One day, Rabbi Bresler approached me about one of the boys in my group.

“You may not be aware that Noam Posner recently lost his father,” he said.

I was shocked. Noam was a sweet, regular kid — and I hadn’t known this about him.

“He could really use chizuk from you,” Rabbi Bresler continued.

From that moment, I made it my goal to be there for Noam. One afternoon, when we planned to go biking in Seward Park, one of my friends suggested, “Why don’t we take some boys with us?” We invited Noam, who reveled in the attention from a group of bochurim.

When summer came to a close, I parted ways with the boys. Before I left, I spoke to Mrs. Posner and offered to learn with Noam over the phone. Once a week, on my walk back to the dorms at 11 p.m., I’d call Noam and we’d learn Mishnayos (he was three hours behind in Seattle).

The following Nissan, my friend and I wanted to return to Seattle for a quick visit. He would have to miss two days of yeshivah, and he asked his rosh yeshivah for permission.

“If you think one day a boy might end up in yeshivah because of this trip — go,” his rosh yeshivah advised.

“Moshe Dov, do you think that could happen?” my friend asked.

“It’s hard to know, but I hope so!” I said.

It was enough for his rosh yeshivah, who gave him the green light.

T

he following summer, in 2009, our chevreh was invited back to Seattle for another SEED summer. Before we left, Mrs. Posner pulled me aside.

“Noam’s bar mitzvah is in a few weeks. You’ve built such a deep connection with him — it would mean the world to us for you to come.”

I hesitated. Noam had been talking excitedly about his bar mitzvah, which would be the week before Rosh Hashanah. The following Motzaei Shabbos would be the start of Selichos. Could I really miss four days of Elul zeman?

I discussed it with my rebbeim, and their answer was definitive: I had to go.

I told Mrs. Posner I planned to surprise Noam. When I landed Thursday night, I called, pretending to be in Baltimore.

“Send me pictures,” I told Noam, as my ride pulled closer to his home.

We were still on the phone when I knocked on the front door.

“Noam,” his mother called out, “someone’s at the door.”

He opened the door, phone in hand — and froze. Noam’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open, and for a moment, he was completely speechless. The phone stayed pressed to his ear as he stared at me in utter disbelief.

“What… what are you doing here?!” he finally burst out.

Mrs. Posner and I couldn’t stop grinning.

We stayed in touch, but more sporadically. Life was busy: he was balancing learning and sports, and I was in beis medrash, and later in Eretz Yisrael.

Noam and his mother came to my wedding in 2013, and after graduating high school, Noam enrolled in a yeshivah program in Eretz Yisrael. Mrs. Posner would update me every now and then, and one day, as I was walking down the steps of Beth Medrash Govoha in Lakewood, New Jersey, she asked a question that stopped me in my tracks.

“Do you think Ner Yisroel would be a good fit for Noam when he comes back?”

I was stunned. I hadn’t realized how much he’d grown, nor the vision his mother had for him. We stayed in close touch throughout the process, and when Noam arrived for his first day in Ner Yisroel, I traveled from Waterbury, Connecticut, where I was living at the time, to meet him and escort him into my alma mater — the very place where our story had begun.

It didn’t take long for the yeshivah to recognize the gem they had received. Within months, I was already getting shidduch calls about him. And sure enough, Noam married the daughter of a prominent rebbi from Ner Yisroel.

I drove down to Baltimore for the wedding in 2019, and as I stood there under his chuppah — I was honored to receive a brachah — I reflected on the past ten years, and how grateful I was to have been a small part of his journey. Who could have imagined back then how beautifully it would all unfold?

IN

my job as a sixth grade rebbi in Yeshiva K’tana of Waterbury and, in the summers, as a division head in Camp Romimu, I keep Noam’s journey at the forefront of my mind.

Just keep planting, I tell myself. Not every seed will bear fruit, and some may lie dormant for years. But this is the nature of planting: to sow without guarantee, to plant with hope, and to believe that today’s quiet work may yet blossom into tomorrow’s magnificent harvest.

Just a few weeks ago, I got another call from Noam. “Moshe Dov, I have some news,” he said.

After five years in kollel at Ner Yisroel, Noam had accepted a position as a marbitz Torah in Indianapolis, Indiana, alongside three other avreichim.

This Elul, Noam will begin planting his own seeds — seeds Hashem will water and nurture and grow, and whose roots stretch back to one sunny summer in Seattle.

Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber is a rebbi at Yeshiva K’tana of Waterbury and a division head in Camp Romimu. He is a writer and public speaker, focusing on topics related to inspiration and education.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1068)