One of my fondest childhood memories is of my weekly visits to my grandparents’ home. My father would take my brother and me every Friday afternoon, to my grandparents’ delight. Grandma would hover over us anxiously, feeding us her famous potato kugel, chocolate chip cookies, and ginger ale, all the while peppering us with questions and advice. Most of my friends had lost their grandparents in the Holocaust long before they were born, so I felt very fortunate to enjoy the loving affection of doting grandparents.

Years passed, and I grew up, married, and had children of my own. My grandparents’ health began to fail. Grandma suffered from dementia and eventually had to be put into a nursing facility, where she spent the last seven years of her life. She seemed totally incoherent during her last few years, incapable of even eating normally. I found it difficult to visit her, as she was but a shadow of the vibrant, cheery, and busy grandmother I had known and loved as I was growing up. I found the visits depressing, and I didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing whether my visits made any difference to her. Although I took my children dutifully to visit the Grandma they never really knew, as time went on, the visits became shorter and less frequent.

My father, however, continued to visit Grandma every day. A loyal and loving son, he made sure she was well cared for, and that she was given the proper nourishment and medication. He even made sure she looked presentable, though I couldn’t imagine anyone really knowing the difference. The nurses all knew my father would be there each day, gently checking on them, and they treated Grandma more conscientiously than they did some of the other residents.

My father would often take my young children to visit Grandma, their Eltere Bubby, and, inevitably, they would return all enthused. “We saw Zaidy put make-up on Eltere Bubby’s face!” they would shout with glee, or “We saw Zaidy help feed Eltere Bubby!” I felt guilty not sharing my children’s enthusiasm visiting my grandmother, but I rationalized my behavior by saying that they didn’t remember her like I had, and it wasn’t as depressing for them to see her as it was for me. In truth, however, I just didn’t quite feel the same sense of responsibility for Grandma’s well-being that my father did, and I couldn’t muster that same tender affection my father showed his mother, even though it had such an impact on my children. I actually felt like I had already lost my grandmother several years earlier.

When Grandma passed away, I was asked to speak at the funeral. It was difficult planning her eulogy, for the freshest memories in my mind were those of an incapacitated woman about whom there was not much to say. Frustrated, I wondered why Hashem would prolong a life that seemed to have so little meaning to it. What purpose could there be in a life in which there is no ability to perform any mitzvos whatsoever?

But then it hit me. Who are we to decide what constitutes a purposeful life? It’s true, Grandma couldn’t really do anything, or even care for herself, yet she had still provided her family with a model for the fulfillment of a most important mitzvah, that of honoring one’s parent. My children were able to witness their grandfather carrying out his obligations to his mother with care and concern, although she may not even have been aware of what was being done for her. Is that not purpose? After all, the primary function of a parent is to be an educator for his or her children. Sometimes, educating may be more passive than it is active, but that may very well be the will of Hashem for a specific individual at a specific time and place.

Belatedly, I realized that as difficult as the past seven years had been, we were very fortunate to have had benefited from Grandma in her role as matriarch of our family. Whether she realized it or not, she afforded us a valuable experience. Ultimately, I have no doubt that Grandma, too, benefited from her role as a teacher for the family. That was her mitzvah.

Several years passed, and my wife and I were blessed with another daughter. Shortly after the birth, the doctor informed us that the baby showed signs characteristic of Down Syndrome, though we would not know for certain until test results returned.

My wife and I looked at each other helplessly. We were not really prepared for this sudden turn of events and my wife was devastated. “How am I supposed to feel?” she asked, somewhat bewildered. “Is this really a simcha? We don’t even know if the baby will ever be able to function properly.” I tried to reassure her that many people with Down Syndrome are very high-functioning, and with G-d’s help, our daughter could be the same. But silently, I wondered, “What if she won’t be able to function? What purpose could there be in a life with no ability to observe mitzvos? Is that not the purpose of our existence?”

Somehow, the question seemed to strike a familiar chord, though I wasn’t really sure why. Then, a second thought—also familiar—crossed my mind. Who were we to decide what constitutes a purposeful life? I suddenly thought about Grandma, who had taught us there can be purpose to life, any life, even when one is unable to perform mitzvos like everyone else. G-d, in His great wisdom, has a plan, and a mitzvah, for every person, whether or not he or she is capable of realizing it.

A grandmother suffering from dementia may fulfill her purpose by affording her family opportunities for mitzvos, and a challenged child, too, can fulfill her purpose in the same way. Every child provides its parents with opportunities to practice love and kindness, and all the more so, a special-needs child. Of course, every parent would love to enjoy the “normal” nachas and joy a healthy child brings to his or her parents, but that is only secondary to the primary purpose in raising children, fulfilling the will of the Creator.

Hopefully, we would yet enjoy the many accomplishments of our daughter. But Grandma had already taught us that the quality of life is too valuable to be measured by mere accomplishments.

Rabbi Nisenbaum is the director of Jewish Learning Connection in Cleveland, OH. He is the author of The Narrative of Faith Haggadah and Powerlines: Essays on the Jewish Holidays.

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