When Peter Flaherty was mayor of Pittsburgh, he once walked down the street with his wife Nancy and passed a group of sewer workers. One of them suddenly popped his head out of the manhole and called, “Hi, Nancy—remember me? We used to date in high school.”
They exchanged pleasantries and moved on. Then Flaherty turned to his wife and said, “Nancy, do you realize that had you married him, you’d be the wife of a sewer worker?”
Nancy didn’t miss a beat: “No, Peter. Had I married him, you might have been the sewer worker—and he would have been the Mayor of Pittsburgh!”
There’s so much truth to her words. How often do we fail to recognize the people who helped us become who we are? How often do we forget the quiet hands that lifted us, guided us, steadied us—sometimes through nothing more than a chance encounter? Yizkor calls upon us to remember those who helped us become who we are. Today, on Yom Kippur, I want to speak about those encounters.
If I asked you: How did you get to this moment in your life? How many stops? How many choices? How many coincidences? How many people who appeared at just the right time? Each of us has lived our own version of Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of a 3rd Kind.
A rabbi from Miami traveled with his family to Greenland this summer to witness the total eclipse of the sun on August 12th. It seems that was one of the best vantage points in the world to view it: 1 minute and 56 seconds during which the moon completely covered the sun. He described how: “As the moon covered the sun, the birds went silent. Night fell. The stars came out. I whispered the Shema to lock the experience into my soul forever.”
I’ll be honest: I barely noticed the eclipse. I didn’t buy the glasses. I think I was driving. It came and went. Traveling thousands of miles for a 1 minute and 56 second experience is not something I would do. However, his description reminded me: Awe is everywhere. Wonder is everywhere. Inspiration is everywhere. Some people can stare at the Grand Canyon for hours; others glance for 10 minutes and say, “Okay, time to go home.” Which one are you? Whichever one you choose to be.
I want to speak today about Close Encounters of a Holy Kind. You see, throughout our lives, we encounter people—and pass through moments—that shape us. The question is: Do we cherish them? Do we preserve them? Or do we let them drift away from our minds as if they never happened?
Let me tell you about Captain Charles Plum. Plum was a Navy fighter pilot in Vietnam. He flew 74 successful missions. On his 75th mission—5 days before his tour was supposed to end—his plane was shot down over Hanoi.
He parachuted into enemy territory, was captured, and spent more than 5 brutal years as a POW. After the war, he became a national hero and lectured throughout the country.
One night, after a lecture, a man approached him in a restaurant and said: “You’re Captain Charles Plum, right? You flew from the Kitty Hawk and were shot down, right? You parachuted into Hanoi, right?”
Plum asked, “How do you know all this?”
The man replied: “It was I that packed your parachute.”
Captain Plum was speechless. He had never noticed the sailor who spent hours folding the parachute that saved his life. He later wondered: Did I ever say hello to him or good morning? Probably not. After all, he was ‘just a sailor,’ and I was a Top Gun fighter pilot. I never thought about those guys down in the lower decks—until my life depended on that parachute.”
It was an eye-opening experience for Charles Plum—as it should be for every one who hears his story. So let me ask you plainly: Who packed your parachute? Who gave you strength when you needed it most? A parent who stayed up through your childhood illnesses. A doctor who nursed you back to health. Teachers who saw something in you that you did not yet see in yourself. A friend who believed in you when you doubted yourself. Who guided you, taught you, healed you, and simply showed up? We must not forget them. If they’re still alive, call them. Email them. Tell them: “You made a difference in my life.” It is never too late.
There’s a beautiful example of this in the Torah. When Jacob returned home after 20 years with Uncle Laban, a woman named Devorah died. Jacob buried her and named the place Alon Bachut (Oak of Weeping). Immediately afterward, Gd appeared to Jacob again after a long period of silence.
Who was Devorah? The Torah tells us she was Meyneket Rivkah—Jacob’s mother Rebecca’s wet nurse and nanny. She helped raised Rebecca in a home filled with deceit and idolatry. But she saw her goodness, her holiness, her potential and nurtured it. Jacob never forgot her. He brought her with him in her old age. He honored her, wept for her and gave her a righteous send off. In a very real sense, Devorah packed Rebecca’s parachute—and ultimately, Jacob’s too. And when Gd saw Jacob expressing such gratitude, Gd blessed him and appeared to him again.
My friends, who packed your parachute? Even beyond the obvious individuals who come to mind, was there ever someone who appeared in your life just at the right place and the right time? As much as it may seem like happenstance, I would suggest that from a broader view, these were Close Encounters of a Holy Kind—pre-planned, destined, acts that Gd brought into your life at the right time.
Let me illustrate with a story of a man who appeared out of nowhere. Rabbi Moshe Bryski tells how his father survived the Nazis. At 16, alone in Warsaw when his Yeshiva was disbanded by the Nazis, he couldn’t get a ticket on the last train home—that ultimately saved his life. Suddenly, a Jew appeared out of nowhere, grabbed his arm, and said urgently: “Run to Bialystok. Whatever you do—get yourself to Bialystok.”
For some reason he listened. That decision saved his life. 8 stops later, he reached Shanghai. After the war, he made it to New York. He would say, “It all began with Bialystok. That man appeared out of nowhere shouting to me, ‘Run to Bialystok.’ I never saw him before. I never saw him again, but he saved my life!”
This, my friends, is how life often works. Someone appears, plays a small role, and disappears—yet changes the direction of your life.
My friends, such encounters happen everywhere. Someone you meet on a plane. Someone you meet at the Kotel or anywhere in Israel. Someone you meet in shul. A guest at your Shabbos table notices your son and says, “I may have a match for him.” Suddenly a marriage is made. Mazel tov. Grandchildren soon follow—all from what looked like a simple coincidence: someone looking for a Shabbos meal on a Friday night. So again: Who packed your parachute? And do you stop long enough to notice?
Here’s another example of a Close Encounter of a Holy Kind. Elmer Bendiner, in his book, The Fall of Fortresses, tells the story of how he was a navigator on a B-17 bomber in World War II and describes a miraculous moment during a bombing run over Kassel, Germany. Their plane was hit by Nazi anti-aircraft fire—including direct strikes to the fuel tank. Normally, that would mean an explosion that would tear the plane apart. But it did not.
The next morning, technicians examined the plane to find out what happened. They found 11 unexploded shells inside the gas tank. When technicians opened them, they discovered something astonishing—none of the shells contained explosives. All were empty—except one. Inside was a handwritten note in Czech: “This is all we can do for you now. Using Jewish slave labor is never a good idea.”
Jewish prisoners had sabotaged the shells. They saved the crew’s lives without ever meeting them or knowing the impact they were having. It’s a reminder that while others pack our parachutes, we must also pack parachutes for others when we can.
One more story about how kindness comes full circle. In Israel, a widowed mother named Esther struggled to support her 3 children. One day, their Israeli rooftop solar water heater burst, flooding the apartment. She was completely overwhelmed and crying hysterically. Her 9-year-old son Levi called Uri, the handyman they had used before.
Uri arrived, shut off the water, cleaned the mess with Levi, and comforted Esther. When she asked the cost of a new water heater, Uri saw Esther’s red eyes and broken state and said, “Today is your lucky day.”
“Lucky? Look at our apartment—what do you mean lucky?”
Uri explained, “The municipality announced yesterday that they’re giving out vouchers to replace old solar water heaters. Your model is on the list, and so you get a brand-new one at no cost. I’ll be back in an hour with a water heater.
25 years later, Uri—now elderly, asthmatic, and financially strained—was told by his doctor that he must get an air conditioner, so he ordered the cheapest AC he could find. But the store delivered the most expensive model.
When he protested, the owner came over and said it was fully paid for.
“Paid for? By whom?”
“You didn’t hear? The municipality announced yesterday that anyone with an asthmatic condition gets a free air conditioner.”
Uri stared at him suspiciously. Then he added, “You don’t recognize me, do you? I’m Levi. Everyone knows the municipality doesn’t pay for air conditioners or solar water heaters. 25 years ago you paid for ours. I never forgot your kindness. So, you’re getting only the best air conditioner—and not paying a single shekel!”
Kindness, like a packed parachute, always finds its way back. Sometimes it takes years. Sometimes generations. But it continues. King Solomon writes in Kohelet: “Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you will find it.” Goodness doesn’t occur in a vacuum. Every act of kindness finds its way back to you—one way or another.
And that brings us to Yizkor. Close your eyes for a minute… Now think about those who packed your parachutes: a mother, father, grandparent, spouse, sibling, teacher, friend. The person who said, “I believe in you.” The friend who was there for you when your world collapsed. The spouse who stayed beside your bed during illness. The grandparent who taught you a Jewish song. The teachers who opened doors you didn’t know existed.
They may not have been rich or famous, but they shaped your life. So, feel a sense of profound gratitude for all the blessings you received from them. Open your eyes.
And now we come to the hardest part. Some we never thanked. We assumed they knew. But they didn’t always know—because we never said it. Tradition tells us that the souls of our departed are with us as we recite Yizkor. So, thank them when you say Yizkor: Thank you, Mom, for every morning you got up before us and made sure we had what we needed. Thank you, Dad, for doing homework with me and teaching me how to shoot a basketball. Those words, spoken today, are never too late.
Some words are harder: Forgiveness or asking to be forgiven. Old wounds. Old arguments. Things said—or left unsaid—that linger. Let Yizkor be a moment of release. A moment of love. A moment of appreciation for how they packed your parachute.
Perhaps the greatest way to honor them is to continue what they began. If your mother taught you kindness, be kind. If your father taught you generosity, be generous. If your grandmother taught you to welcome strangers, open your door. If your grandfather taught you to care about Jewish tradition and Torah, strengthen your connection to it.
Because the question of Yizkor is not only: Who packed my parachute? The deeper question is: Whose parachute will I pack? Who needs a phone call from me? Who needs forgiveness, encouragement, a place at my Shabbos table? Who needs me to show up? May the memories of those we loved be a blessing in what we do in their name.
Recently, I went to a new physician for a medical issue—not serious. His evaluation began with the words: “The patient is an elderly gentleman.” I stared at that and called out, “Cheryl, what’s this description of me as an elderly gentleman?”
She replied, “Which of the 2 words do you feel are inappropriate?” Cheryl’s words always help me see who I really am. She packs my parachute every day! And so have yours. I consider myself blessed that each of you have come into my life and added meaning by allowing me to be your rabbi. You have packed my parachute more times than you know. Thank you! Thank you!
G’mar Chatimah Tovah. May we all be sealed for a year of goodness, meaning, and gratitude. And tomorrow, let’s go pack some parachutes. Amen!
