Rabbi Mark Robbins, who has started a website, jewishlifestory.com, has written, "We remember today loved ones who have passed.  Though they are gone, their stories, their lessons and their legacies remain -- as an inspiration to us, our children, and our grandchildren.  As we consider on this Yom Kippur how we will be remembered, consider the following.  The more we tell, the more we preserve -- the more our lives will inspire and guide those who will remember us.

We need go no further than Moshe Rabeynu to understand the importance and precedent in Jewish tradition of telling our stories.  As he surveys from afar the land he will not enter, Moses tells his story as he retells tells our national story, and guides us in how to live our lives once we settle in the land.  At that point, Moses implores us, we need to follow suit with our story telling -- beginning with the wanderings of Abraham -- as we prepare our children and grandchildren for their journeys to follow.

Storytelling can be very powerful. One of my favorite storytellers is Mitch Albom and I want to make use of his most recent book, have a little faith, today. I’ve liked every book he’s written. Each is a gem, a jewel. His subject matter is poignant. In this most recent book he tells the story of three men: of Al Lewis his rabbi from Cherry Hill, NJ; of Henry Covington, a Detroit, inner-city pastor; and of his own faith journey. Albom tells us it all began with a question, “Will you do my eulogy?” he was asked by his childhood rabbi. It was an unexpected question, they were not particularly close, and he was not observant or knowledgeable. But he agreed as long as he could get to know his rabbi as a person and so began an eight year relationship that was transformative for Mitch. He wrote, “And, as is often the case with faith, I thought I was being asked a favor, when in fact I was being given one.” (p. 2)

While he was returning to NJ to interview his rabbi and get to know him, he was also spending time in his hometown of Detroit with Pastor Henry Covington of the I Am My Brother’s Keeper Ministry. He traversed two very different worlds – one Jewish, one Christian; one white, one black; one affluent, one poor; one with membership and dues, one with homeless people sleeping the church to keep off the streets. Rabbi Lewis, the Reb, was a Man of God, who followed the traditional path through seminary to ministry. Pastor Henry, the Rev, was a Man of God, who had been a drug addict, a thief, a dealer and an ex-con on his way to his ministry. These two very different men had one thing in common – faith in God that guided and directed their lives.

At one point Mitch is talk with the Reb and he asks him why he became a rabbi.

He counts on his fingers.

“Number one, I always liked people.

Number two, I love gentleness.

Number three, I have patience.

Number four, I love teaching.

Number five, I am determined in my faith.

Number six, it connects me to my past.

Number seven-and lastly-it allows me to fulfill the message of our tradition: to live good, to do good, and to be blessed.”

I didn’t hear God in there.

He smiles.

“God was there before number one.” (p. 234)

Mitch writes about the Rev’s ‘call’, “Henry Covington did not sleep that night. But he didn’t die either. The drug dealers from whom he’d stolen somehow never found him: the cars that came down his street did not fire a bullet. He hid behind those trash cans, gripping his shotgun and reciting his question over and over. “Will you save me Jesus?” (p. 94)

That night his life changed, he had found Jesus; he had found his faith in God. And so the Rev became a servant of God trying to help those most in need from a church with a hole in the roof and heat turned off in winter with no funds for the basic necessities of congregational life; but he made do. He knew that he had done many terrible things in his life, but now he was dedicated to doing as much good as he could. He didn’t think that his good deeds would make up for all the wrong he had done, but he figured it was the least he could do.

Albom writes, “I remember when the Reb made his most public of apologies. It was his last High Holiday sermon as the senior rabbi of the temple. He could have used the occasion to reflect on his accomplishments. Instead he asked forgiveness from his flock… “For all these, God of forgiveness,” he concluded, “forgive me, pardon me…” Officially, that was his final “big” sermon. “Grant me atonement” were his last words.”

And now the Reb was urging me not to wait. “Mitch, it does no good to be angry or carry grudges.” He made a fist. “It churns you up inside. It does you more harm than the object of your anger.” So let it go? I asked. “Or don’t let it get started in the first place,” he said… “You know, in our tradition, we ask forgiveness from everyone – even casual acquaintances. But with those we are closest with – wives, children, parents – we too often let things linger. Don’t wait, Mitch. It’s such a waste.” He told me a story. A man buried his wife. At the graveside he stood by the Reb, tears falling down his face. “I loved her,” he whispered. The Reb nodded. “I mean … I really loved her.” The man broke down. “And … I almost told her once.” The Reb looked at me sadly. “Nothing haunts like the things we don’t say.”

Later that day, I asked the Reb to forgive me for anything I might have ever said or done that hurt him. He smiled and said that while he couldn’t think of anything, he would “consider all such matters addressed.” Well, I joked, I’m glad we got that over with. “You're in the clear.” Timing is everything. “That’s right. Which is why our sages tell us to repent exactly one day before we die.” But know do you know it’s the day before you die? I asked. He raised his eyebrows. “Exactly.” (pp. 210-13)

One of the most interesting transformations that takes place is that Mitch Albom an apathetic, unconnected, relatively uneducated Jew through his interaction with these two men rediscovers his own faith. He writes, “But I realized something as I drove home that night: that I am neither better nor smarter, only luckier. And I should be ashamed of thinking I knew everything, because you can know the whole world and still feel lost in it. So many people are in pain – no matter how smart or accomplished – they cry, they yearn, they hurt. But instead of looking down on things, they look up, which is where I should have been looking, too. Because when the world quiets to the sound of your own breathing, we all want the same things: comfort, love, and a peaceful heart. (p. 231).

These things are not easy to come by, we have to work at them and we have to hope to be lucky as well. But it is also a matter of attitude. We all suffer loss, we all feel pain that is part of life. But through it all we have to have hope and helps to have faith, because it is a very big scary world that we live in and I’d hate to think that I’m going through it all alone. Let me end with a story of pain and of hope and of faith.

Dvir Aminolav was the first Israeli soldier killed in the 2008 Gaza War. His mother Dalya missed Dvir, terribly. One night before she went to bed, she said in a loud voice: "G-d, give me a sign, give me a hug from Dvir so that I will know that his death had some meaning."

That week her daughter asked her to accompany her to a musical performance at The International Crafts Festival in Jerusalem. Dalya, feeling quite depressed, did not want to go to the concert, but she didn't want to disappoint her daughter either, and agreed to go halfheartedly. The concert was a bit delayed. A two-year-old boy began wandering through the stands. He walked up to Dalya's seat and touched her on the shoulder. A preschool teacher, Dalya turned around, saw the boy and smiled warmly.

"What's your name?" Dalya asked.

"Eshel," the boy replied.

"That's a nice name. Do you want to be my friend, Eshel?" The boy nodded in reply and sat down next to Dalya.

Eshel's parents were sitting two rows above. Concerned their little boy was bothering Dalya, they asked him to come back up. But Dalya insisted that everything was fine.

"I have a brother named Dvir," two-year-old Eshel chimed in, as only little children can. Dalya was shocked to hear the unusual name of her beloved son, and walked up the two rows to where Eshel's parents were sitting. She saw a baby in his carriage, and apologizing, she asked, "If you don't mind me asking, how old is your baby and when was he born?"

The baby's mother replied, "He was born right after the war in Gaza."

Dalya swallowed hard. "Please tell me, why did you choose to name him Dvir?"

Baby Dvir's mother began to explain. "When I was at the end of my pregnancy, the doctors suspected the fetus may have a very serious birth defect. Since it was the end of the pregnancy, there was little the doctors could do and I just had to wait and see how things would turn out.

When I went home that night, the news reported that the first casualty in the war was a soldier named Dvir. I was so saddened by this news that I decided to make a deal with G-d. 'If you give me a healthy son,' I said in my prayer, 'I promise to name him Dvir, in memory of the soldier that was killed.'"

Dalya, the mother of Dvir, stood with her mouth open. She tried to speak but she couldn't. After a long silence, she said quietly, "I am Dvir's mother."

The young parents didn't believe her. She repeated, "Yes, it's true. I am Dvir's mother. My name is Dalya Aminalov, from Pisgat Zeev."

With a sudden inspiration, Baby Dvir's mother handed Dalya the baby and said, "Dvir wants to give you a hug."

Dalya held the little baby boy in her arms and looked into his angelic face. The emotion she felt at that moment was overwhelming. She had asked for a hug from Dvir-and she could truly feel his warm & loving embrace from the World of Truth.

At this time of Yizkor, may you feel the warm and loving embrace of your loved one as we remember them in the Yizkor service found on page 290 in our new Mahzor.