But if it were not for those who taught us, those who came before us, those who we remember who are no longer here, we would not be where we are today on this day of atonement and on this day of spiritual reflection. I would like to share with you a beautiful story whose author is anonymous. The story reminds us of the fragility of life and at the same time reminds us how precious each and every day is to us when we wake up and when we go to sleep. The story shares with us the importance that each and every person has in the world and when someone is no longer present, the scene and the feelings transform our world tremendously. The story is entitled “Information please”.

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished, old case, fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was “information please” and there was nothing she did not know. “Information please” could supply anybody’s number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie in the bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench of the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn’t seem to be any reason for crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. “Information please,” I said in to the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small voice spoke into my ear.

“Information”. “I hurt my finger…” I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. “Isn’t your mother home?” came the question. “Nobody’s home but me,” I blubbered.

“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked. “No” I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.” “Can you open your icebox?” she asked. I said I could. “Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice.

After that I called “Information please” for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me that my pet chipmunk, which I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then there was the time that Petey, our pet canary died. I called “information please” and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said the unusual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her “why is it that birds should sing so beautifully, and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?” She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”

Another day, I was on the telephone. “Information please.” “Information”, said the now familiar voice. “How do you spell fix?” I asked. All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest.

When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. “Information please” belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity, I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciate now how patient, understanding and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half an hour or so between planes. I spent about fifteen minutes on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then, without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “information please.” Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. “Information.” I hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself saying, “could you please tell me how to spell fix?” There was along pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.” I laughed. “So it’s really still you,” I said. “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during this time.” “I wonder,” she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.”

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked her if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. “Please do, she said. “Just ask for Sally.”

Three months later, I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered. “Information”, I asked for Sally. “Are you a friend?” she said. “Yes, a very old friend,” I answered. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she said, “Sally had been working part time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.”

Before I could hang up she said, “wait a minute”. Did you say your name was Paul?” “Yes” I responded. “Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you. The note said, “tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.” I thanked her and hung up the phone. I knew what Sally meant.

As we gather on this Yom Kippur and will recite Yizkor later this afternoon we will recall with affection and love the moments in our lives when those who are no longer with us served as our information people. How many of us had that special someone in our lives that helped us with our homework, how many of us had someone who helped us when we were hurt, when our fingers were swollen? And now on Yom Kippur, not only do we take the time to remember them and the information they provided for us, but we vow to their memories and to their souls that we will support what they stood for by giving Tzedakah- by giving Tzedakah and performing acts of loving kindness as a reminder to us that the information and blessings they have provided us are not forgotten.

But Yom Kippur and Yizkor are present for us to comprehend and to fulfill our role as the information people to others. We ask God every Yom Kippur for Selichah, for forgiveness. But when we ask for atonement we indirectly ask for something else as well. We request of and beseech to God to allow us a chance to live out our responsibilities and love for helping others throughout the year. We provide information that is priceless, wisdom that is cherished and advice that we deem to be holy in maintaining the special and intimate relationships we share with others.

Our Rabbis teach us that Yom Kippur is supposed to feel like the day of our death. We do not eat, we do not drink, we converse with God all day and we yearn for souls to be redeemed with great divine strength from God. It is on Yom Kippur that we are to fully appreciate and accept our role in being God’s Klei Kadosh, God’s holy vessels who carry God’s Torah very carefully by teaching, guiding, learning, living and hallowing such a fantastic and eternal possession.

Just as we remember those who are no longer here on Yom Kippur, we must also remember the values that they fought for, the strength that they have given to us, and our moral and ethical duties that we have in sanctifying their memories and maintaining the holiness in our lives that God expects. We do so by humbling ourselves on this day as we beg for forgiveness hoping that we will be the generation who has the ability to bring everlasting stability to our world leading to an era of Messianic redemption and eternal peace.

May we act in such a way for those who are no longer here, may we act for God’s sake, and most importantly we must act for our own sake, because if we do not, then those who will come after us will not remember what we stood for and will not have a vision of where to go in the future.

May our actions and the words that come with them give the world the holiness that it needs and may this Yom Kippur be the beginning as we evolve, shape, rebuild and re-inform what has already been created for us, and we say Amen!