As a Persian Jew living in the United States, I have a few different new years to choose from. I’ve always joked that if you don’t like this year, wait a few months and you can begin a new year, including the Jewish new year (autumn), the secular new year (winter) and the Persian new year (spring). This past year, I added one more to my personal repertoire of ways to measure a year: the Sal of my beloved father-in-law, Benyamin Ben Simcha, who passed away last summer. In Farsi, sal means year, and in this context, it refers to the Jewish year of mourning.
I never knew that this would be a way to measure a year. And what a terrible year it has been, something else I never could have anticipated last summer when he went to the hospital again. At that point, he had a number of hospitalizations and I did not think it would end the way it did. I certainly was not ready for the way it impacted every single thing in my life, even things that are seemingly unrelated to him, including my faith. My father-in-law was a quiet person — he rarely spoke — and I never realized the importance of his presence in my life until it was gone.
He passed away in the final moments of Tisha B’av last year, itself a day of intense mourning, and instantly a new year started in my life. A year filled with firsts including the first Shabbat without him, the first holidays without him, first birthdays, first beach outing, first pool visit and first new school year. It also started a year of my husband observing Sal for his father, a year filled with three daily prayer schedules, which, if you are not used to, is difficult and surprisingly lonely.
With each of these firsts, I sank a little deeper, got a little sadder because the knowledge that he was gone became more real. I never knew how much I relied on his quiet and steady presence in my life. Saba, the Hebrew term for grandfather we all affectionately called him, was always there for my children and me. He was their on-call nanny and babysitter, caring for them when I went back to work after each birth and coming over whenever we needed him without hesitation, no matter the time of day. For many years he drove my kids to and from school and attended each school event with me so proudly. And when he could no longer drive, he would patiently wait for them at the bus stop and walk them home and spend time playing with them, watching them and caring for them in the best way possible. He taught my kids to swim, ride bikes and play without worrying about messes or restrictions, and stayed with them when they were sick. His presence was my reassurance that my kids were safe, cared for and loved. He made it possible for me to have some semblance of work/life balance. They say it takes a village — my father-in-law was my village.
This Sal year has really tested my already fragile faith. As an attorney, my beliefs are grounded in reason and logic, and I’ve always struggled to have faith. This is particularly challenging since I live in an Orthodox community where women have seemingly perfect faith — they cover their hair, wear gorgeous modest clothes and have a Tehillim book in hand at all times while their gaggle of children in matching outfits play peacefully. Logically, I know that appearances are deceiving, and yet I am envious of those that faith seems to come naturally for. Because with faith, there is a peace that everything happens for a reason, that God has your back, and that you will be OK. I crave that peace and reassurance but, for me, I have to work and struggle for it. And the more permanent and real my father-in-law’s absence became, the more the silent doubts of faith in me grew louder.
But then my father-in-law left me with one more parting gift. This happened one day as I was driving down a road where I would often see him walking. I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling wash over me that he was in heaven and that he was not suffering anymore. I tried to explain this to my husband, and he did not seem to understand why I was so excited. The harder I tried to explain it, the less he understood what I was saying.I realized it was because for him, faith comes naturally. But for me, as a person who has struggles with faith, to know with absolute certainty that my father-in-law is in heaven is the fuel I needed. I cannot even explain how this message came to me in such a profound and unquestionable way, but I know it with every fiber of my being. While other people walk around with a strong unshakeable faith, I will look for any glimmer of it wherever I can and accept it wherever it sneaks up on me.
The Sal year has come to an end. I do not know what the rest of the year will look like, but I am looking forward to Rosh Hashanah, another new year, and hoping that this year will be better than the Sal year. I do not think I will ever stop missing my father-in-law. I continue to see signs of him in everything around me, like when my kids confidently swim or ride their bikes or the devotion and dedication of my husband to our children. And most especially, when I feel with absolute certainty that Saba is in heaven.
