My father was a simple, sayyid man. My father didn't understand raising children, and he didn't know how to educate; he didn't know how to read Hebrew properly, and he could barely pray; he never taught me Torah, he didn't educate me in values, and he didn't instruct me on how to deal with life's challenges. Because my father was a Holocaust veteran. But I'm a community rabbi. An educator, R. M. in the yeshiva. And I—all in all—am nothing but my father's son. There was a charity box in our house. There was an old, wretched and ugly tin box, and this box was hanging on the wall, in the center of the house, in front of the front door, and Dad would go to this box every evening, and when he came home exhausted from his arduous day's work, he would stand in front of the box and look at it. He would watch with concentration, with deep seriousness, in silence. Afterwards, Dad would put his heavy hand in his pocket. He pulls out three coins – three small coins, which would have sunk in the palm of his large hand. Father would pick one coin out of the three, look at it for a moment with deep scrutiny, and only then drop it into the charity box. Then my father would close his eyes, and in his cracked voice he would whisper: 'Thank you, thank you, for giving me a son!' My father would speak to God in Yiddish, in his words, I understood this from a young age. From a young age I understood that my father could talk to God whenever he wanted, and how he wanted, even in Yiddish. Because I knew, I knew from a young age that God loved my father very much. Again Father would take a coin. In the same slow movements, with the same deep seriousness, with the same concentration. And after this coin had also rested in its place, Father would add: "Thank You, Hashem, for giving me a son, who blesses and prays!" Sometimes Dad would take a deep breath, sometimes his voice would tremble, but always, always he would say the same words with the same deep intention. And then Dad would drop a third coin and say: 'I have only one request: that my son continue to bless and pray, I don't need anything anymore.'
The years passed, and I was privileged to build a home, and since I established my home, another eight years passed – difficult years of crying and praying and countless medical efforts – until I was privileged to have a son, too. And as soon as I was informed of the birth of my son – I jumped up from my seat – drenched in tears and shocked with joy and began to run. I ran like a madman, like a man who had no idea but one thing – to run. To run to my father's house. To the cash register. It was only when I arrived at my father's house and stood in front of the cash register that I managed to stop myself – to stop, to relax, to concentrate. Then, with the tears still on my cheeks, I opened my clenched fists and pulled out the first of the three—the three pennies that had been clenched in my hand for hours. I took out a penny and dropped it into the cash register: 'Thank you, Lord, for giving me a son.'
Suddenly I raised my head. Someone was standing next to me. My father. My father was standing next to me, and he was also holding three pennies in his hand. Our eyes met. And we both cried – my father and I, on each other's shoulders – in front of the tin box. It's the tin box that my father gave me. It's the only inheritance I have left of him. The fund that accompanied me then and still accompanies me today. It was the fund that supported me in times of crisis and accompanied me through the storms of my life. It was what brought me to where I am today. Because despite the fact that I had learning disabilities and social difficulties, even though I was the most miserable of my friends, the most rejected and unsuccessful of them all; and even though I had many adventures – despite everything, I have come this far. Because always. The fund has always been by my side. Because my father educated me, loved me, and encouraged me – through a tin box.
