This column was written for the repose of the soul of my father, the righteous Rabbi of Jerusalem, Shmuel Elazar (son of Rabbi Meshulam Zisha) of Brandwin, for whom I have just risen from the 'sheva'.
Before Dad passed away, I never thought of writing a column about my father.
My father, he is mine. I mean, this father, who was a rabbi and an advisor to so many people, is actually my father. My personal father. And my personal father, as he is in my spirit, I didn't want to share with anyone. I didn't want to give him to anyone. I wanted to keep him for myself. Yes, just for myself. For my family, for my children, for my siblings. For me.
Maybe part of it was because I was afraid that words might belittle me in the eyes of those who didn't know me - and I didn't want to belittle my father.
But now, after he passed away, I feel like I want to share so much. My father, in his essence, was a father to everyone, to every person as a person. And I do want to pass on this spiritual father to everyone.
But what can I do when my father's stories are as vast as the sea?
I chose one point from all those that guided him and I would like to highlight it.
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When my father walked down the street on Shabbat, he would greet everyone first. He never waited for someone to approach him and say, "Shabbat Shalom." He was the one who would leave the group of companions, approach that person, who could be anyone, and greet them first.
Those accompanying Dad looked at the man who had been stopped in front of them, a bare-headed man, wearing running clothes, rough sneakers on his feet, a small bottle of water in his hand, all dripping with sweat.
When he saw Dad, he stopped. Dad said, "Shabbat Shalom" to him and offered him his hand.
Hela wiped his sweaty hand on his wet clothes and handed it to Dad. Dad shook his hand and repeated, "Shabbat Shalom!" And his deep blue eyes met the man's with love.
For many days, the man was not seen running down a city street on the Sabbath. He, in a white shirt, was seen among the worshippers in his father's synagogue, listening to his prayer.
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At the entrance to the synagogue sat the guard. The gatekeeper. A gatekeeper's job is to guard. But the honorable guard traded the honorable job for someone else. He told us that he couldn't sit at the entrance when my father came in and greeted him with "Shabbat Shalom." Later, he said that it was my father's "Shabbat Shalom" that kept him in the synagogue, not just on Shabbat, but all day long.
Along Dad's entire way home, there were constant characters: the blind man, the dwarf, the scoundrel, the weeping woman, the 12-year-old boy, the fat man, and the beggar - all of them waited in their own corner until Dad passed. When Dad passed, they would thirstily drink his blessing and only then would they each go their separate ways.
At the "Seventh" meeting, each of them came to tell their story. Father was their "support.".
His 'Shabbat Shalom' accompanied them throughout the week and lifted their heads.
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Over 30 years ago, when I started publishing my books, I published an entire series of children's books called: 'The Peace Series.'.
The series included 10 books, all named after peace: Shalom Lech Yedid, Shalom Lech Shabbat, Malki HaShalom, Shalom Al Yisrael, and so on. These books sold out and were reprinted over and over again, children became attached to them, parents loved them very much, but no one knew that I took the name of the series from my father's path.
Even as a child, I would look, amazed by the power of his peace, and see how far it penetrates and reaches.
How great peace is, I slowly realized, holding the flap of my father's coat.
But how great is Father's peace? I will never know that.
Because every moment I hear more and more stories of my father's peace, and I realize that there is no end to the 86 years of his life.
Father, you are peace, your path is peace, your world is peace.
Take care of the entire people of Israel, for whom you have always cared, that only blessings and peace may come upon us all.
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