From Shelly Stohl

Strength Behind a Smile

I promised that I would share my humble memories of Dr. Rubin. I apologize in advance to you and to him that, although I had one of the best English teachers in the business, my words are inadequate to encapsulate the full impression that he left with me:

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Dr. Rubin nearly always wore a smile across his face. A warm smile, at that. And his voice was lively - upbeat and full of promise. He had much to be happy for, most notably his beloved wife, his four wonderful children (yes, Moshe, even you, though I'm being a bit generous here), and the ever-growing clan of grandchildren.

But Dr. Rubin's wasn't a simple warm smile. It was a wry warm smile. There was something faintly intimidating about his persona. On my visits to the Rubin home, I welcomed Dr. Rubin's exuberance, but I was also always just a little bit scared. Dr. Rubin's smile seemed to stem from a satisfaction, a surety, a pride that comes with hard-won and hard-earned successes, that comes from knowing you've sacrificed in your life for the right things - from knowing that you've made the right choices. His smile betrayed a moral fortitude, as if to say: I've wrestled with some serious dilemmas, I've faced tall obstacles, and I didn't run, I didn't settle, I didn't compromise my values. His smile challenged you - it challenged me - to live up to that standard. It challenged you to live so that one day you could smile like him.

I'm privy, I'm sure, to but a small fraction of the life-altering choices and the trying struggles Dr. Rubin faced as a Jew, as a professional, as a father, and as a grandfather. He must have confronted those choices and those struggles with dignity and with principle - you could read it on his face. And he must have felt certain that he successfully passed on that fortitude to his family - it radiated from his smile.