Neal Scott Lehrman

Thank you all for being here today. I could stand here and talk for eternity about how loving, kind, generous, smart, wise, and funny my father was. He was an incredible healer, a pioneer in his field of medicine, who changed and saved countless lives. That, in itself, is extraordinary. But right now, I want to talk about something I feel he would appreciate more—something that strikes deeper than his character traits and professional accomplishments. I want to talk about time and tradition. The past few days, I have been reflecting intensely on how much time I spent with my father and how much time people, in general, spend with their parents. There are different stages to this relationship, and each one carries its own meaning and weight. In the first few years of life, we don’t consciously understand what’s happening. Memories are barely forming, and the world is an abstract blur. But even then, our parents are there, shaping our lives in ways we can’t yet comprehend. As we cruise through childhood, often oblivious, we carry a smile on our faces. Our parents are our constant safety net, there to comfort us and guide us through life’s bumps and bruises. At that age, we don’t fully appreciate what they do for us—the love they give or the amazing life they’re building for us. Then, as we enter our teenage years, we start to distance ourselves. We act as if we’re grown up and retreat into our own worlds. It’s a phase many go through, but hopefully, as we mature, we wake up and realize that our parents are the most amazing, loving, and supportive people on the planet. If we’re fortunate, we return to them with newfound gratitude and appreciation. Every step of the way, my dad was there for me. He picked me up, supported me, and gave so much of himself. He loved unconditionally, and no matter what I needed, he was always there. Although my time with my dad has been cut short, I am deeply grateful for the time I had. He gave me everything and taught me more than I ever could have imagined. One thing my dad loved to do—and spent countless hours teaching me—was leyning, reading from the Torah. He did so every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur for years. It was something deeply special that bonded us. He always told me that leyning is not just part of becoming a Jewish adult; it’s part of what it means to be a Jew, an active transmitter of tradition, of our mesorah. Before I left for my Israel program last September, he sat me down and taught me all the different Torah tropes. As I practiced switching back and forth between them, I remember the smile on his face. He was so happy, so proud to see me leyn like he did. He loved the music, the notes, the artistry of it all. He told me, “You must leyn at every opportunity you can.” The reason I’m even on an Israel program this year is because of him. He said, “I don’t care what you do there, but you are getting on a flight and spending the year. You have to be there. Be with our family, our people, to learn, explore, volunteer, and be there for this historic year in Israeli and Jewish society. You will experience things you never would have otherwise.” And he couldn’t have been more right. Part of my year in Israel included a one-week Holocaust education trip to Poland, which I went on just a few months ago. At the end of the trip, parents were asked to send a letter to their kids. That letter now takes on a much deeper meaning for me. It encapsulates so much of what my dad always wanted for me and reveals so much about the man he was and the one he helped guide me to become. In his letter, he emphasized our connection to history. He wrote, “Only through true connection can we effect change, and Zeke, your communication skills are perfectly suited for this task.” He then quoted Churchill, as he often did, with great emphasis and intonation: “The farther back you can look, the farther forward you are likely to see.” He ended the letter with a story from the Midrash about an old man planting a fig tree. When asked if he really expected to live long enough to enjoy the fruits of his labor, the man replied, “I was born into a world flourishing with ready pleasures; my ancestors planted for me, and I now plant for my children.” My dad’s whole goal in life was to plant seeds for me and my sister—to nurture us with love, wisdom, and tradition so that we could flourish and carry forward the values that everything he cherished most. This was his ultimate act of giving, his way of ensuring that what he valued would live on through us. My dad just loved giving. That supreme quality defined him, and it is what he wished to leave with me and all of you. He gave me everything—life, love, and da’at (knowledge). There is nothing greater than to give, and he strived every day to express that in speech and deed. Abbs, I am so blessed to have been able to call you my dad. I will carry you with me everywhere I go. From your jokes and puns to your deepest life lessons, I will be that active transmitter, that giver, keeping your memory alive and all that you lived for. Thank you for everything. I love you. Zeke Lehrman

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