A single moment can make all the difference between chometz and matzah, between success and failure. They raced the clock — and beat it!

It was a Friday afternoon in the summer of 2016, still a few hours before the Jerusalem sun would set and Shabbos would begin. Most women had already left the seminary campus at which I was a madrichah, overnight bags heavy on their shoulders as they ran to make the last bus. The flurry had died down and the big building was still.

The students in the seminary came from places across the map and from a huge range of backgrounds. They’d all come to Israel because they wanted to learn more about Yiddishkeit. When the teachers explained a concept that left them confused, they’d seek out one of us madrichot for an explanation. When they learned about a mitzvah they’d never heard of before, they’d come with their questions.

We spent many a night curled on the couches discussing the purpose of life and explaining what it’s like to live a frum life. When you’re surrounded by women who are actively choosing to grow, every conversation turns meaningful. Every encounter is an opportunity for growth.

That particular Shabbos, a few women had chosen to stay local for Shabbos, and it was my turn to stay in the dormitory with them.

“What are your plans?” I asked Liz when I passed through the front hallway. Shabbos didn’t start for another hour, but she was already on her way out.

“A friend invited me to go check out a Reform shul that’s somewhere near here — the services start in a few minutes.”

Oh.

“Did you light candles yet?” I asked her.

“I was planning to skip it this week because I don’t have time. I’m meeting my friend in ten minutes.”

“Can you give me one minute?” I asked. I didn’t want her to miss the chance to light. “It will just take a second for me to set up the candles for you.”

Liz agreed, and I ran to the lounge, where we usually set up the candles.

But the pantry was empty. There were no candles for Liz to light.

Were there some in the storage room? I ran up the three flights of stairs, my chest burning, and turned the door to the storage room. Locked.

Where was the key? Leah usually held on to it — and she was gone for Shabbos.

I rushed back to my room to grab my phone and dial Leah. No answer.

Unless I found a way for Liz to light — soon — she wouldn’t.

Liz was leaning against the door downstairs, halfway out, when I came back down.

“I’m so sorry,” I told her. “I’m still looking for some candles.”

“It’s okay if I don’t light this week,” Liz said. My heart sank. I was there to encourage growth, not hinder it.

Jennie, who had come to say goodbye to Liz, must have seen the way my face fell. “You can’t do that to Musia,” she told Liz. “If you don’t light, she’s going to spend the whole Shabbos feeling bad.”

I don’t remember where I found the candles, but Liz listened to Jennie. She stayed until I found candles, and she lit her little flame. Shabbos came in, I caught my breath, and we never spoke of the frantic search again. I was afraid that if we did, I’d learn that I pushed too far. After all, I was the reason she was late to her program.

At the end of the summer, Liz went back to her seven-day-a-week job as an engineer and I went back to my life in Brooklyn. It was only years later, when she texted me when she was on a trip touring Jewish sites in Europe, that we discussed the candle incident.

“Remember that Shabbat when you couldn’t find candles?” she wrote.

Of course I did.

“We’re going to some holy sites soon, and I was trying to think of something meaningful to share when we’re there. I’m planning to tell the story of how you encouraged me to light candles that one time, even when we couldn’t find any candles anywhere.”

Why that story? I wondered.

“If someone else cared about my mitzvah enough that they would run up and down the stairs so many times, I knew that I should care about it too.”

Eighteen minutes. It’s the time it takes the sun to set. And it’s the time it takes for a Jew to realize that the flame of Yiddishkeit within her hasn’t been extinguished, but has morphed into a lamplighter, spreading the light — and warmth — even further through the world.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 736)