Though we chuckle at Stevie’s innocent simplicity, the joke is really on us

Every time I see arba kanfos/tzitzis dangling from one of those ubiquitous Jerusalem clotheslines, I think of eight-year-old Stevie of Little Rock, Arkansas.

Many years ago, he spent one vacation time with his Atlanta grandfather, and cavorted every single day in the hot sun with our three little boys. I saw that he was curious about the tzitzis my boys were wearing, never having seen such “strings” before, so I gave him a pair of tzitzis for himself.

One day, at the end of summer, a knock on my door. There stood little Stevie. In one finger of his hand he was gingerly holding those tzitzis, which — after four unwashed weeks in the blazing Georgia sun — were ragged, sweat-soaked, and no longer white. He handed them to me with a smile. “I don’t need these no more, Rabbi. I’m goin’ back to Arkansas.”

Over the many years, we lost track of Stevie, but his parting words became part of our family lore. Whenever we discard anything that seems useless, we still declare “Don’t need this no more, goin’ back to Arkansas.”

But over the many years, we also began to realize that though we chuckle at Stevie’s innocent simplicity, the joke is really on us.

For are we not often guilty of the same mindset? Do we not daven with great intensity and kavanah when we need Divine assistance, when we have nowhere else to turn? There is no kavanah that equals our kavanah at such times. But what happens when the neediness is over, when the emergency comes to an end, when things return to normal? We also return to normal, and our intensity and kavanah relax their hold. “We don’t need Him no more,” so we go back to our personal Arkansas.

When Moshe Rabbeinu ascends Mt. Sinai, G-d says to him, in Shemos 24:12: Aleh Elai haharah vehyeh sham. Not just climb the mountain, but more importantly, “remain there” and imbibe the rarefied atmosphere of Sinaitic purity and connectivity with the Creator.

I don’t know what became of Stevie. I hope he encountered some adult tzitzis during these past many years. But one thing he taught us: We all need these, and all the mitzvos they stand for, in good times and bad. We need to climb the mountain of closeness to our Creator — and remain there.

Let us not go back to Arkansas.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1054)