The Story Behind the Picture

The shabbos before my brother Shalom a"h was niftar was shabbos nachamu. That year, my sister and her husband were planning to go with their little daughter to Los Angeles, California for shabbos. They tried to make arrangements but in the end, it did not work out. They still wanted to go away for shabbos, so instead, they went upstate.

That year, Visiting Day came out on Tisha B'av. Some camps scheduled their Visiting Day for the Sunday before Tisha B'av and other camps pushed it off to the Sunday after Tisha B'av. Shalom's camp, Camp Stolin, pushed it off a week. Since the boys were scheduled to come home a week and a few days later, my mother did not go visit him. Our family did not have a car and it was hard to find a ride to his camp; it was further out than most other camps. "I'll see him in another week," she thought to herself. 

That Sunday, my sister and her husband went along with their baby and visited Shalom. They met up with my other brother and went out for pizza. While they were there, my sister decided that she wanted to take pictures. However, she left the camera in her car and it was parked quite far away. After all, it was Visiting Day and even when only half the camps have Visiting Day, the small lot gets full quickly. At first, her husband didn't want to hike to the car just to get the camera. But after nudging him a bit, he took the trip.

He came back with the camera and they took some pictures. Pictures of Shalom holding their little gorgeous baby. 

You can see Shalom's gentle touch in the way my niece has her little fingers wrapped around his. You can see the serenity in Shalom's face. You just see it. 

They also took some pictures together. My sister, her husband, her baby and my two brothers.

The last picture was one of Shalom with a huge laughing smile on his face, his lips spread so wide from the joke he had just made. The person taking the pictures was a friend of Chaya Sara. When she said that Shalom looks like Chaya Sara, he chuckled and said, "Which part? The beard?" And everyone burst into a fresh round of laughter while she quickly took that shot. That's the last picture taken of him on that camera.

He passed away the following day.

We didn't know these would be the last pictures we'd have of him. We didn't even know about them until after he passed away. That's when my brother in law ran to develop those pictures. We had them during the shiva and were able to show them to people who came to be menachem avel.

Those pictures were so comforting for us. They still are. Those pictures showed us how happy he was on the day before his neshama was taken from us. There is a certain calm on his face. An inner calm. A happiness and contentment that you could see on his face. It is visible in his smile. It is there.

If my sister had gone to California for that shabbos, we would not have those pictures. We would not have that comfort. Additionally, she would have missed his levaya. We know this because another relative of ours who was in California was unable to make it to New York in time for the levaya. 

So we see that there was a plan. There is comfort in the pain. Even though it was time for my brother's neshama to leave this world, Hashem did it with gentleness to our family. He left us with these pictures and they give us some measure of comfort. Seeing his picture is like a soft cream upon a delicate wound. The wound hurts from time to time, but the cream makes it easier to bear.

We know he left this world happy and at peace with where he was in his life. We can see it on his face. In the last pictures we have of him.

You can read more about Shalom a"h and the story behind his sudden death. Click here for Part 1, here for Part 2 and here for Part 3.

Always

Why?

Why do I always think about you…write about you…and talk about you?

Not just when it’s your yartzeit or when we bench Rosh Chodesh Tammuz and I feel it in the air. That it’s coming closer again.

All the time.

Whenever I had to write an assignment, it went back to…Shalom. When I had to write a paper for college, it was on the topic of…Shalom. When I had to give a five minute presentation to my class-sociology of all topics, it also was about you, Shalom.

I talked about the color orange and how it is a unique blend of two colors. I explained that orange combines the passion of red with the warmth of yellow.

I spoke about the research done and that orange represents strength during difficult times. And then I said that it was your favorite color.

It’s mine too.

What did it mean for you?

It was THE color that spoke for the Jewish residents of Gaza who were expelled from their homes. The orange ribbons that adorned your bunkhouse that summer were symbolic; they showed that you cared about these unfortunate Jews. Your heart was with them in the summer of 2005. You hoped and prayed the expulsion of Gush Katif would not take place.

You cared about them-even though they didn’t look like you on the outside.

Shalom a”h, the yeshiva boy who always looked neat, in a clean white shirt, black hat and jacket, cared for the Jewish people in Gush Katif. Even though they dressed in shorts and colored shirts and wore sandals and those famous orange t-shirts.

You didn’t care about the outside. You cared about them because they were yidden-our brothers and sisters.

Did you know how much we cared about you? Did you know how much losing you would affect us? It still affects us…even twelve years later.

We will never forget you.

And maybe that’s why, no matter where I go or what place I’m in, it always goes back to…Shalom.

I write about you.

I talk about you.

I think about you.

I care about you.

I love you…and I miss you.

And I’ll never, ever forget you.

I make sure of that by always bringing you up. When I have an opportunity to inspire others by the special stories about you, I share them. And they are touched and moved.

This past Shabbos, I was away with my family and overheard another woman talking about her birthday. When we got together for a Pirkei Avos shiur, she seemed to be somewhat sad about her age and shared some of her feelings with the women gathered there. I couldn’t resist. I opened my mouth and I spoke.

I spoke about how lucky she is to be able to celebrate another birthday and that not everybody gets to reach her age. R’ Avigdor Miller zt”l says that every birthday is a reason to celebrate and we should thank Hashem for another year of life.

And then I told my story…how my brother only lived until the age of fifteen and was niftar two weeks before his sixteenth birthday.

I talked about how it happened and I talked about (some of) the things that made you special.

I said how you cleaned up on motzei Shabbos nachamu after the dancing was over so that everyone would come to a clean, orderly bais medrash the following morning-only a few hours after you went to sleep.

I talked about how you did chessed in a quiet way, asking me to send staples for a staple gun after you overheard another kid in camp saying he needed one.

I was reminded of the time you broke your hand when you fell off your bike so you wouldn’t hurt a bird that was in your way. And I shared that story too…with the lesson of how we should be careful with the feelings of others.

There were plenty of stories I didn’t share.

But talking about you left a mark on a group of women who never met you.

Your life continues to inspire other people, even though you are no longer here.

And that is what I hope to continue to do. To inspire. To motivate. To encourage others that they too can achieve greatness-through the little things they do.

It’s the twelfth yartzeit but somehow, it’s hard to believe twelve years have passed since you were here in this world.

A lot happened in these twelve years.

Yet, thinking about you makes me feel like I just saw you. I just waved goodbye to you on that last visiting day we spent together.

The memories are so vivid; they are so clear.

So, while I wish you were still here with all of us, I keep reminding myself that this is all part of Hashem’s plan. A plan we cannot understand.

But it’s for the best.

That, along with the fact that the ripples of your life continue to spread, is what gives me comfort.

L’ilui nishmas Shalom ben Chaim Nosson