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TorahAnytimes Newsletter Va'eira

Parshat Va'eira

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"The TorahAnyTimes" Newsletter Parashat Va'eira 1st of Shevat, 5777 | January 28, 2017 Compiled and Edited by Elan Perchik Rabbi Zecharia Wallerst

Challah

"The TorahAnyTimes" Newsletter    Print Version

Parashat Va'eira
1st of Shevat, 5777 | January 28, 2017

Compiled and Edited by Elan Perchik

Rabbi Zecharia Wallerstein
The Ice Skating Rink

וארא אל אברהם אל יצחק ואל יעקב

And I appeared to Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov (Shemot 6:3)

People have often wondered how I ever had the time and gumption to open a girls’ high school after I already was running Ohr Naava, a women’s Torah center for all ages, and Ateres Naava, a seminary program for girls. Where did I ever get the idea of taking on this endeavor, which requires tremendous effort and energy? So, let me tell you.

It didn’t begin when I went to a Rav and asked for a project to work on, nor did it occur when I sat in some professional meeting and thought about what more I could take on. It began at an ice skating rink.

One day in February, my wife said to me, “That’s it! We are taking the grandchildren ice skating.” “Alright,” I said, “that’s fine with me. As long as I don’t have to skate myself, I am more than happy to do so.”

So there I was at the ice rink enjoying watching the grandchildren skate around. But then, all of a sudden, a man walked over to me and said, “Are you Rabbi Wallerstein?” I couldn’t believe it. I figured that for sure no one would recognize my face at the ice rink and I would be able to sit in peace and quiet and watch the kids undisturbed. But apparently not. “Yes, I am,” I replied. I had never met this man before, although clearly, he had something important to tell me. After introducing himself as Louis Wells, he proceeded to make his point. “Rabbi Wallerstein!” he yelled, “why don’t you help the girls on the street!” I was startled to hear such a remark. “Excuse me?” I politely interjected. “Are you aware of what I am trying to do? I run Ohr Naava and teach at seminary in the morning, besides for running a business. Why are you yelling at me? I am the person who is trying to make things happen!” But Louis wasn’t satisfied.

“Rabbi,” he said, “we have these girls who need help. Why don’t you take care of them?” As he repeated this line, I began thinking to myself, “Why don’t you ask the other Jews who are ice skating the same question? Tell them to take care of the girls. What do you want from me?” So, I looked back at him and turned the question around. “Well, what are you doing for these girls?” But, as I would soon see, Louis was ready for this question and knew exactly what to respond.

“I will give you a floor and a building all for free. There are two classrooms, a dining room and a kitchen. Everything is ready to go. It is all yours. We will take care of it all. We will even provide you with seven frum therapists. All you have to do is bring the girls and the staff.” As I continued standing there, my mind was racing. “I know what my wife is thinking. ‘I can’t believe it! I took him to go ice skating with his grandchildren and now he is talking to some man about starting a high school!’”

That is all where it began. That day in February, the idea of opening a high school – Bnos Chaya – which would change the future of a handful of girls and offer them a new look on life was born. We began with twenty beautiful girls, and today we have far more than ever imagined.

Fast forward to the first day of school, when Bnos Chaya opened.

I walked into the class of twenty students. For many of the girls, they had not been in school for more than a year, experienced many ups and downs and been without a family support system. But now, they were all in school, eager to learn and grow.

Before I began actually teaching anything, I turned to the entire class and said, “There is a big question about you all today. Who are you really? Are your past experiences truly who you are? We are about to find out. The opportunity now lies before you to show your true potential and demonstrate what can you achieve. You will then prove to yourself and everyone else that by no means were you ever a failure.”

At the end of that first day in class, I revisited the discussion I had brought up earlier. Turning to the girls once again, I said, “Who is going to learn and grow and make this school work?” In the classroom, all twenty girls – who had not stepped foot into a classroom in over a year and been living spiritually out of tune – shouted at the top of their lungs, “We will!” I had never heard such excitement and commitment from any of my classes I had taught for thirty years before.

Many times in life, someone is going to meet you somewhere and say, “Hi, would you like to help out?” You may respond, “I’m too busy; I already do so much…” The offer will only last one second and then it will be gone. An individual you never met before and never knew existed will approach you and say, “We need someone to drive kids to the hospital. Can you help?” At that very moment, you will be able to say, “I have so much on my head – my kids, work, house…” But then, envision one hundred and twenty years later, when you will be told in Heaven, “We offered you the opportunity that would have started an organization and hundreds of volunteers would have joined and thousands of lives would have been changed… but you declined the offer.”

But then just imagine the opposite scenario. Instead, you accept and embrace the opportunity and help countless others. You take those twenty girls and enable them to live happy and wholesome lives, raise Jewish families and change the face of the generation. It all comes down to that moment where you are offered that one choice which seems so small, yet in truth, is so great. The only question is if you will grab the opportunity. Because if you do, you may have taken the first step to changing the world.

Rabbi Chaim Dahan
My Precious Tefillin

ואזכר את בריתי

And I remembered My covenant (Shemot 6:5)

For the many boys who attend the yeshiva of Greater Washington, Maryland, summertime often brings with it the opportunity to attend and work in camp as counselors. However, for one particular boy, Avi, one upcoming summer looked slightly different. He wished to volunteer his time to work in a Jewish old age home. And that is exactly what he did.

Amongst the handful of volunteers, one of the duties they were held responsible for was gathering together a minyan of senior men each morning to daven in the shul located on the first floor. While it was not always easy to find ten men who were capable of coming, as aches and pains often left many bedridden, for the most part, the daily efforts were successful.

However, there was one elderly gentleman, Mr. Rosenbaum, who stood out from the others. And that was due to his unbending reluctance to ever join the davening. Whenever approached by a volunteer to help join the minyan, he would grow sorely upset and begin hollering, “No! I am not going to pray with you!” From time to time, this scene repeated itself. He made his point clear: he did not wish to daven at all.

When Avi began his volunteer work, it was not long before he noticed Mr. Rosenbaum’s usual strong and loud refusal to daven. Approaching him, Avi said, “Sir, I understand if you do not wish to attend the minyan. However, we are just trying to be nice and offer you the option, and there is no reason to scream and get upset when we ask you. You can just politely decline the request.”

Mr. Rosenbaum looked back at Avi. “Come here! Let me show you something!” After Avi slowly made his way over, Mr. Rosenbaum pointed to a drawer straight ahead of him and looked towards Avi. “Open the top drawer!” Avi proceeded to open the drawer and take a peek inside. There lied a pair of tefillin. “Do you see anything there?” asked Mr. Rosenbaum. “I do. It’s a pair of tefillin.” “That’s right. Do you know whose tefillin they are? Let me tell you a story.” And with that, Mr. Rosenbaum went on to explain.

“When I was in the concentration camp with my father, no one in our barracks had a complete set of tefillin. All that we had was the tefillin shel rosh to put on the head, but not the tefillin shel yad to place on the arm. Yet, every day, all the men eagerly anticipated putting on the tefillin that we did have. It was the highlight of their day. Personally, however, I always dreamed of putting on a complete set of tefillin. And so, as my thirteenth birthday drew near, my father told me that he would do his utmost to find a tefillin shel yad so I could do so.

“A little while later, my father heard about another barracks which had a complete and extra set of tefillin. And so, on the day I turned bar mitzvah, my father cautiously snuck out from our barracks and made his way to the other one. I looked out through the window with both excitement and nervousness as my father moved along.

“Minutes went by until out walked my father carefully clutching the pair of tefillin he was given from the other barracks. Looking in all directions, he started walking back to our barracks. But he only started; he never finished. Midway through, a Nazi guard ym”s spotted him and pulled out a gun. The next thing I knew, my father fell to the floor and remained there motionless. The tefillin still remained in his hands. I was heartbroken.

“Some time later, I returned to the spot where my father previously lay and took hold of the pair of tefillin he had brought back to give me. Looking heavenward, I said, ‘Hashem, my father was trying to do something special for me and here he died in such a way! I cannot pray with this pair of tefillin, I cannot pray…’ From that day on, I never put on tefillin. Then I decided to stop davening altogether. And so, here I am, now an old man, and I have not touched those tefillin nor prayed in years. Now you understand why I refuse to join your minyan.” As Avi listened to Mr. Rosenbaum’s words, he quietly and politely said, “I am sorry; I didn’t know your story.” And with that, Avi left the room.

Summer continued on, week by week, until the day arrived when one of the senior gentleman in the building had a yaartzeit for his father. Needing to gather together a minyan, Avi went around from room to room asking who could join. After a while, he was left with nine people. One more was needed. But no one seemed available. And then he figured. Why don’t I try asking Mr. Rosenbaum one more time? I know he has always said no, but maybe this time will be different. Slightly apprehensive yet optimistic, Avi proceeded to enter Mr. Rosenbaum’s room and make his request.

“Maybe just today,” began Avi, “you can join the minyan? Your friend has a yaartzeit for his father and it will be very nice if you came. You don’t even have to pray. I will just wheel you into the back of the shul and you can be the first one out when the prayers finish.” Listening to Avi’s offer, Mr. Rosenbaum thought for a moment. “If I come today, will you leave me alone afterwards?” “Yes, I will,” replied Avi. Considering that it was a good friend of his and he would easily be able to sit in the back, Mr. Rosenbaum acquiesced. And so, there was Mr. Rosenbaum ready to participate in a minyan after decades of not having done so.

As Avi went on to help Mr. Rosenbaum get settled in his wheelchair, he glanced over at the top drawer. He remembered that there lied the tefillin. “You know,” piped up Avi, “once you’re coming out of the room to join the minyan, maybe you want to bring your tefillin along.” Mr. Rosenbaum stared back at Avi. “If I bring them with me, will you forever leave me alone?” “You have my word that I will not bother you again. You don’t even have to wear them. Just take them with you.” And with that, Avi pushed along Mr. Rosenbaum who clutched onto his tefillin, and positioned him in the back of the shul.

Forty-five minutes later, Avi returned to the shul. And to his surprise, it was entirely empty save one person: Mr. Rosenbaum. Sitting in the back with tefillin on his head and arm and tears flowing down his cheeks was Mr. Rosenbaum. He was soothingly whispering to himself, “Tatty, I feel connected to you wearing these. I feel so bad that it took me so long to wear them. You gave up your life for me to wear tefillin, and here I am now…”

Watching this startling sight was Avi. He proceeded to walk up to Mr. Rosenbaum, take hold of his wheelchair and help him back to his room. Avi then went on to remove Mr. Rosenbaum’s tefillin and carefully put them away. And then Mr. Rosenbaum looked at Avi. “Can you bring me back to shul tomorrow with my tefillin? I want to pray again.” Avi let out a smile.

For the rest of the summer, day after day, Avi continued helping Mr. Rosenbaum put on his tefillin and make his way over to shul. It was a moving summer for both Avi and Mr. Rosenbaum alike.

One day, Avi as usual entered Mr. Rosenbaum’s room. But, this time, he was met with a different scene. No one was there. Panicking, Avi ran to the front desk. “Where is Mr. Rosenbaum! Is everything okay?” “I’m so sorry to tell you,” replied the front desk lady, “but yesterday, his daughter came and picked him up and brought him to the hospital. And last night we received news that he passed away.” Avi just stood there speechless. He could not believe that Mr. Rosenbaum, to whom he had recently grown so close, was no longer around.

A little while later, Avi’s high school held a special dinner. Among those who were honored, Avi was granted a special award in recognition of spending his summer helping at an old age home.

At the conclusion of the evening, a woman walked over to Avi. “Avi,” she said, “Mr. Rosenbaum was my father. I would just like to thank you so much for all that you did. You do not know how much you helped my father and all of us too.” Happy to hear that his time was wisely spent, Avi smiled and thanked Mr. Rosenbaum’s daughter for her kind words. But there was more.

“For years we had been trying to convince our father to wear his tefllin, yet we were unsuccessful. But then you got him started and for the last few months of his life, he was putting them on every single day.

“Then, one morning, I received a call. It was the hospital notifying me that my father needed to be rushed to the hospital. ‘But,’ my father insisted, ‘please take along my tefillin.’ Transferring him to the hospital, he laid down to rest with his tefillin on. And then but a few hours later, he passed away… wearing his tefillin. The tefillin which his father held onto when he left this world were the same tefillin he wore when he left this world…” Like father, like son.

It all began when Mr. Rosenbaum decided to extend himself and help his friend make a minyan one morning. From that act of kindness, he began to come closer to Hashem, to the life of Torah his father so dearly wished him to embrace and to his true self. And once that was all in place, he returned his last vestige – his neshama – to Heaven… along with his most precious tefillin.

A Short Message From
Ms. Chevi Garfinkel

Rabbi Yerachmiel Milstein once related a beautiful mashal. When a person is driving properly, the gas pedal will be used the most. Every so often, however, you will have to press on the brakes and come to a standstill. When driving through life, we are also given a gas pedal and brake pedal: love of Hashem and fear of Hashem. Most of the time, we are meant to feel emotionally stirred to love Hashem. However, there are times, when we are meant to put on the brakes and exercise fear of Heaven. When there is a heightened level of desire to sin, we are to momentarily remove our foot from the gas pedal of ahavas Hashem and switch to the brake pedal of yiras Hashem.

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