Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein zt”l

Perfect Timing

Last winter, I decided to take a trip to Miami, Florida with my wife. I would missing my Wednesday night class, along with my Tuesday night class, but my Rebbe, Rabbi Gamliel, told me, "Maintaining shalom bayis in your home is essential. You're burning the candle at both ends. You need to go to Florida." I didn’t need to be told twice; I made up my mind I would go.

I planned a four-day trip with my wife. No phones and neither would I be asked to speak anywhere for Ohr Naava. I wouldn’t be speaking in any schools, I wouldn’t be meeting with any students. Four days—just my wife and me. No interruptions. No calls to the office. Nothing.

The first day in Florida, Monday, my phone rings. Of course, I had to bring my phone along because of some business and to check in with my children. But this was a number I didn’t recognize. The area code was 216. What’s 216? I had no idea.

I told my wife. "It’s 216. I don’t know who this is." Then it hit me—Cleveland. "I’m going to pick it up," I said. I answered the call. "Hello, Rabbi Wallerstein."

Oh no. When someone calls me 'Rabbi Wallerstein,' it almost always has to do with children in crisis. And I had promised my wife—four days of no work. But I had already picked up.

"Rabbi Wallerstein, I need your help." I looked at my wife. Uh-oh.

She explained, "I’m from Cleveland, and my daughter is from Cleveland. To make a long story short, she ran away, and she’s somewhere in Florida. We don’t know exactly where, but we do know one thing—she’s in Miami."

That’s where I was.

"It’s really bad," she continued. "We know where she was last seen. She has no money, no food, no clothing. She’s on the streets of Miami. I know you can’t do much from New York, but maybe you know someone in Miami who can help."

"You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “I’m in Miami right now." She gasped. "This is Hashgacha Pratis (Divine intervention). You have to do something!" She gave me the number of someone who might have the girl’s contact information. I called, got the girl’s number, and reached out.

She was hostile. She didn’t want to speak to me. I told her about my school, Bnot Chaya Academy (BCA). She wasn’t interested. I told her about the girls there. She said, "I don’t like nice girls." Everything I said, she had a response shutting it down. I finally said, "Why are you being so stubborn? What do you have to lose? I’m on vacation. I promised I wouldn’t talk to anyone, and yet, here I am, talking to you. The least you can do is talk to me for just half an hour. Are you afraid of me?" I asked.

She snapped, "I’m not afraid of anyone." "Good," I replied. "That means you’re not afraid of me either. So let’s talk. Maybe by the time we finish, I’ll be afraid of you. But right now, I’m not." She reluctantly agreed to meet. I turned to my wife. "Esti, you’re not going to believe this. I’m meeting a girl."

I spoke with the girl for an hour. She was completely uninterested. But I kept pushing.

"If we get you a plane ticket," I asked, "would you come to New York just to visit the school? Just to look at it and then decide?" At first, she refused. But after a long back-and-forth, she finally agreed.

She came to New York and visited the school. She happened to walk in on the perfect day—karate, kickboxing, guitar, art. All the things she loved. And she was brilliant; an incredibly talented artist and an exceptional singer. That day, she saw something she liked. And after more back-and-forth, she gave in and decided to enroll.

When she started school in September, she didn’t talk to anyone. Not the teachers, not the principal, not me, not the other students. She was cold and completely closed off. She wore a hoodie and black gloves, and dressed head to toe in black, as if she were in mourning. She kept her head down and avoided everyone. She was in school, but not really part of it.

Slowly, though, the warmth of the environment started to reach her. It was such a welcoming place that she couldn’t resist. But still, she barely spoke.

I one day gave a talk about emunah in Hashem, but I could see it wasn’t landing and they weren’t connecting. So I decided, let’s take a trip. No distractions. No outside influences. We were going to Bear Mountain.

I was 53 years old at the time. I wasn’t sure I could make it to the top, but I figured it was worth the risk. So we started climbing. Of course, every ten minutes, I was out of breath. But I had a trick. Every time I needed a break, I’d stop and pretend to be a nature expert.

"Oh, look at this—Poison Ivy! Come here, everyone!" I’d talk about different leaves, and how to recognize them and how they shine. The girls were fascinated. Finally, we reached a stunning viewpoint—500 miles of mountains, forests and the Hudson River. The leaves had just started to change colors, and it was breathtaking. This girl—the one who had been so closed off—had climbed next to me the entire way.

And then, as we stood there, taking it all in, I heard her whisper, "Ma Rabu Ma’asecha Hashem—How great are Your works, Hashem." I turned to her. "What did you just say?" "Nothing," she muttered. "I heard you," I said.

That moment changed everything. Since that trip, she became a different person. At our school Shabbaton, she got up and spoke. She became involved and she led the choir. The girl who once refused to speak to anyone—who wore gloves and hid from the world—was now thriving.

Now, what were the chances that on the exact day this mother called me, I would happen to be in Miami? Had I been in New York, I would have told her, "I’m sorry, I can’t help you." But Rabbi Gamliel told me, "You need to go on vacation with your wife." And I told myself, "I’m going. No work. No students. No kiruv." But Hashem had other plans.

We think we’re in control. We think we decide when we help, when we teach, when we inspire. But the truth is, we don’t. If Hashem wants you to be there for someone, it doesn’t matter where you are. You could be on vacation in Alaska, on a boat in the middle of nowhere—and He will put someone in front of you who needs you.

Because He is the One who spins the world. And that’s something we must always remember through all the ups, the downs, the challenges, and the victories. It’s all in His hands.

Rabbi Shlomo Landau

A Divine Spigot

Two wealthy timber merchants arranged a meeting with the Chofetz Chaim to seek his guidance on what they believed to be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A vast forest, rich with timber, was available for purchase, and acquiring it had the potential to elevate their business to an entirely new level. Before moving forward with such a significant investment, they wanted to consult the sage to determine whether they should proceed.

Seated before the Chofetz Chaim, they presented the details of the deal, explaining the financial potential and the strategic advantages of owning such a substantial resource. The Chofetz Chaim, however, simply shrugged and replied, “Listen, what do I know about business? My life is devoted to Torah and service to God. I am a Rosh Yeshiva, not a timber merchant. I do not own forests, nor do I deal in wood. But I would like to share a story with you.”

He then began.

“There was once a man who had come into a bit of money, and to celebrate, he decided to purchase a large barrel of wine. He visited the wine merchant, secured the barrel, loaded it onto his wagon, and transported it home. When he arrived, however, he found himself facing a challenge—this was no small cask, and moving it into his home was far more difficult than he had anticipated.

So, he went next door and knocked on his neighbor’s door.

‘Yankel,’ he said, ‘can you do me a favor? I just bought this enormous barrel of wine, but it’s too heavy for me to move by myself. Would you help me bring it inside?’

‘Of course!’ Yankel replied without hesitation. Together, the two men struggled under the weight of the barrel, carefully maneuvering it into the house. Once inside and settled, the owner of the wine turned to Yankel with appreciation.

‘You were a tremendous help,’ he said warmly. ‘I’d like to show my gratitude.’

He stepped over to a cabinet, retrieved two wine glasses, and turned the spigot on the barrel. As the deep red wine flowed into the glasses, he handed one to Yankel and said, ‘Let’s make a toast to celebrate and to show my appreciation for your kindness.’

They recited a blessing, clinked glasses, and took a sip. Yankel’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah! This is incredible! Some of the finest wine I’ve ever tasted.’

Then, after a moment of contemplation, Yankel said, ‘I have an idea. You know, I think I know how you could get even more wine out of this barrel.’

Intrigued, the man asked, ‘Really? How?’

‘It’s simple! Just install another spigot! If you add another tap, you’ll have even more wine flowing from the barrel.’

The owner chuckled and shook his head. ‘Yankel, my dear friend, adding another spigot doesn’t create more wine—it only makes what’s already in the barrel flow out faster. If you could tell me a way to actually increase the wine itself, now that would be something remarkable.’

The Chafetz Chaim looked at the timber merchants and said, ‘The same principle applies to livelihood and wealth. The Almighty has already decreed the exact amount of money you are destined to earn in your lifetime. That livelihood, that sustenance, is like the wine in the barrel—it is fixed and predetermined. Right now, that sustenance is flowing to you through a single spigot, which is your current timber business. You are considering purchasing another forest because you believe that adding another source will increase your wealth. But who says you need it? Who says the money won’t continue to flow just as it has, through the same single channel?

“I would advise you to consider investing in something far greater than another business venture. Think about investing in eternity. The time you would spend purchasing and managing this new forest could be dedicated to something far more enduring—studying Torah, deepening your spiritual growth. If you are concerned about your financial gain, rest assured that the Almighty is fully capable of channeling the same sustenance through one avenue just as easily as He could through two. Nothing will be lacking.”

The two merchants took this to heart. They chose not to purchase the new forest. Instead, they carved out time in their daily schedules to study Torah, ensuring that their spiritual growth was just as much a priority as their financial success.

And what became of the forest? It was ultimately purchased by a Polish landowner, a non-Jewish businessman, who invested heavily in the venture. He hired teams to cut down the timber, prepared for large-scale distribution, and anticipated a massive return on his investment. But nature had other plans. Torrential rains swept through the region, turning the roads into deep, impassable mud. The timber could not be transported, and before long, it began to rot where it lay. The man suffered catastrophic financial losses and, in his despair, tragically took his own life.

Meanwhile, the two Jewish merchants continued their business as they always had, drawing their livelihood from the same spigot that had sustained them all along. Yet, by choosing to invest their time in Torah, they had acquired an entirely new barrel—one not of timber, but of eternity.

The Chofetz Chaim’s advice rings true. “I am not here to provide practical business advice on whether you should expand or diversify your investments. That is not my role. But what I do want you to understand is that sustenance comes from G-d, and it flows exactly as He wills—whether through one channel, two, or three, it remains the same flow. Do not overextend yourselves in pursuit of wealth at the expense of what truly matters. Ensure that you are also investing in eternity. Make time to learn Torah every single day. Do not let the pursuit of livelihood consume your entire life.”

Rabbi Dovid Kaplan

You Have Comforted Us

In Parshas Beshalach (15:1), we find the Shiras Ha’Yam, the Song of the Sea, a passage we recite every day: "Then Moses and the children of Israel sang." This moment occurs as the Jewish people cross the Sea of Reeds. Having just emerged from the waters, they burst forth in an outpouring of song, an expression of pure and spontaneous joy.

There is, however, a profound historical parallel, both tragic and instructive. In Jewish history, we refer to the devastating destruction of European Jewry as the Churban Europa—a term that, in secular literature, is known as the Holocaust. During this dark period, the Belzer Rebbe, Rabbi Aharon of Belz, managed to escape with only a small number of survivors who had fled the horrors of the war. Arriving in Eretz Yisrael, he sought to rebuild the Belz community from the fragments that remained.

Shortly after his arrival, in the mid-to-late 1940s, the first Shabbos Tisch of the Belz community took place in Tel Aviv. Gathered around the Rebbe were individuals who had lost nearly everything—each person representing a family that had been shattered, each survivor carrying the weight of immeasurable loss. At that hollow moment, they turned to their Rebbe and asked, “Rebbe, how do we go on”? How could they possibly rebuild their lives, their emunah, their very existence, when they had witnessed such destruction?

The Belzer Rebbe responded by drawing upon an episode from Jewish history that, while often overlooked, is profoundly relevant. During the Plague of Choshech (Darkness) in Egypt, the Midrash teaches that four-fifths of the Jewish people perished. This means that just weeks before the Exodus, an overwhelming majority of their brethren had died. Seven days after leaving Egypt, the remaining Jewish people stood at the Sea of Reeds, facing both an uncertain future and the trauma of recent loss.

The Rebbe posed a striking question: How, then, could they have possibly sung? If nearly every individual standing at the sea had recently buried family members, if every household had experienced profound grief, how could they have reached such a state of joy—one so intense that it brought them to prophecy?

To answer this, the Rebbe cited the Gemara (Sanhedrin 91b). One of the fundamental beliefs of Judaism is the eventual Techiyas HaMeisim, Resurrection of the Dead. The Gemara provides numerous sources for this doctrine, but one of the most powerful proofs is found in this very passage: “Az yashir Moshe—Then Moshe will sing." The wording in the Pasuk is unusual. It does not say "Then Moses sang," in the past tense, but rather "Then Moses will sing," in the future tense. From this, the Sages derive that there will be a future time when the righteous will once again sing—proof of the belief in resurrection.

The Belzer Rebbe turned to his followers and said: How did the Jewish people at Yam Suf find the strength to sing? It was through their unwavering belief in the resurrection of the dead. When a person holds onto that faith, no matter how dark the present moment may be, despair never fully takes hold. Yes, there is pain. Yes, there is loss. But there is also the knowledge that this is not the end. There is always hope.

And so, the Rebbe declared: “This is how we will go on. We will persevere because we believe in the eternal principles of the Torah. We believe that there will be a resurrection, that those who were torn from us will one day return.” Upon hearing these words, the broken survivors gathered around him responded, “Rebbe, nichamtanu, Rebbe, nichamtanu—Rebbe, you have comforted us; Rebbe, you have comforted us.”.

This, the Rebbe explained, is why a Jewish person never cries a cry of absolute despair. There are tears of pain, tears of sorrow, and tears of suffering, but never tears of complete and utter hopelessness. A Jew may weep, but within that cry, there is always a whisper of faith, an ember of belief that refuses to be extinguished.

This is why, when Pharaoh’s daughter discovered the infant Moshe in his tiny wicker basket, the Torah describes the scene: "And behold, the child was crying." She immediately recognized that he was a Jewish child. The Chasidic masters ask: How did she know? How could she tell, simply from his tears?

The answer, they explain, is that a Jewish cry is different. The cries of the world are often those of utter finality—expressions of hopelessness, despair, and resignation. But the cry of a Jew, no matter how deep the pain, is never devoid of hope. Within it lies the unshakable faith that there will come a time when all suffering will be healed, when all losses will be restored. We affirm, “Ani Maamim b’Emunah Sheleimah—I believe with complete faith” that one day, the righteous will rise again.