An invitation. A Diet Coke. An offer to babysit. The acts were small. Their impact enormous
The Invitation
We were making our first bar mitzvah. Our pre-1A yingele, Naphtoli, was privileged to be in Rabbi X’s class in Yeshiva Ktana of Passaic. Naphtoli proved to be a most delighted courier and happily handed his rebbi an invitation. But while the bar mitzvah was all anyone talked about at home, we were well aware that Rabbi X, having generations of talmidim, a family of his own, and running the local Pirchei, was most certainly not lacking in bar mitzvah invitations. In all honesty the invitation was a respectful formality, and I made sure to warn Naphtoli that his rebbi was unlikely to attend.
The night was, baruch Hashem, beautiful, busy, and fast, and I thought nothing more of it until Rabbi X came to the edge of the men’s section to wish me a personal mazel tov. Naphtoli positively lit up when he saw Rebbi. In total awe, he ran to put back on the suit jacket and tie he’d shed during the dancing.
Naphtoli is five years old. He doesn’t know the effort it takes to rearrange a schedule, carve out time, drive, park, and show up suitably attired at your five-year-old student’s older brother’s bar mitzvah. By the time he is old enough to appreciate this story, he may have forgotten about it. But I won’t. I don’t know exactly how I would have defined chesed before, but I have a deeper understanding after witnessing this.
Naomi Levenspil
Passaic, NJ
The Babysitter
As most mothers of special needs children can attest, it’s a full-time job. It gets a little hairy sometimes, as my husband and I also have full-time jobs outside the home, as well as other children, in addition to our son with special needs, Eliezer.
One memorable Monday, my oldest son was due to become a chassan. We were over the moon! We also had a not small amount of whiplash from how fast we went from the first beshow to the l’chayim. Then we had to figure out how to navigate the upcoming l’chayim. At this point I can chuckle about it because neither my daughter-in-law nor her outstanding parents would have the slightest problem with my special son’s attendance, but at the time I wanted to put my best foot forward. I also didn’t want to be distracted at the event by my special son’s shenanigans.
Then Esty, our newly married former aide, called. She said, “I think you may need Eliezer out of the house this evening, so I’m going to pick him up from the after-school program, and you can come and get him from my house whenever you want.”
What? How did she know that my son was about to get engaged? She explained that the kallah was a cousin, so she’d heard about our upcoming simchah through the family grapevine. How wonderful that she stepped out of her shanah rishonah bubble to be there for us!
It’s been two years and change since that day. The simplicity and directness of that exchange are as wonderful now as then. Her chesed is as many chasadim. They start with a trip out of your own bubble to observe and be there to lighten the load for another person.
Brachi Rubin
Monsey, NY
Bonus Boost
My childhood dream of being a teacher turned into a nightmare the first day in the classroom. I’d logged countless hours working on my lesson plans, incentives, and classroom decorations, only to discover I was woefully unprepared. After standing behind the teacher’s desk for a few hours, I was about to give up.
The idea of teaching mentors hadn’t been “invented” yet. It was a sink-or-swim situation. How desperately I treaded water those first few weeks, trying to stay afloat. I stuck it out, as things did get steadily better, every day a step forward, with many experiences two steps back.
Fortunate was I to be working for Mrs. Sarah Knopfler, a fabulous principal, who guided and advised me. Even when I began to taste the joy of teaching, the question, “Would I ever be a successful teacher?” still plagued me.
The day before Chanukah Mrs. Knopfler approached me after dismissal. My stomach churned, and my mind raced, and I immediately jumped to the conclusion that she wanted to set me straight about something I’d done wrong. Instead, she told me that in recognition of my effort and dedication, she’d asked the financial office if she could give me a bonus and was delighted to present it to me.
I stood there, flabbergasted, my body shaking. I had never heard of such a thing done. Remember: early 1980s; fledgling school; limited funds. (My salary was $45 a week!) I can’t even recall the exact amount of the bonus.
That unexpected gesture breathed the oxygen of encouragement into me, boosting my morale and giving me the confidence to keep swimming in the seas of teaching. Forty years later, I have taught, and still am teaching, many of my students’ daughters, thanks to a principal with chochmah and heart!
Hindy Kviat
Brooklyn, NY
Hearing with Love
Williamsburg. 1975. South 8th Street.
I was a little deaf girl who struggled to make herself understood and shoved other girls as I craved to call casually across the room like everyone else. Back then, children with hearing loss weren’t considered functional, but despite that, Bais Yaakov of Williamsburg took me in as a student, embraced me.
My heart ached all day. I set my mouth in a grim line. Refused to budge or wait my turn. Threw myself on the floor. Grabbed pencils. Snatched snacks. I was tolerated. The days passed in painful slow motion.
Then one day, the principal, Rebbetzin Lubart, peered inside the first-grade classroom. She took my hand, which melted into hers, led me up the wide winding stone steps that curved at the landing, settled me in the big chair in her office.
Her eyes glinted. Her smile was kind. She handed a lollipop. She opened the Chumash and sat with me and read. She moved her mouth very slowly. Then pointed to me. “You say it.”
I mimicked the movements of her mouth. The pasuk. The teitch. “Good! Good!” she said. My heart swelled but I did not know why. She did this week after week.
Toronto. 2022. Yeshivas Nefesh Dovid.
A bochur knocks on my door. He’s sobbing. He fled my husband’s yeshivah in the middle of class. I make him hot chocolate and place a Danish in front of him. He’s an international student, having traveled to attend a yeshivah for young men with hearing loss. “I miss my mother,” he says. “I miss Beit Shemesh.” He can barely get the words out. He’s just 13 years old.
His cochlear implant processors are crammed into his pocket. I tell him to put them on again, ask him to make a brachah. “Say it clearly please,” I instruct him. “I want to hear every word perfectly.”
He makes the brachah. He sniffles. Smiles haltingly as he eats. I pack another Danish for him and send him back to yeshivah. I think of Rebbetzin Lubart. Her wink. Her kind smile. Her unconditional love. I love you. I love that you saw the eternity in me that I can pass on to others. Thank you, Rebbetzin.
Rebbetzin Libbi Kakon
Toronto, Canada
Not Just a Drink
The first time our son had cancer, we’d been surrounded by volunteers coming to cheer us on, at home and in the hospital. There were trips, outings.
The second time around was during Covid. There were no visitors allowed whatsoever, no volunteers coming to cheer up the patients or give the parents a break. It was beyond depressing being stuck by ourselves, our son in pain, at Schneider Children’s Hospital in Petach Tikvah.
My husband and I took turns being with our son in the hospital, as only one parent was allowed at a time. We hardly saw each other. We’d meet for a few stolen minutes in the hospital lobby as we exchanged places, one of us running back to Jerusalem to be with the other kids, the other going upstairs to our son’s ward.
Itzik Steinberger was a ray of sunshine in this bleak picture. He volunteered for Chayeinu and had been very close to our son the first time he had cancer. This time he wasn’t allowed to visit, so he waited outside, and we brought my son out to him. My son wanted shawarma, so Itzik went to buy some. My son would take one bite and be done. Itzik was fine with that. He just wanted to cheer him up.
Every Erev Shabbos during our four-month hospital stay, Itzik would wait outside for us in the heat with treats for my son and a bottle of Diet Coke for me. Oh, that Diet Coke. It had become a rarity during Covid. I couldn’t find it anywhere, much less in a city far from home. But every week, Itzik was there with my Coke. It was like a hug from Hashem. How did Itzik know how important it was to me? He was just a 20-something bochur.
Itzik was killed two weeks ago when a wall collapsed on him while he was sleeping in his dirah. May this story be an aliyah for the neshamah of Yitzchak ben Simcha Dovid.
C. S.
Jerusalem, israel
Infused with Caring
My Crohn’s disease can be well behaved at times, but it has a very rebellious streak. After giving birth to my third child, it went haywire. For many with autoimmune disease, pregnancy is a relatively calm time. The body is busy creating and therefore doesn’t have the same energy to fight itself.
But after recovering from birth, it was back to business. Coinciding with that, I turned 26, and in insurance terms that meant I was kicked off my parents’ very good commercial policy and needed to apply for new insurance.
My new insurance was dragging its feet to approve the medication I was taking. By the time it was approved, the flare-up was so bad that the relatively mild meds I was on weren’t effective anymore.
For two years I fought with my insurance company to approve the new medication my doctor was recommending, Stelara. They had me try five classes of medication before approving Stelara.
When my baby turned two, I weighed one hundred pounds and was collapsing. I couldn’t even keep down a cup of water. On Rosh Hashanah night, my husband and I sat and finished Tehillim twice as a zechus for me.
The next day my doctor called to say he’d give submitting the medication for authorization one more try. On Erev Sukkos I got a call from Shani, a nurse from Passaic, saying she’d received a request to give me an infusion of medication. I was so shocked, I started to cry. I asked her to come as soon as she was given authorization.
On Hoshana Rabbah she came to my house to give me the infusion. She was hosting her in-laws for Yom Tov and had three little kids, too, but she’d heard I was desperate and in pain and extended herself to come on Erev Yom Tov, even though she didn’t even know me.
Shani, I hope you’re reading this. I’ll always be grateful.
Yehudis Wein
Monsey, NY
Good Night
The summer of 2020 had just begun, when — BOOM! — Life as I knew it forever changed. My son began exhibiting interesting symptoms, and we were suddenly thrust into the completely unfamiliar and complex world of a mental health crisis. It didn’t take long before I realized that I was treading water, trying to stay afloat.
Still, I was adamant that I wanted to give my family a fun and memorable summer, so I decided to join my sister in upstate New York for the month of August, renting a bungalow right beside hers. My children lived it up, with the exciting programs and the freedom that country life offers. But it sapped every last bit of energy. Caring for my son had become a full-time job. I also had a 10-week-old princess and getting up for her during the night was extremely difficult considering how weak I’d become from being so emotionally and physically drained.
One night, at about 9:00 p.m., after my little ones were settled for the night, I asked my sister if she could watch my baby for a little bit while I had a rest. The second I hit my pillow, even with the lights on and with noise outside, I conked out for what I thought would be thirty minutes. At 2:10 a.m. I woke up to a quiet house and a note on the floor that my sister must have slipped under the door. The note read:
Dear Miri,
I’m keeping your baby for the night. I have everything I’ll need. Sleep well and rest up!
With love,
Devora
I remember standing there and staring at the note, reading it over and over again. Devora, your little (big?) act of total selflessness and kindness warmed my heart. Still today, I bank on that feeling of warmth and support.
Miri Reyab
Canada
Unloaded
It was the latest in a series of events on one of those days when you wonder why everyone else is managing and you seem to be falling apart. I’d just finished a big shop at Gourmet Glatt in Lakewood with my one-year-old. It was past her bed time, and she was letting everyone know.
When I came to my car with two heavy boxes of shopping, I instantly regretted that I hadn’t opted for bags. I didn’t realize how heavy the boxes were, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to lift them out of the shopping cart and into my trunk. Then, when I opened the trunk, I realized I hadn’t finished unloading my Costco shopping. There were big packages of toilet paper and paper towels, and there was a large car seat there as well. The boxes wouldn’t fit!
I was so overwhelmed, I was literally near tears. Right then, out of nowhere, a couple came like malachim sent from Heaven and offered to help. The husband took all of the bulky things from my trunk and maneuvered them into the back seat of my car. Then he put my heavy grocery boxes into the trunk. My baby had been playing with a Slinky and had managed to get it tangled on the cart. This malach even untangled it. Then he returned my cart for me. The wife held my baby and kept telling me they were so happy to be able to help.
It had been a very hard day, and their kindness saved me. Mi k’amcha Yisrael?
D. M.
Jackson, NJ
Not an Accident
On a cold and rainy Monday morning in February, 2022, I was involved in an early morning hit-and-run accident near the Belt Parkway headed toward Brooklyn. Baruch Hashem, I wasn’t injured, and I pulled over to the side of the road to wait for the police.
For three and a half hours, I sat at the side of the road in my car waiting for the police to arrive. When they came, I stood outside in the rain while they took my information. Within two minutes of exiting my car, another car pulled over, and I heard someone asking if I needed help. I didn’t know him; it was a Jew who saw another Jew in need. He asked me what happened, made sure I was okay, and started talking to the police and tow truck company for me.
At the same time, his wife jumped out of the backseat of their car, came over to me, and put her arms around me. She handed me a small bag full of snacks and a bottle of water, just what I needed at that moment.
I was unable to think straight to ask their names, so to the “malachim” who stopped for me on a rainy Monday morning, thank you.
Rena Fried
Queens, NY
Singled Out
My story happened at my younger sister’s chasunah. At the time I was a single mother. This simchah was painful for me, and I didn’t think I would be able to enjoy it too much. I tried to put on a cheerful face at the wedding for the sake of my mother and sister who were also in pain over my situation.
But as things go, I’m human, and at some point during the dancing, the simchah all around me simply got to me, and I couldn’t handle it anymore. I knew I couldn’t escape unnoticed, so I went to the side, pretending to take a drink, and tried to block out everything for a few minutes.
That’s when I felt a firm hand on my shoulders. It was the chassan’s mother. She pulled me in to dance, saying that she must have a dance with the kallah’s sister. She danced with me for a few minutes and then gave me a big, warm hug and a bunch of beautiful brachos.
It was her son’s chasunah and she took the time to notice how sad I felt. I’m forever grateful to her.
