Angels come into our lives in one form or another — people whose small acts of kindness make a huge impact. If we’re lucky, we can recognize and thank them in the moment, but often we miss that opportunity. Even when they cross our minds over the years, we think too much time has gone by to express our gratitude.
Once in a while, though, we get that chance years later. That’s what happened to me — after four decades.
1983 was a very difficult year. I had moved to Israel in 1982 with my husband, Yoel, and our 2-year-old son. While we were fully committed to living on a moshav, it was still a hard adjustment, and I missed my family in San Francisco.
My mother and sister were slated to visit us that spring, but my mom started having symptoms of what would soon be diagnosed as lymphoma. She passed away in July 1983 at the age of 56.
My grief and isolation became unbearable in Israel, and we made plans to leave the next summer. At the airport, though, Yoel ran into unexpected government red tape. We had to make a wrenching decision on the spot, and I ended up flying by myself with our son. I was also five months pregnant with our daughter.
Once I got to San Francisco, it was clear I would need financial help until Yoel could join us. I began reaching out to Jewish organizations, one by one. I’d grown up in the city’s Jewish community and was sure I’d find an agency that could help.
My story was met with sympathy, but no one could offer the assistance I needed and simply passed me along to the next agency. I had been confident that my community would come through for me, and my disappointment was profound.
I had one more place to try, the JCC preschool on Brotherhood Way, where I hoped to enroll my son with some tuition assistance. I made an appointment with then-director Phyllis Jerome, and a few days later walked into her office.
As I sat and told her about my situation, I started crying. She motioned for me to close the door. What she said next would not only give me the support I so desperately needed in the moment, but would change the trajectory of my family’s life.
“Wipe your tears,” she said. “We will gladly take your little boy into our school. You will not pay one penny of tuition. We are glad to help you and your family.”
Yoel made it to San Francisco after four long months. By that time, Phyllis’ words, warmth and compassion had started us on the path of Jewish education. We ended up putting our four kids through the JCC preschool and Brandeis Hillel Day School over the next 20 years. I also dove into volunteerism at both schools to show my appreciation.
I never forgot Phyllis’ act of kindness. I’ve told this story for years, but I never told Phyllis herself how grateful I was.
One day in early March, I did what I’d thought about all these years, and I looked for Phyllis online. I’d heard she moved to North Carolina. After a short search, I learned she had served the Jewish community there, too. She had been the director of Jewish Family Services of Greensboro for 15 years, and there were scholarships and programs named in her honor. There was also a phone number.
I picked up the phone, took a deep breath and called. A woman answered. I said I was calling from San Francisco and looking for someone named Phyllis Jerome.
“I’m Phyllis Jerome,” she said.
I paused, my heart pounding. “Phyllis Jerome who served as the director of the JCC preschool in San Francisco in the 1980s?”
“Yes,” she replied.
I’d imagined this moment for so long that I almost couldn’t believe it was happening, or that it had been so easy. We talked for 40 delightful minutes, and she told me her 97th birthday was in a few days. I was finally able to tell Phyllis how she made me feel that day in her office and what a difference she’d made for me and my family. I apologized that it had taken me 42 years to say so.
Speaking with her was a dream come true, an experience I’ll never forget and something I will recommend to everyone I know. It really is never too late to thank our angels.