It was a very rainy day, and I feared no one would show for the event I had planned for them. The Deal Synagogue graciously offered me the hall, the food was donated, Bikur Holim of Deal, NJ , brought the crew to help me.
Despite the heavy rain, at 11 am I was in shock. People arrived with walkers, canes, and many wheelchairs. They all had smiles on their faces. Over 100 people shlepped in the pouring rain to get their dose of medicine, the sound of the nobeh. My eyes welled up with tears, as I hugged everyone, and the music started doing its magic. The seniors were looking forward to ‘Nobeh Day’ and came with bells on.
A woman struggling with Alzheimer’s, for whom I had sang quite a few parties back in the day, was staring at me. Unable to communicate with me, she somehow recognized a clip of a song, probably from a party shared with me 30 years ago. I sang it live for her again, tears suddenly came from her eyes, and I knew I touched her soul. Somewhere in the darkness, I found her and connected with her once more. We all gathered around her and made her feel loved and secure.
Another person who had had multiple strokes sat in her wheelchair, unable to speak or move. After a while, I decided to zero in on her and slowly sang a song I remembered she liked. Thank G-d, by the end, she had responded. The medicine in music has no end to its healing and soothing.
We had a few birthday celebrations. Matriarchs Betty Assoulin and Jamileh Kassin were there and we celebrated their lives with song. The crowd had woken up; the clapping, dancing, tapping, and nodding with enthusiasm knew no bounds. These people were the zekanim (elders) of our community, well into their 80’s and 90’s, and a few were around 100 years of age!
They treasured every word, every song, every moment, and are deserving of our awe and respect. It was the best gift I could ever imagine for the 40th anniversary party; connecting with seniors with dignity, love, and respect. Calling out each persons name in my songs made everyone feel special, and I moved around the room to ensure that even those who couldn’t walk got to be a part of the warmth as well. Seeing the gratitude on each and every face was well worth the day’s efforts.
This kind of hesed is an endless door to beracha, which I witnessed first hand. I was humbled to perpetuate that level of happiness to people who were catatonic, maimed, suffering from multiple dementia, blind, deaf, in walkers, canes, and wheelchairs. Somehow the choice of music and calling out their names opened a window to the past, and allowed them to revisit youthful happiness once more. What I get back is scarcely conceivable to the human mind. I’d like to give a big applause to my movers, shakers and dancers: Lee Rishty, Pearl Mamiye, Celi Mahana, Emma Shneider, Marilyn Shamie, Lucette Saka, Lee Zebede, Carol Maleh , Jean Brown, Raplh Kboudi, Maxie Shalom, Sarah Sutton, Freida Kboudi, Nettie Rishty and Sam Fallas.
All my thanks to Mimi Levi and her crew, Caroll Maleh who is my driving force to do hesed, Ralph Artz, Jeannie Kairey, Stacey Betesh my daughter, Alissa Cohen, Julie Jemal, Vivian Menahem, Elliot Haddad, Rozzie Matthews, Giorgana Shalom, Yvonne Tobias, Jeanie Shiloach, and Olana Serure, for making sure this event went off successfully.
Hesed is the gift that gives you back over and over.
