My Father, The Walking Heart

People often tell me about what my father has done.

They say he taught their kids how to read in a foreign language. Others tell me he taught them to sing those new words in front of many people. Or he visited their parents during a hospital stay. Or he married their children (that will make more sense after a few paragraphs).

Others just say thanks for his help during less joyous times.

My father has a way of comforting people while they plan funerals for their deceased friends and family, spending enough time with them so he can describe their loved ones legitimately. His wedding speeches are arguably more memorable. He also freely gives advice and guidance on marriage issues, parenting challenges, career crossroads and life as it unfolds. It’s all a part of his job.

No matter how many years have passed since people have seen him, or attended one of his services, they all say the same thing.

“We still think of him as our Rabbi.”

People react with at least one twinged eyebrow and widened eyes that say “what’s that like?” whenever I mention my dad’s profession. Truth is, it’s pretty damn lucky. He makes time for a lot of people in need, but the family often gets first dibs on his wise words.

He never held my sisters and me under rigid rules or a life path cut in stone, for the sake of how others assume a rabbi’s children should live. If there are any pastors’ kids out there, they know what I mean.

“Find something that makes you happy,” he would say. “Then be ready to work hard at it.”

Of course, he’ll then also tell you to sleep plenty, take a walk, go out, see friends and spend some time laughing in between the grind.

“You’ll get old real quick if you don’t,” he said.

The part where the rabbi and the man become the same start with a calming warmth he radiates, literally and figuratively. In 50-degree weather with the window open he’s contemplated turning on air conditioning. Shake his hand after being outside in a freezing Chicago winter day, and it comes in handy.  His big smile takes over his face through a thick goatee, and soothes as much as his baritone voice. The only time he projects to full volume, when not singing prayers, is when the Cubs, Bears or Bulls botch a game.

After a day of tutoring children, consoling parents, training teachers, planning classes and writing a eulogy or wedding talk, he still has time to talk to my sisters – a family law attorney and an emergency room doctor – after a long court trial or a particularly trying emergency room shift.

For me, he shined light on many dark days and nights. His voice slowed my heartbeat after leaving a murder scene the first time. He helped me regain focus when I briefly questioned my career path about 11 hours after a man opened fire on a class at Northern Illinois University.

As you should guess, those are but two examples during 30 years I have known the love, kindness, wisdom, advice (not all of which was easy to hear, even when I agreed with him) and unconditional caring he continues to give.

Thank you, Dad. Even on a website I doubt I could still list all the ways I’m grateful you’re my father.