But then there are the gifts that don’t fit into shoeboxes, or shelves, or even albums

When the gifts started to trickle in, I gave my son a shoebox and said, “Put all the checks in here, and keep a list of who gave what.”

Which he did rather meticulously, tallying up his growing collection with joy.

And just this week, yet another Ikea bookshelf graces our home, right outside the boys’ bedroom. Now we can unpack the impressive Shas he got from his aunts and uncles; the red Avnei Miluim; the gleaming volumes that stand upright on the still dust-free shelf.

But then there are the gifts that don’t fit into shoeboxes, or shelves, or even albums.

Like the gift of a great-grandfather attending his bar mitzvah, imparting a message of love and faith, of past and future.

How much is it worth to have a Yid in his nineties — once flogged and beaten on his head so badly that his hat size is off the charts — telling the generations around him about the final moments spent with his father?

“…And my father stood there and said to me, ‘Blahb a Yid!’” His voice cracks. I wave the waiters away, telling them to hold off with the chopped liver for a few more minutes. A brave cousin stands guard at the door, keeping the sweetest little great-grandchildren out.

“And a few years ago, some nonreligious college students had to write about the Holocaust, and they found me. They asked me, ‘How could you have remained religious after everything you went through?’”