Judging by their appearance, the women reciting Tehillim in the narrow waiting room are far removed from the Rabbanit’s celebrated lineage. The majority are “amcha,” a colloquialism denoting the lower socioeconomic strata of Israeli society. Her petitioners also include the offbeat and eccentric.

“I am Rabbanit Rachel from Rachel Imeinu,” proclaims a woman seated in the front, whom many women seem to recognize. “My name used to be Varda, but Rav Chaim Kanievsky told me to change it to Rachel. For four long months, my husband would not allow me to do it. I cried at kivrei tzaddikim and during hadlakat neirot, how could my husband refuse to heed daat Torah?!” she cries with amplified disbelief, clearly relishing her audience’s rapt attention. Shosh nods sagely from the corner, inviting Rachel to continue her story.

“Finally, one Shabbos he agreed to be called to the Torah to change my name. Wouldn’t you know it, that Shabbos was yud alef Cheshvan! Rachel Imeinu hardened his heart for four months so my name change would occur on her yahrtzeit!” she finishes triumphantly. The room erupts in cries of amazement.

“I’m at Kever Rachel every day,” Rachel tells me. “They know me there, ask for Rabbanit Rachel from Kever Rachel!” she notes before launching into another protracted account involving Rabbanit Kook, the kever of the Ramchal, and her obstinate husband.

Though Rachel is obviously a personality in this assorted group, her eccentricity doesn’t faze anyone.

I scan the room and with acute clarity realize that based on their accents, mannerisms, and dress, I would likely dismiss most of these women as “not my type.” Yet here, I am the outlier. I feel as if I’ve been thrust into a parallel universe where women who would be sidelined in ordinary life are the notables, while I am insignificant.

According to Reb Gedalia, the attention and importance his mother affords this demographic is deliberate.

“Rav Zilberstein, Rabbanit Kook’s father, was an unassuming bochur with zero yichus. His parents escaped Poland before the war and after attempting to settle in Israel, poverty forced them to relocate to America. But Rav Zilberstein stayed in Eretz Yisrael to continue his Torah study in Slabodka,” he explains. “He was a virtual orphan, because although his parents sent him money, he was utterly alone. And then a shidduch was suggested between him and the great Rav Elyashiv’s daughter, Shoshana. He needed someone to advocate for him to push this shidduch, because not only was he unknown and a virtual nobody in terms of lineage, but he was from a Polish chassidish family, a far cry from the staunch Litvish provenance of the Elyashivs.”

The Rabbanit’s abiding love for every Jew was nurtured during her childhood, when Rav Zilberstein was summoned to Zurich, Switzerland, for a rabbinic posting. There, as one of a handful of Jewish children in classroom of gentiles, young Leah imbibed the true value of every single Jew. “Later,” Reb Gedalia relates, “she would question why when we have so many Jews around, we suddenly become so picky, deeming this Jew not our caliber, or that one beneath us. The lesson of Zurich stayed with her forever. She truly loves and values every single Jew.”

After the Zilbersteins returned to Eretz Yisrael, the Rabbanit was recognized as one who deliberately chose to befriend weaker girls from homes not nearly as distinguished as hers. “She knew she had yichus, how couldn’t she?” Reb Gedalia asserts. “But it didn’t impact her choice of friends. In fact, her father, Rav Zilberstein, actively encouraged her to bring home friends from simple backgrounds. He would tell her, ‘I don’t want you to bring home friends with notable last names. I want you to bring home the simple folk.’ This was a value that was embedded in her conscience.”

“How long is the wait?” I inquire of Shosh, who sits serenely at the front of the room, clearly the benevolent power broker here. She shrugs. “The Rabbanit will come when she is ready.”

The focus shifts to the center of the room where a young woman in a tichel grasps a sefer Shemiras Halashon. “We will now learn two halachos of shemiras halashon from the Chofetz Chaim,” Shosh announces. Turning to me, she explains, “Every day we say the Tehillim of the day and learn two halachos of shemiras halashon.”

It’s the first unsolicited statement Shosh has offered me. All my previous attempts at engaging her in conversation, and certainly at interviewing her, have been rebuffed. Shosh deftly maneuvers the focus from herself to other woman in the room, preferring to showcase their stories and insights instead of her own. I am starting to understand that she speaks only when she feels her words are necessary or impactful. Though Shosh is the reigning authority in this room, her demeanor is one of modesty and self-effacement.

The shemiras halashon session begins. “One may not say that someone lacks intelligence and scholarship,” reads the young woman aloud, “as this may cause irreparable damage and cause him to lose the respect of others.”

The lesson is not lost on me; I haven’t forgotten my earlier judgmental thoughts.

The walls of the waiting area are adorned with signs. Some exhort one to be dan l’chaf zechus, another is a reminder of the correct kavanos when answering amein yehei Shemei raba. A prominent poster depicting Perek Shirah is encased in glass and the phrase “rak Hashem” is painted high upon the wall. One particular piece catches my eye: Torah is not passed down as an inheritance. It is acquired through sacrifice and diligence.

The Rabbanit certainly knows of that sacrifice. When she was a teen, her mother fell ill with a serious ailment that would eventually take her life. Concerned that her father would find household responsibilities a distraction from his learning, Leah took action. With limited time on Fridays, she would complete her chores at school, discreetly checking bags of rice, or darning the family’s stockings while listening to a lesson. She proved so capable that Rav Zilberstein was entirely freed from his Friday responsibilities at home. Instead, he initiated a Friday morning chavrusa with Rav Chaim Kanievsky that lasted for 50 years, until Rav Chaim’s petirah — a zechus he credits entirely to his daughter, Rabbanit Leah.

The door that connects the waiting room to the Rabbanit’s home opens and a tall, regal woman in an ornately tied headscarf exits balancing a bag piled high with small white sifrei Tehillim. I seize the opportunity and introduce myself.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I’m one of the chassidot of the Rav and Rabbanit,” she answers with quiet poise and a knowing smile.

“Are you originally from Teveria?”

“No, I’m from West Hollywood, in Los Angeles.”

Now I’m intrigued. “How did you meet the Rabbanit?”

“I dreamed of the Rav,” she replies, as if it’s an obvious answer.

“What? Had you met him before? How did you know it was him?”

The tall woman and Shosh chuckle together at my disbelief.

“I saw he was a very holy man. And in the dream, he said he was Rav Kook.”

“And then you saw him afterward for real and it was the same person?”

“Yes,” she answers matter-of-factly.

“And what happened next?”

“I started being chozer b’teshuvah.”

“But how did you get here?”

“I came directly from L.A. to the Rav and Rabbanit’s home.”

“Straight here, from the airport?”

Another shared chuckle with Shosh.

“What are the Tehillim for?”

“In the zechut of the Rav and Rabbanit, I distribute Tehillim to people in hospitals here in Israel.”

This is one of the Rabbanit’s pet projects, and she has donated over two million sifrei Tehillim to date. Each Tehillim bears a photocopied inscription from the Rabbanit with divrei chizuk encouraging women to be grateful to Hashem for the gifts He bestows, and reminding them that He is the source of all healing. In this way, the Rabbanit hopes to plant seeds of emunah in women who are not yet fully observant.

Chesed was a prominent motif in the Rabbanit’s childhood — and she attributes her marriage with Rav Dov to this middah.

In her late teens, the Rabbanit’s father encouraged her to help an old embittered Holocaust survivor who’d lost her entire family in the inferno of Auschwitz. Teenaged Leah would volunteer at her home a few days a week, even sleeping there on occasion. The woman was an exceedingly difficult person who made unrelenting demands on her, yet she never uttered a word of protest.

During one of her visits, the older women fell ill and an ambulance was summoned. The woman was terrified of doctors, hospitals, and all things medical, and begged Leah to accompany her. Just a teenager, Leah was panicked by the thought of riding in an ambulance and was about to refuse the old woman’s desperate plea — but then forced herself to enter the ambulance, which was parked on a corner of Rechov Yehuda Hanasi. In the zechus of caring for this woman, she asked Hashem, and in the merit of overcoming my fear of the ambulance, please grant me a chassan who is a tzaddik. Her first meeting with Rav Dov was on a bench — on the corner of Rechov Yehuda Hanasi. She saw this as a Divine wink from Hashem acknowledging her mesirus nefesh.

The waiting room continues to fill as we await the Rabbanit’s arrival. A woman in pants, her hair uncovered, stands in a corner holding a fussy baby. She declines offers of a seat, and I feel a sense of pride in the women who have gathered here. I wonder what brings her here, with her young child in tow.

Cries of delight issue from the closed door and I eye Shosh questioningly. “Is that the Rabbanit?”

“Yes,” she answers, tight-lipped as usual.

Suddenly the door opens, and a large plastic bowl of dough is placed carefully on a chair, in preparation for the Rabbanit’s daily hafrashas challah. Minutes later, the door bursts open and the Rabbanit erupts into the waiting area, crackling with fiery energy, her smile wider than the room. “Shalom! Shalom!” she cries in delight. Her purple housecoat is embroidered beneath her left shoulder with the words “B’ezrat Hashem.”

“Baruch atah Hashem… l’hafrish challah min ha’isah!” she thunders, every word enunciated clearly.

And then, holding the fistful of dough aloft, she screams, “Harei zu challah, harei zu challah, harei zu challah!” This pronouncement is followed immediately by a string of bakashos that burst forth like cannon fire, each followed by a fervent amen from the crowd.

“Sheyavo melech haMashiach!”

“Amen!”

“Sheyihiyeh tov l’Am Yisrael!”

“Amen!”

“Sheyihiyeh besorot tovot!”

“Amen!”

The Rabbanit follows with brachos for specific individuals. Complex names roll off her tongue with ease as she begs for their health, children, shidduchim, success. “May all Am Yisrael have smachot! Hashem! Hashem! Hashem! Hashem! Abba!”

Her voice drops an octave and she asks, “Anat bat Raaya, how is she?” The whispered answer prompts a new round of pleading that Anat be redeemed from suffering.

“Hashem, do good for Am Yisrael, no more Jews should die! May it be good, may it be good!” Every request is a primal cry torn from the depths of her being.

The Rabbanit disappears back in through the door of her home. I stand with the others, stunned.

“The Rabbanit is a gaon,” Reb Gedalia says. “She is brilliant, but she intentionally presents herself as a simple person. Her demeanor is purposely deceiving. She will deliberately speak in a simple way, mixing up grammar tenses, making funny hybrids of different words. She does this to mock the notion of intelligence that we’ve bought into, and to ridicule the intelligentsia, the educated elite. And she screams her brachos and bakashos, ‘Hashem Hu HaElokim! Hashem Hu HaElokim! Abba, I love you!’ because she abhors inauthenticity. Her feelings burst forth, an authentic expression of how she feels, without concern for how it appears, if it’s ‘sophisticated to scream this way.’ ”

Finally, the kabbalat kahal begins, and the women filter in, in ones and twos, for a personal audience with the Rabbanit. Shosh stands calmly at the helm, selecting each woman according to calculations I do not attempt to fathom. I can barely recall who entered the crowded waiting area before or after us. There must be an algorithm I’ve missed.

“This is a very kadosh place,” Shosh calmly intones, before the crowds can begin arguing over whose turn it is to enter. “Before you see the Rabbanit, you must be a vessel for brachah. There is no vessel for brachah like shalom. You don’t need to feel you are being mevater, everyone will have a turn to go in.” She speaks these words like a patient schoolteacher who’s had to repeat the instructions numerous times.

The Rabbanit’s screams filter through the closed door. A painfully thin woman exits, a muffin and hot drink clutched in shaking hands.

Presently, discussion ensues over whose turn is next. “We were here first,” two women complain. Shosh skillfully defuses the situation: “The Rabbanit says you must stay a bit longer to be mekadesh the Makom.” The women fall silent. A water pitcher is passed out, and Shosh makes a brachah in the slow deliberate manner my children were trained in in gan, then initiates another round of Tehillim.

“Rav Shraga Steinman, son of Rav Aharon Leib, first thought of the shidduch between my parents,” Reb Gedalia says. “At first, it seemed like a strange idea, they have very different natures. My mother is fire, my father is calm, quieter. He was a neat, shaven, Ponevezh boy, well dressed, different from her family. Even hashkafically they weren’t so aligned. But when they met for the first time, my mother saw Rav Dov and immediately knew this was the person she wished to marry. Rav Dov also was interested in moving forward. The shidduch was promptly presented to the Steipler for approval.

When the Steipler was told that the two mothers shared the same name, Shoshana, he adamantly refused to sanction the match. “But they already met and want to proceed,” he was told. Nonetheless, the Steipler wouldn’t yield. “Perhaps one mother could add a name?” someone suggested. He still would not allow the match to proceed.

“My mother was utterly crushed,” Reb Gedalia relates. “She truly believed this was the person she was to marry, and felt she couldn’t accept the Steipler’s psak.

“And here, we see the gadlus of her father, Rav Zilberstein. He entered the house late that night, and found his daughter crying her heart out. As he hung  up his hat, she said, ‘Abba, I can’t! I have to marry him!’ He turned to her and in a tone of velvet and steel pronounced, ‘Leah’le, we will DIE rather than disregard even an iota of what the Steipler says. And we won’t ask him again.’ This was the caliber of Rav Zilberstein’s trust in daas Torah.

“That night, my mother davened as she’d never davened before. And seemingly out of nowhere, the Steipler approached Rav Zilberstein and suggested one of the mothers change her name. But who would volunteer to make the change? Rabbanit Zilberstein immediately offered to do the deed, explaining, ‘I’m a simple person, no one knows me. But Rabbanit Kook is a well-known personality, she runs a high school. It would be far more difficult for her to make such a change than for me.’

“Of course, the irony wasn’t lost on anyone. Rabbanit Shoshana Zilberstein was also well known, she was the sister of Rabbanit Kanievsky, but she wanted to be mevater, so she changed her name to Aliza, and the shidduch went through.”

The Rabbanit and Rav Dov married in Adar, moved to Bnei Brak, and the Rabbanit immediately settled into her role as an eishes chaver. Today, Rav Dov is a prolific author — he’s published 370 seforim on Shas and Kabbalah — but his first kuntresim were typed by the Rabbanit, who learned touch-typing for this express purpose and used a typewriter as she deciphered his handwritten notes.

Their first child, Yisrael Meir, was born in Bnei Brak, and the Rabbanit named him for the Chofetz Chaim, in recognition of the acute power of speech. She began teaching math and English in Chorev of Ramat Gan and was tapped for a kiruv teaching position in Rishon Letzion.

“At this point,” Reb Gedalia says, “she was a classic avreich’s wife who ran a beautiful home, had a good job and a child, and was essentially a model example of a young kollel wife.

“And that’s when the ‘boom!’ happened. My mother began to experience an inexplicable, appalling emptiness that she refers to as a form of ‘kefirah’ — not in Hashem’s existence, chalilah, but in His goodness, in the way He interacts with the world. She felt terribly distanced from Him and underwent what she describes as yissurei Iyov. She knew that she could force herself to continue living her life this way, keeping halachah, but performing the mitzvos passionlessly, by rote. But she was so broken that it was hard for her to function; she’s said she felt as if she were dead. For two years she was incapable of opening a siddur beyond birchos hashachar! When she describes herself during that period of time she says, ‘I was a complete kofer! I didn’t have emunah in Hashem’s goodness!

“Imagine the terrible irony, the granddaughter of Rav Elyashiv, daughter of Rav Zilberstein, wife of Rav Dov Kook, cannot bring herself to daven for two long years?

Reb Gedalia pauses. “In the past, I was reluctant to publicize this story, until a certain kiruv writer told me, ‘You’re making a mistake in not allowing me to include this. This is the most important, inspiring part of the entire article!’

“In addition to the Rabbanit, I asked my father, Rav Kook, if we’re allowed to publicize it and he said, ‘You MUST publicize this, because it’s mechazeik our generation!’ ”

“It’s important to note that her situation wasn’t chalilah the result of overbearing pressure surrounding ruchniyus, or any form of externally imposed stress. The Rabbanit maintains that this was an experience directly from Hashem, precisely calibrated to ensure she’d seek truth and grow into the person she is today.”

Her reprieve issued from the most unlikely of places — a library in Rishon Letzion — and it parsed her lifetime into two distinct hemispheres: everything from before, and everything that came after.

The Rabbanit was preparing her lessons in the library one afternoon when she chanced upon a sefer written by the Baal Shem Tov. Chassidus seforim weren’t her usual fare, and she opened it out of curiosity. There she read the following: “A student of the Baal Shem Tov repeated in his name, ‘I wish a person would love the greatest tzaddik, who performs the greatest good, as much as Hashem loves the lowliest rasha among us.’ ”

Is this true, wondered the Rabbanit. Because if so, the conclusion is astounding! It means that despite everything we may have done to subvert His Will, He still maintains an eternal connection to us. That the mutual love between Hashem and Klal Yisrael is utterly independent of anything and everything. That His love for us is eternal, and absolute.

In that moment, Rabbanit Kook made a decision that would alter her trajectory and essentially pivot her in to the role she assumes today. “If Hashem loves His children so unconditionally,” she posited, “then perhaps the way to rebuild closeness with Him is through His children. I must connect with His children who’ve strayed. In bringing them back to Him, I will reconnect with Him as well.”

It’s close to seven  when Shosh waves us into the inner sanctum. Like the waiting area, the walls of the Rabbanit’s home are veritable advertisements for emunah in Hashem. “Rak Hashem” reads the upper portion of the dining area wall. “Shivisi Hashem l’negdi tamid” proclaims another. I take a seat at the dining room table where another chassidah of the Rabbanit, Vered, is preparing stacks of Tehillim for hospital distribution. By now, I’m not deterred by the apparent differences between myself and this fortyish woman with the elaborately tied tichel and nondescript clothing. She has the same understated yet determined presence I sensed in Shosh and the woman from L.A. Is this quiet confidence something the Rabbanit endows her followers with?

“I met the Rabbanit twenty years ago,” Vered shares. “At that point I knew virtually nothing, I didn’t know what tzaddikim were, what kivrei tzaddikim were, I didn’t know of a single rabbanit. I went to a gathering in the North and suddenly this Rabbanit explodes into the room and screams, ‘Rak Hashem! Rak Hashem! Rak Hashem!’ I didn’t know what had hit me! I started to cry, it was actually my neshamah crying. I’d just started my teshuvah journey, and was searching for a path in Judaism, maybe she had it. So I showed up at her house at eight a.m. with a group of women for hafrashas challah. The Rabbanit picks me out from all the other women, asks my name, and says, ‘I want to give a shiur in your house.’ And she came every other week to my home in Kiryat Shmona to give a shiur.”

“What did she speak about at the shiur?”

“Emunah, only emunah,” Vered replies.

As I listen to Vered’s story I make a quick calculation and realize we are the same age — and I wonder if I’ve given myself over to Hashem as absolutely and unconditionally as she has.

After five years in Bnei Brak, Rav Dov asked the Rabbanit to move the family to Teveria, in order to facilitate his avodas Hashem. This was a dramatic move, ferrying her away from the warmth of her family, a job she enjoyed, and the conveniences that Teveria of 40 years ago could not provide. Additionally, the city’s population comprised primarily Middle Eastern Jews from underprivileged, low socioeconomic backgrounds whose language, customs, and culture were foreign to her.

Already a mother of three, the Rabbbanit’s dedication to her husband was particularly evident with this move. Rav Dov would travel to Tzfas to learn all week long, returning only for Shabbos. Eventually, the couple moved to Tzfas, but the Rabbanit’s dedication to her husband did not abate there. Rav Dov continued to learn in solitude all week, returning only for Shabbos. Every day the Rabbanit would bundle her six children and trek to the solitary, locked room where Rav Dov studied and slept, to deliver his hot meal.

When it came time to give birth, she went to call Rav Dov to accompany her, as per his request. However, upon seeing him hunched over his Gemara, she could not bring herself to disturb him and resolved to wait another five minutes. This repeated itself another five times, until finally, she traveled alone to have her baby.

Tzfas was also the birthplace of the Rabbanit’s role as a public persona. When she noticed that on Shabbos afternoons many of the local women would fritter away the time with idle talk or reading magazines, she invited them to her home for a half hour of Tehillim. The first week, three women came. The pleasant atmosphere and home-baked cakes she provided proved irresistible, and within a few months the group had swelled to 50 women. To combat the tendency to gossip at these gatherings, the Rabbanit suggested they undertake to learn two halachos of shemiras halashon at each one.

The women who came to her house were enamored of her parenting, her patience, and dedication to her children. Reb Gedalia verifies that she never raised her voice at her children. “I’m allergic to hyperbole, so when I say this, know I am not exaggerating in the least,” he says.  “And we were not easy children! The most she would do is leave the room saying, ‘It’s hard for Ima to be here now.’ ”

The Tzfas group asked the Rabbanit to deliver shiurim at their Shabbos afternoon gathering regarding childrearing and other related topics. Her ten-minute speeches were so well received, other women joined the group for the express purpose of hearing her speak, skipping the Tehillim and shemiras halashon.

Slowly she began receiving invitations to speak to women at high schools, community centers, and other venues. She was even invited to speak for WIZO, as the token religious representative. Rav Dov advised her to speak whenever she was invited, recognizing the Yad Hashem in her growing renown.

By the time they moved back to Teveria, the Rabbanit’s reputation had preceded her, and her home became a popular meeting place for women seeking a warm meal and a warm heart. Eventually she sectioned off a small part of her home specifically for this purpose, where she received women who sought her counsel.

Her renown continued to grow and by the 1990s, she was the female persona of the burgeoning baal teshuvah movement. Secular women, fresh baalei teshuvah, and old-timers to Yiddishkeit welcomed her unaffected approach to Judaism, and they clamored to hear her scream, “Shema Yisrael” and “Hashem Hu HaElokim” in front of stadiums crowded with women. Her celebrity status among the secular public was confirmed when a popular comedy series called “Eretz Nehederet” parodied her on their show. Her mighty dedication to this cause propelled her across the country, delivering up to three shiurim a day — after which she would return home to tend to her many young children.

At this juncture, the Rabbanit changed her sheitel to a tichel, and adopted a more muted style of dress, recognizing that her role as a public persona demanded a shift. When receiving petitioners, she began wearing her signature housecoat embroidered with “B’ezras Hashem”— a reminder to self of His centrality in her work.

Rachel from Rachel Imeinu sits on the couch opposite the Rabbanit. All her previous bravado is gone and her posture is that of a child seeking comfort. She shares a minor medical issue that troubles her. “You have nothing to worry about!” the Rabbanit declares, her expression moving from compassion to joy and back. She reaches for Rachel’s hands and claps with her, demonstrating her optimism in Rachel’s prognosis. “Rak smachot, you will have nachas!” she proclaims, her voice ascending to a shout. She leans over to kiss her. “You are wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!” she sings. “Hashem should bless you!”

“My feet are firmly planted on the ground, but I can say unhesitatingly that my mother has undeniable kochos that I’ve seen with my own eyes,” Reb Gedalia says. “How do I explain it? She’s a person who is incredibly close to Hashem, involved in zikui harabbim and does things only l’Sheim Shamayim. But I think the real source of her kochos lies in her incredible humility. I was once asked what I feel is my mother’s most unusual trait. It was a hard question to answer, she has so many special traits, her authenticity, her kindness…. But what I said was her uniqueness lies in the absolute absence of all ga’avah. She doesn’t have any ga’avah, she regards herself as the same as everyone else. And she doesn’t care at all what others say about her.

“Years ago, they made a documentary about her that was awarded several prizes. I asked if she wanted to see it but she refused. It didn’t interest her. ‘I did it because I felt it was part of my shlichut, so people would see the beauty of Hashem and His world. Why do I need to see it? Why would I watch myself?’

“I was once interviewed for a magazine and I ran around to seven different stores to get a copy of it, I needed to know how they presented me, did they call me Gedalia, or Rav Gedalia. But my mother had absolutely no interest in anything to do with this documentary. It was all l’Sheim Shamayim.

“Another aspect of her spiritual capabilities is her tefillah, they are incredibly potent. And because she is so l’sheim Shamayim, she has tremendous siyata d’Shmaya.”

Rachel leaves and we slide into her seat on the couch. The Rabbanit leans over and with a wide smile, greets me with, “B’ezrat Hashem!”

I jump right in with a question: “How are we meant to relate to the terrible rift in Klal Yisrael?”

The Rabbanit’s expression turns grave. “I don’t see a rift.”

Her expression turns thoughtful as she considers my claim.

“No,” she declares decisively, “I see only good people who give, who care, I don’t see any rift,” she repeats, shaking her head with pity over my mistaken perception.

I try again. “But you don’t see discord at all? Anger toward chareidim?” I suggest, referencing recent discord.

The Rabbanit reacts immediately, forcefully waving her outstretched hands as if to expel my notions of conflict in Klal Yisrael. “No! I don’t read the news, I don’t see it!” Her face droops in concern and pain.

I try again. “But I even see it at work.”

“No! I’m only involved in kiruv, in bringing Jews close to Hashem and teaching them to be happy. Bring them close and be happy!” Her expression and tone revert to cheerfulness.

“I see people who ask, ‘Wfho can I help? What can I do for someone else?’ and I work with entirely irreligious people! I kiss them and hug them — only the women,” she qualifies, “but no, I don’t see a rift, not even a tiny one.”

“But what should I do when I see discord at work?”

“Don’t look, don’t notice.”

I move on to my next question. “How do we imbue our children with emunah?”

Here, the Rabbanit’s face lights up like a torch, and her entire being is animated with joy. This is clearly one of her most beloved topics.

“Children have extraordinary natural emunah,” she explains, “as long as we don’t destroy it by exposing them to the wrong things. We tell them, ‘Hashem is here, right here! He sees everything, let’s read a perek of Tehillim together! Let’s give a shekel to tzedakah! Let’s go to shul to give a kiss to Hashem!” Here she cautions, “But only for three minutes. A small child can’t handle any longer and we mustn’t force him.”

She continues her suggestions, “Let’s go visit a lonely person! But everything should be with love, a mother should do these things with love, only love.”

Suddenly she interjects, “Hashem Hu HaElokim, Hashem Hu HaElokim, Hashem Hu HaElokim, Hashem Hu HaElokim, Hashem Hu HaElokim!” Swaying with joy, she adds, “Ein Od milvado!

“Our heart beats, and pumps our blood, it beats, and pumps the blood, all lichvod HaElokim! Thank You, Hashem, I’m breathing! It’s a miracle! Anyone who had Covid knows what a miracle it is!” She gulps a lungful of air to demonstrate.

I ask for a message for Chanukah. “Chanukah, what awesome days they are! On the first night when we light the candles Avraham Avinu comes down, on the second night, Yitzchak Avinu comes down, then Yaakov Avinu, Moshe, Aharon, Yosef, Dovid, and Mashiach Tzidkeinu on the last night, just like with the Ushpizin!” She bangs her knee for emphasis.

“Noach is an acronym for Neiros Chanukah. Just as Noach was beloved to Hashem, so, too, we are beloved to Him and can achieve great spiritual things in front of the Chanukah neiros. It’s the final chance for cancellation of din.”

“What can we do to facilitate this?” I question.

“Light the candles, then, if you can, sit for a half hour and don’t speak, just say Tehillim, specifically perek 91, which spells tzeh, depart! May all suffering depart and leave us!

“Of course, if a baby cries, you must tend to him. In Yahadus, children are kodesh kodashim. However, if it’s a ‘baby gadol’” she says, tongue in cheek, “if it’s a ‘baby gadol,’ who can understand and wait, tell him Ima is now with Hashem and He’s giving us a hug.”

“On Chanukah can we annul decrees against us?” I ask.

“Absolutely! It’s like N’eilah of Yom Kippur. On the last night of Chanukah if you can, try to say the entire Sefer Tehillim. It’s a very auspicious time.”

The Rabbanit pauses, touches her arm, and says, “I have chills thinking about it! There are so very many things I want to daven for in front of the Chanukah candles.

“If you can, put on a nice white outfit or sweater, lichvod the Chanukah candles, and wear if for an hour after you light. And sit opposite the candles. Looking at the candles cleanses our sight from problematic, forbidden things we saw. Watching the Chanukah candles is a segulah to see the Mashiach.”

I jump at the Rabbanit’s opening and ask her about Mashiach.

Rabbanit Kook’s expression changes dramatically and her demeanor becomes serious. “Ohhh, Mashiach. He is so close. He’s walking among us. The most important thing is not to lose hope, beseech Hashem, Abba! I want Mashiach!

“Don’t be afraid, don’t give up. And know that the moment Mashiach comes, the Heavens will open and we will see HaKadosh Baruch Hu!

“We’ll want to hug Hashem the way someone dying of thirst in a parched desert yearns for water. Tzaddikim will be able to hug Him right away, but the reshaim… they won’t be able to hug Him, and their pain will be so intense.”

“Do they have a chance for kapparah?”

The Rabbanit nods, but her smile hardens. “Yes, they will need a shower to cleanse them from sin. It won’t be pleasant; we shouldn’t know of it. Let’s hope instead that all of Am Yisrael do teshuvah!”

Time is running out, but I can’t forfeit my opportunity to get a brachah.

“May I have a brachah?” I ask, specifying what I’d like to request.

The Rabbanit perks up, and with an expression of sheer joy, claps her hands and shouts, “Mi shebeirach avoseinu, Avraham Yitzchak v’Yaakov, umishebeirach imoseinu, Hu yevareich es….”

She finishes the brachah with a resounding, “Hashem Hu HaElokim, Hashem Hu HaElokim, Hashem Hu HaElokim!” stands up, and enfolds me in a full-body hug.

I’m escorted out another door down the stairs to the street below.

I’m a staunch Litvak, but I have to concede the truth. It’s been only two hours since I pulled up to the Rabbanit’s home, but I feel substantially different. I feel more open to others who are not like me, more connected to Hashem’s presence.

“Because here, we see miracles.”

I’m inclined to agree.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 924)