April 8, 1932 – December 10, 2017
When my husband and I had children, we learned something about my father-in-law that we hadn’t known: Arnold was the Baby Whisperer. Our infants would nestle in his arms, filled with pure trust, a core sense of safety. It happened again and again, with all three of our kids. For every skinned knee, every tummy ache, any kind of distress — the solution was Arnold. Sometimes he’d sing to them and as they grew older, they’d mouth the words or sing along. Their bond grew in sleep, in wakefulness, in play, in work, in silence, in song.
Last week, in Arnold’s final days, his rabbi visited. Rabbi Jen sat at Arnold’s bedside and sang in Hebrew, a song simple and soothing. Arnold lay still with his eyes closed, sometimes mouthing the words, sometimes singing from a place deep within, rooted in his own childhood. He fell asleep soon after, smiling quietly. I recognized his expression. I had seen that look of peace on all three of my children, held in his arms.
Now it’s Arnold’s turn to feel that peace. Contemplating eternal peace, eternal anything really, is a curious challenge. We humans are trying to define a concept that’s far beyond our realm. But whatever might happen in eternity, we can be sure of a few things. Arnold will bring strength and decency to his new world. He’ll bring his signature sense of humor that always felt like a surprise gift. He’ll bring his acute intelligence which will amaze even the angels. And if somebody is having an off-day in heaven, Arnold will reach out his hand, gather them in his arms, and sing.