ולא יכל יוסף להתאפק לכל הנצבים עליו ... ויתן את קלו בבכי וישמעו מצרים וישמע בית פרעה (מה-א,ב)
The Chazon Ish zt”l is quoted as saying: “The generation that became non-religious came from parents who were religious. These religious parents saw what was happening with their children but, for whatever reason, could not stop them. They cried lonely, bitter tears, they prayed, they fasted, but it was too late to stem the tide. But Hashem does not forget a Jewish tear. If those tears of sincerity did not help to save their own children, they have helped for the grandchildren and in some cases, great-grandchildren. That’s the reason why these children come back to Yiddishkeit today - because Hashem doesn’t forget Jewish tears.” Sometimes tears have a delayed reaction for the person they were addressed to. Even though, at the beginning they don’t seem to have an effect, years later these very tears can ultimately reach their mark.
The following story is about a fellow who made a Siyum Mishnayos on Shas for his father’s yahrzeit on the hundredth year of his father coming to America. At the siyum, he retold the trials and tribulations that his father went through. He explained how the “Goldene Medina” (Golden Land - a name ascribed to America) made his family into gentiles. He was the youngest of nine children. The other eight had already severed their ties with Yiddishkeit. His father’s last hope was his youngest son Mordechai, who was being pressed by his father to enroll in Yeshivah College. Hopefully, this would keep him religious.
Finally, on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, Mordechai mustered up the courage and approached his father before davening. “Papa,” he said, a bit timidly at first, “I’m not going to Yeshivah College. I’m not going to lay tefillin anymore. I’m not going to shul on Shabbos, and I am going to be just like my brothers and my sisters, and my friends.”
The fellow looked at those assembled at the siyum hashas and continued, “The courage dropped from my hands as I lifted them up to protect myself from the expected slap. My father’s eyes blazed, and he stepped toward me. Suddenly, he stopped and began to plead. ‘Motke, du bist die letzte’ - Mordechai, you’re the last one. My last hope. You are not like the others. Don’t say what you said. Hashem will forgive you, don’t mean what you said.’ His words came out in a jumble.
I was shocked to hear my father beg. Begging was not his way to deal with the family. I realized that he must be deeply wounded if he didn’t attempt to hit me. I couldn’t bear to see his hurt. I truly loved him.
“Papa, please don’t make me learn to be a rabbi. I just want to be like my friends and everyone else in the family.”
“So don’t be a rabbi. You can still be a good Jew, put on Tefillin, eat kosher, keep Shabbos. But don’t become a goy like the others. It’s enough that I raised eight goyishe children. I don’t need nine. Motke, Motke, it’s enough already.”
Papa burst into tears. I had never seen my father cry like that. He was a stoic man and tears was not his normal way.
I, too, burst into tears and with great emotion, I threw my arms around him. “Papa, Papa, please don’t cry. I don’t want to hurt you. It makes no sense for me to be frum (religious), but I’ll try, I’ll try.”
For this sixteen-year old, the tears were soon forgotten. I barely tried, knowing all along that I would not keep to my word. It did not take long for me to go the way of my brothers and sisters, and all the other Jews charmed by America.
My father eventually passed on, never having the nachas of seeing his children light a Chanukah menorah, or learn a daf of Gemara. He never saw his kids wearing Tzitzis or a Yarmulke. But those tears, the tears he shed when confronted with his ninth and final child, were not in vain. Later in life, though, I remembered the tears and they changed me - utterly, completely. When my son, Shlomo Michael, who is named after my father, wrote to tell me that he was studying at Yeshivah Ohr Somayach in Jerusalem to learn what it means to be a Jew, I immediately flew to Jerusalem to talk him out of his nareshkeit (foolishness). Then I remembered my father’s tears. And I realized that Yiddishkeit is not nareshkeit!
“So on this centennial of my father coming to America and on his Yahrzeit, I want this siyum to tell America: ‘America you beat us Jews bad, but you didn’t win.’ And to tell my father, ‘Papa, you were beaten badly, but you didn’t lose!’”