I considered waiting, letting time heal the wounds. It will —that’s the promise of Hamakom — and perhaps writing about my father now is too soon, too personal. But the lessons of his life should be shared. And fresh off of shiva, the opportunity must not be wasted.

There’s so much to gain, so much to learn.

So let me tell you about some of the relatable lessons I learned from my father.

During his hesped, my brother shared a scintillating thought. It captures who our father was.

About fifteen years ago, he decided to write a sefer. It was one of three kabalos he made at the age of seventy.

That in itself is remarkable. Kabalos at 70!

Number one. Wear his tzitzis out, a token gesture to atone for not wearing his yarmulka as a child in the library and as a professor in college in the early 1970s. This, despite the difficulties that arose due to an essential tremor that robbed him of his fine motor skills.

Second, learn ten minutes of mussar a day. He followed through on both of these commitments and finished seven or eight sifrei mussar in a seder he arranged with one of my bothers.

However, the dream of writing a sefer eluded him. Still he refused to give up. Ten years later, at the age of eighty (eighty!), he rededicated himself and began delivering a weekly shiur on the Parsha. He did so for two years. Finally, the sefer was ready for transcription. Though, when the time came to choose a title, he made an interesting choice: “Divrei Uri.”

Why Uri?

He explained. Betzalel, the architect of the Mishkon, was ben Uri ben Chur. Chur, the grandfather, supported Moshe Rabbeinu as he waged war with Amalek. When Klal Yisroel succumbed at the Cheit Ha’eigel, Chur defiantly sacrificed his life for Hashem. Betzalel, the grandson, built holiness that would endure for all generations. But Uri?

We know little about Uri, except this: he bridged grandfather and grandchild, linking generations together.

Daddy, with his trademark humility, crystallized:

“I am Uri, the son of a great father, the father of wonderful children. Me? I am simply the connector.”

Herbert I. (Chaim Isaac) Spero, my father’s father, was a towering force of Torah in Cleveland. He helped build Telshe Yeshiva, the Hebrew Academy, and Young Israel, establishing thriving worlds that continue to exist today. My father, with quiet pride, dedicated his life to filling his father’s enormous shoes and carrying on his legacy.

He closely monitored and reveled in his children’s careers and accomplishments; not so much our employment as our contributions to the world of Torah and mitzvos, communal needs, and other tzorchei tzibur. He took extraordinary satisfaction in what we did.

And so, he envisioned himself as Uri, nothing more than the link that bridged those generations.

But the name Uri connotes far more than “a bridge”.

Uri means light.

My light.

And that was our father. A gentle, luminous light, wrapped in humility, a light that never chased honor, a light that became brighter the more he stepped aside. A light in the way he spoke to people, in the way he lifted others through warmth and humor, especially those who were downtrodden and shunned, and in the pure kindness he offered so naturally.

He simply shone. Look at the pictures and notice the sweetness of his smile. Tocho ke’baro. What you see is who he was.

Daddy’s “aw shucks” demeanor and contagious joy created an unforgettable, everlasting impact on everyone he encountered.

His love for Hashem was deep and steady. He trusted Hashem with his entire being. You could see it in the way he davened every day—always using a siddur, always looking inside, underlining the words that spoke to his neshomah.

He wasn’t a complainer; gripes were not part of his vocabulary. Instead, he chose to appreciate so deeply everything he had. Ever grateful, Modim was his favorite brocha.

Torah became his constant companion. In Cleveland, Daf Yomi was barely known, and ArtScroll was non-existent. Despite this, he and a small group of friends began learning together, one daf at a time.

The results are staggering.

Over forty years, he completed Shas six times and was on his way to completing his seventh. One time, when I recognized his achievement, my father remarked with his excellent sharp sense of wit and humor, “Do you know anyone else who has forgotten Shas six times?” Consistently, he brushed aside all praise and minimized his own accomplishments.

His rebbi for twenty two years, Rabbi Yitzchok Margareten, came from Cleveland and shared that in his Daf Yomi shiur now, there is an individual who still asks “Abby questions”,  reminiscent of clever, creative, and thoughtful questions that came from an inquisitive mind that never stopped growing, searching, learning.

Daddy deeply admired and respected all rabbonim, defending their kavod with all he had. Rabbi Doniel Neustadt commented that out of hundreds of congregants, “Abby Spero was my number one baal habyis.” It was the unique combination of humor, respect, and willingness to defend the rabbi’s position no matter what.

Rabbi Tzvi Einstadter, a R”M in Yeshivas Ner Yisroel, and the son of Rabbi Moshe Einstadter, a dear friend, came to be menachem avel and shared something memorable. He revealed that a boy can become a ben Torah in one of two ways.

The conventional path to becoming a ben Torah involves a combination of factors, including a strong mind, dedicated hard work, and prolonged study in the beis midrash. When a young individual exerts themselves, immerses themselves in learning with passion, and continues to grow intellectually, they achieve the status of a ben Torah.

But there is a second path.

When a child grows up in a home filled with extreme kavod haTorah, when he sees his parents’ pride and love for Torah, and watches them stand for the honor of Torah, cherish it, and be mechabed Torah, he then becomes a true ben Torah, for that is the air he breathes.

And then he added something that brought tears to our eyes.

“For twenty-five years,” he said, “I have told my bochurim that I know a family like that. A family whose children became bnei Torah because of the way their parents honored Torah. All this time, I never said who that family was.”

He looked at us.

“But tonight,” he said, his voice filled with emotion, “I can say it. It is your parents.”

All this from a professor of accounting in Cleveland State University. My father often expressed deep regret that he had left yeshiva at the age of 16, went onto college and then graduate school. But that absence stoked a fire inside of him, an insatiable hunger to recapture what he had lost.

Not coincidentally, his greatest growth began when he met my mother, and for the next 59 years, they stood side by side.

My father was an exceptional husband, and his devotion manifested in the everyday gestures he showed.

Take this stunning example.

For nearly seventy years, his hands trembled, and the tremor worsened with each passing year, making every task increasingly difficult. Yet, every morning, he bravely carried a cup of coffee up the stairs to her. Often, the coffee would spill, leaving stains on the carpet that served as silent reminders of his unwavering devotion and dedication.

My mother, with her regal bearing, reciprocated that affection and admiration always encouraging us to be “half the man your father is.”

Our father loved his children deeply, but not in the modern manner of over-the-top displays of affection or helicoptering us. Instead, he coined the term “benevolent neglect”.

What does this mean?

Watching from afar, allowing us to make our own mistakes letting us know it was ok to do so. But endless benevolence, love and concern.

As the chairman of the board of Telshe, he often visited the yeshiva to discuss matters of the day, picked up our laundry, left Entenmann’s donuts and other treats, and peeked into the Bais Medrash to check on his boys, leaving before we could even greet him.

Daddy left warm voice notes expressing his concern (just checking in…), the joy we brought him, and the nachas he gleaned. He told us explicitly and by doing so, instilled confidence making us feel valued. He loved our spouses (they certainly gave him less aggravation) and loved his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

As their Grandpa, he wanted to know what they were learning and how they were managing. Their grief and sadness bears testimony to how deep that love was felt.

His genuine, effervescent smile was its own kind of sunshine. People were drawn to him because standing near him made the world feel softer, kinder, and happier. Even now, decades after they first experienced it.

Daddy was the most loyal and devoted friend, whether it was to rabbonim, old friends, or the new friends and chavrusos he made in Baltimore. He just cared.

Loyalty at its finest.

Yes, Daddy believed he was a connector, standing between the greatness of the past and the promise of the future.

He dreamt of connecting the world, yearning for everlasting shalom, unable to comprehend how or why we were fragmented as a people.

As Uri, the connector, he hoped to bridge worlds. 

But to us, he was Uri, the rock, the foundation, the joy, and the light.

Even though the world feels dimmer now, his brilliant light has not extinguished. It has spread into all of us, into every child, grandchild, great-grandchild, chavrusa, rov, friend, and everyday person who met him even once.

My father’s lessons were simple yet profound. He taught us to trust Hashem with a whole heart, to always express gratitude, especially during challenging times. He emphasized the importance of daily Torah study and honoring and cherishing those who teach it, regardless of their age. He stressed the significance of cherishing our spouses and treating each other with kindness. An exceptional son, he excelled in his kibbud eim especially, and treasured his siblings. He encouraged us to celebrate our children, love them unconditionally. And he reminded us to let our smiles brighten the world.

The recipe seems simple. If only more could do it.

When ArtScroll printed the Rav Moshe Feinstein 25th Anniversary book, my father fell in love with it. He read it slowly, every page, every story. It meant so much to him.

One Friday afternoon, I walked into the room and saw him wipe away a tear. I asked, “Daddy, what’s wrong?” He tried answering, but his voice caught. He finally whispered, “I just finished the book. It was so beautiful.” And suddenly his eyes filled again.

I sat beside him and asked, “So why are you crying?”

He looked at me and said the simplest and truest words:

“Because the hero dies...”

Avi Mori, Reb Abba Zev ben Reb Chaim Yitzchok HaLevi, I love you. I always have, and I always will. Thank you for every moment—for the love, the pride, the values, and the laughter.

For being my Uri. My hero.

And most of all, thank you for being my Daddy.