You got your precious vacation, but left us with a disaster

Aaron: The organization paid a very costly price for your phone-free vacation.

Nechami: I know what happens when I stay on call during time off.

Aaron

The office had that Monday energy when I walked in: the getting-back-to-schedule post-weekend feeling, like the team had to adjust to professional mode again.

Happened every week, but for some reason, things felt a little different today, until I remembered: Mrs. Freund, our marketing and communications director, had taken a rare few days of leave, and since she supervised several of the employees, things definitely felt a bit… looser.

There was a stir in the office as I walked through — one person nudging another, a subtle “boss just walked in” whisper — and people settled down a little. On one side of the room, our intake specialist and client liaison were busy returning calls; on the other, Mrs. Freund’s team was discussing what was left to prepare for the parlor meeting Wednesday night (not much: It had been Mrs. Freund’s idea in the first place, and she had planned it to perfection, down to the information packets and branded water bottles.)

“Parlor meetings are gold mines,” she’d said passionately at the first meeting in which she’d floated the idea. “You know, small setting, big names, low overhead, high return. We can build real relationships in a way more intimate way than by doing a huge dinner.”

And she would know. Nechami Freund wasn’t just an employee at the Work Initiative — she’d shaped it. She’d started with us as a part-time copywriter, back when we were still figuring out our logo and what our organization actually did for people. The first brochure, the first website, the first donor campaign… they were all hers.

Somewhere along the way, “communications director” came to mean fundraiser, strategist, website manager, marketing lead, and supervisor of half the office. She ran the public side of this place, and she did an amazing job of it. Her initiative and ideas consistently raised the bar on our fundraising, which in turn allowed us to run more fully funded training programs, offer more résumé-writing and job-placement services, and dedicate ourselves more strongly to our mission: to help more people find work and empower them to support their families with dignity.

Mrs. Freund rarely took vacation days — she just wasn’t the type — although she did take advantage of the flexibility of her role to work from home pretty often. I didn’t mind; she always did stellar work, and I wanted things to work for her.

Now, she was taking a few days off — “a real break, we haven’t done this in years” — and I fully supported that. If anyone deserved a breather, she did.

It was a shame her vacation was going to coincide with the parlor meeting, after all the work she’d done to launch the idea. But she’d booked this vacation months ago, and the parlor meeting had been bumped up a week earlier at our host’s request. And since it was men-only anyway, she wouldn’t have been attending in any event, and we decided we could make it work.

She’d set up everything to make sure things ran smoothly in her absence, leaving her team detailed instructions for each day she would be out of office. She’d copied me and Mr. Glick, our operations manager, on a comprehensive email she’d sent to her staff with information on every upcoming project and event, including an incredibly detailed to-do list and info doc for the parlor meeting. She’d set up an auto-reply and address for any urgent queries during her absence.

Honestly, she might have gone a little over the top — we were just talking three days. She did manage a huge amount at the organization, but I was sure we could handle our communications director taking a three-day vacation.

…Until we couldn’t.

I

was reviewing the brochure with the latest batch of Work Initiative courses when Duvi Glick knocked on my door.

“Aaron, something’s up with the website. It comes up with a warning message, like it’s a scam.”

I blinked. “What? The site was working fine yesterday.” I leaned over to my keyboard, typed in our website name, and clicked. Warning text filled the screen. Warning! Attackers may be trying to steal your information! My heart skipped a beat.

“When did this happen?”

“I don’t know, but one of the women who handles client calls just told me. She was on the phone to a client who was trying to upload a résumé, but didn’t want to click through to the site.”

“It looks terrible. For donors. Anyone. Whoa.” I surveyed the screen again. “What could’ve caused this?”

Duvi raised his hands in a wordless shrug. “No idea, but we should call Baruch to fix it, no? Want me to get on it?”

“I’ll call him.” I wanted to handle this myself, get it sorted, and fast. Baruch wasn’t on staff — we didn’t need a full-time IT guy — but he was a tech whiz who had set us up with our initial software and he was the one we called for IT-related questions.

I got Baruch on the phone and explained the issue.

“Hmm,” he said slowly. I could hear him clicking through on his own device, probably checking the how the site showed up. “It looks like Google flagged the site. Probably something minor — a plugin or redirect or some security scan. But once that warning’s up, it doesn’t go away on its own.”

“So what do we do?”

“You need to request a manual review through Google Search Console. They didn’t email you about it? They usually do. That’s the only way to get the warning removed.”

I shook my head anxiously. “Baruch, you know me, I deal with the big picture, not with the tech. Is this something you can do for us?”

“Not unless you give me access. Who’s the registered site owner? Who would have the Search Console login?”

“I have no clue. I didn’t know this thing existed. Mrs. Freund, our communications director, set up the website a few years back.” I paused as a sinking realization dawned. “She’s away on vacation now. Bad timing.”

“Call her,” Baruch advised. “Or text, whatever, but you need to ask her for the login information for Google Search Console. Once you have that, I can take care of it. Or if she’s able to log in herself, I can walk her through it — it’s not hard to do once you’re inside the account.”

I was already dialing. “She did say she wasn’t going to be working at all… but I’m calling her personal cell phone, hopefully she’ll realize it’s important and pick up….”

But the phone went straight to voicemail.

I hesitated, then sent a text. Sorry to bother on vacation, we have urgent issue with website and need login information. Please call ASAP.

Then I went back to staring at the ugly warning screen blockading our site. What if she was on a flight, or had no service where she was?

“Is there anything we can try before we hear back from her?” I asked Baruch nervously.

“Hmm. Not really. Unless she added other users or left you the login to her account, we’re stuck.”

I rubbed my forehead. “She left a lot of instructions before she went, but I doubt her personal login information was one of them.”

Baruch made a low sound of acknowledgement. “Want me to try anyway? If I can get into her account from your network, maybe it won’t ask for extra verification.”

It was worth a shot.

He came in around noon. I stood behind him as he used admin permissions to log into Mrs. Freund’s work account on our organization network.

“Oooh… here are the warning emails. I guess she didn’t see them before she left.”

He clicked a few more things and tried to log into Google Search Console.

The response flashed up quickly.

Enter the six-digit verification code sent to your phone.

Baruch sighed. “That’s it. It’s tied to her device.”

“Just her phone?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“If she didn’t set up backup methods — yeah. And even then, they’d go to her backup email or an authenticator app. We’re locked out.”

I stared at the screen.

Then I pulled out my phone and called Mrs. Freund again. Straight to voicemail.

I sent another text. This time, I wrote “URGENT” in all caps.

No response.

“What can we do?” I asked Baruch, desperation leaking into my voice. “She’s on vacation. No service. Phone’s off. Till… Thursday, I think. We can’t be without a site till then. It’s terrible for our clients. For the donors… is there no other way?”

Baruch shook his head, slowly. “Not really. We could try adding a new site owner through DNS or backend access, but that needs hosting credentials, too. Do you have those?”

I did not. Mrs. Freund had handled everything to do with the website setup. And we’d never needed this, ever, until now.

But surely she would see something — a voicemail, her missed calls, the text message. I’d even emailed and tried calling her home phone number in case one of her children could relay the message. We’d keep trying to reach her.

We didn’t have any other options.

BY

2 p.m., the entire office was on the case. Mrs. Freund’s team combed through her documentation, trying to see if there was any recording of login credentials for anything, while two other staff members spent a while trying to track down her, her husband, or any family member who could reach the Freunds on vacation.

Her phone was still off. Her husband’s phone rang once, then went to voicemail.

We texted both numbers, several times. No go.

“We could try set up a new temporary landing page…” someone suggested tentatively. “Like, just for the parlor meeting, people can see our stuff online or donate…”

The parlor meeting. On Wednesday. We had a whole page set up on the website, a special donation page we’d put up for the meeting, via a new link.

“But all the printed materials have the old link and QR codes. And so do the emails we have scheduled to send out before and after,” someone else said.

Mrs. Freund had been so organized. And now, it seemed, that was to our detriment.

All the while, I was getting a steady stream of messages and emails.

Aaron, what’s up with your site? Looks weird, read the text from my brother-in-law, an askan who often referred people for our services.

A major donor left us a voicemail message: “I just went onto your website and it says there’s malware and attackers trying to steal information. Has your security been compromised? Do I need to worry about the credit card donation I made last week?”

I grimaced. This was really bad. And we couldn’t fix it without Mrs. Freund.

We would just have to reach her before Wednesday.

T

uesday morning, I came into the office hoping — kind of irrationally — that maybe the issue had been resolved overnight. Maybe Google realized it was a false flag, maybe the warning screen would be gone.

I held my breath as I typed in the website name.

Still red. Still blocked.

Baruch came by a little later, in response to my urgent text for anything, try anything.

After a while tapping away at one of our computers, he looked up. “Listen, I tried reverifying the site through DNS. I managed to get into the domain registrar — she had the credentials saved in her browser. I added a TXT record to prove ownership to Google. But that’s not the same as logging into her Search Console. Best case, they’ll verify the domain in 24–48 hours and we can add a new site owner… but we still need a manual review to clear the red screen.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “That’s the best we can hope for?”

He sighed. “I tried messaging the hosting platform, too, but they won’t release anything without verified credentials. And the account is tied to Mrs. Freund’s account. Everything’s behind 2FA.”

I shook my head. “I hope she’s responded to someone. Maybe one of the women she works with? Someone’s got to be able to reach her, no?”

But as the day wore on, it became obvious that they hadn’t.

Her phone was off.

Her husband’s phone either didn’t ring at all, or rang briefly and disconnected.

There was no answer at her house.

“She didn’t take her kids along, where are they staying? I wonder if we can reach any of them…” I heard one of the women from her team saying.

“I think they’re by her sister. Let’s call her, ask the kids to pass on a message….”

I gritted my teeth. We needed to track Mrs. Freund down. All we needed was sixty seconds to authenticate the login through her phone, and we could deal with this.

And without that — we had no way to make our site accessible again.

IN

the meantime, we tried making do.

Mr. Glick had the team rallying around — a temporary donation page, reprinting info packets without QR codes — but it wasn’t great. The new site wasn’t branded and wouldn’t track donors and stats for us. Everything looked less professional. We couldn’t use it at a parlor meeting.

And I kept getting calls: “I heard your site was hacked?”

“Is the meeting tomorrow still on?”

“What’s with the organization’s donation portal, is it a scam?”

The office morale wasn’t great either. I heard someone mutter, “If we can’t even fix our website, how are we supposed to help people get jobs?”

Ouch. I hope that wasn’t what the world outside was thinking.

I suspected maybe it was.

Later that evening, I tried Mrs. Freund again. Her husband’s phone. Even her parents’ home line.

I left messages on all three, and then sent another email, this one labeled URGENT: SECURITY ISSUE PLEASE RESPOND.

Nothing.

Doubt crept in: Was everything okay? Maybe something has happened? Who goes totally incommunicado in 2026, really?

And what would we do if she didn’t respond by tomorrow?

I

woke up early on Wednesday.

I don’t usually check my phone first thing in the morning, but today I grabbed it before I was even fully sitting up in bed.

Still no response. No missed calls, no text, no 2FA code. Nada.

I refreshed my inbox twice, just to be sure.

Nothing.

By the time I got to the office, Duvi was already there, pacing.

“Check the site,” he said tightly.

I opened my browser.

It was worse. The same glaring red screen, but now, the text had changed: “Deceptive site ahead.”

Google was blocking access. Chrome was treating our website like a phishing scam.

And Gmail had flagged our invitation email for tonight’s parlor meeting as potentially dangerous.

I opened one of the emails we’d sent out yesterday to remind invitees about the meeting, clicked the RSVP link — and was met with a browser warning screen.

Even people who wanted to attend tonight’s parlor meeting might never make it to the RSVP page. Might not even open the email at all.

“Our site’s not just warning people,” I said, the words hollow in my mouth. “It’s being treated like a scam. Like we’re trying to trick donors.”

Duvi just nodded grimly. “I checked the analytics. Site traffic has totally flatlined. Email engagement down to almost nothing.”

It felt like a punch.

We were the Work Initiative. We helped people find jobs, build résumés, walk into interviews feeling confident and capable.

And right now, our entire public image looked like a warning sign.

BY

late morning, we’d stopped hoping for miracles and started on damage control.

The office printer was working overtime as we churned out hard copies of donation packets. Two younger staff members were dispatched to a local office supply store and tasked with finding folders, labels, anything remotely presentable.

The staff was buzzing, the pressure mounting.

And Mrs. Freund — the one person with the key to solving this whole mess — wasn’t picking up her phone.

By now I was getting angry.

Yes, she needed a break. Yes, she set everything up beautifully. But who takes off without any means of emergency contact? Who in 2026 doesn’t answer a phone, text, or email when a literal crisis hits in their work responsibilities? How much would we lose because one person wanted a one hundred percent break from everything to do with work?

She couldn’t find a way to enjoy her break and give some kind of emergency number that we could reach her in a genuine crisis — like now?

And then came the parlor meeting.

We’d been so excited for this, eager to launch a new way of fundraising, meet a dozen potential new donors in a new neighborhood. Duvi and I had prepared for this for weeks — and so had Mrs. Freund’s team. We had the branded stuff, the donor information packets, everything — but no website, no easy click-to-donate to offer them. Instead the QR codes on the leaflets led to a dire Google warning.

We did our best, explained that our website had a technical glitch that should be sorted by the next day. But it fell flat.

Maybe it was the atmosphere. Maybe my fatigue, Duvi’s frustration. Maybe it was the looks on the guys’ faces as they pulled up the site on their phone and were met with the escalated warning.

The men — wealthy businessmen, our dream potential donors — filed out to leave, offering pleasantries like “Thanks for the information, so nice to meet you, yasher koyach on your good work….”

We’d poured so much work, time, effort, and expense into this evening — and the response had been so halfhearted and lukewarm.

I didn’t know for sure why it hadn’t been the success we’d hoped for

But I could guess.

Who would trust an organization whose website is hidden behind a Google scam warning?

And how could Mrs. Freund, who was the only one with such vital information, just fly off leaving no means of contact?

If I could tell Mrs. Freund one thing it would be: You play too integral a role to switch off every form of communication and leave us in the lurch.

Nechami

Ten minutes before we had to leave to the airport, I was sitting at the dining room table frantically reviewing an email blast one last time.

“Nechami? You’re working?” Chesky lugged a suitcase past me toward the front door. “Are you gonna be done in five?”

“I’m literally just wrapping up.” I double-checked every link in the email, scheduled it to go out to our email list, and logged out. There was a new email on my work account — an updated ad from our designer, perfect. I skimmed it, noted a few corrections, and voicenoted it to her as I put on my jacket. Finally, I checked one last thing on the project management board for the parlor meeting, and shut my laptop, for real. It was a shame to miss the last stretch of the preparations, I was really excited at the potential here, but it couldn’t be helped. We’d booked these nonrefundable flights months ago, and I knew my team could handle the execution; all the groundwork was done to perfection.

“Okay, now I’m really done,” I told Chesky, a little sheepishly.

My job was intense — story of my life. I loved it anyway — also story of my life. Or maybe I loved it because of the intensity — the Work Initiative felt like mine, even though I was just an employee, not the owner. It was understandable… I’d built it up from a tiny two-person operation in someone’s basement to a real organization.

I came on board as a novice copywriter, and then somehow became director of all donor communications. I’d created the organization’s website, their email list, their marketing strategy… and I’d watched it grow, and grow, and grow, with the kind of satisfaction you can only feel if you worked really hard and saw the work pay off.

With the growth came a lot more work, too. It was just a matter of time until I had a team working under me — a designer, a junior copywriter, and another team member to handle PR and donor relations. For the past few years, it felt like I’d practically lived and breathed the Work Initiative, spearheading campaigns, brainstorming new ideas, tapping new donor pools…. There was so much need, and so many resources we could provide if we just had the funding. We were always trying to reach more people, aim higher, and raise more funds so we could help more people in need.

But the all-encompassing nature of the role also meant that I hadn’t ever really taken a break. I worked from home, took calls Erev Yom Tov, and handled some donor issue on Erev Shabbos sheva brachos the week my daughter got married. My family put up with my “fifth child” — the organization — with much sighing and eye-rolling, but also quiet pride. Still, even I had to admit that it had gotten a bit much. I needed a real break, and this — our 20^th anniversary (how crazy!) — was the ideal time.

I’d found an amazing deal on flights months ago, and we’d booked a three-day trip. We’d be flying out to the Bahamas, taking a ferry to a quiet, scenic spot where I had rented an Airbnb, and we’d spend a few days with no phone, no email, no work, just… spending time together.

We really needed this. The last few years had been intense, and I was really looking forward.

As we walked out to the car, I switched off my phone, burying it deep inside my pocketbook. “There. I’m out of reach,” I said to Chesky with a grin.

I was surprised at the wave of relief I felt. Was it really the first time, aside from Shabbos and Yom Tov, that I’d switched off entirely from work?

Chesky gave a small laugh. “And the world is still standing,” he teased.

I shook my head, smiling. “I never thought otherwise.”

He eased the first suitcase into the trunk. “Well. I think your boss does.”

“Nah, he’s just used to me being available. But this time is different. I let them all know I’m off duty for three days. Mindy and Shana can handle whatever comes up, I left them enough instructions for a year, I think.”

“You think the kids will miss us if we stay for a year?”

“They’d probably notice something, yeah. Although I think they’re way more fine than we are at the thought of leaving them for a few days.”

“That I hear.”

We’d told the kids — my youngest daughter, who would be staying by my sister, and the boys, who dormed in yeshivah all week anyway, and my married daughter — that my phone would be off throughout our break. My husband would keep his on, although I wasn’t sure how much phone service we’d have anyway. But both of our parents lived nearby, and my kids had family to call on in case of emergency.

“We’ll be fine, Ma,” Shiri had said, in the most patronizing voice a nine-year-old could muster.

They would be.

And with my out-of-office auto-response set, my team well prepped, and my phone finally, finally off — I would be more than fine, myself.

W

e’re settled in our seats, waiting for takeoff, when I glance out the window and realize it’s the first time in years that I’m just — sitting. Doing nothing. Not automatically pulling out my phone to check my work emails, to jot down new ideas, to send off another message.

And yes, that was on me — I’m very passionate and tend to get drawn into projects — but also, my boss really relied on me a lot — to answer questions, to keep track of donors or donations, to manage the email blasts, the website, the marketing strategy. There was no “after hours” in this line of work; I’d get calls or texts late at night on a daily basis, and I remember taking a call from the office the morning of my daughter’s wedding because no one else knew how to update the website banner after a campaign ended.

I’d answered the phone, I always did, and I was genuinely happy to help out. But now, as we began taxiing down the runway, I let myself face the truth: I was burned out.

This break wasn’t coming a moment too soon.

WE

stayed in a tiny beach cottage on Eleuthera, a beautiful, peaceful island in the Bahamas. We ate frozen meals I’d packed, made lots of tuna sandwiches and ramen soups, and just enjoyed each other’s company in a way we hadn’t done in years. Maybe since shanah rishonah.

The air felt warm and alive, and I felt like part of me I hadn’t remembered existed had come back to life. One day, we took the ferry across to Harbour Island, walked along the pink sand beach, and wandered around the quaint town. It felt like we’d stepped into someone else’s life — slower, softer, entirely unplugged.

The best part? The quiet. It was just us — no interruptions, no work, no calls. Even though Chesky kept his phone on, we barely had service most of the time, and even texts didn’t really come through. We found pockets of service each evening to call the kids and check in, but none of them had even noticed our phones were off all day.

At some point on day two, Chesky noticed a random number had called his phone a few times. He debated calling back for a moment, but then we decided that anyone who needed us could wait one more day, until we returned Wednesday evening.

We were in the airport checking in for our flight home when I spoke to Shiri, who’d just gotten home from school. “Oh, and Mommy? Your boss wanted you to call. He said it’s urgent.”

Mr. Levin wanted me to call him? How did he get hold of Shiri by my sister? Was he for real?

For a moment, I wondered if maybe it was a true emergency. But then I just felt annoyed. I was on a three-day break, my first in years and years. And they had the nerve to chase me via my daughter with messages?

“You’re gonna call him?” Chesky asked.

“Nope.” I handed him back his phone; mine was still securely off. “We’re landing in a few hours. Whatever it is, they’ll survive.”

O

ur flight was delayed slightly, and by the time we got back it was late — so late, I didn’t have the energy to face the backlog of work that was definitely waiting on my phone. When we got home, I sat with Shiri for a while, hearing all about her week and showing her pictures of the island, before collapsing into bed. Who knew even the most relaxed vacation could leave you so tired? Traveling just did that to you.

By the time I did turn on my phone the next morning, there were 58 missed calls, over 40 text messages and a set of increasingly frantic emails.

I skimmed them, heart dropping to my feet.

Oh. My. Goodness. The site had been flagged by Google as a security risk. People couldn’t access anything — not our donation pages, not the résumé, portal, not even our homepage. The parlor meeting had gone ahead without a working website. Donors had been calling, asking if we’d been hacked. Apparently no one else had login access to Search Console or the hosting platform. They’d tried everything. And they’d tried to reach me… repeatedly.

I dialed Mr. Levin immediately.

“I’m so, so sorry about this,” I said, feeling terrible, even though the Google flag wasn’t technically my fault. “I’m logging in right now.”

“Please do,” he said tightly. His voice sounded distant and cold, not like him at all. I could sense his frustration, and honestly, I didn’t blame him. He must have been under crazy stress.

I logged into my Gmail, pulled up the warning emails, and followed the links to Google Search Console. I verified site ownership and then submitted a manual security review request, explaining that the flagged issue had been resolved and asking for the warning to be lifted. I also logged into the hosting platform, scanned the site, and deactivated a plugin that might have triggered the red flag in the first place. I wasn’t a full-blown developer, but I’d set the system up from scratch, and I knew my way around.

Then I called Mr. Levin back.

“It should be good in 24 to 48 hours. That’s what Google says for a manual review.”

There was a long pause. Then, still in that stiff voice, he said, “Well, that would’ve been helpful yesterday. Or Monday. Or any time this week, really.”

“I know,” I said, feeling that pinch again. “I can’t believe it happened this week. I feel terrible. Who would have thought…”

He coughed. “We tried to reach you so many times. I would have appreciated some sort of emergency contact. For someone so crucial to the organization… you have all the passwords, the site ownership… going off the grid left us in a very bad position.”

Now I was getting frustrated. No one could possibly have anticipated this. No one had logged into Google Search Console in the past five years! And I’d prepared everything for them. “I did give everyone a heads-up,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “And I said I’d be totally offline. I gave my team full instructions, and I assumed anything urgent could go through them.”

He exhaled slowly. “I’m not saying you did anything wrong on purpose. But when one person holds that much information, access, passwords, site ownership, they can’t just be unreachable. There has to be some way to reach you in a real emergency.”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because I knew what happened when I was reachable.

It started with real things — a donor who needed a receipt reissued, an email that had gone out with a typo, a link that needed fixing before morning. And then it slid into everything else. Questions that could have waited. Decisions someone else could have made. Messages marked urgent that… weren’t. Vacation days interrupted for things that felt critical only because I was the one who usually handled them.

No one ever said, You have to answer.

They just learned that I would.

And once that happened, the line between emergency and inconvenience blurred completely.

What were the chances, really, that Google would flag our site — falsely — after five quiet years, during the exact three days I was away? That a platform no one had logged into in half a decade would suddenly become the key to everything? That a random plugin would trigger a warning and lock us all out?

I hadn’t even known Google Search Console would be needed in a situation like this. It was obscure, technical, buried deep in the backend. No one had thought twice about it — not me, not the IT guy we hired to set up some of our systems, not Mr. Levin.

And yes, maybe we should have some backup plans. I could try change the 2FA so that nothing would be linked to my personal phone anymore. But if being reachable would mean never really getting a break — that simply wasn’t sustainable anymore.

If I could tell Mr. Levin one thing it would be: I’m sorry for the stress you went through, but there was no way in the world to predict this emergency — and for me to keep this job, I need to be able to switch off completely and take a break.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1094)