I loved my parents, but of course I had to live my own life.
My parents were from the “Us Generation.” In that long-ago era, adult children lived at home until they married. They worked, and handed over their earnings to the family coffers. Irving Levinsky, who would become my father, was a pharmacist. He owned a drugstore in Camden, New Jersey. What he made paid the rent and the bills for his Russian immigrant parents, his younger brother Harry, who was in law school, and his two younger sisters, Sadie and Mamie, until they finished college and got married.
Levinsky Family taken during my ashram years (1982)
Both my parents came of age at the onset of the Great Depression. Of course, most young adults were not so selfish as to get married during the Depression. Marriage meant renting your own apartment, buying your own beds and icebox and stove, and ceasing to contribute to the family’s meager income. It was like jumping ship to your own private lifeboat in the middle of a storm, when your job was to keep the Family Ship afloat.
My mother, Leah Lintz, was a secretary for the Philadelphia school system. During the Depression, she was paid in scrip, a substitute for money. With scrip she supported herself and her widowed mother in a modest apartment in Philadelphia.
When the Depression was finally over and World War II was boosting the economy, my parents got married. For a year they lived in a cozy apartment across the Delaware River from Philadelphia, but Leah considered it too far away from her mother. So Irv bought a four-plex on Kaighn Avenue in Camden. He and Leah, soon joined by my brother Joe and me, lived in the downstairs apartment on the right side; my Aunt Mamie, Uncle Toots, and their two children lived in the downstairs apartment on the left side; my maternal grandmother Nana lived in the apartment above us; and my paternal grandmother, Grandmom, with my unmarried Uncle Harry, lived in the apartment above Aunt Mamie.
When I was nine years old, in 1957, my parents joined the migration to the suburbs. My father hired an architect and planned a ranch type house, with an apartment on top for Nana. Before construction began, however, Nana’s Parkinson’s disease debilitated her beyond being able to climb steps. So my father had the architect redesign the house with Nana’s bedroom on the ground floor.
As for Grandmom Levinsky, she moved into a suburban high rise, and Aunt Sadie moved into the apartment across the hall, so that she could look in on Grandmom several times a day. My father, after a long work day in the drug store, stopped by to visit his mother three days a week. He paid for Grandmom’s two-bedroom apartment and, when she later needed it, full-time help.
Lacking the medication that would later be developed for Parkinson’s disease, Nana degenerated quickly. She couldn’t dress or bathe herself, or get up out of bed or a chair by herself. Also, her senility had her asking the same silly questions over and over. My mother, patiently and lovingly, took care of her mother. When people would suggest that she put Nana into a nursing home, my mother would recoil as if someone had suggested that she put her children into a “very clean, well-kept” orphanage. To my mother’s mind and heart, parents, like children, belonged at home.
The same selfless devotion my parents showed to the generation above them they showed to the generation below them. My father worked 12-hour days in his drugstore to send my brother and me to expensive private colleges. When fake fur coats came into style in the sixties, my mother took me to Wannamaker’s in Philly and bought me an expensive fake fur, while she herself wore a cloth coat older than I was.
A Different Template
My parents wanted a daughter who would become a lawyer or psychologist, marry a nice Jewish boy, settle down a few miles from home, and give them grandchildren. They deserved such a daughter. But instead, they got me.
I admired and appreciated my parents, but for my own life I chose a different template. When it was time for me to go to college, I was accepted at the University of Pennsylvania, just 50 minutes from our house. Both Aunt Mamie’s daughter and Aunt Sadie’s daughter had graduated from U. of P. Right out of college, they had married local Jewish boys, chosen their china patterns, and set up house within ten miles of their parents. My father offered me my own red convertible if I would live at home and go to U. of P.
Brandeis was a 300-mile journey from home, but in terms of values and ideals, it was in a different galaxy.
I spurned the offer. I craved independence, which meant distance, which meant going to Brandeis, outside of Boston. Brandeis was a 300-mile journey from home, but in terms of values and ideals, it was in a different galaxy.
It was the heyday of the Sixties: radical leftist politics, pot, and every kind of experimentation dominated the campus. Suddenly my parents were hopelessly old-fashioned. I called them once a week, and visited them on college vacations, but from then on my life choices were based on what was right for me; they no longer figured into the equation. Just as touch-tone phones were an obvious advancement over rotary dials, so it was clear to me that living my own life was an advancement over the outmoded ethos of living for the family.
For my junior year of college, I decided to go to India with the University of Wisconsin’s College Year in India Program. It was 1968, when intercontinental contact was limited to aerograms, telegrams, and virtually inaudible telephone calls transmitted by underwater cables. My desire to travel to India wrestled in my heart with a deep fear: My father, who was 65, came from a family of weak hearts. His father had died of a heart attack at 62, his brother Harry at 42. What if my beloved father had a heart attack while I was in faraway India? How long would it take me to get the news? How many days would it take me to reach his bedside? One night while at the Program’s six-week orientation in Michigan, I dreamed that my father died while I was in India. I woke up vomiting.
The Program provided a psychologist. I confided in her my conflict: my filial love versus my travel lust. In the end, my travel lust won out.
In India, in a remote and exquisite jewel of a place called Bandadara, I had a spiritual awakening. From that day on, the goal of my life became God-consciousness or Enlightenment. I found a guru, meditated three times a day, and ditched my plans to go to Psych Grad School.
The Dream-Buster
At my father’s insistence, I returned to Brandeis and finished my degree. My parents, of course, came up to Boston for my college graduation, which was on a Sunday. My plan was to pack up my apartment and on Thursday drive home in the Chevy Camaro my father had given me. I intended to live at home and look for a job in journalism. My parents, who drove back to New Jersey on Sunday afternoon, did not mask their joy that I would be returning to the embrace of the family.
A community of spiritual seekers had renounced everything to achieve awareness of God.
Me with my guru Mataji
On Monday, however, my life took a sharp turn in the opposite direction. I decided to take a drive down to Cape Cod, and on the way stop at an ashram that a Reconstructionist rabbi had told me about. On 21 acres of idyllic woodland, the ashram and its small monastic community were presided over by an Indian guru, a 64-year-old Bengali woman called, “Mataji.” I arrived in time to join the midday meditation, held outside under the trees. The ethereal atmosphere and serenity of the ashram was reminiscent of what I had loved in India. Here was an enlightened guru and a community of spiritual seekers who had renounced everything in order to achieve the goal I cherished: God-consciousness. I requested to stay for the summer and ended up staying for fifteen years.
My parents with me at the ashram (1975)
My parents, staunch Conservative Jews, were devastated, but I knew I had to live my own life. They came to the ashram for a week’s visit, and were forced to admit that it was not the free-for-all commune they had imagined. The ashram was clean and orderly; Mataji was warm and welcoming; and the community showed my parents such consideration that it was hard, actually impossible, for them to hate their dream-buster. Their opposition melted into resignation.
We settled into a rhythm where I went home for a week twice a year, at Rosh Hashana and Passover, and they came up for a week’s visit once a year. My mother’s motto became: “When you hang long enough, you get used to hanging.”
An Ocean
At the age of 37, I came to Jerusalem, started studying Judaism, and became Torah observant. When I was almost 39, my 77-year-old mother and my 83-year-old father finally escorted me to the huppah. My husband Leib Yaacov, a musician from California, was a nice Jewish boy from a good, middle-class Jewish family whom my parents resonated with. Fourteen months later, I gave them a grandchild, a baby girl we named Pliyah Esther.
At my wedding (1987)
It seemed that our dreams had finally converged. But now we were separated not by a religious ideology, but by a physical ocean. In those years before email and Skype, we made weekly phone calls and took videos of the baby on VHS tapes with a video camera as big as a typewriter that weighed as much as a watermelon. We sent the video tapes by post, and a couple weeks later my parents got to see their grandchild turning over for the first time or saying her first words.
My parents couldn’t understand why, as Orthodox Jews, we couldn’t live in New York. For me, living in the holy atmosphere of Jerusalem’s Old City and praying at the Kotel [Western Wall] was oxygen for my spiritual soul. From my parents’ point of view, it was candy.
My parents traveled to Israel every year to see us, schlepping Fisher-Price baby equipment and Star-Kist tuna that we couldn’t get in Israel. When my friends told me that their parents were “too old” to come to Israel, I scoffed. Even at 85, with painful arthritis, my father’s undauntable devotion, more than El Al, carried him across the ocean. And once a year my parents, together with my in-laws, sent tickets for us to come to America.
The Phone Call and the Gulf War
At 3 AM Wednesday night, February 7, 1990, I was awakened by the phone call I had dreaded all my life. My brother Joe, an emergency room doctor in New Jersey, was crying into the phone. Dad, at age 86, had gone into the hospital for stomach surgery to remove scar tissue from an ulcer operation three decades before. Something had gone wrong. “Dad’s gone septic,” my brother cried. Three hours later, with my two-year-old Pliyah, I was on a plane to New York.
“Dad’s gone septic,” my brother cried. Three hours later, with my two-year-old Pliyah, I was on a plane to New York.
For the next five excruciating weeks, my father, unconscious and hooked up to wires and tubes in the I.C.U., lingered. Every day I drove my mother to the hospital. Every day I stood by my father’s bed, reciting psalms and praying. At the end of February, my husband Leib Yaacov flew in to be with us.
My parents with Pliyah (1988)
At that point his parents in Los Angeles made what would be a fateful decision. Their 50th wedding anniversary was coming up in May, and they were planning a big party, inviting relatives from all over the country. They decided that since Leib and Pliyah and I were already in America, why not have the party in March?
But dare I leave my father for five days to go to L.A.? I begged his doctors to give me a prognosis. Would my father, already five weeks with no change in his condition, maintain the status quo? My ultimate nightmare, the nightmare that had plagued me since India many years before, was that he would die while I was far away. I desperately wanted to be with him when he made the transition from this world to the next.
The doctors declined to offer predictions. I flew to Los Angeles. Twenty-four hours later, my father’s kidneys started to fail. The next morning he died. And I knew, amidst tears that threatened to drown me, that my father, who had always longed to have me near, had stayed in this world as long as I was finally, finally beside him. When I left for Los Angeles, his desperate clinging to life let go its hold.
With my father’s death, my mother, who had lived to take care of him, lost her raison d’etre. On the last day of sitting shiva, after six traumatic weeks in America, I hurried back to Israel, the last reservation we could get before Passover. But I assured my mother that we would send her a ticket to come to be with us that summer.
That summer, however, Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Tensions in the Middle East skyrocketed, as the U.S. threatened Iraq, and Iraq threatened Israel. Of course, my mother was not coming to Israel during a war, and I was not leaving Israel during a war. While we stood in line to get our gas masks and bought plastic sheeting and tape to make our sealed room, the countdown to war stretched into months.
Finally in January, America attacked Iraq. The Gulf War lasted until March. By April, it seemed safe to book my mother a ticket to come to Israel in July. Strangely, throughout my life, even in India, I had never gone more than a year without seeing my parents, and now, when my mother needed me most, seventeen months elapsed without my seeing her.
My mother, depressed, spent the month of July with us in Jerusalem. I begged and cajoled her to come and live with us, but, at 80 years old and bereft of my father, she had neither the energy nor the interest in starting life over again in a foreign country. She said she would think about it as, sitting in a wheelchair, the airline attendant wheeled her away for her flight back to America.
Yom Kippur
At the end of August, my brother Joe phoned me, and announced that Mom had stomach cancer. Amidst uncontrollable sobs, I asked him how long she had to live. He answered, “She’ll definitely be here for Rosh Hashanah. She’ll definitely not be here for Passover. And she may or may not be here for Hannukah.”
Joe paid for Leib, Pliyah, and me to come to be with Mom for Rosh Hashanah. I took her to the oncologist and asked him when I should plan on coming back to America to take care of her. He replied that she had three to six months to live. I would do well to come back in a couple months.
Pliyah with my mother 2 weeks before her death
On Rosh Hashanah, my cousin Dorothy asked me why I was leaving. Obviously, she didn’t understand that I could not spend Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year, in America. What, I should pray in the local synagogue where the congregants chatted throughout the service, rather than in the sublime sanctity of my Jerusalem shul? And how was I supposed to spend Sukkot in suburban New Jersey? I didn’t even know anyone there who had a Sukkah. I reassured Dorothy that I would come back in plenty of time to take care of my mother when she needed me.
For the next two decades, I would be haunted by that look.
Throughout our entire 9-day visit, my mother looked at me in a way I could not interpret. Was it pain? Disappointment? Anger? When I asked her what was wrong, she would answer, “Nothing.” For the “Us Generation,” exploring feelings or discussing relationships was as strange an occupation as jogging. Her love was in her actions, not her words. For the next two decades, I would be haunted by that look.
Two days after Rosh Hashanah, Leib, Pliyah, and I returned to Jerusalem. My brother Joe, who was separated from his wife, moved in with our mother. Two weeks later, during Sukkot, Joe called me and told me that Mom was not getting dressed in the morning. I immediately phoned her and asked why not. She replied, “I have no one to help me get dressed.”
I told her that I would come right after Sukkot. Then I phoned my travel agent, a religious woman who worked out of her home, and asked her to book me a flight the day after the holiday. All the flights from Israel to New York were booked solid for a week after Sukkot, she told me. Then she added, “But if your mother is sick, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you go today?”
Of course she was right. I booked a flight for that night. When I called my mother to tell her I was coming, there was no answer. I tried again in an hour, then in another hour. Where could she be? Finally, I reached my brother in the emergency room where he worked. He told me that my mother had had an angina attack, and had called an ambulance. She was in the local hospital. In that pre-cellphone era, he didn’t know the number of the phone by her hospital bed, but he intended to go there right after he finished his shift. He promised to tell her that I was coming to be with her that night.
I threw into my suitcase Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s book On Death and Dying, and clothes to last for months. I was a good daughter. I would take care of my mother till the end.
In the hustle and bustle of the airport, Batya told me: “Your mother is dead.”
Waiting for my flight at Ben Gurion airport, I was surprised to hear my name paged. I walked to the nearest paging phone. The operator conveyed the message to call my friend Batya immediately. Standing there in the hustle and bustle of the airport, I listened to Batya’s flat-tone voice tell me: “Your mother is dead.”
A Second Chance
For the next 23 years, I lived with the piercing guilt of knowing that I had made a bad choice. I should have stayed with my mother, even at the cost of missing Yom Kippur and Sukkot in Jerusalem. Little Ms. Spiritual, I had spent so many years in the Land of “I Have to Live My Own Life,” that I had not noticed when I crossed the border into the Land of Selfishness.
Every year on Yom Kippur, when we hit our hearts while confessing our sins, when I reached, “For the sin I have committed before You by scorning parents…” I would burst into inconsolable tears.
This year, two days after Rosh Hashanah, my brother Joe called me. He cried into the telephone as he told me that he had been hospitalized with serious heart problems. He was afraid of dying. I tried to encourage him but, as a doctor, he recognized how grave his condition was.
When I hung up the phone, I knew, with perfect clarity, what I had to do. I booked a flight to America leaving in four hours. I told my husband that I would be gone for Yom Kippur, and possibly for Sukkot. I cancelled my professional commitments and packed in fifteen minutes. My husband drove me to the airport, and by 11 a.m. the next morning I was in Philadelphia, standing by my brother’s bed in the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit.
I spent four to five hours a day sitting with my brother, as he slowly came out of heart failure. On Yom Kippur, I prayed at the local Orthodox shul. It wasn’t Jerusalem, but when I reached the words, “For the sin I have committed before You by scorning parents…” for the first time in 23 years, I shed no tears.
That’s when I knew I had finally rectified my transgression against my parents. I had put my brother’s welfare over my own spiritual preferences. God had given me a second chance, and I had exited the Land of Selfishness into the wider world of putting family first.
(38) Shepsel Pesach, January 10, 2018 5:18 AM
Profoundly Deep, What a resonance
I read Aish.com almost daily, thankful for the connection to Yerushalylim, this story is deeply inspiring. Having lost my mother in February, picking up the pieces has been the most difficult phase of my life, having felt that I wasted too many years chasing the "my life" track. I have read many articles of Sarahs...who hasnt?...always assuming she was FFB...seeing her path...to torah....and Jerusalem....gives me great hope.
(37) Judi Kirk, January 7, 2018 8:21 PM
My darling friend, you drove me to tears!
Sara: I guess that's true redemption. N'est ce pas? Wish we could catch up. Fond hugs, Judi
(36) Dr.Howard Movie, January 7, 2018 5:04 PM
Jewish Life
A example of the "me"generation.Just look at most nursing homes today, especially in Jewish areas, simply a shonda.
Rachel, January 8, 2018 12:50 AM
No alternative for many people
My parents are deceased, but 1 of my in-laws is reaching a difficult time when it will not be possible to live alone.
My husband will soon be 60. I am disabled. We do not have the physical wherewithal to provide ongoing care in our home. When the time comes, my in-law will need to go to a nursing home and we will visit regularly.
(35) Sarah, May 7, 2015 1:07 AM
Such a moving story and right on the money. So glad you chose to be a writer to share your wisdom with the world. Perhaps achieving G-d consciousness partially happens by living according to G-d's laws moment by moment and of course by being a channel for his Love in all situations.
(34) Lauren, December 25, 2014 3:04 PM
don't be too hard on yourself
We learn in this week's parsha that the love a parent has for a child is greater than in reverse. We see that with Yaakov and Yosef. Even when he becaome a ruler in Egypt, Yosef didn't let his father know that he was alive.
(33) yehudit channen, November 22, 2014 8:54 PM
honest and generous in spirit
I have read a lot of your articles and admire most of all your honesty and willingness to share your spiritual growth with your readers. Sometimes as baalei tshuva, we tend to behave in extreme ways that can cause pain to people we love. We want so much to be spiritual that we often step on a lot of feelings, which is of course, not spiritual at all! I am so happy you went to your brother and found comfort in that act. I am also glad you forgave yourself--the whole 60's thing encouraged self-gratification and you were one more victim. Thanks for all the great books and articles!
(32) Aliza, November 21, 2014 2:25 AM
Thank you
Thank you for sharing this painful acknowledgment of a mistake . It is true that our generation thinks of our own needs first before parents but in some cases when done respectfully it is for the best . Keep in mind, this selfishness you describe is what lead you to Yerushalayim and to Serving Hashem in the first place
(31) Anonymous, November 20, 2014 4:21 AM
My teacher!
Rebetzin Rigler,
You did for your brother what you taught us in the Ladder. You told us that after doing a cheshbon hanefesh, think to yourself that the next time you are in a similar situation, you will not repeat what you did. Thank you for continuing to inspire me not only with your wisdom, but also with your honesty, openness, and ahavas yisroel.
(30) Aviel, November 19, 2014 12:52 PM
great article/great car
Moving article. Like the patriarchs and matriarchs who we are seems to be the result of our decisions when faced with challenges big and small.
The late 60's early 70's camaro brought back memories.That was an awesome car.
(29) John, November 19, 2014 1:17 AM
Thank You
Thank you so much ... I know that Ii have done and presently doing is so right and fulfilling.
(28) Anonymous, November 18, 2014 7:19 PM
What about Selfish Parents?
I've known of many instances when parents treat their children unkindly, especially in their old age. You write as though the assisted living or nursing home were the poor house, but in a lot of instances, elderly parents are not safe in their own homes and it isn't possible to live with the children, or they might refuse to do it. I cared for an aging parent in my house who poured her urine down the vent, and I wiped her bottom because she couldn't or wouldn't. I've seen elder parents nag their kids to buy a loaf of bread, and when they arrive with the bread, they remember they want orange juice, too, but when asked earlier, do you need orange juice, they had said no. I've known parents who showed blatant favor for one child over another and who said cruel and insulting things to children with disabilities. And I've known parents who moved away from their kids and then get indignant that their kids don't cough up the airfare to visit and take care of them. I know one grandmother who paid herself a big fee to be the executrix of a will set up to benefit her autistic grandchild, even though she did almost no work.
Then there are the parents who dictate their children's careers - you must take over the family business, be a doctor, a lawyer, etc.
So quit worrying about you should've done this or you should've done that. You made the best decision you could at the time. I hope I won't keep driving when I need to quit, and won't insist on living 'independently' when I no longer know what's going on. I hope my kids won't think of me in the way I've described so many of my parents' generation.
(27) yehudit, November 18, 2014 1:32 PM
the other side of teshuva
Sara you have once again shown us how to rectify our mistakes: and have also, by writing this (an so many other) articles reminded us that helping others not to do the same is one of the greatest forms of teshuva. It is not enough for you to do your own cheshbon nefesh and repent. You also feel a communal responsibility and by writing the way you do help others to do the same. We are grateful.
As an aside, I hope it may be a comfort to you to imagine that Hashem gave you the selfless parents that he did in order for you to have the freedom to take your path......and He also gave you the tools and sensitivity to repent for "taking advantage" of his messengers.
(26) Anonymous, November 18, 2014 10:39 AM
We choose..... Hashem decides
What a touching and meaningful article.
Bottom line is that we all make choices based on our individual situations and experiences. But was only in Hashem's hands whether the author would have be present at the passing of her parents, it did not depend on her location, whether Stateside or Israel. We all have to come to terms with decisions we make, and realize that perhaps Hashem has something else in mind that doesn't necessarily match with what we would have preferred.
(25) Ann, November 18, 2014 9:25 AM
I am crying... Extraordinary! Thank you for your honesty! I made alya as my father was sick and he left this world a few months after... I am so guilty
(24) Donna Perel, November 17, 2014 11:01 PM
So I'm not alone....
As I read the article I was reliving parts of my own live. Thank you for your honestly and sharing.
(23) Lisa Rubin, November 17, 2014 10:16 PM
The way it used to be
Sara, you nailed it when you described your parents' early expectations for you. I, too, left the nest to start a family in Richmond, VA. To my parents, I knew I hurt them by moving so far away and the guilt troubled me. My family and I returned to the NYC area five years later and my parents followed us to Westchester County. My father passed away soon after.My brother and I coordinate or mother's 24 hour care. We both visit her on a weekly basis. Sometimes people wonder why I don't try something new, have an adventure. I will. Just not now.
(22) Anonymous, November 17, 2014 7:25 PM
Love all the things you write! Thank you for sharing. Very helpful. Makes me want to spend time with you hearing more :)
(21) Anonymous, November 17, 2014 6:58 PM
Thank you
Thank you for this amazing andmoving article. Your honesty was just exceptional. There is a certain selfishness even in following a spiritual path. As a Baal Tushuvah this is something I must remind myself of frequently. Don't be too hard on yourself though I bet your Mom and dad are still so full of nuchas!! Be Well'
(20) Robin, November 17, 2014 4:09 PM
Thank you
Humbled, convicted, ready for a little teshuvah of my own. Thank you for shining a light.
(19) Christopher Moore, November 17, 2014 3:44 PM
Cry Me a River
My parents are the most spoiled people I have ever known. They would not be able to survive the hell they have put me through!
(18) Gila, November 17, 2014 2:18 PM
Sara speaks truth
Sara speaks deep truth, takes responsibility and action, setting for all her readers an example. May we merit to understand and do as she does.
(17) Anonymous, November 17, 2014 11:13 AM
Too much guilt?
I normally like what you write but as a Baby Boomer, I felt aren't you putting on yourself too much guilt?
Is this suitable for someone who should inspire us.
(16) Anonymous, November 17, 2014 11:10 AM
Thank you for sharing this with us.
(15) Anonymous, November 17, 2014 3:24 AM
Piercing honesty
Sara, I'm in tears reading your article. Brutal honesty! I am part of that "60's" generation and, your sharing about SELFishness resonates deeply. Thank you for showing a true cheshbon hanefesh. I'm so glad to hear that you also have found peace. With teshuva you are like a different person.
(14) Malka, November 17, 2014 1:53 AM
What you wrote really inspired me. I want to tell you Sara that the fact that you were not next to your parents when they left this world was not your fault. You had no idea that this was going to happen while you were away. You sound like an amazing woman and if G-d wanted you to be next to your parents when they passed away He would have made it happen. Don't blame yourself for no reason. I always get inspired by your articles and I learn a lot from you. I hope Mashiach will come soon so that we will all be reunited with our loved ones.
(13) Anonymous, November 16, 2014 11:11 PM
Too hard on yourself
You write ''(my parents) deserved such a daughter. But instead, they got me." Why such guilt? Is this appropriate?
(12) Anonymous, November 16, 2014 11:10 PM
Thank you for such an open honest sharing article.
(11) Anonymous, November 16, 2014 10:10 PM
Thank you so much for sharing this very real peice. It's very helpful and validating to read how someone so special recognizes their mistake, overcomes and moves on to make good and heal. I am sure your are bringing your parents tremendous nachas. May you be blessed to continue to do so.
(10) Lisa, November 16, 2014 9:42 PM
You stopped your tears...now it's my turn!
I live so far from my parents....many times they needed me & I gave them my " I need to be here for my family" speech! Hopefully one day we'll all live near our family....to celebrate the good & be there for the not so good!!
Thank you for eye opening article!
(9) Bracha Goetz, November 16, 2014 8:55 PM
Beautiful!
I can so relate.
(8) Donna G, November 16, 2014 7:53 PM
You're a Brave Lady, Sara
Kol hakavod, Sara, on not just facing very painful memories, but sharing them with all your readers. You are in plentiful company regarding the errors many of us in your generation have made and wished we had done some things differently. But you are so fortunate in so many ways. To have such a loving, beautiful family is a gift that most of us did not have. The beautiful descriptions of your multi-generational family and what they did for each other brought back so many wonderful memories. The life you chose to lead has lead you to help so many others, and for this, not only is Hashem happy with you, but I'd bet your parents are too. This was an amazingly honest and bravely written piece. Yasher koach!
(7) Frimi Levi, November 16, 2014 6:46 PM
Honestly is the most powerful
Your honestly and self awareness is a gift I cherish. There is nothing like reading someone else share their failings, misgivings and growth with thousands to make me feel an "achrayus" in working on my own shortcomings and being honest about them.
Your honestly has been humbling and may you continue to grow in all area's of gashmiyum and ruchnius.
(6) Sootys mum, November 16, 2014 5:26 PM
Free will
We have to make our own choices in life and must live with the results. Sometimes, as society changes, we feel that we have to change to accommodate it. The problem with being an orthodox Jew is when the husband refuses his wife to care for her family because he feels that he and his family take priority, I have seen it all too often. I suspect that the fifth commandment is there to help people when they are not sure what the correct thing to do is and to help both men and women when they are in conflict.
I am glad that Sara finally learned this and found peace when sitting with her brother. Family is the most important thing in this world and we must learn to prioritise it.
(5) Anonymous, November 16, 2014 4:42 PM
Wow.
Wow-a profound life lesson.
(4) Barry, November 16, 2014 4:36 PM
on meeting Leib and you and reading this story...
Thanks for the welcome you gave Chana and me today. It seemed a gift of the most special kind. So, too, is this story. It has generated so many thoughts and memories of my dear and amazing parents. In fact, I will send you a story I just wrote last night about my late father, a mensch like yours. We have much to share; I look forward to that. Again, thanks.
(3) Miriam, November 16, 2014 12:07 PM
Beautiful but heartbreaking article
but I don't know if it's so clear cut. Don't chazal teach us kibud av vaem is minor in this world and really starts after parents pass into the next world? I agree you made some mistakes but if you would have been the perfect daughter who graduated from U of P and produced grandchildren your parents would be getting some, but minimum pleasure up there right now. It was your very "selfish" quest for spirituality that led you to becoming frum and now giving them the pleasure, joy and nachas of their "life", forever!!
Also, some people do the opposite. Neglect husband and children to stay with parents overseas for months and that might not be right either.
Who knows?
In any case, the pain you caused your parents was bashert. If it didn't come from you, it would have come from Joe (or someone else)!
It's a powerful article with a powerful lesson. I'll never forget it.
(2) Nancy, November 16, 2014 11:58 AM
The best essay you have ever written!
Dear Sara Yocheved Rigler--
I have been reading your essays for a long time now, and have been enlightened by all of them. However, this particular essay stands out from everything else you have written. To call it brilliant and insightful would be an understatement. I felt as if I was taking the journey right along side of you. In fact, I HAVE taken the same journey that you described so very eloquently. Thank you for talking to my heart!
(1) Anonymous, November 16, 2014 9:26 AM
Honest essay
Thank you for the candid essay. No judgments here.