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Tomorrow marks the Shloshim of my dear Bubby, my father’s mother, 30 days since her passing. She was 94 years old.
This is a beautiful article that my sister wrote about her, which I am sharing.
By Sara Chana Shields (nee Lapine)
This Shabbos marks the Shloshim of my dear Grandmother Janice LaPine, Gilda Riva Bas Menasha. Please do an act of kindness in her memory and bring Moshiach NOW!
My Bubby used to say, “Your father, when he was a baby, he was like the Lord—he neither slumbered nor slept.” She had as much personality as she had memorable sayings. Even when she was in assisted living care, if you asked who her favorite child was, she would say, “Lucky the dog.”
But behind her sarcastic humor, she lived a life of extraordinary kindness.
From the time she was a child, kindness was the language she spoke. She often told a story about a man who walked into her parents’ store wearing an undershirt full of holes. Her mother didn’t see his torn clothing; she saw his dignity. She handed him a clean undershirt and said, “Oh, my husband is going
to be so upset with me. I bought too many undershirts. Could you please do me a favor and take one?”
The man walked away believing he was doing her a favor—but in truth, she was giving him one. That was the world my grandmother grew up in: a home where compassion came first, where kindness was never announced, only quietly lived.
Another story she cherished was about a boy in her class whose mother couldn’t pack him a lunch. Every day, my great-grandmother prepared an extra one. My grandmother delivered it to the teacher, who gave it to the boy—so he never felt ashamed, never knew it was “charity.” It was simply care, human to human.
Growing up, I saw my grandmother’s kindness everywhere. She noticed people the world often ignored. In public restrooms, she thanked and complimented the custodian with genuine warmth. She made them feel like royalty—because to her, every soul mattered. Watching her do this as a child left a mark on me.
She once told me that whenever she walked into a social gathering, she looked for the person sitting alone. “That’s who I want to sit next to,” she said. “Popular people already have plenty of friends. But someone sitting alone might need one.” And over the years, she made lifelong friends that way.
Even in her later years, living in an assisted living village in Kansas, her kindness radiated outward. Every nurse and aide knew her by name. They didn’t just recognize her—they adored her. She greeted them as if they were extraordinary:
“You are such a kind soul.”
“You look beautiful today.”
She meant every word. That sincerity was something people felt.
Her philosophy was simple: “When you have something nice to say, just say it. Don’t wait until someone dies to speak nicely about them.” She didn’t save compliments for special occasions. She created special occasions by giving them.
She carried this same kindness into teaching. At Hebrew school, she refused to reduce a child’s worth to a grade. “What baloney!” she would say. And when a struggling child needed encouragement, she gave him an A+. Years later, he became a doctor—and still remembered her kindness.
This is who she was.
And her legacy continues. Within the week of Shiva, my four-year-old son saw a boy on the playground being yelled at by other children. Without hesitation, he ran to him, took his hand, and said, “Do you want to go tell Morah? Should I come with you?”
In that moment, my son became the voice for a child who didn’t have one. I felt my grandmother’s spirit flicker alive again. Her legacy—her way of seeing the overlooked, her instinct to protect the vulnerable—was living on in him.
We sometimes underestimate the power of small acts of kindness. But my grandmother understood their reach. Through her stories, her actions, and her love, she taught me how to teach my own children: to ask not only what they learned in school, but whether everyone is being treated kindly; to rise above hurtful behavior; to stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.
These lessons are more than good parenting. They are more than values. They are lifelines. When we teach our children to care deeply, to notice the child who stands alone, to offer kindness where others offer judgment, we plant seeds that can save someone’s spirit—and even their life.
My grandmother’s life was not defined by wealth, fame, or achievements. It was defined by the quiet, steady way she made people feel valued.
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