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By: Chaya Sora Jungreis-Gertzulin
Summertime finds our family upstate. Our development is blessed to have a magnificent shul, with a giant oak tree right in front of the entrance. This year, our tree of 100+ years is showing signs of disease. An entire chunk of the tree’s trunk appears to be eaten away. An expert arborist was called in. After a thorough examination, he found no sign of insect infestation, or animals living within it. He recommended cutting away the remaining diseased area and treating the tree with medication.
I saw the tree doc working away, and intrigued by the whole story, struck up a conversation. I couldn’t help but ask, how could it be that a diseased tree has strong branches and a full crown of green leaves. He turned to me and responded with one word. ROOTS.
The power of strong roots. Roots that extend deep and wide beneath the surface, enabling the tree to withstand disease and weather stormy winds. It brought to mind the Mishnah in Avos, “Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah says…. a tree whose branches are few but whose roots are numerous, even if all the winds in the world were to come and blow against it, they could not budge it from its place…” (Avos 3:22)
I recall reading of a study done in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. The study of the storm’s impact in an urban area was to determine which trees survived the hurricane and which were uprooted. A most interesting observation was made. The trees on lawns with sprinklers were more likely to fall, than those on the grassy areas lining the sidewalks, areas that are often not regularly watered.
The study concluded that trees which were regularly irrigated grew shallow roots, while those along the sidewalk grew longer and deeper roots, as they had to independently reach a source of water. They developed tap roots that made them stronger and more likely to survive storms and hurricanes. Trees watered by sprinkler systems did not develop these roots.
This Friday, 19 Av, is the eighth yahrtzeit of my beloved mother, Rebbetzin Esther bas HaRav Avraham HaLevi a”h. As I passed by the tree, I recalled one of the life lessons my mother taught us. The power of roots. To know the roots of one’s family, the roots of our people. Roots that extend back to our Avos and Imahos. Roots that go all the way back to Sinai. Deep and powerful roots that, like the tree, have sustained us throughout the ages. Roots that sustain our families, our children and grandchildren, ourselves.
My mother was a great believer of tapping into the past to build the future. So many would attend her Torah classes, where she spoke of the spiritual DNA, our roots, that makes us one with our ancestors. A DNA that gives us the strength to weather life’s storms.
Our rabbis teach that the weekly Torah portion of one’s yahrzeit is reflective of their life. My mother departed from this world during the week of Parshas Eikev.
The parsha opens with “V’haya eikev tishme’un, And if you will listen to HaShem’s commandments…” While eikev is translated as “if”, it can also be translated as “heel”. Rashi explains that this alludes to “Mitzvos kalos sh’adam dosh b’akeivoh”, mitzvos we may perceive as being “light”, of lesser importance, thereby neglected, and figuratively “trampled upon” with our heel. (Rashi, Devarim 7:12)
My zeide shared yet another understanding of both eikev and kalos. Mitzvos, Zeide said, can become “kal”, easy to perform, because we have ancestors who walked the difficult paths, and with their eikev, their heels, made “footsteps”. All we need to do is to follow in their path.
My mother would expound on zeide’s words with a personal story. A story that tugs at the soul.
My mother took us back to her life as a little girl growing up in Hungary. The winds of war were already brewing. It would only be a short while until the Nazis invaded. Ima spoke of her parents’ decision to visit her paternal grandparents, for no one knew what tomorrow would bring.
It was a brutal winter. The snow was deep, yet they made the long, difficult trip to Nadudvar. A trip that was fraught with danger, as anti-Semitism was rampant, and assaults upon Jews were commonplace.
When they arrived to their grandparents’ home, they were greeted with warm hugs and cries of “Mein teiyereh kinder, my precious children”. The poverty may have been great, but the love was strong.
It didn’t take long for my mother to sit herself down on her zeide’s lap. He was engrossed in study. It was then, that she noticed teardrops falling onto the pages. Not understanding why her beloved zeide was crying, she ran to her father.
“Come, my dear child, and I will explain to you as we walk outside.” Lovingly, her father helped her with putting on her coat and boots.
The snow stopped falling. But it was still deep, and hard for a little girl to walk. My mother’s father told her that he will make a path and walk ahead of her… she only had to follow in his footsteps. And so they walked. Father, with daughter following right behind.
“Do you know why I am walking ahead of you?” my grandfather inquired. “Yes,” my mother replied, “so I can follow in your footsteps, so I will not fall.”
My mother’s father continued and explained that the zeide is crying because he knows that difficult days are coming. Days when the snow will be very deep, the challenges great, and at times they may stumble. When the zeide is studying, when he opens his siddur and davens, he is forging pathways for his children to follow. He is making the road easier for them, and for future generations.
Whenever my mother would share this story, she would tell her listeners that every one of them had a zeide and a bubba, a grandfather and a grandmother that made pathways. We only have to uncover that path and walk upon it.
During these difficult times, let’s reflect upon our own roots, and they will surely give us strength – individually and collectively.
Shabbat Shalom!
Chaya Sora
Chaya Sora can be reached at [email protected]
This article was written L’zecher Nishmas/In Memory Of HaRav Meshulem ben HaRav Osher Anshil HaLevi, zt”l and Rebbetzin Esther bas HaRav Avraham HaLevi, zt”l
