Your father was never judgmental and accepted me for who I was. He showed me true love.

The man arrived at the shivah with jeans and a worn jacket, a yarmulke perched awkwardly atop his head. But he was not uncomfortable sitting among the group of yeshivish men. He had no trouble following the seamless mix of Hebrew, Yiddish, and Gemara lashon.

He was the “elephant in the room.”

All eyes were on him as they silently wondered, Who is this man, and why is he here at the shivah of the rav?

The niftar, a great talmid chacham, was not a kiruv rabbi and not known for idle conversation. Adding to the confusion, the informally clad man was more of a candidate for kiruv than a bona fide baal teshuvah.

Finally, there was a lull in the conversation, and he began to speak to the son.

“I came here to tell you about your father.”

The room got quiet, the children stopped chattering. All eyes were now focused on the mysterious man as he began to speak.

“I’m what you would call not-yet-back-on-the-derech. I grew up in Boro Park, and your shprach is very familiar to me.

“You’re wondering why I’m here. I’m fifty-six, and although none of you have heard of me, I’m an acknowledged songwriter in the Greenwich Village whose work appears in off-Broadway shows. B’kitzur, I’m considered successful. I have a wonderful Jewish wife and two sons.

“I won’t bore you with all the details, but when I was seventeen, I left home and lived on the streets. I was into a lot of not-so-good stuff, and on Shabbos, I would sneak into the local shul and eat leftover cold cholent.

“One Shabbos, I found a half-filled bottle of schnapps and emptied the bottle in one gulp. I don’t know how long I slept. But hours later, I felt a hand on my shoulder.”

The man paused.

“Your father had come to learn, and he touched my neshamah. It was a hot summer afternoon, and the shul had no air conditioning.

“Your father said, ‘You look tired and hungry and hot. Come to my house. It’s cool there, you’ll eat and rest.’

“He took me to his home, and after feeding me, he told me to rest in his bed, which was the only bedroom with a working air conditioner. After Shabbos, he asked me what else he could do for me.

“I told him that he would never be able to provide what I needed.

“He said, ‘Try me.’

“I told him I wanted a guitar.

“The next day, he took me to the Sam Ash store at 236 Utica Avenue and bought me my first guitar. He then paid for me to have private lessons until, at twenty, I got my first permanent gig.

“Your father was never judgmental and accepted me for who I was. He showed me true love. I owe my career, my family, and my life to him. He even walked me down to the chuppah.

“I came back to say thank you.”

With that, he took an envelope, placed it on the tzedakah plate, and turned to leave.

“My name is—”

The rav’s son cut in, “I know your name. It’s Shlomo ben Chanah.”

The man was shocked, but the son continued calmly, “My father davened for you daily.

“He told me, ‘Shlomo ben Chanah will one day come back.’ And today, the last day of shivah, you came back, just as my father said you would. As greatly as my father cared about his Torah learning, he cared even more about you.

“I always knew your name. Now I finally know you.” —