The Blogs: Funny, You Don’t Look Like a Rabbi!

What was the rabbi doing in combat, and how did his friends answer the call?

I was walking down the street this morning in my son’s community when suddenly, I saw a head pop out from a staircase. There he stood on the sidewalk, one hand grasping that of his 5-year-old, the other navigating a 11-month-old in a stroller.

He was on his way to take the kids to gan (preschool).

Just another beautiful, sunny day in paradise.

On break from fighting in Gaza early in the war, Yishai heads straight to his daughter Hallel’s gan for a Siyum ceremony.

***

When I first laid eyes on Yishai several years ago, he was standing under the shade of a rustic wooden pagoda on a hot Shabbat afternoon, teaching a shiur (class) to my granddaughter and her friends. He was engaging and lively, and the girls were giving him as much attention as you could expect from a group of young children. I sized him up as a handsome, charismatic 15- or 16-year-old, probably a Bnei Akiva (youth group) counselor, assigned to speak to the girls that week.

I guess there’s a reason I never worked at the “Guess Your Age” booth at the carnival. While I was right about the handsome and charismatic part (and, as I later learned, also poetic, brilliant, and musical), I was off by close to 20 years. His baby-faced, clean-shaven look hid the reality that Yishai was actually in his 30s, a father of several children, including one or two of the girls in that afternoon class. To top it off, I found out Yishai was actually a popular rabbi at the prestigious local yeshiva.

Funny, he didn’t look like a rabbi!

A true “chevra man” (a man of the people), Yishai and his wife Tzofia had become close with some of the local couples their age. My son and daughter-in-law consider themselves privileged to be among their dearest friends.

When the war broke out, Yishai was called to his reserve combat unit.

“You’re a rabbi. Why didn’t you join one of the Rabbanut (Israeli Rabbinate) units?” he was often asked. With a smile, he would answer them sincerely: “I want to be with the people.” His modest demeanor earned him the respect and admiration of everyone around him. He was so well-liked that another neighborhood friend, Avi G., transferred into Yishai’s unit just to have the privilege of serving alongside him.

From near the front, Yishai sends a video Shiur to his Yeshiva, on the subject of sanctifying G-d’s name and one’s life in wartime.

***

“Unfortunately, a friend was critically injured last night. We can’t elaborate.”

That early-morning text from our son and daughter-in-law on July 2nd hit us like a punch to the gut. But our reaction must have been nothing compared to the nightmare Yishai’s family and friends were living. Was it Avi G., my son’s best friend since high school? Was it someone else?

It was hard to imagine the maelstrom which must have been frantically churning in their lives. But until the information was officially released, our kids couldn’t share more with us.

It seemed like days, but it was only hours before we received the follow-up:

“Now it’s public knowledge. It’s Yishai.”

It was bad.

An explosion had taken the lives of several soldiers, including the son of my high school classmate. Others were seriously injured, Yishai among them.

Avi G. was right there at the scene, helping tend to his battle-buddy’s—and real-life-buddy’s—extensive injuries, desperately trying everything he could to keep his friend alive. While they awaited the helicopter for emergency evacuation, Yishai prayed from his stretcher: “Please, G-d, we work together. Don’t let our partnership end here.” The medic soberly shared his grim assessment with Avi G.:

“I don’t think Yishai is going to make it.”

The days that followed were a frenzy of activity. Friends and family rallied to provide support. Tzofia made frequent trips to the out-of-town hospital, her newborn in tow, while the older children were cared for by grandparents and friends. Errands needed to be run; meals had to be cooked; emotional support needed to be generously and continuously given.

***

It’s always nice when a medical professional’s dire prognosis turns out to be wrong. Whether it was Yishai’s strength of character, his heavenly merits, the tears and prayers of his loved ones, the quick medical attention, or all of the above, Yishai soundly defied the medic’s prediction. He lived, and began his long journey of recovery.

His initial surgery was protracted, complex, and risky. There were lengthy hospitalizations, and seemingly endless rehab sessions. While the doctors and physical therapists focused on mobility, Yishai had another concern.

His voice.

Yishai is, first and foremost, a teacher. For a long time after the explosion, he spoke only in a whisper. It was difficult to understand him. How could Yishai teach without a voice? On top of that, Yishai is also a singer and a Chazan (cantor). His inspirational, uplifting Neilah prayer at the close of Yom Kippur has been a staple of the Yeshiva’s services for years, with close to 400 people pouring out their hearts behind his soulful lead.

Several days before Yishai’s life was dramatically altered, he had put the finishing touches on a musical piece he recorded in memory of a stillborn son he and Tzofia had (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WtKFyqxps88). The lyrics, which date back to the 1600s, speak of appreciating the value of the soul. Eerily, the words he sang so sweetly on the song now took on a whole additional dimension. With Yishai’s new lease on life, the words applied not only to their late son, but to Yishai’s own existence.

Would this be the end of his singing, his leading of the prayers, his teaching?

Yishai’s recovery continued, though his voice lagged behind other aspects of his improvement. Eventually, he could be found at the piano in the hospital lobby, his fingers frolicking upon the ebonies and ivories once more—though still unaccompanied by his singing.

Yishai’s triumphant return to Yeshiva during his recovery, speaking for over an hour to the attentive crowd.

Over time, to everyone’s great relief, his voice began to gain strength, catching up with the rest of his body. This was due, in large measure, to the unflagging encouragement of Tzofia, who refused to allow him to give up. His rigorous vocal exercises and regular voice coaching paid off. Yishai was able to leave the hospital for several days at a time. He returned to the Yeshiva to present a special guest shiur, and spoke for over an hour. The room was overflowing with students and friends, all of whom came to honor him, to hear his words, to cry, and to smile.

Great to be home for a few days of Chanukah, before the explosion.

At one point, two of Avi G.’s girls and Yishai’s 5-year-old daughter, Hallel, were heading to school. They were talking about how their fathers were serving in the army together. Hallel remarked: “Your father saved our father’s life.” One of the G. girls answered: “If our father wasn’t there, your father would no longer be here.” She was probably right.

Even in their youthful innocence, they had an inkling about the eternal bond of blood their fathers had forged that day.

In time, the local couples sent out invitations to a quasi-Seudat Hodayah (Thanksgiving Meal) to give thanks to G-d for allowing their beloved friend the rabbi to remain in the world of the living. In reality, it was more of a BBQ and beer fest, but that informal celebration is a hallmark of the simple, salt-of-the-earth love this group shares. It’s what makes their friendship so unique.

With the high holidays approaching, the question loomed heavy in the air: would Yishai be able to take his place at the front of the congregation again, leading the large assembly in prayer? Increasingly, it appeared that the answer would be yes. And when those hallowed days arrived, the normal emotions of this special time of year increased exponentially. Yishai stepped up to the bima and began the prayers.

His voice was strong and transcendent, with his mellifluous supplications elevating the worshippers straight to the clouds.

Only the Heavens could count the tears that flowed that day.

***

I was walking down the street this morning in my son’s community when I suddenly saw Yishai’s head pop out from a staircase. There he stood on the sidewalk, one hand grasping that of his 5-year-old, the other navigating the 11-month-old in a stroller.

The living miracle stood in front of me.

“I asked my rabbi if I could make a bracha (blessing) when I see you for the first time,” I told him.

“Many people have,” he answered with his charismatic smile. We spoke for a minute. “You have no idea what amazing people our friends are,” Yishai said. “They haven’t stopped for a second, making sure we have everything we need. Not for a second.”

And then I was off, and he was off—on his way to take the kids to gan.

Just another beautiful, sunny day in paradise.

Funny, he still doesn’t look like a rabbi.

But despite his boyish appearance, I will always look at Yishai and see the face of a hero.