Erev Rosh Hashanah is approaching, which means it’s almost time for hataras nedarim, which means that at some point near the end of Shacharis, the people around you will start mentally calculating how many people are in the minyan and if that total is divisible by four. If it’s not, it means at least one group will have an extra person, and trust me, you don’t want to be a fifth guy at hataras nedarim.

You need three to serve as dayanim, along with the one who is actually seeking the hatarah: That’s four. Number five is unnecessary, which means that he’s forcing the other four to sit through one more recitation of the text and, apparently, after a two-and-half-hour Selichos and Shacharis, it’s those four minutes that will ruin the day.

So as you do the math in your shul and make the same mental kabbalah as last year — to find out what nezirus Shimshon actually means before next Rosh Hashanah — here’s a story for you.

Rav Dovid Trenk, who left us just a few months ago, befriended the other mispallelim at the k’vasikin minyan in which he davened each day. One of them, a recent baal teshuvah, recalled that on Erev Rosh Hashanah, near the end of davening, Reb Dovid searched him out, and set himself up at the same table, ensuring that they were in the same “hataras nedarim chaburah.”

Because Reb Dovid saw something that most others missed: This baal teshuvah had developed into a talmid chacham, a respected part of the Lakewood kehillah — but ivra was still difficult for him to recite, and the Hebrew words in this once-a-year tefillah were a daunting challenge.

Reb Dovid wanted to make sure that the dayanim would be patient and kind to this man, so he made sure to be one of them.

After his friend, the baal teshuvah, completed the text, Reb Dovid would compliment him on getting through it. Each year, he would tell him how much better his reading was than the previous one.

This year, Reb Dovid won’t be there, but maybe, in his memory, we can relax a little bit and make it a point to find a fifth, invite someone who reads haltingly or with difficulty to join our exclusive group. Maybe the minhag Yisrael to recite hataras nedarim on Erev Rosh Hashanah is rooted in this, the chance to find room in your heart and schedule for the guy who insists on delineating every single half-neder he might have made — bentshing with a hat and jacket and setting the table for Shabbos on Thursday night and other stuff that didn’t mamash work out as planned. Maybe the neder we’re being matir is the one we articulate a million times a day — I have no time, I’m in such a rush, I really would love to but I can’t — and the way we absolve it is by sitting patiently and just listening.

Mutar lach, friends, mutar lach.

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 779)