Posted on | May 10, 2006 | By Guest Contributor | 3 Comments
When I was a little boy, my father was my hero. When he was around, I knew nothing bad could befall me.
Rarer, perhaps, my father remained my hero even after I had reached adulthood and become a ba’al teshuva. There was no one with whom I more enjoyed talking. He drove me to the airport every time that I traveled abroad. The forty minute drive, with no outside distractions, always seemed too short.
I always told my parents that they have no one to blame but themselves for the fact that four out of their five sons became ba’alei teshuva. And they acknowledged their guilt with good cheer. My mother always told us that the most important about us was that we were Jewish. And it was natural that her sons would, at some point, come to Israel to find out what being Jewish means.