AS newlyweds, my grandparents lived in Luton, a town in Southeast England with very little active Yiddishkeit. Finding a minyan wasn’t simple.

One day someone approached Opa with an invite.

“Rabbi Plancey, why don’t we go to the football match?”

Opa smiled. “Football?” he said, amused. “That’s not quite my scene.” Then, with a spark in his eye, he added, “Tell you what — let’s make a deal. However many goals your team scores, that’s how many weeks you join me in shul.”

The man laughed. “You’ve got yourself a deal. They haven’t scored properly in weeks!”

Opa attended the game, and the impossible happened. The long-suffering team came alive, scoring five goals and winning.

That Shabbos, Opa wasn’t alone. True to his word, the man showed up with a group of his friends. Week after week, they kept coming, and even after the fifth week, most of them stayed on. What began with a football match turned into a full minyan — and a small but growing community that Opa built with warmth, wit, and genuine love for people and Torah — the kind that could turn a football match into a spark of Yiddishkeit.

Opa’s high-profile career never blurred his perfect clarity on what really mattered.  He would tell us fascinating stories of meeting the Queen, royals, and various dignitaries — moments that sounded like scenes from a storybook. But his focus stayed the same. No matter how grand the occasion, he would remind us that derech haTorah came first. “When you meet royalty,” he used to say, “it gives you just a tiny glimpse — a speck — of what it might be like one day when we’ll stand in the Olam HaEmes.” To him, even the most majestic moments in this world were just shadows of what’s truly eternal.

My grandparents didn’t just live by Torah values — they stood for them, with conviction and without compromise. When certain social movements began to clash with Torah values, he spoke out with quiet strength and dignity. It wasn’t about confrontation — it was about conviction. He stood firm, always with respect, guided by the clarity of what the Torah teaches and the love he carried for every Yid.

When Opa served as the Mayor of Hertsmere, he did so with humility, grace, and a deep sense of purpose. He represented people from every faith and walk of life, treating each individual with warmth, dignity, and genuine respect. Opa believed that true leadership meant bringing people together, and he embodied that ideal in everything he did. His kindness, integrity, and unwavering commitment to doing what was right generated a tremendous kiddush Hashem that resonated far beyond the Jewish community.

From my earliest memories to their final days, I watched my grandparents live a life of kindness and commitment to helping everyone. They gave their hearts to others, treating each person as if they were the only soul that mattered.

I once asked Opa, “How do you manage to do so much for everyone?”

He smiled gently. “Because it has to be done, that’s all,” he said.

And that was how he lived. During his shivah, someone called my father, his voice full of emotion. “I just thought you should know,” he said quietly, “I’m wearing one of Rabbi Plancey’s shirts right now.”

My father was taken aback, and the man explained that years ago, he’d come to my grandfather, struggling to make ends meet and embarrassed that he didn’t have decent clothes to wear. Without a moment’s hesitation, my grandfather had gone upstairs, taken a shirt straight from his own closet, and handed it to him. “Here,” he said. “You’ll look good in this one.”

No fuss. No sermon. Just quiet kindness.

That was how my grandparents lived. They gave anything to anyone — time, food, advice, even the clothes off their backs — literally.

One evening, we were sitting down for supper when the doorbell rang. A man stormed in, clearly upset. He shouted at Opa, accusing him of ignoring his daughter in a large crowd. It had been a gathering of hundreds, and Opa simply hadn’t seen her. But instead of getting defensive or explaining himself, Opa remained calm and gentle. He sincerely apologized, speaking with such warmth and empathy. After the man left, Opa quietly turned to us and said, “When someone feels ignored — even if it was unintentional — always be sympathetic. You never know what they’re going through.”

That moment taught me more about kavod habriyos than any mussar shmuess ever could.

For my grandparents, being the rabbi and rebbetzin wasn’t a job — it was life itself. And always, just behind Opa — but never in the shadows — stood my grandmother: strong, graceful, and just as selfless.  When neighbors couldn’t manage the laundry, Mormor just took it, washed it, folded it neatly, and brought it back as if it were nothing. She cooked Shabbos meals for many people every week, and sent food packages when babies were born, when people were sick, and when families were grieving.

Her Shabbos and Yom Tov tables were legendary. There was a richness, not just in the food — which was always delicious and abundant — but in the way she hosted. Mormor never turned anyone away. Even when she was tired or unwell, her home was open, warm, and welcoming.

Their home was like a miniature Beis Hamikdash. Somehow, it expanded with every guest who crossed its threshold. It was a small house but it had space for everyone and anyone who needed a place. Every Shabbos, they hosted a minyan in their living room. One evening, I asked Mormor, “Didn’t it ever feel like a lot of work, having everyone over each week?”

She smiled, shaking her head.

“Oh no, work? Not at all. It was a joy. Do you know what it feels like to have your home filled with voices, laughter, and tefillah?”

I thought for a moment. She continued, reaching for my hand. “It makes the house come alive. When people walked through that door, they weren’t just guests — they were family.”

On more than one occasion, my grandparents gave up their own bedroom so that guests could have a comfortable place to sleep. My grandmother, with the quiet dignity that defined her, once slept in the bathtub, without a word of complaint.

Thousands of people passed through their home over the years. Children would stop by just to have a warm chat with Mormor, while many would come to sit and learn with Opa. They prepared countless boys for their bar mitzvah, guided girls through their bas mitzvah, and were there to help couples before and during their marriages. Their home wasn’t large, but it was infinite in heart.

The financial representative from my grandfather’s shul once asked my grandfather to let him have the receipts for all of this hospitality, which surely cost a great deal of money. Opa refused. “I have never claimed expenses for this activity, and I never will,” he said. “We do it because it has to be done, and that’s the end of the matter.”

Even near the end, he was still helping others. The last few months before he was niftar, he was involved in helping a young boy who was struggling. “You’re going to have your bar mitzvah,” my grandfather said softly. “We’ll make sure of it — no pressure, no fuss. Just joy.”

This year, before Yom Kippur, we received a message that encapsulated my grandparents. The writer shared a memory from the final weeks of her own mother’s life. My grandparents had gone to visit her in the hospital. Opa went upstairs to say the final tefillos, while Mormor waited downstairs with the daughter, who couldn’t bring herself to go up.

“She smiled warmly,” the message read. “… She asked if there was anything I wanted to talk about. I said, ‘Is there anything we can say that will make the situation better?’ And she simply answered, ‘No.’ Then we sat in silence. It was the most comforting silence of my life.”

That line stayed with me — the wisdom to stay silent. Mormor had a gift for presence — for being there, quietly and fully, when words could only get in the way.

The message went on to describe how both my grandparents had touched her family’s life in quiet, lasting ways. My grandmother had helped her mother learn to read Hebrew and gently guided her toward building a Jewish home. My grandfather, meanwhile, had formed a bond with her grandfather, a Holocaust survivor who carried deep pain and mistrust of religious figures. “He didn’t try to make him believe,” she wrote. “He simply showed him respect. Somehow, he found the perfect balance of warmth, honesty, and humor. They felt like family — much needed in good times and bad.”

Reading her words, we felt that mix of grief and pride that so often comes when someone reminds you of the depth of what you’ve lost. My grandparents didn’t just serve their community — they were the community. They led through kindness, humility, and presence.

And maybe that’s their truest legacy: knowing when to speak, and when to simply sit beside someone in silence.

You didn’t have to share their last name to feel like you belonged to them. To the community, Rabbi and Rebbetzin Plancey weren’t just respected figures — they were home. For anyone lonely, for the almanah who needed someone to look her in the eye and remind her that she mattered, for the young couple starting out without a support system — they were there. Steady, warm, wise. You’d walk into shul or into their kitchen, and the world outside would quiet. They had a way of making you feel that your pain was the only pain in the world — not because they pitied you, but because they saw you. Because they felt with you. They weren’t just my grandparents. They were the grandparents of the world.

Opa often used to say that he was the wealthiest man alive, not because of material possessions, but because of the nachas he felt seeing the generations that stood beside him.

My grandparents had a personal and individual relationship with each child, grandchild, and great-grandchild. We felt it in every interaction, phone call, and visit. For the last few months of Mormor’s life I used to go see her every day, and no matter what else was going on, the moment I walked through the door, the world stopped for her and she would focus on me.

For many years she would do homework with me over the phone. During hard times, we’d just sit and talk. She had an uncanny ability to make me feel heard, as if she had all the time in the world and there was nowhere else she’d rather be. And she did this not just for me — but for every grandchild, every great-grandchild. Each of us was the only one. That was her gift. That was their home — a place where love wasn’t divided, it multiplied.

I remember, as a child, saying I liked something in their home — a book, a dish, a small item — and without fail, both of them would insist I take it. They lived to give.

Mormor had a way of gently guiding us with her words, even in the most innocuous conversations.  “Always count your brachos. Look at the positive in everything,” she told me once when I was feeling overwhelmed.  And this wasn’t just something she said — it was how she lived. Despite the many challenges she faced in her own life, she always radiated gratitude. She truly only saw the good — in people, in situations, in life. It was as if she’d trained her eyes and heart to notice blessings where others might have seen burdens.

Mormor had a signature line she’d say on every Yom Tov, just as we were sitting down to lunch: “Tell me — do you always have a meal like this on a weekday?” It always made us smile. It was her way of reminding us to pause and appreciate the beauty and holiness of Yom Tov, to focus on the opportunity to gather and eat like royalty — and to be grateful for it.

Opa and Mormor were always a team. Opa was the public face, the rabbi who stood at the front. But behind every shiur, every decision, every act of leadership, was Mormor — her insight, her strength, her unwavering emunah.

Opa was niftar on Sunday night, 12 Sivan. The loss was profound, leaving a void that only he could fill. Throughout the shivah, people from all walks of life came to share how their lives had been touched by my grandparents. Our home became a sanctuary of stories, each visitor revealing another facet of Opa and Mormor’s kindness, warmth, and quiet influence.

Naturally, the one who felt the loss most acutely was Mormor, but she showed such incredible strength as she comforted me and my sisters. “Opa and I created a legacy, and now it’s time for us to hand it over to our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. It is yours to continue,” she said.

Their legacy isn’t just a collection of stories; it’s a garden of seeds they planted — seeds of kindness, empathy, and unwavering commitment to others. For Opa, true wealth was measured in the lives one enriches, the kindness one gives, and the values one transmits.

Mormor told us she and Opa were handing over their legacy, but we didn’t realize just how soon that would be. Five days later, on Erev Shabbos, during the shivah itself, Mormor’s neshamah ascended to reunite with her beloved Opa on 17 Sivan. It was an overwhelming time for our family, with two weeks of shivah, mourning not just one, but two pillars of our lives.

Even amid the heartbreak, though, there was a poignant lesson. Opa and Mormor had spent their entire lives together, creating a sacred partnership. Whatever they accomplished, they did together. From the very beginning, they were a team — a unit so unified it was impossible to speak about one without the other.

And Opa continued to care for Mormor, even after he passed on to the Next World.

Just before Mormor was nifteres, a nurse came into the hospital room and stood there hesitantly.

“Would it be all right if I sat with her for a bit?” she asked softly.

No one recognized her, but she continued, her eyes full of emotion.

“You don’t know me,” she said, “but many years ago, I was going through a very hard time. I’d been trying to get a get for two years, with no success. Someone told me to speak to Rabbi Plancey. I did — and within a month, he helped me finally receive it.”

She paused, her voice catching. “I was a single mother then, trying to manage on my own. And that’s when your grandmother started sending me food parcels every week for Shabbos and Yom Tov. She never let me feel like a rachmanus. She made me feel cared for, like family.”

The nurse continued, “When I met my husband, Rabbi and Rebbetzin Plancey welcomed him warmly. They invited us for meals, made him feel at home. One day Rabbi Plancey asked him, ‘Do you put on tefillin?’

“ ‘I haven’t since my bar mitzvah,’ my husband said. So Opa patiently showed him how, like a father teaching his son. He’s been putting on tefillin every day since.”

She took a deep breath, her voice softening. “Not long after that, Rabbi Plancey said to me, ‘You’re a nurse, aren’t you? If you ever hear that my wife is in the hospital, please stay with her. She’s always been a bit afraid of hospitals.’ ”

Tears filled her eyes. “When I heard she was admitted, I came straight away. I had to be here for her, after all they did for me.”

It’s been a few months since they left us, and I miss them more with each passing day. Yet I carry immense pride in being part of the remarkable legacy they built. Their footsteps are large, but they’ve paved a clear path. I can only hope to continue walking in it, nurturing the seeds they so lovingly planted in all of us.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1087)