As I was preparing for my annual journey to the Holy Land, it was apparent that Stanley was starting his journey to heaven. It was exactly eight years since we’d first spoken. Prior to my introductory Shabbat at Congregation Tifereth Israel, I called him to discuss the order of the service at this shul. He had just turned 87, but he sounded as excited as a teenager. I felt instantly welcomed. When we finally met, I immediately recognized the teenager with the cane. This was the beginning of a wonderful friendship — the Gabbai and the Rabbi.

We journeyed across three continents: From Florida to Ottawa, from the Berlin Wall to the Western Wall, from the streets of my childhood in Israel to the neighborhood of his beloved Eva’s youthful years in Vienna. Both of us loved history and admired beautiful architecture. We brought each other along.

I pushed his wheelchair through many cobblestone streets, while he stirred me through the winding roads of ministry. Handling these trips was not difficult. It was like the Levis from the family of Kehat, who were responsible for carrying the Ark of the Covenant through Israel’s journeys; the Ark carried its carriers.

In Joshua 4:11, the Bible tells us: “And it came to pass, as the priests that bore the ark of the covenant of the Lord came up out of the midst of the Jordan, as soon as the soles of the priests’ feet were drawn up unto the dry ground, that the waters of the Jordan returned unto their place, and went over all its banks, as aforetime.” The Talmud (BT Sota 35a) then concludes that the Ark carried itself and its carriers. Stanley carried me with his love of life and his wisdom. He did not let his physical impairment hold him back from appreciating life to the fullest. “What can’t be cured, must be endured,” he would say. By this virtue, he always helped me overlook the difficulties of the moment, and bounce back.

Early on, Stanley shared with me a vivid dream he’d had, by which it was clear to him that he somehow should take care of me and make sure I would succeed. At first, I wasn’t sure if it meant anything, but soon I found that it was prophetic to him. From that point on, we would speak pretty much every evening. We always ended our conversation with him saying, “I’m glad you called.” And I would respond, “I’m glad you answered. Layla Tov.”

It came to a full circle with my own dream on the night of Feb. 14. Early that evening, I sat with Stanley’s children, and our dogs, around his bed. We shared beautiful moments. That night, something woke me at exactly 4:14 a.m., and the phone illuminated Feb. 14.  I looked at the phone and twice saw 14. The number 14, according to the Hebrew numerical value, spells the word “hand.” The two hands spell the word yedid — “friend.” On Erev Shabbat, we sing “Yedid Nefesh.” When the message came in the morning that Stanley had passed away, the message was clear. He was a yedid nefesh — a soulmate.

The thought of not saying a proper goodbye to this most proper man was hard to bear. I was torn between the need to begin my planned journey to Israel and the need to stay. With all our journeys together, my heart would not let me leave without accompanying Stanley on his last. I delayed my flight.

I’m writing this message having recently arrived in Israel, a few days after saying a proper goodbye. It was a most respectful and well-attended funeral — testimony to his full life. The group accompanying me on the tour will arrive tomorrow, and Stanley will journey with us. Stanley, a wonderful man who dwelt among us, will continue to travel with me always. May your soul rest in Eden and your memory be for a blessing.

—Rabbi Gadi Capela