I’ve spent the last six weeks planning my summer vacation—the full month of July that many congregational rabbis enjoy, plus a three-day prestart at the end of June—and I’m almost certain I’ve seen to every detail of my journey to six cities in three states. I found a colleague to cover any pastoral emergencies in my congregation while I’m away, booked multiple flights, reserved rental cars and hotel rooms, and coordinated visits with family and friends.
While I’ve allowed myself to hope that these carefully crafted plans will come to fruition, I still purchased trip insurance and gladly spent a few hundred dollars for fully refundable everything.
Every time I enter my credit card number into a secure website, I think of my Grandma’s wisdom about problems that can be solved by throwing money at them: They are the best kind, especially if you have money to throw at them.
I’m determined not to calculate the financial costs, not when there are far weightier emotional issues demanding my attention. Planning a vacation when your parent is dying presents a host of challenges I hadn’t anticipated.
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In December 2024, my brother and sister-in-law had taken Dad to the ER and waited with him until he was admitted. For several days, the doctors tried to stabilize his breathing so they could investigate the root cause of this new issue.
Moments after they began the procedure, Dad’s response to the general anesthesia was definitive: his heart stopped beating.
For many months, while he failed to regain his former strength, Dad moved from the hospital to rehab, from rehab to his home, from home back to the hospital, and eventually to Meadowbrook, an assisted living facility only ten minutes from my brother’s home.
Six months ago, in December 2025, both of my brothers helped him clean out his house. They brought the rest of his clothes and some cherished old photographs to his apartment at Meadowbrook. I was out of town the weekend they completed this terrible task. I was grateful to them for sparing me the physical heavy lifting.
When I visited Dad the following weekend, he was still angry at having to leave his home. He complained bitterly, telling me over and over: You know, this isn’t what I planned.
I remember trying to soothe him: Dad, this isn’t what anyone planned.
* * * * * * *
Mentsh trakht un Got lakht.
Man plans and God laughs.
(Yiddish proverb)
This is my Dad’s wisdom, this Yiddish adage he quoted to me at a tender age, when I didn’t understand. Now that I’m approaching sixty and he is already eighty-three, I say these words to him almost every time we speak.
Two weeks ago, the morning after I’d finalized the last of my travel plans—I’d finally found a hotel room nowhere near the stadium where the World Cup matches would be played during the July 4th weekend—my brother texted me that our Dad was taken to the ER by ambulance in the middle of the night. His message came through while I was finishing up a meeting with a congregant whose mother had just died. We’d spent an hour discussing the plans for the graveside funeral service, and we were preparing to walk out the door.
Seeing only the first two lines flash across my screen, I startled and allowed a mild oath to slip through my lips. He was headed to the hospital because the unresolved issues from his 2024 hospitalization had recurred. Turning my phone face down on the table, I willed my mind to abandon the memories of that traumatic time.
My summer travel will entail my not seeing him for at least three weeks. Seeing my brother’s text, I felt the weight of my worry that he will die while I’m away.
After the funeral service for my congregant’s mother concluded, I left the cemetery and continued driving north on the Garden State Parkway to the hospital, where Dad was waiting to be discharged. Frustrated there wasn’t much they could do for him, he was growing increasingly impatient for the nurse to remove his IV and send him home. But the transport my brother had arranged to take him from the hospital back to the assisted living facility was delayed.
While we waited together, I tried to distract him with news about my kids—my eldest, his first grandchild, would be visiting again in September—and questions about when he’d last FaceTimed with my niece, his seventh grandchild, who will turn three in July. When I reminded him about my upcoming travel plans, he repeated how happy he was that I was taking a vacation.
Then he began a familiar riff: You kids have work to do. You don’t need to spend time sitting in the hospital. You have a long ride home. You should get on the road.
I had planned to leave by 3:00 pm, but was finding it difficult to say goodbye. I kept thinking about my brother’s text, wondering whether I’d receive a similar one as I was boarding a plane in July.
Immediately, I chided myself for thinking such thoughts. He was right. I needed to get on the road.
Hugging him, I promised to text when I got home.
* * * * * * *
I’ve been trying to maintain my balance as anticipatory grief threatens to overwhelm the anticipatory joy I’d been feeling about my upcoming vacation. Lately, when I notice those intrusive thoughts interrupting my work, I try to banish them with humor. Shaking a fist and pointing a defiant chin heavenward, I pretend-yell to God, Quit laughing up there!
Sometimes I laugh at myself; other times I have to squeeze my eyes to hold back tears. I think, what an unsophisticated prayer. But, somehow, daring God not to interfere with my vacation plans seems more genuine than reciting formal words prescribed in the liturgy. I think, at least I’m still talking to God.
Writing now about these travel plans makes me wonder whether there is an earlier source for this well-known Yiddish saying. I type it into my search bar and, sure enough, Gemini’s AI Overview delivers, listing four biblical parallels, all from the Book of Proverbs. I can’t help but laugh that my father’s wisdom seems more profound than King Solomon’s:
Mortals may plan their itinerary, but God directs their steps. (Proverbs 16:9)
In any case, I’m comforted knowing that my final itinerary is confirmed. Maybe it just sounds better in Yiddish.