Readers share stories of kindness remembered

By Hand

By Marshall Deltoff, Kfar Vradim, Israel

MY

father passed away in 1984 at the age of 61. I was 27 years old and hadn’t put on tefillin since my bar mitzvah. I wanted to start going to shul to say Kaddish for Dad, but I was very anxious and embarrassed about not knowing how to put tefillin on properly or what to do during Shacharis.

My mom’s uncle, Moishe, called me and said, “Don’t worry, Marshall, I’ll help you.” He came over and spent an entire evening going over the Shacharis service with me and helping me practice putting on my tefillin. I never forgot that kindness.

Four years later, Uncle Moishe passed away at age 79. Well over 100 people showed up at the cemetery. Everyone watched as the casket was covered with a thin layer of earth, shoveled in by several mourners. Then, a bulldozer headed toward the huge mound of earth to finish the job.

I started crying, pushing my way to the front until I was standing in the narrow space between the mound of earth and the open grave. I was crying and shouting, “I won’t let Uncle Moishe be buried by a bulldozer!” My family thought I was crazy, and, admittedly, I must have looked borderline hysterical to the shocked crowd. I wildly waved my arms at the driver, yelling at him to shut down the machine and leave.

I grabbed a shovel and started filling the grave. People began leaving, and my family insisted that I come back with them to the shivah house immediately. I refused and stayed to finish the job. As everyone headed to their cars, my Uncle Al looked back, took pity on me, and came back to help. We did it, showing up two hours later at the shivah house, filthy and sweaty. I felt happy that I was able to repay dear Uncle Moishe for the kindness he showed me back when my dad died.

An Email Worth a Thousand Words

By Anonymous

S

hidduchim are hard — really, really hard — for so many reasons. But what has been especially challenging for me during my still-ongoing journey is the struggle to hold on to my self-worth. Staring at a silent phone while my friends buy houses, or coming home from yet another dead-end date while my former students sport diamond rings, may not mean there is something inherently wrong with me, but at times it can be difficult to remember that.

A couple of years ago, I spoke with a successful shadchan whom I’d never worked with. Later that night, my mother received an email from her, overflowing with compliments about our conversation. “She’ll go very far in life,” the message concluded. “Hashem should help her find a boy who’ll be worthy of her caliber!”

When my mother showed me the email, I almost cried. I was pretty certain I was nowhere near as amazing as that shadchan seemed to think, but her words were a balm for the heart of a young woman who often felt a step behind in a world full of sheitels and strollers.

Today, I’m still searching for my zivug, and it hasn’t gotten any easier; despite my belief that Hashem runs the world, my sense of self feels a bit battered every now and then. But then that shadchan’s email echoes in my mind, and I feel myself straighten up ever so slightly. I’m sure she has no idea how much I still treasure those precious words, but they made — and continue to make — all the difference in the world.