And if you know Dovi, you know that he will work there, as he did here, to “get it done” one more time

Dovi. I see you on your porch, surrounded by your family, laughter and warmth flowing down, embracing whoever might be walking by on a Yom Tov afternoon.

It’s a family trained to notice others, to share a good word, a compliment, or joke.

And in that special family, Dovi stood out.

With chein, with real kindness, he was the one who could take vulnerable teenagers and make them belong, because being his friend — and who wasn’t? — was enough. His confidence became theirs, his geshmak embracing them all.

Rebbeim too. Dovi was the one with the open heart and grateful smile, alive in the sugya, able to understand Tosafos’ kushya, but also to understand that maybe others didn’t feel the same excitement and it was up to him to share it.

Dovi’s parents made a chasunah a few months ago, at a time when the borders were sealed. The friends couldn’t come. Much of the family couldn’t come, including grandparents. It wasn’t simple.

And yet, a few nights before the wedding, Shloimy Steinmetz told me, “It’s true that it’s a challenge, but,” and with this, his face brightened, “but when I contemplate the fact that my son is getting married, shouldn’t that itself fill me with joy? The Ribbono shel Olam sent us an einekel this year, that isn’t a reason to sing? We’re healthy, we have parnassah baruch Hashem — so how can I complain? The Ribbono shel Olam gives and gives, we focus on that.”

Dovi went to learn in Yerushalayim, easily sliding into the familiar role of caretaker, dirah arranger, seudah supplier, smile provider; it was his way, learned from the best. He worked the phones, everyone in his network a shliach mitzvah to help the one who needed a bed, who had no seat, who couldn’t find a chavrusa.

He carried lists in his heart, the people and their needs, but his own name was last on every list. Dovi’s need was not to take, but to give.

To be that normal and that special? To give so much to others and still make the shtender your place?

Last Monday, he approached a friend in shul. “We’re buying an aliyah, you in?” He indicated a mutual friend. “He looks like he needs a boost, let’s do it.”

He had arranged this last Shabbos in Meron for the chaburah, and as happens, one guy showed up without confirming. There weren’t enough beds and it was becoming an issue — till Dovi walked in. “A bed? That’s the problem?” His eyebrows shot up. Come on. “Here’s a bed,” he said, pointing to his own.

He would figure it out.

Lag B’omer…. Dovi poured oil for the hadlakah in honor of Rabi Shimon, and took his place among Yidden, ready to dance.

“And if you knew Dovi, if you knew the purity and openness of his heart to hisorerus,” a rebbi of his told me, “then you know that during that last hour, he was in another place, at Ne’ilah on Yom Kippur, completely one of Rabi Shimon’s people.”

***

To his friends, part of them has gone, never to return until Mashiach comes. Dovi was the one they could turn to for listening, for  understanding. He made them feel cared for.

A city, a small town that is like a family and the Steinmetzes a favorite sibling, is numb with grief.

A nation is writhing in pain.

And the family… How can they endure? With what?

On Sunday morning before the levayah, I davened Shacharis, as I do every day, in Mesivta Reishis Chochmah, where Dovi’s family davens, where his zeide and elter zeide davened too.

I saw his grandfather, the beloved gabbai Reb Itzu, seated by his daf yomi shiur, his shoulder square with dignity and strength. I watched him unfold his tallis, and I had a thought.

Later in the day, I watched the live stream of the kevurah taking place under the setting sun, night slowly spreading over the Holy City as Yissoschor Dov Berish ben Reb Shloime was laid to rest.

The video hadn’t yet cut off, and you could see and hear Shloime — until that moment, an onen absolved from tefillah — say “Okay, we need to daven Minchah, can I daven now?” and I had the same thought again.

The porch on Barclay Avenue in Montreal will yet be filled with warmth, with children and grandchildren who are happy to greet another Yid, to warm another soul, to brighten the day of another. They will continue to sing Dovi’s song.

Earlier this year, someone asked me for shidduch information on Dovi’s older brother, and I found the text I sent him then, my attempt to explain what makes the family special. I feel like the Steinmetz boys wake up every morning and say ‘Thank You Hashem for making me a Steinmetz.’

Dovi did. He lived in joy, and left us amid joy.

And if you know Dovi, you know that he will work there, as he did here, to “get it done” one more time, and we will reunite in joy.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 859)