//creative//
Fall 2018
My Father Has Always Been An Early Riser
Leora Wolff
My father has always been an early riser. The sun awakens the world and he is there along- side it. Most people wake up too late to witness the moment where the world begins to glow in a soft light. My father welcomes the light into the world. He is always clad in a black suit and white shirt, the signature getup of men in the Orthodox rabbinate, but he loves colors. He is a man of few and profound words. He has had over two thousand students in his twenty years of teaching, and he remembers all of their names. He spends his days running from wedding to funeral, supporting congregants and friends through all their life milestones.
At night, he sits at our kitchen table and immerses himself in the study of Torah. Even with every light on in the house, he pulls out his iPhone flashlight and shines it on his book. No matter how much light there is he is always adding more.
In fifth grade, I accompanied my father on Yom Kippur, the most sacred day of the year, to services. My father felt a tremendous pressure to inspire the community and create an atmosphere in which every- one would feel both comfortable and connected. Rushing to be on-time for services, he and I got in the car and drove to the synagogue.
As the car puttered down the street, he noticed a woman saddled with bags and struggling to walk. She paused to put down her many packages, then picked them up and hobbled forward just a few inches before stopping again. My father pulled over to offer a ride; she declined. Then she took a step forward and stumbled, glancing back sheepishly at the car. My father had not moved an inch, providing her the opportunity to change her mind. She finally agreed to get in the car.
As we pulled up to her destination, she looked at my father and said, “You just helped a devout Catholic.”
“We are always happy to lend a hand to anyone in need,” he replied with a warm smile.
We arrived at the synagogue a few minutes later, the congregants all fidgeting impatiently. One member of the community jocularly walked over to my father and loudly pronounced, “Rabbi, guess you decided to show up!” The smug look on his face was accompanied by a flippant slap on the back. “Late on Yom Kippur,” he muttered, shaking his head. My father merely smiled at him and assumed his position. He did not respond; he never did.
I sputtered indignantly. My heart wanted to scream—I wanted that man to know exactly why we were late, but I held myself back because that’s what my father would have done. He takes every bit of flack without glorifying himself in any capacity. No one will ever know all the good he does, and he would rather keep it that way.
My father used to have a stack of atlases in the backseat of his car, before the days of GPS and Waze and other divine navigation tools. I think he still has them stashed somewhere—he holds on to everything. I once asked him why he feels so much stress, and he told me he shoulders the burden of all the members of the community; their well-being is his responsibility. I guess the weight of the world is one of those things he will never let go of.
At night, he sits at our kitchen table and immerses himself in the study of Torah. Even with every light on in the house, he pulls out his iPhone flashlight and shines it on his book. No matter how much light there is he is always adding more.
In fifth grade, I accompanied my father on Yom Kippur, the most sacred day of the year, to services. My father felt a tremendous pressure to inspire the community and create an atmosphere in which every- one would feel both comfortable and connected. Rushing to be on-time for services, he and I got in the car and drove to the synagogue.
As the car puttered down the street, he noticed a woman saddled with bags and struggling to walk. She paused to put down her many packages, then picked them up and hobbled forward just a few inches before stopping again. My father pulled over to offer a ride; she declined. Then she took a step forward and stumbled, glancing back sheepishly at the car. My father had not moved an inch, providing her the opportunity to change her mind. She finally agreed to get in the car.
As we pulled up to her destination, she looked at my father and said, “You just helped a devout Catholic.”
“We are always happy to lend a hand to anyone in need,” he replied with a warm smile.
We arrived at the synagogue a few minutes later, the congregants all fidgeting impatiently. One member of the community jocularly walked over to my father and loudly pronounced, “Rabbi, guess you decided to show up!” The smug look on his face was accompanied by a flippant slap on the back. “Late on Yom Kippur,” he muttered, shaking his head. My father merely smiled at him and assumed his position. He did not respond; he never did.
I sputtered indignantly. My heart wanted to scream—I wanted that man to know exactly why we were late, but I held myself back because that’s what my father would have done. He takes every bit of flack without glorifying himself in any capacity. No one will ever know all the good he does, and he would rather keep it that way.
My father used to have a stack of atlases in the backseat of his car, before the days of GPS and Waze and other divine navigation tools. I think he still has them stashed somewhere—he holds on to everything. I once asked him why he feels so much stress, and he told me he shoulders the burden of all the members of the community; their well-being is his responsibility. I guess the weight of the world is one of those things he will never let go of.