With a cursory shake of my head, I told him I didn’t have any money and went on my way without a second thought.

The woman in front of me at the bakery finished paying for her challos and sprinkle cookies, then turned to me and said something in rapid-fire Hebrew. The only word I caught was tzedakah as she tipped a few bills and change into my hand. On her way out she repeated herself, this time in heavily accented English. “Please, motek, take the money and give it to tzedakah. Shabbat shalom, and shanah tovah.”

I left the bakery, clutching the money. I glanced around the parking lot, wide-eyed, her money in my hand. A woman ushered her kids into her minivan, a store owner stood in the doorway of his clothing store directing some young men to the rack of suits on sale. Not one collector in sight. I waited for a few moments and then walked to the corner and checked down the busy street. Cars whizzed by, a group of girls in blue pleated skirts were coming my way, but no one appeared to be collecting. What to do with the money? I bit my lip and reluctantly went to my car.

As I pulled away, I decided to put her money, and some of my own, into our pushke at lichtbentshen. Perhaps being the woman’s shaliach would serve as the additional merit I needed right before Rosh Hashanah. After all, Hashem had chosen me to be there just then. I hummed as I thought about the incident, buoyed not only by being her shaliach, but by my enthusiasm for a mitzvah that wasn’t always easy.

In the very same parking lot, just seven months earlier, I’d been approached by a man asking for tzedakah. With a cursory shake of my head, I told him I didn’t have any money and went on my way without a second thought.

At 8:30 that evening, I made my way to a shloshim asifah for a family friend and community member, a healthy man who had passed away suddenly. His petirah had stunned our community, and the asifah was packed. The speakers recounted the many strengths of this man — his friendliness, his acts of chesed, and his Torah learning — and I, along with the women around me, cried unabashedly. The speakers also highlighted this man’s generosity. He gave tzedakah, a lot of it, and always with a smile, a kind word, an invitation into his home. I could picture his smiling face, could imagine how comfortable tzedakah collectors must have felt being greeted by such a countenance.

My encounter with the collector earlier that day came to mind. I cringed. I saw his sincere dark eyes, the glimmer of hope when he saw me. Why had I been so abrupt with this fellow Yid? I could have taken the two minutes to go to my car and write him a check. But I was too preoccupied with my own To-Do list to help him.

I bowed my head and felt more tears come. “I am so sorry about how I acted with the man collecting tzedakah,” I whispered to Hashem. “I feel terrible. Please forgive me. Please send me another opportunity within the next 24 hours to give tzedakah and rectify this situation.” I had never made such a specific request before, but I had a desperate feeling that I needed to fix this immediately.

The next day’s routine pushed my request to the back of my mind. That night, though, while I was bathing my daughter, I heard the rattle of our metal screen door.

“Mitzvah, tzedakah…” came the heavily accented voice.

“Coming…”

I saw my husband walking down the hall toward the front door; he asked if I had any cash. As he went to look for my purse, I remembered. I checked my watch. My heart pounded as I checked my watch: 8:10. Twenty minutes shy of 24 hours since my request.

“You’re giving it, but it’s from me!” I called to my husband.

A few moments later, my husband came back down the hall. “There are two.”

“You’re kidding!” A double opportunity. I was euphoric. He looked at me quizzically as he fetched another bill.

As I started to tell my husband the story, there was another knock at the door.

This time, I hurried to get another bill and went to the door. Hashem had sent me three opportunities, within a few moments of each other, to fix what I hadn’t done properly. The Hashgachah was incredible — we infrequently have meshulachim coming to our door, and rarely several people on the same night.

After the kids were asleep and the house was quiet, I sat alone on the couch and soaked in the sweetness of teshuvah. Thank You, thank You, Hashem, I whispered. In Your great rachamim, I’d received even more than I had hoped for. Thank you for forgiving me.

This moment of Hashgachah stayed with me and I thought of it often. And it was that memory that filled my mind months later as I drove home to distribute another woman’s tzedakah. On that last Erev Shabbos of the year, I realized I had changed. Perhaps the lady had entrusted me with the mitzvah, but it was Hashem Who had faith in me. Yes, you’re a giver, too, like Me.

At candlelighting, I took all the money from the bakery lady and put it in our hachnassas kallah pushke. I was also careful to give my children tzedakah to put in the pushkes of their choice.

After Havdalah, my husband and I sat down by the light of the Melaveh Malkah candles. Our white tablecloth was strewn with shiny silver coins, copper pennies, and crumpled bills. Our hands moved quickly as we wrote checks.

Soon this table would be laden with tangy pomegranate seeds, shiny round challos, and ruby-red beets. But right now, the glimmering coins were the most beautiful tribute to Rosh Hashanah I could imagine.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 409)