When I casually mentioned a Dodgers game, his entire face lit up. Not just his eyes — his whole face

IN

our house, like in most houses, night was for sleeping — unless you were my father. While the rest of us were curled in our beds, dreaming of simpler things like ice cream or escaping gym class, my father, Rabbi Mottel Sharfstein z”l, was deep in another world.

It wasn’t unusual for me, as a bleary-eyed child, to stumble out of bed in my footed pajamas and navigate the dark hallways in search of the bathroom. Inevitably, I’d bump into a chair or the corner of the wall, yelping just loud enough to wake my siblings.

But on the rare nights when I paused, hand on the bathroom doorknob, I’d hear it: a soft, melodic chant weaving through the house. It wasn’t just a sound; it was something alive, a thread pulling me toward the dining room. I’d follow the sound like a child lured by the Pied Piper, padding across the hall to the dining room table.

And there he was, every time — my dad, an oversized Talmud open before him like a treasure map, its pages worn and frayed from endless hours of study. His body swayed gently, almost as though he were dancing, as he sang the words to himself in a lilting rhythm. His eyes were closed tight, and I’d watch, spellbound, as he leaned in so close to the sefer you’d think he was trying to fall into it, lost in words I couldn’t yet read but felt sure held the secrets to the universe.

By day, my father was a diamond courier, trudging through Manhattan’s seasons with a bag slung over his shoulder like the world’s most valuable lunchbox. But at night, he left the glint of jewelry behind for the shimmer of ancient texts. The grind of the day melted away, and he was a scholar again, diving into the ancient Aramaic with the kind of devotion most people reserve for dessert.

It was who he was, and I adored him for it.