promoting peace and understanding, as appeared in the binah, July 27,2016

I love having my children for Shabbos. I really do. The grandchildren are so adorable, and I have such nachas watching my babies raising their own. All week long it’s just Zaidy and me; it’s so quiet, and I miss the noise and balagan.

After Shabbos, when the boys’ peyos are perfectly curled, faces washed and the babies fed and diapered, I (finally) walk to the bus stop, and although I gaily wave goodbye as the bus pulls away, I feel a tug of sadness at their leaving. Then I return home, prepare a mug of hot tea, and savor the quiet.

When my husband walks into the living room half an hour later, I’m still sitting on the sofa, staring into nothingness. “Whew,” I say. “That was some Shabbos. I’m exhausted.” The truth is, there’s really no reason for me to be so tired. I had a long Shabbos nap, and the grandchildren helped me serve and clear the table.

But I’m no longer used to the noise. And the balagan.

It’s such a paradox. I love spending time with my family. It’s really my greatest joy in life. But at the same time, it leaves me drained and exhausted. And watching how beautifully my children manage with their growing families, I wonder how they do it.

I think one of the most difficult challenges facing both parents and their adult children is to accept that things aren’t the way they used to be. I can’t imagine how I ever spent my days wiping sticky chairs, putting away mountains of toys, preparing massive pots of food, and (sigh) throwing away half-eaten sandwiches and barely touched plates of that delicious soup that cost me so much time and energy (let alone money) to prepare. Today, those enormous pots, once used on a daily basis, are regulated to the far end of the closet to be pulled out for special occasions, and instead of buying fruits and vegetables by the carton, I purchase individual units, carefully perusing each tomato and cucumber for flaws.

Time marches on.

Having an empty nest means just that – the nest is empty. On a daily basis, it’s just me and my husband living in a small two-bedroom apartment. I make two pieces of chicken for lunch; after all, there’s no need for a third.

But my kids remember a mother cooking in bulk, who didn’t bat an eyelash at unexpected company. After all, there’s no real difference if you cook for twelve or fifteen, but now that it’s just the two of us, adding another three portions is a real game changer. I don’t keep a lot of extra food in the house (especially the goodies — I’m afraid that you-know-who will eat them in the middle of the night), so if company’s coming for Shabbos, or any other time of the week, for that matter, it means an additional foray to the grocery store.

According to my editors, this column is dedicated to the needs of the more “mature” woman, but I would imagine that there are some younger women reading this as well (and if there aren’t, may I suggest that any older women reading this causally leave her copy of the Binah on the coffee table, open to this page). So, for the sake of promoting peace and understanding between the generations, I hereby would like to make a few suggestions (in other words, lay down the law) to the younger crowd.

Remember, your shvigger did not tell you this, so continue to adore her, and hopefully she’ll reciprocate in kind, especially after you’ve learned the following rules:

1.       If you want to come for Shabbos, please let me know before Wednesday morning. That’s when I do my shopping; before the pre-Shabbos rush, when the stores are still fairly empty. Of course if there’s a real emergency, you’re always welcome, but please, for your sake and mine, try to avoid emergencies!

2.       If you’re bringing something, let me know beforehand. I love eggplant salad, but four different types is a bit much! Had I known, I would have made something else instead, or even better, not made a salad at all!

3.       Let me know if anyone in your family has special dietary requirements. Bli ayin hara, there are a lot of grandchildren, and I can’t keep track of everyone’s allergies or personal quirks. So please remind me that Shmuelik can’t eat (or refuses to eat) challah sprinkled with sesame seeds, and that Channie can only drink boiled water.

4.       Take care of your children! I love children, especially my grandchildren. I really do. But I also need my Shabbos nap, and (I know this might sound crazy, but it’s the truth) throwing balls in the living room (especially when my good china is out) tends to make me nervous.

5.       I love it when, right after Shabbos is over, I take the grandchildren to the park and you surprise me by cleaning up the house! No, this is not a rule, but if you do this, you’ll get brownie points for good behavior.

6.       Last but not least, please remember to go home! I love it when you come, and I love it when you go. 

a letter sent to Bina by an anonymous reader

Thank you, Debbie for your article about giving away items to children and acknowledging that we will not be in this world forever. Because the concept of death is painful an scary, we frequently bury our head in the sand and pretend that it does not exist. This is all the more so in our generation, when the influence of the outside world makes us perceive aging in a negative light, so different from the Torah perspective.

Paradoxically, openly facing our mortality can enhance the quality of our lives, because we then prioritze energy for the eternal over the transient, which brings us happiness in the Next World as well as in this world. (We have less stress about material/physical/external issues, and character growth, while painful in the short term, brings to inner tranquility, far more than being stuck in the default pleasure focused place.)

Nevertheless, it takes a greatness of spirit to face our mortality in a helathy, honest way. I admire you, Debbie, for achieving that, and wihs you many more happy, healthy years together with yo husband with loads of nachas.

a reader

Needlepoints and Embroidery as appeared in the Binah

 Twenty some years ago, after my mother was moved into a nursing home, my siblings were left with the overwhelming task of figuring out what to do with her belongings. There were a lot of them: seven rooms and a garage packed with over half a century of memories. I am certain that much of what they assumed to be worthless junk was, in reality, precious belongings with great sentimental value, but sadly enough, without being privy to the accompanying stories, almost all of her things ended up in the garbage. I have no doubt that at least some of it was, in reality, precious family heirlooms. 

That’s one of the reasons why, when I cleaned for Pesach this year, I spent a lot of time sorting through my belongings and gave many of them to my children. Among the treasures were several embroidered pictures that I had made years ago, during those long, sunny afternoons at the park, when my friends and I would sit together, watching our children (who are now beginning to marry off their own children!) as they climbed the jungle-gym and slid down the slides (those were the days, my friends…). 

Every year on Erev Pesach, when I carefully remove the pictures from their cloth bag, I am transported to a different period of my life, when, between taking care of the babies and running my home, I never dreamed of finding the quiet that I need to be able to write. Yet, each afternoon there was an oasis of time when I would join a group of young mothers to discuss everything from recipes to the meaning of life while watching my children, and embroider fanciful pictures (I have always been a multi-tasker!).

This year, however, instead of returning my works of art to their cloth bag and promising myself that as soon as Pesach is over, I’ll have them professionally framed, I decided to leave everything and do just that.  The results are stunning.

Some twenty-three years ago, when my first child got engaged, I decided that I would try to give each of my newlywed couples a very special wedding present: a large needlepoint embroidered by yours truly. Well, um, rabos machshavos b’lev ish; some got, and some didn’t. Now, I was delighted to (finally) be able to give the other children what I hoped would eventually become family heirlooms, a piece of myself, something to remember me by, as well as assure that, at least b’derech hateva, these labors of love will not erroneously end up in the dumpster. I can just imagine that half a century from now, one of my great-grandchildren will point to my handiwork and tell her offspring about how the elta, elta bubby, the great tzedekes Devorah (hmmm….) would spend her afternoons at the park, fervently reciting Tehillim (while gabbing away with her friends) as she davened for her children’s hatzlachah and, never being one to let her hands sit idle, embroidered family heirlooms.

This Erev Pesach, I also spent quite a bit of time looking through all our old photographs — boxes and boxes of them, over forty years worth — and gave away over half of them to my children. (Disclaimer: poring over old photos does not magically get rid of the chametz. Rather, it’s using Pesach as an excuse to have fun.) Grinning toddlers in diapers, their faces and hair (ugh!) smeared with toothpaste; freckled girls in freshly pressed uniforms, their hair pulled tightly back into ponytails, showing off their brand new school bags; large hats balanced on the heads of new bar mitzvah bachurim; slightly dazed newly-engaged couples drinking a l’chaim, family wedding pictures. Not only did I enjoy a delightful trip down memory lane, I now have an entire empty shelf in my closet (hmmm… I better place a few strategic knickknacks there, before the tides of clutter rise to cover that shelf).

Reb Nachman of Breslov, zt”l, teaches that a person should strive to leave his daas in this world through doing something that will inspire future generations to come closer to Hashem. I have no doubt that my desire to leave a footprint on the world, to make sure that the children understand the stories behind the treasures, is part of a deeper need that all of us have to leave a piece of ourselves to those who come after us, to ensure that they will learn from our challenges and struggles as well as from the choices that we’ve made, and that by doing so, we have accomplished something of real, eternal value.  

Oh, and speaking of leaving something for the next generation, while cleaning for Pesach this year, I stumbled across a needlepoint that I started over a decade ago and decided to finish it. Another yerushah for the grandchildren, and besides, it’s great therapy for stiff fingers.  

A Link In the Chain as appeared in the Binah

​

Taanis Esther (the fast of Esther). I was busy in the kitchen making the final preparations for our evening meal when the phone rang. I glanced down at the caller ID. It was my daughter calling from England.

“Hi, Sush,” I began. “How’s…”

A child's voice interrupted my monologue. “It’s Faigie,” began my eight-year-old granddaughter. “Bubby, what are you going to dress up as on Purim?”

“Me?” I was surprised at the question. I never get dressed up, at least not in a Purim costume.  “Oh, I’ll just be me. Bubby.” And then I added under my breath, “Maybe I’ll even pretend to be a balabusta.” 

“That’s what I’m going to be. You. I’m dressing up like you.” I assumed she wasn’t referring to a balabusta. 

“Ah, so you’re going to be dressed up as a bubby?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“No,” she responded. “I’m going to be a very, very old lady, just like you. And Chaim’s going to be a very old man, just like Zeidy.”

For once, I was speechless. But right after Purim my daughter sent me the pictures and they really were an adorable couple, him with a long, grey beard leaning on his wooden cane and her with a short grey sheitel and enormous plastic glasses!

Children think of their parents as being old and wise. (When my children were little, my oldest daughter asked me, “Mommy, how old are you?” I blithely responded, “Thirty.” She shook her head in wonderment that a person was anyone could possibly reach such a ripe old age, as she repeated in an awe-filled voice, “k’neinah hara, k’neinah hara.”) And they view their grandparents as being ancient. But children are children, and young children, especially, have a very strange understanding of the concept of time, as shown in the following story (and yes, it’s a story about one of my grandchildren. But I’m a bubby, and bubbies are allowed to shep nachas).

My four-and-a-half-year-old very verbose grandson commented, “Bubby, when you were little, you must have had so much fun."

"Why do you say that, shefela?" I asked.

"Because when you were a little girl, you got to ride horses. And camels. And donkeys."

"I did? What makes you think that?"

"Because there were no cars then. Only horses, and camels, and donkeys."

I will let you in on a little secret. Beneath my matronly appearance runs a dark, mischievous streak. So I couldn't help but continue and say, "But shefela, it really wasn't fun in Mitzrayim (Egypt). It was terrible, and I was miserable! The Mitzrim (Egyptians) made us work very, very hard!"

My grandson laughed. "Oh, but Bubby," he countered. "You're not that old! You were born in the Midbar (desert), after the Yidden left Mitzrayim!"

It’s great to feel young! But the truth is, his words contained more than a kernel of emes. After all, all of us, every single one of us, were present at Har Sinai. We all accepted the Torah, unconditionally, as a moreshes kehillos Yaakov. (inheritance to the Jewish people)

And that’s really what being a bubby is about. It’s not just that we are (at least in the eyes of our einiklach) very, very old, but we are a living bridge to the past, creating a solid chain of mesorah leading back to even before yetzias Mitzrayim, (the Exodus) he prevailing idolatry to proclaim the truth of One Hashem.  

When we tell our grandchildren stories of parents, teachers or neighbors who learned under prewar Gedolim, or were exiled to Shanghai, or were among the talmidos of Frau Sarah Schneirer, a”h, we are creating a very personal connection to the chain of kedushah extending all the way back to Har Sinai. We are providing them with real models to emulate.

It’s not an easy image to live up to. But like every other challenge that Hashem gives us, we have within us the capability to become worthy of emulation.

Yup, even very, very old ladies (and men) not only can, but must, continue to grow. After all, we wouldn't want to disappoint the einiklach, would we?

​

GOOD NIGHT, MY SOMEONE, GOOD NIGHT

I run an internet based writer's workshop, and was inspired to write this after one of the women described how her father is slowly slipping away from her. 

 “Excuse me,” I said to the tall Hispanic man. He stared at his cellphone. “I’m looking for Rose Levine.”

He  pointed to a small, frail woman sitting in the corner. I quietly walked over to where she was sitting and stared at a stranger. Finally, I recognized her.

“Hi, Mom,” I began.

No reaction. Her hairy chin remained resting in the hollow of her chest. Her bony arms (Mommy, you were always dieting. Was this the goal?) hung lifelessly on her lap.

“Mommy, it’s me. Debbie.”

Nothing. Her eyes were barren, the color of an algae polluted pond.

I sat on the empty chair next to her and gently grasped her hand. “Mommy,” I smiled, stifling my tears. “It’s Debbie. Your daughter. I came to visit you. From Israel. Mommy, I love you.”

Not a ripple of recognition.

Then I felt her hand grasp mine. “Mommy,” she said. “Mommy, mommy.”  She lifted my hand to her lips and gave it a kiss. Her saliva dripped HerHHdown my forearm. I didn’t wipe it away.

Mommy loved music. She had a voice like a nightingale, and she was always singing; as she washed the dishes, made the beds, did the laundry.  Whenever I’d come to visit her at the Home, I’d take her to some secluded corner and begin to sing. She always joined me. Even after she forgot the names of her children, and who she was, and almost everything she said sounded like gibberish, she was able to sing all the lyrics to her favorite songs. And sing them she did, with an intensity that could only be described as deveikus.  When we sang together, our souls communicated; and we soared.

So now I sat close to Mommy and quietly began to sing, “Climb every mountain…”

Silence.

“How much is that Doggy in the window?”

Nothing.

“K..k..k Katy, my beautiful Katy…”

No reaction. None whatsoever.

An immaculately dressed woman, her hair pulled tightly into a bun pushed a man in a wheelchair up to the  table behind us and sat in the empty chair next to him.  There was  too much rouge on her cheeks and her lipstick was  a shade too bright.

“Sam,” she began. “It’s me, Elaine.”

Nothing.

“Sam, do you remember when we were seventeen? We were so much in love.”  

I moved my chair away to give her privacy. I could hear her sniffling.

“We were so young then, but I’m still in love with you. Don’t you know me? It’s me Elaine. Your wife. Your sweetheart.”

Silence.

I stroked my mother’s hand. My tears flowed. I didn’t bother to wipe them away.

The Music Man was playing on the large video screen opposite us (every time I came to the Home, it was the same video. Always the Music Man). The song “Sweet Dreams, My Someone,” filled the oppressive silence.

“Sweet dreams be yours, dear,
If dreams there be
Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.

I wish they may and I wish they might
Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight”

Later that night I tucked my mother into bed and kissed her goodnight. I returned to Israel the following morning. My family needed me.

Three weeks later I was back again. This time, for my mother’s funeral. 

A Spiritual Revolt

Mesirus nefesh. It’s a concept that is difficult to understand in our generation of instant gratification. I believe that today’s flourishing Torah communities are a direct outgrowth of the previous generation’s mesirus nefesh for Yiddishkeit. Today, the choices are far more subtle, yet they, too, will have a profound influence on future generations.

When Surie Minzer was wrenched away from her beloved family in Yowosna and taken to the Hannesdorf Slave Labor Camp in Czechoslovakia, she found herself on a different planet. In one cruel moment, she was torn away from everything dear to her and turned into a nameless slave, working for the good of the German war effort.

She was lucky, however -- the Germans allowed her to bring along a few belongings: a siddur, a diary, some clothes. She also knew that she still had a family, and that they loved her dearly. Most important of all, she had inherited a strong and solid belief in Hashem. She knew that even in that hell on earth, He was with her, and that no matter what happened, He would never leave her. That knowledge gave her the strength to survive.

Surie was the youngest of a large Chassidishe family. Some of her brothers and sisters were already married, and she adored them as they adored her. Now, however, she could only dream of seeing them, and express her dreams twice a month in a carefully worded postcard.

As Pesach drew near, Surie wondered how she could survive eight days without her daily slice of bread. In carefully couched terms, she wrote to her father, who was interned in the Sasnowitz ghetto, asking for his advice in how to obtain food that was not chametz.

Surie’s father wrote that her mitzvah was to survive, and if that meant that she would have to eat chametz, then it was a mitzvah to eat the chametz. In the present circumstances there was no other choice; she must do everything in her power to remain alive.

Surie, however, felt that she must do whatever she could to refrain from consuming chametz on Pesach. So everyday she smuggled a few turnips under her armpits into the factory where she worked and surreptitiously stuffed them into the hollowed-out bottoms of sewing machines – to be retrieved later, on Pesach.

Surie was secretly thrilled. Although outwardly she remained humble and subservient, she was a rebel, in the midst of a spiritual revolt. No matter what the Nazis would do to tear her away from her heritage, she would defy them and remain a Yid, proud of her royal lineage. She would never surrender her internal dignity. 

After several days of stuffing turnips into the machines, Surie arrived at the factory and immediately realized that something was wrong. The commandant was standing outside, holding a turnip in his hand. He was furious.

“Attention!” he screamed.

The girls jumped to attention, awaiting further orders.

“One of you stuffed turnips into the machines and ruined them. Who is trying to sabotage the German war effort?”

No one moved.

“You will remain at attention until the culprit admits her deed,” the commandant barked.

Still, no one moved.

One –- two -– three -- four hours passed. The girls, with only rags to protect them from the elements, were shivering. Many were leaning on their friends for support.

Surie couldn’t take it any longer. She couldn’t watch her friends suffer because of her desire to keep a mitzvah. She wondered when the commandant would begin shooting innocent girls for her act of defiance.

She was just about to admit her deed when she heard another woman call out, “I did it. I stuffed the turnips into the machines.”

“Name?” the commandant barked.

“Laikie March*,” the woman calmly answered. She knew what to expect, and she was prepared.

“Barrack number?” the commandant continued.

“Seven hundred and forty-three.”

“Dismissed. Return to your barracks.”

The girls marched back to the camp. There would be no work that day. The machines were unusable. They assumed there would be an execution that evening.

Surie sidled up to Laikie. “Why did you admit to something you didn’t do?” she asked.

“But I did do it,” Laikie responded.

Unknown to each other, both girls had stuffed turnips into the sewing machines. Both girls had risked their lives for the sake of a mitzvah.

That night, the girls nervously awaited the expected announcement. They had no doubt that the Nazis would torture Laikie and kill her for her act of sabotage. They drank their muddy coffee and lay on their hard wooden boards, tensely waiting for the moment they would be forced out of bed and made to stand at attention in the appelplatz to watch their friend’s death.

But they slept through the night. The following morning, they drank another cup of muddy coffee and were marched back to the sewing factory. The machines had been repaired, and they were able to work again.

It was as if nothing had happened.

***

Both Surie and Laikie survived the war.

Surie later married her cousin and raised a beautiful Torah family. She has hundreds of descendents, who inherited their mother’s, grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s devotion to Yiddishkeit.

Laike March also survived the war and raised a beautiful Torah family. Her daughter married a prominent Chassidic Rebbe.

They rebelled -- and won.

* a pseudonym

This story is an excerpt Bridging the Golden Gate by Debbie Shapiro, published by Israel Book Shop.

Full Circle as appeared in Bridging the Golden Gate Bridge

Full Circle

Only rarely do we get a glimpse of the full story. The following story is one such glimpse. All names and identifying details have been changed for the sake of privacy.

About eight years ago, Rabbi Shmuel Davis, a Chassid living in Yerushalayim, decided that the time had finally come for him to realize his childhood dream and visit the kivrei tzaddikim in the Ukraine. He spent months researching different tours, until he found one that seemed just perfect -- and cost several hundred dollars less than the competition.

A detailed itinerary arrived in the mail just a few days before departure. Late Tuesday night the tour members were to fly directly to Bucharest, Romania. From there they would travel to the Ukraine via an eighteen-hour bus ride through Romania and across the Russian border. The highlight of the trip would be the Shabbos they would spend in Mezibuzh, home of the holy Baal Shem Tov.

"It sounded just wonderful," recalled Reb Shmuel. "Everything was set. All I had to do was pack and go."

On Tuesday night Reb Shmuel arrived at the airport and was given his plane ticket and all the appropriate papers. But for some reason, eight members of the tour -- including Reb Shmuel -- did not receive Russian visas. The travel agent explained that there had been some technical difficulties, and the visas were waiting for them in Bucharest.

"When we got to Bucharest," said Reb Shmuel, "the guide told us that the visas had already been sent to the Russian border."

The visas, however, were not at the Romanian side of the border. The  eight Chassidim were told not to the worry -- the visas were waiting  for them on the Russian side. But there, too, the visas were nowhere to be found.

"The guide took our luggage off the bus and told us that he would continue with the rest of the group," said Reb Shmuel. "He also informed us that one of the buses would remain to take us to the hotel in Mezibuzh where we would rejoin our tour -- when we finally had our visas. We weren't pleased, to say the least, but there was little we could do.

"Everyone was exhausted," continued Reb Shmuel. "It was already close to midnight, and we were hoping that we could soon continue on our way."

Instead, the officer in charge informed the eight Chassidim that in a few minutes the border would be closed for the night and that they must return to Romania. That was when Reb Shmuel discovered that all the buses were gone.

"We were suddenly surrounded by Russian soldiers carrying bayonets," said Reb Shmuel. "They told us to take our luggage and return to Romania -- over half a mile away. Every time I tried to catch my breath, I saw the bayonets pointed at me and I forced myself to run even faster."

The Romanians, however, refused to allow the Chassidim to enter the country because their transit visas had already expired. So the eight Chassidim spent what remained of the night surrounded by armed guards at the deserted border station. Some tried to bed down on the icy cold floor. Reb Shmuel didn't even bother.

By the next morning, the exhausted group decided to abandon the tour and return to Eretz Yisrael. But first, they had to find their way back to Bucharest.

"When a customs officer arrived," said Reb Shmuel, "I asked him if he could contact the Israeli ambassador for us. He refused. When I asked him if he could help us find a way back to Bucharest, again he refused. 'This is your problem, not mine,' he said."

But the customs officer did issue new transit visas to the stranded Chassidim. At least now they could enter Romania.

A short while later, another officer arrived, and he was slightly more helpful. He knew of a plane that was leaving to Bucharest in five minutes, from a nearby airport. "The officer asked us if we wanted to try walking the two miles to the airport in five minutes," Reb Shmuel laughed.

Eventually another officer came into the office and was willing to arrange transportation to Bucharest in a private car.

"We spent over ten hours squashed in a tiny Russian car," said Reb Shmuel. "To make matters even worse, the officer had bought an enormous peacock feather for his wife and it tickled the back of my neck throughout the entire trip."

At one of the rest stops, the driver, who knew both Romanian and English, called information and asked for the number of the Israeli embassy. But when Reb Shmuel dialed the number, he discovered that it had been changed -- almost fifty years earlier.

During their journey, the driver stopped to visit an acquaintance who lived in a tiny village. When the Chassidim got out of the car, they were approached by an old man who asked if they understood Yiddish.

"We were so happy to see another Jew that we started hugging him," said Reb Shmuel. "He was very helpful, and through him we were able to obtain the embassy's number. Now, at least, we knew that there would be someone waiting for us in Bucharest."

Although the embassy was closed, the ambassador had arranged lodgings for the group in a deserted building owned by the Jewish Agency. "Once again we slept on the cold floor, under armed guard," said Reb Shmuel. "But at least now we knew that we were among friends."

Reb Shmuel returned to Eretz Yisrael the following morning, just in time for Shabbos. "We were exhausted," said Reb Shmuel, "but grateful to be home."

It took a few days before Reb Shmuel had recovered enough to contact the travel agency and ask for a refund, which they gladly gave him.

"I also insisted that they compensate me for the days that I missed from work," said Reb Shmuel. "The manager of the agency refused. Although I really felt that they owed me compensation, I decided not to make a fuss over it and let it go."

Little did Reb Shmuel know that the debt would eventually be repaid many times over.

A few years later, Reb Shmuel's youngest daughter was engaged to marry a promising talmid chacham. The wedding had been set for the middle of Elul. Late that summer, just weeks before the wedding,  the young chassan decided to spend bein hazemanim with his friends at a yeshivah-run camp. The highlight of the vacation was a full-day hike in the Judean Desert.

On the afternoon of the hike, Reb Shmuel's future son-in-law, Yaakov, was climbing up the side of a mountain when he realized that, somehow, he had become separated from his friends.

At first, Yaakov was not concerned and spent what was left of the afternoon wandering through the desert, trying to find his way back to the bus. The desert was quiet and full of rocks that made walking difficult. Yaakov was aware that this part of the desert was known for its deep crevices that had claimed many lives. Before every step, he tentatively tested the ground to make sure it was solid.

That same night, Reb Shmuel's daughter woke up and, for some inexplicable reason, tearfully began reciting Tehillim for her chassan's welfare. Meanwhile, Reb Shmuel and his family slept peacefully.

In another small Yerushalayim neighborhood, Yaakov's parents were roused from their sleep when the police called at 3 a.m. to inform them that their son was missing in the Judean Desert. The parents immediately ran to their next-door neighbor, a renowned tzaddik, and begged him to pray for their lost son.

Yaakov's mother, aunt and sister went straight from the neighbor to a small shul near their home. The shamash recognized them and let them in. They flung open the aron kodesh and began to beseech Hashem to send their precious chassan home.

A friend of Yaakov's family heard the news and woke up his entire family. "It's assur to sleep now," he said, while hailing a taxi to take them to the Kosel. Before dawn, Yaakov's mother, sister and aunt had joined them there.

By the time everyone returned from the Kosel, many neighbors and friends had already heard about the lost chassan. Yaakov's mother took a group of women back to the nearby shul, reopened the aron kodesh and recited more Tehillim. Outside, a group of over fifty men and children were tearing the very Heavens apart with the power of their tefillah. Even the small children were wailing. The children's cries drowned out the sobs of the women inside.

Word of the lost chassan spread throughout the city, and within a short time, hundreds of people were davening for Yaakov's safe return. But each person was warned that that they must be careful; under no circumstances should Reb Shmuel's family know anything about what had happened.

Reb Shmuel and his family remained oblivious to the drama taking place around them.  "When I went to the store that morning," said Reb Shmuel's wife, "I noticed some people pointing in my direction. But I didn't think much of it."

At ten o'clock that morning, Yaakov's mother traveled to Kever Rachel with a large group of women. Their tefillah was said with such emotion that the soldiers and guards stationed outside the kever came in to see what had happened.

What happened to Yaakov? Without realizing where he was going, Yaakov had wandered far from his friends. He walked so far off course that when the Israeli army began searching for him the next morning, they didn’t bother looking for him in the area where he was finally located. They claimed that the terrain was so rough that it would have been impossible for him to remain alive if he had gone in that direction.

But Yaakov had actually been plodding through the desert, searching desperately for something to drink. He had spent the entire night walking, and was so thirsty that he chewed on grass to extract its liquid. He also wrapped his tzitzis around his head to protect himself from the fiercely hot sun.  When he happened upon a small dirt path, he began to follow it, assuming that it must lead somewhere.

Meanwhile, a family of Chassidim decided to rent a jeep for their last day of vacation and drive through the desert. They had planned to visit a nearby river, but were put off by the lack of modesty there. When they saw another jeep turn off the highway onto a dirt road, little more than a path, they decided to follow, assuming that the road must lead somewhere.

The Chassidim followed the other car through the monotonous desert for over two-and-a-half hours! They were tired and bored and kept on telling each other that the time had come to turn around, but for some inexplicable reason they continued on.

It was already close to noon when Yaakov decided to rest at the side of the road. When he saw a car appear on the horizon, he frantically waved at it to stop. But the driver mistook him for an Arab and sped by.

Five minutes later, Yaakov saw another car in the distance. This time he took no chances and lay down in the middle of the road, screaming for water. The driver slammed on his brake, and the Chassidim jumped out to give the thirsty “Arab” a drink.

With his gun trained on the "Arab," the driver cautiosly handed Yaakov a canteen of water. The moment he heard Yaakov's heartfelt brachah, however, he realized that the "Arab" was really a Jew and that the kaffiyeh perched on his head was really tzitzis.

Yaakov gulped down a gallon of water before he was able to speak. The first thing he asked for was a pair of tefillin; he had not yet davened  Shacharis.

That Friday afternoon, Yaakov was brought back to his parent's home in Yerushalayim. Hundreds of well-wishers came to celebrate his safe return. And a few days later, less than two weeks before the wedding, Reb Shmuel was invited to a seudas hoda'ah in honor of his future son-in-law's miraculous rescue.

Reb Shmuel had the shock of his life when he walked into the seudah and saw the driver of the jeep who had saved his future son-in-law's life. It was none other than the manager of the travel agency, the same manager who had sold him the ticket to the Ukraine and refused to compensate him for the loss he had incurred.

With tears in his eyes, Reb Shmuel expressed his gratitude to Yaakov's benefactor. "Well, I guess the debt has finally been paid," he said with a smile. "And I'm glad I waited for payment. Thank you."

The score was settled.