“Why did Hashem do that?” I ask. “It’s not like he needed a Hashgachah pratis story. He’s not even Jewish! I remember him telling us at Evolve that he’s from the UAE.”

We don’t have much time to think about it.

The next few hours move quickly and slowly all at once. I’m monitored by nurses and doctors and changing shifts, but we don’t see Dr. Ali again. Then night comes, and still time seems warped. Finally, at dawn, Dr. Ali bangs into the delivery room.

“Did I miss it?” I hear him asking the attending doctor.

“Nope, you’re right on time,” she says, and he is. Our baby is born just moments later, the doctor’s announcement, “IT’S A BOY!” the final crescendo to our infertility ride.

Much later, when the baby is swaddled peacefully, and I’m recovering, I think about it again.

“Why did Hashem do that?” I ask my husband again. “What were the chances? Last rotation of residency at Evolve, next one here at Obstetrics, and he sees us both times and remembers us. There has to be a message. What is it?”

We think.

Finally, I hit upon it. “Maybe Hashem is reminding us: It’s Me. From the beginning to the end, regardless of which procedures we did, it was Him, not the procedures. “This baby,” I nod downward, perfection itself nestled in my elbow, “he had a time to come into the world. And Hashem knew that time. And maybe He was reminding us today that it was Him, not anything else, which brought us here today.”

Peaceful with the knowledge that we’re in His hands the same way my baby is in mine, I drift off, the uncanny coincidence a shining last sparkle on the ride.

A Time to Heal

“You need to make it a time to heal.”

As told to Bashie Lisker

I

t’s not easy to build your own successful company, especially when you’re a woman. You have to claw your way to the top to be respected, to get the contracts that you want, to be remembered and taken seriously. I always knew that.

But I didn’t really expect to make enemies. I mean, I sold tiles. How controversial could that be?

When it comes to working with others, there are always going to be disagreements. I loaned money to friends from shul who were no longer friends once the dust settled and the debts remained unpaid. I had a sister-in-law who didn’t talk to me anymore after some conflicts between her contractor and my business.

And then there was Rebecca.*

We’d started out in the tile business at the same time, the two of us in our twenties and employed by the same larger company. We’d talked about breaking out together, about building up contacts and renting a little storefront as a team. We were on track to develop our own company.

Then, just a year after we set up our new shop, I found out that Rebecca was going behind my back, trying to sign private agreements with several of the interior designers I’d introduced to her. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t understand, but I knew one thing: I couldn’t afford to ask about it, or to give her the benefit of the doubt. I couldn’t let her know that I knew what she was up to, not if I wanted to stay one step ahead.

I had to make tough choices to stay standing, and so I made the first move. I quietly divested from our company and rebuilt from the bottom. It wasn’t easy. It was slow and painful and my family really struggled for a couple of years, but in the end, my company came out on top. Rebecca tried to keep things moving, but she went under as I became more successful.

Officially, I’d forgotten Rebecca, had moved so far past her in the 30 years that followed that she was just a blip in my memory, a product of a few rough years. Every now and then, I’d see her at the supermarket or a clothing store, leaving me irritable and stressed about something I couldn’t name. There was something about Rebecca that got under my skin.

I guess, no matter how far you go, you never really forget the person who tried to pull you underwater.

I was in my fifties, busy with work and my family and particularly the adorable little grandchildren who were slowly arriving. I was surrounded by wealth, my family the most valuable of all. I never dreamed that any of it could be taken from me.

Then, I became sick, so sick that I couldn’t make it in to work. It lasted for days, then weeks. I was left relying on my husband for support and my friends for Shabbos meals and shopping help, left bedridden without answers.

Specialists floated theory after theory, did test after test, until we finally had some conclusive results.

They weren’t good.

I remember thinking of Iyov. Of someone who had everything and lost it all. But no. I wasn’t going to lose my family and friends and possessions. They were going to lose me.

A surgery was scheduled, but it would be risky. The success rate was worryingly low. “If it wasn’t your best chance, I wouldn’t recommend it. But it’s all we’ve got,” my doctor told me.

I took a breath. Listened to my doctor’s explanations. And then, I called my rav and scheduled a meeting.

My husband and I went to the rav together, but I felt so raw, so exposed. I was so used to being strong, to being powerful. To being in charge. It was a humbling thing, to watch the curtains peeled back and the reminder of Who was really the One in charge.

I was desperate to do something. To change my future, to pay off the Judge, as it were. I waited until my husband left the room for a minute to answer a call from one of our kids, and I leaned forward. “What can I do? What kabbalos or tzedakah—”

The rav put up his hand, and I stopped speaking. “If you want this to be a time to heal,” he said gently, “then you need to make it a time to heal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Use your leverage,” the rav said. “Everyone knows that you’re going in for surgery, that you’re facing matters of life and death. Call the people you’re close to and ask them to do one thing in your zechus — to find a relationship that’s been damaged and fix it. To be mochel someone or ask someone for mechilah.”

His words were calm but unrelenting. “We can wait for an auspicious time for something good to happen. But we can also create an auspicious time by ourselves.”

I haven’t gotten this far by ignoring my rav. (And I did give some substantial tzedakah, too!) I called friends and family and told them what I wanted from them. And to my surprise, it really did work. Friends made peace. Strained relationships became just a little less strained. I don’t know if I really changed much for most of them, but there were overtures, were relationships that found peace. There was healing.

With five days until my surgery, my husband reminded me gently that I wasn’t exempt from my own request. I called a former friend from shul. I invited my sister-in-law over for coffee, and we had a stilted, positive conversation.

On the morning before the surgery, I googled Rebecca’s name and found her contact info. I stared at it. Put my phone away. Pulled it out again.

We were due to leave for the hospital in an hour. It was a struggle to get dressed, to make my way downstairs. I was weak. I was in no condition for this conversation.

I hit the call button before I could second-guess myself and waited until I heard her voice. “Hello?”

“This is Shoshana Meyers,*” I said.

Silence. Then, carefully, “Shoshana. I heard… I heard you were sick.”

I wondered how she knew. It was a big city, and I had no idea what Rebecca was up to now. Did she keep up with me? Did she feel that same resentment when she heard my name?

I struggled to keep my voice even. “I’m going in for surgery today,” I said, and my throat seemed to clog up, to stop more words from emerging at first. The fear, the uncertainty — they whipped into an eddy within me, leaving me vulnerable before this former nemesis. “I wanted… I wanted to make this a time to heal.”

“Oh.” And then, no excuses. No explanations. She’d betrayed me, and I’d returned the favor. What more could we say, 30 years later? Only this: “What’s your Tehillim name?”

I gave it to her. Abruptly. I thought I might cry at the familiar scratching sound of her pencil on paper, pressed a little too hard. It pulled me back, left me 22 again, the world ahead of me, my friend by my side.

“I’ll daven for you,” Rebecca murmured.

“Thank you,” I breathed.

I hung up the phone. When my husband helped me into the car, I was weak, fragile, wary of a long journey back to myself.

But somehow I was certain that I’d make it through that journey. That this was my healing time.

And — baruch Hashem, with siyata d’Shmaya — I was right.

A Time to Build, A Time to Tear Down

Peace is worth more than being “right.”

As told to Avigail Bracha

W

hen we first moved into our building, it felt like camp for grown-ups.

The developer, who lived here himself, handpicked each family. He wouldn’t sell an apartment to anyone unless he was sure he wanted them as neighbors. And it worked: We were 14 chareidi families, mostly young Americans, raising kids together in one cheerful micro-community.

Our children were in and out of each other’s apartments like siblings. After school, the lobby became a noisy, happy playroom. Mothers schmoozed while the kids rode tricycles and traded snacks. Babysitting was shared, sheva brachos were hosted together, and someone always showed up at your door with a pot of soup if you weren’t well.

It wasn’t just a building. It was a kehillah. And my husband and I felt like we were helping safeguard the harmony when we agreed to be the building’s treasurers.

Decades passed. Families moved in and out, but the warmth remained.

Until the Strausses bought an apartment.

They seemed like ideal neighbors, and Mr. Strauss was a cheerful chevrehman. He hummed as he walked, and lingered after davening to chat. We’d never had a neighbor we didn’t like, so when the Strausses asked us to shift some things around before they moved in, we were happy to oblige.

But before their moving van even pulled up, a hulking, ugly storage shed appeared in the public area. No discussion. No vote. Just — plunk.

Most neighbors bristled, but no one wanted to make waves. “It’s not such a useful space, anyway,” people muttered. “Better not to make a big deal about it. Besides, he’s such a friendly guy.”

Looking back, maybe that was our mistake. Some people, if you let them borrow your parking spot once, will start listing it on Airbnb.

The shed was only the beginning. Mr. Strauss never asked for anything — he simply took. If we objected, he shouted. Loudly. Very loudly. He used his powerful voice, the one that greeted everyone with such a friendly “good morning,” to intimidate.

He routed his air-conditioner drain onto the downstairs neighbor’s porch without asking; when our neighbor objected, he roared, “You’re selfish!” When he decided the bomb shelter should never be locked — although everyone in the building had the keys, and the renter had valuable computers there — he bellowed his demands, unwilling to hear the other side.

When it came to money, he didn’t bother to yell; he simply refused to pay. Getting him to shoulder his share of expenses was like prying gum off the bottom of a desk. He only paid what he thought was fair, never mind what the building had actually spent. When the elevator broke, he declared that others should pay more and refused to pony up the full amount.

As building treasurers, my husband and I warned him, “If you don’t pay, we’ll have to take you to din Torah.”

He smirked. “Better idea. Let’s go to court.”

The words sent ice through me. Chazal’s warnings about turning to secular courts are among the strongest in Torah literature. He knew it, too — but he sneered. There was no point convening a din Torah. He wouldn’t show up to it, anyway.

And so to keep the peace, we quietly paid his missing share ourselves. It wasn’t easy. Our budget was already stretched thin. Every bill we covered for him meant less money to help our married children.

Why did we do it? Because peace in a building is as delicate as a soufflé — one loud bang, and the whole thing might collapse.

I heard that Rav Aharon Leib Steinman told someone caught in thorny disputes with his neighbors, “Just sign whatever your neighbor wants you to.”

The message from Rav Steinman was clear: Peace is worth more than being “right.”

So we “signed” with our checkbook.

And we kept the secret. Because if the other neighbors ever found out the truth — that Mr. Strauss was shirking his obligations and draining money from our pockets — the harmony of the building would shatter. His powerful voice, a staple of the building’s Succos kumzitz, would feel off-key. Neighbors would exchange tight smiles instead of warm greetings.

Most neighbors remained blissfully unaware, but not everyone. The one who heard him shouting at me asked, “Can you tell me what’s going on?” I said, “No.”

The kids still played together in the lobby. The adults still borrowed eggs and loaned car seats. The building stayed at peace — because most neighbors didn’t know the truth.

Had it stopped there, maybe our fragile “peace” could have lasted.

But Mr. Strauss announced he was building a pergola over the public space outside the bomb shelter.

This wasn’t some light, airy addition. It was heavy, closed, and dark. The bomb shelter — rented out as an office to cover most of the building’s expenses — lost its air and light. The tenant was miserable. Mr. Strauss harassed him, barged in at will, ignored every request.

It was like having a landlord who thought the lease came with a megaphone and visiting rights.

Many neighbors still didn’t know what was behind Mr. Strauss’s friendly facade. Others picked up fragments of the story and began to eye him with distaste.

Now, the elevator is broken again. The repair bill is major, and Mr. Strauss flatly refuses to pay his share.

So here we are. Do we once again cover for him, draining our own pockets to shield his misbehavior? Or do we pull back the curtain, let the other neighbors know what’s been happening, and risk destroying the fragile quiet we’ve protected for so long?

It’s Koheles come alive in concrete and plaster:

A time to build, and a time to tear down.

For years, we convinced ourselves that staying silent was the price of shalom. Now I wonder if we’ve just been enabling a bully. If he drives away our renter and we lose that income, what will be left of our so-called peace?

Perhaps what we’ve built isn’t peace at all — only a sandcastle, held together by silence and secrets, precariously shielding a neighbor who takes whatever he wants with decibels and landgrabs.

And so we wait, thoughtful and uneasy, standing in that narrow place between building up and tearing down… wondering if it’s time to let the sandcastle fall.

A Time for War

No tefillah goes unheard

By Leah Berger

A

few months ago, on an ordinary Wednesday in June, I found myself in a heavy emotional place. I had been davening for something, and I was feeling disappointed that my tefillos hadn’t yet been answered. Seeking an energy boost, I took my kids to the park, hoping that the fresh air would lift my spirits.

As I sat there, trying to find peace, a soccer ball flew across the park and hit me directly in the head. It took me 20 minutes to recover — not just physically, but emotionally, too. I had come to the park hoping to feel better, and now, I just felt worse.

On my way home, I called a close friend and asked if she could go out with me later that night — just to talk, to listen. We agreed to meet at a takeout place at 10 p.m. I put the kids to bed, got into the car, and started driving out of Jerusalem.

I never imagined what would happen next.

Somewhere along the drive, I made a wrong turn. Without realizing it, I had crossed into Palestinian territory. I passed a large red warning sign that read, “This road leads to territory under the Palestinian Authority. Entry for Israeli citizens is forbidden and dangerous.”

But I didn’t notice it at all.

Suddenly, I heard shouting in Arabic. Confused, I slowed the car and saw several men approaching, all yelling in my direction. In a flash, instinct took over — I made a sharp U-turn and sped back the way I came, my heart pounding.

To return to Israeli territory, I needed to pass through a checkpoint. As I neared it, still in a state of panic, I heard more Arabic shouting — this time from the soldiers at the checkpoint, motioning for me to slow down. But I didn’t register that they were soldiers. All I could hear was more yelling in Arabic. Terrified, I sped up and crashed straight through the checkpoint barrier.

As I smashed through the checkpoint, I felt the jolt of tire cutters tearing into my tires. The front of my car crumpled slightly as the vehicle came to an abrupt stop. I sat frozen in my seat, the weight of it all crashing down — fear, confusion, disbelief.

Within moments, a group of IDF soldiers ran toward me. Upon realizing I was Jewish, they immediately shifted from defensive mode to care. One soldier handed me a hot drink. Another gently reassured me I was safe now.

Then came the words that truly shook me. “Our orders,” they said, “are to shoot anyone who breaks through the checkpoint barrier. If your tires hadn’t been slashed and your car hadn’t stopped… we would have opened fire.”

I sat there, stunned. My hands were shaking — not just from what had happened, but from what had almost happened.

The soldiers went above and beyond. They changed my tires. They made sure I was okay to drive. They did everything they could to help me get home safely.

Later that night, when I was finally home and the shock began to fade, I started thinking.

I had been davening so hard for something particular — for a yeshuah in one area of my life. But maybe those heartfelt prayers, those tears, those kapitlach of Tehillim… were being answered all along, just not in the way I expected.

In Hebrew, the word “kadur” has two meanings: ball and bullet. Maybe the ball I was hit with in the afternoon was instead of a bullet I could have taken that night.

Maybe those tefillos shielded me from entering Ramallah, where I was just minutes away from true danger. Maybe they made my car stop so the soldiers didn’t open fire.

I don’t know. I will never know cheshbonos Shamayim.

But I do know this: no tefillah goes unheard.

A Time to Dance

This is my avodah right now.

As told to Russy Tendler

I

grew up in an out-of-town community, a world wrapped in simplicity and warmth. Life felt almost too perfect; we were sheltered in innocence, blissfully unaware of the pressures that seemed to weigh heavier in bigger cities. I had close friends, a loving family, and a future that stretched ahead of me exactly as I’d always imagined.

My plan was clear: seminary in Eretz Yisrael, a year or two back in America in school, then meet my chassan, get married, and build my own home. Step by step, that’s exactly how it seemed to be unfolding.

A year post-seminary, I met Dovid. He’d also grown up out of town, and we shared similar backgrounds. Things went smoothly and before I knew it, we were engaged.

From there, life became a bustle of wedding plans and kallah joy. The date was set for two weeks after Tishah B’Av, and my family and I dove into the whirlwind of preparations.

I still remember that Tishah B’Av. I sat between two friends on low chairs in shul, listening to the mournful tones of Eichah, guilt pricking at me as my mind drifted elsewhere. In two weeks, I’d stand right in this very room, beneath a chuppah. How could I connect to grief when I had never tasted loss?

Soon after came Dovid’s aufruf. It was two Shabbosim before our wedding, so I entertained the thought of joining my family and attending. At first, I told him maybe I’d stay home that Shabbos. I wanted to give him space with his friends. But one by one, each of his friends needed to cancel for different reasons. In the end, it was mostly family, including all of mine.

“In this case, Rivky, you should definitely come,” he said.

So I went.

That Shabbos was a gift I didn’t yet know to treasure. From the moment our families had met when we got engaged, they blended easily, and my father and Dovid’s father had been like old friends reunited. That Shabbos we sang, we laughed, and we celebrated. I held those memories lightly then, never realizing they would be the cherished souvenirs of my last Shabbos together with my father.

By Sunday night, we were back home, the younger kids asleep in their own beds, and the house still and quiet. I was tired from the flurry of wedding prep, and I headed to bed. I paused in the living room to say goodnight to my father. He was sitting on the couch with a sefer open in his hands.

He looked at me, and his eyes shone with pride as he told me how deeply grateful he was for this shidduch. He spoke of the wonderful family I was marrying into, how he thought so highly of my chassan, and how this was everything he and my mother had hoped and davened for.

We couldn’t have known, when I said goodnight to my father that evening, that it would be the last time. We couldn’t have known that everything would forever change. That in the quiet hours of the night, Hashem would call him back, and he’d slip away from us.

By the time morning came, he was gone. In one unthinkable night, joy and grief collided, and our lives were never the same.

I couldn’t process what was happening. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t made for this. I was just me, ordinary Rivky. How could I live through this?

Within hours, Dovid and his family had packed their car, filled it with everything we would need for the wedding, and driven to us. Their presence was a lifeline.

Shivah was a total blur. We laughed and cried through the memories. But we couldn’t process this. The entire experience couldn’t be real.

After shivah, I took customary concluding walk around the block, and now, it was time to prepare for my wedding. It was only three days away.

We’d asked if we should postpone the wedding, but the rav was clear that there was a mazel to the time we’d planned, and we shouldn’t postpone it if we could manage to continue as originally scheduled.

“Do it,” our rav said firmly. “Don’t push it off. A wedding is a simchah. And remember that you as the kallah will set the tone. Your father would want you to be joyful.”

I tried my hardest. When the badeken came, it felt as though every man in the room wanted to bentsh me, as if their brachos could somehow fill the space my father left behind. Steady tears blurred my vision as blessings rained down, and I was inundated with love and brachos and tefillos.

When the music began, I didn’t walk to the chuppah alone. My mother and all my siblings surrounded me, holding me up. I felt my father, too. His pride, his dreams, his presence, walking with me. It was both the heaviest and holiest walk of my life.

The loss wasn’t just ours. The entire community wept with us, lifted us, and celebrated with us. My mother and I both know it wasn’t us who carried that day. It was Hashem, giving us supernatural strength to hold grief and simchah in the same trembling hands.

I wrestled with guilt. How could I smile when I’d just lost my father? But I reminded myself: This is my avodah right now. To dance both dances at once. To grieve and to rejoice.

Under the chuppah, our rav quoted Koheles: Lakol zeman va’eis. To everything there is a time and a season. And everyone in that room knew it was true. The sharpness of the pain deepened the starkness of the joy.

My father was an anav. It was almost in character the way he slipped quietly out of This World in the middle of the night, before we had even a moment to process what was happening. And yet, he lives on: in the memories I hold, in the blessing he gave me that last night, in the home I’m working to build since.

His yahrtzeit is chai Av, and with every passing year and every fleeting milestone, it serves as a reminder: My father lives. 

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 963)