My father was the first to admit that he was completely tone deaf (and I’m lucky enough to have inherited that gene). He was acutely aware of how his voice sounded, and so he didn’t sing much, if at all. Occasional zemiros were pretty much the only singing we heard from my father  — except when Yom Tov was coming. Then I’d hear my father on the phone with my older brother in yeshivah, who hadn’t inherited the tone-deaf gene. My brother would practice the tune for duchaning with my father, over and over again.

My father used to joke that his biggest nightmare was to be the only Kohein in a big shul full of people. Except he wasn’t really joking — he was truly embarrassed of how his singing voice sounded. Yet he continued to duchan, year after year, Yom Tov after Yom Tov. And each time, his voice would rise as he said, “be’ahavah.”

One Rosh Hashanah, we were walking home from shul together, when we saw someone on the street up ahead. It was a kid from a shul nearby, looking for a Kohein for Bircas Kohanim, as their shul didn’t have any. I remembered my father’s biggest nightmare, being the only one duchaning in a crowded shul, and looked over at him. He didn’t hesitate. “I’m a Kohein,” he told the boy. “I can do it.”

My father figured if they didn’t have a Kohein on the first day of Yom Tov, they probably wouldn’t have one on the second day, either. So we went back the next morning, and he performed the mitzvah again.

This became our routine. That shul finished a bit after ours did, just in time for my father to stop in each Yom Tov and duchan. There was no fanfare, not even a formal arrangement. I’m not entirely sure if they ever learned his name — my father was quiet that way. But each holiday, my father went into a shul full of people to sing them a blessing filled with love, doing this challenging mitzvah with a full heart.

As an adult, I didn’t have as many opportunities to spend Yom Tov with my father. When I listened to Bircas Kohanim in other shuls, it always made me a little sad that nobody’s voice rose above the others when saying that final word.

My father passed away on Rosh Chodesh Elul last year. Rosh Hashanah was his shloshim. I stood in the front of the shul listening to my husband and my father-in-law say the brachah, tears streaming down my face. I knew I’d never again hear my father’s voice rise loudly above the others. But I still hear it echoing in my mind. Be’ahavah.  With love. Ff

L’illui nishmas my father, Ahron Ben Mordechai HaKohein

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 961)