My father, Gene Moshe Schramm, passed away on June 28, 2023 (9 Tammuz) at the age of 93. He lived a full, meaningful life.
As I near the end of my year of mourning, I have found that the Jewish mourning process has provided me with a structured way to navigate the stages of grief. Each stage has allowed me to connect to my father in different ways, helping me come to terms with his absence from the physical world.
One of the most concrete ways I chose to honor my father’s memory was by taking on the custom of saying kaddish for him. This ritual added structure to my days, especially during the beginning of the mourning period, providing me with a sense of grounding. Now, as the year draws to a close, saying kaddish continues to be a source of reassurance.
Then, there are the stories—memories that have resurfaced during this time of reflection. Grief has a way of jogging the memory, bringing long-dormant stories to light. Some of these memories are too private to share. However, there is one story that I cherish, and although it might not come up in casual conversation, it perfectly illustrates my father’s commitment to safety, halacha, and his acceptance of me as an adult.
I had been married for just over a year when I came down with a severe case of mono. It left me utterly exhausted, struggling to take care of myself. At the time, I was living in Israel with my husband, who was studying in a kollel. I was homesick, and the illness made everything harder. When I finally began to recover, I called my parents and asked if I could come home for a visit. They sent me a ticket, and I flew back to Detroit for a mid-winter stay.
I don’t remember much about that visit. It was cold, snowy, and I probably ate some pizza. My parents showered me with the TLC I desperately needed after my illness.
Towards the end of my visit, I needed to go to the mikveh. I made an appointment, ran some errands with my father that day, and returned home just as snow started falling, dangerously close to my appointment time. I asked my father for the car keys so I could drive myself to the mikveh. He said no.
A blizzard was expected, and I hadn’t driven regularly for some time. He felt it wasn’t safe. I was stunned. My mind raced. Should I tell him where I needed to go? Should I walk? I tried to convince him that it was only a short distance and I’d be fine. But he remained firm. Then, after a pause, he looked at me and said, “I know where you’re going. I’ll drive you.”
I was taken aback. My father was generally easy-going, except when he made up his mind about something. Driving in bad weather was definitely a non-negotiable for him. (Side note: He got his first and only speeding ticket in his late 80s—for driving too slowly! Road safety was always his top priority.) So, I had no choice but to accept his offer. My father drove me to the mikveh and waited in the shul parking lot next door while I completed my immersion. I dunked, and when I was done, he drove me home, safe and sound.
Later that evening, I joked that he was lucky I was taking this situation so well. He was genuinely puzzled by my comment. To him, it wasn’t a big deal—he just wanted me to be safe and to be able to keep halacha. Of course, it was a big deal to me, but I knew he wouldn’t understand why. For him, it was simple: he cared about my well-being and wanted to support me in fulfilling my obligations.
I am grateful for that moment with my father, and for his unwavering dedication to my safety and observance. It was one of many ways he showed his love and support, even when the circumstances were unexpected. I’m also thankful that my husband was back home in Israel at the time—our reunion would be a few days later.
Dedicated to the memory of יוחנן משה בן מאיר ורבקה
Rivky Krestt lives in Efrat, Israel where she works as a balanit.
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