As I sit down at my father’s desk to write my eulogy to him, I can’t help asking, “Dad, what would you say?” In fact I recall a conversation with my father, following a funeral service he conducted, where after careful consideration he stated that “The only person, Jonathan, I would really trust to do my eulogy is me.” Now anyone who knew my father knew that he held himself in pretty high esteem, but the most annoying thing was, he was right. I can’t think of anyone who could do a better job of eulogising my father, than my father. But without my him, except for inspiration, I must do my best.

In the week since my father died, one phrase has been repeated more than any other at 3 Amberley Close. “What would Sidney do?” How should we best honour my grandfather, so shortly after my dad’s death – what would Sidney do? How should we acknowledge and respond to the hundreds of thoughtful cards and emails sent to us every day – what would Sidney do? The kitchen sink is refusing to drain – what would Sidney do?

For my dad was our rudder, our crutch and our safety net - guiding the family through stormy seas and calm, always at the end of the phone to solve the intractable problem, or mediate the petty dispute.

Since my father’s death, our family have been overwhelmed by the outpourings of grief from so many people that my dad’s life touched. We have heard this evening about his many and varied achievements, and while all true and comforting, in all honestly I find it a little hard to absorb. I guess this is because to me, Rabbi Dr Sidney Brichto, was simply my dad. While I followed his professional career with great pride and admiration, the reason I truly respected and admired him was because he was the most supporting father I could hope to imagine and his capacity for love was incredible.

As children he never put pressure on us to become or achieve anything except our own happiness and personal fulfilment. He never sought to influence our career or life choices, trusting in us, with his and my mother’s guidance if required, to make the right decisions for ourselves. He revelled in our personal achievements, but never made us feel guilty for our failings.

During my A-Levels, I had to prepare a History dissertation on the rise of Hitler. The night before it was due to be handed in, my dad discovered me, at 2 in the morning, at my computer with only the introduction drafted. He did not get upset or angry, but discussed what needed to be done, and set about writing it with me. We finished it at 8 o’clock, just in time for us to creep back to our rooms before my mother awoke.

The following month, my Politics dissertation was due, again my father discovered me at my computer in the middle of the night, again little was on the screen. No dramatics, no lecture, he just sat down next to me, with a barely audible sigh, and made sure it was completed with the minimum of fuss for the next morning. When all was done, he looked at me, with his wry smile, and simply said, “Please, Jonathan, lets learn from this.” And that was all that needed to be said.

While I still leave most things to the last minute, my desire not to disappoint my father, taught me to accept responsibility for my own actions. It was in these simple gentle ways, that my father, often without me realising it, taught me, and my siblings the lessons that enabled us to grow into adulthood.

More recently, my father started asking us for advice. The daily phone calls relating to his implacable struggles with his laptop were to be honest infuriating, but he would also seek advice on what to title his latest volume of his bible translation, how to conclude an article to a newspaper, or how to deal with a family dispute. Initially it puzzled me, that my father, a man much revered for his council, should turn to us for advice, but in his passing I have realised that it was just another stage is our tutelage, him giving us the confidence in our own decision making and convictions, which he knew would be necessary for us to survive and flourish when he was gone.

As my sister, Anne, noticed, it is quite special to have a man that either excels in his public or family life, to have one that does so in both, however, is truly remarkable.

After finishing my Bar Mitzvah Torah portion, which my father had careful taught me, I looked up at him seeking his approval and was met with a warm smile that stretched from ear to ear. I’d like to think he is smiling now.