[Congressional Record Volume 147, Number 178 (Thursday, December 20, 2001)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E2393]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                    REMARKS BY RABBI MICHAEL MILLER

                                 ______
                                 

                         HON. ANTHONY D. WEINER

                              of new york

                    in the house of representatives

                      Thursday, December 20, 2001

  Mr. WEINER. Mr. Speaker, this past month, the Queens community of 
Belle Harbor was shaken by the crash of American Airlines flight 587. 
As many of you know, this neighborhood had already been hit 
particularly hard by the attacks of September 11, as dozens of Belle 
Harbor residents lost their lives to the attacks, many of them 
firefighters. A number of us have struggled to find the appropriate 
words to articulate our emotions during these times of unfathomable 
loss. At the memorial service for flight 587 the Sunday after the 
crash, Rabbi Michael Miller managed to find those words. I wanted to 
share his eloquence with my colleagues, and that is why I ask unanimous 
consent that these remarks be inserted into the Record. I hope that my 
colleagues will find them as comforting as inspiring as I have.

 Remarks at a Prayer Service for the Victims of the Crash of American 
 Airlines #587, Sunday, November 18, 2001, 2:00 pm, Riis Park, Queens, 
                                   NY

       In our Jewish tradition it is proper to express 
     appreciation to one's hosts. And it is within that spirit 
     that I thank Mayor Giuliani for convening this service, and 
     for his determined and compassionate leadership, along with 
     Governor Pataki, Senators Schumer and Clinton, and 
     Congressman Anthony Weiner during these difficult times.


                              [Psalm 121]

       Last Monday morning, hundreds of people, men, women and 
     children, the young and the old, woke up before dawn and rose 
     from their beds. A trip was to be taken to the Dominican 
     Republic.
       In apartments, houses and hotel rooms last Monday morning, 
     there was the predictable last minute rush. The checklist of 
     things to take. Packing that extra shirt, a pair of 
     stockings, a gift for family in Santo Domingo . . .
       And, no doubt, last Monday morning, there was the presence 
     of that anxiety which accompanies travel. Tickets. Passports. 
     Would the car service come on time? Will we get to the 
     airport with minutes to spare? Do we have too much baggage? 
     Too little?
       Inevitably, last Monday morning, or maybe it was last 
     Sunday night, there was the farewell. Fathers, mothers; 
     wives, husbands; sons, daughters; sisters, brothers; 
     grandmothers, grandfathers; friends, lovers.
       The farewell: a kiss; an embrace, A shake of the hand, or a 
     wave. A ``so long'' over the phone, ``have a good trip.''
       A farewell. But not a goodbye.
       And for those in Belle Harbor, not even that.
       And then . . . And then tragedy.
       Close to 300 individuals, some as families, some as 
     couples, some as friends, some alone. Gone.
       Tragedy, finality, shock and tears.
       How do we cope? How can we cope? So much sadness. So much 
     grief. So many questions. So few answers. So much emptiness.
       In the second chapter of the Book of Lamentations, Eicha, 
     we read: ``Horidi chanachal dim'a yomam valayla.'' Shed tears 
     like a river, day and night.
       What binds us together today, as what has bound us together 
     at the Ramada, at the Javits Center, and while even at home, 
     are the tears. A river of tears, day and night.
       Tears are not shed in English. Tears are not shed in 
     Spanish. Tears are not shed in Hebrew. The tears themselves 
     are a common language. Crying itself is a language of grief.
       We shed rivers of tears for the children whose lives had 
     been so fresh, whose promise had been so abounding, whose 
     future had been so bright.
       We shed rivers of tears for the mothers and fathers, wives 
     and husbands, who had longed to watch their children grow, 
     who had worked so hard to make a better life, who had given 
     so much love to each other and to so many.
       We shed rivers of tears for brothers and sisters, friends 
     and lovers whose companionship had been torn away so 
     suddenly.
       We shed rivers of tears, day and night, for never having 
     the opportunity to share a last hug, a kiss, a smile; to say 
     goodbye; I'm sorry; I love you.
       We shed rivers of tears, day and night, and we pray.
       As the liturgy for the closing Ne'ilah prayers of the 
     Jewish Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur, reads: ``Yehi ratzon 
     milfanecha shomaiya kol bechiyot shetasim dimoteinu benodcha 
     l'hiyot.'' May it be Your will, You who hears the sound of 
     weeping, That You place our tears in Your flask for safe 
     keeping.
       And we pray, O Lord, that the waters of our tears, like the 
     incoming tide, draw the souls of these innocents close to 
     You.
       Lord, protect them, guard them, watch over them, and bless 
     them--now and for eternity. ``V'yanuchu b'shalom al 
     mishkavam.''
       May their repose be peace.
       And let us say---Amen.

       

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