Devorah was special. Although shidduchim was a tough place for her, she didn’t want other people to suffer, and a week later she convinced 19-year-old Aliza to see me. Aliza didn’t drive, so Devorah drove her.

Aliza was bright-eyed and perky; I’d never have guessed that she was terrified, but she let me know.

“I’m soooo nervous,” she said, as soon as she sat down. She was one of those people you can’t help liking, even before you really know them.

But it was my job to get to know her.

“I have a reeeeally interesting story,” she told me. “My father isn’t Jewish and my mother grew up as a non-Jew — a very religious Christian, in fact. She converted after I did, which was at the end of eighth grade. I went to a regular Bais Yaakov high school.”

She certainly looked like she had. At first glance, there was nothing about her that clued me in that she hadn’t grown up frum. Uh, Jewish.

Aliza kept talking. “Because of my mother’s job, we moved around a lot when I was a kid…”

This girl is p-e-r-f-e-c-t for Gavriel, I thought.

“…but once I started high school, we stayed in that community for the full four years.”

I never do this, but I blurted out, “I have the perfect guy for you.”

Aliza laughed. “I’m sure. Is he a learning boy? Because that’s my dream.”

“He is!” I said.

She laughed again, like she didn’t believe me.

“Tell me about some of the places you lived in,” I said.

“Well,” she answered, “I’ll tell you about my favorite place. I was really happy in Hicksville. It’s in Vermont.”

I choked on my coffee. “What?”

“I know,” she giggled. “But it was such a nice place, so many different kinds of people there. And a kollel opened there recently, we’ve been back there, and it’s so beautiful…”

“I know exactly one person from Hicksville,” I told Aliza, “and it’s the guy I mentioned before.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you reading my aura?”

Aliza had never heard of Gavriel, but so what. I called Gavriel. He had never heard of Aliza either, but I told him the name of the street she’d lived on.

“That can’t be,” he said. “That’s the street we lived on.”

It turned out that because of the age difference, they’d never registered each other’s existence. But Aliza knew Gavriel’s younger brother, and Gavriel vaguely remembered Aliza’s father. I learned this after their first date, which they spent discussing Hicksville.

When they got engaged, I called Devorah.

“You brought Aliza here,” I told her, “even though she was ‘terrified.’ You cared so much, you even drove her yourself. I’ve seen many times that when you help a shidduch along, it’s a zechus. Not a promise, but a zechus. I’m giving you a brachah that the zechus of this shidduch should help you find yours.”

Three weeks later, I had an idea for Devorah. (Spoiler alert: She married him.) Dovid was learning in the same yeshivah as Gavriel. Dovid’s first date with Devorah was the night before Aliza and Gavriel’s wedding. I felt like something was coming full circle.

When Dovid picked up Devorah from the Herzogs’, Mrs. Herzog apologized for the hustle and bustle.

“We’re just making Aliza’s wedding tomorrow,” she explained.

“I know,” Dovid replied. “Gavriel is my roommate.”

Devorah looked at him. “That’s crazy,” she said. “There are five girls boarding here, but Aliza is my roommate.”

When Gavriel walked into my door four months before, I’d told Hashem I didn’t have any girls for him. A week later, Aliza waltzed in. When Aliza got engaged, I’d wished Devorah that it would be a zechus for her. And eight weeks later, she was engaged to Gavriel’s roommate. It was like Hashem had picked up the pieces and moved them to where they needed to be.

It’s a good thing we’re not relying people to make shidduchim, because no shadchan could have organized this. That’s why I tell people not to worry: When the phone rings, it’s Hashem; when the phone doesn’t ring, it’s Hashem. When you get dates, when you don’t get dates, when you get a yes, when you get a no — all Hashem.

Gavriel’s dream of moving back to join the Hickville kollel came true, and Aliza was thrilled to return to the community where she’d been so happy.

“When you see hashgachah like this,” said one of the rebbeim in the yeshivah, “it’s like a neshikah from Shamayim.”

Sure, I’m a shadchan. I’m the hishtadlus person. But this story left me with an overwhelming sense of comfort: Hashem is moving all the pieces. I was privileged, in this case, to be one of them.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 694)