Brighton Gardens Shabbat
Getting a second chance to be with my father
Because “Shomrei Week,” the newsletter from Congregation Shomrei Emunah — my Montclair synagogue — overflows with information, it’s easy to miss some announcements. Fortunately, though, a congregant’s post, “Welcoming Shabbat at Brighton Gardens,” caught my attention.
In it, Richard briefly described the 45-minute Shabbat service that he leads on Friday afternoons at the senior living facility called Brighton Gardens, and he appealed for volunteers. I was hooked when he quoted from the Talmud: “One should greet an elderly person as one greets the Shekhina” — the divine presence.
But what could I possibly bring to this well-oiled service? Richard and Carol (a congregant who distributes the wine and challah and shmoozes with the residents) have been managing just fine without me for years.
The heart of the service is a discussion of the week’s parasha — the Torah reading — and its relevance to today’s world. Whether it’s the binding of Isaac or the laws of holiness, Richard always brings new insight. It’s easy for some of the residents to actively engage in a discussion; for others, not so much. No matter, everyone loves Richard!
The siddur he designed, with its laminated pages, includes basic prayers and psalms. Written in English and Hebrew (with transliteration) it provides highlights of the Friday night service. But without a strong song leader, the words remain quietly on the page.
Aha! I knew what I could contribute. By introducing new melodies and reinforcing old ones, by clapping my hands and banging on the table to keep the beat, I believed I could help everyone to participate in the service. We would sing with such kavanah — so much intention — that the angels of peace we summon in “Shalom Aleichem” and the Sabbath bride we invoke in “Lecha Dodi” would join us in our makeshift shul.
As a lay song leader in our congregation, a bubbe who always sings to her grandchildren, and a teacher who weaves singing and music into a lesson whenever possible, I believed I was qualified to do that.
I was right. When we started singing, it was like a bolt of lightning had struck. People who previously had sat quietly suddenly were singing with joy and confidence. Some might have glanced at the pages in the siddur, but the familiar words and melodies were coming from a magical place: memory.
Scientists say that singing releases dopamine and endorphins, the chemicals responsible for feelings of pleasure. It is good exercise because more oxygen enters the bloodstream. Circulation improves. Music stimulates the amygdala, part of the brain regulating emotions, which interacts with the hippocampus, part of the brain vital for learning and memory.
Did our little group give a hoot about the amygdala and hippocampus? Absolutely not! We were too busy singing.
I had found my niche at the minyan.
Bringing music to the service should have sated me. But to be honest, it didn’t. I had an ulterior motive when I decided to volunteer.
This was my opportunity to make amends with my father, Mike. The only problem was that he had died in 2008, and it is now 2025.
When I reflect on my dad’s final years, spent in a different senior living facility, with and without aides; when I picture him in a nursing home and ultimately dying in a hospital bed, sadness weighs on me like a pile of heavy snow. At each visit, I saw only how diminished he was; I regret that I didn’t appreciate what he could still do. The silence during our visits felt like an eternity; I should have savored holding hands and the quiet time we had together.
I remember wheeling him to a Shabbat service, only to be told that I couldn’t sit next to him because men and women must sit separately. I should have started a riot, but I acquiesced.
Eager for a second chance, I came to Brighton Gardens looking for my father. There were moments when I found him.
I found him in Murray, who was about to celebrate his 100th birthday. He expressed gratitude for his friends and family and for reaching this milestone. My heart skipped a beat when he said that although he is blind, he sees the world more clearly now than ever.
It reminded me of a conversation I had with my dad. As Parkinson’s disease was claiming a victory, I asked him, “How do you do it? How do you get through each day?”
“Every night I thank God I made it through the day and every morning I thank God I woke up to see another day,” he told me. It was that simple.
I found Mike in Ben, who was observing the first yahrzeit of his wife’s death after 69 years of marriage. He appeared lost as he marked the occasion. My parents had been married for 47 years when my mother died, newlyweds compared to Ben and his beloved wife. I was with my father when he also appeared lost, as he circled “widower” on a medical form for the first time. How would he manage alone in Brooklyn while I had my life in New Jersey?
I found Mike when Sarah and Hannah talked about their children and grandchildren. Their faces lit up, brighter than the electric Shabbat candles at our service. I could see my father’s face glow with pride when he talked about his children and grandchildren. A phone call or visit from us was like winning the lottery. We should have called and visited more often.
Unfortunately, I also found him when there was an empty chair at the table. A resident was in the hospital or too tired to join us. My father sometimes was tired too, and sometimes he slept through my visits. I remember his falls and trips to the emergency room, where he waited on a stretcher in the hallway until a room was available.
As I am about to leave the facility, I see the baby grand piano in the lobby. I picture my dad sitting next to it. He doesn’t know how to play piano, but I do! I remember all the “concerts” I played for him at the nursing home. My repertoire of Jewish songs and the Great American Songbook attracted people like a magnet. The spontaneous singalongs and even the dancing in wheelchairs made everyone smile. Parkinson’s had erased his smile. I knew it was there, somewhere in his frail body, but I desperately wanted to see it on his face, where it belonged.
So now, I sit on the cushiony leather bench, which is much more comfortable than the wobbly wooden bench I have at home. I take sheet music out from my canvas bag and start to play. Sometimes, Jack sings along. Once again, I understand that listening to music, like singing, makes the hippocampus and amygdala work overtime. The orbitofrontal cortex is busy, too. But do I give a hoot? Not in the least. I have found joy and music — and my father — on my special Friday afternoons.
I am reminded of Mitch Albom’s book, “Tuesdays with Morrie.” Every Tuesday Albom visits his former professor from Brandeis University, who unsuccessfully battles ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease). Along the way, the author learns life lessons.
On Fridays with the folks at the Shabbat minyan at Brighton Gardens, I, too, learn life lessons. I learn about gratitude, patience, and optimism. I learn about D-Day from a veteran. I imagine what it was like to be the first female architecture student accepted to a university in 1953. I listen to Betty lead the Amidah, a prayer she learned two years ago in an adult bat mitzvah class. She teaches me the true meaning of lifelong learning. l listen to Sam repeat the same story over and over again. I respond with a smile and a nod, as if I were hearing it for the first time.
I learn that second chances are worth waiting for — even if you have to wait 17 years.
Merrill Silver and her husband live in Montclair; she’s a freelance writer and teaches ESL at JVS of MetroWest. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Hadassah magazine, the Forward, the New York Jewish Week, and other publications. Find her at merrillsilver.wordpress.com
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