From when I was 15 years old, I knew I wanted a frum life

IN the summer of 2010, my father was very sick. I was 10,000 miles away in South Africa, where I’ve been living for the past 40 years, while he was in Omaha, Nebraska. I wasn’t sure if I should come in from Johannesburg to be with him — how would my family cope with a three-day Yom Tov without me? How would I manage the Yamim Noraim in a nonobservant environment?

Then my younger sister wisely asked me if I’d be able to cope over a three-day Yom Tov without any updates on my father’s condition, and I decided to fly in for Rosh Hashanah. I spent Shabbos at the hospital with my father and mother, eating the food the rebbetzin of the Orthodox shul in town brought me.

Throughout the day, my father drifted in and out of a coma. My siblings and I sat on chairs near his bed, alternatively murmuring to him, to each other, and in prayer.

Suddenly, my father called out, “Did you remember Avinu Malkeinu?!”

We were startled. “Of course, Dad!” we answered.

“Don’t ever forget. Avinu Malkeinu.” Those were his last words to us. My father was niftar later that day.