To those who were near, and those who were far, he was their “Shalom.” A lichtige smile of wisdom, of unbridled love and contagious warmth.

Now, with the passing of Rabbi Shalom Weingot, the world is a sadder place.

The Nine Days came early this year. And in the cities of Baltimore, Maryland; McKeesport, Pennsylvania; and Cleveland, Ohio, there is a sense of disbelief and a gaping void. How can someone with so much life to him be rendered lifeless?

Beneinu. Our children. That’s what he called his organization. That’s the way he felt. Your child is my child. I will do anything I can to bring a smile to his face and more light to his neshamah.

A rare maven of souls, Reb Shalom was intuitive; he understood the depths of the pintele Yid.

Make no mistake. Reb Shalom was a talmid chacham and a lamdan. His Dirshu morning kollel attests to that. He introduced hundreds of boys to the world of lomdus through the eyes of the Mishmeres Chaim, the beautiful and engaging world of Rav Chaim Pinchas Scheinberg’s Torah.

But it wasn’t just Torah. It was simchas haTorah.

On a Friday morning over 20 years ago, Reb Shalom waltzed into the rebbeim’s room (that’s how he always entered) in the Talmudical Academy of Baltimore, and notified us that he had a special song to teach the boys. We looked at each other and thought it was a bit strange. After all, middle-school boys are inhibited; they don’t sing. Maybe a few would. But the vast majority would certainly roll their eyes. They were definitely not going to sing a song with elementary English lyrics.

However, he encouraged us to join him, and we gave him a chance. He entered the beis midrash and with a smile his face could hardly contain, he began to sing.

The words say it all. “I’m so happy to be here so I sing Mizmor, Mizmor Shir.”

And then the high part: “Good Shabbos, Ribbono Shel Olam!”

At first, nothing.

But then, inexplicably, the boys began to sing along. With exuberance and joy, forgetting their surroundings, they were jumping up and down, singing along with Reb Shalom.

It was a marvel to behold. He coaxed children who were completely inhibited to shed their inhibitions, tapping into their neshamos. And one could see the smiles slowly but brilliantly form on their faces, like the sunrise emerging from the darkness of night.

This was well before the “Thank You Hashem” movement. Singing with older boys was almost unthinkable.

But he was in love with people. And in love with the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Incredibly, he did it for adults, as well. Five minutes in conversation with Reb Shalom and he infused you with a heavy dose of bitachon, simchah, and chizuk all rolled into one.

I’ve often wondered how he did it. He wasn’t afraid to walk into the room with boys, who had no interest whatsoever to learn. And they certainly didn’t want to sing. But he didn’t care. He never judged them. He saw the light and the beauty of their limitless souls. He saw potential. He saw holiness. He saw what few others were able to.

He was gifted with the bris of Shalom.

Hineni nosein lo es brisi shalom.

Hashem gave Reb Shalom Weingot the ability to bridge worlds.

With his head tilted just so, he left no one out.

Over the years, I would hear tens of his original songs, each one expressing the privilege and the joy of being a Yid. He always shared the source of the song, what moved him to compose.

The words often came from Tehillim, but always from his heart. And they found their way into the hearts of those near and far.

From him.

And from Him.

Mrs. Weingot, Reb Shalom’s wife, taught my children. As anyone who has ever met her will testify, she embodies the Shechinah. As a morah, she raises her precious students and infuses them with holiness and purity, with kedushah and taharah. When a child is rowdy and frankly, impossible, she says that the child “has unusual kochos.”

Together, they raised a family that bursts with chein and love. For each other. And for the Jewish people.

Never judgmental, Reb Shalom saw people for who they are and who they can become. He saw the whole picture. How fitting. Isn’t that shalom?

The Ropshitzer explains that a pike’ach is a person who doesn’t come to a conclusion based on partial information, but first listens to all sides of the argument, each צד. צד has the numerical value of 94. A person who listens to each side, צד+ צד(188), is a פקח (188).

If everyone sits on one side of the boat, the boat will capsize. But if both sides in an argument are clever, and each is willing to hear what the other side has to say, then we have פקח+פקח (376), which is the numerical value of שלום, peace. Haflei va’fele!

Reb Shalom saw the gantze mentch, both sides. He cherished people. And they, in turn, cherished him.

His son mentioned at the levaya that whenever he told his father about his unconventional dreams, his father always had the same response: “Go for it!” He believed in people. And he believed in their dreams.

At the end of Kaddish, we bow once in one direction, once in the other direction, and once toward the middle. If we are to learn from Reb Shalom, we must treasure people. All people. From all sides. From all directions.

Reb Shalom, the Ribbono Shel Olam cries for His children, she’galu mei’al shulchan avihem, who have been exiled from their Father’s table.

Bring some simchah to the Heavens.

You spent a lifetime lifting the children of Hashem. Maybe you can help bring them back home.

Tzeis’chem le’shalom, dear chaver. If anyone can bridge the gap, it’s you, Reb Shalom!

Go for it!

Oseh shalom bimromav Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu!