On Rosh Hashanah I lost my father

Despite numerous challenges, I managed to make the overseas trip and arrive just in time for my father’s burial. But not in time to speak to him.

And that difference has lived inside me ever since.

In the weeks and months that followed, the grief came in waves, as grief does. A voice. A mannerism. A photograph. A memory appearing from nowhere.

But one thought kept returning. I had tried to call my father on erev Rosh Hashanah. We did not manage to speak. And I kept thinking: “If only I had known.”

If only I had known there would not be another phone call. I would have stopped at nothing.

What would I have said? Nothing dramatic.

Just, simply: “Tatty, thank you. Thank you for giving me life. Thank you for the person you were. Thank you for the myriad kindnesses, sacrifices, days and nights of quiet devotion and love. Thank you for the values you lived rather than merely taught. Thank you for the parts of you that became parts of me. Thank you for being my father.”

To this day, the greatest regret of my life is that I did not have that final conversation.

Not because my father did not know that I loved him. He did.

And not because I never expressed gratitude to him. I did.

I carry two things from this past year: the ache of the words I never got to say to my father, and the immeasurable gift of the words my father did say to me.

In fact, if there is one silver lining in the fog of grief, it is this: the last time our entire family gathered, it was to celebrate his 70th birthday, just one month before his passing.

We had come together from around the world for a weekend of celebration, culminating in the dedication of a new Sefer Torah in his merit. That weekend, each of us had the opportunity to share words of love and gratitude with him. And today, that memory is one of the great consolations of our grief: My father left this world wrapped in the warm embrace of his family's love. He knew.

And yet, if I had known that the curtain was about to fall—what wouldn't I give for one more conversation? I would have left nothing unsaid.

And so today, one year later, I want to take that pain and turn it into a plea to all of us: Please do not wait.

We make a strange assumption about the people we love. We assume they know. Of course, my wife knows. My husband knows. My parents know. My children know.

And perhaps they do. But there is an enormous difference between love that is known and love that is spoken.

One of the deepest needs of the human heart is simply to feel appreciated. To hear another human being say: “My life is different because you are in it.”

We make another strange assumption; that our lives will simply continue to go on exactly as things are, when in fact, nothing is guaranteed.

We know this intellectually. But we rarely live as though we know it.

There will always be another Shabbat. Another birthday. Another chance to apologise. Another chance to say thank you. Another chance to say, “There is something I have been meaning to tell you.”

Until suddenly there isn’t.

Perhaps this is part of the message of the central prayer of Rosh Hashanah: Mi yichyeh umi yamut – “Who will live, and who will die”. The purpose of Unetaneh Tokef is not to frighten us with the fragility of life. It is to awaken us to its preciousness and remind us to leave nothing unsaid.

Become extravagant with love. When you feel gratitude, don't merely feel it. Express it.

Alongside the greatest regret of my life, I carry perhaps the greatest gift.

The last time my father visited us here in London was just a few months before he passed away. My parents had come to spend Shavuot with us.

My father was not a man of many words. He grew up in another world, at another time, among a generation shaped by the catastrophic events of the Second World War – a generation that felt deeply but did not always share how they felt.

And yet, as he was leaving our home for the last time, something happened that I will never forget. He stood at our front door. The sunlight was falling across his face. And in the sweetest, warmest, most tender way, he looked at me and said:

“Mendel, may you have as much joy and nachas from your children as I have from you.”

I cannot tell you how many times I have replayed those words in my mind.

I can still see the sunlight on his face. I can still hear his voice. He could not have known how precious those words would become. Neither could I.

And so, I carry two things from this past year: the ache of the words I never got to say to my father, and the immeasurable gift of the words my father did say to me.

And both have taught me the same lesson: Love must not only be felt. Love must be given a voice.

How many words are living in our hearts on the assumption that there will always be another opportunity?

So this Rosh Hashanah, allow me to request something of you in memory of my father. Something simple but seismic.

Become extravagant with love. When you feel gratitude, don't merely feel it. Express it. When your spouse does something kind, notice it aloud.

Tell your children not only that you are proud of what they have achieved, but what you love about who they are.

Call your parents. Tell them what you inherited from them.

Tell a brother or sister what it has meant to travel through life together.

Tell a friend what their friendship has given you.

Reach out to a teacher, a mentor, someone who inspired you years ago, and tell them: My life is different because of you.

Don’t wait for the perfect words. Love does not require eloquence. It requires courage.

Don’t wait until memory is all you have left. Say it while they can hear it. Hold them while they can feel it.

Because one day, you might give anything for five more minutes with someone you love.

Today, those five minutes are still yours, and their voice is still only a phone call away.

Rabbi Kalmenson is executive director of Chabad Belgravia