Shortly before one summer, I traveled to Israel with our seminary. We were taking the students for a trip, and I told my wife, “You know what? I’m going to go a day early.”
“Why go a day early?” she asked.
I wasn’t really sure. Maybe I thought I’d get there first to prepare, to organize things. Maybe the flight schedule or timing of the prayers worked out better. Or maybe, if I’m being honest, I just didn’t feel like flying with thirty seminary girls. Whatever the reason, I went a day ahead.
As I landed in Israel and was picked up from the airport, the person driving me suddenly received a phone call. He turned to me and said, “Rabbi Eliyahu Abba Shaul—son of Chacham Ben Tzion Abba Shaul—just passed away.”
“What? That can’t be.”
I was stunned. He was a dear friend of mine. A gaon olam, a brilliant Torah scholar, and Rosh Yeshiva. I couldn’t believe it. I started making phone calls, hoping it was just a rumor.
It wasn’t.
The levayah (funeral) was scheduled to take place that afternoon at 4:00 p.m. in front of his yeshivah. They shut down major streets in Jerusalem—those familiar with the area will understand the scale: Rechov Shmuel HaNavi and Rechov Bar Ilan were completely closed off. Thousands gathered to honor this great man.
I was standing quietly among the crowd when a few people who recognized me—knowing of my friendship with the Rav—came over and urged me to come forward. I refused. “Please,” I said, “just let me be.” The crowd was thick, and I didn’t want to push through.
They came back a few minutes later—with a police officer.
“Come, we’ll take you.”
They escorted me to the front, where the rabbanim were standing. I didn’t expect anything else, but then, in typical Israeli fashion, I suddenly heard my name over the loudspeaker—they were calling me up to speak. I said a few brief words. It was overwhelming.
And it was in that moment that I realized why I had come to Israel a day early. I was meant to be there. I was meant to say goodbye.
Two days later, I went to the beit avel (house of mourning). The family was large—many sons, all talmidei chachamim. The place was packed. You couldn’t make your way up the stairs. Once again, someone recognized me, and I was brought to the front, where the mourners were seated.
The eldest son, now the new Rosh Yeshiva, looked at me and said, “Do you know how my father passed away?”
I said, “Yes—he collapsed.”
He gestured to one of his younger brothers who had been with their father that morning and said, “Tell him.” The son shared the following story:
“It was Monday morning. We were home before heading out to yeshivah. My father turned to me and said, ‘Bring me scissors.’ I asked, ‘Abba, scissors? For what?’ He replied, ‘To cut my nails.’
‘But Abba,’ I said, ‘it’s not Friday. You never cut your nails on a Monday.’
Still, he repeated, ‘Bring me scissors.’
So I brought them to him. He sat at the table and clipped his nails—very out of character. Then he cleaned everything up and said, ‘Bring me a Mishnah Berurah.’ I brought the volume he requested. He opened it, read a section, and said, ‘It says that one who cuts his nails and does not wash afterward will be fearful the entire day.’
Then he said, ‘Bring me water.’
We were surprised. He never asked us for anything—he would get up and do it himself. But he insisted: ‘Bring me water.’
We brought him a washing cup and a basin. He washed his hands thoroughly.
And then he said, ‘Now, I am not afraid.’
A moment later, he said, ‘Bring me paper.’ I gave him a small piece.
He filled in the center with ink and wrote on each of the four corners in Hebrew:
“Eineni me’fached klal—I am not afraid at all.”
“I am not afraid at all.”
“I am not afraid at all.”
“I am not afraid at all.”
He stood up, looked at me, and said once more, ‘Achshav, eineni mefached klal. Now I am not afraid at all.’
And at that moment, he collapsed—and died.”
I looked at the son, stunned. I was speechless. He reached into his pocket and said, “Here—take a look.”
He handed me the very paper his father had written on that morning. The words were still there, in his own handwriting, in all four corners: Eineni mefached klal.
My friends, we speak often about how to live. But here was a man who showed us how to die.
He was only 70. Not sick. Vibrant. Leading a yeshivah. A member of the Moetzet Gedolei HaTorah. And yet, somehow, he knew.
His final words were: I am not afraid at all.
A peleh, a wonder beyond words. A soul in complete control. A man who understood that when you live a life of Torah, of emunah, of clarity—there is nothing to fear.
