“Of course!” I assured him. “We have a Jewish cemetery here in Anchorage, and it would be our honor to reserve a spot for you!”
He gave his credit card information right away to cover all the costs involved in the taharah, funeral, and burial.
“I’m very serious about this, and will do anything to ensure I will receive a proper Jewish burial,” he explained.
I was impressed with his sincerity and passion, and promised to start the arrangements right away. Jules called me every other day to get status updates, making sure I was giving his funeral arrangements top priority. Although we only spoke on the phone, I could hear the rapid deterioration of his health in his voice.
When he called me one morning, his voice had faded to a raspy whisper, and I knew his time was approaching.
Knowing that the end was near, we video chatted and I helped him say the final confessional prayer. We ended with Shema, which I began to coach him through, just as I had for the rest of Viduy. Jules didn’t need my help. He said the entire Shema fluently, and sighed deeply when he finished.
The next morning, his neighbor called to tell me that Jules had passed away.
I immediately called the funeral home and arranged for his body to be transferred to Anchorage. Jules had no family and knew not a soul in Anchorage. Who would be our minyan? I emailed our community the information for the burial of this meis mitzvah, and hoped people would come through. I made a few phone calls and texts to ensure that Jules would be properly respected on his final journey and that Kaddish would be said.
When I got to the cemetery, I was surprised to see over 100 people gathered to see him off on his final journey. The crowd included our local community members, tourists and even the students of a traveling yeshivah camp.
Jews from every walk of life had come to pay their respects to this stranger that none of them knew, from the middle of nowhere, Alaska. Just a day before, we’d commemorated the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash, reminding ourselves that every Jew is a mini-mikdash. As long as the Jewish nation lives, the Beis Hamikdash can never be destroyed.
I’d known David for a long time. He’d been coming to Chabad for a while, and was a beloved member of our community.
When we celebrated the birth of our daughter, David called to congratulate us, offering his most sincere and joyous Mazal tovs.
“I have a baby gift for you,” he told me. “Can I come over now to show it to you?”
David arrived about twenty minutes later, radiating barely contained emotion. He held a brown folder tightly against his chest, smoothing its cover every so often with unconscious strokes.
“I didn’t have it easy growing up,” he began, once he’d sat at the table with a cup of coffee. “My parents attended a synagogue at one point, but they moved to another part of town and never bothered finding a replacement. So I grew up knowing next to nothing about my Judaism.
“My parents both died when I was a teen, leaving me to patch up the broken pieces of my future. I felt lost and rudderless, so when I saw an ad asking for volunteers in Israel to replace workers who’d been called to serve in the Gulf War, I thought it was the perfect solution to all my problems.
“I joined a kibbutz and soon settled into my new routine. I made friends and was starting to envision a future, when tragedy struck. I was working in the fields with a group of friends, when terrorists opened fire on us. A few friends from my group died, and I was injured badly.
“The next few weeks were devastating. I mourned the loss of my friends and felt stifled by my immobility. I was an athlete who loved running around and being active, and I was going out of my mind confined to a wheelchair that relentlessly taunted me with the reality of my blighted future. When I finally recovered enough to hobble back on my feet, I flew back to America.
“I was extremely depressed and lost. I was coming out of the train station in Chicago one day, engrossed in thought, when a New York Times article caught my eye.”
David pulled a yellowed newspaper from the brown folder with deferential care. It was dated July 8, 1994, just a few weeks after the Rebbe passed away. It was a full page ad with the catchy title, Turn pain into action; tears into growth. A large picture of the Rebbe beamed up from the page.
“I didn’t know who the Rabbi in the newspaper was, but I was immediately drawn to his kind, compassionate face. Just looking at his picture brought me a measure of comfort. The words on the top of the page seemed written expressly for me, and I bought a copy of the paper on the spot. I hung up the ad on my wall, and every time I looked at it, it brought me a renewed sense of peace and purpose. I slowly began to rebuild my life. Whenever I moved, this newspaper moved along with me, and it was the first thing I hung on the walls of my new home.”
David paused for a moment, breathing deeply and gathering his thoughts.
“At some point, I realized there were some other words written on the side. See? Mah zar’o b’chayim, af hu b’chayim - as his children are alive, he is alive. Now that you’ve had another child, I thought it would be a fitting gift for you. This newspaper is my most treasured item and it changed my life. Now that I know so much about the Rebbe’s work all over the world and I see your family growing, it deserves to be with you - a child of the Rebbe who is keeping the Rebbe’s legacy alive by being here in Alaska, continuing to change the lives of countless Jews.”
I accepted the gift with humble appreciation, and it now occupies a prominent spot in my office.
