“If a Jew who knew no English was so careful about Shabbos, I know I can keep Shabbos, too”

I try to stay local on Fridays. But this week, I awoke at 4:30 to finish my Shabbos preparations and was on my way to Brooklyn by 6:30.

What precipitated my unconventional pre-dawn pilgrimage to Boro Park was the most fundamental Jewish concept: hakaras hatov. I was going to be menachem avel my dear friend, well-known askan Reb Shlomo Werdiger, who was sitting shivah for his mother a”h.

Eleven years ago, I was dealing with an issue and Reb Shlomo gave me the time and attention I needed to discuss it with him. He was there for me as a friend. Now I wanted to be there for him.

When I arrived in Boro Park, I was shocked to find parking directly across from the shivah house. I exited the car and saw a sign indicating that alternate-side parking restrictions would begin at 8:30. Now I realized why this perfect spot was available.

Nevertheless, with minyan at 7:30, I figured I would be able to daven and still have time to be menachem avel.

I was privileged to hear a number of stories about Mrs. Leba Werdiger and how she came to these shores. Reb Shlomo related how the ship that brought his maternal grandfather and his mother from the devastation of Europe to the freedom of America docked on Shabbos.

Showing me a picture of his grandfather in complete chassidic levush, Reb Shlomo proudly related how, despite their longing to step foot on the welcoming streets of America, he insisted on remaining on the ship until Shabbos ended. He was resolute in his commitment not to begin his new life in America with chillul Shabbos.

After a few minutes I said HaMakom, excused myself, and made my way to my thankfully unticketed car.

When I arrived back in Passaic, I checked my messages and immediately saw one from Mrs. G. I knew that her son, Moishele, was going through a tough time, and in deference to her status as a single mother, I returned her call before anyone else’s.

Mrs. G. told me that she had capitulated to her son’s pleading for a phone of his own, but unfortunately, that exacerbated his phone addiction to the point that she now supsects he uses it even on Shabbos.

I called Moishele and asked him to come over and said a kapitel of Tehillim, pleading with Hashem to put the right words in my mouth.

Looking at Moishele, I felt his loneliness as an only child in a single-parent home. Suddenly I knew what to say.

“Moishele, I am not going to lecture you. I am going to tell you the story of a man who arrived in this country without knowing a word of English, who remained alone with his family on an empty boat the entire Shabbos.”

I related the story of Reb Shlomo Werdiger’s grandfather and his first Shabbos in the new world.

I then wished Moishele a good Shabbos.

On Motzaei Shabbos, I was about to leave shul, when I noticed one person was still there: Moishele.

He handed me his phone and said, “Thank you for that story. If a Jew who knew no English was so careful about Shabbos, I know I can keep Shabbos too. Take my phone. If I can manage the entire Shabbos without it, I can live the entire week without it.”

I thought I had gone to New York to perform the mitzvah of nichum aveilim, while in reality, Hashem was arranging for a chassidishe Yid who arrived here more than 70 years ago to help a struggling American teenager keep Shabbos.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1087)