the Canadian economy—my father moved away from manufacturing chairs and tables and began to import them instead, leaving him space in his factory to rent out to various other businesses. Nick was one of those tenants. When times were hard, my father gave him a break on the rent. When seeing him looking down one day and being told that it was worry over a sick child, my father comforted him and encouraged him to have faith and remain strong for his family. Nick felt our loss, saying his world would never be the same.
It wasn’t just Nick. My father’s business practices exemplified for me the notion of Kiddush Hashem – sanctification of G-d’s Name. In all of his interactions, people walked away with a respect and admiration for the man and for the faith tradition he visibly represented. In the months after his passing, person after person came forward to tell us of stories of secret charity or interest free loans, of support and kindness, of love and respect.
When his father passed away, my father bought the house next door to us for his mother to move into. Throughout the rest of his life, she ate every dinner in our home, every Shabbat meal. A day did not go by without him also making some time in the evening to go and visit her – to help her manage the finances, pay the bills, or just to talk. He acted as a living example to all of us of the Mitzvah of honoring one’s parents.
My father loved public speaking, and – though I can’t say he imparted that love, at least to me – he trained us from an early age to do the same. I gave my first public speech at my Opshernesh, an event in honor of my third birthday. He painstakingly prepared and practiced with me some Torah though of several lines, until I had it just right. For every one of our birthday’s, he would have all of us speak at a nearby synagogue, sharing insights and thoughts from our holy tradition. And there was no prouder moment for him than the first time each of us, instead of the carefully written out prepared speech he would compile, were able to develop our own composition to share.
In the thirty or so year that my parents were raising children together, they never took a private vacation. Every vacation was transformed into a family trip, every family trip into a living lesson. Whether it was repeated trips to Israel—experiencing the length and breadth of the Land, and bringing to life events from our history with every step—to the Redwood forests in California, outings for family occasions in New York, or anywhere else, a trip was just another opportunity to educate and learn.
I cannot forget one specific instance: We were reading the story in the Book of Judges about Gideon – how he split his small band of men into three groups, and in the middle of the night they surrounded the camp of Midian each one with a shofar and a covered light in his hand. As the watch changed, they each revealed their torch, sounded their shofar, and cried out: “Whoever is for G-d with me!”. The unexpected “light and sound” show threw the camp of Midian into turmoil, and they proceeded to confusedly attack each other before retreating in disarray. That night, my father gave us a live demonstration, waking us in the middle of the night with a flashlight and a shofar blowing. It brought the story to life in a way that no amount of lessons could.
This email’s gotten way too long, so I’ll stop rambling here. I share these thoughts in honor of my father’s memory, and in the hope that we may all find some relevant lesson that will spur us to better things—thus creating a blessing and elevation for his soul as well.
posted by Rabbi Dov | 3:59 PM
|
0 comments
