“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” said Mr. Greenberg. “She was only 79, and I’m ten years older”

Baruch and Miriam looked at each other, shocked and surprised. The levayah had concluded, and all that remained was the Keil Malei.

But before the Keil Malei, Mr. Yosef Greenberg (all names changed) attempted to stand up from his wheelchair.

Baruch and Miriam rushed to their elderly father’s side.

I, too, approached the frail Mr. Greenberg, glancing at his children.

“Our father wants to speak,” said Baruch. “He wants to say a hesped over our mother. Rabbi, please help us. He is in no condition to speak.”

Yosef Greenberg looked at me, and I saw the tracks of wrinkles that lined his face.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” said Mr. Greenberg. “She was only 79, and I’m ten years older. However, Hashem is the ultimate Judge.”

As Mr. Greenberg struggled to lift himself, I asked, “Perhaps this will be too much for you?”

“No,” he insisted. “I must say goodbye.”

His children pleaded with me that their father was in no conditioin, either physically or cognitively, to say a hesped.

However, Yosef Greenberg, who overheard the entire discussion, brushed aside their concerns and asserted, “I must give kavod to my wife!”

I helped Yosef steer his walker toward the microphone as he removed some crumbled papers from his jacket pocket.

“I know all of you, especially my family, are surprised by my speaking,” he began. “I know I now forget more than I remember. However, I must mention one middah tovah of my wife.”

Yosef glanced at the folded pages in his hand. Dramatically, he allowed them to fall from his hand.

When I went to pick them up, he said, “Leave them. I want to speak from my heart.

“When I was nine years old, my grandfather passed away. I remember the rabbi saying we must learn a lesson from the niftar to better our lives.

“I know I have become forgetful and may even forget today’s date. However, I remember the rabbi’s words from 80 years ago.

“We all can learn an important lesson from my wife”—he turned toward his children and grandchildren—“your mother and grandmother. She excelled in the middah of listening.”

Yosef’s family looked puzzled.

“I know I repeat things many times, over and over. I can tell you the same story in the evening that I already told you in the morning.

“And I notice how impatient you get when that happens. You always tell me, ‘Dad, or Zeidy, you’ve told us this story a hundred times already.’

“And I know I have.

“Your mother’s greatness was that it never mattered to her if I told her the same story repeatedly. She listened to me with rapt attention every time I told it, as if it were the first time she’d heard it. Her face retained the same excited glow. It made no difference to her how many times she heard my maiselach.

“It made me feel special, especially as I aged. Her sincere joy in listening to me was the highlight of my day.

“I ask this of all of you. When you hear someone like me tell a story you’ve already heard, don’t roll your eyes in exasperation. Take a lesson from your mother.

“I once even asked her, ‘How do you listen to my stories over and over and keep smiling? You know them by heart already.’

“‘Yosef,’ she answered, ‘each story I am privileged to hear from you is a gift from Hashem. It allows me to spend more time with you. How can I not smile?’ ”

With that, Yosef shuffled back to his wheelchair.

The room was utterly silent except for the sounds of sobbing heard from those closest to Yosef.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1035)