Moshe Rabbeinu’s parting devarim, words, were not figures of speech. They were deliberate, carefully selected and nuanced words of rebuke. They were veiled, but not subtle; clear, but couched in love. It was not a simple goodbye, a parting of the ways; rather, it was what was intended to be a leader’s direction for life—not just the present, but for generations. In a departure from the usual Peninim style, I would like to present the following scenario with the hope that it leaves an impact on our own lives.
Reb Ploni was the embodiment of the devoted husband and father. With patience and love, he raised a family that others admired: children who grew into responsible, caring adults, each establishing a fine home and earning a respected place within his or her community. It was, by all accounts, the “dream family.”
Time does not stand still for anyone. Reb Ploni aged, and slowly his once healthy, strong body began showing signs of wear and tear. At first, it was nothing, but then the unthinkable happened. After weeks of tests and consultations, the grim verdict came: a grave illness with a frightening prognosis. One small glimmer of hope however, remained: a dangerous, largely unsuccessful surgery that might save his life, but at the possible risk of leaving him cognitively impaired. He stood at a crossroads no one envies: to risk life as he knew it;or to accept the inevitable with clarity and dignity.
As the surgery date approached, Mrs. Ploni gathered the children together and shared the painful news. One by one, they came, traveling from near and far – not only to support, but to express what might be their final goodbyes. The atmosphere was heavy with emotion, each child bracing for a last exchange filled with love and parting blessings. But something unexpected occurred. The script, as they foresaw it, changed drastically.
As each child approached his bedside, tearfully expressing love and gratitude, Reb Ploni responded, not with simple words of affection, but with gentle, measured critique. To one, he spoke about patience. To another, about sensitivity. To a third, about controlling anger. Each child, in turn, left shaken – confused, even hurt. Was this the moment for rebuke?
Finally, the youngest son entered. Known for his wisdom, but also for his lack of diplomacy, he could not contain himself. He did not travel across the country to hear his father vent at him about his inability to be sensitive and listen to what others had to say.
“Tatty,” he began, “this is all wrong. Is this how one says goodbye? Is this how you wish to be remembered? Maybe we were not perfect, but we stood together as a loving, devoted family. We came for words of chizuk, for warmth; yet, instead of letting us leave here with a good feeling; you have reminded each of us of our shortcomings. Do you not care about our relationship?”
With great resolve, Reb Ploni gathered his strength and replied with quiet conviction. He knew quite well what he was doing, and he was now prepared to explain himself. “My dear son, your success is more important to me than our relationship. One day, you will understand that I am right. I cannot leave this world without pointing out in which areas you can grow. If even one word helps you become better, it will have been worth everything. I have lived my entire life for you. Let my final act be one of caring for you – not for myself.”
The Torah teaches us that love is not merely the desire to make another feel good; it is the commitment to help another become good. A relationship that avoids difficult and even brutal truths, may work in the short term, but it stunts true growth. People grow from their errors. If no one calls them to their attention, these errors will impede their growth. The greatest gift one can give is not comfort, but clarity — not flattery, but direction.
Reb Ploni was a good, loving and caring father. As he stood at the threshold between mortal and eternal life, he stripped away all pretense. He told it like it was, because, “If not now, when?” The moment did not call for pleasantries. He was about to help his children shape their futures. His words would be the ultimate expression of love.
Eileh ha’devarim – these are the words which endure, because they are the truth. These words challenge, demand, raise the bar and demonstrate that someone believes in their ability to rise above themselves. The words which may sting now will one day prove to be very sweet.
It is not about how we want to be remembered, but rather, what we want to leave behind. Our children are our legacy. Our legacy is measured by the lives we shape, the values we implant and the direction we provide. Our greatest bequest is not what we place in our children’s hands, but that which we imbed in their hearts. Their characters are our greatest monuments.
At first glance, this approach seems difficult to accept. Psychologists would have a field day analyzing Reb Ploni and his family. Contemporary thinking emphasizes affirmation, emotional closure and preserving positive feelings – especially at such a fragile moment. We live in a feel-good society. Everyone is supposed to be happy, because the predominant belief is that happiness will ameliorate all of society’s ills. Yet, our mesorah does not agree. It presents a different, deeper perspective.
First, it was Yaakov Avinu who gathered his sons at the end of his life to bless them. They were not uniform blessings; rather, he addressed each one individually, recalling past indiscretions, missteps which he refused to shove under the rug. He knew that one cannot achieve greatness until he first “cleans himself up.” Yaakov’s b’rachos were not merely reflections – they were instructions for life.
In his farewell address to the nation, Moshe Rabbeinu followed Yaakov’s script. He did not commence with comforting words, but with divrei tochachah, rebuke. He reviewed the nation’s failures, their lapses in judgment, and their serious indiscretions. He did not pull punches in alluding to their constant dissatisfaction and weakness. He did, however, express his rebuke by veiling their sins with allusion and couching his words with love. He did not want to shame them, but to elevate and guide them.
