A Z'chus to Live and a Z'chus to Die

By Atara London Grenadir

As the first Yahrzeit of my father, Yitzchok ben Dovid (London), approaches on the seventh of Kislev, I am filled with powerful emotions ranging from sadness to joy. I’m sad because I can’t hear his voice on the phone greeting me: “Atara, it’s so good to hear from you. What’s new?” Even as his body became small and fragile, his voice remained strong and energetic. Talking to him gave me life. Because we were both artists, I felt a deeper connection to his creative, sensitive side. He understood me completely, and he knew quite well my strengths and weaknesses. I could always go to Dad for advice, and he would tell me just what I needed to hear. He was the wisest man I knew. 

The last three months of his life he spent in Manor Care, a nursing home in Norman, Oklahoma. My Dad had a keen sense of humor and a kindness towards people that showed itself even more during those final months. On my last visit, in November, he asked me to buy Godiva chocolates for the Manor Care nurses. “Buy a nice box for the day shift and also a nice box for the night shift, because I bother them the most,” He told me. “It’s important to show appreciation for people who are good to you.”

The nurses said, “Your Dad is such a gentleman.” He wouldn’t think of coming to the dining room unless dressed in his vest and cap. When his strength gave out due to the frequent blood transfusions, he never complained. He told me, “You have to accept whatever happens to you in life.” The day after the transfusion, he would be on a bicycle in the physical fitness room, pedaling with all his might. Walking him down the hall with his walker, he would say,  “Let’s walk one more time. I want to get strong again.” He never did get stronger. However, his tremendous emotional fortitude was a model for me. He taught me never to give up, to live each day as a new beginning.

When I was a little girl, I observed my father creating paper mache figures and graphic designs in the basement of Daube’s Department store in Ardmore, Oklahoma. He took such care in finishing each piece to perfection. My Dad taught me the importance of being thorough, of completing a job to the last detail and spending enough time to execute it properly. 

My Dad was an artistic genius and a visionary. He founded and designed (with my Mom) the Goddard Art Center in Ardmore. He designed the Pennsylvania Building at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York. He won first place in a national window display contest when he worked for Daube’s Department Store in Ardmore. During his last months, he often reminisced about being the director at the Goddard Art Center. One of the last things he expressed to me was that he wished he could have created a multi-dimensional performance with music, dance and film. “The people would have enjoyed that!”

My Dad also had a spiritual side that greatly affected me in my journey. As a little girl, I watched him davening in our temple with such strength and seriousness. He never talked during the services. I knew G-d was important to him, and I remembered that. My parents taught me to say the Shema every night so G-d would protect me, and I did.

After I got married in New York, my husband and I visited Dad and my brother’s family often in Norman. On Shabbos, Dad would join us for the meals. He always wore a kippah and enjoyed singing the niggunim (melodies). When he bentched (recited the Grace After Meals) with us, he carefully said every word, even when he was weak. His drive to complete whatever he started was a model for us to live by.

I have immense gratitude to HaShem Yisborach that I was able to be with my father during his last hours. The whole episode was miraculous. My brother David called me on Thursday to inform me of Dad’s declining health. Only through Priceline could I get an affordable ticket on such short notice. My bid for a Sunday flight was accepted, but at 6 A.M. departure!  I freaked. How could I ever make such an early plane? I did, thanks to my husband who drove me to the airport at 4 A.M. The plane took off on the dot without any delay, a miracle for LaGuardia Airport. I got into Oklahoma City in the late morning, rented a car and drove straight to the Norman hospital. When I entered Dad’s room, I was shocked at his appearance and labored breathing. I went over to him an said “Dad, it’s Atara, I just came in from New York.” He opened his eyes and looked at me and started talking to me in a frenzy, but I couldn’t understand him because he was so dehydrated. He made motions to me with his hands, and I communicated to him my love and understanding. Then he went back to sleep. 

I talked for a long while with my brother. He was totally dedicated to the well being of our father and wanted to honor him in every way. I brought up again the burial plans. My brother, a secular Jew, sighed, and said that things should be kept the way they were written in the will. I had been davening (praying) for years for Dad to have a Jewish burial including the taharah (ritual purification of the deceased), and I could not believe that this was the final answer.

Exhausted from my trip, I drove to the hotel to check in. My brother called shortly after to say that Dad was dying. I jumped in the car and drove like lightning back to the hospital. Seeing that Dad’s condition had worsened, I said the prayers I thought should be said, but it was difficult to focus. I ran out of the room and called Rabbi Goldman. I had met the Goldmans when they moved to Oklahoma City two years ago. Their home was always open for me, and they gave me much support. Having Rabbi Goldman by Dad’s side saying the vidui (confession) during his final moments would be a big z'chus (merit) for Dad, and a relief for me. Rabbi Goldman answered the phone. I told him Dad was dying, and he said he would come right away. 

I went back to Dad’s room to be with my brother as we stood by his side to comfort him. Suddenly, the door opened, and Rabbi Goldman peeked in, carrying a parcel of kosher food that his wife had prepared for us. Disturbed by this unexpected intrusion, my brother said, “Who are you, and what are your intentions?” Rabbi Goldman answered, “I just want to say some prayers for your father. It will bring him peace.” As Rabbi Goldman chanted the final prayers, my brother and I stood over my Dad, gently stroking his arms, until he breathed his last breath. At that moment, we burst into tears and hugged each other. 

Rabbi Goldman left the room. I went out to talk to him about the next step. My father wanted to be buried within twenty-four hours in the cemetery in Ardmore, next to my mother. There was no Chevra Kadisha (Orthodox Jewish burial society) in the entire region, and Dad had told me that he didn’t want his body traveling to Dallas or anywhere else. I pleaded with Rabbi Goldman to explain to my brother how important the taharah (ritual purification) was. My last hope was that my brother would approve the Dallas Chevra Kadisha coming up to Ardmore to do the taharah at the local funeral parlor. 

I walked up to Rabbi Goldman and my brother. My brother said to me, “If you want to do this procedure, then let’s do it right now, before the body leaves the hospital.” Despite my grief, I was jumping for joy inside. David walked up to the nurse’s station and said, “We need twenty-five gallons of water to pour over my Dad.” The nurse turned white and said she was going off-duty, but she would call the chaplain. Ten minutes later, the chaplain arrived, a pleasant blond-haired woman. Rabbi Goldman explained to her everything he would need to perform the service. They went downstairs to the morgue to prepare a spot that would be appropriate. An hour later, they arrived back at Dad’s room to escort his body down to the morgue. I said, “I’ll stay up here and say Tehillim (Psalms).” My brother looked at me and said, “I did this for you - and you’re coming with us!” 

In the morgue, everything was prepared: the special bed, the bed sheets and twenty-five large buckets of water. My brother and Rabbi Goldman started washing carefully each limb of my Dad from head to toe. I turned away and sat in the corner facing a wall and saying Tehillim. The chaplain was standing beside me, watching. It seemed like a long time. Then, all of a sudden, I heard a large splash! It sounded like Kriyas Yam Suf, the parting of the Red Sea! Then it was quiet. I knew that Dad was ready to be buried like a Jew, and my whole being was elated and energized. I was totally grateful to HaShem, to my brother, to Rabbi Goldman, and to Norman General Hospital for this miraculous event.

We left the morgue in silence, awestruck by the kedushah (holiness) we felt. Each of us got into his own car and drove off, exhausted and exhilarated.

Rabbi Goldman said that Dad had a great z'chus (merit), because his children were beside him as he left the world, and because no taharah had been ever been done in a hospital in Oklahoma. The chaplain took Rabbi Goldman’s card, saying she sometimes has Jewish patients and now she knew whom to call. Rabbi Weg, the Chabad Rabbi of Tulsa, said that in the fourteen years he has been living there, he has never heard anyone being buried within twenty-four hours, as well.

As I relive this account of what happened a year ago, I feel a strong bond with my father and brother, and I am grateful to have a sense of completion as this transitional year of aveilus (mourning) comes to an end. May my father be remembered for the good, and his soul have an aliyah (ascent) as a result of all our endeavors on his behalf. And may this story give chizuk (encouragement) to others in similar situations. 

The main thing is to daven to HaKodesh Boruch Hu for everything. Tefillah (prayer) can break through any obstacle! Rebbe Nachman of Breslev said, “Gevalt! Never give up!”

R. Aharon and Atara Grenadir sponsor the weekly Likutei Moharan class in their home in Kensington, and are founding members of the Breslov Center.