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A mother's legacy
resolves a dilemma and teaches a lesson
http://www.jewishworldreview.com --
LAST WEEK was my mother's first yahrzeit, the anniversary of her death. A year ago, during the week of shiva, I had the opportunity to think about my mother and to start to work through the bitter longing I felt. No one in our family was prepared to live without the weekly letters, daily phone calls, shared Shabbes meals, trips to Rich's special sales, advice about nutrition, arguments about politics and religion as we drove to the doctor's office, news and stories about relatives near and far, past and present.
My mother was a problem-solver: We'd miss that most of all. But, even though I did accept the fact that the lives of our entire family would now change irrevocably, I believed that we could somehow continue to communicate with my mother. Then, as the days passed, I understood that my mother would have to communicate with us. And herein lies a tale.
Our family home in St. Louis had a huge basement. Along one very long wall were enormous metal shelves. These shelves were crammed with every kitchen gadget imaginable, myriad paper goods, metal and glass containers, games and gifts for grandchildren, stationary supplies, tools, nails of every shape and kind, canned goods and dried foods. A year after my father passed away, we convinced my mother to move to Atlanta, where she rented an apartment in walking distance of our family, her married grandchildren and the synagogue.
In its new home, this set of shelves provided our family and friends with all the thumbtacks, rubber bands, notebook paper, paint brushes and hostess gifts we needed.
My mother and I repeatedly congratulated ourselves on the brilliant decision to bring the entire kit and caboodle to Atlanta. The metal shelves and their contents represented the best of my parents: thrift, generosity, creativity, fun, fastidiousness, resourcefulness, thoughtfulness, practicality. The shelves were just like my parents: Whatever we needed was there.
During shiva week, I recalled the difficult but worthwhile hours my mother and I spent together in the basement in St. Louis, assessing and packing the contents of the steel shelves. Each evening after work, our children joined our husband and me, to miss and remember my mother and share anecdotes with visitors.
It was the third day of shiva, and we were waiting for our son-in-law, Ben, to arrive.
We were all sad and tired, and we expected an exhausted fellow to join us. Instead, he burst into the room, and held his hand up for everyone to see. "I found it!" he cried.
The last few months had been horrible, not only for my mother. A very close friend of Ben's had been diagnosed with a serious illness and was very sick. Because of the crisis in our own family, the subsequent trip to St. Louis for the burial and the stress of the first days of mourning, Ben had that very day finally made the time to do something he felt was crucial. He had gone to his friend's home to put mezuzos on the family's doors.
When he discovered that he didn't have the right nails to do the job, he decided to explore the old jars of tacks and nails on the shelves in his basement. He started looking in a group of jars he had never used before, on the back row of a bottom shelf, figuring that among the hundreds of choices, he'd eventually be able to find what he wanted. And he did.
What he didn't know was that inside the jar containing the correct nails would also be his missing ring.
So there Ben stood, holding his ringed hand for all of us to see.
"Of course it's my ring. It fits perfectly, and Rachel and I have our initials engraved inside."
"How did the ring get in that old nail jar?"
"I don't know. I just don't know."
"Do you think you accidentally dropped it in the jar one day and forgot about it?"
"Impossible. I never used that jar before. It was completely out of view."
Dear reader, you may be a believer or you may be a skeptic. You may be rolling your eyes right now, or you may be wiping them. As for my family and me, however, we knew, with beautiful certainty, that my mother was still involved in our earthly lives --- and put on notice that, if we're careful to do the right thing with the wonderful, old tools we have been given, we will always find everything we
Jewish World Review Feb. 2, 2000 / 29 Shevat, 5760
The Tale of the Ring
By Chana Shapiro
I went to St. Louis to help her pack. The hardest part, naturally, was deciding what to give away, what to throw away and what to keep. We managed fairly well until we got to the basement. We stood in front of those shelves and realized that symbols of our entire family history were displayed right there before us. It would not be possible to leave all this behind. The oldest granddaughter, Rachel, our daughter, and her husband Ben had bought a house in Atlanta with a nice, big, empty basement. It was decided to move the entire set of shelves and their contents to Rachel and Ben's house.
Our daughter, Rachel, leapt to her feet and took a good look. She explained that some time ago Ben had lost his wedding ring and after the two of them had looked everywhere, they considered the possibility that he would never recover it. "I wanted him to get another one," Rachel explained, "But he just couldn't bring himself to replace it. I guess he never really gave up." Ben took over the story.
"Are you sure it's your ring?" we asked, openly incredulous, and at the same time delighted that my parents' nails had provided the means for him to perform a mitzvah.
JWR contributor Chana Shapiro is a contributing columnist to the Atlanta Jewish Times. Send your comment by clicking here.
