Sometimes something happens that’s so strange it defies explanation, or perhaps leaves only one, hard-to-believe explanation. Debbie Findling shares her story.
Not long ago, my elderly father announced he didn’t believe in God. “When you’re dead, you’re dead,” he proclaimed. My brother, Daniel, teased: “Dad, if you’re wrong, after you die, send me a sign.”
My dad died last week. He was 88, a survivor of the Holocaust whose parent were murdered, he fled to the U.S. as a 10-year-old orphan.
Rather than becoming bitter, my dad turned his pain into unrelenting optimism. He carried his heavy past with lightness. My dad loved a good joke and taught us silly songs he had learned as a child in Europe. We sang the songs last week, at his funeral, at the grave site, and at the Shiva service.
Departing along the path from my dad’s home, we reminisced that he loved miniature wooden carved animals, but didn’t like the frog I had recently bought for his collection because it was made of metal rather than wood.