Barely thirteen years old, standing on the newly built balcony outside Lubavitch World Headquarters under the ominously dark skies emitting an avalanche of rain upon those of us below, I watched as tens of thousands of men, women and children gathered on the corner of Eastern Parkway and Kingston Avenue.
A Funeral, Continuation, Teachings Live On
Barely thirteen years old, standing on the newly built balcony outside Lubavitch World Headquarters under the ominously dark skies emitting an avalanche of rain upon those of us below, I watched as tens of thousands of men, women and children gathered on the corner of Eastern Parkway and Kingston Avenue.
That morning, waking at five-thirty to join in the daily morning prayers, I was surprised to see that the streets of the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn where I lived, usually abandoned at this early hour, were full. Sadness and dread were thick in the air. My heart guided me to 770 Eastern Parkway, the focus of attention of all the followers of the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, of righteous memory.
The Rebbe had passed away.
I entered the foyer leading to the Rebbe’s office, the foyer where many times I had received a blessing along with a crisp dollar from the Rebbe’s hand to pass on to charity. Sitting on the staircase leading to the hallway, I reflected on my privileged personal experiences, from the Rebbe responding to me directly with “l’chaim” (“to life”) when I raised my glass to him at age six to participating in children’s parades of Jewish pride over which he presided.
But who was the Rebbe? I knew the little that I had experienced firsthand. But why were so many thrown into inconsolable mourning over the passing of a ninety-two year old sage? I needed to find out…
