The Short Vort by Rabbi Eisenman

Nine years ago today, my mother passed away.

What can I extrapolate from her life to help me better navigate the challenges of my life?

She was a true Ohev Shalom- lover of peace in a real and meaningful way.

 

My mother valued family.

She did her best to be there for her children and her grandchildren.

I knew that her love for me was unconditional.

As I think about her on her Yahrzeit, one memory plays again and again in my mind.

 

It’s amazing how seemingly small things from your childhood leave an indelible impression.

 

It was 1967 and our class planned a trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

As usual, the teacher sent out a request for parents to serve as chaperones on the trip.

As usual, I thought that my mother, who worked full-time in the New York City Public School System (which paid for yeshiva tuition for my brother and me), would be precluded from accompanying the class on the trip.

That was one of my biggest wishes- for my mother- just once- to be the chaperone.

Back then, most mothers were stay-at-home moms, and I felt deprived that my mother could never be the chaperone.

I was shocked when, after I gave my mother the letter from my teacher requesting a chaperone, my mother surprised me by saying, “I know how much this means to you, and I am taking a day off from work to be the chaperone on the trip.”

My joy was boundless!

My mother was going to be the chaperone!

I would feel like a million dollars when my mother was the chaperone for the class trip.

The great day arrived.

As school began, I kept looking at the door for my mother to arrive.

The class davened and learned Chumash, and now it was 10 AM- it was time to head out to the Botanic Garden.

The only issue is- where is my mother?

The teacher asked me if my mother was coming, and I said yes.

At 10:15, she looked at me and said, “I am sorry; however, we waited fifteen minutes, and we have to board the bus. I am sorry for you.”

My face conveyed my pain- I did my best to hide my tears.

As I boarded the bus, I davened to Hashem to make my mother somehow appear; however, it was not to be. I remained alone with my tears as the bus pulled away from the yeshiva.

We arrived at the Botanic Garden, and everyone marveled at the beauty of the foliage and the flora.

That is everyone except me.

As the tears ran down my downturned face, all I could see was the asphalt.

Suddenly, I heard her voice.

Could it really be?

I looked up, and through my tears, I saw her.

There she was, waiting for us at the Botanic Garden.

Yet, how did she get there?

My father was at work with our one car; anyway, my mother did not drive; how did she get here?

For her to get to the Botanic Garden, she would have needed to take a bus from Canarsie and transfer to the Number Three line for five stops.

It would have taken her over an hour.

How did she arrive at the same time as the school bus?

My mother then said the words, which were rarely, if ever, uttered in our orbit, “I was delayed arriving at the school. When I saw I missed the bus and knew how much it meant to you, I took a cab.”

“I took a cab”- the words melodiously reached my ears.

“I took a cab”- the words sounded almost dreamlike.

The only other time we entered a cab was when my grandfather passed away, and we took a cab to the Brooklyn Jewish Hospital to be with my grandmother.

Taking a cab in 1967 for us was like taking a private jet to Miami.

My mother had taken a cab.

For who? For what?

My mother had taken a cab.

Was there an emergency? Was someone sick?

Seeing my confusion, my mother smiled and said, “I gave you my word I would come, and I knew how much it meant to you. So I took a cab.”

I don’t remember the flowers, and I don’t recall if I enjoyed the tropical plants or the giant lily pads in the bog.

Yet, what remains embedded in my soul forever are the words:

“I knew how much it meant to you. So I took a cab.”

My mother took a cab- for me.

That cab ride has never ended, as it continues to bring me joy, comfort, and solace 57 years later and counting.