Category: ArtScroll Shabbos Newsletter

Adapted from: Miracle Baby by Rabbi Yehoshua Frankenhuis

It is the night of Rosh Hashanah 5780 at Yeshivas Heichal HaTorah, Har Nof, Yerushalayim. The final notes of Adon Olam hover in the air as the bachurim surround the rosh yeshivah, Rav Zvi Kushelevsky. They accompany him as he slowly makes his way through the throngs of people, out of the beis midrash, and up the stairs to his apartment located on the top floor of the yeshivah. Suddenly, joyous singing and dancing break out in the procession. This is no Rosh Hashanah tune, nor a poignant song of dveikus. It is a heartfelt rendition of “Zara zara zara zara chaya v’kayama…”

This annual minhag is five years old. Ever since Rav Zvi remarried following the petirah of his first wife, he requests a berachah to have children from everyone he meets — from gedolim such as Rav Moshe Sternbuch to bachurim not even a quarter of his age. He seeks berachos from everyone, because who knows which person’s berachah will break through the Gates of Heaven and bring down the yeshuah?

And so, on the night of Rosh Hashanah, the bachurim took it upon themselves once more to bless their rosh yeshivah with the berachah “Zara di lo yifsok…”

A thought passes through some of our minds: Perhaps after more than five years of marriage, and at the Rosh Yeshivah’s advanced age, the time has come to stop falsely inspiring hope in him. Maybe the Rosh Yeshivah should move on, rather than dwell on the crushed hopes and the anguish! To focus on the gifts he has, rather than be reminded once more of the precious gift that he so deeply yearns for…

But no. Rav Zvi encourages all of us bachurim and passionately joins in the singing. He radiates the steadfast belief that through our tefillos and berachos, his yeshuah will come. That he too will merit “zara di lo yifsok v’di lo yivtol mipisgamei Oraisa.”

Rav Zvi enters his apartment, the singing quiets down, and the bachurim drift away to their various seudos, while I head home to my family. The beis midrash and the yeshivah corridors fall silent once more. Yet the clear realization that Hashem doesn’t run the world based on statistical probabilities continues to ring loudly in my mind.

Yes, Hashem is truly all-powerful. Even when the chances seem very slim, we ought to place our bitachon in Him and daven to Him, because He can bring a yeshuah under any circumstance. I already knew this in theory, but on that special night I deeply experienced and internalized how a true maamin, a true believer, relates to unbounded yeshuas Hashem as a tangible reality. 

Adapted from: A Heart for Another by Rabbi Yaakov Bender

There are moments in a person’s life that live on, single encounters or conversations that replay, again and again, for years. One such moment can shape an entire life.

My mother, Rebbetzin Basya Bender, was a chiddush, a novelty — an immigrant to this country and a young almanah. The lone survivor in her family, she rose above pain to not only raise us on her own, but to inspire and guide hundreds of bnos Yisrael as a beloved and effective teacher.

She was a woman of resilience and faith, but if I had to identify the moment when her strength and spirit shone most brightly, it was early on a Shabbos morning.

It was not just any Shabbos morning: It was that week, in the autumn of 1965, when we were sitting shivah for my father zatzal, who had been niftar so suddenly and unexpectedly.

Every one of us was lost without him. That Leil Shabbos, she worked to keep our mood upbeat during the seudah, to show us that we would be able to carry on as a family, that Shabbos was still Shabbos.

It could not have been easy.

That night, we all slept. It had been an exhausting week, emotionally and physically, and we must have slept very deeply. When we started to come down on Shabbos morning, we rubbed our eyes in disbelief.

The house was in complete and total disarray, furniture toppled over, sefarim thrown all over the floor, and the cabinets empty. The house had been ransacked, thieves obviously coming in during the night and robbing whatever valuables they could find.

It was too much. The house was a mess. We had been in financial distress before this, and there was certainly no money to replace whatever had been taken.

But especially painful was the fact that they had taken away that which was most precious to us — the small reminders of our father that had remained.It shook us up. Whatever sense of calm we might have had was shattered. It was just too much. It seemed so unfair, the blow that would make all the challenges with which we had been confronted that week unbearable.

Then we heard our mother’s footsteps and we froze. How would she handle it?

She came down the stairs and saw what happened. She — a woman in a strange country, her parents gone, having suddenly lost her husband a few days earlier and faced with the burden of feeding and clothing us on her own when money was tight — looked around at the damage, and then she looked at our faces.

“Kinderlach,” she said, “we don’t cry over things that can be replaced.”

One line, but one line that gave us such clarity. There are times to cry, when tears are appropriate. And there are times when tears have no purpose or place. Items, even with sentimental value, are replaceable, and we would not allow the loss of mere objects to pull us down.

And here is the enduring lesson of my mother and her lesson on that Shabbos morning.

If ever in my life I felt like an umlal, a despondent person, it was that week, during those terrifying, confusing days in which the foundation of our lives had been pulled out from underneath us. That blow — the invasion and robbery — had the potential to be so devastating, that extra challenge that would have made the whole situation unendurable.

But she didn’t let that happen, and in doing so, she sent us another message. The rule in Chazal is that “middah tovah merubah mimiddas puraniyos — Hashem’s measure of good is greater than His measure of punishment” (Sotah 11a). From this we can extrapolate that if a harsh word to an umlal can be devastating, then a kind word to an umlal has the potential to build, reassure, and restore.

At that moment, our mother gave us the gift of a perspective and attitude that can carry a person through so many difficulties — we don’t cry over that which can be replaced. And instead of sinking deeper into pain, it gave us a way forward.

Our loss was significant, but we still had each other, and everyone was healthy. We would find strength in one another. We would continue in our father’s way and make her proud.

If we did not become umlalim, it was because of her. She gave us our lives. 

Adapted from: Miracle Baby by Rabbi Yehoshua Frankenhuis

Rav Zvi has become an example of emunah, hope, inspiration, and encouragement to thousands all over the world. Although perhaps what garnered the most attention was when, at the age of 88, his ben bechor was born, the greatest chizuk and source of inspiration are his sixty-five years of waiting, of davening, of disappointments, of not seeing the answer to his tefillos yet not letting it interfere with his avodas Hashem. 

There are many who struggle with infertility, with shidduchim for themselves or their children, with illness or earning a parnasah. They beg Hashem for a yeshuah and sometimes feel great disappointment when their tefillos are not answered. They do not understand what has happened to their prayers, or why they deserve their plight.

Let us go to the very beginning of the Torah, which will shed light on this subject.

The Torah begins by describing the creation of the world in great detail. Why is this the most important thing with which to begin the Torah? The Torah is not written chronologically. Why then does it begin with creation rather than discussing mankind, the Avos, or Mattan Torah?

We are all familiar with the story of the cruel executions of the Asarah Harugei Malchus, recited on Yom Kippur and Tishah B’Av. Following baseless accusations, these ten tzaddikim were taken to be killed by the Roman emperor in the cruelest ways imaginable. Upon seeing the horrific events, the malachim cried out to Hashem, “Zu Torah v’zu secharah? Is this Torah and is this its reward?” But Hashem’s response was, “Shtok — Quiet! If I hear this question being asked again, I will destroy the world and return it to tohu vavohu.”

Why did Klal Yisrael experience such terrible hester? Why did the greatest tzaddikim deserve such a fate? Why did Hashem shut down the seemingly reasonable question of the malachim and threaten to destroy the world?

A parable provides insight:

Meshulam, a trusted tailor for the king, created magnificent garments for the royal family. For the king’s jubilee, he was commissioned to craft a spectacular robe using the finest material. After weeks of meticulous work, Meshulam delivered a masterpiece, exceeding the king’s expectations and the king paid him handsomely.

However, a jealous bishop slandered Meshulam, claiming he stole and sold some of the royal material. The king, initially dismissive, decided to investigate. When the material’s measurements were compared with the completed cloak, there was a discrepancy. Meshulam was arrested for treason and sentenced to death.

On the day of his execution, Meshulam requested his final wish: to have the cloak and a pair of scissors. 

Granted his request, he began cutting the garment. “Stop!” the king shouted. 

Meshulam calmly explained, “Every inch of material you gave me is in this robe. The only way to show you is by undoing the seams and stitches, returning the fabric to its original state. Then, all will be clear.”

With this we can explain the episode of the Asarah Harugei Malchus. Hashem’s message to the malachim was: “You were not there during maasei Bereishis, when I created the world. If you continue to ask this question, I will need to explain it to you, and the only way for you to understand is if I undo every last seam and every last stitch of the world — return it to tohu vavohu. Then, in its original state, there will be no questions.”

This, explains the Vilna Gaon, was Hashem’s response to the malachim. “Indeed, from your perspective, from your vantage point, you pose a great question. Why is all this pain, suffering, and carnage inflicted upon the greatest tzaddikim? I do not have an answer that you can understand. You weren’t there when I created the world. You did not see the masterplan of thousands of years. You do not understand every pleat of fabric, every seam and stitch.”

Adapted from: The Light and the Splendor by Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

The Gemara tells us that the mitzvah of ner Chanukah is ner ish u’beiso, a candle for each man and his house. The primary obligation is that in each house a ner, candle, should be lit. Regardless of how many people reside in a specific home, one candle suffices for all of them. The obligation, in essence, is on the house; it is a chiyuv habayis.

When it comes to most other mitzvos, however, it is not so.

Pirsumei – For example, hearing the Megillah on Purim is similar to ner Chanukah in that it, too, has the objective of parsumei nisa, publicizing the miracles that occurred, yet each individual must hear the Megillah in its entirety. The obligation can never be discharged by one person in the house hearing the Megillah. Why is the mitzvah of ner Chanukah different?

I heard from Rav Isaac Bernstein in the name of one of the Roshei Yeshivah of Yeshivas Kol Torah a breathtaking insight that sheds light on this unique aspect of ner Chanukah.

Iggeres HaShmad, a letter authored by the Rambam, discusses the gezeiros that the Yevanim had enacted toward Klal Yisrael in order to sever their connection to Hashem. The Yevanim declared it illegal to learn Torah, keep Shabbos, observe Rosh Chodesh, or perform bris milah. The Rambam then introduces an additional, lesser-known gezeirah that had also been enacted.

The Rambam tells us that the Yevanim decreed that no Jew was permitted to close the door to his home. They knew that as much as they could prevent us from performing mitzvos publicly, we would still continue to perform mitzvos in the privacy of our own home. To prevent this, they outlawed closing the door. Open front doors, they felt, could prevent us from doing any mitzvah.

The Midrash L’Chanukah states that the Yevanim decreed that any Jew who locked his door would receive the death penalty. A closed door provides security, dignity, privacy, modesty, and a sense of freedom. The Yevanim wanted to deprive us of all of these. Without a door, any passerby is welcome to enter uninvited at any time. The Midrash states that any house that has no door has no dignity or modesty.

When this decree went into effect, the Jews removed all their doors. They were unable to eat or drink, out of fear of Yevanim who could enter at any time. They did not sleep at all, concerned that Yevanim thieves would rob them while they slept.

We can now fully appreciate why Chazal decreed that the mitzvah of ner Chanukah should be on the home rather than on the individual. In addition to trying to abolish Torah and mitzvos, the Yevanim waged an all-out assault on kedushas habayis, the dignity of the Jewish home. Therefore, through the mitzvah of ner Chanukah, it is incumbent on each person to restore the sanctity of the Jewish home.

Furthermore, the mitzvah was originally designed to place the menorah at the doorpost, in the home’s entryway. The Yevanim sought to destroy the sanctity of our homes, which is preserved by the door and our ability to lock it to block entry of that which is antithetical to our faith. On Chanukah, we therefore demonstrate restoration of the kedushah by placing the menorah right next to our front doors, the very doors that they had prevented us from locking.

Adapted from: Around the Year with Reb Meilech by Yisroel Besser

Chazal say that the Yevanim wanted to eradicate two mitzvos — that of bikkurim, and that of preparing the atzei hamaarachah, the wood used for the fire on the Mizbei’ach. These are important mitzvos, for sure, but what about them is unique enough to have provoked the Yevanim? Why these two mitzvos? 

Bikkurim was a mitzvah performed with great joy. It was a matzav! The new crop was starting to grow after months of prayer and toil, and the farmers would travel to Yerushalayim amid singing and dancing, joining with other laborers as they ascended as one, a joyous group, to the Holy City.

The Gemara describes the great joy of those involved in cutting and preparing the wood that would be used on the fires of the Mizbei’ach. 

Yavan saw that. It wasn’t the performance of the mitzvah that infuriated them, but the inherent joy, and they went to war against that feeling. 

The Rambam calls these days yemei simchah v’hallel, days of joy and praise. The Chavos Yair writes that the ikkar, the main thing, is to be joyous during these days. 

That’s how we triumph over Yavan. They knew that this would lead us to victory, and they tried to resist it. But we win, we win by being joyous when we perform the mitzvos. 

Someone once quipped that there are so many beautiful niggunim for the words of Yevanim nikbetzu alai that we sing after hadlakas neiros; you can choose, Boyan or Vizhnitz or Ger or Chevron, but you know what Yavan wants you to sing? 

Yavan wants you to sing with no real heart or energy, just being yotzei. 

Reb Meilech leans forward, as if nodding off, and mumbles the words, “Yevanim, yevanim.” 

No, that’s not the way! Sing Yevanim! Sing it with simchah and enthusiasm, with the realization that these lechtelach, the flames you light tonight, have never before been in the world and will never be here again. They’re new, your mitzvah, and this is your moment — so sing! 

Chazal teach that “al korchacha, against your will, you will have to give a din v’cheshbon, a final reckoning” (Avos 4:29). Tzaddikim explain that this means we will have to give an accounting of why we performed mitzvos with the attitude of “al korchacha,” as if we were forced: I have to go daven, I have to go learn… There is no greater delight, and this mitzvah, hadlakas ner Chanukah, calls for special joyfulness. 

When Chazal make a promise, that’s a guarantee. They tell us (Shabbos 23b) that someone who is careful with the ner — which Rashi says means not just ner Shabbos, but also neiros Chanukah — will merit learned children. Now, everyone lights Chanukah lecht, so where are all the geonim? Where are all those accomplished children? What happened? 

The Meiri on that Gemara adds a few words. “One who lights the candles, derech chibuv mitzvah v’he’arah mefursemes, with love and obvious passion.” He needs to make a matzav. He needs to celebrate and show that he’s celebrating — then we have a guarantee! 

Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzenski was visiting Krakow and went to a tailor to repair his jacket. It was after shekiah, and Rav Chaim Ozer had already lit the Chanukah candles, but the tailor, a chassid, excused himself to light. After that, he said, he would fix the garment. 

As Rav Chaim Ozer waited, this tailor went to change his work clothing for Shabbos clothes, and then gathered his family around him with great excitement. The berachos were said with obvious feeling, the actual lighting treated like a major event. Rav Chaim Ozer looked on, then remarked that he now understood how it was that the Yidden of Krakow had produced so many great talmidei chachamim. 

Torah came forth from this Polish city because simple Jews remembered precisely that which Yavan wanted them to forget, that the simchah is part of the goal — and the best way to merit the fulfillment of Chazal’s promise. 

Lichtige, heilige doros, blessed children. 

Adapted from: Novominsk on Chumash by Yecheskel Ostreicher

וְיִשְׂרָאֵל אָהַב אֶת יוֹסֵף מִִכָּל בָּנָיו כִּי בֶן זְקֻנִים הוּא לוֹ

Now Yisrael loved Yosef more than all his sons since he was a child of his old age (Bereishis 37:3).

Targum Onkelos as well as the Midrash explain that Yaakov loved Yosef because the two learned together. He was the son who was taught all the Torah that Yaakov had learned in the beis midrash of Shem and Eiver.

Interestingly, though, Yosef’s status as one of the founding figures of Klal Yisrael is not his role as the wise son of Yaakov who absorbed all that his father taught, but as Yosef HaTzaddik, for overcoming the nisayon with Potiphar’s wife.

Perhaps this is because the advantage of being the wise son was not something he had worked on himself; he was merely the recipient of what his father taught him. But when he was all alone, without the support or assistance of his father, and he himself worked to achieve greatness in serving Hashem, he earned his eternal and defining title — tzaddik. This title was given to Yosef when he passed the nisyonos placed before him in Mitzrayim, and it is how he is known for all eternity. Yosef shows us that we too can overcome the challenges we face and live lives of kedushah.

By serving as our light in the galus, Yosef rose above the other Shevatim, becoming a quasi-Av, as the pasuk (Tehillim 77:16) says of Bnei Yisrael, bnei Yaakov v’Yosef selah, the sons of Yaakov and Yosef, selah. The Gemara (Sanhedrin 19b) derives from here that Bnei Yisrael are considered the children of Yosef; Yosef serves as a father for us all, guiding us through galus.

These two distinct roles of Yosef are highlighted in the difference between Nusach Sefard and Nusach Ashkenaz regarding the order of the Ushpizin. In Nusach Ashkenaz, Yosef comes after Yaakov — in chronological order; in Nusach Sefard he comes between Aharon HaKohen and Dovid HaMelech — in the order of the Sefiros (spheres of holiness) that each of the Ushpizin exemplifies. Yosef’s, Yesod [lit., foundation], representing kedushah, is the sixth, followed by Malchus, that of Dovid HaMelech.

Perhaps there is something deeper here as well. Yosef had two qualities: He learned Torah from Yaakov, and he served as a bridge between Yaakov and the rest of the Shevatim. This avodah lasted only as long as Yosef was in his father’s home. When he was taken down to Mitzrayim and faced the impurity of that land all alone, he became a tzaddik, the one who illuminates the way for us in galus.

Thus, while Nusach Ashkenaz places Yosef as the son of Yaakov, the one who inherited Yaakov’s Torah and passed it on to his brothers, Nusach Sefard focuses on the aspect of his being a tzaddik, the one who assists us in our preparation for the arrival of Mashiach ben Dovid.

The coffin holding Yosef’s remains was carried through the Midbar as Bnei Yisrael wandered from place to place. Yosef was with them, and the example of his life inspired them to overcome the struggles of galus until they entered Eretz Yisrael. That is why in Nusach Sefard Yosef is placed after Moshe and Aharon: Even with the benefit of the greatness of Moshe and Aharon, Bnei Yisrael still needed support to guide them into the land of geulah, the land where Dovid’s malchus would eventually shine forth.

Shortly before Yaakov passed away, he called for Yosef, and an interesting encounter ensued. וַיַּרְא יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת־בְּנֵי יוֹסֵף וַיֹּאמֶר מִי־אֵלֶּה. וַיֹּאמֶר יוֹסֵף אֶל אָבִיו בָּנַי הֵם אֲשֶׁר נָתַן לִי אֱלֹקִים בָּזֶה וַיֹּאמַר קָחֶם נָא אֵלַי וַאֲבָרֲכֵם — Then Yaakov saw Yosef’s sons and he said, “Who are these?” And Yosef said to his father, “They are my sons whom Hashem has given me here.” He said, “Bring them to me, if you please, and I will bless them” (Bereishis 48:20).

It seems that something that Yosef said stimulated Yaakov to bless Menashe and Efraim with a special berachah. What was it? One word: בָּזֶה [lit., in this] — in this decadent land, in this seemingly hopeless situation. Yosef was telling his father that these children of his were born in the land of Egypt, far from any connection to ruchniyus, and yet they retained their kedushah. For this they earned a special berachah. The Gemara (Avodah Zarah 17b) says that when someone defeats his yetzer hara he receives extra reward; the berachah of Menashe and Efraim was Yosef’s reward for maintaining his kedushah in a land so far removed from anything holy.

The merit and memory of Yosef HaTzaddik empowers us to forge through and gives us the strength to overcome wave after wave of tumah that life in galus sends our way.

Adapted from: Living with Miracles by Rabbi Binyomin Pruzansky

Simchah is great medicine. It infuses us with energy and the ability to tackle life’s tasks. Nothing is too hard when we’re happy and positive, but when we’re down, the smallest task seems like too much. The tzaddikim say that there is no greater way to serve Hashem than with simchah.

At Camp Simcha, children whose lives have been upended by illness, hospital stays, and medical treatments have a chance to get back their childhood. The camp exists for one simple purpose — to give these children the time of their lives.

When Reuven signed up to be a counselor, he knew he would have to throw himself into the job, heart and soul. Reuven was assigned to a camper named Dovi, and he made it his mission to ensure that Dovi had an incredible summer. Day by day, the counselor and camper bonded with each other and shared many moments of laughter. Besides this aspect of the job, Reuven had one other important responsibility: to make sure Dovi went to the infirmary every day to receive his medications.

When the last day of camp approached, Reuven helped Dovi pack his belongings. He took the suitcase out of storage and opened it up to begin the job. But then he stopped in his tracks and the blood drained from his face. There, staring at him from inside the otherwise empty suitcase, was a large bottle filled with pills, labeled with instructions to take one twice a day. Dovi hadn’t taken it once in the entire time he was in camp!

“Oh no!” How could I have missed this?” Reuven thought. He immediately took the medicine and ran at full speed to the infirmary to show the doctor the pills. He feared that because he missed giving this medication, Dovi’s health would be compromised, and it would be all his fault.

When he walked into the infirmary, his face was tense with fear. He handed the bottle of pills to the nurse. “Here, look at this,” he told her. “I just found it in Dovi’s suitcase, and he hasn’t taken it all summer!”

The nurse read the label and appeared confused. “This is impossible,” she said. “Let me show this to the doctor.”

Reuven waited with a sick feeling inside. Had he harmed this little boy he had tried so hard to help? The doctor came out of his office and looked at the bottle.

“Wow, I can’t believe this,” he said.

“I know. I’m sorry. I really messed up!” said Reuven. “Is Dovi going to be alright?”

“Don’t worry,” said the doctor. “You didn’t mess up. Actually, you did an amazing job. You see, this medicine is a powerful painkiller. When Dovi came to camp, he was in so much pain that he needed high doses of this medication. You did such a good job and made him so happy that he didn’t feel the pain and never complained about it all summer long! He never asked for his pain medicine.”

Reuven was relieved. He marveled at the power of simchah to free a young boy from the burden of pain and let him experience pure happiness.

The prescription is the same for everyone. The more we focus on the good in our lives, the happier we are. The power is in our hands.

Ramp up the simchah in your life by being mindful of the many gifts you enjoy: A pleasant, sunny day. A good meal. A warm greeting from a friend. The world overflows with evidence of Hashem’s kindness!

Adapted from: Kotzk by Yisroel Besser

Even though Kotzk was a place of seriousness, intensity, and introspection, the general atmosphere in the beis medrash in Kotzk was one of simchah: Chassidim tasted the joy of a life in which every mitzvah had meaning, delighted in the comfort of being surrounded by brothers, and experienced the exhilaration that comes with hard work.

Simchah was not just viewed as a means to spiritual elevation, but as a goal on its own. The Rebbe would quote R’ Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, who understood the pasuk of “Ki v’simchah seitzei’u — For with joy shall you go forth” (Yeshayah 55:12), to be saying that with the middah of simchah, one can “go out,” climb out of any difficulty or challenge.

Sometimes, they danced. In Kotzk, dancing was seen not just as the expression of joy, but as a way to rise a bit hecher, to leave the earth behind for a moment, a symbol of man’s quest to touch the heavens.

Each evening, at the end of a long day of work and before a long night of learning, the members of the chaburah sat down for the evening meal. Those meals did not feature meat, or even fish, but the chassidim lining the worn tables found the bread and vegetables to be more pleasurable than any banquet or feast, and the mood was joyous.

Without simchah, the Rebbe taught, all the blessings in the world are meaningless, but to a happy person, a bit of bread and some shmaltz can be a feast.

The Rebbe would quote the words of the pasuk: “Vayava’u Marasah, velo yachlu lishtos mayim miMarah ki marim heim — They came to Marah, but they could not drink water from Marah because it was bitter” (Shemos 15:23), and explain it in a novel way. The people could not drink the water of Marah, ki marim heim — they themselves were bitter! Their own misery prevented them from being able to enjoy the simple pleasure that comes with a sip of refreshing water!

In Kotzk, the chassidim would speak with admiration about one particular chassid named R’ Mottel, in whom the middah of simchah was ingrained. Not only could he derive joy from the simplest meal, he could even find happiness in the meal of another!

R’ Mottel was impoverished, like most of the chaburah in Kotzk, and one Erev Shabbos, he could not find money with which to buy fish for Shabbos. R’ Mottel’s wife accepted this reality, but she felt bad for her husband, knowing how much the honor of Shabbos meant to him.

R’ Mottel came home from shul on Leil Shabbos, his spirits as high as on every other Friday night, and he recited Kiddush with enthusiasm. They sat down for the seudah, which consisted primarily of challah.

Suddenly, R’ Mottel started to speak about R’ Yankel, the wealthiest man in town, describing what the Shabbos table must look like at the home of the wealthy merchant: the elegant table covered in dishes, the aroma of delicious food filling the air.

R’ Mottel’s wife was puzzled, because it was not her husband’s sort to be preoccupied with the money, home, or table of another. Her husband kept speaking, with obvious excitement, about the large platter of fish that R’ Yankel was enjoying, but she could not understand this unexpected interest in R’ Yankel. Sitting in his rundown little house, at a table that was pitifully bare of Shabbos delicacies, R’ Mottel’s joy kept growing as he seemed to be visualizing R’ Yankel’s every bite of fish — and then, his wife understood.

Her husband did not have fish for Shabbos, but he reasoned that even if he himself could not celebrate the day in the way he would have liked to, there were other Yidden who could, and so he worked to awaken feelings of love within himself for that Yid. The wealthy R’ Yankel was eating fish in honor of Shabbos, and this made R’ Mottel happy for him — and for the Shabbos itself, the day being accorded its due honor.

This, the chassidim said, was the essence of Kotzk.

Adapted from: Touched by the Parashah by Rabbi Yechiel Spero

In this parashah, Eisav, together with 400 soldiers, came to fight Yaakov. And although Yaakov managed to avoid physical war with his brother, he had to fight against the Sar shel Eisav, Eisav’s angel, Samael, in an epic battle that has repercussions until the end of time, for in actuality, Samael is the yetzer hara.

Only after this monumental battle did Yaakov earn the name of Yisrael. Although he was maimed in the fray, he was ultimately victorious, thus providing his children with the guidance and tools to overcome the yetzer hara in the various areas of life in which it presents itself.

On the morning of the levayah of Rav Nosson Tzvi Finkel, the Rosh Yeshivah of Mir Yerushalayim, a woman called the school where I teach and left a message for me to call her back immediately. When I called her, she sounded very emotional. She told me how tragic the passing of the Rosh Yeshivah was. Soon I would discover why she felt that way.

Her son, Moshe, had struggled mightily in high school and soon fell in with a terrible crowd. Before long, he headed into a downward spiral and there seemed to be no bottom. After a difficult period of time, he started to pull out of it. Showing signs of growth, he tried to break free of his friends and their influences, but it became harder and harder. Finally, he decided that he must get out of the country. On a pipe dream, he headed to the Mir.

He was up front and honest with the Rosh Yeshivah; he could barely read a Rashi. But the Rosh Yeshivah believed in him. He sensed the sincerity and desire in the boy’s heart and his neshamah, and he accepted the young man into the Mir.

Thrilled that he had been given a second chance, Moshe capitalized on the opportunity and flourished. Before long, he developed into a full-fledged ben Torah. But after the year was up, he began to worry. How was he going to deal with his old friends when he returned to his home turf? They would certainly mock him and try to lure him back to his troublesome ways.

Terrified, he decided that the only protection would be a berachah from the Rosh Yeshivah. Imbued with the Rosh Yeshivah’s vote of confidence, he would be able to conquer any challenge that came his way.

His flight was leaving Motza’ei Yom Kippur. Immediately after Maariv, Moshe tried to approach the Rosh Yeshivah, but the bachurim were dancing in front of him and his gabbaim were trying to whisk him back to his home to break the fast. Moshe rushed to the Rosh Yeshivah’s home and waited in his dining room.

However, when the gabbaim walked through the door, their glaring eyes pierced right through Moshe, as if to say, “How dare you invade the Rosh Yeshivah’s home after Yom Kippur?!” The Rosh Yeshivah’s weak constitution and frail health called for immediate rest and food. But Moshe begged. He ran up to the Rosh Yeshivah and pleaded for one minute of his time. “Please, Rebbi, I’m terrified to go back home. You know my story. Please give me a berachah.”

Rav Nosson Tzvi could barely speak. He managed an audible whisper, “You’ll be back.”

Moshe was elated. He apologized that he had overstepped his bounds, but he desperately needed the berachah. And now he had it. He ran back to his dirah to catch the taxi that would bring him to the airport. Suddenly, he heard someone calling his name. He turned around and saw one of the gabbaim calling him back to the Rosh Yeshivah’s home. He ran back to the house, anxious to hear what the Rosh Yeshivah wanted.

By this time, the Rosh Yeshivah was lying in his bed, unable to move. Moshe leaned in close to hear what Rav Nosson Tzvi had to say.

With great effort and belabored breathing, he whispered, “I will be waiting for you.”

The woman on the phone sobbed.

“Today, my son is a sho’el u’meishiv in the Mir.”

If we would envision the Al-mighty, our loving Father, waiting for us with outstretched Arms, our battle against the forces of evil would be made so much easier.