20 Aug ROOTS

Summertime finds our family upstate. Our
development is blessed to have a
magnificent shul, with a giant oak tree right
in front of the entrance. This year, our tree
of 100+ years is showing signs of disease.
An entire chunk of the tree’s trunk appears
to be eaten away. An expert arborist was
called in. After a thorough examination, he
found no sign of insect infestation, or
animals living within it. He recommended
cutting away the remaining diseased area
and treating the tree with medication.
I saw the tree doc working away, and
intrigued by the whole story, struck up a
conversation. I couldn’t help but ask, how
could it be that a diseased tree has strong
branches and a full crown of green leaves.
He turned to me and responded with one
word. ROOTS.
The power of strong roots. Roots that
extend deep and wide beneath the surface,
enabling the tree to withstand disease and
weather stormy winds. It brought to mind
the Mishnah in Avos, “Rabbi Elazar ben
Azariah says…. a tree whose branches are

few but whose roots are numerous, even if
all the winds in the world were to come and
blow against it, they could not budge it
from its place…” (Avos 3:22)
I recall reading of a study done in the
aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. The study of
the storm’s impact in an urban area was to
determine which trees survived the
hurricane and which were uprooted. A most
interesting observation was made. The trees
on lawns with sprinklers were more likely
to fall, than those on the grassy areas lining
the sidewalks, areas that are often not
regularly watered.
The study concluded that trees which were
regularly irrigated grew shallow roots,
while those along the sidewalk grew longer
and deeper roots, as they had to
independently reach a source of water.
They developed tap roots that made them
stronger and more likely to survive storms
and hurricanes. Trees watered by sprinkler
systems did not develop these roots.
This Friday, 19 Av, is the eighth yahrtzeit of
my beloved mother, Rebbetzin Esther bas
HaRav Avraham HaLevi a”h. As I passed
by the tree, I recalled one of the life lessons

my mother taught us. The power of roots.
To know the roots of one’s family, the roots
of our people. Roots that extend back to our
Avos and Imahos. Roots that go all the way
back to Sinai. Deep and powerful roots that,
like the tree, have sustained us throughout
the ages. Roots that sustain our families,
our children and grandchildren, ourselves.
My mother was a great believer of tapping
into the past to build the future. So many
would attend her Torah classes, where she
spoke of the spiritual DNA, our roots, that
makes us one with our ancestors. A DNA
that gives us the strength to weather life’s
storms.
Our rabbis teach that the weekly Torah
portion of one’s yahrzeit is reflective of
their life. My mother departed from this
world during the week of Parshas Eikev.
The parsha opens with “V’haya eikev
tishme’un, And if you will listen to
HaShem’s commandments…” While eikev
is translated as “if”, it can also be translated
as “heel”. Rashi explains that this alludes to
“Mitzvos kalos sh’adam dosh b’akeivoh”,
mitzvos we may perceive as being “light”,
of lesser importance, thereby neglected,
and figuratively “trampled upon” with our
heel.
(Rashi, Devarim 7:12)
My zeide shared yet another understanding
of both eikev and kalos. Mitzvos, Zeide
said, can become “kal”, easy to perform,
because we have ancestors who walked
the difficult paths, and with their eikev,
their heels, made “footsteps”. All we need
to do is to follow in their path.
My mother would expound on zeide’s
words with a personal story. A story that
tugs at the soul.
My mother took us back to her life as a
little girl growing up in Hungary. The
winds of war were already brewing. It
would only be a short while until the Nazis
invaded. Ima spoke of her parents’
decision to visit her paternal grandparents,
for no one knew what tomorrow would
bring.
It was a brutal winter. The snow was deep,
yet they made the long, difficult trip to
Nadudvar. A trip that was fraught with
danger, as anti-Semitism was rampant,
and assaults upon Jews were
commonplace.
When they arrived to their grandparents’
home, they were greeted with warm hugs
and cries of “Mein teiyereh kinder, my
precious children”. The poverty may have
been great, but the love was strong.

It didn’t take long for my mother to sit
herself down on her zeide’s lap. He was
engrossed in study. It was then, that she
noticed teardrops falling onto the pages.
Not understanding why her beloved zeide
was crying, she ran to her father.
“Come, my dear child, and I will explain to
you as we walk outside.” Lovingly, her
father helped her with putting on her coat
and boots.
The snow stopped falling. But it was still
deep, and hard for a little girl to walk. My
mother’s father told her that he will make a
path and walk ahead of her… she only had
to follow in his footsteps. And so they
walked. Father, with daughter following
right behind.
“Do you know why I am walking ahead of
you?” my grandfather inquired. “Yes,” my
mother replied, “so I can follow in your
footsteps, so I will not fall.”
My mother’s father continued and explained
that the zeide is crying because he knows
that difficult days are coming. Days when
the snow will be very deep, the challenges
great, and at times they may stumble. When
the zeide is studying, when he
opens his siddur and davens, he is forging
pathways for his children to follow. He is
making the road easier for them, and for
future generations.
Whenever my mother would share this
story, she would tell her listeners that every
one of them had a zeide and a bubba, a
grandfather and a grandmother that made
pathways. We only have to uncover that
path and walk upon it.
During these difficult times, let’s reflect
upon our own roots, and they will surely
give us strength – individually and
collectively.