Mrs. Marcy Stern a"h: 3 women remember a mother’s love, a teacher’s wisdom, an eternal impact

Some teachers educate, others inspire, but Mrs. Marcy Stern transformed. With boundless passion and unwavering commitment, she revolutionized the way Navi was taught, embedding its lessons deep within her students’ souls. 

A daughter, a former student, and a colleague say goodbye to the beloved educator who passed away this past Chanukah

A Daughter Reminisces

Chani Mittel

Dear Mommy,

Dear Mommy,

I can’t believe that the first letter I’m writing under my real name, rather than a pen name, is to you — about you.

Reality hasn’t hit yet. It hasn’t yet registered that you’re not here with me. You left us so quickly; the whiplash leaves me breathless.

There is so much I still want to say, so much I should have said, and now — now it will have to be a letter to you in my heart.

The week of shivah was a blur. I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true. Sometimes the minutes passed by slowly, in excruciating agony, but almost as quickly as we sat down, we were told, “Kum,” get up.

Get up. Go on. But how?

In the days and weeks that have passed, I’ve had endless hours, often in the middle of the night, to reflect on who you were and the everlasting impact you left on this world.

Mommy, you were greatness cloaked in simplicity. You were so present, so focused on the moment, on the joy and love and nachas, that we never quite realized, or appreciated, the giant who was our mother.

We grew up on stories of life back in Cleveland, of your parents who threw their hearts, souls, and money into building the Hebrew Academy, the community, and supporting the initiatives of the Telzer roshei yeshivah. We all knew the story of Rabbi Dessler knocking on your parents’ door when they heard there was a little boy (your brother) who was ready to start school, and how your parents answered the call of “Mi laHashem eilai” with resounding belief and conviction.

It was during shivah when we asked Uncle Shermy, “Why? What persuaded an American family eighty years ago to buck the trend of sending to the local public school and instead send their bechor to a nascent, fledgling yeshivah?” It was your grandmother, Mintza, for whom you were named, he said. She came from Europe, saw the dangers of assimilation, and with her conviction, strength, and love, convinced your parents that yeshivah education was the only way.

And you, who was named for that strong woman, embodied those very same traits. You lived your life with integrity, with a belief that every action you took, every choice you made should be in line with Torah and ratzon Hashem. Even when your choices or your actions weren’t popular, you didn’t cower or change your way. You lifted up those around you with your passion and the belief in what you did.

It was no secret, Mommy, that your passion for teaching and your love of Navi was an everlasting flame inside of you, a flame lit by your own Navi teacher, Rebbetzin Chasya Sorotzkin. The words of Navi were so alive to you, so real, you saw them in everyday events, in the world around you. The words of Yirmiyahu, Yeshayahu, Chagai; they rolled off your tongue like friends. You would tremble when talking about the events in Eretz Yisrael after the Simchas Torah Massacre, repeating, “The nevuos are so scary. I can’t even talk about it.”

And on 9/11, your initial reaction to the news was a gasp and a, “Now I understand the words of Yirmiyahu,” as you quoted the pasuk, “Chachamim heimah l’hara, they are wise to do evil.” Each perek, each word, was buried deep inside of you and emerged as you walked through life. To you, the idea of, “if only we had neviim today...” was so foreign, since the neviim lived and breathed inside of you, alive and real.

A veteran mechaneches told us during the shivah that you, Mommy, changed the way Neviim Achronim was taught in girls’ high schools. Your methods, innovative when you started, became the gold standard, and new and veteran Navi teachers across the world reached out to you for guidance in how to teach, since your approach was so successful. No matter who called for guidance, no matter how many hours it took, you willingly and happily gave over your methods, your notes, and your worksheets to anyone who would ask. The idea of asking for compensation never crossed your mind. Because chinuch habanos wasn’t about making money (surely you knew that well!), but about inculcating the next dor with love for Torah. Anyone who partnered with you in that goal was worthy of all the time in the world.

Your classroom was your joy. Hundreds of your thousands of talmidos from the past 40 years came through our doors during the shivah, reliving memories of your class, of the sheer joy you had in imparting Navi, and the passion with which you taught. Your words and your voice live inside their heads when they listen to Maftir Yonah on Yom Kippur (“tightening the screws”) or when they hear a haftarah you taught them. To quote a student from your early years of teaching, “Your classroom management style was your sheer love of Navi and the excitement to impart it to your students.” It was, like a co-teacher told us, “Not only that you possessed Torah, but you were possessed by Torah.” And the students who came to your shivah quoting pesukim, 20, 30, 40 years after you taught them, were a testament to your success as a teacher.

But mostly you were our queen, regal in the way you handled whatever challenges Hashem threw your way. And there were plenty. It wasn’t always smooth sailing for you. When you got sick 18 plus years ago, and Hashem challenged your ability to walk easily, you could have crumpled. Many people would have. I was in high school then, and I don’t recall stopping to think of how difficult it must have been to walk into the davening room, with 400 students, using a walker, after being such a strong presence on your own two feet until that point.

I don’t think I realized how difficult it was, because you never let us focus on the challenge. You lifted your chin and kept moving forward. Your attitude was: If this is what Hashem has sent me, I will accept it with love and march on forward. Even in later years, when you occasionally needed a wheelchair, you never slowed down or wallowed in self-pity. With a smile and a, “Let’s go!” (and a grandchild or two on your lap!) you pushed forward, always focusing on what more you could do, what things you could still accomplish.

And when you had a chance to build a school, based on your unique vision that combined chinuch methodology from the many varied institutions you attended, you did so with all your strength, and with a clear conviction in your ability to be mechanech the next dor of bnos Yisrael. And when that ended, again you didn’t falter. You thanked Hashem for the gift of building a school, and you cherished it. You just davened that all that yegiah be a zechus achar meah v’esrim.

You were so clear in what was ikar and what was tafel. Despite growing up well-off, you lived in a small house, with wood cabinets that were bleached off-color by a well-meaning cleaning woman. None of that bothered you too much, because a home was meant to transmit values, and to value gashmiyus wasn’t something you were looking to instill. It was that same clarity that allowed you to shrug off the time I lost your mother’s wedding ring after (not very smartly!) packing it in my suitcase on my way to meet you in Eretz Yisrael. Some TSA agent somewhere probably took it, but you didn’t react or let it get to you. After all, it’s tafel, and the ikar was being in control of your middos and having a positive relationship with your children.

Despite your intellectual prowess, your vision, your leadership qualities, you were exceptionally humble. You never considered yourself anything unique or special. In fact, you were so real, so open and honest, it made connecting to you so easy. I think that’s why your Shabbos table was filled with so many types of people at various stages of frumkeit. No matter, each one found their place, and common points of interest. Single women, divorcées, intellectuals, special needs children; everyone felt comfortable and welcome, no matter their circumstance. And there were no pretenses — sometimes the challah or dessert was store-bought, but everything was served with a smile and with genuine interest in their lives.

But Mommy, as your daughter, what I’m most grateful for was your pure and endless love and giving. Our home was a happy one. It was like a bubble of love, ever expanding as our family grew to include children-in-law and grandchildren. There was total acceptance and appreciation for every person and what they offered. There were baking sessions, daily trips, summer trip, arts and crafts projects, and many conversations on the couch. No judgment, just an attitude of, “What can I do for you?” I know you never liked it when we fought, but during shivah, Mommy, we did fight over one thing: Who spoke to you more every day. Your interest in every facet of our lives, of the lives of our children, was so comforting. I don’t think any of us ever considered not sharing something with you — our success was your success, and our pain was your pain. I probably should have stopped to think of how one person can shoulder that all, but I never did, because you willingly shared our burdens with so much love.

I’ll even miss the tough love you gave, telling me when I was right, or wrong, and when it was just time to move on.

I don’t think I can ever fully capture the multifaceted woman you were. I just know how utterly proud I am to be your daughter. You taught me how to live, how to learn, and how to love.

On Chanukah, a light in This World was extinguished. So many talmidos will miss you, though your legacy lives on in the messages you imparted. The words of the neviim truly lived in you and through you.

I hope you have clarity Up There, Mommy, but know that down here, we feel lost and alone and feel your void every minute of every day. I can’t imagine life without you. My only comfort is that I’ll try to be a fraction of the mother you were to my own children.

May you be a melitzas yosher for our family, for your talmidos, and all of Klal Yisrael.

I love you and will miss you forever,

Chani

A Student Reminisce

Rachel (Zamist) Lermer

Just a few short weeks ago, thousands of us Bruriah High School alumni stormed the gates of Heaven with tefillos for our dear Mrs. Marcy Stern, and then spent the second night of Chanukah in tears as the news of her petirah swept through our homes. Many of our families couldn’t comprehend how we wept for a former teacher and principal.

All of a sudden, the shared memories we had of our high school experience carried so much more meaning.

Every so often, I think about the very high level of learning that took place in the hallowed halls of Bruriah high school. Mrs. Stern only taught 11th graders and in many ways, we all knew that while her tests were “murder,” her class would challenge our minds in a way we weren’t used to.

Mrs. Stern had a presence in our classroom that truly befit a woman of her stature. Even the tone of her voice pierced the depths of our souls as our morah shared her precious words. She was trained to be a teacher by the most chashuve women of Cleveland, and of course, by Rav Cooperman of Michalah — she was in the very first class of Michlalah’s chutz l’Aretz program, Machal. She always spoke so beautifully of her experiences as a student that we knew she felt that by being our teacher, it was her achrayus to be a link in our mesorah.

All of Mrs. Stern’s students gave their all to her classes because they knew how she truly gave her all to each and every one of her talmidos year after year. She and her family joined us on shabbatons. It wasn’t lost on us that she stayed many late nights for after-school activities and even left her family to accompany us on overnight trips.

Mrs. Stern famously taught every junior Neviim Acharonim with a focus on Trei Asar. We actually started the year with Sefer Yonah as Yom Kippur was soon approaching. And while I have no idea where the notes from any of my classes are, the lessons I learned will remain in the depths of my soul for eternity. Mrs. Stern allowed us to see how complicated Yonah was as a person and how it deeply impacted his relationship with HaKadosh Baruch Hu. She taught us about teshuvah and how Hashem has and will continue to do anything for Klal Yisrael.

During those classes, we had the chance to delve into this sefer and see a piece of Nach in a whole new light. What I think back on — and I imagine so many others do as well — is the passion I saw in Mrs. Stern when she described how much Hashem genuinely wants our tefillos and yearns for a relationship with each and every person.

In addition to being a student at school, I also had the unique opportunity to grow up a few short blocks away from Mrs. Stern, and I’m still a part of the same Passaic-Clifton community she was. It’s common for men to move to neighborhoods to be close to their rebbeim, but it’s also common for Bruriah alumni to move to be near Mrs. Stern. She gave shiurim to the community and set the bar very high for the level of learning offered to women. Her sources for these shiurim would range from classic mefarshim to recently published seforim. Her shiurim were generally standing room only and no matter what, each time she spoke, she had a chiddush on a pasuk. And while women from all walks of lifeattended her shiurim, she’d often call on her Bruriah girls to answer a question she posed to the room.

The love we all felt from Mrs. Stern was genuine, and she’d express it even when we would see her in the grocery or bump into her on a Shabbos walk. Words can’t describe the nachas that literally shone from Mrs. Stern’s face when I introduced my family to her. Twenty years after leaving her classroom, the experience of just being in her presence was still so uplifting.

Mrs. Stern was truly a teacher for life. And yes, we still needed to memorize countless pesukim and Radaks, but the ultimate lesson she taught was to truly believe that each and every one of us is full of greatness and that we are so loved by HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

Often, the core lessons Mrs. Stern taught me at 16 resurface in my memory just at the moment I need them. I feel that it’s a true zechus to call myself her student. The lasting impression she left on so many women is a testament to her love for us all and to the power of her teaching, which guides us each and every day.

A Colleague Reminisces

Yael Kaisman

I was blessed to call Mrs. Marcy Stern not just a colleague, but a dear friend. We taught together at Bruriah High School, where she later served as principal, and were scholars in residence together at the Sinai Retreats kiruv program.

The time I spent with Marcy and her family remains among my most treasured memories.

Marcy approached a life with remarkable passion and deep conviction. She had a unique way of bringing the words of the neviim to life, reading their passages with such vibrancy you could feel their wisdom resonating through time.

In recent years, I had the privilege of studying Tehillim with her. Her face would light up as we learned the verses “az yeraninu kol atzei yaar” that describe nature rejoicing at Hashem’s Kingdom being reestablished. She said excitedly, “Yael, can you picture the beauty of the trees dancing?” She expressed this enthusiasm over so many pesukim.

It was a privilege to hear her teach the haftarah of Rosh Hashanah. She’d passionately describe Mamma Rochel’s tears from On High. She’d speak of Hashem responding with great love to Mamma Rochel’s request to take her children out of exile with great emotion. I’m filled with tears remembering the eloquence and depth with which she taught these pesukim.

One of Marcy’s most admirable qualities was the profound respect she had for her own teachers, particularly those from her beloved Yavne: Rebbetzin Chasya Sorotzkin, her seventh grade teacher, and the esteemed Rebbetzin Rochel Sorotzkin. Rebbetzin Chasya’s teachings about how the embers of Telz survived the Holocaust, the way she described the Jewish people as a firebrand saved from the flames, ignited in Marcy a passionate commitment to helping rebuild the Jewish nation. Even decades after graduation, she’d mention her teachers’ names with such palpable reverence, it moved all who heard her. These remarkable women — passionate educators and scholars who demonstrated unwavering commitment to teaching Torah at the highest level to future generations — served as her role models.

Her enthusiasm for learning was contagious. Nothing brought her more joy than discovering a new commentary that illuminated a verse in a fresh way. “You have to see this sefer,” she’d exclaim, her Midwestern accent unchanged by years of living in the New York/New Jersey area.

She often taught Sefer Yonah at Sinai Retreats. She’d learned Sefer Yonah at Michlalah from Rav Bachrach, an innovator who engaged his students in the experience of the Navi. She followed suit and her students would come out of her class on a high, both stimulated by the message and the medium, and would eagerly anticipate the next day’s lesson.

Despite facing significant health challenges about 18 years ago that affected her mobility, Marcy’s determination never wavered. She went on to teach at Stern college and later founded an outstanding school in Passaic, setting high standards for both Jewish and secular studies. I was fortunate to teach in that school recently and her fingerprint is all over the school, the place she created with every ounce of her physical, emotional, and spiritual energy. Her resilience was extraordinary. Even when a mini escalator had to be installed to help her navigate the building, she continued to lead and teach with remarkable strength.

Beneath Marcy’s passionate convictions lay a heart of extraordinary gentleness and generosity. Even when her physical challenges made things more difficult, she’d travel great distances to offer comfort and chizuk to those in need or to share in the joy of a wedding celebration. Her capacity for empathy was boundless. When someone was suffering, she felt their pain deeply and offered comfort with genuine warmth and understanding. She’d do anything that would bring comfort to others, including sending containers of soup home to a former student who had come for Shabbos and left sick. Another former student told me how Marcy had such an ability to notice and compliment details that others never noticed. She did so in such a warm and loving way, it made this woman feel so loved, particularly at moments when she needed a pick-me-up.

Her love for Hashem and the Jewish people reflected the pasuk in Hoshea: “V’eirastich li le’olam — I will be betrothed to you forever.” This wasn’t merely a philosophical stance, but a lived reality. She saw Am Yisrael as one unified unit around Hashem. This vision guided her actions and relationships throughout her life. She truly loved every member of the Jewish people, cared for all in her orbit, and was blessed with many friends who felt fortunate to have her in their lives.

Marcy’s love for her family was boundless. She spoke often and proudly of her husband, children, and grandchildren. Her dedication to her students and staff was profound, and she created an environment of pursuit of excellence and warmth wherever she taught.

She lived what she taught. Undoubtedly, her ability to live with some of the difficult challenges she had was because she deeply imbibed the message of the prophets and the resilience of the Jewish people.

For years she waited to renovate her small kitchen because she did not want to be in any way similar to the women Amos accused of being like the paros habashan — self-absorbed, uncaring to those around who were suffering.

Appropriately, during her shloshim, many listened to her powerful voice as she taught us the chapters of Navi she’d recorded for the OU’s Nach Yomi program. Listening to her shiurim convinced me that in Shamayim, she joined those neviim she taught about: Hoshea, Amos, Zechariah, Yeshayahu, and Yonah, and is certainly adding her voice to those who beg Hashem to please return the Jewish people to their borders bimheirah

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 930)