Rabbi Marc Gellman

Q: First, let me say that I have read your column faithfully for decades and clip them out to send to a friend at the end of every month. I look forward to your writings and enjoy your humor and the manner in which you present your thoughts. I am here to say that I get God winks all the time — so many that I had trouble picking which one to send to you, but I need to provide some background before I explain this particular wink. 
 My parents died in the spring of 2006. They loved poetry. My dad had several books and compiled a list of his favorite poems. Wanting to bring more than just a stone when I visited them at the cemetery, I decided to memorize the poems my dad loved most. On each visit I give them a poem. I also do this whenever my sister and I visit my grandparents. It was a huge undertaking. I practice every day and still do. 
 In the late summer of 2018, my sister and I visited our grandmother uncharacteristically on a Friday. We always go on Sundays. However, that year Rosh Hashanah started on a Sunday, and we wanted to make sure we visited before the High Holidays. 
 That Friday I recited the first poem (of what would become 70); I memorized&nbsp;&quot;The Cremation of Sam McGee,&quot; by Robert W. Service. I know our grandmother had to be familiar with this poem because my dad often recited many powerful lines as I was growing up. The next day, Saturday, I turned on the TV to watch the memorial service for John McCain at Washington National Cathedral. Meghan McCain was in the midst of her eulogy. In disbelief, I watched as she said the first stanza of the poem: &quot;There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun.&quot; She said her dad, as a POW in Hanoi, learned the poem from a fellow prisoner tapping it out in Morse Code. (And I thought I had problems learning it!) I was stunned. I do not believe in coincidences. Whenever I leave my grandmother's grave site I tell her, &quot;I'll be looking for your winks, and I'll pay close attention.&quot; — L 
 A: Thank you so much, dear L for your wondrous email. I am including it because it is a perfect appendix to the recent Jewish High Holy Days,&nbsp; because it is one of the most tender acts of memorial I have ever encountered and, last but definitely not least, because I have been trying unsuccessfully for these past weeks to properly name the signs from the other side that readers have sent in. Your phrase &quot;God winks&quot; is perfect. If you created it, I am deeply impressed. If you stole it from some other writer, I don't even want to know. In fact, if I was not so indebted to the Rev,&nbsp;Tom Hartman for this column, I would immediately rename it God Winks. 
 I also was deeply moved as a Jew. Our custom of bringing visitation stones to a Jewish grave to place on the headstone with your left hand is an old but largely misunderstood custom. It is a remembrance of the biblical days when there were no headstones to mark a grave — only piles of little stones. It is also a sign to others with loved ones buried in the cemetery that yours is a pious family that honors the commandment to visit the grave. I like your version of the custom much more. You are bringing something they loved as a sign of your love. The notion of reading a poem they loved is perfect to my soul. 
 Your experience watching&nbsp;the McCain funeral is also the best kind of God wink. It is not a violation of natural law like lights turning on by themselves or books flying out of bookcases. It is a coincidence that is clearly more than a coincidence. It was a sign that only you could interpret, and it was a sign of warm love from the father you so loved. 
 In fact, the one edit I would presume to offer in your exquisite piece is to suggest that you include the entire coda of the poem for readers who are unfamiliar with it. 
 And it is: 
 There are strange things done in the midnight sun 
 By the men who moil for gold; 
 The Arctic&nbsp;trails have their secret tales 
 That would make your blood run cold; 
 The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, 
 But the queerest they ever did see 
 Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge 
 I cremated Sam McGee. 
 May God continue to wink at you!

Q: First, let me say that I have read your column faithfully for decades and clip them out to send to a friend at the end of every month. I look forward to your writings and enjoy your humor and the manner in which you present your thoughts. I am here to say that I get God winks all the time — so many that I had trouble picking which one to send to you, but I need to provide some background before I explain this particular wink. My parents died in the spring of 2006. They loved poetry. My dad had several books and compiled a list of his favorite poems. Wanting to bring more than just a stone when I visited them at the cemetery, I decided to memorize the poems my dad loved most. On each visit I give them a poem. I also do this whenever my sister and I visit my grandparents. It was a huge undertaking. I practice every day and still do. In the late summer of 2018, my sister and I visited our grandmother uncharacteristically on a Friday. We always go on Sundays. However, that year Rosh Hashanah started on a Sunday, and we wanted to make sure we visited before the High Holidays. That Friday I recited the first poem (of what would become 70); I memorized "The Cremation of Sam McGee," by Robert W. Service. I know our grandmother had to be familiar with this poem because my dad often recited many powerful lines as I was growing up. The next day, Saturday, I turned on the TV to watch the memorial service for John McCain at Washington National Cathedral. Meghan McCain was in the midst of her eulogy. In disbelief, I watched as she said the first stanza of the poem: "There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun." She said her dad, as a POW in Hanoi, learned the poem from a fellow prisoner tapping it out in Morse Code. (And I thought I had problems learning it!) I was stunned. I do not believe in coincidences. Whenever I leave my grandmother's grave site I tell her, "I'll be looking for your winks, and I'll pay close attention." — L A: Thank you so much, dear L for your wondrous email. I am including it because it is a perfect appendix to the recent Jewish High Holy Days, because it is one of the most tender acts of memorial I have ever encountered and, last but definitely not least, because I have been trying unsuccessfully for these past weeks to properly name the signs from the other side that readers have sent in. Your phrase "God winks" is perfect. If you created it, I am deeply impressed. If you stole it from some other writer, I don't even want to know. In fact, if I was not so indebted to the Rev, Tom Hartman for this column, I would immediately rename it God Winks. I also was deeply moved as a Jew. Our custom of bringing visitation stones to a Jewish grave to place on the headstone with your left hand is an old but largely misunderstood custom. It is a remembrance of the biblical days when there were no headstones to mark a grave — only piles of little stones. It is also a sign to others with loved ones buried in the cemetery that yours is a pious family that honors the commandment to visit the grave. I like your version of the custom much more. You are bringing something they loved as a sign of your love. The notion of reading a poem they loved is perfect to my soul. Your experience watching the McCain funeral is also the best kind of God wink. It is not a violation of natural law like lights turning on by themselves or books flying out of bookcases. It is a coincidence that is clearly more than a coincidence. It was a sign that only you could interpret, and it was a sign of warm love from the father you so loved. In fact, the one edit I would presume to offer in your exquisite piece is to suggest that you include the entire coda of the poem for readers who are unfamiliar with it. And it is: There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. May God continue to wink at you!

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