May 22, 2025

A Rabbi’s Road to David

It’s Monday night, and I’m spent. I’ve been on the road since before 9 AM, a class in Blue Ridge, visiting isolated Jews in Canton—two hours north of Atlanta. I stumble home after 8 PM, my head buzzing. Then my phone rings. It’s Sarah, her voice shaking. “Rabbi, David’s in the hospital. Sepsis. Can you come?”

David’s 80, a tough guy who counsels prisoners at a jail. The second time we met, he told me he grew up in a Jewish home, but his family couldn’t afford a bar mitzvah. I saw the spark in his eyes and offered to make it happen—his first aliyah, a call-up to the Torah at my synagogue. We planned it, but days before, David called, voice weak. “Rabbi, I’m in the hospital. Can’t come.” We postponed, hoping he’d recover. He hasn’t.

Sarah says he’s in a rural hospital, three hours down I-75, in the ICU. She’s scared I won’t make it in time. I’m a rabbi, not a doctor, but I know she needs me there. I clear Tuesday’s schedule and hit the road at dawn. Sarah calls twice during the drive, updating me on David’s fragile state.

In the hospital room, it’s all beeps and tubes. David’s pale, but his eyes light up. “Rabbi, you drove all this way?” I smile, sit, and say, “David, for you, I’d go farther.” We talk about his Jewish roots, how they’ve quietly shaped him. It’s not about the sepsis—it’s about who he is, the faith he’s carried for decades. I say the Mi Sheberach for healing, and he closes his eyes, holding onto every word.

That moment feels sacred, like we’re bound by something bigger. Later, Sarah’s eyes well up with gratitude. “Rabbi, you gave him hope,” she says, her voice thick. Maybe I did, but David lifted my spirits too. By the time I leave, they’re moving him to the PCU—a small step for an 80-year-old fighting an unknown infection.

Driving back, I think of David, still fighting, still showing up for prisoners. We’re praying for his recovery, for him to return to work, to stand before the Torah for that aliyah. If anyone can, it’s David.

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Rabbi Chaim Markovits