09 Jan OVI MORI

Beis Shevat. Yahrtzeit of my dear father,
HaRav Meshulem ben HaRav Osher Anshil
HaLevi, zt”l.
It is now twenty-eight years since my
father’s petira. My husband remarked to me
that twenty-eight, kof-twenty, ches-eight, is
the gematria of koach- strength.
After twenty-eight years, my father still
remains a source of strength to me. He will
forever be ovi mori, my father, my teacher,
my inspiration. His gentle ways, his words,
his actions, have taught me so much.
The Holocaust left my father a war orphan.
He arrived to this country alone, without the
support of family. A new land, a strange
language. I often wonder, how did he
manage? Not only manage, but accomplish.
Years ago, I was packing camp trunks for
my children. Extra pairs of socks, additional
pajamas, multiple tee shirts, another zip-up
– because you never know. Suddenly, I
thought of Abba. Who packed him up for a
journey across the world… did he even have
anything to pack.

I never saw a look of sadness, a sign of
bitterness. I only remember Abba’s smile. A
man who was always happy, always in a
good mood. While my father was a devoted
shul rabbi and a busy community leader, he
always made us children his priority. We
didn’t go on exotic vacations, or take major
trips, yet we never felt deprived. Wherever
we went, we felt Abba’s love.
From the park playground to the
neighborhood fire station, from the zoo to
the local lake to feed the ducks, we always
felt a father’s devotion.
When we were sick, Abba would make us
his specialty “pitter broit”, toasted bread and
butter, served together with a cup of hot tea
and honey. Little acts of a father’s love that
mean so much.
No one had patience like Abba. Like many a
high school girl, I would come home from
school, call my friends, have dinner, read a
little, take a nosh, and only hit the books
later at night. By then, I was good and tired.
But it was never too late for Abba to sit with
me and explain a difficult Ohr HaChaim or
Kli Yakar.
The years flew by. It was my wedding night.
Time to march down to the chuppa. I became

very nervous. It was Abba who
calmed me. I still remember his
words. “Chaya Sora, you are not
alone. All the heilige zeides and
bubbas are with you. They are
marching alongside you. Their
brachos are accompanying you.
IY”H, it will all be good.”
The zeides and bubbas are with you.
It will all be good. Years later, the
words are still with me. It was only
much later on that I realized how
Abba survived his dark days. He kept
the memory of the zeides and bubbas
with him. He knew that no matter
what, he was not alone, but was
accompanied by their brachos. A
message lovingly conveyed to me.
As we read Sefer Shemos, the story of our
ancestors in Mitzrayim, we wonder from
where did they get their strength. I think of
Abba’s words and I envision a generation
that remembered the message of their zeide
Yaakov. The brachos that he gave to the
shevatim. They too, realized that they were
not alone, but that their Avos and Imahos,
their bubbas and zeides, were with them.
When I became a mommy, I loved “going
home” to my parents for Shabbos. As
soon as we pulled up to the house, Abba
would come to greet us, affectionately
calling out “Check-in time at the hotel”.
He would help us bring in the suitcases
and packages, and then tell me to take a
rest. How Abba loved the babies. He
would carry the little ones on his broad
shoulders. With each new grandchild,
Abba would say, “another shoulder baby”.
It didn’t take long for the baby to fall
asleep, nestled upon Abba’s shoulder.
Leil Shabbos, my father would stay up
learning while rocking the carriage,
soothing the little ones with his soft,
melodic voice. Abba would say that
HaShem keeps the babies up at night so
the fathers and zeides would stay up
learning.
My son – my parents’ first grandchild –
was just a toddler when he coined the
name “Abba-Zeide”, and so my father
was called by all of his grandchildren. He

was more than a zeide, he was Abba-
Zeide.

My father was a man who was a true
sameach b’chelko, happy with his lot. It
was all good. What a bracha. To live with
simcha, with gratitude, with appreciation
for all of life’s blessings, big and small.
In this week’s parsha, we read of the first

three plagues, dom-blood, tzfardaya-
frogs, kinim-lice. Interestingly, the Torah

tells us that HaShem’s instructions to Moshe
were that these plagues be brought on
through Aaron. Why Aaron and not Moshe?
Rashi explains that it was a matter of
hakoras hatov, gratitude. It would not have
been proper for Moshe to strike the waters
of Mitzrayim that protected him when his
mother placed him upon it.
Similarly, it was Aaron who was designated
to strike the earth, bringing upon Egypt the
plague of lice. Here too, it would have been
inappropriate for Moshe to hit the ground.
For it was the earth that concealed the
Egyptian whom Moshe had killed, while
protecting a fellow Jew.
Gratitude to water and earth, inanimate
objects. Do water and earth feel, do they
have emotions? Do they know the difference
if they are struck or not? Herein lies an
important life lesson. It is not for the sake of
the water or earth. It is for our sake. To
imbue our very being with an attitude of
gratitude. If we learn to appreciate water
and earth, if gratitude becomes ingrained in
our spirit, we will exude gratitude to the
people in our lives. We will have gratitude
to HaShem. We will be better people for it.
Life is a learning experience. Hakoras hatov,
appreciating goodness, is one of its lessons.
My father taught us a lesson of gratitude. He
was appreciative of everyone in his life.
Thanking all for favors done, big and small.
Abba went out of his way to thank the
school bus driver, and went to our schools to
personally thank the rebbeim and teachers.
He would thank the cashiers, the bank
tellers, the gas stations attendants. And it
wasn’t just a simple thank you. It was a
thank you, along with words about a job
well gone, given full with exuberance and a
matching big smile.
Yehi Zichro Boruch. May his memory be a
blessing.