IT was Erev Shabbos Parshas Zachor in 2023 when Esther Jeffe, wife of Ephraim, my next-door neighbor for 33 years, passed away.

Ephraim is not just my next-door neighbor. Our homes, built 110 years ago, are almost physically attached — we can practically shake hands from our windows. Our children grew up together, and we are still very close.

When Esther passed, I invited Ephraim to be part of our Shabbos table. Soon, it became a kevius, and every Friday night, Ephraim would join us for the seudah.

In the summertime, when our seudah began later in the evening, it was usually just my wife, myself, and Ephraim at the meal. It was on a Friday night this past summer when Ephraim informed us he had met Susan Buckler from Great Neck. We were excited to meet her, and one Shabbos, Susan joined us for the seudah.

We were thrilled for Ephraim, as he and Susan were clearly a compatible shidduch.

I was touched when they announced their intent to get married in Yerushalayim and asked me to be mesader kiddushin. As it happened, another family had already asked me to officiate at their wedding on the same night. I faced the pleasant predicament of being asked to officiate at two weddings at once, albeit 6,000 miles apart.

As the saying goes, “M’ken nisht tantzen bei tzvei chasunahs.”

But with the gracious encouragement of the family making their wedding on this side of the Atlantic, and with the added lure of our three married children in Eretz Yisrael, we booked our tickets eastbound.

Ephraim and Susan’s wedding was scheduled for Thursday, the 4th of Kislev, at a quaint, charming restaurant in Yerushalayim. As I arrived at the venue, the serendipitous location ratcheted up my excitement a notch.

The street on which the wedding would take place was Rechov Yoel Moshe Salomon — named after my great-grandfather, who lived just a few meters from where I stood.

It would also be the first time I would be mesader kiddushin for a son and a father, in that order. Just a few years before, I officiated at the chasunah of Ephraim’s son, Emanuel.

The wedding was ethereal, and many tears were shed as Ephraim recited “Harei at mekudeshes li” and placed the ring on Susan’s finger. As I looked at the new couple, I thought of many things.

The simchah I felt was not for my next-door neighbor getting married; it was for being present at my brother’s wedding. But then I had an epiphany: Ephraim would now be making his new home with Susan, and the year and a half of having him at our Friday night seudos would end.

A feeling of loss combined with my unbridled simchah. I suddenly realized that when Ephraim joined us on Shabbos, I was not performing an act of chesed; quite the opposite. I was gaining a brother.

Ephraim’s weekly presence at my Shabbos table did much more for me than it did for him. He had become a fixture at my seudah, a yearned-for and necessary component of my Shabbos. As happy as I was for him and Susan, I now saw that we would have an empty place at our table.

As is often the case when we do something for others, we find that we do much more for ourselves. I recalled the week after shivah, when I felt good about myself for inviting Ephraim for Shabbos.

I realized now that I was not bringing a guest to my home; rather, Ephraim was bringing his love and friendship to me. And for that, I will be forever grateful.

Mazel tov!

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1043)

The post Our Friday Night Guest first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

“MA,why can’t we just light already?” I pleaded.

Calm yet resolute, my mother responded quietly, “We will wait for your father to come home and then light the menorah together as a family.”

I was nine years old and living in Brooklyn.

My father, a photographer, supported his family by traversing the Tristate area, taking pictures of newborns and hoping to sell the photographs to proud parents. His job took him everywhere from Hoboken, New Jersey, to Norwalk, Connecticut, and all across New York City.

Only if he managed to sell the pictures would my father earn the much-needed money to pay for his son’s tuition. If he couldn’t close the sale, all his time and effort went unpaid.

He would work 12 hours a day, lugging 30 pounds of Yashica camera equipment circa 1960s into inner-city ghettos, climbing six flights of stairs through darkened and dirty stairwells because the elevator was usually broken.

And all too often, after arriving at an apartment and setting up his equipment, he would be informed that the electricity had been shut off. In those cases, he would head home with nothing to show for his efforts besides a strained back and increased worry about the next tuition payment.

Nevertheless, my father persevered, doing his best to provide.

Generally, my mother would serve dinner to my brother and me before my father got home, and my mother would wait to eat with him. But on Chanukah, my mother insisted we all wait for my father’s arrival before lighting and eating.

“Your father works hard and deserves the nachas of the family lighting together,” she would say. “We will wait for him to come home.”

And so, over my protestations, my mother held her ground. There were no cell phones back then, and my father did not always have enough coins for the pay phone to call my mother from Connecticut and update her on his expected arrival time. And so, we waited.

And finally, after what seemed like forever, we would hear the thud of a car trunk closing and a key turning in the lock.

My father had arrived. My mother would greet him as if he had returned from a yearlong absence.

Not only did my mother never display even a hint of annoyance at the late hour, but she greeted him like he was a hero returning from battle. Eventually, my brother and I came around, and joined her in those greetings.

A cold or hot drink, depending on the weather, was offered, and after my father had a chance to catch his breath, regain a sense of composure, and disassociate himself from the stress of work, we would gather as a family and kindle the Chanukah lights, followed by dinner.

Back then, I felt a sense of resentment and impatience. I wanted to be relieved of the wait, and I unsuccessfully challenged my mother. I protested aloud, “Why the need to wait?”

Looking back on it now with the hindsight of almost 60 years, I realize with sharp clarity how insightful and prescient my mother was.

In my present reality, the nightly family lighting is often limited to my wife and myself. Now I fully recognize and appreciate the feeling of family.

And as I field more questions from sons and daughters asking for halachic sanction to light independently due to their multiple school and social commitments, I pine for those days decades ago when family was the ultimate priority.

Have we lost sight of the forest through the density of the trees? Perhaps.

I still cling to the memories of my mother, whose focus on the forest, known as the family, was never in doubt.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1041)

The post A Family Lights Together first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

HE was one of the original baalei teshuvah of the shul a quarter of a century ago. However, Herschel* had moved years ago to the “other side of town,” so our paths rarely crossed these days. Our formerly frequent discussions were replaced with the occasional nod at a weekday Minchah.

I was therefore surprised when Herschel showed up on a recent Shabbos morning. I informed the gabbai of Herschel’s presence, and he received maftir.

After davening, I approached him to assuage my curiosity about his reappearance.

“Rabbi, I know you’re wondering why I came here on a random Shabbos. However, for me, this day is anything but random.”

I sat down to listen.

“Rabbi, you know I was raised without any formal Jewish education. When I settled in East Rutherford, I had no Jewish affiliation.

“In 1997, I joined the local EMS. I felt it was my civic duty. This was my way of giving back to the community. One Saturday morning, there was a car accident in Passaic, right near the shul. Passaic had no Hatzolah back then. All the surrounding communities received the call, so I decided to respond.

“At that point in my life, I was under the impression that Jews went to shul only three days a year, or when there was a bar mitzvah or funeral. So when I arrived on the scene, I was surprised to see Jews wearing yarmulkes leaving the synagogue.

“Thankfully, the accident turned out to be nothing more than a fender-bender, so my services were not needed. With time on my hands and my curiosity awakened, I approached one of the congregants leaving the shul.

“Mind you, Rabbi, back then I didn’t even know that Jews had weekly services on Shabbos. I approached one of the men and asked, ‘Is there a bar mitzvah today?’

“He replied, ‘No, there’s no bar mitzvah today.’

“I was becoming more confused. I innocently asked, ‘Is there a funeral?’

“The yarmulke-wearing man looked at me, somewhat surprised, and said, ‘No, there’s never a funeral on Shabbos.’

“I didn’t even know what he meant. Shabbos was a term I was not yet familiar with.

“In exasperation, I said, ‘There’s no bar mitzvah and no funeral, and I know it’s not the High Holidays. So why are you all wearing yarmulkes on a regular Saturday?’

“The man gave me a warm smile and pointed me in your direction. ‘I think you should speak to our rabbi. He will help you.’

“Rabbi, I approached you, and surprisingly, you invited me to your house for lunch.

“Well, that began my journey, and I slowly became a card-carrying member of the tribe. You never questioned how I got to the shul or why I was there. You just accepted me as I was. You know the rest of the story — now my children are in yeshivah, and I could not be happier.”

I looked at Herschel and asked, “But what made you come today?”

“When I woke up today, I glanced at the calendar on the fridge. I realized today, November 9, was the 8th of Cheshvan, parshas Lech Lecha. Today was 27 years to the day since I first came to the shul.

“I always considered this date to be my spiritual birthday. What better way to celebrate the anniversary of my discovery of Hashem than for me to go back to the shul where it all began?

“It was exactly 27 years ago today that Hashem told me, ‘Lech lecha,’ to Passaic. And thankfully, I have never looked back.

“Rabbi, I only have two words: Thank you.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1039)

The post A First Responder first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

AS the bidding for Kol Hane’arim began, Yechezkel Rosenberg* sat nervously.

His mind drifted back to a vanished world.

He was back in Budapest, Hungary, sitting beside his father on Simchas Torah in 1944, under mortal threat.

Somehow, their shul was still functioning, and 15 men risked their lives to come.

As they reached Kol Hane’arim, all eyes turned to Yechezkel. At 12, he was the only non-bar mitzvah present. Yechezkel felt uncomfortable being the only boy to go up for Kol Hane’arim.

As his father wrapped him in his tallis, he whispered, “Chezky, this aliyah is precious. One day, you will be privileged to donate a lot of money for it. Never forget this.”

Yechezkel approached the Torah with trepidation.

That was the last day Yechezkel and his father would be together in shul.

Five days later, on October 15, the hated Arrow Cross took power, and by the time Soviet troops liberated Budapest in 1945, Yechezel’s parents were among the millions killed al kiddush Hashem.

Yechezkel arrived in America in 1947. He worked in the garment district and saved every penny he could.

In 1949, at 17, he purchased Kol Hane’arim in a small shul in Brownsville for $4 to fulfill his father’s hope and promise.

Yechezkel eventually married Hindi, also a survivor, and after saving money, he opened a successful haberdashery on Pitkin Avenue. Yechezkel always hired workers who were shomer Shabbos and could not find employment elsewhere.

They eventually moved to Flatbush, raising four children in their parents’ mesorah. They were privileged to walk each one down to the chuppah and see Yiddishe nachas from them.

Yet one thing never changed: Whether they were in Brownsville or Flatbush, Yechezkel would set aside money every year to fulfill his father’s promise and purchase Kol Hane’arim.

That was, until this year.

This would be the 75th consecutive year that Yechezkel was planning to purchase Kol Hane’arim. But at his wife’s insistence, he had agreed to leave his shtibel in Flatbush and spend the last days of Yom Tov with his married grandchildren in their upscale suburban neighborhood.

Would he still be able to purchase his coveted aliyah?

Suddenly, Yechezkel was aroused from his memories as the gabbai opened the auction for Kol Hane’arim at $1,000.

Yechezkel put in his bid; but within seconds, the amounts shot up to levels unheard of in his Flatbush shtibel.

As the bidding soared into the stratosphere, Yechezkel sadly resigned himself to the role of spectator and not receiving the aliyah for the first time in many decades.

Suddenly, his grandson said, “Zeidy, listen!”

The gabbai thundered, “Yaamod Reb Yechezkel ben Reb Shlomo l’Kol Hane’arim!”

Yechezkel was shocked and confused, and as he did in 1944, he approached the Torah with trepidation. After the aliyah, Yechezkel sought out the man who had purchased the kibbud for him.

Before he could ask him why, the young man began speaking quietly.

“Reb Yechezkel, in 1958, you hired my grandfather to work in your clothing store. It was the only job he could get. He always spoke about that kindness. Before he passed, he told me he always wanted to buy you Kol Hane’arim to show his gratitude, but you always outbid him. Today, Hashem allowed me to pay back my zeidy’s debt.”

Yechezkel was speechless. The last time he had gone up for Kol Hane’arim without buying it was 80 years ago in Budapest, when he went up alone.

But he couldn’t ponder the past for too long. He was quickly surrounded by dozens of children, all requesting a brachah from the man who had kept Kol Hane’arim so precious to his heart.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1037)

The post Never Forget This first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Baruch and Miriam looked at each other, shocked and surprised. The levayah had concluded, and all that remained was the Keil Malei.

But before the Keil Malei, Mr. Yosef Greenberg (all names changed) attempted to stand up from his wheelchair.

Baruch and Miriam rushed to their elderly father’s side.

I, too, approached the frail Mr. Greenberg, glancing at his children.

“Our father wants to speak,” said Baruch. “He wants to say a hesped over our mother. Rabbi, please help us. He is in no condition to speak.”

Yosef Greenberg looked at me, and I saw the tracks of wrinkles that lined his face.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” said Mr. Greenberg. “She was only 79, and I’m ten years older. However, Hashem is the ultimate Judge.”

As Mr. Greenberg struggled to lift himself, I asked, “Perhaps this will be too much for you?”

“No,” he insisted. “I must say goodbye.”

His children pleaded with me that their father was in no conditioin, either physically or cognitively, to say a hesped.

However, Yosef Greenberg, who overheard the entire discussion, brushed aside their concerns and asserted, “I must give kavod to my wife!”

I helped Yosef steer his walker toward the microphone as he removed some crumbled papers from his jacket pocket.

“I know all of you, especially my family, are surprised by my speaking,” he began. “I know I now forget more than I remember. However, I must mention one middah tovah of my wife.”

Yosef glanced at the folded pages in his hand. Dramatically, he allowed them to fall from his hand.

When I went to pick them up, he said, “Leave them. I want to speak from my heart.

“When I was nine years old, my grandfather passed away. I remember the rabbi saying we must learn a lesson from the niftar to better our lives.

“I know I have become forgetful and may even forget today’s date. However, I remember the rabbi’s words from 80 years ago.

“We all can learn an important lesson from my wife”—he turned toward his children and grandchildren—“your mother and grandmother. She excelled in the middah of listening.”

Yosef’s family looked puzzled.

“I know I repeat things many times, over and over. I can tell you the same story in the evening that I already told you in the morning.

“And I notice how impatient you get when that happens. You always tell me, ‘Dad, or Zeidy, you’ve told us this story a hundred times already.’

“And I know I have.

“Your mother’s greatness was that it never mattered to her if I told her the same story repeatedly. She listened to me with rapt attention every time I told it, as if it were the first time she’d heard it. Her face retained the same excited glow. It made no difference to her how many times she heard my maiselach.

“It made me feel special, especially as I aged. Her sincere joy in listening to me was the highlight of my day.

“I ask this of all of you. When you hear someone like me tell a story you’ve already heard, don’t roll your eyes in exasperation. Take a lesson from your mother.

“I once even asked her, ‘How do you listen to my stories over and over and keep smiling? You know them by heart already.’

“‘Yosef,’ she answered, ‘each story I am privileged to hear from you is a gift from Hashem. It allows me to spend more time with you. How can I not smile?’ ”

With that, Yosef shuffled back to his wheelchair.

The room was utterly silent except for the sounds of sobbing heard from those closest to Yosef.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1035)

The post The Message first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

When the bar mitzvah invitation arrived, I was surprised at the date. The seudas mitzvah would take place Thursday night, Erev Yom Kippur.

When I called the mother to wish her mazel tov, she explained that in her kehillah, having the seudah bo bayom was very important; therefore, the seudah would take place the night of Erev Yom Kippur.

I respected her adherence to her kehillah’s mesorah and informed her I would be coming. Sarah*, the proud bar mitzvah boy’s mother, had grown up in Passaic. I was involved when her parents divorced over 20 years ago and had done my best to make the separation as amicable as possible.

Her father, Chaim*, was advised at the time to allow Sarah to be primarily raised by her mother, and therefore, he limited his contact with Sarah.

Sarah resented her father’s decision and they became estranged despite his best intentions. Sarah refused to have her father walk her down to the chuppah or attend the chasunah.

Needless to say, Chaim was devasted.

I have spent many an hour with Chaim over the last 15 years, listening to his pain and hearing his sobs as he regretted his decision.

Although Sarah had moved away since marriage, and the seudah would be an hour’s drive from Passaic, I knew I had to attend.

When I arrived at the hall, I was shocked to see Chaim in a warm embrace with his daughter and grandson.

I danced with Chaim and his grandson while happily observing the reconciled relationship between the formerly estranged father and daughter, and wondering but not daring to ask the elephant-in-the-room question: What had changed?

The next morning, Friday, Erev Yom Kippur, Chaim and Sarah were waiting for me at my shul after Shacharis.

I invited them into my office.

Once there, Sarah wasted no time: “Rabbi, before Kol Nidrei, I must make my own Vidui. When I was fifteen, and my parents were divorcing, I told you how much I resented my father’s decision to ‘give me my space.’

“You urged me not to judge him by pointing out that he had not made the decision without consultation with others.

“Most of all, I remember your final words regarding reconciliation and forgiveness. ‘Sarah,’ you said, ‘I know you are upset with your father and his decision. And I respect that. However, please realize he did not make the decision lightly, and he still loves you very much.

“ ‘One day, you, too, will be a parent. And when that day arrives, you may look at things in a different light. You will realize that many of the precise things that seemed unfair will suddenly be understood and even embraced by you.’

“Back then, Rabbi,” Sarah continued, “I recoiled at your words. Then, my son became a bar mitzvah, and he wanted the bar mitzvah seudah pushed off so we could celebrate without the pressure of Erev Yom Kippur. I heard his point and felt his pain. However, we went to our rav, and he told us to observe the minhagim of our kehillah.

“When I told my son this, he was not receptive. I heard myself saying, ‘I have your best interests at heart, and one day, you, too, will be a parent and make difficult decisions that your children will resent.’

“And at that moment my mind flashed back twenty years. I now saw my father in a totally different light. I want to ask him mechilah before the Rav for unfairly judging him.”

Before Chaim could respond, Sarah added, “Abba, one more thing, I know it’s been twenty years, but please bentsh me today before Yom Kippur.”

Chaim began to tremble as he placed his hands on his daughter’s head.

Suddenly, 20 years of missed brachos were washed away in an ocean of tears filled with sadness, reconciliation, and immense joy.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1032)

The post Through a Parent’s Eyes first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

I do my best to avoid mediating financial disputes. They usually end with all sides disgruntled and negative feelings toward me. Yet a rabbinic colleague pleaded with me to act as an outside mediator in this case, and I agreed — though Rosh Hashanah was just days away and I had derashos to write and congregants to meet — but asking that a driver be sent to bring me to the din Torah.

Chaim*, the younger brother, was a successful businessman. His older sister, Chava*, was a struggling single mother. Their elderly father had just passed away.

Chaim, the only son, claimed he was the sole heir to the estate as the din stipulated.

Chava, the undisputed prime caregiver to their father, claimed her father had verbally indicated that his estate be divided equally, although he never took the necessary halachic steps to ensure his wishes were fulfilled.

Chaim had never disputed his father’s wishes in this area, and he was also open to supporting his sister financially. Yet he insisted that the din be followed, and only at his discretion would he dispense funds to Chava.

Chava felt her brother should be mochel his right to the entire estate and requested the money be shared, granting her financial independence without subjecting herself to the whims of her younger brother.

Yet Chaim continued to insist the din be followed with no exceptions.

I listened with a sense of angst to Chaim and his insistence on following the din in its exact form. Then I spoke, silently davening to Hashem for the right words to say.

“Chaim, I’m disappointed by your insistence on din. Allow me to tell you what transpired during my car ride here. When my driver, a Thai man named Somsak, said, ‘I see you are a Jew,’ I nervously waited to see what his next words would be. But I was surprised.

" ‘I was in Israel on October 7,’ he told me. ‘I worked on a kibbutz in the south. When Hamas attacked, a Jewish man told me to escape. I ran and met a soldier who saved me. Not so long ago, I left Israel and came here. You are my first Jewish passenger.’

"Somsak then did something completely unexpected. He took out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me.

" ‘What’s this for?’ I asked him, very confused.

" ‘I can never repay the man who saved me,’ he said. ‘I don’t even know his name. But I want to give something back to a Jew. Please give this to a Jewish person who needs it. Give it to a Jew who needs compassion, as compassion was shown to me.’ ”

“Chaim,” I now said, “we are just days before the great Din, yet while most seek rachamim, you insist on going according to din. I will give you my din, and if you listen carefully, all other questions will disappear.

“Chaim, I was wondering how I would find that Jew, the one who would most benefit from the money Somsak gave me. But Chaim, I now know who that Jew is.”

I removed the 20 dollars from my pocket and placed it in Chaim’s hand.

“My psak is that according to the din, you are the Jew who can most benefit from the twenty dollars given to me by Somsak. Somsak asked that I find a Jew who needs compassion, and Chaim, you are that Jew. Take it. It’s yours by my din.”

Chaim began to speak; however, no words escaped his mouth.

I quietly stood and left the room. As I walked out of the building, Chaim’s cries from the depths of his soul could still be heard as I made my way back into the sunlight.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1031)

The post The Mercy of the Court first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

I was flying alone on the 1 a.m. El Al flight from Tel Aviv to Newark.

I was exhausted and not expecting any conversation as I sat quietly in my aisle seat.

Yet as so often happens, Hashem has His plans for us.

I no longer recall when I realized the flight attendant was standing next to me. He introduced himself as Ori and politely asked to speak with me.

I nodded.

At this point, the pilot announced he was dimming the lights on the plane.

The plane was now silent, and except for the luminance of a few screens, the aircraft’s interior was dark.

Ori began to share his life with me, as only two Yidden can. Like most secular Israelis, he was raised without exposure to Torah. He was drafted into the IDF at 18 and served in a combat unit.

After three years of mandatory service, he wanted to see the world, and decided that being a flight attendant for El Al was a perfect way to realize that dream.

That was 15 years ago.

He was called up immediately after the horrific attack on Simchas Torah and served seven months in Gaza. He recently returned to his life as a flight attendant.

After sharing his life with me, he asked, “You are a rabbi, correct?”

After reluctantly admitting I was, he continued.

“In Gaza, our unit was comprised of men from various backgrounds. Two of them were very dati.

“Every time we had to secure a building or search a tunnel, I was terrified. I noticed that the two fellows who wore kippot would say Tehillim before the mission, yet strikingly, they never appeared afraid.

“The two dati soldiers were always calm and at peace no matter how dangerous the building we had to secure was.

“When I asked them how they felt that way, they answered with one word: bitachon. I also noticed that they wore tzitzit and asked how I could get this special protective garment.

“Very soon after that, I was wearing military-issued army-green tzitzit.

“I wore them for my entire tour of duty in Gaza.

“They saved my life time and time again.

“When I was finally discharged from my reserve unit, I decided I would continue to wear tzitzit, and for the first month or so, I kept my promise.

“However, as time passed and I returned to flying, I began to ‘forget’ to wear my tzitzit.

“I received a notice yesterday that I am being recalled to my reserve unit next week.

“As the plane took off tonight, I noticed you took out a siddur. You reminded me of the dati soldiers of my unit.

“I realized that I, too, needed that added protection.

“Rabbi, I need my tzitzit!

“When we land in Newark, please direct me to the closest store where I can purchase tzitzit.”

I looked at Ori and felt the pain reflected on his face.

I appreciate him and his comrades and envy their zechus of protecting the Jewish People.

And I thought about how desperately he wanted tzizit.

Suddenly, the epiphany struck. My befuddled mind cleared and clarity prevailed.

I had been in Israel for less than a week, so I was only traveling with hand luggage.

I realized my wife’s reminder to pack extra pairs of tzitzis was nothing less than prescient.

“Ori, we don’t have to wait until Newark. We can do it here at an altitude of 30,000 feet.”

I pulled my bag from the overhead compartment and proudly presented Ori with a freshly laundered pair of Rabbi Eisenman’s personal tzitzis.

The joyful radiance that lit up Ori’s face seemed to illuminate the dim cabin.

As Ori disappeared to don his protective garment, I blissfully drifted into a peaceful sleep, marveling at both Hashem’s choreography of the world and my wife’s farsighted wisdom.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1029)

The post The Flight first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

IT was Wednesday afternoon, Erev July 4, and I was on my way to a doctor’s appointment in Ho-Ho-Kus. I glanced at my ETA and was shocked that my normally 30-minute drive was now 57 minutes.

The AAA projection of 70.9 million travelers on the roads for Independence Day was fulfilled.

However, I realized that perhaps this delay could facilitate a potential mitzvah.

As a rav, I receive many chasunah invitations. Some are invitations from friends who have moved from Passaic, and I very much appreciate those who keep in touch. However, in these cases, if there is a conflict with shul responsibilities, I suffice with a warm brachah on the RSVP card.

Such was my planned participation in the wedding of the daughter of Rabbi Yonah G. Lazar. Yet with the unexpected delay, perhaps Hashem was “recalculating” my next potential destination?

That prospect brought a smile to my face.

In 2014, a choshuve-looking man politely approached me and asked permission to daven from the amud. He was the new principal of the Clifton cheder, and his name was Yonah G. Lazar.

I pivoted to Jewish geography. “Are you related to Mrs. Malki Lazar, who taught in Brooklyn in the 1980s?”

“That’s my mother!”

In my parental home, Malki Lazar had been a sort of superhero.

My mother taught for over 30 years in New York City public schools. Malki Lazar, a veteran mechaneches, only had a brief stay in Brooklyn yet her time there left a lasting impression on my mother and me. My mother adored Malki Lazar. They became the best of friends. I can confidently say that the three years my mother spent working with Malki Lazar were her happiest and most rewarding.

Working in a mostly non-Jewish environment, Malki was the much-appreciated companion and colleague who, with her smile and upbeat manner, provided my mother with friendship and care. They forged a spiritually beneficial bond, which both cherished. And she would give my mother much-needed chizuk when my father was ill.

Mrs. Lazar visited my father z”l when he was hospitalized. I can still recall how my mother was touched by her visit.

During Rabbi Yonah Lazar’s tenure in Passaic, we renewed the relationship our mothers planted and cultivated our own friendship, and I wanted to wish him mazel tov in person.

I realized I could make it to Spring Valley from Ho-Ho-Kus in under 20 minutes. I headed in a northwesterly direction and was off.

I arrived at 4:30.

There was not a soul in sight.

I was two hours early.

As I was about to leave, I spotted the kallah’s sister. She found her father, and he happily proclaimed that I was the first guest to arrive! After wishing him mazel tov and apologizing for having to head back to Passaic, Rav Yonah walked me out to my car.

“I bet you’re wondering why we’re making the chasunah in Spring Valley if both families live in Lakewood,” he said.

Honestly, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.

But he explained that since all the Lakewood halls were booked until the Three Weeks, they had no choice but to choose Ateres Chaya Surah.

“It’s a Satmar hall, and since the minhag in Satmar is not to have weddings at the end of the month, the hall was available for non-chassidim at this time.”

I looked at Rav Yonah and smiled. Then I said, “Maybe that’s your take on the venue. However, for me, the reason the chasunah is in Spring Valley is nothing short of Hashgachah pratis. By Hashem’s orchestrating the chasunah in Spring Valley, I was privileged to pay back a little of my mother’s debt of gratitude to her beloved friend and your mother, Mrs. Malki Lazar.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1027)

The post A Wedding in Monsey first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

I was so excited when I awoke that morning, pumped to do my chesed project nice and early.

It was Rosh Chodesh, and I knew the regular chiyuvim (mourners) who generally lead the davening were excluded from doing so because of Rosh Chodesh. Therefore, I was determined to be at the minyan well before the six  a.m. starting time. I wanted to ensure the minyan would start on time as I knew those who attended that minyan had places to go, people to meet, and buses and trains to catch. [Note: Yes, there still are those who go in to work and don’t work virtually from home in their PJs.] I also knew that since it was Rosh Chodesh and the aveilim were not going to start on time, the minyan might be delayed.

As I entered the shul, I saw another fellow leaving from the vasikin minyan, which began at 5:01. I thought it strange that the vasikin minyan on Rosh Chodesh was over by 5:50 but I figured this one fellow had just left the minyan early. No doubt he had a valid excuse for leaving before the end of davening.

I arrived in the beis medrash at 5:56 and quickly approached the amud to make sure davening began at six on the dot.

As I davened, I wondered how I should do Hallel. Should I sing any of the paragraphs? Should I also daven Mussaf?

Finally, Shemoneh Esreh was beginning, and I noticed that the regular gabbai who “klops” to signal the addition of yaaleh v’yavo hadn’t given the expected bang. Not wanting everyone to forget yaaleh v’yavo, I not only played chazzan, I took it upon myself to be the klopper as well! I gave two loud KLOPS, indicating to all: Don’t forget yaaleh v’yavo!

Oh, how proud I was of myself. Not only had I made sure the minyan began on time, I’d also ensured no one forgot yaaleh v’yavo.

And then it happened.

How or why it happened remains shrouded in mystery.

However, somewhere between the third and fifth brachah, the well-meaning chazzan (aka me) realized that the day was “just” a regular Friday — and Rosh Chodesh was tomorrow.

I did not say yaaleh v’yavo in my quiet Shemoneh Esreh, and after chazaras hashatz I moved on to Tachanun.

However, I now realized that not only had I given a “false klop” — which may have caused others to erroneously add on yaaleh v’yavo — I had taken away the amud from those legitimately entitled to it, namely the aveilim.

Realizing my mistake, I contemplated my next step.

I could continue to daven the rest of the davening and pretend nothing had happened. After all, once davening was over, what could anyone do?

However, by continuing the davening, I would further deprive the aveilim of their rightful position at the amud.

So after Tachanun, my face beet-red with embarrassment and with some hesitancy, I girded myself and turned to face the crowd of men. I looked straight at them and humbly asked forgiveness for giving a false klop and for improperly “chapping” the amud from the chiyuvim.

Then I asked one of the aveilim to take his rightful place at the amud.

As the chiyuv walked toward his deserved place at the amud, I quickly returned to my seat, abashed and flustered yet determined to be more mindful in the future of the correct calendar day.

I learned an important lesson that day.

To paraphrase Hemingway, “Ask not for whom the klop is klopping; it klops for thee.”

I thought I was giving the klop, but the klop was meant for me.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1025)

The post The Klop first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.