For years Maor Cohen, aka the LegoMan, has been volunteering at Ezer Mizion providing lego workshops for those dealing with cancer. The lego projects are both distracting and able to give a feeling of a future to those who sometimes dare to wonder if they will have one. Frequently he shares the joys of remission with the families he has become so close to. And too frequently he also shares their sadness…
Recently, people have been calling and asking me to speak.
It seems that people think my work is something worth hearing about.
I don’t have an organized speech, not even a PowerPoint presentation.
When I speak, I speak from my heart.
Sometimes I choose a certain story, and other times it’s a different story.
When they ask me how much the lego workshop costs, I always smile and say — it’s for free.
This isn’t my story; it’s the story of everyone who I’m escorting on this journey named Cancer.
Corona has moved most of the talks to Zoom, which enables more availability.
This past week, I spoke twice. At one of the talks, there was a small, elite group.
I offered them a different type of talk.
I wouldn’t speak. Instead, they would ask questions, after watching a short video.
It was a fantastic hour and a half. A mature group
that asked questions appropriate to the stage where they found themselves in their own life.
One of the questions particularly touched me.
This question has sat in my head a lot.
I answered that every family and each child is a world in itself, a new world.
Every child brings with him something else,
And I learn from that.
It’s not something generic.
Every child brings you into his world
And every family brings you into their heart.
And there, you have to learn how to walk, each time all over again.
Walking in each heart is different; no heart is like another.
A month ago, I bought a big unicorn doll. A talking unicorn.
Until recently, I couldn’t stand unicorns, but I have 3 daughters, and Tamar Batya really loves unicorns.
She came into the car and saw the doll. “Wow! Is that unicorn for me?”
“No,” I told her. “It’s for a little girl who is sick.”
Tamar was disappointed, and I was disappointed that I hadn’t hid it in time.
I hugged Tamar and explained to her that it is intended for a good deed, a mitzvah
and that she would get a different gift.
The next day, I gave the sick girl the unicorn and she was thrilled.
A week ago, I saw an even bigger unicorn doll.
I immediately thought of the sick girl. I sent a message to the person who had made our connection to ask if they would like the doll.
She replied with a sad smiley, saying that they don’t need the doll anymore.
I understood that the girl had finished her task in this world.
I was full of sadness and tears.
A beautiful, little girl who loved unicorns . A pure little girl.
That night I climbed into my Tamari’s bed.
I hugged and kissed her. She woke up.
“Abba, do you love me?” “Yes,” I answered her. “Do you want me to buy you a giant unicorn doll?”
“Abbush,” she asked. “Are there really unicorns?”
“No, mamele,” I answered and I started crying.
There are no unicorns. But tonight,
a beautiful unicorn with a pure gaze went up to shamayim,
a unicorn who is galloping up to the Heavens, leaving behind it a trail of sadness.
Every child is an entire world, and the passing of a child leaves a tremendous vacuum
and a legacy to fill that vacuum with smiles of children and doing good things.
So, I ordered a giant unicorn, in case you have some extra space…