Most of all, however, Rabbi Trenk was full of love

I

t was a warm Friday in May 2000 when I brought my 12-year-old son Tuvia to Adelphia, to see if the yeshivah was a proper fit for him.

The rosh yeshivah, Rav Yerucham Shain, was warm and accepting. He informed us that before Tuvia could be officially accepted, he should meet with the ninth-grade rebbi, Rabbi Dovid Trenk. When we asked where Rabbi Trenk’s office was, Rav Shain replied, “Let’s just say he has a mobile office.”

In a matter of minutes, a large man came rambling down the path from the dormitory to the beis medrash on a dirt bike. He came to a halt as a cloud of dust rose around him, and quickly dismounted. “You must be Tuvia! I’ve heard all about you. Perhaps you’re hungry? I think there’s some cold French toast in the kitchen I could get you. Should I bring you a piece?”

Both Tuvia and I were speechless as we met, for the first time, the man Tuvia would quickly refer to as Rebbi and I — albeit ten years later — would do the same.

Rabbi Trenk was vivacious, animated, full of zeal, and ebullient.

Most of all, however, he was full of love.

Total, unadulterated, unabashed, blatant, and brazen love.

There were no labels and no party lines, he had no one to impress and no agenda to adhere to, except for one. And that was to love.

It was Rav Dovid who convinced Tuvia that he was destined for greatness. And it was Rav Dovid who began the journey that eventually transformed my son into my hero.

Rav Dovid proved to Tuvia and to thousands like him that they too are beloved, cherished, precious, and valuable to Hashem and the Jewish People as much as any other Jew.

He believed in my son as he believed in all who were privileged to sit at his feet.

Every Thursday evening I would drive to Adelphia to learn with Tuvia.

Rav Dovid would physically grab me in the beis medrash and announce to the world in his booming, exuberant voice, “Rabbi Eisenman, how can I ever thank you for sending me your Tuvia?”

The only person in the world whose face was shining brighter than Tuvia’s was mine.

Others had written Tuvia off, it was Rav Dovid who wrote him back in.

Tuvia graduated from Adelphia, and life went on, and I lost touch with Rabbi Dovid Trenk. Until, in 2013, I received a call, “Rabbi Eisenman, this is Dovid Trenk, I love your articles. Can you send me your articles?” Thus began a relationship with Rav Dovid that climaxed with me humbly considering him my rebbi.

Over the next six years, through phone calls and meetings at simchahs, Rav Dovid would insist I send him my articles. I was humbled and mortified as he would quote to me from my articles and advocate for me to keep writing.

Then, while sitting in O’Hare Airport a few weeks ago, the phone rang.

It was Rav Dovid.

“Please don’t forget me. Please keep writing.”

“Rebbi, I could never forget you.”

“How is my talmid Tuvia?

“Rebbi, he’s doing wonderfully. How can I help the Rebbi?”

“Please do two things, first of all, keep writing, never stop. And also, daven for me… I am starting to forget… if I repeat myself, please forgive… please don’t forget me.”

“Rebbi, as long as I live, I will never forget you.”

When my son informed me that Rav Dovid was no longer with us I cried and cried.

I cried for the rebbi my son and I had lost and most of all I cried for all the young men who will never feel his special love.

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 769)