Malky was bustling around, dusting off the same glass shelf near the front door for the third time.

“What time are they coming?” she asked.

“Not till seven thirty, Malk. It’s only seven, relax.”

“I’m relaxed, I’m just mad we didn’t have Dolores today of all days, okay whatever, it’ll be okay. I also wish we had macadamia nuts, cashews are so nebby. Do you think I have time to run out?” She stepped back and looked at the silver candy dish.

“Malk, I don’t know what these people want or why they’re coming bichlal,” Kivi said. “But I’m sure they’re not coming to eat peanuts. Trust me. They don’t care. These look just fine.”

He could see that she wasn’t convinced.

“Malky. They don’t care if we have macadamia nuts or popcorn or little pebbles in a bowl, they’re coming for one thing and only one thing — they only care that I’m married to a Halb. That’s the only relevant detail.”

She was hurt. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “that being married to a Halb is such a terrible thing.”

“Malk, that’s not what I said.” He tried to speak calmly, but he knew he’d already messed up. “I didn’t say it’s terrible, they think it’s amazing, which is why they ‘insisted’ on coming to meet me, rather than accepting my offer to come to them. I’m cool with it too. It’s all good Malky, relax.”

At precisely 7:32, the bell rang. Malky busied herself in the kitchen. Kivi checked himself in the mirror before welcoming his guests.

Ten minutes in, and Rabbi Wachsler still hadn’t said anything clich?d or predictable. He hadn’t spoken of young blood, new energy, or the next generation stepping up. He’d talked about his organization, how they sent out food for Shabbos to hundreds of families, and how grateful the recipients were.

“Reb Akiva, you can’t imagine, there are middle-class families who simply can’t pull together Shabbos. Maybe the mother isn’t capable, maybe she works too hard, and maybe there’s simply no money.”

“You’re doing a special thing,” Kivi agreed.

Rabbi Wachsler pushed his chair a bit back from the table and looked over at his director of operations, Naftali Diamond. It was clearly the younger man’s turn.

“So, Kivi.” Apparently Diamond wasn’t the “Reb” type. “Hear me out. We know we’re doing great things. I have to show you the letters we get, it’s not just the actual food, it’s the peace of mind, it’s the emotional support they get from us as well. The fact that someone cares, you know? We send Shabbos like it’s from the best takeout, really nice packages, and we do it with dignity and respect, and they feel that. But it’s not enough that we know it, or even that you know it, we need to go to the next level.”
(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 737)