“One single thought raised to heaven is the most perfect prayer!”

Minna von Barnhelm, act 2 – G.E. Lessing (1767)

I shared almost nothing in common with my father.

He was born at the turn of the 20th-century in Eastern Europe, I a half-century later in America. His mother-tongue was Yiddish, mine English. When he spoke Yiddish, I was embarrassed. (I later taught Yiddish to help pay for medical school, amusing him.)

He had no use for sports, TV, movies or books. I was enthralled by them all. He however, could recite by memory any verse from Tanach, any prayer from the Siddur. I could not.

He was a simple man, preferring to sit at the distant end of the last row in Shul, avoiding conversation, content to immerse himself in prayer. I was not.

American fathers traditionally bond with their sons playing ball, fishing, camping, attending sporting-events. He did not.

The only “hobby” we shared was attending lectures given by The Rav, Rabbi Joseph Soloveichik, both savoring the intellectual excitement of studying with this frail, brilliant icon.

I recall sitting with my father at one particular Shiur  as if it was yesterday. The Rav seemingly looked........

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