A few weeks ago we had the pleasure of spending a few days at Mishpacha’s headquarters for the annual winter meetings. Yerushalayim. What could be better?

Big beautiful windows looking all the way out to Kever Shmuel Hanavi the chance to brainstorm with colleagues and superiors — some of the most talented and creative people in the frum world. That Israeli instant coffee which when purchased off a grocery shelf in Lakewood or Monsey just doesn’t deliver the same kick.

But the thing is that meetings — lots of meetings sometimes for several hours at a stretch — are not really my thing. I remember how a few years back our publisher Eli Paley presided over a seemingly endless meeting from nine o’clock in the morning until close to two in the afternoon. Finally when I felt like I was going to burst I sent him a note. “If I were able to sit for five hours at a stretch I would have stayed in kollel.”

That’s why one of the sessions was so refreshing: Instead of another discussion there was a game. Not a real game like baseball or basketball (note to Eli: there’s an idea no? Instead of fighting about Trump et al in the pages of the magazine let’s take it to the court). The managing editor Mrs. Friedman handed out papers and markers challenging each person to create an original slogan and logo for the magazine. (Some submissions were funny. Eytan Kobre wrote “Mishpacha: Make Yiddishkeit ‘Breit’ Again ” while creative director Menachem Weinreb wrote “Mishpacha: We Photoshop Pictures of Women.” Other entries included “Mishpacha: We Subscribe to Your Issues ” and “Mishpacha: From Our Dysfunctional Family to Yours.”)

But things got serious after a while and the true implication of the exercise became clear. If you want to be a good worker you need to feel what it is you’re doing. What does Mishpacha mean to you and what are you aiming to accomplish every time you sit down to write?

The point reminded me of something Rav Yosef Elefant said at an Agudah convention a few years ago. He challenged parents to give their homes an identity a central theme. “If your children can only say ‘My parents are nice people and we eat gefilte fish on Shabbos and everything is fine ’ you haven’t given them the pride and identity necessary. Raise them in a way that allows them to say ‘My parents? They never turn away a meshulach.’ Or ‘Nothing is more important to them than my learning.’ Perhaps it’s ‘Our home is filled with emunah — my parents accept everything calmly ’ or ‘My parents revere all tzaddikim and never speak badly of any Jew.’ You’ve got to give them something more than just three meals a day and clean shirts.”

Mrs. Friedman’s game was meant to remind us that no staffer will do great work with the attitude that Mishpacha is just a kosher magazine with a few articles and nice pictures and ads for Pesach hotels. It has to mean something more have a central mission and goal something that invests its staff with pride and purpose.

I once took upon myself not to make hackneyed jokes about Mishpacha meaning family so I’ll do this real quick. The lesson — to really flourish you have to know what makes you special — isn’t just true for our magazine: it’s true for every mishpachah.

Happy Medium

On the eve of the month of Adar a thought about simchah — more precisely about simchahs. Those events you know chasunahs and bar mitzvahs and sheva brachos are called “simchahs” for a reason — namely that you’re supposed to be happy to feel the rejoicing. Who knew?

It’s rough. You make a tie and grumble about the babysitter and finding parking and head out feeling like a martyr. You make sure the baal simchah sees you. (“Did you dance with him?” your wife will ask and you’ll patiently explain that men don’t dance with each other it’s enough if he saw you.)

Sometimes even while you’re sitting at the table eating the baal simchah’s food and listening to music he paid for you’re kvetching about how long everything is taking why can’t the chassan and kallah come in already so you can get home.

If you’re over 40 a friend recently commented sitting at a chasunah is basically like sitting on line at the DMV just with green beans and someone playing “Hiskabtzi.”

So what’s the eitzah?

I was once at a bar mitzvah and the proud young bochur leined so slowly — from the beginning of the parshah until sheini took longer than the last hour of a taanis. He showed no signs of speeding up enjoying each soaring pozer dipping luxuriously with each zarka. It was getting painful. I noticed the rav of the shul smiling seemingly enjoying the drawn-out krias haTorah.

After davening I asked him how he’d not only endured but even appeared to delight in the leisurely performance. It wasn’t easy he conceded. When he realized that it would take a while he explained he went somewhere else. Not another shul just in his mind.

“I thought about each of the grandparents in turn the struggles and challenges they must have endured to be able to be ehrliche Yidden shomrei Torah u’mitzvos. They grew up in America and some of them didn’t even go to yeshivah. I tried to imagine the incredible pride they must be feeling as they listen to this little tzaddik lein what a sweet sound it is to hear their grandson read the Torah like an expert. Then when I finished with that I contemplated the parents: their excitement at his bris and first steps and first words and upsheren and starting to learn Chumash and daven. Then he turned 12 and they spent a year worrying about his leining finding the right rebbi and making sure he practices and that he’s not too nervous and finally this moment has arrived. Listen to him read such a charming talented bochur!”

Imagine going to a simchah and trying that: There’s always a storyline always a path strewn with rocks that leads to every milestone. It’s just a question of getting there.

Marbin b’simchah. Maybe next time we go to a simchah we take our minds hearts and imaginations along too — and perhaps we’ll even feel happy.

Contact Yisrael Besser directly at besser@mishpacha.com