Hello is hope and opportunity; goodbye is finality and conclusion

Coordinated by Michal Frischman

As we cross the threshold from one year to another, it’s a time to reflect on new beginnings with unlimited potential and seemingly infinite possibilities, and endings that bring us either peaceful closure or painful mourning – and often something in the middle. Hello is hope and opportunity; goodbye is finality and conclusion.

Stately Encounters

Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber

WE

spent our midwinter break this year in the vibrant Jewish community of Atlanta, Georgia. It was a perfect choice, with kosher food, minyanim and plenty for the kids to do.

Before we returned home, I wrote a short note to the staff of the hotel where we’d stayed to thank them for going out of their way to make our stay comfortable. Unsure whether to sign my name, I called my wife’s grandfather, Rabbi Paysach Krohn.

“Zaidy, should I write my name?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Not only your name, but ‘Rabbi’ before it. That way you make a kiddush Hashem.”

A few hours later, I passed through the lobby just as the hotel staff was having their morning meeting. The manager stood in the center, holding a piece of paper. She was reading my note aloud. When she reached the bottom, she read my name, which I’d written exactly as my grandfather had suggested. Heads nodded. Smiles spread.

Listening from the side, I thought of an encounter we’d had just the day before. Our family is working on an ongoing project to visit all 50 states, so naturally, we took advantage of our stay in Georgia to cross state lines into Alabama, just an hour away.

The kids were buzzing in the backseat as we sped down the highway. And then, there it was: a green sign in bold white letters, Welcome to Sweet Home Alabama.

I pulled over to the side of the road for a picture. The morning was crisp and bright, and the rush of cars passing at 70 miles an hour made the air feel alive. My son and I jumped out, grinning for a quick snapshot before scrambling back into the car.

A few miles later, we spotted a welcome center. “Let’s stop,” I suggested. “Maybe there’s a bigger sign — we can all get in this one.”

The welcome center was spotless and hushed, with that faint echo of a weekday roadside stop.

Near the entrance stood an older man, maybe early seventies, silver hair neatly combed under a well-worn baseball cap. He had an unhurried air about him, as though nothing in the world was pressing.

“Would you mind taking our picture?” I asked, holding out my phone.

“Be glad to,” he said, his Southern drawl gentle and warm. He took his time framing the shot, snapped a couple, and lowered the phone.

Then his eyes brightened. “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re the first Orthodox Jews I’ve ever met in my life.”

I blinked. “Really? How did you know we were Orthodox?”

His voice took on the tone of someone letting you in on something personal. “I’ve always been interested in Jews. I’ve done research on different types of Jews, it’s a topic that has always fascinated me. I’m seventy-three years old, and I’ve always hoped — just once — to meet someone like you. You might be the only Orthodox Jews I’ll ever meet.”

I wasn’t sure what to say at first. We chatted a bit more, where we were from, where he grew up, what brought us to Alabama. Ordinary words, yet wrapped in a strange awareness: This was the moment he’d been waiting decades for, and I was the one standing in front of him.

When we finally said goodbye, it was with that quiet understanding that the moment had run its course.

Hello in one state, goodbye in another, yet in each, the opportunity to make Hashem’s Name shine a little brighter.

Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber is a rebbi at Yeshiva K’tana of Waterbury and a division head in Camp Romimu.