The Last Conversation With My Father

By Esther Malka (Katzen) Schlanger – Co-Director Chabad of Bakersfield, CA

I’ll never forget the last conversation I had with my father. It was a Wednesday, the day before he had a sudden heart attack, and we were chatting about life. He had recently watched a short segment I had done on local TV, a cooking demo featuring dishes for the upcoming Jewish New Year. He was so proud. He told me how much joy my family brought him.

And then, with deep emotion, he began to bless me and my family for the year ahead.

I gently said, “Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) is still a week away. We’ll talk again before then; you can give your blessings later.” But he continued, undeterred, offering heartfelt wishes for our health, success and happiness. It was longer and more emotional than usual. Then we said goodbye.

Those turned out to be his final words to me.

In hindsight, it was as if something inside him knew there wouldn’t be another phone call. That last conversation: his words of love, pride and blessing, has become something I carry with me. In many ways, it captured the essence of who he was: deeply loving, profoundly kind and endlessly giving.

My father’s life was built around compassion and connection, to his family, his students and his community. He believed in treating everyone with kindness, respect and care. He lived what he taught.

This week marks six years since his passing. I remember that day vividly. Our family gathered in the hospital, surrounding his bed, singing softly as we said our final goodbyes. When the moment came, a nurse gently called out, “Time,” and shared the exact time of death.

In that stillness, a profound realization washed over me. The only other moment in my life I heard a nurse call out “Time,” to the exact minute, was when my children entered the world.

Time is called not just when we leave this world, but also when we enter it.

We are each given a finite number of minutes in this life, and my father understood that deeply. Every waking moment was spent with intention; teaching, learning, praying, mentoring, being present for others. He lived with purpose. And through his example, he taught us that life’s true value lies not in how long it lasts, but in how we choose to spend it.

As we approach Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, I find myself reflecting on that idea more than ever.

Rosh Hashanah is not just the start of a new calendar year in the Jewish tradition. It’s considered a day of reflection, renewal and judgment. It’s when, according to tradition, the “Book of Life” is opened, and each person’s year, perhaps even their time on this earth, is considered. It’s a spiritual reset, a time to ask: How have I used my time? What kind of impact have I made? And what do I want to carry forward into the year ahead?

Rosh Hashanah reminds us that time is not endless, and that we are meant to use it with intention. The shofar, a ram’s horn blown during services, pierces the air as a wakeup call for the soul. It reminds us to take nothing for granted. It invites us to return to what matters most.

This year, in my father’s memory, I’m striving to live more like he did: to be a little more present, a little more patient, a little more generous with my words and time.

And so, in his honor, I invite you to join me, use your time well and with intention.

Let’s make this new year truly meaningful; connect with the spiritual, something greater than yourself.