The books that came into my hands during my two-year stay at Ohr Somayach in Yerushalayim are regularly pulled off the shelves of my cerebral library. One, entitled The Grave Concern, was lent to me by Rabbi Meir Schuster zt”l, the soft-spoken, relentless man who pointed countless lost Jewish wayfarers back to the true path of their Jewish self-discovery. The word grave is used as an adjective, describing the dire situation of America’s Jewish landscape, which was being torn asunder by assimilation, and was illustrated by the cover, which featured an hourglass showing letters of the aleph-beis disintegrating into the sands of time. The book is a litany of personal chronicles of a journalist who tracked the stories of people he knew who had gotten lost in the shuffle of exile and had traded in their Yiddishkeit for the baubles of beckoning riches, leaving them unmindful of their precious legacy while they reveled in vacuous and valueless achievements that faded to black with the last closing of their disillusioned eyes.