Bar Yochai, part 5
My struggle with the Romans was over.
So I went home. There, with my son and a devoted assistant, I worked the old manuscripts. I wrote commentaries on the texts, took lunch in the sunshine, tended a garden and watched my son grow. When I died, it was said that I had spent my better days observing the Shabbat, believing that if I could only observe two Sabbaths properly, the world would be redeemed.
I am buried in Meron. I am called a tzaddik yesod olam, one of those persons, it is told, by whose merit the world continues to exist. I am the sole bearer of certain secrets, and along with my ten friends, the chevrayya, with whom I have shared these secrets, we sustain the world in times of darkness, brokenness, and trouble.
On this day, the 18th day of Iyyar, Lag B’omer, you remember my yahrzeit. You have felt my presence beneath the holy mountain Meron where you visit my resting place, you sing songs to my memory, you tell my stories to your children.
You remember me. I remember you.
— Bar Yochai