A young man from Long Island once approached a Rabbi to ask that a memorial prayer, called kaddish be recited for his recently departed father. Kaddish is recited every day for a year after a person's death, usually by a family member. The young man made it clear that he would not be saying the kaddish himself but would pay for the Rabbi to arrange for someone else to say the kaddish on his deceased father's behalf.
Some time passed and the young man suddenly began showing up in the synagogue and reciting kaddish himself. The Rabbi asked the young fellow what had changed and he told him the following:
When I was growing up, my father never showed any warmth or affection. He was always cold and uninvolved. One incident that always epitomized this for me was when I was in 5th grade. We had a paper airplane contest in school. I worked real hard to make a great airplane. When it was finished I wrote DAD on it with a bold blue marker. The plane won 1st Prize. When I came home I was so excited, I ran over to my dad, gave him the plane and told him I won. He showed no reaction. He didn't say a thing, he just took the plane and shoved it away somewhere. Not one kind word or even a smile. That incident told me that my father didn't care a bit about me. I knew he didn't love me.
When he passed away, I realized my kaddish obligation, but I just could not say kaddish for such a man. I came to you to arrange for the kaddish to be said by someone else. This way my obligation would be dispensed but I wouldn't have to physically say it.
Yesterday I went downtown to his office to clean out his desk. His secretary let me into the room and I got to work. When I went through his top drawer I found the paper airplane that I made in fifth grade. I picked it up and held it. I stared at it. When I eyed the word DAD written in blue, a lump formed in my throat. At that moment, his secretary walked into the room and said to me, "Your father used to stare intently at that plane with the exact same misty eyed look you have now. I always wondered what was so special about that plane." I wanted to answer her but I couldn't speak.
I realized that my dad cared about me all along. He just wasn't a man of many words. He didn't show his emotions and I didn't know how to see them but now I understand that they were always there. He did love me. Today I came to say kaddish for that wonderful man - my staunchest admirer, my hero, my dad. (©2014. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)
Some time passed and the young man suddenly began showing up in the synagogue and reciting kaddish himself. The Rabbi asked the young fellow what had changed and he told him the following:
When I was growing up, my father never showed any warmth or affection. He was always cold and uninvolved. One incident that always epitomized this for me was when I was in 5th grade. We had a paper airplane contest in school. I worked real hard to make a great airplane. When it was finished I wrote DAD on it with a bold blue marker. The plane won 1st Prize. When I came home I was so excited, I ran over to my dad, gave him the plane and told him I won. He showed no reaction. He didn't say a thing, he just took the plane and shoved it away somewhere. Not one kind word or even a smile. That incident told me that my father didn't care a bit about me. I knew he didn't love me.
When he passed away, I realized my kaddish obligation, but I just could not say kaddish for such a man. I came to you to arrange for the kaddish to be said by someone else. This way my obligation would be dispensed but I wouldn't have to physically say it.
Yesterday I went downtown to his office to clean out his desk. His secretary let me into the room and I got to work. When I went through his top drawer I found the paper airplane that I made in fifth grade. I picked it up and held it. I stared at it. When I eyed the word DAD written in blue, a lump formed in my throat. At that moment, his secretary walked into the room and said to me, "Your father used to stare intently at that plane with the exact same misty eyed look you have now. I always wondered what was so special about that plane." I wanted to answer her but I couldn't speak.
I realized that my dad cared about me all along. He just wasn't a man of many words. He didn't show his emotions and I didn't know how to see them but now I understand that they were always there. He did love me. Today I came to say kaddish for that wonderful man - my staunchest admirer, my hero, my dad. (©2014. Printed with permission from Rabbi Baruch Lederman, author of Shulweek www.kehillastorah.org.)
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