Give them your light: My friend’s lessons will ring true, long after his death
What kind of person was David Feder? I learned a story this morning, when I was watching the recording of his funeral, which was held Tuesday in St. John’s.
When he was recovering from one of his hip surgeries, he used to walk from his home on Forest Road to the Dominion store by Quidi Vidi Lake — not to shop, but to push a cart around as part of his recovery, like a kind of walker.
The priest said he would do this up to three times a day, and he came to know the staff — who surely had noticed a man pacing the aisles with a cart. Not surprisingly, Dave became friends with them.
When Loblaw decided to close the store recently, Dave went to that Dominion one more time — this time with envelopes for each of those befriended workers.
And that’s Dave, to the core. One of the nicest people I ever knew, and this note is about what an inspiration he will be.
What a guy. What a mensch.
As I wrote in a Facebook post after learning of his death, I can’t remember the first time I met Dave, because my memories only go back so far. He was a toddler when I was born; his parents, Herb and Alison, were close to my parents, so we grew up in the same orbit. We were in different grades at different schools, but we ran into each other throughout our lives.
David died last Friday in St. John’s, after a sudden illness. He was only 62. He would have turned 63 later this month. As far as I know, he didn’t drink and he didn’t smoke, and he was an athlete’s athlete: he was as fit as he could be, and played sports from childhood through his adult years, and was exceptional at a good few of them.
Years ago, we played squash, and it was pointless exercise for me. Literally pointless. Surely I am not the only one to have played squash with Dave and been annihilated in the game. And yet, his legendary kindness was always such that I felt great about being completely smoked.
Herb and Alison were in their 40s when they became parents with their only child. The Feders were one of the couples my parents yearned to see, and I remember them as great company. They saw Martha and me get married, and Alison — I called her Dr. Feder, always — taught Martha at Memorial’s English department.
I guess I always assumed Dave would be around for at least as long as his folks, whom he adored. Herb died in 2005, at 88. Alison was 93 when she died in 2016.
I learned from Dave’s own obituary that in his later years he respected both the Jewish faith of his dad and the Catholic faith of his mom (in which he was raised).
Both of these traditions were present at his own funeral. One of the readings was a poem called When All That’s Left Is Love, by the American rabbi Allen S. Maller. It closes with these words:
And when you say
Kaddish for me
Remember what our
Torah teaches,
Love doesn’t die
People do.
So when all that’s left of me is love
Give me away.
I’ve been reading a lot of words about Dave over the last week (not a few of them addressing him as Feeds, a nickname evidently for the ages). The same words came up over and over again in these tributes, especially of his kindness.
Dave was genuinely glad to see people, and was always curious about how people were — and their folks. He kept in touch. He brightened so many lives.
I last saw him at the visitation for my dad, in the very same room where I came to his not two years later.
I am so very sorry for his wife, Marcy Greene, and for his lifelong friends and everyone close to him. He meant a lot to a great many people.
I hope his nephew Pat Greene will allow me to quote from a moving Facebook post, in which he shared advice that his uncle had once given him:
“When you meet someone in need always give them your light. So many things had to happen for you to meet them, shine your light and help as much as you can. The universe will repay your kindness tenfold every time.”
I’ve gone back to those words a few times over the last few days. They offer such great advice.
I have no idea at all if Dave ever liked the British band Primal Scream, but I’ve played their 1991 song Movin’ On Up a few times this week because of him.
From now on, I am always going to associate the joyful refrain of the song’s final minutes — the building chorus of “my light shines on” — with David Feder.
Give your light to others.
Let your light shine on.