Perhaps the only thing that we know with certainty about Rav Shimshon Pincus is that no one really knew him. Renowned simultaneously as a master of prayer, a fiery activist, a talented orator, and loving leader, he could not confine himself to any one role. Ten years after his shocking passing, his son Eliyahu Pincus describes the man whose prayers were so powerful that “Hashem had to take him suddenly, without allowing him a chance to ask for more time”

The drashah was over: tape recorders were switched off and notebooks shut, people rose and stretched their legs. A small cluster of listeners gathered around Reb Shimshon, leaning in eagerly to hear one more vort. Others greeted him in the hope of being lifted by his glowing smile, standing in his presence to feel the contagious energy that seemed to emanate from deep within him.

An acquaintance approached. “Rebbi, don’t return to Ofakim tonight. You don’t look well. Spend the night at my home.”

But Reb Shimshon excused himself on that night, just before Pesach, saying that he was in a hurry.

“Every second of life is netzach, eternity,” he explained.

That was his final drashah. Reb Shimshon Pincus, ztz”l, who painted each moment — each interaction and experience — in this world with the colors of eternity.

Of Another World

Sitting in the elegant lobby of the Jerusalem hotel, I have the same sensation as I do when hearing his recorded talks, learning his classic seforim; everything is tinged with meaning, with the otherworldly. Across from me sits Reb Eliyahu Pincus, the rav’s second son. All around us, waiters circle, linen napkins draped over extended arms as they offer steaming cups of coffee, as healing Jerusalem sunshine pours in through floor to ceiling windows. In the corner, a talented young pianist fills the room with sound — a scene very much of this world. Yet discussing Reb Shimshon, one is transported, elevated above their surroundings. Nothing is what it seems, everything in this world is just a means to something greater, something higher.

With his dark suit, black hat, and white shirt, Reb Eliyahu looks like a thousand other avreichim across the Holy City, but there is something that sets him apart, a certain seriousness, a maturity and understanding that is usually accompanied by silver hair and wrinkles. Then again, the young man has had to contend with more than others do in a lifetime: in a blink, he lost his father, mother and sister. With no time to react, he found himself a father to a long line of younger siblings, and even before sitting shivah, he was forced to make life-and-death medical decisions for his sister. He was the one who accompanied her to America, spending most of the year following the accident traveling from hospital to hospital with her.

And, it seems, since that time ten years ago, he’s had little time to think — there is too much to do, between tending to his own growing family and the one his parents left him. But on a bright winter morning, he allows the words to tumble out, shares the feelings and memories and insights into what it was like to be a member of that home: a home of the bricks and mortar of this world, that somehow carried within it the scent of the next.

“There is a misconception about my father and his message. In a sentence, it was about forming a real and vibrant connection with HaKadosh Baruch Hu, but that isn’t as simple a concept as it sounds.

“I remember standing with him on a street corner in Yerushalayim, near Ahavat Shalom, after we finished learning one day. ‘Eliyahu,’ he said to me, ‘people think of the Ribono shel Olam as a friend. But the pasuk in Koheles says: ki Elokim baShamayim v’atah al ha’aretz, al kein yihiyu dvarecha muatim. A person has to be careful what comes out of his mouth. It’s dangerous, the picture people have of Him,kmo sabba’le zakein, like a sweet elderly grandfather. That means they focus on the love and satisfaction that we give Him, but they ignore the awe that is as much a part of the relationship as unconditional love. We have no concept of what He is. All that the seforim reveal is just about His behavior with us, but in essence, He is fire — being bound to him comes with frightening responsibility.’$$$SEPARATE QUOTES$$$”

Reb Eliyahu shrugs. “That’s what he said to me, and that was my father’s message. Sure, it’s a real connection, but it’s laced with pachad. We are used to simplifying things: the Litvaks care about the particulars of halachah, and chassidim choose to stress the emotional connection of the mitzvah. The fine line between them was where my father made his place. They are both necessary for the relationship — the feeling, but also the seriousness. Emotion within the framework of din.”

“When my father was a bochur, he would often spend time alone on the roof of the Breslov yeshivah in contemplation, hisbodedus. Some bochurim went running to the rosh yeshivah, Reb Berel Soloveitchik, and said, ‘Shimshon will become a Breslover.’ Reb Berel laughed. ‘Leave Shimshie alone, you don’t have don’t worry about him.’

“The rosh yeshivah understood that my father was able to incorporate the yearning for a Divine connection into his avodah as a talmid of Brisk.”

On Rosh HaShanah, Rav Shimshon had a halachic dilemma: he wanted to daven a long Shemoneh Esrei to use every moment of the holy day for prayer, yet there is a Brisker chumrah that, in order to fulfill the din of tekios d’meyushav, one has to hear the words of the chazzan’s repetition from the chazzan. That would mean keeping his Shemoneh Esrei short. That was his type of sheilah — he wanted to daven and daven ... but also to keep to the fine points of halachah, down to the Brisker chumrah. Incidentally, he ultimately decided to finish Shemoneh Esrei in time for Chazaras HaShatz, like the Brisker minhag.

“If you want to write about my father, that’s who he was, and that was his message to the world.”

In a Bubble with Hashem

“My father would often quote the pasuk, ‘v’gam hanefesh lo simalei,’ the soul refuses to be satisfied. That was his essence, perpetually in motion, searching and seeking how he could do more.”

When the rosh yeshivah passed away in Yerucham, Reb Shimshon, as rav, was forced to step in and deliver the highest shiur. “It was the best year and half of his life, he spent most of the day engaged in learning and teaching Torah. He was never happier. Everyone was shocked when he announced his intention to hire a permanent rosh yeshivah and give up the position. ‘Tatty, you have a kehillah and a yeshivah, stay here,’ we begged. But of course he felt compelled to go ‘do’ elsewhere.

“And he wasn’t pursuing numbers, looking for a more prestigious pulpit. In his last years, he would spend lots of time in South Africa, teaching and lecturing. It was physically taxing and emotionally draining for him to be away for so long. I asked him to take it easy, and he said, ‘I gave thirty shiurim in one week while I was there, and they flocked to each one. The people were begging me to stay and teach them more. How can I leave them?’

“Do you know who his talmidim were there? There was a fellow there who had driven to shul on Shabbos, and he struck up a friendship with my father. My father told me that there was only one solution for that Jew: leima masnisin d’lo k’Ven Nanes: in-depth learning. He sat with and taught him Bava Metzia for hours, confident that the light of Torah would have an effect.”

“He would travel to Gibraltar to say shiurim. To crowds? No. To one person, who he felt needed him.”

V’gam henefesh lo simalei.

“It was like he lived in a bubble with the Ribono shel Olam, that was the only pressure he felt, the only thing that meant anything to him. Sometimes, it was as if he didn’t see the people around him, like he was only aware of the Eibeshter.”

“We were once at a chasunah and when he danced with the chassan, the orchestra began to play ‘Yamim al yemei melech tosif,’ like they do for Torah greats. He immediately grabbed the hands of some young children and began to dance comically with them. It was humiliating. I remember turning to my brother and commenting, ‘Gehinnom kvar lo yehiyeh lanu.’

“My father came to shul for my aufruf carrying an immense bag of candies. He was a respected rav, and there were many guests from distinguished families, but he didn’t worry about how it looked. He worried that there would be invariably be some children who wouldn’t manage to catch the pekelach thrown down from the woman’s section, so he kept candies on hand to console them.”

 Man of Many Gifts

With quiet intensity, Reb Eliyahu continues. “No one knows who Reb Shimshon Pincus was. Was he a tzaddik? A gaon? An askan? A maggid?

“In truth, he was all those things.” He would don different cloaks at different times, whichever was necessary for his calling.

“At the age of thirty, he was already the rav of a kehillah and saying shiurim at the yeshivah in Yerucham. But that wasn’t enough. He had visions of changing the world, and he intended to do it one mitzvah at a time. Shatnez, for example. Do you know how that worked? My parents purchased a sofa and my father discovered that it contained shatnez. He discussed it with other talmidei chachamim and was astounded at the fact that most people, even bnei Torah, were unfamiliar with hilchos shatnez, so he conquered the whole topic, learning every single din and source and minhag, mastering it down to the practical level, learning to check for shatnez. Then he went on a campaign to spread awareness, opening the first shatnez laboratory in Bnei Brak and delivering shiurim on it.

“He would advertise: ‘Avreich will come to your home and check your couches for shatnez, cost: one lira. Evenings between six and seven o’clock.’ Others might have made a career of being a ‘shatnez person’, but as soon as he saw that the idea had taken root, he moved on to the next thing: Shechitah or taharas hamishpachah or safrus.”

He saw a young kollel fellow biting his nails on Shabbos, and he realized that many people simply don’t realize that it is assur to do so. The youthful rav traveled around the country, hanging up signs alerting people to the fact that biting fingernails on Shabbos is an issur d’Oraysa (Torah-level prohibition).

In later years, Reb Shimshon made Krias Shma she’al HaMitah his personal crusade, never missing an opportunity to exhort his listeners to appreciate the power of the night-time prayer. In another era, meah brachos, the importance of reciting one hundred brachos each day, was his cause célèbre. When he felt that he had accomplished what he could in that area, he moved on to the brachah of asher yatzar, dedicating his public addresses to themes pertaining to that brachah.

“He was once asked to deliver a hesped in the famed Lederman shul, as prestigious a platform as one can hope for. He was pretty well-known by that time, but delivering one of his landmark drashos there would really have catapulted him to the next level, especially since he was speaking in front of the gedolei hador. I was learning in yeshivah in Bnei Brak at the time and came to hear him, excited for him to impress everyone.

“He rose to speak, looking out a crowd that included the likes of Rav Chaim Kanievsky, and he began to discuss the importance of the brachah of asher yatzar. I was devastated. He spoke on such a simple level, going through each word in the brachah. Later, I asked, ‘Tatty, why? You had a chance to establish yourself as the preeminent darshan in front of this distinguished crowd!’ He laughed and waved his hand. ‘I felt it was important for the people to hear it,’ he explained simply. ‘A plague is spreading, so many Yidden are ill, and I feel like this can protect Klal Yisrael.’

“But being an activist was just one facet of who he was. It wasn’t about him, he had no interest in being the person behind the movement. With each campaign he initiated — and there were many — there were soon organizations and programs established to propagate the message. Then he would disappear and move on to the next cause.

“He was the warmest rav, always smiling and greeting all Jews, regardless of their level of observance, with real love. Yet when he felt obligated to act, he acted. He never shied away from a battle.

“There was an advertising campaign in Beer Sheva that featured indecent pictures on bus stops. My father felt that the company had no right to offend their citizens in this fashion, and he drove around with spray paint, covering the pictures. He was a respected rav, with a long beard and frock, and it was unbecoming. Again, he laughed at our protests. He knew what he had to do.

“There was a clothing store directly across from the main shul in Petach Tikvah, and one day, the store owners mounted a huge billboard on their roof with a very inappropriate picture. Hundreds of people filed in and out of shul and couldn’t help but see the offensive picture, but the store owners were big, tough thugs and everyone was scared to say anything. Everyone except the rav of Ofakim. He drove down to Petach Tikvah and parked in front of the store. He climbed up to the roof, ignoring the horrified stares of onlookers. He reached the sign and, in one move, ripped the picture off the billboard and crumpled it. Then he got back into his car and drove off.

“He was once pulled into court for a similar violation and the judge looked down at him disapprovingly. ‘Atah tzarich orech din, you need a lawyer.’

No,’ my father shot back, ‘you need a lawyer. The Torah teaches us that harm befalls the Jewish people when ‘v’kam ha’am hazeh vazana, when there is immorality.’ The judge released him immediately.

“So you see,” Reb Eliyahu concludes, “my father could have made that his cause. He could have made a name for himself as an official kannai, going from rally to rally, becoming a fixture at demonstrations. But he wouldn’t be confined to any one role. He was just an ehrliche Yid, doing his part to bring glory to his Creator.”

Everyone in town knew that Reb Shimshon had cheshbonos for everything he did, that his conduct was dictated by the will of Hashem. Sometimes, however, his behavior surprised even those closest to him.

One day, he came home with a lit cigarette in his hand, and then — without so much as taking a puff — dropped it on the living-room floor and stepped on it, snuffing it out. To the curious stares of the family, he explained what he was doing.

“I saw a chashuve yungerman in shul do just this, drop his cigarette butt on the floor of the beis medrash and extinguish it with his heel. I was appalled, because the Mishnah Berurah says that the halachos of kavod beis haknesses dictate that we treat the shul with the very same respect as we treat out own homes.

“When I saw this act of disrespect,” Reb Shimshon continued, “I shuddered. I haven’t been able to forget about it, since I worry that it can, chas v’shalom, be a great kitrug on the fellow and on the entire community.”

He bent to lift the lifeless stub, leaving a black smudge on the floor. “I hope,” he concluded, “that by doing it in our home, it lessens the severity of the act and he will be spared.”

 Ask Eliyahu If He Is Hungry

“Don’t tell me about Reb Shimshon Pincus. Tell me about your father,” I say softly.

The flow of words stops as Reb Eliyahu smiles sadly. “He was a very good father.”

Prior to meeting to Reb Eliyahu, I’ve learned that he was his father’s right-hand man in many endeavors. Reb Shimshon’s successor as rav of Ofakim, his oldest son, Rav Yaakov Yisroel, continues to rely heavily on his younger brother for advice and assistance. Reb Eliyahu is a resourceful fellow, the type that is indispensable to a rav or leader, and I am eager for a glimpse into the relationship he shared with his great father.

‘We were extremely close. The last year of his life, we learned every day for morning seder. He confided in me about all sorts of things, I think he felt I understood what he was trying to do and respected his space enough to allow him his privacy.

“My father traveled in spheres we couldn’t see or comprehend, but, perhaps paradoxically, he was the most normal father. He laughed with us and listened to us and took us seriously, on our level. He managed to exist on his lofty level even as he walked hand in hand with us.

“I remember his sefiras haOmer. It could take him an hour, or even more, to say the tefillos and brachos with all the kavanos of the Rashash. On Friday nights, after davening, he would ask someone in shul to keep on eye on us kids so he could ‘finish up davening’ before Kiddush. But if we were hungry or wild, he would laugh and say, ‘Come, let’s go home.’ He once said to his talmid, ‘Go ask Eliyahu if he feels like he can wait a bit longer or if I still have a few minutes.’ It wasn’t like, ‘I am building and repairing worlds now, you need to wait respectfully. everything was easy and light when it came to us children.’$$$SEPARATE QUOTES$$$”

People who have heard or learned Rabbi Pincus’s shiurim on Pesach can only wonder what it must have been like to participate in his Seder.

“That’s a perfect example of the way he could shed one identity and assume another with ease. When my zeideh, Rav Mordechai Mann, was alive, he led the Seder at our home. My father would sit in the corner, totally oblivious to his surroundings, conducting a private Seder, so to speak, lost in his immense Haggadah with the kavanos of the Arizal and Rashash. He would do the mitzvos of the Seder at his own pace, engrossed in his thoughts, deep in concentration. But then the zeideh passed away, and the next year my father sat at the head and conducted the Seder like every other father, warm and patient and totally ‘there,’ sharing meshalim and drawing the interest of the little children.”

He couldn’t hide his greatness from his family. “We knew he was special, we lived with him. But he just never turned his loftiness into an issue. I remember, as a small child, he would ask us to wake him up. As soon as I’d call his name, he would jump up, as if bitten by a snake. I asked him how come he woke up that way. His reply was matter-of-fact. ‘Look, to lie in bed for another few moments after waking up is a tremendous pleasure. I know that I need to sleep, but that hana’ah isn’t necessary for me, so I try to do without it.’$$$SEPARATE QUOTES$$$”

Reb Eliyahu laughs. “But he never insisted that we wake up that way. He understood that we weren’t there.”

“Chaya, I Know Why You Had to Go”

“My father was a hidden tzaddik. No matter what you’ll write, or what anyone will write, he was essentially hidden. You’ll never know who he was, period. No one will. For the last year of his life, he spent all week in Yerushalayim, where he learned Kabbalah at the yeshivah of Rav Yaakov Hillel. He slept in a dank machsan [cellar] near the yeshivah, on a mattress on the floor. He ate very little, and spent all day learning. Nights were for teaching. Once, after our learning seder, I walked him back to his room and I looked around. Between the thin mattress, the draft flowing through, and the noise of pipes, it seemed like a miserable place. But I saw the piles of seforim all around the room and I said, ‘You know, when people find out about the life you’ve chosen for yourself here, they’re going to be amazed at what a porush you are, how you need no creature comfort. But I know you and I know the truth. You have it all here, you’re the happiest man in the world with your thin mattress and your seforim. This is your Olam HaZeh.’ He laughed heartily and admitted that I was right.”

Reb Shimshon had many talmidim from the various private vaadim and shmuessen he gave, and there were always requests from people who wanted to come join him for Shabbos in Ofakim.

“I noticed that he resisted,” says Eliyahu, “preferring to spend Shabbos in the relative privacy of family and community. I said ‘Tatty, I know that you don’t want people here, because then they might try to emulate you, and what you do works for you and only for you. You don’t want people looking too closely.’

“He smiled broadly and nodded.

“No one knew him — no one except for my mother. She had an appreciation for the extraordinary heights he’d reached. I will tell you something amazing. When my father was a young rav, a baby in town passed away. It was a crib death, Rachmana litzlan. My father felt that if such a thing could happen on his watch, then it was his responsibility to provide added protection for his flock, and he stayed up all night for the next two years learning. His chavrusa from that era described to me how once, in the middle of the night, my mother received a phone call from America — her mother was undergoing serious surgery. There were complications and things looked grim for my grandmother — she ultimately passed away from that illness — so my mother burst into the room where they were learning and cried out, ‘Shimshon, save my mother, you need to daven for her.’ Imagine! He was all of thirty-three years old, but she — who knew him best — was convinced that he had the power to save her mother’s life.”

Perhaps the most poignant remark of all was made by Rav Dovid Mann, a brother of Rebbetzin Pincus, at the levayah. “Chaya, I know why the Ribono shel Olam had to take you as well. Because had you remained, and Shimshon had gone, then you would have told us who he was....”

At The Gates of Prayer

Each story, each thought, each quote from Reb Shimshon does something to the heart, fills it with an awareness of the Infinite, and the recollections that fall from his son’s lips are no different. Our discussion turns to Reb Eliayhu’s memories of the master of prayer.

“People imagine that he would weep during tefillah, certain that the author of She’arim B’Tefillah would cry through each Shemoneh Esrei. Quite the opposite. He would stand ramrod straight, his fear of the King evident.”

Was Reb Shimshon otherwise known to cry? “Perhaps if he was saying Tehillim for a person who needed a refuah, he could grow passionate and begin to cry. Once a year we saw tears flow, unchecked, and that was on Shavuos morning as he ascended the bimah for his aliyah, the Aseres HaDibros. All around him, people would be dozing after a long night of learning and he would shout, ‘They are giving out diamonds, wake up. We are receiving the Torah, seeing the Maaseh Merkavah, open your eyes!’ He would weep when he said the brachos on the Torah, crying straight through his aliyah and the haftarah.”

In his seforim, Reb Shimshon discusses the security one should feel when davening. He says that the difference between asking a favor of a wealthy philanthropist and a kindly uncle is that while the wealthy man has the ability to help, he may not have the inclination. The loving uncle will certainly want to help, but may not have the means. The Ribono shel Olam, taught Reb Shimshon, has both; the ability and the desire to help.

Reb Eliyahu confirms that his father’s approach to tefillah bespoke confidence and certainty that he would be helped. “He once told me that he had never asked for something in tefillah and been refused. ‘That’s why I have no tzaros,’ he said, ‘He gives me whatever I need.’$$$SEPARATEA QUOTES$$$”

But he made an important addendum. “I am careful what I ask for.”

Reb Eliyahu quotes his father that he learned that lesson the hard way. ‘When the yeshivah opened in Yerucham, my father felt that with no bus service to Bnei Brak or Yerushalayim, the yeshivah needed a car. He flew to Cyprus in order to bring it back as a tourist, and on that trip, he faced every single obstacle possible. There were issues with the car’s documentation, and then with his documentation. He told me that he davened his way through each one, finally succeeding in his mission and bringing the car to the yeshivah in a miraculous way.

“One week later, the rosh yeshivah was driving the car and he was killed in a car accident, Rachamana litzlan. My father said that from that he learned his lesson, not to push when Heaven was trying to impede him.”

Reb Eliyahu recalls a talmid of his father who fell deeply into debt, and the financial burden was breaking him. Reb Shimshon suggested that he buy a lottery ticket for the next day’s drawing.

The next morning, Reb Shimshon greeted the fellow eagerly. “Nu? What happened with the Lotto?”

The talmid shrugged, explaining that he hadn’t realized that the suggestion was serious, so he hadn’t purchased the ticket. “My father was upset, and he walked out of the room in distress.”

Later, Reb Shimshon told the talmid, “I davened and you would have won, but I guess that HaKadosh Baruch Hu didn’t want that.”

The look that crosses Reb Eliyahu’s face speaks for him, and even before words come, I feel his pain. “You know, they called me in the middle of the night to come identify the bodies, just after the accident that claimed his life, along with those of my mother and sister. I arrived there, and everyone left the room, it was just my father and me. I said, ‘Tatty, I know why you had to go this way. Because had the Ribono shel Olam given you five minutes to plead your case, you would have been mevatel the gezeirah. You knew how to use the keys of tefillah, so Heaven reached out and took you, with no chance for you to ask for more time.”

And then Eliyahu, his father’s beloved son, whose soul was bound in his, stood up straight and recited “Baruch Dayan Ha’Emes.”

Picking Up the Shards

Ever his father’s son, in reflecting on the accident, Reb Eliyahu sees tremendous chasdei Hashem the family experienced in the aftermath of the tragedy. In addition to Reb Shimshon, his rebbetzin, and their daughter Miriam, there was a second daughter in the car. “The doctors told us that her injuries were too severe, and that her fate would be the same as theirs, chas v’shalom.”

But she was destined to live, and Eliyahu spent the next year in America with his younger sister, Ruchama Rochel. “The chasdei Hashem we witnessed was remarkable. There were Divine shlichim at every turn. My uncle Reb Yehuda Leib Braun and his family treated us as their own children, they were single-minded in their dedication to the cause. So many people helped us then. We will never forget them.”

The gravity of some aspects of the unique relationship he shared with his father only became clear after Rav Pincus’s passing.

“My father frequently traveled abroad, and I made a practice of going to meet him at the airport whenever he returned. He would thank me, but never made a major deal out of it. After his passing, someone gave me a recording of a lecture where he talks about the closeness between a father and son. ‘One of my sons comes to meet me at the airport whenever I return home from a trip. I can’t tell you what that does for me, how much it means to me to see him. Returning to Eretz Yisrael is very significant for me, and having him there adds to it.’

Reb Eliyahu pauses before continuing. “You know, Chazal say that had Reuven known that Torah would record for all eternity his efforts to save Yosef, he would have put him on his shoulders and run to his father.

“Had I known ...”

Not long before the accident, Eliyahu was on the phone with his father. He shared something he had just heard from Rav Usher Weiss, a well-known story with the Gerrer Rebbe.

“The Chiddushei HaRim told his chassidim that if they would concentrate by ‘Ana Hashem’ in Hallel, they could effect tremendous things. When they said the words Ana Hashem Hoshia Na, half the beis medrash trembled. When they said the words Ana Hashem Hatzlichah Na, the other half shook. And the Sfas Emes, the Rebbe’s grandson, smiled. “The Rebbe didn’t mean this ‘Ana Hashem’ or that one. He meant ‘Ana Hashem ki ani avdecha.’

“That was the last thing I told my father, and he enjoyed it immensely. I knew he would. It was his essence, avdus to Hashem. More than anything else, I was happy to be giving him pleasure.”

*****

Was Reb Shimshon smiling up until his last moments, from that precious thought? Were those the words that accompanied him as his soul — along with those of his wife and daughter — ascended heavenward in a chariot of fire? Who can know?

But certainly, it is his legacy, the gift he gave a People.

The keys of prayer, the confidence to ask.

And the knowledge that even today, in a world of darkness and despair, it’s still possible to serve ...

Ana Hashem.

Ki ani avdecha.

I’ve read your letter. Though I do not consider myself qualified to dispense advice, I will, nevertheless, share my impressions of the situation you are in.

It appears to me that you are someone who has struggled mightily in your endeavor to grow in Torah and yiras Shamayim. Despite all your hard work, you’ve reached an impasse. You are realizing that you can’t succeed on your own, that you need help from outside. The reason for this is simple: you yearn to acquire Torah knowledge, to form a passionate connection with it. Extraordinary goals, requiring extraordinary strengths. Though we may never stop trying, there comes a point when we must look outside of ourselves for support.

Therefore, I would like to recommend a name and address of someone you can turn to for assistance.

His name is Hashem Yisborach.

He is capable of everything, for He created everything. I also happen to know that He has a special love for you, and is waiting eagerly for you to approach Him.

He is easily accessible, for He is everyplace. Even now, as you read this letter, you can turn to Him. He will be available.

I write this because many people associate the opportunity to talk to Hashem with ‘formal’ prayer and spiritual loftiness. Though this is important, it is not what defines our relationship with Him.

At the very core of our relationship with Hashem is the appreciation that He is not Something but Someone. To be thoroughly aware of the simple reality that Hashem is there, real and true, and that it’s easy to form a personal, sincere connection with Him, and to discuss your most basic and mundane needs. To believe that those who do so are never let down.

Others may give you different suggestions, but it’s a shame to waste your time. Go directly to the only One who can truly help you — grasp Him and do not let go. Al titnu dami lo, allow Him no rest, until you’ve attained all that your heart desires.

One who signs with respect for a searching ben Torah, who — unfortunately — knows not where to search.

Shimshon Dovid Pincus

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 355)