On the one side were opportunities that couldn’t be duplicated: access to the biggest celebrities, parties, perks, a job I loved and at which I excelled. On the other was the image of the Jewish home I wanted to build one day, and the profound feeling of wholeness I had in Jerusalem.

At 14, I was the luckiest girl in the world.

Well, the luckiest girl in Shaker Heights, Ohio. I’d landed a coveted interview on behalf of the school newspaper at the local television news station. I lounged in the guest chair ready for the interview that would soon be captured live, and the show’s hostess told me about her training and experience, and what it was like to work on a daily show.

Then she took me backstage.

“That,” she said, pointing to a handsome grid, around the size of a car door, suspended from the ceiling of the newsroom, “is a fake ceiling.”

“Yeah?” I said, then kicked myself for my unintelligent reaction.

“When we’re rolling, it looks just like the ceiling of our set.”

I nodded. Safer than opening my mouth.

“It’s an illusion. Just a little thing, but it looks like a ceiling that covers the whole news room.”

I craned my neck until I heard a painful click.

“It stops viewers seeing all the lights hanging from the real ceiling.”

“Right.” I couldn’t nod this time, my neck needed physiotherapy.

“Just a little introduction to the world of television,” she said, then she went to beam her smile at millions of viewers about to tune in.

It was more than an introduction. That interview cemented my determination to make it — and make it big.

It also taught me a lesson that only sunk in two decades later, when I’d all but desiccated myself on my climb to the top of television production, only to discover that on top of the mountain, there was no fake ceiling. And without it, the view was filled with ugly lights and frayed wires.

***

I was playing a game of jacks when I stopped believing in G-d.

Until that fateful day, on the random but numerous occasions when I pondered the Divine, I imagined a kind old man with a beard looking down from a Heavenly perch. Until I was eight, I thought He was kind, and I felt bad that we littered His planet and poked holes in the ozone layer. Poor G-d, I thought.

I loved playing jacks. I practiced on my bedroom floor for hours. One practice session, I was advancing through increasingly difficult rounds until I hit a snag. I couldn’t grasp the rubber ball fast enough. And I wasn’t scooping up enough jacks. I turned my eyes heavenward. “G-d, help me,” I said, sincere as any Bible-bashing minister.

I tried again. And messed up.

Again.

And again.

“G-d! You better help me!”

No pretty pleases now. This was a demand.

I tossed the ball.

And bungled it.

Again, I turned my eyes heavenward. “G-d! That’s it! You bungled it. No way I’m believing in You anymore.”

And so, from the age of eight I was an atheist.

A catastrophic game of jacks may seem like an overly dramatic and childish reason to stop believing in G-d. But the groundwork for my religious rebellion had been laid long before.

For starters, while my parents were ho-hum let’s buy Israel bonds and be proud Jews kind of people, they weren’t traditional in their observance. They had vague ideas of tikkun olam, that liberal sound bite that means, let’s put the world to rights. They were charitable, hospitable, and honest people. They had their newborn sons circumcised and went to temple on the High Holy Days. Passover saw a lavish Seder, complete with egg matzot and a singsong about a poor little goat bought for a couple of zuz (ever wonder about the zuz-dollar exchange rate?).

My father was a university professor, and my parents’ crowd comprised other academics. On American university campuses, G-d is a persona non grata. If it can’t be proven, measured, seen, or heard, why should I believe it exists? Is there anything beyond the world in which we live? A spiritual reality? If there was, wouldn’t he/she/it be manifest somewhere? In the temple? At the Seder? G-d, it seemed, played hide-and-seek. He definitely didn’t play jacks.

***

It seemed to take eternity for high school to finish and university to begin. And then, life took off. I got involved with creative organizations such as the university radio station and the Film Society. I helmed a show on the air when music was still played on LP records. But here things began to stall. Having a university professor father gave me high expectations of myself. But I wasn’t making the grade.

My major was in business and marketing, but my marks reflected the soon-to-crash ’80s market. The only “subject” where I was finding success was at the bohemian coffee house where I worked part-time as a barista. The clientele there comprised war veterans, aging hippies, and artists of every stripe. The one thing they had in common was a belief in some kind of higher power.

Upon hearing me lament lackluster grades, one of my customers suggested I tell G-d about my problems. Initially, I recoiled at the suggestion. But nothing else was working out, so on an occasional coffee break, I’d sit in the empty staff room and talk to G-d, the G-d of Israel. I’d matured a bit in the ten years since I’d last spoken to Him; rather than challenge G-d to make my life better, I unburdened myself by describing to Him what I thought was wrong with my life.

Every time I did this, I noticed that some small but noticeable change for the better would happen — either in a situation or my own outlook. For example, it occurred to me seemingly out of the blue, that if I switched my major to an area that I enjoyed, like English, I could actually earn an undergraduate degree after all. I think this eureka moment was Heavenly guidance pointing me in a direction that would take me where I needed to go.

When I realized it was English major or bust, I met with a scholastic advisor, who happened to be an internationally renowned film scholar. I explained my turbulent scholastic journey — business studies were getting me nowhere. “Should I transfer to a university offering a program in film production?” I asked.

He thought for a minute and shook his head. “Students who major in production get labeled as techies,” he said. “That’s fine if all you want to do is be on a technical crew. But if you want to direct one day, an English major — or any liberal arts or humanities major — will be viewed as someone with a perspective on life. That’s what film schools are looking for.”

“But what about camera angles, set design, color grading? I’d be a novice.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “So intern somewhere. You’re bright. You’ll pick it up.”

This conversation turned out to be a defining moment. And it catalyzed my determination to land an internship, which I did at a major celebrity news network in New York.

Although I was nervous the first day I walked in to my internship, I was still quietly confident, not to mention elated. It took half a year for my jubilation to wear off. Like any job, there’d be days when it was just work — hard, nerve-racking work. I witnessed how a producer or writer would research a topic by making phone calls, reading industry mags, and watching interviews while taking notes, to write a news piece that either took just 15–30 seconds to read on-air, or, if it warranted more exploration, became a three-minute-long segment with visuals and voice-overs.

It wasn’t long before I was promoted from intern to production assistant, and then to associate producer. The hours were long and I still wasn’t earning the kind of bucks that let you start an investment portfolio. There I sat, for almost eight straight hours, with the handset of my phone cradled between my left ear and left shoulder. (This was back in the Middle Ages when phones had a keypad and a handset.)

My to-do list had no end. I was such a perfectionist about this second-in-command job of mine that I delegated almost nothing. I wasn’t thrilled that I had way too much to do, but I thought I was capable enough to handle my duties, and I earned a reputation of doing quality work on or ahead of schedule.

It was a Thursday when the calls kept coming and each piece of unfinished business seemed to splinter into numerous little bits that splintered again. I was trying to pull everything together, with the clock ticking. Every element of every edition had to be ready by Thursday. On Thursdays, we’d shoot wraparounds and on-set celebrity guest interviews during the day, and then the segment producer would edit the show at night.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon before I stood up for the first time that day. I hadn’t eaten, drunk, or even stretched my legs for nearly eight hours. I was so light-headed that I didn’t even realize I was off-kilter.

Somehow, I made it to the ladies’ room. When I got back, I walked past my friend, Stacey Wolfe, and brushed her on the shoulder.

She smiled at me. “What’s up, Heather?”

“Not sure.” I put on my nonchalant, everything’s-fine smile, but it didn’t fool her for a second.

“What’s up, Heather?” she asked again, concerned.

I told her how I was really feeling.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, “your head feels weird, and your arms and legs are numb.”

I nodded, worry turning to fear.

She chewed her nail for a moment. “Do you take bee pollen?”

I rolled my eyes. “No.”

“Well you should. And Heather?”

“What?”

“Do yourself a favor. See a doctor.”

I thanked Stacey and rummaged in my bag for that uneaten carrot muffin. But even as I took the first bite, I realized my fingertips were also numb. I was terrified.

There was more for me to do that day, much more, but I told the production assistant that I wasn’t feeling well and left. On the ride home, I thought of nothing but how afraid I was. What was happening to me? Were these symptoms the harbinger of some terrible disease, a disability?

I met with Dr. Lipton at the first available appointment. I was jittery and tense, quite a counterpart to his calm, unhurried manner.

“Why don’t you tell me your symptoms,” he said.

“My head feels light but not dizzy; my arms and legs, hands and feet are numb but not asleep; when I turn on the tap, I can’t tell the difference between hot and cold.”

Dr. Lipton asked a few detailed questions about my family’s medical history. He told me a number of things could cause my symptoms; he was not certain of the cause here. But he added that whatever I had didn’t sound serious to him.

As I was a new patient, Dr. Lipton wanted to schedule me for a full physical exam. To him, an obvious concern needed to be addressed: my weight. Since my junior year in university I’d been steadily gaining weight; Now I was 25 and could stand to lose at least forty pounds. “Heather, what will it take to get you to exercise?” Dr. Lipton asked.

I smiled sheepishly. I loathed exercise. I was so out of shape that running just a quarter mile made me breathless. Plus, I was too embarrassed to go to the gym.

Dr. Lipton referred me to a neurologist for the numbness in my limbs and extremities. That doctor swiftly ruled out anything suspicious. The relief I felt propelled me to exercise with some best-selling VHS tapes at home. A few months later, I’d opt for long, brisk walks around the Central Park loop. The pounds began to drop, and I felt a new confidence. As I paid more attention to my body, I started thinking about wellbeing in general. I began meditating and thinking about the world of the spirit.

While taking baby steps toward a more integrated sense of being, my career was progressing. After producing a dozen or so interviews with famous folks, it occurred to me that I was a natural at interviewing. In 1992, I went freelance, producing celebrity interviews and news stories for multiple international outlets, including the Associated Press.

I realized that when I’m in conversation with someone, I can tune out everything else and focus on the person in front of me. Furthermore, when I reflected on the candidness of the responses I was getting, I realized people sensed I wasn’t judging them. They were right. When a person is confiding in me, I’m a sympathizer — not a critic.

That level of trust made for countless frank and astonishing responses. While tape was rolling, a movie actress revealed to me how she regretted not having children when she was young enough to do so without medical intervention. In another instance, a leading female TV star told me that her show’s producer expected her not to voice her political views, which were in direct opposition to his. Both actresses later left messages on my home answering machine imploring me not to air these quotes. And the incidents taught me that people naturally trust me with very private information.

The frequency of my celebrity interviews vaccinated me against getting starstruck. By the time I interviewed these stars for the second (or third, or fourth) time, I wasn’t at all uneasy.

When the film Apollo 13 was released, I was flown to Houston, Texas, to the Johnson Space Center. The purpose of my trip was to attend a press junket with the stars of the movie, but I had a great time looking around the space center, ogling the huge space suits, and sampling space food sold in the gift shop.

At the junket, I sat around a table with ten other radio people. While I didn’t want to step on anyone else’s toes — and I certainly wasn’t going to interrupt, which is a no-no in the world of audio interviews —  when I had questions, I made sure to ask. I asked a star what NASA astronaut Jim Lovell had told him about his experience, and how he had stayed calm when their mission turned into an emergency situation. Broader questions like this led to interesting discussions.

When the junket was over, I got a ton of compliments from my colleagues and the interviewees. I left Houston with the confidence that I was carving a unique place in my profession.

***

After a long illness, my mom passed away in the autumn of 1995. I’d mentally prepared myself with the knowledge that this would likely be the worst loss of my life. My mother understood me, accepted me, and was a warm, comforting spirit. She cared deeply that every person and creature should live with dignity.

After my mother’s passing, I felt apathy. Nothing depressed me, nothing elated me: I simply didn’t care. Something my mother told me when I was a child popped into my mind. She disclosed that a family friend went to a rabbi for counseling. “But Mom,” I’d said, “Rabbi Wasserman is a rabbi. What does he know about counseling?”

“Oh, rabbis counsel people, too,” she told me.

So, my 34-year-old self figured, I may not be into Judaism, or rabbis, but I needed to move forward. Now, where was I going to find a rabbi? A friend gave me a list of four neighborhood rabbis. I called the first one and scheduled a meeting.

Intuition told me to skip the usual T-shirt and jeans and wear a modest blouse-skirt combo. Even though it was New York in July, better to overdress for a rabbi than the opposite, right?

Rabbi Avraham Goldhar’s office was a mere four blocks from my apartment. Rabbi Goldhar listened and empathized as I poured out my heart about losing my mother, and described my constant nagging worries about my health.

Everything about Rabbi Goldhar evoked dignity and calm: his suit, his posture, the way he phrased his sentences. From his response, I saw he fully grasped that what I was going through was intense and challenging.

I expected he’d say something sympathetic like You certainly have your share of worries. Instead, he began with: “Each person is made up of a body and soul.” I was fine with that; I firmly believed in a spiritual reality. But Rabbi Goldhar took it further.

Our physical body craves physical pleasure, he explained. That means good food, good music, a comfortable home — and also more refined pleasures like honor and admiration. The soul, in contrast, desires spiritual pleasure: giving, loving, praying, and coming close to G-d through performing mitzvos (a word I had to dust off from Hebrew school). Body and soul are in constant conflict, and the struggle of life is to decide what we’ll choose to pursue: short-term or long-term pleasure.

Applying this idea to my predicament, I ruminated that I was “thinking” with my body, not with my soul. I didn’t share my thoughts and fears with G-d. Rabbi Goldhar continued, saying: Jewish tradition teaches us to aim toward behaving, and even thinking, in the soul’s direction. Living this way, we add a whole new dimension of pleasure — one of meaning — to our daily lives.

This was a huge idea, I realized. Global. If I allowed it to, it could have an effect on every part of my life. Every decision. It would affect what I was going to eat, what I would wear, even how I spoke.

I’d just wanted to meet with Rabbi Goldhar to see if he had The Answer to letting go of the pain over my mother’s death. And now this. I sat there uncomfortably in that all-too-comfy chair and had my first glimpse into the paradigm change to come.

Our hour-long meeting was coming to a close, and I figured I should ask a “Jewish” question. “Rabbi Goldhar,” I said, “both of my parents are from Jewish families that go all the way back to the Old Country. But when the time comes for me to raise children, how am I going to pass a Jewish identity on to them?” Not that I was in a steady relationship. Not that I was even interested in his answer. I was just humoring him with a Jewish question.

Rabbi Goldhar beamed. “Well, Heather, right in this building is a center for Jewish studies. I’m not going to nudge you to come back, but you’re welcome anytime, and I think you’ll find the people who learn here are very warm.”

Another shot at Hebrew school? No thanks.

But one day, my busy schedule ground to a sudden halt. The date was September 21. It was just a regular Monday, yet there was not a single celebrity for me to interview. I double-checked my calendar and realized, oh it’s Rosh Hashanah. There aren’t any celebrities to interview ’cause their publicists are all in temple!

I had nothing to do. Nothing to do… unless…

I remembered Rabbi Goldhar’s invitation. I figured they’d have Rosh Hashanah services. Oh, but how I loathed Rosh Hashanah services when I was growing up. Boring, meaningless, mandatory and never-ending.

Yet this was 1998 and no one was forcing me to go. If I went to Rosh Hashanah services, I could leave any time I chose. Time to dress up in another modest getup and walk over to 83rd Street. I noticed the Aish HaTorah sign out front. I wondered what Aish meant.

I walked inside, slipped a prayer book off the pinewood shelves. It was standing-room only, so I stood. Eventually, a seat became available. On the other side of the room, hidden from view by a lush border of potted trees, were the menfolk. Already I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore because at the temple where my family were members, men and women sat together.

I looked down at the prayer book. Hebrew on one side, English translation on the other. Hold on — Hebrew! I’m following this service, and it’s in Hebrew! How can this be? I hadn’t read or spoken Hebrew in 20 years! My Hebrew usage was as dormant as Mount Vesuvius, and now it was coming back to life. Much as I didn’t want to be there, I conceded that my retention of Hebrew must have been an act of G-d. I was even uncannily familiar with the melodies the cantor sang. I fought back a tear.

Soon after that Rosh Hashanah, I began attending classes at Aish. Not that I was going to turn into some religious fanatic. Ever the journalist, I was simply investigating on behalf on my own “bulletin.” I drew the line at observing Shabbat or keeping kosher. But I listened in and engaged in discussions on a wide range of topics from Jewish mysticism to a critique on feminism. My thinking broadened.

My developing mind pushed my interviews into another realm. I challenged the artists with questions that probed their feelings of accountability for their audacious decisions. I asked producers if they were contributing to a culture of violence. I asked a star if he thought it was right for kids to watch his movie. I asked leading women: How do you feel about approaching middle age? Do you worry about being relevant in your career in the next ten years? Invariably, the stars were acutely aware that there was always someone newer, younger, prettier, and more talented ready to become the next sensation.

I’d always been good at my job, but now I was forcing celebs to think. To explore their consciences, hold up their moral lanterns to their jobs, and comment. And they loved it.

1999 was wrapping up and the fast-approaching eve of “Y2K” had many a white-collar sweating. What was going to happen to databases and computer terminals at that first tick of January 1, 2000? Second to that pressure was the worry over how to ensure one’s attendance at The Party of the Century — wherever that was! I had an invite to almost every in party in town. Where would I go?

Here was my problem: I was in the habit of attending Shabbat services — both Friday night and Saturday morning — at Aish. By this point, every question, every doubt, every “yeah… but” I’d held about Judaism had been respectfully and confidently answered by rabbis who amassed extensive knowledge of the Talmud. The multilayered classes I took during the week at Aish, and the inspiring Shabbat and Holiday services I attended, nourished my soul profoundly.

I wasn’t quite ready to climb Mount Sinai, but I’d started observing some Shabbat rituals like lighting candles, and I didn’t want to break the flow. Even if that meant I’d be observing New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1999, as the 22nd of Tevet — Shabbat!

How’s this for irony? The weekly Torah portion was Shemos, with its story of Jewish enslavement. I decided to forgo the bashes and head to Aish.

It was a customary Shabbat meal, complete with the challah and chicken soup. In no way did it resemble the goings on in Times Square, Trafalgar Square, or Red Square for that matter. After bentshing, we pushed the tables to one side, divided the room in half with screens, and started to dance. The men joyously sang “Yibaneh Hamikdash” and “Yom Zeh L’Yisrael.” I held hands with my newest girlfriends and danced around and around in a circle that never seemed to end. Eventually, I looked up at the wall clock to see that it was long past midnight. And that’s how I brought in the new millennium.

In my ongoing quest to meaningfully explore what G-d wanted from my life, I embarked on a 10-day tour of Israel organized by Aish HaTorah. Not only did I travel through some of the locations where our forefathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob dwelled, I saw firsthand what the fuss is about the Golan Heights.

As magnificent as I found the Bay Area Peninsula, the Greek Islands, and the Champs-Élysées, and as stirring as I found the historical sites of Stonehenge, the Parthenon, and the Pyramids, nothing prepared me for the majesty of the Golan Heights. I’d never seen a region so obviously blessed by the Creator.

When that trip to Israel was over, I soon booked another — and another. I was back and forth so many times it was almost becoming a lifestyle. An unsustainable one. There’s no off-season when it comes to celebrity news and interviews. If I were to stay in the loop and produce interviews and set visits, I’d have to remain in my New-York base most of the year.

On the last day of a Torah-study trip to the Old City, Rabbi Tolwin — the group’s leader on behalf of Aish NY — rushed into the room and made an announcement. “Today’s flight’s overbooked and El Al is offering a free round-trip ticket to anyone willing to fly tomorrow.”

I ran to Rabbi Tolwin, eagerly offering my ticket. The Almighty had just arranged a new ticket to ride; He clearly wanted me back in Israel to strengthen and deepen my Jewish knowledge.

I returned to Jerusalem, but this time, having organized a hiatus from my professional obligations. I found my place in Neve. I drank in the learning. But still, every couple of months, I found myself in one of my mentors’ offices, talking about my career, and deciding whether I should further extend my leave of absence.

On the one side were opportunities that couldn’t be duplicated: access to the biggest celebrities, parties, perks, a job I loved and at which I excelled. On the other was the image of the Jewish home I wanted to build one day, and the profound feeling of wholeness I had in Jerusalem. I was happiest when I was in a Torah class; it filled me up more than my job ever had.

My mentors, who’d been unfailingly supportive and wise, listened, sympathized, and thought deeply before responding. I always expected them to say, “Stay in Israel and keep going to classes!” But they didn’t.

“Are you moving forward here?” was the question they asked in return, urging me to ponder whether I was still growing spiritually and happy in my Torah observance. “Stay another month,” was the suggestion, followed by, “If you feel you’re stagnating, then go back to your career. If you’re moving forward, stay for a little longer.”

That summer, one year since my first class at Neve Yerushalayim, a shadchanit told me she had a great guy for me to meet. Andy attended the same synagogue as Gittel, and she described his personality, profession, and goals to me.

A few days later, Andy and I met at the aromatic Café Hillel in downtown Jerusalem. We played the neutral conversation game, steering clear of politics or religion. I felt a frisson of excitement when Andy said he’d like to meet me again. We met again, and then I confided in one of my mentors: “I like him. He’s honest, funny, and motivated, and we share many of the same values.”

“I want to meet him,” Rabbi Leib Kelemen said.

They met on a Friday morning. Ten minutes turned into forty, as they chatted and laughed. A little later, I got a phone call. Rabbi Kelemen was on the line. “Heather, he’s a mensch. A mensch! If he asks you to marry him, don’t just say yes, run to marry him!”

A week after this endorsement, it was my turn to meet Andy’s rabbi. Five minutes after exchanging pleasantries, the rabbi advised, “When two people are this sure, it’s best to move things forward as quickly as possible.” On October 28, Andy popped the question. By then, it wasn’t a question at all.

I called my AP editor from a pay phone in Zion Square. “I’m engaged!” I told him.

“Congratulations!” he said. Then he added, “I’m so happy for you that you’re leaving the business, Heather.”

Did I stop then, and say, oh my decision is made? Did I get a jolt? At that point, leaving it all behind was fluid and a natural progression of the choices I’d made and the way Hashem had steered my life. When my editor said those words, I realized I’d outgrown it. I’d been in the celebrity world over a decade, and I’d seen how today’s star becomes tomorrow’s nobody. I’d heard the most beautiful women share their insecurities. I’d seen how an entire team could continually prop up a star instead of pushing him to go to rehab, to continue receiving their salaries.

I had seen fame, fortune, stardom. And in that, I’d seen little fulfillment, spiritual wealth, or serenity. I’d made it to the ceiling, and it was just raw, ugly wires.

On the day of our wedding, I rose early to meditate and pray. I was acutely aware that our marriage was bigger than social convention; it was even bigger than a beautiful expression of our love for each other. It had bearing on the Jewish People and its continuation. Something cosmic was taking place of which I only grasped the tendrils.

The years passed. My husband and I were blessed with several children, all of whom were born when I was already in my forties. While they were young, I devoted myself entirely to their care. After such a high-flying life, one might have thought I’d get frustrated dealing with diapers and pacifiers and nap times. I relished it. Mothering later in life can be a physical challenge — simply finding the strength to keep running after little legs — but it’s such a huge, glorious blessing.

I also began giving lectures in seminaries, effectively bursting the celebrity bubble. Girls would ask me if I missed that life. “There’s not enough money in the world to pay me to go back there,” I’d reply.

Once my children were all in school, I received an offer to produce and host a radio program for Jewish women. I took a deep breath. Could I juggle it? I’m an organized person, and the radio program was a once-a-week jaunt. I said yes. I was back on-air.

My managing director, Tamar Yonah, then launched Israel News Talk Radio, in her own words: “to spread malchut Shamayim.” With the green light to explore issues surrounding frum life and bring in inspirational interviewees, I was once again able to carve out my own niche in the broadcasting world: this time, featuring women whose accomplishments belonged to the realm of the inner world.

About a year after my show began, I was invited by Aish.com to produce weekly podcasts — we called it “At Home in Jerusalem” — in which I speak to eminent Torah personalities. My journey began at Aish HaTorah, so to join their website and give back on their behalf is a closure that’s deeply meaningful.

Today, I’m taking the best of my skill set from my previous life, and integrating it into my current life, being a conduit for spreading Torah. My interview skills allow me to draw out my interviewee; my career experience enables me to broadcast this to the Jewish world.

When I got to Aish HaTorah in my mid-thirties, I believed in G-d. I just didn’t know if and how He spoke to the world. Through hundreds of classes and thousands of discussions, I learned that He does so through the prism of Torah and via His messengers — our teachers and rabbanim.

My path took me from the Egypt of modern pop culture and celebrity idols, through the wilderness, as I grappled with how to live an authentic Torah existence. Eventually, I arrived at my own Har Sinai — accepting the Torah and travelling on to marriage and motherhood — in Jerusalem.

(Originally featured in Family First Issue 592.)

Heather can be contacted through Mishpacha.