When he is told that he has only one month to live, he
returns home and makes a cup of mint tea. He sits on the
wicker porch swing and looks up at the sky which is so blue
that it hurts his eyes. The branches of the willow tree rise
in the late afternoon breeze and then flutter back down with
silent grace. The sky and the wind and the willow tree fill
him with grief. There is so much to say good-bye to, and he
just doesn't know how to begin.
He thinks of all the dreams that filled his younger years.
Tomorrow, he had told himself then. Later. Next week. Maybe
next year. Life had always seemed to be too full of pressing
demands, and he had always prided himself on being a
practical person. But somehow he had thought he would have
more time than this.
He puts down his cup of tea and notices that his hands are
dotted with tears. He won't make it to his daughter's
chuppah now, and he will never see grandchildren. One
month. Where should he begin? He finds himself accepting this
decree just as he has accepted all the other limitations in
his life. But he knows that his wife and children won't be
able to accept that he is dying. How will he say good-bye to
them?
He has a friend who always makes lists of what he has to do.
He has never been the list-making type, but maybe that would
help him now. He makes his way back to the kitchen and finds
a pen and paper. Sitting at the kitchen table he begins with
trembling hands. First he makes out the headings of each
list. 1) People to say Good-bye To 2) Places He Still Wants
to See 3) Unfinished Goals 4) Teshuvoh
Now his hands are shaking so much that he can no longer
write. He stares down at his list of lists, and he realizes
that he doesn't want to face any of it. He will not say good-
bye to anyone. He will not speak of his death. He will not
launch into a traveling frenzy, trying to drink in as much of
olom hazeh as he can.
All the goals that have swum through his mind in a hazy mist
all these years will remain formless and pointless. After
all, he is dying. All of his goals seem suddenly petty and
irrelevant. But the last item on the list tugs at him.
Teshuvoh. The Yom Kippur of all Yom Kippurs has arrived. He
is decreed to die, and he has been blessed with an awareness
of the decree.
How many people pass away without warning? They don't have
the chance to do Teshuvoh. What a gift he has been
given! But where, oh where, can he begin? Tomorrow is Erev
Shavuos, he remembers. He puts down the pad of paper and
walks into the library. Reaching towards the oak bookshelf,
he finds his beloved gemora; its shiny, brown leather
cover is etched with swirls of gold.
He turns on the light and sits down at his desk. He begins to
learn. He begins to prepare. He begins to know how to receive
the gift that is coming. Soon he will receive the Torah with
all of Am Yisroel. And soon he will return to His Maker and
see that this world was just a hallway to the Palace.
Everything begins only at the end.
