It Was Meant for Me Too

My mother, of blessed memory, was a master teacher. Teaching wasn’t just her profession—it was her heartbeat. She taught as a sergeant in the Israeli army, she taught immigrant children learning to find their place in a new land, and for 27 years she taught Hebrew in a Jewish day school in the United States. Even in the final chapter of her life, as a resident in a senior living home in Israel, she found joy in teaching Hebrew in a classroom to the Filipino caregivers who looked after her and her friends. She never tired of it. Creating, innovating, sharing—teaching was the language of her soul.

And yet, perhaps her greatest lessons weren’t taught in a classroom at all.

Before illness stole her sharp mind, my mother poured herself into creating personalized albums for six of her eleven grandchildren. Each was a treasure chest—family photographs, stories of great-grandparents and grandparents, her memories of their parents as children, and her reflections on the child’s own birth and growing years. She ended every album with words about the responsibilities of becoming a bar or bat mitzvah, and her heartfelt blessings for their future.

Three of my four children were among the lucky ones to receive these albums. At the time, they leafed through them quickly, offered thanks to their Savta, and placed them on their shelves—where they sat, quietly waiting. I confess, I did much the same.

My mother passed away on the first of Elul. Her shloshim, the 30-day milestone of mourning, fell on Rosh Hashanah. Surrounded by family and friends, I shared stories of her life and passed around the albums. That evening, my son—now 32—opened his album for the first time since his bar mitzvah. I watched as he turned the pages slowly, whispering, “This is incredible… I cannot believe she took the time to create this for me.”

When he was done, I opened it myself. At first, I recognized the family history I knew by heart. But then, something unexpected: her words about me. Her pride, her reflections, her love—woven into the pages for my son, but reaching straight into my heart. In that moment, I realized: this album was not only her legacy letter to him. It was her legacy letter to me.

I was astonished. The pages overflowed with love, wisdom, and intention. How had I missed it before? Perhaps the joy of celebration had been too distracting, or maybe I wasn’t yet ready to recognize the depth of her gift.