This week the world prematurely lost a very special soul—my cousin, Rabbi Yitzchak Marton, 48, who dedicated his life to helping widows and orphans in Israel. So many prayers were recited, countless tears shed, over the past 18 months as he suffered from a terrible disease. Surely these prayers and tears are escorting him to the Heavenly throne.
Itzik, as he was fondly called, had a rare knack for making others feel comfortable. I consulted with him many times on various issues and he was always warm, genuine, caring, and insightful. He was able to relate to people in all kinds of situations and made me feel like my problems were his own.
On a Friday morning a few weeks ago, I received a message that my dear cousin had been rushed to Lenox Hill hospital in Manhattan. I went to visit and realized that their children needed a place to stay for Shabbos. Of course, we offered our home, which is so close to the hospital.
They ended up staying with us for two weeks. I feel honored to have been able to host them during this difficult time in their lives.
Thirty years ago, I was a 14-year-old boy in high school in Israel. My family was in South Africa, and I was alone in a foreign country—not the most comfortable position. I had to find places to go for the weekends, and most weeks I found myself going to my cousins in Lod who lived in a three-bedroom apartment with their 12 children. It took me years to appreciate their sacrifice, but whenever I went they gave me my own room! I knew my cousins were sleeping on a bench in the living room, but at the time they just smiled and made me feel so welcome, I didn’t realize the depths of their hachnasat orchim. And every Sunday, as I headed back to school, my aunt would load me up with bags of food to fill me up for the week.
With their smiles and laughter, those cousins taught me the art of hachnasat orchim. One of those cousins, Rochke, married Itzik, and I was thankful to be able to return a smidgen of the hospitality they showed me 30 years ago.
There are no words to describe the pain of this young family who have endured suffering no one should have to witness or experience. Towards the end, Itzik was only able to communicate through writing. Lying in bed, in extreme pain, he wrote one word.
Enough.
One powerful word.
Enough.
One word that encapsulates our Judaism
Enough.
Enough golus. Enough exile. Enough pain. Ad matai? Until when? Hashem, we cannot endure this exile any longer! There is too much pain, too much suffering, too many widows, too many orphans … enough!
Itzik, I’m sure you are using your charm and natural talent to befriend the angels of heaven. And I know you are insisting “Enough!” with all your heart and soul. Time to bring Moshiach, end all pain and suffering, and wipe away the tears of every widow and orphan.
May Hashem comfort the entire family.