Had I just witnessed ruach hakodesh? He didn’t write that I needed children, he wrote that I needed a son

About 40 years ago, my wife and I planned a trip to Eretz Yisrael. When I told my cousin Yehudah about my plans, he suggested I seek out Rav Shalom Schwadron, the famed maggid of Yerushalayim, and ask for a brachah.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I agreed.

A few weeks later, at the beginning of Elul, I stood at the door of a modest, unremarkable home in Shaarei Chesed and knocked.

To my surprise, Rav Schwadron answered the door himself. But while he greeted me with a huge smile, he didn’t say anything, which made me a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s suffering from a bad case of laryngitis, I surmised.

What I only learned later was that every Elul Rav Schwadron engaged in a self-imposed taanis dibbur, refraining from all speech aside from Torah and tefillah.

Escorting me into his study, Rav Schwadron pointed to a chair and then took a seat himself. Then with a smile, a nod, and raised eyebrows, he leaned forward slightly and silently “asked” why I had come.

“I’m an American tourist visiting here with my wife,” I began. “And I came to ask the Rav for a brachah.”

In response, Rav Schwadron looked up and gestured toward the ceiling, then turned to me with a smile and nodded.

I was totally confused and admitted to him that I didn’t understand.

Again, he repeated the same charade, following up with a smile. And again, I confessed that I didn’t understand.

Still patiently smiling at me, the Rav reached for a pad of blank paper on his desk. With a precise, almost perfect penmanship, he wrote, “HaKadosh Baruch Hu shomei’a,” (Hashem hears) implying that I should daven to Hashem for whatever I needed.

“I am davening,” I told him. “But I also would like to have a brachah from the Rav.”

Rav Schwadron touched his heart, closed his eyes and nodded his head as if to say, “I will daven for you.” Then he smiled at me and gestured softly with his hand, which I interpreted as, “Don’t worry about it.”

He then gently rose from his seat, silently dismissing me.

Summoning all the courage I could muster, I stayed put. “But, but… I didn’t even say yet what I need a brachah for!” I protested.

Rav Schwadron sat down, and with a smile, he reached for his note pad. Then he wrote, in the same remarkably neat Hebrew script, “Atah tzarich ben,” (You need a son).

I felt the blood rush from my face. Had I just witnessed ruach hakodesh? He didn’t write that I needed children, he wrote that I needed a son. And the fact was that my wife and I had a young daughter who was staying with my in-laws while we were away. But there was absolutely no way he could have known that.

Stunned, I quickly rose from my seat and allowed Rav Schwadron to escort me to the door, again with the same gracious smile with which he had greeted me.

A little over a year later, Rav Schwadron’s brachah was fulfilled with the birth of our son, Yaakov.

Years later, after the Rav had already passed away, I shared this story at our Shabbos table. “Ta,” Yaakov asked me, “did you ever go back to Rav Schwadron to let him know that his brachah was mekuyam?”

Regretfully, I hadn’t. But I did resolve that the next time I was in Eretz Yisrael, I would return to that modest home in Shaarei Chesed and share the story with whichever relative might be living there at the time.

About ten years ago, I did just that. A teenage bochur answered the door when I knocked, and when I asked, told me he was Rav Schwadron’s grandson.

Would he like to hear a story about his heilige zeidy? I asked. And when he answered in the affirmative, I shared this story. The grandson was visibly impressed and thanked me profusely for coming, adding that he would share my story with other members of his family.

I left feeling that I had, at least partially, repaid my debt of gratitude for the silent blessing I’d received so many years before.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1077)