My Very Special Mother: Esther Shmueli, a”h

as told to Margie Pensak by Rachel Golfeiz

 Even though it’s been nearly two years since my beloved mother, Esther Shmueli, a”h, left this world – 28 years after my father – the pain of her absence still feels fresh. Her presence was so powerful, her heart so expansive, and her emunah so unwavering, that her memory lives on in every act of kindness she touched. There are countless stories about my mother’s chesed, her bitachon, and her uncanny ability to foresee the future. Here are just a few.

My mother was born in Iran in 1932. As was customary then, she married young – at just 13 years old – and became a mother by 14. Soon after, in 1948, my parents made aliyah to Israel. Like many immigrants, they began their new life in a tent, with barely enough food to eat. But my mother never complained; she was overjoyed to be living in Eretz Yisrael.

Her entire life was defined by chesed. One time, she noticed a worried family at the Kotel. They had missed the last bus to Beit She’an, their hometown, and had no idea what to do. Without hesitation, my mother invited them – 20 people total – to our tiny two-bedroom home in Bais Yisrael. She sent us children to sleep at a neighbor’s house and gave the family our rooms. In the morning, she served them a full breakfast. That was just who she was.

She was also incredibly resourceful. She ran several small businesses out of our home: selling Persian rugs, religious articles, and antiques – some of which she even sold to the Israel Museum. And she gave generously: tefillin bags for yesomim (orphans), suits for bachurim before Rosh Hashanah – always quietly, always with dignity.

She made many shidduchim, especially for those who were alone. One girl from Iraq was sad and isolated; my mother promised to find her a zivug – and did. She even hosted the wedding in our house. When the new kallah confessed she didn’t know how to cook, my mother sent her home with our family’s dinner to serve her husband, telling her not to reveal the source. Later, the husband praised his wife’s “cooking,” never knowing the secret.

My mother also made Persian halva – with pistachio, honey, and many other ingredients – and would daven while stirring it, praying that it would bring children to those who were struggling to conceive. Many couples who ate her halva ended up having children. When they came back to thank her, she would reply, “It’s not me; it’s Hashem. I’m just the shaliach.” Even in Baltimore, I gave some of her halva to three couples who were trying to have children. All of them later had babies.

After my youngest sister was born, my mother began having severe headaches. Doctor after doctor found nothing, until she was finally diagnosed with a brain tumor. She was given two options: die without surgery or undergo surgery that would likely leave her paralyzed or worse. 

We turned to the Gerrer Rebbe, Rav Yisroel Alter, zt”l, for guidance. He told us he’d give us an answer on Monday – but tragically, he passed away that Sunday. My mother chose to undergo the surgery, saying, “I want to live – for my children.” And she did, but she lost her vision.

I was eight at the time; my younger sisters were five and one. The transition was incredibly difficult. But even through her tears, my mother never gave up her simchas hachaim. “If Hashem did this to me,” she’d say, “it must be good for me.” She continued to run the house impeccably and never stopped doing chesed. When my son’s friend, an orphan, got married, she insisted on making a full sheva brachos meal for him, cooking the dinner by herself.

She never wanted to take favors. Even when someone helped her send us something from Israel, she would gift that person the same item as thanks. When the government provided a cleaning lady after her illness, my mother insisted on paying her.

Every Friday, she was glued to her favorite halacha radio show. She also called in to another show where people shared personal struggles. When one woman said she wanted to take her life, my mother got her contact information and called her directly: “If I haven’t taken my life with everything I’ve been through, you have no reason to take yours.” They never met in person but became phone friends. My mother continued to give her support and chizuk for years.

My mother had ru’ach hakodesh, too. She knew everything before it happened! She told everyone that I named our son Avraham, before his bris. She knew that my daughter got hurt on the monkey bars before being told. She called my sister in California to tell her that her husband should give tzedaka because he inadvertently put the light on during Shabbos. She told my sister that she was giving birth to twins, and she did. This fact was unbeknownst to my sister – and her doctor! My mother told my niece that she was going to get married to someone tall with very blue eyes; and that is what she got! We were constantly in awe of my mother’s insights.

She would often speak to malachim. Once, she told me it was an eis ratzon and that I should daven; it gave me chills. Every morning at 4 a.m., she’d stand by the mezuzah for an hour and daven for each of us and the extended family by name.

My mother was a descendant of the great Iranian Rav, Mola Ohr Shraga. One time, after being released from the hospital, she wanted to make a seudas hoda’ah but was too weak to lift the strainer for the Persian rice. She whispered, “Mola Shraga, please help me.” Moments later, my sister walked in and saw an old man helping her. When she asked who it was, my mother calmly said, “Don’t worry. It was Mola Shraga. He helped me.”

She also inspired others. When her neighbor’s daughter went off the derech and her family planned to boycott her wedding, my mother convinced them to go. “This is your daughter. Be happy for her!” They listened, got dressed, and they all went to the wedding! 

Two years before she passed away, my niece came for Shabbos. My mother said, “Today will be a very hard day.” That afternoon, she had a stroke. During Covid, we somehow made it to Israel and to the hospital with no issues! A doctor told us bluntly that she’d never wake up. I told him, “You don’t decide; Hashem does.”

We tried to get her into the only nursing home we trusted, in Sanhedria Murchevet. It was $8,000/month and very hard to get accepted. By some miracle, they accepted her for free. Six months later, she woke up.

A week before the stroke, my niece recorded her singing a song with a message: “I don’t have eyes that see, I don’t have ears that hear, my heart sings like a guitar. But baruch Hashem, no one feel bad for me. Hashem did this. I accept it. I have no complaints, I’m so happy!” 

My mother passed away on a Friday. We couldn’t make it to the levaya, but her caretaker told us that she died sitting up in a chair, smiling – her face glowing. I wish we had a picture.

My mother was brilliant. She was brave. She was filled with love. She was a true eishes chayil, and I daven that she should continue to give our family the strength to live meaningful lives, as she did every day of her life.