A Heartfelt Goodbye: Shai Golden Reflects on His Adoptive Dad

"Dad," he begins to write. "In April 1977, you entered my life for the first time. And into Ran's life. You and your wife. Our first meeting was at the orphanage where Ran and I were when I was six years old. I was six. Ran was seven. You were 44 and your wife was 43. Four strangers. Two adults and two kids. We were orphans. We were four orphans when we first met. Complete strangers. Two planets meeting in the middle of the sky, each with its own path in space, its own destiny. And then: a meeting.

"When you took us from the institution and brought us into your home and life, we didn't know. We were just kids. We didn't know that all your and mom's desire was to hear the voices of children and to feel the words 'mom' and 'dad'. Not just to exist; you wanted to truly feel like mom and dad.

"You know, in Hebrew—a language so difficult—there's a saying: 'You don't choose your family'. But we had our choice. The four of us. You—our parents. And us—your children. It didn’t happen in the first minute. Family is a complex, intricate weaving of threads; a work of art made of love. Maybe it's the most sublime act a person can do in this world. And you were an artist, Dad. You mastered the art of love, even when you didn't understand how or why, what you did was an act of healthy love. And because of you, and mom, we learned the craft of love.

"It’s a great privilege, Dad, to teach kids who knew only sorrow, abandonment, suspicion, hurt, insult, and loneliness—what love is. With words, actions, hugs, kisses, endless dedication, constant presence, the tremendous sacrifices you made, and the high prices you paid. You and mom taught us what love is. Imagine, two kids whose souls the world nearly destroyed; children who didn’t even know what it meant to be loved, or how to do it or love it anyhow. You managed to teach these kids love. Listen to me, Dad: this is a very, very big thing you and mom did. Truly a very big deal.

I think if you were asked back then in 1977, what you and mom wanted from this journey you took yourselves on, you would have said: "To be a dad." To feel like a dad. To really feel like a father.

"And I think, Dad, that we wanted to feel like someone's kids too. Like mom’s. Like dad’s. To feel like children. Real children. We were born to parents, sure, but we were orphans. Our parents didn’t want us. It’s a long and complicated story, you know. The child you brought into the world died at a young age, and here you were, in a foreign country, with a different language, customs, and special music. In this foreign land, miles away from your childhood, your culture, your story, your language, your tragedies—you found two kids.

"Children of another woman. Foreign children. And you made them yours. You chose us, Dad. You chose me from the first moment. I remember. I felt I saw it in your beautiful blue eyes from the very first glance. And it took us time to choose you back. To believe. To trust. To find faith in the possibility of Hashem's existence. To believe in humanity. To believe in humankind itself. You know, miracles sometimes happen quickly and sometimes slowly. Sometimes clear and apparent, and sometimes they crawl and stretch and drag slowly and whisper. Our miracle was a slow-motion one. A miracle of long, drawn-out breaths. A miracle that required restraint and patience and faith. But every moment in this life with you, it’s important to know, Dad, was a miracle.

"This woman may have given us life and a body, but you saved our lives. You dedicated your life and your all to us and everything parents should dedicate to their children. "Devotion" is a beautiful word. Holiness is hidden within it. A sacred work is hidden there. Without knowing, Dad, you served Hashem. To the glory, my father. Truly. You know, little one, I’m a very, very believing person. And the reason for that is you and mom, so you know, you have to admit it's a bit ironic. I knew of Hashem’s existence, knowing as a child—that it wasn’t the hand of chance that sent you to us; it wasn’t the hand of chance that called us to you. It was the hand of Hashem.

"The irony is, supposedly, that you didn’t believe in Hashem. You abandoned Him during the Holocaust as a child, and every time Ran or I talked about Hashem - a furious look. "You and your Hashem," you said. You and your Hashem. I remember saying once, "Maybe you don't believe in Hashem, but Hashem believes in you." And I must tell you that for me, you and mom were the proof I found, here on earth, that there is Hashem, and that he is good, wise, sensitive, and knows how to turn life around in a truly amazing way.

"So now, when you've already met Hashem, I'm sure he forgives you and loves you and believes in you and is very proud of you. Proud as a father is of his son. I know. I am aware of it. He forgives and loves because he made you in His image, and also because I found Him. He existed in you, and through you, in me. So thank you for showing me Hashem. Thank you for showing me humanity. Thank you for teaching me what kindness is, what goodness is, and how light is revealed in ways, and in people, and in life itself—even when sometimes it feels like the darkness rules them."