“Ah, you’re calling about the Chanukah story? Every year I get a call about it”

Photo: Flash90

Living Higher

ATa Communicare/NewVista corporate Chanukah party in Cincinnati, Ohio, for the company’s frum employees, company president Reb Yitzchak Rosedale addressed the crowd and shared a story.

In Nissan of 2013, an exceptional tzaddik named Uriah Stein from Eretz Yisrael passed away after a long, difficult illness. The doctors had gone so far as to remove one of his eyes in the hope of saving him, but to no avail.

Four years after his passing, in the month of Kislev, a friend of Uriah’s had a dream. Uriah appeared to him, his face complete but his expression communicating a note of urgency.

“I need you to help me,” he told his friend. “My son is not being matzliach in yeshivah. It’s causing me tremendous agmas nefesh. Please tell my mother she should daven by the Chanukah neiros for my son.”

The man awoke, struck by the bizarre dream. But as the day progressed, its resonance began to ebb. It was just a dream, he told himself.

That night Uriah returned. “I told you to go to my mother!” he exclaimed. “My son isn’t being matzliach! It’s hurting me! Go tell my mother to daven for him!”

Once again, the man awoke but summarily dismissed the dream.

The following night, Uriah returned a third time. “Why aren’t you listening to me? I told you to go to my mother and ask her to daven by the Chanukah neiros for my son!”

Then Uriah continued. “I know what you’re wondering. You’re wondering why I don’t go to my mother directly. It’s because for my mother to see me in a dream would be too overwhelming for her. I can’t do that.”

In the dream, the friend responded. “So why don’t you go to your widow? Why don’t you ask her to speak with your mother?”

“I cannot,” Uriah responded. “She has remarried and I have no access to her.”

This time, when his friend awoke, he could not disregard the dream’s authenticity. He approached Uriah’s mother and shared it with her.

“I heard this story,” Yitzchak shared with his audience, “and I couldn’t contain my curiosity. How did the story end? Did the grandmother daven? Were the tefillos effective?”

Determined to find out, Yitzchok tracked down Uriah Stein’s mother and called her.

“Ah, you’re calling about the Chanukah story?” she asked. “Every year I get a call about it.”

She graciously filled him in. “Yes! I davened for Uriah’s son and my tefillos were accepted. He has been learning tremendously well since.” Then she continued. “You know why Uriah wanted me, specifically, to daven for his son? Because I daven for all my grandchildren, but I don’t just mention their names. I take time, focusing on the specific needs of each one and daven accordingly.”

Now, Yitzchak shared this account with his company, highlighting the immense power of tefillah, particularly before the neiros Chanukah.

When he finished, Ariel Goodman, who worked in the company’s accounting department, stepped forward. “This Uriah,” he asked, “is his mother’s name Shoshana Reizel?”

Yitzchak shrugged. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Because,” Ariel said, “for over ten years, I’ve been davening for Uriah ben Shoshana Reizel. He learned in Yeshivah Ateres Yisrael in Yerushalayim, and I remember he had a patch on his eye. I’ve been davening for him since I learned of his illness.”

Ariel’s curiosity was piqued, and a quick online search yielded results: The Uriah in the story was the one he’d been davening for all these years.

There’s a lot to unpack here: the power of tefillah, and its singular potency before the Chanukah neiros; the interconnectivity between This World and That World which, while privy to few, is clearly a reality; the impact of a grandmother’s tefillos for her grandchildren; and the commitment to davening for a fellow for years on end.

And how Hashem, when He deems it right, sends a direct message: “You davened enough. Uriah no longer needs your tefillos.”

Gift of Eternity

At the annual Chanukah mesibah in Lakewood's Yeshiva Gedolah Tiferes Yaakov Yitzchak, led by Reb Chanina Brudny and Reb Chaim Zalman Herzka, one of the older bochurim — typically from the third- or fourth-year beis medrash cohorts — addresses the gathering and presents a gift to the roshei yeshivah and rebbeim.

This year, the appointed bochur prefaced the gift with a question. “What you have given us is intangible,” he said. “How can we possibly repay that with something material?”

He then provided the answer. “Our gift to our rebbeim,” he explained, “is five separate siyumim, completed by five bochurim in the yeshivah.”

The Hadran was followed by spirited dancing and song.

And the rebbeim reveled in the greatest gift they had ever received.

Happening in... Miami

Rav Leizer Yudel Finkel, rosh yeshivah of the Mir yeshivah in Yerushalayim, visited the Yeshiva Elementary School in Miami, Florida, as part of a trip to America. He shared divrei chizuk with the students in the middle school before heading off. With a tight schedule to adhere to, he needed to daven Minchah before leaving, and the school rearranged the schedule to accommodate the Rosh Yeshivah.

The davening took on a unique intensity as the boys, stirred by the presence of their guest, connected to the force of Torah he represented and One who graced us with the privilege of studying and honoring its word.

Mayim Chayim

For five days, spanning December 13–17, the city of Waterbury and its surrounding townships lost running water due to a break in a major water pipe.

Some 100,000 residents were left to cope as best they could, with the implications ranging from uncomfortable to intolerable — and, in some cases, dangerous.

Unsurprisingly, the Jewish community sprang into action. Neighboring townships with water opened their homes for bathing, laundry, and refilling containers. Spreadsheets with names and numbers of those with running water were distributed. A group of people procured 250-gallon tankers on the back of trucks and transported hundreds of gallons of water door to door. Hotel time slots were arranged for families to wash up.

But alongside the impressive display of chesed was an equally stunning show of dedication to Torah, as outlined in a letter written by Rav Aharon Kaufman, rosh yeshivah of Yeshiva Ateres Shmuel of Waterbury.

Rabbi Aharon Kaufman:

On Friday night, parshas Vayeishev, something elemental was taken from the city of Waterbury, Connecticut. A major water main break silenced an entire city. At one point, nearly 100,000  customers, effectively 100 percent of Waterbury, lost running water. From Shabbos through Tuesday night, faucets did not drip, sinks did not fill, and toilets did not flush. Only on Thursday was water once again deemed fit for consumption.

For days, Waterbury was forced to confront a question so basic it is almost never asked. How do you live with no water? How can an entire city function when the most fundamental necessity of life suddenly disappears?

How do children get bathed? How are hands washed, dishes cleaned, or laundry done? Bathrooms, kitchens, sinks, and tubs were all rendered useless. Every faucet was silent. The water was completely gone. City officials warned that the repairs could take days, perhaps even as long as two weeks. The National Guard was called in to assist with the emergency. Soldiers distributed bottled water to residents, while cars lined up for their ration of drinking water. Many families understandably made arrangements to leave town temporarily until normal life could resume.

On Motzaei Shabbos, we were faced with a pressing and daunting question of our own. What do you do with fifty bochurim living in dormitories with no water? Hotels were explored. Othe yeshivos and campuses were contacted. Every possible option was considered carefully.

One option, however, was never truly on the table. Sending them home.

Not because it would have been impossible, but because it would have been unthinkable.

In the end, we rented portable mobile facilities for the bochurim, the kollel yungeleit, and anyone learning in the yeshivah. We purchased case after case of bottled water, enough to drink and to wash dishes, just enough to manage the most basic needs of daily life. Even so, the hardship was unmistakable. Floors were sticky. Laundry could not be washed. A snowstorm on Sunday compounded the difficulty, adding cold and disruption to an already strained reality.

Many families chose to leave town. But the bochurim did not. Every bochur stayed. The yungeleit stayed. The beis medrash rebbeim and their families stayed as well.

Why?

Why could we not simply disperse, wait it out, and return when comfort and normalcy were restored?

Because ameilus b’Torah is not negotiable. Nor is it neglectable. The primacy of Torah stands firm in every situation and under every circumstance. Our goal was to ease the hardship wherever possible, but limud haTorah itself remained steadfast.

The sedorim were strong and energetic. The kol Torah filled the beis medrash with its familiar and powerful sound. There was no lack of water in the beis medrash, because ein mayim ela Torah. Torah is our life and our mayim chayim.

Without speeches or slogans, a profound lesson was taught. It was a lesson that no formal shiur could fully convey. When physical water disappeared, the wellspring of Torah flowed uninterrupted. The talmidim saw, felt, and lived the truth that Torah is not an accessory to life. It is its core.

The rebbeim opened their homes, just as they have in years past. Chanukah mesibos took place around family tables. The rebbetzins cooked and somehow managed to clean the dishes. Warmth and simchah filled those homes despite the inconvenience. The yeshivah held a beautiful mesibah, and remarkably, the lack of water and discomfort were not the topic of conversation. The focus was the mesikus of Torah, Rabi Akiva Eiger, the Brisker Rav, and the simchah of limud haTorah.

In time, the water returned to Waterbury. But something else was revealed in its absence.

The city learned how fragile infrastructure can be. The beis medrash demonstrated how unbreakable ameilus b’Torah truly is.

When the pipes ran dry, Torah continued to flow. When faucets were silent, the kol Torah spoke. And in the heart of hardship, our talmidim learned, not by words, but by living example, that Torah is not what we do when conditions are right.

It is who we are, always.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1092)