A Rabbi With Heart

the Behind scenes

Rav Aaron Waijsfeld is more than simply a figurehead Rabbi in the Boro Park Center. He is an active part of it and dedicates his time and energy to providing residents and staff with a warm and spiritual experience.

A Rabbi with Heart

By Meir Segal

Residents and patients at nursing homes and rehab centers have various needs. Those needs range from medical, dietary, therapeutic, rehabilitative, and psychological. But an underrated need is the spiritual one. People don't realize how crucial spiritual fulfillment can be to a person's overall health and happiness, and that need is sometimes taken care of by the facility's Rabbi. In my limited experience with nursing homes, the title "Rabbi" is conferred upon whoever is hired to ensure that there is a minyan for the tefillos and leads the Shabbos and yom tov meals. Most of the nursing home "Rabbis" that I have met are not the most knowledgeable about Jewish law or history. Nor do they need to be. Singing zemiros, giving out aliyos, and leading the tefillos requires only some basic familiarity with halacha. However, when conversing with Rav Aaron Waijsfeld, Rabbi at the Boro Park Center, I am blown away by his knowledge in all parts of the Shulchan Aruch. Not that my opinion means anything, I am simply basing it on my previous experiences with people in the same position at other facilities. Rav Aaron is lanky, tall, distinguished-looking, with a gray beard and round glasses, wearing a traditional long rekel. "I went to Bobover schools when I grew up," Rav Waijsfeld tells me. He went through a fascinating journey for a Bobover boy. "After going to Eretz Yisrael for a couple of years I learned in Beth Medrash Govoha and eventually landed in Emek Halacha, the Kollel of Rav Tuvia Goldstein." Rav Tuvia Goldstein was a legendary posek whom Rav Moshe Feinstein would frequently consult with when dealing with complex cases. After learning under Rav Tuvia for a number of years, Rav Waijsfeld earned the prestigious semicha from Emek Halacha. "Before this was the Boro Park Center, it was the Hebrew Home for the Aged and then it morphed into Metropolitan Jewish Geriatric Center. After that, it

became the BPC. It was always intended as a home for elderly Jews who were no longer able to live on their own. So it was founded over a hundred years ago, and the Rabbi was integral to the kashrus. An elderly person told me that he remembers when they salted their own meats. These days they are under a kashrus agency, so b"H, that is not something that I have to worry about." But Rav Waijsfeld is not comfortable talking about himself and all the work he does. He wants to focus the conversation on the incredible little community they have built at the Boro Park Center. "Our shul is an extremely vibrant one. We have three minyanim a day throughout the year. The residents love to come to shul, and specially designated nurses bring those who can't make it independently. There are also volunteers who dedicate their time to come and help with this and other things such as helping to put on tefillin." But it is not solely residents of the BPC who daven in its shul, according to Rav Waijsfeld. "We have over a hundred people by our Shabbos minyanim. People who come the first time can't believe what kind of davening we have. I am not talking about the number of people that attend. I am referring to the tefillos here, which are warm and hartzig. When the baal tefillah sings, the entire crowd joins in." When new patients arrive, they often would not want to join the tefillos, saying they are not there for very long. "Either because they were optimistic that they are returning home or they are pessimistic that they don't have much longer to live. But after attending a Shabbos davening, they are quickly persuaded to join us all the time. Once a chashuve Rav had a shul and was not thrilled to be here and was afraid of what the tefillos would look like, especially since he came just before Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. After the Yamim Noraim, he pulled me to the side and said, 'Reb Aaron, the tefillos in the Center were nicer and more inspirational than in my shul.' we really are putting effort into our davening for two reasons. One because davening has to be special. But also to ensure that people don't feel like their quality of

Jewish life has taken a hit because they have to live in a nursing home or assisted living facility."

Rav Aaron refuses to take credit for the high standard of the tefillos, but some of the staff who've been working at the BPC for a while tell me that this was not always the case. In fact, it used to look like other nursing homes, where shachris on Shabbos was finished very fast, and most baalei tefillah never really tried

to sing a niggun because they feared they would end up having to sing on their own. But since Rav Waijsfeld took over more than fifteen years ago, the shul is a bustling place. Minyanim are packed with residents, patients, and neighbors alike. There are shiurim and chavrusos. "The only thing missing from our little community is a mikvah," Rav Aaron jokes. Another thing that makes residents and guests feel heimish is the kiddush after davening. "People love their kiddush," Rav Waijsfeld laughs. "There is a joke that a Litvak asks what time davening starts, a Chasid asks what time Borchu is, a Chabadsker asks when should he be there for krias haTorah, and the non-religious ask what time the kiddush is. The kiddush is really a gratifying and unifying experience. It gives our patients a sense of normalcy aside from the davening. They reminisce about old times, and eating herring and sipping schnapps transports them back to when they davened at their corner shtibel. For those few moments, they forget their pain and ailments." "When covid hit the BPC shul was more affected than the average shul for obvious reasons," Rav Waijsfeld tells me, the anguish evident in his facial expression. Since the Boro Park Center has a high-risk, immunocompromised population, the shul stayed closed for a much more extended period than most shuls. "Even the super careful congregations opened way before we did," Rav Aaron says with a rueful smile. Although the shul opened for residents and patients a while back, outside people were either banned or very limited to a select few family members. "Before Covid, Friday nights, the shul was bursting at the seams. We sometimes had a hundred and fifty people. Now we average about fifty mispalelim. But we hope that soon we will be able to return to regular full capacity minyanim and tefillos."

Talking about covid, I ask Rav Waijsfeld about the seder Pesach by night and how it changed during the pandemic. "That was a most challenging transition. The threat of Covid was relatively new. It only hit around Purim time. And the realities of sedarim alone in their rooms were dehumanizing for the residents. Typically, our seder has about one hundred and fifty people since many family members and some non-religious patients join us. But during those two sedarim, I had to go from room to room to make sure everybody had an uplifting experience." Although Rav Aaron would not tell me this about himself, an administrator told me that what Rav Waijsfeld did that night was nothing short of heroic. "He went around from room to room, patient to patient, and made sure they had an uplifting and spiritual seder. He was here until extremely late at night, and his family was also a part of this unbelievable sacrifice. He went way above and beyond his duties," the administrator said. What Rav Aaron also won't tell anyone is his exceptional dedication to

each and every patient. There are five hundred patients in one building, and he makes sure to make his rounds and spend time with each one. "He also learns with many of them and also spends time learning with staff members, making sure that their spiritual needs are not neglected.

Being a Rabbi in a nursing home has given Rav Waijsfeld a unique vantage point and experience. "We had two brothers who, thirty years ago, had gotten into a machlokes and had not seen or spoken to each other since, and then they ran into each other when they both came to live in the Boro Park Center. Someone who knew about this told me the history, and we were expecting a blowup. Surprisingly they caught up as if nothing happened." Rav Aaron attributes to the reality of life that sometimes people are hit with when they are admitted into an assisted living facility. "Priorities come into focus, and people realize that many things that they treasured when they were younger were shallow and superficial." A different time there was a Yid who was afraid to go to shul because he saw his former landlord and did not want to bump into him. "He was still traumatized and thought he might get evicted." Rav Waijsfeld also tells me that most men who come say that they don't want an aliyah. "If I had a dime for every time someone told me this," Rav Aaron laughs. "But I always insist on giving everybody an aliyah as soon as they come. Numerous times a patient would walk up to the Sefer Torah, make the bracha, and burst into tears. Just recently, it happened because the patient hadn't had an aliyah since before Covid. Other times it's because these people daven in a shul, have been neglected, don't get any recognition, and haven't had an aliyah in literally ten years. It is regrettable." But Rav Waijsfeld doesn't convince people to come to davening. "People end up coming, even the non-religious, especially once they hear about the kiddush," Rav Aaron says with a grin. Rav Waijsfeld also gets to see Jews from all sorts of backgrounds. "We once had a Marine who fought in the Pacific during World War Two. He told me that his unit was entrenched in a foxhole for so long that they lost track of time, and nobody knew what day of the week it was. Knowing halacha, he started counting the week from that day as Sunday and put on tefillin. He later found out that it really was Shabbos. Nowadays, with the advances in technology and with the way fighting wars have evolved, it is almost impossible not to know what day of the week it is." A different time a new resident told him that he is an atheist and doesn't believe in G-d. "One time, he tells me, 'I'm a murderer, I'm a murderer.' I asked him what he meant by that. He then told me that

he emigrated to the United States from Germany when he was a very young boy, and was fluent in German. Therefore, during world war two, he served as a translator as a military police officer. 'A few times after we captured a Nazi, instead of putting him with the other prisoners of war, we took him to a secluded area and executed him." Rav Aaron is skeptical of some of the stories he's heard over the years. He feels that some may either be misremembering or they are enjoying that they finally have someone listening to them after years of loneliness and are afraid that if they don't have a good yarn to spin, they will lose their captive audience. A couple of patients have told me that Rav Waijsfeld spends an inordinate amount of time listening to them talking about their children, and does so patiently, and shows a genuine interest in whatever they want to talk about. "Another fascinating story was an elderly gentleman who told me that he grew up frum but went off the derech. He tried to antagonize and provoke me when I asked him if he is coming to shul. He would say, 'I will come but without a yarmulke.' I wasn't going to take the bait and told him that he was welcome to attend shul however and whenever he wanted. B"H we became very friendly. I learned Mishnayos with him. He was thrilled when we learned shnayim ochzim, a perek in Bava Metziah. It was something he remembered from his youth. Eventually, he told me about his painful childhood and how he attended Torah Vodaath, Telz, Chaim Berlin, and many other prestigious American institutions. He was asked to leave by many of them and became bitter." Rav Waijsfeld has more of such stories but is afraid to tell me some more because he may unintentionally disclose some personal details that our readers might recognize.

As we continue talking, I realize that the Boro Par center has a very diverse clientele because when I mention that I have relatives from Argentina, he grills me about their names and shows a knowledge of the community there. At first, I was skeptical about him knowing anyone, but he quickly proved me wrong. Rav Waijsfeld explains that "we get people here from all over the world. After talking to them a bunch of times, I become familiar with their community without having visited there." Although Rav Aaron doesn't say so, I believe that this shows again how caring and interested he is in the patients. He doesn't just talk to them. He listens, shows interest, and remembers what they speak about. I can't help but think that I would want my elderly relative to be in his care.

As we are about to end our conversation Rav Aaron, off the cuff, makes some interesting points about the different people he has observed over the years. "It is very curious that sometimes when a patient comes in without any family and is totally alone in the world. Somehow nurses pick up on it and go beyond their duty to

make sure he is taken care of. The will to help others is what brought them into the nursing profession in the first place. There is also a lot of hashgacha pratis with such petients. We soetimes have people who offer to pay for funeral expenses of complete strangers. Recently a non-Jew came and said that he knows one of our patients since they lived in the same building. 'Mr. Klein (name changed for privacy) always greeted me, asked about my day, and when my mother died, he came to console me and pay his respects,' the man said. He offered to pay for anything the patient needed over the course of his stay. He spoke to the Doctors and became his advocate. He hired an aide and ended up paying for the levaya and burial. And he always ensured that everything must be done according to Jewish law because he 'knew Mr. Klein to be a devout Jew.' Some random volunteers come in and take care of strangers more than many children take care of their parents. But, sadly, there are also other stories. Some people don't come visit their parents. They live out of town or lead busy lives and don't realize how much their parents suffer. Sometimes people live their entire lives as pious Jews, but after they pass away, their non-religious relatives insist on having them cremated. Even a will doesn't always hold up. If a patient's next of kin are not religious, I would suggest consulting with a lawyer to ensure that the will is legally binding." As to what other advice Rav Waijsfeld has, he says, "You can hire the best nurses and aides; nothing replaces the feeling people get when their children visit. Nurses also respond to what they observe. If they see you showing interest in your parents, they do more than just their job. Also, it is human nature that if you see the family around you'll take more care to get everything right. If they know family is constantly around to see. Also, a compliment here and there goes a long way for them to feel good. It is simply human nature." As I get up to leave, a resident comes for his daily chavrusashaft with Rav Waijsfeld and can't help but think that at least on a spiritual needs basis, the Boro Park Center is the best place for person to rehab and live in a nursing home. Rav Aaron Waijsfeld will ensure that no matter the need, one's intellectual and spiritual needs will always be fulfilled.